of course we'll be okay
jean kirschtein x fem reader / longfic / chapter wc: 11.1k
6 - knight in shining armour
masterlist
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more gore this chapter - zombie crushing, if ur into that
cringe warning too. but you guys are used to it. onward...
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“Should we wake them up?”
“Yeah. Hey, wake up.”
A familiar ceiling hangs above me.
“Are you… awake?” The mattress jolts as something hard lands beside me.
“Gah!” Jean shrieks into my ear.
Levi was right. Hange was right. Miche was right. Why the hell did I do this to myself?
“What the hell, Yay-gurr?”
Yaygurr? Oh, is that Jaeger? Jaeger, now where have I seen that word before?
“Rise and shine, Kirschtein.”
“I hate you so fucking much give me—” Jean’s voice muffles— “five more minutes leave me alone.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“That’s not yours, Kirschtein.”
“Ossie, get up. Jean’s drooling all over your pillow.”
Are they talking to me?
“Eren, what do we do?”
“Maybe we should leave them. Levi can come to wake them up.”
“Three minutes,” my pillow says, making a funny vibration. I didn’t know it could do that. It feels smoother than usual, and… fluffy. Fluffy like hay-coloured hair. Funny…
My eyes peel open on their own.
Fluffy, hay-coloured hair. Eyes screwed shut.
That’s… the head of Jean. That’s my hand in it. My hand comes off. His eyes slide open.
Stupidly, I sit up quick and face the blood-draining repercussion. “What time is it?” I seethe through clenched teeth as the world goes darker than it already is and my brain melts into a dark sludge.
“Like, five-o-five. Dirk is gonna start wondering if you guys don’t get up.”
Five?!
“Fuuuuck this,” Jean mutters behind me. “Ugh.” He shifts and his knee hits mine. “Uuuugh.” He sucks in a deep breath. “This pillow fucking stinks.”
“Hey!” I fumble for the pillow and seize the soft cloth before swiping it out from underneath him. “That’s mine!”
He doesn’t move as his head smacks the mattress.
“He’s always like this,” Mikasa calls, already halfway down the ladder. “Let’s just go, he’ll catch up.”
“Sweet dreams, Kirschtein,” Eren smirks. “Let’s go, Ossie.”
His dim, static form disappears from view as I descend the ladder after Eren.
Lucky bastard.
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It’s a little cool outside and the sun’s only starting to come out, dark blues and whites smudging with red in the way it does in the sky. The air is still crisp and damp from the night, battered between the downy wings of mourning doves that coo in solemnity from the dewey rooftops and shifting branches. They don’t dare land on the ground, where the slog toils.
The four of us stand in a line, Eren, Mikasa, Jean, and I, watching the man in front of us squat and diddle with the dirt. If you can call trying not to fall over “standing.” I shift my weight of the soft and damp soil that won’t stop shifting like a tempest beneath my feet and it strikes me that this is the man from earlier that was yelling and stomping his feet at Shadis. How brave. An inspiration. Truly.
“Uh. Mr. Dirk?” Eren ventures, nearly drowned out by a sudden flock of small birds that buffet the air above us. “We’re here.”
When he doesn’t respond, Jean speaks up. “Mr. Dirk!”
“Eh?” He raises his head, obscuring brushed-back brown hair under a green sun hat (worn for decorative purposes, apparently), and looks around in every direction before looking behind him. “Oh, you guys the helpers? Geez, you look like hell.”
Four pairs of eyes land on me at once.
Jean clears his throat. “Yeah—”
“Is that all Levi sent?” he continues, blatantly cutting Jean off. “I got more last time…”
Eren squinches his eyes. “He’ll probably—” Dirk sniffles and wipes his nose with a gloved hand, getting dirt on his upper lip— “send in more later.”
“Alright. Well, you guys can get started on, uh. That.” He waves offhandedly at a pile of fence boards, the thin mucous line on his finger gleaming in the weak rays. “Just build it up. Tell the others to, uh, weed the dirt over there if they come.” He sniffs again and spends a few seconds wiggling his nose and baring his teeth. “Yeah, thanks.”
Jean scowls, mirroring Eren’s expression. I meet Mikasa’s eyes. “Okay,” she says, and with that the four of us make our way to the pile of wood.
“Dirk didn’t lie.” Eren matches my pace, long legs making slower footsteps. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I just had a rough time falling asleep.”
He nods. “Yeah, I get it.” He raises his voice in a let’s-get-to-business way. “Anyways. Dirk doesn’t like to explain things. He probably wants us to build another garden bed with these boards.” In a neat row up ahead are the other garden beds, large, rectangular boxes that hold dirt in them like haphazard planters. “Most of the time we guess what he wants and it’s good enough.”
“It’s easy,” Mikasa adds quietly behind her (dry) scarf, and I gingerly lean forward to hear her better. “You put in the stakes at each corner and take the flat boards.” Her voice is so soft. “You nail in the boards to the stakes.”
“Oh, okay.” Yeah, I definitely got all of that.
“Easy,” Jean snorts. “Makes you wonder why the guy doesn’t do it himself. Or just plant them in the ground.”
“Don’t let him hear you,” Eren says, “he’ll throw another temper tantrum.”
This makes Jean scoff as he grabs the damp-darkened end of a board. Eren takes the other end and together they line it up with the garden bed already built before dropping it to get another. Mikasa beckons and I watch as she takes a long, wooden stake and a sledgehammer and lines up the tapered end near the far end of the board the boys just put down.
In an easy movement her sledgehammer is raised above her head and swings down right on top of the pole to drill it into the ground. Again. The vibrations land in my feet and stop when only around three-quarters of the stake is left visible. “Hoo.” She turns and wipes off her forehead, signature forehead hair strand springing back into position when her hand moves away. “Try it. There’s another hammer there.”
Me? Bad idea. By now the rest of the boards have been set up in a neat rectangular shape on the ground like a chalk outline and the boys both have their own stakes to hammer in. “Okay.”
The closest stake lies in a red-blue puddle. No point in trying to keep my hands clean, I guess. The ice-hot water ripples when my fingertips break the surface, distorting the sky behind the image of my reflection. Funny. I find the hammer Mikasa was referring to leaning against a finished garden bed, its handle just as damp and slightly gritty, and just like her, I line up the sharp edge of the stake with the last available corner.
Line it up, raise… my first swing clips off the edge. The second lands. The third… it’s getting harder to lift up. Whack — my hand slips a little down the handle with every jolt, but the stake is smooth and splinter-free — whack. A crisp, hollow crack.
I step back to admire my work. The stake sticks up at a slight angle and when I push it straight it slops back down again.
“All done?” Eren had snuck up behind me. “Good, now we can get the wall boards on. Here.” He holds out a fist. Raising an eyebrow, I bump it, and he shakes it. “No, like here. I’m gonna give you something.”
“Oh.” I jut my hand underneath and he drops in a few mildly rusty nails. I’ll take that killer bee sting now. I close my eyes for a few seconds: a mockery of true slumber. Wish I was sleeping.
“Uh, look what Mikasa and Jean are doing.” Begrudgingly, I peel my eyes open to Eren’s voice. “They’re nailing in the boards to the stakes. The walls have to be three boards high. Can you do it?”
Can I do it. “Sure, Eren.”
He nods and briefly returns my smile before ducking down to one of the stakes. “Line the other end up, and we can nail them in.”
I nod and drop to my knees a little too hard, moisture seeping through the cloth of my pants. Is this really the same boy that vowed to destroy all of the zombies? When the wood is pressed flush against the stakes he purses his lips as he aligns a nail and bends sideways to carefully tap it in until the tip is embedded far enough for the nail to stick out on its own. He shifts back, nearly falls over, regains his balance, and continues to hit it. Crazy how those two scenarios can fit into the same body. Maybe he has a split personality, because now he doesn’t look like that spitting psychopath anymore. Just… normal.
“So, uh, Mikasa,” Jean’s saying as I hurry up to put in some nails (Eren’s already on his second). “You got any pla— ahuhm. You wanna do something later?” He sticks his forearm up weirdly against the top of a stake as if to lean on it but it just looks uncomfortable. “I found a pretty cool spot.”
“The basement isn’t cool.” Jean’s face falls at her answer. She didn’t even look up at him.
“No— this time it’s really— nice. It’s nice.”
Mikasa’s weary eyes meet my own. “Let’s switch spots.”
I blink dumbly as Jean struggles to unstick a fiber from his sleeve from the jagged wood edge of the stake. “Wait, hold on…” She ignores him.
“Sure, if that’s… okay…” I look at Eren and he shrugs.
Mikasa steps in between us and when I stand she puts her steely hands on my shoulders and gets close, not letting me inch away. “Don’t let him…” her brow furrows and she bites her lip in an image of fleeting frustration, “compliment your hair.”
“Oh,” I say, neck sticking back at a weird angle. Is that supposed to be a hidden message? I don’t get her at all. “Okay.” Is she trying to warn me because she’s being nice? Is she over the scarf thing? “Sure.”
She pushes me back a little before letting go. “Now go.”
Yeah, she’s not over the scarf thing. I mutter an “okay” before taking myself to the side of the garden bed with Jean in it. He’s wrapping the unravelled string hanging from his arm around his knuckles and snaps it off with a small grunt. “Jaeger,” he starts.
“Back to work,” the boy responds over the sounds of mine and Mikasa’s hammers. “I’m not switching with you.”
Jean doesn’t say anything and I almost stop to look up. I don’t know enough around here to not look stupid all the time. Can’t wait for the day to be over.
Eren starts hammering, and eventually Jean. Unlike with Eren, I can feel every strike of his hammer to the bone whenever I happen to have my fingers on the board. Wham, wham, wham. He’s doing it way too hard; every contact makes my head want to explode.
The funny part is how Eren seems to be hammering harder, too.
“Are you done yet?” Jean snaps, his words more jarring than any hammer strike.
My pulse meets my throat; the nails in my hand fall to the dirt. “What?” Fuck, that scared me. He’s right behind me.
“Of course.”
I blink, sticky-eyed, and pull myself up. His sour look doesn’t falter until I push the metal head of my hammer hard into his chest, hard enough to satisfy a little part of me, hard enough to make him step back. “Leave me alone. I’m tired.”
“You’re tired?” he grunts. “We just started, how could you be tired?”
“What are you, my boss?” Chunks of dirt push under my fingernails.
“Huh?”
Well, fuck, he called it now. “You’re not my boss—” the hammer nearly crushes our feet when it falls out of my hands — oops — “so leave me alone.”
“What? What the hell are you on about?” Not this again. I don’t want him to talk again. I don’t want to do it again. “This is about—”
“Just!” Too loud. “Honestly, Jean, I don’t care anymore. Please don’t bother me until the week is over. We agreed on it. I really don’t wanna talk to you until then.”
Jean perks up with a new vigour. “And—”
“One—” I jut a finger between his eyebrows and he shrinks back— “week. We agreed, didn’t we, but you’re still here bugging me. What is wrong with you?” Eren and Mikasa are not hammering anymore and I feel the heat rising. “What’s wrong with him? Did he get dropped as a baby? Is that why his head’s like that?”
They stare over the half-finished wall like meerkats. “Yeah,” Eren grins, “probably.”
“I can’t believe I got stuck with you again. How does anyone even stand you? You’re arrogant and thoughtless and your breath stinks and your voice is too loud and your hair is dumb—”
Like reflex Jean’s hand flies into the bed of hay glued to his reddening head. “My hair is not dumb! And you know what, I may be all those things, but at— at least I have some value!”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I swipe the hammer off the ground and when I get back up the ground tilts. “Wh— why don’t you man up—” I point the hammer at the dark smudge on his chest from last time and it begins to sag under the weight of itself— “and say what you mean?”
He hesitates, then, “no.” Smirks. “You’re sad. I’d break your poor little heart. You might forget everything again.”
“Then I’ll be happy until I have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
The hammer slips out of my hand again and this time Jean suddenly yelps and doubles down.
Oops.
“What’s wrong?” I cover my mouth so Eren and Mikasa can’t see and I can feel my pulse through my hand and in my brain, synchronized, accelerating. “Why don’t you get to work? Kirschtein?” I clamp down on my tongue. “Tired already?”
“Jesus, Ossie,” Eren says.
I poke his head. “Come on, Kirschtein. What are you, a burden? Can you even run a mile?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Nothing else to say?”
“Shut up.”
I straighten. “I guess I have to do this board all by myself.” I wrap my fingers around a cold slice of wood and shove it toward the half-finished bed. “Hey, your body’s in the way. Better get up.”
He shoots me a glare that might kill a small woodland creature before unfolding to his full height, limp-stepping to the other side of the board, and taking the other end. Together, we push it against the stakes. I grab my hammer and we get to work.
Wham, crack, wham…
The repetitive movement, that chorus of strikes rippling through my body. The rhythm loses me in its meaningless comfort, cool sweat on my brow. It fades.
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“Hello, everyone!”
I know that voice. Looks like Jean does, too, the way he suddenly stiffens. Like a deer in the headlights. Like something’s wrong.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Kirschtein,” Eren says to the distance behind me. I push my hammer’s head against the soil as I turn to look.
And here she is, dirt-smudged (already?) and coming at us with a basket that she holds against the side of her tan, long apron-skirt with a plaid pink frill. Wonderful. We meet eyes — eye contact is strange, if you think about it — and she hits me with that joyous quirk of the mouth.
“Hi, Ms. Kirshtein,” Mikasa echoes.
“Hi.” I smile back. “Ms. Kirschtein.” I’m abusing your son. And then the guilt rolls in.
He’s going to tell her. He’s going to tell her I dropped a hammer on his foot and she’s gonna hate me forever oh stupid why did I do that why did I let my temper go I should’ve controlled—
“How is everyone this morning?”
Mikasa stands. “We’re good.”
“I just wanted to stop by to drop off some of…” she bats aside the lid of her basket with the back of her hand, wicker scraping as it lifts, and dives in, “these.” Like a magician she brandishes a small, apple-coloured ball. Shaped like an apple, too.
Eren perks up at the sight. “Woah, is that an apple?”
Well.
Mirabel sports a chillingly familiar half-smirk at the reaction and hands it off to Eren as he approaches.
“Wow,” Mikasa breathes. Even Jean spares a glance over his shoulder. Just barely, but he does.
“Ms. Kirschtein…” Eren walks over to her and is handed one of the round fruits. He cups it in both hands and stand around it like it’s made of gold. “How— thank you.”
She chuckles. “You’re welcome, dear.” Mirabel sticks her hand in the basket again and starts walking over this way, stained white shoes peeking out from underneath her dress every few steps. “I brought enough for everyone to have one.” She stops and holds one out in front of me. It’s shiny. On its crown, underneath the dead-black leaf perched on its stem, is a small bruise. The whole thing is covered in tiny black speckles like ducks or geese or something against a gradient red-yellow sky. It’s not very impressive, but… it’s for me. You really shouldn’t have done that. I’m being an asshole to your son.
“For you, Mikasa…”
I should’ve wiped my hands or something. Now there’s worm poop on it. It’s okay, though, Mirabel might slap it out of my hands.
“And here’s one for you, Jean-bo.”
Ever so carefully, I curl the fruit into my sweater pocket. It bulges out.
Finally Jean speaks. “What are you doing here?”
I look up. He’s joking, right? That’s no way to talk to your mother.
“Well, I just wanted to drop these off. And I know how much you love apples, Jean…”
The growing storm on his face must have caused her to trail off like that. “Yeah, well I don’t want them!” He goes to push away her offering, but too quickly; it tumbles and falls in an arc out of her grip.
Did he just—
“Whoops!” It lands on the ground somewhere near me.
I know he’s an asshole. Yes. But to do that to his mother, Mirabel fucking Kirschtein, the sweetest woman I know, the woman that treats me with nothing but kindness. Is there something I’m missing? Is she beating him in secret or something? Or do I need to drop another hammer on his foot, except on his head?
“What the hell,” Eren grumbles next to me before scooping it up. His eyes blaze with an emerging glint of light as the sun drags up. “What was that for?”
Jean’s hand is still outstretched from when he — I’m assuming — knocked the fruit out of Mirabel’s hand. His mother’s hand. Without a morsel of remorse on his face. “Whatever. It was an accident.”
“Accident my ass.” Eren either doesn't see or doesn’t notice Jean rolling his eyes. “Are you okay, Ms. Kirschtein?”
“Nothing to worry about,” she says a little too brightly, quickly, before putting her hand over Eren’s that holds the extra apple. “Please make sure this gets to Jean-bo.”
“Uh. Yeah.” He’s biting his tongue. “Of course.”
“Thank you, everyone, for being friends with—”
Jean clenches his hair. “Just get out of here!”
Marco, why?
“Everyone, I hope you have a good day.” The words almost spill out on top of each other and it’s just sad now as Mirabel pays us each her goodbye — a pat on the arm for Mikasa, a shoulder tap for Eren, a hand on the head for me. “I—” she stops in front of Jean. “I’ll see everyone later.” She slips away.
Eren, apples still in hand, hovers over Jean. “Mind telling us, once again, what the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps as soon as she’s gone. “She’s your mom, for Christs’ sake!”
“Mind your own business, would you?”
“Wh—”
“Shut up, okay?” Jean rises to his feet and throws his hands up, suddenly appearing much larger. “Are we gonna do this thing—” he waves at the nearly-finished bed— “or not?”
“Jean.” Though quiet, Mikasa’s voice commands the confrontation. “Don’t you know how lucky you are?”
That makes him stop. It all goes flat — like Jean really is lucky. Like Eren and Mikasa don’t have what he has. I guess I don’t, either.
“Whatever,” he finally blurts, ducking down to the ground. “She’s gone anyways. Doesn’t matter.”
“Stand up, Kirschtein.” Eren speaks in a gravelly low, peals of danger squeezing through his teeth.
Freezing in mid-squat, Jean snaps, “what’s your problem?”
Eren looks around, then back at me. “Here.” He shoves both apples in my direction and my hands grab them quickly because it looks like his patience is running terribly thin. He doesn’t stop; in one smooth movement he grasps the front of Jean’s shirt. His fist is soon covered by Jean’s as he snaps to attention and my organs sink through each other.
“Get your dirty little—”
“I said stand up!” Eren shoves his opponent onto his feet, voice carrying throughout the garden, shoes skidding on dirt. My feet freeze to the dirt and mud, my blood coagulating into something similar, piling in my head, pulse. His fingers flex where his hand rests near his thigh, ready to swing. “You bastard!”
Jean’s eyebrows go sad but his face stays wired in a snarl. Eren suddenly stumbles back as if pushed.
Something flat touches my shoulder, pumping my veins with more lead, but it’s just Mikasa. She pulls me back to face her. “You should stay back.”
“Auch!” Jean yelps. “Fucker! Ah!”
Bodies tumble to the ground behind me but I’m fixed standing here, staring at Mikasa.
“Stop smiling at me like that.”
Oh. I stop smiling. It makes my face feel better, at least. “Do they,” I point at the writhing duo just as Jean buries his fist in Eren’s stomach, “do they do that a lot?”
“Yes.” She takes her hand off my shoulder and looks around. “Don’t worry. It always ends before Eren gets hurt. Just wait it out.”
Okay, Mikasa. Reassuring.
“I’ll— fucking— kill…”
Eren finds some kind of leverage and slams Jean between the ground and the newly-finished garden bed. It rattles under their weight. We built it pretty strong! “You really don’t know how lucky you are, do you?!”
“Get off my dick for once!” Jean heaves, pulling them both off of the planks and onto the ground. Both grunt. “You just can’t keep to yourself, can you?” He bares his teeth, painting a harrowing portrait of a horse. “You piss me off!”
Eren graces his statement with a loud throat noise and smashes his head against Jean’s. Both detach from themselves and splay on the ground.
Mikasa dashes forward, an uttered “Eren?” her only warning before hooking her hands underneath his armpits and damn near lifting him to her height. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“If you’d let go of me—”
“Eren, how many fingers am I holding— how many fingers is she holding up?” She swivels on the spot, pointing the dazed gladiator in my direction. “Hold up your fingers!”
“Uh.” I put up three fingers on one of my hands, though he probably can’t see it behind the apple I’m still holding.
“I don’t have a concussion, let me go.”
By the time I figure out that I can turn my hand around so my fingers are in front of the fruit, Eren’s already freed himself from Mikasa’s grip. “I’m fine,” he says, rubbing the crown of his head under mousy hair. “Can’t say the same for horseface over there.”
‘Horseface over there’ is on his hands and knees. Mikasa seems far too occupied with Eren to care, and Eren just doesn’t.
I don’t really want to, either. My teeth pinch the inside of my mouth and I have to stop myself from biting. This is for Mirabel. This is for Marco. This is not for Jean.
I put the boys’ apples in my pocket and take the apple Mikasa dropped on the ground before preparing myself.
“Jean?” Silence. “Jean, are you…” I try to siphon a smidge of sympathy into my tone as I inch toward him, “okay?”
“Fuck off.”
“Okay.” I tried. If he’s suffering, he can do it alone.
“Stop— stop that! Leave me alone. Mikasa.”
“Eren, how old are you?”
“Stop it, okay?” Eren stomps next to me. “Let’s go finish the job, Ossie.” Then, venomously, “Don’t bother with him.” There’s a tender, red spot blooming on the right side of his face. “What?”
I shake my head and walk back to avoid his scathing gaze. Maybe I should give him the hammer next.
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“Hiii. Ossie. Wake up.”
My feet are covered in mud.
“Open up, okay? Sleepy Joee… Here comes the choo-choo…”
Sasha. You’re a gift. Even at this table full of people you still concern yourself with me. I shut my eyes.
“Oye!” Someone smacks my back and I recoil like a loaded spring, unsticking my head from the cafeteria table. “Huh!”
“Connie, what is wrong with you?” Sasha tuts. “Come on, eat this soup so we’ll be nice and full of nutrients! Eh? Aaaa.”
I open my mouth but take the spoon as she dips it in. “Mmph.”
“Good?”
I shoot her a thumbs-up and pry the utensil out of my mouth. Our apples are long gone, and they were delicious. Sasha ate hers before meeting with the rest of us, core and all. God only knows where Mirabel got a hold of them, because from what I’m told, most fruits are more or less nonexistent.
It’s a real shame that Jean’s too much of a mule to take his. I turn the last apple remaining around in my pocket, polish it. He’s sulking, food untouched, holding up his head in a way that covers the big red spot on his forehead and looking at everything except the people sitting around the table.
Beside him Marco sports this crooked grin as he swallows some of his own nondescript slop. “Hey, you got a mark on your forehead.” He runs a finger in a crisscross pattern across his own, spoon dangling from hand.
Sure enough, I can feel the grooves when I touch it — it’s from the table. “Oh.”
“You look like a roast chicken, Ossie.”
“Thanks, Sasha.”
“These tables are killers, man,” Connie groans, lifting his arms to reveal the crisscross pattern beneath. “I got my fingers stuck once.”
I don’t let my grin get too big. “Really?”
“I remember that!” Marco covers his mouth as he swallows. “I had to pull your hand out for you.”
The buzzcut cradles his knuckles. “Damn near pulled my fingers off, too.”
“You need to be a special kind of idiot to do something like that,” Sasha scoffs.
“I was a victim, okay?” Connie cries. “I wasn’t trying to get stuck.”
“Hey, remember that, Jean?” Marco nudges his friend with his shoulder. “When you had to pour baby oil all over Connie’s hand?”
He rolls his eyes, muttering a quiet “don’t remind me.”
“And we had class next, so we had to run.” Marco leans forward on his arms and turns to Jean again. “Man, isn’t that what we have next now?”
He nods.
How does one like Jean even befriend Marco, let alone be best friends? They’re immensely different. Marco has feelings.
“I wonder what he’s gonna yap about today,” Connie sighs. “Oh, did we tell you yet, Ossie? We still have to do school and stuff. Even though there’s a literal zombie apocalypse. Isn’t that bullshit?”
“Education is important, Connie,” Marco sighs, running his palm on top of his head.
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“Attention!”
The classroom clamour simmers to a hush as the teacher announces his entry and carries his bald head to the whiteboard. A familiar bald head. A spine-chilling bald.
“It’s Shadis?” I hiss to Sasha sitting beside me, idly sipping a Five Alive juice box.
She looks up through her lashes, a fleeting image of innocence. “Huh? Oh.” The juice straw is revealed to be completely chewed up when she unlocks her jaw and pulls it out of her grinning mouth. “Yeah, apparently he’s, like, a certified elementary teacher.”
Shadis? Certified to teach some fourth graders algebra, no less? “You’re kidding.”
Lips pursed, she shrugs exaggeratedly. “I’ve never seen him around kids—”
“Braus! Anything to share?”
“No sir!”
Shadis — Shadis! — clears his throat. “Today, class,” he begins in a stiff, teacherly tone, turning his back to write on the board, “we will be learning about causes of the first world war. Before we start.” He looks back at us, grouped around the same kind of folding tables Hange had in their room. On each one is a large sheet of chart paper and a marker. Ours is dark blue and scented. “Does anyone have any questions?”
If I squint, I can see a classroom in here: big windows facing the outside with abstract sticker decals, hanging fluorescents (switched off, of course), walls painted light blue. But it’s too empty, too formal, to be anything normal. Too sleek. There’s not enough furniture. Not enough grease.
Connie stifles a giggle across from me for god knows what reason this time.
“Something to add, Springer!” Shadis yells at Connie’s back.
“No sir!” he calls back without turning.
“Okay, then.” He points at the word on the board — MAIN. “Now.” There’s a thin, telltale waver in his voice.
“Hey, Ossie, look.” Connie grins and slips a little square piece of origami at me. Folded frog. He pushes down on its worn-down back end and slips his finger off, making it spring through the air before landing on its feet near Marco’s end of the table, directly left of me. He quickly cups his hand over it so Shadis won’t see, smacking his ring loudly against the table in the process. Connie giggles, prompting another scathing over-the-shoulder glance.
“Something to share, Springer?”
This time he turns around, putting both hands on the back of the padded metal chair. “It was him!”
“I don’t want to hear any more from you.”
“But—”
“Springer! Face the front.”
Now it’s Sasha’s turn to chortle and bump into me as her best friend grumbles, turning his seat so his back is to us.
“Now, does anyone know what the M stands for? Christa?”
Connie’s chair clashes with the one beside him — the one Jean sits on. He clicks his tongue, but keeps drawing in his sketchpad. What is he drawing?
“Militarism.”
“Very good!”
Chewing on his lip, Jean darts a quick look across the room, back at his notebook, and then back at the same spot behind me. Then he looks at me.
“Militarism or the arms race was a very big contributor to the rising tensions between the countries of Europe.” Chalk clicks against the board. “The competition to have the best army escalated the situation…” something small drops near the front “… greatly.”
I narrow my eyes. Who’s he looking at? I twist in my chair. There’s Eren, Armin… Mikasa? When I look back he has that killer glare on.
“How about the A? Any idea what that stands for?”
Jean snaps his sketchpad shut. It’s small enough for him to fit in his front pants pocket, but he has to lean back and sort of shimmy it in.
“Anyone other than Christa?”
Marco puts the frog in his fist before raising it.
“Yes, Marco.”
“Is it…” his Adam’s apple bobs up. “Aggression?”
“No, but good guess. Anyone else?”
He pouts and gives me a small shrug before tossing the frog in front of me. It’s a cute little thing with drawn-on googly eyes. Wonder who made it. I put its worn paper rump under my finger and flip it just like Connie did, landing it near Jean, who narrows his eyes at me. My growing smile fades. He jerks his head at Marco.
Huh?
Seemingly frustrated, he waves me off.
“A. It stands for alliances. The forming of alliances like the Triple Entente and the Triple Alliance increased tensions. It meant that a fight could quickly escalate into a big war.”
Jean leans back in his chair and mutters something to Connie. A moment later, the bald boy puffs in failed subtlety and stares at me before Jean swats him.
I take back the frog. Something’s happening.
“Next? Anyone?”
Jean’s eyes wander back to the table of three.
Mikasa raises her hand.
“Ackerman.”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Yes,” he sighs. “Anyone else? Christa.”
I watch Jean’s eyes trail to the door like a lost puppy and flip the frog.
Shadis sighs. “Imperialism. Colonization was happening everywhere. This is important because it puts a strain on resources and influence.”
The frog lands upside down on Marco’s leg. I can get it if I reach under his arm, but he starts bouncing his leg and the frog hops and slides down the slippery denim slope. No!
Just in time, I trap the frog against the side of Marco’s thigh by smacking it.
“Uh?” The shaking stops.
The inside. The inside of his thigh.
“Uh, Ossie?”
My neck dampens. You fucking idiot! Move!
In an unceremonious motion I swipe the frog and dump it onto the table. Wow, I wonder what Shadis is teaching us? World War I? Fascinating! I’ve never been so interested! He’s a natural teacher! Fuck me! I just can’t seem to take my eyes off of him! Neither can Jean, it seems, from me! What’s his problem now?
The table wobbles and jitters for a moment, then stops, the source of the movement coming from under Marco’s spot.
“Lastly, there’s nationalism. Everyone thought they were the best.” Shadis sniffs. “I want you all in groups. Upup!” he yells when chairs start squeaking. “I’m choosing them. Not you. Sit down.”
Chairs screech again as their owners rescind their actions.
“Now.” He sifts through a binder on the table, finds a page, looks at us, then back at the page. Scribbles something. “I’m calling the groups out, so find yourselves and sit together. Jaeger, Armin, Springer.”
Uh oh. Connie and Sasha groan.
“Ymir, Christa, Hoover.”
Who? I still have a chance with Sasha, right? Or Marco? No, wait, I don’t want that. Do I?
“Annie, Braun, Braus.”
Oh fuck.
“Marco, Kirschtein—” and I swear to god he pauses— “Ostrich.”
Sasha and Connie leave to find their respective groups, dropping the temperature at our table by a few degrees. Oh, Shadis.
He suddenly looks up behind us. “Oh, Ackerman, you’re back.”
A door shuts.
“Just join Marco’s group. Actually.” As he thinks, he stands perfectly still. “Partner up with Marco. I don’t want a group of four.”
“Okay,” Mikasa says. “Let’s sit over there.”
“Uh, sure.” Marco shoots us a final apologetic look before leaving.
Well, there’s fifty percent of the problem.
“I’m giving you one of the four points in MAIN. In your groups, you need to expand on your point with regards to important figures, events, agreements, anything, in bullet-point fashion.”
Tentatively, I look at my partner. He’s twirling the thick marker in his fingers.
“There’s books up here and paper on your desks. I’ll tell you your topic when you get up here. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
Jean puts the marker down and levels me with his eyes. “I’ll get the book.”
I nod. This is going to go great, I can smell it. I run my hands along the cool chart paper. No, this will go fine. Am I leaving sweat marks on the paper? I rub my hands on my knees. Why am I like this?
“We have nationalism.” The table rattles as Jean tosses on a textbook. “Do you have good handwriting?”
It could be worse. It could be someone I don’t know. “Uh… I don’t know.”
He frowns. “How… nevermind. Just try writing something and we’ll see.”
Write? “Write what?”
The marker comes skittering toward me and I catch it against my stomach just before it falls off the ledge of the table. “Just write something. Don’t tell me you’re illiterate.”
I guess that was a stupid question. So I pop off the cap (blueberry scented, not bad), adjust my grip, and swipe the surprisingly intact tip on the paper without thinking much of it. Just muscle memory.
Don't tell me you’re illiterate.
The swoops and edges of the letters flutter like flags on the sheet. Since when was that my writing? I’ve never seen it before. Are you sure that’s your handwriting, Ostrich Jarman?
“Well, that’s better than mine,” Jean grunts. “You gonna help me or what?”
Whatever. I sidle out of my chair and place myself in Connie’s still-warn one next to him after turning it to face the table, away from Shadis.
“Nationalism,” he mutters. He flips through the pages a few at a time, stopping every once in a while to mouth the words he’s reading. Yeah, sure glad I can help, Jean.
On the table in front of us are Marco and Mikasa, heads together over the book as they read. Every once in a while Marco nods and reaches out to jot something down. They work so synchronously together. Well, it is Marco, after all — anyone who can deal with a guy as difficult as Jean probably knows how to work with people. Kids, too.
“Earth to Ostrich.” Jean’s hand waves past my head, its owner sporting a somehow bored yet annoyed look. “You gonna help or just stare at Marco the whole time?”
“I’m not staring at him,” I say, a little too quick, a little too harsh.
“Yeah, can you write this down?”
His dry-looking finger ends on a wall of text with the heading Country Pride. “That’s an entire paragraph.”
“That’s crazy!” Connie yells for whatever reason from across the room.
Jean shrugs. I sigh. “Alright.” Guess he’s done enough for today. I can get the main points out of this while he goes and jacks himself off or something. I’ll start with the definition and work from there.
Blueberries and alcohol fill my nose, navy strokes on white dizzying my head. Copy, copy, paraphrase. What does this mean? What are its effects to society? How?
When I pull myself out, Jean is in his own daze, staring half-asleep across the room.
“And I’m the one staring at Marco.”
He jumps a little, as if startled, and rolls his eyes. I hope they fall out. “I was just zoning out.”
“Do you have a crush on him?”
“Huh?!”
I shrug, scanning my handiwork. I don’t know a thing about Jean, but it seems possible for him.
“No. No, I don’t. Don’t even bring that up again.”
I smile. “How come you keep looking over there?”
My question is met only with a scoff. Now Marco’s bent over the table to reach the farther parts of the paper. Reaching further, straining… He stands up to reach further.
“If anything, it’s you that’s obsessed with him.”
The blood in my chest warms. “No way.”
“I see the way you look at him.”
“Like a friend? Well, I guess you wouldn’t know.”
He frowns. “Very funny.”
I follow his gaze back to Marco’s table. He wasn’t lying to me, was he? What a ridiculous question. He would tell me that he was my secret half-brother for a potato chip. Maybe he really is into Marco, from the way he bugged us back when Marco was gun training me. But Jean’s always like that, even when we were doing the garden beds with Eren and Mikasa.
Mikasa?
Oh.
Oh!
I’m pretty stupid!
“Why are you smiling like that?”
I cover my grin. This is so immature. “Are you in love with Mikasa?”
Immediately after the words hit a bloom of red erupts under his cheeks like he was hit by a paintball and he sits up as if electrically shocked. “No!” Then, carefully, “stop asking me dumbass questions.”
“It’s okay, I won’t tell.”
“I’m not—”
“I promise you I won’t tell.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” A piece of chart paper crumples under his palm. “Except maybe your lust for Marco.”
“Lust?” If only I could laugh away embarrassment. “Really? Because you’re so innocent about Mikasa.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“Neither did you.”
In a stunning act of brilliance, we shut each other up. I try to say something.
“Two minutes!” calls Shadis, ghosted by a trace of his usual bellow.
Jean plays with his jaw. “How’s the thing going?”
“I think it should be okay, I got almost everything on the page…” Is it worth the effort to argue with Jean about my perceived feelings right now? “How strict is Shadis?”
He scans the page: the word NATIONALISM in all caps at the top, assorted bullet points going down the page in two rows. “He’s fine. I think. Well, we’re done.”
What was that? Oh, you’re very welcome! Thanks for being such a supportive group member. Now we can simmer in silence as I flip through the waxy pages of this lobotomy-inducingly boring history textbook and you stare at your impossible love.
It’s hard to explain, but the thought of those two together makes my skin crawl. Jean’s probably thinking the same thing about me and Marco. Jokes on him.
“Kay.” Shadis claps once, one of those dry, airy claps you get by cupping your hands in a certain way. “Wrap it up. I want everyone’s papers up front. Return the textbooks, too.”
“Right.” Jean’s voice is small amidst the sound of scraping chairs. “I got the paper.”
I nod and take the textbook, and we both get out of our seats. The front of the room is mostly obscured by a crowd; Jean rolls ahead as I linger. Did everyone come up here at once? Bum, bum, bum, goes my fingertips against the cover of the book, a tiny horse galloping its pitted and barren terrain. All alone, tiny horse.
“Uhm.”
The voice slinks through my spine, electrifying the skin laid above; the spit I’m swallowing comes back up and touches the dry parts. Poorly suppressing a cough, I look up behind me.
“Oh. Hey, sorry.” Bertholdt tries to chuckle. He really does look bad. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—” I cough again, damn it, he didn’t give me a lot of room to recover— “I’m fine. Sorry. Just surprised me.” I smile.
“Right, um.” He purses his lips and stares at something behind me. “I just wanted to say— apologize. I wanted to apologize. If I was being pretty weird back then.” His eyes don’t stop for a minute. “Back when we first met, technically, for you at least. Uhm.” He clears his throat. “So, sorry. I was just pretty tired, that’s all.” The statement ends with a small rolling chuckle, which I return.
“No, it’s fine, we were all— I mean, I don’t really think about it. Not that you’re not, uh…” Oh god, what have I set myself up for? “Not that you’re unimportant or anything. It’s just that I don’t care.” Jesus. “I mean, I don’t not care about you. I just don’t care if you acted weird.” My smile turns pleading. “If that makes sense—”
“No, no, I definitely get it. Thanks.” He clears his throat again.
I nod. “Okay, I’m gonna.” I motion to the book, which was thankfully locked in my arms or else I would’ve dropped it when Bertholdt spoke in my ear. His voice is so quiet, so he has to.
“Oh, right. Yeah.” The smile he bears is too wide for the occasion. “See ya.”
I think that took years off my lifespan. Even worse, I have to walk into that crowd. Sasha, Connie, where are you? Even Jean will suffice, I’m not too scared of him anymore. I search heads and walk further. Are my steps too far apart? Am I slouching? Am I breathing weird? Where…?
A hand lands on my shoulder and the warmth is so familiar I almost don’t jump. “You lost there?” Marco!
“No.” I straighten. “Well. Where do I put this?”
Marco looks at the hardcover, smiles, and pries it from my grip. His hand comes closer; he just has that big grin on as he inches the book toward me and slots it somewhere right beside my head, big arm blocking out the light, pinning me, face to face. “Right there.”
Right there? Have we ever been this close together before? Have his eyes always looked at me like that?
A breathy “thank you” breaks out of me, but it’s not me talking. Marco almost beams, and it lasts forever, right here, in this little space.
But then he puts his body away and we’re just people again, standing in a crowd of teenagers doing some shitty history assignment. Jean catches my eye from somewhere and I can’t even look away, because he’s right.
He is so violently right that it makes me want to tear my skin into little strips and hurl them at him.
I do like Marco. I want his strong arms and his kindness and his rough hands and warmth and the funny way he laughs. I like his hair and how he pays attention to me and his crooked teeth and the freckles on his face like little stars, so many little stars. I want to hold him in my arms with his head tucked in the crook of my neck so his pretty black hair tickles my face and tell him it’ll be okay forever and shield him from the world. Oh, god fuck. Fuck!
Please, where did all this come from?
“Well.” He inhales. “Better get back to our groups.”
“Yeah.” That’s really my voice? It’s never sounded so detached before.
So I watch the backs of his feet and somehow find myself back in the cold chair beside Jean. Today’s face is: disgusted?
“You really are head over heels for him, huh?”
“Whatever. Jean.” What kind of name even is that. Who carries a kid in their womb for nine months to call it Jean. “Go ahead and tell everyone if it makes you feel better.”
Shadis starts talking about something in the distance. I let his words slip through me like an eel down an oil pipe.
“Ostrich.”
What does he want now? I side-eye him. Today’s look is: well, that’s strange, there must be a malfunction in the system. He looks determined. Inspired, daresay. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“How about a deal?”
⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹
I should know better than to wager with the devil.
It’s bullshit. This double wingman plot of his is destined to end in disaster. It’s in the stars.
“Help me get closer with Mikasa, and I’ll help you with Marco.” Sure, man. Then both of us will end up unhappy.
But then again, there’s a chance, right?
No!
It’s a rigged game. Jean is much closer to Marco than I am to Mikasa, so I have to put in more work to get closer to her.
But I’m a lot closer to Marco than he is to Mikasa, so doesn’t that even it out? Maybe he’s just that desperate? I mean, who goes to me for help? There’s better people he could ask, right? Besides, I don’t necessarily need to get close to her to get her with Jean.
No, think about this rationally. Even if I do have feelings for Marco (ha!) I don’t need Jean to get with him. If I even want to.
Being with Marco…?
No! No. I can’t think with my heart. That’s bad.
“Back out if you want to. It’s not a contract deal…”
I mean…
“You know I’m risking just as much as you are, yeah? Even if I did say anything, you could do the same! Hey, are you even listening?”
What’s the worst that could happen? He outs me, I out him? No, the worst that could happen is him actually ending up with Mikasa. Poor girl. Well, if Marco likes him enough, he can’t be that bad.
Am I rationalizing? No. Right? If I wanted to rationalize, I would.
What’s the worst that could happen, really?
“Oi. Ossie.”
“Yes, Connie?”
“You’re staring at me weird.”
So I am. “Sorry.” I tear my eyes down to the table. I’m here again. Mmm, canned something for dinner. Good thing it’s almost too dim to make out the details of it now because I might lose my appetite. “Just zoned out.”
“I’m just glad the day’s over,” Reiner groans. “Today’s load was rough. Just shovels and shovels of dirt.”
He looks rough, too, smudged brown everywhere, eyes turned down as if looking up would take too much effort, voice gravelly. Bertholdt looks much the same beside him, except it's harder to see the dirt pieces in his hair. That has to be uncomfortable.
“Can’t you guys clean yourselves?” Reiner points his hollow-looking eyes at me and I flush, clutching the metal bench somewhere they won’t see. “I mean, I’m not saying you should in a rude way, I’m just wondering… if it’s possible for you to shower.” That really came out wrong. The anticipated embarrassment never comes — I’m just getting tired of this. “Because it looks really uncomfortable, and it’s… sorry.”
“No.” Reiner closes them. “No— it’s okay. I get it. But we don’t get to that often— he pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs— “unless it rains or something and we get some.”
“We can’t go near the rivers, because that’s where the zombies like to go,” Bertholdt adds quietly, like an echo.
“Doesn’t it suck?” Connie releases an exaggerated sigh, yanking the somber mood from the conversation. “Now the room’s gonna stank.”
“Oh, shut up. We don’t like it, either.”
“Hey, you guys,” rings a familiar, warm voice, and I find myself turning like a flower faces the sun. Marco! “Why are you sitting here?”
“We’re just waiting on Sash,” Connie says. “She got distracted by a bug and lost her spot in the food line.”
Jean emerges from behind Marco. “Let’s sit down.” He puts down his food before taking the spot next to Bertholdt, making Marco sit next to me. That definitely wasn’t on purpose.
“Soo,” Jean begins. “Aren’t you going out tomorrow, Marco? Who’s in your squad again?”
“I am.” His ring flashes as he brings his hand up to his mouth. “It’s me and the girls, I think. Mikasa, Sasha, Annie. And Ossie!” He suddenly turns to me.
“Oh!” Is it obvious I’ve been staring? “That’s… cool.”
“It’s your first time going out, isn’t it?” Jean cocks his head, innocently, tauntingly. “Ossie.” The way he says it, drops the word like a bomb.
“H’o yeah?” Reiner grunts.
“Levi’s letting you out already?” Squeezing his fingers through the table holes, Connie bursts, “that’s so soon!”
So reassuring, Connie. “I’m sure he… has his reasons.”
“It’s alright,” the hay devil pipes up again. “She’s with Marco, after all.”
The aforementioned snorts. “Don’t be like that, Jean. We’ll all look out after each other.” He rests his hands on the table, one near my arm, and I get a good look at it. “Besides, it’s a good beginner's mission. I can see his reasoning.”
Jean only shrugs. “You know how many things can go wrong.”
What is he getting at? Marco makes some sort of agreeable noise in his throat. Is he trying to make him worry? He’s only making me worry. And everyone else miserable.
“Finally,” Connie says, breaking the silence. “Sash!”
I can’t see her at first behind a pillar, but she’s coming.
Shimmying his fingers out of the table, Connie stands. “Let’s bounce.”
⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹
“What was that all about?”
Jean and I trail the group as we make our way to the fire exit. Guess they like to eat there. It’s getting darker, reflections on the tile fading with the sunlight. Less people walk the halls now.
“What was what about?”
You know what I’m talking about, I would say, if not for the fact I’m not one hundred percent sure he does. I cut into his path so we’re almost touching as we walk. “The things you said back there.”
He keeps staring forward. “I’m just acting on our deal.”
I strain to both keep my voice down and project enough so he can hear me. “The deal I never agreed to?”
“It was just a preview.” Now he leans down. “I’m showing you what I’m made of, Ostrich. I’ve known Marco my entire life. I’m your best bet.”
The silhouettes in front of us are unyielding. Just how much do I know about Marco? Pretty much nothing, right? Actually, I know as much about him as I know about everyone else.
“You’re thinking about it, right?” He smiles. “How about this? We just give it a try for now.”
I slow my pace and he does the same. “No commitment?” What am I doing?
“No commitment.”
“I can back out if I want to.”
“Anytime.”
Okay, well, if it’s just a preview, if anything goes wrong, nothing happens. Yeah.
“But,” says Jean, “if I show you what I got, you have to do the same.”
That makes sense.
“How about this? As soon as we get to the fire exit — right now, Mikasa’s on watch with Christa — try to separate her from Eren. Just one time.”
“How do you know she’s with Eren?”
Exhaling, he returns to his full height. “She always is.”
This is crazy. Please, please realize this is crazy, Ostrich, you don’t even know these people! “So.” Jean looks down as I speak, hands shoved into pockets. So the ‘big secret’ is out, huh? Just like that? “Since we’re being transparent with each other. Is Eren your… competit—”
“Pshhhh. No way. Suicidal bastard. No.”
“Sounds like you’re in denial.”
“Look. If you’re gonna be doing this thing with me, we have to be on the same page. You get it?”
I scoff. “Weren’t you the one that said I’m a burden and a leech and that you didn’t care if I died at all just yesterday?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “That was before I realized your worth.”
“My worth as your pawn?”
“As a… business partner.”
You’re insane, boy. “No, you’re right. We should be on equal footing.”
“Exactly.”
“Apologize to me.”
“Huhp?” he huffs shortly, like a hiccup. I keep scanning his face. His jaw moves as if chewing, but there’s no gum. Then he shoots a quick glance at the group. Weighing the options in his head. “Sorry.”
“Huh?”
Forget daggers, he stares guided missiles at me. “I’m sorry, okay? For calling you worthless.”
“And…?”
He does the chewing thing again. Does it feel good to eat your words? “Everything else.”
“Deal’s off.”
“Fuck else do you want me to say?” he hisses. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole? I only told you the truth.” The last few words come out in his normal tone; he ducks down and lowers his voice. “You wanna get with Marco or what?”
“You’re not very good at this.”
He rolls his eyes. Not even a week in and I’m already up to schemes with arguably the sketchiest, least bearable personality in the whole group over the feelings of another personality I’ve known for an entire… what, three days?
“We’ll see.”
⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹
“Sit here. Sit!” Sasha smacks her hand against the grate stair, making it rattle. I wait until she stops before sitting, making sure the bottom part of my sweater covers my ass before doing so. She immediately looks overhead. “Connie!”
I didn’t notice it before, but the fire exit actually has stairs going down. It was too dark to see back then. There’s a really nice view from here, sandwiched between Sasha and Jean, if I sit sort of sideways with my back to the wall. Not a cloud is suspended in the sky; just a huge block of violet slowly fading into gray and orange and blazing into a warm heat just before above the horizon, a perfect and immiscible gradient.
The stairs rattle as Connie stomps down to sit on the other side of Sasha. Huh. How safe is this thing, really? When’s the last time it’s been maintained? What’s the maximum weight this thing can hold before its rusty bolts come loose and we all go tumbling?
“Enjoying the sunset?” grunts Jean, who probably has to lean down in a funny way to get this close to me.
“How far down does it go?”
He smacks his lips. “Huh?”
“The ground.” My eyes start to burn from looking at the sun so I crane my head up until the edge of the building looms over the top part of my vision. “How far away is the ground?”
“Uh, what? Like, three, four stories.”
A cold sweat condenses onto my neck.
“What’s wrong?” He shuffles around, rattling the grill, a fragile little thing made of thin metal.
“Stop.” It’s a wonder I can get that word out at all; every muscle is suddenly locked into place.
He sighs. “You can’t keep staring at the sky. You need to look down at some point.”
“You’re so right,” I say to the top edge of the building.
“We’re not gonna fall.”
My throat is almost too dry to talk. “Yeah.”
“You do realize you need to look down if you wanna walk on this thing, right?”
My eyes seem to cool down a bit when I close them. “Is it high up?”
“Yeah.”
My nails scratch against the brick behind me. “I’m not gonna fall?”
“Dude, no. Just get it over with.” He gets closer again. “You have a mission, remember? You can’t back out now.”
Deep breath. Just a quick look, and we’ll be okay. One quick look—
don’t fucking move.
“You’re fine, Ostrich. This thing’s bolted to the wall.”
“Fantastic, Jean, thanks,” I rasp, clutching the wall harder. We’re really high up. I can’t distinguish the little green dots on the ground as the emerging weeds they’re supposed to be through the grate. Guess I will seconds before my head meets the ground and my bones crush under their own weight. What’s Sasha doing? Her back is completely turned. Everyone else is on the main balcony part. What’s Marco doing? My limbs feel strained, as if they’ve been wrung out over and over again like dirty rags stuck to my frame.
“Will you just relax?”
Can someone make him shut up? I can’t keep doing this. I’m getting nowhere. I need to move. Stand up. Stand up.
“You’re not really helping your image here.”
I wish I can physically slap him with just a look. “Help me, then.”
He lets his neck slack, making his head drop forward a bit. “What, you want me to hold your hand, or something?”
“Just stay still.” I grab his scalp — closest to me — and straighten my legs to stand.
“Ow— hey!”
“Please stop moving.”
“What are you…”
Behind me, Sasha suddenly pffts. “What are you guys doing?”
Jean turns his head toward her, further tangling his stands in my fingers. “Damned if I know!” Tears prick the corner of his eyes.
“Jean’s… helping me stand up.”
He cries out.
She quirks her eyebrow. “Ask me next time.”
Shit, did I offend her? “Sorry, Sasha.” I smile. “Can you still… help me?”
“Nah, this is funnier.” My smile drops. “Look, Cons!” She twists in place to tap his shoulder or something but ends up knocking over her fruit cup, which rolls over to the edge of the balcony. Nobody really moves as it slips underneath the railing and disappears. As it falls it slowly rotates until its abrupt demise, sugary contents spattering on the ground in a dark stain. “Aww…”
That’s going to be me.
“Owowow!” Jean grasps my fingers. “Let go!” He’s loud enough now to be heard by the others on the main balcony. Even now some peer over the railing.
Mikasa’s looking, too. Just a passing glance, delicate like a crisp petal ready to fall at the slightest breeze. A fleeting chance.
“Look,” I say lowly, bringing my head closer to Jean’s. I guess I kind of pulled him, too. “Mikasa's watching.”
“Ugh, so? Ow!”
“So?” This can work. This can work! “I don’t need to get closer to Mikasa.”
“If this is your way of saying— ow!”
“Shut up and listen, okay?” I glance at Sasha and Connie, who stare at us like meerkats, then back at my captive. “Look, I…” Say it. “Like an act. I can play the damsel in distress, and you play the… the knight in shining armour. Do you get it? All we have to do is convince Mikasa that you’re a decent guy.” And not the brat that you are. I grit my teeth and try to emphasize my words the same way you talk to a toddler. “And she might fall for you.”
The attack on my fingers stop; in a few seconds Jean takes his hands out of his hair entirely. He sneaks another glance at the balcony. “How? She’s not even looking anymore.”
Just think, man. “Uh.” Metal, holes, railing, stairs, beautiful sunset. “I’ll go up and say I’m going to the bathroom or something, right? And when I come back down, I’ll trip, and you catch me.”
He shakes his head even before I finish. “That’s gotta be the dumbest thing to come out of your mouth so far, and that’s saying something.”
“Do you have any better ideas, Jean? You want me to waltz up to her and hand her a business card with your name on it?”
Scoff, eye roll. Real classy.
“Or I could not help you at all.”
“Fine!” He holds out both hands. “Fine. But if it doesn’t turn out we’re never doing your dumbshit idea again.”
Ungrateful bastard. On the bright side, I’m too pissed off to be worried about dying as I pound up the stairs, hand scraping on the dry metal railing. So what, he wants my help, but he doesn’t want to follow through on any of my plans? What, is he too good for me? What an ass. Maybe I should sabotage him so Mikasa won’t fall for him. Well, it’s not like she would do something like that anyways, right? I feel a little bad now.
“You good there, Ossie?” Reiner calls. I’m on the main platform now and he sits with his back against the banister, away from the sun, with a root beer or something in a can which is nearly totally engulfed in his large hand. Bertholdt is beside him as always, legs pulled up to his chest as he watches the ground keenly. “Jean wasn’t bugging you, was he?”
Huh? My temper melts through the metal gauze. “No, I’m alright.”
“He’s a rascal, that one,” Reiner grunts. Disturbed of his observations, Bertholdt covers his mouth and looks the other way. Yeah, he’s a rascal, for sure.
“Yeah. Well, I’m just gonna go in for a while.”
Reiner shrugs.
“For— okay.” I swing through the door. Guess I don’t need that excuse anymore. Halfway through the darkened corridor the door slams shut behind me, and the air goes still, willing me to go go still, too. No matter what time of day it is, it’s always pitch dark in here. Always the same sound of a distant waterfall, the same dusty smell. Makes me want to lose my feet and melt into it. Disappear. Just a vapour among vapours. I don’t really want to die. I’d just like to become a part of this corridor.
The inner door clicks, the sound echoing off the painted concrete walls like a scream, and the solace rips away. A sliver of light breaches the ground and walls as my heart nearly tears out of its vessels.
Shit.
The person doesn’t stop approaching and soon the inner door clicks shut. Guess they didn’t see me. Say something. It’s too dark to see and too narrow to avoid them.
Something blocks my voice from coming out and the panic swirls up inside with no way of escape. Say something. Say somethi—
The fateful moment of impact. The person is big and wears something soft but not soft enough to cushion their greater momentum against me.
“Ah!” I’m pushed back but compose myself with a few skittering steps.
“Oh!”
Marco paces back. “Holy— is that you, Ossie? Are you okay?”
“Marco.” Thank god it’s him. That could have been anyone and it’s Marco. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“What are you doing, standing in the dark like that?”
Pretending I’m dead? His voice rings until it fades. “I was just… thinking. Sorry. You wanted to get through?”
“Yeah, just going out… you okay in here?”
“Yeah.” I just said I was. “Uh, actually, I’ll head out, too.”
“After you.”
Right. The thought of Marco’s body against my own suddenly plagues me. No. Behave. We walk silently and the hall is once again disturbed by light as I push open the outer door, holding it open for Marco. He smiles and nods before passing through and somehow that’s even better than a thank-you. I grin at the back of his red sweater.
“Oh.” Reiner points. “Don’t forget the stick.”
Riiight. I tear away from his trail to put the stick in its rightful spot before following Marco back to mine, now a ways behind, iron grip on the handrail.
From the stairs, Jean meets my eye, and I nod. Two more steps and I have to fall. Now that it’s come to this, how confident should I be that Jean will actually catch me? I descend another step. Fuck, I have to do this now. Yet again I don’t think about the consequences until it’s time to do it. He’s expecting it, bristling, bunching up his legs. Cool.
It’s either this or I back down, right? There’s no contract. I don’t really have to do it. It’s such an idiot move, anyway, even if it means admitting that he was right this whole time. It’s only gonna make me look stupid.
I hook one heavy foot behind the other and yelp at the metal grate hurtling toward me and brace for an impact that never comes. My face ends up buried in soft, red cloth.
Wait, red? Isn’t Jean wearing black today?
“Ossie? You sure you’re okay?” asks Marco.
Jean is standing behind my benefactor and stares stupefied over his shoulder at me, arms spread wide, braced to catch an object vaguely shaped like me, one step off. Too slow.
Fuck.
⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹
jesus christ the number of timeskips i use. maybe 10k words was a bad idea for a single chapter. too late
its annoying because google docs can be set to american or british english. and i use canadian english which is like a malformed and neglected child of both. so its a lose/lose no matter what i use. "colourized" how do you like that huh. its okay though because i usually know what i'm talking about.
final notes: thanks for reading as usual <33
masterlist 5 - invert umbrella
