Emetophobia warning for this chapter!

Chapter 13

Christa and I gorge on slices of something eerily reminiscent of banana bread. I take a swig of juice, set my cup down, and dig my spoon into the shallow bowl of oats and–I think–yogurt.

"Did you hear about the fight Eren and Jean got into last night?"

I laugh. The sound scrapes my throat raw. "Who didn't?"

Christa eyes me, conceding the point even though she doesn't smile. "Apparently it was about you."

I shrug away everything I hate about those words. "You know Eren. He finds issue with everyone. Give him time; I'm sure he'll eventually bitch about you, too."

Christa looks unconvinced. "Are you…"

"Yeah. Fine." I set my spoon down, sighing, and glance around. The warriors are spread out in the mess hall. I could care less where they are today. Connie and Eren sit together, Armin nearby. Mikasa and Sasha and Jean are at one table, Ymir and Marco at another. Outside, frost dusts the windows like the fake snow people used to spray in the downtown shop windows during the holidays. Not that it made me more festive, or more inclined to participate in spending money for celebrations I didn't partake in.

I lose myself for a minute, slipping into that conscious place between my meal rations and the frost-bitten window panes. My mother didn't enjoy the concept of giving the farmers and helpers paid time off. It was my father, I was told, who convinced her to do it if for nothing more than presenting an amiable brand image. I can't imagine that was the only reason, because after he died–blood rain down the fractured truck glass–she still let the help leave in the winter month. Which, somehow, was worse for me.

Perhaps because it insinuated that she was capable of love, at least for him.

–What was my father's name?

I jolt. Shock stabs through me like wooden splinters shaved off a jousting lance on impact. For an awful moment it's as if my lungs have been pierced, a boat spouting water without a bailer. I do the rash thing, the regretful one, and think of other things, larger things, and the boat I've been sailing steadily on begins to sink into a sea of tepid realization.

I jerk up out of my seat, waving Christa off, and stagger outside. I make it all of three steps off to the side before I vomit the bread and oats.

I don't remember my mother's name.

I don't remember my lover's name.

I don't remember mine.

How long has it been since I lost them? My thoughts start to spiral. What else am I forgetting? How much more will I lose?

Faces, right, faces.

No: those are lost too. What did I look like, before I became Aliva? I glance down at my hands, and when I try to conjure their former image, all I see is the hands Aliva had as a child–thin, healthy nails, no calluses. My lungs shred like cheese, whistle like termite-ridden boards and chain link fences. I'm panicking. Think, Aliva, think. Calm. Focus.

…I can't.

"H-hey…" Gangly, awkward fingers pat my hunched shoulders. "Did ya eat too fast? That happens to me too sometimes."

I look up blearily. "Sasha."

The forest girl beams. "That's me!"

My eyes close for a brief moment. The world does not return to the space beneath my feet. I am still unmoored, tethered to nothing. I am consciousness without body. Now that I am losing everything that made me, 'me,' what am I then? I can never be Aliva. Not in full. So then what do I become?

Who do I become?

"You uh…don't look so good." Sasha pats my shoulders as I wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. My vomit has chilled at the edges, the internal heat dulled by the snow I projectile launched it onto. My nose crinkles; I turn my head from the sight. Sasha steps back as I stand up from my half-stoop. "I'd drink some water, to flush the burn. And–here, follow me."

I glance back at the mess hall only once before I turn and head after Sasha. She trods cheerily through the snow, I at her footsteps yet simultaneously lifetimes away from her.

What if I forget what happens to her? What Gabi does? Will I be doomed to live the story out and change nothing?

"Back home, we used to do this all the time. Helps calm the gut down again without feeding it. Y'all from the walled districts like–erm…what's that one…"

"Shiganshina," I remind her instinctively, almost disgusted by how easily the name pops into my mouth. Where did I live in my previous life? What was our orchard, our estate, called? Our address?

"Right! That's the one. I bet y'all didn't do this back there."

I sidestep a particularly large clump of snow. "Do what, exactly?"

To that, she only grins. We leave the mess hall behind, and somewhere between the infirmary and the cabins it starts snowing again. The flakes fall drowsily, in stark contrast to the soft set of the breaking dawn. Warped deciduous trunks flaunt their barren boughs as we amble our way underneath them.

Sasha strays from the path all of the sudden, jogging up to one of the trees. She feels it blindly, dragging her open palms over its surface, a braille text read by her and her alone. Her fingers trail each dip and whorl in the trunk, eyes squinted speculatively, scrutinizingly.

My heart aches.

I miss my trees. Shame that I can no longer remember with clarity the body that planted and nursed those saplings, harvested their crop, crushed their olives in the squeaky wooden presses and bruised their flesh against the enamel of my teeth.

I think Sasha hears the way my breath hitches to avoid the sudden urge to sob.

"One sec, one sec!"

Efa Moreau.

Betham Moreau.

Aliva Moreau.

Your mother murdered you, don't you–don't I–know that? Your father was not better for his silence. Don't you remember whose eyes locked with yours every time she twisted the skin on your wrist? Every time her glare forced your tears to evaporate?

To hell with them both. Who gives a shit if their names are lost, chained to liminality while you move on unencumbered?

You're free. Let them go.

"Ah! There we go." I blink. Sasha's fingers wedge themselves in between the trunk and a slab of bark, working her knuckles back and forth to pry it free. The bark tears like sinew, released from the tree's body with a whisper of reluctance. From there she turns, faces me, halves her prize and splits it once more. "There. Here," she says, holding it out like an offering. "Chew on it. It'll help with the nausea."

I raise an eyebrow, but take the bark anyway and slip it past my teeth. The bark tastes like chilled earth and something vaguely tangy. It scrapes against my tongue in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant. "Thanks."

Sasha laughs, jostling my shoulder with her own. "Remember the food you gave me? Now we're even. In any case, you should take it easy. I can tell the instructor you'll miss the lecture."

I nod, manhandling the bark like jerky to get it to sit better between my teeth.

"That'd be great. Not sure if Christa left my stuff in the mess, but if it's still there, you're welcome to the rest of my breakfast."

The words are like magic; in an instant, her face is alight and eager at the mere prospect of seconds. "I'll take you up on that, thanks!"

She waves over her shoulder. I raise my hand in return. When she fades from view, a moon ducking beneath the jagged folds of the horizon, I take the bark from my mouth and drop it on the ground. I spit the last of that tangy earth taste out with it.

I take the quick route back towards the cabins. The bell rings out shortly before I arrive, making it even easier to dodge curious glances and bothersome questions. Let the warriors wonder where that sneaky girl got off to. Let them use my absence from lecture as another baseless excuse to validate their theft of my medicine.

I duck into the cabin, slinking over to my bunk and digging around my belongings. My hands slip around the jacket of my textbook and I take my time looking for my writing utensil after making terse eye contact with the last girl in here. I throw in a muttered curse or two, even bothering to get on my hands and knees to check under my bunk.

When I hear the girl's footsteps dissipate and the door creak shut, I sit up and grab my pen and textbook. I shove them under my shirt and jacket, wrapping my arms around my midsection like I feel I may be sick again, and shuffle towards the infirmary.

Johan mans the desk when I enter. His face remains flawlessly indifferent upon seeing me. It makes me wonder how many other secrets he keeps for his patients.

"Morning…"

"Aliva."

"Ah. Yes. Miss Moreau. Any issues with your officer today?"

I shake my head. "Not this time. I'm here for myself. Breakfast didn't sit well."

Johan makes a light humming sound in the back of his throat. "Symptoms?"

"Nausea. Vomiting," I start, but then impulse strikes and suddenly my mouth is open again. "Also, probably unrelated, but some memory loss."

At that, his brows flit together, creasing gently. "When did it start?"

"Before throwing up this morning. I mean, that's when I noticed it. But I suspect it has been there for a while."

"Hnn."

I can practically see the gears in his head turning. Here is a man of medicine, firing up the equipment to hammer out another prognosis. Half of me wants to shove a wedge into his machinations; the other, naive as it may be, can't help but hope that a random man of this infirmary can help bring back what I've lost.

It is not likely. But my heart hopes all the same.

"…And are you still feeling nauseous?"

"Yes," I lie.

Johan stands up, hands pushing up off the desk. I watch skin scrape wood as he drags his palms off the counter to illustrate his next words. "I can give you a simple draught. You're welcome to lie down while it kicks in."

I nod politely. He leads me to a slender hall and into a room near the back, with several empty cots. He curtains off the rightmost one. In the little space he's carved out for me, there's a single window, a wooden nightstand, and a thin chair off to the blanketed cot's side.

"Make yourself comfortable here. I'll go get that prepped for you."

I wait until he's gone to tug the textbook and pen out of my clothes and hide them under the cot's pillow. I shrug off my jacket and drape it on the back of the wooden chair under the window. I press an exploratory hand against the cot, experimenting with its texture and tension. The cot is larger than the bed in Aliva's room in Shiganshina, but a thousand times more uncomfortable.

Johan comes back into the room not long after I've taken a seat on the cot's edge. He sets his wrist against my forehead, with his other wrist attached to his own. "Normal temperature." His hands shift. They smell like soap. When he places two fingers against my neck, probing for a pulse, I close my eyes. "Heart sounds just fine. Sure it's the nausea? Nothing else?"

I nod, and after a second, Johan leaves again and returns with a shallow cup.

"Drink this. Might have to pinch your nose to get it down."

I take the cup, sniffing the contents warily. "Does that actually help?"

Johan's lips twitch. "Do you think it will?" When I shake my head no, he shrugs. "Then it probably won't. You'll have to swallow, regardless."

"Yeah, yeah."

I sigh and raise the cup's edge up to my lips. Johan watches the cup tilt back. I do not open my mouth; rather, I let whatever concoction he's created rest against my sealed lips as I swallow my own spit instead. My throat dips, warbles.

Johan nods and turns away. "Someone will be back here to check in with you in an hour, see how you're doing."

The second he leaves, I duck under the cot's thin blanket and dig my book out from under the pillow. I flip towards the latter half, where there's considerably more blank space.

I pause. Take a second to really consider whether or not I'm making a good decision.

And then I write. Carefully. Each letter is a single stroke in a master work; a statue carved toothpick by toothpick. I write in small, condensed, English script. First, the basics of who I am.

I am the daughter of an olive tycoon.

She killed me and the girl I loved.

When I died, I came here, as Aliva Moreau.

I tap my writing utensil against the book.

When I was a child, there was a song the farmers would sing during harvest season…

When I have done all that I can, I switch gears. Here my script is more hurried, less organized. I jot down everything I can possibly remember about Attack on Titan–the anime, the manga, the OVAs and interviews–anything. My hand and wrist cramp up to the point where I'm subconsciously gritting my teeth, but I grimace and bear it. I have to. I need to get it down while I remember it, remember English. I'll have to pray or something so that no one itching to write me off finds these notes. But until Bertholdt teaches me how to understand Eldian–and perhaps Marleyan–this is the best I can do. Maybe when I'm a scout I can find a journal or something to keep the notes with me at all times. Like Ilse. That, of course, all depends on me becoming a scout at all.

I hear footsteps outside the door and freeze. I wait until they pass, before slowly reaching up to the nightstand for the cup. I dump its contents into the waste bin for vomit. Then, sucking in a quick breath, I slip two fingers down my throat, gagging quietly, until a burning dose of juice and yogurt climbs up my throat and past my lips. My face twists with revulsion at the sight. I wipe the saliva off my pants and hide my textbook back under my shirt, slipping under the covers and musing my hair up a smidge.

It is not that I distrust Johan. But after my lapse in judgment with Annie and the warriors…

I don't have to wait long. A woman comes in, and I pretend to rouse after lightly dozing off when she does. "Hello, Miss Moreau. How are you feeling?"

"Good." I sit up, faking a little yawn. "I threw up most of the stuff they gave me initially. Once it settled, though, everything felt better."

She smiles professionally, yet warmly. The kind of expression that conveys earnest interest in the profession of aiding and assisting. "Ah. Glad to hear that it worked, then."

I twiddle my thumbs in my lap. The fidgeting slips over me naturally, like a tic I've been troubled with since birth. I watch with veiled surprise as my fingers slip into the habit, rubbing my nails along the creases of my thumbs and the beds of each keratin nail plate, wrestling with each cuticle. The little nails joust and jostle the cutin and wax, wrangle it back into place like bovine coaxed back into their pens.

Aliva's childhood hands had fine nails, cuticles pushed back with a near-imperceptible unevenness.

"...Miss Moreau?"

"Hm?" My head snaps up to see the woman watching me. When she sees that she's reclaimed my attention, she clasps her hands together over her front.

"Do you feel well enough to return to your own cabin? Or do you feel you may need more time to rest here?"

I yank my hands apart and start tugging the blanket off my waist. "No, not, that's alright. I feel well enough to make it back to my own bunk. Thank you."

She smiles softly. "Of course. If your symptoms worsen, please don't hesitate to return. Also–Dr. Johan asked me to pass along a message for you. If your memory worsens, please come see him again."

I nod slowly as I rise to stand. "Will do."

The lady picks my jacket up off the back of the chair and hands it to me. Together we exit the little room, her parting the curtain as we do. I offer little in the way of small talk. She leaves me to my own devices once we re enter the main room, giving me a small, professionally clipped wave before departing.

I shuffle towards the door, one hand barely pressed against my shirt to keep the textbook in place while the other attempts to wrangle my jacket back on. I turn my back to open the door with my shoulders, walking backwards as it bangs open, still fighting my jacket onto my figure while protecting the book from dislodging itself and just as I turn around–

I strike something soft and warm, who lets out a soft exclamation. My hands reach out in front of me instinctively at the same second I hear a soft thump. Yellow hair flashes in front of me and for a second I go rigid, thinking it's Annie or Reiner.

The person I collided with turns to face me fully, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry…I shouldn't have been standing so close to the door," Armin apologizes.

"You're alright. I didn't hit you too hard, did I?"

"No, I'm okay."

One of my hands slips back to its spot near my stomach, even as my gut flips with sudden panic. I glance down a split-second too late: Armin is already stooping, reaching for the object I've lost.

The book is cast open, split apart like a rib cage cracked open, a walnut cleaved in half.

My pen rests against the spine, bookmarking the pages I'd written my secrets onto. English notes share space with Eldian text in a way that's glaringly obvious, so painfully evident.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I duck down, but it's too late, Armin has already picked the book up. "You dropped…this…" he trails off, and my fate is sealed, I cannot prevent him from noticing the script that his eyes now wander over. So I do the better thing, the less-panicky one, and use the time he's given me to finish putting on my jacket. The motions help calm down the hurricane that's whipping around in my skull, the storm sirens blaring red-hot rage and regret.

"Looks like I did," I agree, forcing a light, easy laugh past my lips. I reach out to reclaim my book. And, after a second, Armin closes it and returns it to my possession. I do not tuck it underneath my shirt again; now there is no point. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Armin blinks, recalibrating and reorienting himself. "I came here to check on you, actually. Sasha said you weren't doing so well earlier."

"I'm feeling much better now, thank you." I wave away his concern, smiling with merit I don't feel, and start walking away from the infirmary. To my great dismay, Armin follows at my side.

"I also wanted to check in after…you know. Everything Eren said."

"Ah."

Silence slips between the two of us as Eren's best friend collects his thoughts. I don't want to talk about this. But I'd rather have him focus on this than on the notes he just saw. Of all the people to see them, of course it had to be Armin fucking Arlert. The only person I have a snowball's chance in hell of outsmarting. "I wasn't there when it happened. But Mikasa and I have talked about it a lot over the last few years. And I want you to know that we don't agree with Eren. To me, at least, it sounds like you were trying to save Carla. You tried as best as you could."

"My best was not enough," I say, and the bitterness in my tone alarms me. "If I hadn't taken that blade from Hannes–if I hadn't coaxed my mother into cutting Carla's foot off–she never would have died of infection."

"She would have been eaten," Armin reminds me quietly. I almost burst–into laughter, into tears. I know.

"Her hand was in mine. I was pulling her out of the house. I didn't pull quick enough."

Armin's head jerks over to look at me, expression surprised but for a split second before shifting into something unreadable. I can't meet his eyes. I'd been so close. So close to saving Carla. So close to making sure Eren would not grow up with all that rage, all that trauma.

So close and still so abysmally far away.

"Aliva…"

My throat constricts, and for a second, I think I'm going to throw up again. I shiver at a sudden burst of wind. "Well. You came to check up on me on two fronts; I responded in kind. Your duty to me is done."

Armin frowns, but does not speed up when I start walking faster to distance us. Instead he only says, softly, "I don't see it as duty."

I stop, grinding my feet in the snow. "Then what is it?"

"Friendship."

I want to bicker. I want to argue, want to hate, want to scream and fight and protest against all the people that drift too close. I do not need help. I've been a fool to think I can trust the people who will coat themselves in the blood of others. I am no different. They cannot trust me, either, despite all my yearning.

I deflate a little when I look Armin in the eyes. "Do you know me well enough to be my friend?"

I am already glancing at Armin's eyes. It is for that, and that alone, that I notice the split second when they drift down to my hands. To the book I've got clutched between them. "I like to think I do," he says.

But he won't look me in the eyes.

A/N: Couple things: 1. Sasha says y'all unironically because I also say it unironically. No I will not take criticism on this. 2. Sorry this chapter took so long to upload! I've been drunk as a skunk off in Mexico and I was hand writing all my chapters while I was down there. So I had to type all my written stuff up and that took extra time! 3. In case you haven't noticed, there is now a lemon on Chapter 10. The smut is optional, so if you want to read it you can, but if not, carry on!