Chapter Text
“Dahm. This shit boring as hell.”
Jean mutters under his breath as he drags one foot in front of the other across the cracked sidewalk. He felt as if there were ball chains hooked up to his ankles. Oh, how he hated walking. He had his driver’s license after all. But no, the two idiots in front of him suggested walking would be good exercise and a perfect addition to discuss the ongoing project they had to work on together.
Maybe he shouldn’t have reminded himself about the project. Just the mere thought of it made him more pissed off than he was before. Which was shocking cause he really wanted to toss himself into the street right about now. Getting hit by a speeding car would probably be less painful than spending the last weeks of school doing homework.
This type of project just happened to be the type of schoolwork Jean hated the most. An English presentation. A group of three would be paired up and assigned the job of making multiple poems over the next two weeks, and the best one would be strung up in the hallway along with the other groups’ for the entire school to see. You even had to plaster the trio's names in BIG BOLD LETTERS, too. It wasn’t as difficult as he was making it out to be; it was just dreadfully boring and embarrassing, but the worst part about it all was who he was stuck with to do it. Honestly, Jean wished he could just do it alone, even if it meant more work for him.
Marco Bodt and Armin Arlert. Those were the other people in his group. Randomly assigned, of course. They were two of the most nerdy nerds on the whole damn planet. Or at least at Shingeki High. But in his eyes, they were the biggest losers he’d ever known. They were a duo of stereotypical nerds right out of the high school cliche handbook. Glasses, braces, button-ups, and book bags filled to the brim with textbooks and AP homework. And like usual, their voices felt like a cheese grater against his ears. Oh, how he wished he had brought his headphones to drown out their constant rambling. Country songs sound appealing right now, and every time he heard one, Jean was seething with rage, so this is how he knew he was off his rocker.
“Here we are, guys!” Marco cheered as the red, black, and white rectangular building came into view from across the street. It wasn’t exactly a new sight to Jean. This town only had very few dining locations after all.
Such a lot of enthusiasm for a stupid diner. Thought Jean only after rolling his eyes. But deep down, he couldn't deny that the place had a certain charm to it. It was your classic retro diner that was permanently stuck in the past, even if they had recently entered another millennium just a couple of years ago. Of course, there were modern touches, but the owner was a stubborn man and wanted to try to keep most of everything inside and outside 50s style. Sadly, that included keeping those piece-of-crap vinyl seats that felt like Jean was seated on a rock more than a nice booth bench. God, how he despised those seats with a burning passion. Hey, at least this place had killer sandwiches, though.
“Okay, so which booth do we want?” Armin turned to the other two before looking around the diner. Jean didn’t see Armin here often, especially with friends, so he guessed he was partially new to hosting a meet-up.
“Definitely a window booth! Good lighting gets the creative juices flowing.” Marco added back, taking Armin’s hand into his own, before searching for a booth himself.
“Please… Please don’t call it that.” Jean couldn't help but cringe at the term creative juices. Whoever made up that term really should rethink their speaking privileges. Jean wanted to strangle that person himself at this point since he was at that stage of boredom. It didn’t matter anyway; it was clear the two didn’t even hear him. They were too busy choosing their precious booth to care about Jean's constant complaints.
The next few minutes felt like a boring blur. Sitting down, ordering, and waiting for food. Those were the average steps to going to the diner. He had no idea where the persistent, non-stop chattering came in. People talked when hanging out, but not this much. He wanted his sandwich, and then he wanted out of here, even if it meant sneaking out. But he knew he couldn’t do that with the way they were seated. The trio sat in a circular booth, one of those uncomfortable ones placed in the corner of diners. Jean had quickly taken dibs on the middle since it meant he could spread his legs and arms, plus lie his head back, but immediately regretted it once he realized he was sandwiched between the two talkative brainiacs. Jean could never win.
It had been like his mental prayers were heard when his close buddy, but also the waiter, Niccolo, brought over their food and drinks. He was one of the only reasons, actually the only reason, Jean came here. He enjoyed their late-night chats when Niccolo was forced to close up shop. He sat by the bar and made sure to keep Niccolo awake with his sleep-deprived rants. Before he left, Jean made sure to tip him extra well in case Niccolo does happen to open that trattoria in the future. And also because he wanted to help the future chef treat his foodie girlfriend right.
Niccolo, with careful hands, removed each plate from the tray placed on his bicep, handing it to the respective customer. Armin had gotten an egg salad sandwich with a mango smoothie. Marco had gotten a club sandwich with an apple juice. Jean got a meatball sub with a Coca-Cola to drink. Niccolo quickly made his way to his next table, but made sure to give Jean a small smile and nod. It was both sincere and cocky at the same time. How dare Niccolo leave him to suffer and burn?
After receiving their orders, the three teens sink their teeth and feast on the sandwiches like animals. It was a little embarrassing to eat the sub the way Jean did. When Niccolo said to “dig in,” he didn’t mean to basically inhale the sandwich. What? Jean couldn’t help it. He was as hungry as a horse after all. Can the world let him eat his sandwich in peace without the other two looking at him like he shot somebody? He took their shocked expressions as a firm no.
However, it didn’t take long for the shock factor to wear off. Everybody got back to eating, and for once, there was silence among the boys. But Jean knew once they finished stuffing their faces, he was in for an earful about poetry, symbolism, and all that stupid, silly stuff.
“So, Jean, what do you think we should do? You’ve been quiet this entire time. You don’t expect me and Armin to do all this ourselves, do you?” Marco had asked with an awfully polite tone, he added a giggle as well, making the question seem like it should be taken as a joke. Even if the last sentence sounded like an insult, it sounded more sincere with how the saint boy’s voice sugarcoated it. Jean had no idea whether he should take it as a basic question or an insult. Second-guessing his thoughts was not his favourite thing in the world, that was for sure.
To the left of Jean, Armin took a deep draw of his smoothie, letting it make the slurping sound as the last remnants went up the tube. The blonde boy clearly is not on the same page as Jean, as Marco was, who was angelically naive. Unlike the boy on Jean’s right, Armin could only glare daggers and sit in silence if he was… analyzing Jean or something? What exactly was going on in that head underneath that ugly bob? To be honest, Jean didn’t want to know. Nerds are known to be a little special.
The awkward silence got boring after a while, so Jean decided it was time he answered Marco back.
“What exactly do you expect me to say?” Crossing his arms, Jean leaned back and stared at Armin. “I’m not exactly a pro at this poetry stuff. It’s simply short, silly sentences for fairies to express their emo fantasies, and they only get praised for it cause it's considered…” Jean paused and plastered a wide grin on his face. His fingers widened and imitated a popping gesture. “Art!”
The silence gave Jean enough to guess they clearly didn’t like what he said. But what did he care? He was right after all. He took enjoyment in chuckling at their annoyed expressions.
But the novelty wore off when there was no longer anybody looking at him. Not a single ounce of attention. The friends went back to talking as if Jean had never said a thing at all, or it was more like Jean didn’t even exist in their eyes. Was his little comment on poetry like a magic word to turn him invisible or something?
Whatever… Why would he even want their attention anyways? He was still going to get that good grade in the end, no matter what he did or said. All he had to do was lie back and wait. However, he couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed at the fact that he didn’t get the reaction he wanted. A little bit of anger would be nice.
Would ignoring them like he did before make them do something? Make them moody and pissed off? He hoped so. If he had to drag himself here to hang out with losers on a nice, sunny Saturday, he deserves to have at least a little fun.
So that’s what Jean did. He waited. He looked at some of the tacky 50s decor, smelled the awful, sickening smell of fryers in the kitchen, listened to retro music the jukebox was playing way too loud for his liking, but he had to admit it wasn’t too bad of a playlist. Everything was still as it was every time he came here… boring.
At least the two brainiacs seemed to be ignoring him now. They talked so fast it was hard to understand a word they were saying. Probably chattering about how to make their poems the most depressing shit ever written, Jean had guessed. It almost sounded like they were scheming and plotting which was the usual for their group. Every time they laughed, it felt like his ears were going to explode. Somebody just please take him home!
A hyperpop song blasted through the diner. Jean was lucky; it drowned out all the talking in the diner, including the nerds. Now he could finally relax, even if it meant forcing himself to listen to one of those overplayed songs that were only overplayed because of nostalgia.
Yet as he forced himself not to puke at the 8th repetition of the chorus, he found himself losing his previous stiffness and relaxing against the seat, spreading out his arms and laying his head down on the back of the booth. Jean could work with this and wait it out. Still a waste of a Saturday, though.
The vinyl seats of the bench were rock solid, unmoving and firm, so Jean began to question how he felt shuffling. That could only mean something, or someone was moving closer or farther from him. Maybe those outcasts were leaving? Yes! He screamed internally. He tilted his head forward to watch them leave in his glee. Finally, Jean wouldn’t have to deal with-
Jean froze. A shiver was creeping its way up his spine.
But even as he froze, he didn’t feel cold. He just felt a slight warmth against his cheeks. Two slight warmths to be exact. One underneath his eye and one closer to his jaw, but both directly placed on the pink spots on his cheeks that were flaming up with blush.
Before he could toss his head to the side to see what exactly happened, he let out a small gasp as the gentle suction of lips left his skin.
Had those two dorks… KISSED HIM?!
His stomach dropped and began to flutter with invisible butterflies. It had been like he was hit with a cartoon anvil. Jean tried desperately to pick his jaw up off the floor, but Marco did that for him with his palm, and Armin snapped him out of his shocked trance by whispering in his ear.
“Thank you fairy much for the nice lunch. You were such good company.”
“Wait- Wha-”
Jean sputtered and tried to grasp at anything to check if he was still in reality, but the geeky duo didn’t seem to care. They revelled in his panicked surprise.
They waved him a curt goodbye and shimmed their way out of the booth and out of the building with joy on their faces and a giddy sway in their hips.
“What just- Was that… real?”
“So you’re the one that’s gonna pay?” A voice from afar spoke, spooking Jean, making him jump out of his seat a little. His heart was racing too fast for this.
“Shut up, Niku! I ain’t paying.” Jean spouted back at the waiter cleaning the glasses at the bar. “They were supposed-” Slumping his shoulders, Jean had realized there was only the bill, and Jean was seated at the table now. “Shit…”
As he plucked the long paper in between his fingers, he noticed there was scribbled writing plus a drawing of a smiley face and thumbs up in a bright blue pen on the back. It said: Meet us at the westside grove after moonrise. We’ll make up for lunch then. - M+A
“Well? What’s it say?” Said Niccolo, scaring Jean yet again, but this time the waiter was much closer and leaning over the table.
“Nothing!” Jean shouts defensively. “Nerdy bullshit. Math equations and stuff…” Darting his eyes between his friend and the bill, Jean couldn’t help but turn bright red, trying his best to make himself small, almost crawling underneath the table to do it.
“Sureeeeee,” Niccolo rolls his eyes before focusing on cleaning the plates. “Whatever you say, Jeanboy. Now hand me the cash before I kick you out on your butt.”
Three crumpled bills of cash, plus an extra tip, are placed in Niccolo's open greedy palm before he dares to allow Jean to wiggle his way out of the booth.
As Jean strolled out of the diner with a stomp in every step, he heard Niccolo shout to him.
“Maybe they’ll do it again if you ask nicely. Might even get you an A+ in their textbooks.”
“Oh, shut up!” And with that final call out, Jean left, slamming the door shut behind him. He didn’t know what he should be embarrassed about, honestly. Everything felt odd inside, out of place like a puzzle. To his surprise, the rage didn’t bubble up like he thought it would. It just simmered in his chest, letting his body feel a heat that he’d never felt before.
What was up with those two nerds? And why did he want to meet up with them again? See them again? Maybe he’d find out why eventually. Maybe he’d go. Maybe he’d see them at moonrise at the westside grove. But that’s just a big, fat maybe.