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murmikaa

Apr 29, 2025

junibugs

Saint Rocky

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Reader

Reader: afab! Reader, she/her pronouns

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12,231

Summary: Four years after a cure is found for the deadly sickness that destroyed the world, Eren and Reader are left in its aftermath. The world returns to its axis, and society rebuilds, but now that the sickness is a fear of the past, they’re forced to learn the fears of the present.

Content: Post-Apocalyptic AU!, Friends to Lovers?, Found Family, Religious Themes

Other Content: slight Jean/Armin if u squint, Pieck is disabled and has ehlers danlos syndrome because i do too and i said so, non-binary Hange, everyone who is alive early s4 is alive here, the dog does not die, Gabi defender until i die

Content Warnings: Dark Content (Mentions of SA, Religious Themes/Trauma, Mentions of Pedophilia, Implied Character Death, Violence, Weapons, Animal Death,

Notes: This isn't truly complete i just didn't want to write it anymore but wanted to give it to you guys so if in a few months it's a little different and actually edited thats why.

He’s careful with his steps, but not fearful.

Everytime you hunt, you can see the part of him that was molded into perfection by his father. He knows what to do, how to do it, and he never hesitates. He holds his bow with a confidence that isn’t loud, but silent and sure. You trust him enough to refrain from telling him to slow down, so you let him remain a few yards ahead of you.

After a while, after times of repeating this routine over and over, you’ve learned to prefer it that way. He’s quick, gets his job done. He gets tunnel vision when he enters this headspace, so letting him move ahead of you allows you to watch his back, look at the wider picture, catch the little things that slip past his vision.

You trust him enough to lead the way, and he trusts you enough to fall behind.

“I have one set just a bit farther up.” You say softly. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye to give you a nod.

He slows his steps without you having to ask and lets you catch up so you can lead him to the trap. He keeps his head up, scanning his eyes over the thinning treeline until you reach him, then he looks to you, waiting for you to step ahead. Here is when you take lead, patting over your pockets to check for your knife and tools, feeling out the lumps of metal beneath your jeans.

Just in your sight, beneath a large tree and atop it’s skirt of fallen leaves, is the trap you set a day or two ago. Caught inside it, still shuffling about the metal bars of the bottom, is a large jackrabbit. A part of you is filled with relief, and another part is filled with guilt. Rabbits are difficult.

You catch a glimpse of auburn fur to your left, followed by a curious nose that presses itself to the cold metal bars of the cage. She sniffs deeply, puffing out clouds of heat into the winter air with every exhale. The rabbit jumps back and startles her, and her ears perk up as she steps closer.

“Ness, no,” You say softly and tug at her collar. She looks up at you with big brown eyes before awkwardly stepping back.

You look back to the rabbit.

Everytime you see them you wonder what it’s fur will feel like beneath your fingers when you pull it from the trap or how it’s little heart would beat frantically in your hands if you took the time to hold it while it’s alive. You wonder if it knows that it’s never leaving the cage with it’s life, or that in mere hours from now it will end up in the stomachs of your friends or salted heavily and wrapped in butcher’s paper to be prepared on a later day.

It’s last moments alive are spent being thanked by the same person who has caused it’s death.

“I can do it.” Eren says as he reaches you. He sets down the things in his hands and reaches for an arrow.

Possums are the easiest. Something about their faces and tails make it less difficult for you to give the final blow. Foxes are the hardest; with their yips and barks and big eyes and puffy tails, they’re too much like a pet for you to kill them, let alone be near them when they die.

Eren has to do it. He almost always has to.

He fiddles with his bow and then nocks an arrow, draws back, and fixes the head into one of the holes at the top of the cage. His fingers are tight on the bowstring, tendons straining, arms flexing. The arrowhead is in line with the rabbits skull; it will be quick, quiet.

Every time you’re tempted to call out and stop him. Every time there is a part of you that wants to feel it’s heart flit beneath your hands, or it’s paws kick at your forearms, before you let it go and watch it scamper off into the woods.

But you don’t. You turn away before he releases. There’s a thump, and then a clink, and it’s over. Ness flinches.

You turn back around to retrieve the rabbit from the cage, careful to not damage Eren’s arrow as you remove it. The fur sheds off onto your jacket sleeves and wisps about the air as the arrow is pulled from it’s skull, but you’re still gentle with it as you hand it to Eren, like you’re afraid to hurt it… even now.

You reset the trap and bait it properly, then stand to brush the leaves off of your pants and the fur off your sleeves. You shove your tools back into your pockets and bag, and then look to Eren solemnly.

He gives a curt nod and then continues forward, his eyes scanning the treeline. The rabbit is still in his grasp, his grip around it’s ears. It hangs alongside a squirrel that was in an earlier trap. He won’t make you touch them until he needs both hands.

It’s beginning to get darker earlier on in the day, and it shows in the way the sun has sunk beneath the trees when it’s not even yet five o’clock. The blues of the sky darken, and the clouds shift to a deep coral, then they will both blend to purple and fade into midnight blues as the moon replaces the sun.

“How many more?” He asks.

“Just two,” You answer.

“Think we can get a turkey, maybe a pheasant?” He glances back, just for a second.

“Don’t ask me that. Aren’t you supposed to be tracking?” .

“Can’t track shit with this snow piling up.” He scoffs, kicking lightly at the ground to send some spinning through the air, “and she’s no help.”

You look at Ness as she digs at the base of a tree, upturning snow and frozen dirt and kicking it behind her. You used to think she’s found something when she would do this, but after falling for her antics over and over with no fruition, you realized that she just does it when she gets bored.

“We got a squirrel and a rabbit, that’s not horrible.”

“You got them. I didn’t do anything,” He turns on his heel, faking a pout, hands on his hips. His thick brows are drawn together, but his eyes give him away.

“Didn’t know this was a competition,” You raise your brows and cock your head, mirroring him with your hands on your hips.

He smiles, then immediately straightens out his expression, “Oh, did no one tell you? It always has been.”

“Whatever. Even if it was, I’d still be winning.”

He rolls his eyes, then brings up an arm to push his hair away from his face. When his arm drops back down his eyes catch something just to your right. He blinks twice, then looks to you quickly, then back to whatever is behind you. You turn your head, only your head, and then over your right shoulder you see them.

With their bald heads and red gobbles, there walks a handful of turkeys maybe thirty yards away. They must have been too far to catch your eye as you walked past them the first time around, and Lord knows Eren wouldn’t have seen them until they’re right in front of him.

Ness is already staring.

You keep your eyes on them as you reach your hands out to Eren, using your touch as sight, and waiting for your to fingers touch the fur of the game and the warm of his hands. You grab your catch by their ears and tail. When you look back to Eren, he’s already nocked an arrow and is slowly toeing past you.

“Agnes, come.” You whisper to the dog. She obeys, coming to your side. You take a firm hold to her collar.

You mirror him again by crouching low, and then you seat yourself down on your heels as you wait and watch.

This part fascinates you; the speed, the efficiency, the accuracy, the way his focus is so sharp that nothing can draw his attention away from the prize in front of him. He makes his bow is no different than the gun on his hip. He’s been hypnotized by the hunt. You’ve been mesmerized by his kill.

He keeps his fingers pressed around the string as he closes in. The turkeys remain unaware. The sunlight streaks past them, showing their movement in the shadows. And even when you cannot bear to watch him kill the small game that get caught up in your traps, you can’t seem to look away as his arrow slices through the still autumn air and lodges itself into one of their chests. The other turkeys become a flurry of feathers and noise, and they’re up and gone as fast the arrow killed.

Eren straightens out, tall and broad-shouldered, and lets out a deep exhale. You can see his shoulders relax, even beneath the thick of his jacket, because the jokes will only go so far. If he had returned with nothing, he would beat himself up for it, and not because of faux competition.

You follow him after the kill, your fingers still tight around a pair of ears and a tail. When you get to him, he’s already pulled out his arrow and grabbed the bird by it’s ankles. You hate the way its head hangs so limply and its long neck bends so easily as he pulls it from the ground. You have to look away.

“Lead the way.” He says.

You bring him to the final two traps, finding only a squirrel caught within one. As the sun dips below the horizon and the sky darkens, you return to the church with full hands and empty stomachs.

***

Niccolo meets you in the kitchen. His excitement had gotten the best of him, and he had pulled out an array of spices and seasonings with the hopes of you returning with game.

He allows you to skin and gut them inside, as long as you keep them away from the vegetables and canned goods. So you grab a cutting board and decide to work on the metal table that is separate from the main countertops. You shed your jacket and roll the sleeves of your thermal up to your elbows. Your knife is grabbed from your pocket and you switch it open before starting at the neck.

You zone out.

Just because this part isn’t as hard as the hunt, doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s bloody and gross and warm and it makes weird sounds and has weird smells. You let your eyes fall out of focus and you try and keep your attention on Niccolo preparing the rest of the meal rather than the feeling of insides on your palms.

He cuts quickly, skillfully, in a way that never lets anyone forget the work he did as a professional chef. You remember him sharing that he had worked banquets and galas for the affluent; the kind of people who were so wealthy, so powerful, that you didn’t even know their names. A part of you had thought he was lying, comforting himself with successes that used to be his dreams and should have been his reality. But then he would use these elegant terms to refer to the simplest of techniques, or make dishes that made you question your skepticism and finally believe him.

Your skinning and gutting is halted when Eren slips into the kitchen. He has also shed himself of his overcoat and pushed the sleeves of his thin crewneck up his forearms. His boots clunk heavily against the rock-tiled floor as he makes his way past Niccolo and over to you.

“Go wash up. I’ll do it,” He gently nudges you aside with shoulder, strong body pressing against yours to take over your job of cutting and emptying.

You don’t push back, not caring to dispute over blood and guts. He doesn’t look up before taking your knife from the counter and picking up from where you had left off. You don’t have to say ‘thank you’ for him to know, so you shuffle around Niccolo with your hands in the air out of caution of the blood on your hands, and make your way to the bathroom.

Eren does your former job much quicker, but more careless, and Niccolo has to stern him twice about being sloppy when bagging the entrails because he’s getting drops of blood on the floor. Eren chuckles when Niccolo reminds him that, “This is my kitchen.” Because this is the farthest one could get from an industrial sized kitchen; with it’s old cabinets and wood burning stove.

Finding the monastery was pure luck, and being welcomed in by it’s inhabitants was even more so. Eren guesses that in a way it is Niccolo’s kitchen, for he was here before the rest of you were, and no one else has a clue about cooking for upwards of twenty people.

But before Niccolo was Historia. From what you’ve heard through hushed whispers, from a distance, and under the cover of darkness, she was here before it all happened. Everyone had come from other places, had other homes, other families, other friends, but not her.

“She was baptized here,” You remember Armin saying softly, “when she was little.”

You figured that is why she is so hesitant to leave. She must have lived here, grown here; ate, slept, and breathed here. She’ll birth right here too. And in the Church, perhaps, she’ll lay her child in the manger that stands on the altar like the Virgin Mary herself did. And maybe on the eighth day, she’ll christen the child the way she once was, with the still water that has remained in the pool since the start.

You bet the water is soft with age, in a way that is too difficult to explain. It wouldn’t be like the water that you now wash over your bloodied hands. This water is too cold, too sharp, it would make her baby cry. Within that realization, you turn the faucet to the right and wait patiently for the water to heat up. Goosebumps erupt up your forearms and over the back of your neck as your hands, cold from the winter’s air, are warmed slowly.

The cuffs of your sleeves are damped by your wet fingers as you pull your shirt back down to your wrists, but you don’t fuss with them, planning on changing your shirt to rid yourself of shedded fur and feathers. It’s traded for one of your father’s sweatshirts that you find buried within the drawers of the wardrobe you share with Pieck.

She was lucky enough to arrive to the monastery before you, giving her the choice to pick the bed away from the cold of the window on your side of the room. You were lucky to arrive later, able to avoid the loneliness that would be rooming alone within a building so big. If the world had given you the luxury of going to school, you would want a roommate like her. For most of the day she keeps herself curled into the part of her bed where the corner of the mattress meets the corner of the wall, but you don’t mind. When she’s awake she’s charming and soft-spoken, funny and intelligent; she puts in work when her body gives her the chance.

She’s not in her usual spot, so it’s safe to assume she’s wrapped herself in a blanket and tucked herself before the wood-burning fireplace to watch the old Christian movies that have been spun into VHS tapes by the people that were here before. It’s only those movies; with their poorly done special effects and actors that hadn’t done another film before and never did another after. You’ve found a handful of CD’s that have more mainstream films burned into them, but the television here is only VCR, and the luxury of DVD and cable is long in the past.

***

Eren’s gaze is pulled away from the bones and entrails before him and towards the soft voice of his best-friend. Armin stands in the open entryway between the kitchen and the dining room with his hands clasped in front of him, watching Niccolo as he cooks, checking in politely.

Armin only does this when the others get antsy. They must have heard about today’s success and let their stomachs speak before their heads. He can hear the faint sounds of the television playing in the living room, alongside the occasional stern voice that follows an eruption of giggles. He doesn’t have to peek around the corner to know who sits on those aged couches and faded carpet to crowd before the buzzing screen.

‘They’re watching that one movie’ He thinks, ‘with that one scene of Jesus fully nude’

“I think he’s almost done…” Connie says hesitantly, getting up from his spot at the island to peer over Niccolo’s shoulder and sneak a glance at the meat on the stove.

“Eren’s just cleaning up.” Niccolo adds, “But yeah, almost done.”

“Even with all that meat?” Armin asks, giving Eren a grateful glance.

“I’ll have it wrapped for another day.”

Armin steps farther in, sliding himself beside Eren, cautiously watching as he shoves the rest of the mess into a trash bag. “If it didn’t exhaust you both so much I’d make you guys go on every run with the amounts you bring in.”

“We’re fine, just send us.” Eren says, “Or I could go alone.”

Armin huffs, “You wouldn’t get half as much done without her.”

“Would too.”

“No, and besides, you would complain if I sent you by yourself.”

Armin was right. The thought of going alone sounded dreadful. Hours upon hours of scouring frozen terrain with no one to carry his game, to reset the traps, to listen to him complain about drawing his bowstring with frozen fingers over and over until his fingertips are red and raw. But it was the thought of going without you that sounded even more upsetting.

When you two were away from the camp, away from the lives you were forced to live, he was able to finally think. You let him say things that he can’t say to the others; let him pour out all the nonsense that’s piled up in his brain throughout the day, you get to talk about your past lives without the fear of being reprimanded for it. It’s like he’s writing in a diary, but the pages are you.

He decorates you with pictures, receipts, trinkets, all sorts of things that he usually keeps to himself. He’ll peel apart the pages of your mind and glue parts of himself onto them. He shows you the things he hides in the box that’s tucked beneath the clothes in his dresser; his fathers broken compass, and his drivers license, and polaroids of his friends and family. And then you’ll ask about Grisha, and laugh and tease him over his short hair and the scowl on his face in all of the pictures.

He opens himself up for you too, when you let yourself. You’re like a jigsaw puzzle, and you give him pieces over time, and with each piece he’ll compare them to the rest and try to see where they fit into the bigger picture that is you.

He truly wouldn’t want to hunt with anyone else, not even himself. Because when the two of you are miles out after trudging through the frosted foliage with runny noses and watering eyes, when you’re smoking old cigarettes and ashing them into the snow, talking until the sky goes dark and you’re both so tired that you wonder if you’ll even make it back, he feels more than normal. He feels alright.

***

“Dinner’s ready!” Gabi shouts, slightly out of breath after flying up the stairs and around the corner of your doorframe. Ness jumps and nips at the hem of her shirt, and Gabi’s hand pushes at her snout to let her know that they’re not playing chase.

“Okay, I’ll be just a minute.” You tell her with a smile, and she goes bounding down once again, feet thumping loudly against the hard wood stairs. When you hear Levi stern her for running in the house, you finally get up.

Before entering the kitchen, you’re greeted by the savory smell of seared turkey and roasted corn, and you think you can make out the scent of Campbell’s canned vegetable soup, which is confirmed shortly by the large pot you see still simmering over the stove.

The kids have set the table, you can tell by the mismatched plates and plastic cups, something Levi would’ve never let slide if he had done it himself. But he sits contently at the head of the table, his plastic cup replaced with a teacup and filled with freshly brewed black tea. He prefers English Breakfast, but you ran out about a month ago.

Niccolo has Sasha and Connie bring the food to the island, but they don’t do so without sneaking a few bites, and once everyone has gathered into the kitchen, they’re allowed to grab their plates and are first in line for their servings. You and Eren are last to get up for food, letting your appetite return from the hunt before giving the turkey a glance.

He nudges your arm with his elbow, his hands occupied by a plate, and you look up to him. He has a smile on his face and his eyes point to the turkey before looking back at you.

“Yeah yeah, shut it.” You groan over his gloating. The size of the thing is impressive, you’ll give him that, but you won’t let him forget how he whined and complained about the weight of it with every step back to the church.

He lets you go first, helps you when a slice of turkey is stuck to another and you can’t get them apart, then he takes that slice for himself. When you sit beside each other at the table, you pour him water from the pitcher, and he stares at it intently like he’s waiting for it to turn to wine.

You sit at the far end of the table, and although you’ve aged your ways into your twenties the older bunch are still sat at the kids table with Gabi and the others. None of you mind, you get to whisper amongst yourselves and tell jokes that are a little too mature for the kids and say things that are a touch to vulgar for the real adults. You corrupt Colt with your antics; who’s just a little too young to participate, but old enough now where Mikasa no longer feels the need to cover his ears.

You giggle over spilt soup and steal from each others plates so you don’t have to get up for seconds, and when Connie says something particularly crude, you cover your mouths to try and keep your drinks in, but water slips through your fingers with your laughter and the table is a mess before your meal is done.

Everyone finishes one by one and take turns rinsing their plates before stacking them in the sink, returning to the table to finish conversations before leaving the kitchen. But you never get the chance to leave, because Levi, Hange, and Erwin are standing up at the head of their table and Armin follows short after realizing what’s occurring.

“Alright,” Levi begins, and gives everyone a moment settle down before continuing, “As we can see, the snow hasn’t melted.”

It takes you only a second before recognizing where this conversation is going to go.

“Given that it’s early November, this means it won’t be going away.”

“It also means we’re closer to Christmas.” Hange adds with an excited whisper.

Levi ignores their statement and continues, “There are a few things we need to go over, a few changes that are going to happen since last year.”

You know what this means. Fall and spring give you the luxuries of harvest and game, but the extremes of middle America’s winter and summers will freeze you tough and burn you dry.

“Myself, Erwin, Hange, and Armin have discussed how we’re going to adjust for this winter.”

Beside you, Eren holds his head in his hands. This discussion has been held every year since you’ve been here and he hates it every time. He’s never agreed with how they decide to handle the cold months, has never shied from sharing his opinions, but it only seems that the rules get stricter and stricter as time goes on.

As much as he hates to do what he’s told at this time, the rules getting tighter makes more and more sense. The longer you stay here, the less you have, the more you go through, and more people come along.

You only half listen to Levi speak, because your job will always remain the same. Go out when you’re told, to get what you’re told. You hear him talk about cutting down on runs, something about rationing, how the radio’s are going to be finicky as always, that the lake is completely froze over, and to not leave unless you have to. His voice is white noise as you watch Eren out of the corner of your eye. He only moves to absentmindedly pet Agnes as she sits beside him.

He does this every year. He’ll tune out Levi’s voice, work himself into unrest, take it out you and Mikasa, blame Armin, then yell at Levi in the middle of the night before storming off towards the moon. No one chases after him, Agnes will bark at the door for a while, then lay down in the foyer and wait for him to return. You do the same, only you lay in your bed and turn to face the cobblestone wall, staring at the grooves, and listening closely for the sound of returning footsteps.

He argues the same thing every time.

“So we’re just gonna hide in here like sitting ducks waiting for someone to jump us or kill us or worse…?”

And he always gets the same answer.

“It’s not hiding, Eren, it’s being smart. We’re playing the long game.”

The moment the conversation ends, Eren’s getting up and walking out of the kitchen. He doesn’t push his chair in. You don’t care to follow him, but you watch where he goes. He heads up the stairs without looking back, and then you hear the door to his room shut just a little harder than usual. You look to Mikasa with wide eyes and pursed lips, she looks back and rolls her eyes in acknowledgement, shaking her head at him. She rubs at her eyes and runs a hand through her dark hair, and that’s how you know that she’s determined its a ‘tomorrow problem’. You listen to her cue, and start your own way up the stairs to your room, following behind Pieck.

“It’s too late for his games,” She says softly from behind you. You smile even though you know she can’t see your face.

Pieck always takes a little longer to get up the stairs, but you never mind. You’re always far to exhausted to ever think about wishing that she couldn’t go a little quicker. You watch the foot of her crutch knock against the wooden steps, and the monotony makes your eyes heavy with sleep.

You tell Mikasa a quick goodnight before following Pieck into your shared room. You change out of your clothes with half open eyes, and stumble as you toe your boots off. The beds are small, could only fit two people if you tried to sardine it, but they somehow always manage to feel like the greatest expanse of clouds after hours of walking.

Your curled beneath the sheets with closed eyes before Pieck has even turned the lamp off, Agnes curled at her feet. Once she does, you only stay awake until you can hear her soft breathing, and that lulls you to sleep.

***

The blankets are warm and soft when you wake up, and your eyes are still heavy. When you pry them open, you expect the soft light of sunrise streaking through the window, but instead its only the moon. It’s only a bit more than half full, with a swelling belly and dark craters. It shines though the window panes and patterns across your beige sheets.

Your confused for a moment, staring up at her as she’s in the middle of the sky. Then you feel a push to your shoulder, and it takes a second for you to realize that it wasn’t the first.

“Hey…” You hear a whisper along with another push. You turn from facing the wall to see who wakes you.

“What?” You mumble, irritation slight in your voice. Your eyes are still heavy with sleep and you hope that whoever beckons your consciousness is quick with it.

“Can we take a walk?” The voice asks.

Your brain associates the question with a person before their voice. He does this sometimes; wakes you up in the middle of the night when the stars are the brightest and the air is the coldest.

“It’s so cold.” You argue, but there’s not enough strength in your words. You’ll give in, you always do.

“Please,” He adds. You begin to make out the gray of his eyes in the moonlight.

You huff, “Alright.”

You nudge at his bottom with your knee to give you room to get out from the blankets. The wooden floor is cold, you can feel it even through your wool socks. Your skin breaks out in goosebumps and you quickly reach for a sweatshirt before addressing him again. The floor creaks beneath your quick steps and you know Pieck will stir awake. Your eyes flit to Agnes, she’s awake but she doesn’t sit up, she only stares with her beady eyes.

You slip the sweatshirt on over your sleep thermals as fast as possible, and then slide on sweatpants over your long johns. You cover your socks in a second pair and seal them over the ankle hem of the pants. You glance at Eren.

“‘so confident that I’d come with that you already dressed.” You murmur, tugging snow pants atop of the two layers you already have.

“I was gonna go whether or not you joined me,” He says.

You don’t respond. Instead, you pull on your boots and sling your coat on. You pull a hat over your head, one Historia knit in her free time, and zip your coat all the way up to your neck. Gloves follow.

“Okay.” You say, letting him know you’re ready.

He stands, his windbreaker rustling and boots knocking against the floor. You wonder how you didn’t hear him come in. You glance to Pieck. She’s awake. You can see the glisten of her eyes, but can’t make out her irises or pupils. Agnes is as well, sitting up now.

“Sorry,” You whisper, “don’t tell.”

Her hand slips from under her blankets and to her mouth, and you can just make out her make a zipping motion over her lips. She tosses the key.

You leave with Eren behind you, trying your best to navigate the darkness of the church, toeing softly down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around furniture throughout the halls, then grasping Eren’s bow from the front entrance with gentle fingers. The quiver is grabbed with your other hand. You turn and hand them to him before heading towards the back entrance. The front is too loud with its hefty wooden doors and thick metal locks, it would wake the whole camp. The back door is across the church from where everyone sleeps. You slip out with ease.

You’re not supposed to be out past ten for ‘safety reasons’ that Levi deems important. Eren believes it’s more for his own comfort than anything; you agree.

A new layer of snow flurries softly to the ground and you both press your boots into it as you trail off into the woods. You walk in one direction and one direction only, not risking getting lost. Agnes isn’t there to guide you home if you do.

You don’t have to ask Eren what he wants to talk about, you already know. You also know he isn’t looking for a conversation, he just wants to go on knowing that someone is there listening. You make it almost a mile before he talks.

“I just think it’s stupid. I don’t know.” He says quietly. You can hear him perfectly fine as the snow muffles the sound of everything besides the crunch of your footsteps. “The benefits they claim are just so pointless. We should just keep doing what we’re doing and how we’re doing it instead of going through all the damn trouble of fixing for winter.”

“Yeah,” You murmur, half listening.

“‘and Levi’s just gonna be harder and harder on rules — he’d probably beat the shit out of us for being out here if he found out.”

“Probably.”

“I just don’t understand why we can’t keep it the same and if we find out someone’s creeping on us or planning a raid or getting too close then we just go after them first.”

“Exactly,” You toe at pine cones and leaves, kicking them ahead of you as you walk, meeting them and then kicking them again.

“Or we could just go find and kill everyone else before they even have a chance to think about it.”

You pause behind him and furrow your brows.

“‘cut down the problem at the root.”

“Well, that’s not—” You start.

“Why not?” He stops as well, turning around and stepping up onto what you believe is one side of the train tracks.

You’ve come out here before, walked on the rail lines, followed them until minutes turned into hours which turned into days. Once you went so far you had made it to an old station you would guess to be 50 miles out. You slept at a mattress store in the town that day; back-to-back under sheets that smelt like moth balls.

Eren stands tall on the track, slightly swaying back and forth to keep his balance. He looks down at you with stony eyes and arms crossed over his chest. The moon is right behind him, covered by his head.

“Interrupt me again, thank you,” You roll your eyes.

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“It just seems a bit much,” You laugh softly, “very dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” He questions, “I don’t think it’s dramatic. Actually, I think this is a very serious issue that needs serious measures to.. you know… deal with it.”

You watch him as he continues on, talking with his hands, pacing back and forth on the tracks. You stand there bundled in your layers, hiding from the cold behind the neck of your coat, feeling the cold zipper touch your lips.

He goes on and on about things you hear every year that you don’t need to hear again to understand. You don’t necessarily agree with him, but you don’t think he’s wrong. You make sure to respond every now and then, ask him questions, give him reactions, doing what you can to let him know you’re still listening.

You get tired of standing and choose to sit on the same track he paces and balances along. His voice fades to the background as you fiddle with the little rocks before you, collecting ones you think are pretty and then stuffing them in your pocket.

Eren’s always had this weird carnal desire to protect. It’s almost animalic, like a sheep dog guarding its herd; sniffing out creatures in the woods and going after their necks. He keeps careful eye on everyone but keeps closer on those he cares for the most. You know he keeps the closest eye on you, always watching you out of the corner of it. What you don’t know is what to make of it. He confuses you sometimes, and you find yourself questioning him.

Are you his litter mate? Does the animal in him see you as his sister?

You feel a push to the back of your head, “Hey!” You look up.

“You’re not even listening.” Eren stands above you with annoyance on his face.

“You bitch,” You reach to take a fistful of snow and dirt and throw it towards his face. It smacks him in the cheek and the second it makes contact he begins to wipe it off furiously.

“If you were listening you wouldn’t be saying that. You would’ve heard me say that I’d bomb this whole country if anything happened to you guys,” He flicks the snow remnants from his cheek toward you and it specks across your face, melting into your warm cheeks, “You specifically. I’d probably want to do it all by hand if anything happened to you.”

“Well now that’s just a lie.” You mutter.

Eren’s face gets hot at his own words, “‘s not.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I’m here.”

“Well why do you think you’re here? You’re the best — the only one I can talk to about this stuff.”

You believe him then. Eren would probably get far too annoyed or far too bored without you. You’re quiet enough where he doesn’t have to listen much, but do enough where conversations don’t grow stale. You make him laugh, let him talk, give him space but never too much and never not enough. You have his trust and he has yours, you’d give him your life and he would do the same and more.

But you can’t figure out if his distress would be most rooted in selfishness or selflessness. Would he be upset because he’d miss you, or because he’d miss what you give him? Would he save your life because he loves you or because he loves how you make him feel?

Does the animal in him see you as a means for survival more than the human in him sees you as a means for life?

You stand up, “Very sweet of you.”

His eyes meet yours and you can see his cheeks blush in the moonlight, “Stop.”

“I’m just saying that’s very sweet of you to say. You don’t say nice things to me a lot; I’m trying to give positive reinforcement; like Pavlov’s dog.”

“That makes it sound like I’m mean.” He avoids eye contact, “I’m very nice to you.”

“Yes, you are,” You nudge his shoulder with yours and turn back to the path you came from stepping backwards into the footprints you made on the way there.

He follows behind you, “You do think so?”

You pretend to hesitate momentarily, but take the time to cherish the nice moments you manage to think of on the spot. They always seem to come out of nowhere, and are always a bit out of character; like making you tea when you’re sick, or scraping the mud off your boots after it rains.

“Yeah, I do.”

He feels slightly conflicted with your answer. He’s pleased with knowing that his typically aloof nature doesn’t hide his care for you, but he’s uncomfortable with it being addressed. He doesn’t like it being said out loud, it makes the silence that follows it quite claustrophobic

He watches you walk ahead of him. You’re all puffed up by coat layers, swaddled by cotton and wool, legs wrapped in sweatpants and snow pants so bulky you waddle a bit through the snow. He regrets not wearing as much as you; the cold still bites at him through his jacket, while he can see the finer hairs of your hairline sticking to your forehead from the warmth of your hat.

“Do you think he’ll let us go out tomorrow?” He asks.

“‘should probably wait a bit to even ask him,” You say.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A week maybe?”

“That’s too long.”

You press your lips together, thinking, “couple days then.”

You continue walking. The moon is so bright in the sky that there’s no need for flashlights; there’s no light pollution anymore. You can see the stars go on forever, deep into the horizon. They glow so bright that the constellations would be traceable through paper if you had held a sheet up to the sky.

You see short, shadowed figures in the front window when you return. Their bodies are lit up by the candlesticks they hold in their hands; fingers wrapped around brass holders. Gabi and Falco, awake in the dead of night. You must’ve woken them. It forces you to enter through the big double doors, and you both groan internally at the thought of waking anyone else. The lock on the door rattles as you key it open, and the metal door knockers clank against the wood as you tug at the handle. You wince.

You’re greeted by a nudge at your knees, Agnes wiggling back and forth, nosing at your shins. You reach down to grab her snout, not trusting her to not bark.

“What are you doing?” You whisper at Gabi as she sits on the floor, tying up her boots. Falco stands over her, blatantly hesitant. It obviously wasn’t his idea.

She looks up at you with big brown eyes, if they were gray you could’ve mistaken them for Eren’s.

“I saw you guys leaving. I wanted to make sure you were okay. You shouldn’t leave without anyone knowing, it’s dangerous.”

You want to snicker at her hypocrisy, but instead you press your lips together and smile at her feigned worry. She’s just curious, you know it. She’s just recently been allowed to tag along on runs — only close ones, albeit.

“I told her it wasn’t a good idea. ‘swear I was trying to stop her.” Falco babbles, but you see his boots were already tied. He had already decided that if he couldn’t stop her that he was going to join her.

“Falco shush. Gab, jus’ go to bed.” Eren says, quiet but sharp.

She stops lacing her shoes, but doesn’t take them off, “Only if you do.”

“We are.” You release Agnes and pet her head in apology. You appreciate her attempt to stop them.

You pat Falco on the back between his shoulder blades, ushering him upstairs. Gabi follows, shamefully holding one boot in her hands, and following Falco with the other on her right foot; the left decorated in a green sock that you know is mismatched from the other.

You and Eren trail them. You give him a look, you don’t know what kind, but you know he gives you the same one back.

You get to close their door behind them, watching Agnes follow them in. When you turn back around, Eren sits in a rocking chair that rests in the corner of the bed hall, lit by the waning candle in the sconce. You pull your hood and hat off your head as you tiredly walk towards him.

He looks up to you with his elbows resting on his knees. He rocks back and forth so slow that you barely notice.

You fight the urge to bring up the conversation from earlier. It teases at your tongue, pushes at your lips. But you don’t. He looks mean under this lighting.

You tug at the fingers of your gloves next, taking them off slowly. Your hands are sweaty beneath the wool. You set them on a narrow side table. Your hand outreaches to it and you lean against it. He’s not mean.

“What was that?”

His brows furrow, “What was what?” He gets nervous. He’s afraid you’ll ask about his soft spot.

“That weird little freak show at the tracks. You sound like a school shooter.”

His shoulders drop in relief, “My plan?”

“You mean your manifesto…” You sneer.

“Not a big fan, I take it.”

You step closer, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’d consider myself more so a skeptic.”

He scoots forward in his seat, taking off his own gloves.

“What would you change about it?”

You give a soft laugh, “Personally, I wouldn’t be so for all the… killing of people. But that’s just me.”

He lets you keep the high ground as you critique him, looking up at you from the chair. He doesn’t get angry, he only listens.

“Didn’t take you for a member of the peace corps.” He murmurs.

You’re getting tired of his misdirections. You’re not looking for an argument, but you are looking for an explanation.

“Dude, seriously, you’re gonna freak people out if you go around saying that.”

He looks down to his shoes. He tries to not let the guilt of disagreeing with you show on his face. He never feels like he has to explain himself to anyone. With you, he wants to, just so you can understand him. This time he doesn’t have the energy for it.

“Tomorrow conversation.” Is all he says.

You exhale heavily, treading carefully.

“‘kay.” You give up. You purposefully give him a poor excuse for a smile and turn away to head for your room. You hear him rise after you but you don’t look back.

He looks at the back of your head solemnly. He wants to tell you he’s made up his mind.

***

There wasn’t a ‘tomorrow conversation’. In fact, there wasn’t even a ‘later this week’ conversation. You waited for him to bring it up during a run, or for him to wake you in the night again to explain, but the explanation never came. A part of you thought he wanted you to be the first to mention it, so the other part of you refused to.

It’s like an insect bite, the way you want to scratch at it. No. It’s like a cigarette. You only want one because it will relieve the feeling the last one left you with. You don’t smoke, but you hope to find a pack of Marlboro’s during the run. You already have a lighter.

You’re two days in when you start hitting land you have yet to hunt to extinction. This is one of those big trips, where you have the privilege of taking the truck.

Actually, privilege is generous. You’re forced to siphon aged gasoline out of safety cans and into the tank by mouth. The gas burns your lips and tongue, gathers thickly in the back of your throat to where your hacking and spitting it up into the snow and staining the white all purple and green with oil. When you blow your nose the snot is stained black. And then, you’re only allowed to drive it in the mornings. You drive ten miles during the morning, walk it’s radius, and then sleep in the seats, warmed by old sleeping bags and worn blankets. You wake up and do it again until you either have enough game in the bed where you wonder if the truck will even move, or those red gas cartons are getting low enough to cause trouble.

The truck is backheavy when you settle for the night. It covers your east-end, leaves you both to cover the west; the land yet to be explored. You stare at the bones of the rabbit that was dinner, watching the grease and spit glisten under the low embers of the fire it was roasted over. You’re wrapped in layers of wools, furs, and fleece, but still… sometimes when you look at the bones too carefully — when you think about what part of the body you consumed, when you try and piece them all back together in your head like they’re prehistoric fossils — you get a shiver that runs so deep down your spine that you tremble.

Eren stares into the dwindling fire. His pupils are lit up. Amber bleeds from the grays and reflects deep in the black of his pupils. You stare at him through the corner of your eye. He sits three to your six. You watch carefully as the shifting air runs through the stray hairs near his face.

He feels your eyes on him. He’s thankful the nip of the cold and the glow of the flame have already turned his face red. He tongues at his teeth to distract himself. He doesn’t like the brazen of your staring, he never has. It’s as if you know he’s weak to you, and you enjoy watching him squirm. There’s nothing sensual about it, in fact, it almost always comes off as predatory.

If anything, that makes him far more uncomfortable.

He looks at you, right into your eyes, and you don’t look away. His stomach lurches.

There’s a gross, tangible tension that rests in the four feet that are between you. You’ve talked about the subject less than twice, and there’s already and underlying animosity. There’s no argument regarding who’s right and who’s wrong. The fight is in who’s most mad about the fact that you two aren’t on the same page. You’re afraid he’s winning.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

You hear his voice but it takes you a second to realize he’s actually speaking. It catches you off guard. You break eye contact and look into the fire.

“What you said… I know you were serious, but were you like serious serious?” Your resolve weakens.

He doesn’t speak. You can still feel his eyes on you, scanning over your face, checking for sincerity.

“Why do you ask?”

You groan, “Can we quit answering questions with questions?”

He sits up a bit at your volume. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“That’s literally a question.” He tries to calm the situation.

“Eren.”

He says your name right back to you, not in combatance, but in mercy.

“I just want to know if you’re going to go through with that if things don’t change. And if you do, is it going to be… like… something that’s soon or something that’ll be like… years in the future.” You don’t want to stop him. You don’t ask for information to aid a prevention of his plans from happening. You want to know if he’s going to be placing his own life at risk for yours sooner or later. You’d like to prepare.

“Years in the future,” He waits for you to look at him again, “I want to figure out which one would be worse for us before I do the other.”

“Okay,” You say hesitantly. A chill runs over your skin.

***

You stir in the passenger seat. There’s a biting breeze at your cheeks and you go to pull up the neck of your coat. Your reach is obstructed by warmth — soft warmth. You try and push it away. You realize the warmth is also at your jaw, wrapped around your neck, pressed against your back. Your eyes fly open. It’s barely visible, just out of the corner of your eye, lit barely by the sunrise, but you the outline of a figure beside you. It’s gripping your face and pulling you towards it, pressing something cold to your neck.

A knife.

Even if you had the gall to yell, their fingers were squishing your lips shut, and then you realize there’s no one to yell to. You don’t see Eren in the drivers seat as you’re tugged out. You fail to catch your footing beneath you, and your heels kick up the snow as you try and find it but keep slipping.

There’s a sting at your throat as you thrash, and warmth that leaks down your neck and into your undershirt.

You try and speak, but it comes out all slurred and jumbled, “Our game — you can have our game it’s- it’s in the bed. There’s a mag with 15 nine’s in the glovebox — I have a compound, by the fire, a bow,”

“Be quiet. Talk anymore and you’re dead, I promise.” It says, voice gross and nasally; it sounds like a teenager. but the beard scratching at your neck and it’s height says otherwise.

Your eyes scan, and scan, and scan the snow and trees for any sign of Eren as you’re dragged further from the truck. You can’t find him. Your pupils are blown huge with adrenaline and you can’t see him. The sun blinds you as you’re pulled directly from it, and you think it’s on purpose. You can’t see the truck anymore even when it should be in your sight.

You grip at the forearm around your neck and push at it, scratch at it, dig your nails into the skin, you’re convinced you’re being rough enough for it to release you, but you’re not. You don’t know where all your strength went. The blade digs deeper and another gush of warmth coats over your chest. You want to lurch away, but that would mean running into the knife. Any act of defiance cuts you deeper, sends another sear of pain over your skin and through your nerves. You realize that, for now, walking backwards with it is better.

“There you go.” It grumbles.

Tears swell in your eyes from the pain. Your neck burns hot like you’ve been pressed to the coals of your fire by the throat. You keep your hands on the forearm and bicep of it. You feel it’s muscles flex beneath your fingers. You breath heavy as you step back with it.

You’re too far from the truck now. You’ll only sound like an echo even if you yell for him. You don’t understand how you’ve gotten so far so fast. It feels like you’ve fallen down a tunnel.

You’re too far from the truck. You’re too far from Eren. You’re too far from Eren.

Get up. There is no one coming to save you.

Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding into each other so hard you can hear the sound vibrate throughout your skull. Your dominant hand drops from the arm and it’s on your hip with fingers grasping around cold metal before you even know what you’re doing.

Your jaw opens.

Your gun is tugged from your waistband.

You take flesh between your teeth, an entire mouthful. You gag as your tongue tastes fabric of it’s sleeve.

The metal warms beneath your fingers, slips perfectly into your grasp. You move fast. One hand reaches for the knife, grabs it, and then grabs at it even harder when it slices at the bends of your fingers.

Your jaw closes.

There’s resistance at first. Your tongue presses against cotton. You worry you won’t get through it. And then,

And then, you’re reminded,

It’s only cotton.

And there’s warmth on your teeth, warmth on your lips, warmth over your tongue. And it’s wet. It’s slippery, and hot, and tastes like you’ve taken a bite out of aluminum. And the gun is warm, and hot, and it’s in your hand and reaching behind you to throw it off kilter.

You squeeze.

And it slips.

It slips out of your grasp like a bar of soap in the shower. And before you can even think of how, your face is in the ground. There’s a fistful of snow in your mouth and you try and sputter it out but you can’t. It’s in your throat. You try and push up against your hands but they hurt. They hurt and they’re hot. The snow is in your mouth, on your throat, in your eyes, scratching your face, on your throat, stabbing into your hands, melting on your tongue, and on your throat.

It’s on your throat and the cold feels so nice. If you could breath proper, you’d want to lay in it. But you can’t breathe. You push against your palms again and let them burn. Your vision is white. You think you’re blind.

When did they get my eyes?

But there’s a deep maroon puddle melting away at the white. And the warmth on your neck keeps dripping into that puddle. You stare at it, and you realize you’ve looked just a second to long far too late.

A splitting pain cracks against the back of your head, and you don’t have to see it to know it’s your own gun being whipped across your skull.

The snow becomes fire, and you become the snow. You melt into it; slowly at first, and then so fast you feel as if you’re falling. It washes over you in waves.

***

The road is so bumpy. It makes everything hurt even worse than it already does. You’re conscious before you open your eyes, and when it’s too bright even with your lids shading you from the sun, you decide you’re not even going to try. You cover your face with the crease of your elbow, your coat acting as a mask. Your neck burns as you bury your face into the sleeve.

Your head feels like it could explode. Your hands and neck are on fire, and your stomach hurts so bad you think you’re going to shit it out of you.

You’re not going to shit it out of you, but throw it up. And theres not enough strength in your body to sit up. Rabbit spills over your sleeve, and neckline, and infests in your wound, coats your jacket.

“I know, I know. Almost there, I promise. I promise.”

You try and catch the second surge of it in your hands, but it pours into your lap. And you’re so disgusted you begin to cry. Your head hurts so bad you’re convinced you’re dying, and the pressure from sobbing doesn’t help, and you’re covered in sweat and vomit and blood and piss. And more tears flow down your cheeks in a steady stream because you want to shower.

You want to shower.

With soap.

***

There’s only pictures between puking and now. Pictures that flash through your head like someone is spinning through an old carousel projector. The thing is, they aren’t pictures from your perspective. You didn’t see them. You were there, but that point of view isn’t yours.

You see them from above, like there was a camera in the corner and now you’re looking at it’s film. You see yourself from its view; watch as you’re picked up from the passenger seat, ran inside and spread over the dinner table like a cadaver. And then the film skips, there must be a scratch in the DVD, and you’re in the snow again, face deep.

But they’re tearing off your coat, throwing it aside.

That was your grandmother’s coat.

You’re stripped to your grey thermals. And you see yourself laying there like you were game that was brought in; tied at the ankles, sweaty and glistening, covered in blood, pissed wet at the britches in fear, defeathered, chunks of hair absent from your head, and cut at the throat like you were shown mercy.

You watch them poke at you, cut at you, string together your seams, baste you with wine. They wrap you in cloth, anoint you with herbs, soothe you with salves.

And then christen you with water.

It does not feel merciful.

***

He hates the way you look. You look empty, misshapen, warped.

He hates it so bad.

Your eyes are fat and puffy, and your cheeks cave in, and your wounds are all red and raised. Your skin is covered in bandages that are always dirtied with your blood even when he and Pieck change them to be fresh thrice a day. Even if you were awake, he doesn’t think you could open your eyes.

They’re so swollen. Like two black and blue golf balls stuck to your face.

He doesn’t want you to open them. Hange says the whites of them have turned red from the blows.

He’d be sick with himself if you did.

Sometimes he has to step out. It’s not you, no matter how battered you look, It’s not truly you that he hates or that he’s scared of. When he thinks about it too hard, there’s an overwhelming amount of rage in him, and if he doesn’t step away he gets scared he’ll throw a lamp at Pieck.

She’s the only other one allowed in there.

She was the first one allowed in other than Hange, Erwin, Levi and Armin. If anyone came close to loving you as much as he did, it’s her.

She’s much more gentle than he is. His hands shake too bad, he gets too angry, thinks too hard. She can detach herself just enough to think straight; Eren doesn’t have that skill. He couldn’t detach himself from you if it was between life and death.

Pieck brings him back to reality a lot. She keeps him from spiraling. She can see when he gets lost in his head, just like you do. Usually she’s far more kind, but right now she’s not as nice as she was. Where she’d used to call him out with words so soft you wouldn’t dare to argue with them, she now slaps him across the face open-palmed.

It takes everything in her not to hate him.

When they sit at the edge of your bed, holding your bandaged hands, she falls asleep last. When Eren has nightmares while asleep, Pieck is tortured while awake. She looks at him with dark eyes, lids so low they’re barely slits, pupils small as pinpoints, and she blames him. She lets herself, and she doesn’t have shame. When they’re awake, she stares him down and waits for him to look back at her so she can see him feel her eyes to the core of his being.

Often, she lets herself wish it was him.

***

You don’t have to be in the room to hear the screaming from the kitchen. You hear voices you recognize, but there are so many different ones that you can’t number how many are truly in there. You could get up to see the commotion, but you really don’t want to. It involves you, but you don’t want to be involved. So you pretend your head hurts and fake sleep.

You hear Armin negotiating.

Hange is giving half-snarky side comments.

Eren is yelling mostly nonsense and Levi is yelling back,

and Erwin just jumps in here and there to tell everyone to shut up.

It’s a sweet little voice that takes you off guard, and obviously everyone else as well. You can only hear Historia’s voice when she talks. She’s firm and loud, and upset. She’s upset and she’s fighting for you, which is strange. She had been there since the beginning, and only favors Ymir and Erwin. Hearing her not only agree with someone other than them, but Eren, and shamelessly fighting for you, takes you back just a bit. You wonder why, and then you wonder if you want to know the answer.

And then there were a few scuffles; shoves and punches exchanged, followed by brief and insincere apologies.

You don’t know what to think, or who to agree with, and you don’t know if there’s a right answer to the conversation. You don’t like how there’s weight put on your thoughts because of what happened. You want it to go back to how it was; Armin, Erwin, Levi, and Hange making decisions with Eren always complaining and Connie always confused and Gabi not giving a damn as long as she can explore.

The next day goes the same way. You don’t want to go downstairs; you don’t want questions, answers, looks, no looks, conversations, quietness. You don’t want any of it. Someone brings you food every meal; Pieck, Eren, Mikasa, or Armin often eat with you. When they don’t, you feed it all to Agnes, because when you’re left alone you think too much and that always ends up with dinner on the floor.

When sitting doesn’t hurt, and then when standing doesn’t hurt, you take a bath and scrub at the scabs on your palms and neck and everywhere else until they’re fresh and bleeding again. You make the kids heat the water until it boils; when it’s so hot on your feet that your body reads it as cold. You let the water tinge pink. Zofia brings you a towel she warmed by the fireplace.

You do that a second time that day. And then a third time the next day. And then again, and again, until you’ve lost count.

***

Eren sits in a chair at your bedside. He’s cut his hair. You had told him to almost a week ago after picking leaf fragments out of it and flicking away pine needles. He had visited you after going on a run with Jean. He complained and you had let him. He said he misses you.

You need to cut it. You’ll get burrs in it.

He had taken a dull razor to it in the bathroom, cut at it until it was choppy and rested above his shoulders. You told him you’d fix it with shears when you can get out of bed.

He insults your hair next. It’s a nest of knots at the back of your head from where you tossed and turned on your pillow. He says he’ll comb it out when you’re better.

For some reason it makes him angry.

***

Anger is exactly what Eren felt. Pure, unbridled, unadulterated, anger. It got worse when he looked in the mirrors. He wanted to take a knife to the person staring back at him.

He tells Connie this, and only Connie. Connie is the only one he can trust. He’d never tell anyone, and if he did it would be Sasha. Sasha would only tell Jean. Jean doesn’t care about him enough to tell anyone else. And even he did let it slip one night between the linens to Armin, it wouldn't be enough, and it would be too late.

He woke up early that morning.

***

All the doting, the sympathy, it makes you feel weird and pathetic. You let yourself rot in the sheets until you’re bored of it.

Two weeks later, you get up. You take Gabi and Agnes with you, and tell no one else.

“How far are we gonna go?” She asks eagerly. Her knuckles are turning white as she holds her Daisy branded BB gun excitedly.

“Couple miles, I’m thinking. Or until you get tired.” You smile.

“That’d be you first, you haven’t done shit in almost a month.” She laughs and knocks at Agnes’ hip with her own.

“Bitch.” You smile and kick at her butt with the sole of your boot. She stumbles forward with a giggle.

Her carelessness is admirable. It lets you feel normal, and in a way, vengeful. She’s told you before that you should go find them and kill them; more specifically ‘do what they did do you but with a gun and then make them beg for Mother Mary’s mercy’. You agreed with her. It wasn’t in a way to make her feel smart, or make her feel like she fits in with adults, or to acknowledge her maturity in knowing about the subject, but because you truly agreed.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t do what you wanted.

When you woke, fully woke — when you didn’t just open your eyes and then fall into unconsciousness again — , it was almost dusk, you could tell by the way the sun stretched over the sheets. The first thing you asked is where they were. Usually, the rule is that enemies are kept not killed. But Pieck had told you that Eren had taken them out back the night they were captured and shot them point-blank execution style after having them plead for their lives for hours.

You cursed him out for days on end. He cried, apologized, pleaded, and you didn’t care. That was supposed to be yours. Pieck tried to explain to you that he probably saved your life, and that your anger is misdirected.

You told her she was wrong. Just because you’re anger isn’t at the expected person, doesn’t mean it’s misdirected. One thing about anger is that it’s a secondary emotion, and it never comes first. Which means, anger can be towards anyone, or everyone. Anger spares no one.

With Armin and Erwin and Levi, you felt betrayal first.

With Mikasa and Annie you were ashamed.

With Pieck you felt lost.

Jean, Connie, and Sasha annoyed you.

And Eren,

Eren…

You were embarrassed.

Not by what happened, or what was done, but by what wasn’t done.

In those weeks you laid in bed — when you laid there in silence and stared at a the shadow of a moon you wish was there — you ground your molars together in frustration. You thought over, and over, and over… where were you for those 20 minutes?

Where were you for those 20 minutes?

And you ask him, every time you ask him, ‘Where was I those 20 seconds?’

Where was I in those 20 seconds where you decided that you’d get to kill them and I wouldn’t?

***

Eren left when he couldn’t find you. He has too many things to do with not enough time.

He wrote you just in case.

He brought too many weapons for himself to carry. They stuffed his backpack, lined his pockets, were clutched to his side, slid into his boot. Brass lined his knuckles, barrels sawed off of shotguns. His compass pressed against his chest, the cold metal sending goosebumps against his skin. He tied Agnes to Pieck’s bedpost, knowing she’d follow if she could. There’s no place for her here. No one will be guided home.

Where was I in those 20 minutes?

He can’t remember. It’s all gone from his head now. He thinks he was looking for dry wood. He’s not sure. How is he not sure?

First thing he remembers is seeing those hazel eyes peering over a mound of snow, eyes almost yellow; crouched over behind it. He remembers an open mouth, a pink tongue that was slobbering down it’s chin. Panting. And there was another one beside it, gripping your gun in it’s hand, pointing it beneath where the other one mounted.

That’s your gun.

He knows. He doesn’t know how but he does.

He remembers tying knots so tight his fingers blister, he remembers tying their hair into the knots, gagging them so hard they puked and choked on their tongues. He remembers cutting things off, shoving things into faces. And blood, pouring, oozing, puddling blood. Gushing, and gushing.

And he’s covering you with an old quilt, sewn together with bible verses in the squares. Strapping you into the passenger seat, wrapping cloth over your neck, driving one handed as he holds it in place.

The truck was soaked.

He sees them in his rearview mirror. Hog-tied. Apples in their mouths. Their coats getting shredded into nothing but feathers over the gravel, their skin getting grated by the stones, faces torn apart by wood slivers. It’s in their eyes, their noses, buried into their gums, dust in their lungs. They’ve lost all their pink from either blood loss or cold he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. They’re tied out back to the crucifix.

He goes farther than you went that day. Taking that blood soaked truck with him. He drives until the sun rises the next morning.

***

You almost knock Gabi over when she stops abruptly in front of you. Your hands go to her shoulders to steady her to keep her from toppling over. She grips her gun with eager hands, and is raising the barrel before you can see what she’s looking at.

Her pupils swell, flooding her entire iris with black ink. Her fingertips are pink as she flips off the safety, even in the bitter winter air. Adrenaline surges through her body. The hair framing her face flutters about and wisps at her cheeks and brows. She doesn’t seem to notice.

You step to her side and watch her carefully. She stares down the scope, brows scrunched, eyes narrow, hold so steady you could balance a coin on the muzzle.

You tilt your head, stretch your neck, and make binoculars with your hands to try and see what she’s got in her eye. When you finally crouch down to her level, with healing palms against rough jeans that send shockwaves through the mangled nerves in your hands, you see what she does.

200 meters away you see a triangle of yellow in a field of white glimmering in the morning sun, and beneath it, a base of umber. With it’s bald head and sharp eyes, it stares the two of you down. It sees you, you know it. You let it watch.

Gabi waits on an inhale. And it takes you a second, but you realize she’s waiting for you.

You look up at her. Her fingers wait near the trigger, and you don’t think she’s blinked since she’s seen it.

You look back at the bird.

“Get him.”

And before her exhale is complete, her clip is emptied between its eyes.

#mika reads

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