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There is not a good reason why he doesn't keep his mouth shut, but he just doesn't. It might as well be one of his flaws. Smart? Yes. Pertinent? Not necessarily.
He will die before admitting he is aware he has flaws though.
But Mikasa is by his side on after-dinner duty, drying the dishes that Jean passes to her after washing them, quiet as usual, and the words blurt out from the pit of his stomach of their own volition.
“I know why you volunteered first to take Eren's titan”, he says, eyes fixed on his arms covered in soapy water to his elbows.
Mikasa doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough for Jean to start thinking that maybe it was for the best that she didn't hear him.
“And why is that?”
“Well, we like to play dumb to it, but Eren only has five years left. And Armin, five more.” He pauses with his voice but not with his hands that rub forcefully at something stuck on a pan. So far he hasn't said anything groundbreaking, only the bare truth. “It is hard to be the one left behind.”
They risk so much on a daily basis, they are all so ready to give their lives for the cause that is strange to think about them - any of them- grasping for something that is, at its very core, a suicide wish. It might be the ultimate sacrifice, yes, but at the same time, it offers a clear end in sight: thirteen years are all you have left to live, but it is also all they can pretend of you.
This is all I can give, and you can’t ask anything more of me.
“That’s why you offered right after me, isn't it?”
Ah, Mikasa. Blunt as her swords, always cutting to the bone, cutting to the very center of what is inside you. Pulling out the truth. There is no way to hide in front of her.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Jean replies, keeping his voice tightly under control so it sounds halfway between annoyed and amused.
Mikasa, as it always happens when she has a mission, doesn’t let go.
“You had already figured out it couldn’t be me.” She is not taking the dish he is passing her, so Jean drops both the clean plate in the soapy water and the pretense that this is not a conversation they are having, and turns to look her in the eyes. “And if it wasn’t me, it was either you, Connie or Sasha.”
“Yeah, and we both know those dumbasses wouldn’t know a titan if it bit them in the ass, so.” He is lying, his voice high-pitched and fast-paced. Mikasa knows he is lying, and Jean knows she knows it. “Gotta take my rightful place as the savior of us all.”
There is the smallest hint of a smile on Mikasa’s lips, and five years ago it would have fucked up with his head and inflated his ego to no end. Now, it is just another confirmation that they are siblings in arms and in pain.
“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Jean.”
She raises her hand and for a second Jean thinks she is going to pat his shoulder or something, but instead, she stretches it towards him. It takes him a second to realize she is asking him to keep washing.
Back to business, then. He is not sure if he is disappointed or relieved that she didn’t touch him now that all his emotions feel about to burst out of his skin.
Jean plunges his hands again into the water and thinks of Marco. His soft smile, what it felt like to be seen by him and appreciated by him, not by his virtues but by his flaws. Jean thinks of Marco and the hole in his heart that will never be filled again.
He grabs a dish and thinks of Connie. His bright eyes, what it feels like to be loved by someone who allows himself to be open with his feelings, without excuses, without half measures. Jean thinks of Connie and the impossibility of imagining a life without him.
He scrubs the dish and thinks of Sasha. Her loud laugh, what it feels like to be held by someone who deliberately chooses to be soft because they have always been tough before. Jean thinks of Sasha and the marvel of someone who chooses you for her life and doesn’t let go.
There is not much discussion to be had. If they want this fight to not be over, someone will have to inherit Eren’s titans. And soon after, also Armin’s titan. Mikasa is already facing the reality that the lives of her partners will be over sooner than later. Jean can not blame her for wanting a sure end to her own life after they are both gone.
How is he supposed to face the very real possibility that either Sasha, Connie, or both, will be chosen for the task and will trickle down from between his fingers like the sand of the recently regained beach?
Jean passes her the clean dish and allows their elbows to touch in the process. They are not that different after all.