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Reiner told me something the day after he came home with a bloodied t-shirt, the night after barhopping with Jean and letting the poor guy drink alcohol like a fish drinks water. Bertholdt was already across campus in the music hall, getting a couple hours practice in before his rehearsals, but I had an eight am and Reiner hadn’t been able to sleep after whatever had happened to Jean at that club. We sat across from each other, picking at our dining hall breakfast; I couldn’t help but feel like I needed to rush back to the dorm so I could be there when Jean woke up. He was going to have a wicked hangover, maybe even still be a little drunk. Either way, he would definitely be scared.
“Jean may look like a punk kid who doesn’t give a fuck, but he’s got dreams unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Big dreams.”
At first, I ignored him in favor of something that seemed more pressing. “Whose blood was that?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you what he saw.” It wasn’t an answer to my question—just how Reiner chose to reply.
“But shouldn’t I—“
Reiner interrupted my thought. “Don’t even bring it up. It was a bad trip and that’s all. It’s best he forgets about it.”
I blinked and peered down towards my toast, then mindlessly slathered an unhealthy amount of butter and jam across it and nibbled at the corner. Suddenly, Reiner smiled.
“You know, before shit went south, he was really opening up to me. You would have loved it.”
My heart soared a little, so glad to know that Jean had been allowed at least a semblance of a good time before whatever it was that had happened and had him returning to our room with terrified eyes, trembling fingers and a wobbly lip.
“Don’t you want to know about those dreams of his, Marco?”
Of course I did. I wanted nothing more in the world than to know what made Jean tick, what could help me get closer to him and encourage him to peek out of that hard, spiky shell he always withdrew into—a shell that took the form of an oversized Linkin Park hoodie and a black Moleskine notebook. “Of course I do; I’m just more worried about—“
Reiner interrupted me again, but not with words this time. The intense look in his eyes convinced me that he knew something I didn’t. Then, with gravity in his tone he said, “The only thing you should be worried about is what will happen to him if he doesn’t achieve his goals.”
I blinked. It seemed like a threat, the way Reiner had said it, and I almost choked on the piece of toast I had been absentmindedly chewing on forever. “Tell me.” My demand was quiet, almost a whisper and barely audible amongst the conversational white noise of the dining hall. I expected some sort of answer along the lines of, He wants to be a rock star, and I wasn’t entirely wrong. But there was more, so much more, and my stomach turned little flips with every word that slipped from Reiner’s lips.
If it hadn’t been already, it was becoming more and more clear what I had to do. There was work to be done—work which would begin by my presence right beside Jean to keep him from being alone the rest of the morning. For the first time that semester, I was glad to have that early class, because it meant that I was already done for the day and could swipe another meal on my student card so I could grab a to-go box and bring my roommate breakfast in bed.
I had never brought him breakfast, but making sure that he had a styrofoam container of dinner and a cup of something cold to drink had become a mission of mine since the start of the school year. Jean had a problem with eating—he forgot too much about it, which was something I didn’t like. Reiner smiled at me, but I was so caught up in my rush to get back to Jean that I almost forgot to smile back.
“You’re going to change his life,” Reiner told me as he returned to what remained of his food and I slung my backpack over my shoulder. I was already standing, my own unfinished food in hand to dump on the conveyor belt which led back to the kitchen.
“I know.”
I waved to Reiner from across the dining hall once I had gathered Jean’s breakfast—he was just finishing up his food and waved back before I began what may well have been my fastest journey from dining hall to dorm ever made. As early as it was (around 9:30, and I had never seen Jean awake before 10), I couldn’t stop myself from being paranoid about Jean waking up without me. I was relieved to find him still curled up in his bunk, propped in the corner in a little ball against some pillows. He wore his clothes still, and I stared at him because, quite frankly, he was adorable.
It was quiet in our room, save for the peaceful humming of the AC and the little mini fridge beneath the desk where I stored the cup of cranberry juice I had brought back for him.
Taking the risk of coming across as creepy, I sat on the edge of Jean’s mattress. A little sigh escaped through my nose as I touched his shoulder and then left my hand there, wondering what he might have been dreaming about and if any of it was related to the new information I had gotten from Reiner. I had never questioned Jean’s humanity or his potential, but I had also never considered just how complex he really may have been. Reiner’s insight had my mind reeling with thoughts of hope and possibilities—thoughts that someone as pessimistic as Jean may never have experienced in his life.
I wondered if he saw himself on stage in his dreams, if he saw himself validated and loved and encouraged by a crowd of screaming punk rockers that sang along to the lyrics in the little notebook that lay on the floor by his bed, right where he had left it before heading out with Reiner the night before. I wondered if he would wake up remembering that dream, and if he would force himself to forget it in order to avoid disappointment.
I wondered if he knew that I wanted to help him, but most of all, I wondered if he suspected that I was falling in love with him.
I could help him. I was in a better position to do so than anyone ever had been. And it was all going to begin with a pile of scrambled eggs and a couple of pancakes.