Paper Airplanes (Ereri - SNK)

"Pipe Dream."

I always used to suck at staring contests. But there's something about Thomas's washed out blue eyes that's so easy to stare right into, stubbornness set in both my jaw and my shoulders, squared with my arms crossed. He stares right back, too, calm and collected as always. Patient. It pisses me off.

It started with a question. "Have you been taking your medication, Eren?"

An answer. "No."

Without missing a beat: "Why not?"

And then the staring began. After what felt like a minute or so, I started counting the ticks of the second hand of the clock on his desk. 200 seconds of staring, and counting.

What am I supposed to tell him, that the tea mixture that's supposed to help my PTSD gives me strange dreams, or that it gives it a strange, salt-like flavor that I hate because the flavor of tea is all I really have left of Levi? Right.

There's very little I can say to him that won't give away the true relationship that went on behind what everyone thought. I don't know what he'd do or say if he ever found out, but I have no intention of finding out.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he could tell I haven't been taking it, though. The littlest things set me off. I tend to curl in on myself a lot, or hug my knees in a pathetic fetal position because I'm afraid of everything around me. The meds didn't fix it, but the two times I took them, they calmed my mind...until the strange dreams started.

"Do they help?" he finally asks.

Do I lie? "Sort of."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

He sighs, runs a lazy hand across his wrinkled forehead. "You have to keep taking them, Eren, or they won't help at all."

Tell me something I don't know, old man.

"Okay," he lets out in another sigh. "Well then let's talk. Did you dream last night?"

I size him up for a second longer. "Yeah."

"About?"

"Rory was eaten."

"By a titan?"

He doesn't miss my flinch. "No, by a horse," I roll my eyes, and then can't help but snort at the unfortunate joke, what with Rory's father being Jean and all...

His bushy brows lift, and I try to count the wrinkles on his forehead before they're gone. I only make it to about ten. "Explain to me what's amusing about your dream," he presses.

"Nothing."

He's getting tired of my quipped, sarcastic answers, but I couldn't be having more fun with him. This is what's amusing. The dream? Not nearly.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"It wasn't a laugh."

Third sigh, and he leans back. "Okay. Recount the dream for me."

I stiffen, and suddenly all my playfulness has vanished, just like the smoke from a pipe disappears into the air. The staring starts over.

"Remember what we talked about," he says. "Once you talk about it, you can make peace with it and let it go."

"Easier said than done." I suddenly can't look at him anymore. My trachea seems to contract and air's harder to suck in.

"I understand."

Anger strikes through me - hot, quick, familiar. Never mind not being able to look at him anymore; I glare, hoping my eyes burn holes right through him like I can shoot heat out of them or something.