Chapter Text
Since when did this become her job? Cold air gnaws at her cheeks like a persistent little mouse, trying to pull them into either a smile or a grimace, she doesn’t know which. Every step builds a ball of annoyance in her throat and by now there must be a dozen such, what with the way her airways feel tight.
But somehow… somehow—
“We’re going too fast,” Levi deadpans as she nearly hurtles them down the street. “I have no intention of joining any winter sport here.”
“Sorry,” Annie mutters through gritted teeth, pulling back firmly on the handlebars of the wheelchair and opting for a much slower pace. “I didn’t…”
“Though I guess if there was a wheelchair race, I could enter,” He adds darkly. “Might even win.”
She runs her tongue along the back of her teeth, pondering what to say. It’s confusing and bewildering at best, this… this conversation.
Finally, she comes up with: “There isn’t a wheelchair race.”
Wait. Was that too sharp?
Ugh, Annie narrows her eyes at the black sky. This is so mentally exhausting. Poor sleep and racing thoughts don’t help either — how do you talk with someone you’ve only tried to kill before?
Levi sighs, the fraying edges of his scarf blowing backward, brushing the pocket flaps of her coat. “Hell. You’re gloomier than Mikasa, huh?”
She just stares at the back of his head like it’s sprouted another one.
What does he want her to do? Crack a joke?
The dark morning is like any other, still quiet, still asleep, still lit by the orange-hued street lamps casting a glowing halo over them every time they pass underneath. The scent of fruit syrup and incense is high in the air, sticking around even after the long hours of the night. Perhaps old villages like these are like old people, with their signature smells that never go away. Festive lanterns glow dimly, waiting to have their wicks and oils replaced once the people wake. Last night, the fanfare had been loud and noisy with drumbeats and folksongs reverberating down the hillside. She'd listened from the solitude of her windowsill, plagued by a throbbing headache which had nothing to do with the celebrations themselves.
Just too many thoughts, fighting each other as the clock ticked past ten, eleven, midnight, three and five.
It would be nice if someone could just tell her what to do.
Pick this, not that. Choose this, not that. Go this way, not that.
Just do this, not that.
“Wet patch.”
She swerves.
The water-well to her right is deserted, but the many smudged footprints melting and fading into each other remains evidence of last night’s tug of war game. She came to watch with Pieck and stayed for a while, munching on a hot snack from a festival food-stall. Two teams of boys and girls, leaning back and pulling with all their might — if the tasselled knot of the rope slipped past the water-well, victory would be had for one of the two sides. Instead of cheering for a team as Pieck had taken to doing, Annie had studied their weaknesses.
Weak legs on this guy. Poor posture on that girl. An opening there, for a split second. A terrible grip for this guy. No focus for that other girl.
It was easy enough. She knew which team would win before they even did.
The same couldn’t be said for the similar tug of war going on inside her head though.
Go back home! It’s only right!
What? Why would you? You’re so comfortable right here!
“Now we’re really racing.”
Annie winces at Levi’s flat tone of voice and slows down, forcing herself to pay more attention to their surroundings and the present moment.
Here she is, once again, heading down-street with a niggling sense of dread about their destination even if Levi hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to return to the waterfalls with him anymore – it’s her and Aoife’s secret. Their secluded training ground. Open to nobody, not even another friendly face, much less the man in the wheelchair she’s pushing.
But somehow… she doesn’t stop, finding herself unable to.
It’s all rather unpleasant and inconvenient, having her secrets looked into like this.
Still, she can’t say she’d hated it when she’d climbed down to the kitchen and found Levi there, waiting for her in the dark silence. Three words was all he’d spoken to her in the form of ‘Well? Let’s go’ and she’d followed the soft rattle of his wheels to the foyer where she pulled on her boots while passing him his. No hostility in that lone, good eye, when she held out a scarf he pointed at. No judgement still, when they stepped out into the freezing morning air.
No nothing.
That for some reason, he found her reliable enough to trust her with his wheelchair on a slippery slope befuddles Annie more than she'd like to admit. And frankly, it scares her, what it could possibly mean.
But sometimes all it takes to quieten a hundred questions is the sight of a familiar shape in the distance.
“Good morning, Miss Leonhardt,” Oliver greets warmly from the bench before his storefront, wrapped up in a sweater too thick. Nearly a third of his face is invisible thanks to the woolen muffler and cap covering his head, but even like this, she can see the pinkness of the cold splotching his ageing, wrinkled skin.
“Good morning,” Annie returns solemnly, chewing on her lip. She can’t afford to stop by for his tea this morning, tasked with a job and all.
“Your friend?” Levi questions.
“... Just someone I know.” She responds vaguely.
“Ah you’ve brought company today!” Oliver beams as they get closer, adjusting his pince-nez to get a better look at Levi. “Though I don’t think I’ve seen this young man before…”
“I’m thirty–seven,” Levi points out when they come to a stop, eyeing the brass spout and cup sitting on the bench. “Is that tea?”
Oliver’s toothy smile has never been wider. “Why yes, it is. Would you like a cup? I have plenty.”
“It looks hot.”
“It is hot,” Oliver agrees, already picking up his brass teapot. “Come, come, sit with me, I’ll pour you some,” Setting down his cup he looks around him, slightly puzzled. “Oh dear, I’ll have to bring another cup from the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable, you two—” With a slight groan, he stands. “I won’t be a minute.”
“There’s one right there,” Levi says, indicating the second ceramic teacup, upside-down and unused next to the teapot. Annie recognizes the fading pastel patterns – how many times has she drunk from it?
But Oliver’s already halfway to the door of his house. “Yes, yes, but that’s Miss Leonhardt’s cup. I’ll get you another one.”
Her cup.
So much for ‘just someone I know’, but Levi doesn’t probe. Instead, he motions for her to help him out of the wheelchair and she does just that, sticking a hand under his arm for a steady hold. By the time Oliver reappears, his slow gait through the snow quiet and soundless, Levi’s seated on the bench, Annie next to him, and the wheelchair parked by a tree, a rock under its wheels.
“I have to admit, I’m quite thrilled,” Oliver is all smiles as he pours piping hot tea into three cups, handing them out before sitting down beside Levi. “It was just as I had accepted drinking tea alone that Miss Leonhardt came along. I’m very used to her company now, but it seems like I will have another!”
“No,” Levi says rather flatly as he studies the tea. “I don’t plan on staying in Kald too long.”
Annie pauses before drinking. That’s news to her. Does Armin know?
“Oh, I see.” Oliver chuckles. “In that case I’ll be glad to have you as long as you’re here.”
“Mh—” Levi winces sharply after his first sip, frowning at his cup. “What tea is this?”
“Dry ginger,” Oliver replies pleasantly. “Very good for your health, isn’t that right Miss Leonhardt?”
Annie says nothing, taking to sipping the pungent concoction bit by bit. She can’t say she really likes the taste even after all this time—just that she’s used to it now.
“It’s strong,” Levi licks his lips. “Haven’t tasted anything like it.”
“It’s a local mix. If you’d like, I can give you a few jars to take with you when you leave.”
“Hm… I’ll think about it.”
“Wonderful. Now please,” Oliver leans forward expectantly, a friendly light in his wizened eyes. “Won’t you tell me all about yourself?”
And so Levi does, with a shocking level of ease. Annie listens to him talk about his life, starting with the military. It’s all new to her. His narration is filled with a litany of curses but Oliver only seems to find it entertaining, the way he chuckles in between hanging on to every word. Year 840. Year 843. She remembers that one, her inheritance of the Female Titan. Year 845, when she arrived, but Levi doesn’t say that—only that the walls were broken by invaders.
Oliver would benefit from knowing it was she who destroyed the peace on Paradis.
But Levi doesn’t say that.
Everything that followed, he describes in the shortest possible manner. That it was annoying, that it was violent, that it was chaos. He doesn’t say how many died as the years passed, but the solemn look in Oliver’s eyes doesn't need a number. He talks of his squad, that they were talented but killed in action.
It was she who killed them; his talented soldiers. She who sits right next to him, she who’s shared tea with the old man for countless mornings gone by.
But Levi doesn’t say that.
Instead he talks in a manner so at odds with his monotone voice, and by the end, Annie loses count of the number of times Oliver refills his cup. A retelling of everything she knows and doesn’t, of the way things changed, of the way the Scouts changed, along with their purpose. Levi doesn’t dive into detail, nor exaggerate, and the most he provides when Oliver interjects is a single-world explanation, but the story of their past unfolds in front of an ordinary man of a distant village, with clinical, if foul-mouthed, precision.
Strange. She’s never seen him this chatty before.
“... and that’s how you landed on the wheelchair,” The old man sighs remorsefully, adjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Levi. Just Levi.”
“Well, then, Levi,” He smiles, his cup of tea empty and sitting between his knees. “You’ve led a brave, valiant life.”
Levi grunts, looking off into the distance. The sky is still pitch-dark. “I’m not dying.”
Oliver erupts in a guffaw. “Oh no, of course not! I only wanted to say… thank you.”
“What in hell for?”
“For doing all that you did, despite the setbacks you faced. For keeping on going through the regrets,” Old eyes magnified through the lenses are warm and friendly. “I’m certain it wasn’t easy.”
Levi shrugs it off with a tsk. “Not like we were left with any other choice.”
“Yes, but… it takes admirable faith to believe even when things are going wrong,” Oliver explains, adding, “I have no doubt you were a wonderful guide to the children.”
“Guide, huh…” Levi echoes. “It was my duty. I just did what I was told.”
“And injured your leg to protect them! No matter how I look at it, it’s a sacrifice.”
A silence falls and it stretches, somehow, serenely. Only the gentle calls of early morning birds and the shivering of bare branches pervades the quietness. Sunrise is still quite far away. For now, they only have the lamp-light washing them in a soft gold. Annie huddles into herself to find some warmth amidst the biting cold, pressing her legs together and hunching her shoulders before continuing to sip on her tea. The cup is almost empty.
After a long while, Oliver asks quietly, “Do you regret it?”
She expects an irritated response but it doesn’t come. Instead, in the corner of her eyes, Levi lowers his cup to his lap.
“Regret what?”
“Your legs. You can’t walk anymore.”
He straightens ever so slightly, and his ruined leg shifts. Annie can’t help but notice how it looks so wrong next to its good companion.
“No,” Levi says in that same monotone voice. “It’s better than what my comrades got. I try not to live with any regrets.”
“Oh, yes?” Oliver tilts his head wistfully. “No regrets, you say?”
“When you regret every choice you make, life becomes a pain in the ass.”
“I see,” The old man hums, casting his eyes to the snow-covered ground. He says nothing for a long moment. “Is it really possible to live like that?”
Both Levi and Annie turn their heads to look at him.
“Without any regrets at all. For example… I cannot,” Oliver smiles sadly. “There are so many things I wish I’d done differently. I cannot bring myself to let them go. Even if I were to, let’s say, choose to live without remorse… it will come back, you see? It will come back.”
“That’s not how it works,” Levi replies. “Of course it comes back. But everytime it does, we just need to remind ourselves why we did it in the first place.”
Oliver’s shoulders sag – in relief? Annie tries to understand.
“Do your regrets come back?”
“Yes.”
Oliver doesn’t push, but Levi’s lips part and his voice comes softer than usual. “The kids told me they made a memorial for Ha— my comrades, who didn’t survive,” His eyes are downcast. “It’s on a mountain. I want to go see it, but not like this.”
Levi doesn’t say much, but his hands curl in his lap. “Yes, I wish I could walk.”
Annie looks away.
Armin cannot know. Neither can the other boys. If they find out, it will be too much to bear. That after all, regret is not something even their beloved Captain is immune to and the crestfallen look on his face as he admits it. It occurs to her that she’s the only one to hear these words and the reason is simple: she’s an outsider, not a part of those he really cares for. He can afford to reveal such things in her presence. Perhaps he knows her just enough to trust she won’t babble—the only expectation he can have of her wretched self.
“And what do you remind yourself then?” Oliver asks, and a quiet exhale escapes Levi’s lips.
“That I was able to protect these kids.”
Annie gets a jolt.
These kids.
Including her.
“There’s no reason better than that,” Oliver concurs with a smile in his voice. Then he gives a start, noticing Annie’s empty cup, and urgently reaches for it. “My dear, why didn’t you tell me—here, let me pour you some more tea.”
As he does and the gurgle of pouring liquid pervades the air, suddenly two white streaks whiz past them. All three gape in astonishment at the bounding dog with fur as white as snow, tongue lolling out, flees in glee as the fat cat from the magnolia house chases after it. They’re only visible for a mere second before disappearing round the bend, but the spray of snow kicked up by the two shimmers in the streetlight before falling.
“Hahaha!” Oliver laughs heartily and Levi smiles. “Look at them go!”
It’s so warm.
To share a hot drink on the coldest of days, in the company of two men smelling of cedarwood and soap and wisdom and age. The ceramic of the cup, emitting heat to the very ends of her fingertips. Annie digs her boots into the fallen snow, watching it rise around her heels the harder she presses. The scarf around her neck tickles her ears.
Steam on her nose, lips hot, the night sky dark and dotted across.
An unknown chasm begins to fill with sweetness.
Pieck scoops her hair up and looks into the mirror, an eyebrow quirked in judgement.
Not bad.
She wouldn’t normally bother on an ordinary day, but with festival music tinkling through her windows, something about having her hair down just feels lazy. Besides, Ada from the dressmaker’s had promised her some beautiful hairpins. It would be a shame to get fitted for a new dress and not do anything special with her hair.
It’s not often she feels this energy either.
“Alright then, up you go!” She declares loudly, and fastens her hair into a ponytail using a spare ribbon. Close inspection would give away that it’s only the girdle from her nightgown, but who’s to see? It’s much prettier this way.
The many plants in her room bid her a soft rustling goodbye as Pieck pulls on her coat, loops her scarf, grabs the leather satchel, and leaves her room. Her spirits are high today; she’s sure the prospect of trying on some beautiful Kaldian embroidery is responsible for three quarters of it. As for the rest… she doesn’t really know.
On her way downstairs, she stops outside Connie’s room and knocks on his door.
“Connie,” She pokes her head in expectantly, only to find no sign of him whatsoever. Sweeping her eyes over the mess in his room, Pieck shrugs off the mild disappointment and continues on her way.
In the living room she finds Armin reading the newspaper, and he looks up when she enters.
“Armin,” She greets him. “The letters.”
“Oh right,” Putting down the newspaper, he reaches for a bundle next to him and holds it out. “I’m sorry to trouble you with it.”
“It’s fine, I’m heading that way anyway,” She inspects it, thumbing the edges where the twine loops into a knot. Eight envelopes exactly but it seems so much more. “So thick,” She chuckles. “Where’s mine?”
“Second to last,” He points out, smiling. “So Hitch and you have become friends now?”
Pieck swishes her lips to the side, humming. “Hmmm, I don’t know what she thinks of it, but if it were up to me, then yes, I suppose so. Though…she doesn’t write much, so maybe she doesn’t like me and thinks of it as a chore instead.”
Armin lets out a reassuring laugh. “I don't think so. I’ve never known Hitch to lift a finger unless she absolutely wanted to. If she’s writing back regularly, I’m quite certain it’s because she likes you. And—” He adds, tilting his head. “You’re very approachable, I can’t see any reason why you wouldn't be liked by people.”
Pieck grins, co*cking her head the other way, touched by his kindness. “You think so? I’m glad we’re on the same page then. I am likeable aren’t I?”
“You are, you are.” He agrees, laughing.
“I should get going,” She states, putting the letters inside her satchel. “But before that… are you alright? You’ve been looking rather glum lately.”
Armin appears startled, but tries to play it off like it’s nothing. “Hm? I’m fine.”
Liar. The tiredness around his eyes is not new; she’s learned that his unhealthy habit of reading late into the night will give him nothing less. It’s more the way his smile doesn’t light up his eyes and the lack of certainty in what he says. And how does she know?
Well, the way Annie’s behaving, of course. But she’d tried and not gotten anything out of her.
Pieck softens her tone. “Are you worried about the trade deal with Dane?”
That gets him to release a nervous chuckle. “A—ah… well… not really, um…”
“You shouldn’t, like I said before. I highly doubt it’s anything you said or did, Armin. There are a hundred factors playing into such decisions, the Chancellor said it himself.” Reaching out, she pats his arm. “Breathe. Okay?”
Armin gives her a grateful smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Pieck.”
She brightens with encouragement. “I have a good idea. Come with me.. A walk will do you some good,” Mimicking an energetic stride, she elbows him lightly. “Cheer you up, even.”
“I—um, I think I’ll pass, Pieck. Sorry,” He offers lamely. “I have to read the… newspaper, and all.”
She sighs, giving up. “Sure. But if you change your mind, come to the dressmaker’s. I’ll be there.”
“Have fun.” He smiles, watching her leave.
In the foyer, pulling on her boots, Pieck wonders what it is that’s got him and Annie in a knot. It hasn’t been easy to miss the way the two have been strangely quiet around each other of late. Two nights ago, Connie had caught her eye at dinner and mouthed, ‘What’s up with these two?’ but she’d only shrugged in response.
Why make it so complicated? Pieck thinks, standing. Just talk. Pummel it out of each other if that’s what it takes.
* * *
The hills are alive with the sound of flutes.
Everywhere she looks, Pieck finds something to marvel at; the food stalls, the wares, the curios and toys, all bursting with smells and flavours and colours still unfamiliar. Festivals are not new, if rare experiences, but this far north, she still has so much to see.
But first, a stop at the Chancellor’s office.
The Chancellor welcomes her with open arms and all smiles, ushering her inside the office that is decked in Yule decorations, a grand tree standing proud to the side. Helga sits in the Chancellor’s chair, looking somewhat harassed as she grumbles about some missing object or the other, but still greets her warmly. Pieck spends a few minutes congratulating them on the tasteful interiors and making small talk.
“Ah, I came by to drop off these,” She says, remembering the letters, and pulls the bundle from her satchel. “That’s all of us.”
“Right,” The Chancellor takes it graciously, passing it over to Helga. “The ship arrives in two days, we’ll send it out latest by this evening.” Then, glancing at the stack, he asks, “How is Paradis? Is Queen Historia well?”
Pieck nods slowly. “She is well. Though I can’t say the same about the state of affairs there. The Jaegerist movement gaining traction is a worrying matter, as you know. What is important now is to identify those who are loyal to Her Majesty and can be trusted to help dismantle the Jagerist’s ideology from the bottom-up. The Queen’s been busy,” She finishes matter-of-factly. “Come spring she hopes to re-establish contact with Kiyomi Azumabito. We’ll have to help with that.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” He nods gravely.
“By the way, Chancellor—” Pieck adds. “Have we received any communication from the States of Dane?”
He shakes his head. “None, I’m afraid. We’ll have to wait it out a bit longer, it seems.”
Silent for a minute, she carefully chooses her next words. “Forgive me if this is rude on my part, but I don’t believe waiting is going to help our interests. Kald has been passive enough. Now is the time to adopt a more proactive approach in all matters, especially ones as important as these,” Friendly but also firm, she suggests, “It’s not a bad idea to write to PM Fossbaken and let them know we’d like a response.”
Perhaps he was lost, or perhaps he was struggling with indecisiveness all along and just wanted a push—whatever the reason, the Chancellor gives in rather easily with a sigh.
“I suppose you’re right, Miss Finger. I will draft a letter then.”
Pieck smiles, relieved. Maybe now, with a response due to come, Armin can finally breathe easy. It really can’t be his fault.
As for how she knows… gut instinct is how she can best describe it. Zeke treated her like a child, but she was also the one he chose to take along when it was time to talk strategy with the balding old brass of the military. He taught her a thing or two before betraying her trust completely.
And with that, Pieck leaves the Chancellor’s office, her satchel lighter and her mind freer. All she’s missing now, as music plays in her ears, is a companion to keep her company.
She lucks out less than a minute later. From far below on the winding street, through the billowing smoke from hot food stands, a small figure calls out to her loudly. “Pieeeck!”
“Gabi!!” She exclaims, lighting up with a wide smile. “Come with me, let’s go buy a dress!”
“Huh?” Gabi pants, wide-eyed when she slows to a stop in front, lost inside her several thick layers. “Dresses? What for?”
“To dance, silly!” Pieck laughs, grabbing the girl’s hand and tugging her along excitedly. “Were you really thinking of celebrating Yule without putting on some embroidery? Come on! I’ll buy you a dress too!”
* * *
To nobody’s surprise, getting to the dressmaker’s proves a task.
The streets are beyond crowded, spilling over with busy shoppers and excited children, a decent chunk of them from the villages bordering theirs. There are all kinds of things on display; boots with shiny buckles, glossy hair ribbons, piquant scarves and mittens, intricately beaded necklaces, to name a few. Women and men call over the throng of village folk, inviting people to come look at their wares and handicrafts. On one side of the street – dolls, wooden carvings, pocket watches, wind chimes. On the other, a cheerful woman painting a young girl’s nails with colour, many more behind waiting for their turn. Flutes, drums and other melodious instruments combine with the loud chattering of people to create a festive cacophony of sorts.
And Pieck weaves through the crowd, holding Gabi’s hand so she doesn’t get lost.
“Oh my, Miss Finger!” Someone calls out. “Good Yule! Very busy today?”
“Yes, Maya, very!” Pieck replies, flashing a grin over her shoulder. “Good Yule!”
“Good Yule Pieck,” The elderly lady in charge of a fruit stand waves. “I picked some mighty fine apples this morning.”
“Save some for me, I'll come by!”
“Miss Pieck, Miss Pieck, I'll paint your nails for you!”
“Let me get a dress first, Ida!”
“Ooohh! I'll be waiting!”
At every bend and turn, Gabi squawks, barely avoiding colliding headfirst into some fixture or the other. Still, she keeps up with Pieck easily—a remnant from their life on Marley—holding on steadfast to her hand.
There is one place Pieck briefly makes another stop at: the garden shop. An array of hardy succulents line the wooden table out front, and she stoops to inspect them, fascinated. The thick waxy leaves shine in the sunlight, healthy little plants, looking for homes. If she had any space to spare, she wouldn’t think twice about becoming a mother of two.
“Aren’t they pretty?” She whispers to Gabi.
The bubbly lady running the store emerges from within, beaming. “Pieck, my dear, it’s lovely to see you. You haven’t stopped by in some time.”
“Good Yule, Miss Ilja,” Pieck replies, straightening. “Well I bought everything I needed the last time I came.”
“Ah, yes, with the Springer boy,” llja laughs as her sibling joins them; a woman who looks just the same. The two glance at Gabi. “And this lovely young lady is?”
“Gabi Braun,” Pieck introduces happily, pulling her close into an affectionate hug. “My sister, almost.”
“Lovely, lovely,” Ilja’s sister reaches out to pinch Gabi’s cheek, making her yelp. “What are you looking for today, then?”
“Oh, nothing really, I just wanted to look at these cacti. They’re beautiful.”
“Don't they! I’m very proud of them. Hardly little babies, they are.” Ilja looks at them fondly. “I’d be happy to sell you a few, you know. Even give you a discount.”
Pieck shakes her head. “I don’t have room now, unfortunately, but one of these days, maybe.”
“Alright then.”
She would’ve continued on her way then, if not for something unnerving in the overly doting smile Ilja wears for her.
But even before it comes, she already knows.
“Pieck, my dear… how old are you now?”
Gripping Gabi’s hand tight, she wills herself to appear unaffected. “I’m quite young, Miss Ilja,” She says airily. “I even feel so.”
Ilja chuckles, and though the smile remains, it’s easy to tell she’s unimpressed. “That’s all well and good, dear, but… don’t you think it’s time you found a suitor?”
There it is.
“You’re still getting old, no matter how you feel… it’s only right you get married now… A child will be lovely… something to look forward to, don’t you agree? Things will fall into place then…”
Pieck’s smile is tight.
How many times does she have to hear this?
“... the family way is very fulfilling, my dear… I would know, my daughter was so happy when she had two pretty little children… the satisfaction knows no bounds, I can attest to that… it’s a wonderful thing to have a child…”
Pieck looks away, trying not to let her irritation show. Ilja, a woman pushing her late forties, is not the first to broach this topic with her. She’s also a grandmother at her age. Perhaps she only means well, based on the life she’s lived, but Pieck cannot find herself agreeing. Exactly what is so good about having a child? There are other ways to care for the young without having to give birth yourself.
Glancing down, she finds Gabi looking bewildered and concerned.
And Pieck's shoulders relax as relief floods her. Here is a child. Falco is another. And the many green ones in her room.
“... My friend’s son, Luca… you know, such an industrious young man… I heard he’s been looking for a nice girl…”
“Oh no, Gabi!” Pieck exclaims loudly, interrupting her. “Look at the time! We should make a run for it! Miss Ilja, thank you for the chat, it was lovely!”
And, the two dash off down the street, skirts and scarves fluttering behind them. Pieck lets the icy winter air sting her cheeks, desperate to take her mind off the conversation. On her last visit to the garden shop, she’d been bombarded with questions. Even if she avoided the women who liked to bring up her shockingly unmarried status, this was still a small village.
But for f*ck’s sake, she's just twenty two.
“Oh look!” Gabi yells as they run, pointing ahead.
There it is, Pieck’s distraction. In the form of a tall fellow standing among the crowd, easily towering over the population like a lighthouse. He’s laughing at something someone says.
It’s hard not to think of what happened that one evening. A contact, too close, almost skin-to-skin. The temptation to kiss him, and the temptation she’d felt from him. Sometimes it still puts a lump in her throat; the colour of his eyes in the gold of dying sunlight.
But for now, she wipes the thoughts from her mind and grins wide instead.
“Hello you! What have you been up to?”
Jean doesn't really know why he's laughing. Hell, he doesn't remember what the salesgirl just said, only that it was meant to be laughed at and so here he is, shoulders shaking, a brand new hand-sewn handkerchief in his hands and questioning his lack of agency.
Being out among the people just makes him want to be the best among them no matter his inclination. After joining the Scouts, it had largely disappeared as a result of suppressing lavish desires by the memory of ashes burnt… but now… now what?
He just wants to live grand again, is that it?
Well, now there is time, Jean thinks, looking around him at the bustling streets, sunlight warming his face. There is the means. The facility.
It’s possible.
He isn’t given too much time to ponder though – a familiar voice and two running figures deftly moving through the crowd, arms raised and waving wildly at him. He pales. Not her. Not this girl who made a mockery of all his thoughts and principles that evening in her room. Remembering it makes him want to go back in time and slap himself; why oh why did he think it was a good idea to sit with her alone?
“Hello you!” Pieck chirps, getting closer. “What have you been up to?”
Jean swallows all his apprehension and puts on a frown. “Seems like you’re in a hurry, should you really be stopping to chat?”
“Oh Jeanbo,” She sighs happily coming to a stop, her breath a wispy cloud that disappears into the air. “Aren’t you happy to see us?”
It’s only then that Gabi appears right behind her, the ends of her hair beneath her cap windblown and mussed.
Jean lets loose an invisible sigh of relief. She’s not alone, thank f*ck. There’s a pipsqueak tagging along.
Never in his life could he have imagined the sight of Gabi would bring him so much happiness.
“What are you two up to?” He inquires, eyeing their getups. The satchel slung across Pieck’s shoulder looks incredibly out of fashion, although for some reason, it suits her.
“Off to buy a dress,” She answers brightly. “For the Yule dance.”
He nods, looking elsewhere. “Didn’t know you were keen on that.”
Pieck blinks, surprised. “And you’re not? If I recall, Jean, you quite like to dance.”
“I mean… I do, but… I wasn’t thinking about it,” He manages awkwardly before deciding: now that they’ve had their chats, the safest thing to do would be to go on his merry way. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I have uh—stuff to do.”
But he fails to escape. A vice grip on his arm sharply yanks him back.
What was that about falling into stupid traps?
“Since you’re jobless today, I think you should come with us to the dressmaker’s!” Pieck giggles, delighted with herself, and without waiting, starts to hurry down the street, Jean in tow.
“Hey—wait, you— woah!”
* * *
It turns out, Old Eldian is a remarkably insufficient language to express his annoyance.
Jean can't believe his bad luck – for twenty minutes now, Pieck has drawn an infuriating level of entertainment out of dragging him unceremoniously down the street with her. If it were just that, he could bear some tolerance for it, but unfortunately enough, she also has the habit of stopping by at every stall, store, and shop to greet all and sundry.
“Pieck my dear, come buy a lantern!” Someone calls, and she’s more than happy to pause and return the sentiment.
“Of course I will! You keep a pretty one for me!”
He glances over his shoulder, trying to see who it was this time, but they’re lost in a sea of faces and heads. How does she know? He wonders incredulously. How the hell does she know who that was?
More problematic is his hand that she clutches in a death grip, fearing he might get separated. The idea is simultaneously stupid, laughable, irritating and disadvantageous. Also deeply embarrassing if the angry blush creeping up his face is any indication, but thank god he can blame that on the cold if she asks.
Why is her stupid hand so stupidly small around his wrist?
f*ck, he can feel the warmth.
“Beautiful scarves, knitted scarves, pretty shawls…” A hawker calls in a singsong tune. A cloud of steam from a stall selling fritters rises into the bright blue sky, filling his nostrils with the aroma of batter and hot oil. Another stall sees a long queue waiting for glasses of Julebrus. Everything looks and sounds and smells alive, so much so that he feels a ball of hunger growing in the pit of his stomach.
Though it’s more likely because of the pace at which they’re going. Pieck shows no inclination of going slow. In fact, if not for the thronging crowd, they might as well have sat their butts on the slippery street and gone skidding straight into the lake.
“Slow down, dummy!” He cries, trying to shake her grip off, but to no avail. f*cking hell? How strong is she? “We’re all going to end up with broken backs if not!”
“But we’re late, Jeanbo!” She wails, clearly enjoying this along with Gabi. “What if we don’t get dresses, how will we dance then?!”
“Well that’s your own fault!”
“Don’t get upset at meeee Jeanbooo, you’ll make me saaad!”
When her hand tightens around his fingers, he nearly goes up in flames.
To add to everything, there’s Gabi, peering up at him from Pieck’s other side with a sh*t-eating grin on her face.
“What?” He barks.
“Noooothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?” Jean demands irritatedly. A person couldn’t look more like Eren even if they tried. “You look murderous.”
Her eyes go wide. “Huh?!”
“Your eyebrows,” He adds smugly as the dressmaker’s comes into view. “They look murderous.”
She wrangles out of Pieck’s grasp and makes a beeline to the closest windowpane, pushing her hair out of the way to stare at her face. “What’s wrong with my eyebrows?!”
“Come now, children,” Pieck chuckles, dragging them both by the collars into the noisy brick building. “Let’s get festive.”
* * *
Two hours later, Pieck still hasn’t got… well, festive.
The dressmaker’s—if it can be called that—is more of a marketplace where tailors of varying styles come to sell their festival garments. Before entering, Jean hadn't the slightest idea that each type of embroidery stood for something specific. There are people from all walks of life here to buy a piece of clothing, be it a blouse, a jacket, a skirt or a pair of trousers, and as Jean stands in a corner, thumbing through a stack of embroidered, festive shirts, Pieck arrives for the umpteenth time to seek his opinion.
“So?”
He looks at her, biting the insides of his cheeks to seem indifferent. She twirls this way and that, the red and white skirt sewn with large flowers moving with her. The ballooning sleeves of her blouse contrast the shapely waistcoat that curves right under her bust. “How do I look?”
“Err…”
“Yes?” She prompts earnestly, as though she didn’t just do this five seconds ago for a different dress. To be honest, he had thought they all looked pretty. How in the world was he supposed to choose?
“It’s uh—nice.” He manages.
Pieck isn’t flattered. “Nice?” She repeats flatly.
“Yeah. Nice.”
She throws her hands up. “Don’t you have a more descriptive word? What am I supposed to do with ‘nice’?”
“Er—okay, it’s…” He stalls, taking in the dress. The skirt, long enough to touch the floor, has a graceful fall. “—fluffy.”
She stares. “What?”
“Very… poofy.”
She must think he's become stupid, because she speaks very slowly. “Jean, it's a traditional skirt. It's supposed to be poofy.”
“Y–yeah? Okay, it's just—”
“You mean to say I look funny?”
“No! Well—I mean…”
But she's had enough and sighs. “Excuse me, Miss!” She whirls around, gesturing at a young seamstress who comes running. “Let me try another, this man is very hard to please.”
Jean is instantly pissed.
“Oh no!” The seamstress claps a hand over her mouth, glancing between him and Pieck. “Dear Sir, do you not think this dress looks most beautiful on your Miss?”
Does he really need this shame? Jean shoots Pieck a withering glare. She returns it with a triumphant smirk.
So when Gabi arrives a moment later, dressed in a blouse and skirt and an embroidered scarf wrapping under her chin, he doesn't feel particularly gracious. It’s like seeing Eren in a frock.
“How do I look?” She demands, hands on her hips and stance wide like she's declaring her allegiance to Marley.
“Like a gremlin.”
“Hey!” She yells, and Jean turns away, sticking his tongue out at the wall.
* * *
Half an hour later, he’s the one too invested in finding himself some clothes. The girls are done, wandering the place in their new clothes, oohing and aahing at various accessories. After calling his inputs useless, they no longer bother to ask him, and Jean finds that just as well. Peace and quiet on this rumbled planet so he can focus on getting himself a shirt. It feels so good!
Somewhere behind him, he senses Pieck walking about, but he doesn’t turn to look. Hmm... he considers, weighing a shirt in each hand: should he go with the silver embroidery or the green?
“I wonder if I can just leave here wearing this,” Pieck thinks aloud, sounding doubtful.
“Sure? I guess they’ll let you, as long as you buy it. Just wear it, why fret?”
“You think?” Her voice lifts hopefully. “I feel really good in this, I don’t want to take it off.”
“Just do it…” Jean mutters absent-mindedly, making up his mind. Silver, he’ll go with the silver.
When he takes his turn in the curtained alcove meant to be used as a changing-room, he’s quite shocked at the way his mirror-reflection impresses him. From the stiff-banded collar circling the base of his throat to the nice drape of the fabric along his shoulders, the loose sleeves narrowing in decorated cuffs around his wrists and the regal embroidery across the plackets…
Goddamn, Jean whistles quietly, staring at his reflection as he tucks the hems into his trousers. He looks f*cking great!
If only he had some pomade for his hair now—
“Are you done?” The next-in-line waiting outside calls through the chink in the curtain.
“Yeah, sorry.”
Stepping out, he’s pleased to find heads turning. Good, good. He is attractive, isn’t he? Chin up, shoulders squared, an easy stride. An eye for fashion — he’s always had it. Even on Paradis, some fellows admired his dressing sense.
Finding the two girls lingering near a stack of decorative headpieces, he announces himself.
“Aherm,” Jean clears his throat. “How do I look?”
Pieck and Gabi stare at him for what seems an impossibly long time that he almost begins to feel nervous. Then—
“Oh no, Gabi!” Pieck exclaims, grimacing. “He’s hot!”
Jean turns bright red.
“What!” Gabi gapes at her, pointing a finger at him accusatorily. “He is? This beanstalk?”
“Hey!” He cries indignantly. “Who are you calling a beanstalk!”
“You called my eyebrows murderous!”
“Because they are!”
“You’re a beanstalk then! Stupidly tall!”
“You’re just jealous!”
“Am not! You can’t even shoot a gun!”
“Pipsqueak!”
“Lanky gangly string bean!”
A short while later, when they leave the dressmaker’s in their new clothes after causing much ruckus, Jean glares daggers at Gabi. She returns it double fold. The only thing stopping him from tossing her into Lake Brienne is Pieck’s pleasant smile between them.
‘Stupid giraffe,’ Gabi whispers.
‘Gnat.’ He shoots back.
* * *
For no reason at all after that, the three wander around the village, taking in the sights and smells. There is so much going on they can hardly focus on any one thing at a given instant. Target booths, like the ones during the Firefly festival, and here Gabi excels, winning the three of them prizes thanks to her impeccable aim. They taste fruits, breads, sizzling peanuts and at least twenty other things. The symphony of music flows in the air, a medley of instruments from different corners. A small concert here. A comedy skit there. Two eyes are hardly enough, Jean thinks.
At the bottom of the hill by the meadows, a crowd forms near a tiny stall, and the three gravitate toward it, curious.
“What’s happening here?” Gabi wonders. The old man manning the stall spots them and beckons eagerly.
“Come, come, try some eggs.”
“Eggs?” Pieck echoes, confused.
On closer inspection, they turn out to be hot-spring eggs – eggs slow-poached in natural hot spring water. The man shows them a vent inside the stall, surrounded by rocks, thin planks of wood placed across from which dangle long strings. There are eggs attached to the ends, immersed in the hot waters, though the rising steam makes it impossible to see. Gabi is fascinated . Jean and Pieck stand close to the vent, warming their hands.
The man tells them the history of the hot-spring egg and how it became a popular dish in Kald, all the while preparing three bowls, one for each. When he finally hands them over with a flourish, Pieck is the most excited.
“It looks so soft!” She squeals.
True to its appearance, the hot-spring egg simply melts into Jean’s mouth, silky and smooth like nothing he’s ever eaten before. He stares at Pieck and she stares back, both bursting into incredulous laughter, mouths full.
“Oh no,” She giggles as the steam from the egg wafts into her face. “My nose feels all warm!”
Jean looks away, smiling. So does his.
* * *
On their way back up the hill, they manage to lose Gabi when she spots Connie and Falco busy constructing Gingerbread Town. A small model of a village spanning a sizable distance and fashioned entirely out of gingerbread, it's almost an exact replica of the one they're standing in.
“Falco!” She takes off, screaming. “I just ate egg from a hole in the ground!”
“Hey, hey, look at you two,” Connie smiles broadly as the two approach. There's a gingerbread person in his hands. “Dressed nice!”
Pieck twirls before holding up her satchel. “Your bag came in handy today.”
Jean eyes it. Huh. So it was Connie's gift to her.
Connie grins, “It looks great. By the way, why aren't you guys here, helping out? I put all our names down for Gingerbread Town y’know? But Falco and I are the only ones from the house doing all the work!”
“Yeah yeah, sorry,” Jean drones, not in the least bit sorry, watching Gabi nearly pummeling Falco to death.
“Oh, I wanted to ask you,” Connie nudges Pieck. “Want to dance with me? There's a small competition going on near the Square. They've set up a platform and everything.”
She lights up immediately. “A dance, Connie, of course I want to!”
He nods, happy. “Then you go on ahead, I'll catch up to you once I'm finished here.”
“Come quick!” She reminds him, laughing.
* * *
And that's how Jean ends up at the village square, an ecstatic Pieck right next to him, admiring the pairs dancing to a loud, boisterous rhythm of melody and beat. A crowd surrounds the square, watching, admiring and chatting away. There are all sorts of people turning to the music; young and old, couples and friends. Simply standing around watching makes his legs itch – dancing has always been fun for him.
“Well, Jean,” Pieck tells him very seriously. “What do you think about our clothes?”
“Huh?” Jean glances at her.
“Hmm, we are wearing nice, new clothes,” She notes, smoothing her skirt. “We look very good. We are dressed to dance,” At this, she looks up, a solemn expression on her face. “Would be a real shame if we didn't do any dancing.”
He blinks. To be honest, he'd considered it for a fleeting second before immediately shooting it down as a bad idea. Oh no, he really doesn't need any alone time with her anymore.
You're not alone, though? a voice in his head says. There's a giant f*cking audience here.
Oh but you're still alone, another voice—more evil—cackles with glee. You'll be dancing like a couple. A couple, see?!
“For f*ck’s sake,” Jean mutters, confused. He knows his feelings.
And they are not for this girl.
But Pieck being Pieck, frustratingly so at that, doesn't give him much longer to think. Grabbing his hand, she barrels through the crowd, saying, “Excuse me, pair coming through!”
“Oi!” He yells, trying to pull free, failing miserably. “I didn't say yes!”
She shrugs, tugging him into the centre of the square. “Normal people take under a minute to answer a question, Jean, so I just did it for you. Anyway,” She sighs decisively, “You like dancing. We danced on Fort Salta. I don't see a problem.”
She's right, they did dance on Fort Salta. Drunk as hell, out of their minds, they danced around a bonfire. She'd challenged him to prove his talent and he did. He also remembers carrying her with Reiner yelling a victory chant.
But that was then.
This is now. And she's messing with his head!
“I'm starting to think you're a bit slow,” Is the last thing she says before the music starts afresh and his elbow locks with hers.
From that point on, Jean forgets everything else but her and the music.
Dancing takes his breath away. It always does. Limbs come alive and blood pounds in his ears. She leads him first, drawing him into zeroes and eights and infinities. Fluid motions. When she claps her hands, he moves with her. Nothing but the rhythm of the drums beating in his heart. Her skirt spreads out when he takes her on a spin, and she laughs, teeth glistening in the sunlight.
He’s wearing embroidery fit to flatter a king. The silver threads on his shirt catch the light, fluttering against his skin when wind blows through it and his hair. It’s sublime. Only the euphoria of going round and round in royal clothes, almost wearing on his head a bejewelled crown.
But somehow, next to her, he feels like a peasant. A simpleton dancing with a beautiful girl. And Pieck is beautiful in her reds and whites and blacks, a ribbon around her head, and now she laughs as he lets her go, waiting for her to return.
Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but when she comes back and takes his hand, leading him in a concentric spin, he’s captivated. He’s a good dancer, but she’s better. Competitive. Sly. The arresting spark in her eyes. She cuts him no slack as she lets him go, waiting for his return.
It’s enthralling, like the first time he flew in the sky on wires.
“Come back to me Jeanbo!” She calls, grinning.
It only occurs to him then. There are others dancing, men and women, dressed in clothes just like the ones Pieck had tried on at the dressmaker’s. Looking at them swirling around him in an explosion of colours and patterns, Jean can’t help but wonder why he couldn’t choose. Quite obviously, hers is the best.
Or, he realises, looking at her now, was it just that she looked pretty in all of them?
Too soon the dance ends, but before he can challenge her to another, a bunch of girls dressed brightly descend on them.
“Miss Pieck, Miss Pieck!” They giggle, jostling each other. “Join us for a dance!”
And Jean ends up on the sidelines with the other guys who’ve been similarly ditched, to watch. Pieck and the girls form a circle just as the music starts up again and merrily turn to the melody, their embroideries shimmering in the light. The annoyance at being dumped so easily somehow melts away the longer he watches Pieck in the square, having fun.
“Psst, young man,” Someone nudges him in the back. A man, can’t be older than forty but beginning to bald. Part of the audience, no doubt. He points a finger in Pieck’s direction. “You with her?”
“Uh—” Jean blinks, startled. For the dance now, yes. “Yeah?”
“Good,” The man smiles benignly, appearing relieved.
“Wait, why did you ask?”
It’s the man’s turn to look startled. “Ah, I mean, I’ve seen her around.”
Jean waits, confused, but nothing more comes. “... And?”
“Well she’s unmarried isn’t she?”
He’s more bewildered than ever now. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
The man regards him strangely. “Marry her soon, young man. It’s unsightly to see a girl of her age still unmarried.”
Jean stares at him, stunned speechless. What the f*ck?
What’s with the weird idea ?
The man, sensing an opportunity to mouth-off a bit more, starts, “It’s all nice to see them so young and lively. Dare I say, it puts a smile on my face, but when they’re of age, marriage is most appropriate—”
Just then a guy hurries forward, throws his arms over the man’s shoulders and begins to apologise frantically.
“I’m so sorry! He doesn’t know who he’s talking to, I’m sorry, please forgive him—” With a nervous chuckle he starts pulling the man away. “How many times have I told you father, you can’t say such things to them… they’re the Heroes of Peace, different from us…”
Jean can only watch as the two disappear into the growing crowd. By far, the strangest experience he’s had in Kald. Exactly what was all that about?
But the dance comes to an end, and after exchanging Yule greetings, the girls part. Pieck comes skipping over, her face flushed in exertion and happiness. When the hem of her skirt lifts up, he notices: the laces of her boots have come loose.
Silently tugging her into an alley, the man’s words echo in his head.
Heroes of Peace, different from us…
Just how much are they not seeing in Kald?
* * *
Big mistake bringing her here.
They’re alone. Too alone.
f*ck, all he’d intended was to make her tie her bootlaces. He’d told her as much too, and she’d tried, but all the layers of her skirt kept getting in the way and made it impossible. Frustrated, he’d taken the task upon himself.
Now he crouches on a knee while she holds her skirt up, leaning back against the wall.
“You’re kind of careless, you know that?” He grumbles, yanking on a tangled bootlace.
“I get that a lot,” Pieck replies lightly.
“Huh. Guess you don’t care.”
“Guess I don’t.”
A silence falls as he works on her boots. There must be at least twenty eyelets on each or he’s seeing things. At such close quarters with her, he can hardly breathe anything but a light fruity scent. Beyond the alley, the din of the festivities continues, but not here. There’s not a sound here, nor a soul except for them. Desperate to break the silence, he clears his throat.
But she beats him to it.
“You have nice hair.”
He’s thrown for a loop.
“A compliment for me?” He chuckles, pulling the boot laces out through eyelet after another. “That’s rare.”
Pieck hums. “I can be nice, you know.”
“What a surprise.”
“Can I touch it?” A slight graze of her fingertips on his crown.
A shiver runs down his spine.
It takes great effort to keep his voice level and casual. “No.”
She pouts—or rather, he senses it in her tone. “Even though I said you have nice hair?”
Jean scoffs, working the free laces back into the holes. “Doesn’t give just anyone a free pass to touch my hair.”
“I’m anyone?”
“Kind of.”
“Rude.”
“You’re welcome.”
That relaxes him, freeing him of some tension. Maybe it was just his imagination – the touch on his hair. Pieck sounds the same and seems the same, she obviously isn’t getting so worked up the way he is… surely, it’s all just friendly banter .
A compliment returned never hurt anybody.
“You have pretty hair too.” He says, moving to her other boot.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For some time, silence. Then, a rustle. Her skirt sways before going still again. Another rustle.
When he looks up, a cascade of glossy black hair in his vision.
Free from her ponytail, the smooth ends of her messy locks stop at her chest, only slightly above his eyes.
Jean gulps.
He doesn't look up at her face. He doesn’t ask her why she’s taken off the ponytail. He can’t— his heart is hammering in his chest and his face is on fire.
Dropping his head, he lets the brown leather of her boots swim before his eyes.
He doesn’t know what she can see of him, kneeling before her. But her voice comes sweet and carefree, like it’s another joke.
“I sure hope you’re not falling for me, Jean.”
He shouldn’t.
He really shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
But it’s the devil that makes him say it.
“What if I said I already am?”
Neither breathes.
The air has shifted.
With her, he always feels like this, like he's standing in the middle of an electric field, engulfed by static and muddled with confusing thoughts until he can’t tell what he feels anymore. He can’t be the only one, can he? He can’t.
But then Pieck laughs. Lightly. Nonchalantly.
Always that nonchalance, like nothing matters. It pisses him off.
“You’re funny,” She chuckles.
An erratic combination of irritation and relief floods his system. "Am I?"
"We can't be together, Jean."
“Oh yeah?” Jean finishes up the second bootlace. If she’s lucky, they won’t come off for at least the next five years.
"You're too tall." She explains.
Thank f*ck for jokes, right? Good thing two can play at that. He stands, dusting his hands.
“Ah that's the reason huh?"
Pieck grins. "Yeah."
He can’t help it. Two can play at this. “Grow a bit taller then.”
She looks taken aback for a split second. Then she breaks into an easy smile, like it’s nothing again.
“That’s very cruel to say to a small person, isn’t it?”
He turns, heading back the way they came, and she follows. “Find a way.”
“Why should I?”
“It’ll be funny.”
“What will?” She questions.
But before he can answer, there’s a commotion up the hill. Some way off, people begin to yell, calling for help. Alarmed, Jean and Pieck share a look before breaking into a run.
“What’s happened, what’s wrong?” He exclaims, getting closer. A small circle of onlookers has formed. At the centre is a woman crouching next to a man who’s undoubtedly taken a fall. He lies on the ground groaning, a leg twisted very wrong.
“What happened?” He repeats, out of breath just as Pieck catches up.
“He’s broken his leg, I heard a crack!” The woman cries. “He needs to be taken to the hospital on the hill yonder!”
Just then, the man groans, raising his head – and Pieck gasps.
There’s a book open in his hands but he’s barely looked at it. Something about history and the conflicts of the previous century, the Chancellor had given it to him to read, but at the present moment, his mind can't be further away from processing any of the words in it.
Instead, Armin chews on his lip as he studies Annie, seated across from him at the dining table… cross-legged, head bent and intensely focused on the crossword puzzle. There’s still a crumb of breakfast stuck on the corner of her lips she’s not aware of. Not too surprising, considering she hasn’t spoken a word since laying the pages flat to fill in the checkboxes. Today’s hints must be moderately easy then.
Or perhaps she simply doesn’t need his help anymore—that’s also possible isn’t it?
On the outside, Annie doesn’t seem any different… that is, aside from the unsettling air of secrecy she’s been wearing for the past few weeks. Armin gazes quietly at the crown of her head—a pale gold, shining dully in the daylight coming through the windows. He hadn’t asked her about that morning two days ago and she hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to say, leaving him to wonder if it was all simply a figment of his imagination.
He’d be happy if it was just that. But try as he might, he can’t quite convince himself that Kári’s presence in that dark alleyway wasn’t real.
He doesn’t know how to ask her.
Annie, what’s wrong? Won’t you talk to me? Won’t you cry in front of me?
“Up for some hot chocolate?”
Her voice is so quiet and unexpected that the question momentarily disarms him. Her head is still bent low as she scribbles alphabets into the boxes of the crossword; she doesn’t look up, but the question is most definitely for him.
“Uh—yeah,” Armin nods eagerly, more than grateful for being given something to do. An excuse to put the book down and stop pretending he’s been reading any of it. Annie wants hot chocolate, and she’s asking him. Of course he’ll make the hot chocolate.
Rising from his chair and padding over to the kitchen cabinets, he finds with dismay that the little jar, hidden behind all the unused glasses, is mostly empty. There’s barely enough for half a cup, let alone two people, but he pours what’s left of the cocoa into a coffee mug and prepares it for Annie.
All the while, he can’t help but be aware of the stifling silence in the room. Only the scratch of her pencil and the clink of the spoon.
It was never like this before.
“Here you go,” Armin slides the mug—only half full—toward her on the dining table and, after a second of hesitation, takes the seat next to her. Annie doesn’t stir, but only at such close quarters does he see, peering over her pale wrist, that the crossword is surprisingly… unfilled.
Armin blinks. What of all that busy scribbling she was doing then?
“Drink up,” He says, pushing the mug closer to her. “before it gets cold.”
And then she looks up, startled to find so little, and only one mug. “What about you?”
He shrugs. “We’re out of cocoa, so… I’ll get another jar when I head out this evening.”
“Mhmm…” Annie sighs, leaning back in her chair. Her face finally in view, he studies her profile. Nothing too out of the ordinary; the same sleepy eyes, the same aquiline nose, the same sulky mouth. Yet the tension in her shoulders and the barely-contained strained breath escaping her lips doesn’t go unnoticed.
It had been so easy to ask her back then, when they returned from Alvar. So easy even despite everything that happened—just the push of a lightswitch to create some darkness, and she’d broken down crying. Annie had been weak then, all she’d wanted was for him to hold her.
Now… she just looks angry.
He doesn’t know how to ask her.
And then, Annie suddenly leans on his shoulder, resting her head right below his chin. It takes him only an instant to melt to the soundless display of affection; letting out a sigh of relief, Armin puts his arm over the back of her chair, pulling her closer until the loose strands of her hair tickle his lips. This is it, he’s certain, she finally wants to tell me.
“Mh—” He presses a firm kiss on head where her hair parts in two. “Your shampoo’s nice.”
Annie says nothing, and while he can no longer see her face in this position, he can see her hands, lying in her lap, restless and playing with her fingers. Before he can reach for them with his free hand, though, she twists her head up to look right into his eyes.
They are full of...
... what?
The longer he gazes at her eyes, the less certain he becomes that this is, indeed, a step towards her saying something, anything. Because her lips are pressed thin, her jaws clamped tight, it seems more plausible to say she just wants him to see it all in her eyes, and normally, he would, he really would, but—
Armin doesn’t really know—just what is he supposed to understand?
Then, she lifts a hand, holding up two fingers. “Pick one.”
“What?” He asks, confused.
“Choose one,” She whispers—almost a plea.
“I—” He stammers, suddenly overcome with apprehension. “Um—what… what do they stand for?”
Wrong. He should be asking: What are you scared of? What do you really want to tell me? What can I do?
Annie bites at her lip, her eyes searching his own. She’s so close. He can see every single shade of ice-blue in her irises and how they fade into each other. Every single eyelash, every single minute pore on her skin. Every single movement of her lips, when she speaks.
“Something I… have to do, and… something I don’t want to do.”
It doesn’t help. Armin racks his brains to make sense of it, but it doesn’t help. Instead of coming up with a response, all he can feel are nerves tightening within his chest. The trade agreement with The States of Dane looms over him like a great big shadow; possibly ruined because of him. To make a decision for Annie seems impossible now.
How can he trust himself not to mess it up?
And besides…
“You should just… do what you feel like the most, don't you think?” Armin chuckles nervously, looking away. “I don't believe I should… well…”
Annie's face falls. Her hand drops at the same time she pulls away from him, going back to the space of her own chair and robbing him of warmth.
For a split second, he feels angry.
Why is it that all he gets is a cipher to crack?
But it’s too little, too late by the time he regrets the spark of irritation. Before he can find her eyes and apologise, the front door bangs open, making them jump.
“Annie!” Pieck’s voice echoes through the corridor as hurried footsteps get closer to the kitchen until she bursts through the door-frame in a brightly coloured dress, hair messy and red-faced from running in the cold. “Annie, oh thank god you’re here!” She heaves, looking worried. “It’s your father, he’s—!”
The chair next to him clatters when Annie leaps to her feet, her face turning as white as a sheet and she rushes past Pieck, no longer listening.
All Armin has time to think of, then, is to grab two coats—one for Annie and the other for him—as he runs out of the house, after her.
