#ch0kinghalos

he leaves the glass there, stares at it.

reiner brought two bottles to the apartment as a surprise. the braus family had been gifted a case of expensive wine, & they had shared their good fortune. even when they have little good fortune to give, they share it anyway.

reiner can’t decide how conversational he feels. he sits together with bertolt in the living room, & reiner’s socked feet threaten to settle beneath bertolt’s thigh in a pursuit extra warmth. reiner texts & then tells a story. texts & then tells a story - the way he talks, it seems that arlert & jaeger are strained again.

reiner waves a hand & glances over at bertolt’s neglected glass.  ‘ i don’t want you to get drunk, but that’s a very fine chardonnay you’re not drinking, ‘ he says. 

sent:  i  don’t  want  you  to  get  drunk,  but  that’s  a  very  fine  chardonnay  you’re  not  drinking; from @ch0kinghalos

the skin at reiner’s hand is flayed raw & red. he’s lost his gloves about three times the past week. bertolt has already agreed to let reiner borrow his gloves tomorrow, though he’s not looking forward to their untimely disappearance. 

reiner swears he won’t lose them, but some things don’t come as a choice.

bertolt knocks reiner’s hand aside in a concession, & he picks his wine glass up again. he takes another sip. 

despite bestowing the wine as a gift, he thinks that reiner is frustrated with him. more likely, he wants to be angry & hasn’t quite managed it yet. maybe he’ll work up to it. 

bertolt ignores it. 

bertolt does a very good job at imagining a world in which he can’t know anger. irritation & annoyance are mosquitos, & rage or fury are more distant pests than that. 

but he can imagine : the idea of anger conjures something white hot, & bertolt has enough of heat. whether it be from this life or a previous one, bertolt has had enough of heat.

it makes him a coward. there are worse things to be than a coward.

even so, when he closes his eyes sometimes, he can imagine being a coward & still being crowded tight enough into a corner that he erupted, rearranged himself into something nuclear. those who surrender to fear are just as capable of becoming the beast at bay. 

there are nights, too, that he closes his eyes & is so certain that he knows the melting point of every living thing —- & that he has been capable, once before, of boiling alive every living thing. he could probably do it agai.

knowing everything that he might be, he sleeps easy.

even if he sleeps in contorted positions sometimes, with bedsheets twisted around in knots around his legs — he sleeps easy, the way that people capable of fever always do.

honestly, the first time he properly understands that he holds memories from another version of himself —- he pretends it’s fever, & he tries to ignore it.

he tries to ignore everything. 

reiner has been pointing this out, recently, because he can’t figure out why bertolt refuses to want anything. 

bertolt doesn’t have much ambition. he doesn’t want to try to date. he doesn’t want to ever think about expanding outside of who he is – even in lived spaces. 

in the apartment, there are pieces of bertolt littered across the space – but most of the living has come from the reiner & annie. bertolt only presents himself as a relic; it is easier & preferable to let others expand for him. 

reiner has never called it selfish directly, but it has bothered him. reiner is so earnest that he has always been at the cusp of heartbreak, & it makes bertolt’s shortcomings a little like pressing on a bruise.

in fevered states, bertolt remembers that it was supposed to be reiner & him against the world. then he remembers that he doesn’t want to fight. then he remembers reiner’s calling him unreliable; bertolt knows that reiner had been right.

nowadays, reiner is healing some – fidgeting with pills in his pocket & then laughing as though he were shaking the world when he tells a story about his work at the braus’ farm. 

it’s been cold recently, frigid enough that breath threatens to freeze as soon as it escapes their lips. but still, reiner has laughed.

the apartment’s been cold, too – the window in the living room is too drafty, despite the make-shift curtain bertolt has set alongside it. so reiner has spent the past two nights tangled in bertolt’s sheets too & sometimes waking up on the floor.

bertolt sleeps easy. reiner does not. 

there’s something unreliable in this, too. 

nowadays, bertolt plucks at fraying blue strands at his sweater. it’s been washed too many times, & bertolt pretends that the blue is just as vivid as it was the day that he got it. 

nowadays, he & reiner sip white wine together. reiner does a poor job of burying things between them. he probably would like to see bertolt get drunk, if only to break the balance of bertolt’s neutral temperament – 

bertolt doesn’t think that reiner is yet stricken by fever. it’d be kinder if he never did get struck, but bertolt doesn’t think reiner will be so lucky.

it’s not really a fever, after all. 

it’s just old memories, old sins, & old camaraderies churning up ghosts at the nape of the neck. 

it makes some futures  feel inevitable, mostly — a difficult thing, because bertolt remembers dying & being passed down as someone’s inheritance.

he regrets dying. he had been seventeen & unsettled enough by arlert’s sacrifice that he had presumed for a moment that burning arlert would be enough. as a result, dying had been his own fault, in the first life –

he’s older than seventeen now, & the years that he has won makes him feel even more stuck in stasis than he had ever been.

it’s hard to look at arlert recently - for a lot of reasons, both past & present. 

bertolt watches reiner’s brow furrow as he struggles to reply to a message on his phone. 

he’s texting arlert now, presumably. in recent years, reiner & arlert have struck a friendly type of . . . agreement when things are soured between arlert & jaeger. 

bertolt resigns himself to difficult things. he picks up his wine glass again, & his lips hover at the rim. he makes more space for reiner’s feet beneath his legs.

reiner exhales a huffed laugh that spells out confusion. he stares at his phone & taps at its screen. ‘ i have a tendency to get involved with unavailable men, ‘ reiner says - as though it were supposed to be a shared joke, or as though it were something that should be shrugged aside.

sent:  i  have  a  tendency  to  get  involved  with  unavailable  men; from @ch0kinghalos

mostly, it feels pointed – but not enough. bertolt sucks on the side of his cheek & looks the opposite way. he is unreliable, & he tries to ignore everything. 

either way, reiner will stay the night in his bed tonight too. the drafty window in the living room shudders against a burst of winter wind. 

bertolt sets his wine glass back down & goes back to picking at his shirtsleeve. ‘ i mean, from what you’ve said . . . your deal with arlert is about both of you being unavailable, isn’t it? it’s about what you say outright, isn’t it? ‘ 

he avoids saying things outright, himself. reiner indulges him too much. 

meanwhile, kei wears skepticism against his skin like barbed-wire; it’s protective as much as it is functional enough that he doesn’t trust akiteru to communicate the worst to him & to be the bearer of bad news.

if he had, they wouldn’t have ever fractured. but even so, kei trusts akiteru with everything else. sometimes, he’s still reluctant for that.

trust is not a decision he ever wants to make.

akiteru knows kei’s reluctance to trust well enough that it makes his voice sheepish through the phoneline when he calls to tell him that their had been an accident at the gym, that everything was fine, that he had just driven kuroo to the hospital – everything was fine. but he hangs up before he can explain more; he says that the doctor is there, so he’ll have to call kei back. 

kei waits seven minutes & bites his cheek until akiteru calls back.

kuroo had probably sprained his wrist – he would be fine, but he would late getting back to kei’s apartment.

akiteru rambles sideways – he hadn’t realized that kuroo had been staying with kei most of the time that he was visiting sendai. akiteru had known kuroo & kei had been spending time together, that they had been harboring more time together . . . 

akiteru starts to hint at a question, & kei pretends not to hear it.

kei’s always been good at responding only to the things he wants to hear. it frustrates kuroo, sometimes; it sinks stones in kei’s stomach, sometimes, too – because it is far too easy to twist kuroo’s words against him & keep imagining the worst, always.

so akiteru keeps talking on the phone, & kei stopped listening, mostly.

kei thinks that the two of them, the tsukishima brothers, must be intrinsically different — they are built in different volumes and different colors of charisma. it makes akiteru infinitely more trustworthy than kei is to himself.

so kei sucks in the side of his cheek & doesn’t catastrophize – because he does well under pressure, strategizes through worst-case scenarios, & believes wholeheartedly that the world is always supposed to sink.

in recent days, he has been doing better at believing that he can stand upright even if the world does sink.

he’s not too sure what to do with new beliefs, new versions of himself, new worsts, new bests.

when kuroo tumbles out of akiteru’s car later, his arm suffocated in a cast so orange that it makes kei’s eyes burn. he smiles at kei as though he were about to laugh - as though his injury were the tailend of a joke about things that could only happen to kuroo.

apparently, kuroo’s wrist only needs to be immobilized for six weeks – kei is habituated now to think of injuries by numbers & recovery rates & physical therapies. so all things considered, things could be worse.

he lists strength exercises to kuroo that undoubtedly, kuroo already knows, & he makes a dinner that promises to be bland.

tsukishima always underseasons his cooking. he knows it, & he doesn’t feel much compulsion to make any changes to his habits anyway.

kuroo stretches on the couch & needs to shower & stinks like hospital. he pretends not to be tired, & kei drifts close enough to tap the center of kuroo’s forehead – to keep him awake long enough that he can eat & probably shower.

everything was fine, & kei starts to feel a bit as though he probably should be worrying more than he is – or else he should be fussing, or something.

he’s never been the type of person to coddle, & kuroo knows that. if he didn’t know that, then they could not come to the agreement that they have – shared meals, shared sleep, shared selves. they agreed to this, & they laid their cards on the table to negotiate privacy, publicity, & prospective futures.

but it takes kei three minutes too long to realize that he had served kuroo pork that he can’t cut on his own with a broken wrist, & kei is supposed to be good under pressure.

everything is fine, & kei feels the urge to drop his head on the table & to think of every detail he might have missed & to think of where things could have gone wrong – he tries to imagine how akiteru’s voice would have sounded if things had been terrible, & he tries to imagine how worst-case scenarios are now something he shared.

instead, he cuts kuroo’s pork for him across the table. his ears start to burn pink, & they eat without conversation.

the meal is enough to rally some of kuroo’s energy. though he no longer seems at the verge of falling asleep, kuroo still makes no effort to go shower. he mentions something about needing a plastic bag while kei is finishing the dishes, & kei realizes for the first time that he’s never broken a bone.

he’s been sprained, bruised, & dislocated.

kei has yet to break a bone.

there’s still soap on his hands when he turns towards kuroo & demands for the details about his wrist’s prognosis & care instructions & follow-up appointments.

kuroo indulges him, & kei paces. his nose wrinkles as he tries to commit dates to memory – from the corner of his eye, kei can tell that kuroo appears equal parts amused and bewildered.

kei decides to stop looking at kuroo & keeps pacing long enough that kuroo decides on an intervention.

there’s the press of his lips to his temple & then to his jaw as kuroo speaks aloud his reassurances ( ‘ i’m okay; i’ll be good as new. you’re good, & i’m good ‘ ).

kei isn’t fretting. but then again, he’s always been good at responding only to the things he wants to hear. he lets kuroo kiss him once, & it does nothing for kei’s mood — though his shoulders start to lose some of their tension.

he finds a plastic bag for kuroo’s cast, & he knows he’s not good at this. at caring for another person, at fussing, at wanting — but kuroo had agreed to this ( to all of this ) so tsukishima points a finger at kuroo as he sends him off to the washroom. ‘ you’re not allowed to do stupid things, you know. ‘

like get injured. like get hurt.

kei’s gaze drops down to the orange of kuroo’s cast. kuroo shouldn’t have been allowed to do that either, frankly.

but he kisses kuroo’s cheek anyway, & it’s a middle-ground between them.

kei relaxes some while kuroo showers, but not all the way. he’s done pacing, but he pours himself a glass of kahlua & milk. he makes a list of all his grievances in his head.

kuroo emerges from his shower, hair plastered to his head, & observes kei. ‘  stop  scowling —  you’re  such  a  grinch, ‘ he says & sounds too fond.

continuation of this; in answer to  stop  scowling   you’re  such  a  grinch. submitted by @ch0kinghalos

kei airs one of his grievances aloud anyway to be even more of a grinch. ‘ while we’re at it — i know it was my idea for you to go practice with my brother, but you don’t need to get too close to him. he’s nosy, & he’s embarrassing. ‘

kuroo threatens to laugh, & it’s enough that kei almost smiles.

even so, kei offers him a sip from his drink anyway.

it's  hardly  surprising  to  find  walker  awake  at  this  hour.   while  she  may  still  have  much  to  learn,   mel  knows  all  too  well  his  sleeping  habits  are  far  from   healthy.     not  that  her  own  are  any  better  ;   she's  been  known  to  sneak  into  the  watchtower's  living  quarters  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  on  occasion,   when  her  work  keeps  her  late.     when  most  of  those  occasions  include  bumping  into  the  agent  on  her  way  to  bed,   it's  not  hard  to  put  two  and  two  together.     john  doesn't  sleep  much  either.     if  there's  one  thing  mel  knows  about  him  well,   it's  that  he's  at  least  as  exhausted  as  she  is.     tonight,   she  finds   comfort   in  knowing  that  she's  not  the  only  one  sleepless  and  miserable.     quietly,   she  settles  into  the  opposite  end  of  the  couch,   cloaked  in  a  hoodie  far  too  big  for  her  with  the  hood  pulled  up  to  hang  low  over  her  forehead.     in  the  dark,   it  casts  enough  of  a  shadow  over  her  eyes  to  hide  the  puffy  redness  that  suggests  she  might  have  been   crying.     wordlessly,   she  stretches  her  arm  to  take  the  bottle  from  john's  hand,   tilt  it  back  and  finish  the  remnants  in  one  long  chug.

❝ i've  never  been  good  at  picking   just  one   poison,  ❞     she  finally  speaks  as  she  sets  the  empty  glass  on  the  end  table.     after  a  moment  of  digging  into  her  hoodie  pocket,   she  retrieves  a  half-empty  pack  of  cigarettes  and  offers  one  out  to  the  soldier.     ❝ before  you  rat  me  out,   verity's  trying  to  quit.  ❞     at  the  very  least,   mel's  convinced  her  to  stop  using  the  disgusting   red  filters   that  remain  in  the  stolen  pack  she  offers.    her  own  olive  branch.     ❝ how  many  lights  are  there,   then?     you  must've  figured  it  out  by  now.  ❞

@ch0kinghalos ( cont.'d )

 @ch0kinghalos      |      the   morning  after.    (   accepting.   )

𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗧  𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘  𝗛𝗘𝗥  𝗜𝗦  𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟  𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗠  𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠  𝗛𝗜𝗦  𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬  𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧,   a  welcomed  comfort  in  the  early  morning  chill.     half  asleep,   heavy  limbs  stretch  as  she  rolls  toward  the  middle  of  the  mattress.     mel  barely  registers  where  she  is  as  she  lazily  tugs  the  comforter  up  to  her  nose,   inhales  the  familiar  scent  as  her  mind  slowly  pieces  together  the  events  of  the  previous  night.     the  headache  is  dull,   but   manageable  —     shots  of   patron   had  most  certainly  been  involved,   but  she'd  long  since  learned  an  ibuprofen  before  bed  would  at  least   soften  the  blow.     it's  not  until  she  hears  the  soft  tread  of  bare  feet  approaching  from  the  hallway  that  dark  eyes  blink  open  in  the  morning  sun  rays  that  peak  above  the  windowsill  through  through  ivory  curtains.

a  deep  breath  is  inhaled  and  let  go  in  a  yawn  as  the  smell  of  coffee  wakes  her.     slowly,   mel  gathers  the  comforter  under  her  arm,   held  securely  over  her  bare  chest  as  she  rises  to  sit  cross-legged  in  a  nest  of  loose  pillows  and  sheets.     ❝ i'm  guessing  you  didn't  figure  out  the   nespresso?  ❞     she  huffs  a  laugh  through  a  second  yawn  into  her  palm  before  the  heel  of  her  hand  rubs  fatigue  from  tired  eyes.     in  all  fairness,   mel  had   mastered   the  art  of  making  the  perfect  cup  of  coffee  —     an  asset  in  her  line  of  work.  her  coffee  maker  isn't  exactly  .  .  .     beginner  friendly.     as  john  approaches,   she  takes  the  warm  mug  gratefully,   glad  to  get  some  caffeine  into  her  system  regardless  of  the  taste  —    burnt  coffee   had  become  a   comfort  drink   in  a  sense.     not  something  she  seeks  out,   but  it  reminds  her  of  a  time  when  so  much  as  a   matcha  latte   seemed  out  of  reach.     not  that  she  was  ever   fond   of  those  times,   but  it's  comforting  to  reflect  on  how  far  she's  come.

❝ thanks,   i  definitely  need  this,  ❞     she  speaks  from  behind  the  rim  of  the  mug,   the  rich  fragrance  livening  her  drowsy  mind  as  she  takes  a  long  sip.     as  john  reclaims  his  side  of  the  bed,   she  sets  her  mug  down  on  the  bedside  table,   freed  hand  raking  through  thick  hair  in  an  attempt  to  tame  the  frizz.     after  a  moment  of  contemplation,   she  finds  herself  cautiously  curling  up  against  his  side.     ❝ tell  anybody  about  this,   and  i'll  tell  val  all  your  secrets,  ❞     she  threatens,   cheek  resting  upon  his  chest  as  an  arm  slips  over  his  torso.     every  logical  part  of  her  brain  is  telling  her  to   leave,   that  an   avenger   is  the  last  person  she  needs  to  be  getting  involved  with  —     and  yet,   mel  can't  bring  herself  to  leave  the  peaceful  quiet  of  her  bed.

it was jarring to remember eren as he was the first time — armin couldn’t quite tell if he were dreaming or there were memories coming to him in error — but he remembers eren sometimes in glimpses twelve & fresh with grief. he remembers him indignant & hungry. he remembers eren at fifteen, turning his hunger into a determination to be unstoppable.

he remembers being fifteen himself, watching eren die for the first time.

he remembers being fifteen himself, scraped shell-shocked hollow & thinking that he might never forgive himself for being weak enough to make saving his life someone else’s burden.

he remembers them older & can’t remember all of it. he knows he gave his life at some point too, & he doesn’t know how.

he remembers them older again, remembers holding something massive against his spine & feeling as though he were large enough to refute religion. he remembers eren, distorted & part-way dead.

he remembers dreadful things & eren’s complicity in an apocalypse.

so armin loses track of time sometimes when he remembers things. then he comes to & realizes that he’s left the sink running too long, & his fingers are starting to prune.

he has not known eren a lifetime. they’ve known each other only for the better part of a year, & eren’s a boy who left handwritten messages on armin’s coffee cup — he’s a boy who’s never going to get his deposit back on his apartment because there is too much of himself & his paint splattered against his apartment walls.

it feels paradoxical to knit a constellation between eren & the lifetime that armin remembers before —- paradoxical to concede that parts of them might have known each other long enough to mean something, when armin ( as he is now ) keeps marveling that all of this is too fast.

& so eren comes as a headrush, comes as whiplash. he does armin’s make-up once for a party , because eren’s always liked the idea of using armin as a canvas — eren paints his eyes with mostly streaks of silver & blue like ocean waves. eyeshadow powder crumbles in eren’s bedsheets when he gets distracted & kisses him instead.

at the time, armin agrees to things he wouldn’t agree to otherwise —- things he might have done anyway, but it’s easier to make concessions when eren is so close, always so close.

they go to a club weeks later, & it stinks of sweat & someone’s spilled beer. reiner looks uncomfortable in a corner, tapping his fingers into an empty percussion against the bar surface. he keeps checking & rechecking that his phone is in his pocket, & there’s connie too — laughing as though he were made for the sake of laughter. armin supposes that connie is laughing at something eren must have said, but it’s hard to hear —- mostly, it’s hard to hear until eren is close, always so close.

eren says something stupid, like ‘ they don’t have a good bathroom to do coke in. ‘

 sent by @ch0kinghalos: they don’t have a good bathroom to do coke in. 

armin almost rolls his eyes —- mostly because it doesn’t matter, & partly because he can already guess eren’s follow-up comment. maybe if they go where private, he can do a line off armin instead.

he might have been able to argue that it was a stupid thing to say, if he hadn’t agreed once. if he hadn’t returned the favor in kind & felt as though he were sharpened into razor wire. capable & not weak anymore —- for a second, he’s characterized by focus & racing close to the sun; he is wanting for fun ( for once in his life ) & wanting for fun again ( lest it be the end of his life ).

eren says his bit & doesn’t mind being affectionate —- he kisses the side of armin’s neck three times & slots his thigh between armin’s legs & pretends it’s a casual embrace. but there’s a glint in his eye that is mean because it’s hungry, rather than being hungry because it’s mean.

armin recognizes him, recognizes the glimpses that he’s remembered. armin pushes him back against his own mattress later anyway, when they’re sober-minded enough to crave adrenaline again.

eren does not remember what armin remembers. it’s nice that way because it makes them mundane.

it’s nice that way because armin doesn’t have to figure out how to explain that a part of him thinks that maybe ( maybe ), he’s picked up in this life where he left off in the last. even if he & eren had once shared a lifetime, armin had survived past that too. he had been the worst best version of himself, or else the best worst version.

either way. fucking either way.

armin decides again ( it’s not the first time ) that he doesn’t like substance. he can drink okay, & it makes him feel sleepy like a laugh — - he indulges in that, but he’s remembering that he can’t shake the old feeling of always needing to be a relic of both hurt & honed habit.

so he quits, anyway, sometimes. & it’s not hard to do so.

eren behaves with him sometimes & thrives in the domesticity of them at their sweetest — he can cook better than armin can when he wants to showcase his strengths. he makes himself sweet, the way he chooses armin a million times —

he’s good at putting armin at the center of the world. it’s a bit all-consuming.

eren is still caught in his hunger. this world ( this life ) is a kinder life than the last, but eren is still the product of whatever culture his world has sown. people are lonely now & restless for meaning; so eren champs at the bit.

then he remembers, & everything turns undone. armin remembers more because he’s remembered longer —- he thinks that eren either wants him more for what is remembered or just hates himself into a tornado.

it’s sad, sometimes.

it’s nostalgic, other times. there had been a lot of loss then. it’s different now, but it sits somewhere inside them without a roost.

it’s hard to forget the feeling of being almost-gods, once upon a time. they are not equipped to be almost-gods. so most of the time, most of the time, they swim in some sort of tsunami — recognizing more of the past in themselves than they recognize the present.

eren is whiplash, & armin is the product of someone else’s inherited noose.

most times, eren feels like forever. his hair is a little bit of chestnut organically grown — & he is the product of whatever culture his world has sown. so he is chestnut, & it makes him home over & over again.

it just turns out that they have different definitions of what makes a home.

they keep arguing sometimes about logistics — whether they should stay put, whether they should move fast. they keep arguing about the way they talk — armin refuses to say too much about himself ( about the way things were ), & eren is feeling close to wanting to splatterpaint it against a new canvas. they argue about small things — armin keeps wearing airpods in the house, & eren doesn’t realize that he isn’t being heard.

they argue.

they argue.

eren wants to be hated, & armin just wants to fucking do something.

they argue.

they can’t argue forever. eren feels like forever, & he says : ‘ i’m fucking serious. it’s fucking over.  us — ‘

sent by @ch0kinghalos : i’m  fucking  serious.  it’s  fucking  over.  us. 

armin isn’t ready for it. he doesn’t know what he’s done this time — maybe it had been an offhand comment, or maybe it’s just the product of a list of everything he should have done better. maybe eren just wants to pick a fight. they’ve been creeping closer to a final argument for days now. this is not the first time eren has ended things with him. it’s probably won’t be the last.

even so, armin pauses as he scribbles annotations into a pile of papers that he’s been editing. the point of his pen digs a little too deep into the paper, & his eyes blur. he can’t tell if he’s tired or if he is at risk of crying.

‘ fucking great, ‘ he mutters. the crassness doesn’t feel right on his tongue, but he is tired. he recaps his pen & stares at his paper. ‘ —- do i get to know why it’s over? or do i have to wait to hear it second-hand? what exactly are you going to tell our friends about me & what i’ve done? i promise you, eren, that they’ll only be getting raving five star reviews out of me —- ‘

he glances sideways. eren is watching him, always hungry. he looks desperate rather than mean.

@ch0kinghalos ( charlotte ) : soft & sweet .

he was out of it , entirely overcome by the sleep he'd neglected by work and overthinking — about work , mostly , though there were elements of richie's own personal life that he'd pretend was as pristine as the kitchen ( sometimes ) . not even the immense ache in his back had stirred him during the short hours of rest he'd found pressed face first into sugar's desk , an ache that prohibited him from sitting without wincing as her voice roused him into sudden consciousness . " fuck — shit . . . what time is it ? "        he peels the scribbled on sticky note from his temple , slowly twists his back left to right ; something jars his neck , and richie's hand is over the tender spot with a hiss .