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Jean could care less about the blossoming buds of flowers, the petals who had finally opened and greeted the sun up above with open arms, waiting for his rays after the long chilling months of the rather dead winter. The liveliness of the newly arrived spring, the blades of bushes dripping with a fresh drop of rain from the morning before was a reminder of the life he was returning to. He could care less about the sun who stayed up in the sky just a little bit longer each passing day. Who was a gentle reminder of the long summer months in which he was just a child.
The spring however, brought a smile across his rugged face, as the breeze was a gentle reassurance that he would be back in their arms soon enough. Just in time for the yearly festival, in which his hometown would prepare for the season with a celebration. A sight to see, the hundreds of flowers in beautiful arrangements displayed across countless shops. The nostalgia coaxed memories of his younger self out of his mind, those of simpler days where war and surviving to the next day weren’t the thoughts that crossed his mind.
As he had been at standstill for an uncomfortably long time, his eyes looming over the horizon as the familiar shapes marked the roofs of the fairly small village. Compared to the vast lands of where he’s traveled, the unique terrains of snow and ice, those of deserts and the roaring calls of the ocean, their world was small. He motioned for the tawny horse underneath his frame to quicken up her pace, as he had finally proceeded to move along the beaten dirt path of those who had come here before him.
Jean had never been along this way, viewed his home from this angle from which he sat atop. Basking in the sun’s glow, he encouraged his horse to go just a bit further.
“You got this girl, just a little more okay?” She snorted in response, seemingly able to understand the young man as he chuckled lightly, approving of the quickening pace as she crossed over an all too familiar bed of rocks that lined the side of the path. He had never been farther out than that imaginary line before he set off to become a worthy soldier.
The first step beyond that line was exhilarating, as he knew the eyes of his greatest supporter, someone he had left behind for their own good was watching his back. Who although did not take that step with him, was the one to give him his last push. Originally, he strove to acquire glory, to acquire a sense of pride and class in himself, yet had returned with the sunken eyes of one who had seen far too much at war, and yearned for the touch of whom he craved for most.
Seven long years, and the step crossing back into the village was enough to make his heart skip, fluttering in a childish sense that at this point in time, seemed unfamiliar and foreign. And so the grip he held on the reigns of Maria, the loyal horse who had carried him this far out into the valley, had tightened.
He was home.
Finding his way through the town itself was not an issue, as the buildings themselves had not aged all that much, the worn bricks holding the structure together with ease as the wooden beams that stretched out to provide support. Children whom he had not seen before ran through the streets, passing by him as he guided Maria to the stables up ahead, assuming it was still there. He did wonder who those children belonged to, whether it be from an unlikely couple or someone he knew, he didn’t want to dwell on it further.
Although everything had relatively stayed the same, the people who had lived here did not. His eyes flashed to an old tea shop, bodied and run by a man who always prepared the best cup of tea he’s ever had. The bitter tea leaves who left stains against the porcelain glass did not compare to that of Ackerman’s, who even now was polishing up a table perched up outside. Though the shop remained, and business boomed, Jean recognized the scar that ran up the side of his face was that of no accident. What happened in those seven years?
“Are you going to just stand there and gawk at me or are you going to have a cup of tea?” Without batting an eye, the aged (but who looked to be as young as the youth surrounding him) man had finished wiping down the wooden table for Jean to sit at.
“Oh—” He stumbled around, fumbling with the reins as he spotted a suitable railing to tie Maria to. It wasn’t like she was going to run off either way, but being careful never hurt. “Right, A cup of tea wouldn’t hurt.”
“You leave for seven years and you come back with that sad excuse of a beard, Kirstein?” The blood rushed to his cheeks, with embarrassment as he rubbed at the prickly stubble that, truthfully, had taken an effort to grow out, but he wouldn’t dare admit that. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, and frankly I don’t care, but at least you did come back from that hell hole in one piece.”
Levi was being truthful, as it was by pure miracle that Jean even made it back without any significant scars or injury in the first place, as many of his comrades weren't as lucky as him. Many had suffered a gruesome fate, much worse than he could have ever imagined being possible.
“True, but it just proves that I’m quite the guy, aren’t I?” That earned him a smack across the head with the towel, the beating stinging just as much as it used to when Levi had caught him time and time again misbehaving.
Jean had rubbed at the spot, as he received an all too familiar scolding from the intimidating (but rather short) man. He couldn’t help but smile, which caused the tea shop owner to furrow his eyebrows in disappointment. Tired lines appeared, from sleepless lights as Levi softened up, hiding the smallest sign of a smile as he patted Jean on the shoulder.
“I don’t care if it’s been years since I last saw you, you’re still paying.”
“Then why did you invite me for a cup of tea in the first place!”
“I have a business to run, Kirstein.”
Left with slightly less silver than he started out with, Jean’s pouch cried out as he put it away, not wanting to see his depleted funds as he made his way to the stables with Maria by his side. The tea had certainly filled him up, settling in his stomach as his insides were bursting with warmth. Comfort, the simple cup had brought him as he watched the village people pass by. There was no sign of who he truly wanted to see, but in his gut he had lingering hope they would be there.
The journey up the hill was easy enough, spotting the stables with ease as he was careful to step over the weeds that persistently grew in the cracks of the earth. Stacks of hay spilled out of wooden doors, but his attention drew to the figure who was brushing the mane of the white horse, their eyes focused on the task at hand.
A loud whistle escaped his mouth, and their eyes glanced over to see who let out the noise. There he was standing, attempting to keep the blush that spread across his cheeks to a minimum. He had promised to not forget their face, the individual marks and creases, the shape of their eyes and simply their whole being. Of course that promise was broken, becoming but a blur that he struggled to cling on. Yet it was unmistakable, and the wooden brush that fell against the grass was enough to draw him out of that trance.
Climbing over the fences, they ran and came close to tripping on their own feet, cursing out the young man who stood there in front of them. With the running start, they jumped up to tackle Jean in a long due embrace.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.” Their hand went to caress his long jaw, his stubble picking at their palms.
“Did my good looks surprise you?” He teased, raising an eyebrow before he saw the disapproving face of his once childhood friend.
“Your hair is the longest it’s ever been, you grew out a stubble, you gave yourself a new parting, and you’re stupidly tall now. I wouldn't say it's the 'good looks', what did they feed you?”
“The same old stale rations, but on good days we had freshly baked bread.” He joked, but their attention went to his horse, which by now was well into her older years.
“I see you’ve kept Maria safe after all this time, have you been treating her well?” As they jumped off Jean, their hand lingered on his chest, the white blouse that loosely clung to his body crumpling underneath their palm. Before it had become an uncomfortably drawn out touch, they brought their hands to their sides in order to grab a hold of the leather reins.
“Did he overwork you? Mistreat you? Don’t worry, you can tell me girl.” With their voice brought to a low whisper, a laugh escaped their lips as the horse butted her snout against their palm.
It seemed apparent that they understood the horse, pretending to engage in conversation as Jean couldn't dare to meddle in. It was moments like these, where he could finally sit down to observe. Now, if only he had his sketchbook—a plain old leather journal with creased and rather ruined pages—with him to loosely sketch out the scene. He knew it was somewhere in the large sack that he brought with him, yet that was a part of the load that Maria carried alongside her.
It wasn't worth it, as the scene would have long dissipated once he had acquired the book. Instead, the memory burned into his mind, and thus was called back from his trance at the sound of their voice.
"Come here, just because you're back doesn't mean you're not going to be put to work."
Reaching for his hand, they had started to pull him along, unlike when he was the one to guide and push them around places. Locking their fingers together, Jean smiled at their back as F/N proceeded to guide him towards the front doors of the stables.
"You came at just the right time, there's so many preparations to do."
"Like what?"
"Are you any good at arranging flowers?"
The evening sun basked an orange glow against his skin, highlighting his bare forearms and concentrated stare as he fiddled with the stems of the budding flower. Separating the individual stems was a chore, as the fine tips of his fingers struggled with the simple task. Yet he remained persistent, placing what he thought paired together well without much thought in a ceramic vase.
“I’m going to make the best arrangement, just watch me!” Oh how that was but a foul statement, the regret of declaring such a challenge made his heart race as he compared the two bouquets. This friendly competition had gone sour, eyeing what he had to compete with and wished he had never said a word. Side by side, theirs was obviously better, more extravagant as the petals sparkled with the splash of fresh water it was fed with.
His had looked rather tragic, mended with the hands of an inexperienced florist (not that he would become one, or ever strived to put together flowers for a living) was rather pathetic as it stood next to F/N’s.
“You’ve gone a bit rusty over the years.” It was a playful comment, one that caused him to whip back with another snarky comeback as he would refuse to back down. The bickering that ensued would go on for at least a couple minutes, which nabbed at each other and if one had passed by, they could assume that it was simply a couple bickering to one another.
It wouldn’t have been far off either.
“Here, let’s just fix it up a little.” He could only observe, watch with careful and curious eyes as his gaze never drifted from their careful hands. Jean didn’t mind, no, as the cheerful smile and care that was placed into a simple rearrangement caused his heart to beat just a little bit faster.
Or possibly it was the warming air? The subtle bumping of elbows and body parts, the warm heat of another person right beside him, the distance enclosing the both in a suffocating air of tension. His eyes would not stay in one place, no, instead they drifted.
To admire and simply look in awe at the concentrated, in focus gaze of someone who valued these flowers passionately, and too did he wish he had that look in his eye when he was focused on what he was passionate towards. You could argue it was to draw, yet the subjects he drew were only to help bring closure to a torn through heart of those he had witnessed perish on the battlefield. No longer could he bear to peek through his sketchbook, the worn pages that had his friends, his comrades, his new found family that only made his heart sting. He had not drawn a proper subject, one that had brought him leisure that he could enjoy in years.
You see, picking up the piece of charcoal wasn’t as easy as it used to be. Jean wanted to draw F/N, their whole being, to finally get their face right after forgetting it within weeks. But if it was one thing he promised himself, it was to make the one person who believed in him from the start be the reason he properly draws once again. And it happened, from the moment he saw them from atop the hill overlooking the stables.
How a pretty image this was, as their hands traced over the edges of the forget me not flowers that had added extra sentimental value to the piece. Although his drawings were a form of art, he would argue that everything they made was a masterpiece in itself. He recognized his flowers immediately, the only ones he bothered to remember, to keep in his head and look out for when he was absent. After all they were his gift, (although stolen) as a final promise to his return.
With a surge of confidence, he snapped from his trance of adoration as he stepped up behind them to reach for one of the dainty flowers that reminded him of the clear sky, without the streaks and blurs of the clouds that masked the sun. Placing it smoothly right behind their ear, he tucked the flower neatly into the strands of hair so that it wouldn’t fly away with the breeze.
“Do you remember?” They said, with a pause as their hands hovered over the baby's breaths.
“Remember what?” Jean teased, the playful tone in his voice just enough to assure them that he wasn’t being serious.
“The forget me nots, you know—” They paused, stifling a laugh. “The ones you stole from Mr. Ackerman of all people.”
“Well, I had to get only the best right?”
“But was the scolding worth it Jean?”
“Considering it was for you, yes it was.”
Their shoulders had tensed up, not expecting those words after all this time. After all, wouldn’t have he found someone else by now? Moved on and settled down? Had a family of his own at some point? Yet to F/N, him coming back here was a testament to his faith. Within those flowers had lingered hope, and that itself is maybe why they themselves could never fully move on. An innocent crush it was, but how could it be if the both of them had never found a partner, as they clung onto a childish promise.
It was a month before his leave, in which he had been long awaiting for. Yet as excited as Jean was, the guilt that ate at his thoughts had never left him. Why should he be thinking about his town? The people he would have to abandon if it’s for a better, luxurious future? As selfish as that sounded, it was his reasoning.
But he still felt he had the necessity to at least do something for F/N. At least some sort of parting gift.
In a predicament, Jean understood his plan was poorly thought out. Maybe stealing from the most feared man in this town wasn’t a good idea, but here he was. On the side of the building was a window box, just high enough so his chin could barely peek over if he had tried.
He raised his foot from the cobblestone path underneath him, and with as much strength as a twelve year old could muster, he raised himself up to pick the flowers that had been growing alongside the window box for the longest of years now. It was perfect, where it was planted, being in the sight of those who had observed from the inside, where it could receive a bountiful amount of light and endured the harsher months thanks to Levi’s care.
And here they were, in the hands of a child who had plucked and unrooted the blue flowers from the earth. Oh how stupid Jean was, for the watchful eyes of the owner had caught him red handed in the act. From the window Levi was able to spot the tuft of his ashy hair and the missing forget me nots. As he rushed over to the window, the thud of Jean’s foot against the flooring marked his escape.
The child ran frantically down the streets, carrying the blossoms in his arms as a few had been caught in the wind and drifted away from his hold. Some had been littered against the cobblestone, as found by Levi when he rushed onto the wooden patio to see where he had run off to. The petals were enough to mark a trail if he truly wanted to chase after him, yet he was not about to hunt down a child of all things
In fact, he had a better idea. He would wait, wait until the time Jean had shown his face again to make him replant the flowers he had stolen. To force his hands to dig the seeds into the soil and plant a new beginning. Of course, when it came to it, Jean was not left without a scolding. He received shame, a lecture, and some of the townspeople had even called him a stupid idiot with a heart set on love.
Jean did not understand the last part at the time, but the words now had caused his ears to burn red.
They were right.
“F/N, do you think it's okay if I were to draw you?” His voice faltered, a nervous mess as he anxiously placed a hand on his nape, hoping he didn’t just screw things up.
“You want to draw me?”
“If you don’t mind, obviously!”
“Of course I don’t mind, but I’m just surprised that you kept drawing for all those years.”
“I guess you can put it that way, but can you wait here for a second?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Taking their words as his cue, he had gotten up from the wooden chair he had made himself comfortable in, watching them work on the other bouquets that were still needed. Tiresome work it was, and he wished he could assist, but judging by his own work he would be more of a nuisance than any help at all.
His bag had been tossed loosely aside, one that he made sure to take down from Maria before she was let into the pen not too far over to freely roam amongst her two other sisters; Rose and Sina.
Jean rummaged through the contents, pulling out the same sketchbook he had set out with seven years ago. Just because he still continued to draw did not mean he drew consistently. There was no blaming him either, as what could you draw besides the terrors you saw out at war? Taking a breath, he had opened the book to a fresh new page. A blank canvas, but as it had aged the pages became more of a beige than anything else. The crack of the spine, the close to falling apart cover, this was the start to something new; something better.
It was always nerve racking, starting a new spread, yet with summoned up courage he was able to guide the sharp tip of the charcoal pencil across the page to create a loose outline.
“Do you want me to do a specific pose?”
“No, just stay like that for me?”
And they listened, simply heading back to a natural state of calmness, settling into comfortableness as they worked like no one was watching. His eyes had set on their repetitive movements, as a vague figure made from the lead had come to life. Peaceful, this was, as the sun had begun to move across the sky once more and silence befell them both.
The scratching of his pencil was the only thing marking any type of noise, and he knowingly used the padded tip of his index finger to smudge a portion of the piece; even though it was filled with oils that would come to make the process messy, he did not care. With this technique, the dark values that shaded the folds of their clothing had blended seamlessly with the lighter ones.
He smiled, his eyes full of warmth as he found himself enjoying this sketch he had made, and lifted it up to the moon so it could catch the nightly glow of the moonlight that had illuminated the surrounding valley. Jean was proud, as it was his hands who had created this, and the effort he had placed into it paid off in the end. The forget me not that had been resting in their hair all this time had seemed to glow, the pale light bouncing off it was enough to make their presence ever more ethereal.
To him, he could not describe the surging warmth through his body, and so he had pulled off his cape to drape it over their shoulders.
“I can’t let you go cold, can I?”
“It’s okay, I’m not cold.”
“I refuse to let you get sick on my behalf.” His hands, quite large and slender had tied the strings of the cape into a bow, before their hands reached to meet his.
“What happened here?” Their thumbs traced over a visible scar, one that had persistently haunted Jean over the course of his journey home. Why? As he could not view the pale flesh without thinking of the ashes of the deceased he had held that day.
Why was it him, a leader to the core rather than a coward like me?
Jean had explained, not in great detail of course, but just enough so they would understand the fatality of this event.
Without a word, F/N had brought the knuckles of his hand to their lips, softly pressing kisses against the scar that ran through the back of his right hand.
“What are you—” His eyes widened in shock, and a visible blush had spread across his whole face.
“You are no coward, Jean Kirstein. You may have come close to giving up, but did you?” Releasing the grip on his hands, they went to cradle his face before continuing on. “You’re brave, kind, strong, certainly a good leader, I can go on. You are everything but a coward, and I want you to remember that.”
“But I—”
“You originally stole this flower for me, and now I give them back to you.” Taking the forget me not from their hair, they had slipped it behind Jean’s ear, feeling the warmth of his flustered face against their palm.
“You were, truthfully, one of the only reasons why I had returned.”
“To see me again?”
“Not just to see you, but I intended to keep that promise I made to you right before I left. To live a life with you once again. ” He had brought them close to his chest, holding their waist gently. “I want to return back to daily life with you by my side.”
As simple as it was, it was all he wished for in the end. To wake up with someone sleeping right beside him, to be able to admire their face and trace his fingers along their cheek. His heart yearned for the simple dates and outings, whether it be a stroll through town or a night-time ride through the valleys that bloomed with springtime flowers. To draw them, and the life he had missed out on as he promised to cherish and make up what he had lost to time and to war. He had thought so many years into the future, all of the small things that made him homesick when he was several months worth of travel away from his hometown.
“Where do you want to start, Loverboy?”
“The festival would be nice, since it’s so close by.”
“You never liked it, so why now?”
“You like it, don’t you?” His eyes glanced over to the vases that were lined against the wall, all bearing flowers that they had put together.
“Well I do,”
“And isn't that’s more than enough of a reason to go then?”
The wind had picked up, its light breeze soaring by which had caused the flower to fall from Jean’s ear. It glided with the assistance of the air, until it had fallen onto the center of his sketchbook where the sheets were bound together. They had both turned their heads from the flower to one another, and stared into each other’s eyes before erupting into a fit of childish laughter.
Childish, it was, for that it contained the Jean that they had known for all their life. Childish, as it had reeked with the innocence of the pure sight of one another, rather than the jokes that relied on the darkness of the world. As the laughter died down between the two of them, Jean’s gaze went to their lips.
“Can I kiss you?”
“I’d thought you’d never ask.”
It was his first kiss, one that he saved for this exact moment. Although he was unsure of what to do, the gentleness was for certain. His inexperience didn’t matter as this was only to be the first of many.
It was time for him to move forward, and that lied with you.