(A/N: Starting a new fic. Know why? Because hell if I'll let any more of my ships sink. I am literally rewriting canon because fuck canon with a stick. I'm so done with mangakas killing my otps. *stifles further rant*

So yeah. Be prepared for a lot of angst and drama and emotional pain. But guess what? Marco doesn't die. And that's what really really matters to me at this point. So deal. I'll write more when I have time. Chapters will all be longer than this from now on. Oh, I'm making a lot of shit up, so if you have problems suck it up or leave. Constructive crit welcomed but no flames, I'm really not in the mood to politely deal with that shit.

Overal rating of story is based on graphic descriptions of violence, disfiguring injuries to characters, and a whole fuckload of feels. Not going to post chapter warnings, just this big overarching one.)

With a strangled cry, Marco's eyes snapped open, roving about wildly.

"The titan! Where's the titan? What's happening? Wh-"

"Oh my God he's awake!" Marco's eyes (well, he could only see out of the left one. The other was covered with gauze, a thin enough layering that dim, textured light made it through) snapped to the left, focusing on the approaching people. Jean. Armin. Sasha. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his veins. But the presence of the others calmed him somewhat. If they were here, he could be sure they were alive. All the same, he couldn't help but feel something was missing. He couldn't even put his finger on exactly what it was. He tried to sit up, but it proved futile. His body was exhausted. He felt more tired than he ever had in his life.

"What happened?" he asked. "How many are left?" The others exchanged a glance.

"The battle's over, Marco," Sasha said quietly. That was odd for her. She seemed far more subdued than usual. She looked pale, and she wasn't smiling.

"Did we win?" Marco asked, trying to figure out why she looked so…shell-shocked. Maybe they had lost? She hesitated, though, looking almost nauseous.

"…Y-Yeah," she said finally. "We…We won." Marco smiled, relief washing over him. The expression didn't feel comfortable, though, seemed to stretch his skin tighter than usual.

"Good," he said, heart rate finally slowing.

Silence fell, and Marco took a moment to look around, take in his surroundings. He felt vague confusion wash over him, and finally, after he couldn't deduce the answer on his own, voiced it.

"…Why am I in the infirmary?" The others stiffened, exchanging a shocked glance. Marco wondered what was with all these looks they'd been sharing. It was like they knew something, something he didn't. After a moment of tense silence, Armin spoke.

"…You don't remember?" he asked. Marco looked at him in confusion before slowly shaking his head. Armin swallowed. "We…We don't exactly know what happened either. But during the battle…" he swallowed again, looking pale like Sasha. "…You got hurt," he finally whispered. "We brought you back to the infirmary. It…It was pretty touch-and-go for a while. We…We thought we'd lost you." They subsided again into silence, Marco too shocked to immediately respond. He'd almost died? Was it really that bad? Jean was standing bedside him, hands clenched into fists, jaw tight.

"…What did it look like, Marco?" he finally asked. He looked tense enough to snap. "What did the titan that did this to you look like?" Marco stared at him in confusion.

"Why?" he asked. Jean looked like he was fighting not to lash out, to break something, to scream.

"Because I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" Marco frowned. Why was Jean so upset? Was it really that bad? Something was nagging at the back of his mind, like an itch. Something was missing. Something that should be obvious.

Realization dawned on Marco and he felt himself go cold.

He swallowed thickly and turned to look at the others with wide eyes. "…Why can't I feel my arm?" he asked breathlessly, almost a whisper. The others froze. Marco looked between them, horrified, frightened. "Why can't I feel my arm?!" he repeated. Armin wouldn't meet his eyes. Sasha looked like she was fighting not to cry. It was Jean who finally broke, falling to his knees in a display of weakness Marco had never seen from him before. He clutched at the side of Marco's cot, head bowed.

"I'm sorry, Marco, I should have been there, I should have fucking been there-" Marco couldn't take this. He threw off the covers, terror and shock giving him the strength to push himself up to seated. And he froze, staring. Uncomprehending.

It was gone.

His right arm. Gone.

Just gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.

He stared at the somewhat bloodstained bandages running all down his torso. It…no. This…this couldn't be real. It wasn't. It just…it just couldn't be.

There was a dent in his torso reaching partway up his right collarbone.

Oh my God.

There was a bite out of the majority of his chest, his shoulder, the upper part of his hip.

But…no. That just wasn't possible. It- I mean- He'd-… It had happened to someone else. This wasn't his body. It couldn't be. Because he did have a right arm, he didn't have a partially crushed ribcage, he didn't hear a sickening crackling coming from a crushed hip. He was Marco. He was complete. This couldn't be him. It just couldn't be.

Marco swallowed hard, fighting not to vomit.

A nurse swam into his field of vision, urging him to breathe. Another insisted, nearly to the point of shouting, that his friends leave before joining her companion. The two of them coerced him into lying back down, and he was too stunned, too bewildered, too denying to struggle or refuse. The pain was entirely distant, entirely removed when they reset his shattered hip. Marco could only lay there, staring at the ceiling, everything in his mind rejecting what he'd seen, the pain he felt.

He stayed there long and silent. Staring at the ceiling. Trying not to think, trying not to imagine, trying not to remember. For a while, part of him even tried not to breathe. Finally, long after the sun had set, he still lay there, sleepless. One question continued to circle his mind, and his imagination was pushed off to the side, forbidden in any way to answer it.

…

Why did he have gauze on his face?