Chapter Text
She grew up surrounded by flowers.
Living next door to the Ackermans, he learned to keep his windows open all day; not only to air out the stale air, but also to let the hyacinth and gardenia wash away the stench of mary-jane and dirty laundry in his room.
Her mother had a green thumb, Eren knew this, and she definitely put hers to use. Their yards were decked with a few dozen flowerbeds, with new ones blooming every week: from the native forget-me-nots to the tulips Mrs. Ackerman somehow managed to grow amid the 35 degrees summer weather of always-sunny Shiganshina.
It was clear she had a talent.
A talent she so ardently passed on to her only daughter.
Eren had been friends with Mikasa for as long as he could remember—naturally, as two next-door neighbor kids growing up in a posh housing complex in the suburbs—and he had listened to her prattle on and on about various kinds of flowers for just as long. They’d spend their days in their shared fence-less backyard, her occupied with chopping off the dried leaves of her flowers and he with whatever he found amusing that day (crossing the yard from time to time just to bother her for some attention). Some days, when he noticed a couple or more pots of plants placed to the side of the shed, he’d help her shovel the ground and later in the afternoon, his mom would have cookies and orange juice waiting for them by the deck. Other days, Armin would be there with them, reading an old book from his grandfather’s collection to Eren who would have his head in Mikasa’s lap as she arranged her freshly picked baby breaths and peonies in a vase and make flower crowns with the leftovers.
“Has it sprouted yet?”
Side-eyeing the book now lying on his floor—Flowers for Algernon—he rubbed the spot on his head where her perfect aim had yet again scored him another headache. She didn’t have to throw a book at his head but then again, he might or might not deserve it for possibly spacing out midway through her midnight existential rambles.
“Has it grown any sprouts yet?” She reiterated.
He blinked up innocently at her expectant face framed by the windowsill and she sighed in contained exasperation, “The mystery flower.”
Something clicked in his brain. “Oh. That.”
She nodded enthusiastically, obsidian irises regaining some of its spark as her entire complexion brightened up in anticipation of his answer.
At this point, the entire neighborhood was well aware of her fondness for gardening and by Mikasa’s tenth birthday, there was no longer any surprise birthday presents for her, what with everyone giving her flower seeds every year. And yet she never minded, always more than happy to receive one and add them into her growing collection in the garden. This particular one had been given to her courtesy of Jean; and it had been the most excited she had been about a packet of seeds in a long while given that the boy had adamantly refused to tell which flower the seeds belonged to.
She had asked for Carla’s permission to plant it in the Jaeger’s backyard; to which his mom was more than happy to oblige. He knew she only did it because she was quickly running out of ground to cover in the Ackerman’s half of the yard but just for a moment, Eren pretended that she had chosen to do so as a big ‘fuck you’ to Jean and let himself revel in the satisfaction brought by such fantasy.
“Eren, you’re spacing out again,” she half-whined.
He snapped out of it just in time to duck down behind the wall, narrowly missing yet another fast-moving projectile object. As the book landed with a loud thud on his floor, he slowly edged towards it to take a closer look, careful to mind the window in case she decided to practice pitching at him.
The Sunflower Forest—how many flower-themed novels did she own?—on its own was definitely enough to knock him out for good, couple that with Mikasa’s trained arm and he’d definitely, without a shred of doubt, be done for. “Jesus. Do you intend to kill me, Mika?”
“So don’t ignore me.” He just knew she was rolling her eyes at him without even having to peek.
“Alright, alright.” Braving himself to step into her line of sight, he tentatively raised both hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the flower expert.”
“You haven’t checked.” She deflated.
“What do you expect?” He shrugged and her face crumpled up further into a dejected look. “Let’s go check on them, then.”
There was a questioning look on her face until he climbed out of his window, walked to the edge of his roof, and beckoned her to meet him half-way. She followed suit, climbing out of her own window and taking his outstretched hand as he assisted her in crossing over to his side, mindful of the small gap between their roof. They climbed back up to the higher landings and edged their way around to the other side of his roof, Eren holding her hand and keeping her at an arm’s length at all times.
“Why can’t we use the door like normal people do?” She mumbled under her breath as she hauled herself onto the Jaeger’s guest room balcony, taking a short breather before she’d have to follow after him in climbing down the orange tree growing out of his backyard.
“What’s the fun in that?”
Another roll of her eyes.
Two-third of the way down, he peered down to see how far down the ground was and decided he could handle the falling distance, landing on his feet with a calculated risk. As he dusted away the leaves stuck in his hair, he glanced up to see Mikasa handling the descend with poise and grace (as she always does).
“You’re not getting your books back, by the way.”
“Keep it. You need it more than I do,” she called back, amusement in her tone. He raised his brow in question; his confusion only making her grin wider. “Ms. Ral assigned our class Flowers for Algernon for a report due this Friday, remember?”
He groaned and she laughed at his expense, stepping into the branch that marked the half-way point. “Will you help me write the report?”
She rolled her eyes at him, but even at a distance, he could see the mirth dancing in her eyes. She snorted, not unkindly, “I’m not letting you copy off mine, Eren.”
“Not even to give me a quick summary of the story?”
Now almost at the two-third of the way down, she stopped to pick a ripe orange on a low-hanging branch, absentmindedly replying: “You should read the book. It’s a good read.”
Of course she would think that. It was her second favorite book right after The Secret Garden.
“I’m not the reader type,” he answered lamely, mind half-occupied with keeping an eye on her in case she slipped or lost her footing, but of course she didn’t; she had always been very agile and in control of her body, standing on her tippy-toes picking oranges or not.
Once content with the harvest, she turned to meet his eyes for a split second. His mind barely registered the mischief gleaming in her eyes moments before she assumed a sitting position and held an orange in a change-up grip.
“Catch.”
Before he knew it, oranges were flying at him. Though out of breath and nearly face-planting more times than his pride would allow him to admit, he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at her when he heard her giggling at his futile attempt to not let any touch the ground.
He set down the oranges on the deck as he caught his breath, then grumbled up at her complete with a matching scowl just to put on a show. “Tell me the quick summary or I’m not catching you.”
There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You wouldn’t.”
He wouldn’t.
But he knew that if he had, she would’ve landed on her feet anyway.
Mikasa had planted the mystery seeds along the sideway entrance to the backyard, right next to the Jaeger’s wraparound porch. The newly sprouted plant has a few sets of baby leaves already growing. The first few sets at the lower part were oval in shape but the older ones were beginning to take on the shape of tiny hearts.
“Can you tell what it is?” He was much more invested in this mystery flower than he initially thought he’d be.
She looked him straight in the eye with a pointed look. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia of flowers, Eren,” she deadpanned.
“You might as well be.”
She sighed, clearly getting tired of dealing with his antics so late into the night. “Whatever flower it is, I’m glad it’s not roses.”
Quirking his brow at her, he glanced her way. “What do you have against roses?”
“It’s cliché. They’re overdone, especially the red ones. If someone brought me red roses, I won’t hesitate to slap them then storm off without any explanation.”
A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before he finally quietly chuckled, “You hate the thorns.”
She smiled in earnest.
“I hate the thorns.”
She grew up surrounded by flowers; so naturally, she became somewhat of a seasoned expert in growing flowers.
She had the steps of tending to carnations, what to do and not to do when caring for hydrangeas, the characteristics of each types of soil all memorized within the confines of her brain. Her eyes were trained in spotting irregularities that may indicate the need for special attention to a specific plant, her lithe hands in trimming old dried leaves without her so much as to have to think about it. She could repot flowers in mere seconds with her eyes closed—and hands tied behind her back.
Eren knew of all these for a fact and he wouldn’t expect any less from Mikasa.
And yet, he would never have thought that out of all the things she was capable of, she would be growing flowers in her lungs.
It had started as a cough, which then evolved into a coughing fit, which overtime became shortness of breath from time to time, then along came the occasional asphyxiation; all of which was followed by a trail of yellow petals left on its wake.
“What flowers has petals like this?”
She had thought aloud one morning, a week into him walking in on her choking on her bedroom floor and her admitting that she had been dealing with it for three months by then.
He frowned. “What is knowing going to accomplish?”
She shrugged, going back to examining the long and narrow yellow petal on her hand. But if there’s one thing he was terrified of at that moment, it was of how well he could read her. Because if he could accurately identify a shift in her moods and emotions by catching even a glimpse of the slightest change in her irises at a distance, then he mustn’t have mistaken the look of wonder glazed over her eyes when she held up the petals she coughed up against the sunlight. And he didn’t, for the life of him, know what the look would mean—for her, for them.
“At least it’s not roses.”
As if that made it any better.