Chapter Text
It’s been over a week now.
A whole week and no sign of contact from the boy. The heavy weight of uncertainty and confusion can get to a person. It can crush a person; creating a mass of self-doubt and insecurities that threaten to compress over their head as the minutes turn to hours which turn into days and ultimately amassing into a week of torture.
A week without hearing Eren’s voice on the other side of Jean’s cellphone.
A week without a sarcastic text message full of palpable love.
It’s a week of being left alone with your thoughts and being forced to remember and reevaluate everything you did wrong in the last few months that could destroy something that had grown from years of relativity.
It’s been a week and Jean has been spending a majority of those seven uneventful days cooped up in his tiny San Francisco apartment where somehow the 700 square feet of movable room feels too much – too spacious – for just his lithe body. Not even the rush of the cool summer breeze filling the small space could be deemed refreshing enough to pull Jean into believing that there was a decent enough filter to look at life through.
They’d been a thing for years now and it’d all gone to shit in the blink of an eye. A sudden whim on Eren’s part where suddenly “it’s not what I want” were words coming out of his mouth. Words followed by the wavering annunciation of a final goodbye and “it’s not enough for me, Jean”.
Eren had decided one day that he’d had enough. This is Eren’s fault. Jean had no part in the sudden disinterest on Eren’s side of the relationship. It wasn’t like…
This blame can only be put on Eren. Anything that happened those seven or so days ago was all Eren’s doing and Jean shouldn’t be held accountable for it.
Should he?
Jean isn’t the type to be empathetic towards people – he barely blinked an eye when news went around the family that his cousin Hitch was on the tip of the mountain’s edge of getting kicked out of the family for some kind of pregnancy scandal – and those same feelings were always kept around, tucked deep in the pockets of his jeans, ready to be pulled out to save him from other people’s bullshit.
It was his barrier of sorts; block out the unnecessary crap and keep your head above the water, and everything will be peachy keen.
Eren had always been a different story.
He was Jean’s very own motivation to jump off that mountain’s edge; pushing Jean’s buttons hard enough and persistently pulling him over and into the other side of his comfort zone. And Jean had welcomed it.
He’d welcomed it with open arms the moment he’d found himself seething in a hard plastic chair in front of the principal’s office back in middle school sitting next to the boy who’d managed to give him a bloody nose. He’d let the boy get under his skin and run his own mixture of malice into his veins without a bat of an eye. Jean let himself reply to the snarky comments and welcomed the lilt in the shorter boy’s voice as his voice pitched in annoyance.
Eren pushed Jean’s buttons and Jean liked it.
He liked it as a friend until the day came when things got heated enough to push it even further.
And now all it had managed to do was finally push Jean far enough with nothing under his feet to keep him above the feeling of drowning in his own convoluted grief.
Eren did this to him and Jean could only manage so hard to keep his breathing even every night as he tried not to think about how cold and empty the sheets around him in his bed felt.
It’s been a week now and all Jean can do is feel every stinging bite that the small space of his apartment gives him. The delta breeze drifting in from the open doorway to the small deck that looked out towards familiar gray buildings lining the roads of San Francisco did little clear Jean’s mind.
It’s Saturday afternoon. Eren’s night to make dinner while they sat around Jean’s living room in various states of undress and commenting on disgusting horror films from the 70s; a tradition that’d been set since they first moved away from home to go to the same out-of-state college. A tradition that apparently never met a damn thing to the other boy.
Jean slips his way out to stand on the small expanse of his deck to look out through the small gap the houses allowed him. His deck looked out over a hidden road – a thin span of concrete that couldn’t even hold the width of a dumpster but was enough to probably make a Spiderman enthusiast’s dreams to spider climb his way up to Jean’s place on the 2nd floor come true. His apartment, that could barely even be called that, was met dead on by other apartment blocks – the lies of “houses” and such a thinly veiled excuse to make the place appealing – and although Jean could make out the waves of blue through the small expanse the alleyway allowed him, it was never enough to really quell Jean’s desire to get closer to the ocean.
He’d moved out here for Eren and because the idea of living by the sea, by the clear expanse of water that just oozed the visions of his mind’s eye with colors and textures. And now all he could really see was how shitty his view really was.
So close yet still so far away from the ocean’s surface that a bike ride couldn’t even justify the feeling inside him.
Jean’s hands tighten around the railing of the barely 50 square feet of space; his throat tightening in annoyance and a sudden urge to let everything just fall apart as the sea air makes it meager attempts to reach and ruffle his hair and only being able to do so much behind the expanding wall of gray.
He just needs to-
He just needs to let it all out.
“CAN I JUST BE FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH TO ACTUALLY MAKE YOU FEEL SOMETHING?”
Jean’s throat is itching from the words leaving him but he doesn’t take it back. He’s going to get past it and he’s just going to start over.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed a few more seconds of self-pity before plunging back into the real world where he really needs to get back to work and buy groceries before he and Jacque die of starvation. He’d jump off this stupid tiny balcony before letting his fucking cat suffer from his stupidity.
His few seconds to himself are cut short when his ears pick up a new voice, a deep melancholy voice that could melt chocolate while managing to sear itself into Jean’s ears as he strains to hear it over the rattle of bicycle chains. “YOU ARE PERFECT AND YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE.”
The guy, a massive blur of dark hair and vibrant clothes on a plain black bike, zooms past Jean’s small ledge, leaving him standing and staring at the back of a head he’s never even seen.
“What the fuck?”
He stands there staring at the space the guy had just been before turning around the corner, his eyes blown wide in wonder and just confusion. Who the hell even was that guy and why did he need to answer my hissy fit.
Huffing to himself, Jean spins on his heels and walks back into his place, intent on making sure he gets some kind of food item for him and his cat before he lets any of this get to him.
The soft purring coming from his feet tells him that his white little Birman cat agrees with the idea. Jean had gotten the little guy on whim after walking through a farmer’s market too early in the morning and after a couple weeks of managing to annoy Eren with his insistent whining and furry remains, Jean fell in love.
Should’ve been a sign, honestly. Fell in love with a cat faster than he had with Eren.
Jean stoops down to run his fingers of the soft coat. “Don’t worry, baby. We ain’t going hungry any time soon.”
Grabbing his keys and wallet from where they’ve been sitting nearly the entire week, Jean does just that and heads out the door making sure the apartment is closed and locked behind him and makes his way towards the stairs.
He fiddles with the keys, his hands antsy after being cooped up for so long with no real sunlight other than the filtered bits he got over the rooftop edges and the few more vastly filtered pictures he happened across on Sasha’s obnoxious Instagram feed.
Sliding his wallet into his pocket and making sure he had in fact “forgotten” his cell phone back in his bathroom, Jean lets himself play with the jingling keys in hand; the harsh chimes soothe him as his mind tries to veer him off course.
He needs food.
Jacque needs food goddammit.
Jean paces his steps as he heads towards the corner store. The closest grocery store would be too far a journey for what little motivation Jean has and he figures a night of canned soup and a can of wet cat food will have to do for a day or two until his paycheck comes in soon.
The afternoon light is still bright and it seems that the work day is over for most of the city as the roads and sidewalks are full of huffy-looking people trying to make their way back home or wherever their own adventure is leading them too.
Jean walks amongst them, his mind flittering in thought as he tries to figure out what a certain looking person possibly does in the city of San Francisco. With many of the people around him, he can smell the gay freedom and the teenage angst of finally living away from home and being excited about the rundown back streets of San Francisco’s city limits. Others, the despair of high rent and higher elevation pathways seems to sag their bodies right down to their crinkly ballsacks.
San Francisco is the place to go for new things but it also can become a hellhole where you want to leave but don’t know where else to go to find the things you find here.
And that includes the people sometimes. But mostly it’s the view.
As Jean gets closer to his destination, the looming glow of the “Cornershop” sign in front of him like a bait luring in a fish, he’s able to catch a glimpse of said view a lot better than if he were to stay cooped up in his apartment.
Lines of telephone wires and the edges of rooftops cut through the deep pools of pinks and purples painting across the bay’s sky. The clouds are still around even as summer sets over the west coast and the way they seem to float through the waves of fading blues into deep purples is beautiful. The tips of the balls of fluff catching the slowly dipping sun and turning it orange and pink and keeping the concrete illuminated a bit longer as the number of people around Jean dwindles down to just the few stragglers.
There are bikes lined out in front of the store as he approaches the entrance, the familiar glint of cheap metal and the more expensive brands blending together in a city where almost anything goes catching Jean’s eye as he pushes through the glass door.
A bell above his head chimes as he walks in and he shoots a nod at the familiar face sitting at the register. Five years of living in the same city can really make everything feel bland and relentless after a while but the smirk Jean gets back always seems to lift his spirits as he scowls back in annoyance.
So it’s been a while since Jean’s been there to buy condoms. Sue a guy.
Rolling his eyes to the nth dimension, Jean walks towards the edible arrangements the little shop provides to people like Jean who can’t be bothered to visit an actual grocery store to feed themselves. Sliding into the aisle lined with bags of chips and different types of canned and boxed foods, Jean’s met with a barrier. A large barrier in the form of a man a little taller than him and handling probably too many bags of Doritos and Lays than is healthy.
“Uh,” Jean mutters awkwardly.
The guy doesn’t seem to notice Jean’s graceless position at the end of the aisle and keeps running a long, dark finger over the shelf tags. The oddly bright green hoodie he’s wearing covers all of his face as he keeps himself turned away from Jean but Jean knows that he’s most likely mouthing out the words written on the shelves as he grabs bag after bag and studies them for way too long to be sane.
Jean glances behind him where his nemesis store clerk is sitting and flipping through a magazine but even the bulk he knows is hidden under the nametag and University sweater reading “Ymir” won’t matter with this guy.
He’s tall but the guy looks like a lost puppy with the way his shoulders hunch forward as he keeps a finger close to the shelf like he might just tip forward and needs the preparation beforehand to stop himself.
Letting out a deep breath and shaking his head in annoyance, Jean takes a couple steps forward. He waves a hand in front of his face, tilting his head to the side to catch a glimpse at the guy’s face just to make sure he isn’t about to intrude on a psycho’s territory. “One look in the eye can tell a story, Jeanbo” was what his mom always said.
It takes a while before he latches onto the man’s attention, snapping it to much of Jean’s amusement as he swivels on his beaten up shoes to face Jean. He looks like a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar and for all the dramatics that the SF Theater world would pay money for, he drops his armful of chips straight onto the sticky tiled floor.
He gasps in realization and mumbles an apology before stooping down and clearing his throat as he tries to gather the bags in shaky hands. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
He stands back up with his arms full with chips again and turns back to the shelves to place them where he had gotten them for.
Okay. What the fuck is up with that?
The guy sputters for a second as Jean makes no indication of moving without some clue as to what the hell is happening in this stranger’s head. He chuckles to himself and after finishing with the bags he turns back to face Jean and runs a finger under his nose. Probably a nervous tick.
“You just startled me, I’m sorry. Was I in your way or something? I never am good with noticing when people are around me when my hood is up.”
Jean raises an eyebrow as his eyes unconsciously flit up to the rim of the hood – the edges of hair peeking out from under it.
The guy must catch where Jean is looking and a hand soon goes up to swipe the hood down like it’s offended Jean somehow and he doesn’t want to bother him anymore. Dark hair, parted oddly in the middle like a kindergartener on his first day of school comes out from hiding and something about it catches Jean a little off guard.
Jean’s gaze goes back down to the guy’s face. A multitude, and honestly a stupid amount, of freckles are scattered across dark skin. He looks to be foreign and that’s the only explanation Jean can think of as he tries to figure out what region of the world could equal to freckles on dark skin and an accent not thick enough to be incomprehensible but enough to make Jean waver where he’s standing in thought.
It must be a while that he just stands there and stares and Jean would blame it on the heat and week without real interaction but he’s knocked back into reality as he sees the stranger’s head tilt with a look of wonder on his face.
“Um. Did you need something? I don’t actually work here but I-” his voice fades out and Jean almost – almost – blushes in embarrassment.
“Oh. Shit. Nah man. Sorry I’m just kinda tired. You were just in my way for a second and I spaced out.”
The guy takes the poor excuse to regain Jean’s small amount of self-respect and smiles.
Dimples are nice.
The guy chuckles. “That’s okay. Sorry I was blocking your way.” He sticks out a hand towards Jean. “My name’s Marco.”
Jean stares at the hand and how it’s there and offered to him like it’s no big deal.
But this is a huge deal.
Moving to San Francisco was an Eren-central deal Jean had made. He didn’t come here expecting to spend his free time with new friends and doing things without Eren.
He knows he’s being as dramatic as Snow White’s acid trip through the forest but accepting this hand could end up with him accepting a friendship which meant creating more ties to this godforsaken city when all he wanted to do was forget and just sit at home with Jacque while he went through the different files he’s going to have to address sooner or later when he got back to work.
Shaking this guy – Marco’s – hand felt unfamiliar to him and it made Jean uncomfortable thinking about what it could mean. He doesn’t want the ties and he doesn’t need the pressure of someone trying to hang themselves onto Jean only to rip themselves away when they got tired of it.
Jean needed something new. He needs to do something uncharacteristic, maybe. Something unexpected. Something that could erase his ex out of his head.
Maybe not his memories because there would always be the good that Jean would cherish between them. There were still years of grade school and college between them and he wasn’t ready to give those up.
But a new friend could be fun.
Looking up from Marco’s hand, Jean lets his eyes flit across the other man’s face. There’s an earnestness he can make out underneath the obvious nerves of waiting for Jean to grab his hand.
Jean remembers earlier when the suddenness of the guy on his bike had jarred him back to where he was standing and how it was such an odd experience but it left him a little lighter.
Jean decides he likes that feeling.
He likes the unexpected and maybe this Marco guy can help him.
It’s just a handshake but accepting it might mean future encounters that Jean would’ve missed had it never happened.
Jean reaches out and meets Marco’s hand. The grip between them is firm and Jean likes how it feels grounded even with it coming from a guy he’d just watched mumbling and tracing over words on a store shelf.
“I’m Jean,” he says quietly. He clears his throat, not like how he sounded like a shy new kid in school, and continues. “Jean Kirschstein.”
“Jean,” Marco repeats back. He seems to roll it around in his mouth for a second before deciding it’s a good enough word to say again. “Jean. That’s a pretty name. Is it French?”
“Yeah. But I’m most definitely not. Mom had a thing for Les Mis and dad was a pushover when it came to pregnant ladies.”
Marco chuckles and nods his head. “Well it really suits you. Tell your mom she chose well.”
Jean pauses for a second and after realizing it’s been too long to still be holding hands, takes his hand back in the silence. Coughing a little into his right hand to clear the nonexistent mucus and embarrassment off the tip of his ears, he looks back into Marco’s eyes – they’re a deep shade of brown and alive with something akin to a wildfire but steady as the tides rolling in. And it’s odd and too poetic for Jean’s mind to catch up to so he stashes it in the back of his thoughts for now. “So what exactly were you doing with the bags of chips?”
“Oh. Um,” Marco’s voice trails again as he turns his head to look back at the shelf tags. He turns back to Jean and smiles – although it looks a bit more forced than just a second ago. “I was just seeing all the different flavors. Trying to figure out which one Ymir won’t hate me for buying later.”
Jean squints his eyes at Marco’s face before swiveling his head to stare at Ymir who’s still sitting at the counter unknowingly like a preteen with better things to do like paint their nails pink and black and tries to find the connection.
They both have the spatterings of freckles but the shapes of their face and eyes don’t necessarily seem like they come from the same gene pool. And Marco definitely has a button nose while Ymir could audition for the role of the Wicked Witch of the West if she pleased.
“Ymir,” Jean says. He points over his shoulder at the girl with a confused look on his face. “You’re related to Ymir? And you live with that she-demon?”
Marco smiles awkwardly and a hand comes back up to rub at the skin under his nose. He lets out a small chuckle. “She’s my cousin actually but no. We don’t live together. I’m staying with one of my friends from high school.”
Jean’s mood dims right there and then as he’s reminded of the inevitable. Right. High school friends.
He nods his head absentmindedly, no longer really paying attention at the new person standing in front of him and instead lets his eyes roam around the shop; trying to find an exit route without seeming rude.
“Mm. High school friends, huh? So did you guy move out here together?”
Marco tilts his head and there’s a concerned look etched over his furrowed eyebrows as he takes in Jean’s obvious uneasiness. He doesn’t know what a proper response to such a weird question could be and, frankly, neither does Jean and regrets asking a second too late.
He’s about to cross it all off and play it as a silly joke between “new friends” but Marco cuts in before he can stop it.
“No. Actually he’s been out here for a while and I really needed a change of scene. And since Ymir already lives out here, it kind of worked out, ya know?”
Jean does know.
The urge for something new in a world so bland. It’s enticing and can be a toxic motivation to do impulsive things.
But it makes you feel alive for once and Jean can’t blame the guy for thinking the edges of San Francisco could offer him that.
“Yeah. I get that.”
There’s a silence between them. It feels awkward by its very existence but Jean likes how he can hear the faint buzz of the lights over their heads and the whirl of the fan propped up on a stool near the front door to keep the flies away and Ymir in her seat. Jean looks around at the shelves, his eyes noticing the ruffled up bags that Marco had been handling, but he can feel the intense look coming from the taller boy as he makes no move to walk away or say anything.
Jean doesn’t really want the conversation to end.
He doesn’t have anything to offer but the small talk was an open change. A new beginning of sorts.
Plus, he likes that Marco doesn’t seem to care much about what they talk about and isn’t showing signs of wanting to maim and consume.
Marco shuffles his feet and Jean turns up to look at him properly again.
“I should probably get going,” he starts to say.
Jean nods enthusiastically, realizing he’s been making a pretty big idiot of himself by not creating conversation when he’d started this exchange in the first place.
“Right. I should get my things and head back home too. Jacque is probably waiting for me.”
Marco’s head tilts in amusement and Jean’s mouth audibly shuts hard enough to make his teeth click painfully.
“Is that your brother? Jacque? Is he another one of your mom’s name creations?”
Jean laughs nervously, his hand going up to card through the short hair of his undercut. His wishes for a second that he’d taken the time this week to go out and get a haircut. He’s nervous now and he can feel the sweat building at the nape of his neck. Nerves can only do one thing.
Jean starts rambling like a crazy lady on meth.
“Haha not exactly. Jacque’s actually my cat. He’s a Birman breed and we ran out of food so I was out to get something quick before the paycheck comes in and I can actually go to a real grocery store. No offense to your cousin of course but this store only has so many kinds of potato chips it’s kind of pathetic in the grand scale of what American stores, especially the big box stores, are capable of carrying and selling. I mean some of these brands are known for spending millions of dollars just for a thirty second spot during the commercials during the Superbowl. Like, can you believe that? About $4.5 million for thirsty seconds. Just to show that they’re still selling the same recipe brand. It’s all such a big marketing ploy and the consumers fall for it and it’s like a cycle of consumers watching and buying and big companies making their money and creating more commercials which the consumers will come back to watch because it’s this American tradition and-” Jean chances a glance up and freezes in place. “SHIT. I HAVE TO GO NOW.”
All Jean sees is how high Marco’s eyebrows had risen – receding all the way up to his hairline – and he’s pushed his way down the aisle before anything can come out of the taller man’s mouth. He hastily grabs a dented can of Progresso and a packet of cat food from the conjoining aisle and takes the long way around the shelves to practically sprint to the counter.
He sees from the corner of his eyes that Marco’s watching him with wonder the entire time but Jean keeps to himself and tries not to overthink how stupid he was just now.
Who the fuck goes off and rambles about the Superbowl because someone asked about your cat?
Jean tries not to slap himself across the face with the can of soup and he leans over to grab a Cherry Cola out of the fridge next to the counter and slams everything down in front of an annoyed-looking Ymir.
Ymir eyes the items curiously and shoots a lopsided smirk at Jean when the one item she teased over every single time he entered the store wasn’t on the menu. But Jean doesn’t have time to think about that right nor does he have the time to argue when he can feel a body getting closer to the counter behind him.
He knows it’s Marco probably finally snapping out of Jean’s sudden episode and wanting to get the hell out of there as well so Jean keeps to himself as he feels Marco step up next to him at the counter.
“Hey Ymir,” he says. Ymir looks up Marco and Jean sees a smile cross her face that he’s never seen before. Usually all Jean gets is that annoying smirk. Jean watches them but turns away quickly as he spots Marco’s gaze flashing over at him for a second. “I’m done, uh, looking around. I should probably head back before Armin gets worried.”
Ymir chuckles and slides Jean’s cat food across the scanner before placing it back down on the counter.
Shit. Jean forgot his reusable grocery bag back in the kitchen.
“No probs, Marco. Tell blondie I said hey, okay? And be careful on that bike of yours. Got it?”
Marco stands up straight and brings a hand up in mock salute. “Yes ma’am,” he says cockily. He turns towards Jean, eyeing him for a second and wary about the crazy boy that’s buying cat food for an animal named Jacque and goes off on tangents that barely make sense.
Jean keeps his head down at the stack of candy bars lined up and for sale but he hears the smile in the voice that speaks up next to him. “I’ll see you around, Jean.”
He’s gone before Jean can summon any will power to look back up but when he does he’s met with an honestly curious look from Ymir.
“What was that about? You know Marco?”
“N-no! No no no. I just met him by the chips and we talked for like a second. That’s all.” Jean stammers out his words and he can feel the sweat building back up around his neck. Ymir can be a scary person if you cross her path – he would know, he’s seen her pull out a baseball bat from god-knows-where when a shady person had walked into her store and tried to cause a scene.
Ymir stares at Jean for a second and he figures she’s waiting for his money and hands over his card. But all she does is scan the piece of plastic with the same concerned look on her face before handing it back and sliding over the small mountain of food.
Jean slips his wallet back into his pocket and is about to make a mad dash for it when Ymir catches his wrist.
“He’s new. And- and well, he’s different.” She lets go of his wrist but Jean doesn’t make it seem he’s about to move and she relaxes visibly. “I know you’re not a bad person so just. If you want, be his friend. He’ll – we both will – appreciate it.”
Jean nods his head solemnly and takes in Ymir’s words.
He turns his head to look out the door where Marco had left and he finds Marco himself still standing by the bicycle rack a few feet away from the door fiddling with the chains on one of the bikes. He’s far enough away that he wouldn’t have been able to hear Ymir’s words.
Jean wasn’t sure what exactly Ymir meant by “different” but everyone was different so it couldn’t be so detrimental to Jean’s social life.
He’s about to turn back to Ymir to tell her not to worry when his neck snaps in a literal double take back towards the entryway.
Marco sitting on a shiny, black bike. His too-bright green hoodies sitting across his shoulders like the perfect fit even as it looks to be oversized. The outrageously bright shorts that Jean had managed to look past as they stood in the aisle just moments ago is enough to blind a person. And then the hair. The same dark hair that went with the same vibrant color combination he’d seen ride past his balcony barely an hour ago.
Marco’s already gone around the edge of what Jean can see from where he’s standing in the shop and he turns back to Ymir looking at him with the same concern she’d given to Marco when he was telling her he was leaving for the day.
“Don’t worry. It’s a new city for him. And new cities mean new things, don’t they? I think the two of us will have a lot of fun rediscovering this beaten up town.”