Archive of Our Own

He couldn’t put a date to all the times he thought you were the hope. Of how many times he’d looked at his right side with tenderness in his eyes without even trying, of how many times he’d thought you were made out of everything he was curious about – the stars, fire, the sun. even when it was after training and you were sweaty and sat under the shade of a large tree, he wondered how you maintained your warmth in the blazing heat without making him suffocate.

You were on his right as always, he’d find out, as he relaxed lazily on the lush green grass, feeling the inkling of a breeze wash over him. He could only faintly hear his friends and their excited cheers – marco talking to armin about the book that they had read, something jean wasn’t all that interested in, mikasa softly telling eren that he’s doing better in training with the gear and jean could almost see the way the latter’s face would’ve gone red even if jean was looking at the sky above him. Connie and sasha argued bravely with reiner, the blonde's boisterous laugh taking over the whole field. Nothing could reach jean’s ears, however, because when he turned to look at you, on his damned right, you were looking at the clouds just as he was.

He shuddered. Summer in July with a full, heavy uniform on, he shuddered.

And his heart was beating so fast in his chest and he could hear it, almost taste it, when you turned around to look at him and smiled brightly.

Someone called your name. “how’d it go for you guys?” marco asked, armin turning towards you. jean watched as you shrugged and it all seemed effortless – uncalculated, relaxed, you responded with a soft smile, “y’know. Can’t complain. Reiner did try to shove me into a tree, though-“

“that was an accident, I’d never-“

“no, you did! I saw you!” sasha says, pointing at the blonde who looks around for support, red with embarrassment. Jean finds the strength to sit back up, his weight on his forearms, and you turn to look at him after instigating the bickering that now seemingly everyone but you and jean were a part of. He wondered if you could detect the softness that filled his eyes as he looked at you. you offered him your waterbottle, noticing the sweat on his brow, turning back to the conversation – if you could even call it that – at hand.

“I mean, it couldn’t have been intentional-“ bert reasoned, to which eren remarked “reiner’s a team player, though!” at reiner's defence. The man looked like a deflated version of himself, looking down at his lap shamefully.

You laughed. “total team player. Sorry, reiner.”

“honestly, I don’t blame you. if his big-“ connie gestures to his chest, cupping the air around it, “-bumped into me, i'd also fall into a tree.”

Eren laughs. Jean groans, his face scrunching up. “do you want me to tell everyone what happened last night?” he says with a smirk, leaning into the conversation, and connie’s eyes go comically wide.

“no-“ he says, his voice cracking, and the chatter breaks out once more, everyone urging jean to continue.

Marco glances at him with a smile. You and jean make a good team, he thinks, and he wonders how long it’ll take for the two of you to realise it without any help from him. The moment you stop talking, he completes you, without hesitation and with the same sharp glint in his eye as yours. marco always pride himself as an astute observer, the same as his best friend, but unlike the latter, he wouldn’t point out his discoveries outright, not without some coaxing or unless it was absolutely needed. So of course – even if it had been obvious to everyone else except maybe eren – the way you and jean conversed and acted like two halves of the same being didn’t go unnoticed by him, the way jean stole a couple spritz of his lavender perfume sometimes to make himself more “presentable” to no-one in particular, he knew it was for you. the way your shoulders relaxed under only jean’s soft gaze, the way you would try to spot jean’s ashy hair across the dining hall and would beeline towards him without hesitation. All of it, all the telltale signs of young love that was capable of turning so much more were all present, splayed out with its organs open to poking and prodding.

Marco wondered if this is how it would always be. If jean would always glance at you for a reaction while retelling a story against connie’s loud protests, if you would always laugh at his obvious attempts to bring connie down as much as connie did to jean.

Maybe it would. Maybe marco would always observe you two, skirting around your feelings because it was too obvious to say out loud.

And maybe it was, marco realized, his eyes squinting at your interaction with his best friend – unsaid, almost secret but not ashamed to be out in the open. He watches with only a little confusion as jean nods his head towards you with recognition and a small smile that barely reaches his cheeks and then he watches you, a stranger he doesn’t know the name of, do the same to him and almost wants to laugh at how obvious this is. But nobody else is watching, nobody witnesses the universe bait its breath and stop time for an intangible second.

And then, just as quick, you turn back to the rest of his friends and ask with your shoulders relaxed, “so, what would you guys like to order?”

Right. That’s what was happening. Marco blinks back at you.

“three cheesecakes. Wait, no, hold on-“ sasha says, and turns to her as connie squints at the menu again, no doubt having trouble reading, mustering up a loud but sure, “dooibos jelly!”

You tilt you head, “one rooibos jelly.”, you say, subtly correcting connie and marco laughs. “stupid ass name.” connie mutters, and jean’s head turns to him. “I know youre not talking, constance springer.”

Your movements still.

“that’s not even my real name. that’s fake. Like, I stole an id-”

“I have your birth certificate on my phone right now.” Sasha says, pulling out her phone from her pocket, but marco’s eyes are on you. “why the fuck do you have my birth-“ “research.” “the astrology bullshit again?” “something has to answer to this mess!” “excuse me? Im beautiful.” baldy - connie speaks.

Your fingers have gone stiff, shoulders tensed, blinking rapidly and it clicks. It makes sense. To marco atleast. He steps closer to the counter, placing his hands on the wood. “breathe, just breathe through it.”

Your eyes close, as if that would help with everything you were seeing. In the wooden, humid dining hall, connie stealing from your plate, repeating the same joke with him and the brown haired girl and doubling over with laughter as your beloved grumbled under his breath about how it wasn’t that funny but you knew he was smiling too; comforting connie after he lost his twin, accompanying him to ragako to see his family and listening to his stories about his small but loud village.

you did as you were told, not questioning Freckle’s instructions as you inhaled, exhaled. One, two three. Why did remembering have to be so painful? You could only faintly make out the concerned voices that filled around you, hands guiding your shoulders – they were warm and familiar is all you knew, all you wanted to know – and you try to focus on your breathing, but this name, this goddamn name sends you spiralling through a tornado, falling with you breath stuck in your chest; “connie springer” and his jokes, sitting in the dining room, standing near the stables, charging into an unfortunate carnage, flying through the trees as the branches scratch the side of your face, your cheeks stretched with the wide smile that spills from your lips, your laughter mixed with his travelling through the air because of a joke that was deemed lame by almost everyone but you.

A hand was intertwined with yours, pressing into your flesh with soft pressure despite its calluses, you note, another hand that you couldn’t feel through your clothes rested on your back, feeling the up and down of your breathing, moving their thumb in a small circle there. The wood pattern of the table infront of you, the small chatter from everyone in the café but your circle, the smell of fresh tea – chamomile, you think, you weren’t as good as Levi with the guessing game – berry flavoured gum that stained your tastebuds. Breathing in and then out. In and then out until connie springer became nothing but a name with a face and wrinkles around his eyes. Someone that could lighten the mood with one word. Someone that could hug you and pat your back awkwardly but with all the love he could muster up, which seemed to be a lot. Someone who was important to you. Was supposed to be important to you.

“better?” flower boy asks, and you know its important because he’s never looked at you like this, with this much warmth and knowing, and it was his hand holding yours. With flinching being involuntary, it left less of a choice for you to leave his grip. You can only find it in yourself to nod, a simple action bearing more than you want to imagine.

Connie’s on the other side of the table, looking at you eagerly. Freckles is to your right and Sunshine – this is what you will call her until you could have the courage to learn her name before you learn your own – is sitting to his right, connie’s left. Was his nickname just as heavy as his name? is that why you felt like this? You shift in your seat. You wonder how heavy your own name is.

“man, thought you died again with that look on your face.” Connie jokes, as always. Flower boy’s hand goes stiff in yours and you find it involuntary to squeeze it to relax him. Since when did you give yourself as much importance? Since when did you think that your touch could relax someone? Your hands have always been cold. Dead? Is that what connie said? Checked out.

“too soon.” Freckles says, a small smile on his face. Connie nods and shifts back in his seat. You don’t want to learn the rest of their names – not because you lack the courage or the grief but because you lacked the knowledge to. You couldn’t bear to hold that importance, the expectation that held up their faces, the same look your parents held, the same look that would be broken when you mentioned going to the university of paradis instead of the one you couldn’t get into. You couldn’t bear to break the news to them, their hopeful faces, looking at you for a word – your word, the one you hated to say out loud because it made your existence far more real than you’d like it to be, your name that was nothing but an outline of what you were supposed to be – and to watch their same faces fall because of everything you couldn’t provide. Your story was already written, however, because the next words you could think of were remnant of what you wanted to say and not what you were supposed to say, “so, what have you been up to?” with a pep in your voice that you didn’t recognize. You suppose you never have been able to recognize who you were.

Flower boy’s confusion to your avoidance terrified you, terrified of the importance you felt because you could identify his emotions without so much as a glance at his face. And then there were Sunshine and connie who talked over each other, their voices settling deep within your bones, everything you felt increasing tenfold, feeling like it was no longer contained within you but reached out of the boundaries of this store. It terrified you. You were giving yourself too much importance, a place that wasn’t supposed to be filled by you.

Freckles looked between the two of them, opening and closing his mouth to say something, interject their stories, and flower boy was still looking at you. You wondered what he was thinking. You wondered what you were thinking, too, to still be here. You had a plan, something that you were supposed to do. Complete high school graduation, something that would fulfil your parent’s wishes before everything else, pretend to care about further education, pretend to care about waking up no matter how exhausted your body was from never sleeping, pretend to eat, pretend to not lock your bathroom, pretend you didn’t want to let the ground bury you. It’s embrace would be infinitely warmer than whatever the air held, always smelling like built up guilt and discomfort that refused to leave no matter how many incense sticks you burnt, no matter how much smoke you filled up with. And then pretend to be alive for seven minutes as the cold felt warmer and the warmth felt colder. At least, that’s what it was supposed to feel like according to the minimal, hesitant research you had done about bodies after death.

Planned. Everything with you had to be put in perfect, cursive letters, reminding you of who you were supposed to be, of the shoes and clothes you were supposed to fill out. The heaviness of it all, too; you were listening, not quiet there, and it felt a lot like an apology. Like lost letters from friends who could never find the other’s new address because they never reached out to. It felt a lot like an admission of guilt than you actually being here, like this big performance the steps to which you were entirely unaware of, always teetering between the edge of being just enough and failing, always on thin ice.

Dead. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Connie said it. Flower boy felt it, you were sure, and Freckles was aware of it. Sunshine tried to hide it entirely but the pea sized elephant in the room was made clear to you – you were not supposed to be here. Maybe some other, better, beautiful version of you was. she deserved it. You didnt know her but you knew that she did, and who were you to deprive her of that joy? The joy of getting to know the version of you that was long buried underground with dirt filling their lungs and whites of their eyes turned a cold grey. Whoever it was that you saw in your dreams – you refuse to call her your own name – was someone else entirely, crumpled under the weight of those fiery monsters in an island that went just as unnamed as you. Maybe that’s who they were looking for. You were dead, performing at a funeral of someone you’re supposed to know, someone youre supposed to be, and people are looking at you for answers you don’t have. They’re looking at you.

Theyre looking at you. You stare at the space between you and flower boy, Freckles is tapping you on the shoulder. You look up, theyre looking at you for answers you don’t have, expectant smiles on their faces for a voice you couldn’t bear to hear from yourself, for a name you could never make your own.

Sunshine shifts closer, her hands leaning on the table. You do the same, leaning in close so her excited whispers can reach your ears even though what she asks isn’t a secret. “what’s your name?”

right. You owe it to them.

You lean back. It hurts. You tell them who you are.

And then theres more silence. They seem to know how to deal with it – Sunshine leans back into her chair and stares as the ceiling much like connie, Freckles leans forward and rests his head on the table, flower boy stiffens entirely and you worry he isn’t breathing. He shifts closer to you without speaking and you let him. Who are you to stop him? They know you now. Or atleast, theyre supposed to. You rub circle’s on flower boy’s hand, rhythmic, performing. Speaking of a dead person was hard, especially since it was yourself. You never knew how to sign off on letters, you never knew how to give speeches or how to start them without sweating and now you had a crowd – a procession, some mourners for someone you were supposed to be – and it felt like an apologetic eulogy of someone you had never met but were supposed to know about, know of, become. It wasn’t you.

Maybe your parents were also mourners. The few friends turned strangers you had back where you regrettably grew up were also mourners.

but that was giving yourself too much importance. Who were you to have a funeral? You would never. But she – the you with the blades in your hands - could. she would. Was it him? flower boy? Who cried over your – her – dead figure drenched in blood, promising something important? Must’ve been him with the way he was holding you now but, then again, it wasn’t you being held. It was the body in the casket that went unburied not because she wasnt loved enough, but because she were loved too much.

Something that could never be you. Too much importance.

The silence was broken by Freckles. He smiled warmly, with familiar happiness, letters found by strangers turned friends after finding the right address to go to. “good to see you again.”

again, as if you’d met before. As if it was you who he’d met and loved.

You smiled back as performance, standing up with him as he took you in his arms, noting the way flower boy’s hands lingered in yours as you got up. she must’ve been important, this version of you that they had built up in their heads that you were sure to destroy with one wrong word. Freckles hugged you tightly, his arms circling your shoulders, his head resting on top of yours and you wonder if he thinks it’s an awkward form, one of your arms is pressed in between both your bodies, the other reaching around his back, your nametag digging into your chest, no doubt digging into his as well with your rapid breathing. Connie and Sunshine joined in a minute later, unable to stop themselves – how you could guess their emotions was a mystery to you. You were giving yourself too much importance, you assumed, flower boy’s hands engulfing the four of you now and despite the layers of arms covering you, you could feel his warmth the most.

You were giving yourself too much importance.

“connie, I cant breathe.” Sunshine says, her nose buried into Freckles’ dark blue sweater.

“its jean’s fault-“

“get your nose out of marco’s fucking big back-“

“just because im taller than sasha doesn’t mean I have a big ba-“

So many names being thrown without a care in the world; without the importance held under their tongues that you thought they’d hold. No longer Sunshine and flower boy and Freckles, their names meshed together with the memories and the pain of remembering, again, and you wondered why it had to be you. Why it had to be someone like you who had to hold this gun to your own head, you who had to recite a eulogy in front of strangers, you who had to forget and remember and forget again, why it was you who wasn’t allowed to give yourself too much importance, why it was you that was supposed to be important.

Your head buried itself further into Freckles’ – marco. Marco with constellations for freckles, marco who had asked you – her – for advice on what to give his youngest sister on her birthday while being so far away from her, marco who had told you your gear was loose before you headed headfirst into battle without knowing its consequences, marco who had told you that you and your flower boy make a good team after a mission, marco who’s face chewed off in an uneven chunk, half his limbs destroyed, his eyes closed. Without a goodbye.

Marco. His name was marco now, your eyes closed tighter, the chatter around you increased. Something about connie saying, “what did we do now?” only to be met with “did we not tell them our names?” “I don’t… I think we did?” “well clearly fucking not.” Followed by another pair of arms replacing marco’s, and the feeling itself made you crumble to your knees if it wasn’t for him holding you upright, your weight pressed onto him. He held you delicately, with a purpose you didn’t have the importance to serve. “I’ve got you. We’re here.” He says, and if just the sound of his voice could solve everything, you’d let him. You’d let him play god, you’d let him play with the strings of the universe that you’d let control you, you’d let him put you in your coffin and dig dirt on top of your stranger of a body.

“should I get them some tea? What’s their favourite?” previously Sunshine, now turned sasha asks. No, she was always sasha. Were you always yourself? You weren’t sure about that, but her voice makes you grimace, even with her honeyed tones flowing to your ears. It wasn’t her fault. No matter how much you tried to suppress all that you were feeling to show that you were fine because that’s what the mangled corpse of yourself would’ve done in another life, you don’t, because you're not her, and sasha’s voice serves as a reminder of her being a part of you. Bunking with her, her hair flowing over her shoulders as she took a hold of your hands and practically begged you to steal some extra rations from the kitchens, sitting on her bed after your first expedition, sitting in silence for the first time since you met her because both of you were incapable of having something to say to each other, opting to hold each other instead, brushing the knots out of her hair as she rambled to you about the countless horrifying ways her date with the blonde chef all while laughing at her drawn out conclusions about the end of the date that hadn’t even started yet.

And then there was him. Flower boy. Jean. His nickname felt just as heavy as connie’s, but if you had the strength to, you would’ve wondered why, knowing that the answer would be a low, inconsiderate hum from the universe, and the way your heart constricts in your chest makes you wonder if this serves as a punishment. The sin you hadn’t meant to commit, the sin of being someone else and trying to fill their uncomfortable shoes – maybe the hole in your chest was a cruel, albeit worthy, damnation and the only thing that brought you comfort was the fact that you had felt this before. That you had prepared yourself by knowing what it felt like to have nothing to thaw yourself from the frozen state you were in. even if it wasn’t in the same position as you were in right now, you had felt the drowning depth that your limbs ache into and ache for. The only problem was him. The same person who was quiet literally holding you up by the shoulders was the reason you were so conflicted, why everything felt worse because now you had people to let down. you knew what it was like to be held by him and you knew that it was him who was holding you and now you had to come to terms with the uncontrollable fact that you had to be the one to break his hopes. Tell him that the person he had been looking for was dead, waiting to be buried by him, body getting warmer by the minute because he was holding it’s corpse.

Dead. You were supposed to be dead, you had everything planned out. Complete highschool. Pretend. Dead. You were supposed to be dead but now jean’s warm breath is shifting the hair where his nose rested, his lips forming words you’re sure you can shape yourself into. You breathe out. He feels as real as nothing ever has and you shudder again and you think he thinks youre cold – you are – and he pulls his jacket off and on top of your shoulders as muscle memory even if your skin has never been used to the kindness he’s offering. Hes covering a corpse with his own hands. Bed of flowers growing over your previous body, you were sure, because only she was capable of growing something beautiful.

You control your breathing. You’ve done this before. back when you used to be afraid of the dark, back when everyone with a face claimed to hate you, back when the bathroom was your only respite to breathe. And then jean pulls away, only a little, and youre looking down at your shoes because you know his eyes will speak truth that you don’t want to read. His voice – vibrating, low, considerate, his – asks, “better now?”

Performance. Whoever you were in that life is capable of something far more beautiful than what you could say, and it’s a script that’s been provided for you, because you find the teetering strength to look up at him and speak, finally, with a voice that’s not yours because it’s alive. Or it’s pretending to be. “never better,” your teeth are rotting and falling out and there are maggots in your skull youre dead youre dead youre dead.

Jean smiles. The light falls down on his cheekbones and he looks like he belongs with this performance of you and youre glad your wear for worse body had provided him with a rare reason to smile like that, all soft and kind and eyes crinkled on the corners because he had lived. Your fingers move without the hesitant permission they usually openly have, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. His eyes fall shut momentarily, the universe baits it’s breath with patience that it hadn’t been kind enough to show you until now. You breathe in too, involuntary, unallowed, impatient, and your hand falls back down, resting on his chest, feeling the organ of his heart. A place you knew you belonged. Where she belonged. This new performance.

The stage has been set. All you have to do is act. Keep up the appearance of being the person they wanted you to be, all for the satisfaction of someone dead being miraculously alive. You wondered if your demise had anything to do with the way you unfortunately turned out – if the blood seeping out of you somehow tampered with the way you’d live (if you could dare to call it living) in this universe, in this life, but then you look over to sasha who’s deer-brown eyes have a glossy sheen to them, wide and waiting with her arms open, fingers waiting.

The stage has been set. All you have to do is act.

ACT 1, SCENE 1.

INTERIOR. BLOOM TEAS, 4:48 P.M.

SASHA’s arms open for POPPY. The lights filter in through the windows, afternoon warmth slipping into the cool of the store. CONNIE waits, expectant. MARCO’s smile is soft. flower boy JEAN’s hand on the small of POPPY's back. POPPY steps into SASHA’s embrace.

SASHA (smiling, voice cracking)

I missed you.

POPPY (reciprocating)

me too.

CONNIE (joining in)

stop gatekeeping the hug, sash.

SASHA

im not doing shit, baldy.

MARCO (joining in, chuckling)

this feels right.

flower boy JEAN (humming)

we should probably get out of here, though. That guy’s starin’ at us.

ALL turn their heads towards LEVI, who wipes down a cup, shooting glares towards the group.

POPPY

oh shit, I have to be at work right now.

SASHA (holding POPPY’s face in her hands.)

Her hands are soft, warm. Her thumb almost pokes into your eye but she’s careful to not let it.

does this mean we get stuff for free now?

MARCO

sash, I don’t think that’s allowed.

CONNIE

why not? POPPY’s an employee. There should be uh… a discount.

MARCO (turning to POPPY)

...is there?

POPPY

I wish, but no. we do get one free drink per day, though, and sometimes we get to take the leftovers home. I have some matcha cake in my fridge, if you’d like.

SASHA (grinning widely)

are you inviting us to have matcha cake at your place? D’ya have a crush on us or something?

Flower boy JEAN (groaning)

are you sure you wanna share with her, poppy?

SASHA (offended)

hey!

CONNIE

no, jean’s right. for the first time ever.

jean scrunches his face up. Its cute. If you had more importance and more of a connection to being a part of this play, you’d reach out to tap his nose with your index finger gently. Enough to annoy him but still find your affection.

MARCO

I really think we should leave, now that jean said it.

POPPY

don’t worry about it. That’s just levi.

Collective silence.

jean’s head rests on your shoulder for a moment. sasha and connie's face pales. you're not sure if its because of you saying his name out loud or if it’s because theyre still afraid of him. you wouldn’t blame them. marco simply tilts his head – you suppose he wasn’t there when levi had made everyone clean the cabin top to bottom five times over because he had found a singular speck of dirt under one of the beds.

CONNIE

yeah we should fucking get out of here I don’t want him to chop my fucking arm off.

SASHA

I don’t remember the last time I cleaned my room. Can he smell that on me? I feel like he can.

flower boy JEAN

I think he can hear it on you too. Hello captain.

LEVI enters the scene. All eyes are now on him.

LEVI

what's going on here?

CONNIE and SASHA salute, their fist against their chest.

BOTH (eyes screwed shut)

captain levi, sir!

flower boy JEAN (standing up straighter, fixing his posture.)

s-sir. Hello.

LEVI (narrowing his eyes)

names. Now.

FADING OUT

ACT 1, SCENE 2

INTERIOR. BLOOM TEAS, 9:56 P.M

you had the closing shift, and after serving some beverages and food – there were multiple rounds of this, considering sasha – and your hands shook with familiar cold as you pressed in the code to lock the back door of the café, your apartment keys heavy in your pocket, calling you back to your pyjama’s and mattress.

flower boy JEAN

hey, poppy.

POPPY flinches, turning around.

POPPY (smiling softly)

jesus, you scared me.

flower boy JEAN (also smiling, hands in his pockets)

boo.

POPPY

oh, im so scared… I hope a big strong man comes to save me.

flower boy JEAN (interlocking hands with POPPY)

right here, my love.

Huh. Love. It was strange how the nickname fell off his lips so naturally, as if it were already there, as if it suited you and became who you were. But the name wasn’t meant for you. it was meant for this poppy . A reminder for you to stay on stage without breaking character.

POPPY (laughing softly)

were you waiting for me, flower boy?

flower boy JEAN

no, I was just… you know. Admiring this…. Beautiful alley. Yeah. Nice brick walls you got there.

POPPY (laughing)

yeah, I made them myself, thanks.

flower boy JEAN (starting to lead POPPY home)

I was going to drop you off. Missed you at the shop today.

POPPY

i forgot I took a double shift today. I would’ve told you last week if-

flower boy JEAN

its alright. Where do you live?

Another reminder that he doesn’t know you. this you, the one that half-assed decorating your apartment because you got too whipped up into the semester to care about how you lived. This you who couldn’t call any place a home. How could this you – someone who’s not a poppy or a love or a whoever he deems fit – compare to the one that had a temple built under her sacred name in the centre of jean’s heart?

POPPY

just straight and then a left. Takes about twenty minutes by foot.

flower boy JEAN hums.

Theres a lull in your barely-there script of a conversation, your hand still in his.

flower boy JEAN

you okay?