He could feel his blood freeze. Hear the crackling as each individual shard continued to attempt a flow through his veins, toward his heart. The sight, which lay directly in the line of his vision, was agonizing. Traumatizing. Utterly unbelievable in its actuality. His breath caught in his throat as a bombardment of images violently attacked his consciousness.

Marco smiling…

Marco laughing…

Marco humming…

Talking…

Flying…

Breathing….

…Marco lying dead on the filthy pavement lining the grief stricken street.

And even as the woman beside him began to speak. Began to attempt to get him to react, Jean knew he could not; could do nothing more than stare in bewilderment and undeniable agony at the crumpled and desolated form lying against the wall.

When did it happen? When were we separated? I know it's been days since I've seen him last but I never imagined Marco would end up like this…I thought I'd see him again. I thought we would both survive. Damn it, we were meant to survive!

"Cadet? Do you understand me, Cadet? We cannot allow an epidemic to spread to the living – If you know his name then please tell me." The woman said calmly, dully, as if she were trying to convince herself that all the horrors her eyes had witnessed were mere illusions conjured from nightmares and daydreams and overactive imaginations.

The spell did not break, and the claws of disbelief and denial dragged Jean further into their snare. His irises were blown wide, palms sweaty with cold liquid which seeped from his pores. He was trembling and there was no action he could take to halt the involuntary spasms. His ears were deaf and yet, simultaneously ringing with chiming bells that never ceased their consistent tolling. Before his brain could register just what his body was doing, his feet were already walking, walking away from the pain and the shouting and the demanding and the heart breaking clench in his chest.

"Cadet!" The woman said, raising her tone slightly; desperately trying to fulfil the remainder of her duty.

And Jean just kept walking.

He had never fully understood someone who told him that their mourning and loss had left their innards numb; like the disintegration of nerves after endless, constant pain being rained down upon them. He had never believed that such lack of emotion was possible. Yet, now Jean understood wholeheartedly. Completely empathised with individuals whose souls had been torn from their bodies so thoroughly, they were left as less than human.

He could hardly breathe as his legs carried him to an unknown destination. The functioning that had once come so naturally to him was lost in a sea of crippling pain and nothingness. The fact that his best friend, the person he trusted more than any other, was gone slowly digested through his mind and then all at once. It was impossible for Jean to stop the drops of liquid forming in his eyes.

How could Marco be gone?

Clenching his teeth at the pain that resonated through his chest, his body collapsed and slumped against the side of a crumpling house. Resting one of his elbows on his knees, Jean brought his free hand and ran it through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut in order to block out the images of Marco. As he opened them once more and fisted the hair between his fingers, his face paled. His eyes, which once held so much life and arrogance and assurance became vacant, Jeans whole expression transformed into something ghostly, horror-stricken…utterly lost. Pictures and words scratched the recesses of his consciousness.

"Please don't get mad at me for saying this…"

Breathe. Breathe.

"…but you're not strong Jean…"

In. Out. In. Out. Breathe.

"…that's why you know exactly how the weak feel."

And the rhythm he had built up collapsed as a choked sob escaped his throat.

Curling in on himself Jean could not focus, his grasp on reality began to slip as grief overtook every sensation in his body. Unknowingly, he began to tremble. For people like Eren, who had experienced loss and the cruel workings of the world they lived in, mourning was something that was familiar – a harsh consequence for the life he had chosen. However, for someone like Jean, who craved security and safety rather than blood and metal, loss was destroying. He was unfamiliar with the very notion and unprepared for the results of such a situation.

Lost in his own world of agony, Jean did not notice the figure that was steadily jogging towards him.

"Jean!"

The voice, which clinked together like polished silver, ripped through Jean's ear drums and jerked his head up to the location in which it had originated. His eyes widened and simultaneously his mouth dropped open in pure disbelief.

It couldn't be…

The heart, cradled lovingly within his ribs abruptly halted its beating. Ceased completely. And then proceeded to flutter uncontrollably. Jean could not move, let alone stand; the catatonic state, from which he was woken from, drained out of his being until only his own pure conscious remained. Frozen in place, his brain began to whirl.

Am I hallucinating?

Shit, this can't be real…I saw his corpse –

"Jean!" the figure said, coming to a stop beside him, slightly breathless from running. "Are you okay? I saw you collapse – you're not injured are you?"

Moments ticked by like birds being observe from windows, gliding through the cool air, and yet Jean did not respond; could not respond. Could not even form coherent sentences if he willed himself to. Incredulity was the only logical emotion that flowed through him, the rest was consumed by the fire of hesitant hope that begin to ignite within his gut.

"M-Marco…?"

"You look so pale." A soft frown marred Marco's face as he took in Jean's expression and his resulting complexion. "I know it must be difficult for you to do…this, but If you want you can take a break, I don't mind taking over for a while…"

Jean did not reply and by the second Marco became more and more perplexed, more and more worried about his behaviour; it was not normal. Even for someone who had seen so many deaths, Jean was resilient, Marco had never witnessed him be reduced to this state before.

The sound of crying was heard by both in the background, carried on the wind that swirled around them. Only Marco reacted with a slight flinch.

Slowly, Jean's eyes began to focus and his consciousness caught up with reality, the shock slammed into him with such force that his whole body almost lurched forward in response. Instead of following through with his bodies will, he reached out a calloused hand and firmly grabbed Marco's own, pulling him down to his level and burying him in a bone-crushing hug.

A surprised sound left Marco's lips as his legs gave out and warmth enveloped him. "Jean…?" he asked softly, confused yet trying desperately not to startle his friend.

"Damn it." Jean said into Marco's shoulder through gritted teeth. "God, damn it Marco!"

Brows furrowing at the desperate and angry and broken tone present in Jean's voice, Marco hesitantly brought up his hands and awkwardly returned the embrace as best he could in the position they were in. Even though his face burned and stomach fluttered, he silently cursed himself to will away such emotions and focus completely on Jean; it was obvious to him now, that something had utterly terrified him, to the point where Jean's basic functioning was faulty. The question, though, was what?

"I thought I saw – shit…" Jean said, his voice cracking slightly and fragmenting his words. Clinging tighter to Marco's form, Jean's brows furrowed and his jaw clenched tighter as he thought back on the scene that had disintegrated his will, torn his motives to mere ribbons left shredded on cold stone.

"I thought you were dead Marco. I thought I saw your corpse…"

Marco's eyes widened at his words. His hands clenched into fists; soaking up Jean's shirt between rough fingers.

"It's okay. I'm alive, I'm here." Marco said, his voice gentle but firm. Paralleled by doctors who spoke to their patients with stubborn intentions.

Jean sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"You idiot, I thought you were gone," Jean said, more relieved – exhausted, than angry. "What the hell would I have done, ey?"

Slowly, the tension in Jean's arms dissipated and they slid back down to his side; simultaneously, Marco straightened and held out a hand in front of Jean. Butterflies still swarmed within his stomach, creating a storm. Jean's mannerisms. His expressions. His vulnerability and self-assurance only added to the difficulty of ignoring such feelings. The kind grin, that was so undoubtedly Marco, had taken residence on his face once again.

"Probably do what you always do; carry on."

And Jean grabbed his hand, hauling himself up with a grimace as he heard Marco's words.

"You actually think it would be that easy?"

Marco frowned; lines appeared between his eye brows.

"I don't want you to be upset if I was gone, Jean. I just want you to live your own life – no matter what happens," he said, shifting soft brown eyes to the side, releasing Jean's hand.

"Huh!? Don't speak about your life as if it was insignificant!" Jean said, fire burning behind hazel eyes, mutating them into molten lava. The anger that had been a constant in his life, a familiar resident in the turmoil of emotions he felt when training, flared into existence. The thought of Marco lying cold at his feet. Dead. Lifeless. Empty. Filled Jean with fury. The image of Marco…

Virtuous… (his light)

Irreplaceable…(his faith)

Compassionate…(his sanctuary)

…Marco, lying broken and distorted, fragmented his soul. An overwhelming urge to protect engulfed his senses; fear was the shadow that drove his emotions, compelling him to act.

Marco sighed before giving Jean a reassuring smile, after all he knew too well how sensitive Jean was when his walls and layers were stripped away; though he hid it well behind films of stone and strength and sovereignty – Marco knew that Jean's heart was as fragile as the one he currently owned.

"I didn't mean it like that. Of course I don't want to die but that doesn't mean I wouldn't be willing to if the situation called for it."

Jean gritted his teeth and looked down, his free hand curling into a fist. "No more…" he growled. "I don't want anyone else to die in front of me Marco – least of all you. Value your life."

For a moment neither spoke; the illusion of peace settled over them like a veil as Marco looked at Jean. Looked at him as if he had the encumbrance of the entire world resting heavily on his shoulders. Looked at him with such empathy, that he felt sick with the realization that Jean didn't know – had not yet been informed of his decision. And Marco knew, as he looked at Jean, that what he was about to relay could crumple the foundations of his strength.

"Actually Jean, there's something I've wanted to tell you since the battle ended, but I haven't been able to find you." Marco said hesitantly.

Glancing upward and locking eyes with Marco once again, Jean furrowed his brows. "What is it?"

"Well I…I've been thinking lately, about everything that's happened," Marco began, bringing his hand up to run through his short, dark hair anxiously. "…about everyone that died – I can't – "

His voice broke, crystal shards disjointed on brittle tiles.

Clearing his throat, Marco continued; his voice adopting a quite tone with self-deprecation and hopelessness enveloping each syllable. "I can't get them out of my head, Jean. I can still see all the faces of the people I watched die as I stood there and did nothing…"

The feeling of absolute uselessness –

"…I felt so useless…"

The feeling of utter weakness –

"…I felt so weak, not being able to do anything…"

The guilt is consuming, isn't it Marco?

"…and now, I feel so guilty. All I can think about is what might have happened if I had acted – if I had fought!"

Taking a breath Marco looked down, his arms hanging loosely by his side; a reflection of the emotions flowing through him. Destroying him. Burning his structure with ice woven guilt.

"I don't want anyone to be disappointed in me and I know now what I have to do, what path I have to take…"

Jean's eyes widened as the whole situation clicked inside of his withering mind. His heart stopped and the confusing situation created turmoil within him, swirling uncontrollably; he could not decide whether his heart had broken beyond repair, or destroyed itself as a mechanism to self-preservation at the unspoken words ringing through his ears. The latter seemed most probable.

"…So, please don't be angry at me when I tell you this…

No! Don't you dare Marco. Don't you dare say what I think you're going to!

"…but I've decided to join the Recon Corps." Marco finished with a small grin. A shaky, familiar, vulnerable grin that spoke volumes to any person around who witnessed it. A grin that held both resignation to the fate that Marco had decided for himself, determination to follow through with his decision and the fear that he so openly displayed at choosing such a destiny.

And as Jean clenched his jaw, and fought the bitterness swelling inside like a tumour waiting patiently for freedom, the foundations of his being collapsed. His strength crumpled and yielded to the pain that shot through him at hearing such words from the boy he trusted, valued. The boy he loved.

And as he watched Marco grin such a shaky, familiar and vulnerable grin…

…Jean's heart shattered.

Many people left. Retreated to the safety of their original choices; only a handful remained, of whom, had mere moments to decide upon their final decision. To be selfless or selfish. To value themselves above duty, or to let their lives be governed by orders and war and agony. Many people left, believing it to be an easy decision a simple matter of mere survival and yet Jean stood, hesitating – lingering in purgatory between safety and righteousness. Undecided.

His palms were damp and cold and his teeth clamped, fear making his chest constrict. Jean needed to leave. He needed to enter the Military Police, get to the security of the inner walls and never gaze upon the horrendous view which Titan's wrought outside their cage. Leave the fighting to delusional human beings daring to call themselves hero's.

Their cage…

And yet, part of his soul craved freedom; craved the air rushing through him as his 3D Manouver Gear flew him through the sky on wings woven from metal string.

Their prison…

So many people left. Walked away without a second thought, believing whole-heartedly that humanity was already doomed. And Jean stood; his heart beating through his head and his ears and his veins and he stood; the slither of hope keeping him rooted to the ground like glue – perhaps they could fight, perhaps they could win.

Their victory.

Closing his ears and balling his fists, Jean let the images he had suppressed race through his mind. Did he really wish to face that again? The agony of knowing people had died for him, the anguish at feeling so small and insignificant compared to their enemy. God, don't make me hate myself any more than I do, he thought angrily.

A warm hand encased his shoulder and a smiling, freckled face met his furrowed gaze. Jean hadn't even heard his footsteps as he approached.

"I know you'll make the right decision, Jean. After all that's what makes you a great leader." Marco said softly, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

"I don't want to, Marco – I don't want to fight…I don't want to die." Jean said, shakily. Reluctantly – his pride broken.

"No one ever does…"

And Jean looked at Marco. Looked at him as realization clouded his thinking. Comprehension stealing his senses, allowing him to focus on only one point, one person – Marco.

"I won't stop you if you want to leave, it's your decision – but I can't go with you Jean. I have to do what I can now that I know I have the capability to help people. I won't be able to live in Sina after everything I've seen." Marco said sadly, mourning for the ignorance he once held.

Looking forward, Jean watched the Commander with fire in his eyes – oh how he wished he could. How he wished he could leave and never look back, disregard everything that Erwin Smith had just told them and let go of the guilt burning his blood.

But he knew he couldn't. He could never – would never leave Marco to die again.

"No…I'll stay."

Hazel locked with brown and the relief and adoration he found there was consuming; only intensifying the love he held for Marco.

Jean's hands shook and his stomach flipped and his eyes burned and yet, there he stood by Marco's side – making the bravest and most difficult decision that soldiers faced. He had joined the Survey Corps.

Shoulder to shoulder both Marco and Jean stood, facing forward determinedly at the man who held their lives in his very hands; neither flinching nor moving from their position.

Perhaps, their convictions would not be enough and the lifestyle of being part of this division would break them irrevocably…

Perhaps they would both witness the others death before passing away themselves…

Or maybe, just maybe they would survive the hardships that this cruel world threw toward them…

And continue to breathe.