Archive of Our Own

Here’s to the first time you saw him.

He was waiting for the bus with his hands fumbling with his phone, dressed in an oversized hoodie, brown hair all messed up and ignoring the trail of blood dripping from his nose. You shrugged yours in disgust and got a tissue from your pocket, handing it to him as you stood beside him. He looked at you with a surprised frown and rapidly averted his eyes, but not before you noticed the gold and green in them. He shoot you a quick thank and made a mess of himself trying to stop the bleeding.

Later, you would find out that he had a tendency to get into useless fights and that he always wore sunglasses when he didn’t have his color lenses.

Here’s to the first time you heard his name.

You were engaged with a casual (boring) conversation with one of your classmates while you waited for the class to start when he opened the door with a loud thud. He had the decency to look a bit sheepish, at least, but all you could think was rude, so rude, man. Armin got up from his seat and greeted him warily, as if expecting something bad —Eren, you heard him call him. Eren, and somehow you couldn’t resist snorting because totally not like him.

Later, you would love the way that name felt rolling down your tongue like a poem you were never brave enough to write.

Here’s to the first time you kissed him.

It was a game, such a silly game, a dare like any other in the middle of a campfire. Except it didn’t feel like a dare when your lips touched his, a little chapped and cold from the mountain wind surrounding you. It didn’t feel like a dare when your hands cupped his jaw and you felt his in your hips, holding you together as if you were to run. It didn’t, when your tongue licked his lower lip cautiously and he sighed unconsciously, opening his mouth for you to deepen the kiss and tighten the knot in the pit of your stomach. You don’t even like him as a friend, Jean, you told yourself as you parted, and it felt like a raw lie with that warm breath against your skin.

Later, you would keep telling lies to yourself as you felt his fist against your cheek, trying to ease yourself into believing that your heart was just beating like a drum for the night or the fight or the adrenaline and definitely not for his chapped lips. 

Here’s to the first time you were honest with yourself.

It was not a sudden realization. It was not movie-like, with the sudden music and the epiphany in the middle of a shared moment with him. Time didn’t slow down and Earth didn’t explode and everything was so normal you wanted to puke. Because he was there, beside you, snoring softly as he shifted in the uncomfortable bus sit while you returned from a school trip, and you just… you just wanted to trail your thumb across his lips and ask him why did he used color lenses; you wanted to ask him everything, every little detail. You wanted to know it all. It was not a sudden realization, it was acceptance.

Later, you would be surprised it took you almost two years to actually be honest about your feelings for that cheeky and righteous brat. 

Here’s to the first time he was honest with you.

It was the second time you saw him with a bloody nose, but this time you could ask him what happened without being a creep. He looked at you with an annoyed frown and you noticed one of his color lenses had moved out of the way, brown no longer covering gold, and you had to ask. You had to ask because his eyes were not to be hidden, yet he did, and you needed to know why. He looked at you like you had three heads and then he took off his lenses, mumbling about freaks and horrible, and you had to tell him to shut up, to tell him they were nothing but amazing. You had to tell him it was nothing to be ashamed of.

Later, you would tell him they were beautiful, like the sun and the grass in the middle of summer. You would tell him between kisses and soft moans, you would praise him between whispers and he would think you were crazy, but he would smile.

Here’s to the first time he knew.

You told him by accident, in the middle of an argument, out of sheer resentment. He looked like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and nervous, and you couldn’t think straight. He was going to flee at the first chance, you knew that, so you just turned around and didn’t give him the chance to walk away first. Your fists were closed so hard you felt your nails against your palms and you wanted to punch something, anything, yourself. You wanted to punch whoever came into your path, but then he was in front of you and all you could muster was a curt let me pass. But he was babbling, rambling in all his self-righteousness, looking at you with a frown because you’re not joking, are you? If you’re joking, I swear to god, Kirschtein, I’m going to feed your body to the ducks.

Later, you would learn the shape of his lips by heart and memorize the noises he made when you bit his neck.

Here’s to the downs. Here’s to the shouts and the fear and the breakups and the cold nights without him beside you.

Here’s to the ups. Here’s to the anniversaries and the smiles and his hands between yours. Here’s to his beautiful eyes and your cranky humor; to your thin patience and his dumb jokes.

Here’s to the story you never thought you would write.

Later, you would learn it was not perfect but you still wanted to give it a chance, still wanted to feel his heart beating under yours, still wanted to kiss away his insecurities and fight for the most stupid things.

Later, you would learn it was far from perfect, but it was yours.