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The first time his hand grazed against hers at the mess hall, it was merely an accident.
He was the age of the first time amber met gray, and he was anything but a stable, ready man.
Wooden tables had the tendency to give him an itch, and one night, he aimed to just drop his arm to the side, effectively hiding his reddened skin. But when his fingers landed just short of cold, soft hands that reminded him of obsidian and coal dust, he realized he had made a grave mistake.
Shit.
Hearts stuttered (a quick flash of lightning only seen in their eyes) and he pulled his arm back with reflexes that could almost rival hers-but she had also moved away in that instant. With his hand drawn behind his back and hers cradling her face, it was only reasonable that their eyes had connected, despite their bodies visibly moving away from one another.
Blood instantly rushed up to his face, and through the marred scarf she wore, he could spot her red-tinged cheeks as well.
“Uh—um—sorry, Mikasa,” her name lit up fireworks in his abdomen, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Her eyes blinked, showing a hint of—was that disappointment?—before her scarf fell from her face, pale lips separating to reply.
“It’s fine, Jean,” she lingered on his name just a second too long, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But did he really?
Later, Marco was staring at him with an amused look and words just waiting to spill: “All you did was touch her hand.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Sure.”
“No, really—“
I know, Jean. It was just an accident.”
It was just an accident.
But from then on, his hands steered clear of her, always just a little bit away from her, always hidden in his pockets, always running through his hair, always fisted against his heart and his back.
He didn’t want to touch her hand, didn’t deserve to. And it had nothing to do with germs and cleanliness.
It was just too soon.
This wasn’t just any small-village crush. This was Mikasa, the prodigy of an army and the one inevitably giving him strength even when neither had any idea.
And yet he couldn’t even say her name without a pounding heart that yearned to give out to her.
So what gave him the right to grasp her hand in his?
Absolutely none.
He was three years a soldier and no more mature than he was before when his hand latched onto hers without thinking.
Trapped in the forest with the “big ass trees” and drenched in blood didn’t even change the fact that he had accidentally grabbed her hand.
Without thinking.
First, the stupid wooden tables with the brush of their hands, and now the adrenaline with the interlocking of their fingers. (That, and the fact that both of their faces were red-hot and burning. But that was just the fear. It had to be.)
They were dashing back and forth between trees, back to camp where they were needed, with gear broken and their legs taking over. They had a faulty collision just a moment earlier, leading to this imminent sprint in the forest that was very much needed if they desired to get back to their alive comrades.
In spite of everything, his energy was at an all time high, and maybe that was why he was able to keep up with her for so long. And maybe that was why he felt so superior and almighty, and maybe that was why he grabbed her hand amidst it all and ran further, faster, stronger.
And somehow they had made it back without any obstructions—safe and sound, peaceful just as it was when they were soaring in the air.
The moment they both noticed that their fingers were still connected was when he realized he was way too reckless for his own good.
With the way she was looking at their hands, blushing as bright as her scarf, it was only sensible that she was embarrassed by their little hand-holding.
Stupid, he was so stupid.
“Sorry again,” he quickly let go and backed about five steps away, “It was an accident, I, uh—I didn’t mean to. Again. Uh. Sorry.”
And it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t read her expression. She was the girl worth a hundred soldiers after all.
“It’s fine, Jean.” She repeated again with poignant and eerie clarity.
In the nights after that, he spent a few moments here and there contemplating over what he did wrong.
Stolen glances and held gazes were often shared between them, but they only added to the growing evolution of… whatever the hell they were.
He wished Marco was still there to help him out.
But unfortunately, this was a journey he had to go through by himself.
Eight years he had driven into crimson and tattered uniforms, eight years he had displayed courageous behavior and impeccable battle skills, eight years he had lost and lived and cried and died.
Eight years and he still didn’t have the guts in him to hold her damn hand again.
“You’re a fucking weenie.” As the wise man Connie told him.
And he was definitely right.
All of their encounters had been a complete accident. He never expected any of this to happen to him.
Nor when he grabbed her wrist in the moment they were going to be separated.
Their squad was being pulled apart for the beginning of the final battle. This was the endgame, and she was going for the Azumabito's, no doubt about it. He was to go with Hanji and await for the inevitable bloodshed. Regardless of where they were heading, the fact that didn't change was they were going to be separated.
But it still irked him. How could he protect her if they weren’t together?
So it was only coincidence that he quickly snatched her wrist, pulling her back to him when she was about to walk away.
Her voice was vibrant yet startled. “Jean, what are you doing?”
“Nothing, just hold on,” he didn’t stutter this time, words firm. “Wait.”
Somewhere in that moment it seemed as if his stature had improved, his words were steady, and his voice was indeed endearing.
(Somewhere in the back of her mind, she started to notice just how much he had changed.)
“I just wanted to tell you, before you go,” his grip on her wrist loosened only slightly,
“Please stay safe.”
The way she stared up at him (when did she get so short?) made the fireworks stir, almost.
But then his hand was no longer at her wrist, and his grip was no longer intact, instead to be replaced by a sudden burst of coolness and life, clutching his fingers firmly. He glanced down to see that both her hands had wrapped around his single one, tightening with certainty.
Fireworks were bursting.
“Don’t worry,” (explosions) “I’ll be fine, Jean. Always.”
His name sounded like iron dropping from sweetened lips, and it took another moment before either of them were willing to let go.
He believed her.
The next time his hand touches hers, it is no longer an accident.
He is now years and years older than his first glance of her, and he finally reaches forward now.
Before he can even blink, his whole world is spinning and his heart is on the brink of shattering. Comrades drop before his eyes and squads disappear without an explanation as to why. Friends are ripped to pieces, leaders are thrown to the titans-friends become titans, titans become friends. The world changed, and so did he.
And before he can break, he drops his hand right on top of hers. Right in the mess hall where the wood used to give him itches, in the mess hall where no one is around and it’s just them, in the mess hall with blood running through veins that desired to run through another's.
Her hand is numb and cold, yet strong and willing, because the girl worth a hundred soldiers is now a woman worth the world.
His hand is bleeding warmth, purified and brave, the boy he was once was washing away with every passing second.
His fingers wrap around hers, nimble and lighter than fallen wings, leaking safety and protection and devotion through his touch. Hers reciprocated, letting all of it come in and letting none fly away into the stars.
And when he grabs her hand and kisses it with all the necessity in the world, he wonders why they had taken so long to let someone in.
“Mikasa,” the fireworks burst and enlighten the sky, and her eyes see them all, “It was never an accident.”
Her eyes drip wonder. “What wasn’t?”
Memories of reddened cheeks and young eyes crawl through his mind, and he lets out a smirk.
“This.” His index finger aligns itself with the beat of her heart, sitting at her wrist. “All of this.”
She lets out a faint smile and a breath. “Took you long enough…”
He smiles, broad and radiant. “I know.”
There’s a moment of silence as he stares at their fingers, and then his words spill with affection.
“Falling for you,” he links his fingers in hers and pulls her in his grasp, “It wasn’t an accident. It never was.”
And she lets him hold her close when she whispers into his ear: “Then let’s keep falling.”
Until we can’t anymore.