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The party is starting to wind down, the lightweight drunks passed out and tucked away somewhere safe by either their friends or myself, and the more serious, experienced partiers approaching that calm, mellow state, where expectations are low and they can just enjoy their buzz. I’m not a fan of booze, personally; I don’t like anything that makes me that muzzy-headed. I have enough problems with self-control already, thank you very much, and the last thing I need is a substance that might flip my berserk switch without any warning.
Nah, pot is my drug of choice, especially after too much socializing, and I’ve found a nice, quiet corner of the back porch to light up and watch the night pass me by. I’m not worried about what’s going on in the house behind me… Mikasa and Armin are both in there, and between the two of them, they can take care of anyone who starts acting up. Which means Jean. It always means Jean.
I watch the glowing ember of my joint, feeling the smoke seep deep into my lungs, cloying and acrid at the same time, bitter across my tongue. Smoke rises and pools at the ceiling, thick, blue-tinted clouds, and I watch them roll over each other as I feel everything melt away. I shouldn’t be smoking, I know, not with a history of cancer in the family, but what the hell. I’m young, I’m healthy, and it’s only tonight. Tonight is a celebration, a reward to myself, a chance to let loose after months of interviews and agony and paperwork and uncertainty. That’s all over now, though, ending with an official letter in the mail saying I’d won both the privilege of an internship with Dr. Zoe Hange and the scholarship to pay for the experience. My future is out there, waiting for me to take it, and the pot is all that’s keeping me from careening off the walls with pure joy.
I just wish my dad were here to know about it. I bet he’d be really proud of me, and like I always do when I’m thinking about him, I reach up and toy with the key he gave me that I wear around my neck.
“Eren?”
I turn my head at the sound of my name, my neck creaky and slow from the weed. I must be higher than I thought, because it takes my vision a few moments to stop blurring and decide to focus.
Mikasa. My sister, who looks as much like our mom as I look like our dad, like the genes of the Japanese and Turkish took one look at each other, decided that combined would be a terrible idea, and politely agreed that each gene set would get one child to express itself in. She stands backlit by the porch light, pale and lovely, and I start to smile at her before I realize she’s got someone draped across her, a long, slim arm around her neck and a body pressed against her own. Hitch, Jean’s girlfriend, always too flighty and giggly for my tastes, so privileged and pampered that she’s completely unaware of how well off she actually is, the kind of person who creates drama whenever she gets bored.
Jean’s girlfriend. Draped drunkenly on my sister, and even now pawing at her, trying to get Mikasa to lower her head for a kiss. I don’t need to be one hundred percent sober to figure out what happened.
“Shit,” I say by way of greeting, and Mikasa bites her lower lips and nods, at least having the grace to look ashamed of herself.
“Shit,” she agrees quietly, and the sound of her voice makes Hitch lift her head and look around.
“Hiiiiii, Eren,” she trills, and I lift my hand to wave at her, but all my attention is focused on Mikasa.
“Does Jean know?” If he doesn’t, we can still salvage this. It’ll be messy as hell, but still salvageable. My hopes crash when Mikasa looks down and nods.
“He walked in on us.”
“Goddammit, Mikasa!”
“Yeah,” she agrees, not intimidated in the least by my outburst, long used to dealing with them and not above picking me up and carting me off somewhere to cool down, the same way she did when we were kids. “Goddammit, me.”
I can’t help but be disgusted with her. Disgusted with them both, really, but my expectations for Hitch have always been somewhat low. Mikasa, though… Jean is like a second little brother to her, someone she’s known since he and I were both in the sandbox, and for her to do this to him is a betrayal. You don’t fuck around with your sibling’s significant others, dammit, and I glower at her silently. She wilts a little under my gaze, and when she lifts her chin and meets my eyes, I see they’re filmed with tears. “I just…” she starts, but then Hitch interrupts.
“Hey! It’s not her fault!” She scowls at me with drunken fury, and reaches out, trying to snatch my joint out of my hand and missing by a good six inches. Hitch lets go of Mikasa’s arm and totters unsteadily towards me, wagging a finger like she’s suddenly aged sixty years and turned into a grandmother. “Jean has been a prick lately, ignoring me and treating me like shit!”
“Of course he’s been a prick! He’s Jean!” The guy might be my best friend, more like a brother than a friend at this point, but I’m realistic about his flaws.
Hitch rolls her eyes and tosses her hair, and the movement throws her off balance, making her wobble back and forth. Frankly, I’d be fine with letting her face-plant on the floorboards, but Mikasa swoops in and catches her arm, steadying her so she can keep glaring at me. “Whatever. We were going to break up anyway.” She tosses her hair again, whipping Mikasa across the face with it, and I’d laugh at Mikasa’s surprised expression if I wasn’t so pissed at her. “Jean and I are through. I’m too good for him anyway.”
I take a deep breath in through my nose, clenching my jaw and counting silently in my head. I could definitely argue that point, loudly, voraciously, and possibly violently, but now isn’t the time or place. Hitch is too drunk to benefit from it, and while it would make me feel better, it wouldn’t help the situation any. Now isn’t the time, although if she’s still here in the morning, she’ll be getting a very loud, very profane piece of my mind, hangover or not. It’d be even better if she was hungover, honestly.
I ignore Hitch as I stand up, directing my attention to Mikasa. “Can you take care of her?”
Mikasa nods. “Do you know where he is?” she asks, and I shrug.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I stub my joint out on the porch swing and stick it in my shirt pocket before brushing past them and into the house, leaving Mikasa to deal with her part of the mess. She and I will be having a long talk tomorrow, and she better spend some of her time tonight thinking about how to apologize to Jean.
The house has mostly emptied out, people trickling away to other parties or to a quiet place to sleep, with only Armin still holding court in the living room, talking to that trio he brought with him and met who knows where. The dark-haired guy is passed out, tucked in against the big blond guy’s shoulder, his long legs stretched out in front of him in an awkward tangle. The big guy has his arm around the dark-haired guy’s shoulder, and he’s listening intently to whatever Armin is talking about, nodding occasionally or asking a question that just fuels Armin’s chatter. The tiny blonde girl is sharing the love seat with Armin and has her legs across his lap, giving him a Netflix and Chill look if I’ve ever seen one, a look to which Armin is completely oblivious. I can’t help but shake my head and smile as I scan the room, looking for Jean and not finding him.
The big guy—R something, Rob maybe?—notices me as I pass through, and I swear he tightens his arm protectively around the sleeping man when he sees me. As I start up the stairs, I hear him ask Armin if he has any aspirin, complaining about a sudden pain behind his eyes.
There’s no sign of Jean upstairs, just sleeping lumps passed out in various beds and couches. I only give the lumps a cursory glance—I’ve known Jean long enough to know that the last thing he’ll want to do right now is sleep. I keep going up the stairs, silently cursing Mikasa and Hitch for putting me in this position, and cursing Jean too, for not giving his needy girlfriend the attention she so blatantly and obviously demands.
The attic, at least, is silent and free from drunks, and I notice immediately that its one tiny window is open, its little floral curtain billowing inward as a chilly spring breeze comes in. I go over to it, wishing I was a little less high, and stick my head and shoulders out, turning myself around so I’m staring up at the underside of our rain gutters.
“Jean?”
A few beats of silence, long enough for me to start getting worried, and then, gruff and short-tempered, “Fuck off, Jaeger.”
I breathe a sigh of relief; Jean’s up there, and lively enough to be an asshole, which is a good sign. I winnow my arm out the window and start pawing around above the gutter, feeling blindly for a handhold I know is there. “You going to help me or let me fall to my death?”
“Fall to your death,” he grumbles, but then I feel him grab my wrist and hoist me up, helping me scramble out the attic window and onto the roof in a maneuver we’ve been practicing since we were eight years old and realized it was a possibility. We’re honestly lucky we never did fall to our deaths, and it’s a good thing we’re both still thin, or this would be impossible. The window ledge scrapes my back on the way up, rucking my shirt up around my shoulders and exposing my belly to the night air.
Jean lets go of my arm as soon as I’m on the roof and retreats back to the middle of it, where the gradient evens out a little and it’s comfortable to sit. He’s sitting on a ratty old Army blanket we keep in the attic for just such conferences, like he’s planning on being up here awhile. I adjust my shirt and then creep along the roof until I’m next to him and sit down, and although he makes an irritated sound, he scoots over and makes room for me.
Up close, he doesn’t look good. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, making him look more hostile and aggressive than usual, and his hair is mussed and standing up in all directions. I can hear him grinding his teeth the moment I sit down, and I know I need to defuse this before he blows his top and loses control.
I pull the joint and my lighter out of my pocket and offer it to him. “Smoke?”
“God, yes.” He snatches it out of my hand and immediately lights up, taking such a deep drag that he makes himself cough, although that doesn’t stop him from trying again as soon as his breathing clears.
We pass the joint back and forth in silence for awhile, watching the glittery sprawl of Shingashina spread out before us, the brighter lights of Trost a glow on the horizon. The view from the top of the house is amazing, and is what brought us up here the very first time, when we wanted to watch fireworks from both Shingashina and Trost on the Fourth of July. My mom had yelled and yelled when she found out where we’d been, but the fireworks display had been worth it, and from then on, whenever we wanted some privacy, up on the roof we came. My parents finally gave up on keeping us from climbing up here, and put us in charge of cleaning out the rain gutters, hoping that would dissuade us. It didn’t.
“What’re you smiling about?”
I glance over, and see that Jean’s watching me, the nearly gone joint held in my direction. I wave my hand at it, and he sucks down the last good puff before grinding it out on the rooftop. “Just thinking about old times.”
He snorts; that was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Old times, new times… all times are shit.”
Ah… so it’s nihilistic Jean that I’ll be dealing with tonight. I shrug, and decide to go right to the heart of the issue. “Sorry about what happened tonight, man.”
He laughs, but it’s a bitter, angry sound, hardly a real laugh at all. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters. Not like anything was going to work out anyway.”
That sounds worse than I thought. “What’d you mean?”
He fishes around in his pocket and drags something out, clenched in his fist, and offers it to me aggressively. I open my hand and he thrusts something into it, something cool and metal and small, something that jabs me with sharp edges. I feel something sink in my chest, and I don’t want to open my hand, but he’s staring at me, his eyes sharp with expectation, and I draw my hand close to my face and open it. I’m holding a thin gold band with a little diamond on it, and while I suddenly feel even worse for Jean, I’m a little less pissed at Mikasa. Whether she intended to or not, she just saved Jean from a really, really bad decision.
“Yeah,” he says, looking away and wiping at his mouth, sniffing wetly in a way that I know means he’s losing his battle to stay in control of himself. “So I guess that’s not going to happen now. You can keep that ring, by the way. It doesn’t mean shit to me now.”
I take off my necklace, the key bumping against the ring with a faint, tinny sound, and thread the ring onto the chain before putting it back on. Jean might feel that way now, but I’m pretty sure he’ll want this ring back at some point. I’ll keep it safe until he does. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs again, his shoulder narrow and sharp in the shadows, and looked pointedly out at the twinkling cityscape before us. “Who gives a shit?”
“I didn’t know you two were that serious.” If I had, I probably would have said something, before this all reached a boiling point, but then, I’ve barely had time to breathe the last few months, let alone pay attention to Jean’s interpersonal drama. I realize, as I tuck my necklace back into my shirt and feel the ring land against my chest, that I’ve hardly had time for Jean at all lately.
“Neither did she, I guess.” He scrubs his hand over his face and makes that sound that isn’t really a laugh again. “I mean, why would she? Who wouldn’t choose Mikasa over me?”
“Hey, man, no.” I lean in, bumping my shoulder against his. Privately, I kind of agree with him, but I’ve got enough sense not to say that, and to know that now is not the time to express sibling loyalty. “It’s not like that…”
“Isn’t it?” He turns on me then, his eyes bright and hostile, his already narrow face pinched inward. “That’s my mom’s ring, Jaeger. I was going to ask her to marry me, and she’s fucking making out with your sister instead! The fuck am I supposed to think!”
I have no answer to that, and he turns away from me with a growl a few seconds later. “It’s fucked. Everything is fucked.”
I wish I had another joint to offer him, or a can of beer or something. “You’ll meet someone else, man. Someone better for you.”
Even as he’s whirling around on me, I realize that’s the wrong thing to say, and that I should have just kept my trap shut. “The fuck?! Is that supposed to make me feel better!” He lifts his voice into a sing-song lilt. “Oh, Jeanbo, you’ll just go out and find someone better, it’s fine, I’m sure someone else is going to fall madly in love with you and everything will work out great!” He drops the voice and reaches out, grabbing the front of my shirt with both hands, and although I flinch instinctively, I don’t try to stop him. Maybe punching me will make him feel better—it’s worked in the past, over other things he’s gotten riled over—and I’m willing to take one for the team.
Jean drags me close, until I can smell the booze and pot on his breath, and asks me, his voice low and dangerous, “Why can’t anyone love me?”
I don’t know how to answer that, how to even begin unpacking the layers of hurt and underlying pain in that statement, but Jean doesn’t give me a chance. He yanks me forward, and for a second, I think he’s going to headbutt me, and I almost laugh, because we haven’t done that since we were dorky little kids. But then Jean’s mouth seals shut over mine, and he’s kissing me, and I freeze up.
Jean’s mouth is hot and angry over mine, his lips moving in a way that almost feels like he’s trying to bite me, and I swear I feel his tongue try to push past my lips. He has his eyes closed, and from this close, he looks distorted and strange, his eyebrows pulled down as he keeps scowling. His hands are clenched tight around my shirt, holding me close, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body, like he’s throwing off all his anger and upset in waves of heat intended to melt me away.
The kiss doesn’t last long; I’m completely blue-screened, and when I don’t respond or move my lips at all in response, Jean stiffens, his mouth stops moving, and then he’s shoving me away, his hands suddenly rough and flat on my chest. I nearly lose my balance and fall backwards, catching myself on my hands, and I stare at Jean as he struggles with his composure.
“Fuck,” he says, almost to himself, and buries his face in his hands, drawing in on himself like he’s trying to disappear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Uh…” Really, what else can I say to that? I sit up, adjusting my shirt where it got crumpled in his hands, and watch him out of the corner of my eye. “So, uh… what the hell was that?”
Jean groans and flops onto his back, his head cracking on the roof tiles, and throws an arm over his eyes. “Nothing. Forget I did that. I’m drunk.”
“You’re not that drunk.” I lay down too, close to him but still giving him his space. “Seriously, Jean, what’s going on?”
I don’t think he’s going to answer, at least not right away, and I’m surprised when it only takes a moment or two before he pipes up again, his voice low and tormented. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not really?” I know I’m not very good at these things, but I’m at a loss here.
“Jesus Christ, I have to explain goddamn everything,” he mutters, but he takes his arm off his eyes and turns his head to look in my general direction, although he can’t meet my eyes. “I don’t just like girls, Eren. I’m into guys, too.”
“… oh.” All right, then. So that’s a thing.
I must still look perplexed, because Jean sighs and rolls over onto his side, turning his back to me, drawing his knees up to his chest and curling into a ball. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You’re not into it and now I’ve fucked up everything. Just go away.”
“I’m not going away.” Not when he’s like this, I’m not. “Seriously, Jean, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Everything is wrong with me.”
Oh god, it’s like a return to his fifteen year old emo phase. “Do you want me to go get your black eyeliner and Nine Inch Nails CDs?”
That makes him laugh, a little. “Fuck you, Jaeger.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I scoot a little closer, and put my hand on his shoulder. He tenses up, like he’s expecting a punch—a not entirely unfounded expectation, I have to admit—and then relaxes when it never comes. “So you’re… you’re bisexual, then?”
A long pause, and a sigh before he answers. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Does Hitch know about it?”
Another pause. “No.”
I think I’m starting to get to the root of the problem here. “I think she’d probably be into that, Jean, if you wanted to fuck some guys once in awhile. She’d probably want to watch or something.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake!” He rolls over and sits up in one movement, knocking my hand off his shoulder and glaring at me. “That’s not it at all!”
I’m starting to get a little irritated here, and glare right back at him. “So what’s the deal?”
“No one loves me!” He yells it, his voice echoing over the sleeping neighborhood, and I watch as his eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said. He turns away from me then, hunching in on himself once more, his forehead resting on his knees. “No one loves me,” he repeats, his voice cracking on the last syllable, and we’ve finally, finally gotten to the crux of the issue.
“Hey, man,” I say softly, moving closer to him. “That’s not true. Lots of people love you.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps back, his face still hidden, and I can tell by the way his shoulders are moving that he’s trying not to cry. “Hitch doesn’t, and you don’t, and you two are the only ones who can stand me.”
“What’re you talking about? You’re like my brother, dumbass, of course I love you!” I’m a little offended by this accusation, in all honesty.
“Yeah.” He picks his head up a little, looking at me with one red-rimmed eye. “You love me like a brother.”
“Yeah, like…” And all of a sudden, all at once, I get it. My mouth snaps closed, and I just boggle at him, at a total loss for words. He watches me long enough to make sure I’ve got it, then turns his face back into his arms.
We sit like that, in silence, for a few minutes as I process everything I’ve just learned. Jean’s bi, and he apparently loves me, in a way that’s very different from how I love him. I’m… flattered, I guess, but that doesn’t change a certain, immutable fact about myself, one that Jean knows as well as I do. It’s something we’ve talked about a lot over the years, something he helped me sort out, and while I could be angry that he didn’t respect my preferences a few minutes ago, mostly I just feel sorry for him. He’s lost a lot, all in one night, and I know he’s more fragile than he likes to let on. I think that maybe, if he let other people see his more sensitive side, he might not have such a hard time finding someone who’s worthy of his love.
“Jean.” He doesn’t respond, but he twitches a little, so I know he’s listening. “You know that if I was into that, I’d be into you, right? That if I could care about you the way you want someone to, I would.” I put my hand on his shoulder again, and he lets me. “But I can’t love you the way you want to be loved, and you don’t want someone who’s just pretending to make you happy.”
He shakes his head. Good, we’re making progress. “Yeah, I… I know.” He sighs again, watery this time, and wipes his sleeve across his face. Fucking gross. “I just… I just really wish…”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He rolls onto his back again and looks up at me, and this time, he doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s been crying. I dig in my pocket and find a tissue to offer to him, and he takes it wordlessly and blows his nose. “If I could, I would. But you know I can’t.”
“I know.” He sits up, not meeting my eyes, toying with the tissue in his hands. “Sorry I kissed you.”
“It’s cool.” Technically my first kiss, and if all kissing is like that, hopefully my last. “We’re still bros. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
He smiles at that; a pale, thin imitation of his usual smirk, but a smile nonetheless. “What did I ever do wrong to get stuck with you, Jaeger?”
“Right back at you, Horseface.”
We sit in silence for awhile, watching the city below us, and I could leave it there, but I feel like this isn’t over. I’m watching the stars above us when I’m struck by a feeling, a damn certainty, that there’s someone out there for Jean, someone waiting that’s going to be perfect for him, someone who will make everyone else who came before look grotesque and wrong in comparison. I don’t believe in soulmates, or prophesies, or any of that New Age mumbo jumbo bullshit, but I know, deep down, that Jean is going to find someone, and it’s going to be spectacular when it happens. I also know, in a way I can’t explain, that none of us have met him yet, although he’s probably a lot closer than any of us think. He might have even been at the party earlier, and he and Jean just missed each other.
“You’re going to find someone,” I tell him softly, still watching the stars. “I know someone is out there for you, and you’ll find him when the time is right.”
Jean snorts. “I just now tell you I’m bi, and you’re already signing me up for a big gay wedding?”
I elbow him, and he shoves me back, and everything is okay between us again. “Fine, you’ll find him or her when the time is right!”
“I hope so.” He looks up at the sky with me, squinting to try and pick out the stars against the glare of Trost in the distance. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m totally right.”
“Okay, Jaeger.” He watches the sky for a moment, then turns to me with a very familiar smirk spreading across his face. “Hitch would totally ask to watch.”
I laugh at that, and he joins me, and somewhere out there, in the glittering sprawl of the world, Jean’s soulmate is out there, waiting to meet him. I know this as surely as I know Jean is going to be my best friend until the day we die, probably racing our wheelchairs down the hall of a nursing home and tripping people with our canes. Some things you just know, deep down inside.