Mine is that the first time Mikasa used a nail paint was when Jean got her one from Marley and she asked him to paint her toes which he was happy to do. But since then whenever she wants to paint her toes, she'll ask him.
And then on the morning of their wedding (I headcanon them to have a small wedding in their own garden) she asks him to paint her toes, and all their friends are really? He's not supposed to paint your toes, he's the groom, and he has to get ready too and so and so. But Mikasa is like only Jean paints my nails. So it's very chaotic, with their house full of people running around everywhere, meanwhile there's Mikasa just sitting on the couch and Jean painting her toes sitting on the ground, her feet on his lap.
And then after the wedding they're in the bedroom and a little nervous (just because it's the so called wedding night). Mikasa sits at the foot of the bed, and Jean kneels down in front of her, taking her shoes off. Then he's just admiring her nails, like, "This pink really suits you."
Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman.
Kissing in the Rain. Confessions. Break-Ups in the Garden.
27,199 words.
(ao3.) || (act 1.) || (act 2.) || (epilogue.)
Now.
A Morning In The Market.
On the third day, Mikasa wakes from a well-earned sleep. A sense of anticipation builds in her stomach as she changes into her clothes and laces up her boots.
She leaves the inn and is greeted by the town’s main street. The usual bustle of a busy port fills her senses — the sound of horse-drawn carts over cobblestone roads, the citizens rushing by, and the salt in the air as it blows off the sea. She walks with haste in her steps, the soles of her unshined boots tapping against the ground.
As she goes, she passes the typical row of stalls where merchants are selling their wares. Certain things catch her eye — like freshly procured vegetables, exotic fruits that she rarely ever sees, and a table showcasing an array of soaps and lotions.
Mikasa stops where she is and takes in the latter in particular. In front of her now are the kinds of scented lotions she’s only ever used in Historia’s palace, glass bottles of floral soaps and metal tins of balms for every ailment under the sun. She walks up to the table and takes an open jar full of thick salve. The merchant standing nearby gives her a smile as she takes a quick sniff. The aroma is reminiscent of almond oil and beeswax, a smell so strong that it almost makes her forget her proximity to the sea.
It doesn’t take long for an idea to slip into her head, one that involves the wares of a merchant and may postpone her day slightly, but hopefully Jean won’t mind.
…
…
…
The Third Walk.
The third trek to Jean’s cottage comes and goes with ease, her body barely aching this time. What at first felt like a perilous voyage up north to chase a hunch now feels like a mere stroll, even if this time she brings along a crate of goods.
It’s late morning Mikasa arrives at the cottage, where the picturesque structure still stands steadily despite the constant winds coming off the sea. The sound of the ocean greets her like an old friend.
She approaches the front porch and the arid garden beds, then eyes the windows in search of the owner. When she finds nary a soul behind the glass, she adjusts her grip on the crate and walks past the cottage. When Jean’s studio comes into view, she wonders if he already started to work today and submitted to his usual fate of paints and canvases.
Her train of thought is halted when she hears the sound of squeaking gears and running water.
Mikasa looks aside to see the master and his dog standing at the weathered hand-pump, a contraption she remembers using the day before. Jean is bare-chested and half-kneeling on the grass, where he works the lever to fill a small bucket with water. With his free hand he holds Hugo by his collar, who is smiling goofily as usual. Once the dog lays eyes on the visitor now standing in the yard, a look of utter glee comes onto his face.
Hugo barks in delight and Jean cranes his neck just enough so that their eyes meet. He gives a friendly smile.
“Hey there, Stranger.”
“Good morning,” Mikasa greets, stepping towards him. “What are you doing?”
“Went for a little swim,” Jean explains, turning back to his dog. “Both of us. If you don’t rinse off, the salt just sticks to you.”
Mikasa hums as he refocuses on his chore. Despite Hugo squealing and shaking, his master manages to hold him back and pour the bucket of water over his fur. By the grace of god, Hugo doesn’t slip from Jean's grasp as he grabs the towel off his shoulder and takes a moment to dry the canine.
When Jean lets go of Hugo’s collar, the dog runs to Mikasa and squeaks like she’s been gone for a thousand years. She happily kneels and drops her crate to give a proper greeting, letting Hugo lick her face as she runs her hands through his fur.
“Hello again.” She smiles at the dog like they’ve known each other forever.
Mikasa remains on the grass as Jean works the pump again. She watches as he fills the bucket, halfway this time, and pours water over his hair and torso, doing his best to not get it on his trousers. When he’s done rinsing off he stands and pushes the damp strands away from his face.
“I didn’t know you swam,” Mikasa says to fill the silence between them. In her mind, she conjures the image of Jean entering the surf just after sunrise, drifting and floating through the water without a care in the world, manoeuvring the sea through powerful kicks and strokes. It sounds heavenly on a day like today.
“It’s a habit,” Jean answers, walking past her and towards his home. “Clears my head.”
As Mikasa continues giving Hugo an adequate amount of pets, she is unable to take her eyes off Jean as he approaches the laundry lines at the back of his home. She watches him hang the dirty towel and grab a clean one, using it to dry his hair and chest. Suddenly she feels a strange warming sensation accumulating in her face, despite the ocean breeze blowing around her. The sensation reminds her of the jars of wine they have shared in the last two nights alone. She wonders how long it will last this time.
Soon Jean eyes her and speaks up. “What’s in the crate?”
Mikasa stands and grabs the crate off the grass. She moves past Jean to set the container on the back porch and begins rummaging through it. She takes the first items of interest, little bags of seeds that she had brought from the market, and holds them up for him to see.
“Radishes, carrots, and beets… for your garden,” she starts, then tosses the seeds back in the crate. She picks up the next thing, a burlap sack filled with uncut and unpeeled fruit. “Mangoes… for later.” She puts it down, then finds the final item and brings it to him for a closer look.
“And this…” she says, walking up and placing a small glass jar onto Jean’s calloused palms. “...for your hands.”
Jean raises an eyebrow at her. He hangs the towel over his shoulder as he reads the label. He opens the jar just enough to take a whiff of the substance inside.
And it’s at this proximity that Mikasa finds herself staring at the grass. Suddenly she’s concerned that her eyes may linger on certain things — the breadth of his shoulders, the sight of his chest, even the faded scar on his collarbone. The closeness makes the heat in her face intensify and she prays that he doesn’t notice. It’s a bit pathetic, she thinks, to be twenty-seven and unable to handle seeing some bare skin, let alone that of a friend.
“To make them smooth,” she explains to distract herself. With her own hands she performs the motion of rubbing salve onto her palms and fingers, as if Jean needs instructions to do something so simple.
A moment of silence passes before she wills herself to look at him again. She sees a genuine smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re too nice to me.” The appreciation is clear in his tone. He slips the jar into his pocket and looks about to blush as he runs a hand through his hair. “Thank you. I uh... just wish I got something for you.”
“No need,” she insists, then walks back to the porch without another word.
She hears him chuckle behind her like this is just another day for them, like the foreignness of the situation is finally starting to wear off and he is finally acclimatized to her presence. His charm and his sweetness is a far cry from the nervous, fidgety, hunched-over man who served her tea just the other day, or the sleep-deprived artist she found in the studio. It’s a little closer to the Jean Kirschtein in her memories. She thinks she prefers him this way.
As Mikasa grabs the seed pouches, Hugo begins to roll in the grass again. She admires him for a second, then catches sight of Jean reaching for one of the shirts pinned to his laundry lines — a henley with faded spots on it where paint used to be.
“The trousers you wore are inside,” Jean says as he pulls on the shirt. “On the couch. Couldn’t shake all the dirt out of them though.”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Jean.”
Just as she begins to leave she observes something different about him. It’s subtle, but she notices that his beard looks a little bit neater than when she last saw it. The edges on his cheeks are more trimmed and even, less hairs are sticking out unkempt and unbrushed, and even the mustache is not as bushy as it was before. Perhaps something about the last few days had convinced him to remedy the distinct dishevelled quality that made him look like he had spent six months at sea.
The thought of Jean primping — of all things — before her arrival slips into her head. The notion brings a smile to her face, but the kind that she’s compelled to hide and thus turns away from him once she feels it coming.
She enters his cottage and exits in a few minutes, now clad in his slightly-less dirty trousers. She tucks her blouse into the waistband, the weight of the clothing begins to feel familiar against her frame.
Jean is more dressed once she emerges, having pulled on his boots and suspenders for the day. She sees him pinning up more laundry, garments like the navy blue sweater he had lent her last night or yet another set of paint-splattered work clothes. She notices things like how he plays with his hair like he’s unused to it being this long or how his shirt is partially undone and exposes just enough of his chest that she wishes he’d just button the whole thing already.
She sees the way his muscles stretch as he does his chores, a physique that used to carry him through battles and warfare now serving him in a quiet life of morning swims and painting sessions. There’s a subtle lethargy to how he works, making her wonder if a dip in the ocean wasn’t the only thing he accomplished before she arrived.
Mikasa meets his gaze across the grass of his front yard, then notices that the boyish smile on his face has yet to wear off.
“What?” she asks.
There’s a second where Jean can’t take his eyes off of her, the pride and contentment on his face remaining. “You look… you look happy.”
Mikasa tries to ignore the way her heart begins to race and smiles back at him.
“So do you.”
…
…
…
Chores and Coffee.
Before Mikasa is left alone in the garden, Jean presents her with a bucket full of food scraps, suggesting that she use it as fertilizer for her chore. It’s certainly the first time a man has given her a bunch of old tea leaves, coffee grounds, and fish scraps, but it’s a gesture she appreciates nonetheless.
They proceed to work in tandem — Jean ducks into his workshop for another day of getting paint on his boots and Mikasa remains in the garden like it’s her own little kingdom, Hugo the dog being her first and only subject.
The sun above her shines as she takes the compost and thoroughly mixes it into the dirt. She digs rows of shallow trenches from each end of the beds and only a few minutes pass before sweat starts to collect on her face and roll down her forehead in thick beads. Yesterday’s ache is reignited in shoulders, but at least it's the familiar kind — the kind that she can power through in order to get a job done.
When one of the beds is prepared for planting, she finally reaches for the sack of tiny spuds she left on the front porch. Kneeling over the dirt, she assembles a row of potatoes in the trenches, a task that is boring enough for her to look up every few minutes to see what Hugo is doing. More often than not he is either rolling in the grass, wandering around the property, or loudly licking himself.
The presence of him and his adorably pointy ears makes her realize just how much she could appreciate the company of a pet. She wonders why she had never considered adding a canine companion into her life. Her abode just off the Orphanage’s property certainly has the space for it.
Perhaps she was simply too busy to let such innocuous thoughts pop into her mind, too preoccupied getting through each day with no thought in regards to anything beyond. Having an adorable fur ball around would certainly add a different edge to her life, a reminder that there’s much more to her existence than shifts at the Orphanage and quiet nights in her cabin.
Once the potatoes are lined in the trench, she uses the shovel to gently bury them in a mix of soil and food scraps. Hugo trails at her ankles as she makes the walk between the front of the cottage and the hand-pump at the back. The water in the bucket she carries wobbles with every step, dribbling onto both the grass and her boots. By the time she's halfway done hydrating the beds, her socks are more soaked than she ever likes them to be. As she tries to ignore how the sensation makes her skin crawl, she wonders if Jean has a spare pair of boots lying around.
When she's done watering the first bed, Mikasa takes a breath and wipes even more sweat off her forehead. She turns and eyes the studio at the back of the property, where Jean wanders out with his sleeves rolled up and even more streaks of paint on his forearms. He sighs in exhaustion as he steps on the grass. Hugo scurries up to his master like they’ve been separated for centuries, a sight that makes Mikasa wonder just how much time passed since she started her chore.
Jean scratches a spot between Hugo’s ears as he approaches her.
“What’ll it be today?” he asks as he steps towards his front door. “Coffee or tea?”
Mikasa catches her breath and stands straight, ignoring the twinge of ache in her lower back. “Coffee.”
Jean nods like a gentleman before slipping back into his home, leaving Mikasa with nothing else to do but garden for just a little bit longer.
...
...
...
The two of them enjoy their midday refreshment in the shade of a nearby tree, where Mikasa can remove her damp socks and sit barefoot with Hugo's head on her lap. The dog naps in peace as the sound of coastal winds resonates throughout the homestead. As Jean hands her a mug of coffee, she can smell the slightest hint of beeswax coming off his hands. The fact that he had already used her gift makes a strange sense of pride flow through her.
She sits with her back against the tree, one hand holding her coffee while the other pets Hugo. Jean is beside her, practically lounging on the grass as his drink remains untouched next to him, his long limbs comfortably sprawled out on the earth.
This time Jean tries to make Mikasa speak, imploring her to chat his ears off as she waits for her coffee to cool. In her own biased opinion, her life is not as remotely interesting as his, barely holding a candle to the home he built with his bare hands. She’s not sure how to make her endless loop of orphanage shifts sound interesting, even if Jean seems genuinely interested in what she has to say.
So to spare him the boring details, she asks —
“What are you painting today?”
“Same thing I was yesterday,” Jean answers, shrugging. He's nearly lying down, leaning back and propping himself up with an elbow on the grass. His eyes are affixed to the sea, just like hers.
“The one with the castle on the hill?”
“Yep… same old, same old.”
“I’d like to see that.”
He turns to her with a playful look on his face. “Maybe you will,” he teases, then reaches over to tickle his dog’s leg. “But after we eat.”
Mikasa hums in approval. “So I’m staying for dinner?”
“At this point I’d be really surprised if you weren’t,” he tells, then finally sits up and reaches for his coffee.
They don’t speak much in the moments that follow. Hugo continues to lie his head on his new favourite human’s knee, Jean drinks an extra helping of coffee, and Mikasa admires the sight of the sea from a different viewpoint. The sky above the ocean is streaked with clouds and even now the wonder of it all has yet to truly wear off.
…
…
…
Then.
And It’s All So Sweet.
Their routine is different now. By day they’ll play their parts — him the Ambassador, her the last Azumabito on Paradis. He’ll sit alongside Armin and the others in the meetings that never seem to end, she’ll pop in if necessary but largely spend her time roaming the rest of the palace alone. He’ll bring his art supplies outside to paint the hyacinths in Historia’s garden, she’ll play with Princess Val in one of the sitting rooms. He’ll sneak off to smoke and she might join him for a drag or two. He’ll drink coffee between peace talks while shaking the sleep out of his eyes and she'll have afternoon tea with Kiyomi.
Then at night she’ll come to his room again. She’ll join him in bed and maybe she’ll initiate a kiss, climbing into her lap free from any sense of restraint. And he’ll welcome her touch by cupping her face and fervently pressing his lips against the scar underneath her eye. She’ll play with his hair and he’ll nuzzle at the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, then they’ll spend the rest of the evening asleep in each other’s arms.
In the morning he’ll wake up entangled with her. Her head will be resting on his chest, her arms sprawled on both sides of him, and she’ll be asleep like it’s the most peace she's ever had.
And in the time between waking up and beginning his day, Jean will hold her.
The world around them will be quiet, the sun will have barely risen above the horizon, and Mikasa Ackerman will be cuddled into the crook of his neck, safe and sound.
And it’s all very sweet. It’s everything his teenage self would have dreamed of and more. It’s time with the girl he’s always wanted. It’s Mikasa letting him touch her, caress her, and kiss her. It’s his solace in a life he realizes he doesn’t really want. It’s something that he’ll savour every second of.
For now he’ll enjoy all the time he has with her. The pestering thought in the back of his head that says it’s too good to be true will just have to wait.
…
…
…
Unchanged.
The meetings and discussions over the last few weeks have been spent by Armin’s side, where Jean will chime in and provide support when needed. When he’s not speaking, he’s listening to anything he can — from minute negotiations made by the leaders of smaller nations to the detailed recollections of exactly how much blood was shed during the Rumbling.
Politics are a complicated thing and will continue to be for the rest of time. Yet during the last week of Paradisian Peace Talks, Jean sees a sheet of paper get placed on the same table that he’s been staring at for god knows how long. With cautious eyes he watches the agreement get signed by not just Queen Historia, but by every other foreign dignitary and world leader in the room, the pen being passed from person to person.
Then when everyone has signed the agreement, Jean can’t take his eyes off the piece of paper as the last lines of ink dry.
Even when everything is set in stone, he knows that things from now on should be different. The goal the Ambassadors had set out to achieve is finally complete after weeks of impassioned discussions. The endless hours he had spent in the palace with his tie pressing against his throat have culminated in this. The armistice meant to lower weapons and heal old wounds is in front of him right now.
But as Jean sits in the same boardroom that he’s been in since the beginning of time, the world feels unchanged.
…
…
…
Figure This Out.
The contract is very straightforward. Alliances and resources have been exchanged for Paradis promising to lower the guns they’ve aimed at the rest of the world. Not every transaction is equal — in some stipulations the Island has promised access to their iceburst stones, while in others units from the New Eldian Army will be sent to assist in foreign operations. Some sides of the agreement could strike joy into the hearts of the average Paradisian, while others could enrage those who think that all the Island’s attempts to defend themselves were absolutely justified.
Jean can’t stop himself from scoffing at the whole ordeal. Could peace be so easily achieved that all it took in the end is signing a piece of paper? Could a bunch of signatures sway the minds of an entire nation that believes in the future of Paradis and Paradis only? Will the result of the last three weeks be the final push some angry Jaegerist needs to place a bomb underneath his chair? He may never know.
The Paradisian Peace Talks ultimately end with little fanfare. After the fateful meeting, the Ambassadors are wrangled into one of the palace’s many sitting rooms for their usual allotment of tea, coffee, and biscuits. The refreshments are the same as they’ve always been — resplendent, energizing, and a momentary distraction from the world they live in.
As Jean blows on his coffee, the sounds of a palace abuzz can be heard from behind the sitting room's doors. Like the Ambassadors, many of the diplomats and dignitaries are needed elsewhere in the world. But unlike the Ambassadors, they won’t be staying for a few days before running off to the next event.
His comrades in the room are a lot less erratic. Connie and Reiner are chatting as they snack on biscuits, Pieck has managed to drag Armin into a match on one of Historia’s solid gold chess sets, and Annie is nibbling on her third doughnut of the day.
Jean takes in the sight of his friends enjoying their last bits of luxury. The Queen has certainly enjoyed spoiling them in every way possible, so much so that Jean knows he’ll miss everything once they’re gone. The meals, the beds, and especially the array of floral-scented lotions of soaps in his room.
Once he’s halfway into his coffee, Jean stands from the table he’s sitting at and makes his way to the window that faces the southern portion of the palace. When he looks towards the royal garden, he expects to see the Crown Princess of Paradis playing with her dog or servants trimming the shrubbery, but instead he finds it empty. At first.
The place looks unchanged from the last few weeks. The hues of the flowers are still vibrant against the greens of the grass. Beds of hyacinths, roses, and lilies line several stone paths. In the corner of it all is a gazebo made of metal rods and glass panes, and it’s there that he spots her.
From where he is, Jean can see Mikasa sitting inside the structure with her hands on her lap. Kiyomi is standing in front of her. Judging by the way the older lady paces as she talks, she is likely the one leading the conversation.
Jean can’t quite make out Mikasa’s face, so as he watches from afar he tries to envision what they’re talking about. Maybe Kiyomi is explaining the outcome of the peace talks and what it will mean for the Island as a whole. Or perhaps she’s making another attempt at requesting that “Lady Mikasa” visit Hizuru.
The thought of such a thing still feels far-fetched in Jean’s mind. He can’t imagine Mikasa ever leaving the Island, because for all the ghosts that remain Paradis is still her home. The idea of taking her away from it just doesn’t seem possible, even now.
With that in mind, Jean lets out a sigh before taking another pull of his coffee. Behind him, he hears the telltale sound of a chess piece being knocked off the board.
“And that’s another checkmate,” he hears Pieck say.
Jean turns around to see Armin slouching on his chair and rubbing his face post-defeat. Pieck sits across from him, looking smug as she basks in the glory of her victory.
“You don’t have to rub it in,” Armin mutters.
“I have to, it strokes my ego,” Pieck says with her usual snark. She begins re-arranging the chessboard. “You up for another one?”
Armin shakes his head and stands. “Maybe later. I’m all chess’d out for today.”
He leaves the table and goes where Annie is, joining his significant other at the table and taking one of the remaining doughnuts on the platter.
Jean looks back to Pieck and catches her rolling her eyes.
“Suit yourself.”
Jean lets out a curt chuckle before turning back towards the window. Mikasa and Kiyomi are still chatting in the gazebo. Their conversation remains as placid as it was before, but after a few moments Jean sees Kiyomi straighten up and begin walking out of the structure, her refined sense of poise evident in the way she steps onto the path. After watching the older woman make her way across the garden, Jean looks back to see Mikasa still sitting where she is. He's still too far to see her face and discern what she's thinking, but he manages to see her reach for her signature scarf and tug it until it's halfway over her face. It's a gesture he's witnessed many times before — usually a sign that she's stressed, upset, or is remembering the person who gave it to her.
Then before Jean can think too hard about how pathetic it is to play second-fiddle to a dead man, he hears a familiar voice pop up beside him.
“Stalker much?”
Jean looks aside to see Pieck standing a whole head below him. Like him she's enjoying an afternoon coffee in a very dainty cup, pinky out and all.
“What do you want, Pieck?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She shakes her head. “I just thought I'd… check in.”
Jean scoffs. “On me?”
“On her, too.” Pieck takes her first sip of coffee as she gives him a knowing look — an expression that is not complete without the slightest raise of her eyebrow or upturn of her lip. “Let's be real, the last few weeks have been tough on everyone.”
“That's… one way to put it,” Jean decides to say. He tries not to sigh too loudly when he thinks back to the last few hours alone.
Before he can even start to dwell, Pieck cuts to the chase.
“What's going on between you two?” she presses, the softness in her voice leaving for a moment.
Jean turns to her slowly, taking a moment to find the right thing to say. How does he explain the last few weeks? Would Pieck even want to hear it? What would he get out of saying that every night Mikasa sleeps in his arms with her face tucked against him and it's everything he ever wanted and more? That it feels so fucking incredible to be close to her, yet once it’s over something in the back of his head keeps reminding him that it won't last forever? That every kiss and touch they share could be for naught because of the chance that she’s thinking of someone else? He's never been good enough for her and he never will, but at least for a while he can be a good friend — he can comfort her at night, he can kiss the scar on her cheek, he can brush his forehead against hers, and he can pretend for just one second that he was someone she loved.
“We're just good friends,” Jean finally says. “Comrades, that sort of thing.”
“Jean, you and I are just good friends,” Pieck reminds, not mincing her words one bit.
He narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
“What I'm trying to say is that we're only here for three more nights,” Pieck explains like he doesn’t already know that. “And I'm not sure if that's enough time for you guys to… figure things out.”
Jean shakes his head. “I don't have to, when we leave it'll be over,” he says more for himself than for her.
Pieck tilts her head to the side, looking doubtful. “Are you sure about that?”
Jean holds her stare for a second longer than he usually would, then breaks away to look out the window again. He glances to the garden just in time to see Mikasa leaving the gazebo. She wears a gloomy expression on her face as she adjusts the way her scarf hangs around neck, slowly walking down the path before disappearing from sight.
Jean’s heart begins to feel heavy, a feeling that he's been getting used to it for the last few weeks yet can never pinpoint the source of. With a sigh, he finishes the rest of his coffee.
“Three nights, Jean,” Pieck says, her eyes going wary. “That's not a lot of time.”
Jean sighs and rubs his face. “I know… I know.”
The rest of the afternoon goes on quietly. Jean gets more coffee, Pieck manages to strong-arm Reiner into a game of chess, and the combined efforts of Annie and Armin finish the doughnuts just as Connie reaches towards the empty platter.
Soon Jean and his friends end their break and are urged to bid farewell to the departing diplomats. As he leaves the room, the seeds of a certain thought begin to nestle inside his mind. It’s all he can think about when he plasters a smile on his face and shakes hands with foreign dignitaries like a good Ambassador.
And here he thought an angry Jaegerist wanting revenge would be the worst of his troubles when revisiting the Island.
…
…
…
Now.
Fish Stew.
By the late afternoon Mikasa has successfully planted Jean’s garden with not only potatoes, but beets and radishes and carrots as well — ensuring that in a few weeks he will be able to harvest a plentiful bounty in his side of paradise. Even with the dirt staining her hands and the ache in her muscles, she lets herself revel in the aftermath of a job well done.
She finishes just as Jean decides he’s had enough of painting for today and exits his studio. To celebrate the occasion, he invites her into his cottage yet again and offers to make her dinner, as he's done so for the last two days.
Hugo naps on the couch as Jean begins a stew made of fish stock, seafood, and what vegetables he has lying around. This time, Mikasa finally manages to strong-arm her way into the kitchen, because even if Jean insists that he can cook on his own, the mangoes she brought from the market will not cut themselves.
They work on opposite ends of the kitchen. With a paring knife Mikasa carefully cuts the mangos in a crosshatch pattern, a trick she learned from a chef at Historia’s palace, and deposits the diced fruit into a bowl. On the other side of things, Jean is cooking leeks, onions, and tomatoes in a shallow pan, the scent of which soon fills the air. She prefers things this way, she thinks — to be less of a guest in the house and more of a helper, especially now.
As Mikasa continues to cut the mangoes, she spares the occasional glance across the kitchen and sees Jean seasoning the meal with whatever spices he has on hand, moving with the kind of precision and efficiency she’s only seen in Historia’s housestaff. Like before he doesn’t seem to be working from a recipe, rather from memory as he pours white wine into the vessel and lets the vegetables simmer. He then procures a bucket from the corner of his kitchen, a vessel that is filled with an assortment of prawns and mussels.
“The early birds get the... shellfish, I suppose,” Jean jokes as he brings his bounty to the sink and begins rinsing it with freshwater.
He then drops a hearty handful of prawns and mussels into the pan, shells and all. It’s only now when Mikasa realizes just how much of an appetite she had worked up.
When she’s finished dicing as many mangoes as she’s willing to, she sets the bowl of fruit aside and Jean encourages her to rest. She expects him to remind her that she’s still his guest and he’s still her host, but instead Jean continues to focus on cooking like it’s his sole purpose in the world.
So Mikasa wanders out into the main living space again, where she spends a moment with Hugo on the couch to give him his evening allotment of affectionate head-scratches. The dog wags his tail in delight as she runs her nimble fingers through his fur. At one point she glances out the closest window, noting that the once partly-cloudy sky that accompanied her that afternoon is now completely grey.
As Jean continues to cook, Mikasa tries her luck at the gramophone in the corner. She has limited experience with such a device, owing her knowledge of such contraptions to one of her visits to the palace. Recorded music had been foreign to her back then and it continues to be now, but as she browses the plastic pieces — or vinyls, as they are known to be called — Mikasa manages to select a disc and load it into the machine. Soon a fast-paced melody fills the cottage’s atmosphere, something with the same flavour of glassy piano chords and intricate drum beats. As the music plays, she sighs in relief over having gotten the machine to work without breaking anything.
After a few more minutes Jean carries a pot of stew out of the kitchen and sets it on the table. As he retreats to the kitchen to get some drinks — water this time — Mikasa walks over with her hands behind her back and peers into the vessel. She sees the shellfish sitting in the medley of softened vegetables and pale orange stock, the prawns having turned pink after cooking with the mussels now opened to expose the fleshy insides. He serves it alongside toasted bread and a thick, creamy sauce he calls a rouille, and now more than ever does Mikasa think that Jean’s trying to spoil her.
Like before, they dine on opposite sides of the table as if it’s part of their every day routine. The stew is flavourful and filling, especially after the day she's had. The world outside gets a little bit colder as every spoonful warms her up from the inside. The meatiness of the shellfish is contrasted by just the slightest hint of citrus in the soup. Mikasa goes between dipping her slice of bread into the rouille or attempting to slurp a mussel straight from the shell, a messy gesture that causes stock to dribble onto her sweater.
Across the table Jean chuckles, earning him a glare from his house guest.
“I’m trying,” she reminds as she dabs her lips with a napkin. She can’t stop herself from rolling her eyes at him.
Jean grabs his jar of water, perhaps in an attempt to hide the smirk on his face. “I figured.”
Dinner goes on smoothly. The stew is plentiful, the music is charming, and the gentle hum of the sea continues to keep Mikasa at peace.
…
…
…
Caught in a Storm.
After they’ve both had their fair share of stew, he and Mikasa enjoy some impeccably diced mangoes as Hugo consumes a meal of fish scraps. The last thing Mikasa sees before they head out is the dog settling onto the couch and sighing in post-feeding bliss.
Jean keeps true on his promise. As they walk to his workshop, the wind around them begins to pick up, causing the grass and the laundry on the clotheslines to sway. Mikasa looks around to see a sky covered in grey. Instinctively, she adjusts the way her cardigan hangs over her shoulders. As she looks into the distance and sees the ocean underneath the clouds, she can already anticipate a little fall of rain.
Jean opens the door to his studio. Like a gentleman, he steps aside to let her walk in.
“Ladies first,” he declares with a grin that wouldn’t be out of place in Queen Historia’s housestaff.
She doesn’t humour him with a response, yet she can’t stop herself from grinning as she steps in.
Despite visiting the structure merely twenty-four hours ago, something about the studio today feels different. As to be expected, the tools of Jean’s trade are placed around the space, but there’s a better sense of organization to the odds and ends — clean brushes sit in jars like flowers in vases, spotless pallet knives are meticulously placed into small wooden boxes, and freshly sharpened coloured pencils are lying neatly in the tin they were bought in. She wonders if he had cleaned up knowing that company would be coming over, apparently unwilling to let someone see him being messy. When she catches Jean hastily tossing misplaced paint tubes into a drawer, her theory is partially proven right.
“Sorry for the mess,” he apologizes.
He cleans with the kind of earnsty that makes her smile, like his workspace being a little untidy is the worst thing he can ever do.
Then after letting out a polite chuckle, Mikasa turns her head towards the corner of the studio and sees it.
Drying on an easel is the canvas she saw a day ago, the state of it now being a far cry from how she saw it before. It instantly evokes the reference picture of a castle on a hill, an image now embellished through delicate brushstrokes and impeccably-mixed pigments on a much larger scale. The sight of an aging stone structure on a grassy mound underneath a cloudless sky does not feel merely copied from the photograph, but interpreted, processed, and filtered through an artist’s eye until it is not a replication of an image, but an impression.
Seeing it up close makes Mikasa realize just how much work Jean puts into his craft.
“Is this what you’ve been working on?”
She turns his way and sees Jean avoiding her gaze. He smiles with all the timidity that she’s learning to expect from him.
“Gouache and watercolour on canvas,” he confirms, still not glancing her way. “Watercolour for the base, gouache for the details.” He rubs his neck as he walks up to his masterpiece, then takes a breath before actually looking at it. “It’s about uh… ninety percent done?” He shrugs. “I gotta do some detailing.”
“You’re talented, Jean,” Mikasa commends. She means every word of it.
She looks at him again and expects to see him still avoiding her, to see him staring at the floor as his cheeks turn red.
But instead he’s finally found it in himself to look at her, the hazel of his eyes almost shining in the lights of his workshop. She sees the hints of a blush on his face, a sight she’s grown accustomed to over the past few days.
“Thank you…” he says quietly, bashfully, then gives her an honest smile. “It means a lot, especially from you.”
Then before either of them can say anything else, an unexpected sound is heard in the atmosphere. In the distance she hears what can only be thunder above the sea, then what follows is the familiar thump of raindrops against the studio’s roof. The noise starts as a soft hum and intensifies in seconds. By the time both Jean and Mikasa make their way to the nearest window, the sky is pouring water onto every inch of the land.
The rain is thick, heavy, and hammers against the building like it will never end. To Mikasa, it’s the kind of weather that feels quintessential to the end of summer, a way to signal to the world that the scorching days and clear skies could not last forever. As she gets older it’s a change she doesn’t welcome with joy or sorrow, but a quiet understanding instead.
“Well…” Jean starts, obviously taken aback by the sudden change in weather. “…at least the garden’s getting watered.”
Suspecting that to be a joke, Mikasa almost laughs, yet before she can entertain his sense of humour a sudden thought slips into her head.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your laundry still out there?”
She looks at Jean and sees him taking a second to think
"SON OF A—"
Then in an instant he's dashes out of his workshop.
Mikasa wastes no time and trails behind him, running so fast that the mud beneath her boots makes every step feel dangerous. By the time she and Jean arrive at the back of the cottage, they are both soaked to the bone.
To no one's surprise, Jean’s clothes and bedsheets are drenched with rainwater. They work in a dance of chaos — grabbing the first garments they can find, pulling them off the clothesline, and bringing them to the porch in haste. The whole process feels messy and embroiled in utter chaos, yet Mikasa cannot wipe the smile from her face as she grabs Jean’s socks from the line and brings them to where it’s dry.
After minutes of running around a storm, Mikasa takes a shirt to the porch and tosses it into a pile of wet clothes. Instead of rushing out again, she remains under cover and looks back to Jean on the grass. She leans against the closed door and can’t stop herself from laughing as she wipes rain from her eyes.
As Jean grabs a final bedsheet off the line he slips, bringing the fabric down with him as he tumbles into the mud. With all the grace of a fallen Titan, he lands on his back and rear end. When he sits up and sees the mess he’s gotten himself into now, he groans at the dirt now clinging to his trousers and shirt. Grumbling like an old man, he looks back to the porch to see Mikasa smiling at his expense.
“Funny, is it?” he asks with a playful air.
The smile has yet to disappear from her face. “A little bit.”
Seeing the humour in the situation, Jean grabs the muddy sheet off the ground and brings it to the porch. He throws it onto the pile of wet clothing and joins her under the eaves, where he begins wiping the dirt from his clothes.
She hasn’t anything else to do but to watch him. She stands in place and observes him shaking the chunks of dirt from his sleeve, wiping the water from his face, or rinsing his palms in the rain. Like many times before she takes him in, all of him — the grin on his handsome face, the way his soaked henley clings to his shoulders, and how he runs his damp fingers through his ashy hair. Despite everything he looks elated with every aspect of his little life, warts and all — the storm, the wind, and even the drops hitting his home at every angle. The way he practically laughs underneath the gale is just another sign of how accustomed he has become to his little corner of the world.
And she wants to be happy for him, she really does.
But as she keeps her eyes on Jean, the smile on her face falls and she doesn’t know why. The joy she had gotten from running in the rain is gone, a feeling she tries to will back but to no avail. In its place is her heart getting heavier as it beats in her chest. Her head begins to ache in a way it hasn’t done in years, a pressure behind her eyes that suddenly makes her feel like she could burst into tears. Before she knows it, something she didn’t know she was holding comes out of her like a flood.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
The once joyful beam on Jean’s face disappears, the abruptness of her question catching him off-guard.
“...what?”
“You said you were here for three years,” Mikasa starts, unable to prevent an accusatory tone from slipping into her voice. “Here. On the island. Three years and you didn’t think to…” She takes in a breath. “...to write… or to find me… why?”
In stunned silence Jean says nothing, unable to take his eyes off of her.
Seconds pass, the only thing she hears is the sound of the rain hitting the earth.
“It’s hard to explain…” he starts, his voice wary.
“Why’d you even come back?” Mikasa presses further. Anger boils inside of her like a poison. She can't stop her questions from rushing out of her. “You told me you could never stay here yet here you are. Why bother even coming here if you were just planning on hiding anyways? Why do all this? Why?”
Something in his face changes as her words settle into him, his confusion now replaced with a stoniness behind his eyes. Suddenly he’s standing taller and glaring down at her. His composure is overwrought with a tranquil kind of fury, something that makes him clench his fist hard.
“You wanna know why I came back? It’s because my mom died, okay?”
The words practically fall out of him. Suddenly, he can’t stop himself from talking.
“Three years ago I got a letter saying she’s sick. Not from her, from the fucking guy she was seeing because she was too ill to even pick up the pen. Then I got another saying she was getting better, then one more that told me to get here while there was still time. Now she’s in the ground, she’s not coming back, and the only reason I’m still here is because…”
He stops, taking a moment to catch his breath, then forces himself to continue.
“...because I needed life to slow down... just for one fucking second, okay?”
His confession hangs in the air like smoke. The rain continues to descend from the sky and batter the earth into mud.
Guilt fills Mikasa’s entire being. Suddenly a lot of things make sense — his reticence, his silence, the way he would avoid her gaze at certain topics, his self-imposed isolation far away from the rest of the Island, all alone for reasons she could never have fathomed. A distinct melancholic air that had been evident in the way he carried on yet she never knew why. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to crumple into a ball and die on the spot — she’s just not sure which one to do first.
Mikasa feels tears welling in her eyes, her headache is not fading away. When she looks to Jean again she sees the subtle despair in his eyes as he takes another breath, seemingly reliving everything he wished to hide.
“Jean, I—”
“You know…” he interrupts, willing himself to look at her again. “...I was doing real good up until then.”
Mikasa is confused. “What do you mean?”
“I was getting pretty good at learning to live without you.” A resentfulness enters the way he looks at her. “Until you decided to come back into my life.”
“What are you accusing me of?” Mikasa asks, the question coming out before she can stop it.
“I’m accusing you of thinking you could come here like you didn’t just walk away five years ago.” He is unable to keep his resentments from bleeding into his voice.
“What are you talking about!?” Her words are louder than she intends them to be. Mikasa stands straight and steps towards him, unafraid to stare him down. She tries to ignore the lividness inside of her as the words continue to fall out. “It wasn’t over for me. Not then, not now.”
She waits for his reply and sees something change his eyes again — his hostility shifts into a kind of intensity that she can’t put a name on.
“No…” Jean starts slowly. “...it never was.”
Then he kisses her.
He steps forwards and closes the gap between them, swiftly bringing his lips to hers. The gesture is messy, uneven, yet her first instinct is to closes her eyes and lets him do it. In the midst of her discontentment and confusion, she revels in the realization of just how much she had missed this feeling, of how much she missed him. The memories of their last dance pale in comparison to the way his body presses against. She can’t stop herself from wrapping her arms around his shoulders, abandoning any semblance of composure as she deepens their kiss.
Their kiss doesn’t break as she practically leaps into his arms and his back hits a wall on the porch. The impact causes their teeth to very briefly clash but neither of them care. He continues to hold her, her legs soon wrapping around his waist in a familiar gesture. Their kisses are as ardent as they are frenzied, wild, and untamed. Her fingers run through his hair as she nibbles on his lower lip.
Jean keeps on kissing her as he moves them through the cottage door. They enter the room between the porch and main space and Mikasa feels Jean guiding her until she’s sitting on a counter. Her hands roam over his torso, urgently tugging at his shirt and the suspenders on his shoulders. He obeys her commands, briefly breaking their kiss to allow her to pull the wet garment from his torso. Soon he’s bare-chested and she’s running her hands across his skin. His muscles are firm against her palms.
He kisses her again, his lips eagerly trailing down jaw and neck, each peck an expression of everything he’s been holding back. She lets herself exhale and bask in the way his breath grazes her skin. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him closer, tugging at his hair as she says his name. The air between them feels warmer as she feels the slightest jut of his hips. She feels a pressure inside herself that she’s been denying from the second she laid eyes on him again.
His hands are clumsy as they work at the buttons of her blouse, so instead she brings his lips to hers again, urging him to keep kissing her as he takes her off the counter and carries her out of the room.
Without hesitation he ascends the stairs as she continues to pepper his face with kisses. The raindrops continue to beat against the rooftop as he enters his room. The overcast sky casts a pale light into the room as he helps her onto his bed and follows her onto the mattress. On all fours he hovers above her and she sighs as their lips collide again. One of her hands remains on his bare shoulder while the other starts to trail downwards. When she grazes the swell at his groin, Jean lets out a grunt, a noise that sparks something inside of her. She touches him again, feeling him engorged underneath the material as arousal begins to pulsate between her legs.
She isn’t sure how long she strokes him until Jean pulls away from her and stands. She sees the anticipation in his eyes as he works at his remaining clothes. She does the same, pulling her cardigan off her shoulders and unbuttoning her blouse.
Jean undoes his trousers and lets them fall to the floor, stepping out of them completely bare. Her eyes go wide at the sight of him erect and enlarged. Her throat goes dry, the knot in her stomach gets tighter, and the lust inside of her becomes impossible to ignore.
A glimpse to his face shows him looking just as nervous as she is, and she's not sure if it's in anticipation for the act itself or if it's because she just stares at him nude for a bit longer than expected.
On impulse, she slips off the bed. Unashamed, she gets onto her knees. He gasps as her hands stroke his length, up and down. She teases him at first, her lips very gently caressing the tip of his cock. He curses up a storm as she runs her tongue down his shaft. When she lets him in it’s to test him at first, playing with how far she can bring him into her mouth before taking him entirely. She starts to pleasure him, her hands move around his hips until they’re both squeezing at his backside. Her head begins to bob as he makes the most delectable moans, her lips making a puckering noise against his flesh.
Jean begins to move his hips, beginning in a modest rhythm until his hands find the back of her head as her name escapes his lips. For a moment she expects to indulge him here and now, to let him fuck her mouth with her knees against the bedroom floor. But Jean taps her shoulder and pulls away from her, his shaft leaving her lips. She looks up to see him catching his breath, having clearly enjoyed every second of her act. He nods towards the bed and she understands his request. She moves onto the mattress and he follows her.
Once more he’s above her, quickly finding her lips again. With reckless abandon she kisses him open-mouthed, as if to let him taste himself, her arms snaking up until her fingers are digging into his back. He works at her brassiere until it hits the floor.
Mikasa lies back, bare-chested and exposed. Jean’s hand squeezes at her breasts before he takes one into his mouth, greedily suckling her skin as she lies her head back on the pillow and doesn’t even bother holding back her moans. It’s at the moment of his tongue running across her nipple that she can’t take it anymore.
“Jean, please,” she whispers against his skin, her arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer.
Jean releases her breast from her mouth and nods. He helps her out of her remaining clothes, hastily tossing her skirt to the floor until she’s naked underneath him and the desire between her legs is driving her mad. He hovers above her again, his hazel eyes staring so deeply into hers, his fingers running through her silky black hair as it spills around her head. Her heart continues to hammer in anticipation.
She sees Jean spit into his own palm, running his hand across his length as he adjusts their position. Their hips slot together and he enters her. She lets out a gasp, her arms tightening around his torso as she holds him closer. The sensation is as familiar as it is overdue.
She kisses him hastily as he pulls out of her and pushes in again, then once more, and after the third they begin to find their rhythm.
He moves gently at first, ardently and lovingly. His lips find her neck and he nuzzles her sweetly to soothe any unease, his beard rubbing against her chin as he kisses her hot skin. Each push makes her yearn for him even more, each motion causing a gasp to escape her lips and for her arms to tighten around his torso. She lets herself be loud, letting her whines and whimpers join the noise of the storm outside.
His temple brushes against hers as he continues to jut his hips, each push becoming more forceful than the last. Soon the sound of their meeting flesh resonates in the air. He groans into her hair as she delights in the sensations. She desperately guides his face towards her so when she meets his lips again she can kiss him unabashedly, hungrily, and lustfully. Her legs to hook around his waist, her arms pulling him close to her as she relishes in ecstasy. He reaches up and grasps the headboard, the bed beneath them beginning to creak with every push.
Then abruptly Jean halts what he’s doing. Before she can beg him to keep going he adjusts his position and hers so that he’s kneeling upright. He moves her legs until they are over his shoulders, quickly repositioning himself before entering her once more. He hits a new spot when he begins fucking her again, causing her to let out a different kind of cry. She hears him groan and grunt and say her name as the sound of their slapping skin gets even louder. His motions are carnal, salacious, and untamed, and she loves every second of it.
Underneath him Mikasa meets her end, eyes glazing as the pleasure overtakes her. She curses as her nails dig deep into his shoulders. He continues to move, allowing her to ride out her climax until she is reduced to a spent mess on his bed.
Above her Jean shudders and shakes, his eyebrows furrowing as he continues to thrust. He says her name through heavy breaths as he reaches his peak, finishing with a final moan of delight. He doesn't stop moving his hips until he is finally finished, and when he's at his own end he lets out a sigh.
He adjusts their position so her legs are no longer over his shoulders before collapsing on top of her. She lies back on the mattress as he settles against her, her fingers rubbing his head and drawing little circles onto his back. And in the aftermath, she cannot wipe the smile from her face.
When he finds the will to move he kisses her again, pressing his lips against his temple he sighs and rolls off of her. His face is lovingly nestled in the crook of her neck, his forehead pressed against her jawline. Her fingers continue to play with his hair, holding him as he remembers how to breathe. She enjoys every part of this, the feeling of their sweaty, entangled limbs, the sound of ocean waves crashing outside, and the raindrops hitting the roof like a gentle lullaby.
When Mikasa finally comes down from her high, she says —
“That felt nice… Let’s do it again.”
…
…
…
Then.
Amongst The Quiet Night.
The next three days are not as rigorously scheduled as the last few weeks. The biggest event consists of a dinner the night after the signing of the accords, an event that feels so rudimentary that it barely registers in Jean’s mind as he goes on with his evening routine.
He bathes quietly at night, the most prominent thought in his head being which bottles of luxurious lotions and soap he could quietly sneak into his suitcase before he leaves and whether or not Queen Historia would mind. After stepping out of the tub, he dries off, wraps the towel around his waist, and heads to the bathroom sink. Upon wiping the steam from the mirror, he is greeted to the sight of a short, untrimmed beard covering his face, the usual stubble on his jawline having thickened into something a lot more rugged.
Surprisingly, Jean he doesn’t entirely hate the way he looks, even if the scruffiness isn’t exactly ideal for an Ambassador of peace. When takes his shaving kit and begins lathering soap in his scuttle, he brushes dollops of lather onto only his upper cheeks and neck. With his safety razor he doesn’t remove his facial hair, but instead touches up the edges and ensures that the lines on his beard are straight and even.
When he rinses off and applies a balm, he takes another look at his reflection. He’s still the Jean Kirschtein who just witnessed history in the boardroom. But internally, he feels a lot different. The feeling of satisfaction after finally achieving what he had set out to do has yet to enter his mind and he still doesn’t know why.
What he does know for certain is that a beard doesn’t look too horrible on him, even in the foggy bathroom mirror.
Once he’s done with his little bout of manly grooming, Jean exits the bathroom. In the bedroom he changes into his sleepwear and by the time he’s pulling on the bottoms he hears a knock on his door.
As to be expected, Mikasa enters his space looking like her usual self — all tall, slender, glass skin, and impeccably brushed hair. She closes the door and faces him, giving a soft, friendly look. The sight of her in that same white nightgown still makes his heart skip a beat. Even this late in the evening, she looks stunning.
“Hey,” he greets first.
“Hey.”
She remains where she is, resting her back against the door. Jean stands at the foot of his bed. There’s only a few steps between them. As they face each other, they fall into their usual routine of waiting for the other to say the next words.
After a beat, Mikasa begins. “How were things?”
“Boring,” Jean replies dryly. “But what else is new?”
Mikasa looks doubtful, but retains a cordial air. “That’s not how Kiyomi said it. I’m…” She pauses, thinking of the right thing to say. “...I’m relieved… that it worked out… somehow.”
Jean laughs half-heartedly. “Yeah, that makes one of us.”
Mikasa tilts her head to the side, confused. “You don’t have faith in the treaty?”
“I have faith in the treaty,” he clarifies. He pulls his nightshirt onto his shoulders, letting it hang unbuttoned over his torso. “I just don’t think a bunch of signatures on one paper can change the minds of an entire island. But I guess we’ll see.”
His words settle into her slowly. In that time Mikasa simply stands there with her arms crossed over her chest. She stares at the floor — thinking, pondering, contemplating. Internally, Jean tries to fight the feeling that his words aren’t assuring her one bit.
“You’ll be safe though, right?” he continues, stepping forward. There’s a pleading quality to his voice. “You’ll be okay?”
Mikasa meets his eyes again and nods. “I should be.”
He smiles as wide as he can given the hour and sighs in relief. “That’s good… that’s great. I’m… I’m glad you’ll be safe here.”
The less he has to think about a Jaegerist attempting revenge by proxy, the better — though he can’t imagine who would be so blinded that they attack Mikasa Ackerman, of all people. But it’s in his nature to worry, it’s in his nature to care.
“It’d be nice if you guys didn’t have to leave so soon,” Mikasa remarks.
The concept is undeniably tantalizing, but a part of Jean is too battered by his reality that he can barely fantasize about it.
“Yeah, it would be.”
He waits for her to say anything else. She could tell him about her work in the orphanage again, something she will very much return to now that the peace talks have concluded. She could discuss how things might change in the immediate aftermath of the treaty, even from her little corner of Shiganshina. She could even mention tomorrow’s dinner and how she’ll get to spend the night rubbing elbows with other diplomats, stepping out of her world for a moment to live in a fraction of his.
But instead Mikasa says —
“We should sleep.”
Jean doesn’t argue. Without a word he nods, turns off the lights, and climbs onto the mattress, Mikasa following shortly.
She wastes no time, as soon he’s lying back on the bed and she’s on top of him. She meets his lips and kisses him with the same earnestness as before — hip-to-hip, body-to-body, and her arms enthusiastically around his shoulders. Her earliest touches had been pervaded by curiosity — a need to experiment crossed with a willingness to explore, a desire to test her limits and discover his own — but now both parties are deeply acquainted with the other. She knows him and he knows her. He knows that she’s okay with him kissing the scar underneath her eye, she knows that he’s okay with her playing at the ends of his hair — he knows that he can trail his lips up and down her neck, she knows that she can run her hands over his chest.
And it’s still as sweet as the first time.
Then tonight something shifts. One second he’s on his back and enjoying every part of her glory, but the next he feels Mikasa’s hands grasping his nightshirt. She pulls until he is sitting up, then once he is she climbs onto his lap. The new position takes Jean by surprise, the sensation of her flush against his groin startles him in a way he can’t describe. He can’t ignore the way his heart beats in his chest, but her kisses are familiar enough that any sense of discomfort is quickly washed away.
Her hands find his face and cup his cheeks, their teeth briefly clashing as she deepens their kiss. Between their bodies is a sense of heat, something that gets warmer and warmer as Jean’s arms snake around her waist to pull her closer. The novelty of the situation is still fresh in his mind, but Jean can’t deny her — he never could.
Then in the midst of it all, Mikasa suddenly stops. She pulls her lips off of his, but just her lips. Their foreheads remain connected and both of them go still. Jean keeps his eyes closed, the fretfulness inside of him refusing to quell. He doesn’t know how much time passes until he hears her voice amongst the quiet night.
“When do you think you’ll be back?”
Jean sighs against her and wishes he had something better to say. “I don’t know.”
Mikasa goes silent, but nuzzles her forehead against his to remind him that she’s there. She kisses his cheek, then the short hairs on his jaw, then at a spot on his neck that makes his toes curl.
“...okay.”
Her hands begin to roam, beginning with his shoulders so she can work off his unbuttoned shirt. Once the garment is gone her hands move across his torso in a way that she’s never done before, her palms and fingers ardently grazing the muscles on his frame and the hair on his chest. She meets his lips again as she touches his shoulders with a kind of tenacity that makes his stomach clench, her nails digging into his flesh. She’s moving fast and so is he, the pressure building between them is too much to ignore.
A groan escapes Jean’s throat as he lets himself respond in a way he hasn’t before. The material of his sleepwear does little to hide the growing arousal between his legs and Mikasa knows it. He’s almost embarrassed at how quickly she manages to stimulate him.
Their kisses are messier now — open-mouthed, clumsy, and very eager. When her hands graze his groin through his clothing, he sighs and realizes that no amount of imagining that kind of touch had compared to the real thing.
It’s only when she touches him again that Jean realizes exactly what she’s trying to do. The reality that he’s unable to resist her becomes clearer and clearer with every second.
Before he can get too swept up in the moment, Jean breaks their kiss. Just like before, he keeps his eyes shut and his forehead against hers.
“What are you doing?” he asks, praying to god that the unease in his voice isn’t apparent.
Seconds follow where the only sound Jean can hear are the steady breaths between him and her. Her free arm is around his shoulders. She holds him like he’s the only thing that matters. Her silence is agonizing.
“I… I’d like to know what it feels like,” she eventually asks, her voice quiet and small.
She pulls away and he opens his eyes — their gazes connect as moonlight illuminates the room from outside. She looks as anxious as he feels and he wonders if it shows.
“Is that okay?” she asks.
Jean answers her question by closing the space between their lips. His hand finds the back of her head as he deepens their kiss.
“Just…” he lets slip from his mouth. “...just tell me to stop if you need me to, okay?”
Mikasa hums as her hands find his shoulders again. Their pace continues from where they left off — bodies connecting, limbs entangling, hips grazing in ways they never would have before. He’s still powerless to resist her, so willing to give into her touch and her scent and the delightful noises she lets out when he kisses her neck.
From there they move in tandem, listening to each other’s touch and breaths as the night goes on.
And it’s still so sweet.
…
…
…
In the midst of the night they’re more naked than they’ve ever been around each other. Mikasa is still a ball of nerves, but to make her more comfortable Jean had suggested she turn around, sensing that not looking at him could keep her worries at bay.
She’s on all fours as his hips meet her backside. The rhythm is constant and each thrust — though unfamiliar — leaves her breathless. His hands find their way to her waist and dig into her flesh, the feeling of him building a sense of pleasure inside of her.
At one point Mikasa collapses slightly, shuddering as her stomach meets the mattress. She reaches forward and grabs the headboard, squeezing the wood tight in an effort to recompose herself. She closes her eyes and feels Jean repositioning himself. He presses sweet kisses down her back and between her shoulder blades before his hand finds hers, holding onto the post as well as he re-enters her and continues their dance.
As he moves she thinks that she can get used to it — her biting into her own lip to stifle her cries, the loving way he kisses her neck to keep her calm, and the carnality that builds between them as he chases their climax.
…
…
…
Now.
Her Anchor In The Storm.
The rain continues to fall, hitting the cottage roof at a neverending rate. The wind coming off the ocean causes the walls to creak and a certain chill to enter the air. And in the distance is the ever-present sound of the waves.
But it helps her sleep, the noises she’d normally associate with the chaos of a storm comforts her in ways she cannot describe. She rests with her head against his bare chest. Her eyes are closed as the sound of his soft breathing mixes with that of the weather. His skin feels warm and smells like the salt in the sea. Under the sheets her legs are entangled with his. Even as she stirs she finds herself holding onto him just a little bit tighter. She basks in him, her anchor in the storm.
Mikasa can’t remember the last time she had felt so at peace.
At one point she begins to move. Half asleep, she shifts until she can kiss Jean’s chest, carefully trailing her lips upwards and moving until she can graze the faded scar on his collarbone. Her eyes are still closed as she hears him exhale softly. She arrives at his face and begins peppering his cheeks and jaw with loving pecks.
To her they’re little reminders — not just of her affections, but that everything from last night had been real. Each kiss, each caress, each thrust. He had confessed his truth — as difficult as it had been — then kissed her. He had let out everything he had been holding in, reaped pleasure from every inch of her body, and held her like he’s loved her for a thousand years.
Jean’s breathing gets a little louder as he hums and stir. Before he can truly wake, Mikasa slips out of bed.
The floor below her feet is cold as she goes to his closet and fishes around for something to keep her decent. She settles on an old dress shirt, the hem going to the midpoint of her thighs as she does up the buttons.
The staircase creaks as she descends, the rain against the roof still refusing to relent. She’s not even sure what time it is, though her instincts guess that it’s very early in the morning.
In the main living space she spots Hugo asleep on the couch, who suddenly wakes once he sees her. She smiles as the dog stretches and hops on the floor to greet her.
After his usual pets, Mikasa lets Hugo out through the backdoor and watches him do his canine business in the rainy yard. She curtly chuckles at how quickly he does what he needs to before rushing back inside. When he returns to the living room he rolls on the carpet to dry himself off.
Mikasa goes to the bathroom to wash her face and wipe herself off. She sees herself in the mirror and notices how she looks more disheveled than she ever lets herself be — bed-raggled hair and all — yet more content and satisfied than she’s been in some time.
She leaves the bathroom and heads back up the stairs, where she enters the bedroom to find Jean where she had left him. He is still fast asleep and draped in the sheets. When she closes the door behind her, the sound startles him very slightly. His eyes open slowly, and when he sees her across the room a sleepy smile creeps onto his face.
Unable to refrain, Mikasa crosses the space and wastes no time. She pulls the borrowed shirt off her torso and lets it hit the floor, then in the nude she steps forward and kneels on the mattress. Jean sits up just enough to snake his arm around his waist and let her rejoin him in bed, their lips colliding immediately.
…
…
…
Losing Touch.
They make love again as what would have been the morning light is shrouded by the clouds. This time she’s on his lap, her fingernails digging into his shoulders and her face teething at a spot on his neck. It’s thrilling to be so close to him again, to remember what it’s like to have him tug at her hair or run his hands over her skin. She can’t remember the last time she had yearned for someone this much, both in matters of the heart and matters of the flesh. She can’t remember the last time someone had made her feel as adored as Jean does, the person who kisses the scar underneath her cheek and grazes his forehead against hers to remind her that she is loved.
With Jean’s hands on her backside, he guides her in their latest dance, each moment of contact causing carnal pleasure to rush through her entire body. Below her his hips are jutting and jerking wildly. He moans into her hair again, cursing and saying her name as she grinds against his cock. The mattress beneath them continues to creak.
At one point, Mikasa lets out another cry and promptly plants her hands on his shoulders, pushing him until his back meets the bed. He doesn’t resist and soon he’s lying underneath her as her hand finds his dick to reposition themselves. There’s a wispiness to the sound she makes when he’s inside her again. From there on the two continue.
Jean barely has a second to catch his breath before her hips flush against his once more. It's a far cry from anything they’ve tried before, but the rush in her veins motivates her to chase the climax between them.
Their rhythm continues, Mikasa moving above him and Jean’s hands finding her waist again. His fingers dig into her as he grunts, groans, and speaks her name like it’s a cry to god. Their combined motions cause the sound of their meeting flesh to resonate throughout the room again.
Mikasa catches sight of Jean as he lies back, his face enraptured in bliss as she fucks him on his own bed. When she reaches the apex of their sensuality she plants her hands on his shoulders again. Together they work to find their end.
Mikasa meets hers with a cry, one that is unbridled by her face hidden in his neck or her teeth finding her bottom lip. Jean finds his with an open-mouthed grunt.
Soon she’s finished and collapsed on top of him again, her head resting on his chest as she catches her breath, bodies entwined and slicked with sweat. The room around them grows silent, the noise of the ocean and the storm becoming the only thing Mikasa hears as she closes her eyes and basks in Jean’s embrace.
His chest is rising and falling as she nuzzles him, a feeling so warm that Mikasa swears she can stay here forever. She doesn’t know how much time passes before Jean speaks.
“Thank you,” he lets out, still breathless.
Mikasa hums into his chest, amused. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. I’m losing my touch.” Jean sighs, then chuckles at his own expense. “I’m getting old.”
“You’re not a day above twenty-seven,” Mikasa reminds as she kisses his collarbone again.
She feels him stroke her hair as she looks up and meets his eyes. In light of an overcast morning he looks calm and content. It’s moments like this where his fondness for her is as clear as day.
“Still… I’m not as strong as I used to be,” Jean remarks, a statement that is filled with just the slightest bit of self-pity. At least it’s the playful kind. “And I don’t uh… look like it anymore.”
Once more Mikasa hums and nuzzles his neck, her hand running across the hair on his chest and trailing down to touch the his stomach. The act makes his leg twitch and she smirks at how ticklish he is.
Underneath her palm Mikasa feels the softness expected from Jean’s quiet life. His words ring true in that he’s no longer the soldier he once was, no longer the Scout fighting a war that started centuries before he was born. But any sign that Jean no longer needs to be in combat shape is a sign that he can finally live in peace.
So Mikasa peels herself from Jean’s chest and shifts just enough to plant a kiss onto his stomach, then one onto his hip bone. The gestures make him writhe as she repositions herself again. Soon she’s resting her head against his shoulder, kissing his warm skin before she closes her eyes and revels in the sensation of his arms wrapping around her once more.
…
…
…
Then.
The Aftermath.
Twenty years of cheeky jokes from older folks and jabs from his contemporaries had refined his expectations. There were some who treated the act like a rite of passage, insinuating that he would become a new man afterwards — then there were others who treated sex like something that one just does when they’re ready.
Jean expects to wake up the next morning feeling different. Yet as he opens his eyes in the middle of the night, hours after the act, the most present thought in his mind is how nothing has changed.
He thoroughly enjoyed what they did that night — even if each moment of pleasure was counterbalanced by the embarrassing realization that he’s never been naked in front of a partner before, let alone naked in front of her.
He feels no better, no worse. He doesn’t even feel the guilt he thought he would when he kissed her back. He’s still the same Jean as the morning before. All he can really say now is that he’s finally lived an experience that countless others have gone through before. It doesn’t make him special in any shape or form.
Jean lies awake in the dark room and spends a few minutes staring at the ceiling. The silence makes him uneasy, almost like he'll be sick. The world outside the window is dark, the hallways of the once-busy palace are eerily quiet. He braces himself before turning aside to see her.
Mikasa is asleep next to him, wrapped snugly in the blankets as her hair conceals her face. Her breathing is quiet and almost disappears into the night like rising smoke.
He watches and expects her to wake at one point or another. When she remains where she is, asleep without so much as a sound, Jean sighs. He turns around before attempting to tackle another bout of slumber.
He ends up drifting in and out of sleep. There’s a moment where Mikasa’s resting against his shoulder, then another where they’ve drifted apart on the bed. Both times Jean hasn’t the faintest idea of how they got there.
At one point he’s asleep on his side. He opens his groggy eyes and focuses on the window. Through a gap in the curtains he sees the morning sun peeking above the distant mountains. He thinks he hears Mikasa stirring next to him, but is far too tired to turn around and check. What follows is the familiar squeak and shift of the mattress that indicates she’s sitting up, then the sound of her feet touching the floor.
Unable to shake the sleep from his eyes, Jean remains still. From where he is he gets a brief glimpse of Mikasa walking to the bathroom, bare and exposed, and closing the door. He does nothing as he listens to the muffled sound of the running sink.
Sleep begins to pull at him again once she re-enters the room. He gets the faintest vision of her kneeling to the floor, where in blocks of faint sunlight she gathers up her clothes. She pulls the nightgown over her torso before she stands, a sight that is so fuzzy at the edges that it might as well be a dream.
The last thing Jean feels is Mikasa kissing his eyelashes before she leaves the room entirely.
…
…
…
On paper, the upcoming dinner is an occasion to commemorate the end of the Peace Talks and the signing of the treaty — but Jean has a hunch that in actuality, Queen Historia simply wants an occasion to enjoy more time with her old friends before they’re carted off to the other side of the world.
With the main event of the day being in the evening, Jean and his comrades are left to their own devices.
At a leisurely pace, he dresses himself in his usual vest and shirt before heading down for a late breakfast, relieved to not don his beige suit for once. In the palace’s third-best dining hall he finds only a few of his fellow Ambassadors there.
The first person he sees is Connie, who he approaches and sits beside. As he pours himself his daily coffee, Jean glances around the room and tries to pinpoint who’s missing. Reiner’s spreading butter onto his toast while staring off into nothing, Pieck is chatting his ear off despite the indications that he’s not really listening, and Annie is alone at one end of the table. The latter sight tips him off to Armin being absent. His assumption is confirmed when Connie mentions something about the little guy taking a morning walk with Mikasa.
Jean nods and tries not to overthink the finer details. As he takes a bite of toast, his mind drifts back to a particular train of thought he experienced earlier, even if he can’t tell if such musings are a memory or a dream.
Jean is reaffirmed in his assessment from the night before. Despite what had happened, the coffee tastes the same, the sun shining through the window is typical, and his inability to get Mikasa off his mind is no different.
There’s nothing left for him to do but slip back into his usual role for the day, even if there’s not a single meeting awaiting him and his comrades. He remains where he is, enjoys the last bits of royal breakfast while he still can, and listens to Connie speak like nothing has changed.
…
…
…
Now.
As Long as He Needs Her.
By late morning they’re out of bed. Jean’s old shirt hangs from her shoulders again as the two descend the stairs. She insists that she try cooking for him this time and to her surprise he lets her. He busies himself by petting Hugo as she makes a meal from whatever she can find in the kitchen. The eggs, bread, and remaining coffee beans go a long way as the storm beyond the window continues to pour.
As she plates the eggs and brings them to the table, Mikasa sees Jean sitting at the other end, his elbow propped on the surface and his hand on his chin, a position perhaps held to hide the wide grin on his handsome face. There’s something about the way he watches her now that makes her heart flutter — a tenderness, a softness that is no longer restrained by the need to hide his affections, like he still can’t believe that she’s here with him now and playing in his kitchen like she’s a part of his world.
Mikasa can’t deny that she feels a similar way, too.
They eat, drink, and talk like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before. Then in a moment where the bliss comes down, Mikasa finally asks Jean about the actual reason for his return to Paradis. The question had been hanging over them for the last few hours, and by now the discussion was inevitable. Her only wish is for her to make him comfortable enough to talk to her, much like had done for her all those years ago.
As to be expected, Jean is as honest as he can be.
He explains that the Ambassadors had essentially “retired” a year and a half after the signing of the Peace Accords. It wasn’t that the world had suddenly achieved a sense of unbreakable unity, but that the state of things were harmonious enough to allow the people who killed Eren Jaeger a moment of rest, even if just for a while.
Reiner and Connie went to a commune where no one knew their names, Pieck returned to the mainland to be at her father’s side for his last few years, and Jean ended up living with Armin and Annie.
Mikasa knows bits of the story, as through Armin’s letters he had detailed how he and Annie restored an old seaside cottage, much like what Jean had done for himself on the Island. What he had neglected to mention was that Jean was living in their basement at the time, having apparently earned the roof over his head by helping rebuild their home, assisting with cooking, and even by crabbing in the local waters. Suddenly it’s no question how Jean managed to assemble his own place with his bare hands.
Mikasa muses on why Armin hadn’t told her that Jean was living with him, but soon realizes that some things were probably not his to tell. Afterall, Armin is Jean’s friend, too.
Barely half a year passed before he had received a message from Paradis. Of all the people who could have sent it to him, it had been from Ulrich, the man who had been seeing Arielle Kirschtein during what feels like a lifetime ago.
And it’s when Jean gets to this part of the tale that he begins to falter. He goes still and Mikasa sees his eyes begin to glisten.
Jean takes a breath before explaining that his mother got sick. All Ulrich’s letter said was that something was making her weak in some places and numb in others, that walking was suddenly a challenge for a woman barely into her fifties, and that at the moment of writing she was spending most of her days bedridden. At the time Jean didn’t know what would be more difficult — stomaching the reality that something was making his mother ill but he didn’t know what, or finding a way back to Paradis.
Even with all the favours he could pull, Jean had doubts on how welcoming the Island would be to a traitor. It hadn’t helped that Paradis had gotten stricter with who comes in and who comes out, even with the outcome of the Peace Talks.
It took adopting an alias and bribing a fishing crew to get him there. On a frigid night, a stranger named “Jehan” sat on the back of a trawler with a single rucksack and a sketchbook balanced on his knee. Drawing had become a way to keep his hands busy, helping him ignore the dread in his stomach as the vessel braved the sea en route to the Island. The pieces he had made to pass the time now reside in his desk drawer.
In her mind, Mikasa conjures the vision of Jean arriving at the port in the midst of the night — his hair a shaggy mess, the beard on his face hiding who he used to be, and the weight of his entire life on his back.
After taking the first train to Trost, Jean had finally laid eyes on what he had feared. Mikasa can’t fathom what it had been like to see Arielle Kirschtein in the throes of her illness — a mother who had her child young and lived a happy life now bedridden for reasons that neither her son nor her partner could fathom. Not even the advancing medicine of Paradis could truly explain what was making his mother ache in her sides and numb in her limbs, what was making her cough like her lungs were suddenly failing her.
Maybe the only solace Arielle had in the situation was that Jean managed to see her before her time was up, that he was able to hug her on a cold night and tell her he loved her, that he could make her comfortable before she passed.
And when Jean gets to this point of the story, Mikasa knows that he has so much more to tell, but right now cannot. He’s never been a cryer, but she sees the tears he’s trying to hold back forming in the corner of his eyes, an occurrence that intensifies with every second. As Jean tries to breathe, he looks more ashamed to show his grief than to have it in the first place.
It’s when Jean puts his face in his hands that Mikasa finally reacts. She stands and goes to his side of the table. By the time she gets there, the tears are already streaming down his face. She kneels to hold him and let him nestle his head into the crook of her neck, her shoulder now wet with his tears. She holds him tight as he shakes and sobs with the same kind of heartbreak that she embodies on every visit to Eren’s hill, when grief is so fresh that it feels like a wound that cannot heal.
The storm outside continues to drum against the cottage walls as Jean cries into her arms.
…
…
…
They eventually move to the couch so that she's sitting in the corner and letting him rest his head on her lap. He rides out his latest bout of heartache as she caresses his hair, a wave of gloom taking control and leaving him sobbing against her.
But at least he's not alone.
Mikasa remains where she is for as long as he needs it, for as long as he needs to let it out. When he comes back to her, when the tears have finally stopped steaming down his cheeks, he doesn't look her way. He's still like a stone as he regains himself, breathing slowly as Mikasa moves stray strands from his face and catches sight of his reddened eyes.
And she still doesn't move, continuing to stroke his head and hold him as long as he needs her to.
...
...
...
The Need to Comfort.
Jean manages to regain himself in the afternoon. As he loads logs and kindling into the fireplace, Mikasa listens to the rest of his story in parts.
It’s uncomfortable to hear him detail the plights of organizing a funeral under an alias. With Arielle’s traitor of a son presumably off the Island, the citizens of Trost were confused to see Ulrich talk to a stranger named Jehan during such a difficult time. Having been briefly married, the decision of what would happen to Arielle’s remaining assets fell solely in Ulrich’s hands, but out of respect Jean had been encouraged to have the final say on what would become of his childhood home.
Jean doesn’t regret the choice to sell the house, as at the time his life as he lived it existed in the rucksack he dragged to the Island. He didn’t even argue against Ulrich’s refusal to take the resulting money, wordlessly pocketing it in his quest to sever the traitor’s ties to Trost.
More details begin to make sense now, making Mikasa wonder how much of Jean’s old home had to be given away to help build his new one.
When the fireplace is ablaze, a wave of warmth floods into the cottage’s living space. The two sit on the carpet in front of the couch, where Jean drapes a blanket on his lap and hers. With ease she settles back into his embrace, her head finding his shoulder effortlessly. Hugo stands from his corner of the carpet and goes to Mikasa, where he lies down and rests his chin against her thigh.
As Mikasa pets the dog between the ears, she listens to Jean admitting that the month following his mother’s burial still feels like a blur to him. His impression is undoubtedly swayed by being forced to attend Arielle’s funeral like he never knew her in the first place, having nothing else to do but stand behind his old neighbours and family friends like he was just another person passing by.
Once everything in Trost had wrapped up, he had no other choice but to head back to the port town and find another boat willing to take him off the Island. But for a reason Jean can’t even remember, he never managed to find one.
It could have been because the fisherman operating off the Paradisian coasts were particularly busy that season, or because no one was willing to accept the handful of cash the stranger was offering in exchange for reaching the mainland. Or maybe it was because upon arriving at the port town, Jean got the brilliant idea to get rip-roaring drunk at the local tavern instead of doing anything else.
For over a week he had searched for solace at the bottom of a bottle or in the arms of strangers — men and women who didn’t even bother asking his name. The need to comfort had taken precedence over everything else, either through substance or skin. He had quickly grown used to waking up in unfamiliar beds with a distinct pounding in his head and an ever-worsening sense of self. In her mind she can already see Jean slumped over a table in a tavern, Seb the Barkeep either pouring him another pint or politely nudging him awake after a particularly intense bender. Somehow, the man still has a kindly smile on his face, even at the lowest depths of Jean’s distress.
At the time, Jean had been so wrapped up in the need to numb himself that he didn’t care what happened to him, willingly suffering the consequences of each bottle or each bruise. For every night he spent drunkenly stumbling around town, there was another where he got pulled into scraps with unruly barflys, the desire to sink his fist into something taking precedence over everything else.
In contrast, the Jean sitting next to Mikasa now seems to hold some regrets over how he had handled things. The contempt for his past-self is clear in his eyes. Perhaps enough blows to the head finally forced some sense into his skull.
At least he manages to laugh at the strangeness of the circumstances. The cottage they currently sit in would probably not exist had Jean not gotten kicked out of the tavern and decided to take an inebriated walk up the coast, where his desire for life to slow down for one fucking minute had intersected with the remnants of a project that someone abandoned.
Mikasa doesn’t know how much of the house had been made from Jean’s need for a home and how much has stemmed from his need to keep his hands busy. Focusing on something external did wonders in numbing the aching feeling that the world around him was changing faster than he knew to do with. Perhaps back then the only thing keeping him from turning into the local barfly downing his third glass was the utter determination to finish the half-built structure just up the coast.
The weather remains dreary and grey as the day goes on. Jean reheats leftover stew for lunch and brews more coffee. When it’s her turn to wait at the table and watch him cook, she lets Hugo lie at her feet and listens to him mumble about the craft he’s actually interested in.
Art was never something he thought would actually become a career until after he acquired Hugo and neared the end of the cottage’s restoration. At the time, he only ever sketched or painted in between long days at the site. With the way his limbs would pain him after hours of work, he only ever had the energy to hold a pencil or a paintbrush.
A year after his arrival at the port town, Jean had gone from the fellow who frequented the taverns with a desperate desire for comfort, to the person who sat near the coast with nothing else but his dog, his sketchbook, and his medium of choice for the day — coloured pencils, charcoal, or the ever-reliable watercolour paint. Enough locals had noticed the way his brushstrokes would perfectly adorn the page to depict the seafoam on the beach and ocean waves.
It only took selling one painting for him to sell another — then from there everything fell into place naturally. Before he knew it he was spending his days walking Hugo, properly converting the barn behind the cottage into a studio, and working on commissions.
As Jean serves her the reheated stew, he mentions that the most surprising thing he had discovered from his new gig is that many of his clients don’t question his mononym. “Jehan” had quickly evolved from a mask he wore to sneak onto the Island to the painter who lived just up the coast and kept to himself. Even his post office box in town bears only one name and doesn’t rouse suspicion.
Burying the remnants of his old life had been difficult, but as Jean holds himself now it’s clear that a part of him thinks that it was worth it in the end. Only the people who really knew him were the only ones who could associate the name “Jean Kirschtein” with more than just a traitor to the Island. And if that’s what it truly took to live a life of peace, then so be it.
...
...
...
As the afternoon drags on, Jean politely declines Mikasa’s offer to wash up and does the dishes himself. To keep herself busy, she lets Hugo into the backyard again and remains at the porch, where she watches the canine prance around the grass and rain like a glorious idiot.
After Mikasa re-enters the home and very graciously towels off the rain-soaked dog, she comes by the kitchen again to see Jean drying his hands. She notices the way he rakes his fingers through his hair, a gesture he usually does when stressed but now performs with the sole purpose of getting the loose strands away from his face.
When he mentions that he’s been putting off a barbershop visit for too long, she surprises him by offering to give him a little trim, to which he surprises her back by accepting. Soon he’s sitting on a stool in his bathroom with a towel wrapped around his shoulders and she’s standing behind him with a pair of scissors in her nimble fingers.
Nowadays, Mikasa mainly cuts her own hair, because no matter how long she wears it — whether it be her current bob cut or long enough to necessitate a pony tail — the split ends bother her more than she'd like to admit. As she snips at Jean’s ashy mane, the muscle memory from helping Armin and Sasha trim their bangs comes back to her, little chores she learned to look forward to even during the lower points of her past life. Her work is still imperfect though, as more than once does she have to remind herself to only give Jean a trim and not completely shear his hair.
She stops once the strands are just above his ears, a length that somewhat reminds her of how he looked back when they were trainees. Combined with his well-trimmed beard he seems more clean-cut than Mikasa’s ever seen him, not even when he played the part of Ambassador. Despite the satisfaction with her work being clear in Jean’s eyes, Mikasa sheepishly begs him to see an actual barber once he gets the chance. But to that he simply leans forward and kisses the doubt off her face.
Jean then runs a bath for the both of them, utilizing a fancy bottle of soap that he had apparently been saving for a special occasion. Clouds of foam-like bubbles form in the tub and a heavenly floral scent enters the air, something akin to roses. When he strips down in front of him and she does the same without any sense of shame, she takes it as a sign that she’s truly grown accustomed to his presence again.
The afternoon turns into evening. Mikasa sits in the tub and lets the warm water ease the ache in her joints. Jean sits behind her — where he’ll either wash her hair or massage a knot in her back, where he’ll wrap his arms around her torso or very sweetly kiss a spot on her neck. She’ll sigh and revel in the sensation of his beard grazing her cheek or the way his arms will snake around her shoulders. His hands very easily find hers, their fingers inevitably intertwining.
Through the closest window she sees the darkening storm, pellets of rain against the glass, and the restless surf against the coast. The chill of the ocean still permeates the air around them, but as Mikasa basks in his warmth it doesn’t bother her one bit. She doesn’t know what comforts her more — the electricity that sparks underneath her skin after every touch, or the fact that she’s fortunate to be loved again by someone like Jean.
…
…
…
Then.
2ND PASS COMPLETE.
Courtliness and Composure.
With several hours to kill, Jean distracts himself any way he can. After breakfast, he finds his paintbox and explores the palace in search of his next subject. He ends up in a tower in the corner that brings him higher than he’s ever been, a position that allows him to paint Mitras' skyline into his sketchbook. The sun is burning bright in a cloudless sky, a sight that reminds him to be at ease and enjoy what life might be like if things slowed down for a few seconds.
Once his latest masterpiece has dried onto the page, Jean heads down to one of the palace’s many sitting rooms. It's atop the carpeted floors that he drinks tea as Pieck and Annie play a game of chess near the window. Judging by Annie’s furrowed brow and the lack of white pieces on the board, it’s fair to assume that Pieck’s winning.
After seeing Annie getting schooled in the art of chess, Jean dips out of the room and kills more time with a pen and paper. Instead of drawing, he finds yet another unoccupied sitting room and writes a letter that’s far overdue. In the message he makes sure to apologize to his mother for how badly he’s kept in touch with her over the years, lamenting his inability to stay in-contact with people in general, and even promising that one day he’ll return to Paradis and maybe meet that Ulrich guy. After the letter is tucked into an envelope and properly addressed, Jean finds a servant in the palace and very kindly asks for the message to be mailed.
Later on, Jean eats a light lunch with Reiner, something they tend to do on days where they are anticipating some kind of work-related meal in the evening. After all, it would be terribly rude for an Ambassador of Peace to attend such a fancy dinner and barely eat.
A kindly chef gives them some sandwiches made with thinly sliced radishes, cheese, and cured meat, which they consume in the same room they had breakfast and with even more tea. Reiner doesn't banter with him as much usual, giving Jean the impression that he’s not the only one absolutely drained after the last few weeks of Peace Talks.
And all throughout the day Jean’s thoughts of her are fleeting. His brief musings as to where she is at this very moment never last too long. He guesses that she’s spending more time with Armin or entertaining the Crown Princess of Paradis, or maybe even chatting with Kiyomi again and continuing their discussion from the garden.
When evening arrives, Jean is back to work like a well-oiled machine. Making himself look presentable is a familiar song and dance. The suit he dons at night is slightly nicer than his usual uniform, a three-piece ensemble made with darker threads and worn with a crisper white shirt. Despite the outfit spending the last few months resting dormant in his suitcase, it fits him a lot better than what he usually wears. As he adjusts his tie and slicks his hair again, Jean wonders how long he’ll have to shake hands and plaster a smile on his face before he can slip out and have a smoke.
There’s little fanfare as Jean walks through the hallways. He doesn’t see his fellow Ambassadors until he’s on the palace’s ground floor, and even then it’s just Pieck leaning against Connie as she adjusts the way her shoe fits on her foot.
Soon Jean arrives at the correct dining hall, the fancier one with enough space to feed at least two dozen hungry guests, a space now shrouded by a golden glow of light and filled with people on every end. Upon entering, he huffs and thinks of how he’s been to enough of these occasions for each one of them to feel the same.
The diplomats and dignitaries who hadn’t left the Island look more lively than Jean’s ever seen them, unrestrained and unbound by the walls of the boardroom. Conversations fill the air and mix with the sound of music. As he walks, Jean looks around in search of the band playing the horn-filled tunes, but soon discovers that the noise is coming from a rather lavish gramophone in the corner.
With the dining table currently bare, Jean senses that there’s time to kill before the meal is actually served. He scans the room and spots Armin, Annie, and Reiner standing near a window — all dressed to the nines, as some would say. As he approaches, he grabs a glass of sparkling wine from a server on the way, managing a quick sip just before he settles near his comrades. The drink both calms his nerves and helps him brace himself for the inevitable small-talk they tend to fall into during these kinds of nights.
Reiner eyes him first, intrigued to find that he hadn't shaved before the event. “Oh... so you're keeping the beard this time?”
“Might as well,” Jean shrugs as he strokes his chin, a habit he’s sure he’ll keep up. “Grew pretty thick in the last few weeks.”
Reiner nods in agreement. “Looks good on you, Kirschtein. I mean, who knew a horse could clean up so well?”
Jean shoots a glare as Reiner chuckles. Armin snickers and Annie rolls her eyes at the extremely intelligent conversation being had in front of her.
“Did you know we nearly made it the whole stay without you saying something like that?” Jean scoffs.
“Something like what?”
Jean recognizes her voice instantly and looks her way, expecting a sight he’s grown used to over the last few weeks. But when he lays eyes on her he is immediately caught off-guard by what he sees.
Under the golden lights of the dining hall, Mikasa stands not in her usual baggy cardigan and skirt, but in the kind of robes he’s only seen women wearing in Hizuru. Light blue fabric is draped elegantly over her torso and goes down to just above her feet. Intricately embroidered into the material is a floral pattern. A white sash is secured around her waist. Her hair is tied back into a bun with not a single strand out of place, allowing her pretty face to be seen by all. She holds herself with a kind of grace and poise that Jean’s never seen her with — a gentleness, a courtliness, a far cry from the woman worth a thousand soldiers.
And unsurprisingly, Jean is unable to ignore his beating heart.
“Wow.” He looks her up and down as if to gauge if what he’s seeing is real. “You look… wow. ”
He steps past Jean and greets her with a brief hug, then kisses her cheek.
“As do you,” Mikasa tells her old friend, then looks at the rest of the finely-dressed Ambassadors. “You all do.”
Her words make Jean chuckle awkwardly, the polite kind that is not entirely out of place in settings like this. Meanwhile, Armin looks about to blush, Reiner beams with a sense of pride, and Annie — in typical Annie fashion — gives a firm nod with an unchanging face.
“Where’d you get the threads?” asks Reiner.
“Kiyomi lent it to me, actually,” Mikasa explains, then looks sheepish. “I don’t… I don’t really have any formal clothes.”
“You look amazing,” Jean finally manages. Once he says the words he feels relieved to have remembered how to talk. “You really do. I’m glad you came out.”
His words wipe the timidity from Mikasa’s face and in its place is a gentle, flattered smile. There’s a fondness in her eyes as their gazes meet.
Before Jean can say anything else, the group is approached by one of the diplomats, a person who spoke in the Peace Talks on behalf of the Mid-East. Jean catches a smoky scent emanating off the gentleman and soon has a hunch on who Pieck might have snagged cigarettes a week ago. The older man smiles at Armin in particular and urges him to follow, as there are other representatives who’d love to speak to him before the Ambassadors officially leave.
Armin nods and walks off, gesturing for Mikasa to follow, which she does. As Jean remains in Reiner and Annie’s corner, he can’t stop his eyes from lingering on her as she goes. He wonders if she’s sticking by Armin’s side as an attempt to savour what time she has left with him, if being near Armin just makes her feel safe in these kinds of events, or if to avoid him — Jean — in particular.
Before Jean can dwell on the thought for too long, Pieck and Connie finally enter through the room’s double doors, making their way to the remaining Ambassadors. Soon Jean is distracted by the small-talk started in the hall, as Connie is unconvinced in Pieck’s reasoning behind her choice in heeled footwear and Pieck is steadfast in her opinion that she likes to feel tall sometimes. Jean nurses his sparkling wine as he listens to both sides of the debate, falling in and out every few minutes as he observes the rest of the guests.
He can’t deny that he’s searching for her. Having not seen her all day makes him yearn for her presence in a much different way than he has before.
Eventually he sees Mikasa standing on the other side of the room, her hands clasped in front of her as she listens to Armin chatting up a diplomat. The expression on her face is neutral, but from where he is he can see a hint of a smile on her lips, even if it’s the kind only worn to maintain an air of civility. In this light she truly looks different — a pastiche of a princess with all the courtliness and composure that follows.
Perhaps this is a glimpse into what could have been.
The pre-dinner preamble continues. Throughout it all Jean half-listens to the ramblings of his friends and continues to keep Mikasa in the corner of his eye.
…
…
…
It Matters How This Ends.
Jean retreats to the garden after dinner, accompanied by nothing but the moon in the sky and the lit cigarette between his fingers.
By now the night feels like a blur. Though the food was delightful, the conversations being spoken above clinking cutlery and dinnerware were the same as they’d always been. Each word had been spoken with a bright, yet compulsory smile plastered over his face, something that wasn’t out of place for an Ambassador of Peace, but can take a toll on anyone after long enough.
Jean takes slow drags of his cigarette as the tension in his chest and shoulders persists. He wonders how late it is and takes in the palace from where he sits. The dining hall is still aglow, as well as various windows on the upper floors. Even what he had been told is the Queen’s personal study seems to be occupied, which brings the thought of even Historia herself needing a break from everything tonight.
He tips ash off his stick and brings it back to his lips. A kind of feebleness pervades his every fiber, yet he doesn’t feel like going to sleep. Not yet.
When he gets to the final drags of his cigarette, Jean learns he’s not alone.
“Nice night for a smoke.”
He looks up to see Mikasa walking down the garden path, a sight he thinks he’s seen before. The moment where they shared a smoke on the swings feels like it happened a century ago. She looks less sullen as she comes into view — more content, more assured despite everything.
And even in the moonlight, she looks bewitching.
Jean gives the best smile he can muster. “Indeed.”
Mikasa stands in front of the gazebo with her hands clasped together. “I barely saw you at dinner.”
“I was busy. We all were.”
If memory serves, both he and Mikasa spent dinner on the opposite ends of the table. If she was not within Armin’s proximity, then she was near Historia or Kiyomi, two people who seemed keen on chatting her ear off. Meanwhile, Jean remained in his usual circle of Ambassadors, only managing glimpses of her throughout the night. Despite the distance, he was relieved to see that she wasn’t overwhelmed in the crowd of people, and even if she was then she did a fine job hiding it.
Jean takes a pull of smoke and holds it in his lungs. “I was worried about you.”
“You’re always worried.”
He laughs to mask his unease. “I can’t help it.”
Jean finishes his cigarette and entertains the idea of lighting another, then ultimately decides against it. Instead he stands and walks off the gazebo, positioning himself in front of her.
“Can I ask you something?”
Mikasa nods.
“You left pretty quickly this morning. Were you alright?”
“I’m fine, Jean.” Her expression is calm and unchanging.
“Are you sure?” he asks, a nervous twinge slipping into his voice. He doesn’t know how to approach the situation — what to ask, what to say, or what to even think. A part of him wants to take her words at face value and move on, but another part knows that it can’t possibly be that simple — nothing ever is.
“Because if I… if I hurt you… or anything like that, I’d like to know. I mean, I’d like to know what I did to make you think that you couldn’t be hon-”
Mikasa cuts him off by stepping forward and kissing him, smoke and all. It’s the first time she’s embraced him outside of the bedroom, out in public where anyone can see.
And Jean kisses her back, his hand finding her cheek barely a second after their lips touch. His thoughts halt as his body takes control. Yet again he is confronted by the truth that he’s unable to resist her, unable to stop himself from ceding to her with fondness, care, and yearning. His reality leaves a lump in his throat.
In the midst of their kiss, Jean goes stiff. Mikasa stops her gesture abruptly, pulling away and opening her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, worried.
Jean’s gaze meets hers. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell her that everything is fine when it’s anything but. He can’t even shake his head to convince her and himself of it. Instead he rubs his face and tries to ignore the sense of turmoil bubbling inside of him.
“Jean,” Mikasa tries when he lets a lull of silence exist between them for a second too long. She reaches forward and takes his hand, lifting it up to her face to press a kiss against his knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”
Jean reaches over so that their fingers intertwine. “What’s gonna happen after this?”
“What do you mean?”
“In two nights? When I’m gone? When I’m halfway across the world and you’re still… here?” Each word feels heavier than the last.
“We don’t have to think about that,” Mikasa answers, then kisses his hand again.
“It’s two nights.”
“I know, so why don’t we enjoy them while we still can?”
“Two nights, Mikasa.”
Seconds of silence pass. During that time Jean begs for her to say anything — an insight, a response, anything — but nothing comes.
The nervous tension inside Jean’s heart disappears, in its place is the kind of weightiness he never thought he’d ever feel again.
“We should just call it quits,” he suggests in lieu of no other option.
Mikasa squeezes his hand. “Have you ever thought about staying here?”
“And do what? Hide?” he presses, unable to shake the feeling that he’s already fighting a losing battle. “Half the Island still thinks I’m a traitor.”
“But the treaty was signed.”
“You think a piece of paper is gonna change everyone’s minds?”
“I think… I think it’d have a chance.”
Jean wonders if his doubt shows. Very gently, his hand moves up and touches her cheek. She’s soft underneath his palm. He runs a thumb across the scar underneath her eye and looks at her dearly.
“What do you think your life’s gonna look like ten, twenty years from now?” he asks. He waits for an answer but nothing comes. “I’m not in it, am I? It’s just… it’s just not gonna happen that way.”
“How do you know that?”
Mikasa goes still as Jean tries to find the next thing to say. He wants to say that Paradis is where she's always belonged. He wants to say that she deserves to be happy and that him — the Traitor, the coward — would get in the way of that. He wants to say that he couldn’t possibly give her the peaceful existence that she dreamed of — he’s never been good enough for her and he never will. He loves her, he hates himself, he’s unable to resist her, and he’s been standing in the shadow of a dead man since the start.
In his head, Jean can barely imagine where he’ll be next year — let alone after the next ten — yet he manages to conjure an image of Mikasa. He sees her a decade wiser and living happily. She has a cabin in the woods where she can live quietly, her own personal homestead where she can be at peace. Maybe she has a handful of children and they bring her all the joy she’s ever wanted. Maybe she even has a partner, someone who kisses the frowns off her face by day and holds her in the crook of their neck by night. Maybe she’ll tell her loved ones what she’s seen in the war or barely tell them a thing, then spend the rest of her days blithely chasing after her babies.
And all Jean will be to her is a memory — a pair of lips that comforted her a whole lifetime ago, a set of shoulders that let her rest on a sleepless night, a body that tangled with hers and woke up spent and breathless the morning after. Nothing more.
“I just do,” Jean finally answers, running his thumb across her cheek again.
A steeliness begins to enter her eyes as she speaks. “What are you trying to say, Jean?”
“We should just… we should just end it while we still can,” he manages to say, defeated. A familiar tension reappearing in his head again, the kind that situates itself right behind his eyes. “It was never gonna work out, anyways, because... because you loved him more, so…”
His words make the remaining softness in her face disappear. She avoids his gaze, aghast at what he just said. Then something in her eyes begins to shimmer.
She's silent for what feels like forever before saying —
“Well, fine then.” When she finally wills herself to look at him again, the seeds of resentment are already beginning to show. She taps his hand away from her face and steps back. “If that’s how you want it to be.”
A pang of remorse already clenches at Jean's stomach. “Hey, I didn’t me-”
He reaches over, but she swats his hand away, the impact feeling sharp against his skin.
“Don’t touch me,” she warns, an understated kind of anger now slipping into her every word.
Jean nods quickly and raises his hand to placate her. “Okay, okay, I won’t.”
“I’m glad you told me this while you still could.” Scornfully, she speaks like every word weighs her down like a stone.
“Mikasa-”
“Do me a favour,” she cuts him off. Everything around them moves fast, like cracks forming on a frozen lake. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but don’t fall. “Never talk to me ever again.”
Without another word she walks away.
Jean wants to call for her, to reach out to her, to beg her to stay so they can talk it out in search of a compromise. But he can’t move — his legs feel like iron, his head starts to hurt again, and all he can do is stand in place and watch Mikasa leave the garden, catching the hints of wetness on her cheeks. With each step her pace increases until she’s practically running down the paths between the shrubbery, anything to get away from him. She moves faster and faster until she reaches an entrance to the palace and disappears inside.
Jean swears he’s seen this before — her walking off and refusing to look his way, him standing in place and unable to take his eyes off of her, and the chill of the night’s air making his skin prickle.
The memory is a decade old, but this time he is completely alone.
Jean stands on his own in the moonlit garden. In his mind he goes over every word he has let out — every mistake, every misstep. Now he has even more reasons to hate himself and say that he’s the worst friend in the world. His chest feels tight, his heart feels heavy, and regret already twists at him like a knife.
When Jean finally finds the will to speak, his words are a whisper.
“...fuck.”
…
…
…
For the first time in a while, Jean doesn’t sleep well.
…
…
…
Everything Has Changed.
At breakfast, Jean spreads honey over his toast. Next to him, Pieck and Connie arguing about nothing, though more than once does Pieck meet his eyes to give him a quizzical, puzzled expression. Across from him, Reiner and Annie are drinking coffee to chase away the headache of the night before. And through it all Jean doesn’t even bother looking up. He already knows that she’s on the other side of the table and talking to Armin like nothing’s wrong — all while he feels paralyzed and unable to look at her. And even if he could muster up the courage, he’s convinced that she’d ignore him like he deserves.
In the back of his head are the lingering words of her final request, something Jean isn’t willing to defy.
In a way it’s fitting — because she’s in love with a dead man and now he’s in love with a stranger.
…
…
…
Mikasa and Armin leave the palace after breakfast. According to Reiner, they’re planning to visit Eren’s tree one last time, a trip that will take them the whole day. With no time to do it tomorrow, today is the only chance they’ll have. The whole thing doesn’t surprise Jean, yet he can’t stop himself from wondering if Mikasa’s mainly doing so to avoid being around him, not that he blames her.
Without anything to look presentable for today, Jean passes time in the garden again. On a bench under a tree he draws a vineless grape arbour into his sketchbook. Just as he opens his paintbox to add some colours, he is suddenly approached by Pieck, who is worked into more of a lather than he’s ever seen her.
Fittingly, she asks the question that had been lingering in her mind since that morning.
“Hey, what the fuck was that?”
Even more fittingly, Jean plays his part well.
“What was what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Kirschtein. What the hell was going on at breakfast?”
“Nothing,” he insists as he focuses on his painting.
“That didn’t seem like nothing,” the ever-astute Pieck points out. As she stands in front of Jean she places her hand on her hip, impatient. “One minute you’re letting her into your room, then the next you can’t even look at her.”
Jean glances up, the impromptu interrogation already provoking him in a way he wishes it wouldn't. But he sucks in a breath and tries not to let it show.
“It’s none of your business, Pieck,” he explains. He clenches the paintbrush in his hand with all his might, doing his damndest to maintain a facade of civility. “You told me to handle it and so I did. Moving on.”
“But—”
“Moving on.”
Jean is staunch in his statements. At this point, saying anything else would do nothing. They’re set to leave tomorrow, anyways, no going back.
Pieck looks unconvinced, but scoffs. “Fine, whatever.”
Despite her clear dissatisfaction with his answers, Pieck doesn’t put up any more of a fight. Instead, she turns around and leaves the garden without another word. The last thing Jean sees of her is the irritated look on her face.
Once he’s alone again he lets himself exhale. To distract himself again he begins to paint, focusing on blending the perfect mix of water and pigments on the open lid of his box. As he runs lines of colour into his sketchbook, he wonders how good he might get at the art of acting like everything’s okay.
…
…
…
The Final Word.
By the time evening has come around he’s barely seen her, even though by now she and Armin had returned to the palace hours ago.
At night he is completely alone, tossing and turning in bed in a pointless quest for sleep. He’s not sure what stresses him out more — the fact that he only has twelve hours left on the Island or how he can’t stop himself from missing her.
In his head he knows that he shouldn’t expect her presence. Yet as he tangles himself in the sheets, he yearns for the familiar sound of her opening his door and stepping into his room, for the feeling of her weight to settle beside him as she rests her head on his chest, but it never comes.
The thought of simply going over and talking to her is unable to leave his mind. He can already see himself knocking on her door and pleading for her to listen to him in the hopes that they can work things out.
But for the life of him, Jean is even more terrified of crossing a line. Her words from last night continue to echo in his head, a boundary she made very clear before leaving him in the garden. His instincts tell him that any attempts to reach out to her would only make things worse.
At one point a very restless Jean sits up in a hot sweat. He hops off the bed and rifles through his partially packed suitcase again, where he fishes out his fountain pen and stationary set. He brings everything to his desk, where he lights and smokes his final cigarette before starting a letter.
…
…
…
Jean entertains the idea of slipping the envelope underneath Mikasa’s door for a fleeting second, but decides against it when the possibility that she’d just throw it out comes to mind. Instead he grasps his letter in his hand and walks through the darkened hallways for what could be the last time.
A few minutes after midnight he finds the room he’s looking for and gently knocks on the door. After a moment of silence he hears footfalls behind the walls before the rattling of a knob. Soon Armin is standing in front of him, appearing as groggy and confused as one would be at this hour. Behind him is a barely lit bedroom and Annie asleep on the bed.
“Jean?” asks Armin. He fights back a yawn and adjusts the robe around his torso. “What’s going on?”
Jean holds out his letter. “I need you to do something for me.”
…
…
…
Now.
Loving You.
The rain continues for a third day, so Mikasa and Jean wait out the storm in their own ways. She makes tea with old leaves she found at the back of his cupboard, he breaks out a tin of charcoal and draws her as she sits at the nook near the window. She fiddles with his gramophone again to find a song she likes, he finds a weathered tome from his shelf and reads her a verse from an old Paradisian poet. Even when the winds outside press at the structure's walls and the rain batters the roof, the blazing fire in the hearth casts warmth into their little world.
At some point after dinner, Hugo wanders upstairs to nap in Jean’s bedroom. As adorable as it is, it certainly throws a wrench in what Mikasa expected to happen that night.
Nonetheless, when she’s drawn to him like a moth to a flame, when their lips collide as the world outside grows dark, when she practically leaps into his arms again and Jean stumbles back a bit, their dance continues like it always does.
When they end up against a wall, she's undoing his trousers and bringing his rigid cock between her lips. The way he moans as she enraptures him makes the arousal inside of her even more impossible to ignore. When they land on the couch, their hands roam and rush to remove the clothing between them. There’s a moment where Jean removes her skirt. Then barely a second after it hits the floor he’s trailing his lips down her legs, kissing her where her blood runs hot. He licks her cunt until her ankles are digging into his back.
They ultimately settle in front of the fire, a mess of tangle limbs desperate for release. Near the flames she’s on her stomach for him, the soft material of the blanket he set down comforting her as he fucks her from behind. With every jut of his hips she gasps and revels in the exquisite way her name leaves his lips when he’s overcome with delight, or how the length of him draws a sense of delight from her every fiber. In the corner of the room music plays over his gramophone, the noise mixing with those of the storm and nearly masking her moans of pleasure.
Then at the end of it all, Jean grunts in a way that makes her stomach clench. He picks up the pace as her walls convulse around him. Each meeting of their flesh is marked with a resonating slap. They both ride out final throes of bliss before arriving at the end, to which Mikasa doesn’t even bother restraining her cries. Behind her Jean sighs loudly as he finishes. Like before, he collapses onto her, staying tucked in the crook of her neck. He remains there for a moment before rolling off.
Mikasa catches her breath as Jean lies next to her. From where he is he places sweet kisses onto her shoulder. She lets herself enjoy the aftermath — the warmth of the fire, the heat coming off of him, and the music that blends into the sound of the rain. She doesn’t know how much time passes until Jean steps up.
She stays where she is, resting atop the blanket as she watches him walk across his living room, shamelessly admiring the sight of his finely-formed hindquarters the entire time. He enters the bathroom and she hears the sink running for a few seconds before he re-emerges with a wet washcloth. He returns to her and helps her clean up with the gentlest touch.
Afterwards, he adds another log to the fire before rejoining her. Soon Mikasa is resting her head on his bare chest again, his hand stroking her head as his fingers run through her hair.
The storm outside continues to blow, but the sound of Jean’s heartbeat manages to guide her to sleep like the world’s sweetest lullaby.
…
…
…
It’s a few minutes past midnight when the fire has reduced itself to ashes.
Hugo pushes his snout against the bedroom door to slip out, quietly descending the steps until he’s in the main living space. Once the dog settles on the couch, the lovers take it as their cue to leave. Wrapped in the blankets, they stand from their spot and head up to the bedroom.
Mikasa is barely awake as they move, climbing back onto his bed with a yawn. The last thing she sees before nodding off again is Jean rummaging around his closet for another blanket before returning to her. After he presses a kiss to her forehead and she settles into him again, she wonders at what point will she finally get used to falling asleep in his arms.
…
…
…
What Remains of the Storm.
Hours later, Mikasa wakes in what she thinks is the morning. When she opens her eyes, the first thing she hears is the lack of raindrops pelting the roof. A glance to the nearest window shows her the sun on the horizon. The light in the distance is partially obscured by the remnants of the fading storm, spilling from a crack in the sky between clashing hues of orange, pink, and gray. As a result, the bedroom is not as dark as it once was.
When she shifts on the mattress she quickly learns that she’s the only one on it. Sitting up slightly, she scans the room until she spots his head at the foot of the bed. Jean is sitting on the floor, unmoving and silent.
Mikasa wonders if he’s even awake. She sits up completely and shifts until her feet are touching the cold floor. On the edge of the bed she takes a moment to stretch, alleviating the tension in her back and shoulders, then stands and searches for the nearest piece of clothing. She grabs his navy fisherman’s sweater off his dresser and pulls it over her torso. The yarn warms her skin as she approaches Jean.
When she gets to where he is she discovers that he’s not asleep. He’s slouching against the bed, bare-chested with a blanket over his lap, a pensive look remains on his face as he stares at the floor. Once Mikasa sits next to him and brushes her shoulder against his, his trance is broken.
Jean blinks before glancing her way, the contemplative expression on his face changing to that of amusement. Her hair is a mess, her skin feels dry, and her eyes are still adjusting to the light, yet Jean looks at her like she had just stepped down from heaven.
“Couldn’t let me rest, could you?”
Mikasa shakes her head. “No.” She brushes her shoulder against him again, a gesture that makes Jean’s smile just a little bit brighter.
He takes a second to regard the world outside the window before looking back to her. “The storm’s finally over.”
“Is it now?” She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder. “And I was getting used to living like this.”
Jean kisses her forehead and whispers, “Me, too.” His voice is warm, husky.
As appeased as she had become over the last few days, Mikasa thinks of all the things she should do now that it’s easier to be outside again. With the garden completed, the thought of journeying back to town hops into her mind. She figures that she should return to the inn — at the very least to assure the kindly concierge that the guest who disappeared for a few days was simply waiting out the storm, in a sense. She entertains the idea of either extending her stay once more, or ending it to gather her things and bring them to Jean’s little homestead, just for a while.
Her instincts lean to the latter scenario, she wonders if Jean would agree. The time under the storm had been heaven, a slice of paradise from start to finish, but through it all they had been far too busy to think about the future, both near and far.
When she pulls away from Jean, she notices things like how he looks at her so reverently, or how his beard appears particularly unruly this morning, or how her attempt at giving a haircut was not as terrible as she imagined. He looks beautiful in this light, when the dawn of a new day is just outside the window.
“What were you doing down here?” she asks to fill the silence between them.
“Thinking.”
“About…?”
“About the last time we talked.”
“You mean today?”
“I mean five years ago,” Jean clarifies. “In Historia’s garden. Do you remember that?”
Mikasa has an inkling of what he’s referring to. At this point of her life a lot of memories are a blur, especially the ones that haunt her dreams. She’s not sure if it’s a side effect of getting older or if her mind is simply trying to protect her from the things that might hurt her. Yet as she takes a second to ponder the past, the image of a finely trimmed garden comes to mind — it’s night, it’s cold, and at the time she had been wearing a borrowed kimono that Kiyomi ultimately let her keep. Other details start to become clear, like Jean’s impeccably-fitting three-piece suit or the taste of smoke when they last kissed.
She also remembers heartache, something that twisted her from inside, but the circumstances of that in particular feel fuzzy.
“Vaguely,” Mikasa ends up answering. As much as she wants to remember things properly, she simply can’t. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just been on my mind,” Jean admits, the ruefulness evident in his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about how… how stupid I was. I'm... I'm sorry."
Mikasa hums, unconvinced. “You weren’t stupid, you were just…”
He watches her, waiting for an answer.
“...insecure,” she tries.
To that, he scoffs. “That’s no better," he remarks, looking down and managing a smile. Even if his remorse is still apparent, the earnestness in his voice keeps the conversation light. “I was still an idiot.”
“Because…?”
“Because I couldn't recognize a good thing when I had it,” he answers, his knee brushing against hers.
Mikasa doesn’t know why he’s saying this, why he’s recalling details of their past like it’s a list of misdeeds. She doesn’t even know why he’s saying it so sincerely as well, not remotely like someone asking for absolution.
“Why do you think that?” she asks.
“Because I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”
“And what did you think I wanted?”
Jean takes a moment to look at her, thinking long and hard about what to say.
“...to be loved.”
Suddenly Mikasa becomes keenly aware that there’s only an inch of space between their lips. From this angle she can see every part of him — the heartfelt way he gazes at her, the hazel and slightest specks of green in his eyes, and the faint smattering of freckles on his skin.
“Mikasa, I love you.”
His words cause her chest to go tight again, but this time Mikasa knows why.
Jean’s lips quirk into a smile as his confession settles into her. “Did you know that?”
Mikasa doesn’t hesitate. She closes the space between them, kissing him like she had done a thousand times before, noses and foreheads brushing as his hands find her face. This time the motion is more forthright, like it’s more than a mere gesture — but an acknowledgement, an answer, a response.
Jean responds like he’s always done, like he’s loved her from the start. His hands run through her hair again as he holds her close. Everything he doesn’t say is in his kiss and the way he cedes to her touch.
Mikasa closes her eyes and adores every bit of him, soon feeling his lips trail down her cheek and onto her neck.
“Will you stay with me?” His voice is a whisper against her skin. “For a little bit?”
“I will…” she promises. “I will.”
Outside the sun breaks through the clouds and shines its light upon the surf, causing the water to shimmer. The waves continue to caress the shore, the wind still causes the leaves of the nearby trees to sway, and once more Jean takes Mikasa into his arms and stands. Her arms snake around his shoulders and her legs hook around his waist, their kiss remaining unbroken. He takes her to the bed, where they settle between the sheets again for the rest of the morning.
Together again, this time for real, they proceed to move as one as what remains of the storm finally disappears.
…
…
…
Then.
Everything is Okay.
Mikasa stands firm on her choice to avoid him.
On the final day in the palace, she doesn’t come down for breakfast, instead opting to spend her morning in the Queen’s study. It’s a privilege granted to few, yet bestowed to her because the Crown Princess of Paradis wants to spend more time with her Auntie Mika.
Playing with the child distracts her from the thought of Jean sitting on the far end of the table, barely focusing on his marmalade and toast while maybe stealing glances from him. It’s a much better use of her time than sitting beside Armin, listening to his voice, and pretending that everything is okay.
Mikasa plays with the Princess on the carpet in front of an ornate couch. At her age, Val can speak a handful of words, but not enough to hold an actual conversation with her playmate beyond “Look, Auntie!” or “You’re not looking!” It’s adorable.
Mikasa is unable to look away from Val stacking her blocks and knocking them over, a process that the child repeats and laughs at every time.
As the two play, Queen Historia remains at her desk, where she fusses over a letter with a feathered quill and inkwell. Every time Mikasa looks over, she catches sight of her old friend either sighing as she reads the message or grumbling in frustration.
Sometimes Mikasa wonders how she does it — parenthood, international relations, everything.
At mid-morning a servant enters the room and announces that the Princess’s father has arrived and is ready to take her off her mother’s hands, just as promised. Little Val kisses her favourite Auntie before Mikasa promises they’ll see each other again. Val then kisses her mother goodbye before taking the hand of the help and leaving the study.
And it’s when they have a moment alone that Mikasa hears a question she was hoping to avoid.
“So what happened in the garden the other night?” asks Historia.
Mikasa tries to remain composed as she stands from the carpet and wipes the dust off her skirt. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Historia retorts, undeterred. She doesn’t even look up from her desk. “It didn’t look like nothing.”
Mikasa scoffs. “Are you spying on me, Your Majesty?”
Historia sighs before glancing her way. “You see a lot from this study at night.” She refocuses on her letter-writing. “Come on, spill. I need the distraction.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Mikasa asserts. “Me and Jean talked… and now we’re not anymore.”
“Not doing what? Talking?”
Mikasa goes to Historia’s desk and practically towers above her old friend. “Do you have to know everything?”
Historia cranes her neck upwards until she can look Mikasa in the eye. “I’m simply concerned for all my subjects. You included.”
Once more Mikasa hums — the last thing she needs is the Queen, of all people, prying into her business. Instead of letting the conversation continue, Mikasa distracts herself by looking out the window behind the desk.
At this point in the stay, she’s officially gotten sick of the garden — the trees, the beds full of flowers, and that goddamn gazebo in the middle of it all. The way the sun burns almost disgusts her, the gorgeous sight doing nothing to quell the hole in her heart. The longer she stares at the spot where Jean utterly humiliated her, the more she fears how many others witnessed the same thing as their Queen.
She only spends a second wondering when this nightmare will finally end before saying nothing for the rest of the morning.
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The palace is bustling with life for the rest of the day. Servants are running in every direction. The foreign dignitaries that are staying are shaking hands with the ones who are going, the Ambassadors included. Yet Mikasa doesn’t see him, nor does she even want to. She prefers it that way.
She takes a late breakfast of porridge and coffee in her room, then gets onto the task she had been putting off until now. She doesn’t have much to pack, although Kiyomi did insist that she keep one of the kimonos. The gesture is kind, but she’s still not sure how she feels about retaining the outfit she wore from the night of that particular dinner.
At the end of it all, Mikasa’s luggage is barely any heavier than from when she first came. The only new items are the kimono and the train ticket that will take her from the port to Shiganshina.
When she’s nearly done packing she hears a knock on the door. Soon Armin pops his head into the room and gives a boyish smile. The expression feels far removed from the calm, composed Ambassador the world had gotten to know in the boardrooms.
“Hey, can I come in?” he asks and Mikasa nods.
His presence is always welcomed, yet she can’t help but suspect that he’s not entirely here to check up on his beloved friend.
Armin enters the space as she walks to the bathroom. As she scans the counter for anything she might leave behind, she keeps expecting him to ask the obvious question. Even if he didn’t witness the dispute in the garden, he may ask her why she wasn’t at breakfast.
But to her surprise he doesn’t.
When the lull of silence draws on, Mikasa goes to the doorway between the rooms and eyes him, doing her best to hide her suspicion.
“What do you want, Armin?”
He’s standing near her suitcase on the bed, his hands in his pockets as he maintains a placid demeanor. In this light he looks as boyish and lithe as she’s always known him, even if she knows he’ll be twenty-two in November.
“Nothing in particular,” Armin answers. “But… we still got some time to kill… wanna take one last walk? In the garden... or somewhere?”
As enticing as that is, Mikasa already knows that she doesn’t have it in her, especially today. So she sighs and says, “I don’t think I can, Armin. Sorry.”
Fortunately, he is understanding. “No problem, I get it. How about I help you pack then?”
Relief rushes through her, allowing just a little more weight off her shoulders.
“That would be very nice of you, thank you.”
Mikasa manages a smile as Armin begins helping her fold the remaining clothes on her bed. Ultimately, not having to explain anything to him is what she needed the most on this particular day, and for that she’s thankful.
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Their Last Goodbye.
The departure of the Ambassadors is far more unceremonious than the arrival. The formal farewell to the Queen takes only a few minutes in the throne room, then promptly the group and Mikasa are shuffled around with the kind of efficiency expected of the royal housestaff.
Through it all Mikasa is by Armin’s side, both as they are escorted through the hallways for the last time and as they are guided to the carriages in the courtyard. As they board their ride, he promises to write letters and call once telephones officially get set up on Paradis. As excited as she is to be able to talk to him when they’re far apart, listening to him now already tells her that she’ll miss the youthful lilt of his voice once he’s gone.
Mikasa stays true to her vow and doesn’t look at Jean. It’s easier to get through the day that way, yet she can’t completely stop himself from sparing a glance at him as he follows Reiner and Pieck into a separate carriage. She notices the familiar width of his frame or the somber look in his eyes as he listens to Reiner babble. The slump of his back makes it seem like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Ultimately, she doesn’t look for long.
The carriages take the group from the palace and to Mitras’ biggest train station, where they board and brace themselves for the ride to the port. Armin’s kind words keep her at ease, as he’s determined to keep talking to Mikasa in the time that they have. Even Annie doesn’t seem to mind, as she sits in front of the old friends in the little compartment and spends most of the time staring blankly at the moving horizon.
The fact that the journey is going smoothly is what surprises Mikasa the most, how everyone is also acting like it’s just another day. Mikasa still can’t shake the thought that everyone can tell that something has changed — that something had happened between her and Jean in the garden the other night and they just don’t know what. Yet no one even dares to bring it up, like the topic is embargoed indefinitely. In the meantime, she has nothing left but to maintain the charade that everything is fine.
She quashes her anxious thoughts by telling herself that it’s for the best. Jean is too important to have unresolved entanglements tethering him to the Island. The safest option is to continue wearing their masks, even at the risk of acting like the last few weeks never really mattered.
The actual goodbyes are made on the port, with the seafaring vessel taking them away floating beside the docks. As to be expected, Mikasa hugs Armin the hardest, repeating their promise to each other even if their lives keep them apart. She regards Reiner and Annie with a polite nod, then Pieck with a half-smile when the shorter girl playfully elbows her like they’re old friends. She also earnestly asks Connie to keep in touch with her, as he’s already sending lots of letters to the Island to converse with his mother anyways.
And this whole time, Jean had been standing behind the group with his hands in his pockets, watching her bid farewell to the others like it’s a countdown. By the time she finishes talking to Connie, most of the Ambassadors have already walked up the ramp and boarded their ship. At this part of the day the afternoon dips into evening, the sun in the sky beginning to set and casting a dreamy pink light onto the atmosphere. Mikasa thinks she’s been in a place like this before, but she’s not entirely sure when.
Once Connie has walked up the ramp and boarded the vessel, Mikasa is alone with Jean. She stands facing him, the space between them feeling as palpable as the wind of the ocean blowing at her scarf and hair. He hasn’t stopped slouching, and even if he’s still in the same pompous suit that he wears in those goddamn boardrooms, he looks more dishevelled than usual. His hair is unbrushed, his newly-grown beard is scurffy, and when Mikasa looks into his eyes she doesn’t see the cockiness and pride she usually associates with Jean, but a distinct sense of sorrow instead. He feels far removed from her old comrade and the man who had made her feel loved, only if for a night.
But Mikasa’s composure doesn’t falter.
“Goodbye,” she tells him, keeping things simple for both her sake and his.
Jean doesn’t say a thing and holds his gaze on her, his despondent expression unchanging as he gives a simple nod. The gesture is so slight that Mikasa could have blinked and missed it entirely.
Their last goodbye is purely transactional, a simple message from her to him. In a way, it’s what they both wanted.
Mikasa doesn’t feel too uneasy as Jean eventually sighs and averts her gaze. His silence doesn’t bother her one bit, and even if it does it’s something she can repress for now. She watches as he walks to the ramp, slowly stepping up until he’s on the ship. He doesn’t even remain on the main deck as it departs, preferring to head inside as the vessel gets detached from the pier and a cloud of black smoke begins to rise from the funnels.
She stands on the dock and watches the ship float across the sea until it’s nothing more than a dot in the line where the sky meets the sea.
And once it’s gone, Mikasa doesn’t look back.
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Jean’s Letter.
By evening she arrives in Shiganshina by train. With her suitcases in hand, she leaves the station and hails a taxi cab to take her to the Reiss Orphanage. With her home being just off the property, she is driven as far as the road will go and walks the rest of the way.
It’s late when she arrives at her little cottage, a structure shrouded by just enough trees to isolate it from the rest of the world. By now, the sun has mostly set below the mountains, casting the woods in more darkness than light.
Mikasa’s home is quiet when she enters. The place consists of a bedroom, a bathroom, and an open living space. It’s served her well for three years and will continue to serve her for many more. In what remains of the day, she feasts her eyes on the stacks of dusty plates in the corner sink, the unused blankets on her couch, and the kettle on the stove that desperately needs a wash.
With her remaining energy she strikes a match and brings it to a lantern, then under the glow of the flame she places her suitcase on the couch.
It’s at this point of the evening that exhaustion finally catches up to her. She doesn’t want to think of the fact that she has an orphanage shift waiting for her in the morning, that there are only a few hours until she’s back to being Miss Mikasa and spending her days amongst the kids. As eventful as her stay in the palace was, nothing lasts forever.
Upon opening her suitcase, the first thing Mikasa takes out is her new kimono. As she steps across her living space and wonders when she’ll get a chance to wear it again, she hears something small hitting the ground.
She glances towards the couch and sees an envelope on the floor. Curious, she walks over and takes it in her hand. Written on it is her name in blocky penmanship, a sight that intrigues her as she brings it to the nearby table.
She briefly wonders how it had gotten into her suitcase, suspecting that it was Armin’s doing as she sits and opens the envelope. A lump forms in her throat as she finds a letter in handwriting she doesn't recognize. She brings it to the light of the lantern and begins to read.
Dear Mikasa,
I don’t want what happened in the garden to be the last conversation we’ll ever have. Please hear me out once and if it’s what you want I’ll never talk to you again.
I need to apologize for that night. I’m sorry for what I said about the last few weeks. I take everything back. Now more than ever do I realize that I said many things that I shouldn’t have.
My biggest regret would have been to leave the Island without saying anything, but an even bigger regret would have been to leave you thinking that what we had meant nothing to me.
It meant the world to me. It meant everything to know that even a sliver of how I felt about you was reciprocated. That I could be someone you cared for, even for a little while. I think I'll regard the time we had together with fondness for the rest of my life.
With how things are now I don’t know where we’ll end up in the world. If we’re meant to be together, then we’re meant to be together. But if not then so be it. If by some chance we see each other in our new lives then hopefully we can look at each other and smile. You’ll be happy, I’ll be happy, and we’ll move forward from there.
But for now you need to return to your world and I’ll return to mine. We’ll find a way to carry on even if it’s hard. I’m sorry that this is what it’s come to, but I’ll always have a place in my heart for you. If I ever find myself on the Island again, I’ll seek you out. I promise.
I wish you the best, Mikasa. I’ll miss you, always.
- Jean
Her world is silent as the letter settles into her. She remains at the table, accompanied by nothing but her lantern and the quietude of her home.
Mikasa doesn’t know how much time passes before regret starts to cut at her like a knife. Suddenly there's poison rushing through her veins, something that feels like it’s killing her from the inside. A familiar sense of heartache begins carving into her chest.
Something about this anguish feels different — it’s not the kind that reduces her into a shaking mess, not the sorrow that leaves her weeping and shaking on top of Eren’s hill. It’s something that leaves her motionless at the table as tears begin streaming down her cheeks. In seconds it becomes too much and she’s covering her face with her hands, letting everything spill out, droplets falling down her wrists and onto the table. She sobs and wishes for everything to be a bad dream, for her to fall asleep to and wake up to see things back to normal, for everything to just be a mistake and that Jean will be back soon so they can finally patch things up.
But in her head, Mikasa knows that it’s not true. She’ll wake up in the morning with the same regrets and by then he’ll be a thousand miles away. She’ll cry herself to sleep and he’ll be so far out of her reach that he may never come back to her. She’ll spend god knows how long wondering if things could’ve gone differently and he’ll be a memory. He’ll be gone and she’ll carry this regret with her for the rest of her life.
