Moonshine

by Quantum Cloaks

1920's AU where Jean Kirschstein is a 28 year old loser who doesn't know what to do with his life until he joins the Bureau of Investigation. Marco Bodt, a transparent and apparently loyal-to-the-government worker finds himself wrapped up around Jean's subtle immersion into the illegal world of Prohibition. Expect Angst, Love and Compromise brought by a forbidden Era.

I never approved of jazz. That is, to say, perhaps I savored it or even let myself be delighted in its shape and contour, but I never really approved of it. I would shrink, almost lifeless, in a condescending cloud of confusion when I was younger and happened to come across its rhythm. My parents had raised me as a proud devotee of my ethnicity although I really wasn't. I loved to sing to Jazz and its tunes and let them consume me, but there was always a dreadful side to everything.

Jazz, you see, comes from Harlem, which, according to the woman whose teachings I grew up disciplined with, is a synonym of drunkenness, of the steadily growing population she, herself, instructed me to dislike. Consequently, jazz made me want to move but with enough time on her hands and in my life, my mother managed to make my body wave itself away from the music, and not only that but also from the time I lived in.

I don't know… I assume this complete situation represents the pressure I've always been put up to. That's where it all comes from; My hatred for the rhythm and instruments I liked listening to the most rose from the land of Jean-Kirshstein's-shit-childhood.

But jazz—it sounds and echoes all around the back of my mind every time I try to concentrate, and I accidentally sing to its lyrics while suffocating myself under my own oppressive thoughts. Which is the rooster, which is the hen,I sing along to a Harlem jazz and look around me, not wanting to stand where I'm at.

I sigh. The trainer walks past all of the new trainees and hurriedly interviews them. It's almost my turn. I don't like this, but it's not like I have an option anyway. I am forever doomed to stay at the oppressive part of society which suppresses any conduct that is deemed irresponsible or law-challenging.

I do have an objective in mind by working at the bureau, but still I don't want to be here... I don't needto suppress anything in this society. I'm used to the short skirts, the smoker gals, their voting right, even. I'm used to the blues, the illegal speakeasies, to the prohibition. And I know, above all, that I really am used to the greatness that surrounds America and forms its culture with such audacity I so humbly dislike. What I'm not yet used to is my inherited conservative reactions toward this all. That's why I'm here. That, and my need for higher income.

Everyone around me is wearing a serious expression, as if they'd been hit by a plank right in the face. But I'm not. I'm smirking, and so is the person next to me. His smirk, though, is different. I look away.

But, you know what? I'm twenty eight and I have no idea what to do with my life. Who knows when it'll be all over. Sometimes I really wish it happened without me noticing. My death, that is. I haven't lived up to the expectations they all had of me. I'm not your star lad, no; I'm your chaotic, oppressed, undesired kind of kid, and, actually? It doesn't seem like it matters. Not to me, anyway.

The more I try, the less I can get myself to care about life.

"I've come here to protect the government", is the first thing I hear when I drift back from the depths of my mind. I look at the source of that soothing, although unconvincing voice that's being emitted and let a sly smile form itself in my face, considering the magnificent, yet so slight lie that rolls out of his mouth and is accepted—not so much as an excuse but as a default (and still unbelievably good) answer—by the trainer. I turn my eyes around, noting the answer's owner's presence next to mine and then expel air out of my nose, putting on what seems like a really short and quiet kind of laughter. I know I'm doing it out of pride other than any other emotion, really, but nothing can be done to stop it.

I feel jealousy crawling inside me and around my bones as I wish I was able to answer those words instead of him.

Anyhow, the man who's just answered, or, in other words, the black-haired male whose freckles seem to cover the whole of his body gives me the feeling of being too much of a liar—not because of his expression, which, by the way, looks a bit petrified still when he's smiling, but only due to the fact that no one could possibly join the Bureau of Investigation to just protect the government. This is not the reason why he's joined as much as it is the only thing that he's been able to come up with. So why has he lied? I wonder. He still gets away with it, as everyone else does, and I shrug it off, ranting in my mind about how easy it is to make the government think you're a perfect fulfiller of the law. And it is not that he isn't so, but the way in which such simple answers are accepted makes me think that corruption could take over and, judging by the sheer stupidity of America's law enforcers, no one would notice.

That's yet another one of my reasons to not want to be here, adding itself to the fact that I am not fully sure of my decision of joining. Many times I have felt myself swoon due to the stressful condition I live in, not knowing how to become a better son for my parents—Or, at least, a man that knows what to do with his life—and so I stand at the Bureau of Investigation's official training grounds, waiting for my hidden ambition of becoming a high-ranked investigator (are they called that?) to be a graspable truth and take over my right-now pathless life.

Seeing that I'm what you would call an experienced lawyer, they've let me in easily, but my physical state is so pitiful for the kind of job I'll be attending to that I am deemed to come to these training sessions for two months until I can finally perform what I've been hired for.

Soon enough, the trainer stands in front of me and asks—Or, I would dare say he commands— 'Your name', to which I naturally answer 'Jean Kirschstein, sir, from New York', because they've recruited experienced workers from all around the country, and he looks at me for a moment before throwing a second question. 'What are you here for?' He requests, his tone and volume higher than before, perhaps demanding for me to speak louder, but I pause, unsure of what to reply. I feel my eyes widen and my brows furrow due to the worry and confusion such question causes in me, but I manage to rapidly ignore those emotions. I think, for some unknown reason, that it will be easier to pull off the truth, even if it isn't socially correct, and even then, I don't really know what the true truth is. I can only half-feel it… but I still answer. 'To become a high-ranked officer and live in a big hou-ah!'

I am not yet finished when the trainer kicks me between my thighs and I fall, kneeling, to the ground. I can hear him screaming over my pain, but I can't really distinguish one word from another. When I finally look up searching for him, he's long gone, but I see a hand being offered at me and take it. The man next to me helps me stand back up.

Individual training starts soon after that, and so we all let the day pass.

Eren, whose last name I can't yet get myself to remember, is quite the palooka. He keeps ranting on and on about how he will, with his own hands, blow all of the mafia down, and the more he speaks, the more he gets on my nerve. When they ask him about Capone, he can only shoot mere opinion-based descriptions, acting as if he's seen too much of him, and I know he does it to gain attention from the other trainees. But I don't fall for that. I see everything from behind, sitting next to a coworker I still don't know, my chin placed on top of my hand—that is, until the man who's supposedly working at the bureau to 'protect the government'kindly asks everyone to shut it, and so they do.

Only in that very second do I feel tranquil. I don't know how, but he has managed to calm down the whole trainee squad with just one sentence. Moreover, he's managed to make Eren stop shit-talking. I look at him, at his freckled cheeks and his worried frown and his green-blue dyed vest as he follows a group of people with his eyes to check whether they're done annoying Eren. It's a following-eye contest, I think, for I realize that I am, too, following him with my sight. Somehow, a progressively larger curiosity about him arises in my mind due to his ability to calm down the entire group of people.

But I let it go. I eat, not much but enough, and from then on, everything seems unimportant, except for Eren. I argue with him, but it truly doesn't matter. I do it in order to lie restful in bed that night but I'm not sure what he does it for. I'm definitely not concerned about his reasons, as he may have many and I thoroughly reckon that those people like him, who entitle themselves to the fulfillment of enormous responsibilities, might have the most disgraceful knots in their minds. However, truth be told, the snobby way he speaks still drags me toward exasperation. He thinks too high of himself, so I stand up once again from my bench and clear my mind through what I think are relentless screams. He follows my action and we soon bound up each other in one distressful clash of opinions.

That is until Erwin, the second in command, breaks in and obliges us to pretend nothing has happened. We walk back to our tables and sit, uncomfortably and occasionally glancing at each other.

At the end of the dining time, a loud ring allows us to walk out of the training building and back into our lives, and after having moved down the staircases and out of the Bureau, I'm standing in the middle of the street thinking what to do next that night, my lifestyle destroyed by my faultless carelessness, when I'm shaken by a slam coming from behind my back. I hiss a cuss and turn around, ready to groan out a word—any word—to whoever still has their hand placed on my body, but when I do, and although it takes me time to notice the origin of what's bumped against me, I look around and finally stumble upon his face.

The freckled man, again.

But he doesn't look back at me and instead continues to pace away from the building. I decide to go home and get some sleep.

I normally wake up to the sound of automobiles being rebuilt outside my apartment. I don't have a clock nor a way to measure time because, on top of it all, above my great feeling of numbness and despair resides my biggest flaw: I'm a light sleeper. And that's not a problem, to be honest. It's just a medium through which I form my daily schedule, but it becomes bothersome when you live in New York.

Today, though, I don't wake up. Who needs to wake up when they haven't slept at all, anyway? There are many things that haven't let me get my mind blank for me to get to sleep, but it's—I don't know. I'm guessing its fine.

I get ready for work, take my training clothes, put on my working suit and take off to the building where we've been training. It doesn't take me long to get there, even when I've travelled on foot, because of the really short distance I have to go through. On my way there and almost reaching the door, I see Eren.

Due to my tiredness, I feel an exhaustive pain drilling my inside, so I stand alone without crossing the road until I can no longer see him. I'm about to start walking again when a coworker greets me. If I'm not wrong, his name's Reiner.

'Kirschstein,' he says, I'm not sure if greeting me or just to cover the silence.

'Braun?' I answer, unsure, seeing still as he nods at me.

'Ready for today?' I hear him say, and this time I'm the one who's nodding, although my words come out differently.

'You wouldn't believe how tired I am right now.' I announce as a way to conclude the conversation. I'm not keen at keeping those up, so after my answer I begin walking again, Reiner following me. He doesn't give me an answer.

The rest of the day goes on like that. I spend my time with him. Blurred motions and unconscious actions make up for the rest of the hours I have stayed here. By the end of the first training session, my body feels sore although I'd say it's a good kind of sore, now that my tiredness has gone away and been replaced with a more energetic kind of exhaustion, and thus, is no longer collapsing on me and crashing against my shoulders. Anyhow, as I wait for my turn to take my lunch, I stand in line behind a tall person whose name is unknown to me but I've seen working hazardously, as if with a clear objective in mind. He's friends with Reiner, as far as I know.

My head aches, so I burry my face on my hand and look, hurtfully, only through my left eye. That's when I see him, the freckled man, standing next to me. He's talking to Eren, showing him, as I guess, his ankle.

'…It's not broken or anything but you can see how the bone pops out if I move it like this' and a shiver wraps up my whole body as I hear, even from a slight distance, the aforementioned pop that not only is visible but, to me, resounds through the whole hall we're standing at.

'Holy Jesus!' I let out unconsciously. He's crackling. Does he not feel pain? He looks at me, inviting me to join the conversation with his eyes, but I look away. When he finally turns his head and attention back to Eren, I turn mine back to his foot.

He adjusts his extremity into his right shoe, the action occasionally interrupted by his own winces. "It does hurt, indeed." I overhear.So hecanfeel pain.

As he moves with the objective of straightening his body, my eyes fall on his hands before finally standing on his face. His motions are gentle, as if there was nothing he'd ever wanted to break. Then everything comes into place. I remember how he was, last night, the only person who caught my interest. This, I note because his complete body, even his foot, is filled with tiny, dark flaws, each one standing side to side with another and so on, naturally filling his skin. It's the same man, I recall. The freckled man.

'Kirschstein!' I hear and instantly become aware of the existing world around me. It's Reiner. He offers me to sit with him after getting my lunch but I refuse, as serious as I can. After gathering all my food, I drift towards the only vacant table. It's not that I want to be alone but… I kind of want to be alone.

And I'm eating, just normally, when heappears next to me. "I might have to sit here," he says and instantly places his butt on the wooden chair, next to my body. Care to know, I'm speaking about the man with the popping ankle.

I swallow my words trying not to scare him off with my rudeness, so my only answer ends up being a careless shrug, to what he responds by finally putting his plate on the table. We stay quiet for about five minutes. When I feel that the situation is getting about as awkward as it can get, I open my mouth to speak. When I do, though, my words stumble with his.

"So why'd you sit all by yourself?"

"What's wrong with your ankle?"

He stammers and lets out a big smile. "Oh." I don't know whether that word comes out of his mouth or mine, but we both end up laughing awkwardly and quietly at the coincidence. Then I stay still, mouth not moving, and he decides it's his god given turn to speak. I grant him that.

He looks down at his foot and then at my face. We exchange sights for less time that my mind can process and it doesn't take long before he's looked away. "I messed up at today's training".

I stay silent at his comment, perhaps waiting for more. He raises his eyebrows, staring at me, and I motion my head sidewards as if telling him to be more detailed.

"Oh—I don't know. I was training and suddenly… ah, you heard it pop, didn't you? Something inside my ankle got- um… off. And-" Before he has the chance to keep repeating what he's already told me, I interrupt him. I don't need details, it seems. Perhaps further explanation?

"You already told me that. What are you going to do?" I rephrase what I'd meant with my expression and he nods to me in return, his smile fading for the first time. I see him scowl, possibly examining what he's about to answer, or so I think, until his head falls and looks down at the plate.

"I can't fail at this. If I do it'll be all over," he starts, his voice containing an audible shiver. I'm tempted to ask what will be over, when he continues. "And I can't let it happen, you know? I can't just lose the job. I need this. I might have to come tomorrow and-"

Oh. I stop listening. What he says is somewhat distressful for me.

Somehow, an overwhelming feeling of guilt falls on me like a cascade and I finally notice. I move my head from side to side just slightly as to resist my own struggling thoughts from coming out of me in the form of sentences. I notice, though. Even with my head wanting to be blank and my body forcing it, I notice—I can't possibly do anything and I'm still there, wasting space, as others literally depend on this job to have a life. If I wanted to, I could live of off my parents' financial benefits, whereas people like him give up on their health for a chance, even if small, to work at the bureau.

Guilt has always been what I try to keep away from me the most. It wrecks me in a way I can't possibly explain. It's the source of all my actions. I feel it all the time. I'm feeling guilt when not saying something I should or when I sing a song I'm not supposed to know. I feel guilt, and it kills me little by little. Fuck.

Now, I consider myself a very selfish person—Why am I doing this, of all people?, I wonder—but there are exceptions. I want to excuse myself in some way. I want to get away from the burden guilt represents.

"I could cover your back."

Just say yes. Get me out of this mental state. Say yes, freckled man.

"No." He says, albeit softly.

An almost indiscernible amount of air comes out of his nostrils, which, to me, sounds like a shy laugh as he shakes his head slightly while still looking at his plate. I swallow and clear my throat, unable to say anything else. Well. Fuck you. A stride of pride boils inside me, and that he can note.

"What if you do, though? I'll still miss work and, most importantly, training. I'm grateful, really, but I'd put too much pressure on you. You know what? Don't worry. I'll come and, I don't know, I can figure it out." And just then I can tell he's trying to calm me down. I sigh, trying, really, actually struggling not to lose my temper, and stand up, not yet done with my food but no longer feeling hungry. "Whatever."

Guilt is not yet gone but instead replaced with anger. He stands up behind me and follows me. We both throw our leftovers and put our plates where they'll be picked up later on. I try to ignore him, but he's still following me around, not really saying anything. I let myself get even more angry at this as I make my way to the exit and when I'm about to lose it and turn around, only one question comes to my mind. Then it happens again.

"Why the fuck are you walking at my pace if you hurt your ankle?"

"Your name is Jean, right?"

Only this time, an 'oh' doesn't come out of either's mouth. The fact that it's happened for a second time only bothers me more. Expectant, I wait for him to answer but he keeps this expression, this thought-ripping, consuming look in his eyes to which I can't not answer. I think that's what you call genuine curiosity, or naivety. Whatever it is, it makes me give up on my anger.

"Did you guess?"

He moves his hand up to his face and places his index finger under his nose. I can't tell why he's doing it, but as soon as I think of it, he removes his hand, eyes me from feet to shoulders and finally looks back up at my face, meeting my sight. "Not really. I heard you yesterday. You were next to me."

"Ah." I simply let out, coldly.

"Is that a French name?"

"Are you serious?" I hiss, annoyed. His reaction is natural. He stays calm and only dares, I'd say, to show me a smile. A set smile, that is. I've always been able to read through people's expressions.

"U-uhm. Well. Nice to meet you, Ja-ahn. My name is Marco—Italian, as you'd guess." Marco extends the vowels in my name as he says it, which makes me, although uncomfortably, laugh a little on the inside. That's not really how my name's pronounced—not in English, at least.

He places his hand between our bodies and the look on his big, brown eyes, obliges me to shake it. I feel comfortable for a second, as if, somehow, he's made me forget. Suddenly it's like he's stolen everything that crosses my mind. It's all blanks and I-don't-knows inside me. As he looks at me I feel as if he's reset my emotions and thoughts back to the beginning. It's like having gone all the way back to the start of the day. But I remember.

"So your ankle…"

"Oh, I canwalk. It's just bruised and feels strange when I move it, and, you know; It pops. But it's not as bad as you think." It's not funny but he simply laughs, and for a reason, I do too. His smile, I think, happens to be contagious. I'm somewhat calmed and something feels different. It feels, perhaps, like it's a good thing to speak with him. I'll figure it out,I think when I wonder how I'll help him with his ankle and myself with my guilt.

"See why I told you? No need to cover my back. I've got it covered, Jean."

And we're tired, and I've got a headache and we're just standing at the building's cafeteria waiting for another training session to start, and we're in the middle of April and it's boiling inside the place, and I'm sweating and he's just smiling and we're there. And I'm not angry anymore and he's, somehow, managed to ignore my terrible temper. And, you know what? It's fine.

Somehow, for a reason I can't truly understand, I feel like it matters. Like something matters, if at least a bit. He smiles at me expectantly and I frown. It's my turn to speak. Before I wonder why we're taking turns, though, my mind betrays my intention not to show too many emotions.

At least, I think, I'm not smiling. Too much.

"Yeah, it's nice to meet you too, Marco."