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Jean couldn’t wait for them to leave.
He knew that wasn’t a nice way to feel about his best friends, but right now he just wanted to be alone. That was what he was used to now; company was stifling. Reminded him of what he didn’t have. Connie and Sasha shared awkward looks when they thought Jean wouldn’t notice. They all knew it was weird, that Jean wasn’t ready for this, and that their attempts to cheer him up and turn him back to the person he once was wasn’t working. They were skirting around the issue, trying to take his mind off it, but like always the thoughts of him invaded Jean’s mind. Thoughts of his dead husband. Armin.
They were stood at the door, getting ready to go. Sasha was pulling on her heavy winter coat when she finally addressed the elephant in the room.
“Jean,” she said. Jean thought that hearing her sound so serious was weird.
“Yes?” He asked, pretending that he didn’t know what she was about to say. The same thing everyone told him.
“It’s been a whole year now.” Her voice stepped on eggshells.
“I know.” His was abrupt.
She sighed, trying not to get frustrated. Jean knew he was impossible to deal with, and a part of him wanted Connie and Sasha to realise that and stop bothering with him, so he could sit alone in this house forever.
“Maybe… maybe it’s time to think about moving some of this stuff, you know?” She put a hand on his shoulder.
“It doesn’t have to be all at once,” Connie said, interrupting before Jean could rebuke. “When my mum… you know. When she passed away, we did it gradually. Bit by bit so it didn’t hurt so bad.”
Jean hated hearing his best friends talk to him like this. They weren’t serious people. They laughed together, that was what their relationship was like. When they spoke like this, with such hesitation and formality, it made him feel pitied.
Jean just nodded, knowing he wasn’t going to move a thing.
“This place is - it’s absolutely full of him, Jean,” Sasha went on. Jean knew that. He kept it like that on purpose. “All those reminders can’t be good for you.”
Maybe not. But the pain of remembering was better than forgetting. He didn’t want to forget Armin. Not even a little bit. If he kept things exactly the way they were, he wouldn’t have to accept it.
“Look,” Connie said, and Jean did, trying to keep the blank expression on his face. “Why don’t you just try going into his studio. You don’t have to clear it out yet. Just try going into the room.”
No.
“I’ll try it,” Jean said. He would have said anything to get them to leave. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“You need to get some of your life back,” Sasha said. “We love you, Jean.”
“We do,” Connie agreed. “You deserve to be happy, okay?”
“Drive safe,” Jean said, not looking at either of them. He couldn’t bring himself to say it back.
His friends nodded, promising they would, and Jean opened the front door to the bracing winter night, waving as they walked down the path.
Jean knew the way Connie took Sasha’s hand to help her down the snowy steps wasn’t a taunt, but it punched him in the gut all the same. Just a reminder of all the things he didn’t have.
Her engagement ring glinted when the light hit it and Jean felt sick.
Jean overwhelmed himself with work to cope. Piling on the stress and work made it impossible to think about anything other than the task at hand. He locked himself in the office in his empty home, working from dawn until the sun had long set. When he was finished, he stumbled to bed with all the lights off. He kept it dark at night to hide the photographs on the walls because although he couldn’t bear to take them down, he couldn’t bear to look at them either. Going outside was avoided at all costs. The snow was too white and too bright and it hurt his eyes. He’d loved winter once.
He hated it now.
His mum called every day to check up on him, and he always faked the same tone with her, made it seem like he was fine and eating enough and going out and seeing his friends and coping. But he wasn’t. He really wasn’t, but he couldn’t tell her. Jean had been trouble enough for her when he was a teenager, he sure as hell wasn’t going to cause problems when she’d just gotten her life back on track after the divorce.
Everyone else, Connie and Sasha excluded, he’d pushed away. Jean had no idea what his old friends were doing. At the funeral, he couldn’t stand their faces when they looked at him, how they told him it wasn’t his fault and that Armin wouldn't have blamed him - honestly, Jean thought he would have preferred someone to scream in his fucking face and told him all the things he was telling himself. He’d been counting on the bastard Eren for that, but Eren hadn’t even looked at him.
And the days had just dragged on and on and the trees bloomed and the sun shone and the leaves fell to the ground in big brown piles, sludge in the autumn rain, and suddenly all the branches were bare again and ice was crawling along the roads. And the house was still the same, one year later.
Jean was standing with his hand hovering over the doorknob to Armin’s studio like it would burn him if he touched it. Maybe it would. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Connie had mentioned the room. It wasn’t like he had forgotten the studio existed - he wouldn’t let himself forget a thing - there was just so much pain behind that door.
Jean was such a fucking coward.
You need to get some of your life back.
Sasha’s words haunted him. Was she right? Or was it selfish, to go in there, to move Armin’s things without his permission? To look at all of his paintings and sketches?
Jean’s hands were shaking as he fought with himself to open the door. He couldn't do it. Not now. Besides - he had work to do; there was no time. He would end up getting lost in there and he wouldn’t have time to finish his projects, so Jean hurried back up to his office, his hand feeling like it was burning anyway. Later. He would do it later.
There was a crash in the night. It came from right below the guest bedroom - Jean heard it as he slept. He jolted awake as if he was having a nightmare, his hand reaching out to touch the scar on his chest, and did his best to calm down. Waking up alone was still horrible, and he wasn’t used to it, even after a year.
What the fuck had that crash been?
Jean knew the doors were locked, that all the windows were closed. They - he - lived in the middle of nowhere. There was no way it was some kind of intruder.
The way his heart was pounding against his ribs was almost painful. Jean got out of bed. He knew where the noise had come from.
Of course, it was the studio. Fate was cruel for making him go in there, knowing how badly he didn't want to, but he found it impossible to just leave and not know what had caused the noise.
He gripped the door handle right away when he got down there. He knew waiting would only make him turn back.
Just to check if everything was alright - that was why Jean was going in there. If it was all fine he’d turn around and leave and go back to sleep in the cold empty single bed in the guest room. So he bit his cheek and pushed. The door swung open with more force than he’d used and Jean practically stumbled into the darkness of the room, out of breath.
Right. It was pitch black.
And when he turned the light on so much flooded back to him that Jean felt like he might choke on it all.
Green paint was spilled all across the plastic sheet on the floor. A pot of it must have fallen down from the shelf. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was all of the canvases around the room, how they were all covered with sheets. Dust had settled in all of the folds of the fabric like it belonged there and it was like lemon juice in an open wound that stung in Jean’s eyes and sent tears streaming down his face.
The third thing he noticed was the painting.
This one wasn’t covered, nor did it have any dust on it. The way the light hit it made it look like it had just been painted. Jean walked towards it, tracking green footprints along the plastic, his hand reaching out to touch.
And it was wet.
He pulled away like he’d been shocked, staring at the colour stained on his fingertips in disbelief. What the fuck? Was this possible? A painting couldn’t stay wet for a whole year. Not to mention the lack of dust.
Jean turned to the painting. In all of his confusion, he hadn’t even looked at it.
Oh.
Oh.
This scene was familiar.
They’ve just left the restaurant. It’s dusk, and Jean is having trouble speaking as the two of them make their way down the high street and towards the river that the town was built around, but it doesn’t make a difference, because his date is doing enough talking for the two of them. His face is flushed red as he listens to the man beside him talk. Normally on dates, he hates it when the other person talks too much but this is mesmerising. Something about how passionate he is, maybe. The way those blue eyes light up and shine as he’s going on about his university course, the painting he’s been working on. Jean doesn’t know shit about art but he thinks he might have to go and start learning about it just for the chance to catch up and understand the first thing this man is talking about. It’s endearing when he realises how long he’s been rambling and blushes as he stammers out his apology.
It’s the first date but Jean just knows. Knows that this is something special, but he doesn’t want to hope too much so he bites his tongue and prays that this guy feels the same.
They kiss on the bridge over the river.
And there it was. In Armin’s exact style, down to the colours and the brushwork. Captured perfectly on the canvas, the wet paint making the lights that shimmer on the water look real. The way the trees hung over the bridge and the branches dangled down made Jean feel like it was just the two of them, both in the past and present.
Even though it was only him now.
Jean accidentally wiped the navy paint on his face when he went to wipe his eyes. He never let himself cry. Always swallowed it down, not wanting to feel pitied, not wanting to make it all about him when Armin had lost his life. But he was crying now. The tears wouldn’t stop. His exhaustion and the overwhelming nature of it all was too much and his sobs were ringing out in the silence. Where had this painting come from?
There was no way Jean could think like this. He needed to go back to bed. There was no way this was real. His tired, emotional brain couldn’t handle the implications of what just happened, so Jean simply wiped off his feet and turned off the lights and left, going back to the guest room.
When he woke up, it felt like a dream; Jean wrote it off as one, telling himself that it was just triggered by Connie and Sasha telling him to go into the studio and nothing more. He dragged himself out of bed to start his day, everything going normally until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw blue smeared across his cheek.
Running down the stairs to the studio, struggling with his limp, Jean realised that this was the most he’d moved in weeks and he was panting as he burst into the room. His heart had been racing but it felt like it stopped when his eyes found the easel and saw that -
It was gone.
No. Not gone. The canvas still sat there propped up, but the night time scene had changed and it - there was something else.
Jean sank to his knees. Was this some cruel prank? Was he finally going mad, driven to insanity by the sheer fucking grief and loneliness he pretended he wasn’t feeling every day? He screwed his eyes shut. Maybe when he opened them everything would be back to normal like they had been before that night a year ago.
That didn’t happen.
Armin always races ahead of him when they go to the beach. Jean never minds; it means he gets to watch him in all his excitement. It always goes the same way - he pulls off his socks and shoes at the first opportunity and yanks up his trouser legs so he can paddle in the ocean until he gets freezing cold and Jean has to warm him up.
He finds a conch shell and Jean smiles as he holds it up to his ear and listens, and when he turns around, Jean’s on one knee.
There it was, the conch shell, on the canvas, sitting in his palms, exactly the way Jean remembered it. That same shell from that day sat on a table in the entryway, next to the little bowl where they kept their keys, where Armin’s keys had been sitting for a year.
In shock, Jean walked out of the room and then went back in again, not knowing if he should expect the painting to have changed again or not. It was the same shell. Jean didn’t know what to do. Was it only when he slept?
Was this… him?
Was he trying to communicate with him somehow?
Jean was in shock for the whole day. He tried to keep himself busy but kept finding himself back in the studio, staring at the painting. He debated calling his mum, or Connie or Sasha, but what on earth would he say? They would think he was delusional and he was, probably. He knew what his mum would say; she’d pick him up and tell him to come and stay at her place for a while. Jean didn’t want that at all; he wanted to stay and see what was going to happen with the paintings even if he was crazy.
The next day the painting showed the day they had moved into this house. He could see the familiar landscape from the garden, recognised the way the rolling hills stretched out into the distance and the road that led to the sea. It was so perfectly detailed. The paint was still wet or he might have believed it was a photograph printed onto the canvas.
The day after was of their wedding. It made Jean’s throat get so tight he thought he was going to die. It didn’t show them, just the scenery. And as he cried on the floor in the studio he swore he could feel a presence around him. It was Armin, he knew it was. He was only telling himself he was crazy - this was Armin. This was real.
There was dread under the surface. The paintings were making Jean feel so much, feel emotions he’d locked away and told himself he was never allowed to feel again. It would be liberating if he didn’t feel so fucking guilty about it. Jean couldn’t help but feel like this was leading up to… that night. Every single day, every single painting was like a connection between the two of them that Jean never thought was possible. He felt closer to his husband than he ever had before. But he was scared.
Connie and Sasha were scheduled to come over and spend the day with Jean on the anniversary, so he wouldn’t be alone.
One whole year.
A whole year without Armin, the person he’d vowed to spend his whole life with. He woke up cold, and he looked around the guest room for a moment, checking the time. Nine in the morning. He let out a long, shaky breath. They would be here in an hour.
He could do this.
He had to see the painting.
Jean knew it wasn’t going to be nice; maybe that was why he was shaking so much. Every cell in his body sang out for him to turn back, to not look and preserve what they had. It was going to end. Armin had no more memories left after this to show him.
He found himself at the doorknob again, hand hovering over the metal, unable to touch it. It was going to burn. It was going to burn and hurt him all over again, tear open his chest and fill his insides with nothing but the overwhelming, devastating grief that paralysed everything it touched.
But Armin was showing him these things. The most meaningful moments they shared together. Could Jean really do that, turn away and be so selfish as to not read his parting message? He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d learned how to be with someone else, how to make sacrifices and compromise, and he couldn’t throw that all away. Armin was still here, wasn’t he? That was the only explanation Jean had.
He opened the door. The handle was cold.
They’re on their way home from the beach; Jean is driving. Armin is still shivering from the cold of jumping into a January ocean. His feet are up on the seat and he has Jean’s coat and blanket wrapped around him. Jean steals glances at him from the corner of his eye, eager to get home and put on the fire so his husband can sit by it and toast marshmallows. Jean hates the taste of marshmallows but he doesn’t mind the charred, sweet smell they give off when held by the flames for a while.
The radio’s playing some old song that Jean used to listen to when he was growing up. He can’t help but think that moments like these are the best parts of a relationship.
It’s snowing. Jean loves the snow. Loves how bright it is, and how magical and light it makes everything look - resting on the roofs of houses, perched delicately atop pine needles and bare branches. It’s beautiful. He’d never appreciated the beauty in everyday things before Armin taught him how to look for it.
He doesn’t notice the patch of ice until it’s already too late, and the car is skidding out of control.
The painting wasn’t anything like he was imagining. Jean had half expected to see red blood pooling out in the white snow, something that would have sent him over the edge.
But this was something else.
The ocean stretched out to each end of the canvas, rippling outwards from the centre where Armin stood half-submerged, his arms outstretched. Light was shining down on him and hitting his golden hair. It was hard to tell where the sea met the sky but it fit. It felt like a memory and the future all at once. It felt like a knife through his heart and liberation. It felt like being trapped forever in his sadness, but it felt like freedom too.
Jean could feel him. There was no way to describe it, not really. But it was as if Armin’s determination was there. For someone so insecure, he’d had so much drive and Jean could feel it. Like he was trying to tell him something.
“What am I supposed to do?” Jean choked out, his voice cracked and the hurt almost tangible. “What do I do?”
There was silence.
Jean almost wanted to laugh. Of course he shouldn’t have expected an answer. He really was craz-
A sheet fell to the floor and Jean opened his eyes, pulling his hands away from his face. He hadn’t even noticed that all the dust from the other easels were gone.
That wasn’t the wind; all the doors and windows were shut.
Jean turned to look at the newly unveiled painting. It was… his mother’s house on a sunny day. The new one close by, that she’d only moved into that summer. There was no mistaking it. Jean could see her in the window with the phone held to her ear, her hair tied up in its usual ponytail.
Before he could even take in all the details the other sheet fell to the ground and Jean turned quickly to look at it, his heart in his throat.
Connie. And Sasha. Sitting in their home, curled up on the sofa, holding the phone and looking sadly at each other with so much worry written clearly on their faces. Guilt speared him in the chest.
Armin was telling him to reach out to them. He was telling him to move on.
And Jean was so reluctant to. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to say goodbye to the person he loved most in the world, but he was telling him to. Telling him that there were still other people, his friends, his mother, and they had love to give and he must accept it.
Armin wanted him to be happy.
“Okay,” Jean whispered. “Okay. I love you. I love you so much.”
Just as he thought he might happen, just as he thought he might hear it back one last time, the doorbell rang and -
The feeling was gone. The presence, the sensation of Armin around him had disappeared and left him alone. The tears were streaming down his face. The paintings remained and as Jean looked at them he realised that no - no, he wasn’t alone.
His friends were waiting right there at the door.
So he shut the studio door behind him, but vowed to come back. He didn’t pull away when Sasha threw her arms around him, he held her tighter and pulled Connie in too, crying freely into her shoulder.
When they walked to the graveyard Jean debated telling them what happened but he decided that it was something he wanted to keep to himself. The rest he would share, all the secrets about how much he was struggling to cope, but what happened in that studio was for him and Armin. Just him, now.
A small layer of snow was resting atop the gravestone.
And Jean couldn’t help but find it beautiful.