Chapter Text
It had started raining shortly after Jean got on the train. Jean liked the rain, he always had. It reminded him of summers when he was a child. He was the type that would go out and splash in all the puddles, without an umbrella, laughing and running until his mother called him in when it started to pour harder.
“Jean! Get in here right now young man, or no dessert for a week!” Her voice was still as clear as it was all those years ago now. He smiled softly. There had been a few times where, indeed, he hadn’t gotten dessert for a ‘week’. Really, it was only a few days. As a child, though, Jean was disappointed any day he was denied his sweet, precious apple pie. Or whatever happened to have been made.
He ravished in the thunder, as he reclined in his seat, brought back to the present. The gentle yet rough way the wind shook the trees made him relax and forget about his stresses. The rain truly made Jean calm. However, he was slightly tense as the train passed by an advertisement for The Ackerman Times, the rival newspaper for Maria Newspress. He highly disliked them. They were defiantly larger and more corporal than Maria, and it was evident that they sucked up to the ‘typical’ person. Unlike Maria, Ackerman covered anything and everything under the sun. They were the most generalized newspaper Jean could think of, with no ounce of pleasant hominess that Maria had. He supposed that was why Maria had been the natural choice. Their paper was largely opinion-driven, the largest difference between the two. That was the way Jean liked to write. It was always his belief that opinion was the backbone of any kind of writing. And, yes, sometimes it was difficult to restrain his opinion, but it was what he was most passionate about. Personal, from the heart writing. Any other writing to him felt, well, inorganic. Essays were always his weak points, he remembered to himself. Stories and opinion-driven writing were all he could do. Thank god he could base a career around that.
Looking around the train, Jean noted there were mainly middle-class looking men around him. This hadn't surprised him, considering this seat was in the middle class section. However, he felt himself flinch when he noticed a girl sitting a seat diagonal from him. This girl was defiantly higher than middle class. This Jean knew for a fact. Mikasa Ackerman could definitely afford to buy an upper-class seat, hell, she could probably buy out the whole goddamn section if she wanted. He turned away. There wasn’t a single reason why he should talk to her… again.
“Hello Kirstein.”
Mikasa Ackerman had moved seats. Mikasa fucking Ackerman thought she had the balls to talk to him after what happened.
“Hello, Ackerman.
“You can refer to me as ‘Mikasa’, you know.”
“You’re the one who called me ‘Kirstein’”.
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two, as Jean looked out the window again. Maybe if he stopped talking to her, she would go back. There was no such luck.
“Jean, I’m sorry.”
Jean turned to her.
“I’m sorry for fighting with you. I’m sorry for being uncaring. I should have been more attentive.”
“Mikasa, we’re done. We were over a year ago. I appreciate your apology, but it won’t do anything now.”
“I still love you, Jean.”
“I know, Mikasa.”
Mikasa looked down, then away, before returning to her seat. Jean returned to looking out the window. It was foggy now, and he could see the tips of the buildings in the next town peeking through the thickness of the mist. Jean had tried not to be an asshole. It was hard, though, when Mikasa pressed him like that. Not one conversation they had after the breakup was a normal one. She had always apologised, or at least tried. And Jean was sick of it. Mikasa was pretty, but Jean had learned after a month she was just a little obsessive. Also, he never really knew why she liked him. He had asked, and received silence in return. The chemistry just wasn’t there, he concluded, when he had phoned to break off the relationship. She had been quiet, which was nice. Jean was relieved she wasn’t like some hyper chick Connie had dated in collage. Not the Sasha kind. The bad-hyper kind. Jean wanted to know what the hell went through Connie’s head at the time, however, he thought maybe it was for the best he didn’t know. All Jean knew was that he was defiantly not going to go head-first into a relationship with another girl again.
Night had fallen for quite some time when Jean left the train. The air was cool and not a hint of moisture lingered in it. ‘A perfect night for running’, he quietly thought. Those days were over, though. Jean sighed, and attempted to dismiss the memories that had resurfaced. He was to find Titania Hotel, where he would be staying for the duration of his stay. Turning down the street he thought was the correct street, he winced. It was dark. Still, the map that Eren, a co-worker, had scribbled down for him was for the most part accurate. Up to this point. “I’ve been there twice, Jean. Trust me.” He had reassured him. Jean made a mental note not to follow Eren’s maps again. However, he reconsidered the mental note when before him he found Titania. It was actually quite a pleasant hotel. And, according to Petra, “Quite economic and plentiful.” Which meant cheap. The level of cheapness, Jean would soon find out. He knocked on the door three times. Nothing. ‘Fuck, are they closed?’ he swore in his head. Then, the door opened.
“Are you Jean?” a fairly tall blonde woman asked.
“Last time I checked.” Jean remarked sleepily.
The woman smirked. “Wonderful, I was told you’d come a bit late. Please come in.”
Jean entered, and silently thanked Petra for firstly, not booking him a dirt-cheap hellhole and secondly, telling the owner he’d come late and not leaving him with nowhere to go.
“My name is Annie, and your room is 69. If you need anything please come to my office, and knock… three times. You’re an important guest, so please don’t hesitate.” she informed with a curt bow, handing him the room key.
“Thank you, Annie.” he replied respectfully. He headed to the stairs.
When he arrived on the sixth floor, he checked his room number again. “Sixty nine… sixty nine… sixty n-“ He stopped. Wait a fucking second. Petra had said she picked the room herself. “You’ll love it!” she exclaimed. Well. Jean didn't know about the interior of the room, but he already knew by the exterior why she had picked it. Where she got the notion Jean was into other men- hell, doing that kind of shit with other men- he didn't want to know. ‘Dammit, Petra’ he muttered to himself, turning the key to room number sixty nine. The room, thank goodness, was normal. Jean didn't care about unpacking at the moment. He was tired as hell and it was one in the morning. He crawled into bed and called it a night.
Then, a dream hit him.
The face in front of his was blurry, like a screen was distorting it. Jean squinted, but could make out no facial features beyond the basic. ‘Who are you?’ his dream self inquired. Nothing.
He leaned in as face laughed. A younger voice than he had, but with a hint of deepness. And vaguely familiar. The figure ran, as it had before, faster than Jean could at top speed. It faded shortly after, into wisps of shadow, when Jean got remotely close. He stood, his legs not numb this time, but strong. He found himself alone, in the black.
As sunshine burrowed through the mini blinds, Jean sat up and rubbed his fingers along his temples. Despite the fact he didn't drink, probably never would, his headache pounded like a drum. God dammit. Still, he managed to get the stamina to get up and dressed. After all, he had an athlete to find. One that was real.