𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕 : 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝

Authors Note: Just so you know, the previous chapter was merged with another chapter as of December 10th, so depending on when you read this, you might want to go back and make sure you read all of it :)

. . .

"If Levi thought I was dumb during my tutoring, I don't even want to know what he'd think of me when I'm with Mr. Niccolo," Sasha said long ago. She couldn't have been more correct with that seemingly inconspicuous phrase: young romance made people extraordinarily stupid.

You were no exception.

You thought about those words the entirety of the six consecutive nights you crawled into Jean's sheets and patiently waited for him to return to the lake.

He would arrive well past midnight. You would watch him from the safety of the bed as he undressed. Then, he would throw himself beside you with a heavy sigh, and you would sink into the rolling waves of his breaths. He would mumble updates regarding what he and Eren had done before he came to see you. It was always the same: nothing new. You would then change the topic, whispering how you were glad to see him until he succumbed to exhaustion.

Jean grew more defeated with each recitation of insufficient progress. His pretty eyes drained of their old warmth, and although he softened once your fingers slid over his chest or your voice grew stronger than the day before, there was no question that his mental foundations were cracking.

While he toiled, you only wanted to escape into that picturesque future you only grasped once. Unfortunately, proper sleep never found you. You waited in the thresholds of consciousness each night, listening to quiet breaths and matching your inhales to Jean's, only for Jean to leave in the morning with a kiss on your forehead, appearing only marginally better than how he arrived.

Was it wrong to desire his comfort after what had transpired? How could you hold Jean close when you had knowingly cursed him with affection? Why did you feel so guilty about a situation entirely out of your control?

Perhaps it was because, for the hundredth time, you forced others to tighten the slack of your life's fraying tethers. Your half-assed escape was just another fleeting moment of bravery in years' worth of cowardice. Once it was over, you crawled into blankets like the child you were but refused to admit it and waited for others to solve your problems.

Sasha might have been right about love, but Mother was right about you: you were weak.

Love was supposed to make the world conquerable and foes appear small, but it only made you stupid. You were unbelievably stupid for believing that a kiss would magically cleanse away the impact of your attack better than any cedar smoke. Jean was just as ridiculous for thinking that man's hands could make the universe fair. Beautiful dreams wouldn't wash that truth away. Avoidance couldn't cleanse the self-hatred that festered in tired hearts.

There was so much hate silently vibrating behind your sunken eyes.

Whenever you sat awake in the daylight of your room, you thought about how differently hatred worked compared to love. Niccolo would sweep into your room, sweet and cheery as a peach with a full breakfast, talking your ear off about how wonderfully he had slept the night prior and how much peace it must have brought him to see you stronger.

Hatred did not weigh him down as it did you. Sleep welcomed him with loving arms. If he noticed your restlessness, his face didn't show it. The comfort your nightly drugging brought clouded his vision too much for him to see.

Where love allowed Niccolo to be content, hatred stoked your embered desire for revenge. In your exhaustive loathing, you had an epiphany–Nature, a beautiful yet brutal extension of the same fraternal universe that cursed you, was a mother for a reason. A man's hands were worthless, but a woman's push had yet to be fully applied.