A/N: Listen to the fanfic playlist (which can be found in my tumblr natiwati) for a super mega ride of feels.

.: Seven Days :.

.: An EreMika One-Shot :.

Bright red flowers eat away at metal, their sizzling petals hissing on the melted skin of a bullet train's carcass. Smoke rises from the ash, whispering the final words of faded bodies. A single book lays among the black rubble, burning alive. It breathes a woman's final message, her handwriting scribbled on a dwindling page, the words ignited.

I do not know him, and yet I love him.

We've never spoken, and yet I'm lost in the sound of his voice.

We've never touched, and yet his skin is my sanctuary.

We've never kissed, and yet his lips are my favorite place to be.

I've never met the sun, but I have felt its heat, much in the way that somehow, without knowing him, I love.

Day One

She's late.

Frantic hands reach for the blue rain jacket on the coat rack and sockless feet ram hurriedly into a pair of pale gray rain boots before eyes of the same color latch onto a flushed, rosy-cheeked reflection in the mirror. A girl in her mid twenties stands panting in the glass. Pouting, she spares a few quick swipes of her nails through her hair, brushing down some stray ends that poke out with electricity. It's a lost cause; she looks like shit. She sighs, gives up.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she'll look good. Yeah.

The front door flies open. Rain comes pounding down from above. Her boots bombard the ground with scurried, squelching splashes. Once she reaches the train station, with her pulse screaming in her throat, she nearly slips down the steps but recovers just a moment's breath away from absolute disaster.

Seven minutes. Seven. That's all she has.

Her heart hammers.

Seven.

"Excuse me!" she squeaks, squeezing through a crowd of grumpy early-morning commuters. "'Scuse me! Coming through!"

Finally, the train. She sees it.

She runs.

Her heart gasps.

The ground is slippery, so she slides into the cabin, the doors hissing shut just a second after she makes it in.

Her chest heaves with a sigh of relief, deflating.

Silence fills her ears now, the low hum of the train engine rumbling what sounds like miles and miles away. Bodies fill every seat within arm's reach, so she has to walk around in search of somewhere to sit. A few empty spots appear, but she refuses them, for they are not exactly what she wants. Oh, yeah, and that's another thing. Her wild, damp hair and poor fashion sense would show you otherwise, but she is a guilty, meticulous perfectionist. And this is—partly—why she persists in finding the perfect seat, nothing less.

Then she finds him.

Five feet away, he sits against the window, work shoes wet with asphalt rocks. He ran too. His hair is wet and stringy, his green eyes cast to the side.

Her spirit hiccups, breath crawling high up in her lungs.

Sit.

Her butt settles on the uncomfortable seat just a stone throw's away from his, her gaze still glued to the man. She watches him yawn against the window, the glass reflecting the stretching muscles of his face, making him seem like a moving painting. He blinks away some sleepy tears, rubs at his eyelids.

She sighs, melting against her seat, her pupils flooding.

In the silence, she's sure he can hear her heart.

Bam, bam, bam, it knocks in her chest, threatening to burst free. Hush, she whispers to it. Relax you little turd. There's no need to get this excited.

Carefully, she plucks a book out of her purse, crosses her legs, and begins to read. Her eyes prowl over the words, absorbing nothing, brain teeming with the conscious realization of his presence. He is so close. They breathe the same air, take the same train, live under the same sky. He's just a boy, she tells herself, a human equal. And yet—sheepish, afraid, nervous, embarrassed—she cannot bring herself to look back up to see him stare.

Day Two

He hates trains.

They're dirty, crowded, horribly depressing things. Everything is gray—even the people. If only he could fly to work, he'd surely do it. But every morning, he's stuck here. Stuck in this moving shit bullet shooting through the city to where he's forced to go.

He wonders when it was that life became so bland. Was it after college? Was it when he, the acclaimed track star, hurt his knee? Or was it all after moving here? This city sure is sad. But all cities are sad. Or maybe—you know what? It's him, it's definitely him. His eyes color everything they see with adult sadness.

And he'd thought the angst ended after teenhood.

Oh, how he'd been wrong.

Suddenly, he loses his train of thought. Like a butterfly, a girl of medium height and dark, black hair sits right across from him, landing gently on invisible wings that flutter around her like a palpitating aura. She moves so light, so faint, even the way she holds her book is fragile. But something about her speaks of unconditional strength, especially the scar below her right eye, a thin line drawn just across her cheekbone.

He has seen her before, for she takes this same train every morning. But each time his eyes land on her it's as if it were for the very first time. He always notices something different, something new. Today, she's only halfway through her book, and she seemed to have been a third of a way yesterday. Her boots (gray, like the rest of the world) stand out from the row of black dress shoes that line the cabin floor. Her legs are bare, one crossed over the other, the red nail polish on her nails all worn and chipped, flipping through the pages every two minutes or so. Her eyelashes bat slowly, sleepily, like blinking old stars far too tired to burn radiantly at this time of day. Still, still, she is beautiful, colorful, a splash of sound in the monotone drill of everyday life. She stands out without trying, accidentally a nuance more radiant than the rest of the world. She walks, moves, breathes absolute beauty.

He has never heard her voice, but he imagines it must be very beautiful.

Watching her, he forgets why he hates trains.

What about them being gray, again?

Day Three

It doesn't rain that day, so she wears heeled peep-toes instead of her usual rain boots. In the train, two seats closer to him this time, she wonders if he has any idea that she's wearing her best skirt just for him. And why would she do such as thing? Is she that desperate? She'd never spoken to him a day in her life and already she's dressing up according to what she thinks he would admire, shyly hoping he will notice her meek presence. Slag! She hates those type of girls, and now look at her being one of them.

But god, the feeling of his eyes on her is such a good one.

Today, she looks up.

And he's staring.

And she's staring back.

And he swallows, throat bobbing up then down.

Slowly, her eyes fall shut, eyelashes dusting the smiling apples of her cheeks. And she tries to read her book but the little flutters in her belly tear at her gut, tug at the corners of her lips and inundate her vision. In time, just in time, she looks back up at him to see… that he… he actually…

He smiles back.

Day Four

"So, tell me, do you usually wear skirts in the fall? Don't you, like, get cold and shit? If I were a girl… Bagh. This is terrible." He should give up. "No, okay. Start over." No, just give up. "Shut up! I got this. I got—" No. No, he doesn't.

He groans.

Face in his hands, he mumbles that it's pointless. She'll never notice him. Just yesterday, he caught her looking at him for the very first time. She'd smiled, yeah, but that's what you're supposed to do when you catch creepy guys gawking at you, right?

Wrong.

"Shit," he sighs, throwing his head back. How is it that he likes her without even knowing her? How is it that he feels that he does, though? He does! He knows her, somehow, better than he knows himself.

He knows that she likes books.

He knows that black pencil skirts look great on her.

He knows that there is nothing more magical than the slight bob of her head when she has headphones on, when Fleetwood Mac hums quietly out of her ears and her eyes stroll over the words of her book, devouring, famished, and so gorgeous dear God.

It's a lost cause; he's an idiot. And idiot who friggin likes someone that will never like him back.

And he'd thought that crushing on pretty girls ended with teenhood. Oh, how he'd been wrong.

Day Five

I do not know him, and yet I love him.

We've never spoken, and yet I'm lost in the sound of his voice.

We've never touched, and yet his skin is my sanctuary.

We've never kissed, and yet his lips are my favorite place to be.

I've never met the sun, but I have felt its heat, much in the way that somehow, without knowing him, I love.

Day Six

That day, she applies a dab of makeup.

As an amateur, she cannot understand how concealer works, so she skips that step and goes right on to her eyeshadow, picking a soft peach color that complements the rosy blush of her cheeks. Two coats of mascara later, and her eyelashes look like spider legs ready to snatch a man alive. The thought makes her giggle, for that is sort of the intention she has. Today, she means to wow him.

She's fully aware that he may not even see her efforts in the slightest.

She's fully aware, however, that she doesn't care.

Terribly ecstatic, she makes her way through the cabin, and it's teeming with people—more so than usual.

Many stand.

Many sit wide-legged, taking up too much space.

And can you believe that the only seat available is the one right beside him?

She seizes it, careful to pace slowly so that he looks up as she's walking by. And he does. And his eyes stay on her. And hers stay on him. And when she looks away, she realizes she hadn't been breathing.

She settles on the seat, eyes trained on her feet. She thinks, hopes, that he will turn to her and make some form of conversation. But he does not. Yet, that is okay. That is more than okay. Just having him near is enough to make her soul flutter.

She doesn't read her book that day.

She studies him.

When he's not looking, she counts the pores of his skin, his eyelashes, the two scars near the cleft of his chin, the hairs of his eyebrows, the ones that poke wildly out of his head. He's enchanting, the way that poetry is a reflection of the soul. As a woman, she is fully aware of how mysterious she is, how no thought in her mind is ever fully reflected. Often times growing up, she'd been called emotionless, cold (even though she's truly far from) which are adjectives that do not suit a young woman, as her grandma would comment. But he… he's so transparent. She can tell he's sleepy, perhaps even a little bit nervous, although she does not know why. His leg bobs up and down anxiously, and she wonders if he feels the same as she, for she is lightheaded and dizzy from just sitting by his side. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and feels her own hand tremble. She finds herself worrying over silly things, like that her stomach might make a noise or that she'll feel the sudden urge to sneeze, just anything that might potentially ruin the moment. He doesn't say anything, but his silence is loud. All of him is loud, even his clothes! When her eyes move up and catch his, when he scoffs to himself and shakes his head and she smiles, her lips awaken to say hello.

Eyes the color of the sea melt into hers.

"Hey," he breathes, then comments on the weather. They agree that it is foul, then say no more.

The train stops at her destination.

She stands to leave.

"Goodbye," she tells him meekly, then turns away.

"Wait," he blurts out suddenly. "Tomorrow, meet me here. I have something for you."

She finds it a bit odd, but nods anyway.

"Alright."

As she leaves him, she can feel his eyes at her back, her spirit buzzing quietly. And he does not see how she thaws slowly, tense muscles unwinding one by one, releasing the air she'd held tight within her. He's far behind her, burning fiercely, eclipsing her body and filling the cracks of her skin with his fiery gaze. And she wonders, as she walks, if this is how the sun feels when it shadows the moon, if merely standing behind the other were a grand dance that involved the entire sky. Even the cosmos celebrate with her, for something simple like talking to him feels as magical as waltzing with the stars.

Day Seven

Seven has always been his lucky number.

In his life, he's had seven girlfriends, gone to seven schools, owned seven cars. Everything big that has happened in his life adds up to the number seven. And so, counting seven breaths, seven steps, seven days since the week began, he knows in his heart that today is going to be a very special day: it's going to be the day.

He sees her when she enters the cabin, wearing a little more makeup than yesterday and sporting a black pencil skirt. She'd still be pretty without these added efforts, but the fact that conscientious time was spent adding on these mild adornments makes her seem more beautiful in his eyes.

She's lost.

For some moments, she looks around and cannot find him. Her gut toils with panic. What if he's not there? What if he forgot that they were supposed to meet here? What if… Oh, God.

What if she merely imagined him saying what he did?

She goes to sit, gloomy, capitulating to her own doubts. However, before she can find a seat, there is a tap on her shoulder.

It's him.

Ah, of course. One cannot search for love; it must find you.

"Hello," the words soar free from her lips, palpitating. His eyes, galaxies of green and blue, smile at her.

"Hi."

They stand in the middle of the corridor surrounded by breathing, living bodies. And yet… it's just the two of them. The people fade like breathless whispers, wisps of memory at the backs of their minds.

"What did you have to give me?" she asks, peering at him through messy bangs.

"This." Slowly, his hand jolts to life and creeps its way towards hers. He holds it, threads their fingers together, sucks in a sharp breath to speak.

She's dizzy.

The world, swooshing by outside, blurs.

"But first… I have to know." He flicks his gaze over her features, stopping at her lips. "What's your name?"

She looks down at their hands, joined together. "My name is Mikasa."

"Mikasa," he echoes, engraving the taste of her name on his tongue. "Mikasa."

"And yours?"

"Eren," he grins, a dimple on his left cheek flashing. "I'm Eren."

She breathes a small laugh, coiling her fingers in his.

Words are absent.

And then: "Listen, this might sound weird but… I feel like I know you."

She scoffs, shaking her head. "You don't."

"But I could."

"You could."

"I don't know you, and yet I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"So I'm not crazy?"

"Well, maybe a little."

"Can I do something absolutely nuts, then?"

"Like what?"

"Can I…" he wets his lips, hesitating. "Can I kiss you?"

Her smile is big. "Can I say something even crazier?"

"Please."

"Yes."

The train runs into a tunnel, dimming the lights. They flicker, pulsing in sync with every beat of their hearts. The tip of her nose grazes his, and when he tilts his head slightly, stopping just a centimeter away from her mouth, his eyes question once more if it's okay.

Yes, whispers her soul. Yes.

Then the lights go out.

She hears her name in the darkness.

"Mikasa."

"Eren."

And when they kiss, two marionettes hanging by thin threads, every past, future, and present culminates to the precise millisecond his lips find hers. They float within a perpetual bubble, covered from the fire that bursts through the glass and engulfs their bodies, denuding twin skeletons in an explosion that makes them one. They coalesce, swirling ashes in their final dance swaying to the remnant tune of their voices, the echo of their spirits, the dreams and hopes that came to be. For she gives him the very last blow of her heart; three feeble, human words carried in its final breath:

I love you.

—fin—

A/N: In honor of the 3/11/04 train bombings in Madrid, Spain, which resulted in 192 deaths, and inspired the La Oreja De Van Gogh song, 11 de Marzo, which heavily influenced this fic.