Quick note: this chapter contains an optional sex scene; if you'd like to read the story with it in, read as normally! If not, you can end the chapter after the marked break.

Chapter 10

The thing about being chronically weak is that things do not 'get better.' They get easier. Time does not give me new lungs; it strengthens them. But I still get winded. I still overtax them. Exercise does not give me new muscles; it builds the ones I already have. But I can still strain them. I can still pull a muscle, can still push them past their limits.

Living does not get better. It gets easier.

I empty the vial, and for a while, I notice no differences.

It takes me almost the full twelve days to climb to the top of the rock face. I can tell many of the trainees aren't happy about camping for nearly two weeks straight, and by extension aren't happy with me. But I don't care. The fact that, after months and months of walking until I drop into exhausted sleep, I can do something even as small as climb a rock, feels like I've won the lottery. On the way back to our base, I sleep like a corpse. Every bump in the road becomes the rumbling of the earth, of distant earthquakes; the stiff wooden wagon, my casket.

We make it back to camp in the middle of the night, and I am unburied from my early grave. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and blink with surprise–the world is on its axis, tilted. One of my ears is warm, pressed against something soft. The other echoes the night breeze. My head rest shifts, and I catch a whiff of the pressed fabric smell of the trainee jackets. "You're awake."

Mikasa stays still as I sit up. She's got midnight-soft hair, ghosting my features. She's cut it short–not yet as short as it'll be in the final season–but if it weren't for the wind, it wouldn't caress my face. I glance around. Our wagon is virtually empty. A snoring Sasha lanks on the opposite bench. "Thanks for letting me sleep for so long."

In truth, I don't expect Mikasa to say anything back, so she surprises me when she tucks her hair behind her ear and glances at the fleeing trainees. Eren and Armin are no doubt among them. "You seemed to need it."

I smile softly. "I guess so." The world is slipping now into winter, the gambling fall grappling to retain its fleeting holdings. Brown accosts the eyes as far as the moon can see. I shiver. "We should wake Sasha. It's too cold to sleep out here."

"I can. We share a cabin."

I nod faintly, studying the Ackerman as she stands up and attempts to rouse Sasha. She murmurs softly to the other girl, who groans and tilts her head away in her sleep. The corner of Mikasa's lip twitches with subtle, nearly invisible mirth.

In my other world, Sasha and I understand what it is like to be shot. In this one, if I have my way, she won't.

I surprise myself then, jolting with the sudden lancing realization of the turn in my own thoughts as I recognize what they've suggested of me. There is a silent second part to my vow, a hidden truth I haven't yet been willing to acknowledge. I watch the sleeping mountain girl finally wake. Watch the last Ackerman offer Sasha her hand. Watch the two of them head off the wagon, thick as thieves and tender as sisters. Mikasa looks over her shoulder at me; I wave her away and stand up. But I do not move as the two of them saunter away, girls who will one day take on the world. The girl who will die trying, sharing breath with the one who will haunt her grave, will curl against her mortuary slab like a kitten chained to its alley box.

In this life, if I have my way, they will not suffer–even if it means I still will.

Today's lecture day. We spend time learning about the ultrahard steel forged for the soldier's blades. I find myself dozing off without realizing–camping and climbing really drained me–until Annie jabs me in the side with her elbow. If it was anyone else, I might've glared on instinct. But one look into her lion-cold eyes makes me reconsider. So I blink the sleep out of my eyes and tune into the lecture, which has shifted from talks of weaponry to strategy.

This is perhaps the only subject that fully interests me. I care not for the lectures on history or titans; knowing I have more knowledge than the instructors makes for little interest in factual inaccuracies. I force myself to pay attention to the lectures on gear, formations, equipment and weaponry simply because I have to. The world that gave Eren's parents little tics the show and manga never did has also fleshed out the aspects seldom touched on, forcing me to memorize all that I can so I don't miserably fail in disassembling and reassembling ODM gear sets and canons.

The strategy, though…I'm all ears for this part. If I am to survive, I need a mind that is capable of thinking out every possible scenario and planning accordingly. In this aspect at least, I must be as thoughtful and calculating as Armin and as decisive and confident as Erwin. The lovechild of the show's greatest strategic minds, basically.

Shame that I can't confide in either of them.

A few people flip idly through our thin books, reading along as the instructor's voice drones on like fat bees circling a lazy hive. I glance around. Annie, unsurprisingly, doesn't even look like she's paying attention. It's a testament to how well she's studied me to know that I want to be awake for the strategy lessons, especially when she herself looks deceivingly disinterested in them. Half of me admires her consideration. The other half fears the lengths to which her observational skills have gone underestimated.

A few rows down to the right, Bertholdt, Ymir, Sasha and Marco sit next to each other. Bertholdt and Marco are glancing over the book, but despite Bertholdt's attentive glances, I know for damn sure he doesn't understand a lick of what he's reading. Ymir has a page of her book pinched in her fingers, idly folding and unfolding it. Jean sits in our row, ironically next to Mikasa, but I can't see what either of them are doing without making it obvious that I've stopped paying attention for a moment. And with Eren, Armin and Christa behind me, the only other people I can see are Connie and Reiner, seated in front of me and to the left. Connie is slouched in his seat, but to his credit, he's only looking out the window every few minutes. Reiner is sitting comically upright–such a large man, stuffed into such a small space–with occasional nods as the instructor speaks. Reiner crosses his arms and relaxes a bit, leans back like Connie. The bald boy smiles a little…and Reiner does too. Soft and fractional. Compact and unconscious.

I'm staring, I realize.

Annie is looking at me. I am looking at the instructor.

The lesson is over.

"I have a new set of exercises for you to start," she tells me, sounding the sentence out like I'm as deaf as I am illiterate. She doesn't need to; I get the subject just fine.

I smile apologetically. "I've got an errand to run first. I'll meet you at the cabin?"

Her lips purse faintly for a second. She turns her head away and stands, picking up the book she never opened and sliding out from our row. "Fine."

"I'll jog on my way to the cabin, if that makes you feel better."

"That's a waste of energy."

I shrug and throw her another smile that bounces off her invisible armor. Christa has been lovely, and Ymir has been…well, Ymir, but somehow I feel like I've made exactly no progress with Annie. Every step I take closer to her is another one that she takes back. We are growing together, learning more about each other, and somehow, we are still no closer than we were the first day we met.

I stand up. The frigidity of the fall hits me like a lance, and I shiver the second I'm outside. I walk idly in circles, taking the long route to my real destination as I wait for trainees to branch off and turn their idle eyes away from the sickly little soldier marching along. Only when I notice I'm alone do I shuffle towards the infirmary. The walk feels painfully arduous, a fog in my head that makes my fingers feel stuffy and my chest irregularly hot. I feel fragile, uniquely so, fragile in a way I haven't felt for a long time. But I keep my head up high. All medicine has a half life; I should be fine for now. A few days won't do me in.

I step into the infirmary and glance around. A woman looks up as I enter; I splash an amiable, detached smile onto my face as our eyes meet. "I'm here to see Johan?"

"Ah." Her tongue probes the inside of her mouth, searching for an answer like it's actually scavenging for the words. "He just stepped out, actually. If you'd like, I can…"

"No, that's okay. Can I wait for him?"

Her tongue stops pulsing against the inside of her cheek. She tilts her head towards the two chairs negotiated into the space beneath the nearest window. "Sure. He'll be back shortly."

She drifts down the hall. Leaving me alone.

I study my hands while I wait, picturing them with blue nails and cracked knuckles. How hard will the winter hit, when the snow finally decides to fall? Christa says we'll have about another week of rain. And then the precipitation will start freezing halfway down from the skies.

I've nearly slipped into passive lethargy by the time Johan comes back into the infirmary. For a moment he just blinks, matching my face to his memory. I sit up in my chair and clear my throat. "I'm–"

"Follow me."

Johan leads me down the hall, a pioneer in a four-walled prairie. We drift like grains through busheled fields, him skirting random trays and tables like a windborn dandelion and I narrowly dodging them like a leaf cavorting in a stream. He takes me down the hall, the same direction the other woman went, and into a small room. I recognize it from the last time I was here. He opens a locked cabinet and pulls out a small brown paper bag. Hands it out to me.

When I accept it, I peel the top back gingerly. I recognize the medicine inside instantly. It's got that same cork top–I'll have to transfer it into my twist cap vial–but I'd know that color anywhere. My shoulders sink slightly with relief. "Thank you."

"It was hard to find this medicine," he says quietly, studying me closely. "The strand has changed. It's not exactly the same as what your officer is used to. You'll have to tell him that this need only be taken once every other day. No more than a teaspoon."

I nod solemnly as he speaks, reminding me of the nonexistent officer I'm due to deliver this medicine to. "I'll make sure to pass along your instructions."

"See that you do." Then the funniest thing happens, like lightning screaming across a clear sky but for a brilliant moment. His face suddenly shifts. Suddenly changes. "Though…he should know. Antaneva–the new strain is called Antaverum–is not a cure-all. It cannot solve his condition. Only stall it."

Ice slips down my spine, setting it frozen and straight. "How long?"

"I cannot say. Not without a proper examination. But the body will slowly adjust to the medicine, and will slowly overcome it. And unless a new, stronger medicine is made between now and whenever that happens–once the Antaverum loses its effectiveness, medicine won't help ease his symptoms anymore."

I swallow. He does not need to dumb it down for me further.

This body is dying. Perhaps it always has been.

Oh, Aliva.

How long have you known?

I think back to the day that I arrived here. To the day I woke in the shadow of spry green trees, far away from prying eyes. I think of that empty vial, the one Aliva's parents only recently refilled. The look in Grisha's eyes when I reappeared on his doorstep. The weight of his decision to make one more bottle for me. Only one. Betham and Efa's house. The finances that trickled away, slipped through the floorboards and accumulated underneath the frame of Aliva's bed.

She made her choice.

I am not yet willing to make mine.

I thank Johan and scurry out of the room, a worrisome mouse scampering away from the first hint of danger. My head is reeling. How long do I have? What will I run out of first–the means to purchase refills of Antaverum, or the body's acceptance of its intake?

I will die.

I will die.

I will die.

It could be on a mission. Or it could be in my own damn bed. All I know is that it will happen. Surely. I rationed the other full vial out for a few years; perhaps I can stretch this one to last that long, too. But will it even matter if my body ceases to tolerate the medicine? If it is deteriorating faster than I can build it up?

I'm so frustrated I could cry. For a moment, I think that I will. I open the door to the infirmary and close it behind me, only to feel a firm hand clasp over my mouth and sharp hands yank me into the nearby alley.

I don't think. Just bite.

"Shit!" The palm stretched over my mouth twitches, pulls back just enough for me to reach up and yank it off of me. The second I do I feel my heart jump, feel real, raw fear slip into my lungs as another hand grasps my wrist and–

I spin around as the paper bag is wrenched out of my hand. I hesitate, blink with confusion. "...Annie?"

The warriors stand before me. Bertholdt is holding one of his hands with the other, rubbing a thumb over his palm. Reiner is just…standing there. Holding my bag. My medicine. And Annie…

"You told them." It all clicks in my head. Of course she would. The fact that they've chosen to approach me as a group, in the glimmering sunset, makes me nervous. They've deemed my existence enough of a threat to address it so boldly, so openly.

"Let's take a walk."

Annie gives me no other choice. I keep my eyes pointedly away from the bag–I do not want them to know its significance–but my ignorance of it is almost enough of an admission. Bertholdt and Reiner walk behind us. Annie and I walk side by side. Minutes ago I felt like crying with frustration; now I shake with anger. I cannot control my frustration. Of all the times for them to confront me, they chose the moment in which I was the most vulnerable. Of course she would.

The four of us walk all the way out to the suspension belt training grounds. It's vacant. Reiner leans against one of the big support poles. Bertholdt puts his hands in his pockets. And Annie stands, facing me, backed by the two boys. All of them watch me.

I sigh and glance back at my brown paper bag. I should feel more afraid than I do. But I don't. I'm just frustrated.

It's Bertholdt that speaks, softly. "How did you get here? Onto Eldia?"

I glare at him. I can't help it. Of all the questions I don't want to think up an answer for, it's definitely that one. Without even thinking, I smart back, "Do you really think you're the only Marleyans on this island?"

Weirdly enough, that silences him. And I realize that there's enough truth in that statement, half-baked as it was, for me to speak honestly. Or at least in half-truths. "There are others here outside of myself." (Grisha. And does Ymir count, if she's got Marcel's memories?)

Annie's eyes narrow. "Who?"

I dodge the question again. "They're not affiliated with the warrior division. They're–we're–undercover for different reasons."

They're wary. That much is evident. So I ignore Annie's sharp, predatory gaze and Bertholdt's blatant skepticism. I look straight into Reiner's sunset-warmed eyes and force myself to talk down the length of my nose at him. I let my whole demeanor shift. Let it become authoritative. Demanding. Inquisitive. Impatient. Everything that I have been feeling on the inside since they snatched my medicine right out of my hands. "There were four of you at that parade. Where's the other one?"

Part of me hates the blunt nature of my question the second I see Reiner physically recoil. Annie's lips jut downwards into an unsteady frown, but she at least has heard me speak about memories of the parade. Even if I didn't exactly force her to remember who she was there with. Bertholdt's breath hitches. Reiner opens his mouth. Closes it.

Annie answers. "Dead."

The ice in her voice is almost enough to make my offense crumble. But I can't. My eyes flicker down to my prize, half-heartedly clutched in Reiner's hand. "Ah."

For a moment, though, I falter.

The bag crinkles faintly as Reiner's hand trembles.

"...You haven't answered our questions." Bertholdt's voice slowly regains its strength the longer he talks. "Who are you, really? Why–how–are you here?"

I tilt my head stubbornly. "That's not for you to know." Stupid, foolish Aliva. Letting my mouth run off to Annie. I never should've let on that I knew who she really was.

"Tell us, or we cannot trust you."

"I do not need your trust." I pause. Breathe in slowly. Try to wrangle in my frustration. Everything is piling up–the injustice of my previous life cut short. The notion that the same may very well happen to me this time.

The shaking in Reiner's hand has stopped. His voice is low, gravely like sun-stained mountain paths. Whatever emotions that surfaced at the sound of Marcel's name have been buried. "Yes, you do. What if we killed you, to protect our identities?"

I almost laugh at the irony of it all. "You can't. Not yet, at least."

Annie's mountain lion eyes flash in the setting sun as she crosses her arms. "Convince us."

"It's easy to make a cadet go missing. But a trainee? The officers will open an investigation." Whether or not that's actually true hardly matters. From the glance Reiner and Bertholdt share, though, it seems like they're at least considering the possibility.

Annie steps closer to me. "So? That buys you another two, three years. Then what?"

I shrug, still trying to rein in my overbearing emotions. "Then either I've earned your trust by then, or you kill me."

Like hell I would actually let that happen.

"Just like that?" Bertholdt asks, an almost incredulous look in his eyes.

"Just like that." I only narrowly stop myself from gritting my teeth. I refuse to die so easily. Not if I am already on borrowed time, twice over.

"What guarantee do we have that you won't run off? Won't turn us over the second we go to sleep?" This time, it's Reiner who poses the question. I almost wish he hadn't. The second those words ghost over the group, I can see the way that Annie's eyes shift.

"What's in that bag, Reiner?"

I blink and see red. But I force myself to stay still. So quietly, perfectly still. Reiner hesitates only for a second before peeling the brown paper open and pulling out the vial inside. "Some liquid."

Annie looks over her shoulder, and I notice the recognition dart through her face when she sees the whitish-purple medicine sloshing inside. Only Annie would know the way my eyes flutter closed when I let my daily drops slip onto my tongue. Only Annie would know the sheepish way I confided in her after being caught red handed with the vial in my hands. Only Annie. Only Annie.

"Annie," I say softly. The voice that comes out of my throat is eerily calm, eerily level. She does not look at me. She's focused only on the object held in Reiner's hand. It looks so small. So crushable, there in his palm. "It's just medicine. You know that I need it."

"I know that you take it everyday," she corrects. "Nothing more. You've known exactly who we are this entire time and lied about your innocence. I cannot trust your truth now."

"I understand. I do. But that–" my eyes flit nervously to the vial. "That's different."

I regret my sentence the very second it leaves me. All at once, the three of them have something they can hold over me. I have their secrets. They have my life. We are at an impasse, except, not really. I've claimed to share their secret.

They do not share my sickness.

All Annie has to do is look at Reiner, and my fate is sealed. He crumples the bag up and tucks the vial into his pocket. He's avoiding my gaze.

Quiet rage slips back under my skin, a draft through a window cracked open. It stirs the curtains and makes my body tremble. "Fine. Keep my fucking medicine. At least let Annie hold onto it–"

"And give you an opportunity to steal it back the second I sleep?" Annie shakes her head. I dig crescent moons into my palms as my hands curl into fists, uncurl, and curl again.

"I can't just not take it," I seethe. I can feel my emotions slipping away from me and I hardly care. The three figures before me warp into one, a woman in an orchard with a loaded gun. I am dying a second death. I am dying and this time there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

Bertholdt's eyebrows twitch together. "How often do you need it?"

I force myself to breathe. To think. To negotiate. "Every other day. Just a few drops. No more than a teaspoon."

Reiner meets my eyes for a second. Something in his gaze seeks to ground me. I look away. "I'll slip it into your meal. First thing every other morning. You can just sit at my table and swap glasses with me."

It's enough of a compromise to technically appease me. But I'm angry. I'm frustrated. I've spent both of my lifetimes fighting tooth and nail for everything I've ever had. And just when I think things are going my way–just when I find myself with room enough to breathe–I fuck things up all over again.

I turn and walk away without another word.

I've screwed things up. I've done the unthinkable, and now I'm paying for it. I've got my mother's wedding ring still–but what if I need it later to pay for a second vial? Even if I bring it in to Johan now, there's no guarantee that he'll even acquiesce to getting another shipment brought in. And even if he does somehow decide to do it, it'll be another two weeks until I can go pick it up.

Stupid, foolish, headstrong Aliva.

This is the price of opening my damn mouth. This is the price of being foolish enough to think that I could influence the plotline in a way that mattered. It was idiotic and naive of me to assume that I could somehow avoid the fate that everyone who found out about their identity prematurely would face. Utterly stupid. Utterly foolish.

My eyes start to water, and for a moment I'm too shocked to do anything about it. I wipe and scrub at my face with my palms, swearing under my breath. For all of my bravado, for all of my years, I am still just a kid. I don't want to die. I don't want to think that my only contributions to both lifetimes were to love a woman enough to get her killed and to give a green-eyed boy another year with his mother.

I think of her touch. Her soft kisses. Her gentle, earnest laughter. It sends me over the edge. Her death is my cardinal sin. I am convinced, suddenly, that I was sent here to spend a second life atoning for taking it. She was a ray of sunshine. I, the moon that eclipsed her.

Now I orbit nothing.

I almost don't notice when Christa and Ymir materialize next to me, sneaking out of the cabin just as I'm slipping into it.

"Aliva!" Christa exclaims. Ymir shushes her. "We were going to wait for you, but we figured you were already there."

I frown. "Already where?"

Ymir gives me one of her signature looks, like she can't really believe I don't know what they're referencing. "Some of the trainees are meeting in the woods tonight. A little party. We've been promised wine."

The sheer idea of Christa sneaking out into the woods is enough to distract me momentarily from everything else circulating in my head. "And you're going?"

Christa glances up at Ymir, who shrugs. "I could use the alcohol."

"I don't think it's a good idea," Christa admits, almost grudgingly. "But Ymir will get into trouble if I'm not there, so…"

I glance over Ymir's shoulder, looking into the cabin and seeing a few girls flitting about inside. The last thing I want to do is be here when Annie gets back. "Well…lead the way."

It would be a lie to say I don't know why I really decide to go. My head craves fog, craves the dull, seductive forgiveness that only inebriation can bring. I don't want to think. I'm tired of thinking, of constantly wrangling two lifetimes of memories inside of my head. Who else understands what it's like to die and live with the recollection of that fate? Who else finds themselves in another life entirely?

Anger is a vice, and I, its shameful addict. We meet in dimly-lit alleys, in the ever-expanding shadows of the trees as the three of us wander into the woods just outside of the base. I keep my wrath like a jaded lover, a toxic courtship, a taboo hookup. We fuck and we fight. I deny my feelings; anger rips them right out into a confession, confection-shaped and bitterly sweet.

The trees slip away into a small clearing. Someone had the foresight to bring a few hollow crates; trainees sit and stand on a few of them. I can pick out a few wine-drunk faces, Sasha with an arm hooked round Connie's shoulders. I don't see Marco or Armin, no shockers there. Eren and Mikasa also seem to be absent. I follow Christa and Ymir to the few bottles of wine resting on one of the crates. We steal one for ourselves and stand at the clearing's edge, chatting about the lecture and passing the bottle around like a blunt. Two sips, two hands gripping the bottle's neck during every exchange. I feel the tingling coming on and I embrace it. The sun darts down lower, skirting dangerously low with the horizon line. I blink and suddenly Christa and Ymir are gone, have wandered off, and it's just me and my half-empty bottle of wine. Connie and Sasha and slumped against a tree, in deep conversation. I look over, though, and to my surprise, see Reiner. Suddenly everything comes back. He hasn't seen me yet, but all that irritation from earlier–all that helplessness, all that frustration–threatens to slip past the fuzz I've worked so hard to build up in my periphery. I take another swig.

"That bottle's not going anywhere, you know." I glance over as Jean walks up, a cocky smirk plastered onto his lips and alcohol on his breath. I sigh and take another swig.

"What do you want?"

Jean blinks. Then laughs. "The bottle, actually." When he sees me frown, he places his palms together, like a catholic in a pew. "Please? Connie and Sasha aren't sharing anymore."

I swirl the bottle idly, watching its contents slosh around. "And if I don't want to share, either?"

Jean pouts. "Please? Just a little bit." He tilts his head sloppily, a goofy grin on his face. Somehow it makes me sad.

I hold the bottle up…then take another swig. Jean groans. I keep my eyes closed for a second, letting the wine sit on my tongue before swallowing. I do not want to open my eyes. Do not want to look around and find that Bertholdt and Annie are here, too. "How do I know you won't drain the rest of it in one sip?"

"You can pour it. I'll open my mouth."

I can't help the sharp exhale of air that slips out of my nose. "You're taller than me. I'd hardly manage."

I hear a thump, and when I open my eyes, it's to see that Jean is on his knees in front of me. He's still got that goofy grin on. "How about now?"

I almost laugh. Almost. "You look ridiculous right now."

"I'm sure."

He raises an eyebrow. And the corner of my lip juts up, even as I roll my eyes. "Hold still," I murmur, as he tilts his head back and opens his mouth. I tip the bottle over, slowly, letting the wine trickle out into his mouth in a thin stream. He laughs in the back of his throat and jerks his chin up, causing wine to spill over his chin and throat and trickle down onto his chest.

"Hey!" he exclaims, still laughing as he pulls his head back up to wipe his chin.

"That was your fault. I told you to stay still." I shrug and put the bottle back to my lips. It is nearly empty now. When I open my eyes, it's to catch Reiner staring straight at me. I freeze for a second.

Jean, clueless, chuckles slowly. "Is that all I get, or…?"

It is not the smart thing to do. But I am not thinking clearly.

I take the last of the wine into my mouth. Then bend over, hand placed against Jean's cheek, and transfer the alcohol past his lips.

I pull back. Let him swallow. His eyes flutter open, visible shock displayed on his face. He stands up and wipes the thin trickle of wine from the corner of his mouth. "Aliva…"

I blink. "Sorry."

He slumps forward, lanky and stooping, and kisses me. Sloppily. I taste nothing but wine in his kiss, grapes in his saliva. His hands jerk up into my hair. Teeth sink into my lip, then slip off of me, sputtering drunken spurts of contact on my cheek, my jaw. His head droops to rest on my neck, breath hot like summer, suckling on the tender skin there like one would on a popsicle. My breath hitches. The fog in my head warbles, mutates, sends heat and ice throughout my body.

When I pry Jean off of my neck, the man grinning like a slovenly fool, I notice that Reiner is gone.

(Smut inbounding)

Trees sway like drunken lovers. Or perhaps it is us that warble, waltzing between the boughs of the sunset arbors. The forest enfolds us within her caress, branches like fingers like wandering touches. The secret party fades away; the fog does not. It surrounds me, surrounds the space between my hips and head.

Jean's footfalls are jagged, limbered and accosted by the influence of the alcohol in his system. My lips burn, aching to swell, aching to bruise and to be bitten. I tug him closer, force him to turn towards me, and he orbits as easily as the Earth does around the Sun. Dirt wreaths my hair, leaves press bitterly against my shoulders. I shiver.

"You would have me on the forest floor?"

Jean chuckles, low and lovely. I hate that I can tolerate the sound, that I can crave it. "Bad idea, huh?"

"Yes," I murmur, his slender palms heating my shoulders as he runs them absently over my collarbones. "Immeasurably so."

I reach up and find the collar of his shirt, tracing the places still soaked and stained red, starkly so, the stroke of red on a spider's abdomen. We are tagmata, two distinct figures joined only by touch and taste. I ache to fuse. I am hungry, starving, a praying mantis left preyless.

"Buttons," Jean remarks, and the weirdness of his sudden observation makes me laugh. The sound comes out louder than it ought to. I can't find it within me to care. His fingers scrape against the circular fastenings. They fumble to pop the buttons back out through the eyelets. "Stupid buttons."

I dig into his shirt, dexterity deterred by the slosh in my gut. I frown and sit forward, biting his collar between my teeth to still the unruly fabric while my hands yank buttons loose. Each slips out like a sigh; Jean stops messing with my shirt to exhale, to watch.

I undo the last of his and slip my hands underneath the shirt. I feel the way his skin goes tight, the way he shivers deliciously at my touch. I run my hands in tandem, symmetrical images of each other, thumbs against the Adam's apple first. I can feel the tug of the wine's residue against his skin. I press my lips against it, sucking, savoring, tasting his flesh and discovering sweetness and sweat. Jean groans and the rumble of his throat transplants itself into my mouth. My hands drift down, splaying against his chest before running lower, finding his abdomen, still soft and without the definition the ODM gear will eventually provide. I stroke fingertips like brushes against the line of his waist, lapping my tongue down to the hollow clavicle where neck meets collar meets chest.

"Aliva…" Jean's groans come out like distant rumblings of the ground. He shrugs his stained shirt off his arms, and I watch with fascination as his arms immediately exchange cloth for gooseflesh. My eyes watch as his focus on the ground, clumsily laying a shirt down, and a second later I'm discarding my own to lay over his. When he looks back to me, his eyes wander, fog and filth filming over their lenses. He eyes my breasts as they pucker, areolas reacting visually to the chill of the night.

"Go on…" I whisper, coaxing him in with heavy breath and heaving chest. Jean slouches forward–it is a marvel to watch his back stoop to meet me–and his grape-soured breath ghosts over the apex of my breasts, heating the skin his open lips hover over and the core resting between my hips. My hands slip around the back of his neck and I tug him forward until his mouth encloses over my nipple, tongue lashing out in brazen, slovenly strokes. My breath hitches and I can scent the wine on every exhale I give, can taste the way I'm somehow satiated and entirely unsatisfied, the mantis pleasuring and plotting all the same.

I draw the Earth closer to me, burning, burning the scalp of his head as I let soft exhales slip past my defenses and bury themselves into his hair. Jean's mouth detaches clumsily, head tilting up to grin like a fool before dropping down to glance at my waist. His fingers stretch like stalks taking root in the cracks of my pavement, dipping beneath my waistband. I help him shrug me out of my pants, let them slip down my hips and off my legs before the fabric joins our heap of clothing, our makeshift bed. Jean freezes for a second, sober for an instant, gazing down at the thatch of curls so unabashedly displayed. This body, virginial and devout to chaste pursuit, soon tainted by the consciousness of the unholy woman shot dead in an orchard.

I have tasted cardinal sin.

I ache to taste again.

Jean lets me undress him fully. I drop his clothes on the pile as he clumsily attempts to guide me to lay fully on top of it. I readjust, tectonic plates preparing to shift and collide, my hands wandering down to my slit to dip two fingers beneath my folds. Warmth and wetness greet my touch, Jean's little groans as he watches me with a steadying hand braces against my bent knee. I split the fingers, divorce them, urge them to part my folds and expose myself to the man before me.

"Aliva…"

I nod. My other hand reaches back up, wraps against his neck. He tumbles like a tree, falling over me, lips crashing against mine. I feel the jolt of his teeth knocking against mine and forgive it, forget it entirely when my hand abandons his neck in favor of finding his waist again. I drag my fingers down the trail of hair, a lodestone pointing me onwards, and drift them further as Jeans tongue probes the inside of my cheek, rakes itself against the line of my teeth. I wrap my hand around his cock and he groans into my mouth, twitches his hips forward, needy and sensitive. I tug it, stroke swiftly and swipe my thumb over his tip. The pad of my finger slips against the swatch of precum gathered and held there, expelled like tears resting against the crook of an eye.

I guide him down, wet meeting wet, rubbing his dick against my folds, breath hitching everytime his tip juts up against my clit and back arching everytime it slips down to my entrance. "Fuck, I…"

"Go ahead."

Jean's hips tilt towards mine, jerk forward with a suddenness I wasn't yet ready to accommodate. He slips inside of me, drug up straight to the hilt and buried there, a shovel shafted into the dirt. I gasp and squirm, hips rocking to accommodate him, mind flashing back to skies stained orange. My skin burns golden, every twitch and shift a solar flare, every grunt a flashback.

What, never been fucked by a girl before?

Never.

Oh, honey. Let me show you how much fun a strap can be.

Jean bows over me, hand slipping off my knee and punching the ground, holding himself up. His body begins to move, thrusting with all the drunken coordination of a rocking ship, bending to the whims of the ocean. Tectonic plates meet and thrash, shaking the crust, reshaping the core. I close my eyes, wrap my legs around his waist, part my lips to his and swallow every sound he makes. I drink myself silly, inhaling each whispered word. "Fuck, Aliva, you're…this…I'm…"

Jean breaks his mouth off of mine, panting suddenly, face flushed redder than I've ever seen it. Suddenly he's pulling out, angling his penis upwards, swearing as it spurts.

"Shit. Shit."

I blink, propping myself up on my elbows and gazing down at my painted body. Jean's sperm coats me in erratic lines, in awkward strokes from my belly button to the valley between my breasts.

And I laugh.

My body begins to cool, resolved to the knowledge that it remains unsatiated, craving the banishment of an itch Jean couldn't quite scratch. My head lolls back, brushes against the dirt. I sigh. "Ah, well." I feel him reach under me, tug out his shirt to clean my torso off. Somehow that makes me laugh again. "That shirt is toast."

I notice, then, that he does not seem to share in my humor. His ears are beet red, his eyes averted. He wipes me off shoddily and then bundles the shirt and drops it, seeking out his pants instead. I roll over and stand to tug my own clothes on. I can't be sure how much Jean had to drink, but I watch him stagger around and tilt like the ground is fluid as he yanks his pants past his hips and leaves them unzipped.

"Your fly," I point out, and somehow this is worse for him; he swears again and yanks it up too fast, catching his scrotum in it, yelping with surprise and agony. I wince and turn away to finish clothing myself. As I do, the world quiets, and for a moment I delude myself into thinking that perhaps someone might hear and wander near. That perhaps some of the party goers might wander this way. I glance at Jean over my shoulder; he's slumped against the trunk of a tree now, legs sprawled out and his junk still dangling out of his pants. He's rubbing little soothing circles against his ballsack, muttering miserably with incoherent syllabary.

I sigh and walk back to the clearing. I find Connie slumped against a wooden crate, snoring quietly. Sasha sits next to him, patting his bald head.

"Hey," I start. She looks up, inquizitive and definitely not sober. I rub the back of my head. "Jean is in the forest. I thought Connie should walk him home."

Sasha makes a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat and smiles widely. "I can do it. They're my boys."

"Thanks."

She nods, one hand drooping down to pat between Connie's shoulders. "Hey, buddy. Wakey wakey. We've got a horse to catch."

AN: Thanks for bearing with me! I accidentally reignited my addiction and on top of that, I've been working my way through finals. So here's an extra long, extra chaotic chapter to make up for it. HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHE ENJOY

[Edit] This chapter has been adjusted to include a little smut scene because my best friend demanded LFF spice. If you like it, thank her! If not, then blame her for making me do it LMFAO