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Eren stared at the vanity mirror, fighting the silent urge to touch the mirror in front of him.
The vanity was an antique, a thick film of dust coating the indents along the golden painted brass edges. The mirror had an opaque sheen to it, as if Eren's sight wasn't quite right. He rubbed his eyelids for good measure. The layer of grime on the mirror remained. Eren felt himself sway slightly, like one of Mikasa's old handmade dolls -- crafted with her own gentle, porcelain hands.
He let out a breath. The room was bitterly cold, he could faintly see white clouds releasing from his cracked lips. He remained staring ahead at the mirror. He didn't understand why he was sitting there, at that point of time, staring at his reflection. Through the multicoloured vortex of his widened eyes, he could spot a whirlwind of colours - teal, emerald, an angelic shade of grey - but the only thing he concentrated on was the level of hatred that filled his gaze.
His mind was in shambles. Initially, it was a beaming crystal ball, stubborn and upright. But now the crystal ball had shattered into scattered pieces, and he desperately scrambled to pick at the memory-painted shards, to no avail. He found that it was easier to grab a single mental dilemma or memory, no matter how irrelevant or small, and dissect it at that moment in time, throughout these stagnant days. It felt like it was all he could handle until he broke further. Right now, he was settled on the topic of his gaze. He took a deep breath, almost shaky, almost full.
He heard murmurs from his comrades. He understood why they talked behind his back; Eren changed so much in merely a few weeks. He felt himself becoming absent, his gaze unfocused and lifeless. He really tried at first -- cracking a joke, participating in an exercise, displaying an old trait. All he could allow now was let his friends whisper in confusion while he wasn't looking. (and for him to steal longing glances at his friends while they weren't looking.)
He couldn't even handle being the subject of his own lifeless gaze. His head hung forward, dust particles flying across all directions from the hollow movement. He soaked in images of them desperately, wanting their precious smiles and laughter to be engraved in his whittled, empty, idea-less skull. Sunlight shone across their faces, bathing them in golden light. Glimmering seawater splashed towards them, the joy evident in their weightlessness. (Sasha's smile --mischevious, infectious--was gone. She was laying on the floor, stomach wound bleeding and spreading-- )
There was nothing he could do now. All he could do was keep fighting forward. Take a step. Take another step. He was an empty shell, and it felt as he was spectating from the unknown, feared vessel that was his own body. His tangible existence was built through actions of those before him, DNA interweaved in a detailed, ancient tapestry, looping through his flesh like bloody tethers. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him. He wanted to tell someone - anyone, of what he had learnt. But he couldn't. He pressed his nails onto his forearms, embedding maroon crescent shapes onto his tan skin. He squinted at his reflection, searching, searching for any hidden meaning within himself.
A mumble sounded from behind him. Eren perked up slightly, stiffening, but his eyes didn't widen. Slowly, he turned around. Behind him by the floor, Mikasa laid on a futon. She slept so soundlessly, Eren forgot she was there. He blinked at her sleeping form. Right, they were staying at an inn by the shore before they left for Marley. It was an old, sketchy inn, raindrops leaking through the roof, the walls as thin as cardboard. Eren found himself getting lost between the past, present and the future as it pressed against his head. He had to jog his memories to remember what he was doing several times.
(Stupid. He needed to focus. He needed to fight.)
Mikasa let out another pitiful sound. Through Eren's undeciphered, miserable emotions stirring within his stomach, a dim spike of concern shot through him. Moving forward, he silently scooted towards her. Her blanket was askew as she began shaking slightly, and Eren pulled it up, tucking her in. Mikasa was never warm. She was cold-blooded, even now, Eren couldn't feel any warmth radiate from her, despite having fallen asleep and laying within such thick covers. As children, Eren was always the one who ran hot. Armin and Mikasa would always press against him as they fell asleep, and he always found himself in the middle sandwiched between them.
Eren stared at Mikasa as she began sweating, fighting against the covers. She was having a nightmare, he finally recognised. Eren gently grabbed onto her hand, and led it to his chest. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. He felt his heartbeat against her delicate hand.
This method had worked ever since Eren saved Mikasa that haunting night, and she had nightmares almost every night where she was unable to fight, causing Eren to be strangled to death. Eren had always thought those nightmares were stupid. She had fought, and she fought impressively. Little child him even felt jealous at her graceful strength. When Mikasa felt his heartbeat, raging and passionate, she would be reminded that he was alive.
Slowly, she began to calm. He remained in that position, leaning over her, hand pressed against his heart, until she fell into a deep slumber. Even then, he still held onto her hand. A pale, fragile hand, that killed so mercilessly and swiftly, stained with immeasurable amounts of blood. Yet it was still so delicate. Despite Mikasa's understanding of the worlds cruelty, Eren thought vaguely, she remained pure and compassionate inside. And then there was him. He understood nothing, except for sweet, blossoming tales of freedom, and he was completely filthy to his core. his violent nature persisted.
Eren didn't stir at these rampaging thoughts. He focused on his weak grip on Mikasa's hand. Slowly, he led it to his collarbone. Slowly, he led it to his neck.
"When, Mikasa?" He whispered to her unconscious figure. "When will I see you again?"
His hand shook. Thoughts of death, love and tragedy sang through his mind, a broken, unsalvageable melody. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream-- endless apologies flooding through his lips. But despite everything -- he stared at Mikasa, and all he could feel was pride. She was not enslaved like him. When the time came, she did the right thing. (An explosion by his jaw, a presence entering his titan, a slice of steel, Eren opened his eyes weakly, wanting his final sight to be of her.) He guided her hand back to her side. A bittersweet smile lay upon his lips. A tragic, frail thing. The quirk of his dry lips was the first real smile he had worn in weeks. He felt like tearing his flesh apart.
Eren sat at her side, basking in her temporary presence. It was as if they were on the streets again in Wall Rose; frantic children, scavenging for food and water, barely able to find shelter ever since they became refugees. Eren had looked over Mikasa as she was asleep on the thin mattresses sometimes, sitting against the rain-soaked concrete, too haunted by grief to fall asleep himself. He knew that Mikasa did the same.
He wondered if their existences were inherently tragic. Mikasa's loyalty transcended their destinies, causing their fates to be so interlaced, threaded together, like his Mother's old sewing projects, and it caused her to be caught in the web of Eren's violence, the fact that he was the leading push of it all. Even as a kid, pushing aside his immaturity and need for privacy, he felt as if she was unaware of the full scope of her devotion.
Eren brushed Mikasa's pitch black hair strands away from her face, lightly brushing her forehead. He ignored the twinge of longing that ached in his chest, opting to admire her peaceful face instead.
Slowly, tiredly, Eren turned his head to stare at the old vanity mirror as his fingers remained lingering by Mikasa's forehead. Finally, he could recognise the hatred in his gaze. It was directed towards himself.