𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈: 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Shopping in the city should have been somewhat of a spiritual experience akin to transitioning to Heaven, as Manhattan's Fifth Avenue was nothing like your town's humble square. There was a seller for every specialty: bakers, butchers, souters, milliners, potters, florists, booksellers, jewelers–the list went on for miles. Every other corner sheltered a tightly-packed general store, and every street maintained enough food stalls to feed not just New York but most of New Jersey. If you had a strong-enough desire, all you had to do was walk down a block. Anywhere, you were sure to find whatever you longed for.

But your hungover, clouded mind only longed for the peace of a dark room and a soft bed. Due to the present company, such a delicacy would not appear for several hours.

In the first department store you entered, Eren dragged you up four flights searching for women's goods. Your supposed best friend forced you into a dozen shoes because you shared sizes with his mother. You tried on pair after pair until the pits of your dress were damp from lacing and bending over. Armin held countless garments up to your skin between shoe changes and pushed rings onto your fingers, asking whether or not you liked them. Although the dresses were fine enough and the jewelry sparkled nicely, no love embedded itself in the ready-to-wear stitches, and you feared misplacing or breaking silver you could barely afford, so you pushed each one away.

In the bookstore a half-hour later, Armin bombarded you with recommendations when you could barely keep your vision straight. He shoved thousands of words under your nose, and the woodsy smell of fresh paper brought out the wobbliness of your knees. Eren was no better; whenever the clown found a naughty word between vulgar pages, demons compelled him to whisper the raunchy phrases in your ringing ears.

Those two carried on with similar games through half-a-dozen more shops. The only force strong enough to push them off magically seemed to vanish whenever you walked through a new threshold. He would only return to shadow you when it came time to step back into the street's stiflingly humid air. Once he did return, your ever-trailing shadow only added to the heightening fever.

Because no matter where you stepped or how slowly you bumbled, Jean never allowed you to move so much as a foot away before correcting your course back under his shade. Anyone with eyes noticed the tenseness stiffening his shoulders each time anyone gazed too long or stepped too close. Even children running through the streets fortified Jean's guards. His protection would have been endearing if it did not share in the humidity's oppressive nature.

All the stores, the people, the suggestions, the naughty words; all the sights, the smells, the sounds: all the once beautiful things–they were not spiritual experiences. Every screech rattled against your scar-marked temple. Every stench seared your stony throat. Every touch stuck to your sweat-soaked skin. Yesterday's enchantment became a distant daydream rather than a marvelous memory.

After Armin pulled your small group into the third general store of the high afternoon, your patience was as short as the city's shadows. Instead of half-heartedly shuffling up and down thin walkways, browsing items you never intended to buy, you found a trunk in the deepest corner to firmly plant your rear and shut your eyes. In the darkness, you imagined what the hotel's second suite might feel like after collapsing into the new bed for the eve. With clammy palms, you ran your hands over the leather and pretended the trunk was a mattress covered in fine, white silk. The wall became the plushest of pillows for your weary head, and the world turned sweet with the smell of forest rain.

It was quiet; it was dark; it was safe. Excess stimulation drifted off into cooler winds, and you pulled full breaths for the first time all day. It was all your hungover heart could ever desire, but the silence did not comfort you long. The solitude created space for thoughts to grow painfully loud, and silence ached.