SURVIVE.

“ Jean - I’m, I’m not hurt. ” She stops, rubbing an elbow to fill her silence instead. She has a hunch about what this is about and she can hardly blame him. Words that follow are full of reassurance, trying to convince herself as much as him. “ It’s okay - I’m fine. Nothing’s going to happen to me. ”

we’re walking down the shopping districts and the lights are reflecting out of your eyes like stars. when we walk in the chaos that is the human race, our shoulders bump. i wish i’m far stronger in the cold so that i’m courageous enough to let our knuckles touch. every time we do, you send shivers right down my spine like no snow could.

with each minutes passed, and each stores we visited, your hand and mine gets heavy with wrapped presents and bought items. i don’t usually like the crowd, not like this, but the way you rush to starbucks’ stands that has heaters stored in them while scrunching up your nose all funny from the weather makes me forget about the bad things. instead, in spite of my initially grumbling act and protest of this trip, i grin. i grin so hard, my cheeks ache.

you ask me, “how do you think eiffel tower looks like right now”

and i tell you, “i don’t know.” because i don’t. because how would i know. because i’d rather be looking at you than any towers or skyscrapers in the world. you shrug. we let the conversation pass.

we’re walking down the shopping districts tracking our paths to go home. when we walk in the chaos that is the human race, i use my height to always oversee the bob of your head as you walk ahead of me. there are times when you notice. and in these times, you’d turn. “why are you so slow?”

do you even know how your voice makes me all warm like i’m hot summer sun in the middle of december?

“you’re red, jean. you okay?”

just one hand,    A FINGER FLICKED UPWARDS            

translation:    fuck you,   reiner,     before jean foregoes the middle finger and opts instead for    CLEANING HIS FACE    from the remnants of the snow before the coldness can,     you know,   potentially    FREEZE HIS FACE TO DEATH.     or maybe he’s just being dramatic,    but like he’ll ever    ADMIT    that aloud.    ‘cause he won’t,   nuh-uh.    in fact,    he’s being    COMPLETELY REASONABLE    —    dare he-fucking-say mature,   even     —    from entirely participating in what-he-knows would’ve developed into a    SNOWBALL FIGHT    if he gives in.     nah,    satan.    not today.    

❝     jeez,    fuck,     is connie putting you up to this?     ‘cause you assholes better    CUT IT OUT     ———     i’m not in the mood.       ❞       plus,    there’re stuff to be    BROUGHT IN,    things they needed to be done.    so jean’s putting his foot on this.    definitely.    he’s not gonna do it.    NOT A CHANCE IN HELL.    not when the last time it happened,    he had to suffer through the winter break with a goddamn flu from sasha stuffing snow down his back that’s had him    SHIVERING TIL DAYLIGHT     the next day.    also,    why does the    GODDAMN WORLD    only targets him in these unfortunate events?     he just needs one break,   dammit.    just one.

so,      STAND THERE    all you want in the snow,   braun   —   he ain’t    BUDGIN’.

high-up, one after another, shelves after shelves, and sometimes there’s a system to it: by authors, by alphabets, by genres. sometimes, there isn’t an order. there is no visible pattern. like madness, like chaos, he puts away the latest read that’s had his heart trapped hours to the chair in the corner, as he turns the page, thirsts relentlessly for the ending. 

my papa stacks up books.

vintage, old, hardcover, some torn at the edges, worn by years. i’m not a loyalist like he is, but i pick up the books when my time isn’t stolen by my insecurities and my need to please them; i remember my papa’s warmth behind me as he teaches me how to read ( now jean, if these two letters are together, what does it spelled? ) and the impatience he must’ve had to deal when my temper flares, throwing the pages he’s adored so much into a cluster, trampling them on how i can’t do it i don’t know how i’m so stupid but he sits there, obedient, nodding his head and hushing me down.

my papa stacks up books.

in his favourite one, he has a picture of my maman in a dusted black-and-white that isn’t so black-and-white anymore; it’s a dull dark-ish grey coupled with a yellow-tint over the lighter parts, but that doesn’t matter, because the youth in maman’s smile still shines regardless. when i thumb over the picture the first time i see it, i can feel the definition of his love as he immortalises his wife in his most-liked book like a secret: that, like the words he loves so much, she is timeless. their love is timeless. they are untouched by the past-present-future that has continuously swallowed generations.

my papa stacks up books.

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