𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰

Trigger Warnings: Anxiety & Panic Attacks

. . .

"So, you just... write books? That's it?" Connie asked as the three of you followed the road to his house.

Nature worked hard to tune him out with birdsongs and increasing winds. Old oaks and their lush leaves that whipped about through deepening breezes lined the mile walk. Their pale, green underbellies waved to the world in surrender, which could only mean one thing: it would rain.

"That is what I do," Armin answered.

"And how does that even work? You sit down and write things?"

You scanned the skyline for ominous clouds and found darkness many miles ahead. With how the wind blew the stray hairs that framed your face out of view, the storm headed straight for your destination. Unless the universe changed its course within the next few hours, it would rain.

"That's the general idea."

"But how? Don't you get bored? I mean, you sit around... writing words."

With each blink, every instance it had rained this summer flashed in lightning visions. You met Jean for the first time after dancing through a rainstorm, and he cursed at you and slammed a door in your face. You were locked in your room for the first time to pray when it rained–all because Niccolo heard a little curse that slipped between your cheating lips. It rained the day you almost died, the night you failed to kill, and every time you cried. And, today, it would rain.

"I'd hardly label writing as boring. Some nights, I'll have a good soak, finish half a bottle of wine, and let my mind run free. What better profession is there than that?"

"Being a cowboy. You ever seen a cowboy in the flesh, Amen?"

"Armin," you corrected.

It was a miracle that you paid enough attention to catch Connie's mistake in the first place, as your eyes were focused on the oaks and the distant clouds that no one seemed to notice but you.

"Armin. That's what I meant. Anyway, about your books..."

While Connie rambled, you wondered if you should warn him about the rain. That way, he could prepare for his fireworks to be ruined by the inclement weather or warn someone else that the roasted pig might become waterlogged. It's going to rain, you wanted to drown him and his silly conversation out, but the words wouldn't form on your tongue as he burbled under your thoughts.

Maybe, if you did not speak the rain into existence, it would hold its place in the sky. If you ignored the sinister clouds threatening to ruin a decent night, they would be stronger than you and harbor their tears behind clouded lids. But with each step, dark clouds drew closer and held firm. You felt their whispers in the humid winds. Even the bird songs sounded deeper until it was Niccolo's voice that whistled into your ears, ordering you to return home.

"–hear me, Y/n?" Connie asked, snapping you out of your trance.

You jumped slightly at the mention of your name. "Huh?"

"I asked if Armin's books were worth me picking up. He said you read 'em. And liked 'em."

"Oh... Well... Most of the ones I've read are love stories. Very romantic. And there aren't any pictures in them."

"No pictures?! Yep. Not for me."

Armin laughed playfully, although he should be more offended. "You won't pick up a book unless there are pictures?" the blond asked.