Work Text:
Jean Kirstein tattooed on his wrist. It was not an extravagant whole-arm thing, but merely a tiny mark on his wrist bone. When he extended his arm to pour wine for himself, his shirt sleeve shifting up by one inch, it could then be seen. That lonely small tattoo, strangely enough, matched his boney thin wrist.
“Jean, what is your tattoo like?”
Connie was the first one to ask. Reiner and Armin, seated beside him, turned their curious gazes accordingly. The girls were not so interested; they kept their attention on their meals. Jean did not answer directly. Instead, he pulled up his sleeves.
A pair of simplistic wings, with two sharp blades.
The table fell silent. Other than Pieck, all of them were too familiar with this icon.
“But why this though?” Armin blinked.
“Let me find a way to remember those. I’m a pathetic coward,” Jean took a large gulp of the wine, self-mocking. “Ten years later, or twenty years later, I will probably forget it all, when life is too good. Then their sacrifice will mean nothing, right, Commander Armin?”
People knew he was just bullshitting. Armin pulled a reluctant smile.
“Yeah, sure, Captain Kirstein.”
Annie, unpretending, hummed in disgust. People threw their stares at her. The fork in her hand was cruelly destroying the lobster in her plate, while she uttered in her usual indifference.
“Every time, you agreed not to talk about all these. But anyway you will end up…”
“Forgive them, Annie.”
Mikasa interrupted. Annie eyed her, while the black-haired lady cut her steak. Her hair had grown longer and longer.
Mikasa muttered under her breath, “Annie, you have missed too much of it. There have been things going on, even during the more peaceful years.”
“Yeah, Annie.” Pieck dropped her utensils to wipe her mouth, smiling. “Let them talk. Future chances like these are going to be rare. After the diplomatic matters are over, Reiner and I will be returning to Liberio. For today, however, thank you very much…” she turned to Mikasa who was still quietly eating, “Miss Mikasa, for hosting us here.”
“You’re welcome. After all, all of you were my…” she paused. “My comrades .”
It’s vaguely polite in the exact intensity. They did fight alongside each other, but she did not call them ‘friends’.
Some of them were not her friends, then. This undertone was implicitly clear.
“We are going to meet Historia in the capital. Some more things to deal with. Afterwards, one more visit to Marley, and we are…done, I guess. We will be back someday. Contact me if you need to. If I am busy with the Survey Corps, I will ask Jean to reply on my behalf.”
“Alright. There is no need to worry about me.”
Armin held Mikasa’s hands. After a moment of hesitation, he hugged her.
“It’s been hard on you, Mikasa.”
“You are very busy nowadays. Take care please, Armin.”
The rest expressed their appreciation for Mikasa, and left one by one. It took them one year and more to reunite for once, and nobody knew how long this trip would take. Without the curse of 13 years hanging over them, time seemed to have slowed down, as if they have rewound to the times before Year 845, during their childhood, when even the wind was slower and gentler.
The people scattered in chattering, and Mikasa noticed one person who had yet to leave. Jean had been moving this around in her stable behind the house until just now, as he led his horse here.
“Sorry, Mikasa. It’s a bit messy over there, so I spent some time tidying up.”
His hat was low, and so was her voice. Mikasa’s mind went blank for a second, watching him walk over. Her hand, unconsciously, moved onto her red scarf.
“No…You didn’t have to. Sorry for the trouble. Please be careful on the way.”
“Uh-thanks. Take care…please, as well.”
Jean waved to Armin, who was already far in front. He flew onto the horse, raising his hand to lift his hat. The tattoo on his wrist shone under the bright sunlight, just like when they were in their teenage years, how the wings of Survey Corps proudly flatter on their billowing cloaks.
“You look no less stunning with long hair, Mikasa.”
Jean did not give her time to respond, rushing off to catch up with the others.
“...Thanks.”
Mikasa whispered into the trail of dust he left behind, after a long silence.
The next time Mikasa saw them was in the newspaper. She lived far away, even from the city of Shiganshina District. She was not fond of going out as well, which meant that she usually got news later than most ordinary people. She did not know how she got accustomed to such a sedentary lifestyle as she used to be such a warrior in the frontier. Or maybe she was meant to spend her life like this. It’s just that she never had the chance to visualise this vague idea.
The letters she wrote to Armin had been receiving his diligent replies. When she came across news about Survey Corps Commander Arlert travelling around, which were usually not new anymore, she would know that the letter she would receive in a few days will have Jean Kirstein’s sign-off. They had vastly different handwriting. Armin had a neat formatting with sharp edges, but all letters including a circle were extra circular. Jean’s handwriting was much messier, with his cursive words. Every letter seemed to have its unique personality. She put letters from the two side by side when she was bored, and stared at them. Then she would think of Eren’s handwriting, which was a weird combination of these two. His writings usually looked neat, but every word by itself was almost illegible.
Whatever she wanted to convey to Historia had been delivered as well. The queen, a mother of two, had to take care of the children behind the glamour, and maintain the pride of the Eldian Empire in front of crowds. But she turned down Mikasa’s offer to help her in the capital.
My husband is a domestic person , Historia wrote, as Mikasa tried to link domesticity with masculinity. So I don’t have to worry too much. Hope you are doing fine! And someday you will find a life that you want.
Well then, is this kind of life one that you wanted, Historia?
Mikasa did not ask her directly. She wouldn’t get a sincere answer from Historia either, she supposed. She did not need to make her way to the capital then, which was ultimately a good thing. She was going to stay in this corner of comfort in Shiganshina, as a coward, to spend the ninety years of the rest of her life mourning over and missing the first nineteen years of it.
Does it hurt getting a tattoo?
For one moment, Jean could not believe that this came from Mikasa Ackerman, once their most fearless soldier. Her writing to him separately had been an enormous honour already, which was compounded by her asking things like this in the letter.
Does it hurt getting a tattoo? Does it hurt when you are injured? The scar under your eye has yet to fade, and you were fifteen when it was done on you. Did it hurt then, the girl of Ackerman bloodline?
Depending on the part of the body. He replied. Parts like face, neck, wrist or ankle may hurt more than the rest.
It seemed that Mikasa was getting a tattoo as well. He wanted to see. But he did not know whether he should request her to show it to him, or how he could do that. If he had to wait for the next meetup, it may take a really long time.
If it does not offend you, please attach a photograph if you decide to get a tattoo. Of course, it is up to you.
Should he explain at all? How should he explain? Because I love you, Mikasa?
No. Jean smiled bitterly alone in his study under the dim light. I do not love her. Strange enough, his infatuation that had been accumulating for over five years had vanished into the air as her loved one was gone. Jean wanted to question himself. The teenage Jean had held some admiration for Mikasa for sure. But sometimes, they were close, maybe too close to make him feel anything anymore. Such as, when she helped him to bandage wounds after the Taking Back of Wall Maria. When they were fighting side by side on the Attack Titan, and when everything was settled, she went by him to say a brief goodbye. At those moments, Jean did not feel anything at all.
The most recent moment of such irrational emotional blankness was an encounter with Mikasa under the tree where Eren rested. It had been two years since then. He watched her from the back, her kneeling down to put some flowers, and her sitting down and her talking. He was too far to hear anything apart from the rustling of leaves and bird chirps from even further away. He did not know how long he had been standing there. The only thing he knew was the growing shade projected by the walls, stretching to cover Mikasa and Eren as time slipped by. When she took her leave, he dodged in a hurry, so they just went past each other. Mikasa did not cry, as she appeared very calm, her dark grey eyes calmer than a pool of still water.
Jean did not know what he was thinking about, but he did not want to talk to Mikasa. They were closer than they thought, but he felt a century away from her when Mikasa was standing in front of the grave. Her long black hair, her red scarf and white dress were all drifting in the wind, like a shadow being blown away. He turned to see some petals withered from the lilies and yellow roses in his hand. He had even less to say to Eren compared to Mikasa; he knelt on one knee, sighed, stared at the very informal tombstone for a while, stood up and left.
Mikasa did send him a photo. Her tattoo was also on the wrist. Jean scanned through her pearly white skin and the black bird on it with the total absence of any fluctuations in his feelings and emotions. It’s beautiful. It fits you well. Those are the only two comments that he could come up with instantly. He showed it to others because Mikasa had left it up to him. Armin did not look surprised, but Connie was the opposite.
Their individual exchanges of letters had increased afterwards. Jean was amazed by this from time to time, as he thought there was nothing much to share in Mikasa’s lives, or even if there was, they would possibly end up on Armin’s desk instead of his. He collected her letters one by one and put them away together. When the night rain was too disturbing, when he was travelling, or when insomnia struck, he would take out the letters and read them one by one. There was indeed nothing of very great significance. They were merely about which acquaintances she met in the city, how the weather was like in Shiganshina, what special things happened to her that day, what her thoughts were on the diplomacy team, and her wishing them all well. It seemed that she had some degree of reservation towards him. There were definitely some things that were told to Armin, perhaps.
Now they were in Marley, after finishing all official matters. They took the longer route to Liberio before they left. Pieck, Reiner and Annie went to meet their families, and the rest of 104 trainees followed the map to somewhere considered remote by the sea. Gabi was at home. Her long brown hair was loosely tied up by a string of coloured beads with a rubber band, and she had a pencil in her mouth when she opened the door, holding up a Marleyan textbook. She said that Falco went to buy some commodities and could be back any minute now. If they wanted to stay for lunch it’d be fine as well. Then she shouted into the room: Mr Ackerman, Armin and the rest are here.
Jean recorded the meeting in a letter to Mikasa. Captain Levi looked fine, he wrote, Gabi and Falco said that he had been teaching some knowledge about battle strategy to them. He has been helping out as much as he can. He does not seem to mind his life now apart from his physical condition. We didn’t stay for lunch because we didn’t want to trouble the kids. But we forgot that they were not kids anymore. They are graduating from high school soon. Gabi can fit into Pieck’s old skirts now. Gabi wants to go to university somewhere in Marley’s capital or whatsoever. Falco is staying in Liberio, but he does not have a plan yet. Captain did not want Falco to give up better opportunities for him, though. Reiner’s mother, Mrs Karina Braun, has been regularly visiting them as well.
He concluded, So, I think, everything is well.
Mikasa’s reply was even shorter. Her last line was only three words: Then, that’s good.
“Actually I saw you that day, Jean.”
“That day?”
“That one day, when I went to see…Eren. It’s been a few years, so I don’t know if you…”
“Oh, that time. I remember.”
“Yeah. I didn’t actually see you, but I saw some fresh petals on the ground. So I waited for a moment when I left. It was you.”
Mikasa took a sip of the warmly brewed tea, her head lowering and her loose strands of hair dipping into the cup. Jean’s hand, reaching for her, stiffened in mid-air, and dropped onto his own ceramic cup.
“Mikasa…Your hair.”
“Ah. It’s fine.”
She lifted her head, brushing her hair behind the ears, and looked at Jean.
“Armin is happy that everything is over. You have been quite preoccupied with these matters, haven’t you?”
“Armin is overwhelmed.” Jean laughed lightheartedly. “I don’t know how much he told you, but as the commander…All the coordination and communication are easier said than done.”
“So I didn’t dare to trouble him with my letters. Then I turned to trouble you.”
“It’s never troubling me, Mikasa. I’m also very glad that…I could have a long-term penpal like this. Your letters were comfortable to read–I mean, they allowed me to truly take a break from my work and think about how to answer them.”
“It’s my pleasure as well.”
Jean did not know what Mikasa had for him when she invited him over for tea, privately. He did not even figure out what he thought of it…On one hand, he was naturally nervous and questioning. On the other hand, he felt that it was just meeting an old friend and he should not make a big fuss out of it. But they were not old friends. He was a bit less of an ‘old friend’ to Mikasa, and Mikasa a bit more than that to him. He laid it out to Armin, honest and frank, and waited for his reaction. Armin was neither happy for anyone nor worried about or suspicious of it. He just cleared his documents on his desk and said plainly, “If Mikasa invited you, just go. It’s up to you, and I knew nothing about this.”
Jean could not find anything else to talk about.
“Oh, right. Mikasa…Your tattoo was beautiful.”
“Oh?”
Her hand froze when she was going for the teapot, and pulled her sleeve out of convenience. She herself stared at it intensely as if enchanted, and proceeded to get herself more tea.
“It fits you well,” Jean continued.
“Thanks.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Erm…” Mikasa contemplated for a while. “A little bit. But soon it was over. I’ve considered whether to get the Wings of Freedom as well…”
“Mine is the Wings of Freedom, but your bird is truly free.”
“It is not mine. ”
They corrected each other peacefully, with clear knowledge of who they were referring to.
“So…everything is going well?”
“Yeah. It’s better to say if I had never imagined a life like this.”
“Then, good.”
Silence.
The grey clouds were piling up outside the window, to which Mikasa raised her eyes with concern.
“Would you stay then, Jean?
“Me? If you mean when it rains later, I…”
“No. I mean…not only today.”
Mikasa, touching her scarf softly, murmured with her stare fixed to the floor. She did not appear shy, but it was more like she was making a request. A simple, fair and normal request. A mutually beneficial trade.
Jean did not answer immediately. He stood up, and strolled to the window. The rain poured through the clouds as if the sea floor above them had been torn apart, ringing on the piles on the roof. Similar sounds echoed from memory, when they ran past the roofs carrying their 3D manoeuvre gears, a whole decade ago.
“Why me, Mikasa? Because I’m always your Plan B? If you have any difficulties, you could have brought it up a long time ago. Why would you say this?” Jean’s voice was coarse, mixed in the noise of the downpour.
Mikasa went after him, hand resting on her scarf. The loose sleeve of her cardigan slipped down, revealing her tattoo.
“I’m not looking for…a substitute for Eren. I asked because I feel you are ‘you’, Jean. You are dependable, reliable, trustable, and gentleman…I’m sorry if I have offended you. I don’t know, but I think…besides mailing, we can have…more intimate conversations. I’m not rushed by anyone to get married or have a relationship, and I’m not planning to…”
Her voice was fading away.
Not everything can be defined by ‘Romance’ or ‘Affection’. But many between them could probably be explained by the freer, broader concept of ‘Love’.
“Sorry, Mikasa. I might have sounded too harsh. I am, to be honest, a bit shocked…”
Jean turned back to look at Mikasa. Mikasa raised her gaze to his face, her hand falling from her chest, and was held by Jean. Their hands were both uneven, with rough surfaces polished by blades and Thunder Spears, with countless cuts and wounds, with skin and flesh slashed through, healed and renewed. There were newer blisters on Jean’s fingertips generated from his excessive writing in these years, while Mikasa, handling all the chores including preparing firewood on her own, had two harder lines of dead skin in her palm.
He could have done so much more;
“Thank you, Mikasa.”
But Jean Kirstein just bowed, and kissed Mikasa Ackerman’s wrist lightly, solemnly and faithfully, his lips falling onto the bird tattoo on her wrist–the bird who was free, and who did not belong to anyone.
FIN.