Chapter Text
Jean’s hands shook in anticipation as he corrected his tie for what seemed like the thirtieth time, blowing a sigh at his inability to stay still when it counted. His feet swiped against the floor, softly recreating dance steps that he’d been preparing for a month.
Marco glances at the mirror where jean stands, fidgeting with the flimsy forestry green piece of fabric, tangling and untangling in between his fingers, his eyes glancing at his best friend’s figure in a scrutinizing amusement. “Dude,”
Jean’s ears were unaffected, no trace of recognition in his features and he continued with his useless fiddling. “Jean.” he tried again, taking a step towards him.
That seems to get his attention, honeyed eyes finding darker ones. Jean’s face is as readable as it could ever be - something marco found happened more often when his friend thought about you - despite his openly anxious demeanor, jean’s feet wouldn't stop moving against the invisible beat of a song that was sure to play out during his first dance with you. More than that, though, was the undisguisable excitement that flooded jean’s veins without control.
“Relax,” marco called out, sitting on the chair closest to the groom. There was still a good hour and a half to go until the ceremony began, giving jean’s fluttering heart more than enough time to stop beating so rampantly against the cage of his ribs. “You got this.” he said, slumping against the chair as jean finally stopped relentlessly attacking his tie. Without taking his eyes off the mirror, jean shook his head, confused at his own state. “Im not even scared. I’m actually feeling completely normal,”
Marco hummed; an encouragement to continue. Jean moved a single strand of hair that had escaped onto his forehead, pushing it back until it held into place. “I just… i dont know. I dont wanna mess this up.”
There was a short pause where jean could swear he could hear your laughter three rooms down the hall, bright and vibrant and bringing a hidden life to his chest again, his lips quirking up at the sound.
Marco breathed out a laugh too, “you’ve been ready for this ever since you first met her. I dont think you’ll mess it up.” he says it like its fact.
Because it is.
-
The day was not on jean’s side.
He should've known to carry an umbrella. He should've known to check the weather that day - but he really didnt want to blame his planning, or rather, his hopefulness - it had been bright and sunny all of freshman year summer break, the skies deciding to turn sour during the first week of college, as if the universe was waiting to give the students a cruel reminder of their reality.
Or maybe he was just stupid and too arrogant to admit it. Whatever the case was, he decided as he ran to his pre-planned destination, it wasnt his fault. Totally.
His phone screen getting dangerously close to drenched, he switched it off before swiftly stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans, dark splotches decorating its cuffs. His hands provided a useless shield against the pattering, his hair sticking to his forehead as he approached the diner - out of breath and disgustingly rained-on.
He braced his palms on his knees as he caught his breath under a sizeable shade that the red and white awning graciously provided. With his chest still expanding and contracting wildly, he lifted his head up, only then noticing a presence next to him.
Just like him, you were also catching your breath. Your hair was a little frizzy - from the looks of it because you had also gone through the rain - as you shook all the moisture away from it, doing the same with your clothes, though they seemed to be too far gone to save, just like him.
Similar darker splotches decorated your own clothes, a sense of camaraderie filling the air between the two of you, matching each other's actions unknowingly. And when you finally exchanged glances, a wordless acknowledgement, you both smiled with tight lips, the kind that were appropriate for a stranger that could have the potential to be a named face.
“Should’ve brought an umbrella, huh?” you commented, and he breathed out a polite laugh, surprised at your further interaction, but welcoming it with warmth nonetheless.
He nodded, same small smile gracing his lips, “yeah,”
You had held the door open for him then. He would later recount that he wanted to do that for you, but you took the opportunity before he could even see it. With one more adjustment to your hair, you were going to depart from your stranger, but your name rung out loudly against the semi-packed diner, bringing your attention to the girl that was waving an arm in the air to get your occupied attention.
“Here!” she exclaimed with a smile brighter than the summer ever could've been, and jean glanced at the interaction, connecting dots that were clear and visible to him. You were the girl that sasha was mentioning earlier; the one who had just moved into her and mikasa’s apartment, the one that baked banana bread on the first day and made the house smell heavenly against the downcast weather.
He didnt know how he could forget. Sasha - bless her heart, really, because she did this with everyone she met that was even remotely disconnected from her network - had shown him a picture of you that she had only just gotten after asking for your socials.
Your smile was soft in the picture, unlike the one you had shown him only moments before, jean realized, as you walked toward your room mate.
Right. That made sense. God, was his first impression on you going to be a guy who was both running late and unprepared enough to not grab an umbrella despite the warnings?
You sat down beside sasha, leaving the only available seat to be the one next to you against the corner of the leathered booth. Jean slipped in beside you.
It seemed like you had also connected the obviously visible dots. You welcomed him now with a smile that was more like the picture he was familiar with; easy and soft at the corners, small wrinkles apparent as a proof of all your years under the sun. your smile reminded him of a petal, he had decided - the shade of your lips reminding him of the one he had grown up with in his garden, a common pink calla lily that his mother had been particularly fond of.
He’d smiled back. You’d later note that you knew he’d been giving you one of his real, impolite and informal smiles because the corners of his eyes had crinkled. He wondered how you’d grown to know him this unabashedly, to be so close to his heart without being afraid of it’s monstrous thrums that soon only beat for you.
The night was beautiful. He wouldn't realize it in the moment - no, good things are never the ones that make themselves apparent - but your voice had carved itself into the notches of his spine. Not too deep yet, but the markings of a future etch were evident.
And he’d allow it.
You’d allow yourself to introduce yourself, mingling with him and his friends as an exchange student without much knowledge of Paradis. Connie had made a passing comment about Trost’s beautiful gardens, pointing to jean, to which you turned to his direction with sparkling eyes and a fry in your hand, forgotten to be devoured until after jean spoke. And he did, though stuttered, he somehow managed to string together a coherent enough sentence to validate your admiration, telling you about the same calla lilies in his mother’s backyard.
You didnt back down, taking the conversation head-first and asking him about any memories he’d had with his hometown that stuck out to him, which had gotten him to speak - almost a little too passionately - about him and marco and the other kids that werent in Shinghanshina university, about how he’d picked some flowers from the garden without his mothers knowledge to impress a schoolboy crush on a girl who’s name he couldnt even remember.
You had laughed and told him about the guy who you’d share your lunches with in kindergarten. You, like him, dont remember his name either, but would always remember the “who has the longest noodle in their lunch” competitions.
And for a moment, everyone else had been forgotten. With your own little secret conversation, jean found it easy to talk to you. Sitting close to you also meant hearing your muttered quips that went unheard by everyone else but him, which he’d validate with a small smirk or a breath of laughter.
No, Jean wouldn't mess this up. It was fact.