Work Text:
You will admit that he is sweet, the way he tirelessly immortalizes your unsmiling features into the canvas, nothing but the dark soot of charcoal staining his perfect hands to turn you into his art, his muse, his métier.
Jean has artists’ hands. Most people do not recognize it, because his fingers are thick and rough from years of curling around the metal triggers of well-worn ODM gear. Your fingers are similarly bruised, as you’d undergone training the same time as Jean, so it is much easier for you to spot the lack of imperfection etched within his own palms.
You can see his hands’ appeal in the way they delicately hold the pencil that sketches you, the way he carefully shakes the white parchment to get rid of cheap eraser shavings, the way he lifts your chin to kiss you in-between the soft scratching of mercury-gray lead against paper.
There are many things to love about Jean.
You can’t exactly pinpoint where you decided that he was somebody who qualified as a romantic partner for you. You first met him by chance when you sat next to him for your first dinner in the Cadet Corps, and you were lucky that Marco was such an extrovert that you managed to find friends.
The three of you hit it off. You were cold and distant; Marco, warm and welcoming; Jean, arrogant and self-assured. Jean was your best friend, and the other girls used to tease you for how “obvious” your “crush” was on him, and when Marco died, your trio melted into a pair that turned into a quartet when Connie and Sasha came into the picture.
Despite his rough exterior, and the less-than-attractive undercut he’d been slowly growing out of, or that his facial features were quite long, he was a genuine person. Not good. Nor bad. But genuine. True to himself. To say he was a saint was wrong, but so was calling him a demon.
Genuine is a word synonymous to ‘ honest ,’ and this is one trait you do not have in common with Jean.
You can’t recall when you’d become such an asshole. Everything in the dark days of your youth is nothing but a blur, a foggy memory hanging by the steepest cliffs of your brain.
You can remember when you became self-aware, though.
During the aftermath of the Battle of Trost, you approached the Survey Corps’ hideout, a castle deep within the hills of Wall Rose. A breeze rustled by and for a virtuous second, you thought of Marco. Only days had passed since Jean found him dead.
As the horses clopped nearer, a figure emerged from the interior clad in a green cloak. Out of excitement in seeing friends after what felt like an eternity, Eren gave you a side-hug. It was very brief, very awkward, especially since you’d never really been that close, but still, hugging naturally made you feel something pleasant.
“Where’s Marco?” he asked when he realized you were standing with only Jean.
“He’s gone, Eren,” you explained. “Jean found him. We don’t know how he died.”
You trailed off, a lump in your throat forming. Jean took notice of this immediately and jumped in to rescue you from tears.
“Not everyone gets some heroic death,” he added, lightly punching Eren on the shoulder. “So we’ve gotta know what we’re fighting for, man.”
Eren was stunned as he processed the information.
“I hope you’re worth the risk, Eren,” you said.
Eren nodded at you once, just to show he understood the weight. “I hope so too.”
You immediately felt bad about all the pressure you put on him. You supposed you wanted a medium to place all your grief on, which was unfortunately Eren’s shoulders.
You wished you’d done something less permanent, like writing a diary or smashing cheap wine bottles. Maybe you could have done something beautiful, like painting like how Jean could draw.
Paint was expensive, though. You couldn’t afford that on a soldier’s salary, much less a Scout’s salary. Making others feel bad was a cheaper way of injecting yourself with temporary delights. Even the wildest substances that alchemists brewed in Mitras never compared to the wicked glee of awakening the inferiority in others.
It is a cheap thrill and you know it, even when you look back at yourself as a teen. You regret it the moment the words leave your mouth. And yet saying such manipulative things brings you relief knowing that the darkness in you has successfully clawed its way past your conscience.
"But you know I won't give up," Eren tells you, and it's the first time anyone has ever read you properly.
Your brash exterior crumples. Eren watches your eyes soften at him beautifully, like a pillow. Your lips turn down, caught.
"I know you won't," you admit. "Sorry, Eren."
"S'okay."
"No, it's not. You're so brave, Eren. It's shitty of me to doubt you, I don't care if those military higher-ups think you're dangerous."
Eren cocks his head, surprised by your kind words, too. Appreciation courses through him, warm as sunlight. "Thanks."
You stuck to Jean like a vice throughout your time in the castle. You were closer to him than usual. This was your grief channeling. You found yourself touching him freely, holding his arm, resting your head on his shoulder, making conversation. Not because you loved him in that way. But because he is Jean.
Jean does not take this the same way you do.
He thinks you are in love with him.
In fairness, for a short while you’d thought so too. You mistook the rage in your heart as the beat of affections. Everybody thought you had unresolved feelings towards Jean. It was only natural for him to notice.
He began to reciprocate an emotion that did not really exist.
When his hands went from cupping your shoulder to resting on your waist, you did not shy away. When he began to lean in to talk to you, too close for comfort, you did not back off. You observed his emotions like you were watching behind a glass, studying a foreign species.
The boys tease him, Jean-boy, it was about time you noticed her , and the girls tease you, Oh [Name], oh [Name], you are so cute and quiet, you are just adorable.
You suspect that his feelings are not a product of grief or loneliness. His feelings were real.
This was a very big inconvenience because you were not made to be responsible for a real person’s heart.
Before the 57th Expedition, where the Scouts were obliterated by the Female Titan, you were silent as you led your horse to the formation. The others were already milling about. Eren and Mikasa were arguing. You couldn’t help overhearing as you began to saddle your horse.
“I wish you’d stop caring so much,” he told her furiously. “I’m not your little brother, don’t mollycoddle me!”
“Eren,” Mikasa said, defeated. He huffed at her, angry with her distrust, and stepped away to converse with the boys.
Eren had a crass attitude, but you respected how he wore his emotions freely, unlike you. Mikasa you liked, but couldn’t sympathize with—you do not see the point in caring for someone so much.
This is probably because you have an inability to love.
You could see why she liked Eren, though.
“[Name].”
Your head was not the only one to turn when your name leaves Jean’s mouth. His voice is cracked and uneasy, so clearly adolescent. Your classmates glanced with thinly veiled interest as Jean approached you, his cheeks blanched pink, your eyes coolly watching his every move.
“Yes?”
Your response is neither cold nor welcoming. You want to see what he will do. If he chooses to do nothing, then you will not have anticipated it at all. You are blank and empty and everybody in the vicinity mistakes this as shyness.
“I-I… I have to… can I just…”
You say his name.
“Jean?”
“Screw it,” he mutters, before leaning in to press his lips against yours.
Your mouths slot against each other and at first you don’t kiss back, until you decide to.
This is probably overdue anyway because everyone had been expecting you to come together. It’s the first time you’d ever kissed a boy, and you guessed that this was supposed to be special because of that, but all you could think of as you kissed back was that Jean’s lips might be cold if he dies on the expedition.
Your eyes slide past your sniggering, giggling friends, and briefly land on Eren, who was staring with some sort of blandness. Like he is gawking at a scene in a stage play.
Your first thought is that Eren is dumb and emotionally-challenged for acting like kissing is a weird thing, then you remember that you are also emotionally-challenged, perhaps even dumber, because you had just kissed someone and didn’t feel a thing.
You loathed the look on his face because you could recognize it on your own.
Eren catches your eye, and for a moment your expression crumples into the discomfort you really feel, and then he raises his brow in confusion. Girls were supposed to be happy when a boy they like kisses them, weren’t they? In that minuscule pause in time, you seemed to be anything but.
He shrugs it off, as if to say, If you must.
You know Eren is looking at you. You can't help but meet his gaze every time.
Things are fine from then on.
It’s not so bad, being in a relationship with Jean. There was peace in having someone to wait on you while the horrors of being a Scout unfolded around you. You have been surrounded by so much death, so much pain, that you mash into an empty shell of nothing. After all, there is only so much a human heart can take.
This is the folly of humanity—empathy, sympathy, and above all, love and anger. There is little difference between those two.
The future seems bleak. Time runs like taper on a starless night, too fast.
Death. You think about it often. Not in a way that you wished you were dead, but in a way that you know that death is inevitable. You don’t really know why you joined the Survey Corps. If you were honest, you really just had nothing better to do, and you’d rather die in battle than slack off inside the Walls. Plus, you figured that you were going in Marco’s stead.
You’d felt fear. You’d felt it during the expedition. For a moment you weren’t paralyzed, and you found yourself fighting to live when the Titans threatened to kill you.
“Are you alright, [Name]?”
Jean is a good person. He is currently folding your clothes while you curl up against the windowsill, lost in thought as you gazed at the street below. Jean brings you tea, makes your bed, and reminds you to polish your equipment.
Sometimes, when you find yourself unable to get out of bed, Jean will do the work for you. Not because he is indebted to you or because he feels sorry for you, but because he cares.
You suppose you do care for him, since he is your partner.
You protect. You touch. On a good day, you even laugh at his poor jokes. Not out of love. Not out of obligation. But just because.
“Yeah, just…” you trail off, grabbing your temple. “Confused. Who Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie are… and Ymir too. I mean… who are we?”
“That’s them, not us, [Name],” Jean insists, setting down your folded cardigan on your bed before sitting next to you. “You know we’re safe for now. You’re safe for now.”
You find yourself reaching for his hand. He takes it and you can tell that he is pleased that you are seeking comfort from him. You’d always been a bit closed off, but he was sure that it was because you were shy and new to the change in your relationship.
Sasha had told you that it was okay, that it was natural for girls to be a bit hard-to-please, and it was better for you to be this way because that was how you’d know that Jean was being true to you.
“Thanks, Jean,” you say, and you mean it. “I really appreciate you.”
Jean blushes. Compliments from you are expensive and it’s hard to catch you in a good mood. He finds that the cost doesn’t matter as long as you think him good.
This is why it’s easy to pretend.
“Can I kiss you?” Jean whispers.
It is sweet that even though you are already together, he still asks. You nod.
Jean tilts your face and your lips meet. You don’t feel any earth-shattering sensations, but you do think that kissing doesn’t feel or taste bad. But that is all it is to you: an action that you share with another human. To Jean, it is a way of conveying love.
The kiss deepens. A gasp escapes your mouth when his lips latch onto your neck, and you grab his shoulders to keep steady. Your back tenses and you anticipate for the overheated feeling to take over, but all you feel is ticklish.
Out of guilt, you caress Jean’s hair as he sucks on your neck. He makes a sound to show his approval.
You silently contemplate whether you should make sounds too, to show him that you liked it.
That would be a half-truth, though. You neither liked nor disliked it.
Jean’s hands slide up and down your waist. You adjust yourself a bit, thinking that if you got more comfortable, it would feel pleasurable. Or shameful. At least something. You let Jean guide you so you’re sitting on his lap. You pull back to survey him, your hands clasped together behind his neck to hold on.
Jean looks properly flustered. Neither of you have ever done this before and you were sure he was feeling fear and excitement all at once.
“Do you… like this?” he asks hesitantly.
You let out a breath. You don’t say anything. You lean in again. You search for connection.
Feel. Feel. Feel.
Nothing.
You touch him, his shoulders, his arms, his face, every visible part of him that you think might make you fall in love. But touching is different from feeling, and you feel nothing.
It's nothing like how Eren does it for you.
Pushing you against the wall, Eren takes the lead and encages you in his arms as he leans in to fervently press his lips against yours. It's hot, satiating, exciting—everything Jean failed to bring to your relationship.
Eren licks your lips and you parted them to let his tongue enter. You're a mess, moaning into his warm mouth and panting like a labored animal.
You don't know how you've gotten here.
It had been so innocent, sending Eren smiles and occasional words of encouragement. Comforting him when the Titan experiments or seasonal expeditions went awry. Reminding him that he was oh-so strong and brave for taking on the noble task of fighting for humanity.
Unlike with your loving boyfriend, you actually made an effort to show Eren that you truly cared about him. When he looked at you with such a passionate longing in those pretty green eyes, your heart would race, blood rushing through your veins and causing your pupils to dilate.
You had known that Eren liked you.
You had been the one to kiss him back when he leaned in, that one time. It didn't even occur to you that you had a boyfriend. There was no chance Eren would tell anyone, and although he was petty rivals with Jean, he kept his silence.
You'd find places to hide and get away, meeting like secret lovers. It was thrilling to be on edge, having him pull you into dark rooms to make out and get handsy, fulfilling needs that your boyfriend couldn't meet.
You love Jean, you really do.
But he pales in comparison to Eren.
As Eren runs his hands up and down your sides, your intoxicated mind gets a wind of sanity. You really think that you and Jean would have had such a great connection if you had just remained friends, but you were a shitty coward. You didn't have the bravery to break up or reject him.
It wasn't enough to have just one boy—you had to have them both. Maybe you were a scumbag for it, but at least you were self-aware. And Eren clearly didn't seem to mind. He was simply biding his time.
The door to your room swings open. Before you can react, you hear a familiar voice.
"I—what the fuck?"
You hastily pull away from Eren, freezing. A thin string of saliva connects your mouths, hanging and glistening in disorder. Standing in the corridor is Jean, staring at you with clenched fists and the look of utter betrayal painting his face.
You know now that you must have genuinely loved Jean somehow, enough to not want to hurt him this badly.
Now, you feel something.
Guilt.
Jean opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out. The sadness in his gaze tells you that he had no idea about the affair at all. That what you had was over.
"Jean, wait," you try, but he turns on his heel, and storms off.
You feel like such an asshole. And you know you are one too.
As you stare off after him, you feel Eren's hair nudge into your cheek as he leans in to kiss your neck. You're pretty sure he chose this specific place to make out on purpose so Jean would see, break up with you, and he could have you for himself.
"At least that's over," he murmurs.
A twinge of remorse snaps in you, but it quickly dissipates when you feel Eren nip at the sensitive spots. You gasp.
In the crook of your neck, you feel his lips curl into a smirk.