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Jean stared at the dusty mirror on top of the oak dresser. His vision did not stray away, he stared at it way longer than he should have. His own reflection blinked back at him in stable intervals in the meantime. A lazy, mandatory motion that his body seemed to do by itself. Yet he didn’t feel it as his eyelids closed, he didn’t feel it as his short yet bushy eyelashes made contact with his skin. He was totally indifferent to the balls of sweat forming and descending on his face. He was staring right back at himself. In this scenario, he neither felt like himself nor the reflection. He felt as if he didn’t exist, not even as an apparition, an image. He wished to not exist in that very moment. Jean never wished for death. Never. Some saw it as a saving grace. Mercy, an escape out of this twisted world. Jean did not find it in his heart to blame them. He never wished for death, but he knew many of his fellow soldiers who did. Most of them did not have to wish for a long time for their desire to come true. Jean never wished for it despite all the tings he has been through though, and death never came to him. Death merely knocked on Jean’s door at most. He felt a regurgitative twist in his gut to match to the knot he felt beneath his throat, when he thought of death. He had seen so many of his comrades die to wish for death. He felt as it was unfair to them, somehow. That he had to keep his friends’ memories alive by carrying them within himself for the rest of his own life. He felt the need to fight, to survive. It challenged him sometimes -it didn’t come easy to him. It would have been easier to long for a quick death, perhaps. He walked a line between giving in to the desire and the desire to keep fighting. For himself, and for…
He tightened his fists on his lap without realizing. He didn’t feel his fingernails gently poking into his palms. Maybe that lack of feeling was from all the years he spent flying around and grasping swords that had caused thick callouses. He had spent the first few weeks of his time as a cadet trying to adapt. He would cry sometimes in the night from how bad his hands hurt. Most other cadets were used to rough work -not Jean. Jean had a normal childhood. He didn’t have to do child labor as a way to contribute to society. At most, he climbed trees. Got splinters. Fell and skinned his knees. Cried, ran to his mother, Mrs. Kirschtein who comforted him through her gentle temperament and delicious cooking.
The image his brain perceived remained the same. Expressionless. Jean Kirschtein. Dark. The metal plate of his armor stained with brownish blood. Jean Kirschtein. Dark. Left nostril bloodied. Jean Kirschtein. Dark. Survey Corps emblem almost falling off of the armor’s breast pocket. Jean Kirsh-
A thud followed the noise of the door’s opening. So he was back. Jean closed his eyes. Dark. This time, he did not open them. He was not ready for the reality that would follow.
Jean would be toast if Sasha wasn’t there. Dead, probably. He reminds himself to treat her to a nice meal once they return home. Niccolo would love to cook for her if -no, he does not possess the sufficient time to think about things other than this battle, right now. Jean has a hard time dodging the rapid-bullets of the enemy, he has to retreat to a safe place to reload. He throws himself through an open window, his trained fingers working fast to reload as he follows the rather colossal battle outside. He can’t make anything out from the smoke, other than two very large figures clashing. Maybe a third that just joined in? Jean couldn’t be sure. He was always a little off-put by titan’s expressions. Even back in the day when he actually slayed titans, he tried not to look them in the eyes. There was something child-like under the expression their giant sized eyes carried. Sometimes reminded him of a past that he didn’t know he had. Apparently, the eerie feeling that he had back in the days where they thought they were completely alone in the entire world (they still are alone, just in a different sense) wasn’t entirely untrue. Titans were same as the humans all along, born from a cursed line of birth he shared with his comrades.
He’s done reloading. It took a little longer than it should, as he was trying to make the shapes of the fight out to make sense of his environment. Mikasa seems to be on top of it, as usual. Nothing could unsettle her, not even this rushed mission that Armin came up with, carrying his blind trust in Eren. He can’t help but to feel a twinge of jealousy towards Eren. Everyone heeds his way in the end, even when his actions are questionable and irrational. Even when he is reckless, and even when he is against the whole world. Then again, where else would he go? Where else would the people of Paradis stand, when the entire world is against them in the first place?
Jean leaps from the window right onto the heat of the battle. It is the worst one he’s ever been in -even his first one. He knows he can’t doubt himself, hesitate -these people don’t see Paradisians as ‘people’, so why should Jean consider them humans? He should have no problem killing, right? He has killed before. Humans, titans. Feral dogs. Chicken. All feel the same to him, he can’t distinct the types of killing anymore. So when he hesitates to shoot a little boy, a warrior candidate, and misses -he is surprised. Jean doesn’t hesitate. His hand does not quiver on the trigger of the thunder spears, not anymore at least. Life has no meaning to him, except from the lives of those who are dear to him. Regardless, he hesitates. Misses. Feels rigid, the metal of his suit is too heavy and his head feels too light. Regardless, he has not the luxury to hesitate more. He grasps his weapons and flies away from the spot, to the heat of the battle. He could have killed a titan shifter, a warrior candidate; people Marley could not reply easily, people that could not be expanded so recklessly. He has to focus on the battle right now, or else he might not survive. He will curse himself later for his mistake.
The titans’ fight is prolonged, and loud. Jean knows loud. He is in close quarters with Sasha and Connie. He and Eren have biweekly ‘friendly’ debates. He heard walls fall, colossal titan form and evaporate, Instructor Keith drill cadets into a pulp; listened to Erwin Smith’s encouraging yet sardonic speeches, Eren’s self-righteous attitude… nothing about his life has been quiet for a while. Compared to the people around him, Jean was the calm one. And that spoke volumes. Jean Kirschtein was not a calm person. He squints -he can make, one, two… four shapes out. Four shapes? One was clearly Eren’s titan. Other one seemed like the armored, the other looked like Ymir’s. And then there was the one none of them knew about; the one with the weapon. He assesses the titan with the weapon, briefly. It is humanoid. Slender, skinnier than most titans. Its body was covered entirely with a white, thin substance -armor?- only its mouth and areas on its chest and shoulders were out in the open. It held a long, spear-like trident with four prongs. The weaponed titan bites its lip nervously as Jean watches, as Mikasa runs around circles behind the titan. Jean smiles, sure that the user would soon fall. He didn’t approve for this mission -vetoed against it, actually- but if they’re going to do a reckless-ass mission far away from their home, they better win. So yeah, he hopes that the weaponed titan’s a nervous wreck.
The man’s presence was a nuisance for Jean. He wanted him gone. He wanted to be alone -or not, he wanted to be with his friends, family. He wanted his mom, he wanted to go to her and cry his heart out, have her comfort him like he was a boy who got picked on relentlessly and beaten up bu his peers. It was much worse to be beaten by someone he trusted. He felt the nuisance of a man take seat near him. He was close enough to feel air shift by his presence, yet far away enough that he didn’t touch Jean.
“Go away.” Jean managed to say, although his voice sounded a bit shaky. Perfectly normal, considering the circumstances. Jean had always taken pride in having a strong will. He wasn’t shaken easily. That both had to do with his temperament, and the stuff he had been through. He was a strong person. He would get through this. He would endure it for his people, his family. His loved ones. He no longer cared about politics, not caring who would take over whom, and when. He just wanted to exist peacefully.
It didn’t take much longer for Jean to lose a little bit of his composure. All it took was the man saying, “please, Jean.” The thought… the way the man’s tongue turned to pronounce his name… it felt odd. Off. Weird. As if the man didn’t deserve to say his name, ‘Jean’; yet at the same time as if Jean didn’t deserve to hear him say his name. His throat itched, closing up. He felt out of breath, even though he had just been seated for a while now. He wasn’t physically tired, not at all. It was from the heat of the battle he’d barely the time to recover from. That, and…
Jean watches as Eren gets bitten out of his titan’s neck. He seems intact, but that’s least of their worries. Jean quickly follows after the cat-like titan that bit Eren off. He should at least offer some cover to Mikasa. She might think she doesn’t need it -she usually doesn’t- but Jean has a gut feeling. He has learned to follow his gut feelings. It gets harder and harder to dodge the bullets of Marleyan cadets. He’s just glad he took out the titan with the battle gear. Without that gear, it merely took their individual dodging skills to avoid getting hurt. The armor covered their vital areas as well, though it would be wise to equip some sort of head protection, Jean notes to himself.
“Jean,” Mikasa warns him as they’re about to re-enter the main area of the battle. Odd choice of a spot. Eldian soldiers still heavily infest this area. The titan shifter was a fool if they thought that Paradisians would come here without some sort of escape mechanism. The cat-like titan can’t consume Eren’s body properly -probably due to the fact that Captain Levi unhinged its jaw so badly earlier, that it could not close his mouth. It held Eren’s battered body in its hand, paw, claw. It most probably was taking Eren’s body so that another titan shifter could consume it. And neither Jean nor Mikasa, nor anyone else from their side would allow it. They can’t risk the founder. If Marley had the founder, then they would have the entire world (which, as Jean had emphasized in a lot of the strategy briefings, they could have used in their favor at their international relations with other countries, instead of orchestrating a whole terrorist attack.)
“Jean, there’s something you should be aware of.” Mikasa continues, and that is the longest that Jean heard her speak in active battle. They are chasing Eren, too. It is odd to see her speak in such a high-stake circumstance.
His curiosity piqued, he chimes in, “what is it? Somethin’ important?” He looks over for a short while to see Mikasa.
In Jean’s eyes, Mikasa looks stronger than ever. And her expression is unreadable as usual. “I just don’t want you to be alarmed when you see -”
Jean isn’t exactly sure how it happened, but he finds himself on the ground in the blink of an eye. He didn’t crash, nor land harshly. But as he notices, cannot get up quickly. He feels a warm liquid slowly run down from his right temple -blood, presumably. He must have hit his head. His hands go to check the wound out and inspect it; it is only superficial. The amount of blood he is losing is normal for a minor injury like this. He won’t bench himself for something so trivial, no. The mission is worth the risk. If he doesn’t take the risk, then that means someone he cares about will have to.
He pulls himself up with his left hand, groaning, by leaning onto a rather large piece of debris. The boulder is a bit sharp, but not sharp enough that he would cut himself. He looks over to scan the battlefield above him -Captain Levi holds onto the legless body of an unconscious Eren as Mikasa and a few other soldiers defend him. Armin should arrive soon, too. Looks like they have little to worry about left. All he has to do is to join them, and then this will all be over. For a while, at least. He will know peace for a while longer after he joins them.
He feels the blood on his left palm smear onto the boulder as he lets go, testing his balance. He is able to stand, though his head feels as if it’s filled with cotton balls. His hand falls back onto the rigid debris, trying to feel less lightheaded.
“Jean?”
A quizzical look, a puzzled expression appears on Jean’s face. He could swear he heard someone say his name. A gust of wind that sounded like a whisper, perhaps? He looks up towards the sky once again, only this time, alongside the blurs that are his comrades in fight; his eyes catch onto the bluest star of the night sky. Another glare of teal-blue catches his eye, closer to the ground. Jean turns his gaze towards the debris he had been leaning onto with his left hand; the boulder that had an oddly cold surface, and an oddly smooth texture, an oddly sharp edge that he could cut himself with if he tried to.
There was only one logical explanation. Jean had suffered a severe concussion.
“Jean.” The man spoke. The sound of his movements indicated that he was coming closer. Jean wished that he could stop existing right in that moment. Not die, no. If he died, all the memories, all the effort would have been for nothing. Jean wished not to ever be born, rather than to die. He wished that Jean Kirshctein that lived in Trost, Jean Kirschtein that loved omelettes with tomato paste on top, Jean Kirschtein that was a little rough around the edges, but would do anything for his loved ones; never existed. The change it would cause in the would wouldn’t have mattered then. He wouldn’t upset anyone by dying, and he would be in a state of ‘not existing’. It wouldn’t matter if he never existed. He would not be forced to care about the horrible situation he and his people were in. He told himself -he had told everyone to get over it. Be smart about this. Think logically. There was absolutely nothing that they could do to change the world’s political views. They had to accept the position that they had found themselves in. He had told himself to get over it, accept the facts. It appeared that he had never accepted the facts himself. How shameful, how embarrassing.
“Jean.” The owner of the voice -a soft, silky voice. A voice that wasn’t made for delivering troubling news. A voice that wasn’t meant to sound so stern, yet here they were- did not touch him, but turned the revolving chair presumably for Jean to face him. Jean could tell. He wished that he didn’t. “Please open your eyes.” The man pleaded. Each syllable resonated like a spear through his heart. “Please, Jean.” Hearing his own name out of the man’s mouth was worse. He slowly raised his arms over his head, clutching it. Forcing his eyes to stay shut. He didn’t… he couldn’t bear to see his face again.
Jean didn’t have it in himself to reply to him. He wanted to, desperately. He had a lot of things that he wanted to say to him. He had said so many things to the man over the years, albeit unbeknownst to him. Now, he was able to hear, to reply to Jean -he didn’t have the strength. He didn’t have the strength to even face the situation he was in. He kept his eyes shut, took his mind away from the place he was in. He never had a particularly active imagination -he wasn’t one to daydream. He wished that he was, he wished that he could gaze into nothingness and have a world of wonders pass him by. He had stopped daydreaming after his first encounter with titans. Their ugly faces, contorted into creepy smiles and other various expressions haunted his daydreams. Corrupted them. Replaced the faces of his loved ones to the point where he couldn’t remember what they looked like anymore. So he stopped.
Silence ensued. Jean wanted to speak. He did. He had to somehow get the things he wanted to say out of the way. He wanted to punch the man. Beat him to a pulp. Hug him tight. Tell him that he… He squeezes his eyes shut, harder. It hurt to think about what to say. He started to see black, white, and yellow spots dancing on the inner layer of his eyelid -his eyes must be getting tired of the pressure. After a short while, eyes still shut but with less force -oh, how he was tempted to peek- he managed to garble a question out from his mouth. “Why?”
“I, uh…” The sound of a gulp. A silence almost as long as the previous one followed. The questions weren’t asked, inquiries unmade; both of them knew. No answer had been presented to the simple question. No answer could be presented. “I’ve…” Another attempt to pick an answer. An attempt that had failed as well. Only a long, wistful sigh followed. The man seemed careful to pick his words. No matter how careful he was, though, he would end up saying the wrongest things. Jean knew -he just did. Nothing -nothing- the man could say would change a thing. Nothing would make it okay, nothing would guarantee Jean’s well-being. His survival. Was this the end?
“I never meant to hurt you, Jean.” The man spoke up again. Jean could hear a clock ticking -a small one. Was it a wristwatch that the man wore, perhaps? The intervals between the seconds felt longer than they should.
Jean shook his head, burying it deeper between his arms. He held a sob back -successful, but for how long could he hold himself back? How long could he hold it together? “I don’t care.” He breathed out, hungry for more air that he seemed to crave.
“I never meant to hurt any of you.” The man stood his ground, defensive. It was at that point, Jean realized, that none of it truly ever mattered. This man… he meant nothing to him. He should mean nothing to Jean as well then. He felt insignificant towards a lot of people. The attraction towards Mikasa he held, that was never addressed by anyone other than Jean himself… his complex frenemy relationship with Eren… even Sasha and Connie were their own units. They adored Jean, and Jean loved them -they were dear friends. But the level of chemistry that they had, Jean just could not produce anything like that with those two. He would never be as close to anyone like that. He felt as if he never fit in anywhere, he didn’t fit well as he did with Marco Bodt. He and Jean could have that chemistry some day, had he not ended up dying a horrible death.
So, “you did, though.” How dare this man sully this image of Marco Bodt, his beloved best friend, his comrade in arms, that Jean worked so hard to protect in his mind? “You betrayed us. Betrayed me.” He spat out, no longer feeling that significant lump in his throat. He let his eyes open not because he could no longer resist the temptation. Because he chose to. Jean chose to open his eyes, he chose to look ahead. Face the problem, no matter how badly it hurt him. Before him, stood Jean Kisrchtein’s grim yet expressionless face. His eyes shifted towards the right-side of the mirror -there, on the bed that was behind the chair that Jean was seated in, sat the man. His hazel eyes (more brown than green under the lighting of this room -his room, Jean could assume) seemed tired, carrying more than one person should. His eyes darted back at himself -then again, weren’t his own eyes the same?
He stares at the teal-tinted crystal. Inside, resides, “Marco?” Jean’s eyes grow in bewilderment. “Marco!” He repeats, excited this time. The first emotion he feels is joy. Marco is alive! He can’t help the grin forming on his face. He no longer has to feel like he’d forgotten his face. There’s so much that’s been going on. It’ll be refreshing to tell Marco all about it. Hear all about his life in return. He wants to hug him before all that -he feels he needs to. His second emotion is confusion. Why is Marco in a crystal? It’s the same as Annie’s. Only titans can make these. Did the titan with the spear trap him here? Did someone else? Reiner, the bastard? How long had he been in this? He looked… grown. Taller, broader shoulders, a more pronounced chin and jawline… a beige coat and an armband over it… a look of fear -a look of fear that Jean would not forget- in his eyes. His final emotion is indescribable, with or without words. Marco Bodt was alive. He was alive, and he never had been his comrade in arms. His beloved best friend. He had been tricked, they all had been. Marco had never been dead, and at first, that fact was amazing news to Jean. He was thrilled to see his face, mere seconds ago. He had never felt more stupid in his entire life, not even when they’d found out about Marley the first time. Not even when Reiner and Bertholdt betrayed them. Not even when Marco ‘died’.
“Yes. I… it’s complicated. I never wanted to -Reiner made me.. he made me fake my own death. He thought I was getting too close with…” with a filthy devil “With you, Jean. He threatened -I was just,” he stopped. “I didn’t want the other option. Please, Jean.” The man pleaded, voice lathered with anguish.
“What was… the other option?” Jean asked with reluctance, already having a good estimate on the general vibe of this other option.
“Um… he wanted to… get rid of you, so that I’d,” Marco’s eyes shifted to the ground, analyzing the pattern of his kilim on the ground. “I’d stop being a threat.”
“A threat?”
“I was having… my doubts.” Marco nervously accepted, a face of regret flashing onto the mirror.
“Doubts, huh? How convenient for you.” Jean brushed Marco off. “You’re acting as if you’re the victim.” He crossed his arms. His words were harsh, so was his voice. It hurt to see the expression on Marco’s face. But then again, it hurt to see Marco in general at that moment. He was so… him. Jean couldn’t help but to notice the small things. Small, familiar things. How Marco would toy with his left index finger when he felt uncomfortable, or when he kept looking towards another direction, then bolt his eyes and look right at Jean’s soul through his eyes. He had not known Marco’s temperament for a long time -how shameful that he still remembered it. “You made me feel so stupid. So insignificant. You tossed me aside like I was a piece of trash, Marco.” He felt his eyes narrow further. He shot a glare towards Marco through the mirror, arms still crossed. “Is Marco even your real name?”
“It’s actually Marcus, but you already know -yeah, you knew that.” Marco gulped again, with a nervous smile. Just like the one he would wear when they were around Instructor Shadis. “It is my real name.” He confirmed it.
“That’s your entire take? Ymir, you absolutely can’t disappoint me more.” Jean raised his left hand to itch his head.
“I’m sorry.” Marco shrugged.
“Don’t say that.” Jean laughed a laugh that sounded more like a bark, a howl. “Exactly what are you sorry for?” He paused, as his mouth formed into a thin line. “Sorry for disappointing? Betrayal? Working against your people?”
“I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that I hurt you.” He seemed unsure. He was unsure. Jean felt like he had never met the man before him, but his expressions, reactions -they were familiar. He could read them, comment on them, decipher them. They were Marco.
He blinked slowly. “I don’t know a single word to describe how you made me feel.” He stood his fair ground, looking towards the ceiling to keep himself calm.
“I can’t imagine how you all must feel, Jean.” Marco sounded extremely sympathetic, but to no avail. Jean didn’t actually care if he was sorry or not. That wouldn’t create enough of a change.
“That’s right.” His words cut the air of the room like a blade Captain Levi wielded. “You can’t. You never will. You’ll never have to, anyways. We’ll all be dead before that. The sun will turn blue before that.”
“Jean -”
“Jean!” From a distance, he hears Mikasa’s voice, filled with a desperation which he has never heard from her. It would make him concerned, if not for his shell shocked state. Jean knows she cares about him. It’s not her fault that she never had a crush on him. He was doomed from the beginning, that woman would never let go of Eren. As much strength as she had, she didn’t have it in her to abandon him, not really. Jean loved her, but for that reason he could never trust her. Metals click and rustle around him, as he notices the heavy attack of bullets the airship has evaded fall to the thick ground. He stares at the ship as it barely escapes, as it shrinks faster than Jean thought it would. He turns his gaze back towards the teal-colored boulder, tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. “Marco, you motherfucker,” he replies to himself with a neutral tone, as if Marco being a motherfucker was something that he expected. He hears footsteps, rapidly approaching his location. He realizes that he has doomed himself. “Motherfucker.” He whispers as a general insult and not specifically towards Marco this time. There’s nothing else he can do. He can’t outrun the troops, he can’t escape. He doesn’t know if he is strong enough to endure the interrogation. Jean would bet his good hat that if they had someone half as mad as Commander Hange, he would break like a quail egg. He feels the weight of his pistol then -he looks at the pistol in his hand, perhaps his safest, coziest escape out of here. At least it will be quick. Rather painless. Without much more thinking, he raises it.
“How much?” He couldn’t bear it longer. He wanted to ask Marco that ever since he had processed the information that he, in fact, was (had been) a titan shifter working for Marley this whole time.
“Huh?”
“How much time do you have left?” He spat out, sort of embarrassed that he still cared about that. There was a small amount of Jean inside of him that still cared of Marco’s wellbeing. It was only normal, he had thought about him, every day for years. It would go away eventually. Time would heal the Jean that still cared. But for now, he was annoyed of that aspect of himself.
“I -do you mean Ymir’s Curse?” Marco itched his jet black, relaxed hair. His face was as sour as the taste inside Jean’s mouth. “Can’t be sure. A year, give or take.”
“A year?” Jean raised his eyebrow, slightly. He sounded surprisingly disappointed. He was well aware that the curse would shorten a titan shifter’s life to 13 years since their inheritance. His brain automatically calculated the age at which Marco had to have inherited his titan. “Were you seven when they made you into a… a warrior?” He asked. Jean couldn’t find it in himself to be amazed, disappointed in this world, the life he lived in, but destiny sure was stubborn.
There was a solemn silence, where Marco only counted the tiles on the floor with his neck bent down. Jean almost felt sorry for him, yet he didn’t allow his mind to go any further. He didn’t allow it to imagine Marco as a small child, scared, turning into a titan and then consuming the previous owner of one of the great titans. He didn’t allow himself to notice the hell beneath Marco’s eyes for all those years, they weren’t for the horrors he had endured because of the titans. They were caused by the hands of humans, normal men and women with regular lives. Jean didn’t particularly enjoy this silence, but he didn’t wish to disturb the pause. Helped him calm down.
Marco broke the silence after probably ten minutes, Jean hadn’t taken track of time. “Tybur.” He told him, eyes still fixated on the floor.
“What?” Jean didn’t understand. What did Tyburs have to do with anything?
“My real last name is Tybur.” He raised his head, meeting Jean’s gaze via the mirror. “Marcus Tybur. It’s classified information, actually. No one but my uncle knew. Even I found out a few months back.” He stopped for a breather, waited for the ever so slight hum that would come out of Jean’s mouth, before he continued. His gaze strayed towards his fingers, which he had been fidgeting. “Apparently it was… my turn to inherit it. The Warhammer Titan.” His light brown eyes seemed darker by the second, yet a small, rigid smile formed over his mouth, as if it were plastered upon it.
“Your turn? I don’t get it,” Jean observed the look on his face. Marco’s expression looked like that day when Sasha had offered her half of a baked potato to Instructor Shadis. Only more somber. “Aren’t you supposed to… compete to get a titan?” Marley’s military system was made to be impenetrable; but instead of that it was confusing and impractical. Jean couldn’t help but to think someone like Erwin Smith would have already taken over the world, had he had this much power.
“The Warhammer is like…” Marco sizzled his tongue. “A family heirloom. It’s not up to Marley to decide who gets it and whatnot. There’s a line that it follows. After me, it’s going to be my aunt’s turn.”
“Your aunt?” Jean raised his eyebrow, about as much emotion that he was willing to share with the outside world. He felt lost with the new information, and its relevance. However, he did ask.
“Yes.” Marco nodded.
“Does she know that -”
“No. She doesn’t know we’re related.” Marco completed Jean’s sentence. “Only me and… you, now.” Marco stared at the oak dresser to avoid Jean’s sharp eyes.
“How romantic,” Jean murmured sarcastically.
“What?” Marco raised his face, eyes meeting Jean’s.
Jean felt the betrayal of his own body as the temperature around his ears rose significantly. “Oh, nothing.” He shrugged, looking down to count the small tiles. “So this… skinny titan -” he started off to his sentence.
“The Warhammer Titan.” Marco attempted to correct him.
“The skinny titan,” Jean continued, “is it like a symbol?”
“More or less. I was mostly asked to make walls and bridges and… you get it.”
“I wish I did.” Jean shook his head. “This world of yours is complicated.” His frown grew deeper.
“Yeah. So is… your world.”
“Well, mine is only complicated because of you.” Jean blinked. “I mean, your people. Not you, personally.” It was complicated because of Marco, personally, too.
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” Marco offered a nervous smile towards Jean, via the mirror.
“I know that you -all the warriors- were taught that we were devils and all that.” Jean took a long inhale, then exhaled. “We can’t forgive you even if you’re pawns.” His eyes were resolute, cold.
Marco had a broken look under his eyes, but his expression didn’t falter. Jean didn’t know if he regretted his actions or not. He was at the very least, regretting this conversation. He didn’t see any excuses under his expression. “I don’t know why they kept it a secret.” He opted to change the subject instead. “Tybur told me my mom ran away when she unexpectedly got pregnant with me, and when they found out that I was of their family, I was made to inherit the Warhammer. And I… don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” Marco stopped in his tracks, blinking.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Jean, caring a little.
“I’ve done so many bad things… against humanity. And then, I find out… I’m not even supposed to be a warrior, Jean.” It seemed like Marco had a hard time dealing with the stress and pressure of all that. A feat Jean couldn’t afford to have the sympathy for.
“I do not care of your psychological mess, Tybur.” Jean spat out the name of the family.
“Is it going to be like that, now?” Marco hadn’t snapped, but he sounded annoyed.
“You don’t like it? Tybur?” He kept teasing.
“Jean, stop. Please.” Marco’s kind voice sounded harsher and harsher by the minute, much like that one time Sasha and Jean threatened to steal his bread during lunch hours, passing the dry piece of small bread so that Marco wouldn’t reach it. Jean had stolen it from Sasha in time, and had given it to Marco. The look of relief he had on his face that day was immense, and the smile he showed Jean felt out of this world. Jean grouned internally -why was he remembering all that? Why was he remembering the good times? That would only make about everything worse that it already was.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Tybur.” He crossed his arms, keeping on with his persistent teasing.
“Ugh! God, I forgot how infuriating you could be.” Marco mumbled. Jean felt an unexpected arrow split his chest in half. He thought Jean was infuriating? All those years? Jean started to doubt his already-warped point of view, as Marco couldn’t stop a snicker from escaping. Jean peeked towards him -he was… smiling? “I truly have missed you, Jean.” His dimples had gotten deeper, freckles fewer yet darker. But the sun was still in his eyes.
“No!” A hand slaps the pistol away from Jean’s grasp. The pistol clinks onto the ground. The arm’s owner has won. He now is entitled to Jean’s pain and joy, suffering and happiness. The hand’s owner was in charge of his destiny. The hand’s owner had done the right thing for his country by keeping Jean alive, and Jean… well, he had fucked up. He had failed to keep his country safe, perhaps he would have a direct role in the damnation of the Paradisians.
“Yeah.” Jean nodded, turning his head sideways to actually see him. Against all odds, he replied. “Me too.”
A hand grasps his own, tightly. It feels like the same hand that slapped his pistol away. Jean doesn’t dare look at the owner of the hand. He smells oddly familiar. “Come on!” Insistent, the owner of the hand tugs a few times, pulls Jean away from the scene. Jean doesn’t remember how, but suddenly they’re underground. They’re running. The familiar man doesn’t let go of Jean’s hand. Neither does Jean.