"He's dead?" Jean's voice broke like snapping violin strings and he rubbed his eyes that were overflowing with tears. His mouth was ajar like a door in an argument that hadn't been slammed because both people involved know that the silence between them is louder than any anger they can voice through crude actions, "Dead?"
His boots were caked with dirt and dust and blood. His hair was windblown and dry. His entire body was slick with sweat and despite all of these things, all he could see was the body in front of him.
All he could see was Marco Bodt, his corpse filling the entire line of his vision.
"Marco. . . M-Marco." He rubbed the rough fabric of his sleeve over his eyes, drying them of the tears temporarily as more fell, "Please, please! Please, don't be dead!"
He was creating a scene. Quite a few people, including Mikasa and Eren, had heard him shouting at no person in particular save for fate, save for God. He shouted at the inevitable linear progression of time itself. He screamed at anything he could blame. He screamed at himself.
"H-He," He was drawing one of his blades now, its stronger than steel alloy glimmering, "He wasn't supposed to die! Gi-Give him back, dammnit!"
Jean stared at the sky, a mockingly bright color of blue, shouting and pleading more loudly than a winter storm shaking and breaking a house that holds a family that has already been shaken and broken more than the house could ever be. He took a deep breath, shaking and panting.
He raised his blade vertically into the sky and then he lowered it.
He lowered the blade horizontally to his neck.
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes to avoid looking into the hell around him. A quick swipe and it was all over. A single swipe, and he was erased from the universe. A single swipe, and he would be a stain on the cobbles. Nothing more, nothing less.
He grinned, though the corners of his mouth shook with the complacent pain of melancholy slowly fading into excruciating sorrow. He pressed the blade into his neck harder, but he was suddenly turned around by two strong hands. His blade clattered to the ground, and he found himself staring into two furious green eyes.
Eren.
"Idiot! Idiot! Kircshtein. . ." He was pissed, shouting and scolding, "Get a hold on yourself!"
Jean was crying out more loudly now as he was dragged away with Eren and Mikasa, all on the street staring at the new reality that would soon be the familiarity they were forced to possess.
"S-Shut up! Let me die! Let me die! Please, let me!" He screamed in a tone more high-pitched than previously thought possible for a man. Jean kicked and screeched and cried, but Mikasa and Eren kept firm hold on his wrists, "Give Marco back! Give him back! I need Marco back! Marco! Marco! Please! Let me die!"
Out of breath, Jean let Mikasa and Eren drag him back. He wanted to fight. He wanted to, but he physically couldn't. He was left hollow inside, like a lifeless corpse. He needed Marco to live. Right now, all he needed was Marco.
Later that night, Jean had a dream.
In the dream, an angel visited him.
It was a beautiful angel. He had brown hair and perfect freckles, along with chocolatey eyes that you couldn't help but melt into. The angel was his for that bittersweet night.
He and the angel kissed, loved, danced, and spoke of happy things. Jean loved the angel more than anything. The dream was a vague vortex of warmth and love, though Jean couldn't help but be filled with sadness at the fact that he must eventually wake. He held the angel in his arms through the dream, ignoring the inevitable.
Waking up the next morning, he found his arms to be empty, his eyes to be filled with tears, and his two newly-sharpened blades next to his bed.
He smiled and picked them up.
He saw the angel the next night.