276 times i died for you
jean kirschtein x fem!reader / oneshot / wc: 9.0k
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Love. Of course I love him.
(YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH HIM.)
I'm infatuated.
In which my dreams come true. (IN WHICH YOU LIVE IN A FANTASY.) In which I kill myself this many times over. For *him*.
This time around, it will all work out.
IT WILL ALL WORK OUT!
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ao3 tags:
this has been sitting in my drafts for months because it's edgy but what the hell sure / Reincarnation / Angst / Unrequited Love / Implied/Referenced Abuse / reader is kind of a loser / no y/n / Hurt No Comfort / Reader-Insert / POV First Person / Present Tense / Inner Dialogue / Self-Hatred / Implied/Referenced Suicide / But its chill / Reader Is Crazy / reader is obsessed / you freak / Bad Ending / Cross-Posted on Wattpad / Cross-Posted on Tumblr
hi!
i'm not really sure what culminated in this? maybe i woke up a touch more delusional than usual.
reader has her flaws but don't we all. (killing-yourself-275-times-for-a-fictional-man kind of flaws. also she's a total loser. but i think a lot of you guys can relate.)
you reincarnate, you fail, rinse and repeat. the sections are pretty short. that's pretty much all of it.
also up on ao3 and wattpad
enjoy, as always <3
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prologue
The clicking of the keyboard. The rhythm of my fingers against the caps, words a constant steady stream from my mind to the glowing document. It comes so easy to me, recording the thoughts and desires that have been running through my mind for so long they’ve eroded a deep cavern through my consciousness. Fancies and yearnings that have since become a fundamental part of me, threaded into the fabric of my being. Same fandom, same character, same love.
“And then I just… understood. How it’s the little moments you hold on to the most.” And then he grins.
“Maybe,” I murmur, swiping my thumbs over his palms, “it’s the other way around.”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
Losing my train of thought, I lean back dangerously in my chair. It’s one of the swivel ones that can go way back, but I’ve fallen over before. I lean back as reality comes rushing in, flushing away the comforting warm waters of fantasy.
Rent’s due next week. Fuck, I have to work today. Did I make a lunch? Well, whatever. Maybe I should call in, haha. When’s the last time I cleaned the floor? Laundry? Should I fix the AC or just buy another one? Need to call the mechanic about that weird noise in the car. And renew my license before it’s too late. I need to wash dishes before I leave. I need to keep track of my income. I need to start thinking about my retirement. I need to I need to I need to—
The computer screen whisks out of view as my stomach lurches from its safe spot — I’m falling, fuck! My body prepares for a landing
that never comes.
Nothing comes.
I can’t hear the buzzes and sighs of background noise I didn’t even register until they’re gone.
I can’t see, I can’t open the eyelids that are supposed to be there, can’t search for the light.
I can’t feel. The breeze against my skin, the tickling of my hair on my face, the weight of a human body.
I can’t breathe, but I have no desire for air, nor pain from the lack of it.
Everything is… still. Paused, stale, bated. Nothing.
Am I dead? I’m dead, aren’t I?
Never would I have expected this. All the jokes and profound thoughts lying in bed, thinking about what lies beyond without fear. Well, I’m fucking fearful now. Everything is over, nobody will know who I am, I’ll never amount to the person my younger self would have imagined (but who am I kidding, I never would have), the shift manager will curse my name when I don’t come in, my computer is still running, the state they will find my body in is nothing short of deplorable. I’ve squandered my chance.
Did I… do what I wanted in life?
Did I? Did I?
No, I never did what I wanted. I only ever did what made me comfortable.
And the realization eats away at me, turns me into a yawning cavern mouth that leads to naught.
I just wasted myself.
OH WELL.
It is what it is, right?
IT IS WHAT IT IS.
At least I was happy when I was writing.
AT LEAST.
I could’ve had it a lot worse.
YOU COULD’VE.
I could…
YEAH?
That voice wasn’t always there. That echo of my internal monologue. Unbearably loud yet inaudible. Identical in nature, so seamlessly me that I haven’t been noticing that it’s not.
I’m not alone.
YOU’RE NOT.
And it’s this that makes me feel as if I should be afraid, if I had the body and capacity to do so.
IT’S HARD TO BE SCARED WHEN YOU’VE NOTHING LEFT TO PROTECT.
What is this, some kind of joke? Am I already going crazy?
NO.
I don’t know where I end and when… that begins.
IT DOESN’T MATTER.
Oh my god.
And then it’s quiet.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE TRULY HAPPY?
Was I? What kind of question is that?
YOU WERE, WEREN’T YOU, WHEN YOU WERE WRITING THOSE STORIES.
I… was happy. Happiness isn’t a constant state of being, it’s— it comes in little moments. I was happy enough.
DO YOU WANT A CHANCE?
… What?
DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?
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1st reincarnation - modern au
I nearly fall over when I’m slapped in to this body, and I nearly collapse again when something bumps into me. But my fall is broken by something soft and hard and solid.
“Woah… there.”
Neon lights, stale and heavy air. Out of reflex I suck in a huge breath. Puke and alcohol and bad breath and sweat and body odour. Silhouetted bodies writhing before me, all around me, in tune to the gaudy noises blaring from all corners of the area that’s supposed to be music.
I’m at a club. I’m alive and in a club.
“You okay?”
And that voice…
I spin on my heel, nearly tripping — since when was having a body so difficult? — and he’s there.
Jean. Jean Kirschtein.
The man I’ve been fantasizing about since the sixth grade, the man I’ve broken keyboards writing for, the man I’ve loved over a thousand lifetimes. It’s him.
I know things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. I’ve fucked you. I’ve killed you. I’ve had your children. I’ve seen you at your very worst and cheered for you at your best. I’ve held you as you breathed your last breath, my name on your tongue, and you’ve done the same for me.
And now you’re here, in this club, with me… drunk out of your fucking mind.
Real. Real. Your eyes, unfocussed, the strands of your hair against the light, your posture. Just as I’ve described, hundreds of times over, except no words can truly begin to explain the entity that is you.
“Why are you staring? Like what you see?”
And that voice.
LET’S DANCE.
I push my palm flat against his broad chest, I’m fucking touching him, and bring the rest of my body closer. And dance.
I was never much of a dancer. I’m still not. But if I let it all get to me, the music, the vibration of the ground of others’ feet, the feeling of Jean against me… I don’t have to worry at all. My body moves without discretion, and the music and noise envelopes me completely.
I notice too late that he’s gone. So I stop. And it doesn’t take long to find his tall frame poking out of the crowd in another part of the club.
He’s bathed in a red light, dazed, but not drunk-dazed. In-love-dazed. And I would know, because I’ve imagined and written that expression so many times before.
Only it was always directed at me, the reader, and not the girl he’s looking at right now. The girl who dances without care, the girl who is more beautiful, stronger, the girl I could never hope to be.
No. This isn’t happening.
Blood in my mouth — I’ve been biting the inside of my cheek. There’s nothing left inside except a sinkhole, one that yawns impossibly wider with every second and threatens to take me over entirely. Breath comes shaky. That’s supposed to be me. That’s supposed to be me! Right?
Right?
She twirls with this unearthly kind of grace and Jean takes her hand midway, leading her through the action, and end off in a close embrace. And it’s like it’s scripted.
They lean in closely for a delicate kiss.
A friend — Connie — approaches.
They break it off nervously.
End script.
I mean, who am I kidding? Of course he would go for her. She’s perfect, and I’m just… the warmup. Someone jostles into me from behind and now there’s nobody to catch me; I land hard on the linoleum, arms numbly blocking my fall. Fuck. Fuck. My hands curl into little fists, collecting grime. What the hell am I doing here? Who the hell do I think I am?
Eager, blissfully unaware feet land on my dress. I need to go. I can’t stay here.
But when I try to stand a sudden swell of bodies comes rushing in and knocks me back down. Well, fuck you then, just let me die here.
A high-pitched, obnoxious laugh reaches my ears. With another quick look-around I heave myself up. Damned if I die here. Before anyone else has the chance to move me I haul myself to the wall and stick to it.
The two of them and Connie are gone now.
I just… my only chance.
Look at me, playing the heartbroken maiden.
Bathrooms… I shuffle along the wall until I find it and slip inside.
Contrary to everything else, it’s brightly lit in blue. The sinks are decently clean and the stalls, for the most part, appear empty. It sounds empty, anyways. The music here is muffled and echoey; even the smallest movement seems to be exemplified by the tiled walls.
I enter the closest one and lock the door, sitting on the seat even though a thousand people’s asses have touched it. Whatever.
When I saw you here before…
What am I doing here.
Couldn’t look you in the eye…
Who the hell plays this song at a club?
You looked like—
The door bangs open; feet barge in. A feminine gag, a stall door smacking against the wall. More gags, vomit slapping the toilet water, an acrid stench.
“You’re okay! You got this…”
That’s a guy’s voice. How sweet, he came to the bathroom to help her out. Maybe I should pop out of here and yell at him. Haha.
Gently, so as not to make noise, I press my palm flat against the door.
They’re probably taking a cab or something. Leaning against each other in the backseat while Connie gabbles on about whatever to the driver. I smile for about a second before I have to clamp my lips between my teeth again.
I’m not their friend. I’m an imposter. (Among us!) I’m the one that fantasizes in the dark of their companionship. Writing all the time. I’m… well, frankly, I’m a creep.
And I’m a weirdo…
Holy fuck.
YOU GIVING UP?
No.
AND HOW DO YOU SUPPOSE YOU FIND THEM?
Go away. How did this happen?
YOU’RE THINKING IN LOOPS.
It’s not a big deal.
RIGHT.
Shut up. It’s not a big deal, I can just come back here. Maybe it’s a slowburn.
OR MAYBE SHE’S ENDGAME.
DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER?
JUST LIKE HE’S SUPPOSED TO LOOK AT YOU.
IF YOU THINK THAT’S PLATONIC YOU’RE KIDDING YOURSELF.
Let me think. Just let me—
The stall door suddenly jolts as if hit from the outside; my hand comes flying off.
What—
“OPEN IT.”
What?
“OPEN IT.”
The voice in my head. That’s the voice in my head, someone’s talking with it—
“OPEN. IT.”
I stare at the latch.
“YES, THERE, RIGHT THERE.”
Fuck. Fuck, this is the moment Jean swoops in and saves me—
“OPEN THE DOOR. NOBODY IS HERE TO SAVE YOU.”
The puking couple—
“I WON’T ASK AGAIN.”
I try to swallow. Open. I raise my hand — when did my fingers start trembling? — and unlatch the door.
Cli-cli-click.
It swings open to… a brunette with puke dribbling down her chin.
…!!?
Oh my fucking god.
What the hell is this?
??!
“STAND UP.”
I do, leaning heavily against the wall.
“COME.”
We walk to the sink. She pulls something out of her purse. A needle.
My voice is but a tremble. “What?”
“IF YOU WANT ANOTHER CHANCE, YOU HAVE TO DIE.” She mimics inserting the needle into her arm. “THIS IS ONE WAY.“
“I can’t do that. I don’t do that.”
She turns fully to meet my eye but I drop my gaze. “IF YOU INSIST.”
“Wait, no—”
On the marbled counter is a pocket knife.
What if I don’t want to die?
“WOULD YOU RATHER LIVE LIKE THIS? IN THE SHADOWS, WATCHING ANOTHER LIVE YOUR DIRTY LITTLE FANTASY?”
THINK ABOUT IT. HAVE YOU TRULY DONE ANYTHING WITH YOUR LIFE EXCEPT PRETEND?
Stop.
“TAKE THE BLADE.”
When I look into the mirror, she’s not there.
Death by blood loss.
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92nd reincarnation - canon
Breathe. Breathing in. The human scent.
Temptress is the smell, reeking over the wall, always unreachable.
But now… wall is now open now… and the smell… the smell. The presence of man.
Cannot control myself
cannot.
GOD, YOU’RE A REAL BEAST.
Others push and shove. Claustrophobic between… buildings. Buildings crumbling on my shoulders.
The humans try. They buzz around like birds. But more of them are crushed into red pulp under my feet. More of them scooped up and put into my mouth. More, more, more. Warm and writhing and in my mouth, crack open.
It’s right. It’s the right thing. I do it again and again. The only right thing.
Another bird-human, buzzing up to my face. Too slow, I cannot grab it. Too fast, it soars closer.
Prick! Eye! It pricked my eye! But I close it, and it’s stuck. The prick is stuck in my eye.
I take it and put it in my mouth. Crack open.
More bird-humans now. Fast bird-humans. Screeching. Pricking.
DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST EAT HIM? I HOPE YOU CHEWED.
Too fast. Too fast!
“Bastard! You’ll pay!”
Bird-human… who…
“You’ll fucking pay!”
Bird… Jean? Human? On my back. Crack. Bird—
Jean?
Chest feels prick but no bird-humans are in it. Mouth doesn’t crack. Mouth makes noise. Mouth says…
“…Jean.”
Prick!
“I’m sorry.”
Death by spinal cord injury.
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165th reincarnation - canon
Nobody told me the steam would make noise.
It doesn’t come in puffs, but continuous streams, each with the force of a newly-awakened geyser, raw with festering rage.
His voice is nearly inaudible over the hiss that just about renders me deaf, just a strained whisper.
“Here! Over here!”
Out of complete reflex I bring my hands to point at the behemoth bone structure that is Eren and shoot. I don’t hear the ODM but feel its mechanic workings against my lower back, the painful tightening of the straps against my skin, the pressure in my head and gut as I’m jerked forward. The horror and chaos of the world shooting past.
I’m coming…
Someone screams again and I’m yanked forward, limbs and neck snapping back uselessly, painfully, the back of my head hitting my spine. Pulled like a yo-yo. Straps digging into skin. Everything turns into a whirl of heat and steam and sky and blackness. Everything mixing together as my brain and eyes, most trusted, can’t comprehend what’s going on around me. Can’t tell up from down. The breaths I try to take in are sucked out before I get a chance to replenish my increasingly burning lungs. It’s too tight. It’s too fast. I can’t— I can’t move.
The cord… a bone titan grabbed my cord…
Fuck,
fuck,
fuck,
I’m getting closer,
it hurts,
I’m getting closer!
Fuck!
!!???!!!
The impact, as much as I might try, I can’t brace for the impact. With a crack! I hit the bone chest-first, and in that little moment before the pain inevitably comes I know it’s all… punched in and wrong inside and bad bad bad.
The titan doesn’t stop dragging when everything blooms into fresh agony, it hurts, it hurts, it’s all wrong inside it hurts it’s wrong I’m hurting someone please help me please fuck I’m hurt someone get me help help help
And then it all… goes still. And the pain comes back in a fresh new wave. Breaths come now, ragged and holey and painful, I don’t want to look at myself, my grimed hands scratching at the bone I’ve landed on, searching for purchase so I don’t fall off. Which, frankly, would be a better fate. I’ll let go and start again. Yeah. Yeah…
It hurts. If I could scream, I would.
“Hey!”
Fuck, not now. I swear my nails are splitting. Is my chest… wet? Not now…
But he appears anyways, despite it all, always despite it all, in the familiar garb of canon and that brushed-aside hair that’s screwed over to hell and back, eyes wild and pupils dilated, mouth wired in an unreal smile. Painful to look at. Falling to his knees at my side.
“Hey, look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay, alright? Alright? Hey!”
The way he speaks, so desperately. The way he looks around for help. The way he sees none, because how could there be any, so he focusses back on me.
Helpless.
Absolutely helpless.
“Hey…”
There’s a different peal to his voice now.
“Look at me, would you?”
But I am…
“H— hey. Come on. You— you’re strong, huh?”
Oh, Jean.
My breaths come a lot shallower than before and my muscles burn with the effort. Jean notices, it seems, from the way he cranes in close, blotting out the steam-scattered light. “Don’t…”
What happened to the proud, selfish boy who was hellbent on joining the MPs? The one who laughed at others’ misfortunes and bragged about his feats, the one who started more fights than he could finish. The man in front of me now is crestfallen; everything is falling apart, and here he is trying to comfort even a small part of it. Holding back a tsunami with his trembling, bloody hands.
Thanks, Isayama…
When I try to inhale deeper, I only inhale faster. Nevertheless I open my mouth like I have so many times before, croak out the words because it’s natural.
“I love you.”
And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, he’s confused.
Confused. Not relieved, or heartbroken. Completely, utterly, childishly confused. He smiles, though his expression is just about splitting in half.
And that’s how I know.
“I— I love you too.”
LIAR.
Death by internal bleeding, blood loss.
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274th reincarnation - past
June 16, 1921 2:04 PM
“Can you believe it’s been three years since the war ended?”
I look over at Sasha from under my veil. “I really can’t.”
“And now you’re getting married.” She giggles like a schoolgirl behind the basket of flowers in her gloved hands. “Oh! The music’s starting!”
The knells of the organ behind the curtains in front of us rip through me like a wave. It’s happening. It’s finally happening.
I’m getting married to Jean Kirschtein.
It was a rough ride. Getting with the times, learning how to housewife, staying up late reading and re-reading the odd letters sent home from my… friends. Yes, they are truly my friends.
I’ve been living here for over seven years.
I haven’t heard that… voice in over seven years.
I’ve been alive for over seven years.
Perhaps the toughest part was the war. Watching Jean and Connie and Eren and Armin and everyone else disappear, never knowing if they would come back.
Most did. The expected ones.
At least Sasha is still alive.
But we still have to get through the depression, not to mention the second war. Provided this is… a strictly historical account.
But enough of that.
Erwin offers his remaining arm to me and I take it. Another technicality.
Without restrain, I grin.
Today will be the best day of my life.
July 30, 1921 7:43 PM
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
My breaths come in small, doglike pants as he towers over me, silhouetted by the socket light behind him, still swinging from when he clipped it with his fist.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, okay?” He’s trying to be quiet, trying to suppress the screams he had let but a few seconds ago. “I just— you know how I get angry, right?”
Breathing but never getting any air.
“Fuck, would you look at me?!”
July 31, 1921 10:08 AM
“Don’t mean to pry, but you look like hell. What’s gotten into you?”
I look up from the tea I’ve been stirring for the last… I don’t know. Children scream in the background and the sun beats relentlessly on the concrete around us. “Just a little tired is all, Connie. I haven’t had a great sleep lately.” Not a complete lie.
He smacks his lips. “You were doing that research stuff again, huh?”
“Research stuff?” Sasha pipes, looking up from her eggs.
“Yeah, this little cheese—” he points at me with his spoon— “is hellbent on buying a whole farm. Isn’t that something?”
One of many, Connie.
“Can’t say I blame her.” Putting another scoop of eggs into her mouth, Sasha raises her eyebrows haughtily. “Your own unlimited supply of food? Fancy that.”
“Of course you would agree with her,” Connie mutters.
“Nothing wrong with having a little— a little cush to fall back on,” I smile.
“Don’t be a bunny. Nowadays, we’re all rich men.”
“And women!”
For now. Provided this is a strictly historical account, it won’t be long until the economy’s going to crumple in on itself. I’m just making preparations, because I’ll be damned if any of you die during the depression.
I just don’t know what to do about the second world war. The tea leaves swirl with my spoon. And Jean…
“By the way, where’s your other half?” The buzzed man blurts, jolting me from my unborn stupor. “Don’t suppose you came out here all the way on your own?”
“I took a cab— a boiler with Reiner.” I smile again, heart fluttering. “Jean’s out with his father today.” Again.
“Father, eh,” he muses. “Never heard much of the guy. What’s he like?”
Connie’s eyes are imploring and innocent— well, as innocent as they can be for a war veteran.
Jean’s father. There’s a reason he wasn’t around in the canon.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say breezily. “Only what little I hear from Jean. You know. Men.” The last statement is mostly directed at Sasha but she’s looking at Connie. He doesn’t respond right away.
“Well.” He puts his hands on the table. “This ol’ grifter could stretch his legs. What’dya say we take a little walk by the water?”
June 16, 1924 3:06 PM
Armin had bought me a carry-on bag for my birthday. It’s heavy and leather, perfect for carrying paperwork. Something that belongs in an antique shop. It’s funny. Even after ten years of living in the past, I still find it hard to call it my present.
Also, it’s our third anniversary. That is, of Jean and my wedding. Three years… together. I purse my lips and focus on the road.
Prep, prep, prep. That’s been my entire life these past few years. Of course, given the day and age, it hasn’t been easy. But it’s possible, and that’s what matters. What’s become of my hard work? I run my thumb along the waxed leather of my bag. Gardens, seeds, non-perishables, connections with experienced farmers… Really, everything I think I need for self-sufficiency. But who even knows. If it all ends up going south…
Truthfully, I don’t know if I’m doing the right things. I know that in five years everything goes down, but that’s about as far as my history knowledge takes me. I’ll just have to keep as much real money on me as possible and prepare for the worst. Just enough for my friends to get by. They think I’m crazy sometimes, but they’ll understand.
All that aside, I somehow got myself into real estate. Do I know what I’m doing? No. But I’m making bank.
God, I really miss Google.
But hey, I’m making it big! Even if it’s technically cheating, I learned and studied and did everything on my own. It’s a little surreal, sometimes. I would never have made it this far in real life.
Real… life. What was I doing all that time?
This world has turned me into a completely new person. I’m— I could be really happy. Except for the promise of impending doom. That, and the man I live with.
It’s our third anniversary. So why, whenever I remind myself, do cold drops of dread form in my organs?
What a stupid question.
I turn into the familiar driveway. Our driveway. Of our house. That we bought with my money. That’s the only reason he keeps letting me do as I please.
Killing the engine, I step out of the car. I hardly expect Jean to do anything for our anniversary, or even remember. I… I don’t know where it all went wrong. The war? The times? The lack of his mother and presence of his father?
Me?
I don’t know.
In any case, I bought this tin can for us. For our special day. The flowers by the path leading up to the door are big and strong, full from the rains of spring and soaked in the sunlight of early summer. Beautiful little things.
I raise the key to the keyhole and pause.
Maybe a note would do. A little memo stuck to the drivers’ seat. I don’t even have to go inside. There’s a million other places I could go for a million different reasons. I could avoid him altogether.
But it’s our anniversary and I might as well… be present. Right?
I grip the bag strap. Right. Right. It’s the right thing to do, given my… history.
Jean Kirschtein. I know him. It’s fine. Fuck it.
I slip the key in and swing open the door.
The bar of light from outside illuminates a strip of the wooden floor. Empty. Okay. I slip off my shoes—
Shoes.
Those… are not my shoes, or Jean’s. And we never put our shoes down outside the carpet.
No. The drops turn into a flood of cold terror. No, no, no. No, I’m just assuming the worst. I slip off my shoes and pad to the bedroom. If I’m employing stealth, I’m not doing it on purpose.
The hall splits off into three. Bathroom, closet, bedroom. A dead end, decorated with a small, discoloured blotch from Jean’s knuckle all those years ago.
Silence. My insides, suddenly much heavier than they’re supposed to be. Wake paralysis.
How many times have I stood here? It… fuck.
Fuck, no, no, no…
If Jean is truly having an affair, wouldn’t it be best if I never found out? Slowly, carefully, I lay my palm against the wallpaper. Fuck.
So the only reason I’m here is to save my friends from the inevitable.
‘My friends’ being… what? A hallucination?
No. They’re just from another universe. AU. That’s— that doesn’t make them any less real.
ARE YOU DOUBTING AGAIN?
No, no, no, no… My nails scrape against the hardened paper. No. I’m going to stay for them. It doesn’t matter about Jean or about me or about if they’re fucking real or not. I’m staying right here. No. I’m happy here. You can’t convince me to leave. No.
HAPPY? YOU’RE HAPPY AS LONG AS YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO DO. BUT WHAT AFTER?
Well, I have my business—
AND IF IT FAILS? IF YOU FAIL? WHAT, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO GIVE UP?
PICTURE THIS. YOU GO BANKRUPT AND LOSE ALL YOUR ASSETS. WHAT THEN?
I would get them back—
YOU WOULD GIVE UP. FACE IT, YOU ALWAYS TAKE THE EASY WAY OUT.
No—
EVEN IF IT MEANS ABANDONING YOUR FRIENDS.
That’s not true.
THEN WHY HAVE YOU ALREADY KILLED YOURSELF TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR TIMES? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU LEFT THEM FOR DEAD?
YOU GOT LUCKY THIS TIME AROUND AND YOU’RE STAYING FOR THE LUXURY.
Shut up.
NICE HOUSE, NICE CLOTHES, FREE TIME, NEW CAR. IN ANY OTHER SCENARIO YOU’D BE OUT OF HERE.
I worked hard, I fucking earned my right—
YOU GOT LUCKY. YOU WOULDN’T LAST A WEEK LIKE THIS A BEGGAR.
The door swings open.
The door fucking swings open, and the man’s beefy frame is uncovered and on full display.
Blond.
Tall.
Sweaty.
The taxi cab driver, Reiner.
In the bedroom with my dearly wedded husband.
I… can’t do this.
Reiner breathes a curse under his breath and squeezes past me.
I stand there for a moment. Not moving, not averting my gaze from where Reiner’s eyes used to be. Knowing he’s laying there in bed, the dark shadow in my peripheries. He doesn’t move, either.
Somehow, he still knows that he fucked up. Irrevocably.
SO, YOU THINK HE’S TOPPING?
When I speak, my voice is steady, cleared of knots. “I’m doing this for my friends.”
End scene.
November 6, 1935 8:37 PM
The storm isn’t letting up, but we’re warm inside by the fireplace. Sasha and Connie are playing Jenga, except it hasn’t been invented yet, so it’s just ‘stacking blocks.’ I just brushed it off as something I played in my childhood, which is technically the truth. I couldn’t help myself — they always play Jenga.
Armin is reading in a barely audible murmur to Eren and Mikasa, the inseparable trio, their reflections against the snow-covered pane.
Erwin and Hange are trying to do something with the radio, Levi inputting periodically with mild annoyance (at the device. He’s not one for these ‘newfangled things’).
Annie’s trying to teach Reiner how to knit, but his big hands keep getting in the way. Needles click together awkwardly and often drop altogether, clattering on the hardwood. Christa and Ymir sit nearby and the latter spares no insult when it happens.
At the opposite end of the room, I’m curled up in Jean’s arms.
We have more than enough to keep us for the next six years.
I did it.
And if I close my eyes and try to forget, if I try hard enough… I can be so happy.
September 9, 1938 7:47 AM
The doctors are impressed. To be fair, I’ve been crushed, diced, torn apart, and chewed into pieces. You should be impressed.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Kirschtein. It’s a beautiful baby boy!”
It looks just like its father.
I’m going to be sick.
March 8, 1938 4:36 AM
The clock keeps ticking. It’s always ticking. Marco unlatches and starts to whine, and I coo in somewhat of a comforting voice. Jean doesn’t stir.
He never stops crying. It starts as a shrill call and builds up until his lungs empty and his face turns a belligerent shade of red and I’m afraid and somewhat hopeful he might die, but he stutters, sucks in air in choking steps, and does it all over again, building up in volume until his cries are raw and throat-burning and every cycle makes my brain rattle in its jelly cage. Over and over and over and over and over and over…
I’ve lost all my assets. We’ve moved into a crumbling apartment that might be a little bigger than our old living room. The clock never stops ticking.
“Shh, you’re okay,” I murmur, but to whom is a mystery. None of us are okay.
Marco cries anyway and it’s high time I start too.
Why? Why why why?
I did everything right, so why did everything go so wrong?
Sasha died that winter in 1935. How? Speared through the stomach by an angry bull. She just wanted to see the calf.
The irony of it all is… I take a deep breath, of sweat and mold. It’s inevitable. The narrative is going to kill them all, no matter what I do.
Jean stirs behind me, pulling the sheets as he turns away. “Shut up!”
I don’t know what to do anymore except wait.
Wait for the draft.
October 30, 1940 7:10 AM
“Um. Goodbye.”
Jean’s looking sharp in his uniform.
“Wave bye-bye to Daddy,” I croak. Marco only stares.
His Adam’s apple bobs, indicative of swallowing. I wonder what he’s feeling right now. Sad? Regretful? Fearful? How many times have I relived this scenario under such different circumstances?
“Goodbye,” he says again with a note of finality. I stare at his nose, his brow, his ears, perfectly as I described them, but never his eyes, and move on.
“Goodbye, Armin.”
He smiles with his mouth and big blue eyes that should never see the horrors of what lies before him. “Goodbye. And goodbye to you, Marco.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“I’ll write every day.”
I smile. “Take care of the boys for me.”
He huffs a little in amusement. “That I will.”
Eren’s standing next to him. I wait until he’s done saying goodbye to Mikasa before coming in. “Goodbye, Eren.”
“Don’t you ‘goodbye’ me,” he grunts. “Everyone’s so gloomy. I’m coming back, whether you like it or not.”
I smile. No, you’re not. “I expect you to follow through with your word, then.”
“I will. Right after I take care of those bastards.” He sticks his fingers within arm’s reach and Marco grabs on as he wiggles it. “‘Till we meet again.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“Yes, mother.”
I bump his shoulder. Next.
“Goodbye, Connie.”
The man turns upon hearing his voice and melts into a small smile. It never was quite the same, quite as full, after Sasha’s passing. “Goodbye.” The second half of the word drowned out by the horn of the approaching train.
Oh, Connie. You shouldn’t have to go out there again. I bite the inside of my lip. None of you should.
I open one arm and he takes me up on the offer, engulfing us with his familiar, comforting embrace; his warmth, the roundness of his chest, the way his ribs move as he breathes, the realness of him. Perhaps for the last time.
“I’ll miss you. Write to me.” I swallow down the waver that threatens my voice. “Good luck.”
He smiles, waves to Marco. “I’ll see you later.”
Then they leave, and I’m there on the platform, and I should’ve brought a heavier coat because a sudden chill breaks through.
YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO GET SENTIMENTAL. JUST KILL YOURSELF!
I hug Marco tighter to my chest and find Mikasa.
November 6, 1940 10:10 PM
The silence is just about settling in my gut like a cold stone. No footsteps or loud breathing or high-pitched whining in the apartment today. Marco is actually asleep today.
For now, it’s just me and him.
Silently, I move to the radio and switch it on.
—joining the war effort despite his extensive injury, here at the East coast we see Commander Erwin and his secon—
I shut it off.
Maybe now’s the chance. My opportunity to get away from it all. While Jean’s out, I can just… up and leave. I have five years. How hard can it be to fake you and your infant’s deaths in the 1940s, in the middle of the war, no less? I can scrape up what I have left and write a will. No, that’s suspicious… well, maybe not too suspicious. I’m sure the men had to do it too, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched—
“Mama?”
Heart sprinting, I spin on my heel. There’s Marco, chubby little fist curled against the corner, hobbling forward in his striped onesie that looks almost black under the dim light. “Ma-ma?”
This… has never happened before. He’s never walked forward like this.
Marco takes one step forward—
bom
—and his head slams against the floor.
He doesn’t move.
And as much as I might want to, neither can I.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale… “Mar…co?” Inhale. The wooden edge of the radio bites into my fingers. “Marco? Marco?”
The— our— my child stirs, putting his hands flat on the ground and lifting up his heavy head.
There’s a dent in his forehead.
His mouth opens, little pearly teeth gleaming.
“POLO.”
My arms tremble, weak and static.
No.
No.
“Get out.”
Marco flexes his fingers with none of the childlike clumsiness of a toddler. “YOUR CHILD IS ALREADY DEAD.”
“Get out.”
“DARLING…” He steps closer and I shrink into the radio as if I can phase through it, as if I’m a vapour. “SO ARE YOU.”
Death by stroke.
⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆
275th reincarnation - band au
Screaming. The rise and swell of voices like an ocean wave of titan proportions, light flashing and glaring from every possible angle as if illuminating a microscopic specimen casting bizarre and animated shadows everywhere I dare look, the sweat, the hollowness of the ground below me, the way it vibrates. The weight of a bass guitar slung over my shoulders.
The weight of thousands of eyes pinpointed on me.
“Aaalright, Toronto!”
The crowd screams louder at Connie’s mechanically projected voice blasts through the loudspeakers that poke through the crowd, echoing through the dark and damp and open air.
“You ready for this one?”
Rise and swell. Individuality chewed into a paste and spat back out into the dedicated mass whose cries pierce into me. Into us. Connie — alive and breathing, alive — separates from the mic and shoots me a grin, skin already glaring with sweat. My hands come up, brushing the electric strings of the bass; a metallic shriek replaces the sound of the audience.
No. No, no, no, not this. Not this.
The first step is the hardest, breaking the ice that seals me to the raised stage. The rest come easy and before I know it, before I can get in a single coherent thought the crowd and the lights and the sounds are all behind me, and I’m running into the dark pocket of solace that leads offstage. Somewhere. Quiet. Away.
Hardly do I make it into some pitch-black equipment room and attempt to shut the door behind me before I’m intercepted and the door swings wide open again.
“Hey?”
Guitar strap half-over my head, I freeze.
“What’s going on?”
I dump the instrument on the ground and turn slowly. Brown strands turned red near the edges from the backlight, large, concerned eyes that are hardly visible yet distinguishable. Always distinguishable. Hell, I’d be able to tell her apart from a million plastically altered faces engineered to look just like her.
“Sasha.”
She scans me up and down, analytic, whole, and the single action makes me want to crumple in on myself. “I knew the new schedule was too much,” she murmurs, and I want to hug her. “Damned director never listens, though.”
I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, and I’m sorry I’m going to leave you again.
“Do you think you can get through this one concert? Then you guys'll have a break before we tour the US.” She smiles as if it's the most normal thing ever, as if she's not a ghost or absurd or a figment of my imagination. “I'll make Reiner buy us something really nice to eat, too. I hear the maple syrup here is good.”
How can you talk about maple syrup? How many times have I watched you die, powerless? How many times have I died without you? Can't you see the blood on my hands? Can't you see the blood on my hands? And you're talking about maple syrup?
“Are you—”
“I'm sorry.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I'm kidding myself. I'm stupid and weak and delusional and I never grew up past sixteen because I’m here. Despite everything I’m here. How many times now? I’m here. I’m—”
Everything wound up so tightly inside me like a coil snaps as the anchor is thrown overboard, chains clinking and echoing in the hollow frame called my body. The anchor is never going to touch ground. It’s just going to keep falling, violently accelerating, spewing out every piece of sea gunk and sewage caught in the rusted metal links, endlessly, and I find it in myself to smile because I really don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, I can’t scream, I can’t run, I sure as hell can’t cry. I sputter like an old car because my intestines unwind at Mach fuck.
“This is a secret between you and me, okay?” And vaguely I know I’m sullying her, I’m turning her impure, I’m exposing her to my indulgent sin, but since when did sinners care about that? “I need to kill myself.”
Connie’s voice is somewhere, muffled, trying to appease the crowd. Sasha is still. “What?”
“Jean. I need to kill myself so I can have a chance with him. I need to.” And the sound that comes out of me next is somewhere between a cough and a sob and it makes me feel so shitty I step toward her, the idea of comfort. “This is it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” And I touch her and squeeze her shoulder so hard with my strangely calloused fingers that it probably hurts, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Hey... Look, you’re not gonna do that!” she chuckles, and I’ve written her enough to know it’s a fake one, a nervous one, one she keeps tucked away in the deepest parts of her only to come out for emergencies. Glaring emergencies, and that’s how I know she cares so much. “Uh— Jeanboy? He’s such an asshole. You’d want his horse face carved onto your grave?”
Why did I write her like this? I should have made myself detestable. A piece of scum hated by the entire universe, because that’s what I am, a detestable piece of scum that leaves everyone behind over selfish pursuits. Hate me. Hate me. You’re like this because of me.
“You’re... not gonna do that. Right? You don’t— there’s other guys, you know? Or girls!” She pulls out the emergency laugh again and it’s a siren to my ears. “You have so many options! Thousands— no, millions of fans! You don’t have to settle for—”
“You don’t understand. Nobody will understand.” I cough again. “I know I sound like an edgy thirteen-year-old. I— I am edgy! Look at how I’m dressed!” The bracelets and bangles on my arm jingle when I jerk it and now she twitches. Something crashes in the background. “The fact is, you’re not real! The band isn’t real! Everything you know, your life, your friends, the world you live in, is just a figment of my fucking—”
“Calm down. Hey. Calm.” And she says my name and I’m sure it leaves a wound on her tongue. “Look, I think we need to take a break. Let’s shut this concert down, and—”
“You were never there for me.”
She stops talking.
“You were never there for me because you always died first.” My other hand flies to her shoulder before I fall over with the weight of whatever just came out of my mouth. What, what. Wow. I really am a piece of shit! So hung up over Jean. Is this love or something else? Something sinister? Should I have gone to therapy? And here I am destroying the best thing that’s ever happened to me— who am I kidding?
She’s only here because I made her. She should be somewhere else, enjoying korean barbeque. No, she shouldn’t exist at all. She never told me this was okay. I just took her and ran with it. I made her like this. I made her care for me and now I’m kicking out the bricks of her foundation that I laid down so painstakingly, one by one. But the anchor’s falling and nothing can ever stop it. “Sasha. You're never going to fit in. You're right when you think that Connie or Jean or Marco — is he alive in this one? — you're right when you think they don't actually like you. They think you're annoying. And no matter how many crazy jobs you take up— no matter how many you take you'll never really find a place to fit into this society. You should just go home and work in a convenience store because you're embarrassing yourself and your family.” The last sentence ends with an upward turn like I'm asking a question. “You're socially stunted, and…” I taste blood. “I'm sorry you exist.”
She's just a blur because she was never real in the first place. “I'm really fucking sorry.” She's just a blur because the salty tears leak into my mouth. Land ahoy, we're anchored.
“Sweetheart…”
“I need you to hate me.”
Warm hands brush away the hair that falls onto my face. “I could never.”
“That's the pro—”
“What the hell is going on?”
The voice, the rough-around-the-edges arrogant melody lined with a faint hum of baritone. My muscles petrify at the sound.
“Jean—” Sasha starts.
“Hey, we have a concert to do, yeah?” The light is almost completely blotted out now because he's here. “We need you out there.”
“Jean, give us, like, five minutes.”
“We don't have five minutes.” His steps come closer and suddenly there's light again. “What's going on?” Against my ear. “Tell me.”
Bzzzzzz. The whine of a mosquito. That's hysterical. Uproarious. A mosquito, here? Here? Here.
It's here.
It's time!
I've done more than enough here. I need to go. I need to go back to nothing. So without turning my head, I say, “I need to go,” and release Sasha. But Jean's big hands hold me back.
His hands. He holds me in place. What have those hands and I been through together? Every vein, every wrinkle, every tendonous ridge. How many times have we escaped death? Caused it? How many times have I seen them clasped in shaken, silent prayer, praying to an invisible god for a mercy that will never, never come? How many times has Jean wrapped himself up in those hands, clinging to the last semblance of ignorance and bliss and sanity left in his curled-up body?
"Back on stage, right?"
His hands. On my shoulders. Not painful, not gentle, but a third neutral option that somehow hurts the more than of both of them. Friendly.
“I’d rather you hate me, too.”
“What?”
Fuck, who cares? I’ll just kill myself and start over! “Back then. You acted like you loved me when you just hated me. But even then!” Like magnets my eyes lock into his and I nearly puke. He’s so close, I might blush. “Even then! Ha! You still stuck around for me! You screamed, you ignored, you fucking cheated on me with Reiner—” at this his face contorts— “but you still stuck around. You did love me. You always fucking loved me, and— and even if Marco was never born, you still would have stuck around.”
His eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t fucking say his name.”
I smile. “That was our child, by the way, but it’s not like you’d know, or care, because he’s dead. And you don’t exist anymore. And you know what! I should have killed your dad. I should have taken a cab right after you and went to his house and fucking stabbed him.”
“What the hell are you on—”
“Jean.” Sasha makes a motion and he grimaces.
“Concert’s off.” He snaps his head up as the light is blocked out once more, but not as much as when he stood there. The cords in his neck pop. “Concert’s off!”
“What’s—”
“Damn it, Connie, just go tell the audience.”
“But we need you guys—”
“Connie!”
I touch the side of his face and his pupils roll back to me.
“Veggie omelet. Your mom made it for you since you were little and it’s your favourite food.”
“What?”
“It’s also the only thing you’re able to cook, but you know, if you applied yourself, you can be a great cook. Michelin-star level. When you were six you fell off a swing and broke your arm but you told everyone you were fighting off a robber. Your dick curves a bit to the left. Your greatest fear is being abandoned. You can’t stand the idea of being left by people you thought you loved, which is kind of understandable, like I get where that comes from. You’re a big sleeper and a bed hog. You always take up as much room on the bed as humanly possible. Sometimes when you stand up you can’t move right away because the blood drains from your head too quickly. You say you’re a cat person but you love all animals and you think the discourse is stupid. Sometimes you get sad when you see a show you used to watch on TV as a kid but you would never admit it. You saw an emo kid once and seriously considered dying your hair black because you thought it would give you a glowup.” And here the torrent is corked.
Jean is shelled. Thrown overboard. He doesn’t lean in to my hand where I touch him; he treats it like an alien. “What are you doing?”
“You guys? What’s going on?”
There she is. Holding her guitar, disheveled, perfect, framed in the erratic backlight. There she is. “Connie said the concert’s off? Is that true?”
Bzzzzzzz…
It flies so close to the side of my head my eardrum might rupture. Batting around the air with its tiny wings. The crowd screams. It lands on the back of my hand and sticks there when Jean tilts his head away, his beard brushing against my palm. My hand hovers.
“Are you happy?”
The mosquito doesn’t move. Jean moves his lips but says nothing.
“Is this what you wanted?”
It whines again, the slapping of its wings spelling out a rhythm, words that I only hear from the inside of my head.
YOUR LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT, it buzzes. MAYBE YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.
“You just want to see me suffer. You took me from my life and put me through all this. Psychotic piece of shit.”
“Is she okay?” someone says through a wall of water.
YOU HAD EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO GO HOME.
“How could I?” The force of my words might blow the insect away but I bring it closer anyway.
“You guys go back… stage… take care of it…”
“After what you showed me? How can I go back? You showed me what happiness could be but you hang it on a string above my head. Are you a sadist? Is that it? You— you like seeing me miserable? You wanna see me cry?”
I CAN MAKE YOU FORGET.
FORGET EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS. ALL YOUR LIVES. FORGET ABOUT HIM ENTIRELY, AND THE SERIES AS A WHOLE.
WHAT THEN? WOULD YOU DO IT? WOULD YOU FORGET EVERYTHING AND RETURN TO YOUR OWN LIFE?
…
WOULD YOU DO IT?
My hand trembles.
I NEVER MADE YOU MISERABLE. YOU ALWAYS WERE MISERABLE. AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE.
YOU SHATTERED THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AT THAT DANCE CLUB. BECAUSE YOUR EGO IS WEAK. YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AND YOU JUST COULDN’T STAND IT. YOU JUST COULDN’T LET HIM GO, SO YOU PLAY THIS GAME OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
“Oh, fuck you. Fuck you.”
TOO BAD YOU’RE TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO TRULY KILL YOURSELF.
I slam my hand against the wall and it stings, it hurts my bones.
YOUR DESIRE TO FULFILL AN IMPOSSIBLE AND SELFISH SCENARIO IS OVERCOMING YOUR HUMANITY.
I do it again. It’s just a small brown stain.
YOU’RE LAUGHABLE.
“I’ll fucking kill you!”
YOU KNOW AS WELL AS ANYONE ELSE.
The metal stands fall over when I crash into them. “Where are you?” Spit landing on the corner of my mouth.
THAT’S WHY YOU ALWAYS WROTE THOSE STORIES.
Warm, strong hands wrap around my shoulders.
HIM, AND AN IDEALIZED VERSION OF YOURSELF.
“Die!”
NOT YOU. NEVER YOU. ALL 276 TIMES.
“Hey!”
And the world becomes nothing before I’m slammed into the wall. By Jean.
YOU DON’T LOVE HIM. YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF BEING WITH HIM.
“What the fuck?” Jean snarls. “Are you on something?”
YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF FULFILLMENT. OF BEING WANTED.
“Fucking talk!”
WHY DID YOU STICK AROUND FOR SO LONG?
The pressure in my shoulders suddenly increases tenfold and I swear my bones creak under the sudden weight. Jean’s eyes are wide, his teeth, previously bared, now gleam as his lips curl into a cold upward crescent. His jaw unhinges and he speaks.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST A SAD PERSON.”
I’M JUST A SAD PERSON!
Death by strangulation.
⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆
epilogue
I went back home. I finished falling out of my chair, and that was it.
I closed all my online accounts. Ao3, Tumblr, Instagram. All my words and my connections.
I never had that much merchandise in the first place but I trashed it all. Leaving empty spots.
I cleared my camera roll. All the little doodles on scrap pieces of paper left lying around. I scrubbed out every trace of it.
I haven’t heard the voice since and I’m a little afraid to admit I miss it.
How many years have I spent there?
It doesn’t matter.
In the end it didn’t burn my memory. It’s fine. It’s fine.
I found a man. A real one. He’s nice. He likes ice coffees and sports cars. He doesn’t want kids and that’s fine. The only kids I’d want to have anyways are with— they’re with—
I wouldn’t want to have kids with anybody. It’s fine.
He’s a brunette but he dyes it blond. I never asked him to stop. I think it looks good on him anyways. I love him with all my heart and I know he loves me back.
We live in a condo by the 7-11 just like the one from—
I don’t know any convenience stores like this one.
We have a dog. A chocolate lab called Sasha. He loves hot dogs. My man says it’s a Russian name that means “defender of mankind.”
I think that’s sweet.
He calls him “defender of hot dogs.” I think that’s sweet, too. I love him a lot.
When we walk across the street, hand in hand, he suddenly lets go and shoves me aside. Squealing of tires. Plastic crushing. Out of instinct I reach for my ODM—
I don’t reach for anything.
I fall to the ground empty-handed.
Where we were standing there’s a truck. It’s a big one and it blocks out the sun. I can’t see him. I’m stuck to the ground. The drivers’ door opens and—
Nobody steps out. Nothing is there.
I want to puke.
“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?“
⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆
okay we're done! i already kind of regret posting this but that doesn't really overcome the shame of posting anime boy x reader does it. oh well. sorry to everyone who's here for daily jean i'm never gonna stop doing this shit