𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐈𝐈 : 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

"Oh, no... I have been... vanquished... in combat... Tell my mother... and father... I... love them..."

Mr. Kirstein clutched where Martin jabbed a stick into his lung and fell to his knees. The whole way down, the Frenchman faked coughs to further drive home to the point that he was, in fact, at death's door. He crashed to the ground, gasping for air until he took one last, sharp intake. His eyes widened, only to shut harshly, and his tongue flopped out the side of his mouth.

After arriving at the house, Martin quickly latched to Mr. Kirstein like a leech to an ankle. The two were inseparable all afternoon, causing mischief throughout the backyard while you, Lucy, and Sunny watched from a safe distance.

"He's so perfect," Sunny breathed out, her voice and eyes clouded with desire. "Handsome, tall, good with animals and children, well-dressed, well-built, well-mannered."

Well-mannered and Mr. Kirstein were not a perfect pair in your mind, but you allowed the girl to live in her dreams until the brute dispelled them into disillusions. You only prayed that he maintained a decent level of kindness when he inevitably trounced on her dreams with his ill-tempered ways. He had managed to play nice with you thus far. How long was he capable of upholding such a lie?

Martin frog-splashed onto Mr. Kirstein's stomach, eliciting a curt grunt from the man. Somehow, the giant remained relatively still, leaning into his pretend death. Martin hovered over the painter's face, and you saw them make a hushed exchange. One of Mr. Kirstein's eyes peeked open, and you made contact with the fool on the floor.

"Y/n!" Martin called. "Jeanie's dead! He needs the kiss of life from a princess!"

"I can be the princess!" Sunny squealed before you could respond. "Give me a moment, Mr. Kirstein! I'll be right over!

As the blonde tossed her book and rose to her feet, both of Mr. Kirstein's eyes snapped open. He sat up faster than a firecracker popped, catching Martin by surprise.

"I lied!" The man stole the stick and jumped back to his feet. "As if you could kill a swordsman as skillful as I! Now, draw your blade, little man!"

Martin chased Mr. Kirstein around the yard again, screaming at the top of his little lungs in a war cry. Sunny sighed beside you and slumped back into her seat on the veranda.

"I would have been a good princess." Even without looking, you heard her pouting.

"Yes," you said as you fixed your eyes back on your book. "You would have been fabulous, Sunny."

Although you should pay more attention as a guardian, you had just reached a very passionate scene in Mr. Arlert's novel. The leading couple argues in the rain, only to realize they have been in love for an annoying amount of time. The heroine was about to relent her unyielding opposition to their union while her other half would drop his guard and sweep her into his arms. They would embrace as the sky crashed on their heads and hearts, weaving their fingers through each other's hair and joining their souls into one harmonious entity. You wished they would have admitted the truth chapters earlier, especially when the two were left alone to walk along the beach. It was so painfully obvious the man had strong affections for her, but you loved the tensions and near-misses that came with those kinds of stories.

For so long, you desired a love like that: the feverish, burning kind that sent tingles down your spine. The kind that made you want to run out in the rain, risking illness and sensibility in hopes of falling in love with an outstanding individual.

But you grew up and found a man whose love was velvety and genial. You did not need passionate, downpouring confessions, tension-filled walks through the sand, or late-night rendezvous. In your daydreams, you skipped through the sun with Mr. Arlert, speaking on intellectual matters which interested the both of you. Your heart, mind, and soul were wholly contented with him by your side, leading you towards a beautiful, peaceful life with no strife, fear, pain, or—

A large hand ripped the pages from your fingertips, just as they had torn you from your thoughts. "Which book is this? Through the Ardent Flames? This is Armin's first book, no?"

If it were not for the kitten snoozing on your lap, you would have hopped up and stolen your book from Mr. Kirstein's claws. Instead, you glared in annoyance as he flipped through your well-read pages, inspecting all the places you had earmarked or written notes in the margins.

"Say the words, you coward. He is so clearly in love. Tell her already," he read aloud. "You are quite the note-taker. You must have done well in school."

"And you must have been quite the obnoxious, brattish bully. Now, hand me back my book before I grab one of your pretend swords and poke your eye out."

"Y/n!" Sunny gasped in horror. "How could you threaten something so horrible to sweet Mr. Kirstein?!"

"Sweet? In what world is he—"

"Here," Mr. Kirstein said. He lowered the book down into reach. "You should read better romances. Tristan und Isolde. Romeo and Juliet. Hunchback of Notre Dame. They are much better than Armin's fluff pieces."

You had read the last two works in your early teens and knew both ended in heartache. Romeo drank poison, and Juliet impaled herself. Esmeralda dangled in the gallows, and Quasimodo crumbled to dust, holding her corpse. Foolishness, suicide, murder, and unrequited love. Of course, Mr. Kirstein would see such themes as romantic—he was a sadist.

You had never heard of this Tristan und Isolde, but Sunny interjected before you could ask what horrific event happened to the lovers in that story. "I love Romeo and Juliet. Such a beautiful play."

"I hate it." You snagged your book out of Mr. Kirstein's extended hand. "Books are meant to act as escapes from reality that bring you joy and laughter, not pain and misery. If I wanted to read a tragedy, I'd pick up Wuthering Heights and call it a day."

Mr. Kirstein chuckled softly. "Spoken like a hopeless romant—"

"Jeanie!" Martin yelled over the grass. "Stop flirting, and come play with me! You promised you'd play until sunset!"

The same blush that dusted the painter's face the day you played Selahtinalìtin reappeared. His cheeks burned brighter with each birdsong that carried on the wind. After an awkward pause and a few sharp glances between you and Sunny, Mr. Kirstein turned on his heel to meet the frustrated little boy.

"Adieu mon bouclier..." he grumbled the further he walked. "Même Armin est un meilleur marieur."

You peaked at the girl beside you, whose face burned cardinal red, too. "I think I'm in love," she whispered. "He's my soulmate. There is no doubt in my mind."

Her eyes glittered like the lake as she swam through pools of adoration and longing. To be an ignorant child, you thought to yourself. The poor girl had no idea what she was signing her heart up for, as she scarcely knew the man for more than a few hours. You could tell her all the horrible things Mr. Kirstein had done and said to you, but that would not be fair. Unless he showed his true colors, you would keep your sordid past with him to yourself.

Maybe he would be different for her. He had not screamed or insulted Sunny since her morning arrival. In fact, he barely acknowledged her existence. Sasha had said he stumbled when speaking to women when he was younger—perhaps Sunny made him nervous. Because he saw you as a servant rather than a woman, he could insult you to his heart's content without a second thought, but for Sunny, he was too shy to converse.

Why did it make your chest tight? Why did it make your skull throb? Why did it bother you?

The age gap—that must be it. Sunny was five years his junior. Mr. Kirstein should not be sniffing around a child like some piece of cake at the bakery. Despite her sweetness, she was a human, not some confection to be discarded and forgotten.

Mrs. Yeager said something rather profound to you as a child when she spoke to you regarding love and flirtations: Lucifer was once a beautiful angel, yet, he still twisted Eve and ruined her life and image forever without hesitation or remorse. Any man can do the same, but only if you let them. You must be careful.

Mr. Kirstein was the snake, luring Sunny in with perfect, honeyed actions and beautiful, honey eyes. He would wait for his moment to strike with falsities tasting sweet as apples and snatch her from the garden when it suited him. Should he attempt to do that to your lovely sister, you would guard the girl's heart with your life, even if you had to become a devil yourself.

Another voice recalled you into your memories: If loving your mother taught me anything, it's that the best fabrics are buried under layers of cloth. You must dig to find them, but the reward is beautiful and worth the effort. That voice belonged to Father.

So, as you studied the man hobbling on one leg, pretending that the little boy had hacked him in the shin, you felt conflicted. The devil could be beautiful, as he was once an angel, but angels were lovely, too. Was he the snake or the fabric? For Sunny's sake, you hoped for the latter. For yours, you prayed for the former.

"Sunny?" you asked. The sun stained the greenery with shades of apricot and tangerine—it was getting late. "Would you mind helping me prepare dinner?"

"I suppose."

You released Lucy onto the wood beams, and she clumsily frolicked out to her second owner. As soon as Mr. Kirstein noticed the little kitten, he gave up his amputee act and scooped her into his arms. He kneeled for Martin to rub her back, and the little boy carefully petted your sweet baby. When you knew she was safe and happy, you entered the house to make your preparations.

*  *  *

"I don't like stew! I won't eat it!" Martin cried from beside you.

You rubbed the wrinkles forming above the bridge of your nose as your stomach rumbled under the table's edge. "Martin, you have to eat something. Can I make you anything else?"

"No! I'm not hungry! I want to play outside with Jeanie!"

From the head of the table, you glared at the man seated on the boy's other side. Mr. Kirstein was unaware of your death stare as he happily slurped his broth.

"Marty, just eat it," Sunny groaned. "It's not like she'll let you leave the table without finishing. Mother made her promise to feed you no matter how much you complained."

"What if I promise to give you dessert when you finish?" you haggled. Desperation and starvation fueled your negotiations. Any longer, and you swore your stomach would shrivel with acid and digest itself.

"No! I don't want it!"

"Double dessert? Hell, I'll throw in a piggyback ride."

"No!" Tears started to form in the little boy's corners. "You're supposed to be my friend, Y/n! Friends don't make friends eat disgusting soup!"

"Ah, ah, ah," Mr. Kirstein finally pulled himself from his bowl. "It is not disgusting. Look how much I have eaten." The man tilted the bowl towards Martin, and the child inspected the ceramic closely. "See? And now I will grow big and strong. Do you want to be big and strong?"

The wetness suddenly vanished from Martin's waterline. He spooned a massive serving of stew into his mouth and chowed down. You sighed in relief and finally took your first bite. The thick, savory broth trickled down your throat, assuaging the bubbling bile in your belly. You should have eaten more for breakfast and lunch, but you had been so busy preparing the rooms for Sunny and Martin that you settled for smaller portions to save time. What a foolish mistake.

Once the little boy had finished his meal, he laid his head on the dining room table, giving in to the exhaustion that ignited his temper tantrum in the first place. Martin was a sweet kid, but you could not imagine raising a child like him, or any child, for that matter. If the Church wanted to preach purity more effectively, they should parade Martin around and have the unmarried care for him for a few hours. That would do the trick.

You grabbed his empty bowl and yours and walked them to the kitchen for later cleaning. When you returned, you planned to carry the sleepy boy upstairs, but Mr. Kirstein beat you. The giant hushed you softly as he held Martin in his arms and motioned for you to follow up the stairs. As you trailed him, you heard Sunny let out a lovestruck sigh for the thousandth time today.

"You'll still read to me, won't you, Y/n?" Martin whimpered so sweetly, his eyes barely open. He may have pushed you to the brink of a migraine, but his adorable face melted your heart like candle wax under a flame.

"Of course," you whispered. He snuggled his smiling cheek into Mr. Kirstein's shoulder.

You opened the guest room for your human pack mule, and Mr. Kirstein hauled the boy to bed. He rested the child down so carefully as though he could break the boy from the most minor movement. You glided over to the little bookshelf in the corner where you kept your lesser-read novels and childhood treasures. Fingering along the spines, you pulled out an old collection of stories your father used to read and paced over to the edge of the bed.

Sitting next to the neatly tucked-in boy, you peeled open the stiff, bounded pages and searched for a classic. "You may take your leave, Mr. Kirstein. Thank you for your assistance," you softly spoke as you found just the story you wanted. "This is called 'The Story of the Three Bears.' Once upon a time, there were Three Bears, who lived together in a house of their own, in a wood..."

You kept reading, but Mr. Kirstein lingered only a few steps away. You felt his gaze on you without seeing his eyes. It wasn't until you were halfway through the story's second page that he finally drifted into the hallway and out of sight. Softened footsteps creaked down the stairwell, and you finally relaxed again. You slipped into your usual silly reading voice that Martin loved so much and put on a little performance. Even on the cusp of dreams, he giggled through your act.

"Out the little old Woman jumped; and whether she broke her neck in the fall; or ran into the wood and was lost there; or found her way out of the wood and was taken by the constable and sent to the House of Correction for a vagrant as she was, I cannot tell," you read to Martin. "But the Three Bears never saw anything more of her."

Martin yawned deeply, his little face wrinkling like an exhausted geriatric. He smushed his sandy hair into the pillow and finally shut his little brown eyes. Swiping the hair from his brow, you leaned down and kissed his forehead softly, just as your father had always done for you. You pulled his blankets higher, ensuring he was well-swaddled, leaving him to dream peacefully. The last remnants of sunset barely peaked through his curtains. You already told Martin in the morning that, should he wake up scared at night, he could wake you, but his fatigue from the day's festivities was so intense that you were sure he would sleep through the night.

As you reached the threshold, you whispered, "Goodnight, Martin. Sweet dreams, little one."

"Thank you for reading to me, Sasha," he whispered mindlessly in reply.

Your blood ran cold as you stepped out of the guest room and closed the squeaky door as softly as possible.

Little kids confused names all the time. It's normal, you told yourself. You used to call Mrs. Yeager 'mother' fairly frequently growing up. Even now, you occasionally swapped Eren and Zeke's names, much to Eren's chagrin. There was no malice behind Martin's error, but it broke your heart nonetheless to know when Martin looked at you, he saw Sasha.

Glancing around the hall, you caught Sunny drifting sleepily into your room. You did not have that same luxury, as you had to clean up your mess from cooking dinner. With Niccolo some seventy miles away, you carried the total weight of the housework on your own.

You dragged yourself toward the kitchen and tried to focus energy away from your thoughts and into your legs. The day was almost over. Only another hour and you could happily wipe all the sweat from your skin and drift off into your dreamscape.

Sasha could follow you around in life, but you had blocked her from your dreams. You made sure of that.

A foreign sight greeted you as soon as you entered the kitchen. Mr. Kirstein scrubbed plates, pans, and pots in your basin. He even found time to clear the counters of any food remnants and put away any spices you had left out.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Cleaning your mess," he answered without looking in your direction. "You left the kitchen like a battlefield."

You stood dumbfounded. "You didn't have to do that."

"My mother always says a chef should never clean if others enjoyed the meal. It made me a proficient cleaner."

You blinked a few times, not believing the man before you could be genuinely helpful. "Well, thank you," you finally muttered. He nodded politely and went back to his work.

Grabbing a rag from the cupboard, you stepped to the growing pile of wet dishes and whisked the water right off. While Mr. Kirstein scrubbed, you danced around behind him, putting each newly-cleaned piece in its proper place. The painter had rolled up his white sleeves so as not to wet them with the well water. The veins traveling up his forearms protruded from his sun-kissed skin in bulging tracks of cobalt and indigo. He did not tie back his long, ashy hair with his red ribbon as he usually did. Instead, the strands tickled his neck and barely missed the top of his shoulders. His broad torso shuffled and shook with each swipe of his cloth. Sweat glimmered from his scraggly beard in the low light of the kitchen.

You hated to admit it, but domesticity wore him well.

"Did you enjoy the day?" Mr. Kirstein asked. His speech threaded through a thin line of awkwardness, but you ignored it. Should he wish to converse politely, you would indulge him. You may never receive such an opportunity again.

"For the most part." Barring the last ten minutes. "I appreciate your help with Martin. He can be difficult to keep up with mentally."

"Physically, as well. I have never been so sore. All the running has left my muscles twitching." The tall man chuckled and looked over his shoulder to catch your expression, but worry seeped onto his lips. "Are you alright? You are... gray."

"I'm fine," you breathed out your lie. You were fighting back tears. "Just exhausted. I've had a long couple of days."

The painter squinted at you, but you maintained your stiff smile. "You have the same grayness you carry right before you cry. I have seen it twice, so I have picked up the pattern," he said.

Twice? Mr. Kirstein had only ever seen you cry once in the forest. The only other time you had blubbered since meeting him was... after the argument in his cabin. But you made sure he did not see you break. Hadn't you? No, you knew he hadn't. You left him by the lake before the tears dripped onto your cheeks.

The footsteps behind your door, your memories reminded you. You were sure they were Niccolo. You knew they were Niccolo. They had to be Niccolo. Because if they weren't Niccolo, and Mr. Arlert never knew that his friend reduced you to tears, then they belonged to Mr. Kirstein.

"You followed me that day? When you screamed at me?" Your voice was full of disbelief.

"I did. I am not proud of it, as I had planned to continue yelling at you, but your sniffling stopped me." He softened slightly. You nodded, not wanting to accept what he told you. Twice he had caught you crying like a child. How embarrassing. "You know... Armin says I am a better listener than a speaker." Mr. Kirstein stopped to breathe like he already regretted his following words. "I know you do not care for me, but you can muddle your hatred in a few glasses of wine and pretend I am Armin... if it would make you feel better."

You stared at him and pinched your bottom lip between your front teeth until a metallic taste covered your palette. You should go upstairs and speak with Sunny. She would listen to you, but you could never cry in front of her. That wasn't fair. You were not the type to spill your heart to the people you loved. They had suffered enough by worrying about you for the last nineteen years.

But a man you considered an unlikable stranger and already deduced that you were broken? There was nothing to lose with such an earpiece. And maybe, after all this time, that was exactly who you needed to confide in. How much damage could he do to you that the universe hadn't already?

"Martin called me Sasha," you lamented, "As I left the room. He said, 'Thank you for reading to me, Sasha.' Just like that." You sucked in your lips and looked up at the ceiling, forcing the tears back inside.

"I see. That is..." Mr. Kirstein never completed that last thought and put down his final plate instead. "Go sit in the parlor. I will be back."

He left out the backdoor without another word. The moment the door slammed shut, you blinked the tears onto your skin. Any energy you had left went into those first droplets, but you fought your soul from collapsing on the floor and slugged over to the sofa.

And you waited. Waited for your heart to stop aching. Waited for your mind to stop racing. Waited for Mr. Kirstein to come back. His company was better than being alone, even if he was a snake in the weeds.

When the back door creaked again, you left the unwired tears to dry on your cheeks. Mr. Kirstein could find you as you were since he already knew you were weak. There was no use fighting it now. Perhaps he would wipe them away for you again. Was it wrong that you wouldn't mind the feeling of his rough hands on your face?

Yes. Yes, it was.

The pop of a cork reverberated through the house, then the pouring of liquid followed, and finally, footsteps.

"Oh." His eyes traced you when they finally landed on your slumped-over state. Two full cups brimming with dark liquid swirled in his hands. He reached over the coffee table to offer you the drink, nearly spilling with wine. "I will get the bottle." He left again, so you touched the glass rim to your lips and drained the cup before he returned. When he reentered and saw its emptiness, he whispered, "C'est mon type de femme."

You could ask him what it meant, but you held out the cup, silently begging him to refill it. He sat down beside you, pouring the wine heavy-handedly. You drained that one as soon as he finished, and Mr. Kirstein sat there gawking.

Putting your wine glass out for the final time, he swiped it from your hand and set it on the table. "Maybe you should breathe for a moment."

His ensuing tittering was stiff and uncomfortable. You could hear the pity, and it sickened you. You needed to dull this feeling that corroded your organs and loosen your tongue enough to cast all the terrible thoughts from your body. You needed someone to hold you until the cracks healed back together, but you would not get that. The only thing to be held that night was the glass between your shaking fingertips.

"May I say something strange?" Mr. Kirstein asked. You failed to answer, so he took your silence as an invitation. "You will make a good mother someday. You are very calm and patient. A good reader, too. You have a voice for fairy tales." He let out another gravelly snicker that shifted the cushions beneath you. "I know you do not have any suitors for such a thing to occur, but—"

"I have a suitor," you corrected—no emotion colored your timbre. "I've had a few. I've turned them down."

"Oh?" His face twisted in light mockery. "Tell me about them, then."

"There's Zeke, who you've met."

"The blockhead's brother? Is he not much older than you?"

"He is. He'll turn twenty-nine in August."

"Does that not make you... uncomfortable?"

"Why should it? It's not like Zeke truly desires to marry me."

Mr. Kirstein paused and cocked his head in your peripheral vision. "Then why would he ask?"

"Mutual protection. I would have a home, financial security, and safety from other men, and he would have..."

A wife to cover up his true affections, but you could not admit that to Mr. Kirstein. It could land Zeke in prison, or worse, should the wrong ears hear.

It was not like Mr. Smith and Levi, who had convinced the whole world they were nothing but comrades and friends. Historia and Ymir also hid their love under the guise of friendship. Friendship, or having a make-believe spouse who was well aware and accepting of the truth, were the only safe ways to live when love went against the law, and you had no qualms with acting as an accomplice if it meant Zeke would live a long life.

"A doting wife that can maintain a home better than any girl in town and can appreciate his humor... to an extent. Mutual protection," you reaffirmed.

Your lie went unnoticed. "So you do not love him?"

"Not how a wife should love a husband. But should we both ever need, he would take my hand, and I would take his. May I have more wine now?"

"Tell me about the others first."

Mr. Kirstein leaned his bicep on the back of the sofa, his body entirely pointed towards you. His posture was open and inviting as he spread his long leg over the cushion. Any wider and his bent knee would graze your tightly bound thighs while his hand would nearly stroke your fortified shoulders.

You inhaled through your nose. "Floch, but we were too little to understand what being an admirer meant, and then there was the incident at my father's funeral. And Hitch's friend. I forget his name, but after meeting me once, he visited all the way from Asbury on two separate occasions to persuade me to elope with him."

"Really? And what did you do?"

You chuckled at the stupid memory despite your previous lack of amusement. "Hid under my bed."

"Hid under your bed?" he repeated with a laugh.

"Yes, I hid under my bed." You were both chuckling now, even though the wine had yet to hit your senses. "Hitch invited me over one afternoon. That was where I met him. He almost looked like Mr. Arlert, now that I think of it. Apparently, he was fascinated with how my dress clung to my figure and how I told stories. Niccolo had to entertain him for hours until he finally gave up and went home with his tail between his legs."

"And you cannot even remember the poor fool's name? That is very cruel." The laughter slowly turned to dust—seriousness replaced the silliness that blossomed on his smooth face moments ago. "What of the other Yeager, then?"

"Eren? What about him?"

"Does he not pursue you, as well?"

Your dried tear tracks cracked and tugged at your skin as you laughed loudly. Your sadness and dread drowned in grape juice as if nothing had happened in that guest room. "Eren and I are best friends."

"Then why does he look at you like he loves you?"

"Because he does," you answered quickly. "There is such a thing as platonic love, but only decent men understand the concept. However, if I'm expected to be honest, Eren is the only man I'd ever consider marrying in this town, but it would never happen."

"Why not?"

You would be happy with Eren. He would make you laugh every day and spoil you with presents and treats. He would dress you in the finest clothes he could afford and work himself to death before asking you to lift a finger. He would probably even take charge of raising children so that you could enjoy family without any fears or complications. Eren would do everything a perfect husband would, but perfect wasn't what you wanted. The fluttery feelings you once held for him in your youth were no more, and he never held them toward you.

"It's simple. I don't love him."

Mr. Kirstein nodded, satisfied with your answer. He reached over to your forgotten glass and refilled it. He handed it to you, but you did not suck it down as you had the previous two. You sipped the top softly while Mr. Kirstein pounded his wine, only to refill his cup with the rest of the bottle.

"May I ask why you're so interested in my love life, Mr. Kirstein?" Your words floated, completely uncensored, through the air, leaving a stiffness in their wake.

"Because it got you talking." It was your turn to nod. Surely, there were better things to speak on, but love, or the lack thereof, did the trick to soften your shoulders. "What about your feelings for Armin?"

If you had sipped your wine a second sooner, you would have spat it across the room. There was no way he knew you had developed feelings for his friend. It was impossible. You had to play dumb.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you breathed.

"Yes, you do. You reflect the whole word each time you stare off at him. I have seen it with my own two eyes. You look at him the way every man wishes to be seen by a beautiful woman."

Was it so obvious? Were your feelings so apparent that a man who barely tolerated you noticed them?

And did Mr. Kirstein imply you were beautiful? No. He must have misspoken, or perhaps you misheard.

"Please, don't tell him," you whispered as though Mr. Arlert was in the next room.

Mr. Kirstein scoffed into the reflection in his wine glass. "Of course. That would only make my life more complicated if I did."

"And why is that?"

The painter's eyes widened slightly, and you saw how hard he was thinking. Silence echoed around the room for far too long. Thick tension took over the gentle conversation.

"I would have to share you with him," he finally said, and his nervousness instantaneously filled his features. "I meant to say him with you. I would have to share him with you, and I would prefer to keep my friend to myself."

His honey eyes flicked to you as soon as he finished. To make up for the awkwardness, he smashed his wine glass to his lips and swallowed each drop. Pink kissed his cheeks as he shuffled further into the sofa cushions.

"Well," you thought of ways to continue the conversation. "What about you? Do you have a special lady waiting for you at home?"

"No, of course not." He shook his head. "Well, not, of course not. Some women find me handsome. I simply choose not to entertain them. I can entertain women, obviously, I—" He recollected with a deep breath. "No. I am single."

"Hmm," you hummed. "So, have you come to America to entertain women? From what I've heard, you've already made quite the reputation in town."

"What? I swear I have not touched another woman here. Not another. That was the wrong word. I mean to say that I have not touched any women here." Mr. Kirstein was visibly sweating. "Do you feel hot? Did you put out the kitchen fire?"

For a man with so many questions regarding your romantic experiences, he could barely string a coherent phrase together regarding his own. And, unlike you, he could not blame any odd behavior on drunkenness, as he was as close to an alcoholic as one could get without being one. The dunce beside you was practically sober.

You quietly offered your half-drank glass to the panicking painter, and he took it without hesitation. The drink disappeared in no more than three gulps, and a trail of wine lined the side of his mouth. His massive knuckle glided over his jaw, stopping the purple river from trickling onto his clothes.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"Of course."

Watching the painter frenzy in front of you brought a much-needed smile to your face. You had seen the anger with the joy, the apathy with the passion, and the nervousness with the sternness. Mr. Kirstein was a myriad of emotions. Part of you was jealous that he could be so candid with his feelings. He wore no masks and minced no words. Imagine the freedom that came with his degree of vulnerability—it must be wonderful.

"So..." The painter cleared his throat a few times. "Sasha."

There she was—the whole reason for this conversation. Your smile tightened, and you regretted giving away the last of your wine, as you needed it more than air. The lightness Mr. Kirstein had filled your chest with seeped from your toes and into the earth, no longer able to reduce death's weight.

"Sasha," you repeated.

"I am sorry," Mr. Kirstein spat out before you could say anything else. "I should have waited longer to mention her. I was not—"

"It's alright," you assured him.

"You do not have to talk if you are not ready. I will not force you."

Since losing Father, people always wanted you to talk about your feelings. This looming pressure pushed cracks into your spirit, begging you to tear apart the stitches protecting your broken heart. Hitch and Niccolo would broach the topic every few months. Eren would trample on your departed loved ones' names with all the carefulness of a buffalo stampede, only to refer you to his mother or brother when he realized he was ill-equipped to handle excess emotions. Zeke was gentler and would drop subtle hints around the holidays, but the pressure remained. Eventually, they would all force you to talk. Finally, hearing that you had a choice in the discussion and there was no compulsion to speak beyond your comfort, you felt ready to unload.

"I have always felt as though I'm living in their shadows," you said as you relaxed into the seat's plushness. You bumped your head onto the painter's forearm extending along the sofa's edge. "Whether it's Mother's looks, Father's skills, or Sasha's auras, I'm hardly my own person. I'm responsible for living in their honor, but I no longer want to live for them. I want to live life for myself without being haunted by everything I do or say. Does that make sense?"

"It does. It makes perfect sense."

Had you said that to Eren, he would have asked you to explain it again but with different verbiage. Mr. Kirstein just took your answer for what it was and let it exist without dilution or reiteration. There was a comfort in finally being validated and not hearing the typical 'they will always be by your side' bullshit. You were tired of that phrase, and it failed to bring comfort years ago.

"I want to travel far away from here," you told him. "I want to see what America offers beyond this tiny town. I want to go where no one knows who I am, where I came from, or who I left behind. I want a fresh start."

"Hmm," he hummed in understanding. "That sounds exciting."

"It does, doesn't it? I want to travel through the cities and explore the world. I want to go places where I have no memories and make new ones. I just... I can't leave the people I call family behind yet. Not until I know they'd be alright without me."

"You would give up your dreams to make everyone else comfortable?"

"I would. Most people would do such a thing for the people they love."

Mr. Kirstein laughed softly, and when you twisted your neck to look at him, he said, "Apologies. It is just that you reminded me of someone. I swear I did not mean to laugh, Y/n."

Your name fell out of his mouth, and it sounded so correct. Your thoughts were no longer sober, as the alcohol finally polluted your mind, so they could be as ridiculous and outlandish as you desired. You could admit that Mr. Kirstein looked dashing in the flickering candlelight. You could acknowledge that you would appreciate it if he wrapped a hand over your thigh, wrist, or neck. You could concede that he was not a snake in the grass but rather the most delicate fabric buried at the bottom of the bin. All these ideas rattling around in your brain were fair game, as drunk thoughts were meaningless.

A little voice sucked you from your conversational lull.

"Y/n?" Martin asked from the bottom of the stairs with tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Your drunkenness, or maybe your fixation on every word that slipped from the painter's tongue, had hidden any noise the boy made coming down to find you. "My tummy hurts. Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

"Of course, Martin." You rose from the couch, accidentally placing your hand on Mr. Kirstein's thigh as you pushed yourself upwards. When you reached the little boy, you bent down with your arms extended, and Martin immediately wrapped his little limbs around your neck. Lifting him, you turned back to the couch to find a scarlet-stained painter.

"Thank you for your company, Mr. Kirstein. We should do this again sometime."

"Yes. It would be my pleasure," he replied with a cracking voice. You carried the little boy up the stairs and to Niccolo's room. Behind you, a voice rumbled, just barely loud enough to hear. "Ce serait avec plaisir? Jésus Christ... Me donner de la force, Marco. Je crains de tomber amoureux de la sorcière."

"Your heart is beating so fast, Y/n. Did you have a scary dream?" Martin asked, his head resting on your collarbone. "Is that why Jeanie was snuggling with you? To make you feel better?"

"No, Martin. We were just talking."

Talking. That's all it was—nothing else. Just talking.

French Translations:

Adieu ma bouclier = There goes my shield

Même Armin est un meilleur marieur = Even Armin is a better matchmaker

C'est mon type de femme = That's my kind of woman.

Ce serait avec plaisir? Jésus Christ... Me donner de la force, Marco. Je crains de tomber amoureux de la sorcière = It would be my pleasure? Jesus Christ... Give me strength, Marco. I fear I am falling for the witch.

Author's Note: Today is June 16th!! Not only is it technically the day Jean came into the story, but it's also MARCO'S BIRTHDAY so everyone better light a candle. And yes, having Jean enter the scene on Marco's birthday was a very purposeful choice >:)

p.s. you can find me on tumblr @ratboiradio <3