if i died, i wouldn't be able to remember you

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, it’s dangerous,” she says, almost stern. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“I know,” he says, and turns to face her until he catches a glimpse of the boy from the marketplace, waving and smiling at them. Next to him stands an older man, probably his father, or grandfather, smiling gently, and Eren manages a weak wave and smile at them both.

“That’s the boy from the market,” Mikasa says. Almost hesitating, she asks, “Eren, what are you doing out here?”

Funny, he could almost swear that she’s asked him this a thousand times before. He can’t quite recall the specifics, but it’s always a variation of the questions. ‘Eren, what are you doing? What have you done? What will you do?’ And the fact that it’s always asked in Mikasa’s voice isn’t strange. He’s known long before that her guidance will always be something he needs. The conscious in his unconscious. The voice of reason in a world that seems so devoid of it. She’ll ask again, in his head always, ‘Eren, what are you doing? What have you done? What will you do?’

He was fifteen when he realized he would never be as strong as Mikasa. And now he realizes that he never will be. Not in her raw strength, which is of course, an uninhibited and destructful force. Not in her courage or bravery. Not in any of that. But always in her hope. And for some reason, her hope still lies with him, and he has never been more afraid to let her down.

It is what he’s always known; he has never been Mikasa’s protector. She was his. 

He washes down these thoughts, as far as he can. As far as he can will them to be, and says something as close to the truth as he can manage. “No, nothing yet.”

She looks at him dubiously, “What do you mean?” She looks around the vast set-up camps and the candle light that glows within them. “This…”

“Is us.” He says. “Almost. It’s us from when we were fleeing war. When we lost our homes and everything we knew. When our entire world was stolen from us.”

The anger is familiar, almost too easy to latch onto. He can feel it in his veins, but it’s a shadow of what it used to be. 

If he tries hard enough, he can see his mother’s face in the distance. He can almost recall her smile, the colour of her eyes. It leaves him too early, though. Leaves him without enough time.

“Your wrong.” Mikasa says, turning to face him. “They aren’t us. They’re better. They’ll live.”

She says it with such strong conviction that it almost leave him speechless. As if it’s not something that can be argued with. And he doesn’t know what it is, if it’s perhaps the strength in her eyes, or if it’s the way the moonlight makes her glow (and she’s always looked, for some reason, more beautiful at midnight than any other time of the day), or if it’s something more, something he can’t seem to form or reach. It’s something, and it hurts him far more than any injuries he’s ever sustained, and he just, needs to know.

“Mikasa,” he starts. “Why do you care about me?”

The question takes her by surprise, and she looks at him with uncertainty, almost as if she can’t believe that he’s asked her this. “What?”

“Is it because I saved you as a child?” He steamrollers on, not caring for her confusion. “Or is it… is it because I’m family?”

She only looks at him, confused, startled and almost scared, but he needs to know.

“What am I to you?” He says, finally. He almost dreads hearing the answer.

The silence is loud, and all he can hear is the sound of boisterous laughter coming from miles away, and her grey eyes look at him, and her face is red (with shame? His stomach almost turns. He hopes not), but she’s looking at him and he could almost, almost tremble, until- 

“Everything.” She says, and for a second, the world stops. 

This is not a love story. It’s not a story about anything, really. But there is a rush of something, and it’s not the familiar anger or the sadness that lies within reach. It’s something that’s intense but feels so pure. Good and kind and nurturing. Something that he only gets whenever he’s with her.

Perhaps it is love. 

She touches his face, wipes a tear that’s fallen down, and whispers low enough for him to hear. “Everything.”

When he kisses her, it’s not like the poems, or the songs, or the stories where the knight saves the princess. It’s wet, and mushy, and kinda gross if you think about the entire process in detail, but it does feel like a revelation. And it feels like hope too. Like future.