Author's Note: PLEASE READ
This chapter contains a graphic depiction of physical violence. I'll insert a more specific warning in the paragraphs when the scene is about to occur. I know this fic has been a source of comfort, fun, and silliness for so many of you, so I apologize for the change in tone we're about to take.
As always, thank you for reading. Love you all💕
. . .
Mr. Kirstein helped Hitch dig a hole in the sand deep and long enough to bury Marlowe while Eren walked along the shore to collect shells for his mother. Marlowe lured a tiny crab into his palm to show his screaming wife while the other two boys bickered about whether they should cook the creature or keep it as a pet. Mr. Kirstein saved his first horseshoe crab from drying up on the beach, while Hitch forced Marlowe and Eren to try her bread. Both agreed that it was delicious, barring the crisped edges. Your friends chatted, ate, and marveled at the sinking sun as the ocean bloomed in marigold, iris, and rose.
You heard all but engaged with none.
No one bothered you while they enjoyed the beach, but you could feel their occasional glances slicing at your skin.
Even when your stomach gurgled in famished pain, your eyes never left the pages stuck to your trembling fingers. You laid on the farthest edge of the blanket, pretending to read, while Mr. Bott's haunting face plastered itself over every romantic word Mr. Arlert lovingly crafted. Now that you matched the freckled ghost's image to his past, you couldn't stop picturing his skull caved in with his neck covered in bruises. The grisly portrait burned on your lids each time you blinked.
How could you possibly be expected to act normal? How could you explain to any of them that you spoke to a buried man in your sleep? That his presence felt as lively and bright as theirs? That you had crossed the bridge between life and death without fully understanding what it meant?
The only person who could understand the fear acidifying your sanity died the day you were born.
When the bottom of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, you were the first to start packing. You folded linens and lowered umbrellas as if your life depended on it, shoving everything into the giant sack from which they came.
More than anything, you needed to rush to your forested grove and cleanse yourself of the dread clawing at your throat. Nothing could shake the constrictions no matter how often you attempted to clear your airways. The sand still held so much heat from the sunshine, but you couldn't feel the searing with each solemn step to the carriage. The back of your head even began to throb, warning you of an impending migraine that was sure to snake through your soul.
The lack of sustenance, mixed with dehydration and anxiety, wore down your body. You refused to accept any other rationalizations for your temporary illness.
Instead of worrying about ailments, you aided the coachman in loading the bag you carried. He must not have been accustomed to being assisted so closely by any of the Freudenbergs, besides maybe Marlowe, because he kept sending strange glances. Or, perhaps, he knew of your reputation in town and was worried that the proximity would land him in the clinic with either spell-casted warts or venereal diseases. Maybe it was because you were a woman hauling a heavy sack around as though it were nothing but a pillow. Regardless, the stranger saw you for the madwoman you were.
Before anyone else could arrive with the rest of the things, you stowed away in the deepest corner of the buggy. You wanted to disappear. No, you needed to disappear.
Once again, you pulled your book from your shoulder bag, brushing your fingers briefly against your father's knife. The bindings creaked from how flatly you snapped open the spine. Gluing your eyes into the same two pages you stared at for hours, you pretended to be engrossed in language.
If anyone asked about the happenings of your novel, you were fully prepared for any questions. You were back in Mr. Ackerman's house, being quizzed on Macbeth or Antony and Cleopatra. The two lovers were saying their final goodbyes before the man departed across the English Channel to attend to a business matter. Just before the leading woman would step away, her love would extend an invitation to travel with him as his wife. She would accept his offer with a passionate kiss.
How badly you wished to escape like that. To flee across the ocean from these dark winds filling your lungs with weighted smog. To be anywhere else but in your current body.
But your book couldn't provide its usual escapism. Not while Marco fogged in the carriage shadows.
Eventually, everyone settled in, with Eren beside you and Hitch directly across. You didn't so much as lift your eyes to acknowledge their existence the deeper you spiraled into inward hysteria.
How could any of this be possible? Had mother's supposed gifts of other-worldly communication passed down to you? Were you a witch after all? What did it mean? Why did you meet Mr. Bott, of all people, and not Sasha or Father? What importance did he have in your life that he would attempt to communicate with you rather than his friend sitting only a few feet away?
Most importantly, were you at risk of being committed to the asylum?
The carriage bumped forward. Movement's familiar rumble began to carry you home. Light banter filled the air for some time, but Hitch dwindled into sleepiness on Marlowe's shoulder, followed by her husband on her head. You couldn't see Mr. Kirstein, but his soft snoring was loud enough to catch over the horse hooves pounding.
Only Eren remained. His breath's irregularity alerted you of his consciousness.
"Are you ever going to turn the page?" he asked softly. "I'm getting bored, and you've been reading the same ten paragraphs all day."
"No," you mumbled, careful not to wake anyone. "I've read close to a hundred pages."
"No, you haven't. My vision's much better than you realize. You've been on page two-hundred seventeen all afternoon." When you checked the page number, you had to concede that his eyes were as sharp as his tongue. "You know, you could have just apologized for nearly amputating my sack instead of isolating yourself."
"I'm sorry for your injury, but I did not isolate myself."
"Yes, you did. You were acting strange all day. More so than usual," he joked. You didn't laugh with him. "I'm not upset with you. I'm not heartless, and I understand that accidents happen. Kirstein told me how you were panicking during your–"
"My mood has nothing to do with you, so just leave the issue to die in the sand," your voice went cold.
"Then, why are you acting odd? You're starting to worry me. You haven't eaten all day, either."
"I ate when you were out cooling yourself in the water," you breathed.
"Liar. I counted the sandwiches while you ran to the carriage with your tail between your legs."
"You must have miscounted."
"No, I didn't. There was enough for everyone to have three, but Hitch only had one this morning and one this afternoon, and there were four left."
Eren had an answer for everything. No amount of deflecting could throw him off the trail. Even if he didn't know how you lied, Eren knew you too well to pretend he was unaware of your depressive aura.
He was the brother you were never blessed with by blood. What else did you expect?
Unable to handle his interrogating, you shut your book and twisted toward the window. You took the opaque blinds in your hand, squished the fabric upwards, and tied the fasteners until you could see the outside world. Although sunset had not fully elapsed, nasty clouds darkened the sky. Clouds flashed, periodically illuminating the thick vapors overhead.
It would storm soon.
"So, now you're flat-out ignoring me?" Eren asked. "Is this some kind of prank?"
"I'm not in the mood to talk."
"Well, I am, and you're the only one awake." Eren wrapped his hands around your shoulders and tried to pull you into him. You remained locked by the glass. "Come on. Talk to me. What happened? Did... Did Kirstein... did he try something slick on your walk or something? Do I need to beat some chivalry into him?"
"Of course not. He's already a gentleman."
"A gentleman? Is that what we're calling him?" Eren scoffed but accepted your answer. "If not that, then what? Did Hitch go for your throat while I was gone?"
"No." But she had shown you something you would never forget and unknowingly gave you information that dissolved your brain into a storm of mourning and foreboding.
"Can you please just tell me?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe I could if you gave me a chance." Eren gave you another tug, much more firmly this time. Your back slumped into his damp chest. "Don't make me guess the whole way home. We still have at least another hour, and you can't return to the lake with the weather looking so dreary. I'll bother you about this all night when we get to my room."
"I can't stay over."
"Yes, you can. Look at those clouds." Eren pointed out over the fields at the gloomy sky. "There's going to be a real downpour."
"You don't know that," you lied in a breath,
"I do." He wrapped his pointed arm over your clavicle and his other forearm over the first. Eren lowered his chin to the crook of your neck. His hammy, moist breath warmed over your jaw. "You taught me that the leaves change when it rains, remember? And they've changed."
Your eyes grew heavy the more you basked in Eren's warmth. He smelled strongly of the ocean, but the unmistakable scent of home still clung to his clothes: cotton, old wood, and antiseptic. It ribboned around your senses and gifted the tightened sensation of safety you craved above all things.
"We should go drinking tonight," Eren whispered. "Might loosen up that pesky tongue of yours."
"It's too busy in the tavern on Saturdays, and I drank far too much last night as it is."
"But I'll be there. I'll bring you home at the first sign of trouble."
"I need to go back to my house tonight, Eren."
"No, you don't. You complained about not seeing me enough, and now I'm inviting you to spend time together. Just say yes. I'll even let your little loverboy stay the night in the guest room."
"Who?"
"Kirstein. I've noticed how he looks at you like a pup to a fresh bone. Too bad you're going to break his heart when he finds out you're in love with Armin," Eren teased, trying to bring some normalcy back into your deflated lungs.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," you mumbled as you finally relaxed into Eren's embrace.
If anyone would end up with a broken heart, it was you.
Because it was different in Europe, despite what Mr. Kirstein said. Because if anyone ever had genuine feelings for you, those feelings would be as clear as the glass shielding you from the breeze, just as it was in the book resting in your lap. Because the type of man that could see past your curses and still hold you near to his heart only existed in fairytales.
Mr. Kirstein shifted from hating you to treating you somewhat like a person to raising a tiny, happy family together so quickly. Calling you lazy, beautiful, and then an oyster, which you still didn't fully understand. He may look at you longingly, but Mr. Kirstein was also a man. Most men would seduce a burlap sack if it were warm and wet enough.
And yet, it always felt so romantic when Mr. Kirstein gazed at you. Each side-eyed glance filled you with the hope that maybe, one day, he would return your affections just as sweetly. If only he had not dashed any romantic aspirations with his confirmation that you were only friends.
At least your ruminations regarding the sleeping beast to Eren's left kept darker thoughts at bay. Mr. Kirstein would always be good for that much—for a distraction.
"I'll be quiet if you agree to come out with me," Eren prodded.
You mulled over his request to drink. If Eren refused to let you walk through the rain, maybe a drink or two would at least calm the nerves while you waited to burn Mr. Bott from your phantasms.
"I'll have one drink. That's it. Then we go home."
"That's my girl." Eren squeezed you tighter and rocked your shoulders side to side.
When Eren's breathing finally leveled out, watery beads began to dot the window. Although he kept your body close while he slept, his grip slackened with each calming heartbeat. That constant rhythm became your grounding song. Each pulse thumped in steady intervals like the beating of a drum.
Over time, sporadic droplets became heavy curtains. The darkening landscape grew smokey. Mist steamed from the cold clashing with the heated dirt. Lightning flashes brightened the entire sky, and ten seconds later, the earth rumbled with such magnitude that it shook skin from muscle.
You silently hoped the coachman had a hat or a thick coat waiting for him in the front. A storm this severe would lead to a nasty cold if one was left to the elements' mercy for too long.
But familiar trees turned to familiar fences, which finally turned to familiar buildings, so he wouldn't have to be alone much longer. The buggy stopped, and the soft song of travel ceased singing your friends to sleep.
Hitch's eyes fluttered open. A hefty yawn escaped her chest.
"Are we back already?" she asked as she tried to rouse her husband. "Wake up, dear. We're home."
Marlowe broke from sleep and rubbed until his under-eyes turned red. "Is it raining?" he asked.
You gave Eren a few jabs with your elbow, but he snuggled deeper into the cushions and your neck.
"Five more minutes, Mom," Eren mumbled.
Another grumbling voice picked up where Eren's left off, "J'aime la façon dont tu câlins, ma petite huître."
Something crawled over your spine, causing you to flinch from Eren's hold. You spun around to find Mr. Kirstein holding Eren by the ribs. Mr. Kirstein's face squished firmly into your best friend's shoulder. Eren's sleepy head rolled to the opposite side and collided with Mr. Kirstein's—forehead to temple. Both grimaced at the crash. Slowly, their eyes opened to see their predicament.
Eren and Mr. Kirstein cuddled up together like lovers. Eren was the little spoon.
And while they unwillingly snuggled, your mind wandered to the last word of Mr. Kirstein's sleep-talking.
Huître. An oyster. His name for you.
Was he dreaming of you?
Your thoughts were trampled on when both boys repelled themselves in opposite directions. Eren slammed against you with such force that your already throbbing head smacked into the carriage wall. The impact multiplied your migraine so much that the night sky lit up behind your lids. You clenched your eyes so tight from the aching that self-made thunder rumbled in your ears.
"What the hell are you playing at, Kirstein?!" Eren yelled. "You sure as hell aren't my type!"
"Nothing! I—I thought you were—"
"I don't care who you thought I was! Just keep your hands to yourself!"
You rubbed the back of your head while Hitch and Marlowe snickered across the carriage before slipping out. The coachman offered an umbrella to shield their exit, and you heard Hitch mumble, "Those two are more in love than us."
"A classic enemies-to-lovers story," replied Marlowe with a tiny chuckle and a shoulder bump.
Rain pelted their umbrella as they fled for the porch cover. Mr. Kirstein groggily followed, but you had to shove Eren out to get him moving.
"I don't want to go behind him," your friend complained quietly. "What if he tries to kiss me next?"
You didn't have time for Eren's shenanigans, so you scooted around him. Meeting the coachman at the exit, he handed you the second-to-last umbrella. Although the man had an overcoat and a hat, he was thoroughly soaked from head to toe.
You already felt under the weather. You didn't need another person's sickness weighing on your conscience.
"Do you have an umbrella to make it home, sir?" you asked as you opened the rain shield to cover yourself and the stranger.
"Home's not far. I'll make do just fine without one," he said.
Eren finally emerged from the buggy and stole the last umbrella. He walked right past with a tiny word of thanks to the driver, waved at the couple on their porch, and strolled through the darkness without a second thought.
"Take mine, then." You forced the handle into the coachman's palm. "I'll compensate the Freudenbergs for a little piece of fabric on a pole, so no need to worry about taking it. Just make sure you get home safe and healthy."
"I'll be alright," the man tried again to push off your advances.
"The town doctor said there was an uptick in coughing this summer. If a cold is going around, it's better to stay dry. Wouldn't you agree?"
The coachman eyed you nervously, obviously weary that it was some kind of trick or spell. Eventually, he took the umbrella from your hand. "Thank you, Miss. I appreciate the thought."
When you stepped out from the umbrella to give the man his space, no rain beaded on your clothes. You tipped your head to find Mr. Kirstein inches away—his umbrella and aura covering your entire body.
"We will share," the Frenchman said, even though he already protected you.
You nodded dumbly.
"See you soon!" Hitch called. "Thank you for coming, and get home safe! Both of you!"
The two lovers disappeared into the safety of their warm house. The coachman was also readying himself to depart, and soon, it would just be you and Mr. Kirstein.
And Eren.
"Hurry up, snails!" Eren yelled over the downpour, already a ways down the road. "We're going to have shitty seats the longer you take!"
Shaking yourself from a daze, you matched paces with Mr. Kirstein in Eren's direction. Watery abysses dotted the road and only grew wider the more you traveled. Any remnant of sunset had long since disappeared into the night sky, and the world drowned in darkness. The only light came from candles and hearths burning in warm, safe houses while you grew cold and fearful.
You were desperate to tell Mr. Kirstein about your dream of Mr. Bott. In truth, you wanted to share them in hopes he could bring the clarity you couldn't find in yourself. The few times you spoke to Mr. Kirstein regarding matters close to the heart, he provided such comfort. His consideration of your feelings was another reason you felt his glances might be more than lecherous exchanges.
But another half of you knew it would only disturb him. Most people wouldn't understand what you had seen. You barely understood spiritual communication, besides your mother having a similar gift. Not to mention, asking him to speak on such a personal matter when you weren't entirely sure he held any feelings for you would hardly foster any affection.
So you opted to walk silently as puddles pooled in your boots. Mr. Kirstein's presence alone would suffice in easing your tensions.
However, the tightness in your throat began to progress to painfulness. It was harder to swallow, harder to breathe, harder to think, even.
"Are you cold?" Mr. Kirstein asked to fill the void. "Would you like my jacket?"
"I'm alright," you told him.
"...Where are we going?"
"The tavern."
"For what?" Mr. Kirstein asked.
"Drinks. We're also staying with the Yeagers tonight. Because of the rain."
"Who decided this?"
"Eren."
Each word ached. Maybe you were falling ill with that summer cold you had warned the coachman of, or your allergies were preparing to do you in.
At least you would be sleeping under a doctor's roof tonight. There would surely be a tonic with the strength to set your body straight.
"Tell me you are alright," Mr. Kirstein blurted out. "Even if it is a lie."
It felt like a request and a plea when it fell from his pretty mouth. Your skin must have held that gray hue he warned you of when your mood teetered on tears, but how would he even see that in this darkness?
"I've been better," you answered half-honestly. "I think I'm catching a cold."
"Then you are in luck."
"For feeling sick?"
"Not because you are unwell, but because I am here. My mother made me soup when I was a boy. I will purchase the ingredients tomorrow, and you will be healed the day after. It is simple."
Soup sounded wonderful, with the weather being as gloomy as it was.
Soup served by Mr. Kirstein while you rested in your warm bed sounded even better.
Your brain and throat felt less swollen at the simple thought of Mr. Kirstein waiting on hand and foot to serve you. You pictured how he would treat you with all the chivalry of a knight to their princess—an illusion that became such a common thread of your stringy relationship.
Just talking to him under the rainshower partially healed your sickness. Even as you entered the tavern, which was crowded and booming with smells and music, you felt stronger with Mr. Kirstein at your side. How a man could be both your deepest pit of anxiety and your only spring of peace was entirely beyond you.
You cared little whether Mr. Kirstein lusted after you. Because you knew in your heart that your friend's perception wasn't the entire truth. Mr. Kirstein had grown to care for you in some form or another.
He called you a friend.
That was enough, even if you wanted more.
You barely even noticed the dark wind that swept through your skirt the further you ghosted into the building—that was how distracting Mr. Kirstein's presence was to you—but still caught the evil lurking in the breeze.
But Mr. Kirstein protected you, wanted to hold your hand, and maybe even dreamt of you. As childish as it felt, a swell of sanguinity made you believe that some small part of him wanted more, too.
When you spotted Eren again, he had secured a table toward the center of the room with three glasses already waiting on the wood. All were small, with a clear liquid swirling at the bottom. Given his mischievous appearance, you knew that would be the first of many drinks your friend would have tonight, despite your request only to share one.
"You two are the slowest walkers I've ever had the misfortune of traveling with," Eren joked when you approached.
"Or you are too hasty when you run off," Mr. Kirstein jabbed right back.
Mr. Kirstein pulled out one of the chairs, but instead of taking it himself, he motioned for you to sit. You slipped into the seat. Heat bubbled on your cheeks. After pushing you in, he found his chair across from you.
"You're too hasty," Eren mocked. "Stop nagging. You sound like my mother. Just drink. You owe me a dime for that, by the way."
"You will get your dime. You would not be able to afford my drinking."
"Really? Wanna bet?"
"What did you order?" you asked before the banter progressed into arguing.
"Moonshine."
"I can't stomach something so strong, Eren."
"I ordered lamb. Stick that in your sour stomach. Hannes can bring you a glass of lemonade for mixing, too. That's if you plan to pussy out of a real drink for the hundredth time."
You did order a lemonade to sweeten your drink as soon as Hannes brought the food. You nibbled at the crispy edges of the lamb while Eren and Mr. Kirstein participated in a silent drinking contest.
Each time one requested another glass of moonshine, whiskey, or gin, the other had to ask for the same. In their quest to outdo each other, they missed your lack of attention to their game.
You felt that same darkness from earlier. It had only grown more ominous now that Mr. Kirstein was so far away. You spun on a swivel to scan about the hall but never found the malintent that made your hair stand straight up.
The feeling was much more malevolent than the usual stares you received in town. But no matter how hard you searched, you could never locate the watcher.
Your symptoms of sickness flared each second you failed to find the source. For the first time in your life, all the tavern's patrons were too focused on their food, drinks, and conversations to pay attention to you, so you didn't understand what had you on the edge of your seat.
"What're you lookin' for?" Eren slurred. You smelled his tainted breath across the table.
"I don't know," you mumbled.
"Oh, I know. You're lookin' to dance, aren't ya?"
"I don't want to dance, Eren."
"Yes, you do. You always want to dance with me when there's music. It's raining, too. The world's practically begging us to get up and spin around."
"She said no," Mr. Kirstein immediately cut in. His voice was unaffected by the liquor.
"What's wrong, Kirstein? I bet you wanna dance with me. Mad I didn't ask you first?" Eren redirected his attention to you. Liquor clouded his eyes. He swayed lightly with every breeze from the opening doors and cracked windows. He licked his lips messily and said, "If you don't get up, I'm going to kiss you."
"What?" you and Mr. Kirstein said in unison. You sounded more confused than anything, while Mr. Kirstein bordered on disgust.
"I'm going to kiss you." Eren swiped his tongue against his lips again. Sticky spit shimmered in the candlelight. "It's gonna be wet. And messy. And skink of booze. It'll tick to your cheek all night until you're nauseous and gagging. Maybe I'll even lick the whole side of your face. You want that?"
He leaned in closer. You edged away. He scooted his chair until it tapped yours and trapped you in his arms so you couldn't back off. Eren puckered his lips and started squeaking out smooches with each inch he pressured into you.
"Eren, stop it!" You giggled as you tried to push him off, and that dark wind faded from your space.
"Get up, then," Eren ordered.
"I don't feel well!"
"Fine, have it your way!"
His breath stunk up your senses, and his lips almost touched your cheek when you finally screamed, "Alright! Alright! I'll dance!"
"I knew that would get you moving." Eren untangled his arms from your body to clasp your hands. He pulled you to your feet and hauled you to the only open area in the whole tavern.
You glanced back at your table to find Mr. Kirstein glaring with murderous intent. Maybe his death stare was what pricked your sanity the last hour.
But Me. Kirstein's anger was directed at Eren. Not you.
As the little quartet at the far end of the hall played their tunes, Eren swung you around. He sang along to the songs but was out of tune and mumbled random words he had invented to fit the mood. Eren tried his best to find his footwork, but his drunkenness had loosened his steps a tad too much.
You didn't mind. The dancing lightened your soul each time he nearly spilled over on the dance floor.
A few other couples joined your revelry until a small congregation of dancing fools shook the windows. Others began clapping to the rhythm and cheering each time someone dipped their partner, or someone fell.
Eren decided to spin you by his fingertips, so he took your hand and twisted it above your head while your skirt coiled in a giant, red pinwheel. After the fourth rotation, you lost his grip and missed a step, thanks to the wet floorboards. Before falling backward, hands gripped your shoulders until you steadied your feet.
When you strained your neck to find your savior, Mr. Kirstein looked down at you, completely unamused.
"You would fair better with a sober partner," he told you.
Mr. Kirstein's coldness couldn't wipe the smile clear from your cheeks. "Dancing isn't nearly as fun when everyone is sober," you said.
"Then it is a good thing I have been drinking."
Mr. Kirstein turned you around, placed one hand gently on your hip, and laced the other with your fingers. His palm was moist, but you were sure yours was equally clammy from the sweat you had broken.
"Hey, she's my partner!" Eren whined from behind.
"If you want to keep her, you should not toss her away so easily. Take a seat, or find someone else."
Mr. Kirstein whisked you into the center of the dancing bodies. Although his movements were rigid, there was a playfulness that you had never seen from him. He twisted you around much more carefully than Eren and did all the things that fancy dancers did, only stiffer. You placed a hand upwards to clutch his shoulder, but the fabric of his suit jacket was slick with rain.
"You're wet," you told him. "Did I push you out too far from under the umbrella?"
He turned his head to glance at his shoulder. "It is only rain."
The closeness of his body lit a spark of bravery in your heart. You could fix your earlier blunders with light flirtations.
"If you told me you were getting drizzled on, I would have ensured we walked closer together." But when the words slipped from your tongue, they hardly sounded flirtatious. They were more concerned for his health than desireful for his body.
"I would not make you more uncomfortable than you were." And before you could respond, he refocused his attention on the dancing with such seriousness that you were almost afraid to break his concentration.
However, Mr. Kirstein's movements became more fluid and intoxicating with each song until you felt drunk on his touch alone. Your smile stretched ear to ear as his palms wandered over your waist. At one point, his hand swept a touch too high on your ribs. He swiftly corrected his slip, but a fire burned in your stomach with how close he was to ghosting over your breast.
Although Mr. Kirstein had grown less severe and self-important as of late, you would never expect him to be a halfway decent dancer. To say you were surprised was an understatement.
"Where did you learn to move like this?" you asked between steps.
Mr. Kirstein answered, "Armin. He forced me into lessons after I tripped over his mother's shoes at my first party."
"Was she alright?"
"She was, but I bruised my jaw. I am far more careful with my partners now. You are safe."
"I'm surprised you agreed to go to lessons in the first place. I can only imagine the complaining."
You laughed as you pictured a much younger Mr. Kirstein, grumbling and moaning with his arms crossed over his chest.
Mr. Kirstein twirled you around again, but as soon as you finished your spin, he pulled you so close into his chest that your heart nearly snapped your sternum in two. He might as well have been the only other person in the room with how tightly he had hooked you into him. You stared at his mouth as he prepared to speak. It would be easy for you to climb up his mountainous body and plant your lips on his like a flag at a peak.
"There was complaining, but I went. There was never a partner I enjoyed. I struggled for some time."
"Really?" you almost stuttered. "I'm sure there were plenty of lovely women to couple up with in London."
His eyes lowered to your lips, his lips curling upwards. The tension fizzling between your stares was so palpable that it suffocated all senses except sight. It was only you and him.
"None as lovely as–"
Eren forced himself between and lifted you by the ribs. He yelled, "My turn!"
You were frustrated with Eren's intrusion, but any anger dissolved when your feet hit the floor. The two of you picked up where you left off—wildly spinning until you were dizzy and short of breath. Eren may have been far less skillful than Mr. Kirstein, but he made up for his lack of talent with fabulous clownery.
"Are you finally having fun?" Eren yelled as all the chaos returned to your ears.
"I am!" you yelled back.
"Good! I knew it would be fun once you pulled your head out of your ass!"
You laughed and galloped in step with Eren. You struggled to catch your breath, but a little windlessness wouldn't stop the festivities. With each spin you handled, your eyes flew around the room until you witnessed a fascinating sight in a distant corner.
Instead of taking up a new partner, Mr. Kirstein stood with his back against the wall and his arms crossed. He looked much like his former angry self at Hitch's party so long ago—stewing nastily while pretty women approached him and tried to converse. Even Frieda Reiss, who you hadn't noticed was back at the tavern for the second night in a row, stepped up to chat with him. She pulled out all her womanly charms with batting lashes and wandering fingers. She had you fighting the urge to blush.
But Mr. Kirstein only brushed her off. He followed you intently through every turn, and when you waved a hand over Eren's shoulder to signal that you saw him, too, he returned your gesture with a tiny smile.
So, Frieda was never an object of his affection. If she were, he wouldn't ignore her so casually. But what were you to make of his mirror comment regarding her then?
Unless there was someone else you could have seen in that mirror. You were drunk that night, so your memory might be unreliable.
But the only other woman he could have seen was you.
That realization hit you as soon as Eren spun you around. Your lack of concentration allowed you to slip from his hold yet again. This time, Mr. Kirstein wasn't around to catch you, and you bumped into a group of men around your age.
Sharp fingertips caught you, but the voice that met your ear was the last one you wanted to hear.
"Well, well, well. I had no idea my favorite little witch still came to the tavern this late at night. What a pleasant surprise."
Mr. Kirstein pushed off the wall to chastise Eren's carelessness, and they got into a spat on the dance floor. You cursed the two for getting distracted when you needed them most, but you could do nothing while they bickered. You could only wait until the man gripping your skin freed you.
You didn't need a mirror to know the captor who dug his fingers into your arm with all the same nasty piercings as his grandmother.
"Floch," you said politely, trying to wriggle from his grasp.
"What's the rush? Do you have somewhere to be?" Floch asked. "It's been quite a while since we've spoken. How many months has it been now? Four? Five? Half a year? Why don't you sit at our table? You do love the company of men, don't you? Living alone with Niccolo after all these years has the town talking. I can only imagine what things you and that old dog get up to at night."
You tried to pull away again, but he kept you bound. "Let go, Floch."
"No, I don't think I will. I want to know what you're doing here. Your little sewing venture not panning out as well as when your father maintained the business? Have you come down to make a few extra coins with the drunkards in the privacy of the cellar? That sort of trade is better suited for the whorehouse. Wouldn't you agree, boys?"
Floch's small group of lackeys laughed at his joke, but you found no humor in his implications.
"My sewing has been far more fruitful than any venture you've attempted. When did you last make a dollar without your grandmother giving it? Have you ever earned so much as a nickel on your own?"
"Seems I've struck a nerve." Floch's air burned your cheek, and he whispered hotly in your ear, "What's your rate nowadays for an hour? I'll pay double what your highest buyer goes for. I'm due to inherit more than enough wealth to bed you every night for the rest of your miserable life. I could even pay for each of my friends to take a tumble with you and still have thousands left. I can't promise they'll be gentle, but I bet you'd like it rough. Right, whore?"
You could still hear Mr. Kirstein and Eren arguing, along with all the chatter and music, until a slap rang through the hall. Everything went quiet when you realized you had lost control of your body and saw what you'd done.
Whenever you had twisted around, shook yourself from Floch's grasp, and raised your palm to his cheek, you had no idea how you had the strength to do it, but your handprint branded itself into Floch's face all the same. His skin burned as brightly as his hair, and all attention was on you and the bastard standing ahead. His fingers no longer buried themselves into your shirt, so you lowered your arms back to your sides. Shock tensed your tormenter's face, but Floch made no moves to lunge.
"Enjoy your night, Floch," you said before rushing away.
That dark aura weighed on you again but did not stem from the Forster heir. It came from every direction, suffocating your entire presence in distress. Glass poked at your neck, hammers thudded in your temple, and ice crawled through your veins. With each step you took toward your two faithful companions, the sound slowly returned to the room in whispers.
Mr. Kirstein's eyes met yours first. He cracked his knuckles and growled, "What did he do to you?"
"Nothing," you answered.
"It must have been something," Eren seethed, rolling his sleeves. "You slapped him pretty good. Do we need to knock his teeth out?"
You stepped between their warpaths and gently ushered them back to the table where you had spent the night's first half. "It was nothing, and neither of you will go anywhere near him. The last thing Floch needs is more attention. It will only inflate his martyr complex."
Mr. Kirstein and Eren traded hateful glances before following your orders. Reclaiming your table, the three of you sat down. Under the splintered wood, you picked at your cuticles until you drew blood. You felt both men studying you with prying eyes. Neither spoke while the rest of the tavern went back to merrymaking.
"So, what did he say?" Eren pushed again.
You sighed. "Please, Eren, I don't want to—"
"I won't do anything. Not tonight. I'll wait for another time to smack the shit out of him."
"I cannot promise I can wait," Mr. Kirstein warned. "She should stay quiet until tomorrow, and I am far away from that red-headed freak."
You were grateful that Mr. Kirstein sensed your discomfort and pushed off the conversations for another time. He always had a way of gauging your feelings with nothing but a glance.
That's when you spotted a woman making her way toward your group, and a smile tugged on your lips.
It was Miss Klarrisa—the brothel's Madam—the most voluptuous woman you had ever seen. She also doubled as Eren's greatest temptation.
You didn't warn Eren of her approach as she drenched herself over your friend's body. Her perfume, along with her plentiful and very much exposed cleavage on his back, made the boy's eyes turn from frustrated to terrified.
"Hello there, sweetheart. It's been a while since I last saw you here. I was starting to miss you," she whispered as her long, perfectly polished nails crept along his chest.
One of her fingers slipped between the buttons of Eren's shirt until her tip found his bare chest. Her husky voice was unmistakable despite the boy's best attempts not to look over his shoulder.
"Hello, Miss Klarrisa," Eren's voice cracked under the weight of her full chest.
"I saw how much fun you were having on the dance floor. A nice boy like you could show one of my girls a good time."
"I... I'm afraid I spent the last of my allowance on food." Watching Eren try to navigate the situation was too humorous to allow ill omens to taint your night. His face turned redder than raw steak.
"That's a shame. You're so handsome now that you're all grown up. Did you cut your hair for me, sweetie? You look so nice with shorter hair."
Miss Klarrisa took her hand off his chest and ran her fingers over his scalp. Eren's eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head with pleasure, and he leaned into her soft touch. Most men would have to pay for such a gesture, but your friend was one of the lucky few who received her hands for free, thanks to his respectfulness and refusal to progress things further.
"You know, I have some money you could borrow," you told Eren. He swallowed so roughly you thought he might choke. "It's nice to see you, Miss Klarrisa. I hope the stitches I repaired this winter are holding well enough."
"They are, dear. You have a real gift. I'm afraid my body gets bigger every year. I test all my seams." She pressed her chest a little further into Eren's body until she nearly spilled out of her top. "What do you think, Mr. Yeager? Do you think I've grown too big?"
Eren peeked at her chest, and his face grew even redder. "They look...you look lovely as always, Miss Klarrisa. But I think my mother would be disappointed if she... if she knew I was... we were..."
The Madam turned her attention away from Eren's stuttering mess and placed it on the other member of your party. "What about you, handsome? I made you an offer a few weeks ago, didn't I? Any interest this time around?"
Your eyes flicked over to Mr. Kirstein. Given his nervousness during conversations with you, you expected Mr. Kirstein to faint, but he only smiled politely and shook his head.
"Still saving yourself for marriage, huh?" This time, Mr. Kirstein nodded. "How tragic. An accent as smooth as yours is hard to come by in these parts. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Big building–"
"Down the road with the red drapes," Mr. Kirstein finished her thought. "I remember."
Miss Klarrisa smiled and bent down a little further on Eren's back until her long hair cascaded over the entire left side of his chest. "Same goes for you, Mr. Yeager. I know plenty of girls that would be more than pleased to make a man out of you."
"I'll be sure to drop by if I ever get the urge," Eren nearly choked on his saliva.
As soon as Miss Klarrisa was on her way to the next potential customer, you laughed so loud you shook the whole table. Mr. Kirstein joined in your roaring with more stifled chuckles at Eren's expense while your best friend sunk into his shoulders–entirely embarrassed with his lack of talent with the opposite sex.
That was precisely what you needed. Tears pricked so sharply at the corners that you had to rub them from your waterline just to see. It took everyone's mind off Floch, and your laughter nearly killed you.
"What was that?" Mr. Kirstein finally asked once he caught his breath. "I have seen chickens speak better English."
Eren grumbled, "Shut it! You barely said ten words to her! How can anyone expect me to talk to a woman with... with..." Eren opened his hands in front of his chest, mimicking Miss Klarissa's ample bust. You reached across the table and gave him a light smack on the arm for his inappropriate gesture. "What?! At least I didn't start sweating this time! That's an improvement if you ask me."
"Have you ever conversed with a woman before?" Mr. Kirstein asked to provoke Eren further.
"Yes. My mother."
"That does not count, you idiot."
"Well, have you?"
"I have. I speak to women often. Women are my best clients."
"Often?" you jumped in. "I hope you can string a conversation along better than you do with me. Half the time, you're a bumbling mess."
All the humor left Mr. Kirstein's face. "Well... you see, it is... it is different when... when–"
"See?!" Eren cut him off. "Here you are, razzing me when you're no better!"
"I am much better. Unlike you, I do not get distracted by a little skin."
But Mr. Kirstein did get distracted by a little skin. He proved that during your game of Scattering Straws. You couldn't stop laughing as the memory flooded your emotions.
You hated him so intensely when it happened, and now the moment brought you a deep sense of joy. How times had changed.
"Really? Prove it, then. Go flirt with a girl and get her to kiss you. When you can do that, you can judge me for my speech," Eren said.
"I am not going to walk up to some woman I hardly know to appease you," Mr. Kirstein said.
"Fine. Flirt with Y/n," Eren ordered. "You know her well enough. Show me what the French are capable of. She can decide if you're worth a kiss."
"Eren, that's ridiculous," you told him, even if you liked the idea. "I can't just kiss him here. You know what people would say."
"No," Mr. Kirstein said seriously as his honeyed eyes darted between you and your friend. "The idiot is onto something."
"Mr. Kirstein, don't buy into a drunken fool's musings."
"You don't have actually to kiss him, and I don't blame you for not wanting to," Eren said. "Just tell me if you would, given what he can pull out. I want to see Clydesdale's skill since he's so confident."
"I'm not participating in this." You shook your head but fought the urge to smile.
"Come on! You're a real buzzkill! If Hitch were here, she'd do it," Eren whined.
"Because she's an expert in the art of flirtations. I struggle with the concept. It's much easier for someone to tell me exactly how they feel rather than attempting to string along kittenish little remarks."
"Is that what you prefer?" Mr. Kirstein asked quietly so only you could hear.
"It is," you answered just as lowly. "While I pride myself in my observational skills, flirting is a mystery to me more often than not. It surely doesn't help that I'm as hopeless as Eren when it comes to banter."
"I heard that, you know," Eren said. "You're crabby tonight."
"I'm not crabby. If I were crabby, I wouldn't have let you spin me around until I nearly vomited on your shoes."
Eren rolled his eyes and slumped into his seat. He scanned around the room until an idea sparked in his eyes. He glanced at Mr. Kirstein, and a silly grin found his lips. "So, you can only flirt with someone you know, Kirstein?"
"I can," the Frenchman confirmed.
"Alright then. Since you think I look girly, flirt with me. Let me see what you can do."
"How drunk are you?" you asked with a giggle.
"Drunk enough that I'd flirt with a horse."
"I thought I was not your type, Yeager," Mr. Kirstein reminded.
"You aren't, but I'd like to learn how not to court the ladies before college. You'd be the best teacher for that. Who knows who I could meet next year? I'd like to be prepared."
"How about this," Mr. Kirstein said. "I will tell you what I know without seducing you. It will be easy enough for a fool like you to follow. I learned from the best flirt in all of Europe."
"Alright. Lay it on me."
Mr. Kirstein leaned in slightly and took hold of his almost empty glass. "You start with a compliment. Something most would not notice: the eyes' roundness, the hair's sheen, the jaw's softness. Even telling her that her whole face is beautiful is enough, as most women only hear compliments on their figures. But whatever you say must be innocent. If she is put off, you leave her be, but if she seems interested, you—"
"And where did you learn this from? Chatting with your clients?" you questioned.
"No. My friend, Marco, taught me enough to know the right way to bring home a woman." His friend's name hit you so very hard. As soon as it rattled against your eardrum, you needed to flee. You stood up so suddenly that Mr. Kirstein nearly jumped in his seat. "Are you alright?" Mr. Kirstein asked, ripe with concern.
"I think I need to order some tea before we head home," you announced. "Can I get anything else for you two while I'm up?"
"Home?" Eren asked, hardly sober. "But we were just getting to the good part!"
"I still have to drink the tea before we go anywhere. You two can keep trading secrets, and I'll listen in when I get back."
"Well, I'm coming with you. Can't trust the room when Floch's running wild." Eren moved to stand, but his legs slipped out from under him. He crashed back down into his seat, swaying mildly.
"You can't even stand alone, Eren. Let alone walk me to the taps," you said. "Besides, I already handled Floch. Didn't you see how hard I smacked him?"
"Let me get your tea," Mr. Kirstein offered.
Mr. Kirstein attempted to stand next, but you forced his shoulder back down.
"It'll be a few minutes, at best. I just need a moment to myself, so keep an eye on Eren for me. Mrs. Yeager would be disappointed if I brought her son home with bloodied knuckles." You feigned lightness in your tone, but the noise clattering about in the hall masked any breathiness you exuded.
Mr. Kirstein appeared worried after your protests, but he fixed himself firmly to his chair before saying, "If you take long, I will look for you."
"I'm sure you will."
You left the table and eyed the bar across the room. The only clear space surrounding the taps was at the far end, right next to the dimly lit hallway that led down to the inn's bedrooms and the cellar. Slipping through the dense crowd and loud voices laughing the night away, you attempted to slot yourself in the tiny nook.
The further you disappeared from your boys, the stronger that watchful stare grew on your body. Your throat grew tighter, but your brain reminded you that Dr. Yeager had said allergies were particularly bad this summer. You desperately needed something to blame for your sudden sickness other than your growing anxiety.
You shoved the nervous feeling pushing on your windpipe as far down as possible. Finally reaching your intended opening, you waited for Hannes to come near your edge.
"Hannes?" you called out toward the bar, and the blonde drunkard spotted you immediately.
"What can I get for ya, sweetie?" he asked as he filled two glasses with ale underneath the cherry-stained wood. "More moonshine for Eren? Or does your foreign friend want more whiskey?"
"Actually, can I get a cup of chamomile tea? Peppermint is fine, too. I know it's late, but–"
"I'll get it done. I've got a few other drinks to pass out, but I'll get back as quick as I can."
Hannes lifted the amber pints upward and sped off to the other edge of the bar. You cleared your throat, vainly trying to remove the phlegm blocking your airways. Nothing could shake the sickness corrupting your body.
Your mind drifted back to Mr. Bott. You were glad that, unlike you, Mr. Kirstein could speak of the dead so effortlessly, but the freckled friend's bloodied face kept swirling in your mind.
No sight could tear the image from your brain. No music could quell his screaming in your ears. No smell could cover the scent of blood in the air.
[TRIGGER WARNING: Strangulation, Blood, Mention of SA]
And when you felt a hand cover your mouth and pinch your nose, panic replaced the dread as it shot through every inch of your body.
Your assailant hooked their arm around your neck as he dragged your flailing limbs out of sight. You tried to bite down on the fatty hand covering your lips until sweat, liquors, and blood mixed on your tongue, but the palm glued your jaw shut. Your muffled screams and slapping hands were blotted out by all the music and conversation filling the tavern hall. You took one last fearful gaze at the expansive room and locked eyes with the red-headed boy you had slapped minutes ago–your handprint blaring red on his cheek.
Floch watched you silently plea for a savior, as he was the only person in the building who noticed your capture. All he offered was one last wave and a virulent smirk as you were stolen down the hallway.
When you were flush with a doorway, you were shoved through the hole and tumbled down the basement steps. You crashed and thudded on every stone. Your temple caught an edge halfway down, and all the wind was knocked from your chest once your back finally hit leveled ground seconds later. All the contents of your bag spilled onto the floor beside you. Your father's knife barely reflected beside Mr. Arlert's book under the distantly burning wall sconces from the top of the stairs.
All the bruises accumulated over the week–from your ribs to your elbow to your skull–ached with such severity. You tried to roll over and pick yourself up, but a presence immediately forced you back into the cold earth. Grabbing you by the neck, a monster slammed your head into the stone so hard your vision entirely fizzled out for a beat.
You grasped at the figure's wrists, futilely trying to peel the pressure of its thumbs from your windpipe. You tugged at the fingers, but your fighting only gave you enough space to keep him from crushing your trachea beyond repair.
"Remember me, bitch?" the devil growled and drove his thumbs further inward. "Your little lover boy thinks he can make a fool of me in front of everyone? I'll show him."
Your vision was barely clear enough to make out the man's face as you attempted to dig your nails into his hands. It was Sergeant Gross—the same military man that had groped you months prior and that Mr. Kirstein had threatened in the square the night before.
What was once a silly story told over dinner to Mr. Arlert had become your greatest nightmare.
The deeper he pressed into your flesh, the more your vision darkened. You clawed at his hands as you struggled. Your eyes bugged from your lids as he shoved you down again, his entire weight straddling your waist. Your muscles grew weaker with each passing second. All you could do was attempt to steal gasps while he stole the life from your chest.
What might have been only seconds turned into years. He just kept squeezing the harder you fought. You could feel his hands tremble with rage as his beet-red face and dirt-colored eyes bore into your soul.
"I'll do him a favor and make a woman out of you before your body turns cold," the Sergeant snarled from above. "Too bad you won't be alive to enjoy it, witch."
You had to keep squirming: to either slip out from his hands or buy time until someone intervened. Mr. Kirstein said he would come looking for you, but would he be able to find you down here?
The black dots marking your vision made it almost impossible to think. If you could reach your knife, you could cut the demon down. But if you released the monster's hands, he'd be able to crush your windpipe without restriction.
That was when you realized then that you were going to die. It would be the end of the line. Nineteen years would quietly close in the dark recesses of a dirty tavern.
And no one was coming to save you.
Not Eren.
Not Mr. Kirstein.
No one.
Your grip loosened on the hands around your neck. If you could not save yourself, at least death could come sooner. Should that monster decide to take you, you didn't want to be alive to feel it. As sad as it was, death was a blessing in itself. You only hoped it would be swift, and he left your body clean enough for your loved ones to see you one last time.
All your memories began to flood your mind. Red cedar. Sewing hoops. Strawberry cake. Lessons with Levi. Dancing with Eren. Baseball with Zeke. Books you wanted to finish. Lakes you wanted to swim in. Cities you wanted to visit. Gardening with Mrs. Yeager. Cooking with Niccolo. Playing with Sunny and Martin.
Mr. Kirstein was planning to make soup tomorrow. He was patiently waiting for you to return to the table.
No. This was not the end. It couldn't be. You wouldn't allow it.
With what little energy you had left, you freed one of your hands from his thumbs and threw it toward Father's blade. Feeling the hilt, you yanked it up and slashed blindly at the killer. The fabric of his shirt tore cleanly, and a thin, red line leaked across his skin and splattered warmth on your cheeks. He shrieked at the slice and released you instantly.
"You little cun–" he tried to yell, but you used the last of your strength to send a decisive knee to his crotch. His shoulder slammed to the stone faster than any lightning bolt outside as he writhed in pain.
You finally rolled over now that his total weight was off. You inhaled, desperate for air, but the breath was trapped in your damaged throat. You hacked into your palm. Pain strangled you. When the coughing ceased, you saw little droplets of red fall from your brow and into your hand.
It was not the first time blood stained your palms, but you couldn't allow memories to halt your escape. The Sergeant's groans reminded you of the danger you were still in.
You rose to your feet with buckling knees and attempted to put as much distance between you and death as possible. Pressing a hand to your stinging temple, you tried to shuffle to the steps. Lacking the might to carry yourself up, you crawled on your hands and knees. Bloodied handprints colored the stone. With each climb, more coughs found your throat.
Your vision faded fast. Only a tiny tunnel remained completely clear, while the edges of your sight went black or foggy.
When you finally reached the top, you stood shakily and braced your shoulder against the wall. You dragged against the brick while your bloodied hand brushed against the rough rock, leaving a thin, crimson smear in your wake.
You wondered if you would ever see Niccolo again. Would he return to the news of your death just days after his birthday and days before Sasha's? What a lousy gift you would curse him with.
Eren would lose himself in guilt for trusting you to make it to the bar and back. He would never sleep soundly again should you die alone in the tavern. Would he still attend school in the fall? He dreamed of becoming a doctor like his father and making enough money to leave town, but would he still go? He would have so much fun in Philadelphia.
And Hitch. You would put her through the stress because you needed a cup of tea. It could have waited until you reached the Yeagers' house. What if your death caused her to lose the baby she was fighting so hard to keep? You hadn't even finished the baby's first dress. The bottom remained unhemmed on your sewing room desk. Who was going to dress the child in your absence?
Zeke. Mrs. and Mr. Yeager. Hannes. Levi and Mr. Smith. All of the Springers. Each one crossed your mind, but one little soul stuck out from the rest.
Sweet, Martin. He wouldn't understand—he was just a child. How would someone explain what happened to him? Would he ever forgive you for leaving without a proper goodbye? Who would read to him in silly voices when his mother was out of town?
All your senses were fuzzy with nonsense as you approached the doorway. Your final thoughts buzzed in your suffocating brain.
It was no accident that you struggled to breathe, and your brain throbbed all afternoon and into the night. Your body knew your fate well before your mind, heart, or soul. If only you had trusted intuition sooner.
Figures appeared in your hazed vision when you finally stood at the threshold. Chamomile mixed with liquor, smoke, and blood in your nose. The last thing you saw with a clouded view was warm, sweet, safe honey that you swore you had seen a hundred times before, but you couldn't place where you knew it from. It floated high at the bar's edge where you stood moments prior, darting around in every direction until it landed on you.
You locked into that hue with each wheezing breath. The color grew closer to your crumpling position.
Your legs finally gave out. You collapsed to the ground as warmth pulled you into a firm grip. You felt the rumble of harsh sounds against your heart, almost like screaming. Something cradled your damp skull. You were too far gone to make out the noises.
Your knight smelled of moonshine, rain, and salt. Their chivalry flooded your waterline until your eyes finally sealed themselves to the world for the final time.French Translation:
J'aime la façon dont tu câlins, ma petite huître = I love the way you cuddle, my little oyster