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dorminchu · 6 days

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Between Heaven and Earth: Chapter Three

a/n: Trying out shorter chapters, for the sake of editing and pacing.

Before the breach, Eren’s biggest opponents were childhood bullies who picked on him or Armin, and the occasional doubter of the Scouting Legion’s potential. Whereas his mother was against the idea of his enlistment from the beginning, his father suggested he could become a field medic. After all, there were more ways to help humanity than killing Titans. A lesser evil, no doubt posed for his mother’s sake. To Eren, it was better than disapproval.

Once Mikasa came to live with their family, she took the spot next to Eren’s bed in the loft. She was so quiet, if Eren hadn’t gotten to know her so well he’d have assumed she was only shy. But she looked out for him in the same way he did Armin, like the sister he’d never had. Sure, she could be a little stubborn and overprotective, chiding him for picking fights he couldn’t win, but Eren never loathed her for it. She was just keeping him on the straight and narrow, same as he’d do for her or Armin or anyone important.

That afternoon they spent chopping wood. Mikasa was pretty good at it, having grown up in the countryside. Armin couldn’t keep the same pace with the axe, too nervous of the potential for harm. He’d struggle to carry home the amount of wood as Eren, though he never complained about it. When Eren offered to help him, though, Armin would snap that he was fine, that he didn’t need to be worried after.

Eren didn’t get it. He wasn’t worrying after Armin, anyone could see that he was struggling, but that just made it worse. So he gave Armin his space, for the sake of their friendship. Eren didn’t mind bringing Mikasa along. If Armin felt differently, he didn’t say.

On the way back, they passed by a couple Garrison soldiers playing cards. Mister Hannes wasn’t at his post to-day. Probably blotto.

“She’s part of the family,” Eren said.

“Yeah,” the Garrison soldier said, “we heard about what happened. You’ve got the luck of the Devil.”

Eren shrugged. “I’d do it again.”

The men shared a laugh, more to themselves.

Mikasa said nothing for a while. Moving on, the usual silence between them felt different. When she asked, “Why the Scouting Legion?” Eren hesitated. Armin had made him swear not to tell anyone about his grandfather’s theories. Not even his mother and father would speak of it.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Mikasa nodded.

Eren turned down a side-street, away from prying eyes. “ Because there must be a world beyond these Walls,” he said. “Just like the Titans. We don’t know where they come from or how they’re created, so it stands to reason we must not know about what’s on the other side of the Walls. Once the Titans are eradicated, we can take back what was stolen from humanity.”

“How can you be sure it’s true?”

Eren shrugged her off. “What does that matter if I’m sure or not? It’s our right to see what’s out there.”

Mikasa frowned slightly. “What’s out there?”

“Armin told me,” he said quietly. “His grandfather knows a lot of things about the outside world. He has books from the world outside the Walls. But his family could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out. They’ll say he’s spreading misinformation.”

Mikasa nodded. She readjusted the scarf. She never went a day without it. His mother would’ve chastised her by now.

“You should wash it,” he said, “before you wear it out.”

“I know,” she muttered. “It just reminds me of you.”

Eren said, “Why does that matter?”

Mikasa wouldn’t talk to him. She wouldn’t explain what he’d done to upset her, either.

When they got back to the house and his mother asked how they’d been, Mikasa parroted his statement about the Scouting Regiment.

“Yes,” his mother said dryly, “I’ve yet to change his mind.”

Eren shot Mikasa a look. Was she still upset? Or just playing mother hen? What did she know about the Scouting Legion, anyway?

“The Garrison is already overcrowded,” Eren said. “And the Military Police is corrupt, they'd sooner sit on their asses then fix anything.”

“The military just want to boost their numbers,” his mother said. “They've been working on their slogans to make up for it.”

Eren scowled at the pile of lumber he'd brought in. Mikasa's eyes rested on the side of his neck.

“They’re doing the job that no one else can,” he said. “It’s more than the Garrison have done.”

The plate slipped from his mother’s hands and shattered against the floor. Mikasa flinched. Eren did not.

“The Scouting Legion,” his mother said, in a tight voice, “has taken more lives campaigning for a suicide mission than the plague did. If that’s what your heart is set on, you might as well just throw your life away.”

“We’re no better than livestock then. Why have a military at all?”

“Better to be livestock then carrion,” his mother said.

Even then, Eren couldn't muster any real animosity beyond childish frustration. She was saying it to protect him, the only way she knew. She'd lived her whole life inside the Walls and never questioned what she was told. She’d grown too comfortable, hunkered down in this house, wasting away.

While Eren took out his feelings on the washboard and laundry, Mikasa stayed behind to help his mother with dinner. Usually Eren would be the one pitching in, but with two equally stubborn people living under the same roof, they’d get into another argument if they didn’t cool off first. Besides, his mother had taken kindly to Mikasa. She probably appreciated the extra help.

After dinner, his mother took him aside. Eren was bracing himself for another lecture about humanity’s sake not being his burden, and how he should at least try to think about his future rather than an ideal. But all she asked about was Mikasa’s change in mood.

“Oh, well, I said she ought to wash the scarf before she wore it out. And she said it reminded her of me, which doesn’t change what I said. It’s her scarf now. She can wear it if she wants to, it’s just going to get dirty is all.”

His mother sighed. “Eren, I don’t think she’s unaware.”

Eren averted his eyes. “I reckon that I hurt her feelings.”

“She told me about the day you found her. It’s a nice memory,” his mother said. “Perhaps one of the few memories she has of that day. Sometimes, when people are grieving, they’ll act in ways that might seem a little strange. Just give her some time to adjust. I’m sure she’ll wash the scarf.”

“Right,” he said. He was about to apologise for their fight, but his mother had a habit of shrugging the topic off when it came to the military. So he wouldn’t bring it up anymore, at least not while she was present. Five years was a long time away from conscription.

As he got ready for bed, Mikasa was sitting by the window with the dying flame of a candlewick. The view wasn’t much. From the belltower, you’d be able to see all the way to the river that ran through Shiganshina. But here, you couldn’t even see over the Wall, though that wasn’t much to write home about either.

“It’s a nice view,” Mikasa said. “Even with all these buildings in the way. It’s a lot of roofs.”

Eren huffed. “I guess I never really thought about it that way.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About those Garrison men. I shouldn’t have talked so much about what happened.”

Mikasa looked at him oddly. “Why not?”

“Because—it’s none of their business.”

“All they need to know is that I live with your family now, after my parents died. Otherwise it would be a little odd.”

“Why would that be odd?”

She shrugged. “Because I had to come from somewhere. Unless Doctor Jaeger kidnaps children in his spare time, which isn’t likely. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible either. Maybe that’s why he’s gone for such a long period of time.”

Eren snorted. “You’re being silly.”

The corner of her mouth turned. “But he could be harbouring secrets we don’t know about. How do you really know he’s going where he says?”

Eren shook his head. “He’s just working in the next town over. Mister Hannes and the other Garrison soldiers know him. Captain Shadis, as well, so they’d know if he wasn’t where he said.”

“Shadis?”

“That’s right, I never told you. Captain Shadis is in the Scouting Legion.”

“Did your father ever join?”

“No, he’s just a regular doctor. I used to think he’d be a field medic at least.”

The candle snuffed out with the breeze. Eren hiked his shoulders up to disguise a shiver. Mikasa went to close the shutters and he said, “I’m sorry for what I said, about the scarf.”

Mikasa paused. “It’s all right.”

⁂

Between the evening of Wall Maria’s breach, and waking up next to Armin and Mikasa in the workhouse, there was a gap in Eren’s memory. Whenever roused, unsure of himself, he would reach for his breast and find the shape of the key. Physical evidence of the home he’d once occupied.

Armin and Mikasa, and Mister Hannes, they hadn’t watched. Eren could’ve closed his eyes against what was happening, but he was powerless. Clinging to rage, it wasn’t for the sake of bravery. It was the only just response in a world so unfathomably cruel.

On the boat, the Garrison soldiers gave them all rations and a canteen to pass around. When Armin passed it to him, Mikasa grabbed Eren’s wrist with a start.

He’d torn his nails attempting to lift the cross-section of a beam too heavy for him. When Mister Hannes pulled him away from the wreckage, Eren’s bloody fingerprints were all over his Garrison jacket. The dull red crust coagulated around his nailbed.

“It’s not that bad,” Eren said. He didn’t react to her grip.

Mikasa’s eyes turned stony. She tore a small scrap of cloth from the hem of her dress, before he could protest, and wrapped it gently around his fingers.

“You’ll see a proper doctor,” she said. “Once we get to Trost.”

Eren nodded. He was staring ahead. Without any Titans present to project his rage onto, he was void of sentiment. Armin laid his head on Eren’s shoulder, and Mikasa’s arm came around them both.

⁂

Despite his record for injuries—concussion in 848, multiple sprains, a broken leg, abdominal puncture in 850—he’d managed to pull through each time. The nurses said he was in peak physical condition.

There was the tattoo inscribed into Mikasa's wrist she always kept covered. Tiny nicks in Armin's fingers from repeated ODM gear maintenance, a shallow cut down his palm—the slip of a knife during kitchen duty. Bruises in the shape of their ODM harnesses.

His body remained uncalloused, difficult to bruise. He’d catch his gaze in the mirror and swear they weren’t always so grey. When he looked at his hands, his body, his mind supplied an impression of pain without proof.

Private Jaeger had the luck of the Devil, they’d said. Eren grinned and went along with it. But it wasn’t some miracle, nor an aspect of his personality he'd choose to define himself—if you’d asked him, he’d say he was no thrill-seeker, just doing whatever was required to become adept with the ODM gear. The sooner he mastered it, the faster he could get onto the front lines and start eradicating Titans.

Mikasa's explanations were too technical, but she was friends with Bertholdt and Reiner and top of the class. She could keep up with them, but she chose to handicap herself by sticking to his side. Even when he made it very clear she didn’t have to, and that he didn’t want to be responsible for her in such a way. If she wanted to join the Legion or the Garrison, she could decide for herself. Just because his mother said to keep an eye on him, he’d think, it doesn’t mean you’re indebted to me.

He’d been reliving the same nightmare ever since leaving Shiganshina. Contrary to what other cadets assumed, it was never about the day itself. His mother’s body, thrashing. She screamed for a while, until the Titan squeezed its grip and her body twisted in on itself. She couldn’t scream anymore, just twitched feebly. His imagination filled in the blanks his emotions refused to accept. There wasn’t much to see at a distance, Mister Hannes’s pace, the cobblestones.

He could go over it, in his mind, but these associations never bled into his dreams. Mikasa and Armin, and the others, they’d just assume as long as he kept his mouth shut. It was easier to explain, under the guise of Titan-loathing mania. Why wouldn’t he dream about his mother’s last moments?

The dissonance used to eat away at him, whenever he wasn’t occupied. Throwing himself into farmwork, training exercises, unarmed combat with anyone willing to scrap, getting thrown around by Leonhardt, a couple snarling matches with Kirschtein. Drinking with the other cadets didn’t stop it so much as heighten his own awareness of his lack—the weight of the key on his breast was an anchor.

⁂

The day Eren's father took him to the basement, Mikasa was running an errand with his mother. It wasn't often Eren got to spend time with his father outside of a work-related context. The basement was where he worked, and he didn’t like to be disturbed.

His father bade him to sit. "This is a perfectly safe procedure. You will enter into a state of increased relaxation and focus, but you will be in control the entire time."

Eren shrugged.

His father pulled out a syringe and rolled up his sleeve. It pricked a bit, but his father was calm throughout the whole process. Eren followed the sound of his voice. That wasn’t so bad.

“Do you feel any different?”

“No, sir.” Eren figured they should probably go back upstairs. Mikasa and his mother would be home soon. His father stared at the desk for a long time. “What was the shot for?”

His father seemed to startle. A slight shift of his shoulders. “For your health. You’re the right age for it.”

His father had no reason to lie.

That evening, Eren turned up feverish. A foul taste lingered in his mouth, like iron and salt. His mother prepared dinner, and the smell of the meat made him want to throw up. He hadn’t meant to. He tried to apologise but all he could taste was iron and salt. It was affecting his sense of smell, or wasn’t it the other way around? He was trembling and blanching, but when he tried to explain he’d just retch again.

His father kept him bedridden and insisted he have no visitors. He said it was stomach flu, but that didn’t make sense to Eren. This blood taste didn’t make sense either. His teeth were fine, no open wounds inside his mouth. He could drink water without vomiting. “Dad,” he rasped, “I think—”

“You’re exhausted,” his father said, in a polite tone he only used with patients that were being unreasonable. “You need sleep.”

That week, his father stayed home and worked in the basement. Eren would listen to the sound of passing horse carts and pedestrians. Mikasa would talk to him about her day, or lay another wet cloth on his brow.

“You’re really feverish,” she said. “I should tell Mr. Jaeger.”

Eren reached for her wrist. “It’s all right,” he said. “I'm feeling better than I was.” He smiled, even though all the muscles in his body were on fire. It didn’t seem to reassure her.

“I’ll just let him know.”

“Mikasa, just wait until he comes upstairs.”

Mikasa held his gaze. “Why?”

Eren frowned. “He doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working.”

Mikasa was still looking at him.

His parents’ hushed voices, as though he could sleep with midday sunlight pouring through the window.

After a few days, Eren was up and walking again. The metallic aftertaste was still there, just dulled.

The door, usually locked, was open. The food Mikasa left the night before was congealed to the plate. When his father was busy, he could go hours without eating.

He was looking over at the desk, a strange and uncomfortable silence lingered.

“You should be in bed,” he began. It was a strange tone, as if he’d been caught unawares.

“Sorry, sir. Mikasa wanted to know if you were all right.”

“I’m fine. Just lost track of time.” He readjusted his glasses. “You’re feeling better, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.” Eren couldn’t help it. “Honestly, I feel well enough to go into town with Mikasa.”

“That's precisely why you need to rest,” his father said coolly. “Give it a few more days.”

Surely, his father would’ve locked the door if it were so important. If Eren was contagious, he’d have said as much from the beginning. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that Mikasa didn’t get sick. Nor did you, or mother—so I guessed it wasn’t as serious as it seemed.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” his father snapped. “Armin’s family has enough problems without worrying about his health. You were just throwing up, for God’s sake.”

Eren glanced at the food. He went to take it.

“Leave it,” his father said. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“You lied to mum about the food. It wasn’t spoiled.”

His father’s laugh was an ugly thing. A rictus grin, as he said, very quietly, “What exactly are you implying? That I’m trying to poison you and your mother?”

Mikasa was upstairs, asleep. There wasn’t anything Eren could say that would assuage this situation. Stupidly, he said, “You’re not making any sense.”

His father grabbed the plate and threw it. It would’ve hit Eren upside the head if his father’s aim hadn’t wavered. Eren flinched as it hit the wall.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he snapped. “I said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

The silence was suffocating as Eren rounded up the stairs. Stalking outside, he’d gone for a lap, his skin tingling and feverish, but he didn’t feel anything close to fatigue. He could’ve done several rounds around the neighborhood, but he didn't want to alarm his mother or Mikasa by staying out too long.

He sat on the riverbank and hurled rocks across the water's surface until he felt a little less like punching something. He took off his shoes and let his feet slip into the water. Up to his ankles, he watched the water steam around his ankles. If he stayed here long enough, he could evaporate all the water in Shiganshina, but his mother would worry and it was a stupid thing to dream anyway.

“Your mother and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

Eren bristled. "Fine. Feeling better."

His mother excused herself.

“Did you tell that to Mikasa?” Eren spat. “You scared the hell out of her.”

His father blinked. “No, son. I wasn’t angry at her, or you. I’ve been under a tremendous pressure, with work. But that’s no excuse for how I acted this morning.”

Eren set his jaw.

“I just want you to know,” his father said, “that I’m sorry.”

"OK," Eren said. "I believe you."

His father's smile didn't reach his eyes.

⁂

Staring at the underside of the bunk, Eren tasted iron and salt. His eyes were wet, but he could not place a reason.

At the far end of the barracks, Bertholdt was reciting something under his breath. Eren couldn't make out the words, but he laid still, grounding himself in the cadence until his breathing relaxed.

⁂

His first deployment was over before he had the chance to offer more than a few words of courage to his fellow trainees. Defending the Wall from an inevitable breach. Fifteen and bleeding out on the hot rooftop. The damned Titan that ripped his leg was crawling around.

He’d been shouting at Private Kirschtein, stuffing down his own emotions. Kirschtein, if he survived, would just go to Sina anyway. They’d never speak to each other, or get along out of anything other than necessity.

Anyone would be terrified. Eren shoved down his fear and let it expel as authority. He wasn’t any less afraid, just never gave himself into the luxury of that realization. His allies, half-eaten and screaming for help. The best he could do was lie there, leg serrated and pulsing hot blood onto the roof.

Tiles grinding against bare flesh of his knee as he pushed himself up on what was left. The chinos torn and saturated with blood. Bare muscle met tile but he couldn’t feel much beyond the blood pumping from the open wound.

The leg the Titan chewed off felt heavier than it should. His equilibrium was askew. A dull phantom pain shot up the leg he’d lost. He bent double, unable to accept what his sight was telling him. Bones sprouting out of torn flesh, sheathed in sinew and hemic tissue. The flesh wrapped around the newly formed appendage, raw and pink.

He stared at his naked leg, covered in blood and viscera, as if he’d shoved it inside a cow’s stomach. The skin was raw and flaky around the shape of the bite, chinos torn to match.

High pitched scream cut through the confusion. Eren forced himself to crouch unevenly. He was fortunate the Titan had only eaten away the calf. If he could line up with the building he could shoot across and vault over it.

Racing against time. His own body sluggish. He'd lost a lot of blood, running purely on adrenaline.

"You can't die," Eren shouted. "You and I still have to see what's on the other side of Wall Maria."

Armin looked down at where the leg shouldn’t’ve been. He opened his mouth to say something but the Titan’s jaws closed around Eren leaving only the impression of an anguished scream and his own pounding heart.

Falling into darkness.

Impact with liquid, submerged.

Iron and acid in the back of his throat.

Breaking the surface. Hot, rank air sucked into his burning lungs.

Thick smell of pine and cigarettes overtaken by sweeter stink of rot.

Through the haze of pain the small metal shape dug into his breast, burning an imprint into skin. He could keep himself afloat. He’d been swimming in the river by his house since he was little.

Up to his ankles, his skin steamed against the river's current.

Armin was up there.

His left arm from the elbow down had already reformed itself, the skin raw. Bone and muscle where he'd torn the new-grown flesh of his fingers.

"Do you wish to save them, Armin and Mikasa?"

Naked shin bumped against the carrion beside him. The bottom of the Titan’s stomach, or simply the mass of bodies that came before him, indistinguishable. Titans couldn’t digest what they ate, so they’d just excrete the excess and continue. He'd have to cut his way out. Without his blades, that was close to impossible.

Clawing for purchase on the nearest body in-uniform. The ODM canister snagged on one of the bodies, weighing him down. He fumbled with the belt, already corroded by acid, crumbling apart. Drawing the blade from its scabbard, he plunged it into the slick impenetrable surface above him. Up to the hilt, dragging down with all of his strength. The hilt came back, blade snapped off partway within the holster. Blades were built to slash and discard.

He drove it forwards, blind, stabbing into the same slick meat as if the situation would change. An unrecognizable scream tore from his throat. The hairs on his arms and legs stood up. A flash of light from inside himself, the skin on his regrown fingers torn where he’d clawed over so many fallen comrades.

Syringe piercing flesh.

A trembulous embrace. Tears stained the boy's cheek.

The body he called up from will alone tore apart its confines. Tall as the clocktower itself, a miasma of blood inhaled and exhumed.

The ones who stumbled around like drunken men, unable to recall themselves. Shambling around the narrow streets in search of prey. Dispatching them was simple when they didn’t have the will to fight back. More clustered in the square, encumbered by their own hunger.

Tiny figures vaulted across rooftops, shouting to each other. Significance of their words fell away from his original imperative.

"You must master this power."

⁂

He’d surely wake up to his final moments on a stretcher, all of his hopes dashed to pieces along with his comrades and missing limbs. Awash in a morphine haze.

Instead, his eyes fell to the darkened ceiling. Three stone walls, a hard mattress beneath him and fresh sheets. Manacles at either wrist. On the opposide side of the iron bars, two guards silhouetted in the torchlight. Now that Eren was looking, they weren’t much older than him.

“Hey,” he said. “Where am I? Where’s Armin?”

“Be quiet,” the first MP said, a fair-haired boy of average height. “Commander Irvin’s requested an audience with you.”

Eren froze. “Commander Irvin?” His brain finally kicked back into gear.

I was in the Titan's stomach, and then—Armin. I heard his voice.

A twinge in his shoulder.

Armin was there. Mikasa, too. They must be alive, still. "Where's Mikasa?"

“I said quiet,” the boy snapped. “You’re lucky enough to be in a cell and not in front of a firing squad, Titan.”

“Feulner,” said the MP on his right, lanky and dark-haired, “leave him alone.”

Was the mission a success? Are Armin and the others still alive? What's the last thing I remember?

Why are they so afraid of me?

"Did—did they survive? Armin and Mikasa?"

"Yeah," the soldier on the right said. "They're safe. A few others didn't make it. You'll be briefed once the tribunal is over."

Tribunal? What the hell did I do? Where's—

He couldn't move his arms. But the lack of the weight against his breast was tangible. A rising panic clenched his insides.

"The key," he blurted. "Where is it?"

Feulner looked at Freudenberg as if to say, what the hell is he talking about?

"Your personal belongings were collected after you were retrieved from the Titan's body," said Freudenberg carefully. "If you cooperate, you'll receive it and anything else that was on your person."

Eren slumped back against the bed. Bare feet planted on the stone. "You're telling me the truth?"

"Yes."

Feulner scoffed. "He's out of his mind."

"Shut up, Feulner," Freudenberg snapped. "The tribunal will decide what his fate will be." He glanced at Eren. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Eren glanced at his manacled hands. "I was in the Titan's stomach. Then—I did what had to be done, for the sake of my comrades."

Freudenberg averted his eyes first. "All right, Jaeger. I believe you."

#snk #aot #eren jaeger #boris feulner #marlowe freudenberg #armin arlert #mikasa ackermann #grisha jaeger #karla jaeger #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #fanfic #fanfiction #canon divergent #multichapter #slow burn #author's undying love for dramatic irony

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ridingtorohan · 6 months

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𓇻 ft. jealous mikasa x gn reader. 𓇻 au. friends to lovers, can be read as modern or canon setting. you've agreed to run a kissing booth. Mikasa is, oddly enough, not as receptive to this idea as you are. 𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, share, reblog or send in asks! ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎read on ao3! - masterlist - join the taglist!

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"No."

Hearing that one syllable, you let out a slow, resigned sigh. Mikasa stood to your right, brows knitted together, mouth pulled tight into a thin line. Your own eyebrows raised, unperturbed.

"It's not really your decision, Mikasa."

It really wasn't; nor was it any of her business. Mikasa had always been tight-lipped and serious, dutiful to her own responsibilities. You'd think she'd have taken a shine to your own iniative. Everyone knew how badly your division needed the funds. As juvenile as it was, a kissing booth seemed reasonable. Especially with the festivities. Rather, not too long ago, Mikasa had been put in a similar position- though far less willing.

Even now, you could recall how she looked at the Christmas party a few months back. How her pale skin lit under the festive hues, greens and reds dancing over her cheeks. How she stood standing beneath the archway, brows knitted just as they were now. Dressed in sleek black pants, white blouse that fit her broad shoulders, glass in hand.

You weren't sure whether Jean or Mikasa had been more disappointed when they caught each other under the mistletoe.

She has that same look now, barely concealed disgust curling at her mouth, lurking in the dark grey of her eyes. Which for anyone else looking at her, was scarce more than a shadow around the corner of her lips.

"It's for a good cause." You shrugged, nonchalant and almost irritated by her reaction. Mikasa stood for a moment - never hovered, indecision was never something she did-- with eyes half-lidded and narrow in thought.

"Then I'll match it. Every donation," she said firmly, taking another step forward. Her hand rest low at your elbow, grip insistent. Warmth seeped through the fine linen of your shirt, fingers curled sharp over the dip of your arm.

You've been privy to Mikasa's protective ways, how she coddled Armin and Eren at every turn. Rarely she's turned it on you - and right now it was stifling. With a careful twist, you pulled your arm free, grip still firm on the consent papers you were asked to sign.

"It's not a big deal," you countered, a creep of annoyance crawled in and made a home in your tone. Mikasa's mouth twitched, dark eyebrows lowered over an equally dark expression.

"I see. Then you'll understand it's not a big deal when I spend my time at the booth." Mikasa's voice held firm, her gaze even more level when you turned. There was no room to brooker a disagreement; everyone knew how stubborn the Ackermans were, wielding ferocity in their bloods. Just as they held intimidation in their gaze.

With her brooding at the stand, you'd lose a great deal of customers. Nevermind the ones who specifically came to see her.

Stifled under her steely gaze, you turned away, expression twisted with a grimace. "Mikasa. Be serious. Most of the donors will be there for either you or Levi." Her presence at your side remained, every line of her body rigid and terse. You tacked on, willing for a low blow, "The Azumabito Clan will be there."

Finally, after an eternity, she turned her face away, cheek exposed. Wisps of hair fell across her cheek, shrouded her expression from view. Even from the corner of your eyes, you watched her, how the muscles in her jaw flexed, tense with the improper weight of this situation.

The memory of the Christmas party lingered; the fleeting kiss under the archway. How not once did her look shift, even when Jean pulled away, an equal grimace on his face. Not when Sasha bumped into her, cheeks rosy under the temptation of drink. Not when Eren or Levi avoided the archway like a plague while Mikasa stood vigil, totally not conspicious at all. Not even when her gaze once caught yours, too fleeting to be anything meaningful when you turned to enjoy the cheer.

At first you had admired her resolve and after a while it had been just sad. Even worse when her knuckles ghosted over the fabric of your shirt when you passed through. By then, it had been Floch who stood awkwardly there, in a futile attempt to weasel out of a kiss - even when at the time, all you had wanted to do was the feel the gloss of Mikasa's lips, her breath on your skin.

It was hard not to be bitter that night and even more bitter now, especially when it shouldn't matter to her.

Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek, your next inhale was sharp and through your nose. Papers crinkled under your grip, freshly inked words smeared across your palm. You couldn't find yourself to care, not when Mikasa stood firm to the one thing that might, heaven forbid, not only let you help out your career but get over her.

After a moment, Mikasa's words returned, nearly as firm as the grip of her own knuckles, arms stiff at her side. Even frustrated, she was pretty, righteous in her cold fury. "I don't want to be there for them. They doesn't matter to me." Her eyes cut towards you, lines smoothed from her face.

The scent of perfume, sweat and hay became pronounced as she stepped towards you. As tall and broad as she was, she nearly cut an imposing figure. Shoulders angled forward, insistent in the tear of her gaze. A familiar glint of determination roosted in her eyes. This close, you could feel the ghost of her bodyheat as her fingertips brushed over your hip.

This close, it's impossible not to feel your heart freeze in your chest, how it skittered under the intensity of her gaze. You can't focus on anything but the shift of her palm over your body, the act familiar and intimate. When you swallow harshly, Mikasa's dark eyes flicked down, traced over the swell of your throat.

"If I attend, it will be for you." Her eyes traced over the lines of your face, from your eyes, down the slope of your nose and, impossibly, lingered on your mouth. "I don't want you kissing anyone else."

Her grip tightened, firm on your hip. "Not unless you want to."

All you can do is stare into her eyes, pools of intense and focused grey framed by thick, dark lashes. This close, you could spot the sun freckles that curved over her cheekbones and bridge of her nose. She meant it, you realized. Meant it with the same passion and conviction she used in every other aspect of her life.

Her gaze wavered and darted between your eyes. Your foot is nudged by the toe of her boot. Slowly, by fractions, her grip on your hip lessened before it left altogether. Phantom warmth lingered and for a moment, you could breathe again.

"And if that's what you want," she continued in a low tone. Her chest rose slightly, breathing deep and eyes unfathomably dark. Mikasa's gaze cut down this time, past your jaw, expression slowly knit together - guarded. "Then I won't bring it up again."

It takes another longer, tense moment to finally remember how to breathe. Your eyes caught on the curve of her face, cheeks darker now with - embarrassment? Want? With a harsh swallow, you asked, "You want to kiss me?"

Immediately, she nodded, chin tucked down and strands of black hair fell across her clear forehead. There's no shame in her expression, though the knuckles in her hands pop white, fingers curled inward. Then, as unfathomable as it is, you realize with a start that Mikasa was blushing - that the dark hue that coloured the base of her neck was the start of a flush.

It's not hard to think then, of every moment that lead to this. Of knuckles that brushed over paperwork, how close she stood at your back when she corrected your training stance. Each lingered gaze over books, how her expression eased by fractions every time you two spoke. Then, unwittingly, how her hand felt on the inside of your arm as you side-stepped her from under the mistletoe.

Had she been waiting for you there?

You breathe again with a starlight explosion in your chest. She liked you. Out of everyone that she knew, everyone who vyed for her attention - it was you that turned her head.

Heat washed up the length of your neck. It felt like your heart reacted faster to this realization than your mind could: it skipped a few beats and thundered in your chest.

Mikasa wanted to kiss you. She had been willing to spend her resources, as limited as they were, to actually get a chance to kiss you. That Mikasa didn't want to choose any other kissing booth over yours.

"Yes!" It's a single word spoken in a rush, air hot and thick in your throat. Reflectively, your fingers clenched and a low papery crunch sounded. Though her eyes remained on you, eyebrows hung low. Then the corners of her lips pulled into a frown and almond eyes squinted.

"...Okay."

With a start, you recalled the last words she had offered you. "Wait," you get out in a rush. A beat passed- one where you hesitated, papers in hand. Then it's got in the next and you shove the forms into your bag for later. You'll decide what role you'll want in the kissing booth after this.

"Wait, I meant yes, I want that. To kiss you, I mean."

It's a near instant reaction, her perception zeroing in on your baited breath, the sincerity in your voice. Tension smoothed out of her forehead, lines gone from around her mouth, each breath steady as it always was. And she stood, as she always did, with her body angled in your direction, in orbit around you.

"Yes?" She repeated, soft and low. Mikasa's expression shifted when you said it again. Then, when your fingertips traced over lax knuckles, tapped to the edge of her palm, she responded in kind, hand turned to let you lace your fingers together.

Noses bumped together as you leaned in, drawn in her orbit now, caught in the current that was all Mikasa Ackerman. Mint rolled over your face with each exhale. Strands of black velvety hair fell across your face.

'Vulnerable'. It's a strange word to apply to someone like her, even in a situation like this. But it's the one that twitched in your throat. Because that's what she is, in a moment like this. Exposed. How a smile overtook her face all at once, radiant and beautiful, her eyes no less intense but honest. This is a side that you've only glimpsed at, have seen or heard in dark candlelit libraries or under starblessed skies. This is the side of Mikasa reserved for you.

Then your breath was on her lips, air warmer than your face. Soft, plush lips brushed over yours, a little dry but not unpleasant. Nice, actually, especially in the instant when she breathed out a 'hm' against your mouth as your hands rested over her waist. This time, you guided her like she once did you.

Then her hands settled over your skin, over your waist and the dip of your shoulder, grounded you to her. Calloused fingertips felt like home. She kissed like she's never been kissed before, like all the tension that had ground up between you settled into this one moment.

There's a thousand currents that thundered through your brain, insistent and fast. All that numbed to one pinpoint: the brush of her lips against yours, insistent tug against your hip, her warm breath across your face. To feel her skin against yours, to know that nobody else would have this. That she wanted you.

And the resounding electric current under your skin that whispered, it had always been her. For the both of you, this moment would exist forever.

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