Classically, the French and the Germans aren't always necessarily the best of friends. In the World Wars, they were on different ends of the battle. They feuded and lives were lost. This was partially due to their conflicts in temperament. The Germans: fiery and hot, always acting on am impulse and chasing a dream. The French: collected and cool, always striving for excellence in all prospects. History does have a way of repeating itself. However, not every stories of these two clans ends the same. In many ways, love and hate are the same. Both are strong emotions, felt from the heart generally on impulse with no real reason initially. But if the emotion is to last, the object of it will give reasons for the reaction. So, while the strife between Germany and France was bitter and fraught with hate, two individuals will find their story to be very different – yet much the same.

It's a pretty day. Autumn is my favorite season, and today is one of those days that validates my thoughts about autumn. However, there was a day much like this one before, yet it was not nearly as beautiful as this day. It was the beginning of a story, though. A story that begins with one event out of the normal that went on to change the course of my life.

Rivaille was wearing a white shirt. He walked through the crowded streets with an ease so complete he almost looked…bored? Of course, I didn't notice it, because if I had, we would have never met. I'm not sure if you could even call it meeting – we just sort of ran into each other. Literally. Except that I ran into him. And spilled my coffee all over his white shirt. Any normal person in that situation would just apologize and go on with their day. And the person on the receiving end would give a scowl and walk to wherever they were going.

I suppose he showed his un-normalness first. Instead of just accepting my apology and moving on with life, he stopped me.

"Where do you think you're going, brat?" he exclaimed, as if it would scare me or something.

"None of your business."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. It's none of your goddamned business," I began to raise my voice.

"Now it is. You're coming back to my apartment so I can change out of this filthy shirt and then you're going to wash it."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because you soiled it!"

I showed my abnormality then. Rather than protesting and leaving him to deal with his own problem, my conscience got in the way. I did feel bad for soiling his white shirt. If it didn't get treated soon, it would stain and that couldn't be good. Besides, this guys wasn't bad looking. Sure, he had this continual bored expression on his face at all times, but that kinda looked…sexy?

So as we walked back toward the man's apartment, I tried to make a little small talk.

"What's your name then? You wouldn't have me over if I didn't at least know that, would you?"

"My name is Rivaille," he grumbled so softly that I could hardly hear what he said. "What's your name, brat?"

"Eren Yeager."

"How is it spelled?"

"E-R-E-N."

"Tch," was all he responded with. Seemed like he disapproved. Anyway, it wasn't my problem what he thought of my name. I had my own life to figure and that had absolutely nothing to do with this prick.

After maybe ten minutes of walking in relative silence, we reached his apartment complex. Rivaille abruptly turned on his heel and started up the steps. He swung open the door with a force so unnecessary I realized that he was very upset about his shirt. Didn't seem like such a big deal to me. Then again, this guy was a stranger. Strangers always seemed exceptionally odd to outsiders.

When we got to his place – number 304 – he made me take off my shoes before entering and put them on a shoe rack neatly next to each other. After complying with this guy's rules, I straightened and noticed how painfully neat his apartment was. The chestnut hardwood was glistening, the countertops of his breakfast bar were gleaming black, and the white walls were pristine and had not a blemish. I looked around in awe while he walked to the corner of the open-concept room where his 'bedroom' was. As he removed his shirt, I noticed how muscular his back was. Even though I knew it wasn't good to be checking this guy out, he was just so…hot… He must have noticed me staring because he flashed me an expression back that I couldn't quite read. Confused and self-conscious, all I could do when he announced that he would be taking a shower was nod.

I took that opportunity to snoop about his house a little. It wasn't the right thing to do, but I figured that I had a free pass, considering how odd the situation already was. I noticed there was one picture frame with its face down on his dresser, so I picked it up. What I saw surprised me.

Rivaille and another man were pictured. It was one of those lovey-dovey shots where a couple kissed and someone took a picture of it to show how in love they were. The man was tall and blonde, which look funny because Rivaille was short and has dark features, except for his pale skin. I noticed the glass of the frame was cracked, though, as if Rivaille had thrown the picture down so its face was to the dresser.

I put the picture back the way I found it, though. After mulling it over and leaning on the front door, I hear the bathroom door creak as he emerged in a fresh pair of black jeans and a white tank-top. This outfit was less put-together than the other. I worried if I had interrupted his day too much. Even so, I was still rash and thoughtless in my words to him.

"So… Bad breakup?"

"I don't recall giving you permission to look around." Strangely, he seemed to know exactly what I was making reference to.

"It was lying in plain sight."

"Whatever. It's none of your business. Just take this filthy shirt and wash it."

"How can I stay in contact with you to give it back?"

Rivaille just rolled his eyes at me as if I had asked a question with a painfully obvious answer, yet the answer was not apparent. At least not to me.

In a swift motion, he grabbed my hand and wrote his phone number and name on it. His lettering was harsh and dug deep into my hand, yet it was neat. Perfect, in fact. After he had written it, he shoved his soiled shirt into my chest and sent me on my way.

A few days passed. I had washed Rivaille's shirt on the first day as I got back to my own apartment, but my studies at university had gotten in the way of my thoughts about the eccentric stranger that had brought me into his home because I had merely spilled my coffee on his shirt. That night after class, I checked my phone.

-1 message received-

It was from Rivaille:

Come over now.