Work Text:
It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
- One Art, Elizabeth Bishop
"It's going to be OK," Mikasa tells him, late at night, when they're sitting on the rooftop and he's in her lap, screaming at the stars.
It's not, it's not, it's not, Jean thinks, and then the pain pulls him back under.
The funeral is sombre. The scent of lilies hangs in the air. Jokes aren't made; stories from his life aren't laughed at through tears. Not enough time has passed for it, not enough time will ever pass. His friends fill up the front row, black crows perched precariously upon their grief. Christa starts crying on Ymir's shoulder halfway into the service and doesn't stop.
There's a black hole around them that they all gravitate towards, reminiscent of the person that once filled it. No one mentions that it's there.
Later that day Jean punches Eren. He's not even sure afterwards why he did it, maybe a comment Eren made, something said in the wrong tone of voice, and he still feels bleak when his fist crunches into the other male's cheek. For the first time, Eren doesn't retaliate. He lies uncomplaining on the floor as Jean smacks him again and again until Connie and Ymir haul him off. It's the biggest testament Eren could have made towards their friendship.
Words blur past him during class. He can't taste his coffee. He can't even hold a paintbrush properly.
When Jean looks down at what he's drawn on the sketchpad, he's scared he hasn't got the placement of freckles right.
One night they go on a drive. They haven't done it for a while: it usually happens when they're too keyed up to sleep after a party and they'd all head to a diner, or take cars a few miles out of town to see the stars. It's his favourite spot they go to, a few benches overlooking the city.
It feels like a pilgrimage, something they had to do. That doesn't make it any easier. They sit on the benches silently, wrapped in blankets from Reiner's van. Sasha tries to speak, but she only gets a few words out before her voice cracks.
They stay there until morning, a vigil ended by the first rays of sun. It's beautiful, so beautiful Jean almost wishes he wanted to paint it. By unspoken agreement, they don't go that place as a group again. It's left to its memories.
Time moves on like a wave, and it rolls over everything that once was. His voice is stuck in videos. The stack of books he left in Jean's room goes unread. The sweaters he owned stop smelling like him, sunshine and ink and his brand of deodorant. Jean feels stuck between the wave and the past. He's not sure which one he'd rather pick.
During a film night, just him, Connie, Eren and Armin, he starts crying. Jean doesn't know why - it wasn't the film, he hated the film, the wimp never liked gratuitous blood and gore - but he's got the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes, his whole body shuddering.
The film isn't paused, and only Armin leads him into the kitchen. They know he couldn't have dealt with them making a big deal over him, and he's thankful for it.
Armin is silent when he sits beside Jean, nudging his toes against the carpet. It's a while before Jean can speak again. "I really fucking miss him," he croaks. Armin looks at him solemnly. "I know," he says. "I know."
And ordinarily Jean would have pushed Armin away and spat that he didn't, that none of the rest of them did, but he does know. Who they're missing isn't the type of person that can be mourned more by one above anybody else. The grief he left is shared by every one of them, and Jean can't hold claim to it.
He wants to, though, he wants to be selfish. He still wants to be wrapped up in another person so seamlessly that their names are just a conjunction of the other's. His problem is that the only person he wants it with is gone.
Sometimes he wakes from a dream, and in the middle of the night he can remember lips lingering on his skin. He has a box of memories in his head, of laughter in his ear, warm hands around his shoulders. He turns his face into the pillow and attempts to hold onto the memories, but they're growing misty like underdeveloped photographs.
If he closes his eyes and tries hard he can remember brown eyes looking into his own on early mornings and kisses pressed like promises down his body.
They celebrate after finals, but without celebration. There's a gathering at Bertl, Reiner and Annie's and Connie gets his iPod hooked up softly playing music. Jean feels tired all the way to his bones. He's so tired.
Before they start Eren raises his glass and looks at the others expectantly. They follow suit, and even Armin who doesn't normally drink, picks up the bottle in front of him.
Eren turns to Jean, and the lack of movement from everyone else makes him realise they're all already looking at him. They're waiting for him to say something.
Jean grips his glass a bit tighter. "We know who this is for," he says, and they all nod, eleven hands tipping back their drinks.
It's a grey day when he goes to visit. Eren, Mikasa, Sasha and Connie are waiting for him in the car; they're going to see a film afterwards.
Jean walks past the rows, flowers clenched in his hand. He made an effort to dress up, a nice shirt and tie, and only Eren gently mocked him for it.
The rain's gently streaking off the gravestone when he reaches it and when he places one hand flat against the cool stone it dribbles around his palm. There's a knife wound in his chest, but he's had it for a while, and though he'll scar, he's going to live through it.
He arranges the flowers clumsily on the grave. Apart from the thrum of rain, it's quiet.
"You're not here," Jean begins. "And I want you to be, or maybe I want to be where you are. But whatever comes after this, I know you're going to be rocking it."
There's no sun from behind the clouds, and he squints up at them, trying to think of what to say next. Jean leans his head forward so it's almost touching the stone above his palm. "You are going to hurt me for a very long time," he says quietly, and his feet echo in the rain-soaked gravel when he walks away. The flowers on the grave are already wet.