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The soldier pulled the trigger a few more times, but his weapon just clicked. That was it. It was empty.
The man teetered a bit, and turned his horrified expression to Connie, who returned it right back.
His eyelids drooped, his expression softened, his gaze lowered, and he was gone.
Connie saw the way Samuel’s body slipped. The way his head hit the ground first and his limp weight dragged him into the water with a crack. The only indication of his presence was a nasty bloodstain that would mark the deck forever. Sinking, sinking…
He jolted awake and kicked his blanket away, in one smooth motion.
He hastily rubbed his eyes with trembling hands, forcing his vision to clear.
His fingers crudely swept across his forehead to find it completely drenched.
Like clockwork, he scooped the blanket up off the floor and draped it over his whole body, lying on his side under it.
Fury and terror were replaced with something else, the adrenaline fizzling from him as quickly as the rush had came, leaving behind an aching body.
Guilt.
Festering, insidious guilt.
He clutched his stomach. His hands squeezing his sides, pinching the flesh. Not that he could feel it.
His mouth gaped, opening and closing. His eyes were glossy- and he trembled.
Connie’s body wasn’t his in that moment. And he doesn’t think it really ever was. He was merely a spectator. Connie Springer wouldn’t have done those things: he couldn’t have.
Armin didn’t look at him- half his face was obscured in thick, billowing steam, yet his expression was clearer than day.
Connie knew Armin hadn’t seen him the same since that day. Surely he couldn’t have. Poor Armin.
But maybe he understood- he saw his tears that day. Not to mention he was dating Annie Leonhart of all people. The Female Titan, who singlehandedly wiped out half the Survey Corps, 40% of the Stohess population and played a hand in the single biggest tragedy in the history of the walls.
But that was different.
Titan warfare was messy. And Connie was glad he never had to take part in it ever again.
Human life must seem delicate when you’re twelve or fifteen or sixty meters tall.
Like little flies with wires attached. As grim as it may sound, it was simply the truth. For the longest time, the Survey Corps were faceless insects messing with forces and asking questions they could never hope to know the answer to. So ignorant. It must have been like killing a lesser being.
And that’s why she did it.
But Samuel wasn’t ignorant in any sense of the word. Nobody was, anymore.
Even at sixteen Connie could find it in his little brain to squeeze some sympathy for those kids who were sent to the wall that day, though an underlying contempt always carried with their names. He was still from Paradis, after all.
He had been betrayed. They had all been betrayed, but he had lived to tell the tale.
He had never found himself staring down the muzzle of Annie’s, Reiner’s, Bertolt’s or Eren’s gun directly. And in that situation, he doesn’t know what he’d do.
Connie saw how betrayal had torn those he was closest to from the inside out. Jean lunged toward Reiner like he was going in for the kill that day, and how everybody watched the spectacle for a few moments before even attempting to separate the two, as if the beating was some form of adequate justice. As if kicks and punches were sufficient retribution for years of agonising grief, only for the closure Jean had craved to come in the form of a murder confession from his former friend.
Connie had made his choice.
It was personal. What he did. How he did it.
Hindsight is 20/20, yet there had to have been another way.
How he dared to stab them in the back, and how he dared to pity himself after the smoke cleared. He didn’t deserve pity from anyone.
What a soldier he was.
Connie sighed and reluctantly swung his feet off the bed. It seems sleep wouldn’t come so easy tonight.
A chill ran down him, so he groggily pulled his dressing gown over himself as he went downstairs.
Connie took two careful steps down the stairs before noticing something bizarre: an orange glow that flickered onto the base of the stairs, coming from the kitchen. The banister cast a long, stark shadow that stretched into the living room. He quickly sobered up, his mind falling back into the familiar.
He slowly backtracked his steps and made a beeline for his own room, being mindful or the floorboards that creaked and groaned, leaping into the doorway with a newfound sobriety. He re-emerged clutching one of his two Standardised Survey Corps Handguns. Well, there was two, but Connie had destroyed the other.
A bit more brazenly, the ex-soldier made his way down the stairs. He stopped halfway, not being foolish enough to disregard the cover the banister gave him.
He kept close to the wall separating himself and the intruder. He checked off the list straight from the Captain’s mouth in his mind. “Keep low. Keep your weapon poised and close to your body, and keep track of your target at all times.
And most importantly, keep your wits about you.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, or I’ll blow your brains out.” His words were steady, confident.
They startled.
“…Connie? Is that you..?”
He recognised that voice.
With his hold on the weapon softening, he peered around the corner.
Jean Kirstien sat at the rickety table, a cigarette clasped between his fore and middle fingers.
A candle burned in a simple chamberstick. The harsh contrast of the light illuminated the sharp angles of Jean’s sullen face.
The orange glow and its dark shadows highlighted his high cheekbones, and his hollow cheeks. The glint in his eye still remained, though they were smothered in permanent dark circles.
Connie sighed, and his shoulders relaxed. He placed the gun down on the corner of the table, and drew a chair next to Jean.
“Why the hell are you still awake?” Connie almost whispered. He took a quick swig from the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table.
Jean moved his gaze from the candlelight to his friend.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said dismissively, “but that was quite an entrance you made there, certainly woke me up.”
“Sorry.”
“…don’t be.”
A silence fell over them.
Silent solidarity had become the bulk of their friendship over the past two weeks.
Connie idly looked around the room they resided in. It was cluttered and not too spacious, but the darkness made the void seem infinite. The world felt so small around the pair of war heroes.
So his eyes fell to him- to Jean. He seemed so much smaller, the way he sat. All the bravado and pride had seemed to have left his tired body. This man had saved the world. Billions of lives. Yet he had not an ounce of satisfaction or achievement inside him. His shoulders slouched. As if everything on them had fallen and crushed him all at once, from all sides.
Connie related to him. Uncomfortably so. He knew he would spend the rest of his life running from his past, hiding from it, only for it to pounce on him when the sun set. He would spend the rest of his life running from the Eldian blood in his veins. Hiding from the unavoidable bigotry of this world. That’s a burden they both will bear. Forever.
“Y’know the Captain would kick your ass if he saw you smoking indoors.”
“We’re all retired, aren’t we? He hasn’t got any say.”
Connie didn’t respond. Jean sighed.
Jean was trying to coax something out of Connie. A laugh, a grin, a conversation. He didn’t contribute much when the others were around. A few moments passed.
“Where even is the Captain?”
“Didn’t he move in with Gabi and Falco and their lot?” Asked Jean, honestly. He found how quickly the Captain embraced those ex-warriors to be quite shocking, and Jean had to keep reminding himself that they’re all on the same side now.
Though for the Captain, it was all impersonal. Nobody had bothered with the names on both ends when it came to who had been taken by the conflict.
What a luxury.
“I find that hard to believe.” Connie said with a hint of humour.
“Right? It’s a funny image isn’t it? Those two little kids running some cranky war vet’s errands”
“Aren’t those two technically also war vets?”
Jean pondered for a moment, before giving a nod in acknowledgment. They both grimaced.
“I might see them all tomorrow, anyway. For some meeting I was so kindly invited to.” Jean done a little wrist movement, imitating a bow.
Connie wrinkled his nose. “So… you’re just stalling going to sleep?” It had no real bite, though it came off more accusatory than intended. He inwardly winced.
Jean just shrugged, suddenly losing his conversational mood.
Connie observed his friend for a moment, his eyes softening. He cleared his throat awkwardly before changing the subject.
“Jean, why the hell are you sitting by candlelight? We have lightbulbs and stuff now, y’know.”
Jean shrugged again, his smirk ghosting his face, “what can I say? It’s nostalgic.”
“I would’ve been much less afraid earlier if you had just used the light…” Connie half-pouted.
“You’re still caught up on that?” Laughed Jean, before he let out a long yawn.
Jean set his cig down on the ornamental saucer he was using as an ashtray, and reached for the gun on the corner of the table.
He turned it over in his hands a few times, running his wiry fingers along every edge. He held it in the candlelight to reveal its scuffs, some bigger than others.
“You kept it, huh…” Said Jean wistfully.
“Yeah. This stupid continent’s full of crazies. Gotta be prepared. It’s still strong, too.” Connie replied almost too confidently.
Jean continued to examine the handgun. He knew Connie wasn’t really holding onto it because of its effectiveness as a weapon. You could walk into town and get one that shot twice as hard at half the size. The old thing was covered in dents.
Connie had had this thing for years.
He absentmindedly pressed open the barrel with practised fingers. He peered up at Connie, who was looking back at him.
“It’s empty.”
Armin had reluctantly told Jean about the happenings on the dock when he noticed Connie was acting even more standoffish than usual, even a week or so after the Rumbling had been halted.
To say it fucked with him was an understatement. He saw how badly it had affected the way Connie’s mind worked, his total distance from others. The way he processed how he felt and dictated how he acted.
He didn’t want to pry, he really didn’t. But Jean picked up on how Connie shuts down and withdraws when he’s suffering, or holding onto something big. He knows that from experience. He is the guy’s closest friend, after all.
“I must’ve forgot to reload. Damn.” And Connie sat back. He had always been a dreadful liar.
And Jean was not dumb.
Jean couldn’t veil the sympathy he had for his friend. Another moment passed. This one, not as jovial.
“Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? Jus’ give it here. I was an idiot and forgot to fill it earlier, you still shat your pants anyway.” Jean looked Connie straight in the eye, and paid no notice to his expectant, outstretched hand.
Comparing grief was not ideal, though guilt always weighed oppressive and heavy on the soul until you died. That’s what his father had told him, anyway. Marco hadn’t been like that. Sasha hadn’t been like that. But Samuel and Daz?
The flame flickered uncertainly at Connie’s face.
“Wanna act like a little kid? Fine. Then keep your stupid souvenir.”
And as quickly as he has slipped down the stairs, he had slipped back up them.
Jean took a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.