#don't be fooled by how much I wrote writer's block is actually kicking my ass

[usurpyr-a]

[ rest ] for (Eren) to rest his head in (Mikasa's) lap ...

IT’S DAYS LIKE THESE when he falters in stride / stumbling over a sudden pitch-shift in balance, always teetering on the precipice of that great dark chasm threatening to swallow him alive ( eventually, inevitably ). But he pulls himself back from that ledge - has to, always, elsewise he’ll never reach the gold-tinged horizon glimmering in the distance, like so many shards of glass catching the fading light. He has to keep going, has to keep moving forwards, spurred on by the echoes of his mother’s voice screaming survive! screaming live! Even if it amounts to nothing, in the end ( and there will be an end / he’ll make sure of it ) - even if he has to drag his heels along transparent splinters, soaking their mirrored reflections in his red, red blood, he will endure it, always. EVEN IF ALL THAT AWAITS HIM IS ANOTHER HELL / EVEN IF ALL THAT REMAINS IS FIRE AND BRIMSTONE. ( He has to- no, don’t look back- has to move, but he’s slung over someone’s shoulder helpless to watch going further and further away and he’s just so fucking tired he wants it all to stop- )

He can’t even remember what did it, this time - the hours have all blurred together into an ugly smear of tongue-numbing lies and happy expressions he couldn’t bring himself to force for very long. Maybe the monotony of it all has finally overwhelmed him - has forced about an acute realization of his own depravity that prickles the back of his neck like so many eyes as needles. ( Look at me! the little boy cries, fingers splayed towards the heavens. LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE MADE OF ME! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! ) The weight of expectation has forced him to cringe away from the worried gazes of his compatriots / unable to bear the scrutiny that doesn’t exist, or the paranoia that seizes his lungs every time someone so much as utters his name ( TO ALL SUBJECTS OF YMIR, HEAR ME NOW. I AM EREN YEAGER   - ). He fears that one day, to-day, they will taste the rot of that word, and they’ll know how decayed he has become; they’ll recognize his deceit and spit vitriol at him and it’ll be all his fault, all his fault, always his fault. But they’re his friends ( ? ), he should just listen to them- he should quit acting like such a coward and just ... stop.

Perhaps that is why he seeks out a moment of quiet / a refuge from the dull roar of rumbling in his ears that wants to split his skull open like the hard shell of a pomegranate. But all he finds is Mikasa, sitting as patiently and observant as ever - her scarf sits neatly folded in her lap, having been slipped off in the stuffy heat of the train car. For whatever reason, that is the sight that dislodges him: her pale neck, the bead of sweat pooling in her collarbone, the thin strands of hair wicking her jaw- He doesn’t even remember getting on the train. The surreal-ness of seeing Mikasa without that scarf jolts his memory back into place / a static shock that nearly has him doubled-over, clutching his stomach-head ( the two interchangeable, always hungry, always growling ). It’s only them, here - the cabin jostles as it bounces over the tracks: he finds himself swaying in the doorway, mouth slightly agape as though he had been preparing to say something, or trailed off in the middle of a sentence. No, he doubts it was important anyway. His expression sours as he lingers in this ensuing silence / out of place, out of time - what the hell was I even thinking, coming here. He feels his lips draw into a thin line and recognizes the pressure building behind his eyes as a valve threatening tears. He thinks, I don’t have anything to be crying about. Nothing at all. Have I really ... not changed ?

IN HER PRESENCE HE CAN’T HELP BUT BE JUVENILE. IT’S ALWAYS HER, HER AND THE I HATE YOU THAT SITS PETULANT ON THE TONGUE / A BOY’S ANGRY OUTCRY FOR ATTENTION: LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME AND SEE ME FOR WHAT I REALLY AM-

He’s so tired of all his ill-made plans / the pretense that comes with acting indifferent when there are so many schemes at play, so many factors to consider, so much unknown and aching. It feels like his insides have been hollowed-out, scraped raw - then discarded like a proper corpse’s wasted meat. All the running around he’s been doing, organizing meetings in the dark, putting evil into motion - his legs hurt / cuts all up to his ankles / and so he threatens to buckle under the slightest breeze, one wrong word wrong time wrong place wrongwrongwrong- He feels so sick, all the time, now, and it’s a pang of hunger he’s never been able to ease despite how often he gorges himself on promises of making things better. It’s either too much or too little / as though he’s compensating for the void that’s been opening up inside him for years now / substituting his own minute cruelties for precious seconds of ( WAIT, WE HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD, WE CAN STILL TALK THIS THROUGH-! ). His own existence is a bone that’s been picked clean / he has nothing left to yield - everything is already in motion and despite how selfish the stupid thought makes him, he wants it to- ( stop !! dad, what are you doing ?! you’re scaring me !! stop it, please !! stop !! )

                                                     - But. He’ll keep going. Has to.

He moves before he’s even consciously aware of it: and that is the pace of his life, recently / always lagging behind, everyone five steps ahead, talking at him but not to him. Soon enough he’s in front of her, fists clenched and mouth curled into a half-snarl half-smile, looking more confident than he feels ( that feeling being nothing ). He looks at her / the concerned, wide-eyed expression of surprise that flits over her features, and all he can conclude of her is a patronizing attitude - Does she really think him that weak, that stupid ? Does she not know that he knows he’s completely falling apart, stitch-by-stitch and seam by unraveled seam ? It’s so obvious. He’s little more than bones and skin at this point, hanging loosely off the idea of the person he used to be but has since outgrown / a pitiful mockery of the unsung hero. All is made even worse by the fact she’s here - because of course she is. Of course she would be the one to watch him collapse / she never leaves, never left. Why is it always her ? He can’t pretend with her / can’t force out the cruel words he needs to to make her go away and LEAVE ME ALONE. ( They’re right. He’s weak. Nothing has changed. He’s still the same worthless brat he’s always been. )

They face off for another few tense seconds before Eren feels it flood out of his system, whistling through the cracks in his façade, allowing stilted glances into the dark hole opening up inside his soul. He’s so ... tired. He doesn’t want to do this, to churn conflict he has no right to even bring up in the first place / not here and not now, so randomly - at least, random to her. So, he sits. He sits beside her, with his head to her shoulder - then down, until it lays on her thighs. It’s cowardly, and stupid, and childish ( “why are you crying? / promise me you won’t tell anyone! ) - but he can’t think of anything else to do. He nevertheless curls up, arms wrapped around his middle, the epitome of exhausted. He feels her legs flex under his cheek / the well-worn fabric of the scarf pillowing him against the rough texture of her pants. Slowly, he turns into her stomach, pressing his nose to the outline of her hip-bone, as though this sudden display of overt intimacy can be explained away as a lax in his guard, something playful instead of serious. Her breath shudders through her with a soft ‘oh’ and Eren squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to open them / refusing to accept any substitutes - I’m tired. I’ll close my eyes. I’ll sleep for awhile. Just ... for a few minutes.

                   A soft grunt is his only comment. “... Wake me up when we get back.”

non-verbal meme.