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“I think Mr. Ackerman is fucking Mr. Smith,” Eren mumbles, shirt half off and pants unzipped.
Jean stops sucking a hickey on Eren’s neck. “Dude,” he says slowly, “what the fuck.”
The thing is – Eren filled out sometime between 10th and 11th grade. Spent a summer in Turkey with his mom’s family or something, worked on a farm. He came back brown as a nut with legs for days and a tendency to slip into Turkish when he got embarrassed or worked up.
They grew up a block down from each other in a town too small not to know everyone in. That meant that when Jean was five and petty and he pushed Eren in the sandbox because Mikasa held Eren’s hand during the kindergarten field trip instead of his, it spawned a rivalry that lasted twelve years, through Marco’s gentle chiding and Mikasa’s not so gentle threats; lasted precisely until Eren came back after spending that summer gone, cocked an eyebrow at him after a routine fight, and asked if he wanted to make out instead.
Which – Jean was 17. He was a lot of things. He was probably going to get into a decent university next August, a bigger one in a distant city.
“Uh, yeah,” he’d answered intelligently.
That led to this. Hands down each others’ pants behind the chemistry building – which was where Mr. Smith spent his lunch breaks, even though he taught calculus, ostensibly visiting Ms. Hanji.
“No, seriously,” Eren insists, chewing on his bottom lip – unfair, protests a corner of Jean’s brain. Eren pushes at his shoulder; steers his head to turn. “Look.”
So he does, because what other choice does he have. Because it’s Eren, who got hot, and Jean’s a sucker for him and probably has been since he was five, even if he’s not really ready to admit that just yet.
“Mr. Ackerman teaches lit,” Jean says, hesitant.
“Right, I know,” Eren answers.
It doesn’t explain what he’s seeing, because this is the chemistry building, and why would Mr. Ackerman walk across campus to the chemistry building – but:
It’s definitely Mr. Smith, who’s at least a foot taller than Mr. Ackerman, and they’re definitely close. Mr. Smith’s back is bowed to crane over Mr. Ackerman’s flat-footed form.
“They’re totally making out,” hisses Eren against his ear.
It might be easier if they were, thinks Jean, but he doesn’t see their lips touch at all. Mr. Smith just cradles Mr. Ackerman’s jaw, something tender and wrecked in his expression; big palms and wide fingers and gentle, like the breaking of dawn.
“Oh fuck,” says Jean, “they’re in love.”
–
Mr. Smith was affable and approachable, aided student government, and ran the model UN club after-school on Wednesdays. Armin sung his praises. Jean generally likes him.
Mr. Smith wears a gold band, slim but obvious, around his ring finger.
Which means married.
Which means – “He’s cheating on his wife with Mr. Ackerman?” Eren jabs a finger in the air.
They’re at a burger place, a few blocks away from school. Eren keeps stealing his fries and trying to play footsie under the table. Jean’s mostly letting him get away with it.
“I guess so,” Jean says, feeling a little queazy the more he thinks about it. He sips on his shake but it doesn’t really help.
“Holy shit,” Eren blinks. “That’s so – fucked up. Should we say anything?”
“What, no,” he dismisses, stabs at his side order of mac and cheese with more force than strictly necessary, “none of our business. We didn’t see anything, alright? It’s their own lives to fuck up.”
Eren looks unsettled. Under the table, he’s stopped kicking at Jean’s ankles. “I just don’t feel right about it. Mr. Ackerman isn’t married, is he?”
Jean thinks about it and shrugs. “Never seen a ring.”
“Fuck,” Eren sighs; rests his head against the side of his soft-drink, and condensation gathers on the tips of his eyelashes, catches the light off of the yellowed-fluorescents overhead. “Fuck.”
–
Mr. Ackerman taught lit, and had a strict policy about attendance.
So Jean shows up bright and early the next day, even though he hasn’t chased away the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Halfway through class, he risks checking his phone, thumb sliding across the screen automatically when it tells him Eren’s texted.
do u think ms hanji knos :( is waiting for him
None of our business, he punches back.
Ten seconds pass and his phone buzzes with an answer that’s more emoticons than words.
“Mr. Kirschstein,” says a voice lowly over his shoulder, “is there something I should be aware of?”
“Fuck,” he yelps, dropping his phone. It rattles and clanks against the metal bits of the desk as it falls.
Mr. Ackerman ignores the language but not the phone; bends to pick it up as Jean watches, helpless. He waves it once, dangerous. “You can pick this up after class.”
He spends the next half-hour fidgety and restless, hoping that Eren doesn’t text anything else. By the time the bell finally rings, he’s already springing from his desk to make his way to the front of the class to where Mr. Ackerman’s sitting.
Mr. Ackerman doesn’t look up from the papers he’s grading, not until well after the classroom has cleared. Jean rocks his weight from one foot to the other until the floorboard creak under him and Mr. Ackerman looks up.
He feels a lot like a gazelle or some other prey animal, pinned under the heavy eyes of a predator.
“I, uh,” he clears his throat, “sorry.”
“Tell Jaeger to stop texting you in class,” is all Mr. Ackerman says, handing over his phone. “I don’t care if he’s in chemistry with Hanji and she doesn’t give a shit. I do.”
“Uh, yeah, I will,” Jean breathes, relieved and thankful that this is over. He’s about to turn and go, phone clutched to his side, when Mr. Ackerman calls out again.
“Whatever you think you saw yesterday,” says Mr. Ackerman slowly – calmly, words measured and even, “It wasn’t what you think. So forget about it. And tell your loud-mouthed boyfriend to do the same.”
–
“Think Mr. Ackerman’s killed somebody before? He’s got the look of a serial killer,” he mumbles seven hours later against Eren’s stomach, tasting sweatshirt and Febreze, because of course Eren just Febrezed his clothes instead of washing them. Eren at least had the decency to shower after soccer practice, so Jean wasn’t tasting that.
They’re laying in Eren’s bed, waiting for his mom to finish up dinner downstairs, having collapsed there together an hour ago. Eren’s squinting at the screen of his phone when Jean looks up at him.
“Are you taking a fucking selfie?” he demands.
“Shut up,” says Eren promptly, “if I’m going to die because Mr. Ackerman knows that we know he’s fucking Mr. Smith, I want a selfie to prove my existence. I was here. I fucked Jean Kirschstein.”
“God,” Jean says, getting up on his hands and knees to loom over Eren, “I really fucking hate you sometimes.”
Eren’s snaggletooth bites into his grin. He stretches, wrapping an arm around Jean’s neck and pulling him down, looking too satisfied with himself. “So you say.”
Six minutes later, Mrs. Jaeger walks in on them. Jean rolls off her son and on to the floor. Eren cracks up and takes a picture.
Jean tosses a dirty sock at his face. It makes him feel slightly better.
–
But it’s not like he can go to school and turn off the sudden awareness he has every time Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Smith cross his path. He has first period lit and sixth period calculus, so it’s not like Jean can just ignore it.
It’s not like Eren can either, because Eren has a screwed up sense of justice that’s evolved from anger issues and caped crusaders.
The thing is, Mr. Smith and Mr. Ackerman aren’t obvious. They don’t spend any time together, they don’t share lunches; there’s no longing glances to pin-point.
Their fingers brush once in the hallway. Mr. Smith looks slightly chagrined and Mr. Ackerman looks like he always looks – knitted eyebrows, stormy expression, but ultimately unreadable. He could be giving you a compliment or chewing you out and nothing about his expression would change.
But Jean knows what he saw. Knows that it goes beyond Eren’s oblivious declaration of sex. Knows because he’s getting the uncomfortable sense that he might be in love, too.
Eren keeps insisting that they tell someone; Eren’s morality is black and white, without room for grey.
Jean’s isn’t, so he shuts Eren up by kissing him as much and as often as he can, and ignores the obvious poking painfully behind his eyes.
–
They’re at Jean’s this time, and messing around has become something a lot closer to cuddling than he wants to admit until Eren says he’s hungry.
Jean wanders into the kitchen to fix something because his mother raised him right and Eren’s technically a guest even if he’s over a lot for a guest; even if he’s started making demands about the things Jean keeps stocked in the pantry, and even if he’s managed to sneak a few changes of clothes into Jean’s drawers.
He comes back into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and soda and finds Eren curled tightly around his knees, dry-eyed and quietly furious, Jean’s university acceptance letter resting on the coffee-table.
“Congrats,” is all Eren says, mouth twisting like he wants to say more. Jean expects him to bolt.
He doesn’t. He stays. Finishes out the bowl of popcorn and the cheesy movie they have playing in the background.
And then he skips class the next day and the day after that and then the day after that, ignoring all of Jean’s texts and phone calls and his Facebook messages.
Finally, Mr. Ackerman pulls him aside and hands him a stack of homework. “Tell your idiot boyfriend that if he misses one more day, I’ll drag his ass here myself.”
“I’m not his boyfriend,” Jean says automatically, but takes the papers.
Mr. Ackerman just rolls his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
–
Mrs. Jaeger lets him in when he shows up. That’s not the problem.
The problem is that Eren doesn’t open his bedroom door, so Jean’s stuck yelling at it for an hour without a response until Mikasa gets back from karate practice and tells him that Eren’s bedroom window is open.
Which means Eren’s gone and Jean’s been yelling at an empty room.
He sighs and thanks her, pushing his way past her. She grabs his arm.
“If you hurt him,” she says quietly, and Jean frowns, worming his way out of her grip.
“I’m in love with him,” he tells her, angry – with her for doubting him, with Eren for running away, with Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Smith for causing this.
With himself, for not realizing.
He finds Eren two hours later, sitting in the sandbox Jean pushed him in all those years ago.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he sits down next to Eren, but it isn’t Eren slumping all of his weight against his side and giving a wobbly laugh.
“I really did mean it,” says Eren stuffily. “Congratulations. It’s a good school. You should go.”
“Dumbass,” Jean grunts, grabbing at Eren’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “There’s this thing called Skype. And cell phones. And I don’t know, coming home for Christmas and summer breaks? Visiting?”
“Not the same,” Eren says quietly. He leans his weight more fully against Jean. “It’s not like we’re anything important. I know how this goes.”
“No, you don’t,” Jean says, “I don’t either. Fuck, I didn’t even realize I was in love with you until Mr. Ackerman all but spelled it out.”
“You’re what? Mr. Ackerman did what?”
“Not in so many words,” he clarifies. “But yeah. I’m in love with you. I’m just the last one to realize it, I guess.”
Eren sniffles against his neck. “Not the last one,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” Jean laughs. He looks down at their laced fingers, at the sandbox where Eren’s been drawing abstract shapes under the streetlamp. “I applied at the school here too. Still waiting on that letter. But I’m not going to promise to stay,” he warns, even as Eren flinches, “it’s a good school.”
“It’s far,” Eren whispers.
“We can make it work,” Jean tells him; means it, too, because they can.
“You think so?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I really do.”
–
Three months later, they’re prepping for graduation.
Jean ends up accepting the good university in the distant city. Eren’s packing up to follow – turns out cities had a lot to offer and Eren fixed up a portfolio for an art school there that practically begged to have him.
They become official; get on the ballot for prom king and queen because of Sasha and Connie and end up taking second place. Eren buys him a tiara for prom despite his name being the one put down for queen. Jean wears it all night.
It’s good. They’re good.
They let whatever it is they stumbled upon between Mr. Smith and Mr. Ackerman go. It’s their lives to fuck up, Eren agrees eventually in an echo. He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but now he sounds a little sad for them.
They make the rounds to their teachers after they graduate, to say goodbye and to tell them a little about their futures.
Eren likes holding hands, so they do that too. They’re just about to go into Mr. Smith’s classroom when they catch sight of Mr. Smith bending down to kiss Mr. Ackerman.
Jean clears his throat. It’s a little too late by the time he does.
Mr. Smith startles and blushes, the tips of his ears red, while Mr. Ackerman just raises an eyebrow and snorts.
“Jaeger. Kirschstein.” Mr. Ackerman says.
Eren flounders at Jean’s side, so Jean rescues him with a flimsy, “We, ah, just wanted to say bye, and thank you – for everything.”
Mr. Smith smiles wide at that, his blush fading. He spreads his hands and sounds entirely sincere: “It was great teaching you both. Make sure to visit when you’re home over break, Levi and I would love to see you.”
Eren winces but smiles back. “Yeah, of course.”
Mr. Ackerman snorts again, pointing a finger at Eren. “You’re a shitty liar,” he says. “Erwin means it. Visit. He’ll probably invite you to dinner.”
“Dinner,” Jean repeats; wonders if they’re past the point of pretending not to know that Mr. Smith is cheating.
Mr. Ackerman nods. “He’ll make me cook it, because he’s lazy as shit when he wants to be.”
“Levi,” protests Mr. Smith, but he’s quieted by Mr. Ackerman taking his hand. He sighs and smiles, and looks soft. “I really do wish you’d wear your ring at work, you know,” he says in an aside to Mr. Ackerman.
“Oh,” says Eren. “You’re married.”
“Yes,” Jean grits out – because they’d solved this already, and now wasn’t the time for this, even if they had graduated already, and then Eren elbows him hard.
“They’re married to each other,” Eren says.
Mr. Ackerman gives them a look. Mr. Smith laughs, holds up their hands. There’s a tan line around Mr. Ackerman’s ring finger. “Five years,” says Mr. Smith, fondly.
“Oh fuck,” Jean says.