A/N: This chapter's for bbyunnie (AO3)/ moonguks (Tumblr), the queen of modern AU headcanons. Hit her up if you wanna be wowed by her Halloween headcanons!
Mikasa
Gabi Braun, the overachiever freshman who comes to office hours every single week, has grown on me. We kick off our session discussing the readings, followed by a conversation about Gabi's most recent paper. She used to badger me about the points I docked off, but after two weeks, she realized two things: firstly, she was fighting a losing battle, and secondly, a couple of points didn't matter in the long run, especially since she was at the tip-top of her class. After I informed her of this, adding that the student ranked second was eating her dust, the intense blaze in her eyes simmered down, and a more affable, less cut-throat version of Gabi emerged.
We somehow got onto the topic of her personal backstory, and she's opened up to me about the struggles of being a first-generation college student. Her family is from a declining coal mining town tucked away in the mountains of West Virginia, and she's hell-bent on securing herself a full-ride to Harvard Law School.
Before I know it, office hours evolve into weekly therapy sessions over coffee, Gabi being the patient. She goes on tirades about how her parents don't support her education, how the financial aid office needs to get its act together, and how her dad still works in the mines, even though he's been coughing up blood lately. I don't exactly know how to counsel her on these issues, so I just nod and pitch her an occasional question, which keeps her talking for another five minutes.
In the weeks leading up to midterms, the second-ranked student joins us. Enter Falco Grice. Like Gabi, he's also a freshman with law school on the horizon, but the similarities end there. He apologizes when he accidentally interrupts me, and in our discussion section, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking. He's a bright kid, and he never fails to impress me with his whip-smart literary analyses.
It's clear as day that he's crushing hard on Gabi. He perks up when she speaks in class, and he'll often preface his own comments with the lead-in phrase, "Going off of what Gabi astutely pointed out..."
One day, the apple of his eye bursts into the coffeeshop, storming up to our usual spot. Gabi slams her palms against the table and crashes into the seat across from me. "Mikasa, I'm losing my shit," she blurts out. "I don't know what's going on anymore! I'm so confused, and I don't know what to say, and this hit me out of nowhere!"
I remind her to breathe before asking her to rewind a bit.
"Falco asked me out," Gabi says, digging her fingers into her hair. "On a date."
"Is… that a bad thing?" I ask. I shut the lid of my laptop, giving her my undivided attention.
"Yes!" she exclaims. "I can't have these sorts of distractions in my life! I have to keep my GPA up! And I have to start thinking about the LSAT! Fucking Falco, why did he have to do that?!"
"You're a freshman," I say evenly. "I'm sure the LSAT can wait a couple of years. What did you say to him?"
"This is the worst part!" she groans, facepalming. "I said that I'd be down! We're getting food this weekend."
"You're allowed to enjoy yourself, you know," I say gently. "Also," I add, leaning back in my chair. "I totally called it."
"What?!" she screeches.
"Have you seen the way he looks at you? He gets this dreamy, wonderstruck expression on this face when you talk in our discussion section—"
"Why didn't you tell me this sooner, Mikasa?" Gabi wails, slumping in her seat.
I sip from my cold-brew and shrug. "I'm your TA. I'm technically not supposed to be gossiping with my students, yet here we are."
"That's because I'm your favorite, aren't I?"
"I don't pick favorites. Question: have you dated people in the past?"
"No!" Gabi says immediately. "There's never been time. I mean, guys have asked me out before in high school, but they were Neanderthals, and also, they were sexist as fuck, not to mention homophobic!"
"I'm pretty sure Falco doesn't have any of those undesirable qualities. He's sweet, and you can tell that he's got an incredible sense of empathy and compassion," I reply. "Honestly, Gabi. Full-send."
"I've never gone on a date before," she says. It seems like we share the habit of tearing napkins into shreds when we're anxious. "What do I even say? Mikasa, help me! I literally don't know what's happening right now. I feel like life's been pedal-to-the-metal lately, and I haven't had a chance to digest it all."
"Why don't you talk about Vladimir Nabokov?" I suggest. "You're both English majors, and you're in the same literature class. You guys have a lot of common ground already, and you clearly have a lot of thoughts about Lolita. I'm sure Falco would love to engage in a discussion about that."
"Can we do a test-run?" Gabi begs me. "Like, can you pretend to be Falco, and I'll be me, and can we imagine that we're at the restaurant right now?" And so we rehearse Gabi's first date. I advise her to slow down her effusive babble, recommending that she curtail the ecstatic interruptions.
Midway through our fake date, the door chimes tinkle, and Eren sails in with Gabi's marked-up essay draft in hand. "Here ya go," he says, flashing me a smile as he hands it over.
"Thanks," I say. "Sorry for the trouble. I was in a hurry today, and I totally forgot to grab this on my way out."
"Don't sweat it." He reaches for my cold-brew and steals a couple of sips, but immediately, he scrunches up his face in disgust. "I don't get how you can stand drinking your coffee black. This is revolting."
"Creamer and sugar are for the faint of heart," I retort.
"Hey, I'm Eren," he pivots, shaking Gabi's hand. "I snuck a glance at your essay while walking over, and goddamn, you're one helluva writer. Don't let Mikasa's nitpicky comments get you down."
"Thanks!" Gabi chirps brightly. "That means a lot!"
"Well, don't let me interrupt you guys," Eren says, giving me a salute. And the door chimes tinkle once more as he departs.
Gabi's grinning at me, fizzing with glee.
"What?" I demand.
"Who was that?" she prods.
"He's just my roommate!" I insist, feeling a flush creep up my neck and spilling into my cheeks.
"I ship it," Gabi says, crossing her arms smugly. "He's hot. And we have the same hairstyle. Good taste, clearly." She points at her messy bun.
"There's nothing to 'ship,'" I intone.
"Have you seen the way he looks at you?" Gabi reflects back at me.
"In case you forgot, the fate of your grade falls in my hands."
I cross paths with Bertholdt Hoover three times per week: once in our weekly graduate seminar and two more times when we take our seats in the back of the 20th-century American lit class we co-TA, which meets on Mondays and Wednesdays. Even though he's a recurring presence in my academic life, most of our conversations happen over email.
Hi Mikasa,
Thank you so much for your keen insights on my piece. It amazes me to no end the amount of generous detail you offer in your feedback. I do have a question regarding your remarks about my use of rainfall as a metaphor for rebirth. One of your comments has been on the forefront of my mind. You wrote, "I caution against following through with this analogy, and I think you should consider reshuffling the comparison, as rainfall is a well-worn device that might border on cliche." Do you mind expanding on the thought?
Best,
Bert
In person, Bert is nowhere as eloquent. He hiccups over syllables, and he has a tendency to form incomplete thoughts, trailing off mid-sentence. If I were to describe him as a punctuation mark, he would be a set of ellipses. Dot, dot, dot…
For some reason, people seem to entrust me with their romantic headaches. One day, Bert hits me with this SOS email:
Hi Mikasa,
Sorry to keep pestering you, but I'm in need of some life advice. As you know, there's a fancy mixer right around the corner, and I want to ask Annie if she would like to go together. I'm at a loss when it comes to executing this plan. Would you happen to be free after class tomorrow to discuss this? And sorry if this is out-of-the-blue. You strike me as a kind person and an excellent listener, and I don't know if I feel comfortable speaking to anyone else regarding these matters.
Best,
Bert
I wink at Gabi as she bounds out of lecture, chattering with Falco. She responds with an eye-roll. Once the undergrads trickle out, I walk past several rows of seats, and I sit down next to Bert, who has beads of sweat forming along his temple.
"Hey," I say.
"Hello," he responds.
An agonizing silence.
"So, your situation?" I press.
"Yeah..."
Another silence. Dot, dot, dot...
"Do you wanna maybe tell me you're thinking right now?" I ask.
"I don't know how to do this," he mumbles, scribbling erratic shapes into his notebook. "She's so cold, Mikasa. I don't know how to talk with her."
Honestly, I should consider a career in stage directing because within moments, I'm helping out with another dress rehearsal, pretending to mimic Annie's standoffish attitude while trying hard not to cross into the realm of parody. Bert's problems are the polar opposite of Gabi's. He clams up when he's nervous. He squirms in his seat, and he fidgets with his hands. While Gabi perfects her lines in an instant, Bert needs multiple takes.
"Just so you know," I say, after our dozenth failed attempt. "Liquid confidence might come in handy. My friend Sasha needs at least three tequila shots before she can get it together for her comedy shows."
This upcoming mixer is a rare opportunity to rub elbows with a publishing giant. It starts with a talk from the CEO of HarperCollins, which is followed by hors d'oeuvres and champagne—in other words, a schmooze fest that holds the promise of a book deal down the road. Personally, I've never been a fan of talking people up, collecting their business cards, and sending them follow-up emails. But sadly, for writers, it's a key part of the uphill climb.
On the brightside, these events offer free food. And as students neck-deep in loans, Eren and I are big-time freeloaders. His medical school hosts guest lectures, and I often tag along with him, eager to feast on the club sandwiches laid out afterwards. Naturally, I invite him to this publishing social.
"Cocktail attire," I state, frowning at his business casual outfit.
"What does that even mean?" he grumbles. "I'm not fucking around with a bow-tie, if that's what you're pushing for."
"Relax, this isn't prom," I say, sticking a bobby-pin into my up-do. I pull out a couple strands of hair to frame my face.
Ten minutes later, he raps his knuckles against my door frame. "Is this better?" he asks with a displeased expression. He's changed into a slick suit, and he's going without a tie, which actually fancies him. "Jar, by the way," he says, smirking at me. "You're giving me one of those looks again."
"You're giving yourself way too much credit," I reply, sweeping a fluffy make-up brush across my cheeks. At this rate, I probably don't need to apply blush.
For the first time, ever, I successfully navigate the trains, landing us on the doorstep of the HarperCollins building without fail. No detours into Queens, no mishaps with the turnstile. Nothing but smooth sailing.
"I'm so proud," Eren says condescendingly, pretending to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Oh, save it," I mutter, adjusting the straps of my black cocktail dress.
The talk itself is unimpressive, consisting mostly of the CEO patting himself on the back for the company's new "diversity initiatives." Eren dozes off, resting his head against my shoulder, courtesy of yet another long week of hospital rotations. But let's be real: the talk is the silver, and the refreshments are the gold.
We divide and conquer. While I chat with a HarpersCollin higher-up, Eren nabs us free champagne. He also loads up two plates with crab and avocado toast, bruschetta with olive tapenade, satay beef skewers, and fruit kebabs.
"We hit the fuckin' jackpot," he says, passing me my share when I hit my networking quota. I show off the two business cards I collected. He clinks his champagne glass against mine, and we try to muffle our snickers.
"Oh, wow," I remark. "Hey, check out those two. Blond girl with the resting bitch face in the light blue dress, and tall, awkward guy with the red bowtie. Lemme let you in on some tea."
"Oh, do tell. Also, that bowtie makes me want to gouge my eyes out with an ice cream scoop—"
"Shh, you're being too loud!" I hiss, lightly nudging Eren in the ribs. "Anyways, Ms. Resting Bitch Face is none other than Annie Leonhart. Consider her the 21st-century Kurt Vonnegut. She can't stand me, and I can't stand her, but we have a grudging respect for each other, even though she's unnecessarily harsh on my writing during workshops. The guy next to her is Bert. Strong Ralph Waldo Emerson vibes."
"I hope you know that these literary references go through one ear and out through the other," Eren informs me.
I ignore this comment. "What's your read on those two?" I ask. "I had to play love doctor for Bert. He's a trainwreck, and we spent several hours figuring out a game plan for him to ask out Annie."
"You? A love doctor?" Eren says, laughing.
"What?" I say indignantly. "I watch plenty of rom-coms, and I've read Jane Austen. And I had a couple of failed relationships in college."
"Your credentials precede you," Eren retorts. "To answer your question, Bert looks like he's about to shit himself. Annie looks like she needs a couple more rounds of champagne. Also, no kidding about the perpetual RBF."
This makes me dissolve into giggles, which incidentally flags Annie's attention. She shoots us a sidelong glare before flipping us off.
"Hey, Ackerman. Go fuck yourself."
Several days later, Annie corners me in our grad seminar room after everyone's cleared out.
"That was uncalled for," I say coolly. "What's got your panties in a twist, Annie?"
"This peanut gallery you've formed with your boyfriend," she says. "Disband it. Pronto."
"You mean Eren?" I reply irritably. "He's no boyfriend. He's my roommate. I invited him to mooch off of the free food."
"Could've fooled me. Whatever, have fun devising nonsensical labels," Annie says flatly. "That's your business. What isn't your business, however, are my personal matters. So let me say it once more: Go fuck yourself, Ackerman."
As she stalks out of the classroom, I seize the last word. "I heard you guys are watching The Godfather tonight," I call after her. "Let me know if you recommend it. I've been itching to see a movie."
She slams the door behind her.
From time to time, I'll overstretch the grocery budget. Or Eren will leave me a pile of crusty dishes to wash. The bathroom sink might be smeared with make-up if I'm running late. Eren might neglect to pick up a box of tampons from the store. Under normal circumstances, these are innocent offenses. We'll bicker it out, airing our grievances. Someone will mutter a "sorry." Moving on.
But sometimes, if I'm chasing after a deadline or if he's dealing with an arrogant surgical resident, things might crank up a notch. The tone sours. The jokes take on a sharper edge. And the bickering ignites into a full-throated argument. These are the worst—especially when they occur in a small, low-rent apartment with no exhaust valve.
When things hit fever pitch, the issue on the table is no longer the grocery budget or the box of tampons, but rather how I'm a "type-A control freak who's incapable of loosening up a little" or how he's a "careless, sloppy dolt who can be inconsiderate as hell." He yells, and his charged voice seems to shake the walls, whereas I attach barbs and thorns to my words, directing them into his Achilles' heel. He flies into a rage that lasts for an hour before fizzling out. I maintain a burning grudge for days—well, I try to, at least.
I've always thought that I mastered the art of holding a grudge long ago. Years of living with Levi Ackerman have refined my taste for passive-aggression. I've learned to communicate via one-word sentences. Keeping my voice an octave lower than usual is paramount. The same goes for perfecting the eye-roll. It's a Cold War. Breaking the impasse means that my pride gets kneecapped.
But Eren's always the first to crack the ice. Always, he makes his move in our shared spaces, plopping down next to me on the couch or lumbering into the kitchen. I ignore him, dismissively highlighting through my book or frostily chopping the vegetables. He doesn't say a word. In a stunning show of patience, he waits it out.
"What do you want?" I'll say finally, exasperated.
"Can we talk?" he'll reply, and he hits me with his secret weapon: a soft, sheepish, apologetic look that instantly makes me lower my guard. I'll close my book. I'll put down my kitchen knife.
"I'm sorry," one of us will say. "This is stupid."
"No, it's my fault," the other will insist.
"Truce?"
"Please."
That grin of his has a way of teasing a smile out of me.
We had an elaborate set of plans for Halloween, which happens to fall on a Saturday this year. The timing couldn't be more perfect. The day before, I was juggling two deadlines, one for Pixis and another for Erwin. Eren had a shelf exam for his internal medicine rotation. This was a monster of a test, and he's been averaging about four to five hours of sleep per night preparing for it. He didn't wake up until around 2PM today, trundling out of his room to heat up a plate I'd set aside for his lunch.
We spend the afternoon and early evening mixing and matching wardrobe pieces, hoping to rustle up last-minute, low-budget costumes. I confirm for Eren that, yes, wearing scrubs, a stethoscope, and his white coat counts as cheating. And he asserts that, no, I cannot borrow his hospital attire because that, too, counts as cheating.
At the eleventh hour, we figure out a Pirates of the Caribbean-inspired outfit for him. I tie a red bandana around his forehead, and he covers his left eye with a bandage. We take a pair of scissors to an old black T-shirt, hoping to craft up an Elizabethan-era vest thing, but neither of us are particularly good with a needle and thread—surprising, given that Eren supposedly knows how to suture wounds. So we decide to spare ourselves the hassle and have him go shirtless. I successfully cajole him into letting me apply eyeliner on his non-bandaged eye, arguing that it would make his Jack Sparrow costume more convincing.
"Come on, mascara's gonna look amazing. You've got such nice lashes," I plead after almost poking his eye four times with my pencil.
"Not on your life," he growls.
As for me, I come across Levi's red, floral Hawaiian shirt in the back of my closet—seemingly a stowaway in my suitcase when I moved out. Levi teaches a highly-rated science-fiction lecture in the spring, and as a tradition, he wears this to the last class of the semester. Consider it his way of ironically wishing everyone a great summer break. As an added bonus, there's also a tacky fake lei shoved into the breast pocket.
I pair this flamboyant shirt with a pair of black spandex shorts, and I text Sasha to bring her silly bucket hat to the bar. And of course, it's Halloween, so I undo all the buttons of the shirt, presenting to the world a black, lacy push-up bra and my midriff.
Eren gives me a fist-bump when I strut out, dramatically whipping off my sunglasses. "You're just missing a fanny-pack," he remarks. "But all things considered, not bad for a one-hour effort."
"Speak for yourself. That guyliner does wonders."
"This is just a one-time thing," he grumbles.
Tonight's game plan begins with drinks at the bar with Connie, Sasha, and Armin, followed by a couple of hours at the club. When dancing gets tiring, Connie has secured some edibles to snack on as we depart for Sasha's nearby apartment. En route, we plan to make a pitstop by a late-night eatery for wings and fries to-go, and by the time we settle down at Sasha's with The Shining playing on her TV, the brownies should kick in.
But then the sky crackles. A deafening boom. Torrential rain pours down. And the electricity goes out.
We cross our fingers, hoping that the weather does a quick turn-around, but after two hours, the sky is still dumping buckets over lower Manhattan. We unanimously decide to call things off in our group message. In the dark, Eren and I sit side-by-side on the couch, passing a handle of vodka back and forth, mourning the death of our much-deserved Halloween.
"At least I can wipe this shit off," Eren says. He had taken off his bandage and dunked one end of it in makeup remover, determined to erase every last trace of the eyeliner.
"I worked so hard on that," I sigh, relighting a couple of candles on the coffee table.
"Is there any left?"
"I can't tell in this lighting."
"This burns," he complains, continuing to rub furiously.
"At least we can still get super drunk," I say, handing him the vodka.
"Look at you, getting good at this whole optimism thing now," Eren remarks, taking a swig.
I flinch when another round of thunder roars overhead.
"You're not a fan of storms?" Eren asks.
"Not my favorite thing in the world. I guess you can say that." I pull up my legs, wrapping my arms around my knees. An ambulance screams past our apartment, and I wait for the siren to bleed away. "Back when I lived in SF, my parents were driving home in this kinda weather, and well, let's just say that visibility was pretty shit. They didn't make it back."
"Shit," Eren says. "I'm sorry, Mikasa." The candlelight flickers across his features as he ponders what to say next. "Is that why you live with your uncle now?"
"You bet."
"He seems like such a character, based on all the little things you've told me. Like how he's a picky eater, and his whole toilet seat regimen. He doesn't really seem to give a shit about what other people think."
"He's certainly got his quirks," I reply, smiling. "I thought he was unbearable the first couple of months, and he thought I was too 'prissy'—which confuses me because if I recall correctly, I was going through my goth phase at that point."
"Now that would've been a solid Halloween costume," he says.
"No thanks, I'd rather not mutilate my bangs again," I reply, grimacing, and Eren smiles. "Any quirky personalities in your family?" I ask him.
He pauses to mull over this question. "I mean, Zeke's pretty weird," he says, shrugging. "He's a lot older than me, so he tries hard to do the 'big brother' thing. When I was in high school, he tried to give me the Talk. You know, about girls and stuff. I wish I could forget that fucking memory, but his whole explanation about 'anatomy,' if you will, is gonna forever be seared into my brain. Well, actually…" He laughs bitterly. "I guess that's one upside of getting Al…" His voice trails off, but he rebounds within seconds, "But yeah, Zeke. Fuckin' weirdo." Shadows dance across Eren's face, and his hands are clenching the neck of the vodka bottle. He stares intensely into the candlelight.
"What were you saying before?" I venture to ask. "That's one upside of getting what?"
"Oh, I don't remember," Eren says quickly, plastering on an expression of nonchalance. "Um, probably something along the lines of… getting all caught up in—yeah, wow." He laughs forcefully. "I totally forgot. Sorry, looks like the booze is hitting me."
Lucky for him, the ringer on my phone goes off. I glance down, and it's my uncle, trying to FaceTime.
"Hey, brat. Happy Halloween. I have a question," Levi says when I pick up. As always, he holds the selfie camera way too close, and I can only see the top half of his face, starting from his nose. He's backlit by the single emergency light bulb hanging in our basement.
"I have an answer, potentially," I reply.
"So I'm downstairs. The fucking electricity went out when I was reading, and I don't wanna deal with this dinky-ass flashlight anymore. Can you tell me exactly which buttons you press to get the power back on? I called the electric company, but those imbeciles were no help, so I'm trying to fuck with these little switches, but nothing's happening—"
"Levi?!" I exclaim. "Are you messing up the circuit breakers? I keep telling you not to touch those! Can you undo everything you just did?"
"How the fuck am I supposed to remember? I don't have a photographic memory, for your information."
"Listen carefully. So do me a favor and flip the camera, will you? I need to see the breaker panel," I instruct him carefully. I look over at Eren, shaking my head in exasperation. He laughs quietly.
"Did that work?"
"Nope." I'm still staring up Levi's nostrils. One of these days, I'm going to need to teach him about optimal front-facing camera angles.
"And Apple boasts about being user-friendly. My ass."
"It's really not that hard. It's just... a button."
"I could do without the attitude, Princess."
Eren starts snorting beside me. "Princess?" he whispers.
"Shut up," I mutter.
"Someone's snippy," Levi remarks. "Did some guy dump you or whatever?" Finally, he hits the right button, and I squint, trying to make out the switches and buttons through the screen of my phone.
"Okay, so do me a favor. I need you to shine your flashlight on the switchboard. And also, your camera needs to stop shaking," I say.
"I'm not shaking anything. Also, wait a second. Is that my 'Have a great summer break!' shirt? I was looking for that!" Levi snaps. "Please don't tell me you're desecrating it by turning it into a Halloween—oh, God. That's exactly what you're doing, isn't it?"
"I don't know how it ended up packed in with my clothes," I explain hastily. "It must've been a laundry mix-up."
"You know what? You better be free tomorrow, Mikasa," Levi intones. "Because I'll be at your place bright and early to reclaim what's mine."
"Wait!" I say. "While you're at it, could you pack in my fall and winter clothes? Also, my blender and plant—"
And he hangs up. Just like that.
"That's Levi for you," I sigh. "So unreasonable sometimes. I guess he cares more about his Hawaiian shirt than electricity."
"Like I said," Eren comments. "Such a character."
"I hope you're not too drunk right now," I sigh, getting up and shining my phone flashlight around the room, in search of the vacuum. "Because we seriously need to do a deep-clean of this place before he rolls into town."
A/N: So I haven't really had booze since we got sent home from campus, so last night, I popped open an IPA. Totally forgot how alcohol really gets the creative juices a-flowin' because holy shit, this chapter just poured outta me. My tolerance, however, is utter shit. I was so hungover last night, and around 3AM, I was hugging a toilet bowl—and this was the result of one single can of beer. ONE SINGLE CAN. That's basically nothing. Looks like I'll have to retrain myself before I head back to school, HAHAHA :')
Anyways, how did you guys enjoy this chapter? Please lemme know your thoughts below!