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You stare out the stable door toward your horse. The sky is far too dim anymore for you to make out precisely what she's doing, but her head is bent low, shaking off the occasional fly, and you'd like to think she's sniffing through the grass and rooting out only the best blades to chew on, as she always does.
You relate to her far better than you'd care to admit.
You'd ordered your squad to muck out the stables and scampered off as fast as you were able, convincing yourself it was purely because your bladder was full to bursting, but once it was empty and everything involved scrubbed thoroughly, you'd had no distraction anymore from the realization that had dawned on you in the field:
You're going to lose him.
You'd known in some hidden corner of your mind that he's too young for you not simply in numbers, but in experience, in the way he communicates to and connects with others and in the way he views the world and its possibilities. He doesn't have the time for a cynical, angry old man like you, not in his head nor in his heart. He's got people connected to him much deeper and more soundly than you are.
The knowledge that they'd be joining you today, that he'd left you to go see them yesterday, had brought that sentiment out of its hidden corner to the forefront.
You'd tried to face it, but your lifetime honing the skill to conserve what's yours has left you too selfish to let him go.
You'd challenged him in an attempt to physically ram the idea into his head — that he really needs to let you go, but you paradoxically won't let him view you as less important or trustworthy than his friends — but you'd ended in flirtatious touching, and you're pretty sure all you managed to do is bewilder the fuck out of him.
Your horse shakes her mane, and you let out a heavy sigh.
The fight had been therapeutic for you, though, because you'd unleashed the pent-up frustration that he might drift away from you. He's passionate about you, he was terrified to face you, and though you recognized him switching off and developing a counter-tactic, you know it was a matter of self-preservation, not a matter of apathy. After all, you'd had to do the exact same thing every time you moved to hit him, both today and in the past. If you attempt to internalize what you're doing when you're attacking someone you love, it'll fuck you up.
After that, you were pretty sure he'd cling to you and that you'd be okay. Last night, you'd given yourself permission to stop fighting your desires for him, to advance on him and reciprocate his feelings. You're not sure if the imminent arrival of the 104th had anything to do with it, but you don't think it did; you might have been petty and selfish in writing that note to retain his attention during the induction, but by the time he'd arrived back to your room in Hanji's sweater vest, you'd forgotten all about your jealousy.
You'd been feeling pretty good about him, even starting to gain some confidence that your relationship wouldn't be a distraction to either of you.
Then you'd come back to find all the new horses stabled, and you'd known right then and there without a doubt that Eren would run to them.
You'd returned outside from your bathroom break to find them clustered around him, the scarf girl and blond boy from the tribunal taking his sides and holding his arms, a boy with a shaved head giving a jovial slap to his shoulder, a tiny blonde girl vibrating where she stood just looking at him with a grin that could split her jaw off.
You'd walked past, and no one had sent so much as a breath your way, not even Eren, too engrossed in another boy who had approached from behind.
You'd stood in the door, leaning against the frame and waiting for him to notice you.
He never did. He'd let that boy grab him by the shoulders instead, and he'd hugged him. A boy built like a tank and with such pale features you'd swear he was translucent had ruffled Eren's hair, and at that point, you'd called it fucking quits. Enough is enough.
You'd dragged the stool into your stall and lit the torch to find your horse already turned out, a note from Petra tacked to the stall door. You hadn't read it. You know what she wants from you, and you can't give it. You never could. She tells Auruo to stop imitating you because his image of you is incorrect, and she's right about that, but you don't believe for a second that hers is any better. She's not in love with you; she's in love with the idea of you, too beguiled by your perceived perfection to offer any real counsel or mediation, too enchanted with your perceived superiority to even think she could be interesting in her own right around you. She's just like the small children you see lining the windows as you depart and return on every expedition — too enthralled to see the real thing for what it is, too busy idolizing you to notice who you really are. She fawns over you and dotes upon you, but not at all for the same reasons Eren does.
But you're going to lose him, if you haven't already.
You crumple the note in your fist and drop it to the stable floor.
You'd viewed him as a broken bird, an orphaned youngling with so much power to discover and so much rage to channel, a little boy misplaced and alone in the world.
You'd viewed him as you.
But he's not you. He's found a place to belong, people to love who love him back, and he'd latched onto you so firmly because you were all he had. Once he adjusts to the change in human presence here, he won't need you anymore.
Your arms cross over your chest so tightly the buckle of the harness digs into your skin.
You don't want to lose him. You really, really don't fucking want to lose him. Of all the people you've ever let into your life and into your heart, Eren is the only one you feel knows you for who you really are. There have been some — Erwin, Farlan, Isabel, hell even Hanji — who have known quite a bit of you, but no one who has seen past the glamor to what lies beneath. You feel like everyone else has been focusing on tiny brush stroke details of the painting that is your being, or so focused on its symbolism they forget to look at the surface, and only Eren sees the full picture.
Much as you push people away and deny them access to your mind, you've been desperately craving someone who could break through all your defenses anyway, and do it so softly and kindly as to not make you resentful about it.
Fuck, you're in love with him, and you can't lose him. Not to them, not like this.
Running boots sound on the barn floor, muted in the dirt, and skid to a stop just outside your door. You don't bother looking; it's probably Moblit terrified out of his skull that there's an unchecked fire Hanji's lit as an experiment or something, and once he sees it's just your torch, he'll be gone.
"Captain?"
Your heart skips. The voice doesn't belong to Moblit.
It belongs to Eren.
Your gaze whips up from the door to find him peeking into your stall, as if afraid you'll try to hit him again, and you remember that despite your jovial return ride, you still attempted to beat the living shit out of him a few hours ago. Now that his friends are back, the disparity has been thrown into sharp focus; you're not his friend, and you never were. You're merely an aggressive superior officer.
You're not his companion anymore. You're just the captain.
You stand, dust your hands, and move toward the torch. As you reach for it, his hand extends toward yours, but he snaps it back to his side, mumbling something about washing up. His excuse sounds remorseful and half-dead and completely transparent.
God, he can't even touch you anymore.
You have no idea what he's doing back here rather than following his friends, but you're not inclined to sort through the emotional breakdown of losing him while in his presence. "I'm not really feeling up to a group dinner tonight, Eren. Forgive me."
"Oh," he murmurs. "Of course, sir..."
His voice sounds almost strained now, and as you remove the torch from its mount, you sneak a glance at him. His complexion is blotchy, eyelids swollen, and his cheeks are stained with barn dust that clings to damp tracks over his skin, gleaming in the firelight. This is not at all the expression you would have expected to see from someone freshly reunited with his friends and hugging them.
"Have you been crying?"
It's a terrible question, and you know it because you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it, and his face twitches in response. "Just, um... just found out one of my best friends died in Trost." His lower lip trembles, his eyes sparkling with tears welling fresh, and his whole form quakes. "You were right, Captain, you're completely right, it's a fucking war and people are dying and I don't have room to love people or get attached—"
Oh. His words hit you like an arrow in the chest, and no, no that's not what you'd meant at all. You'd only meant what you'd said in the dungeon the other day, that nothing is certain, not even alliances, and in the end you can't trust anyone but yourself, but you hadn't said anything about love. "That's not what I said, Eren," you murmur, moving the cuff of your sleeve to blot his tears as best you can. The bottomweight cloth of your shirt isn't very absorbent, and he blots the rest with his own sleeve.
Suddenly, the hugging and the arm-touching and the hair-ruffling make sense.
As gestures of reuniting, they're one thing, but as gestures of shared bereavement and mourning, they're something else entirely — something that doesn't mean he's forgotten or misplaced his affection for you. And then, rather than following them, he'd come looking for you. Above them all, he's still chosen you, still put you first, and even in the peak of his grief, you're the one he wants to see.
Slowly, a weight begins to lift inside you. You're not stupid enough to let your hopes up entirely, but... perhaps you're not going to lose him.
And if you're not, you'd like to hang onto him as tightly as possible tonight, and show it as much as he'll let you.
You take his hand in yours, and even through the tears, it lights up his whole face. The weight in your chest lifts another increment.
"We've still got some leftovers in the cooker upstairs," you tell him softly, "and I have some granola too. I don't think you finished your sandwich, either."
He smiles, clearing his cheeks one more time, and squeezes your fingers in his. "Sounds like dinner to me."
You stop at the mess hall to grab his sandwich from the supply basket as Petra unloads it, and depart without a word or a glance toward anyone, leading him up to your quarters alone.