Chapter Text
“Be patient and tough; one day this pain will be useful to you.” – Ovid, Metamorphoses
The day she buries him, it downpours. The sacred ground soaking up all the dull skies has to spill out for her mourned husband. A mixture of the tears of the Gods and her own pelt his ornate coffin. As her chest heaves, she can scarcely feel the heavy key around her neck swing against her collarbone. The metal was a burning reminder boring through her skin. Her fumbling fingers clutch deep within the earth, her forehead pressed against sturdy handcrafted oak.
She trembled uncontrollably throughout the service, and a calm silence filled over the empty cemetery.
She hadn’t dared to speak a eulogy. Not in front of all those faces, most of which she couldn’t even recall through her bleary eyes. She still hasn’t the bravery to believe he is truly gone as her fingers sift through thin dirt. She regretfully releases the edge of the coffin as the caretakers begin lowering him down.
Six feet doesn’t look so far from where she lies next to the open grave.
Darkness creeps over the horizon, and people have come and gone. None dared to speak to her, disturb her. Too afraid of her words or what she might do. She hears two faint footsteps lingering behind her, and she recognizes the sound.
“Mikasa,”
It is tremendously hard to tilt her head up from being craned for so long. She manages and glances uneasily behind her once she sits up entirely.
Armin.
His hair is brushed neatly, the pair, a flood of dull black as he clings to his wife’s hand tightly. They remain a few feet away from her, but Annie breaks the distance. She immediately rushed to her and crouched down to trail her hands through Mikasa’s disheveled hair.
Mikasa breaks into a fit of strangled sobs at the feeling of her friend’s palms gently pressing into her skin. Her arms go to wrap around Annie’s midsection, shoving her face into the blonde’s neck. Annie had never been the first person she would prefer for sympathy, but Mikasa doesn’t care. She needs something, anyone to hold her lest she falls apart at the seams.
Armin follows his wife, kneeling at Mikasa’s right side. He holds out his hand to her, and they intertwine their hands at his thigh. His gaunt hands are so much warmer than her own. He realizes this and yanks a pair of shabby gloves from his pocket. He holds them out delicately, and Mikasa gently takes them from him.
The cracked leather is worn, but sheep wool lines the inside. She slips them over her trembling hands and releases Annie to stare down below.
“I’m sorry we missed the service.” Armin whispers, voice wavering.
Mikasa is dazed. She barely can remember the service. A Marley flag lays forgotten at her feet, drenched in the downpour. Annie leans to retrieve it, but Mikasa’s hand shoots out to snatch her wrist. Annie reluctantly retracts her hand while Mikasa moves to cradle the flag up to her chest.
“Come on,” Armin nudges her with his shoulder. He pulls her hand as he rises. “We’ll take you home.”
It doesn’t feel like home the moment she steps warily through the threshold that Eren carried her through five years ago. It’s foggy, a light missing from the fray. It is almost too quiet as she carefully shuts the door behind her friends. They had to catch a flight back to Paradis Island in the morning, and regretfully they could not stay long.
She told them she would be all right, and she had to be all right.
Used dishes are piled high, and newspapers fall over the entryway. She knocks them from her path as she wanders their home. His coffee cup still sits on the island, long since gone cold. She stumbles awkwardly to the kitchen discarding her heels and shawl on the side table, nearly knocking over a picture of the once happy couple.
She wretches open the freezer, praying it’s still there. She searches and sees at the back a sealed bottle of whiskey they were gifted at their wedding. Niccolo believed it fitting to give Eren a bottle of brandy, but her husband merely stashed the bottle away to be forgotten. He never was one for drinking.
Neither was Mikasa as she swirled the brandy in a shallow glass. The amber liquid sloshing to and fro, she takes a whiff of the alcohol and scrunches her nose. She guzzles it without a second thought and heaves out a sob, forcefully pushing the glass away. The burn slides down to her stomach, warming her frigid body. Her eyes zero in on the bottle. She puts the rim to her parched lips and tips it back—wishing to forget even if it’s for a moment.
The bottle didn’t last more than a few days. It was easier to slip into bliss when she barely could leave the bedroom to feed herself. She’s run out of ready-made dinners, and her muscles ache as she sits up from the mountain of pillows at her back.
She instantly awakes to her TV, blaring out some violent television show he must have been binging. Horrid creatures chase after decorated soldiers in an overgrown forest, blood-curdling screams echoing through the sound system. She wildly searches for the remote to silence the overwhelming chaos. She smacks her lips a few times to try and rid her perpetual cottonmouth.
But now it’s hushed. Her head pangs from the dreadful silence, a rogue pipe groans as she cranks the heat up when she passes the thermometer. She yanks up the hood to her thick sweater and fumbles to retrieve her phone.
As expected, there is a multitude of missed messages, emails, and a few voicemails. She’s sure her job is expecting a date she plans on returning, but she hasn’t thought that far ahead.
Her days go in moments—a shower because there is still some of his body wash left, forcing herself to eat leftovers and whatever horrid casseroles people left at her door. She glances outside to see snow, normally a welcomed sight. She rises from their cluttered bed and moves to the bathroom, nearly tripping over a pair of Eren’s frayed jeans. She checks their stack of firewood to see it is starting to run low. She has to get her ass into gear and add to the pile, or her electric bill will be through the roof.
Her hands clutch the porcelain of the sink as she refuses to meet her eyes in the mirror. She barely notes the way her hair looks of oil, stains plastered over the dark sweatshirt, and how her skin looks as if she would be able to trace the bones beneath. She lifts her hoodie, running her hands across a few ribs, counting softly as she goes.
She shifts her eyes up to finally stare at her reflection, and it is almost a grotesque caricature of who she formerly was. Her hands reach up to flick stray hairs from her face. Her touch lingers on a faint scar running down the edge of her eye.
“I didn’t think that you would fall, you know?” He said tearfully, shaking his head.
They were in a hospital room, quite unfortunate after a playful evening in their home. They were chasing, evading each other until Eren had seized her in his arms. However, he did not account for a rogue shirt on the floor. The couple slipped to the ground, and Mikasa caught the edge of her face on the bedside table.
She reaches over, her hand covering his own. Her thumb grazed the veins at the surface of his tanned skin.
“It’s okay. You still caught me.”
She tears her eyes from herself and claps a hand over her mouth, muffling a deep moan. She tries not to let the sound escape. Lest it ruins her memory, she whips around, abandoning her reflection, and moves through the home. Stepping over tipped over photographs, a pair of Eren’s work boots, and enters the living room. She stands there for a moment, and it feels as if she is once more in a dreadful memory.
But she is here, and he is not.
His infectious laughter does not occupy the room; his scent does not linger in the room, his fierce eyes do not look upon her except in grainy captures of time—
He is not here.
Her haggard eyes shift over to the piano shoved into the corner of the room. Instead of a grand honeymoon, he carried her through the threshold of their home, presenting her with this miniature grand piano. He couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but she remembers the same key he had pressed to show her the gift.
She drifts toward the instrument, her fingers hovering right above the ivory when a massive bang against her front door.
She jumps, nervously clutching her heart with both hands. Another few bangs echo throughout the house. The door shakes violently as the relentless pounding continues.
She trudges over to the front door, wrenching it open, and meets with a face she hasn’t seen in years.
“Zeke,” She breathes.
Her brother-in-law hasn’t aged a day. His bland smile is light as he pushes his glasses up his nose a tad. Sandy hair slicked back perfectly, meshing with his neatly trimmed beard. He awkwardly stands, mainly in the doorway. To his right, a dark-haired woman tips her head to Mikasa. She’s never met the woman. She must be Zeke’s wife, which Eren had mentioned a few times.
“Hi, Mikasa.” He greets her with a slight bow. “Um, may we come in for a moment?”
He has a manila envelope between his hands, fingers tapping the material as he shifts from foot to foot. Snow collects lightly on their jackets as they stare back at her.
The way Zeke’s eyebrows stitch together reminds her of Eren, the lopsided smile stretched across his face, and his smell—something innately familiar. Akin to juniper berries and coffee, but there is a hint of something else.
She notices a pack of cigarettes peeking out from his breast pocket.
“Zeke smokes like a chimney. My mother used to hate it!”
Mikasa contemplates slamming the door in his face just for a second.
“What do you want?” She says instead.
“Well, I have some paperwork from the department. They sent it to me when you didn’t respond to their emails since I was the next available kin. I can go over it with you if you like.” He explains and holds out the envelope to her.
Accepting that envelope strikes her hard as she clutches it to her chest. It feels as if someone struck a nail straight through her heart, and the dull pounding doesn’t stop.
Zeke nods as she takes it from him and holds out his hand to his wife to grasp. The pair moves in once Mikasa allows them through the doorway. She worries for the thoughts racing through their heads. How the place is a mess, how could she live like this, how can she live—
“We won’t be long.” Zeke starts. “The department wanted to make sure that you received your survivor’s benefits, and I believe they are sending over a box of his things. They cleaned out his locker yesterday.”
She clenches her jaw, tearing the envelope open—dozens of packets, a pathetic letter of mourning, and a framed photo of Eren.
“Why?” She musters.
“Why what, honey?” Zeke’s partner questions softly.
Mikasa clutches the framed photo. Fingers lingering on the edge of her husband’s jaw, she is once again lost in his evergreen eyes, even if it is nothing but through a photo. He always hated pictures, but she remembered the day this was taken. It had been his first official day at Firehouse 139, and how he had boasted about finally making it out of the probie stage.
“Why are you smiling so big in this photo, Eren? It’s kind of creepy.” She jests.
“I have a beautiful wife, a job that fulfills me, and many more memories to look forward to.” He says from behind her, hands trailing down her sides. “And I intend to make a memory, right now.”
“Mikasa, are you all right?” Zeke questions and his gruff voice is extremely similar to Eren’s. His touch is familiar as he lays a hand on her shoulder, the way his breath slips over her skin as Eren’s once had, and the way his vibrant eyes bore into her.
She shrugs his hand off her harshly, and Zeke awkwardly retracts a few steps back. The pair’s eyes widen as she whips the picture across the house with a holler. The glass shatters against the fireplace as she clutches her head between her palms.
She does not care if they think her crazy, brash, or unkind. She does not care. How dare they come into her home and disrupt their space? How dare they remind her—
“Mikasa,” The woman calls. “Calm down.”
“My husband is dead! And you’re telling me to calm down?” She shrieks as she paces over to a stack of forgotten books on their coffee table. She snatches one of Eren’s lengthy fantasy novels and is about to pitch it into the rest of the chaos when Zeke cries out for her to stop.
Zeke rushes over to her and tries to reign in her flailing arms. He winds his arms around her torso, caging her to himself. She tries to break free from his grip, but her body is frail from a fitful sleep and a hint of alcohol.
“This isn’t what he would’ve wanted,” Zeke calls over the fray. “You both knew how dangerous his job was. You signed up for this, and you need to recognize that.”
She rears her head forward and then back to slam into Zeke’s nose. He cries out and releases her, and she crumples to the ground as Zeke moans over his bloodied nose. His partner rushes to him, cradling his head in her arms, and stares Mikasa down.
The woman’s eyes are harsh, looking—judging Mikasa, who is fending off hot tears. Her breath is short, and it feels as if she is drowning in their overwhelming presence.
“Touch my husband again, and we will have a bigger problem.” The woman grounds out. “But, Zeke isn’t wrong. Eren knew what he was getting into. We miss him too. Others miss him too, but you cannot stop your life because of a hiccup.”
“A hiccup? You call my husband burning to death a hiccup?” Mikasa retorts harshly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Where were you? At our wedding? When Eren graduated? When he was buried?!” She growls impatiently, her hands slamming the wood paneling beneath her.
“Mikasa,” Zeke mumbles around his hand. “You don’t understand the relationship between Eren and me. There’s a lot to consider—”
“Please, leave.” Mikasa gently says as she moves to stand on wobbly feet. The woman helps Zeke up as well, and he slings an arm over her shoulders. Blood still dripping from his nose to the floor between his curled fingers.
“I was his brother, Mikasa.” Zeke pants. “I lost my brother. You lost your husband. He was all I had left of the family despite Eren’s and I’s differences.”
“You were there, Zeke. You know he was all I had left as well. At least you have, uh?” Mikasa reaches up to wipe errant tears with the edge of her sweatshirt.
“Pieck,” The woman adds bitterly.
Zeke doesn’t continue. He sniffles for a moment, clutching his wife tighter to his side. Zeke presses a kiss to Pieck’s temple and looks as if he will try hugging Mikasa again. He stops himself and instead turns to the door.
“We are still family, Mikasa. Call us if you ever need anything.” He says, and then they are gone.
The silence is comforting, and her mind stops racing. She sits up, glancing behind her at the strewn papers and kicked-over novels. She holds back another downpour as she begins cleaning up what she demolished.
She lifts the novel from the ground, shaking some of Zeke’s blood from the pages. She closes the book neatly, setting it on her coffee table.
Zeke’s right. Eren wouldn’t have wanted her to live like this. A frail shell of herself, he would have wanted her to forget about him and be happy.
But she can’t recall a time she was content without Eren near.
The piano calls to her one sleepless night. She swears she hears distant whispers of notes one night when there is nothing but faint crickets singing across their land. An isolated cabin in the woods was all they dreamed of as foolish children. Just like she had grown up in. He wished to grant that to her, and Eren was always a man of his word.
Until he wasn’t.
“Be safe today, love.” She said into his skin one early morning.
“Always,”
Music came to her easily; it was like her head was constantly ringing a tune. She had always been humming, tapping, singing to Eren often as she could. He would sit beside her, fighting the urge to press random keys. She was grateful he would listen. He never desired to be taught the instrument. He would rest his head on the edge of her shoulder and merely watch listlessly as her fingers raced across the keys.
She was always crafting a new lullaby to add to their repertoire, one she had hoped to sing to their imaginary children, grandchildren, or whoever would listen. Her hand wraps around her abdomen at the sudden realization of another loss she hadn’t realized she would have to mourn.
She would never get to see what their children would look like. How they would laugh, a bit of anger bubbles up within her. He didn’t even leave a living reminder of himself on this Earth except for his prickly brother.
She can’t fault him for that, but she nevertheless feels a tinge of betrayal.
She sniffles and returns her hands to the piano what she would give to see children with eyes like his, laughing like they did when they were once young. She plays a few chords, and the strikes startle her for a moment. It’s harsh, and she isn’t used to such deafening clamor. Fortunately, the piano had not lost its tune.
Her placing becomes harsh as she bangs at the keys. A forgotten song she started when her parents had left her, another addition when Carla had left, another when Grisha. . .
Her movements are fevered as the keys become slick with her tears. She had never considered herself a crier, but it’s almost as she was overfilled with all this unbearable grief. And this was the final tipping point, and she couldn’t seem to cease most days. Her countless tears could have filled the shallow oceans by now, her relentless waves crashing against sandy shores. . .
She was tired of crying for lost souls.
She wanted to unearth them again.
How could she do this?
Why couldn’t someone give them back? Give him back to her!
“Miss Jaeger, are you all right? You haven’t said anything yet.”
“Yes,”
She was tired of people asking her if she was okay. But, she figured it was fine if her therapist asked her that. It’s not like they can sit here in silence as much as Mikasa wanted to. But she likes Hanji. They were straightforward, worked exclusively with grief counseling. And the past few months of the sessions haven’t been that terrible. She just hated having to relive her entire relationship with this virtual stranger.
Mikasa wasn’t one to relish feeling vulnerable. She hated the pity she saw upon some people’s faces, but Hanji never pitied her. They listened, laughed at some of Mikasa’s outrageous stories, and even asked more about Mikasa’s former husband.
Armin had urged her to at least try Hanji, and it was additionally offered in her package for a brief amount of time from the department. For once, she feels the need to thank Armin. These weekly sessions have helped Mikasa leave the house, use her voice, and take time to sift through joyful memories instead of wade through darker ones.
“What did you do today? Anything different?” Hanji eagerly questioned.
Mikasa shook her head. “I got up, made some toast, but I didn’t finish it. The texture wasn’t right. I’ll probably have to get a new toaster. Eren was always super cheap when he bought appliances. I might get the one that has the digital screen on it.”
Hanji made a noise of understanding. One thing Mikasa liked about them was that they never noted anything down. Something about that process always unsettled Mikasa. She was aware Hanji was analyzing her in this environment, but it was comforting to know someone was listening rather than recording.
“Any luck with returning to work?”
“No,” Mikasa starts. “My bereavement lapsed, so I decided to take the year off. The money from the department my friend has invested some of it so I could have some income.”
“Do you miss your students?”
“Some days. Other days I forget they even existed. It seems like a different. . .timeline if that is the right word.”
Hanji hums in acknowledgment, nodding their head. “Well, I think you would benefit from a new hobby. I know you do many things—piano, painting, reading, and your garden. But, are there any new activities you wanted to try?”
Mikasa thinks for a moment. Many of her past hobbies always included Eren rather it be fishing, camping, or hiking. It was something they enjoyed together, and she contemplated hitting some of the same trials they used to. However, she knew Eren would be upset with her if she were to venture alone.
“Uh, Eren and I. . .we used to go hiking and camp a lot. Especially during my summer break. But, I haven’t needed to go back out and do it.” Mikasa lamely explains before reaching for her cup of coffee.
“Are you nervous about hiking alone? You might be able to ask one of your friends to go with you. You said Annie was a great gym partner.”
Mikasa laughs. “Annie doesn’t like doing much unless she wants to do it. Plus, her husband travels around the world for his research. I barely see them.”
“Maybe fly out one day to where they are. Explore!” Hanji exclaims.
Mikasa smiles a tad, and the feeling is odd as her muscles pull up to her eyes. It’s been so long since she’s had a reason to smile. Mikasa nods softly and makes a mental note to text Annie later.
“You have your passport, right? Paradis is quite strict when it comes visitors.” Annie says on the other end of the line.
Mikasa has already gotten past security, waiting for her flight to board. Luckily, the flight from Marley to Paradis Island is only forty minutes, so she wouldn’t have to sit on the aircraft for too long. Mikasa cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear as she snatches up the coffee she ordered from the counter. She smiles at the barista, drops a dollar into the tip jar, and turns back out into the fray.
“Yes, I already got through Marley security. Just waiting on the flight.”
“Awesome. Armin will pick you up at the airport since I’m preparing the house.”
“You don’t have to tidy up for me. You should see the state of my apartment.” Mikasa jests lamely as she takes a seat at her gate. She shoves her carry-on under her seat and takes a sip from her cup.
“Sasha will get in tonight. Ymir and Historia tomorrow morning, and then my neighbor Hitch said she would guide us on some of the trails.”
Ever the over preparer, Annie, was. Mikasa shook her head with a slight chuckle as the silence grew between the pair.
“I’m going to wait on my flight. Read some of my book. I’ll see you soon.” Mikasa states.
“Safe travels, Mikasa.”
The line goes dead, so Mikasa pockets her phone in her oversized puff jacket. She leans down to retrieve her book from the side pocket of her bag. Some of the brittle pages were bent with age, but as she opened the cover, she couldn’t help but smile.
There are scribbles of Eren’s terrible handwriting on the inside, notes littered on points of the book. A cartoon depiction of a tiny cat penned with dark ink. It’s fangs out, most likely hissing. She runs her fingers over Eren’s sketch as her eyes brim with a few tears. She sniffles and pushes through to skim the pages. This was an older book she recalled that Eren would default back to it during reading slumps.
She follows tiny dots over lines that he must have liked, question marks, and even comments of his own.
One, in particular, stands out to her as it is underlined in red rather than the black pen her husband usually used.
And besides, we lovers fear everything.
She cocks her head a bit to the side, rereading the line a few times. Marinating on why Eren must have felt compelled to underline this differently. He was a creature of habit, he consistently put his keys in the same spot when returning home, a kiss to her head before walking out the door, and a cup of coffee placed at her bedside. She misses the familiar scent of fresh coffee next to her every morning, but not as much as she misses his comforting warmth. His pillow is starting to lose its fragrance, and life is blackening with the mundane. Almost as if the world forgot he existed.
But these words, these are still here. A tangible reminder that he was here. She trails her finger under the line and gasps as the pen mark smudges under her fingertips. She holds her fingers before her, now stained with the darkening red ink.
She strokes her fingers together, smearing the ink as it bores into her skin. She hurriedly flips to the following page, the next, and the next—
It has taken over the pages of the book, written shakily in dull crimson. Across diagonally, straight down. The handwriting grows frantic.
She flips the page.
And besides, we lovers fear everything.
Flip.
And besides, we lovers fear everything.
Flip.
And besides, we lovers fear everything.
“And ladies and gentlemen, flight 132 to Paradis Island is boarding. First-class please begin boarding.”
Mikasa startles as the intercom screeches across the waiting area. She slams the book shut, stuffing the item back in her carry-on. She busies her hands with her passport, ticket, and coffee cup handing it to the flight attendant once she gets to the front of the line. The flight attendant awkwardly wipes her fingertips against her skirt.
Mikasa looks down at her hands, and she feels how clammy they have gotten. She hurriedly apologizes to the woman.
She reaches out to accept the papers back, and her hands are no longer stained.