Chapter Text
It’s been ten years now. A lot has changed; Trost as well. It’s almost like it’s a real place again, though it will never be the Trost Jean ran through when he was a child.
That Trost died with Marco and the hundreds of others that day.
Jean knows somewhere inside that he won’t find it again at the bottom of a bottle, but he can’t help but look. After all, that thing you’re looking for always shows up in the last place you look, right?
The bartender knows Jean well enough to know when he needs this the most. He also knows Jean’s limits; probably better than the man himself. He knows when to start serving Jean water with food colouring, because Jean won’t notice, and he won’t be mad the next morning.
The ten year anniversary of Trost is a dark day for everyone, and the bartender lets Jean have a few more drinks than normal. They grimly take shots together, not needing to talk. They’d only talk about what they’d lost, anyway, and no one needs that shit. Not tonight. Wordlessly, Jean shakes the bartender’s hand, pays his tab, and stumbles out of the bar. He’d come alone, and he always leaves alone. There’s no point to the people who try to pick him up; they give up pretty quickly when they see the ghosts in his eyes, anyway.
Jean wanders the street aimlessly. They say that with every mission you come back alive with the Survey Corps, your chance of survival increases greatly. It’s true, and it’s fucking unfair horse shit. The turnover rate is incredible. Jean doesn’t even bother learning anyone’s name anymore.
It’s unfair, he thinks as he collapses on the sidewalk. He scoots back against the rebuilt house and stares at the sky. He wonders if he’s looking at the same sky Marco had, or if life had drained from his friend by the time he was tossed here.
It’s so unfair. Jean doesn’t try to stop the tears that streak his face, the quiet sobs that wrack his tired form. His sides ache from crying, because he’s not sure that he ever actually stopped after the first tears had fallen in front of the funeral pyre.
He wants Marco back. The laughs and scares and hushed kisses would never be enough. No one would ever be able to replace that soft blush Marco got when he giggled, the deep pink that covered his face when he laughed too hard for too long, the bright scarlet that seeped onto the freckled skin of his chest when he was close, so close, Jean’s name falling from his lips like prayers. All of it, all those nights were never enough.
Jean’s had to grow old alone, and he’s been terrified the entire time. Every day could be the day, and Jean’s not sure if he wants that or not. But this is his life now. He’s survived ten years; he’s basically invincible, an unstoppable force within Levi’s squad. The glory is nothing compared to the victory he had felt when Marco smiled so wide he lit up their blanket fort.
Jean sighs, staring at the stars. They’re moving so fast, but it might just be the whiskey talking. Pretty soon he’d stand up, brush himself off, and head back to his house. He would pass out in his bed, and he would wake the next morning, put on his uniform, and leave the walls with his team to stare death in its grinning idiot face once again.
And just like every other time, he would lose his cool and cut a bloody path through his pain. And he’d come back and his muscles would be sore, and he’d know that it still means nothing.