Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With his hellbent pugnacity, sporadic enthusiasm, and vacillating tendency to actually take his ADHD medication as prescribed, routine was something seldom in the cards for Eren Jaeger. Especially with his vagarious working hours made worse by his completely decimated sleep schedule, not a single day of his was the same. Despite all this, without exactly meaning to, Eren found himself developing a ritual. It was a good ritual, one that rooted itself into his week, bearing fruits of relief when he needed it. Eren Jaeger was far from a creature of habit, and yet, before he was even aware of it, music became an integral proclivity of his day to day.

Every day, after the clapboard was stowed away and the dressers stripped his costume from his stiff and aching body, he would shove in his earbuds and drown out the clamor that would always stir up post-shoot. Outrageously expensive cameras, worth more than his entire life, would be wheeled away and locked up for the night, the shaking and grating of gears submerged beneath the din of producers and directors spouting curses in heated discourse. And always, Eren would walk past them, smiling politely to anyone who had the two seconds to spare to tell him “good work today,” stalking off to the rhythm he set for himself, lolling contentedly to the music palliating between his ears.

He was released early today - an event so rare it was worth marking on the calendar. Filming took much shorter than his set manager predicted. Eren has to restrain every muscle in his achy body to not immediately melt with relief when he was told he could go home. It was the first time in a long while he would go home when the sun was still up. To think he had an entire evening awaiting him was unabashedly thrilling— laughably so, knowing full well he had nothing to do back home but binge-watch TV and maybe eat a meal or two.

For now, though, Eren could only sigh contentedly to himself. He lazily thumbed through his Spotify playlists, his head resting back against the bus stop just outside the studio. He watched the traffic roll by with a dismissive, soft-eyed stare, losing track of what time it was, and when his bus was supposed to arrive.

It was only the afternoon, and already the exhaustion was creeping up on him. Eren grumbled to himself, sulking over his Spotify page. Was he supposed to listen to something mild and alleviating, to indulge his well-earned lethargy, or should he pick a playlist more rancorous and enlivening to stay the night awake?

Eren flinched just then. Hard. His thumb still hovering over the green play button on his phone.

He hated moments like these, when he was suddenly jolted into guilt that he didn’t earn. They didn’t happen often, but they were happening more frequently.

He would be doing something, anything, asinine or mundane, and suddenly find himself gutted with unanticipated emotion. 

These last few weeks of filming, all his first-world problems, all his modern day issues, seemed to only insult him, make him feel guilty and undeserving. Eren — his character Eren — dealt with problems so much worse. They were fictional, all of it was fictional, but at times, it just felt so real, and Eren couldn’t help but feel his modern city boy problems paled in comparison. He felt he had no right to feel at all.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he hit shuffle on a random playlist and went to his Notes App. He opened the file pinned to the top of his screen, titled therapy shit, and hastily typed: 

bring up @ nxt appnt → character guilt vs my guilt

coping mechanisms? possibly?

With that, he let out a long, controlled wind of breath, slipping his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie. By now, it was drizzling a little. From the gloomy churning of the overhead clouds, he knew it was going to rain later. Of course the first night he had free he would have to spend indoors.

The shrieking of approaching wheels made him relax a little more, and he waited as the bus flashed its lights and started pulling over. He fished his transportation card from his pocket as the bus arrived, sixteen minutes behind schedule. It was the same bus he boarded every day, but today he didn’t recognize the driver. He made his payment and shouldered his way down the aisle, rapidly clicking his phone to turn the volume all the way up.

With a lurch, the bus pulled forward, towing its heavy body back into motion. Eren kept moving as the bus took off, needling his way around passengers and their bags to get to his favorite spot. He was just about to sit down, when a familiar haircut in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

He had to do a double-take first, testing if his eyes were deceiving him.

Upon recognition, Eren’s tired frown pulled into a larking, leering grin. He wanted to laugh out loud. If it had only been the two of them on this bus, maybe he would have.

“Captain!” he called, beaming at the man in the adjacent seat. He shouted over the music in his ears, so his voice was unnaturally, embarrassingly loud inside the mostly quiet bus.

Levi Ackermann sucked his teeth, eyes narrowing. He sat in the window seat, somehow with straight posture on the moving vehicle, his arms crossed over his middle. Levi wore a facemask — he always did in crowded spaces — and yet Eren could practically see the tight grimace beneath the fabric, grousing in his habitual displeasure. Resting Levi Face, they were starting to (secretly) call it.

“We’re off-set, brat. You don’t need to call me that,” he said, eyes rolling back to the window beside him.

“If that were actually the case, you wouldn’t need to call me ‘brat.’” He smirked, “So, tell me. What’s a big-shot like you doing on public transport?”

The term of endearment Eren used was far from a compliment, it was nothing short of the truth. The actor playing the role of Levi Ackermann was a star-studded sensation. Meticulously professional and inhumanly talented, he was the only actor with his own dressing room and personal aide, most certainly the only A-Lister of their cast.

Interestingly, the show had a unique approach to casting their leads. Eren, Mikasa, Armin, all of the teenagers from both Paradis and Marley were played by what the director called “fledgelings.” Besides a previous minor role or two, all of the younger actors were new to the screen, polished and groomed into their roles to be flaunted off as “new,” “avant-garde,” and “pure.”

“Like Star Wars did,” he’d explained to his mom over the phone, just after committing to the role by contract. “But the old movies. The good ones.”

Eren couldn’t help but snicker to himself, imagining the enigmatic artiste on the bus before him watching Star Wars . More likely, the old man was into noir detective films, or Golden Age Hollywood shit. 

It wasn’t like Eren would ever get the chance to ask him; the captain kept himself fiercely, resolutely distant. He wasn’t even like Armin Arlert, who was polite and kind, but anxiously flinched away at any social invite; no, Levi Ackermann was a master truant. Effortlessly he existed on the outside, on a plane none of them could reach. He was magnificent, but he was an untouchable omnipotent not to be disturbed. With his personal dressing room, personal aide, personal cab service, the man did anything and everything he could to disappear any time he wasn’t smoldering in front of a camera. It was like his life off-set didn’t exist.

And yet here he was, on the bus of all places.

“Did you break your ass or something? Why are you standing?”

Eren blinked, realizing he was still standing in the middle of the aisle. He owed it to all those ODM training classes that he could stand so straight while in motion.

“Sit down now,” Levi sighed, removing his name-brand messenger bag from the empty seat beside him. “You’re causing a safety hazard.”

“An invite from the captain, I’m honored,” Eren said, sliding into the open space next to him. 

Levi was small, and Eren found he had ample leg room sitting next to him. He almost wanted to make a joke about it, but got nervous. Tension was broiling off Levi’s body, practically in carbonizing fumes. He reminded Eren of the titans emitting steam, just sitting there.

He must have noticed his staring. 

“You got something you want to say?” he asked without moving a muscle, words slightly muffled by his facemask.

“I-” Eren hesitated, catching Levi’s eyes. The song between his ears ended just then, moving onto the next.
“Do you like listening to music, captain?”

Levi didn’t react.

“I mean, like, for character work. Like, there’s some songs I like that help me navigate Eren.”

He remained immobile a moment longer, just long enough to make Eren want to claw his eyes out. Then, Levi retrieved a book from his messenger bag, went to his bookmarked page and absently muttered, “No, I don’t.”

Eren wanted to roll his eyes, but sitting so close to this obscure stoic made him afraid to. It never ceased to stupefy him how committed this man was. Hell, Eren didn’t even know the guy’s real name because he insisted on being addressed as either “Levi” or “captain” at all times. A method actor, probably. And a horribly devout one.

“What’s your call time tomorrow, Levi? Er, captain?” Eren tried, after a while. His stop was coming up, and he had one last chance at being brave.

“Late,” came the eloquent response. 

“Lucky you. Jean and I are called in at noon.”

“Noon is late.”

“Great. Just great.” This time, Eren let himself scoff as the bus crept its way to a slow cruise. Finally, at the street corner he knew so well, it lurched to a stop.
“Well,” he said, turning. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. Late.”

Levi made a point of looking up from his book. “This is your stop, Jaeger?”

Eren tried not to cringe. It was never going to feel normal being called that name while he was in his street clothes. It made him feel discordant, borderline dirty.

“Yeah, my apartment is just up the hill,” he said, hand clasped over the seat next to him. Something light and quick stirred in his chest, like a feather grazing his ribcage. “Yeah, do… Do you want to come by, Levi?”

The man held his gaze for a second, before dropping it back down to his book. “No, thank you. Perhaps another night.”

“‘kay,” Eren mumbled, tugging his hood down over his forehead. “See you tomorrow, then.”

He hopped off the bus, not without waving a courtesy ‘thank you’ to the driver as he stepped onto the gravel. Precipitation was picking up now, and the ground beneath him had a glossy shine to it. He kicked a pebble, and looked back over his shoulder as the bus staggered and doddered into motion again. He tried to catch a glance of his captain through the window, not yet feeling unshackled from the man’s captive stare. He couldn’t see him, though, and the bus was already treading down the block. An egocentric fatalist wasn’t worth standing around the dingy bus stop anyway; Eren needed to get back to his apartment before the rain picked up.

He turned his music up to the highest volume, and picked up a light jog uphill. His shoes smacked the damp concrete, his hoodie catching in the slight wind. Eren kept his run light and loose, avoiding eye contact with passersby, trying to hone in on his music more than the crumbling power lines and blaring sirens.

It wasn’t the worst part of town he and Jean lived in, but it was far from the best.

He ran for only about four blocks, and walked the last one, bypassing the cheap drugstore and its nauseating neon lights to get to his apartment complex. It sat like a drab hunk of stone at the end of the block, heavy and sluggish, indomitable against the rain. It didn’t surprise him to discover that the elevator was broken yet again; he could only sigh to himself, taking the stairs up three stories instead.

He supposed he should be grateful he’s in such great shape now that he’s doing the show. The stairclimb wasn’t as difficult as it was just annoying. A few leaps and bounds later, tucking away his earbuds and phone, he made it to the last door on the left side. He jiggled his key into the lock, kicking open the door and calling, “Horseface, I’m home.”

God’s honest truth, they found it downright hilarious they had to hate each other for the show. One of Eren’s favorite things about the script was that it gave him so many new delicious insults to spit in his roommate’s face.

“Oi, take off your shoes, you pig!” Jean shouted from the living space down the hall. “We have a guest!”

The crude comeback that Eren was carefully piecing together fell apart then and there, baffled by this new information. He dropped his shoes in the bin by the door, and went to slide down the hardwood in his socks. He came to a slippery halt, nearly skidding into the TV stand.

Jean chortled at him, making a dumb face around the ice cube clenched between his teeth. He was laid back on the floor, an arm draped over the couch cushions, a filled glass in the other hand. And just beside him, seated with her legs folded leisurely over the couch, the woman smiled kindly at the incomer.

“Hi, Eren!” she greeted, “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Oh my god, no of course not, Mikasa. Hi,” he rambled. “Wait, no, sorry, I should call you by-”

“-No, please, just call me Mikasa. Please, just Mikasa. It’s so much easier this way,” she waved her hand dismissively. The bracelets on her wrist, red and gold, clinked against each other, emitting a delightful little sound. As did the necklace draped around her neck, gold against the warm burgundy tone of her top.

Mikasa took a sip from her drink, a cocktail Jean mixed for her with cheap ingredients that made it too sour. By now, though, the ice had melted substantially and she was able to get it down without making a face, save for the discreet smile she allowed herself, seeing the way Eren bashfully eyed her.

She didn’t blame him - Mikasa herself always found it bizarre seeing her cast members outside of costume and makeup. She could only hope he didn’t think she looked ridiculous, long flared leggings and no makeup besides a thin stroke of eyeliner and an acne patch.

“It is easier, I guess, yeah,” Eren said, tugging off his slightly damp hoodie. “I mean, Jean and I had to, like, train our real names out of each other.”

“What?” Mikasa laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been stuck with this loser since high school,” Jean mumbled, words slurring around the ice cube in his mouth. “We got scared of breaking character. Not that I’d ever break, but.”

Eren rolled his eyes, “Whatever, dipshit. I haven’t broken.”

“No, but you do make up half your lines.”

“I just fucking forget, dude. And I have dyslexia!”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t learn your lines like everyone else,” Jean tutted, fishing his hand through the adjacent Yeti cooler. He dug out an IPA and pointed it to his roommate, saying, “You’re back way early, my dude.”

“I know. I got lucky as hell.”

“I would’ve texted you that Mikasa was here, but I thought she’d be gone by the time you got back. My bad, dude.”

Mikasa looked at him worriedly, “I can leave if–”

“-No, no, please stay!” he exclaimed. He threw gestures at Jean, making it absurdly obvious how inconvenient his long limbs were to climb over. Eren kicked Jean’s long feet aside as he leapt back against the sofa, letting his head sink into the cushion. His head lolled to the side, where Mikasa was looking at him with mild amusement and gentle longing. “Why would you leave?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said in a tone that revealed she did, in fact, know very well. “Sometimes, we just need alone time after a shoot. I know I do, sometimes.”

“Oh,” Eren said, admittedly touched. With a contended grin, he cracked open his can. “No, I swear it was an easy day. I’m not traumatized enough to kick you away yet. Please stay.”

“We haven’t had a guest in so long,” Jean drawled, cupping his glass to his forehead so the perspiration rested on his temple. “It’s, like, why did we invest in bean-bags if we’re never gonna have people over?”

“When the fuck did we invest in bean-bags?” Eren asked, incredulous. “Where are they?”

“In my closet. Haven’t blown them up yet.”

“You’re fucking stupid,” he said, before turning back to the girl at his left. “I’m sorry, Mikasa, we’re being rude.”

She laughed into her hand. “No, this is entertaining. Please, do, go on.”

“Oh, stop. I’m just glad you’re here,” Eren said, taking his first sip. The IPA wasn't cold enough, and frankly, it tasted like the refrigerator. “Honestly, Mikasa? I was just thinking about how crazy it is that you and I - and I mean you and I, specifically -  haven’t spent much time together off-set. Like, we gotta bond. Gotta be Eren and Mikasa.”

“I know! I was thinking the same thing!” she cheered. “You, me, and Armin. We three need to hang out.”

“Yeah. Armin,” he said, taking another sip. “I’m sure he’s nice.”

“Good luck,” Jean snorted. “That guy is, like, so standoffish. I’ve never heard him talk.”

“Obviously he talks,” Mikasa reasoned. She almost pointed out how she thought he just had anxiety, but refrained. She chewed on her lower lip for a minute, before dropping to a sotto voice and saying, “Did you know he skips therapy?”

“Impossible,” Jean groused. “We’re all fucking required.”

“Hm…” Eren mumbled. He sank back against the couch. “Do you guys think all the actors have to take therapy? Or just us fledgelings?”

Mikasa tilted her head, “All, I think. Why?”

Eren took a long, long sip of his IPA then, long enough to make Jean raise his eyebrow in amusement. He pulled the can away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You guys are not going to believe who I saw on the bus.”

With the alcohol working its alleviating wonders, he recounted his brief story of meeting the captain on public transportation - a story that neither of them believed. He took offense to a ludicrous degree, outraged because, for once, he was telling the straight truth without embellishment and they still didn’t believe him. Jean responded to Eren’s petulant rage by spitting his ice out at him, and Mikasa shrieked in surprised laughter. 

From there, the evening stretched on, tantalizing in its wealth of respite, in its luxury among the modest living. Glasses were refilled, cans were opened. Muffled rap music petered in and out beneath the din of the TV, which was kept on despite the fact no one was watching it. Spiked liquid warmed their bellies, or glistened in the rivulets they accidentally spilled. The lights were dimmed, inciting an intensely important sense of secrecy in which they could gossip with excited glee, whispering rushedly through their fingertips about their cast and who probably had a crush on whom. 

Mikasa wasn’t much of a talker, especially not compared to the boys, but she had the eyes of a hardened listener, glossed over with patience and empathy. For any one word, she could really say a thousand. 

Between stories, they’d shuffled places a couple of times, and still hadn’t brought out any bean-bags that they allegedly owned.

Mikasa snorted contentedly, half-lidded eyes looking down at her phone.

“What? You laughin’ at me?” Eren asked snidely.

“What? No,” she mused. “Annie’s just sending me snaps.”

At the moment, Mikasa lay with her head on Eren’s lap, her legs propped up against a wall at a ninety degree angle, a posture she claimed was comfortable though it looked anything but. Jean was snuggled up against Eren’s other side, an arm draped over his roommate’s shoulders affectionately.

“Y’know what I think? Fuck you guys wanting to hang with Armin,” he drawled sluggishly. “I wanna hang out with her. And Reiner. And Bertholdt. Those Marley motherfuckers. I wanna get to know them better, they’re probably cool as hell.”

“Hey, remember now,” Mikasa chided. Though, her scolding sounded much softer and gentler now that she was a little drunk. “We don’t know what Marley is yet. We haven’t filmed the basement scene.”

Eren dug his palm into a dull throb in his forehead. “Jesus, that shoot is going to be crazy.”

Mikasa smirked, “Just wait ‘til season four.”

“No!” Jean practically shrieked. “No, stop it! Tell her, Eren!”

Eren cringed. Jean’s screams were practically in his eardrum. Rubbing his ear, he bashfully turned to face the girl in his lap. “We sort of have a thing. A rule thing,” he half-explained, “We don’t talk about season four.”

“Oh, okay,” she sat straight up, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine! We’ll talk about it once we get there, obviously, but right now, it’s sort of-”

“-I won’t bring it up again, I really am sorry. I get it.”

“Mikasa, it’s fine,” he insisted. “Really.”

“Eren,” she drawled. There was a shine to her eyes.

“…Yes?”

Slowly, with a graceful gingerness that should have been impossible for her hard, muscular body, Mikasa sat up and reached over to the nape of Eren’s neck.

“You have mic tape on your neck,” she said, voice tranquil and full, humming with a sensual tenderness. Her fingernails dug gently into the sensitive skin, so gentle they wouldn’t leave a mark, and plucked at the thin strip of translucent tape. It didn’t hurt at all when she slowly tore it from his skin, her dexterous grip working wonders to cause him as little pain as possible.

His neck tingled when her hand left it, buzzing with the same rapidity as his dizzy brain.

“Mika?”

“Yes, Eren?”

He licked his lips. He took a breath, then forced it out through a tense sigh. He cupped his forehead between his hands, turning away.

Mikasa felt her chest thud. She offered a sad smile, “Oh, babe, did you have too much to drink? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I-” He sighed, dissolving into exhausted laughter. “Mikasa, is it weird to, like, listen to music? For Eren, I mean? For my character?”

“Oh,” she sat up straight, surprised. “No, I don’t think that’s strange. I listen to music for the show, too.”

“You do? I’m not a degenerate art kid weirdo?”

“Well, I never said that,” she shed a sliver of a grin. She thumbed the screen of her phone some more. “Here, I’ll give you my Spotify.”

“Thank you,” Eren said, hiding his excitement when the text notification flashed on his screen.

With a jolt, Jean bumped himself into Eren’s shoulder, blathering, “Aw, shut up and make out already.”

Eren laughed, patting his roommate’s back affectionately. “You’re okay, dude.”

“Shut up. Fuck you. Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” Jean grumbled, before nuzzling his face into the nook of Eren’s neck and mumbling an apologetic, “I love you.”

Mikasa stood from the couch, diffusing her teasing grin, “If you two need some alone time, I think that’s my cue to leave.”

“Ew, Mikasa, he’s just drunk. He’ll go back to hating me in the morning…” he trailed off, watching her crouch down to put on her shoes. “Are you going home?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding sad but still smiling anyway. “It’s pretty late.”

“Do you have far to go? You can stay the night if you want.”

“I swear I’m not that drunk, guys,” she said, standing up again. She couldn’t help but swoon at the way they looked at her, softened by alcohol and brotherly adoration. Part of her felt bad for wanting to go, but logically, she had no reason to stay. She insisted once more that she would be fine, that she would take the metro back uptown and get to her place no problems – to which Jean drunkenly whined that there were “creepy assholes” out there. 

With a well-earned sense of pride, Mikasa beamed and reminded them which role she was playing in the show, that she could fend anyone off no problem, titan or creepy man.

“Fine,” Jean groaned, staggering to his feet. “But at least wear a jacket or something. It’s raining now.”

“I didn’t bring one.”

He haggardly shoved one of his own coats into her chest, and then clumsily fumbled with trying to drape it over her shoulders.

“Text one of us when you get home, okay?” Eren said as he ushered her to the door. 

“Certainly. See you on set tomorrow? I’m called at noon.”

“Us too. G’night. I’ll be expecting that text, young lady.”

“I think I’m older than you,” she said, holding eye contact like it was a gesture of its own, a ghost of an embrace.

Mikasa certainly did have the power of saying a thousand words with one, but that didn’t mean they were always clear, especially not when the man made to listen was already a little buzzed. So Eren stood in his doorway, a little flummoxed, a little too tired to care, while Mikasa waved goodbye. She walked off wearing Jean’s jacket, strides long and relaxed in her wedge shoes. Eren watched until she was gone, the door to the stairwell rattling shut behind her.

It was late. He returned to the apartment to bully Jean into sleeping in his bed, and not on the floor. Eren then made hasty work of blowing out the incense and throwing hand towels over any parts of the floor that were sticky.

He locked himself in the bathroom and ran a shower at the hottest temperature possible—- doing the show, he could afford it now. His portable speaker was kept on the sink under the mirror; he made quick work of connecting Mikasa’s playlist and turning up the volume. He stood under the shower head, hot water scalding his naked skin with sweet, blistering relief, while the music serenaded in.

He was tired. He was so tired. 

His fingers floated up to the spot on the nape of his neck where she touched him. He smiled faintly, the gentle, throaty music of the night humming through his shitty two-dollar shower curtain while the water fell.

Chapter Text

“Well shit, somebody had a fun night.”

Mikasa rolled her eyes, “Sasha…”

“No, no, no, look this way. You can’t look away. You’ll mess it up,” the blonde woman before her tutted, gripping Mikasa by the chin. Her fingers were small and slim, yet impossibly strong. With laser focus, Annie went on dabbing the red paint across Mikasa’s cheek, bringing the makeup illusion to life.

Historia peered at Mikasa from over Annie’s shoulder, a devilishly teasing glint in her eyes. “She’s right, you know,” she sang, “I know that look when I see it.”

“Historia,” she sighed.

It was half an hour until their first shoot, and Mikasa was with a small group in her dressing room, Dressing Room C. They had made a little home for themselves among the hideously bright makeup lights and the walls of resplendent mirrors; each actress had a station of her own, adorned with small decorations, family photographs, or other homely ornaments. Mikasa, for instance, kept Polaroids of her family and friends, while Sasha had a miniature Pac-Man machine squeezed into her corner.

“Well, when I’m hungover-” punctuated Sasha from the opposite dressing table. Her station was located in the far corner of the room, a place specifically selected for its near-Siberean isolation where she could stash her crates of snacks and her Pac-Man machine in peace. 

Even being so far away, Sasha successfully maintained her impulsive habit of passionately butting into other conversations at whim. Sasha’s intrusions, though overt and occasionally overwhelming, were never rude. She had a way of chipping in that only exacerbated how much she cared, no matter how intimate the conversation maybe should have been.

That didn’t make her intrusions any less obnoxious, though. 

She forked through her massive salad bowl, chewing from the corner of her mouth as she continued, “-When I’m hungover I always like to go one of those breakfast buffet places where you can get, like, two plates for fifteen bucks and-”

“-Ladies, ladies,” Mikasa squirmed in her makeup stool. “I am not hungover. I just have a little headache.”

“Yeah, hon, that’s called a hangover,” Historia gave her a sympathetic look. “You okay?”

Sasha made a face at her through the mirror, “So she did have a fun night.”

“I’m willing to bet she didn’t,” Annie frowned. “She went to Jean and Eren’s last night.”

By the walls, the squeals they emitted made Mikasa shrink back into her stool. At times, it was embarrassing just how cliché they were, giddy and gabby in the girls’ dressing room.

“Ladies,” she insisted, shirking back when their volume made her head throb. “Jean just asked me to bulk up their alcohol supply. Neither of them are twenty-one and Eren almost got busted with his fake last week.”

“For the love of god, Mikasa, quit talking. Do you want this scar to look sexy or not?” Annie was practically hissing, digging her nails into the sides of Mikasa’s face to keep her still.

“But then you stayed over, right? What were they like?” Historia asked, swiveling around in her chair a little. She was so small only the tips of her toes grazed the floor, a poor attempt to swivel her seat.

Like a hound dog harkened by the call to play, Sasha came running to Historia’s side. She started to spin her around in the swivel chair, starting slow but getting faster with each spin.

Historia, a professional gossiper, didn’t let the increasingly frenetic whirls deter her from pressing further; “When I heard they were roommates, I honestly didn’t believe it at first. If they’re anything like the real Eren and Jean, I would’ve thought they’d torn each other to pieces by now! Do they secretly love each other, Mikasa? You have to tell me everything.”

“I didn’t stay the night. And they really do fight like their characters in the show. Although, Jean did tell Eren he loves him, but-”

“-Did he!?”

There was a tentative knock at the door just then, which was admittedly strange for a place like this. Normally people would just barge right in, agenda in hand, headset over ears, and bark orders at them.

“Come on, goddamn it!” Sasha called without looking back at the door, her focus terminally fixed on the girl in the spinny chair. “Historia, you better hold on, I’m gonna make you hit 5-Gs.”

“That sounds kind of dirty. You should- Woah!” she exclaimed, head hitting the back of the chair as Sasha whirled her around even faster, long ribbons of blonde hair billowing every which way.

Annie rolled her eyes, while Mikasa watched them with unabashed relish. There was a sharp tug in her chest. Mikasa felt herself crooning with something tender, something that almost felt maternal . 

She couldn’t articulate it, but she was so enormously grateful for moments like these, moments when small joys spontaneously sprung in the air. These flings of celebration, although trivial, were small triumphs in her eyes. They were ways of taking back their lives, proving that the solemnity of the script couldn’t overcome them.

Because it was hard. This script, this story, it was hard. It was enough to keep a person up at night, twisting and turning in sweat-ridden sheets over atrocities that hadn’t even happened, over tragedies that would never really reach them. Mikasa would know.

And yet, here they were, still laughing, despite it all.

Annie hesitated, her hands frozen around Mikasa’s face. “Shit, I’m sorry. Am I gripping you too hard?”

“No. Why?”

“Sorry, you just- You’re flushing a little,” Annie said, before her scowl softened to a look of understanding. “That’s fine. As long as I’m not hurting you.”

There was a knock at the door again, still hesitant but a little louder. This time, it opened a fraction of an inch, waiting for some kind of invitation before proceeding.

“Come in!” Sasha cried again. “But beware of flying princesses!”

“That’s Queen, you dolt!”

Eventually, the door pushed open just enough for the lithe body to slip through, and finally, it was clear why there was hesitancy.

Mikasa couldn’t help the sappy way she looked at the incomer, her hand stretched out to him as if lifted by a string, effortless and inviting. “Hey, come on in.” 

Annie’s back was towards the door. Unbothered and unmoving, she asked, “What, is it a man or something?”

“It’s only Armin,” Mikasa said, before addressing the newcomer; “Please don’t mind Historia and Sasha. Ladies, let him through.”

Finally, the spinning came slowed to a halt, Historia’s legs dangling over the chair’s arm, her head lolling back the other side, dizzy but content. Almost blissful. She laughed breathlessly, eyes closed, while Sasha panted at her side, her hand clasped over the back of the chair like a hunter pridefully brandishing his kill.

Armin eyed them nervously, having barely stepped more than a foot into the dressing room.

Sasha panted at him eagerly, nostrils flaring. “Bet the boys’ dressing room doesn’t see action like that, huh, Armin?”

The blonde shrugged with one shoulder. He was holding a beverage between both hands, steaming hot by the looks of it, with not a single drop spilled.

“I’m indecent,” Sasha blurted out, unblinking, drawing unnecessary attention to the fact she wore only undergarments on her bottom half, black and tight against her muscular thighs.

Armin covered his eyes, flinching not with fear but with instinctual respect. Eyes cast downward, he made a move to leave, but Mikasa summoned him back.

“Don’t go, Armin. Sasha really doesn’t mind, she’s just being silly,” she insisted.

“Me?” the woman mock-gasped. “Silly? Inconceivable.”

Mikasa ignored her. “Did you need something, Armin?”

Skirting the edge of the dressing room, keeping his eyes low, Armin padded over to their table. He gave a courteous nod to Annie, who had since ceased trifling with the scar makeup. She tried to catch his eye, but Armin hadn't lifted his head. From the angle of his craned neck and the upright poise of his shoulders, it was difficult to discern if his eye contact avoidance was intentional; Armin’s body language was impossible to pick apart off-set.

With a quaint, watery smile that blurred behind the steam of drink, Armin slipped a cup and saucer into Mikasa’s receiving, albeit surprised, hands. She sat there for a moment, letting the scent of clove and chamomile waft over her in gentle waves.

“Thank you,” she said, without asking what it was. She blew on the beverage a few times, scattering rivulets of steam. Then she took a tentative sip, and immediately her face flushed with a honey glow, and she took a second, much heartier, drink.

Annie quirked a brow, “That good?”

“Amazing!” she said, holding out the cup and saucer. “Here, have some!”

Mikasa passed off the tea and immediately went to thank Armin, but only saw an empty space where he once stood. She glanced around the dressing room, seeing the door close behind Armin’s silent exit.

“Woah, that’s-” Annie looked flabbergasted, her eyebrows comically high. “Yeah, that’s really good.”

“And my headache’s gone,” Mikasa realized, her hand cupping her forehead, already feeling so much lighter. “How did he know?”

Annie pursed her lips. “His is a brain I’d like to pick apart.”

“I see what he’s doing,” Historia called from her chair. Her clothes were rumpled from all the roughhousing, her shirt sliding up her abs. And still, as always, she was beautiful. There was an everlasting genteel grace about her that even dishevelment couldn’t deface. Mikasa was certain that even if Historia was subjected to the tar and feathers treatment, she would somehow still emerge resembling a goddess, imperial and majestic in her feathered adornments. She was practically made to play this role.

As if she could read Mikasa’s mind just then, Historia swept a loose strand of hair away from her face, her blonde locks knotted in a beautiful mess. “He’s acting like my character from the first few episodes,” she said, “Back when she was Krista. Doing favors and stuff. Trying to convince everyone she was a good person.”

“That’s not what Armin’s doing at all,” Annie returned with a slight bristle.

The girl’s reaction was subtle enough that only Mikasa caught onto its callousness.

Sasha blew air through her lips. “It’s not that deep, sis. Armin’s just a girl’s girl.”

“Please, Sasha. Historia should know better than all of us what it means to be a girl’s girl.”

Historia flushed just then, and Sasha gurgled into laughter.

Gasping with excitement Mikasa turned around in her stool, the cup of tea tight in her hands. “That’s right, Historia. You and Ymir! How is that going?”

Historia looked to the left, haphazardly returning with: “How is what going?”

Mikasa shrugged, feigning innocence. “I’m asking you.”

They were both professional actresses, masters at silences and tense eye contact. They could have held this posture forever if they wanted.

Sasha groaned, slugging herself up to her feet. “We gotta be on set in, like, ten minutes. I gotta do my PSP. Sayonara, bitches.”

The girl was right, they had better finish dressing into their costumes. Some of their cast mates were likely already on set.

“PSP?” Annie asked warily, catching Mikasa’s gaze in the mirror.

Mikasa willed herself not to giggle. The last thing Sasha needed was her encouragement.

“Pre-shoot poop,” she explained, “Sasha likes talking about her bowel movements.”

“It’s an optimum indicator of health!” came her distant shout from the adjacent bathroom.

Annie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Mikasa allowed herself to smile, taking another sip of the tea, basking in the warmth it gave her. She tried catching Historia’s eye in the mirror, but the girl was getting dressed into costume, eyes down.

“Okay, not to be that guy, but where are all the girls?” Connie asked, looking around the set worriedly.

“Thank god somebody said it before I did,” Eren laughed. He looked around the rooftop set, taking in the rows of red tiles. 

The construction team had outdone themselves this time, fortifying a monumental convention of the fictional landscape. The rooftops were sturdy and robust, but not without charm. And anything that the set lacked, the editors would make up for in post-editing, thanks in part to the massive green screen walls that flanked their every side. 

They were still setting up. Gaffers crouched low to the ground as they marked aisles and pathways on the black hardwood floor, or walked by with their clanking rings of keys. A pair of engineers huddled around the dolly apparatus, lubricating a wheel that had broken the week before. All around, the film crew lingered by their cameras, waiting for their next instruction. 

And just behind the westernmost camera, Eren saw the shine of grey hair and horse-face he’s grown to know so well. With a whistle, he beckoned his friend over, stifling his urge to snicker at him as Jean approached.

“Hey horse-shit,” Eren greeted sweetly. “How bad are you? You good?”

“I know it breaks your heart to hear this because you’re a sadist, but I’m actually feeling much better,” Jean said, almost daringly. “Armin made me this, like, juice thing.”

“It was tea, Jean,” Mikasa said as she walked on-set. A trail of girls clambered after her, having sprinted and frolicked all the way from their dressing room. In height, she wasn’t the tallest, but the way she carried herself, confident and imposing, made her stand out with august regality. Especially as she advanced to Jean and Eren, stepping into a pool of light from an overhead spot, Mikasa was fiercely heroic, and simultaneously majestic.

“You’re so pretty,” Eren said immediately.

“I’m sorry?” she asked. She hadn’t heard.

“The set. It’s so pretty,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the assembly of adjacent rooftops. Red-tiled roofs, slanted roofs, and flat roofs for running on, the actors stood in a shambolic, half-built city. It was equal parts disconcerting and exciting, walking through a space where only the top halves of buildings existed, where random cords and wires dangled from the gridded ceiling, encasing them in a strange jungle.

The other cadets were getting a kick out of it, too. That much was evident. They ran up and down the slanted rooftops, pretending to be “warming up” when really, they were sporting and romping around their new playground. Their smiles were bright against the green screen, its vibrant glow making their grins almost devilish.

“Did you listen to my playlist?” Mikasa asked, catching Eren’s eye.

“Oh. Yeah. I did,” he said, feeling embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t identify. “I didn’t finish it, though. I was going to listen to the rest of it tonight.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s pretty long…” Mikasa said humbly.

Eren didn’t miss the way she hesitantly glanced away, holding herself back from a question that was clearly tingling at the tip of her tongue, now concealed behind firmly pressed lips and the fabric of the red scarf.

“Thanks for letting me know when you got home last night,” Eren said, unwilling to let their conversation peter out so soon.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” she said. It was subtle, but she was doing that thing again where her sentences were becoming shorter and more clipped, despite the fact her eyes were gleaming with more.

“I, um, I live pretty close, actually,” Mikasa said. “It didn’t take me long.”

“No shit?” Eren smiled. “That’s great. Means we can hang out more.”

He saw it now, the way she smiled behind the scarf, and finally, he was content.

Soon enough, one of the director’s assistants was striding right past them. He mounted the center of the rooftop, clipboard in hand and headset draped over his shoulders. He was calling for everyone to be quiet, to pay attention, and to not fuck up the set. “We just finished it, for crying out loud,” he grumbled. 

His finger drifted down the long list of to-do’s on his clipboard. With an aggravated sigh, he spoke up again. “Alright, first thing’s first. Safety walk. Do we have any volunteers to do the saf-”

The cadets shrieked in discordant, delighted unison, beaming ambitiously once they saw just who was raising their hand. 

“Of course,” the director’s assistant muttered. He waved his hand accordingly. “Well, you’ve done it before. You know the drill, Commander. Do the safety walk and bring everyone back in three minutes. We’ll do our take-one from there.”

Though he lowered his palm back down to his side, Erwin Smith still maintained his imperious esteem. Significantly taller, stronger, not to mention older, than all of them, Erwin was the regnant patriarch of them all. A supremely emphatic actor who conquered his domineering role with vigor and resilience, once the camera turned off, he was as harmless as anyone could be. Showering his young cast-mates in praises and compliments, cracking jokes good and bad whenever the mood got too heavy on-set, and partaking in their egregious antics whenever possible, the man had grown into being a true luminary for his young peers.

Erwin was their god. He gave them attention and they, in turn, exalted him in idolatry. He could crush them, any one of them, like a bug between his fingers, if he wanted. And yet he chose, instead, to play with them. To go along with their games. They melted to the floor when he gave them compliments, and nodded their heads vigorously anytime he pulled them aside to instruct some pointed acting tips.

Levi often caught himself watching over exchanges like this from a distance. Not just watching over, brooding over.

“Alright cadets,” Erwin announced with a preposterous degree of entitlement. “Fire exits are this way, and this way. If you’d follow me, I’ll show you we have first aid kits located here, here, and–”

Levi almost growled in his throat, sickened by the way the young actors ogled at their commander. It was a speech they’d heard a thousand times by now; they all probably knew it better than they knew their own lines. But still they stood weak-kneed and wide-eyed, nearly salivating with infantile reverence, because Erwin was the one repeating it.

Levi clenched his jaw. He never liked it. And no matter how many times they did the safety speech, he would never get used to it. 

Didn’t these kids have parents they could go home to? Granted, one’s age was merely a suggestion in the industry, especially for actors. But surely they were all still young enough they could milk attention and support from their coddling, overprotective, snot and spit wiping mothers and fathers.

But, no. Instead, they were here. With adults profiting off their suffering.

“-nly smoke in designated areas, and never in costume. And finally, when in danger, what do we call?”

He asked it with the tone of an actor from a children’s television show, overindulgent and grossly enthusiastic.

And the cadets loved it. 

It was asinine. It was stupid. But they loved it.

“Hold!” they answered in rollicking unison, a bunch of schoolchildren fawning over their master.

“Safety walk done?” the assistant director swooped on. “Great. Levi, get over here with everyone else. We’re going to start soon. Quiet on set, here’s the agenda.”

It was going to be a “work day” more than a film day. Today they were testing out various movements on their freshly engineered ODM gear. From fine, orchestrated movements to flying suspended in the air, they were practicing all ODM choreography today under the careful eyes of choreographers and standby medics.

“Thank god,” Connie whispered in Jean and Sasha’s ears. “Because I did not memorize my lines yet.”

They were given permission to change back into their own clothes if they wanted, to which Annie became devastated over all the time she spent on Mikasa’s scar makeup. Mikasa just patted her back affectionately, and everyone got to work.

Playing with the ODM gear was fun. A simple, juvenile phrase to describe what was truly a superlative engineering feat. Each belt was custom fit for each actor, taking into account their heights and weights, and the reel cases and canisters were unparalleled in their mastery. The gear wasn’t designed to make them zip through the skies – they had special harnesses for that, ones that would be removed from the screen post-editing – but the pristine, sleek design of the gear, in addition to the powerful weight it left sitting on the actors’ waists, made flying feel unequivocally achievable.

For some of them, at least. Mikasa figured out the ODM gear and harness situation right away, gliding through the skies with an awe-inspiring ease. And, of course, Captain Levi had no trouble at all. Eren and his small posse watched, tight-lipped, as the man performed every step of the choreography, every gesticulation and posture from trivial to grand, with the efficacy of a fish in water, or a bird in the sky. His mastery was infuriating, frankly, because he seemed so utterly apathetic about it. Eren curled his lips in disgust, watching Levi boredly remove his harness and walk away afterwards, as if he hadn’t just accomplished the most impressive physical performance they all had ever seen.

For himself, Eren was struggling a little bit. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he guessed this was appropriate, knowing Eren in the script had trouble at first, too. But his quick-tempered frustration blinded him to that rationality. He clenched his fists, biting down on his tongue as he wiggled in the harness, flopping around midair in a feeble attempt to stabilize himself.

Mikasa was in the harness next to him. Flawless, as usual. But when he looked at her, she seemed almost self conscious of her mastery, looking down and wrapping her arms around herself.

“So how did you manage to figure it out?” he practically spat at her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. Easily, gracefully, she rocked herself back and forth in the harness, as if trying to unbalance herself.

Eren gritted his teeth, “That doesn’t help me.”

“Do you want help?” she asked, concerned.

Ymir, in the harness next to them, pointed with her foot. “Why don’t you ask kid prodigy down there?”

“Huh?”

Armin was on his feet on the ground beneath him, looking up with a pleading look and folded hands. Armin had barely finished any of the exercises before he was called down from the harness and told to take a long break, that his gear was the wrong size and needed immediate readjustment.

“Nah,” Eren said grimly. “He doesn’t know.”

“But he’s-”

“He hasn’t been practicing this whole time. He’s just sitting there. And I’m here busting my ass trying to figure this out,” he sighed, sinking back into the harness. With his head slumped forward, his entire body went with it, and he hung at an awkward lean.

“Do you want me to get Erwin?” asked Mikasa next to him.

“No…” Eren sighed.

Mikasa bit her lower lip, brows knitted. “It- … Would you be offended if I offered advice?”

“Oh my fucking god, no, not at all. Please, Mikasa, I’m begging you.”

“Okay, okay calm down! Start with that, start with calming down,” she said, taking a breath. “When you’re ready, try lowering your center of gravity.”

“My what?”

“Your pelvis,” Mikasa said, patting the area on her own body to demonstrate. “Your pelvis and your lower abdomen. Try shifting your weight to that part of your body.”

“What’s that gonna do?”

“Stabilize you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, no, but…”

“How do I do that, though? How do I even…”

“Oh, I don’t know how to explain it…”

“You’re a guy, Eren,” Ymir rolled her eyes. Her tone was harsh, but her expression revealed nothing but boredom. “You should know how to shift your weight down there.”

“Into my pelvis? I… Wait… Oh… Oh! Wait! Mikasa! I think I got it!”

Mikasa offered a plaintive half-smile, but the joy in her eyes was imminent. “See? You’re doing great.”

“Mikasa, this is awesome! I totally got it!” he shrieked. “Thank you!”

“Jesus fucking Chriiiist,” came the belabored groan of Jean in the adjacent harness. Long limbed and gangling, he kept grabbing onto the wires for support, which only threw off his balance further. He gave Eren a queasy look and muttered, “This belt is cutting into my underwear, dude. I’m gonna be so chafed by the time we’re done.”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Eren laughed. “You’re disgusting.”

The thin shine of worry in Mikasa’s eyes hadn’t gone away. “Jean, maybe you’re not supposed to be touching the-”

There was a snap, and the next thing they knew, Jean Kirstein was hanging upside down. Someone below scuttled off to get help while Jean spouted and sputtered curses, but Eren just laughed, breaking into wheezes and screaming for someone to take pictures.

Together, Connie and Marco figured out a way to dance in the ODM gear. By then, there was no going back. All seriousness about the craft had gone flying out the window in a blaze of fire and furor; it was all shenanigans from then on out. They danced in pairs, teaching others as they went along, learning to spin and soar through the sky in convivial displays.

Tomfoolery of this degree was very seldom encouraged, much less even allowed on professional sets. It barely even felt like work, with all the clowning and cavorting. Eren remembered overhearing something Levi and Erwin were talking about in the hallway one day, something about the directors intentionally permitting them to mess around, wanting to preserve the innocence among the cadets. Eren wasn’t sure if he heard them correctly, really he only heard them in passing, but he had no qualms in believing it was true. He and his friends had been horsing around and roughhousing with the ODM gear all day, and only gaining the maneuvering skill as a consequence.

“Cadets,” Erwin said eventually, after a long day’s work of spinning and dancing around. By then, they’d all been stripped down from their harnesses, sprawled around the set, on boxes and under snack tables, guzzling their water bottles and fanning their faces with their scripts.

Erwin’s voice was rich and full from years of professional vocal training, and serenaded the set without missing a beat; “There is one more item on the agenda that is imperative to discuss. I’m afraid it’s of utmost significance.”

They stilled, hanging onto his every word. Even Sasha ceased chewing her bagel.

“Cadet Springer.”

They all watched the color drain from Connie’s face.

The corner of Erwin’s mouth ticked up just a fraction. “Happy birthday, Connie.”

The hollers and jeers muted the sigh of relief that escaped Connie’s pale lips, the terror-stricken actor practically shaking with release. 

“T-Thank you, Commander. Thanks, guys,” he said, laughing as Sasha squeezed him by both shoulders, shaking him riotously. “I- Sasha, cut it out, I’m trying to say something! Everyone, I- Sasha, seriously, cut it out. I brought some cake, everyone! It’s in the green room. Help yourself, everyone except for Sasha.”

Someone wheeled the boxed cake out on a tray, as well as forks, plates, napkins, the works. They were allowed to eat on set on the condition their costumes were kept pristinely clean. It was like a picnic on the rooftops, setting up their square napkins and plastic plates, some of them procuring folding chairs and others sprawling out over the floor.

The birthday boy stood by the coffee pot - the singular unerring constant in this place; cast and crew alike guzzled coffee down by the gallon. Connie laughed at something Jean said, making a face when Sasha pinched his cheeks.

“Wow, someone’s a proud mom. Good job, Sasha,” Eren said, approaching them.

“Thanks,” she beamed. “I’m really proud of him!”

“Cut it out already!” Connie groaned, before shaking his head. “Hi, Eren.”

“Hey Connie,” he said, wrapping him into a side hug. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry you have to work on your birthday.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, returning the hug. “Honestly? I’m not bummed at all. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now.”

“You old sap,” Jean smirked. “If you had any hair, I would ruffle it. Caillou-lookin’ ass.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m just saying. I don’t do anything these days besides film,” Connie said. “Here, Eren. Snatch some cake before Sasha weasels it all.”

“Thank you,” he said, receiving the plate as it was handed over. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was probably well past lunch time by now. He gave Connie another word of affection or two, before he broke away from the small crowd, trying to find a quiet place to eat.

Suddenly, Eren stilled, the plastic fork going rigid in his hand.

He felt someone’s eyes on him.

It was a skill he’d heard about but had never experienced for himself before taking this role, the ability to know when one was watching you. Playing a character whose very survival hinged on instinct taught him, whether he liked it or not, to be vigilant, resolute, and always afraid.

Slowly willing himself to turn, Eren looked over his shoulder to discover the captain crouching in the near distance. He sat on a road box, slump-shouldered and menacing, his eyes boring a torrid, relentless hole through anything that moved in his field of vision.

Eren glanced down at the plate and fork in his hands, the cake untouched. He started moving.

A hand caught his shoulder.

“Commander,” Eren said, looking up to meet Erwin’s eyes.

“Where are you going, soldier?”

“I was going to bring the captain some cake.”

Erwin smiled at him. His mouth hadn’t moved a muscle, still firm in an impervious frown, but with his eyes, the resplendent smile shone through. “Oh. Yes. I see.”

Eren hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s a very generous gesture, Eren, but I’m afraid Captain Levi won’t appreciate the notion.” He kept his hand on the center of the cadet’s upper back, steering him around and walking him back towards the group. “It’s best to let him be.”

The teen looked down at the cake in his hands. “You know him, right? Like, outside of the show? You knew him from before?”

Was he always like this? Eren needed to know. And why did the captain seem to hate him so vehemently? Is he like that with everyone, or did Eren do something wrong?

“Yes. I knew him,” was all Erwin said. His tone indicated he wasn’t going to elaborate, and Eren didn’t push his luck inquiring further

With the commander’s stern encouragement, Eren rejoined the group of soldiers. He laughed at something Sasha said, eventually coming to ignore the captain’s eyes on the back of his neck. He ate his cake and made faces for his friends’ selfies and did everything a young man on the brink of stardom should do when he was supposed to be happy, celebrating the carousal before him and turning his back on all that he didn’t know.

Chapter Text

“You know what, Eren? It’s okay.”

“ … excuse me?”

“It’s okay. It happens, don’t get upset over it,” came the disembodied voice from the gaping void. “You’re dismissed for the day.”

Perturbed beyond discomfiture, Eren was left gaping into the blank space before him. Confounding, disquieting feelings crawled up his arms and legs, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck as he stared at the dreadful penumbra. “The fourth wall,” it was called. The space beyond the three-walled set piece. The space where the light panels couldn’t reach, and only the ghostly slivers of camera lenses shined their secret reflections.

The filmmakers’ side of the studio always disturbed Eren when he was on set and in costume. It was an abyssal void, daunting and horrid to behold. Sometimes he would accidentally glance in the fourth wall’s direction mid-shoot, and the sight would always make him stop and shudder. It just didn’t seem right. A cleave through his reality. The space was a severance from the entire world he had learned to exist within— Eren’s world.

And now he stood, peering timidly into the void. His hand was wet with fake blood, tremoring at his side. The fourth wall was so black, so dark, he couldn’t see at all who had spoken to. There were eyes on him, he knew that for certain, but there was no telling how many.

“I don’t understand,” Eren stammered out. “I’m scheduled ‘til nine.”

“It’s fine, Eren. You can stay in the studio if you want, just get off the set.”

“No, but wait!” he called, desperately grasping to see something, anything, in the black void before him. “I still don’t get it! Am I doing something wrong? Tell me if I am. I can fix it! I want to do this shoot!”

“We all have off-days, Eren, it’s fine,” the voice said, tense with irritation. “ But please leave the space. We’ve already run over-schedule and we need to strike for our next shoot.”

Another person-shaped shadow gave a whistle. “And Eren. If you see Mikasa in the hall, send her in, will you?”

“Okay, but–” 

He saw the gleams of their eyes, and nothing more, leering back at him through the nebulous darkness. He swallowed hard.

He wanted to protest, wanted to bare his teeth and send his fists flying with the same kill all titans energy he’s sharpened and suffered through these last several weeks. His body was already flushed with adrenaline, skin slick with sweat and makeup that was now starting to clump. He was fervid, zealous. He was ready to do more, to conquer more. He’d toiled on this shoot all day, getting more and more flushed with frustration with every hasty call for a retake, and now, suddenly, it was all cut short. It was like pressure building up inside of a balloon, only to unexpectedly pop too soon, leaving fragmented pieces behind.

Biting back a colorful swear, Eren drew himself away. He barged out the swinging double doors, storming straight for the lounge area.

Mikasa was there, standing like she’d been waiting for him. He moved so fast he failed to see the sparkle in her eyes as she came skipping forward, “Eren, I-”

“-Studio B,” he said. “They’re ready for you.”

He was already stalking off, not hanging around long enough to hear her defeated “‘kay, thanks.” Hands balling into fists inside his pockets, Eren went maundering down the hall with his head low.

He was forced to stop short, though, when a blur went whizzing just past his face.

He broke into a defensive stance (yet another reflex that the script drilled into his body.)

But it was only Jean and Marco, tossing a ball back and forth.

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a leader. Don’t say that again,” Jean said, before tossing the round, red ball over Eren’s head.

Marco, positioned at the other side of the hall, caught it effortlessly. “I hope you don’t get mad when I say this,” he started, “But you aren’t a strong person. You feel what the weak feel.”

He tossed the ball back, and Jean snatched it from the air with one hand.

“Nada, Marco. Try again,” Jean said, tossing the ball back.

“What?” Marco frowned. “What’s the line?”

“So you can relate to what the weak feel.”

“Aw, so close,” Marco whined. He noticed Eren, caught awkwardly in the middle of their ball game. “Hey buddy! Sorry, we’re practicing our lines. Did you finish your shoot already?”

Jean frowned from where he stood at the other end of the hall. “Is your hand bleeding, Eren?”

“Oh. No, it’s just makeup,” Eren said. “We were supposed to film that bit where Eren’s in the well and fails to summon the attack titan.”

“Supposed to?”

It was only now Eren recognized just how busy the hallway was. Sprawled out across the narrow space, making sitting-places were there shouldn’t be any, almost all of the cadets were there. Reiner and Ymir sat knee to knee, sharing a single script between the two of them. Historia sat in a director’s folding chair while Annie stood behind, braiding long, blonde locks. Connie lay on the floor with his legs propped up on the wall, while Sasha was at his side – unsurprisingly– eating.

He looked away, realizing he was making a scene. They were glancing up at him now, each having broken apart from their various tasks.

“S-Sorry,” he hissed, fists clenching at his side. His body was rattling, searing with the instinct to move. “I should go, I didn’t- Sorry, guys, I’m gonna-”

“-Eren,” Annie said, starting to move towards him.

“Slow down there, hot stuff,” Jean said, swerving to intercede Eren’s path. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he hissed, making Jean flinch and shrink back.

“Dude, I’m on your side.”

“Yeah, there’s no need to go. Why are you leaving?” Marco implored softly, palms open. “What’s the matter, Eren? We can help.”

There were murmurs of agreement from his cohort, their attention bracketed on him insufferably.

“It’s fine,” he said, unable to look any of them in the eye. “I’m just- We didn’t finish my shoot today, so I’m going home in a bit.”

“That scene was supposed to be done hours ago,” Jean said, glancing at his watch.

“Yeah, Jean, I got it. Thanks,” Eren sneered. “It was just a hard shoot today, we ran over schedule.”

“Why are you having a hard time?” Marco asked. It was a rather invasive question, one that curtailed the edge of abrasiveness; had anyone else asked it, Eren might have been offended. 

But Marco was as sincere as they come. The wide-eyed wonder kid, they called him. Plucked from a small commune in the isolated countryside, the casting director fought tooth and nail to have him in the production after seeing him act, just once, in the commune’s yearly Easter play.

And now Marco was looking at him so softly, waiting patiently for his response. Just looking at him, the anger pinching Eren’s joints fizzled out, his limbs going slack at his sides. 

“I just… don’t get it,” he admitted, feeling the sting of embarrassment. “Like, the director was giving me all these notes, talking about stuff that we haven’t even filmed yet, and it just- it pissed me off.”

“Can you give an example?”

“Like, he made a lot of references to the cadets’ training. Erwin’s speech. All that. We haven’t even filmed that stuff.”

“Of course not,” Ymir sighed tiredly. “Those scenes require more than a hundred extras to play the other cadets. That’s scheduled for next month.”

“But we haven’t filmed it yet, that’s the problem! How am I supposed to grasp at whatever fucking experiences the guy tells me, when I haven’t lived them yet?”

Reiner glanced up from his script, his stare firm but understanding, “Is this your first time doing film, Eren?”

“Yep. My guy’s a film virgin,” Jean said, slinging his arm over Eren’s shoulders and pulling him into his side, much to his roommate’s childish discontent.

A knowing murmur hummed through the cadets. Connie looked at him upside down, still sprawled on the floor. “So what were you doing before this? Lemme guess. Theatre?”

Sasha guffawed, “Oh my god, of course you’re a theatre kid. Makes so much sense now!”

“I’m not a- You guys don’t even- Ugh!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands while Jean jostled his shoulders. 

“It just fucking frustrates me,” Eren seethed. “When I work on a play or some shit, we spend months in rehearsal to figure shit out. Here, all our scenes are jumbled out of order, and we go so fucking fast I don’t have time to process anything. I’m not used to it, it pisses me off!”

Marco looked at him softly. “Why does it piss you off?”

Eren gnashed his teeth. “Marco…”

“I’m asking you. Why does it piss you off?”

“Because I want to do well!”  he said firmly. “This is the most challenging role I’ve ever been cast in, and I want to do a good fucking job. But I just don’t get it…”

Marco nodded. “How does it make you feel, really?”

“Fucking stupid,” Eren admitted, his ears going red.

“Aw, Eren…”

A beat of silence followed. What felt like an eternity of humiliation for Eren was really nothing more than a moment of deep sympathy shared by his friends, glancing around at one another, pining for some way they could help.

“I have an idea.” Historia leapt up from her seat, half-done braids slipping loose. Annie opened her mouth to protest, but Historia was already assuming her role as queen, rolling up her sleeves and standing center to draw in everyone’s attention.

“Why don’t we make a map?” she suggested.

“A map?” Connie blinked. “Like, of the studio? Or?”

“I’m saying we should take pen and paper and draw out the plot, scene to scene, moment to moment. Make a cohesive timeline for ourselves.”

“That sounds like a lot,” Connie whined.

Eren sighed, shoulders crumbling. “Historia, that’s sweet, but don’t baby me. I’ll figure it out.”

“No, wait,” Ymir interjected, stepping forward. “It would help me, too. I was never given the full script. I get so confused in all this nonsense.”

“I want to do it too!” Marco beamed. The pitch of his voice pinched up with excitement. “Historia, that’s a really good idea. We can all get on the same page.”

He looked around him eagerly, as their small group of ragtag actors started disentangling from their precarious sitting positions, jumping up to their feet. They were clearing a space on the hallway floor, pushing boxes out of the way, folding up a side table, and stowing away their personal belongings. Sasha came running by with a push broom, and then, laughing in boisterous gurgles to himself, Connie went racing after her with a dustpan.

Marco’s heart weakened just a bit, seeing the uneasy, standoffish way Eren took in all the commotion.

Marco came up to Eren’s side and squeezed his arm affectionately. “Hey, we’re doing this for everyone’s sake, okay? I’m sorry if I made you feel singled out.”

He sighed. “You didn’t.”

“Good, I’m glad,” he said. “No pressure, Eren, but would you be interested in helping? I know I would really benefit from your perspective on the Trost arc.”

Something flickered in Eren’s sharp green eyes just then. A call to action. A spark of purpose.

“I’ll help.” He broke from Marco’s hold, racing to scoop up a paper from the ground. “I have so many opinions on Trost!”

“Of course he does,” Jean made an attempt to roll his eyes, but Marco caught the way they flicked back to him, watching his roommate scamper off with an adulation that was almost brotherly.

Jean caught him starting just then, and flinched, as if caught in some horrible act. But Marco only smiled brightly, wrapping Jean into a hug, full-bodied and guileless.

He had always been physically affectionate with people, with anyone and everyone, really. It was a childhood habit his parents always told him he would grow out of, but never did— the first of the very few times he’s disobeyed his parents in his entire lifetime.

They had warned him before he left, as they stood in long lines in the airport, preparing to send him off for the first time. People are different in the city, they warned him. Don’t be so friendly, they’ll take advantage of you, they said, double-checking the terminal listed on his flight ticket, tying the luggage tag around his single and only bag. Walk with your head down when you cross the street. Don’t give out money to the homeless, no matter how much you want to. Don’t smile at strangers. 

Marco has been here half a year now, living in a comfortable luxury apartment provided in full by the production studio, meals and utilities included. Six months of living in the city, and he had yet to actually adhere to any of the rules his parents gave him. He smiled at the baristas when they fixed his morning coffee, and he always carried change in his pocket to drop off to people on the streets.

Best of all, though, he smiled at every stranger he met; he reasoned that any stranger could be a soulmate he simply hasn’t met yet. How else could he have grown so devoutly close to his ensemble? They were all strangers before he welcomed them into his heart, and vice versa. 

Jean stood stiff in Marco’s arms. He looked muddled, and honestly, somewhat startled, his eyes foggy with the milky daze of confusion.

Marco held onto the hug. Give it time, he told himself.

Jean slowly, subtly, sank his head into the crook of Marco’s shoulder. He let himself rest there, closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath. Together they relaxed into the sigh, their sides pressing against one another. 

They were exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. This was not an easy job. This was not an easy world.

“Thanks, Marco,” he croaked out. The pain in his voice revealed just how much he needed that hug.

Marco beamed. “Do you want to help make the map?”

“Yeah,” Jean broke away, discreetly wiping his eyes. “Yeah, I do.”

In various exclamations they called out for pen and paper, rummaging their purses and backpacks to tear blank sheets from their notebooks.

Sasha had the ingenious idea of raiding the writers’ room for more supplies.

They went in pairs. While the large team of writers sat stiff-backed around the long table, nose-deep in laptops or stiff-backed in front of their white-boards, the actors would slip by and sneak over to the printing machine, swiping stacks of paper that got increasingly larger with each trip. By the fourth or fifth time a pair went in to purloin a stack of papers, the writers must have caught on to what they were doing. With gnarled expressions and exasperated sighs, they watched Annie and Reiner streak off with their embezzled goods, but made no vocal objections.

Back in the hall, the cadets spread out papers in long rows and columns on the floor.

“Do we have any pens or pencils?” Connie asked, looking around. “Did anyone think to grab any?”

“Hold on,” Ymir said, emptying her purse on the floor. “I have a lot of crayons.”

“Why the hell do you have crayons?”

“I work full-time in a restaurant,” she said, passing out small packages of the color sticks. “We go through a lot of them for the kids’ menus.”

Immediately, Sasha lit up, speed-firing rapid questions about which restaurant, and if Ymir could make reservations for them all. But Connie just looked at Ymir with sympathy, and, admittedly, a twinge of regret. Now he understood why the woman was so quiet all the time, barely engaging in their cast group chat, and seldom speaking to them in full sentences. She wasn’t being distant on purpose. She was just tired.

Armed with their shitty crayons and whatever pens they managed to pilfer from the writers’ room, the team got to work. The crayons were cheap and left streaks, breaking in two if applied with too much pressure, but even a mountain of broken crayon pieces couldn’t stop them from their mission. With the same discipline they applied to their cadet training, the actors knuckled down, writing out plot point after plot point. They used the script, the magna, the internet, anything and everything they could reference, because definite precision was key.

There were some arguments, but not many. If they ever did altercate, it was only over facts, not feelings. Everything about the process was diligent, which was humorous in and of itself, an assembly line of military-trained actors hunched over papers on the floor, playing music and breaking crayons.

Eren spent most of the time drawing pictures under all the timestamps on their increasingly specific timeline. He was having trouble reading the various penmanships, from cursive to chicken-scratch, but it wasn’t like he was going to say anything about it. Even while contributing so little, he still felt important here, like they were all doing something significant.

He felt someone’s eyes on him, and turned, a little startled, to see that Reiner, of all people, was peering over his shoulder.

“You’re good at drawing,” Reiner said. Like Mikasa, he was a man of few words, and even fewer compliments. Eren was appropriately touched by his praise, brief as it was.

“Thanks, Reiner,” he said.

He was pressed to ask more, but Reiner was looking in another direction, sitting up straight and calling out, “Commander at three o’clock.”

The term “unit” or “squad” would have been used for any battle scene, any training scene, heralding the incoming group with the militant recognition they had worked laboriously to earn. But here, off-set and unbridled by martial regime, the best word to describe them would be posse. 

They were beautiful. Walking confidently in their long, relaxed strides, carrying themselves tall. Even dressed in their normal clothes, they strode down the hall with swaggering esteem and unwavering allure.

It was Commander Erwin who led them, obviously, flanked by Hange, Moblit, Mike, Petra, and Nanaba. All of them were famous actors, or at least semi-famous, and they all had the walk, the talk, and the looks to prove it. The cadets had devoted entire hours scouring their IMDb pages, studying fanatically, and wondering how the hell they were actually here, in the flesh, on the same set as them.

When Erwin stopped walking, his entourage followed suit. They all took in the timeline with a shared intrigue, albeit diverse reactions. From Hange’s scientific curiosity, to Mike’s upturned nose, they descried the mess of jotted notes, smudged crayons and organized chaos with keen interest. But no reaction was more sincere, more ardent, than that of their commander.

Erwin crouched down to get a better look. The assembly line of cadets watched him, breathless, while his eyes roved the wide plane.

“What is this?” he asked, not unkindly, fixated on a scribble of the first Jaw Titan. When no one answered him immediately, he addressed the fledgling closest to him. “Cadet Braun?”

“We’re making a map, Commander,” Reiner said quickly.

“Yes, I see. Fascinating.”

Nanaba rolled her eyes, “I’ve never met a director who gives this much homework. This is insane.”

Eren could barely suppress his bristle. “We’re doing this for ourselves.”

Hange was pointing their finger, counting each of the actors, and muttering to themselves. “…five, six, seven… wait, no. No, no, no. This isn’t all of you, is it? Some of you are missing.”

“No ma’am,” Connie said, tapping a pen against his forehead. “Mikasa’s shooting and Bertholdt’s in therapy.”

“And Armin?”

“Sick.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, he does that.” Connie went on tapping his pen. No one was going to tell him he tapped it with the wrong end, and was smearing ink all over his forehead.

“Regardless of who’s absent, you are all doing a difficult task for the benefit of everyone, and of your own volition as well. I find that exceedingly commendable,” Erwin said. He was a skyscraper of a man, even while crouching in front of them. With faultless ease, he picked up a nearby crayon. It was comical how tiny it was in his giant hands. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Erwin,” Nanaba warned. “We have to get to hair and makeup.”

“I have time. It’ll be alright.”

“Sure, but Levi’s gonna freak,” Mike cut in. “I don’t want to deal with his bitching.”

Eren raised a speculative eyebrow, but Reiner shrugged, just as clueless as him and the other cadets.

Hange waved their hand dismissively. “We’ll make up an excuse for you. We have to get to hair and makeup before they skin us alive. Let’s go, lovelies. Bye, fledgelings!”

The cadets murmured their goodbyes, watching the bronze statues stalk away.

“How far have you gotten?” the commander asked them once his posse had gone. He had a way of expressing eagerness that was confined only within the shine in his eyes and the small crinkles around his mouth. And still, these minute details were heartfelt and earnest, enough to stir passion in all of their hearts.

“Year 853. Yelena just met with Eren to discuss Zeke’s plan.”

“Wow, you’ve gotten far. I’m impressed,” he lauded, rolling up his sleeves. “Alright, I think what happens next is Eren instructs Floch.”

They worked for the next hour or so, writing in bullet points, making notes in the margins, filling up paper, after paper, after paper. Some of them came and went. Mikasa arrived back from filming to join them, and eventually, Ymir and Historia were called off to shoot a scene. But for the most part, they carried on much the same, with the steadfastness of soldiers but the joy of youth unfettered by anguish.

It was Mikasa who made the final timestamp. They watched in stupefaction as she made the last mark, finishing their oeuvre with one last master stroke.

That she, humanity’s saviour, was the one to deliver the final blow was strangely fitting.

Then they were silent for a moment, each cadet more hesitant to interrupt the quiet than his neighbor.

“Soldiers,” the commander said after a while. “Do you understand what we must do now?”

They glanced between one another, nervous and uncertain.

Erwin’s smile softened. “Hang it up on the wall, of course. That’s always what you’re supposed to do after finishing a work of art.”

In a hodgepodge network of pushpins and gaff tape, they mounted their paper masterpiece up on the wall. It was such a long timeline, absurdly detailed. The horizontal map consumed almost the entire hallway from start to finish. They couldn’t stifle their pride, beholding the Timeline of all Timelines.

He was just tacking up one of the last papers when a buzz shook against Eren’s pocket, the cheesy ringtone shaking him out of his contented trance.

Jean caught his eye. “Is it your mom, dude? I’ve been meaning to call her back.”

“No, it’s just an alarm I set. Why the fuck have you been talking to my mom?” Eren pocketed his phone and started moving, “I guess I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

“Another shoot today?”

“Not for me. You?”

“I’m supposed to have one that’ll run pretty late. You might not see me when I get back.”

“Eh, I’ll probably be up anyway,” Eren shrugged. “When are we doing that hangout with Mikasa and everyone?”

“Oh shit I don’t know. It better be soon, though. She still has my jacket.”

“I don’t care whatever you decide, just keep me informed and let me know who’ll be there. Finding time around everyone’s work schedules and goddamn therapy appointments is gonna be a bitch,” Eren sighed, sauntering off. 

Jean watched him go. Marco, who had clung to his side all day, waited until Eren was safely out of earshot before asking, “Is he okay?”

“Who, Eren?” Jean scoffed harshly. “He’s tough as nails, nothing’s gonna hurt him.”

“Yeah, but is he okay?” 

“He-” Jean hesitated, thinking for a moment. “-feels things very deeply. Makes him a good actor, I guess. Why are you asking? Eren hasn’t seemed any different than normal to you, has he?”

Marco’s response came in the form of a shrug, that unflappable look of ease and geniality still present in his unassuming expression.

They’d been joined at the hip for months now, and Jean still didn’t know how Marco did it. How despite everything they had to deal with, he always just gave off an essence of… serenity.

He leaned forward to get a better look at him, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever tranquil trinket within gave Marco his reposeful power.

But Marco was looking somewhere else. Hands balling into fists at his sides, he stared at the timeline in front of him. In the corner of the ninth page, in pinchy, harried writing, read the words: 2 days after Battle of Trost: J finds M’s dead body.

“Oh.” The sound fell out of Jean’s mouth, heavy and mortal.

“We have a while, right?” Marco asked. “Before we have to film that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jean said. But he didn’t know. He hadn’t memorized the film schedule like his friends did, and he was embarrassed to confess that now.

Jean wasn’t like Marco in many ways. One of them was public displays of affection. He hesitated with uncertainty, before awkwardly stretching his arm out, roping Marco into an angular, stiff side hug.

Together, that’s where they stood, under the handwritten note with the crosshatch sketch of gruesome mortality.

Therapy was held on site, in a large room on the second floor that used to be an office of an executive producer before he abruptly quit after receiving a barrage of intense allegations of workplace misconduct. (They weren’t idiots; they knew what that was code for.) It was disconcerting, and insultingly ironic, that they were expected to be vulnerable and heal in an environment with “alleged” disturbing history. 

Eren was prone to support the victim in every circumstance, alleged or not, always siding with the oppressed when the oppressor was a variable. He knew none of the people involved—that information had been kept strictly private— but that didn’t sway his opinion. Even if his managers and administrators insisted that everything was alleged, that they had no way of proving or disproving anything, he knew what to believe.

He didn’t like that therapy was held here, but still, like a lamb to the slaughter, he trudged there every week. 

The long walk from the studio spaces to the hall of offices was actually somewhat alleviating, and the antiquated, opulent architecture usually helped to ground him into reality. Something about the warm tone of the wood, the dim lights, the suede furniture and outmoded devices like clocks and phones, made him think of his parents.

Eren was waiting on the plush bench outside the office, twiddling his thumbs. His session was supposed to begin in less than a minute and he still hadn’t been invited in yet. It wasn’t punctuality that bothered him as much as his own anxious hastiness. He just wanted to get it over with.

There was the familiar click of a knob unlocking, and then the heavy office door creaked open.

Eren stood, “Hey, I’m ready to… Bert?”

It was the nickname everyone was given permission to address him with. Since the beginning, though, Eren had thought it was a stupid moniker, and never used it. 

Until now, that is, when Bertholdt came out of the therapist’s office, looking younger and meeker than Eren ever remembered him. Suddenly, the dense, leaden syllables in “Bertholdt” no longer felt right on his tongue, not to address this timid creature.

Bertholdt met Eren’s eye, practically collapsing with relief, an exhausted smile plastered over a flushed and panting face.

“Hey Eren,” he greeted, saying his name like it was the most wonderful thing in the world. 

Eren had the instantaneous urge to surge forth and swaddle him. 

Bertholdt had that effect on people. His modesty made anyone forget his intimidating height. He was never the best at eye contact; he normally kept to himself and he walked around with his gangling arms pulled in against his chest, but he was good natured and benevolently humble.

“Bert, hey.” Eren said, scanning him up and down. “Hey, you-? You all good?”

“Yeah, I’m- I’m good. I’m so good, Eren.” Bertholdt was flapping his hands by the wrists, panting despite the euphoric smile he wore. “Sorry, I- I must seem crazy to you right now. I’m good. I’m actually so good. I just had a really, really good cry.”

Eren’s chest tingled. He knew the feeling.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I totally did, it was so embarrassing, it was so awful…” His smile softened, slowing sweetly as he admitted, “It was so wonderful. I think I really needed that. It’s been building up for a while.”

“What were you crying about?”

Bertholdt’s eyes dropped to the floor. Then to the wall by Eren’s head. Then back to the floor. Like he was trying, but just couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

“Well, you, actually,” he mumbled. “I- The cry was about you, Eren, and all the- all the things I do to you, and to Mikasa and-”

He cut himself off, his throat choking up with words unsaid.

Eren’s heart clenched. “Oh shit, Bert…”

“I’m just glad we’re friends,” he said, and it sounded like a cry of salvation. “I’m just- I’m so glad we’re actually friends, that it isn’t real, that you’re here, and I’m here, and- Right? You understand? I’m- I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Fuck yeah, Bert, of course.” He insisted with more enthusiasm than was necessary, stomach leaden with guilt.

Eren felt like shit. How the hell was he supposed to admit that he hadn’t considered Bertholdt a real friend? At least, not until this very moment. Now, he felt like he would jump off a bridge if Bertholdt simply asked it of him.

“Hey kid, you forgot your journal,” interrupted the therapist from the other side of the door. He passed off a dog-eared composition notebook, which Bertholdt accepted readily, clinging it to his chest. 

The therapist’s eyes fell on the incomer, “Eren, good to see you. Are you ready to come in?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, though he felt anything but ready. He tried to catch Bertholdt’s eye. “Take care of yourself, okay? You’re good, dude, I swear. I’m glad we’re friends, too.”

Bertholdt just nodded, wiping his eyes and clutching his notebook over his heart.

“Come on in, Eren,” the therapist said. “What would you like to talk about today?”

And in he went, a moth to a flame of his own kindling. The door shut behind him with an unceremonious thud.

Back in the hallway, the actors were cleaning up their mess. Few of them were still around, although most had gone home for the night, leaving a trail of paper scraps and broken crayons in their wake.

“What was it Eren was talking about earlier?” Marco asked, holding out the dustpan for Jean to sweep into.

“We’re trying to get a small group together. It’s kind of unfair how little we actually hang out,” Jean said, shaking his broom trimmings into the dustpan. “Do you want to come too?”

“I’d love to. Just let me know the time, place, and dress code.”

“Dude, there’s not gonna be a dress code. You’re crazy,” Jean said. He took a break from sweeping, propping himself back on the broom. He sighed, feeling the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

“Who is it?” Marco asked.

“Eren.” Jean pulled a strange face, reading the text. “He wants to know if Bert can hang too.”

“Oh yay. I love Bert.”

“You love everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Marco said. A moment passed, where Jean said nothing.

“Okay, yeah, everyone,” Marco admitted. “Are you done with the broom?”

Speaking of loveable figures. 

They heard him before they saw him. Of course, in retrospect, they should have anticipated his entrance; where there was a call for cleanliness, there was always the captain to micromanage and reprimand.

Literally kicking the door open as he came, Levi Ackermann ran in. His grimace was as sharp and frightening as ever, and it found its target immediately.

“Erwin,” he snapped, voice filled with a thousand daggers. “Why are you fucking around with these brats?”

“I had the time, didn’t I?” came his effortless response, melodious and resonant. He chuckled then, the sound rich and delightful, even so sotto. “I have to say, Levi. You’re later than I expected. I thought you would have come for me sooner.”

Anger flashed in those steel grey eyes. Levi jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, “Hair and makeup. Right the fuck now.”

Erwin did nothing to inhibit his sigh, which was surprising; the cadets weren’t used to seeing him disconcerted or unruffled, no matter how small the degree. Still, Erwin rose to his feet, giving the cadets a sort of parting bow. “Thank you, soldiers. Enjoy the rest of your evenings.”

Erwin stalked out, carrying himself in the same regal composure he always did. Levi’s threatening state had no effect on Erwin’s indifference.

“It’s evening?” Sasha blurted once he was gone.

Levi’s eyes flicked to her.  

The soldier cowered immediately, instinctively flinching into the official salute. “Captain!”

“Cut it out. At ease,” he practically growled.

“Why’s he so mad?” Jean whispered in Marco’s ear, before he was promptly shushed.

Levi’s voice was low when he leaned over Sasha; “He didn’t do anything, did he?”

“W-Who, the commander?” her brows were comically high. “I mean, y-yeah, he helped us finish up the season four stuff. And he corrected some of the dates we mixed up. And he tried one of the cookies I made, but um, yeah, that’s it. Um, s-sir.”

If it was even possible, Levi seemed to relax just then. Even if it was very, extremely minutely. 

He seemed to notice the timeline just then. He was in his survey corps uniform, swords and all; he looked uncomfortably out of place among the wall of colored crayons, under the fluorescent lights and nervous stares.

Levi was fixated on the wall. “You brats dirtied the hallway.”

“We got permission,” Marco offered.

Levi glared, “Permission to make a timeline? Or permission to get wax and shit all over the walls and floor in a pathetic display of ass-kissing? Clean it up, all of you.”

Marco’s eyes widened, “Not the timel-”

“-No, not the timeline, you slug. The floors. The walls. The mess you made. Have more respect for this place, it’s a privilege to be here. Get to work. All of you.”

Scrambling for their cleaning supplies, they sprung back into action at three times speed. They cleaned furiously, keeping their heads down, lest they make eye contact with the captain and enrage him further.

Jean, though, remained as he was, phone in one palm, broom clenched in the other. He watched the captain, watched the way Levi’s shoulders sank by his side. The captain’s surveying stare was not punitive, but, strangely, almost paternal. Curiosity unwound Jean’s twisted expression into something soft and nubile, something genuine.

“Levi,” he said. “We’re talking about a get-together soon. Would you like to come?”

The captain was glaring, naturally. Jean had grown accustomed to the icy stare by now, and didn’t falter under it, not in the slightest. What he wasn’t prepared for, though, was the look of unrestrained disgust in Levi’s scowl.

“It is not appropriate for me to fraternize with fucking children,” he groused.

Jean smirked, “And if I told you we weren’t children?”

The look Levi flashed him was one of undiluted power. Armed with two swords and the fury of hell itself, Jean realized Levi could literally kill him anytime, anywhere, just if he felt like it.

“Then I’d tell you you’re even stupider than you look. That you’re a braggart egoist child who has no idea what you’re getting yourself into. If you’re gonna go around and act like this is a playdate, like this is some fucking joke to you, then you can just go home. We don’t need you here,” he said with a sneer. “Tall with nondescript hair and a punchable face? They shouldn’t any have trouble replacing you, Kirstein.”

Jean’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I’m your captain. My word is your law,” he said. “Dismissed.”

“Yes sir,” was all Jean said. Because what else could he say?

Levi turned over his shoulder, muttering something about needing to check on Erwin, before striding off, frigid and unshrinking as ever. 

Jean never wanted to punch someone more in his entire life.

Marco looked at Jean, “You okay?”

Jean didn’t answer.

“Jeez, when’s his therapy session?”

Jean and Marco jolted at the same time, knocking their heads into each other. They recoiled in pain, simultaneously reaching for the places they whacked their skulls and whining various exclamations of “ow” and “sorry.”

Marco peeked his eyes open, still wincing, “Oh wow, Bert! When did you get here?”

“I just got back from my session.”

“How much of that did you see?”

“Only the end,” Bertholdt said. He was a little flushed, and held a notebook with a white-knuckled grip, but other than that appeared to be alright.  “What’d you do to make him so mad, Jean?”

“I asked him if he wanted to hang out with us,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “His loss, I guess. Whatever.”

“Why would that make him mad?” Bertholdt asked. He was gnawing on a fingernail, the cuticle split between his teeth. “Is there something wrong with us?”

Marco glanced to Jean, but his lips were pressed tightly shut. 

None of them answered.

None of them could.

They were merely players, paid to live in the world someone else created.

“Shit, Bert, you–”

He had bitten too hard on his cuticle, and now blood was running down his hand, filling the gaps of his teeth. He gasped. Mouth bloodied, eyes widened, he looked like he belonged here, in this fictive world of bane and carnage.

Chapter Text

“You’re back late,” Jean drawled. He didn’t look up when his roommate came through, kicking his shoes off and yanking the door behind him. Jean stayed immobile,  strung out over the sofa like a corpse over a torture rack, his eyes closed and all. The TV played silently in the background, casting strange lights over his prone figure.

Eren shrugged his jacket off and dropped it on the ground. “Dude, it’s only like, ten.”

“Still later than I expected,” Jean said, words slurring around the ice cube in his mouth. He peeked one eye open, squinting at the newcomer. “You get mugged or something?”

“Are you sucking on ice again, Jean?” Eren sighed, coming into the apartment. “It isn’t normal to do that all the time. It’s a sign of having, like, a vitamin deficiency or something.”

“I’m just hot. We need to move into an apartment with air conditioning. Not like we can’t afford it anymore,” Jean grumbled. He sat up on the couch now, throwing a pillow at his roommate. “Why are you late?”

Effortlessly, Eren snagged the pillow from the air before it hit him. “Took the bus only halfway, walked the rest. Needed to clear my head.”

He waited for a rude comeback, but when it didn’t come immediately, Eren caught Jean sneaking a look at the calendar on his phone. He was subtle about it, almost perfectly discreet.

Eren tried not to let it bother him that Jean kept Eren’s therapy sessions dated in his calendar. Personally, Eren felt it was rather intrusive, a limitation on his freedom. But, begrudgingly, he knew it was for the better. Last time he came home from his session, he was furious about things outside his control, and nearly bit Jean’s head off after a small offense. All the necessary, perfunctory apologies were made when the heat of his temper cooled down, of course, but an altercation like that was still something worth avoiding again.

“So,” Jean started. “ … You wanna talk about it?”

“ … No.”

“ … Okay.”

They both sighed contentedly, with an exaggerated degree of relief. Jean was the first to laugh. Exhaustion kept him plastered to the couch, but laughter still rippled through him in mirthful, tired heaps. 

“Thank god, dude. No offense, but I’m not in the mood for your snotty sob-fests right now,” he laughed.

“Shut the fuck up. You’ve never seen me cry,” Eren said, plopping himself down on the couch beside him. “As for me, I’m not in the mood for your pathetic attempts at consolation. There’s not a sympathetic bone in your body.”

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

“It’s true. You don’t know how to cheer anyone up.”

“Not when they come to me with something as messy as emotions, no I don’t.”

Jean had some adult cartoon going on the TV. It was a show neither of them recognized; the humor was crude and the art was less than appetizing, but they let it play on anyway. They preferred watching animation these days; one could only take so many “marker, actions!” before TV was ruined for them forever.

“You keep your phone on mute? When you were on your walk?” Jean asked after a while, his blank stare not leaving the TV screen.

“Yeah, on ‘do not disturb,’” Eren said. “I’m sorry, did you try to call?”

“No, Historia.”

“Historia?”

“Check your phone, dumbass,” Jean sighed, his eyes closing again. He reached for another ice cube to drop in his mouth. He stood and started moving towards the kitchen, “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Can’t you just tell me?” Eren groaned. He was sick of screens. 

But Jean hadn’t said if it was an emergency or not, so he had to check.

Eren opened his phone, finding himself suddenly barraged with an inundation of messages. Text after text after text, most of them numbers he didn’t have saved. Trying to reign in his dismay, he panic-scrolled all the way to the top of the messy, discordant group chat to find the following message:

{Unknown Number:} Hi lovey dovies! This is Historia :) Rumor has it we all want to hang out? Group chat time!!

{Unknown Number:} yesssssss pls! 

{Unknown Number:} who is this?

{Unknown Number:} HI THIS IS SASHA. How come we haven’t had a group chat until now??

{Unknown Number:} Everyone, please text your names so we have each other’s numbers, and text/email me your availabilities outside of filming so we can schedule something! You should have my email from last week’s call sheet.

Jean: Hi this is Jean. Historia I’m not emailing yuo. I’ll text you private ok?

{Unknown Number:} Okay sounds good, Jean! I think I have everyone on this gc. I had to dig around all the managers’ contact sheets and snoop around the offices, but I think i finally got everyone!! If anyone is missing, PLEASE lmk!!

{Unknown Number:} no soldier left behind!!

153 more unread messages.

He knew that it was coming from the goodness of everyone’s hearts, and he knew that technically he was the one responsible for initiating this, but Eren couldn’t help but feel dread, hesitantly scrolling through the onslaught of increasingly hyper texts. Schedules, conflicting schedules, reassurances, excited activity proposals, and of course the immediate eschewals of said proposals. The more excitable the messages got, the more wearied he became.

“Is it just me, or is this…?” Eren trailed off, watching Jean’s back from where he stood in the kitchenette.

“Overwhelming?” he offered over his shoulder.

“I wasn’t prepared for a giant group hangout,” he admitted. “I mean, we do that at work. That is our work. It’ll just feel like more work.”

“I mean,” Jean started, returning to the couch with a mug of hot coffee in hand. “You aren’t wrong.”

“I don’t want to let Historia down, though. She seems pretty excited.”

“Dude, we’re fucking adults,” he said, though his voice was absent of any harshness. Really, he sounded just as tired as Eren felt.
“We can go to the party Historia’s planning or whatever, and then we can do our smaller group things on our own time. We can hang out with people more than once, you know.”

“Shit, that’s weird.”

Jean raised a brow, handing over the hot mug. “Is it?”

“That we’re adults. Yeah, it’s weird. It’s scary,” Eren said. He blinked, assessing the coffee in his hands. “This late?”

“Decaf,” Jean shrugged. “I always forget if you like cream or whatever.”

“Black’s good. Thanks.”

“Black like your soul?”

“Shut up.”

“ … It is weird we’re adults,” Jean agreed, eventually. He had this look in his eyes that Eren had only seen a handful of times before. Unnerved and distal, his honey colored eyes flickered back and forth, quickly, dejectedly. As if searching for something insuperable. Jean gripped his hair, muttering, “Damn it. How the fuck do the real Jean and Eren deal with all this shit? They’re forced into such an adult world so young, even younger than us, and then they…”

Eren mulled over his coffee. “We don’t have a lot of time, do we?”

“Until what?” Jean seemed hesitant to ask.

Eren sighed, “Never mind.”

“Until what?” Jean whacked his arm. “Don’t be like that, you creep. Until fucking what?”

“Just never mind it already. Seriously, no big deal.” He didn’t feel like fighting, but punched Jean back anyway, just so he knew he wasn’t allowed to get away with it.

“You shower first,” he told Jean. “I’m gonna send some texts before I forget.”

“For Historia’s thing? Don’t bother. It’s fucking late, Eren.”

“We’re fucking actors. Everyone’s still awake.”

“Everyone’s going to bed,” Jean’s eyes narrowed. “When I said ‘don’t bother,’ I mean don’t bother other people, ya damn pest.”

“Everyone’s up, Horseface, I promise you.” Eren got a mischievous glint in his eye, his lips curling into a taunting veneer. “In fact, I dare you. I dare you to text someone. Anyone in the group chat. I swear they’ll text back within the hour.”

“That’s stupid. You’re stupid,” Jean sighed, ambling towards their small hallway. “I’m taking a shower.”

“You’re too chickenshit to text someone now? Should I call you Chickenface, too?”

“I never said I wasn’t going to. Christ,” Jean rubbed his forehead. “Lower your voice this late. Our neighbors are gonna send some nasty complaints.”

“Hey, do you think we should move out?” Eren asked, with the sudden dawn of realization. “I mean, we can totally afford it now. And once the season airs, we’ll– I mean, assuming that the season will be successful, we–”

“-We have no reason to assume that,” Jean groaned tiredly; although the statement was true, hearing it still made something heavy drop in Eren’s stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean said. “I can’t have a moving conversation right now. I’m called in hella early tomorrow.”

“I’m not,” Eren grinned lecherously. “It’s my day off.”

“Oh my god, fuck you,” Jean laughed, sticking up his middle finger. He chewed the last of his ice into crumbles, swallowing it down — Eren shuddered just watching him, he thought it was a disgusting habit. 

“I’ll text someone just to humor you,” Jean mumbled. He came padding over to where Eren sat, offering him a fist bump. “G’night,” he muttered, “Rest up on your day off, you fucking slacker.”

Eren bumped his fist back, admittedly kind of surprised by the tender attention. “Good night. I’ll try not to burn the apartment down when you’re gone.”

Jean trotted off to the bathroom and Eren waited behind. He rubbed his eye, sighing. He really was sick of screens. It would be nice to live in the real Paradis, with no mind-numbing electronics, and only ODM gear for technology. 

He blinked. Did he really just consider living in the real Paradis? Where titans roamed and trauma surfaced every day of the week?

Maybe Eren was getting too used to this. 

He sighed, and opened up his text app. 

The woman in gold took another drink from her glass, her expensive bracelets clinking around her thin wrists. Her eyes roved the guests at the table around her, all of them as well dressed and as well restrained as she. Frankly, Annie wanted to guzzle down her drink and make an outrageous display of drunken sloppiness. Wanted to make the highfalutin snobs clutch their pearls in horror at her indecency. But even if she did succeed in summoning enough courage to break free from the stoic stupor of the fine dining table, she still couldn’t get herself drunk, even if she wanted to. It wasn’t real champagne she was drinking, only some ridiculously priced sparkling pear juice.

The dinner hadn’t been much better. Expensive. Tasteless. Made in the tiniest portions possible. She was going to be starving by the time she got home.

Annie hated these. The galas, the charity balls, the celebrity dinners. They were just so fake.

Looking around the table with the cream colored cloth and the tiny, shining champagne flutes, the presentation was opulent, grandiose, and indulgent, even in its precise refinery, and yet all the glamor went unappreciated by the dinner guests. The ambassadors, the politicians, the producers and the models, all of them adorned in their luxury suits and dresses, outfits that would only ever be worn once, were egregious in their indifference. They guzzled their pear juice and gobbled their petit fours with such carelessness it was inhuman.

It sickened Annie. And, playing a titan shifter, she knew a thing or two about being something inhuman.

When Annie felt a buzz from her handbag she politely excused herself from the table. Secretly, she relished the chance to get a break from all this inordinate opulence and gallantry; but her lifetime of professional acting kept her glee perfectly concealed behind the stoic disposition she built up over the years.

She found a place behind the hostess stand where she could hide without it being obvious. The waitress standing there was wiping the menus, and gave Annie a sympathetic look as she approached. Annie was grateful she didn’t say anything.

She checked her phone, expecting some kind of chastisement from Historia, who might have clocked by now that Annie put the group chat on mute.

{Unknown Number:} hey this is Jean. I got your number from the gc i hope you don’t mind. I know it’s late af and you’re probably asleep.

{Unknown Number:} no pressure, but would you be down to hang sometime ?

Annie hesitated. Then, she updated the contact and typed a response.

Annie: Hi, Jean. I’m wondering if you have the wrong number? This is Annie Leonhart.

The reply came immediately.

Jean: Yeah I know it’s you Annie. I’m sorry, I don’t mean like a date or anything. Eren, Mikasa and I were just thinking of a small hangout outside of studio hours. Maybe with Reiner and Bert? Nothing elaborate like historia’s planning. Like i said no pressure. Just thought it’d be cool

The corner of Annie’s lips curled up.

Annie: Sounds great. I’m free Friday.

Jean: 🤙

Annie allowed her smile to bloom fully now, the warmth of it casting a glow on her face. Her gaze floated back to the dining table, where the table patrons celebrated another round of dessert. They might have thought they had it made, but not a single one of them was as happy as she.

When he heard the distorted fast lyrics and muffled bass, Marco wasn’t annoyed as most neighbors would be. Pure curiosity was the only emotion he felt for the music that was obviously playing much too loud. He was just on his walk up to the apartment when the music from the living space next door made him halt in his tracks, the low vibrations of the thudding bass making his organs quiver as he walked by. He couldn’t make out the lyrics, and the melody was nothing musically creative, but the sensation it gave him was thrilling.

He never would have been exposed to music like this in his hometown. Truth be told, Marco wouldn’t even be up this late if he were at home. And here he was, staring at his neighbor’s door. The neighbor he’d never met. But he heard them constantly, always causing a ruckus in the kitchen with pots and pans. It sounded like two or three people lived there, the door was always opening and closing. And sometimes, on the rare nights when Marco was home in the evenings, he could smell them cooking and the aromatic, earthy scents always spellbound him.

Where Marco came from, everyone knew everyone, especially their close neighbors. Standing here now and taking in the powerful thuds of the music, Marco realized that there’s no reason why a busy schedule should keep him from holding true to his beliefs.

Clearing his throat, Marco raised his fist and rapped it against the apartment door. Ordinarily, he would have felt rude for knocking so harshly, but the music was blaring so loud he was afraid of being unheard.

Somewhere beneath the grating rhythms and the clang of something toppling over, Marco heard the quick, uncoordinated pitter patter of feet running across the floor. Before he knew it, the door yanked open from the inside so fast that Marco jumped.

He had to do a double-take, just as surprised as the girl who opened the door.

“You’re not the pizza guy,” Sasha said, sounding disappointed.

“S-Sasha!” Marco exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here!” she exclaimed.

“You do?”

“Well, not technically, no. I’m from out of town. The casting department put me up here for the next few months.” Three whole seconds passed before her face dawned with realization, “Wait, are you being housed here, too?!”

“Yes ma’am! I’m right next door!”

“Who’s at the door?” came a male voice from inside.

Sasha beamed, “You’re not gonna believe it, Connie, it’s Marco! He lives next door!”

“What? No way!” Connie bumped his way into the doorframe.

“Come in, come in, don’t be a stranger!” she made wild, excited gestures waving him inside. “Pizza’s on the way, and I’m cooking apps right now. I hope you like jalapeños!”

“I’ve never had them before,” Marco said blearily. He was forcefully ushered inside, and then left to stand there all agape, looking around wondrously at the new place. 

Sasha roamed the apartment like she’d lived there all her life, bounding with sprightly zest and enthusiasm. She threw herself onto the large, ornate sofa, kicking her mismatched socked feet as she declared, “Come, join us! We’re watching the game! You like basketball, right?”

Marco didn’t answer, because frankly, he hadn’t heard her. The music was even louder inside than it had been from the hall, and he found himself thunderstruck, rooted in place by the sheer force of the bass.

But then Sasha smiled at him, and all his intimidation melted away.

“You’ll have to remind me the rules of the game,” he said, coming to join them on the couch. He almost hesitated to sit down on it. The couch was a designer sofa imported from Italy, sleek white in modern opulence. This entire apartment was just as luxurious, obnoxiously so, made of the kind of untouchable materials in museums. And yet, Sasha was so relaxed here. When she waved him in, assuring it was okay to sit down with her, he almost felt at home. She cuddled up next to him and Connie, nuzzling into the home she created, and invited him in for the long night ahead of them.

Eren was lying on his front on his bed, waiting for his turn in the shower. His room was dark; it was situated on the side of the apartment complex that had no windows. The only light he had came from a lamp he had stowed in the corner, draped under a red sheath, bleeding a pale warm glow feebly along two of his four walls.

The other light came spilling in from the hallway, his door kept ajar as he waited for the bathroom to be open. And, of course, there was the light from his phone, casting a blue and eerie light over the frown on his face and the bags under his eyes. The affectionately named therapy shit note sat under his fingertips, the blinking space bar practically taunting him.

His therapist had given him exercises he was supposed to do, and strongly recommended doing them right before bed. But, as per usual, Eren was having trouble focusing. It didn’t help that his smartphone, the most tempting, distracting, brain-rotting device forged by mankind, was right there, in his hands.

He went straight to his text app.

Eren: I guess Historia beat me to it

Mikasa: ?

Eren: Asking you to hang out

When Mikasa didn’t immediately reply, Eren tensed up, nervous he might have been too forward. But then he saw the three little dots appear.

Mikasa: Oh. lol 

Well that wasn’t a particularly eloquent response. The curtness almost worried him, but then he remembered whom he was messaging.

Eren: Are you still open to hanging out or?

Mikasa: Can I call you?

Eren pressed the call icon immediately, bringing the phone to his ear. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Mikasa said. She sounded so graceful, relaxed; Eren had no choice but to believe her. “Sorry, Eren, I hope I didn’t worry you. I’m just stretching right now. It’s kind of hard to type one-handed.”

A smile found its way to his face. He turned over onto his back, letting his knackered body succumb to the mattress. “That’s cool. Yoga?”

“I just finished pilates. Yeah,” she said.

“I should get better at stretching after workouts,” he said, unsure what compelled him to carry the conversation this way. “I mean, Jean used to be a dancer, so he’s pretty much stretching twenty-four seven. But see, that’s the time I mess with him. Like, knock him over or pull his shirt over his head while he can’t protect himself.”

“That’s evil,” Mikasa laughed.

“So now I’m afraid if I stretch at the apartment, he’ll do the same to me.”

“You’d probably deserve it. Attacking a man when he’s in downward dog.”

“Yeah,” he smiled. Just as quickly as it came, the smile faltered, “Listen, Mikasa. I know Historia’s planning something big or whatever, but do you still want to hang out?”

“Yeah,” he heard her say over the ruffle of her changing positions. “And with Armin, too, right?”

Something heavy fell through his ribcage just then, a hard thump on his heart.

“Yeah, with Armin,” he said, trying to sound neutral about it.

“Okay,” she said. Eren couldn’t know for sure, because he couldn’t see her face, but Mikasa’s perfunctory enthusiasm seemed to match his. “Do you want me to message him, or have you already reached out?”

“Yeah, I’ll text him. I’ll let you know,” he said. It was getting harder to conceal his disappointment, so quickly he said goodnight and hung up.

From the bathroom, Eren heard the shower curtain snag back, followed by a muffled French swear word when Jean knocked over a shampoo bottle.

“Are you almost done in there?” Eren called.

“I’m drying my hair, you can come in.”

Eren pushed his way into the bathroom, phone in hand. Jean was there, sweatpants riding low on his hips, two inches of his boxers peeking out above the band. He was still a little damp from the waist up, beads of water rolling down his bare back as he scrubbed his hair with a brown towel.

He caught Eren’s gaze in the mirror and smirked.

Eren just gave him the middle finger.

When Eren first told his mom he was moving in with Jean after high school, she had asked if they were going to get married. Through exaggerated gags of disgust and adamant swearing, Eren insisted that that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He swore that just because he and Jean were both attracted to men didn’t mean they were anything more than friends. (Even “friends” is a generous term.) 

In some regards Eren could understand why people had concerns about two bisexual men cooped up in a small apartment together, especially under high stress. But they were Jean and Eren; they were close brothers at their best and rival siblings at their worst. Unremittingly they physically and verbally attack one another, expressing their love through snide back-hand compliments and the occasional act of service. There would never come a day where anything between them escalated beyond that.

But that didn’t mean Eren couldn’t appreciate a glance Jean’s way every now and then.

Jean laughed. “Shame you won’t be on set tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?” Eren asked, catching onto the subtle tease in Jean’s tone.

“We’re filming a lot of the horse shots tomorrow. You’re missing out on a great fucking opportunity to make fun of me.”

“Dude, no… Why would they do that to me?”

Eren was undressing from top to bottom when he caught Jean’s eye in the mirror again. This time, though, the glare was far from teasing. 

“Oh shit,” Eren said.

Jean turned around, “What?”

“You’re thinking,” Eren said. “That’s dangerous.”

“Fuck you,” he said tiredly.

“That was your weakest comeback yet.”

“Eren, am I…” he trailed off, gaze still ingrained in his angular reflection.

Eren didn’t like the way Jean was looking at himself, with so much uncertainty the very air around them seemed poisoned with it. “Are you what?” he asked, “Incapable of finishing a sentence?”

“I mean, am I, like… plain-looking?”

Eren turned around fully now, never mind the fact he was only in his briefs by now. “No? Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know. Levi said some shit about me being replaceable or whatever,” he frowned. “I mean, I know it’s bullshit. I know that midget was just trying to get under my skin, but still, it bothered me when-”

Jean kept talking, words pouring endlessly from his lips, but his voice went mute under the ringing in Eren’s ears. 

Levi. The name titillated something in the back of Eren’s mind, prickling at his scalp and tingling all throughout his head. He felt like Levi had been on his mind for days, and somehow, at the same time, felt as though this were the first time hearing his name, something electric shooting through his veins. He had meant to spend more time with the captain, sit down and figure him out. Everything about him was just so confounding, so riveting. 

“Y’know, I invited him to hang out with us,” Jean said, drawing in Eren’s attention.

“What? You did?” He broke from his train of thoughts. “When?”

“When you went to therapy after we made the map.”

“What’d he say?”

“Fuck off, essentially. He didn’t care. He was too busy yelling at Commander Erwin anyway.”

“What, really? How come?”

“Beats me,” Jean went back to drying his hair. “Piece of midget shit.”

Eren blinked, in a daze. The bus ride, the way he sat isolated on Connie’s birthday, and now, this mystery with him and Erwin; everything the captain did, he did under a shroud of deliberate deception, indifferent in his furtive misgiving. Surely he had to know how magnetizing he was to everyone around him, how despite how hard he tried to remain alone, there was still something so compelling and inviting about him.

Captain Levi Ackermann was a walking enigma, one that drew Eren in with chronic curiosity. He was a puzzle worth unriddling. And now that Eren had access to his phone number, he could, potentially, very easily - 

Wait. wait. He needed to calm down. There was no way. There was no way Historia would have gotten Levi’s number. The group chat was definitely only for the cadets. Definitely.

Just to confirm his own suspicions, Eren opened the group chat once again.

He speed-read through the first several texts, specifically the ones where people identified themselves by name. There were still a great many people who hadn’t come forth and introduced themselves, their nameless numbers bold and cynical as they scathed him on the phone screen.

He sped through the numbers, scanning for some kind of indicator, anything he could flag that would give the captain away.

He didn’t even realize how intently he leaned forward, all his body weight shifted to the tips of his toes, when he found his solution. Of all the numbers, only one of them removed themselves from the chat. This number never sent a single text, only removed themselves just after Historia’s introductory note.

Eren bit down on his tongue to keep himself grounded. There was no way. He wasn’t going to let himself believe it until he proved it.

He looked up the number’s area code, and, in another tab, pulled up the IMBd for Levi’s actor. He panic-scrolled to find where he currently resided.

It was the same area code. It was the same place. He found Levi’s number.

“Dude, I don’t know what you’re looking at, but can you have the decency to wait until I’m out of the bathroom to start jerking off?”

Eren chucked his dirty clothes at his roommate’s head, Jean did nothing to block the attack.

Still standing there in his underwear, Eren drafted and then redrafted a text. Calling someone “captain” over text just felt wrong.

“Jesus, you’re wound up,” Jean whined, grabbing the last of his things from the sink countertop. “Whatever. Just clean up when you’re done. And tuck in the shower curtain this time? Last time, you left Niagra fucking Falls all over the tile.”

“Jean, if you don’t get out of my face-”

“-Alright, alright, I’m going, I’m going,” Jean called as he left in a clumsy, knockabout departure. He knocked Eren’s towel off the rack as he knocked the door shut behind him, which Eren was pretty sure was intentional.

He waited until he heard the shut of Jean’s bedroom door before sending his text, but not without redrafting it three or four more times.

Eren: Hey Levi, this is Eren. Let me know if you’d like to grab drinks sometime. Tomorrow is my day off if your open. Have a good night.

The last sentence was a split second addition he almost bailed on. He went with it anyway for courtesy’s sake, and now the deed was done, it’s been sent, he couldn’t take it back.

He released a long breath. There. Not too invasive, not too demanding. Open, inviting, and semi-professional.

The fact that he was nineteen and couldn’t legally purchase drinks was a problem he’d solve later. For now, he already toppled the first hurdle of reaching out to Levi, and relished in the fact there was nothing more to be done. He was liberated for the night.

By now, Jean must already be in bed— there were no more stumbling noises coming from his room down the hall. Blissful in his solitude, Eren went through his normal routine of setting up his Bluetooth while he waited for the water to get hot, the anxiety and tension around his text to Levi melting off his body by the sound of the water alone. 

Mikasa’s Spotify had been his go-to for music lately; he was almost all the way through the playlist she sent him. It was strange, bizarre music. An aberrant blend of genres and styles, the music was a kind Eren had never been exposed to before— which was truly saying something, because he had gone to art school for a little while. The music was strange, sure, pulsing with moodiness and intrigue, but he still found himself entranced with every new song.

He looked forward to talking with her about it when he made it all the way through the playlist.

When he got out of the shower, his phone lit up with a new notification.

Immediately he reached for the device, almost fumbling with his wet hands.

Mikasa: Did you reach out to him?

Pursing his lips together, trying to stifle his disappointment, Eren reopened his texts with Levi.

Read 12:13 AM.

No response yet, but it was something.

His heart thundering in his chest, he hastily typed a reply to Mikasa.

Eren: yeah I did

Eren: !

The entire world was a pounding, blistering throb. Fading in and out of consciousness through shivers and dizzy spells, it took hours, literal hours, for him to realize that all the vibrating palpitations were not, in fact, the noise of his skull caving in on his brain, but the noise of his phone going off on the nightstand next to him.

Deliriously, Armin blinked a few times, waiting for the blurry image of his nightstand to come into focus. He summoned the energy to move to the edge of his bed, army-crawling on his elbows through the silk sheets kicked astray through his feverish stirrings. He’d always hated how big this bed was; never mind the fact that it was hand-carved from the finest wood in the world and dressed in silk sheets; the bed was always so cold without anyone there beside him. Even now, in his feverish delirium, it was so cold.

With effete strength, he reached to the nightstand and groped around for his phone. It took a few blind fumbles, but eventually, he found it, drawing it to his chest where his heart throbbed much too hard and much too slow.

He squinted at the screen. He had to reread a few times, his muddled brain mulling the words together until he lethargically came to understanding. Eventually, Armin smiled, feeling something lighter than misery for the first time all day.

Chapter Text

Levi: *you’re

The notification impended his screen, bold and unrepentant. Eren stood in the middle of his kitchen, hot mug of coffee gripped in one hand, the phone with Levi’s text message clenched just as severely in the other. His spine was erect with tension (the same could be said of another, lower, part of his body.) He couldn’t move. He was stunned. Dumbfounded. Stupefied. Startled into an astonishment so severe he couldn’t even bring his coffee to his lips, his body so painfully rigid.

Not that he needed the coffee at this point, anyway. This shock he received first thing in the morning gave him more energy than caffeine ever would.

It wasn’t so much Levi’s curt correction that surprised him, but the marvelous, astonishing fact that he responded at all. He did. This baronial regent, this magnificent artist with international esteem and awards to his name, was someone whom people like Eren could only dream of taking to.

 And he just texted Eren of his own volition. Never mind the fact it was only to correct his grammar. The Levi Ackermann just texted him. Eren.

The green-eyed teen couldn’t help grinning, selfishly wondering if the grammar correction was some kind of twisted expression of showing that Levi cared. That’s what you do when you care about someone, right? You try to better them. It was strangely endearing that Levi had interest in such a thing; almost motherly.

Grinning over the lip of his coffee mug, Eren typed back one-handed.

Eren: I’m dyslexic do I get a free pass? ;)

No read receipt popped up this time, but that didn’t dissuade Eren’s excitement in the slightest. He had gone to sleep sourly convinced the man would just block his number and ignore him like he did everyone else, but the captain endowed him with an actual response– ever the eloquent poet that he was.

Eren stood proudly, basking in the steam that came from his morning pick-me-up. Jean was away at the studio and wouldn’t be back until late, and Levi fucking Ackermann just responded to his text. The day had just begun and it was already looking like the best day ever. 

Finally he took a hearty sip from his mug, the first taste of coffee for the day. Jean was right; Eren did prefer his coffee black. He liked that he could appreciate the naturalness of it, the groundedness of it.

He didn’t drink coffee often, far from one of those people who needed it every day. He and Jean only made the point of investing in their twenty dollar Mr. Coffee machine when their work schedules got more confusing and their sleep schedules more disordered. 

And they weren’t the only ones. Being on set, they witnessed egregious coffee consumption, caffeine voraciousness that was borderline lethal. People would guzzle it down early in the morning and late at night, wolfing down several cups a day, toting their WIT-logo’d thermoses around on set, and hoarding their half dozen emptied mugs on their dressing room tables. They even kept a separate recycling bin in the green room designated for coffee cups, and only coffee cups, they went through so many; the bin was always full by noon. Not everyone noticed it, but they also kept a blue bin on the counter with a note that read: Please dispose of grounds here, for Armin’s compost garden :)

All of this adulation, this respect for their unspoken caffeine doctrine, was the only constant in this place. Here, everything was always changing. The film schedule, the set pieces, the actors’ emotional states. Everything was perpetually temperamental. With chronic gossip and mentally unstable actors, instability was inescapable, and chaos followed them incessantly. Through all of the disorder, the single certainty they could rely on was that the coffee pot was never, ever empty. Staff, crew, and actors alike understood this unspoken edict, and abided by its necessity wholeheartedly. Coffee was their saline, their IV. It was in their lifeblood, and responsible for supporting them through all their shoots, early and late.

And a fresh cup was exactly what Ymir needed right now. She grumbled to herself, plodding down the hallway with uneven steps. She always snuck into the studio through the back door, not exactly keen on being seen in her nonslip work shoes and food-stained dress pants, especially not when she was already so tired she could barely communicate beyond grunts.

She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, rounding the corner into the green room.

As per usual, there was already someone standing at the coffee station.

“Good morning, your Highness,” she said, trudging over to the table.

“Oh, good morning, Ymir,” Historia greeted. She was stirring a generous portion of creamer into a small blue mug, overly sweet aromas sifting into the air with every stir. It wasn’t one of the WIT logo’d mugs that the company kept stocked in their kitchen.

Upon closer look, Ymir noticed the faint design of mermaids and rain clouds circling the iceberg blue ceramic.

“You brought your own mug?” she asked, rapt.

Historia stopped stirring.

“Yes?”

Ymir twitched. Maybe she was too tired to tell, but it almost sounded like Historia was borderline offended.

“I like it,” Ymir said, trying to soft-pedal. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you,” she said with perfunctory ease. Historia rose to the tips of her toes to reach a mug from the overhead cabinet. “May I pour you a coffee?”

“I can do it,” Ymir interjected.

“I mean, I’m standing right here,” she said. Now Ymir knew she wasn’t imagining it; there was definitely an edge to her tone, even if it was subtle.

“Sure,” Ymir said, somewhat muddled. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. She watched her carefully go through the motions of preparing a cup.

Historia stopped pouring with an inch to spare, hesitating to ask, “Should I leave room for milk or anything?”

“Yeah, but I can do that part,” she said, taking a spoon from the drawer. “Sorry, I’m a little particular about it.”

“Sure, I get it. Here.”

“Thanks again.”

When Ymir took the mug, their fingers brushed, and Historia looked away.

Ymir raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. She took her time stirring in half & half, subtly watching Historia from the corner of her eye. Yes, something was definitely off. The blonde was holding her mug with both hands, sipping it from the top, her body angled the other direction.

Ymir frowned. She was never particularly gifted in the small talk field, especially not after a graveyard shift at the restaurant. But Historia was important to her, and she seemed upset. 

Sucking her teeth, Ymir made a hard, fraught stab at conversation. “Are you nervous about today?”

“No, not really,” came the clipped response. “I’m good with horses.”

Ymir racked her brain, trying to come up with reasons why the blonde girl might be upset with her. 

“By the way, I saw your text, Historia. I just didn’t get the chance to respond,” she explained slowly, testing the waters between them.

“Oh, that? No, it’s okay. I figured you were working.”

“Still, I was going to reply as soon as I got the chance.”

Historia seemed flustered, messing with her bangs. “It’s fine, it’s just for a group thing…”

“I’m aware,” she said. Finally, she looked her head-on, and asked, “Are you okay today?”

“I’m fine,” she said, taking her mug and belongings, backing up towards the door. “I have to get ready.”

Concern furrowed at Ymir’s brow, wondering if she was getting through to her at all. Historia was intently preoccupied with getting out of there, her movements quick and finicky, her sightline kept low. She was already scuttling out the door when Ymir called out a tenuous, “See you.”

In her haste, Historia bumped shoulders with Annie, who was on her way in. Annie was jostled, loping herself to the side as Historia went down the hall.

Annie craned her neck out into the hallway, watching her go with a tight look.

“What’s with her?” she asked Ymir with a jerk of the thumb.

Ymir sipped her coffee to hide her scowl, finding Annie’s gesture rather degrading. But Ymir wasn’t in the mood for stirring up any more trouble than she already has – and she didn’t even know what she’d done to begin with. 

Besides, she knew Annie wasn’t being rude on purpose. She just had a cold air about her. She and Ymir were alike in that regard, living in a natural state of iciness.

“Don’t know,” Ymir said. She moved to the side as Annie came by to prepare a cup of coffee for herself. “You ready for today, Ann?”

“Hell no,” she mumbled grimly. She wore a cream colored hoodie fitted against her smaller frame, with loose, dark pants and no shoes. Her blue-socked feet wiggled uncomfortably against the tiled floor.

Ymir raised an eyebrow.

Annie sighed over her coffee, the steam whisking away with her breath. “I’m on my period.”

“No shit? Me too,” Ymir said. She pointed between them. “Mine came late. We must have synced.”

“We do spend an absurd amount of time together,” she reasoned. “No offense to you. I only mean that these shoot schedules are just hellacious.”

“I know,” Ymir allowed a fraction of a smile to show, slightly bemused by her friend’s vocabulary. “Do you need anything, Annie? Products? Painkillers?”

“I’m okay for now. Thanks, though. I might have to take you up on that offer later, though, if it still stands.”

“Of course it does. I got you. We’re suffering enough as is.”

Annie shrugged tiredly, “Comme ci, comme ça.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a little while, basking in the steam of their coffee. They had to enjoy the peace while they still had it; God knew it wouldn’t last long, not around here.

After a while, with a sudden hitch of the shoulders, Annie pulled a strange face, eyes wide open.

Ymir noticed, “What is it?”

“Will the horses smell the blood?” Annie asked, gripping her mug in terror.

Ymir sputtered out her coffee.

No matter how fanatically the cadets protested, Erwin Smith was not allowed to lead the safety walk today. They didn’t settle their devoted squalor, either, until Erwin himself assured them in gentle hushes that it was for the best. It was the licensed horse trainers who led them through the walk, briefing cast and crew on animal handling indoors. The instructions were severe, specific, and ultimately deliberate in their inexorable protection of all involved, horses and humans alike. Connie tried to catch Sasha’s eye, tempted to laugh at the sheer seriousness of it all, but even Sasha seemed too scared to be so bold.

After the thorough instructions were sternly lectured, the actors were separated into groups. Those with previous horse riding experience were sent to film some simple shots, and those without lingered by the makeshift stable, advised to get acquainted with the animals during their down time. 

Marco had hoped to spend some time with Jean today, but he was off filming with Reiner and Armin. The three of them had an extensive, exhaustive index of shots on the docket; Marco hadn’t even had the chance to wish Jean luck before he was already riding off on his Thoroughbred towards the artificial sunset, complete with pre-recorded underscore and all. 

That said, Marco was more or less left to his own devices, his name barely listed more than once on the day’s call sheet. He spent his time roving the makeshift stalls, speaking kindly with the handlers and learning the names and birthdays of each and every horse.

He was just getting ready to meet the next mare, dark-featured and stunning, when he noticed there was already another soldier standing in front of her, standing with his spine unnaturally rigid. In height, Bertholdt was already taller than almost everyone, but now, he seemed curiously small, even with his rod-straight back and stiffened neck.

“Hey Bert!” Marco called, running over to meet him.

Bertholdt made a goosey flinch at the sudden movement.

“Woah, sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, buddy,” Marco said, diffusing his tension with laughter. He patted the flank of the horse before them. “She’s a real beauty. What’s this one’s name?”

Bertholdt leered from a distance, leaning away. In the little time his cohort had grown to know him, they all picked up on his rather odd bodily awareness, or lack thereof. Bertholdt had a teetering, gangling way of standing that revealed how uncomfortable he was in his own height. He moved through ungraceful lurches, with elbows that jerked and knees that stumbled, made overwrought by the ungainly gracelessness of his body.

On set, Bertholdt’s discomforts always vanished into thin air. He worked through his body as the Marleyan soldier that the script needed him to be, sturdy and resolute, only occasionally getting the note to fix his eye contact. 

In front of the camera, he was Bertholdt Hoover. Now, though, looking squeamish in the dingy off-set lighting, he ogled Marco with impatient confusion.

Marco took that to meaning he hadn’t heard him.

“What’s this horse’s name?” he asked again, a little louder.

Bertholdt looked the other way. “I don’t know.”

“Is she going to be yours? I haven’t met the one they’re assigning me yet.”

“I don’t know.”

“She seems friendly enough, though, right?”

“I… don’t know,” he replied, strained. Bertholdt’s eyes warily wandered back, taking in the way Marco stroked the horse’s flank. He pulled a peaky expression, lips curled back, arms drawn tight into his chest.

Marco tilted his head to the side, pondering. When it finally dawned on him, his concern petered out, supervened by sympathy. 

“Are you afraid of the horses, Bertholdt?” he asked, soft with sensitivity.

Bertholdt had no verbal answer to give. But the way he bared his teeth and kept his body fiercely wound up gave Marco all the confirmation he needed. 

“Aw, Bert, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m not judging you,” he insisted. “I get it. I mean, they’re massive creatures, really, and very strong.”

Bertholdt turned his head away.

“But I was going to say that they’re only intimidating at first. They’re really very friendly. Especially these horses in particular, Bert, it’s their whole job to work with people who may be new to riding.”

“That’s not- Marco. I don’t need this right now.”

“I’m just saying there’s no reason to be afraid,” he urged. “You have a strong support system here, everyone’s here for you, to protect you and help you and-”

The horse reared her head back to give a strident, clattery whinny, and Bertholdt leapt back ten feet, swinging his wrists over his ears.

“I know there’s no reason, Marco, that’s part of the problem,” he spat, bearing down on his ears. Forcing a deep, shuddering breath, he willed himself to speak, low and narrowly controlled; “Listen, you’re really- You’re really nice, Marco, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. But I don’t like big animals like this. And that’s- That’s okay. Just let me figure this out.”

“Sure… of course,” Marco mumbled timidly. “I apologize, I didn’t realize I was interrupting your process… Hey, it’s okay, Bert.” 

Tugged forward by the drawstrings around his heart, Marco converged to wrap him in a hug. 

With a recoiling twist, Bertholdt squirmed out of the embrace. Grimacing, he batted Marco’s arms away, leaping even farther from him and the onlooking horse.

“Bert, I -” Marco stood agape, eyes blown open. “I’m sorry, I- Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

There was a stampede of commotion behind them, an entourage of crew and their clanking cameras. It was from this mess of shuttered lenses and rattling tripods that Reiner emerged, searching and searing. Even in his brazen haste, he found Bertholdt immediately. 

“Bertholdt?” He broke away from the crew posthaste, running to come to his friend’s side.

The brunette only batted him away too, all shaky and aflutter.

“What’s going on?” Reiner asked. His attention was fixated on Bertholdt, who now moved to the side, shaking his hands by the wrists; but Marco knew the question was meant for him to answer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, wincing under the glare Reiner gave him. “Bert was just afraid of the horses, so I tried to comfort him and- Is he okay? What’s that thing he’s doing with his hands?”

“It- I don’t know, it’s just something he does sometimes,” Reiner dismissed. He frowned at Marco; “What did you do?”

“I just tried to hug him, I… I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

The blonde man’s impervious gloom reigned on, dour and unfeeling. Then, Reiner sighed, a fraction of severity slipping away. Then he just looked at Marco tiredly, a little sadly, and said, “Look, I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but he doesn’t like to be touched, okay? And he needs to go at his own pace with things.”

“What can I do?” Marco pleaded.

“You can leave us be,” he said, turning away. “Give him some space.”

Reiner was squaring his shoulders on Bertholdt now, assuming some kind of grounding stance with a placating gesture. The precision of his movements and the control that he moved through them proved this was something he was used to, that he had helped Bertholdt like this a thousand times before. He and Bertholdt were wholly in sync, leaving Marco even more useless.

“But I want to help,” he said hopelessly.

Bertholdt shook his head no, his wrists still flapping with agitation. All the words he couldn’t say were evident from the tormented expression on his face, his fluttery gestures all tied in nerves.

“He doesn’t need help,” Reiner was starting to sound irritated. “He doesn’t need fixing. And you don’t need to act like you’re better than all of us by trying to fix everyone. Get going.”

Marco wanted to protest, but to argue or refute wasn’t in his nature. The two friends were already deep in their remedial routine, Reiner helping Bertholdt through some deep breaths, and Marco’s dire uselessness was degradingly ostensible. He was worthless, disdainfully so.

His lower lip trembling, he slowly sauntered off back to the hall. Neither Reiner nor Bertholdt saw him go.

No one said anything when he walked off set, finding a place to sit on the hallway floor just outside.

Part of him was distinctly, painfully aware that if he had been someone else, anyone else, he would have been stopped. If he had been Eren or Mikasa, he would be hounded with questions from the crew, barraged with queries about where he was going, why he was taking his costume with him, and how soon he would come back. They might have yelled at him. They might have begged him to stay. 

But he was only Marco, the cadet destined to die in Season One. And he left in unbearable, rheumatic silence. Entirely unnoticed. 

He sat against the wall, resting his chin on his knees. He sniffed, hugging his shins against his abscessed, afflicted heart.

“Marco! Hey, Marco!”

Blearily, he willed himself to raise his head from his knees, realizing Jean was standing over him. Jean beamed exuberantly, panting like he’d just run a mile. And, judging from the way Sasha and Connie were roughhousing behind him, knocking each other down with energized bursts, he probably had. All three of them probably had.

“Marco, my shoot went so good, man. I had such a good time,” he sputtered out, breathless. “Armin and Reiner, man, they’re total pros. They’re so cool, they taught me so much. Things are gonna look so sick once they add in all the Female Titan editing.”

Marco gave a watery smile. “That’s awesome, Jean. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks!” he exclaimed, before his smile vanished, noticing his friend’s hesitancy. “Is something wrong?”

Marco wiped at his eyes. “I’m fine, Jean, really. It’s very kind of you to ask, though."

“Okay.” Jean said uneasily, acutely aware something was off. “Hey, um… Sasha and Connie and I have shoots that run pretty late tonight. The three of us are going for a quick Sevy-Levy run if you want to come with us.”

“Sevy-Levy?”

“Seven-Eleven.”

“Seven-Eleven?”

Jean’s eyebrow shot up. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a Seven-Eleven.”

Sasha gasped in mock outrage. “You’ve never been to Seven-Eleven?!”

“Isn’t it just a gas station?”

“Just a gas station?” Sasha shrieked.

“We must save him,” Connie decreed with solemn resolution, and Sasha gave an affirmative nod at his side.

Jean looked back at him patiently. “Only if you want to. I can grab something for you if you want to just stay here. Don’t let Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Hungry over there hear me say this, but it is just a gas station. Er, convenience store, I guess.”

Marco thought for a moment, considering his mood. Then he gave Sasha and Connie an affirmative nod. “I’d like to come.”

With vicious enthusiasm, they swooped down on him like carrions, gathering him up in a hurry of tangling limbs. Sasha and Connie laughed as they dragged Marco along, brandishing their kill, and Jean stalked after them with adoration hidden behind his impervious bastardly smirk. 

He looks happy now, Jean thought to himself, watching Marco flip out over Sasha’s hyper vigor. Maybe Jean had just imagined Marco’s sadness; it was an easy mistake to make around here. 

Now all four of them parade down the hall, jostling each other by the shoulders while Sasha expatiates her interminable list of intended snack purchases.

Mikasa was just coming out of the dressing room when the hell-raising train of actors bustled past her door. She leapt back in surprise, barely dodging them as they came barreling by.

“Hey, Mikasa!” Sasha laughed, slinging her arms around her boys. “We’re taking Marco for his first Sevvy-Levvy run! Do you wanna come?”

The unmistakable joy in Sasha’s eyes was enough to make Mikasa want to reconsider. She was looking innocence itself in the eye, the four fledglings before her wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Not tonight,” she admitted regretfully. “I’m actually headed home for the night. Thanks, though.”

“Fine, fine. But join us next time, Mikasa, okay?”

Sasha and Connie started to run off, Marco wedged between them, but Jean snatched them by the collars of their shirts. “Hold up,” he said, grounding them all in place, ignoring their shrieks of protest; “Do you still have my jacket, Mikasa?”

“Oh my god.” She clasped her hand over her mouth. “I left it at my place! I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, “Nah, it’s cool. Honestly I barely remember that night, I just wanted to make sure I actually gave it to you and didn’t just imagine that in my drunken stupor.”

“I can give it back to you tomorrow.”

“If you want. I actually don’t care,” he brushed off. “I trust you.”

“Thanks, Jean. I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” she said. “You guys have fun.”

They chorused their various goodbyes, telling her to get home safe and that they’d see her tomorrow.

“Wait!” she called before they could get too far. “I’m sorry, I just remembered. Do you guys know if Armin went home or not?”

“Armin?” Jean echoed. “Shoot. He, Reiner and I just broke set about fifteen minutes ago. He was headed towards the back parking lot last I saw him.”

“Thank you,” she said, headed in the direction Jean pointed. “Have fun at the store, Marco.”

“I have no idea what I’m being dragged into!” he called, letting Connie and Sasha drag him off.

Mikasa watched them go, a tease of a tender smile tugging at her lips. She wondered for a moment if this was what Erwin felt like when addressing his cadets, a distant longing for their youthful joy, a soft pang in her chest. It was moments like these she wished she could wear her character’s scarf at all times, to guide her through her wanton longing. For someone accused of being so vapid, so drearily unfeeling, Mikasa felt that her emotions were too much to bear, at least on her own.

When the hoots and hollers disappeared with the four down the hall, Mikasa went the opposite way. Passing lines of saddled horses and a grotesque display of unfinished Titan masks as she walked, it was pretty wild to consider how accustomed she’d grown to such things.

After a few minutes of poking around the dreary back hall, she found the secret parking lot on the side of the studio where she rarely ventured. Only half-certain she’d found the right one, Mikasa pushed open the heavy metal door, stepping into the fresh air of the outside world.

The first thing that hit her was the chill, and then, the sight of the surrounding skyscrapers. Leaving Paradis and returning to the modern world within the blink of an eye was still as jarring as it had been for her on day one.

And there, on the small cement staircase that leveled the door down to the blacktop lot, the blonde sat with his back facing her, his head propped up under his palm.

“Armin.”

He flinched when she called his name.

She backtracked self-consciously, sorely reminded of her tendency to sneak up on people without meaning to. 

“Sorry,” she said miserably. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

After all, she couldn’t help it she was so quiet.

Armin shook his head, his smile as genuine and tender as the sunset before them. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s my own fault. I was in my own world for a second there.”

“Yeah,” Mikasa said, taking in the strangely soft look in his eyes. She looked around, seeing nothing but an empty lot, the sun setting behind the encampment of tall buildings that encircled them. “What are you doing out here?”

“Technically, waiting for my driver. Theoretically, enjoying the landscape,” he said. He spoke so sweetly that Mikasa almost didn’t notice the unnatural hitch in his breath.

Armin spoke so scarcely when he wasn’t acting; his natural voice was seldom expressed, and it caught Mikasa off guard every time she heard it. In a slightly deeper pitch with tempered upward lilts, Armin croaked out his words more than he spoke them, uttering eloquent phrases through a gravelly whine. It was the most paradoxical thing, hearing such clever, charming words groused as if they caused him physical pain.

“You were phenomenal with the horses today, Mikasa,” he said hoarsely. “You must have ridden before.”

“Only as a little girl,” she said bashfully. “I used to go to summer camp.”

Armin hummed, and she hummed back. It was always a dangerous battle when two reticent introverts were stuck together.

Oh well. Her therapist wanted her to get better at initiating things anyway, at taking action. Here goes nothing, she supposed.

Taking a breath, she allowed herself to sit on the stair above Armin’s. Not too close, but close enough her effort was apparent.

At this proximity, she noticed that the collar of Armin’s shirt was folded the wrong way. She had the strange urge to reach forward and fix it. Instead, she remained still, and settled for asking him, “Did, um, you ever go to camp? As a kid?” 

“No. It sounds fun though,” he said, raising a cigarette to his lips. It was the first time Mikasa noticed he was even holding one. She tried to conceal her surprise; Armin was the last person she expected to smoke, even here in the industry, where nicotine seemed to be everyone’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Armin was very careful to keep the smoke away from Mikasa when he exhaled, leaning far to the side so the smoke traveled nowhere near her. He must have noticed her staring, because he looked away, ashamed.

“Sorry,” he said. He made a move to put it out.

“Wait, you don’t have to-” Mikasa stopped him. “I’m sorry, I’m the one intruding on your smoke break.”

“You’re not intruding,” he said. Discreetly shifting the cigarette to hide behind his knee, he asked, “Did you like it? Summer camp, I mean.”

“Oh I loved it. Every summer. Me and my sisters,” Mikasa said. “It was easier on my parents, you know. They had work.”

“What did your parents do for work?”

“My dad was a teacher, and my okaasan wa– Sorry, that’s Japanese.”

“I know.”

“And my okaasan was an engineer.”

“That’s so fascinating. So you’re the only artist in your family?”

“Far from it, actually. My sisters and I all ended up in the arts,” she smiled, bashful and giddy. “Our parents said to do whatever we wanted. They’re ecstatic for us, actually.”

“That’s so sweet.” Armin hummed. “Excuse me for being putative, but now I’m envisioning a world in which Mikasa grew up with sisters. What a different woman she would have become, having had female figures in her life.”

“I don’t think she would’ve been all that different,” she disagreed politely.

“No?”

“No. I mean, she had Carla,” she reasoned. “Plus, it really wouldn’t have mattered if she had sisters or not, as long as Eren was there. Even if she had ten sisters who all miraculously survived her parents’ murder, as long as Eren still saved her, he still has to become the centerpiece of her universe.”

Armin nodded, considering her words. “That is a very astute and viable argument.”

Mikasa was starting to feel proud of herself, the words flowing effortlessly from her body. “What about you?” she asked. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

She couldn’t believe it, how easy it was to talk to him. Even with his taciturn reluctance, Armin was perfect, because he listened. He seemed to listen with his entire body, arms, shoulders, and neck a vessel for her reverent parley, consoling Mikasa through every word.

She thought back to the night she spent at Eren and Jean’s, the way Jean rolled his eyes at Armin’s name, the way the roommates shared the same look of disgust as they dismissed him. It just didn’t seem right. They couldn’t possibly have been talking about the same Armin Arlert, surely not this darling, attenuate creature.

Mikasa scooted down to his stair step, their knees close together. “Armin, when’s a good time for you in the upcoming week? I noticed that all three of us have some open hours Friday and Saturday, if you’d be open to doing anything.”

“All three, what?” Armin hesitated. “I beg your pardon, am I missing something?” 

“The- You got the text, right?” she asked. “The one Eren sent you?”

“I never received a text from Eren.”

“He… Are you sure?” Mikasa got worried. “He told me he texted you.”

Armin frowned. “Pardon me, do you mean Erwin?”

“No, I mean Eren,” she said, biting her lip. “Eren. He told me he texted you. He said he did. Last night.”

“I’m sorry, Mikasa. No, I haven’t heard anything from Eren,” he explained with great care, intimately aware of the girl’s escalating distress; even if her expression was vacuous and unrevealing, her internal turmoil was salient to anyone paying close attention.

“Erwin was the only one to text me last night,” he said carefully. “Besides the lovely Historia and her group chat, of course.”

Armin drew back his unbuttoned jean jacket then, reaching for the middle pocket of the hoodie he wore underneath. He was wearing two or three layers at least, and still, it was amazing how skinny he was. Though they practically swallowed him whole, his clothes were tasteful and well-ironed. It was the classic “old money” wardrobe, fashioned in evidently upmarket garments, but only to the well-trained eye. To most, he probably looked like another jobless teenager swaddled in hoodies and jeans.

He revealed his phone from the pocket, turning the screen so Mikasa could see it.

Erwin: I just wanted to remind you that you’re a phenomenal young artist. The maturity with which you handle the work is simply admirable even from my standpoint. You sort of remind me of a -

“Did Eren need something?” Armin asked, stowing his phone away before Mikasa had the chance to finish reading.

Her face was flushing now with a humiliating heat. She tried to cover her face with her hands, “N-No. Sorry, I just…”

“What’s wrong, Mikasa?” he asked so sweetly it hurt her, looking at her with all the patience in the world.

“Sorry…” Mikasa sniffed, wiping her eye. She drew her hands away from her face and folded them in her lap. “Sorry, I just remembered… It isn’t fair for you to ask if I’m okay. You were sick again yesterday. Are you feeling any better?”

Armin smiled plaintively.  “I’m still a little weak, but at least I’m vertical now.”

“Shooting wasn’t too hard on you today?”

“No, thank goodness. They were very kind about giving me breaks. Jean made sure I drank my water, and Reiner nominated himself my unofficial catcher in case I fainted off my horse.” Armin’s soft laughter that followed was doleful, if not remorseful. “Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry you were sick.”

Armin took a drag from his cigarette. “Is Eren okay?”

“Yes…” she said tenuously. “He just… confuses me.”

Armin looked at her just then, and Mikasa swore she never before felt such an intense urge to coddle something. It was almost like looking in a mirror, seeing the same rueful lonesomeness blinking back at her, only blue-eyed and pure. Chronically isolated, hearts bursting with unreturned tenderness. He and she were the same, she realized, her heart swelling with elation.

“Would you like to do lunch tomorrow?” Mikasa asked suddenly.

“Oh, um…” His face fell. “Lunch isn’t good for me. I’m sorry.”

“Dinner?”

“Can it not…” He took a quick, panicky drag from his cigarette, turning away.

Mikasa was afraid she lost him, that she must have overstepped their tentative friendship by being so assertive so soon.

He blew out the smoke, his shoulders slumping. In his small, rasping voice, he asked, “Can it not be a meal? I would still be honored to spend time with you.”

“Yeah,” she said, brightening up. “Armin, how about you just stop by our dressing room again? It’s Sasha’s day off tomorrow, so it should be much quieter. You don’t even need to bring tea this time.”

Armin smiled. “That would be lovely, Mikasa. Thank you.”

They sat together in a comfortable silence, fortified by their bravery. They wouldn’t admit it, but they each felt a well earned smidge of pride for how well things were going, how easy they made it to talk to one another.

“Mikasa?” he said after a while, voice as placid as their complacent silence.

“Hm?”

“Please don’t think too poorly of Eren, alright? I’m sure this is all some little misunderstanding,” he said. He looked her in the eye as he continued,  “But you should let him know he upset you. He values his friendship with you, and would be loath to know he caused you distress. He’d change anything if you simply asked it of him.”

“He told you that?”

“What? No,” Armin laughed. “No, he hates me. He doesn’t talk to me. He hates me.”

“Armin, Eren doesn’t-”

“-I can see it, okay? How deeply he cares for you. The way he looks at you says everything,” Armin said. He pressed his lips together, showing he was firm. “Let him know he upset you, okay?”

“I will,” she breathed, struck breathless by this young man before her, a man with the looks of a child but the wisdom of a well aged prophet.

“My driver’s here,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette and stowing the remaining half back in its pack. 

He stood up, and immediately, his knees buckled and he swayed to the left.

Instincts sharp and visceral, Mikasa was quick to jump up and catch him. She bolstered him upright as his body swayed into hers, his head doddering into the crook of her shoulder.

“Woah,” he said dizzily. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Hey, look at me. Look at me. Armin, are you okay?”

“‘m fine…” he mumbled, his eyes wide and spacey.

“Headrush?” she guessed worriedly, keeping his body firm against hers.

Armin crooned a weak and noncommittal sound. “I guess… ’m sorry, I jus’ stood up way too fast.”

He started to sway the other direction, but Mikasa tugged him back against her body.

“Hey. Lean on me until you have your strength again. I mean it, it’s okay,” she said firmly. She frowned, looking closer, “You’re really flushed. Are you still sick?”

With half-lidded eyes, Armin looked at her in a daze, but with a thin veil of resolve. He lingered, his body teetering, before he pushed Mikasa away, stepping back a second time. She let him go, heart throbbing. In all honesty it looked like Armin wanted to crawl back into her arms and go to sleep there. But he stepped back anyway, standing up straight to prove he was alright.

He had gone nonverbal again, Mikasa could deduce that on her own. But he seemed okay, if not a little forlorn, a little guilty.

“Be safe,” Mikasa said in parting, as he started walking off towards the sleek black sedan that just pulled in. Armin would have looked like a kid being picked up from school were it not so obvious how expensive the car was, or the fact that the chauffeur held the door open as Armin boarded the back seat.

She watched the car drive off, and absentmindedly reached for the red scarf around her neck, only to be reminded it was no longer there, because it was never really hers to begin with.

Jean: Won’t be coming home tonight. I am safe. do not freak.

Eren: dude

Jean: don’t use that tone with me. I’m being a good roommate by letting you know

Eren: where r u

Jean: Sasha's place, bitch

Eren typed up a message, and then promptly deleted it. He typed up another one, and deleted it again.

He groaned, gripping his hair. Fuck Jean having a better social life than him. Not to mention a better sex life. As far as Eren knew, Jean barely talked to Sasha off-set, and now he was staying the night at her place?

The text app was still glaring at him, his fingers itching for the screen.

Eren knew he shouldn’t push it. He was already fortunate enough to receive a reply from Levi at all. But nighttime was hastily approaching on his single night off. He’d already done his workout, his meal prep for the week, his resting, his doom-scrolling. He was running out of ways to waste his few hours of freedom before he returned to the studio for another grueling week of the war on Titans.

Logically he knew he shouldn’t push it. But he was getting anxious. Not to mention, a little desperate.

He opened up his texts with Levi Ackermann.

Eren: so are you free tonight or?

Eren: bc if you’re not that’s fine. Just lmk. 

Yeah, let him know so he won’t lay here, wasting away, pining for something that was never going to happen.

His breath hitched, seeing the words pop up on his screen.

Read 10:49 pm.

And no response. The damn bastard.

The hot anger in his tendons was quickly heating into a wave of frustration, a pool of heat trickling down into his groin. How that one fatally provoking man could unnerve him so adversely, so unsparingly, Eren would never pin down. He really was merciless; and now Eren felt grimy, sullied by the tarnish of his own disappointment, ashamed of getting his hopes up in the first place.

Eren needed release, and a shower.

Snatching his phone he stalked to the bathroom and ripped the shower curtain aside. Automatically he ran the water way too hot, and queued up Mikasa’s playlist on the speaker while he ripped his clothes off.

It wasn’t until he was fully nude, his clothes discarded in a mussy, angry heap at the door, that he realized he only had a few songs left before he finished Mikasa’s playlist. With the showers pelting down against his shitty shower curtain, cantillating a comforting, pluvial melody of its own, Eren took the time to go back to Mikasa’s Spotify profile, something he didn’t recall ever looking into before. Her profile picture was an intentionally blurry photograph, one that obscured her eyes and special features, but her silhouette was there, lissome and strong against the beige and black hues of her background, ever the magnificent mystery that she was.

She was a lot like Levi, he realized, forever enshrouded in a mantle of intrigue, a penumbra of obscurity. But at least Mikasa was kind to him. At least she seemed to consider him another human being worth her time on this planet. At least she understood that the show was fiction, that Titans couldn’t really hurt them, that she shouldn’t – and couldn’t – really be as heartless and unfeeling as the script wants her to be, not on her own time, not in the real world.

While the chords transgressed from his speaker, he let the stiffness in his shoulders dissolve, a ponderous sigh escaping his taut, exhausted body. Finally he drew the shower curtain aside and stepped in, hoping the steam would wash away all his hollow hopes and leave him barren.

Chapter Text

Jean, Connie, Sasha, and Marco were all yips and giggles when they came romping into the studio early the next morning. It was Sasha’s day off, and Connie’s too, but the pair insisted on walking (and running, and leaping, and cavorting) Jean and Marco over to the studio anyway, not ready to let go of their fun foursome so soon. They’d barely slept at all, having stayed up until three or four, and somehow they still came galloping into the green room fully energized, all hoots and hollers, while the sun was still rising.

Their convivial nature was obviously much to the displeasure of the other actors and crew members who leered around the room, glowering over their coffee and grousing in terse phrases.

Eren was among the morning grumps, supine over a sofa with his headphones in, eyes closed.

Jean trotted over to him, a little breathless. He grabbed a couch pillow and quickly whumped it into Eren’s middle.

Eren jumped into alertness, ripping the music from his ears. “Are you on drugs?!”

“I’m high on life, baby,” Jean smirked. “And what’s with you this morning? Already taking a nap?”

“Woke up to an empty fucking apartment,” Eren mumbled, so grated and low that Jean was convinced he misheard him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Eren rolled his eyes. He slumped back into the couch, practically going liquid against the fabric. “Did you have fun with Sasha, or whatever?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “Her place is, like, really cool, man. The studio provided it for her. Furnished and everything. She has this massive fucking TV, too. I’ve never seen one so big.”

“Too bad you won’t be going back. I’m sure you would’ve loved to watch all your favorite porn on there.”

“My favorite- Wait, what?” Jean blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be going back?”

“I’ve known you, like, five years, Jean. I know how you are with your hookups,” he rolled his eyes. “You won’t be going back.”

Jean looked like he wanted to die. “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? Are you on drugs?”

“Not nearly enough,” Eren said, so deadpan it was impossible to tell if he was joking.

Sasha squirmed up from behind him, patting him on the head. “Bye, Jean-bo! I’m off. Oh, hi Eren. And bye, Eren. Hi and bye, Eren!”

She was all over Jean, clinging around his arm, an apelike creature clambering over her natural habitat.

“Are you and Connie both headed out?” Jean asked, not batting an eye. He was completely indifferent to the way Sasha’s chest pressed into his side, the way her breasts parted against his ribs. It was obvious, he had to have felt it, but he was considerately impassive.

Eren cursed under his breath. What an asshole.

“Yep! We’re going. We’re called pretty early tomorrow, though.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow. You too, Connie.”

“Bye, Jean! Goodnight everyone!” Connie called, before he and Sasha went chasing each other down the hall in another fit of shrieks and hollers.

Reiner, who loomed by the coffee station with an expression that could kill, grumbled over his coffee. “It’s morning.”

Marco jumped at the heavy tone. His uneasiness didn’t go unnoticed by Reiner’s pernicious glower.

“What?”

“How, um, how’s Bert?”

“Bertholdt is fine,” he said, sipping black coffee. “Why?”

“It’s just - we’re doing more horse filming today so…” Marco fumbled. When he realized the ever-stoic Reiner wasn’t going to pick up the slack of conversation, he sighed and said, “Never mind.”

“Oh shit that’s right,” Jean said excitedly, clapping his roommate’s shoulder. “You finally get to meet the horses, Eren.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“What, you don’t like horses all of a sudden? I thought they were your favorite way to make fun of me.”

Eren was supine over the couch, exactly parallel with the ceiling and floor as he blankly stared up at the tiles and cracks. His expression was blank, if not slightly creased with tension, his eyes, a nebulous void.

“I’m filming the scenes where I’m riding with Levi’s squad today,” he said dourly.

“Okay,” was all Jean had to say in response.

He knew from Eren’s vacant… crypticness that he was insinuating something deeper, but for the life of him, Jean couldn’t catch onto it. 

“Break a leg,” was all he settled on saying.

Eren huffed, slogging himself up to his feet. He muttered something abrasive about them all being caffeine addicts, then something else that Jean couldn’t fully catch, before putting his headphones back in and trudging down the hall.

“Is he okay?” Marco asked once he was gone.

“He just gets sassy when he’s tired,” Jean said. “You ask that a lot, don’t you?”

“What?”

“If people are okay.”

“Well, Jean, I only ask it if they give me reason.”

“Hm,” was all Jean said. It was too early to get into any deep conversations like that – but he still made a mental note to clock if Marco ever asked that of him. 

He nudged Marco’s elbow, “Let’s get some coffee.”

Levi was driving him insane.

Ten whole hours they spent together, and not for a second did Levi soften his unsparing apathy. Levi was placed in the front of the squad, naturally, but surely that didn’t mean he had to keep his back towards Eren the entire day . Even then, it didn’t excuse the way he vanished every time they took a break, making himself callously inaccessible every time Eren padded the set and green room, roving around with puppy eyes trying to find him.

His hopeful, bright-eyed optimism grew hard and thorny, becoming more and more incensed with every cold shoulder the captain gave him. Why was Eren so pissed about being ignored? Was it because he was technically a celebrity now and thought he was entitled to attention?

From a heart-sinking distance, he watched Levi stroke the muzzle of his horse, intentionally, carefully, looking it in the eye.

Eren bristled at the sight.

No, no newfangled sense of entitlement had anything to do with it. He was pissed because it was Levi. 

But why was it driving him up the walls that this one insignificant little (literally little) person was ignoring him? It wasn’t like the man owed him anything; they certainly weren’t friends. Really, the longest conversation they’d ever had was the time when Eren caught him on public transportation.

They’d sat together, knee to knee. Close enough that Eren had caught a faint whiff of Levi’s cologne. Even now, he still remembered the scent, how it tasted like midnight and verdure on the back of his tongue. He remembered the look of discomfort, almost concern, Levi gave him when he confessed yes , that shithole bus stop was where Eren lived.

Then he had asked the captain if he wanted to come over, guilelessly. Hopefully. 

How stupid he had been.

Perhaps another night.

That was what Levi had said when Eren asked him if he wanted to come over. Not no, not anything cruel, but something that positively indicated future success. Something inciting hope. Eren’s optimism wasn’t rooted in nothing; Levi deliberately planted an aspiration in him.

And still, this guy was treating him like scum beneath his shoe. Leaving his text on read, ignoring him every second the camera wasn’t rolling. Just who the hell was this guy, and what did he have against Eren?

The fact they were horse-riding all fucking day didn’t help quell the agitated heat in his groin, the oversized saddle whumping into his straddle. Hate-boner was quickly becoming an appropriate way to describe Eren’s current circumstances.

The green-eyed cadet did nothing to diminish the furor in his glower, staring furiously at the captain on the other side of the set. Levi had to know Eren was glaring at him, but he still went on petting his horse, perfectly blissful within his own neutral disdain. Levi was remorseless, far too comfortable in his emotionless detachment for his own good.

Eren jumped when he heard the smack of the clapboard, and the high pitched shrill of someone calling for the next take. Immediately, a touch-up artist came by to cake his face in foundation while he squinted and coughed. While the other actors mounted their horses around them, the D.A. told them that this was going to be the last take of the night. But they had said that three times already.

He dragged his hands down the sides of his face—earning a scolding from the touch-up artist as she came back with a fresh palette. He let her paint his face all over again, bracing himself for another hour of staring at that insensitive backside, that pernicious glower anytime Levi was courteous enough to turn his head.

The actress playing Petra was on the horse beside him. She kept giving him glances of sympathy; by the third time he knew he must have been worrying her. What appalled him, though, was that he didn’t care what she thought. He didn’t care at all.

When Eren was finally released for the night, all the other cadets were getting out at the same time. Wearied soldiers who couldn’t catch a break, they trudged into the dressing rooms together in a broken assembly line, a disgruntled marching band without their baton leader.

Jean was already stripping out of his costume before they made it off set, unbuttoning his sleek white shirt en route.

“Man, I had a good shoot,” Jean said, walking bare-chested down the hall now, shirt balled up in his fist.

Eren grumbled. It was infuriating how sexy Jean was, how carelessly sexy. He never gave a fuck who he offended by walking around half naked, he just knew he could get away with it because he was charming.

“Glad you guys had a good time, at least,” Eren said. He moved into the dressing room, and didn’t stop to hold the door open for anyone else.

Jean came in after him, phone in hand. He didn’t wait until he got to his own station, he just kept stripping out of costume as he walked. Eren leaned over his shoulder, stealing a glance at his phone. “Great. And now you already have another girl texting you. Real classy, Jean.”

“What? Oh it’s just Mikasa,” he said. He tossed his crumpled pants into Eren’s chest, now practically naked except for his boxers. His near nudity did nothing to dispel the lurking suspicion in Eren’s gut.

He frowned. “Why is Mikasa texting you?”

“She’s telling me she finally brought my jacket back.”

“Whoopde fucking do.”

“See the difference between you and me, Eren-” Jean started, strutting over to toss his costume in the hamper. “-is that I’m actually cute when I’m sarcastic. You just sound like a brat.”

“Watch it Jean. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

It was true that Jean wasn’t supposed to be in this room. He simply floated from dressing room to dressing room depending on his mood - no one actually knew where his true station was. That secret was a carrot he dangled over their heads with needless superiority. 

“It’s so quiet without Connie here,” the actor playing Franz said. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“I think it’s nice,” Floch laughed. “Anytime I can catch a break from his hoots and hollers, I’m happy.”

“It’s a bit too quiet if you ask me,” Jean laughed. He looked around their dressing room, Dressing Room E, taking in the different stations. “Hey, this is Marco’s dressing room, right?”

Eren wordlessly pointed to Marco’s empty station, between Franz and Floch.

“Well, where is he? Anyone know what happened to him?”

“Reiner chewed him up and spat him out.”

“He did?” Jean looks baffled. “What the hell does that mean.”

“I don’t know, man. He was on your set. It happened yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday? Something between Reiner and Marco?” Jean was white with distress; “Wait, is that why he looked so upset when I found him?”

Eren, on the verge of snapping, shot him a look.

“Oh my god, shut up!” Floch rolled his head back towards the ceiling. “You two are worse than Connie.”

Hooking his phone up to the mini JBL they all claimed was actually theirs, Floch started blasting blisteringly loud music, an awful, grating cacophony to drown out their arguing.

 “Okay, I…” Jean stammered, thrown off by the music and the unsettling distrust in the air. Sighing in frustration, he got close to Eren’s ear, projecting over the music; “Hey would you mind getting my jacket for me real quick?”

Eren frowned. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”

The arrant malice in his tone forced Jean back, tossing his palms up in surrender. On ordinary days, Jean was rather accustomed to callousness from his roommate; fighting was essentially the only way they knew how to communicate with one another. But this abrasiveness seemed to come out of nowhere, especially to this extreme degree. Not only that, but Jean could see that Eren meant it. There was no teasing glint in his eye, no smirk on his face to reveal that it was all a joke. No, Eren was downright pissed, and Jean, stupefied.

It didn’t help that Floch kept turning up the dial on the speaker, and now they had to shout in each other’s faces just to hear.

“Dude,” he yelled, shocked. He made a vague gesture, “I’m… Marco.”

Eren raised a brow, sarcastic and cruel. “You’re Marco?”

“I’m going to help Marco,” he shouted, taking a step back. “Forget the jacket. Sorry, I didn’t realize it would be such fucking inconvenience for you to do one small thing while I’m helping a friend.”

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get it.”

“Eren-”

“-I said I’ll get it,” he hissed. Pulling his hood down over his head, he muttered a tight, “Jesus.”

“Fine,” Jean frowned, pointing a finger. “But don’t be a brat when you go see her. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“Where do I go?” he asked, blatantly ignoring Jean’s statement.

His apathy didn’t go unnoticed. Jean bit down on his tongue, mentally celebrating his own restraint at not snapping Eren’s head off right then and there.

“Mikasa’s dressing room,” he told him, shelving his rude comeback for later, when they were at the apartment. “I think it’s either C or D.”

“Fine,” he said, already storming out.

“Eren,” Jean tried calling after him, but Eren was already gone, the dressing room door slamming shut behind him.

The hallway was colder, and much, much quieter - but that did little to ease Eren’s bunch of nerves. Interns skittered out of his way as he trudged past, like petrified sandpipers fleeing the incoming tide. Eren paid them no mind. He just wanted to run Jean’s stupid errand and go home.

He just barely caught himself from barging right into Dressing Room C, realizing with a hot pinch of terror that he was just about to muscle into a women’s space without permission, panting and glaring like a madman. Barging in on undressed women in their own space was not the kind of reputation he wanted as an actor just getting started on his first big gig… it wasn’t the kind of reputation he wanted in general either.

He opted to knock instead. He just started raising his fist to the door when suddenly it gave way before him, opening from the inside.

It was Armin, mid-laughter. His laughter immediately dropped, though, all the levity cratering out of his small body when he realized, with a flinch, that he was face to face with Eren. The smile he offered was tiny and insincere, out of courtesy more than anything else. Self-consciously Armin tucked a strand of blonde hair behind his ear and skirted around Eren to run off down the hall.

“Bye, Armin! Come again!” Mikasa called after him, poking her head around the door. She blinked. “Oh, hi Eren.”

Eren’s disposition was hard as a stone, jaw tight with impatience. “Jean said you have his jacket?”

“Oh. Yes, I have it on my dresser,” she said tenuously. “You can come in if you want.”

“No. It’s fine,” he said bitterly. “I’m on my way home.”

“Actually, Eren while you’re here…” she hesitated. “Never mind.”

“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“May I please speak with you?” she asked, barely meeting his eyes.

Eren went still, feeling the tension dripping away from his body.

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “Is… Wait, is everything okay?”

She grabbed her arm, hugging it against her body. “I don’t know.”

Eren halted immediately, all of his icy reservations and forced stoicism melting at the sight of his friend so uneasy. He couldn’t hold up a brave face around her, not when she was looking at him so meekly. She looked so lost; it was so unlike everything he’d come to expect from her.

Eren closed the door behind them. He swiftly took her by the arm, his grip firm but not hard enough to hurt her. He walked her to her stool and sat her down, standing in front of her intervention-style. 

“What is it?” he prompted urgently.

She wouldn’t meet his eye, and by this point, Eren’s heart was thundering in his chest.

“Oh shit, Mikasa, what did I do?” He dragged the nearest stool over with the crook of his ankle, sitting down so they were at the same level. “I’m sorry,” he begged. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Talk to me. Please.”

Mikasa’s gaze was on the floor, but her voice was full and firm when she said, “I would appreciate not being led on.”

“I…” Eren gaped. “What?”

“If you don’t want to spend time with me, that’s perfectly alright,” Mikasa explained. “Just tell me that, and don’t lead me on by pretending you want to when you don’t.”

“Mikasa, I do want to spend time with you,” he insisted. “Where on earth is this coming from?”

“Well, Armin, he-”

“-Armin?” Eren shot up from the stool. “That piece of nepo shit’s a liar, I would never-” 

Mikasa gripped his wrist then. Hard. She was looking at him with the eyes of a warrior.

“Stop it,” she said. “Armin, he- We were talking, and that’s when I pieced together that you lied about texting him,” she explained.
“If you didn’t want to spend time with us, that’s fine, but you shouldn’t have pretended like you wanted to. That’s just inconsiderate, and frankly, rather childish.”

“Mikasa, I do want to spend time with you,” he swore. “You’re like the coolest person I know, ever.”

“Then why did you lie to me about texting Armin?”

“Because I don’t want to spend time with him!” 

He went wide-eyed, his face pinched tight. It was a true statement, but he still flinched after confessing it, hating the sheer shock in Mikasa’s reaction.

Like the recoil of a gun after a disastrous misfire, Eren shrunk back as soon as he said it, looking down and away so he wouldn’t have to see Mikasa’s heartbroken expression. She was never the most emotive, especially not in her physicality - it was something the director hounded her about nearly every day. But Eren knew how to read her subtle cues, minute and infinitesimal as they were. And in this moment, he knew just how greatly his confession devastated her.

“I didn’t believe him at first at first,” she said, breath tenuous in her voice. “I thought he was just being self-conscious. But no, you, but you - you really do hate him. Why?”

He hated the sound of heartbreak in her voice as she pleaded; “Why do you hate him?”

“He thinks he’s better than all of us,” he said, straining to keep his voice low and inoffensive. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen him get all his special treatment.”

“No, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know who his parents are, right?” he asked, straightforward and barbed. “They’re both movie producers. Rich as fuck. And, according to his Wikipedia, he still lives with them for crying out loud. Like a fucking kid.”

“What does it matter what his parents do? What was it you called him just now? Piece of…?”

“I meant what I said. He’s a nepo baby, Mikasa. Armin had this role fucking handed to him,” he scathed. These were feelings he’d had stirring in the cauldron of his belly for months now, brewing and churning their in their quiet violent simmer. Now, he was speaking them to life for the first time, and they poured from his mouth, weeping from his heart, in a brumal, blistering slough of passion. “Meanwhile, I actually busted my balls for this role, after years of hustling auditions and just barely scraping by. I still have to work hard to prove that I actually belong here every single day. And he just gets shit handed to him on a silver platter ‘cause of heritage. He is the embodiment of everything I hate about this godforsaken corrupted industry. It’s supposed to be an art form but everything gets twisted around for profit, profit, profit.”

Mikasa sat there wordlessly. Neither she nor her reflection in the dressing room mirror made a move to speak.

“It’s sick,” Eren went on. “Just because his parents did all this shit, he gets special treatment or something? He gets to sit around, take breaks.”

“Eren,” Mikasa cut in. “He’s- I’m sorry. I apologize for interrupting but I have to stop you there. Armin has to take breaks because he’s unwell.”

“C’mon, nobody actually gets sick as often as he does. Dude’s a faker,” he said, but then went pale in the face, realizing his own failure. His own mother fell ill on a semi regular basis; at this point, he was bullshitting, and he knew it.

Worse, Mikasa knew it, too. “No, Eren. We were talking yesterday and he nearly fainted on me.”

“ … You were talking yesterday?” Eren said. His tone came off harsh, but really he was only stupefied. “I didn’t think he could talk.”

“Eren.”

“No, I’m not shitting you. I’m not trying to be mean or sarcastic or anything, I mean, I literally thought he had a selective mutism thing going on.” He crossed his arms, sighing under his breath, “Not that that excuses anything, but.”

“He and I talked a long while, as a matter of fact,” Mikasa said, her sternness and sympathy working in perfect harmony. “He’s… He’s actually so sweet. Like the sweetest, most genuine person I’ve ever… Talking to him broke my heart, actually.”

“Really? Why?”

“For having not talked with him before,” she admitted. “Lord knows I’m guilty of ignoring him, too. In fact, I’m afraid everyone in this cast is. We’ve been so unkind to him. … And he knows you hate him, FYI.”

Eren rolled his eyes. “I don’t hate him…”

“I knew his mom used to be a famous actress, but-” She sighed through clenched teeth. “Eren, you’ve never tried speaking with him, have you? Neither of his parents produced our show.” 

“So? He’s a walking bank, Mikasa. The casting director was drooling all over him.”

“Do you think he’s a bad actor?”

“No, I-” 

What pained him was how badly Eren wanted it to be true. He wanted Armin to be a failure in all the ways Eren feared he was himself. But Mikasa wanted the truth, and the truth, humiliating as it was for Eren to accept, was that Armin was a phenomenal actor. 

“No,” he sighed. “I think… I think he’s perfect for the character. Really, he’s doing a good job. But I can’t ignore it, Mikasa, his parentage still played a huge role in him being cast.”

“And so you punish him for that? How is that fair to him?” She looked at him with her cold grey eyes, the color of flint. Usually her eyes were like her blades, sharp, silver and merciless. Now they were only filled with hurt.

“I can see why they cast you as Eren,” she said softly, so softly that if they were on set, they’d need a mic to hear her. “You have no sympathy for anyone you deem an enemy, do you?”

Eren crumbled in his seat. All the fire in his chest hardened to stone, weighing down in his abdomen.

“It’s not his fault,” Mikasa said softly.

“I know he can’t control where he comes from,” Eren sighed. “I guess I’m just… I don’t know.”

Jealous.

Mikasa shook her head, “I don’t even know if I should be telling you this, but Eren, he thinks extraordinarily highly of you.”

“Doubt it,” he tsked.

“No, he really does. He thinks you’re amazing. We talked about you a lot just now.”

She watched the rigidity dissolve from Eren’s stiff posture. She watched his shoulders slump, his neck slink forward. It was as if some puppetmaster cut the strings holding him upright, and now he had to be a real human boy again, and the thought of it terrified him.

“So what’s your opinion of him?” he asked her after a while, taking the time to gather his bearings.

She blinked. “Mine?”

“You have impeccable judgment,” he said plainly. “I want to know what you think.”

Mikasa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I like him.”

“You like him,” he said. “Give me more than that, Mika, come on.”

“I… He’s so strange, Eren. He’s like the wisest old man in the world at times, he says the most profound, beautiful things. Like a lecturer and a student combined,” she said. “But other times- Other times, it’s like I’m just looking at a lost little boy. Like, he’s so small, and sweet and…”

Eren wasn’t looking at her anymore, and for a moment, panic gripped Mikasa by the back of her neck, worried she had scared him off. But then–

“Do you think he’s a good person?”

“I do. I… Eren, I’m afraid he might just be the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

“I see. … I’ll be better to him,” Eren said, clenching his fists to make himself resolute and firm.

Her first instinct was to back away. “That’s not what I’m telling you to do.”

“Yes it is. And I’m glad you care enough about me to steer me in the right direction,” he said. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“I… apology accepted,” she said. Timidly, testing her boundaries, Mikasa reached for the mug left on her dresser, still warm although it would be tepid soon. “Tea?”

Eren took the mug, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “You don’t mind me drinking off you?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve all shared each others’ germs by now,” she said with a light laugh. “Annie’s already wolfed down half. She always does when Armin makes it.”

“Armin made this?” He took a sip. His eyes widened comically. “Shit, this is really good… Oh my god, my headache’s gone!”

“I know, right?! It’s like, how does he know?!”

“Jesus Christ, I need an IV of whatever he puts in this,” Eren said, taking a few more gulps. He wiped his mouth in a belated attempt at courtesy. 

“Can I be honest?” he asked. 

“Please. That’s what I’m asking you for. Honesty,” she pleaded. 

“I feel like I’ve been led on too. By Levi,” he admitted. “Which is stupid, I know. It’s so stupid.”

“Led on by Levi?”

He was flushing now, his cheeks pink. He decided to blame the heat of the tea, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s all in my head, I know it is, and I’m reading way too much into it. Like, all the cues he gives me? It’s like I’m overanalyzing everything just because I want him– I want it so badly. His attention? I just feel like he’s giving me the cold shoulder intentionally.”

“That’s not kind of him,” she frowned.

“I guess it’s my own fault for building up an expectation. I have a fixation problem.” He chuckled lowly, “Probably why I was cast as Eren right?”

“Still, that sucks of him to do to you,” she said with sincere sympathy. “I’m sorry, Eren. I know how that feels.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I was being unfair to you and to Armin.” He took another sip of tea, “You’re right. We three should hang out.”

“ … Can I be honest too?”

“Yeah?”

Mikasa averted her gaze. She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking solace in her own embrace. “The truth is," she began, her voice barely audible over the gentle hum of the air conditioner overhead, "I knew you didn't really like him. Or at least, I could tell you were uncomfortable. When I suggested hanging out— the three of us, that is— it was only because, well, I never imagined you'd want to spend time alone with me."

A flicker of surprise danced in his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

Her cheeks warmed, a delicate bloom against the porcelain of her skin. “Well… I guess it’s because I think extraordinarily highly of you too.”

His gaze held hers, a silent question hanging between them. The confession trembled on her lips, a fragile thing she dared not break. But the downward tilt of her head and the soft blush that crept up her neck spoke volumes.

Eren's heart pounded in his ears. He recognized the courage it took for her to admit her feelings, and a fierce protectiveness ignited within him. "Would you—I mean, would you be interested in—" His voice caught in his throat. "Spending time with me? Just us. No cameras, no pretense. Just you and me."

Her eyes widened slightly, as if caught off guard. "I'd like that."

A surge of hope coursed through him. "A real date, I mean. If you'd like.”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with a shy delight. The scarf muffled her smile, but it was there, plain as day. And in that moment, as their gazes locked, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a bubble of intimacy.

“Yeah, I’d… yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes finally returning to his. It was just eye contact, but it felt like a full embrace, pure and physical. “Please.”

“Okay,” Eren breathed, barely believing his luck. “Let’s do it.”

The scarf muffled her laughter, a delicate melody trapped behind soft fabric. Her bashfulness, a surprising facet of her fierce spirit, made her all the more captivating.

“I, um, I’m two songs away from finishing your playlist,” he veered, passing the tea back over to her. “I really, really like it. I want to talk to you about it once I finish, if that’s okay. I have so many questions.”

Smiling, Mikasa received the mug back. Their knuckles grazed against each other, and that small gesture alone felt like an embrace she’d waited a lifetime for.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s.”

This dressing room had no windows, so they missed the setting of the sun, talking and not-talking the time away. By the time Mikasa and Eren had finished their private party, the rest of the studio had emptied out. Save for a drearily mopping custodian and a trio of sleepy writers rubbing their eyes over paperwork, they were the only two left in the building. Eren offered to walk Mikasa home; she agreed to let him take her to her metro station, but no farther.

She waited for him in the doorway of Dressing Room E, despite the fact he insisted no one else was there and it was okay to come in. She waited for him anyway, so he made quick work of throwing on his forest green jacket, and snagging whatever knicknacks he needed for the night. He was just about to turn around when a bright yellow paper caught his attention.

He froze, snatching the yellow post-it note that was left on his personal mirror.

“Eren, are you okay?” Mikasa called, stepping into the dressing room. “What’s taking so long?”

“Does this have a name?”

Mikasa faltered back. “What?”

Eren held the post-it note out to her, eyes sharp with determination. “Is there a name written anywhere on this? Does it say who it’s from?”

“Um,” Mikasa squinted at the yellow square of paper. “No. It doesn’t have a name. It just says that they apologize for not replying to your text, that they don’t like phones so you should leave them notes or speak in-person only.”

Eren scoffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah, that’s what I thought he wrote. Asshole.”

“It also says to meet them fifteen minutes early on set tomorrow.”

“It does?” Eren reached for the note. “I missed that part, where does it say that?”

“Right here,” Mikasa pointed. (Eren noticed her nails were no longer painted that pretty color he thought looked so good on her. They must have made her scrub it off for filming.)

“See? ‘Please meet me fifteen minutes early tomorrow, hot-set, Studio A,’” she asked, frowning. “Do you know who this is from?”

“Levi.”

“Levi?”

Eren pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie. “It’s got to be him. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m not going.”

“Are you sure?” Mikasa asked, worried. “It could be Armin.”

“No way. I think I scared Armin off,” Eren admitted, with a bitter taste on his tongue. “It’s definitely Levi. And I’m not fucking meeting him early.”

“But maybe he’s going to apologize for the way he-”

“-I sincerely doubt that, Mikasa. Have you met the guy? Fact is, I literally don’t care,” he said with a brusque, rugged-sounding laugh. “He wasted my time, I’m wasting his. I’d rather sleep in tomorrow.”

Mikasa looked unsure, but it wasn’t in her nature to challenge Eren. She just nodded, patiently waiting for him.

Eren crumbled up the post-it note and shot it towards the trash-bin like a basketball.

He missed, and it fell to the floor. Mikasa scooped it up and threw it in, successfully, of course.

Eren smiled. He roped his arm over her shoulders and walked her out, the door left ajar behind them.

Chapter Text

“So are you done being a bitch?”

Eren glanced up from his phone. “Fucking ‘scuse me?”

The question came out of nowhere. 

The morning sun, a timid intruder, painted the grimy kitchen window in hues of orange and pink. Eren was simply sitting on the floor, legs folded like a schoolkid, beside his apartment door, his phone illuminating his face with a soft, blue glow. He’d sat there mute, twiddling around on his phone as he waited for Jean to finish messing around in the kitchen so they could leave for the studio together, the morning yawning into awakeness along with them.

Jean – a fiercely devout anti-morning person — hadn’t been awake when Eren got home from walking Mikasa to the metro station, and he wasn’t much better now. Before the bitch question, he’d barely said a word all morning, stumbling around and swearing in French, making a racket of pots and pans as he clumsily threw ingredients into a baking tray.

Two coffees in and Jean was looking more like himself. He leaned over the kitchen counter at an awkwardly slanted angle - something that Eren was rather accustomed to seeing by now. No matter how incessantly Jean insisted he wasn’t a dancer anymore, his body refused to agree. He probably wasn’t even aware of it, the way he stretched and flexed all over the apartment, bending and twisting in whatever way it suited him, contorting into postures that looked beautiful on his body but would look painful on anyone else. 

He was sucking on an ice cube, leaning his elbows in a hard angle over the counter. 

“I said-” he started again, speaking around the ice clenched between his teeth, “are you done being a bitch now? Or do I have to deal with all your sass again today?”

“What?” Eren asked, before it dawned on him. “Oh, you mean yesterday in the dressing room.”

“Yesterday in general, dude,” Jean said, twisting into another stretch. “Did Mikasa smack some sense into you or what?”

Eren chuckled lightly. “She did, actually. But verbally.”

“Well, duh. Like she’d ever raise a hand against you,” Jean rolled his eyes. He twisted out of his stretch to move across the kitchen, opening the oven and peeking inside. “So what rocked your shit yesterday?”

“I was just upset about something,” he hesitated, wondering how much he could confess without being made fun of. “I was upset about some one, actually. But like I said, I felt better after talking to Mikasa. She’s- She’s awesome. She’s like an angel.”

“She really is. You know she wouldn’t let me pay her back when she bought all those drinks for us?”

“What?” Eren’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t know that. Why would you let her-”

“-Dude, believe me, I tried. For days. I tried to pay her back, but she insisted.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I think she felt bad for us or something,” Jean said. He pulled a baking sheet out of the oven, laying it to rest on their stove. “Anyway, you got my shit?”

“Jean, are you that blind?”

“What?”

Eren flashed a shit-eating grin, deliciously drinking in the sight of Jean’s face dropping in horror.

“You bitch,” Jean groaned. “Have you been wearing my jacket this whole time?”

“How did you not fucking notice?”

Jean just groaned in response. He went clanging around the kitchen in a boisterous noisy display, expressing his aggravation through the annoying battering of their very few, very cheap pots and pans.

Eren laughed, “I had no other options, dude. I gave mine to Mikasa last night! What, was I supposed to march home cold?”

“Doesn’t explain why you’re wearing it right now, though,” Jean grumbled. He was trying to sound angry, but his amusement was evident. His admiration for the girl was as apparent as the twinkle in his eye. “I hope she never gives yours back.”

“She doesn’t need to. It looks good on her,” Eren said. He wasn't really sure why he said it. He was equally unsure why he suddenly had the thought that he wanted her to hold onto it for a while.

“Yeah, so, sorry for being a brat yesterday,” he drawled, his voice a lazy monotone that belied the mischievous glint in his eyes. “And sorry if I gave you blue balls, by the way. You know I don’t care who you sleep with.”

Jean, at the battered kitchen sink, fumbled his one-man symphony of clattering pots and pans. His head snapped up, the cube of ice in his throat threatening to choke him.

“What are you talking about?” he croaked out between gasps.

Eren lifted a brow, a silent challenge. “You and Sasha?”

The ice cube met its watery demise as Jean sputtered and choked. Eren’s laughter, a contagious rumble, filled the cramped space, laughing at Jean’s demise and drawling out a chastising: “Dude…”

Jean’s face was a masterpiece of mortification as he frantically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eren, no. Oh my fucking god, is that why you were all prissy yesterday?”

“You spent the night at her place, dude.”

“Yeah, with Marco and Connie! It wasn’t just us!”

“Jean, I said I don’t care. You don’t need to throw a big fuss, we all have needs—”

“-Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.” Jean looked like he might spontaneously combust. “Eren, I did not sleep with Sasha. She’s literally like my sister.”

“She’s-” Eren blinked slowly, the amusement fading from his eyes, now widening with wonder. “I’ve never heard you say that about anyone before.”

Jean squeezed his eyes shut, a silent plea for mercy. “That’s how I fucking know, you goddamn, fucking imbecile. She’s seriously like a sister to me, and—” His voice trailed off as he shuddered. “Please get that image out of my head, oh my god.”

Eren couldn’t resist the spectacle. Watching Jean pace the tiny kitchen, his arms gesticulating wildly, was a form of entertainment far superior to any reality show. Though it may have been petty, a secret satisfaction sparked inside him, now happy he wasn’t the only one whose love life was currently on ice. Their insane work schedules had transformed them both into asexual zombies.

Jean was flummoxed, almost on the verge of being upset. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did you even come to draw that completely asinine conclusion?”

I don’t know, maybe after ten hours of staring at Levi’s cold shoulder while my groin was thumping against a hard leather saddle, I was a little sexually frustrated? 

“I dunno,” Eren shrugged, biting back his internal barb. "You have to admit, she was kind of climbing all over you," Eren teased, a smirk playing on his lips.

Jean rolled his eyes, a practiced maneuver. "Eren..."

"She was, though," Eren persisted, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"If she was, she didn't mean it," Jean retorted, his voice laced with a touch of exasperation. "That girl only has libido for lasagna."

"Okay, fair. You got me there," Eren conceded, a rare moment of defeat.

Jean continued packing his lunch, his movements rhythmic and precise. "That, and I’m pretty sure she thinks I'm her jungle gym," he added with a wry smile. A beat of silence passed between them before Jean continued, "Actually, on that. Want to go to the gym sometime soon?"

The playful banter evaporated, replaced by a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Eren looked up from his phone, his gaze hardening. “I've been going,” he replied, his tone flat. The words were simple, but the underlying message was clear: he didn't need Jean's pity or patronage.

Jean paused, his hand hovering over the freezer. He knew Eren well enough to understand the unspoken words. Eren, despite his youthful appearance, was carving out a path of discipline and determination. His physique, lean and hard-earned, was a testament to his relentless pursuit of physicality.

“I mean, go together,” Jean clarified, trying to lighten the mood.

Eren raised an eyebrow, a silent question. “What, you're not sick of me yet?” 

“Touché,” Jean sighed in relief, a small smile tugging at his lips. The tension between them began to dissipate. He went to the fridge to fill up his water bottle—all ice, no water. “There's a gym at the studio, y'know.”

Eren's eyes widened in surprise. “No shit?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where, but Sasha says all cast and crew are allowed to use it whenever we want, for free. She’s in there six days a week, and said she'd show me. She says it's really nice,” Jean explained, the clinking of ice cubes against the thermos providing a rhythmic backdrop to his words.

Eren's eyes flickered with interest. “That's actually really good to know,” he mused, tapping absently at his phone. “I’m scared I’ll get bored of the one I’m going to soon. I’ll need to check it out.”

A mischievous glint appeared in Jean’s eyes. “You’re welcome to come with us...as long as you never repeat to her the conversation we just had.”

Eren chuckled. “I doubt Sasha would be offended. I think she’d just laugh at it.”

Jean’s expression turned into a mock-serious scowl. “Do not tell her!” His voice was a playful command, but his eyes held a genuine plea.

Eren doesn’t see it, but hears and smells Jean go back to his kitchen mastery. Warm, homey aromas filling the dingy, cheap little apartment. Eren and Jean, both sons of immigrant mothers, knew how to cook; and they especially knew how to use their spices. A warm aromatic scent spiced the air as Eren kept scrolling on his phone.

The next Instagram reel that popped up on his feed surprised him. It was a video from Mikasa, specifically the account she used to launch her acting platform. Her ethereal voice, like velvet, invited him into her world, a world seemingly distant yet strangely familiar. The intimacy of a “get ready with me” video, ASMR styled, often a platform for curated perfection, was subverted by Mikasa’s raw authenticity. There was a poetic beauty in the mundane—the gentle caress of sunlight on her face, the soft clink of porcelain against porcelain, the rhythmic sizzle of breakfast cooking. Each action was a brushstroke on the canvas of her morning, and Eren found himself an adoring spectator.

Eren felt something warm in his chest, just watching her go through the motions of her morning routine. It wasn’t the thunderous, anxiety-ridden pulsing of his heart in his throat he got around Levi, but a much more profound, much more charged kind of heart throbbing. His chest almost felt like a cavity, a vessel for warm, liquid feelings to slosh around, feelings of tenderness and levity weeping and sobbing from his arteries. She made him feel weak—an appropriate reaction to humanity’s second strongest soldier. But now he realized he kind of liked the feeling she gave him. He didn’t feel inferior, just forever left in the shadow of her brilliant light.

Mikasa’s video ended with a wave and a soft goodbye, leaving Eren with a lingering sense of peace. As the phone asked him if he wanted to watch the video again, he realized she was probably already on her way to the studio, a world away from their shared humble abode. Yet, in that brief moment of connection, he felt a closeness to her, a bond that transcended distance and time.

“Jean, are you almost ready?” he demanded impatiently, shooting up from where he sat. “My ass is getting sore.”

“I’m packing my lunch!” he called back.

Eren slugged himself up to his feet, sauntering over to their kitchen, “You’ve been packing your lunch for the past forty five minutes. I’m ready to go. Mikasa and Sasha and everyone are probably already there by now!”

Eren froze in the doorway, the chaotic tableau of the kitchen arresting his attention. Bowls, spoons, and whisks were scattered like debris after a battle, a stark contrast to the usual organized chaos of their shared space. But it was the sight of the white gauze wrapped haphazardly around Jean’s knuckles that sent a jolt of fear through him.

A chill crept down Eren's spine, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest. “Jean…” His voice was a mere whisper, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

Jean, seemingly oblivious to the storm gathering in Eren's eyes, froze mid-action, a look of confusion etched on his face. “What?”

Eren’s gaze darted between the culinary catastrophe and Jean's injured hand. “You doing okay?” His voice was a strained question, a desperate attempt to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

Jean blinked, his confusion deepening. “Yeah?”

"Are you still...?" Eren hesitated, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he resorted to a silent plea, mimicking the action of sticking two fingers down his throat, the haunting gesture of induced vomiting.

Jean's eyes widened in alarm, his face paling. “Eren, no. What the hell. These are for Sasha and Marco and everyone.” His voice was a mix of disbelief and desperation.

Eren’s skepticism was palpable. “You’re sure?” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as he continued to scrutinize Jean.

“Yeah, I- Oh, this?” Jean held up his injured hand for inspection. “I burnt my hand getting these brownies out of the oven. Like I said, they're for my guys.” His explanation was rushed, his voice trembling slightly.

Eren’s body tensed, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios. “If I have to haul your lanky ass to the ER again,” he threatened, his voice low and dangerous, “I will in a heartbeat, Jean. Don’t lie to me. I'll drop everything.”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I- These- I'm taking these brownies for everyone, they’re not all for me. Marco was having a hard day yesterday, this is to cheer him up. And then I'm bringing some for the others so he doesn't feel singled out. That’s all. I swear.” His voice rose in desperation, a plea for belief.

Though his voice was weak and trembling, Eren could see the truth in Jean’s eyes, the fear and vulnerability that masked a stubborn determination. It was a familiar sight, one that filled him with a complex mix of worry and admiration. Jean was always the worst when it came to discussing emotional topics, especially about himself. Right now there was a relentless forwardness about him, one that would not be deterred.

“Okay,” Eren replied, his voice softer now. “As long as you're good.”

Jean nodded vigorously, his face set in a determined mask. “I’m fantastic, actually,” he retorted, his voice burdened with defiance. His gaze locked onto Eren’s, daring him to doubt him.

Eren met his friend’s gaze, his eyes conveying a silent apology. “Fine,” he said, his voice a mere breath. But the promise of support and care hung heavy in the air, a silent vow between two friends.

Jean nodded morosely, head slinking back against his loosening shoulders. He was successful, he had won, but he still looked defeated. He went back to packing his bag, the brownies all wrapped up in individual plastic wrap, stacking them in the bag, though he seemed almost self conscious about it now. Like a kid haphazardly finishing a chore under his mother’s—in this case, Eren’s — close supervision.

Eren watched Jean navigate the cramped kitchen with a practiced efficiency that belied the turmoil churning within him. The rhythmic clatter of utensils against cookware provided a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Eren’s mind. Unease, a cold, insidious thing, coiled in his gut, threatening to unravel the fragile peace they had established.

A part of him wanted to confront his roommate, to shatter the brittle silence that hung between them. Jean’s bulimia had always been a dark, unspoken secret, one that left permanent scars across their friendship. The fear and anger that had surged through him moments ago still simmered beneath the surface, a potent brew of emotions demanding release. He ached to voice his concerns, to argue, to fight. Anything to purge the terror that had seized him.

He had no idea how Jean still tolerated him. Jean really was a harmless guy. Part of Eren would always envy that of him. Eren was afraid he was secretly evil deep down, but Jean was good. Like Mikasa, she was good. Like Armin. 

“How many are you packing, anyway?” Eren asked, blinking himself out of his internal monologue.

Jean snapped, “I am not eating all of-”

“-I wasn’t saying you were,” Eren insisted, palms thrown out in a placating gesture. “I said I believe you. I do. I just want to see if I could take one to Armin. I sort of owe him an apology.”

“Armin?” He hesitated for only a moment. “Oh sure. Here, take one for Mikasa too. I baked plenty.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking two. “I hope they both eat sugar. Do I need to warn them about any ingredients?”

“There’s no weed in them if that’s what you’re asking,” Jean said. He held up a separate bag labeled SASHA & CONNIE, EAT W CAUTION. “That’s what these ones are for.”

“I meant, like, allergens, but that’s good to know, too.” He tried smiling, despite it being a little forced. “Do I get a weed brownie, too?”

Jean sucked his teeth. “You do only if you manage to eat enough protein today and if you promise not to drink.”

“I make no promises.”

“Of course you don’t,” he sighed. He dejectedly started sipping his bag shut, tidying the kitchen with only haphazard, perfunctory gestures. “As far as allergens go, I used wheat flour and eggs, and a zero calorie sweetener instead of sugar. No nuts or anything.”

“Cool, I’ll let them know.”

Jean dropped his dirty bowls in the sink uncaringly, the noise brutal and unapologetic. “Armin, huh? That’s new for you.”

Eren said nothing.

“How is he?” Jean asked indifferently.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, a pang guilt hitting him in the chest. “How, uh, how is Marco?”

“ … I don’t know.”

The silence that followed was grating and painful. Within the span of a few heartbeats, they had traversed a minefield of unspoken fears and fragile hopes. Jean’s eating disorder, his tenuous friendship with the untouchable Marco. Eren’s fragile relationship with Armin, with his own abrasiveness. These were not merely topics of conversation; they were the undercurrents of their lives, the tumultuous waters beneath the calm surface. They were the ghosts in the machine, the shadows that danced at the edges of their vision. And now, in this small, sunlit kitchen, they had collided, creating a maelstrom of emotion that threatened to consume them both. This was it, Eren thought with a stab of fear. This was going to be the day he finally cried in front of Jean for the very first time. He could already feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the softness in the flesh around his nose.

But before a single tear could fall, Jean broke into sudden bouts of laughter, tucking his arm over his shuddering belly as the laughs shrieked out of him. 

“Jesus Christ, why are our lives so complicated all of a sudden?” He laughed deeply, brokenly, with brash enthusiasm. “Were we always this fucked up?”

“Jean,” Eren said, starting to laugh a little himself, his joy cautious and uncertain. “We ride around on helium tanks swinging swords at dickless giant babies, of course this show driving us insane.”

“Actors are so dramatic, oh my god,” he laughed, tears starting to roll down his face, contorted in half-misery, half-euphoria.

Eren’s own tears were gone now, safely protected, and he laughed at the sight of his roommate red-faced and histrionic.

“Hey,” he chided, “you can’t say that. You’re an actor now too.”

“So many fucking emotions and not even noon. It’s still morning. Fuck!”

Tears streamed down Jean’s face, hot and salty, mingling with the unspoken words that had hung heavy in the air. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, a ripple of laughter began to bubble up from the depths of their despair. It started as a soft chuckle, a tentative release of tension, and then exploded into a full-blown, cathartic laugh. 

In that moment, the weight of their shared burdens seemed to lighten, if only for a brief respite. The tears continued to flow, but now they were accompanied by a sound that was both sorrowful and joyous. Their laughter was a balm, soothing the raw wounds of their souls. 

With a playful abandon, they transformed the kitchen into a battlefield. Flour and sugar became ammunition, and the once pristine countertops became a canvas for their shared absurdity. As they tossed handfuls of ingredients at each other, their laughter grew louder, filling the small space with a contagious energy. In the midst of the chaos, they found a sense of camaraderie, a connection forged in the crucible of shared vulnerability. 

If he’s early, they tell him he’s “on time.”

If he’s “on time,” they tell him he’s late.

If he’s late, they tell him he’s fired. Or, they would. They would if he were ever late. But that was something Levi would never allow to happen. 

This is one of the many nauseating mantras that replay on loop in the back of Levi’s mind. All the many sugarcoated punitive discouraging words they told him when he was a kid just breaking into the entertainment industry. He knew half of their rules were just exercises of power, the shit they made him do just because they could, not because it had any logic or reason.

Decades had passed since Levi had been treated like a child, tossed and turned at the whim of others. He had cultivated a formidable exterior, a reputation as unyielding as steel, a prestige that dared not be questioned. Yet, the phantom limbs of his past still twitched beneath his skin, and the habits of a lifetime were etched into his bones. Arriving hours before his call time was a ritual as ingrained as breathing.

So, as per usual, Levi arrived at the studio several, several hours before his call time. As dawn painted the sky with hues of betrayal, Levi slipped into the bowels of the studio, always a user of the back door to avoid the gilded cage of the green room and its inhabitants like a plague. As he passed the labyrinth of dressing rooms, the distinct sound of laughter rung in his ears. The cacophony of laughter was far from an unnatural sound in these parts, but so early in the morning? The sound was disconcerting in the predawn stillness, a discordant howl that pulled him from the shadows, concern shooting through his veins.

The source of the merriment was Dressing Room C. Female voices, like sugar-coated daggers, entwined with a distinct male timbre that sent ice down Levi’s spine.

Levi immediately ripped open the door. “Erwin.”

The commander met Levi’s glare the second the door opened, but he didn’t relent. He was midway through a conversation when Levi broke in, with Mikasa, Sasha, and Armin fawning devotedly at his sides. They laughed in unison at something he said, his fawnlings, his babies, his kinderlings of eternal reverence. Erwin, basking in the adoration of three fawning figures, met Levi’s gaze with a smirk that was as cold as the grave.

Whatever he said to make them laud at his fingertips so devotedly, Levi hadn’t heard. In fact he couldn’t hear anything but the sound of sharpening steel, seeing Erwin’s smirk, and the thundering of his heart in his ears. 

“Commander, let’s go,” he said.

“Already? I could have sworn I arrived early,” Erwin said guiltlessly. 

“No, you’re needed.”

Erwin faked a dejected frown, “I haven’t even finished my tea that Armin so kindly provided.”

The thin fiber of patience Levi still had snapped in two just then. “Erwin, right the fuck now. Let’s go. You can’t fucking be in here.”

“Oh, alright,” Erwin sighed. “Thank you for the tea, Armin. And thank you for the lovely chat, ladies.”

He returned his cup and saucer to the boy, bowing his head respectfully to the girls as he dismissed himself. Levi all but snatched him by the collar and yanked him out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

He gave Erwin a hard shove. “You can’t fucking be in there.”

Erwin simply took the push and chuckled under his breath. “And here I thought I’d come early enough to evade your temper. Do you sleep here or something, Levi?”

“Wipe that smile off your face, you don’t amuse anyone,” he said. “If I catch you in there again, I swear I’ll-”

“-Is that any way to speak to your Commander?”

Levi faltered for a fraction of a second, a hairline crack appearing in the icy facade he'd so carefully constructed. Erwin possessed an uncanny ability to pinpoint Levi's vulnerabilities, to exploit them with a finesse that was as infuriating as it was undeniable; they'd worked together for years, they knew each other better than anyone else.

The primal urge to retreat, to vanish into the shadows he knew so well, pulsed through Levi. But such a retreat would embolden Erwin, a green light to encroach further on the territory Levi had sworn to protect.

"Walk and talk," Levi forced out, the words a guttural rasp barely audible above the storm raging inside him. High on the fumes from the illusion of control, Levi launched himself down the hallway, each step echoing with a furious intent. He refused to turn back, dangerously aware the Commander was following in his wake.

"Why walk and talk?" Erwin's voice, a silken tone laced with malice, slithered into Levi's ears. He was close, the rich scent of his cologne a repugnant reminder of his intrusion.  The sound of his footsteps, a steady, predatory counterpoint to Levi's own hurried pace, sent a shiver of revulsion down Levi's spine.

“Because our schedules are fucking heinous and I don’t have the time in the world to explain to you how what you did was so insanely inappropriate.” With a resounding clang that echoed through the deserted corridors, Levi kicked open the heavy metal door. The stairway loomed before him, a steep ascent.

Erwin's voice clung to Levi's heels as he followed him up the  steps.

"What, visiting another dressing room is inappropriate now?" he asked, chuckling. His gentle sincerity was a taunt, a deliberate provocation designed to ignite the simmering fury within Levi.

Levi halted, his body taut with suppressed rage. He turned, his gaze a glacial storm, and spat the words through clenched teeth, "You know exactly what I'm talking about." With that, he stormed away, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

The studio's gym was a sanctuary, a place where physical exertion could temporarily drown out the mental turmoil. It was his place, always empty before dawn, his dominion, his solace. But even here, Erwin's shadow loomed large. Levi could hear the Commander's footsteps approaching, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the relentless assault on his sanity.

"If it's so inappropriate, why didn't you drag Cadet Arlert out on this disciplinary 'walk and talk?' He was in their dressing room too," Erwin's voice carried through the open doorway, a mocking challenge. "By your logic, shouldn't he, then, be punished as well?"

A primal scream rose in Levi's throat, but he suppressed it, his jaw clenching until it ached.

"You. Know. What. I. Mean," he ground out, his voice low and menacing.

Without another word, he turned and vanished into the gym, slamming the door behind him. The weight room, usually a haven of solitude and focus, was now a pressure cooker of rage and frustration. His pre-workout routine, a methodical sequence of stretches and cardio, was abandoned in favor of a more direct form of catharsis. He grabbed a towel and the entire container of sanitizing wipes, and moved with predatory efficiency to the bench press.

As he loaded the bar with weights, his movements were sharp, deliberate, each action a silent declaration of war. He lay back, the cold steel of the bench pressing into his spine. His grip tightened around the bar, his knuckles white. And then, as if summoned by an infernal pact, those dastardly blue eyes were suddenly looming over him.

“If you don’t back the fuck away…” he growled.

“Oh, come on now. You need a spot.”

Levi's voice was a low growl, a challenge hurled across the expanse of the sterile gym. "I don't need you to spot me," he insisted, the words a brittle shield against the encroaching threat.

Erwin's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "With that weight added to the bar on both sides, yes, you absolutely need someone to spot you," he countered, his voice dripping with condescension. "Please allow me to fill that role for you. I couldn't stand it if you injured yourself out of pure spite for me." 

Levi managed to suppress a snort of contempt. The man was a master of manipulation, a puppeteer pulling invisible strings. He began the  task of lifting the weight, his body moving with the fluid grace of a predator. The rhythm was familiar, a comforting cadence that helped to quell the storm raging within him. Yet, the presence of Erwin, hovering like a vulture, disrupted his focus, turning each repetition into a battle against both the weight and the man.

"Are we going to discuss your own visit, or do you insist on being a hypocrite?" Erwin's voice, smooth as velvet, cut through the silence. The question was a viper's strike, aimed to divert attention from Levi's own transgressions.

Levi grunted in response, his focus wavering. He couldn't afford to let Erwin distract him, not when the weight was bearing down on him with increasing pressure. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he managed to say, his voice strained. 

Erwin's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Last night," he said, his tone laced with menace. "I saw you slip into another dressing room. I believe it was room E? You went inside with a note."

Levi's heart pounded in his ears, his grip faltering on the bar.

Erwin's hand hovered near the bar, ready to intervene. But with a surge of adrenaline, Levi managed to complete the lift, the weight crashing down with a deafening thud. As he caught his breath, he glared at Erwin, a silent challenge. 

"It's none of your business," Levi snapped, his voice a  blade. He pushed himself away from the cold, unforgiving metal of the bench, his muscles screaming in protest. The weight bar, a crude barricade, was the only thing separating him from the looming figure of Erwin. But the Commander, with a disregard for boundaries as reckless as it was infuriating, draped his arms over the steel, claiming the space with a casual arrogance that was obscene.

Erwin's physicality was a grotesque caricature of power, a brute force cloaked in the veneer of civility. His towering frame, cast in the harsh, unforgiving light, seemed to loom over Levi, a monstrous shadow eclipsing the smaller man. The cruel intelligence in his eyes, a predator’s gleam, was magnified in the sterile environment. The scent of sweat and metal clung to the air, a sickly sweet perfume that seemed to amplify the tension between them.

Levi shrank back, a feral animal cornered. "I'm nothing like you," he hissed, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "Stay away from those kids, you hear? You may have everyone else fooled, but I know what you're fucking doing, and I will kill you if you keep it up."

Erwin's lips curved into a predatory smile. "And here I thought you were a method actor."

Levi's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them.

"Am I not your Commander?" Erwin pressed, his voice deepening, a seductive undercurrent weaving through his words. "Have you not sworn allegiance to me?"

Levi's heart pounded a frantic rhythm in his chest, a drumbeat of fear and anger.

"Certainly, a captain wouldn't cross his commander," Erwin continued, his voice laced with menace. "One would think humanity's strongest warrior is above a petty crime like insubordination."

The words were a dagger, twisting in Levi's gut. His vision blurred at the edges, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. Erwin moved closer, his breath warm on Levi's skin. With a delicate touch, he brushed a strand of hair from Levi's forehead, his fingers lingering. "Why are you always so tense?" he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle. "You didn't always tremble at the sight of me. We were comrades once."

"Once," Levi echoed, the word a bitter pill.

Erwin’s voice, a silken thread in the oppressive silence of the gym, carried a weight of revelation. "Did you know Erwin is the only character Levi ever bows to?" he asked, his eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. His tone was soft, but his words were a calculated strike at the heart of Levi's carefully constructed persona, a direct assault. He was doing something dangerous, speaking in the third person. In that moment, the lines between actor and character blurred, and Erwin seemed to slip into a realm of detached omniscience.

"Even after Historia is crowned," Erwin continued, "Levi never kneels or bows for her. Only Erwin. Only his commander."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against Levi's jaw, tilting his head back until their eyes met. Levi, a marionette on invisible strings, allowed himself to be manipulated.

"I haven't done anything wrong, Levi," Erwin said, his tone shifting to one of wounded innocence. "You just wish I did so you'd have justification to hate me. So you wouldn't have to miss me."

Levi wrenched his head away. "Don't touch me," he spat, his voice a venomous hiss. "Your hands are disgusting. I don’t know where they’ve been."

Erwin's expression darkened, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

"This role is changing you," he observed, his voice heavy with accusation.

"For good or bad?" Levi countered, his voice a cold, hard edge.

"I don't know yet," Erwin replied, his voice laced with a hint of fear.

Levi's eyes narrowed, a predator's gaze. "This role is helping me see better," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I know monstrosity when I see it."

Erwin sighed, a dramatic gesture that belied the calculated cruelty beneath. "Despite what you may believe, I really haven't done anything wrong here. I know you just always want to see the darkness in things. You seek out destruction." His voice softened, a false veneer of concern masking the predator lurking beneath. "It's dangerous, Levi, and I’m worried about you. I’ll see you on set tomorrow."

With that, Erwin turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Levi was alone, the weight of the world pressing down on him. The walls of the gym seemed to close in, a claustrophobic tomb of his own making.

Levi felt dirty. He felt soiled, a creature dragged through the mud. With the speed of a wounded animal, he burst from the confines of the gym, the metal door slamming behind him with a thunderous echo. The hallway stretched before him, a desolate expanse that offered no reprieve. And then, a collision.

It was the Jaeger brat. Him and the female Ackermann, wearing a forest green hoodie too big on her.

Eren’s first reaction was one of anger, and he opened his mouth to spout another heroic monologue of hellfire. But then, seeing Levi’s distress, his harshness melted away, and the only thing he had for Levi was concern.

“Captain?” he asked, while the Ackermann girl hugged his shoulder protectively. “What is it? Is something wrong? Can I help?”

With a feral urgency, he sprinted towards the men's locker room, his footsteps pounding on the linoleum floor. The shower stall, his sanctuary, his solitary confessional, beckoned. It was a place of cleansing, or at least the illusion of it.

He stripped with brutal efficiency, the cold tiles of the shower floor a stark contrast to the inferno raging within him. The water, once a source of solace, now felt like a thousand tiny needles, each prick a reminder of his defilement. He scrubbed at his skin with a ferocity that bordered on self-harm, scouring away the invisible stains that clung to him.

The water cascaded down his body, a relentless torrent that mirrored the turmoil within. He was a drowning man, grasping at the illusion of purity. But the filth, both physical and emotional, clung to him, a suffocating weight that threatened to drag him under.

Chapter Text

The next day of filming went by like the strike of a razor-edged blade, quick and brutal, but clean and succinct. Out of nothing but pure spite for the captain and his insensitive requests, Eren purposefully strolled on-set fifteen minutes late. With lofty, listless indifference he ignored the way Levi looked at him, trying to get his attention, straining for eye contact with a persistence that seemed desperate. Levi’s effort alone would have been moving if Eren weren’t so stubborn to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

They went on through the motions of filming; it was the prison-bar scene, where Eren is confronted by the Commander and his Captain after his first transformation into a Titan. They shot it quickly, correctly, with all the diligent professionalism that could be expected from two veteran actors and a tenacious young male ingenue. No words left their mouths but the lines provided by the writers, no personal barbs or exchanges permitted beyond the means of production. They weren’t even given any notes. They just filmed, and they did it well. 

As soon as the big Softbox light went dark over the set and the actors were dismissed, Eren bounded out of there before Levi could even think about approaching him. What first started out as a revenge plight now felt like a power trip. Levi got Eren’s hopes up, wasted his time, and sorely Eren would do the same. Vaguely he recalled crossing paths with Levi this morning, seeing him distressed in a post-gym sweat, with a sort of harrowed look in his eyes that bordered on afraid. At that time Eren had every intention of going soft on the guy, but then the captain looked at him like he was vile, and literally ran the other direction. 

Eren was done being treated like scum. He didn’t give Levi a chance to follow him once their filming was done, running to the next studio over, where he knew some of his friends were in rehearsal. With ample water breaks and snack-runs in between, he and his friends played with the ODM gear all the way until evening, insisting they were practicing whenever an upturn-nosed producer came to prod and needle around. With no windows to indicate the sun slipping down behind the skyscraper landscape, the day slipped by in an instant, in glorious beaming cries of youth and fun.

It wasn’t until he was back in his sweats and hanging his harness back on its rack that he finally saw Mikasa. Having just broken set, she strolled in wearing her costume but now adorned with an oversized anime t-shirt overtop.

“Mikasa,” Eren said, wondrous at the way her name filled his smile.

“Hi, Eren. Your ODM maneuvers are getting so much better.”

“Thanks,” he said. He went to his bag that he’d left on the table, fishing through it for the brownie he’d packed. “I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t see you all day and was scared I wouldn’t have the chance to bring this to you.”

“Eren…” she took the brownie, albeit meekly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah I did,” he said, adamant. “I was being a total dick, and I’m sorry.”

“It looks so good. I have to try a piece right away,” she said, laughing out of humility more than anything else. Unwrapping just the corner, Mikasa took a small bite, and smiled. “It’s so good! Thank you.”

“I wish I could take credit,” he sighed. “But unfortunately these were Jean’s doing.”

“I’ll have to thank him, too.”

“Do me a favor and don’t,” Eren said. He took note of the thin shine of sweat over her forehead, the ruffled nature of her hair. Of course it didn’t surprise him in the slightest that Mikasa still made unkemptness look regal and majestic, old t-shirt and all. “How was filming for you today?” he asked her. “I didn’t see you much. I was kind of worried you weren’t here.”

“Yeah. I did some of Mikasa’s close-ups,” she said humbly. “ODMs. Fights. You know.”

“Dude, that’s awesome. I hope they finish editing those soon. I can’t wait to see you in action,” Eren praised. Breathless with a sort of enthusiasm he couldn’t place, he was compelled to ask her: “Hey, you want to come over tonight?”

It was nothing short of endearing how quickly she lit up, an immediate gush of warmth spilling over her usually stolid face. But the light in her eyes flitted away as quickly as it came, replaced with a shifting unease. “I’d like to,” she said warily, “but I don’t know if Jean’s okay with it.”

“Of course he is,” Eren frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Okay, sure, but I still don’t want to trouble him, or you.”

“He’s okay with it, I’m telling you,” he said impatiently.

“Jean!” he called to the man all the way on the other side of the set, screaming over the heads of the interns and other actors surrounding them; “Can Mikasa come over?”

Instead of shouting back, Jean just stuck two thumbs up, way over his head. Sasha and Connie, deep in their wrestling game, saw the opening. Together they surged forward and attacked his middle, knocking him to the ground.

Mikasa played with her bangs. “Thanks… Sorry, I- Actually, what I meant was, maybe I should just go home.”

“What? Why?” Eren practically demanded. Then he stepped back, softening his voice as he placated, “Oh. Are you saying you need alone time? … I get it. … I mean, we’d miss you. But I get it.”

“Not that,” Mikasa felt an inordinate degree of embarrassment. She had to remind herself it was only Eren she was talking to, and had no reason to feel ashamed. She lowered her voice, laughing at her own shyness, and admitted, “I just really need a shower. And I don’t really trust the ones here at the studio.”

“Just come shower at ours,” he said, while his roommate approached from behind.

Jean pulled a face, “Dude, you can’t just tell a woman to come shower at a fucking bachelor pad. That’s borderline harassment.”

Mikasa laughed, “No, it’s okay, I’m not uncomfortable. I’ll take you up on that offer if you meant it. I have spare clothes with me. As long as you really don’t mind.”

“See? She’s cool,” Eren said, sneering at Jean right in the face. “I’ll save all my harassment for you, thank you very much.”

“Did anyone else hear that? This man is threatening to harass me,” Jean said, punching Eren’s arm.

“Thank you for the brownie, Jean. It was really good.”

Jean was pulling Eren in a headlock now, talking casually around the physical assault. “No prob. Eren’s idea to give it to you and Armin, though.”

“Armin,” Eren repeated, stuck inside Jean’s arm. He blinked, looking to Mikasa. “Can we-? Should we invite him with us tonight?”

Mikasa made a thoughtful expression. “I saw him go into his dressing room. I think he’s getting ready to go home.”

“You don’t think he’s gone already, do you?” Jean asked, a little worried.

Eren didn’t let the question hang in the air for long. He pushed Jean’s arms off of him and ran down the hall, Mikasa and Jean not too far behind. Their feet clacked down the hall of dressing rooms until they piled to a stop, the door in front of them opening.

“Hello, cadets,” Erwin greeted. Dressed in clean but comfortable Prada with his hair loose over his forehead instead of slicked back like normal, he looked like a car salesman more than he did any military general, or a sugar daddy of some kind.

“Wait, I apologize,” Erwin chuckled. “You’re off the clock by now aren’t you? You probably don’t appreciate being called ‘cadets.’”

“Hi, Erwin!” the three chorused. Even off-set, the man was enchanting, winsome, and staggering, and they were three lambs trotting after the lion until their little hooves couldn’t carry them further.

“Commander, maybe we’re lost,” Eren admitted. “I thought that was Armin’s dressing room.”

“This one? Oh yes, it’s his.” he said, quickly, dismissively. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the collar of his polo and marched directly down the hall, hastily throwing a perfunctory goodbye over his shoulder. “Fare thee well, fledglings. Take care of yourselves.”

Eren narrowed his eyes, his spark of joy doused out by the sudden inexplicable wave of dubiety that washed over him. He looked to Jean and Mikasa, wordlessly asking if they all noticed the same thing he did. But Mikasa was impassible as ever, and Jean was busy countering the boy in the dressing room.

“Yo, Arm!” he called, crossing his arms in the open doorway. “I didn’t know you shared dressing rooms with Erwin. Kind of dick of you to not tell us this rather staggering, amazing piece of information.”

Armin sat cross-legged before his dresser mirror, hunched over a dog-eared book in his lap. He didn’t stir when they entered, he only glanced up at their reflection in his mirror. He frowned at Jean’s question, shaking his head no.

“Erwin makes visits,” Mikasa explained. “He stopped by mine the other day because word got around about Sasha’s snack mountain, and he was curious.”

“Now I’m curious,” Jean said. “Why didn’t she tell me about that? I want to see a snack mountain.”

“Well, that’ll be up to Sasha. So good fucking luck. I don’t think she’d let even you get close to her precious commodities,” Eren said. He leaned around his roommate, peering a fraction into the dressing room, “Hey, do you have plans tonight, Armin?”

Armin blinked a few times, his brain working at a snail’s pace to register that the question was addressed directly to him. After an unusually tense ten seconds, he folded his book shut and shook his head no.

“Do you want to come over to Jean and my place?”

His apprehension was apparent, even in his silence. Even more apparent, though, was the fact that he was trying. Eren could see it in the way Armin’s eyes kept flicking up to them through the mirror’s reflection, the way they fought to be seen despite the insatiable urge to flick away and go unseen. His heart almost melted at the sight.

“Mikasa’s coming,” Eren added hopefully. He extended the bag with the brownie inside, “This is for you, by the way.”

Armin smiled fully now, taking the brownie with receptive warmth. “Thank you,” he said, the two-word phrase initiating their night together.

They stopped by the convenience store on the way back home, where Jean and Eren begged Mikasa to buy some liquid courage for the night. They stocked up on protein bars while they were there, and played a game with each other to find the most ludicrous, disgusting-sounding candy they could find. Eren convinced Mikasa to try on different sunglasses while Armin wandered the aisles, eyeing the rainbow rows of plastic poison in a dazed confusion. Jean didn’t say it out loud, but he thought Armin looked a lot like Marco during their Seven Eleven run, naive and unsure, but happy to be with them. 

When they made it back to the apartment, Eren, for whatever reason, insisted on making dinner. Never mind the fact it was almost midnight and all the other three insisted with flailing arms and whining protests that they’d eaten already. But Eren Jaeger was nothing if not unstoppable. Half an hour into crashing pots and pans together, shouting over the blare of the kitchen timer, and spilling anything liquid over every single flat surface, Jean jumped in to help his roommate and the two of them became a wrestling mess of kitchen utensils and flour splotches. They wrestled with each other, knocking boxes over and leaving pans sizzling so long over the stove that they would have caught fire if Mikasa hadn’t leapt in to save the day. Eventually Armin timidly worked his way into the kitchen too, and with the two of them as damage control for the boys’ roughhousing, they managed to calm down enough to salvage a somewhat decent meal of beef and chicken stir fry.

They portioned their food into chipped ceramic bowls and recycled takeout containers, passing out canned beer and scrambling for their mismatched array of metal and plastic utensils. Funny thing was, though, even after all that trouble, they barely ate a bite of any of it. The TV was on, music was playing, and energy was high, zealous, and in-the moment.

“Dude, Armin, dude, what’s your mom’s name again, has she made any movies recently?” Eren begged, frantically typing in a name on the search bar of their TV, making several typos and backspacing manically each time. “Your mom has a different last name, right? Didn’t she do that one movie, with that one guy? Gimme a name, gimme a name, I’ll put it on.”

Typos galore, Eren somehow managed to put on the movie Armin suggested. By the time the opening credits were through, none of them paid a single bit of attention. Like the food, the movie just became a background element to their time together. The soundtrack was drowned out by their overlapping voices that escalated to shouting, stories interrupted and retold. The screen flickered bright lights over Jean’s open-mouthed guffawing, over Eren wiping the tears that slid down his cheeks he was laughing so hard.

And when all the roughhousing finally got them tired, laying back against one another, Armin did parlor tricks while the other three batted their eyes in awe, Mikasa blinking with amazement and Jean demanding Armin spill all his secrets. Eren just sat and watched him, seeing him for the first time.

“What did you do before this, Armin?” he asked while Armin was shuffling cards. “You had a show when you were younger, right?”

“Just a kid’s show, but that was when I was really little. It was a long time ago. Helped get my parents into the industry,” Armin said, shuffling his cards at a slower pace. The cards went still in his hands, a somber look crossing his face. “No, I didn’t really do much before this. Grew up in backstage dressing rooms, playing on sets. I was homeschooled; you can probably tell.”

“Dude, yeah, no offense, but you reek of homeschool,” he laughed. “I could never learn from my mom, oh my god.”

Armin hesitated before he admitted, with a blank, unreadable look, “My parents didn’t teach me.”

“Oh,” was all Eren could say. The phrase alone wasn’t particularly concerning, but with that empty tone, it made something twinge in his stomach a little, desperately wanting to ask more. 

But Armin was so new to them, a timid thing whose trust he still needed to earn. Because Eren did want to earn it. Not even as an apology for being so cruel before, Eren genuinely wanted to know this unique person before him, this kind soul who befriended Mikasa and made his apartment feel like home.

So instead of pressing further, he jerked a thumb at his roommate. “Jean’s mom taught him.”

“Shut up,” Jean groaned, rolling his head back. “She did not.”

“She did! She totally did!” he insisted. “Just not, like, math or anything.”

“Wait wait I want to guess, I want to guess,” Armin said excitedly, waving his hands and scooting closer on the rug. “I’m willing to guess she was your, like, coach or something?”

Jean pulled an exasperated face, lolling back on the rug that held them. “Oh, Armin, baby,” he groaned, tired. “You’re literally so close it’s painful.”

“Give me one hint,” Armin held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A fraction of a hint.”

“Um, okay,” he thought for a moment. “I was the only guy in my mom’s classes, literally like my entire life.”

Armin clapped his hands together, elated. “Your mom was your dance teacher, wasn’t she!”

Jean collapsed back on the rug. “Ding ding fucking ding,” he sighed. “Not only that, she owned the whole fucking studio.”

“That’s so sweet,” the blonde smiled.

“What dance did you do?” Mikasa asked, holding her beer with a relaxed ease that was inspirational.

Jean draped a hand over his eyes dramatically, “What didn’t I do? I think I’ve done, like, everything at this point. Do you know how infuriating it was as a kid, to not be allowed to join the basketball team because you had to help your mom teach all the girls how to Pas de cheval.”

Armin looks at him sweetly, clasping his hands over his heart“Aw, ballet.”

Jean peeked an eye open from between his fingers, “Did you dance ballet?”

“No way, I’m not nearly strong enough for that,” he waved his hand dismissively, the loose hair bouncing on his head. “I used to go to the theatre when I was a kid, though. My nanny would take me to The Nutcracker every Christmas. I had such a great time.”

“Oh my god, I have PTSD from The Nutcracker.”

Armin smiled with his eyes, long strands of hair obscuring the gleam in his eyes. “I can understand why. My favorite by far, though, was Sleeping Beauty.”

Jean shot straight up from his relaxed posture, now tense and rigid with excitement. He looked at him as if his lips just uttered the most wonderful phrase in the world. “No way. I was Prince Desiré.”

Armin covered his mouth with his hands, “No way.”

Jean looked like he might have an orgasm, or collapse in euphoria, or both. He bowed his head with dramatic pleasure, still clutching his heart through the fabric of his shirt. “It was the most beautiful experience of my life.”

Mikasa tilted her head to the side, wet hair trailing down her skin onto the fresh bathowel draped over her shoulders.  “Wait, then how come you were making fun of Eren for being a film virgin? Clearly, you’re one too, Desiré.”

Eren beamed. “Yeah, fuck you Desiré.”

“I’ve done films,” Jean spat back. “Commercial dance films. Music videos. I’ve just never acted in them before.”

Mikasa sips her beer, “So how’d you end up in movies?”

Eren glanced at his roommate, concealing his concern behind the mouth of his beer can.

Jean hesitated, his gaze wandering off to a place in his memory. “Tore my ACL,” he said after a while. “Couldn’t dance for a year. It… was not fun. Um.”

He cleared his throat and went on. “And then, one miraculous fucking day, Eren had an audition for a stupid little show you’ve never heard of called Attack on Titan.”

Mikasa and Armin smiled.

“I was depressed as hell and Eren dragged me with him, just because I hadn’t seen the sunshine in, like, four days,” Jean continued. “The lady saw me waiting in the lobby and assumed I was an actor. Handed me a script and told me where to stand and what to say, and here I am.”

“That’s so bizarre, but wonderful,” Mikasa commented. “I’m so glad you found your way here to us.”

“You know, I always had a feeling you were a dancer,” Armin said softly. “The command you have over your body is just magnanimous. It’s inspiring, really.”

“Eh, shut up. I’m not half as good as I used to be,” Jean dismissed. He rolled his head over to face the girl beside him. “Your turn. What’d you do before the show?”

“Oh same old same old,” she waved her hand noncommittal. “Athlete turned model turned actor. Nothing original, I’m afraid to admit. Eren?”

Eren knitted his brows in concentration. “I dunno, actually. Acting is all I’ve ever really known.” 

He saw Armin’s big curious blue eyes fall on him. It was easily discernible how much the blonde wanted to know more. But Armin had courtesy stitched into his ever fiber, and once he realized Eren wouldn’t elaborate willingly, he slunk back to allow respectful distance, and went back to shuffling his cards.

Mikasa and Jean didn’t see it, engrossed in the task of picking out nail polish colors, but Eren saw it, and he thought it was the kindest gesture in the world, nothing short of entranced by Armin’s kindness.

“So Armin, what’s that tea thing you do?” he asked, wanting to prologue his time with this enigmatic young soul. “Are you a witch or something?”

“Oh, it’s nothing nearly as exciting as that. I just like tea, and I like sharing it with people who look like they’d benefit from it,” he said. “Actually I was considering taking some to Levi eventually. He’s always drinking tea, and I figured-”

“-No. Do not do that.” Eren cut in.

Armin flinched at the aggression. “Why?” he asked gently.

“Levi is…”

The blue eyed boy waited patiently. 

Eren locked his jaw, anger tight in the tendons around his teeth. “Just don’t worry about him,” he muttered. “He’s kind of an asshole and, frankly, he doesn’t deserve your attention. He doesn’t deserve any of ours.”

He caught the way Mikasa looked up from her nail polish, the way she looked at him worriedly. He pretended not to notice, and she pretended she wasn’t hurt by his distance. She tucked a strand of wet hair back over the towel on her shoulders, and went on sorting through nail polish colors with Jean.

The night drew on until morning, the tenuous weak eyed morning still hours before the sun peeked out over the lip of the horizon. Armin rubbed a fist over his eyes, and Eren noticed, amazed, quite convinced he hadn’t seen anyone over the age of four rub their eyes like that, sleepy or no. Mikasa noticed it too, and the two of them, drawn by the invisible red string around their hearts, had a moment of eye contact and understanding. Mikasa then insisted that they all go home and try to get at least a little bit of sleep before tomorrow. Jean and Eren, like kids on a playdate, insisted she and Armin spend the night, but she turned them down, saying she’d catch a ride home with Armin and his driver. Stepping past the uneaten meals and the morass of blankets and scattered pillows, they hugged her goodbye. Eren went in to hug Armin next, but something about his body language screamed that he wasn’t a hugger, so Eren opted for a verbal parting instead. Armin announced that his driver was just outside, and the two left, taking all the fun of the night with them.

With the door closed, the room was noiseless, barren, yet strangely liberated. Eren and Jean blinked back at each other in the dim light, the still-going TV casting strange glows over their sweat-shining skin. Jean is strangely beautiful, Eren realizes, gazing back at him all glimmering and radiant.

“Dude,” Eren said, breathless.

Jean laughed tiredly, “Am I crazy or was that the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life? All we did was sit and talk but still, it felt…”

“I really like Armin,” Eren said. The simple, terse statement, adamantly announced, found him choking up with emotion, eyes wet and heart throbbing.

“I know,” Jean breathed. “I really like him, too. I mean, that day I spent filming with him and Reiner made me realize just how much he… Shit, I feel like such a dick. Why were we all so mean to him before?”

“Is it crazy that I feel like I would do anything in the world for him?” Eren asked, titillated with breathlessness. “ This is the first day I’ve ever actually spoken to him and I feel like I would die for him.”

“Him and Mikasa, obviously. I mean, you’re Eren.”

Eren choked, glutted by his own overwhelm. The line between character and actor, a divide he clung to with his life, was starting to blur and distort, and it scared him.

Armin. Mikasa. Jean… yes, Eren was quite certain he would do anything and everything for them if he could, even self-sacrifice.

He swallowed.

“Jean, I think I have a date with Mikasa.”

Jean blinked, taking a moment to process this new information. “That’s great, dude. Don’t blow it,” he said. “Where’s your date?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t know enough about what she likes.”

“You got this dude. She’s really good. Please be good to her. You got this. Don’t sweat it,” he said, giving Eren a hug.

Eren stood still inside Jean’s arms, frowning in confusion when the embrace didn’t stop after only half a second. He cupped his hand over Jean’s forehead. “Did you drink too much? You don’t feel warm.”

“Hm?” Jean pulled away. “I’m just giving you a hug, dude.”

“I know,” Eren said, narrowing his eyes. “I- Are you okay? You’ve been pretty affectionate lately. I- I mean, I’m not against it. I just don’t expect it from you.”

Instead of the barbed retaliation Eren expected, Jean just tilted his head to the side and asked, “What do you mean?” with genuine confusion.

“I don’t know, you’re just more affectionate,” he said in a tone that insisted he wasn’t offended, just concerned. “All touchy feely and stuff.”

“And here I thought you were going to get on me about bringing you coffees and brownies and stuff,” he laughed, throwing out a shrug.  “I don’t know, man. New perspective I guess. I think this character is changing me, making me appreciate more things, and people and shit. I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

Eren took a moment to receive this new information. “I don’t think so either.”

Jean nodded in understanding. He made a move like he was going to retreat to his bedroom, but lingered behind to say, “You know I was going to ask the same thing, Eren, if you were okay. …You’ve been acting a little different lately”

“Different how?”

Jean held his gaze. “Just different. A little quieter. A little… meaner? I was going to ask that, but after tonight I think otherwise. You seem the same.”

“Oh.” Eren felt something heavy roll over in his gut, registering this. Had he been quieter? Had he been meaner? And how bad was it that nothing immediately came to mind to explain such an accusation? 

His roommate was still looking at him with concern, but Eren was quickly tiring of the attention.

 “I’m okay,” he said, shouldering his way back to his own bedroom. “Good night, Jean.”

He’s shouldering his way to his bedroom when a buzz from the phone in his hand makes him go still. It’s Mikasa, inviting him to join a joint Spotify playlist with her.

The notion alone would bring a smile to his face, were it not for the other notification on his phone that took his breath away.

Levi: Brat. Are you okay? Talk to me.

Maybe Levi was right, Eren was a brat.

Maybe this whole aversion thing was childish and stupid. Eren felt really guilty all of a sudden, making a grown man worry enough to send him a text after midnight asking about his wellbeing.

“Damn it,” he sighed to himself, grabbing his apartment keys and heading to grab his shoes and jacket.

“Where are you going?” Jean asked, already dressed in the old t-shirt he slept in, suspiciously eyeing Eren as he laced up his shoes.

“The roof,” Eren said, zipping his jacket. “I got a phone call to make. I won’t be long.”

With that, he locked the apartment behind him and crept up the metal staircase that led to the apartment complex’s flat rooftop. It wasn’t a tremendous view, and it was windier and chillier up here than any place on planet earth, but it gave him solitude, which was more than enough. He pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head, dialing the number of the man he hardly knew and scarcely loved.

“Eren?”

Eren’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t even his real first name, but hearing it come from Levi made it feel like it was, and he was entranced.

“You had my number saved?” Eren asked hopefully, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Why are you calling so late?”

“Shit I am so sorry I completely lost track of time, I’m sorry for waking you-”

“-No, it’s alright. I was awake. What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, I…” he takes a deep breath. “I feel like I’ve been really immature about this whole thing between us-”

“-What whole thing?”

“You know, the avoiding and the ignoring and - you know what I’m talking about Levi.”

There’s a really tense silence where Eren is sure Levi tries several times to say something, hitched breaths and strained sounds. Eren can’t hear much else from his phone speaker, no background noises that could reveal anything about Levi’s location. He’s shrouded in mystery still.

“I told you,” Levi says eventually, “that I don’t like phones.”

“No you didn’t say that,” Eren says wryly. “You wrote that. And I don’t like reading.”

“I suppose that only leaves us with one option.”

“One option to-?”

“Talk,” he said, a little clipped. “When is an acceptable time for us to meet off-set?”

“It doesn't need to be a big deal,” Eren stammered. “I can- If you want, you can just stop by my dressing room and-”

“-Absolutely not.”

“ … okay. I’m, um… Tomorrow, I have a photo-shoot and an interview, then, like, two or three hours open in the afternoon before I have to go back and re-film the failed Titan transformation scene.”

“Which t wo or three hours tomorrow?”

“Like, starting at four in the afternoon? Four thirty? My call time for the shoot is seven thirty at night.”

“Four thirty will suffice. Do you drink tea?”

Eren couldn’t recall a time when he’d had tea in his life aside from the few sips Mikasa shared with him. But the idea of having tea with Levi thrilled him. “Um, yeah. I do.”

“I’ll meet you at four thirty tomorrow. I promise I’ll get you back well before your call time.”

“Okay,” he said, the abrasiveness didn’t scare him anymore. Not when he was back on the roof of his apartment complex, dressed in black sweat clothes instead of strapped in his uniform on the battlefield. He was real now. And he had to assume, wherever he was, whatever he was wearing, Levi was real, too.

“Good night, captain,” he said, a twinge of fondness trickling into his tone.

“Morning, more like.” Levi’s voice is deeper, but interestingly tender as he says, “It is absurdly late, kid. Are you alright? Are you safe?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound like you’re outside.”

“I’m on the roof.”

There’s a beat of tense silence. And then all the little hairs spike along the back of Eren’s neck; he hears frantic shuffling, he hears the snagging of keys and quick footsteps, a grated voice rushedly whispering commands like, “shit, stay there, don’t move, shit, shit, shit…”

“Hey, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay!” Eren clambers, his heart throbbing in his voice. “I’m not- Jesus, I’m not jumping! I didn’t mean to give you that impression, I- My complex has, like, a patio thing on the roof. I like to go up here, that’s all, there’s nothing more to it. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry if I worried you. I’m okay.”

“ … Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Levi. Fuck,” Eren wipes his eyes, sniffing. “I don’t have thoughts like that. Fuck.” 

He expects Levi to be furious with him, but all he hears is relief when Levi slowly drawls, “It’s okay, kid. I understand.”

“Good,” Eren huffs, trying to sound angry, but he just sounds like a petulant child.

“Good night, Eren. I’ll meet you Sunday morning.”

“Okay… good night,” Eren said, the word crumbling out of him like the last leaf off an autumnal tree. He waited for Levi to hang up first, but after a few seconds passed, became clear that wouldn’t be the case. Eren hung up on his own, shoving his phone into his jacket’s pocket. He ducked his head, shivering as a nighttime chill breezed by. 

Levi fucking Ackermann just nearly had a heart attack because of him. Eren. And all this time, he thought he was scum under the guy’s nails.

The guy whom he practically idolized.

Eren sighed, bunching his shoulders high as another breeze rolled through. He turned to go back inside, sorely convinced he was going to be absolutely exhausted by the time he made it to the studio tomorrow.

Jean was right, Eren realized with a bitter resolve. Actors were way too fucking complicated.

Chapter Text

Perhaps the previous bus stop was closed, or perhaps there was a function going on at town center they’d both forgotten about, but for whatever reason, their bus was uncommonly crowded when Jean and Eren boarded the next morning. They both resorted to standing, gripping onto the nooses overhead to remain upright, their unlocked knees swaying and swerving with every turn and break. 

Jean made some joke about it being like their ODM training, but Eren could barely manage a convincing laugh in response, grousing over the thermos of coffee he’d decided to take with him today. He’d barely gotten any sleep, kept awake all night while his brain went a mile a minute, the premonition of Levi fresh and urgent on his mind. He could still barely conceive that he was meeting him today. To talk. About what? The phone call from last night made it sound serious. Was Eren in trouble?

But then he had to consider the moment last night when Levi misunderstood why he was on the roof. The sheer gravity of his concern made Eren’s stomach churn, even now, hours later. It had sounded like Levi was ready to run to his exact location then and there. To do what, save him? Could Levi do such a thing? Did he really care about Eren that much, or is this some kind of trauma response from Levi’s riddled past? Then again, no matter what way he looked at it, Levi couldn’t have that intense a response unless he really cared, right?

Jean had explicitly told Eren that Levi never spent time with fledgelings, not only that but he was cruelly adamant about it. So why Eren? Why now?

Eren noticed his white-knuckled grip around his thermos, and self consciously dipped his head. He looked around the bus, anxious; was it obvious just how riled up he was right now? Was Jean noticing it?

The bus churned sluggishly through a turn, and Eren’s body swayed into Jean’s. He let their bodies press together, leaning in to observe the way Jean subtly smiled down at his phone. Suspicious, Eren stole a glance at the screen.

“You’re texting Marco?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jean chuckled. He turned his screen to show him. “Check out how adorable he is. He uses, like, a million emojis per text. He’s like a grandma.”

Eren clocked the word “adorable,” and quickly racked his brain, trying to recall the last time Jean used that to describe anyone.

“Is something happening there?” he asked. “You and him?”

“What?” It took a full ten seconds for the realization to kick in. Then Jean’s face dropped, and he shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Oh, no. No, I don’t think so.”

Eren hummed, and they rode silently for the rest of the way.

Mikasa didn’t have a hangover this time, but part of her wishes she did just so Armin could make that tea for her again. Maybe she was crazy, but she almost expected a cup to be waiting for her when she went into Dressing Room C, or better yet, she almost expected Armin would be in there himself. He really didn’t seem like he belonged anywhere else, certainly no dressing room with larger older military men.

Instead of a cup of tea, Mikasa walked in to see that all of the lights were off sans a pool of light coming in from the bathroom, illuminating a shadowy figure hunched over a cardboard box.

“Annie?” Mikasa asked.

Annie’s station was bare, all of her belongings tucking into the box on her dresser. Her hair was loose from its usual bun, spilling all over her forlorn face.

“Annie, I- What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“I have been instructed that I am to move into another dressing room,” she said with artificial composure. Annie was holding herself together by a few strings, on the verge of snapping.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, tight and strained. “It wasn’t up to me.”

“I don’t understand… Who would make you leave?”

“One of the higher-ups,” Historia mumbled from the opposite end of the room. She was crouched over her dresser, her long hair gripped between her fingers. She was frustrated. Detail. 

Mikasa looked between them. “But I don’t unders-”

“-We don’t get it either, Mikasa, Jesus.” Historia snapped. Her pencil broke through her paper and she drew a new sheet in frustration.

Sasha pulled Annie into a hug, “We’ll miss youuuuuu~”

“It’s been fun. I’ll miss you guys too.” Annie said, curiously small inside Sasha’s arms. “It’s not like I’m going away though. I’m just going into another room.”

“Where?”

“Room D. I’m taking Ymir’s spot.”

“Oh, so does that mean Ymir’s moving in?” Mikasa asked.

Without warning, Historia shot up from her seat, abrupt and unjust. She snatched her things, aggressively piling them into her tote bag, and stormed out without a word.

Annie watches her go, looking downright dejected . “Glad to know she’ll miss me too.”

Mikasa looked back at her, pained. Regret coiled in her gut like a snake, ashamed because she didn’t know how to help.

Always prepared, Sasha fished into the fanny pack around her side, taking out a single butterscotch candy. She slipped it into the blonde’s palm without missing a beat; “There you go. All better.”

Butterscotch was Annie’s favorite. 

Favorite candies, foods, favorite colors, and birthdays. Sasha had all of them memorized for everyone in the cast.

Annie teethed around the amber candy morosely. She was softening around the edges, but her sadness remained, dismal and dour. Mikasa looked down at the floor, wishing she knew what to do to help. Her guilt is sharpened, made worse as she remembers that literally in this exact same room Eren knew exactly what to do when Mikasa was upset. He’d said the exact right words, spoken in just the right tone, to alleviate her beyond remiss. Now, Mikasa was on the other end of the situation, and she was clueless as to what she could possibly do. She watched, helpless, as Annie held back her tears, staring with dead eyes as Sasha rubbed her back.

She would have to ask Eren what to do next time she sees him, Mikasa realized. And just like that, the mere thought of speaking with him again made something light flutter in her chest. It was only an idea, and already, she was excited to meet him.

And Eren was getting excited for a meeting of his own. He walked down the studio hall with immediacy, an urgency in his step that made his pace uneven and quick. Music was pounding in his ears, adrenaline flooding his veins. He was going to meet with Levi today and nothing was going to stop him.

Nothing could stop him, although there was something that made him falter as he walked down the hall, his pace slowing, his feet plodding down in short, noncommittal steps. He lowered his gaze to the ground, averting attention the same way Reiner was just ahead of him.

Reiner, a hulking figure against the stark, white hallway, stood with his head bowed, somehow small, even with his impassive brawn. Some kind of a producer, a chiseled, wiry creature in a tailored suit, towered over Reiner, hissing venomous insults. He was picking apart his performance, degrading him, demeaning him with words far brasher, far crueler, than any kind of normal acting critique. This man was downright dehumanizing Reiner, belittling him down to his core.

Eren, his progress halted by the spectacle of cruelty, watched in disgust. This was not the industry he had wanted. This was abuse, plain and simple. The man in the suit was no producer; he was a tyrant, a bully cloaked in authority.

Taking off his headphones so they rested on his shoulders, Eren balled his fists at his sides and started advancing in on the scene.

Before he could march in far enough, Levi appeared out of nowhere. He swept in from the side, taking Eren by the bicep and steering him away. 

“Are you ready to go?” the captain asks him, snapping him out of his trance.

For the first time in maybe his entire life, Eren caught Levi out of costume. The man, almost always cloaked in the intricate garbs of his captain uniform, was now revealed in a stark, modern simplicity. Black low-riding slacks, a grey vest, and a crisp white shirt transformed him into a figure of understated elegance, radiating a cool, effortless confidence.

Eren, caught off guard by this unexpected transformation, opened his mouth to speak, intending to draw Levi’s attention to the spectacle unfolding nearby. However, as he gestured towards Reiner and the producer, he realized their heated exchange had subsided. They were gone, their drama disappearing as quickly as it had begun, and they were gone.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Eren sighed, although he felt anything but. He was already rattled from whatever the hell just happened between Reiner and the guy. Despite the tension gripping his body tight with nerves, he follows Levi down the hall. With Levi’s steps brusque and intentional, and Eren’s fluttery but quick, they pass an ajar door that makes Eren stagger to a halt.

“Captain, we have a kettle in the green room,” he explained meekly. “Can’t we just have tea there? I really don’t want to be any trouble.”

Internally he’s screaming at himself for making the suggestion. The Levi Ackermann is taking him out, and he’s offering to back out of it? What the hell is he doing?

He watches Levi’s dark eyes rove over to the door, then fall back to him with disgruntled disinterest.

“No,” the captain said, much to Eren’s relief.

“Okay,” he said, trying to dismiss the smile creeping up on his face, banning himself from being excited.

Levi seemed to notice. “It’s not safe to talk here.”

That made Eren’s excitement die immediately. He remains silent for the rest of their walk out to the front parking lot. It doesn’t surprise him it’s the reserved section Levi strolls into, taking his keys out to start a small, expensive-looking waiting nearby.

“See, I knew you had a car!” Eren exclaimed.

Levi scowled, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I have a car?”

“First of all, what’s with the tone? There’s nothing wrong with not having a car. I don’t have a car.”

“You’re young and broke. I wouldn’t expect you to have a car.”

“I’m not that young,” Eren protests softly. In retrospect he wonders why that was the one he defended himself against.

Levi slid into the driver’s seat. Eren, his heart pounding in his chest, mustered the courage to climb into the passenger seat beside him. The car, a sleek, obsidian beast, purred to life beneath them. Its interior, a symphony of dark leather and polished chrome, exuded an air of luxury and sophistication. The soft glow of the dashboard lights cast an ethereal ambiance, creating a sense of both intimacy and isolation. There’s a bottle of hand sanitizer in the cupholder, and Eren somehow has no doubts there are wipes somewhere in the glovebox.

“Secondly,” Eren continues, after three seconds of getting used to the thrilling sensation of realizing he was in Levi’s car; “I saw you on the bus last week, remember? And you were acting like it was a normal fucking thing. Why were you there?”

“It honestly doesn’t concern you,” he says boredly, voice absent of harshness. 

“I still want to know,” he said while the car went into reverse.

Levi turned them out of the parking lot, driving sleek and in control. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

Eren isn’t exactly satisfied with the answer, and crosses his arms over his chest, the seatbelt snagging against his shoulder. “You should at least tell Jean and Mikasa you were there, and that I didn’t make it up. They didn’t believe me when I told them, and they still keep giving me shit for it.”

“Are they your friends?”

The question makes Eren hesitate. Not because he doubts the answer; he knows for certain they are, indeed, his friends, and he would do anything for them. But coming from Levi, it was an unsettling thing to hear him ask. In fact, Eren’s pretty sure he’s never heard that f-word leave Levi’s mouth before.

“I guess,” Eren says, watching the city sweep by. “I mean, Jean’s a piece of shit, though.”

That got a snort out of Levi. An actual snort.

“Good,” Levi said, eyes on the road as they merged lanes.

He seems more relaxed now, Eren noticed. He had no doubt the smaller man could still snap his neck in a second if he wanted to, but at least at this distance from the studio he finally looked like he wasn’t on high alert.

As they pulled up to their destination, a valet approached, his practiced movements suggesting this was a familiar routine. Levi handed over the keys, a gesture of trust that spoke volumes about their relationship.

While the valet maneuvered the car around to the back, Levi slipped on a facemask, tucking the stray strands behind his ears.

"Is that for sanitary reasons or identity protection?" Eren asked, curious about the man's motives.

Levi met his gaze with a silent, enigmatic stare.

"I'm just asking," Eren insisted, "I'm not judging you."

"I suppose it doubles as both," Levi replied, his voice a low rumble.

They stepped inside the tea shop, a haven of refined elegance. The interior, bathed in soft, amber light, was a study in contrasts. Ornate details, such as intricate carvings and gilded accents, coexisted seamlessly with sleek, minimalist lines. The air was thick with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the gentle hum of conversation.

Everyone here is dressed as well as Levi, if not better, from the patrons to the waitstaff behind the counter. Eren has the sudden fear he looks like a hobo next to Levi, like someone on the verge of robbing the establishment.

The suited man behind the counter recognizes Levi immediately, even with the facemask. He greets him with his name – his real name — and then eyes Eren suspiciously.

“Is he with you?” he asked skeptically.

“I made the reservation for two, dumbass,” Levi bit back.

“Yes of course. My apologies,” he muttered quickly. “I’ll take you to your usual table.”

The maître d's dismissive gaze continues to make Eren feel out of place. Yet, he still led them to a secluded, opulent corner of the tea shop, a quiet, round table hidden behind a curtain. The space was immaculately sanitized, reeking of Lysol. A bottle of luxury hand sanitizer, not just hand sanitizer, but luxury hand sanitizer, sat next to a RESERVED card, which was removed as they settled in. Levi sank into his seat with ease, while Eren remained uncertain.

Eren struggled to decipher the menu, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and a burden on everyone.

"I'll order for you," Levi whispered, sensing his distress. "Just let me know if you prefer a tea that's more or less energizing."

The waiter returned, and Levi placed their tea order. Then the waiter disappeared again with the flick of a wrist. All of it happened so quickly, so effortlessly, Eren could hardly believe it.

“If you text me your Venmo I can pay you back my share.” Eren says, secretly fearing Levi was one of those eccentrics who still preferred cash.

“Why the fuck wold I let you pay for your own drink? You’re, what? Straight out of college? You don’t have money,” he says with genuine annoyance.

"I didn't finish college, actually."

Removing his face mask and letting it rest on his lap, Levi's expression softened slightly. "Neither did I."

Eren realized, with wonder, this was the first time Levi had ever shared anything about himself.

"I should have asked if you were hungry," Levi said, glancing around the tea shop. "They have food here, too."

"No, it's okay, I'm good," Eren replied, although his stomach rumbled in protest. His appetite had been insatiable lately, thanks to all the training he'd been doing. But he couldn't bear the thought of eating in front of Levi.

"Captain... Levi," Eren began, gathering his courage. "That note you left in my dressing room. What was that about?"

Levi's eyes met his, and Eren felt a shiver run down his spine. "Straight to the point as always. ... How are you doing, Eren?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

Eren's breath caught in his throat, touched by Levi's genuine concern.

“Um,” he says. “Highs and lows right now.” 

“Highs and lows?” he repeats.

“By that, I mean, I’m having  really high highs and really low lows, and nothing in between,” he says. “Two days ago, I thought I was going to have the best day of my entire life, and then only a few hours later, that same night, I was so freaking pissed off I could scream. It’s been like that for weeks now.”

“That sounds troubling.”

"Well, I mean, I've always had big emotions. That's what makes me a good artist, I guess. But I'm not used to these extreme swings. Even Jean seems to have noticed."

Levi leaned forward, his eyes filled with concern. "Have you told this to your therapist?"

Eren hesitated, a wave of shame washing over him. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't been honest with his therapist. He was afraid of being seen as weak or unstable. If I tell him, he'll think I'm not making progress, he thought. He'll probably just tell me to try harder.

"Um... no, not yet," he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Levi nodded in understanding. 

The waitstaff arrived, bearing a teapot and two delicate cups and saucers. It was a level of luxury and pampering that Eren was unaccustomed to. Levi seemed perfectly at ease, but Eren felt as if the waitstaff were judging him. He was obviously poor and probably too young to be dining with someone like Levi. A thrill shot through him as he wondered if they might assume he was Levi's young date.

Eren quickly dismissed the idea. It was absurd.

"Hey, while we're on the topic, can you settle something for us?" Eren asked once the tea was poured and the waitstaff had disappeared. "Do you guys have to go to therapy too, or is it just us fledgelings?"

Levi considered the question for a moment. "I'm not sure. I think it varies."

"Well, do you go?" Eren pressed, convinced that Levi was about to ignore him.

"I'm required once a month," Levi replied, his tone even.

Eren felt a sense of relief wash over him as he sipped the tea. It was exquisite, unlike anything he had ever tasted before.

"Do you like it?" Levi asked, his eyes fixed on Eren's face.

"I don't think I've ever had tea like this before," Eren replied, his voice filled with wonder.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Levi said with a small smile.

"How did you find this place?" Eren asked, curious.

"These places find me," Levi replied with a shrug. "I've actually never had tea before I was hired for this role." He paused, his expression becoming more serious. "I'd like to talk now, if you're ready. Why did you ignore my message?”

Eren hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "You're kidding me, right? You've been ignoring me. It was payback.”

Eren felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He realized how childish and petty his response had been.

“I can see from your expression alone I don’t need to tell you how stupid and immature that response was.” Levi tutted. 

“I’m realizing that now, yeah. I don’t need you to rub it in,” Eren said morosely, flicking his fingers against the cup. “I guess I was just mad at myself for getting my hopes up.”

“Hopes for what?”

“Spending time with you,” he admits with a furious flush.

Levi's gaze held a tinge of pity, and Eren hated it. He hated it with a burning intensity.

"Don't," he snapped, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't look at me like that."

"You came to that conclusion on your own," Levi replied, his tone calm but firm. "I never meant to give you the impression that anything would happen between us."

Eren felt a pang of hurt, but then, a surge of defiance rose within him. "I mean, we're hanging out right now," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, this doesn't count," Levi insisted. "I told you, I didn't feel comfortable talking at the studio."

"Yeah, clearly," Eren scoffed. "Why did you ask me to meet you early yesterday?"

Levi hesitated, his eyes darting away from Eren's gaze. "Well, two reasons, really. One is significantly more important than the other."

"That reason being...?" Eren prompted, his annoyance growing.

“Erwin.”

“ … Huh?”

“The jailhouse scene had you and I alone with him, and with unsettling proximity as well,” he said flatly, as if that explained the ludicrousness of his statement. “I just wanted to meet with you to discuss him beforehand. I can’t think of a gentle way to say this, and as a matter of fact, I don’t want to, because I can’t risk fucking sugarcoating the severity of what I mean to say about him. I know you and your gang all adore him, but I’m warning you. Stay away from him if you can manage it.”

There was nothing, absolutely nothing about Levi that suggested any sort of humor. He was dead serious, and Eren was stupefied. 

“What the hell?” he begged. “Why?”

Levi groused over his tea. “You don’t need to know.”

“Um yeah I actually do need to know. I feel like I’m entitled to know.” He scoffed. “You were just gonna scold me to stay away from my hero without telling me why? That’s pretty shitty, Levi.”

Levi's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in his gaze. "Erwin... doesn't exactly have the cleanest track record when it comes to respecting younger cast members, Jaeger."

"Bullshit," Eren retorted, his voice rising. "He's always nice to me."

Levi raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "And why do you think that is?"

Eren swallowed hard, his mind racing. "That day when we were making the map? After I'd gone, Jean said you came in and snapped at Erwin, got all mad at him."

"Yeah," Levi admitted, his voice laced with contempt. "Sue me. I don't care. I don't like the idea of him being alone with any of you."

Eren could see the worry in Levi's eyes. "What does Erwin do? Is he like... is he...?"

Levi hesitated, his expression grim. "I'm sure it's a story you've heard a thousand times before. Big shot golden idol swoops in and courts the youngest cast member, then dumps them the minute they turn twenty-five. There's some other stuff too..." He trailed off, his voice filled with disgust. "My main concern, though, is you cadets. There are so many young people on this project. As far as I know, Erwin isn't exactly violent, but he has a lot of power in this industry, and worse, he has very powerful friends. He can get away with just about anything. Please exercise caution around him, I'm begging you."

Eren's heart pounded in his chest. "I didn't know..."

"I know you didn't," Levi replied, his voice filled with regret. "That's why I tried to tell you that morning."

"Why me? Why don't you tell everyone?" Eren asked, his voice trembling.

"I can't spread panic," Levi explained, his voice low and urgent. "That leaves too much room for misinterpretation, which can be really dangerous. Further... he's holding some strings on me too."

Suspicion gnawed at Eren's gut. 

"Besides, you kids fucking adore him," Levi scoffed. "Everyone adores him. Who's going to believe me?"

Eren couldn't find the words to respond to Levi's accusations against Erwin. His mind raced, torn between the kindness he had always seen in Erwin and the gravity of Levi's claims. Erwin was practically a god to many, a beacon of hope and inspiration. But then again, even though Levi was cold and aloof, he didn't seem like the type to lie.

“What was the other thing?” Eren asked suddenly.

Levi raised a brow, holding his tea cup. “What?”

“The other thing you wanted to tell me yesterday morning,” Eren clarified. “You said there were two things.”

Levi relaxes in his seat. “Oh, that. I suppose it’s not necessary any longer. I just wanted to do a boundary check with you before we shot our scene. Professional practices.”

“A what?”

“A boundary check.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“And it breaks my heart that you don’t,” Levi sighed, grousing over his tea. “It’s just a habit I incorporate into my practice. I like to go over boundaries with my scene partners to confirm what’s appropriate and what’s unacceptable before we film.”

There was a generous assortment of sweeteners provided on the table between them. Eren took his time stirring a very expensive looking honey into his tea. “I don’t get it,” he said, tiny spoon clinking against the cup, “Can you give me an example?”

“Like when I do scenes with Hange,” Levi huffed, feigning annoyance at having to answer a question. “I know they don’t like being touched on the chest, but they said it’s always okay for me to touch their hair or face.”

Eren made a small noise of understanding. “Okay, yeah. I get it. So that’s why you pulled her hair when-”

“-Their.” he snapped fiercely.

“Oh right. Sorry.” He flinched, looking down at the table under his hands, embarrassed. “Boundary check… okay. I get it. But wait, You haven’t done it with me before…”

“We haven’t been in proximity before. It’s fine now. We’re done with the scene now and it went well,” he dismissed. Crossed his arms over one another, Levi very bitterly added, “You were good.”

It took a moment for the words to register, but once they did, Eren’s heart leapt to his throat. “I was good?”

“Yes. Quite.”

Eren tried hiding his blush in the steam of his tea. The air around them was thick with the scent of jasmine and bergamot. The soft glow of the chandeliers cast a warm, intimate light on the room. Sitting at their small, closed-off table, they were practically lost in their own world.

As they sipped their tea, Levi and Eren talked about everything and nothing. While he spoke seldom, Levi listened deeply through all of Eren’s rambles, never once seeming annoyed or bothered by all the prattles. Eren, in turn, was fascinated by Levi's quiet intensity.

When they had finished their tea, Levi stood up and offered to walk Eren home. Eren was excited by the offer, but explained he still had some shooting to do at the studio.

“I’ll take you back there, then,” Levi said resolutely, setting his cup back down on its saucer and hailing for coat check.

The car glided through the city streets, a symphony of honks and muffled conversations filling the air. Levi navigated with practiced ease, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Eren, perched beside him, was lost in thought, her eyes tracing the patterns of neon lights that began to illuminate the darkening sky.

"Do you really not listen to music?" Eren finally broke the silence, his voice barely audible over the din.

Levi glanced at him, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Not usually," he replied. "I prefer the quiet."

Eren's eyebrows rose in amusement. "You're a strange one, Levi."

Levi chuckled. "Strange, perhaps. But I'm used to it."

As they drove, the city began to transform. The once vibrant streets were now bathed in a soft, ethereal glow, casting an air of mystery and intrigue. Eren leaned forward, his gaze drawn to a particularly striking building.

"That's a beautiful building," his murmured.

Levi nodded. "It's the old city hall. They're renovating it now."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they continued their journey. Levi's attention was focused on the road, but his thoughts were elsewhere. After a while, Levi cleared his throat. "I've been meaning to ask," he began. "That bus stop you got off at a few weeks ago... Do you live over there?"

Eren hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah," he replied.

Levi frowned. "That's a dangerous part of town."

Eren shrugged. "It's not that bad."

Levi's eyes narrowed. "Do you live alone?"

Eren shook his head. "No, I live with Jean."

“Jean,” Levi blinked, disbelieving, “as in…?”

“Yeah,” Eren laughed. “That Jean.”

“Jesus Crhist, how do you two manage to stay alive?”

Eren laughed, free and guilelessly. He had the sudden impulse to roll the windows down and let his hair be swept by the wind, but he didn’t think Levi would like that very much. He settled for pressing his head against the window, looking out wistfully into the city.

"Maybe you could come over sometime," Eren said out of the blue, breaking the silence.

Levi glanced at him, surprised. "It's fine," he replied, trying to sound indifferent, keeping his gaze firmly on the road ahead.

"No, really," Eren insisted. "Let me return the favor. I mean it. Come by my apartment sometime, I'll make you some coffee."

Levi hesitated.

"Eren," he began slowly. "You owe me nothing. I, similarly, owe you nothing. I wanted to warn you about Erwin, and that's it. I have fulfilled that task, and we are nothing but coworkers again."

Eren's face fell. "My bad," he said, hurt. "I thought you were having fun, but I guess I was wrong."

Levi’s throat lurched, regret pinching into the lines around his eyes. But he was Captain Levi, and he wouldn’t relent. "You're a good kid, Eren," he said softly. "But stay away from me."

Eren's eyes filled with tears. He propped his hand up in a way Levi wouldn’t see, and nodded, saying nothing.

The rest of the ride was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Their time together, Eren realized with a pang of softness, had been genuine and pure, a much-needed severance from the severity of their day to day lives. Surrounded by the soft lulls of earl grey and chamomile, they’d been at peace, for once, and Levi had been kind. For once. And now, he was back to his usual self. And Eren was mad at himself for thinking he ever could have meant something to him.

Chapter Text

The morning was a cold, hard slap to the face. But it was a kind of slap he craved. The city was still asleep, a monstrous beast of skyscrapers and broken dreams, dreaming of neon and noise. Levi ran down the sidewalk of the empty streets, his breath misting in the frigid air. His body was a machine, his mind a void. For once, he was not a character, a persona crafted for the hungry eyes of the world. He was simply a man moving through space, his muscles burning, his heart pounding a raw, primal rhythm.

Discipline had nothing to do with it. No press coverage, no over-exalting paparazzi fluff written about him was going to be accurate if they saw him running right now. He didn’t read the tabloids anymore, but still he knew what they would say if they saw him. His image, carefully curated and refurbished with every new character he played, would be dissected, analyzed, and reborn in a thousand different, distorted forms, the world too hungry for gossip and gass to even remotely care about accuracy, much less privacy. The headlines would scream of a 'metamorphosis,' a phoenix rising from the ashes after his last role, the role that almost killed him. His newly muscular body would be labeled a testament to his dedication, his newfound vigor a symbol of triumph over adversity. Luckily for him, he didn’t care anymore. About the tabloids, the articles, the interviews. Because Levi wouldn't. The real Levi wouldn't care. So neither would he. Levi was beyond their grubby-handed reach. He was a ghost in the machine of celebrity, a silent observer of his own manufactured reality.

On a day like today, the studio’s parking lot would become a looming behemoth, a concrete empire guaranteed to be packed to capacity before noon. Today was the first day introducing all the extras; the call-sheet was a monstrous thing, a triple-layered indictment of his sanity. Pages of names, a forest of unfamiliar faces. Extras, they were called, but to Levi, they were an impending invasion. His sanctuary, the shared space he and his fellow actors had claimed, was about to be overrun. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was growing quite selfishly fond of the place.

The lot was going to be impossible to park in. Even the back lot, his secret redoubt, would be besieged. The back lot was supposed to be his, where he would occasionally see Ymir stumble in like a zombie after a shift, or Armin, a sad-looking ghost haunting its edges, cigarette in hand. He couldn’t risk the exposure of his car either, a potential magnet for the extra-hungry horde of extras. No, today, he would run. Discretion was his only armor.

The second reason why Levi had to run today: he was a jumble of nerves. His body was a traitor, a battlefield of trembling nerves. Physical agony mirrored the torment within, an inexplicable ache that pulsed through his veins. The run had been a desperate gamble, a futile attempt to outrun the strange phantom that haunted him, the stress whose source he couldn’t identify for the life of him.

The studio loomed, a concrete monolith indifferent to his turmoil. His card slid through the reader with a familiar click, granting him entry. The hallway stretched before him, an endless expanse of cold, hard surfaces, only now, packed with unfamiliar faces, a dull murmur of a thousand voices resounding unpleasantly in his ears. Flushed and drenched in sweat, he was a ghost among the crowd, skirting around the crowds with his head low. The locker room just down the hall beckoned him, a sanctuary of solitude.

He sought the familiar confines of his shower stall, a personal citadel against the world. Levi’s shower stall no one dared to touch. The tiles were cold against his bare feet as he shed the damp layers of clothing. He folded them nicely and lay them on the bench. A step inside the stall, a deep breath, and the world beyond the translucent curtain seemed to fade into insignificance.

The steam-fogged curtain offered a distorted view of the world beyond. He blinks, thinking the water is playing tricks on his eyes, until he realizes, no, it is no mistake that there is another person in this locker room, looming just on the other side of his curtain. 

Heart nervously quickening, Levi squinted through the haze. A silhouette emerged through the shower steam, a dark, imposing figure that seemed to grow larger with each passing second. Towering, broad, a physical manifestation of dread, the man was a predator lurking in the shadows. The glint of blonde hair was a chilling detail, a final piece to the assembling puzzle of terror. Panic, a cold, clawing beast, seized him. Erwin. Levi’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm, a desperate plea for escape.

His mind raced, conjuring scenarios of violence, of harm. The Commander’s presence was an intrusion, a violation of his sanctuary. His hands, slick with soap, trembled as he reached for a towel, a feeble weapon against the very known threat. The world outside the shower seemed to tilt, to spin, as fear tightened its grip around his heart.

“Oi, you’re not gonna hit me with that, are you?” a familiar voice laughed from the other side of the stall.

The familiar timbre of his voice, low and inoffensive, washed the anxiety away like soap suds down his back. Relief, a warm, soothing balm, spread through Levi’s body, chasing away the icy tendrils of panic. With a trembling hand, he pulled back the shower curtain, revealing the face of no imposing Commander, but an old friend.

"It's so good to see you," the actor playing as Zeke Jaeger greeted, addressing Levi with his given name.

The captain tutted at that. "Levi," he corrected, though he couldn’t stay mad for long.

This wasn’t Erwin, though, nor anyone else worth his vitriol; this was Zeke. The only character whose lines he genuinely laughed at when he was at home reading the script for the first time, glass of wine in one hand, the thick script bent over his knee as he lay back in his chair.

The years apart had sculpted them into different men, chiseling away at the rough edges of their youth. Levi, once a flirtatious, raging alcoholic, now bore the stolid armor of a the captain he needed to be. Zeke, having played almost nothing but side characters over the last decade, had somehow miraculously transformed into a sculpted statue of a hero that the script demanded, strength and maturity etched into his chiseled features. Time and work apart had separated them, yet the familiar contours of their friendship remained imprinted on their souls, smiling at each other as the shower pelted Levi’s bare backside.

Despite the armor of indifference he sought to wear, Levi couldn't conceal the warmth that inkled within him. The sight of Zeke, a tangible reminder of simpler times, stirred a tenuous sweetness within his rather unyielding heart.

"It's good to see you again,” Levi said, watching Zeke remove his glasses and lay them on the next bench.

“I think you’re only saying that because you’re cast as someone who gets to make fun of me,” Zeke said, stripping down and leaving his clothes folded on the bench with his glasses.

“No, that’s just an added incentive,” Levi smirked. The confidence in his smile vanished, though, as he muttered. “What the hell are you doing here, though?”

“Um, showering?”

“Yeah, I got that, asshole. I mean what are you doing at the studio? You're not supposed to be filming for a while."

"Honestly, I just came to use the gym. The director said I'm always welcome here," he explained stepping into the next stall beside Levi. He kept talking, the two shower heads humming instrumentally beneath their talk; “That, and I was invited to see the last bit of filming you’re all doing before the season airs.”

“I see,” he said, watching the water swirl around the drain. “Well, welcome.”

“I didn’t see your name on the call-sheet today,” Zeke prodded. He gestured with his rag at him, “So I take it you’re up to the same?”

"Not really, no," he admitted, water trailing down his bangs, plastered on his forehead.

“Coming in on your day off? What, are you an overachiever now?” Zeke laughed morosely. “Man, this role really is changing you.”

“Trust me. I had to be here today.”

“Why? Which scene…? Oh… Wait…”

Zeke’s words died in his throat, a strangled gasp caught in the humid air. A realization, cold and sharp as ice, had pierced through their fog of familiarity. The sentence, unfinished, hung heavy in the space between them, a phantom limb of a recollection gone awry.

The tension between them was a palpable force, a living, breathing entity that filled the small confines of the shower stall. It was a creature of grime, lurking in the corners, a silent predator with eyes that burned through skin. The rushing water, meant to cleanse and purify, seemed powerless against this filth, this corrosive residue of unspoken words and shared history.

“Has he been giving you trouble?” Zeke asked cautiously.

“No,” Levi answered, his heart thumping louder than the splash of water against the tiled floor.

“Do you think something’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, the admission injurious.

Zeke was respectful enough to give Levi his moment of silence. The two showered in peace for a few minutes, washing away whatever uneasy feelings remained.

“Do you like my beard?” Zeke asked after a while, patting the thin layer of scruff along his chin. “They’re making me grow it out for the show.”

“Please for the love of god wash it,” Levi begged.

“I do, I do, believe me. My wife hates it, I’m doing everything I can to take care of it just so she’ll kiss me again,” he laughed. He turned off the shower and scrubbed himself dry with his towel.

“Good talk,” he said, changing back into his clothes. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Oh, get lost.”

“I look forward to sharing the screen again with you, too,” he chuckled, gathering the last of his things. “And let me know if anything else happens with him, alright? What’s the name of his character this time? Erwin…? …Let me know.”

Zeke's departure was as casual as a summer breeze, a nonchalance that belied the storm he left raging in Levi's mind. 

Alone now, isolated in the confines of the steam-filled chamber, Levi was a captive in his own thoughts. He cranked the dial all the way to the right, transforming the shower into a scalding inferno. With a rough cloth in hand, he scrubbed at his skin with blistering force until his skin was raw and angry.

The studio was a sprawling metropolis of parked cars. A wave of gratitude washed over Eren as he stepped off the bus, a silent thank you to the universe for sparing him the ordeal of the parking lot. 

As he’s on the way around to the front, he catches the unpredicted sight of Jean, Armin, and Connie together, smoking by the back entrance. An unusual trio, he noted with curiosity.

His mind paused, caught by the unexpected tableau. Armin, he realized, was no longer a loner. He was smiling at something Jean said, while Connie made wild, fervent gestures, blushing furiously. A surge of joy, pure and uncomplicated, filled Eren’s chest, realizing Armin was truly becoming one of them. This was a victory, a small, yet significant step forward.

As Eren bounded up the small staircase, the impulse to announce his presence was quieted by Connie and Jean’s escalating argument. Wordlessly, Eren’s palm brushed lightly against Armin's back, a fleeting touch against the fabric of his jean jacket.

At the gentle touch, Armin's body stiffened, a startled bird taking flight. His head snapped around, eyes wide with surprise. 

Their gazes collided, and Eren’s stomach plummeted at the sheer emotional intensity of what he saw looking back at him. Fear, a stark and chilling presence, coexisted with a queer longing so profound it seemed to shimmer in Armin’s blue eyes. It was a paradox, fear and longing, a contradiction that defied logic yet resonated with a truth deeper than words.

Eren staggered back. “Woah, hey are you…?” 

Okay. He doesn’t ask it, just draws his hand back, feeling like he had just committed a heinous violation. 

“Hey Eren,” Connie says, oblivious to whatever the fuck just happened between him and Armin.

“Um,” Eren took a second to gather his bearings. “Hey, Connie. Hey Jean, hi Armin.”

He threw a vague gesture at the full lot. “What the fuck is up with all these people?”

“I don’t know man,” Connie groaned. “They came out of nowhere.”

“They did not come out of nowhere. You bozos just don’t read the call-sheets at all,” Jean said, cheeks hollowing around a cigarette. “We’re finally filming all the cadet scenes.”

“Siiick,” Connie moans in a tone that makes Eren question just what exactly he’s smoking.

“So, what are we filming exactly?”

“Jesus, don’t any of you read?” Jean rolled his eyes. “Besides you, Armin. I know the fuck you read. You’re excused.”

Armin beamed.

Jean turned back to his roommate. “We’re filming Erwin’s recruitment speech today. So be sure to bring your balls, you’re gonna need them.”

The crude joke flew right over his head, made irrelevant by the unexpected name drop that sent a chill up his spine.

Erwin. 

Eren bites his lip. “Hey, um, Arm? Can I borrow you a second?”

Armin nodded, rising to his feet, and politely stubbing out his cigarette. Eren hovered by, waiting patiently. He’s careful to not touch Armin this time, the absence of touch was a mental ache, a phantom limb of fear. He’d felt it, that intensity of Armin’s reaction. The memory was a jagged shard lodged in his mind, sharp and insistent. 

Eren steered Armin down the stairs, off to the shadows on the side of the building, without a touch, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. There were questions burning on Eren's tongue, a dam of curiosity eager to burst, but for now, they were silenced, swallowed by the much more pressing matter.

“Okay this is weird but-” He started. “Wait, actually? First of all, Jean and Connie didn’t pressure you into smoking or anything, did they?”

Armin shook his head, disbelieving.

“And you’re okay with them? They’re being nice to you?”

He nodded.

“And you’d tell me if they weren’t?”

Armin’s eyes, portals of emotion, narrowed in suspicion. “Certainly that wasn’t what you wanted to ask me.”

“No. I…” Eren sighed. “This is weird…I just… Erwin was in your dressing room yesterday, right?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did he-?” Eren licked his lips. “What did he do?”

“He just asked me about my book,” he said, looking at Eren strangely. “Why?”

“Nothing. No reason,” Eren dismissed, feeling deeply relieved. His gaze settled on Armin with a gratitude and warmth that was almost tangible, a fondness as familiar as an old, well-worn sweater. His eyes, bright with encouragement, lingered on the other boy as if memorizing every detail.

"You talk to them?" Eren asked hopefully, giving a casual gesture indicating the duo Armin had been with earlier. Armin shook his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

"Not yet," Eren confirmed, his voice soft with understanding. "But you will. I know you will. You’ll get there. I can already tell they like you."

Then a conspiratorial grin spread across Eren’s face. "We had a blast with you the other night. Come over whenever, okay? No pressure, just... you’re welcome anytime."

Eren felt a surge of protective instinct, a desire to ruffle Armin’s hair or clap him on the back. But the vivid memory of Armin's startled reaction to the slightest touch made him hesitate. Instead, he opted for a more subtle approach. "Time to get into costume," he said, his voice light. "Want to come with?"

The air crackled with a charged energy, a palpable hum beneath the oppressive heat of the studio lights. The set was a behemoth, a stage as grand and imposing as a coliseum. Military emblems, cast in bronze and gold, gleamed in the flickering torchlight, their shapes sharp and menacing against the rough-hewn wooden backdrop. It was a world of shadows and fire, of grandeur and brutality, a stage set for a drama of epic proportions.

The crowd, a sea of extras, was a living, breathing organism. Their faces, a spread of anticipation and awe, were bathed in the uneven glow of the torches. They were packed together like sardines, a human tide surging against an invisible barrier. Their costumes, a riot of browns and greens, were smudged with fake dirt and sweat, lending an air of authenticity to the scene. A low murmur, like the distant rumble of thunder, rose from the crowd, a collective breath held in suspense.

Eren was in awe when he entered, completely staggered by the set’s opulence. He will never go a day without remembering the absolute skill of the designers and engineers around him, the true heroes behind bringing this story to life.

He only allows his surprise to exist momentarily, fully aware he was supposed to find Mikasa.

It took a little while of prodding around the crowd of extras before he finds her, led inward by the vibrant red hue of her scarf.

“Mika!” he exclaimed, coming up to grab her arm.

“I know,” she said in a trembly voice. For a moment, Eren was concerned, but then he saw the spark of elation in her eyes and realized she was only trembling with excitement, not fear.

“I’m so excited,” she beamed. “Everyone here’s been so kind! Have you met the actress playing Hitch yet? Or Rico?”

“No, I’m sure they’re amazing though. I just met Dok on my way over. What a fucking guy.”

Practically shaking with joy, Mikasa admitted, “They keep asking me to sign autographs! I’ve never done that before!”

“I know right? It’s insane. I need to refine my signature asap, right now it looks like shit.”

Eren’s gaze lingered on her face, a softness spreading through his eyes like sunlight breaking through morning fog. "You look so pretty," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, simple and sincere.

The whump of a boom-mic dropping echoed through the room, a jarring interruption that severed the room. Mikasa blinked, her focus snapping back to the present. “Pardon?” she asked, a tilt of her head, a question in her eyes.

“Your makeup. It looks really pretty today,” he amended, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. His eyes darted away from hers for a moment, then back again, holding hers captive with a mixture of shyness and admiration. That was twice now he messed up. 

“Oh, thank you,” she said sincerely, tucking a strand of silk like hair behind her ear. “This is my first time doing it myself, usually Annie does it for me.”

“Is she not here today?” he asked, looking around their crowd.

“Actually, she-” Mikasa frowned, brows knitting. “She actually moved to a new dressing room.”

“What?” Eren’s face screwed up in confusion. “Damn, how come?”

“No one knows. Someone just told Ymir and Annie they needed to switch or else.” She bit her fingernail, something uneasy stirring in her grey eyes. “I think it might have something to do with Historia.”

“Krista,” Eren reminded, more for his own sake than hers. “We don’t know her real name yet. Season one. Episode sixteen. That’s where we are today.”

“Right.”

A door opened from the hall with a clatter, spilling a ray of effulgence into the dismal light of the set. He arrived like a storm, a titan striding into a world of lesser beings. Erwin was a colossus, a mountain of a man cloaked in the regalia of command. His uniform, a pristine drapery of green, was a canvas for the medals that spoke of battles unseen, of triumphs and sacrifices etched in metal. His stature was imposing, his shoulders broad as the horizon, his gait a measured march of destiny.

A crown of golden hair framed his face, a mask of icy composure that belied the tempest within. His eyes, twin pools of glacial blue, held the weight of empires, cold and calculating. They scanned the bustling set, a hawk surveying its prey, and in that moment, time seemed to slow, a heavy hush descending upon the chaos.

He was a king in exile, a lion caged, and yet, even confined, his magnificent aura was a palpable force, a magnetic pull that drew all eyes. Fear and reverence warred within the onlookers, a silent battleground where awe was the victor. For in the presence of this man, one felt small, insignificant, a mere mote of dust caught in the whirlwind of his being.

“Holy shit,” Eren staggered.

“Oh my god,” Mikasa whispered, too afraid to raise her voice. “How does he do it?”

“Do what?” he whipped around to face her

“Just… exist like that,” she breathed, eyes wet with adoration. “He’s incredible.”

Eren's gaze swept across the crowd, an edgy, calculating scrutiny. The cadets watched in adoration, reflecting the image of the man who had just commanded their attention. A symphony of sighs and whispers filled the air, a collective swoon that hung heavy in the atmosphere. They were moths to a flame, drawn irresistibly to the heat of his charisma. 

But for the first time, Eren felt was not among them. Instead of idolatry, a cold dread gnawed at his insides, an itch of doubt coiling tight around his core. All he felt was uneasiness, uneasiness and guilt, guilt for not being with his peers.

“We may begin soon,” Mikasa said hopefully. She bit her lip, looking around the military-dressed bodies with a twinge of excitement. “I feel like we’re in Les Mis.”

Eren blinked, turning away from the Commander to face his comrade. “What’d you say?”

“Les Misérables,” she said, cheeks flushing with genuine love. “It’s a play. And a book.”

“No, I know what it is,” he said, breath hitching. “Do you like the pl-”

“–I love the play.”

Her words crashed into his world like a tidal wave, sweeping away his composure. Eren staggered, caught off guard by the guileless passion in her interruption. She loved the theater too?  The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning, igniting a spark of hope in his chest. A thrill shot through him, a heady mix of excitement and anticipation. He knew precisely where to take her for their date now.

He starts to tell her, but silences himself once he sees the director’s assistant stalk on the stage, clapboard in hand. A hush falls over the crowd, rapt with attention as they leap into their military stances.

Someone called action, the voice a gunshot permeating the arena. A hush fell over the crowd like a thick, suffocating fog. The stage lights, once warm and inviting, now seemed to cast an eerie glow, transforming familiar faces into grotesque shadows. Their eyes, fixed on the solitary figure at the center, in fear and fascination. Erwin stood there, a monolithic figure, his presence as imposing as a looming thunderstorm. The silence was deafening, a vacuum filled only by the rapid thumps of our hearts. His lips parted, a mere fraction, and in that infinitesimal moment, the world held its breath. 

When Ymir stumbled off the set, her legs felt like jelly beneath her. The world was a blur of technicolor and noise, yet an eerie silence echoed within her skull. Erwin’s voice, a monstrous bass drumbeat, pounded in her ears, rattling her teeth. Each syllable had been a physical blow to everyone who bore witness to it, shaking her to the core. She, and everyone else, left the set starstruck, staggered, shocked, even nauseated. 

Ymir felt more awake than she had in weeks, as if Erwin’s intensity had seeped into her bones, leaving her trembling and exposed.

She had hoped the new dressing room would offer some respite, but found, with pinched unease, that it was too small, too confining. Replicants of her tightly-wound body blinked back at her in the array of mirrors, revealing just how shaken she truly looked.

Ymir approached her new station, keeping her head low. It wasn’t until she heard the clacking of a keyboard, the only sound in this otherwise oppressively quiet room, that she realized its vacancy. Sasha was off showing Jean and Connie around the gym, and Mikasa had gone to therapy; that left her utterly alone with Historia.

The blonde, a whirlwind of nervous energy, was hunched over her dresser, fingers flying across the keyboard. Historia, donning blue-light glasses and a messy bun, had a face etched with concentration. The rhythm of her typing was broken only by the staccato of the backspace key, a relentless percussion that filled the small room.

Ymir approached her own dresser, the weight of the costume dragging at her. She began the arduous task of undoing the endless straps, her movements slow and deliberate. The tension in the room was palpable, a thick, suffocating fog. “Dude, Erwin was terrifying today,” Ymir ventured, her voice a tentative probe. “Did you feel it too?”

“Scary? I don’t know,” she replied, her voice a curt dismissal. Her gaze immediately returned to the screen uncaringly.

“Obviously you felt it, too,” Ymir insisted. “You were crying out there.”

“That’s just Krista’s character. She cried because she didn’t have a choice.”

A hot dread like molten lava pooled in Ymir's gut as she watched Historia, hunched over the computer, her fingers a blur of motion. Something was off, even tenser and brittler than their usual icy dynamic.

“Are you ignoring me?” she dared to ask, her voice a serrating probe through the air.

Historia's head snapped up, a flash of irritation in her eyes. “Forgive me if I don't feel like making eye contact while you’re literally undressing,” she retorted, her tone laced with a brittle disdain. 

Ymir’s patience frayed. “I mean in general. Have you been avoiding me?” she pressed, her voice steady, but her heart pounding a rapid tattoo in her chest.

Historia's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them. “I’m literally just busy planning. Jesus christ,” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper, yet carrying a world of frustration.

Ymir pulled on her clothes, each garment offering a layer of protection against the growing chill in the room. When she was finally covered, she turned to face Historia, her stance firm. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “Look at me.”

Historia rolled her eyes, a childish gesture that belied the turmoil churning within her. The act was a physical blow to Ymir, a blatant disregard that stung.

“What the hell, Krista?” 

“What?”

Ymir took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay, listen,” she began, her voice measured. “I don’t know if you’re even aware of what you’re doing, but you aren’t some fragile thing, you’re an adult, and need to be made aware of it. You’re treating me like shit, Krista. Ordinarily, I would apologize, but I won’t this time because I know for certain I haven’t done a single thing wrong to you. Still, you’re acting like the mere sight of me offends you. You don’t treat anyone else this way, only me.”

Ymir took a quick breath, not even close to being done. “Which is fine, by the way. I don’t care how you feel about me. But if you have a legitimate problem with me, I expect you to come out and tell me directly. Either do that, or do better at hiding how much you hate me. This is a professional environment, so act professionally. I don’t deserve this from you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and challenge. Ymir stood tall, her voice a defiant echo in the small, confined space.

Historia was speechless. She was looking at Ymir straight on now, gaping, wordless. Her eyes were wet with tears, and Ymir had no sympathy. She grabbed her bag and walked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Chapter Text

For nearly a year now, they played the roles of teenagers who'd traded the vibrant tapestry of their precious youth for the more somber hues of humanity's savior. Though their plight against the Titans was fictional, all the blood, sweat, tears, and grime they shed was real, all worthy sacrifices in the name of the show. For authenticity and aesthetics, the actors had immersed themselves in the grueling ballet of military training, their bodies sculpted into weapons, their minds hardened into steel. At times it was overwhelming, but the 104th squadron achieved it together.

And so, when the wave of new cadets arrived, eager and green as spring, a stark contrast started to become perceptible. Over time, Eren and his comrades realized that they were made estranged by their experience, their movements fluid as water, their strength a silent tempest. In all physical trials, all the long-distance running shots or military encampment scenes, they reigned supreme over the extra actors, their runs faster, their punches harder, and their endurance incredibly longer.

And yet, in the heart of their triumph, a bitter taste lingered.

The extras didn’t treat them the same anymore. What had begun as adulation, a star-struck reverence for all the star-studded, newfangled superstars who walked the precipice of legend, had curdled into something colder, more resentful. The once-adoring eyes now held a mixture of envy and disdain, their whispered conversations a corrosive acid poisoning the air of the studio.

They realized they were isolated, with a hard jab to the gut. The 104th squadron was a clan of outcasts, too young to be respected by Erwin, or Hange, or anyone of their rank; and still too hardened and different to find solace among the extras. Eren and his friends were made outcasts in their own show, forced to swallow down the bitter taste of irony and mediocrity.

In this solitude, a friendship bloomed. There was still some tension etching certain fledglings in their group; Reiner and Marco barely spoke, something was definitely brewing between Ymir and Historia, and most people were still working up the ability to actually talk to Armin; but as a squadron, their shared burdens forged an unbreakable chain, a testament to the enduring power of human connection after trauma. Because it all felt real, they realized. The world of Paradis and its horrors couldn’t hurt them, not really, but it haunted them perpetually; and they were together in that.

They dined together, laughing and smoking in tenuous bouts over their takeout boxes and packed lunches. They trained together, their bodies working an impressive extreme of exertion and endurance. And in these moments together, they found a strength born of adversity, a resilience tempered in the fires of isolation. It was a bitter harvest, wrenched from the barren soil of their experience. But in the end, they were survivors, their spirits unbroken, their determination unwavering.

The day went on, and the artificial sun beat down on the makeshift training ground, a harsh spotlight on the young cadets. The day had been full of military regime, of takes and retakes. Eren and his friends excelled through the routine of push-ups and sprints. They were a squadron apart, their movements fluid and efficient, a stark contrast to the less coordinated efforts of their peers.

Eventually, as more and more boxes were checked off on their extensive to-do list, the directors rounded them up for the next challenge, an obstacle course of sorts. The cast was herded together, a flock of expectant sheep, as a stern-faced choreographer stepped forward. His voice, a whip cracking through the air, lecturing them thoroughly. Jumping, he emphasized with an unwarranted degree of entitlement, would be a key component.

“Alright, who knows how to fall safely?” the choreographer asked the cadets. Despite making it pressingly obvious how seriously they should all consider the matter, the choreographer sounded bored about it.

Jean shot his hand up, beaming. Connie and Sasha roughed his shoulders affectionately, chanting their various “go, Jean! Go Jean!”

“Demonstrate,” the choreographer waved his hand perfunctorily. 

Jean approached the elevated area he was told to go to. His gaze swept across the chasm between his platform and the next, a silent measurement of distance and danger. With a deep breath, he found his center, his heels raised like coiled springs of anticipation. Then, with deliberate agility, he launched himself into the void. Jean’s body, a sculpted arrow, sliced through the air with effortless grace. The landing was a controlled descent. He was only in the air a few seconds, before he caught himself perfectly, hands and arms catching the ground so he could roll and tumble to a stop, secure and unblemished.

A chorus of approval erupted from the platform above, the cadets cheering on their brother in arms in celebration.

The choreographer, a figure of stillness, approached with slow, deliberate steps, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Were you a dancer before this?” he asked.

“Yeah, I was!” Jean beamed, elated.

“Maybe you should have stayed one,” the choreographer said, cold and callously.

The spark in Jean's eyes flickered and died, replaced by a shadow of despair. His carefully constructed illusion of perfection had shattered at his feet.

The choreographer, a whirlwind of frustration, spun on his heel. "See, his mistake..." his voice trailed off as they turned to Jean, a demand for a name hanging in the air. But Jean, his spirit crushed, offered only his character's name, a shield against the full force of their disappointment.

"Jean," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

The choreographer returned their attention to the watching cadets, their words a lash. "See, Jean's mistake is that we're in the military, people. This isn't a ballet. We don't fall pretty, we don't land gracefully. You're soldiers. Act like it. Someone else, show us how it's done."

The words hung in the air, a bitter indictment of Jean's failure. His knees dug into the unforgiving ground as he sank deeper into the abyss of humiliation.

And after a "proper" fall was demonstrated, they set to work. Hours bled into one another, each moment of jumping, falling, running the obstacle course a test of endurance. Jumping, falling, the endless repetition of movement. Their bodies were machines, driven by a relentless rhythm of exertion. Exhaustion gnawed at their cores, but there was no respite, no surrender. The camera crew, a chorus of metallic voices, barking “marker, re-marker” over and over again, their demands a whip that drove them forward.

There came a point where, perched on a towering platform, Mikasa stood tall against the backdrop of controlled chaos.

A thunderous crash of a ladder falling erupted from below, a loud noise that shook the studio.

Startled by the noise, Mikasa's balance faltered, and gravity claimed her. The world tilted, then spun as she plummeted towards the unforgiving ground.

“Hold!” someone shrilled immediately

A gasp ripped through the air as Mikasa's body fell towards the unforgiving ground. Time seemed to fracture as Eren and Armin witnessed the horrific descent. Terror surged through them, propelling them into running. Their bodies moved with desperate urgency, their minds a whirlwind of worry for the girl they adored. The crowd of extras, a sea of faces, parted like water before a storm so Armin and Eren could run through , their reactions a mix of horror and instinctual retreat.

But Levi was a force of nature, a predator honed by years of survival. He was there before anyone else, before even the medics, a warrior through and through. He dropped to his knees at Mikasa's side. “Hey kid,” his voice was a sharp crack in the storm, "talk to me."

Mikasa was a statue of shock, her body a tempest of rapid breaths. Her hands, once tools of precision, were now trembling claws, digging into the artificial grass. Sobbing, she gasped out, “I- It didn’t even hurt, I don't know why I’m crying.”

Levi’s face was a mask of grim determination. “‘Cause you just fell twelve fucking feet, kid, of course you’re crying,” he barked, his voice a harsh counterpoint to her fragility. “It's the adrenaline,  it's tearing you apart.”

Her sobs continued, a mournful symphony of distress. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise. I’m just- I'm just shaky,” she managed to choke out.

Levi’s gaze was intense, searching for any signs of injury. “Did you hit your head?”

Her sobs began to subside, replaced by a tremoring laugh that held the echoes of her fear. Tears streamed down her face, a salty map of her ordeal. "I don't think so," she managed between gasps, "I promise it didn't hurt. I fell safely, I knew how to catch myself. I think it just scared me."

Levi's expression softened, his stern demeanor melting into something akin to concern. "Sometimes you can still hit your head and not feel it right away because of all the adrenaline. May I touch your scalp? Is that okay? I just want to check for bumps or cuts."

A hesitant nod was her reply. His fingers, roughened by countless battles, were gentle as they traced the contours of her head. The action was a paradox of tenderness and authority, a quiet assertion of care within the chaos. The medics, their roles momentarily eclipsed, watched with a mixture of respect and awe.

His examination complete, Levi sighed in relief. "You don't seem to be injured," he said, his voice laced with both relief and caution. "But it still looked like you hit your head to me. I think you should take a break for a little bit, okay? If you start feeling nauseous or dizzy, tell someone immediately and I am not fucking around, head injuries are dangerous. Do you understand me, young lady?"

A blush crept up her cheeks, a surprising bloom amidst the storm. It was not his stern warning that embarrassed her, but the unexpected kindness beneath his gruff exterior. "Yes, sir," she replied, her voice small but determined.

“Good. Now go take a break. And have someone accompany you.”

Mikasa glanced around. “Eren?”

Eren was a blur of motion, his concern for Mikasa propelling him forward. “Of course, Mika,” he said, his voice a steady anchor in the storm that had just passed. “Do you want to be carried?”

She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “No, I can walk,” she replied, but her hand found his anyway. Their fingers intertwined, a silent promise of support. As they moved through the crowd, a silent sea parting before them, Eren felt a surge of protectiveness. This was not the Mikasa he knew, the composed and indomitable force of nature. This was a woman unraveled, her vulnerabilities laid bare. Fear, cold and sharp, gnawed at his insides.

The prop closet was where they went to recover alone together, a sanctuary from the prying eyes of the world. It was filled with all the macabre, grotesque rubber and latex that made the Titan masks, but in this moment, it was a fortress of solitude. He needed to be alone with her, to shield her from the world until she found her footing again.

Mikasa’s face was etched with the aftermath of tears, her eyes reflecting the quietude of the storm’s passing. “Isn’t it strange?” she murmured, her voice a soft whisper in the still air.

Eren, his gaze momentarily captured by the grotesque visage of a Titan mask, turned his attention back to her. “What’s strange?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

Her eyes held a distant look as she replied, “How well Levi handled that. He made me feel so safe. Safer than any of the staff here.”

A heavy silence descended upon them, broken only by the soft rustling of fabric. Eren nodded slowly, his mind racing. It was an undeniable truth; Levi, the man of ice, had shown a flicker of warmth, a tender vulnerability that was at odds with his hardened exterior. The Levi he knew was a creature of sharp edges and biting words, a man who measured his kindness in grains of sand. Yet, in that moment of crisis, a different Levi had emerged, a man capable of gentleness and care.

Eren resisted the pull of this revelation, his pride a stubborn fortress against the tide of his emotions. But the truth was a relentless current, and he could feel himself being swept away. Respect, he knew, was a formidable force, but what was growing within him was something more profound, something terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Love, he thought, the word hanging heavy in the air between them.

But then there was Mikasa, a constant star in his ever-changing sky. His love for her was as pure and uncomplicated as the first snowfall.

“Are you okay?” he asked her, timidly.

“Yes,” she answered. “I really think it scared me more than anything. I fell safely, I caught myself.”

“Mikasa,” he began, his voice carrying a spark of excitement that ignited the quiet space between them. “Remember that date we were talking about?”

A blush, swift and crimson, painted her cheeks, a silent affirmation that needed no words.

“Clear your calendar this Friday evening,” he declared, his voice filled with a promise. “And dress to impress. Oh, and leave your wallet at home. This one’s on me.”

Her eyebrows arched playfully. “Is that all you're going to tell me?” she teased, her voice a playful counterpoint to his enthusiasm. "I didn't think you were one for secrecy."

He chuckled, the sound a warm ripple in the still air. "Please. Eren goes through, like, three whole seasons without sharing his thoughts with anyone," he joked, his tone light but carrying a deeper current of sincerity. His gaze lingered on her, drinking in the sight of her. Even smudged with tears and adorned in the casual attire of a film set, she was breathtaking. "Just know that I really hope you'll like where I'm taking you."

Her fingers found their way to the edge of her red scarf, a nervous gesture that belied the anticipation in her eyes.

Back in the studio, everyone was breaking set for the night. A tempest of bodies and gear swirled as the day's illusion dissolved. Crew members, their faces etched with fatigue, wrestled with towering set pieces, their grunts echoing through the cavernous space. Actors, their faces mere masks of character, peeled away at the artifice, revealing the raw canvas beneath. Levi stood at the epicenter of this maelstrom, his gaze a hawk's eye scanning the disarray.

The memory of Mikasa's stumble lingered, a jagged edge in his mind. Even her reassurances had been a flimsy shield against the growing unease that gnawed at him. Serving the harrowed position of humanity’s strongest warrior has endowed him with an uncanny ability to sense discord, a sixth sense attuned to the subtle vibrations of danger. His scrutiny fell upon the crumbling television set, a focal point for his growing anxiety.

In a shadowed corner, a tableau of intimacy unfolded. Annie sat with Armin, her attention devoted to him, unabashed, completely having forgotten about the half-eaten sandwich in her hand. Their posture was one of effortless companionship, a silent language of trust and understanding. Annie, with her quiet strength, was the steady anchor to Armin's prattles. 

Armin was mid-sentence, lost in the world of the written word, when a colossal shadow engulfed him. It was Erwin Smith, a titan of a man whose mere presence commanded attention. Armin's voice faltered, his words caught in his throat as he looked up, into the imposing figure of their leader.

Erwin's smile was a warm sunbeam, cutting through the studio's industrial chill. His voice, a velvet caress, carried across the room, “Good work today, cadets.” Armin and Annie, caught in the beam of his attention, blinked like startled deer. Their murmured thanks were lost in the echo of their own disbelief.

From the depths of his bag, Erwin produced a book, its cover gleaming under the studio lights. It was the missing piece to Armin’s literary puzzle, the sequel to the book they’d discussed mere days ago. A gasp caught in Armin’s throat as his hand trembled over the cover. How had this happened? Fate, or perhaps a benevolent deity, had conspired in his favor.

Erwin chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I found it lying around my place. A captivating tale, beautifully written, but I'm not one for repetition. Consider it a gift, sweetheart." His words hung in the air, heavy with kindness. Armin was adrift in a sea of astonishment, his mind reeling.

Armin’s words faltered on his lips as a cold hand clamped down on Erwin’s shoulder. Levi, a compact fury, had materialized from the shadows, his strength belying his size. With a violent yank, he propelled Erwin off balance, the towering man teetering on the brink of collapse. For a fleeting moment, fear flickered in Erwin’s eyes, a rare crack in his impenetrable facade. But the darkness returned swiftly, replaced by his familiar smirk.

"I'm needed elsewhere, I presume?" His voice was a sardonic drawl.

Levi's response was a silent storm, his body rigid with suppressed rage. Erwin, with a knowing glance at the stunned pair, followed in Levi's wake. Armin and Annie exchanged bewildered glances, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

Alone in the shadows, Levi was a caged beast, his silent rage a palpable force. Tears burned in his eyes as he stared Erwin down, a forbidden luxury denied by his pride. Erwin’s arrival was a phantom’s touch, a chilling intrusion into his solitude.

“I miss you, Levi,” Erwin's voice was a venomous caress.

Levi's glare was a tangible weapon, "Fuck you."

"Zeke texted me," Erwin continued, his tone laced with accusation. "I suspect you two have been in cahoots."

"My affairs are none of your concern," Levi spat, his voice a venomous counterpoint.

Erwin’s lips curved into a smug smile. "Isn't that deliciously ironic? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems my every move is the centerpiece of your world." With a final, contemptuous glance, he turned and disappeared into the night. “Good night, Levi.”

Levi watched him go, choking on the lump in his throat, and all the dread with it. 

"This is it, I guess," Marco said, his voice a soft sigh in the quiet dressing room.

Jean's world tilted on its axis. The familiar rhythm of their shared space, a comforting cadence of brotherly banter, was shattered by those simple words. The other actors had dispersed like morning mist, leaving them alone with the fading echoes of their characters.

"What?" Jean managed, his voice a brittle whisper. A forced laugh bubbled up, a desperate attempt to dispel the looming dread. "You're joking, right?"

Marco's expression was a mask of tranquility, belied by the wistful undercurrent in his voice. "Nope," he replied, his tone as gentle as a summer rain. "That was the final shot. They'll reshoot Mikasa's part, but I'm done for the season."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Jean was drowning in a sea of disbelief. How could this be happening? Their shared journey, a tapestry woven with laughter and camaraderie, was unraveling at the seams.

"What-? What happens now?" Jean's voice cracked. "You mean I won't see you again?"

Marco's eyes held a profound sadness. "Oh, we'll see each other. The opening ceremony, and I'll be back for flashbacks in season three. But that's it, really. I'll be gone for a while."

Jean clung to this sliver of hope, a lifeline in the tempest of his emotions. "But you won't be gone gone," he insisted, his voice trembling.

Marco's smile was a fragile thing, a mask for the turmoil within. "I will," he said softly. "My lease ends at the end of the month."

Panic seized Jean. His clothes were discarded, his movements frantic as he crossed the room. "Will you be okay?" he demanded, his voice laced with desperation. "Where will you live?"

Marco was startled by Jean's intensity, but a warm chuckle escaped his lips. "I'm going home, silly," he replied.

“Back to your parents?”

“Sure,” Marco frowns. “What’s wrong with that?”

“S-Sorry, I guess you and I are just different… I could never…”

“I love you,” Marco said.

Jean was still. He knew Marco didn’t mean it. Marco came from a place where women weren’t allowed to show their collarbones or wear skirts above the knee, he came from a place where homosexuality wasn’t even recognized as a possibility. When he said I love you, he didn’t mean it the same way.

So Jean didn’t say it back. Instead, he pulled Marco into a tight bear hug.

“I’m gonna miss you so fucking much,” he said into Marco’s shoulder.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said, hugging him back. “Will you call me?”

“All the time. Please come visit us.”

“I will if I can. Bus fare is expensive.”

“I’ll cover you.” Jean said, sadly. "I will."

Marco didn't say anything else. There was nothing he could say that would soften the pain of having to go. He just smiled sadly, swallowing back all the thousand words of affinity he could give Jean, but didn't. And Jean kept silent too, restraining all the love he wanted to give, but wouldn't.

Chapter Text

Historia's big, secret plan, the one they all watched her stress and sweat over for weeks, finally revealed itself in the form of an e-vite that popped up in everyone’s inbox one fateful morning. As it turned out, the thing she’d been planning was a cast party. Deigned to be a bacchanal of sorts, it was an event fated to celebrate the precipice of their collective triumph. It was dated to take place one day before the first episode of the first season officially aired. Their magnum opus would grace the television screen, bathing them in the gilded light of public acclaim, but before that, they would gather in secret to revel in their shared creation together.

The invites that appeared in their inboxes were adorned with an image of them in their element—a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of the 104th squadron flaunting in their unifying euphoria. The photograph captured them in a state of unbridled joy, half-costumed, half-naked, sweaty and gleaming, celebratory in their revels on the undressed set one late night. Atop the photo were instructions for the party, listing a date and location. And at the bottom, a simple, bold command: BYOB.

That’s how Eren, accompanied by Mikasa and Jean, found himself swiping his card into the studio one late Saturday afternoon. It was bizarre, entering the space and not immediately trudging off to hair and makeup. It was borderline uncanny, the way the halls were so empty, the way no crew members were bustling about with their clunking cameras, and no interns were crowding the coffee pot. It was just them, in their clothes from the modern world, gracing the halls that had become their second home.

They followed the card’s instructions to find the board room, secured amidst a cluster of office spaces on the third floor. When they stepped into the heart of Historia’s carefully curated world, the effort behind her meticulous planning became abundantly clear. The boardroom, a sterile expanse typically reserved for sober strategy, had been transformed into a shimmering oasis of celebration. Balloons, confetti, and streamers, yet imbued with a sophistication far removed from their usual childish whimsy, adorned the space with elegance and merriment. It was indulgent, almost too opulent for a bunch of ragtag wannabe actors.

Historia’s filled the room like chimes as she came running to greet her newest guests. Her eyes sparkled with contagious enthusiasm, her entire body seeming to glow, much like the decorations encumbering them.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed, stopping to hug each one of them; Mikasa first, with much enthusiasm, then Eren, and finally Jean.

Jean grinned, embracing her welcome. “Everything looks insane, Historia. You're absolutely insane. What cosmic favor did we do to deserve this?”

She laughed again, and he bestowed twin kisses upon her cheeks.

“I just love you, that’s all,” Historia winked. Then, she frowned, looking around, “Where’s your other half, Jean?”

“Huh?” he blinked. Then he realized, his smile dropping. “Oh. Marco’s sorry he couldn’t make it. His flight departed early this morning.”

Eren held up a bottle of wine, his proud selection, though ultimately Mikasa's purchase. 

“Where does this go?” he asked.

“Anywhere over there,” Historia waved to a burgeoning credenza of glass, a colorful and tempting array of alcoholic libations. 

Suddenly shadow crossed Historia's face as she peered over their shoulders, expectantly looking for something. Or someone.
“Did you guys see Ymir on your way in?” she asked them, her nervousness only partially concealed.

Looking between each other, the trio chorused their various expressions of no’s, and she nodded with firm resolve. Her disappointment was evident, though she quickly masked it with a casual shrug. 

“Armin's back there with a few others,” she told them; “Go on, mingle. Celebrate!” Her words were a dismissal, but her eyes held a flicker of worry that made Eren and Mikasa bat an eye at one another.

Historia was already greeting the next guest before they could ask her about it, leaving them to step into the completely transformed board room. They embraced the room around them, the streamers, the music, the radiant joy. A colossal, state-of-the-art television was set up, playing a slideshow of images taken on and off set, capturing moments of laughter, toil, and camaraderie. Uncensored and unedited, the slideshow featured Annie doing others’ makeup, Jean upside-down in his harness, Hange playing with Mike’s hair, their triumphs and struggles, the work before the premiere. It was special.

Just as Historia told them, Armin was sitting alone at the table when they found him. Eren had the almost paternal urge to ruffle his friend’s hair but stifled it with a flicker of self-control. Instead, Eren just sat down with him. “Hey, Arm. How long have you been here?”

"I arrived at six forty-five," the blonde admitted bashfully. "I thought it would be wise to arrive early, but Historia was still putting the finishing touches on everything when I arrived. So, we ended up sitting here in awkward silence for about half an hour.”

Eren's chuckle was warm and genuine. “Rookie mistake,” he teased. “I guess you don't get invited to many parties, huh?”

“I think I made her mad.”

“No way. You could never make anyone mad. Especially not her,” Eren insisted encouragingly, while Mikasa came to sit down with them and Jean stood nearby, surveying the room and its occupants.

“Can I get you something to drink, guys? Armin?” he offered, about to head to the drink table himself.

“Oh, no thank you,” he said, averting his gaze.

“Of course you’re too good to drink,” Eren smiled, “that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

Armin’s face twitched with an emotion Eren couldn’t exactly place, somewhere between embarrassment and genuine sadness. “It’s not that…” he mumbled minutely.

Jean’s hands curiously found the luxurious fabric of Armin's coat, an involuntary caress of admiration. “Woah, this is something else,” he murmured, admiring the fabric with genuine awe. “Versace? Saint Laurent?”

Armin practically melted under the touch. “Saint Laurent. Hi, Jean.”

“Hi, cutie. Good to see you,” he said. “I’m gonna mingle.”

“Have fun,” Mikasa said, while Eren scoffed out some sweet sounding insult in parting. All around them, the boardroom began to fill with life, a vibrant tapestry of laughter and camaraderie. Hitch, Floch, and Franz arrived in quick succession, their presence adding to the growing energy. Sasha and Connie made a dramatic entrance, as expected, wearing one another’s clothes for a reason neither of them seemed able to explain.

And it wasn’t just the fledgelings who came either. Hange’s sharp, sparkling cackle filled the air as they were feverish in passionate conversation. Hange waved their hands passionately, forgetting about the champagne flute in one of them, spilling small splashes everywhere in their frenzy. Some of the others started to arrive, too; the veteran actors who played Pixis, Zackly, and Mike, came to sit with Erwin, glasses in their hands, looking a lot more like a group of dads relaxing together on their day off work than any celebrity actors anyone remembered.

Everyone was there, Eren eventually realized in amazement, looking at the amazing world encumbering him. Absolutely everyone. How Historia managed to orchestrate this event around the varying schedules of more than one hundred individuals, he couldn’t even fathom. She was a goddess of Microsoft Excel, he guessed.

Well, everyone but the obvious, he assumed. Going into this party, he had a very strong feeling that Captain Levi wouldn’t show; the man really didn’t seem to be one for crowds, especially not ones gathered for fun reasons. Although, when he went to the drink table to drop off the wine, he didn’t fail to notice a bottle of champagne among the collection, a particular bottle adorned with a note that read: couldn’t make it. good job kid, you did well. (don’t let the teenagers fucking drink this)

And though the note left no name, Eren knew who it was from. It was written in the exact same manner on the same style of paper as the note left in his dressing room all those weeks ago. In a way, it felt like Levi was still there with them, watching over them like some invisible guardian angel.

In the widespread window that consumed the board room wall, the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The city skyline transformed into a breathtaking spectacle. It was a sunset worth remembering. But for them, it went entirely unseen. Enrapt in one another’s company, in the human spirit filling the room, the mesmerizing beauty of the sunset went unnoticed by the camaraderie of the present.

Lost in the thrill of the moment, they reveled in each other's company, their conversations punctuated by laughter and shared secrets. To see one another stripped of their on-screen personas, free from costume and makeup, was a profound and exhilarating experience, witnessing each other in their natural, unfettered states, in some cases for the very first time. In this shared space, they were no longer defined by their fictional roles but by the genuine warmth of their friendships, old and new.

Twilight descended on the city as the cast began to settle into the boardroom's makeshift movie theater, filling the seats around the table. A low hum of anticipation filled the room, a prelude to their special premiere. It was their special night to watch the show for themselves, before it was revealed to the larger world.

Mikasa stood near the edge of the crowd, a drink clutched in her hand, when a sudden collision sent its liquid spilling down her sweater.

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” the girl who spilled it exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine remorse. Her  face was flushed with apology, her laughter a nervous counterpoint to the mishap. Her sloping eyes, wide and apologetic, held a sincerity that was disarming. A messy cascade of thick, inky hair framed her face, untamed rivulets plastered over her very, very tired looking eyes. “That was completely my fault. Can I help clean it up?”

Mikasa returned a tenuous smile, the minor inconvenience already forgotten. “No trouble at all. These things happen.” She paused, studying the girl’s face. “I don't think we've met. Are you one of the extras? You’re so pretty, you look like you could be my stunt double.”

“Pretty? Says the most beautiful woman in the world?” The girl rolled her eyes playfully. “As if you’d ever need a stunt double.” Her laughter was infectious. “Besides, they wouldn’t let me be yours. I'm, like, half your size.”

Mikasa decided she liked her immediately. “I guess you’re right.”

The girl extended a hand. “Hi. I'll be playing Pieck in a few seasons. It's a real honor to meet you. You're incredible. I love the work you do.”

“I hope to see your own work soon,” she said, shaking her hand. Though Mikasa was sure they could have spoken for hours, their nascent friendship was interrupted by the collective shift in energy as the group prepared to immerse themselves in their creation.

Sasha, with characteristic enthusiasm, bulldozed through the crowd to claim a prime viewing spot. Despite Historia’s meticulous planning to ensure there were exactly enough seats, Connie still sat perched on Jean's lap, Reiner and Bertholdt stood near the periphery. In the midst of the chaos, Eren’s hand sought Mikasa’s, a silent offering beneath the table. They shared a delicate, intimate touch, his pinkie tracing the soft creases in her palm.

“Are we ready?” Historia went up to the movie screen, and was promptly forced to bask in gratitude as the group erupted in applause. With a blush creeping up her cheeks, she turned her attention to the final preparations on the computer.

The opening credits filled the screen, transporting them back to the genesis of their shared story. On the screen, young Eren is woken from his nightmare, asking young Mikasa when her hair got so long. They all reveled in wonder and inspiration and–

—Suddenly, a sudden shrill splintered the moment. The sound of breaking glass and raucous laughter echoed from beyond the boardroom door, a jarring intrusion into their celebratory world.

The actors looked around one another, exchanging glances filled with confusion, annoyance, and a tinge of fear. The instinct to intervene, a product of their rigorous military training spiked the air. Afflicted by the noise, Armin sat with his hands clasped over his ears. Eren’s worried gaze found Mikasa’s, as he mouthed “Should we go see?”

Yet, before they could reach a consensus on whether to get up, the boardroom door swung open with another crash. A wave of disheveled figures tumbled into the room, draped in slack neckties and dirtied suits, in shoes that were once polished and gin blossoms on their greasy faces. The producers, the board members, and a cadre of equally imposing business moguls,  staggered before them, the actors shirking back with surprise and repulsion.

A couple of them glanced back at their hostess for instruction. One look at Historia’s ashen face confirmed their suspicions: these intruders were uninvited, unwelcome trespassers upon their sacred space.

A cacophony of drunken cheers erupted from the intruders as they stumbled into the room, their presence a toxic blight upon the celebration. Longtime friends of the older actors, some of them went up to clap Hange on the back, to massage Mike’s shoulders, to sit down with Erwin. In their drunken revelry, they started chorusing drunken demands for the young cadets' immediate departure. “Send the kiddos home,” they whined, “Put the babies to bed, let the real professionals celebrate!”

“I booked the room,” Historia’s fragile voice floated up over their cackles and gurgles. “I booked the room months ago. It’s ours tonight.”

“We own this room,” one of them cried. “The hell are you talking about, kid?”

“We own everything in this room,” another insisted, “The food on your plates, your plates themselves–”

“-You, yourselves,” another sneered through a laugh. “We own all of you! Contractually! Go to bed, babes.”

“These babes are gonna make us so much money,” one of the producers said through a low, self-serving laugh as he played with (the increasingly uncomfortable) Hange’s hair.

“Well put ‘em to bed, anyway. They need their sleep to make us more.”

The cadets looked between one another, uncertain. Their spirits crushed under the weight of humiliation and betrayal, they pushed back their chairs and heavily stomped for the door, forcibly ejected from their own celebration. Their departure was a somber, funereal procession, heads bowed in defeat, as the television continued its special showing for the vulture-eyed businessmen.

Eren looked over his shoulder, trying to catch the eye of Erwin, or Hange, or someone who could speak up for them. His silent plea was met with the heavy slam of the door.

The injurious thud echoed through the narrow hallway, harrowing their forced isolation. Huddled together in the cramped space, the squadron looked between each other with heavy eyes and slumped postures. It wasn’t anything horrific. Behind the camera, they each had lived through murders of their comrades, through explosions and Titans. After everything they’ve been through, being kicked out of a movie night hardly seemed a terrible threat.

But it still hurt. Bad. The sour sound of heavy masculine laughter from the boardroom stung sharply in their ears. By this point, some of the other actors, Franz, Floch, Hanna, to name a few, made their quick, awkward departures, skirting down the hall with their heads bowed. 

But the 104th squadron stayed, unwilling to depart. Historia’s good friends, painfully aware of her anguish, offered silent condolences by standing by, embracing their collective disappointment.

Sasha, ever the optimist, suddenly lit up like a firework.

“We don't have to let this ruin our night,” she declared. “We can just move the party somewhere else!”

“Why? Everyone else is gone,” Historia mumbled miserably. “All the others left already, and Erwin and his friends are back with them.”

“It can be just us!” Sasha insisted. “Just us besties.”

“That’s a great idea,” Connie egged on. “But, where should we go?”

Ymir, her voice laced with a hint of melancholy, offered a suggestion. “My restaurant is an option, but there’s no TV. We wouldn't be able to continue the show. And it might be a little crowded this time of night.”

Historia staggered back, staring at Ymir with raw amazement. “I didn't know you were here.”

Ymir returned her gaze, sincere straightforwardness about her. “Why would I miss this?”

A heavy silence descended upon the group as they contemplated their next move. Eren broke the stillness, invigorated with a renewed sense of purpose. “Shay,” he said, turning to the potato-loving girl, “I remember you saying you have a giant TV at your place.”

“Oh, I do!” Sasha’s excitement died as quickly as it appeared. “But my apartment’s too small to fit everyone… Maybe if we could all snuggle together we could watch-?”

“-We can’t watch the show,” Historia explained regretfully. “That computer was the only one authorized to store the files, at least until it officially next week. And now they have it. We can’t watch it…”

Sasha pouted, “But we can still hang out? Maybe? Does anyone else…?”

Jean and Eren exchanged a somber glance, and Jean added, "Our place is too small, too.”

Armin, looking between them curiously, broke his silence with an unexpected suggestion. "We could come over to mine."

Reiner’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

“Woah.” he exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief, while Sasha’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, “You can talk? Aww, Armin, your voice is so pretty! Wait, don’t be shy! Talk some more!”

While the hallway fizzled up with excitement, relief bubbling around them in euphoric effervescence, Eren and Mikasa exchanged a knowing glance, feeling like proud parents of their blonde baby boy.

Historia batted her eyes at Armin. “That would be great,” she said, soft with hesitation, “But I wouldn't want to trouble you…”

Armin shook his head, a gentle smile gracing his lips. “It’s only if you're okay with it. It's your party.”

Historia's resolve strengthened. "It's all of ours. I wanted to celebrate us,” he insisted, her voice gaining strength.

Armin pulled out his phone. “Does anyone need a ride? My cab can probably fit five or six people. I’ll text everyone the address.”

A wave of relief washed over the group as they began to organize their transportation. Carpools were arranged, and the promise of the party ahead infused them with a renewed sense of hope and excitement. Eren, Jean, Mikasa, and Annie followed Armin to the parking lot, where they were swiftly greeted with unexpected luxury. A sleek, expensive-looking car pulled up to the entrance. Its driver, an elderly man with a charming demeanor, stepped out to open the door for them.

The quartet exchanged startled glances, their minds reeling from the sudden opulence. Armin, however, was unfazed, giving a perfunctory but kind thank-you as the chauffeur welcomed him.

“Bringing friends over, kid?” the driver inquired, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “Who are you, and what’d you do with my boss?”

Armin covered his face with his hands. "Please don't patronize me, Mr. Kaur.”

The man laughed, and just held open the door for the rest to climb in. Armin waved his hand between them all. “Guys, this is my friend, Mr. Kaur. Mr. Kaur, this is Eren, Annie, Mikasa, and Jean.”

They chorused their awkward, timid hellos, still a little baffled by the extravagance of it all, looking around the car in strange amazement. 

They took off. Around them city lights receded as they ventured deeper into the night. With time, the urban landscape gave way to a less populated, almost rural expanse, a prelude to what could be extraordinary. And from the darkness emerged a monolithic structure, brazen and bold with modern architectural audacity. Its imposing form, a severe interplay of sharp angles and reflective glass, made them gasp in awe and intimidation.

“Holy shit,” Jean blinked. 

Eren smushed his face against the window, “Oh my god, Armin, is that where you live?”

A colossal gate, mirroring the house's imposing nature, barred the estate. Mr. Kaur rolled down his window and punched in a code, and the gates rolled back automatically so the car could drive through.

 “Mr. Kaur, would you mind keeping the gate open for the others?” Armin requested. "Thank you."

As the car glided to a stop at the front entrance, a sense of trepidation settled over the group. The entourage of cars followed, all riders tumbling out and pushing each other around like little kids. They ran across the bright green lawn and up the massive concrete staircase, a formidable ascent to the front door, giddy and trembling. The prospect of spending the night together in such an extraordinary setting was both exhilarating and daunting.

A knot of anxiety tightened Annie’s stomach as they approached the door. “Armin, will your parents be okay with all of us coming in?” she asked.

Armin smiled over his shoulder, busy punching in a code to unlock the front door. “My parents are never here.”

“Yeah, but will they mind? We aren’t exactly the cleanest group of people,” Annie insisted.

“And we certainly aren’t the quietest!” Sasha beamed.

Armin shook his head again, smiling. “My parents are never here, guys. It’s fine.” With a beep, the door unlocked. He stepped aside to let everyone through, looking down at his feet with genuine modesty as they all came parading inside.

Armin’s parents’ house was just as intimidating on the inside as it was on the outside. It was a monolithic empire, a sterile sculpture of glass and concrete with hard angles and fierce lighting that seemed almost extra terrestrial. And at the same time, it felt like a museum piece, a treasure of unbridled wealth and strange, of not austere, beauty. 

While his friends were staggered into stillness, Armin crept in with a sort of habitual nonchalance. Someone as flinchy and hesitant as him could never truly be graceful, but compared to his friends, he walked through the doorway with almost swanlike ease, light on his feet atop the sleek polished floors. It was only his confidence that encouraged the others to follow him in. Armin hadn’t told them they had to, but they all shed their shoes anyway, gaping at the floor so clean they saw their reflections staring back at them.

Sasha and Connie, their energy boundless, took to the house like a playground, their laughter echoing through the cavernous spaces as they sprinted off to terrains uncharted. Jean hesitated before running after them, offering a, “Sorry, Minnie.”

Armin just smiled. “It’s okay, I think it’s sweet.”

“You sure we won’t wreck the place?”

“It's okay, guys," Armin insisted as everyone’s discomfort slowly started to thaw. “This is my home. Make yourselves at home.”

“Hey, Arm,” Eren beamed. “You should look at Mikasa, and say mi casa es su casa.”

“Eso es un poco tonto, Eren, lo siento.”

Eren blinked, “You speak Spanish?”

“Pocito. Entiendo mejor lo que hablo.”

“I’m gonna pretend I understand what you just said,” he laughed. Jean jumped in excitedly, slinging an arm over Eren’s shoulders, “I happen to speak perfect French.”

“C'est impressionnant. Mon français est loin d'être parfait, je suis triste de l'admettre,” Armin said without missing a beat. 

Eren guffawed, always happy to celebrate a jab made at Jean’s expense.

“You absolute devil,” Jean couldn’t help but laugh. The laughter itself felt like an embrace, and the way Armin smiled back at him felt like a hug back. It almost hurt for him to tear away and say, “I’m gonna go find Shay and the Conman. Make sure they don’t break anything.”

“It’s fine if they do,” Armin smiled. “Just don’t let them hurt themselves, if you can help it.”

With Jean’s swift departure, Armin encouraged the others to get comfortable, to make themselves at home. One by one, they started to relax into the place, their rigidity thawed by the warmth Armin exuded. The house, at first a cold, imposing structure, began to fill with life. It became a proper house party, music in the background, bodies mingling in and out of small groups. The 104th squadron, like explorers discovering a new world, ventured deeper, their eyes wide with wonder as they encountered each new room, each unexpected vista. The mansion, designed for solitude, was now alive with the sound of laughter, the clink of glasses, and the excited chatter of youth.

There sat a television in the house’s grand den, wider than any of them imagined was possible. Normally, the thing sat ignored. But tonight, a congregation excitedly gathered around it. They couldn’t watch their movie–that privilege had been taken from them. But after connecting Historia’s iPad to the TV screen, a blooper and outtake party had begun. Contagious laughter filled the air as Reiner, Bertholdt, Connie, and Eren, sprawled across the colossal couch, were consumed by the antics captured on the massive screen. 

“You have no idea how hard I tried to hold in that sneeze,” Reiner groaned, cringing the blooper of himself. Bertholdt was wiping his mouth, as if that would stifle back his uproarious laughter, “But you did, that’s the thing! You still sneezed!”

They slapped each other on the back and laughed some more. Meanwhile the girls circled on the plush carpet, encircling a kaleidoscope of nail polish bottles. Jean and Armin were with them, too, completely at ease in the domesticity of the task. They all looked like witches, their hair bound in colorful bandanas and high ponytails, their postures slouched over their colorful cauldron, nails and bottles clacking like rattling bones. But they were having fun, laughing, a picture perfect portrait of youthful abandon, their laughter as vibrant as the paint they glossed over each others’ nails.

Now, for the first time in a long time, there were no makeup artists to tell them they had to scrub their nails clean. There was no one to tell them how to dress, how to part their hair, how to wash their skin. For another few months before they filmed the next season, they were free.

It was a moment of pure, unabashed freedom. The pressures of their profession, the demands of their industry, were suspended in this bubble of camaraderie. For now, there were no scripts to memorize, no cameras to face, no producers to please. They were simply friends, lost in the joy of the moment.

Sasha’s stomach growled, a primal, guttural demand that cut through the laughter and chatter. “I’m starving,” she groaned, twisting in dramatic exasperation.

Connie rolled his eyes. “Shocking,” he replied. “Alright y’all, raise your hands if you’re surprised.”

Armin, his hair clumsily gathered in a makeshift ponytail Annie scraped together, lifted his head from their group like a curious meerkat. “Are people hungry?” he asked.

Reiner, ever the voice of reason, protested. “Dude, there are eleven of us. We can’t put you out like that.”

“Nonsense,” Armin waved his hand. “I’ll call a catering company. What do people want?”

Chaos erupted as Sasha, Connie, and several others bombarded him with a cacophony of food requests. Amidst the clamor, Eren’s gaze found Mikasa, a silent, magnetic pull drawing his eyes to hers. She smiled at him, plaintively, and Eren caught on to her worldless implication,

“Armin,” Eren began, his voice barely audible over the din, “can we go exploring?”

Armin, momentarily distracted by the culinary crisis, squeaked out a response. “Y-yeah, sure,” he stammered, his attention still divided. “Go ahead, Eren. You have free reign. Let me know if you need the keys to the back patio.”

Eren and Mikasa, drawn up from the couch together, vanished into the corridors of the mansion. A burst of laughter, a playful challenge, and they were off, their footsteps echoing through the sterile expanse. The hall stretched out before them, a gleaming, white runway leading to an unknown destination. They raced, bodies blossoming with the exhilaration of youth and attraction, the world outside fading into a distant hum.

They stumbled upon a grand staircase, a sculptural masterpiece that seemed to defy gravity. Without a word, they knew what one another was thinking. They leaped into a play performance of Rose and Jack, transformed it into the deck of a doomed ship, their bodies entwined in a tragic embrace. They found a ballroom, a vast, open space bathed in soft, indirect light, became the stage for a different kind of drama. Mikasa, a vision of ethereal beauty, twirled and danced, her laughter like music filling the room. Eren watched, his heart pounding in his chest, lost in the magic of the moment, and they played Anastasia and Dmitri.

They were actors, it was a game of playing pretend. But something about their universe of playing pretend felt sensational, a shared universe of their own. They were playing roles scripted by their hearts, not by the hands that fed them. As their dance twirled to a halt, their faces were inches apart, the promise of a kiss trickling into the suspended air between their lips. Eren held his breath, his heart thumping, when the flicker of uncertainty on Mikasa's face forced him to pause. 

She turned her head away, the kiss severing before it even happened . 

“I want to see that room,” she whispered in defense, pulling away to a pair of double doors.

Eren stood alone, the taste of what could have been lingering on his lips. He watched her retreating figure, a pang of disappointment and confusion piercing his heart. He flushed with embarrassment, almost too ashamed to admit to himself he’d crossed a line. He'd gone too soon too fast, and now he'd scared away a friend. Because she was a friend. She was.

He sighed heavily to himself, swallowing back the humiliation and pain, and shuffled after her.

Chapter Text

Two hours into the night and Armin was finally starting to feel the effects of his chronic introversion creeping back in. The cacophony of laughter, music, and endless chatter was getting to be too much. Yet, the fear of abandoning his friends, friends who started to like him for the first time after a year , kept him rooted to the epicenter of the chaos, ever the burden of a house party’s host.

God answered his prayers in the form of a buzz in his phone. He used it as an excuse to politely excuse himself from the group, promising a swift return. His departure went mostly unnoticed, as the room’s attention was enraptured with Connie and Sasha’s boisterous game of charades. Connie strutted like a chicken on steroids, his face twisted with obscene determination, while Sasha spouted her guesses in blathering, rambling desperation, and the rest of them cackled and heaved in hilarity.

A surge of anticipation coursed through Armin as he reached for his phone. He felt giddy, quickly walking down the hall to find somewhere private and quiet. He didn’t need to look at his phone to know who it was, igniting such an instant spark within him. There was only one person who messaged him, ever, and Armin found himself trembling at just the thought of it.

He found a nook in the main hallway, and quickly brought the screen to his face.

Erwin: I’m disappointed Historia’s cast party was interrupted. I was looking forward to stealing more of your precious time

Armin: it’s okay!! The cadets and I went back to my place!

Erwin: You? Friends over? Who is this and what have you done with my Armin?

Armin hesitated, the familiar sting of self-consciousness creeping in. The possessive undertone of "my" was a foreign concept, but not an entirely unwelcome one. Armin sidestepped the slight pinch of discomfort, his fingers dancing across the screen with a diverting topic.

Armin: How’s your party going? You stayed with the producers right?

Erwin: Tolerable, at best. Jones keeps talking my ear off about himself. I’d much rather be hearing your voice right now. 

Jesus this guy. Butterflies. 

Armin: I can call you when everyone leaves but that might not be until late, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.

Erwin: No trouble at all. I’ll be up.

A flutter of excitement, a heady mix of anticipation and apprehension, consumed him. The warmth of Erwin's attention was exhilarating, something warm and dazzling to push away the loneliness that had followed him through so much of his short life. Yet, beneath the exhilaration, a current of unease flowed, a persistent whisper of doubt. The nicknames, the teasing banter, were a double-edged sword, both intoxicating and intimidating. Erwin's kindness, a steady stream of books and genuine interest, had cultivated a deep-rooted devotion, a fragile tendril of affection that trembled in the face of his own insecurities.

He tapped out a farewell, a promise for a later conversation, and slipped his phone back into his pocket. A pinch of anxiety told him he needed to go back and face his guests, be the perfect party host that his parents would be. 

He navigated the labyrinthine halls, his gaze subtly drawing towards the shimmering blue of the pool room just down the hall. Through the expansive windows, he caught glimpses of animated figures, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic hum of the underwater speakers.

Intrigue overcame his hesitation, and he opened the door and went inside. The large pool dominated the space, its surface shimmering under the soft glow of underwater lights. The air was thick with the scent of chlorine and expensive perfume, a heady concoction that was both invigorating and intoxicating.

Eren and Mikasa, their faces alight with excitement, were the only occupants. They weren’t swimming yet, still dressed in their clothes, but they knelt at the pool’s edge, laughing and tossing water between each other gleefully.

"I see you two found the pool," Armin ventured, his voice small in the resounding, cacophonous echoing room.

Eren's shriek was a tidal wave of enthusiasm, a sound that reverberated through the space. "A pool? You have a pool? And you didn't tell us?!" 

Mikasa just smiled at him with tempered excitement. 

"I'm so sorry," Armin apologized, "I would've told you to bring your swimsuits if I had known you wanted to swim."

"Why wouldn't I want to swim?" Eren retorted, his voice dripping with incredulity. "An indoor pool? Indoors! Armin, this is amazing!"

A soft creak of the door sounded between the lapping waves. The heavy, humid air, thick with the scent of chlorine and jasmine, seemed to hold its breath. Armin, Mikasa and Eren, their bodies slick with the damp air, turned in unison. Through the vaporous curtain that hung over the wet tiles, a small figure crept into the poolhall with them. It was Annie.

Her face, usually a mask of serene indifference, was etched with a nervous uncertainty. Armin, ever the gentle soul, met her gaze; "Hey," he began, his voice carrying a quiet concern. "Did you get lost?"

Annie shook her head, her eyes darting between the three of them. "No, I was looking for you," she admitted, her voice uncharacteristically meek, eyes settling on Armin.

“Oh,” was all Armin said, a swallowed, almost uncomfortable, sound.

Eren and Mikasa watched, silent observers of this intimate exchange, catching one anothers’ silent stares as if to ask, are you seeing this too?

Eren, sensing the storm brewing the two, felt a desperate need to dispel the gathering gloom. With a swift, playful motion, he reached for Mikasa, sweeping her hard body up into his arms with effortless strength. The next moment, she was airborne, a startled cry escaping her lips as she plunged into the inviting depths. Eren’s immediate laughter punctuated the room. 

She let out a yelp as she plunged into the depths with a splash, kicking at the water, her clothes swishing unnaturally with the motion. 

Annie shrieked, too, when she found herself suddenly doused in the torrent of Mikasa’s splash. She shuddered, sputtering curses, as her friend thrashed in the water.

After kicking and swaying to lurch herself from the depths, Mikasa managed to right herself up on her feet, her shoes soaked at the bottom of the pool floor, her shoulders shuddering as they met the air, her face pinched together as makeup ran down her face.

His heart pounding a giddy rhythm in his chest, Eren felt something slow and churn in his gut as he registered the turmoil in Mikasa's eyes, saw the genuine distress in her coiled, wet body. Shit He had crossed a line, a reckless act born of panic and a desperate need to lighten the mood. Now, faced with the consequences of his impulsiveness, he was tongue-tied, a fumbling puppet on the strings of his own regret.

Armin, ever the gentle mediator, crept towards the pool edge and extended a hand to Mikasa. But Mikasa, her mind sharp even in her distress, hesitated, remembering Armin’s illness just days prior. 

Annie, catching wind of Mikasa’s intuitive reasoning, stepped forward, her hand outstretched. Mikasa, grateful for the silent offer of support, accepted. Together, they lifted Mikasa from the pool, their bodies glistening in the artificial light. Mikasa was drenched to the bone, her clothes clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Armin, his concern evident, took charge. "Come with me," he said softly, frowning but sincere. Without a word, Annie and Mikasa followed him out of the pool room and down the long, dimly lit hallway. They went up a series of stairs, walking deeper into the bowels of the mansion that seemed to be infinite, vestibules and rooms that seemed to go on forever. Eventually, Armin led them to a softer, quiet part of the house, bringing them to a small room in the corner of a hall.

“This room is one of mine. It’s more for guests, though,” he said, holding the door open for them, paying no mind to the puddles of chlorine they trailed over his soft carpeted floor.

The bedroom was small and well-composed, almost… normal. Void of personality, of life itself. Like it could have belonged in Mikasa’s tame luxury apartment or the condo Annie shared with her roommates across town — not this modern behemoth of a castle. Lush fabrics muffled their footsteps as they crept in, and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly washed linen. With a smooth motion, Armin slid open the closet door, revealing a well-organized closet space.

Armin moved with an almost maternal grace, his hands gentle as he gathered two towels and placed them each into the trembling hands of each woman. 

“Thank you,” Mikasa mumbled, wrapping herself in the soft fabric, and Annie muttered a similar rhetoric, eyes downcast. 

After nodding a curt ‘you’re welcome,’ Armin delved back into the depths of the closet, his fingers dancing across the soft fabrics. After sorting through another drawer, he gathered two sets of loungewear. Obviously some designer brand, yet they looked soft to the touch, promising warmth.

“Oh Armin, stop you’re so sweet,” Mikasa murmured, hugging the soft fabrics to her damp chest. The sweater and sweatpants felt like pillows in her arms.

Annie, still unable to meet Armin’s eyes, held her set of clothes with white-knuckled hands. With a brusque, distant tone, she asked; “Is there a reason you have women’s clothes?”

Armin didn’t seem offended by the question. All he offered was a plaintive half-smile, his eyes steady but almost sad. “Inside joke with my dad,” he said calmly. “That should fit you.”

Armin met her gaze with a steady, unwavering look. "Inside joke with my dad," he replied, his tone straightforward, devoid of any hidden meanings. "That should fit you."

Mikasa, without hesitation, began to change. They’d seen each others’ bodies in the dressing rooms enough times it wouldn’t have made even the slightest offense. Even Armin didn’t bat an eye, though he did keep his attention respectfully away. In their eyes, he had always been one of them, one of the girls.

“It's so soft,” Mikasa swooned once she was dry and dressed. “Oh my god, what fabric softener do you use? Or is it just the material?”

Armin smiled. “I don't know, I'll have to ask Mrs. Hilde. Now you've got me curious.”

Annie's eyebrows raised in question. "Who's she?"

"She cleans the house every two weeks. She's really nice," Armin explained.

"So is it just you here, Armin?" Annie asked tensely, her eyes searching his face for any sign of distress. "In this big, empty house?"

Armin's gaze drifted away, as if lost in a distant memory. "Well, no," he began, his voice barely audible. "Like I said, Mrs. Hilde cleans the house every other week. And you've already met Mr. Kaur. There's also a landscaper my dad hired who comes by every once in a while. And we used to have a chef, but... yeah, he doesn't work here anymore."

A silence descended upon the room, heavy and oppressive. 

Annie’s eyes held his, forward and unrelenting. "Armin," she began, her voice hard, "when's the last time your parents were here?"

"November," he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

Annie summoned a smile despite sensing the undercurrent of tension. "So they were here for your birthday?" she asked, hopeful. 

Armin took a breath, released it. "No, they weren't," he said, dismissive. 

A moment of silence passed, then curiosity sparked in his eyes. "I don't think I ever told you my birthday," he mused with wonder. 

Annie dipped her face again. "I might have asked Sasha," she admitted sheepishly; so soft and tender it would amaze anyone to accept the character she plays— hard-edged, cruel, and fierce.

Mikasa, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, picked up her towel from where she’d let it fall to the carpet; “I’ll go find Eren,” she said.

Mikasa emerged from the sanctuary of the bedroom, the soft fabric of her borrowed clothes a comforting cocoon against the chill of the night. The towel lay draped over her shoulders, catching the remaining spill of her hair. She noticed, then, with a pang in her heart, that Eren had been waiting for them. He stood in the hallway, his figure etched against the dim light. His face, usually a mask of bravado, was heavy with the slopes of remorse.

Her heart softened at the sight of his distress. "Eren, it's fine," she said, her voice gentle. "I'm not mad at you."

His eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and relief, met hers. "I'm sorry," he stammered, his words rushed, urgent. "I just wanted to make you laugh."

A small smile curved her lips. "I understand," she replied. "In retrospect, I think it was actually pretty sweet." 

Eren didn’t seem to buy it, frowning at her with a quizzical look in his eye. Smiling to herself, Mikasa approached him gingerly. With a tender gesture, she pulled him into a hug, his body trembling slightly against hers.

Eren inhaled deeply, relaxing into the hug, wet hair and all. 

“Woah,” he said after awhile. "Where'd you get these sweats?"

"Armin. This house is a Mary Poppins bag of wonders, there’s just so much," she replied. "You're a little wet too, right? Do you want to change? He might have some for you."

“‘kay,” Eren said. “Are we still good for Friday?”

"Of course we are," she assured him, her voice laced with a playful challenge. "Just don't take me swimming."

“Hey! That’s not-” Eren flushed, "Okay, I guess I deserve that.”

"Go on, go change. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back," she said, gesturing towards the room. Eren hesitated for a moment, then disappeared into the room she had emerged from. As he stepped into the room, he almost collided with Annie, who was exiting in a hurry.

“Woah, ‘scuse me,” he exclaimed, but she went barrelling on, not stopping for a second. He watched her storm down the hall and back down the stairs they came from, her eyes down, arms wrapped around herself.

Frowning, Eren ventured fully into the room, meeting Armin’s harried eyes. " Sorry, was something...?" he began, his voice trailing off as he gestured towards the wake Annie left behind her.

Armin's head dipped in embarrassment. "No, I don't think so," he said, his voice barely audible. "I hope not."

"Why not?" Eren pressed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Annie's awesome. I think she really likes you, dude." 

Armin turned his face away, rubbing his arm in gentle, nervous gestures. He folded into himself, silently begging for this conversation to end. 

“Oh,” Eren felt something soften in his chest. He kept his voice gentle, and pried, "You don't like women, do you?"

"No, I do," he began, his expression pinched with conflict and heightened emotion. "I just..." 

Eren turned his palms up, a careful non-threatening gesture. "Hey, hey, I get it," he said, his voice steady. "It's okay. Jean and I both like men and women, so, like, I get it."

When Armin still wouldn’t look his way, Eren put his hands back down and sighed. “Sorry,” he said, “It wasn’t my place to ask.”

“No, that’s not-” Armin's tentative swallow was almost imperceptible, but Eren caught it. "There's actually someone else…”

Eren was stunned. He had to stand there for a moment, so stricken by the revelation that he had to process if he really heard it or if he’d only imagined it. 

“Oh,” he managed to say, “That’s, um, that’s great. I had no idea.”

He’d truly had no idea. Not even the faintest clue. Armin, it seemed, had a secret world of his own. The revelation was a seismic shift he’d been unprepared for.

"Do you need clothes?" Armin asked quickly, eager to change the subject.

Eren took a glance down at the wet patch on his shirt, and the water still dripping from the ends of his trousers. “I guess I do,” he said. With a smirk he added, “There’s no way you have shit that fits me though.”

"No, I do," he said kindly. With a swift movement, he slid the closet door shut and started leading Eren out of the room, “Come on,” he said, taking Eren further down the hall. 

Eren watched the portraits on the wall as they strolled by, all the photographs of distant lands, luxurious vacations. Polished and impressive, yes, but utterly devoid of anything even remotely familial.

“This one’s my room,” Armin said, pushing open a little white door. 

The room they entered was a sanctuary of childhood innocence. Soft blue walls were adorned with whimsical prints. A small collection of stuffed animals, each one worn and greyed with time, sat on the bed. A gentle nightlight cast a warm glow, over the bookshelf and writer’s desk. The room was a testament to a time when worries were distant and dreams were boundless.

As Eren stepped further into the room, conflicted with equal parts suspicion and intrigue, Armin opened the closet. With practiced ease, he selected a set of loungewear and handed it to Eren.

Eren received the sweats, holding up the pieces to his body. A sweater and pants that would definitely fit him. He smirked, "Are these your boyfriend's?"

"They’re mine," Armin confessed, averting his gaze. With a fragile, self-conscious voice, he added, "I'm, um I’m not usually this small."

Eren felt something plummet in his gut. He was suddenly incandescent with a surge of protectiveness, a primal instinct to shield this precious creature from the world and all it’s cruelties. The words poured from him, a desperate attempt to mend the invisible wounds he sensed. "Dude, I'm sorry for before," he began, his voice thick with genuine remorse. "For not talking to you. For judging you. You're so kind to absolutely everyone. You didn't deserve that."

Armin shook his head, dismissing the apology, “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

Eren was adamant. "No, really, I'm sorry. It’s totally a big deal, and I’m sorry." he reiterated, his voice filled with furious sincerity.

Armin's gaze met his, a steady blue that offered a semblance of calm. "It's okay," he repeated, his voice gentle, but firm.

Eren nodded, disguising his nervous swallow. A question had been burning within him, a curiosity that demanded an answer. "There's one more thing..." he began, his voice tentative. "Hey Armin? Just so I know… Do you have, like,   a thing about... being touched?”

“What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago, I was walking behind you and I brushed your back just to let you know I was there, and you had, like, a reaction,” he said, painfully aware he lacked the vocabulary to express the urgency of the moment, to declare the severity of what he really felt was true;  “Mikasa said the same thing happened when you fainted on her, and then, the same thing with Jean and your jacket earlier. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, I just..." 

His voice trailed off, the words hanging unfinished in the air.

Armin shook his head, almost endeared at Eren’s flummoxed passion. He smiled softly. “No.”

Eren's confusion deepened. "No, what?" he pressed urgently.

“No, you didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he explained. “You don’t make me uncomfortable, none of you do.”

Eren's mind raced. "Then... touching is okay?"

"More than okay," he began, his voice barely audible. "It's just..." He trailed off, his eyes downcast. "No one's touched me in a long time, that's all. Maybe it startled me at first, I don't know... You guys are just the first who've… I mean, the first in awhile. Sorry.”

Eren felt something flare within him. "No, shut up, don’t say sorry," he urged, "Wait, Armin, hold on… when's the last time you had a hug?"

Armin stilled for a moment. Then he pulled a face of intense concentration, his nose scrunched up in thought. The image of him genuinely struggling to remember such a basic human connection was a heart-wrenching sight. Eren's heart ached with empathy, a profound sense of loss washing over him. In that moment, a silent vow was made, a promise to be Armin's unwavering support, his protector, his friend until the end of time.

With a newfound tenderness, Eren asked, "Can I give you one?" His voice was soft, a gentle invitation. 

Armin considered the request, his mind a whirlwind of unfamiliar territory. The prospect of physical touch was a foreign concept, a distant star in a vast, unexplored cosmos. Eren understood the hesitation, the delicate dance of trust and vulnerability that preceded such an intimate gesture. He waited, his heart suspended in anticipation, until a subtle nod graced Armin's face, a fragile bloom of acquiescence. Only then did Eren dare to make his move.

The embrace was tender, and yet, imbued with surging passion. It felt like communion, like something sacred. Eren's arms encircled Armin's waist, a protective instinct propelling him forward. Armin fumbled for a moment before his arms found a tentative home around Eren's upper back. When Eren felt Armin’s arms around his back, he deepened the hold, tucking his chin above the hard edge of Armin’s bony shoulder. 

In another world, the world they were working so hard to create, this was the boy he fought Titans with. The friend he gave his life for, sacrificing and giving again and again out of nothing but raw, anguished platonic love. How he and the others have gone so long without giving this tentative creature the love he so earnestly deserves was a crime. Eren held him, riling in self hatred.

With each passing day, Eren understood Eren – the real Eren Jaeger, the devil of Paradis – more. Understood the raging, blistering desire to destroy the entire world if it meant saving his friends.

Here, in the room, Armin turned his cheek against Eren’s chest.  "Thank you," he murmured, his soft words loud in the childhood bedroom. 

The words were a simple expression of gratitude, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime of longing. They stood there, entwined in a moment suspended in time, a silent promise of solace and companionship, and a smoldering desire for vengeance on a world so cruel.

Chapter Text

While Armin and Eren were lost in a world of their own upstairs, embracing one another with the fragile, necessary need for healing a quietude of another kind settled over a different corner of the grand mansion. Far removed from the glittering spectacle, away from the noise and music, a secluded office sat removed from the clamoring crowd, and within its hushed emptiness were two unspeaking figures, eyes glowing in the dim light almost like feline creatures of the night.

The office around them hadn’t been used in a long time, it seemed, the air thick and stale with a haunting stillness. A desk, cloaked in a thin layer of dust, commanded the center of the space, joined by a single swivel chair at its center, its leather seat barely broken into. Bookshelves were lined with the kind of books that flashed famous titles, overconsumed, generic slops of literature never actually read but paraded as though they were. And on the wall just by the shelf, a framed portrait hung like a forgotten memory. A glamorous mother and father, their smiles stiff and artificial, encircled a young Armin, his eyes clouded with a desperate, mature sort of longing that seemed to seep from the photograph itself. It was an office space for the absent worker, a study never dwelt in. 

But tonight, in the melancholy glow of the room, the room would finally serve its purpose, hosting a meeting of utmost importance.

It was unclear between the two of them who initiated all this, the straying away from their friends, the slipping into the office, the claiming of their grounds. Each girl would say it was the other one who started it, with Historia’s nervous jerk of her chin from across the living room, or Ymir’s steely, impertinent stare from the other side of the mansion. But regardless of who initiated it, here they stood now. In the neglected office, the weight of their long, long overdue conversation already weighing down on them. 

Ymir and Historia stood as if rooted to the spot, Ymir’s eyes locked hard onto the small blonde, demanding an explanation, while Historia’s blue eyes flicked around pensively, nervously, returning to Ymir in intermittent glares of bravery too short-lived to sustain.

 Finally, Ymir yielded to the weight of the moment, striding over to sink into the leather chair behind the desk. “I take it you’ve been having a fun night? Got a little liquid courage in you?” she muttered, voice husky with the late hour. “Otherwise you wouldn’t even glance my direction.” 

Historia, a fragile silhouette against the dimming light, hesitated. She took a low breath, trying to ground herself, but the quivering of her lungs made her breath shake, rattling out in a nervous gasp-like sound. Her eyes, squeezed shut, she forced open. Folding her hands at her sides, she stood as tall as she could manage, taking the place directly in front of Ymir. 

“I owe you an apology,” she began, her reedy with discomfort, but sure. 

Ymir’s brows lifted in a show of mild, tempered surprise, but her drown remained. 

Historia, already so worked up, struggled to maintain Ymir’s impenetrable glare. Her heart pounded like a trapped bird against the cage of her ribs. With a trembling hand, she reached for a semblance of composure, her voice a mere whisper in the hushed chamber. “I’ve been rude to you,” she confessed, her eyes finally finding Ymir’s. The intensity of that gaze startled her, a depthless pool of secrets and sorrows.

"You were right,” she continued, her breath catching in her throat. "I’ve treated you with a coldness that was completely unjustified. Totally unwarranted. Were under enough stress as it is with the show, the last thing you needed was that kind of behavior. I am truly sorry.” 

Ymir's expression was a mask of stone, her silence heavy with unspoken judgment. In the last sixty seconds Historia had spoken more to her than she had in months, the apology pouring out of her as though it would rip her apart at the seams. It wasn’t that Ymir doubted Historia’s sincerity (well, she did. A little), but that she simply didn’t understand it. How was it that Historia was allowed to give her the cold shoulder for months, sparing her no more kindness than she would a scuff on the bottom of her boot, and suddenly monologue at length with a weeping, heartfelt apology?

“And what, if I might ask, finally gave it away?” Ymir practically scoffed. “Did you have a sudden stroke of conscience, princess?” 

Ymir dug further, her head propped up beneath her fist on the desktop, her eyes narrowing; “Or did someone have to point it out to you? This is a party, after all. Maybe someone just dared you to come talk to me.”

Historia hesitated, her face pinching in genuine distress, “That’s not true!”

Ymir scowled, “Then spill. I’d rather not be in this office all night. Armin got good fucking food.”

Historia’s blue eyes fell to the dusty rug, her shoulders rising and falling in imperceptible tremors. “I… well, I’ve been talking to my therapist…” she offered, voice small, “And I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation. The one when you were moving out of the dressing room.”

Ymir’s frown softened, something sickly sinking in her chest. “That hadn’t really been a conversation, Historia.”

“I know… it was more of… a confrontation. And one totally deserved on my end,” she agreed. Finally, with a stiffening in her spine, the blonde found the courage to meet the other’s intense eyes.

“Ymir,” she began, “There’s something else. About the room change…”  Historia took a deep breath, her courage faltering. “It… It was my fault. The directors thought we weren’t working well together. They could sense our lack of chemistry. It was obvious. So they tried putting us closer, tried to force a friendship." 

Ymir's voice, a rough-hewn instrument, cracked like dry timber. "And why wouldn't a friendship between us work?" Her question hung in the air, a silent accusation.

When Historia didn’t make a move to answer, Ymir fell back; “I mean, I don’t care. Like I said back in that dressing room, you can feel however you want to feel. I’m not here to make friends, Historia, I’m here to make art. I’m here to work. I work a lot.”

Her voice broke on the last word, a vulnerability cracking through, rupturing with such intensity she surprised even herself.

“I work a lot, Historia,” she whispered, her resolve fracturing.

Historia, to her astonishment, held her gaze. Fiercely brave with empathy, she accepted Ymir’s fragility with gentle, gentle kindness, eyes wide, heart open. She nodded, confirming, “You do, Ymir. We all see it. No one else in this cast has a full time job in addition to all this filming. It must be excruciating. We know you work hard, Ymir.”

Ymir swallowed, her throat quivering despite her strain for composure. “Then you know. I don’t care about the kind of childish games you’re playing. I don’t care if you like me or not. I just expect you to get a grip. To act professional, damn it. Force that chemistry our directors aren’t seeing. Because I don’t have time for this shit.”

Historia blinked, her breath hitching. From the hesitation holding her back it was evident she wasn’t used to being spoken back to. She was the princess after all, a debutante. People treated her as such, whether they were aware of it or not. Skirting around her soft edges, endowing her with a reverence they hardly knew they were sharing. 

And yet, from the way Historia held her gaze, her fierce blue gaze relentless and steadfast, she wasn’t opposed to this sudden confrontation either. She was taking in Ymir’s words, however sharp, slicing against her skin like an assault,  bearing the brunt of her condemnation with a willing, courageous strength.

“You’re right,” Historia said. “You don’t, and neither do I. There’s no sense in the way I’ve been treating you. I’m asking you to recognize that I’m trying to make up for it now. Please, hear me. I have nothing, nothing, against you, Ymir.”

“Then what is it?” Ymir asked, voice hitching up to an uncharacteristic pitch. “Did I do something wrong? Not that I care, because frankly, I don’t. I don’t care.” She scoffed harder than she should have as she added; “‘cause when it comes to you, dear, I’ve frankly given up on caring. I just figured after all these months, you might have come up with a justification for all your cold shoulders.”

Ymir didn’t know why she was still pushing. Why she kept insisting she didn’t care with the same embarrassing degree of desperation as some pining teenager. Normally, she didn’t care, and didn’t need to keep insisting on it either. She’s never worked this hard for anyone, she realized, trying to temper the embarrassing implications of such a discovery behind her perennial frown.

"It's not that I don't like you," the blonde protested, her voice barely audible. The words were a desperate plea made firm and resolute. “You’re a really good person. You try to be tough but I see how kind you are,” she said, voice lilting up into a tone of unadulterated wonder. “I see the way you make sure Sasha always has her emotional comfort snacks nearby. The way you give Eren so much patience when he’s frustrated. The way you pay attention to people… You act like you don’t care but you do.”

Ymir raised a brow at that.

Historia wasn’t done; “And you work so hard,” she insisted, fists forming at her sides. “And you’re so good at acting. It’s inspiring to me, really.”

Ymir's silence was a heavy stone, crushing hope. "Then what’s wrong?”

Historia's confession was a death knell, a finality that hung heavy in the air. With a fragility that belied her strength, she whispered, "...I'm not gay." 

The words, once spoken, echoed in the silence, a haunting requiem for their unspoken understanding.

The silence was so charged, and the statement so profound, that Ymir almost broke into startled laughter.

“Okay?” she scoffed, almost laughing. 

Historia huffed in frustration.  "I'm not gay," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "But I'm- I’m playing a queer character. Or at least one that’s perceived to-? I don’t know…" A moment of silence stretched between them, her face pinching even tighter in tension and turmoil. "It's… conflicting," Historia continued, her voice gaining strength. "I want to do justice to the character, and to Ymir, but..." she trailed off. 

“But what?” Ymir pressed. Her tone was far from gentle, flat and direct. “I’m sorry, but I’m so fucking confused. What is the problem.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

“I mean, the script never explicitly says Historia reciprocates Ymir’s feelings,” Historia quickly backtracked.

“Would it be so wrong if she did?” Ymir shot back.

“No!” Historia said quickly. “Of course not! There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“So you have nothing against queer people?”

“No, no nothing at all.”

“You sure?” Ymir dared. “There’s a lot of fucking queers in this industry, babe, and you’re looking right at one.”

“I promise, I swear, I have nothing against homosexuals or queer people, or anything!” she insisted. “It’s a basic human right to be allowed to love whoever you want.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she shot back, with such precision and such dedication that Ymir knew she meant it.

“Then what is it?”

“Just…” Historia ducked her head, her hands clenching and releasing at her sides. Her gaze fell to the office floor as she finally managed to confess; “I just… have a hard time… thinking about myself being perceived like that.”

Across from her, Ymir watched every twitch of her hands, every shuddering sigh of frustration. God, this girl was a wreck. 

A flicker of surprise stirred within the brunette, realizing she’d just internally sympathized with the same girl who had bullied her like a high-schooler the past few months. Was it really sympathy, or was it pity? Watching this girl almost cry at a confession of something utterly menial and insignificant.

With a sigh, Ymir realized, no, it really was sympathy. She understood. In some dark, twisted way, she understood. The internalized homophobia was a beast of its own, perhaps something even more dangerous than harassment on the streets, or disownment from your family. This beast was a quiet one, one that hid in the shadows and clung to your skin like a poisonous fog.

“So you’re not mad at me, specifically” Ymir confirmed, for her own sake more than anything. “You’re just… confused? And took it out on me?”

“I didn’t mean to” Historia practically hiccuped, tears rolling down her face. She was wiping her face with her hands now, shaking with the frantic energy of her own overwhelming emotions. “I’m sorry, things are just- I don’t mean to be mean to you, but it’s like, when I’m with you… When I’m alone with you… I don’t- I don’t know what people are thinking, what they’re saying. About me, about.. About us. It’s nothing against you, but I can see how it felt that way. I didn’t mean to make things bad between us, I just… I’m so- I’m sor-”

Ymir laughed through her nose. “How do you do it?”

“Do-? Do what?”

“Look so beautiful all the fucking time. I mean, Jesus Christ, you’re fluster-crying and you’re making it look angelic.”

Historia's laughter, gurgled out from her tears, wet and genuine, breathless and spontaneous. To Ymir, she was a queen regnant, not only the rightful ruler of their fictional paradise but the sovereign mistress of her heart. Her every action was a masterpiece, a carefully wrought tapestry of perfection. The arduous months she devoted to orchestrating the extravagant cast party, the relentless strain of embodying a flawless character beneath the harsh glare of the silver screen—everything Historia did was with intention and deliberate precision, something that Ymir admired through her tired eyes. The girl was confused. Insecure. Insecure in a way Ymir, who showed up on set with a ketchup-stained apron and smudged eyeliner, could never understand. Ymir could only for the day when Historia would gaze into the mirror of her adoration and discern the flawless beauty that was already hers.

“Historia?”

“Y-Yes?”

“I care about you,” Ymir said simply.

Historia smiled, simple and pure. “I care about you too. I- I’m sorry I just… I don’t really know how to show it right now.”

“Well, I’ve never been good at showing it in general,” Ymir said. With only a slight hesitation, Ymir carefully extended her palm to her, reaching over the desk. “Wanna see if we can figure it out together?”

“Thank you,” Historia beamed at her, and without hesitation, placed her hand in hers. “I’d be honored.”

Just as their hands met in a firm, unspoken pact, a pattern of clumsy feet tromped through the hall just outside. With a terrible thud, the office door flew open. It was Sasha, a bolt of lightning in human form, her eyes twin stars in the night sky.

“Food’s here!” she practically screeched. “Dinner time! I couldn’t bear to let my lovely ladies starve! So y’all better get movin’ back to the den!” 

Historia’s smile remained, softened with genuine adoration. "Oh no,” she said tenderly, “Sasha’s going to beat us to dinner. There won’t be anything left for us to eat.”

“I think we can beat her,” Ymir gave her hand a tight squeeze before letting go. “But only if we go now.”

Historia nodded, firm with determination. Then she laughed at her own seriousness. None of it had really ever been so serious. 

Back in the den, which was the size of a house itself, a scene of unbridled excitement unfolded. The room—a world apart from the intimate tension of the office—- was filled with a warm, riotous welcoming. Despite Armin’s assurances that it would be fine, that they could all eat on the sofa if they wanted to, the pristine white couch remained untouched, a monument to luxury that the ensemble of broke and starving twentysomethings didn’t dare defile. With a collective effort, they pushed the behemoth back, creating a makeshift dining area on the plush carpet.

As they gathered on the floor, a feast of unparalleled extravagance was revealed. The finest Italian in town— a medley of pastas and risottos— sat next to boxes from the famous Japanese restaurant downtown, displayed beside a tantalizing array of fragrant curries and buttery naans; the luxury Indian bistro with the four month reservation list. And for the teenage souls in all of them, there was the comforting promise of classic American fare - burgers, fries, and pizza - a guilty pleasure gleaming in takeout boxes galore. 

The sheer abundance was staggering, a testament to a generosity that bordered on the absurd. Yet, in the eyes of those gathered, there was no greed, only gratitude. Each dish was a gift, a token of appreciation, a shared moment of indulgence. Laughter and conversation flowed freely, a tapestry of voices woven together by the common thread of joy.

Eren sank back against the floor pillow, sighing contentedly, still wearing Armin’s borrowed loungewear. Beside him, Mikasa was a mirror image of contentment, her own body, often so taut and reserved, slumped on equal relaxation. Clad in the softest sweats imaginable, surrounded by their fériense they were children again, lost in the magic of a shared slumber party. As he slurped his noodles and watched her devour her loaded fries, the world seemed to be magical again. Childlike. Safe. 

All around, the others seemed to feel it too. Reiner, ever the gentle giant, was coaxing the reticent Bertholdt into trying a new food, while Annie watched the exchange with a somewhat guarded maternalism. Connie and Jean wrestled with Sasha, wailing for her to slow down, their concern for their starvation at the hands of her gluttony as palpable as their laughter. Ymir and Historia, their new bond deepened by shared experiences, kept glancing at each other from across the room, no longer with malice, but finally, with a gentle curiosity stirring. 

It was a scene of domestic bliss, a far cry from the horrors they endure every day, in their fictional world. 

At the thought, a familiar shadow began to lurk at the edge of Eren's mind. The atrocities of Paradis, the blood-soaked battlefields of Shiganshina and Trost, the claustrophobic terror of life within the walls - these were not mere figments of a fevered dream. They were scars etched into their souls, a constant reminder of the darkness they had learned to enter and escape, and re-enter and re-escape, every single day. It was debilitating. Exhausting. Strenuous. Straddling two worlds so often that the horrors from one side bled into the other. 

A sharp burst of laughter broke his spell, watching Jean double over in hysterical laughs as Connie choked on his soda. A faint smile touched Eren’s lips. 

Titans weren’t real. 

This was. 

A gentle sigh drew his attention. The slight pressure of Mikasa's head, resting gently on his shoulder, was a subtle reminder of Eren’s gratitude. He’d been so sure that throwing her in the pool, truly meant as an innocent joke, had shattered their bond in ways irreparable. But now, with her head on his shoulder, he was reminded of her indomitable strength, and her unyielding compassion. Of course a little joke couldn’t break what they had. 

And soon, they were finally going to spend some time alone together. Friday.

Eren blinked. Would it be a date?

Almost automatically, his gaze drifted to Armin, a small huddle of innocence in the midst of the collective shared euphoria. The blonde's eyes, wide with wonder, marveled at the space, normally so empty, now bursting at the seams with camaraderie. His hair, loosely gathered in a ponytail, framed a face that held the purity of a child. 

Eren reached out, his fingers brushing against Armin's arm. The simple touch sent a thrill through him, a testament to the growing depth of his affection. More than okay, Armin had said back in the room when Eren had asked if he was okay with physical affection. The poor thing practically trembled with relief at the slight press along his bicep. 

Eren decided that touching Armin was his new favorite thing.

"Hungry, Arm?" he asked.

Armin faltered, his reply suspended into quietude, his anxiety tangible. Eren had almost forgotten it wasn’t until this week he actually started hearing Armin’s voice.

Eren's hand, a comforting anchor, moved higher, his touch gentle, almost an inquiry. "Hey," he prompted softly, his voice carrying a faint note of concern. Mikasa shifted on his shoulder, her attention equally drawn to their quiet, loving friend. 

“It’s okay, actually…” Armin whispered evasively. “They sort of have me on a diet of sorts.”

Eren's brow furrowed in confusion and a flicker of protective anger. "No shit?" he replied, his voice edged with disbelief. "Like, your manager from the show?" 

Armin nodded, his expression carefully concealed.

I’m not usually this small, he had said, something that made Eren’s worry deepen, sharpening like a dagger in his heart.

"How many calories are you restricting?" he pressed, his voice gaining urgency, abrasiveness.

Armin shook his head. "I don't want to trigger anybody," he said quietly, hugging his knees. "It's okay."

A surge of protective fury erupted within Eren. "Is it?" he demanded, his voice rising, not in anger at Armin but at the unseen force that sought to control him. 

Mikasa's hand found his clenched fist, a silent plea for restraint, for patience. 

"Eren," she whispered, her eyes pleading. The unspoken "later" hung in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding. And in the depths of her beautiful dark eyes, Eren found the semblance of calm she needed him to have, right here, right now. 

Though he didn’t like it, Eren pushed the burgeoning anxiety to the back of his mind, fortifying a mental dam against the rising tide of worry. The absurd reality of inhabiting Armin's world – down to the clothes that swam loosely on his frame – was a stark reminder of the fragility of their existence. But for now, he would let laughter be his shield, a fortress against the encroaching shadows of concern.

From there, the night unfurled, glistening and gleaming with moments of unbridled joy. The disregard from their producers, from all the suited men who took over their board room, was already a forgotten memory, lost to the precious ephemerality of now.

Of course it was inevitable that, eventually, after some trial and error, they found Armin’s parents’ liquor cabinet. As alcohol painted their perceptions with hues of euphoria, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis, everyone swaying and dancing and holding and refilling glasses.

Sasha put some movie on the largest TV any of them had ever seen, some riotous, absurd comedy with bad writing and even worse actors. The air pulsed with rhythm as they transformed the living room into a floor of movement and togetherness, their bodies colliding with limbs and laughter. Some, weary from the exertion, retreated to rest on the large couch together, their eyes glazed with a mixture of amusement and affection as they watched their friends revel in unrestrained abandon.

During one of their periods of resting and lounging, of slurred speeches and exhausted laughter, Annie asked if they could all share where they were from, how they got into acting. Before anyone got the chance to respond, Sasha’s excited voice pierced the air with a declaration of war.

“No, no wait, let me guess. Let me guess!” she shouted, her laughter cutting through the convivial atmosphere. Her finger, a playful conductor, pointed at each of them in turn. "I’m gonna figure you bitches," she proclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm so fucking good at this, you guys. You have no idea." 

Reiner, cross-legged on the floor with a beer in his hand, was her first victim. 

"Okay, Reiner," she began, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I'm guessing you were, like, a football player. But, like, a football player who secretly wanted to join the drama club in high school. Am I right?" 

Perhaps influenced by the alcohol, an uncharacteristic blush crept up Reiner's neck, his weak denials muffled by his hands as he attempted to laugh off his embarrassment.

Sasha's game continued, a whirlwind of revelations and hilarity. She unveiled Jean's not-so-secret secret background in dance, Ymir’s long hours rooted in nothing but fierce determinism for artistry, Armin's childhood as the only child of a celebrity couple, and Annie's unexpected journey from esthetician to actress. The room was a mix of surprise and admiration as each revelation unfolded, warm with vulnerability.

Bertholdt was her next target. Her brow furrowed in mock concentration as she studied him. "And Bert..." she drawled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You're just autistic, Bert. I don't know what to tell you." A wave of uproarious laughter washed over the room, Bertholdt and Reiner joining in, their protests lost in the cacophony of mirth.

When Sasha turned her gaze to Eren, the atmosphere shifted. Her playful banter gave way to a quieter, more somber tone. “So what’s your deal?” she asked. “I can’t really sus out the vibes.”

“Stop talking like that,” Connie drawled exasperatedly, slumping back against Historia, who immediately pushed him off.

Eren shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. My mom just said to do whatever I wanted,” he said. “I sort of fell into acting, liked it, and my mom said I should go for it. Said she liked seeing me onstage.”

“Oooo, mommy’s boy,” Connie purred. Then he pointed his finger accusingly, “Red flag, red flag, red flag!”

Jean swatted his arm. 

“No, I just-” Eren fumbled. “-I don’t know, it just… seems to be the only thing I’m good at.”

His words hung in the air, softly spoken, though still dampening the lighthearted atmosphere.

Mikasa shook her head, murmuring, “I don’t believe that.”

Her words, so simply spoken, were a balm to an ache Eren didn’t know he was feeling. Her attention, so direct but so gentle, was making him giddy all over again, a luxurious tenderness he felt clearly and truly, even with all his other senses numb with inebriation.

As the night deepened, the effects of their revelry began to manifest. Their inhibitions loosened, so did the collars around their shirts, and their grips around their cans and bottles. The 104th squadron was aswoon, rocking back and forth into each other, the gaps of silence between their slurred words growing longer and longer.

Armin eventually stood up, putting his hands together. "Alright, no excuses," he said, firmly but gently. "There are plenty of bedrooms here. Plenty of clothes for you to wear. I insist you all stay the night. You can’t drive home like this."

There were some protests, some attempted tests to prove sobriety. But for the most part, Armin only faced an overwhelming enthusiasm in response; when would they ever get the chance again to sleep in a place of chrome and marble like this?

Eager to get started, Jean, Annie, and Eren were soon a tangled knot of limbs and fabric, cursing and spitting at each other as they wrestled the mountain of blankets into submission. 

A gentle touch brushed Eren’s back, and he turned to find Mikasa, her purse slung casually over her shoulder. She was a vision of soft moonlight and shadows, her eyes holding that same quiet intensity that always made her serene.

“I’m going home,” she said, her voice a hushed melody in the fading light. “Wanted to say goodnight.”

A wave of disappointment washed over Eren as he realized the evening was drawing to a close. “What, you’re not staying for the sleepover?”

“Promised my roommate I’d help her clean up the condo in the morning,” she explained, her tone apologetic. 

A spark of curiosity ignited within Eren. Mikasa had a roommate? The thought of her sharing her space with someone else was a strange concept. It was always hard to remember that they each had their own lives outside of this place, that they had names other than ones assigned by the script.

Abandoning the battle with the blankets, Eren stood, pulling Mikasa into a warm embrace. “Goodnight, then. Safe trip home?” 

“Yeah, Reiner and Bert are giving me a lift. Bert’s sober.”

 “Good,” he said, reassured by her plan. “Text me when you make it there.”

He waited for her gentle dismissal, but Mikasa had no words to say. Her lips remained parted, soft. Her eyes stayed as they were, seeking Eren’s. Their gazes locked, a silent conversation passing between them. A soft, intimate connection hummed between them, a current of electricity that was both thrilling and comforting. Eren felt a pull towards her, a magnetic force that was both familiar and intoxicating, something that drew his hand to cup the curve of her waist and draw her in, her hand coming up to plant itself on his chest.

There was a rustle of fabric and the soft padding of feet behind them, and in tandem they both turned to find Armin, making his way back downstairs after having prepared a bedroom. 

Mikasa’s eyes shifted to the blonde, pulling back from Eren to properly smile at him; “Goodnight, Min. Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes. I’ll let you know when I can return them.”

Armin, always the gentle soul, waved her off. "Keep them." 

"I couldn't do that,” she smiled. “But thank you. Goodnight, both of you."

She turned to leave, and Armin and Eren alike watched her go, their bodies swaying together on instinct, a sense of peace permeating the air she left behind. When the door closed behind her, Armin’s hand found Eren’s sleeve with a slight tug.

“I hope I didn’t accidentally…?” he started. “You and Mikasa…?”

“What?” Eren hesitated. “Oh. Oh, no. No, we were just saying goodnight.”

Armin didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded anyway. “I got your room ready. Everyone else is already in bed.”

“What time is it?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said, with another ginger tug at Eren’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said, pulling him towards the stairs.

Two flights of stairs and three hallways later, Eren found himself in a realm of opulence, a cavernous bedroom bathed in artificial dimmer lights. The bed, a sleek, modern marvel that descended from the wall, was an invitation to luxury— not exactly homey, but impressive, to say the least. It was like stepping into a grand hotel suite, complete with a private sanctuary of a bathroom, a window to the world in the form of a balcony, and a wide television screen facing the bed.

Already, Eren could feel the weight of the night, however exciting, lifting from his shoulders, a sense of carefree abandon coming to settle in its place. With a slow, easygoing pace, Eren waltzed out onto the private balcony, the cool night air a sharp jolt against his senses. As soon as he adjusted to the cold, a sharp, fresh breeze biting deliciously at the back of his throat, he padded forward towards the balcony’s edge, taking everything in before him. The city lights glowed faintly in the distance, lost to the stretch of Armin’s parents’ private land – a plain of manicured lawns sprawling like a dark sea beneath the moon. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, a heady mix of exhilaration and contentment. The night was young, and Eren was just beginning to explore the possibilities it held.

As he leaned against the wrought iron railing of the balcony, a gentle sigh escaped his lips, and a familiar longing stirred within him. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. 

His fingers worked before his mind did, calling the first number that came to mind. 

“Brat, these late night calls are starting to become a bad habit,” Levi Ackerman’s voice, gruff and familiar, pierced through the quiet.

Eren smiled, the sound lost in the night. “I’m not jumping, I promise. Listen,” he said, turning his phone out towards the slight breeze, “it’s such a beautiful night. The world’s alive”

The pause before Levis’ response was brief, imperceptible. 

“Are you drunk?” Levi asked flatly.

“No. A little bit. An eensy weensy bit,” Eren smiled, his laughter light and carefree. 

“Are you safe?” 

Eren’s heartbeat, already sluggishly chugging along with inebriation, now began to quicken. He could recall Levi’s urgency from their last late-night phone call, the protective instinct that surged with adrenaline and genuine worry. Worry rooted in what, Eren wasn’t sure yet. He was no closer to understanding the enigma of Levi Ackerman now than he had been back then. 

“Yep. I’m at Armin’s house,” Eren said. “It’s so pretty. I’m looking over at the city right now, I never thought it could be so small.”

Levi was silent for a moment, his mind racing. “Armin’s house?” he echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice.

Eren’s gaze drifted back to the skyline, its beauty momentarily forgotten as he focused on the conversation. “Yeah. You should come sometime.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. A pang of longing—and simultaneous surprise— washed over him as he realized how oddly much he missed Levi. How the night could have been different had Levi been here with them. 

There was a long pause, a silence filled with memories. 

“I’ve been before,” Levi eventually replied, his voice as firm and unyielding as ever, crackling through the phone’s speaker. 

Eren was startled. “Really?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “When?”

Levi sighed, long and heavy, “A lifetime ago.” 

A shiver ran down Eren’s spine. There was a mystery surrounding Levi, a hidden depth that fascinated him. He curled both hands around the phone, tucking it into the crook by his ear. “Can you tell me about it?”

“Kid, why are you calling me?”

“I don’t know…” Eren admitted, his voice barely carrying in the night breeze. “I’m happy. I wanted to see if you were happy too. And I knew you’d be awake.”

A silence settled between them. Not comfortable, but not uncomfortable either. The night air around him was a gentle balm, almost a hug. A tangible presence that filled the void of Levi’s physical absence.

“We finished the show, Levi,” Eren said, his voice filled with a sense of accomplishment. “We’ve accomplished season one. They’ll be airing it soon. ”

There was a pause, a moment of reflection on the other end of the line. “Now it’s up to the rest of the world if we’ll get a season two,” Levi replied firmly. 

Eren frowned, “You don’t think we will?”

“I never said that, don’t put words in my mouth, brat,” he scoffed. After a moment, he added, “We did well.”

“Yeah,” Relief washed over Eren, and a small smile followed. “We really did.”

A scoff, a murmured scrape of breath that can only be described as bittersweet acceptance, escaped Levi’s lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Feel good, kid?

“I do,” Eren panted breathlessly. “I feel good. Excited. Nervous about the red carpet reveal.”

“Bullshit, red carpet’s easy for someone like you. Don’t sweat for those pompous bastards.”

“Someone like me?” he dared to smile. “What do you mean someone like me?”

The night air was a gentle caress against Eren’s skin, carrying with it the sweet scent of jasmine from an unseen garden below. He leaned against the cool iron railing, the world a distant hum as his entire attention, however inebriated, remained dedicated to the man on the other end of the line like a pledge.

“You’re stupidly charming for a brat,” Levi answered. “Good with people. Those vultures will eat you right up.”

Eren's heart swelled with a warmth that was both comforting and unfamiliar. His voice, when he spoke, was a fragile whisper carried on the night breeze. "Levi..." he began, his grip tightening around his phone, his ear aching with the pressure of it. The liquor had loosened his tongue, but more importantly, it had lowered his defenses. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and achingly human. "Levi, it’s not fair that you’re always alone,” he said, “It’s not fair that everybody has a support system except for you."

There was a long silence, a chasm of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Levi didn’t deny Eren’s statement, but there was no sarcastic quip, no defensive barb, to antagonize it either. His silence was a fortress, impenetrable and chilling. A lump formed in Eren’s throat, a silent plea for understanding.

Desperation, a fierce and unfamiliar emotion, ignited within him. 

"Can I go with you?" Eren blurted out, breath shaking.

Levi’s response was immediate, a sharp, scathing scoff. "What?"

"To the grand red carpet reveal. Can we go together?" 

"Why? You don’t want to go with your little buddies?" 

"Think about it,” he pressed, ignorant to the desperation coloring his tone. “I mean, it’ll be great marketing. New actor and veteran actor, side by side, arriving together." 

"I don’t care for marketing. Fucking charlatans and vampires."

"Levi…” Eren practically begged, something twisted and worried gripping his chest. “You’re coming, right?”

Another silence, this one filled with a heavy weight of uncertainty. Eren felt his courage waning, replaced by a growing sense of despair.

"Please come," he pleaded, his voice trembling slightly. 

“No.”

“You have to come, Captain.”

“Why,” he jabbed. “Why do I have to come.”

“Just-” he gnashed his teeth, planting his feet where he stood on the balcony. “Let’s just talk about it, okay? Let me convince you. You deserve to celebrate your accomplishments. Please. You- You’ve worked so hard, Levi.”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Just when Eren was beginning to lose hope, Levi's voice cut through the quiet.

"Tea on Friday. Six pm. Same place as last time."

A flicker of hope, a dangerous, tantalizing hope, beamed through him like a ray of light. But he was quick to diffuse the glare. 

"I can’t do Friday,” he said carefully. “I got a major commitment I can’t miss. Is tomorrow okay?"

"Sure," Levi replied, his tone flat, but Eren heard a promise in his words.  

A surge of excitement and anticipation filled Eren as he hung up the phone. The night, once filled with loneliness, now held the promise of something more. Something new. Something beautiful and forthcoming.