Attack On Titan: Dreams

Eren makes his exit, feeling the weight of curious stares on his back as he leaves.

Once in the hallway, he sees her walking slowly, a hand pressed to her head.

"Oy, Mikasa," he calls her name softly.

It rolls off of his tongue not quite the same as before, but he ignores the feeling, focusing more on the distinct urgency in his pace as he strides towards her.

She turns - rather swiftly for someone in her condition - her weary eyes widening in bewilderment at the sight and sound of him, and when their eyes meet again, his stomach flutters, and his fists involuntarily clench defensively.

He curses inwardly at the involuntary physical reactions, but tries to ignore them.

"Are you alright?" he asks, attempting to keep a calm and even tone. He stops a safe distance away, feeling himself begin to tense in her presence.

She nods slowly, expression still wrought with puzzlement.

And then they are looking at one another all alone, and he finds himself flustered and unable to hold her gaze yet again, and instead directs his eyes at a nice, neutral area - her shoulder.

"Come on, I'll walk you back to your room," he says to her shoulder.

It is silent for a moment, until he looks back up at her, and he curses internally yet again. Her expression has faded back into her usual calm and extremely difficult-to-read disposition.

"You don't have to do that," she says, and he swallows because her voice... It is the first time he has heard the sound in days, and it is gentle and light and strangely soothing to his ears. "Thanks though."

"It's fine," he insists, hoping the inexplicable amount of satisfaction he feels at merely hearing her voice is not evident. "I'm already here."

"No, it's fine I'm fine," she says calmly, yet firmly, and now she is the one averting her gaze.

Her defiance awakens the confrontational part of him, and for the first time in days, rather than the fear or embarrassment he has consistently been feeling in her presence, he feels a familiar irritation with her steel stubbornness - akin to what he felt on the night that started this whole mess.

"You're not fine. You're sick and wounded, you left the meeting early - and you broke a punching bag ," he says flatly, taking another step closer.

At the mention of her workout activities, her calm demeanour shifts into a mild glare, likely brought on with Sasha in mind.

"It was falling apart already," she says quietly and somewhat guiltily, though there is an irritated edge to her voice at being exposed.

"Right," he says with a shake of his head. "Come on. You should be resting."

He moves to take another step forward but freezes midway.

'Well, I want to... You should be resting, anyway.'

The familiar sentence from the dream that is now carved into his memory makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth, and he remembers white sheets and rooftop kisses and baby bumps, and the accidental reference effectively burns away at the ability to be normal with her - which he had just relearned a few moments ago - because such thoughts are now flitting through his mind a mile a minute.

But, even in the prolonged silence the ensues following his insistence, Mikasa does not look up him.

In fact, her heel scrapes the ground in a move to step back and distance herself from him, and it is far too quiet and they are far too isolated for him to not notice the extremely subtle and evasive action. And, despite his need to keep a safe, physical distance from her, he still finds himself feeling just a twinge of offense.

"I'm fine," she repeats, a firmer edge to her tone, her gaze still directed at the floor.

And they both fall silent - him, staring at her pallid face, her staring at the ground. Her expression is incomprehensible, though the tension in her body is evident, and it feels like all the air is slowly being sucked out of the room, because the silent stalemate is filled with stiffened limbs and bated breaths and words unspoken.

As time passes, it becomes increasingly clear that her stubborn refusal of his assistance goes far beyond a desire to not be burdensome, and means so much more than her usual self-effacing humility.

'You might've broken her heart,' Armin's stupidly reasonable voice echoes in his mind.

Eren swallows, now unsure of how to smoothly respond or approach the situation. In an attempt to gather his thoughts, his eyes trail down to the floor until they catch upon the bruised and purpled skin of her porcelain knuckles.

The very familiar ache of guilt begins to blossom at the pit of his stomach.

"You're upset with me," he blurts, eyes darting back up to her face.

At that, her expression softens, and she slowly lifts her head to look back at him, finally beginning to display at least a semblance of emotion, with the subtle questioning curve of her brow.

"That's why you..." he waves a hand over at her right hand, and in self-consciousness, she fists her hands so they partially disappear beneath the sleeves of her cardigan.

"No, I... " she begins, blinking and shaking her head, and now her brow is furrowed in thought, and it seems that she, too, is at a loss for words.

And then they are stuck in another silent stalemate until Eren's gaze hits the floor once more, and he lets out an exasperated "tsk".

"It's okay. You... it's alright if you... if you're mad at me. I'm - I know I haven't been... around, but... "

He trails off, wracking his brain as to how he should complete the sentence, because he does not know how to without explaining why he was acting the way he was. Doing so meant divulging a whole slew of thoughts and feelings that he was not prepared to divulge.

The only other alternative was verbalizing his belief that they should wait until after their grand mission was complete to speak about what had taken place between them. And even this option wasn't ideal, as doing so could either come off as a rejection, or plant a seed of hope in her that neither could afford to pay any heed, when there were far more important mattes at hand.

Frustration takes over as he fruitlessly tries to select the right words to say. All the while, he can feel the weight of her gaze bear down on him as she patiently awaits his answer.

And while immersed in thought, he cannot help but think about how easy it used to be to talk to her how he could say anything to her with complete ease, and without fear of judgment.

Sure, in their youth she had judged him for his wild and impossible passions, but over time, they had gotten to a point where he never felt as though he was walking on eggshells with her, no matter how controversial the topic, or how she may object to his line of thinking. She had been his confidante and sounding board.

Now, he could barely hold a conversation with her.