Chapter Text
With "SexyBack" blasting from his speakers, Reiner Braun steered his precious baby into the parking lot of Trost High School. His Jeep Wrangler was a fucking monster of a vehicle, and the loud custom paint job he'd gotten it wasn't weakening its presence. Like Reiner frequently liked to say: "Go big, or go home".
He carefully parked it in his usual spot among the area reserved for the seniors; Trost High School had a system for the parking lot. Seniors' lots were reserved closest to the school, then Juniors', then Sophomores' and Freshmen furthest away. It had been a bitch to walk all the way from the back of the parking lot to the school in the dead of winter or peak of summer, but those days were over for Reiner.
Humming along to the chorus of the Justin Timberlake song, he recognised the silver Volvo XC60 next to his baby, and grinned. Some might have said it was the grin of the devil, but that was really Reiner's happy face.
The driver of the XC60 climbed out, and hurried over to the passenger side to open the door, nearly clipping Reiner's Jeep and making him wince. The driver, a lanky but slimly muscled senior with a ash-blond undercut half-hidden by a red knit beanie, helped out his passenger. Reiner's heart always twisted with sympathy whenever he saw him, and this moment was no exception.
Jean Kirschstein, recently-made owner of the XC60 and permanently known for the red beanie that could only be replaced by his football helmet, grabbed his boyfriend's backpack, his normally harsh features gentle.
Marco Bodt would have been a senior like Jean and Reiner, if not for the accident that had occurred a week before finals in their junior year. He had been walking home from school, one of the rare afternoons when Jean had to stay back for extra football practice and had told his boyfriend to just head on home first without him. A mere two blocks away from his house, a pylon truck came careening out of nowhere and slammed into Marco, pinning the then-17 year old to a pole. The driver, a man in his late 50s, had fallen asleep at the wheel and gotten away with a slight concussion, a few scratches and some bruises.
Marco had been pinned to the pole for nearly four hours before the Jaws of Life managed to extricate him and he had been sent in an ambulance to the nearest hospital.
In that one afternoon, he lost his right eye and arm, and remained forever scarred on the right half of his face and upper torso. The surgeons said it had been a miracle that his skull wasn't crushed in, otherwise he'd be dead on the spot. But he had to live with the consequence of someone else's mistake, and it would always show.
Jean was a wreck for the weeks that followed. He never forgave himself for letting Marco go by himself, instead of making him wait as he usually did in the library. He blamed himself for not being able to protect Marco, and according to the latter, he still had nightmares that Marco had not survived that accident. He tried to attack the driver, and had been barely pacified with the sentence that had been meted out by the court.
So now, Jean turned to extremes. He sold his prized Ducati 888 SP5 and got the XC60 instead, insisting that he pick up Marco and drop him off everyday. He spent almost all his free time in Marco's company, and made sure the darker-haired teen never suffered alone. He would have killed the group of juniors in Marco's literature class for taunting Marco for his scars and having to repeat a year, if Reiner and Connie hadn't dragged him off them. They got away with broken noses, multiple contusion and fractured bones. He was so protective, that if anyone so much as glanced twice at Marco's scars, he'd jump them.
Even now, he slung a protective and possessive arm around Marco's narrow shoulders, and kissed the freckled teen's scarred cheek. Marco always felt embarrassed when Jean touched his scars, and he was ashamed of them, but Jean was adamant and determined to make him see it didn't matter.
It was so sweet, that if they weren't his long-time friends, he would have punched them both.
Instead, he climbed out of his Jeep, locked it, and punched Jean's shoulder.
"Ow--what the fuck, Braun," Jean grumbled. "It's too early in the morning for this."
" 'morning, Marco!" Reiner grinned cheerfully. "Have you two had your morning quickie yet?"
"Reiner!" Marco ducked his head, face turning bright red. It made his scars and freckles stand out even more, but Reiner didn't stare. He knew better.
"You're in the way of it," Jean pointed out. "Casse-toi!"
"Jean!" Marco groaned, attempting to his face with his only hand.
"It's fucking cold," Reiner changed the subject abruptly, and Jean rolled his eyes but couldn't deny it. It was halfway through November, and a quick check this morning told the brawnier blonde that it was 32 degrees Farenheit out. He'd put on extra underwear-- he couldn't risk his Little Reiner freezing and dropping off.
"Are you wearing two layers of underwear again?" Jean's pale amber eyes narrowed. Marco choked.
"Yep," Reiner replied blithely. "The Little Man must be kept warm at all costs. Especially at 30 fucking degrees Farenheit."
"Wichser," Jean snorted.
"I'll assume you were calling me 'cute' in German, you bastard," Reiner shot him a shit-eating grin that Jean mirrored.
They walked into the school, and stood out for many different reasons. The less-knowledgeable students like the freshmen and few sophomores whispered and gave shifty, quick glances. Marco, because of his disfiguration and lack of a right arm and eye; Jean because of his aloof but striking features and two-toned hair and bright red beanie; Reiner because everyone knew who Reiner was.
If they wanted to be on the football team and get the girls, they had better suck up to Reiner, or suck his cock. It was no secret that the captain of the football team was gay, or that he had the strongest throwing arm and kick in the county. Besides, even the coach and the principal were gay.
"What are you staring at?" Jean hissed at a freshman, who turned pale and quickly averted his gaze from Marco's lesions.
"Easy there, champ," Connie Springer appeared out of nowhere, as he often did. His close-cropped hair was hidden under a winter knit beanie with a pom-pom.
All three friends stared at the pom-pom.
"Sasha knitted it," Connie mumbled.
"Um," Marco managed. "It's cute?"
"Real cute," Reiner unsuccessfully bit back a sneer.
"That's real fucking supportive of you guys," Connie muttered. "Assholes-- oh shit, Sasha's coming. Watch it, bastar--"
"Isn't it cute?" Sasha Braus' effusive personality was hard not to smile at, and all four males gave equally awkward grins.
"Yes," Jean sounded like he was on the verge of laughing.
Sasha huffed. "It is, now shut up and no snide comments about it until next year."
The five of them marched into the building together, and exchanged taunts and insults as was their tradition for every morning. Reiner was talking to Jean about football practice being tentatively cancelled until the temperature got better, and then Sasha turned on them excitedly.
"I forgot to tell you--"
"We know you knitted the hat, Sasha. And yes, it's cute. A-plus for effort," Jean smirked.
"No, you complete douchebag," Sasha scowled prettily. "There's a new transfer student."
"What?" all four boys goggled at her. It was rare for Trost High to have transfer students, much less this far into the school year.
"Who's the poor kid?" Connie's brow wrinkled.
Four pairs of eyes landed on him squarely.
"What? It's a shithole and you all know it," Connie grumbled. "Everyone here is either really gay, or really cool with it, or really good at pretending they don't know who's gay. Plus the only thing good about us is football. Nobody comes here for the academic--"
"Whatever," Sasha cut him off with an imperial wave of her hand. "The kid's name is Bertholdt Fubar. He's transferring in from Titan Academy."
"Say whaaat?!"
Titan Academy had been the rival of Trost High School for as long as anyone could remember. The Academy was famous for churning out big elites like private bankers, millionaire entrepreneurs, etc. Rumor had it that no one on the enrolment list had a GPA lower than 3.5. Their rivalry was practically legendary, and even the principal, an alumni of Trost High, could still recount with a cold expression the number of conflicts that had risen between the two institutions.
"Beats me why anyone would want to transfer from there to here," Sasha shrugged at the following onslaught of questions from the four boys. "Why don't you guys ask him yourself? I think Reiner and Jean are in his homeroom."
The two blondes exchanged a look, and Sasha groaned. "Try not to flash your dicks at him by way of greeting."
"I'm still traumatised for life," Connie shuddered.
"Wet blanket," Reiner noogied Connie.
You'll be fine, was Bertholdt's silent chant as he navigated the hallways. Everyone was staring at him.
They're not staring at you because they know, he had to tell himself. You're six feet two, and you're a new face in November. Obviously they're going to stare. Stop being such a--
" Faggot!"
"Homo fucker!"
His breath was coming out in short, shallow puffs, and he was feeling light-headed. He was also sweating through his undershirt.
Stop it, he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, heart pounding so loudly he was certain everyone else could hear it. His brain was kicking into overdrive, and he was clutching at his straws with his consciousness now. Nobody here knows. Why would they know? They hate Titan Academy. No one here would talk to anyone back there. So nobody knows about it.
"...okay? Dude?"
Bertholdt jerked out of his inner panic room, and stared down into bright hazel eyes. The kid couldn't be more than five feet two, but his gaze was strong and the pom-pom on his hat added an extra inch to his height.
"What? Oh-- yeah," Bertl summoned a smile that came out more like a grimace. "I'm new, sorry."
"Oh!" the kid's face brightened, and Bertholdt froze. He couldn't possibly--
"Yo, hey guys!" he called down the hall as Bertholdt struggled with a moment of fight-or-flight and chose flight.
He fled, and the hazel-eyed kid with the pom-pom hat shouted after him.
"...and this is your timetable and your locker number," the woman handed him two slips of paper and peered at him. Her name tag read Ms. Ral, and she had strawberry blond hair and a nice smile. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine!" Bertholdt said too quickly.
"The infirmary is on the first floor, left wing," she told him kindly. "Ms. Hanji is the nurse in-charge, and she's very friendly and understanding. Oh! Class is starting in five minutes! Better hurry!"
He smiled weakly and hastened from the office into empty hallways. All the other kids were probably in class.
Oh shit, Bertl thought as a wave of anxiety ran over him. That means I'll be walking into class in front of at least twenty people.
He stopped in front of his homeroom door, and took a deep breath. Calm down, Bertl. Nobody knows about it. You're just a new kid, and I'm sure everyone is nice...
He pushed open the door with more courage than he actually felt, and twenty pairs of eyes swivelled around and locked onto him. Okay, maybe this isn't going to be as easy as I thought.
"And you are...?" a very cool, unfriendly voice asked.
He had to sort of angle his head downwards to look at the homeroom teacher. He was about the same height as the kid Bertholdt had met, the only difference being that this one had sharp, intimidating gray eyes and wore a pressed tracksuit. (who presses their tracksuits? Bertholdt wondered in a tiny part of his mind)
"Um..." Bertholdt fumbled. "I-I'm Bertholdt Fubar. I'm the transfer student."
"Ah," the voice turned slightly icy, and Bertl flinched. "The turncoat. Take a seat. Introductions can come later on your own damn time when you're not fucking late for my class."
Bertl nodded, and took the nearest empty seat, which was right at the front of the class. It was beside a bespectacled kid who gave him a weird look, and Bertl tried not to make eye contact.
"Moving on," the teacher (Levi Ackerman, Bertholdt read from the timetable he'd been given) continued. "I'm sure many of you are aware of the recent spate of drunk driving incidents."
People started to whisper, and a loud rattling noise from the back shut them all up. Bertl turned slightly to see everyone slinking down in their seats, and a kid with a red beanie giving everyone the fiercest glare he had ever seen.
"Calm the fuck down, Kirschstein," Mr. Ackerman muttered without heat. "Anyway, if any of you little shits are caught driving under the influence of alcohol, you'll be expelled from school, no questions asked."
Responses varied from whispered protests to quiet acknowledgement.
"Now do whatever homework you haven't completed yet," Mr. Ackerman snapped, picking up a file from the table. "I know you lot have Trig assignments due in today. Mr. Bozado told me. And Braun, just because you're captain doesn't mean you get to put your fucking feet on the table. Get it off and wipe it down later."
Braun, Berthold assumed, laughed and apologised easily. Mr. Ackerman grunted and walked out without another word.
Bertholdt felt abandoned.
The class jumped to life around him, and the panic attack Bertholdt had forgotten in place of the fear Mr. Ackerman had instilled in that one sharp glance returned with a vengeance. Voices and people and laughter rose up around him like a fog he couldn't fight and he found himself slouching deeper as if he could escape them that way. His breathing was turning into uneven pants, and sweat trickled down his temple. He had no doubt that if he took off his V-neck navy sweater, he'd find that he'd sweated through the 'pits of his plaid button-down.
You're here to make new friends, Bertholdt told himself. Friends who don't know that you're a--
"Fag!"
He couldn't breathe. Slowly, he turned around while his heart hammered wildly against his chest. There was no way...
The one who had said the insult appeared to be caught in a headlock, and was laughing while an impossibly muscular and blond guy gave him a noogie.
"If you're going to call me out on my sexuality," the blond guy drawled, ignoring his victim's guffawed protests. "At least call me 'fabulous'."
He looked up, and looked straight at Bertl.
"Oh, hey," the blond guy gave a short wave and a wide grin that Bertl assumed was meant to be friendly. "Bertholdt, right?"
"Wh-wha-how did you know my name?" Bertholdt gasped, his heart rate still going fast from the panic attack.
"Word travels fast around here," the blond guy shrugged.
Bertl careened into full-panic mode. What? Then-then-then that means they might already know--
"Okay, not really," the blond guy slalomed his way towards Bertl and perched on the desk beside his. "Sasha just has a nose for more than food and mouth big enough to put ten fucking potatoes inside."
"Poetic," another kid came wandering up, and leaned his elbow on the blond guy's shoulder. It was the kid with the red beanie who had shut everyone up. He had tousled ash-blond hair styled in an undercut, and the hair at the back running down to his nape was a dark brown from what Bertl could see. He also had a helix, lobe, eyebrow piercing and when he spoke, Bertl caught a flash of silver that indicated a tongue piercing. His eyes were pale amber, and he had a very keen gaze. "I'm Jean. Jean Kirschstein."
"You're supposed to be my wingman, asshole," the blond muscle-y guy muttered and gave Bertl a sheepish grin. "I'm Reiner Braun. Captain of the football team and--"
"King of all gays," Jean rolled his eyes.
Bertl stiffened, and the slight reaction didn't go unnoticed. Both boys' gaze hardened.
"Conservative upbringing?" Jean asked coolly.
"What?" Bertl was startled. "N-no! I-I-I'm just surprised you guys throw those kind of words around so openly."
"We're both gay," Reiner shrugged. "But definitely not for each other. Jean's sweetheart is a cutie-pie in junior year."
Jean's self-satisfied smirk reaffirmed this, and Bertl's eyes went wide. "Wait, you're both actually..."
"Homosexual?" Jean arched a thin eyebrow, and the piercing moved with it. "Bingo. If you've got anything against it, you might wanna stay the fuck out of our way."
"N-no!" Bertholdt squeaked, unsure of whether to be relieved or frightened. "I'm okay with it. Really."
"You don't have to say that just to stop Jean from punching you," Reiner said, not unkindly. "Everyone has their own set of values. Some of us, eh, maybe not at all."
"Speak for yourself," Jean muttered.
"No, really," Bertholdt put in quickly. "I'm okay with it."
They looked at him long and hard, and he thought he was going to sweat all the way through his sweater, until the bell rang.
"Well, you can come for practice afterwards and try out if you want," Reiner offered, giving him that sort-of-friendly(?) grin again. "You look fairly fit for someone who dresses like a complete nerd."
Bertl took mild offence at that, but was too scared to say anything.
"Fils de pute," Jean growled at Reiner. "You just told me this morning that training was cancelled."
"I said tentatively," Reiner reminded him as they walked away. The conversation faded as they moved farther away, and Bertl let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
He'd survived the first hour of school.