Chapter Text
Zeke Yeager is a cool guy.
Or at least, that's what he tells himself. You know this too— not that he's a cool guy, but that it's what he tells himself.
You meet him your second year of college. Philosophy 103: Manifestos and Thought is the perfect breeding ground for pseudointellectuals and the insufferable alike. You aren’t exactly any different— while you’ve read the course material, you can’t exactly say you want to spend your life studying the Categorical Imperatives coined by Kant, or Hume’s Empiricism.
Needless to say, when he walks into class on the first day with his pretentious little circular glasses and his holier-than-thou attitude problem and sits right next to you, you're not the happiest. Okay, maybe you’re a little bit of a misandrist. Maybe he’s a nice guy.
The professor of the class, a middle-aged Dr. Erwin Smith, seems lax enough; as he’s introducing himself, he asks the class to please call him Erwin, because we should all be equals in a class that discusses some of the most interesting bounds of human thought. It was for this reason that you’re mildly alarmed by the unnamed blond man beside you, annotating his syllabus. A little excessive, but okay. You’re solidly out of sight of the professor, sitting in one of the middle rows, over to the side of the room.
Anyway, you’ll be fine. Your closest friend, Pieck, sits beside you— she’s always down to laugh at a funny image on your computer and (maybe) slack off a little more than you should.
Come November, you’re assigned a group project for your midterm. Trios. It's a book review; you've got to find two other people (really one, because Pieck), choose a book, and analyze its content in relation to the thought of the time. You finally decide to suck it up and talk to the man beside you, whom you have a seemingly unwarranted disdain towards. At least he and Pieck seem acquainted.
It’s not your fault that whenever he asks a question in class, he acts as though he’s completely and entirely an expert in the field, spewing buzzwords about how he and Camus’s viewpoints would clash or how he didn’t exactly agree with the concept of subjective morality. For someone evidently so interested in the field of philosophy, he’s kind of closed-minded about the whole “different viewpoints” thing.
Over the past 2 months of the school year, you’ve learned a few things about him. His name is Zeke Yeager. He runs in similar social circles as you do— he’s friends with Annie, one of your suitemates, along with Pieck. He’s also friends with both of the Galliards, though he and Marcel are in the same year; Porco— the younger brother— had something of a feud with Reiner, who also usually tagged along with Marcel, his freshman-year roommate.
That said, Zeke’s a junior. He’s a little older than most of the third-years, being 24. You don’t pry about why he’s so much older than the other juniors, something to do with a gap year (or several). He’s majoring in chemistry, which made you wonder what the hell he’s doing in an intro philosophy course.
You find this out in a drunken stupor with Pieck at a Halloween party. He doesn’t go to the group’s outings so much, probably due to whatever his glorious adult business is— but this one, he showed up to. Besides, you took a gap year. If anything, you can relate.
So after maybe a few too many cups of whatever cheap liquor Reiner brought, you and Pieck had decided to corner both of the Galliard siblings. Pieck went along with your antics because she’s got a thing for Porco— good excuse to talk to him— you asked purely out of curiosity. All of this nonsense (and subsequent explanation, mostly by Marcel), however, was just fun gossip that you thought you'd be able to unconsequentially indulge in. Unfortunately, you never considered the possibility of a group project. You understand the importance of learning to work with people you don't like, being some nonsense about real-world experience, you're not gonna like everyone you meet, but that said, you sure as hell don't have to be happy about it.
Swallowing your pride (and vendetta), you’ve gotta ask him about what he’d like to do the book report on. Who else is he gonna work with?
“So, Zeke, is it? What book do you wanna do the review on? Pieck and I want to do a deep dive into one of the— like, important literature of Eldian mythology, and how the common beliefs of the time helped lead to that. What do you think?” you ask him, nicely enough that you hope he doesn’t notice that you’re giving him a little bit of a stink eye.
He painstakingly scratches his beard for a second and responds, “I’m not entirely sure. Don’t you think we should do something, I don’t know, a little more classical?”
Questioning him, albeit while cringing a little, “How the hell can you get anything more classical than Eldian mythology?”
Scratching her head, Pieck decides to chime in, “What if we tried to find something from the classical period— like, I don’t know, when a lot of the myths were in the making— and then analyze it from a philosophical standpoint there?”
Honestly, what would you do without Pieck’s genius? Zeke agrees with a hum, and you aren’t entirely against it either.
So maybe Pieck’s genius wasn’t actually all that genius. You realize this in the library— with all of its 300,000 books, a figure you fondly remember from when you first toured your college— that maybe, among so many books, it would be pretty hard to find the niche, incredibly old, and hyper-specialized book that you need.
“Pieck,” you say, leaned against a bookcase opposite her. “What are we gonna do? It was hard enough getting Zeke to agree to do this. Why isn’t he even helping us?”
She sighs, trying to come up with some other solution. “Um, I mean, I don’t really care about what book we do. I only took this class because Dr. Smith had a 4.5 on Rate My Professor. Can we just suck it up and do something easy?”
“I don’t even care either— I just, like— I’ve already gone so far as to give him a hard time about his stupid classics idea. I just don’t really want to give him the satisfaction. Plus, I’m literally majoring in literature! That’s my turf,” you admit, disappointment evident in your tone.
Pieck laughs. “Well, just message him. I’d do it, but I don’t want to poke the bear. Plus— I’m trying to be some kind of mediator, I don’t know.” She’s clearly trying to think up some kind of incentive to get you to do it. “I’ll pay for lunch.”
“Deal.”
you:
hey, sorry if this is weird. pieck & i were looking for a book that fit what we agreed upon in the library, but we couldn’t find anything. u still down to do the classics idea? (11:48, A.M.)
You type the slightly strained text message into your phone and practically throw it to the ground as you and Pieck sit down amongst the shelves and laugh about something not entirely relevant. The two of you stay there for a few minutes, discussing her recent hangout with Porco before deciding to venture to your usual table in the library. Much to your delight, Annie and Bert are there already, studying for their respective midterms, as well.
Your friendship with Annie is one of your most cherished relationships. She’s the perfect suitemate— so when you and Pieck decided to start courting the prospect of a triple at the end of your freshman year, you knew Annie was the one to ask. She’s almost stupidly organized; she’s got her life together in a way you thought was only possible in cringeworthy coming-of-age movies. Annie’s funny in that sly, tongue-in-cheek sort of way; she brings a voice of reason (and usually, a hilarious criticism) to your weekly Saturday-afternoon lunch with you and your other suitemate. That said, she's definitely a lot more than she lets on. You don't pry, but you're curious. She’s got about eight different side hustles that she somehow manages to balance alongside her schoolwork, and is simultaneously always two steps ahead of all of her deadlines. You’re not exactly sure how so much discipline can fit inside of such a small woman, but good for her.
Bert, or Bertholdt, if you’re trying to scare him with his full name, was one of the more… interesting sophomores in your group. Not that he wasn’t a good person, or anything, but he’s had the most obvious thing for Annie since the start of your freshman year. You’re closer with him than a lot of the other guys in your friend group, with him hanging around mostly with Annie— and occasionally, Reiner— thus, he oftentimes came to your suite to hang out. You know a little too much about him; he occasionally asks you and Pieck for advice about impressing Annie, but truth be told, the two of you didn’t exactly want to be responsible for your friend’s potential friend-group-dynamic-shifting-idiocy to blow up all over the place. When he does come over, the three of you have made a nice joke of purposely butchering his name. Pseudonyms like Baracuda, Bacteria, and Backdrop have become group-favorites, much to his dismay. All in all, he’s a nice boy despite his slight inability to read the room.
You and Pieck sit in the remaining two chairs at the table and chat it up about Annie’s upcoming Biology midterm. She’s got the elusive Dr. Zoë, who doesn’t show up to half of their lectures but somehow manages to teach the most interesting classes. Bermuda— Bert, sorry— isn’t as lucky. His Calc 3 midterm is abnormally early in the exam schedule, and Professor Ackerman isn’t exactly the nicest grader.
“Yeah, I don’t even know why I took the class. I hated Vectors enough in high school, enough to not take a Math class last year.” Bert laments, putting his head in his arms that were previously crossed against the table. “I’m definitely giving up my dreams of engineering now. There’s no way I’m passing.”
You feel sorry for him, you really do. You attempt to comfort him with a slightly embittered, “Well, at least your midterm grade doesn’t require you to find a way to talk amicably with Douchebag Supreme, like— he’s always on some kind of weird power trip!” You grunt to yourself, all the while patting Bert on the back, maybe a little too violently. So much for keeping the peace.
Annie chimes in, “Are you talking about Zeke? He’s really not that bad. Reiner and Marcel went to some baseball thing with him, a couple of months back.”
“He’s just— so full of himself! Who the fuck even cares that much about Philosophy to be putting that much effort into a 100-level class? Suck a dick, go do your dimensional analysis or whatever it is the chem people do.” You huff, dejectedly.
“Maybe he’s just a guy who likes learning. I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Annie remarks, finally closing her textbook and giving up for the day. “You guys wanna go to lunch?”
Pieck lets out a slight chuckle of relief, “Are you kidding? Let's go!”
On the way out of the library, your phone buzzes. You check, and to your horror, it’s exactly who you think it is.
zeke (book project):
Douchebag supreme? never heard that one. anyways, let’s do Kant’s critique of judgement. I like that one (12:14, P.M)
Turning around, you see him. He’s there, in the flesh, in his stupid, worn-out flannel that he probably thinks is just sooo hipster. He’s heard you call him a douchebag, probably along with the heap of other profanities you’ve spewed. And, get this— he doesn’t look mad. Instead, he waves.
You’re in trouble.
You confide in your friends over lunch about what happened. The douchebag supreme text, the wave, all of it. The three of your friends— even Bert, who’s supposed to be the mild-mannered one of the group— are entirely doubled over, laughing. You’re just about ready to change your name, shave your head, get plastic surgery, and move to a foreign country.
The worst part: Pieck doesn’t think you’d be dramatic in the slightest to do that. Oh, the horror.
“What do I say?” You ask, while shamefully bringing forkfuls of pasta to your mouth. “I mean, what can I even say? If he only heard the douchebag part, I’m okay with that— but, like, what about the other million negative things I said about him?”
“Babe, I’m not gonna lie to you, I don’t think he cares. You can apologize if you want— he’s just, not exactly the type of guy to be all stormy and miserable over one thing a classmate said about him. He’s like, kinda into himself.” Annie consoles you, admittedly exasperatedly.
Bert nods in agreement, though his face visibly twitches at the friendly pet name. Oh, Bert, poor guy. Someone’s gotta be the fool in love.
Pieck retorts, “And even if he does care, it’s not like you ever have to talk to him outside of class. I mean, yeah— he’s friends with Reiner and Marcel— but we don’t even like Reiner that much and you only talk to Marcel at social events.”
“And me,” Annie interrupts.
“Okay, and you— but Annie, I sure hope you value the two of us more than some grown man weaseled into our friend group,” Pieck concedes, sighing at her lap and patting her friend on the shoulder.
Annie deflects in response to Pieck’s comments, “Okay, yeah, sure— I don’t wanna get into the sappy shit over Olive Garden.”
Though you appreciate your friends’ sentiments, they’re not entirely right. “Pieck, I don’t dislike Reiner just because Porco does. I know you guys have your thing going on, but it’s not like we’re on a throuple or anything.” You laugh, and Pieck is (thankfully) receptive to your joke.
Bert comments, “What about plausible deniability? I mean, it’s not like you specifically said Zeke Yeager, I’m sure there’s— like— a billion other Zekes in this place. Surely you’ve got another Zeke in at least one of your classes.”
“Bert, I know you just said that because you wanted us to know what plausible deniability is,” you comment, at this point joyful that your friends aren’t as alarmed about the whole thing.
“Okay, yeah, sure— whatever, you’re right.”
Told ya, Bert.
Deciding to own it, you’re going to be a little bit funny in your response to Zeke’s call-out of your slightly less-than-pacifist words. Humor brings people together, right?
you:
okay, okay, guilty… we can do that. let me just ask pieck, but i don’t think she’s gonna b picky (1:21, P.M.)
Tapping on her shoulder, you ask, “Pieck, can we do Kant’s Critique of Judgement?”
“Yeah, dude, I literally do not care. If you could find a way to make Twilight philosophical, I’d be down.”
And pleasantly surprising you, Zeke responds fairly quickly.
zeke (book project):
Sounds good. when do you guys wanna work on this? (1:24, P.M)
You tap your friend on the shoulder— yet again— asking her, “sorry for asking again, but he just responded, and he wants to know when we want to work on it. I’m free most of the time, but I know you’re busy with stuff.”
Putting a finger to her chin, you can see the cogs turning in her head. One of your favorite things about Pieck is that she wears her emotions on her face— though, she’s somehow simultaneously a scarily good liar. You’re not sure whether you’d rather have her be lying or truthful when she tells you, “well, if today’s Thursday, I’m not doing work on a Saturday night, and we’ve worked enough today. I’m also not doing work on a Friday night because I have plans with Pock,” she gives you a goofy smirk, regarding the nickname she has for Porco, “but we could totally do something on Sunday. I know the class is midday Tuesday, but I’d wanna— I don’t know— start planning before then, and I have, like, hella classes on Monday.”
You really don't want to waste your Sunday on Zeke Yeager.
you:
sunday? sometime? idk, i’m not super busy like ever but pieck’s got plans and we don’t wanna waste our saturday night (1:28, P.M.)
you:
sorry im rambling. whatever works for u (within that timeframe tho :P) (1:29, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
Yeah that’s fine. why don’t you guys come over at like 4 and if we need to we can order in (1:32, P.M.)
you:
come over? like where you live?? (1:33, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
I actually meant the secret basement I have under the library where I trap people who call me supreme douchebags (1:34, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
Yeah I meant where I live, my apartment’s like 2 mins off campus (1:35, P.M.)
you:
yeah ok cool sounds gooood (1:35, P.M.)
So you’re going to Zeke’s apartment. That certainly took a turn. Granted, Pieck will be there— so it’s not that bad. You’ll be supervised and have a person to drag you out of there if he does actually try to trap you for calling him a douchebag. Go Pieck!
“Pieck, he invited us to his apartment on Sunday at four. He also said he’d order in. I’m not paying for food, and neither are you— his house, he’s grown, he can pay,” you tell your friend, with a shit-eating grin on your face at the prospect of free food. What would you guys order? Maybe Chinese takeout, you’re always in the mood for that.
Pieck also lights up at his benevolent offer— how nice of him! The four of you eventually finish up your lunch, paying (and sighing at the total, though you know at least one of your meals will be paid for, sometime soon), and leaving. Bert goes to meet up with Reiner at their dorm, and the remaining three of you walk to your shared building.
By the end of it, you’re not sure if Sunday at four can’t come slow enough or fast enough.
Before Sunday at four, there’s Saturday night. Marcel’s hosting tonight, and when Marcel hosts, it’s usually better than some of the other parties you’ve been to. Marcel invites Porco, Porco invites Pieck, Pieck obviously brings you, Marcel also invites his ex-roommate Reiner, who invites his current roommate, Bert; Bert wants to bring Annie, but Annie refuses. Maybe she’ll turn up to this one. Marcel, unfortunately, also invites Zeke.
In addition to everyone you know, you can expect about 40 more people whom you haven’t yet made your acquaintance. It’s convenient, though. Marcel’s got a place of his own, which he shares with his brother— it’s spacious enough for two people to live comfortably in while choosing to ignore each other half the time, considering that they spent their first 18 years of life essentially inseparable. If it’s spacious enough for that, it’s spacious enough for a decently-packed, almost-crammed party.
You and Pieck spend what feels like a whole 24 hours getting ready, when in reality, it’s more like two. You put in just enough effort to look good while trying to maintain a semblance of nonchalance— it’s November, cold enough to warrant warm clothing, so no cool going-out tops for you tonight. Oh man.
After assaulting your hair with heat tools for the umpteenth time, you walk out of Pieck’s room with her to find Annie waiting for you guys, clearly ready to go out, waiting on one of the chairs in your shared living room. Her hair is still in its usual updo, but it’s noticeably more manicured— plus, she’s clearly styled her bangs. You haven’t seen Annie actually go out in a while, usually opting to stay home and study— or take part in one of her many odd jobs. Last time you asked her if she’d be going out— the consequential Halloween party where you found out the surface-level horrors of the stuck-up manchild in your Philosophy class— she said that she had to do yard work for someone. At 8 P.M., late October. Most of the grass had turned brown by then, but you'll always support her in her strange business ventures, nonetheless.
“Annie, you’re going?” Pieck asks, clearly excited that the three of you would finally be going out together.
In response, Annie gives a simple explanation, “Yeah— I was originally not, but the people whose dog I was supposed to walk tonight cancelled on me and told me it was too cold for me to be spending gas money on a 20-dollar side hustle. So, here I am.”
Okay. Nothing unusual for Annie.
“Alright, what are we doing? Let’s Uber, I don’t feel like walking,” you concede, pointing to the heeled booties that you’re wearing. You definitely don’t want to be walking in those, even if the Galliard apartment is only a handful of blocks away. Plus, it’s cold!
The ride there is essentially a whole bunch of chatter about a whole lot of nothing. Pieck’s swooning over being able to finally see her dear Pock again. You can’t entirely tell if she’s joking— her humor is a little too dry sometimes— but you and Annie crack up at it, nonetheless. You can see the driver through the reflection in the rear-view mirror, and he doesn’t exactly look the most pleased with the antics of the three of you.
Oh well, you think. That’s too bad, you signed up for Uber in a college town. There’s no escaping this.
Arriving at Marcel and Porco’s slightly dingy apartment building is always a mixed experience. On one hand, it’s nice to have friends with a place of their own— especially without the combined knowledge that you’d be spending your time where about a zillion other degenerate kids your age have lived and done God-knows-what. It does come with its flaws, though. Almost every time you’ve been, the elevators have been out of service, leaving you and Pieck (and now, Annie) to hike up eight flights of stairs on your own. Not fun.
When you arrive at the apartment, you’re immediately greeted by Bert and Reiner, both sat somewhat close to the door and evidently awaiting your arrival, along with your suitemates. It’s not long, though, before you find yourself floating about. Pieck goes to find Porco, leaving you with Bert, Annie, and Reiner. Bert and Annie are talking, as they usually are, and Pieck wasn’t exactly wrong when she said you weren’t the biggest fan of Reiner. Though you were getting defensive in the moment, he’s kind of desperate and decides to go off to flirt with some blonde girl he’s been eyeing across the room— complete with the fact that she’s pretty obviously a freshman. Gross, but at least you don’t really have to deal with his whole chip-on-his-shoulder, no one’s ever gonna love me deal. Nice guy, but a little too obsessed with the romantic department for your taste.
Speaking of blond freshmen, another one— this time, a boy— approaches you, Bert, and Annie. He taps on Annie’s shoulder, visibly trembling, and asks, “Hey, Annie, was it? Uh— I’m, Armin, I’m in your… uh, Biology class, with Dr. Zoë— I don’t know, would you maybe wanna… study together, sometime?” After his proposition, he covers his mouth, almost as though he can’t believe what he just said.
“Sorry, I’m kinda busy. Maybe sometime, not soon. Ask me later.”
Ouch.
Deciding to walk away from the whole travesty, get a drink for yourself, and decide to approach a tall girl with a bob that you’re pretty sure is a sophomore, like you, and is also in your Feminist Theory and the World seminar— a class that, taking it, is a decent-sized green flag about someone’s character. You’re pretty sure her name is Ymir, and much to your surprise, she’s talking to Marcel.
“Hey, Marcel. And you’re Ymir— right? We have that seminar together,” you ask the two of them. By this point, you’re decently buzzed, feeling confident enough to talk to a stranger that you otherwise wouldn’t.
“Hey— what have you been up to?” Marcel cheerfully responds, “I haven’t seen you in a while!”
You sigh in response to Marcel’s question, give him the rundown on the Zeke situation, to which he laughs. Ymir gives you a proper introduction— she is a sophomore, as you thought, and you decide to start sitting together. She sits in the furthest back corner of the room, so it shouldn’t be too disruptive.
You’re feeling good about your friend-making, though much to your horror, you see the very man you’re sort-of-dreading visiting on Sunday, at four. He looks a bit different; he’s dressed the same way he always is, but he almost looks more relaxed— a lit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. It’s honestly strange seeing him in a calm social setting, ruffling the hair of some kid with a man-bun that looks somewhat like him. You make eye contact with him for a brief moment, and you almost consider walking up to him to say hello. You’re about to start approaching him, almost bidding goodbye to both your new and old friend— that is, until the same kid whose hair he was messing with drags him away to go talk to his posse of freshmen. Even more to your horror, the same kid who was hitting on Annie is one of them.
Okay, weird.
You knew he didn’t have many friends, but camaraderie with freshmen— especially since he was significantly older than them, by six whole years— was much, even for you. You felt odd talking to them, and they’re (presumably) only a few years younger than you. You choose to brush it off, and you continue your conversation with Marcel and Ymir. Pieck and Porco eventually join the three of you, and you find yourself having fun for the first time since the party started.
By the end of the night, you feel completely socialized— happy, even— as you, Pieck, and Annie drag yourselves home. It’s mostly Annie; she’s never been that big of a drinker. You’re still feeling a little bit weirded out by the whole Zeke-freshman-debacle, but nothing that a good night’s rest won’t help you forget.
Much to your dismay, you do wake up on Sunday morning. It’s nowhere near four. You take a couple of the ibuprofen you keep on your dresser and mope your way out of bed. Pieck and Annie are in the living room, eating leftover pizza from a several-day-old box stored in your fridge. The pizza is cold, but you’re hungover, and it’s good enough.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Pieck says to you, as you practically lunge at a slice of pizza from the box. “We haven’t seen you in a couple of hours.”
You rub some of the sleep out of your eyes, retorting, “Sorry— I tried to drink my memories away after I witnessed Douchebag Supreme with his squad of freshman besties. Genuinely, what?” You’re visibly confused, and you further drive it home by making an exaggerated hand motion to support your doubts about the man.
Annie laughs to herself before responding, “Was it a lanky kid with a manbun?”
“Um, yeah?”
“That’s his brother, Eren.”
Okay, crisis averted. You regain a little bit of your respect for Zeke, and you remember his weird change in energy at the party. In a way, you’re dreading seeing him a little bit less today.
Your train of thought is interrupted by Pieck asking the two of you if you want to hear about her latest exchanges with Porco, post-Friday-night-hangout, and after the party. In reality, you don't really have much of a choice. Not that you mind; you've been rooting for them to get together since they first started talking. He's a nice guy!
“Okay, so— I’m definitely thinking he’s into me. And, he has no idea that I’m into him. I think, I don’t know. You guys know Pock,” she makes a little pop noise with her lips as she says this, “he’s, well, not the smartest. So I think I have the upper hand here.”
You pat her on the back and say, “Nice job, Pieck. It only took you three months.”
Annie laughs in response, questioning, “Has he asked you on an official date yet?”
Pieck’s face is overcome by a smug look, and you’re a little bit afraid of what’s going to come out of her mouth next.
“Yeah. Next Saturday. At 8. Maybe he’s gonna propose.” She says this with a completely straight face, and the three of you can't exactly stifle your laughter any further. These moments are exactly what you came to college for— shared comfort with the people that you love.
Annie interjects once she’s done laughing, “Guys, get yourselves together— let’s put on a movie until you two have to get out of here for Douche or whatever you call him.”
“Let’s watch Titanic!” you happily suggest.
Pieck rejects your offer, with an enthusiastic “Fuck no, I can’t watch that movie. It makes me cry. Uh— let’s watch Fast and Furious. I love Vin Diesel.”
“You have interesting taste, Pieck.”
“Shut up!”
Annie decides to put both of you to rest: “We’re watching Midsommar.”
You don’t like Midsommar. Pieck’s kinda intrigued by the whole evil death cult thing. You made the poor choice of watching it with your parents, back home— and you don't really want to relive that. At this point, all you can really do is close your eyes and sit down with your head on your best friend’s lap, in an attempt to pass out. You’re hoping to sleep through the movie, and you trust your friends to ensure they wake you up once you have to get ready to go. Luckily, your plan succeeds, but before you know it, Pieck is tapping on your head to wake you up.
You open your phone, and you see a notification on your phone. It’s from about an hour ago, and it’s from the very man you’re dreading hearing from.
zeke (book project):
I’ll be seeing you guys at 4, right? no last-minute changes in plans? (1:38, P.M.)
Thinking of a response, you decide to try out a tongue-in-cheek joke. If you’re gonna be cordial with him, you might as well crack a joke.
you:
yep, b there or be square (2:31, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
It’s my house, I’d sure hope I’d be there (2:33, P.M.)
Maybe he didn’t get it. Or maybe he did, and he’s just above reacting to jokes. You wouldn’t put that past him, considering his whole self-righteous, I'm-better-than-you attitude. You toss your phone onto your mattress, focusing on combing out the rat’s nest of a head of hair that you’ve currently got going on, filled with hairspray from last night that you were too drunk to wash out. Somewhere along the way, he texts you both his address and his apartment number.
You’re a little bit nervous, though you’re not exactly sure why. Four will come soon enough.
It’s four, and you’re not there yet. You arrive three minutes late— you, unfortunately, walked a little too slowly, something you attribute to your lingering headache and the cold screwing up your joints. Fortunately, the elevators work, and you don’t have to climb up a bunch of floors— though it only would’ve been three.
Pieck maintains a slight distance in front of you, a gracious attempt at pacifism by your friend, which is more out of fear that you’ll barge into his apartment and start yelling at him over God-knows-what. When she does knock, Zeke answers. You’re welcomed in— albeit not the most warmly— as he wordlessly opens the door.
His apartment is exactly what you’d expect. It’s small, with a slightly dated kitchen and attached living room; his couch is visibly aged, with wear marks in the leather. There are two shut doors to the left of the kitchen, which you assume belong to his room and a bathroom. The place reeks of cigarette smoke; beside an ashtray, he’s got a rack of albums stored on a table by the entrance. There’s a record player on the coffee table. Already, you can see some music that you recognize. Carissa’s Wierd, Radiohead, and Neutral Milk Hotel make themselves visible, and you don’t doubt that there are dozens more under the three visible albums, even more fitting with a stereotypical music snob of a man.
He’s got a bookshelf beside this table, too, and in it you find basically every book you’d ever imagine to be owned by such a man: includingEmma, Wuthering Heights, and Crime and Punishment.
You’re in Zeke Yeager’s apartment, he’s exactly what you’d imagined him to be, and it almost makes you sick.
After what seems like forever— though in reality, it's maybe a minute— he says, “You’re welcome to sit down. I have the book already, so we can make a game plan on how to analyze it.”
Pieck sits on the slightly aged couch, while you briefly ignore his invitation to be seated, analyzing his book titles.
Much to your dismay, you’re met by a voice behind you. It’s Zeke, and he asks you, “Liking anything you’re seeing?”
You don’t. You think it’s genuinely bizarre that a man could ever read anything by Mary Wollstonecraft and appreciate it the same way you do. Especially not someone studying chemistry. Maybe you’re close-minded.
You retort with a quick response, “I’m really not. Actually, I think you should give me your copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. I don’t think you need it.”
With that, he pushes his glasses up onto his face, laughing, “Nice try. Not happening.”
“Mary Wollstonecraft would’ve hated you!”
“Okay— nice one, go sit and let’s work.”
Begrudgingly, you haul yourself over to sit beside Pieck on the sofa. He sits in the remaining chair, opposite the two of you. The three of you debate on what to cover— to hyperfixate on subjective taste, or to focus on the non-subjective, material phenomena; lastly, to take on the broader spectrum and summarize the whole book and how the two correlate. Pieck hopes to focus on subjectivity, finding it a good idea to have something with a little more wiggle room. Zeke wants to focus on the objective and material, contrasting Kant’s idea of objective good with that of other philosophers. He claims that his idea and Pieck’s idea are different— hers is a deep dive, and his is criticism. You’d like to take on the whole book, but out of loyalty, you take Pieck’s side.
“Zeke, the two ideas are similar enough. Why can’t we just do Pieck’s? It’ll be less— like, I don’t know, dirty work,” you asked him, biting your tongue at the end— just enough to not come up with a snarky remark.
Zeke looks genuinely perplexed at this, explaining: “You know, some of us actually— I don’t know— enjoy the class?”
You’re genuinely kind of annoyed. “Zeke, cut the shit. You’re a chem major, you’re a grown man, you do not need to be engaging with introductory philosophy that critically.”
Pieck gives you a knowing kind of glance when you mention what his major is. He never told you that. You would’ve had to have asked about him— and if he didn’t overhear your little complaining session in the library, he sure as hell knows that you’ve been talking about him now.
He catches on, as well.
“I never told you my age or my major.”
He’s matter-of-fact with his statement. He doesn’t raise any possibilities for the source of your knowledge— maybe it's mercy, or maybe it’s because of your mutual circles. Maybe he expects that you would’ve heard from Annie or Reiner, who compose two-thirds of the people he talks to. What he says next, though, is hard to wriggle your way out of.
“Who told you that?” he sounds amused in his comment, and it’s nearly sickening.
Pieck’s visibly trying not to laugh at you. Honestly, all you want is for this humiliation ritual to be over. You’re even ready to side with his stupid plan for the stupid project, and to top it all off, you can’t even think of a response.
Finally, you answer, “Um, that’s a good question.”
It comes out shaky and completely forced. Your attempt at an own is pitiful, at best. Evidently, he catches onto this. Truthfully, Zeke’s trying his hardest not to laugh as well. When Pieck notices, she decides to let go. Betrayal, at its finest. Zeke laughs too, and honestly, the whole debacle is such a sight that you decide to let go of your brief humiliation, trying to turn the events of the afternoon into a bonding experience.
And, you (somewhat) succeed. Zeke concedes that he figures Annie told you; the two of them are, evidently, closer than you’d originally thought. He must be feeling nice today, agreeing to go along with Pieck’s original idea under the conditions that he gets to do a critique of the subjective on his own. At least you wouldn’t be forced to research a philosophical position that you, in good faith, could not defend; a win is a win.
Before you know it, it’s 5:30. You’re hungry, Pieck’s probably hungry, and last Thursday, Zeke made an offer to buy you food. Maybe not explicitly, but you’re sure as hell not paying. Thankfully, he brings it up before you do.
“I’m kinda hungry, do you guys wanna order something in?” he asks, lightly patting himself on the stomach.
Pieck interjects, “I’m not in the mood for anything particular. What about you?”
They’re both looking at you, and you’ve got an agenda: you’re getting crab rangoons.
“Let’s do Chinese takeout!”
Both of them hum in agreement, and before you know it, the order is placed. You and Pieck have saved on takeout for another Sunday night, freeing Annie of the responsibility of paying for the two of you; though she certainly has an income, you and Pieck don’t like to overrely. You’re unemployed, and Pieck is in and out of part-time jobs.
It’s nauseating when he gets the notification that the food’s ready, and that it’s time to pick it up. It’s even more nauseating when he tells the two of you that he’d like for one person to stay and keep working on the project. You’re ready to keel over by the time Pieck says that she’ll stay back, hold down the fort, and begin fleshing out the assignment. Feeling entirely betrayed by the time you walk out of the apartment, you trail behind him— hoping not to engage in small talk. Well, small talk is inevitable in such a setting. Eventually, your phone dings.
pieck <3:
okay pleeease don’t kill me. you guys seemed to be getting along better and i just wanted to get a headstart on the project before you guys started butting heads again (5:42, P.M.)
pieck <3:
plus itll be easier 4 me to work cus it way my idea for the project so ik what i want to do already (5:43, P.M.)
You love her and you understand her motives, but this was a little bit of a... stretch. Especially for your patience.
you:
i’d genuinely rather shoot myself in the asshole than deal with this. send prayers (5:44, P.M.)
So, you suck it up. You swallow your pride, and you get into the passenger seat of Zeke Yeager’s car. It’s a somewhat-dated Honda Civic, and unsurprisingly, it also smells like nicotine. It’s even less surprising when he takes a box out of his pocket. Marlboro, menthol.
“You smoke?” he asks, before lighting his own.
“Uh… not those,” you respond.
He laughs a little, clearly a jab at your reluctant answer. You are, however, surprised when he presses you further: “Too hardcore for these? Only smoke reds?”
Okay, so maybe he’s onto your little shtick. Evidently, he’s caught on to the insults. To him, this must be some kind of game— it’s honestly sickening. But you’re in his car, and you can’t exactly ignore him.
So, you concede.
“I don’t smoke cigarettes, I meant— like, if you offered me a joint or something. Maybe not now, though. Probably not when I’m working on an assignment.”
You know you fucked up when Zeke chuckles to himself at your response. You rambled— it’s a problem that you know you have. Your friends tease you for it all the time, but it usually isn’t an issue because you usually aren’t talking to people you vehemently despise. In the midst of your rambling, you can’t seem to remember what you said, exactly, that amused him so.
The spiraling you’re embarking on in your mind is cut short by him when he queries you, once again, “Not now? When’s the other time you’re thinking of?”
You fucked up.
You fucked up, and he has the nerve to ask you at what point in time you were thinking of smoking a joint with him.
Out of everyone, ever, that you could smoke with, he’s at the complete bottom of the list.
That’s what you tell yourself. You believe it, wholeheartedly— you do. But part of you is starting to wonder if he isn’t an entirely irredeemable piece of shit and maybe has a little bit of substance to his character. So, you let go of your better judgment. Two can play at that game, and you certainly aren’t going to lose to someone you’ve already coined as a massive douchebag.
You decide to ask, “Why do you even smoke those?” You’re overcome by a smug expression when you add that, “nobody even smokes cigarettes anymore. It’s, like, cancer on a stick.” You’re confident he does it to look cool, but Zeke’s full of surprises today.
“I don’t know, I do it to keep myself busy, in a way. Like, it’s something to keep in my hand and keeps me from being stationary for a little bit. I started when my little brother moved in with me to keep myself sane, and it stuck with me when I came here.”
You’re almost disappointed in yourself for your shallowness. It wouldn’t have been surprising if you were right, but all you’re able to do in response is sink further into your seat, nodding. You finally muster up a response and press further. “Why was your brother living with you?”
Zeke loudly sighs, and you can tell that he’s debating his response. “My dad isn’t— I don’t know, the greatest, had a few different wives and stuff. When I graduated, I was originally gonna take a gap year, make some money to pay for college. In high school, I wanted to get an athletic scholarship for baseball, didn’t happen. I move out, Eren comes knocking on my door. Blah, blah, blah, you could say the rest is history.” He laughs at the end, but you can tell he’s either uncomfortable or unsure about his response.
“That’s… really noble of you. Like, seriously, good on you.”
Before he can respond, you’re at the restaurant. He exits the car to go grab the food, and momentarily, you forget that you were even in his car to pick up your dinner. So much for crab rangoons. You’ve now come to two realizations. Not only was Zeke Yeager playing along with your disdain towards him, but your earlier fear that he was more than he let on was true. He’s some guy that likes to keep himself busy— hence, the smoking— and he does it as a coping mechanism that stemmed from him taking in his younger brother a mere year after graduating high school. For that, you’ve gotta hand it to him. It takes some serious balls to take in a teenager, especially being a teenager yourself.
That said, he can do all of those things while still being painstakingly performative.
He comes back to the car with the food in tow in the form of a large brown paper bag; it smells delicious, and you’d really like to dissociate for the rest of the ride, thinking about eating your meal when you get back.
Unfortunately, there’s a wrench in your plans.
“So,” he starts, picking up with another question. “What’s your deal?”
You’re confused. “What do you mean, my deal?”
Retorting to your accusatory remark, he asks you, “I don’t know, aren’t you, like, 21 or something? Same story, gap year, or what?”
It’s funny, because you haven’t told him your age; much like how he hadn’t told you his or what he was studying, he seemed to know more about you than you thought. You respond, but you’re careful this time.
“Who told you that?”
It’s a good reply. He knows it too. Before he starts backing out of the parking lot, he momentarily covers his face, snickers to himself, turns on the radio, and concedes. “Touché,” and you think you’re free of his little interrogation— but you get another inquiry. “I told you my deal, you tell me yours. It’s only fair.”
You seem to be swallowing an awful lot of pride tonight. So, you turn down the radio. It’s The Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel. You do actually like their music— this song is no exception. It’s from one of the albums he had on his table, but you didn’t expect him to actually put it on in the car. With that, you tell him what he wants.
“So, for starters. I’m not 21. My birthday’s in December, so it’s soon, but not now. Whoever told you that was wrong. To be honest, high school was weird for me, and I didn’t really wanna go back to school immediately after graduating. I took the year off, tried a couple of things out, even tried getting my cosmo license, but I kinda knew I’d want to go to college. So, here I am.”
He doesn’t acknowledge it at all, really. His only response: “When in December?”
“The sixteenth.” Part of you wanted to lie, but you felt bad after he told you about his brother— plus, he’d easily be able to ask Annie.
After a few more minutes of silence, you’re back at the apartment. The elevator ride’s noticeably less awkward now, and you might just be forming a friendship with a certain Zeke Yeager.
He goes into the bathroom to wash his hands before eating, and you and Pieck decide to do the same in the kitchen sink. The quarters are a little bit close for comfort, but Pieck has changed your clothes while you’ve been drunkenly passed out, so it doesn’t really do a lot in terms of awkwardness.
“Hello?” She starts, drawing out the o. “How was it?”
You let out a slight chuckle. “I think,” pausing for a moment, “I think we might be friends.”
The thought of it was previously obscene to you— but something in the air shifted during that car ride. When he comes back out into the living room, inviting you guys to eat from the other side of the open space, you’re sure of it. You look at him with a little less scrutiny, and he almost seems like a human being. Attempting to rationalize your thought process, you’re in a state with a semblance to shock. Maybe not quite, but certainly close enough. Unfortunately, you’re interrupted by Zeke, yet again.
He waves at you in an attempt to grab your attention, asking, “You were the one who wanted Chinese food so bad. Not eating?”
So, you dig into your crab rangoons and pretend you aren’t intently watching him eat fried rice from the carton. Okay, now you’re even weirding yourself out. Pieck’s onto you as well— she gives you a face that reads, What gives?
You’re glad she doesn’t ask you. You’re not sure yourself. The three of you eat and debate the project a little more. Pieck’s work is good— she certainly put in an effort in the, maybe, 30 minutes the two of you were gone for. Zeke tries to make a smart response, but as per usual, you shut him down. Your snide remarks are noticeably less fiery. Before you know it, it isn’t Sunday at four anymore. It’s eight, and it’s time to go home.
You wake up on Monday morning at a comically late hour— that is to say, it’s not quite morning anymore. The clock reads 12:50, and you need to haul yourself out of bed and get ready.
Both of your suitemates are gone. You want to hang out with someone, so you text Bert.
you:
bert. whatcha up to… down 4 some fast food? (1:04, P.M.)
bermuda, bahama:
can’t! sorry, with Annie rn, u know the deal (1:07, P.M.)
you:
i’m going to kill u if u don’t tell her sooner rather than later. she’s so oblivious and she hangs out with u the most out of all of us, just tell her u like her (1:08, P.M)
You sigh to yourself. Bert, as sweet as he is, is a little too scared of showing any sign of interest towards Annie at all. You don’t blame him— she’s intense. It gets to a point, though, where you’ve gotta do something.
bermuda, bahama:
i’ll do it when im ready!! trust (1:10, P.M.)
Bert’s not gonna do it. You know it, and so does he.
Conceding to the lost possibility of hanging out with two of your closest friends (look at you, wingwoman of the year), you decide to text Ymir. You haven’t spoken to her since the party, and you have your class together tomorrow.
you:
heyy ymir, idk if u remember me, but we met at marcel’s party the other night? wanna grab some food or sum (1:13, P.M.)
Thankfully, she responds fast.
ymir:
yeah, i’m not doing anything rn. i’m lowk craving smoothies let’s go to that one place past the library. i live in sina building meet me outside in 10 (1:14, P.M.)
With that, you throw on your Converse— practically an ancient artifact by now, all but run out the door, and go to meet your friend outside of her building.
Ymir lives in one of the nicer buildings on campus. You know this, but seeing it up close is different. It’s modern— and its rooms are all singles. Some people just get to live the easy life. You’re pretty lucky, though, living with your two closest friends. Comparison is the thief of joy, after all.
Your mental note of her living situation is cut short just as you start getting bored, Ymir comes out.
She waves at you with a short, “Hey! Sorry for the wait, I had to feed my cat.”
And they allow pets there, too. Unbelievable.
You end your mental lament towards Ymir’s living situation— it’s not gonna do you any good, and you love your suitemates; plus, you’re now friends with her and probably can come visit to see her cat. The two of you share a conversation over your shared seminar, before you learn that she’s also majoring in literature, though she’s double-majoring in women’s studies. You decide that Ymir is officially the coolest person that you know, and the smoothies are shitty enough to be from an on-campus food joint, but good enough that you don’t really care.
On the walk back, she asks you about your classes, to which you tell her about your recent philosophy debacle. She doesn't know Zeke well enough to give you any meaningful advice, but she pats you on the back as you part, and you're overall feeling satisfied with your recent outing. You made a goal to expand your social circle going into your sophomore year, and you seem to be working towards it. All that's left to do now is fraternize with the enemy, it seems.
Your Tuesday philosophy class went well. In all honesty, it was one of your more uneventful ones— you find it in you to joke around with Zeke as you do with Pieck, and you're starting to see a real friendship on the horizon. You're feeling good, both from that and your much earlier seminar that you finally got to sit with Ymir in. On the walk back from philosophy, Pieck decides she's got some business to attend to, and you find yourself going home alone once more. Key in hand, you let yourself in, hike up to your floor, and look forward to a nice afternoon of relaxing. Maybe a nap, too. You've definitely earned it.
Your plans are foiled once more.
A sound emanates from your purse. It's your phone— it buzzes twice.
zeke (book project):
Class was fun, wanna get lunch? (1:04, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
I'm still trying to figure out ur deal (1:04, P.M.)
You can't really believe what you're seeing. What, you have two good days of conversation with him, and now we're getting lunch? What an absolute joke. You're annoyed, and all you really want is to curl into your bed and take a nap; for a reason beyond your comprehension, you find yourself accepting his invitation.
you:
i'm down. where to? (1:05, P.M.)
zeke (book project):
Your choice, but I'm craving pizza (1:06, P.M.)
you:
yeah that's cool, let's get sushi. pick me up in front of maria building? (1:06, P.M.)
You're not sure if your response was a little too eager, but it was too good not to send. You find yourself re-reading the message, smiling at your phone— your creative genius really does know no bounds, you tell yourself. You get another buzz. You can't help but open the message maybe a little too eagerly, but it surprisingly isn't Zeke. Instead, it's your credit card app telling you to make a payment. Well, that was embarrassing.
At least no one saw.
The next notification you get, fortunately, is from him.
zeke (book project):
Harsh. I'm here rn (1:15, P.M.)
Okay. That was fast. You were expecting maybe an ETA, but he was just on campus for your last class. It's entirely fine— you're presentable, but you did want a little longer to be in your element before he picked you up. You make the same routine you just made returning from class, in reverse this time: grab your keys, hike down the stairs, and go outside. You're met with that same dated Honda Civic that you were just two days ago; for the second time this week, you find yourself getting into Zeke Yeager's car.
"Are we getting sushi, or are you going to go on a power trip because I tried to be snarky?" is the first thing you say to him after you get in.
He feigns disappointment with your comment. Instead, he embarks on a tangent, mocking your slightly unconventional conversation choices, "hi, Zeke, nice seeing you! Thanks for offering to get me lunch! How are you? Wow, nice to hear that you're doing well!" he then pauses, pulls a plastic bag out from his pocket, and decides to actually act like himself— "I brought you something."
Handing you the bag, you're a little bit confused by what he possibly could've brought you. You guys were barely friends, and you were admittedly a little bit distracted from feeling disrespected by his mockery— so much so, that it completely slipped your mind to look down at what he gave you. In the bag was a singular joint.
"You know, you're not supposed to put these in plastic bags," you sigh, adding on, "plus, I told you I wasn't gonna smoke with you. I appreciate the gesture, though."
You're hopeful that he catches onto your thankful remark and lets it go, but instead, he tells you, "Remind me to never bring you a peace offering again."
And, now you feel bad.
To be honest, your reasons for disliking him so much are entirely in your own head. You're aware of this. You know that he's probably confused by your slight attitude problem— though, you do try to keep most of it in your own head— and he's clearly trying to be cordial so that the remainder of the project isn't terrible. There's only about a week left, but it's nice of him. Much to your dismay, you don't get sushi. You do find yourself at the pizza place, but we can't all be benevolent all of the time. Plus, you've honestly gotta lighten up a little. When you aren't with Zeke, complaining to his face about how he's too passionate about Philosophy 103, you're complaining about him to other people. Maybe you're gaining a little social awareness a bit late in life. You're not sure— thankfully, after the project is over, you get a week off. It'll be some much-needed time to reset your mind and fill it with things other than disdain for your classmate.
You order a single slice of pizza. You'd honestly rather be eating anything else, but you did it to yourself this time.
"So, why are you always giving me a hard time about everything? I never caught on."
Huh? You're distracted from your own thoughts when he asks you this. You're not sure whether or not to tell him the truth. Yeah, sorry, I just thought you were a massive tryhard in class, so I made it my mission to treat you like shit. That's not a good answer, in the slightest. So, you'll tell him a half-truth. Not exactly wrong, but not exactly right enough that he'd probably get in his car and drive away while making you pay for both of the pizzas.
You laugh to yourself, briefly shrugging before conceding, "Well, I didn't exactly expect you to be, er, normal. I was anticipating a whole lot more, oh yeah. I'm Zeke, and I think I'm the coolest, ever." You put on a mocking voice at the end— much like how he did to you, in the car. You're simply getting even.
Zeke's a little, well— surprised, to say the least. You're not sure if he was expecting that in particular, or maybe something more substantive. Though there's not exactly a lot of substantive reasons for being so callous. You're also not super sure why he still entertains you. Morbid curiosity? Probably. To him, your little attitude problem must be like front-row seats to a stand-up comedian. Needless to say, you're starting to get in over your head about the whole thing.
"Let me get this straight," he trails off, "so you think I'm the coolest, ever, and you decided that I was hung up on myself about it?"
"That's not even remotely what I said."
"They're your words, not mine."
So, you give up. You especially give up when he starts going on about how, subconsciously, you must be lying to yourself, that it's impossible to form that kind of bias if you don't believe it a little yourself. You're ready to go tell him to become a psychologist— it'll probably be more lucrative than getting on your nerves about the way you've been treating him and forcing you to think outside of the bubble that is your head. You know you probably should, but if he can be close-minded, so can you, right?
That is to say, you're not entirely sure what happens next. Before you know it, you find yourself back in his car, about to go upstairs. What you don't do, however, is go upstairs. You do invite him up to your dorm. To, y'know, make use of the peace offering.
Zeke's in your dorm.
Once you get there, you immediately regret it.
You begrudgingly let him sit on your couch, open a window, and light the damn thing. You take a hit, pass it back to him, and sit on the opposite end of the sofa. When he hands it back to you, you just about drop it on the floor. So much for nonchalance. Thankfully, you don't, but it was a decently close call.
Fast forward, you're not really focused on the peace offering so much anymore— you've had your fill, following your near-mishap— as you are on everything else. You're tired, you're kinda hungry, and you're still mad at yourself for ending up in this situation.
"You know, you seemed pretty eager the other day. You're acting like you've never done this before," Zeke notes, "nice one, almost dropping it on your carpet."
"Okay, I'm sorry!" You interject, yawning, "I don't do this that often, leavemealone."
And then, he has the absolute nerve to read you to filth. "You're all bark, no bite."
"You know, you make yourself pretty hard not to bark at."
Maybe a mistake. He's got a shit-eating grin on his face, and you let out a defeated sort of laugh-groan.
You don't expect it at all when he so graciously tells you, "You're funny."
You're not trying to be funny at all. You think he knows this, too. You're just about to think of a smart response when you begin trailing off— you let out a jumbled slew of sleep-filled mumbo-jumbo, and before you know it, you're knocked out. Oh well. If he kills you in your sleep, your time has come.
You wake up from your accidental nap, not knowing how long it's been. You didn't bother to check a clock beforehand, but you don't bother now. Still half asleep, you grab a blanket hanging behind you on the sofa, wrap it around yourself, before you sink further into your couch. Just as you're opening your eyes and fully coming back to your senses, you regain awareness of the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the Zeke on your couch. He's asleep, too. You're hoping he passed out shortly after you did, because it would've been incredibly awkward for him to have to sit in a foreign environment, as you snoozed peacefully on your couch. For a brief moment, you even find yourself thinking that he looks kinda cute. Okay— gross— backtracking, you always knew he was a good-looking guy. Some of your arduous animosity even stemmed from this, but you never imagined yourself in such a situation. So, you do the next best thing: you turn around, don't look at him, hunch over your phone, and wait for him to wake up. Hopefully, it doesn't take too long.
To your dismay— it does. Not really. It's about an hour before he's up. It's well into dinnertime by now, and you're becoming aware that your suitemates definitely walked in at some point along the way. This said, they definitely saw the situation in their living room on full display. When he does wake up, he's surprisingly normal about the whole thing. Well, as normal as you can be after falling asleep on someone's couch whom you aren't exactly buddy-buddy with yet. You bid him farewell, apologising for falling asleep on him (metaphorically, not literally). Out the door he goes.
Unsure of what to do next, you knock on Pieck's door.
"Pieck," you shout, trying to be heard through the wooden panel, "are you inside? Can we go to dinner?"
"Girl, get in here."
You open the door, and it's a lot worse than you expect. Pieck's in there, Annie's in there, and Bert's also in there.
You can tell that she's amused by the whole thing— the mirth was evident in her face— when she tells you, "We were going to order food and eat it here, but we couldn't really get delivery in light of whatever that was."
Annie adds, "So much for being a douchebag. Now you're smoking with him?"
Maybe you had a lapse in your judgment. By this point, you know you've got to tell them what happened.
You're not sure where to start, so you opt to tell it from the beginning. "So, Pieck, after you left when we were walking back from class, I got to the dorm. He texts me, at this point, and he's all, like, hey. Let's get lunch. I was, mortified, to say the least— maybe mortified is the wrong word, but I was certainly surprised. He's like, oooh, I want pizza. I didn't want pizza. I wanted sushi. We got pizza. But, when I got in his car, he was sort of mocking me for the way I act— okay, whatever, I had it coming— but he tells me that he's got something for me. That was, uh, what we were smoking. Yeah, I'm not entirely sure where I went wrong, but instead of going back to my room, I actually invited him upstairs, and then that happened."
"That's a lot of words," notes Annie, visibly still processing your word-vomit.
Bert's surprised, to say the least. "I thought you hated him?"
Your cover's being blown. "I did— I still do, but I don't know. We've been having good conversations."
You might as well kill two birds with one stone, informing them, "Also, after I woke up, I saw him asleep on the couch, and I fully thought to myself that he was kinda cute." Okay, so that maybe detonated a bomb. Well, that's what you'd think it'd do. Nobody reacts.
Pieck doesn't look surprised at all. You're about to ask her why she looks so smug when she lets you know that, "You know, we've practically been placing bets on when you'd realize you were at least a little into him."
"What?"
Annie chimes in, "Nobody puts that much effort into disliking someone if they aren't overcompensating for anything."
Now, you're actually mortified. "Well, hold on— I didn't say I was attracted to him. I just said that I wasn't entirely disgusted by him at that one moment. That's all."
It seems as though the three of them collectively roll their eyes at you. You're not sure how to go about this. Bert's looking at you with a face that reads I-told-you-so a little too much, which is ironic considering that he's entrusted you with his one personal secret— his feelings towards Annie. You're really just about ready to run away, and this time, you don't need Pieck to validate your fears; you're pretty confident that this is the last situation you'd ever want to be in. Possibly even below smoking with Zeke. They might be right, though. Just a little bit.
"If I let you guys have the satisfaction of me agreeing with you, can we go eat?" You concede, hoping for the best.
"Uh, yeah, we were right," Pieck nods. "Let's go, I'm starving."
Bert and Annie both agree, and for a moment, you're kind of jealous of Bert. At least the extent of his romantic misfortune is that he's too scared to tell her. He and Annie are so similar— though Bert's a little more outward, socially, they're both good-hearted people and have a sense of mutual agreement with each other, one where they don't even have to speak to communicate. Half the time, their hangouts are just studying in silence.
Dinner's great. You don't end up ordering in, and you cut your losses because you accidentally exposed your roommates to a lapse in your judgment. You're okay with that. The four of you end up sitting at a table for several hours, nursing your sodas as you talk about Dr. Smith— no, Erwin's— recent canoodling around Professor Ackerman. Your friends have noticed it too, and the four of you crack up over the possibility of the zealous philosophy professor being anything but terrified by the tiny math teacher. The ice in your sodas melts, diluting the drinks. The environment's sticky, and the food is cheap. One thing still rings in your mind— your earlier conversation with your friends. You decide to ignore it, for the time being, and fully immerse yourself in the situation around you. Besides, if you can't make it go away now, you shouldn't expect yourself to.
Two unfortunate things are true at the same time.
Your project's over, and you walk out of it with something of a crush on Zeke. You still think he's pretentious, and you still think he's problematic, but you can't control your feelings! The night your friends confronted you about it was awful, to say the least, and it ended in you coming to a series of less-than-ideal conclusions. One, that they were right; two, that you cannot let anyone other than the three of them find out; and three, you're not sure if you're certain that no one else knows. There's a pang of embarrassment in your mind every time you remember that fateful Sunday evening— the one where both of you had Freudian slips of your own. Considering that he knew about your gap year, he would've had to have asked someone about you. You know it wasn't Annie, because she knows both your age and your birthday. Plus, you don't think she would've lied, leaving two possibilities— Reiner and Marcel. Now, you can't be sure of either. So, there are at least two people who might know of this weird little game that the two of you seem to have going on.
And you're going to make sure that you win.
Marcel's hosting again tonight. Thanksgiving break's right around the corner, and you're gonna get to the bottom of this mystery before then. Unfortunately, it requires you to get your hands dirty— and ask the two people who you think might have aired out (some) of your information to Zeke. You're not gonna ask them straight up; instead, you'll be funny. You'll ask them how old you are, and whichever one doesn't know will be the culprit. Easy!
Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy.
Loud music, a hell of a lot more people, and Reiner being M.I.A. put a wrench in your plans.
"Hey, Marcel?" You shout at him, hoping he can hear you.
Marcel turns around, looking confused, before he sees you and waves, inviting you over. "Hey, what's up?"
You're struggling to hear him, so you decide you'd be better off just ripping off the band-aid. "Do you know how old I am?"
"Uh, yeah, why? You're 20, right?" He shouts at you, struggling to hear you over the noise. "Your birthday's next month, right?"
Okay, not Marcel. That's cool. It has to be Reiner then. "Yeah, it is! Sorry, I was just wondering. Do you know where Reiner is?"
"Uh, I think he went to the bathroom. Why?"
"Don't worry about it. Bye, Marcel!"
You decide, much against your better judgment, to bang on the bathroom door.
"Reiner, are you in there?"
A voice on the other end of the door responds, and it's not Reiner. "Who is that? Who are you? Fuck off!"
Eventually, after walking around for a while, you do find Reiner. He's with the one person you aren't the most interested in seeing right now— Zeke! You've gotta get it over and done with, so you resort to poking him on the shoulder to try and get his attention, while trying your absolute hardest not to make eye contact with your classmate.
"Reiner!" You shout.
Finally, you get hold of him. "Uh, yeah? What's up?"
Now's the awkward part. You look at Zeke and begin asking, "Hey, Zeke— do you think I could, I don't know, borrow Reiner for a second?" You make a pulling motion at Reiner's sleeve for emphasis, "It's important!"
Zeke's looking confused by your antics, though he usually does. He lets you drag his friend off for a moment, and now you have your chance to finally ask him.
"Psst. Reiner. Don't tell anyone I asked you this, but do you know how old I am?"
He looks confused, though eventually he asks you something you really weren't hoping to hear. "Aren't you 20? I know your birthday is in the wintertime, at some point."
"How do you know that?" You inquire, perplexed.
He scoffs, while chuckling in a way that you know isn't malicious. "I don't know, it's not like I've known you for a year and a half, or anything."
Okay. Noted. Zeke very well could've gone and remedied his mistakes with whoever told him. This means that you now don't have a lead at all. So, you go to find Pieck.
Locating her, you shout. "Pieck!" She's not with Porco this time, but rather with Annie. You're not sure where Bert is— they're usually inseparable, especially on the off chance she does come to a party.
"Hey, what's up?"
You tell her about what happened with Marcel and Reiner, and all she can do is laugh. "I'm sorry," she says while covering her mouth in an attempt to hold herself together, "that was quite possibly the stupidest plan you could've had. Much love, though."
You're dejected, but you can't help but laugh in response. "What should I do now?" You ask her, hoping to hear some sort of consolatory prize that'll help you wallow in the newfound knowledge that you aren't quite the smartest person in the room right now.
"I think," she says, pointing at the creature behind you, "you should go and say hi. Even though you already saw him when you were basically harassing Reiner, we finished our project— plus, he keeps looking over here."
So, you walk on over. What's the worst that could happen? You're intoxicated, and you're not really sure how much you hate him anymore.
"Hey, Zeke," you wave, "Sad that our project's over?"
Reiner takes it upon himself to walk off. Weird. Zeke laughs in response to your comment and half-heartedly quizzes you, "Who's gonna endlessly insult me now?"
You nudge him in the side, maybe a little too confidently. "Well, don't get too comfortable. After we get from break, I still have three more weeks to torment you."
"Oh, how could I forget? I'm overcome with anticipation," he jokes. And, maybe he really isn't all that bad. Or maybe, you're just losing the plot.
You see Pieck in the corner of your eye, and she gives you a goofy thumbs-up. You're not really sure what overcomes you when you ask him, "Are you doing anything after this? Let's hang out when my friends leave." Maybe a little too forward.
"What are you talking about?"
Bad, bad, bad idea. Oops.
"You know, like— the hill behind the Sina building? Let's go there! It's nice outside, and you seem like you can still drive." You're not sure where your confidence is coming from, but it's too late to back out now.
"Uh, okay, sure."
You're starting to regret your words, so you dramatically pat him on the arm and beam, "You know, good-old friendly hangout!"
And with that, you walk away. You're regretting a lot of your choices now.
Unfortunately, it doesn't take much longer for your friends to want to go home. Bert finally reappears, Annie's drunk (probably the first time in months), and Pieck seems to have had a breakthrough with Porco. That said, you tearfully inform them that you won't be leaving with them, because you're going to go sit on a hill with Zeke Yeager. You don't know why you're doing this, exactly— you don't hope to get anything specific out of it, and you're leaving to fly home in two days.
The fall air is chilly, and you've always liked lying on the hill outside. Though you don't really know what the point of asking him to hang out was, and you're still a little too confident for your own good.
He's thinking this too, and asks you, "Why'd you want to go here?"
You're not really sure how to respond. And, on top of it all— the alcohol's talking.
"Maybe, I just wanted to hang out." You're kind of shocked by your own words, so you deflect, "plus, you're always asking me too many questions."
He doesn't say anything. So, you press him further. "Why'd you agree if you were so suspicious of my motives?"
He hums in acknowledgement, "Maybe, I just wanted to hang out."
"Touché," you mock his statement from a while back, "glad we're on the same page."
"So," he segues, "What about the music you listen to?"
"Oh, I don't know, you mean the stuff you've got on display in your record bin that you've decided I like, as well? Not going there." You blow raspberries at the end of your sentence, and honestly? You're comfortable.
"Yeah, right. So, you're gonna name 5 songs by Panchiko, or what?"
"Shut up."
"Not happening, sorry."
The two of you share conversation— a good conversation, this time about music that you actually both like, literature (though, you still don't think his heart's in it), and some shenanigans of Zeke's that came with essentially parenting his brother for several years. All in all, it's a good conversation.
You're about to ask him when— if— he's leaving for break, when you suddenly find yourself leaning up towards him, and planting a peck on his lips. You're not sure why you do it, but it's brief, and if you convince yourself hard enough, you'd believe it never happened.
But it did. And more importantly, he doesn't pull away. Maybe even more importantly, he leans into it.
Nothing else is said, and the two of you part.
You're not sure why, but the first person you tell is Ymir.
Maybe it's because you're right outside of her building. Though you can't find a reason, it doesn't stop you from walking up the stairs, knocking on her door, and hoping she answers. Luckily for you, she does. In all honesty, Ymir's not the best person you could've gone to to talk about a guy. This said, she's an honest person— she's blunt, reactive, and not detached from reality. So, you tell her your torments and hope she can knock some sense into you for kissing a guy you have to face for three more weeks that you've been vehemently hated for the past several months.
All Ymir can do is laugh at you.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," she practically chortles at you, "You just, you went up to him and kissed him?"
She's wiping tears from her eyes and kicking her legs in the air from the chair she sits on. All you can do is sit on her bed in shame.
"I mean, you guys were talking about Panchiko, for fuck's sake, you were about to ask him if he was going home for break, but instead— you thought it'd be a better idea to lean in and kiss him on the mouth?"
She's practically screaming. You've never seen anything like it.
You make a feeble attempt to defend yourself, citing the progression of the conversation, "Well, no— Panchiko was before, but, you know— he was talking about like, his, like, life, I don't know. It was just an impulse thing, I was super drunk— I'm still drunk, but you know, clarity hitting, or whatever."
Ymir doesn't even respond. You can see her face try to feign seriousness for a moment, and she promptly goes back to laughing. You're screwed.
"Girl, I'm gay as fuck and even I know that you aren't supposed to do that."
"Ymir!" You put your head in your hands, "You can't say that. Plus, he didn't pull away!"
She's defensive now, "Hey, I'm giving it to you straight, isn't that what you want?" She can't even pretend not to laugh at her own joke, "Get it. Giving it to you straight."
She continues essentially roaring at you, and it's not long before you start to laugh, too. Not because you think it's funny. You're still regretting your actions a lot. But now, you're realizing that your friend isn't entirely sober, as well, and that you can at least distract yourself for the time being. At least you don't have class with him for the next week.
The truth is beginning to rear its ugly head, and the last thing you do before you leave is consolidate the rest of your closest friends. Ymir's included now, too. Thankfully, she fits right in. The five of you now gather in your dorm. Before this, you'd begged Ymir to please keep her mouth shut— and avoid laughing uncontrollably— as you explained to everyone else. So, that's what you do.
"Okay, guys. That's the story. Any questions?"
Bert's jaw is to the floor, and Annie looks genuinely alarmed. Well, at least Zeke didn't tell her before you could.
Pieck opens her mouth to speak— but it's not at all what you expect.
"Porco asked me to be his girlfriend!"
You're certainly not the only one who had an eventful night last night. Despite your anguish, you're happy for her.
Annie laughs, "It's starting to feel like I'm the only one who isn't seeking out any action recently."
Bert's turned an obvious shade of pink, though his face drops when she says, "Too bad I don't know anyone I'd be willing to even look at, romantically."
Sorry, Bert.
"Oh my god, Pieck? I'm so happy for you!" You say, going to hug her, "How did it go?"
It was nice. After the party last night, he apparently couldn't hold it in anymore and asked her outside of our dorm building. At least one of us had a good ending— though, you're not entirely sure how bad yours was.
After explaining, Pieck clears her throat. "Sorry, I just wanted to get that out. Honestly, I don't think you're in that bad of a situation."
"Really?"
Ymir's done a pretty good job, but this time, she laughs. "Pieck, you're too nice. When she told me last night, I was practically on the floor."
Suddenly, you're made aware of Annie— who's covering her face, silently cackling at Pieck's affirmation— she's able to hold it together, and confide, "Uh, yeah. I don't blame you. What the hell?"
"Annie, what the hell!" You're embarrassed and smack her lightly on the ear. "Okay, well— he's got to like me a little bit because he somehow knew that I took a gap year before I ever even told him."
Pieck's got to humble you this time.
"You know, I asked about him, too, on Halloween. Doesn't mean I'm trying to get into his pants."
"Pieck! Gross," you throw a pillow at her.
"I'm just saying."
Bert's looking like he's in a state of deep thought, when all of a sudden, he blurts out, "I told him."
The four of your faces all turn to Bert, seemingly in unison.
You're about ready to trample him. "What the fuck, Bert? What happened?"
"Okay, I'm sorry, he just— he just, like, asked me about you a while ago because he sat next to you in class, but you guys never talked, and he knows we have a lot of mutual friends, so he was expecting, maybe more— I don't know— friendly chatter? I didn't realize it would snowball this hard!"
"Bert, you don't know how old I am?"
His face pales. "I told him you were almost 21!"
Ymir's practically ready to take out a bucket of popcorn. "You know, I don't think it's that big of a deal. Let it play out over break."
You didn't like that. "Oh, so you're the voice of reason now?"
Ymir throws her hands in the air. "I'm just saying!"
With that, Pieck gives her a high-five. Well, a whole lot more than two things are true at the same time; Thanksgiving may ruin you.
And, ruin you Thanksgiving does.
You don't hear from Zeke— radio silence for 5 days. In the fashion of a true male manipulator, he reappears in your life with a Happy Thanksgiving. The worst part? You'd already let down your guard enough to remove the (book project) from his contact name. You should've known better.
zeke:
Happy thanksgiving! (1:32, P.M.)
you:
haven't heard from you in a while, i was starting to think you disappeared off the face of the earth (1:42, P.M.)
You wait a while between your responses in an attempt to seem uninterested. Despite that, you don't think he cares either way.
zeke:
You doing anything for the holiday tonight? we should talk (1:45, P.M.)
you:
what about? (1:50, P.M.)
zeke:
I feel like you should have an idea (1:52, P.M.)
Yeah, you're so screwed. What are you even gonna say?
you:
okay, i mean we can call tonight if you want? (1:54, P.M.)
zeke:
Okay (1:55, P.M.)
Well, there goes your relaxing Thanksgiving. You were hoping to have a nice day in— watching the parade in the morning, and maybe spending some time with your family, in lieu of an actual Thanksgiving dinner. You keep your fingers crossed, though. Maybe you'll get good news. You're pessimistic, to say the least. Whether or not it goes well, you're sure of one thing: you're in an, er, less-than-ideal situation.