Chapter Text
⋄ ⊱ ACT ONE ⊰ ⋄
Forget Me Not
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
YEAR 850
Blood.
You watch as the droplet pools at the tip of your finger, creating ever growing dew drop of crimson on your once pristine skin. It grows in size until any shaking movement of your hand threatens to send the tear down the extremity. There’s something endearing about the blood; whether it’s the warmth, the color, the stinging pain still throbbing, you don’t know. Yet your eyes remain fixated on the liquid - your breath held up in your throat.
Then, the door opens. An abrupt entrance which causes your shoulders to flinch, instantly sending that growing bead of red down your finger despite all your efforts to keep it still; to watch just how much could leak from you.
Finally, you breathe as your hand drops to the table you sit at, tilting your head up and away towards the entrance of the building.
It’s morning, still so early that the streets have yet to become populous. Having a customer this early is rare, but you understand exactly why as your eyes come into contact with the person who so rudely interrupted your morbid game. Dressed as that of a military officer, you understand what they shall need before they have the chance to explain it to you; for there’s only one reason why military personnel would attend a floral shop: a funeral is in order.
You have grown accustomed to arrangements for these events, putting together large bouquets to sit atop caskets as friends and loved ones mourn their loss. And that morbid curiosity within you somewhat enjoyed the process of creating a floral farewell for the deceased.
“Good morning, what may I do for you?” you ask, brushing off your bloodied finger along the leather apron strapped to your waist, hiding the finale of this game under the wooden table top.
Their appearance strikes you; brown hair tied back atop their head allowing short strands to hang by their shoulders, pale skin with a rosy colored hue, a pair of oval glasses perched on a hooked nose, and underneath lies a black eyepatch which covers their left eye. And as a single pupil meets your own through the glare cast onto their lenses, you’re immediately painted with a layer of perplexion.
You notice the green jeweled bolo tied around their neck, the color glimmering as they step inside the shop. Something you had seen before, a symbol given as an honorary veteran status to those only in the Survey Corps. You had seen it on the neck of their Commander, Erwin Smith; the man who from time to time had stopped by to order those familiar funeral arrangements. Though you have never seen this stranger now approaching in your shop.
“Morning,” their voice a husky, solemn tone, “I’m looking to have a funeral arrangement made.”
Once you finish cleaning the blood from your finger, you stand from your chair, keeping your eyes on the stranger before you.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” you begin the routine speech, “Allow me to gather my book and I’ll be more than happy to assist you. Please, have a seat.”
You motion towards the table you sat at, a round wooden thing with three matching chairs, a small blue vase housing a fresh tuft of daisies decorating its middle. Left on the surface, the pair of shears and bundle of roses you had been working to dethorn; the same rose which had pricked your finger lies flat by itself.
You turn toward the back of the building, trying to locate the hand woven book which holds every transaction you have made in your time running this shop as you listen to the stranger moving behind you. The chair they pull scrapes along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.
“Do you run this place by yourself?” as you reach for the leather spine of your book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting their eye already placed upon you.
“Yes,” you offer a quick smile, retreating back to your task, opening the book to a new page and grabbing an ink and quill with your freehand, “For three years now.”
You take your seat once more, joining the stranger and pushing the roses you had been preparing to the side, replacing them with the open book. Lined pages discolored with age and a smell of crafted paper greets you in return.
“That’s lovely. ” Your eyes lift up to them at their words, their vocabulary striking you with a peaked interest.
Their eye sits comfortably on you, their hands folded atop the table, their aura steaming off of them in soft tendrils which you swear you can see; a warm glow, caring and inviting, one that you have to tear your eyes away from.
You politely smile at them in response, uncapping the bottle of ink and fixing the quill between your fingers.
“May I have the name of the deceased?” you glide your hand over the top of the page, an empty entry awaiting you as you yourself await an answer from them. But the moment it comes, it stings to your surprise.
“Erwin Smith.”
You lift your head up to them with an underlying shock. An image of the man who used to come by every now and again flashes through your mind. Then, it hits you; the Survey Corps’ mission to retake Wall Maria had left their numbers at a staggering low, and with only a couple days having passed their return, that loss has included their Commander.
Your lips part as you retract your pupils from them, forcing them back down to those blank pages. Though you only knew the man to a surface level, you recall how he used to buy single flowers with his orders, trading his coins then placing the flower down on the same table you sit at. Always leaving the shop with a soft smile. Small gestures to an even smaller relationship that gave you all the clues you needed to acknowledge the kindness brewing within his heart.
Sifting through your recollections, you begin to write down his name.
“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words are bitter on your tongue as you await their response.
“Hm…I haven’t really thought too much about it,” a faint chuckle leaves their lips, “What do you think?”
Although this is your profession, you loathe that question and others similar to it. Of course you have ideas, beautiful ones that flow easily in your head, but you have yet to gain confidence in them.
What if they don’t like my ideas?
Perhaps they think it’s odd.
Why would they think anything coming from my mind is acceptable?
All of these thoughts and more of their likeness plague you, the belittled self esteem riddles your bones as you attempt to pull any sort of comprehensible idea together for this stranger. Erwin Smith’s face - his kindness - doesn’t aid your trials in the slightest.
“Well, for funerals, the usual base people tend to gravitate towards are hyacinths,” you lift a freehand towards the bundle of white flowers sitting in their respective vases to the right, their eye following your direction, “Lilies are another favorite,” you point them towards the hanging petals to the left, “And people tend to ask for-”
“But what do you think?” They interrupt, meeting your stare and holding it from across the table, “I want to know what you gravitate towards.”
You can’t help but sit in silence for a moment after the fact, watching as they lean over in their seat, their eye staying locked on yours as you’re too nervous to break contact. It’s unavoidable now, having to state your own opinions, your own likes and dislikes. The same ones that had been shut down many times in the past.
But this stranger's eye isn’t harsh like they had been. Instead, this stranger watches you with pure intrigue, with a soft curiosity as you jumble your response on the tip of your tongue.
“Bluebells,” you utter, instantly darting your attention away from them and to the blue flowers sitting patiently at the front window of your shop, “They tend to symbolize care and warmth. Kindness. I didn’t know the Commander that well, but he did stop by a few times for reasons like this. Based on my interactions with him, I think anyone from a mile away could feel the kindness in his heart.”
You meet their gaze once you finish, hesitantly looking back down to the blank book as you immediately apologize for your rambling.
“No,” they break your remorse, “Don’t be sorry. What else?”
You feel your heart picking up her speed inside your chest, a throbbing pulse emanates from the healing cut on your fingertip.
“Forget-me-nots. People usually order them for much smaller, intimate bouquets, but I feel they add a sense of vulnerability to larger arrangements. I suppose I could use a hyacinth base, a layer of bluebells and foliage as filler, and top it off with them.”
You watch them lean back in their seat, straightening their posture and slightly perching one eyebrow with a small, warm smile.
“I would have just said roses and been done with it.”
That nervousness, that self doubt, almost regurgitates from your throat in the form of pleas for forgiveness, but they continue their words before that volcano erupts.
“That being said, I’m surely glad you’re the one doing this and not me.”
Praise.
“Think you can have it done in two days?” they ask, their eye moving towards the rose buds waiting to be trimmed on the table, “That’s when the memorial service will be.”
Your head begins to nod before the words spill from your lips, “Yes, yes that’s no problem.” you dip the quill into the ink pot once more, taking it to the page as you begin etching in the details described, all while your hand tries its best to control the shaking of your writing.
“Will this be enough to cover the cost?” as you finish the detailing, you lift your eyes from the book, directly landing your attention on the satchel of coins they place before you. A black bag, the gold coins clink against together as it settles onto the wood. You don’t need to look inside to know it’s well beyond your commission rate for an arrangement like this.
“Oh, that’s far too much, it would only be-”
“It’s the least I can do for your help,” they cut you off, “I can’t imagine many would have come up with an idea as admirable as yours.”
Praise.
You begin to grow flustered with their kind words, the sensation almost immobilizing you yet you keep pushing, refusing to allow someone as generous as them to waste their kindness.
“Please, I can’t let you overpay.” you place a hand on the pouch, beginning to slide it back to them, yet their own palm meets the fabric, halting the motion. The tips of their fingers graze your own.
Their eye locks on yours, both of your lips cease your words before they stand from their seat, removing their hand from the pouch. You watch as they brush the wrinkles from their olive green coat fastened to their figure, watch as they take a step towards the middle of the table. Their hand now reaches out to the rose before you.
The stem is only one thorn away from being trimmed, the same thorn which had pricked your finger making a home at its base.
“I’ll buy this too then.” they hold the rose delicately between their fingers, giving the stem a slow twirl as the maroon petals flutter in motion.
Roses have become a rarity. Since the Titans first broke through Shiganshina and Wall Maria - the domains in which the roses had primarily grown - they now symbolize a level of wealth. A single rose comes up to cost with that of a meal for ten, or a single cutlet of meat.
“Is that alright with you?’ their eye meets yours, looking down to you as you remain seated.
That nervousness which has begun to do a number on your confidence keeps the words caught in your throat; the feeling of a burning rod sizzles them shut inside you as you keep their stare. You only nod your head, offering a small smile before trailing your eyes back down to that sharp thorn that had made you bleed.
Grabbing for your shears, you stand from your chair, taking a step towards the soldier.
“Here, I had just started this one when you came in.” you lift the sharp edge of the scissors to the base of the stem, their fingers moving aside as you enclose the shears around the thorn. Their eye watches you from above, only paying attention to the way your brow creases in concentration as you clip the harmful prick away from their rose.
You listen to the thorn hit the floor, the hard piece of stem clatters on the ground before your eyes look up at them, swiftly retreating from their fixed gaze to the deep green cabochon adorning their collar. The jewel sits at eye level with you, and if you look close enough you can see your reflection glossed over with an emerald hue.
You stare into the bolo for a few moments more before catching yourself, your hand still grasped onto the rose and the shears in your other. Once you notice, you immediately drop your grip, stepping away from the stranger and bowing your head slightly to their superiority.
“You have a lovely business,” their remark lifts your head back up to them, “I’m looking forward to seeing you, and your work.” though their words come across as confident - loud and certain - they speak the last few syllables with an underlying softness, this time tilting their own head down to you before turning towards the door.
You’re left speechless, stumped by not only their assured presence, but by their willingness to show respect to someone in the likes of you; a rank well below their own.
Watching as they grip the metal door knob, they turn back to you.
“By the way, may I have your name?” you quickly try to swallow down the burning in your throat to answer them.
You give them the answer, and before your next breath your own curiosity gets the better of you, “And yours?”
They offer a small grin, a small expression that turns into a solemn look as their eye grazes your stature.
“Commander Hange,” your breath hitches, “Until we meet again.”
You watch as they open the door, the old hinges creaking in response, before they exit the small shop. Even then, you watch from the window as they mount their house waiting just outside, placing the rose in the front pocket of their coat; watching as they begin a trot down the street until they fully disappear from view.
And it isn’t until two days later, the day of Erwin Smith’s memorial service, that you meet their aura again.
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
Although you hardly knew the man, you sit in silence this morning. The arrangement prepped and ready on the table, your hands folded on your lap, your eyes staring blankly out of the shop's window. You watch as the crowds of people begin their day. You watch as they converse in the street; smiling, laughing. And you wonder how on earth the world can continue moving after death.
You ponder on Erwin’s family. Did he have one? You ponder on his friends. Are they mourning? You watch the strangers' faces of happiness and contentment and you wonder how they can wear such smiles while so many others are left grieving on this same sun filled day.
Though, these thoughts come to a stop as a horse gallops into view, dark brown with a matching mane. The moment you see their olive coat you arise from your seat. A sudden reaction, an eagerness you weren’t expecting, yet your body takes control before you ponder on it.
Commander Hange enters the shop, their appearance just the same as it had been those couple days ago. And to your surprise, more so shock, they wear a smile.
“Morning.” they speak through their grin.
“Good morning,” you bow your head, “Commander.” with your head tilted low, you don't see - or hear - the quietly subdued chuckle leaving their lips at your formality.
“Is this it?” lifting your chin, you look at them, then you follow their eye focused on the flowers on the table.
“Yes,” your nerves tingle inside of you, your voice trembling slightly due to the fact, “If you want me to make any quick adjustments, I can do so at no extra charge.”
They lift a hand to you, not taking their eye away from the arrangement as they signal you to stop.
“Why would I want to change this? It’s lovely. ”
You’re left without words. Their compliment leaves you speechless as your eyes trail to the bouquet. Scanning over the white hyacinths. The blue bells. The cedar leaves and myrtle. The delicate forget-me-nots on top, all tied together with a light blue ribbon.
You recall staring at the arrangement for hours the night before. Wondering if it was too much, too little, too boring, or over the top. But to Commander Hange, at the very least, it’s lovely .
“Don’t you think?” you look back to them, catching their eye already on you. Yet you can't muster a single word in response. Simply nodding your head in a forced agreement; although you have a hard time believing your work is anything along the lines of perfection, you don’t want to refute them.
The Commander picks up the bundle delicately, holding it all in one arm with a sigh.
“Well, I appreciate your work dearly.” They bow their head to you, but as they look back up their eye gazes beyond you, to the vase of leftover roses you had just stocked on the front counter.
They walk to that vase, your eyes following them as they brush past you, the scent of the bouquet wafting alongside them. You watch as they pluck out a single rose, bringing it to the tip of their nose for a moment, then turning back to you.
“Hold this for me, please?” they gesture the flower to you, your eye grazing the soft petals, then grazing the soft veins of their long hands. But you take the, their hand letting go as you do before reaching into their pocket.
They slip out a pinch full of gold coins, just a few tokens over the price of a single rose, and place the money down on the counter. Their eye meets yours, offering a soft smile, then their feet begin to move towards the door.
Your brows furrow, your hand almost reaches out to grab them but you stop at the remembrance of their status.
“Wait, I-” they stop at your call, glancing over their shoulder with the bouquet in hand, “Your rose.” you remind them, holding out the flower they had just purchased for them to take. But the Commander only shakes their head.
“For you,” they reply gingerly, opening the door without taking their eye off of you, “Until we meet again.”
As they leave the shop, securing the arrangement to the back of their horses saddle, you stand perplexed with the rose in your hand. Watching as they ride off down the street, disappearing from your sight once again, you ponder on what they had meant.
Until we meet again.
You grip the rose's stem, peering into the unfurling bundle of red petals. Slowly, you bring the flower to the tip of your nose, smelling the sweet scents which emulate from the bud, and a small smile grows on your lips.
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
A week has passed. Business has been as usual. And the rose Commander Hange purchased and left in your possession has begun to wilt.
A day hasn’t gone by where you haven’t thought of them. Their polite words of praise. That green jewel that dazzled your reflection. As odd as it is, given your meeting has been nothing but brief.
Until we meet again.
But now you wonder if they had meant it; that you’d meet again. Yet you secretly have hoped they’d walk through that door someday with another arrangement request. Another funeral. Another name for your book. And although it was a selfish, morbid thought, you wanted it. You wanted to see them again.
As the day comes to an end, the sky grows dark and the shops along the streets begin to close. You sigh at yet another day gone by without meeting their brown eye. But you scoff at that thought, walking to flip the open sign on the window over.
They’re the Commander , you think, who knows what they have on their plate. They’ve forgotten me by now. They must have.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts, or more so frightened out of them, as a figure rushes to the front door. As you have yet to lock it, it opens in one swing, a gust of air flies through the frame and a familiar face huffs as they try to catch their breath.
It takes you a moment to realize it’s them. Their brown hair is tied up the same way it had been yet strands are now loose and unkempt. From their closeness, you catch a bead of sweat trickling down the side of their hairline, only then coming into contact with their eye as yours pass by the brown iris that you, for some reason, couldn’t stop thinking about.
Their breaths are uneven, panting for air yet they manage to speak, “Are you closed yet?”
You look at the sign in your hand, the wood flipped over and the engraved word closed on display. But you don’t want to be rude, or perhaps you don’t want to come across as rude to them - and you certainly don’t want to turn them away. So you keep the sign in your hand, looking back at them with a respectful smile.
“Not yet.” which isn’t a lie - the sign is not yet placed back to the window - but it also isn’t the whole truth.
They sigh in relief, letting go of the door and allowing it to enclose them. The smile that comes with their relief is one that you find yourself having to rip your eyes away from.
“Thank goodness,” they chuckle, breaths finally even, “It’s been a week, correct?” you keep still as they walk into the shop, heading straight for the counter opposite the door.
You become flustered at their inquiry; you know exactly what they refer to, a week has passed since they’d last stepped foot into your building. But you don’t want to come across as eager. And this fact in and of itself confuses you, as to why you’d care in the first place if the Commander knew you had kept track.
“A week since what, may I ask?” you try to remain proper as you turn to them, following their back with your eyes as they come to a stop and meet your curious stare; the corner of their mouth curled into a loose smirk.
“Forgive me for presuming. A week since I last came by.”
It’s now that you realize the self proclaimed idiocy of your false forgetfulness. Coming to the peculiar acknowledgment that Commander Hange themself remembered and kept track of these days.
“Oh,” you breathe, “Yeah,” instantly cursing yourself in your thoughts for using such casual dialect, “I mean, yes, Commander. It has been a week.” you bow your head apologetically, missing the smirk which now creeps into a smile as they watch you.
“No need for all that,” they reply, lifting a hand towards the vase of roses on the counter. Only a few are left that have remained somewhat fresh in the nutrient rich water. “Well, I have a request for you.” they pluck out a stem just as you lift your head to face them. The Commander lifts the rose to their nose, taking in a breath of the floral scent and meeting their eye to you.
“I’d be happy to assist you.”
They bring the rose back down, twirling it in their hand.
“Would you be able to make me a bouquet?”
“Yes, that would be no problem at all. What are you thinking of for the arrangement. Commander?” your fingers begin to nervously pluck at the stray threads coming off the waist of your long skirt.
“Surprise me.” they pull out a satchel of clinking coins, the same as the pouch they had given you on your first meeting. Without warning, they toss the payment to you, your arms are barely quick enough to catch in awe. Just as the first time, the amount stands much higher than your commission fee.
“I’m sorry,” your brow furrows as you feel the coins in the bag, “May you elaborate on that?”
“ Surprise me, ” they repeat, that smirk reappearing as they watch your confusion blossom, “I’ll come back in a week to pick it up, is that alright with you?” they begin to walk back to the door you stand next to.
Though your mind begs for reassurance, to continue asking questions of which flowers, what type of vase, simple or exquisite, your heart begins to thump too fast at their growing closeness for your words to keep up.
“Yes, that’s alright.” your voice is low in the night.
“A week is about the life-span of the roses,” their voice takes a dip in tone, one laced with suggestion, “Correct?”
Your eyes sink to the flower in their hand, their arm slowly outstretching it to you.
“Just about.” the petals brush just along your bust.
“ Lovely. ” and with a perch of an eyebrow, they gesture for you to take the stem, though your lungs feel as if they’re on fire. Your arms feel stiff as you stare into the bud, your eyes trailing over each fold of a petal, each vein of deep red that snakes inside its skin.
“I’d just take it if I were you,” the Commander continues, “I can stand here all night. I don’t tire easily.”
Your eyes flock to theirs, and hesitantly they graze the black eye patch adorning their face. Heavily you breathe, exhaling through the miniscule gap between your lips as you take the rose in your hand, holding onto the stem tightly as if it could aid your raging nerves.
“Atta girl,” they smile, placing their once outstretched hand into the pocket of their coat, “Well, have a good night.” they open the door, and like a repetition of the last time you had seen them, they glance back just before they exit.
“Until we meet again.”
“Good night, Commander.” You respond as they leave.
Just like a repetition of the last time you had seen them, you bring the rose to the tip of your nose and silently inhale the sweet scent they had gifted you with.
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
Just like Commander Hange had promised, a week has passed, each day you counted, until they appeared under the door frame of your shop.
Early morning. The sun hasn’t even peaked over the Walls. Yet there they are, bright eyed with a smile on their face. Dressed the same, and their presence has now become a joyful encounter as you awaited their return.
“Morning.” they greet you.
“Good morning, Commander,” tilting your head in respect, “Your bouquet.” you gesture a hand to the round table, towards the arrangement you made for them.
Pink and white dahlias, vines of matching sweet peas, all mixing together in a clear vase; an added ribbon of white lace at the spout of the glassware.
As the Commander's eye meets the arrangement, your palms begin to perspire as they remain silent; expressionless.
Is it too much?
Perhaps it’s too pink.
They had said to surprise them, but being me…
“What are these ones called?” your focus whips to them, noticing that they’ve moved to the table, now pointing at the large flowers in the midst of your thoughts.
“Those are dahlias.”
“Do they have their own hidden meaning? Like the others you spoke of?”
And like instinct, your lips begin to recite the information you had grown an admirable interest towards, “People tend to relate them with wealth, elegance, and,” the next word is more difficult, though you spit it from your tongue even as their eye makes you want to swallow it down, “Love.”
Their expression turns to a reassuring joy, a soft grin cracking their hardened face. Your cheeks threaten to warm up before you look at the floorboards.
“I hope it’s to your liking.” you hear their steps approach, nearing the opposite side of the counter you stand behind.
“It’s beautiful,” that warmth now spreads across your face, “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thank you for your business.” you try your best to keep yourself professional, but the sensations fluttering in your stomach as you feel their tangible stare flusters you even further.
“My only problem is,” you look up right away, fearful of their potential complaint, their potential criticism, “It’ll be a bit difficult for me to carry such a marvelous arrangement on horseback.”
“Oh, I can exchange the vase for you.” you motion towards the bouquet, ready to switch out the glass with a paper bag, but their hand grips your wrist, a firm yet gentle touch.
“I was thinking, instead, would you be kind enough to look after it for me? Change the water. Let it get some sun,” their smile still on their lips, the flesh pink and plump on the bottom, “I’m not entirely sure how one takes care of a beauty like that. But I’d bet quite a lot that you’d do a wonderful job at it.”
The pad of their palm runs warm against your skin, almost as warm as the apples of your cheeks now left steaming.
“Are you sure, Commander?” you ask, frozen in place as you look at them.
“Quite certainly,” they finally let your wrist go, turning towards the flowers as they admire it once more, “It’ll give me another excuse to come by.”
But before you can question them - if only you had enough courage to do so - they turn towards the door.
The same repetition of words exchanged. The same goodbyes. The same promise of another meeting. And you watch as they mount their horse and ride down the street. Turning back to the arrangement they left in their wake.
Now, you wonder if they had ever planned on taking it with them in the first place.
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
The feeling in your chest as the days pass and still no sign of the Commander is an odd one. A feeling or emotion you can’t quite grasp. And as the days keep passing, as those days turn into a week and then another, and as both the rose and the bouquet they had left you begin to lose their petals, the hope and excitement of their return soon begins to wilt with the flowers.
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
⋄ ⊱ ONE MONTH LATER ⊰ ⋄
After a long day, you breathe a sigh as you sit in the back room of your closed shop; the room concealed with a curtained entryway which leads into a kitchen and narrow staircase up to your living quarters.
Everything is just as it should be as you try to wind down from your day. But even though you try your best not to, your eyes can’t help but to gravitate towards the dead remnants of the bouquet left on your kitchen table. The once green stems are now a dry brown color. No petals remain, and the buds that once grew with a vivid yellow now droop over the sides of the glass vase, the only aspect remaining intact being that of the white lace still tied onto its spout.
You know it’s been long past the time to toss out the dead foliage, but it feels wrong. As if the moment it hits the garbage pail your memories of the Commander would be thrown out with it. Their brown eye. The green bolo. Their pink lips. The way they called your work lovely. The way they never complained and only praised.
You had become so senselessly used to them, their promise of another meeting always being kept. Except for the last time.
But they’re the Commander of the Survey Corps. They’re busy. And I’m just me.
Small. Replaceable. Incompetent. You.
Those derogatory words and more shuffle through your mind as you stare at the dead flowers. Those derogatory words spoken first by your family once again being proven true.
Then, a knock at the door sounds.
A loud and urgent knock that makes you jump in your seat, sending your head flying back towards the entryway leading into the dimly lit shop. You watch as candles left ablaze on the other side flicker against the walls. And then, another knock sounds.
It’s now been forty minutes after closure, and the knocking runs an uneasiness through your spine as you stand from your chair, peeking your head into the entryway. It’s now that you wish you had installed a window into the front door to be able to see who awaits on the other side.
After another knock, this one becoming softer, you push yourself to answer the call. Meeting the door and pressing a hand to the lock, but before you undo the latch you call out to the late night caller.
“Who is it?” you ask, and the voice that replies makes your heart sink to your stomach.
“It’s Hange,” you’re taken aback by the causality, “I know it’s late, but I…” they trail off. Your head moves to the door, pressing an ear against the wood as if you could hear their hestance better. “I wanted to see you.”
It isn’t a favor, a funeral order. A need to purchase. It’s you that brought the Commander, Hange, to the door of your floral shop.
You slide the latch open, moving to pull back the door, and the sight that greets you is truthful. The Commander is dressed just the same. The smile on their mouth as you appear in the doorway is just as it had been all those weeks ago. A smile that almost pulls one to your lips, but you push it down in order to - attempt to - keep formality.
“Commander,” you bow your head down, “How may I help you?”
And before you can lift your chin back up, they reply, “Have you eaten?”
Your eyes lift to them, wide as you take in their question, “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. Have you had dinner yet?” they awkwardly rephrase.
You’re stunned, confused, yet you shake your head in response.
They lift a quick smile, “I apologize for taking so long to return. I’m still getting used to the whole ‘Commander’ thing,” they use their fingers to jokingly quote their title, “I know this may be absurd, and feel free to tell me no, but I’d be honored if you’d join me for dinner.”
Your mouth parts. Your heart picks up from your stomach only to beat erratically in your chest.
“I’m sorry if this is out of the blue,” they continue, clearly nervous of your reaction, “I would just. I’d really love to get to know you.”
You had never been a romantic. You had never been one to go out to dinner with others. And the thought of it makes you more than nervous, especially when the one on the other end of this meal is the Commander of the Survey Corps.
But is it romantic?
They hadn’t specified. Perhaps it’s just a dinner. Just a meal. Another waste of their kindness and gratitude.
And who am I to decline their generosity?
“Yes, I’d-” you pause on the smile which overtakes them at your acceptance, “I’d like that as well.”
“Perfect!” they glance over their shoulder, their horse awaiting in the background, “Well,” they turn back to you, “Shall we?”
“Yes,” you offer a smile back, “Allow me to change and close up here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” you bow your head once more, their smile turning into one of amusement with the gesture.
“Of course, I’ll be here.” they bow their own head to you, their eye staying locked on yours as they do, and this time a genuine smile is pulled straight from your heart strings at the mirrored motion.