#1. question

[pontevoix]

radio late night news turns to static, & erwin doesn’t hear when the change comes. it announces white noise, & it blends with everything else – the hum of the air conditioning, bryn’s bedtime playlist down the hall, the steady headache that has been building at the base of his neck for weeks now.

erwin doesn’t hear when the change comes. he’s a stone man coming back to life, & so the muscles of memory come back reluctantly – sticking & aching & mechanical. 

remembering feels a bit like waking up to the realization that he’s been buried underground with  dried blood from a different life stuck beneath his fingernails & dirt in his lungs & old lies still sour on his tongue. 

he recognizes so much of himself. he doesn’t recognize enough. 

so he stares at his own hand, clenched too tightly around a ballpoint pen that threatens to snap, that threatens to drill a hole into the lined paper of a legal pad. it’s his left hand; he’s learned to write with his left hand. he has lost his right hand twice now. 

it is an interesting type of proof that there are some things that never change — that there is a part of him always ready to cut away pieces of himself, always ready to prepare to be the worst, to give pieces of himself away.

the pen slips from his hand, & erwin drops his head back against his desk chair. there’s a part of him that wants to laugh — so he does. a strangled sound punches through his chest, & he thinks that it’s horribly validating to know that he had always been right about himself. he supposes that his self-awareness prepares him for guilt, to continue emerging from stone casing.  it’s an inevitable thing, even if the circumstances are different – he is not the man that he was, but he had always carried the capacity to turn chimera in a way that has never been demanded of him in his life. 

bryn’s playlist comes to an end. now there is radio static. now there is the hum of the air conditioning. 

the laughter dies. exhaling, erwin studies the ceiling in his home office. the wind has been strong tonight, & it makes a ballet of shadows. the memories are an inevitable thing, & they change little. he has already given pieces of himself away, & so his priorities are set. 

in the first life, he had given himself away to unfiltered truth. in the process, he had imparted the best parts of him with the scouts, with levi, with cause. in this life, he had given himself away to unfiltered truth, too – he has made mistakes, & he has taken responsibility. in the process, he has imparted the best parts of himself to a child. he is not the man that he was; he has built a second life.

bryn’s playlist starts to loop again. the first three tracks are piano pieces from the same album – one of their mother’s favorites.

even if he has the capacity to become chimera, the memories change little. the radio keeps playing static. 

but erwin closes his eyes & drops his head forward & thinks about logistical things. to do so is consistent with who he was. he thinks about why he remembers : that before the radio had turned to static, it had been international news. there were reports of a coup d’etat, bloodless only in name. it’s possible that he had recognized himself in that story. or else, it’s possible that he had recognized the routine of office work at night & the isolation of it. 

or else, he remembers because of the headache. because of something brewing over time. because of levi’s absence. 

although laughter had died, erwin’s lip quirks upwards. it occurs to him with a wave of finality that levi had remembered. on that night that they never quite managed to share, levi had remembered. & then levi had run. 

erwin understands, he supposes. even so, it’s another thing that remains consistent between two lives – that levi is a piece of everything to erwin, & that levi has held erwin’s humanity against his chest. it’s a heavy thing to have carried, erwin knows. but that hasn’t been the reason that erwin has loved him twice. 

a week or two has passed since levi fled, since he remembered. it’s possible that he had understood that he had seen too much monstrosity in one life, & that erwin had not lied to him at the end.

in truth, erwin can’t yet remember the end — how his life had ended. but he feels as though he remembers a conversation that never happened. he remembers levi’s survival ( another thing that erwin had chosen that he does not regret ) & he remembers how survival meant loss. 

‘ you left me bleeding for you, devoted—abandoned, ‘ levi never said. & even if it was a conversation that never happened, erwin knows that it carries truth. somehow, it carries truth.

for @chaoslulled : ' you left me bleeding for you, devoted—abandoned. ' levi & erwin

erwin is a stone man coming back to life, & so the muscles of memory come back reluctantly – sticking & aching & mechanical. he’s missing the pieces that jigsaw together what had unfolded, & still – he owes levi. 

he is not the man that he was. a chimera has not been demanded of him. it leaves a space between his ribs that spells a want for old familiarity, for current familiarity. erwin closes his eyes & drops his head forward & thinks about logistical things. levi had remembered, & levi had left.

erwin is patient enough that he waits till morning to text levi something simple: i’d like to see you. 

it goes unanswered. previous messages had gone unanswered too, so it doesn’t come as a surprise.

but still, erwin makes bryn oatmeal for their breakfast & packs a pitiful lunch & exchanges a home office for industry. he is patient enough that he gives more time, that he gives another part of himself away to give levi space.

another week passes.

remembering feels a bit like waking up to the realization that he’s been buried underground with  dried blood from a different life stuck beneath his fingernails & dirt in his lungs & old lies still sour on his tongue. he grows more accustomed to remembering. 

but in this life, he is not equipped for indifference the way he had been. shock doesn’t last forever, & so he unravels some. he asks mike to watch bryn for a night so that he can stand too long beneath a scalding shower, so that he can look at his own visage in a fogged mirror & try to determine whether he recognizes himself, so that he can come to terms a space between his ribs that spells a want for old familiarity, for current familiarity.

erwin starts to recognize the space as a mournful type of yearning. it pushes him closer to desperation, makes him relentlessly tied to concern, & it presses him closer to a type of ruthlessness. so he makes him dress himself as a diplomat to press farlan about levi’s welfare, he bolsters byrn on his hip & says that levi misses them, though it may be a lie. he falls back to logistics.

because he understands warfare. & he understands monstrosity, & he understands that fatherhood has softened him just enough. he understands too much, & even if he’s patient -  levi is a piece of everything to erwin, & levi had once been trusted to hold erwin’s humanity against his chest. that is not something to be forgotten.

with enough bartering, farlan lets him into levi’s cafe to wait. he won’t lend him a key, but he lets him into the space because, he confesses, levi has a habit of putting off conversations he doesn’t want to have.

it doesn’t bode well. 

still, erwin brings his laptop & works on a drafted policy addendum as he waits. he sits on a stool that he had claimed on that first night – that night that levi & he had met in a grocery store, that erwin had floated around him, that levi had invited him to follow him to his cafe. 

as he waits, erwin can hear everything. the sound of water in the pipes, every car that passes, every time the clock beeps to announce the hour. he brings his laptop to work on an addendum to a policy as he waits, & he can hear every letter that he types. 

the silence is so deafening that it makes him want for radio late night news turned to static. it makes him mistype things too often & swear at his own typing speed. 

it’s suffocating. all the more so, when levi eventually arrives. he still has his keys in hands. erwin studies the circles beneath his eyes & misses him.

levi has been absent, & erwin has missed him enough to remember an old life. levi has been absent, & he has not been better for it. even so, it is a relief to see him – to see proof of memories that contained both the best & the worst. 

erwin closes his laptop & pushes himself to stand. levi stares at him, looking like he wants to run. 

it occurs to him that he’s looking at a man who loved him until his death – & who had time afterwards, presumably, to rethink a chimera. 

the silence is stilted. for a moment, he feels vaguely foolish – the shock of remembering is still settling, & it exposes him too much. so he keeps himself composed. he is not quite the man that he had once been demanded of him. he recognizes so much of himself. he doesn’t recognize enough. it’s an exhausting realization.

he is a stone man coming back to life, & he is tired. regardless, he misses levi. even when they’re like this, so he concedes:  ‘ this is not a new thing. ‘ 

this thing between them is not new. it has breathed across two lives, & there is too much to be said. even if the memories don’t change much, levi remains a piece of everything. 

levi remembers, too. & levi had run. 

there is that space between erwin’s ribs that spells a want for old familiarity, for current familiarity. it expands & feels inevitable. erwin closes his eyes against it, & he settles for simplicity. for a question that he was not able to ask in a previous life, when different demands were made of him.

‘ are you all right? ‘ 

they are not the same men, & they are the same men. now there is radio static. now there is the hum of the air conditioning. now there is uncertainty. 

[pontevoix]

mr ksaver can i spend the night i had a bad dream ☹️ *is 36 years old

' . . . ' ksaver says. as such he says nothing.

in truth, he allowed himself to die earlier than necessary for the sole reason of perpetuating bad dreams & later horrors. he had never intended to be the type of man that became one of a kind. but now he has cemented himself as a ghost --- the kind of ghost that leaves the jaeger boy speaking to walls, speaking to the pieces of himself that had been hollowed out during childhood.

' . . . ' ksaver says, because he is a memory, & he hadn't been helpful in life - & because still, his legacy is destined for great things. the jaeger boy is destined for great things, even while he speaks to haunts that should be dead.

[pontevoix]

it had been difficult seeing carla again for the first time in this life. they had nodded at each other & made their recognition vague & made their meeting awkward in the way that promised that i wish we could have met under better circumstances. she had embraced him in greeting. if they had met in any other way, he would have felt like crying. instead, he stood on front stoop & toed off his boots & felt drained already, felt foreboding, felt that he had been justified in his anticipation of the end of days.

across two lives, eren had been hesitant to talk about his family. armin hadn’t realized it at the time, but after the first wall fell — it was rare that any of them spoke of family outside of grisha & the inheritance he left dangling around eren’s neck. they never spoke of their loss; they never spoke of the ways that they had chosen to survive. after carla’s death, her name was only ever raised in fits of severe nostalgia or an ultimatum. armin seldom chose mention his grandfather’s name after he had been lost. & mikasa had always been quiet. armin ever only heard about the fate of mikasa’s family after the walls had fallen when they had to follow local mandates for all survivors to go to the offices to forge fresh documentation that legitimized their right to rations & their right to future. armin thinks that mikasa told him about how she & eren had met because she felt that it was inevitable that he find out.

back then, it felt like they shared everything. back then, they bit their tongues in indignation & made memory reticent.

in this life, their tongues are loosened enough but not free. they know enough of one another. eren knows that armin sees his parents two times, three times a year — that his parents like to travel, that they work remotely, that they don’t have a permanent residence in the country. he hangs on the phone sometimes with them, & they all turn distracted & never know what to say. in turn, armin knows that grisha sets professional & personal expectations on eren that push him too close to invisibility & too close to inadequacy. it makes it hard to feel free to talk about carla. inadequacy makes it too easy to feel as though he should have been better for her too.

but even so, eren admires her. his tone always turns a little reverent when he speaks of her, when he had hinted to armin that he wanted to introduce them.

i wish we could have met under better circumstances. it would have been nice to meet when they didn’t have to contextualize their familiarity in remembrance. when they could have been awkward in the way that made sense of a mother meeting her son’s partner. it would have been nice not to have to meet with old secrets rebuilding personal walls, without feeling that she is meeting him now because of who he had been & not because he is learning to think of the future.

otherwise they would have met over dinner. otherwise, they would have met while eren accidentally swore over dinner & presented levi’s pastries as a gift. they would have met over polite inquisitions of habit & circumstance that made armin work for carla’s approval rather than guarding himself so that there are things she never knows unless eren wishes it.

to her credit, she doesn’t ask about the way things are. she waves a goodbye at him when eren walks him to the door the next day, tells him that he’s always welcome.armin coughs & says that he’ll come back over later in the day.

to her credit, eren spends the day & the following day sitting with her in the living room rather than maybe a tomb of a childhood bedroom. she takes days of work & calls it a shared sick day & she doesn’t still ask.

there turns out to be a lot of logistics in coming back to life. armin keeps visiting, keeps thinking about meeting under better circumstances. eren’s skin is still too grey, & his appetite is thin. but he indulges armin, anyway, when armin tries to make things light by making requests to see old pictures, old yearbook pictures, anything. there turns out to be a lot of logistics in coming back to life. phone calls, negotiations on the phone about plans to returning back to work, & temporary arrangements.

it’s agreed that eren will stay with armin for a few days, at least. that it will be a slow transition back into old life, back into a smaller apartment with paint splattered against woodfloors & cracking walls, with pieces of old life tucked into corners & hidden spaces. it’s agreed that once that transition comes, armin will stay with eren for a few days too in that apartment

it’s a display & promise of domesticity that would have been nice under better circumstances. armin likes eren’s apartment better, anyway. he likes having an arrangement between them that means that they have set plans for a shared tube of toothpaste, that they have enough clothes to last the week without returning to the other partment, that they come to an agreement about meals ahead of time.

they had stolen days together before, & eren had made space in one of his drawers before — but it had been a shy indulgence, had been the beginnings of a promise. it had also made armin ill, sometimes, to think about promises made when only he remembered & when he wasn’t sure if he wanted eren to have to remember.

under better circumstances, these planned days might have been a first. it might have been something to celebrate.

regardless, the circumstances are what they are. the circumstances are making habits that are hard to break. it’s harder now than it had been to put space between them; it’s harder now than it had been to imagine minutes unshared. it’s easy to remember how easily they sink into warped rituals & routines & how easy it is to hate separation.

sometimes the proximity means sharper words & overwhelmed senses. it means boundaries broken & self-deprecation & ruin.

sometimes the proximity means that they remember that circumstances could be worse, that better circumstances aren’t out of reach.

in the midst of their proximity, eren skirts his paints. so many of his paintings had been based on memories that he could wave aside. so many of his paintings were reflections of the cursed, of demons, of grief that cried rage. now that he remembers, he asks what’s the point ?

armin rambled how the art still mattered, how it doesn’t need to have a point. but he hadn’t had a good answer. he still doesn’t talk about his own memories, anyway. he doesn’t know the point of talking about them, anyway. but he offers eren his forearm as a canvas, tells him to paint on him because he likes the way that eren sees color, anyway.

wet paint dries against his skin & makes him itch, but he stays still. the hair on his forearms stand on edge, & he stays still.

‘ it’s interesting sometimes though - seeing how you remember things. it doesn’t always look like the way i remember things. i guess we can remember things differently, ‘ armin murmurs. he had been getting tired so his voice started to slur

they have the chance to remember things differently. this is their second life, & so their story has not ended. they can reshape it just enough. they remember that circumstances could be worse, that better circumstances aren’t out of reach.

eren didn’t answer. armin watched him wet a rag with water & dish soap & drag it over the paint before it set. it stains armin’s skin & erased an old picture.

it’s weeks later though, that armin recognizes fresh splatters of paint against the floor. he finds eren with a paint smeared against his cheek & churning over secrets on a canvas. the floor creaks beneath armin’s step, & it’s enough to make eren glance up & shake his head at him. no. i don’t want you to look.

armin drops onto the couch opposite of him & closes his eyes. he hears scratching against canvas & the way eren jitters his knee.

it’s nothing personal he says. armin knows & keeps his eyes closed & still relishes in company. it’s just an idea, eren starts again. armin hums his acquiesce. he won’t look until he’s invited, but he prompts : tell me about it.

so eren does. about remembering things differently. & remembering a moment that they had been alone & drunk on themselves. he frames it like a scene. we were a sort of royalty, almost infallible, with a sort of magic around us, eren says.

from @chaoslulled : we were a sort of royalty, almost infallible, with a sort of magic around us. for eren and armin

it makes armin think of the library. it makes him think of something good that they had shared. it almost startles a laugh from him, almost surprises him into opening his eyes.

this is eren’s choosing what is worth remembering.

it’s a nice idea.

‘ i still feel that way sometimes, ‘ armin confesses. because it’s true. because they feel infallible. because circumstances can get better. there turns out to be a lot of logistics in coming back to life, & they’re still parsing through it.

so please keep talking.

[pontevoix]

curtains are drawn, & the lights are switched off. even in the dark, armin can see the way that old movie posters curl at the corners when he steps into the room, he. if armin were to guess, the posters have had residency on the walls for at least ten years. it’s a childhood bedroom that feels like a sickroom - the way that the bedding is starting to smell like sweat & salt & the way that the room feels abandoned.

as far as armin can tell, eren has sequestered himself in his room in carla's house for two weeks now. he forgets to eat, forgets to shower. carla says that she hasn't smelled tobacco or flavored smokes, so even addictive habits of comfort are cast aside. eren has never done well with nicotine cravings. it makes him restless, & armin sees none of that now.

as far as armin can tell, eren has resigned himself to playing dead. to sucking old memories out of a childhood room & imagining that he is dead, dead, dead.

it sticks stones into the pit of armin’s stomach. it sticks cotton to back of his throat. for a minute, he thinks that he can’t do this. he’s not equipped to come here, uninvited, & pretend like he’s enough to usher in reparations.

armin’s body is not his own when he steps into the sickroom, when his socked feet tread a path against scratched hardwood. he swears that he can’t do this.

the memories are still coming to him. they’re still striking lighting down his spin & making old memories a vivid thing, making them a second life.

if eren were to look at him now, he’s not sure how he could look at the scar at his neck & stand steady now that eren knows. or at least, armin presumes that he knows. he assumes that eren remembers the origins of the mark, that eren remembers that he has been capable of massive bloodshed. that he knows that he had not allowed himself to survive long enough to earn a death declared by trial & jury, knows that he had managed to wage war so terrible that he left himself standing alone & redhanded.

still. armin should have done better the first time. he should have recognized the signs before eren had devolved, before he split down the paths, & shared his voice with a cursed god. he should have negotiated better than he did, trusted eren less. in this life, he should have done better to prevent the return of memories, though the memories were always inevitable. if armin hadn’t been enough to trigger the memories, certainly someone else would have been.

eren was always going to remember. he had carried the weight of three of the nine. & he had had loved too fiercely, so there was never any chance that he would escape remembering.

armin’s feet carry him anyway as though he were walking into a confessional. he can’t do this, he thinks. this is not a holy space. it’s a sickroom, but eren has always been the center of gravity. dead or alive, he is enough to pull those around him. even in this life, armin doesn’t think he could refuse eren properly. he doesn’t think he can break orbit.

but he can at least try to do better than he did, can try to remember old strategies that he learned as commander, as a survivor of the war. this way, he can try to prevent damage before it’s happened.

his feet bring him to the bed. uninvited, he sits at the corner of the mattress. absently, he realizes that eren might mistake him for his mother - he hadn't announced himself. he’s not sure how to announce himself. saying a simple greeting like hey feels inadequate for addressing catatonia, for the type of grief that aligns with culpability.

they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him, & armin keeps staring at curled poster corners.

but then armin’s phone dings an email notification in his pocket & gives him away. he flinches visibly, & he finds himself that he’s grateful that his expression is invisible in the dark room.

still, there is enough light creeping in from the bottom of the eren’s bedroom door & from his alarm clock that armin can see eren draw his knees closer to his chest.

‘ sorry, ‘ armin finally says as himself. his voice cracks a little — as though the silence they had shared had been enough to dry him, his voice, of his ability to speak comfortably. he tries to purse his lips into a smile that’s comforting, but it goes unseen. ‘ for intruding. your mom said it was okay, i think. she’s worried. but that’s what moms do, right ? ‘

when he’s nervous, when his voice dries out . . . he rambles. armin always remembers carla to be someone who worries for her son, for his suffering. he doesn’t really remember his own mother as ever having hovered the way that carla does. his mother is a warm presence, but she has never hovered. she has never worried. her warmth is the consistency of distance, & carla hovers in a way that she becomes warm. she is fireside on a cold night.

regardless, it’s a poor way to announce himself. armin surrenders. he sighs & surrenders & scoots himself backwards until his back is aligned with the wall. the motion makes a worn pillow squeeze into the gap between the mattress & the wall.

he sits, & eren lays defensive beside him. they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him, & armin keeps staring at curled poster corners. he can’t do this, but he can at least try to do better than he did.

hearing his voice is enough to make eren go rigid, & armin thinks that he might startle enough to go on defense, to raise his fists — but eren regains himself & tries to fall back into catatonia. i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody, eren finally says as though it will force his muscles to relax. as though it will be a convincing enough statement to make armin leave.

i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody. *eren & armin ; for @chaoslulled

eren’s voice is enough to startle armin’s attention away poster corners. his gaze jumps to eren, to the base of his neck where his hair falls towards the pillow & exposes the mark of damnation & death against his his throat.

instead, he draws his knees to his chest & imagines himself small & thinks of his nausea when he remembered, when eren had shown him that portrait of the colossal titan.

he stares at the mark.

‘ i know, ‘ he concedes. it surprises him how steady his voice sounds. ‘ i think . . . you’ve felt like that before. & i’m really sorry. ‘

they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him. armin doesn’t try to apologize for more. apologies only go so far.he doesn’t try to talk about remembering more directly than what he already says. but he stares at the mark & feels calm steal over him. he’s always been good at crisis. he’s learned to be good at crisis.

so he crosses a boundary & ignores catatonia. he presses his fingers against the base of eren’s neck, against stray strands of hair, & against the death mark. eren’s skin feels clammy. he still feels alive, even if he’s trying to imagine that he’s dead, dead, dead.

‘ you know something ? i’m really glad to see you. it makes me really glad to see you, ‘ he muses.

saying it helps. saying it settles some of the weight in the pit of his stomach. armin unravels, stretches his legs out straight. he wiggles his socked toes & settles so that he might become a fixture for as long as needed.

i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody, eren said. & it’s still not enough to make armin leave.

[pontevoix]

@chaoslulled : [ REAL ]:     after believing the receiver to be dead, the sender reunites with them, reaching out in disbelief, then touching their foreheads together to make sure that they’re real, and not a figment of their grief-stricken imagination. * reiner & bertolt.... :)

at  others’  misfortune, bertolt  is  a  lottery  ticket  winner.  he  survives  shiganshina  because  someone  needs  a  guinea  pig.  after  he  expires,  wiser  decisions  will  be  made.  he  survives  shiganshina  because  there  is  a  lot  of  information  that  he  possesses  that  they  do  not,  because  secrets  uncovered  in  a  basement  are  not  quite  as  good  as  lived  proof,  because  the  best  members  of  the  survey  corps  should  be  used  sparingly.

he  is  a  living  hostage,  kept  briefly  underground.  a  lot  happens  in  between.  there  are   tests  of  bertolt's  healing,  tests  of  what  truths  he’s  willing  to  give.  first,  he  keeps  his  mouth  shut  —  sometimes  for  the  idea  of  pride,  sometimes  because  he  doesn’t  have  the  energy  to  talk.  sometimes  he  keeps  his  mouth  shut  because  sometimes  it  feels  like  the  best  way  to  stay  alive.

sometimes  it  feels  like  the  worst  way  to  stay  alive. 

&  it  shouldn’t  be  a terrible  thing  to  want  to  live.  bertolt  wants  to  live,  &  he  wants  to  live  the  life  that’s  worth  living.  which  is  easy  to  say,  easy  to  want.  it’s  harder  to  believe  because  1  )  he  always  feels  something  sick  pooling  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  2  )  because  he  always  overheats  &  turns  clammy.

regardless  :  when  bertolt  shifts  from  one  form  to  something  colossal,  then  he  feels  the  way  his  pulse  changes  —  the  way  that  blood  redistributes  itself,  the  way  that  life  can  adapt  to  anything.  his  life  can  adapt  to  anything  because  he  wants  to  live  so  that  he  doesn’t  die.

existence:  it’s  simple.  it’s  fearful.

he  keeps  his  mouth  shut  for  as  long  as  it  makes  sense,  for  as  long  as  it  seems  that  he  has  a  chance  for  home.

&  then  the  math  starts  changing.  he  keeps  getting  older  (  day  by  day  ).  age  is  a  lucky  thing  to  earn,  &  it  only  comes  because  he  is  certain  that  he  has  become  a  sunk  cost  to  marley  —

the  math  starts  changing  because  each  breath  that  he  is  allowed  :  it  feels  like  a  lot  of  me  verses  them.  it’s  a  familiar  feeling,  except  previously  it  had  been us  against  the  world.

for  a  long  time  now,  bertolt  has  grown  familiar  to  the  feeling  of  sick  pooling  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  the  sick  was  there  before  shiganishina.  the  sick  gets  worse  after  shiganishina

fun  fact  :  heat  isn’t  the  only  thing  that  melts  ice.  there’s  friction  &  there’s  pressure  &  there’s  pressure  &  there’s  pressure  :  they  all melt  ice.

when  bertolt  starts  talking,  he  doesn’t  become  a  changed  man.  he  doesn’t  become  ice.  bertolt  has  never  been  ice.

fun  fact:  bertolt  is  given  a  name,  but  he  feels  like  he’s  referred  to  as  a  number.

friction  &  pressure  melt  ice,  &  they  make  a  survivor.  they  make  bertolt  hateful.

friction  &  pressure  melt  ice,  so  what  does  they  do  to  the  living  ?

bertolt  returns  to  liberio,  &  he  doesn’t  feel  indifferent.  he’s  angry  for  life,  too  hurt  for  death;  he’s  tired.  he’s  too  visible;  he’s  too  invisible.

me  against  the  world  doesn’t  feel  like  much.

but  it  feels  a  lot  to  be  seen.

the  return  to  liberio  isn’t  a  homecoming,  his  hair  is  long;  he  is  his  height;  he  is  bland.

but  it  feels  a  lot  to  be  seen.

bertolt  finds  it  easy  to  shut  down  nostalgia.  he  chooses  the  math,  remembers  that  he  is  a  number.  sunk  costs  dictate  everything  he  is. 

. . . but  then there  is  reiner.  for  the  first  time  in  years,  he’s  there.

reiner  is  still  stronger  than  nostalgia  &  sunk  costs.  reiner  is  the  strength  to  push  through  boundaries,  to  claim  the  familiarity  that  was  once  there.  reiner  touches  his  brow  to  bertolt’s,  &  bertolt  remembers  that  he  always  feels  sick.

bertolt  is  :  scarecrow  ragdoll  scarecrow  ragdoll.

bertolt  is  :  living  living  living.

bertolt  is  :  the  lines  at  his  brow,  the  way  his  expression  ages  him  even  while  his  features  are  as  young  as  his  body  will  allow  him.

bertolt  is  :  devastated.  because  the  touch  of  familiarity  means  every  hatefulthought  with  which  he  has  indulged  himself  is  just  hate.  he  doesn’t  let  it  go,  but  reiner  is  still  himself.

reiner  is  still  himself,  so  he  can’t  be  blamed.

bertolt  can’t  blame  him  anyway.

bertolt  is  scarecrow  ragdoll,  &  he  can’t  understand  why  it  is  so  terrible  that  he  wants  to  live.

reiner  is  still  himself,  so  bertolt  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  himself.

bertolt’s  stance  is  steady,  but  he  wilts.

it’s  a  shaky  feeling,  so  bertolt  presses  back  harder.  it's  a  little  painful.  ‘  what  do  you  mean  ?  ‘  he  asks  because  it’s  not  a  good  question;  it’s  not  a  solvable  one.

but  he  just

doesn’t  know  what  to  do

with  reiner  there.

because  reiner  is  still  himself,  &  bertolt  is  still  himself. 

in  the  worst  way.

bertolt  chases  him,  fists  his  hands  in  a  middle  land  &

hates  everything.  it's  a  relief.

[pontevoix]

the plan had never been to capture bertolt alive, but the scouts had been forced to adapt. there were nine of them alive, & still they had managed to adapt. the syringe had shattered on a roof top, had given the commander a death sentence, had damned arlert to injury. though, in truth, bertolt finds it unnatural that arlert is still alive. arlert had started to burn, had decided to burn —- bertolt remembers jaeger slicing his nape, butchering him. but he doesn’t remember how arlert survived. he doesn’t ask, & no one tells him. it is better nowadays to keep bertolt uninformed. it’s the safer decision. the plan had never been to capture bertolt alive. but now that he is confined, safety measures must be implemented. ones that leave him exhausted & fatigued enough to limit his ability to shift.

paradis has taken two warriors now — the capture of annie had cost them the infrastructure of a city but, as far as bertolt can tell, they had not been able to get much information from her. if they had, they wouldn’t be asking the questions that they’re asking him now. if they had, the discoveries made in dr. jaeger’s basement would not be quite so novel. it’s possible, bertolt thinks sometimes, that she is being kept in the same area as him. but that’s another thing he doesn’t ask, & it’s another thing that no one tells him.

the scouts ( old allies ) understand that he is a bomb, that he is indiscriminate destruction. he does not argue this fact. they interrogate him anyway, because they must. & in truth, bertolt doesn’t mind the company. even if he keeps his eyes shut, even if he feels sweat drying at his temple, even if he knows his cheeks are stained, even if he’s convinced that the world will soon end — he doesn’t mind the company, & the scouts that remain were once familiar faces.

the scouts ( old allies ) understand that he is a bomb, that he is indiscriminate destruction. bertolt starts to expect that they must also think him a rat. he offers information with relative ease — bits & pieces of himself that will prolong his life a little longer. it takes him longer than the other shifters to regather the energy & fuel a transformation. even if he heals, it will take him longer to prepare to shift again. he confesses this so that he can give empty assurances that might buy him time more time between ‘ safety precautions. ‘ he confirms the things that eren starts to remember, too, because he’s too tired to stay quiet. he tells them how many years he has left to his inheritance. he tells them what he knows about the serum, what it takes to produce it —- which doesn’t matter, anyway, because paradis doesn’t have the means to make more.

he offers information with relative ease — bits & pieces of common knowledge in the world of marley. that there are walls outside of paradis, too. that they have advanced technology. that there is a lot of war, & that devils share blood.

bertolt shares the things that paradis would have discovered anyway & tells them that he is cooperating because surviving shiganshina meant that he had already lost. marley wants him dead, & paradis will want him dead soon too. he understands, of course. because that is the way of war. & it’s beyond his power to change the outcome of things. that is the way of colossal.

the scouts ( old allies ) understand that he is a bomb, that he is indiscriminate destruction, that he is a rat. but to his credit, he stays silent on secrets of the nine. he won’t answer questions about the ceremony of inheritance, about the others. he won’t discuss reiner or marcel. he doesn’t discuss how the nine have been weaponized or battle plans that have been used before with the nine’s talents. on these topics, he bites his tongue & shakes his head. he refuses to speak for personal reasons, partly. & more than that, he explains that it’s beyond his power to change the outcome of things. giving away too much information presumes that fate can be changed.

months pass like this. a year passes like this. increasingly, it alienates bertolt from marley. increasingly, bertolt tells the scouts that he has no reason to move on his own against them. the scouts, in turn, appear more inclined to believe him.

months pass like this. a year passes like this.

it’s a slow compromise, a slow coercion that lands bertolt as mercenary, rather than captive. he earns back freedoms that still leave him tired, & he learns that the scouts have started building railways. he tastes coffee again for the first time in years, & he’s almost sick because of it. he offers more bits & pieces of things that he remembers. things about international relations. things that might help emerging diplomacies.

the scouts ( the devils, the people of paradis, his former comrades ) still want him dead. it’s not a priority anymore, but it is pending. bertolt remembers its inevitability sometimes; he remembers it now, as he takes shelter from the rain & leans against a stone column. he fumbles in his coat pocket for a cigarette & lighter, & he plays spectator. other officers cast mistrustful glances at him, & he nods at them. they move on, & bertolt imagines them as ghosts. he nods at jean, too, when he’s walking by.

he doesn’t expect jean to approach him. the scouts ( the devils, the people of paradis, his former comrades ) still want him dead —- but jean clenches his jaw as he approaches, as he lights up his own cigarette & shakes away the rain. bertolt offers him a light & stares.

it’s forced. but it happens.

jean breaks the silence, & says what he wants to say. you know we’re raiding liberio? your home town? bertolt shrugs. because he does know. because there’s nothing to be done. they lapse back into silence. bertolt’s never been good at talking. the rain comes down harder, & it sounds like an avalanche.

this is forced, but it happens.

but they had once been comrades, so jean breaks formality. he groans & laments : ‘ i’ve got desperate desires and unadmirable plans. ‘

from @theirs1n : i’ve got desperate desires and unadmirable plans. * jean and boathouse

bertolt snorts once, because he gets it. from the warriors, he had heard desperate desires for security & stability as the reasons for success, for surrendering to a curse. from the people of paradis, he has heard desperate desires for security & stability as the reasons for . . . all of this. for all these unadmirable plans.

it’s a shame that it has come to this, so bertolt nods. he flicks ash off his cigarette & exhales through his nose. for once, he speaks up —- & he can’t quite disguise the mournful note in his voice. ‘ it’ll be your first time seeing war in the way that people can fight people. you’ll hate it. ‘

he’s sorry for that. for the way that things have unraveled. he takes another drag.

[pontevoix]

yall be like "listen to the voice inside your head" bitch that mf wants me to choke people

you have submitted an ask to todo aoi's advice column ! you may or may not receive a response !!

dear brother,

good man ! you should find a different voice inside your head. i have recommendations.

sincerely signed,

todo aoi, firmly recommending nakudo takada