masquerade.

strangers.

chapter summary ; how it all began.

chapter warning ; familial issues/abandonment, running away.

 ✩‧₊˚☾

the ackermans, despite their precedence, were kind to you. as much as they could find it in themselves to be.

their name was attached to authority and harshness; something you hadn't been a stranger to since birth, despite not being one of them yourself - a reality nobody let you forget. but then again, you wouldn't want to forget.

the late january nights were cooling on your cheeks, even as you were stationary, sat on a bench that was illuminated solely by one lantern. it would've been dangerous if you weren't cloaked, hiding your figure from the eyes of the rare strangers that crossed your view from time to time, no doubt for a smoke break, trying to escape their realities.

you didn't blame them. you were doing the same thing as well, sketching out the picture in front of you - a sleeping ginger cat. peacefully, it's belly heaved upwards, then down as it dreamt. your pencil glided across the page, trying to capture its fur. you were, by no means, exceptional. not as great as the artists you would see when you'd sneak out to go to galleries with artists that were recognized, unlike your own pieces. marked off as "anonyomous", without a home but with a creator that painted like it did have one. a home, a place to go back to.

you rub the eraser dust away with your fingers, sinking into your seat, looking back up at your subject who was peacefully unaware of your observation.

"you're here again." a voice remarks.

you know this voice. you look to your right, where it's coming from. his own figure was hiding with a thick long coat, buttoned up till the top. a brown hat covered the top of his head, furling up and away from his forehead. the apples of his cheeks were tinted pink with the cold and his ash-brown hair peeked out from under his hat. his eyes were a halo of gold with the light of the lamp above you. you smile up at him.

"interesting subject tonight." you say, looking back at the cat. he turns to look at it too, humming. he takes a seat right beside you, keeping his own sketchbook in his lap, methodically, neatly. he looks into your sketchbook.

"you've made progress without me," he says. complains, really. it's endearing and you find yourself smiling.

"it's just practice, don't worry."

he scoffs. "I'm not worried." he says, lying straight through his teeth, flipping his sketchbook open to an untouched page.

his first mark is just like him - precise and calculated. you've noticed it, through the weeks you've known him, that his first line always remains. he may go back and erase other strokes, adjust some others, but the first one remained the same, unchanging. he hesitates before drawing it, however, twisting his pencil between the fingers of his left hand before his decision, like he's marking off a territory.

it's routine. you pretend to be asleep in clothes that you're still not quite used to, watch as Mikasa lights a candle, helping Eren up from her balcony windows, making sure that she is distracted with whispered, secret conversations with the man before sneaking out, heading to have your own whispered and secret life at night. most nights it's this - meeting this stranger with honeyed eyes and clenched jaw. he spoke only when prompted to, but it was worthwhile. if you were brave enough, you'd ask for his name. but you weren't, and it seemed neither was he. he must be too recognizable in this place, too hard to ignore.