Chapter Text

Prologue

Panic was the only thing he could feel as he screamed out, not even knowing what he was saying. But words were escaping his mouth, he knew that much.

 Panic and fear and anything associated with the unwanted doom approaching surged through him as the large hand reached down. He could feel the tears pricking his eyes as his fingers dig into the rooftop, nails bleeding as he clawed at the brick tiles.

Get up! Get onto your feet, you idiot! He thought as he desperately tried to crawl away. Get up! It’s not like they cut your legs off!

A face flashed before his eyes. Light brown eyes, a quick grin, ash hair. A natural-born leader, but with an egotistical and selfish demeanor.

His best friend.

The young man clawed forward, desperately trying to escape, shouting out something. How could they do this?! What did I do?!!! Annie, Reiner, Bertolt—what did I say?! Did I overhear something?! Did it have to do with your jokes?!!!

It didn’t make sense. What did he do to deserve this? Why did Reiner tackle and hold him down, why did Bertolt just stand there, why did Annie take his gear? At such an important moment like this, as they were taking back Trost, why were they attacking him? Their ally?!

He had to think, but he could barely form a logical thought or explanation for this. He didn’t want to.

So many scrambled thoughts were racing through his head as the hand snatched him up, gripping him tightly. What had he said earlier? 

“Thanks to you, Jean, I’m alive.”

Maybe… maybe…

Only a few thoughts were louder than his screaming pleas.

Jean, please…

…help me!

The hand was crushing him, tight as it brought him to its face, mouth widening in preparation for its food. He screamed, struggling to break away, but the fingers wrapped around him were so strong, so tight and he couldn’t breathe, not properly. The air was being squeezed from his lungs, his rib cage cracking into tiny fragments.

So many things were going to be left unsaid. Was this really how it was going to end for him? Eaten by a titan before he could join the Military Police, before he could tell Jean…

Jean. Tears fell down his cheeks as he strained his head away from the teeth closing down. The mere thought of his best friend—no, the thought of someone who meant so much more to him, was the only thing keeping this boy fighting, even though he knew it was useless. Without his gear, he was no match for a Titan. 

Pain. So much pain as the teeth dug into his arm.

It was hopeless. This was how he was showing to die, and he never even got to tell Jean the truth. He wondered if Jean was okay, if he was still alive— oh, how he hoped Jean was still alive. Jean deserved to live a long life, and he wished he could have been there by Jean’s side for it, but it seemed like fate had other plans for him.

Death, for one.

But his best friend…he hoped his best friend would live the life he could never have.

Jean, I’m sorry for leaving you so soon.

Maybe… maybe in another life.

Please, you have to live on. Be the leader I know you are.

The teeth shut down, and the last thing Marco Bodt saw before the jaws crushed his skull was the image of his best friend's face.

Jean, I’m so sorry.

Chapter Text

Even If It Was A Dream

The first thing Jean Kirstein remembered when he opened his eyes was pain.

Odd.

Even odder, he could hear voices around him—which shouldn’t be possible. He lived alone.

Even odder, they were voices he thought he had long since forgotten.

“Eren, please, just take a step back!” The voice of Armin Arlert—a young one, voice still higher and frantic without the confidence Jean had learned to know—was shouting.

“THAT BASTARD NEEDS TO GET UP! HE’S HOLDING US BACK!”

Huh. Now that was weird. Hearing Eren’s voice full of that bitch-ass spunk attitude was… seriously unnerving. The only bit of Eren’s voice that remained in Jean’s brain after all these years was the tired one, the one that belonged to a man that knew his fate, that was willing to do whatever it took to keep his friends and family safe. One that had given up on fighting against what was already written for him, one who had given up at being angry at the world.

“Eren, please, he’s sick!” Armin countered. “The last thing he needs is to overexert himself—”

“I DON’T CARE, HE NEEDS TO GET UP!”

Weird dream. Jean decided after a few minutes of listening to the two, rolling to his side. Maybe if I go to sleep in this dream, I’ll wake back up…

“Oh, you’re awake! Perfect timing.”

Whatever drowsiness that had been trying to take over Jean vanished in an instant as he sat up so quickly he bonked his head against the ceiling.

He couldn’t have ever forgotten that voice, but even so, it was so much clearer than whatever his brain normally managed. A precious and such a painful memory, one that caused Jean's heart to lift and then crash back down like a balloon. His heart always ricocheted around his chest when thinking about him, even after all these years (even if it was weird to be dreaming of him again, when he hadn’t, not in maybe a decade.)

Warm brown eyes stared up at Jean as Marco Bodt gave a soft smile. “I know you’re sick, but Shadis told me to wake you up so you could help clean the horse stables. Eren’s currently throwing a fit outside—I asked Armin to try to restrain him for the time being.”

“Ah.” Jean said, but he didn’t move, just stared at Marco. 

Marco rarely appeared in his dreams anymore, not for years. Jean tried to forgive and forget, because he knew Marco would never come back (even if he saw him everywhere, even if he spent years searching for some sort of way to bring him back—) so after a while, Marco faded from Jean’s dreams.

Of course, he never faded from Jean’s mind. He was always there, his smile being ingrained into his memory. He had been a ghost, waiting in Jean’s sleep as a background prop, always standing there in the shadows when Jean walked around Trost. Occasionally, he would walk past that one spot where the blood was long since faded away, but he could still see it, see Marco’s body staring ahead with his lips pulled back and teeth bared, the right side of his face and arm gone and the grief so heavy it felt like a boulder was crushing Jean’s chest—

But this, seeing Marco right there, maybe 15 or 16 again, smiling and speaking and so clear… shit, how much Jean had missed this.

That beautiful smile. That smile that had brought Jean up when he felt low, that had encouraged him the worst times and been there for the best. The smile that mocked him and teased him the way no one else did, a smile that was nothing more than a (dangerous, perfect) memory.

Jean could feel tears threatening to break through as he smiled. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Marco’s smile faltered, eyebrows furrowing. “Cut that out. I know you’re sick, but you saw me yesterday.”

No I didn’t. Jean thought, wanting to reach out and grab Marco and hell, he wanted to hug him—

Jean shook his head, sitting straight up. Normally in these dreams (even if it had been years since he had one like this, this vivid) he had to play along until he woke up. They were normally memories—if he thought hard enough, he could probably pinpoint whenever this moment happened. Considering Dream Marco had said he was sick, Jean could narrow it down to only a few days across the many years as a cadet.

“Tell the suicidal maniac I’ll be there shortly. I assume the asshole is yelling about me. I ain’t going to listen to his annoying screams all day.” Jean grumbled, swinging his legs over the side.

Marco rolled his eyes, gently whacking Jean’s leg. “You should lay back down. I know Shadis said you have to help, but you’re still sick, no matter what Eren and Shadis say.”

Jean raised an eyebrow as he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you don’t want to get yelled at for my sake, eh?”

“Of course not. Why do you think I came to wake you up? Still, like I said, you’re sick, so take it easy.” Marco moved closer and Jean could feel his heartbeat pick up.

Even in his dreams, he couldn’t help but be ever so smitten for this freckled boy. Jean had never felt like he deserved Marco’s friendship when they had been cadets—Marco somehow always managed to stick by his side and knock Jean off of his high horse. Most people seemed to think Marco was this sweet and gentle guy, and while they weren’t wrong, they also missed out on the part that Jean knew well, on the parts he loved more than anything.

Marco Bodt wasn’t really afraid of many things. He never failed to call Jean out on his bullshit yet always put up with him. He was strategic and smart, reasonable and calm. He had been the voice of reason, always pulling Jean away from beating the annoying shit out of Eren and calming him down. He was brave and selfless, well respected and idealistic. He was smart, a tactical person with a rather hidden cunning personality. He was a peacemaker and preferred to talk things through rather than act out (something Jean had admired so much but absolutely hated when Reiner revealed how Marco called out to them saying he just wanted to talk things through moments before he died, moments before he was bitten clean in half—)

And yes, Marco was sweet and kind, but he had been so much more than that. Jean just wished everyone else got to see that.

At the same time, he was glad he got to know Marco better than most. He alone knew the exact number of freckles on Marco’s face (43), the ticking habits when the older boy was nervous or upset (the way he clenched his jaw and tapped his foot, always forcing a smile on his face), the way Marco used to bite his cheek when reading, and how he always waited five seconds before raising his hand to answer a question. His breath used to smell like ginger, his hair always soft to the touch, and his smile always so warm and friendly.

Even now in this dream, Jean could smell the ginger breath and count those beautiful freckles, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold Marco’s face in his hands and tell him, tell him everything—how much he missed him, how much he cared for him, how much he loved Marco.

Because he did. Maybe it was wrong to love another boy the way Jean had (and still) loved Marco, but he couldn’t care less. 

He couldn’t pinpoint when he started realizing his feelings for Marco were beyond friendship, and regret filled him to the core for countless years that he had never been able to tell the older boy how he truly felt. Hell, Jean could tell Marco right then and there, but what would that do?

This was a dream. It would do nothing—granted, it could turn into a version of the dreams Jean used to have when he was 15 and Marco had still been alive, where he would have fantasies in his sleep about the boy and end up waking with a bad case of morning wood.

But he didn’t want that. Not now, after finally moving on. (A lie, he could never move on. He could forgive, if he tried really hard enough, but he could never forget.)

“HORSE-FACE, GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT HERE AND HELP US CLEAN THE DAMN STABLES!”

“Unfortunately,” Jean said, meeting Marco’s gaze, “I think I have to help out. No matter what the doctor says.”

Marco’s smile was small but still genuine. “I guess so. Just don’t overdo yourself, okay?”

“Whatever.” Jean nudged Marco away from his bed and hopped down. Almost immediately the world started to spin around him, pain throbbing against his skull. Jean stumbled to the side before Marco barely caught him from falling.

“How’s the headache?” Marco asked softly, pressing a hand to Jean’s forehead. “Still feel like your brains were blown out?”

Jean grunted out a “eh,” pulling away from Marco’s touch. His cheeks were ablaze and his heart was racing like a horse in his chest. Dammit. What am I, fifteen again? You’re fucking thirty-five, Jean, get a grip. “Kinda, but it’s fine. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

Marco eyed him with raised eyebrows, obviously not believing him, but not making a move to stop him. “Whatever you say. Come on, Armin and Eren and Reiner are waiting for us.”

Jean followed Marco out of the cabin, keeping his eyes trained on his dead friend's back for focus. He currently couldn’t tell shit for left and right if the world depended on it, his head banging so loud everything was simply a blur. Fuck, I don’t remember ever having a headache this bad. 

He tore his gaze away from Marco when Armin called out. “Jean! What are you doing up? You should be resting!”

It was disturbing to see Armin so young again. Jean had gotten used to Armin’s hair being short, as after the whole Rumbling, Armin kept it cut that way. Jean rarely saw Armin, but he could remember that last time he had (had to be four, five years ago?) Armin's hair was still short. His health, however…

Well, after what Armin and Mikasa went through, no one could blame the both of them being fractions of the people they used to be.

So seeing Armin look so young again, his blue eyes big and wide and still full of hope and even innocence… well, it threw Jean through a loop. It had been well over a decade since Jean had seen him look so lively. Probably since before Eren died.

And speaking of the devil. Fuck, the emotions that went through Jean needed their own words because no already existing one could describe what Jean was feeling. He was pissed and sad and angry and so many things that he just couldn’t explain. He wanted to run up and grab Eren in a hug but he also wanted to deck the absolute asshole on sight for all the lives he would soon put at risk, for all the death and misery he would be the harbinger of.

Eren fixed his green eyes on Jean, a sneer (one that Jean definitely didn’t miss) working its way onto his face. “Oh, so the horse lives.”

“Not now, Eren.” Marco said, putting a hand on the impulsive brats shoulder. “Jean’s here just so he can do his share and then go back to rest.”

“Yeah, whatever—who says he isn’t faking it, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Jean grumbled, turning away to hide his tiny smile. Yeah. That’s the Eren I knew.

“Jean,” Marco warned, but a new voice cut in before he could finish.

“Oi you two, give it a rest. Eren, just be glad he even woke up.”

Ah. Another face that was long gone from Jean's life (due to the fact Jean just didn’t want to see the guy) and still just as punchable as he remembered.

“Reiner.” Jean said stiffly as the blond stepped up. 

“Jean, you really should still be in bed.” Reiner said, apparently not noticing the hostility in the boy’s voice. “We can clean the stables—”

“No way, he’s joining us.” Eren insisted, shrugging Marco off and turning to Reiner. “It’s his fault we even have to do this in the first place!”

“ Eren ,” both Marco and Armin groaned.

“What?! It’s not like I’m wrong! We should be out training right now, but instead we’re out on nurse duty!” Eren whirled to Jean, raising a fist. “If you didn’t screw up—”

“Can’t we just get this over with?” Reiner interrupted, stepping in between Eren and Jean. A wise choice, because despite this being a dream, Jean had been mere seconds from throwing hands with the annoying piece of shit. “The quicker, the better. Besides, Connie and Sasha are growing impatient.”

Seriously, did all the names of people long gone have to be dropped in this dream? Only Connie was still alive, and hearing Sasha’s name almost brought Jean to tears on the spot. 

“What about Mikasa?” Jean found himself asking—because at least Mikasa was still alive, too (though a shadow of who she used to be. After losing Eren, she had grown distant. Not the same beautiful woman Jean had known growing up, but still fierce, as she was willing to punch Jean every time she visited.)

“What are you, an idiot? She’s with the others. Shadis wouldn’t let her stay behind, the fucker.” Eren grumbled as he turned to face Reiner. “Fine, let’s just get going. We already wasted enough time, and we have to get training. Fuck knows when a Titan might attack or—”

“Stop being paranoid, Eren.” Reiner mused. “I doubt a Titan is going to break through the walls anytime soon.”

Right. Jean thought bitterly, eying the Eldian with a scowl. You go ahead and say that as if you aren’t planning on breaking through the walls. As if you aren’t the reason half of us are even here. As if you aren’t the reason Marco is—

A hand clamped down on Jeans shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. “You good?” Marco asked softly.

“Fuck, yes, I don’t need you checking up on me every two seconds.” Jean huffed with an exaggerated eye roll. 

Marco smiled and gave a soft laugh. “I can’t help but worry, Jean! You’re rarely sick, and you passed out pretty hard last night.”

When was this? Jean wondered as he scanned the area, knowing the rest of the dream would play on if he didn’t say anything. Has to be around 850—obviously before Trost because… his eyes flicked towards Marco, the reason hanging in the back of his mind. He could still see it (he could always see it), the way Marco had been laid, the right side of his face and torso bitten off—

Point is, I should remember this, but I don’t. Was this a year before? Probably, but I don’t remember getting sick that late. I only got ill the first two years, and this is definitely near the end…

“…Oi. Jean. Can you get moving? We don’t have all day.”

“Huh?” Jean looked away from Marco immediately, eyebrows raised as he glanced at the boys around him. “Shouldn’t you guys already be on your way?”

“Well yeah, but we have to wait for you, dumbass.” Eren shifted his stance. “So stop daydreaming about Mikasa and let’s get going.”

“I wasn’t—” Jean cut himself off. I’m arguing with a dream. What the hell. “Fine, whatever, let’s just go.”

“THAT'S WHAT I WAS—”

“Eren, let it go!” Armin pleaded, tugging on his friend's arm. 

“Jean, you sure you’re alright?” Marco asked softly. “You seem pretty out of it.”

“Well, this is a dream, so why wouldn’t I be?” Jean shrugged. Honestly, I could kiss you right now and all would be fine. I just don’t want to wake up with a fucking—

“A dream?” Marco’s brows furrowed.

“Well, yeah. I’m obviously asleep.” Jean scoffed, pushing Marco’s hand off. “But I’ll just roll with it for now. Let’s go to the stables and clean that stuff out.”

“Jean—”

“HEY YOU GUYS, HURRY UP! We’re this close to making you all do the work!”

Jean's head snapped towards the sound of Sasha’s voice, a smile worming its way onto his face. Shit, she was just like he remembered—a piece of a potato stuffed into her face, ponytail bouncing behind her and Connie at her side. 

His smile vanished in an instant as her corpse flashed in his eyes, her body on the floor of the balloon, blood seeping from the bullet hole and her last words—

His legs carried him before he could try to stop them. Maybe seeing all of the people in the same dream at once was enough to make him snap, but it wasn’t like they could judge him—it was a dream, after all.

In a matter of seconds, Jean had crossed the space between him and Sasha and had the girl wrapped in a tight hug, hands holding her as close as he could.

Fuck him trying to be normal. This was a dream.

“EEP! Jean, what are you doing?!!”

“I missed you.” Was all he said as he squeezed her closer. “I missed all of you.”

“Horse Face, let her go!” Eren barked, storming over before Marco, Reiner, or Armin could stop him and ripping Jean off of Sasha. “Can’t you see she’s uncomfort—?!” Eren got cut off as Jean did probably the most out of character thing ever and hugged him. “What the fu—get off me!!!”

“I hate you, you know that?” Jean grumbled as he pulled away, whacking Eren on the head. “You suck more than anything, Eren, so fuck you.”

“What the hell?” Eren aimed a punch at Jean’s face, missing as the other easily ducked out of the way. “Fuck you too!”

Jean turned to Armin who automatically shrank away. “Wait, don’t hug me—”

Too late, Jean already stormed over and hugged the blond. “And you—don’t fucking try to play hero!”

“I haven’t?” Armin squawked, pushing Jean off. “Jean, are you okay?”

“I just—I—” fuck, don’t cry you moron, don’t you fucking cry! I know this is a dream but don’t cry! “I missed you guys. That’s all.”

“What, I don’t get a hug?” Reiner sounded oddly amused as he crossed his arms to watch the weird show going down.

“Hell no.” Jean turned to Marco.

Marco raised his hands automatically, eyes widening. “I’m always down for a hug, but Jean, are you sure?—“

Jean pulled Marco into a hug, a tighter one than he’d given the rest. He pulled Marco in so close he could feel the beating of his dead friends’ heart, feel Marco’s black hair tickle his ear. He pulled in Marco so close he might as well have left no room for air in between them, his hands clenching Marco’s shirt as tightly as he could and fuck, he wouldn’t admit it in a hundred years, but tears were running down his face. “And you, you idiot, don’t—you need to fight back from time to time! Talking won’t always work, and you won’t be able to settle every matter that way and it ain’t always useful, alright?!”

“Wha?—Jean, what the heck?!” Marco didn’t seem to know whether to hug Jean back or pull away, instead just standing there limply. 

“Is Jean alright? Did he lose his brain?” Sasha whispered loudly.

Marco peeled Jean off of him, holding the boy by the shoulders. “I don’t think Jean can help,” Marco said slowly. “I’ll do double the work, but he needs to go back to bed.”

“I’m fine, I swear, it’s just…” You’re all dead and I just can’t handle it anymore.

“No, Jean, you’re not ok.” Marco’s fingers dug into Jean’s shoulder.

Maybe, maybe not. So what if Jean wanted to bury his face into Marco’s neck and cry until he was sick? He had every reason to, because this all felt so real but he knew it was nothing more than a dream.

No good thing happened to Jean Kirstein, not in decades. Perhaps the only good thing in his life had been long since dead. 

Fuck this dream, making him face all the people he missed, all the people who had died. Fuck it to hell and back. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t nice, it was just plain cruel, toying with Jean like that.

He may have acted tough, may have acted like the shit growing up, but this was too much for him. Jean felt like he was going to explode in grief.

“I’m fine.” Jean was lying through his teeth. He wasn’t fine, not the least bit. He was caught between laughing and crying and screaming all at once, stuck between unfiltered rage and grief.  “Let’s just go to the stables.”

Marco seemed to be sharing a look with someone—Armin, Jean could safely assume, because there wasn’t really anyone else the least bit responsible around.

What a sick joke, Jean couldn’t help but think as he pulled away from Marco. A dream like this, on the twentieth anniversary of the battle of Trost. On the twentieth anniversary of Marco dying. His eyes scanned his best friend for a good few seconds, taking in all the surprisingly vivid details. Were all 43 freckles there, on the exact same spots Jean had memorized them in? If he counted them right then, would he see all of them? Were the constellations the same? 

He could recall the nights he woke up in a sweat from some random ass nightmare—most commonly a Titan (before he had ever even seen one) about to eat him and his mom—only to roll around and see Marco sleeping in the bunk next to him, drooling away. Countless nights he spent up, staring at Marco’s face and connecting those freckles to see what constellations he could find, which ones he could make up.

(Until the first night he woke up and rolled over only for Marco to not be there, for his bed to be perfectly made and flowers resting on the pillows because he was gone, dead and never coming back—)

15, 16, 17, 18…

Jean shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be counting Marco’s many freckles. He had to tag along. Even if this was a dream, he had a reputation to maintain, and he was definitely ruining it.

He casually flipped Eren off, earning a series of animalistic growls from the suicidal maniac, and turned to the trail that lead to the stables. “Excuse me.” He said stiffly. “I just needed to… y’know. Don’t expect something like that again, it ain’t happening anytime soon.”

“Awwww, I kinda like the hug though!” Sasha pouted for a second before turning to the trail. “Anyways, off we go! We have stables to clean and poop to scoop before the rest of the 104th comes back!”

The 104th. Jean didn’t like the way that number weighed down on his shoulders. So few of the 104th were still alive. There used to be so many, but now…

Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about it. Fuck the fact this was a cruel dream, maybe he could find some part of it to enjoy, even if he would wake up sometime, anytime, during this second chance.

He watched Sasha bound along the trail with childish joy, hiding his smile. Enjoy this second chance, he thought, before reality decides to ruin it again.

꧁꧂

Even in his dreams, the stench of dung was so overwhelming that Jean wanted to puke. Seemed like it didn’t matter whether it was fake or real, shit would always smell absolutely horrible.

Fuck shit.

Fuck shoveling shit.

And fuck Eren, who kept on doing petty crap like tossing his pile into Jean’s stall and making his work load a whole long bigger than it needed to be. Jean hated it, so of course he did the exact same, and of course that lead to Armin having to restrain Eren and Marco having to hold Jean back from punching Eren’s skull in.

“You threw it onto me!” Jean snapped, thrashing against Marco and straining to kick Eren. “At least say sorry, you piece of shit!”

“You’re the one who started it, asshole!”

“What are you, five?!”

“Fuck off!”

“No, you fuck off!”

“You horse-faced piece of shit, go stick your ass where someone actually wants to see it!”

“You suicidal maniac, go suck up to Mikasa and Armin—no offense, Armin—like you always do!”

Funny, how while Jean was so pissed at Eren’s existence, he found it rather… fun… to be bickering with Eren like this. Old timey feelings, in a way. Plus, the suicidal maniac was saying the exact things Jean thought he would say. Word for word, bickering like a child without any original insults.

Huh. Who knew Jean would miss that.

“Your insults are getting worse,” Eren sneered. “You’re not so tough without Mikasa watching, huh?”

“Can you two please shut up?!” Armin and Marco snapped in complete unison, causing the two morons to clamp their mouths shut.

Eren rubbed the back of his head, having the courtesy to actually look ashamed. “Sorry, Armin…”

“Sorry, Marco.” Jean grumbled. “You can let go now.”

Marco didn’t. “Can I?” The boy challenged, and Jean could practically hear Marco’s eyebrows raise. “Or are you just going to throw yourself at Eren again?”

“Tempted, but I won’t.” Jean promised.

Apparently satisfied by that answer, Marco’s grip on Jean’s arms relaxed as he let go. Jean slid out of the grip, turning to stare at Marco for a few seconds.

Counting those freckles.

19, 20, 21…

“Jean?”

He turned away. “You have shit on your face.”

He could see Marco’s face turn bright red as he turned around, wiping his face hastily and cursing under his breath. Cute, he thought before chiding himself. Jean, this is a dream, dammit. Don’t call a dream version of Marco cute.  

He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair (no longer a mullet, which he found oddly nice), unable to hold back the smile as Marco spat onto the floor. “Did I get it all?”

“Yeah.” Jean said with a grin, reaching over grabbing Marco’s face in his hands. He gently steered Marco’s face in different directions, holding the boy's chin and examining him up closer. “Yeah, it’s all gone.”

Marco’s face seemed to flush a bit before he pulled away.

“OI! Can’t you two get back to work?!” Eren snapped as he raised his shovel as threateningly as he could. “Stop fucking around!”

Jean's smile vanished for a brief second as he turned away from Marco, picking his shovel up. Don’t get friendly, or you’ll wake up heartbroken again. He thought, gritting his jaw so tightly he might have broken a tooth.

But a voice at the back of his head was telling him yes, enjoy this, enjoy it while you still can.

Shut up, voice. Jean looked at his poop scooper and scowled, raising a gloved hand to pinch his nose. “Damn, it seriously smells like Eren’s laundry.”

“LIKE YOU’RE ANY BETTER!”  

Jean snickered, tossing his pile into Eren’s stall. “Have fun!” He called, turning around and completely forgetting how sick he was as the world raced around him and the ground was getting awfully close—

—hands (he knew they would, they always did) grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him back to his feet before he could face plants into a giant puddle of horse diarrhea.

“Seriously, Jean,” Marco said into the boy's ear, “you should be resting. This isn’t good for you.”

“I’ll do my fair share of work and then rest—”

“No, you’ll rest now.” Marco’s grip on Jean’s waist tightened a bit. “You’re going to collapse any second now if you move just a bit too fast.”

“I’m fine—”

“Jean.”

The boy bit his lip and wrenched himself out of Marco’s grip, forcing himself to turn and face him. “Fine.” He said, sticking his nose up. “I yield.”

I want to spend time with everyone before I wake up. Please, let me spend more time with them.

Marco pinched Jean’s arm harshly, causing Jean to wince in quick pain. “Good. Now let’s get going.”

Please. Please, let me be with them, one last time—

Marco’s hand moved from Jean’s waist to his arm, sliding down his wrist and grabbing his hand. “Come on.”

Jean’s face totally didn’t heat up at the innocent action, but he did have to hide his face because of a yawn. Yes. Totally had to yawn, right?

Marco tugged Jean along down the trail, and he couldn’t help but twist his head around as the stables slowly but surely got smaller and smaller until it was no longer in sight.

“Jean, are you okay?” Was the first thing Marco said when he came to a stop. 

Jean glanced over, eyebrows furrowing. Ok. So this is definitely no longer a memory and just a dream, cause this never happened. “Duh. Why do you ask?—”

Marco pivoted around to face Jean, face set. He was serious.

…was serious Marco always this attractive?—

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, JEAN, THIS IS A DREAM!  

“You’ve been acting weird since you woke up two hours ago. You said this was a dream.”

“Oh. Yeah, ignore that—”

Palms slid up to Jean’s cheeks, holding his face in place. “Jean. Tell me the truth. Are you okay?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it, this is a fucking dream Kirstein, don’t you dare say it—

“No,” Jean croaked. “I’m not.”  

Marco offered a small smile. “You want to talk about it?” Jean shook his head, hating how he was leaning into one of Marco’s hands. “Ok. Then we won’t, alright? Just… don’t hide it from me. You’re my best friend.”

I wanted us to be so much more, Jean thought miserably, closing his eyes and fighting back the tears threatening to break through. We could have been so much more, if I had just… if Reiner hadn’t…

“Yeah.” He managed to croak out, forcing a smile onto his face. “And you’re my best friend.”

Marco’s smile grew and he pulled his hands back. “Well, you’re still sick, so come on. You’ve got to rest.”

“I’d rather spend time with you.” Jean blurted out, because fuck it, what’s the worse that could happen?

Marco’s face turned pink. “You say that as if you don’t see me every day. Come on, you gotta be a bit tired of my face.”

I could never be tired of you, was what Jean wanted to say.

But instead he clicked his tongue. “Yeah, you’re right. I swear, I look around and I swear there are yellow spots in the same formation as your ridiculous freckles.”

“Please, I don’t have that many!”

Jean didn’t say what he wanted to say because he knew. This was a dream. He couldn’t get attached to this Marco, he couldn’t tell this Marco anything because the second he woke up, he would be heartbroken all over again.

And he didn’t want that.

As much as he wanted to grab Dream Marco and kiss him, he didn’t. Instead, he nudged Marco with his shoulder and jerked his chin towards the bunkhouse. “Let’s just head back? Before I get more sick of your stupid face.”

Marco, oh his beloved Marco (even if it was a dream) laughed and Jean’s heart soared.

Yeah. Maybe being able to speak to Marco one last time was enough…

Even if it was a dream.

꧁꧂

“And so, there’s these butterflies—amazing ones, beautiful, you should really see them when it’s spring!—that only pollinate one type of flower. They’re so picky!” Marco was saying enthusiastically as he laid in his bunk.

Jean was supposed to be resting but he had asked Marco to tell him something random to help keep him awake.

Seemed like Marco was happy to oblige, because he had automatically launched into the fascinating explanation about insects.

Jean already knew about these butterflies—though if his memory added up, he wouldn’t be told about them until…

…until two nights before Trost.

“And they glow in the dark! Kind of like fireflies. In Jinae, we call them the Angelus Ardenti, or—”

“The ‘burning angels,’” Jean translated, closing his eyes. “Or more commonly known as the Glowing Fae.”

Marco twisted in his bed, propping himself on an elbow. He prodded Jean gently, but the cadet refused to open his eyes. “Jean. Jean. Jeaaannn. Oi, horse face!”

“Hey, you promised not to call me that!” Jean whined, finally opening his eyes and staring Marco in the (beautiful) face.

“Sorry, I know. But how did you know that? What the butterflies were called. I never mentioned that.”

“Eh, the future.” That wasn’t a lie. And besides, once again, this was just a dream.

“Riiigghhhtt. Fine, don’t tell me, it’s not important. Well, in the daytime, they’re this ashy color, kind of like your hair.” Marco poked Jean in the shoulder, grinning. 

Jean almost grinned back, but he didn’t, not as he remembered. Seeing those butterflies first hand…

They were beautiful, but they were associated with something Jean never liked remembering.

It had been night. That was the thing Jean could recall so clearly, because when he walked up to the Bodt’s abode, he had been able to see the glowing butterflies. What color were they?…

That’s right. Orange. 

One had landed on Jean’s shoulder as he knocked on the door, watching as his best friend's mother opened the door, so happy at first. Then confused to realize it wasn’t her son at the door, but instead some boy, and she had started asking why he was there. Then her brown eyes, identical to Marco’s, had caught the heartbroken expression on Jean’s face and no words were had been exchanged as the butterfly flew between them and Mrs. Bodt collapsed to her knees in tears—

“But at night,” Marco was gushing, collapsing onto his back to stare at the wood above them, “their wings glow a beautiful orange. More beautiful than the sunsets, let me tell you! They looked like they were on fire.”

“I bet they did.” Jean said softly. 

There was an excruciatingly long pause before Marco suddenly picked up. “I’ll take you, some day.” He said, causing Jean to stare at him. “To Jinae. I… want to introduce you to my family. You’re my best friend, y’know? I’ll be damned if they never get to meet you.”

Jean laughed. They get to meet me. Just… not in the way we planned. He stretched his hand out, reaching over to nudge Marco, but the cadet took Jean’s hand in his and interlaced their fingers. “Promise me, Jean. Whatever Regiment we join, we live long enough for you to meet my family. And… maybe I can meet yours. And we can see the butterflies in the spring. Together.” 

Jean was so close to crying. Fuck, he wanted to pull Marco as close as possible, hold him as tight as he could, and just cry.

He wanted to promise. He did, so badly. He wanted to sit up straight, yell at the world to suck it, to fuck off, and promise Marco that wherever they ended up, they’d end up together as friends (and maybe more.)

But that wasn’t a promise he could keep.

He pulled his hand away and stared at the ceiling. “I’ll try my best.” He managed to whisper. Because he did try his best. In probably a few months time, he would try his hardest.

But his hardest wouldn’t be enough.

“Tell me more.” Jean rasped after a few moments of awkward silence. “About Jinae. About your home. I want to go there after we join the Military Police, but I don’t want to be in the dark about everything. What’s it like?”

Marco’s eyes seemed to light up as he rolled back over. “You sure? I can talk about it for hours, honestly.”

“Well, since you’re on nurse duty, we have all the time in the world. At least, until Armin and the others arrive.”

“True, true.” Marco’s grin was splitting his face in half. “Let me tell you about my little brother—he should be six by now. Probably doesn’t remember me, but that’s alright. I’ll be the best big brother when I return.”

Ah. Marco’s younger brother—what had his name been?

That’s right. Xavi. He had looked so much like Marco, with the round kind eyes of the Body family and Marco’s black hair and freckled face and arms. He’d been adorable, running out of his room in concern for his mother and curious if his mysterious big brother had finally returned.

Fuck, Jean never wanted to see such a pained look on a such a young kids face again.

“His name’s Xavi. He’s the sweetest little thing—when I left, he was yea big!” Marco held out his hands, eyes widening as he looked at Jean. “He loved biting on people’s thumbs, and when he crawled, we called him an ankle biter. I think the reason is obvious.”

“He liked to bite ankles?” Jean frowned a bit, wriggling in his cot. Marco had never told Jean about Xavi—maybe because Jean had never really asked. When he had, Marco had only said “he’d be six right about now. I can’t wait to meet him again.”

Was Jean’s brain making shit up? It had to be. Maybe he heard stories like this from the other cadets and just…crafted them together. Trying to cope, maybe.

“Exactly. He loved biting ankles, like a dog.” Marco nodded enthusiastically, acting so much more childish than usual. Maybe talking about his brother did that to him. “He started his first words before I left—he could say Ma and Co.”

“Co?”

“That’s what he called me.” Marco’s smile went soft. “He’d call me Co-Co from time to time too, when he was feeling really needy.”

Jean chuckled, rolling onto his side so he could gaze at Marco. “I think I’m going to start calling you that. Co-Co.”

“Oh, sweet damnation below, please don’t.” Marco groaned, swatting at Jean’s face. “It’s cute when a three year old does it, not when a fifteen year old moron does!”

“Wait a minute, did you just call me a moron?”

“Yeah, and? You are one, you egotistical—”

“Oh shut up, Co-Co.” Jean was laughing—full on, belly-aching and head hurting laughing as Marco poked at him harshly, prodding his face and shoulders and chest with the intent to kill Jean with laughter. 

“Call me that again, Jean!”

“Co-Co—” Jean rasped in between his giggles, and Marco’s laughter was only encouraging him. “What’s so bad about that nickname, Co-Co?”

“It’s a kids nickname, Jean! If you’re going to call me anything, call me something cool, like—like—like Freckled Jesus!”

Damn it all, Jean’s stomach and head hurt so much from wheezing. “And you call me egotistical?” He gasped out, clutching his stomach as he cackled. Shit, this wasn’t good for his head (and a part of him was realizing that he shouldn’t feel pain in a dream, but he ignored that part) but he kept on laughing anyway.

“It was just a suggestion! Stop laughing!”

“What next, Freckled Messiah?” Jean wheezed, earning him a good whack to the skull.

“Oh, shut up, you jerk! You know I don’t see myself like that!”

“Yeah, I know, which is why it’s hilarious!”

“…hey, you two, mind keeping it down a bit before you get in trouble?” A voice said, jerking Jean and Marco away.

Jean scrambled to the edge of his bed and peered over to see Thomas Wagner standing there, eyebrows raised at the pair.

Another dead face. Shit, he was on Eren’s squad, wasn’t he? Just like that, the jolly mood was destroyed as Jean took in the face of another long gone friend. Was he the first?…  yeah. He was.

But he died that day. And so did Mina, and Nack, and Milieus. Even Eren should have died. Armin…

“Oh, Thomas! I didn’t know you were here.” Marco exclaimed happily. 

“Shadis sent me back early to tell Jean that the rest of the 104th is on their way back. And that the stables should be clean by now.” Thomas shook his head as he folded his blanket. “I’ve been here for a good ten minutes and decided to fold my sheets. So… Freckled Jesus, huh?”

“Hey, only I get to call him that.” Jean rolled his eyes and laid back down. “Go tell Shadis the stables are clean or whatever. I bet Eren and the group are done and just taking their sweet time. Apart from Armin. He’s probably trying to get them to leave.”

“Armin really is the only one you actually respect, huh?” Thomas mused.

“No. I like Sasha and Connie perfectly well. It’s just Eren and Reiner.”

“Why Reiner?” Both Marco and Thomas asked in unison.

Jean rolled his eyes. “I have my reasons—”

“He’s like a brother. A giant, bear-like big brother.” Thomas continued, setting down his blanket.

That’s just one personality. Jean grinded his teeth together, trying his hardest to not sit up and scream. He’s deceiving all of you. Has been for the past three years.

“I have my reasons,” Jean answered stiffly. “He seems… too good.” Lies, lies, lies lies lies.

“Right.” Thomas shifted his stance and patted his bed. “Well, I’ll go report to Shadis. They should be here in a few minutes, though.”

“Oh, and look who’s still awake.” 

“Shiiittt, can you just shove off?” Jean groaned as Eren walked in. 

“So you were faking!”

“No! Fuck off!”

“ATTENTION CADETS!”

The voice was so sudden that Jean almost fell out of his bed, scrambling to get into the salute. Fist slammed over his heart, chin lifted as Shadis— shit, did he always look like such a grouchy old man?— walked in, the rest of the 104th behind him.

“Stables are clean.” Shadis said, his shadowed eyes scanning the room. “Kirstein, are you feeling any better?”

“No, sir!” Marco declared before Jean could even move his mouth. Shit, Marco. That means I’ll have double the work when I get better—

Wait. Why do I care? Jean frowned as he ran a hand through his hair. This is a dream. It’s not like I’m actually going to have to do more work. I’ll wake up soon enough. 

Shadis scoffed—a rather disgusting sound from a pathetic man. “Hurry up, Kirstein, or you’ll fall behind! You’re making Bodt do twice the chores.”

“Eh?” Jean glanced at Marco. “My workload?—”

“I’ve been doing it.” The brunet turned away from Jean, expression slightly sheepish. “I offered. I don’t want you to be overwhelmed when you get better.”

“Marco—”

“Go to sleep, Kirstein. Otherwise you’ll just make your condition worse and I won’t be able to get rid of you during graduation.” Shadis grunted before turning to the others. “WHY ARE YOU STILL STANDING THERE? GET TO WORK, YOU BUNCH OF SPINELESS MAGGOTS!”

As quickly as the asshole former Scout came, he herded all of the 104 out—some shot nervous looks in Jean’s direction, while most gave Marco sorry pats on the back, normally accompanied with quiet “why do you even deal with him?”

They said it as if Jean couldn’t hear. Which was stupid, but Jean knew how most people viewed him.

Egotistical. Hot-headed. Blunt. Violent.

But Marco… Marco had never seen that as Jean’s main traits, had he?

“Sheesh, what crawled into his pants this morning?” Marco grumbled (most likely talking about Shadis) and glanced at Jean. 

“Marco.” Jean said suddenly, unable to look at his best friend. “Why do you deal with me?”

“Well, isn’t that obvious? You’re my best—”

“Other than that. Why did you even become my friend in the first place? I’m temperamental, blunt, not easy to get along with—”

“You’re a nice person. Selfless and kind. And sure, you get angry, but we all do from time to time.”

“Nice, right.” Jean choked out a laugh. Those are the exact words you said to me two nights before you died. I asked you the same question, and you said that, word for word. “I’m an asshole and we all know it.”

“At least you admit it. That’s better than most.” Marco heaved a heavy sigh as the last of the cadets walked out. “Shadis was right, though. You should go to sleep, Jean.”

“I don’t—”

Marco’s eyes narrowed. “Jean. I don’t care if you don’t want to, you have to go to sleep. You look like a zombie.” 

“Wow, rude.” Jean clicked his tongue. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel the gentle tug of drowsiness, begging him to go to sleep. (Which meant he would wake sooner. He didn’t want to wake up, not now, not ever—)

He found himself lying down. I can’t get attached, he thought, rolling onto his back. His head was starting to throb again—sickening, like horses were trampling his skull. Worse, the pallet of his mouth felt weird, like something was burning through it.

“I’ll tell you a story,” Marco said softly. “So you can go to sleep. Is that alright?”

“That’s… fine.” Jean admitted. Marco’s voice could be the last thing I hear before I wake up to that lonely hell. His fingers curled into the sheets, clenching the fabric tightly. That’s… that’s the preferred way to wake up.

“So there’s these three deities, of the past, future, and present,” Marco was saying. 

I feel like I’ve heard this before… well, I’ve had to, because this is my subconscious…

Shit, he didn’t want to go to sleep, but darkness was already pricking at his vision, threatening to sink him under.

Jean reached a hand over and grabbed one of Marco’s, interlacing their fingers. I’ll be damned if I don’t go holding him.

That was the thing he thought before drowning in darkness.

꧁꧂

Jean could hear voices. That was odd—he lived alone.

“His fever broke—he should be better in a day or two,” one voice was saying, so softly. Marco?…

No. Marco’s dead. That dream… Jean clenched his fist, shutting his eyes tight. Marco. He could feel a sob building in the back of his throat, a sob of misery and mourning. Why can’t I go back to sleep?

“He’ll be able to perform tasks again?” That was…Shadis? No. No, that couldn’t be—why was his voice so clear?

Was Jean still dreaming????

His eyes flickered open and—

A dream? You think you’re asleep?

Something flashed in Jean’s eyes, pain shooting through his body as—

A gun in his hand, propped into his mouth. A last silent plea to the three gods Urdr, Verdandi, and Skuld—the barrel touching his pallet and his fingers against the trigger—

—and then pain.

You’re dead, Jean.

You killed yourself out of misery.

“Oh, I think he’s waking! You can go now, sir, I have this under control.” Hands grabbed Jean so gently, a thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “You’re sweating a shit ton, Jean. It’ll look like you wet the bed.

You still think this is a dream, Jean Kirstein?

Three voices mused in his ear, in perfect dissonance that made his ears want to bleed. 

You prayed to us in your last moments. You prayed to the Past, the Present, and the Future Norns.

‘One last time,’ Jean thought. ‘Let me go back, just once, and make this all right. Let me bring Marco back. I beg you, any god that might be real, that might be listening, grant me this one fucking thing, just this once!’

This isn’t some dream. You’re dead, Jean. There’s no going back to your old life. It’s 850 again, and you get one do over.

You have two rules. 

One, you must not tell a soul about what happens in the future.

 Two, you cannot interfere with Eren Jaeger’s fate in any sort of way.

Follow these rules. This is your one and only chance.

Use it wisely.

Jean felt sick, his head throbbing as the gunshot echoed in his eardrums, the taste of gun powder so strong on his tongue. He felt like he was going to puke—

He did. He upchucked whatever food he might have had in his stomach onto his sheets, retching up blood and acid and food alike.

“Jean? Jean!”

And oh, how sweet that voice was. How beautiful it was to feel a pair of hands grab him by the shoulders, a bucket shoved underneath his mouth as he retched up everything his stomach had to offer.

This is real?… no. It can’t be. This stuff doesn’t happen to a person like me—

You prayed, so we made your wish come true. This is real, and now it is time for us to leave you.

Good luck, Jean Kirstein.

Jean barely registered the voices (or the vomit,) as he tried his hardest to not grin. He was trying to not laugh and cry, but honestly, fuck it. Fuck it all:

Because he was taking in the warmth of the very real body right next to him, basking in the fact that the heartbeat he could hear was real and not a dream. He was taking it all in as he leaned against Marco, spitting out the last of his vomit with an unruly grin on his face and tears in his eyes as he gripped the boy next to him and hugged him tight once more.

“Jean, you need to lay back down, you’re only just recovering—”

He was taking this all in with laughter and it took everything in him to not grab Marco and kiss him right then and there.

“I don’t care,” Jean rasped, letting the tears flow down his face. “I don’t care that I’m sick.”

“Well, I do! So please, lay down—Jean, I swear, lay the fuck down, please!” 

Jean didn’t, too busy grinning as he wiped his tears away and hugged Marco despite the fact it was probably embarrassing and uncomfortable for the other boy. He would blame it later on the fact he was sick, but he also didn’t give a shit, because he was here.

There were no words to describe the emotions that were surging through Jean's body as he cried into Marco’s shirt, hiccuping and laughing and sobbing all at once. He barely noticed Marco hesitantly wrapping his arms around Jean and pulling him close, because he was so busy soaking in the realness of this.

Because Marco Bodt was alive once more, right there, and holding Jean.

And it wasn’t just a dream.