CHAPTER I | A Royal PIA Meets Democracy
Annie

He sits down two stools away from me. Gruffly orders whiskey on the rocks and digs into the stale pretzels on the bar.

His hair is unruly and hangs just over his eyes, and he is drowning in a gray sweatshirt. A ratty, old scarf the color of red wine hangs loosely around his neck. The spitting image of a washed-up college student. Rattling the pretzels, his phone glows up, buzzing once. But he ignores it, taking a sip, forming a grimace, picking at a loose thread on his scarf.

I've decided that he's either one of the two: A) your classic "I majored in Italian Literature, and while donning gladiator gear and pretending to spar with my colleagues was fun, I'm in a semi-existential crisis where I don't know what I'm doing with this deadweight degree, and, oh, I'm also drowning in student loans, so fuck me" case or B) the poster child of a dark, brooding lover who had his heartstrings ripped clean out of his ribcage.

Another buzz. The pretzels quiver. Whiskey is slurped. A thread is tugged.

You might be thinking: "Okay. He seems pathetic. Sure, let's assume so, but what does that say about you, Annie? Sitting alone at a bar on a Wednesday night, shooting a glare at whatever horny dude steps within a five-foot radius of you? And not to mention you've got to cough up something that resembles a midterm paper in… T-minus six hours?"

To that, I reply: "Noted."

I gave this whole hook-up culture a shot, but after a month of dealing with pissbabies who don't understand the concept of the "one-night stand," I got bored. The free drinks I scored were not worth the cost of clumsy men lacking an ounce of technique. I'm here tonight (and almost every other night of the week) because martinis are great. Martinis are my lifeblood, the fuel that'll help me crank this paper out in an hour flat. Also, Bertholdt, who's manning the bar, gives me an enormous discount.

So with that, I concur: I am what society considers to be lame. But I get essentially free martinis. And I have a 3.7. Being lame rocks, bitches.

"Hey, uh, Annie!"

I glance up. It's Bert, wiping at a Scotch glass, eyeing me with that whimpering, puppy-dog look. I stare at him, giving him the floor.

"So, um," he begins, sweat already breaking out across his forehead. Poor guy. "How are you doing tonight?"

I shrug, glancing back over at Sweatshirt Boy. His drink is half gone already. As are the pretzels.

"Still breathing," I say, looking Bert directly in the eye.

He crumples, quickly averting his gaze. A blush creeps up his neck. Still entertaining as ever. "Ah, that's… good to hear," he manages before ducking away to pour a drink.

As painfully awkward as he is, we've gotta give him some credit. A month ago, he'd turn into a human puddle at eye contact. Now he's capable of forcing out a five-word response, and then turning into a puddle. It's weird. He's fine serving other customers; some may even consider him to be a charming bartender. But when I walk in, he's a fucking mess. Maybe my order is too complicated.

The bar is now rumbling, creating ripples in my martini. The pretzels are all gone, leaving a few grains of salt shaking in the little ceramic plate. A red thread hangs loose, vulnerable.

"Another one?" Bert asks, gesturing towards Sweatshirt Boy's empty glass.

Sweatshirt Boy, ignoring his phone, nods.

"Are you gonna take that call?" I ask, stirring my drink with a toothpick that once impaled an olive garnish.

Sweatshirt Boy twists around and looks at me with a startling pair of electric eyes. His face is tired. His shoulders are hunched. But those eyes are alive.

"Why does it matter to you?" he grits out, taking another sip and bringing his glass down with a clink.

I wasn't expecting him to bristle like this. Intriguing.

"Well, if you're gonna play the passive-aggressive card and ignore your girlfriend," I said, deciding on Option B, "at least have the decency to put it on silent."

He snorts, entering his passcode and turning off the vibration. Smirking, he waves his silenced phone in front of my face. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," I reply, draining my glass.

I can feel his eyes on me, that electric turquoise running a current through me. Trying to read my intentions. I construct walls, a master of this craft by now, but something tells me that he's worming through the smallest cracks. In his hand, the phone glows to life, receiving yet another call. The contact photo of a girl flashes briefly on the screen, and from that glimpse, she seemed pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes. Someone I'd probably want to shove out a window.

"She's calling again," I inform him.

"I know," he says, rejecting the call. "She's a royal pain."

"So are most girls," I chime in.

Sweatshirt Boy lets out a bitter laugh. "I guess that makes her the queen of them all."

"Debatable." I motion to Bert. Shakily, he refills my glass to the brim, adding another shish-kebabbed olive. I look back over at Sweatshirt Boy, who's tracing the rim of his whiskey with a finger.

"What do you mean?" he asks, casting me a sidelong glance.

"I'm a contender for that position." I chew on the olive thoughtfully before tossing the toothpick into the empty pretzel bowl.

"For royalest pain-in-the-ass?"

"Right."

"I didn't know it was a democratic process," he mutters. "I was under the impression that all signs point to one person, and they take the crown. Kinda like a mandate-of-heaven type of ritual."

"Wrong. I've got Bert's vote. Right, Bert?" I call.

Bertholdt stiffens at the mention of his name. A few droplets of vodka spill over the bar. A lime slice plummets to the ground. A middle-aged customer grimaces. "Um, yeah?"

"Nothing."

"So are you gonna try to sway me for my vote?" Sweatshirt Boy inquires, cracking a small smile.

"Nope," I hop off the stool, grabbing my coat and purse. I clap a wad of bills on the bar. "I've got a paper to bullshit. Do me a favor and finish that martini."

As I make my way towards the exit, the boy follows me with his eyes. "Hold up, thanks, but I didn't get your name."

I hesitate. I sift through the personas I've donned over the years. There's Wendy the fashion blogger, estranged from her family after embarking on a journey to "explore herself" (Bert cringes the most at this one). Christina, eager to sleep her way up the corporate ladder, in hopes of snagging a six-figure mahogany desk job (this one's hard because I actually have to skim the Wall Street Journal, which is as appealing as sawdust to me). Stephanie, the country girl from Tennessee who can fire a shotgun in one hand and wrestle a hog in the other (yes, people actually fall for this one, especially if I'm wearing an awful braided-pigtail hairdo).

Living a normal, singular life just isn't interesting to me. I'd feel too run-of-the-mill, like a rank-and-file cog of the Chicagoan machine. People squeeze into these comfy, little niches and rot there.

But despite everything, I introduce myself to him as Annie. He tells me his name is Eren. Eren Jaeger. As it turns out, he's in my Immunology class.

Later, as I tack on the last citation to my paper, I can't help but recall that flicker in Eren, a flicker that I rarely see in the dumb sheep milling about this city. As I grant myself a three-hour nap before dragging myself to the lecture hall, I can't help but wonder how much more interesting my evening could've been if I sat down for another thirty minutes with this Eren Jaeger.


Why do people try so hard?

I'm watching him from across the lecture hall. His eyes are glued to the presentation slides, actually absorbing everything Dr. Zoe's prattling off. His hand scribbles furiously in his notebook. Each diagram, each point, each fact. He's the one who asks those questions that stir up a classwide discussion, shooting his hand up with this annoying eagerness that makes me want to puke.

I turn back to my computer screen, where I have one Word document up for typing down whatever's on the slides and another window for a movie I'm streaming silently with subtitles. (My personal rating: -75/10. Would recommend if you'd like shitty CGI effects to disintegrate your brain cells over the course of eighty minutes.)

After Dr. Zoe (she prefers that we call her on a first-name basis, Hanji, but I find that kinda weird) yells out our reading assignment, competing against the sound of zipping backpacks, and scuffling papers, Eren Jaeger is that medical student who lingers back and chats with the professor.

As I make my escape out of the auditorium doors, we make eye contact. He gives me a wave. As well as a smile.


The door chimes tinkle.

"Wow, now I'm running into you everywhere I go, Annie Leonhart," Eren remarks, inviting himself to the chair across from me.

I should be annoyed. I've been exposed: my favorite coffeeshop is my favorite coffeeshop because no one goes here, aside from some old guys, who are too busy with their newspapers, and a few engineering grads, who don't bother me anyways because they're noses are buried deep into their mystery math. The last thing I want to deal with, when I'm trying to digest this stupid medical knowledge, is to have to listen to gunners bitching and whining about running low on z's or gossiping about other gunners of the class. And now, the greatest gunner of them all, this Eren Jaeger, has infiltrated the Bean Bar.

"What's your order?" he asks, tapping my empty cup.

"Triple-shot macchiato," I say warily.

"Coming right up." He goes behind the counter, grabbing a fresh mug off of the shelf, and starts preparing my drink. "Uh," he pops his head over the espresso machine, giving me a sheepish smile, "I work here, by the way, so a tip would be cool."

"How long have you been working here?" I ask, moving my books and notes over to the counter. I slide the contents of my pocket towards him: a penny, a gum wrapper, and a paperclip. "I'm a regular, but I've never seen you here until today."

"Stingy, much?" he replies flatly, taking the penny and tossing the trash. He laughs uneasily. "Uh, that's funny because I'm here almost everyday… and I actually do notice you. You have a monopoly over that corner table."

"Oops," I answer, shrugging. "I'm not exactly lucid until my third cup, and by then, I'm on my way out."

"I hear you," he says, setting my macchiato down. "A snowflake or a Christmas tree?"

"What?"

"Just pick one."

"Why?"

"Just pick one."

"Uh, a snowflake."

A toothpick between his fingers, he stirs the cream on the surface of my drink once before pushing around the swirls to form an amoeba-shaped image that's supposed to look like a snowflake.

"Fuck, I screwed up," he mutters, tossing the toothpick into the wastebin. "On a good day, I'm a Pablo-fucking-Picasso."

"Picasso's stuff looked vaguely recognizable. And that looks almost like a snowflake, so I guess it's a good day for you." I take a sip. So he's the one who makes the great macchiatos. I've noticed that on some days, my drink sucks. Not enough espresso, too conservative on the sugar, too liberal on the cream. But on some days, it's perfect in every regard. Even though the foam art is a bit subpar today.

"Thanks," he says. "Did you get your paper done?"

I should be annoyed because he's poking into my personal business. I should slink out of this conversation and scour the entire city for another non-med-student-ridden coffee shop and ignore every smile this boy offers, erasing him from my record. But I don't. If anything, I'm more annoyed at myself for not being annoyed.

"With ten minutes to spare, actually. I got a whole ten extra minutes of sleep."

"Sweet." He gives me a fist-bump. "So now," he continues, flashing me a wry grin that stretches from ear-to-ear, "you don't have a lame-ass excuse anymore. I wanna hear the whole Annie Leonhart spiel. Tell me: why are you the biggest pain-in-the-ass in this galaxy?"

"This universe," I correct him. "I notice things."

"You notice things?"

"Like how you really need to change out of that shirt."

"What? Why? I like this shirt," he retorts, peering down at his light-blue button-down. "It fits me pretty well."

"It doesn't. You have this coffee stain that you keep trying to hide by half-assedly rolling up your sleeve. It's not working, by the way."

"Ouch." He winces, feigning injury. "I didn't expect to get eviscerated like that so soon."

"That was a pinprick."

"Hah, what?"

"Evisceration is many times more lethal."

Eren whistles. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Who says you're not on my hit-list already?" I deadpan.

"Right when I thought we were gonna be good friends, dammit," he sighs, washing out a dirty mug that was sitting on the counter. "See ya, Connie!" he calls to the bald barista just heading into the blustery street. The door closes with that trademark tinkle.

"So Connie's the shitty barista," I comment, watching him disappear around the corner.

"Huh?" Eren raises an eyebrow. "Bad service? That's weird, he's usually friendly."

"Nah, just bad coffee. You make this macchiato just right."

Another ear-to-ear grin. "Thanks, that's what I like to hear! The secret is to go easy on the cream and let the whole milk do its magic."

"You're lame," I snort, stifling a smile.

"Also, you need to make sure the ratio of espresso-to-milk is dead-on or else it's gonna taste like a latte," he adds facetiously. "We're talkin'—"

"Maybe you should ditch the M.D. road and get a Ph.D. in barista-ology," I cut in, flipping aimlessly through my Anatomy & Physiology book.

And we just banter back and forth like that. No barriers to scale, no walls to smash down. Just easy, fluid conversation. Unlike anyone else, there are no plastic layers to Eren that I need to peer through. He puts himself out in the open. Completely raw and transparent.

"So did you ever call that girl back or did she drain your phone battery?" I ask.

He pauses. A shadow crosses over his eyes. "Um, not quite."

Instantly, I'm on guard again. There's a layer forming over him upon mentioning the caller of last night. A layer made of unbreachable crystal.

"She was…" He struggles for the words. "A really, really good friend of mine until she decided to skip town."

The crystal remains uncracked.

"Some friend," I say.

"Yeah," he responds quietly. "Anyways, we're kinda on the rocks right now, but she stopped about right after you left."

"She seems persistent. I'd expect a Round II later tonight."

"Knowing her, you're probably right," Eren admits, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He takes it black.

"You know where she is?"

"Somewhere in Turkey right now. And then she's headed to Aleppo."

"As in the Syrian city?"

"As in one of the most dangerous places in the world," he answers darkly.

"Damn."

"She's a war correspondent. Tough as nails."

"I'm sure."

So far, Option B seems to be checking out.

"Probably shouldn't have brought that up," I note, suddenly uncomfortable by the quiet. "Sorry."

"Ahah, it's no biggie," he insists, forcing a weak laugh. "I guess I needed to get that out. Uh, hey, listen, so are you free tonight? I was thinking about getting another drink at The Colossus after work. I actually just stumbled upon that place last night, and I gotta say, I'm really digging it."

Shit. I'm smiling. I'm smiling. Inwardly, I'm telling myself to cringe, but outwardly, I'm smiling. Snap out of it. Now.

Next thing you know, we're chatting until he locks up the Bean Bar. And we're chatting all the way to The Colossus. Well, mostly it's him talking about random things and me listening, but according to Annie standards, this is one of the longest conversations I've held. Ever.

Not once does he mention the war correspondent again. The only time I see him check his phone is to scroll through a news app, searching for something. He comes up short. His smile wavers for a second.

We chat until Bert, hiccuping, informs us that it's time to close. And we chat as he walks me back to my apartment. He tells me that we ought to study together whenever I'm at the Bean Bar, and god, I really should be annoyed that my sacred private place is not longer private, but as the conscience of Annie Leonhart is screaming "fuck off!", my mouth forms the words "yeah, sure, whatever."


A/N: How did you all like it? Next chapter, we get a glimpse into what Mikasa's thinking, so stay tuned! Please leave some feedback!