The Empire of Titans

An Angel and A Devil

"...Historia?"

"Eren!" She gleefully holds up a basket of apples as if that explains everything. Bewildered eyes blink back at her.

"What are you doing out here?"

She kind of wants to smack him, too, for reacting this way. "Did something happen?" His eyes get marginally wider. "Or did you get hurt? Did someone-"

"Eren, no!" Heat climbs up her neck. "I'm just dropping by. You know."

If she doesn't feel out of place already, seeing Eren out of his uniform and in his usual shirt is driving it home, she absolutely shouldn't be loitering around here. She feels severely overdressed in her military uniform.

The surprise slowly melts off Eren's features, although traces of that trademark indignant concern remain in the furrow of his brows. The door opens wider with a creak.

As she steps into the comfort of her friend's home, she realizes she's never really been here before. Nearly only a dozen people are allowed to know about the dwellings of the Founding Titan's holder, and she—being his friend—is one of them. She's never had a chance to visit.

She had seen Eren for three years in the Training Corps and many times whenever they were in meetings but never in his house.

Despite that, familiarity with the softwood scent permeates the space. The inside is neat and airy, if a little bare. Eren stands awkwardly at the side, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

He has grown into his features well, she supposes. The ever-present grin that used to grace his lips has transformed into something neutral, at times melancholic. This Eren doesn't quite emanate the same surefire cockiness that he used to. Maybe she likes him like this, too, when his chin is dipped, and he's looking up at her through his lashes, shy and unsure.

She banishes that thought. Immediately.

He'd become much taller in the last year, more muscular, more built. She, however, has retained her cursed stature. More often than not, she finds herself craning her neck to be able to look him in the eyes.

"You have a nice house," she offers. Graceful as ever.

"It's nothing special," he says. "I'm not even here a lot. It's more of a rest stop than anything."

Historia's lungs bubble with laughter. It comes out as a giggle, soft staccato bursts, and it is giddy. Tension deflates from her shoulders, and she feels lightheadedness—the kind that pours hot liquid courage in your gut and makes you believe you can do just about anything.

So she gets up all in his face, looking to the world like a novice ballerina on her tallest tiptoes, and flashes a mischievous grin. "Aren't you just embarrassed that the Captain has so obviously influenced your lifestyle choices?"

Eren doesn't immediately respond. He blinks at her, and she can almost count his lashes from her position. Their noses would touch if she leaned in just a little more. The liquid courage simmers in her gut.

He inhales sharply, but her breathing is slower. Mouth tingling with something she cannot name, anticipation at the tip of her fingers. She feels warm everywhere.

If her eyes dare venture lower, she will recognize the ruby of his li-

Eren is the first to break the gaze, and the weird spell vanishes almost instantly.

"I hear the Captain's voice even when he's not around now," he jokes, though noticeably quieter. "He yells at me to scrape the floor and wipe the windows and threatens to strangle me in my sleep if there's so much as a speck of dust on them. I think I was traumatized."