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It hasn't been a great year, no.
That's the thought that's been settling in your gut for a while now, and the solo cup of jungle juice in your hand is the only thing that can wash it down. Maybe for a good two hours, if you're lucky. You swallow it in a burning second, grimacing as Connie whoops you on from across the kitchen. He promptly trips over something on the way to Sasha's call.
Besides the craziness of the world developing every second, your own, insignificant life unravels and comes to an unideal swoop. It's the final day of December, and so far, you've been stuck at the same minimum wage job at the campus cafe for nearly three years, smelling of old milk and grinds a few times a week, you've failed half of your classes, thus being put on academic pause for the following semester, and that leaves you with a mental state you could only hope to afford to address with actual help. So much for the free university counselling, a courtesy reserved only for actively enrolled students.
But "everyone loves a good party!" is what Sasha managed to coerce you outside with, so you're here, now in some expensive inner-city suite that Eren so graciously covered for the night, at the party—really, a small get-together—that everyone loves. Maybe you don't love it, but you know that ultimately, you shouldn't isolate yourself.
A warm presence draws near in his typical form: long legs, a stubble he hasn't shaved in a few weeks due to the biting temperature, and his favourite corduroy jacket. "Hey," Jean says your name over the music, reaching to give you a loose squeeze before mixing himself some Coke and cheap whiskey. "Let's pace ourselves, yeah?"
"This is only my second—" Your nose scrunches, but his smile interrupts you, "Chill, I just worry. You look like it's last call."
You throw him another face, but not without gulping down another self-conscious ounce. He takes this non-verbal response with caution, glancing over his shoulder sheepishly. "I… I was kidding," he slides close, standing a respectable foot beside you.
It's after two seconds that you decide to give him a deadpanned look and a sly smile, "Chill," you nudge your elbow against him, averting your gaze from the gooey surveillance of his kind, concerned eyes. "I'm just tired, s'all."
This doesn't relieve Jean much, but he just nods and takes a sip of his own drink. He's quick to speak again, "Let's check out the balcony," And like that, his hand finds yours and leads you through the suite.
It's hard to tell how much Jean means to you. He's definitely a friend, much like you would define the others here, but he's also funny and annoying, but in an endearing way that makes him the only one to be able to put up with your frequency of ironic humour and sharp jabs. He's also the one who's been able to pry you naturally out of your reserved nature, with good timing, active listening, and a compassionate presence. You can seldom understand your own downs and how to let people in at all, but he's lowered your walls little by little since meeting in first year, by taking his time to understand you. And when he doesn't, he's still there, lending space, an ear, an embrace, an ice cream run in the middle of the night. Like a quaint yet strong tree, you suppose, growing slowly over the months. Ugh, the jungle juice is making your head weird and now your hand is all clammy.
The gust of wind that greets you as the door slides open is enough to make you grumble, but it settles back down your throat when you see the view of Mitras on New Year's Eve. It's impressive, and you make sure to give Eren a sincere thank you in the form of some hangover cure in the morning. You let go of Jean's palm and peer down, hands resting on the rails. The buildings and streets below are sprinkled and splattered in light and busy channels of bodies that move excitedly to secure a spot for the fireworks. They look so tiny, you briefly smile to yourself, and you mentally recall that time Armin got high and started talking about sonder.
When Jean sees your rare, soft expression, he blinks before looking down at the view, just in time for you to miss his gaze. He clears his throat, "So, how are you?" And you respond not a second later, "Cold as balls," shaking your head with a huff as you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself.
Subsequently, you feel a heavy fabric covering your shoulders. You look to him in his jacket-less glory, and he just leans his elbows onto the rail as well, tips of his ears and nose red with a charmingly feigned nonchalance, neck and shoulders somehow stiff and not entirely still. With your tongue in your cheek, you press against him for body warmth, or something like that. He doesn't respond, inhaling deeply.
"I meant, how are you," Jean flatly huffs, then decides to indulge himself one more look at the brightness from below, bathing your cheeks gently. "I know you've been, like… eh, the past few months."
If only it were a mere few months. You hold your tongue, just for this moment. He's trying to ease into it, and so shall you.
The questions roll on your shoulders and tongue, seemingly heavier than this merciful moment of celebration and reflection and joy would warrant, but you don't think you can run away from this one. Especially if Jean is the one asking, the one who wears his heart on his sleeve, who regularly demonstrates to you that there's strength in honesty and vulnerability. He sees past the smoke, mirrors, and emotionally constipated bullshit, so it's the only conclusion you see yourself choosing, albeit deeply uncomfortable.
Sighing, you say, "I'm fine. I'm here, and… I'm glad to be." It's not a total lie, you believe, a swipe of gratitude in your quiet despondence. Jean knows this, but he knows there's more you're holding back, and it'd be healthy to get it out before the clock strikes midnight.
Jean takes a short swig. "How are you feeling? Got any goals, or… plans, or that sort of thing?" He puts on a trying smile, and when you turn to see it, it's unfair. It's unfair that someone as normal and well-adjusted and spirited as he can expect something simple and substantial from you. He knows, witnesses, all about your unsavoury periods of self-isolation, self-neglect, and self-hatred, and still has the capacity to look at you like that.
A shrug from you despite the tense sensation of unfolding beneath your chest, "Maybe, finally, pick away at the mountain of books y'all got for me. Start drinking water regularly. Be nicer to people," you answer in a loose murmur, taking a last gulp of your drink.
"And be nicer to yourself," He swiftly tacks on with a raise of his brow, to which you let out a quiet sigh of mock irritation. You pivot and ask him the same thing, and he answers with a thoughtful ease, "Go on more runs, become a Strava guy. Drink less coffee. Visit my mom more," his arms fold over themselves over the railing, his free hand drumming his fingers in rapid silence over his arm's crook. "And… maybe put myself out there again. Wouldn't hurt. Taking someone out to dinner once in a while, and whatnot."
There's a furrow between your brows that comes unbidden, and you will it away. "Cool," you nod, the red solo cup feeling a tad more malleable than you realised. It's not a big deal, and you refuse to make it any other-sized deal. Why shouldn't he sought out someone special? He's a good guy. It's a shock that he already doesn't have someone to enter the new year with tonight. As a matter of fact, you wonder why he wasn't in the dating scene this year. Or the year before that… "You deserve that. More than anyone," you mutter while a particularly strong gust of wind kisses each of your faces for a good few seconds, a harsh whoosh.
Jean catches it, though, and bites his lip. "So do you," he returns, looking to you undeterred, like it's the easiest thing on the planet to say. You give in to the urge to shake your head, shoulders rising an inch closer to your neck.
"Sure. Whatever," you exhale with the beginnings of a scowl, but he visibly won't have it, the corners of his lips dropping slightly.
"No, not whatever," he sighs, beckoning your gaze with a mutter of your name, "You also deserve to—to… y'know," his thoughts and feelings struggle to thaw completely into coherence as he stands before you in the cold, doing everything in his power not to lecture you or feed you motivational fluff on the last day of the year. It's a miracle he hasn't dropped his drink yet.
Your head tilts, and against your better judgment, your throat thickens with defence. "What? I deserve to what?" The defence warbles into something unpredictable, something you can't name, the words coming out in a shaky tone you hate to hear from yourself. "As if anyone would want a mess like me. I can't even take care of myself, let alone be able to take care of a whole other person… no one would want to be with someone this boring, this aimless, th—this… this empty." You did not want to be this candid tonight, but here you are, eyes flitting skywards so the cold doesn't make them all watery.
Jean scoffs, "That's not what I meant, I…" With his posture sinking with incoming exasperation, he stubbornly forces it away with a final swig of his drink. "You… you deserve to be happy. Be it with someone special or finding your own way, you deserve to be happy. And you're not fucking empty, okay? You're cool, you're smart, and you're capable; you just need to believe it."
Your body, mind, and spirit are not willing to receive such words, but his voice pierces through you, anyway. You could almost blurt out something to unsuccessfully shift the energy to be more lighthearted, an ironic comment to keep your pride holding out a little longer. You could look away to cover yourself from being seen on the verge of sparse tears, you could do anything to not see how much patience he has for you—
"Only ten minutes to midnight," Mikasa announces curtly from the door like a shadow, making both of you start for a split second as you whip your head in her direction. She slides the door back closed just as soon as she arrived.
There's a limbo that hangs above you two now, sitting atop your chests and shoulders and fidgeting hands. Only one awkward tear rolls down the side of your cheek, so you look towards the city so he can't see it.
You know there's a genuine conversation to be had with him about where you're truly at, most preferably, when you're not planning to drink more jungle juice as soon as the fireworks go off. No matter how many times you keep thrashing out to not face the process of taking steps to better yourself for once in your life, to embark on the reality that you owe it to yourself to try and try and fail, then get up and try again, to actually live in a world where your life can be good, not because you did anything of merit to deserve it, but simply because you exist as a person…
You need to start somewhere.
Jean sighs and runs a hand down his face before you can say anything. "Sorry, I… I didn't mean to get so preachy," he bashfully concedes, if not, with a ghost of a defeated frown. Besides the fact that he truly cares and lives by the principle of being straightforward, he takes a second to wonder about his tact in going about these things. You shake your head, the answer right beside you.
"No, no need," you gulp quietly, pressing your arm against his, head lolling onto him below his shoulder. "You're right. I… I needed that."
The words seal the tension and loosely tie it into a fragile bow, but nevertheless, Jean gets the signal, and all is good and not at all stilted between you two right before the damn year ends. With that, his arm lifts, pauses in the air, then settles across your shoulders in a gentle hold. You burrow a bit closer—not too close, but just enough. Enough to tilt your head to his, and let your forehead rest against his jaw. "Thanks," you whisper, closing your eyes.
He tries not to take too obvious a peek down below, since he knows his heart would start rapping harshly beneath his ribcage in total helplessness, the urge to embrace you entirely growing stronger than he'd like to admit. But Jean knows to hold back, just for the next few minutes. You can only handle so much between being emotionally bare and physically affectionate, so this is the most he can do.
Even up to the very count down, the gaggle of your friends now joining you on the cramped balcony, you remain close to him. Your third drink in hand, you watch the first force of gunpowder, light, and new beginnings shoot high into the darkness, and decide to turn towards Jean again. It's by the time "one" is ceremoniously yelled that you lean up to kiss his cheek for a good few beats, to which you feel his skin heat up against your lips.
"Happy New Year!"
And what else can he do but chase it back with his own kiss to your temple, laced with promise and faith?