𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙋𝙖𝙨𝙩 || Eren Jaeger

𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈

❝ Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
that we might be exactly like we were
before we realized
We were sad of getting old
It made us restless ❞

—Adele

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WHILE I DID grow up a kid on the streets 24/7, I never did grow too attached to the pavements I used to meander day after day, always keeping a sharp eye out for opportunities. Opportunities that I'd chase after simply because they'd get me in trouble.

And for a girl with no parents at the time, no sense of belonging, relying on the kindness of a boy who was willing to give her a roof to sleep under and a portion of his meals, who else did she have left to befriend? Trouble promised her a little joyride and a little thrill, the perfect combination to stave off extreme misery.

"I've never seen people in Trost look so... happy." Jean says, slowing his horse down as we trot further into the center of town.

I guide my horse precariously through the crowded streets and make sure I'm sitting properly. It felt unnatural at first when I got on the horse and quickly realized I had to sit the "lady-like" way, but I adapted for the sake of wearing something in my mother's memory. I don't get to wear dresses often.

The city itself looks drastically different than the image my childhood memories paint in my mind, but that's obviously no surprise. Last time I was here, the Levi squad was carrying out a plan to get Jean as imposter Eren and Armin as imposter Historia kidnapped. The time before that— I was a soul-crushed cadet fighting to keep the city standing.

Today, though, Trost has come together in celebration. A festival to rejoice the reclamation of Wall Maria has the streets packed so thickly that we might as well not be moving at all.

Jean and I aren't in a rush, however. We survey the stalls lining the town square up ahead, and the smell of fried fritters is carried by the wind and straight under our noses.

I can't help but think of Eren. He's unabashedly crossed my mind during this trip so many times that I've given up trying to feel ashamed about it. The fact that he's stuck in that dungeon, probably throwing pebbles lazily at the wall, completely unaware of his "almost-fatherhood", crushes my heart to dust.

And the fact that I still have no idea how to tell him doesn't help either.

"Let's stop here," Jean says.

We park our horses in a skinny alley by the side of a bakery. We secure their leashes to a pipe sticking out of the decimated plumbing of the next building. No doubt it took a beating during the Trost breach.

I try not to think of the family that might've lived there before, and if they survived. That's not what this trip is about.

Although Jean never explicitly said it, I know that besides paying a visit to his mother, his purpose for bringing me along is to get me out of my own head.

He gives me a soft grin. Perhaps I've absorbed the festive atmosphere at this point, because I return it meekly and link arms with him as we walk to the square.

Chatter fills our ears. Kids are running around trading sweets or playing hopscotch, women linger by the stalls talking to the smitten merchants, and young men loiter around with their groups of ragtag friends looking liberated and sweaty after a long day of work.

Jean and I take it in. It feels good to be back in his hometown. My former playground for mischief.

"I remember one Tuesday the local gunsmith knocked on our door." Jean begins to say, sparing a nostalgic chuckle, "my mom answered it— I was sitting at the dinner table practicing addition. The gunsmith went on a tirade saying that my mother's troublesome little girl kept stealing his muskets — that he tracked her down one afternoon and saw her climb into 'this house right here!' through the second story window."