CHAPTER 215: CHAPTER 215 - COMFORT OF ANOTHER

Eren didn’t know what the hell to feel anymore.

The heat on his cheeks refused to leave. His chest felt tight, and his thoughts spun out of control. Every time he remembered that kiss—soft, unsure, but real—his stomach twisted. What bothered him more? That Varon kissed him... or that Varon regretted it?

Or maybe it was that he didn’t even get a choice in the matter.

"I’m not some goddamn test subject," he muttered under his breath, teeth gritted. "I’m not a joke."

He couldn’t stand there a second longer. Not next to him. Not when Varon’s calm, cool presence was still hovering nearby like a reminder. His legs moved before his mind did, carrying him across the field toward the old grayling ship parked by the edge of the orchard.

The world blurred out behind him.

He reached the ship, yanked open the storage latch with a grunt, and pulled out the weapon crates they had taken apart yesterday. There were plasma blasters, serrated knives, even those odd EMP rods. All tangled and caked in dried black tar—the alien blood.

Eren didn’t even flinch at the mess.

He dropped to his knees, opened the kit, and started working. Cutting, screwing, bending. Connecting energy cores to trigger switches. Replacing charred wire casings. Grease and grime clung to his fingers. The acidic scent of alien tech filled his nose. The work was unpleasant, but gods—it helped. It forced him to focus on something real, something he could fix.

Because he couldn’t fix whatever the hell had just happened between him and Varon.

He could feel it crawling in the back of his mind—the image of Varon’s eyes, how they widened in panic when he realized Eren had been awake. The way he said "I shouldn’t want you."

Then don’t, Eren thought bitterly, slamming a panel shut harder than necessary. Nobody asked you to.

But why can’t you want me huh!! Cuz I’m too bulky and manly?! Cuz I’m not that handsome?!

He clenched the screwdriver in his hand.

Still, he couldn’t deny the sting.

The more he worked, the more numb he became. He didn’t stop. Even when his hands cramped. Even when a shard of broken casing cut into his palm. He wiped the blood on his pants and kept going. He attached the long-range stun gun to the new turret arm, then rewired a laser cannon. His jaw clenched the whole time, sweat dripping from his chin.

He welcomed the burn in his shoulders. He needed it.

Let Varon pretend nothing happened.

At least machines didn’t lie. At least metal didn’t change its mind.

Afternoon had crept in silently, casting long golden shadows through the orchard, but Eren didn’t notice. Not until his stomach gave an angry, prolonged growl that was impossible to ignore.

He blinked out of his mechanical trance, hands sore, back aching, sweat drying into salt on his neck. He rubbed his belly with a sigh. "Okay, okay... I hear you," he muttered, glaring at his own traitorous stomach like it had betrayed him for wanting food now of all times.

He dropped his tools on the crate with a clang and wiped his hands on his pants, smearing grime down the sides. He didn’t care. He was too hungry to care.

Feet dragging, he made his way to the house, one hand still clutching his side as another rumble rolled through his stomach. Just a quick bite, he told himself. I’ll grab something and head back out. No need to see anyone. Definitely not—

He stepped into the kitchen.

And froze.

Varon was there.

The tall Farian stood at the stove, his posture as straight and guarded as ever, but his hands moved deftly. Stirring something in a pot. Steam curled into the air, carrying a savory smell that instantly made Eren’s mouth water—against his will. But it wasn’t the scent that made his throat tighten.

It was Varon’s eyes. Those cool eyes that immediately snapped to his the second he stepped in.

Eren felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. There was something in that gaze—cold, yes, always cold—but also... regret. Quiet and still, like a lake that refused to ripple, even when everything underneath was a storm.

"Eren," Varon said softly.

Eren’s chest twisted painfully. He didn’t want to hear anything. He couldn’t hear anything.

Before the man could say another word, Eren turned on his heel and walked out.

Fast.

His stomach screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He ignored the heavy feeling rising in his chest, the tightness in his throat. He ignored the smell of food that clung to his clothes now, the warmth of the house he didn’t feel like he belonged in anymore. He ignored Varon.

Because if he didn’t—if he stayed one more second—he knew he’d crumble.

And he refused to fall apart in front of that man.

Eren turned the corner too quickly and nearly slammed into a very bony shoulder.

"Ah—!"

"Oof!"

Nansich staggered back a step, clutching his own stomach. "Dude, you trying to kill me before lunch?"

Eren blinked, startled, his own arms still slightly raised. "You okay?"

Nansich stared at him for a second before his usual grin slid across his face. "Better now that I know I’m not the only one starving."

But the second his eyes met Eren’s properly, his expression shifted. The grin faltered. He tilted his head.

"Hey... you good?"

"I’m fine," Eren muttered quickly, stepping aside to go around him.

But Nansich wasn’t having it. "Hold it."

He grabbed Eren’s wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop him.

Eren flinched.

Nansich’s brows furrowed. "Okay, what is up with you? You’ve been acting super weird since morning."

Eren glanced at the house, the kitchen window where he could still see the back of Varon’s head as the man stirred something at the stove.

He looked away quickly.

Nansich followed his gaze and blinked slowly. "Ah. Ahhh."

Eren groaned. "It’s not—just drop it."

"Oh no. We’re not dropping anything. You look like someone stole your puppy and then kissed it in front of you."

Eren opened his mouth—then closed it. He rubbed his face roughly. "I just... I don’t get him. One minute he’s—he did something—and then he says he regrets it? Like, make up your damn mind, you know?"

Nansich’s lips twitched. "Wait... did something?"

Eren glared. "Not like that, perv. He... kissed me. While I was pretending to be asleep. Then he told Xing Yu he regrets it. That he shouldn’t have feelings for me. That it was wrong."

Nansich winced. "Oof."

"Yeah. Oof." Eren slumped down on the steps of the house. "And now he’s just... cooking. Like nothing happened. Like I didn’t feel—like it didn’t mean anything."

Nansich sat beside him, their shoulders barely brushing. "Do you like him?"

Eren didn’t answer immediately. "I don’t know. I didn’t think I did. I mean... I thought he was this uptight blade-happy robot. But then that kiss happened, and now it’s like my brain won’t shut up."

They sat in silence for a moment, only the wind rustling the orchard trees in the background.

"...So," Nansich said, "Want me to punch him?"

Eren let out a short laugh. It sounded more like a cough, but it helped. "No. Thanks. But no."

Nansich shrugged. "Offer stands."

They sat there a little longer, the rumble of both their stomachs making them laugh again. For the first time all day, Eren’s chest felt a little less tight.

From the kitchen window, Varon stood frozen mid-motion, a steaming tray of food in his hands.

His eyes were on the two figures sitting on the porch—Eren and Nansich, their shoulders nearly touching, both laughing softly at something. Eren’s head was tilted back, a rare smile on his face, his earlier tightness and tension gone, replaced by something lighter... something freer.

Varon’s grip tightened around the tray.

He had made Eren’s favorite: warm seasoned rice, grilled root-vegetables, and a light soup—something comforting, easy on the stomach. He had even remembered to leave out the spice this time.

He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the hope—pathetic, really—that Eren might actually sit with him again, even for a minute.

But as he watched that easy laugh escape the human’s lips, saw Nansich grin and lightly nudge him with an elbow, something hollow echoed in his chest.

He lowered his eyes.

Without a word, he turned and entered the house. His footsteps were soundless on the wooden floor as he walked to the dining table and gently placed the tray down.

The steam wafted into the air, the scent rich and warm.

He stared at it for a moment—like maybe, if he stood there long enough, the food might speak for him.

But it didn’t.

He stepped back, swallowed hard, and left the house quietly, his boots thudding once on the porch before disappearing into silence.

He never looked at Eren again.