Work Text:
Annie (3:08 AM):
Please tell me yur not in a laundromat at 3am. or anywhere else at 3 am.
Annie (3:11 AM):
Bertholdt ross fubar I s2g respond r ill go track down yur ass
Annie (3:15 AM):
All yur dirty clothes are gone so im assuming laundromat but. its 3 am. i will go fuckin find u unless u call/txt in th next 10 mins.
Betholdt has been attempting to ignore Annie, as sitting in a laundromat at three am silently has brought his anxiety level down to a solid six out of a five point scale. He doesn’t want to shatter the illusion that he may be able to go for ten minutes without having a panic attack, but the threat of Annie tracking him down is… just too much.
To: Annie (3:16 AM):
Im fine, promise. Dirty clothes were getting 2 me so I went to wash them.
Annie (3:17 AM):
Yur not on a bridge again r u
To: Annie (3:17 AM):
No, no bridges.
Annie (3:18 AM):
k
Bertholdt puts his phone away with a sigh, rhythmically tapping his fingertips against the washing machine he’s sitting on, too nervous to flap despite the fact that no one could possibly see him.
He’s half asleep when the door bangs open. Bertholdt awkwardly slides off the washing machine (what if they want to use the one he’s on top of?) before realizing that there’s no place else to sit, and slowly pushing himself up back onto it again, wrapping his arms around himself and wishing he had worn something other than a tank top and boxers. Despite being small-chested to begin with, and wearing two sports bras, his chest never seems to be flat enough without his binder, god, if he gets misgendered tonight, he’ll have a panic attack.
The person seems to have the same idea Bertholdt had, their footsteps heading straight for the back corner where no one can see them and-
What the fuck.
They’re absolutely covered in blood.
Bertholdt has never seen anyone look quite so chipper with blood all over them, and it’s one of the most unnerving things he’s ever seen, and when everything unnerves you, that’s saying something. The person throws open the washing machine two down from his own, loading in clothes from their laundry basket. Bertholdt realizes that he’s staring, shit, and quickly begins intensely focusing on his feet, feeling the stress-sweat already building at his temples.
He listens to the possible serial killer open the washing machine, softly whistling something that sounds like an off-key rendition of Anaconda. If he’s gonna get murdered for seeing too much, at least he’s getting murdered by someone with good musical taste. Bertholdt’s too busy trying not to stare that he doesn’t notice when the person walks up to him, and so he jumps and squawks when they tap him on the shoulder.
“Woah, sorry.” They say, and all Bertholdt can focus on is the blood still slowly trickling out of their nose and the bruise on their blood splattered cheek. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Can you watch my stuff? Last time I left it alone my clothes got stolen.”
Bertholdt nods slowly. “O-Okay.”
They smile, say thanks, shoulder their backpack, and head into the bathroom.
Bertholdt makes a sound like someone letting air out of a balloon and melts against the wall behind the washing machine, then pulls out his phone to text Annie.
To: Annie (3:33 AM):
I may or may not be watching a serial killers clothes for them while they go to the bathroom to wash off the evidence.
Annie (3:34 AM):
WHAT THE FUKC BERT. WHAT HAPPENED DNT GET MURDERED SHOULD I COME GET YU
To: Annie (3:36 AM):
No dont and idk they just came in with a laundry basket & covered in blood bruises & scratches. Then they asked me to watch their clothes for a bit bc last time they got stolen
Annie (3:36 AM):
who tf stelas ppls clothes wht a dikc
To: Annie (3:37 AM):
Thats what your concerned abt?
Annie (3:38 AM):
dnt die.
To: Annie (3:40 AM):
Well shit i was planning to do just that but now that uve instructed me not to I guess I cant
Annie (3:41 AM):
smartass. m not gnna go 2 bed till yur home so keep me posted.
Bertholdt snorts softly and slips his phone back into his backpack just as the possible serial killer comes out of the bathroom, blood washed off their face and hands, dressed in clean basketball shorts and a white tee shirt, their bloody clothes bundled in their arms. They smile at him and shove the bundle into the washing machine, along with a binder, and then they shut the lid with a snap.
After a lengthy, awkward period where neither of them say a word, Bertholdt slowly counting the ticks of his anxiety going up, up, up, and it’s beginning to border on meltdown when the person speaks up.
“I’m not a serial killer, I promise.”
“That’s e-exactly w-what a s-serial killer would s-say.” Bertholdt murmurs, and they laugh, big and loud.
“I’m Eren. He pronouns.” He says, seemingly unconsciously reaching up and snapping at the band of his sports bra. As good as it is to know his name, the whole ‘covered in blood’ thing is scaring Bertholdt, and the med student half of his brain is practically crackling at the fact that he isn’t bandaging up the slice on his forehead and is just blotting at it occasionally with a public bathroom paper towel what the fuck does he want an infection?
“I’m B-Bertholdt.” He responds quietly, wincing at his stutter, and decides not to even attempt to repeat his pronouns back to Eren. Bertholdt desperately needs to see what other injuries Eren is sporting, as he can already tell they’ll be inadequately cared for with whatever the fuck he thinks he’s doing to care for that cut, but he sits on his hands instead, so he doesn’t launch over there and go on a tirade about proper medical care.
“S-so…” Bertholdt says, “How d-did you get all th-that blood o-on you?”
Eren purses his lips and shrugs. “Beat up an asshole who was trying to mug a girl.”
“N-not a serial kil-killer.”
“Nope.” Eren says, popping the p. “More like… Vigilante?” Eren accidently drops the blood soaked paper towel he’s holding and hops off the washing machine to pick it up, and Bertholdt’s control snaps.
“D-don’t you da-dare pick th-that up.”
Eren freezes, then smiles apologetically. “Sorry. Germaphobe?”
“Med student.”
Eren puts his head in his hands, laughing. “Oh shit. I’m fucked, aren’t I?”
Bertholdt hisses a ‘yes’ out through clenched teeth and makes grabby hands at him, already pulling the first aid kit out of his backpack.
It’s about five-thirty in the morning when he gets back to his apartment, and true to her word, Annie is not in bed. She is asleep, however, and half sprawled across the kitchen table with a cold cup of coffee in front of her, but at least she tried.
He gently carries her into her bed because nothing short of a fog horn can wake Annie up, then sends her a few texts to avoid most of the interrogation in the morning.
To: Annie (5:44 AM):
Serial killer isnt a serial killer, amazingly, he just beat up a mugger & his name is Eren
To: Annie (5:44 AM):
Hes trans and hes also actually really nice
To: Annie (5:46 AM):
I ended up having 2 give him first aid bc hes so bad at it. He was using a PUBLIC BATHROOM PAPER TOWEL tht he had DROPPED ON THE FLOOR 2 try and stop one of his cuts from bleeding. Im p sure I died and went to hell 4 a bit.
To: Annie (5:48 AM):
Hes also. Kinda cute eep like long shaggy hair nd green eyes kill me bc ill literally never see him again
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
Bertholdt jumps at the voice and throws his notebook at the source before he realizes that it’s Eren, once again blood splattered and in a laundromat at three am. Eren catches his notebook with one hand and hands it back to him with a smile, the effect slightly ruined by the blood dripping from his nose.
Bertholdt gives him the most exasperated look he can manage as the brunette opens the washing machine in front of him. “A-Again? Real-really?”
Eren nods, throwing his clothes into the machine. “You should see the other guy. Broke his nose after he broke mine. Was hitting on a girl who told him to fuck off, so I hit on him until he threw a punch.”
Bertholdt sighs. “Let-lemme f-fix your n-nose be-before y-you change.”
Eren is a very patient patient, he holds very still right up until Bertholdt sets his nose back, which is when he curses loudly and socks Bertholdt in the arm.
“Y-you should p-probably go to-to the hos-hospital.” Bertholdt says, after Eren’s nose stops bleeding.
“Do I look like I have health insurance?” Eren says in a nasally voice, pulling clean clothes out of his backpack. “’Cus I don’t. Is it ok if I take the tissues out of my nose?”
Bertholdt shakes his head. “I-I’d w-wait a li-little longer. J-just to m-make sure.”
Eren flashes him a thumbs up and goes into the bathroom to change.
Bertholdt goes home with some more practical knowledge for his finals and Eren’s number in his phone for reasons such as “I don’t trust legal doctors” and “You’re fun to talk to”, and the smile on his face could blind passerby.
Neither of them text each other.
Bertholdt is too nervous to, and when finals blow in like a hurricane from hell he doesn’t even have the time (or the space in his brain) to make himself panic over it.
All bets were off the instant finals were over, however.
Annie makes him cookies and forces him to remember that it’s not the end of the world, even though it feels like it.
“If he texts, he texts. If he doesn’t, his loss.” She says, one hand on his head in her lap, the other rubbing his back as he makes various whining sounds into her thighs.
He still ends up at the laundromat at 3 AM. Going for weeks without clean clothes because he had no time to wash them was horrible, he’s got to wash them ASAP.
His phone buzzes on the washing machine next to him, and he sighs and picks it up. He did text Annie and tell her he was going out, so it’s probably a drunk partying text.
Eren (3:12 AM):
uh hhey dide um im srry I didnt text u ive been rlly busy bt ah I could rlly use ome help right now
Eren (3:13 AM):
u font have to ive been kinda a dick bt i could really use hlep
Bertholdt blinks down at his phone, uncomprehending. He should, by all means, be angry at Eren, he told him he would text, and didn’t, but he’s texting now, when he needs help, and it feels like he’s being used. The dryer beeps, and, oh what the hell, he’s got nothing else to do tonight, he might as well.
To: Eren (3:17 AM):
Alright. Where are u what should I bring?
Eren (3:18 AM):
thanknu so much juust a first aidkit i live 1 blockaway fromt he laundromay, #16 Beech st., #416
Bertholdt sighs and puts his phone away.
Eren won’t go to the hospital. He just won’t. Bertholdt’s stuttered protests and the severity of his injuries won’t sway him.
“Head wounds always bleed a lot.” Eren says, arms folded, ignoring Bertholdt’s pleas and gentle tugging at his wrists. “I’m not going. Don’t need to. You’re here, right?”
“Y-your nose i-is b-b-broken again, y-you m-might have a c-con-concussion, you h-have g-glass st-sticking out o-of your s-scalp and ch-cheek, y-your h-hands a-are a m-mess, you’re c-covered i-in cuts a-and br-bruises, p-please l-let me t-take you.”
“I’m not gonna go.”
“Y-you need s-stitches.”
Eren shrugs and pouts up at him, cracking the scabbed over split in his lower lip again. “You’re here right?” He holds out a suture kit. “I’ve had this for a while, but I have no clue how to use it. Will you please help?”
Bertholdt can’t say no to those eyes.
It takes hours to find all the glass imbedded in Eren’s scalp, the meticulous combing through Eren’s thick, gorgeous, and somewhat blood-soaked hair and then stitching leaves Bertholdt with cuts all over his hands and fingers. Each one Eren insists on kissing better, making Bertholdt sweat and blush hotly, saying, “Th-that’s not a-actual m-medical tre-treatment”. Bertholdt apologizes profusely for every hiss and curse of pain that passes Eren’s lips, resting a soothing hand on his dark shoulder.
Eren’s dominant hand is out of commission with the first three of his fingers splinted together, so it leaves Bertholdt the slightly gross job of removing the tissues stuffed up Eren’s nose after he had set it right again.
“I-It’s am-amazing th-that you h-have a n-nose at all.” He remarks quietly, then places them in the bowl with the glass shards he pulled out of Eren’s head.
Eren laughs quietly. “It’s not the same one I started with, that’s for sure.”
Bertholdt attempts a weak laugh and gets up and washes his hands, tracing the lines of his palms with his fingertips and watching pink-tinted suds swirl down the drain. “H-how did i-it h-happen?”
He jumps slightly when Eren suddenly appears behind him and sets his chin on Bertholdt’s shoulder. He must be on tip-toe, god he’s awful tiny when Bertholdt thinks about him without his explosive personality.
Eren hums softly. “Bar fight.”
“D-Descriptive.”
“I saw a guy who hurt my sister and screwed over a lot of my friends,” He paused. “I had to talk to him. I might have told him he was a “Motherfucking shit eating disgusting tiny man with the face of a fucking rat” and that I respect “a rotting cockroach eating my fucking wheat-thins” more than him. And… I also kinda told him that I would ram his tacky tie down his throat until it came out of his ass and then I would pull it out of him and strangle him with it.
“He looked at me and told me I still dressed like a “maggot crawling out of a dead sewer rat’s anus” and that I should scuttle off to “leach off of some other respectable person’s tax money”. So I told him that I would skip the whole ass tie thing and strangle him here with my bare hands. He took his shitty beer bottle and hit me in the head with it and the rest just kinda…” Eren trails off, wrapping his arms loosely around Bertholdt’s chest. “This ok?” He asks.
“Y-yeah.” Bertholdt says. “T-Tiny man?”
“He’s… He’s five foot three. But he had friends with him…”
Hell if he knows why, but that makes him laugh, which causes Eren to laugh so hard he snorts, making his nose start bleeding again.
At seven in the morning, with them both half asleep on Eren’s lumpy bed, Eren asks Bertholdt to go on a date with him.
He says yes.