❝ the scene was not a happy one; yet, we looked upon it in the cold, stoical spirit of a soldier, a slight, chilling pang, and then a return, soul and body, to the enemy before us. ❞ —♛— affiliated with CITTA ALVEARE.
When he hears that comment directed towards the people in the spaceship, Marco somehow forgets their position and quickly brings his head up, clashing their skulls together in an instant.
“Jean— Ow!”
He rubs his head, wincing at the sting from the sudden impact before quickly shooting his gaze back towards Jean with a small pout. “Oh my god, Jean, you can’t just say that about the people in this movie!” Even as he lightly nudges him in the side with his elbow, Marco can’t help but smile when realizing how young Jean (well, both of them, really) still is.
“Ah, but it’s still super cool! I think it’d be nice to be able to see all those stars up close, don’t you think?” He pauses for a few moments, returning his attention back to the actual movie before reverting back to his earlier point. “Er, well, maybe as long as if I’m gonna be able to stand up on the ship, that is.”
"Huh? Hey, why can't I? It's just a fucking movie," he protests, elbowing the other in return. He doesn't see why he can't dish out obtrusive commentary on the movie; after all, the people on screen weren't real, right? Though that had been something difficult to adapt to, considering the blatant lack of technology back home, he's grown used to pixels masquerading upon his television screen.
"Yeah, kinda. I guess." Shoulders rise and fall in a shrug; admiring the fine aesthetics in life had never truly been his thing, but accompanying him to a star-gazing trip would be nice, the more he thought about it. "I fucking love stars." Lips tug upwards in a snide grin, lifting his chin once, nodding towards the screen. "Of course you're gonna. What, you're nowhere as big as the people on-screen, right?"
Marco leans in a bit more closely to examine the cover of the container, though he already knows he’ll say yes anyway considering it’s Jean’s birthday and he can watch whatever he likes. Still, he smiles and nods, taking it from his hands as he takes out the DVD, putting it in the player near the television. Before he takes a seat back on the couch, he turns off the lights and presses play, allowing the movie to start.
“Y’know, I’ve had this movie for a while, now.” He begins, leaning back into his seat. “Though, I never watched it, but it looks pretty cute!” With a smile, he lets the movie continue on in silence. Eventually, he finds his head comfortably resting on Jean’s shoulder with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. However, he has a quizzical look when he sees the new way of life for humans on this strange craft up in the sky.
"I think I've seen it once?" The last note of his question tips upwards in tone as he cocks his head to the side, trying to recall the significant details of the movie. The cleaner robot's name is WALL-E, and the robot from the spaceship is named EVE— that much, he knows. He settles into the couch as Marco sets up the DVD, sinking back into his seat and putting his legs on the table, crossed one over another.
As the craft in the sky comes into view, Jean knows what it is, drawing on past knowledge, as if watching it once magically made him an expert on every aspect of the movie, every detail and every fleeting image. He leans his head in return, resting the side of his cheek against the top of Marco's hair. A rather undignified "Huh?" is murmured lazily, before he blinks back up at the screen, looking towards the TV to find what Marco had commented on. "Oh, that's just a spaceship. It's this really big piece of technology, and apparently, it can still fly in the sky, with 5 whole million fat people on it."
As planned, Marco arrives back at a certain Jean Kirschtein’s apartment with a small bag of DVD’s in hand as he knocks at the door and enters immediately after (he can always come in without knocking, but it’s much more polite to announce his presence that way). The two spent practically the entire day together going shopping, eating at mildly fancy restaurants, and the like; but now all they really want to do is sit down and relax for the remainder of the night.
“Jean! I got the movies you wanted.” Raising the bag in the air, he plops down on the other’s couch and neatly spreading the few DVD’s out across the small coffee table before him. He glances over to Jean with a small smile, leaning forward with his cheek resting on his hand. ”Which one do you wanna watch first?”
Jean's alright— and has been alright with— Marco merely leaving a knock at his door to announce his arrival. His knocks always sounded the same, anyway— light and soft, a gentle rap upon wood surface, and after a few times, he's grown accustomed to it. The small window of time he'd had to himself, he'd spent changing into casual clothes: some shorts, and a t-shirt.
"Ah, thanks." He murmurs his gratitude as he leans towards the coffee table, examining the several that Marco had brought with him. With a face, he shoves a particularly colorful one away, wondering why Marco had even brought it when it would have been better spent donated to a certain Kano Shuuya...
But he finally sees one that intrigues him, especially with the strange robot on the front, and selects it, jabbing the tip of his index finger at its plastic sleeve. "This one. Is this one okay?"
No.. He had a feeling that this would be the end of him. Closing his eyes since he was ashamed, the male felt like closing the laptop screen. Now, he didn’t know what to say once the other had spoke up, questioning why they were look at .. fine chicks. Fine chicks.. fine, bird creatures indeed.
Tenting his hands as he stared at the screen.. "Maybe… it’s a joke.. maybe it’s time.. hide the chicks.. the .. ones we want." Lord, even he didn’t know but as his hand slowly went towards the screen and was greeted with the following words
Welcome to Saint PigeoNation’s!
Please enter your name.
"…Maybe the surprise is in.. one of the.. options .. yeah… what do we name ourselves.." Even Kano couldn’t explain what was going on. He was so confused.
Kano takes a moment, Jean notes, to let this new discovery wash over him; and perhaps, to come up with an explanation to this dire phenomenon. He tries to make heads and tails of what Kano says, but most of it is gibberish to him, the aftereffects of finding out that these 'hot chicks' were literal.. birds.
When the game requests a name, he's not sure whether he's more confused by what "St. PigeoNation's" is, or if he's unsure of a name to put— would it be Kano's, or his? But, as he glances over, he still sees Kano in a minor phase of shock, and takes matters into his own hands.
"Here, I'll do it." Jean leans over, typing his own name in, muttering something along the lines of how he needs hot chicks more than Kano. After quick typing, he presses proceed, lest Kano desired to change it somehow.
"OK! We need a computer. So the point is to date a FINE CHICK.. like a hella hottie." Pointing to a laptop that was set up in the corner, the male walked the other over to it as he inserted the disk. It didn't take that long until the loading screen appeared and then the main.
Well, it was in English! How lucky was that! Kano did kinda close his eyes at the way the hearts floated around the dating choices but… He couldn’t complain, this was what Shintaro liked to play anyway right? Him and Jean could be cool like Shintaro..
"Ok.. I think… I think… we choose new game.. Dude I thought we were dating hot chicks.. I didn’t know this is what this game meant."
"Alright. Dating a virtual FINE CHICK, like you say... I can look into it." Shrugging, he follows, wondering how harmful it could possibly be as Kano slips the disc into its compartment into the laptop. It automatically slides into the slot in the system, and it whirrs for a moment, loading up the game onto the laptop screen.
What greets him at the title screen, however, is nothing that he'd ever... expect...
He looks at the screen in utter disbelief, as his jaw drops. Words are supposed to come out, but no sound travels past his throat, as he finds himself unable to stop staring in horror at the fine chicks on the page.
Fine chicks indeed, if he was interested in Christmas dinner.
(Well, that's still applicable for one of them, but shh.)
"Kano.......
Why am I looking at.... actual.... birds...?"
"Hatoful... Boyfriend?" He echoes the name of the game with uncertainty, especially because it sounded so... foreign. Hazel eyes give a quick glance-over to the game in Kano's hand before giving consent, with a nod.
"Sure, I guess. I've got nothing else to do. How do we play?"
They were a team in the Clean Corps.™ after all, they should help in any way they can to keep Hive City clean! Starting at the junk shop seemed best! Clear was pumped to help Aoba of course not to mention do his job to the best of his ability.
"Let’s do our best, Jean-san! I didn’t think the flower petals would dry out so quickly, uwaaa.”
It was safe to say that Clear was a welcome acquaintance of his, with the large number of times that Jean frequents Heibon as not only an employee but also a visitor, mostly to talk to Aoba, whom he refers to as 'Boss', and his fluffy dog, who, strangely enough, had Internet....
You could almost call it, Renternet.
But, Clear had a habit of throwing sakura blossoms everywhere, especially prior to the initiation of Jean's relationship. Thus, there were tiny heaps of dried pink flowers brushed into the corners of the shop.
Certainly, a job for the Clean Corps, since Boss's shop was located in Sector 5, after all.
"Yeah, let's get going! We've brought all our materials, right...?
We didn't have a lot of flowers back home, so I don't know about how long they'd have lasted, anyway...."
Mission objective: your memories have been altered. You now believe you have seen Marco die in the city, and that those who die here do not come back a second time around. Reflect on this. TIME LIMIT: 48 hours from date of publish and the challenge style is 'drabble'. Good luck!
It's raining, but he doesn't need to look up to know that.
There's a blade in his hands, but he doesn't need to look forward to know that.
His blade is skewered through the center of his best friend, but he doesn't need to look down to know that.
He wants to close his eyes, wondering that maybe if he stopped looking, all of this would be fake and none of it would have happened, but it's as if some external force compels him to stare, to take in and to permanently brand his deed within the crevices of his mind. He tries to jerk his hand away— he tries to drop the weapon— he tries anything, to remove himself from that situation.
But he can't.
There's white noise whirling in his ears, and he shuts his eyes,
Jean..
Jean.....
Jean!!!!!!!
He wakes himself up with a loud gasp.
Eyes snap open in desperation, meeting nothing but the darkness of his unlit apartment bedroom, where shadows fold upon and upon themselves in black corners. His gaze takes no hesitation in immediately darting around, as his chest rises and falls, his breaths audible, shallow, and painfully quick. He can feel his heart hammer faster than he can keep up with, and he shuts his eyes, concentrating on calming down.
He turns his head and squints, to glance at the bright neon numbers on the digital clock, sitting atop the bedside table next to him.
It's 4 in the morning.
He tries not to think about what he used to do at 4:00 in the morning.
He drags his hands down his face, breathing in, out, in, out, slowly... slowly....
If only...
Slowly...
Slowly, slowly now...
He rests his hands in his lap.
One, tired word escapes his lips.
"God."
Rustling the bedcovers around him, he sits up; his shirt instantly sticks to his back, and he reaches back, peeling it off, before he resigns, pulling it up and over his head instead. He runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wincing as his skin comes into contact with beads of cold sweat. He feels sick, as if his heart had dropped through his ribcage and into the depths of his stomach, where it sits in a tight, uncomfortable knot and refuses to budge.
He sighs, rubs his eyes awake until they sting and sting and he can't rub any more guilt off of them anymore. Messily slipping his feet into a pair of slippers, he slips his arms into the white bathrobe hanging from his door. He struggles, fingers clenching tightly around down fabric as he nearly loses the article of clothing from his grip; his arms feel heavy, as if someone had tied weights onto them while he'd slept, and he struggles to bring them high enough to put the robe on. He knots the two strands in front rather messily, tying them into a half-loop, like he had been taught at trainee camp.
Trainee camp...
That was a while ago, wasn't it?
He shuffles out of his room and towards the kitchen, bumping into a wall on the way and cursing obscenely, at no one in particular.
After all, the apartment is empty.
Jean has already gone and rummaged through Marco's old belongings, taking what he wanted, and leaving the rest for Muraku to handle and Kano to mooch off of. "Sons", he and Marco had called them, jokingly, back then. Back then...
Back then was a while ago, wasn't it?
He's picked up the bottle of wine from Marco's apartment, back when Virus had oh-so kindly donated it to him, to them, as a congratulatory gift. Ever since then, it's been sitting on the kitchen countertop, still in its original state, complete with the cork intact. Dust has collected on its surface, and Jean blows it off with a light puff, scrunching up his expression as grey particles fly into the air. Marco hadn't bothered tasting the present upon receiving it; and that was just like him, to abstain from alcohol.
It was just like him...
Now, Jean holds the cylindrical bottle in his hands, turning it over several times. He glosses dully over fancified fonts and the multitude, multitude of warning labels through half-lidded, bored eyes— there's no point in reading them properly, anyway. As he scans, there are curious thoughts running through his head, thoughts that he'd never usually condone, thoughts that Marco would be mad at him for.
But none of that mattered anymore, right?
Marco wasn't here.
And if Marco wasn't here...
Then what reason did he have, to...
Sighing softly, he gets up and makes his way to a nearby cabinet, tiptoeing slightly to tug at the the slender, metal knob embedded on its surface.
He pulls out an empty wine glass.
the stars lean down to kiss you,
and i lie awake and miss you;
pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere.
There is something therapeutic about listening to the sound of liquid being poured from a bottle and into a crystalline vessel— the way it trickles, accumulates, expands in volume as it swallows itself whole and brings forth a neverending pool that only continues to grow.
He stops pouring, uprighting the bottle with a neat, upwards flick of his wrist— a talent learned from months of bartendering. Keeping the main bottle gripped firmly in his right hand, he peers over the rim of the glass, checking exactly how much had left the bottle, and how much was now sitting quietly in the cup, staring back up at him.
He ignores the fact that he poured far too much.
But it was what he needed— and more importantly, what he wanted.
Another sigh leaves him; perhaps, for the millionth time today, and his ankle snaps lightly as he turns, heading towards his window seat. In one hand is the cup, with his index finger hooked around the stem of the glass.
In his other hand is the entire rest of the bottle, held loosely by the neck.
He tries not to drop it as he walks a mere ten steps.
Even that, even keeping himself together for that long, is an accomplishment for him, at this point.
i'll watch the night turn light blue,
but it's not the same without you,
because it takes two to whisper quietly.
The sky is now at a color where the sun has not yet risen, where clouds still stand guard to bright blue heavens. It is that time of day when dawn cannot be distinguished from dusk, but it still precedes the sunrise. It is a time when time itself is lost.
It's a perfect time to think.
His legs are curled up underneath him, as his frame fits neatly on the roomy seat. Hands are wrapped around the base of the cup in his grasp, holding it securely in front of his chest. Below him, at the foot of the window, the dark green of the bottle reflects the pale brightness that flickers in through the window.
The faded light that shines through his windowsill illuminates his features, highlights the dark rings underneath his eyes and how his cheekbones jut out a bit more than they used to, frame the exhaustion that lies beneath the depths of his eyes.
Eyes flutter shut, as he dips his head, to take a sip.
Wine isn't supposed to be intaken this way, he knows, as his throat pulses several times as he drinks.
But if he could just, just this once...
It spreads a light warmth inside his body, radiating from his core and through his veins. He takes another one, then looks up, out, out the window. He doesn't look at anything in particular; he allows his vision to zoom out, slowly.
He wishes he could lose himself, like he always does.
For some reason, today, alcohol just doesn't seem to work.
He hates that.
He's always hated this wretched, early hour of the morning, anyway.
"Hey, where are you, right now?"
His whisper is hoarse and unsteady from several days of un-use, barely audible to anyone listening nearby.
But then again, there's no one home.
"How are you doing?"
Again, his question is met with the silence of his apartment. He can feel his heart plummet, but disappointment, nowadays, is nothing new. His mind mulls over what Marco could be doing right now-- what did go on in the afterlife, anyway?
There are days when he feels like finding out.
Some days, he wonders how he'll go on.
Some days, he spends in a row in unconsciousness, drifting off in a dream or two.
Oddly enough, today is not one of those days.
"What are you thinking?"
Silence is broken with a stifled inhale, as his slender frame suddenly seizes up; he presses his palm firmly against his mouth, breathes in, breathes out, breathes in... and tries to dismiss the tears that runs down his hand and slips between the cracks of his fingers, tries to ignore how his chest feels as if it's trying to suffocate him from the inside out.
"I know. I know you can't answer me. I'm not dumb, you're dead. So of course, you can't..."
He chokes out words angrily, and his hands shake; the maroon liquid encased in the glass between his hands begins to tremble, violently. The image in front of his eyes blurs, blurs until all that he produces from his throat is a terrible whine, a pitiful, desperate sound, a sound that a lonely child would make, and he clutches the thin blanket more tightly to himself, as if a mere blanket could take the place of his late best friend.
"But I... That doesn't change how much I want to hear you... and your voice, your fucking voice...
The voice that I loved so much...
Just one more time...
Please...."
He stops himself, abruptly, before it gets any worse, stops himself from hiccuping; stops himself from being even more pathetic than he already is, stops the self-pity and the constant wallowing, wallowing in misery.
Adjusting his position so that he sits upright once more, with his back leaning against the wall and his shoulder at the clearness of the window, he sits with his legs out in front of him, resting the bottoms of his feet against the other end of the windowsill. With a spare hand, he wipes at his face, but this time, gently; then, reaches for the bottle, pours some more.
As he precariously holds the glass with one hand, listening to wine fill up half of the circular glass, he swears, he can stomach it. When he finishes, he sets it back down on the floor again; it clinks softly as it rests upon tiles.
He speaks again, but this time, his voice is calm, low, as it was and had always been. His head shakes, in disbelief, in contemplation, casting aside the fact that he was having a one-sided conversation so freely.
He wonders if he's crazy— he wonders, at some point in between his friend's death and now, if he's snapped, being so comfortable talking to no one like this.
He probably has, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind.
He doesn't care.
"I don't know how many times I've apologized.
But that isn't enough, right?
What I did, then..."
He smiles, ruefully.
"You'll probably never forgive me for it.
But that's okay."
the silence isn't so bad,
until i look at my hands and feel sad,
because the spaces between my fingers
are right where yours fit perfectly.
"Anyway, I thought about what you said back then." His breathing has since then reverted back to its original tempo, even and slow. "What you told me, before you, you know... and I... you know..." He pauses, mulling over his next choice of words, leaning over to set down his cup, leaving it untouched for the rest of his session. Fingertips tap thoughtfully against each other, as he thinks, before he finally speaks up.
"Did you really mean that?" He glances out the window as he talks, towards the quiet streets and empty sidewalks, as if he would find Marco out there somehow, walking to his apartment. "Because if you did..." He closes his eyes, again; his heart skips a beat.
"I love you, too.
I don't want anyone but you."
As the last word leaves his tongue, he feels a sudden rush of color rise to his cheeks, and he's sure it's not beverage-related. But who knows? Jean glances away from the window, as if, again, Marco was there, smiling at him as he always did, sometimes tapping on the window to catch his attention, and fogging up his window surface and drawing little hearts. "There, I said it, you big idiot. Don't look at me."
He turns his face away, crossing his arms and feigning an upset state, before he soon relents; because, after all, it's not fun to hold that kind of position when there's no one watching.
"You knoooooow..." he murmurs, as his hands rest idly in his lap, as he tips his head towards the ceiling, bringing his knees up against his chest and rocking back and forth. "Isn't this kind of weird? I mean, I'm going to have to see you all over again. Who knows how long I'll live, this time? Whenever I die, are we going to go on little dates in the afterlife? Are we going to be ghosts, roaming earth? Oh, do you think we can spook Eren, while we're at it?"
His laughter is soft, and he's rather amused at his own, lame ideas, but it still cheers him up. As he presses against the window, the increasing warmness seeps through his shoulder and down his arm, and courses through the rest of his body, a relief on a morning colder than usual.
"But... There's still a part of me that misses you. I'm saying all of this stuff, pretending that I'll be okay and that I can wait, but there's so much we left undone— twice, now."
His jaws part in a big yawn, as he rubs at his eyes, sleepily, but he fights to stay awake, at least until...
oh, if my voice could reach back through the past,
i'd whisper, in your ear...
"Darling..."
He leans his head against the window, allowing it to bump lightly with a soft thud.
As he stares up and out beyond the clear glass of the window frame, his gaze traces the edges of the horizon, greeting the burning rays of the morning sunrise with a wistful smile, feeling its warmth wash over him all over again.
Mission objective: your memories have been altered. You now believe you have seen Marco die in the city, and that those who die here do not come back a second time around. Reflect on this. TIME LIMIT: 48 hours from date of publish and the challenge style is 'drabble'. Good luck!
"Hey, hey, alright.
You guys are kind of cruel, aren’t you?”
START TIME: 2:31PM, MARCH 24TH.END TIME: 2:31PM, MARCH 26TH 9:00PM, MARCH 24TH. COMPLETED: 5:39PM, MARCH 24TH. [x]
Insomnia :: What’s their sleeping schedule like? Snorer? Sound sleeper?
{ he has horrible sleeping habits, actually. he fears the day that someone will die while he's asleep, or that something bad will happen to a person he cares about and that he won't notice until after several days.
as a result, he wakes up every few hours or so, and is a light sleeper. he doesn't snore that often. }
Jaded :: Do they buy into the “happily ever after” ideal? What’s their standard?
"Happily ever after... There's no such thing, right? When you're busy using up all your energy on staying alive, what sort of sick fantasy is 'happily ever after'?"
X-Ray :: How’s their health? Any problem areas? Do they take care of themselves?
"Seeing that we can't fight if we're ill...
There's a part of me that says I look after myself just as much as I need to. It's not like I strive to keep myself in tip-top shape; some of that just comes as a result of training.
I don't believe, though, that I have any problems... The last time I checked, aside from the usual bruises from 3DMG difficulties... I'm alright."
Reminder :: How are they at remembering daily needs? What falls through the cracks?
"Usually, I'm pretty good at remembering, since I always have a routine I follow. But when it comes to anniversaries, little errands.... I tend to forget."
Hobby :: What’s something they do for fun that might be surprising?
"Ah, well, wouldn't you know it..." He glances up, tipping his gaze towards the skyline. "I've learned a lot of things since I first joined the military— and one of them is learning how to relax. Just spending time by yourself, mostly, recharging, shit like that. There's not a lot that you can do with others, when you spend most of your time sitting at the grave of your best friend."
Sing :: Do they like music? Do they listen often/sing/hum/play songs in their head?
"Sure. I don't listen to much, but we used to hum little tunes, here and there, and ever since I discovered headphones, well...
Getting lost in your thoughts is a good experience."
Alignment :: What would be their D&D alignment? How might it come into play?
{ I would probably say neutral good?? Since he works on the side of the military and thus, the monarchy, but he doesn't have much faith in them.... yeha b ye dont look at me }
Beverage :: What do they most like to drink, and why?
"Mmn..." A silence is drawn as he contemplates the odd question.
"Probably soda? Coke, most definitely. We never had any back home, and it's so common here... On the other hand, never trust the people who tell you that Coke and Pepsi are the same. They are not.
Pepsi tastes like shit."
Co-Habitate :: Do they live with anyone? What’s “need to know” before moving in?
{ YOU KNOW... he essentially does live with marco, but although they have their own apartments, they spend a whole lot of time over at each other's places. things falling under the "need to know" category are that he's really messy, and he'll wake up in the middle of the night... just because... }
Alignment :: What would be their D&D alignment? How might it come into play?
Beverage :: What do they most like to drink, and why?
Co-Habitate :: Do they live with anyone? What’s “need to know” before moving in?
Decor :: What kind of home do they keep? Are there any defining details?
Escape :: What do they do to destress? How successful is it?
Fluff :: What hits their soft spot? Does anything them into emotional goo?
Grudge :: How bad does an insult go over? Do they hold a grudge long?
Hobby :: What’s something they do for fun that might be surprising?
Insomnia :: What’s their sleeping schedule like? Snorer? Sound sleeper?
Jaded :: Do they buy into the “happily ever after” ideal? What’s their standard?
Kin :: What’s their role among their relations? Do they consider others family?
Law :: What do they think about abiding rules? Are they selective about it?
Magic :: In a magic series or not, are they accepting, or is each instance a shock?
Network :: Are they connected to the people? How much do they reach out to others?
Offspring :: What kind of parent would they be? Would they prefer one, or multiple?
Pistol :: Is this character skilled with a weapon? What’s their opinion of violence?
Question :: How often do they feel doubt? What topics are they defensive about?
Reminder :: How are they at remembering daily needs? What falls through the cracks?
Sing :: Do they like music? Do they listen often/sing/hum/play songs in their head?
Touch :: How do they handle contact? Is their personal bubble big?
Upcoming :: How much do they think of the future? Do they make long-term plans?
Vice :: What bad habits do they have? Is there something they would be ashamed of?
Wardrobe :: What’s their fashion style? Do they have any staple pieces?
X-Ray :: How’s their health? Any problem areas? Do they take care of themselves?
Yack :: What’s their favorite thing to talk about? What do they go on about?
Zodiac :: What’s their astro sign? Does it fit? What would you pick, if it’s unknown?
"I see," the two words forming with ease at the revelations the soldier utters. Leisurely her limb returns back to her side, hanging as she soaks all of this newly told information into her mind. Reassurance was not something she could garner from this telling… for, had it been that the others escaped before the repossession of him, perhaps they might find peace in completing something she could not. Identities had been compromised despite her efforts to distance herself from both to cause suspicions to fall far from the duo.
Cerulean optics lift at what he speaks next, a gleam of disbelief exuding from dreary eyes. "So they told you all that, huh? And all that happened while I was gone." Lips thin as silence lingers briefly, soon sitting herself down as she slouches forward, elbows resting upon each thigh to keep her propped. "We… never killed more than we had to. Or anyone who stayed out of our way. Sometimes I… tried to dissuade them from engaging, too," she muses, an arm lifting to rub at her shoulder idly. Memories surfaced to her encounters as the threat among the Scouting Legion, recollecting her attempts of imprinting macabre scenes into their minds as to make them refrain from attack, thus causing less casualties.
Patting resonates from the free cushion of the couch beside her, inviting the other to sit if he preferred. Gaze drifts from him entirely, falling to the floor where her feet rest upon. Gently she exhales, only beginning to speak after a moment or so afterward.
"Say, you… wanted to know about Marco. Right?"
Springs creak within the sofa as she leans backwards, petite frame leaning to the side to rest more against the arm of said furniture than the back. "There’s not much to say, but… during all of that. Fighting the titans, you know… it’s easy to get separated. That’s what happened with him… and myself," slipshod vocables weave the moment together as if the scene had only happened the other day. Several battles bled into one another over the course of a person’s life, yet each detail remained as vivid as one could imagine… yet it always proved nigh impossible to wipe clean what was left behind, mentally or physically.
"Maybe I could've saved him, maybe not… but he’d been trying to deal with another when it got him. I wasn’t too close, so… I just watched. It was quick… he didn't suffer, I don’t think. And… when it was done, I waited for it to leave before finding where it’d dropped him," she utters, pausing momentarily to catch her breath. Azure hues glance to the corner of her eyes to peer at him, wondering how he was taking this specific story. "When I found him… it wasn’t like how you did. That’s because I put him like that. That idiot… really wanted to go to the center to help the king, not save his skin like the rest of us. I sat him up with his hand over his chest, before I ‘found’ his gear… then I left."
"I can give you more details if you want, but that's all we know of the situation as of now." As he concludes, hues watch her distantly, observing the disbelief that lies in her eyes. There's a soft note of guilt that goes unspoken, dying on the tip of his tongue. Wandering into uncharted territory, when it came to even his thoughts, was dangerous, and could earn one severe punishment from the military; but wondering what it is that he was fighting for, beyond eradicating the Titans...
Although he knows that it would be considered wrong, by most, to trust her words, there is much that he does not know-- and thus, such lack of knowledge gives him jurisdiction to, for once... act on his own beliefs, above the military's. While knowing that Annie actively sought not to shed more blood than necessary still sets him at unease, in a way, considering who it was that he had lost, bits of his faith in humanity are restored. "That's good, I guess," he replies, but the dip in his tone, the way it almost cracks, and his downwards gaze say otherwise. That she couldn't save him, that she had seen him die... But there was nothing he could do about it now.
Taking her offer, he sits on the sofa near her, listening to her recount the information that was so inherently valuable to him, for him to know and to keep; but as she continues, his throat tightens uncomfortably, and he digs his fingers into the plush fabric of the couch underneath him, steeling himself against an outburst of emotion.
And instead, he simply sighs. It was wrong, to allow anger to surface over her instincts of self-survival. "I understand. I hate it, but I understand." He crosses one leg over the other, placing his arm on top of the backing of the couch, contemplating quietly, "Maybe he is an idiot for what he wanted to do... I don't know. I've always thought it was sort of stupid. His selflessness, and his optimism... It always seemed out of place, back home. Inspirational, but still, just..."
A sleeve reaches to hide the lower half of his face, the tips of his fingers pressing against his cheeks. Several seconds pass by in silence, with nothing but the sound of the air conditioning system rumbling beneath the walls of the shop. He shifts, adjusting his position, before murmuring. "It's just a lot to take in."
"But I'm also grateful that you shared this with me." And for once, he tries to pull a smile, though a grim one. "So thank you, Annie. All of this... It's what I've been needing to know, for a very long time."
÷ - for something i like about my muse AND something my muse would like about me
{ i LIKE…. how attractive he is…..for a 15 year old…. its just.. WOW… who let him be… that pretty… }
"As for the mun, though… I like how self-interested she is, and how she does the smallest amount of work possible for the greatest reward. It’s kind of fascinating, actually, how she somehow calculates all of that.
We’re both pretty selfish in what we do, so we like having all the time we can to laze around.”
