That is the tale told in the pubs. In the dark corners where drunkards tell their tall tales, the whispers are never ending as the story is twisted and warped only to be passed to another tavern in another village. In their endless trek to find His Highness and bring him home they have heard many stories from men that smell too strongly of brew to be trusted.
In one village they say the prince was like a siren, charming them of their wares before vanishing into the night.
In another they say the beast that took him hovered like a demon, possessing their heir in his claws with no intent on letting go.
In one remote village they say they don’t remember seeing the prince at all, only tired strangers who stopped to eat and bathe in the clear springs before moving on.
And on and on it goes. Something new every day. One villager swears the prince isn’t a human anymore, that he is more beast than animal. Of that the knights believe could be true. When they pulled Prince Michael from the ruins in the mountains he was a screaming mess. When he wasn’t making noises of distress he was completely mute. He lacked an understanding of who he was, what his role meant.
The boy was completely wild, raised by a beast that left him unable to understand they were trying to save him.
It must have been so easy for this monster to take him away again. Swaying him from his bedroom in the palace to be taken to whatever hole it crawled out of. The poor prince, who doesn’t know any better…
Even if he is wild, they will bring him home. Of that the knights are sure.
some time ago I made an au based on the epic romance of @southspinner‘s Michael Bodt and Eren, in which Michael is the ‘princess in the castle’ who is rescued from the wild and the beasts that kept him captive.
Imagine the night after swearing himself to the prince, Eren sneaks into Michael’s room and they escape after stealing back the few things Michael really cares about. He takes back the armor of scales he built in the mountains and they rob the knights armory before taking off into the night.
Imagine the both of them hiding in the deep forest as the king sounds an alarm that the poor prince has been kidnapped again. Imagine Eren taking Michael to the people who helped him while they were separated and Michael not really trusting them, but he doesn’t say anything because he’s so glad his dragon came back he’d follow him anywhere.
Imagine the kingdom being told the poor, traumatized prince has been taken again as he slips right through their fingers under traveling cloaks, hand in hand with his ‘captor’. The stories tell of a mute man who suffered at the hands of a beast, so the smooth talking liar isn’t glanced at twice.
Imagine Mick and Eren looking up at the stars, sad because they can’t return to their mountain but happy that they’re together again.
Imagine the two of them being chased from village to village, constantly dodging the law as the villain who stole the crown prince is demanded for punishment. Imagine Eren having to wear disguises as exaggerated pictures of his face are put on posters. Michael laughs at them sometimes, and Eren feels so much better when he does because he’s missed his smile.
Imagine Eren breathing out campfires for the two of them to warm up next to, a glimmer of scales dancing across his skin as Mick holds him close and listens to his heartbeat. Every brush with the knights leaves him scared of watching his dragon fall again.
Imagine Michael putting his golden tongue to good use and scamming villagers out of money, slowly collecting a good emergency fund and buying the things they need to live on the run. Imagine Michael buying Eren a cloak as green as his eyes.
Imagine Eren being hopeless concerning human behavior at times, and Michael (while more knowledgeable from his time with his ‘family’, doesn’t actually know a lot about the common folk) has to help him figure in the gaps. Michael doesn’t like the humans much, he doesn’t think he ever will, but Eren finds them fascinating. Michael doesn’t understand why. He feels nothing but anger towards them for their sins against them both.
Imagine Eren seeing humans in love and trying to do what they do with Michael, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before telling him his feelings in the language they both speak more than the common tongue. You are a flame within my heart. The highest form of love a dragon can give.
Imagine the knights actually closing in and one manages to injure Eren, finally rallies the call that he caught the fiend who stole the prince-only for Michael to stick his sword in as far as it will go, roaring with fury. He screams at the knights that he is not their prince and never will be, and he’d rather die than return to the prison that is the castle. His roar is his own fire as he slays as many men as he possibly can before taking Eren and running.
Imagine the news spreading that the prince has fallen, Michael smirking to himself as he and Eren continue their crime spree in the form of robbing nobles passing through the forest. Michael gives Eren all of the shiny jewelry before pocketing the money.
Imagine the feral prince who rejects his title, and the fearless former dragon who guards him with his life as they slowly make their way towards the coastline where they’ll scour the mountains for a new home.
...and also, imagine the feral prince’s younger brother, watching this news unfold with his wannabe-knight boyfriend and deciding to come find them before the law does.
After much procrastination (and hard work on my erejeanmarco fic Bootleggers) I finally finished up the first part to this idea I had from micheren week. Originally it was going to be the ‘winter’ prompt but...it kind of got away from me a bit.
Pairing: Michael Bodt/Eren Jaeger
Words: 2003
Michael Bodt belongs to southspinner and All The Stars In Texas, all character credit goes to them.
Fire of the Soul: Part 1
He dreams of warm scales and the smell of smoke. A heartbeat and deep rumbling beneath his hands, sheer comfort from the knowledge that as long as he’s there, nothing can harm either of them.
He dreams of the world he’s lost, of a castle half crumbled but filled with the warmth of family, of armor made from scales and a lifetime of chasing his brother through the stones under the watchful eyes of their mother. Their Heart Mother, she called herself, but to them she was simply Mother. He dreams of Mother leaving, of his brother following her to the south to seek what the mountains couldn’t offer, but not feeling alone because he still had someone watching him and keeping his home safe. He dreams of beautiful blue green colors and slanted eyes.
He wakes to a human maid pulling his curtains back and showing him an icy world left barren with snow. She rattles off his agenda for the day, the same as it was yesterday and the day before and the day before. Breakfast with the not-mother. Lessons on what he missed while he was gone. Another attempt at being bred to feel content with the dull life he’s being forced into.
His dreams dissolve into nothingness as it all comes back to him. The world of scales and adventure and freedom is nothing more than a fleeting thought. He remembers that world doesn’t belong to him anymore. He belongs to the circus of humans now. He remembers the celebrations for the long lost royalty. He remembers a long trip on a rickety wagon covered in scratchy blankets. He remembers men babbling stories of a woman they claim is his mother and the adventures of a man they call his father. He remembers his own screams as he was dragged out of his home and the men in armor made sure his protectors blood stained the stone floor.
His dragon is dead, and he is a prince once more.
People like to talk as if he can’t hear or understand them. He doesn’t understand them, just not the way they think. He doesn’t understand why they wear clothes that aren’t meant to get dirty. He doesn’t understand why the women are talked over. He doesn’t understand why, when he showed an interest in the face paint the women of the court wear, he was steered away with harsh words. He doesn’t understand why everyone is always so cross with each other. He doesn’t understand why lies are the common tongue. He doesn’t understand why he has to have all the dirt scrubbed from his skin, even if it’s a microbial spot on his hand from touching a flower.
He doesn’t understand their ways at all.
But he understands their words. He isn’t stupid.
“Prince Michael, kidnapped by a beast when he was just a boy. He doesn’t seem to remember his own family. What a shame.”
“I hate to think of what that monster did to him.”
“He hasn’t spoken to anyone since they brought him back. Must be shock.”
“They still haven’t found his brother. Must have died in the mountains. His poor parents…”
He wants to roar at them in fury. Poor no one. The people he is told to call Mother and Father are not his family. The one called Father looks at him with wariness and the urge to change; to morph him into a smaller version of himself so that he may inherit a court of fools and repeat the cycle. The one called Mother only frets when others are looking. When they are left alone Michael turns his full hatred toward her and she cowers. Without speaking he conveys as much anger as he can.
The knights who brought him ‘home’ are given a party and they force him to sit on a throne as some sort of trophy. Michael looks at every one of them with disdain. They retreat and when one mutters choice words about leaving the prince where they found him, Michael almost breaks his vow of silence to agree.
But his words are wasted on fools and so he doesn’t give in. These people are the real monsters. He refuses to allow them the privilege of hearing his voice or seeing his smile.
His ‘parents’ are elated to hear of his ‘progress’. What a farce.
In books he never progresses, he can’t focus on the tiny lines of tiny words in sentences that make no sense to him. He doesn’t understand the prose that takes up pages upon pages listing pointless details. The language of supposedly proper literature is lost on a mind that simply doesn’t care for it. In mathematics he refuses to use the tired old strategies of the tutor and the old bat refuses to allow him to use his own way of counting, and so the entire subject lands on a standstill where Michael refuses to work and the tutor refuses to teach. Speaking goes about as well as expected. The court physician proposes that he’s simply mute from having no one to talk to. History is met with fury because the accounts the tutor recalls are so blatantly biased.
But in physical activity, he stuns.
Swordsmanship ends with Michael putting his instructor face first in the dirt. They criticize his technique for being too wild, too improper, but Michael continues to use it and he continues to win. The memory of Mother, of learning to counter the hatchlings claws with sticks and makeshift shields, makes his heart sing and under the cover of a block Michael smiles. He has been playing this game for so long that the humans attempting to teach him are flailing like hatchlings themselves.
Archery is his better subject. Michael had his own bow before the knights dragged him away; a rough but trusted bow that Mother had brought him from a lone woman who lived at the base of the mountain. He knew how to hunt with it. He knew how to hit a target through rain or snow or darkness. So when the instructor places a polished bow in his hand Michael sums up its weight and fires before the fool can finish attempting to teach him what he already knows.
He hits the target in the center, and startles several crows from a snow coated tree.
His not-father claps from his seat on balcony above the training ground. Michael ‘misfires’ and skews an apple from his hand.
The way of dragons is a way of emotion. You gain your name from your fire, from the center in your soul that details who you are and who you will be. Reading such a thing is easy.
The humans have no such center and that puzzles him.
The first week or so of his return he attempted to read everyone in the vain hope he could find a kindred spirit. He reached his heart out, felt for the heartbeats and inner shine, and found only closed off souls that burned with ice.
Small humans have the potential for fire. Michael reads them when he sees them and he feels a bit better seeing the shine in their chests. But no flame ever matches his, an inferno that burns deep inside and scorches all it can reach.
After a month, Michael gives up on searching. He retreats back into his own heart. He feels it break with longing as he does so and looks to the horizon with hope that one day he hears the beating of wings.
The longer time goes on the more he feels his inner fire going out. The light in his eyes grows dull with every passing day that he’s bred to become like the men that ruined his life.
His only solace is hearing the knights run themselves in circles looking for his brother. He smiles to himself every night with the knowledge that Marco is safely exploring the southern shores, far away from this nonsense. His silence is taken as confirmation of his brothers demise and he knights explore the same mountain ridge over and over and over again looking for the body of a small child.
His victories are in the small things. Refusing to meet his not-mothers eyes at breakfast. Spurning the hearts of hopeful maidens come to promise their hearts to the stolen prince. Tracking dirt into his room and wearing clothes that are horribly below the standard his not-family sets for him.
His greatest achievement is the day he escapes into the forest. For a blessed two hours the chattering voices stop and he’s allowed to simply exist as he is.
When the royal guard drags him back he has slush and mud all over his boots and trousers, but the satisfied look in his eye speaks volumes.
They begin locking the gates and doors. Michael only sees the world through windows, and all he sees is the dead emptiness of winter in artificial gardens. He isn’t sure when the last of his happiness fades but one day he awakes with the realization he feels numb inside.
It isn’t uncommon for knights to come and pledge themselves to the royal family. Warriors from small villages make the trek all the way to the capital city to lay their swords at the kings feet and swear themselves to the cause. What cause it is exactly Michael doesn’t know or understand.
Winter isn’t gone yet but the days slowly begin to get a bit longer, and a festival is held. Michael curls his lips at it all, at the waste of food and bones that these humans seem content to throw around with no care, but makes no protest. He sits in his throne with the heavy crown of responsibility upon his head and silently seethes in his hatred.
Once the food is cleared and the entertainment is done with their routine, the annual bunch of warriors approach. One by one they make their way to the king’s feet and lay their swords down. They say their names and the names of their homes and the king offers them a spot in his army. The queen nods her head in approval.
They never expect anything from Michael. He merely looks them all over before making his displeasure known. Not-father is always angry about this and so it spurs him to do it more.
This particular crop is just as bad as ever. Burly men with axes and tattoos, thin assassins with knives hidden all over, youths with naïve light in their eyes; the same groups as ever that Michael knows will become as cruel as the royal guard that ruined everything he loved.
One approaches that makes the room whisper. They don’t seem to be large, rather small actually. They wear a green cloak that barely hides thick leather boots and obscures the face. They silently approach the king with confidence in each step, with no regard for ceremony and propriety as they wrench off the hood of their cloak when they reach the end and stand before the royal family.
Michael feels something stir in his chest. It takes him a moment to realize the familiar feeling of fire in his core, of another heart reaching for his.
“I’ve come to pledge my allegiance to the royal family; to Prince Michael.” Whispers follow his declaration, of his rudeness and his brashness for such a statement, but the figure does not heed them.
The figure kneels and lays his sword down. It’s sheathed in a shining case of ocean colored scales. Soft dark hair frames dark sun kissed skin and an angled jawline, and when he raises his head Michael laughs.
He laughs for the first time since he was brought to this nightmare of a palace.
The court gasps, his not-family stares in both wonder and horror, and the figure on the floor smiles a sharp toothed smile as Prince Michael lets his joy be known.
He knows his dragon anywhere, and the fire in their souls burns brightly in joy at their reunion.
I’ve had this micheren idea running around my head for a while now based on that poem about the princess missing her dragon
Prince Michael who was raised among dragons and thinks of them as family, whose childhood memories are of climbing around castle ruins with his brother. He remembers being taught to hunt for his meals, to use his senses to their best potential and to make use of every last bit of the spoils so that nothing goes to waste. He wears armor made from scales and speaks the language of the beasts that is known from gestures of the heart. His mother was a mighty creature with fire in her heart and she taught him he held the strength of the beast inside even with a human body. Poor Prince Michael, who refuses to utter a single word once he’s ripped away from his home and put into the courts.
Dragonboy Eren, once one of the mighty creatures that guarded the prince inside their home, seemingly killed by ‘brave knights’ who were on a bloody conquest to take their prince back to a world he no longer belonged to. A beast disguised as a boy, with a core made of fire and a promise in his soul to find the person who he failed to protect. A beast who walks into the courts one day and swears his allegiance not to the king, not to the circle of knights, but to Prince Michael and for the first time since he was returned ‘home’ Michael laughs, because he knows those eyes and he knows he won’t have to stay in this hell much longer.
Michael Bodt belongs to southspinner and I in no way claim him as my own
What is Micheren?
Like? Other fics (erejeanmarco and ereri) can be found here
Flower Boy
The Greeks told stories about nymphs, who were tied to the forests and its life and held beauty that enchanted men the world over.
Michael is very sure in this moment that he is looking upon one right now, and in no way is he embellishing the truth.
“I can’t believe you’re trying this again.” Marco shakes his head. They’re hidden by a row of petunias, Michael parting them gently and staring at the boy at the register with intent normally only found on his face when he’s trying to read. “You made a huge joke of yourself last time.”
“Because someone didn’t tell me he was deaf, brother dear.” Michael breaks his gaze to glare at Marco, gripping the petunias a little too tightly. “Seriously. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew. He has a button and a huge sticker on the register that says “I AM DEAF” in big block letters.” Marco shrugs. “Plus I’ve talked about Eren loads of times. The first thing I ever mentioned about him was the deaf thing.”
“No, it was his ass.”
“No, Jean talked about his ass, I brought up the fact he wouldn’t look at Eren when he was talking and Eren couldn’t understand a word out of his mouth,” Marco clarifies. He yanks Michael’s hands off the petunias when he notices Levi glaring at them in the corner with the roses. It wouldn’t do to piss off the shop owner and get kicked out before their mission, albeit a stupid one, is completed.
“Either way I talked for ten minutes and he didn’t even know I was there. You were no help.”
“I wanted to see just how far you would go.” Marco glances over the petunias and sighs, nudging Michael out of their hidden corner. “Now go. Get this over with. I wanna meet Jean in Starbucks sometime today.”
Michael wants to curse at his brother for rushing, but the shops other employees (the surly short owner and the sweet smiley redhead sweeping up by the chrysanthemums) are watching him and he needs to stop beating around the bush.
It’s been two weeks since he failed spectacularly in trying to flirt with the pretty flower boy, and today he will get his number dammit. He won’t rest until he’s taken this godly flower boy out on the town.
Eren looks up from his work when Michael approaches the counter, smiling politely and folding his hands to give his full attention.
Michael breathes. In his head he goes over every book and picture diagram he forced his brothers to help him with since last time. Behind him Marco just looks bored, Levi subtly texts Erwin that “the idiot from the other week is back, I give him two minutes” and Petra leans against her broom in amusement.
He begins by giving his best confident smile and signing ‘Hi’.
Eren looks surprised. Now that Michael’s close he can see the giant yellow button on Eren’s apron and he only feels slightly ashamed for missing it last time. There’s even a picture of an ear with a slash through it. He doesn’t need to squint and focus to know what that means.
Hi. Eren signs back. Then he stops and waits for an answer expectantly.
Michael tenses. Shit. He hasn’t planned what to say past “Hello” and “Wanna go out”. He ends up going with-
I’m Michael.
Eren points at his name tag before answering E-R-E-N.
You know my brother. Marco.
Eren nods as if that’s obvious. Even without speaking the quirk of his eyebrows emit so much sass that somewhere out there sass masters Marco’s little friend Ymir raise their heads in pride. Behind Michael Marco sighs and Petra taps her watch, signaling Levi that his predicted two minutes is almost up.
But then Eren signs something Michael doesn’t understand. The elder Bodt freezes, watching Eren’s hands move and trying desperately to match their movements to the diagrams he’s spent the past two weeks memorizing. This is too advanced. He only managed to get basic conversation. Shit. Shit shit shit.
He stands there for about ten seconds after Eren finishes, fingers twitching with the urge to sign something but not knowing what.
Eren takes pity on him though and sends Michael’s jaw to the floor by staring him in the eye and saying, “If you’re here to ask me out, just be direct, stupid.”
In the back of the store Marco smiles. Michael feels a stab of betrayal once more and vows to change Marco’s computer background to something obscene. Maybe their wrinkly aunt Josephine in that risqué bathing suit from her vacation photos.
“I could hear you plotting. You aren’t very quiet,” Eren continues. He picks up a rag and begins wiping off the counter, nonchalantly ignoring the way Michael’s face is twisting in panic from this new development.
“I uh…”
Eren turns his head and the plastic of implants gleams in the light of the window. He taps one finger against the disc in his hair and continues cleaning. “Last set broke, not sure how. Finally got these in over the weekend.” He finishes cleaning, satisfied with the shine of the counter and directs his gorgeous green eyes back at the elder Bodt.
“You also fucked up and called your brother a chair. I admire the effort though.”
There’s a sort of wheeze-snort somewhere in the back of the store and Michael is only half sure it’s his brother. He’s wrong of course. It’s the closest thing Levi has to laughter.
He ignores it and presses forward, turning up the charm and leaning on the counter. “Does this mean you’re willing to correct me over coffee?”
Eren gently shoves him away and cleans the smudge from Michael’s hands on the polished surface. “Be here at six. If you call me a chair though, I’m going home.”
For what it’s worth, Michael waits until he and Marco exit the store before he starts dancing. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that the three employees inside are staring.
Michael Bodt belongs to southspinner and I in no way claim him as my own
Starlight
There's a violin in the hall closet that Eren hasn't touched in two years.
At one point in his life that violin was what he lived for. He based everything around it. He picked the perfect model from the music store and knew deep down he would use it to its full potential. He spent years learning its strings, digging for its secrets to play its songs as flawlessly as possible; he dreamed of concert halls and applause, with his mother in the first row smiling in pride.
He isn't sure what he dreams of now. The music that played in his head hasn't made an appearance in a long time. Instead he hears the voices of judges tearing down what he spent his entire life working for.
“Sloppy.”
“Amateur at best.”
“Perhaps you should consider something else, something with less need of finesse.”
He doesn't touch the violin anymore. It sits in the top shelf of his hall closet, in its case, waiting for the day he's brave enough to toss it out. His sheet music is hidden inside in shame.
In the living room sits Mikasa's photo, perched with her piano on her first day at Julliard, smiling.
He meets Michael at Jean and Marco's engagement party. He's spent the past two years running a modest music store, feeling bitter about it deep down but still happy to help budding musicians find their footing, and the two men have been constant companions since he returned to his hometown. Marco's brother stands off to the side for most of the party so Eren doesn't pay him much mind.
It isn't until Marco gets a little tipsy and brings up the violin that Michael comes closer.
“You play?” He asks, swirling his drink around and looking Eren up and down in a way that makes Eren roll his eyes.
He opens his mouth to answer but Marco beats him to it. He'd be upset but the flush on Marco's cheeks and the content smile on Jean's face makes him resolve not to ruin their good time by being snippy.
“He's amazing. He played for my eighteenth birthday, when you were out of town? Anyway-a whole Nicki Minaj medley! He's so good...”
Eren looks to the floor. He remembers that medley. He remembers watching Youtube videos for two weeks gathering songs that were compatible with each other and the smile on Marco's face when he recognized the notes to Starships. His fingers twitch with muscle memory, notes rising to the forefront of his mind with an ache in his chest.
No one at the party knew about his quitting. He doubts they would believe him anyway. He's Eren Jaeger, he doesn't quit at things!
When he looks back up Michael is still looking at him, gesturing in a way that can only be taken as 'You wanna go talk somewhere else'?
Eren glances back at the rest of the group. They've moved on to talking about Mikasa at Julliard and the video she sent of her latest piece.
He follows Michael to the back porch and stays there for the rest of the party.
He doesn't hate his sister. Far from it. He really loves her. But there's this bitter rock in his stomach that becomes heavier every time someone brings up what she's doing. It had been Eren who first showed an interest in music. It was Eren who taped a Julliard brochure to his middle school locker. It was Eren who spent his entire senior year composing an original piece.
But it was Mikasa that the school picked.
She wanted to turn them down when she found out Eren hadn't gotten in, but he pushed her to take it. If she had enough talent for them to want her, she couldn't waste it. Wasting it would be an insult to the hard work they'd poured in over the years.
Looking back, Eren can safely say that time period in general was the worst his life has ever gotten. It was almost comical how everything seemed to go wrong one after another. He lost a relationship, followed by losing his mother, followed by having his tribute piece utterly trashed by the people he had worked so hard to even gain the attention of. A black cloud had formed over his head the day of that audition and every day since he's felt it follow him.
He felt it smother him when he returned home and realized he needed to find something else to do with his life. He felt it block out the sun when he took over the music store where he bought his first violin. He felt it reach for him and tug sharply every time he passed the hall closet and remembered what was inside.
He feels it trail behind him on the first coffee date with Michael, where it shrinks just a bit when the other man doesn't bring up music. Not even once.
Michael is perhaps the best thing in a long time to happen to Eren, and he means that genuinely.
He's a flirt. He flirts with the sweet old lady who runs the bakery, he flirts with servers, he flirts with random men who just make eye contact; at first it sets Eren off a little, retreating into himself as memories of his last ex come back and that cloud grows; but Michael always turns right around and takes Eren's hand and calls him his 'Pretty Thing' with a tone so final it eases some of his worry.
He seems determined to woo Eren at every opportunity. Whether that means showing up with Eren's favorite lunch at work or running him a bath filled with smelly glittery bath products that make Eren feel a bit like a princess. He takes him dancing on weekends, sings dopey love songs with the car radio, and sends texts with emojis spelling out some nonsensical love note.
Eren finds that black cloud becoming smaller and smaller every time Michael smiles.
He finds it doesn't even hurt, like so many other reminders do, when Michael starts calling him 'Music Man'.
No...he supposes he likes it.
It's funny how it happens, but it's been so long that Eren doesn't realize it when it starts.
Michael drums his fingers on the counter whenever the microwave is running. It's some habit he started as a child that Eren finds a bit cute, and Marco finds really annoying judging from his groaning last time he came over. It's a nonsensical pattern, sometimes it sounds like a Top 40 song if you focus hard enough, and one day Eren picks a pattern out of the tapping.
That pattern turns to notes without him even thinking about it. He can hear them loud and clear, tapping turning to the vibration of strings. He hums the tune to himself as he watches Back to the Future and waits for Michael to sit down with the popcorn. He doesn't even catch what he's doing until Michael asks what song it is, and Eren can't seem to find an answer.
The next time is when Mick is sweeping up a mess in the kitchen. He'd torn a bag of Froot Loops in his pre-coffee zombie daze and Eren was perched at the counter avoiding the floor so he wouldn't step on anything.
Michael's flare for the dramatic begins to show as he begins to do long, flowing sweeps, and shuffle his feet in a sort of dance. It's silly and kind of laughable, given he's bare chested in oversized sweatpants that make his legs look like they belong on a wrinkly elephant, but Eren smiles at his energy and that horribly fond warmth grows in his chest.
Without even looking, Eren grabs a sticky note and begins jotting down a tune. It flows like a waltz, step step sweep, step step sweep-he drops the pen like its on fire when he realizes exactly what he's doing.
Michael pauses to look at him, and Eren waves him off to finish cleaning his mess. He crumples the note and shoves it in his pocket.
The next time Michael isn't even doing anything. He's sleeping. Eren's still awake for some cursed reason or another, sheets pushed down to expose their upper halves as Eren flops onto his stomach to look at his boyfriend. Mick's a mess when he's sleeping. His hair is sticking up all over in a post-sex mess, there's a small drool stain beneath swollen lips, and Eren's sure he hears snores beginning their formation with each inhale.
He's a mess, but he's Eren's mess.
Watching him sleep, with the moonlight illuminating the freckles dotting Michael's shoulders, Eren is suddenly hit with a barrage of notes he was sure he'd forgotten two years ago.
The freckles on Michael's skin look like stars, and Eren rises as quickly as possible with the need to find his sheet music. He swipes his underwear from the floor and pads to the hall closet, wrenching it open and tearing the violin case from the top shelf with manic intent.
The case is set on the carpeted floor with a soft thud and Eren pauses when he clicks it open. For all the dust stuck to it the inside is as clean as ever. The polishing job from his audition shines under the yellow bulb, making the wood shine in a healthy glow that breaks Eren's heart and makes it melt all at once.
He wants to cry a bit. He's forgotten how beautiful it is, and how it feels so right beneath his fingers. The urge to rosin the bow and dust off his skills is strong but Eren shakes his head, reaching into the hidden corner of the case where his original piece was shoved so long ago.
The paper smells of age and dust, Eren's messy scrawl covering every inch with the passion he distantly remembers. He spent months working on it. He began when his mother was diagnosed and he finished the day of her funeral. His ultimate tribute to his greatest muse.
Starlight; Carla's Lullaby
By Eren Jaeger
Eren swallows deeply. The memory of the last time he played comes back, the gut wrenching memory of standing on that stage and playing with every ounce of passion he had left only to be turned away rips at his mind and the rock weighing his stomach down.
Eren breathes, smoothing out the paper with one hand, and the other reaches for the old and chewed ball point pen hidden under the polishing rag.
He begins to write.
Michael loves to drive. Eren isn't sure what it is, but behind the wheel he seems content with life and free as a bird with the radio on and the wind blowing through his hair. He breaks from whatever power ballad is playing to look at Eren and Eren can only smile back at the joy in Mick's eyes.
Eren doesn't tell him how attractive he is that way, his ego is large enough.
Michael follows Eren's vague instructions, leading them along an old highway that takes them far away from town and into the woodsy areas beyond. Eren leads them to a cliff, Michael parking so they can watch the setting sun and relax, leaning lazily against each other as the suns golden rays bathe them in its last moments of visibility.
“It's almost as pretty as you out here,” Michael quips.
“Shut it.” Eren bites back.
Michael smiles and rests his arm behind Eren's head, breathing in the fresh evening air.
Eren waits, shutting off the radio as a slow song comes on and the first few stars begin to twinkle in the dusk above them.
“I...brought something, tonight.” Michael looks at him with an eyebrow raised, then grins like a lech and inches closer. Eren smacks his chest and frowns, puffing his cheeks. “Not like that.”
“Oh,” Michael says with a hint of disappointment. “What is it?”
“Pop the trunk.” Eren orders while unbuckling himself, sliding out the car and rounding about. He grasps the trunk lid and takes a deep breath, controlling the shake in his hand as he takes the violin case out and gestures for Michael to get out of the car.
Michael does so, freezing when he sees the case. Eren's cleaned it, gotten rid of the dust and prepped the instrument inside, and all he really needs to finish this is an audience.
Michael seems to understand the importance here. He always seems to and one day Eren wants to know how. “...is that-”
“I want you to hear something.”
Michael stares at him, blinking in disbelief, then nods and plops himself on the trunk of the car with a soft but eager grin.
Eren feels butterflies in his stomach. Not the kind he felt before playing, the kind he grew up with fluttering in his stomach before performances and competitions, but a different kind that sets his ears alight with a new shade of red and a shaky smile filled with words he isn't quite sure he's ready to voice yet.
He takes the violin out of the case, makes sure the bow is properly rosined, and lifts it to his chin.
Starlight is a piece that was always meant to be sad. Mournful. But it was intended to be a beautiful piece that reminds you of all the things you love, even if they're gone.
Each movement of the bow brings forth low notes, slow and shaky with the sadness Eren had felt watching his mother go in and out of the hospital. The tune waves in and out, the memory of kind smiles and helping his mother brush her hair leading to her sickness after chemo, of her aching body keeping her awake at night.
The music paints a story only Eren can really see, but when he opens his eyes he finds his only audience member is having no trouble following.
The music builds to a crescendo, of Carla Jaeger's final days, the notes taking on a heart monitor before going flat and leading to the softest rendition possible of the old folk song played at her funeral.
But the song doesn't end there.
Michael prepares to clap, but then the music returns. Higher notes. He looks shocked when he can pick out the rhythm. Eren's eyes close again so he can concentrate but the gleeful notion that Michael is pleased spurs him along.
The tap-tap-tapping of Michael's fingers against the counter. Eren smiles softly, tapping out the beat with his bow.
The tapping turns to the waltz from the kitchen, following the pattern of the tapping but adding in the dramatic sweeps where Michael's dancing would follow the broom.
The notes climb higher and higher, a happier and happier tone building as the mourning from the first half is laid to rest. The folk song from Carla's funeral returns as a jaunty tune, bleeding into a song Michael sings whenever its on the radio and Eren can see him mouthing the words when he cracks one eye, joy spreading with his smile-
The song ends with a flare, the feeling of love and happiness pouring out every inch of himself as the last notes of the piece echo into the cliffside.
Eren opens his eyes and finds he's crying. Not the large, ugly tears of the last time he played this piece, of the breakdown of everything important being ripped from his grasp, but tears of joy. Closure.
The last bits of that cloud finally vanish, and the violin doesn't feel so heavy in his hands anymore.
He smiles at Michael, clapping his heart out and hollering for an encore, and the stars twinkle just a bit brighter.
He wonders if finding a muse is always this invigorating.
