𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐗: 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭

You flopped onto Eren's bed. Pillows slammed your face with a strong scent of regret: of cotton, of old wood, of faded antiseptic. You couldn't stomach their sickly smells without feeling eternally ill and instead breathed through your mouth to manage.

Collapsing in your room would have been preferable. There, sheets smelled more strongly of a brothel–of cheap flowers and cheaper sex–than morose, medicinal memories.

But Jean locked the door and held the key. You were much too proud to march to the front desk in search of a spare and much too meek to find the billiards room and face the death of love head-on. 

Silently, you craved morphine in each heavy huff.

Sunset's heat ignited Eren's bed sheets into an orange blaze. A thin line of frustrated sweat beaded above your lip. No matter how many times you knuckled the dampness, its bothersome, burning tide bubbled back, drowning you in frustrated thoughts.

Lying about something so trivial as a jealousy-fueled engagement should not break your heart like it did. It should have sent butterflies fluttering through your chest, just as it did when men would tell the same lies in books. Experiencing fiction in reality was far less romantic.

Perhaps you were receiving what you gave. Perpetual perjury was an integral piece of your personality. Never needing to explain your feelings; never needing to expose the truths that broke your heart; never needing to talk to someone if you didn't want to–lying made existence simple. Existing would only get you so far.

Now, a vow of honesty cursed your lips. Lying was no longer an option. At least, it was not one with Jean.

So, why would he use something as beautiful as earnest affection to hurt others with lies? To hurt you? How was that fair? It angered you to the point of tears. You refused to let them fall.

"Which might you prefer?" Armin called to you from Eren's doorway. He held one golden bottle and one red one out for you to see.  "Something stronger, perhaps?"

"How about a loaded pistol," you answered. Armin silently stood, disturbed eyes wide enough to reflect all of the sunset's blaze. "That was a joke."

Armin relaxed. "Ah. Stronger it is."

He stepped in, placed his bottles on the nightstand, and sat beside you. Next, Armin pulled something metal from his pocket and toyed with some dry paper on his lap. It noisily crinkled, but it was not the sound that bothered you.

It was the smell.

Not of alcohol, or blood, or lilies. The culprit was a freshly rolled cigarette stuck between Armin's fingers. Its pungent stench reeked of skunk spray in a tomato patch.

"I don't smoke cigarettes," you told him.

"You are in luck," Armin said. "This is not a cigarette."

Curiosity rolled you over, but it did not sit you up. "What is it then?" you asked.

"God's sole creation that can sustain me through my more stressful episodes. I have a nasty habit of keeping some on my person for such moments."

"Why does it smell so wrong?"

"'Wrong?' Its earthy notes are rather comforting."

"What's it called?"

"That depends on where you are. Ma. Ganja. Cannabis. I call it hashish. Jean calls it herbe. You may know it more simply as hemp."

"That is not hemp," you pushed.

"So you say."

"Hemp doesn't smell like that," you said, voice bordering on indignation.

"So you say," Armin said again, that time with a snicker.

"Why is it so different from my burlap at home, then, genius?"

"Because it's better."

"How so?"

"You ask so many lively questions when plagued with a fatal case of the glooms." Armin hummed behind pursed lips. "But, speaking from experience, it's as though thousands of ants crawl all over my body."

You grimaced. "And that's God's greatest gift? To be covered in ants?"

"Those ants you scorn so easily are made of sunshine and silk, carrying the heaviest burdens from my shoulders." Armin extended the roll to you. "Would you like to try? I can assure you that a little puff will have you feeling light as air in an hour's time. If God is good, half that."

You eyed the wrappings again. "Is it safe?" you asked.

"As safe as cigarettes and cedar, my dear. I can teach you as you taught me."

Armin struck a match to light the end of his fake cigarette. A thin trail of smoke, so much thinner than your cedar, wormed through the stuffy air. He pulled a heavy drag, passed the worm to you, and held a deep breath until his face turned scarlet. You took your puff and passed it back as skunky clouds spewed from Armin's mouth, returning whiteness to flesh.

The smell was so sickening that it practically pigmented all light into a putrid shade of pistachio. Smoke wavered in the sunset. You tasted ash on your tongue after the first pass. You felt sick after the second. You felt dizzy on the third.

*  *  *

After a heavy dinner of thick turtle soup, pork slathered in some oniony-fruity gravy, and enough roasted green beans and shallots to fill you from stomach to throat, you found yourself outside, roaming shadowed streets. You locked elbows with Armin as giggles filtered through the busy streets. He led you into a small shop on a quiet street where the air was as sweet as the company.

There were so many girls in that new place. Everyone felt like a mother; a sister; a friend. You liked it.

You liked how the dim chandelier chased away the night that attempted to creep in from the entryway. You liked the authoritative nature of the warmly stained wood and the security that came with it. You liked the wind singing with the scrapings of metal on ceramic and how the air smelled sweet and floral–almost like girlhood.

Armin sat you down at a table by yourself, and you had no fear. You smiled at strangers as those invisible ants crawled over your arms. They carried away your gloominess down into the subfloor, storing woes in anger's nest. The lightness of it all made you ravenous despite your fullness. You felt safe again.

Armin reappeared with two bowls and the most adorable dessert spoons you had ever seen. Inside, the smoothest serving of pink ice cream screamed your name on the breeze.

"For me?" you asked.

"For us," Armin answered. "I do hope you still prefer strawberries. I was going to ask, but–"

"Strawberry is just fine," you said, immediately digging in.

You couldn't stop eating. You had never eaten so much in your life. It wasn't even that the food was particularly delicious, although everything you had enjoyed thus far was lovely. It was the sensation of eating that you couldn't get enough of. It was addictive–how beans crushed between your teeth or ice cream melted on your tongue.

You finished your bowl, leaving nothing but clean, white ceramic glaring back at you. The fog of your reflection appeared at the bottom, turning your stomach. You pushed the bowl away.

Armin's bowl was still half full. He ate much slower than you, contemplating each mouthful like the scholar he was.

"What'd you get?" you asked.

"Lemon," Armin answered.

"May I?" you asked, already dipping your spoon into Armin's lemon sorbet.

He parried your spoon away with his own. You pouted. You pouted harder. Nothing changed. There was nothing to busy yourself with other than your distorted, sour reflection. Was that how everyone saw you? A pouting brat that could never settle for what she had? Your mouth dried, your heart raced, and your ants grew frantic. They turned from gold to red and began to bite.

You dropped the spoon back into the bowl to hide the bottom better.

"Are you alright?" Armin asked.

You struggled to articulate yourself as dirt filled your mouth. It was a nasty sensation–being buried. Every heartbeat in the room banged, but yours was the loudest. Everyone was staring at you without actually seeing you. Their hidden eyes burned your skin. Fire ants frenzied in your throat, melting old glass into magma.

Armin reached for your wrist and thumbed at your veins. "Breath. Focus on my thumb. Watch the pattern."

You watched each pass. One swipe. Two swipes. Three swipes. Armin repeated that simple rhythm until your heartbeat slowed with the sliding of his finger. Ants turned gold again.

"Better?" Armin asked. "Should I fetch some water?"

"No," you huffed. "I'm fine. I don't know what happened. I just..."

"You had a little too much. That's all. It's my fault. I forgot how youth feels."

"I was startled by my reflection, I think."

"Happens to the best of us. Marco had a strict 'no-mirrors' rule to avoid this situation."

You looked up at the mention of that name. Armin's eyes were so red. Was he crying? No, he had a massive smile creasing his face. Why did your eyes water?

"Do you want to hear something funny?" he asked. "It may lighten your spirits."

"I would," you begged.

"Did you know, when we first met, you entirely enchanted me?"

"What?"

"It's true. There was something about you that I found so familiar. I believe it was your soft playfulness mixed with the sharpness of your tongue. I thought it was charming. No, beautiful. You're the type of woman that men write poems about. Books, even."

Your mouth hung open. You squeaked out, "I can't... Are... Are you flirting with me?"

"No. No, no, no. Jean would beat me bloody. I am simply telling you what your reflection means to me–what it may mean to others."

You nodded in slow understanding. You felt a fleeting sense of sobriety as epiphanic waves rocked you in and out of a worldly shore.

"Armin?" you asked.

"Yes, my dear."

"Do you think Jean only entertains my mood swings because I remind him of Marco? Because I'm familiar?"

Armin's smile fell into a funky frown. "You? No. I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew Marco, and you could not be more different. From where did you conjure this idea?"

"I... I don't know. I just came to mind."

"In your current state, questions such as those are better left ignored."

You nodded, but the agreement didn't make you any less self-aware. Maybe that was why Jean could use your love so easily. You were a brief reminder. A placeholder. It boiled your blood, but then guilt cooled it, as you were no better. You looked for the lost in others, too. You wanted to be sick. You wanted to be loved. The feeling ached in your throat.

"I wish I weren't so angry all the time," you mumbled.

"Really?" Armin asked.

"I spend so much time being angry, and then I waste even more time feeling guilty about being angry. I want to stop feeling like this. I want to be beautiful again." You rubbed your neck. "I don't want to feel like this anymore."

"Who says anger is not beautiful?" Armin countered, his smile never leaving. "If you are angry, why not feel it?"

"But you just told me not to ask questions about things that make me angry?"

"That is because you are under the influence. Not because your questions are unworthy of thought. When you reach my age, your anger, joy, and sadness... They all lose their flavor. It's best to feel what you can while you're young."

"But I don't like it."

"You will when you are my age," Armin said, this time with a sad smile. He wiped it away with a napkin. "Why don't you tell me what's troubling you? I might be able to help."

So, you told him. You regurgitated every insignificant detail from last night until that morning that led you to where you were in the ice cream parlor, back through the dark streets, and into his bedroom. You even told Armin about last night's sex, which he visibly did not like hearing, but you couldn't stop. Your voice came out in sweet, skunky smoke until words had no scent and skin barely tingled.

You felt so much like Sunny once you finished.

Armin sighed through the silence. He looked at you with tired eyes and a weak half-smile through dying candles. "You know what you must do. Don't you?" he asked.

"What?"

"You must tell him that you're upset in simpler terms."

"But I already did," you said.

"No, you didn't."

"I did. I said–"

"Jean is a smart man, but perfectly attuned to all the subtleties behind our English, he is not. Just as you are not gifted with French."

"Of course, I'm not. I don't speak it."

"And yet you claim to. What did you say about the 'excuses' this morning when you apologized for the... love bites?"

"I don't know. I told you what I heard," you said.

"Excuse. In French, it can refer to an apology just as much as an excuse," Armin informed you. "And knowing Jean, I fear he was sick of the former."

"Oh."

"Oh." Armin pulled out what remained of his hemp roll to light.

"He wanted me to stop apologizing," you mumbled.

"I can't be sure. I wasn't there," Armin answered behind a smoke cloud. "Although I still believe you have every right to be angry, knowing that most quarrels stem from misunderstandings may cool your rage. Don't you feel better now?"

"Not really," you eventually answered. "My stomach hurts. And I feel stupid."

"Well, no one can say I didn't try."

"Was that your goal this whole time?" you asked. Armin tilted his head in minor confusion. "You lowered my inhibitions so I would talk."

"I bore you no malice with my selfishness. I only hoped to aid a friend in need."

"I highly doubt you could ever be malicious. Or selfish."

"Oh, how I wish my reflection agreed with you." Armin held the last of the hemp to you. "Would you like the last of it?"

"No, I don't."

"No? Are you sure?"

"I want to be better. On my own. I'm all I have once your hishswish is gone."

Armin's nose wrinkled. "Hashish," he corrected.

"Does it matt—"

The suite door swung open, smacking against the wall with a thud loud enough to shake picture frames. It startled you.

"Armin?!" Eren yelled, slurring slightly. "We need a lil' help, old pal!"

"Doesn't matter anymore," Armin sighed. He stood up and strolled to the front door.

You carefully followed after hearing some grumbles, slurring, and whispers from the entrance. There, you found Eren and Jean, the former holding up the latter. Both wore flushed cheeks and wrinkled clothes. Jean sent a miserable smile your way–half-happy and half-shameful–while Eren's smile was white and skinny with pride.

Eren's tie was undone, barely hanging onto his neck. Jean's had entirely disappeared, exposing much of his chest and all of his neck. Nasty bruises glared back at you. You looked away.

Author's Note: hey y'all. It's been a while. Since I've been gone, I had two cancer scares, played the whole Mass Effect series twice, and got a promotion. Life is wild and so normal sometimes.