Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Growing up on West Maria Avenue, the only immediate threat was scraped knees and poison ivy, and the only thing to fear was angry parents if you didn’t come home before the streetlights turned on and ticks from the woods that surrounded the street. White picket fences, cookie cutter houses dotting a cul-de-sac, 2.5 kids, it was the epitome of suburbia.

Everybody knew everybody, whether they made an effort to or not. To new families, the first introduction was opening their front door to the sight of freshly-baked cookies by one of the housewives or a gap-toothed kid informing them that their football had landed in their backyard. Typically, it was the latter. There were always two or more kids running up and down the street at any given time— before the sun set, anyways— so it wasn’t unfamiliar at all to have one lingering on property that isn’t theirs.

Climbing trees, bothering dogs on porches from the sidewalk, jumping on the pad-mounted transformers, trespassing was common, but it was always harmless fun. After all, there was only so much damage a seven-year-old kid could do that would warrant a call to the sheriff’s department.

The first time the cops were called in recent memory wasn’t until most of the neighborhood kids were in high school. You were still in eighth grade, but you ran around with your cousin’s slightly older friends; granted, even the 18 months between you and Eren created a stark difference in responsibility and, at times, you were more a burden than anything. He was always the first to tell you that.

But Eren was far from the most responsible.

One door down from you was Jean Kirstein, just eight days younger than Eren, but arguably more responsible than him. It was always chalked up to him being raised by a single mother, a woman you never saw much of because she had to make the hour-and-a-half commute from Karanes to Trost Monday through Friday to the high-end accounting firm that she worked at. When she was home, her time was divided between Jean and upholding whatever duties she felt necessary to fulfill around the house.

But all that work was worth it, especially in the eyes of the HOA. The front of the Kirstein house looked like it jumped straight off the cover of Homemaker: perfectly trimmed hedges, vibrant green grass, and rose bushes that always seemed to bloom March 20th on the dot.

It wasn’t the house of choice for day gatherings or sleepovers, but every time you were inside, you don’t think you ever saw a speck of dirt on the hardwood or a streak on the countertops.

The Ackerman house was a close second in terms of cleanliness. Across the street from Jean and inhabited by Mikasa— your childhood best friend mostly due to the fact she was the only other girl you ran around with for the first three years until you were old enough to cross the four-way intersection to Liberio Way with everyone else— and her cousin Levi, who took her in after her parents met their end at the hands of human traffickers. It wasn’t a topic touched on when you were younger, and it’s a topic that you still only know vague bits and pieces of, but you know what it’s like to be dumped into the hands of extended family, willingly or not, so you don’t pry.

You also never saw much of Levi growing up, but less because of a busy work schedule, and more because of the patience he lacked dealing with the meddling kids Mikasa found herself surrounded by. Even with their matching stoicism, that was the one thing Mikasa and Levi didn’t see eye-to-eye on. Mikasa enjoyed running around with rowdy kids her age; it was just about the only time she ever really smiled.

But Levi never claimed to be Mikasa’s father and never tried to be. It allowed for more honest communication between them, which is why you think Mikasa is as emotionally intelligent as she is now.

Had Grisha treated you the same way, maybe you’d be in a different headspace.

You were dumped into his care around the same time Mikasa was placed into Levi’s. When you were eight, your father had walked into the backyard late at night, sat himself up against the trunk of a towering oak, and shot himself in the mouth with a Remington 700. You found him because he had left the sliding back door ajar and a bee had landed on the banana you were going to eat with your breakfast.

You knew how to use the phone, but you ended up running across the street to your elderly neighbors with your hands covered in your father’s blood.

Your mother had been out of the picture since you were two, and after both the sheriff’s department and CPS couldn’t get in contact with her, the next best bet was your dad’s older brother.

You grew up consistently seeing Grisha at church, but that’s about where the depth of your relationship ended. You didn’t even really know Eren existed until you were moved in with them before the start of your third grade year, but he took a quick liking to you and soon took on the “big brother” role, something he couldn’t have naturally since his mother was also out of the picture, but rather than because of choice, it was because of death.

Eren wasted no time introducing you to his friends and making you feel welcome in your new home, but it was a different story with Grisha.

You never knew your paternal grandparents, but from the tidbits you were fed from your dad, they were devoted Baptists and raised him and Grisha to be ones too. The only thing they feared was stepping out of line and God, but that fear wasn’t as instilled into your dad as it was with Grisha. Your dad went to school, but Grisha became an ordained minister and, eventually, became the preacher at the church they had grown up in.

When you asked your dad why, as a curious adolescent would, he was always vague with his answer. Grisha had messed up greatly when he was 18, as most fresh high school graduates tend to, and he repented for his sins by wholly letting Jesus into his life. And when you asked your dad why he didn’t do the same thing, he would tell you he had nothing to repent for.

From only going to church on Sundays to being there most days out of the week was the biggest change for you after the obvious absence of your dad. Until the two of you were old enough to stay home alone, you and Eren were dropped off at the church every day after school; the bus had to take a detour in order to do so. Granted, you were never there long— two hours tops, depending on the day and what Grisha was doing— but the hours slowly racked up over time and your own relationship with Jesus began to change as a result.

He slowly became somebody you only turned to in times of dire need, like cramming for a last minute test you had forgotten about and praying for an A, to somebody you regularly talked to. Grisha saw the change in you. Saw how the timid, closed-off eight-year-old girl he had taken in was becoming the pious kid he sought out in Eren, but who he failed to ever make his devotion last.

Whether it was because of grief or the desire to please, the “why” of why you opened your heart to Jesus, Grisha didn’t care all that much about the nitty gritty. You had turned to Jesus and accepted him into your life, and that was worth something to him.

It was worth just about everything.

His relationship with you went from passive to active as you changed. You were no longer just his niece staying in the room down the hall, but his dependent who recognized the salvation offered through Jesus and His teachings written down in the Bible.

Eren made fun of you for it at first, but he slowly watched as Grisha started treating you like his daughter, not just his niece. It was you he chose at church-led fundraisers and social events, his precious angel dressed in pastels and adorned with frilly bows. It stung, but you didn’t realize it affected him all that much. He never showed it.

You got baptized at 11 years old. Eren was 12 and had yet to be. Grisha made it a whole ordeal. Just about everyone on West Maria Avenue attended Church of the Walls on Sundays, save for the few Catholics and agnostics, and was present at your baptism.

You were the first of your friends to get baptized. Eren was eventually, but even as the preacher’s son, he wasn’t the second. Or even the third. 

Marco Bodt got baptized when he was 12.

Jean Kirstein got baptized when he was 14.

Eren Yeager wasn’t baptized until he was 15. Nobody thinks he did it because he truly believed, but rather to get Grisha off of his case about it. Nevertheless, you were happy for him, and he seemed happy too.

But Eren was never somebody who you turned to for faith-related discussion. There was an unspoken rule between the two of you that your concerns would stay between you and Grisha or one of the other more devoted of your friends.

Marco Bodt lived a little further down the street, but you made the short walk with your Bible in hand every so often. Grisha always let you go whenever he saw the pink leather-backed book present. Marco was one of the first kids on the street to welcome you after Eren, and he’s the one you saw the most lingering around church, so, by proxy, he became another one of your close friends.

His parents were righteous people, so it was no wonder he turned out the way that he did. Lena was the perfect housewife who made the meanest sourdough on the block, and Elias was a corporate lawyer with a degree from a university that cost more per semester than the average mortgage on West Maria. How they landed there in the first place was beyond anybody, but they were as humble as everyone else, never one to shove their successes down unwilling throats.

Bertholdt Hoover’s parents were similar. They weren’t nearly as affluent, but they were rich with love for each other as high school sweethearts. They lived next to the Bodts, and even with their differing backgrounds— Mrs. Hoover worked as a hotel receptionist and Mr. Hoover was an army veteran— they got along well. And it was obvious Bertholdt was their kid. His legs were always too long for his body, always towering over the rest of the boys like Mr. Hoover did with the neighborhood dads, but his temperament was similar to that of a fawn. Always keeping his head down and following his mama like a puppy on her heels.

But in terms of neighborhood parents, Karina Braun right across the street took the cake. There wasn’t a kid on West Maria that didn’t adore her, and there wasn’t a kid Karina wouldn’t take under her care, even if just for a moment of solace away from their own home life.

A devoted member of the Church of the Walls, an attentive mother, and a pillar to the community, Karina had enough love to spare to everyone, but never enough for her son alone.

Reiner Braun always stuck out to you. He was 11 when you first moved in with Grisha. At the housewarming party that Grisha held to acclimate you to your new neighbors, Reiner didn’t talk to you until you had retreated into the corner of the living room, gnawing on carrot sticks after having been bombarded with introductions from all of Eren’s eager friends in the span of three minutes. He was cautious when he approached, like you were a stray animal and he was unsure if you would bite him. But there was an undeniable curiosity in your eyes when they first landed on him, and you offered him a carrot, so he spoke to you like he did with all of his friends.

He was older than the rest of the neighborhood kids, going into sixth grade once the summer ended, and you thought he was just the coolest person in the world; it was hard not to think so. He played football at the Y, owned more than one skateboard, and was the only other kid besides Bertholdt who could go to Liberio Way by themselves.

There was something more rugged about him than the rest of the boys. He had a scar through his left eyebrow where he had run into a tree branch and permanently damaged the hair follicles that grew there. There was a slight wave to his nose and he had the kind of cheekbones that models desire, even as a preteen. He was tall, he was smart, and he was popular.

And he was always attentive to you. 

Late nights during the summer when you all roasted marshmallows over the fire pit in Marco’s backyard, he’d man your stick after you burned your marshmallow the first couple of times and kept complaining that you couldn’t get it like Mikasa’s. At the neighborhood pool, he’d carry you on his back in the deep end when you got tired of treading water, but didn’t want to hang onto the edge while everyone else swam. He’d check you for ticks whenever you spent any time in the woods. The one time you did have one, it was latched onto your ankle beneath your sock. While everyone else ventured deeper into the trees, he stayed back and sat you on a tree trunk with your foot propped on his thigh. He plucked it off of your skin like it was nothing at all, but you were a crying mess the whole time, clinging onto his shoulder like he was the only person in the world still grounded to the Earth by gravity.

For good measure, he dropped a rock on it after removing it.

Reiner was always present at church too. He was a lot less talkative then, but he always tended to be around Karina. He’d offer you and Eren small waves or a nod of the head from whatever pew he sat in, but he always kept his head down and didn’t speak unless he was spoken to. Whenever Grisha’s sermons ended, he was nothing but a shadow that lingered at Karina’s side.

But Grisha didn’t like Reiner, and he didn’t like seeing him around you or Eren. When you asked why, he never gave a straight answer. You remember Grisha pulled Reiner to the side after church, and he eventually stopped coming. By the time your 15th birthday rolled around and you were starting your sophomore year of high school, he had already graduated and had stopped hanging out with you for good. Not with everyone on West Maria— he remained partial to them for the most part— just you and Eren. If you ever saw Reiner out in a social setting, it was either with one of the Galliard brothers or Annie Leonhart from Liberio Way. He seemed to stray away from your mutual friends if you were around.

Karina also shut her doors, only opening them in the summer when her niece would come visit for a week or two from the coastal city of Karifa. The Brauns were virtually withdrawn from the what happens of West Maria and nobody knew why.

That remained the most abnormal thing to happen on West Maria until the winter of ‘69 when Marco Bodt’s house burned down in the middle of the night. You weren’t woken up by the sounds of fire engines or the smell of fire, but rather Eren shaking you awake and dragging you down the stairs half-asleep to watch from the sidewalk as everything the Bodts worked for went up in flames. You stood shoulder-to-shoulder, silent from a distance. The whole street was quiet, save for the blaring alarms and crackling wood.

Even Reiner, then two years out of high school and a complete stranger to you at that point, stood on his porch, arms crossed over his chest like he was just watching the grass grow from his window.

Marco and his parents made it out, but the fire was oppressive enough that the Hoovers and the surrounding families had to evacuate as well. The fire wasn’t put out until two in the morning, but nobody moved inside until the last flame was extinguished. It was like time stopped just for them and nobody could go back to sleep unless they knew the Bodts were okay.

The Kirsteins took them in until his parents could figure out what in the world they were going to do. After graduation that year, the Bodts moved just over to Liberio Way after a family moved out.

There was an investigation, but nothing ever came up to reveal how exactly it had happened. The kitchen appliances were all working properly, wiring was up to date, even arson was crossed off the list early. There was nothing lingering that could provide a conclusive answer as to why the Bodt family home had caught fire, but once the investigation was closed, nobody pushed the matter further.

In the summer of 1973, Zeke Fritz moved into the newly rebuilt home where the Bodt residence once stood. A single man in his mid-30s, making him an enigma on West Maria Avenue. Silken blond hair, well-groomed beard, and a hulking frame, Zeke caught the attention of housewives and high school girls alike.

He also caught the attention of Grisha, but for a different reason. He didn’t admit it— he wouldn’t admit it— but Zeke’s presence bothered him, that much was obvious. Grisha didn’t have to say it outright, but you knew the moment he didn’t introduce himself once Zeke moved in.

And after Zeke moved in, West Maria Avenue didn’t seem the same. He brought something with him when he moved in. Intangible, but there. And the summer was made for deep diving into mysterious neighbors and poking heads where they don’t belong with your friends, even if the friends you ran around with as kids were now in their 20s.

Zeke Fritz was a mystery, and you weren’t the only one who was curious about him.

June 28, 1973

The air conditioning unit in the church had busted minutes prior to Grisha’s Thursday afternoon sermon, just when the temperature hit its high for the day. A cool 97°F with humidity. The wooden pews felt sticky beneath khaki shorts and linen skirts, but the usual crowd still showed up, using bulletins and newspaper to fan themselves down and prevent heatstroke. Since Eren’s working, Grisha puts you on watchdog duty, having you keep an eye on the AC repairman without an inkling of an idea of what exactly you were supposed to be looking out for. 

Since the AC unit’s a janky thing on the side of the church, you're subjected to the torrid afternoon heat and the sun beating down directly overhead while you watched the sturdy repairman tinker with things you don’t know the names of. The collar of your dress is already soaked, and it’ll only gather more as sweat continues to dribble down the slope of your neck from your temple.

You’re not watching the repairman— Miche, according to the white lettering on his navy collared shirt— as much as you are just mindlessly staring. He’s tall, blond, and you can see the muscles in his forearms working with every ministration of his hands. You know you’re supposed to turn away from lust and keep your gaze low as an unmarried woman, but you are exactly that. An unmarried woman. 

A 20-year-old unmarried woman with two working eyes, at that.

But part of you is also a little bit curious about the actual process, not just the handsome man that’s doing it. It’s usually Eren responsible for overseeing these things, so you know that Grisha sending you out here is more of a formality than anything. It’s not like you learned the parts of an air conditioner and how to repair one in high school. Neither did Eren, but he’s a man and you’re not, so you automatically know less than the innate knowledge he has on handiwork just by having less testosterone than him.

Miche’s back is to you, but you tilt your head as if to get a better look at what he’s doing. “What exactly is the problem with the AC?”

He looks over his shoulder from his squatted position, and you place your hands on your hips instinctively. He raises a brow like he doesn’t believe what you’re asking, does a once over of you, and looks back at his work with a grunt. “Capacitor’s shot.”

“What’s a capacitor?”

“It’s like a temporary battery.” He holds a grey cylindrical object in his hand that he tosses into the grass before dipping into his bag to spawn an identical cylinder. “Helps the whole unit run. That’s why it ain't workin'.”

You purse your lips. You should’ve asked him to explain it more like you’re a fifth grader, but you suppose he already dumbed it down seeing there’s a lack of jargon you don’t understand. You take a couple of steps closer to get a good look at the area beneath the popped cover. Miche feels the curiosity radiating off of you like heat and lets out a sigh before scooting enough to let you see what he’s looking at.

He points to an open space where three thick wires meet. “The capacitor goes here. Fan, common, hermetic. That’s why there’s three wires.”

He answers the first unasked question you have, but it only gives way to a second. “Why, though?”

Miche lets out a breath through his nose, but it doesn’t dampen your spirits. “So you don’t need to have two capacitors in one unit. One capacitor supports both the compressor and fan circuits. It runs a lot smoother too.”

“Okay…” you nod, rubbing your chin as you do so. “That makes sense.”

He barely smirks before busying his hands with the new capacitor and other tools you’re not entirely familiar with, but you’re now confident you know more than Eren on the topic of air conditioning. You lean against the church, now perpendicular to Miche as he works, and fan yourself with your hand.

“You know, I don’t usually have a babysitter when I’m workin'.”

“I didn’t think so. You seemed too willin' to answer my question.”

Miche wipes his palms on his jeans and shakes his head. “It’s not every day I got some teenage girl looming over my shoulder askin' 'em.”

“I’d hope not,” you retort, making Miche grumble, “and I’m not a teenager anyway. I’ll be 21 in August, thank you.”

“Sharp tongue, girl.” His tone of voice, which borders on amusement, betrays his face, fixed with an irritated expression. “Ain't one of the Commandments 'bout respectin' your elders?”

That piques your interest more than air conditioning talk. You straighten up a bit as a result. “No, actually. The Fifth is about honoring your parents, if that’s what you’re referencin', but nothin' about the HVAC guy.”

“I bet they got it cut out for them with you then.”

The acknowledgement of parents makes your chest sting just a bit, but not enough to dwell on it. You aren’t going to dump your emotional baggage on the sweaty repairman by correcting him.

“Actually, they wouldn’t know. My dad shot himself in the mouth in our backyard, and my mom was too much of a live wire to actually be one. But I bet my uncle could tell you all about that.”

“Are you Baptist?”

Miche offers a shrug. “I guess. I got baptized and all, but this is the first time I’ve even stepped near a church since… well, probably since high school. Nothin' against it. Just didn’t have the time to go.”

“Oh,” is what you say, but it’s more inquisitive than anything.

It shouldn’t be surprising. Most people in Karanes are Baptist or some other denomination of Protestant. There’s probably more churches on every stretch of street than grocery stores and gas stations combined. Because of that, people don’t tend to leave their respective churches; they have their selected one and stick with it until the end or until they disagree with the pastor.

You’ve attended Church of the Walls your entire life, and you know the faces and names of frequenters as a result. It’s not often that you welcome newcomers, but on the rare occasion that you do, it’s always a big deal. Everyone takes the time out of a service to introduce themselves and acclimate them to the community. It can be overwhelming, but it’s always rewarding.

People don’t leave the church. They can distance themselves, but they always come back. It’s like clockwork.

You don’t recognize Miche, so you know this church wasn’t his home base. “Where’d you go?”

“One Rose Baptist,” he answers. He gestures vaguely to the right with his hand. “Where that old Pizza Hut used to be.”

“That’s a real pretty one,” you comment, idly twirling the ribbon of your dress between your fingers. “Is it still run by Pastor Nile?”

Miche responds with an affirmative grunt. “A good man. I reckon he’ll be passing the torch soon, though.”

“To who?”

“Old friend of his. His name slips me now, but he’s from Jinae. Big, tall guy. Looks like he should be manning artillery fire instead of preaching Gospel.”

You laugh softly at the thought. He sounds nothing like your uncle, all wire-framed glasses and poorly tailored suits. They once fit snugly as a suit should, but now they sag in his shoulders and swallow him whole.

“He sounds interesting.”

“He’s a character, for sure.”

As Miche works to secure the cover back into place, you hear the sound of tires rolling over gravel in the parking lot. You step away from the church to peer over the edge, and you see the faded red of Jean’s sun bleached pickup truck cruise into the lot, tanned arm hanging out the open window and an unknown country song drifting through the muggy summer air towards you.

You squint as he pulls into a spot near the front. He just came from the station from the looks of it; as he steps out, you see the Karanes Fire Department logo on the pec of his t-shirt and still adorning his steel-toed boots. His hair looks slightly damp, but from a shower rather than sweat like you. Jean’s eyes first narrow on the doors of the church, but upon seeing movement on the side of the building, they flit over towards you and Miche suddenly rising to his feet.

There’s a small pep in his step as he approaches, clearly amused by the sight. “Grisha got you on repairs or somethin'?”

You roll your eyes. “Or somethin'. Babysitting duty.”

Jean lets out a noncommittal hum before pulling you into a side hug. You grimace as he tucks your head against his shoulder, but don’t shove him away.

“What’s the issue?”

Miche, who’s packing up his bag atop the air conditioning unit, offers Jean the same initial once over he gave you. However, seeing he’s a blue-collared man in uniform, Jean registers differently in his head than you did in his.

Typical.

“Voltage rating killed the capacitor. Had to replace it.” Miche looks at you with a raised brow. “Grisha your daddy?”

You scrunch your nose. “No, but he’s the one who called you.”

“Last name?”

“Yeager.”

He rummages around in his bag before spawning a piece of paper and a pen. He uncaps it with his mouth, jots something down on it, and hands it to you between his forefinger and middle like he’s presenting you with his business card. You take it. Addressed to Grisha is the bill.

“50 bucks,” Jean mutters, his voice closer to your ear than you anticipated. “Probably coulda done it myself.”

“Probably,” Miche responds. “But then guys like me would be outta business.”

Jean snickers, and his arm tightens a bit around you. “You could do somethin' else. You’re a big guy.”

Miche scoffs, but the smirk is there on his lips. He’s not much taller than Jean— maybe an inch, give or take half— but that’s saying something, seeing Jean’s in the top three of tall people that you know. You could agree that bending and squatting all the time with such long limbs might be extra strenuous on his joints and back, but you don’t offer a comment.

“I was in the army for a little, but that’s what every boy thinks he wants fresh outta high school.” Miche zips up his bag and hauls it off the unit. He runs his hand through the front of his hair, a rather boyish gesture, and nods at Jean. “Firefighting’s good, though. Honest work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Miche looks at you this time. “Well, you tell your… Mr. Yeager to give us a call if he’s got any problems with the replacement or payment. Number’s in the corner. Company line, so tell 'im to ask for Miche if he’s pleased. If not, my name’s Gelgar.”

You smile softly at the sudden display of personality from Miche, but nod nonetheless. “I will. Thank you.”

One more firm nod to split between you and Jean before Miche finds his way to his own truck parked in the lot. You see him off, not looking away until he hauls himself into the cab and starts the engine. You glance over the bill once more before tucking it into the ribbon tied around your waist.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Why’re you here?”

“Do I needa reason to see my best friend?” Jean’s arm drops from your shoulders as he stretches it over his head. “It’s hot as fuck out here. Let’s go see if that AC’s workin'.”

You roll your eyes, but follow Jean into the church. He holds the door open for you. Jean’s no stranger to the church; he’s not as consistent as he used to be when he was younger, but he’s busy with work most of the time.

The unmistakable hum of the AC filling the room proves to you that Miche wasn’t just rattling around in the unit and charging your uncle for it. You slide into the only empty pew, the one closest to the door, and Jean slips in next to you. It’s a mostly full house; the last row and a half of pews are only littered with people.

Grisha’s at his podium. It’s the only time you ever see him look something other than impassive. His eyes are a little brighter, his motions are a little more animated, and he always sounds like he’s smiling, even if he isn’t. He’s a lot more comfortable now that he’s not boiling beneath the layers of his suit.

He’s always like that when he preaches. It’s like God Himself is presented through him. It’s captivating, but when you compare it to Grisha in the wild, it’s almost unnerving.

But today, for whatever reason, you can’t seem to hang onto his words. Granted, it’s nearing the end of his sermon and the cool air feels a bit uncomfortable on the damp neck of your dress as you sit, but you’re usually able to grasp what he’s talking about no matter when you join the crowd of listeners.

“Luke 22:44,” you hear him say through your haze, and you know this is one of his sermons on the suffering of Jesus before he was crucified.

Jean’s not listening much either, but probably not for the same reasons as you. His arm rests on the pew behind you and he’s leaned casually against the solid wood. His brown eyes sweep over the church, taking in the details of the back of the churchgoers' heads. They do, however, quickly snap back to a head in the next row, just three pews away from the very back of the church.

Jean pokes the side of your neck. “What do you think he’s doin' here?”

You follow the subtle lift of his pointer finger by your face towards a blond head of hair. You’ve never seen Zeke in church before; you didn’t think he was Baptist, but he’s only been around for three weeks— most of his time is spent in his home or wherever he works— so you haven’t been able to do a complete psychoanalysis of him just yet.

You tilt your head curiously as you study the back of his head, as if looking at the wavy strands of blond will give you the answers to all your burning questions. You can see sweat glistening on his neck and the twitch of back muscle beneath his polo as he straightens up slightly. Like he feels the weight of your gaze on his shoulders.

“Maybe he’s tryna find a church he likes.”

“On a Thursday?” Jean runs his other hand over his jaw. “Everyone knows the best sermons are on Sundays.”

“A good church has the best sermons every day.” You bump your shoulder against his, and he rolls his eyes. “What? It’s true.”

“You’ve only ever been here. What would you know about good church classifications?”

“When’s the last time you actually came here to listen to my uncle?”

Jean’s eyes narrow at you before he shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. “Alright, Junior. Shut up.”

You suppress the urge to yank his earlobe or the hair at the nape of his neck at the use of your stupid childhood nickname. It’s almost distressing how smoothly it rolls off of his tongue.

You don’t even really remember how or why it stuck, especially after so many years.

When Eren had first introduced you to his friends, he truly thought it was the funniest thing in the world to introduce you as “Eren Jr.” Nobody believed him— they were all past the age of believing whatever comes out of their friends’ mouth, especially Eren’s— but a nine year old Eren was anything but a quitter. While everyone used your real name whenever you were together, he really tried to get the Eren Jr. shtick to stick.

And by some means, no matter how hard you tried to prevent it, it did. At least partially, but it was a win in Eren’s book nonetheless.

You hated it— you still mostly do because of the rather non-cutesy sound of it— but you grew up during a time where the most popular book nicknamed a girl with your similar precociousness and stubbornness, Scout, which led you to hesitantly accept it. Whether you accepted it or not didn’t matter. It was forced onto you 13 years ago, and it’s stuck to you like a brand.

But in the laundry list of nicknames given to you over the years, the brief “Baby Yeager” abused by Jean and Connie is admittedly the worst.

“But to conclude on a less heavy note,” Grisha proclaims, shutting his tattered Bible atop his podium, “it’s easy to forget why Jesus chose to die for our sins. Why God gifted us with His only son to atone for all the wrongdoings and all the transgressions and all the crimes committed by believers and nonbelievers alike.”

He pauses for a moment as his eyes drink in the crowd. It feels like he’s looking into each individual person’s soul and fixing the right words in order to touch it personally. He lets out an exhale.

“That is something He answered Himself. Two little, seemingly insignificant words in Luke 22:20. ‘For you.’” Grisha smiles. “You are His reason, His given for a life of poverty and suffering and rejection. He would not have died had it not been for His complete and utter love for every one of His Father’s creations. And tomorrow afternoon, we’ll get into that again, and how your faith, or lack thereof, is enough to save you from eternal damnation. May God bless you all.”

“Amen.”

As the congregation sparsely rises to their feet, you follow suit. You smooth out your dress before looking at Jean, who’s still seated. He raises a brow.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m goin' to introduce myself.”

“To?”

“Zeke,” you answer as if it’s obvious. Jean’s eyebrow doesn’t move. If anything, it rises higher. You swear it grazes his hairline. “What?”

Jean shifts so he uncrosses his legs, but his arm still remains on the back of the pew. He bends his elbow and leans his cheek against his closed fist. “Why?”

“Because why not?” You move to step over his legs, but he uses his free hand to stop you by the knee. You scoff. “Jean, he’s just our neighbor. And he’s been here for three weeks, and nobody’s introduced themselves to him.”

Jean looks over at Zeke, who’s still seated as everyone around him is filing out and reconvening in a separate section of the church; only, from the looks of it, he’s got a small notebook on his lap and a pen in hand.

“Because he’s strange.”

“He’s just some guy.”

Jean rolls his eyes before releasing your knee. “A single guy in his 30s, movin' into the suburbs?”

“What, you think he’s a pervert?” You place your hands on your hips. “There’s not many young kids on our street anymore, besides maybe Gabi. But she doesn’t count.”

“I don’t think he’s a pervert. Just bad news,” Jean scoffs. He leans his head back and blinks at the ceiling before his head lolls back into place. He sighs. “You’re so eager to please, y'know that?”

He rises to his feet, and you hear his knees pop. “And, for the record, you can be a pervert and not like kids.”

You give him a pointed look. “What?”

“You said he can’t be a pervert because there’s no kids on the street.” Jean tilts his head. “He can be a pervert, but not a pedophile. He could like older women and still be a pervert.”

You bite back a laugh. “Do you have a degree in perverted studies or somethin'?”

“I’m a 22 year old man,” Jean says simply.

“So you’re a pervert?” Jean doesn’t respond. “Doesn’t it take one to know one?”

“Quit talkin'.” Jean shoves you gently towards the end of the pew and you stumble slightly over your feet at the effort. “Go talk to him instead.”

“You’re coming with?”

“Yes.”

You blink at him before shrugging your shoulders and exiting the pew with Jean behind you. Zeke is still seated, his head hung low. Grisha’s at the front of the church, chatting with a group of elders who have approached him. You know that, for whatever reason, the idea of talking to Zeke sends Grisha up the wall, but you’re going to take advantage of the moment that has fallen into your lap because you don’t know if or when Zeke will show up to church again.

You scuffle behind bodies, offering nods and smiles to whatever churchgoers acknowledge you. You make an extra effort to stay out of Grisha’s line of sight; he’s not the type of person to pull you out mid-conversation, even if said conversation is with somebody he’s not too fond of. Jean walks as normal.

You reach Zeke as he shuts the small journal and tucks it away into the back pocket of his jeans. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes catching yours. You abruptly stop walking, and Jean nearly runs into you.

His instincts are unnerving.

“Hi.” Your voice cracks slightly and you clear your throat. Jean looks away. “Did you enjoy today’s service?”

You don’t want to come off so strong, but you also have no idea how to introduce yourself so casually. Zeke probably doesn’t recognize you, even if everyone in the neighborhood recognizes him.

But, to your surprise, he offers you a small smile and tight nod. “I did. He’s a good preacher.”

You smile gently in return. “I’m glad. And I’m sorry for just comin' up to you like this. We don’t get newcomers often, so I just wanted to introduce myself.”

In the empty space where you should’ve given him your name, you forget to. Zeke blinks at you before standing up. He’s not as tall as you pinned him to be when you first saw him from afar, but he has a couple of inches on you. Notably shorter than Jean though, who still lingers like a quiet shadow behind you.

“No apologies needed. That’s mighty kind of you.” Zeke runs a hand over his bearded jaw, his blue eyes darting between you and Jean. “Zeke Fritz. I just moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

He holds out his hand for you to shake. You hesitate, but take it. His grip is firm, but gentle, and his palm is rather warm. When you let go, he offers his hand to Jean. He shakes it with a little more exertion, told by both of their fingernails briefly going white.

“Jean Kirstein. We live on the same street.”

“Firm grip. I’ve seen you around.”

“Likewise.”

You then tell Zeke your name. His eyes quickly snap to your face, and you feel like your blood pressure just spiked under the weight of it. But as quickly as that curious glint appears, it’s gone, replaced by something a little more relaxed.

“Yeager?” he repeats, and you nod slowly. “Are you his daughter?”

Zeke gestures over towards Grisha, who has now seen you talking to the man and is wearing his displeasure on his face. It’s subtle— eyes slightly narrowed, shoulders rolled back just enough— but it’s something you can read after living with the man for 13 years.

“No, sir, not his daughter. I’m his niece,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. “Do you… know him?”

“No. Just recognized the last name from the bulletin.” He rubs his jaw again. “He’s an excellent preacher.”

You side eye Jean conspicuously, who offers an I don’t know, don’t look at me kind of look. It’s honest conversation, but with the first impression everyone has attached to him without having spoken to him, you can’t help but try to read between the lines.

Or maybe, just maybe, he thinks Grisha is a good preacher.

“He is,” you agree. “He has a knack for it.”

“How long has he been preaching?”

“Well… my whole life, really,” you mutter, tapping your chin in thought, “but really, probably since he graduated high school, if I remember correctly, so 35 years? Somethin' like that.”

“Incredible.” He looks like he wants to write that down and continue grilling you with questions like Lois Lane interviewing Superman, but he doesn’t. Instead, he glances at his watch face. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you. I appreciate you taking the time to introduce yourselves. I haven’t had the opportunity to meet many people in the neighborhood.”

Jean’s jaw twitches like he wants to ask something. How legal would you say your job is? How do you pay for your mortgage? Are you a pervert? Where are you from originally? His cognitive restlessness translates to his fingers flexing mindlessly by his side. You slap his wrist, making him stop.

“Well, we’re a friendly bunch. This is your home now, too.”

You swear you hear Jean cringe behind you. You quickly mask any other unwelcoming expression by smiling. Teeth and everything. You feel like a robot, and the entire gesture feels unnatural. You’d probably be a little irked if someone suddenly smiled at you the way you’re smiling at Zeke, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If he does, you can’t really tell.

“Like I said, I appreciate it. I oughta get going now, but I’ll see the two of you around.” He looks like he wants to tip an invisible fedora at you. “Mr. Kirstein. Miss Yeager.”

You step back to let him exit the pew and respond with a curt nod. “See you around.”

“Bye,” Jean mutters, and you want to slap him again.

Once Zeke departs, you turn to look at Jean. Immediately, you yank on his earlobe, making him yelp and pull away. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

You gesture to where Zeke was previously standing. “That. You treated him like an alien.”

“I did not.”

“When have you ever not forcefully inserted yourself into a conversation?” He opens his mouth to say something snarky, decides against it or realizes that you’re right, and shuts it. He does it again, and he just looks like a fish. “Exactly.”

“Well, he doesn’t know that.” Jean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall behind him. “For all he knows, I’m not very talkative.”

“Yeah, well, you squeezed his hand like you were trying to break his knuckles.”

Jean shrugs. “You can tell a lot from a man by his handshake.”

“Really?” you scoff. “And where’d you learn that bit? A Gentleman’s Guide to Making a Bad First Impression?”

“Volume two,” Jean adds, holding up two fingers and wiggling them in your face. You roll your eyes and swat his hand away. “Look on the bright side. Least I wasn’t being a dick.”

You rub your temples like his words are the onset to a string of cluster headaches. They might as well be sometimes. “At least not to his face. I know you were being one in your head.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“He wasn’t even bad. You’re just worked up by what everyone else thinks.”

Besides Mikasa, everyone seems to have an opinion on Zeke. Your friends on Liberio Way— Connie, Sasha, and Armin— even have ones despite their paths crossing with him far less than the rest of you.

Marco seems to care the least. Despite the guy moving into the house on the plot he was basically born on, he doesn’t have anything ill to say. Zeke hasn’t made enough of an impression for him to form an opinion.

Bertholdt lives right next to him, but he also isn’t aggressively dogmatic. He mentioned that Zeke walks to the mailbox with no shirt on in the mornings and stands on the porch while the sprinklers water the lawn. His face turned red when Mikasa asked why he was staring out the window so early anyways.

Both you and Eren think he’s part of an organized crime syndicate. He doesn’t have a rear license plate, his curtains are always drawn, even in the peak of the afternoon, and he’s far too built to not even be considered as a hitman or something that requires blood on his hands. In the three weeks he’s been there, you’ve never seen a visiting car parked in his driveway. Who else has no friends and family besides a guy trying to keep a cover? Possible WITSEC member.

Connie thinks he’s an arms dealer. There was a back and forth between him and Eren, the latter claiming that was the same thing he said, but Connie thinks that Zeke Fritz is probably a name in the illegal arms dealing business that sends men running for the hills. He’s convinced Zeke arms the biggest gangs across the East Coast of Paradis, but just isn’t a killer.

Sasha just pins him as a sad, lonely man who experienced a messy divorce and has a strange aura surrounding him at all times. Peculiar, but not a threat. Maybe a dad, but probably not. Similarly, Armin thinks he’s just a socially awkward nerd in a hot guy’s body.

And, of course, Jean thinks the guy’s got some deep, dark, dirty secret to be ashamed of, especially because of Grisha’s obvious disdain for him. Says he has a deceitful look in his eyes and, same as Sasha, a strange aura. He gives it a month until he does something that sends the neighborhood into entropy. Slowly, but surely. Quietly like a killer in the shadows.

Seeing he's been here three weeks now, only a week remains to see if that theory holds up.

There seems to also be some general consensus between you that he’s killed a man. The jury’s still out on that one. Any skim over newspapers don’t mention his name in the crime column.

But, at the end of the day, they’re the same childish assumptions you’d pin on anybody new to the neighborhood, save for the killing part. Since Zeke is the first new neighbor in eons, he’s become a subject of interest to you, interesting or not.

They always turn out to be less interesting when you get to know them. You reckon the disappointment will be the same with Zeke.

“My intuition is never wrong,” Jean says.

“Your intuition is always wrong.”

“Name one time.”

“You thought Eren was the one who threw that football through your window in middle school.”

Jean grumbles. “Sorry I didn’t pin Connie as the one with a football arm.”

“I mean, Eren over Reiner? That should’ve been your first guess.”

“Reiner’s not the kind of guy to chuck a football through my window,” Jean offers, in which you shrug. “Plus, if he wanted to hit me with a leather ball, he probably could’ve done it without vandalizing my house.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“He wouldn’t,” he agrees.

And a brief, somber silence falls over the two of you before you hear your name being called. Your eyes snap from Jean to the direction it comes from. Grisha stands at the end of the walkway, disappointed dad stance on display: arms crossed, glare above the rim of his glasses, and a foot that itches to tap itself against the floor.

“Well, this has been fun—”

“Nope.” You grab Jean by the elbow before he can leave you hanging dry. “You’re comin' with me.”

Jean groans. He’s been on the receiving end of his fair share of Grisha lectures over the years. Even if Grisha can’t tell him to stay away from Zeke like he does with you, he can certainly reprimand him for letting you dance around his orders, even if you’re both grown.

“Oh, come on— seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

You tug Jean along with you as you approach your uncle; Jean keeps his head down and grumbles something under his breath about how he’s not a child. Grisha doesn’t look angry— you didn’t expect him to be, given he’s not the angry type— but, of course, he seems disappointed at your blatant disobedience.

“We enjoyed your sermon,” you say quickly. “Right, Jean?”

“Yep.” Jean offers a tight nod. “I liked the part where… er, all of it was good, Mr. Yeager.”

You pull out the paper you had folded against your dress and hold it out to Grisha, almost like a peace offering. For a moment, the stern look in his eye disappears as he glances over the bill.

“$50?” Grisha takes it from you, blue eyes studying intently. “That sounds like a scam.”

“Well, the AC works, doesn’t it?”

Jean shifts on his feet like he’s trying to melt into the floorboards and disappear. You keep a hand on his elbow like he’s a dog on a leash. Grisha sighs to himself and tucks the bill into the pocket of his pants. He looks between you and Jean, how your fingers dig into his elbow so tightly, his skin is white beneath your fingertips from the pressure. 

Post-Reiner, Jean was your anchor of choice, but the scoldings in high school were a lot different than the scoldings received in elementary and middle school. Granted, you weren’t as much of a troublemaker as Eren, but you were susceptible to his bad influence all the same. Coincidentally, with every lecture you received from Grisha over the years, you always had someone with you, and that someone, for the most part, was Jean.

That only made it more obvious to Grisha that you indeed knew Eren was doing something wrong and decided to hide it from him, but you’d like to think that it was Jean’s presence that softened the blows and lessened the punishments for you.

“You spoke to Zeke,” he says matter-of-factly. “Why?”

“To introduce myself.”

“After I told you not to?”

“After you told me not to.”

Grisha lets the silence hang between you before redirecting his attention to Jean. “What did he say to you?”

“Uh, nothing much, sir,” Jean mutters, his voice strained. “Just asked some questions 'bout you.”

“About me?” Grisha looks unimpressed. “In what regard?”

“Umm…”

“How long you’ve been preachin',” you butt in. Your fingers flex against Jean’s elbow before you let go of it completely. He can’t escape the conversation now. “He seemed interested in it. Seemed interested in the church. That’s all.”

A question itches at the back of your throat, the same question that emanated when Grisha first told you to stay away from Zeke.

Why?

But you know better.

He doesn’t say anything again, and you chew at your cheeks before speaking again hesitantly. “Is he a narc or somethin'…?”

That earns a snicker from Jean, one he quickly covers with a cough. All of a sudden, the ceiling looks quite interesting to him. Grisha, for once, looks slightly amused by your question, mostly because it sounds like something a tween you would ask him rather than a 21-in-36-days you would.

“No, he’s not a narc,” Grisha responds. He lets out a sigh, one you know means he’s already tired with this parenting thing he’s doing with you right now. “I just don’t think he’s a righteous man, even if he does come to church. And I don’t want you around that.”

His tone is a bit softer now. “I wouldn’t tell you something if I didn’t believe it, would I?”

“No, sir.”

“Mhm.” Grisha looks at Jean, and he straightens up like a string was just yanked from his spine. “That goes for you too, Jean. I don’t think your mother would take nicely to a man like Zeke. You’re a good kid.”

Neither of you put up a fight; not because you know he’s right, but because you both want this lecture to be over. Even with the AC rebooted, it feels like it’s getting stuffier by the second the longer you stand in the church.

“Yes, sir,” Jean mutters.

Grisha lets out a hum of contentment before nodding his head. “Alright then. Stay away from him if you can help it. Like I said, I don’t have a good feeling about him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright,” he says again. He glances at his watch before acknowledging you. “I won’t be home until later. I’ve got some paperwork to sift through. What time does Eren get off?”

“6:30, I think.”

“Do you plan on going anywhere?”

“I don’t think so,” you muse.

“Call me if that changes then.”

“Mm.”

Grisha pulls you into his side, presses a kiss to your hair, and hands you back over to Jean. “You can take her home, right?”

Jean nods. With that agreement, Grisha sees the two of you off just as the last stragglers make their way to the exit. Only once you exit the church and are greeted by the oppressive summer heat do either of you speak.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Jean offers as he fishes out his key from the pocket of his jeans. “I thought it’d be worse.”

“Me too.”

“You ain't listenin' to him, are you?”

“Well, no,” you shrug, “but it’s not like I’m going to go digging around in Zeke’s trash can like I’m the CIA. If we happen to see each other, then I’m gonna be cordial with him.”

“I’m gonna pretend like I didn’t hear any of this.”

“For what reason?”

“Plausible deniability.”

Jean inserts the key into the lock on the passenger’s side door, and you hear the sound of the lock clicking. He jiggles it out and opens it for you. “Big words today, Kirstein.”

Jean grumbles and shuts the door behind you once you’re settled. He circles around the front, patting the hood out of habit in the process, before climbing into the driver’s seat.

The leather seat is scorching hot beneath your thighs, and you shift uncomfortably as Jean starts his truck. Immediately, you’re hit by the cold blast of air conditioning straight to the face. You fumble with the vents and stick your tongue out in dismay. It’s a nice respite from the heat, but it changed too quickly for your liking.

“Why do you always have it blastin'?”

“Would you rather melt?” Jean queries. “And the station is boiling. I sit in here when I have breaks so I don’t burn to death.”

“If you’re a firefighter, shouldn’t you be good with heat?”

Jean rolls his eyes and smirks. “Yeah, because a blazin' inferno is comparable to an 80-degree fire station.”

“That only makes it sound like you should be able to sit in an 80 degree fire station.”

Jean puts his truck into reverse and reaches an arm behind your headrest. “There’s a difference between sittin' like a duck for 48 hours and singeing my eyelashes off for 10 minutes.”

You blink at him. He looks at you before switching into drive and pulling out of the lot. “Same difference.”

“Not really.”

“Isn’t most of firefighting just saving cats from trees anyway? Like you’re not always out there actually puttin' out fires?”

Jean chuckles. “Yes, but it’s also a lot of responding to car accidents and helpin' old people when they fall down the stairs.”

You lean your head against the window, drinking in the sights as the buildings dotting the road turn into shrubbery and woodlands. You have a lot of experience with the elderly as a nursing assistant in a nursing home, even if it’s only three days a week at most. It’s the only nursing home in Karanes, so it’s quite overstaffed and quite underfunded. 

You didn’t go to college, so you can’t be too picky about what jobs are open to you without a degree, but you enjoy what you do all the same, even if the seniors you work with tend to have a sharper tongue than you.

Jean glances over at you as he drums his thumb against the wheel, his other hand resting on the center console between you. “Galliard invited me and Marco to a bonfire at Lake Sina tomorrow if you want to come with.”

“Galliard?” You look over at him. “Which one?”

“Marcel.”

“Oh.” Marcel was always a lot kinder to you than his younger brother Porco. He has five years on you, so he probably felt no reason to be hostile to a kid. “Did he say I could come?”

“Not explicitly, but it’s kinda just an open invite. Sasha, Connie, and Mikasa said they’d be there already. Armin’s a maybe.”

That makes you feel a little better at the idea of accepting the invite knowing your other friends would be there. Between church and differing hours of work, it’s hard to find time to all spend together, even if it is summer. Summer isn’t the same as it once was now that you’re all functioning adults.

“Okay, sure,” you agree. “I’ll ask Eren if he wants to go, too.”

You mull over it again. The Galliards are another mutual connection that you have with Reiner. Granted, even in an open setting, he tends to avoid you. He won’t avoid events just because of your potential presence, but he sure as hell will pretend like you’re not there.

Still, you can’t help but ask. “Do you think Reiner will be there?”

“I heard through the grapevine that he might.” You narrow your eyes as if to ask what does that mean? “I asked Marcel if he invited Reiner, and he said yes.”

“Hm.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, though. He’s been bustin' his ass in the garage most days.”

Right. Of course he does. He’s a mechanic, and a good one from what you’ve heard. The engine on Connie’s car was knocking, so he used what little patience he had left to drive to the shop Reiner works at. Diagnosed the faulty spark plugs, and Reiner had the car done in half an hour. Connie says he could’ve done it quicker if his car wasn’t so “damn old” and the engine wasn’t so “damn confusing.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you mutter. “It’d just be nice to know that he’s doing okay.”

“He made his choice,” Jean reminds you.

“He must’ve had a reason.”

You’re beating a dead horse and you know it. No matter how many of your friends' heads that you put together, you can’t possibly think of what Grisha had said to Reiner to make him depart so abruptly, why he treats you and Eren like strangers despite all the time you spent together growing up. It doesn’t affect you on a day-to-day basis, but it certainly hurts when you take a moment to think about it.

You want to speak with him just one time for closure, to quiet the incessant gnawing at the back of your brain that awakens at the mere utterance of his name, but everyone else seems to think it’s an insane ask. They look at you like you just grew a second head when you bring it up. They weren’t as close with him as you were, so it always affected you more than you let on.

Jean lets out a long sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m not tryna be.” He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough for you. “Whatever.”

He reaches his hand resting on the console to nudge your head gently. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from smiling at the gesture.

“Your stubbornness is a gift, Junior.”

“Said no one ever.”

“You’d be a helluva different person if you weren’t so stubborn. You’d probably be more like Eren.”

You grimace at both the comparison and the thought of having a similar personality to your cousin. You love him, but he’s too impulsive for his own good.

“Ugh, don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Jean insists. “Maybe you wouldn’t be such a goody two shoes.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jean chuckles and pats your head again. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m glad someone kept their virtue.”

“Okay, ew.” You shudder, and Jean cackles. “You don’t need to comment on my sex life. Or lack thereof, you pervert.”

It’s not like the opportunity hasn’t presented itself to you; you’re just saving yourself for the right person, just like a lot of girls in the community. Floch Forster tried to get into your pants at junior year prom, but Eren shooed him away before he could so much as touch the small of your back.

You’re not a complete prude either. Your first kiss was with Connie at a church Christmas party in ninth grade after you both found yourself lounging under the mistletoe, and everyone, particularly Eren and Jean, was chanting “kiss, kiss, kiss.” You were his first kiss too, and it didn’t help that he had braces at the time. He still says it’s his best kiss to this day, but you know that’s his way of being difficult.

You’ve had your fair share of kisses since then, but they’ve always been chaste. A one-and-done deal between you and another God-fearing teenager. No tongue, no groping, no kissing anywhere but the mouth.

It’s not exhilarating, but you’re not willing to give that part of you up to just anybody.

Jean just laughs softly under his breath.

He takes a turn onto a byway where soon the green West Maria Ave sign comes into view. His speed slows as he turns onto it. There’s less worry about kids running out into the street to look out for than when you were growing up. Everyone on the street is aging, and the replacement rate seems to be much lower than the surrounding areas. 

You reckon it won’t be long until there’s no more graduation parties.

Jean parks his truck on the side of the street between yours and his mailboxes before killing the engine. You hop out of the passenger’s side and onto the grass.

“You really need to cut the grass,” you point out as the tall blades tickle the skin of your ankles.

Jean runs his fingers through his hair as he circles around the front of his truck. He briefly studies where you stand. “Your side. That’s Eren’s job.”

You blink at him. “Do you actually stop mowin' the lawn according to property lines?”

“Yup.”

“You’re so childish.”

Jean walks with you as you move to the steps of your front porch. “That would be your cousin’s fault, not mine.”

You don’t respond. Jean and Eren have never grown out of their childish quarreling, and you got tired of it the second it grew out of name-calling and tattle-taling.

You slip your shoes off before unlocking the front door and pushing it open. You place them inside before looking back at Jean, who stands on the last step with his hands in his pockets.

“You stayin' in tonight?” Jean asks.

“Probably. There’s a new episode of M*A*S*H.” You tilt your chin at him. “What about you?”

“Gonna take advantage of my 48 hours off and sleep ‘til Christmas. I’ve been waiting since I left the damn station.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t have to come to the church. I would’ve just waited for my uncle.”

“I know you. You would’ve complained about it and how you don’t have your license, and then I’d never hear the end of it.” He grins as your nose scrunches. He’s right, of course. “I saved myself the hassle.”

“Well, aren’t you an angel?”

“God’s favorite.”

“That’s a little blasphemous, I feel.”

“Of course you’d think that, but you know I wouldn’t take your title.”

You sigh. “Goodnight, Jean.”

“Goodnight, angel.”

A slip of the tongue. Another one of your childhood nicknames, given to you because of your piety.

Given to you by Reiner.

But Jean doesn’t register it. He walks away once you’re in the house, and he hears the lock click.

You have it to yourself for the next three hours, but instead of doing chores or fixing dinner, you drag yourself to the couch and haul yourself onto it, landing atop the cushions with a soft thud.

You’re not physically worn out like Jean is from work, but as of late, your mental exhaustion has reached a level unprecedented to you, which then translates to physical exhaustion. It’s also harder to sleep at night, but you think that has something to do with Eren being noisy more than anything regarding yourself.

You shift so you’re on your stomach, arms at your side like a log and face squished against the throw pillow beneath your head. The couch isn’t long enough to support the length of your body, so your feet are propped up against the armrest.

You inhale deeply before shutting your eyes and exhaling.

Last night— or rather this morning— you didn’t go to bed until one. You were tossing and turning all night. Kicking at your blankets, staring at the ceiling, smothering your face into your pillow. For some reason, when left alone, your mind now races. It’s uncomfortable for you. You can’t turn it off.

You tried reading your Bible, your activity of choice when insomnia comes, but it didn’t work. You ended up blinking mindlessly at the words of the Gospel according to Matthew for 10 minutes without any real interpretation of it before shutting the book and calling it quits.

The couch, which smells faintly of stale cigarettes and fabric spray, wraps you in a warm blanket and knocks you out. You don’t realize you had fallen asleep until a cold hand wraps around your ankle and yanks your leg, making you shoot up and scramble to the other end of the couch.

“What t—”

Eren stands at the other end of the armrest with a boyish grin on his face. Still in his all black get up with a cloud of bread and butter hanging in the air surrounding him, he no doubt walked through the front door just seconds before he decided to pull your leg. You grab the throw pillow from under you and chuck it at his face.

“Good morning, sunshine.” You rub your eyes and glance at the clock on the mantle. 7:21. “How long have you been asleep?”

“I don’t know.” You uncurl from the corner of the couch and stretch your legs back out. “Did you just get home?”

Eren’s already on his trek towards the kitchen. You always wonder why he’s so ravenous when he gets off if he works in a restaurant. A high-end one with world renowned cooks, at that. You’ve been there a couple of times, but only because Eren somehow has the ability to pull strings as a waiter and Sasha’s boyfriend is the head chef.

“Five minutes ago. Traffic was a pain in the ass.” Eren opens the fridge and drums his fingers against the handle. “Did you eat yet?”

“Not hungry. I’ll eat later.” You rise to your feet and follow Eren into the kitchen. You climb onto a chair tucked against the island. “But I was at church today—”

“Typical.”

“—and I talked to Zeke.”

Eren peers over the fridge door at you with a raised eyebrow. “Really? What did Dad say?”

“Nothing much, surprisingly. He just told me not to do it again. But Zeke’s not even that weird. He’s, like, real normal.”

“He probably was weird, but you think everyone’s a good person.” Eren pulls out a Pyrex full of leftover sesame chicken and another one full of rice. “You wouldn’t know a bad person if they slapped you in the face and called you ugly. You’d probably say they’re havin' a bad day.”

“That’s not true.”

Eren unceremoniously dumps the contents of both Pyrexes into a bowl. He doesn’t bother microwaving it and fishes a fork, probably— definitely— unwashed, out of the sink.

“Yes, it is.”

“How?”

“You still think Reiner’s a good person.”

You sink into your seat and scowl. “Because he is.”

“Yeah, he’s a good person 'cause he left you high and dry.” Eren shovels a spoonful of chicken and rice into his mouth and doesn’t bother to finish chewing as he continues talking. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t care why he did it.”

“He left you, too,” you mutter.

“Okay, but I wasn’t attached to his hip.” He points his spoon at you. A couple grains of rice fall onto the kitchen floor. “And even if he did leave both of us, he still left you. He might as well just have said ‘fuck you’ and stuck a fat middle finger in your face.”

“Okay, I get it.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and pull your legs to your chest, resting your chip atop your knee. Maybe Eren’s right. Maybe Reiner is a bad person. He could’ve said goodbye, could’ve said anything before ultimately ousting you from his life for good. It was like he just woke up one day and decided that neither of you were good enough to be in his inner circle anymore.

Like something just snapped inside of him.

Eren studies your sullen expression before sighing. He doesn’t like dampening your spirits in any caliber, but he speaks before he thinks sometimes and ends up doing so unwittingly. “But one person you don’t have to worry about leaving is me, and I’m the only one of those assholes that matter.”

That makes you smile a bit. “I wish you would.”

Eren puts a hand on his heart and shuts his eyes. “You wound me with your words, cousin.”

“Jean invited me to Lake Sina tomorrow. Want to come with?”

Eren pretends to mull over it in his head before nodding. “Sure. What’s the occasion?”

You shrug. “Bonfire.”

“After last summer?” Eren lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, let’s see how that goes.”

You shift in your seat. You forgot about that. You forgot how Jean had picked a fight with Reiner. 

It was late, he was drunk, and Jean was calling him a bunch of names. A pussy, a fucking loser, a piece of low life shit. You don’t know what ignited it— thinking about it now, you still don’t— but you watched from a distance as Jean started knocking Reiner back by his shoulders. Jean’s only slightly taller, but Reiner’s notably bigger.

Marcel and Bertholdt only attempted to intervene once Jean shoved Reiner hard enough for him to fall onto the sand. They only completely intervened once Jean landed a couple of blows to Reiner’s face. Not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough for his face to be bruised for the next two weeks.

The worst part was how Reiner didn’t hit back. Didn’t attempt to resist at all. He’s never been prone to aggression, even when he was met by Jean’s fists of fury. He just took it, which ultimately made Jean look like he was in the wrong.

It wasn’t spoken about much after. Nobody pressed Jean about it, and Jean didn’t say anything. He still hasn’t, and you doubt he ever will.

You share a look with Eren and sigh. “Yeah. Guess we’ll see what happens.”

A comfortable silence falls over you. You pick at the skin on your knee and Eren shovels food into his mouth like a starving man. Eventually, you look at one another with the same question in mind.

“Want to watch M*A*S*H ?”