A/N: I've fallen into the pit of hell that is the Erwin/Levi fandom, so it is briefly implied here (as in, two/three sentences). Also, for those unfamiliar, flip cup and kings cup are drinking games. If I haven't finished your request, feel free to repost it! - I've gotten a new laptop and have been lazy to transfer over my older files.
When Eren finally acknowledges he needs to piss, he's already four beers and three shots of tequila in, not including the extra alcohol from playing kings cup and flip cup. His memory is cooperative but hazy, and details are starting to blur together, like what time it is and when he's supposed to be home.
He knows that it is a Friday night, that Connie drove them and Armin sat in the front seat sighing about the inevitability of being the only sober one on the way back while Jean had been busy ignoring them on his cell phone the entire ride over. He's sure that Armin is supposed to drive him home and that it's probably well past midnight but maybe it's a little earlier or a bit later (also, he's sure he has a curfew, but can't remember the time for that either). As he's stumbling through the house, the latest game of beer pong forgotten in lieu of a bathroom, he's also aware that this isn't his house but instead it belongs to a blond jock with blue eyes who seems happily buzzed, draped over a small, intimidating and noticeably less friendly figure.
But in all actuality he doesn't care who owns the house or who's hooking up with who on the furniture, because all he's aware of is his dire and desperate need to find a bathroom. He doubts any of his friends have noticed his absence yet, for Connie and Jean had been drunkenly debating the existence of aliens when he'd walked away from the game mid-throw, both of them attempting to use Armin to prove their point.
He's stumbling down a large hall when he sees a closed door and hears what sounds like a bathroom vent and a toilet flushing; when he knocks, then begins to bang his forehead against the door, all he hears is a hushed, "Shit, fuck, stay quiet!" Even drunk, Eren is highly aware of what was most likely going on behind the closed door. No amount of hand or head banging appears to be enough to coax them out. Eren calls this bathroom a lost cause and prays that there's another nearby.
There's more stumbling and a few trips over various feet in shoes as he rounds a corner, dodging beer cans and cups as best he can. When he looks around, he notices he's in front of a large staircase that seems to be oddly vacant, though he chalks it up to there being more music and partying in the bottom half of the house as opposed to the upper. In any case, it doesn't distract him from his goal of finding a bathroom, but it takes him all of two seconds to realize he is too drunk to walk up the stairs alone; with only a moment's hesitation he finds himself on all fours crawling up the stairs.
When he gets to the top, he notes that there are three doors, all closed, but that two of the three have socks hanging off their doorknobs. Deciding it best not to chance those two, he crawls to the one at the very end, prays it's a bathroom, and doesn't bother to knock before opening the door. (Why risk knocking and getting shut out again? It doesn't really matter to him anyway—he's far too drunk and needing to piss to care if someone's in there or not. He'd be willing to go with strangers in there if they'd face the wall for a minute.)
He's surprised and a little disappointed to find himself inside a large bedroom, decorated rather ornately. It's even more surprising how quiet the room is for such a loud party going on right beneath the floors. When he's able to get himself up with help from the door, he closes it, giving his eyes a second to adjust to the dim lighting. The only source of light appears to be a small lamp resting on a nightstand.
There's a scent of apples, perhaps a perfume, and he inhales deeply before realizing there's a figure on the bed next to the lamp, staring at him curiously but with reserved annoyance. He's immediately embarrassed to realize the figure is in fact a girl no doubt around his age, perhaps a bit older, perhaps a bit younger, but she's so startlingly attractive that he momentarily forgets the reason he's invaded what is clearly her space.
"Bathroom," he croaks, voice dry from alcohol, his head buzzing so loud he's sure she can hear it. His eyes flicker to the corner of her room where a door taunts him, half-open, the bathroom counter visible.
"There's a bathroom in the hall," she says, closing the book on her lap; his face turns a shade of red when he sees the pleated skirt she's wearing with black stockings. He's so tempted to follow his gaze up, up, up the skirt that he makes a point to stare at the wooden floors beneath him, which immediately begin to spin.
"They're full. Doorknobs," he mumbles by way of explanation, thinking of the patterned ties he'd seen earlier. He begins to dance around a bit, trying to think of how to convince her to let him use the bathroom she clearly has attached to her room.
Her eyes narrow just a tad, following his movements, before she sighs and points with her index finger to the door he'd been eying. "There's a bathroom behind that door. Don't touch anything and don't miss the toilet, or you're cleaning it up. I don't care how drunk you are."
Never in his life could he recall bolting to a bathroom so fast and the relieved feeling carries with him as he's washing his hands and leaving her bathroom, which is adorned in a surprising amount of rubber ducks of various colors. Normally he'd be more perturbed by going to the bathroom whilst being stared at by so many plastic eyes, but again: alcohol. As he leaves her bathroom, he finds she's still on the bed, book open once more, her body subconsciously leaning into the light. Her eyes look strained and narrowed, clearly struggling to read properly. Eren speaks before he realizes his words: "You need glasses."
"You should go back down to the party," she replies, eyes glancing above the book to look at him, though he feels more like a specimen under a microscope by the way her eyes are observing him.
"I think that's a great idea," he agrees, turning to take a step before tripping over the rug on the floor; his face flushes red and he hopes she thinks it's from the alcohol. As he tries to pull himself up he reaches for the closest thing—her bedspread, which starts to pull her with him.
"Stop it," she finally says, frustrated at his inability to help himself. She closes her book and sets it down on her bed. "I'll do it, just stop moving. You're a walking disaster."
"I know." He expects her to help him to the door and is instead surprised when he feels her plop him down on the end of her bed, her eyes focused on his chin. "Am I dying?"
When she laughs he knows he's finally done something right. Her hand reaches out to touch his chin and she shakes her head, saying, "You're not dying. But you are bleeding. You must've torn it on the rug. Stay still."
She disappears to the bathroom he'd just come from and as she's doing so, he feels his phone vibrate. He takes it from his front pocket, laying his back down onto her mattress as he tries to read Jean's scrambled message. He can't tell if the words—wre u?—are scrambled because he's drunk, because Jean's drunk, or if perhaps a drunk Connie has taken Jean's phone and typed it instead. He hits what he thinks is Reply, only to realize he's already sent a message containing nothing more than the eloquent words of, here am! (When had he typed that?)
A quiet click indicates the bathroom door is opening once more. Oh well, he thinks as he watches the girl reemerge with a band-aid and wipes, they can all wait.
"Sit up," she says, trying to tug him up once more by his hand.
"So comfy," he murmurs, turning his head into her bedspread—it must be silk because he's certainly never felt something so comfortable and relaxing in his twenty-one-years of existence.
"I should think so, since it's my bed," she says with only mild amusement.
A moment later there's pressure on his abdomen and he thinks, for a horrifying second, he's going to be crushed and killed by some unknown and hidden ghost—then, of course, logic reminds him that he's in the room of someone who he does not know and that it is also more than likely said person is also the one on top of him. It's an intimate pose—or perhaps, it would be, if he weren't too drunk to really be aware of their movements. Perhaps if he were a little less drunk and a lot more confident he'd even try to flirt with her.
"Don't take advantage of me," he says, though he must be slurring terribly because she smiles a tiny bit; he feels the wipes on his chin, her fingers dabbing carefully. It stings for only a few seconds and he's relieved it doesn't hurt more.
"I'll try my best," she replies and he wonders if he imagines the way her stocking-clad legs seem to tighten a little around him.
"I'm delicate," he adds. "I bruise easy."
"Interesting, I'll remember that—what's your name?" She opens the band-aid and places it carefully on his chin at an angle.
"Eren." He's slightly disappointed when he feels her climbing off him, throwing away the trash in a basket by the nightstand before she's back on the bed. The book she'd been reading earlier is at her feet and he tries to read the cover before realizing the words are meshing together in a way that he cannot, at this point in time, comprehend.
"I'm Mikasa," she finally says. "Why aren't you going downstairs yet?"
"Comfy bed," he reminds her, wriggling his way up her sheets. When he's close to a pillow, he attempts to grab it, but finds she snatches it away before he can fully grasp it.
"My bed, my pillows," she says. Her legs are straight out in front of her and he wonders if this is because she's worried about flashing him in her skirt. It's then he realizes that the stockings aren't all black like he'd thought, but instead, close to her upper thigh, end in cute little cat ears with a small cat face cut out in white below it. It is absolutely adorable.
He vaguely thinks about what it would be like to kiss up between her thighs, wonders if she'd moan or shiver or both, if she'd plead for more or remain quietly resistant. He buries his head into her bed as his face reddens terribly, cursing himself for thinking something so impure in a bed and room that are not his in a house that he doesn't even really know the owner of.
He's glad she misinterprets his behavior for being tired and lazy or—probably more accurately—as just being drunk or very buzzed. A flicker of disappointment washes through him that he is not more sober to appreciate the moment of being alone with such a kind person who has not yet forcibly shoved him from her room. He debates going back downstairs where there's more alcohol, more games and jokes and people, but the longer he's in her bed, the more comfortable he grows. He uses his arms as a pillow beneath him.
"Why aren't you…party?" he asks, watching as she rolls the sleeves of her white shirt up, realizes there's a small black cat in the corner of that shirt, too. "Like cats?"
"I'm not at the party because I didn't want to have it here at my house," she says and it takes Eren a moment to realize that the house does not belong to the blond with blue eyes like he'd thought. "My cousin wanted it here. He said something about being able to 'monitor the guests better.' I know who he wants to monitor, and it's not the guests."
"Cats?" Eren repeats, reaching out to tug at the cat on her shirt. He's trying to process why her face looks familiar when he sees it—the sharp angle of her eyes looks eerily similar to the angry looking man he'd seen downstairs and he's almost sure he's the cousin she's referring to.
"I just like them." She moves the book off her bed and onto the nightstand before she sits down once more—near him, close enough to almost be considered next to him, but with enough distance that she can keep an eye on his movements. "You should go. I don't want anyone thinking we're doing anything."
"Friends will…find me," he answers, reaching around his back pocket for his phone. He sees that he's got four missed calls and six texts, mostly from Armin but one each from Jean and Connie as well. "Maybe I call them?"
"That's a good idea." She watches him for a moment then sighs as she sees his fingers touching all the wrong buttons; he's embarrassed that he was able to send a mostly-understandable text earlier but cannot seem to figure out how to dial properly now. She reaches over and plucks his phone from his fingers. "Who should I call?"
"Armin." Eren watches her fingers mess around with his settings and he considers for a moment that, if she truly wanted, she could steal his phone and kick him out. Not that his phone is worth much, really, but it is his only source of texting and phone calls. When she puts the phone to her ear, he hears a muffled conversation and wants to reach out and tell her to speak up so he can hear Armin better.
"He'll be up in a minute. He said something about getting your friends in the car and then coming for you," she says, though does not give him back his phone. She starts to flip through it and he's embarrassed and slightly annoyed to see her going through his photos—he's trying in vain to remember if he's got anything personal in there.
"My phone," he says, reaching his hand out to try and take it back; it's easy for her to move her hand and avoid his swiping. "Mine."
"My bed, my rules," she reiterates. He's only a bit drunk now and mostly just too tired to comment that he did not realize her rules extended to his items as well. Instead, he settles on scooting closer, his head practically in her lap, watching to see what she's looking for on his phone.
Her fingers leave his images—mostly full of his friends and stupid Instagram pictures, really—in favor of going to his music and playing around with some of the artists. Sometimes she plays a small clip of a song before moving on while other songs she skips entirely. Eren doesn't realize that he has begun drift off to sleep until he feels a soft hand hesitantly touching his forehead, pushing some hair back behind his ear; it tickles him, sends a small shiver trickling down his neck and through his spine.
"Sorry, have to wake you," she murmurs and he realizes his phone in front of him, lying on the bed. She looks about to say something before realizing her hand is still in his hair, strands woven between her fingers; she pulls it back, mouth open to speak, when there's a soft tap on her door.
"Eren?" Armin's voice sounds unsure and Eren's positive Armin's hoping he's gotten the right room and not a room with an adventurous couple behind it.
"He's in here," Mikasa answers, her hand dropping from his hair to her side. Lazily, Eren leans forward, nudging her hand back on top of his hair, hoping she'll toy with it once more before he leaves. He supposes he should care more about propriety, but he's too comfortable between her sheets and alcohol is still lingering in his veins, encouraging silly, last minute whims.
The door opens and Armin steps in, staring wearily at the scene before him, eyes stopping to rest on the bandage clinging to his chin. He takes a few weary steps in, mumbling apologies about invading personal privacy before reaching out to heave Eren up, slinging one of his tired arms around Armin's bony shoulders.
"Thanks for keeping an eye on him," Armin says, staring at Mikasa with an apologetic smile. "See you in class on Monday?"
"See you on Monday," she answers and hesitates before adding, "and bye, Eren."
"You're friends?" Eren's eyes are rapidly fading to sleep and he steals one last glance at Mikasa, who looks exceptionally pretty in the dim light. If only he'd had more time to talk to her.
"How else did you think I knew there was a party here?" Armin replies, his tone indicating he wished he'd never said anything to his friends at all. "Time to get all the drunkards home now."
"Bye Mikasa," is the last thing Eren recalls saying before being dragged to Armin's car, pushed up against Connie in the backseat with Jean—who is not entirely sober but not entirely drunk anymore, either—in the front seat. His memory fails to recall any moments past falling asleep in the car; his dreams that night consist of black cats wearing pleated skirts, meowing in off-key notes.
When Eren awakens the next morning, his head pounding and body aching, he attempts to remember the night before, but only after he's popped three aspirin and downed a glass of water. (Why does he never remember to stay hydrated when drinking?) When he gets a text from Jean an hour later, he's only managed to recall parts of the night before: beer pong, blue eyes, being oddly nonchalant around some rubber ducks, and a bed more comfortable than his own with a dark skirt on top, speaking words to him.
The text from Jean is simple—Still alive?—but it does contain a picture with the text, and Eren is embarrassed to find that Jean has captured him forever more in an image of beer pong, his arm raised and leg poised. He'd look almost graceful if not for the way sweat is clearly pouring down his face and tongue sticking out at an awkward angle. As he's attempting to erase the message—hopefully forever—from his phone, he accidentally clicks Save Image instead of the large, red Delete button beneath.
He sighs, cracks his neck loudly in the kitchen and is momentarily grateful his parents have slept in this particular morning, unintentionally giving him room to think and rest. He flips to his pictures with the intent to delete the image and scrolls to the bottom. His finger is hovering above the intended snapshot when he sees a face in his photo album that he does not recall clearly but that looks familiar. He touches it instead, pulling up a surprising image of him asleep on the lap of a girl who has a small smile on her face; she is clearly the photographer of the shot. Her face shows her amusement at the situation and he sees, even through the grainy image, she has a hand on his head, touching him almost protectively. There is also a bandage on his chin in the picture and he skims his face in surprise; the bandage has come off but a scab remains.
He can barely place her in the midst of his memories, but it isn't until he zooms in on her, sees the folds of her skirt and the small cat in the corner of her shit that he remembers needing to piss and somehow finding his way to her room where he no doubt thoroughly invaded any and all of her personal space. But, for the life of him, he can't remember her name, only recalls seeing Armin talking to her briefly before they left.
He pulls up Armin's number and opens a new text. He attaches the image, adding text of his own this time: Who is she?
As if expecting his message so bright and early, Armin responds promptly, and Eren can almost see the smirk laced between the lines: Meet me outside of my class Monday and I'll introduce you two…again.
As Eren types out a reply—thanks—his only thoughts now of how Monday seems so far away; he leaves his phone on the table in favor of putting on a movie, watching with mild interest as Catbus fills his screen. Monday seems an eternity when all he can think of is a pretty girl in a pretty skirt, gently waking him up from sleep.