Attack On Titan: Dreams

Disgusted with himself for ever daring to look at her in such a way, he averts his gaze, instead staring at an empty space on the mattress, all the while silently fuming at himself.

He then remembers that it was only a few days ago that he had opened her blouse with his own hands which were all slick with her blood, at the time.

Exhaling sharply through his nose at his own self-loathing, he looks back up to find her popping the last button free, the urge to ogle completely replaced by pure, unfiltered shame.

She gently places her shirt on the bedside before her gaze catches his. Emerald orbs shining with emotions, fixed on the countless scars stretching around her body, her arms and around her back.

And a wave of realization wash over him. Tears brimming in his eyes some falling on the dry mattress.

"Hey what's wrong Eren..." Her voice cuts through his regrets and sorrow as he quickly rubs his forearm against his eyes, clearing his tears.

"Ready?"

His shaky voice quickly follows up but before she could protest he commands, quietly,"Lie down,"

Curiosity still etched on her face, she obeys the solemn command without question, and reclines back onto the mattress, raven head sinking into her pillow.

"Sasha's been doing okay with it?" he asks, gently brushing her blouse further open to expose her entire torso, though newfound pain envelopes his chest.

"Not too bad," she replies as he picks up the scissors on her nightstand, and begins to snip away at the bandages.

"That's not the same as 'good'," he mutters as he slices through the last piece and taps his fingers to her side at which she knows to arch her back just enough for him to pull the cut up bandage free.

"Mmm. I prefer the way you do it."

He wishes she hadn't been looking at him while saying such a thing, because he knows he is now blushing and at the verge of bursting into uncontrollable tears.

"Then... I'll do it from now on," he mumbles in reply, not daring to make eye contact with her, instead focusing on the russet-spotted gauze resting atop her wound, as he reaches down to peel it back.

Slowly, the unsightly garble of raised, mauve tissue comes into view, threaded through with stitches, the edges of the wound puckering against her otherwise smooth and unblemished beige skin.

A wave of nausea washes over him at the sight not at its grotesqueness, but rather at the reminder that he had trivialized the injury through his extremely insensitive behaviour over the past week.

The thought leaves him livid and unable to look away, lips curving into a deep frown, face darkening considerably as he all but glares down at the wound.

"It's ugly," Mikasa says, voice ripping him from his trance, her words blunt and emotionless as though stating a common fact, though they are softly spoken.

Almost immediately, he shakes his head sharply, eyes darting back up to her face.

"No," Eren begins, reaching into the water basin at her bedside, before pulling the rag from the bowl, and squeezing it with one hand until it is wrung damp, "No... "

"No part of you is ugly," he says his eyes fixed at the redness of her wound.

"You are beautiful in every way..." And before he could say anything else some tears roll down his cheeks falling on her warm abdomen.

She looks at him her hand reaching for her mouth a soft gasp escaping her mouth and before she knows it she's crying seeing him like that but doesn't says or do anything knowing his stubborn personality.

He dabs the area around the wound gently with the rag.

"It's a wound now. It's not supposed to be pretty," he mumbles shaking off the tears, before tossing the rag back into the brass bowl.

He then picks up a small jar of ointment and begins to unscrew it, all the while wilting under her probing gaze the likes of which the Eren of last week would have snapped at with a brash 'CUT IT OUT', because it was making the typically uncomplicated task of unscrewing a bottle cap far more difficult.

However, in a demonstration of great self control, he instead bites his tongue and continues to avoid her eyes because he knows she's crying, carrying on in silence as he finally uncaps the bottle, and scoops out a sizable dollop of ointment with his fingers, before setting the bottle back onto her bedside table.

As gently as possible, he presses his ointment-caked fingers to the periphery of the wound, brow scrunched in concentration as he works under the weight of her unrelenting gaze. Slowly, he grows accustomed to the silence, finding it more comforting than suffocating until Mikasa cuts into it with an innocuous:

"What happened?"

He stiffens completely, not daring to meet her gaze head on.

"What do you mean?" he deflects maintaining his composure, continuing to gently rub his fingers in small circles against her skin, avoiding the still-tender areas of the wound, his face screwed in concentration, his skin underneath his eyes shining due to some tears earlier.

"Well... you were about to break my door down," she says softly clearing her tears, in the way one does when broaching a potentially sensitive topic.

Eren frowns, staring thoughtfully at the wound, maintaining his silence as he continues to work mostly because he has no idea how to respond.

"And you look really awful," she adds on, nonchalantly.

He snorts, finding the bluntness refreshing, especially after an entire week of walking on eggshells around one another.

"I've been getting that a lot lately," he chuckles trying to shake of feeling.

"Eren."

Suddenly, her fingers, soft and strong, are curled gently around his wrist, and he is still as stone in her grip.

His eyes snap down to the hold, where he is forced take stock of her purpled knuckles, which were yet another mark that was indirectly his doing.

He frowns deeply.

"Hey," she calls his attention before his mind can spin out into another guilt-ridden trance, and she is suddenly hoisting herself up onto her elbow, half-sitting up.

His eyes flick to hers at the shift, about to command that she lie down and not move at all until he is finished, but the immense concern on her face squashes any attempt at being abrasive or commanding.

"What's wrong?"

Soft, her voice is so soft that the hairs on his arms stand on end, every syllable so infused with worry, grey-blues showcasing that rare emotion that is reserved only for him, and it all reaches into him and makes him want to tell her everything every single thing he has been thinking, every single thing he has realized, but it is just too much, and he doesn't even know how or where to start, or if such thoughts would even be well received after a week of full-blown douchebaggery.

So, he scowls and clears his throat.

"Lie down,"