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Author's Note: Wow, guys. Thank you so much for all of the kind words of encouragement! I really hope this next set doesn't disappoint! I've been waiting to post this arc for a while.
They have survived their first year of training. A celebration is in order.
Girls who never once before fancied romance now heave lovesick sighs and boys angle their shoulders to imitate the older recruits, trying to fulfill their princess' dreams. The concept of mingling with the opposite gender outside of hand-to-hand combat is baffling and terrifying.
Naturally, a dance is unanimously decided upon during dinner.
Somewhere in the mindless chatter, Annie hears Eren joke about his best friend's swift feet. The blond merely looks up with a meek smile before returning to his book, pink staining his cheeks.
Annie wonders if the boy is embarrassed or proud of his apparent talent. She decides to attend the dance, even if it is just to scoff at the carnival of the sentimental fools.
.
Like hell would she ever dance with Springer, but there is no one else available. As if anyone would ask her to dance.
She watches almost enviously as Eren half-stumbles in circles with Mikasa and Jean attempting to cut in and even Mina manages an awkward shuffle with Marco. Everyone spins in pairs, laughing and smiling under the lantern light, but she is alone. Far from where the warm glow can touch her.
A pale, upturned palm graces her vision and his bright, blue gaze pours warmly into her eyes, thawing her own icy stare. She tentatively reaches for the outstretched palm and curls her fingers around his clammy, soft skin.
The next thing she knows, she's twirling breathless and fast with him, accompanied only by the earthy scent of the dirt ballroom floor beneath her bare feet and the hazy warmth of firelight in her untamed, golden hair.
She sees her reflection in his honest eyes and realizes that she is beautiful and happy.
.
She never wants the night to end, but the hushed music in Annie's head screeches to a jarring stop.
They stop moving, panting slightly with slick, clasped hands. Reality creeps back in and he pulls away first, apologizing for troubling her. He leaves before she has the chance to respond, as if he feared her scorn would bite again.
It is cold out that night. The lanterns have slowly burned themselves down and sputter in the starlight, thirsting for more oil. Annie squeezes her hands together, trying to warm her frozen digits, but they never feel quite as content as they did when they were encased by his gentle, sweaty fingers.
She looks for him in the afterglow of the dying lanterns, but he is nowhere to be seen.
.
She avoids his gaze the next day.
She wants to tell him to never speak to her again. Never look at her that way again.
She wants to tell him that he made a mistake. She isn't that kind of a girl. He has the wrong impression of her.
But when he holds the door for her and their fingertips brush faintly, she doesn't know how to explain that it is she who has made the mistake.
For the longest time, she has lived only by looking through her own eyes. By looking through another's eyes, she knows she can never be content with her own blinded vision.
.
The first dream arrives shortly after the dance.
The moment the boy's soothing smile and pure blue eyes infiltrate her silent, peaceful sleep, she bolts upright in her bunk. The jarring reaction shatters the image and the shimmering image dissipates. Still halfway caught in the dream, the translucent slivers of his golden hair flutter softly through the black expanse in front of her before fizzling out in silence. She is trembling, but she doesn't know whether because of rage or terror.
Although it is still early, Annie has no desire to return to that world. This taunting image of a happiness that will never be is worse than any nightmare.
.
She is wrong.
The blonde clutches her damp pillow to her face, trying to muffle the gasping sobs to keep them from waking her peers. The image of his crooked body and his sightless eyes haunts her and she would give anything to permanently purge this thought from her memory.
She wonders how this boy's fate can torment her so easily. From the moment she had seen his sniveling, huddled form years ago, she began to wish for his death. Now she never wants to see his smile chip or his warm heart snuffed.
Annie Leonhardt hates weakness. She hates him. She hates herself.
.
She finds his second gift lying in the same spot. A crisp, dew-laced flower resting beside a faded, folded note.
Sorry, it says. A single word is enough to drive fury through her veins. Even when he isn't at fault, he still assumes blame for everything. Her fist tightens until a gritty moisture against her skin and a faint floral scent reassures her that the flower's beauty is gone forever. She drops the tattered remnants of the petals and walks away.
.
Sometimes she thinks about the flower. She can't remember what color it was. It may have been the muted sunshine of his hair. It may have been the snowy purity of his smile. It may have been the crystalline gleam of his eyes. She doesn't know.
She may not remember the color, but she remembers the smell. When another girl samples her new perfume during dinner, the familiar, sickly sweet smell turns her stomach. Annie quickly excuses herself, blaming a headache as the reason for her early retreat.
Thanks for reading!
