At some point in most lives, anyone with half a heart fears the loss of someone important.
You imagine the coldness they leave behind; the tears you shed at their wake; the sleepless nights you spent thinking only of them. However, no one realizes how much worse the realities of Loss are when juxtaposed with its imaginations. The words left unsaid and the ones you wished you never said in the first place; the once pleasant memories tinged forever with the gray, lifeless shades of grief, along with the ones you never had the chance to paint with them in the first place; the weeks, months, or years wasted where all your cravings for special treats were replaced with desires to see only them—to taste the sweetness their presence one last time.
But the worst part is how Forgetfulness walks side-by-side with Loss. The sound of their voice moments after waking; the color of their cheeks after stepping outside in winter's lowest valley; the feeling of their fingers after spending the whole afternoon swimming in summer's highest peak. All of which distort more each day with time's indifferent influence.
Both unfortunately and fortunately for you, Death was a close companion. You sensed her pain well before anyone departed to that great plane of beaming lights and cold air.
So, as Eren sat atop Voltaire, massaging his tender ribs, your heart cried out in silent agony. Although he was alive and mostly well, the image of Eren with a bullet hole leaking from the skull never left your imagination. The reality of losing him cemented itself in your soul. Should there ever come a day when you could not place the specific color of his emerald green eyes or hear his sweet voice's boyish charm, it would also spell an end for you. The price of his death in exchange for your safety was far too high; the emotional debt Eren would pass on to his mourners would bankrupt so many hearts.
There were things you wanted to say: that you were sorry for putting Eren in this predicament; that you would handle this matter all on your own; that soon you would both enjoy rainy days again as though nothing ever iced the waters of your lives. But what could you ever say to make amends? Words would not heal the bruises on his chest or wipe the dirt clean from his jaw.
So, for a long time, you said nothing.
That chilled pool of stagnant thoughts dried once Jean helped Eren off Voltaire's brawny back. You stood, frozen, fearing Eren's departure as though it would be the last time you would ever see him.
You had things to say. So many things.
"Eren," you whispered before he fled for the safety of his home. "We should talk."
"Talk?" he grunted. "Now you want to talk?"
"I do. Alone. Please."
Eren's shadow twisted toward Jean. Jean's shadow tipped his head, and he mumbled, "I will get something from inside. I will... return soon."
You waited until you couldn't hear the crunching of his heavy feet. The steps gave you time to think of something to say, but each floundering thought felt more stupid than the last.
I'm sorry for nearly getting you killed?
I should have told you my plans before attempting to carry them out?
If you hadn't followed me, this would never have happened?
I'm such a fool; please forgive me?
"Out with it," Eren grumbled. "We don't have all night, you know."
You stuttered, "I... I'm... Are you alright?"
"What do you think? That bastard hits almost as hard as Levi. Mother's sure to ask why I'm nursing my ribs, so that means I'll have a headache tomorrow once the nagging starts."
"I'm... I see. Well, you'll be glad to know you won't have to do these things for me anymore. I've handled everything myself."
"Handled?"
"Handled. Mr. Ackerman is–"
"Levi is Mr. Ackerman." Eren corrected. "You were meeting with the Ripper. A hitman. A murderer."
"I'm not here to debate semantics. I... I just want you to take care of yourself from now on. Everything will be over in two weeks, and it'll be like nothing ever happened."
Eren waited to respond. Even though you could barely make out the changes in his features, you felt him trace your figure. He closed the gap until you saw the moonlight in his eyes. You caught every shade of green that existed that night, and each different hue made you more anxious than the last.
"What did you do?" Eren asked, but his eyes already knew the answer. "You told me you didn't remember anything... that Floch didn't help you. Why did you lie to me? We're supposed to be friends. No, family."
"You have to trust me, Eren."
"How can I trust you when you keep playing games? We aren't kids anymore; life isn't Whist or Old Maid. You do realize that. Don't you?"
Guilt swept through you with the breeze. An apology was in order, wasn't it? After all the worrying you had caused, you should give Eren at least that much. He deserved that much, didn't he?
"I... I'm..." You tried to speak, but the words never flowed.
You never were gifted in the art of apologizing.
You wanted to be different for Eren, but you stayed the same.
Heavy footsteps grew closer, and a shadow approached. Jean stepped up to Eren with a basket in one arm, silently offering to usher your best friend inside with the other. Eren shoved the hand off as quickly as they reached for him.
"I don't need you to carry me," Eren whined. "I'm not some lame moron that can't fend for myself. Just... get her home, see Armin, and come here before Mother wakes. I'm not getting scolded again because you can't rise before the sun."
Eren's back cloaked itself in the night's curtain. Just like that, he was gone. You cursed yourself for being too weak to stop him.
"Come. It is late," Jean told you, but his eyes directed themselves into Voiltaire's hair.
A nasty frown tugged your lips as you vaulted onto his back. Before you could reach the reins, Jean took hold of them and forced that basket into your lap.
"It's best if you stay here for the night. You need rest," you said.
"You expect me to let you travel alone?" he asked.
"I'd prefer to be alone. I'm capable enough to handle the journey."
"And look where that belief has brought us." Jean ignored your requests for privacy and pulled the leather straps to lead Voltaire home.
A little voice stirred your flurried mind. You peered at the basket to find moving cloth covering its contents. A furry shadow appeared at the bottom. Your dear Lucy blinked up at you with reflecting eyes, and she would have to serve as your only source of warmth during your ride.
It would be so easy to tap the stallion with your boot and get him trotting free of Jean's grip to run away with your sweet baby, but you chose to observe the kitten's father from your heightened position instead.
The longer you traced every inch of your lover-turned-obstacle, the colder your glare turned. There was no hiding the sourness of your lips or the disdain tightening your temples. And for every minute you spent staring, Jean's eyes darted elsewhere. The distant road, the shadowed forest, and the open fields were a much more appealing sight than you.
The night might have been warm, humid, and noisy with crickets and owls alike, but you had never once felt so cold and quiet in your entire life. Even Death held more heat than your own beating heart.
The cold reminded you that your life would never have changed without Jean's unavoidable interference. All the terribleness this summer stemmed directly from him. Had it not been for Jean's obsessive savior complex, the Sergeant would never have set his sights on you. He cursed you with the same affection you had come to adore so ardently. Once again, Jean was one of your life's greatest confliction. You couldn't decide whether to slap him across the cheek or to kiss them with all your available affection, but you leaned toward the former.
After so much stewing atop your high horse, you finally reached the barn. Jean's outstretched hand offered to support you on the way down. You put the basket in that hand and ignored his helpful gesture.
"You've brought me home," you stiffly stated as you began tearing off leather and cloth from Voltaire's back. "Go see Mr. Arlert like you planned and head back to the Yeagers before sunrise."
"I made no plans to see Armin," Jean replied
"Eren said that–"
"Do you believe Yeager would allow me to stay here if he knew we share a bed? I told him lies to be with you. And we have much to discuss."
You turned to catch a small glimpse of him, but under the barn's cover, it was too dark to determine if Jean matched your stare or studied the ground.
"I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you. Your loose lips are the reason tonight nearly ended so terribly," you said.
"I was only–"
"Trying to put Eren in an early grave? Congratulations. You nearly succeeded."
Jean exhaled a frustrated huff. "Why are you difficult?"
"If you are so stupid that you can't see it, then there is no use explaining it."
Jean's breaths echoed through the frozen stillness. He said, "I see your voice has regained much of its strength."
"Do you take issue with that?" you asked. "Are you not accustomed to women talking back?"
"You have always talked back. That much is nothing new. But you were mostly reasonable before."
You answered his dig by walking Voltaire's saddle and blanket to their hooks in the wall. As soon as they were hung, you planned to make a hasty exit to the house and leave this night behind you. That idea, however, quickly flipped on its stomach as you found yourself being hoisted into the air and thrown over Jean's shoulder.
"Put me down!" you bellowed as you began pounding the sides of your fists into his back with hollow thuds.
"Keep wailing. Any louder, and Niccolo will wake."
That silenced your thrashing. You had been fortunate thus far that your nightly drugging had gone unnoticed. As angry as you were, you wouldn't take an additional risk until you were far enough away for sounds to be muffled by distance.
Jean carried you through the grass and past all the trees until you could see your distant home from the tallness of his shoulder. Even as he jiggled open the door to the cabin and locked it behind him, he kept you locked to his skin.
He tossed you onto the mattress like you were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. He placed Lucy's basket much more delicately than he had you and turned far too quickly for you to make out whatever expression marked his face. Freeing your kitten from her wicker cage, she purred perfectly on your lap as though all was right with the world.
"Why did you go?" Jean asked as he lit candles around the room. His back faced you as he spoke.
"Why does it matter?"
"Because I deserve to know."
You rubbed underneath Lucy's little ears. "To fix our lives."
"Fixing our lives by keeping deadly secrets. You should be so proud."
Jean lit the last candle and sat beside you. As he slouched, elbows pressed into his thighs, he stared at the floor. His refusal to look in your direction reignited the cold wrath that lurked under your surface.
"At least I've made progress. Can you say the same?" you spat. "As it is, Eren never would have been there if it weren't for your inability to hold your tongue."
"You say that as though worrying for your safety is a crime."
"It is when you led my friend into an early death. Did it ever once cross your mind that he has a mother? A father? A brother? People who would miss him if he died? Yet, you walked him through that forest like the fool you are, leading him into a much greater risk than you could ever hope to protect him against."
"That lunatic put a pistol to your head. What did you expect? That we would hide and pray that he kept his finger from pulling the trigger? Such prayers often go unanswered."
"Mr. Ackerman wasn't going to—"
"To shoot? You expect us to know this? All we knew was that you were meeting with a murderer at midnight by yourself. He could have killed you. He could have..." Jean shook his head, emptying the growing anger. "I cannot bear to lose you. I have lost enough in this life."
You let the air go stone cold, fighting the urge to laugh. A sick smile spread across your lips. It never met your eyes.
"You've lost too much?" you asked him. "You? I have lost everything. Over and over. My mother, my father, my home, Sasha. I almost lost myself, goddamnit. I've buried more bodies than you could ever imagine and have always been expected to stay strong, but you've lost too much? I may be a woman dressing up like a man, but at least I act the part."
Lucy meowed loudly. You had stopped petting her in your muffled rage.
"I–" Jean attempted to speak.
"No," you cut him off. "Let me ask you this: if it were Marco... If he had survived that day, and he wanted to end the man that killed him, would you have stopped him as you have tried to stop me?"
Lucy meowed again, but her cry grew louder than the last.
"That is not–"
"It is. It is completely fair. So, answer me. Would you?"
Jean went quiet and bore his eyes even deeper into the floor. Shame painted him darkly, but you were far from finished. You reached for his cheeks, pinching his skin in your cold grip, and forced him to face your frustrations.
Lucy's cries grew more desperate the harder you squeezed.
"Next time you plan to fuck me," you spat, "At least find the courage to look me in the eyes while you do it. You wanted a mirror, and I have given you one. I am the mirror you asked for. I have forced you to see the reflection of your hypocrisy, and you find it ugly. You may try to avert your gaze, but I won't let you. You will look at me."
Jean's shame slipped off when his honeyed eyes clicked into yours. Your bravery–no, your hubris–fell with it. A rage darkened behind his eyes: one you had not seen in weeks. Jean grabbed you by the wrist, and although his grip was not hard enough to bruise the flesh, the strength used to peel your fingers from his face bordered on pain.
"Hypocrisy?" he asked. "You worry what happens should Yeager die, but what of you? Think of the people you would crush under your casket. What of them? What of Hitch? What of Martin?! You may think yourself 'strong' and 'brave' for what you do, but your death weighs on all of them just the same."
"Don't you ever speak to me like that."
"Like what?" he shot right back. "Like how you speak to me? I am quiet for you, but I will not suffer this abuse any longer."
"Abuse? Coming from the man who pinned me to this very bed nearly two months ago over some spilled paint?!"
"And you stuck rose thorns in my neck! You punched me in the stomach!"
"You told me to!" you nearly shouted, holding yourself back from overexerting your voice.
"Because I never thought you would do it! I thought you were gentle! That your hands were that of a healer. But I was wrong! Where is the woman who would give up everything for those she loved? That read stories in funny voices, baked cookies, and whined about shitty romance novels to keep herself entertained? Now, you plan her funeral to pass the time! In this light, you are nothing but a fucking stranger to me!"
No sounds made it through the old wood of the cabin other than Jean's slowing pants and a few lamented meows from Lucy. She jumped from your lap onto the floor to hide under the bed. Her warmth was deeply missed.
It was the dead of winter, and Jean's words sank into your skin like heavy snow in a desolate field. With each passing second, Jean's face turned ghostly. He was a white blanket.
A stranger, you thought.
Were you a stranger? Had you become someone new? Did you recognize yourself? Someone who lashed out at those she loved? Someone who weighed traumas on scales?
Perhaps this was what you were meant to become: an unfeeling monster.
Years of being the town's ugliest duckling led you here. You were no longer the girl hiding behind muted colors and forced smiles. You were a broken woman looking for anything to mend the holes left in your sensitive heart.
Jean preferred you when you were a girl he could look to for comfort and rejected you as a woman who needed more than he could provide.
That must be it, you thought.
"If I am a stranger, why linger? Leave and be done with me. Go home and forget we ever met. Maybe it's better that way. For both of us," you breathed that last sentence in a shaky voice.
Lucy reappeared from under the bed frame but did not jump to you. She opted to pass her time rubbing her cheek into Jean's clothes.
His voice was soft again and so full of regret, "I... I misspoke... I should never have said that... I just... I have told you: I cannot bear to lose you."
"But if you stop me from doing this, I am already lost. Either way, you stand to lose me. So, why continue to torment me? Why not let me go?"
Tears stung your waterline. An impossibly thick lump stuck itself in your throat. You may have picked this fight but also needed it to be over. All you wanted was to dream again; you wanted to see the mountains, sip tea, and stare at your husband, even if it was only a fabrication.
Because, in truth, the fabrications of Happiness were better than your reality.
"I did not mean what I said," he said. "I am... frustrated... and tired. I have barely slept these last few weeks, and... and..."
"Does that make it right?" you softly asked. "For either of us to lash out at each other so viciously? Because we're tired?"
Jean was not your enemy; although he might not mean what he said, those rageful rantings held some truth. You were no longer that girl who carried light in her lantern and spread it to those who would accept it. Your greatest accessories were not your clothes or the ribbons tying back your hair but the heavy shadows that hung like a veil over your face and hid you as a stranger.
And that's who you needed to be. Even if you wanted to be different.
"What do you want from me?" your voice fogged into the frigid air.
"The same I wanted before–to ensure your safety. And for these secrets between us to end."
"You are not my father, or my brother, or... or anything that gives you the right to care about such things. Just go if you're no longer satisfied."
"I have already given half of myself away to the dead. If I leave you now, there will be nothing left."
You looked up through hesitant lids. Jean's nervous expression matched yours.
It was so late, and you were exhausted from the riding, the panicking, and the arguing. The sun would rise soon, and you were desperate to sleep and get on with things.
You unbuttoned your suit coat, tossed off your stupid hat and eyepatch, which you couldn't believe still clung to your skin in all the madness, and your hands moved to the buttons on your pants.
"What are you doing?" Jean asked.
"This conversation has stolen whatever was left of my respectability."
Shimmying off the last of your decency from around your waist, summer air kissed your bare skin. From thigh to heel, you were completely exposed. What more could a little flesh steal that your bitterness had not already pillaged?
You crawled to your favored side of the bed and settled under the covers, your back facing where Jean would lie. A tear leaked from your left eye and dripped onto the pillow. Little sounds of undressing and Jean's settling reached your ears, but you focused on sleeping.
Jean did not reach for you as he did every other night you spent with him. His warmth was missed, too.
Sleep did come, but you wished it hadn't.
Over and over, you saw yourself die at the hands of the Sergeant. It was always the same—hands around your throat until the scene changed. You were back in the tavern cellar, and it was just another recreation of the night he assaulted you; you were in bed in the lake house, and that monster crawled out from under your bed to strangle you; you were hiding in the closet of your old home, and his feet appeared under the door frame before he tore open the wood; you were running through the woods, and the Sergeant caught you before you could escape. You gasped for air. You clawed at fingers. You failed your legs. You were so helpless in your sleep, and you had no one following you, ensuring your safety each step of the way.
Over and over, that's all you saw: a feeble end to your pitiful existence.
Death was only your friend when it came to the death of others. Your death did not welcome you with a lover's warm embrace but with a stranger's frosted fingers.
If it weren't for something taking a bite of your nose, you would have seen your demise a hundred more times. A cold sweat chilled your entire body, and your tired eyes snapped open to see your little kitten staring back at you. She rubbed her back against your nose but leaped over your head before you could take hold of her little body.
Lavender colored the windows. Sunrise was closing in faster than your thoughts could slow time. You rolled over to find your kitten, desperate for comfort in your last moments, and she paced between you and Jean.
And where you slept with your back to him, he faced you with arms outstretched. Another inch and Jean would have touched you.
Lucy may not have liked it, but you stole the middle place she had paced all over and snuggled into her father's chest. His scent was strong, and you breathed in Jean's forestry rain. His eyes fluttered open, reflecting the purple haze smoking on the cabin walls. He wrapped himself around you the deeper you burrowed into his chest until you were one entity, and you greedily stole every bit of warmth his body offered. Lucy wedged herself between your stomachs. Her pressure forced something from your deepest pit.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
He answered with a hum that rumbled in every bone, "Tout va bien. Je suis désolé aussi."
You couldn't be sure whether he was awake, but you took his French as a sign that he was still mostly asleep.
"Thank you for staying, Jean."
"Je ne te quitterai jamais. Tu es mon autre moitié."
"I won't tell anymore lies. I swear."
"Ça sonne bien pour moi, ma petite huître."
"This will all be over in two weeks. I've worked out an entire plan. Mr. Ackerman will teach me to hunt, and once I have a grip on it, I'll kill the man who did this. It'll all be over, and we can be happy. No more nightmares. No more fear. No more lies. Everything will be as it was. I swear this to you. We can be happy. We will be happy. I swear it."
A sharp inhale followed your confession.
"What did you say?" Jean asked. When you glanced up, his eyes were wide open.
You repeated yourself, albeit more hesitantly. Jean's face pulled down in stoic resignation. Lucy felt the shifts in your body and crept up the mattress to snuggle into her father's neck with little purrs.
You finished, and he said nothing. You asked, "Are you going to try and stop me?"
"I should."
"But will you?"
His eyes narrowed as Lucy began nibbling at the buttons of his shirt. "You asked me..." Jean fought back a yawn. "If I would stop Marco. It never would have come to that. He would reason with the man—speak to understand him better. That was his way. But you... You are not Marco. If this is what you need, then... I will watch. But you must let me watch. You must let me be there for you. No secrets. No lies. You have promised me that. I will hold you do it."
"No more," you agreed. Jean appeared far from pleased, but he leaned forward to kiss your forehead all the same. "I must ask you for one more thing. After this, I will never ask anything from you as long as we live."
"Then ask."
"I need you to get Mrs. Yeager to bake me a pie."
"... A pie?"
"Yes. Strawberry rhubarb, blueberry, apple... the flavor doesn't matter. I would make it myself, but Niccolo might ask questions. I just need it as payment. "
"Payment for what?"
"The Ripper."
Jean squinted at you strangely. "Pinch me."
"What?"
"Pinch me. You have apologized, confessed a plan to murder a man, and asked for a pie all in one breath. I must know I am awake."
So, you pinched him and then yourself for good measure. When you both knew that you would walk through this waking nightmare together, you prepared to get on with the day.French Translations:
Tout va bien. Je suis désolé aussi. = It's alright. I'm sorry, too.
Je ne te quitterai jamais. Tu es mon autre moitié. = I would never leave you. You're my other half.
Ça sonne bien pour moi, ma petite huître = That sounds good to me, my little oyster.
Author's Note: Sorry my chapters are taking longer to put out. I've been really struggling with motivation recently. Idk how to describe it other than I reread my old chapter while editing and I'm just like, "Wow, my writing sucks now. I like the old stuff better." Hopefully, I'll shake it.
It also doesn't help that my brain keeps telling me to write a stupid royalty/fantasy and a college AU that I have a stupid amount of ideas for. I want to finish one thing at a time, but it's hard out here.