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It’s the same thing every time: they arrive on the mainland in great fashion, always in one of those great big metal vessels you can spot long way from the shore, and everyone comes to watch. A commission for the commision, Jean always says, with a look on his face that tells her he thinks he’s just told some terribly funny joke. Mikasa doesn’t think the joke itself is funny, but every time she gets out of the train and sees the crowd’s already beat her to the anchorage she thinks, there’s the commission, and smiles to herself.
If you ride non-stop from the coast to New Shiganshina and then again to Stohess, it’s possible to make the trip in roughly three days, albeit with sore backs, but the only way to get inside Mitras these days is still by horse, and none of them are in that much of a rush. The long trip back is a ritual Mikasa has grown to enjoy. They get right back on the train—in their very own private wagon, this time, with escorts by the doors—and Armin sits by her side and immediately begins to point out the things he’s notice have changed on the way: a village expanding by the coast, the grass that seems taller, how the poppy fields are growing again and the farmlands are being harvested. He keeps his nose glued to the windows, turning the glass steamy in the shape of his hands and Connie does the same, nodding along and adding, that’s true, I saw that, too and no, it was like that already last time. The rest of them keep mostly quiet, exhausted from the journey or maybe a little trainsick. Annie always brings something to read, and Reiner and Pieck usually sleep through all the rough turns and bumps on the tracks. Jean, always on the seat opposite to hers, taps the side of her shoe lightly with the tip of his (ever so thoroughly polished, somehow) and she tells him, quietly, about all the things she dares not say in her letters.
Lighter conversation typically begins at their first stop, when it’s Jean’s turn to talk. The mood shifts entirely once they arrive at the inn, always the same one just outside one of the tent cities in Rose province: the drink comes flowing their way, after the first tankard of beer Jean begins the retelling of their adventures over their cheap dinner, and everyone chips in with their own little anecdotes and stories.
Though she only takes a couple of sips of honey mead, Mikasa feels quite drunk in their chronicles—it’s unfailingly her favorite part of the day. The only thing that bothers her some are the barmaids who hover around their table, young and pretty and sweet and so very curious to know all about their so very illustrious guests. Mikasa keeps quiet, of course; they’re only really doing their jobs, though the moon eyes are kind of over the top. Really, it’s the same every time, and Mikasa thought she would be used to it by now.
“So you got business in Mitras?” says the dolled up blonde in the green dress with her sing-songy voice, half-slung over Jean’s shoulder like she’s been for the past hour or so, lashes fluttering and curls bouncing down as she reaches a hand to adjust the pin on his tie. It’s a boring, triangular little thing about the size of her thumb all of them wear around to show they’re with The Embassy and they’re Here For Work. It’s not particularly adorned or fancy, and it doesn’t even have any kind of bright coloring, just the bronze edges that frame it quite discreetly. It’s not a special pin. The girl rolls it with her fingers like it won the war by itself. “Sounds so important,” she sighs.
“It’s just a matter of public relations,” Jean shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant, grinning up at her, and Mikasa wonders if he’s aware of just how stupid and oblivious he looks. “Peace conferences and the like.”
She nearly swoons off her feet. “Oh, it’s such an honor to have such honorable customers! You must be so brave…” And then she rattles on about how lovely, how great it is that someone so noble is trying to keep the peace after such a horrid war, and oh , please do tell her more—
“Your honorable customers would love another round of drinks,” Annie comments in her dry, bored tone, tapping her mug on the table twice. Armin frowns a little, Pieck snorts behind her cup, Mikasa’s lips twitch up ever so slightly, and the pretty girl is not deterred at all.
“Of course!” She pulls away from Jean to clap at her friend, who had been serving the next table to the right, smiling giddily like she’s drunk herself. “Another round, on the house!” She announces, winks, and the two girls loop their arms together, giggling to each other, clinging to their empty trays as their blushing, hushed chatter disappears behind the kitchen doors.
Connie’s hand comes to rest on Jean’s with a hard slap. “I,” he begins, slurred, “love you. And you—honorable Annie! ” he cheers, downs the rest of his drink, cheers again, and soon he’s got the other men cheering with him and clapping. Annie rolls her eyes at first, but when the people sitting on other tables start to follow their lead and chant her name even she can’t help smiling, and Mikasa goes along with it, her earlier annoyance finally subdued.
Predictably, eventually Connie beckons them all to dance. Reiner is far too drunk to get himself out of it, and Pieck joyfully declares she is too old and too tired for this when he insists she be his wingwoman. Annie flat out refuses, but follows suit when Armin apologetically argues that someone who’s sober should be keeping watch of the duo. “He’s absolutely not sober,” she explains flatly before squeezing herself into the crowd.
This leaves behind Jean, Pieck, Mikasa, and their lovely sweet charming barmaid. She brings them another round of cold drinks and flirting that seems to bother no one but Mikasa, who would rather keep nursing her warm empty mug between her palms. She’s not sulking, she wouldn’t say, but the excitement of the night died down slightly after the group dismembered. The music is still lively as ever, and she chooses to focus on that over the excessive complimenting of their feats. Further back in the room, she can see Connie holding Armin’s face between his hands, both their eyes wide open. Mikasa squints to try and make out whatever they’re saying, but Pieck keeps distracting her by drunkenly kicking her shin under the table, and when Mikasa tries to retaliate she accidentally hits Jean, who makes his discomfort known with a sound “shit.”
“Don’t get me wrong, guys,” Pieck starts once the girl is gone and enthusiasm fades from the conversation. “Jean, you’re the hero of the night. Mikasa, you’re so pretty, and your hair looks so soft. And you both are lovely and honorable and all that nice stuff. But you guys are absolutely no fun,” she declares, smiles, and bows before promptly turning her back on them and quickly fleeing in the same direction the others had gone.
“And then there were two,” Jean sighs, shaking his head. Mikasa nods and says nothing, still gripping her cup.
He’s sitting opposite to her, typically. Their ankles are nearly touching. She can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He’s slouched on the chair in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable, face craned up at the ceiling, arms distractedly crossed over his chest. His mouth is half open, almost gaping, as if he’s trying to figure out some message written between the hardwood boards. She notices he hasn’t shaved. She glances involuntarily at his neck, and then his tie. His stupid pin is crooked after so much worshipping, the pointy end downturned. Mikasa imagines reaching out across the table, rolling it around her forefinger and thumb. Smiling sweetly and letting her touch linger for just a heartbeat too long.
It’s a stupid, invasive and sudden thought, which might be fitting, considering the circumstances, and she averts her eyes immediately, trying to find something else to look at, anything else, anything at all. Mikasa attempts to ground herself on the wooden mug, the rough feel of it against her skin. She traces its cold, rusty handle with her finger, thumbs at a scuff or two on its side, chases her last few drops of honey mead from its bottom.
Although it somewhat horrifies her, she can’t help wondering what the fabric of his suit might feel like under her hands.
It would only take just the slightest bit of pressure to find out. Barely anything at all. Mikasa cannot fathom it. A different girl might be brave enough to do so—a different girl had been brave enough to do so, just now, tonight. It makes Mikasa envious, how she had done it so thoughtlessly, like it was the easiest thing in the world to smile and laugh and flirt with him, but she doesn’t think it cruelly. It makes her feel—cowardly, is the word.
It’s utterly ridiculous, how a pretty barmaid she’ll probably never see again can make a mere fantasy of herself feel like an impostor. A girl who has always known herself for being so brave, for being so very strong, too afraid to do something just so damn simple: reach out, and touch. So simple. Her arms hang by her sides, heavy and useless, pinned down by something that tastes like shame, or guilt, and not at all like honey.
Still deep in her reverie, Mikasa twitches her foot just slightly against his shoe, and Jean takes it as a cue to speak.
“Ah, sorry,” he clears his throat, adjusting himself upright in the chair blinking hard, once, as she shakes his head. She quickly tucks her legs away under her chair so she won’t feel it when he does. “Spaced out for a bit. Should we head out? I’ll walk you back to your lodgings,” he offers, leaning slightly forward on his elbows.
“No,” Mikasa refuses bluntly and too quickly, like the word had been trapped behind her teeth. She swallows forcefully whatever is left of it. “We should wait for the others.”
“Right,” he nods, “okay. Should we order another round of drinks?”
“I’m sure you’d love that, Sir Hero of the Night,” Mikasa scoffs. “You just want her to come back and fawn over your—heroism, or whatever.”
She’s aware she is being quite rude. Jean likes talking, and being listened to. It really isn’t quite fair of her to be so snide just because she doesn’t know how to say what she wants to say, and how to make him understand it without her having to tell him. To her surprise, it doesn’t seem to bother him. Jean simply throws his head back and barks out a laugh.
“It’s not like that,” he says good-naturedly, all warm eyes and soft gestures of denial. The dim, warm lighting of the tavern washes his skin golden. The hollow of his cheeks looks pronounced, the apples slightly pink. “She’s just caught up in some fantasy. You’ll always be the real hero, Mikasa.”
“I don’t need to be a hero,” she says defensively, and it sounds overly valorous even to herself. “I never meant to be a hero,” she says again, more quietly. The words sit there for a moment, and Mikasa regrets them right away, because they sting too much and they weigh too much and they make her think not saying anything might be better than saying the wrong thing. Jean stays silent at that. She wonders if it’s pity he’s feeling, or maybe she’s being harsh again. Maybe it’s a way to show respect. That would be more like him, if she’s truthful. Mikasa thinks she has had enough discouragement for the night—no need to add fuel to the fire, she knows, but it seems like she just can’t help herself. “And if you want the pretty girl to come back and throw herself at you again, you can just go ahead and say it.”
“Oh, come on. I wouldn’t mind it if it wasn’t the pretty one bringing the drinks,” he says easily, glad for the change of subject and obviously satisfied with himself and his little joke.
“Oh, alright,” she nods along, and she must make some obvious face too because he starts laughing immediately after, which gets her laughing too, for some reason she can’t identify beyond her slight inebriety because nothing about this seems really funny to her.
“Besides,” he begins, lightheartedly, head tilted to the side, “I’ve only ever had eyes for you.”
She can tell he is teasing her from his face—grinning pleasantly, showing teeth, the left corner of his smile significantly higher than the right. It creates an asymmetry not at all unpleasant to see. He’s made it a habit of teasing her, teasing everyone, really, but there was a time when he would have turned red in the face and choked on his own tongue before ever saying such a thing to her. It doesn’t really matter, because he’s not that boy anymore, and she’s the one whose skin seems to be burning stupidly at his words.
He says it so surely: I've only ever had eyes for you. Mikasa wonders if this is as effortless as the barmaid’s flirting or if it’s some practiced phrasing, if he’s held the words in his mouth long enough for them to taste like vinegar, for them to prick the insides of his throat like a thousand needles.
Of course, Mikasa exhales impatiently, and rolls her eyes. She just can’t help herself from downplaying the sweetness of his statement, and most importantly, she can’t help herself from denying him the satisfaction of knowing how much it affects her. It is unthinkable, to do something so simple, like smiling, or reaching, or touching. But it rings in her ears, I’ve only ever had eyes for you, and it sounds oh-so lovely. Such a notion, to be the only thing someone’s got eyes for.
If she’s truthful, it sounds a bit indulgent. It makes her squirm in her seat. To be the only thing someone’s got eyes for means to be looked at, to be meant to be looked at. To be seen. What is there to see about her? Surely not a charming maid with easy smiles and careless laughter. Maybe the hero she never wanted to be, under the cloak she had to grow into and the blood that never quite dried on her hands. Maybe someone who had loved too hard, too much and too fast, and fought just the same, and lost all the same.
Maybe he sees all of it—she almost forgets he has seen all of it, or at least most of it, the rights and the wrongs, the victories and defeats, the light and the dark. It would be like him, she admits, though it sounds like too much to hope for, too much to ask for. It’s no use thinking so hard on it, Mikasa knows. Only Jean could ever reveal the truth of what he really sees. Mikasa is not charming or effortless, not virtuous or noble. But, I’ve only ever had eyes for you, he’d said. Despite seeing it all, because of seeing it all—she can’t be sure. She’s too stubborn to ask him, to tell him, and she’s tired and she’s bruised.
She must be selfish, too, because when he smiles at her frown from his place across the table she thinks, selfishly, indulgently: good.
“Shut up,” she groans with feigned annoyance she can only hope is convincing enough to distract him from her crimson cheeks. Whatever it is he sees when he looks at her, Mikasa figures it must be something nice. He hasn’t stopped grinning for a second. “I’ve changed my mind,” she decides after a moment, finding it in herself to be brave enough to hold his gaze and not look away—a small, meaningful triumph. The pin on his tie is still angled wrong. “The others know their way back. Let’s head out.”