Chapter Text
The hiss of the shower lures Bertholdt and his cigarette into the bathroom. He put off coming back as long as he could, thinking he could wander the grounds until at least curfew, then he’d retire to bed, claiming he was too tired to talk, they could do it in the morning after he woke up at 4 a.m. to smoke this cigarette Hange gave him as a reward for not killing himself or anyone else at the hospital. Things will be better tomorrow is what Armin said, a mantra he claimed to have repeated to himself on his worst days bound to a bed. Bertholdt hadn’t believed him then but he wants to now, holding onto hope as he barely knocks on the door without a door knob. He slinks in, regarding the metal links dangling off the shower rod. The curtain’s been missing for as long as he’s lived here.
Somehow, the room is smaller than he remembers, almost suffocatingly so. He steals a sideways glance at the man in the shower, between wanting his gaze to be met and not. When it doesn’t happen, he retreats to the toilet for a place to put himself.
Jean’s eyes are screwed shut. He stands under the spray of cold water like a statue weathering a storm. His head falls back, his hair sharpened into points by the flow. Deep maroon spreads from beneath his armpit, scattered down his ribs to the V of his hips, his flesh tone coming through like specks of paint, raised and gritty, mixed with bits of debris yet to be plucked out, as though it hurts less to leave them in. The rise of his chest is slow, controlled, but Bertholdt can sense the angry heat radiating from his wounds, lashing out, impatiently waiting for someone to take responsibility. Come here, back off. He doesn’t know which. His spine goes pin-straight when Jean finally moves.
He grabs the soap and bestows a fleeting glance at Bertholdt, just the shape of him. Something in Bertholdt’s chest twangs dully like a taut wire. The soap turns to silky foam in Jean’s calloused hands, so white the bruises turn black, a void manifesting on flesh. Bertholdt waits for a sign, some indication for what he should do next, but the other man keeps his eyes fixed on his hands like nothing else exists. Tell me to leave if you want me gone. He thought they grew past the need for these hostile silences, he thought they grew up a little, but turns out sharing spit and come with someone doesn’t make communicating with them any easier. As he blends into the background with all the other bathroom fixtures, no more interesting than the toilet he sits on, his throat closes around the idea of breaking the silence. Anything he says now will only make things worse. He considers withdrawing to his bed and throwing the sheets over his head like a moody teenager until Jean decides he’s worth forgiving.
“It looks worse than it is,” Jean says, an offering, a life-saving plank of wood ripped off the sinking ship of their relationship.
“It looks pretty bad,” Bertholdt blurts, relieved to get a word in but wanting to restart the whole encounter, wondering if Jean will pretend with him if he steps out of the room for a second.
The spot goes untouched as Jean lathers his head and chest and lets the cold soapy water run down his body. His skin quivers at the contact, the flinch of his face purely reactive. He can’t be getting around very well. He was discharged only a few days ago, and the smell of dried blood and rotten food leaking in from the bedroom tells the story just fine. But if that didn’t, his sketchbook was left wide open, filled with frustrated scribbles and illegible blocks of cursive. He only writes when he can’t draw, and he only can’t draw when he’s depressed.
The water stops with a metallic screech. It goes quiet and Bertholdt stops bouncing his leg, unaware he was.
Jean bunches his hair into the ball of his hand and squeezes out the excess water. The drain gurgles hungrily. He repeats the motion, lifting and squeezing gently around his head the way Hitch taught him how to, coaxing out a natural wave, if only slightly. It's nice that he still cares, that his self-grooming habits preserve in spite of the damage. A black, scabby line protrudes beneath his right eye, joined by greenish yellow patches that become alarmingly clear when he finally faces Bertholdt. Bertholdt's eyelids flutter. A wave of shame washes over him but it’s not strong enough to clear his head. He shouldn’t be allowed to look, much less touch, but he wants his hands on Jean, in his hair, around his waist, just to prove he could do it gently, to prove he's worthy of a second chance.
In lieu of a mat, Jean steps on his soggy clothes piled up on the tile, holding onto the wall for support. He reaches past Bertholdt for a towel thrown over the sink.
“Armin said you were asking for me,” he says, knocking Bertholdt out of his reverie.
That’s a nice way to put it. They tied me down. I was screaming. They gagged me when I wouldn’t stop.
I needed you and you didn't come.
Bertholdt twirls the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I don’t remember, I was pretty out of it.”
He tries extra hard not to look anywhere else, settling on his lie, his staunch indifference, until a sigh breaks his concentration. The next time he pulls his head up Jean's got the towel wrapped around his waist. He's still dripping wet. “I should have seen you sooner,” he admits, a little friction bleeding through. It only makes Bertholdt want him more.
Water droplets dash down his temples like sweat, like blood. “You understand why I didn’t?”
“Because you blame me for everything that happened. And you wanted me to suffer alone because you thought that's what I deserved. You were right, I did deserve it.”
Bertholdt doesn’t say that. He says, Yeah, I understand, because, yeah, he does.
Jean searches his face for a discrepancy like a retired bloodhound. He should have been a cop, not a soldier.
“Um,” Bertholdt says stupidly, floundering. “You can take my bed, it's clean. And don't worry about” --your laundry, getting back on your feet, our fast sinking ship, telling me to fuck off (I’ll do it)-- “this. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything.”
Using his power, he hastily lights his cigarette, and a contemplative silence is born in the smoke. He takes a long drag, expecting to be shut down by the end of it, but Jean’s face remains neutral, unblinking.
“That's a bold statement. You just got out of the hospital.”
“I'm good now,” Bertholdt says, knowing he'll never be good, hoping Jean will believe him anyway. Ash falls into his lap.
Let me take care of you. He can’t say it. But he wants to. He reaches for Jean’s hand, stopping short. He watches Jean struggle with the words before he says them, the same way he struggled to accept Bertholdt after the betrayal, the same way he struggled to accept he had feelings for him, or at least urges. Their fingers touch, just barely. Jean grimaces as though something awful has wormed its way into his mouth and then breaks out into a smile that is anything but pleased.
He shakes his head. “You’re such a fucking liar.”