Work Text:
It's a festival, Jean thinks to himself as he shuts his mother’s front door behind him. After nearly three years of retirement in the countryside, he’s visited home at his mother’s beckoning, though it seems his hopes for a calm weekend were only wishful thinking.
This Trost is different from the one he left behind three years ago. The streets are bright with colour, ribbons and balloons strewn everywhere, and flags flap in the wind where they’re tied to lamp-posts. Floating through Trost’s polluted air is the scent of spiced meats, fragrant wines, and sweet candies from vendors in all corners. Jean is struck with wonder at joy that has been missing from the city all his life.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, his mouth falls open in bewilderment at the ceaseless celebration and the crowd of people lined up to watch a parade passing by. He gawks up at a massive float of the queen so tall that Jean must tilt back his head to take in the depiction of Historia in full regalia, leading the restoration of Paradis Island.
The end of the Rumbling has become a holiday of sorts, though the reception is mixed. On one hand, the Battle for Heaven and Earth opened opportunities for peace as the world watched Eldians kill one of their own to save the very nations that planned their eradication. Yet to many, Eren Jaeger had been Paradis Island’s saviour—that much is clear to Jean as he stares up at a float of the Founding Titan, surrounded by massive titans emerging from the fallen walls.
A chill runs down Jean’s spine as the float passes by. The wooden titans look too real, and while they may not reach the same monstrous height that once blocked the sun, the sight of bared teeth and rippling exposed muscles has Jean reaching for the empty space by his hip. When nothing but air slips through his fingers, his shoulders fall. That’s right. Jean hasn’t worn his ODM gear in years.
“Bastards,” he mutters under his breath. This very parade is why Jean stayed away from the city. There’s always been too much glamourization of the war…and of the suffering he and his comrades endured.
After the war, Jean had taken up a leadership role in fixing the world; following Armin and the surviving Scouts to peace talks and relief efforts. He retired from that life nearly three years ago, buying a farm in the outskirts where he spent most of his time trying to escape his own memories—those same memories that threaten to resurface now, in the heart of the city he’s tried so hard to forget.
Even with the chaos of the celebration swirling before his eyes, Jean can’t help but see what is missing. He swears there’s a head of brown hair paired with a flash of freckles in his outermost vision, but the fleeting sight disappears into the crowds and he knows his eyes are playing tricks on him. After all, those features only belong to one person, and Marco Bodt now only lives on in the deepest, most protected crevices of Jean’s mind.
“Jean!” a voice calls, and for a moment Jean thinks his ears must be faulty as well. Yet when the voice calls his name once more, a figure pushes its way through the crowd. Connie Springer’s smile is blinding as he breaks through and loops an arm around Jean’s shoulders, the other tucking away a pitcher of ale he’s clearly been enjoying. “It’s great to see you, man! I thought you’d be cooped up in that old farm of yours. The country air must be incredible, if it’s kept you from us these last few years.”
“I won’t lie, it’s a good change. The farm life forced me into a routine, and the view just can’t be beat. Not much to complain about, honestly, but if anything it can be a little too quiet at times.”
Jean figures he doesn’t have to tell Connie why the quiet of the country bothers him so much. They’re both veterans—they know what it does to a soldier to be alone for so long.
Maybe his mom was right about coming home. The city noise helps cover up the memories that resurface when you’re given too much time to think. Back then, he’d thought the fresh air would help him forget the past, but it only has him grimacing at Connie now.
Connie pulls him closer, shaking him slightly in excitement. “Well shit, you came at the perfect time! The boys and I are holding a reunion for the old Scouts at Niccolo’s tonight. You should definitely come!”
Jean rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know about that…”
“Come on, it’ll be a great time! Everyone’s been dying to see you, and hear all about that farm of yours. Catch up and get a drink with us. I’ll buy, if it convinces you.”
“Connie…” he says warningly.
“Seriously, when was the last time you’ve been in town? Armin and I have a bet going on when you’ll finally show your face and join us at the pub.”
“ Connie, ” he says again, firmly this time. He gestures to the celebration in full swing around them. “You’re not…weirded out by all of this?”
Connie smiles, pitying in a way so knowing Jean’s skin crawls. “It’s never going to be normal, Jean. But after ten years, it is what we make it.” Connie clasps his shoulder then, and shakes it slightly. “Come to the party,” he says, voice so pleading that Jean can’t help but give in.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and knows it’s the right answer by the grin that breaks across Connie’s face.
“Alright, you’d better! I don’t plan on owing Armin shit.” He clasps Jean on the back once more, before heading off with a wave, disappearing into the crowd of people that is slowly starting to engulf them.
With his friend gone, a sense of unease settles over Jean. He loves Connie, but sometimes he can’t understand him. He mulls over the way his old comrade’s eyes had crinkled at the corners when he smiles, surprised by how it was so earnest and carefree.
Doesn’t he realize it’s been ten years since Sasha died?
Sasha, who was Connie’s twin; a perfect half that completed his soul. Where Sasha went, Connie had followed gleefully behind—a helpless moon orbiting his personal Sun, whose light made him shine when they were together.
Jean’s own partner left well over ten years ago, so why isn’t he just like Connie—drinking and laughing, and moving on? How has Connie managed to find solace in the darkness of Sasha’s absence, when Jean is left withering and rotting without Marco’s light?
Suddenly desperate for air, Jean breaks away from the crowd and ducks into an alleyway nearby. His back hits the wall roughly as he struggles to catch his breath, pushing sticky hair off his forehead with shaky hands. He takes a deep, stuttering breath in, then another, forcing down the wave of nausea threatening to overcome him.
Go to the party? Jean thinks to himself. How in the hell could Jean mingle with a group of thirty soldiers when just seeing Connie—his comrade, his friend—had him dizzy and struggling to contain his haywire heart? There is absolutely no way Jean is going to that party.
The sound of blood rushes through his ears, encompassing the world in a violent cacophony of noise. Sweat drips from his bangs into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision, and when he reaches out blindly to grasp the wall the world spins, and Jean is falling, falling, falling.
☽
The heavy, wooden door swings open to reveal a figure illuminated by light. A gust of wind wafts the smell of booze and cigarette smoke from inside out to the street, with the sound of laughter soon following. “Sorry, we’re closed for the night. Veterans only…” Niccolo trails off, his squinting frown transforming into disbelieving recognition. He turns back to bustling pub, cupping his mouth with his hands to yell, “Jean Kirschtein’s here! ”
A chorus of shouts resounds from within the tavern, calling his name, and Jean rubs the nape of his neck bashfully. “Niccolo,” he says. “Connie didn’t warn you I was coming?” He follows Niccolo, who leads him into the
“The bastard must’ve left it a surprise. Oh, Armin’s going to throw a fit when he sees you. I hope you’ve heard about the bet they made?”
“I don’t know all the details, but somehow I don’t want to.”
Niccolo laughs at that, and Jean can’t help but stare. He looks older somehow, though older may not be the right word. Niccolo looks aged . There’s a certain tiredness in his eyes, having made root years ago during the war, and Jean hates it. He hates how, even when they say nothing, even when they ignore it, the presence of the dead lingers in the eyes of the living.
Jean clears his throat. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says, which is mostly true; he can see the love that’s built this tavern, though he’s long grown out of bars like this, preferring to get wasted in his own home where no one’s around to see how miserable he’s become.
“It was pretty run down when I bought it, but it turned out well. Ah, but I can’t take all the credit for that, since the Blouse family helped fund the renovations. They vouched for me as well, since I’m Marleyan, and…well, you know how that complicates things.”
“And how are they, Sasha’s family?”
“Doing well, her parents are retiring soon,” Niccolo says. “Oh, let me get you a drink. On the house, of course. I take it your regular hasn’t changed?”
Jean holds up a hand. “I appreciate it, but I should make the rounds first. We’ll talk later, yeah?”
Niccolo nods. “You know where to find me.”
Time feels slowed as Jean passes through the rowdy crowd in the heart of the tavern, getting claps on the back from old comrades he hasn’t seen in years. He tries his best to be enthusiastic, laughing politely when they recall ‘the old days,’ when they were young and nimble with all their limbs fully intact. Back when the world seemed so small, and they knew so little.
Jean listens in on stories about so-and-so’s marriage, Levi’s retirement, and how grown up Gabi and Falco have become. Everyone seems to have something to say, especially about Jean’s absence these past few years. All the attention quickly becomes overwhelming and his ears are ringing, so Jean breaks away from the crowd the moment he gets the chance. He collapses onto a stool by the bar, catching his breath.
He spies Connie in the corner across the room, waving a pint wildly as he jokes with a girl Jean doesn’t recognize. There’s that smile again. That stupid, damned smile that Jean hates because he can’t figure it out.
Who is that girl he’s with? There’s nothing impressive about her. Nothing special. She’s not Sasha.
Then the girl says something in a hushed whisper, throwing a smirk over the rim of her pitcher, and Connie erupts with a laughter so violent it throws his head back and the loud, clear sound of his elation cuts through the tavern noise to Jean’s ears. Connie’s face is pure bliss, and Jean’s fist curls tight where it grips the barstool because fuck, he can’t do this right now. He turns away and slaps the counter twice to call over the bartender.
“I’m gonna need that drink now, Niccolo.”
☽
An hour into this party and Jean is regretting he came. He’s three drinks in, and the world has begun to melt around him. Is he buzzed, or are the lights making him dizzy? It’s hard to say, but Jean’s head is pounding and this night is not going the way Connie promised.
After downing his fourth drink of the night, Jean’s attention is drawn by the creaking sound of the barstool next to him. The sound rattles in his aching skull, and when he glances at the seat he feels dizzy all over again because Mikasa Ackerman is staring at him with an unreadable expression.
“You’re here,” she says in that soft tone she always does, and a cold wave of soberness suddenly washes over him.
To his credit, Jean manages to smile. “Been a while, huh?”
“I didn’t realize you were in town. I would’ve visited…”
Jean grips his glass tighter, ignoring the subtle hurt in her voice. “I was just visiting Ma, I didn’t plan on drawing any attention.” He gestures to the bustling pub around them. “That turned out well, didn’t it?” he jokes, but Mikasa isn’t laughing.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” she says stoically. “You left for so long, I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“I don’t believe it. Mikasa, you were worried about me?”
Mikasa bristles. “I only meant you should be here with us, where you belong.” She trails off for a moment, a thoughtful expression gracing her features, and when she glances at him again her eyes are searching for answers in his. “Without you here, I couldn’t stop thinking about what our lives were, and maybe what they could have been if we had acted differently.”
“You’re being kind of vague here.”
"...Do you remember what you told me in the barracks when we were cadets?” she asks, and Jean’s stomach turns. Jean remembers asking Mikasa to meet him in secret, and sneak away to the barracks when all cadets were on kitchen duty. It was there he confessed the admiration he’d harboured for her since training’s start, and begged for her to return his feelings.
Lovesick and desperate, Jean called in Marco for help and honest advice. And yet, despite his willingness to help, Marco’s smile never quite reached his eyes as he hushedly enthused that Mikasa would adore him, that anyone could see the great man and leader Jean is and would prove to be. What a fool Jean had been.
Then Marco offered to style his hair, and Jean will never forget the feeling of sitting in that chair, with Marco’s soft breath hitting his nape and fingers fluttering against the tops of his shoulders. The room was warm, and Jean’s skin burned whenever Marco’s would brush against him. Soon his heart was pounding, though it wasn’t from anticipation of his impending confession.
Ironically, it had been in those very same barracks where Marco pulled him into their first kiss—only three weeks after Mikasa rejected him.
“So you remember?” Mikasa asks again, and Jean feels horrible when his gaze refocuses on her, seeing disappointment clouding her patient smile. It’s become a habit to become so lost in the past that he forgets the people in front of him.
Jean quickly apologizes. “Shit, yeah sorry, I remember.” He nods hastily, gripping his glass tighter. “I was just about losing it, thinking of all the possible ways you could react. Marco actually helped me figure out what to say to you, you know. That morning.”
By the frown knitting between her eyes, it’s clearly not the response Mikasa had expected, but she has the decency to feign interest. “He did?”
“He even talked me out of putting gel in my hair,” he waves a hand over the top of his head, “You know, slicking it all back like some absolute tool. I traded Daz half a week’s worth of rations for the damned gel, but Marco said I’d look like a pretentious ass, so he just combed it for me instead. And he was right about it, you know, he always was.”
Mikasa frowns. “Marco wouldn’t say that.”
Jean smiles over the rim of his glass. “You’re right, he didn’t,” he says. Marco only ever had good things to say about him.
“He was better than the rest of us. I can see why you were such close friends.”
Jean’s smile freezes on his face. That’s right. Marco was his good friend, and that’s all their comrades ever knew them to be. Jean never let anyone know how deep their friendship ran, too scared to be ostracized, too scared to love publicly.
“Back then, when you confessed…” Mikasa shifts in her seat, her eyes unable to meet him. “I rejected your feelings, but now…I’m hoping that after all this time, they haven’t changed, because mine have.”
It’s at this point that Jean’s mind shuts down. Vaguely, he can hear Mikasa giving some speech about how, in the years since Eren died, she’s slowly moved on and found comfort in Jean’s presence. Gratefulness should come easy, learning that Mikasa is finally able to let go of the love that bound her like a curse for so long, but Jean knows where this conversation is heading.
It’s unfair to Mikasa, but he can’t bear to hear her confession knowing he can’t give the love and care she deserves. Not now, when his heart is fixated on someone else he can never have. Maybe it’s even crueler of Jean to let her continue this train of thought, but he can’t bring himself to stop her anymore he can bring himself to listen. So he lets his consciousness float away from this moment, eyes trailing around the pub as Mikasa’s voice falls away.
In a secluded corner, he sees Armin and Annie stand laughing with a group of soldiers. Armin’s arms are snaking around her waist, and Jean can't take his eyes away from the familiarity in the motion as he sways with her gently back and forth.
He watches as Armin’s head dips down, a smile tugging at his lips as he whispers something into Annie’s ear. Her blue eyes go wide for a moment before she stomps on his foot with a scowl, only to make Armin’s grin widen as his arms wrap around her tighter.
A knot twists in Jean's gut.
The way Armin looks at her, so cruelly in love, is a savage reminder that Annie stole that from Jean. She took the one person who looked at him with the same adoration. Annie didn’t save Marco, and now there’s no one to love Jean the way Armin loves her.
Jean is suddenly furious at the thought. How can those soldiers stand next to her? How can Armin dance with her, and hold her like he dreams of a future with her? Like she is innocent? How can he live with himself, knowing that Annie was there when Marco died? That it was Annie who stripped Marco of his ODM gear, like stripping an angel of its wings, leaving Marco at the mercy of the monsters aching for his sweet flesh. Annie, who stood motionless when the Titan lowered Marco into its gaping jaw—Annie, who watched and did nothing as Marco cried and begged for her.
Bursts of light flash in front of Jean’s eyes in visions of bones splintering around severed tendons, blood spraying from burst vessels and mutilated organs as Marco’s thin body is split, ripped, crushed into fractions of himself. Jean can hear Marco’s screams reverberating in his skull as gore and pulp spews out from the Titan’s teeth, crying for Annie, Annie, Annie—
"Jean?" Mikasa asks, mouth pouting with worry, and it’s with a jolt that her voice rips Jean from his thoughts. “Where did you go?”
Grimly, Jean says, “I guess I’ve been remembering the past too, lately.”
Mikasa squeezes his forearm gently. “Can I guess what you’re thinking?” she asks, and Jean nods. “You don’t believe me. You think I still have feelings for Eren.”
His face falls. “Mikasa, that’s not…”
“It’s alright, I understand…When Eren died, I felt so lost. He planned it all to end that way, but I still couldn’t forgive myself, and I was too angry at him to move on.” A peaceful expression washes over her face, and for the first time Jean realizes she no longer looks like a soldier. “Now that I’ve forgiven myself, I learned how to let him go.”
“Mikasa, I’m so glad,” he says, gently clasping her shoulder. “You deserve to move on.”
At his earnestness, she smiles at him with shining eyes. “You’ve always been kind to me, Jean.” Her voice quivers as she says, “You’re right, too. After all this time, finally I…I’ve moved on, and I’m ready to start again. With you. "
This should be everything Jean has wanted since he was fifteen, only it pains him now, knowing his heart has changed. And Mikasa is looking at him so expectantly now, shamelessly believing nothing has changed since that day over ten years ago.
But it’s different now, and Jean can’t see her the way he used to. Her hair is cropped, and while her physique is undoubtedly a veteran's, it’s too soft, too feminine . There are curves where there should be corners, and a scar on her cheek where there should be a constellation of freckles.
Maybe if Mikasa looked more like Marco, Jean would think she is beautiful.
Jean is suddenly drawn to the feeling of Mikasa’s hand hesitantly slipping into his palm—careful, searching . It’s small and calloused and coarse and all wrong, everything about it. This whole situation is plain wrong, and Jean is sinking deeper into the sensation that he doesn’t belong here anymore.
Mikasa’s gray eyes are knowing as she stares, her cool gaze a scorching burn on Jean’s cheek. “I know you need space. Those years you spent at the farm…I knew you were coping alone, and it pained me. I’ll understand if you need time, but I can help you. I want to be with you. Together, we can—”
“I can’t,” Jean says quickly, ripping his hand from hers.
Mikasa frowns deeply, and Jean takes it as a cue to leave. He snags a bottle of wine from the bar, and hastily slaps an overly generous amount of coins on the counter. “I need to go, I promised my ma I’d bring her some cooking wine.”
If Mikasa senses the lie—and he knows she does—she doesn’t say a word. Still, Jean feels her eyes on his back as he says goodbye to Connie and the other soldiers before disappearing into the night.
(He pointedly does not talk to Armin or Annie before he goes.)
☽
The world is quiet when Jean makes it to Marco’s grave.
Sandwiched in-between a newly built house and old tavern, the inconspicuous alley is only marked as a burial site by the headstone jutting out from the dirt and the name Marco Bodt etched into the stone. The Wings of Freedom are drawn poorly below, nearly smoothed out from years of weathering.
Jean thinks it’s nothing short of a miracle that the grave survived the war, nevermind the city’s relentless restorations, though he supposes there exists a certain superstition about disrupting the dead. After all, not even the cruelest of men would dare disrespect a fallen soldier. Who knows what hell he would raise?
But Jean knows that grave is empty.
There are no bones at peace beneath the earth. No ashes are laid to rest under the city Jean and Marco had once sworn to protect. No, those had long since been swept away by the wind with the rest of their comrades—used as foundation for a bird’s nest, or maybe buried under the rubble like so many others. There's not even a Scout's insignia in memory of Marco's service, and the years he wasted fighting in a war they had barely begun to understand.
“It’s not a waste if we won,” Jean has to remind himself.
After all, today’s celebration is only proof that each loss has been meaningful in securing the freedom of future generations. Jean knows it, but the truth doesn’t sit well in his mouth because the truest fact of them all is that Marco never got to see the future. He could never meet people from other lands, see the real world outside of the walls, or live a life that wasn’t encompassed by fear and uncertainty.
The idea hurts Jean, so he tries to not think about it as he stares down at the headstone. Instead, he sets down his offerings—a sugary bun, some sliced meat, and the bottle of wine he stole from the party. It’s better food than Marco had eaten in his lifetime.
Jean carefully sits beside the gifts on the hard bed of dirt. It's a poor resting place for a soldier, but there was no better place during the war—only devastation and ruin, broken limbs jutting out from wreckage and smatterings of blood across uprooted city remains. This small patch of dirt was a slice of heaven in the madness, untouched by war and its prejudices.
Jean’s cheeks suddenly feel hot with memory. It’s like he’s been thrust into the past, reliving the anguish and feeling the pained tears streaming down his face as he searches for a flat stone. Using nothing but a broken shard of an ODM sword, Jean is feverishly carving Marco’s name into the stone before thrusting it into the dirt. His heart is hollow, only somewhat filled by hope that his actions would bring Marco peace.
Jean shakes the memory away as he uncorks the wine with a pop, tapping it to Marco's headstone before taking a swig. "Cheers," he says to the stone. "You'd like this imported shit. It’s way better than the expired stuff we'd sneak from Shadis's office back in the day.”
The mention of the past makes the wine go sour in Jean's mouth. He blinks back memories of hushed laughter and secretive touches against skin flushed from smuggled wine, swallowing the feeling of Marco’s lips on his.
Jean grimaces, no longer able to stand the taste, and begrudgingly empties the wine on Marco's grave. He figures Marco would like it better than he did, anyway.
Once the wine gets soaked up by the earth, Jean stares up at the sky. “Why can’t I get over you?” he asks, but the question is rhetorical. After all this time, all these years gone by, he is the only one of his friends yet to move on. He wants to hate them for it, but he understands what separates him from them.
Death was the closure to a life well lived.
Sasha lived wholeheartedly, and died surrounded by Connie and all their friends.
Mikasa said goodbye to Eren on her own terms.
But Marco? He died senselessly, betrayed by those he trusted and never to know the reason for his death. There was no mercy, no chance for Marco to learn why he was fighting. There was no closure for Marco, just as there is none for Jean now.
Maybe if he’d been strong enough to love him openly Jean wouldn’t be stagnantly frozen in time now, and Marco wouldn’t be a pile of ash somewhere.
“I guess we hid it pretty well,” Jean says to Marco’s grave. “All these years, and they still don’t realize…they don’t know how we—how you .”
How your eyes shone when you smiled, making my heart catch in my throat. How you would put a hand on my shoulder and take my worries away. How you gave living a reason worth fighting for.
How you loved me. How you changed me.
Jean says none of this, feeling the weight of the words left suspended in the air. He hangs his head low. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry," because it's all he can think to say.
Feeling a rush of regret and a squeeze in his chest, Jean lets his body fall back against the earth. It’s not comfortable, but it’s next to Marco, and that is enough for him.
Jean’s fingertips caress the headstone next to him as he stares into the night sky. The pollution is beginning to clear, and he can spot little clusters of stars peeking out from the clouds. It’s beautiful, and Jean is glad he buried Marco here. As the weight of the day washes over him and his eyes fall closed, Jean thinks that perhaps he’d like to be buried here someday, too.
Maybe it's the exhaustion or the wine, but Jean swears he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist as he falls asleep, and dreams of a freckled boy who presses warm kisses against the skin of his cheek.