One of the things you remember most vividly about your life before the return of the Titans is the maps that concealed the cracked walls of your small, humble home. Often, a younger, more hopeful you would rush and cling to your father and beg him to explain what these pictures with bizarre shapes were.
“[Name], this is the world we live in,” He would always give you a vague answer and his eyes would sparkle with something that felt like promise. He would help you climb onto his shoulders as he named off the strange, exotic names of continents long fallen (Asia, Australia, Africa) and countries that were ridden with despair Titans had induced (China, India, Russia, Japan, Brazil). It was then that he explained how Titans functioned, how they targeted large groups and these countries were so vastly populated that they were of the first to go.
“Where are we, Daddy?” You would rest your chin on the top of his head and his hair would smell like dirt and ash.
“Right here,” He pointed to a map right in front of your face, his finger indicating the dead center of a large landmass (“continent”) you always forgot the name of.
“And what’s the name of it?”
“We’re our own country now,” Your optimistic father would say with his chest swelling with pride, “A country founded on both hope and despair.”
“Sounds awful,” you’d always say, and your father would laugh because you were too young, too immature to understand.
Then the Titans had come, and your little learning sessions with your father came to an abrupt halt.
You had joined the Survey Corps, and you had seen your friends die in the midst of battle. You had felt heartache and the cold hand of despair again and again and you had felt hope again and again. You have lived a thousand lives and you have hardly lived at all. You were the human contradiction and you were the face of humanity.
“What are we, anyway?” You would sometimes whisper to your lover in bed once the dead silence of the night set in.
“Doomed,” Jean would respond with planting a kiss on your neck and you would frown.
“You don’t get it,” you would huff and turn your body away from him.
“Yeah, I guess I don’t,” He would grunt.
You made love anyway, because anger was only temporary here with the threat of death lingering on your shoulders.
Everyone had their own “thing” to keep them preoccupied once the battles were through. Eren’s was anger, Mikasa’s was Eren, Armin’s was the burden of knowledge, Jean’s was drink and you, and yours was the burden of ignorance. You had started to talk to Armin more and more, and in a way, you wanted to use him for his mind.
“I want to leave these walls,” You had said once and he gave you a curious look.
“We already did.”
“No, further. I’ve heard of these places… continents and countries… all these places that were wiped out because of those giant freaks. I want to go there, I want to rebuild, I want to relive.”
Armin’s eyes brightened and you thought of your dead father. “I want to go with you.”
And so began an unlikely friendship between you and the blonde-haired man with a baby face. He would search and rummage for long-forgotten books and the two of you would study them with a child-like delight. You learned about more countries (France, Britain, Canada) and some religions and philosophies you’ve never heard of (Buddhism, Confucianism). Your head swelled with knowledge and you wondered if this is what it felt like to be Armin. You felt dreadfully pitiful and exceedingly jealous of him all at once.
A month later, Jean had confronted you about your relationship with the blonde.
“He fucks you better than me?” He demanded with a scowl and a slurred voice.
“There’s no one I’d rather be with than you, even with your piss-poor attitude.” You embraced him warmly that night and when his hangover had him clinging to you in the morning, you didn’t mind at all.
“You know, Jean’s a French name,” Armin had said matter-of-factly the next time you saw him and you perked up, “You should ask him about life at home.”
So that night, as soon as you slid into bed with him, you whispered, “Tell me about your life before the Titans came again.”
He gave you an intense, bemused look with those haunting golden eyes of his and went off into a monologue, as if rehearsed.
“I was an only child in a small, but affectionate family. My mother was still very young, and my father would always talk about how she had blossomed and wondered aloud how a woman as beautiful as she could ever fall in love with an old fart like him. They kissed publicly, passionately, and often, and I can tell they were very much in love.” He held your hand tightly and shot a rare, but sincere smile in your direction before continuing.
“They made love every night – something I was embarrassed about then, but it just reveals a fire that never went out. Sometimes… I remember they would talk differently, differently than you and me. Different speech.”
“A different language?” You interrupted animatedly.
He nodded and rested his head on your lap. “A different accent too. I still remember it.” He chuckled. “When I was being a troublemaker, my mother would frown and mutter “casse-pied!” and ruffle my hair. And I would pout and my father would laugh.”
“What does that mean?”
“Casse-pied?” He closed his eyes. “It literally means foot-breaker. For us… it’d be pain in the neck.”
“Like Eren?” You tease.
“Énorme casse-pied,” Jean rolled his eyes and you swooned at the exotic tongue.
“You sound sexy,” You smirked and slid onto his lap.
He grinned and placed his hands on your waist. He bit his lip for a moment before saying, “Je t’aime. I love you.”
That night, you two made love longer and more passionately than ever before. You show up at the place where you meet Armin with tousled and messy hair (sex hair, Jean teased you as you tugged your clothes on) and he raises his eyebrows and chuckles.
“I think I know what we are now,” You say to Jean almost a full year later right after he had showered you with kisses and gentle caresses.
He looks at you with genuine interest. “And what is that?”
“For a long time, I thought that where we were from meant everything – who we were, even. But it’s not true. We are not where we’re from. We are where we’re going.”
Jean pecks your lips and places a hand on your stomach, gently rubbing it with his fingertips, careful not to upset your unborn child.
“Then I’d like to go there too, mon amour.”
YOU ARE READING
