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philliamwrites · 1 year

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SWYAATL 15: Dear Comrade

Pairings: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: alcohol, young adults being horknee, depression at the end

Summary: “Yeah, I am. I’m glad I found you.” You mumble the last bit, plucking the leftover flowers from your dress until you hold the branch of the forget-me-not between your fingers. “And even though we’ll go our separate ways next week, I’m glad we’re friends. It’s weird … you’re someone I don’t want to forget, Eren Jaeger.” You offer him the flower. His eyes, now a dark green, are nothing like the soft blue—they’re different in so many ways, but you like them. Eren takes the flowers from you, looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and settles for putting it in your hair, behind your ear. “I won’t just disappear, you know,” he says, an exasperated tone swinging in his voice as though he’s talking to a three-year-old that’s still struggling with object permanence.

Notes: [01] || [14] | [16]

Words: 9k

A/N: Here we go, folks. Arc 1 of the story is over. I've already started working on Arc 2, and I've already noticed how fast-paced it is compared to what I've written until now. That being said, I can't tell when updates will resume, but I'll take a break from uploading for AoT for the time being. Once I'm back in the new year, I hope I can bring you a more regular upload schedule, but no promises.

Thank you everyone who's been on this ride for me, I can't thank you enough. Especially for the overwhelming love people show for Emil (I'm so surprised there are only asks about him on Tumblr than on the other AoT characters).

15: Dear Comrade

Commander Erwin Smith is a tall, impressive man. You’ve grown used to a handful of the other boys looming over you, but nobody manages to quite tower as Erwin does, making you feel small and insignificant even though you’re supposed to be the most important figure tonight. He’s wearing a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. With arms the size of logs and shoulders wider than the Walls, nobody dares to stand in his way.

It immediately sobers you up. Now you wish you’d at least worn a jacket or something.

He gives you an elegant, curtsy bow, offering his broad-palmed hand on which a wooden chip rests. “Might I ask for this dance, Maienkoenigin?”

“Uhm”, you say very intelligently. Sir, yes, Sir, is what you should have said. Instead, you blurt, “Should you be out here at all?”

Erwin doesn’t appear bothered by your question—then again, you think more is needed to throw the Commander of the Survey Corps off balance than a skimpy dressed, tipsy woman just fresh out of Cadet Corps.

“Should I and my men not be allowed to join the revelries from time to time?” he asks in return.

You can feel your face ablaze with shame. “I—I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to, Sir.”

Erwin chuckles. “At ease,” he says. “I must admit, I am out here not only for pleasure. I came to have a first look at the cadets. The Survey Corps is always on the lookout for promising new recruits.” He waits patiently for you to finally settle your hand in his, and turns his head to see which song the band strikes up next. On the other side of the plaza, the two string musicians each begin playing different songs, stop, and laugh at their error. When they bow their instruments this time, there’s harmony and the crowd moves in tandem; amongst all the other faces, you spot Marco spinning Mina, and over there is Ymir forcing another tankard of beer down Christa’s throat. It makes you giggle; you want nothing more than to join you friends on the other side of the plaza and dance with Mina and Marco and kiss them both, and find Jean and tell him how much he means to you and how glad you are that he is part of your life—oh, and the Shiganshina three, the Golden Trio, there’s so much you need to tell them, especially Eren, oh Eren—

“I imagine everyone must be excited about graduation,” Erwin says, easily spinning you out of the path of a boisterous couple kicking up their legs in every direction, and successfully yanking your thoughts away from your friends and back to him. “Has anyone voiced their interest in joining the Scouts?”

Your thoughts go right back to Eren, who burns so bright it blinds you whenever he speaks about the Scouts. Mikasa will follow him, of course. There is little you imagine she wouldn’t do for him. And where Mikasa and Eren go, Armin follows. You feel as though with those three alone, the Scouts are about to obtain a whole squad.

“Some,” you say, and try hard not to flinch when Erwin places his hand at the small of your back, leading you through the crowd. He’s an experienced dancer, and you wonder if that’s a hiring requisition for superior ranks. “Though opinions are split, and not in the Scout’s favour.”

You feel Erwin’s gaze on you. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. But then he gives a small, crooked smile, and says, “When is it ever? That doesn’t stop us from doing what we have to do.”

“What’s it like?” Your voice is so quiet, you doubt he hears your words. “The outside?”

Erwin is quiet for a moment. Even though his hands don’t stop to guide you for a moment, he feels as though his mind is far away. In the end, he settles for, “There’s still so much I don’t know,” but he speaks it in a whisper as though they are meant for him alone.

The dance goes on and on; everything spins so fast: the music, the laughter, the warmth from living people. Girls and women spin in circles, their hair—black, brown, scarlet, and metal gold—flows like banners in the wind, and amidst them, silver flashes like a shiny coin. Like the moonlight flashing between dark clouds and illuminating the endless, dark night.

You trip over your own feet, staring in that direction. The only reason you don’t fall is because Erwin catches your arm in time, steadying you. “Is everything alright?” he asks, but it seems very far away. You tear away from him and dive into the crowd in search of what you’ve seen—who you have seen, because there is no mistake that only one person wears hair woven from silver starlight.

Dizzy and disorientated, you dart through the crowd towards the fountain, shouldering people aside, using your knees and elbows as weapons. Cheers and calls follow you which you ignore—you want to be invisible to them all, to throw away the crown and run back to the meadow, run across it barefoot hand in hand with—

The band’s song haunts you; the melody, their voices—it is the only thing that you can hear while running towards him.

O let the earth a-tumble, love, And humble you withal, Keep running. It’s up to you now, Up to you now, love to

Love run, love run For all the things you’ve done Run for all the things that drum Run for all those pages thumbed

Love run, love run For all the things we wished we’d done Run from all you know that’s coming Run to show that love’s worth running to.

When you emerge from the crowd, panting and with your heart trying to break free from your chest, no one with silver hair is waiting for you on the other side. It shouldn’t surprise you, yet you only realise now how much you’ve hoped, how much you’ve depended on the possibility that somehow, by the smallest chance, Emil would appear and surprise you. It feels as though you are losing him all over again—you are an open wound that you have no idea how to close. Tears burn behind your eyes, suddenly the emotions are so overwhelming you feel like you’re drowning in them.

You need to leave. As fast, as far away as you can until you can breathe again, until it doesn’t feel as though you are missing one of your limbs.

You turn and dash towards a narrow side alley—and bump into a solid, hard back. Before you can mumble an apology, a very familiar voice brightens the dark pit in your chest.

“Hey, what’s up?” Eren asks.

You tip your head back to look up at him. Eren used to be your height when you started out in the Cadet Corps, but now he looms over you, almost a whole head taller. Something about seeing him right now takes the wind out of your sails—you’ve searched for a haven and while you haven’t arrived where you want to be, maybe you’ve arrived where you need to be.

“I—I’m okay. I’m okay now,” you respond finally, unable to look away from Eren’s face. He dips his chin a little, as if sensing there is more you’re about to say, but when nothing comes, he gives you a crooked smile and turns to disappear back into the crowd. Something about the sight of his broad shoulders retreating closes up your throat, wedges sharp needles into your mouth.

“Stay,” you say, catching his wrist, feeling his hot skin. Eren stops, turns slowly. “Don’t leave. Please.”

He looks up from your hand to your face and studies it; studies your face for the answers to the questions flickering in his eyes. They pierce through you, hook right under your skin. Usually, you’d hate to lie bare and vulnerable before someone, but it’s different with Eren. Until recently, there was only one person whose thoughts you cared to know—what they thought about you, specifically. Now, Eren has become that person.

Slowly, Eren reaches for your hand and untangles it from his shirt. Your heart drops to the bottom of your stomach, but before you can say anything or move away, he takes your hand and leads you away from the feast through narrow alleyways, hidden away from prying eyes. It’s quiet here, and deeply dark. A few couples have sought that secrecy and are together now, joined at the lips, pressed close against the walls. Another song has begun, but slower.

Eren slows only when you reach the gates leading outside Trost District. He leads you off the path to where the grass fields stretch like silver patches under the moonlight. Immediately, you notice how much easier breathing is out here in this quiet, calm place. You take off your flower crown and drop it behind a crate, and hope you will never have to wear a crown again.

You find an empty spot down by the riverbank and sink down into the grass, the earth still warm from the day’s sunlight. You’re surprised. For the loud mouth Eren is, he can be quiet when it matters. The only light source comes from a big campfire people have put up near the water. It casts Eren in a warm glow that softens the planes of his face. He looks younger—like on the day you met on the first day of training when his eyes looked big for his face. His eyelashes are still stupidly long, stupidly dark—curving like the crescent moon above your heads. Light stubble runs along his sharp jaw. You wonder how his skin would feel to the touch.

You’re certain Eren is aware of your eyes on him, but he keeps staring ahead unblinkingly, waiting for you to fill the silence. He’s putting your back against a wall like that. You don’t know how much longer you can run. From him, from yourself—always towards the past as though Time itself slows to let you play, stealing the hours and turning the night into day.

You let your hands roam over the soft grass, and feel your fingers stumble over leaves and petals.

An idea blossoms.

You pluck the flowers from the ground and begin to weave a crown.

“You know, this means affection and admiration,” you say and show Eren a purple-crowned dianthus. He blinks. “And this,” you continue, presenting a lilac aster right under his nose, “means I will remember you.” You pick up the next flower. “This is Forget-Me-Not.”

“Let me guess,” Eren says. “Don’t forget me?”

“So smart.”

He grins. This grin makes something deep inside you unfurl, like a petal opening up its secrets to the sun.

You return to your craft, fumbling with thin stems and fragile pallets that break off and tear under your touch. Eren watches you struggle for a good minute. When he speaks, the amusement in his voice is like soft wind grazing through leaves. “Need help?”

“I’m good, I’m just—” The stems unweave and slip through your fingers like seams coming unknitted. The sweet smell of crushed petals fills the night. Nothing you do makes the crown hold—and then you realise why.

You let the flowers fall into your lap and blink at them, feeling your eyes grow heavy. “He never showed me.”

Eren tilts his head towards you.

“He never taught me,” you repeat, a quiver to your voice, “how to make flower crowns.”

Eren clears his voice. “Who…?”

“Emil!” You stretch out your hand, showing off his ring, grinning. The crimson sphere flashes almost threateningly like spilt blood.

Eren is quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on your slender finger and the ring. “I’ve heard you mention him,” he finally says, turning his head away. His side profile seems suddenly like a stranger’s, sharp and uninviting. “Who is he?”

“My fiancée,” you announce proudly.

He turns his head so fast and sharp in your direction, you hear a bone crack in his neck.

“You’re engaged?” he asks, but there is a very unfamiliar, un-Eren like tone to his voice that makes you look at him.

You don’t think Eren has ever looked at you like this. As though you are a glass of water and he is dying of thirst, but unable to reach you. As though you are the only patch of cool, green grass in a never-ending stretch of parched, grey land. You have only seen yearning on Eren’s face when he talks about killing all Titans and going outside the Walls. It makes you feel as though you are an exposed nerve, tender and raw to the slightest touch. If Eren would reach out right now and put his fingers to your skin, surely you would combust.

His eyes seem to reach deep into you, hooking into the words buried deep in your chest, and yanking them out painfully.

“He’s dead,” you say quietly, your grin slowly fading. “I think … otherwise, he would be here. With me.”

Eren’s voice is barely audible. “Was it in Shiganshina?”

You nod, and nod, and keep nodding, feeling a thick lump in your throat. You bring your knees up to your chest, your hands wedged in the fabrics of your dress to keep them warm. Only when Eren puts his jacket around your shoulders, you notice your body is shaking, but the moment his warm knuckles brush your collarbones, the cold inside your body dissipates. The fabric is warm from his skin, the collar smells like him. You duck your head, trying to bury yourself inside his jacket.

“You know, not one day passes where I don’t miss him so much it feels that I might die,” you say, quietly, more to yourself than to him. “I don’t know if you’ve ever felt something like this.”

Eren holds your stare. If the silence is bait, you don’t take it. You inhale, slowly. You smell food and the riverbed: mud and spice, with the slight after-taste of human pollution. And sweetness; ripe flowers ready to harvest for bees and insects.

“My Mom,” he finally says after a long moment. He stretches out his long legs, then reconsiders and pulls his knees back up to his chest, mirroring your position. “I saw my Mom die five years ago and the first days after that were like hell.”

You nod. You know what that feels like. Glancing over at Eren, you think about taking his hand and squeezing it—to show that he is not alone in that grief, that you know his pain. But when you look at his hand, you find it already balled into a tight fist by his side.

Weirdly enough, it makes you smile. Of course Eren would not allow himself to break. Instead, he steels his grief into rage, into desperation, into resolve.

“We’ve lost … so much … we’re trapped like fucking cattle ready for slaughter.” Eren forces a deep, shuddering breath inside his lungs. You can see the veins along his arms stand out, and suddenly your mouth goes very dry. “I can’t live like this. Nobody should live like this.”

“You have big dreams, Eren.” You bump into his side, feeling his strong arms hard like walls against yours. He doesn’t budge. “Maybe you’ll set us all free one day.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “If we ever bring down the Walls, I’ll definitely line up to throw a dynamite or two.”

“And then? What then?” It is a strange feeling, talking about a future you know won’t exist, but there is a quiet place in your heart that tries to imagine a life with no Titans, with no boundaries. It would look like a small Haven of trees, brushes hung heavy with glossy berries, red and purple and black, and small trees hung with oddly-shaped fruits you’ve never seen before and that would be home—you take a sharp breath in. Gone is the smell of green, of living and growing things, of dirt and the roots that grow in dirt, and as you blink away the picture that’s fading behind your closed lids, slipping from your mind even though you have no idea where it has come from in the first place, you hear Eren still talking: “… and after Armin and I see the ocean, I don’t know. We’ll explore the world. Find all the places in Armin’s book he always talks about. And then … I’ll pee in every major body of water on earth?”

“Oh my God.”

“You asked.” Eren bumps back into your side and you nearly topple over. When you straighten yourself, he’s looking at you curiously. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he turns away, smiling to himself.

“What?” you ask.

“I see you’re feeling better.”

The question surprises you enough that you need two takes to open your mouth and give a response. And then you understand, he’s been trying to cheer you up. Nothing outlandish. Still, it’s like a died-out ember in your chest rekindles a fire.

“Yeah, I am. I’m glad I found you.” You mumble the last bit, plucking the leftover flowers from your dress until you hold the branch of the forget-me-not between your fingers. “And even though we’ll go our separate ways next week, I’m glad we’re friends. It’s weird … you’re someone I don’t want to forget, Eren Jaeger.”

You offer him the flower. His eyes, now a dark green, are nothing like the soft blue—they’re different in so many ways, but you like them. Eren takes the flowers from you, looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and settles for putting it in your hair, behind your ear.

“I won’t just disappear, you know,” he says, an exasperated tone swinging in his voice as though he’s talking to a three-year-old that’s still struggling with object permanence. “After graduation, whenever our old Corps meets, I’ll annoy the shit out of you. Don’t think you can slack off in sparring just because I’m not there to kick your ass.”

“Last time I checked, I kicked your ass.”

Eren throws up his hands. “Because Mikasa was distracting me!”

You wave his excuses away, then stave off a yawn. The feast doesn’t show any signs of stopping yet, but you know the second your head hits the pillow, you’ll be out cold. Which is exactly why you lie down in the soft grass, looking up at the vast starry sky above you.

“If you fall asleep, I’ll leave you here, you know,” you hear Eren say, your eyes already closed.

“No, you won’t,” you say, and just to be sure, you hook your fingers around one of his belt loops. Something suspicious like a snort comes from Eren, but his warm presence beside you remains until you fall asleep, dreaming of juniper berry bushes and trees greener than any you’ve known.

The land is bare of grass, of plants, of life. It is a vast, never-ending wasteland of rolling sand hills where every grain twinkles like little stars no matter which direction you turn. It is an alien, strange place that feels familiar at the same time. You’ve been here before, but something is missing. Someone.

His name lies on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t remember the feel or sound of it. Sometimes, you think you see someone standing on the horizon, but when you catch up, that person is gone like a mirage. The frustration builds, the taste filling your mouth with copper. When your eyes spy the person once more, you decide to call out: “Er—”

“You see someone more interesting than me?” asks Emil by your side.

You blink, dazzled, and when he offers you his hand, you take it. It feels the same as all those years ago, but nothing about him is the same. Or is it? You close your eyes for just a moment, and he smiles at you, his boyish face still young and round. “There’s no one more interesting than you,” you say, because that is the truth. “It’s just this place. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Sandy hills and a never-ending starry sky stretch before you to all sides. There’s something else, something very bright and very big, but whenever you try to look at it, it disappears, and you wonder if maybe you’re just imagining it.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” says a voice that isn’t Emil’s. You find that Emil has disappeared, and you are now standing with Eren. It’s the same game: he looks different and at the same time he doesn’t. Older, but also still how you remember him.

“Where’s Emil?” you ask, turning. You see Mikasa with Armin, and Jean who is holding a sleeping Marco in his arms, brushing away ink-black curls from his forehead. Something about Marco seems strange though, as if half of his side is turning into sand.

“What are you talking about?” Eren says. “This place is for the living.” His hands are cool on yours, and you are aware of them in a way you have not been of Emil’s as he turns you away from Marco’s sight.

You narrow your eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

He leans close. You can feel his lips against your ear. They are not cool at all. “Wake up, [Name],” he whispers. “Wake up. Wake up.”

You bolt upright in bed, gasping, hair plastered to your neck with cold sweat. Your wrists are held in a hard grip; you try to pull away, then realise who is restraining you. “Eren?”

“Yeah.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed—how have you gotten into a bed?—looking tousled and half-awake, with early-morning hair and sleepy eyes.

“Let go of me.”

“Sorry.” His fingers slip from your wrists. “You tried to hit me the second I said your name.”

“I’m a little jumpy, I guess.” You glance around. You’re in a small bedroom furnished with dark wood. By the quality of the faint light coming in through the half-open window, you guess it’s dawn, or just after. Your uniform-jacket hangs neatly folded across the back of a chair. “How did I get here? I don’t remember…”

“You fell asleep right next to me.” Eren sounds amused. “Mikasa helped me get you to bed. She also changed your clothes. Thought you’d be more comfortable here than on the cold ground.”

“Wow. I don’t remember anything.” You run your hands over your face, feeling your swollen cheeks from a long, deep slumber. Maybe you’ve had more alcohol than you’d expected. “What time is it, anyway?”

“About five.”

“In the morning?” You glare at him. “You’d better have a good reason for waking me up.”

“Why?” Eren asks, leaning back on his heels, grinning. For some reason this is the exact moment your brain notices you and Eren are sitting on the same bed, and you are very close to each other. He must have changed his clothes before waking you up—gone is the rumpled black sweatshirt and in its stead Eren is wearing a simple white military shirt. “Were you having a good dream?”

You can still feel cold sand between your toes, see stars twinkle before your eyes. You think there were certain people in your dream, people you knew, but the details are blurry. “I don’t remember.”

He stands up. “We’ve got our rifle rehearsal, remember? Shadis sent me to kick your ass out of bed. Actually, Jean offered to wake you up, but since it’s five in the morning, I figured you’d be less cranky if you had something nicer to look at than his horseface.”

“Meaning you?”

Eren’s grin grows tenfold. “What else?”

You throw a pillow after him, but Eren is already up and about, and out of the door before you can grab something else.

Just for a moment, you consider falling back into your bed and pretend the next couple of days don’t exist. Somewhere on the other side of the compound you hear Shadis’ roars, and decide to get up pretty quickly.

Twenty minutes later, everyone stands ready. Rifle in hand, half of them visibly fighting their hangover, the rehearsal goes as smoothly as planned: Sasha stumbles twice, and Samuel and Connie go down with her. For a moment, Shadis looks like he doesn’t want to say anything, but then he simply states you’d be all dead if those rifles were loaded, and proceeds to procure a bucket of water to douse them like filthy street cats.

It gives you a small break where you set out to find Jean. Compared to three years ago when around four hundred soldiers enlisted, only half of that number remains today. Many of them are foreign faces, and you doubt you’ll ever find friendship in any of them since your group has pretty much remained the same ever since the first weeks of trainee days.

On the other side of the plaza you spot Mikasa and Eren. She’s plucking at his clothes, which he is invisibly annoyed about, but it is a different type of annoyed than when he’s around Jean—it seems more long suffering while endearing at the same time, and for a moment you can’t help but just stare at them and realise for the first time that they look good together. They’ve known each other since childhood, and Mikasa is rarely apart from Eren. You wonder what that would be like, to know him in and out and say things that make him laugh, make him blush—just like Mikasa is doing right now, but then from this distance you see her mouth from something that looks like your name and you stare even harder until she must feel you staring like a physical presence and turns.

Catching Mikasa’s eyes, you grow even more convinced that they are discussing you, that Mikasa can read you like a book, can see through to your very soul, and is telling Eren all your secrets. As if you are shouting this aloud, Eren turns at that very moment and looks at you, breaking into an elated smile as he waves his rifle dramatically in the air, and you smile back, waving yours in return, and receive a clap to the back of your head from Shadis for your troubles. As you rub your head in pain, you see Eren laughing in delight, and that alone makes it all worth the trouble.

“Bam,” comes Jean’s voice from your side. When you turn, you see him lower his rifle. “I just shot you.”

Changing the rifle from your left to right shoulder, you follow him back to your positions to restart the rehearsal. “You know I’d come back and haunt your ass. And don’t point it at people, it’s rude.”

You can practically hear Jean rolling his eyes when he says, “Whatever.”

Back in your line, you follow the steps and march in tandem with everyone else. In front of you, Jean continues quietly enough for only you to hear, “We practised rifle handling for this one thing; what a waste of time. It’s not like we’ll ever use them against other people.”

“I guess they’re just making sure to cover the whole syllabus. I don’t like thinking about having to point that at someone else.”

“You sure as hell won’t have to,” Jean says, whipping around, bringing the rifle across his chest to his other shoulder. You do the exact same, staring up at the back of Reiner’s head. From the stiffness of his broad shoulders, you can see he’s very tense. Maybe he’s taking this rehearsal a little too seriously.

You only get the last bit of Jean’s sentence because he unobtrusively pokes you in the back with the end of his rifle. “From what I’ve heard about the MP, you’ll have your occasional thug but actual casualties are very rare.”

“Seven more days,” you whisper back. “Will you be okay without me? Who’s going to pull your ass out of trouble?”

“I’m pretty sure Marco’s got that covered.” Jean turns his head, probably on the lookout for the culprit in question. You go very still, but from the lack of Jean going on, you’re pretty sure Marco has still not found a good time to talk to Jean.

“You know, there’s still time to reconsider,” you say in just the moment the rehearsal reaches the stage where your fake rifles go off and make a deafening bang noise.

Jean turns his head, the ‘Huh?’ clearlywritten on his face.

You pretend you didn’t say anything. Maybe things are progressing the way they are for a reason.

From the 344 recruits who started out at the very beginning, only 218 graduated.

On the evening Shadis announces the Top Ten trainees, nobody is surprised to see the ten best lining up before your instructor. You feel immensely proud that both Jean and Marco have managed to hold their ground. But to you, standing in the back between Mina and Armin feels right.

All you care about is the celebration that’s right after that—the last evening you’ll spend with the majority of your friends before everyone heads off. Understandably so, Jean’s constant reminder to ‘not enter the boys’ barracks after’ gets more and more frustrating.

“Why?” you say through a mouth full of steamed potatoes. “Are you guys comparing dick sizes?”

Someone who listens in on the table across from you chokes on their spit.

“We want to have a guy’s night, what’s so unusual about it? You girls do … whatever you girls do. Have a pillow fight or whatever. But don’t come into our barracks, got it?”

True to the nature of your friendship, obviously you barge into the boys’ barracks after the graduation celebration is over. And what timing you have. Swinging the door wide open, you enter at the exact moment Jean declares proudly that in a life or death scenario, he’d totally be down for a threesome with you and Marco.

You freeze. Everyone in the room freezes. Marco unsuccessfully hides the bottle of booze behind his back. It tips over and he shrieks as red liquid spills across the wooden floor. Multiple boys boo at him, and you realise they’re all drunk.

Jean raises his eyes to yours, and you trade a look that feels like a dare. Somehow, you can’t really take a hold of what expression to make—it ranges from confusion to slight disgust to mild interest at how exactly the logistics of such a scenario would look.

Realising there’s only one thing you can do right here, right now, you take a step back and close the door again, willing to forget this ever happened. Three steps is all you’re able to make before the door flies open again, rough hands grab you and manhandle you back into the room.

“You better not tell anyone we got booze here, or I’m gonna dunk your head inside a latrine,” Daz hisses. He’s the opposite of intimidating at any given moment, but now, wobbling on both feet while pointing a shaky finger at you, even a newly born puppy has more bark to it.

You discreetly swipe away the cool spit he’s graciously sprayed over your cheek.

“So, that’s the reason girls are not allowed?” you say, putting on your best Ida-performance to show how disappointed you are. “You’re going to hoard all that and don’t invite us?”

Across the room, Samuel shrugs. “The more people know, the easier Shadis might catch wind of what we’re doing here.”

“Yeah, he’ll skin us alive.”

“I think,” you say, very slowly, “we should get everyone in here and have a final blast before tomorrow.” That didn’t get the reaction you’ve expected, but it is met with less resistance than before. “And we can also,” you add, wiggling your eyebrows, “maybe play some games? Make it exciting.”

Not ten minutes later, the boys’ barracks is cramped. Every open space around the low centre table has been taken by someone as they sit huddled together, shoulder pressed against shoulder. You’ve organised more tankards from the kitchen, and now you’re sipping from the sweet meed Daz has organised somehow. After asking him for the third time and him refusing to explain, you’ve given up and accepted this might remain the greatest secret of Cadet Time.

“So, what games did’ya have in mind?” Samuel asks after the initial excitement has settled down while everyone is nursing their drink. You can feel Jean’s body pressing against your side, clearly interested in what you’ll come up with.

“I got these,” you declare, and present a dozen wooden skewers you’ve helped yourself to, “so we can play the King’s Game.”

A couple “Oooh”s and “Aaah”s later, everyone who wants to participate has settled around the table. Since it was your idea, you can be Queen first, and you’re not here to hold hostages. While swirling the mead in your tankard, your first order is, “Number 3 has to give number 5 a kiss on the cheek.”

When Connie and Samuel rise at the same time, the rest giggles and whistles, but the boys don’t back down. Alcohol is always a nice confidence booster, so Connie makes a big show of smacking a wet smooch onto Samuel’s cheek, earning them a round of applause for that.

“Okay, my turn.” Connie downs the rest of his beverage, then smacks his lips. “I want number 4 to give number 1 a piggy back ride.”

Reiner stirs, showing his skewer with a number 1 carved into the wood. When Christa climbs to her feet, wobbly like a flagpole swaying in harsh wind, the room erupts with laughter.

“I can do it,” she mumbles to herself, her usual pale face a canvas of red—the culprit of it sitting right next to her and cackling like a maniac. Over the last years, Ymir has perfected the art of getting Christa drunk before anyone can notice and stop her. It’s quite funny to her until Reiner offers to give Christa a piggyback instead, and all Hell breaks loose.

Next to you, Jean scoffs. “Like animals,” he says, but when you look up at him, he has a goofy smile on his face. You can’t say how much mead he’s had until his glassy eyes drop down to you and he leans into your space, arching over you until your shoulders touch.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he mumbles, his breath soft against your cheek. You feel the pinprick of tears at the back of your eyes and blink against them. He can’t pull that shit the night before you go your separate ways.

Before you can reply, someone is tugging at your sleeve. When you turn, somehow magically a new skewer with a new number has manifested in your hand.

“Seven’s gotta sit on Nine’s lap,” Sasha whispers conspiratorially. She points at you, then across the table, where Eren is looking at you with a very weird expression. “By the King’s order.”

You whip your head around and find Reiner grinning at you. Jean’s presence immediately vanishes when he leans away, looking sickly pale all of a sudden when he stares somewhere else, his jaw held tightly shut as if he’s just bitten into glass.

This is a bad idea, without a doubt—but the other, much louder part of your brain thinks challenge accepted.

You crawl over to Eren who eyes you as though he’s just waiting for the hidden dagger to slash forward and cut him open, and throw one leg over his lap. Good balance so far. You sit more on his knees than on his thighs, which is enough for the first round of whistles and unnecessary remarks from your comrades. Eren has found a very interesting spot somewhere behind your shoulder that demands his complete, undisturbed attention.

“Kids, you gotta do it properly,” Reiner says, and with a slap to your back, he pushes you flush against Eren’s hips. You choke on your spit. Eren yelps.

Reiner grins. “Exactly like that.”

“Okay, okay, we get it.” You try to weasel some space between you and Eren’s pelvis, but the only place of leverage is his arms. It’s different from hand-to-hand-combat practice where touching bodies is inevitable and you’re too occupied thinking about ways to bring your opponent down than worry about girls and boys accidentally touching where they shouldn’t. But this is deliberate, and now that your hands cling to his arms to regain your balance, you notice the strong chord of muscles tensing under his shirt. His solid thighs easily holding your weight. You don’t doubt if his shirt would lift slightly, the sight of firm abs would greet you.

“Don’t move,” he hisses, grabbing onto your thighs to prevent you from squirming. It gets the desired effect, immediately shutting you up, freezing you on the spot. It also does something weird to your body. You want to close your legs, pretend modesty is a thing that you guys still do around here, but you don’t have to be a genius to understand friction is the last thing Eren needs, and that’s why he’s got an iron grip around your thighs.

Why are so many people cramped up in this tiny room, it’s so fucking hot in here. You still don’t meet Eren’s eyes. You’re close enough to feel him breathing, feel the heat radiating off his body. Not knowing what to do with your hands, they just fumble needlessly in front of you, your fingers curling into the hem of your shirt to do something. Someone laughs really loud at the back of the room.

Eren clears his throat quietly. “Nervous?”

Finally, your eyes meet. His seem darker than usual, a deeper green like a lush forest dancing to strong wind picking up before a storm. This close, you could count every single one of his long lashes.

“Why would I be?” You lean back slightly, but the friction is enough to make Eren tighten his grip around your thighs. You can feel his nails dig into your skin through the fabric of your trousers. “If anything, I get the feeling you’re the one who can’t keep up, Jaeger.”

Eren executes an eye roll that must give him a spectacular view of the inside of his skull. No wonder Jean can’t keep his cool. Or maybe it’s just an Eren-thing, infuriating those around him. A match to an explosive barrel.

You’ll give him one.

“Nervous?” you ask with a mean grin that furrows Eren’s eyebrows in question for a second. Then you roll your hips against his once but hard enough for him to feel the heat between your legs. His expression is priceless, absolutely dumbfounded and stupid and laughter rises in your throat—

Eren throws you off his lap, already on his legs and charging out of the cabin into the cool night. Thankfully most of the other cadets are too busy whooping at Sasha drinking loads of beer from an improvised funnel Connie and Samuel are holding up for her. Only Mikasa has paid attention, and is now rushing after Eren while you return back to Jean’s side. He nibbles on a dried cracker and barely spares you a glance.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Jean asks. He sounds impatient, and when he snaps his jaw shut on the cracker, it reminds you of a guillotine slamming down.

“What’s wrong with your face?” you snap back.

“No, I mean if you’ve got a fever or something, go to bed.”

“Just eat your damn crackers, Jean.”

You try to hide your burning face behind your arms, knees bent up to your chin—a small ball of embarrassment because who could have thought your little joke on Eren would backfire so bad. In that split of a second before he threw you off, his neck and face completely flushed an angry red, Eren looked absolutely ready to devour you. Desire is a dangerous look on him.

From across the room, you catch Reiner’s eyes. Mischief glints in them as he raises his cup in mock salute to you, presenting himself to be the true pyromaniac all along.

❀❀❀

“I’m going to escape these Walls. That’s my dream. Mankind hasn’t been wiped out yet. We deserve to be out there; we are free. We were born into this world to see it.”

When you turned, expecting to see Eren because you so clearly remember him saying those exact words at the graduation ceremony, you saw Emil sitting by your side instead. His eyes were closed, his long, pale lashes resting against his high cheekbones. You remembered how often he said that word, but you didn’t fully understand what he meant.

“What is freedom?” you asked, burrowing your bare toes into the warm soil.

Emil kept his eyes closed. He picked a flower and placed it on his lips. You’d never wished so hard in your life to be able to turn into a flower. He was lying next to you, his fingers resting interwoven on his chest. “It means to do and feel what you want without anyone holding you back or stopping you.”

“That sounds great.” You looked out at the riverbed. It seemed to sparkle more than usual today. “We could get there, one day. It doesn’t sound all that hard.”

“You think?” Emil opened his eyes and looked up at you. His eyes twinkled just like the river. “Look around. All these flowers. Who do they belong to?”

“Hm … nobody? Everyone!”

“Fair enough. Then, pick one that you really like.”

When you looked around, searching for forget-me-not, you spotted a nine-petalled, white flower stretching its small head towards you. “This one,” you said, pointing at it.

Emil made a small sound at the back of his throat. When you turned to him, he was already staring somewhere else, but he looked as though he’d swallowed something sharp. He bent over and ripped the flower out of the ground. “This,” he said, “is my flower now. Even though you really want it. What will you do now?”

“Ask you nicely to give it to me. Because I know you will.”

Emil smiled at that. “Pretend I am not someone nice. Pretend I am someone who is a bad person.”

“Not you.” Your reply came immediately. “Not ever.”

“Then, Marianne,” he continued, and like you knew he would, he put the flower behind your ear, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “If it were Marianne who took what you wanted, what would you do?”

You pulled a face. “Leave her, I guess. She can have it. But I’d be very sad.”

“Exactly. She is free to do what she wants, and what she wants is to take this flower. And even though you want it too, only stealing it back from her would make you happy. Because you as well are free to do what you want.”

Your head spun from the possibilities. Emil squeezed your hand. “And what if…,” he continued in a voice that was utterly unfamiliar to you, “…what if what you want is to hurt others?”

“It’s wrong.”

Emil chuckled. “Says who?”

“It’s … it’s common sense,” you tried to argue, but it sounded weak and naive even to your own ears.

“Common sense dictates we do not kill, we do not steal. Did you know there are people living underground who have never seen the sky? Who are not allowed to come up here and enjoy the fresh air? Enjoy the feeling of the sun. They kill and steal to survive. Is that still wrong? To do what you need to do to survive?”

You grew very silent. Listening to Emil, he almost seemed like a different person.

“Look at these walls.” Emil looked up. The warmth in his eyes disappeared. “We want to go outside, see the world. But we can’t. Because there are Titans outside. Because there are enemies outside these Walls. It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

“But these Walls protect us,” you shot back. “Without them, Titans would come in and eat us.”

“I suppose that is true. Sometimes, I just wonder … if they as well simply do not have a choice.”

“Which means…” you said slowly, realisation dawning, “Titans … aren’t free?”

The corner of Emil’s mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. His eyes were almost sorrowful. “I suppose … if they feel anything at all.”

“You’re always on top of those things, Emil,” you marvelled, squeezing his hand back. “You’re kind and so full of sympathy for everyone and everything. See, that’s why you could never be a bad person.”

The warmth returned to his eyes, lightening them up to the colour of the early morning sky. “If you say so, then it must be true.”

Before you could forget it, feeling the soft petals of the flower tickling your cheek, you asked, “By the way, what flower is this? I always see it on you.”

And for the first time since you had known him, Emil lied to you: “I don’t know.”

❀❀❀

You have a feeling the headache pounding at the back of your head the next morning isn’t solely because of the booze escapade the night before. Your body doesn’t feel as weary and heavy as the day after May Day a week ago, this type of lethargy is a different kind. You pin it on the upcoming events later in the day, and focus on your current task organising everything for the cannon maintenance at the top of Wall Rose.

Marco has been quietly helping you with that for some time. The creases on his forehead run deeper than the canyons cutting into the earth south of Wall Rose. Everything points to the source of his concern being Jean, currently occupied checking the gas stock for the cylinders, still, you ask the million coins question: “Have you spoken to Jean yet?”

As though he’s been waiting for you to ask that, his reply comes immediately: “I’ll talk to him later. After the preparations. I asked him to wait for me in the backyard at HQ. Before we head off to Sina.” He shrugs. “Or maybe we won’t head off. I’m not sure how to tackle that exactly.”

You think of how much value Jean puts into Marco’s opinion; how he eats up Marco’s words right up like a starving man.

“I don’t think it matters how. You got this. He’ll listen if it’s you, Marco.”

Marco stays silent. He clears his throat when he notices you staring at him, and gives you a wry smile. “We’re talking about Jean here. He can be as stubborn as you.”

“I could beat him up for you. Make him listen.”

The wry smile turns into a full-blown grin. He puts a little more enthusiasm into helping you secure the crates with ropes onto the wooden platform that lifts you up to the top of the Outer Wall. You like this Marco better than the sombre one. You continue working like that for some time until everything is loaded onto the platform and you give Marco the sign to turn on the mechanism that lifts you up.

“You ever wonder,” he says suddenly, thumb resting on the button. When he looks at you, it feels a little as though he’s seeing through you. “… if what we want and what we need are different things?”

You wait for him to continue when you realise he doesn’t mean it as a rhetorical question. “I think it’s enough sometimes to settle for what we want. We might never know what we need.”

“Maybe,” sighs Marco. “But what if the moment is there all of a sudden and you have to make a decision?” He kneads the back of his neck, then shakes his head like a puppy shaking water off its fur, trying to disperse his thoughts. “I’m talking nonsense, sorry. Today is hard enough on most of us. I’ll see you later for the distribution banquet.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond and presses the button. With a jolt, the platform rises, and you hold onto a crate, watching as Marco grows smaller and smaller. He salutes up to you by putting two fingers to his temple. You wave back, trying to swallow around the lump in your throat.

Maybe that was his try at convincing you to change your path as well. It would be great, staying together like this for the next few years until it is time to discharge. But somehow you doubt it would be that easy to convince Jean otherwise, and you’ve already made yourself acquainted with Trost’s Garrison unit and its captain, Hannes. Of course, now that you won’t see him for some time, you find a better answer for Marco’s question: That sometimes, you settle for what you can get. That you can’t have it all.

On top of the wall, Connie is the first to greet you. “We got worried you two bailed on us,” he says, immediately tackling the ropes and disentangling them from the crates. The rest of the group is already maintaining the canons and cleaning them up. Whoever was on duty to supervise you, they’re nowhere in sight.

“Sorry, we lost track of time chatting.” You help him carry the necessary instruments and tools. When Mina sees you, her face lights up and she says something to Thomas. He looks over and grins. Sasha looks over and grins, too. It feels as though they’re all in on a conspiracy and you’re the only one left out, radiating a fervent energy that is like a flame jumping from source to source.

“What’s up with everyone?” you ask Connie.

He drops a crate, ignoring the rattling inside it and dusts himself down. “They’re just excited ‘cause Sasha swiped some meat from the pantry.”

“She did?” You rivet your eyes on her until she notices your stare. Holding your hand up in an OK-sign, she grins and throws a hand up in return. Mina squeaks—and maybe that is a little too much excitement for something as simple as that, which should have given you reason to wonder. Connie sniffs indiscreetly. “Oh, and we’re all gonna join the Scouts.”

You drop your hand and stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“Nuh-uh. I guess Eren’s little speech yesterday left an impression on us all.” He shrugs, as though a decision like that is not worth the hustle. You want to take him by his shoulders and smack his head against a wall. By divine intervention or just honed survival instinct, he decides just then to join the others and leave to your crisis.

They must think you’ll join the Survey Corps as well. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. You don’t just decide something like that in the spur of the moment. “What if the moment is there all of a sudden and you have to make a decision?” You wonder if Marco is in on this, and it’s all a huge conspiracy.

You take a step forward to set things right, and maybe give Mina a good shake to remind her this isn’t what you two agreed upon, this isn’t what you two wanted—

The sight is breathtaking.

It is your second time on top of the wall. Cadets are usually allowed only after their graduation because Shadis doesn’t trust you not to kill yourself by stumbling off the edge. Maybe it’s the final step for him to recognise his fledglings have grown into hunting birds capable of soaring through the skies and every year he pushes that as far away as possible.

The sight never ceases to amaze you. All along the horizon, mountains rise and fall in full splendid, covered with forests and cut through my glistening lakes and rivers. Giant, stark-white clouds rise behind them and paint the blue horizon with a severe beauty that has you shuddering with the realisation how close you are to the sky.

This is it. The sight Emil has always dreamt of, that he had longed to see for himself. The endless world; to leave the small cage and see the big world. The thought makes your heart race with wonder and excitement and fear—all after just seeing the possibility.

What if, what if, what if … what we want and what we need are different things?

“Hey, be careful.” Eren’s voice is like an anchor pulling you back to the present. You haven’t noticed him approaching, but now he’s standing close to you.

When you look at him, you blink until the sting at the back of your eyes disappears. “The wind’s really something up here, huh,” you say, rubbing your eyes dry.

Eren’s jaw works for a moment before he turns and takes the world in. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s something.”

It feels like no more words are needed. He gets it.

“You have to tell me,” you mumble. “What you’ll find beyond the horizon. Okay? Whenever you leave to kick Titans’ asses, you have to come back and tell me.”

Eren turns to you. The wind tears at his hair, but he stands firmly. Nothing can throw him off. “Of course I’ll come back,” he says like it’s nothing. He doesn’t know what this promise untethers inside you. Your knees wobble. It feels as though you have peeled back every layer of your hopes and fears and dreams and laid them bare before him. The weight of your heart seems to tear you apart with the words that you wish you could say. And for a time there is timelessness; endless stillness that holds the picture that is you two standing at the edge of the world stretching across the horizon when overhead, lightning in the sky turns the world white and summons the Destroyer of Worlds.

As you stare into the eyes of the Colossal Titan, stomach roiling with panic, you can’t help but notice, distantly, how human its eyes seem.

A/N: Today’s The Amazing Devil’s song I’m shoving down your throats: Not Yet / Love Run (Reprise)

***

Taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade, @berriesandcrem

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #snk x y/n #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #phill.swyaatl #swyaatl

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philliamwrites · 2 years

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SWYAATL 14: The Happy Years

Pairings: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: they're all horknee

Summary: “May Queen!” the girl shrieks, and throws a bright flower crown with frightening precision on your head. She then points at you. “We’ve found our May Queen!” Oh. Oh no. “Oh no no no no no,” you say out loud the moment someone swoops you up your feet. Nausea rolls through you—you hate hate being picked up, hate how it makes you feel like the small kid from five years ago during Shiganshina’s attack—before you start hyperventilating, you glimpse Jean in the crowd, doubled over and supporting himself against Marco, laughing at you so hard he almost topples over. Bastard.

Notes: [01] || 13 | 15

Words: 9.5k

A/N: Sorry updates are so scarce! Everything is changing for me with the apprenticeship but it’s a good change and I’m very, very happy where I am right now!! Might go into hiatus for a while because writing just isn’t doing it for me at the moment though. I’ll definitely bring Cadet Corps Arc to an end though, it’s only one or two more chapters after this one!

Don’t flock me, but this might slip a little into Reader/Jean (with Eren/Reader endgame, I promise). Also I’ve decided from this chapter on they’re all finally 18, you’re welcome. They’re all gay, they’re all horny, whoopa.

14: The Happy Years

January, February, March. The winter is a torrent of snow. Falling slow and fat. Falling quick and bright. The sun, if it rises at all, is a weak white flame until spring marches into the battle with all her blossoms and light, banishing the cold for another year.

This time, you were put into farm duty, something you’ve been looking forward to ever since the ground, formerly brownish or covered with snow, is now painted in greener tones. It beats having to prune trees or vines since you’ve always enjoyed working with soil and what the earth grants. There is also the benefit of seeing Dolly again, the only compound ox used to draft the ridge and furrows where you’ll plant this year’s harvest. Apparently, cadets long before your corps named him, realising too late that he was a male—as though the pointy horns are easy to miss—but the name has stuck ever since.

You’re leading the old boy over the field now, towards the other handful of cadets assigned to the duty. Reiner and Marco are tinkering with the bullock cart, checking if, after the long winter, anything has broken and needs to be fixed. Annie, standing a little apart from them, gazes out at the field. She looks as though she could think of a hundred different places she’d rather be. You can get a little behind her indifference. Many consider this task as a waste of time, for every compound receives the majority of vegetables, fruits, fish and dairy from outside farms and fisheries. The annual harvest you yield around autumn is only meant for reserves and emergencies should the usual deliveries not make it on time—which hasn’t happened in the almost three years you’ve been in the military.

You don’t mind the work at all—it is a nice diversity from the tasks you usually get, and you enjoy working outside in nature, where the air is fresh and the last hint of winter still lingers in the air.

“We’re ready,” Marco says now, rising from where he was perching in front of the cart. Already, his pants are dirty where he has knelt in the soil. “All good to go.”

“You two lead the old boy, Annie and I will be right behind you.” Reiner shakes his small basket with cauliflower seeds as you put the cart before Dolly and give his nose a good rub. He flicks his ears and trots after you across the field, occasionally bumping his snoot against your arm as if saying Look, I’m doing it! What about a little treat?,and of course you scratch him under his chin until his eyes fall close for a second in sheer contentment.

“He’s very enamoured with you,” Marco says, watching you two from the side. Even though it’s still cool outside, he’s rolled up his sleeves, showing his strong arms streaked with hard cords of muscle. Recently, his harness seems to be a size too small, cutting into his body parts that were extra thick with muscle such as his arms, thighs and upper chest. Not that you’re complaining about the sight. “Are you hiding treats or something in your uniform?”

“It’s my natural charm,” you say, grinning. “I don’t have to use cheap tricks like that.”

Marco laughs at that, and you notice how he doesn’t disagree. You continue down the field in companionable silence, only making comments whenever one of you spots a falcon gliding over the fields in search of mice. It feels like the build-up to something, but what exactly, you don’t know until finally, Marco says, “Only two more months left now. Those three years passed so quickly, I can hardly believe we’re almost done with our training.”

“Why are you in such low spirits then?” you ask. “What happened to all that enthusiasm of being able to serve the king once you join the MP?”

Marco’s silence makes you look over at him. There’s something wistful about the way he looks out at the fields—his mind seems to be as far away as the rising and sinking curves of the mountains in the far south.

“It’s weird, I know,” he finally says, scratching his chin where you see a dark stubble. “I also thought this was something I’m sure of. Graduate with a good score, join the MP and work my way up into the King’s Guard. But lately…” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I had this weird dream, you know? There was a parade and the King was there as well but something wasn’t right. There were orphans crying and people seemed distressed. In my dream, I heard rumours about the true nature of the Operation to Reclaim Wall Maria a few years ago, and when I woke up, I realised this must have been because I talked to Armin and Eren recently. Armin told me that there was a parade back then as well, after his grandfather died, to distract from the disputes on food; to have the people be lenient towards the King’s sentence. And weirdly enough, I started to wonder … do I really want to protect the King, or is there maybe something else I should be protecting.”

Marco looks at you now, and there’s something bare in his eyes that makes you turn your head away. All you manage to answer is, “Jean will be very sad if you change your mind last second, you know? You’ve become one of his closest friends and …”

“And what?” Marco inquirers—part hopeful, part reserved.

And I know there’s more, but you’re afraid of it. One afternoon on a rare hour’s break in the barracks, you went over to the boys’ to get Marco for laundry duty, who had slipped inside just a moment ago. Standing in the entryway, you found him and Jean alone. Jean was sitting with his back turned to the entry and Marco used that moment to leap upon him in a fit of enthusiasm, screeching and squawking like a child at play. Jean wrestled Marco off him and they rolled around on the floor, grabbing and jostling, laughing at nothing. When Marco had Jean in a clinch, pinned to the floor, his knees on either side of Jean’s torso, he looked down at him and smiled, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

Even from that distance, you were sure that he had looked at Jean’s lips for a moment, turning his head a little and staring at him, his body arching forward just a touch. Jean raised his knee slightly and risked a smile. They looked at each other—“Ah, Jean,” Marco said mournfully, his voice soft—and then their heads both swivelled around at the sound of creaking wood beneath your feet as you shifted your weight to make a silent retreat, positive that you had walked into a private scene not meant for anyone to see.

Marco jumped up, turning away from Jean. He looked at you, startled, unable to catch Jean’s eye. After a moment of silence, Jean, to lighten the mood, had simply asked if you had lost something, and when the moment was over, everything had returned as if nothing had happened between them.

“And nothing,” you say now. Whatever is between Jean and Marco, it is none of your business. You don’t think Jean would appreciate you poking your nose into his business—especially one that seemed a foreign territory to even himself. Ever since the incident with the wolf last winter, he’s become curt—sometimes even downright nasty whenever Eren is around or you so much as mention him. The only reason you can think of is that with graduation drawing closer, they’re both reminded how opposing their future wishes are, and suddenly nothing of what has happened before—standing together against Victor; fighting the robbers and saving Christa—seems to matter.

“Yeah, I still need to talk to him about that,” Marco says, cutting off your thoughts. “If he’ll join the Scouts.”

“The Scouts?” You almost trip over a mound of dirt, saving yourself only by flinging your arms around Dolly’s strong neck. He snorts appreciatively. “Why the Scouts?”

“You know … the way Jean is, I feel that if he joined the Survey Corps … he could save a lot of lives.”

You give that some thought, and initially, nothing about it seems wrong. Jean is an exceptional soldier, both capable in ODM and analysing the situation in battle to find the best outcome. Funny enough, Jean’s talent seems specifically the reason why Eren keeps blowing the fuse whenever they talk about their future goals—Eren can’t seem to understand why anyone would waste their talent like that. You’ve stopped bringing that up with him. It seems easier to get along with him if you two don’t try to bust each other’s heads about which Corps to join after graduation.

With the field ploughed, the seed sown, you take a little break. The sun stands high on the zenith, and the work has left you sweating. Dolly, freed from the cart, lies on the ground. His tail flicks at flies in lazy swipes, and whenever someone bends down to pet him, he closes his eyes in cosy satisfaction.

“Did I hear that right, you’re thinking about joining the Scouts, Marco?” says Reiner now. He’s perched beside Dolly, and gives his back soft claps. You have a hard time not staring at his thick thighs. “How come?”

Marco, leaning sideways against the fence enclosing the fields, shrugs with one shoulder. “Feels like I might be able to do more if I join them.”

“The Scouts will be happy with a guy like you,” Reiner continues. “You’re a great soldier, Marco.”

Marco ducks his head as if he can hide the red tinting his cheeks. “What about you guys?” he quickly asks. “You’re both at the top as well.” Reiner throws Annie a quick glance which she promptly ignores.

“It’s gonna be the MP for me.” Reiner isn’t shy about his decision, giving Marco a crooked grin. “I’m pretty sure that’s where I can do my best as a soldier.”

A snort comes from Annie’s direction, so quiet that you think you’ve imagined it were it not for Reiner turning his head in her direction. She’s looking down at Dolly’s head resting on top of Reiner’s thigh, and something in her eyes is short enough to send a shudder up your spine.

“Best as a soldier?” she scoffs. “You think anyone joining the MP has such a pretentious, noble goal in mind?”

Even though Annie and Reiner didn’t seem to get along well, or have any common history you’re aware of, sometimes she is capable of saying things that make him go silent for a moment—like right now. Maybe that was just Annie’s expertise—saying things people didn’t want to face.

“What about you?” Reiner turns to you, choosing to run from Annie’s glacier-cutting gaze. “Changed your mind yet? Your performance has dropped, but you can still make a comeback in the final exams next month.”

You look up from where you’re crouching on the ground, digging your hands through the soil. The smell calms you, and nothing is quite a testimony to a hard day at work than the dirt and grime under your nails. “Nope, still don’t care about the MP,” you chirp.

“Really? Has Eren finally convinced you to join the Scouts, then?”

“Eren?” You throw a quick glance at him. “No, why would he have anything to do with that?”

“After everything you’ve been through, I thought you two are like this,” Reiner says, crossing index and middle finger. You throw a handful of dirt at him and pretend it doesn’t please you that the others think you and Eren are that close.

It shouldn’t be a surprise.

Not after you’ve survived the wolves; not while you two gradually gravitate towards each other like moths to a flame. Certainly not when every time you practice together in hand-to-hand-combat, it is like rough, desperate fucking where no one wants to relinquish the upper hand—and dominance—to the other. There is no finesse to your fighting, unlike Annie or Mikasa, you two just rely on brutal force and a desperation to win that is downright frightening at times.

Last time, you had almost won. Almost, if you hadn’t been so blind with joy and stroking your own ego having handed Eren his ass. Then, everything happened so quickly. He hooked his feet behind your ankles and tugged, swiping your legs from under you. Not even a second on your ass, his feet locked behind the back of your knees, he turned to the right, forcing you to turn with him, and suddenly you were the one on all fours, bending over. You had tried to scramble back up, but Eren snatched one arm from under you and his other hand found the back of your neck, pushing your face into the dirt, the other pinning your arm behind your back. His hips pressed hard against your ass. Stunned, you had remained still, and you could have sworn Eren had muttered something along the lines of “Right where I want you,” but you couldn’t be sure because a moment later, Jean was already there, kicking Eren off you. You didn’t pay any attention to their squabble—you didn’t pay attention to anything happening that day because your mind kept conjuring very unnecessary images of Eren using his strength to manhandle you in a bunch of different other positions.

“I made my decision a long time ago,” you say now before your mind can venture to those fantasies again, “and I’m not going to change it. Just like Eren won’t change his mind if I tried talking him out of joining the Scouts. Besides—” You clamp your mouth shut. Three pairs of eyes stare at you, waiting for you to continue, but you can’t just tell them about the deal you’ve made with Ymir.

She approached you two months ago, on a grey, rainy day—though maybe ‘approach’ was too tame a word for how she had slithered after you like a snake sneaking after prey for days on end. It was a simple, small mission; heading out to a long-abandoned manor close to Wall Rose and checking the damage after a vicious storm had swept through it. The rain had subsided enough to venture out, and during a short break under the coverage of a tree’s canopy, you had veered off the group to refill your water bottle with fresh rain water.

The landscape was not gentle and rolling, but harsh and foreboding. Green hills dotted with grey gorse swept up into crags of dark rock. Long lines of mortarless stone walls, meant for keeping in sheep, crisscrossed the green; here and there was dotted the occasional lonely cottage. The sky seemed an endless expanse of white, brushed with the strokes of long, dark grey clouds.

You had noticed Ymir shadowing you all week prior to that conversation. Standing in dark corners, watching you with her unnerving, small eyes like little pinpricks of a dagger’s sharp tip aiming for your throat. You’d known it was only a question of when she’d corner you, and when on that day, she had risen behind you, you were already expecting her, meeting her eyes only slightly obscured by the hood drawn over her face from her cape.

“What do you want?”

Ymir had stared at you, unblinkingly. And then she’d thrown her head back, barking out a laugh that cracked like thunder. “Right to the point, then. I like how you turned out after that whole fiasco with the dogs in the woods.”

“You mean when I almost died? Yeah. Great times.”

“Oh, come on.” Ymir rolled her eyes and joined you kneeling at the ground, wiping forth her own water flask. “You survived. You grew a pair of balls most of the guys here don’t have. It wasn’t all bad.”

You gave a gruff sound of acknowledging her words—the compliment. Ymir never handed out compliments unless one was small, blonde and named Christa, and the fact in itself only proved your theory that she was after something.

Staring at you some more, Ymir’s grin didn’t cool, but it sharpened. A muscle in her jaw clenched, as though she was chewing on her words before she spoke. Finally, she said, “I need you to do something.”

“You need me,” you repeated, just to check that you didn’t mishear, “to do something for you?”

Ymir nodded, a single curt movement as one would chop up wood. Or someone’s head. You felt as if ice water had been dumped down the back of your neck, shoving you to full alertness. “And what exactly would that be?” you asked.

Ymir stood still as a statue, unblinking. You felt as though something very serious was happening right now, and allowed her to take time to find the words. Then, she finally looked up, and said, “You don’t care about the ranking. Let Christa have your spot.”

“Hmm.” You watched the rain droplets collect at the mouth of your flask where they didn’t disappear in the narrow black hole. The wind picked up, whipping your coats left and right. So many thoughts whirled inside your head until they finally settled. “You want Christa in the MP, even though you won’t be able to follow her? Why?”

“None of your business,” Ymir snapped, not even trying to bite back a sharp retort. “Just say Yes or No. I’ll figure out something else.”

“Is it because you love her?” you continued, ignoring her. “Or are you arranging everything so that she’ll help you from inside the Inner Wall later?”

Ymir didn’t respond for a while. When you didn’t think she’d answer at all, she gritted out, “I want a safe life for Christa. Don’t pretend you’ve never had anyone like that.”

You pressed your lips together. The water in your bag had started spilling. You watched the water flow over and soak into the already wet earth.

“Okay,” you said.

There was only a brief pause. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “It’s like you said, I don’t care about the ranking.”

Very quietly, you heard Ymir exhale a long breath. She rose to her feet, looking like she wanted to seal the deal somehow. With a handshake or a clap to your shoulder. Maybe even pat your cheek like she had done when she’d talked to you for the first time all those years back. Ultimately, she preferred her hand intact and wouldn’t gamble with you biting it off, and stood to go back to the other cadets.

“Ymir,” you said before she left. Ymir stopped. Slowly, she turned. “What’s in for me?”

She positively flashed her teeth at you like a cornered wolf as though you have not already learned how to dance with wolves. You were not afraid of them anymore. Screwing the water flask shut, you closed the distance between you two. “You didn’t think I’d just do you a favour with nothing in return, right?”

“I was hoping you’d be that naive, yes.”

You gave her a smile. It was not a pleasant smile. “No, you’d hoped I’d let you use me. But I’m not letting my chance at having you owe me pass.”

Ymir clicked her tongue. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and looked mildly annoyed. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know yet,” you answered truthfully. Ymir’s mild look of annoyance grew into a very physical, very palpable thing she looked like she might use and whack you with.

“You had me thinking you’re badass and smart for a second. Who’s to say you hold up your end of the deal but I’ll disappear forever?”

“I’m not worried about that,” you said, climbing after her back up the hill. “I will find you and make you hold up your end of the bargain, Ymir.”

Ymir didn’t stop to look at you. “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a promise.”

***

Two years away from Trost, you have almost forgotten how badly crowded the narrow streets are. Carriages roll side by side with costermongers’ carts piled high with fruit and vegetables; women shawled and carrying shallow baskets full of flowers dive madly in and out of traffic as they try to interest the occupants of various carriages in their wares; and cabs come to a full stop in the midst of traffic so that the cab drivers can scream at one another from their seats. The noise adds to the din—ice cream paddlers shouting “Hokey-pokey, coin a lump,” newspaper boys hawking the day’s latest headline, and someone somewhere playing a barrel organ.

It is a vast contrast to today’s morning exercise where you’ve practised evacuating the civilians during a Titan breach, the streets empty save for the giant wooden Titan dummies and a few citizens acting out an emergency. The instructors dubbed it a simple exercise, but everyone knew it was part of the ongoing final examination that had started a week ago and is slowly creeping towards its end.

You’re surprised how easy it is to perform badly. Ymir’s deal gives you a nice way out of carrying the responsibility to make a choice after graduation. Already, other cadets have been mumbling “what a waste it is” that you would “only” join the Garrison when so many would use your rank and buzz off inthat hside the Inner Walls. Now that you’re leaving the spot to Christa, it’s like a weight has slipped from your shoulders.

Shadis notices, of course. The first two weeks had been the beginning of your military training all over again—screaming at you until his spit ran down your face in rivers, penalty drills for slacking off, threats to send you back home where you could pick up and sell shit from the gutters for all that he cared.

You’re still here a week later, though now you wish you weren’t because slowly, you’re running out of patience to deal with Jean’s bitching.

“And why would she just barge in like she owns the place?” he repeats for what must be the third time today. “I told her I’d drop by eventually.”

“Like you dropped by the last time we were stationed near the farms and didn’t visit her?” You haul another basket stacked to the brim with flower garlands onto the cart, pushing it to the very back against the other caskets you’ve already stored. As a little girl, you never noticed how many flowers were involved in the May Day. You were way too busy stuffing your mouth with sweets and pastries, and playing at the game stalls while the adults staggered past you with heavy beer and ale filled jugs, hollering and screeching songs.

The excitement for the holiday is like a charged up buzz jumping from person to person. A day and night full of revelries and pleasantries, games and drinks and good food. A break for cadets before their graduation—and a little pick me up for the Scouts as they’re heading out for another expedition outside the Walls the week after.

You’re mostly looking forward to the food and enjoying a great time with your friends before everyone goes their own way. Who knows when you’ll see each other next time. If you see each other next time.

You shake your head, banishing these thoughts to where they don’t wear down your excitement.

“What do you mean, No?” Jean asks incredulously, which is a problem because he stops and you walk right into him, and the second basket you’re carrying bounces off his back and right into your stomach as you walk into him.

“Ooof.” You glare up at him. “Do you mind? I want to finish this work before lunch break.”

He stares at you, and realises too late, “You didn’t listen to anything I just said, did you?”

You don’t bother trying to look contrite. Jean looks like he might throw his hands up, but the basked in his hands makes that impossible unless he’d prefer a broken foot. Instead, he settles for pulling a face at you.

“I can’t believe I’m pouring my heart out to you like that and you don’t care.” He drops the casket unceremoniously into the cart so that half its contents spill, and turns around to you, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. His white shirt sticks to his skin from the hard work, outlining the strong chords of muscles running along his arms, his abdomen. He always used to be taller than you, but now after years of hard, rigorous training, he’s also broader, and he has no problem letting you know that during hand-to-hand-combat practice or whenever he wants to make a point and hands your ass to you.

“It’s hard to be on your side when all you do is bitch about having a mother who’s looking after you,” you snap. The effect is immediate. Jean takes a step back as if he has been punched and doesn’t know where the blow has come from. When he stares at you, it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Something inside his face shuts close.

“You don’t understand—” he begins, but immediately seals his mouth shut.

You cock your head to the side, challenging him. “Why? Because I don’t have a mom? No parents who can fuzz around and worry about me?”

Jean goes very quiet. “That’s not what I meant.”

You stare each other down like two strangers trying to determine if the person standing before you is a threat. It is as though even after these three years and everything you have been through, Jean feels more distant lately.

Before you can open your mouth, a female voice shouts from across the plaza, “You two, stop slacking off and move your asses! We’ve still got too much work to do!”

“Let’s go back,” you say, subdued.

Jean sighs and makes an after-fucking-you gesture. You move to the next row of baskets in silence. Working with your body is easier than working with your brain on how to undo the damage. But one look at Jean tells you his face is still a closed door. You have no patience for delicate lock-picking, and instead decide to kick the door in.

“I’m sorry,” you say at the same time he blurts, “I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

You look at each other. Smile. Order has been restored.

“Ida just means well. After graduation, she won’t be seeing you anytime soon,” you say. The next basket is full of white daisies, tulips and roses. You stare at the soft-petalled mount, feeling the strange urge to shove your face right into them and inhale. Maybe you’ll get high on the sweet smelling pollen.

“I know, I know.” Jean waves his hand. “I’ll visit her. After that stupid cook off next week.”

“Why did you want to participate in the first place?”

“You think I’d let Sasha and her big mouth go around and tell everyone she’s a better cook than me?”

“Oh, woe is men and their fragile pride.”

Jean shoves you with his elbow, only hard enough to make you lose your balance.

You finish your work, the next assignment already waiting for you on the other side of the District. Your supervising officer orders you to join with the others who are already busy setting up the sets of tables and benches, and the minstrels’ stage.

You walk the same streets as three years ago on the day you signed up for the military. The District hasn’t changed at all, but you two have. You don’t miss how Jean tilts his face upwards, examining the roofs and crenellations of the buildings. Looking for anchor points for his gear. You’ve also categorised the best advance points by height. The whole world looks different since the ODM gear has become a part of you.

As you cross the plaza, Jean throws an apple at you, a leftover from Ida’s surprise visit last week. You catch it with ease, your reflexes sharpened to an arrow’s tip precision over the years. Turning it over in your hand, you barely dodge a cart transporting a row of stacked benches onto the plaza. Good service those reflexes do you. But Jean has pulled you into his side for good measure as well, staring daggers after the cart.

“Bloody Hell, it’s like suddenly they don’t know how to manoeuvre those things,” he says.

You glance at his hand still closed tightly around your upper arm.

“They’re just excited,” you say. “And a little nervous. They still haven’t found a May Queen.”

“I wonder why they don’t just pick a random chick, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“The people of Trost think differently about it.”

Jean mumbles something to himself and lets you go. “That’s why you don’t change tradition. If they’d just pick a pretty lass, we wouldn’t be under this pressure.”

“Anyone specific in mind?”

Jean looks down at you, snuffling. “Mikasa for example.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“What? Do you want to be May Queen?”

You raise your chin. “I mean, I don’t, but why do you sound like I wouldn’t be able to pull it off?”

“I mean…” Jean kneads the back of his neck. “I don’t remember the last time you wore a dress.”

“It’s not like I forgot how to move in petticoats and girdles,” you say. “I just prefer not to.”

“Come on, how hard can it be?”

“Hmph,” you say. “I’d like to see how you’d manage sitting and standing up straight in stays and petticoats for a whole night.”

“So would I,” says Marco, appearing out of nowhere with a table thrown over his shoulder as though it weighs nothing. Jean and you share a moment of silent appreciation for Marco’s arm muscles.

Jean shakes his head. Either about your comment or to clear his head from whatever images Marco’s sight conjures in his mind. “Whatever. I only really care about the food, and after that, it’s straight up inside the Inner Wall and away from this sewer of a District.”

You question that ‘straight,’ but you question even more if Marco has managed to talk with Jean about a change of heart. When you give him a sideways glance, Marco catches your eye and subtly shakes his head. Not yet, it seems.

“You know, if there’s ever a chance I’ll meet your Military Police regiment, I’ll do my best to embarrass you and tell them all those funny stories about little Jeanie how he got trapped naked in a rose bush,” you say, and drop the apple Jean has given you in a beggar-woman’s lap as you enter the wide, open marketplace.

“You wouldn’t—” Jean begins, but is interrupted by cheers erupting like a thunder storm around you. People scream, their hands thrown high in the air. You’re the definition of confusion. Marco almost drops the table and crushes a little girl darting between the adults crowding you three like ants climbing over themselves to reach food.

“May Queen!” the girl shrieks, and throws a bright flower crown with frightening precision on your head. She then points at you. “We’ve found our May Queen!”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Oh no no no no no,” you say out loud the moment someone swoops you up your feet. Nausea rolls through you—you hate hate being picked up, hate how it makes you feel like the small kid from five years ago during Shiganshina’s attack—before you start hyperventilating, you glimpse Jean in the crowd, doubled over and supporting himself against Marco, laughing at you so hard he almost topples over.

Bastard.

“No sense of modesty, not one of them,” you spit, holding your breath as Mina, Hannah and Christa try to get you into that prison of a dress made specifically for this year’s May Day celebrations. The seamstress who worked on the dress, Hilda, smiles patiently.

“Well, the people … and I mean the women, have been complaining for years that only choosing the most beautiful girl seems a little unfair. I liked that no one new this year’s criteria. I’ve heard a woman in Stohess adopted a litter of kittens, and another performed a handstand for hours and hours in Jinae. Acts of kindness make for a far better queen than her appearance, don’t you think so too, girls?”

They grunt their replies, too focused on tying the bodice on your back.

“Since we’re at it,” you wheeze, feeling as though your lungs are being crushed and all your organs squeezed into a pipeline, “how about we change the dress code as well?”

“Now, let’s not get too hasty,” Hilda says, smiling. “Or I will be out of a job.”

“But I will be out of a life.”

“Beauty is harsh,” Hilda provides unhelpfully, “but you will be the most powerful woman tonight.” And with that, she jitters away like a little excited bird to grab more silk ribbons. It’s probably the first and last time you will ever wear something so expensive.

“Last chance,” you say, turning to your friends after Mina finishes tying the last knot at the back of your corset. “Any volunteers? Christa? You would make such a better May Queen than me.”

Christa beams. “Nonsense! You look so stunning, [Name]! And I think this is exactly what you need after dropping out of the ranking.”

Gods bless her heart. You don’t know what to say should she find out you do this for her sake.

“All eyes will be on you tonight.” Mina takes your hand and twirls you around as if you are a princess and she is asking for a dance. The frilly, heavy dress brushes against your thighs and leaves a sliver of skin visible, showing exactly where—and how tight—the white tights you’re wearing end. “I can’t wait for all the festivities and drinks and music!”

“I heard the Scouts will be there as well,” Hannah chimes in. She lets her hand roam over the different fabrics Hilda has laid out before deciding which colour would suit your eyes best. “They’re off to another expedition next week, right?”

“Just a small one. I can’t imagine most of the execs joining tonight though. There’s still the final test at the end of this week, and then the official choosing of our branches.”

“It’s so weird,” Mina whispers, her grey eyes big. “We’ll graduate tomorrow.”

She’s met with silence. Between most of the cadets there is the unanimous agreement that nobody talks about the graduation; about the friends you’ll part from. You look over at Mina, oh and there it is again, the expression on her face you have recently come to see—and loathe—more often: as though her saint has forsaken her and now she is facing a brewing storm all alone.

Mina catches your eyes and gives you a sad, little smile. You have already been instructed that if you join the Garrison, you will be stationed at your home districts. You will stay here in Trost, but Mina will return to Karanes District. Even the promise that you will visit each other is only bitter-sweet knowing the first two or three years will be strictly to settle in your new unit.

“Oh, stop making those faces,” Christa says. “Tonight is a night of fun! I won’t allow you to go out frowning like that.” She grins and takes your hand, and in that brief second something flashes in her eyes that is so unlike Christa that you hesitate when she starts pulling you towards the shop’s front door. It makes her stop dead in her tracks—and there it is again, the timid look etched onto her face like a painting you’re more familiar with after all those years.

Mina must have realised Christa’s plan. She takes your other hand and kicks open the door. “Come on, we’re done taking measures. Let’s go and see the plaza.”

“I don’t think Hilda is done with the dress—” you begin, but your protest falls on deaf ears. Mina’s eyes sparkle with mischief. You have always been unable to tell her No when the Saint of Adventures holds her captive.

She pulls you outside the small tailor shop and into a narrow street where vibrant garlands of flowers hang from the roofs like exotic snakes. Already, the streets are filled with mouth-watering smells of food, the sound of laughter and joy.

Mina plucks a colourful flower wreath from a vendor’s stand. The man’s face behind the counter, just a moment ago a brewing storm, immediately clears of any wrinkles and lights up when he sees you. He bows like a knight courting a princess, greeting you with a loud, jolly “Maienkoenigin!” and with that, you are in the centre of attention.

You’re pretty sure the revelries would have started with a small speech from Trost’s mayor during Commander Pixis’ presence, but now that the people see you are out on the streets, they’ve taken it into their own hands to toast to you.

From all corners you see flower petals thrown in your direction. “Maria Maienkoenigin, wir kommen dich zu gruessen. Oh holde Freudenspenderin, sieh uns zu deinen Fuessen!” they sing the holiday’s song in honour of the May Queen and Wall Maria where the May Festival five years ago should have taken place.

Boys and girls dance around your knees, grabbing for your skirts to get your attention and accept their little flower bouquets as the crowd moves to the plaza with you in the middle. Tall poles stand at the entrances, decorated with more flowers and paper garlands snaking around them to the very top. The May pole, this year a birch tree, has already been erected in the centre where a wide square has been outlined to mark the dance floor and where later boys and girls weave the colourful ribbons around the pole.

Surrounding it are multiple, long rows of tables and on the side, right next to a wooden square where the band plays, officials have prepared a celebratory banquet fit for a queen. Your mouth waters just thinking about all the delicacies waiting to be devoured.

Were it up to you, you’d immediately charge for the food. But Mina has other plans. She pulls you towards a table—you didn’t even notice your training corps has gathered and selected one closest to the banquet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mina announces. “Our May Queen!”

A round of polite applause sounds until they get a better look at you.

Connie starts howling like a wild animal.

Somewhere Ymir is screaming her case that Christa should wear that dress instead.

Jean, sitting at the very front, just stares at you—and that of all lashes uncertainty across your chest like a spiky whip. You don’t think you have ever felt self-conscious in front of him, but now you are painfully aware of the low cut of your dress, the corset hugging your body tight and pushing your tits up into full, round mounds. It feels as though one move too much and your tights will rip in two. You are very aware of how you look as you slide onto the bench next to Jean. He doesn’t scoot over to make you place, leaving your thigh pressing right against his, but turns his head away and takes a big swig from his cup as though his mouth is parched.

Compared to Eren, Jean has manners, at least. Ever since you have joined, he hasn’t stopped staring blatantly at your tits.

“Hey,” Jean snaps. Eren doesn’t blink. “Hey, Jeager!” He snaps his fingers right in front of Eren’s eyes. “Eyes up, you freak.”

Eren startles, and blinks as if he’s just woken up from a dream. He looks from you to Jean, and very intelligently says, “Huh?”

“You look very pretty,” Marco mumbles into his cup from Jean’s other side because he is the only gentleman in this rowdy round of pigs.

“I could do with a little less cleavage,” you admit. “And a little more breathing.”

“Well, it’s tradition.” Jean fumbles with his wooden spoon as if it is particularly hot to the touch. When he drops it and it falls in the non-existing space between your touching legs, he glares at it very hard as if by doing that, he might will it back into his hands. You pick it up, hold it out to him. Jean stares at you as if he sees you for the very first time.

“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with a tradition that puts women into skimpy dresses?” you ask. Jean needs a full minute before he finally takes the spoon from you. It is deliberately careful as though you are handing him a sharp tool rigged with thorns that might jump at him any second.

He makes a point looking right into your eyes. “I just think you made a lot of guys very happy today.”

“Meaning how?”

He shrugs. “We guys just talk about stuff.”

You look sideways at him. “Anything interesting?”

Jean gives you a quick once-over and says, “Oh, you have no idea.”

You can tell he wants you to ask what, so you don’t.

Once the excitement settles and the feast begins, you slowly begin to feel more comfortable. You don’t think you’ll get used to the stares and gawking, and you can’t wait to wear your comfortable uniform again where the greatest offence is someone staring at your ass. But for only one day it is nice to be revelled for your womanhood, for your beauty, and the power a woman holds for bringing forth life from her womb.

The food is more delicious than anything you had during your trainee days. You don’t remember the last time you had meat. Roasted pig, a fatty chicken broth with fresh vegetables. Familiar recipes from your childhood are served at the banquet: raviolis, tardpolane, blancmange and clarer. The mead and beer flows in rivers, served by beautiful girls who all wear a distinct flower in their hair. Children come and share their treats with you, piling hills of sweet rolls, candies and honeyed biscuits onto your table. You’re glad Sasha is already working on it.

District Mayor Singman holds his speech about work and prosperity, about the great solidarity that made this feast possible in the first place and the great harvest waiting as a reward later in the year. Commander Pixis is next, but you barely listen to his praises about the recruits showing great promise and how he can’t wait to welcome them. You’re too busy peeking over at Eren who is peeking back at you from time to time. His pupils are blown black whenever his eyes trail over the crimson ribbon holding your front together—one pull on that ribbon alone and your whole dress would come undone.

So you don’t pay much attention when Jean and Sasha and their teams go to the front and hold their competition. Only when the familiar scent of Ida’s omelette wafts to your table, you look up and see Jean standing up on the podium, looking a little lost as he presents his culinary creation to Commander Pixis. The fact that he used his favourite meal, one of Ida’s many dishes she has perfected over the years just so her little Jeanie would go nuts with joy, unfurls something in your chest, making you feel a warmth that you know has nothing to do with the mead in your belly.

Jean wins, and thus the festival’s games begin.

Everyone who wins a small wooden chip can switch it for a free drink, a treat or a small token of affection from yours truly, the May Queen—all in accordance with your consent, of course, and you’re glad Garrison and MP soldiers on duty make sure no one oversteps your boundaries. You doubt anyone is out for quarrel and blood today, anyway. Revelries like this one are such a rarity that nobody wants to fight.

Most have been very sweet so far. Old grannies and grandpas give you their gifted tokens to hold and pat your hand, telling you their stories—about past May Days and the games and feasts and joyous times before Wall Maria’s fall.

Sometimes you stop listening because you spot a handsome young man or pretty young woman throwing starry-eyed, flirtatious gazes your way from a distance, their chips held close and dear to their chests, unsure if they can come closer. You’ve only had a few sips from the mead served at every table, but you feel so warm, so comfortable. You always smile back at them.

Others would come to chink glasses or invite you to a quick dance under the intoxicating sound of a jolly fiddle and the beautiful voices of a bard duo.

Not even an hour in, the first familiar face emerges from the crowd of strangers. Reiner grins down at you when you roll your eyes in a teasing way.

“Popular, aren’t we?” he says, flipping the chip between his fingers. His shirt is torn at the collar, dust and dirt patches adorn his cheeks and the lower part of his shirt that’s half-tugged into his breeches. Behind him, Bertholdt trails him like a shadow, looking anxious as always when he’s swallowed by a foreign crowd. It isn’t the first time you notice that he’s attractive in this non-conventional way. He doesn’t stick out even though he is so damn tall; he isn’t overly handsome but you really adore his nose and his pale green eyes. Bertholdt catches your eyes and gives you a small, sheepish smile. He looks as though he’d rather face a dozen Titans than asking someone for a quick dance.

“Why am I not surprised?” You smile, slightly leaning forward as you prop yourself up on a fence you’ve been leaning against. Reiner’s eyes immediately drop to your neckline. He mirrors your smile, and you feel all warm and tingly in your belly, the honeyed taste of mead still sweet and heavy on your tongue. “But you look like someone roughed you up real good.”

“Grappling.” He gives a lazy shrug, but you can see that he’s secretly pleased to have won. “You should see the other guy.”

“Tell me then, what affection do you seek?” you recite the quote—not for the first or last time for this night.

His only answer is a suggestive grin, and then he leans over and brushes his lips over your cheek. It sends a bolt of electricity from your face down to your legs where your knees turn to cotton. Satisfied with your reaction, he saunters away, leaving you feeling warmer than after any dance so far. It takes a minute or two until your heart stops thrumming when the next suitors already wait in line.

“Just like I predicted,” Christa beams up at you. She’s circled by Ymir and Mina, and judging from the rose-red blush on their cheeks, you aren’t the only one who’s a few drinks in. They’re wearing flower crowns as well: blood-crimson and virgin-white petals sit proudly on their heads. Except Ymir. You can hardly imagine her a queen anyway. A knight seems more likely. Christa’s virtue has always been Ymir’s biggest priority during trainee days.

Mina sways a little. It takes a moment for you to realise she’s trying to pull something out of her pocket, and when she finally manages it without losing balance, she proudly presents you a wooden chip. “I have a chip,” she declares, just to make sure you don’t miss it. She holds it under your nose as if you might still doubt her. “It was Christa though who won it,” she adds very sadly.

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who can give Christa anything,” Ymir quickly butts in, throwing her arms possessively around Christa’s small frame.

You’re about to blurt that allowing Christa entrance into the MP is already more than anything one could get around here, when Mina slaps her hands on your cheeks and smashes her mouth on yours. Her lips are very, very soft, and she tastes like sweet apple cider.

As quickly, she pulls back, a happy smile spreading on her face.

You grin back. Before joining the military, you’ve kissed one or two boys in Trost, their names already long lost and withered in a garden where you’ve pledged to take care of new flowers that have grown over the last three years. The bouvardia’s little pink heads shake in excitement today.

Mina takes your hand and weaves you surprisingly soberly through the dancing and laughing crowd, dodging expertly whoever tries to reach for you because they want to invite you for another pint or dance. She leads you to a table a little off the main plaza where couples and children dance in never-ending circles to the music, and only when you sit down, a little confused from the new surroundings, you notice the familiar faces of your squad.

Connie and Sasha, arm in arm, sway to the music, singing gibberish lyrics that could be the right ones, could be their whole new take on it. Daz and Samuel try to outdrink each other, not caring about how unkindly their bodies will repay them come tomorrow. You notice Annie, Reiner and Bertholdt are not present and wonder what they might be up to. In your half-drunken state there’s only one answer you arrive at, one that makes you giggle into your mug and almost choke on the mead.

“What are you laughing at?” Jean asks. He has Marco and Armin in tow—one distinctly blushing, the other too aware, too attentive for your liking. Clearly, Armin hasn’t touched any booze yet, and clearly, that is about to change.

The moment he sits down, on cue, a bartender from the closest counter swipes in and distributes new mugs spilling over with beer.

“Here’s your drink, stranger,” he says. “Bottoms up.”

Armin obediently starts getting up.

The bartender gently presses him back down. “The drink, lad.”

“What’s it like, being the popular one for one day?” Jean asks as he leans over the table, wearing that stupid smug smile you’d love to punch off his face. Maybe with your mouth even. The thought whips you sober; kicks up dust that’s settled in a corner for such a long time that you forgot all about the feeling it’s hiding and what it’s like to mourn her.

Answer. You still have to answer, even though you’re afraid you might choke on that dust.

“That’s a whole day more than you’ll ever get, Kirschstein,” you say, quickly locking your lips to your tankard because your mouth feels too dry.

Jean flips you off. Beside you, Marco is fiddling with something in his lap, and when you take a closer look, you see he’s pushing a wooden chip into his palm with his thumb. He catches your gaze and flushes furiously.

“Jean,” he begins, startling Jean opposite from him. Quieter, Marco continues, “Jean won it.”

You level Jean with a long, silent gaze.

“What?” Jean mumbles.

“You saying you wouldn’t wanna kiss [Name]?” Connie shouts from the other end of the table.

Suddenly, it’s deafeningly silent.

“It’d be like kissing my own cousin,” he shouts back, his voice loud enough it almost breaks. From nervousness? From disgust?

The table laughs.

You laugh.

Suddenly, the mead sloshes heavy in your stomach like acid. Maybe you’ve just drunk too much.

The jest unlocks something that’s been holding Marco back. He quickly snatches your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles before dropping it again and lifting himself from the seat. He flees into the crowd of dancers, ears crimson red, Sasha’s cries to bring her more of the sticky honey roast falling on deaf ears.

When you look over at Jean, he’s staring at you, then at Marco, as if he’s just realised something, and his pupils grow large, black. Fathomless.

You need to know what’s going on in his head, but before you can voice your question—bold by wine and pleasure, you’re ready to cross the line—a storm in the form of Eren appears right beside you, trailed by Mikasa who—do your eyes deceive you?—looks as though she’s trying not to smile. She catches Armin’s eyes, and they both share a silent glance.

Eren announces his arrival by slamming a wooden chip right in front of you as though you have insulted him and now it’s his right to demand reparations to his status.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he demands.

You blink up at him, and it takes time before your eyes meet his as your attention gets lost on the way to his face: on his biceps, on his sharp collarbones winking at you from under his white shirt.

“What’s so hard to understand about it?” Jean snorts into his tankard. “It’s just for fun, Jaeger. Maybe you should look it up in a dictionary.”

Eren does look a little as though he’s never heard of that. You also can’t imagine him participating in a game for fun. He’d make a game of can knockdown into a question of life and death.

“You can give it to me, if you don’t want it,” Connie pipes up.

“You scared of girls, Jeager?” Jean continues, talking over whatever Connie has in mind with you. “This might be your only chance ever getting kissed by one before you head out beyond the Walls and die a horrible, pathetic death.”

“It’s stupid,” Eren says to you, as if you are the inventor of the May Queen’s tradition. “It cost me two coins to play the damn game and this is what I get?”

“No one is forcing you—” Connie tries again, sneaking his hand across the table to swipe the chip.

“Ohh, look at you, Eren, trying to pretend like you’d hate it,” you speak up now, slamming your hand over the chip and almost squishing Connie’s fingers under your palm. He jerks back, cradling his hand close to his chest. “You want to kiss me so bad, it makes you look stupid.”

Once more, laughter rises from your table. You look into the faces of your friends and relish in being the reason for their joy.

Eren doesn’t think it’s funny. Eren Jaeger is fucking determined to prove you wrong. He slaps his hands around your cheeks, holding your head in place. Every sound dies at your table.

You’re about to tell him it’s just a joke, no need to get his knickers in a twist, but he’s dead set on his mission: Giving you a concussion because he smashes his mouth against your forehead and almost knocks you both out cold.

Jean, who’s still been laughing until this point, goes dead silent, looking sickly grey.

“Hey—” he begins, but gets knocked over by an over-excited and slightly drunk Connie, splashing beer all over himself.

Eren reels back, hand pressed against his mouth, his bottom lip bleeding where his teeth have grazed it. Your head throbs and you’re pretty sure your cheeks show red lines where he’s pressed his fingers into your skin with a bruising grip.

“Oh my God, don’t you know how to kiss someone?” Connie hollers, banging his fist on the table hard enough it shakes and you hear a distinct crack. Jean starts to climb over the table, ready to administer rough justice, but his foot gets stuck at the edge and he topples off the table right to the feet of a few girls who misinterpret it and haul him up to drag him away to the dance floor. Your whole table is attacked by merry dancers, and you’re yanked away from your friends when the minstrels begin their performance and the music picks up again. The sounds swell to a roar—as do the guest’s voices when they chime in with the jolly song.

The Fishmonger’s daughter, ba ba The Fishmonger’s daughter, ba ba The Fishmonger’s daughter, ba ba The Fishmonger’s daughter, ba ba ba

A great classic to start off the night. Ring-a-ring-of-roses it goes as the guests dance in a wide circle, arm in arm, shouting in tandem. You don’t know the faces to your left and right, but their smiles are infectious. You laugh so hard your belly and cheeks hurt. The circle breaks, pairs find together like bees to flowers. Now that everyone is on their feet and in a dancing mood, the minstrels start a new song. On and on in circles it goes—left and right, from partner to partner until faces blur and become unrecognisable.

Your head feels light, as though filled with cotton. You want to stay in this moment forever—dancing, singing, laughing.

A strong hand gently settles on your underarm. You look up at strong, broad shoulders and arms the size of logs. The man has slicked his blonde hair back neatly, and when he walks through the crowd, it parts naturally as though he is a force of nature to be reckoned with—and then he turns, and you look up in the sharp, blue eyes of Survey Corps Commander Erwin Smith.

A/N: Fingers crossed I'll upload the final chapter of the first act at the end of October.

***

Taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade, @berriesandcrem

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #snk x y/n #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #swyaatl

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philliamwrites · 2 years

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SWYAATL 12: Raised by Wolves and Voices

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Summary: “Wouldn’t that be something.” Jean sniffs, his breath coming out in white plums. “Erasing events from the past, making stuff never have happened. You’d have to be, like, God or something to do that.” “I don’t know. I get you’d want the unpleasant stuff gone, but it’s what makes you the person you are today, right? Even all the bad stuff, I don’t think I’d want that just taken away from me.” Especially without you knowing.

Notes: [01] || 11 | 13

Words: 8.1k

A/N: guys, thank you so so much for all the interest in the story and the love and the messages you send me. there are no words how much i love you guys, you all deserve an eren to kiss you ❤️❤️

Chapter 12: Raised by Wolves and Voices

“Psst, dude.” Connie’s pointy elbow does a pretty good job drilling a hole into your side. “Take a look.”

“I’m kinda busy here myself,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm, the tips of your fingers stained ink blue. It quickly turns into a fight of who can keep their arm on the table that nobody seems to win. Turns out, Connie is a formidable opponent.

“Just a quick look,” he whispers. “I don’t get what’s wrong with my notes.” He slides a piece of paper over to you, and you need some time to decipher the words.

Supplie Requasition Bread: A bunch Potatos: Around 5 boxes? Milk: Not spoiled Blades: Enough to attack Titans Gas: A good amount

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t get it either.”

At that moment, Shadis passes your table and takes a look at Connie’s requisition paper. “Now, would you all look at Cadet Springer,” he calls, turning to the room. He plucks the paper from the table by one corner with his thumb and index finger as if it was something particularly filthy he spotted under his kitchen sink. “That is what I call unique!”

Connie beams. “Thanks, sir!”

“Uniquely shit!!”

“Oh.”

“Do it again!”

Shadis marches on, sharp eyes searching for his next prey like a hawk. Connie sags against the backrest of his chair, groaning. “Why do I gotta do this stupid stuff? Put me out in the field, that’s where I belong.”

“Even out in the field, you should have a good feeling for the supplies you have on you.” You finish up your concluding statement on Bordieun Field Theory as an Instrument for Military Operations. You’d hoped to have Armin give it a read, but he’s already left for lunch. When you submit the paper to Shadis, he simply acknowledges it with a curt nod and shoos you away like an annoying fly.

“Oh, come on, don’t leave me here,” Connie whines when you pack up your stuff to head over to the canteen where the rest of your corps is already enjoying their break. “I’ll never finish at this rate.”

“You can do it.” You pat his shaved head. “Try to think about it in actual numbers and be specific as you put them down. It’s fine if you do it in your own words.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

You leave him slumped over his work and set out snuggled into your warm military coat, upturning your collar to help against the biting cold. The canteen is on the opposite side of the lesson building, but the frosty cobblestone plaza makes the jog take much longer. One false step will guarantee you bruises nastier than any handed to you during hand-to-hand combat practice.

It’s a busy day on the Main Compound. Many cadets and full-fledged soldiers linger, and you pass a group of third years near the main entrance, their hands all stuffed deep inside the warmth of their coat pockets. They jostle and bump against one another, laughing, stamping their feet against the cold snap, the first gasp of winter having arrived weeks earlier than anticipated. You recognise Sylvia, who salutes in your direction. You tap two fingers against your temple as a reply. It is her last winter as a cadet before she graduates in spring next year. The 104th has only one more year to go, and then you will be full-fledged soldiers as well.

Just one more year until the people you have grown close to all walk the paths to their distinctive futures like the last leaves clinging desperately to their familiar branches, but unable to hold on as the sharp, cold winter wind scatters them to new horizons. Time waits for no one, yet still you wish you could have a little more with the friends you have made.

You duck under the stone archway and join the constant stream of soldiers entering the canteen. It is a wide, high-ceilinged building running all the way to the far back of the compound and housing dozens upon dozens of long, narrow tables and benches. On one side, behind multiple counters spread with different meals, garnishes and a diverse assortment of drinks and juices, kitchen hands and scullions scurry from workplace to workplace, tending to the soldiers standing in line to pile as much food as they can carry on their rectangular tin plates. The vast assortment is exactly why you prefer eating here: hearty cabbage potato stew, freshly baked bread unlike the hardened leftovers you get at your mess hall. The smell of garlicky, grilled leek wafts from one end of the long counter. They might have made a pact with the devil for all the additional seasoning on their hands, seeing as one of the cooks drops a pinch of what looks like dried dill into a huge pot of boiled potatoes in a thick herb cream.

After a quick survey of the room you find your desired table and quickly get into line to fetch your meal. Tray filled to the brim with little plates carrying various dishes, you make your way through the crowd, accidentally bumping into people and dodging flying elbows with swift steps Shadis would be proud of.

They’ve settled at tables at the very far end of the room, the only set where only two benches stand by the tables so whenever cadets seize them, they usually push them together so more people can sit, facing each other. When you are within reach, you give everyone a single, respectful nod, except Eren and Jean. The first gets a small bowl full of pickled radishes, the latter a plate piled to the edges with thickly sliced carrots.

“Comrades,” you say, all haughty, your chin raised when you sit down next to Jean. The look on his face is one of unabashed, utter disgust. Eren’s face is full of contemplation as if he is debating if it’s worth it to reach over the table and slap you.

They both, without a word or another acknowledgement of your benevolence, pass the plates on to Sasha who gives a happy chirp and dives right in. You shake your head, stirring gravy into your mashed potatoes. “Where’s Armin?” you ask.

“The library,” comes from Mikasa. You have learnt she is a person of few words but a whole catalogue of looks. The one she sends Eren now is worth an hour of chiding in itself. “Said he was looking for something for the upcoming Snow Trekking Exam.”

“Aren’t they throwing way too many exams around lately?” says Samuel. He keeps throwing urgent gazes towards the main entrance as if waiting for someone. Everyone seems a little on edge, waiting for the news from the Post Master that letters and packages from friends and relatives have finally arrived. You are eager as well. Maybe this time, Ida and Felix have sent an answer.

“We are getting close to starting our third year,” Reiner says. He is stirring lazily in a big cup of steaming tea, his plate lying forgotten beside him even though he has only finished half of it. “It’s only normal that tasks get harder, that we get more exams. They want to make sure the next batch of soldiers is strong and capable.” His eyes linger on Mikasa for a moment, almost a little thoughtful. It is no secret that she remains the undisputed number one cadet and in whatever military branch she will end up, she will rise in rank quickly.

He then turns his keen eyes on you, and grins. “Have you given it a second thought? It’s the third time you’re in the top ten now. You could hold rank eight with a little more, consistent effort.”

You are spared answering when Armin, his face half-hidden behind thick layers of his wool scarf, emerges from the sea of soldiers and joins you, three thick books slipping from his arms onto the table. You pick one by its corners, pulling it close so you can read the title. Operations in Snow and Extreme Cold.

Eren leans in close to you, oblivious to the fabric of his black sweatshirt hanging dangerously close to his plate. The expression he is wearing is distinctly one of Not in front of my salad. “What’s this?” he asks, frowning.

“It’s a book,” you say, flipping open the first pages to skim through it. “You should pick up one and read it.”

“Or I could just smack you with it.”

“So eloquent.”

The corners of his mouth tug upward, as if he is trying to fight the grin that is trying to break free but he is also aware of how bad his performance is in this battle. For the first time, he looks as if he doesn’t mind losing this particular fight.

Armin takes the book from your reach before Eren can put his words into action and start mauling people with it. Eren leans back, sulking. “I was just looking for some easy reads on snow operations,” Armin says. “It’s the first time we’re really out there and I want to be prepared.”

“Shadis gave us a really long lecture this time,” says Samuel. “I dunno, kinda makes me want to skip it, pretend I got the flu or something.”

“It’ll be dangerous, for sure.” Reiner pushes his remaining meal over to Bertholdt who accepts it without a word and starts munching on a lettuce leaf. It makes him look like a baby goat. “He said we’ll spend every lesson until the exam date going over survival guides, gear check, map reading. Everything to prepare us to survive the worst.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “I don’t get the big deal, it’s like he’s thinking the moment we step out into the cold, we’ll all get lost.”

“Well, the books state that when operations fail it is mostly due to human error,” Armin pipes up, struggling to get out of his sleeve until Mikasa grabs onto one tail and tugs his arm free. “Soldiers underestimating the cold, not taking enough gear with them or unable to start a fire out in the open at fifty degrees below zero.” A sort of excitement settles over him as he recites the books’ contents. “They all state that in operations outside the Walls during winter, more soldiers die from hypothermia than attacks from wild animals or Titans.”

“But we are instructed to stay together, right?” Samuel sits up a little straighter now, more alert. “This isn’t like the previous exams where we have to split up and every group gets their own task?”

“That’s probably next year.” Jean grins. “You know, if you make it through this one.”

He cackles at Samuel’s horrid expression, earning a gentle nudge with his elbow from Marco who is stuffing his cheeks full with potatoes. He looks like a squirrel.

Samuel opens his mouth to answer, but then something from the entrance catches his sight and he half-stands from the bench, staring eagerly. Multiple heads turn around, watching Connie hurry down the aisle towards the table swinging around a handful of letters.

“The mail carriers have finally arrived!” he announces, throwing himself in the free seat and right into Sasha. She half-chokes on a mouthful of radishes.

Immediately, Samuel is on his feet, tray in his head. “Godspeed, comrades,” he dismisses you all, and vanishes towards the kitchen ladies near the kitchen sinks to drop off his empty plates.

Jean and you share a glance, and shoving the plates to the edge of the table, Jean elbows you out of the way. When he stands, he stretches like a cat and spreads his arms wide. “You think Mom sent us some chocolate? It should be that time the vendor from Yalkell visits Trost.”

You finish your meal quickly, wolfing it down like a starved woman. “I hope whatever it is isn’t as bad as your Dad’s try at those vegetable cookies.”

Jean shudders. “Yeah, I don’t think Mom should have left him unsupervised.”

“I don’t even remember the last time I had chocolate,” Marco thinks out loud. “After, you know—,” he begins, throwing a quick, unsure glance at Eren, Mikasa and Armin opposite him, then at you, “—after we lost Wall Maria, chocolate got really, really expensive.”

“I don’t get it,” Eren says. “What’s so special about it?”

You throw him a curious glance over the rim of your cup. “You don’t like it?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never had chocolate before.”

You gasp theatrically, and lean forward to place a hand on his shoulder. You feel him slightly tense under your touch, his muscles turning hard, his skin warm under the fabric. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

“Do you want me to hit you?”

A small, private smile catches you off-guard and you glance down, hoping he won’t see it.

Rapid foot tapping against the wooden floor, the tell-tale sign of Jean’s impatience, finally drives you out of your seat, surrendering it to Armin who, in his hunger for information, forgot to get food and rushes over to get some.

You follow Jean outside where another wave of cold air closes like a fist around your lungs. The Military Post Office is the last one in a neat row of small, copper brick buildings designated to everything related to civil relations and administration.

The Post Master behind the counter is a wiry and thin man with a thick moustache and a weathered kerchief tied around his neck. He’s missing two teeth at the bottom, and after you finally make it to the front, he greets you with a wet cough, before asking in a gritty voice, “Name, District.”

“Kirschstein and [Last Name],” Jean says. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, he is bobbing up and down on his heels as if he’s hoping he might lift off. “Trost District.”

The Post Master wobbles for a moment, and you share a worried look with Jean. But he manages to stay on his feet, runs a gnarly finger over a long list until he finds your names, then turns around and goes to the back room to fetch your mailings. He returns with two big packages he can barely carry by himself, and drops them unceremoniously onto the counter. A big, wet snuffle is the only goodbye you get as you reach for your respective packages before other cadets behind you push you to the side for their turn.

Your fingers itch to rip the package open, dig through the presents, even though Wîhe Naht is weeks away, and read Ida’s reply. Three more hours to go before you can trek back to your barracks and snuggle up in your bed, share the sweets and toys from Felix with Mina and then hide under your warm blanket for whatever their response holds in store for you as the other girls prepare for bed.

Jean, feeling your agitation, glances at you sideways. “It’s gonna be fine,” he remarks. “Whatever Mom and Dad are saying in their letter, it’s in the past now anyway.”

“I’m aware letting it go would be easier,” you say, balancing the box from carrying it on one side to the other as if you were holding dynamite. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened. I just want closure, that’s all.”

“Wouldn’t that be something.” Jean sniffs, his breath coming out in white plums. “Erasing events from the past, making stuff never have happened. You’d have to be, like, God or something to do that.”

“I don’t know. I get you’d want the unpleasant stuff gone, but it’s what makes you the person you are today, right? Even all the bad stuff, I don’t think I’d want that just taken away from me.” Especially without you knowing.

When there’s no answer, you look up at Jean. He’s trying to stifle a yawn—not very discreetly. At the glare you send him, Jean just shrugs. “What. It’s too cold and I’m too tired to engage in a philosophical debate with you. Go ask Armin.”

Back in the classroom, you are only half a step over the threshold when your corpsmates’ heads turn toward you like hungry wolves smelling their prey. You don’t know when it has become tradition to share sweets and candies—at least by those who regularly receive gift packages from their families. Did it start with Mina’s Klippfisch or Hannah’s glacéed walnuts?

You watch as Jean, who has quickly turned it into a lucrative business, bargains with Connie and Franz what duties they would take over for him next week, when an impulse strikes you, sparking you into action like flint igniting a fire.

With your target nowhere in sight, you know one person who can answer the question about his whereabouts. Mikasa is sitting by the window, watching snowflakes whirl past in an angry flurry. She has a thoughtful gaze about her, as if even though the landscape before her is blindingly white, only she can discern the pictures hidden within. Memories, maybe. Her slender fingers play with loose threads of her red scarf. Armin, sitting beside her, is curled over an open book and doesn’t notice you approaching.

“Have you guys seen Eren?” you ask, already knowing that one definitely knows where he is. Mikasa breaks her gaze away from the window, blinking up at you dazedly as if she is waking up from a long dream. Not for the first time, she is considering you with a blank expression. You just don’t know what test you’re currently under and what might happen should you not pass.

“He’s just left the room,” she says, grey eyes darting to the exit. “Do you need something?”

“Nothing important.” You’re already half turned towards your new destination, swiping your hand over their desk and leaving two pieces of chocolate. Mikasa eyes it with a little suspicion, as if she doesn’t understand what it is until she picks it up. A half smile tugs at her lips. You don’t know if you’ve ever really seen her smile at anyone else except Armin and Eren.

You leave her nibbling on the chocolate, quietly trying to rouse Armin from his reading spree to make him eat his piece. The hallway outside is slowly emptying out as the remaining cadets slip into their classrooms. When you find Eren rounding a corner, you break out into a run until there is so much momentum that it is easier to grab him by his arms and swing you both around like a merry-go-round until you finally halt. Disoriented and surprised by the sudden attack, Eren needs a moment to understand what is happening.

“Wha—”

“Close your eyes,” you say.

Eren takes a step back, doubt cutting deep creases into his forehead as if you are trying to sell him Titan body parts. “Why?”

“Just do as you’re told. Trust me.”

His expression says it all. He doesn’t. But he closes his eyes anyway, brows furrowed.

“Open your mouth.”

He opens his eyes.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

Eren does so, but he adds, “If this is another one of your pranks, I’m going to make you eat snow.”

You ignore him and reach for your pocket from where you produce another small piece of chocolate. You place it on Eren’s lips. He flinches, his eyes snapping open and you use his confusion to shove the whole piece inside his mouth, the pads of your fingers brushing his warm lips. The tip of his tongue darts forward, prods against your fingertips, hot and wet, and you hesitate for the break of a second before pulling your hand back as the feeling sends electric shocks from your hand up your arm and down to your belly.

The transformation on his face is instant when he closes his mouth, his jaw working as the chocolate melts on his tongue. It’s an expression you did not expect, and because of it, you throw your head back and laugh out loud.

“Why do you look so confused?” you ask, giving him a light shove.

Red creeps up his face, paints the tips of his ears. He throws an arm over his mouth, trying to hide it. “It’s so … sweet?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be like that.” You almost reach out to tug his arm down by his sleeve, wishing to see more, but Eren has already dropped it, now looking at you as if you are a puzzle he has spent too much time trying to solve and now he is considering throwing it against the wall.

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, there is a lot of sugar in it.”

“No, why are you giving it to me?”

The question catches you off guard, changes the gravity centre a little and uproots your safe foundation. You haven’t really thought about a deeper meaning, just that you wanted to share something you enjoy with him, something you know most people enjoyed, that would bring them happiness. Just like Mikasa and Armin. You wanted, you realise, to share a little happiness with Eren as well.

Which is something you definitely can’t and won’t admit to him out loud.

“You know, gaining favours, having you owe me something.” You shrug, trying to make it look extra nonchalant.

“So, now I owe you something after you almost shoved your fingers inside my mouth.” He crosses his arms in front of his broad chest, and gives you one of those insufferable grins that remind you of every picaresque trickster you have read about in stories—dashing and adventurous, but also daring and dangerous. You realise the part inside you that didn’t want to understand what exactly it is Eren dares you to do grows quieter and quieter, instead replaced by a growing voice that’s a little too eager to accept the challenge head-on.

You mimic his posture, aware of how your crossed arms push out your chest. There isn’t anything subtle about Eren, or the way his eyes drop down like a magnet to its pole. “You say that as if you didn’t like it, Jaeger.”

Eren’s eyes grow dark. He looks at you, his gaze sliding over you in a way that you know is like fingertips stroking over your skin. “I—”

“Hey, if you two squirts have time to stand out here and fuck around, you better be able to recount the whole operation without any mistakes!” Shadis’ voice roars up from the end of the corridor, his sharp, pinprick dots of eyes traverse the whole floor to hit you with a marksman’s precision.

You and Eren duck your heads as if that could spare you from Shadis’ wrath, immediately setting off together, a hasty walk that quickly turns into a race down the hall to see who is faster. Eren only wins because he cheats, his hand reaching down to pull at the harness on your leg only to let it snap back against the back of your thigh.

His laughter disappears as he dives into the classroom first, which is great because that means he doesn’t see your face going up in flames at the quick brush of his fingers against the back of your thigh.

True to his word, Shadis does make you two recount the operation and everything important for its success, which somehow you manage to recite without any problems.

Sadly, that did not prevent the events from nearly taking your life.

The cold punishes arrogance.

That was Shadis’ first lesson, one none of you took too seriously simply because you all, stemming from the southern parts within the Walls where winters are uncomfortable but that is pretty much it, lack the imagination to fully understand what it means to be cold.

“Keep in mind, safety first!” Shadis’ voice howls inside your head, louder than the wind tearing at the naked branches reaching for you like cold, broken fingers as you keep your head down, fighting against the wind trying to sweep you off your feet, eyes glued to Ymir’s boots in front of you. Looking up would hurt too much. The whirling snowflakes striking your skin hurt like pellets. “I’d rather have you maggots fail the objective than be stupid enough to die to hypothermia! Get frostbite and your pathetic little lives are over! Cold winter climate like this is the most difficult climate to manoeuvre! Even when not in combat, you’re still in a fight against the cold. Now out in those woods, the cold won’t be your only enemy. There are wolves, bears. The animals might kill you. But the cold will.”

You’ve checked your gear multiple times, made sure everything is safe inside your trekking back and nothing is missing. The winter coats, long enough to fall past your knees, shield you from the cold, keep you warm as long as you keep moving. You cannot allow one sliver of skin to be exposed to these extreme temperatures or you’ll grow numb immediately, completely freeze in maybe a few minutes. Dead in maybe an hour.

It helps to keep your mind completely fixed on the task. One foot in front of the other, step by step, in the same rhythm that Ymir and the rest march. You’ve completely lost any feeling for the time, and surrounded by this never-ending grey landscape, it could either still be early morning or afternoon already. Which would mean night is approaching and you do not want to be outside when the sun completely vanishes and leaves you in the dark. You can’t imagine how much colder it will be then.

As suddenly as the snowstorm has hit your formation, it dissolves for now. Risking a glance up, you can finally make out the dark, barren stems of trees, still bending in the harsh wind and creaking like old men lamenting their aching backs. Mountains stand tall in the distance, growing taller and taller as you march towards them. Behind them warm huts, burning fireplaces, and warm stews await your arrival. Two more hours, maybe three, and you can finally take off the padded coat and winter boots, the heavy backpack sinking you deeper into the snow with every step.

The cliffs rise higher as you progress, pocked with spots of darkness, like slashes of black paint. As you look more closely, you realise they are caves in the rock. Some look very deep, twisting away into darkness. You imagine bats and creepy-crawling things hiding in the blackness, and shiver.

At last a narrow path cutting through the cliffs leads you to a wide road, nearly completely frozen over. Anytime now, you think, having memorised the map around these areas until you could draw it with your eyes closed. The group begins to slow down, shuffling even closer now that movement ceases and in need of a different source of warmth. You feel Mina pressing up against your side, her gloved hands clutching tightly onto the straps of her backpack. She peeks over at you from under her furred hood, barely managing an exhausted smile. You reach under her hood and give her Rudolph-red nose a squeeze.

At the front, quiet murmur rises, the order passed from the first to the last man. You’d imagine Shadis would have a field trip shouting in a place like this where his voice would echo and grow tenfold, the only downside is that the avalanche following would kill you all swiftly.

Everyone shuffles into one line. You can feel the unrest and anxiety running through the rest like a wave carrying on from person to person. The need to stomp their feet against the creeping needle-fingered cold, the white death slowly advancing and sucking heat from any warm thing. But the narrow mountain pass snaking alongside the cliff’s wall doesn’t allow for two people walking side by side. You imagine freezing to death might be a bit more pleasant than a drop all the way down to the bottom of the mountain and breaking bones. Then again, you’d prefer not to die at all.

With the progress slowed down, you have no choice but to wait for your turn to squeeze alongside the steep cliff to the other side. Were it any other time, you’d enjoy the fantastic outlook over the valley. There’s nothing but mountains and trees as far as the eye can see, a winter wonderland reminding you of all the Wîhe Naht stories your mother used to read to you at night when you were both snuggling into warm comforters and blankets. You try to recount those stories now, of brave Lucia venturing out on a cold, dark, lightless night to find the sun and bring it back to the world, or the stories of Vaeterchen Frost and his granddaughter Schneefloeckchen travelling the lands to deliver presents, to pass time as Mina carefully shimmies along the edge to the other side. Singing songs in your head helps as well—just about anything that occupies you from thinking too much about the cold. What better way to pass time with winter songs.

Schneefloeckchen, Weissroeckchen / wann kommst du geschneit? / Du wohnst in den Wolken / dein Weg ist so weit.

A muffled sneeze interrupts your solo performance. There’s only a handful of cadets left bringing up the rear, comrades you’re able to recognise by their built now rather than seeing their faces after spending almost two years together. Franz glued to Hannah’s side, taking care that she doesn’t slip and fall. Annie, her height giving her away, kicking some frozen ice clumps off the cliff, watching them tumble down, sometimes growing as snow sticks to it. The last one is Eren, all gloomy and sulking like a little child and whenever he raises his head, watchful eyes scanning his surroundings, you don’t miss the feverish look on his face, his cheeks and nose a scarlet red you know has nothing to do with the cold.

No one had missed the argument between him and Mikasa this morning, one Eren ended by storming outside the Mess Hall, ignoring her calls. He wouldn’t be stopped from gathering experience during this mission, not even by the cold turning his voice raw and raspy, his nose runny. You can’t explain how he’s still standing, other than that sheer will power is driving him onward and whoever doubts it gets on Eren’s shit list. Three streaks and you’re out, Eren is not shy handing out punches—physically or verbally. Mikasa was the first to get the brunt of it, banished to the front of the line and as far away from Eren as physically possible just because he couldn’t stand her watching over him like a mother hen.

You felt bad then, watching Mikasa letting Eren stomp off, looking at him with frustration but also fondness—unable to decide if she should respect his wish and let him be alone or follow him to keep him safe. In the end, it was Armin, as usual, who negotiated and kept the peace between them, pulling Mikasa with him and making her his trek buddy.

Now, as you watch Mina reach the pass’ first half and Eren getting ready behind you, you can’t help and plead in Mikasa’s favour.

“You should have listened to Mikasa and stayed back,” you mumble, voice low enough for only him to hear.

Eren’s bad condition is only further proven by the lack of immediate retaliation, the time he needs to take in your words, process them and come up with a strong argument. It is a little like pushing a toddler off his feet and watching him trying to understand what just happened.

Finally, the response you get is the most unconvincing performance you’ve seen, one were it a stage play, you’d demand your money back.

“’M fine,” he slurs, bracing himself against the cliff’s side. He’s taking deep, rattling breaths, his mouth a pale gash in his feverish face. “We’re almost at our destination ‘nyway.”

You take the first careful step, hugging the wall. They always say ‘Don’t look down’ when standing too close to an edge with nothing but space between you and the ground, but that doesn’t work when you have to use ODM gear. Still, something about being in free fall is different than standing close to an edge with nothing but half a foot separating you plunging into your death. There is nothing quite describing this feeling except call of the void.

“You ever think that this isn’t just about you?” you ask him, feeling safer with your back pressed against the wall even though the outlook gives a splendid, stomach churning overview of the valley that has your toes curling. You miss the weight of your ODM gear, the knowledge that no matter if you fall right here, safety is but a click of your hooks and wires away. “Don’t expect any of us to carry you the rest of the way.” Certainly not Annie, his trek buddy. Not because she’s lacking the strength, rather you don’t think she has it in her heart to care about what happens to Eren. Or any of you.

At this point, Eren can barely make any distinguishable words. It sounds something like “Don’ worry ‘bout it,” which is the only signal you get to look to your right and see him sway precariously.

You don’t think. Instinct kicks in, and as he falls forward, you lunge for him, grabbing his backpack. Only that is exactly half the step you shouldn’t have taken.

The last thing you can make out is someone is trying to scream after you, quickly shushed by a firm hand on their mouth—you can only imagine it is Annie’s quick wit and reflex that prevents Hannah’s voice from causing an avalanche going off above their heads.

The fall slams your stomach up to your throat as the world turns into a blurry merry-go-round of white and ice, and the only stable thing is the additional weight of Eren as you hold onto his backpack’s strap for dear life. The first hit is the worst. You land awkwardly on your side, the blanket of snow buffering most of the impact as you tumble and roll further down, kicking up snow and dirt.

Gloved hands clawing into the ice, searching for roots to stop your fall, you try to scramble back up the hill but the snow gives under your feet—and then suddenly there is no ground beneath your feet and you fall again, flailing to find purchase and it is the longest two seconds of your life until your backpack hits the ground and your teeth clack together hard enough you feel it in all your bones.

A moment later, a second thud lands inside a pile of snow beside you.

All you can do is lie on your back like a turtle upturned, kicking and swinging and swaying as you try to scramble to your knees, blinking away fine snow dust from your lashes. Your heart still beats too fast, too hard—too scared from dodging Death’s cold, greedy talons by nothing more than a hairsbreadth. You can still feel him yearning for you in the cold, biting wind that picks up, in the coppery taste filling your mouth after having bitten the inside of your mouth during the fall.

You turn your back to the cliff. A snow-tipped forest stretches before you, illuminated in a haze of dusty gold beneath the late-afternoon sun. And in the distance, more ice-capped mountains rise and fall as far as the eye can see.

But you feel only the cold in your bones and see only the shadows that stretch long and dark beneath the pine trees. This is the south of the Walls, where winter days are not as bad as in the North, yet if you don’t find shelter before the sun sets, you will die.

You scramble to your feet, snow stuck to your coat and backpack weighing you down so much your knees buckle with the additional weight. The heaps of snow surrounding you remain motionless, still. The panic seizing you, freezing you in place for a moment, is colder than the snow before you lunge into the pile, clawing through the icy chunks that immediately freeze and harden as you dig your way through to Eren.

You find his arm first. He’s lost one of his gloves during the fall and you don’t try to push your luck finding it. Unearthing him takes a good amount of strength and time, but at least he is free from his icy coffin. Snow dusts his face, clings to the fur of his hood and his closed lashes like fine diamonds. You tug your glove off with your teeth and put your hand to his cheeks, feeling for his pulse. Despite the cold, his cheeks are still warm, still full of life, and the relief that sparks within you warms you like a small candle’s light.

You free him completely, pull him out and drag him away until he is laid out on the snowy floor, his breaths coming out in soft white plumes. No matter how often you say his name, pat his cheek and beg him to wake up, nothing disturbs Eren’s sleeping beauty slumber.

“You can’t die, all right?” you say to him. To yourself. To no one. “Please don’t. You’re a prick sometimes, but you can’t die, okay?”

There’s no response. You have never known silence this terrifying.

But fear and panic are not the solution. For two years Shadis has beat discipline and order into you with words and you would not allow this to crumble under the face of adversity.

More importantly, you will not leave Eren to be taken by the Grim Reaper.

Shelter. You need shelter, you need a fire. You have to survive this.

Checking your gear, you make sure you didn’t lose anything during your descent. Pulling Eren out of that pile of snow was already hard work. You doubt you’ll make it far if you’d try carrying him and his backpack, so you spend the next five minutes going through everything he has on him.

The contents of his bag are identical to yours: a raincover, additional rope and another survival knife, another pair of waterproof gloves that you quickly switch out with the one Eren’s wearing. You take his water bottle with you and stuff yourself with a sweet oat bar. The rest of his rations—dry crackers, another oat bar, thinly sliced rye bread and hard biscuits—you stuff into your own back for later if he wakes up.

When he wakes up, you correct yourself, chewing on the bar without really tasting anything. You doubt something like a fever and a fall from this height that barely left you with a scratch could kill a public menace like Eren. The world wouldn’t miss out to see how far he’ll go.

Now looking up, it actually does surprise you how unscathed you’ve emerged from the fall. A canopy of barren trees obscures your sight of the top. Protocol says that any loss to the formation is to be diminished. Unfortunately, that means everyone is out for themselves, and those who manage to lose the group have to find their own way back. But not with the sun descending behind the horizon, and Eren still unconscious.

When you’ve steeled yourself for the arduous task, you slide the bag off Eren’s back and throw him over your shoulders, huffing at the additional weight. If you keep following the trail back along the cliff side, you should return to where you’ve earlier seen the caves and find shelter there for the night.

Soon you are in the heart of the woods, surrounded by tall, crowding pines and frost-larches that cast their shadows over you. A hush has settled in the air. It feels as though the forest is alive and watching, the cold creeping steadily past your clothes, under your skin, into your bones. Every step further turns into an excruciating fight to keep Eren upright, his weight pushing you down into the thick blanket of snow.

Darkness has steadily crept in around you, and you have to blink to make out which are the trees and which are the shadows. Time seems to go in circles, and you begin to wonder whether you are going in circles. The unbearable cold is addling your brain; you keep looking to the left and right, imagining the occasional crackle of a branch or crunch of snow. You remember your mother’s stories about never-ending winters where ice spirits dwell to spirit away the last remaining humans locked up inside their tiny huts in hopes for spring to come. Wolves that spring from thin air and hunt in packs. That is exactly why Shadis had told your class to never travel without a light source on you that burns steadily through the night to ward off the creatures lurking in the woods. Now the darkness seems to press against you.

Then, you hear it. The snap-snap-snap of twigs and the rustle of the underbrush, several dozen paces behind you.

Someone—or something—is following you.

Fear pricks at you. You duck behind the nearest tree, and after rebalancing Eren on your back, you still and strain to listen over the hammering of your heart.

There. Rustling and crackling approaches, as though something large is moving through the trees. Holding your breath, you dare a look from behind the tree and feel your legs turn to cotton.

Multiple swift, dark shapes slither by, so close that their musty wet-animal scent wafts past you. They circle you, sniffing the air and letting out deep-throated growls. As they turn their heads to rivet their black, evil eyes on you, your heart sinks. Wolves. A pack of hungry, desperate wolves.

Your mind kicks into action as you press Eren’s body closer to yours. One wrong movement and your life will be over; Eren’s life will be over. Now that they have picked up your scent, they will hunt you until their razor-sharp fangs tear the meat from your bones, squeeze their tongue in to suck out your marrow.

Slowly, painfully aware that you cannot do any rash moves, you lower Eren to the ground first, then your backpack. There is no way you can outrun them. Your hand inches to the survival knife strapped to the belt around your coat, fingers numb and shaking. The wolves crouch, low and snarling. One of them, their leader you assume, stands between you and the rest, a mountain of growling, brindled fur, shoulders hunched forward, lips curled back over snarling teeth.

It snarls again, crouching closer to the ground. Its growl is more than just Look, here is a human in our territory and we can do whatever we please. No, this growl means We have not eaten in days, and now it is time to feast.

The wolf’s lips draw back to show its teeth, and you see its lolling tongue. And then it launches itself forward, jaws gaping, ready to tear. You have barely time to draw your knife as it strikes you square in the chest, and you two go over in a writhing tangle.

Your screams go under the lethal snap of his jaw, its target the soft flesh of your throat where he can easily rip you to shreds. The smell of dirt and wet dog and something far more unpleasant threatens to choke you. The weight of this beast robs you of any chance to fight back. You’d just have to move your arm and bring upon it the sharp edge of your knife to show him your own talons are as sharp—everything inside you screams against this. You hate to see animals suffer, to inflict pain upon the most innocent creatures.

If only the wolf would think so of you as well.

But the wolf is starving, and its mates are starving. It sees you as nothing more than a walking slab of meat. And that is why it has no problem to throw its head back and pierce those razor-sharp fangs right through the fabric of your coat into your arm and tear at your flesh.

❀❀❀

My darling [Name],

I have always known the day would come when you would remember and yet nothing prepares the heart for adversity as great as finding yourself facing the struggle you’ve tried to brace yourself for.

What Jeanie told you is the truth. I still remember reading your mother’s letter, feeling her distraught with every word. I swear I feared my heart would stop beating reading your mother’s recount of the events.

You must have been ten—the age when everything is a mystery and a great adventure. I remember whenever you and Jeanie went outside to play, you wouldn’t come back for hours and when you finally returned you were both covered in dust and grime from head to toe. I assume that is why, on that day, your parents weren’t worried why you were staying out for so long.

But then, your mother wrote, your friend had come over, asking for your whereabouts. That made her wonder, at last. Were you not supposed to be with him? I know he was very dear to you, I remember you talking about him so much, and strangely, I cannot remember his name or face, even though I know I must have met him at some point when visiting you.

Your mother and father immediately set out to ask around the neighbourhood if someone saw you. The result shocked your little community quite. The old veteran living on the outskirts close to the wall, who everyone believed to be blind turned out to have impeccable eyesight. We believe he lured you away, asked you to help him and you have never been someone to turn away from those who need help.

It was your father who found you. The veteran attacked him, scared what would happen to him if everyone knew about his secret. I don’t know how much you saw of it, of what your father had to do to protect you both. We were all grateful he saved you, and yet there is a part of me wondering if taking that old man’s life really was necessary. If it wasn’t possible to resolve things differently. Then again, any parent would make a deal with the Devil, I am sure, to keep their child safe.

The fact that your early life is built upon violence and loss pains me to this day. It must have been such a great shock that you had completely repressed any memory of the events, and had no recollection of ever having been kidnapped and taken away by that monster.

I do wonder though, why you have remembered now of all times—and such strange details as well! Not all is clear to me, there was no need to make your parents go through the pain of remembering all that by asking them too much. But a green wallpaper with golden lilies on it? That doesn’t sound like something you would find in Shiganshina. I did hear that it is a popular interior design choice within the inner Walls though.

But how did you know?

I think that is enough talk of that. Your graduation approaches. It is strange to believe that only two years ago, we last saw each other, and the next time we hopefully will, you and Jeanie will be full-fledged soldiers. You know I have never fully approved of you two going and giving up your young lives to a cause with no end. But I have been young once as well, and I know that nobody wants to be saved from their own ambition.

I am just glad you two have decided to stay within the Walls, and that makes it a little easier to sleep at night.

Until we see each other next time, please enjoy our little presents.

In love, always Ida

A/N: After finishing this I realised there is no way they would have chocolate on the island because they wouldn’t be able to plant cacao. Might go back and edit this, but for now let’s just ignore this.

feel free to head over to my pinned post to find my ko-fi link if you enjoy the story wanna fuel me with some coffee! ♥

Sources of research for this chapter: • London, Jack: To Build a Fire (1902) • Geller, Jacob: Fear of Cold (2022) • Campbell, John W.: Who Goes There? (1938)

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade

#didn't mean to split the chapter but it all would have been too long #next chapter will be so much fun because EMIL #aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #swyaatl

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philliamwrites · 2 years

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SWYAATL 11: The Forest of Hands and Teeth (pt.2)

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: description of a decomposing body

Summary: “If anything,” Eren says, and you can hear Armin’s quiet plea “Please stop talking, Eren,” because he knows Eren better than he himself, and if there is a chance to resolve the conflict without it blowing up, Armin will always throw himself in as canon fodder, “if anything, she got fucked up because you tried to run away. Because you tried to abandon us.” Jean goes still beside you like a statue. The glass shard nearly slips from your cold, clammy fingers and you bite your lip, tasting dried blood on your lips. “At some point,” Eren continues, “you’ll have to stop making excuses and stop running.”

Notes: [01] || 10 | 12

Words: 8.2k

A/N: like i promised, i'm baaack!! used my off time to finally finish AoT manga and let me just say I was pretty disappointed :)

the story still remains one of my absolute favourite, but I fell out of love with some characters the same as I fell in love with others.

i really missed uploading and i really missed you guys ♥ thank you for everyone who kept sending me messages about the story!! it makes me so happy to see how much you're enjoying it and yes, some may have figured out the secret! any ask gets a tiny snippet from the story hehehehe i can't not share the stuff with you, especially the smut ehehehehehe. enjoy! (also hmu if you want to join the taglist!)

Chapter 11: The Forest of Hands and Teeth (Pt.2)

The words shake the foundation of your world, open up the ground beneath your feet. Lying under the surface, where you always thought there was benign soil, you discover a pit of bottomless black, yawning wide, waiting to swallow you whole.

All the way, the men herd you like lambs for slaughter away from your camp to a tree where they tie you up. You stay silent, fighting off a crushing waterfall of thoughts and fears and burning tears—everything that is at once vicious and violent. It is only when they are done that your conscience arises from the murky, dark waters of slithering thoughts and ruining imaginations.

Ropes bind your hands together behind your back, biting painfully enough into your skin that all feeling slowly begins to trickle away. Shoulders pressed against shoulders, thick ropes cut into your upper arms tying you against the skin-scratching, rough bark of a tree.

You blink dazedly when after all the commotion there is suddenly nothing but silence—silence and a sharp pain in your closed palm sending shocks of tiny pinpricks up your arm. The men have left, decided that with nothing to break you free from your binds, you are just a bunch of harmless teenagers unable to either save Christa, whom they’ve taken for leverage, or get your equipment back and put up much of a fight.

The silence that mutes you is a savage beast, sharp-toothed and snarling as if it is just waiting to sink its dreadful talons into whoever manages to summon the courage to speak first.

It is no surprise that it is Eren who shows the beast his own fangs and claws sharpened by seething fury.

“We … we could have done something.” He’s sitting between Jean and Connie, too far away from you to see the emotion on his face, but from the tone in his voice, it has to be hot contempt. “If we attacked as a team, we could have shown those bastards, you fucking cowards!” His voice booms over the quiet of the forest, startling birds and squirrels from their slumber.

There’s no reply. The events replay once more behind your closed eyes, quick flashes of pictures, your skin remembering the pressure of a cold rifle barrel. You take a deep, shuddering breath, and fumble with your fingers until the sharp pain relents from your palm. You couldn’t have done anything earlier. But you are not helpless now.

With your arms shaking from the strain and the uncomfortable angle, you begin to cut at your ropes binding your wrists with the shard from the broken whiskey bottle you picked up during the quarrel earlier.

And then of course, because as long as Eren Jaeger lives, Jean Kirschstein will stand against him.

“That’s your opinion,” Jean mumbles, and then louder he continues, and you can feel from the way his shoulders turn hard as stone that the rage in him circles and collects at the centre of his lungs from where he can just spit it out. “I don’t agree. Actually, because of your crazy behaviour, everyone was at danger. [Name] almost fucking died because you acted up.” And quieter, he says, “Victor did die.”

You can hear Eren’s sharp inhale. Marco, ever the diplomat, quickly intervenes, “That wasn’t his fault. It was nobody’s fault, and you know it, Jean.” His voice is thick with an emotion you don’t know how to take apart to unravel the core. “You know it.”

“If anything,” Eren says, and you can hear Armin’s quiet plea “Please stop talking, Eren,” because he knows Eren better than he himself, and if there is a chance to resolve the conflict without it blowing up, Armin will always throw himself in as canon fodder, “if anything, she got fucked up because you tried to run away. Because you tried to abandon us.”

Jean goes still beside you like a statue. The glass shard nearly slips from your cold, clammy fingers and you bite your lip, tasting dried blood on your lips.

“At some point,” Eren continues, “you’ll have to stop making excuses and stop running.”

“Fuck you,” Jean spits, but he’s looking away, shaking slightly, and you know he’s fighting hard not to cry and it cracks something inside you open and now that it is spilling, you have nothing to mend the broken pieces and stop it from spreading.

“If you two could just shut up for a second,” you say, feeling the ropes come loose but also the glass turning slippery in your fingers from new cuts, bleeding and stinging, “maybe we can get out of here faster and make a plan.”

“What—what are you talking about?” Jean shifts, and almost drives the sharp point of the shard right into your wrist. “What are you doing?”

When the rope finally snaps, your arms jolt right into Jean and Connie sitting to your left and right. You bring your arms forward, presenting your unbound hands but also the cuts and slashes on your hands, the bloody shard glinting in the sharp, silvery moonlight. “I,” you say, and the only reason you grin is probably because you’ve lost so much blood you can’t think straight, “am getting us out of here.”

Jean sucks in a sharp breath. Connie makes a relieved sound that is close to a whimper. From the other side of the tree, Mina’s soft sobs have finally stopped and Sasha demands, “What’s happenin’? What’s she doin’?” You doubt she’s realised that she’s allowed her formal speech to slip from all the agitation.

“That’s from Victor’s bottle,” Connie realises, awe-struck. “God, that—he is saving us in a way, isn’t he?”

Lips pressed together tightly, you begin to work at the thick rope tying you all to the tree. It gives you enough reason not to think about how true Connie’s words are, and that even after everything Victor has done, he did not deserve to die such a gruesome death.

You change the shard from hand to hand whenever it hurts too much, but after five minutes, it finally becomes loose enough that a hard pull from everyone else rips the rope apart and it falls in your laps.

“Here, cut me free,” Jean urges, turning his back to you. “Let me take over.”

You don’t argue. When Jean is free, he immediately snags the shard from you, making you jolt away. He’s sickeningly pale, his eyes too big for his face. “Shit, sorry.”

Your response is weak, and he notices. “I’m fine.”

“Nothing about this is fine.” But instead of arguing, he turns away and begins to cut the ropes off Eren’s hands. It doesn’t take long until finally everyone is free, and the mirror expressions you are all wearing says the same: What now?

Mina has come around the tree and kneels before you, gently pressing a piece of fabric she has torn off her shirt against your bleeding palms. You have always noticed how tiny her hands are, how cute and slender her fingers dance whenever she’s excited and claps her hands. Now they are surprisingly strong, yet gentle, as Mina puts them under your chin and inspects your busted nose after cleaning most of the blood away as best as she could.

You can’t stand the worry edged deep into the lines of her face, the dimples around her mouth. “Am I still pretty?” you ask, the smile on your face feeling like those wonky grins children slice into pumpkins with jagged knives for All Hallow’s Eve.

Mina sighs. “Always,” she mumbles, and she doesn’t smile but her eyes do light up a little and it’s the little victories that count for you. “I don’t think it’s broken, so that’s good.”

“There goes my idea to skip cleaning the gear shack for the next couple of weeks.”

“Dude,” says Connie, and if Connie Springer of all people has to reprimand you, you know you’re balancing on a thin tightrope.

It’s Marco’s tight voice, all business-like, that puts a lid on your next light-hearted words. He’s sitting on the ground, cut ropes coiling around him like a thick snake. “What are we supposed to do now? We can’t continue this exercise, it’s over.”

No one objects. Over Mina’s shoulder, you watch Jean mumbling quiet things to Armin who has started shaking once more like aspen leaves in high wind. When he meets your eyes, he immediately looks away, his throat working.

How much do you remember? The words notch into you, cutting deeper than the shard ever could. You’ll get your answers, even if you have to retie him against something and drag them out of him.

“Are we abandoning Christa?” Eren’s voice is quiet. He stands tall and strong against the slithering darkness, but from the way his shoulders are drooping you can tell he is not fine. He looks almost forlorn, surrounded by the looming shadows of the tall trees.

“No, no, by the Walls, we aren’t abandoning anyone.” Marco rakes his hands through his black hair, staring down at the ground between his feet. “But with just us, what can we do? We should head back and ask the instructors—”

“What if we don’t make it?” Eren cuts him short. He finally turns, though his body sags in defeat, you can still see fire burning in his eyes. “I’m not just gonna stand back and retreat. I’m going to save Christa.”

Armin tries to stand but his knees buckle under his weight. Jean quickly catches him before he can fall. “Wait, Eren—”

“Wait for what?!” Eren snaps, and when Armin startles, he either doesn’t notice or ignores it. “Wait to find others who can do the shit that we can do now?! Those fucking pigs won’t hesitate to … to—” His sharp eyes find yours as if that is statement enough.

Oh, you realise suddenly. Before, when the man with the potato bag over his head wanted to have his way with you, it wasn’t Jean screaming not to lay a hand on you. It was Eren.

Now, he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll go alone, if I have to,” he says now. “Before they hurt her. Or kill her, too.”

“You stupid idiot, do you really think you can do anything on your own?” Jean scrambles to his feet, rises to meet Eren’s glare.

“Guys, please.” Mina’s voice beside you is so quiet. “We can’t afford to be at each other’s throat right now. Things are bad enough.” She seems frail, all of a sudden. Thin and transparent, like she might disappear any moment. You feel an overwhelming urge to just hold her.

The sound of protest clawing its way up your throat, already resounding from Armin to your left, is squashed by Marco’s hand resting gently yet affirming on Armin’s knee. He’s looking up at Jean, and there’s something flashing in his dark eyes you can’t read.

“If I won’t do it, no one will!” Eren screams back, and even though his voice is so loud, like that itself should be enough to drive his point across, he seems small as if he’s moments away from caving in.

“And how are you going to find her?” Jean’s voice has a veneer of calm, but beneath you could hear the vibration of some very different emotion. “All our horses were released, we got nothing on us. You think you can catch up to them on foot?”

“I can’t just stand still and do nothing.” Eren is seething with anger. His hands, balled into tight fists, shake by his side as if he’s about to take on the whole world all by himself and Heavens, what a heavy burden that is. What a lonely pursuit. It makes you want to tug him away, somewhere to a safe place where he doesn’t have to fight all the damn time.

“We won’t,” Jean says, quietly at first, and then louder, “we won’t. I’m coming with you.”

Eren opens his mouth, closes it. He looks at Jean as if he’s seeing him for the first time.

“We’ll go together,” Jean continues, “and we’ll get Christa back.”

“Christa and our gear.” Slowly, Marco climbs to his feet. Determination turns the lopsided smile of his mouth into a formidable line. There’s little hesitation when the rest follow Jean’s declaration, vow that they won’t let Eren alone.

If you’re looking closely enough, it almost seems as if Eren is about to cry.

“It’s settled then.” Jean brushes dirt off his pants. “We’ll go together, stay together. That’ll give us a better chance at surviving this.”

“And we can’t head back first? Only … only for a moment,” Mina says, making everyone turn to her.

“Why?” Jean asks. You startle a little when he leans forward and pulls you up to your feet, a hand around your arm. “We don’t have time to get back and pack up.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “To bury Victor.”

Someone makes a very small, plaintive sound. Armin’s eyes widen when you all look at him, and he hurriedly brushes Eren’s hands away, who is trying to inspect the little scratches on his face. After he had stumbled over his own feet earlier, one of the men had yanked him up roughly.

His small hands lay balled into tight fists on his lap. “They had one horse pulling their cart … for so many people and all that equipment, I doubt they’ll make it far. Which means they’ll have to stop, maybe take stock of their yields.” Armin’s lashes flutter like the wings of an anxious butterfly. “It’s the only chance we’ll get to catch up to them.”

“No turning back now.” Eren at least has the decency to look apologetic towards Mina. Her answer is a raised chin, a confident nod. You all have to deal with this later.

“So, how are we gonna do this?” asks Connie. He’s dragging his sleeve over Sasha’s face, wiping off any remaining snot from her nose. “We might not make it even if we split up.”

“And if we keep following that path they took without really knowing where they went, we might get lost.” Jean’s face is grey and hollow, as if cut from living rock.

“How about we climb to a higher place?” offers Sasha. “When you get lost in the mountains, climb upwards. If you get lost in a forest, climb a tree. That’s what my Pops—I mean father always told me.”

“Okay. First, we find high ground, then hopefully some signs of those fuckers. And then …” Jean looks around, as if he’s just remembered you’re all stuck in the woods in the middle of the night and maybe there are more things you should be scared of. “Well, we’ll figure out how to deal with them once we find them.”

“We stick together, we take care of each other, okay?” Marco says, sharing urgent gazes with each one of you. “You see, hear, smell anything weird, the whole group has to know.”

“Yes, sir,” you chorus as one, and even though you don’t like to think about how you unload this on Marco’s shoulders, it feels good to have him still stepping into the leader’s shoes and trying to keep you all together and at least pretend everything is under control.

He turns to you and makes sure the worst of the bleeding has stopped before he uses Mina’s tattered fabric to bandage your hands. “You remember the map? There’s a rock overhang nearby that should give us a good outlook over the whole forest.”

“It’s south-east from our camp,” you say and try not to flinch when the fabric burns against your cuts. “But I … I didn’t pay attention to where exactly they led us, and where we are now.”

“It’s fine.” Marco gives your wrists a quick, encouraging squeeze. “You did enough already.”

He turns to the others, explains where you’re going, and moves to the very front to lead. You move in the quiet of the night, a small group of hunched people one could easily mistake for malformed animals. The order is nonsensical, Marco and Mina at the front, then Connie and Sasha, and once you begin the ascent of the rock formation, Eren is glued to Armin’s side and helps him whenever he stumbles or just needs to take a quick breather.

You can’t tell what exactly it is Jean’s been waiting for, but when he falls beside you, he sticks to your side like a shadow. He’s silent for a moment, but he can’t keep the words inside him for too long before he needs them out. “How are your hands?” he starts with something safe.

You spread them before you, wiggle your fingers slightly. “The bleeding’s stopped. Didn’t cut too deep, thankfully.”

They fall back to your sides, but Jean quickly reaches out and takes one in his. You see him gnawing at his bottom lip as his fingers graze the bandages, lingering for a moment at the dark copper spots where the fabric has sucked in your blood.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His thumb brushes your knuckles, and you feel thrown back to another time, inside the infirmary where he said he would protect you from exactly this.

“What for?”

Jean lowers his head. “I ran away.”

You can’t help it, laughing a little. “You didn’t make it far.”

“I mean it,” he says, and the urgency in his voice makes you both halt. “I’m the last one who would agree with anything that suicidal maniac says, but he—he was right. All I could think of was saving my own ass. Well, getting away to get help, but ultimately.” He shakes his head. “And even then, after the—” He swallows hard. “—the shot. After the shot, you tried to come for me. You still tried to help.”

You hum, open your mouth, and the memory hits you so hard it gives you whiplash.

Crossing your arms, you cock your head towards him. “Bold that you think I’m sticking around here and wait for you.”

Emil snorts but he looks almost pleased. The crown is almost done. “You’ll be here. And I’ll come back to you. I will always come back to you.”

You bite your trembling bottom lip, press the corners of your mouth further up into a smile even though it wavers and threatens to disappear. “Oh, come on,” you say, punching his arm lightly. “You know I’ll always come back for you, Jeanbo.”

Even in the darkness, you can see him flushing hard. His shoulders shake when he takes a deep breath in, deep breath out, then blinks up at the moon. You pretend you don’t see the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Same,” he says, and his grip around your wrist is borderline painful, but you don’t pull away. You let him hold you and reaffirm to himself that you’re safe and here. “I’ll come back for you, [Name]. We’re a team, we’ve always been a team.” He points at you, then at himself. “Pot. Kettle.”

You bump into his side.

“Heya, right now is literally the worst time to flirt, you two!” Connie calls down to you, peeking over a ledge. They’re all much further ahead than you’ve expected, getting so lost in your conversation with Jean.

Jean flips him off, and you can hear Connie’s grunt as he laughs to himself. When he turns away, you spot Eren staring down at you, but you can’t read his expression from down here, and before you can call up if everything’s alright, he’s turned away and you only see his retreating back.

You ignore how your heart shrinks to the size of a walnut. This will have to wait for later, when you can find time and peace to entangle the muddle of thoughts still occupying your mind without worrying to get shot. Or worse.

Before Jean can start the excruciating climb up the rocks, you latch onto the hem of his jacket. “What did you mean with your question?” you ask. “Earlier, I mean. What … what am I supposed to remember?”

Jean throws a quick glance up to the others, and you know there’s no time and you have to hurry. But something, even if it’s crumbs, has to appease the hunger to know inside you before this black hole swallows you. If Jean knows something, he owes you that much.

“God, it’s been so long.” Jean wipes a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “All I remember is my parents talking about it, and asking, well…” He waves a hand in your direction as if that’s supposed to make you understand. “They asked me not to mention it so it wouldn’t trigger some unpleasant memories. Apparently someone…,” Jean trails off. He braces himself. You’ve only seen him take on that posture when he’s about to swing at Eren during an argument.

“Jean.” You tug on his jacket, feeling your hands go clammy. “I need to know. Please.”

“Someone kidnapped you, when you were little,” Jean says slowly. He falters for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut, like the memory of that conversation with his parents is still too close, too painful, excruciating. “You weren’t gone too long, they had found you on the same day. Some old fart had locked you up in his house while going about his day. It was your Dad … your Dad who found you. When I asked my Mom, she only said that your Dad made sure that guy would never steal little girls from their parents again, and I thought that meant the Garrison, or Hell even the Military Police took care of him.” He focuses on you fully now, and you wish he would stop talking. Your guts clench like someone has kicked you in the stomach.

“Your father killed that man when your captor swung a knife at you two. The Military Police ruled it self-protection and closed the case from what I overheard my parents say. You had blacked out during that fight, but when you came over to visit after that, and my Mother accidentally slipped up … you acted like it had never happened.”

You stare at him, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of dread spreading slowly through your limbs. “How old was I?”

“Ten? Or eleven, I think?”

“And what … what did that man do to me?”

Jean’s voice is frighteningly quiet. “I don’t know.”

You feel sick. “So it could have been anything.”

“Or nothing,” Jean replies fast, sharp. “Your Dad found you really fast, I know that much. Or I mean, that’s what your parents told mine.”

You stare past his shoulder at a dark spot in the sky where black clouds have hidden away the stars. “So, my Dad saved me.”

It makes sense. The room you remember, the green wallpaper with golden flowers strewn across, the weight of an imposing man behind you. You calling for your father’s help.

And yet.

The feeling is all wrong. You have a vague remembrance of that feeling, and it was not relief at knowing your father was on the other side of that locked, heavy door. Rather, it is closer to … harrowing, horrific fear.

As if he had left you there.

You try to shake the feeling of dread away, to push all these thoughts to the far back of your mind. If you had really lived through such a traumatic experience at such a young age, maybe you had simply suppressed those memories out of shock.

Though that doesn’t explain why you still see the fall of Wall Maria vividly as if it is the very same day, every event a clear image burnt into the backside of your closed eyes.

And why … why of all things … why had Emil never said anything to you? You would have noticed his behaviour changing—he would have worried himself sick about you.

“When we’re back in Trost, I’ll have to ask Ida about it. About everything. She should have told me at … at some point.” Not anger pangs through your chest, hot and sudden like a bullet, but an urgency that is nearly as frightening. You need to know every single detail. Right now it feels as though you are grasping for sand as it slips through your fingers, using it to rebuild the very foundation of the person that you are.

“I’m sure she, and Dad, didn’t see a point in it because you didn’t remember.” Jean juts his chin up to where the others are still waiting and continues the ascent, you hard on his heels. Quieter, he says, “Why make you scared when you were better off not knowing? They thought it kinder to spare you that.”

“Because it would have been honest.” You give him a long, hard look. “Maybe not kind, truth isn’t kind. But it is the truth.”

He turns around at that. The milky-white slant of moonlight catches in his hair, his eyes. Jean gives you a nod, easy and simple, and it weighs more than any promise he could have made.

“Let’s try to make it out of these woods first, okay?” Jean says when you’re almost at the top. “And then we can think about everything that’s happened. And write Ma a letter.”

“Yeah.” Deep breath in, deep breath out—resettle the beating of your heart and remind yourself you are not alone. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

He gives you one last, fleeting look, then turns to assert the situation before him: Armin is greedily finishing up the rest of water from Mina’s field bota bag, Sasha and Connie huddle together, lost in their own quiet, private conversation. Marco and Eren perch by the edge of the cliff, both facing the forest stretching out before them.

You join them right in time when Marco whips out his binoculars to survey the area ahead.

“Found anything?” Jean asks. He kneels beside Eren, eyes roaming the horizon. Eren, in the middle of them, steals a glance at you, first at your face, then at your bandaged hands. You wiggle your fingers in his direction to show you’re alright, all fingers are still working. He purses his mouth, looking as if he doesn’t really buy it. You make your point by flipping him off good-naturedly, which at least makes the corners of his mouth twitch a little. Another small victory.

“Smoke, right there.” Marco points into the distance at a thin trail of grey smoke curling into the night sky. “Armin was right,” he continues, handing Jean the binoculars. “They’re currently camping out and loading the carts. Christa seems fine.”

“For now,” Eren bites out.

“So, what are we gonna do?” Jean lowers the binoculars. “We won’t make it in time, even if we head out immediately.”

“And unlike us, they can defend themselves.” Marco looks grim. “And I don’t want anyone else ending up like Victor.”

“I … I might have an idea.” You all turn at the timid sound of Armin’s voice. He’s wiping his mouth dry quickly, and hands Mina’s flask back. He looks over at you sharply, his eyes glinting with steely determination. “But I need your help.”

Suddenly, everyone is looking at you as if you owe them something. You want to take a step back, but there’s only a cliff and a steep fall waiting behind you. Literally.

“Okay.” You pull at the loose threads coming off the bandages. “Shoot.”

“We might have to head back to camp anyway to get some of the stuff we’ll need, but I want to be sure just in case, and you’re really good at memorising maps. How many wide exits are there in this forest?”

“Wide exits?”

“Wide as in wide enough to let them pass through with multiple carriages.”

You turn, take a good, long look at the forest with its tall reaching green peaks like gnarly fingers waiting to snap at whatever dares to come too close. You recognise some landmarks from the map: two giant rock formations facing each other, a smaller one right behind them—the points of a triangle. Mountains encircle the forest, high in the east, dipping down a little and rising again towards the south.

You point a finger towards them, and say, “That’s the closest exist in this area. The other two wide enough for them to leave are in the opposite direction. I’m pretty sure the road over there divides into two routes after you clear the forest.”

“Then that’s where we’ll ambush them. Once they enter the wider exit, we don’t stand a chance, so we have to lead them back into the forest.” Armin turns to Sasha. “Can you lead us there? We’ll have to head back to camp first, get ropes and some other things. But can you bring us over there?”

Sasha takes in the area, lips puckered in concentration. She grins. It isn’t a pleasant sort of grin; too many teeth, too feral. It makes you want to kiss her.

“No problem,” she says at last. “I can get us there fast enough, even without horses.”

Armin heaves a relieved sigh, but his expression quickly turns sour at the sight of having to climb the mountain all the way down again. When Eren notices and offers to give him a piggy-back ride, Armin declines vehemently.

“Okay, so what’s your plan exactly,” Jean asks halfway down the mountain. Whenever he stumbles or trips on loose rocks, his hands shoot out to hold onto Marco to steady himself, which is cute, or onto you, which is annoying because you can’t even carry half his weight.

“We block off the route leading to the wider exit by putting a tree in their way. That’s where the ropes come into play. Three of us will stay at the road fork and detour the carts. The rest will wait ahead until they arrive. I think it’s best only two hide in trees and jump onto the carts to attack them.”

“I’ll go,” Eren immediately says.

“I’ll go, too,” Jean quickly follows up. You want to catch his eye, but he’s staring ahead stubbornly.

“How do we figure out which carriage are Christa and our ODM gear are in?” you ask. Little rocks give away under your foot, but before you can slip, Jean has a strong hand around your arm and hauls you up.

It is Marco that answers: “The ODM gear should be easy. The roads leading back into the forest will be rocky and bumpy. If we hear a rattling sound, we’ll be able to tell.”

“The leftover cans at camp,” Armin says. “We can use them to give the sign.”

Marco nods. “If the equipment is in the first carriage, I’ll pull once. If it’s the one after, then twice. If it’s both, I’ll pull three times.”

“Okay, that’s a fucking great plan,” says Jean. “But let’s hurry back, or else we’ll never catch up to them.”

With every step closer back to camp, putting foot before foot becomes more difficult, as if your limbs are heavy with lead. You don’t want to see Victor’s corpse and be reminded of what happened earlier, but as you move on, with no chance to stand still, you brace yourself for the worst.

The worst you have imagined, it turns out, is still tame compared to the actual sight. Within minutes after he’s died, blow flies have arrived and now swarm around Victor’s blown head. Even from a good few feet away, you see them scurrying around, diving into the openings of his body and the big hole at the side of his face to lay their eggs into his rotting meat.

You try to swallow around the lump in your throat, noticing the sour taste of rising bile spreading inside your mouth. Quickly, you turn away before yesterday’s meal comes back up to greet you.

The sudden movement of you turning around startles Eren, who has crept up behind you, and out of instinct, you guess, he grabs your shoulders to steady you, probably worried you were about to pass out.

“Woah, easy there.” He has to lower his head a little to get to your eye level. “You okay?”

The look on your face must be answer enough, because he winces at his question. “Right, sorry.”

His eyes drift over to Victor’s body, and as you watch him you are surprised there isn’t any strong emotion on his face. No disgust, no sorrow, like having the dead remains of a former comrade—even though he was a bad person and not very kind—is a completely normal thing.

“Uhm, Eren.”

He still isn’t looking at you. “Hm?”

“You can let me go now, I’m good.”

“Oh.” Eren’s eyes sweep over at you. His hands loosen their grip on your shoulders, but instead of falling back to his side, they slowly slide down your arms—as if they have a mind of their own, confused and a little lost without your shoulders as anchors to hold onto.

Eren blinks, gaze darting to your mouth, and then quickly away. “I think that was the first time.”

You roll your shoulders, still feeling the touch of his fingers as if they have seared their imprint through the solid fabric of your jacket right into your skin. “First time for what?”

“That you called me by my name. Not Jaeger.”

“Oh. Well. Almost dying together earns me that privilege, I think.”

He gives a little, dry chuckle. Somehow, you feel that as long as he can laugh, everything is going to be okay. Eren looks at you, slow and hard, and then smiles. His green eyes light up. “Then I have earned it as well,” he says. “[Name].”

You have never thought about your name much before, but when he says it, it is as if you are hearing it for the first time, and suddenly you are aware of how intimate calling each other by the first name is, and how much you like the sound of your name on his lips. Your breath is very short when you repeat, softly, “Eren.”

“Yes?” Amusement glitters in his eyes.

With a sort of horror you realise that you have simply said his name for the sake of saying it; you haven’t actually had a question—you just craved another taste of his name in your mouth. Hastily, you stumble over the words even though you don’t know where they might lead, “When Victor got shot, there was an owl. Wasn’t that weird?”

If he finds your sudden change of topic strange or suspicious, he doesn’t show it. “Weird how?”

“That it was there at all. I didn’t know they’d be so close to the ground when people are around.”

Eren shrugs. “Nothing weird about it. It was probably just looking for food.”

You don’t know much about owls, but that doesn’t seem right. Feel right. You rub your heavy eyelids, feeling a dull throb crawling along the back of your head. Was it all just bad timing? Fate? You don’t know what would have happened if it had been you spinning to the bottom of the Wheel of Fortune.

“We’ve decided you’ll stay with Marco and Armin to give us the signal when to attack.” Eren’s voice is suddenly close as he dips his head to you as if he’s sharing a secret. You blink up at him, ready to argue which he reads in your face as if it is an open book. “[Name], think about it. You’re hurt. Marco is right, you’ve done enough.”

It is hard to argue against this, with your palms cut open and still hurting. Still, somehow you feel like there is more you can do, should do. You move away from Victor’s body, scanning the ground for empty cans. Eren sticks to your side.

“We only get one chance at saving Christa,” he continues. “If we mess it up, she’s as good as dead. Our gear will be gone. But there’s no way we’ll mess this up. We got three cadets from the top here, we’ll save her.”

It’s sweet that he tries to comfort you, thinking your hesitation is because you’re scared of failing. You should just thank him and catch up with the rest.

Instead, you blurt, “Do you like Christa?” and immediately regret having opened your mouth.

Eren blinks as if he’s been knocked off his feet and he’s still trying to understand what has hit him. “She’s a comrade, so … yeah?” He frowns as if you’ve spoken a different language and he’s realising maybe his answer is completely wrong. “I mean, sometimes she creeps me out with all that holier than thou, being super friendly. All that benevolence has to drive her insane at some point. And it’s creepy sometimes.”

That wasn’t what you meant but you’re not too keen to explain what answer you actually want from him.

“Maybe you’re having a hard time understanding her,” you say, noticing how much easier it is to fall back into teasing banter and light-hearted jabs, “because you don’t know how to be nice.”

“I can be plenty nice if I want to.” He narrows his eyes at you, and it feels like there is more behind this; as if there is something else layered in his words but you are missing the respective key to unlock the door and get behind the meaning.

Before you can say anything else, Connie wedges himself between you two. You didn’t even notice how close you and Eren stood.

“Hate to break ya up, but we’re leaving,” he announces. Eyes half-closed, he’s wearing this expression you’ve come to associate with Conny being tired of some shit—you just never expected to get the brunt of it.

He has probably known it long before you.

Everybody has known it long before you, but you were oblivious to the signs, maybe even a little scared to pay them too much attention.

It will still take another two years until you finally find the courage to tiptoe closer to the edge, only to have Eren yank you down into the void with him.

Armin’s plan worked out splendidly, which was a surprise to no one.

After Christa’s heartfelt plea to spare the men, held at blade-edge by Mikasa and Annie who managed to find your group after Armin had used Sasha’s signal flare, Thomas and Bertholdt had rode out to inform the instructors of what had transpired and where the remaining recruits were holding the attackers captive until reinforcements arrived.

Once their headwear was off and you had a good look at the faces of your assaulters, it was easy to see them for what they were: miserable men trying to get by with any means necessary. Thieves and beggars, left of any other civil option to provide for their families.

You couldn’t say it out loud then, but there was no ounce of pity for them inside you. Everybody seemed to simply agree with Christa’s noble spirit, that killing them was wrong; that making them pay for what they did was not the solution. It didn’t sit right with you. Only one look at Eren was enough to tell you he might be the only one sharing that sentiment.

A quarter of a day was all it took for Shadis to arrive, with him the Military Police soldiers from Trost. They took the men away in police carriages, sending them to the inner Wall where they would be judged and locked away. You didn’t want to think what that would mean for their families, the very reason they got into this in the first place. Maybe there are worse things than death.

Depending on how many recruits passed away within three months after the last, obsequies were held at the end of the third month. Because Victor Hoffmann had been the only one, the instructors deemed it sufficient to simply cremate his remains and send them back to his relatives in a simple wooden box with his possessions. Shortly after that, both his friends Albert Kleinstein and Edmund Rowe left the military service. All three, gone. Just like that.

A day after, you had sent a letter to Ida and Felix, asking for every detail from that day seven years ago when you were kidnapped. It was weird, how while you were sitting down and forming the words on the paper, each ink stroke unravelled the tight knot in your stomach—all of a sudden it all had seemed not important anymore. What could you do with that information?

Seven years later, with the villain of your little story dead, and your hero as well. Would knowing change anything for you? Why did it feel as if all the threads and weaves holding you together suddenly became unknitted and the person you see in the mirror every morning appeared to slowly turn into a stranger.

At least the ring hanging on the thin golden chain always remained the same. At least there was one part of your past that remained a constant and steady point around which you rotated—a sun to your star system.

That concludes the low-risk Wasteland Excursion, one you’re sure the instructors will tell every following cadet corps in the years to come.

“Low-risk my ass,” Jean mumbles. His dirty hair falls into his eyes as he leans over his lap, fumbling with a loose screw on his turbine. The tip of his nose is red and his words come out in little puffs and dense clouds. Winter is approaching, fast and hard, and you couldn’t be happier for Ida’s care package to arrive in two weeks with hopefully a new scarf and a warm pair of gloves. Gear maintenance is all that’s left for today, then you’re allowed to hit the showers and call it a day. “Every single one of us should get a fucking medal for putting up with those thieves and catching them.”

“I can already imagine what Shadis would say to that.” You lower your voice. “Are you chipmunks going to expect us to give you a medal every time you return from a fight? Get back after you killed some real Titans and maybe I’ll give you a pat on the shoulder. Now scram.”

“That was a good impression,” Jean allows. “But he would never call us chipmunks.”

“I love chipmunks,” is all Marco contributes before he dives back refilling his gas cylinder.

“I think at least Marco and Thomas should get bonus points for holding the groups together.” You glance over at him, noticing how his hair has grown and how he always brushes it behind his ears whenever he is flustered. “You guys were great leaders.”

“I don’t know if I should have accepted the leader position, to be honest.” Marco smiles sheepishly at you. “But thanks.”

“Why not?” Jean breathes on the metal case of his housing, polishing the surface. “You did a good job. I think it fits you.”

Marco tugs his hair behind his ears. “Nah, I’m not suited to be a leader. You’re more up for that job, Jean.”

At that, Jean looks up. They share a look that seems like a dare. Eventually, Jean goes back to work. “Why’s that?” he asks.

“I don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet. But someday, I’ll tell you.”

“Am I ready to hear it?” you ask.

Marco grins and leans over, his voice very quiet and very deep in your ear. “I just really enjoy looking at him from behind.”

Oh.

He leans away, giving you a quick wink. Your little secret. You’re pretty sure your face is on fire right now.

“What did he say, tell me,” Jean demands.

You mimic sealing your mouth shut and throwing the key away. Jean kicks at your foot in a half-hearted attempt to make you talk. He points a finger accusingly in your and Marco’s direction. “You’re ganging up on me. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Leaving me out? Dear God, don’t make me have to befriend Jaeger.”

“Eren can’t stand you,” you point out.

“Armin, then.”

“Armin’s too smart for you.”

“Keep talking and I’ll dunk your head inside a latrine.”

Marco laughs, but it quickly trickles away into a somewhat sorrowful smile. “Do you guys think we can spend all our days like this?”

“Together?” you ask.

“Mocking each other?” Jean offers.

“Yeah, together.” Marco looks at you two, and he somehow looks much younger and older at the same time. “Jean and I want to join the Military Police and you’ll go to the Garrison, but maybe we can still … you know.” He shrugs a little helplessly. “Still hang out.”

“I think [Name] and I are ready to broaden our horizons, open the gates.” Jean claps his hands, then spreads them wide as if he is a pastor ready to absolve Marco. “Let someone new in and become a trio.”

He wiggles his fingers, looking at you and Marco expectantly. Marco scoots closer, allowing Jean to leisurely throw an arm around his shoulder. Now they both look at you expectantly.

“I’m good, guys,” you say, blowing off fine iron dust from your hooks, satisfied with the result. “There are more priorities on my list, sorry.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Like what?”

“A long, hot shower.”

Marco sighs, but he is in no hurry to untangle Jean’s arm from his shoulders. “She’s got a point.”

“You can’t run from the Jean-Marco-[Name] sandwich forever,” Jean says, pointing at you. He then turns to Marco. “And to answer your question, no. I don’t think we’ll stay together forever. We grow up, we find our own things to do. But what’s important is that we’re in each other’s hearts … or …. some shit … like that,” Jean finishes quietly at the baffled gazes you and Marco level him with. It takes only one second for his face to become the colour of the red roses on the Garrison soldier’s uniforms, and he quickly tries to hide it behind Ida’s scarf she knitted him two years ago.

“That was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said, I think,” you say in awe. “Who are you and where is the real Jean?”

“Shut up and go take a shower.” He pushes you off your stool. “Try not to drown or whatever.”

You laugh until the muscles in your face strain, until your belly hurts. You laugh, because it is easier than finding the words that you too wish the same.

All three of you don’t make a promise on it because you know that would be too cruel.

❀❀❀

When you call to me asleep, up the sandy hills I scramble. A single thread hangs limply down, and I breathe, “Not now, not now.” I find you all unwoven, trying desperately to sew. And I know the kindest thing is to leave you alone. Yet I am selfish. I want every part of me to crash into every part of you, and I swear that is how stars are born.

When your seams have come unknitted, and you cry out to the sky, I’ve run out of my words, my song, just let me die, me die. The rockrose and the thistle will whistle as you mourn. I could try to calm you down, but I know you won’t.

All the pins inside your fretted head and your muttered “Whens” and “Hows;” all your mother’s weaves and your father’s threads, let me rob you of them now. Because I will darn you back together when you think that you’re bereft, and you’ll wail, you’ll scream, but I will never stop, because you are all that I have left.

I awake and hear you calling, and up those hills I climb. And I find you with a thimble weeping; “May I”, I ask, “may I?”

And you gently gift it to me because you have no clue how to sew.

And I know the kindest thing—I pray to both our Gods, it is the kindest thing … I know the kindest thing is to never leave you alone.

Rockrose (also cistus of the Cistaceae plant family) in the Victorian language of flowerssymbolizes imminent death.

Thistle: In Celtic countries, the associations are positive, and the flower symbolises resilience, strength, determination, protection and pride. The flower’s purple and pink colours represent royalty. In Victorian England, the thistle signified pain, aggression and intrusion.

These whole last part in cursive are the lyrics of Rockrose and Thistle by The Amazing Devil. I’ve changed a few words to make it fit, but I don’t take credit for this poetic master piece.

***

A/N: y’all, connie knows

so yeah, we got a little more! i'm so eager to hear everyone's thoughts and theories! especially the last part, this song/poem plays a huge role in explaining why Reader (doesn't) remember(s) certain things, or other people recall them differently… interesting, isn't it. i'm happy to be back and can't wait to give you more!! stay healthy everyone!

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #snk x y/n #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren yeager x reader #phill.stay #swyaatl #eren jaeger x reader

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philliamwrites · 2 years

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SWYAATL 13: The Horror and the Wild

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: defence against an animal (no worries, the animal doesn’t get hurt too bad, definitely doesn’t die), injury, animal attack, self-suturing

Summary: You scramble for your knife, digging through the snow until your fingers grasp the hilt. Pulling yourself up to your knees has never been this difficult, but thanks to the rigorous training Shadis has put you under after all those years, you stand on shaking knees, determined that you’ll see this through to the end. You’ll make your place in this world. You’ll fight for it, no matter who the opponent is. You’ll burn so bright you’ll blind them all—you’ll fight for yourself, and if that little, crying girl from five years ago screams for help, you’ll take her small hand and never let go, and you whisper to her “You are no longer a helpless child, you are the horror and the wild, and all the stones and kings of old will hear us screaming at the cold.”

Notes: [01] || 12 | 14

Words: 9.6k

A/N: ahhhh i'm sorry it took me so long, guys!! there might not be an update schedule from here on out because my apprenticeship starts next week and i'm not sure how consistent i'll be able to work on the story, so i'll allow myself some beathing room. whenever updates happen, they'll still be on sunday, so if you're into this story, i highly recommend you get on the taglist or bookmark this story on ao3

THE MOST AMAZING THING HAPPENED TOO!!! A kind reader on ao3 made fanart of Eren and Reader, please please check it out here!!

13: The Horror and the Wild

Pain sears through you as those teeth sink into your arm, and you scream as the muscle tears. The wolf has bitten through the fabric of your coat and has latched its jaw around your arm, shaking its head violently. It feels as if it is about to rip your arm from its socket.

Screams tear from your throat, raw and stomach churning, long wails that don’t sound human—they sound as if they belong to a dying animal. You try to kick the wolf off, but its weight is an unmovable boulder on top of you, pinning you to the cold, hard ground. His hind claws dig into your coat as it thrashes on top of you.

Nausea rolls through you at the searing pain in your arm, but it’s nothing compared to the defeated ache in your chest.

This is it, you’re sure of it. This is where you die. Where only the rules of nature reign; the cycle of the strong devouring the weak, and who are you but a small speck of dirt? But even then … you deserve your place here. Small and insignificant as you might appear in the eyes of the vast universe, you were born into this world. You haven’t even seen half of it, and are expected to let it end here?

Didn’t you promise yourself to never become prey again?

The knife has slipped from your numb fingers during the attack, and now you let your hand, palms slick from sweat, roam over the frozen ground in search of anything you might use as a weapon. Your gloved fingers curl around something hard and you don’t think about it, you bring it hard over the wolf’s head; one, two, three times. It yelps, loosening its teeth around your arm just enough for you to yank it free from death’s sharp jaws. Black dots dance before your eyes, blurring your vision as you feel the blood seep from the wound, the pain unlike anything you have ever felt before.

Before the beast can latch its fangs around you once more to finish you off for good, you swing your uninjured arm again. Desperation is your only source of strength, reliable in its rawness for your one desire: to survive. To live. Another yelp sounds from the wolf as you manage to hit its eye and it jumps back—off you—shaking its head as if to drive away the pain.

You scramble for your knife, digging through the snow until your fingers grasp the hilt. Pulling yourself up to your knees has never been this difficult, but thanks to the rigorous training Shadis has put you under after all those years, you stand on shaking knees, determined that you’ll see this through to the end.

You’ll make your place in this world.

You’ll fight for it, no matter who the opponent is.

You’ll burn so bright you’ll blind them all—you’ll fight for yourself, and if that little, crying girl from five years ago screams for help, you’ll take her small hand and never let go, and you whisper to her “You are no longer a helpless child, you are the horror and the wild, and all the stones and kings of old will hear us screaming at the cold.”

You’ll fight for those you want to protect; you couldn’t save Emil five years ago, but you can save Eren now. You scream this determination at the beast until you feel as if your throat is tearing, and as you howl, the wolf howls with you, and for a moment you imagine something flashes in its eyes—those glowing embers flicker to a colour as pale as the snow.

Suddenly it charges, but not towards you. It bolts into a different direction, back into the woods. Its pack startles in confusion. They hesitate only briefly, exchanging confused glances, before they dash after their leader and are swallowed by the shades of the woods.

Standing frozen, only your chest moves rapidly as you try to control your breathing. The snapping of twigs and brush of fur against bark grows quieter until they’ve completely disappeared. One, two, three more seconds pass. The sudden silence is deafening.

You only wake from your daze when warm liquid pools at your fingertips inside your gloves. A quick, shaky glance to your injured arm tells you it is even worse than it feels—you can see the open flesh under the fabric of clothes, the crimson that spills onto the snow. Strangely, it looks beautiful as it coats the pure, impeccable white. Somewhere, you have read that God’s favourite colour is red. The picture of your blood upon the snow is mesmerising, and for a moment you are aware that the world stands still and holds its breath.

It feels like a dream—moments before everything was moving so fast, and now there lies a silence upon everything as though nature has never once known the violence she is housing in her sublime stillness. She gives and she takes, and she lets her children fight their own battles. The wolves, the bushes, the threes—they deny themselves nothing that makes them grow. No prey, no rainfall, no sunshine. No blood upon the snow.

The rush of adrenaline still pumps strong through your body, making your heart beat in your throat. There is no chance you’ll survive this if you stay outside. You trudge back to Eren, every step as hard and strenuous as if you are moving through a swamp. The pain slowly grows unbearable, but you can’t start worrying about a possible broken bone or nerve damage now without any chance to treat the wound out in the open like that. If those wolves decide to come back … you don’t allow yourself to think about it.

Eren and your backpack are where you have left them. He’s still unconscious. You can see the plums of breath form in front of his face, but this relief barely soothes the deep, raging waters of your worries. You’d have to check about his fever later, for now you have to figure out how to carry him. With the injury, your left arm is pretty much useless and you doubt you’ll be able to carry both backpack and Eren with your right side only. Cradling your injured arm close to your chest as if it is the broken wing of a small bird, you go through your backpack and find rope at the bottom.

Fastening it around Eren is no easy task with only one hand while running out of time. The sun descends rapidly behind the trees. Shadows grow larger and larger, looming over you. You imagine hearing the snap of ice and twigs under heavy, strong paws in the distance, and try to hurry up, but the rope slips from your wet gloves from time to time and feeds your fear. The pain has also grown into a steady, constant ache that makes thinking clearly almost impossible.

You bite back a groan of frustration at the sudden rush of helplessness that threatens to swallow you. Just for a moment, you close your eyes and take deep, ice-cold breaths, counting to ten slowly.

This isn’t Shiganshina. This isn’t five years ago when you were too small to do anything. You are not helpless, and you can save yourself and Eren. You have trained for this. You take your doubt, ball it up, crush it into a fuel you can use.

When you open your eyes, the world seems a little clearer. If you keep close to the mountain’s side, you should find caverns that will suffice as shelter for the night. You can think about a heat source and food later.

With Eren finally secured and the ropes thrown over your right shoulder, you make your way along the cliffside, dragging Eren after you. Eyes open to any dips and holes and black openings, a few shadows trick you now that the sun has disappeared and nothing but the quickly fading, bright stripe at the horizon lights your way. The march seems endless, the cold eating away at you. How easy it would be to just lie down, let the snowflakes drape you in a soft blanket. After what you’ve just been through, you deserve a break.

You shake your head against those intrusive thoughts, willing them out of your mind. Instead, you focus on something more heartening, something easy and joyful—and of all things, Connie’s cadence call echoes in your head. Birdy, birdy in the sky / Dropped a whitewash in my eyes / I’m no wimp, I won’t cry, I’m just glad that cows don’t fly.

Over and over again, you sing it, mindlessly, thinking of Connie and Sasha, and Jean and Marco, and Mina and Mikasa and Armin, and you hope wherever they are, they have it warm; have their bellies filled with food. You’d hate for them to go sick with worry—another reason to make it back to your squad soon.

Lost in thought, you almost walk past the small entrance to a cavern. It doesn’t carve too deep into the mountain, just enough to shield you from the cold and the snowfall. You drag Eren to the furthest corner away from the gaping maw, but don’t allow yourself a minute to rest. You know as soon as you lie down, you won’t get up and heat is now imperative to make it through the night. Out again you go to collect firewood from dry, barren branches—something that would be done quickly under different circumstances, but now it almost takes you double the time as you fight your exhaustion and the encroaching faintness that lurks dangerously and lethal as the wolves. Your only incentive is that without you and the fire, Eren probably won’t make it through the night.

You make it back to the cave just in time as another snowstorm hits the forest. The fire is a pathetic little thing barely capable of driving off the shadows in the corners of the cave but it is enough for now.

It took almost thirty minutes to get out of your grimy, wet coat. The blood has seeped through the fabric, and most of your thermo-undershirt still sticks to the torn flesh. You clean and disinfect, but then the worst part comes: suturing the wound. All tools lie before you: a disinfectant needle, some thread, bandages, and most importantly, your hat to bite onto something for relief.

The first stitch is the hardest. Poking through skin is nothing like embroidering silk. Skin is thicker, more slippery, more tender. Your stomach churns at the sight of the needle breaking through the layer, for the blood it draws and you have to take deep, aggravating breaths so you wouldn’t faint; wouldn’t scream. The fuzzy fabric between your teeth reminds you of a wet dog’s pelt, but it muffles all sound, all gruffs and moans and you torture yourself through every agonizing stitch, blink away the white dots that whirl through your field of vision.

When you’re finally done after what feels like an eternity, it doesn’t look pretty at all. Skin overlaps in jagged, ugly folds, blood seeps from the puncture wounds. But this will mean you’ll survive through the night, and that is all that matters. You bandage your arm—out of sight, out of mind, were it only that easy—and retreat to Eren to check on him. His face isn’t hot as before, the fever must have receded a little, which hopefully means that he’ll wake up soon enough.

Even though you feel the small fire’s warmth lick at your back, it isn’t enough to fully warm you, and you come to a decision pretty quickly. You unbutton Eren’s coat with still shaking fingers—what a miracle how calm they were during the suturing—and lie right next to Eren, chest to chest so the coat falls close behind you. With the fever gone, he was still pleasantly warm, and for the first time you could feel yourself not shaking and shuddering to your very core. For the first time after the fall, after losing your company, you feel safe and secure, tugged against Eren’s chest. He has such a distinctive smell as well: like earth and forests and fresh laundry hanging outside in the sun to dry. Very pleasant.

After everything, you finally find rest to the feeling of Eren’s strong, beating heart.

It is nearly pitch black when you awake, feeling strong, warm arms having wound around you. One is curled around your waist, the other clinging to your upper body. Eren is hiding his face in your hair, which can’t be the most pleasant feeling or smell as you’ve been up and around for so many hours in the snow and dirt, but comfort is easy to relinquish when it means that you both are warm. You feel his hot breath at the back of your head and neck. There’s little to complain about. Except his hand slowly moving upwards, his thumb drawing dangerously close to the bottom mound of your left breast. It’s funny. Why is it so funny?

You make a faint sound that is nothing like the giggle you meant it to be, and turn so you’re on your back, able to look up at Eren’s face. He stirs awake at the movement, and blinks, his face all puffy and swollen from all the sleep. Your neck is aching, your whole body feels as though it is on fire, your mouth as dry as parchment. “Wow,” you say. “You look like shit.”

Now, Eren jerks fully awake. He props himself up on one arm, looking down at himself, and there’s a look of confusion and surprise on his face.

“How … why’s there blood?” he rasps. His deep, scratchy voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you huddle closer against him.

For someone looking this cute, he can be pretty stupid. “It’s not your blood, dummy,” you mumble, too drowsy to make an effort speaking clearly. “Way to make it about yourself.”

Eren hoists himself up—you give a little whine at the sudden distance, the cold rushing in—and inspects your bandaged arm, the scratches on your face and neck. “What—” is all he manages, before something in your face catches his attention. He cups your cheeks with his broad, warm hands. His breath quickens. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

You giggle, and nuzzle into his open palm. “Did you just admit I’m hot?”

“Come on, keep it together. We have to get back to camp.”

“You’re pretty hot yourself, you know?”

Eren gives you a long, silent look. He moves to stand up, but you snatch the hem of his shirt, trying to pull him back beside you. There’s no rush to leave, it’s night anyway. You two should go back to sleep. “Stay, it’s cold.”

“Whatever got you, it got you good, and now you’re running a fever from the infection.” Eren shook your hand off and dragged your backpack over to him, going through its contents until he found the water flask. “We have to get back and give you penicillin.”

A sudden flash of clarity brightens your muddled mind for a moment after his words. You nodded, very gravely “Okay.” And then, staring at Eren seriously, you added, “I don’t want to die, Eren.”

“You won’t die.” He turns back to you, but his eyes are fixed on the ground. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not very reassuring.” You smile a little when he sends you a glare. It immediately softens though, as you start coughing, your voice rougher than parchment. He scoots closer to you, and once he’s in reach, you pull him back against you.

“Here, drink.”

You turn your head away. Even that is too much effort, and you groan weakly, trying to bury your face into something soft and warm. It moves under you and you mumble an incoherent, weak protest.

“Stop being so stubborn,” Eren mumbles. You don’t understand why he’s so annoyed, but find it funny nonetheless. Everything seems so funny right now, like a big joke that nobody but you is on.

A broad, warm hand catches your jaw and makes you hold still. You blink up at Eren but his face blurs and fades away into darkness whenever you close your eyes. A rough thumb sweeps over your bottom lip. The sensation is foreign, tickling. Feels nice.

“Come on, open up.” The voice is soothing. Calming. You can trust this person. “Work with me here, [Name].”

Now they’re asking you to do something? Not a chance. You try to turn your head away, but the grip around your jaw tightens.

There’s a quiet growl of frustration. Fingers dig into your cheek, the thumb dips into your mouth and draws it open. You imagine batting these hands away, but you’re too weak to move even a muscle.

Cool liquid spills over your lips. Everything moves into sudden focus and you stare up at Eren, locking eyes with him. His gaze is intense, focusing on the task. He’s careful nothing spills, keeping your head in place. “Like that,” he mumbles. “Swallow.”

There’s a joke there, but you’re too drowsy to use words. You just keep looking at Eren, the only constant anchor in a world that keeps fading in and out. His eyes are unfathomably dark as he watches your throat work every time you swallow.

When you’re sufficiently hydrated, he removes the flask from your lips but keeps his hand cupped carefully around your cheek. Tenderly, almost. His hands are still on you, the heat of them burning through the cold inside you. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable—and his eyes, too, are vulnerable, open like a door. The way he is looking at you, you would not have thought Eren could, or would, look at anyone like that.

He brushes a stray droplet of water on the corner of your mouth away with his thumb. You hear the smile in his voice before exhaustion pulls you back into the darkness. “Good girl.”

❀❀❀

You don’t remember what the fight was about.

It could have been anything, really. Maybe he’d made a joke you didn’t like, or you had spent an afternoon with Marianne and the others even though Emil asked you not to see them anymore after what had happened with the bird.

The only feeling you remember from that day is the sullen justice of a child demanding its rights—and if the price you had to pay was not talking or seeing Emil for a whole day, then you’d pay it.

How maddeningly boring that day was. Without Emil to race against, play with, share which flowers you picked from the small, hidden gardens between the copper-stone buildings, all you did was hang around your home. The books lining the shelves in your mother’s study were uneventful chronicles compared to the extraordinary stories Emil always came up with: stories about little princes travelling among the stars and missing their dear roses; of talking flowers that would repeat the last words they’d heard from travellers on their way to flying ships that would carry them over massive bodies of water; of a ploughman facing Death himself in hopes to plead for another chance his deceased wife might get at life and prevailing over that wicked wraith in such a grand victory that even the king noticed, granting them unspeakable riches.

There was never a dull day with Emil, and just this one day apart from him had you already missing him with a ferocity as if someone had weeded mercilessly from your heart’s garden the lithesome flower of your joy.

Your mother laughed. “The lithesome flower of your joy? Where did you learn all these words?”

You ignored her making fun of such a serious matter. “We’ll make up once I apologise. I’ll do that first thing in the morning, and everything will be well again.”

“If you say so.” Your mother smiled that secretive smile she’d save for your father when they wordlessly communicated about something regarding you. “I have to admit that I’m not used to seeing you two not together, thinking about some new mischief.”

“When have we ever misbehaved?” you asked, looking up from your colouring book to where your mother sat huddled in thick blankets in the wide armchair before the fireplace. She paused her knitting and gave you a seldom serious look that lasted a couple uncomfortable seconds. “Right,” you said, thinking back to Marianne’s cries, the blood trickling down her temple and Emil’s slow, lazy smile as he juggled stones in his hand.

Your mother sighed, and resumed knitting a new pair of socks for Jean as a gift. “It’s good that you two are looking out for each other,” she conceded. “But sometimes it’s better to walk away from a fight than jumping right into it.”

You nod because you’d learnt in situations like these, it was easier to agree with her than trying to reason why it had been necessary Emil did what he’d done. There’s only the quiet, calming cackling of the fire when you two return to your tasks. You were trying to decide which hue of blue to use for the sky when hard knocks came from the front door. Visitors at a time like this, after supper, were rare. You watched your mother stand and slide the blankets off her shoulders. In the hallway, your father was already waiting, having returned from his attic study where neither you nor your mother were allowed to disturb him whenever he retreated for his nightly studies.

They turned to the door and opened it a tiny crack. It had gotten much colder already, but no snowfall was expected that night and for once the starry sky showed its splendour in a patchwork of sparkling miracle and infinite wonder. A gust of icy wind stole through that gap, tearing at the fire.

From where you perched in front of the fireplace, you could hear Auntie Anne’s voice, carrying a tone of urgency you usually didn’t hear, and your mother and father’s quiet answers. Crawling over the wooden floor, warmed from the fire, you peeked around the corner. Annie Gruender, clad in her heavy wool coat and hat pulled low over her eyes, stood in the entrance, her bare hands knit tightly into the fabric of her coat. In her hurry, she didn’t put on gloves, and now her pale fingers trembled.

“But it’s night already…” Her voice seemed strangely raw, as if she was only moments away from breaking down and collapsing under an invisible weight she was carrying. You had always wondered in secret. Both Emil’s parents had ebony-black hair and warm, chestnut-brown eyes. Sometimes when all three visited the town and you’d see them, it was like looking at chessboard pieces that had come to life, Emil the little white Knight between a King and his Queen. But now, the way Anne stood hunching within the door frame, so small and vulnerable, she looked nothing like a mighty monarch.

“I’m sure he’s still out playing and just forgot the time,” your father tried to reason. He was cleaning his glasses with the tail end of his shirt. Sometimes, you’d notice his finger tips not strained inky-blue, but with a strange black powder leaving smudges on his cheekbones whenever he’d adjust his glasses or whatever surface he’d touch.

“But [Name]…,” Anne said, and stopped abruptly, her mouth hanging open, as if she had been slapped in the face mid sentence when she saw you crouching by the corner to the living quarters. She blanched as if she’d seen a ghost. She knocked your father aside, ignoring his protest, and crossed the small hallway until she fell to her knees before you. When her hands grabbed your shoulders, it was the first time ever that you felt a little scared of her. “Where is Emil?” she asked, her words stepping on each other’s heels in their haste. “Weren’t you supposed to be with him? You always play together, where is he? Where have you two been—”

“Hey.” Already, your father is by Anne’s side, prying her hands from your body. “She’s been inside all day. Emil wasn’t here.”

Anne’s face went blank with surprise. “But—,” she began, looking at you as if she didn’t quite understand what was going on. “You two are never—”

“What’s wrong?” you asked. “Did something happen?”

“Anne—,” your father started, reaching for her arm to pull her away, but she quickly side stepped him.

“Emil hasn’t come home yet,” she said, very quietly. “It’s dark and cold already, and he still hasn’t come home.”

You looked up at her with a mute expression of horror. Suddenly, it felt as though one of the only fixed points in your future was suddenly knocked off the map and your whole world struggled to recalibrate around it. When you jumped to your feet, you almost knocked your head against Anne’s chin. “We have to find him!”

“[Name]—”

You ignored your father and darted into the hallway where you tried reaching for your coat hanging on the rack but were still too small to get it. Tears pricked at your eyes, but they were not as sharp as the ugly, dark feeling of terror that threatened to choke you. If something had happened to Emil, then your last moments would be those of fighting and you couldn’t have that. You didn’t think your heart could mend a pain like that.

Big hands scooped you up and carried you back into the living room, pressing your small, shaking frame against a warm, broad chest. You didn’t notice how much you were shaking, with the front door still open. Your father placed you before the fireplace once more, cupping your cheeks.

“Listen, we will go and search for him, but you have to stay here, okay?” He held your gaze, his face as calm as the statue of a saint in a cathedral. Behind him, you noticed your mother and Anne getting ready to leave, your mother putting her scarf on and conversing in low mumbles. “Hey, [Name].” Your father nudged your chin gently, drawing your attention back to him. “I promise we’ll find him. But you have to stay here and leave it to us, okay? Don’t go out looking for him.”

“Okay.” You stared at him, at his kind eyes, surrounded by laughter lines, and didn’t dare to blink in fear he would immediately know what you were up to. “I’ll stay here.”

He nodded, and ruffled your hair before heading back to the entrance hallway to join your mother and Anne. The door fell shut behind them as they hurried into the cold. Their shadows blended into the darkness as they passed the window—you couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but judging from where they moved to, it was towards the inner gates of Shiganshina.

Which was all wrong. Emil didn’t like Shiganshina; didn’t like the Walls surrounding him in all directions. He hated feeling small and cooped up like an animal ready for slaughter.

Quickly, you hurried over and threw one of your father’s coats over your small shoulders, dragging the tail end behind you over the icy gateway leading up to your house as you emerged into the chilly night.

The way down to the meadow where you always play has turned into a white landscape. Snow crystals glitter from the light of dimly lit porches and gas lamps you passed. Within minutes, your slippers had turned soggy. The fuzzy fabric wasn’t nearly enough to keep the cold away, making your toes go numb. In your hurry to reach your favourite spot, you climbed over the fence, flinching from the sharp cold shooting up from your fingers to your arms. You barely register losing a slipper as you wade through the snow, limbs going numb from the cold but your mind still focused sharply on the task ahead.

The river stretched like a silver line before you, the moon a blurry sphere on its surface. Your favourite tree, wearing the most sublime dress of green during spring and summer, was nothing more than a hollow memory, naked and stark like a long-forgotten scarecrow meant to scare off people and make them return to their safe, warm houses.

You didn’t find Emil at first glance. He wasn’t cowering under the tree’s rigid, claw-like branches, and he wasn’t where usually all your favourite flowers bloomed during spring, sitting in a circle of all the flowers in love with him. That meant there was only one place where he could be hiding. The thought made your legs grow weak as the familiar fear of losing someone you love churned within you, carved into your bones from the memory of finding your poor little pet in a side road, blood pouring from bullet wounds, her empty blue eyes staring vacantly up into the grey, sunless sky.

If you were to lose Emil, too … you don’t think your heart could take that.

Down to the riverbank you climbed, every step more treacherous than the next as you slipped, fell, and felt the soles of your feet cut open by the slick, sharp ice under you, leaving behind a bloody footprint in the unblemished, white snow. White was a beautiful colour. The colour of silence, and rest and emptiness. But that pure, untouched beauty was exactly the reason to underestimate it, until one found themselves in a killing blizzard. Children had been warned to stay away from the river countless and countless times after the ice had broken beneath Jimmy’s feet and he had drowned on a treacherously peaceful late-afternoon when the sun traced its bright, golden beams over the snow, leaving the roads and snow-covered roofs glittering like the brilliant night sky.

You didn’t dare to imagine the same thing happening to Emil, his small body sinking to the river bed with nothing but the black slate of ice stretching above him as he was gradually running out of air. A chill colder than the December air went through you and you shuddered hard. There was only one way to find out.

Just when you were about to take the first step onto the frozen river, a voice rang out, calling your name. You turned toward it, and saw a grey silhouette perched under a slope.

He looked like a ghost under the silvery moonlight, a study of white in a colourless world that threatened to swallow him whole. Emil was paler than usual, and shaking so hard that you could hear his teeth chattering from where you stood. Your heart went wild at the sight of him—not just a little flip-flop, but a full-on tumble down a hill that never ended.

He stared up at you as you approached, and of all the things you could say—shout at him in anger how much he had worried his parents and you, how stupid he was to have gone out wearing nothing but a loose shirt and pants—now all that you wanted to tell him was, “I found you.”

Emil blinked slowly as if he was still in a daze—as if maybe your sudden appearance was nothing but ice spirits playing a trick on his mind. Slowly, he lifted his hand, and you, you grasped it and held it and warmed it with your skin, with your breath that came out in tiny white clouds as you tried to breathe life back into his fingers.

“What are you doing here?” Emil asked very quietly, sitting unmoving in a little alcove of snow he’s dug for himself. He had this voice, the one you knew from your father whenever he held a lecture ready for you after you’ve misbehaved.

“Auntie Anne came over and told us you were missing. Have you been sitting here since …” since our fight? you wanted to know, but maybe that was too much to ask for. You wouldn’t be able to look at yourself in a mirror if you were somehow at fault.

“I just needed some time to think … and be outside,” he said slowly, and turned his head to look back out at the frozen river. “It seems I have forgotten the time.”

“You would have frozen to death,” you said, and this time the accusation in your voice rang clearly. Emil looked back up at you. There was a funny look on his face, as though you had said something he had not thought of. “For someone as smart as you, sometimes you’re really stupid, you know?”

“I would have been home by now, but unfortunately …” He lowered his gaze. Your eyes followed, and found Emil’s foot. He had taken off his shoe, and where his wool sock ended, you saw the skin was red and swollen. “I slipped. I hoped the snow would cushion the fall, but…”

You made a little “Oh” sound, and crouched down to get a better look. You assumed the bone was broken, otherwise he would have somehow made his way up the meadow where he could shout for help.

“If Mother is out looking for me, that must mean Father is at home, waiting for when I return,” Emil said. “Go to him, and tell him where I am. He’ll carry me back home.”

You stared at him in disbelief, and Emil had the gall to laugh at your expression. “Don’t worry. It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

You shook your head, already slipping off the heavy coat from your shoulders. “It’s not about that,” you said, and threw it over Emil’s small form. He was swallowed whole, and had to fight through layers of wool until his silver head popped free. When he saw you crouching before him, your back to his front, he chuckled.

“I’m too heavy for you to carry,” he said, not unkindly. “And you’ve already hurt yourself looking for me.”

“And if we stay out here and continue arguing, they’ll have to use an ice pick to get us out tomorrow.” You were already beginning to shake. “I found you, and I’ll bring you back home.”

“You keep doing that,” Emil noticed, and at the strange tone in his voice, you glanced at him over your shoulder. He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the very first time. “You keep finding me, in the strangest places, at the strangest times.”

You didn’t think there was anything spectacular about finding him at one of his favourite places. Maybe he had hit his head as well when he had tumbled from that hill, and didn’t know what he was saying.

“And even now, you’re out here,” Emil continued. “Cold and hurt, and you refuse to leave me alone. I’d understand if you’d begin to hate me—”

“I could never hate you.”

He smiled, as if he knew that, of course, you would say that, and he had expected it. He had planned for it to be the absolution to what, you did not know, and just with those little words, he could rebuild brick by brick whatever he had lost that made him say such things.

Your fingers brushed his, both colder than icicles. If you held them long enough, maybe you could press the fire of your conviction into them and warm them.

“If that’s what worries you, then I’ll promise I’ll find you, no matter where, Emil,” you swore, and intertwined your pinkies together.

Emil blinked. He looked from your locked hands to your face, searching for the lie; the snare that would capture his trust and shred it to bits once he laid it bare.

You let him judge you. Somehow you had to let him know that love was worth running to, not away from it. If you never let go of his hand, you can keep Emil safe from all the dark things that waited in the corners and shadows of the world.

After what felt like an eternity, Emil finally returned the squeeze around your pinky. He had lowered his head as if in prayer, and you could see the thick curtain of his long, pale eyelashes flutter for a brief moment. Even in the pale moonlight, you saw his cheeks had turned red.

“Mizpah,” he said quietly—the exhale of a word barely visible in the cold winter night. He did something that surprised you then, and took your hand, turning it over. You looked down at it, at your bitten fingernails, at the still-healing punctures along the side of your fingers from sewing.

He kissed the back of it, just a light touch of his mouth, and his hair—as soft and light as silk—brushed your wrist as he lowered his head. You felt a shock go through you, strong enough to startle you, and you perched speechless as he straightened and stood regal before you, his mouth curving into a smile.

You blinked at him, a little dazed. “What?”

“The very first people who were brave enough to venture outside the Walls a hundred years ago used to say this,” he explained. “It is a reference from a time before the Walls. When hunters only feared the wolves and coyotes in the woods, and knew they would return home. ‘And Mizpah, for he said, the Progenitor Gods watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another.’”

“I’ve … I’ve never heard of that before.” It sounded magical. As if it belonged to a long forgotten time.

Emil smiled. He put his arms around you, and allowed his body to fall against yours. His warm breath grazed your cold cheeks when he said, “My grandfather has the most curious notes on life before the Walls. Half of them sound like a madman’s fever dream, and others … you will tell me if you need a break, won’t you?”

You were barely up the hill when already, Emil’s weight slowed you down enough that every step through the snow shot painful needle-stabs up your thighs. “The road … isn’t that far anymore,” you said between gritted teeth, taking deep breaths from an air so cold it felt like sharp knives stabbed through your lungs.

For most of the time, you tried to banish any thought about how cold you were, how much your legs hurt, and instead tried to focus entirely on Emil’s calm voice and his honey-sweet promises of hot chocolate and your favourite fuzzy blanket once you were back at his place.

When Her Inflorescence finally emerged from the black-tipped forest of countless neighbour’s houses, relief washed all the worries from your mind, giving you the last bit of strength to make it right to the front door.

James, who had been waiting for news or Emil’s return, opened the door. He looked as if the events of the last hours had aged him tremendously. He scooped Emil up effortlessly and carried him back inside the house. All the way inside, you heard him fussing around and lecturing Emil. It all took maybe five minutes until he returned and swept past you like a thunderstorm, throwing on your father’s coat that spilt before you like a curtain. He stopped for only a moment—to cup your hands gently, to lift them up to his mouth just like Emil did before.

“You are the bravest girl I know,” he said, choking on tears, “and still, that was very, very stupid.”

Just like he promised, it took a little under an hour for James to return, Annie and the doctor by his side. They shook off freshly fallen snow from their shoulders, and the doctor took off his hat, revealing a lean, slender face that seemed a little lost behind the big, round glasses he was wearing. While Emil’s parents were arguing quietly, he was already peeking into the living room, searching for you two. Emil and you had huddled around the fireplace and warmed up, sitting close enough that your shoulders were pressed against each other.

“Here we have our two troublemakers,” the man said, kneeling before you. He looked nice, and somewhat familiar, though you couldn’t tell where you had seen him before. His bottle-green eyes landed on your scraped, bloody feet, then drifted over to Emil. He frowned slightly, as though there was something he thought wrong in the picture. But that confusion quickly vanished, and he smiled again. “Look at you two, how much you’ve grown.”

The confusion must have been plain on your face, for he laughs—a deep rumble spreading from his chest through his whole body. “Obviously, you wouldn’t remember. I attended your birth. You shouldn’t cause your parents so much worry.”

“Now look at you, [Name]!” Annie whirled by like a storm. She stoked the fire, wrapped you two up in more blankets until you were small cocoons unable to move. Into the kitchen she hurried next, clattering with teacups and pots, and you could only hear her voice when she said, “You just left without saying anything and now you’re looking as if someone ran you over with a cart!”

Your shoulders flew up, your head drew back as if you were trying to hide inside your shell of warm, wool blankets. You felt Emil’s hand searching for yours under the layers, his tight squeeze when his fingers found yours, but when you looked up, his gaze was set forward at something behind the doctor’s shoulder.

When Anne returned, she pushed a steaming cup of tea into the man’s hands, which he accepted, a little baffled. Somehow he must have known her well enough to know it wasn’t wise to decline. When she turned to you next, you saw her eyes blinking rapidly against the sheen of tears. “If something happened to you, I couldn’t look into your mother’s eyes. Can you even imagine what could have gone wrong?”

To your surprise, the doctor chuckled quietly. He quickly hid his smile by taking a sip, then cleared his throat. “My own boy is a little rascal, you know?” When he saw the glare Anne sent his way, he quickly continued, “Let me take a look. I’ll take care of them.”

“Emil first,” you insisted, unwrapping the layers of blanket from your small body. “He’s hurt worse than I am.”

“Leave [Name] to me, I’m sure I can patch her up nicely,” Anne said. The doctor nodded, and moved to scoop up Emil, who refused to let go of your hand for the fracture of a second before he wound his arms around the doctor’s shoulder.

When they had almost reached the flight of stairs leading up to his room, Emil squirmed around in the older man’s arms and smiled. “Silly,” he said. “You’re not supposed to see this.”

You had not noticed how you had stood to follow them, but now you halted, confused. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him cry as the doctor would set his bone, or however procedure like this worked, which was silly. You had already seen him with eyes red-rimmed from tears and snot running down his nose after cutting onions for supper. Maybe boys thought about it differently. Maybe tears that came from pain or sadness were different.

You held Emil’s gaze, when suddenly, it shifted. Or did it? There was an urge, like an itch you had to scratch, driving you insane, and quickly, you threw a glance over your shoulder. But there was nothing out of order—and then, a second later, Emil said, “[Name], you’ll wait for me, right?”

He was still looking at you, which meant you really did just imagine things. “Of course.” You didn’t hesitate with your answer. “I’ll be right here.”

He nodded, satisfied, and didn’t break your gaze as the doctor carried him upstairs, James right on their heels.

Your head craned as they rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, but you didn’t miss how Emil wiggled his healthy foot at you, meant as a wave. You couldn’t help but smile.

“What are we going to do with you two?” The sigh from Anne’s lips was heavy, but when she cast her eyes down at you, they were warm and generous. “You really like him, don’t you?”

What a silly question. The skin at your feet would not be torn open if you did not.

You threw your arms around her as she picked you up, carrying you into the kitchen. Your nose buried in the hair that curled around the nape of her neck, you inhaled. She smelled like Emil. “He’s my most favourite person in the whole world,” you whispered against her warm skin, and this time, she sighed in content like no one but her understood exactly what you meant.

Mizpah.

You’d learn only much later that what it actually meant was good-bye without saying good-bye.

❀❀❀

Your eyelids feel as if they have been sewed shut. You imagine you can feel tearing skin as you peel them slowly open and blink for the first time in three days. Tears, collected at the corners of your eyes, pool over and run down your temples. You almost expect to see Emil as he was the day you lost him five years ago. But he is not the one who sits in the chair by this unfamiliar bed. It’s Jean, with his chin resting atop his loosely curled fist and a book splayed open on his lap. He’s wearing a loose, but warm standard uniform, and his eyes are closed.

“Jeanie?” Your throat is ravaged, and his name comes out broken.

Jean jerks awake and releases a long breath as he studies you. “It’s okay,” he says softly, reaching forward to rest a hand on top of yours. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here.” He’s here.

You nod against the thickness of your tears clogging your throat.

“Shit. It’s still hurting that bad, is it?”

You raise your uninjured arm and drape it across your eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Your other arm lies resting beside you, bandaged and numb from whatever tincture they gave you to lessen the pain, but you can’t find the words to explain that the hurt from losing Emil cannot be healed by anything. “Yeah…,” you mumble instead. “It still hurts.”

Today is another day that you miss him so much that it feels as if you’ve swallowed broken glass.

Jean squeezes your hand, then stands and brushes his clothes back into order. The creases must be from countless hours sitting in that chair, watching over you. “I’ll go and get someone,” he says. “You stay put. I mean, well—‘s not like you can go anywhere anyway.” He throws a wobbly grin at you from across the room, and opens the door but hesitates. “You called for him, you know?” he says, his broad back turned to you.

You pull away your arm and blink up at the wooden ceiling. “Emil?”

“What? No.” Jean turns, the surprise evident on his face. “Eren. You called for Eren.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so staying silent is maybe the right course of action as you’re searching for an answer yourself. Jean just ducks out into the hallway and quietly closes the door behind him.

You glance around. You’re tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with wooden headboards. Your bed has a small night stand beside it with a pitcher and a cup on it. It is still filled to the brim, left untouched and waiting for you to wake up.

Taking small sips from your cup, that is how the compound’s doc finds you propped against your pillows. Behind her, you can see the familiar faces of your friends all standing in front of the the sick room as if waiting for an audience with the King himself. Seeing their worried faces loosens a tight knot underneath your chest that makes breathing a little easier. You wave in their direction, and you’re pretty sure when the doc closes the door, you can hear Mina burst out crying on the other side.

“Someone’s popular,” the doc notices and takes a seat by your bedside. She unwinds the bandage from your arm and takes a close look at the stitching—your bandages have been redone, but nobody bothered to open and redo the stitches.

“How does it look?” Your voice isn’t too parched now, but still a little raw. You take another sip from your cup, if only for something else to do than staring holes into her head.

“Your suturing skills need some work, but other than that, you’ll be fine.” From a drawer of the night stand, she produces a small wooden box. She takes a fresh roll of bandages out and begins to work on your arm. “How bad is the pain?”

“Not as bad as after the bite.” They must have given you something to dull the pain. Now it’s more like a somewhat hot itch you want to scratch. “What exactly happened?”

“I’ve only heard it in passing from the instructor, but because of the snow storm last night, they couldn’t send out search parties. Everyone had to rely that you two would make it back on your own, and well … you did.”

“That means Eren—I mean Cadet Jaeger is also here?”

“Of course. He’s the one who carried you down the mountain. I tried to get him to stay a few days in the infirmary as well, but he didn’t want to hear any of that.” A smile tugs at your lips. Of course he wouldn’t want to sit still after everything that happened. “It’s a miracle, frankly,” the doc continues as she finishes up and puts the box back. “I’m sure Inspector Shadis must be incredibly proud of you guys.”

Inspector Shadis, turns out, wasn’t just incredibly proud, he also thought that you are very stupid.

“Next time, try thinking farther than a pig shits and we won’t find ourselves in such a fucking shitshow! It’d be easier for everyone if you let the wolves eat you both and spare me the fucking headache next time! Dismissed!” Head red like a beetroot, Shadis whirls and storms out of the warehouse, leaving Eren and you standing against the wall, backs straight, and with a good amount of his spit sticking to your faces.

Eren moves first, and wipes his face with the back of his sleeve before he returns to stacking crates. You watch him for a moment, with his back to you, whenever he lifts a crate, the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt would stretch over his muscles. You remember how strong he could be, holding you in his arms, and heat crawls up your neck.

“So,” you say. “We accomplished something pretty big and still get penalty work for it. Talk about unfair.”

Eren gives a non-committal hum. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this focused moving boxes from A to B.

“And we don’t even get credits for it! I want to see Samuel or Daz survive the stuff we did.”

Another grunt. He’s started peeling splinters off the wood, as if that is the greatest safety hazard in this room. Seeing that he isn’t up for a conversation, you turn away and move to pick up some crates as well.

Eren is faster by your side than a shadow, snatching the crate from your arms. “Don’t carry heavy stuff yet,” he says.

“Oh, now you’re talking to me?”

He looks afflicted for a moment, but then his eyebrows draw together into that sulking anger you’d expect from a five year old. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and turns away to carry the crate to its destination across the room. You stick to his heels.

“Why didn’t you visit?” you ask outright, sure that Eren must have expected this question as well. You don’t want to admit how you’ve waited for him to stop by, even for a few minutes. Everyone else has managed to visit you whenever they had time off between tasks—even Armin and Mikasa. You’d tried asking them what was up with Eren, to which they just shared one long, silent glance you were familiar with simply for the fact that it was one you’d share with Jean whenever you two had words not meant for others to hear.

“He’ll come by, I’m sure,” Armin had said. Eren had not come by.

“I was busy,” he says now, still not looking at you. “And when I wanted to go, you were already out.”

You stop right behind him, staring at the curve of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Eren grumbles. “How would you know?”

“Every time you lie, your ears and neck turn red.”

He whirls around, glaring at you, but you’re right. The tips of his ears are crimson. You raise your eyebrows after you’ve made your point, to which Eren just throws his hands up and gestures around wildly. What a meaningful conversation.

Tapping your foot against the cold concrete, you grow impatient. Eren presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Somehow, he finds the resolve—it simply wouldn’t be Eren if he would back out of whatever weird goal he’s set out to—and finally he closes the distance between you and seizes your wrist, tugging urgently. He reminds you of a little kid trying to get his mother’s attention. But then he begins to unwrap the linen bandage from your injured arm, not meeting your eyes.

Your whole body tenses. “Uhh, Eren. Did you hit your head or something? Stop it.”

But he continues, easily shaking off your other hand trying to stop him like he’d shake off an irritating fly. He’s gone crazy. Batshit crazy. You should have left him under the pile of snow out in the woods. Each step you take back to get out of his grip, he takes one forward until your back meets a solid wall. He’s grown over the last half a year, but you know the way he looms over you isn’t because of that. His mere presence is driving you back, making you feel small.

You both stare at your jagged skin and the black thread criss-crossing your skin. The skin isn’t an angry red anymore, but turned a purplish blue. It’s not pretty. You wonder what Eren sees with his inscrutable, keen eyes. All you see is an ugly scar that will always remind you of the pain, and the day you realised the whole world is out to get you.

But also, the things that you have survived. The day you didn’t allow yourself to be prey and fought.

“You fought back.”

You blink at Eren. He said it just when you were thinking about it. “You fought back, and I was so useless and couldn’t do anything.” His eyes are still running over your scar, both calculating and caressing almost, and you realise he’s memorising the path it strikes along your arm. You know what he’s feeling—the shame of being helpless, of not doing anything. You know exactly what’s eating at him inside. “That’s why … seeing you, and being reminded how weak I was—”

“You were sick, Eren. Not much you could have done. If you were awake, I’m sure things would have turned out differently.”

“Maybe.” Eren is still holding your arm. You haven’t noticed how close you two are standing until you feel his warm breath fanning over your face now. “But that didn’t happen.”

“It didn’t. But you did manage to bring us back here. Doesn’t that count for something? You saved us as well, Eren.”

His eyes shift up, and then he’s smiling at you a little, and it is as if your chest opens up, as if your heart is trying to reach out and grab him.

“Well, you saved us first,” he says. His head is down, his green eyes looking up at you through those thick dark lashes; you wonder how many times he’s gotten whatever he wanted just by doing that. “And I’ll never forget that.”

“I guess that means we’re even.” Eren is so close now that you dropped your voice to a whisper. Any closer, and you’d be able to count each individual lash on his lids.

“So.” Eren clears his throat. A sly grin slowly spreads on his lips, giving you a bad feeling. “You think I’m hot?”

Your heart is suddenly in your throat. “I never said that.”

“Oh, really? Must have been my imagination, just like you couldn’t get your hands off me.”

Two could play in this game. You snaked your hand over the fabric of his sleeve shirt, across his broad chest. “Like this?”

Clearly surprised, Eren begins to sputter—that is until your hand snakes under this chest strap and you tug it back only to let it snap back against his chest. He doubles over, wheezing, and you finally step away from him, though it is more of an impromptu little dance as you toe around him, feeling your heart flutter inside your chest like a spring bird returning home after a long, harsh winter.

For all the anger Shadis threw into your faces, you are not surprised that by the next evaluation, Shadis put you on Rank Six.

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade

A/N: idk why this chapter was so hard to finish because it was still fun to write and i enjoyed giving you guys some more emil in this chapter.

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #snk x y/N #snk x you #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #swyaatl

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philliamwrites · 2 years

Note

everyone shut up it’s stay where you are and then leave day‼️

this made me grin so hard i spat out my toothpaste

have a little something from chpt. 13, and then i'll upload chpt. 12 around 3pm CET ❤️

“Here, drink.” You turn your head away. Even that is too much effort and you groan weakly, trying to bury your face into something soft and warm. It moves under you and you mumble an incoherent, weak protest. “Stop being so stubborn,” Eren mumbles. You don’t understand why he’s so annoyed, but find it funny nonetheless. Everything seems so funny right now, like a big joke that nobody but you is on. A broad, warm hand catches your jaw and makes you hold still. You blink up at Eren but his face blurs and fades away into darkness whenever you close your eyes. A rough thumb sweeps over your bottom lip. The sensation is foreign, tickling. Feels nice. “Come on, open up.” The voice is soothing. Calming. You can trust this person. “Work with me here, [Name].” Now they’re asking you to do something? Not a chance. You try to turn your head away, but the grip around your jaw tightens. There’s a quiet growl of frustration. Fingers dig into your cheek, the thumb dips into your mouth and draws it open. You imagine batting these hands away, but you’re too weak to move even a muscle. Cool liquid spills over your lips. Everything moves into sudden focus and you stare up at Eren, locking eyes with him. His gaze is intense, focusing on the task. He’s careful nothing spills, keeps your head in place. “Like that,” he mumbles. “Swallow.” There’s a joke there, but you’re too drowsy to use words. You just keep looking at Eren, the only constant anchor in a world that keeps fading in and out. His eyes are unfathomably dark as he watches your throat work every time you swallow. When you’re sufficiently hydrated, he removes the flask from your lips but keeps his hand cupped carefully around your cheek. Tenderly, almost. You hear the smile in his voice before exhaustion pulls you back into the darkness. “Good girl.”

(this is so gonna be re-used in a steamy, spicy scene and they'll both enjoy it hhmhmhmh)

#giggling #can't wait to have eren tell reader to open up and swallow in a different context #wink wonk #eren x reader #eren smut #eren x y/n #eren x you #aot x reader #aot smut #swyaatl smut #swyaatl ask #swyaatl #swyaatl snippet

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philliamwrites · 2 years

Text

SWYAATL 10: The Forest of Hands and Teeth (pt.1)

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

warnings: DARK CONTENT! READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. Minor character death, blood and gore, attempt at sexual assault (male —› female), implied child abuse, implied childhood sexual abuse

Summary: It wasn’t common for you to doubt or question Emil. You trusted him with a ferocity that was nearly dangerous: if he’d said “Jump, I will catch you,” you’d jump and perform a pirouette mid-flight. Yet, this was different. This felt like a secret with sharp teeth and gnawing starvation for freedom. And it would wreak havoc. You didn’t know why, but you felt it. You felt it would destroy everything like the earth rumbling and splitting open, the very foundation of everything that you had known crumbling.

Notes: [01] || 09 | 11

Words: 8k

A/N: thank you so much @samsaurwrites for beta-reading!

This might be the last update for a while because I need to take a break. Writing this chapter has been so difficult, not because I don’t want to write but because there is so much I need to think through and outline to tell the story I want to tell. If there is no update in 2 weeks, you know I’m MIA until mid-July (I might keep updating short headcanons on Tumblr though, I don’t want to lose feeling for these characters). Thanks for everyone who’s still reading this, leaves comments, likes and reblogs!! You guys are the world to me! Stay safe!

Chapter 10: The Forest of Hands and Teeth (pt.1)

“Truth or Dare?” Jean asks for the third time.

“I’m not playing,” is your answer, for the third time. Your steed, a strong chestnut-coloured Hanoverian, shakes her heavy head and you have to agree. He really is annoying.

It’s surprisingly warm for an autumn day—perfect for a long excursion outside. The season has lit the trees around aflame. The blaze of colour—tawny orange, sulphurous yellow, arterial red—makes it look as if you’re riding towards a wall of roaring flame in the distance.

“Oh come on, it’s so fucking boring out here,” Jean whines. “Entertain me before I fall asleep.”

“Wouldn’t that do us all a great favour,” Connie mumbles, riding a few feet ahead while slumping in his saddle. His hair has grown out a little and he spends every free minute raking a hand through it, mumbling how bad he needs a head shaving soon.

Jean ignores him. “Truth or Dare?”

“Fine, Truth!”

“Which one of us male cadets is the best marriage material?”

You don’t even hesitate with your answer. “Marco.”

“Marco,” Mina agrees to your left.

“Marco!” Sasha whoops to your right.

“Marco!” Connie shouts from the front.

Jean clicks his tongue. Marco, who’s taken off his jacket an hour ago and wears it tied around his waist, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows showing his strong arms, gives a wobbly grin, red dusting his freckled cheeks and though you thought he’d be shy about it, what his expression says is clearly, Why thank you.

“I thought we were friends,” Jean grumbles, sticking his heels into his horse’s sides to give you the slip—where to, you don’t know, since your group had been instructed to stay together or else your record-keeper, Armin, has to write that down.

“We are.” You reach over before the gap grows and pinch his clothed thigh. “And you taught me honesty weighs more than gold.”

Jean tries to kick you but misses. “I’d rather be rich right now.”

“Ohhh, are you going to invite us to fancy restaurants and drinks when you get into the MP?” Sasha asks, clutching her reins to her chest. “I heard there’s this amazing steak house in Yarckel District where the meat is so tender it melts in your mouth.”

“Sure, I can put in a good word for you sorry lads when we’re all on break from duty.” Jean smiles with all the satisfaction of someone checkmating a king. He’s been standing his ground as rank number seven for months now, and from what you’ve heard the instructors say, he’s good on his way to climb even higher. “No one can say I’m not all for doing my friends a favour.”

“Then do me a favour,” Eren’s voice calls from the very front, “and keep your mouth shut. You’re annoying as hell.”

You cut your gaze to Marco, your group leader, but he’s already looking at Armin riding beside him, one hand clenched tightly around a thin wooden board where he’s carrying the records on him.

It’s one thing you’ve always liked a lot about Marco: that he wears his heart on his sleeve; that his face is an open door, never closed, and he is not afraid to show what emotions are living inside him. Right now, it is one of clear, unabashed unwillingness to deal with whatever storm is brewing between Jean and Eren.

Uh-oh, you think. It takes some time for Marco to be annoyed or angry, but when he draws the line, he draws it hard.

“Ohhh, I’m annoying? Who’s been the one whining about how much he wants to hurry up and go ahead as if he’s shit his pants?” Jean laughs at his own joke. “As if this waste of an excursion does anything for us,” he adds, his smile turning sour.

“It should be good for team building, if anything,” Armin pipes up. He’s put a pencil behind his ear, and now it sticks out from the curtain of golden hair falling into his face.

“Exactly. Team building.” Marco bends the weight of his heavy gaze on Jean and Eren. “So, for the love of God, get along, you two. Just until this is over.”

“Marco, when he’s angry,” Mina whispers into your ear with a sheepish smile, leaning so far out of her seat you’re worried she’ll topple off her horse any second, “is kinda hot, isn’t he?”

You almost choke a little on your spit, but allow your eyes to discreetly rake over Marco’s broad, rigid back as he gives Armin instructions.

“I suppose,” you mumble, your sight swivelling back to the road before you, and inevitably settling on Eren’s tensed shoulders, his fists holding onto his reins tightly enough the knuckles have turned white.

One evening, you made a revelation you never thought you’d make over hash browns: Eren has beautiful hands. Maybe not ‘beautiful’ in a way of the imagination of an artist, but beautiful as in active and alive. His palms wider than the length of his fingers, they are a worker’s hands, calloused and rough, restless even when the rest of his body stands still. As if they are his most honest part and therefore unable to stay silent.

For the pleasure and safety of his family, those hands work very hard; the marks and signs of that are his scarred knuckles because his hands are his weapon of choice—the only weapon he trusts to find the means to an end; to protect those he loves.

All that had occurred to you when you’d joined Armin to discuss a few things for the group task you were assigned to for Assault Tactics on 15-metre Titans. Mikasa and Eren had joined you around dinner time, and when you’d asked Armin to pass you the salt shaker, it was Eren who’d moved, silently, still chewing. You were pretty sure he was paying more attention to Sasha’s hunting story where she almost shot an arrow into a villager’s bum mistaking it for a boar than realising what he was doing. Which gave you plenty of time to study his veiny hand and his broad fingers, and since then, whenever he’d touched you by accident, skin brushing against skin, his thumbs digging a little too much into your arm, your shoulder, the back of your neck during hand-to-hand practice, your brain short-circuited, any thought whipped clean like a white board.

Since then, you’re very, very careful and make sure that you don’t touch him.

“I’m on horse face’s page, for a change.” Victor’s voice from the back cuts like metal striking stone. “This is a fucking waste of time if it doesn’t go into the overall evaluation.”

If Jean’s mood has been sour ever since your departure at the crack of dawn, Victor’s been foul and rotten like a fruit basket left outside in the sun long enough that maggots made it their home. You wish he’d been assigned to Thomas and Mikasa’s group, and you had gotten Reiner or Bertholdt instead. At least with those two, you don’t have to worry they might stab you in the back.[1]

“Don’t call him that,” you snap at him. It’s different with Eren and Connie, where there is clearly no malicious intent, but you wouldn’t trust Victor to tie his own shoes without causing damage left and right, like a coiled snake lying deceptively still before it strikes with venomous fangs. Just a few weeks ago, he had nearly cracked and broken open a female cadet’s face like an eggshell with a stone during combat practice.

“Accident,” he had said, face hard and blank like a marble statue. He’d gotten three days of suspension for that, and you had gotten three days of nightmares because neither you, nor Mina, had missed the fact that his victim, with her dark brown hair tucked in twin tails that day, had looked a lot like Mina.

Jean doesn’t seem fazed, but you can clearly see how he draws up his shoulders, puts on an armour. “Get your own opinions, Hoffmann,” he grunts back, and to Eren he says, “And you just go ahead and see how far you’ll come until one of us has to get your ass out of whatever disaster you get yourself into next!” He pushes out his chest, that insufferable smirk cuts into his face that you’ve grown to understand means he’s particularly proud of some, mostly misplaced, mature behaviour—a paragon of his kind. You want to smack that haughty expression off his face.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Eren calls back.

Armin’s hand is halfway up to the pen tucked behind his ear. “You can’t say that, Eren. That’s against Article 23, Humiliation of a Soldier by Another Soldier and I have to write that down.”

Marco groans. “Wait, don’t write that down. Eren, just apologise to Jean.”

“Fine.” Eren turns halfway around in his seat to face Jean. “Unfuck yourself, or whatever.”

“Eren,” Armin whines.

“Would it physically hurt them to get along?” Christa, bless her kind heart, asks genuinely.

“I think,” you answer, “they might legitimately combust if they’d have to be nice to each other.”

“And I’d like to see that,” Sasha croons. There’s something else she wants to say, but her attention rivets on a green-scaled iguana, as big as a dog, slithering through the shadows of sharp rocks, its stumpy legs easily keeping up with the slow pace of your group. Its head twitches sometimes, indicating that it’s keeping its eyes on you.

“Damn, look at the size of that thing.” Connie lets out a low whistle. “Think we can eat it?”

“What, like peasants?” drones Victor’s comment which everybody ignores.

“You can!” Sasha doesn’t disappoint when it comes to food, as always. “It tastes like chicken. High protein, low fat, and you can throw in some grilled mushrooms, it’s great.”

“Well then, don’t mind if I do.” Jean draws his blade and spurs his horse onward, chasing after the animal that scurries wildly in a zig-zag pattern across the dry desert ground.

“No, just … leave it!” you call after him, dread churning your stomach. “We have enough rations with us!” But Jean doesn’t hear or ignores your call, and surges ahead after the iguana.

The active hunting part has never been something you felt comfortable with, and so far you were able to skip that for a whole year. Seeing Jean now lunge after that poor animal with the vigour of a starved man even though your rations are enough to get you through the night is like watching a child plunge its hand into a half-full glass container of sweets and take out a fistful of candy even though the sign beside it says Take one only, please. It disgusts you.

You decide not to watch as Jean lifts his blade high above his head and strikes with a viciousness your body reacts to automatically by flinching as it remembers facing him in Swordsmanship practice. Jean doesn’t swing and hit hard, but he knows how to strike when his opponent least expects it, and now that he’s found another discipline apart from Hand-to-Hand combat he’s better at than Eren, he practices it like a man who has tasted success for the first time and immediately became obsessed being drunk on it.

But instead of sharp blade cutting into yielding flesh, the blood-churning rasp of metal against metal pierces everyone’s ears. When you look up, Eren has his own blade crossed with Jean’s, and the iguana quickly scurries away under a jagged set of cliffs towering to your side.

“What,” Jean says, “the fuck, Jaeger?” He looks like he is gearing up to take a swing—not with his fist but his sword.

Eren tightens his grip around his reins as his steed huffs and paws the ground nervously. As military horses, they are tougher than their civil breeds, yet you’re sure even they aren’t used to facing off against their own kind.

“Leave it,” Eren says, his bright eyes disappearing behind the thick fringe of dark lashes as he looks down at their crossed blades. “Stop acting like this is some kind of game.”

“I don’t get what your fucking problem is.” Jean jams his blades back into their sheaths. He looks like he’d rather jam them somewhere else. “If hunting for food is part of the exercise, then what’s better than getting that lizard?”

“Oh, now you care about the exercise?”

“Guys, break it off.” Marco sounds like his patience is teetering dangerously close to the edge and all hell will break loose if it falls off. “You keep holding us back like that and we won’t make it to the meeting point. Shit like that gets reported.” There’s no other greater evidence of Marco being serious than him swearing.

“If you want to report something, write that down, Armin: Jean Kirschstein tries to find food during the exercise, but gets interrupted by Eren Jaeger. He deserves to be discharged for that.”

“Dude, what the hell—”

“Guys, stop acting like brats,” you call over a half-hearted attempt to make them stop.

Jean’s response comes immediately. “I don’t wanna hear that from you!”

“Come on guys, we should move on,” says Christa, and you believe if anyone can talk some sense into them, it’s her. “The sun will set in a few, and we should have reached the forest by then.”

Eren and Jean share a loaded, razor-sharp glare that should be enough to slice Marco’s head in two. You doubt they’d have any luck though, not with Marco’s will of untarnished steel tempered in his resolve not to deal with their bullshit.

When your group finally moves on, Eren lets himself fall behind enough for you to catch up. You can feel him resisting the urge to finish that argument with Jean. He is practically vibrating with the effort.

“Not much into lizards?” you ask to get his mind off it.

The deep scowl he’s wearing softens slightly like someone smoothed wrinkles out of a blanket. “You just seemed like you hated the idea of hunting it,” he says, looking ahead.

“Oh.” You stare at him for a long minute, like there is anything subtle about that, then give yourself a shake. I need a mug of the darkest, bitterest coffee I can find, you think. Or maybe a real punch to the jaw. To him, you only say, “Yeah. I don’t like watching animals getting hurt.”

And to your surprise, Eren answers, “I know,” and that is all he says, two words that open up twenty questions in your head with no time to sort through which to tackle first.

When you finally reach the forest, the sun is dipping behind the horizon, casting soft pink and vibrant orange over the ground and setting the sky ablaze. It doesn’t take long to build camp with the little you have on you: a few provisions get distributed and your sleeping bags strewn around a small fire where potatoes wrapped up in tin foil roast in the gleaming ambers. The horses had water and now they graze contently on top of a narrow hill where you tied them to trees.

Marco has spread a map on the ground, heavy stones put on each corner before a sudden gust of wind can steal it. He’s marked your group’s travel progress along the way, and now his finger tracks that path once more.

“I still can’t believe we managed to catch up to where we’re supposed to be,” Marco says. He’s sitting cross-legged opposite from you, precariously balancing a half-full cup of coffee on one knee while twirling a pen between long, slender fingers. You stare at them for a long moment. Maybe it’s a hand thing you got going for you, and not specifically tied to Eren. “We should meet up with the other group around forenoon tomorrow if we keep that pace.”

“That is, if they managed to get there on time.” Jean stretches his long legs and kicks your feet out of his way. He keeps an eye out for Sasha in case she decides to snag a potato before anyone else can.

You’re scribbling an iguana on the drawn rocks and cliffs of the wasteland you’ve traversed, knees tucked up to your chin. “Are you really thinking Mikasa, Reiner and Annie would have the group slacking behind?”

“Well, not Mikasa—” Jean sputters.

You’ve already stopped listening. “As long as we don’t get lost in the woods,” you say to Marco. He nips at his cup’s rim, eyes flitting over to the fire.

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that with Sasha here.” He smiles a little at the sight of your iguana drawing. Because his map is the same you had used half a year ago during the other overnight camping, the mapped out woods in the east are full of your drawings of owls and herons and other forest animals you had seen that day.

Jean calls your icons hellish. Marco finds them endearing. You just want to keep one of your father’s cartography techniques alive since he had no chance to properly teach you anything.

“Guys, food’s ready!” Christa calls. She and Connie have been assigned to distribute rations, and as you walk over to fetch your and Jean’s share, you don’t miss Christa turning her head in search of someone.

“Have you seen Victor?” she asks, handing over your food. A quick scan around camp shows no sign of him, and you can feel your heartbeat skip, the dread that claws its way from the pit of your stomach all the way up to your throat. You don’t want to deal with this; with him.

Connie looks up from where he’s stoking the embers, keeping the fire alive. “Maybe he’s gone into the woods to take a piss,” he offers.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t return,” you mumble, and you don’t miss Christa’s face battling between looking dreadful at your proclaim and hopeful that you might be right.

Quiet blesses your group as everyone is busy wolfing down their steaming potatoes and dry crackers. You return to Jean who’s settled for a calm spot a little apart from the group, leaning against a broad tree. Holding his food in one hand, his other flies over an open page of his sketchbook. When you take a look, you see he’s finishing a drawing of Mina and Marco sitting together playing Red Hands.

“You’re still keeping that thing around?” You don’t remember when you’ve last seen him drawing. He gives a noncommittal grunt, tilting the sketchbook sideways to change the angle. You watch him put light into Marco’s soft, kind eyes, catch the elegant curve like a swan’s neck of Mina’s wrist—and get an idea.

“Can I take a look?” You reach out your hand, palm out open. Jean eyes it warily as if it might bite him, and you placate him by shoving the rest of your potato in his mouth and deftly pluck the book from his hands.

He’s honed his skills to a level where his drawings are more than just presentable. Every page holds a detailed sketch of your friends captured in mundane tasks: Mikasa raising her face skyward, squinting up at something only known to her; Marco leaning over an open book, balancing a pen on his upper lip—you don’t miss how many pictures of Mikasa and Marco there are—one half-finished sketch shows Armin’s head in the process of turning, and Jean has captured Armin’s little charming quirk where his eyes move faster, how they’re already looking at whoever he’s talking to before he’s fully turned around. He wears that surprised but wakeful expression whenever he hears something new, something that might satisfy his voracious appetite for knowledge.

There are even small, cartoonish drawings of Eren where he’s going off in a temper tantrum or sulking, donkey ears on his head that make you smile, and on the next page, a full colour study of his vibrant, teal eyes that drops your mouth open in awe.

You gasp.

Jean gasps.

He lunges for you, but you’re quicker, already rolling away before he can get his broad hands around your throat and strangle you to keep you silent. Clutching the closed sketchbook hard to your chest, you’re ready to clamber to your feet and race through the forest if you must.

“Not. One. Word. About it,” Jean hisses. Even in the encroaching darkness that wafts at the borders of where the soft fire’s light reaches, you can see two vivid red spots glowing on his cheeks, as if he’s had his face rouged by a child who has no idea how much was too much. He points a long finger at you like the tip of a spear he’ll chuck at you if you so much as move a hairsbreadth towards his unexpected muse.

You draw a zipper close over your mouth, and wait until he settles back against the rough bark of the tree before you dare to return to your seat beside him.

You steal his pen and open a brand new page. Tongue tucked between your teeth, you begin your sketch, turn the book this way and that way to hit the right angle. Almost ten minutes after you’ve started, Jean decides to take a look, and chokes on some potato that’s lodged inside his throat.

“W-what is that?” he asks, rapping against his chest with his fist, struggling to breathe.

Your lower lip juts out. “A hand, obviously.”

Jean laughs. “Why does it have six digits?”

“That’s his wrist.”

His grin immediately turns into a scowl. “His? Whose hand are you drawing?”

You snap his book shut and throw it in his lap. “No one’s.”

Jean gives you a long, scrutinising look, one you don’t meet in worry he might see right through you and figure out something you’re constantly banishing to the far confines of your mind.

The saving grace arrives in the form of an appalled shout from across camp. A shadow staggers out from thicket, swaying like a spectre clad in nothing but shadows. When the fire’s light falls on Victor’s slack face, the black circles under his eyes thick smudges, all muscles in your body go tense like a coil spring.

A bright gleam of light draws your eyes to his clutched hand when he staggers to camp, and for a second you think it’s the sharp flash of a knife—but no, the sloshing amber liquid gives away the true nature of a half-empty bottle he’s carrying with him. Before he has even opened his mouth, you know that he is drunk.

“This is a joke,” Marco voices everyone’s thoughts out loud. “It has to be a joke.”

“Your face’s a joke,” Victor slurs, then quietly laughs to himself. When nobody joins him, he does a spectacular job at rolling his eyes and nearly losing his balance. “Oh, stop looking as if you’re about to piss yourselves. There are no instructors out here, ‘s nothing wrong having a little fun.”

“Fun.” The word is just a hissed sound like steam blowing off from a kettle—and capable of doing just as much damage. Even from here you can see Eren clenching his fists so hard his arms are quivering. Armin shifts to his feet, too agitated to stand still. Marco leans forward, like he is ready to throw himself between Eren and Victor if he has to. “What’s so fun about breaking the rules? They’ll throw you out as soon as they smell that shit on you.”

“In that case, let him chug that whole bottle,” Jean says next to you. “Might get alcohol poisoning, if we’re lucky.”

Victor’s gaze glides over Jean as if he’s less than air. You hold your breath when those dark, scrutinising eyes settle on you for a moment—you can feel Jean’s leg tense where it’s pressed against yours—but ultimately they land on Armin. As if his, and only his reaction matters. You’re still not sure what it is that Victor wants from him, and at this point it could be anything—damnation or absolution.

“Well, that’s the best part about group missions, isn’t it?” he says slowly, and the teeth-flashing grin that slices across his face is downright horrible. “We’re all in this together.”

He moves frightfully fast for someone drunk, straight like an arrow clear of its target towards the pile of knapsacks, sleeping bags and ODM gear you’ve discarded for the night. His arm flies in one wide arch, and the bigger part of what’s left inside the bottle pours over your stuff, filling the air with the unmistakable sharp—and even stranger: familiar—stench of alcohol.

That’s whiskey, your brain provides, from where you don’t know. But you recognise the grainy, woody fragrance, rich and heavy with a slightly fruity note to it.

Anger and fear and fury rises in your like a wave, sweeping every other thought away. You didn’t think it was possible to despise him even more than you do, but now your hands are shaking with a desire for violence. You want to take his bottle, break the glass and use it to slice open his face.

Connie is on his feet, face white as a sheet and swaying as if he’s shared a slug or two with Victor. “Dude. What the fuck?”

Victor’s laugh is vicious, the force if it knocks him off his own feet and he crumbles to the ground before anyone can reach him and do him the honour with an uppercut. And Eren is of course the first. Fingers clawing into Victor’s collar, he hauls him back on his feet and shakes him as if he can force common sense into his brain.

“Just what the fuck is your problem?” Eren’s face is so close to Victor their foreheads could touch. “Leave if you don’t wanna be here. But don’t drag everyone else in your sick psycho games.”

“Leave?” Victor echoes, and he sounds like he’s choking up on an emotion he’s carried for so long he’s starting to cave under its weight. “You think I can just leave?” He spits the last word and Eren shoves him away, swiping a hand over his face to wipe it off.

This time, Victor is the one clutching onto Eren’s shirt, hands fisting the fabric hard enough it pulls at its seams. It’s like Eren has loosened a tiny stone keeping Victor together and the consequential rockfall you’re facing is unstoppable. “You think people want to be here? That everyone’s got a self-righteous, noble reason like you? Some of us don’t have a fucking choice, you buffoon.”

Eren tries to wedge himself free but Victor has an iron grip on him. “The fuck are you talking about—”

“What would your alternative be? Go back and pick some grass and live your life in comfort? Would that really be so bad?” There’s a desperate tone to his voice now, like someone trying to make sense of a fever dream but any resemblance of logic slips right through his fingers like water. “I don’t have something like that waiting for me, I don’t have the luxury to think my life will resemble anything close to normal. Because for some of us, there is no choice.” He isn’t talking to Eren anymore, you realise.

Victor is pleading his case to Armin, eyes wide, fear-crazed—and you realise you’ve seen that look on his face before: when he’d attacked you on the first snow fall in your first year. When he had talked about his father.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he had said, voice dropping so low you had barely understood him. “If I don’t get where he wants me to be—He’ll kill me if I don’t—” Don’t what? Take care of anyone standing in his way? To what end? Just to be in the Top Ten and get into the Military Police Brigade?

It feels like there’s one big piece missing in a puzzle you don’t know how to assemble—never mind that you don’t even know what the picture will show by the end.

Armin must understand too, that on the day you were sitting together on the porch, Victor had eavesdropped on your conversation. Something flickers in his eyes, turns them unbearably bright, and you hate to think it might be regret of all things.

“So, you’re just going to accept whatever fucked up situation you’re dealt with?” Eren yanks himself free with enough force that he manages to hurl the nearly empty bottle out of Victor’s grasp. It smashes against a jagged edge of a rock and bursts into thousand pieces, a little meteor shower of sharp crystals that glint like dying embers in the fire’s light.

Victor stares at it for a long moment before his pale brown eyes return to Eren. He wavers a moment as if he might collapse after all that pent up rage and anxiety is finally out.

Instead of answering Eren, he just shakes his head. “What a fucking waste,” he says. You don’t know if he means the booze or the actual opportunity to overturn his fate.

It’s strange to see him deflated, like one of those training dolls your instructors sometimes use, that are beat up beyond repair and unable to prop up on their own. Just like one of those crumbling to the ground without anything holding them up, Victor manages to drag himself over to his chosen spot for the night and then plops down like a toddler losing his balance. He ignores Christa’s tentative request to eat a little, lest he wake up sick in the morning, and simple turns on his side with his back to you, one arm wedged under his head as a makeshift pillow.

“We’re done for tonight,” Marco says, exhaustion evident in his voice as if he’s been awake for seven days straight. You can see the tension drain from his shoulders, and now they’re drooping like he’s taken one too many hits. “The night watch stays the same. Christa, Sasha, then Connie and I’m the last one. Any wishes, complaints and suggestions you better keep to yourself. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“That’s what I call an announcement.” Jean stretches out his long limbs, and you admire how he can act like nothing just happened. “You gonna stay here or move over to Mina?”

You don’t reply immediately. Instead, you look over to the broken pieces of Victor’s bottle, at the dark patch of liquid soaked into the earth. Someone ought to put the bigger shards away before they get hurt—is your initial thought before it is driven away by that strange feeling of remembrance once more.

“That whiskey brand,” you say out loud. “Wasn’t that one our Dads used to drink together? When we came to visit you. It smells familiar.”

“Really?” Jean sniffs the air, then scrunches up his nose. “I don’t remember. That shit stinks though, I can’t believe Victor almost drained that whole thing by himself.”

He goes on about some other things, but you aren’t listening anymore.

Strange, that this smell is so familiar but you couldn’t place it. Stranger yet, that this smell fills you with dread and anxiety. There’s this foreboding feeling creeping up the back of your neck, on scrawny legs like a spider you only notice when you’re already caught in its web, that nothing will be alright.

❀❀❀

It was well within a year into your friendship that Emil, sitting on the lowest stair leading up to the cooper’s shop while polishing his marbles with a stained, dark cloth, had asked: “Those bruises. Where are they from?”

You had looked up at him, from your own teal coloured marble the size of your thumb’s nail. It was your favourite of the whole bunch—a present from your father from one of the inner Districts. It wasn’t your birthday, it wasn’t any special occasion. He had simply seen it in a toy shop, thought of how green was your favourite colour, and decided he’d bring it back as a present.

“For my little princess,” he’d said, and you remember his eyes were red-rimmed and shiny from unshed tears. He’d been away for a long time, he must have missed you so, so much. “You keep it safe and always with you, promise?”

Nothing was more sacred to a child than a promise, everyone knew. So naturally, you’d said, “I promise.”

“And you won’t tell your mother, right?” Your father had leaned towards you, brushing hair from your face, his thumb resting gingerly against a scab on your cheek you’d gotten after stumbling over your own feet in chase after your dog. “You know how she gets when I coddle you too much.”

“Promise.”

Fond were those memories, sweet like cotton candy but luckily not as rare. Thoughts only clinging to the tenderness of your father, you didn’t waste time wondering about that peculiar tone in Emil’s voice when he’d asked you. As if he did not dare ask such a simple question for the myriad of unfortunate possibilities it might open.

But the thing is, you had not known. Until that moment, until you followed his inquisitive eyes to your arms donned in red and purple and blue like the flowers from your meadow, you had not known your skin was a canvas of hurt and violence.

“Huh.” You inspected them one by one, pushed your thumb into a blackish blot that stung and made you wince—a still fresh bruise barely a day old. “Must be from playing with Marianne and the others.”

Emily met you with a level, calm gaze, his eyes the colour of a frozen lake in mid-winter though it felt as if he left a physical touch on your skin and that felt anything but cold. “You should be more careful,” he said, returning his attention to his marble. It was beautiful, shining and glittering in the early morning sun as he held it against the light, checking for any missed murky spots. A beautiful ruby-coloured little orb, and sometimes when you’d ask, he allowed you to play with it and it made you feel all warm and fuzzy because so far, you’d been the only one he’d shared his marbles with.

“Be careful, or you’ll really hurt yourself,” Emil continued.

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” you said, jutting out your chin as if that would underline your statement, with the naivety of a child that dreamt of being all grown up, being an adult in the unfounded imagination that everything would be easier once you were older. The irony that children dreamt of being adults, and adults dreamt of being children once more because they yearned for simpler times.

Emil gave you one of his funny, little looks. As if he were indulging a little kid playing pretend, and you wanted him to teach you that look. It made him look so much older than he was. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “I only said be more careful. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“Oh.” Of course, he cared for you. Worried for you. You could try to slow down a little, to stem the fire that’s started to burn in your heart after you met him. You can’t even tell what it is you’re running towards, only that a small, dark part in your heart is afraid you might lose it if you don’t catch up quickly enough.

“Mr. [Last Name],” Emil said suddenly, and your head snapped up at that, your heart slamming against your ribcage, thumping wildly, a small creature caught in a snare. This was panic—skittering, mindless panic. Why? There was no reason to be afraid of your father. But when you didn’t see him anywhere, you turned to Emil. He was watching you. “When is the next time that he leaves for work to another district?”

Something like dread pricked like pins and needles up your spine. “Why are you asking?”

It wasn’t common for you to doubt or question Emil. You trusted him with a ferocity that was nearly dangerous: if he’d said “Jump, I will catch you,” you’d jump and perform a pirouette mid-flight. Yet, this was different. This felt like a secret with sharp teeth and gnawing starvation for freedom. And it would wreak havoc. You didn’t know why, but you felt it. You felt it would destroy everything like the earth rumbling and splitting open, the very foundation of everything that you had known crumbling.

Emil simply smiled, placidly. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Your father’s work is exciting,” he said, barely able to contain the awe in his voice. “He’s joining the Scouts sometimes, isn’t he? To map out the areas beyond the Walls.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes drift over to Wall Maria throwing a colossal shadow over the roofs and crenellations of Shiganshina. “He hasn’t been out in a while now, though.”

“Would he tell me something about his work, if I’d ask?” Emil’s hands fell into his lap, and his crimson marble rolled in his open palm as if it might fall any second. “I want to hear more about it.”

“I’m sure he would,” you said, and at the clear sight of your puzzled expression, Emil laughed. It was your favourite laugh—clear and sound, brighter than the first morning sunlight stealing through the curtains on your window. The sun rising over the wall, warming your face. The cool breeze picking up and caressing your warm cheeks. All life and love and everything in between that was worth fighting for.

“Maybe I just need an excuse to spend more time with you,” he conceded quietly, breathlessly.

“You can just ask, it’s that easy,” you responded just as quietly. “There’s no need for an excuse.”

He smiled at that, a private, withdrawn smile that teetered to wistfulness, and looking at this dream from an outside perspective—from some distance—you’re finally able to properly read his expression for the first time: Emil smiled as if to say: If only things really were this easy.

❀❀❀

You don’t come awake screaming for Emil, the way you sometimes do—but your heart is slamming in your throat like it’s trying to choke you. Your skin is slick with sweat, cool. Your limbs shake but not because of the cold.

I wonder, you think of all things, where my marbles went. If they’re still back in Shiganshina where your house once stood. But that thought bursts into a thousand pieces at the sound of loud voices. A confusing buzz as night still renders the forest dark and barely lit by the silver moon peeking through the trees—voices that belong to your comrades, and unknown, harsh voices. Deep, and commanding. Men’s voices.

Your eyes spring open, and stare right into the round, black hole of a barrel pointed at your face. A huge shadow looms above you, a monster you think at first for its head is nothing close to the shape of a human—that is until your eyes make out the potato bag covering the person’s head with two huge, black holes serving as visors.

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” a deep, raspy voice rumbles. There is no air in your lungs, it’s stuck somewhere in your throat. “Wouldn’t wanna have ta blow up that pretty face.”

Every muscle in your body freezes, paralysed from shock, from fear. Maybe this is the actual nightmare and you haven’t woken up yet. Your eyes move around, recognising your comrades and friends in mirror positions: held at gunpoint, threatened by an unknown group of bulgy, tall men covered by different headwear so their faces remain hidden.

“Now, you’re all going to behave,” the man above you—maybe their leader—says out loud so everyone can hear him, “while we collect your ODM gear. And all’s gonna end well for you, I promise.”

“And what,” says Marco, quietly and with a voice that’s slightly trembling as he tries to stay collected, in charge of a situation that’s blown way out of proportion for anything the instructors could have ever prepared you for, “will you do with them?” He has his hands raised above his head, eyes swerving from the nuzzle to his captor.

“We got certain people that’ll pay handsomely for these. ‘S not like yer gonna use ‘em since there’s no beatin’ the Titans anyway, right?”

You stare up at him, shell-shocked, an unpleasant ringing buzzing in your ears. Throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of dread spreads slowly through your limbs. There’s a tingling in your fingers, either because you can’t feel them anymore or because you’re clawing them too hard into the cold, solid ground.

Multiple things happen at once. There’s a shout, a quarrel—Eren, of course, is fighting off his attacker. He grabs the barrel and shoves it away from his face. Their struggle unfreezes everyone from their petrification, but it’s like coming up from a deep, freezing lake and gasping for air first, limbs suddenly granted to do everything so that you’re left unable to do anything.

“NOW!” is the last thing you hear from Eren, an uncoordinated command to attack, but the rest of you: you’re all scared. Nobody moves. Except Jean, who’s diving towards the forest in an attempt to flee.

The shot rings out into the night, waking birds from their peaceful slumber and setting them out into the darkness. For one short, horrible moment you imagine Jean falling, lifeless like a puppet with cut strings, blood seeping out from a hole in his head.

A cry pierces the quiet, a sound so horrid it raises the hair at the back of your neck. Someone is screaming his name, and it takes a moment to realise you are the one who screams for him. But Jean remains standing. Standing, yet shaking, he turns slowly and reveals a narrow cut running along his cheekbone where the bullet has grazed him.

The relief is only short-lived. You try to go for him, to see if he is all right, you have to touch him and be sure that his life isn’t in danger, feel his solid flesh, his warm skin.

Halfway across camp, you don’t see how Eren’s captor whacks him across the face with the grip of his pistol. You don’t see their leader dive for you until you feel his brutally hard grip in your hair. He yanks your head back, bares your throat and you have to grit your teeth together not to make a sound. A second before, your eyes caught the sharp flash of something between dirt and dried leaves, and now your hand moves over the forest floor, feeling for the cool shard.

“Are ya deaf or just stupid?!” the man holding you roars. “I said don’t. Fucking. MOVE!”

His flat backhand cracks across your face, white-hot stars burst through your field of vision, and pain hits you like a battering ram. Jean and someone else shout your name at the same time but it sounds as if their voices come from behind a rushing waterfall. You clutch onto something sharp before it slips loose from your fingers, feeling it cut deep into your hand as you fall backward onto your elbows, blood gushing from your nose like someone has turned on a facet.

Something cool presses hard against your collarbones, right where your skin shows under the open buttons of your shirt. Your heart stops.

“Ya want me ta give ya a lesson? A lesson how to fuckin’ listen?” The nuzzle drops lower, catches against the closed button. One hard pull would be enough to rip those buttons off and open your shirt. “I can give ya a good lesson, sweetheart, and after that yer not gonna misbehave ever again, y’ know.”

Warm drops trickle into your slightly open mouth as time stops. Unwinds. Kicks you back into a dark room with green wallpapers and golden fleur-de-lys that you’ve counted every time you’ve been locked in there. Every time, the number changed. Every time was one too many.

“You will not misbehave any more when I am done with you,” a voice—a male voice, foreign—echoes in your head.

And you, hammering against a locked door as a wide, big hand seized the back of your neck. “I’m sorry Daddy, I’ll be better from now on, please get me out!”

The figment flashes and disappears so sudden, like lightning, and settles somewhere deep between your ribs, dark and murky—there and gone, was it all just your imagination? A nightmare from long ago?

Your mouth is moving, trying to say something as the man above you keeps shouting and barking orders—more voices join, unfamiliar voices “That is enough, we didn’t come here for this, man! Get your finger off that fucking trigger!” and your comrades’ voices, “Don’t touch her, don’t you fucking lay a hand on her or I will kill you, you fat pig!”

And then another sound, non-human, the ear-piercing screeching of a banshee as it heralds the Grim Reaper’s arrival. The man above you whirls—the pressure on your chest disappears and you’re finally able to take a deep breath—and the second shot rings out that night, loud enough to rupture your eardrums.

Anxious flutter raises a barn owl up from the ground. It disappears behind the safety of the trees’ canopy, just before a dull thud sounds as the body falls hard. All eyes are on Victor’s lifeless body. Where his face used to be is now nothing but shreds of a head, malformed and torn apart. Bits and gory pieces stick to the ground, the side of a tree. His head looks like a squashed, overripe fruit, the fleshy insides now strewn over the forest floor.

It could have been you. Any second longer, that could have been you. Without the distraction of the frightened owl, that could have been you.

The silence is deafening.

Somewhere to your right, you hear Connie being sick. Mina is sobbing quietly, a pale face under dark, untamed black hair.

“Fucking hell…” Another man steps to your side, wearing a white bed sheet over his head. He yanks the gun out of his comrade’s hand and gives him a hard shove. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Wasn’t my fault that fuckin’ bird scared the shit outta me,” the other replies, but there’s a tremble to his voice. His legs are shaking.

“Doesn’t matter now. Round the kids up and tie them to a tree. We take one of ‘em as leverage. Hit them if they give you trouble, but keep the finger off the trigger. I don’t wanna see any more brain splattered around, ya hear?”

The men set out to move, ready for any resistance but the only person they have to worry about is Eren who’s struggling with a new-found vigour that’s missing from the rest of you.

You still see him before you: Victor, showing his toothy, wolfish grin and now half of his head blown away. Dead. Just like that.

They push someone against you, and when you raise your head you look into Jean’s frightened, blown-out eyes. The moonlight leaches the colour out of them, making them appear more silver than gold.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, flounders, forgets how words work.

You try to speak, but your mouth is full of iron, blood dribbling down your chin, soaking the front of your shirt. You try again, spitting out a glob of blood. “Jean … Jean.” You claw at his shirt, and he tries to catch your hands but they’re slippery from blood. There’s something hot on your chest—the ring, it feels like it’s pulsing. Like a second heartbeat. “Jean, my Dad … was my Dad a bad person?”

He freezes, fingers curled loosely around your wrists. There’s a frantic look in his eyes, and you don’t know if it’s because of this whole situation or your question.

“And my Dad,” you continue since there is no stopping now that you hurl down the path, burning and hurting like a shooting star. “My Dad … did he … did he ever hurt me?”

Jean turns away, his fingers slipping away from your skin and with nothing holding you, it feels like you’re falling into the void, because he doesn’t say, “What are you talking about?”

Jean says, “How much do you remember?”

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki

A/N: I’ve thought long about Reader’s past and if I want to write the things I’m going to write and my conclusion is that I want to be a bold writer who isn’t scared to put my characters through painful things to see them come out strong. All I will give you as trigger warning is: Past sexual abuse and sexual childhood abuse (NOT BY HER FATHER). There will be nothing explicitly written about that, but it is a very important narrative device (inciting incident/motivation) for a certain character, so I decided to stay on this path of story. So reader’s discretion is advised and if this isn’t up your alley, please don’t read stuff that makes you uncomfortable. Tags will be updated accordingly. And to end stuff on a lighter note before I disappear for some time, tomorrow is my birthday so please be nice and send me love 🥺.

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #snk x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #swyaatl

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