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there's always been this distance between you and jean.
you suppose its always been there. Since the start of your university, you and jean were never keen on placing a bond between the two of you, of creating something nameable or worth wanting.
The distance is almost jarring in certain moments. You notice it when you coincidentally hop on the same train as him. the coach is packed with people, formal wear stained with summer sweat and city air, the floors creaking beneath the weight of everything. neither of you say anything at first - like a pre-choreographed dance, you both exchange nods of acknowledgement with tight lipped smiles, squished on the opposite side of the railing, both of your hands grabbing onto the same pole that dances with you, shaking awkwardly and tilting with the train's movements. there's a silence, the same sweaty, stiff air becoming abundantly apparent as the two of your find any excuse to not look at each other.
you don't know him that well. he's come to your apartment numerous times in favor of your roommate, but neither of you talk; enough to remain polite acquaintances but not enough to speak meaningfully, usually just about classes and the weather. You run through a list of questions in your head, not knowing what an appropriate one would be, and when you finally open your mouth to speak, his mouth opens too.
“So how was-”
“I didn't know you-” the two of you speak, your voices almost lost with the travelling echo of the underground subway and the creaking of the coaches. You both look at each other before a smile breaks through your lips.
“You go first,” you offer. Jean is kind enough to not argue, and states, “i didn't know took this train. We should've bumped into each other sooner.”
The sentence sounds a little clunky, like its been dropped on its head. You nod, “yeah. I usually leave an hour before this, so that's…probably why. My classes ran late today,” you say, concealing the detail that you want to clarify but not knowing if you've already spoken enough or too much, or maybe too little. If this were sasha or connie or any of your classmates that you’ve grown accustomed to, you'd tell them that this new professor was actually pretty friendly - an old guy that looked like a wizard - and that the reason you stayed back was because he was telling everyone about how he grew his beard out at the age of seventeen because he hated the fact that his father told him “you’ll never get a job if you don't shave.”, and that he gave the lingering few of you some anecdotes that you later hastily noted down in your notebook, the type of advice that only comes with growing up in the industry.
But you don't speak. Instead, you turn the question to him, knowing that those are the rules of keeping new friends - because stranger would be too harsh of a word to call him - at a distance. “You take this train often?”
He hums in affirmation. “I try to catch an earlier one so i can get a seat,” you have a feeling that he’s also concealing information, that he’d like to speak more but is also afraid. Or maybe you’re just projecting.
There’s a considerable gap in your poorly drawn-out conversation. You don't know why you're hesitating so much, why this script doesn't come easily to you as it does with sasha. part of you knows its because you haven't spent enough time with the guy, but another part of you argues that you know him better than you know eren or armin with how much time he spends in your apartment. You clear your throat, giving an experimental statement a try.
“So our creative writing professor got fired last semester,” you speak, unsure of what it is exactly that you’re trying to prove. His eyebrows lifted up, and the hand that was directing itself to his back pocket to pull out his phone paused mid-way. He tilted his head, wordlessly asking you to continue, and you jump to the chance.
The distance remains. All the way back to your home - he insisted to walk you, “i want to know what happened next,” he had defended when you said he was being too much of a gentleman - there was a gap between the two of you. Your feet fall in unsynchronized beats, two sets far apart from one another, distanced even in the realm of sound. Neither of you tries to change it, not wanting to match each others pace; fearing it would be too gentle too soon, too soothing too fast.
when the door of your apartment closes, however, there's no mistaking it. Sashas voice greets you from the kitchen but your feet still try to trace his stance, hoping to walk with him soon.
he sits in front of you next.
it's been a couple months. many months, but you don't keep count. its cold enough to almost snow now, by the space between you and jean remains the same.
there's a dingy little diner next to your college campus - far away enough to not bump into someone you know and make it awkward, but near enough to walk - to which your little haven has visited far too many times after far too many occasions. the tables are marbled, menus worn; the type of place you have to go to the counter to order something, the type of place that gives you a discount if you speak the same language as the person behind the counter.
your faces are too familiar there. you suppose that's a good thing as Connie and sasha argue about the game on connie’s brand new phone, marco snoozing on the table with his hands crossed under his chin for cushioning. Armin, eren and Mikasa had gone to their hometown to visit erens mother for the long weekend, which left only you and jean coherent and awake at the table, waiting for food.
your knees almost touched. you tried to keep yours tucked to yourself. jean looked at you with his arms on the table after sliding the menu shut, an unknown familiarity in his eyes that you hadn't seen directed towards you before; the making of something you didn't dare naming. too gentle too soon.
“so….is the new creative writing professor doing his job well?” he asks. there's music in the back, some old tune you don't fully recognize, and despite the cold, reflective marble separating you from him, he allows his voice to create your own world in the center of it all. the collision of two worlds, the making of something alive and different and familiar all the same without an explosion to sound it's entrance, rather marking itself with a low, comforting hum. you realize it's your own, as your voice traps itself under your smile.
you wonder if he feels it, for a moment. your hands trace the shining white streaks contrasting the dark smooth surface of the table, and you tell him, “very well, actually. what about your Theory of Structures guy?”
he scoffs. “guys a fucking dork. he talks about astrology in his lectures as if-” he makes air-quotes around his words, “‘-aligning our chakras’ is going to teach us how to build a good foundation.”
you breathe out a laugh. “maybe he's on to something.”
“really?” he asks, teasing, relaxing his back against the faux leather of the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. the world between you stretches to accommodate the wider space between you, rotating and evolving all the same. “how so?”
you shrug, leaning forward. the world does the same. “you can't build something without making sure mercury isn't in retrograde,”
“the drink?” Sasha says, momentarily losing interest from connie's screen.
neither of you explains. her eyes quickly avert themselves to temple run again, claiming, “it was my turn you fuck!”
“no, this time he called on one of the girls in class and asked her what her birth date was. and then asked for the time of her birth too, but then she told him that he has to be a…. leo? to be acting the way he is? I honestly don't know, but everyone laughed anyway. it shut him up.” he says, a smile lingering on his face as he leaned back into the table.
“I don't really understand any of it.”
“yeah, me neither. All i know is that im an Aries.”
“What does that even mean? For you, i mean.”
He pauses. “ i don't really know.”
“Hold on,” you say, pulling out your phone from your pocket, “we have the infinite power of google in our hands-”
“I fucking hate their AI shit,”
“-me too….okay, aries. It says your element is fire.”
“Is that good?” he asks, and you smile at the fact that he suddenly sounds a little nervous. Too curious. You shrug with the same smile, reading further.
“As the first sign in the zodiac, the presence of Aries always marks the beginning of something energetic and turbulent. They are continuously looking for dynamic, speed and competition, always being the first in everything - from work to social gatherings. Okay, zodiac sign dot com.”
He laughs, covering his mouth with a loose fist. “Alright, at least its not insulting me.”
“Wait! Biggest flaws… 'Aries’ fiery passion is often a positive trait, but it can turn into anger or competitiveness. Competition is not a bad thing — this can be the fire that fuels a great project or a new career move, but avoid getting unnecessarily competitive’” you look up from your screen to see his expression shift.
“Bullshit. They're trying to sugar coat it too,”
“I.. jean, i think this is scarily accurate.”
“Huh?!” he exclaims, leaning in further, trying to catch a glimpse of the letters on your phone.
Your smile grows, cheeks pushing into the corners of your eyes. “I mean, I've never seen you get more passionate than when you and marco were playing uno,”
“Uno literally requires you to be competitive!”
“You sulked for half an hour when he beat you-” you point out.
“I wasn't sulking, i was…. thinking of a game plan for next time.”
“Sure. next time you’re gonna, what, shove the cards up your ass when no-one's looking?” you ask, your right hand pushing itself forward slightly, bumping into his hand. It’s warm. Your fingertips shock themselves with the surprise, jutting themselves back.
“Get out of my head,” he grumbles. His hand remains in the same spot, and he rests his chin on the palm of the other one.
“Your fries,” the server says, breaking you out of whatever had pulled you to spill parts of yourself so easily with jean. Even though you hadn't outwardly said anything too revealing too soon, the ease of conversation flowed through the two of you without hesitation, an act that was rare for you.
The server sets down the rest of the orders, connie and sasha digging in almost immediately. You and jean manage to poke marco awake, making him eat something before knocking out again out of sheer exhaustion.
You always knew distance was easy.
Sasha had a new walking companion. Atleast, for now. Nicolo walked with her as her hand lay comfortably in his. He was speaking about some song he’d heard and about how it felt like home, with sasha listening contently, matching the pace of his walk.
Marco and armin were right behind her, a couple steps away. You could hear them talk about a manga leak for their favorite series, how the author was “out of his mind” for introducing a new character so deep into the series, and marco’s hands gestured wildly in front of him to drive his point home, armin nodding at every move.
You and jean - somehow this became normal - fell into step behind them. January air nipped at your nose, the scent of a new year, and consequently, growing up almost suffocating you with its realization. Only one more year of college left, one more year of certainty, one more year of free learning without real consequences. Youve let yourself rot behind the walls that you made for yourself for a long time, and the arrival of your twenties brought about the arrival of the realization to be vulnerable without forcing regrets upon yourself. When else would you be able to be selfish? When you're old enough to no longer be able to count the number of greys in your hair? Or maybe it was the newness of it all, the turning of the clock making you question every time you kept silently to yourself, too afraid too soon.
“Any resolutions, horse-boy?” you asked, turning your head to look at him. The slope of his nose wrinkled at the sound of the nickname, making you almost laugh with selfish amusement.
“To not be called that fucking nickname.”
“I dont think you have any control over that, unfortunately,” you said, a bit too satisfied. Jean gulped. His strides were a bit longer than yours, mismatched from your own.
“Dont seem too happy about that.” he remarked, turning his own face to you. You could see his scowl that was stained with his smile, giving away his softness, wearing his heart on his worn-out sleeve.
You realized this also - there was no need for you to be intimidated by jean. Winter was thick and heavy as the group of you trudged through it, in need of alcohol to warm you up and excusing it as celebration. The space between the two of you still remained, but it was easier to ignore the more you walked.
“Dont tell me what to do,” you bit back.
He shook his head, rolling his eyes, pretending to be fed up. If he really was, you knew he wouldn't hesitate to walk away from you, to stop talking to you entirely, but he didn't. A testament to his character, he kept walking by your side, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Fuck off.”
“Telling me what to do again-”
“-well, someone has to.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You don't wanna run your mouth and get yourself in trouble, do you?”
“No, but you're not going to give me trouble. Are you?” you ask. Its almost tender - trust that colors your voice, a sort of knowing that isn't given a name by either of you for fear of it being too soon.
“You never know.” he says, but he’s losing his conviction. You both know it as you laugh and shake your head.
“You didnt answer my question.” you say, softly, turning the conversation on it’s heels.
He takes a moment to answer.
“Call my mom more.” he breathes out, as if it’s been weighing on him. His voice grows a little quiet, the confession being too important to mingle with the rest of the conversation that was taking place all around you.
You hum, just as quiet. Its enough of an agreement, prodding him to continue. “I… when i went back home during the holidays, i realized just how much everything had changed. She’s seeing someone. He's a good guy. He asked me… well, he wants to marry her. He asked me if that was alright.”
You nod slowly, saying nothing. Youre good with words; you speak your mind when you feel necessary, knowing your passion needs a voice, sentences that could make your feelings far more tangible than theyd be if they remained in your head, a trait the two of you had in common, too similar, too far. You know what words to use and when, but you also know when to let them lie in between your throat and your lips. You keep looking at him, however, letting your body do the rest of the speaking.
He glances at you from where his eyes had taken interest at his feet. “I said yes. I mean, they’re grown adults. My mom knows what she’s doing and i trust her judgement. But… i don't know, the thought of everything happening so fast made me realize i haven't been with her in a while. Id like to be her friend again, not just her annoying son.”
There's a brief silence again. Connie laughs from somewhere up ahead, and you bump your shoulder with jean’s in silent comforting. “Good resolution,” you finally say. You know - or rather, bravely assume - that he doesn't need you to patronize him by calling him brave, by saying he’s a good son, by telling him that growing up is scary but exciting or any of the nonsense you're sure would be viable in this situation.
“And,” he says, licking his lips against the cool, looking at you with an unreadable expression - your brave assumptions going astray - “to be open to new experiences.”
Your footsteps sync. Boots against pavement matching with thick sneakers, even and matching.
You hum in agreement, nodding happily, slowly.
“What are yours?” he asks, fixing his gaze ahead again.
“To not be afraid of doing something different.” you say easily. The truth has been running rampant in your head, you've been too scared to do anything of much importance to you. Jean nods, a movement you can see from the corner of your eye, and you take it as a sign to continue. His shoulder is warm against yours. There's familiarity every time they brush, your world beating and alive.
“I've been too… hesitant in doing things that need courage. Like, i kinda grew up in my own shell, building walls where they weren't really needed, you know? I dont know, i figured… there's no harm. I'm not hurting anyone.” you say, shrugging. “Fuck around, find out.”
He breathes out a laugh, eyes crinkling at their sides, his face turned to look at you. Distance was always second nature to you, to keep everything at arms length meant comfort, meant reassurance of never being too hurt, too fast.
But - and you named this because of your brave assumptions - the soft, kind warmth that jean showed you was worth so much more than that, a regret you knew would never form even if you wanted it to.
“Fuck around find out.” he spoke, confirming your eloquent statement.
You begin questioning what distance ever meant.
Your shoulder sagged down from the weight of your bag, only having the energy to wear one strap. Your hands stuffed themselves comfortably into the pockets of your coat, playing with a ball of lint in it, the movement being the only thing occupying your mind that seemed to be shouting at you only a minute ago as you placed one step in front of the other. Your eyes were locked below, scrutinizing every sound that your boots made against the uneven pavement, grass growing in-between the cracks of the sidewalk that you were too unbothered to step over. Your slow blinks stirred an unsettling burning behind your lids.
You were tired.
The walk from campus to the subway was short when you had your friends with you. You could almost soothe yourself with the thought; the wish of having sasha beside you, having your hand laced with hers as you crossed the road, knowing she wouldn't check the road to walk further, having connie by your side as he explained some part of his day in great detail to the both of you. Neither of them accompany you now.
Sasha lies on the couch, chewing on her bottom lip, knowing she wont be able to submit the assignment before the timer is up, connie finishing up his shift at the local mart.
You reach the crosswalk alone. Curse yourself for having forgotten your headphones at home. Your fingers, having lost the lint in the deeper crevice of your pocket, now focus on worrying onto themselves, nails digging into the other’s beds. Despite there being no cars on the road, your legs refuse to cross the street, staring at the green pedestrian walking sign in front of you. You had four meetings today, almost back to back, and college admin had refused to give your club any funds to function further, leaving the rest up to yourself to decide. To top it all off, you had only finished about two thirds of the submission that was due tonight, the weight of knowing you’d only be greeted to more work when you reached home far heavier than the day that had occurred before that.
Your name was called out behind you, too softly, too warm.
You turned. Jean stood, with his own hands in his pockets, a beanie covering his hair, protecting his ears from the biting cold of the snowfall.
“What are you… it’s late,” he says. City lights are awake behind him, some golden and some blinding white, fading into each other, blurring your vision and creating a silhouette against him, framing his form in pure light.
He stepped towards you. You stood silent as he stopped a couple inches away from you. His eyebrows were scrunched together, and you would've named the action as worried, but you didn't. Afraid of it being too knowing too soon.
What was soon, anyway? You questioned the time. Ten pm on a weekday was really late for you to be out in the now-gathering snow, and knowing jean for six months was not soon. The time seemed to drag on as he opened and closed his mouth ineffectively.
Neither of you could count on the words you so heavily used; him for his headstrongness, and you for your ambitions, both of you wanting to prove yourselves competent by using words against argument, against judgement. Being too similar, too close. But those same words failed you two now, where gentleness was needed rather than teasing. Where you had to tell him of your exhaustion, where he had to soothe you out of it.
The world between you almost stopped on its axis, unsure. The green light blinked red. Snow kept falling. A beat passed where nothing but everything moved, the space between you obvious and breathing alive.
Fuck it.
His hands freed itself from his pocket, pulling off his forest-green beanie from his head. His eyes remained trained on you, soft and knowing and warm, so warm, brows doing that gentle thing where they twitched upwards a bit and showing tenderness you had never known about. With the same gap between your feet - your scuffed boots and his worn-out converse - he fixed his beanie on your head.
The world between you spun it’s easy rotation, squeezing itself against both of you. Jean wondered if this was enough. If you could hear his thoughts, if you could find the words he’d lost a while ago, searching for something better than himself.
But your head bumped into his chest, shoulders relaxing, letting yourself fall into him a little. Your eyes closed, breathing even. The light behind you blinked back to green again, and jean’s hands circled your frame, chin tucking itself over your head. His heart stuttered as he breathed, his exhale creating a cloud of warmth.
words didn't need him. world leapt through the space - now too narrow - and away from your bodies, and your minute reactions felt too important, too strong. jean had to remember to breathe, because if he forgot, he knew - and he presumed this bravely - that you'd forget too. in and out, the soft waft of air from his nose and the loud beating of his heart in his ears became the only proof of his existence as his hands rested against your back.
he'd be happy just like this. holding onto you, doing good on his new year's resolution even in the midst of February, arms open to new experiences. arms open for you.
City lights made everything blurry around the edges. glowing orbs of headlights whizzed by the two of you countless times. when you pulled apart, there were no tears in your eyes, your shoulders felt a little more relaxed, you walls crumpled without regret. distance restoring itself anew, knowing too little, too late, that distance never meant anything when it was just the two of you.
your couch was a small space.
you realized this months ago, when you first moved in. most of your friends’ knees bumped against yours and sasha had settled on laying her legs on your thighs completely.
even now, as you sat with just jean sitting on the opposite end, resting his back against the cushioned armrest and reading a book that he'd selected from your bookshelf, you realized the space was too tiny.
your thighs were covered by a fuzzy blanket. his arms held a pillow under the book that you had filled with notes and annotations that you couldn't help but now be too aware of, but you didn't mind. the awareness only brought comfort, knowing jean would read your little quips in the columns and understand their blatant meanings.
forgotten coffee on the table beside you rested alongside the similarly forgotten music playing from your phone. a book of your own sat resting on your lap, your legs outstretched, copying jean’s stance, toes touching each others.
there's still distance. the same space. between the two of you - always just the two of you - there lay the same silence that created its own world, a low hum without any explosion or grandiose marking, just simple recognition.
your book settled close. you made no effort to mark it with anything, knowing that you had just started. your head rested against the backrest of the couch that was covered with a poorly crocheted blanket made up of different granny squares that you couldn't quite get right, taking a moment.
you're not sure how long you stare at him. blinking slowly, soft against your own eyes, as if your eyelids decided, now, suddenly, after twenty years of life, that they'd be more gentle on you if you would allow them to look at him without restraint.
the middle of his brow was crinkled with focus, something you knew, a little too soon, that he did a lot. his lips were parted by a milimeter or two, and you could see a little bit of the white of his teeth peeking out from them. his jaw was snapped shut, but he wasn't grinding his teeth like he usually did when he was sitting idle. you wondered why that was. what changed? why? his cheeks were tinted a slight warmth under the glow of the lamp beside him, yellow laying on his own flesh. one of his fingers was stuck between the page he was currently reading and the rest of the book, in preparation to turn it, eager to know. he was only a couple pages in, but still completely hooked, and you realized, too little too late, that he was more engrossed in your scribblings than the carefully written and precariously edited contents of the page.
he caught you staring right as he was about to turn the page. you figured this was it - that he'd smirk and tease and ask if you found his face handsome, and that you'd have to deflect and throw insults at him till his ego shit back down to the couch you sat on. but he did no such thing. surprising you, he set the book down and looked right back at you, blinking.
the corner of his lips lifted slightly, fighting against themselves.
“what's up?” he asked.
you shook your head, resting it on the fist that you had made of your hand, your elbow resting on the back cushions. your socked feet played an unnamed tune on his, and he didn't seem to mind.
distance spread the two of you apart. despite that, however, you still chose to be close without hesitation.
neither of you say anything. music plays regardless, the world spins slowly, and the coffee sits on your table, getting colder. nothing changes. everything does, too much, too soft.
“do…. are you freaked out by it too?” he asks, uncharacteristically shy, looking almost past you.
“a little.” you say. you both know what you're speaking of, afraid of naming this closeness without ruining it.
“I’m… I've never….” he says, trailing off. closing his eyes, he shakes his head in frustration, wanting to give up but knowing he won't.
“jean,” you say. his name is distant, but he knows it's his because you say it with familiarity that shakes his bones.
he says your name just the same. his eyes don't leave yours and he thinks of how he has to do this, how he has to put a word to this before it takes him by the throat and threatens to drown him completely until he's unable to talk about anything, losing his voice.
fuck around find out. be open to new experiences.
“fuck, I think I'm in love with you.” he says. it's all in one breath, now in the space between you, floating in the air before crushing itself with its weight. the cushion does nothing to support it's fall, but your voice catches it just in time.
“Im in love with you too.” you say.
there they are, the words you know to speak, now against each other, between the distance that you created. there's no kiss, no closeness but the intimacy that your words themselves create without any intervention of your bodies.
the kissing can come later.
for now, you're content with this. his toes against yours, his smile - soft, tender, warm and sweet - ever-present.
the world spins. coffees are getting cold. music keeps playing.
you're in love with jean kirstein.