Work Text:
Eren blinks. Several times. He rubs his eyes, just in case tiredness is messing with his vision. But the evidence remains the same. He plucks two of the photographs off the coffee table and brings them closer, squinting.
“Hey, Eren.”
He startles so hard, he tosses the photos into the air. One almost smacks Armin in the face. He dodges, and they stare at it as it drifts to the floor, then at each other. “Shit, sorry. When did you get in?”
Armin sighs. “It’s not like I tiptoed.”
“You have quiet steps.”
“The windows are open, so the door slammed behind me—and I dropped my books.”
Well, he can’t justify missing that. “Sorry, Armin. I was … distracted.”
“I noticed.” He bends down and sets his books on the table beside Eren’s erratic collage of photographs. “Are these part of your project?”
Eren stands. And winces. Everything aches. Maybe he shouldn’t have sat hunched over his work for so long. What time is it? “Yeah.” He stretches protesting muscles before retrieving the rogue photos. One was taken in the park near the city center, the other outside a cafe, capturing the patio seating.
The project explores the balance between social pressures and behaviours in the natural world versus man-made environments. The photographs are mere snapshots of the citizens going about their days, unaware of the lens trained on them. The idea struck Eren a few weeks ago while waiting for his quadruple shot, extra foam, extra hot caramel hazelnut latte. He leaned against the counter of the bustling coffee station and watched the people shuffling in and out of the cafe’s doors.
In the span of thirty seconds, a businessman snapping into his bluetooth earpiece, a mother struggling to wrangle her three children, and a pack of five teenagers stepped inside. The man’s hair was nothing short of a mess, as though he’d run his fingers through it again and again in fits of stress; the mother’s bottom lip trembled and her lashes were lined with tears, yet she held her shoulders high and spoke in a clear, controlled tone while placing her order; and the teens seemed oblivious to the sixth youth trailing in behind them, head ducked low and practically hugging himself, as if praying to be swallowed by the tiled floor than be noticed by the others.
What were their lives outside of the cafe like? Was the call about business or marital problems? The businessman had a tan line around his ring finger where a band used to be. Was the mother all alone raising those three rambunctious brats or was it just a bad day? And that boy, not much younger than Eren, was he timid by nature or had he been bullied into silence?
Those thoughts nibbled at Eren’s mind as he walked down the street a minute later, latte in hand, and strolled into the park a few blocks away, where everything was a stark contrast to the chaos of the rumbling city just outside its borders.
He raced back to the dorm, drink forgotten despite still being clutched in his right palm, to snatch his camera and hop back onto the tram. The pictures in hand now were the first of his collection and the catalysts for his project.
Eren never finished his latte. He forgot it at the dorm and had to dump 12 euros worth of steamed milk, espresso, and syrup down the drain when he eventually stumbled back through the door hours later.
Armin picks up one of the photos on the coffee table and reads the chicken scratch that is Eren’s handwriting on the back.
Fleeting Freedom: Life Amidst Shiganshina’s Boundaries.
“Do you have everything you need?”
“... Yes.”
“But?”
Leave it to Armin to hear what rests behind the lone word. Eren sighs and plops down beside him on the couch. “I have all the pictures, yeah. But … I’m considering changing my premise.”
“Now?” Armin stares at him as if he’s insane. And maybe he is. After all, what reasonable person would have a completed project literally laid out in front of them, only to change their mind and scrap the whole thing?
Eren huffs. “Yeah, I know. But hear me out before you judge, okay?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said plenty.” Armin opens his mouth, but no objection escapes. Instead, he snaps his jaw shut and hums, his head tilted and a shoulder shrugged, unable to deny how expressive he can be without words. “But look,” Eren presses on. He’s nearly bursting with excitement now that he has a captive audience for his racing thoughts. He practically shoves the two photos in his hands into Armin’s face. “Look!”
Armin tries to lean back, but Eren follows the movement, forcing his friend to grab his wrists and push to ease him away enough to actually see the pictures. Or, at least, that’s what Eren assumes by the way Armin squints at them until they’re no longer pressed against his nose. “It’s the park. And a cafe.”
“Yes. And?”
“And … people?”
“And?! ” When Armin shoots him an exasperated glance, Eren returns one of his own that screams ‘Really?’ Armin is the smartest person he knows. He’s ridiculously observant, often noticing details in everyday situations most people would never consider. There’s no way he won’t spot what Eren has if he just looks at the damn photos!
Armin sighs and plucks the pictures from Eren’s fingers to study them. Eren sits in silence, his left leg bouncing as Armin’s expression shifts from a soft frown to curiosity paired with parted lips and a raised brow. He tilts his head, eyes moving between the photographs, and Eren bites the inside of his cheek until he can’t handle it anymore.
“Please tell me you see it?”
“You mean, him?”
“YES!”
“It’s probably just a coincidence, though, right? I mean, the park and cafe aren’t that far from each other.”
“Then explain this.” Eren gestures to the rest of the pictures still scattered across the table.
Him. The mysterious man who has, in some way or another, appeared in the background of every single shot for Eren’s project. No matter the location, the time of day; he’s always there.
At first, Eren thought it was nothing more than an oddity too. But after spending the last hour examining the photographs, it can’t be a fluke. Not unless they’re secretly stuck in some kind of matrix, but Eren has yet to willingly tumble down the government and corporate conspiracy hole. He just can’t get behind the idea of being locked behind walls like they’re some kind of vicious beasts. No, the real barriers are in their heads. Which is the thought that birthed the project. But now …
“Huh.”
“That’s it?” Armin blinks at him. “That’s all you have to say about my stalker?”
“It’s weird, yeah. But don’t you think you’re being a bit … dramatic? Not to downplay the seriousness of the possibility, but statistically, it’s estimated that only around six percent of male-presenting people are actually stalked, and most often, it’s by someone the victim knows.” He holds up a snapshot of the Shiganshina public library and points to the man in the background. “Do you know him?”
Eren grits his teeth. Yeah, okay. Maybe he is jumping to conclusions a little considering the guy has never approached Eren or even looked in his direction while being photographed. He’s always gazing off at something else, head partly turned to the side or a portion of his face obscured by a hat or the shadows of a tree or building. It’s why it took Eren so long to connect the dots. But Armin should know what he’s like by now. They’ve been friends for over half of their life. And Eren didn’t bring this mystery to light to be logicked at.
“... No. Not technically, but—” he emphasizes, “his face is kind of familiar.”
“You sure that isn’t just because you keep staring at these photos?”
Eren scoffs. “That’s not the point! This guy is the only consistent thing throughout every shot. And it got me thinking.”
Armin stares. The thick silence lingers. “... About?”
“Who he is. What his story is.”
“Okay, wait. You want to scrap your entire original project, which is basically already finished except for your thesis, to—”
“—study him.”
“—become the stalker?”
Eren growls and abandons the couch. Armin might as well have punched him in the face. “Never mind. Just—no, forget it.”
“Eren, wait. I—”
“I’m going to bed.” He snatches the collection of photographs from the coffee table. Eren’s so hasty, a few are half falling out of his hold, but he doesn’t adjust them as he storms into his room and slams the door. Only once he’s thumped back against the creaking wood does he take a breath and remind himself it’s not Armin’s fault. He just doesn’t understand. Not yet, anyway. But once Eren remasters his thesis and gets a few more shots of the guy …
He discards the mass of photos on his desk and drops face-first onto his unmade bed. With his eyes closed, he pushes out a slow, deep exhale until his lungs are empty, then rolls onto his back and stares up at the speckled ceiling. His gaze traces an invisible web from dot to dot as though he’s following the story of the stars in the night sky. A vision of the future only he bears witness to.
Yes, that’s the path he’ll take. Eren will unmask the mystery of that oddly familiar man. He’ll make Armin and everyone else see what he can. Then everything will become clear.
Where the fuck is his mystery man?
Eren’s been kneeling in the grass, staking out the park for two hours. He’s been trampled by a rogue dog chasing a frisbee, two kids playing tag circled him as though he were nothing more than a tree, and some woman gave him the stink eye for twenty minutes before scoffing and abandoning the bench. He half expected a police officer to interrogate him after receiving a false report about a predator. Thankfully, no cop has materialized. But neither has the man in his photographs.
Maybe Armin is right. Maybe it’s all just a weird coincidence, and Eren will never see the guy again. The city is large and bustling, after all, and there’s no evidence he was even from Shiganshina. The stranger could have been merely visiting for a few weeks and has perhaps returned to Trost or Stohess or Mitras.
Mitras. Definitely Mitras. He’s always too well dressed to be from somewhere as common as Trost or as lazy as Stohess. Where else would someone in today’s society wear a damn cravat than the capital city of Paradis?
Eren sighs in defeat. He’ll just have to tuck his tail between his legs and finish his thesis based on his original premise.
Lens cap in hand, he hesitates. One more photo. At least that way he won’t return to the dorm empty handed, and surely another shot of life in the park can’t hurt. Nodding to himself, Eren lifts his camera and peers through the viewfinder. He angles himself a little to the left to avoid the sun’s glare. There; perfect. He captures a moment of sweet romance between a young queer couple.
Eren blinks and glances down at the LED screen to study the picture. He knows those guys. They’re in his program. Bertholdt Vacuum and Reiner Fawn—or something like that. He lifts his gaze to sneak another look at them, but something just past them catches his attention.
No. Not something. Someone.
Eren jolts to his feet, but from one blink to the next, the guy’s gone. Was he even there to begin with, or is Eren going crazy? Frantic, he nearly drops his camera in his haste to access the gallery.
“Oh my God!”
There he is, clear as day. Eren’s mystery man.
He scans the park, head whipping left and right, but no luck. Somehow, the guy has again evaded him, the only evidence he exists lingering like a specter on Eren’s memory card.
“Dammit!” Eren kicks up a patch of soil. It flops into the grass several inches away with a dissatisfying muffled thwump. It’s tempting to toss his camera too, just to revel in the crack of plastic, but it would be fucking expensive to replace—and its his only lifeline to his elusive stranger.
He drags in a harsh breath through his nose and turns away, dismissing the pointed and puzzled expressions Bertholdt and Reiner shoot his way.
On the tram back to the dorms, Eren continues studying the picture, the tiny screen nearly pressed against his eyes in his desperation to take in every detail. The black fedora tilted to the right, casting his face in a partial shadow, the crisp white cravat, the black vest … Eren licks his drying lips.
Next time. Next time, he’ll be ready.
He was, in fact, not ready.
Eren shuffles down the hall to his dormitory, clothes dripping. It’s not raining; in his desperation to catch his mysterious stranger in the act, he stopped paying attention to anything outside the narrow lens of his viewfinder and tripped over the low barrier surrounding a fountain outside Shiganshina city hall. At least he managed to keep his camera from getting wet, but his dignity is sopping and bruised.
The soggy squelching of his soaked sneakers echoes through the hall as he steps up to their apartment and pushes their door open.
Wait, what?
Eren freezes just inside the entryway. Why was the dorm not only unlocked but also open? Sure, it wasn’t left ajar, just cracked. Most students probably wandered by entirely oblivious, too busy with their own problems to notice. But still.
“Armin?” Silence.
Tense, Eren quietly closes the door behind him and studies their living room, but nothing seems amiss. All their valuables remain as he remembers; TV on the stand against the wall, Armin’s Kindle on the coffee table beside his laptop. A quick inspection of the door handle shows no evidence of tampering, and Armin’s shoes aren’t on the rack. A forgotten piece of paper with his roommate’s unfairly elegant handwriting near the mat seals the deal. It wouldn’t be the first time Armin has rushed out in such a distracted flurry that he hasn’t ensured the door has completely closed before dashing to his internship.
An annoying habit he’s developed ever since Erwin Smith hired him.
Eren sighs and makes a mental note to talk with Armin about it later. He peels his sneakers and socks off, dropping them beside the shoe rack, and slops through the living room and into the bathroom to take a hot bath.
“Got’cha!” Eren bounds to his feet and beelines for his target.
He’s been stationed across the street from Shiganshina’s most prominent bank, firmly planted on a seat in the outdoor patio of the Sunrise Garrison Cafe. Eren ordered a single drink when he first arrived. Basic coffee—disgusting. It remains in front of him, cold and untouched. He can’t afford to distract himself with personal delights while on a mission. He only ordered it to keep the staff off his ass about loitering.
The perfect vantage point. He’s had a clear view of Wallcrest Trust for three hours. Now, though, as he desperately darts around and between the flood of people crossing from the other direction en route to get their caffeine fix, Eren cusses under his breath.
By the time he reaches the sidewalk, his subject is once again nowhere in sight.
“Fuck!” He kicks the side of the bank, then winces and hops on one foot while cradling the other. Patrons pass by him with confused and judgemental expressions, which he meets with glares and gritted teeth. As the pain eases, Eren hobbles back to the cafe patio to collect his backpack.
The tram ride to the dorms is uneventful, leaving nothing to distract him from his failure.
It’s not until he’s outside the apartment door, digging through his chaotically stuffed bag, that he curses his hyperfocus on his stranger.
Where the fuck are his keys?
Blessedly, Armin opens the door for him. He probably heard the rummaging. Or Eren’s doing that thing again where he breathes loud enough to wake a titan. Either way, he thanks Armin and strolls inside, dropping his backpack and shoes on the mat before flopping face-first onto the couch with a muffled “oof.”
A cool breeze tickles Eren’s cheek. He smiles, eyes closed, and sinks deeper into the comfort of his blankets and pillow, determined to cling to the dream still lingering but steadily fogging now that he’s conscious. A warm kiss, a murmur in his ear—Eren jerks up, eyes wide. The inky shadows of his room in the middle of the night blur and take the shape of figures that aren’t there.
Eren groans and rubs his eyes to ward off the prickling sting.
Why is the window open? Didn’t he close it before falling asleep?
He pushes the blankets aside and staves off a shiver, only to grimace when he steps on a crusty tissue that missed the waste basket after his most recent pathetic wank. Just a few hours ago. After he closed the window.
Eren snaps his head up. He darts to the wall and flicks on the light. Heart thundering, he scans his room through squinted, protesting eyes, but everything is as it should be. His bag is half spilled out over the desk in the corner. His phone rests on his nightstand. His keys are on the window sill.
He sighs. What is he even looking for?
Eren snatches the used tissue and throws it out properly, then closes the window again. Or for the first time? Maybe he’s mistaken. His brain is still mushy from the exhaustion weighing it down. Desperate to covet the lost warmth of his blankets, Eren returns to his bed and tucks himself in.
Perhaps if he’s quick enough at falling back to sleep, he can continue that amazing dream of his mystery man sneaking into his room to steal a kiss and whisper his name.
“Don’t you think you’re getting a little too … invested in all this?”
“Hm?”
Armin sighs. He closes his book and sets it on his lap. Eren invited him out to the park under the guise of spending time together—that sounds worse than it is. He is spending time with Armin. Eren has allowed his friend to babble on about some magical realm with dragons and a warrior princess or something like that. He’s hummed and nodded at all the appropriate moments, Eren is sure. Yeah, he hasn’t looked at Armin once since they settled under the huge oak tree near the west entrance, but eye contact isn’t necessary to enjoy each other’s company, right? How is this any different than them both lying on the sofa with their phones pressed to their faces? At least here, they’re out in the open air.
“Eren!”
“What?” His gaze snaps to Armin.
Another sigh. “Eren, you know I love you. But I have to be honest. This is getting a bit ridiculous.”
“It’s for my—”
“Project, I know. But …” Armin bites his lip. Eren hates when he does that. It’s a sign that he isn’t going to like the next words out of his best friend’s mouth. “This started because you were sure you were being stalked. And now you’re beyond just curious. You’re—”
“—thorough.”
“—obsessed.”
Eren sucks in a harsh breath through his nose. Not this again. “Respectfully,” he presses out between clenched teeth, “this is really none of your business.”
“Respectfully, it is. Look,” Armin reaches for his hands. Eren considers jerking back, but he holds still. Casual touch between them is usually a comfort, but right now, Armin’s warm fingers are like tiny hot coals against his skin. “You’re my best friend, my family.”
“So you think that means you know me better than I do?”
“What? No. I never said that. But this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten too invested in someone.”
“Oh, please.”
“Jean?”
Eren shakes his head. “I was never obsessed with horseface. He just pissed me off for far too long, so I wanted to taunt him in return.”
“For five years?”
“He started it!”
“What about that tech CEO you were convinced was your brother?”
“He reached out to me first! And it’s not a secret my dad dipped his pretzel in someone else’s chocolate sauce before he married my mom.”
“And Marco?”
Eren’s tongue turns to ash. He recoils and yanks his hands back. That’s a low fucking blow, especially for Armin. Is he seriously accusing him of being responsible for—no. No! Marco’s death was an accident. Eren didn’t make him rush into the intersection and right into on-coming traffic! He just wanted to return Marco’s wallet after he dropped it in his hurry to exit the cafe. And to help Marco carry his bag to class. And to walk with him to the university since Marco didn’t live in the dorms; Eren was just being a good friend by trekking all the way to his apartment to accompany him, equipped with Marco’s favourite breakfast, a London Fog and a toasted English muffin egg sandwich.
The hairs on the back of Eren’s neck tingle.
He tears his gaze from Armin’s pinched worry. All the anger drains from him as he meets a familiar steel grey eye peering at him from across the open expanse of the park. His stranger is still half cast in shadows from the trees, but he’s there. Staring. Even with so much distance between them, the cold intensity of his expression roots Eren in place, despite every muscle in his body being tense and coiled, ready to spring him forward at any moment.
Eren blinks, and his mystery man remains.
The lack of a disappearing act frees him from his paralysis. He darts to his feet—a hand clamps around his arm. “Eren!”
He looks down at Armin. His best friend’s eyes are wide, his already pale complexion drained of more colour than usual. But it’s the tears welling along Armin’s lashes that stop Eren from ripping back again and storming after the stranger.
“Please, Eren. This isn’t right. This isn’t healthy. And I’m scared for you.”
Eren sucks in a breath and glances across the park, but the fire that sparked in his chest only seconds ago leaves frigid ash in its wake; the guy is gone, and Armin is crying.
He drops to his knees and pulls Armin against his chest. The poor kid trembles as silent tears stain his cheeks. Armin’s not like him. When Eren breaks, he becomes a mess of snot and saliva and sobs so hard, his bones rattle and his throat burns, but the only sound between them besides the whistle of the wind is soft sniffling. Eren’s fingers itch for his camera. It lays abandoned next to them. But without his mystery man, there’s no point. To fight the urge, he combs through Armin’s hair.
Has it gotten longer recently?
Armin doesn’t make him promise anything. He doesn’t give Eren an ultimatum. He’s too kind for his own good, and this isn’t an intervention, but his message is clear regardless. And as he works his fingers through tangles in Armin’s hair, Eren struggles to recall how much time has passed while he’s been chasing his ghost.
The idea of abandoning the project, of never catching his stranger, makes Eren’s gut clench, but the flashes of crimson-stained pavement and the phantom screeching tires stirred to life by Armin’s worries prove something needs to change before someone gets hurt again.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs as the shaking eases. “You’re right; we’re family. I love you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Rehab is for people with problems.
Eren doesn’t have a problem.
That’s what he keeps telling himself every time he leaves his room without his camera strung around his neck. He constantly rubs where it used to hang, the absence of its weight only slightly sated from the pressure of his palm.
But he doesn’t have a problem.
That’s what he reminds himself every time he wakes in the middle of the night, skin prickling and the phantom whisper of his name dancing in his ears. There must be something wrong with the locks on his window. He keeps having to close it a second time—despite being positive he sealed it before falling asleep—before tumbling back into bed, chasing the foggy remnants of dreams of his mysterious stranger.
But he doesn’t have a problem.
That’s what he repeats like a prayer every time he leaves the dorm to run errands or get a coffee or pop down the block to the university, and he has to force himself to avoid scanning the horizon for a half-shadowed figure. Some days, goosebumps invade his arms, and the only thing that stops him from seeking the very gaze he’s sure is trailing him is the thick rubber band around his wrist. A single sharp snap against his skin, and he takes off, darting into the closest store or classroom for a distraction. The number of lectures he’s accidentally sat in and yet absorbed nothing from is a secret he’ll take to his grave.
But he doesn’t have a problem.
A few times, Eren’s bumped into someone on the tram or while walking down the busy streets of Shiganshina who looks disturbingly akin to his mystery man, but a blink is all it takes for him to vanish into the crowd. If he was even there to begin with.
Armin’s relaxed since that day in the park. Eren attributes some of it to his active efforts to refocus on his friendships and school work and some of it to whoever is railing Armin’s brains out on a regular basis. He hasn’t talked about it, but Eren’s not blind. At least not now that his world isn’t constantly filtered through the narrow frame of his viewfinder. There’s often a soft pink tint to Armin’s cheeks when he checks his texts, and Eren can spot that particular limp from miles away, despite his roommate trying to hide it.
Eren’s a little jealous, but the brightness in Armin’s eyes whenever he leaves for his internship … No. He deserves some happiness. Even if he might be screwing his boss. Actually, especially if he is.
Besides, he’s living vicariously through their less than subtle phone calls when Armin doesn’t realize Eren is home.
Eren glances both ways before crossing the street while the light is still red. A few cars honk as he bobs and weaves through the steady stream of traffic, but he flips the drivers off as he zips to the sidewalk and strolls toward the university.
Today’s the day.
Today, he hands in his project.
After Armin’s fearful plea for him to see reason, Eren couldn’t bring himself to abandon his new premise entirely, but what it’s become is a shadow of his former vision. It lacks character, appeal. It’s less a study of the people he’s photographed and more a study of the people who observe his pictures. It’s a copout, and every time Eren thinks about it, it’s like he’s swallowed sand. But he’s out of time and has to hand in something, and Armin was right about one thing: it would be a shame for his work to go to waste.
He hasn’t been able to look at the photos since that day in the park. What if it’s like giving a recovering alcoholic a drink? Wait, no! He. Doesn’t. Have. A. Problem. No, the reason he hasn’t looked at them is because he doesn’t need to. Not after all the hours he’s poured into inspecting them so thoroughly before all the madness started.
Armin’s words, not his. But what else can he call it without setting off his roommate’s concerns again?
Eren presses the folder containing his project against his chest, defeat and a lack of purpose weighing him down like an anchor as he trudges up the university stairs and hauls the door open. His sneakers squeak with each step, half dragged over the polished tiles.
A handful of students wander the halls on their way to lectures or the library. The cafeteria, maybe. The janitor stands off to the side, a rolling bucket at his feet and a mop in hand. His stone-blue cap matches his coveralls and hides most of his face as he drags the mop across the floor. Eren barely glances at him as he draws near. He’s never given much consideration to the silent staff, but his brain is determined to find a reason, any reason, to not reach his professor’s office. To not hand in a subpar project stripped of passion that he only defaulted to out of necessity and to quell Armin’s fears.
He nods at the janitor as he strides by—and whips his head back around.
A steel-grey gaze bores into his own as strong hands clamp around the front and back of Eren’s head. A damp cloth invades his nose and muffles his gasp. The mop clatters against the tiles. Eren struggles against the janitor’s hold, but citrus and freshly cut grass overwhelm his senses, and the world spins. His stranger looms over him, his face blurring into the ceiling.
Eren groans. His head pounds. But he can’t press a palm over the ache.
His arms are bound on either side of his head.
His eyes fly open, and Eren squints through the pain. No peeling paint or broken wood. No dust clings to the furniture or grime to the windows. The curtains are drawn, shutting out the harsh intensity of the sun, but they aren’t torn or fraying. There’s no doubt he’s been taken hostage. The handcuffs binding him to the headboard make that clear. But the silk sheets on the plush king mattress and the finely crafted antique dresser on the other side of the room are a stark contrast to the hideouts movies have trained him to expect.
Especially for a janitor.
No, not a janitor.
How did he never realize before? His stranger always seemed oddly familiar, but Eren assumed it was from staring at his face in the photographs for too long.
The door opens. Eren’s head snaps to the left, and he winces from the resulting throb.
“Don’t do that; it hurts.” Dry. Deadpanned. There’s no emotion in the guy’s tone as he sets a tray on the nightstand. It’s not his stranger—but Eren would recognize that voice anywhere. It’s poured out through Armin’s phone enough times.
“Thanks, Captive Obvious.”
“You are quite mouthy, aren’t you?”
“Did Armin tell you that, Mr. Smith? ”
Erwin smirks. He removes a lone cup and a small teapot from the tray and places them directly on the nightstand, ignoring Eren’s sharp tongue.
The door opens again, and Eren sucks in a breath. His heart thunders as his mystery man strolls toward the bed. A scar of silver lightning streaked down the right side of his face shimmers in the dim light filtered through the curtains. That explains the hats and shadows that became his trademark in the photographs. Eren tries to rise, to draw closer to him, but the handcuffs keep him fixed to the bed.
His stranger barely glances at him before he strides up to Erwin—and kisses him. “Thank you. Best not be late for your date.”
Erwin chuckles. “Don’t worry. Wandering hands are more than enough to earn his forgiveness.” A chill creeps through Eren. What the fuck is going on? He speaks as if Armin is nothing more than a toy for his amusement. They kiss again, and Erwin leaves the room.
Thick silence rings in Eren’s ears.
His lungs vibrate when he remembers to breathe, and the trickle of pouring tea drags Eren back to awareness. “So, what? Are you my jailer? Have you been following me just to get me out of the way so your whatever-the-fuck-you-two-are could creep on my best friend?”
The guy sets the teapot back on the nightstand and takes a sip before finally turning his gaze on Eren. His damaged eye is foggy, as if it’s been chemically burned. How did he get that scar? “You have quite the imagination, Jaeger. It’s no wonder you struggle to sleep at night.”
What?
The whispers.
Realization ripples through him. The open window. The dreams of his stranger climbing into his bedroom in the middle of the night to murmur his name and touch him—”Who are you?”
He takes another sip and settles in the chair beside the bed, a leg crossed over the other. “Armin is a happy accident, though one my husband is more than willing to indulge in on my behalf.” Husband?! “Unfortunately, I underestimated the power that boy holds over you, so we had no choice but to change our plans.”
“Who. Are. You?”
“One of the many red stains on the Jaeger family legacy.” He turns and grabs something from inside the drawer of the nightstand. A newspaper? He holds it out in one hand, the other pinched around the rim of his teacup. The article is from ten years ago, according to the date, but it’s the headline that catches Eren’s attention.
Zeke Kruger Takes Over Liberio Tech Inc. While Factory Victims Remain Comatose
Zeke … the man who reached out to him, who claimed to be Eren’s half-brother. The man who arranged to meet him, to explain everything in person, only to ghost him and turn up on the evening news after his secretary discovered his splattered remains decorating his office. Eren never received confirmation if they were actually related.
Victims.
“You worked at the Marley factory.” It’s not a question. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“Your family was fighting over ownership of the company. Grisha wanted to absorb it into Jaeger Spearhead to gain a chokehold on decentralized media, software, and devices, and Zeke wanted to repurpose the company to focus on military programs and surveillance. The week before your father visited the factory, the warehouse welcomed Zeke and a shipment of sealed containers. We were told to mind our own business and get back to work. Eight days later, the factory exploded while your father was touring the facility.”
Eren’s breathing is shallow and laboured. He remembers that day; the day his father never came home. The day Children’s Services collected him and he was put into the foster system. It’s where he met Armin. He never questioned the explosion. Why would he? He was a kid, and the authorities claimed it was some kind of gas leak.
He swallows the lump clogging his throat. “And?”
“Your brother killed your father. And left you to the system. And that’s all you have to say?”
“WHAT DOES ANY OF THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ME?!”
His stranger takes another sip of his tea, then sets the cup aside. He stands and leans over the bed. His face is so close, the sweet scent of rose hip tickles Eren’s nose. “Your family’s feud killed thousands of people. Including the only two I considered my kin. I didn’t even get to say goodbye; they died before I came out of the coma.”
“So, what? I’m your revenge? Please,” Eren hisses. “Zeke is already dead. Probably your handiwork. Unless your dear husband did that for you too. Isn’t that enough?” The handcuffs rattle against the intricately curled iron headboard. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already. You’ve had plenty of chances. It’s not my problem you decided to touch yourself while watching me sleep instead. So what do you want from me, huh?”
Something shifts in the guy’s clear grey eye. He smirks—and climbs into the bed, straddling Eren. His heart picks up again, a blend of fear and excitement he’s never known before pooling in his belly. “That,” his stranger almost purrs. “Your fire, your passion. That’s what I want.” He leans forward and brushes his fingers over Eren’s chest and down to his abs. The heat of his touch almost burns, despite the fabric between them. “As you said, I’ve already gotten my revenge. No, Eren Jaeger. You are my prize, my medal of honor for ridding the world of the horrors of your family’s legacy.”
Eren should be disgusted. Terrified. This son of a bitch is absolutely crazy. The explosion probably fucked him up beyond repair and deeper than the story etched across his face. He’s pinned to the bed by a murderer while his just as twisted husband is rearranging Armin’s guts with his cock. And yet, Eren’s own rises to the occasion. His dick strains against the weight of the body planted on top of it. Maybe it’s conditioning, perhaps from the late night visits. Or maybe it’s because he’s jerked off to Armin moaning “Daddy” too many times, so his body is excited by the mere association of this sicko. Regardless, he groans when the man on his lap rolls his hips.
And laughs.
“If you aren’t going to buy me dinner, at least tell me your fucking name first.”
That earns a quirked brow and a flicker of confusion. “... Levi.”
“Levi … Smith?”
“Ackerman.”
Somehow, finally having a name to match with the face he’s pined after for so long is a salve he didn’t know he needed. Eren closes his eyes and sighs, then peers at Levi through a half-lidded gaze. “Promise Erwin won’t hurt Armin, and you can use me to your heart’s content.”
Levi tenses. He sits back and stares, frowning. “What?”
Eren grins as all the pieces of the puzzle that’s been his scattered and confusing life click into place. Just as he set out to accomplish the night he decided to make Levi the subject of his project, everything becomes clear. Why he’s battled with Jean for years, despite complaining about the prick. Why an odd sense of relief washed through him when Zeke never showed up and the news report described the horror of his demise. Why he pursued Marco to his bitter end. Why, after Armin showed his love and devotion that day in the park, Eren folded so easily, even though he never stopped thinking about Levi.
And why, when Levi kept appearing in his photographs, instead of being scared, Eren chased the attention like an addict desperate for the next high.
Beside the bed, phantoms of his childhood flicker. Grisha, at his desk, always too busy scribbling notes and shuffling papers to play or to cuddle. When Eren would get too clingy, pulling at his father’s arm, begging for even five minutes of his time, a prick in his neck landed him in dreamland where monsters and nightmares tormented him.
Shades of the Children’s Services agents pour through the open bedroom door. A woman kneels in front of little Eren. She murmurs, “It’ll be okay. Don’t cry.” But he doesn’t—didn’t. He never shed tears for his father. As the agent takes his hand and guides him to the door, little Eren looks around. Searching. For the one person who has always been there for him; the pizza delivery man.
“Eren?”
He turns his head and stares at Levi. The wisps of the past vanish. Genuine concern dances in Levi’s clear eye; the irony. But that whisper, his name murmured like a prayer, like he’s the only thing Levi desires, the only person who can hold what remains of his broken soul together … the last Jaeger used as an antidote for the poison creeping through his veins.
His stranger. His saviour.
“Promise, and I’m yours. Forever.”
Levi squints. His gaze shifts to the handcuffs around Eren’s wrists as if checking they haven’t magically unlocked. “Why?”
Eren smiles again. “You aren’t the only man Grisha ruined.”