The distant booms of fireworks had long since died out, leaving the lakefront in a fragile state of unnerving tranquility. Your guardian sat you upright when he reappeared with your tea sometime later. Niccolo waited anxiously on your favorite floral chair as you twitched with the cooling drink wrapped in unsteady fingers.
But during those mostly-quiet minutes, you shakily sipped warm tea and wondered how you reached this moment. Of course, you knew that Niccolo had shouldered you home after a bout of hysteria, but you wondered how your life became what it now was: a silent, sad ending.
Because that was all your life ever had been, and after tonight, it was all your life would be. For you; for the ones you feared to love; for everything you dared to touch–a series of silent, sad endings.
The grandfather clock ticked away with its usual persistence, but you were secretly glad that Time was a noisy mistress. Without her constant clicking, you would have assumed you went deaf with the lack of conversation. Niccolo had promised to speak about your apologies but had kept mum on that oath thus far.
You could not blame him for his recent reticence, as your mind may be loud, but your voice was tired, too.
Connie and Armin did not arrive for another hour after you returned. The traveler was the first to burst through the door, bragging about how magical his firework show was. The paper-wrapped present your painter had brought to the party was now tied to Connie's back, and he carried a small, wooden crate filled with ice. Armin shuffled in from behind with apparent exhaustion painting his under eyes more blue than usual. In his slackening arms, the blond cradled your sweet, sleepy kitten.
Upon seeing your fidgeting figure and Niccolo's stiff one, Connie lowered his voice to a playful whisper, "We've come bearing gifts for the sweet baby Jesus on the sofa and the not-so-virgin Mary."
"Bring it here," Niccolo ordered, and your guardian was quick to steal some ice for your wounded wrist. "Take the rest to the icebox in the cellar."
Connie discarded Niccolo's wrapped gift on the coffee table before he disappeared. He tripped somewhere in the kitchen and muttered a curse through the darkness. Despite your troubled thoughts, the accident forced some humor to your lips.
"Do your bones still ache?" Armin questioned over Niccolo's nursing shoulders. The Londoner placed Lucy into your lap for you to pet with your unbusied hand.
"It already feels much better," you answered. "This minor injury shouldn't even be considered a sprain—more of a jam. I hope to be better by dawn."
"Wonderful. Well, I'll be off to bed, then. I'm sure you don't need another room full of bug-eyed deer staring you down. Goodnight to you both. Give Constance my regards." The author shuffled back outside from where he came, and you were alone with Niccolo yet again.
Ice bled through the bandages until you were cold and wet. The sensation soothed the burning muscles, and you sank deeper into the cushions.
"Do I still need to sleep with ice if the pain has mostly subsided?" you asked.
"We'll ice again in the morning if it still bothers you," Niccolo answered.
Connie reappeared, this time with a slight limp and a bottle of whiskey from the cellar. He complained, "You gotta light more candles when you come home, Nicco! Now, I've gone and stubbed my toe! The house is turning into an infirmary too quick for my liking." Hazel eyes darted around the room in search of something or someone. "Wait... Where'd the Brit go?"
"To bed. He's leaving for the city tomorrow."
"Really? That's a shame. The true fun's only just begun, and blondie's already tapping out? No wonder they lost the war." Connie threw himself beside you, stuck the bottle between his thighs, kicked his muddy shoes on the carpet, and propped his busted foot on the table. "Think you can break me off a piece of that ice?"
"Your toe will be fine, Connie," Niccolo said with an exasperated sigh. "Leave her be."
"When'd you get so old? You sound like Mr. Braus."
Connie tried to steal the ice from your wrist, but Niccolo slapped his hand away. "Stop it. It's too late in the night to act like children. Use the liquor to numb it instead."
"Night is the best time to act like children." Connie uncorked the whiskey with his teeth, spit the cork across the room, and swigged a couple of mouthfuls of swill.
"You best find that cork before you leave, or I will find it for you and shove it where the sun doesn't shine."
"Yeah, yeah, Nicco. Don't get your panties in a knot; I'll find it." Connie offered you some liquor, which you politely declined, before stretching himself along the sofa. His forearm draped over your shoulders to speak with you more directly, "How ya feelin', squirt? I thought we were lookin' at a demon possession after you hit the floor. Gave everyone a real fright that only fireworks could fix. Shame you missed 'em."
Your face hardened, and Lucy's hair stuck up along her back at Connie's statement. Before you could answer, Niccolo jumped in, "She's fine. She needs only ice and rest, but if you are so determined to pester us until midnight, take your dirty shoes to the front door."
"Such a nag," Connie moaned as he placed the bottle on the table and stood up to carry his shoes away. On the way back, he stopped to pick up the wrapped square. "Hey, Nicco, why don't you open up this present the tall one brought, and then we can have a few drinks and be young before I head home. You missed the light show, so I gotta entertain you somehow."
"Not now, Connie."
"Oh, come on! I hate surprises, and I wanna know what's in here! Probably not even half as good as one of my presents, but it's worth taking a look-see, right?"
Connie tugged off the twine and began peeling away the wrapping. Truthfully, you shared the fool's curiosity regarding the secrets hidden under the thin paper. It was a painting–that much you were certain of. What else would an artist send along?
No matter how beautiful the sketches in his little black book might have been, they were just that: sketches. You wanted to feel the best of your beloved's talents one last time through rich paints and soft lines only to go to sleep pretending that some part of him still existed beside you in an icy house.
Unfortunately, Niccolo stood to steal the gift from the fool's hands before Connie could get far and chided, "Didn't your mother ever teach you to mind your manners?"
"She did, but I never listened."
"Can we open it?" you asked softly. "Please?"
Niccolo acknowledged you with weary eyes and another heavy sigh. "Fine."
He tore through the wrapping, and the golden edges of a beautiful picture frame appeared. Niccolo's grip on the fully unveiled piece tightened as the wrappings fell to the floor, and both hands trembled through white knuckles. You tried to peek from your seated position, but you were too small to get a good look with him standing.
"Come on, let's see it!" Connie exclaimed as he rushed over to get a better view. The fool's impish expression fell upon seeing whatever the image was. All Connie offered as a clue was a soft, "Oh." Connie reached for the center of the canvas–his finger making contact with the paint. He quickly pulled away and clutched his fingers as though he had been burned.
"What is it?" you asked, but neither of them heard you. "Niccolo? Connie? Hello?"
With bone-white hands, Niccolo set the canvas onto the coffee table. You shifted with Lucy to the cushion's edge to take in whatever beauty the picture was sure to behold, expecting that the glittering lake or some beautiful flowers might appear. You hoped for tiger lilies, but you couldn't have anticipated the mirage that materialized instead of windswept waves or pretty petals. No one could have.
Although Jean was the artist, not even he could have expected the reaction this art would elicit. And now, you understood what had the others so frozen, as it had the same effect on you. Because when the misty illusion cleared into strong shapes, there was no water or flowers. There was no sun in the corner, no sky blue as a robin's eggs, no messy and sparse grass–none of it.
Your painter could paint just about anything, but his specialty was not landscapes. It was portraits, and as far as you were concerned, it would always be portraits from that very moment forward.
Secret dimples popped like two fluffy white clouds in a clear blue sky. Fiery auburn waved regardless of the room's sudden lack of air, and smoky-sweet smells filled the parlor until you nearly choked. Only you would remember that her hair was a touch closer to brown, and her smile was never that soft and closed-lipped, but only because you had seen her a few nights ago. However, the additional red and softness illuminated her beautiful face in such a way that you preferred the artistic change. She was almost perfect–down to the nearest detail.
If you had not known it was one of Jean's works, you would have thought it was a window, and Sasha was standing just behind the glass with such a strong liveliness that her breath nearly fogged through the canvas.
But despite her beautiful, peaceful expression, contempt radiated through the colorful ridges. You felt how crossed she was with you for drugging her husband and using her as a chess piece in your fight to hide from your misdeeds.
Finally, you understood why she evaded you in dreams as this picture said everything she did not: I detest the woman you have grown into, she whispered in your voice.
You peered up at Niccolo under lily-livered lids. His bottom lip quivered, and candlelight shook in his glassy irises. Your guardian said nothing as he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Steps thundered overhead until the slam of his bedroom silenced the house.
Now, it was just you and Connie. Shimmering hazel eyes hung high until he started laughing. At first, they were genuine laughs–like Sasha was right beside him, and she just told the funniest joke either of you had heard in years. However, with each subsequent outburst, they grew weaker and crackling words sputtered from his throat.
"You know... It's funny when you really think about it! I just thought... I thought that if I touched Sasha's face, she'd feel as warm as she looked. God, Mother was right about me not being blessed with brains, huh!" A laugh broke Connie's speech. "But she wasn't warm! Isn't that funny? She was cold. You know: because she's made of paint! But the cold–the paint–it burned. I don't know how, but it really burned! Guess I can't help being stupid, right? Even my fingers are stupid! And for a second, it was a window, and she was on the other side, and I forgot she ever left. But it was just a picture. Just... a picture. A stupid, fucking picture."
His foolish grin weakened, and tears fell to the floor with his smile. Lucy scurried from your lap to prop up Connie's leaning legs with cheek rubs, and you followed to shoulder his collapsing walls by wrapping your weak arms around his shaking, stony bones. The traveler's fingers clutched onto your sleeves; wrinkles formed from how tightly he attempted to squeeze anything real.
"You're alright, Connie," you soothed as you ran your palm over his back.
"She just looked so real. Like she was right there," he sobbed into you.
"I know. It's alright. You're alright."
"And sometimes, I swear I catch a whiff of her in the wind. I know it's stupid, but it'll smell like maple syrup and burnt bacon, and... and–"
"That's her, Connie." Although you addressed him, it felt like you were speaking to yourself twice as loud in hopes that you could kill the hateful truths of her image. "She's around, and that's her. She is still around, and she loves us, and she understands that we are far from perfection, and–" You started to cry with him. "And she's around, even if we can't find her."
The clock mercilessly ticked as you labored to hold two crumbling worlds together. The ice left a puddle in the cushions before the crying had ceased, and you felt safe releasing the broken-hearted fool to stand on his own.
"When does it stop?" Connie asked with cracks pitching up his weak voice. "When does she stop burning us? When do we stop feeling so stupid for crying?"
"Never. Love will always burn, and we will always cry. But with time, we learn to press ice to our hearts faster, and cry less."
"... I hate that answer."
"As do I. More than anything."
Connie looked to you–the tears turning his hazel eyes emerald green. "Can... Can I sleep here tonight? I... I know I should go home, but... I want to be here–where she is. I want to stay here."
Leaving the painting on the sofa where it could not burn you, you stole the whiskey from the table, blew out all the candles, and scooped up your kitten to lead Connie by his hand up the stairs.
As you turned the corner of the last bit of the banister, there was no mistaking Niccolo's grief-stricken weeping from behind his door. You should comfort him; you knew you should. After everything you had done to the grieving widower, comforting him was the right thing to do, but you only walked slower instead of stopping entirely.
"Leave him be," the wind whispered. "I have him." And you chose to trust the wind as your mind needed some air of your own.
Connie knew his place and shuffled into the guestroom to throw himself on the bed. He finally looked his age not that his childish armor had crumbled to sand. You sat on the bed's edge, smoothing out his shin through his trousers before you pressed the whiskey to your mouth and took three massive sips. It burned, as you hoped it would, and no ice could cool the pain. Only Time would extend the reprieve you didn't deserve.
Lucy waddled off your lap to burrow herself into Connie's chest, but her comfort only drew the mourner's attention to your forlorn imbibing.
"Give me some of that," Connie demanded you to return his poison, and he took his own long sips until the small bottle was half empty.
You each took turns drinking in indigo deafness. There was no chirping or ticking. Even the owls were afraid to interrupt the sickeningly-late wake with reminders that life still existed somewhere far away. It didn't take long for the liquor to singe away your stillness. You swayed with each breeze you couldn't feel or hear, but the silence became more unbearable with each sip. So much of this summer had been silent.
"Did you warn your mother you might stay the night?" you asked.
"No. She knows not to worry. She knows I get up to bullshit like this."
"I'm sure she still worries."
"No. No, she doesn't." Connie feebly laughed as he slurred, "One less headache in her life if I stopped coming home and ran from everything for good. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it. Right?"
"Don't say that. I don't like hearing you so... so–"
"Honest?"
"Pained," you corrected. "You usually run off when conversation grows heavy. I'm surprised you wanted to stay. Especially here, of all places.
"That's 'cause I'm a good liar and a better runner. I've been lying and running for... it'll be three years in January. Isn't that right? Hard to think it's been that long... You know, people like us–we spend our whole lives lying and running from everything. Work. Feelings. People. But it always catches up to us, doesn't it? In one way or another, the truth always catches up to us. Right?"
You answered by stealing the bottle and catching up to Connie in drunkenness.
Connie continued, "And sometimes, I like lying, and I like running. I like living and thinking about what is instead of what coulda been, but the past always catches up. She always catches up. You get it. You understand how I feel. I know you do. Don't you?"
Connie looked for reassurance, so you gave it away freely. "I understand," you said. The alcohol on your breath reached your eyes, forcing them to water.
"I knew you did. You're like me. No. No... you... you aren't like me. I wish you were. Maybe I'd feel less alone if you were like me. But you're not. You wanna run like me; you've got nowhere to go yet. But when you find it, I don't think you'll ever come back. I always come back, but you won't."
"I'll come back. Just like you, I'll come back."
"No. Not like me. You won't run away from something. You'll run to it. If you're gonna be a runner, that's the one to be: running to, not from. And you'll run to, while I run from. I've known you since before you could walk. Even then, you were crawling to something: your old man, a piece of cake, Sasha, me. You'll run to. You will. You know it. I know it."
You were too drunk to understand Connie's fatuous pearls of supposed wisdom. Instead of failing to make sense of it all, you studied his rough hand running over Lucy's fur that comforted him much more than it did her. And you ached for him. Although you may not understand his words, you understood his heart.
"You're wrong," you said, "Your mother does worry for you. If she didn't, she would have left you in Philadelphia to fend for yourself. We all worry about you when you run off."
"Are you still on that? Leave it to you to get stuck on life's unimportant things."
"You're important, Connie."
The fool sat up with forearms and elbows bracing into the mattress to stare through the darkness, which forced Lucy to leap from his chest. Even through the shadows, you saw Connie's exhaustion–not just the physical but the mental taxation from years of running. He laid back down, rolled over, and buried half his face in the pillows.
"Go to sleep. You're drunk," he mumbled.
"So are you."
"Yeah. I am, aren't I?" He cracked an eye open and sent a defeated smirk down the line. "Best be careful. The ladies say I've got a silver tongue when I'm drunk. I've heard that pitiful men are alluring. Might make you fall in love with me after I finish crying."
You cringed at his shift in energy, but a sizzling snicker flamed from your nose. "Is now really the time to crack jokes?"
"It's my way of running when there's nowhere to go. You know that. Don't you?"
"I know," you confirmed as you stood up to leave and gave your kitten a longing glance. "Do you want to keep her for the night? She's a good snuggler but might bite your nose in the morning."
"Leave her. I could use a love bite or two."
"Alright. If you need me, you know where to find me. Sweet dreams, Connie."
"You, too, Sash."
She always catches up, Connie repeated in your head as your hand shook against the guest room handle and clicked it closed. She always caught up, and now she was in the same room. Sasha was the inescapable ghost that haunted your features until they morphed into hers. There was no running from that. No matter how fast anyone's feet kicked, no one could outrun Death's distorted memories.
You left Connie and your kitten to find the sanctuary of your bed. Niccolo's sniffles still snuck under the slit of your door as you hid from Death under the quilt, but the sounds subsided the further you forced yourself into sleep. If you could not extend your apologies to your guardian in wakefulness, you could at least give them to his wife in dreams in the hope that her wrath could be exorcized from your damned existence.
You pictured the painting that possessed the parlor while the world went black. Warmth rolled in waves, and the swells carried you almost to the edge of dreams until heavy footsteps snapped you back into your body. Your eyes flicked to the moon-illuminated wall clock, which read half past one. Before you tried to fall back asleep, the steps creaked down the staircase. In the twenty or so minutes you waited for them to return, they never creaked back up.
So, again, you tried to sleep. The warmth. The waves. The swells. Any second, you would fall into the dream's abyss and grovel at Sasha's feet once you hit the bottom, but then a hand shook your arm in the physical world.
"Can I sleep in here?" a voice asked.
Wiping the crust from your blurred vision, you found Connie standing before you with Lucy lying along his forearms. There was a slight tremble to his shadow. Searching for the wall clock again, you read quarter to four and shifted over to make a place for him. Connie greedily stole half of the small bed until you were almost entirely pressed against the cold wall. Lucy snuck between your stomach and the wallpaper before slipping back into her own dreams.
"What's wrong?" you asked through dry gravel.
"Nightmare."
"Are you–"
"No. And don't ask. I just want to sleep." You closed your eyes with your back pressed to Connie's arm. "Sorry if I touch you. I'm a restless sleeper."
"It's fine. Just try to sleep, Connie. You're safe here."
Your third true attempt to dream was the final one.
The familiar, black abyss stole every part of your vision. There was no one–just you. You began calling out for Sasha. When she did not appear, you screamed for Marco, but both of them failed to appear.
Suffering steps turned to languishing leaps. Nothing appeared, and no one came. No matter how many apologies you screamed or visions you attempted to conjure with failing magic, no one came to hear your spells. It was just you. No matter how far you ran, it was always just you.
Sitting down in defeat, you sprawled over the darkness. The floor was cold yet soft enough to melt into once failure was final. You sank deeper and deeper into nothing until it engulfed your very being in the warmest ocean currents. You tasted dirty water and heard liquid slosh over your ears as an impossible tide engulfed your figure. There was no telling where the darkness ended and you began as lines blurred in the shadowy ether.
"I'm sorry," you bubbled, and waves kissed your cheeks.
The smell of cedar smoke cut through the isolation, but you ignored it to float through resignation. Your mind turned to water with the lapping surf. You heard nothing but waves for the first time in a very long time–no voices preaching self-loathing or painful whispers on the wind. Everything was empty, and strangely, you were desperate for more. In life, you fought silence, but you reveled in it in sleep. Although you could not answer for your heinous crimes against the ones you loved most, the universe granted you quieted clemency. You appreciated it.
The smokey smell grew stronger as the waters covered your eyes. Another second, and your nose would be the final physical casualty of peaceful dreaming. You inhaled one last time, expecting the water to swallow you whole. Sweet and smoky, you half-heartedly attempted to call Sasha forth through smell alone, but you secretly hoped she would stay away.
Instead, all you breathed in was cedar.
A cold hand tore you from the warm waves and shoved your back so deep into the solid ground that every bone and organ was crushed under an invisible mountain. The water hastily receded from your skin until you regained all your unwanted senses. Only when you sat up and gasped for air did the pressure disappear, and your eyes popped open to find Mother crouched before you under a star-dusted sky with flaming cedar turning to ash between her fingers.
She tossed the branch into the waves, only to scold you, "Is this how you use our gifts? To float through grief like a duck? God, you are a strange creature."
You looked around to find yourself waiting by the lake instead of floating in the black abyss. The earth was muddy and cold under warm palms. You squeezed the muck to feel something real, but your fingers left no impression.
"Am I dead?" you asked, and a warm fog spilled from your lips.
"No, just dense. Very, very dense." Mother joked as she joined you in the dirt. "Don't you have better dreams to dream?"
"I was looking for Sasha."
"Oh, I know. You were so loud, only to give up before really trying. In fact, I believe the whole world probably heard all the commotion. Sasha! Marco!" Mother mocked your helpless calls.
"So they heard me and didn't come."
"Oh, don't take it personally, even though I'm sure you will. They're busy comforting their people. If you wanted someone of your own, you should have called for me. You're all I have to worry about anymore and good Lord, do you worry me."
You ignored her jabs and asked, "Where are they?"
"Use your brain. Where do you think?"
Marco was obvious. You could practically see his soul across the fields, glowing in the Yeagers' house. Sasha was easy enough to guess. "She's around," you answered. "She's in the house. With Connie. Niccolo. Someone else."
"Look at you using your head for once. You've put her in such a terrible position with that annoying husband of hers, you know."
"I know."
"And you're lucky to have her. She puts up with so much and still fights for you. I knew Sasha would be a good presence in your life, even when she was small as a squirrel, but she's often too good for the trouble you're worth. I told her it was time for you to learn a lesson, but she said you've learned enough. You're lucky. Very, very lucky."
"I know."
"And you better not waste her goodness or your good fortunes. Otherwise, Life will teach you a lesson about being appreciative that not even I can shield you from."
"I know." You turned to see the house. A candle flickered in the kitchen window, and Sasha's silhouette paced and flapped behind the glass. You waved to her, but it was clear she was not flapping at you with how she stomped about. Her figure retreated deeper into the house toward the direction of the parlor, and your expression hardened before you attempted to stand. "She's angry with me. I should go speak with her."
Mother placed an icy hand over your shoulder to keep you seated. "No. Give it to the morning to find out. In the meantime, why don't we have a mother-daughter chat?"
"Why? So you can call me stupid twenty times using a hundred different words?"
Mother laughed, and you heard the warmth in her cold breath. "Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose that depends on what boring subjects we busy ourselves with."
"I'm going to say something, and you can't get upset with me: you don't act like a proper mother."
"I was only a mother in life for a few minutes at best. I'm closer to being your sister than anything else. Do you expect a woman my age to be gifted with a moody teen without practice?"
"And what is that age?"
"Twenty-three," Mother answered.
Twenty-three. What was there to talk about with someone so young, yet so aged by infinity? If any of this was real, she already knew what you had been up to. Mother could follow you anywhere, just as Sasha could, and it had been some time since you intentionally cleansed them away with cedar smoke of your own. Besides, the only idea you wished to discuss was how to run from the dead. That was most assuredly not a conversation your deceased mother would take an interest in. She would only scold you for being weak.
So, you did as you almost always did when starting a conversation was tricky: you pressed your lips together and looked for something to stare at. The whimsical water. The cerulean-painted moon. The network of luminous, celestial lines connecting the sky together. Anything but the house and your mother.
"How are you?" Mother eventually asked. Her voice was silky, and so unlike her harsh nature.
"You can see everything, can't you? You have seen how I am."
"I know, but I want to hear about it from your voice and in your words. Tell me how you are doing, little one."
"Not well."
"And why is that?"
"It's obvious."
Mother sighed at your obstinate curtness. "I'm not playing this guessing game with you. I lack your father's patience."
"Fine. Do you really want to know? I've ruined all the trust I've built with Niccolo, Sasha is so disgusted by me that she refuses my apologies, and I can't be in a room of friends in the real world without catching a case of the vapors! And, to add to all that, the one person that can pull me from the panic is leaving tomorrow, and I may never see him again. There? Happy?! That's what you wanted to know, so take it!"
You glowered at the lake with such a burning stare that the waves would bubble with steam if you had willed it hard enough. Mother sat in silence as she took in your outburst. There was no dark shift in her aura, although an eruption such as yours would have warranted a flogging had Eren given the same lip to his mother. Then again, your mother was locked at twenty-three for the rest of her existence. She self-admittedly lacked the maternal instinct of a true parent, and perhaps she lacked the punishments of one as well.
"He would have hated him, you know," Mother said softly.
"I'm not going to pretend I know who you're talking about."
"You don't have to; I'll tell you. Your father and that boy you're sweet on. Your father would have hated him to bits. But I like the boy. He makes me laugh."
The shift in conversation tugged you from your stewing in an instant. "You do?"
"I do," Mother snickered. "I appreciate how blunt he is with you, and he's a funny one when he's not pretending to be so serious. You need someone like that. You're too... emotional. But you and I both know what your father would say, 'Oh, dear, he's not good enough for her! What kind of profession is painting? What do you mean she's in love with a French man!'" she mocked Father's voice as she had mocked your own, and you heard her love again. "What's the boy's name?"
And at the thought of your own beloved, your anger subsided entirely. "Jean."
"You do love him, don't you–this Jean of yours?"
"I... I don't know. I think I could."
"You think?"
"We've only known each other since June. We couldn't even stand to be in the same room without bickering until mid-July. It's too early to know, but I think, with time, anything is possible. He's good to me, and I enjoy being around him, but it's much too soon to put any–"
Mother stopped you short of reciting a novel regarding the true nature of your feelings, "That's a lot of explaining for a yes-or-no question. From what I've seen, you're quite taken with him."
Suddenly, the idea of the dead being able to watch your every move sent shivers down your spine. You asked, "How much have you seen of him and me? Of us... together?"
"Not much. I only watch the two of you when you're out and about or separated. Otherwise, I'm in the woods with the deer. Believe me; I've experienced my fair share of romancing with your father. I don't need to see yours, too. That's just... odd." You breathed a sigh of relief upon learning that your mother had no knowledge of your more intimate moments. "Although, I do sneak into his dreams from time to time. He has enchanting little dreams. You've seen them."
"I have?"
"Yes, you have. The one with the house on the hill. The one with all the leaves during autumn. The one where you two are happy."
"No, that's one of my dreams."
"I'm afraid it isn't, little one. Haven't you ever wondered why you have no agency there the way you do here? It's because it's his imagination running wild—not your mind seeing visions. You just happen to walk into his world and live the life he wishes for you like one of those stringed puppets. You may not love him yet, but I'd bet good money on how much he loves you–no question about that, my little dream walker. And look how easy it is for you to talk to me. See? Not once have I called you dumb! I did almost call you moody, but I caught myself. Not so different, are we?"
The sun began to poke its head over the distant treeline, and you knew this conversation was coming to a close. Only your mother would drop such a weight on your shoulders moments before she would flick you awake.
"... And what am I to do with this information... about his dreams?" you asked.
"Appreciate it the way you should appreciate Sasha's meddling in what should be your issues. Even if the love fades away with time, appreciate that you were ever loved by anyone at all." Mother brought her fingers to your forehead, and you accepted the inevitable flick. "Goodbye, little one. Have fun, be safe, and eat something when you have the chance. We'll do this again when I see you next week."
"Next week?" you managed to squeak out before the nail found your brow.
"Next week," she confirmed. "And not a moment sooner. One more thing: I'm proud of you for proving me wrong. You might be dense and moody, but you aren't half as weak as I thought. You survived, and I'm proud. I love you, my little fool."
Mother flicked her fingertip against your skin, and the dream was over just like that.
Your eyes snapped open to find a new pair of golden ones and puffed-up fur staring you down. Lucy hissed inches from your nose, but when you attempted to scooch away, an arm wrapped over your ribs and a hand cupping your breast kept you locked in place. Lucy dashed and bit the hand so hard that you were released in a heartbeat.
Connie yelped behind you, and his entire weight hit the bedroom floor loud enough to shake the house.
"What the hell?!" he yelled, and the fool's screeching aggravated your minor hangover. "Oh, Jesus, my hand... my head..." Your kitten lept over your exhausted figure to hiss at Connie. "What was that for, little shit?"
Lucy hissed even louder, so you groaned an answer Connie could understand, "I don't think she appreciated your hand on my chest."
"What are you talking about? Oh, dammit! Did I... I grabbed your... I'm so sorry, Y/n! Please, don't tell Niccolo; he'll kill me! I swear, I didn't mean to squeeze your ti—"
"It's fine, just..." You took a second to collect your thoughts as the pounding behind your eyes grew more excruciating. "Just... shhhhh. No more talking. Not until I've had some water."
"Are you getting some? I could use a glass. My brain is split."
"I'll bring up a jug," you told him, and as you snuck out of your bedroom, Connie crawled back into your bed.
You paced by Niccolo's room, and his door was wide open. Dawn had only begun to warm his walls, but enough light filtered in to illuminate his unmade bed. That was strange behavior–even considering last night's resurfaced bereavement. Niccolo always kept his bed neat and tidy. Like the little fool you were, you inched into the bedroom, searching for your father figure, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Your footsteps grew faster and more frazzled as you tiptoed down the stairs. No kitchen fire filled the walls with breakfast's sweet, smoky smells, and no movements echoed through any corner.
Everything was silent as Death itself.
For the last two years, even when Niccolo was at his lowest and ate nothing himself, there was not a single morning where he did not cook. There was always tea, eggs, or ham. Something. But today, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Where are you, Niccolo? your mind began to panic.
Once you hit the bottom step, you rushed past the parlor, hoping to encounter your guardian in the kitchen, but again, he was missing. Breaths turned airless with each desperate inhale you took. Did he leave? Where would he go? Was he alright? You had to start looking, but where should you even begin?
Armin entered through the backdoor as you contemplated whether to exit the kitchen. Soft, blond hair bounced with its usual lightness as though all was well and there was no missing person to locate.
The author smiled brightly and attempted to say, "Good morn–"
"Have you seen Niccolo?" you cut him off.
"Oh, I'm afraid not. He had yet to come with tea this morning, so I thought we were–"
"I can't find him. Anywhere. He's not in his room. He isn't in the kitchen." Bile rose into your throat at the thought of the worst coming to fruition, and anxiety bubbled into your voice, "He stormed off to his room last night after he saw the portrait. His room was empty when I woke up, and his bed was unmade which is so unlike him, and I don't know where he went, and I'm–"
"My dear, do calm down. What portrait?"
"The one Jean painted for him. The one of Sasha, and–"
"Of Sasha? That was his birthday present?"
"Yes, and I'm afraid that it upset Niccolo enough where he–"
Armin placed a hand over your shoulder to add firmness to your unstable hysteria. "My dear, I'm sure he is around. A painting would not send a man over the edge so easily. Perhaps he went for a morning walk. Would you appreciate me coming along to look with you?"
You nodded. Not knowing what else to do, you bolted back to the foyer in search of your boots with Armin close behind. You shoved in your feet, leaving the laces untied, as you had no time to concern yourself with bows, but a haggard whisper stopped you from running out the door.
"Y/n," a broken voice called from the parlor. "In here. Come here. Please."
You hadn't seen the corpse stretched on the sofa under a blanket in all the panic, but once you did, you wished it had never appeared.
Niccolo's wrinkly, dry face showed a lack of peaceful sleep. His under eyes were puffy and discolored enough that the skin bulged above his sunken cheeks. His hair was rough and oily; his clothes were the same as last night's; his body was stiff as an hours-old cadaver.
"Come," Niccolo repeated. "Sit. Both of you should hear this."
"Oh, goodness! Niccolo, what happened? You look absolutely dreadful!" Armin exclaimed.
You stepped inside the room to get a better look with slow, unsure footing. Armin stood over your shoulder as you sat in your favorite, floral chair. The cushions were so much more uncomfortable than you remembered them being.
After glancing about the room, you realized there were no empty liquor or wine bottles to explain away your guardian's disheveled state. A painting had sent Niccolo over the edge, and he broke alone without poison's assistance. Sasha's portrait rested where he had left it the night before. Her soft, beautiful smile did not fit the room's ugly aura in the slightest.
"Are you alright?" you asked. "Can I get you something? Tea or–"
"No," Niccolo cut you off. "I... I couldn't sleep in my bed, so I came down here, and I... When did Connie leave?"
"He didn't. He's still in my room. He was in no condition to return home, so I put him in the guest room, but he had a nightmare, so he came into my room and... Are you sure I can't–"
"I'm fine. I just... I–"
"Was it a nightmare?" Armin asked, but Niccolo shook his head.
Unable to control your fear, you rambled again, "Niccolo, please, listen. I am so sorry about the portrait. I had no idea that Jean intended to give you such a gift. And, while I am already apologizing, I'm so sorry for my impertinent behavior as of late and for everything I have put you through this last month. I am–"
"It was a dream," Niccolo completed his thought to shut you up. "A wonderful dream. So wonderful I wish I could sleep forever. Sasha was there, and she yelled at me with her beautiful voice all night—criticizing my controlling nature and how harsh I had become and... and I'm sorry, Y/n. I'm sorry for punishing you." Tears welled up in his waterline. "I never intended to hurt you, but she told me that was precisely what I did. And I know dreams aren't real, and that it was my mind attempting to cope with her image in the frame, but I found clarity in even a false, furious version of my perfect, gentle wife.
"It sounded like her: ridiculous, soft, and true. I leaned on her and listened all night to every sweet scolding she gave, and it was the most at peace I have felt in years. I realized that you and I both had a love to lean on. Sasha was that love. Once she left us, you bottled every feeling for so long to ensure that everyone had a love like her's to lean on–so that I had somewhere to lean on–while you stood on your own. But you finally have someone of your own to lean on. Who am I to stand in the way of that? Who am I to keep you from the same peace I enjoyed last night? You aren't a little girl anymore. I'm not sure you ever were one. You deserve peace. So, if you want to go, go. Lean on your love while you have it. Armin, you invited Y/n to the city, so take her."
You blinked and exchanged looks with Armin. He matched your bewilderment. Your whole world had come undone in a few seconds, and it all seemed too good to be true.
Where was the venom? The dagger? The hopelessness? When would they come?
"Could you repeat that? I'm afraid we must have misheard you," the Londoner spoke up when you couldn't.
"She will go. Y/n, you will go to the city with them. Sasha and I always talked about taking you, but we never did. So go."
"Is this a test?" you asked. "To see if I will leave?"
"Do I appear to have the energy to test you?"
"... No."
"You're right. I don't. I spent it all on my speech."
You committed Niccolo's hollow, dirty eyes to memory. "I... I can't leave you like this. I can't go. The city is far from safe, and you will worry, and–"
"You can. You can go. Armin will keep an eye on you. I trust him. And the door will be unlocked when you return. I regret ever saying otherwise. Besides, you and I require a much-needed break. So many years alone together is a long time. We have driven ourselves mad."
"But... But I can't leave Lucy. She can't come with us, and you don't know how to take care of–"
"Write me a list of what she needs. I will look after her until you return–whenever that may be. Now, stop your excuses and leave before I come to my senses." Niccolo reached for Sasha's portrait and brushed his fingers along the frame as he shut his tired eyes. "I'll have this hung before you get back. Maybe the dining room. Maybe the kitchen. Sasha would like the kitchen. Maybe, if I sleep, she can... she can tell me where she'd like to go..."
Niccolo faded fast until little snores synched up with the clicking grandfather clock. You sat dumbfounded under folded hands with each rise and fall of his chest.
"Y/n?" Armin prodded for your hypnotized attention. "We have to work fast if you do wish to come. I told Jean I would meet him and the driver at the Yeagers' house promptly after breakfast."
You flicked to Niccolo's sleeping remains. "I... I can't. Niccolo is in no state to be alone."
"Constance is still here, is he not? We can ask him to keep watch while you're gone. So, do you wish to come?"
You weren't sure. You knew you shouldn't—that you should stay in the house where you belonged.
So why did you nod your head at the author's question?
After that, everything blurred together. Armin helped you upstairs, explained the entire situation to Connie, who was more concerned about where is water was than Niccolo's situation, and helped you pack. Clothes were held before you, and you nodded and shook your head to approve the outfits without understanding what was going into your trunks. The Londoner packed your money, books, shoes, hats, and even your undergarments while you either redressed in proper attire or knelt on the floor, petting Lucy in a confused fog.
You did remember the author disappearing into the sewing room and returning with that red dress and a small bustle to pack away, saying that you needed at least one captivating gown for a lovely night, but other than that, your wardrobe was a mystery as he led you down the stairs.
In all honesty, as much as you had once dreamed of running off to the city, this was not how you ever intended to leave. It was difficult to appreciate a dream's unbelievable gift when you were not sure it was not genuine in the first place.
There was no logical reasoning for any of this to be real. You were supposed to apologize to Niccolo, he would send you upstairs when you inevitably ruined the conversation with your temper, and that would be the end. Niccolo would never bend to your desires over a dream. You were supposed to stay in the house, Jean was supposed to leave, and you were both supposed to learn how to live without each other.
Most of all, you weren't supposed to end up happy; that wasn't how your existence was meant to play out, and you had grown accustomed to that notion with each drop of Life's endless array of trap doors. Happiness wasn't a card you were meant to pull from Fate's deck, so there was only one other possibility: you were still dreaming.
That had to be it. What else was there for a dream walker?
Before Armin ran to collect suitcases from his cabin, he sat you at the kitchen table with paper and ink. He instructed you to write out how to care for your kitten, poured you a glass of water, and left you alone. Instead of writing, you listened to the birds and sipped. They tweeted beautifully with anticipation of autumn's impending arrival. You longed to be as excited as them, but the lack of control only filled you with fear.
How would the world be different when you awoke? Would reality ever feel real again? With how real everything felt at that moment, would you ever be able to discern lies from the truth?
The author returned, and when he saw the empty page and glass, he poked for answers to fill out the instructions himself. Your voice was weak as you recited the words Jean supplied you with the day before, and once there was nothing left to recall, Armin led you to the front door.
With two suitcases in hand, you spared Niccolo one last glance. For the first time in years, he honestly did look to be at peace. The sight should have brought you some comfort–you wished it did–but you were too restless to share in your guardian's serenity. None of it was real, and lies could not bring comfort.
Even during the mile walk to the Yeagers' house, you felt this odd sense of surreal weightlessness: almost like dying all over again. Something deep inside screamed to turn around, go home, and fall back into routine's comfort, but the wind pushed you forward. You lacked the agency to swim against the flow. It must be someone else's dream.
Your bags did not weigh you down. The lightness confirmed your sneaking suspicions, but Armin's weight seemed so guileless as he huffed and sweated through the almost half-hour walk. He whined about his trunks' brutal burden and how he felt closer to an ass than a man, but his words felt fabricated. Too real.
You could ask him to stop and pinch you to prove your tired existence, but you feared that if the imaginary author put down his bags, he wouldn't have the strength to lift them again. It was not his dream, as no sane man would freely choose to exhaust himself pretending to be a mule when he should be sleeping.
Even when the stagecoach and Yeagers' house appeared through the dreamy delusions, you fought to see through the mirage's vapors–to find some flaws in your false reality—but there were none. This dream was too well crafted. But it couldn't be real. You were still dreaming and would wake up in your bed beside Connie in a few hours. How many times could you repeat that in your mind before you honestly believed it?
"Morning, Y/n!" Mr. Ness greeted you as you approached the horses. "Let me grab those bags from you. You here to see your friends off?"
The driver stole your weights. The brush of his hands against yours felt as real as any touch, but you knew the truth. Mr. Ness would not dream of traveling so far away, and he would not anticipate you coming along, so this was not his dream either.
You didn't feel the need to converse with lies, so Armin's ghost spoke for you instead, "If it's not too much trouble, she plans to come on the journey, as well. Y/n, my dear, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the carriage? It will be such a lovely surprise for everyone to see you, so we best keep it hidden until the last moment. Wouldn't you agree?"
You snuck into the pretty wagon, shut the door behind you, and made yourself small in the corner. The cushions felt real as you sank into them, as did the curtains you had drawn closed to conceal your presence.
The waiting began, and the stuffy, warm September air felt real in your lungs, but dreams could be convincing as they were conniving. Each breath made you more tired than the last. Yawns widened your mouth, and it was only a matter of time before you broke free from these impossibly strong visions.
You heard hushed voices outside–Eren the loudest of them all. It wasn't until your best friend swung open the door and appeared shocked in the sunlight that you acknowledged his false existence.
"You're going with them?" he asked without even sparing a hello. The replica of Eren was true enough to his character, so you nodded at the question.
Mrs. Yeager peeked in behind him and added, "By yourself?" You nodded sleepily again.
"How the hell are you going to get back alone?!" Eren asked, and you shrugged, as the concern of returning home wasn't possible, seeing as you were already there.
Eren would never dream of you leaving without him. It couldn't be his dream.
Mrs. Yeager clicked her tongue with a shake of her head. "Well, that won't do. Eren, run to your room and pack a bag. You need to go with her."
"What? But I can't just go with them. Armin didn't invite me, and what about work?"
"I'll talk to Mr. Arlert, and after I convince him and send you on your way, I'll break the news to your father. Niccolo must be out of his mind, sending her away without–" And Mrs. Yeager shut the door, making it harder for you to hear their fakeness.
Carla would never dream of sending both you and her son away, but now the possibility of this being one of Eren's dreams was back on the table as you and your best friend had spoken about running off before. Although you did not necessarily find comfort, this new answer came with a better sense of understanding.
Now that you were alone again, you sank until your head and shoulders collided with the wall. Lids grew heavy until they closed, breaths smoothed into even loops, and muscles relaxed into a loose puddle.
Eren's layered dream clutched you so forcefully in its claws that they pierced your flesh when the door creaked again. Your sleepy eyes blinked open, and where you expected to find Eren coming in to disturb you, you saw sweet honey flickering in total awe.
The door shut, only to reopen a second after with Jean planted firmly in the entrance. Sunshine cloaked him in the most beautiful suit of gold that you knew could only exist in dreams. Armin waited just behind your beloved with the sneakiest grin creasing his pink cheeks.
Eren wouldn't willingly put a reunion between you and Jean into a dream. That would better serve as a nightmare for your best friend. There was a new realization, and with this one came genuine peace: this was another of Jean's dreams, which explained why it was impossible for you to break free.
At least, if you could not say farewell, your compliance would serve as your final show of adoration toward him. You would play your usual part as his favorite marionette for as long as you had the energy. You smiled weakly at the sunny apparitions, and with your last bit of energy, you played your role with as much sincerity as a truly exhausted girl could muster up.
You wanted to stay awake a few moments longer to give Jean the same peace he wished of for you, but your mind was tired of endless visions of false happiness. When you awoke again, you would be in the lake house where you would fester with this silent, sad ending until you learned to live with it the way you always had since birth.
"Good morning. Wake me when it's over," you told him before falling asleep.
. . .
Noise roused you from sleep–not to the sound of wind blowing from the lakefront but snickers shaking the carriage. Your eyes cracked open to see Jean pinching his smiling lips while Eren held in laughter over his shoulder. The little black book of sketches was opened to its last few pages before them.
"Wow. I hate to admit it, Kirstein, but you did well. How'd you draw her so fast?" Eren whispered.
"Her face is easy. I could draw her in my sleep."
"But you even got the drool about to leak from her lips. It looks wet, even. She sleeps like a man with her mouth open like that."
Jean found no humor in Eren's joke, so your beloved shouldered your friend on their side of the carriage. "We all open our mouths when we sleep sitting up, salopard."
Eren returned the blow, only for the two to start shoving each other with mutual antagonism. Even in dreams, they struggled to find peace.
When the two began to curse and spit insults, Armin chastised them in a whisper from beside you, "Don't be so loud. This is precisely why I sat you two children on the other side of the carriage! Let the poor girl sleep, and end your needless bickering already! I'm sick of it, I tell you! Sick of it!"
So this vision was just another layer of a deeper dream? Falling asleep again would blow it away, so you did just that.
. . .
"Y/n," Jean's gentle voice and hand shook you awake. "Wake up, mon huître."
Your eyes blinked open for what felt like the hundredth time, and late afternoon sunlight burned into your pupils. You tapped your tongue against the roof of your mouth, and the taste was that of a nap stretched too long. Jean's hand felt real, the sunlight looked real, and your spit tasted real, but you knew the truth.
"How is it not over?" you asked, full of exhaustion.
Jean laughed at your frustration, "Your home is far from the city. We are stopped at a little town to water the horses, lighten our loads, and find something edible. I know you wished to sleep, but we cannot have you making a mess on the seats or getting an infection from holding everything in all day."
"I'm fine. It'll be over soon," you waved him off in another attempt to escape into reality.
Jean tugged you back into dreams. "No. You need to get up, mon huître. Come with me."
There was no escaping him, and Jean fought hard to keep you by his side. This is your final show of adoration toward him, you reminded yourself and complied with his last wishes.
As your beloved led you to a latrine behind an inn, you prayed it was not one of those dreams where you would find your clothes sullied in the morning. You were far too old to have such a mishap, but the sensation felt so real that you had a feeling you were royally screwed.
Even as you ate in that same inn with all your companions and Mr. Ness, you couldn't find a fault. The lemonade was ripe with its usual sour-sweetness, and the fried, boiled, and roasted foods smelt rich and real as if Niccolo had cooked it himself. Maybe Niccolo had cooked it, and you were only smelling the residual scents lifting from the kitchen.
It was impossible to discern the truth with Jean sitting by your side: how real his hand felt as he secretly squeezed and thumbed over your thigh underneath the table; how real his voice sounded each time he asked in a hushed whisper how you were feeling; how real his aroma of foresty rain smelled in your nose every time you inhaled; how real his honeyed eyes glittered each time he flashed a glance and a smile to your side.
But that was not the worst of your sensory confusion. The worst came when the food was finished, and it was time to climb back into the carriage. Jean waited for everyone to walk ahead with their attention entirely fixated on the destination. With their eyes busied, he guided you into a shady spot underneath the inn's porch and stole a kiss from your lips.
His taste. That was the worst: how strongly he tasted of home. It was even worse when you returned that fleeting kiss but swallowed the bitterness that polluted your own mouth.
"I am sorry," Jean whispered on your lips, "I needed you to know wonderful it feels to hold you, but words were not enough."
You wanted to believe his faultless kiss and honeyed lies, but it was all too perfect. Even the way he dropped your laced fingers as soon as you slipped into the carriage to keep your closeness private was too perfect.
Once you had no tether to your dearest love, you fell straight into your seat to slump over for what you hoped was the last time. That was your final show of adoration, you repeated. Now, let this be the last of it. Let me sleep on my own without wishing for more. Let me learn to live with this pain before it consumes my very being in a pitch-black lake of yearning.
. . .
It was loud. So very loud. And bumpy. And smelly–like horse manure baking in a July heatwave. Your eyes creased with displeasure at all the noise, jumps, and stenches, but your lids clung tight to the darkness. Although the sound of chatter filling the night air and horse hooves pounding on stone never entirely disappeared, the bumps did. There was some shifting and movement of weight, but you stayed asleep.
Then, there was total silence. You were almost there–you could sense it. The end was almost over, and you would be in your bed.
How a few hours of dreaming could feel like a day's worth of life was beyond you. Time never did feel real anymore. It moved fast for one second and slowed at another. This was just a continuation of a long-established pattern.
Then, something pinched your cheek so hard you gasped and reached for the skin. Sounds and smells flooded back in as you opened your eyes. Before you, Jean waited with an expectant smile, and his fingers were only inches from where you had been stung.
"Ow!" you cried. "What the hell was that for?!"
"I tried to whisper you awake, but you did not stir. I might have believed you were dead if not for your breathing."
"That doesn't mean you pinch me!"
"Yes, it does. Armin and Eren are already inside picking up the keys, your driver wants to go to an inn outside the city for the night, we need to bring the bags to the rooms, and there is still dinner to consider. I needed you to wake up so everyone can get on with life."
As you rubbed the wounded flesh, the pain pulsed with each pump of your heart. The ache was so sharp that it was enough to wake any fool from the deepest slumber. Even a little teaspoon of your sleeping medicine wasn't strong enough to hide the shooting.
And the reality of Jean's pinch finally pained you much harder than his fingers could ever.
Despite all the efforts to convince yourself that this world was fake, it was very much real. You were awake and had been awake during all those little windows of the day. You had packed your bags, climbed into a carriage, and kissed Jean in some little town miles from home.
But it couldn't be. You were supposed to be falling, and you had become so accustomed to falling that the idea of a minor pinch being the final trap door was impossible. Reaching the bottom was impossible. This was impossible. There must be more. There was always more space to fall.
But there wasn't. This was real. You were in Manhattan. The noisy sounds, the obnoxious bumps, the questionable smells... You made it to the city. After nineteen years of dreaming, you finally made it.
"Y/n?" Jean steadied your spiraling mind with your name. "As much as I enjoy watching your wake up, we must go inside."
"Tell me this is real," you begged. "Please. Promise me I'm not dreaming."
"Should I pinch you again?"
"No. Just a promise. I only need a promise."
"If you are already in awe, I cannot wait for you to see the room."
"Jean. No fooling around. Please. You have to promise me–promise me this is real."
Jean's playful face turned serious upon noticing how close you were to crying. With his calloused fingers, he wrapped himself around the hand clutching your cheek and said, "This is real. I promise."
His confirmation of your insanity was the sweetest gift you would ever come to appreciate. Not just the gift from Jean, but the one from Sasha, too.
French Translation:
Salopard = Bastard
Author's Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY CONSTANCE, AND HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY SUMMER!! This fic is a Taurus, just like me, hehe. Also, thank you all for 30k reads & 1.5k votes! I know I've said this before, but I'm still shocked that anyone reads this story; it means so much that y'all willingly sit in on my therapy sessions for free <3
Now this part will be unrelated to anything anyone cares about: I went to an earth day festival to grab some local wildflowers for my bees and butterflies, but I also found a solid perfume that smells lavender and cedar scented (just like our bbg Y/n). It was made for our dreaming queen, and it actually helps me sleep lmao