Attack On Titan: Dreams

It is as though it happens in slow motion the frantic sway of his limbs, the rise and fall of his boots slamming into the dewy grass, his mouth opening wide, lungs heaving to scream her name over and over again.

He pushes to call it louder and louder each time, because he cannot even hear himself under the thunderous thrum of his heart in his ears.

He slams the door shut behind him, a swirl of stars peppering his vision at the rush of blood to his head.

Red. Red red red red, her shirt is so red, redder than the scarf wrapped around her neck, and he is still screaming her name in her face as he falls to his knees, and thank GOD if there even is one, because it has reached her, and she is prying her weak, heavy-lidded charcoal blues open to look up at him, eyes brimming with tears, blood leaking out of the side of her mouth, red red red, so red.

And then he hears his own name leaving her cracked lips in a pathetic croak, and in syllables that are far too spaced out.

It is the only thing he hears with any clarity above the pounding in his ears.

He ignores his dizziness and drowsiness and sets his jaw as he walks in long strides through the empty hallway.

Without a second thought, he pulls her upright with one arm, sliding his other arm beneath her legs, immediately rising back onto his feet and beginning to run as fast as his feet could carry him.

He feels her hand fist weakly in his shirt as she lifts her head slightly to look at him, eyes shining with tears.

"Just..." the word carries on a breath, voice a weak rasp, "...leave me "

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he growls down at her through the hot tears streaming down his face tears that he had no clue were even there until he begun to taste them on his tongue, and feel them dribble down his chin.

She, too, looks as though she is about to burst into tears not for his rudeness, he knows, but rather for their shared, unspoken fear or, his fear, he can't help but grimly think when he looks down at her and her head is lying limp, her eyes closed.

Involuntarily, he lets out an anguished sound that is all at once a wail and a growl and a scream, as he summons the strength to run faster.

His strides grow faster and faster, fists clenching tightly at his sides.

Then, she is lying at his knees unconscious, and he is hunched over her, popping each button of her dirty, bloodstained blouse open with shaking hands that begin to stain red because there is blood everywhere, everywhere, everywhere all across her torso, on his hands, under his fingernails, on his shirt, red, so, so red, and though he is scowling and trying to be useful.

He can see his tears dropping onto her bare skin and mingling with the blood there, because he is crying harder than he has in a very, very long time, and maybe he is instead being useless, because Hanji is suddenly pushing him out of the way and beginning to bark commands that, too, are muffled under the sound of his heart in his ears.

On autopilot, he hears just well enough to obey.

And then he is running to her, his shadow flitting across the stone floors, long and narrow against the orange glow flooding in through the windows.

He is no longer crying, his fingers tightly clutching at the scarf in his lap when he watches the needle pierce her skin, thread tugging it back together, stitches pulled taut as the wound continues to gush red.

And eventually it is over, and with trembling hands, he is left gently pushing Hanje out of the way to mop at the blood on Mikasa's skin, and to wind bandages around her waist gingerly, left shuddering when he watches blood blossom on the pure white of the newly placed gauze all the while barely hearing Hanji blather on about a potential coma, about excessive blood loss, and other things he did not hear because he chose not to.

Her voice is such ambient noise that he only realizes that she has left the room when Armin places a hand on his shoulder, a clean shirt in his other hand, azure eyes both grim and pitying.

His own frown deepens as he nods at the blond, before gingerly lifting her upper body just enough for Armin to pull her limp arm through one clean shirt sleeve and then the other.

His eyes begin to sting, and he bites back the hoarse feeling in his throat and he is so, so tired, but more than he is tired he is desperate.

When Armin is gone, he is left staring at her immobile form.

'Wake up, wake up, wake up,' he commands her with the intensity of his gaze as he slides over next to her, bending over her to study her unconscious face.

Save for the sound of her ragged breathing, the hour passes in silence.

He is shaking when he rounds the corner into her hallway

He slides his hand under her upper back, lifting her just slightly, his other hand tossing the scarf over her neck, then winding it loosely around twice over, before setting her back down gently.

He looks down at his sloppy handiwork, feeling foolish for dressing her unconscious form.

He lifts a hand to adjust the scarf, anyway.

When her eyes flutter open into his, the exquisite relief that pulses through him is indescribable.

His fist trembling from how tightly it is clenched when he pounds his knuckle hard against the wooden door, each hit pronounced and painful against his skin and bones, the tempo rapid to match his heartbeat, rhythm scattered and messy to match his current state.

Then, there is a quiet, "Hi."

Then, a gentle, "Hi," in return.