“Oh, no, it really is a miracle. Or a curse. They’re the same thing either way you look at it.”
Turning to face the other, Armin’s eyes narrow in. Despite the gleam, there’s something missing in them though whatever it is, it is carefully hidden beneath a thick layer of curiosity and wariness.
An odd combination, but fitting.
“The world is full of secrets, most of them nipping at our heels the more we ignore them. You can’t uncover much of anything if you’re dead.” His gaze finds the text again, but he knows it front and back already. While admittedly a bit dull, he couldn’t help picking apart the words and meanings over and over again, like loose thread from a quilt. He carefully unraveled each square until he either found a solution or more questions.
“And what is fiction but a reflection of the world around us? The good and the bad, of course.” Not that many fiction books were particularly imaginative, in his opinion, but that’s only because he didn’t know when to stop thinking, to stop analysing.
He didn’t dignify the last question with a response, rhetorical as it must have been, and settled for running his finger along the edge of the paper, eyes alight with a worn but gentle light.
“But I have to ask if you’re willing to share, why do you think that? It’s a bit nihilistic, don’t you think?”
As his more cheery partner preaches gospel, their eyes are what draw his attention the most. They shimmer with something foreign, or maybe... forgotten? Certainly their ability to spew the drivel coming out of their mouth is a result of that mystery held in those orbs. The now irritating look of them could be related to the question that stops him in his tracks. Maybe it’s how presumptuous it is that causes his teeth to grit.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s right.
“I have my reasons.” Those words were about all he could muster without spilling every unpleasantry whirling in his mind out like garbage. Screams, scars, and solitude were credible evidence to prove the point, but John would dare not speak of them. Again he can see the red pooling in his palms, but a blink later and it’s gone. Realizing the vague answer will only prompt personal questions, a sigh escapes him as he fumbles for something more clear.
“You know something that should be fictional, but isn’t? Colossal beings making humanity their dinner and forcing them in a 50 meter tall cage to kill each other in. You’re telling me there’s a bright side to that?” The page his eyes find themselves on again is full of facts; a part of him wishes it all was made up. A part of him wants to laugh at the author for making a story so ludicrous, but he can’t.
The good and the bad, huh? What a joke.
“That optimism’s only going to get shattered one day. If it doesn’t, then congratulations on being Titan fodder.” An oxymoron of vindication and resignation swirl in umber as they meet blue, waiting for the rebuttal soon to come.
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