Chapter Text
Reaper’s POV
Welcome to the world you see
An AK with a couple magazines
Whose blood it is, don't matter to me
Scatter the ashes over seven seas
That sickness, that feeling inside you
That's weakness, don't let it divide you
Keep this, that feeling of pride too
Digging up bones but you bury the truth
I pulled my hood farther forward before adjusting my grip on the microphone. My palms were sweaty and I was suddenly very grateful that the mic was currently anchored to its stand. I looked down, away from the crowd, and quickly swiped them across the weft of my jeans. Eren was standing on the stage about ten feet away, confidently holding the mic up to his mouth and rapping the words I had written on a paper napkin a year earlier. The crowd was going absolutely wild as he spoke, screaming and holding up poster board signs with drawings of his mask on them. I adjusted my own mask so that it fit more securely around my eyes but left my mouth free.
Children, hypocrisy,
That's what I give, you can take it from me
If you don't, won't live to see
One last act of tragedy
It was almost my part. I wiped my hands on my jeans again before gripping the mic in its stand.
No mother's heart can make me humble
No life lost can make me stumble
Our empire will never crumble
With that, Eren looked over at me through the eyeholes of his mask, sending me a confident smirk, like he knew he had done well and that I would do better. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.
We did it for the glory
The glory
Only the glory
We live inside a story
It's a story
All for the glory
I smiled to myself as my voice came out. It was just as it had been for the past three months we had been on tour – rough, loud, clear, and uncracking. More screams burst out of the audience and I saw a group of college-age guys who were staring at me. One of them winked at me and I felt myself growing hot. I quickly looked over at Eren as I finished up the chorus, cueing him to begin rapping the second verse.
Bullets, begin to strip
A man of reason
He's a man of sin
The men of treason are the ones who live
They'll take what you got, what you got to give
Then pyre, a trial by fire
They're liars like funeral pyres
“We love you, One!” a high-pitched voice called out from the crowd. Eren chuckled into the mic, reaching up to trace the edge of the number one which decorated his mask. I chuckled down below the head of the mic so it would go unnoticed, all the while bouncing my knee in time with Eren’s voice.
The letter to a mother from across the sea
A son in a box buried beneath
For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee
For whom they saw when they put you to sleep
A deal with the devil is a deal with me
That deal is forever; as long as you breathe
Go forth child; make us proud
Honor is yours; underground
Know we love you, lay you down.
I tipped the microphone stand a bit closer to my mouth and sang:
We did it for the glory
The glory
Only the glory
We live inside a story
It's a story
All for the glory
Just like we had done at every other show on the tour, Eren and I simultaneously released our mics from their stands and walked down onto the protruding catwalk of the stage, going out into the audience. We stepped onto a platform stood back to back, me facing the audience on stage left and him the audience on stage right, and pressed the microphones up to our mouths. Both of us sang this time as the platform began rotating.
Nobody runs!
Nobody runs!
Nobody runs or makes it out alive!
Nobody runs!
Nobody runs!
Nobody runs or makes it out alive!
Eren retook his role as rapper and I took the mic away from my face for a moment, catching my breath.
Hearts beating faster running to the front lines
I leaned back into the microphone.
Nobody runs or makes it out alive!
Eren leaned his back against mine, pressing our bodies flush together.
Look up to heaven as it rains from the sky
I rested my head against Eren’s shoulder.
Nobody runs or makes it out alive!
I brought my head back up and closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.
Out alive.
I inhaled sharply and held my mic in a death grip.
Out alive
Because we did it for the glory
The glory
Only the glory
We live inside a story
It's a story
All for the glory!
Eren and I jumped off the platform and began backing down the runway, holding our microphones to our mouths as everyone in the band and in the crowd began singing with us. All the instruments aside from the drums fell silent.
The glory
The glory
The glory
We did it for the glory
The glory
For the glory!
Eren and I ended the performance by pumping our fists in the air. My chest was heaving, and from a cursory glance from the corners of my eyes told me that Eren’s was, too. He grabbed my outstretched hand and clasped it in his own, shaking it slightly in triumph. I smiled slightly at the crowd.
As nervous as this always made me, I was glad I was able to do it.
The lights suddenly cut out and my bandmates and I quickly ran offstage, the stage lit only by the bulbs backstage. We all pushed through one of the stage doors until we entered the brightly-lit cinderblock hall that housed the dressing rooms. Once the door quietly clicked closed we let out loud victory cries, pumping our fists in the air and high-fiving each other. Armin clapped both his hands against mine in a high-five before pulling me in for a hug.
Armin was the keyboardist for our band, The Masked Intruders, and my closest friend. His mask, like the rest of ours, covered his forehead and cheekbones and was emblazoned with a large white number on its left side. His was a six.
“You did great, Seven!” he exclaimed, pulling back from me and putting his hands on my shoulders. His eyes radiated sincerity and I couldn’t help but smile. He was too damn cute.
“You did, too, Six,” I said. He let go of my shoulders to high-five Berthold.
“Who wants to get something to eat after this?” asked Reiner. He was met with assenting whoops from all the other boys. “What about Maria’s?” More assent.
“What about you, R- Seven?” Armin asked me. Everyone was always careful to call me Seven when I was in my mask, as I was the one who was most adamant about keeping my anonymity.
I shook my head.
“Not this time,” I said. Everyone groaned.
“Come on, Seven. You do this every time – the ‘maybe next time’ thing,” complained Eren.
“And you know why, too,” I said. “If we were just going to someone’s house and hanging out I’d be all over it, but if we’re going out in public…”
Eren shrugged, understanding and giving up.
“What if we all go to my place?” suggested Marco. “I’ll order pizzas. My treat.”
Everyone looked at me.
“I can do that,” I said. Everyone whooped. Reiner clapped me on the back and I laughed, starting to walk back to my dressing room. What would I have done without those guys?
The reason I wasn’t exactly keen on going out in public was that I had extreme anxiety problems, sometimes so extreme that I couldn’t speak. It had started when my father had gotten harsher and unwittingly instilled this strange sense of paranoia in me, a paranoia that constantly told me that everyone was hoping I’d slip up, and it wasn’t getting any better. Restaurants and interviews were particularly grueling because I had to talk to strangers. I avoided them both like a plague.
I reached the door to my dressing room, a thin door with a dry-erase board stuck on it at my eye-level. On the board there was a number seven written in bright blue marker. I stuck out my hand and twisted the knob, pushing in the door and entering the room. I closed the door and leaned against it before flipping the lock on the knob, going to sit in the cushy armchair that the event center had provided for me. After a cursory check around the room – I had once found a security camera in a dressing room, threatening to expose my identity– I reached up and slid my mask off of my face.
My mask was probably the most complex of everyone’s. The base was black, with three black clay roses around the right eye and a long section that curved from the left eye and around the contour of my jaw. That part was designed to cover a very distinctive facial scar. Like everyone else’s masks, mine had a large white number on the left side – mine was a number seven in a font that messily followed the curves of the mask; unlike everyone else’s masks, my mask had strips of black gauze over the eyeholes to prevent my eyes from showing while still letting me see.
I placed my mask on the counter and grabbed my duffel bag, grabbing a pair of black pants and a black long-sleeved t-shirt from out of it. I slipped my sweatshirt over my head and turned to pick up the shirt when I caught myself in the mirror.
I didn’t find myself attractive, nor did I find myself unattractive. I was just… strange-looking. Perhaps striking, but not beautiful. I had pale skin and jet-black hair (which was currently pulled back into a tight bun on the back of my head), high cheekbones and icy blue eyes. My stomach was flat and plated with lithe muscle, but what always caught my eye were the scars.
I had a thin one snaking from the middle of my back to the side of my left hip, a thicker one that scraped my right collarbone, another one which ran vertically along the right side of my ribcage, and several more on my legs which I couldn’t see through my jeans. My most distinctive and obvious scar was the one which lined the left side of my jaw, raised and pink. I didn’t necessarily think they were unattractive, but I also didn’t really like showing them. Too many questions were involved.
I slid on the shirt – it had the band’s symbol (a crest with two crossing wings) on the front pocket and the word “crew” emblazoned in white across the back – and replaced my jeans with the black pants, not bothering to change out of my shoes. They were inconspicuous enough, being plain black converse high-tops. I pulled my jacket out of the duffel bag and tied it around my waist before stuffing my stage clothes and mask into the now-empty bag. Shrugging the bag over my shoulder, I turned off the light and left.
I met my bandmates outside the backstage entrance, all of them wearing clothes nearly identical to mine – Armin had come up with the idea of disguising ourselves as crew members to leave the venue unnoticed shortly before our first concert three years earlier. I was the last one there, and when the stage door closed Reiner clapped me on the back again. I stumbled forward from the force of it and he laughed.
“What kind of pizza does everyone want?” asked Marco. I noticed that he had laced fingers with Jean and I had to suppress a smile. I had shipped them for a full year-and-a-half before they had gotten together.
Jean said that he wanted margherita, Reiner said sausage (while casting a suggestive look to a sweating Berthold), Berthold said cheese, Eren said stuffed-crust supreme, Armin wanted to share Jean’s margherita, and I said I’d share Eren’s stuffed-crust supreme. Marco, the only vegetarian in the group, told us he’d share Berthold’s cheese. He fished his phone from his jacket pocket so he could call in the order, and we all began walking down the sidewalk towards the back parking lot.
Armin fell behind so he could talk to me, leaving Eren to argue with Jean. Those two never had gotten along.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Are you referring to anxiety or something else?”
“Anxiety.”
I shrugged.
“It’s always hard being on stage, but I still enjoyed it,” I said. “Other than that I’m just counting the days until I can see a psychiatrist.”
“Why can’t you see one now?” he asked. “I’m sure they’d be able to prescribe you something that would help with the anxiety attacks. Or panic attacks. Whichever ones you get.”
“Anxiety attacks. And I can’t see one now because I’m still a minor.”
My friend stopped.
“You’re a minor?” he asked. I nodded. “I thought you were our age.”
The rest of my bandmates were in their last year of college at Sina University, all of them being around twenty-two or twenty-three. Armin had skipped a grade and was twenty. I had taken and aced a college entrance exam at the age of fourteen, so I had skipped several grades. I was now entering my third year of college at Sina.
I shook my head.
“Nope. I’m seventeen,” I said to my shoes.
“How many grades did you skip?” he asked.
“I bypassed high school.” I said. “Apparently it wasn’t necessary.”
“Wow.”
“Thanks.”
I let Armin have a moment to adjust the idea before I asked what classes he was taking the coming semester. His face immediately lit up.
“I’m so excited for this semester!” he said, almost squealing in excitement. “I’m taking my final music theory class, thank God, and I’m taking a film studies class! I’m also doing the most advanced piano course they have, and a creative writing class, and a songwriting class.”
“Who do you have for songwriting?” I asked hopefully. I had a songwriting class, as well, and I sincerely hoped that Armin was in it. It might have given me courage to actually speak in class.
“Ackerman, I think,” he said. I let out a breath.
“Me too,” I said.
“Cool!” he said, his eyes closing with the force of his smile. He really was the cutest thing I had ever laid my eyes on.
“I hear he’s pretty tough, though.”
“That’s what I hear, too. I’m not too worried, though. I ‘m looking forward to the challenge.”
I shrugged. In all honesty I didn’t want much of a challenge. I was challenged enough as it was, concealing my identity and dealing with crippling social anxiety. What I really wanted was more time to write, songs and novels and fanfictions alike.
“I guess,” I said.
Marco took his phone away from his ear and tapped the screen before dropping it into his pocket.
“Where’d you get the pizza from?” called Armin. Marco turned his head over his shoulder and told him that he’s ordered from Maria’s.
“Do you want to ride with us, Reaper?” Reiner asked from in front of me. I looked up at him and saw that he had turned around and was walking backwards. Berthold was guiding him by the collar.
“As long as neither of you take your dicks out of your pants, I will,” I said. Reiner dramatically sighed.
“Ruined the plan.”
I chuckled. It was well-known among my bandmates that I couldn’t drive, so they all had learned to keep a seat in their cars clear for me.
When we finally reached the parking lot I bid a temporary farewell to Armin and followed Reiner and Berthold to the taller boy’s car, a beaten-up Jeep Wrangler that was so unlike Marco’s BMW or Eren’s Mercedes. Berthold was of the mind that a) as long as a car had good gas mileage and could get you from point A to point B it was good, and b) nobody would suspect that we were part of The Masked Intruders if we were driving a car that cost less than $25,000. I opened the back door and slid in, Reiner slapping the door closed behind me. I thanked him offhandedly as he got into the shotgun seat. Finally Berthold got into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition, shifting the Wrangler – we had nicknamed it “Vomit Fucker 2000” because of the putrid green color Berthold had chosen – into drive.
We were in front of Marco’s apartment building within fifteen minutes, parallel parking along the street in a spot without a parking meter. We waited to get out of the car until we saw Marco pull up in his black BMW. He parked and Jean got out of the passenger’s seat before going around to the back seat and retrieving several large pizza boxes. Berthold turned off the car, cueing us to get out. I opened my door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Inside Marco’s apartment was wonderful. It always smelled like an air freshener and whatever we were eating, it had an open kitchen, and it was clean, nothing like Jean’s or Eren’s bachelor pads. I inhaled once inside and was immediately greeted by lavender and pizza. I sighed.
I walked over to one of Marco’s two couches and plopped down on the end cushion. Armin came and sat down beside me, leaning his exhausted head on my shoulder.
“I don’t know why I agreed to this,” he yawned.
“I don’t know why you did, either,” I said, petting his head.
“If it isn’t the little lovebirds,” joked Jean. Armin rolled his eyes.
“I’m gay and you know it, Horse Face,” he said sleepily.
“Don’t call me Horse Face, you coconut!”
“Everyone here is gay except for me,” I mused.
“I’m not gay!” called Eren from the kitchen where he was getting paper plates out of Marco’s pantry. I could feel Armin’s shoulders sag against my own.
“Yeah,” he coughed. “Eren’s not gay, Reaper.”
I had to smirk into my fist. If there were two things I knew for certain they were that Eren was pining for Armin and that Armin was pining for Eren.
“Yeah,” I called after Eren. “Not gay. One hundred percent straight. Absolutely no thoughts of slamming your cock into-“
I was hit by a flying paper plate and everyone but Eren started laughing uncontrollably. Looking back into the kitchen I saw that the boy in question was blushing profusely. He turned back into the pantry, supposedly to look for something else but probably just to hide his red cheeks.
By the time pizza was portioned out and half-eaten Reiner had the brilliant idea to make a beer run. Marco and Jean wanted Heinekens, Berthold said he’d take Bud Lights (everyone but Armin and I groaned at him), Eren requested Coronas, Reiner himself wanted Blue Moons, and Armin turned it down because he was still underage and didn’t like breaking laws. When it was my turn to request a beer I wrinkled my nose.
“I’m not all that into alcohol,” I said. “I’ve seen what it does to people.”
“Come on. Loosen up!” egged Reiner, coming over to me and ruffling my hair. I swatted his hands away.
“I’m not going to ‘loosen up!’” I said, still defending myself from Reiner’s attacks. “Plus, I’m underage.”
“Wait. How old are you?” asked Marco.
“Yeah, I don’t think we’ve ever asked,” said Eren.
Armin and I shared a glance and Reiner landed another blow to my hair.
“Hey! Fuck off!” I exclaimed. My attacker laughed and put his hands up.
“Are you going to tell us?” he asked.
“Fine,” I capitulated. “I’m seventeen.”
A chorus of gasps and loud “whoas” filled Marco’s apartment.
“You’re seventeen?” asked Jean. “Holy shit! That means you were fourteen when we all met!”
I nodded and Reiner groaned.
“The first thing I ever said to you was ‘Hey pretty lady. Want to suck my dick?’!” he lamented. Everyone but him burst into laughter. “It’s not funny! You were fourteen and I was twenty!”
I couldn’t breathe I was laughing so hard.
“You were pretty mature for a fourteen-year-old,” offered Marco. I nodded and covered my mouth to try to control my laughter.
“I-“ I tried to say. “I’d seen-“
I couldn’t say it. I was laughing too hard.
By the time I was able to calm down I was the only one still laughing. I coughed into my fist and looked away.
“Are you done?” asked Armin.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m… I’m done.”
Armin finally took his head off my shoulder and reached for my half-eaten slice of pizza before realizing it wasn’t his, then took a bite of his own. He really was tired.
“Are you comfortable with us drinking?” Reiner asked me.
“Go for it,” I said. “As long as you don’t get hammered I’ll be fine. And as long as one of you stays sober to drive me home.”
“I’ll get a cup of coffee and drive you,” offered Armin.
“Alright then!” exclaimed Reiner. He clapped his hands once. “We’ve got ourselves an arrangement!”
Reiner quickly grabbed his beer list and jacket before walking out the door, telling us he’d be back soon.
“Do you have your ID?” I called. He pulled it out of his wallet and showed it to me.
“Can’t be getting arrested,” he said with a smirk before closing the door.
The rest of the night followed as such: there was a toast to our last concert on our first North American tour, Jean and Reiner got fucking hammered and I was simultaneously uncomfortable and amused, Marco spilled his half-empty beer on one of his couches and sang a horribly-worded impromptu song about how he was thankful his couch was leather, Armin fell asleep with his head on my lap, Eren looked longingly at the sleeping boy for a good five minutes before everyone else noticed, Reiner (who was hammered, if you’ll remember) burst out into “Walking on Sunshine” because he thought he heard talk of the sun, Berthold sipped a Bud Light and was somewhat less nervous than he normally was, and I got into a conversation with Marco about what it was like being friends with people who were a) all male, b) mostly gay, and c) several years older than me. I told him that none of those things bothered me in the slightest. When Armin stirred in my lap I checked the time on my phone. It was two in the morning.
“I’m gonna wake Armin up and go, guys,” I said, shaking Armin’s shoulder. He started awake, mumbling something about butter and flies or butterflies. “Could you take me home?”
He rubbed his eyes and nodded.
“I don’t need the coffee thanks to that nap,” he said, sitting up.
“See you guys!” Jean laughed annoyingly. He’d only had one-and-a-half drinks and he was already plastered. I got up and ruffled Jean’s strange hair.
“See you too, buddy,” I said. He leaned into my touch and Marco chuckled.
“He always falls asleep if you play with his hair,” he explained. I ruffled his hair one more time and Jean let out something akin to a moan. I didn’t play with his hair after that.
“Come on, Armin,” I said, taking my jacket from around my waist and slipping it over my arms. “I need to go home.”
“Same,” said Eren.
“Then get your stuff,” Armin yawned. “I’ll drop Reaper off and then we’ll go home.”
Eren complied, getting his phone and checking to make sure he had his keys. He tossed the keys to Armin and the blonde boy pocketed them. The three of us said goodbye to the other four before walking out of the door and down the stairs until we were outside.
When Armin stopped in front of my apartment building I thanked him, getting out of the backseat and stepping out onto the concrete. I closed the door and they drove away. Eren waved at me through the shotgun window.
I swiped my keycard across the reader and opened the building’s door, then climbed up a flight of stairs to get to my apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, not really bothering to look around my home like I usually did. I trudged sleepily to my bathroom and took a shower, then changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, trying very hard not to think about the fact that the semester was starting in less than a week.