Chapter Text
Part I: Prelude
The candlelight flickers for a long time, casting shadows that shiver with every silent flick of the flame.
It's cold outside. The wind stirs, howling reminders of what once was, what now should be. Eren brings his hand to his face, surveying the crescent line that stretches across the palm, calloused by years of molding lumps of clay into shapes and etching figurines on leveled surfaces. An artist’s hand, a fighter’s hand—one that’s held both creation and ruin. He closes his eyes, remembering, trying hard to forget. But it's useless, for his scars bear the permanent markings of a lifetime, and at twenty-five, he's lived long enough to be covered in them. From palm, to chest, to thigh, to ankle: covered.
Once, there was a time when his skin was taut and unmarred by the symptoms of a harsh life, a time when his hair wasn't so long and his cheeks so stubbly and his mother was alive and the dents between his fingers were made solely to be occupied by those of the girl he was made to come together with. And now all of that, gone. In one breath, life billows and heaves to leave behind only fragments of what once stood so rooted and proud. By the anvil of time, even mountains can be made to ashes, it seems. Even men.
Growing older has left him wondering when it was that it all went wrong. Was it when he first lost her? His innocence? What? He's been sad for so long that it's become his new normal, a syndrome of adulthood, a comfortable state. His eyes, an impossible mix of green and blue with gold, are still vibrant and rich but a hazy film covers the incandescent shine they once reflected. That’s what happens to childish eyes once they've seen too much, they become heavy with experience. Soiled with it. Dull.
The boyish laughter that once filled him echoes through his past, fading into the stagnant drone that is the present moment, reminding him that once, not too long ago, things weren't always this way. They were once okay. Livable. But loss has a way of eroding things, of changing everything.
Dancing shadows grow to consume the walls around him, swathing the room in darkness when, with a sigh, wet fingers pinch the candlewick. He extinguishes the flame.
Just like that.
That's exactly how she left him.
—o—
Her scarf flutters wildly in the wind. Mikasa fixes it tighter around her neck, grunting. It's cold outside. Too cold. She peers down the street, a gloved hand waving up to hail, "Taxi!" when a cab pulls in just a few feet away. She goes to make a run for it, but a blond man with steely eyes is quick to steal it, yanking the door open and shooting her a brief look of indifference before stuffing himself inside.
"Asshole," she breathes. She's not one to curse, but there are exceptions.
God, it's cold out here. Too damn cold!
"Taxi!" she calls again, shivering. Her teeth clatter. She curses some more. A few chilled, despairing moments later, and she’s finally stealing her way into a cab.
"Where to, Miss?" the driver asks, eyeing her through the rearview mirror. His eyes are hooded, almost leering. It occurs to her that she's to entrust her safety to this man, this utter stranger. Who's to say anything keeps him from acting upon perverse impulses and driving off the side of the road with her still inside? Funny how some things work this way, how silent agreements are exchanged between strangers. Pay them, and a person with hopes and skills and purposes beyond driving a taxi becomes mere services that carry you from one place to the next, a tool to use in exchange for money. People using people. It’s how it all works.
"Ma'am?"
Mikasa’s gaze darts back to focus. Through the mirror, she sees him stare.
He asks again, "Where to?"
As far away from here as possible, she thinks to say. Although it hits her— Why? Why would she want to say that?
She smiles. Pronounces the address.
The driver gives a single nod, and soon enough, his foot is pushing down the gas pedal, his hands are turning the steering wheel, and Mikasa is that much farther away from home.
She stares at the moving world outside, blurry city lights sliding past her eyes and illuminating her face through the glass of the window. Absently, her fingers find the scarf coiled around her neck, pinching the fabric, feeling it, caressing it. Remembering.
It's so tempting to delve deeper into her thoughts, to dig until they utterly consume her. But Mikasa is strong, much stronger than that. There's no time for fantasies, that time has long since passed. She's not a child anymore. She's a woman now. A full grown woman.
The shimmering engagement ring on her left hand and the hard, wet kiss her fiancé plants on her cheek when he greets her is enough to remind her of that.
—o—
Move. He has to move.
Perhaps it's the chill in his apartment or the lull of sitting still for long, but Eren's muscles ache. Get up, they say. Up. Walk. Move. Get the hell out of here.
He stands, stops by a window, looks out.
His eyes deceive him, for they claim to see her but he knows it's not really her. Her dark hair up in a ponytail, swaying with every gentle glide of her legs, glowing with recognition. But then the small head turns to reveal a face so foreign it's disgusting. And Eren—always—is disappointed to learn the truth. It's never her. His eyes haven't caught the true sight of her in years.
In five. In five whole years, actually.
All that time has passed since he last saw her, held her, ran his fingers through her hair. Kissed her, heard her sigh his name. Heard her gasp it. And with the gradual descending of their chests, and the soft releases of her breath, he belonged to her as much as his own name belonged to him. He was hers, hers entirely. And that's the problem with belonging to people, you don't know how to belong to yourself. He’s ambled through the past five years utterly disconnected from his body.
It's not that Eren feels alive, but he keeps living.
Odd, what's become of him. He isn't a child anymore, for the stubble on his cheeks and his long, unkempt hair are enough to remind him of that. He's an adult now. A full grown adult.
A fuck up. A big fuck up. Exactly what Dad always said he’d be.
Another peek outside. The wind is so strong it practically rattles the windows, but his bones creak from the cold and his muscles scream for motion. He has to do something. He has to move.
So, soon enough, a coat is lading his shoulders, apartment keys have been shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, and the door is slamming shut behind him in his egress.
—o—
Mikasa's tired.
Tired of this dress. Tired of this party. Tired of these people. Tired.
Her fiancé's rambling on beside her, talking about some sport she doesn't particularly care about with an arm looped around her waist. He holds her close to him like his very own gilded, life sized trophy. And he shows her off. He loves to show off his trophies.
Mikasa nods and she smiles, offering polite little gestures of attention and appreciation to the guests, even though her mind has long become numb to the bureaucratic routine. Talk, talk, talk. Impress, impress, impress. Money, money, money. That's all these people care about.
Her eyes drift to the world outside through a tall window, muffled voices around her dwindling to hums. Outside, tree branches sway, moved by the sibilance of the winter air. She shudders, and she longs. Even though it's cold and windy, how nice wouldn't it be to be outside right now? She feels like she could belong out there—more than she belongs in here anyway.
She's fixing a loose strand of hair behind her ear when her fiancé notices her being distracted. He plants another wet kiss on her cheek to capture her attention.
Mikasa jumps, slightly flustered.
"What's wrong?" he asks her, a big grin on his face. It's like his facial expressions don’t match the words coming out of his mouth, like they’re not allowed to do that when there’s people watching. Devoid of any obvious signs of concern or worry, he says, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." Mikasa manages a smile.
He gives her a sideways glance. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"Are you thirsty?"
"No."
"Can I get you anything?"
"Jean," Mikasa sighs, untangling his arm from around her waist. "I'll be right back, okay? I have to go to the ladies room."
He flashes her a smile, says alright, and Mikasa is making her way through the mingling crowd of people before he, or anyone else, can say anything more to her. She’s riddled with a suffocating need to flee. No more people, no more words. No more pretending.
She reaches for her coat, fixes her scarf around her neck, and loops her tiny purse over her shoulder. She escapes through the back door, sparing a quick peek behind her. She doesn't think anybody saw her leave, and it's not like any of them really care about her leaving. It's not like any of them can pronounce her name correctly—or even remember it, at that. So what would they care?
"Wait, what's your name?"
"Mikasa."
They always laugh. Like her name is some kind of joke or something.
"Wait, how do you spell that again?"
"M-I-K-A-S-A. Mikasa."
"Oh, my God!" they cackle. "That's so wonderful!"
Jesus. Everything is wonderful. Like the fact that she's half Japanese, and the fact that she's named after a battleship, and the fact that everybody swears she's pregnant for agreeing to marry Jean so soon.
She won't ever admit this to herself, but their comments sometimes hurt her. Sometimes.
As soon as she's outside, she spots one of the guests leaning back against a wall, sporting expensive trousers and a black coat. She stops. The man takes a long pull from his cigarette. They stand in silence. All is still.
And for a second, she belongs.
Here. In the cold. Accompanied by a stranger she entrusts her safety to. Because he could act perversely if he wanted. He could flirt with her, he could offer her a cigarette. Heck, he could even kidnap her if he wanted. Or worse, he could tell Jean. Tell him his woman’s gone loose, that she’s out there wobbling around in a giant city having her second—third?—active existential crisis this week. But he doesn't do any of those things. So she stands, with company but isolated and all sorts of twisted up inside.
"You alright?" the man asks suddenly, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.
Mikasa nods politely, assures him she's fine.
"Congratulations," he tells her then, and she thanks him nobly, forcing another smile, another imperceptible bow of her head.
Yes, yes, yes, congratulations. She's going to be a wife soon. This is her engagement party. How exciting is that? How lucky is she?
But as she's making her way down the street, scarf moving in the wind, feet treading one step after the other, Mikasa has to admit she isn't feeling very lucky at all.
—o—
Eren's shoulders rise against the chill. He keeps walking, not bothering to take shelter from the cold. He just has to walk. Something inside him reverberates walk, walk, walk. Just walk, Eren. Walk.
So he does.
He treads on aimlessly, jamming his hands into his coat pockets and exhaling heavily through his nose. There's music playing outside. Christmas music. His eyes briefly wander over the street, noticing the absence of snow on anything. A snowless Christmas is approaching. Those are the worst. They remind him of—
"Ow!"
"Hey!"
It all happens in an instant.
He's falling forward, catching something. A woman. She's falling too.
His arms are frantic, circling around her waist, stopping her from bouncing right off his chest where she'd rammed into him. One of his hands flies free, lands open-palm on a nearby wall, the weight of his body and hers and their clash pushing hard onto his wrist and nearly twisting it. He hisses and, amazingly, stops them both from falling to the ground.
Eren's breathing heavily. They both are.
Then he's angry.
He pulls the woman back.
Watch where the hell you're going! The words are right there. Right there, hanging by the tip of his tongue.
But suddenly, Eren can't speak or breathe or think because—
Because suddenly, he sees her.
Her.
She's staring up at him, wide eyed, her irises deep pools of black ink he knows so well, so damn well. His voice falters. All of him does.
But the girl gasps then, clasping the collar of his coat feverishly and breathing a bewildered, "Eren?"
—o—
It's him.
Him.
This is a dream. It has to be a dream. It has to be.
But no.
No, no, it isn’t.
Eren smiles, his face brightening one sleepy feature at a time. "Mikasa?" is his astonished whisper. His hands grip her shoulders. "Oh my... holy..." His voice is tight, strangled with excitement. "Holy... holy shit!"
Mikasa laughs. Eren's flabbergasted, chuckling a breath that’s dislodged from the depths of his chest. He lifts her gently, carefully, pulling her to stand. She's so small in his arms, so light, so much lighter than he remembers her ever being.
"It's you," he says breathlessly, as if voicing it will make her that much realer. "It's you!"
"I'm—"
"I can't—"
"It's like—"
"Mikasa, I’m—"
The way she stands, poised, stiff, assures him. Eren isn't dreaming. She's real. The girl standing before him, Mikasa Ackerman, it's really her!
But Mikasa can't bring herself to realize what's happening at all. Something tells her this is all another dream of hers. She's gotten so used to dreams, to phantom memories of him, the abrupt awakenings that always follow. She never wants to wake up when she has those, those perfect dreams of him. So she thinks maybe if she just plays along, she won’t wake up this time. She only has to play along, and the dream will never end.
But then Eren lets go of her, and Mikasa sees that she's still clinging to his coat.
Clinging.
To his coat.
She holds onto its lapels, the fabric between her fingers. Pinching it. Feeling it. Caressing it.
Remembering.
Slowly, her features melt, eyes growing enormously wide. All the color drains out of her face until she's stone cold white. "E-E..." her voice cracks. "Wait. Eren?!"
His lips part in equal astonishment. Eren pants, running a hand through his hair, feeling extremely self conscious. "Um." He glances down at her hands. She’s still holding him. His voice is easy, gentle. "Yes. Yes, it's me. Eren."
"Eren?" Mikasa asks again, her eyes growing even wider.
"Uh—" He laughs. "Mikasa," he's saying slowly, pressing his hands to his chest. "It's me. It's me, Mikasa. It's Eren!"
Her eyes are giant saucers, face frozen in pallid shock. Eren feels a laugh pass through him, rising to precise nuances he has not heard himself pronounce before. Has he ever laughed this way? Ever felt this way? Ever stood where he stands and looked at what he's looking at? Mikasa, the Mikasa of his dreams, the Mikasa of his past, Mikasa manifested as a maiden of red dresses and fancy updos and frost kissed roseate cheeks, all standing in front of him.
"Oh," she heaves suddenly, clapping a hand to her forehead. She turns away from him, pacing back and forth.
Eren keeps his eyes on her, just keeps his eyes on her.
She's walking around in aimless circles, and Eren eyes what she's wearing. It's a crimson dress, tight around her torso. It falls just above her knees; her coat thick and woolen. Her hair is up in a neat little arrangement. She almost doesn't even seem like herself at all.
Eren’s eyes fall to the floor then, drawn by the solid thck, thck, thck that follows each of her footsteps, and— Wait. Is she wearing heels?
Abruptly, Mikasa whips around to face him. Eren's neck literally jerks back at the startling sight of her. "Eren," she pronounces slowly, savoring every precious syllable. "What on Earth are you doing here?"
"Well, I live here," he says. "I've been living here for the past five years. New Years will mark my sixth."
Mikasa’s voice is lost in a whisper. "Have you?
"Yes! Yeah, this is where I've been. What about you? What are you doing here?"
"I just..." Mikasa pauses, feeling her heart pounding loudly in her chest. She takes in a breath, inflating. She lets it out, deflating. She says, "I'm just out for a walk. You know, just, looking around? I'm new to the city, you see, and have only been here for, well, it doesn't really matter I guess. Point is, my fiancé found a good job downtown, and he used to live here so—"
Eren winces. "What?"
"What?"
"Fiancé?" he echoes, hating the way his voice sounds. So breathless. So... appalled.
"Um." Mikasa glances down at her hands. They're shaking. "Yes," she says, readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "Yes, I'm getting married in a few weeks."
Eren opens his mouth. No words come out.
A few weeks?
Why? How? How could time be measured so precisely? How could something so important be compacted into the suffocating walls of a few weeks?
"That's…" Odd. Painful. Abnormally devastating and just… "Wonderful!"
"Really?"
No. "Yes!"
"Oh."
"Congratulations, Mikasa."
"Thank you," she simpers, gazing downward. "Everyone tells me so. They all think it's great that I'm settling down now. I'm very happy."
Eren narrows his eyes at her, nodding. But he can't help noticing that her words sound somewhat fabricated, like she's been repeating them the way an actor over-practices their lines and ends up sounding monotone at the delivery. He doesn't really believe her. And part of her suspects that, too.
"Yeah, it's wonderful, Mikasa. Really. I'm very happy for you."
And that's when Eren sees it. Her left hand reaches for the fabric wrapped around her neck, and his eyes catch the startling presence of a large diamond hoisted around her finger. Just looking at the damn thing hurts. It's so large, so bold. So unnecessary.
But then… he notices something else. And it's his scarf. His scarf draped around her neck, radiating like a statement decoration. His scarf. On her neck. She's wearing it.
Eren smirks.
He can't help feeling, by the way it stands out so blissfully from the rest of her clothes, that it actually doesn't go with her outfit. Like it wasn’t planned. But it's there, even now, after all this time.
Eren's smirk broadens into a smile.
The scarf is like a mark, a declaration. His own flag stabbed into soil, erected proudly and claiming victory over the land, branding it as his. His before anyone else’s. And perhaps it’s wrong to even think such a thing. He just met her again, and perhaps it’s wrong to—
Mikasa speaks.
"I was just making my way to eat something," she tells him then, and part of her doesn't even know why she's admitting that. She may as well confess her entire situation. She may as well blurt out, Hey, Eren. I know I haven't seen you in over five years and all but you should know that I'm engaged to this wonderful man whose friends are all asses who can't even remember my name. Actually, I'm fleeing my own engagement party as we speak. Isn't that wonderful?
But she knows better. She knows better than to linger with him even a second longer. That's dangerous. That's wrong. She should say goodbye. She should walk away and run as far away from him as possible. Because their history. Because they're too rich with past and memory.
But she can't.
Mikasa can't bring herself to do it, to part from him—from his brown hair and his stubbly face and his glowing eyes and that dimple on his cheek that always flashes when he smiles. She's fixed. Stuck. Like a nail drawn to a magnet.
"So was I," Eren says, disrupting any further speech from her. "Do you want to come with? I know this great place just a few blocks from here."
Mikasa parts her lips to object, wailing alarms going off in her head and warning of the danger in consenting to such an invitation. "Um, no. I—"
"Oh, come on," Eren insists, swaying on his feet. "We haven't seen each other in so long! Come on, Mikasa. Please?"
She's quiet for a moment.
Tentatively, she peers over her shoulder, searching silently for a figure in the dark.
There's no one there behind her.
She sighs. Of course there isn't.
"Alright," Mikasa says, facing Eren again. Part of her is still convinced that she's caught within a dream, that whatever's happening has to be a figment of her desperate imagination. But there's nothing unreal about the way Eren's eyes light up, purely, like a child’s.
He smiles at her.
Mikasa smiles back.
"I think I'd love that," she says softly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. "You could show me around while we're at it, too. I'm still new to this place, so I could use all the help I can get?"
Eren beams brightly, a sight Mikasa can’t help but marvel at. She maps him out, her eyes traveling through all his bends and stops and corners. And he says, "Sure. Your fiancé hasn't shown you around?"
"No," Mikasa huffs, thinking of Jean, the party she's fleeing, the ridiculous irony of her life. "He's... a busy man."
"Ah," Eren nods. "I guess it's a good thing I get to do the honors, then."
Mikasa rolls her eyes at him, and Eren—he just laughs. He laughs.
A few moments ago, he was a lost man. A wandering man. Now he's here, he's found. He has a place to go and a thing to do and a Mikasa to tend to.
Mikasa sees him drag a nervous hand through his hair. It falls just over his shoulders, wisping out slightly at the ends. He looks so restless. Rugged and worn. Yet so new, so new. This is what the sun must feel when it meets the world again each morning, like it's been there before, yet everything is different. Reintroduced.
Mikasa bites her lip. Something inside of her screams wake up, wake up, wake up!
But she isn't dreaming anymore. This time, Eren is here for real. And he is nothing, absolutely nothing, like the man she's seen in her dreams for so long. Because people grow and change and become, and the markings of time's passing has touched them both.
Mikasa tightens her coat around her figure, diamond ring shimmering slightly in the light.
Eren checks for his wallet in his pocket. He feels his pulse in his ears, reverberating the image of her, the feel of her, existing right there in front of him. And his eyes haven't caught the true sight of her in years.
But now they do. But now they do.
That's when Mikasa offers him another one of her smiles, and Eren feels like the luckiest man in the world.