𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐲

Lucy appeared in heat waves. Her little body waddled along the shoreline, searching for minnows beyond her reflection. Lady, Carrot, and Voltaire materialized, too. They took sips from the lake after a long ride through the woods. They were unburdened. Unbothered. So unlike you.

Niccolo came last. He was weary; beaten; more like you. His aged mirage brought only a more profound sense of shame. How you wished to dive beneath green glass to wash what spray baths failed to cleanse.

A sharp bone jabbed your arm where ghostly fingers still dug. You eyed the lifted elbow extended toward you. It waited as a wordless offering.

You did not take it. Not at first.

"This is where you take my arm," Jean offered with words instead of actions. "Or are men in America such pigs they do not escort their ladies?"

"I'll be fine," you said, not wanting to add another burden to him. "I can walk on my own."

"I know. But I am not sure I can. So very tired."

Then, you looked into the two things you knew you shouldn't: Jean's eyes. No hostility, acrimony, or estrangement found you. Only exhaustion, softness, and mild amusement turned up cracked lips.

Jean prodded you again. "If not for your sake, then for mine. Will you hold me up?" he asked loud enough for you to hear over the crowds.

There were hundreds of reasons not to touch him. You ruined his morning with nightmares, bruises, and excuses. Then, you destroyed his afternoon by dragging him uptown and allowing Eren to run his mouth half the ride. All you had left was to engulf his night with your burning touch, and there was nothing left to lay waste to.

And you would never be the one to hold Jean up—to hold anyone up. Not anymore. Strength was no longer a part of your nature. Perhaps it never was.

But there was one reason to latch onto him and never let go. A selfish, burdening one. Selfishness was the only thing you did well as of late.

So, you hooked your arm with Jean's, effectively severing yourself from impending doom in a way only his touch could. With that small gesture, a heavy, invisible coat of self-loathing fell forgotten in the streets of Manhattan, if only for an afternoon.

"Polo grounds... Polo grounds..." Armin mumbled ahead. Or maybe he was behind. Regardless, he studied his map closely. "If this is Central Park... And this is Fifth Avenue... Then that is the... Harlem Mere? This is Fifth Avenue, isn't it?"

Eren stole the map away and said, "Let me see... What does that sign over there say?"

"Maybe... 104th? Or is that a five? Or two? I can't read the writing well enough to know for certain. The wood is so weathered."

"Well, did the concierge say what street the field is on?"

"Between 5th and... Or was it 7th and... 110th? 111th?"

"Are those answers or questions?" Eren crumpled the map, shoved it in his pants pocket, and turned in the other direction without a map to guide anyone. "Oh, forget it. It's straight ahead. I'm sure of it."

"I would prefer it if we trusted the map over our intuition."

"I can't imagine an entire baseball field is difficult to find."

"Or we could ask that gentleman over there for dir—"

"A real man never trusts a stranger's directions," Eren barked back and charged ahead. "I'll find it."

Jean tugged you forward to follow after Eren's recklessness. In any other circumstance, the close-quarter-crowds would be overwhelming. However, busy roads and a strong arm were welcome disturbances today.