Following breakfast, Eren lightly treaded beside you. Jean walked three long paces ahead beside Armin, who was detailing the various means of transportation for heading uptown. He had learned them all from a hotel clerk earlier that same morning. A dry map crinkled in his hands louder than late-autumn leaves. There were mentions of coaches, trollies, and even walking.
You followed the words outside rather than contribute to the planning. You lacked the heart for planning. For talking. For anything, really.
"What is wrong with you and Kirstein?" Eren whispered in your ear. "He looks like a deadman, and you're acting like one."
An instant sweat formed on your upper lip. The genuine consideration made you feel ill at ease. If Eren could take notice of your curses, then the whole world surely already had.
Jean was seemingly engrossed in conversation. He also listened closely to your slightest whispers. A backward glance assured you of that.
"It's nothing," you lied in a breath.
You hated the sound of your voice.
Another quick, honeyed glance followed.
It disappeared just as quickly.
"Did you two fight?" Eren asked.
"No." Your voice was so unpleasant to hear back.
"So why the long faces? Kirstein's starting to put Lady and Carrot to shame."
"Our room was... hot. We slept poorly." You sounded nasty, like muddied gravel.
"Really? My room was freezing."
"Then I hope tonight will be more temperate for us all."
Eren received your ugly lies with a mundane acceptance. "You'd think, in such a fancy place with fancy water and fancy food, they'd find some fancy way to control the temperature."
"Man can only control nature so much."
"Or maybe autumn is creeping up on us." An attendant opened the lobby's front door and allowed your group to exit. Sharp sunbeams pierced your uncovered hands, and sweltering air blew across your cheeks. "Or not," Eren whined, using his hand to block out the sun. "This is what I get for complaining about the cold."
A dry gust nearly sent your sunhat into a pile of sizzling manure. You held tight to the brim and hid under the shade. "I wouldn't mind if autumn came sooner. I need a new season."
"You know, I'll be off to college come that new season you crave so badly."
"Even better."
"Hey!" Jean glanced again at Eren's outcry just in time to catch your friend throwing an arm over your shoulder. "Don't lie. I bet you'll be crying like Martin the day I leave."
"Oh, yes. I'll be absolutely inconsolable–" you agreed.
"Of course."
"–For a few minutes. After that, I'll be more than alright."
Jean looked away.
"Try a few months," Eren said. "You'll be lost without me. There'd be nothing to do."
"You so often forget that your own brother and Hitch are just as important as you think you are. Now, will you unhand me? I've already had one person confuse us for newlyweds, and I don't need–"
"Who confused you for newlyweds?" Jean asked over Armin's ramblings.
"Oh, we didn't tell you, did we? It was Colt Grice," Eren spat with enough venom to kill all the horses dirtying the block. His grip on you tightened. "He was asking for selfish reasons."
You squirmed from Eren's hold. "Stop it," you said.
"What selfish reasons?" Jean jabbed further.
"Same reason he promised her our tickets," Eren answered.
"Promised us," you corrected.
Jean ignored you. "Elaborate, Yeager"
"Colt Grice wants to see whether Y/n wears straight-hemmed or lace-trimmed drawers."
"Eren!" you gasped.
Armin gasped, too. "Did he say that? Outloud?"
"He didn't need to," Eren said. "His eyes said everything his stuttering mouth couldn't."
"You can't say things like that publicly," you chastised in a clenched-tooth whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because!"
"Should we not attend this game then?" Armin asked.
Eren scoffed with a smug smirk. "No, we're still going. Just because a man is a dog doesn't mean I won't take the birds he brings."
"Just stop it," you warned. "You're twisting the truth to suit your preconceived notions. He seemed nothing but harmless yesterday."
"Oh? I'll tell them what little we know about Colt, and they can decide how harmless he is..."
Eren went on about Colt Grice through the streets, into the carriage, and up forty of the eighty blocks separating you and the destination. He hit every point, from Colt's poor attention as a brother, to his jellied spine when scolded, to the small looks and awkward conversation he shared with you. Eventually, Armin steered the conversation toward the weather rather than the man who gifted you tickets. From then on, Eren mostly forgot his peculiar hatred toward Colt Grice.
It was a long half-hour of jabbering.
But it felt even longer with Jean silently stewing beside you. He was so quiet–so relaxed. It was awfully eerie. You contemplated apologizing for Eren's instigatory nonsense, but that would only be another excuse. Father always warned you as a girl not to accept gifts from strange men, yet you had done it all the same. Father was assuredly rolling in his grave.
You dared not face Jean's expression. The idea of seeing your scarred face in blazing, honeyed mirrors terrified you. The ghost of his hand dug your sleeves as Father's shame burned through carriage curtains in distorted sunbeams. They both came with a terrible ache that shackled your throat in compulsory silence.
Each bump in the crumbling cobblestone brought a more profound sense of dread. Every shake of the rickety coach door pounded louder than the parlor's grandfather clock. Any clopping from the horses ratcheted your anxieties until your mouth scorched in dry damnation. The sinking set in. Further and further, you melted into cushions with such a lousy posture. Sit straight, your mind screamed, but your heart wanted to disappear in stained linens.
And then the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
"Are we here already?" Armin asked.
The driver opened the door before anyone could answer. He ushered all from his wagon and worked on finding new passengers the moment Armin handed over payment. You were barely off the steps before new people stepped in, and the carriage was gone before anyone knew up from down.
The green oasis of a park stretched down the left side of the road for miles, creating one massive hole in the climbing skyline. A lake simmered on the closest edge. Waterfowl cruised through rippling, green waters. Their small wakes reminded you so much of home.
Lucy appeared in heat waves. Her little body waddled along the shoreline, searching for minnows beyond her reflection. Lady, Carrot, and Voltaire materialized, too. They took sips from the lake after a long ride through the woods. They were unburdened. Unbothered. So unlike you.
Niccolo came last. He was weary; beaten; more like you. His aged mirage brought only a more profound sense of shame. How you wished to dive beneath green glass to wash what spray baths failed to cleanse.
A sharp bone jabbed your arm where ghostly fingers still dug. You eyed the lifted elbow extended toward you. It waited as a wordless offering.
You did not take it. Not at first.
"This is where you take my arm," Jean offered with words instead of actions. "Or are men in America such pigs they do not escort their ladies?"
"I'll be fine," you said, not wanting to add another burden to him. "I can walk on my own."
"I know. But I am not sure I can. So very tired."
Then, you looked into the two things you knew you shouldn't: Jean's eyes. No hostility, acrimony, or estrangement found you. Only exhaustion, softness, and mild amusement turned up cracked lips.
Jean prodded you again. "If not for your sake, then for mine. Will you hold me up?" he asked loud enough for you to hear over the crowds.
There were hundreds of reasons not to touch him. You ruined his morning with nightmares, bruises, and excuses. Then, you destroyed his afternoon by dragging him uptown and allowing Eren to run his mouth half the ride. All you had left was to engulf his night with your burning touch, and there was nothing left to lay waste to.
And you would never be the one to hold Jean up—to hold anyone up. Not anymore. Strength was no longer a part of your nature. Perhaps it never was.
But there was one reason to latch onto him and never let go. A selfish, burdening one. Selfishness was the only thing you did well as of late.
So, you hooked your arm with Jean's, effectively severing yourself from impending doom in a way only his touch could. With that small gesture, a heavy, invisible coat of self-loathing fell forgotten in the streets of Manhattan, if only for an afternoon.
"Polo grounds... Polo grounds..." Armin mumbled ahead. Or maybe he was behind. Regardless, he studied his map closely. "If this is Central Park... And this is Fifth Avenue... Then that is the... Harlem Mere? This is Fifth Avenue, isn't it?"
Eren stole the map away and said, "Let me see... What does that sign over there say?"
"Maybe... 104th? Or is that a five? Or two? I can't read the writing well enough to know for certain. The wood is so weathered."
"Well, did the concierge say what street the field is on?"
"Between 5th and... Or was it 7th and... 110th? 111th?"
"Are those answers or questions?" Eren crumpled the map, shoved it in his pants pocket, and turned in the other direction without a map to guide anyone. "Oh, forget it. It's straight ahead. I'm sure of it."
"I would prefer it if we trusted the map over our intuition."
"I can't imagine an entire baseball field is difficult to find."
"Or we could ask that gentleman over there for dir—"
"A real man never trusts a stranger's directions," Eren barked back and charged ahead. "I'll find it."
Jean tugged you forward to follow after Eren's recklessness. In any other circumstance, the close-quarter-crowds would be overwhelming. However, busy roads and a strong arm were welcome disturbances today.
He held onto you so tightly, like he was afraid you might wander off into the unknown. It was far from the most outlandish fear one could have, seeing as you had a penchant for running where others could not follow, but today, that should be the least of anyone's worries.
You were afraid to be more lost than you already were.
Suddenly, when the street you were on intersected with another, Jean stopped while you continued forward. He pulled back, nearly causing you to tumble to the stone. Despite being so tired, Jean still kept his wits about him. He corrected your course into his chest instead of the ground. You held on tight, fearing another wrong step might separate you from life itself.
Jean pointed to a skinny pole on the opposite corner once you found your footing. "Look," he said.
You did look. You sank with heavy disappointment after finding the sign that loomed above everyone's heads. It plainly read "E 103th St.' in fading, white letters.
Both Eren and Armin had already crossed the street. Armin stood beside your friend, looking even more helpless than he did with the help of his trusted map. He made eye contact with Jean across the street, but Eren kept moving forward. Or, in this case, backward.
"Cervelle d'oiseau!" Jean yelled over the sea of heads.
"What?" Eren yelled back, knowing the call was meant for him and him alone.
"Wrong way!" In the same breath, Jean spun you around to walk up the street in what was theoretically the right direction. "It is too hot for this."
"We should someone ask for directions," you suggested with Armin's sanity in mind.
"There is no need. I know where we are."
"But–"
"We go up. Not down. The rest is easy."
Jean led you up many blocks with little hassle. People cleared the streets like the parting of the Red Sea. Perhaps it was because of Jean's abnormal height, or it may have been the dark circles that made his face even less approachable than it already was when spirits were high, but you were in no position to complain. If ghostly appearances made the walk quicker, the crowded waves' parting should be a blessing.
But it did not feel like one. Maybe it was just you.
Eren and Armin eventually caught up. Your friend whined about how he would have figured out the right direction with more time. Jean answered with his usual biting remarks. You phased the bickering out once 109th Street became 110th. Eren's half of the argument went dead shortly after that.
That was when the stadium appeared.
The Polo Grounds, and it was like everything else in Manhattan, was unbelievably expansive and outrageously busy. The climbing walls of the Giants' stadium stretched down the entire block, dwarfing seas of people in all-consuming omnipresence. How could a building be so plain yet so beautiful at once? This champion of architecture, constructed of weathered wood, rusted nails, and battered shingles, was the most marvelous temple American civilization would ever forge. No church–no matter how beautiful the stained glass or opulent the golden embellishments–would ever elicit the same open-mouthed stare you bared for the whole world to see.
So many food vendors were wafting so many savory smells that saliva blocked your airways. So many people laughed with so much lightness that your ears sharply rang. So many advertisements blared with bright colors that you almost went blind. So much of everything fought off previous nightmares until there was hardly any space in any overstimulated brain to fester.
But there was still space. There was always space somewhere.
Eren gave a weak smack to your untethered arm in some poor attempt to prove his paltry existence. "Is this Heaven?" he asked.
"We should all pray to all the merciful gods that this is not Heaven," Armin laughed. "I hope Heaven might smell more strongly of frankincense than mystery meats."
Jean hummed in listless agreement.
"Europeans will never understand. Not in a million years," Eren grumbled as he walked ahead. "Let's grab some provisions for the afternoon before making our way in."
As Eren navigated seas of eventual spectators, you glanced up to find Jean's shadowed lips drawn in a stiff line of dispassion. He must have felt your stare on him because he glanced down. Sleepy apathy disappeared. A fatigued interest replaced it with a closed-mouthed smile and a single raised brow. Jean looked away to scan the crowd, but the softened expression remained. That softness stole the remaining space so swiftly. It even stole your ability to blink.
"So, how are they different?" Jean asked you.
"How is what different?" you asked back.
"This game from your game. The Busted Balls and this... Baseball. How are they different?"
"More rules and running involved." You finally blinked and looked around to ensure Eren and Armin were still somewhere in sight. You found them buying enough roast nuts to kill an elephant.
"I see. So it is even worse," Jean groaned.
"No. Baseball is as fun as a sport can be... And are you saying Busted Balls wasn't fun?"
"It was..." Jean smirked, clearly enjoying the rise he was getting out of you. "Something. Would you be offended I nap through this?"
"You won't be able to in the first place. I doubt the crowd would let you."
"You and I should play our own game to make the day more interesting. Would you like to bet?"
You genuinely smiled for the first time that day. Maybe it wasn't you. "Name the stakes."
"It is simple. Your crowd must wake me. Not you. Not Armin. Not Yeager. Should you win, I will give you what is left of my fortune."
"And how much is that?"
"Some pounds. Twenty at most."
"That's all you have left?" Jean directed his attention to your necklace, which rang with gentle guilt at each synchronized step. It was you. And you regretted your choice of words the moment they left your mouth. "You shouldn't bleed yourself dry for me."
"I have my blood and will leave before there is nothing but blood. But should I win... You will buy me a house."
At first, you gave nothing but a confused look to the side. Jean nodded to confirm his half of this nonsensical bet.
"I can't afford a house," you said.
"Not today. In a few years. It can be small. A shack even. The furniture can be old, or we can have no furniture at all... But it must be on a hill, and there must be enough land for me to keep a dozen sheep. Maybe a few more."
"Sheep? What would you do with a few dozen sheep?"
"Shear them. You will use the wool. I will sell everything you make at a market somewhere. Then, once we have enough saved, I will buy you a studio to sell instead."
"I wish you could hear yourself. Next, you'll convince me this is a wise investment."
"It would be. We would own land."
"You sound too much like Connie for my comfort. Have you ever truly seen the clothes I make?"
Jean looked down at your skirt. "Did you make this?"
You glanced past your necklace. The sun-flowered hem had collected enough of the city's grime to wrinkle your nose. "I did," you answered.
"Then I have seen, and I will bet one decent nap and my entire future on it."
You contemplated his words while Eren and Armin secured the afternoon's grub, for lack of a better word.
Such a deal would create twice as many headaches as it solved. You would keep Jean close and ensure his dreams were nothing but pleasant. Not to mention, the old life you built in that hateful town would crumble into long-forgotten ruins.
But, in the same breath, shouldering Jean's weight would become a daily requirement you may not be strong enough to carry, and much of your life resided in that terrible, little town–your self-made family and your handful of friends.
Besides, you knew of no hills with enough land to keep a flock of sheep. The only place you knew existed in dreams. You knew nothing about caring for lambs, processing wool, or buying a house. Could you even buy a home without some level of assistance?
Mr. Braus had negotiated the sale of your old home after Father passed, and it was Mr. Braus who was kind enough to pass that money off to you once it was over rather than keeping it for himself. Maybe he knew of some land and would help negotiate the terms for that land and pricing to build a small cottage on it.
There you were, in an ocean of strangers in a city where no one knew who you were or cared to learn more, attempting to rationalize how you would purchase a home based on a silly bet you had no business agreeing to.
As ridiculous as it was, the implications never left you.
How could you come up with the funds for such a purchase? If you worked twice as hard, you could earn twice as much. If you ate half your meals, your expenses would decrease, too, but you were much less fond of that reality. As Eren dared Armin to chug a bottle of their acquired soda pops without belching, you crunched numbers and made goals. Armin declined his own bet with boisterous laughter. It would be wise for you to do the same, but you found an obsessive wonder in entertaining ridiculous notions. It couldn't be easily ignored. Living beyond the present kept you calmer than ever before.
By the time the ticket booth appeared, Armin had enough roasted peanuts and popcorn to feed twenty squirrels, Eren struggled to handle half a dozen red-hots, and Jean somehow got stuck lugging around the bag of beverages–some soda pop, some beer. You grappled only with fictitious finances with nothing to hold but an arm.
Accessing the grandstand was the most effortless piece of this grand pilgrimage. Following some mild disbelief from the box office clerk, Eren explained that Colt Grice left tickets in your half-real name. The trade was simple as it was free—no payment required—just a simple passage up the many stairs that would reveal the gates of American Heaven.
Once you reached the top of the stands, Heaven materialized in an emerald field, a ruby clay in a diamond cut, and pearly uniforms stretching in a great grass sea. The onlookers that already filled so many of the seats hummed in thousands of conversations with a buzzing so impossibly loud that focusing on your math became impossible.
Jean had to give you a slight tug toward your intended seats, but your gaze remained fixed on the rich field below. Not even the blinding sun could steal your vision.
"Holy shit," Eren whispered. "Oh, he might be a shitty brother with wandering eyes, but I could kiss that bastard. Give me a few drinks, and I just might."
You walked down so many steps until you were only nine rows behind the Giant's dugout. Spectators occupied all but four seats on the edge closest to where you stood. All walks of life surrounded you as you sat between one of London's wealthiest bachelors in Armin and a working-class son turned talented but poor painter in Jean. Rowdy youths with even younger wealth shriveling at the end of their cigars, small families spending what few dollars they had on one great game, older men laughing with friends as their wives shared the same haggard expression as Jean.
And there you were—a girl with no living family who survived off the kindness of friends and the funds of strangers.
Eren was there, too.
Baseball was the great equalizer. Equal. Complicated equations cleared themselves into a simple one-to-one. Equal.
You turned to Jean. He had already reclined into the wooden seat and dipped his hat to block out the sun. His eyes closed, and his arms crossed over his broad chest. Any second, time would steal your hopeful future.
"If I win, you'll buy the house," you told him before he was gone.
Jean tipped his head to you. "What?"
"If I win, you'll buy the house. That's what I'll wager."
"What are we betting on?" Armin asked over your shoulder. You ignored him.
Jean bobbed his head in deep compilation. He gazed over the field. With each second that passed, his flat expression curled upward.
Finally, he said, "Deal."
"You can rest on my shoulder," you told him. "To hold you up. You'll need that advantage."
Jean leaned over to rest his shoulder against yours. His eyes shut tight, and he was good as gone.
"I want to join the fun! What are we betting?" Armin asked again.
"Ignore them," Eren jumped in. "It's probably something strange. Or, knowing Kirstein, perverted. Hey, Y/n, wanna try some of my street meat? Smells good enough. Probably won't kill us."
Now that Jean was on his way to what you prayed would be peaceful dreams, you gave your other friends your primarily undivided attention.
"Did you grab anything sweet?" you asked.
"Kettle corn?"
"Good enough."
Eren passed you a paper bag, and you and Armin dove straight in. Before the players finished warmups, half the popcorn was gone, along with half of the red-hots and two dozen roasted peanuts.
"So, how does this game work?" Armin asked as politely as a man could with a pile of shells littering his lap.
Eren was not nearly as well-mannered as sausage grease glistened on his chin. "You like cricket, Armin?"
"I'm not particularly fond of most sports."
"What?! Nothing?! What about... What sports do Brits play? You have horses there, right? You play polo?"
"Do you have football in England?" you asked.
Armin answered, "Oh, yes, but I was never coordinated enough to play either game growing up."
"Either?" Eren asked. "You have more than one football?"
Armin looked between you and Eren. "Rugger? Soccer? Have you never heard of them?"
"Those aren't real words. You just made those up."
"I can assure you they are both real words."
"Oh, yeah, just like you called me a 'gigglemug' last night and claimed it was a real word."
"It is a real word! The definition is in the letters!"
You giggled out, "A gigglemug?"
Armin looked at you and pointed a finger right at your smile. "Right there?! Giggle-mug! I swear, it is as real as the hair on my head!"
Armin flinched a second later. He snapped to Eren, who held a strand of gold hair between his fingers and studied the piece closely.
Eren sighed and said, "I like you, Armin, so I'm choosing to believe you for now. But if I find out you're playing little British pranks on us with your made-up words, we'll have a chat about it." He flicked the hair onto the floor. "Now, here's how baseball works..."
Eren went through the rules. Armin struggled with the concept of foul balls, especially regarding the two-strike rule, but eventually grasped the general gist. You added the occasion caveat or missed detail until the players finally took the field in preparation for the first inning.
"So, your team, the Giants, they... toss the ball first?" Armin asked.
Eren answered as he pointed to the field, "Exactly. The mound where that player is standing is the pitcher's mound. That player is obviously the pitcher. He'll throw to the catcher, the gentleman at home plate. The pitcher's goal is three strikes. The other team's batter, the ugly-looking son-of-a-bitch walking up, wants to place a good enough hit to get on base. Maybe get a home run if he's lucky. A grand slam is the ultimate prize. Make sense?"
"Perhaps it will become more clear as I watch."
Five innings came and went. Although Armin learned plenty about walks, hits, and even a home run, none of the good lessons came from the Giants. The visiting team, the Nationals, made the New York pitcher look like a schoolboy after three runners made it home. The Giants only had an equally giant donut to show for all their effort on a distant scoreboard.
"I know girls that pitch better than you!" Eren and thousands of other booing fans screamed at the pitcher's mound.
You glanced at Jean amidst all the endless jeers. His mouth parted slightly as though he had something to say, but his eyes were sealed shut when you peeked beneath his hat's rim.
"I mean, this is embarrassing!" Eren screamed again. "What a waste of money!"
You corrected your friend, "We didn't pay for the tickets."
"And thank god for that! I've seen Martin skip rocks faster than this guy!"
"That guy still pitches faster than you."
"But I don't get paid to pitch," Eren sneered. The pitcher tossed the sixth inning's first throw. A ball. "Goddamnit! Imagine if Zeke were out there! Management should have taken Zeke! Maybe then this game wouldn't be such a waste of my time!"
Armin, a silent observer for much of the previous innings, finally allowed Eren's nasty behavior to poison a kind heart. "Throw a strike, you ninny!" Armin yelled in his posh accent but collected himself just as quickly, "I'm sorry. That was too harsh, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, you ninny!" Eren joined in, which only incited some of the drunkards a few rows back to parrot him. "Throw the damn ball before I put on a uniform!"
Another ball, another roar of anger. You looked around, feeling terrible for the poor soul on the mound as the crowd buried him in six feet of insults. His guilt must have quashed any confidence he may have had left. You knew quiet hatred well but not this vociferous loathing. It was too much to carry.
The worst came when the coach and another player rushed to the mound. They gave the current pitcher a hushed talking-to, and the old pitcher switched with a new one.
The crowd had not cheered so loud all day.
Eren cheered, "Thank god! That's why we call 'em relief pitchers!"
"Eren, stop it," you scolded. "Your abusive behavior has overstayed its welcome."
"We're in Manhattan! Everyone here is rude. I'm engaging with the culture!"
"I don't care. Put a pin in it, or I'll prick you myself."
Eren rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out. "So, you get to partake, but I don't." He slumped into his seat to watch the game, but your blistering gaze burned holes into cotton until Eren sat up straight again. His eyes narrowed at the field until they opened in realization. "Hey, Y/n?" he asked.
"What?"
"Is... Is the new pitcher... Is that..."
Eren pointed across the field. You followed his finger to the mound, staring at the newest player to grace the clay.
Sure enough, he was on the pitcher's mound in the crispest, whitest uniform you had ever seen. Blonde hair barely poked out from beneath his cap. He rolled his head and shook out lean muscles. Before prepping his throw, he looked anywhere but home plate. His head tilted toward the third baseline until you felt his stare. You recognized the man's face as well as you could when over fifty feet separated you and the target. Despite only meeting him once, there was no doubt in your mind.
The relief pitcher was none other than Colt Grice.
"Pitcher. For the Giants," Eren said in disbelief. "That buffoon-of-a-brother is living Zeke's dreams. This changes everything."
"How so?" Armin asked.
"Either I'll thrash him after the game for wasting what belonged to my brother, or I'll bless his marriage to Y/n if he turns this around."
"There will be no marriage," you grumbled.
"What do you mean, 'no marriage?'"
Jean moaned on your shoulder. He readjusted his napping place and settled for a cooler spot on the sun-warmed fabric.
You stared at the mound without blinking. The top of the inning came and went so fast that you barely needed to blink anyway. Two strikeouts and a pop fly were all it took for players to trade sides. You finally blinked when the crowd rumbled loud enough to shake your seat from the quick finish.
Colt jogged into the dugout with the rest of his team. His catcher caught up with him, exchanging a few words and congratulatory pats as they approached. A pink smile became more vivid, and Colt waved to you. Eren waved back instead, flapping his arms like a bird and pointing at the perfect seats. You smiled with your mouth, but your eyes stayed still. Not even a twitch. Nothing.
The game's tides turned following that inning. The Giants' batters, who had previously struggled to get so much as foul tips, were now landing perfectly placed hits in the outfield. Before you could reach into the peanut bag and crack open a few hard shells into Armin's growing pile, the distant donut on the scoreboard became a partially eaten, pretzel-shaped four.
Never before had you heard so much cheering. The thunder on the stand's stone shook the world down to its core. The rumbling assuredly reached the Capital with the commotion's intensity. Every time an umpire called a safe or a strike hit leather, you did not look at the runner, the pitcher, or the umpire.
You looked at Jean, first for nightmares from the past, then for dreams of a future.
But Jean did not stir. Not even a heavy breath or a grunt. Absolutely nothing. A soft, shaded smile of a happily dreaming fool under the cover of a dark hat graced you each time.
The eighth inning rolled in, and you were so distracted by that gentle smile that you barely noticed that the Giants had bases loaded with two outs. You only knew that Colt Grice had taken a stance at the plate because Eren shrieked his name like a girl in love. Jean's smile was so pretty that you missed the first pitch he swung out. You missed the second and third calls, too. Both balls. Relieved sighs filled the air, and you knew the next pitch was an out by the hitched breaths and the screams of terrible calls.
That smile was so pretty that it was well worth losing most of your senses and the thousands of dollars it might cost years down the line. It was so perfect that you wanted to flick off the hat shielding the rest of the pretty face hiding underneath and place a perfect kiss on his full lips. It's so alluring that you almost missed the woody chip of a foul tip.
The onlookers in front of you either stood up from their seats or covered their heads with their arms. Those who stood flapped their hands in the air. You only spared them half a second before returning your gaze to a thin trail of spit leaking from Jean's corner.
He always did drool a bit in his sleep. It might disgust you in the future. For now, it was his most endearing feature.
Screams of, "It's coming right here!" were so close. You weakly shushed them, but no one listened.
Only a British accent could rip away your bliss when he cried, "I can't catch!"
You finally looked around to find the source of the sudden screams, just in time to see a little white speck appear in the sky. It grew larger until a speck became a dot. Then, it became a ball dropping right above Jean's head.
In your peripheral, Eren reached over to steal the ball for himself, but he stumbled over Armin's shaking knees.
Before you could think, you stood with everyone else. You reached to your right, stole the hat from Jean's head, and held it open like a glove over his head. A weight crashed against your covered palm, and a stiff silence followed.
You looked down at Jean, your hand throbbing with a terrible ache. His sudden lack of support mildly annoyed him, but his eyes stayed closed as his head rolled in the other direction.
Cheering erupted from the seats around you. The claps and hollers were deafening. Jean shifted again.
A man sitting behind you leaned over your seat and grabbed your shoulders. He rocked you side-to-side with all the familiarity of a father as he applauded your catch. His mistress, or maybe his wife—it was hard to tell with how young she appeared—patted your back strong enough to send a sting even through your dress.
A sharp inhale came from beside you. Then, a small grunt. Jean shifted a third time, his arms tightening around his chest. You thought you saw his lash line flutter, but it may have just been the shifting of his bangs.
"Oh, are you alright?!" Armin cried.
You tried to answer as you sat back down, but sudden hands lunged over Jean's sleepy figure. A new stranger appeared, a boy no older than you but certainly more wealthy in his fine clothes and expensive accessories. His wicked eyes focused only on the hat in your hands as he prepared to steal its contents.
Another hand shot up before you could even flinch away. A third pushed you to the side and into Armin's lap. Peanut shells dug into your backside.
Knuckles cracked loudly. The thieving boy yelped in pain. A shadow greater than any giant shielded your suddenly seated body, blocking the afternoon sun. The hot wind disappeared into an icy chill as the shade grew more ominous.
It was Jean's tense back loomed before you. Deadly contempt radiated from his aura.
"How old?" Jean asked the boy, his voice deep, dark, and full of sleep.
The boy whined, "Let me go, you freak! Do you know who my father is?!"
"How old are you?" Jean asked again. Several sickening snaps of joints followed.
"Seventeen! I'm seventeen!"
Jean pulled the boy in closer. You clutched onto the hat for comfort. "Tell your father I will let you live seventeen more. Should I see you again, your father will mourn you instead. Now, go, child."
Jean shoved the boy back. He crashed onto stone steps and hurried up and away a second after more cheers erupted. A pair of burly men intercepted him halfway up. From there, he was escorted out to God-knows-where.
Another crack echoed through the stadium, and Jean softened his grip. A deafening silence followed. Your eyes scanned the sky for another ball to come crashing down on your nose. Nothing appeared. You couldn't find anything white besides a few clouds, so you stood up and out of Armin's lap to get a better view. Still, you saw nothing.
"Goddamn," Eren muttered, still kneeling on the ground from his previous trip.
Everyone on the field stood still, watching something in the sky. Only the National's right fielder moved. He backpedaled so hard to the furthest edge of the field with his glove wide in the air. He jumped for something everyone was looking for; whatever it was sailed over him by an arm's length.
It was a home run. So easy. So simple. Just high enough to slip over the shoulder-height fence.
Colt Grice, the relief pitcher, a random stranger who couldn't keep an eye on his brother for an afternoon and whose mother didn't trust him alone in the city with developing a drinking problem, scored a home run in the bottom of the eighth, and with bases loaded no less.
The Giants' dugout cleared. All the players stormed onto the field while Colt rounded the bases. Spectators cheered so loud that pigeons on the rafters took to the sky. You were reasonably sure that Eren was crying, but it was too loud to know.
Colt Grice was Manhattan's hero of the afternoon.
But he was not yours. Yours was much closer.
You held Jean's hat out to him in the perpetual seas of chaos.
"I caught you a souvenir," you said.
Jean leaned in, his eyes clouded with equal parts exhaustion and rage. As he stared down at the foul ball, dusted with devilish red clay, he breathed a heavy sigh from his nose. Hot air roasted your hand. The air turned cold after a few seconds. He took the ball, quickly inspected it, and traded it for his hat. Then, he sat down. So did you but in your proper seat that time. He shielded his head with his cap whilst the cheering died and all the onlookers retook their places.
"Wake me when it is time to leave," Jean grumbled.
You let Jean rest for the few petty minutes that followed. The next Giant's batter scored an in-field home run. The applause was less clamorous than before, so Jean napped straight through it. The next batter struck out, only for Colt to strike out the remaining National players who dared to step up to the plate. The score ended in a breezy nine-to-three, with the first half of the game entirely forgotten.
"We need to go see him," Eren told you as the stands cleared. "We gotta go see Colt."
You peered over to Jean. His nose wrinkled in displeasure. His mouth turned down in a nasty frown. "I think it's better to head back to the hotel. I'm sure Colt has better things to do after the game than waste time talking to us."
"But he'll make time for you. In turn, he'll make time for me."
"I thought we didn't like him," Armin spoke up.
"No. No, no, no. Colt... We misunderstood him," Eren clarified. "You know, he was probably so overworked from training that he... couldn't look after his brother all that well. And he... He... Oh, screw lying, I want to see if we can get in the dugout. He'll probably let us hop over if Y/n asks nicely and pushes her chest out a bit."
"I'm not a chess piece to push around," you said.
"I never said you were! But you could miss out on an opportunity to meet your future husband! Imagine it: free tickets for life! He could even get Zeke a job as a coach! Think of the family!"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Come on. You're being–"
"Just go."
But it was not you who said it.
It was Jean.
"You want me to go?" you asked. It was your breath that burned like hellfire and stunk of brimstoned excuses.
"If it will silence Yeager, I wish you both good fortune with the future husband."
Eren mumbled to Armin under his breath, "Why are you friends with him? He's such a dick."
The guilt from your 'excuses' this morning acidified in your stomach until anger gurgled in the back of your throat. From where it came from, you had long forgotten.
You asked, "Good fortune? I never thought you'd be so eager to send me off."
"Y/n." Jean stated flatly.
"What?"
"Where are you sleeping tonight?"
A vexing question from an equally vexing man. You gave a similarly vexing answer. "The hotel. It's not like I have anywhere else to go."
"Where in the hotel?"
"In the suite, obviously."
"Whose suite?"
You softened. "Ours."
"And who do you intend to wake up next to?"
Your pinched eyebrows relaxed. Acid neutralized. Only guilt remained. "You."
"Then I will sleep soundly. Meet with Eren's lover so he can claim his first kiss. Lord knows he needs it."
"I was joking when I said I'd kiss him!" Eren squawked.
Armin tried to catch Jean's attention. "A gentleman does not leave his lady to fend for herself in a crowd."
"My lady has her dirty, little ball to keep her safe. She can throw it at someone if need be. Did I never tell you what she did to Yeager's bat at the beach?"
"I've had enough of this," Eren said as he grabbed your hand. "Let's go."
"Wait!" Armin caught you before Eren forced you down the stairs. You watched sky-blue eyes turn navy in a flash. "Jean, it has been a painfully long since I last wrote your mother. I do plan to write to her once we return home."
Jean stiffened. "Why do you say this?"
"Well, it would be most unfortunate if I had to include an anecdote about your refusal to chaperon a lady in need. Imagine what your mother might say when you go home for–"
Jean stood up. "Fine. I will go."
"Good man. Now, shall we go?" Armin offered to take you from Eren's hold, and you obliged. You walked arm-in-arm down the steps. When you were only four rows away, Armin whispered in your ear, "Would you like to hear a secret, my dear?"
"I suppose."
"An old friend taught me this, so I will pass it on to you: no matter how old, a mother's wrath can set almost any decent man straight."
"... Is Jean's mother that harsh?"
"That depends on your definition of harsh. I, however, adore her beyond words. Rest assured, you will, too. Someday."
"Y/n!" Your name carried over the wind. You looked down to the field from which it came to find a bushel of blonde, sweaty hair and a beaming smile.
Eren pushed in front of you. He stuck his arm over the railing and shook Colt until bones jiggled like jelly. Eren kept shaking as he said, "It's good to see you again, friend! Why didn't you tell us you were the damned pitcher! And a great one at that! I mean, that home run?! I've never seen a pitcher hit that well! Or at all, for that matter!"
Colt watched his hand go up and down with nervous eyes. "I guess it never came up."
"Well, it should have!" And Eren finally let go.
Colt refocused his attention to you, and then your arm that was still hooked to Armin's. That beaming smile fell briefly, only to reappear with a forced twitch. Colt reached his hand up to shake Armin's next.
"You must be one of Y/n's friends," Colt said. "My name is–"
"Colt Grice," Armin finished his thought as he took the extended hand. "I've heard so much about you already. And about your brother, as well."
"Ah. That's..."
"All good things! All good things!" And when Armin lied, he did so without breathiness or shame. Colt was none the wiser. "And it was a pleasure to enjoy your sport. You should be so proud of your talents!"
"Oh! Thank you. That is too–"
Eren butted in, not liking that Armin was stealing all the attention. "Hey, do you think we could hop down there? Maybe meet some of the team?"
"Oh..." Colt looked around with nervous eyes. "I'm not sure. I'd have to check."
"They can come down," another voice entered the conversation. A full of dirty blonde hair popped up from the shadows at Colt's shoulder. The player turned to face you, looked you up and down with blank eyes full of disinterest, and said, "This the girl you were ranting to Marcel about?"
Colt inhaled sharply. "I... I wasn't ranting." Then, his gaze snapped to you. "I wasn't. Honestly."
Colt's teammate introduced himself to you with an open palm extended wide. "Name's Pierre, Miss. Pierre Galliard. You can call me Porco. All my friends do."
"Porco?" you questioned, fighting back a giggle as you shook his hand.
Colt. Falco. Porco. Who named these children?
Porco pushed up his button nose with his free index finger until he looked like his namesake. "It's the button nose. Better than being called a swine."
"Pierre Galliard?" Jean finally pushed his way into the conversation. "Parlez-vous francais?"
"If you want someone to talk to, look for my brother, Marcel," Porco answered. "I don't speak French. I just understand it."
Jean replied with an unimpressed sigh. He disengaged from the conversation immediately.
"So, Porco, can we come down, or what?" Eren asked.
"You can call me Pierre, but sure. Just hop over the wall."
"Are you sure?" Colt asked. "I can't get in trouble twice in one week."
"Stop your bellyaching and move out of the way. I'll cover for you if anyone gets pissy. You can thank me when your bed's finally warm, Ponyboy."
Eren hopped over the fence as soon as Colt stepped aside. Armin followed shortly thereafter, nearly falling over when his feet hit the ground.
Before running off to introduce himself to the team, Eren turned to Porco, stuck his thumb at Jean, and said, "That's funny. I call mine Ponyboy, too."
With that, Eren scurried off into the dugout and introduced himself to every Tom, Dick, and Harry he could find. Armin peaked at you from the barrier before departing.
"Are you coming?" Armin asked.
"I..." You looked at Jean. "Are you coming?"
Jean tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips. Instead of stepping forward, he sat down in the front row with a sigh. "Best I stay here to help you and the idiots up."
"And I can help you down. Only if you need the help, of course," Colt offered from below.
Jean's apathetic appearance finally soured into a repellant frown. He gave a single, regretful glance. You returned it with an upside-down smile.
You turned back to Colt. His hopeful, hazel eyes would have been so pretty if you did not already prefer your reflection to appear in sweet honey.
"Although I appreciate the offer, this dress wasn't made for fence hopping," you explained. "And neither am I."
Colt took your answer with a stiff nod.
Porco waved you off. "Nice meeting you, Miss."
"And you, as well, Pierre."
"I told you, Porco is fine. Keep an eye on Colt for me, will ya? He's not allowed to drink this week. Can't risk another fine," he said before disappearing to join the celebration in the dugout.
Then, it was just Colt, Jean, and you. It was awkward at first. No one was brave or awake enough to say anything. Colt's eyes flew everywhere. Eventually, he did a once-over of your dress, but his eyes stuck to the ball in your hand.
"Someone gave you a ball?" he asked. "That was nice of them. It's good to have keepsakes."
"Actually, I caught it. It was one of yours, too."
"One of... Oh, god. Was it..."
"The foul tip?" you confirmed. "I'm afraid it is."
"That was you that caught it? One of my teammates it nearly struck a sleeping man, but a girl caught it–"
"In the sleeping man's hat. I was the girl–" You gestured to Jean. "And this is the sleepy man."
Colt began stuttering apology after apology. It was almost embarrassing how he groveled, but he meant well. No amount of reassurance would separate him from guilt, no matter how many times you told him they were unnecessary.
His little brother may have been on to something the day before; Colt may have been more like you than you cared to admit.
It took some time, but you drove the conversation towards the game instead of the events in the grandstand. Jean just sat to the side while you and Colt chatted about how the game started, how well it ended, and how well Colt played. When allowed the opportunity to talk himself up, Colt humbly chose to uplift his teammates.
"I'm nothing without Porco," he explained. "I swear he's the best catcher in the league."
"He's your catcher? I didn't realize."
"Yeah. He reads batters like smarter men read the paper. His brother, Marcel, helps him practice." Colt looked down the dugout, his eyes narrowing. "If we just watched his signals better, we would have been up all game."
"Well, you clearly watch." Your comment softened Colt's stern expression. His smile was so strong it aged his eyes two decades, at least. "I can only hope Falco was here to see you play. He is here, isn't he? I imagine he'd like to celebrate with you."
The warm smile faded fast. "Well... My family spent the day in the park... They came to my last two games, and I didn't play, so my father... but I'm glad that... Well, I'm glad that you still came. That I got to see you again. You know, if you aren't–"
"Hey!" Eren called, running over with a paper flapping in his hand. Armin followed close behind, very red-faced and out of breath. "Look! I got some of the player's signatures! If we keep this and your ball in good condition, I bet Connie could turn them to gold in a few years!"
"Ou une dot importante," Jean mumbled to himself.
Eren asked, "Colt, can you sign it, too?"
He shoved the paper and pencil in Colt's hands. Where Eren found them, you would never know. He ran off again to strike up more conversation, and poor Armin lagged like a lost pup, leaving Colt to sign.
As Colt scribbled on the page, you leaned down and said, "You were saying?"
Colt snapped up. His cheeks blossomed into hydrangea bushes. "Well, I... If you aren't... I'll be celebrating with the team after this, and then I made plans to see my family for dinner, but if you aren't doing anything tomorrow, I would love to spend the day with you. Get to know each other beyond what little you and I know."
"We are busy tomorrow," Jean answered. "And we are leaving the day after. No time for you."
Colt's shoulders sunk into his chest, but then an idea bolstered his muscles and rouged his cheeks redder. He scribbled down something else onto Eren's signature sheet.
"Well, in that case..." Colt handed you the paper. "If you're ever in the city again, you can find me here. Or you can write to me. Whichever you prefer."
You took the page to find a few neatly written lines on the bottom corner of a page of shaky names. Colt's signature beside the text was messy, but his mailing address was practically printed.
Colt took an interest in you beyond platonic civility. He wanted to spend a day with you, to write to you, for you to come back and visit him.
Eren was right, as much as you hated to admit it.
"Oh," you started. "I'm afraid I must inform you..." You turned to Jean, then back to the desperate man waiting at your feet. "Jean and I are–"
"Engaged," Jean finished your thought with a series of hasty lies. "She is not wearing her ring as we plan to resize it tomorrow morning. Too big for her. After, we are attending the opera. That is why we are busy."
"Engaged?" Colt asked.
"Yes, engaged," Jean confirmed with lies so honest even you believed him for a moment. "Do not look so wounded. This city is big. You will have options."
At first, your heart fluttered, but last night and this morning's memories came back in full force. Not once had he asked you to marry him. He had never even said he loved you, nor you him.
And to make it even more painful, Jean lied about something that should have been sacred: his intentions for the future. You felt like a joke, and your love was manipulated into a weaponized excuse with the sole purpose of hurting those who did not deserve it.
Suddenly, you hated excuses more than anything. Almost as much as Jean's lying.
"We are not engaged," you spoke up.
"You... you aren't?"
"No. But Jean and I are often very close. That is why I must reject your offer. I hope you can understand."
After such a triumphant victory, you broke Colt's heart in a few quick words. "Oh... I see. I... appreciate your honesty."
You tried to correct his heartbreak the only way you could, even if it was more of a pitiful consolation prize. "But I would be honored to have a friend in the city."
"... A friend?"
"It's wise to keep friends in different places. We never know when we might need a spare room somewhere strange. If you have space for another, that is."
"I do."
"So do I. Expect a letter from me in the future. Eren, too. He will undoubtedly become unhealthily attached to you. Speaking of the devil, could you find that fool for me and send him here? You should be celebrating your success, not waiting by the stands. Just try not to drink too much."
"Of course. I look forward to hearing from you."
"Likewise. Enjoy the rest of your season, Mr. Grice."
With a smile big enough to blind the world, Colt ran off, looking for your friends. The smile you forced onto your face evaporated with your true feelings. You sat beside Jean, tension pulling your lips taut.
"I hate how you lie so easily," you curtly stated.
"When did I lie?"
"Engaged? Really? You shouldn't make light of something so serious."
"Who said I made light of it? We are engaged."
"No, we aren't."
He scoffed with a smirk. "Physically, we are very much engaged."
It was like meeting Jean for the first time. You wanted to smack him upside the head, but you restrained your palm. "If your only concern is who I am sleeping with, then make that known."
"Would I feel this fatigued if that was my only intention?" Any lightness in his voice had died. "I am not the one asking for spare rooms in strange places."
"Don't twist my words. I lack the patience to set them straight."
Jean's tired voice awoke with coldness. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing is wrong."
"No. We are not doing this today. Not again. Last night, you were perfect. Then, after we left the room this morning, you were cold. Distant with me. In the sunlight, you turned sweet, only to turn bitter again. Something is wrong."
Morning's guilt became afternoon's vitriol. "Do you want me to make up another excuse? You seemed frustrated with them this morning. I would hate to exhaust you more than I already have."
"Why do you do this?"
"Do what?"
"Fight with me when there is nothing to fight over."
"Nothing to fight over? You may think you are so clever, hiding in your French, but I am smart enough to understand where our languages overlap."
"So something is wrong. Is this about... about that baseball boy?"
"Not everything wrong has to do with someone else. Sometimes, it is about us. About you. About me."
"What does that–"
"Kirstein! Help us up, will you?!" Eren called up from below.
Jean took one long look at you. He shook his head, deeming you unworthy of any more attention, and stood to help Eren and Armin into the stands.
Armin panted, "That was certainly... something. Good heavens, I am in desperate need of water."
"Not me," Eren laughed. "I need to drink! Maybe we should grab a bottle of whiskey and play a few games when we return! Kirstein, you wanna play me in billiards?"
Eren did not notice the tension as he led the way back to the park; he did not notice it when Jean offered you his arm again, and you crossed yours; he did not notice it in the carriage ride home when you chose to sit beside Armin. Or he did see and decided to ignore it. If he did, he was wiser than you thought.
But Armin visibly sensed it. He discerned your pettiness through glassy eyes when you stepped out of the carriage in a huff. If not for Armin grabbing your arm and forcing you to stay laced with him, you would have run up to your suite in a flash and locked the door behind you.
"You require rest, my dear," he said. "Such a long day. Why don't we enjoy a book in your suite while the boys have their drinks?"
Jean answered first, "I am not drinking. I am going to–"
"The billiards room with me!" Eren wrapped his arm over Jean's shoulder and tugged him away. "You can watch me get plastered while I eviscerate you, round after round."
You couldn't watch Eren drag Jean as far away from you as possible. You were too busy desperately trying not to cry over stupid arguments that wouldn't matter in two days' time. You stared only at the marble floors. Reflections looked colder in the stone.
Guilt and anger coated your tongue in bitter disgust at your actions, but they were too late to take back now. Not that you would take them back. Guilt and anger were useless excuses for your tears, but regret was not something you felt. Not at that moment.
"Come, dear." Armin took on the brunt of your heaviness. "Let us get you upstairs."
French Translations:
cervelle d'oiseau = birdbrain
Parlez-vous francais? = Do you speak french?
Ou une dot importante = Or a good dowry