Chapter Text
“I blame you for this,” Jean huffed. “You and your bizarre sleeping positions.”
Bertholdt couldn’t tell if Jean was being serious. Surely, he couldn’t be blamed for their current predicament. The ravine was flooded, overflowing with rainwater that rose the river and forced the excess to creep into any empty space it could fill. Both he and Jean were drenched head-to-toe, their clothes plastered to their skin and showing no signs of drying. The only thing saving them was this cave they found shelter in. Bertholdt would not succumb to exposure so easily—could not—but he thought Jean looked vulnerable with his back turned, holding himself as he shivered at the mouth of the cave. Bertholdt shifted uncomfortably on his feet but kept his distance. Whether or not he had actually conjured—or predicted, however it worked—a rainstorm in his sleep last night, he felt guilty. But no matter what the others believed, he couldn’t see into the future. The rain happened because it happened. It happened because a butterfly beat its wings somewhere and a cloud got heavy. (So, with that logic, maybe it was not absurd to blame his overnight contortionist tricks for the rain.)
For the last hour it was ceaseless. Jean paced back and forth as water trickled between the crevices under his boots. A helpless bystander to nature’s whims, he passed the time by filling the air with his grouching, as if the droplets, which left behind infinitesimal gaps, if any, weren’t killing the silence fast enough. Apparently the ambiance or looming fear of being drowned at a snail’s pace didn’t take his mind off the awkwardness of the situation. Bertholdt could appreciate awkward; he spent his whole life learning how to tolerate uncomfortable silences, and the last couple years living amongst a bunch of excitable, adrenaline-riddled boys reinforced his reticence. After dark, they gossiped as much as the girls did (according to Ymir), if not more. But group settings were easy because he could fade into the background. No one ever expected him to speak. Even now, one-on-one, Jean spoke to him but did not expect a response, and Bertholdt did not feel compelled to provide one. (Why defend himself?) They weren’t strangers—he didn’t think strangers should be able to recognize each other’s sleeping patterns—but they had never been alone together for so long. Jean’s unease, perhaps unbeknownst to him, was louder than the rain, but until the weather improved they were stuck with each other.
Little puddles had formed in the shallow grooves of the rocky floor. Some of those grooves turned into miniature streams that led deeper into the cave, driven by gravity or another unseen force. It was impossible to hear but Bertholdt knew what it was supposed to sound like, the cosmic pull of water hurrying in a direction. He tore his eyes away from Jean’s trajectory, which felt predetermined at that point, to squint into the dark belly of the cave.
A yelp flung itself helplessly at Bertholdt in that split second he took his eyes off Jean. He found his fist buried in the other boy’s jacket before he fully understood what happened, knuckles going white trying to hold onto the slippery leather. Jean was frozen in prayer, his hands splayed out in front of him and his face hovering a precarious inch from the hard ground, spared in the nick of time. Just as Bertholdt realized his intervention was needless he held onto his breath. What he did was reactive—but it was not effortless, and for that he felt foolish. Depending on who you asked—maybe Reiner, depending on the day—there was convenience in tragedy. Why did it matter if a cadet became mortally wounded after a very unfortunate accident? Accidents on the training field happened all the time. If anything, they were more liable to happen in a less controlled environment. He wouldn’t even have to make up a story for Shadis.
When he finally allowed himself to breathe, Jean quickly followed suit, as if Bertholdt had reminded him to. The rain felt far away while the boys held position in complete stillness for a few moments more. But the shock on Jean’s face soon broke, replaced by a furrow of confusion as he tried to get back on his feet. Bertholdt snatched his hand away. When Jean’s eyes met his, he did not try to decipher the emotion behind them. He sent himself away so quickly he almost mimicked his companion’s fall. He made a plan: he would plant himself somewhere dry and solitarily wait out the rest of the storm. And if Jean wanted to try cracking his head open again Bertholdt would let him.
Everything felt calmer a few steps further into the cave. Bertholdt saw the little streams under his boots and followed them wherever they wanted to go. There, at the base of the rocky formation, like arteries to a heart, they emptied into a pool. Its surface twinkled from the sparse sunlight that seeped through the curtain of water falling over the cave’s entrance. His curiosity was cut short by a gentle pressure on his hip, a feeling of resistance that increased the more it was pulled. Then came the light echo of boots, accompanied by the squeak of wet leather, carefully making their way over to him. He sought the closet sliver of wall and plopped himself down with his back against it.
“It’s wet,” he warned, hoping to deter his unfortunate companion, but honestly he couldn’t tell on account of his very damp ass.
He stared ahead at the bumpy wall, pretending not to see Jean pressing his fingertips to the ground out of the corner of his eye. When he sat down—right beside Bertholdt, no less—his shivering was more obvious. It was colder here, further back in the cave, but Bertholdt barely felt it. When he brought his knees to his chest, it was for comfort, not warmth.
All was silent except the rain. He wondered how he would cope with the added proximity and why Jean dared to make the situation more awkward.
Jean cleared his throat, the sound bouncing off into a wall where it dissolved. “You’re a good guy,” he said.
Bertholdt’s stomach dropped with that sick feeling he routinely encountered. It was worse than guilt. With any luck, that was all the other boy needed to say.
But his voice came again, feeling itself out. “Like, if we were on a serious mission, I’d trust you to have my back.”
“This is serious,” Bertholdt mumbled back. It was and it wasn’t. This was Shadis setting them loose in the woods so they could “spread their wings” with the ODM gear and perhaps a failure on all their parts to anticipate the massive nosedive the weather would take. This was Bertholdt losing sight of Reiner in between whipping tree branches, blindly colliding into another body, and trying to untangle wires between slippery fingers—which was never going to work. How did they manage to make it to the cliffside again?
Oh right, they were still attached. Their grappling wires created a cat’s cradle when they knocked into each other like a pair of marbles. They were lucky most of the knots were loose and even luckier neither of them lost a limb between the wires. But there was still one more knot to deal with; the one tugging on his hip, preventing him from wandering too far. He reached for it. So much pressure and weight had tied it, it would be near-impossible to pull apart without tools, but it could still be used as a distraction from what was beginning to sound like a conversation.
Jean sort of laughed, apparently humored by the curt reply. Bertholdt had already forgotten what he said, dulled by nerves.
“See, that’s why I like you,” Jean asserted, though he had done nothing to indicate he ever liked Bertholdt before, unless all that teasing in the barracks meant something.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re careful,” he clarifies.
If Jean only knew how reckless he had been.
“Sometimes I think you’re too careful and that causes you to hesitate, but I also think that’s why you gravitate towards people like…”
Bertholdt had the feeling he was supposed to feign interest—so he didn’t—and watched Jean in his peripheral vision.
“Reiner.”
He could argue he was the one being gravitated towards.
“But your marks speak for themselves. You have a bright future ahead of you in the Military Police, if you wanted. It’ll be good to have someone I can rely on there. If I make it, I mean.”
“I don’t know…” Bertholdt started to say and realized he made a mistake when he accidentally flicked his eyes up at Jean who looked like he was holding onto every word. “About me, I mean.”
“Are you kidding?” Jean gawked. “Keep up the good work and you can do anything you want. Go anywhere you want. Eat good, retire early.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I deserve.” Pain budded where Bertholdt nipped the inside of his cheek. Why did you say that?
Jean blinked, dumbfounded. His face softened. “Are you serious? You need to believe in yourself.”
Bertholdt felt his eyes glazing over like a dead fish at believe and self.
Jean plunged an elbow into Bertholdt’s bicep, knocking the wire out of his hands and effectively capturing his full attention. He stressed his words in a sing-songy way. “You know, if you’re confident, other people can sense that.”
“Oh, like you?” Bertholdt shot back, unusually candid.
Where did that come from?
Jean seemed to be wondering the same thing. There was a beat and a decision sparkling at the end of it. His stunned face split into an impish smile. “Yeah, like me. Smartass.”
His smile was contagious. Bertholdt felt himself resisting the urge to copy it and returned his eyes and hands to his pointless task. Just a couple yards away, the pool beckoned with its eye-catching sparkle.
“You should look at the bright side. I know I am.”
“Mm.”
He could sense Jean leaning in playfully. Just when he had regained control of his facial expressions, he received another sharp elbow into his ribs.
“Ow!”
As the rain slowed and more light found its way into their shelter, Bertholdt realized that Jean’s eyes were not only brown like he always thought but also speckled with green.
“I reckon I’m stuck in a cave in the middle of a storm but at least I didn’t get stuck with someone who’s a pain in the ass. Unless you are a pain in the ass?”
Bertholdt rubbed his side, hyperaware he was already taking too long to answer. He should say no, right? Easy. Unless Jean was looking for a specific answer? “Like Eren?” he blurted out and immediately regretted it. He wasn’t one for drama and he didn’t want to start any.
Why did Jean have this weird effect on him? He only ever got this way around Reiner.
Once again, Jean looked stunned. Bertholdt cleared his throat and felt his face getting warm. “I know you get on each other’s nerves, is all. Sorry.”
“Well, yeah. He’s a prick,” Jean grumbled. “What about you? Who’s the worst person you could get trapped with?”
“We’re not really trapped…”
“Nope, don’t avoid the question. You gave me a glimpse into that mysterious mind of yours and now I wanna know.”
Mysterious?
In spite of himself, he decided to answer honestly. “Mikasa.”
“What, why?” Jean sputtered, baffled.
“We’re too much alike, I guess.”
He seemed to consider this. “Well, you are both quiet and have…dark hair…”
His eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he tried to come up with a better answer. It was almost cute, if Bertholdt let himself forget why he drew the comparison.
It wasn’t long before he gave up. “Wait, what’s so bad about Mikasa? She’s great.”
What could Bertholdt say? He pitied her because she followed Eren around like a dog, too smitten to see how she chained herself to someone who would selfishly lead her to her demise. She knew nothing of herself besides her obligation to serve. Her desires were not her own. Bertholdt wondered how aware she was. At least he knew he was doomed. Still, she was more of a leader than he would ever be. She’d have barreled herself out of this situation by now.
“Nothing bad,” he settled on, happier to keep his companion in the dark. He shouldn’t have been so honest in the first place.
“Oh, c’mon. Commit. Are you jealous of her?”
A wave of nerves danced down his spine. “Why would I be jealous?”
“She’s at the top of our class, so I thought maybe she’s your competition?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, taking the out.
Jean smiled as though he was clever. It was cute. “You keep surprising me.”
Bertholdt could say the same. Honestly, he always thought Jean was a bit unremarkable. He was from Trost. He hadn’t seen what some of the other cadets saw, hadn’t been radicalized by bloodshed like Eren, and so he strived for the safety only the innermost wall could provide. His story was not unique; he was rightfully afraid, and his fear is what propelled him to secure a spot at the top ten of their class.
“What about Reiner? Do you ever feel like you’re competing against him? Your rankings flip-flop every other day.”
Bertholdt shrugged stiffly.
“I’m not judging. It’d be hard not to compare yourself to a guy like Reiner.”
“I guess.”
Jean sighed. “You really are a man of few words, Bertholdt. How on earth are you ever going to land a girl like that?”
Another shrug.
“Relax. I’m only teasing you because I like you.”
Oh.
“Thanks.”
Bertholdt ducked his face behind the safety of his knees. The rain softened. Worried it might suddenly stop, he quickly mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Worse comes to worst, I’m sure they can cut us loose.”
“No, I mean, I’m really sorry. This is all my fault.” The slight waver in his voice was disguised by the rain. He was hovering dangerously close to the truth. But an apology couldn’t mean anything without a confession first.
“I was kidding earlier about the storm. Everything happens for a reason, right? Let’s just wait it out.”
He nodded and brought his arms around his legs. Jean scooted over, huddling a bit closer and half-muttered an apology when their thighs accidentally bumped together. On, off. Bertholdt gently knocked their legs back together and felt Jean pretending not to notice, the same way Reiner sometimes pretended not to notice when they touched.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’ll be fine.”
As the weather persisted, Jean kept insisting he was, even though he wrapped his arms around himself and held on for dear life. There were still some hours before dusk stranded them inside, and before then they had to make a decision, but the dampness of the cave wasn't helping them get any drier in the meantime.
“You’re going to get sick.” Bertholdt started to unbuckle his harness, unsure of where the confidence was coming from. “Take your clothes off.”
“What?” Jean said, taken aback. “We’ll have to put all our gear back on. And that’ll be difficult with this stupid wire.” He shook it for effect.
“We won’t be able to utilize it anyway, it’s dead weight. We can leave our gear and travel back to the rendezvous point on foot once the rain lets up.”
An overly-pleased smile slowly crept across Jean’s face. Bertholdt was concerned.
“What?”
“I see my pep talk was pretty successful. You started making calls all of a sudden. Very decisive, Hoover,” Jean poorly imitated Shadis before returning to his normal voice. “Confidence looks good on you.”
Bertholdt frowned deeply, trying to appear annoyed to hide how endeared he felt.
“What, I can’t give myself some credit for your incredible transformation?”
He balled up his shirt and threw it at Jean. It landed on his face with an indecent splat that made him wince. Did he take it too far?
“Sor—”
The surprising weight of his wet shirt took him down next. He flung it onto the ground as Jean wrestled with his shoes and belts. They flew into the air and the boys were on each other before their clothes hit the ground.
Their limbs tangled and strained until Bertholdt found himself on his back. Jean pounced at him but Bertholdt was faster, defensively sticking his foot out against the other boy’s chest, simultaneously propping him up and knocking the wind out of him.
“You’re gonna regret that,” Jean wheezed as he dramatically toppled onto his side. He peeled off his shirt, rushing to recover.
They grappled and fell, rolling over their wet clothes, strewn all over the rocks, and carelessly tumbled onto each other, giddy with the sensation of their skin warming on contact. They didn't keep track of where their bodies pressed into the rough surface, of how many bruises they'd be marked with. Their laughter bounced off the walls, dampening the rain until it was nothing.
Jean’s belly trembled against Bertholdt’s skin; Bertholdt couldn’t tell which part of him. His senses were bloated and blissfully confused. He felt dizzy. Warmth embraced him, and then it let go.
The cold should have shocked his system. It should have paralyzed him and sent him down like a rock. He fell in headfirst. The water pooled at the base of the cave was deep and dark but he could feel the vibrations of a hand frantically searching for him until it found his knee. He reached for the hand and allowed himself to be guided upwards and out. Cold air lashed at his face like a whip, like a punishment he deserved. Instinctively, he gulped the air down into his lungs and threw himself into a coughing fit.
His chest expanded like an overstretched balloon. Jean pulled him away from the pool, to the cave’s center, where they both collapsed onto their backs.
“Shit,” he exclaimed once he caught his breath. “Are you okay?”
Bertholdt hoisted himself up into a sitting position and coughed a few more times. “I’m fine,” he said with strained vocal chords.
Jean put himself in front of Bertholdt, his hands frantically working their way along the sides of his companion's neck, settling to each side of his head. “Hey, look at me. You’re burning up. Is that normal? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Bertholdt insisted. His throat was raw but he could finally breathe again. He forced himself to look into Jean’s eyes and watched the worry melt from his face.
He already felt better. His body was constantly on high-alert, ready to reverse any damage done to it. Once it shook off the chill, his body temperature would return to normal. He wished he could explain that to Jean whose hands were trembling along his jawline.
“Hey, I bet if we lay all our clothes on your back, they’ll dry in no time," he half-heartedly joked, mouth pinching into an apologetic smile.
Bertholdt tried to laugh because he didn't know how else to reassure Jean that everything was okay—really. He sat, drenched, creating a pool of his own while water seeped out of his overly soaked pants. He'd be embarrassed about the white fabric clinging onto him in translucent splotches if Jean hadn't been so nice to him this whole time. And there was faith Jean wouldn't get into details when the other cadets asked him about his life-or-death experience. At least Bertholdt had no plans of sharing; he'd even keep it vague with Reiner.
Because nothing happened.
When he looked at Jean's hair starting to frizz and puff, he thought Jean might survive him yet. A part of him hoped he would—beyond this.
As their breathing calmed, the air hit their skin differently. The rain sounded different. Had it stopped raining? He couldn’t tell. Most of all, there was something different about how Jean looked—in the way he was looking. His hands were no longer stiff. His blinks were coming in slower, like he was sleepy.
It was almost like…
Bertholdt tilted his head a little, as if to remind Jean of his hands. One of them curled slightly, shifting through his wet locks of hair that sent little streams of water down his neck. His skin was still hot. Honestly, he wouldn’t have realized had Jean not pointed it out, and if they weren’t as close as they were, inching closer still.
Jean pressed their lips together, swiftly smothering any doubt in Bertholdt’s mind—and his gasp. He went silent against the smaller boy, feeling all that confidence from earlier shrink back into place. A deafening heat filled his ears and took him by the throat. All he could do was surrender to it. He wished it was coercion; at least then he could excuse himself for letting it happen, this soft movement of lips, parting themselves with care, against his own. Jean tasted clean, like the rainwater that washed his skin and hair. He smelled like earth, as if perfumed by the foliage they waded through to reach the cave; like herbs, slightly medicinal. Just as Bertholdt realized the kiss was coming to an end, he pushed back. He pushed back until their bare chests touched and they gasped at the sensation of their naked skin, parting and daring to meet again. He drew a whine out of Jean that tested the locks of his composure, that made him want to drive his full weight against him, surround him from all sides like a cage. He'd trap him, his prey, just for a little while. Enjoy him. Paw at him like a dog playing with a baby rabbit, aware of his unfair advantage, aware applying a little too much pressure could be deadly. And then he'd let him go, because if he had to be a monster he wanted to be a nice one. An intoxicating thrill coursed through him like lightning. His body knew what it wanted. He just had to ask. Shouldn't he try, just this once?
He couldn’t.
How could he be so reckless?
Bertholdt pulled away first and harshly whispered, “I’m sorry.”
As he departed, a string of heat chased after him like a wire he couldn't shake loose. This had consequences. Jean couldn’t see them. His eyes slowly fluttered open, and his mouth was left hanging open, searching for the words.
“Don’t be.”