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[4]
Bertholdt loves his parents.
Just like any other child.
He loves when they hold him close and soothe him to sleep at bedtime. He loves when they make him his favourite food for dinner and they laugh when he gets some excess around his lips. He loves when they celebrate all his accomplishments with a kiss on the forehead and a sweet treat from the vendors down the street.
And he knows they love him too. He picks the prettiest flowers to hand shyly to his mother and he finds the most interesting historical facts so he can see his father light up and tell him all about that time period. He wishes he could make them happy all the time so he could be happy all the time too.
It’s no unordinary day, and Bertholdt is leaving his bedroom fully dressed for the day with his shoes still untied. He wanders down the dimmed hallway, a warm little smile on his face as he looks for his mother to tie his laces.
He starts to turn the corner, to greet the voices he loves to listen to, but he stops at a stern tone. He steps back, suddenly believing he shouldn’t be seen by them right now. But he doesn’t retreat to his room and instead stays hidden.
“They’ve taken my pay off me. I worked even more hours this month and I’ve earned less.” He heard his father cry. He hates hearing his parents cry. His foot begins to tap noiselessly on the floorboard.
There are a few steps that stop after a second, and he realises that’s his mother’s shoes against the floor. He stays put.
“I don’t understand. You didn’t say anything ‘wrong’.” Her voice is gentle, calm. At least that’s what Bertholdt hears.
“No. I haven’t. I should have one hundred and forty, I know it’s right because I’ve added it all up a million times now.”
His mother sighs. “I—I’m sorry, honey.” She goes quiet for a second. “It’s…at least we have my income too. I got 30 this month. That should be enough to last, right?”
“It’s cutting it tight. At this rate, I don’t know why they don’t just fire me. It’s clear I’m not wanted there.”
Bertholdt doesn’t know what the word fire means in this context. His mind flashes with images of orange and yellow, with unbearable warmth, with loud bangs, and he whimpers just a little too loudly. His hands reach each other, too, and his nails begin to pick.
His parents go silent. He tries to blink away his blurry eyes and hurry back to his room, but before he can even try, his mother calls his name.
“Bertholdt. Come here.”
He obeys, eyes focused on his loose shoes instead of meeting their disappointed and angry expressions. He hates being scolded, especially after his last teacher chewed out his shyness in front of the whole class.
He hears his mother’s footsteps approach him closer, and her soft, warm hand guides his chin upward to meet her eyes. She doesn’t look angry at all, but Bertholdt doesn’t relax just yet.
“It’s okay, baby,” She starts, kneeling in front of him. “Everything’s okay. You don’t need to worry about a thing.” Her hand moves from his chin and reaches to his messy hair, combing it soothingly just like she always did this time in the morning.
Bertholdt drops his hands to his side and he swallows. “Is Papa gonna be okay?” He asks timidly, the tears blurring over once again.
His mother’s reassuring and strong smile remains when she turns around to look back at his father, and after a second he stands up to approach the boy with the same expression. Bertholdt doesn’t feel as shaky anymore.
“I’m going to be fine, Bert.” His dad states, taking a little longer to kneel down than his mom. His stupid job made his knee hurt the other day.
“We’re going to be fine.”
Bertholdt smiled in relief before opening his arms shyly, wanting one more hug before it’s time for his shoelaces to be tied and leave for school. His mother and father accept with a loving laugh and squeeze him tight, muttering all kinds of reassurances and compliments in his ears.
He believes they’ll be fine.
-[6]
Bertholdt lets the tears drop against his school shorts as he fidgets uncomfortably in the hollow wooden chair placed where everyone can see him cry.
He looks down at himself, curling his knees closer and trying to suppress another worried whimper as he thinks of whatever could be happening behind those two doors the scary people didn’t allow him to go through. This time it wasn’t because it was ‘Eldian’ like his parents explained, because his father was rushed back there and his mother followed after ordering Bertholdt to stay put and not listen to any strangers. All he wants is to see his father.
No one approaches him on the chair, but he doesn’t want anyone other than his parents to see him. When he looks up from the floor occasionally, praying that his mother was there to take him to see his father, or even better, she was with him, he sometimes makes eye contact with the empathetic receptionist and he shivers more in fear.
Everyone else in here looks just as scared and upset, but they’re all adults.
He tries to shift his focus to anything else, something that made him happy so he didn’t feel so bad for crying so much in the waiting room. He thinks of his mother and him drawing animals together for hours, and he and his father cooking the most delicious meals ever. But it only makes him think of their presence more, and he crumbles again.
He looks up in heartbreaking hope every time the doors open and makes someone present. His head lowers in increasing confusion every time.
There’s not a clock in here that Bertholdt can see, so he doesn’t know the time. If there was, he could read it and at least estimate how long he’s been here. He’s good at clocks — that’s what his father told him.
When the door opens once more he barely takes his hands away from his sore eyes. He knew it wasn’t who he wanted. Their hair is too bright, movement too sharp and voice too strong. There weren't many people left in the waiting room.
Bertholdt goes back to the suffocating darkness of his palms pressing against his eyes until he feels an unfamiliar hand tap his shoulder. He flinches away before he looks up, and the stranger apologises. Well, he knew who she was; the receptionist. Still a stranger.
“Hey, sweetheart. Your mother wants me to take you to her.” She whispers, as if she’s trying to mimic the softness he misses. He doesn’t trust her.
Bertholdt remains apprehensive in his chair. He was always told to be wary of strangers, especially when they travelled further from their small neighbourhood. But, the receptionist works here, and she has access to where his parents are. She clearly notices his hesitance, as she gives a brief smile in reassurance.
Bertholdt nods, sniffling. He shuffles off the big chair, wiping his eyes and nose as he stabilises himself. He feels all kinds of sick, he just wants his parents to make it better. But he’s not the one in the hospital, so it doesn’t matter.
The receptionist offers a hand out to Bertholdt, but he doesn’t take it. Her hand is cold and his is messy. They go through the doors he stared at for an eternity and he follows her lead. He must trust her in this regard, to guide him through the manic hallways and the quiet rooms.
“Your mom wanted to come get you herself, but she wasn’t allowed without a professional with her. And there was no one available.” She explains. He didn’t ask, but he was thinking it.
They reach a door in a quieter — near-silent — corridor, and she stops with her hand on the doorknob. Bertholdt looks at her equally confused and desperate.
“Try and be…quiet, when you go in. Be calm.” The receptionist advises. Bertholdt nods, proving his own since he hadn’t spoken since he was separated from his parents.
She opens the door and doesn’t follow him in. He gives another nod as a ‘thank you’ as he quietly rushes in. The door shuts gently behind him.
“Bertl.”
“Papa?” Bertholdt shatters again before he can glance at his father a second time, and he spots his mother’s distraught face before she rushes up to hold him.
His father looks so sick. There are all kinds of things different about him — he’s dressed in some kind of blue and white pyjama set, the blanket covers him a lot, he looks so pale, his chest is shaking like it was this morning and he’s holding some kind of mask. Bertholdt looks at both his parents, scared and desperate for an answer.
He can’t seem to ask the question clearly, as his throat bubbles up and blocks out coherent sentences again. His throat hurts.
His mother seems to understand his confusion anyway, and she looks over to his father with a hesitant expression. There’s a moment of nothing, then his dad gives an approving nod, and Bertholdt is now being taken to sit by his dad’s side.
“Daddy’s sick, Bertholdt.” His mother stated rather solemnly. She sits down on the chair next to the bed, her cardigan falling into the crevice of the armrest.
Bertholdt remained quiet and still. He already knew this, because you can’t go to a hospital if you’re not sick or hurt. He chews on his bottom lip, a habit he had managed to kick because he hated how sore it became in the coming days. He doesn’t notice now, though. Instead, he asks what he’s been desperate to ask for hours.
“When will he get better?” His voice is quiet and scared, as if simply speaking too loudly would make his father even more sick. He knew he was sick; but he also knows people get better.
He turns to glance at his dad hopefully, but his eyebrows crease when his father’s eyes do too. He turns to his mom, hoping for something different.
She sighs. Her hand closes the gap between her and her husband. “It’s…not something you get better from.” She starts. Her eyes are watery.
Bertholdt feels his stomach turn. His father must see the change within him, and his free hand quickly reaches to pull his boy closer onto his lap.
“Hey, Bertl,” He calls out. “I’m going to be fine. But I won’t get better. Not like you do when you have an upset tummy, or when Mama gets the flu. There will be some days when I’m just like normal. Hopefully, that’ll be most days. But sometimes, I’ll be sick. Maybe even like this.”
As he talks his gentle hand runs up and down Bertholdt’s back, trying to ease the terror hiding his body. He’s still shaking.
Bertholdt’s voice comes out so fragile that his father nearly stops the movements in fear of shattering him. His voice wobbles, “So…you’re gonna be sick like this forever and ever?” and his head turns between his two parents.
“Yes.”
“What about medicine?” Bertholdt asks, suddenly rather hopeful. Medicine makes everything better, and, according to his mother, it’s only improving with time! Maybe medicine could cure his dad.
He turns when his mother sighs. She doesn’t look annoyed, simply more defeated.
“There is some medicine that can help him, but it won’t cure him.” She starts, and she doesn’t know how to handle the hopeful sparkle in Bertholdt’s eyes. “And, well…it’s hard to get the medicine.”
“Because we’re…Eld-ians?” Bertholdt has to sound out the name, he’s still not used to hearing it. He knows what he is, what his family are, but he still doesn’t understand why it’s so horrible to be it.
There’s a pause, unidentifiable eye contact between his parents before his father speaks up.
“Yeah.” Is his answer.
Bertholdt stays quiet, his chest feels funny and his eyes seem hot and watery. Just because his father — and in extension he and his mother — are Eldian, his dad will have to be sick and suffer his whole life? But he needs the medicine!
“Hey, Bear, why don’t you and your mother go get some food?” His father asks, squeezing his shoulder a little harder for comfort. Bertholdt looks up with a few tears rolling down his face, and his dad quickly wipes them away. “You must be getting hungry.”
His mom agrees, and she leans down to pick him up. He only protests for a second as his dad gives him a reassuring nod. “Yeah. You haven’t had any dinner.” She bounces him up and down gently, trying to calm him down as much as possible. “Let’s see if the cafe across the street is still open.”
Bertholdt doesn’t take his eyes off his father until they turn the corner and all he’s facing is the wall. Still, he doesn’t stop looking, hoping his father can still feel his watchful, worried eyes.
His mother stays silent for the short walk, hushing him every few seconds and keeping a steady rhythm against his back. He doesn’t acknowledge it outwardly, but she knew if his decreased shivering was anything to go by, then he was okay.
Just as they reach the dreaded reception again, his mother stops to check she has some change on her. Due to only having one usable hand, she takes a little longer to rummage through her pockets and bag, and it gives Bertholdt time to study the words and paper on the walls. He’s not sure what the name is.
AN HONORARY MARLEYEAN WHO LOVES OUR COUNTRY IS BETTER THAN A REAL ONE WHO HIDES BEHIND FALSE RUMOURS.
FIGHT FOR YOUR COUNTRY, AND BE TREATED LIKE FAMILY.
Their journey continues with a relieved sigh from his mother, but he barely notices. He keeps his eyes fixed on the poster until the doors swing shut again, but he doesn’t stop thinking about it.
The words ‘Honorary Marleyean’ are familiar to him. His teacher spoke about it briefly a few weeks back. They said how good it was for a program like that to exist, to give Eldians and their families a chance for a better life, as well as allowing them to fight for their hard-working fatherland. His classmate chimed in, saying a few years back his brother applied to be one, but he was instead calling a ‘Warrior Candidate’ whose titles eluded Bertholdt.
The rush of fresh air relaxed his nerves slightly more, but the poster was still on his mind. If he does that, then maybe his father will be treated with better medicine that they can afford! Maybe his mom and dad will be paid better money at their jobs, or better yet they won’t have to work! He smiles to himself, it would be a dream come true if his parents were always able to relax, and never had to worry about them again.
He looks up when he hears a familiar bell, just in time for his mother to ask him what he would like.
-
“Are you sure this is something you want to do, baby?” His mother asks again from beside him whilst his father guilty works on his shoelaces again. They loosened after the long walk. “If you ever get too overwhelmed or upset, you don’t have to carry on.”
Bertholdt bit his lip, trying to prevent his eyes from watering. He doesn’t want to crack in front of them now, not when this isn’t for him. The thought of being away from them overnight makes his stomach twist in fear, but he won’t verbalise that.
“Yes. I want to be brave.” His small voice replies, and as much as he thinks he’s concealing himself, his mom and dad see right through it.
“Okay,” His father sighs, lifting himself up after he ties his shoes in a double knot. “You’ll be able to slip into them tomorrow morning?”
“Mhm.”
He smiles, solemnly. They all turn back to the entrance, and Bertholdt swallows as he spots numerous more children than there had been before. This was all a competition, could he even move up in the first place? He clutches his stomach.
“You’re going to be safe, Bear, I promise.” His father runs his soft hands against his hair, freshly washed and combed to give the best impression possible. “And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it anymore.”
Bertholdt gives a hollow nod in reply. He hates lying to his parents, but he refuses to let himself leave. He will be kicked out with raging, sickening guilt inside of him, but he will not leave himself.
“Alright, I think it’s time. We’ll be here at 11am sharp tomorrow, okay? I’ll be wearing the cap that you like.” Bertholdt looks up at his father and gives his bravest nod, and his mother doesn’t let him turn and walk away until she leaves him the warmest of kisses against his temple.
He approaches the group, only noticing two other children standing alone on opposite sides of the yard whilst everyone else were mingling with friends or introducing themselves to new people. His hands begin to sweat, but he doesn’t wipe them on his new shirt.
Bertholdt exhausts himself into passing through to the candidate group for the whole two months. Early wakeups and late finishes nearly every day pull him away from his normal school. He misses the simplicity of it, but it’s not about him.
The teachers are cruel, they call him and the others all sorts of names he would only hear passing by the actual Marleyeans. Any mistake will have a spit in the face and an insult yelled at you, and countless times Bertholdt has had to sniff away the tears and bite his lip down to the blood.
He had made a friend, like his parents had reassured he would. Only two weeks after they began, he was sat alone eating the bland lunch the teachers provided when a very blonde and nearly equally-as-tall boy came and sat next to him with a grin. The boy complimented him on his aim and said he seemed very lonely, and that he himself was lonely too. After five minutes of simply the boy talking, he stopped and introduced his name with an apology and a hand sticking out, and Bertholdt smiled and repeated what he did.
It felt less daunting with him — introducing himself, letting someone sit so close, letting them touch and squeeze your hand, everything. Bertholdt was glad he came over.
His effort pays off, when he comes home from a particularly busy day where his legs ache and his stomach growls from hunger to an opened letter on the table. His parents sat as eagerly as they could appear on the dining room chairs with bowls of hot soup. When he sits down and asks with a spoonful of soup in his mouth, they tell him. He didn’t believe it at first, instead thinking he was being pranked like this guy called Porco did to his friend, Reiner. But when his mother explained how someone came to personally deliver the letter an hour ago, and how the stamp was real, Bertholdt’s eyes lit up.
He did it. Now, he must continue. It’s only going to get more strenuous, upsetting, personal, but it’s for his father. He wishes there was a quick fix now, but if this helps him in the long run then he’ll move forward.
He can tie his own shoelaces now, after a particularly rough scolding from their main instructor Magath. “Are you a baby? You’re a fairy among everyone else here if you can’t tie a shoe, maybe I should just let you go now.” and Bertholdt had spent hours perfecting himself in tears, with Reiner helping him with his own quick tricks.
This is what being a warrior, being an Honorary Marleyean means.
-[8]
“Are you sure you want to come later? Seeing him like that, it’s…”
“Hey, that doesn’t bother me,” Reiner cut Bertholdt off respectfully, his hand on his shoulder. “I wanna say hi, you said himself that he misses me.”
Bertholdt smiles, anxiety twinging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, he does. So, um, I’ll see you at 6?” He adjusts the bag on his shoulder, trying to even out the weight distribution. They’re shooting again tomorrow, and Bertholdt can’t have a bad shoulder.
“6 sharp. I’ll steal some of my mom's leftovers, too.”
“You don’t have to do that…”
“Don’t care. Doing it anyway.”
Bertholdt lets out a small laugh as Reiner smiles confidently and turns the other way to walk home, and Bertholdt waits until he’s nearly out of sight to start his journey. It won’t take him too long to get back, which is a relief considering how hungry he is. The food there isn’t the best, but it’s better than the bread and butter they’ve been served during training and schooling recently. Apparently, the Annexation of a food-supplier country seems to only be hitting the Internment zones around here.
Bertholdt allows himself to take a slower walk to the hospital today. His father told him this morning to have a stroll around and try and spot as many historical buildings and items as he did a few weeks prior. The boy agreed, however the excitement he was now contending with at the thought of spotting all these things he’d never taken an interest in before and hearing his dad tell him all about it made him want to hurry.
He takes the same route, though. The only other route was longer, and according to his somewhat-friend Annie, more dangerous. It’s the route that she takes, and Bertholdt hopes she gets home safely every day.
He travels past the row of stores and stalls on one street, where he notices a building from three centuries ago still standing strongly, as well as being the most popular store out of them all. When he turns the corner and sees the neglected park with only one working swing, he reads a plaque stating it’s survived three past conflicts Libero before. Getting closer to the hospital, he reaches the main ‘plaza’ so to speak with a large clock tower in the middle, in which he finds out that it was a gift from the nation of Hizuru fifty years ago.
When he reaches the clock tower he knows he has to take a right, but something stops him from turning. He hears a slight chatter of voices, the meaning unknown to him due to the distance.
Bertholdt looks down the last small road he has to take and instead walks across the street, approaching the small group whose tight collection wonders him.
“There hasn’t been any in weeks. I thought people were finally realising the consequences.”
“I knew him. He was my kid’s old teacher. Just sad.”
Bertholdt soon remembers where he is, with the angle at which he and the others are facing the playground helping him realise. His stomach turns and he wants to run away from it, and if a soldier were here they’d have already shooed him away.
But, he can’t. The feeling won’t give him a name, but the twisting in his stomach and the need to see who was with this man only makes his heart race.
One by one, people leave. Silent and subtle showings of respect drop down from people's hands whilst others turn in apathy or numbness, retreating back to their daily lives with their hearts barely prickled.
He doesn’t even have to look at her face.
Bertholdt’s eyes are dragged to her gold anklet, the mole hidden behind the thin charm worn down with the years. He helped her put it on this morning after she had finally fixed it from being snagged off weeks ago. The smile she had given him was worth a lifetime.
His breath stops, the lodge in his throat only rising with each movement he makes. One shaking hand moves up to grab the familiar tag placed on everyone like this, though he knows what it will be.
Fariba Hoover, aged 31
Caught smuggling medicine into Liberio Internment Zone, as well as trespassing outside of the zone with no documents. Resisted arrest and slandered the name of Marley.
Bertholdt gags, his stomach squeezing against him. He tilts his head down as the bile twists up — he doesn’t want to get her messy. His legs shake against his weak feet, and his knees give out. His trousers don’t miss the bile, but he doesn’t notice.
“Mama,” His voice is meek again, and if she just woke up she would’ve said he hasn’t sounded like that in a while. But— she won’t wake up. He still pleads.
“Mama, please.”
For such a quiet boy, he wails. His hand clutches her ankle, it’s all he can reach when his legs are useless. He wails and sobs so loudly he’s sure he’s made babies cry inside their homes, mothers shut their windows, and people walking past to walk a little quicker. He doesn’t want anyone’s comfort right now.
He doesn’t understand, she died because she wanted to save a life. Isn’t that the most noble thing there is? Isn’t that exactly what he’s been doing for years? He wants to save his father too. He will die too.
Bertholdt only turns his head away from his mother when he hears a familiar voice yell his name from afar, from the corner near the clock tower. Reiner.
He whimpers, folding himself in even though he knows who it is. Additionally, he notices the sky’s colour is now a soft, barely-glimmering pink. The sun shines shyly against the windows, creating the perfect golden hour inside.
Reiner stops halfway between the clock tower and Bertholdt. His eyes widen, every limb freezing in place.
In the silence that’s only broken by his sniffles and coughs, Reiner's voice feels validating.
“Bertholdt,” When his hands move again, his chest rises and falls quicker and quicker with each slow step. He can’t take his eyes away from her sleeping face, and Bertholdt can’t look up.
The blonde boy reaches him, and he rips himself away from her face. He kneels down, movements slower as he seems to have kept some control over himself. Bertholdt tries to shuffle away, and although he doesn’t go anywhere, Reiner understands.
He mutters. “Your dad’s worried sick.”
His father doesn’t know. Bertholdt turns away to vomit once more.
-[10]
“Thank you for coming to see me off.” Bertholdt mumbled solemnly as he pulled away from his dad’s shoulder. He gave the best smile he could manage, but his father knew him by now.
The older man gave a more stable smile, and Bertholdt could see the encouragement in his expression. Bertholdt’s not sure if it’s helping him take the steps onto the ship or pushing him further to his home.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” His father starts, and despite his stability the cracks of worry and loneliness beneath are not invisible. “You’ve made me so proud.”
Bertholdt’s eyes drag down to his feet. He knows what his dad was going to add on, but neither had the heart to express or acknowledge it. She would be equally as pleased.
Pleased— Pleased about what he had accomplished? Or about what he was going to do?
Countless nights his father has spent subtly pleading with him to abandon everything, that’s it’s—he’s not worth the trouble, the trauma, the early death, but Bertholdt never listened. So that reason fizzled out and it was replaced with something new, something more damning.
“Killing those people won’t give you a gold star, only the government.” He repeated every night they got into discussions over this, for over a year. It was simply another reason to keep him here, as well as trying to explain to him the pointlessness of this conflict. Gone were the days they spoke all day long about history. He wasn’t even a history teacher anymore.
Bertholdt knew all of this. He knew both excuses were said to stop him. But as much as he prayed for his father to suddenly get better, like he’d done every day since four years ago, nothing worked. He had not sinned, instead realising.
To see his dad well again, so that when he returns they can go out for long walks together, spend hours in the bigger and better libraries, help scout for history teacher jobs, is something he has to ensure. Those people are just as innocent as he and his dad, but that’s not the point.
“I’ll be waiting here the second they announce your return. We’ll immediately get some apple pie. I can’t imagine they have that on The Island.” Bertholdt smiles with a slither of amusement, shaking his head to confirm. He’s explained it before; they’re essentially time travelling 60 years ago, so it’s very unlikely they’ll make any use out of apples besides slicing them for the children.
Bertholdt turns when he hears the familiar drag of Marcel’s voice beckoning him over. He takes a deep breath as he faces his father one last time, determined that he doesn’t break.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
His dad steals him quickly, for one last tight, comforting embrace, and then the ship booms in warning. Bertholdt, never too fond of being late, gives one last smile and turns around, jogging onto the bridge with Reiner solemnly following behind, his usual high energy and determination depleted.
The boat fades into the horizon, and they’re still waving and looking directly at each other.
-[1̶8̶/16]
“I wonder if they’re up there together.”
Reiner turns, placing the kettle down and hesitantly holding the packet of tea in his hand. It takes him a moment to realise who the man’s thinking about, and his heart tugs painfully.
“Do you think they are?” Weakly, the man focuses on him, an equally strong smile forming on his face. Reiner gives a smile back, and returns to the tea. He places the packet in, stirring quietly.
Truthfully, he doesn’t know. He’s never sat down and thought about life after death, only when the images and reminders of his eternal damnation are particularly harsh some days. He tries not to, his self-pitying only making him more unbearable, but he knows the truth. If there is something after merciful death, then it won’t be merciful. He will burn, just like flesh and blood have burned off and onto him, but it will not be comforting.
But he can’t tell the truth. And he doesn’t want to think of his screams as the fire soars through him. So he nods as he approaches the other man with the tea.
“Yeah, I do.” Is all he could say. He hears a quiet ‘thank you’ as he holds the warm cup between his hands, only taking sips when it’s necessary.
The silence draws out between them, and Reiner’s guilt only grows. He sighs, drawing his head into his hands.
“Look, Mr. Hoover, I’m sorry—“
“Away with that,” The man shoos his hand amusingly. “Call me Christoph. Or Chris.”
Reiner gives a forced and tired chuckle, nodding. “Okay. Christoph, I’m sorry, but they’re sending me out again.” There’s no point in sugarcoating. It’s happened enough times in the past two years, sometimes only lasting days, other times weeks. Soon, it’ll be months. If the government keeps at their strategy of withholding trade, that is. They probably will. They won’t be fighting on the front lines.
Christoph didn’t seem to react much, only his fingers began to drum at the fine china teacup.
“I don’t know how long, they said at least a month.” The blonde man adjusts the blanket from where he’s mindlessly and nervously fiddled with it. “I’ll try and pay for next month's upfront tomorrow, but I’m not sure if they’ll let me.”
Reiner won’t tell him that he’s also running out of money. If he wants to pay for this month and next month’s treatment comfortably, he’ll have to make a trip to the pawn shop later. He doesn’t deserve the extra stress.
“That’s alright, Reiner. Don’t worry about it.” Christoph murmurs calmly, smiling at the warm taste of chamomile. Over the past few years, Reiner’s realised where he got his selflessness from. It’s simultaneously admirable and heartbreaking.
“No.” The younger man replies firmly. With his years with the boy, he’s learnt to combat the selflessness. “I’ll make sure something is done for you.”
Christoph finally takes the last sip of the tea, and Reiner places it on the table without a word. The older man leans into his pillows, his eyes fluttered shut. Reiner sits in a comfortable silence, slumping against the wooden chair in exhaustion.
The silence draws comfortably for minutes, the only noise being Christoph’s laboured breathing. It’s painful to hear, let alone experience. “Reiner, do you mind doing something for me? It’s nothing tough.”
Reiner looks up, his small hum of acknowledgement being enough for Christoph to continue.
“Would you head to the corner store and get me some butter? When I’ve got some more energy, I want to get up and make myself some toast.” He asks as kindly as possible and he quickly points to the set of draws the tea was previously made on.
Reiner gets up off the chair, agreeing without question. He should probably stretch his legs anyway, he can’t get any more unfit.
“My wallet’s in the top right drawer. Take out three, and get yourself something.” Reiner nods and does so, although he doesn’t have much incentive to get himself anything. He can’t remember the last time he truly had an appetite for something.
Reiner slips his shoes back on at the doorway and pockets the cash. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
“You must get yourself something. I’ll keep sending you back until you do.”
Reiner opens the door quietly and shuts it just as carefully, just in case he had fallen asleep. He slips his shoes off at the front door this time, remembering the rule he cursed himself for forgetting. Christoph didn’t even seem to notice.
“I’ll put the butter in your refrigerator.” He calls out as he walks in the kitchen. He doesn’t receive a response, or at least not one he can hear. He hangs the reusable bag on the mostly empty coat hooks and holds his item in his hands.
“I got those candy bars we used to have as kids,” Reiner notes as he turns into the room. He opens the packet. “They must’ve changed the brand, because I don’t remember the name.”
He stops in the doorway when he notices the man’s sleeping form — one arm resting over his stomach while the other lay politely by his side.
The blanket’s sliding off again, the two materials never seeming to want to cooperate. Reiner steps closer and begins to work with it again, placing the bar down on the unoccupied chair.
He looks back up at Christoph with a personal smile, subtle yet meaningful all the same. From this angle, his smile drops instantly and his face pales.
“Mr. Hoover?” He asks, breathlessly. He scrambles himself up and reaches for his wrist, desperately pressing his fingers against the faded veins nearby. Nothing. His hand is cold, and when he checks the other wrist he gets the same response.
Reiner doesn’t want to do it, but he stares at his chest. The previously laboured and loud breaths made shaky movements up and down, but now it’s still. There’s no coughing, no flutter, nothing. Simple nothing.
Wordlessly, Reiner swipes the chocolate bar off the chair, sits himself down and holds Christoph’s cold hand.
Maybe he needs some help finding them.