Chapter Text
Two months before the wedding, Sasha cried herself to sleep.
Not that this was anything new ever since Berthold told her about his plans to propose (or maybe even way before that), but the cream envelope in all its hand-written calligraphy and embossed applique sat on her coffee table almost as if it was mocking her.
And now here she was.
Clutching onto her blankets for dear life as she sobbed loud enough to wake the neighbors upstairs (they can deal), mascara running all over her face and staining the sheets, upset and miserable and pathetic.
At least for now.
Sasha knew she'd be better in the morning.
This was how it worked: she’d shatter in the evening with a good cry, then she’d wake up the next day to pick up the pieces. Wash the stained bedding, take a hot shower, clean up, do the laundry, then go back to being functional at least and her normal self at best.
It wasn’t foolproof, sure, but it worked.
And that was good enough.
The week after the wedding, she’d be headed back to Sina anyways, and Sasha could go ahead and throw herself into work and nature and her friends and coworkers and forget all about Berthold and Annie like she always did.
(Maybe even move on for good.)
So for now Sasha let herself cry (and cry and cry) so she could wake up the next morning feeling marginally better and less as if someone had shot a harpoon through her ribs.
.
.
.
She didn’t chuck the invite into the trash, though.
It might as well be the last thing she’d ever receive from him before he’s completely gone from her for good.
(She also still needed to RSVP.)
Seven weeks before the wedding, Armin scheduled the date into his Google Calendar as RIP Jean.
It was amusing to say the least, and he even chuckled himself as he typed it in.
Admittedly, he felt a little bad for laughing at his friend’s expense, but the amount of jokes and jabs made at Jean by Eren alone was enough to make Armin not really care as much as he thought he would.
Jean was one of his friends from high school (aside from Eren and Mikasa, obviously) that he still actually kept in touch with. A small feat, sure, but Armin took his friendships (and a lot of other things, if he was honest) to heart.
Was he happy with Jean getting forced into marriage? Not by a longshot.
Was he gonna be at the ceremony with Eren and Mikasa to support him? Of course.
Was he gonna stop Eren from making a meme out of the whole ideal in the weeks leading up to the wedding? Probably not.
A notification pinged at the corner of his screen, making Armin look away from his color-coded schedule.
Christa: Armin?
Christa: Sorry but I won’t be able to join any campaigns this month
Christa: I have a long-term thing going on
He smiled, typing in his reply.
Armin: That’s alright.
Armin: You still free for messages tho?
Christa: Yeah, I will be
Christa: Are we still on for that netflix docu watch party?
Armin: Yep!
Armin: Same time?
Christa: That would be great :)
Was crushing on one of his players a good idea? Definitely not.
But was he gonna enjoy having someone outside of his immediate circle of friends to geek out about films and literature with? Absolutely .
At least Armin remained unbiased in how he DM-ed and always kept things fair with all his players, crush or not.
(No amount of sweet talking over the voice call or pleading eye emojis in the chat would be enough to make him reconsider any of his story choices because damn it, he spent weeks just constructing the first arc and he would not let them dawdle with the NPCs for too long.)
Then again, how common was it to find someone who also already read all of A Song of Ice and Fire and Discworld ? Or a fellow geek who couldn’t choose between books or movies (or plays or musicals or live-action or animation)? Or a player who could see right through his DM bullshittery and call out even the most obscure references he makes in every campaign?
Armin sighed.
He was pretty sure Christa wasn’t even her real name.
While they do have their campaigns over voice call, there’s only so much he can go on with just her voice; he doesn’t even know what she looked like save for the fact that her hair was a lighter shade of blonde than his and that she was quite short for her age.
And what were the odds that she wasn’t already with someone in real life, as well? That she wasn’t already living with a boyfriend or girlfriend and that she was just stringing him along to pass the time?
Armin sighed again.
Okay, maybe he was overthinking.
While not completely impossible, internet relationships were more difficult to start than they were to maintain. It would’ve been easier if they had met in person and had grown an attraction online afterwards.
Armin knew it was a dumb move on his end to like someone he got to know via chat and group calls. That if he set his expectations too high with too little an idea of who Christa really was, he’ll just get hurt in the long run.
Yet his heart betrayed him with every message and witty remark that’s accompanied by her avatar.
So Armin texted back with as much enthusiasm as he could, hoping it could drop all the hints it can without him coming off as too creepy.
Christa: That would be great :)
Armin: Good to know :)
Armin: I’m looking forward to it.
Christa: Me too
Christa: *sent a heart emoji*
It was during moments like this that Armin was glad he moved out of the studio unit he used to share with Eren and Mikasa.
Otherwise they would’ve heard the ungodly noise that came out of his throat when he read her reply.
Six weeks before the wedding, Berthold sat in the waiting room for a job interview.
He turned to Annie, who sat beside him on the couch, and Reiner, who opted for the plastic chair that was hastily brought in by a stressed looking employee just moments before they arrived.
While the timing was kinda off, having some source of stable income as soon as he got back from the honeymoon was a preferred option at least until they could actually scrounge up enough cash to settle back to Liberio by the first year.
Berthold promised Annie they were gonna go back to their hometown, and he was gonna keep that promise best he could.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna go on ahead?” he asked Reiner. “I’m pretty sure the call date isn’t too close to the wedding that you have to rush.”
Reiner shook his head. “I’d feel more at ease going with both of you.” He shifted, obviously too big for his seat. “And from what I know, Annie knows a few people there so we don’t have to worry about being awkward.”
“If you say so.” Berthold allowed. He turned to look at his fiancée.
She glanced back. “My friend, Armin, was the one who sent me the offer. He and three other of my friends from high school work at Sina.”
Berthold gave her a small smile. “Well, if you trust them, then so do I.”
Annie cracked a smile in return at this.
Then the door opened, making the three of them turn to it.
The woman who walked out reminded Berthold of Sasha, somewhat, with her average height and brown hair up in a ponytail.
But unlike Sasha, she wore glasses and had a grin that looked like it reached her ears.
“Mr. Braun, Mr. Hoover and Ms. Leonhart?”
They all stood up at this.
“I’m Zoe Hanji. I’ll be handling our interviews for today.” She flashed them a smile, putting her hands on her hips.
“Now, who wants to go first?”
Five weeks before the wedding, Jean tried to book it.
All he needed was his wallet and a backpack with the essentials.
And his passport.
He would have definitely done better if he brought that with him.
But Mére just had to look at him that way and he just couldn’t.
It wasn’t that Mére was trying to guilt trip him into anything. Jean couldn’t classify her tight-lipped smiles and strained eyes to be support of the idea.
Yet she couldn’t do much else but side with whatever Pére decided upon.
Even if Jean knew for damn well that Mére of all people didn’t want him to get married against his will.
Even more so when this whole mess was all the old man’s fault.
If Pére hadn’t taken that deal that seemed too good to be true. If he hadn’t invested so much in that failure of a startup. If he had thought up of a better idea to escape bankruptcy aside from selling him out to a wealthier family like a broodmare.
Then again, who was he to talk?
What right did he have to complain about Pére’s business decisions when he’s made it very clear from the start that he didn’t care about it as much as his parents wanted him to?
Jean supposed that all the declined business trip invitations and barely passable grades in college had to bite him in the ass at some point.
This might as well happen.
And Jean loved his parents enough to know that he didn’t want to let them down.
So if he couldn’t be a good heir for his father, he might as well be a good son to his mother, even if getting married was the last thing on both their minds.
Fucking family business.
.
.
.
The sentiment doesn’t stop him from glancing at the job offering Armin had nonchalantly emailed him the night before, though.
WE ARE HIRING! JOIN THE SINA COUNTRY CLUB FAMILY!
Instructors Needed For
- Capoeira
- Muay Thai
- Krav Maga
- Equestrian
There were a few more items right after that but Jean stopped there to scroll to the Job Descriptions and Specifications area of the email.
The sneaky little bastard , he thought, but not before opening the application form that came attached.
Four weeks before the wedding, Historia paid a visit to Ymir.
With one hand she set down a bouquet of snapdragons (their shared favorite flowers) and, with the other hand, wiped away the dust that had accumulated on Ymir’s headstone.
It was cloudy that afternoon, and Historia was able to get her father’s permission to leave the estate for a few hours (not without a lie gritted through her teeth) long enough to stay a good amount of time without drawing too much attention to herself.
With a small huff, she sat down on the grass by the stone, bringing her knees up to her chest.
This was her comfort place, the only other place she could really take her mind off her family aside from online.
She sighed.
Ymir would probably chide her for not being selfish enough. For not refusing when she had the chance. For letting herself get talked into Father’s plans.
Live a life you’d be proud of , Ymir had told her.
If Ymir could see Historia now, getting married in a month to a man she had yet to meet outside of pictures.
She didn’t argue with Father when he broke the news. Historia only listened and nodded. Asked questions relevant to the proposition then immediately agreed like the good daughter she wanted to be.
The good daughter she had to be.
I’ll find a way out, if I can. But for now...
Historia sat in silence, enjoying the company Ymir provided for as long as she could.
She only left about an hour later, when her phone pinged with a reminder for her documentary marathon with her DM later that night.
At least she had other ways to distract herself if needed be.
Three weeks before the wedding, Eren called Jean to say he (and by extension, Armin and Mikasa) couldn’t attend the ceremony, but could make it in time for the reception.
“I have a research seminar over at St. Maria’s Hospital and another one at Karanese General.” he looked over the schedule Mikasa had organized for him. “And then an operation over at Mitras Private.”
“The expensive-ass hospital? ”
“Yep.” he nodded as if Jean could see him. “They tracked me down for a complicated case.” With his ring finger, he scrolled through the rest of the calendar. “I told them I don’t operate anymore but they kept begging.”
“You’re that in demand and you still choose to be an on-grounds doctor in Sina? ”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s essentially in the middle of nowhere .”
“Being away from civilization helps me stay focused on my doctoral thesis.” Eren didn’t slip in the fact that it would be his second by now, if only to preserve Jean’s already fragile ego.
“And you expect me to work there, too? ”
Eren shrugged. “We need a new equestrian instructor.”
“And what if I don’t want to? ”
“Why did you email your resume to Armin, then?”
“Goddammit .” There was a groan from Jean’s end and a few thuds. Eren imagined Jean had flopped down on his couch and rubbed his temples in despair.
“Do I need to be interviewed? ”
“That, I’m not sure of.” Eren turned off the tablet and put it on the coffee table in front of him. “If Armin can squeeze you in with our manager somehow, are you cool with a Skype interview?”
“Sure.”
“When’s the most convenient for you?”
“The fourteenth would be okay,”
“The night before the wedding?” Eren shifted to sit Indian-style over the couch. “Don’t you need beauty sleep or something?”
“Shut the fuck up,”
“You go tell Armin yourself, then. I really hope you get the job.”
“Thanks,” Jean was silent for a moment, making Eren think he hung up.
“Oh, and Eren?”
“Hm?”
“Fuck you,”
Eren smiled. “Fuck you too, Jean.” He said, before hanging up.
Two weeks before the wedding, Reiner received a call from Ms. Hanji.
After the initial pleasantries, his mind kinda went blank.
The only thing that registered was that they were hired.
The three of them together.
Could anyone believe his luck?
Reiner cleared his throat. “Did you relay to Mr. Smith about how we won’t be able to join the team-building week?”
“I did! And he says that it’s perfectly alright for you to join just before opening. ”
“That’s good to hear. Thanks for that.”
“It’s no problem! Ah, hold on a moment,”
“Sure,”
“Ahh, Moblit can you get me the thing? No, the other thing! The other- no- that one - not tha- yes, that one. Thank you!”
Reiner raised a brow. “Everything alright there?”
“Yes, yes, just getting my assistant to do something.” Reiner made out a few thuds coming from her end. “Anyways, Erwin and the rest of us at Sina would like to extend our congratulations to the soon to be married couple.”
Reiner smiled against his phone. “I’ll make sure to tell them,”
“I’ll email the three of you the other details and Calendar of Events by tonight. ”
“Thank you,”
“And thank you. Looking forward to working with you three.”
“Likewise.”
And when Hanji ended the call, Reiner pocketed his phone, feeling extremely proud of himself.
One week before the wedding, Mikasa sent Sasha a text.
Mikasa: Hey Sasha
Mikasa: How have you been?
Sasha: i’ve been doing alright
That was total bullshit and Mikasa knew it.
Mikasa: I see
Mikasa: Talk to me if anything comes up?
Would that work? Would Sasha get the hint?
Sasha: of course mik
The girl had been her roommate for two years and became her friend right at the start.
Okay, maybe the friendship was one-sided at first, with Sasha being the one to reach out for the most part.
But eventually it did end up becoming something reciprocated, something Mikasa realized she enjoyed and even possibly missed out on, what with her two closest friends being males and all.
And it was nice to have someone to talk to about Eren who wasn’t Armin.
It was even better that it was someone who just as easily spoke about someone they loved, too.
Right up until six months prior, when Sasha sent a simple, he proposed. she said yes.
Now with said wedding being a week away, Mikasa couldn’t help but be concerned.
And the concern only worsened when Sasha didn’t reply after her last message.
Mikasa sighed.
“Who are you texting?” Eren asked, peering over her shoulder.
She just as quickly turned her phone off. “Just Sasha. Had to follow up with her before we headed back to Sina, is all.”
“Ahh,” Eren pulled away, then heading for the kitchen. “I’m making tea,” he announced, taking out the kettle from one of the cupboards.
Mikasa followed suit, just in time to watch him select a box from the tea shelf.
“Earl Grey?” She furrowed her brows. “This late at night?” Caffeine at nine in the evening could only lead to one result.
Eren shook the box. “Have to finish something,” he muttered as he set it on the counter.
“Alright,”
He reached into the cupboard . “You want lavender around this time, yeah? With some honey?”
Mikasa nodded, then grabbing two mugs from the next cupboard over and sitting down at the table. She watched as Eren filled the kettle and set it to boil by the stove.
The sight, in all its mundane domesticity, was enough to make her smile to herself.
Though she’ll never say it out loud, it’s in moments like these that Mikasa’s glad that Armin moved out.
The night before the wedding, Connie could’ve sworn he was going to have a fucking heart attack.
“You’re going to do what?”
And Sasha repeated the words with such uncharacteristic calmness Connie was sure there was no way she was sober.
“I’m going to object at his wedding.”
He scrubbed his shaven scalp.
“Sasha, this isn’t funny.”
“And this isn’t a joke.”
“Are you drunk? Are you at a bar? Do you need me to come and pick you up?”
“No. To all of that. I’m completely sober and I’ve made up my mind.” There was a pause from her end. “The least you can do is support me, Con.”
“Are you sure? Completely sure?”
“Not really.”
“Then get that sorted out first.” He said. “Once you do that, then you’ll get your support from me.”
Like hell he was gonna support her in something as dumb and reckless as this.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake, Con? ”
Yes.
Connie swallowed. “That’s not my place to tell.” He said instead. Then, finding nothing else to say, added, “I’m gonna go to sleep, Sash.”
“Alright. Sleep well.”
“You too,”
And Connie hung up, feeling like a total coward.
On the day of the wedding, Sasha was practically shaking on her way to the venue.
In her first archery lesson, she was taught the importance of breathing. To take a long breath before she aimed, then exhale as she released.
One, two three.
It was strange, the way her lungs ached as she breathed in the faint smell of cigarettes, cheap perfume and sweat that had accumulated in the taxi she was riding.
Though Sasha knew it had less to do with the stench and more to do with her plan for that day.
So she tried counting.
Counting the number of trees she passed by. Counting backwards from a hundred. Counting the number of minutes it took to get from her apartment to the cathedral and the speed the driver was going and if it would be fast enough for her to make it before it was too late.
Sasha gritted her teeth, another exhale escaping her lips as she opted to turn her attention to every corner of the cab instead of out the window and not let her mind wander off too much as she stared at the scenery.
The cliché, pine-tree shaped car freshener (that Sasha figured was there more out of aesthetic than functional purposes) only dangled back and forth in a mesmerizing pendulum a couple of inches from the rearview mirror it hung from.
How the driver had the capability to not be distracted by such a movement, Sasha will never know.
Once, while she was training for her first State Championship, her father scolded her for consecutively landing her arrows on the black and blue circles instead of the gold.
She told him she was nervous, that the idea of competing only to make a fool out of herself had her hands shaking as she nocked and drew.
He told her that being a coward in front of the target wouldn’t help, and that the result you get as soon as you release the string was a product of your actions and not your target.
If she failed at her goal, then it would be her fault and her fault alone.
And now she was already in a cab, dressed to the nines and in no position to be backing out of a decision she had spent grueling hours thinking over.
(Arguably after half a bottle of cheap liquor, but Connie didn’t have to know that.)
She chose to do this.
Along with whatever consequences that came along with it.
But still.
(Maybe if she had shown up earlier and got to Berthold before the wedding, then maybe the whole ceremony would’ve been called off before it could even start, saving everyone’s time.)
Sasha let out a heavy breath, feeling the resolution weigh heavy in her chest like lead.
(Or maybe she could’ve done something before that, at the party the week before graduation when the opportunity to confess to Berthold presented itself but Sasha didn’t take it.)
Out the window, the rest of the town seemed to have blurred past her. The familiarity of the scenery did nothing to calm Sasha’s heart from beating too hard and too fast and too much in her chest.
(Or maybe she should’ve done something right at the start, like tell him as soon as she realized how desperately she wanted Berthold in her life and not sit back as he reached out for someone else.)
Not being able to keep it together any longer, she blurted out, “Can’t you go any faster?”
When she first got into the cab, Sasha noted the fact that the driver was a man most likely already in his sixties and experiencing the difficulties that came with age.
So it probably wasn’t right that she startled him in the middle of driving.
The vehicle swerved dangerously to the left, making Sasha tilt off her seat and grab the handle closest to her, wincing at the sound of rubber screeching on pavement and the engine groaning.
Before an innocent garbage bin was about to get knocked over by the wayward taxi, the driver pulled a hard right then hit the brakes on the curb.
Lucky enough for the garbage bin, it remained standing upright, albeit knocked a bit askew.
And unluckily for Sasha, the driver turned to her, brows furrowed in annoyance.
Heat rushed up Sasha’s face. “Sorry,” she muttered. Swallowed. Inhaled. Exhaled.
When she met the driver’s eyes, he no longer scowled, only shook his head. “Are you running late?” he asked instead.
She nodded. “You can say that.” And she left it at that, glancing back out the window.
The driver hummed. “You’ll probably make it before the vows at this rate.” He pulled the stick shift into reverse.
Sasha swallowed. “That’ll be enough. Thank you.”
It had to be enough.
It just had to.
“Should anyone object to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Even as he gritted his teeth behind his poker face and clenched his hands into fists at his sides, Jean still felt the twitch of his jaw at the desperate need to say something.
Anything, really.
But Jean had promised Mére he would go through with it. That he would do as Pére wished. That he wouldn’t object at his own wedding.
So he kept his mouth shut.
.
.
.
This didn’t mean he couldn’t hope and pray that someone else wouldn’t.
So hope and pray he did.
.
.
.
Now Jean was never a religious man, but in that moment, he might as well call himself a believer.
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.
.
Because at that exact moment, a voice screamed out the two words that had been on his mind ever since his parents sat him down for the proposition.
.
.
.
“I object!”
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.
.
Now this would’ve all been perfect if he hadn’t turned to the source of the voice.
.
.
.
Who the fuck is that ?
Something was quite obviously wrong with the scenario and Sasha couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was.
Well obviously, objecting at someone’s wedding was already inherently wrong to some extent, but the ethics of that wasn’t really what Sasha was thinking about at the moment that wasn’t right.
First was that, even though she barely knew Berthold and Annie’s families, no one in the pews looked familiar to her.
Second, Reiner was supposed to be near the altar, standing with the groom as his Best Man yet he was nowhere to be seen.
Third (and most importantly, Sasha came to realize) was that, while the bride definitely looked like Annie from afar, what with the blonde hair and petite stature, the man standing at the altar was most definitely not Berthold.
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.
.
It takes all of three seconds for the realization to click into place.
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.
.
And when it did, nothing could stop the next two words that came out of Sasha's mouth.
.
.
.
“Oh shit.”