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Cigarettes. That’s what Jean needs. Or a joint to mellow until the sun is high in the midday sky.
But he can’t take it easy yet. He has orders. Problems to solve. People to protect. And a bastard to kill, if his suspicions are correct.
Jean knocks on the door while exchanging a worried glance with Armin. Thank fuck, there’s at least someone in command who isn’t a complete nutcase. Without Armin, there’s no telling what Eren would’ve done to them.
Why did Jean even bother calling their boss? He should’ve known Eren would just waltz in, be a jerk to everyone, and ask them to deal with the situation themselves. Eren’s great at selling drugs, winning fights and—no, that sums it up. Fucking asshole. The money is good, at least. And it’s not like their gang struggles anymore. But Jean could do without Eren’s irritability and questionable decisions.
Armin, however … Sure, he can be downright weird, but he’s cold-headed and uses his brain, unlike most of them. Too bad his words saved Floch’s skin, too. But Jean didn’t want to have his skull bashed onto the floor by an angry Eren, so he won’t be ungrateful just because the redhead prick is still breathing.
The door unlocks from inside.
Reiner doesn’t even glance at them before moving aside to allow them into the bland but tidy room he shares with Bertolt. He heaves a sigh, keeping his head low as he closes the door behind them. But it’s not enough to hide the damage the brawl caused.
Half of Reiner’s face is swollen, covered with small cuts, and sports aggressive shades of red and purple—Bertolt punched Reiner with a rage no one knew he had in him. It’s terrifying how drugs can turn someone quiet and bashful into a beast. If Reiner hadn’t been able to knock his friend out …
Jean’s throat tightens. He presses two fingers near the cut crossing his own eyebrow. The sensitive flesh burns, but it could’ve been worse. Much worse. Still, he doesn’t deserve to be their brigadier. Not when he failed at protecting them. Again .
Forcing himself to ignore the dark thoughts haunting him, Jean rests a hand on Reiner’s shoulder and meet eyes. Lifeless eyes. Jean’s mouth goes dry, and he struggles to keep his voice steady when he asks, “How are you? And how is he?” Stupid question. But what else can he say?
“Have seen better days,” Reiner mumbles, grimacing a bit because of his split lip. He brushes Jean’s hand off his shoulder and shuffles to the bed where Bertolt is lying unconscious, chafed wrists tied above him to the metal bedspot. Blood is smeared over Bertolt’s broken nose, and ugly bruises are forming around his neck where Reiner gripped him in a chokehold until he passed out. “He’s finally asleep.”
Jean’s stomach twists. But it’s probably still too soon to release Bertolt. When Eren takes Attack Titan, the effects last hours.
Attack Titan … If Floch stole some from Eren to fuck with Jean and his warriors, he’ll be very sorry.
Eyes still vacant, Reiner drops himself on the edge of the bed. He hunches, forearms coming to rest on his thighs, and clasps hands with bruised, raw knuckles between his legs.
Regrets are gnawing at Reiner like a starving beast, aren’t they? But what choice did he have other than beating his best friend to a pulp?
Jean leans back against the closed door, head hitting the wood panel with a soft thud. The ceiling is white like a burial shroud. White like ashes scattered into the wind.
It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Reiner gurgling on broken teeth. Or Marco, Connie, choking on their last breath. It could’ve been Bertolt lying in a puddle of blood, two bullets in his head. Put down like a rabid dog before he hurts someone else.
A hand with long, delicate fingers gently rubs Jean’s arm up and down—Armin.
Shit. Jean shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now, not when he has a fucking job to do. A job Eren didn’t want to do. If Jean can’t clear this mess up, Floch will keep planting more seeds of doubt in everyone’s mind until they decide to cut Reiner out. Which means cutting Bertolt out too. And then Jean will most likely be forced to work with guys handpicked by Floch. Guys he’ll never be able to trust or connect with. Guys he doesn’t want anywhere near Marco, Connie, Sasha or even his mum, no matter how strong and fierce she is.
Jean swallows around the lump in his throat, then pushes himself off the door and focuses on Reiner and Bertolt.
They need a doctor. But it’s hard to do anything in the damn city without being reported. Doctors talk, if not for money, for better social credits and privileges. Even here, in Shiganshina. Jean can’t afford to have the pigs asking how their friends got injured. And, of course , Floch is the one with all the right connections. The bastard is full of himself, but from the small fries to the big sharks, everyone knows him. And fears him.
As if he’s guessed Jean’s thoughts, Armin moves closer to Reiner and carefully grabs his chin to lift his head. “You should go downstairs. I’m sure Jean’s mum will give you painkillers and fix you something to eat.”
“Or maybe maman’s busy slaughtering Floch,” Jean mutters. “Don’t accept any meat pie.” Armin giggles. Bless his heart. “I’m serious.”
A wicked smirk sticks to Armin’s face. “She’s so nice to us, I always forget.” Who doesn’t? Jean’s mum is sweet and caring until some jerk gives her a reason to cut their limbs off. But she also taught Jean well. How to show kindness to his friends. And, yes, how to defend himself and kill people, too. But those skills are precious everywhere. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, after all.
“It’s okay,” Reiner mumbles. “I can’t leave Bertolt unattended, and I have all the painkillers I need anyway.” He glances in the direction of the closet, then gently pushes Armin’s hand away from his face.
“Alright.” Despite his frown, Armin steps back, giving Reiner the space he wants. His gaze drifts to Bertolt, turning even more concerned. Pearl white teeth briefly worry his bottom lip. “I need to draw blood. Do you think—”
“Be my guest.” Reiner points his thumb toward the closet. Jean opens it—he’s closer.
Medical supplies and drugs are neatly stored between piles of cheap and mostly plain clothes. Neither Reiner or Bertolt are putting any effort in hiding their stock. Why would they? Everyone is aware of Reiner’s addiction.
While checking the medical supplies for what they need, Jean also scans the small bottles and bag of pills properly aligned. Unless it already came with a label, Bertolt tagged every product in black marker like a diligent schoolboy—nothing looks like one of their precious products. Jean’s mouth fills with a sour taste at his own distrust. But as much as he values Reiner’s friendship, he failed them once. And at the end of the day, Jean still has to make sure none of his warriors is a liability. Sad, cold, but needed.
Jean shakes his head, then grabs a disposable needle, a holder, and a collection tube. “Do you need anything else?”
“Gloves. Disinfectant. A tourniquet,” Armin rhymes off as if he's reading out his grocery list.
“Bottom shelf.” Reiner looks straight ahead, avoiding both of their gazes. He’s still ashamed of what he did to Bertolt. Or what he does to himself. Both, probably. “Jean, do you think Floch really spiked Bertolt’s drink?”
“He beheaded Josef Leichenberg with a machete in his own home, tried to trick Connie into stealing drugs, and pulled a gun on me.” Fuck. If Eren didn’t ask for that gun … Jean shudders, ice pelting into his stomach. He takes what Armin needs and drops everything onto the bed. “I think Floch is only loyal to himself.”
“But he also really likes sucking Eren’s dick, and that’s why he didn’t shoot you,” Armin says matter-of-factly while cleaning and preparing Bertolt’s arm.
Jean crosses his arms with another shiver, his imagination making sure that piece of unsolicited information will be forever carved in his mind. How can Armin be both so sweet and so gross? “I don’t want to hear more.”
“Be glad you didn’t see it, then.” Jean glares back as Armin presses the needle into Bertolt’s vein, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though you might have. Didn’t he pop a boner when Eren slammed him against that wall?”
Another chill runs down Jean’s spine while heat also tries to creep up his face. “Putain, Armin. I got your point, okay? For someone who’s so adamant about not being gay, Floch sure can’t think straight when ‘Lord Jaeger’ is around.” Though Jean didn’t intend for them to, his words steal a good snort from Reiner. And for a brief moment, Jean can’t help a small smile either. But it’s short-lived. “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt us on purpose. He only respects ‘strong people’.”
“Reiner and Bertolt are strong,” Armin muses while checking the blood-filled tube.
“Not that much,” Reiner mutters. He bows his head, somber again.
“Oh, don’t say that!” Armin pockets the tube and kneels on the bed behind Reiner to wrap his arms around his broad shoulders. The difference in their builds is almost ridiculous. “Remember that time the cops ambushed us, and I was wounded, and you carried me all the way home? You saved me.”
“Armin …” Reiner shakes his head before burying his face in his hand. “We ran away and lost our drugs that night. I got shot twice. Shoulder. Back. Got stabbed too.” Jean sighs. After that came the realization they couldn’t stay in Marley anymore, and Eren accepted Historia’s offer to move to Jena. “Not to be rude, but don’t you have tests to run?”
Armin’s smile fades. But he still squeezes Reiner’s shoulders one last time before getting up and walking to the door. Pausing, he gives Jean a weak, almost hesitant nod. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, take care.”
“You too, Armin. And thank you for everything.” Jean pulls Armin into a hug. His friend already does his very best running their organization. It’s not his fault if he can’t stop Reiner from spiraling or Eren from doing stupid shit. Someone has to show him some appreciation. And it won’t come from Eren, who has better things—or people—to do in Paradis.
Armin wraps his arms around Jean, hiding his face against his friend’s shoulder for a few seconds. When he finally steps back with a sigh, there’s a renewed sparkle in his eyes, even if it’s not as bright as Jean wants it to be. “Thanks,” he whispers.
Jean watches him leave with a soft smile, but when he closes the door and faces the room again, reality rips away the little bit of happiness warming his chest.
Eyes still fixed on the floor, Reiner clutches the side of his face that isn’t covered in ugly bruises. His lips move in silence as he rubs two fingers against his temple in small, slow circles.
Fuck. Glancing at the closet, Jean runs a nervous hand through his hair. Dilemma splits his heart in half. Reiner shouldn’t take drugs. His addiction will kill him one day. But drugs are also the only thing—with Bertolt—keeping him from blowing his brains out. And with Bertolt out cold …
Heart throbbing, Jean returns to the closet and reads the labels again. He settles for a small IV bottle filled with a transparent liquid. Ketamine, a relaxing and pain killing substance. It comes directly from a pharmacy. Stolen or sold under the counter. Not that it matters.
“Hey, buddy.” Jean comes to sit beside Reiner, who immediately extends his arm without even sparing him or the drug of choice a glance. Jean blinks, stomach churning, then remembers how to breathe and relax his jaw before his teeth break.
Why is he even shocked? Though he hasn’t done it as much as Bertolt, he’s still ‘helped’ Reiner enough times to know exactly what to do. A safety measure—the fucking irony—in case Bertolt can’t be here or … dies . Marco volunteered, but Jean is their brigadier. It’s his responsibility to care for them, whatever their needs are.
He pulls Reiner’s sleeve up and cleans his skin while forcing himself to ignore the small bruises and scars covering it. “Did I tell you about the time Marco and I shoplifted in the nice stores of downtown Liberio? Well, mostly Marco. I always got caught. I have one of those faces, you see? But Marco … no one ever suspected him.”
“That’s why he’s our best deliverer. Looks like an angel,” Reiner says, voice raspy.
“Yeah? An angel? What does that make me, then?” Jean tries to chuckle, but it sounds more like a croak scratching his throat raw. Fuck. He unwraps the syringe and the needle while fighting hard against his stomach trying to rebel.
“A man with integrity,” Reiner muses.
Jean freezes and lowers his gaze. The bottle nested in the middle of his clammy palm is so heavy. “What integrity? I’m only eighteen, and I’ve killed plenty of people already.” And burned or buried friends he wasn’t good enough to protect. And now he’s about to stick a needle into Reiner’s vein and pump ketamine into him because he’s too stupid to figure out any other way to ease off Reiner’s creeping depression. What a joke!
“You never killed any civilians, only criminals like us.”
“Like us,” Jean repeats before sucking in a breath. Well, if they started killing the weak and the innocent without reason, could they still call themselves humans?
Can Jean still call himself human?
Pursing his lips, Jean keeps his eyes on the needle as he pierces Reiner’s skin. Just a few drops of chemical heaven, and his friend will live another day. Armin said a couple months ago legit psychiatrists prescribe ketamine to treat people with suicidal ideations. So it’s not different from Jean smoking weed after a very bad day, right? Yeah, it’s not like Jean is giving Reiner heroin or, fuck, Armor Titan. That shit just fucks up Reiner so hard. Like Bertolt was tonight.
Is it what Bertolt was drugged with?
Jean withdraws the needle and glances behind him—Bertolt hasn’t moved since Jean arrived with Armin, but his chest slowly rises and falls. Like the tide. “I’m sorry for asking, but … you didn’t—” Fuck. Jean gulps back the words like heavy rocks. They drop straight to the pit of his stomach, sharp and burning.
“No, I didn’t drug him.” Reiner flexes his arm, eyes glassy. Is he angry? Sad? Just exhausted? “It’s because I told him he wouldn’t get any chicks if he didn’t loosen up, isn’t it?”
“Forget it.” Jean gets up to dispose of the empty syringe, but blunt fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him back.
“I wouldn’t do that to my best friend. Or anyone else, really. I was just teasing. It’s not like Bertolt is interested in chicks, anyway. Or dicks. He doesn’t even get hard. Like ever. Except in the mornings sometimes. He doesn’t jerk it off, though.”
“… huh, okay.” Jean blinks. Why does everyone feel compelled to talk about other people’s sex lives tonight? Or their lack of a sex life. Not that Jean didn’t already reach his own conclusions on that matter. Only someone as self-centered as Eren would still believe after years that Reiner and Bertolt are fucking. They don’t. Bertolt rooms with Reiner to make sure he doesn’t overdose or self-harm. And, yes, they also share a bed. And, alright, maybe there’s more between them, maybe they do deeply love each other in a very platonic way, but it’s none of Jean’s business. Whatever they have seems to work for them, at least.
Jean rubs a palm over his face, then goes to dispose of the waste in the paper bin. When he turns around, Reiner is lying, body relaxed. Intravenous ketamine only needs a few seconds to kick in.
“I’ll check on you in two hours. Do you think I can untie Bertolt now?”
Reiner smiles. “Yeah. Whatever he took has started to wear off.”
“Alright … Give me a minute.” Jean gets up. He needs something to wipe the blood off Bertolt’s face. And also a moment alone, in silence, to collect himself and put a confident mask on in front of Reiner again. But as soon as he walks into the bathroom down the hall, the mirror greets him with a litany of flashy video ads for hair care products, condoms, and expensive lofts in Orvud.
Jean freezes, mouth hanging open.
Who bought that cursed thing? Connie? Sasha? He checks the mirror settings and turns off the ads. Then, on second thought, also turns on the child-friendly filter because he won’t take another blonde lady singing the praises of flavored condoms in the house he shares with his mum. Jena has plenty of good sides, really. But the constant data collection and targeted marketing gives him the creeps. How does the mirror even know it’s him, Jean Kirtstein? He only uses the third floor bathroom and besides—
He spots the round black eye of a camera on top of the mirror.
The fucking idiots!
Alright, he’ll have to put tape on that later and check if there’s a microphone as well. Who needs a smart mirror in their bathroom anyway? Can’t a man take a shit in peace?
Jean turns on the sink and splashes some cold water on his face, ignoring the hot stinging around his cut. When he raises his head, dark-ringed eyes stare back at him. Sharp. Accusatory. They know there’s a monster crawling under Jean’s skin.
What would’ve been Jean’s life if he’d settled for a factory job or helping his mum in her former restaurant? Sure, his home would’ve been a crappy wooden shack on the hills of Liberio, but wouldn’t he have been happier? Safer?
Jean grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles turn white. No. He would’ve died young anyway, most likely caught in the middle of a gang war or killed by cops during a drug bust. And Marco would’ve met the same fate.
Eren may be an asshole with a short-temper, but they’d still be stuck in that Marleyan death trap without him. Marco should be able to bring his family to Jena in two or three years, same for Bertolt and Reiner. Now, if only Eren could learn some anger management tricks—but no. Jean will get his apartment in Orvud long before Eren shows some goddamn responsibility. Unless he gets killed first.
At the end of the day, death is what awaits all of them. If they’re lucky, it’ll be a bullet through their skull, quick and clean. But it’ll probably be cruel and slow, with no one willing to put an end to their agony.
When Jean returns to the room, Reiner has dozed off, seemingly at peace.
A pocket knife makes quick work of Bertolt’s ties. But the raw and reddened skin of his wrist isn’t pretty, nor is the cut on his nose or the one near his hairline Jean missed earlier. It might leave a scar unless they send him to one of those fancy clinics providing nanotechnology treatments. Rich Jenensers like perfect skin. Rich Jenenser's and Floch.
Jean washes Bertolt’s face and disinfects his wounds. Bertolt stirs and squirms in his sleep, then rolls onto his side, eyelids fluttering. He barely cracks them open, but mumbles, “What happened?”
Great question. Jean rubs his lips with the back of his hand—he isn’t sure where to start. But Bertolt shivers from head to toes, snuggles closer to Reiner to hug him from behind and falls back asleep straight away.
Reiner was right. Bertolt’s coming down. Thank fuck. But what if he craves more drugs later? Some substances are heavily addictive. And they have a closet full of them. Should Jean hide their stock until Armin sends him the test results? But what if it just makes things worse? When Reiner tries to go cold turkey, it never ends well.
Fuck. Jean runs shaking hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. But his body still shivers with the memory of another long night he’d rather forget. Overdose, the Marleyan doc said. If Bertolt and Jean hadn’t realized quickly enough what was happening … If they hadn’t rushed Reiner to the slum’s makeshift hospital …
Bile burns Jean’s throat. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to empty his stomach.
Fucking ironic, isn’t it? Despite working for a drug lord and being a killer himself, he can’t bear the thought of any of his friends dying, whether it’s from drugs or at the hand of their enemies. Floch’s right. He’s not cut out for the job.
Cold water isn’t enough to calm his nerves this time, and when the damn mirror starts babbling nausea-related medical advice unprompted, Jean drives his fist into it. The glass cracks without shattering, but his knuckles throbs all the same.
The night’s been long. Way too long. And he needs to take his mind away from all of that mess, at least for a few hours.
Jean goes downstairs and asks his mum to check on Reiner and Bertolt later. She doesn’t approve of the drugs, but she’ll still take good care of them. She doesn’t even ask him how he hurt his hand, nor does she tell him she warned him long ago Eren wasn’t a good leader. Instead, she returns to wiping the tables, even if she doesn’t plan to open later today.
Jean grabs a rag to clean what’s already spotless. Working helps a bit. But not too much. “Where are Sasha and Connie?”
“I sent them to bed.”
Jean snorts. Sasha is a killer for hire. But will it stop his mum from treating her like a baby? No. “Mikasa?”
“She left with Armin.”
Of course she did. She’s Eren’s bodyguard, but since their boss fucked off to god knows where, she must’ve defaulted to protecting Armin. No one can stop her from doing her job—well, except Eren, obviously. Does he even want her around? Jean can’t say he’s ever heard him thank her. Fucking jerk. Jean would treat Mikasa better if she were one of his warriors or—whatever . Now isn’t the time to allow the pang of jealousy spearing his heart to grow. He’s not very good, but he’s still better than that.
“I see. Marco?”
“He’s on the roof. Said he needed fresh air.” More like a joint. But Marco’s her little angel. She has no idea.
“What about Floch? Did he crawl back home?”
His mum grunts. That must mean ‘yes’. She then fixes sharp eyes on him. “Promise me you won’t get into another fight with him.”
Jean snaps his brows together. “You think I’m doing it for fun? When he keeps fucking with my—”
“Jean Kirstein, I’m serious. What do you know about him?”
“He’s from Paradis and worked for Leichenberg until he—”
“No one becomes the right-hand man of a mafia boss at such a young age without doing some very messed-up stuff, Jean-boy.” She tosses her clean rag on the table she was working on. “Don’t mistake his cautiousness around me tonight for respect. He still came very close to shooting you.” Jean grimaces. He doesn’t need the reminder. “My best bet is he decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. Not right now, at least.”
Jean raises a brow. “Are you sure he isn’t scared of you? You punched him good, mum.”
“I did. But what was in his eyes didn’t look like fear to me. More like well-concealed frustration. Anyway, I told him he isn't welcome here anymore. But I doubt he’ll remember in a few days.” Jean tightens his grip on the rag, eyes burning holes into the table until his mum clasps a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You do your very best, and eventually Eren will realize he’s lucky to have people like Armin and you by his side. Now, go get some rest.”
Jean feels more like getting a lot of weed. And what his mum doesn’t know won’t hurt her. So he nods, smiling, before heading for the stairs.
The restaurant is four stories high, though they only occupy the first three floors. At first, it surprised Jean how affordable housing was in Shiganshina. But the buildings are one century old or more. For that reason, they rarely come with the domotic systems and robot servants apartments in Orvud promise. But the roof makes up for the lack of amenities, especially in summer. Snow fell recently. It melted, and the weather’s been milder since then, but it won’t be long before cold stops them from hanging out there. For now, though …
Heavy, tired steps bring Jean to the door leading to the roof. A cool breeze ruffles his hair and carries the woody, almost musty smell of weed to his nose. Muffled rock music pours into the neighborhood from one of the many clubs Shiganshina harbors. Further away, Jena’s tower sparkles in the middle of an ocean of blinking neon signs and billboards. A bit to the right, Orvud’s skyscrapers defy the heaven too. Red and dark blue color the horizon. The sun is rising over the city.
Jean plops down beside Marco on the couch Reiner and Bertolt brought up with mismatched armchairs not long after they all moved in. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he stares at the garlands of small yellow lights hanging low from the wooden pergola, dozens of fireflies against the still dark sky. Marco offers him the blunt without a word.
They keep smoking in turns until Jean’s worries dissolve into a sea of cotton candy and his body turns into marshmallow. He ends up lying on his back, head resting on Marco’s lap, long legs hanging over the armrest. Marco combs Jean’s hair with his fingers, again and again, as if he’s just a cat in human-form.
For a moment, every piece of Jean’s life falls in the right place …
Until he meets narrowed golden eyes as he sucks in the joint.
Choking on the smoke filling his lungs, Jean almost drops the joint. The face blurs, disappears behind the thick cloud escaping from Jean’s mouth as he wheezes and coughs.
It was just a vision, wasn’t it?
But once Jean’s blinked his tears away, Floch is still here, staring them down, lips thin and eyes cold.
“How did you get here?” Marco’s fingers stop running through Jean’s hair and his legs tense as if readying himself to fight. Stupid. Jean left his knife in Reiner and Bertolt’s room.
“Emergency staircases.” Fuck. They do have one in the back. Floch crept up on them so easily.
Jean pushes on his elbow to sit up. Or tries to, at least. The rooftop spins so much, he just lies back again. But he still manages to blurt out, “You’re not welcome here.”
Floch smirks. “Not in the restaurant. Which I’m not.”
Fucking asshole. Jean’s mum was right. It wasn’t fear or respect. And now—Jean grabs the arm Marco has draped over his chest. Is this how they die, unarmed and high? Damn. He wanted to go down in style. But Floch extends his right hand, fingers curling toward himself in a requesting gesture. The faint scars at the center of his palm look pale under the garland.
Frowning, Jean does the only thing that makes sense—he offers the joint, or what’s left of it, which isn’t much. But it was the correct assumption, apparently, because Floch brings it to his lips, takes a puff, and holds the smoke in his lungs without breaking eye contact.
A thought rushes through Jean’s mind and he starts speaking before he can even consider if it’s wise. “Reiner and Bertolt need a doctor.”
Marco stiffens even more, jaw so tense he might shatter his teeth. But Floch blows the smoke out, tosses the blunt, crushes it under his heel, and grabs his phone to call … whoever his contact is. He moves a few steps away, then sits on one of the armchairs, legs crossed. Relaxed.
Jean tries hard to focus, but Floch speaks fast, and half of the words don’t even sound like proper English … or proper French. Not a first. Paradisian lingo, maybe? The kind his mum never taught Jean, for sure.
“She’ll be here in a few hours,” Floch says once he’s hung up. He doesn’t add anything, just stares.
Jean slips his legs from the armrest to the edge of the couch, managing to sit up this time. Maybe Floch doesn’t want to kill them, after all. Or maybe he will because Marco just has to ask, “Aren’t you worried about Armin’s tests?”
Floch shrugs. “I didn’t do it, so not at all.” He purses his lips. “Should we talk about the weed you hide here, instead? Aren’t you supposed to keep your head clear, Jean? The more I look at the situation, the more it seems you could’ve done it too .”
“Va te faire, Floch,” Jean growls back before rubbing his face. “La nuit a vraiment été trop longue .”
“Your fault, asshole. And now Eren’s furious with us.”
“Yeah. And your point is?”
Floch drums long fingers on the armrest for a couple of seconds. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. But we’re both loyal to Eren, aren’t we? Wouldn’t it be better to put our differences aside for him?”
Wow, that weed is way too strong. Jean snorts, then glances at Marco, who stares back with a raise of his brows. Fuck. So Jean heard that correctly, then? He flicks his attention back to Floch and leans forward, elbows on his thighs and hands clenched together. “Are you suggesting a … truce? You ?”
“A truce …” Crossing his legs, Floch looks up at the garlands as if he needs the time to reflect on the word, then blinks and meets Jean’s eyes across the coffee table again, a weird smile creeping up his face. “Yeah, I guess that’s the word. A truce .”
Okay. Jean’s definitely super high. But Marco shifts, letting out a barely audible ‘damn’. Fuck. Is it really happening?
Floch pulls out a black and gold cigarette from an expensive case, then extends his arm over the coffee table to offer it, boring his eyes into Jean’s. “So? What’s your answer?”
