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He comes late, unexpected. Just like the rest of his visits. He doesn’t look any less put-together, though; In fact, he looks just as handsome as he always does. He stands politely at the door — despite having visited many times — and waits for you to usher him in.
You tell him to step in, even adding in the comforting gesture of your hand, but he still treads carefully. You sigh at his cautious demeanor, but you know that no matter how friendly you are, you’ll never get him to truly feel at home.
“The usual?” You offer, as he takes a seat on your couch.
“Yeah.” He nods.
You take out two wine glasses, making sure to pour a little more of the strong, dark liquid into his glass than yours. You want him to be drunk enough to forget, but for you, sober enough to remember. Unlike the way he enters your house, he doesn’t drink the wine haphazardly, but downs half of it in one sip. He places it back on the table, laying back on the couch — his head hangs back, and his arms rest on the sides of the furniture — one on the armrest, the other on the back. He looks comfortable, now. You have a sip of your own, taking the drink in bit by bit as he now does the same. Your legs move up to the couch, resting on one side as your feet hang off.
“Was there something you wanted to speak about?” You ask, despite knowing the answer already.
He doesn’t answer, but turns to face you. He glances a bit at your lipstick. He notices it’s a different colour. He looks at your face. You look different. Surely enough, you’ve made sure to change the colour of your lipstick, along with the way you parted your hair. Maybe it’ll work tonight. Maybe he’ll fall for it, and it'll feel real for you. He leans in to kiss you, the taste of fermented grapes heavy on his tongue as it reaches yours. Your back hits the arm rest, and his forearm rests next to it. Your embrace is passionate, and if you close your eyes hard enough, you can pretend it’s true. That he feels the same way.
You’re running out of breath, but you don’t want to pull back from the intimacy. He pulls back first, breathing heavily as his lips latch on to your neck. The bites on your neck are rough, and they’re sure to leave dark marks, but you don’t mind as long as they’re from him. You’re sure something has happened for him to be acting this way. He’s usually a bit more comfortable and refined, but it seems that he's a bit on edge today. He drinks more of the glass than he usually does, too. He moves back to look at your neck, and his eyes trail up to scan your face.
“You’re not her.” He manages to pant. “The hair... it’s the same. The lipstick, too... But you're not her.”
He sits up properly, facing the coffee table in front of the both of you. You get up to fix your disheveled hair, sorting the short, disarrayed strands.
“You noticed.” You mutter. “How?”
You’re sure he's too intoxicated to even realize who from what, and that he’ll go a bit farther than the other times — then again, Jean is a heavy drinker. You know it's wrong, but you’re running out of options. Out of hope.
“The scar.” He touches your cheek.
Your face still manages to warm under his touch, and you hope he doesn’t feel it.
“Oh.”
The two of you are quiet.
“The scar Jaeger gave her... He’s hurt her so much, and yet she keeps going back to him.”
His hand rubs at his face as he slides down the couch. The mood has almost instantly changed. You shift your position, back straight with your gaze fixed at the hands which rest upon your lap.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You hesitantly half-whisper.
“No,” he replies. “You don’t have to listen.”
"I want to." You mumble.
You don't know if he's heard you, but he doesn't respond. His glass is empty, and so is the room. He’s there, you’re there, and you’re surrounded by multiple inanimate objects, but it has never felt anymore vacant in your life.
“You’re far too drunk to go home on your own... You should stay here for the night.”
“I’m alright. I’ll call Connie or something, I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
He gets up to his feet, falling down almost instantly. He rejects any help you offer, and walks over to your door. If there was little familiarity at the beginning of your visit, there is none now. He’s almost completely sober after he's spotted the lack of a cut on your cheek where a supposed scar rests. The regret for getting a hair cut was starting to kick in, and you feel self-conscious as you approach him at the porch.
“It’s cold outside, are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“I’m sure,” he turns his neck to face you, glancing down at your lips. “I don’t want to make any rash decisions.”
He leaves much earlier than he usually does. Then again, he was never as caught up in the fantasy as he is today. It's so real. The curve of your lips, feel of your hair. He almost fell for it. Almost. The two of you stand in the dark, as the wind blows a harsh gust. It seems to whisper her name, to tell you that a distraction is all he will ever see you as. Not the real thing. Not Mikasa Ackerman.
“Why not me?” You whisper. “Why not me?” You speak, knowing it was inevitable to avoid the tear that rolled down your face. “Why not me?” You repeat louder, another tear falling down. “Why not me?” You sob. “Why not me?”
He can’t stand to watch you cry, but he knows it’ll be worse to comfort you. He doesn’t know why you wait up for him, even if he ends up ditching you. Even if he’s not coming. He doesn’t know why you aren’t angry with him, or why you always welcome him with open arms. Why you’re always by his side. He remembers especially not knowing when you accepted his strange proposal of a distraction. Your warm smile, despite knowing that all you are is something to use in order for him to forget.
He knows what he does and why he does it, but he doesn’t know why you agree to it. You always have a glass of wine prepared, his favourite alcoholic beverage, despite knowing you’ll wake up with a headache and a few bite marks, but it never bothers you. No, he does know. He just chooses to pretend. After all, it is the same reason he's been by Mikasa's side through all these years.