Chapter Text
GAPS
Warmth
854.
She stares into her haggard, stoic reflection, skin tingling from the chill of the frigid water droplets beading down her face.
"I couldn't stand to look at a slave who always followed orders without question."
Her eyes wander over to the lone drop sliding over the scar beneath her eye.
The light flickers, the unrelenting gush of the faucet a muffled drone in her ears.
"Mikasa… ever since we were kids, I've always hated you."
A lump begins to form in her throat, and she curses the prickle felt behind her eyes because she starts to think that maybe it's true.
There is, after all, a memento permanently etched onto her face from the time he'd tried to kill her.
'He… wasn't in his right mind.'
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to stop her thoughts from spinning out—but the darkness only conjures cold, piercing emeralds set into an unwavering glower, a quiet ire felt from a distance.
She can feel it even now—feel how her knees had almost given way, how her throat had closed, how her eyes had burned, how her stomach had dropped, how the room began to spin, how every single thought and feeling and moment she had ever held dear were blackened and tainted with doubt.
"I've always hated you."
She grips the sink with both hands.
"He was… it's not true," she whispers to herself, opening her eyes to watch the water flood into the drain as she tries to manifest some semblance of confidence through her words.
Her eyes only begin to sting more.
"Mikasa… ever since we were kids, I've always hated you."
She screws her eyes shut tight again to hold back her tears, and there they spin, again and again, that maddening echo, and those cold, cold eyes, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter to will it away—will away that leer that had reached deep into her and broken something, will away the sound of his voice shaping words that had turned her world upside down, and she tries to trade it for something else, anything else, any other memory, anything he has ever said to her that was not that, but she can't help but question the veracity of all of them because her feelings aren't her own because he said so because she is nothing more than a slave, acting purely on what her blood and ancestry mandate, even though ever since the day they met, and ever since he had looked at her with those fierce and warm and kind emerald greens, she has always—
"I've always hated you."
She tenses, though the words don't cut quite as deep because she is trying to make sense of what she has always…
'I've… always…'
Her grip on the sink tightens, and grasping for an answer only brings forth a vivid memory of him—younger then, tears streaming down his face, so very close to hers, her heart drumming in her ears, her own eyes brimming with tears, his eyes progressively widening with every word out of her mouth, something else fading into those emeralds in place of anger and grief. And even with their impending demise, all she can feel is an overflowing warmth for him—this thing that she has always felt, but in this moment, so much more than ever before.
And therein her memory, under the setting sun and in the shadow of that titan that had taken so much from them, he stands, bright emeralds peering into her eyes, blazing with raw emotion and determination, and it feels like he is mirroring something back to her—something that feels like a declaration and some electric and charged version of that same warmth she had always felt, which only courses through her with even more intensity when his words reach her.
"I'll wrap you up in it again... again and again forever!"
The words echo and the titan-littered field is gone, fading into that very night, his moonlit eyes fixed on hers, a troubled calm to them, sending some new kind of warmth her way over the space between their still, exhausted bodies and—
It is too much.
Slowly, she lifts her head back up and stares into her wide-eyed reflection, vision blurred, her charcoal blues glistening with a veil of unshed tears. It is not a moment later that her lips twitch into a deep frown that gives way to a choked sob and whimper, which give way to the scalding rush of hot tears down her cheeks. She crumples forward onto the sink as she convulses with her sobs and feels for the tap, cranking the flow up stronger in an effort to mask the anguished wails and whimpers now bounding off the walls of the bathroom.
"I've always hated you."
With a heavy, aching heart, she cries tears of sorrow and some measure of relief because her memory tells her otherwise.
850.
Mikasa hisses at the wave of pain emanating from her ribs, eyes fluttering open to the moonlit ceiling as she writhes in place.
"What?!" comes a startling, concerned rasp. "What happened?"
Still coming out of her slumber, she turns her head to find Eren sitting by her bedside, flustered and attentive, dark circles beneath his eyes. She stares at him and screws her eyes a bit to get a better look at him in the scantily lit room, and to make sure she is not just hallucinating or amid some strange fever dream.
He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, and they are staring at each other in silence for a few seconds when—
"HUH?!"
They both look at Sasha, who is suddenly sitting upright in her bed on the other side of the room, eyes still closed.
"Breakfast?" Sasha murmurs groggily without opening her eyes, still very much asleep.
"No, Sasha," Eren says flatly with a sigh. "Go back to sleep."
"'Mmkay," she rasps. "... don't eat all the hash browns."
She falls back into her bed, the sound of her heavy snoring almost immediately filling the room.
Eren shakes his head and turns to look back at Mikasa.
"Are you alright?" he asks, face awash with concern once more, now whispering only loud enough to be heard over Sasha's snoring.
"Yeah. I'm fine," Mikasa whispers back with a nod.
He blinks at her in silence, clearly expecting her to elaborate, so she humors him.
"I think I just turned in my sleep and applied too much pressure, but it's really not that bad," Mikasa insists, and it's partially true because of her impressively high threshold for pain.
"You sure you don't need anything?"
Uneasy.
She feels incredibly uneasy, the attention she's suddenly receiving from her typically brash companion completely foreign—nevermind the strange look in his eyes that is completely unfamiliar and not quite pity or sadness or anger.
After a prolonged pause, she realizes that this is a first for them, and reasons that his odd behavior must be because she's typically the one sitting at his bedside, watching over his unconscious and injured form.
"No," she finally musters with a light shake of her head. "Thank you, though."
The intensity of his gaze persists, his eyes narrowing in the slightest as though he is trying to reach in and read whether or not she is lying. Unsure of what else to do—and once again uneasy at this new dynamic—she gives him a small reassuring smile.
He stares on for a little while longer, before his suspicious expression softens into only slight suspicion.
"Okay," he says quietly, with a nod.
Then there is silence again, her grey blues fixed on his emeralds, and it is not long before she realizes that her unease comes not from their switched roles, but purely from the way he is looking at her.
Concern aside, it is difficult to read—somehow wistful and almost invasive, as though he is trying to interpret or carefully study something in her eyes or her face, a bit anxious about what he might find.
She parts her lips to ask him why he's looking at her that way—or at least to ask what's wrong, because it all feels off and different.
Then Sasha snorts in her sleep, and she watches his eyes momentarily widen at the sound before a suppressed, amused smile attempts to fight its way onto his lips.
She feels her own mouth quirk to mirror his expression—admittedly only partially due to the unexpected interruption.
"... Have you been here all night?" Mikasa whispers, turning a little more onto her side to face him, ignoring the pinch felt in her ribs.
"Yeah."
She maintains her silence, admittedly shocked by the confirmation, eyeing him curiously.
The amusement has faded, that same tenderly observant expression on his face, and she wonders if maybe it's empathy for her pain.
"You should go back to bed and rest up. We move out in a couple of days," she says, hands now absentmindedly wringing her covers.
"I'm good."
"Eren."
"I'll move when I feel like it," he insists, to her relief, exhibiting some of that familiar stubbornness as he crosses his arms. "Worry about yourself. Go back to sleep."
"I'm fine. I want you to get some sleep."
"I was sleeping."
"Actual restful sleep."
"I am resting," he shoots back, and she withholds a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the fact that she is somewhat pleased with his insistence that he stay by her side.
Without another word, Mikasa scoots a bit closer to the wall to make room on the bed, and she notices him stiffen, mild confusion and discomfort fading onto his features, though she's not entirely sure why.
"Come closer," she says, patting the space next to her.
There is a pause, and his face twitches, a break in that stubborn scowl of his as he arches an eyebrow in question, mouth hanging just slightly agape as though he is grasping for words.
"... So you can at least rest your head here," she clarifies, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks.
He apparently finds the elaboration sufficient, as it effectively closes his mouth and sets his tired eyes back properly.
With a sigh, he acquiesces and pulls the chair in closer to her bed.
"Want the pillow?"
"You keep the pillow. I'm fine."
Eren leans forward, adjusting his seat, crossing his arms on the bed before resting his head against them so that he is still facing her. His eyes are on hers again, and she can feel the slight dip in the mattress close to where he has chosen to lay. Something about it is all at once comforting and unsettling, and she is unsure of why her heart has suddenly begun to beat just a bit faster—perhaps the way it might after completing a mile run.
But then she stares on longer, the flutter in her stomach dissipating as she takes note of his hunched upper back and the emphasized arch of his lower back in his chair, a grimace fading onto her lips because she can feel his discomfort just by looking at him.
"Are you really gonna be able to sleep like that?" she queries as he wriggles in his seat to adjust more, shifting his upper half on the mattress—first attempting to rest his head on a propped up arm, dissatisfaction on his face before he shifts back into his initial position.
"I've slept under worse conditions," he mumbles.
She sighs and shoots him her typical stern deadpan.
"Go back to bed, Eren."
He gives no verbal response and only attempts to settle in more, all the while stubbornly maintaining eye contact with her—and while Sasha murmurs "no collard greens please" in her sleep.
It is after a few seconds of borderline competitive eye contact that an idea occurs to her.
She watches his eyebrow quirk in question as she shifts even further back towards the wall.
"Then come up here," she offers flatly, patting the now wide, unoccupied space next to her.
His eyes widen considerably, brow fully furrowed.
"... Next to you?"
"Yes," Mikasa says in a matter-of-factly way as though there is nothing strange about her offer because there isn't because now he is definitely going to bend to her will if the near-horrified look on his face is of any indication. "Or you can go back to your bed. I won't be able to sleep knowing you're wide awake and looking like… that."
Eren blinks up at her, the surprise fading from his features, acknowledgment taking its place, and she is certain she has won.
But then he sits up and looks over his shoulder at Sasha who is now murmuring, "... it's a twice baked potato…" in her sleep.
"... Is that gonna be weird?" he whispers as he turns back to face her.
Now she is gawking at him, her face beginning to burn, her stomach beginning to flutter once more, because it at least sounds like he is actually considering sharing a bed with her.
"... Yes," she replies curtly, flustered, uncertain of how else to respond as she grips her blanket tighter.
Eren looks pensive for a moment, staring at the offered real estate by her side, and she is still nonplussed at the fact that he had not outright denied the suggestion. She had assumed he would stand and leave—or at the very least ignore her and pretend to fall asleep in his current position.
Then he sends her heart rate into overdrive when he sits up straighter and kicks off his shoes, her palms beginning to sweat as she gapes at him with wide eyes.
She swallows and the mattress shifts under his weight as he climbs onto the bed, briefly catching her eye before looking past her and at the wall behind her.
"It was your idea," he mutters under his breath, likely in response to her gape.
Then he gingerly reclines back onto the mattress, lying atop the blanket on his side of the bed, turning onto his side and shifting until he is at eye level with her. She is glad for the space between them, which is enough to squish in maybe two other people—but only because he is nearly hanging off of the edge of the bed.
"Happy?" he whispers, a rare light blush coloring his cheeks through his typical scowl.
Mikasa almost comments that she'd rather he sleep in his own bed, but she says nothing because she now, for some reason, has conflicted feelings about it—and is admittedly relishing in this rare sight of a bashful Eren.
As they stare at each other in silence, it slowly registers that his desire to stay by her side was so strong he had agreed to do this—something that could very easily be misconstrued at first glance.
"I'll just get up early so she doesn't—" another mid-snore snort from Sasha "—so she doesn't see," he mumbles as though he's read her mind.
"Okay," she replies, grateful for the darkness because she is certain her face is glowing pink, and she tells herself it's not at all because she's somewhat pleased by his insistence to remain near her.
"... You're gonna fall off," she then remarks quietly to fill the stifling silence that had fallen upon them.
Eren's brow wrinkles again and he looks even more embarrassed—and only then does she understand that adjusting his position would mean he'd have to move closer.
Face now aflame, she quickly pulls the pillow out from under her head and puts it between them as a sort of barrier.
"You can come a bit closer," she says to the pillow, feeling her cheeks burn even hotter.
There is a fair bit of silence again, and she wonders if he is at all put off by the offer, or is even rethinking his decision to fall in line with her odd suggestion—that was, by the way, not supposed to be accepted. But then the mattress shifts, and she finally looks past the pillow to find him scooting towards her, his eyes still fixed on hers.
When he comes to a halt—still at a modest distance—they both remain still, staring at each other over the top of the pillow.
After some time, she realizes she has not been breathing properly—and by the way he is now inhaling deeply through his nostrils and letting out a heavy sigh, he hasn't either.
There is an adjustment period and she's unsure of how long it lasts, but she feels the heat in her cheeks dissipate, her heart rate slowing, still locked into his emerald gaze. Then, she finds herself more concerned than bashful as his expression fades back into one of pensive observation, brow wrinkled in thought.
While he often wore such a troubled expression, there is an undeniable and unfamiliar tenderness to this version, its intensity bearing a warmth that she is not used to receiving. And then, on closer inspection, she is certain that at least guilt is mixed somewhere in the jumble of emotions playing out on his face.
"I swear it's not that bad," she whispers softly.
It looks like she's pulled him from his own internal trance, because he is now actively searching her eyes again in a way that has her wanting to hide behind the pillow.
"You know I'll never believe a word out of your mouth when it comes to things like this, right?"
She feels herself grow even warmer, his tone and his eyes so tender that it is almost unsettling because she cannot recall a single time he had spoken to her in such a way, or even looked at her in such a way.
"Why?" Mikasa manages to peep out quietly.
Eren blinks at her, expression unchanging.
"Because…" he trails off as he shrugs a shoulder, "You're you."
And again they fall into a hush, as she is unsure of what to say. In fact, she is unsure of what he even means, because the statement feels loaded despite its simplicity—and the way he is looking at her certainly adds another dimension to its weight.
But then she doesn't get a chance to reply, because his brow furrows, and he parts his lips to speak.
"I'm sorry," he breathes out in a cracked whisper.
Again she is startled, eyes widening as she takes in his sorrowful, guilt-ridden expression. Now, strong is the urge to brush his bangs from his eyes that are wrought with emotion and with guilt—to caress his face until he closes his eyes and rests properly and believes her.
Instead, she clutches her blanket tighter and settles for words.
"Eren… You saved my life," she replies slowly and softly, yet firmly, in an effort to convey that he had nothing to apologize for.
Yet still, there is no shift in his expression as he maintains his silence and unyielding gaze.
"I'll feel worse if you keep beating yourself up over something you had no control over," she says, and only then does the thoughtful scowl on his face soften. "In fact, I should be thanking you for..."
His eyes visibly begin to glisten and it renders her incapable of forming any more words, sending her into an internal panic because she's unsure of what to do, or why he looks like he's about to cry. Now she wonders what exactly is on his mind, her eyes searching his in alarmed concern and curiosity.
But moments pass and he does not cry, nor does he waiver, remaining still, sending so much her way without saying anything at all.
The weight and intensity of his gaze only bring her back to the moment she sat before him just hours ago and bared her soul, when she had thought their deaths were all but assured. Then, she recalls his hollered promise, and the recollection of his words spoken with such certainty and passion warm her cheeks and her heart and make her eyes sting.
A comforting silence and warmth then reign, neither questioning it nor saying a thing, the two locked in a shared glassy-eyed gaze, as if some unspoken agreement has been made.
She wakes up alone the next morning and can't recall who wound up falling asleep first.
854.
She stares into her haggard, stoic reflection, eyes puffy and raw, tears finally slowing to a halt as they dry on her cheeks.
With a hiccup, she splashes her face with ice-cold water once more and rests her palms against her closed eyes, feeling her self assurance resurface, that familiar warmth for him overflowing—the kind that she is still unable to affix a name to.
She hiccups again and inhales deeply through the gap between her hands, then lets them slide off slowly before she opens her eyes back up into her own reflection, peering into charcoal blues that are now filled with determination.
"I've always hated you."
The tap gives a squeak as she turns it off, pure silence taking over.
'Liar.'