Chapter Text
Despite being the most honest person he knows, Jean is fantastic at lying to himself. It’s not a common skill, he likes to think, but he’s weirdly proud of it – over the years, he’s got himself convinced of some pretty killer stuff.
“Not goddamn happening. Forget it.”
“All I said”, Marco breaks off another big chunk of his chocolate chip cookie and waves his hand too close under Jean’s nose, “nay, all I merely suggested – is that if anyone, anyone at all, stands a chance with Arlert, it’d be you.”
“Fuck off”, Jean laughs and leans back in his seat. The cafeteria is rapidly filling up with more and more people, students filing in with backpacks slung loosely around their shoulders, the din picking up as the hands on the clock steadily move towards noon. There is no missing the usual gang of suspects huddled around at the back. The twenty meters of geographical distance between them translate into at least five kilometers in social disparity. Lightyears, even. Jean and Marco may not fly in the highest strata of the Schiller-Gymnasium microverse, but at least they fuck with, like, the popular crowd. When Friday rolls around, their phones reliably light up with some version of “beers at Tim’s tonight? 21h nothing below 6 %” from an interchangeable guy on the football team and if fancy strikes them, they can spend the night knocking back said canned beer in Tim’s basement sitting on a dirty brown couch passed down from his grandma. Parties don’t prove too much of a challenge either, Marco’s moony eyes and freckled cheeks get him an automatic invite to almost every Oberstufen gig, and Jean’s his plus one by pure muscle memory.
Jäger and his friends are, well. Different. They’re not really nerds, but that’s mostly because the Magic the Gathering fan club has that spot locked down with Chips-stained fingers. Jäger’s group doesn’t smoke. They’re not in the school band, either. Arlert and Jäger play on the team, but they keep to themselves. And Jean is fine with that. He could not care less about it.
“What makes you think I’m even interested?”
“Opposites attract? Star player and benchwarmer? The gravitational pull of the narrative forcing you closer and closer into each other’s orbit? Like in Cinderella? You bury the last penalty, he drools from the sidelines, you wink, take him for Döner in your shitty Polo, and bam! Full-on make-out session behind the clubhouse.”
“Drop it, man.”
“No, no, no, you never know! Arlert may hold the record for least playtime in the whole history of the FC, but just all that excess energy from benching must go somewhere and why not blow off some steam with the most handsome forward in, like, forever, I mean, you come in, Jean-Boy, big wet Romeo-eyes and sweep him off his feet with your tale of seven long, and I mean long, seven agonizing years of unrequited – “
“Marco – “
At least a tiny amount of the bitterness that churns his stomach must show up on Jean’s face, a feeling that is twisting his insides up like spaghetti on a fork. Just a tiny amount, a quick downturn in the corner of his mouth, a shaky breath, because miraculously, Marco’s voice softens up a little bit. “Y’know. Just – don’t rule it out. We’re all older now.”
“Sure.” Jean says tightly. “Who knows, right?”
“Right. Now eat your damn cookie before I do.” Marco laughs, eats, says something else, and slowly their conversation meanders back into less inside-twisting terrain. The team, homework, the weekend plans. Tim’s grandma’s rank-ass couch. All the while, the echo in his ears – don’t rule it out. Bullshit. He does not know why Marco has got to bring it up now, but Jean has not only ruled it out, he’s signed the damn executive order. Immediate ban. In terms of over-ness, he is up in the deep blue exosphere, gently floating along with a “World’s Most Over It Astronaut” badge pinned to his space suit. This snow is so last year, it’s probably already been laundered through three hedge funds in Zürich. Jean’s fine with it. He could not care less about it.
A familiar laugh rings through the din. He looks up. Twenty meters away in the overcrowded cafeteria, a dusty blonde head bobs up, golden strands reflecting the fluorescent light of the overhead lamps for a second, and Jean’s heart skips a beat.
Yeah, some days even he knows he’s full of shit.
*
In hindsight, he should’ve expected that his life would not let him off the hook that easily. His life had a mean left hook and a habit of sniffing out even the smallest little hope Jean had weaseled away in some corner of his consciousness, grab that tiny squealing and kicking fucker, stuff it in a blender and shotgun the results. Then wipe his mouth on the rags of Jean’s dreams. So. Suffice to say, Jean was tried in the sport of second-guessing ‘good’ events. Most of the time, he was right, anyway. Once you had demasked them, most happy turns of his life turned out to be fucking ugly, indeed. But as he had got smarter, it seemed, his life had not lost any time either.
So when he had, in the spring term of his 12th grade, the feeling that there might actually be some light at the end of the tunnel, some ability to get through this thing unscathed, fate struck like a pissed-off rattle snake.
At least, that’s how he likes to think about it. There aren’t that many rattle snakes in north-west Germany.
*
His car does not unlock when Jean presses the button on his keys. It’s the third time this week, and they have not even been back to school from ski holidays for more than two days. What the fuck. He drags the pad of his thumb over the used leather, where tiny unlock symbol – a square, a semi-arch above it – is more memory than visible. The motion makes tiny black flakes come away and stick to his skin.
He presses down again. No beep. No soft click.
Standing next to him in the parking lot, Marco slowly rocks back on his heels. He is as impatient as Jean is, Jean can tell from the sheer effort Marco puts in maintaining the pretense of a very chill, very unbothered teen, a teen that is definitely not standing next to his best friend’s malfunctioning shitshow of a car again and watches the minutes drain away until the start of a training session that their supposedly last, if, as their coach had made it abundantly and ear-ringingly clear last time, if they were fucking late again. And, Kirschstein and Pott, don’t make it about that car. If I hear about this car one more time—
“Maybe the connection’s off?”
“You don’t say”, murmurs Jean under his breath, and gets closer.