Chapter Text
Trost’s cobblestone road hummed beneath us as we advanced into the night, the car windows rolled down by a breathable margin. My head remained permanently against the glass while my eyes travelled from my shaking hands, to the yellowed city streets, then ultimately to the picture that was Jean’s side profile.
He’s been adorned with a halo tonight for his charitable deed: saving me from demonstrable shame and social ostracism. The knowledge that he kept sanitary pads on hand for his friends had sweetened my perception of him considerably because the asshole I had crafted in my mind could not possibly possess such kindness.
A song played quietly in the background from Jean’s playlist—‘Don’t Dream It’s Over.’ He made no effort to inform me of how much he adored the song like most would have done, neither did he mouth the lyrics with passion, or sway his head to the rhythm. I just remembered him being very still. One hand conducted the wheel, while the other rested loosely on his thigh.
His expression was dull, a drawn curtain to any kind of emotion or clue about what he was thinking. We made the recognisable turn past the Rose Building, so I knew we were nearing my accommodation soon; there were three accommodation buildings at Trost. The Rose Building, the Sina Building, and the Maria Building, where I lived (as did Sasha and Mikasa).
The car indicator clicked, the tires scratched to change direction, the breezes fanned against the metal exterior. My lower stomach had a deep ache and now I knew why.
Jean startled me by asking where I lived. I managed to choke out, ‘Maria Building,’ before the silence between my response and his question stretched too uncomfortably. He only gave curt and continued driving with his eyes glued straight ahead. I usually didn’t mind some quiet; I never understood the desperation to fill up ‘awkward silences’ with words when the moment could just exist untouched. Yet, there was something constrained about this situation.
The car turned in front of the Maria Building just as the song reached its end, oddly poetic, all things considered.
I didn’t expect him to get out of the car after dropping me off, but it seemed his intention was to see me right to my doorstep.
My strides were a bit staggered as I walked up to my building, with Jean walking alongside me in silence; his jacket was still tied around my waist like some sort of obscure skirt. It was utterly mortifying, so much so that I doubted I would ever be able to narrate the events of tonight to my sister over the phone, let alone Mikasa or Sasha.
“You second or third floor?” Asked Jean, combing a large hand through his dishevelled hair.
I swallowed, though there was nothing in my mouth to warrant it, “Third. The top floor.”
“Roommates?” He followed up, finally gracing me with eye contact.
Only, I looked away almost immediately. Mentally, I flirted with the idea of just lying about my living arrangements to avoid seeming like some kind of elitist. He already thought unfavourably of me, and I deduced that flaunting my scholarship would only dampen his impression of me. We reached my front door—A103—and I shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t have any at the moment,” I settled on. “It’s a smaller space, anyway.”
He gave me a swift once over, “Hm.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “What about you?”
“Connie,” he sighed. “He drives me literally insane.”
I let a gentle chuckle slip before composing myself, “Connie’s energy is just... infinite.”
“That’s a word for it,” agreed Jean. He cut our discussion short in declaring, “I’m gonna head back now. Guess I’ll see you later.”
The last utterance didn’t carry even the slightest sliver of hope; in fact, it almost sounded resigned, like seeing me again was just an unfortunately inevitability and he hadn’t the fight in him to refuse it. Again, I was unable to hold any resentment towards him, knowing he was still mourning someone so dear. And he was staring in the face of the so-called ‘replacement,’ that must have been jarring.
I nodded, “Yeah, I’ll see you. And I'll have your jacket washed and back to you,” I reassured him.
He was already turning away, “Don’t bother,” he sighed, making his descent on the stairs.
His nonchalance ought to have comforted me, but instead I felt a tsunami of shame overcome me as I stood by my door. Whatever awkwardness that was between us had surely been amplified by a hundred: I bleed on his fucking jacket and he couldn’t even bear the notion of taking it back washed. The predicament was just that disgusting. I didn’t blame him.
The next day, I enjoyed the freedom of no lectures, or seminars, or anything scholarly. My refuge was my single bed, upon which I had curled myself into a ball and tucked a hot water bottle against my lower stomach. There was a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate on the mattress, along with two empty plastic bottles and a foil of ibuprofen. My eyes just barely stayed open to watch the show displayed on my phone.
Then, the device vibrated with a call—my sister. She hadn’t called since I’d left home and had picked the most inconvenient time to remedy it.
I groaned softly, part pain and part irritation, and swiped up on the ‘call’ button. My thumb instinctively tapped the ‘speaker’ icon and I awaited the sound of her voice. The unidentifiable ambience of home life rustled through the speakers; indistinct conversation, the clatter of cups and spoons and forks, various footsteps about the place.
“Hello?” I grumbled.
“Alright, Governor?” Came the familiarly cheeky voice of my younger sister. She used a childhood nickname from when we’d pretend to be upper class nobility. In return, I always called her,
“M’Lord.” The smile crept up on me before I even realised it. “How're things? Hope you guys don’t miss me too much.”
“You sound half dead!” She expressed. Goodness, I had not missed the brutality of her honesty. “But yeah, we’re just miserable without you. I can’t even eat or sleep,” she teased.
I rolled my eyes, despite my migraine, “Ha. And how’s the little monster?” I asked, referring to our youngest sister.
“Still very much monstrous,” she professed.
“As I imagined,” I chuckled, lightly. “How’s mother dearest holding up, then?”
“She stopped crying like she did on the first week,” my sister informed me. “She cried literally every day, it was so annoying.”
I nodded, though she could not see me. “I know she cried every day, she called me even more.” Then, in a more accusing tone, “You better have left my room as it is. It’s off limits.”
“And how are you gonna enforce that from all the way over there?” She sassed. “I used your face cream yesterday,” she held the camera closer to her face and preened. “Can you see the glow?”
“I’m back in like a month and a half for turkey and I will murder you if anything in my room is out of order,” I half-heartedly threatened, pointing into my lens. Younger siblings seriously knew no boundaries, it was exhausting.
“You're spending Christmas here? What about your friends in The Big Apple?” She expressed, making grand gestures with her arms.
I snorted, “That’s New York, no one says that about Trost.”
“Trost is the New York of Europe.”
“You know what, that’s not way off.”
My sister looked proud of herself at that, and with a quick adjustment of her phone’s position, she continued to jab me with her playful inquiries, “What? Do you not have friends yet, then? Wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I literally texted you about them,” I huffed. “I have a lot of very good friends, but I still want to be home for Christmas, y’know?” I sighed, curving my knees closer to my stomach as I lay down. “Plus, I bet they have all kinds of traditions that wouldn’t usually include me—I wouldn’t wanna make it weird.”
“You always overthink stuff like that,” answered my sister, coolly. “Like, I bet they’d want you to hang for the holidays, but it’s your choice.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Forgot to ask about dad. How is he?” My voice was notably hoarse.
“Father dearest is at work like always,” she told me. “Also, my phone’s on, like three percent.”
My shoulders shook with a gentle laugh, “Later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile,” she stuck her tongue out before ending the call.
At last, I allowed my phone to slip from my hold, feeling much more at peace now that I didn’t have to use up any energy to engage with someone else. My eyes drifted towards my radiator, where Jean’s washed jacket was spread out to dry.
By early evening, the swelling ache in my lower stomach had subsided a bit, so I decided to head to the library. Tadhg had sent me the list of possible reads for our philosophy assignment, which I was extremely grateful for. The walk from my accommodation to the library would have taken me around ten minutes ordinarily¹, but given my current ailment, it dragged out an extra ten.
I wore a midnight blue duffel coat to shield me from the increasingly chilly weather, with my earphones pouring my favourite songs into my ears. It made the world romantic, if only for a moment.
When the warm air pinched my cheeks from inside the building, my body sagged with relied and I ventured for the table furthest into the library and closest to a radiator. It was reasonably empty for a campus library; not many study groups could be seen, just sole students with their heads down and hands busy on keyboards or holding pens to paper.
Libraries had always sounded alive despite the expectation of silence. There was comfort in that. Everybody here had something to work towards; essays, dissertations, dreams. Even the exhaustion hanging from everyone’s shoulders felt oddly communal.
I sunk down in my seat (cushioned wooden chairs, thank everything divine) and opened up my laptop to my philosophy document, wincing slightly at the penetrative blue light. I cracked my knuckles and my fingers began their frantic assault on my keyboard, rushing to match the pace of my thoughts. Despite the fact that physics was my major, philosophy seemed dominant in my life as of late.
The next hour was filled with productivity, not including the several breaks I granted myself to lean away from my screen and save myself from serious eye strain. In that time, I had bought myself a cup of tea from the nearby vending machine and taken two more ibuprofen tablets in hopes that the plague in my head might cease.
A blur of a person whizzed by me, I caught it in my peripheral vision. The faint scent of cigarettes and designer cologne followed soon after, and just then, I knew for sure that it had been Jean.
He took a seat at the table behind me, setting out his belongings before him like an operation table; everything had a specific space, every item removed from his backpack was treated with carefulness. There was something almost ritualistic about it, watching him.
There was a paper cup of something steaming beside him, which I guessed to be coffee because I thought he seemed the type of person that would require something stronger than tea. He was also French, but I wasn’t sure whether that stereotype really applied here.
I was probably a weirdo for staring at him. Each time I glanced at him over my shoulder, I mentally scolded myself but ended up doing it again. I thought, at that moment, that Jean Kirschtein looked perpetually exhausted in the way beautiful portraits often did. Like there was too much emotion pressed beneath the surface and nowhere appropriate for it to go.
In the act of looking back to my work, I caught a flash of his eyes flickering towards me. I paused the swerve of my head and looked back at him, offering my pursed lips as a sign of friendliness. If it hadn’t been for my awkward nature, it would have looked more like a smile.
He said nothing but nodded in acknowledgement of me, before glancing away from me once more.