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“No.” The single syllable drops from Jean’s lips, landing heavily on the floor. Part of him thinks to look down, to check and see if there’s a new crack in the floor of the old supply base, the one they fought tooth and nail to get to so long ago, but he doesn’t.
Mikasa’s jaw clenches, muscles twitching. She looks like she wants to speak, but Armin steps forward.
Jean isn’t surprised. Armin has always been like this, always wanting to smooth things over with words; whether it be a minor misunderstanding or some grand charade – he’s not sure how he had become such a silver-tongued charlatan – he always wanted to talk. He knows this. That’s why he doesn’t let him speak.
Frantically, Jean points out how many people have died to protect their island, their homes, their families. Going against Eren, in the end, was a spit in the face to the bodies laid to rot in Shiganshina. The bodies that were incinerated in the blast of Bertholdt’s Colossal Titan, leaving not even a jacket or a patch to take home. The bodies in Trost, his hometown, that were tossed carelessly into the flames leaving behind nothing but unrecognizable shards of bone.
Again, Mikasa looks like she wants to speak, but Armin stops her. He puts his hand on her upper arm and they, somehow, communicate entire thoughts using just their eyes.
They walk away, leaving him alone in the room.
He thinks about saying something else, that he doesn’t agree . That he doesn’t want to see the whole world burned and trampled but he can’t find the strength to push his voice out. He’s tired. He has been since before he even graduated from the Training Corps.
When he returns to Floch and tells him that he wants to take him up on his offer to join him, he’s treated to a radiant smile. He’s told that he is to help Floch shortly – he wants to execute the volunteers. Publicly. And it would do wonders to have one of their heroes, a brave veteran of the Survey Corps, one who’s been there since the beginning, there with them. Making an example of what happens to foes who masquerade as allies.
All songs must come to an end, he says.
Jean doesn’t miss the way Onyankopon glares at him.
The cold stare continues as the man he thought was an ally gives an impassioned speech to the Eldians before him. About xenophobia. About hatred. About…something else. He doesn’t get to finish before Floch gives him the mercy of a bullet in his brain.
Jean wants to be disgusted with the raucous cheers of the crowd before him, celebrating the way the contents of Onyankopon’s skull decorate the stone floors before them. But he can’t. He isn’t much better, is he? He could have stopped this. He could’ve worked with the others to do something about this. He could’ve gone with them to save the world. But he chose the creature comforts of a familiar world.
In his musings, he barely registers the sound of a bullet being discharged into Yelena.
Life is different, now. There’s no more fighting. Not for Jean, at least. Floch held up his end of the bargain, allowing him to take a home in the interior. As he dreamed, he spends his days gulping down Mitras’s finest liquor. Only the hard stuff; he says that wine upsets him, reminds him of all the dear comrades they lost but that’s not true. He wants something strong. Something that knocks him on his ass and leaves him with a throbbing headache when he wakes up in a pool of his own vomit.
He drinks more when he finds out what happened to his friends. Accounts differ, but the common thread amongst them all is that what was left of the renegade Scouts, led by former Commander Hange Zoe, were killed in their attempt to take a port. It was brave of them to try, really, given how few their numbers were. But he supposes that bravery doesn’t always amount to much; sometimes being brave leaves your brains on the boots of men who stomp and holler in glee at the results of their cruelty.
He wonders if Armin’s gray matter, for all the intelligence he held, looked the same as Onyankopon’s. He doesn’t want to think about it. Jean flicks the cap off a fresh bottle of whiskey and gulps it down. It burns. He wonders if this is what the people under the feet of the wall titans may have felt. He knows what it’s like, how it feels to be burnt and hurting, but he’ll never know the terror of being underneath their feet. But nobody knows the feeling of being burnt better than Armin. As far as Jean is aware, he’s the only one who’s lived to tell the tale.
He takes another drink.
By all accounts, Mikasa is dead, too. The more fanciful ones state that once she saw Armin’s lifeless body she marched right into the sea and drowned herself. That’s just not realistic, though. He doesn’t think so. It’s more likely that she, too, was shot to death. There are only so many guns an Ackerman can have pointed at them and live. Not that she went down without a fight. Floch tells him a lot of their own died. Mostly kids. The younger recruits who were, at heart, the future of the island.
He takes another drink.
Connie was taken out with blades. One clean slice across the throat. Or so he’s told. It was easy to forget that he was a formidable fighter in his own right – everyone looked like a fumbling child compared to Mikasa or Captain Levi – but skill can only take you so far. When you’re completely surrounded…
He takes another drink.
Levi died, too. Apparently, he wasn’t in the fight – an errant thunderspear blast damn near tore him to shreds. How that happened Jean isn’t sure, but he can’t stand to think the man who saved them time and time again, whose wisdom and courage motivated them, has died. Humanity’s strongest, taken out with no regard for the years he spent in service protecting everyone within the walls.
He takes another drink.
Jean wants to think about Hange. The way their normally boisterous, excitable self was totally dampened following the passing of Moblit and Erwin, but he can’t. Not because of any reason deeper than the fact that the alcohol he’s been gulping down no longer burns when it goes down.
It doesn’t burn when it comes back up, either. He doesn’t feel much of anything. Not anymore.
When he wakes up, it’s to Floch. His face is twisted up in distaste, looking down at the mess Jean made of himself the night before.
He doesn’t resist when the other man grabs him, lifts him from the chair, and takes him to the bathroom.
It’s nice to be clean. To be clean ed . Floch talks to him the whole time too, and despite the headache that’s pounding in his skull, he likes it. It’s pleasant. He doesn’t remember the last time he talked to someone. He did in his dreams, of course, haunted by the ghostly visage of the friends he left behind, the ones he lost before they knew what lurked beyond the walls, but that wasn’t the same. Their cold glares would shock him awake, but Floch’s voice feels just like the blanket the other man tucks him into once he’s got a fresh set of clothes on.
From then on, Floch is a regular fixture in Jean’s home. He brings him food and drinks, that aren’t alcoholic, and keeps him company.
The once familiar burn of hard liquor is replaced by Floch’s warmth, a feeling that comes closer and closer and closer as time passes. Where he once sat a comfortable distance away from Jean on the couch, he now sits next to him.
It was Jean who made the first move. He was lonely. So lonely. Even the simple feeling of Floch’s knee against him brought him some comfort. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Jean’s life now is characterized by excess. And he isn’t good at denying himself anything any longer.
That’s why when Floch visits him it’s no longer a daytime affair, leaving him behind with a polite goodbye and a terse nod. He stays the night. First, it was on the couch, then he started sleeping in Jean’s bed with him. Now Jean uses his chest as a pillow and Floch runs his fingers through his hair.
His hair’s gotten longer, much longer, but Floch says he likes it. Says he thinks he looks handsome. Jean doesn’t know if it’s true. But he thinks Floch wouldn’t lie to him. He can’t think of a reason why he would.
Eren never comes back. That leaves Floch in charge of the military, and Jean misses him when he leaves to see Queen Historia. He doesn’t know what they discuss. Floch tried to tell him once but the entire time he spoke all Jean could hear was Marco. He knew he would be disappointed. He knew he let down the charred bones he held tight in his hand and it hurts him. He clamped his hands over his ears and Floch stopped talking about it. He never talks about it again.
He knows he can’t go on like this forever. Ignorant. Pretending that the ghosts of his comrades are looking down at him in disappointment. But it’s easy. It’s tempting.
That’s why Floch pours out all the liquor. Why he tells all the merchants in the market to not give Jean any.
He knows that Floch has his best interests in mind. But, damn it, does he miss the fuzzy numbness that can only come with a few drinks too many, misses the way he would wake up with absolutely no recollection of what had happened the night before.
When Floch comes back, he’s pleased to see that Jean is sober, and Jean is pleased to no longer be left alone with his thoughts. They always seemed to turn sour when left to his own devices.
But when Floch is here, he can distract himself. Tangle himself up in the other’s arms and get reassuring squeezes and kisses when he wakes up in a cold sweat, shooting upright and panting. There are nights when it’s harder. Where he can’t even fall asleep in the first place, but at least he has Floch. He has someone to lean on, has someone who loves him.
It almost makes him forget the atrocities he was complicit in. Almost.