Chapter Text
It happens at night, across the ocean, far away from me. The city isn't asleep yet, the chatter of voices echoing quietly from the alleyway outside my window, which is open. A cigarette is slotted loosely between my two fingers, the smoke curling up and out into the cool night air. The atmosphere is heavy- oppressive, squeezing intently at my fragile lungs. It's three in the morning. Halfway across the city, a belltower has chimed.
Connie, one of my closest friends in the world, lays fast asleep in the bunk next to me, his blankets wound and tangled around his legs. The plan was for him to stay awake with me, but he fell asleep about an hour or so ago. I already know that sleep is going to evade me tonight. How could it be any other way?
I wasn't allowed to go. They knew I would never leave you behind. Not again. Not now. Not after all of this. So now, I wait. The worst part before a battle begins is always the waiting. The restlessness. The mounting tension, the seemingly endless time you have to think about what might be coming to kill you. There's none of that in a real fight. There's barely enough time to think at all. There's only you, the weapon in your hand, the split second decision between life and death. But I prefer those moments, adrenaline fuelled and wild, to this quiet almost peace.
It's been a month since we found out. Maybe even less than that, maybe only a few weeks. Thirty days at the most, twenty at the least. But it feels longer, like it's all been stretched out into years. That period of waiting, then convincing them to do something, to risk it all to rescue you.
Theres a million different ways I've pictured it. A million different ways this could have gone. But imprisoned in a Marleyan military hospital wasn't one of the ways I imagined having you back with me. Having you back alive.
There's no real guarantee they'll even get you. Theres also the possibility you won't even be yourself anymore. Who knows what's happened in those three years? Who knows what they've done to you, what you've experienced?
What are they doing now? Are they still on the boat, with you? Are they in the hospital, sneaking you through corridors to the docks? Are they on their way back home? Are you safe?
That last one burns more than the cigarette. I want you safe. I want you at home. I want to see you alive again. If they bring back a corpse? I think I might just go mad.
Connie murmurs something in his sleep, and tosses his head, rolling over onto his other side and casting me out of my train of thought. I take another drag of my cigarette, where the smoke fizzles and burns the back of my throat in a way that almost feels sort of calming. It keeps my breathing even. Keeps my head screwed on tight.
Two pretty girls, arm in arm, stumble down the alleyway outside my window, whispering to one another, giggling in their hushed voices. They disappear around the corner, and I find myself thinking about them long after they've left. They seem so far away from me. So impossible- How can anybody in a world where you might be dead be so carefree?
Deep down, some part of me, pushed down under all of the rest of it, envies them.
I stand, and wander over to my bed, at the opposite end of the room from Connie, and rifle under it for something- my fingers brush it, and I find a small box there. I don't have much in the way of possessions, but I'm more sentimental than I let on. Inside is a shell from my first trip to the beach, a few letters from my parents, and amongst other things, a bolt. It's small and inconspicuous- anybody else would wonder why in the world I have such a thing, but it's amongst one of my most treasured possessions. I turn it over and over in my hand, until the metal glows warm in my palm- a spare bolt from your gear. The only thing I have that was really yours. I take it back to the chair with me, clutching it so hard that the sharp edges dig into my skin and leave behind shiny red dents.
I stare past the walls, trying to picture the other side of the ocean, the rocking hull of the ship, and you. I wonder what you're thinking about now.
I sit like that, cigarette in hand, staring longingly at the horizon until the sun comes up.
I am so out of my depth.
.
Sunlight blooms through the windows as I hurry down the corridors, heart in my throat, hands shaking. A soldier I think I recognise leads the way. Maybe he's from the 104th. A Garrison transfer, possibly. But I couldn't tell you his name. You probably could, if you were here with me. You were always good at that sort of thing. Names, faces, people, patience- He looks as tired as me, worn out, exhausted- Was he on the team that rescued you? If so, he probably hasn't slept either. I feel like I owe him everything.
Silence hangs between us as he leads me down another corridor. Soldiers pass us, deep in thought or chatting to one another, so close yet so far away from me. Is this what it feels like to have an out of body experience?
I shake my head. Keep walking, Kirschstein.
I make an effort at polite conversation. "Were there any problems?"
The soldier stiffens- glancing at me with surprise as if not expecting me to speak at all. Me neither, pal. "No- none at all. He barely spoke to any of us. Came gladly. Nobody saw us, there were no alarms raised- He sat in the corner of the hold the whole journey back."
The news makes my stomach sink. I feel an unease, but I'm not entirely sure why. I find myself quickening my pace.
He leads me down another corridor, and pauses, pointing towards the end.
"Final door on the left." He says. "Report to commander Hanji when you're done- They're upstairs waiting for you. They're very interested in what Marco can offer- If he'll talk to anyone, he'll talk to you. If he does, then- tell him-" The man takes a moment to breathe. "Tell him I'm glad he's back." and he's gone, hurrying back down the corridor, footsteps a little too quick to be his usual pace. Back? Risen from the dead, more like.
But the interaction does make me smile a little. Of course.
I turn, quickly, on my heel, and head to the room I was directed to, stopping in front of the door. I suddenly feel rather sick, bile rising up inside of my throat, and I press my palm against the wood of the door. You're in here, waiting for me. I've spent so long believing you were dead and in many ways, I've made my sick peace with that. The wooden door suddenly feels like it weighs a million tons, and it's almost easier to go on pretending. But all I know is that I can't go back now.
I think of Mrs Bodt, of your siblings hiding behind her skirts, of little May and baby Leo, staring at me from the doorway of your home in Jinae. I think of your father, and his funeral. He'll never know. None of them know right now. I think of that day when I came to your home, clutching the remnants of your trainee jacket.
I stare at the marks in the wood, the scratches on the doorknob, the imperfections in the varnish, for a long, long time. If not for the adrenaline spiking in my body I think there would be a strong chance of me throwing up. My hands- I can't get them to stop shaking.
I sigh, and gently open the door.
I feel my heart stop.
Theres a figure, laying slumped on the bed, half leaning on the wall, tucked in blankets. one eye stares at me from behind a tangle of thick dark hair. Whatever words I had left? They're gone now.
It's you.
Your face is the same- Thinner around the hollows of your cheeks, without those last remnants of teenage roundness I remember you having. The eye I can see is filled with... something unidentifiable. Something confused. But it's still you, so beautifully, unmistakeably you, behind the dark circles and the sicky pallor. A scar, pink and shiny, juts out from the left side of your face and down your arm, and I know that it should horrify me, but right now I don't think I can muster the energy to care. I watch you breathe, in and out, in and out, just to prove to myself that you can. The shirt you're dressed in loosely hangs off of your frame.
"Marco?" I say, not entirely sure this isn't a dream. My heart beats against my ribcage like a frightened bird.
"It's you." You rasp, and your voice is weak and quiet, like it hasn't been used in a long time. Like you've forgotten how. Your one visible eye is locked on me as I step into the room, trying to remember how to walk. One foot in front of the other. I stand in the centre of the room, laid bare, and it's half the exhaustion, half the feeling of elation and relief, but I can feel the pinpricks of tears in my eyes and the pounding of my heart insistent at the back of my throat, the taste of blood on my tongue, like copper.
"It's me, Marco." I try and smile. "Yeah, it's me."
You're still. Too still. Your eye is locked on me, unmoving, staring right through me into my soul, as if scanning me, expecting to see some sort of discrepancy, some error, anything that suggests this is a trick. Your hands tighten their grip on the bedsheets, trembling, twisting. The air suddenly crackles with tension, so heavy and thick you could cut it with a knife. That's when I realise something here is very wrong.
There's not enough time for me to go for the door.
My sleepless night catches up with me.
You scramble to your feet and lunge for me, movements so jagged and uneven that they almost don't look human. In the process, you kick back the blankets onto a pile on the floor by the bed, hands outstretched, face contorted into a mixture of anger and fear. I only have a second or two to realise with horror that you are missing an eye.
Your hands reach for my throat as you shove me aginst the nearby wall, I slam into it, white stars flashing in my eyes as my head impacts the stone, making them water. I grab your wrists and force them away from me with all the strength I can find in my shock. But I can feel your fingertips against my neck, uncut nails digging in and leaving red trails behind on my flesh as you shout words I can't understand. I think I might be shouting too- your name, I think, in my desperation, my confusion, my panic- every moment of my training is forgotten, and it's all I can do to keep your hands from crushing my windpipe. Theres a scar on your right wrist from training all those years ago that I remember. I can feel the roughness of it under my palm.
"You won't do it again! I'll kill you!" You cry, your gaze is white hot with hatred and endless rage. That chokes me more than your hands. "You hear me?! I'll kill you!"
I can feel my pulse quickening where your fingers meet my jugular. I cough, writhe, squirm. But it's not enough, and even through your wrists are shockingly thin, there's something about the wildness of rage that makes that unimportant.
I feel the air I breathe coming in and scratching my throat like the sand on the beach. There's blood creeping down into my collar.
There are people there, suddenly. The soldier from earlier, and two others. They drag you off of me and haul you away to the other side of the room, kicking and screaming at the top of your lungs, legs struggling for purchase on the floor. Someone is talking to me, grabbing my shoulder, but I can't see or hear them. It just fades into the background nose of your shouting, your screaming. I can still see your face, eye locked on me, like you're afraid of what will happen to you if you dare to look away.
I push past whoever is attempting to speak to me and force my way out the door, legs feeling clumsy and my head spinning, my throat burning, my eyes watering. I don't know where I'm going, but I run, and I run, back down the hallway and round the corner I came from earlier, nearly stumbling headfirst into a confused Sasha next to a set of stairs. She looks at me, wide eyed and confused.
"Jean?" she blinks.
I stare at her for a moment before darting around her and continuing as fast as I can down the hallway. I don't want to be seen like this, seen like I'm mad, with that still pooling blood under my shirt, down my chest.
"Hey, wait! Jean!" She calls after me, her voice strained, dazed and confused.
I don't stop.
I tear down another corridor until I find a door. I push it open and suddenly I'm standing in the sunlight, my hands trembling and the sounds of your shouting still echoing in my ears. I slink behind the corner and behind a stack of barrells and crates, clamping my hands over the side of my head, over my ears. I just want to shut out the world, shut out everything, shut out what they've done to you, shut out the sounds of shouting. I squeeze my eyes shut and curl up in a ball against the wall. I can hear someone call my name, distant and muffled, and it is all I can do to hope that they never, ever find me.
Shut up. Please. Just shut up.
.
That night, I sit at the edge of a table, brain tugged in a million different directions in the strained, terrible silence. The commander stands at the edge of the table, hands on hips, pacing back and forth. Everyone is very pointedly not looking at me, but I can feel the tension in the air, the urge in all of them to ask a million different questions. They know something has happened, that it has gone wrong, because there has been no happy reunion for them, no tear filled hugs, no brilliant, bubbling, ever present laughter. But they don't know why, or how, or what, and I'm beginnning to regret even letting them drag me here in the first place. Under the table, perhaps sensing something in me, Sasha gives my hand a comforting squeeze. With my free hand, I run my fingertips up and over my throat, feeling the ghost of the grip of furious, angry, desperate hands. My pulse burns heavily through my veins.
"Well." Hanji finally begins, tone taking on an icy, almost bitter edge. "I don't think that this has gone remotely as well as we expected it to go."
Understatement of the century, I think. I take note of everyone around the table- Armin, Mikasa, Sasha, Connie, Eren- and Levi in the corner, his own eyes narrowed. Sometimes I forget that this is all that is left of us. Historia- well, she's got better things to do. Somebody has probably sent her a letter telling her everything- Wherever she is, anyway. I wonder if they told her how your hands were trying to crush my windpipe.
"Mr Bodt, is-" The commander takes a deep, uneasy breath. "His psyche has been considerably altered."
The room seems to recoil in a way, the news sinking slowly in. Sashas grip tightens on my hand, her eyes widening with a sort of horror. It only seems to make me feel even worse.
"We got him back safely this morning." Hanji continues, back unnaturally straight, negating to mention the fact that you've lost your fucking eye. "However, he was aggressive, paranoid, and unstable."
I swallow, hard, and pull my shirt collar up further with one hand to hide the barely there imprints of your fingers. Connie settles his elbows on the table, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his forehead. Armin seems to crumple, his eyes going watery in a way I know means that he wants to cry. Even Mikasas breath grows shuddery and uneven. I try to ignore the steely, silent look on Erens face and how much it unnerves me, but his hand is tightening into a fist on the table. Sasha is the least muted of all about how shitty this situation is.
"That can't be right-" Sasha shakes her head in disbelief. "He wouldn't... He's never- He's never been like that. He was-" Her eyes meet mine, wide and pleading, demanding some sort of explanation that I simply can't give her. I can't even muster the energy to force myself to shake my head.
"From what I've gathered-" The commanders face briefly turns to me, gaze briefly meets mine. "This is a very drastic change of personality. We do not yet know the extent of what damage has been done, who did it, exactly, or how long he has been that way." Hanji takes a big, deep breath, and a hopeful smile comes over their face. "This does not mean, however, that the situation isn't resolvable."
I shouldn't be here, I think. I should be talking to you. Right now we should be catching up, and I should be watching you smile, watching you laugh, trying to bring you back again, because thats how you always were after tragedy, trying your hardest to make everyone feel better. I shouldn't be here at all. This is all wrong. It had been wrong from the start. I was the one who begged, who pleaded, for hours on end, justifying it with usefulness, chasing a dream. Is it a regret now? Does Hanji wish that they had left you there? Was it all bullshit? Was I liar?
Well, it wasn't really bullshit. But it felt that way to me. All I really cared about was seeing you again. And now? There are those barely there scratches and bruises at my throat, stark against my pale neck, barely hidden underneath my shirt collar. You didn't really get a grip on me at all, but it is enough to remind me every time I breathe in, every time I breathe out. You tried to kill me. And that hurts to think about.
"What do we know, exactly, about what has been done?" Mikasa asks, voice determinedly deadpan, like she's trying too hard. Sometimes it can be infuriating, but the stability is good. The daring to ask the questions nobody else is ready to ask. God bless Mikasa.
"He appears to have many of the ideas held by Eldians on Marleyan soil. That we are evil. That we are devils. That... that we are going to hurt him, somehow. We can assume some sort of method was used to envoke this fear, but he refused to tell us anything useful- But asking seems to bring him anxiety. We're assuming some sort of torture was used."
There they are. The words I desperately wanted to avoid being used. I watch Mikasas hand tighten into a fist on the table, and begin to lose the feeling in my fingers from Sasha holding on so tightly.
"...What did they do to him?" Sasha wonders out loud. I hate hearing it, because it is the exact thought I have had since the day I found out you were still alive, endless and racing around the confines of my skull. What did they do to you? What did they say to you? What did they tell you? Did you scream? Would you have screamed? What did they do to your eye? Was it Annie, Bertholdt, or Reiner that dragged you into that prison cell?
"I think the only person who can truly tell us that is Marco himself."
My stomach lurches. Like when you miss a step on the stairs.
"Well?" Sashas eyes suddenly light up, and she turns to me. "You, Jean! Surely if you ask, he'll just tell you, right? He's scared- confused. If *you* ask him-"
"No." I snap.
"What?! But-" Sasha grabs onto my sleeve and yanks it to her section of the table. "You have to talk to him, Jean! It might be the only way to-"
"No." I've stood up before I realise I have. The clink of glassware sounds on the table, and I refocus. Everyone is staring at me, save for Eren, whose eyes are on the commander, and I feel the burn of shame.
"I don't think that will be happening, Sasha." The commanders voice is low, with warning. I'm not used to that sort of tone coming from Hanji.
Sasha looks crestfallen, and when she turns her eyes to me, I think a part of me breaks. She looks like something has been snatched from her.
"Jean, what-"
"I tried, alright?" I do my best not to shout at her. I know she doesn't deserve it. "He was... he didn't..." I trail off into stony silence. I can feel everyones pitying gaze lingering on me, and my hands clench into fists. Just stop it. Please. I want the world to stop, to just leave me in peace, even for a moment.
"He seemed to believe Jean had caused him harm in some way. He responded... Very aggressively to his presence. If we're getting the information out of him- If he even remembers- I don't know if getting Jean in the same room with him again will be safe for either of them. At least for the moment." The commanders voice catches uneasily in their throat.
I watch as Sashas mouth falls open in shock, and Connie is staring at me too, his eyes wide. Armin has the tact to avoid looking at me, and Mikasa hasn't moved at all, intensely staring at the table like it might give her some sort of answer. So much for pretending. Something clicks inside of Sashas head, and she leans across the table corner towards me.
"He attacked you?"
Stop it. "Sasha-"
"How could he-" She looks from me to the commander, searching for an answer, almost as if expecting one of us to blurt out 'just kidding!' and start laughing. "I-But you two were- It was like-"
I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about that. "Sasha, that's enough. Let go of me-"
"He would never do something like that-!"
"I said that's enough!" I wrench my hand from her grip, her nails leaving behind little dents in my skin, and pull away completely from the group, standing again. My chair is pushed away from me with a sharp creak that echoes around in the following, almost stunned silence. I can feel my breath come quickly, in sharp, rapid pants. The kind that makes you feel dizzy, feel deranged. My vision is blurry, like peering through water, through rain and mist and cloud. I will not cry. I will not fucking cry. Not here. Not in front of all these people. Not over you. Not now. Sasha is pleading silently with me, horrified, as if I can give her an answer to explain all of this. Like I can tell her you will be okay. I cannot look at anyone else. I don't dare try. If I do, my eyes will betray me, and they'll all see the tears teetering on the edge, threatening to roll down my cheeks.
"I'm going." I say, quickly. "I don't need to be briefed." and storm out before anybody can object, before anyone else can call me back into that dreaded room. The door slams behind me and I can feel the air at my back.
I break. Just a little. Stumble, slump against the wall and clasp a hand over my mouth to silence what I think might be broken, desperate sobs. I'm lucky that it's late, and there's nobody watching, nobody around to see me. When I do storm out of the building my breathing is still shaky. I push past the gates, down the road, heading home. Like the night before, the city is coming alive, as people head from their homes to plan out their evenings as the weekend fast approaches. It's a Friday, isn't it? A boy and a girl walk arm in arm, and I watch as she goes on her tiptoes to kiss him fondly on the cheek. I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to glare daggers at them.
I approach the building and head up the stairs to me and Connies room, where I have left the window open. I take off my coat, but the air is cold, and it bites. I slump over my pillow and lie like that on my side, exhausted. All I want to do it sleep, but it refuses to come. It's too early, and despite how tired I am, military training really has stuck. I find my cigarettes on the window sill and set about smoking, trying not to think about you, but of course that only makes me think about you even more. I undo the top buttons of my shirt and in the mirror, stare at those forming marks on my neck. They look raw and angry, even worse than they did this afternoon, with a few fingertip shaped bruises blossoming on my skin. Yours. They'll heal soon, probably within a few days. Experimentally, I press my fingers against the raw, bloody lines, and feel my breath hiss as the pulse of the sting courses through me.
I sit back down on my bed, slot the cigarette between my lips, and light the end for the millionth time.
Sometime later, someone knocks on the door twice. "Jean?"
"Go away." I run a hand back through my hair and breathe out the smoke.
Whoever it is (and I think I already know) Ignores me and pushes into the room. Of course, it's Sasha and Connie, Sasha looking a bit like someone has dragged her through a hedge backwards, the remnants of tear tracks on her cheeks. I feel guilty. She knew you too. I'm not the only one who missed you.
"Jean, we're so sorry-" She begins, but I hold up my hand.
"Don't." I sigh, and shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it."
Connie closes the door behind the both of them, as Sasha walks forward determinedly and sits down on the bed beside me, wrapping her arm around me in a sort of awkward half hug and resting her head on my shoulder. I try not to flinch, and I can feel the familiar prick of tears at the corner of my vision, threatening to spill over if I do so much as blink. I don't want to cry in front of these two. Somehow it feels impossibly wrong to be upset. Connie sits on the other side of me, and rests an uneasy hand on my shoulder in what I think is supposed to be an affectionate gesture.
"Did he give you those scratches?" Sasha murmurs into the shoulder seam of my shirt. My hand goes to my neck again, brushes over the wounds, feels that slowly familiarizing sting.
"Yes."
Sasha hugs me a little tighter.
We stay like that for a long while.
When I stumble into my bed later that night, I feel drunk. I have nightmares. They're about you, Marco, the day we fought together in Trost, the day we both almost died. The day you saved me, when you disappeared, and I took so long to notice. You are smiling at me, as softly as you always did, but you're older now, taller, and half your face is missing along the jagged lines of your new scar. Your skull leers at me from the dark.
.
One week passes. Then two, then three. The days begin to get into the habit of bleeding into one another, a combination of sleepless nights and trying to avoid what I know I have to do eventually, hazy with the clouds of cigarette smoke. I get through way more packs than I would like. I don't see you, and I don't know if I'm allowed to, don't know if I want to. It seems, almost, like you're still dead, buried somewhere in Marley, and something has been made in an approximation of your shape and sent over to torture me. My memories of you are fragile, like cracking glass. I don't want to ruin them by staring at whatever is masquerading as you, like a taxidermied animal, in what they have assured me is a temporary prison cell. I'm not sure how long temporary is.
"You can't keep him in there!" I protested at first, hands on Commander Hanjis desk. They just sighed and shook their head at me. "He hasn't done anything wrong!"
"Jean, there's nothing I can do." Hanji raised their hands in a show of surrender. It did nothing to quell the rage bubbling in side of me. "We need to keep an eye on him and there's nowhere else for him to go. It's the only place he seems to be calm in. I'm sorry. I promise, it's just temporary. I'm positive we'll be able to help him."
Doubt made a guilty appearance as I stormed out of the room.
You've just exchanged one cell for another, haven't you? And there's nothing I can do about it. I have you back, but you're somehow still a million miles away from me.
At the end of the month, they tell your mother.
I have met your mother a grand total of three times. Twice when we stopped by on those few weekends off we did have, and once after you were pronounced dead, somewhere amongst the piles of unidentifiable bodies. She is a short, soft looking woman, with dark brown curly hair, green eyes, and a round face that usually carries a smile that looks like yours. That's how I remember her, anyway. The smile is what I remember most of all- and that welcoming look about her, voice soft and careful. I'd never really been the family type at the time- what teenager is? So it was always awkward sitting at the table, in your living room, wherever, glued to your side with familiar, polite scripts of 'yes, no, thank you, please' Whenever I was asked a question, your little sister doing her fair share of that.
The last time, it had been on her doorstep. I don't know why I had agreed- no, volunteered to go. I had been trembling the whole time, eyes locked on nothing at all, as she opened the door, clutching the tiny hand of your baby brother.
When I meet her at the gates, she looks tired, like she hasn't slept either. I suddenly feel like we are both on the same page.
"Jean!" She greets me warmly as she's let through the open gates, expression not giving away a trace of doubt, of anger, of fear for her son. "How are you?"
"Hey, Mrs Bodt." I try to smile, but I get the distinct sense that it looks quite creepy and doesn't meet my eyes. There's more grey in her hair than I remember, and she does look a little bit worn out- And I dont think it's from the journey. I probably don't look much better. "Long time no see? How have you been doing?"
"Well, all things considered..." She's still so smiley. In many ways, she reminds me of you, or how you used to be, anyway. "I hear you've become quite the hero."
My cheeks flush pink, and I politely laugh, resisting the urge to not look her in the eyes. "Ah, I wouldn't say that-"
"Ah, don't be so humble." She wipes her eye with one hand, and reaches up to rest the other on my shoulder, though it's a little awkward with how much taller I am than her now. "I'm so proud. I'm sure he would be too."
I wince. It sounds dangerously close to what my own my own mother would say- I suppose that makes sense, though. What really makes me shiver is that she's talking about you like you aren't in the building. Like you are still considered burnt on that funeral pyre, your jacket caked in blood.
I open my mouth to speak. What do I say? I hope you remember her? I'm sorry, this is all my fault?
"How's Leo?" I ask instead, because this is what normal people doing normal things talk about. "And May?"
"Ah, well-" She says, her shoulders slumping somewhat. "Well enough, I think. Leos a little confused. He was so young, after all. Not enough memories, you see... May, she- May misses him, I think. But she was so young, too- so she doesn't really understand exactly what she misses. She asks a lot of questions, and, well- I haven't really been able to explain this to either of them." She shakes her head.
I remember baby Leo, tawny hair ruffled up sideways, watching me cry on your doorstep, eyes confused about why everyone was so upset, and why you hadn't come home with me like you had those few times I had showed up. And May, who always looked like you, grass stains all over her blouse, barely old enough to understand that death meant 'not coming back.'
We begin the walk over the gravel towards the building, which looms threateningly overhead. The arching windows suddenly feel too tall, the doorway twice my height.
We head down to the cells in awkward silence, me holding the door open for Mrs Bodt a number of times, always with a thank you, and me returning it with a polite smile where I feel like I'm biting my tongue. I want to ask her how she can stand it. I think she might be stronger than me. I bet she wouldn't be avoiding you. She would be in there every day, trying to coax you out of whatever walls have been built up around you. Suddenly, I feel very, very selfish.
"Make sure you're ready before you go in." I begin, as we descend the set of stone stairs that leads to your cell. "It's... a lot. He was very- uhm... He wasn't being himself, but there's no real way of knowing what kind of reaction he'll have. To you, I mean."
"I understand." She sighs. Of course she does. I think we understand each other more than anyone else in the world right now. She tightens her grip on her bag. In the low underground light, she appears significantly less pale, though a bit like she's still in pain. "Aren't these... prison cells?" She says, voice low with anxiety. Her eyes dart to the bars, wide with worry.
"Yes." I swallow, frustrated. "I don't like it either."
She frowns, and quickens her pace.
We stop just out of viewing range of your cell door, so you can't see me. Mrs Bodt shoots me a pitying look, and places a warm hand on my shoulder.
"It'll be alright." She shouldn't be reassuring me. It should be the other way around. I'm thinking of the words to say in return when she lets go and continues down the corridor without me.
"Marco, honey?" She calls out. There's silence. The unnatural kind. I brace myself for the worst as I lean against the wall between two cells, hands in my pockets, staring intense and unfocused at the floor like it might offer up some sort of solution to this terribly shitty problem.
"Ma?" Your voice is small, tired, and it breaks my heart just a little more. It's almost like you can't believe what you're seeing.
"Oh, Marco-" I watch as Mrs Bodt sits down in the chair set out in front of the bars, hands clasped firmly in her lap. I watch a barely visible shadow of yours dance behind the bars, only there if you squint, caught in the flickering lamps.
"Ma, what are you doing here?" You reach out, stretching your hand through the bars. She takes it, smooths her thumb over your bruised and beaten knuckles. I want to warn her, say something, but I don't. I can't take that away from her. I wouldn't want anyone to take that away from me. "How did you- They haven't- How did they get you here?" Your voice suddenly takes on an edge of panic. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"
"No, no, Marco, shh, shh- Nobody has hurt me, it's alright." Her voice wobbles, thick with something like grief, she looks down at your hand, then to your face- I try to picture your expression, so lonely, so empty, so confused. "They told me that you'd come home, sweetheart. They told me you were being kept safe, and you are- You're here..."
There's a long silence before you speak again.
"Home?" You say, confused. "This is... home?"
"Yes, honey." Mrs Bodts hands grasp yours a little tighter. "They got you out of that awful place. Do you remember?"
You slip your other hand through the bars, and she takes that too, looking almost like she's terrified of the moment when you'll have to take them away again. "What place?"
"Marley, honey. Marley." I look away from Mrs Bodt again and stare instead at the floor once more, arms folded across my chest, grasping the sleeves and pulling them taut around my upper arms. "They took you far away from us. Very far away, remember? But you're home now. Soon, we'll take you back to Jinae. The town is- well, it's so much quieter nowadays, but everything is still there- the fields you used to play in, the fireflies in the woods, the swing on the tree- everything is just where you left it."
There's silence, then, for a moment, as you process the information. "Why can't I go home now?"
"Well..." She sighs, and I hear her shuffle uncomfortably as she tries to find the right words to use. "You're a bit... unwell at the moment. Because you were away for so long. They're keeping you here until you're better, and then you can come home. Right away after that. I promise."
"Home..." Your voice grows soft. Wistful. Idealistic. A million miles away.
"Yes." Mrs Bodt says, determined. "So make sure you listen to the doctors, okay, Marco? And your friends. They're all working together to make sure you get better. It's going to be very, very hard, honey, but you're going to get better."
I can feel the tension in the air as you breathe, as you think. Whatevers going on inside your head is a mystery to me.
"The doctors... They're... everyones from Paradis, aren't they? They're all from Paradis..."
I hear breathing pick up, heavy and uneasy, tainted by the shudders of your chest. Metal clangs, and I hear a creak. The shocked stumble of Mrs Bodt. I look to see that she has pulled her hands away from the bars, and feel something in my stomach sink like lead in water.
"Marco-" She warns, begs, pleads, keeping her hands clutched tight to her chest. Your arms reach through the bars, grasping for something, anything at all. But you're not going to find it.
"They keep asking me all these things- About Marley, about- They ask what happened, why I'm- Why I'm saying things-"
"Marco, honey, look at me-"
"They're evil, ma! They're going to kill us! You- You have to run, with dad- with May and Leo- They're keeping me prisoner! See?!" I hear the clang of metal again, and again, like a hammer on steel. "No matter what they say, they're all liars!"
"Marco-"
"Run!" You shout. The guards at the end of the corridor are dawdling, wondering if they should step in, pull her away. "They'll hurt you too! Look at what they did to me! Look at my face, ma!"
Mrs Bodt takes a chance and steps closer, leaning close to you through the bars. I think of the way those hands clenched around and scratched my throat and have to fight the urge to pull her away.
"Marco, honey- We're all Paradisians, so am I, so are you. Nobody is hurting anyone, Okay? Nobody is going to hurt you here. I promise that you're safe now. And the people here- All these doctors and all of your friends- They want to help you, and I really want you to let them. They're going to make you better. I promise."
"But-"
"Shh." Mrs Bodt leans closer to the bars, and reaches through. I think she's cupping your face in her hands. "You've been through so much, honey. But you're safe now, okay? You can trust these people. You can trust me. I promise. You don't have anything to be afraid of anymore, okay? It's all over. You're safe."
There's a silence, then, broken only by the sounds of weak sobbing. I feel my hands clench at my sides into fists, and I have to fight to ignore the sick feeling creeping up my throat as I listen to the sounds.
"I'm so tired, Ma." Your voice breaks as you cry. It's slightly muffled, and I am mentally preyed upon by the image of you sobbing into your hands. I don't dare to look. Not now.
"I know, honey." Mrs Bodt soothes you softly. "I know."
.
When Connie is asleep, I flick through the pages in my old sketchbooks. I haven't had the time, nor the motivation, to draw anything new. Not for a long while, now. So, I look through them. I don't know exactly what I am searching for here, until I find it. Sketches of you. For the longest time, they were the closest things I had to pictures, like those cameras- those photographs from Marley. You existed only in my memory, and I had to get you out, get you onto those pages, so I wouldn't forget, so the image wouldn't become blurry. Even before then, before you disappeared without as much as a word, without a goodbye, I always drew you. Your image felt so natural to get onto the page, but I never managed to capture what I really wanted, what I really saw with my own two eyes. Still, though, it was enough.
In one of the drawings, you're smiling, feeding the horses. In another, you're huddled into your jacket against the snow, freezing from the winter training. You, against the backdrop of summer, you, disarming someone in training. The face you made when you slept. Soft, open, lips slightly parted, hair delicately tousled.
After what I thought was your death, they get quicker and less detailed, uneven and full of scratchy lines, full of fear that I would forget. Your smile, your laugh, how you looked when you were trying to be serious, almost pouty looking. You are there on those rough pages- I thought I could make you live forever that way.
My favourite, right now, though it changes all the time, are the ones with you out of uniform. Particularly the one of you on one of those days we went to Trosts market, and you found a fluffy, stray cat- Or maybe that one with you leaning against the wall, coin in one palm, the other nestled in your pocket. You stare at the silver, deep in thought. So casual, there, so easy, unlimited by military chores and training and drills, so free of the confines of the uniform that labelled you a trainee. Here you are just a person, not a soldier, not a number, not a body. Here, you are my friend as I remember you. Here, you are just Marco. My Marco.
.
That Monday, I find Armin has been sent to talk to you- Of course they chose him. He was your friend too- Everyone was, really. There was something magnetic about you. Those sketches prove it to me. They lay, hidden, under my bed, for my eyes only, and for the moment, thats how I keep them. Hidden away.
I see you. I stand and watch because I can't help myself. You are on the balcony, dark hair in the light of the sun- It's brown, really, but you can never tell most of the time. Not quite black, but close enough. It's slightly too long, because for the moment, it's probably not good for you to be around sharp objects with strangers- an eyepatch is wrapped around your head, and I can't decide if I hate it or not.
On both sides, there are guards, enclosed around you, watching you with a mix of hesitation and curiosity. Armin is hunched over next to you, pointing at something, all his movements slow, never sudden, never something that makes you flinch. The look on your face is strained, trying too hard to be patient, but I can't make out much from my hiding place behind a stack if crates. Who knows how you would respond if you saw me creeping on you like this?
Jealousy is an ugly thing, I know, but I can't help feeling a pang of it as I watch the both of you. That should be me, up there, I think. I should be helping. I should be doing something. Why can't I do something? But I think I already know the answer. Armin, at some point, catches me staring, and I duck out of sight, pressing my palms over my ears to drown out the sound of chattering soldiers. I think I might be sick.
He approaches me later, head bowed, expression pale and distant, looking every bit like a puppy with it's tail tucked between it's legs. His fingers fiddle nervously with the buttons of his jacket cuffs, and it only serves to frustrate me. I sigh and lean against the nearby wall, cigarette in hand. There always is one, lately. My poor lungs.
"Spill it." I snap, harsher than intended. I don't want him to pity me. I don't want anyone to pity me. He jumps, and I almost feel guilty. Don't look at me like I might break if a gust of wind comes along.
"He's... Not well."
"I guessed that." I hold out the pack of cigarettes. "You want one?"
Armin stares at the packet for a while and shakes his head, hair smoothing itself where it's messed up at the back. "No thanks."
"Your loss." I take another drag of my cigarette. Armin leans against the wall next to me, hands clenched into fists. He lets his head fall back against the stone with an uneasy, frustrated sigh, looking every bit as worn out as I've felt lately.
"He... Uhm..." Armin swallows. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. "I don't really know where to start, Jean."
"Take your time." Honestly? I'm not entirely sure if I want to know.
"He thinks... a lot of things." Armin begins, hesitantly. I find myself raising an eyebrow, because of course. "Marley." He settles on. "Those things they say in Marley. About us being an island of devils- He... Believes them. It took me about two days to get him to talk, but- He remembers these places, these people, these... things, but they've all been turned around in his head. Things that never happened, things people never said- like you- I tried asking him how he got off the island, but all he could tell me was that Reiner was there and he couldn't... or... didn't want to tell me anything else."
I had figured something like that, but it doesnt make it sting any less. I stare straight ahead, ignoring the tremble in my hands as I slot my cigarette between my lips again. It's all I can do to stop myself from kicking at the walls in front of me. How satisfying it would be to watch it all tumble down.
I take a chance. "What did he tell you? About me?" I ask.
"He thinks you hurt him. That you did something bad to him. But he wouldn't tell me how."
"Do you think he knows how?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Armin shakes his head again, looking more than a little unnerved. He sits down onto a nearby crate and looks a bit like he wants to curl up into a ball and cry. Me too, Armin. "He's not like himself. He's so... frightened. I hate it. I feel like I'm scaring him."
"You probably are, Armin." I say, though it hurts to admit it. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. Often I only end up validating my own fears. "I think anyone would scare him right now."
"You're probably right." Armin murmurs. I drop my cigarette on the ground and crush it underneath the sole of my boot until it's nothing but ash. It feels good to destroy something, no matter how small it may be. Maybe I need to go back to the shooting range again, or spend some quality time with a punching bag. I look down, my knuckles are still bruised.
Armin looks up at me for a few seconds, opening his mouth then closing it again like he's not entirely sure if he wants to say something or not. Spit it out.
"Is it true he-" Armin begins, but stops himself halfway through, like he can't quite bear to say it. I try to look casual, but inside I feel like I'm dying. "That he-"
"Attacked me?" I finish, because waiting any more might actually kill me. "He tried to strangle me, actually." It doesnt feel as hard to get out as it was a couple weeks ago. The bruises have long since faded, but I can still feel the ghosts of those scratches hidden under the collar of my shirt. I press my hand there, but the sting of pain is gone. "He only scratched me up a litle bit. He was very weak. I'm fine."
Armin shoots me a pitying look, and something builds up in me that's almost like anger. Don't look at me like that. I can't stand it.
"Still-"
"I don't want to talk about it. It's over now." and the words feel alien when they come out. "He hates me."
"Jean, I'm sure he doesn't hate you." Armins voice is low, cautious, like I might snap at him again. Guilt. God, I'm being such an asshole. "He's scared and confused. Who knows what he's been through on Marley? He needs... he needs help right now, and he needs as many people supporting him as possible. You just... You need to spend time with him. Maybe he's..." Armin scuffs his shoes against the ground. "Maybe he's still in there somewhere. We can help him remember. I'm sure of it."
I look away. "You're pretty confident about that."
"I am." Armin straightens his back and stares at me, determined, which doesn't really do much to make him look any more intimidating. "We have to try. We won't get anywhere just leaving him there. We all have to try." I take a deep breath, which, ironically, is somehow way harder without me having a cigarette on hand. "I think you should try to talk to him, Jean. If it were the other way around- If you had been taken, he would be in front of those bars every day until you remembered him again."
Low blow. It pisses me off a little. But I know he's right.
I hesitate, and stare at the ground, thinking back to the expression on your face- Twisted with fear, raw and angry and wild, hands outstretched like claws. I feel the sensation of scratching against my neck, of your wrists straining under my palms, and the shouting, the screaming, ripped from the back of your throat. Will it be like that again? Maybe. Maybe not. After all, you haven't hurt Armin, and you'll be on the other side of a set of prison bars.
Realistically, I know I have to try. If not now, then at some point. Can I really keep putting it off forever?
"Okay." I relent, getting that uncomfortable feeling in my chest again. "I'll go." I tap my hand repeatedly against the stone wall as the anxiety builds, giving me something to do. "Before that, though, could you do me a favour?"
Armin looks a little relieved, then. And he smiles. "Sure."
"I want you to give him something from me."
.
I dream about you again that night.
It's a small cell. I know, somehow, that it's a small cell. It always is, but it's always so dark that I can't see the walls. A light beams from overhead onto a chair containing you, but I can't see the source of it, stretching so high it seems impossible. You look through me, always, as if I'm not really there. As if I'm seeing your memories. I had these same sort of dreams after you died- no, disappeared, but they were always different- Sometimes it was of you being eaten, bitten in half, sometimes just images of your corpse, mangled and unrecognisable, lying motionless on the ground while I just stood there, watching, unable to do or say anything. I don't think I like this any better. Blood pours off of your temple, drips onto the floor, forming a small puddle.
A man, or more accurately, a shadow in the shape of one, approaches you. He's holding something in his hands that I can't make out. I can't breathe, or move, or scream. I'm forced to watch as he lifts the object and beats you hard across the face with it. You rasp, shakily, your breathing uneasy, and you choke out a sob.
"Please, no more-" He hits you again, and you crumple, inside, I think my heart shatters just a little more. "I don't know anything, please-" and this continues, again and again, your voice getting louder and louder until you're screaming, and I can't even cover my ears to block out the sound. I want to kick and push the image away, praying it'll dissolve away into nothing, that my sleep will be dreamless, that my nights will be calm.
It gets louder, until it fills my ears- Until the sound echoes in my ears for what feels like forever and ever, until it becomes an endless echo. I can't even see what they're doing to you anymore. I don't want to know. I don't want to see. I don't want to hear. Don't make me listen to this any more, please-
That's when I wake up.
.
The scouting ship is in the distance, the waves lapping at the hull as it heads for the shore. I don't need to even ask who, or where it's from. What number is this now- The twentieth or thirtieth? God, I don't know, but somebody out there better be keeping track, because Marley sure isn't. Or are they just this stubborn? Do they really think that throwing endless expeditions at us will result in anything but more missing boats and people, led to join the ever increasing prisoners in our cells?
I can hear the crackle of radio. The low pretending of panicked voices. I don't know who's doing it this time, but I don't think I care. I've stopped asking, stopped taking any notice. We've done this shtick so many times it's almost gotten old. Almost. But... This time it feels almost different. It's because of you. I know that. This time it feels personal- and maybe it should have been personal from the beginning- They hate us. I know that. But this is the only time my hands have been shaking from barely contained rage.
The ships draw in closer and closer, into the cove, and I can feel the buzz in the air before I see it- almost like excitement. Out in the bay, lightning strikes the sea and sends the air rushing over us, the brilliant yellow light overtaking all of my senses. The men aboard the ship shout in alarm and submit themselves to the sea over the possibility of incineration, of whatever the creature out there has planned for them. I've seen this play out an impossible number of times, but I still can't believe that's Armin, up there, sad eyes burning into me across the churning foam of the sea.
I adjust the weapon in my hands. The men slowly wade, waterlogged and fear stricken, onto the rocky shore. And then they see us. Dozens of us devils, used to this trickery, this hatred, used to our enemies, dull eyed and armed. This time, though, I feel an odd sense of burning satisfaction, for your sake.
Welcome to the island of devils, assholes.
.
I eat, sleep, throw myself into work, into training. Time passes impossibly slowly, like wading through mud, the rain weighing down my limbs. They say that it heals all wounds, time. You know. Eventually, I guess, but it leaves behind scars. I don't buy any of that shit. It's suddenly as angry, and raw, and open as it was those three years ago. I try to feign normalcy. I really, really do. But it becomes an impossible task. An impossible task for an impossible situation. Questions about you and how you're doing result in murmurs and half assed responses until people finally learn to stop asking. The world is caving in on me, and I feel like I'm sinking, feel like I'm ripping apart.
Connie and Sasha try their best. They really do. Outside of work hours they stick to me like glue, but it doesnt do much to change the fact that I can't bring myself to eat in the mornings and stare at the ceiling until late at night because I'm afraid of the images that sleep will bring. Punching bags and cold showers, swords and guns.
The days fall steadily into a vague blur, bleeding into one another, save for those fleeting moments I see you- those stick out. Those feel distinct. Even if you never see me, no matter how much I want you to. I don't know if I can stand that much longer. I don't know what to do with myself anymore. I feel angry at everyone, angry at Armin, angry at Sasha and Connie, angry at myself for not being able to do anything but sit and watch and wait and wonder why there's such an emptiness in me when I think of you.
I feel useless, empty, chasing something. Chasing you. I call out to you in my dreams and wake up with your name on my lips, but you never seem to hear me, and my arms are left with a lingering, impossible emptiness I haven't felt in so long.
Look at me, Marco. See me. Hear me. Please.
.
I am allowed to see you. it has been almost two months. Around fifty days since you first arrived here, since you screamed in my face, since you pressed frantic hands against my throat and blew my life apart, since you attacked me. The meeting is somewhat supervised- guards are up and down the corridor, and of course, it is through bars. But the guards are not within earshot, if we're reasonably quiet. For all intents and purposes, though, we are alone.
I pull up a chair in front of the bars of your supposedly temporary cell, slowly. No sudden movements. No surprises. You are sat on a small chair, half hidden away in the shadows, like they will protect you from me and whatever you think I plan to do, protecting you from your unseen enemies. You're staring at me, and it feels like you're peeling back the layers of my soul, staring into the depths of me. You did that a lot, I think, but now it's a lot less gentle, a lot less kind. It's clinical and cold, with something else, something darker bubbling under the surface. I glance around the cell- Are you comfortable in there? Is this the sort of place you're used to, now? Is this what the Marleyans gave you, too?
I hold something out to you through the bars. Am I too close? Maybe. I don't know if I care. Some part of me wants you to reach out and yell at me for not coming to see you sooner.
You stare at it hesitantly, like I'm offering you some kind of poison.
"Go on. Take it. It's for you."
You hesitate as you move your hands. But you go for it anyway, taking the dark blue tome from my outstretched hand. I watch the emotions battle within your gaze- That fear mixed with curiosity, the desire to know more, to know me, to understand what I'm doing here. You flick open the pages and flick to the printed title, scanning it carefully over and over again so you can be sure.
"I bought it for you before you... Disappeared."
You look at me almost accusingly, as if daring me to speak. "Why?"
It's such an oddly funny question that I almost laugh. But I choke it down as best as I can and fidget nervously in my chair, searching for an answer that sums it all up, but it takes words I don't have.
"You were important to me." Is what I settle on instead. I hope that it's enough.
You squint suspiciously at me in the dark, and set the book down next to a few others on the bed- gifts from me I've given to you through Armin. I wanted to give you this one in person.
"Armin says you're my friend." You say suddenly, gaze locked on me in the darkness. The scene scares me a little. Almost, anyway.
"I am your friend." My voice is uneasy, almost pleading. I lean back in my chair and try to appear as casual as possible, trying to save my pride. You watch me as I do, eyes filled with a kind of caution, still expecting some sort of outburst, some sort of attack, like the one that's surely in your memories. I look at your hands instead of your face- dirt is caked under your fingernails and something that looks suspiciously like blood. I try not to think about it.
You don't respond. Instead, you just continue to stare.
"Do you... remember me at all?" I lean a little closer to the bars in the chair. I know I'm too close, but I don't want to be too far apart from you. It feels unnatural and uncomfortable.
I think you're going to say nothing at all, but ever so slowly, you nod, barely even daring to blink.
"Not... Not good memories, huh?"
You don't say anything in response to that either. I lean back in my chair again, heart pounding, but I try to hide those nerves- Push away the urge to squirm, to fidget, ignore the excess energy. I have to keep you calm or this conversation is going to wind up going nowhere.
"Why are you here?" You ask. But it's less of a question and more of a demand. Pleading for an answer, an explanation- What would make sense inside of your head?
"I wanted to see you." It seems too simple.
Your eyes narrow. Do you believe me, Marco? Do you understand? Are you in there? "I tried to strangle you."
"I know."
"It's been over a month." Though you don't look entirely sure about that. There's not exactly a calendar in here, after all.
"I-" I swallow, hard, and will myself to find the words, resisting the urge to begin bouncing my leg up and down. I can't show my fear, my anxieties- it might set you off and that's the last thing both of us need right now. This might be the hardest part. "I know. I was..." What are the right words? I was a coward? Scared? Confused? There's nothing that quite captures it. All the words I know feel so limited all of a sudden. Not enough. "I was being... I was nervous. I should have come sooner. I know. I'm sorry. I didn't want to make things any worse than they already were."
"How would you make it worse?"
The air is so thin down here. Not to mention cold. I tell myself thats why I wrap my coat tighter around my shoulders. Not because I desperately need something to hold onto right now.
I want to hold you, I think. I've never been a particularly affectionate person. But I want to reach through the bars and bring you back to me. Like a hug could ever bring you back from the place your buried, impossibly deep within your own body. Can you see me, in there? Is that really you, looking back at me? Do you remember me for me, somewhere? Or is there an imposter in there looking to take all of that away forever?
"I dunno, you uh... seemed pretty upset with me." Your hands on my throat. The burn of your nails sinking into my flesh and leaving behind angry, bloody trails.
"Oh." Your gaze lands on the floor, almost ashamed. Are you?
You look at me suspiciously through the bars again, then shuffle uncomfortably in your space on the chair. Silence is beginning to take up the majority of this conversation, isn't it?
"Jean." You say. You say my name the same way you always did. It hurts. Your eyes flicker to mine- at least the eye I can see, does. Is the other one totally missing, or is there a blind, unseeing pupil in there somewhere? "That's you, isn't it?"
"Yes." My voice is warm with affection, with relief. "That's me. I'm Jean."
You flinch, almost, and it makes my body go numb. God only knows what you must think of me now- What did they put inside of your head? What am I to you?
"Armin talks about you a lot." You pause, breathe, continue. "He says that we were really close."
"I'd like to think we were." You stop after I speak. Stare a little longer, almost seeming to take in the details of my face. Searching me for a sign. Any sign that I will become the monster you seem to think that I am. "You saved my life, once. "I find myself saying. Is it a good idea to make you wade through memories? Probably not. But I can't help myself. I'm pleading, almost, begging. Remember me. Remember what you did for me.
"I... I did?" Your hand nearest the bed grasps the sheets, twists it under your thumb. The thought makes you go quiet, and I watch as you sit there and breathe, shake and tremble, wondering silently if I have made some sort of mistake, as you stave off that rising panic, the urge to turn to fear. Your gaze goes glossy, and I am reminded of you in my dreams. It is like I'm suddenly not even here. When you speak, it is not to me, but I answer anyway. "Why would I do that?"
"Because you were-" I trail off, stop myself, before I say 'my friend' because that's not quite right. You would have saved anyone, wouldn't you? Even if you had never spoken to them before, never seen them, Never would see them again. "Because you were kind. You always thought about other people first. There were these times-" I let an odd bubble of laughter escape me at the memory, and it endears you to me. I watch that guard lower, watch your back straighten. "When I- I told you that it would be good to be selfish for once. And you knocked me on the head and lectured me for it. Told me it was important to think of other people."
"I did?"
I try to hide my goofy smile. We were just kids, weren't we? "Yeah. You really raked me over the coals for that one. And then I told you that you sounded like my mother so you told me to be nicer to her too."
You blink at me and worry your lower lip frantically between your teeth. I think it might be bleeding.
"That doesn't sound very... Friendly of me." Your voice takes on a suspicious tone.
"Oh- Uh, no. Don't feel bad about it. I definitely deserved it." I laugh. I might imagine it, but I think I see your mouth quirk up at the corners. Just for a second. "I was... A bit of an asshole when I was younger. You weren't afraid to tell me when you were tired of my shit, and I had a lot of shit. I respected you a lot for that."
You look doubtful, like you don't believe me, and my thoughts stray to what must be going on inside of your head. Are your family members the same? Are they still happy ones? Did they mess with those two, or just the ones with me? Just to prove they could?
"It... Doesn't feel right." You say, looking intensely at the ground.
"What doesn't feel right?"
"Any of this." You glance over at the book, trace your hand over the leatherbound cover. "Why would you give me this if you hated me so much?"
"Marco, I-" I shake my head and lean closer to the bars. This time, you don't move. "I have never hated you. Your eye bores into mine, darting to and fro, not sure which part of my face to look at. I don't know if I should look away or defiantly hold your gaze.
"You... You don't?"
"No." I suddenly feel determined. Like there's a breakthrough waiting for me here. "You can trust me. I promise."
You stiffen- You don't believe me, do you? Some part of me breaks knowing all of that. I watch you stare at your hands for what feels like an eternity, at your bloodied nails and knuckles.
"Then... is it real, what they said to me? Is my father dead? Is that real or not real?" Your eyes search, pleading, fingers grasping one another until your knuckles grow white.
I breathe out until my lungs burn from the effort. "Real."
"...Oh." You murmur, seemingly hoping that those thoughts had been a part of the delusion, too. You look a bit taken aback by it, even.
"I'm sorry." I lean forward in my chair, hands clasped between my thighs.
I watch you drift, then, in and out of lucidity, out of the swarming mess of your thoughts. I wonder what you're thinking right now, what you're remembering- What childhood memories, untouched or altered, are you remembering now?
Your gaze is still faraway. I try to change the subject, in some vague attempt to bring you back to me.
"I can get more, if you want them." I smile.
"More of these?" You look over at the books. You're going to have a small library in here by the time I'm done.
"Yeah."
"I think... I think I would..." You swallow nervously, but begin to nod. You don't smile back. "You... Really don't mind?"
"Of course." I manage a half smile. "We were good friends after all."
"We were... Friends?"
"Yes." I nod. "Like Armin said, remember? Friends." Your gaze is blank for a few moments, and you stare straight ahead, before gaining a suddenly determined look. I'm not sure if you actually know what I'm talking about here.
"Are we friends now?" You innocently ask. The expression of confusion on your face makes me wince a little. I'll pick up the pieces of myself tomorrow.
"Yes. Of course." I contemplate reaching forward through the bars, reaching for your hand, feeling the callouses of long gone military days under my fingertips, but one look at your expression makes me think that would be a pretty bad idea. "I am your friend, Marco."
"...Right." You say, slowly, testing the words in your mouth. I don't know how I feel right now. Like I'm falling, maybe, or sinking into deep, cold water. "Jean is my friend."
You don't say that to me, I don't think.
I wonder what my name means to you.