Cracked Glass | AOT x Male Reader

Chapter 6 - Backwards

_-{A/N}-_

You get two chapters today. There wasn't enough in each to make them separate them posts, but it felt wrong putting them together.

_-{Year 840: The Way It Was}-_

"Get up. Now." His father said, towering over him.

F/N stirred awake, exhausted, and rubbing his eyes. "Ok." He muttered, then pushed off the covers with a yawn.

He sat up, and felt as though it was eerily quiet in their apartment, like there should've been noise, but wasn't. None came from the decrepit ceiling fan, spinning slowly with a caky layer of dust around its blades. It was only ever filled with the noise of him, or his father.

 The one room apartment itself was as shitty as they go. It was on the third floor, and by the door was a small kitchen, across from that was the tv. Beside the boarded window, about fifteen feet from the door, was the small bed F/N slept in. His father usually came in after long nights when the sun was just beginning to rise, and kicked him out.

There was a stench of alcohol and smoke that F/N couldn't get rid of, no matter what he long he cleaned. It was stained into the wooden floorboards and cheap white walls—with old cracked paint. When F/N was younger, he would sit in there on stuffy summer days, and slap each fly that landed on those walls, before scrapping their remains away. The record was thirty-six, though he'd forget the number every now and again. The thought of that now made him smile.

"How can you just- just sit there, so, peacefully? Unbothered." F/N's father swirled the glass in his hand, a dark cherry colored liquid inside it. His dreary face was scrunched up, disgusted at the sight before him. It made itself known in his body too, as he leaned against the window sill, tapping his foot impatiently.

F/N stared, then spoke the words he'd want to hear. "I'm not dad, I think about it all the time, wishing she were here." After which he stood up and walked to the kitchen, fixing himself something to eat. He only ever ate in the morning.

His father opened his mouth to reply, only for his throat to run dry. With a sip of his drink, he shook his head disapprovingly. "No. No that's not what your mother would've wanted. Your-" he hiccupped, and waved his hand around. "Your mother would've wanted you to live worry free, alright son?"

The light began to trickle in through the boarded window, enough so that son could make out his father's sour expression. And suddenly the room was too small, too cramped. It closed in tightly around F/N, as his thoughts quickened. Why was it so tiny, why did it feel like his dad was too close? He could hear his breathing, jagged and sharp. His eyes were bloodshot, strands of red filament creeping into the whites. He was clearly still drunk, and had no intention of sleeping now. His skin was a sickly pallor as a result.

"I know, I'm sorry." The bulging blue veins around his balled fists told F/N that wasn't the right answer. He looked down, spreading the butter across a slice of bread.

"Don't, be sorry." He watched F/N with narrow eyes and gritted his teeth. "You know, your mother would make the same meal when she woke up in the morning. Just bread and butter. I never understood why she liked it."

"I'm sorry dad, I'll put the-" He began skittishly, only to be interrupted.

"No! You stupid brat, stop apologizing! What can't you see!? I just want, what's best for you! I'm not here to hurt you!" He pounded his hand against the wall, shattering the wine glass and splattering red liquid across the walls. Another stain. "Why are you so afraid!?" He screamed, letting heavy breathes escape his mouth. Blood trickled down the man's hand, as he looked at it, then at his son. He slumped against the wall.

"This shouldn't have happened." 

"Why did she have to die?"

"Why?"

"If she were here."

"If only-"

"If." 

He rambled on, tugging at his hair.

"I-I didn't mean for any of this. I hope you know-" he hiccupped through sobs. "I love you, son."

"I love you too, dad."

"I mean it." The man convinced himself, over and over. "I really mean it. I really mean it." He repeated, and stood up, all covered fresh in blood, staggering his way into the kitchen, where F/N was standing nervously. He crouched down onto his knees, and extended his stained hands out, reeking of sweat, and drink, and iron, that rippled through his clothes and covered his skin.

"Hey, come give your dad a hug, for being such a good son." He smiled.

F/N turned hesitantly. "A-Alright." He replied, and walked into his arms. It was too tight, but not painful. It was one you'd give to someone you were consoling, except it was a son, consoling his father. F/N's heart beat faster in his chest. 

"You should get some sleep, dad." F/N said, and they broke apart.

His brow furrowed. "What, why? I feel fine." 

"You've been up all night, that's all."

"Oh, yeah." He stumbled to his feet. "I should get to bed then, goodnight, son."

"Goodnight, dad." He replied, though it has long since been morning.