#「 ♛ 」verse: you call me a bitch like it's a bad thing ( modern )

[mindsafe]

' look. i can tell you're not feeling great.' - from bert sdfg he never asks want to talk about it? bc the two of them are good not talking sdf

@pontevoix || from [X] || ACCEPTING

the recital is two weeks away. annie has been spending less time at the apartment && more time on campus, haunting abandoned lecture halls. by day, she studies sheet music, && commits chord progressions to memory; by night, she practices her scales && arpeggios until muscles ache && fingers chafe. once assuaged, she retires to what was once her dorm. technically, it's still her dorm.

the room is paid for, but uninhabited; it mostly functions as a storage unit for recital gowns, stage equipment, && other pieces of herself that didn't survive the move ― there just so happens to be a bed, as well. it makes more sense to sleep here, than it does to make the late-night commute with a cello case on her back; especially with the knowledge that she'll be going through the motions again in. . . eight-ish hours. maybe less. probably less. she opts for a quick shower: wash. rinse. repeat.

the recital is one week away. annie has been spending less time at the apartment && more time on campus, haunting abandoned lecture halls. when she plays, her focus is directed inward, concentrating on technique && musical expression; while ignoring the tightness in her chest && swallowing down acrid bile. SHE IS FRAYING. occasionally, she slips up && misses a note. as a child, she would take her frustration out on her instrument ( && was punished accordingly ) // as a girl, teetering on adulthood, she self-flagellates; pushing herself harder with every err, until she is as hollow as the body of the instrument she despises.

that night, annie decides to carry the weight of her cross home ― sensibility be damned. she justifies the decision by reminding herself that she's running low on toiletries, && is in desperate need of clean clothes. this is a ❛ pit stop ❜, && not a pleasure cruise. at most, she'll indulge in a private shower && a cup of peppermint tea.

annie half-expects to be greeted by reiner, who rarely sleeps, && pulled into a bone-crushing hug against her will ( not really ); a part of her is disappointed when she isn't. she leaves her instrument a safe distance from the door, stowed in its case ― she can grab it on her way out, tomorrow. annie exhales; she kicks off her shoes, && staggers towards the kitchen. a selfish part of her is relieved when she finds bertolt ― surprised, but relieved.

❝ --i thought you'd be asleep. ❞ it's a lousy greeting. her bluntness is amplified by her struggle to find words. thoughts exist on a spectrum of five lines && four spaces. instead of letters, she thinks in heads, stems, && flags.

annie fills the kettle with water && flicks the switch. as she waits for water to boil, she readies two mugs && two teabags: peppermint && chamomile. hands tremble slightly. SHE IS FRAYING. bertolt regards her with concern: ❛ look. i can tell you're not feeling great. ❜ is it that obvious?

❝ i'm fine. . . ❞ she lies. some girls use that line as bait, in a misguided effort to reel in further interest; annie uses it to kill a conversation before it can happen. she doesn't expect bertolt to believe her. he knows her better than most; && she knows she looks like shit. ❝ . . .i'm just tired. ❞

[mindsafe]

love is conditional.

the lesson had been sewn into the creases of small palms ― the same palms that hold onto bow && body with a vice-like grip. SUCCESS is showered with saccharine praise && marzipan bouquets. FAILURE is met with days of ice-cold silence that would put the depths of hell to shame.

annie grows into her independence; && so do her palms. threads start to itch in places. they itch when bertolt covers her portion of the bill unprompted ( she would chide him for it && promise to return the favour; he would just tell her: ❛ not to worry about it ❜ ) // they itch when wet hands drop a wine glass && reiner rushes in to help clean the mess. he doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't shut her out; when he checks exposed skin for cuts, he looks at her feet before looking at her hands. it's strange. . . having a life so closely intertwined with men who aren't insulted by her failures. . .

in spite of everything, annie cannot bring herself to hate her father ― not entirely. it's true: he sees his daughter as an extension of his own hand, coaxing sound from the same instrument that he once cherished. he was young once ( like she is now ) && dreamed in technicolour, of accolades && encores; of international tours && pouring his heart out on the world stage. he destroyed himself for his dream. reiner is less sympathetic. if he's trying for subtlety, then he's doing a lousy job of it. however, she cannot fault him; not without painting a self portrait of a hypocrite.

her own contempt for karina is an open secret. it shows in the way her jaw clenches at every mention of that woman; in the way she rolls her eyes at the cadence of her voice in passing. she remains civil in the face of mutually assured destruction, && trusts reiner to extend that courtesy whenever she is pulled into a lukewarm embrace backstage.

love is conditional.

nails take apart the intricate needlework, stitch by stitch, until her hands start to bleed from picking at scabs. annie has yet to understand the niceties of what it means ‘ to be loved ’, let alone what it means ‘ to love ’. as a result, her love is messy && complicated; it's clumsy && awkward. but it is UNCONDITIONAL.

maybe it's because she understands what it's like, to be misshapen. the stage has never felt like home to her. years later, && she still feels out of place ― clothes are tailor-made to fit, but they never do ( laboured breaths as she draws the bow across taut metal strings // cinched gown, serpentine, constricting her waist ); she carries her inheritance over her shoulder like a cross, while putting on a perfect show for a soulless crowd. do they even want to be here? she knows she doesn't. but discomfort dissipates whenever home comes to her; whenever she spots a familiar face, warm eyes glowing with ( unconditional ) pride.

maybe it's because she understands what it's like, to be misshapen, that she has some idea of what to say; of what to do. annie gives him a moment to collect himself, taking an extended sip of her coffee as she gathers her own thoughts. it's too hot, but she can worry about that later.

❝ -- && so what if it is? ❞ she answers a question with a question, bluntly so. chances are, if annie leaves it at that, her intentions will be lost in translation- best not leave it at that. ❝ look. . . i'm not the same person i used to be either. not quite the same, i know. but, i've met people who exposed me to new ideas, you included; i've had experiences that altered my perception of things; i'm a bit taller- although not by much. . . ❞ annie slips in a small jab ( at her expense ) in hopes of his lifting his spirits.

❝ -- my point is, regardless of circumstances, no one can regress into the person they used to be. it's null. even so, despite everything, it's still you. if you ever forget WHO that is, just take a look at your massive tits, && i'm sure it'll come back to you. . . ❞ she's determined to coax a smile from him. reiner was the one who taught her how to laugh more; now she's returning the favour. funny how it works.

❝ --reiner braun didn't die. he's a little bit worse for the wear right now, but aren't we all? besides, last time i looked, he's doing what he can to keep his head up high: like going on morning runs, && getting those endorphins going; like eating a healthy breakfast, loaded with complex carbohydrates && B vitamins; like taking his prescription on time && with food; like spending time with the people who care about him more than he thinks; && like buying annie boba because he's in such a giving mood. . . ❞ annie signs off on improvised wisdom with another lopsided O. she's given up on trying to remember strategy. ❝ . . .the last part was a joke, by the way. don't actually buy me anything. ❞ she adds. it doesn't take a genius to consider that if she doesn't clarify, reiner might actually do it.

it's unexpected, playing a game of tic-tac-toe in a kitchen confessional, so early in the day. they make themselves vulnerable in the pale glow of morning. now, it's annie's turn. it's only fair. she weighs words on a scorched tongue, thinking about how best to shine a light on her own experiences without shifting the focus of the conversation ― this isn't about her. it's fortunate that she's good at making herself small ( smaller than she is ); that she's able to take up as little space as she does.

❝ -- this is going to sound really dumb, but when i was little, i noticed a pattern: no matter how bad of a day i was having, if i took a shower, i would feel better. so, for the longest time, i was fully convinced that sadness was something that lived in the scalp, && something that could be washed away. . . lame, right? ❞ with no friends ( or family ) to confide in, her logic made sense. of course, she no longer swears by a silly anecdote. but it's something she can extrapolate on, now && again. ❝ maybe it was just a placebo, after all. or maybe all the mould messed with my brain. we might never be sure. ❞

she'd hoped she might be able to walk away from this conversation unscathed. but unfortunately for annie, the other won't let her off the hook so easy. she has come to learn that there are consequences to UNCONDITIONAL LOVE ( when reciprocated ). it's better to swallow her pride && chase it with a double-double, than it is to argue with an ox.

❝ -- my anxie- whatever. . . ❞ he's not wrong. but there's something about hearing it out loud, from another's mouth makes her feel smaller than small ( it makes her feel weak ). they really are both a little bit fucked up, aren't they? ❝ thank you for that. i appreciate it. . . how does a VIP pass sound? complete with a photo-op? ❞ annie suggests, with a hum. she notices patterns; she notices how reiner looks at the fridge with a different sort of appetite ― he's not thinking about what's inside. although annie can't magically weave him into old memories like some sort of temporal seamstress, she can do this. it's just a matter of breaking that last barrier: nobody wants to feel pitied.

❝ --you know, as long as you're wearing a shirt && shoes, && don't look like someone who vapes behind a 7/11, you can probably get away with wearing just about anything. . . && if you still want to piss off my dad. . . ❞ another hum.

there's a slight smile that quirks the edges of his lips.  every reprimand, every harsh word, is wrapped in something that resembles annie's form of love.  she doesn't give it regularly or often, but if you know how to look for it, you realize that it's less of a rare occurrence than one might think.  he's learned the little intricacies of it, but he isn't a master at it, not yet.

but he shows his own form of it back in the nature of restocking the bathroom when he notices things running low, making sure that there's always a surplus of the tea that she drinks when she's anxious, makes a habit of glancing through the calendar  &&  seeing if there's any dates that are circled.  if there's any sort of recitals that are coming up, if there's little things that he needs to start looking for. 

he has no love for her father or the way that he tries to dictate every inch of her even though she is a grown adult.  the things that he has instilled in her have followed her into adulthood  &&  there are times when he wants to do nothing more than punch him in the face for them.  for the fact that he should've loved his daughter  &&  instead he's made her into a nervous wreck, a perfectionist that works until her cuticles bleed  &&  the callouses form.  the violin is in her blood by now  &&  she doesn't know who she is without it  ––  he understands it far too intimately. 

he knows it all too intimately  ––  his relationship with karina is never going to be on absolutely good terms.  there is much that rests between her  &&  his father that had been pushed on him from a young age, someone who has glared at him all his life  &&  who has looked at him like he is nothing, like he is ruining everything.  it had been easy when he was younger  &&  they hadn't resembled one another, but the moment that he hit puberty  &&  his jaw had sharpened, there was no denying who his father was.  the kids at school would glance between the two of them  &&  would start rumors that held far too much truth to be comfortable. 

karina has looked at him since he had come home from war like he is broken, like he is nothing  ––  like somehow it's his fault that there was an ambush, like it's his fault that trauma now courses through him  &&  he flinches at little things,  &&  how he's started to slowly grow an addiction that he doesn't want to admit to.  marcel's death weighs far too heavy on his shoulders.  

the pills are not the same as the self inflicted pain of the violin strings on her fingers, but he thinks he understands it enough.  enough to know that they are more similar than they aren't.

the biggest difference is that annie holds her emotions close  &&  allows only those who know how to look for it obtain;  reiner holds his emotions on his sleeve  &&  bleeds openly, hopes that someone sees it  &&  can make it stop.

that's why he can't do this  ––  he can't let bertolt  &&  annie looking at him like he is broken, like he keeps bleeding  &&  doesn't know how to stop.  because it's easier to take the pills  &&  swallow it down until he's nothing, until he's small; because if he doesn't allow anyone else to bandage him up, then he can keep bleeding.  it's a horrid cycle that he keeps allowing himself to be in  ––  it's been that way since a child, hidden behind smiles that never reached his eyes  &&  disappointment that he could never bring his mother what she ever truly wanted.

sometimes he looks at the fridge  &&  sees the depth of friendships that are out there, the way that bertolt  &&  annie have had a life while reiner was away.  reiner, who knew only marcel  &&  the taste of sand on his tongue.  he looks at the fridge  &&  sees every single place where he doesn't fit in  ––  hitch smiles from some of the photos  &&  marlow is there, looking perturbed, but reiner doesn't fit.  there's pieck  &&  porco who push into the frame  &&  dazzle,  &&  then there's reiner.  reiner who just doesn't fit.

he is a puzzle piece that has been cut to try to fit, but the edges just don't.  it makes his stomach twist unpleasantly  &&  makes the bagel look far less appealing.  his fingers break off a piece  &&  he barely tastes it as he swallows it down, feels the thrumming underneath his skin.  the one that wants to bite at him.  the one that makes his heart feel like it wants to leap out.

that voice whispers again that he isn't meant to be here.  that he should've just stayed away  ––  bertolt  &&  annie have a life here that he is just trying to fit into.  he shouldn't; the couch, the way that he haunts it at night, the apartment isn't big enough for him.  it was never meant to be big enough for him.

reiner swallows hard  &&  rubs at the scar at his temple.

he startles at her words  ––  at the intensity that lies within them.  it makes something in his chest churn along with his stomach  &&  he lets out a shaky breath.  he blinks a few times, rolls them up toward the ceiling to will away the emotion that threatens to break through.  he's heard it all before in therapy, but it's something different when it comes to annie  &&  bertolt, people who know him.  &&  more from annie, who holds her cards close  &&  doesn't trust anything around her. 

tongue presses into his cheek  &&  he tries to think of how to work it out, how to find the right response.  because in reality there is none  ––  reiner's never been good when the hands reach out, when they look at him like he's not broken because all he can see is the pieces that are.

instead, he places an x on the paper somewhere that won't promise him the win.  he's not looking for one, anyway,  &&  his eyes are starting to blur a little bit.  he mentally curses himself for not being able to keep it together.

❝ it's not that simple.  there's just…it's  a lot.  the way i scream at night from the nightmares.  the way that my mother looks at me like i'm a disappointment.  the way that porco hates me  &&  has every right to.  the way that i look in the mirror  &&  i don't know who the fuck i am. ❞    reiner breathes out carefully through his nose, thumbing at the scar once more as he tries to settle the sloshing in his mind, the thoughts that don't want to find purchase with one another.  ❝ what if i can't, annie?  what if this is just who i am now?  then what? ❞

the words are careful, hollow in their honesty; it's the closest he's gotten to admitting it to anyone, even his court ordered therapist.  he feels that chill settling down his spine again, that hard honesty with himself that he might not be able to be who he was before.  that it's too much, that the smiles are going to be rare  &&  in between  ––  that the pills are the things that make him smile easier.  that makes everything easier. 

that makes him pretend that the old reiner can come forth again.

he takes a sip from his water bottle  &&  forces another bite.  it's enough to settle the tide in his stomach at least a little bit; annie is right about the food helping to calm.

❝ showers aren't bad, but it provides too much thinking time.  &&  how's the lavender helping your anxiety? ❞   it's gentle, teasing; he's never been a believer in the whole scents conversation, especially when lavender tends to make him sneeze. 

he taps his fingers on the table for a moment before he debates, then settles his hand down.  ❝ your cuticle oil is under the sink.  i'll make an appointment for the day before your recital if you want.  he'll never know the difference. ❞  a good manicure will solve that problem at least  ––  one less thing for that fucker to obsess over.  ❝ but i do expect a free ticket for my efforts. ❞  

a light jest again, but a promise underneath:  i'm here for you too.

[mindsafe]

a rude text, annie for bert

@pontevoix || from [X] || ACCEPTING

it's impossible to put an exact date to when bertolt's apartment had started to feel like a second home. maybe it was when she had ( unthinkingly ) begun nesting behind his walls ― stocking a pantry full of sweets && slapping sticky notes onto the packaging: ❛ PROPERTY OF ANNIE LEONHART! DO NOT EAT! >: ( ❜; organizing cutlery && glassware to her standards; she had even gone && claimed a corner of the shower-bath for herself. rather than protest these small changes, bertolt had offered her a spare key. he had done the same for reiner. they by no means live together, but they share a life.

she's alone in bertolt's apartment ― in her little corner of the world where it feels less cold. ironic, considering her objective. she stands on her tiptoes, rummaging through the freezer ( hot pockets, frozen fruit, frozen vegetables, ground beef, popsicles ). it shouldn't be this difficult to find, not when she put it there herself. annie slams the freezer door shut, && reaches for her phone. frustration gets the better of her, as she opens up the group chat.

---

[ TXT ]: ok which one of you chucklefucks ate my ben && jerry's?

[ TXT ]: not cool btw - _ -

[mindsafe]

her succulent is a small, pale thing that is mostly self-sustaining. once a week, annie lightly tousles the soil with her finger && assesses its quality: not enough water && the rosette shrivels; too much water, && sturdy leaves become soft with rot. it's a double-edged sword between negligence && conscientiousness to a fault. reiner ( @st4rsinclined ) is of a similar build. not enough care, && he'll give in to the relief of self-destruction; too much care, && he'll mistake compassion for something superficial, seeing himself out the door, while muttering some nonsense about ‘ not wanting to be a burden. ’ idiot. reiner is mostly self-sustaining. once a week, annie quietly counts his pills, mouthing the sum under her breath. he's been good the last little while, but it's become a habit she can't seem to break.

annie is a creature of habit. she is prone to late nights && early mornings, sleeping in on days when she can afford to; she is prone to long baths && quick showers, taken at peculiar hours; she is prone to oversized pullovers && wool socks that gather at her ankles; she is prone to blackberry jam, spooned onto buttered bread; she is prone to checking the quality of soil ( && of pills ). reiner has a way of disrupting existing habits, && introducing new ones.

❝ --there's a good boy. next time, eat before taking the pills. that's how you prevent stomach irritation. it helps with metabolizing as well. ❞ she skirts around a simple synonym like it's a dirty word. annie has no love for drugs.

she is a creature of habit in a way that would make it almost too easy to fall into the trap of a self-cannibalizing routine, && has witnessed firsthand just how endemic substance abuse is to the ‘ elite ’ scene. CAFFEINE: for bolstering alertness; NICOTINE: for taking the edge off; ALCOHOL: for keeping up with social demands; BETA-BLOCKERS: for easing performance anxiety; all that && more. when the curtain falls, there is no ‘ class ’ left in classical. it's a performance, after all. annie is not exempt from the demanding nature of performance,

in the weeks leading up to a performance, annie slips into habit ( as usual ): scrubbing skin raw with lavender soap ― it improves one's mood, or so she's been told. there's a buildup of mineral in the shower head causing stagnating water pressure. they should get that fixed // in the weeks leading up to a performance, annie slips into habit ( as usual ): wearing oversized sleeves that hide ruined cuticles. her father would kill her if he finds out that she's been picking at her nails again // in the weeks leading up to a performance, annie slips into habit ( as usual ): brewing cup after cup of peppermint tea ― it's all she can stomach.

she wears her anxiety like a bad stick-&&-poke; it's a part of her, but it's easy to hide ( behind habit ). reiner isn't quite as subtle. distinct slips in his own performance give him away ― subtle changes in posture && intonation; minor details which offset the mood by a margin. in some ways, they have more in common than either would ever care to admit: vulnerability frightens them; they'd sooner smother their demons with pillows than let them breathe. maybe that's why she can sympathize with the war inside his head; maybe that's why she's patient while he searches for his words && swallows them, over && over.

in the meantime, she make them coffee. he likes his black; she likes hers with two cream && two sugar. linoleum is cold against the soles of her feet, but the mugs in hand stain calloused fingers with their warmth ― cheap things. annie purchased them as a set of TWO while thrifting one summer: ONE for herself, && ONE as a spare; now, she shares this small part of herself with him ( her own extension of the olive branch ). annie sets down both mugs at respective ends of the table && returns to the body of the kitchen, with eyes on her bagel as she coats it in a generous helping of jam.

she's no therapist, && she isn't pretending to be one. however, in this moment reiner doesn't need to be watered with gentle affirmations && new coping strategies; he needs sunlight. he needs a friend. annie can be that.

❝ --i can't speak for anyone else, but for what it's worth. . . i know you're not made of glass; i know you can take care of yourself- we know you can take care of yourself. ❞ she amends. ❝ that doesn't mean you need to face this alone. bertolt && i. . . we worry, yes. but it has nothing to do with PITY, && don't you dare think otherwise. it's because we CARE. . . it's because we want you to smile again, the way you used to- even the way you did just now. . . it's because you'd do the same for us. ❞

annie joins him at the table, one leg crossed over the other. she takes an especially unladylike bite out of her bagel, dark jam dribbling down her chin. this is home. this is where she can be the most authentic version of herself. reiner can be honest with her; && she can be honest with him. it's nice.

❝ --a run? not the worst idea, actually. ❞ annie hums, && takes another bite, followed by a slow sip of coffee. ❝ you know. . . whenever i can't sleep, i take a shower. there are certain scents that are supposed to help with stress && whatnot. . . or at least, that's what i've been told by my accompanist. ❞ she confesses. mina is a nice girl, but prone to believing almost anything she hears. annie's just relieved that she hasn't fallen for a pyramid scheme yet.

a thawing gaze flickers across the slip of seemingly useless paper. it takes a moment for her to register the familiar pattern ( give her a break, it's not even seven ). if she remembers correctly, there is a strategy that almost always secures a win, but the details of said strategy are lost in the early morning fog. . . annie takes a gamble instead. as the second player, she's already at a disadvantage, but it's not over; it's just begun. she draws an awkward looking o, dead center.

it shouldn't surprise him that annie knows the side effects, knows that repercussions for taking it how he will.  he's caught her a few times, though he's remained in the shadows  &&  quiet  ––  the way that each pill was delicately counted, replaced back into the orange bottle as if nothing had ever happened.   to her defense, bertolt does it sometimes too; he knows that he takes them too often, knows that that anxiety creeps up his spine when he least expects it  &&  it's almost enough to send him running most days.  he should be annoyed with it, should claim that he knows what he's doing, but there's warmth there instead  ––  the thought of someone caring enough when they don't have to.

he had left, after all.  he had stepped away from them  &&  into his own hell  ––  he's only recently started occupying spaces once more  &&  he doesn't belong in them.  he inserts himself like he was made to be there in order to drape away the fact that he's the ghost that's haunting the apartment.  bertolt  &&  annie move around one another like it's automatic, learned from time spent together; reiner is a phantom that trips over his own words  &&  still can't find his way in the dark.  

sometimes, reiner debates making his exit.  sometimes he wonders if their space is better off without him in it;  like the photos on the fridge.  the ones that contain porco  &&  pieck, udo  &&  some of the other cadets that have been training at the facility as of late.  it makes him feel hollowed out inside; sometimes he looks at porco  &&  sees marcel  &&  wonders if this is his punishment at the core of it all.

❝ that's what the bagel is for. ❞  he gestures toward the cooling piece of bread that's on a plate  &&  debates for a long moment.  his stomach has long since lost the want for it, but he takes the plunge  &&  chews anyway, makes a point of swallowing  &&  taking another bite.  there's nothing hateful in the motion  ––  it's an extension of an olive branch, saying that she's heard  &&  he's filling his stomach now to help with it.  besides  —  he hates being sick to his stomach  &&  that's what happens the most.

her words though pin him in place  ––  there's an exposed nerve that feels like it's lit on fire by them, sharp crystal gaze cutting into him.  he can almost feel where they're cutting away at walls  &&  exposing muscle, showing him that he isn't good at this  ––  that hiding away behind smiles  &&  too much chatter can only get him so far.  he shifts in his spot, runs his tongue along his teeth, picks at the edge of his bagel  &&  feels his stomach sour further.

he knows he's been slipping up  ––  it's in the notes of his therapists journals of their sessions, the ones that the office submits back to magath  &&  promises to give him even worse notes if he keeps it up.  if there's something he loathes, it's the way that his former commander looks at him, the way that pity curls at the corners of his eyes  ––  because he had held so much promise,  &&  now he's a shell of himself.  he's a shell of that cadet that raised his head  &&  put himself through hell in order to pass the tests that needed passing.  he's a shell of the boy who had turned man  &&  who had died out there, even though he had come back  &&  marcel hadn't. 

it's why reiner hates being home; he sees the way that karina looks at him  &&  there's nothing warm in her gaze.  she flits around him  &&  plays concerned mother well, but it lacks the normal warmth that once curled around her words.  instead of being able to brag about her son being in the army, about making his way steadily toward the title of vice captain, now he is an empty shell.  sometimes he stares at walls  &&  forgets where he is, his mind somewhere else  &&  his hands steadily beginning to shake.  sometimes he nicks himself when shaving  &&  for a long moment he can't breath with dilated pupils as his mind sees marcel, sees his own blood from his own injuries that day.  there was pride when she thought that he was going to make something of himself  ––  no doubt another part of her feud with a man that doesn't want her  ––  but now?  now reiner is a source of disappointment.  he sees it in her eyes constantly.  it's suffocating.

&&  he can't see it in anyone else's eyes.  it feels like it's choking him, even hearing the soft inclines of annie's voice  &&  the way that she attempts to keep her voice down so that bertolt doesn't wake up.  it makes his shoulders bunch up to his ears  &&  there's half a thought to change the focus, make a joke, deflect.  he's gotten fairly good at those lately.

but he takes a look at annie  &&  analyzes her words  &&  realizes that it's not the right move.  he lets his shoulders drop, lets himself exhale as he swallows thickly  &&  closes his eyes tightly for a moment.  counts down from ten before he reopens them.

❝ it has nothing to do with you being personable. ❞   a quiet frown finds its way to his face; he knows that annie isn't the softest, but he's never seen her as this ice queen like most have.  he understands  ––  there's pressure in performance  &&  she does what she does to protect herself.  it's admirable.  they've always bickered like this  ––  but he's never once doubted that there was friendship between them.  ❝ && for the record, i'm demi.  it doesn't matter if you have a dick. ❞   for what it's worth, that does make him smile  &&  makes his cheeks flush. 

he opts to take a seat at the table, the chair creaking softly underneath his weight.  he takes another bite of his bagel  &&  gives himself a moment to group, to think of the right thing to say.  it's rare  ––  but sometimes annie is like trying not to spook a wild animal,  &&  if she's willing to give him an ounce of this much attention, then he wants to respect it  &&  give it back. 

❝ i'm tired of everyone being worried about me.  looking at me like at any second i'm going to break. ❞    teeth bite at tongue for a moment before he runs his fingers through his hair.  he's used to bullshitting his way through his therapy sessions.  he's not used to being honest with someone  ––  he doesn't like it.  that exposed nerve flares again  &&  he pinches at the bridge of his nose before he pushes his chin into the palm of his hand.

❝ you  &&  bertolt don't look at me like that.  not outright.  i don't…everyone else does.  i just don't want to deal with it from you two, too. ❞  it's a horrible excuse, but he finds he does mean it.  that he hasn't realized how much he's appreciated the normalcy that bertolt's stupid apartment seems to provide.  it's one of the only spaces where he finds he can actually be himself.  

honey eyes followed annie's footsteps; even this feels far more safe than any of his sessions.  ❝ thank you, for the record.  for caring.  i'm up this early because i can't fuckin' sleep so i went for a run. ❞    nose scrunches up  &&  he satisfies in the crunch of bread.

he slides over a piece of paper, a simple grid drawn over it with an x in the top right.   

[mindsafe]

there was no fixed ❛ move-in ❜ date circled in red pen on her calendar; no moving vans, or hired help. annie had phased into bertolt's life gradually, like the skeletal remains of a long winter, thawing into a gentle spring.

it had started with sweets: cookies tucked in the back of the pantry, muffins stacked on top of the microwave, && ice cream stashed in the depths of the freezer. as she came && went, she would litter the apartment with crumbs: half-empty styrofoam containers in the fridge with her name scrawled on in black ink, loose articles of clothing that would get mixed-up in between loads of laundry, an extra toothbrush. all that was missing were some homey touches: a childhood blanket from a mother whose face she couldn't remember, a signed copy of her favourite album, && a succulent that she quietly tends to, in the early hours of the morning.

there was no fixed ❛ move-in ❜ date circled in red pen on reiner's calendar either; no moving vans, or hired help. his presence was like the onset of a summer storm, turbulent && unpredictable. there were always patterns in the atmosphere to watch out for; the countdown between a flash of lightning && accompanying clap of thunder.

she cares for him, in her own strange way. she tends to his needs like she tends to her succulent: it's a small, pale thing ( like herself ) that is mostly self-sustaining ― anything else tends to wilt under her care // reiner is mostly self-sustaining ― he eats, usually. he drinks, usually. he showers, not often enough. sometimes annie ‘ accidentally ’ buys too many doughnuts, && ends up sharing with bertolt && reiner when she has her fill; sometimes annie ‘ forgets ’ a full glass of water on the coffee table, right before bed; sometimes annie ‘ conveniently ’ does a double-count of coloured capsules ( just because ).

maybe that's what calls her to rise when she does; something, something, female intuition. annie emerges from the bedroom in a borrowed t-shirt that fits her like a dress, brushing just past her knees. bare feet tread lightly into an empty living room. she notices that the throw pillows have been ( clumsily ) rearranged && the spare blanket is strewn over the back of the sofa like a trenchcoat: used, but not slept on. she notices the massive pair of white runners by the door ― reiner's here; either he's clogging up the toilet, taking his dogs on a walk around the neighbourhood, or having an early breakfast. hmm. well, the bathroom door is wide open, && sleepwalking isn't on the list of side-effects that annie has learned ( && memorized ). kitchen it is.

she makes no noise when she enters. she doesn't exchange pleasantries. she leans against the doorframe tiredly, watching the other shuffle around the kitchen. to an untrained eye, there's nothing wrong with this picture ― he's energized; a man starting his day on a high note. unfortunately for him, annie knows reiner better than that. a translucent complexion ( rivalling her own ) && opaque coldness beneath warm eyes tell her everything she needs to know.

&& then he startles. annie scoffs.

❝ --seriously? i know i'm not exactly a sight for sore eyes, but would it kill you to act like a gentleman for once? ❞ usual bickering commences, && the blonde gravitates towards the pleasant smell wafting in her direction. ❝ move over. ❞ annie half-heartedly shoves the ox in her kitchen out of the way, claiming a fresh bagel for herself. she doesn't plan on going back to bed anytime soon ― she wouldn't be able to, not in good conscience. as it cooks, she quietly digs out a half-empty jar of blackberry jam ( her favourite ) from the fridge; it's kept in its usual place, undisturbed, with the label visible. ❝ i could ask you the same thing. why are you up this early? ❞

to an extent, she knows the answer ― or at the very least, she can take a guess. in reiner's mind, THE WAR NEVER ENDED; && there are pieces of himself lost to sand && shrapnel, pieces that he might never recover. it shows in the way he flinches at the sound of fireworks, && stiffens in crowded places // it shows in the way that he goes pale whenever bertolt nicks himself peeling potatoes, && how he gags at certain sights && smells // it shows in the way that he jumps at the shadow of a girl half his size.

arms crossed, the curve of of her back resting against the counter's edge; it presses uncomfortably into the notch of her spine. hoarfrost gaze, unblinking, annie doesn't break eye contact until the pill disappears. ❝ you should take it with food; or at least water. you'll upset your stomach otherwise. . . that's what it says on the label, at least. ❞ there's a tenderness in how she cuts into him with her words, removing splintered wood && broken glass.

she cares for him, in her own strange way. she just wishes he wasn't such an obtuse oaf. please don't make her admit it.

❝ no. you're not fine. you might be able to fool everyone else, but you can't fool me. i get it. i'm not the most personable girl in the world, i'm definitely not bertolt, && i don't have a dick to make you ' feel better ', or whatever. . . but for fuck's sake, we're. . . something. aren't we? ❞ the word ‘ FRIEND ’ doesn't feel quite right; it's a gross oversimplification of a dynamic that's anything but simple. ❝ you can talk to me, alright? just try not to say anything stupid. ❞ annie implores, trying desperately not to raise her voice; trying desperately not to rouse the boy in the other room, who's still ( hopefully ) sound asleep.

she sighs && grabs a clean plate for herself, applying a thin coat of butter to her bagel, before dolloping a generous helping of jam on top. she'll feel better after she eats; maybe they both will.

❛ you were up all night. ❜ annie && reiner ( modern haha jk unless )

annie and bertolt's apartment is like a second home; he's there more often than he actively is back at his mother's, and he knows that it's not fair  ––  he feels like he's intruding, like he's taking up space that he shouldn't, but neither bertolt or annie have said anything so he keeps the space he takes up.   most nights it's quiet and shared over shows, movies, or even games, and then he's waving them off to bed, sprawling himself out against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling, taking in the marks that have been left there by previous tenants.   he's sure some of them are from them all, too, but he doesn't keep note of that.  he doesn't keep track of anything lately.

he floats, in and out, but he never allows himself sleep  ––  no, he knows if he winds up sleeping, if he allows his guard to go down, he'll reveal everything that he keeps hidden down with the orange prescription bottle that he keeps in his pocket at all times.   they don't need to know about the way that he screams in his sleep, the way that he loses who he is, where he is, wakes up in a fog and wanders until he can blink the desert away and find himself back in marley, the lapping of the sea heard.   he's done a good job at keeping it away from them; he flinches thinking about the nights at karina's where he's woken her with his screams and heard nothing but her soft sobs for the next week over how broken her son is. 

reiner's already broken enough in their eyes; he takes his meds every six hours on the dot, sometimes sooner  ––  when he starts to feel the shake in his fingertips and the anxiety creeping up his throat, he swallows the pill and pretends that things are fine, that he hasn't expanded himself to the edges of his mind's limit.   he's only been home for a few months but he feels like it isn't an excuse  ––  he attends his meetings and drinks his coffee and doesn't talk about marcel's bloodied uniform of the scar against his eyebrow that reminds him of what had happened.   instead he thumbs at his pill bottle and eyes the clock, and then he heads home and swallows down his emotions until he can pretend to be better for the sake of karina's mental health.

but the nights he spends at the apartment feel more soothing, more like home; he watches annie and bertolt eye the damn bottle and knows that annie's keeping count of how many pills he takes and how often.   she has a keen eye and though they fight like idiots, there's a warmth to their gestures and teasing.   there is a whiteboard on the fridge that has their names on it:  x amount of days since annie and reiner's last fight.   generally, it's not filled in for more than a day.   they both know it's not a real fight, anyway; they fight in the way of bickering and short cut comments, but they both know their limits.   they both back off before teeth and claws come out because neither truly want to hurt each other. 

there's always that soft animosity that blooms, even if he wants to tuck it away; her and bertolt are close, closer than they are, and a selfish part of him hates it.   he has no right to  ––  he enlisted and left, and he was forgotten, the emails getting far and few between.   but there's always that soft nagging in his heart, the one that sees how close they are, and wonders.   wonders if he's intruding in something intimate, something personal; and he doesn't want to admit to himself how much that alone would hurt.   he doesn't want to admit that he's carried something for years for bertolt that the other had either been oblivious to see or hasn't wanted to.   either way, reiner swallows those emotions down too and makes himself a home where he shouldn't, leaves some money when he can, and brings treats whenever he can't.

it's how he finds himself in the kitchen in the morning; his t-shirt is soaked from his morning run, the one that starts at five in the morning and leaves him heaving for breath as he runs along the edge of the ocean, feels the uneven docks underneath his sneakers, watches the fog roll in and tastes the salt on his tongue.   sometimes he thinks if he runs hard enough, fast enough, that he'll outrun this feeling in his chest  ––  that everything with marcel and his time out east will dissipate, that it'll be a horrendous nightmare that he can wake himself up from.   it never works, but the steady thumping of his shoes and the erratic rhythm of his heart and breathing provide something like familiarity, so he tucks himself into himself and pushes forward until he feels like he's on the verge of collapsing and the sun streaks up in the sky.

he sets down the brown bakery bag; there's sliced bagels inside for anyone who wants them, and he tugs his own free as he turns toward the toaster, relishing in the quiet of the apartment as his eyes close.   the salt bagel starts to brown and he leans forward a little, the scent of fresh bread already beginning to make his stomach growl, when annie's words scare the absolute shit out of him.

a yell escapes him as he whirls around, honey eyes wide as he stares at the less than impressed petite girl staring back at him.   she looks mussed from sleep, but her eyes are as sharp as ever; she knows that he doesn't sleep when he's here.   there's bruises underneath his eyes, there's a ringing in his ears; reiner keeps trying to push himself into something better, something more, something that fits the mold of who he used to be in front of people that have become strangers when they shouldn't have been.

" why are you even up this early? "   it's a horrible retort and annie isn't going to let it go; it's written in the raise of her brow, the way that she grabs her own bagel from the pack and nudges past him, throwing his onto the plate so that she can put hers in. 

he watches her for a long moment before he takes in a deep breath to steady his heart beat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he counts, and then he allows himself to sag back against the counter top.   he's going to have to erase the progress on the white board today, he can feel it. 

" i don't sleep any night, it's fine.   military things. "   a shrug of his shoulders, teeth into the flesh of his bottom lip.   he worries it between there, a familiar knot that's formed from doing it so often as he butters the now toasted bagel.   his hands shake; eyes slide to them and then to the clock, and he curses softly under his breath as he tugs the bottle free from his shorts pocket.

he shakes one into his hand and swallows it dry, a flush on his cheeks as he feels her eyes on him once more, not on the bagel as it pops up from the toaster.   he feels like his image is crumbling. 

somehow, it's bad that it's in front of annie of all people. 

honey eyes avert themselves, stare at that space next to the white board where there's photos of annie, bertolt, pieck, and porco on some vacation.   he sees the smiles there, the camaraderie, and once more he feels that ache, that sense of wrongness.

he doesn't belong in this space.

" i'm fine, annie.   really.   just some light insomnia. "    he bites into his bagel but he doesn't taste anything; his stomach sours and he swallows thickly, tries to smile but it never once meets his eyes. 

sometimes it feels like he's never actively left the war zone after all.