Chapter Text
The crowd cheered as he caught her in his arms, sweeping her off her feet as it was expected of him. She held onto him tightly, her face buried on the left side of his neck.
“You… you came down,” was the thing he managed to say, a rather obvious one. He did not even care if he sounded stupid now. Only she could hear, and she was used to those moments of sudden awkwardness from him. In fact, she chuckled against his neck, and kissed it, before pulling away, so that they could look at each other.
A sparkle in her eyes, a broad smile, and here she was, looking the same and yet immeasurably different from the Pieck he was used to seeing: it was as if she reflected in her eyes the age she would have had if their lives had been different all along, if they had always experienced only gentleness and comfort in their formative years. Young; girlish, even.
Had he been able to operate such a change in her, tonight?
Had he been able to give her such joy?
And what about him? Did he look different, too? He knew he too was smiling but not much else. He could not register anything.
“Hey,” Pieck said then, “Kiss me before putting me down.”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he replied.
“You are, silly,” she said. “We have to go to Dad, remember?”
Right.
Things started to register again.
There was still a lot to do.
Liberio Eldians liked complicated things, didn’t they?
He kissed her then, still holding her in his arms. The crowd cheered again, more enthusiastically now, Connie improvising an embarrassing chant and others following.
For once, Jean did not care. Very few things could disturb that moment between the two of them.
Although he had to admit it took a serious effort to keep his eyes open for the pictures.
Annie’s photographic flashes were rather violent.
*
“Please, for the love of everything that is sacred to you, Jean, when Pieck comes down and you kiss her, try to remember you’re in public,” Annie said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean don’t start making out disgustingly like you usually do every time you are around each other.”
“Yes, Jean,” Connie said, nodding. “Remember that there will be children.”
He pointed to Falco to illustrate his point.
“I’m sixteen,” Falco replied.
“Who cares about the children?!” Annie said. “If you move too much you will ruin my photographs, and you won’t even end up recognizable in them, you will look like… mush. Please try to look decent, it’s all I ask.”
Jean took note of that, and, for later use, of how Annie called him and Pieck “disgusting”, to come back at her the first moment he caught her and Armin doing anything inappropriate (although, them being Annie and Armin, that could mean he’d have to wait some years for it.)
Annie then turned around to address the others. “You too,” she said. It felt like a threat.
Connie nodded solemnly, while Reiner, sitting next to Falco, barely threw a glance at her from the papers he was studying.
“Shit, this stuff really is tough,” he said after a while, running his hand over his forehead and then over his right cheek.
“It’s just music, Reiner,” said Jean. “You’ve learned and memorized far more complex military schemes in your time.”
“Yeah, didn’t you grow up with these songs in your ears? It should be easier for you,” added Connie.
(Falco was the one having it easier: besides familiarity with the material, he had mandatory music classes in his school; Onyankopon was close second because he was diligent, and serious. They all copied their notes, in fact, Jean included.)
“I’m just saying,” Reiner said, this time raising his head and looking straight at the silent participant to the meeting, “that it is unfair that the one of us who could excel at this is not included in the band.”
“Heh?!” Armin said, an apologetic smile on his face. “I do not understand what you mean, Reiner. I can’t take part in this.”
“Admit it,” Connie said to Armin, “You feel very lucky to be married today.”
“I feel very lucky to be married every day,” replied Armin.
“Ugh.”
“Smooth.”
Armin smiled.
“Don’t gloat, Armin,” said Annie. “You know you’ll have to operate the flashes. That is a serious job.”
“Not like the one that is entrusted to us idiots, she means,” Connie said.
“Exactly. Not like the one entrusted to those idiots,” said Annie. “And poor Onyankopon, why did you even accept, I ask…”
“Well, Annie, partaking in different traditions is fun, isn’t it? And Jean asked, so I could not say no.”
“If you say so.”
“Hey, Annie! Did you call us idiots? Falco—a child—too?”
“I’m not a chil—!“
“Yes.”
They ended up bickering, then, with only Onyankopon trying to calm things down (Reiner dared not contradict Annie these days. Not for such little things: they were the deadliest.)
It would have been fun if it wasn’t for the fact that it was about Jean’s marriage proposal, and not theirs.
Jean sat on the bench on the other side of the room. After a moment, Armin sat next to him.
“It will go well, you don’t have to worry,” Armin said.
“Wait, you’re not here ready to hit me with one hundred things that I should think about in case something goes wrong?”
Armin seemed to be thinking about it for a bit.
“Nah,” he said finally.
Jean was not convinced.
“But you’re thinking it must go well because this show of tradition cements our relationship with the Eldians of the Liberio community, so I must not fail.”
Armin shook his head, and then looked at him.
“You want to know what I am thinking about?” he asked.
Jean nodded.
“I’m thinking: should I tell Jean that when I asked him to work in order to keep Pieck on our side, five years ago, I didn’t mean for him to go that far?”
Jean looked at him horrified, but Armin was already trying not to laugh.
“Oh, shut up!”
Armin started laughing openly then.
“Shut up, I said!”
He felt flustered and he knew he was blushing violently, then, but he laughed too, in the end. Not that in the meantime he didn’t try to slap Armin and his stupid sense of humor; only, in lack of any success (“Don’t you dare hurt him, Jean Kirstein!”) laughing it off was all he had left.
“You mean it, right? When you say that it’ll go well,” Jean asked after a while.
“It’s a proposal, Jean. Mine didn’t go well at all, the five of them, and yet here I am.”
(In that moment, Connie was still trying to provoke Annie:
“Now that I think of it, why didn’t we do something similar for your wedding too?”
“Because Armin wanted to live.”)
Armin smiled.
Jean said:
“I… I mean… the rest.”
Armin sighed, patted Jean on the shoulder.
“I am as new to this as you are. What can I say?”
“You’ve been married forever.”
“It hasn’t even been a year, Jean.”
It was true, but something about it was bothering Jean. Looking back, the recent past—his relationships and his job, his travels, the house he wanted to buy—either seemed eternal or not real at all. And as for the more remote past… ah. That felt… remote. And yet, that was it. The sting.
“It’s just that I can’t believe it is happening. In my life. Not this way.”
With a slight smile on his face, Armin moved his hair away from his forehead.
“I think I know something about it.”
More than anything else, for the fact they both shared the same fate: both of them having formed romantic ties with Marley girls, someone whom they have considered enemies once, and before that, non-existing.
And then for the fact that their imagined life, in the remote past, would have never contemplated a future with such a big piece of them missing. It was either death, or a full victory, for all of them. Nothing in between.
They had been kids.
He still felt like one, in many ways. But then, he listened to a call that could shed the last layer off of him. He listened to it. And he decided to answer.
That made him happy. That, he could touch.
“But huh, I guess I won’t get it until I’m there, right?”
Armin smiled.
“You’ll have to survive all this, first.”
“It’s just a proposal, isn’t it? And given that I’m good at singing, after all…”
Gabi then entered the room.
“So, I’m back from the Blouses, everything is set for the horse,” she said.
Silence.
“The… what?” asked Jean.
“The horse needed for the proposal,” she said.
Jean stared at Gabi, then turned around.
Reiner brought his hand to his mouth and gave two small coughs.
“That’s not the horse that is needed for the proposal,” he said. “We have that here.”
He tried to look serious, as did Connie.
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Jean said. “Your idea of a joke?”
He was addressing Connie, who ignored him.
“We needed you more convincing, Gabi!” Connie said.
“Heh? I was convincing! Next time you try and see how it sounds absolutely silly,” she replied.
“I thought that my line was fine,” said Reiner.
“Idiots,” said Jean, shaking his head.
“What if Pieck wanted a real horse for the proposal, though?” asked Annie. “Then I should change the settings…”
“Wait, it isn’t true?” asked Falco. “Because Mr. Blouse told me about having the horse ready yesterday.”
“I understand that you like to push these jokes very far, but I also knew about the horse,” said Onyankopon. “So what is going on?”
Unbelievable.
One could never be prepared enough for this. Not in this life or any other.
*
He finally let Pieck down, and as she approached Reiner to thank him and to inquire about his status, Falco brought him the bundle: the next step.
He was ready for that.
*
Inside, Mr. Finger was waiting for them. Like the first time he had visited Pieck’s father, he felt awkward, even scared, despite Mr. Finger being the least intimidating person among all of the Liberio Eldians (and a good chunk of the rest of the people he had ever met, including children).
“Um, good evening,” Jean said as he entered the simple living room of the apartment, his hands holding the colorful bundle in front of himself, in the direction of his future father-in-law, who was sitting at the table. Pieck closed the door behind him, then rushed to her father to hug him and kiss him.
“Jean,” Mr. Finger said, looking at him. “Please, sit.” He showed him a chair across from where he was sitting.
Jean nodded, and for a moment he thought he was going to trip on his own shoelaces.
But he had to be brave, now, right? He took a breath, approached the table, and said: “Sir. I am here to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
Mr. Finger then smiled, the half-crooked smile so similar to Pieck’s; he was amused, but with gentleness. Maybe Jean was doing something wrong, but he did not want to put any weight on it.
Mr. Finger nodded. “Please, sit,” he repeated.
Jean, feeling absolutely inadequate, the bundle still in his hands: “Where do I—“
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Finger. “Pieck, could you please fetch a plate?”
From beside him, Jean noticed, Pieck gave a start. “Yes, Dad,” she said.
He could not look away from Mr. Finger, he could not see her. But a plate soon materialized where he was holding out the bundle. She touched him briefly. He nodded, he laid the bundle down, and he finally took a seat.
They could finally begin.
Mr. Finger undid the knot to the piece of cloth that wrapped the bundle tightly. The colors of the cloth were yellow, blue and red. Sewing the fabric together had been the toughest thing for Jean, not because he could not do it but because he had to hide it from Pieck and they mostly traveled together all the time as of now. It took so much time and so much effort that he panicked at the idea that it could be stained with grease; he hoped the parchment paper was doing its job there.
“Oh, there is another layer,” said Mr. Finger. He took away the cloth and then took away the paper.
Inside, the roasted meat Jean had cooked earlier that day, in all its splendor. For a moment he thought, Sasha, I do hope you’re not laughing at me now.
The meat looked good, but Mr. Finger seemed surprised at its sight: he remained silent for a while, and then he looked at Jean and said, eyes wide open: “Oh.”
Jean could not reply but with another: “Oh?”
Was something wrong? Did Mr. Finger know he had made some changes to the recipe already? Was he going to lo—
“Sorry, Jean,” said Mr. Finger. “It’s that, given that we know already that you can cook, I almost expected that tonight you would have treated us with some of your coffee.”
For a moment, Jean, taken aback, looked at him in pure horror.
Then, he saw: the seemingly innocent smile on Mr. Finger’s face.
Of course, someone must have gifted Pieck with that sense of humor, right?
The devil!
“The coffee would have gotten cold, and I would have failed, Sir,” he said. “Moritz,” he added. He smiled. “If you let me use your kitchen, I will brew a cup for you now.”
He and Pieck’s father stared at each other intently.
Then, Mr. Finger closed his eyes and nodded.
“You are right, son,” he said. “But now we eat. Later, you can prove yourself however you want.”
Then he started to chuckle. Thus Jean covered his face with his hand and started laughing as well, the jolts of emotion finally able to come out.
He felt Pieck’s gentle hand squeeze, then, but also heard her weak protests.
“Dad, no, please do not let Jean near the coffee…”
She was laughing too.
Afterward, it got easier. They cut the meat and they ate it, as per tradition, while Mr. Finger kindly inquired about their plans for the wedding, and for the house. Jean was prepared for that, just as he had been prepared to illustrate the addition of a frittata layer to the meat roll. That was accepted and approved. As for Jean’s parents, they had been informed already of Jean’s intentions to propose, but he and Pieck were going to visit them in Paradis right after to arrange for them to come to the wedding, travel permits and all. If everything worked out, then, they’ll be married by the beginning of summer.
It was time to move on to the next step.
“I should go change,” Pieck said.
“Yes,” said her father. “I think you have about seven minutes before the crowd will start seriously protesting.”
“I can do that,” Pieck said. She disappeared into the corridor, and the two men were left alone.
“Sir,” Jean said.
“I knew you were serious,” said Mr. Finger.
Jean nodded, and stared at him.
Then Mr. Finger added: “About my daughter. But, I guess, about the coffee too. You have seven minutes… no. Six.”
He could do it, couldn’t he? He had made coffee so many times.
And all of those times he did it wrong.
But he had to try.
For Pieck.
Ok, no, not really.
For his pride.
He went into the kitchen.
*
When he served the coffee, Pieck wasn’t done yet (and that was surprising), while Mr. Finger said nothing as he poured the dark liquid into the cups.
“I… am going to clean up while Pieck finishes.”
So, in the end, he was not brave enough to withstand the judgment from his father-in-law. Or from Pieck’s.
Also, he wanted to clean up and wash the dishes.
Given their history, it felt appropriate.
*
“You know that never mattered at all, do you?”
Pieck was at the entrance of the kitchen, in a checkered burgundy woolen dress. She looked so beautiful, and so soft at the sight, he was tempted to wrap her in his arms at that very moment and forget about everyone and everything else.
But then, she had posed a question.
The coffee.
He closed his eyes and smirked.
“You really don’t want to risk it, mh?” he asked.
“You want me to reject your marriage proposal?”
Well, no, he did not want that. But still—
“So, did you have it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Pieck…?”
“You know you’ll never be in charge of that anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”
“But did you have it, or not?”
She looked away.
So, it was either terrible or she did not dare to try it at all.
He could not even torture himself if he didn’t know which of the two.
Maybe that was her plan.
But also…
“I worked hard on it. I forced Reiner to wake up at dawn in order to practice. Pieck,” Jean said, “You have to trust me here.”
“You have to trust me too, Jean.”
She took a step towards him, and then another, and then stopped, and looked at him, with her big, languid eyes.
He tried not to look back. He would not give in.
He needed to know.
“So, Jean? Will you?”
Fuck. That was difficult.
“Will… Will you?” he asked, not even knowing what answer he was expecting.
“I will if you do. I am here, as you can see.”
Oh, fuck it, fuck it all.
He bridged the gap that separated him from her, and did what he should have done from the very start, embracing her and bending over to kiss her on the mouth. Who cared about his pride? Who cared, really? He had her, her eyes looking at him, her gentle touch, and over his skin her sweet, warm breath that smelled like—
He was an idiot.
He pulled away from her, holding her by the shoulders.
“You had it. You played me!”
She was smiling while shaking lightly her head.
“It took you a while to get it, heh?”
He didn’t know if he wanted to cry or laugh.
“So? Was it… was it good… enough?”
“Jean,” she said, “You tell me.”
He kissed her then and tasted for himself, and only then she wrapped her arms around his neck, responding enthusiastically.
The kiss was phenomenal.
The coffee tasted…
“Huh, Pieck,” he whispered to her ear a moment later, “You get that you are very selective while to me, you taste like heaven in any case, right? So you really have to tell me—“
She chuckled against his neck.
“Nice try, Jean,” she said.
And then she added: “To respond to you… I’m not complaining.”
Now he wanted to cry. Did he finally make it?
But she was not done.
“You still have a long way to go, of course. But it’s not like you want to stop learning once you become my husband, right? At least you’ll have to still work towards something.”
“Oh, come on!”
They were interrupted by Mr. Finger.
“You know they’re going to start throwing things if we do not announce, right?”
Oh, right.
He looked at Pieck and she looked back at him, expectant.
“Um, Pieck. You have to decide on that.”
She looked startled, for once.
“Right,” she said.
“So, my dear, what should I do?” Mr. Finger asked.
“Red. Red up.”
Mr. Finger nodded, took the cloth from the table and opened the window.
Now they too heard the noise from the crowd. The estimated time for patience had passed, and somehow it felt like even more people had joined by then.
Holding each other in the arms, they watched Mr. Finger fiddling with the clothesline so that he could hang the cloth, red side up.
The meaning was so obvious even Connie knew about it. In fact, from below, they heard him shouting: “Niccolò, it’s done! Let’s start with the feast!”
*
They all came down and it was time for the rounds of congratulations, while the neighborhood celebrated eating all the food prepared by Niccolò (and paid by Jean).
Jean had to admit it felt amazing.
“My mother always told me about this kick you get for organizing big dinners…”
While Reiner took the spotlight for his reflexes and bravery in saving Jean, the latter and Pieck received congratulations from the ladies, both the nice and the nasty one. To Pieck’s face, they did not dare repeat what they said about her months earlier and with such nonchalance: instead, they smiled and told her how beautiful she looked and how lucky she was. Pieck being, well, Pieck, she responded with equal cordiality.
“What’s with those smug faces when they were talking to you, Jean?” she asked after they left.
“What, are you jealous?”
But he could not deny they had had a part in this, although right now he was not sure exactly how much. Working with Armin made him look for conspiracies everywhere.
His suspects grew as he saw the ladies talking happily to Mr. Finger at the dessert table, with Mr. Finger replying to them in his usual good humor. Of course, they were his neighbors, he had to have good relations with them.
Was it possible that…?
No.
But then—
But then his thoughts were interrupted by Pieck posing a question to him:
“Jean, why is there a horse in the park?”
The entrance to the little park confining with the square was lit, and, in fact, a horse was there. Next to it, Kaya and one of the Blouse boys, talking to children, letting them pet the animal.
“I… listen, things took a turn,” said Jean, mystified.
Pieck started chuckling.
He drew her close and kissed her on the head. It didn’t matter if things got out of control, for tonight everything was allowed, as long as it made her happy.
Although, seriously, the damn horse!
He could not take it against Connie because his friend started crying as soon as he got the chance to speak to the two of them alone.
“Pieck, don’t take Jean away, please…”
And on and on, with him being the only reason they were together at all.
“Ugh, Connie!”
Not that it wasn’t exactly true, but Jean could not let himself revisit all of the circumstances he had to resort to the ‘Connie put some good sense into me’ option unless he wanted to stop functioning for the embarrassment, so he just punched him.
Pieck was more sympathetic to him.
“I’ll make sure you’ll be informed about visiting hours, Connie.”
“… What?!”
Gabi and Falco dragged him away.
The conclusive words, however, came for Levi.
“So, Pieck. I have done my job. I don’t think I have succeeded that much,”—(“Captain...“ “Not a captain anymore, you fool”)—“But now I can safely wash my hands clean of this. You deal with him from now on.”
Pieck nodded as she shook Levi’s hand.
“Seriously?!”
*
They were slowly walking in the square, now, their friends and the neighborhood really just committed to eating all of the food and not keeping them anymore. When they stopped, in a corner, Jean held Pieck in his arms, their hands joined over Pieck’s waist.
She tilted her head against his shoulder.
“What?” He said to her, smiling.
She turned to look at him.
“I’m just… so happy,” she said, and that made Jean feel a jolt of electricity in the chest, and down his stomach.
It was true, that was a peculiar night, in which old, bad things did not matter, and only their happiness, and the love they were enveloped in, did. And yes, maybe he was awarded, tonight, with seeing her so elated and light in her stride, so free. And in his arms.
Did he really make that happen? Did they? Could they create such beauty out of nowhere?
No, not out of nowhere. It took time and a lot of work. And struggle, and tears, and desire, and—
“S-same. Same here,” he whispered to her ear. “I love you.”
“And I, you.”
Once again, he could not resist: cupping her face with both hands, bending over, kissing her passionately, and she kissing back, her arms now wrapped around his neck.
They could continue this forever. They could also move it somewhere else, not in the corner of the neighborhood main square, maybe. Maybe they could—
“And here you go, being disgusting in public as usual,” a voice said from behind them.
It was Pieck who interrupted the kiss to turn around and address them.
“You are following us, Annie.”
“I’m documenting the moment. Hoping some image can be actually be sent to Jean’s parents, or exposed in your living room, or whatever. Armin, you should light the scene a little more from the left this time,” Annie said, not even caring to look at them, but only at her camera and then at something beyond them.
Both Pieck and Jean turned to the other side. Armin was there, in fact, holding the flashes. He smiled at them.
“Like this?”
“Mh.”
Annie continued with her work.
Jean grumbled.
“I’ll ask another photographer next time,” he said.
“Shut up,” Annie said. “Just kiss Pieck decently, Jean. Now.”
He was outraged, but turning back to Pieck, seeing her smile at him, he thought: well, why not. We can try to make it decent. But then who cared, really? Your funeral, Annie.
And he went back to kissing his future wife.