summary ; sasha introduced the two of you as complete opposites, two different worlds. but you'd disagree, especially since it feels like jean creates a new world just for you.
warnings ; a little too self indulgent? aka reader likes peach flavoured stuff. also mentions of drinking, nothing graphic.
a/n ; erm! haha. sorry for my absence again. i promise im still writing d2d and blooming hearts. pls be patient with me you guys r saints. thank you. enjoy this as i run away. hc reqs are still open hmu babes
i lowkey want d2d to blow up a little. like okbambi. throwaway thought. continue reading. thx
taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy
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Jean has this habit.
Its not well concealed - hell, you're sure he doesnt even realise it himself, a muscle memory that seems to replay against his tendons, condensing him down to his action. You dont realise it at first either, but patterns have a tendency of making themselves apparent, especially since its about him.
The scene plays out something like this - kitchen lights are warm and shining, clinging onto the apples of your downtrodden cheeks, unheard and tired problems that weigh down your organs now find themselves boring down on your skin, a more physical proof of your labour. The week - scratch that, the month - had been rough. There's a cup of coffee against the palms of your hands, the tips of your nails a little blue from the cold you had just endured outside. Inside, its warm, your friends sit huddled around the coffee table that holds an unnecessarily important game of monopoly. The community chest cards were more than half gone, and Sasha sat with her back resting against the foot of the couch, tongue poking out of her lips thoughtfully, subconsciously. Your eyes blink blearily, steam from your coffee doing the exact opposite of it’s entirety, and Jean mixes just a splash of creamer into his own cup - just how he liked it.
His eyes have been passing glances across your body, slumped with your back against the marble of the kitchen counter, picking up on something you refuse to be seen putting down. He clears his throat - an opening for a potential conversation, a test to see if you’ll take the bait and turn to him - and when you do, because of course you will, there's a victory that lifts his shoulders and puffs up his chest, muscle memory, tendons tightening.
But youre so tired. He can see it in your eyes and under them, so when he asks his question, he does it so in the least gentle way possible. So he’ll get you to talk, because he knows that cornering you might be the only way he can get a real answer that lays unfiltered, beating still as it slips out of your mouth.
“What is it this time?” he asks. His voice covers any unhindered iciness that his statement might hold, making it warm and curious instead of cold and blunt. Or maybe that's just how you see it. Maybe he’s a well meaning asshole who you’re accustomed to, whose language you’ve come to know well. Alphabets memorized.
You sigh. You wonder if your sigh itself could be an alphabet, if he understands all the frustrations underneath it. Your tongue can't conjure up anything else for a brief while, and for the same brief while, jean looks at you. Wholly, fully, more than you’ll ever be, though his eyes scatter themselves across your body. Your nose, your lips, your hair, your clothes, a slight sense of disarray but comfort nonetheless because the disarray meant that you had lived in it long enough and that you trusted your clothes and your hair and your nose and your lips more than enough to be here right now.
“Yknow.” you say, unsure of whether or not its a start of a statement or the end of an unsaid one. You decide to let it linger, staring into your cup until you find the words to say something important, clambering to find meaning that your voice somehow always inherently lacks. Theres a lump in your throat that’s small enough for you to ignore it, and then you begin speaking again, “i don't feel like im… enough for this.” you say. You're aware that it's unimportant, words lacking meaning. They always have, especially now.
“For what?” his voice asks, and you wish his reflection could share the same space as yours in the cup, make his space yours, but he doesn't. Instead, his shoulder presses against yours, which you suppose is better. An anchor, you think to yourself, even though he doesn't realize it.
“All of it. Like, somehow… i keep trying, right? To be a good student, to be friendly and kind and just… try - like being good at work and at talking and all of it. But i’m not, even though sometimes i think im finally, finally making some progress, it all just comes crashing down on me and i feel so…dumb about it. Like im incompetent. Like all roles are too important for me to get them.”
It doesn't feel like the world is off your shoulders. You wonder why everyone always told you to talk about your feelings; claiming it’ll make the burden lighter. But the process of doing that would include giving it to someone else who’s less likely to have had a bad day and making their day worse by association. It felt like a math formula, another thing you were inherently struggling with.
No, the world feels all too real, all too heavy, all too present and pressing against your shoulders, the hurt seeping to the ends of your collarbones.
“Incompetent.” he says. Its not a reply, neither is it a question. Like he knows exactly what you mean and is contemplating on it. Considering it. Then he shrugs. Sighs through his next statement to make it sound less like a confession of admiration, “you're not incompetent.”
A pause. You don't believe him, and he knows it. And before he begins his strategy of building you up; he does it.
Turns his back to everything else. Stands in front of you so he can be the only thing in your eyesight, his back to your friends, to the rest of the world as he makes his attempts to lessen the weight of yours. And surely - and you know he knows it, realises it just as you do - you lift your head up, eyes directed to his, your face pointing to your world, directly to him. In that action, you match each other perfectly well, even if Sasha introduced the two of you to each other as complete opposites. You wouldn't necessarily agree with her, especially not now, when both of you create your own world so easily, with the least amount of the hesitation that easily comes to the two of you.
He speaks quietly. Almost under his breath, as if they're truths that are heavier than his words, “you're not. When you talk, its clear that you're passionate, knowledgeable. Even if you don't realise it. Somehow you convince people to believe in you everytime you speak. It's one of the things i like about you. You-” he weaves his hand into his hair halfway through; an action he only commits to when he’s passionate about the topic he's speaking about, “you could make an atheist believe in god. Maybe because you have bits of truth hidden in there, whatever it is, but you're fully lying if you think you're incompetent. Or dumb. You’re not. You're good. Fucking brilliant.” he says, scoffing as if its a universal fact that youre unknowing of. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the earth is round, and jean believes youre ‘fucking brilliant’.
You blink. Before the gears in your heavy machinery of a brain can move, he says, “i know you wont believe it, so let me do the believing for you. Depend on me a little, yeah?” he asks, like it's a plea. And honestly, you give in, without hesitation.
His back faces the world and there’s a resolution in your eyes as you face your own world, smiling gently.
The next time is one you can particularly take note of.
You're at some party that eren was throwing - pre halloween, everyone in costume, the song from the speaker so loud that the ground beneath your shoes was shaking, etching a reminder of tonight on it - a typical college-like event. Everyone was having a bubbling and tipsy conversation amongst themselves, connie and eren arguing over the music that they put on, sasha fawning over mikasa who could be seen blushing lightly even under the flashing lights, reiner with his arm around someone you knew from class - and admittedly set him up with - as you try not to let a proud smile set over your lips at the fact. You had a bet with Marco, another inside conversation that had been had all the way to the party; you bet on reiner finally “getting some” tonight, and marco betted on him not. Which, he clarified, was not because he didn't believe in the guy, but because reiner had a way of… being awkward when he was tipsy. Fifty solid dollars over this. You weren't going to lose.
Your head bopped to the argued-over music, scanning the crowd for jean, who claimed he was going to find you a drink you’d actually enjoy sipping on through the night. He knew you well enough, so you’d allowed him to, posing it to him as a challenge that he took with a cocky smile and a self-assured confidence that you were tempted to break.
You weren't going to break it. Of course not. Not unless he won.
Bert asks you about your plans after the party. You tell him that you’d probably go home with the girls - unless they find their own plans for the night, which, you hope they do - and ask him the same, and he tells you he’ll go home with reiner, unless the obvious were to happen. You shout at him above the music about your bet with Marco because you know your voice wouldn't be carried to his ears otherwise, and he smiles and says - rather wisely, despite his slightly slurred speech - that you’d probably win. You tell him that if Marco were listening you’d flex about it. He laughs a little before someone from his class waves him over and you're left to your own devices again, scanning the crowd for a familiar head of soft hair that you imagine far too much running your fingers through.
And you find it. Shoulder the crowd, holding two glasses of his concoction, heading straight towards you, making sure not to spill even a single drop. You applaud his persistence, and he reaches you with the same smile he left you with, eyes sparkling and soft around the edges, looking at you like the world’s been tuned out, handing you your cup.
“Peach sparkling…spirit.” he says, not having had a single thought about naming the drink, but nodding once in satisfaction after it slips out of his mouth. You nod back, impressed, and look down at the ice floating in it. “Ice so your iron deficiency has something to chew on.” he completes with a laugh, one that you playfully punch him for as if your insides dont melt at the fact that the drink is more of a symbol, really, of how much he really knows you. peach , your favourite flavour, to dilute the wretched taste of alcohol. The coolness to keep you awake, and the ice floating at the top just as he said, because you liked chewing on it.
And as if just that much wasnt enough, he does it again.
Back to the world, he faces you completely, now closer than ever. Chest to chest, not because there were people unknowingly pressing your back from both sides, but because you'd be that close by choice either way. He traps you, but youre a willing accomplice, guilty of the same crime, and you create your own worlds with none of the hesitance that you both so frequently carry with everyone else as if this is the easiest thing youd ever do. As if its always been easy.
You tip your glass to his, and he clinks the rim of his cup to yours, lifting it to his lips with the same smile, now softer, gentler, because he knows only you're looking, because he knows he’d let you.
The drink tastes divine. The completeness of knowing you, fully, wholly, without hesitation, the peach mixing with whatever cheap vodka he could find, knowing just how strong to make it so you wouldn't scrunch your nose at it’s burn but rather enjoy it, knowing you'd nurse the same drink for the rest of the night, close to your chest as it would vibrate not to the sound of the music but to the sound of your quietly beating heart because out of everyone, jean made it.
Despite the drink's coolness, enough to freeze your fingertips, your insides felt. They felt, every organ - your lungs, your heart, your liver, your kidneys - felt, conscious and whole, flipped inside out and alive.
Your back to the world, you and jean creating your own.
Habits have a funny way of catching on, jean noticed, as you made a knowing decision to turn your own back to the world that you knew to be so large and unknown, opting for the warm one that jean hoped to preserve for you.
He notices, too. The first time you do it, its september. Your boots scruff up against the harsh of the pavemented sidewalk, orange and red leaves under your feet, with a cup of coffee in your hand, the one that he happily paid for like it was muscle memory. There could be silence between you, sure, because he knows that even that would be pleasant. But there isnt, and hes glad nonetheless, bringing his cup close to his lips, knowing that yours have touched the same rim to get a taste, hoping it would cover up the small smile that creeped onto his face, threatening to stay against his cheeks for you to notice, because of course you would.
You finish the end of your sentence. Something about autumn, he knows, and your shoulders are brushing his as they perpetually are, coat against his, and he swears a world is created because of it, the lint of your fabric almost like magic when it presses against his, even if brief, because it cant be anything short of it with the way he’s feeling. Comfortable, whole, significant. He licks his lips, cleaning off the residue of the coffee and tasting the lingering of your lips indirectly on his like a revered devotee, a saint waiting for sacrifice, and says something probably insignificant. About the rain? He’s not sure. And then it turns into, “one time, connie - i think in middle school? Like back when i first met the guy - had his mouth wide open under the sky so he could get a full gulp of direct fucking rainwater in his mouth because we’d just learnt about… the water cycle. I think.” he says, and you laugh.
And then it happens. You do it, and he takes notice, because of course he does, of course, because its you. Turning on your heel, your back facing the world, as you fall into step, still beside him, walking backwards just so you could face him. For a moment he’s concerned - youre not the most synchronised person in the world, he once watched you stub your toe fully on purpose while trying to prove a point of how you’re not that navigationally challenged - but he shakes the thought out of his head as a slew of others fill it instead. You trust him. Enough to be a slight nuisance, enough to know if there was anything blocking your path that your back was facing so you wouldnt stumble, enough to know that he’d find this enjoyable rather than annoying. And then another larger, overwhelming thought.
You noticed. You noticed him doing that to you - turning his back to everything else, willingly, wholly, so you knew his attention was pinned on you and you only - and wanted to repay the insignificant favour.
And then he continues. As if nothing had occurred, as if a world just hadnt opened up and swallowed him up, organs flipping inside out. “And then when i made fun of him, the fucker went out there again, waited for the rainwater to fill his mouth up fully, and spit all of it on me.” he said, your laughter continuing to bubble and pour out of your lips and onto his, infectious as he thought it was, your shoulders shaking, no longer pressed against his, but he felt it anyway. Straight to his heart, his hand aching to cover it because his hesitance was carved onto his bones, but his choice to let it beat for you overwhelmed his tendons.
He wondered if you knew. If you somehow, in your own way, knew that he’d always hold out for you as a knowing choice. That he’d went out to buy that peach drink for you to mix into the cheap vodka that eren had on his kitchen counter. If you knew that he’d never known what the right words to say were until you taught him a whole new dictionary, a vocabulary he’d somehow been blind to. Hes fluent now, he thinks, because he knows you fully, wholly. A world created and burnt into places, because both your backwere against the world you both knew.
Because jean saw you as his. And he knew - a new vocabulary - that you saw him as yours.
Back to the world, chest to a new one, your steps sync together, smiles the same on your lips as they were on his.
Jean hadn’t known what he was getting into when he scowled at you from afar on initiation day. If he had, maybe he would’ve stopped it, and maybe it would’ve taken him faster to finally accept defeat and pray that his feelings would go away.
No, because even if he prayed to someone who never had the ears to empathize with him and lessen the burden of being in love, he knew he’d regret his wishes coming true. Loving you was the light that he’d hoped for – always present, never flickering, always standing and beautiful. He’d get burnt a thousand times over if it meant he could feel what your warmth again.
He couldn’t put a date to all the times he thought you were the hope. Of how many times he’d looked at his right side with tenderness in his eyes without even trying, of how many times he’d thought you were made out of everything he was curious about – the stars, fire, the sun. even when it was after training and you were sweaty and sat under the shade of a large tree, he wondered how you maintained your warmth in the blazing heat without making him suffocate.
You were on his right as always, he’d find out, as he relaxed lazily on the lush green grass, feeling the inkling of a breeze wash over him. He could only faintly hear his friends and their excited cheers – marco talking to armin about the book that they had read, something jean wasn’t all that interested in, mikasa softly telling eren that he’s doing better in training with the gear and jean could almost see the way the latter’s face would’ve gone red even if jean was looking at the sky above him. Connie and sasha argued bravely with reiner, the blonde's boisterous laugh taking over the whole field. Nothing could reach jean’s ears, however, because when he turned to look at you, on his damned right, you were looking at the clouds just as he was.
He shuddered. Summer in July with a full, heavy uniform on, he shuddered.
And his heart was beating so fast in his chest and he could hear it, almost taste it, when you turned around to look at him and smiled brightly.
Someone called your name. “how’d it go for you guys?” marco asked, armin turning towards you. jean watched as you shrugged and it all seemed effortless – uncalculated, relaxed, you responded with a soft smile, “y’know. Can’t complain. Reiner did try to shove me into a tree, though-“
“that was an accident, I’d never-“
“no, you did! I saw you!” sasha says, pointing at the blonde who looks around for support, red with embarrassment. Jean finds the strength to sit back up, his weight on his forearms, and you turn to look at him after instigating the bickering that now seemingly everyone but you and jean were a part of. He wondered if you could detect the softness that filled his eyes as he looked at you. you offered him your waterbottle, noticing the sweat on his brow, turning back to the conversation – if you could even call it that – at hand.
“I mean, it couldn’t have been intentional-“ bert reasoned, to which eren remarked “reiner’s a team player, though!” at reiner's defence. The man looked like a deflated version of himself, looking down at his lap shamefully.
You laughed. “total team player. Sorry, reiner.”
“honestly, I don’t blame you. if his big-“ connie gestures to his chest, cupping the air around it, “-bumped into me, i'd also fall into a tree.”
Eren laughs. Jean groans, his face scrunching up. “do you want me to tell everyone what happened last night?” he says with a smirk, leaning into the conversation, and connie’s eyes go comically wide.
“no-“ he says, his voice cracking, and the chatter breaks out once more, everyone urging jean to continue.
Marco glances at him with a smile. You and jean make a good team, he thinks, and he wonders how long it’ll take for the two of you to realise it without any help from him. The moment you stop talking, he completes you, without hesitation and with the same sharp glint in his eye as yours. marco always pride himself as an astute observer, the same as his best friend, but unlike the latter, he wouldn’t point out his discoveries outright, not without some coaxing or unless it was absolutely needed. So of course – even if it had been obvious to everyone else except maybe eren – the way you and jean conversed and acted like two halves of the same being didn’t go unnoticed by him, the way jean stole a couple spritz of his lavender perfume sometimes to make himself more “presentable” to no-one in particular, he knew it was for you. the way your shoulders relaxed under only jean’s soft gaze, the way you would try to spot jean’s ashy hair across the dining hall and would beeline towards him without hesitation. All of it, all the telltale signs of young love that was capable of turning so much more were all present, splayed out with its organs open to poking and prodding.
Marco wondered if this is how it would always be. If jean would always glance at you for a reaction while retelling a story against connie’s loud protests, if you would always laugh at his obvious attempts to bring connie down as much as connie did to jean.
Maybe it would. Maybe marco would always observe you two, skirting around your feelings because it was too obvious to say out loud.
And maybe it was, marco realized, his eyes squinting at your interaction with his best friend – unsaid, almost secret but not ashamed to be out in the open. He watches with only a little confusion as jean nods his head towards you with recognition and a small smile that barely reaches his cheeks and then he watches you, a stranger he doesn’t know the name of, do the same to him and almost wants to laugh at how obvious this is. But nobody else is watching, nobody witnesses the universe bait its breath and stop time for an intangible second.
And then, just as quick, you turn back to the rest of his friends and ask with your shoulders relaxed, “so, what would you guys like to order?”
Right. That’s what was happening. Marco blinks back at you.
“three cheesecakes. Wait, no, hold on-“ sasha says, and turns to her as connie squints at the menu again, no doubt having trouble reading, mustering up a loud but sure, “dooibos jelly!”
You tilt you head, “one rooibos jelly.”, you say, subtly correcting connie and marco laughs. “stupid ass name.” connie mutters, and jean’s head turns to him. “I know youre not talking, constance springer.”
Your movements still.
“that’s not even my real name. that’s fake. Like, I stole an id-”
“I have your birth certificate on my phone right now.” Sasha says, pulling out her phone from her pocket, but marco’s eyes are on you. “why the fuck do you have my birth-“ “research.” “the astrology bullshit again?” “something has to answer to this mess!” “excuse me? Im beautiful.” baldy - connie speaks.
Your fingers have gone stiff, shoulders tensed, blinking rapidly and it clicks. It makes sense. To marco atleast. He steps closer to the counter, placing his hands on the wood. “breathe, just breathe through it.”
Your eyes close, as if that would help with everything you were seeing. In the wooden, humid dining hall, connie stealing from your plate, repeating the same joke with him and the brown haired girl and doubling over with laughter as your beloved grumbled under his breath about how it wasn’t that funny but you knew he was smiling too; comforting connie after he lost his twin, accompanying him to ragako to see his family and listening to his stories about his small but loud village.
you did as you were told, not questioning Freckle’s instructions as you inhaled, exhaled. One, two three. Why did remembering have to be so painful? You could only faintly make out the concerned voices that filled around you, hands guiding your shoulders – they were warm and familiar is all you knew, all you wanted to know – and you try to focus on your breathing, but this name, this goddamn name sends you spiralling through a tornado, falling with you breath stuck in your chest; “connie springer” and his jokes, sitting in the dining room, standing near the stables, charging into an unfortunate carnage, flying through the trees as the branches scratch the side of your face, your cheeks stretched with the wide smile that spills from your lips, your laughter mixed with his travelling through the air because of a joke that was deemed lame by almost everyone but you.
A hand was intertwined with yours, pressing into your flesh with soft pressure despite its calluses, you note, another hand that you couldn’t feel through your clothes rested on your back, feeling the up and down of your breathing, moving their thumb in a small circle there. The wood pattern of the table infront of you, the small chatter from everyone in the café but your circle, the smell of fresh tea – chamomile, you think, you weren’t as good as Levi with the guessing game – berry flavoured gum that stained your tastebuds. Breathing in and then out. In and then out until connie springer became nothing but a name with a face and wrinkles around his eyes. Someone that could lighten the mood with one word. Someone that could hug you and pat your back awkwardly but with all the love he could muster up, which seemed to be a lot. Someone who was important to you. Was supposed to be important to you.
“better?” flower boy asks, and you know its important because he’s never looked at you like this, with this much warmth and knowing, and it was his hand holding yours. With flinching being involuntary, it left less of a choice for you to leave his grip. You can only find it in yourself to nod, a simple action bearing more than you want to imagine.
Connie’s on the other side of the table, looking at you eagerly. Freckles is to your right and Sunshine – this is what you will call her until you could have the courage to learn her name before you learn your own – is sitting to his right, connie’s left. Was his nickname just as heavy as his name? is that why you felt like this? You shift in your seat. You wonder how heavy your own name is.
“man, thought you died again with that look on your face.” Connie jokes, as always. Flower boy’s hand goes stiff in yours and you find it involuntary to squeeze it to relax him. Since when did you give yourself as much importance? Since when did you think that your touch could relax someone? Your hands have always been cold. Dead? Is that what connie said? Checked out.
“too soon.” Freckles says, a small smile on his face. Connie nods and shifts back in his seat. You don’t want to learn the rest of their names – not because you lack the courage or the grief but because you lacked the knowledge to. You couldn’t bear to hold that importance, the expectation that held up their faces, the same look your parents held, the same look that would be broken when you mentioned going to the university of paradis instead of the one you couldn’t get into. You couldn’t bear to break the news to them, their hopeful faces, looking at you for a word – your word, the one you hated to say out loud because it made your existence far more real than you’d like it to be, your name that was nothing but an outline of what you were supposed to be – and to watch their same faces fall because of everything you couldn’t provide. Your story was already written, however, because the next words you could think of were remnant of what you wanted to say and not what you were supposed to say, “so, what have you been up to?” with a pep in your voice that you didn’t recognize. You suppose you never have been able to recognize who you were.
Flower boy’s confusion to your avoidance terrified you, terrified of the importance you felt because you could identify his emotions without so much as a glance at his face. And then there were Sunshine and connie who talked over each other, their voices settling deep within your bones, everything you felt increasing tenfold, feeling like it was no longer contained within you but reached out of the boundaries of this store. It terrified you. You were giving yourself too much importance, a place that wasn’t supposed to be filled by you.
Freckles looked between the two of them, opening and closing his mouth to say something, interject their stories, and flower boy was still looking at you. You wondered what he was thinking. You wondered what you were thinking, too, to still be here. You had a plan, something that you were supposed to do. Complete high school graduation, something that would fulfil your parent’s wishes before everything else, pretend to care about further education, pretend to care about waking up no matter how exhausted your body was from never sleeping, pretend to eat, pretend to not lock your bathroom, pretend you didn’t want to let the ground bury you. It’s embrace would be infinitely warmer than whatever the air held, always smelling like built up guilt and discomfort that refused to leave no matter how many incense sticks you burnt, no matter how much smoke you filled up with. And then pretend to be alive for seven minutes as the cold felt warmer and the warmth felt colder. At least, that’s what it was supposed to feel like according to the minimal, hesitant research you had done about bodies after death.
Planned. Everything with you had to be put in perfect, cursive letters, reminding you of who you were supposed to be, of the shoes and clothes you were supposed to fill out. The heaviness of it all, too; you were listening, not quiet there, and it felt a lot like an apology. Like lost letters from friends who could never find the other’s new address because they never reached out to. It felt a lot like an admission of guilt than you actually being here, like this big performance the steps to which you were entirely unaware of, always teetering between the edge of being just enough and failing, always on thin ice.
Dead. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Connie said it. Flower boy felt it, you were sure, and Freckles was aware of it. Sunshine tried to hide it entirely but the pea sized elephant in the room was made clear to you – you were not supposed to be here. Maybe some other, better, beautiful version of you was. she deserved it. You didnt know her but you knew that she did, and who were you to deprive her of that joy? The joy of getting to know the version of you that was long buried underground with dirt filling their lungs and whites of their eyes turned a cold grey. Whoever it was that you saw in your dreams – you refuse to call her your own name – was someone else entirely, crumpled under the weight of those fiery monsters in an island that went just as unnamed as you. Maybe that’s who they were looking for. You were dead, performing at a funeral of someone you’re supposed to know, someone youre supposed to be, and people are looking at you for answers you don’t have. They’re looking at you.
Theyre looking at you. You stare at the space between you and flower boy, Freckles is tapping you on the shoulder. You look up, theyre looking at you for answers you don’t have, expectant smiles on their faces for a voice you couldn’t bear to hear from yourself, for a name you could never make your own.
Sunshine shifts closer, her hands leaning on the table. You do the same, leaning in close so her excited whispers can reach your ears even though what she asks isn’t a secret. “what’s your name?”
right. You owe it to them.
You lean back. It hurts. You tell them who you are.
And then theres more silence. They seem to know how to deal with it – Sunshine leans back into her chair and stares as the ceiling much like connie, Freckles leans forward and rests his head on the table, flower boy stiffens entirely and you worry he isn’t breathing. He shifts closer to you without speaking and you let him. Who are you to stop him? They know you now. Or atleast, theyre supposed to. You rub circle’s on flower boy’s hand, rhythmic, performing. Speaking of a dead person was hard, especially since it was yourself. You never knew how to sign off on letters, you never knew how to give speeches or how to start them without sweating and now you had a crowd – a procession, some mourners for someone you were supposed to be – and it felt like an apologetic eulogy of someone you had never met but were supposed to know about, know of, become. It wasn’t you.
Maybe your parents were also mourners. The few friends turned strangers you had back where you regrettably grew up were also mourners.
but that was giving yourself too much importance. Who were you to have a funeral? You would never. But she – the you with the blades in your hands - could. she would. Was it him? flower boy? Who cried over your – her – dead figure drenched in blood, promising something important? Must’ve been him with the way he was holding you now but, then again, it wasn’t you being held. It was the body in the casket that went unburied not because she wasnt loved enough, but because she were loved too much.
Something that could never be you. Too much importance.
The silence was broken by Freckles. He smiled warmly, with familiar happiness, letters found by strangers turned friends after finding the right address to go to. “good to see you again.”
again, as if you’d met before. As if it was you who he’d met and loved.
You smiled back as performance, standing up with him as he took you in his arms, noting the way flower boy’s hands lingered in yours as you got up. she must’ve been important, this version of you that they had built up in their heads that you were sure to destroy with one wrong word. Freckles hugged you tightly, his arms circling your shoulders, his head resting on top of yours and you wonder if he thinks it’s an awkward form, one of your arms is pressed in between both your bodies, the other reaching around his back, your nametag digging into your chest, no doubt digging into his as well with your rapid breathing. Connie and Sunshine joined in a minute later, unable to stop themselves – how you could guess their emotions was a mystery to you. You were giving yourself too much importance, you assumed, flower boy’s hands engulfing the four of you now and despite the layers of arms covering you, you could feel his warmth the most.
You were giving yourself too much importance.
“connie, I cant breathe.” Sunshine says, her nose buried into Freckles’ dark blue sweater.
“its jean’s fault-“
“get your nose out of marco’s fucking big back-“
“just because im taller than sasha doesn’t mean I have a big ba-“
So many names being thrown without a care in the world; without the importance held under their tongues that you thought they’d hold. No longer Sunshine and flower boy and Freckles, their names meshed together with the memories and the pain of remembering, again, and you wondered why it had to be you. Why it had to be someone like you who had to hold this gun to your own head, you who had to recite a eulogy in front of strangers, you who had to forget and remember and forget again, why it was you who wasn’t allowed to give yourself too much importance, why it was you that was supposed to be important.
Your head buried itself further into Freckles’ – marco. Marco with constellations for freckles, marco who had asked you – her – for advice on what to give his youngest sister on her birthday while being so far away from her, marco who had told you your gear was loose before you headed headfirst into battle without knowing its consequences, marco who had told you that you and your flower boy make a good team after a mission, marco who’s face chewed off in an uneven chunk, half his limbs destroyed, his eyes closed. Without a goodbye.
Marco. His name was marco now, your eyes closed tighter, the chatter around you increased. Something about connie saying, “what did we do now?” only to be met with “did we not tell them our names?” “I don’t… I think we did?” “well clearly fucking not.” Followed by another pair of arms replacing marco’s, and the feeling itself made you crumble to your knees if it wasn’t for him holding you upright, your weight pressed onto him. He held you delicately, with a purpose you didn’t have the importance to serve. “I’ve got you. We’re here.” He says, and if just the sound of his voice could solve everything, you’d let him. You’d let him play god, you’d let him play with the strings of the universe that you’d let control you, you’d let him put you in your coffin and dig dirt on top of your stranger of a body.
“should I get them some tea? What’s their favourite?” previously Sunshine, now turned sasha asks. No, she was always sasha. Were you always yourself? You weren’t sure about that, but her voice makes you grimace, even with her honeyed tones flowing to your ears. It wasn’t her fault. No matter how much you tried to suppress all that you were feeling to show that you were fine because that’s what the mangled corpse of yourself would’ve done in another life, you don’t, because you're not her, and sasha’s voice serves as a reminder of her being a part of you. Bunking with her, her hair flowing over her shoulders as she took a hold of your hands and practically begged you to steal some extra rations from the kitchens, sitting on her bed after your first expedition, sitting in silence for the first time since you met her because both of you were incapable of having something to say to each other, opting to hold each other instead, brushing the knots out of her hair as she rambled to you about the countless horrifying ways her date with the blonde chef all while laughing at her drawn out conclusions about the end of the date that hadn’t even started yet.
And then there was him. Flower boy. Jean. His nickname felt just as heavy as connie’s, but if you had the strength to, you would’ve wondered why, knowing that the answer would be a low, inconsiderate hum from the universe, and the way your heart constricts in your chest makes you wonder if this serves as a punishment. The sin you hadn’t meant to commit, the sin of being someone else and trying to fill their uncomfortable shoes – maybe the hole in your chest was a cruel, albeit worthy, damnation and the only thing that brought you comfort was the fact that you had felt this before. That you had prepared yourself by knowing what it felt like to have nothing to thaw yourself from the frozen state you were in. even if it wasn’t in the same position as you were in right now, you had felt the drowning depth that your limbs ache into and ache for. The only problem was him. The same person who was quiet literally holding you up by the shoulders was the reason you were so conflicted, why everything felt worse because now you had people to let down. you knew what it was like to be held by him and you knew that it was him who was holding you and now you had to come to terms with the uncontrollable fact that you had to be the one to break his hopes. Tell him that the person he had been looking for was dead, waiting to be buried by him, body getting warmer by the minute because he was holding it’s corpse.
Dead. You were supposed to be dead, you had everything planned out. Complete highschool. Pretend. Dead. You were supposed to be dead but now jean’s warm breath is shifting the hair where his nose rested, his lips forming words you’re sure you can shape yourself into. You breathe out. He feels as real as nothing ever has and you shudder again and you think he thinks youre cold – you are – and he pulls his jacket off and on top of your shoulders as muscle memory even if your skin has never been used to the kindness he’s offering. Hes covering a corpse with his own hands. Bed of flowers growing over your previous body, you were sure, because only she was capable of growing something beautiful.
You control your breathing. You’ve done this before. back when you used to be afraid of the dark, back when everyone with a face claimed to hate you, back when the bathroom was your only respite to breathe. And then jean pulls away, only a little, and youre looking down at your shoes because you know his eyes will speak truth that you don’t want to read. His voice – vibrating, low, considerate, his – asks, “better now?”
Performance. Whoever you were in that life is capable of something far more beautiful than what you could say, and it’s a script that’s been provided for you, because you find the teetering strength to look up at him and speak, finally, with a voice that’s not yours because it’s alive. Or it’s pretending to be. “never better,” your teeth are rotting and falling out and there are maggots in your skull youre dead youre dead youre dead.
Jean smiles. The light falls down on his cheekbones and he looks like he belongs with this performance of you and youre glad your wear for worse body had provided him with a rare reason to smile like that, all soft and kind and eyes crinkled on the corners because he had lived. Your fingers move without the hesitant permission they usually openly have, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. His eyes fall shut momentarily, the universe baits it’s breath with patience that it hadn’t been kind enough to show you until now. You breathe in too, involuntary, unallowed, impatient, and your hand falls back down, resting on his chest, feeling the organ of his heart. A place you knew you belonged. Where she belonged. This new performance.
The stage has been set. All you have to do is act. Keep up the appearance of being the person they wanted you to be, all for the satisfaction of someone dead being miraculously alive. You wondered if your demise had anything to do with the way you unfortunately turned out – if the blood seeping out of you somehow tampered with the way you’d live (if you could dare to call it living) in this universe, in this life, but then you look over to sasha who’s deer-brown eyes have a glossy sheen to them, wide and waiting with her arms open, fingers waiting.
The stage has been set. All you have to do is act.
ACT 1, SCENE 1.
INTERIOR. BLOOM TEAS, 4:48 P.M.
SASHA’s arms open for POPPY. The lights filter in through the windows, afternoon warmth slipping into the cool of the store. CONNIE waits, expectant. MARCO’s smile is soft. flower boy JEAN’s hand on the small of POPPY's back. POPPY steps into SASHA’s embrace.
SASHA (smiling, voice cracking)
I missed you.
POPPY (reciprocating)
me too.
CONNIE (joining in)
stop gatekeeping the hug, sash.
SASHA
im not doing shit, baldy.
MARCO (joining in, chuckling)
this feels right.
flower boy JEAN (humming)
we should probably get out of here, though. That guy’s starin’ at us.
ALL turn their heads towards LEVI, who wipes down a cup, shooting glares towards the group.
POPPY
oh shit, I have to be at work right now.
SASHA (holding POPPY’s face in her hands.)
Her hands are soft, warm. Her thumb almost pokes into your eye but she’s careful to not let it.
does this mean we get stuff for free now?
MARCO
sash, I don’t think that’s allowed.
CONNIE
why not? POPPY’s an employee. There should be uh… a discount.
MARCO (turning to POPPY)
...is there?
POPPY
I wish, but no. we do get one free drink per day, though, and sometimes we get to take the leftovers home. I have some matcha cake in my fridge, if you’d like.
SASHA (grinning widely)
are you inviting us to have matcha cake at your place? D’ya have a crush on us or something?
Flower boy JEAN (groaning)
are you sure you wanna share with her, poppy?
SASHA (offended)
hey!
CONNIE
no, jean’s right. for the first time ever.
jean scrunches his face up. Its cute. If you had more importance and more of a connection to being a part of this play, you’d reach out to tap his nose with your index finger gently. Enough to annoy him but still find your affection.
MARCO
I really think we should leave, now that jean said it.
POPPY
don’t worry about it. That’s just levi.
Collective silence.
jean’s head rests on your shoulder for a moment. sasha and connie's face pales. you're not sure if its because of you saying his name out loud or if it’s because theyre still afraid of him. you wouldn’t blame them. marco simply tilts his head – you suppose he wasn’t there when levi had made everyone clean the cabin top to bottom five times over because he had found a singular speck of dirt under one of the beds.
CONNIE
yeah we should fucking get out of here I don’t want him to chop my fucking arm off.
SASHA
I don’t remember the last time I cleaned my room. Can he smell that on me? I feel like he can.
flower boy JEAN
I think he can hear it on you too. Hello captain.
LEVI enters the scene. All eyes are now on him.
LEVI
what's going on here?
CONNIE and SASHA salute, their fist against their chest.
BOTH (eyes screwed shut)
captain levi, sir!
flower boy JEAN (standing up straighter, fixing his posture.)
s-sir. Hello.
LEVI (narrowing his eyes)
names. Now.
FADING OUT
ACT 1, SCENE 2
INTERIOR. BLOOM TEAS, 9:56 P.M
you had the closing shift, and after serving some beverages and food – there were multiple rounds of this, considering sasha – and your hands shook with familiar cold as you pressed in the code to lock the back door of the café, your apartment keys heavy in your pocket, calling you back to your pyjama’s and mattress.
flower boy JEAN
hey, poppy.
POPPY flinches, turning around.
POPPY (smiling softly)
jesus, you scared me.
flower boy JEAN (also smiling, hands in his pockets)
boo.
POPPY
oh, im so scared… I hope a big strong man comes to save me.
flower boy JEAN (interlocking hands with POPPY)
right here, my love.
Huh. Love. It was strange how the nickname fell off his lips so nautrally, as if it were already there, as if it suited you and became who you were. But the name wasn’t meant for you. it was meant for this poppy. A reminder for you to stay on stage without breaking character.
POPPY (laughing softly)
were you waiting for me, flower boy?
flower boy JEAN
no, I was just… you know. Admiring this…. Beautiful alley. Yeah. Nice brick walls you got there.
POPPY (laughing)
yeah, I made them myself, thanks.
flower boy JEAN (starting to lead POPPY home)
I was going to drop you off. Missed you at the shop today.
POPPY
i forgot I took a double shift today. I would’ve told you last week if-
flower boy JEAN
its alright. Where do you live?
Another reminder that he doesn’t know you. this you, the one that half-assed decorating your apartment because you got too whipped up into the semester to care about how you lived. This you who couldn’t call any place a home. How could this you – someone who’s not a poppy or a love or a whoever he deems fit – compare to the one that had a temple built under her sacred name in the centre of jean’s heart?
POPPY
just straight and then a left. Takes about twenty minutes by foot.
flower boy JEAN hums.
Theres a lull in your barely-there script of a conversation, your hand still in his.
flower boy JEAN
you okay?
POPPY (smiling)
of course I am. Why?
flower boy JEAN
you’ve been acting kinda weird since you found out our names.
Fuck. Did he figure you out? Did you let yourself slip away? Youre supposed to be dead. Your grave was already made. Perfect coffin with your name crossed out and eyes forcefully screwed shut.
POPPY (leaning her head of flower boy JEAN’s shoulder)
just a little tired. I had a couple classes before work, so.
flower boy JEAN (humming)
wanna order some takeout when we reach your place? I know some really good pizza.
POPPY (smiling)
I’d like that.
FADING OUT, flower boy JEAN AND POPPY HAND IN HAND.
END OF ACT ONE.
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summary ; witness marks are usually used for antique clocks, to tell the functioning of the insides so it would be easier for them to be repaired, usually indicated by little scratches or wear-and-tear, and it's clockwork how you love jean. its a choice against your will, but neither of you would have it any other way.
warnings ; reader likes the rain (again), mild depictions of an accident
a/n ; the story for this Actually Happened when I was small btw :') also marco number one grammar police and pushes his glasses up his nose and used to unironically say "I'm actually.." in high school. also the title for this was because of that one scene in haunting of the hill house (new favourite show I love it so much by GOD don't get me to talk about it I won't shut up) uh anyway enjoy!
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Its raining again.
For the sixth time this week, it’s raining. Perpetual, gloomy shadows with unsparing clouds in the sky, its raining. From your view, the window is littered with usually bright leaves sparkling, almost ironically, under the water that showers them. They dance as happily as you’d want them to, the breeze waving them without synchrony but togetherness still. Whatever thoughts you might’ve had come to a slow stop, and despite being in the common, affectionate company of your friends, you look at the window, reminding yourself to not close it at night even if it may be hazardous.
You don’t care. The starless night could be forgiven under the heaviness of the clouds that disrupted it.
Connie calls your name. “your turn!” he says, slinking an arm around your shoulders. You’re reminded where you are, suddenly, and heat fills up your usually cold body despite the shivers that line your shoulders. Playing a game of two truths and a lie after lazing around all weekend, the Monday afternoon was decided, almost like every other day. Your friends would come over to you and sasha’s shared apartment, and whatever sweets you’d had the time to bake would be hidden in the back corners of the pantry before sasha would wake. She’d ask you what that smell was, and you would shrug, and she would complain about her mouth watering and how it would distract her in class, but you withheld the information well. After your classes; boring and long-drawn and so drowsy, your friends would be back in your apartment before you, seemingly having never left. Connie would be in the middle of “helping” sasha, if you could even call it that, find the treats you had concealed. Marco would be reprimanding them with a soft smile, his back turned to them while making coffee for everyone, and jean would be sorting through the menu of an inexpensive take-out place, asking questions of preferences that would all go ignored.
It was easy. Simple, predictable clockwork that filled up your weeks. Every Monday evenings, despite literally rain or shine, the same scene would greet you, and just like clockwork, your body would chime in the acknowledgment of this routine. with years and years of working with the same gears and metal and pangs and hurts of your unfamiliar body – the Monday evening bell of your being sounds out as you enter the apartment because you know the exact events, the exact tick-tick-tick, and enjoy it all the more. Every week. Every Monday.
And you’d enter, your hands filled with treats from the gas station on your way home, and you’d smile after knowing, for sure, that this is what you would call home. Without so much thinking about any other place to go to, not your childhood walls with demeaning darkness and not your first dorm with its drawn curtains and coldness, none of those. None of the places could call out to you with their monsters and gleaming teeth while you were here.
And then jean would turn to you, like clockwork that’s forgotten that it rings out every hour, every Monday at six p.m., he’d get up and say, “finally!” and take the bags from your hands, peck your mouth before anyone could see and groan for you to get a room. And just like the same clockwork with the same inner workings, you tell him what you think everyone would like to eat. sasha would like the ham and cheese- yes, you know this because she’s been craving intensely savoury things this week – and connie, just to piss her off but also because you’ve learnt how he’s made it a point to force himself to like it, would have the Hawaiian one. And then marco says he’d be okay with anything, and you know that this means he’d love for there to be olives and bell peppers. So that’s what you go with.
And just like clockwork, the same routine plays itself, over and over again, excited to commit something new as if it’s forgotten that it had been doing the same since it was made – you’re courageously but cautiously near him, peering into the same screen as him as he scrolls.
“oh, garlic bread,” you remark, whispering. Jean doesn’t spare you a glance while still scrolling, nodding to your scarce voice. You can see his eyelashes fluttering as you watch him closely, not getting sick of the view even if you had been spun around blindly, dizzily. And then jean puts the phone up to his ear and rattles off the order. At the end, after everyone is done and you’ve moved away from him to rummage through the pantry in search for the goodies you had hidden, jean tells them to add an order of garlic bread with cheese with the sudden ten-fold of affection laced in his tone in your remembrance, that the person on the other line would’ve questioned if it hadn’t been their job not to.
And then, Monday evening at seven p.m., the five of you sit on the floor of your cramped living room, around the old, second-hand coffee table with enough stains for it to never be sold again, with boxes of pizza and some song playing in the background that none of you really knew the name of and didn’t care enough to ask, the music getting lost under the ongoing conversation. Today, this Monday at seven twelve p.m, it seemed to be a game of two truths and a lie that your mind had been immersed into before it had started to rain.
You clear your throat, shifting in your seat, taking another garlic bread in your hand, jean’s eyes trailing the predictable, comforting movements of your eyes as you spoke. “this isn’t fair, you guys know me already-“
“that’s the point!” sasha exclaims.
“is it, really?” jean argues with a roll of his eyes. Connies arms shake your shoulders when you try to take another bite. Marco tells him to not accidentally choke you, but connie’s voice is loud enough to drown him out, “just make shit up!”
“yeah, but its so obvious.” A pause in his movements allows you to think. Think. Think about how all the decisions you’ve made have led you here. the warmth that held you now fully grasps your frame, making you smile widely, swallowing the piece of bread. “okay, so,”
Its obvious. Clockwork, how all of your friends lean in close as if kids around a bonfire. Jean’s eyes – not as if they’d ever left you – now unabashedly stare at you expectantly, sasha leaning in closer while taking a bite, connie’s arm pressed up against yours and marco leaning on the table directly opposite you. “I had a hamster that I accidentally killed that my mom screamed at me for-“ the obvious lie. Jean’s eyebrows lift, a small smile playing at his lips at your attempt. “-I would lie to everyone and tell them I was born out of my country-“ jean nods. “- I slipped off of a bike that my brother was riding and didn’t let go.” Jean tilts his head. This story, he hadn’t heard.
Theres a beat of silence, again, and sasha hums in consideration. Connie immediately has an answer “the second one is the lie!”
Marco scoots closer to the table, “no, wait, that would mean that the first one is the truth.”
“oh my god, you killed a hamster?”
You shrug, a smile spreading your lips. Jean leaned back, having already figured it out. “so you slipped off a bike?” he baits.
You take it unknowingly. “yeah. We were kids-“ with the way you’re describing it, jean thinks, he’s already won. Nobody would decorate a lie like this, and his heart beats into his ears as you continue, his eyes impossibly catch all of your movements. They’re ungraceful, clumsy, there are crumbs of crusty bread on the corner of your mouth and your hair has frizzed up a bit with the weather and jean cant help but to think about you the way he always has. Everything you do is inexplicably you, without any room for anything else – like clockwork. The same excitement that has always been there unknowingly chimes itself in his heart, but it doesn’t feel precise and calculated because it’s always been there, all the ups and downs of your voice have been cultivated through the years of living and jean hates how even that small fact makes him want to spend the rest of his life with your cultivated mannerisms.
“- and he had just learned how to ride a bike without training wheels-“
“wait he’s bigger than you?”
“elder,” marco corrects. Jean groans. Sasha calls him a grammar police. Connie sounds the alarms with his mouth. You continue, the smile on your face unaffected at the intrusion. “yep. He’s elder to me. Five years. Yeah, so, we were at my cousin’s place, right, and he had this old-ass rusty bike and my brother told me to get onto the passenger seat – which, by the way, wasn’t a passenger seat, it was like the end of the cycle where you can pinch your bag onto it and stuff.”
“oh, the rat trap!” connie says. You nod. “yes. Exactly. I was like, five, and I sat on it with my front facing his back-“ you held up your now free hands in front of each other, the palm of your right hand facing the back of your left one. Jean’s heart swells with adoring eyes watching, uncalculating, unaware. “- and obviously, it was uncomfortable. And my brother was laughing and driving really fast, and I was laughing too, and all my cousins were there. Which is six of us. And they were all watching us, him, driving, and then-“ jean thinks he’s in love with you. “-I fucking slip.” You drop the bomb with a laugh that sounds more like a hiccup. Jeans heart flutters, finally able to catch its breath after running after one, trying to catch yours.
“slip?” marco inquires, sasha squeaks, connie gasps. Jean breathes in, you say “yeah, and I was so stupid- “ he breathes out as you continue, his head tilting, listening, controlling, choosing to listen to you. “-because I didn’t let go of the.. mouse trap thingie, and so-“ sasha gasps now, too, “-I was gripping the back of the cycle, and my chest was like, being drilled into by the back wheel. And my brain shuts off and I don’t let go for some fucking reason, and my brother cant hear me because of the wind, and my cousin has to run into him, essentially, to stop him.”
Sashas mouth falls open and marco looks at you wide-eyed, connie grasping his own chest as if the accident had happened to him. Jean mutters, “so that’s one truth.” And all hell breaks loose. Well, almost. Connie crawls towards you, sasha jumps into a million questions and marco turns to jean.
Its like a secret he knows. Leaning in, he says, “youre not being subtle, y’know.”
Jean’s face turns red. “I don’t know what you-“
Marco rolls his eyes with a cheeky smile, “sure. You cant lie for shit,” he says, turning back to you three. Youre telling connie in vivid detail about the injury you took, the smile never leaving your face, and marco calls out to you.
“what happened after?” he asks. you shrug, “I don’t know. I don’t think he got in trouble for it though, it wasn’t his fault. But also because he’s my mom’s favourite.” You say, leaning forward and snatching the last garlic bread, splitting it in a messy half. The lack of a plate under your hands creates more mess on your sweatshirt, but you don’t care. Not when it’s like this, with everyone around you, and you think about how, despite all the truths and stories that you haven’t said out loud but have indignantly shaped you with stubborn hands – all of them led to this. no amount of crumbs or stains would deter you from the affection that blooms in your chest, as sasha and connie judge if the story you just spelled out was a lie or not. Jean argues, adamantly, that it couldn’t have been a lie with your elaborations – that’s the reason he uses. Not because he knows that the first one is obviously false, no, its only because he knows how you get when you’re telling a true story. He knows the exact differences between your demeanour. If it’s a professional setting or if its one of those casual days that jean brings you ice cream and you have no choice but to spill the contents of your life into his mind, unknowing of how it takes root in jeans head, the remnants of it growing into his heart. He knows the difference between how you’d deliver a fact or something your passionate about or the easy lies that you tell as an excuse of your absence because the truth is heavier than you’d like it to be – the difference between the truth and the lie is that the truth wouldn’t make you shudder as much as a lie would.
The truth of being in love with you however, made jean shudder. He was raised on honesty. You were raised on the veils, on the deceit of adults, seeking out the honesty rather than wanting to shy away from him. Jean wanted the opposite. He wanted his feelings to be a lie just so he could look at you, your face, your eyes, and deny all feelings he held towards you.
But he still held them with force. With choice. With deliberation.
You glance back at the window. Marco got up, towering over everyone as he declared, almost comically, pointing at you. “the first one’s a lie.”
Your brows raise up with challenge. You look around, waiting for anyone to argue. You concede with your hands lifted and your head bowed. “you got me.”
Connie scoffed. “I was right.”
“you were literally the furthest away from winning,” jean says. The other, uneaten half of your garlic bread lies still in your fingers, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. Connie rolls his eyes. “you’re afraid of me. Whatever, my turn!”
“im not afraid of you!”
“I once ate ink-“ connie continues. You turn to jean, finding the opportune moment striking as his eyes trail yours, then reach down to your hand that offers him the other half of your bread. You whisper – god, you’re leaning so close, and jean doesn’t glance at you because in truth he didn’t know what would happen if he did, “thanks for the bread.” You tell him and he hears the gentle warmth in your tone. He grasps it from you. it’s a secret. It’s a choice. Its deliberation. Its clockwork.
You turn back. So does jean. He’s scooted close to you now, and marco has to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he sees what transpired before him.
An obvious lie – it wasn’t raining. There weren’t the clouds you so adored lining up the sky, reprimanding humanity for having forgotten their beauty. And then there’s a less obvious but more present truth – you love jean as naturally as clockwork, the rain pelts harder and you observe two raindrops racing each other, your eyes focusing back to the reflection of yourself in the game, pointing out to connie’s obvious lies.
And the other truth – there’s certainty in jean’s voice as he calls connie out on his bullshit, and then he looks at you and he’s swimming in the force of loving you and even if he’s safe inside, he feels rain on him as he sits with the fact that your warmth isn’t going anywhere and that it’s a choice. Deliberation. Its force.
It’s clockwork. He wouldn’t change it for anything.
yearner!jean isn’t remotely as suave and smooth as he portrays himself, not with his friends, not with giggling, blushing girls who approach him and ask for his number, and certainly not with you
yearner!jean whose honeyed eyes shot open wide, blinked rapidly, and nearly watered when he saw you for the first time, across the room, almost infuriatingly unaware of how pretty you were. so pretty it almost made him sick, like eating a much too sweet dessert far too quickly.
yearner!jean who tries to be the cool guy, because that’s what pretty girls like, right?
yearner!jean glides over to you, hands ‘casually’ shoved in his pocket, when he was really just attempting to hide the nervous tremors of his hands. boyish grin on his face, lips tugged upwards as he dropped the most cliché lines possible
yearner!jean stood by your side, yapping away whilst simultaneously withering away into dust the more his mouth moves because every word he says comes out a mess, idiotic, and maybe even unintentionally insulting because of his nerves
yearner!jean mentally curses himself every time he sees your face drop more and more and more. fuck, maybe he should give up.
yearner!jean scratching the back of his neck, pausing, his smile turns more bashful, maybe he should try being more earnest.
yearner!jean whose compliments turn sweeter, more real and kind, but his dulcet voice still cracks and shakes, his Adam’s apple still bobs nervously, and his eyes are still unable to meet yours for longer than a few mere seconds
yearner!jean was confused, utterly befuddled and perplexed that his pathetic attempt at being a playboy didn’t work, yet swallowing thickly before profusely apologising after accidentally calling you ‘urethral’ instead of ‘ethereal’ caused you to giggle so much you teared up
‘just shut up, here’s my number, ‘kay?’ you smile, still recovering from your laughter at his expense
yearner!jean who walks away, fist pumping the air when he gets your number before he looks around him to make sure no one saw (eren and connie did, much to his dismay).
yearner!jean who overthinks a little too much, connie jokes that his good looks are going to waste considering he seemed to turn girls off the moment he starts running his mouth
yearner!jean spends far too long debating on how long he should wait to text you, an hour? no, too early. what about later tonight? no, that might make it seem like a booty call. a few days? no, that’s too long, what if you forget about him before then? fuck, he’s losing it
yearner!jean when he finally decides to text you he types out around fifty trial messages, deleting each one because they’re either too dry and boring or concerningly eager
‘hey’ that’s lame
‘heyyy wydd’ sounds like a frat boy
‘hiiii!!! :)’ he’s texting like sasha
‘hey, it’s jean from earlier’ that’ll do, he guesses
yearner!jean loses the plot when you take too long to respond, he probably came off weird and too excited, now he’s scared you off. he’s rapidly texting connie, and that’s how jean knows he’s off in the deep end because when has he ever gone to connie for advice?
yearner!jean you’re just so pretty, those gorgeous, bright eyes of yours, not in colour specifically, but the sweet gleam in them is impossible to ignore. your hair, how do you get it so fucking perfect? and your smile, your laugh? god, your smile. he wishes he could immortalise it, but his sketches would never do it justice. do you justice in general.
yearner!jean scrambles for his phone any time he hears a notification come through and rolls onto his stomach, like a teen girl in a 80’s rom-com, twirling the phone cord around her finger when on the phone with her crush.
yearner!jean fuck it’s you, it’s actually you. and in fact, he hadn’t scared you off, you were just at work. god, he’s a loser. who even panics this much over a girl they just met? jean kirstein apperently
yearner!jean screams into his pillow, rubs his hands down his face and sighs in relief when he managed to get a date with you
yearner!jean who much to his disliking is now forced to ask his idiot friends for advice again because he needs to take you on the date of a life time
⁀➷ warnings➷ as the title suggests - rats. reader is a rat girl thru n thru so if you dont agree with those ideals....you might be in the wrong place/please sit thru this one </3 mentions of killing said rodent also. anyway! tw for VERY awkward conversation, i cant help it. youre going to get secondhand embarrassment. also connie might be a little ooc, im working on writing him better with other fics as practice :') but if you guys have any suggestions please feel free to message me about them!
➷ episode soundtrack.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
➷ Tuesday, 6:27 p.m.
there was a squeaking nearby. in the main living area, with the couches pushed against each other to create a cozy space, there was a squeaking - rustles.
you should've known. An apartment where three guys lived with each other in a somewhat cramped space, you should've known hygiene would be an issue; even with marco around. of course there was going to be a rogue rat thinking this was its home as much as it was the actual inhabitants of the place.
Connie flinched from beside you, back sitting up straight, eyes scattering across the room widely; like laser beams, scanning every wall and hinge at the sign of the noise.
“did you hear that?” he asks, making you glance over at him in half amusement and half curiosity.
“sounds like we got a rat in the walls-” “don't. no we don't what do you-” his paranoid sentence is broken up by an equally nervous laugh, more adjacent to a scoff than anything, “-what do you mean? ha. we don't….have those.” his voice diminished just as the sentence did, turning down its pitch until it was barely heard.
oh but you heard it. “are you scared of rats?” you ask, your laptop shifting from its position over the blanket that only half-covered your legs, elbow resting on the back of the couch.
his head whips around at you as if you're the culprit of the squeaks. “and you're not?”
you open your mouth, ready to defend all rodents - to become a voice of the needy - when the needy voices spoke for themselves. another squeak. a couple whimpers, really, that bled into the whimpers coming from your friend as he huddled closer to you, placing the heels of his feet on the cushions of the couch. He pulled his shirt over both his knees, wrapping his arms around them.
you try not to laugh. Really, you do, but he looks like a shiny ball with his freshly dyed grey hair as he shakes back and forth, and a snicker escapes you regardless.
fatal mistake. the bald ball - Connie - turns to face you. slowly.
your assignment is only half complete, his prop designing assignment is only in its initial experimental phase (as he likes to describe it), as Connie jumps at the sound of the door opening, his experimental prototype of what's supposed to be a half eaten sandwich made out of silicone and sponge jumps along with him, falling to the floor with a thud.
“why is Connie rolling around?” marco asks from the door frame, bag of groceries in his right hand, swinging the door wide open with the other. jean, without missing a beat or even looking at the guy, mutters in a tone loud enough, “I think it's second nature to him.” his own hands hold bags of groceries and a stack of toilet papers - the list of which had been stuck to the fridge door for the past three weeks, a pure product of its procrastination.
you sigh as you stand up, placing your laptop gently on the couch unlike connie’s project.
“he heard a rat in the walls,”
both the other men fell silent. staring at you dead in the eyes, Jean's features turned gaunt, while marco sighed heavily, eyes screwing shut in frustration.
“this happened last year too….god, it's like they migrate every single time.”
you shrug, trying hard not to find humor in the situation, but jean’s usually guarded and somewhat cocky spirit had vanished completely, replaced by a corpse. It was haunting, really; he stood as still as a statue, almost waiting for another noise to break him out of his stupor.
“maybe they like your home-” “I'll kill them.” Connie mutters, unconvincingly, his back now pressed against the bottom, cushioned legs of the couch, still rocking back and forth. marco sighed again, burden heavy on his shoulders, as he half-turned around, ready to head out of the door again,”I'm gonna go get the rat traps from the store,” he declared meekly, trying to push jean out of the way. he remained steady.
“wait, no need, I have one in my closet.” you call out, making all of them - well, marco and Connie - look at you. jean hadn't taken his eyes off of you since you'd confirmed a non-existent suspicion, and the invisible yet tangible contact made you want to squirm under his attention.
“you do?” marco asked.
“SAVIOUR. THE RAT GODDESS HAS COME UPON US,” Connie shouted, no longer rocking, head poking out of his burrow, eyes gazing up at you. was he….crying? his eyes were glassy, you noted, before jean took your attention away, no longer cosplaying as a statue of himself. “don't…call her that, it doesn't sound right.”
“why are you speaking on a woman's behalf, jean?” Connie asked, all previous anxiety replaced in favour of pure enjoyment.
“i didn't - I'm not- I just…if anything, she's, yknow,” jean says, not finishing the sentences, to which you tilt your head in question.
“i don't know, jean. I'm what, exactly?”
there was a brief silence, one in which jean stared at you, mouth gaping open and close like a bored fish, before he sucked in a breath and groaned, “mumble mumble mumble, you get it,” before moving to his room without a second glance, grocery bag and toilet paper still in hand.
“is he planning to use all of those?” you ask, marco not paying full attention as he placed all the groceries on the kitchen counter to organize, while Connie yelled, “jean kirstein, your ass is not fat enough to hoard all of those for yourself! i deserve some charmin’ love, c'mere baby boy!”
apartment 201 was never quiet. you allowed yourself to enjoy it.
➷ Sunday, 2:02 p.m.
In the bustle of jean cleaning the dishes left from lunch and connie snoring - somehow through the noise - on the undeniably comfortable couch with half his body hanging off of the furniture, it was easy to not hear the continuous squeaks.
Oh, but they were there. You knew it. Polo’s ears twitched at the sound, and marco turned around from packing the leftovers to greet his furry best friend. “You want a treat, bud? You just had lunch,” he said, wondering out loud.
From your crouched position at Polo’s paws, you spoke, “i think he can sense the rats,”
Jean stumbled with the dish in his hand, slipping it into the bubbles involuntarily. Clearing his throat, he murmured an apology and an excuse, none of which you actually bought. Stuffing the box of Tupperware into the too-full fridge that was as old as your grandmother, marco also crouched beside you, his knees snapping.
Scratching polo behind his ears, he said, “we should do something about that before connie has another panic attack.” his voice was a few octaves higher, as if he was having a conversation with polo and not the kitchen.
You breathe out a laugh, watching them interact. “I can take care of it,” you tell them, tilting your head so you can see polo better. His eyes are closed at the gentle caresses from his owner, mouth open with his tongue sticking out, pleased. Patting him on the head, you get up to help jean.
He’s about elbow deep in soap, pink gloves covered in suds. “Need help?” you ask, resting you hands on the counter.
he looks at you as if he wasn't expecting you to be there. You haven't had a lot of luck with him after last week - though you’ve connected a little more with connie and marco, especially after the latter brought polo back into the apartment - Jean mostly either stayed to himself or on campus, finishing up work that required bigger materials. You wanted, desperately, to see what he was working on, what kept him so busy, but you couldn't walk into the architecture building and claim the studio space as your own. You weren't close enough to jean for that, and for some reason, you were back to square one.
With his hair coming undone across his forehead, you blink up at him as his mouth opens and closes, searching for an answer. “Yeah, yeah… uhm, you can grab the towel over there-” he nods at the napkin “-and uh, dry these, i guess.”
You nod once, set on your task. Every dish had its own story, with it’s scratches set in ceramic, wiped clean from any visible grime. Marco stepped next to you to make some after-lunch coffee and flashed a smile at you, one that you returned. “Want one?” he asked. You shook your head, muttering a small thank you anyway. Glancing at jean to ask him if he wanted one too, you saw him wiping his forehead with his shoulder, trying to get his hair out of his face with a scowl, obviously failing. You said nothing, instead averting your eyes and going back to wiping dishes.
Red. blue. A murky green, and then a bowl that was more of a plate, decorated with thin blue stripes that you had used for your lunch today. Swiping your napkin over it, placing it aside to be kept in its home in a bit. You gleaned at jean again after marco left the kitchen, polo scurrying behind him like a golden shadow.
“I can-” you said, hesitating. His attention turned on you - “i can help with your… your hair, if you want.” you said pointing to your own forehead, napkin still held in your fist. Jean’s eyebrows shot up his now completely covered forehead, “oh. I mean…im not-” “-not like, with my hands if that, if that creeps you out,” “-oh?” “yeah…uhm, i can…. Try it with a…fork?” you say, wincing at your own statements, face scrunched in visible regret.
Maybe that does the trick, because he cracks a small smile, with an even smaller laugh.
“With a fork?” he says, amused. You roll your eyes, only a little annoyed. “Hey, man, let me have this.” he laughs a bit louder now, his smile enough to touch his cheeks instead of just his lips. He nods, convinced but hesitant.
Grabbing the nearest, newly wiped fork, you hold it in your hand like brandishing a sword, and point at his hair. He flinches backwards with a “woah,” to which you reply, “i’ll be careful.”
And you are, to your credit, as you gently lift his hair and push it back behind his hairline, making sure that the prongs don't graze his skin.
A daunting task. You step back to observe your work. “Yeah?” you say, with a smile that's half approval and half question. He nods, “yeah,” while avoiding eye contact. “Youre surprisingly good at that,” he adds, pointing to your fork with a pink-gloved hand, water dripping on the floor from it.
“It's my years of practice. Im… a mermaid?” you say, unsure of every word that comes out of your mouth, and he barks out a surprised laugh. “Right,” “yeah, that’s why im not touching the water. I’ll just… grow a tail-” “-grow a tail, yeah, no i get it. Sounds… magical,” he says, playing along with your terrible attempt at a bit. “A little weird, too”
You scoff, a little humorous, “coming from the guy who likes to avoid people,”
There's only some regret that comes tumbling out of your mouth at a form of, “i mean, i didnt mean to say that,” half-heartedly, but jean nods, his lips sealed into a thin line with guilt.
“No, youre right.” he starts, “Its just…i get too in my head about this, like- dont get me wrong, you’re a nice person, it’s just that we havent been friends before you moved in, y’know?” he says, his hands - gloves and all - making animated figures in the air, articulating his point with silent drawings.
“I get that,” you say, softly enough for connie’s loud snores to almost drown your voice. But jean gets it, and his hands stop fidgeting, instead finding peace at his sides. “But… you can start to be my friend, too, yknow? So im not a stranger living under your roof?”
His eyes finally meet yours. “Yeah,” he says, just as softly as you, “i’d like that.”
There's a beat of silence where you can feel the weight of something newer, out of control but still close enough to be called yours. He clears his throat, glancing at the fork that lays still in your hand, waiting for it’s story to be told.
“As long as we clean that fork,” he says, pointing at the object. You lift it up with a cheeky smile, “nah, i cant touch water, remember?”
He laughs.
➷ Monday, 8:12 p.m.
“So, is the rat situation under control?” sasha says, almost scaring some of the patrons that you're meant to be serving as she sneaks up at the register.
“Thank you, you can collect your drink after your name’s been called up. Have a great night!” you say, politeness clipped into your tone, before turning around to face your friend. “Dude, youre going to make the customers think we have rats.”
Sasha waves her hand dismissively, “they’d drink the coffee anyway. College students dont care about that.”
“I think they do very much care about it, considering how connie and jean were acting,”
Sasha barks out a laugh at that, her hands moving swiftly on the espresso machine, cleaning up the stray coffee grounds that had escaped from the portafilter, flinging them into its dedicated can. “Jean likes to act all nonchalant about it, but i swear he’s losing sleep. Connie’s just a scaredy cat, plus he has history. I had to take care of most of the bugs when i was living with them.”
You shake your head with a laugh, “beating gender stereotypes one rat at a time,”
She points to you with a smile, her tone approving, “exactly. So when are you going to meet mr. squeaks?”
You hum thoughtfully, “my long lost twin,” to which she laughs, brewing hot espresso into a glass shot. “Luckily, i still have my rat trap from the last time this happened at my own place, so i can set it up tonight and hopefully, tomorrow, i’ll meet the famous guy,”
“Fame-mouse little guy,” she says, elbowing you in the ribs, forcing out a laugh from you.
“Yeah. fame-mouse. The moment i get a place of my own that allows pets and isnt a glorified dungeon, im buying a white rat.”
“Hmm, will that be Pip or Squeak?”
You snort. “It’ll be Pip. The cat will be Squeak. So its ironic.”
“Of course. How could it not be. Youre a poetic genius.”
“So ive been told,” you say, holding the warm cappuccino in your hands and calling out the order’s name.
Noor waited for you outside the steps of the cafe, keenly observing something rustling in the bushes, her arms kept to herself, tucked under her leather coat that she had proudly stolen from her mother during summer break. When she hears you stepping out, however, her shoulders drop in relief.
“I think there’s something in the bushes,” she says, shaking her head towards the subject. You hand her a cup of your concoction - raspberry cold foam tea. Nothing too experimental tonight, considering you weren't the one closing, leaving the rest up to sasha, who had claimed there were some tricks she’d learned from nicolo for closing up faster. You trust her.
“Must be rats,” you shrug, looping your arm into hers as she leans against your side, shuddering in disgust. “Why would you say that to me. I was having a normal da- actually, i wasnt.” she says, and you feel your cheeks lifting at her shift in mood, your feet moving at a slow speed to match with the pace of her story as she recounted her day.
“You will not believe who was in our textile class today. Dont even start guessing, actually, because i wanna say it. Baldy fucking springer. Constantinople. Whatever his name is.” “he seems like a conrad,”
“ew, thats worse. Loser white boy name. Anyway, he was there, right, which is crazy because what job does he even have here? Apparently he wanted the professor's advice for one of his prop projects which i call total bullshit.” she says, glancing sideways at you, waiting for you to confirm.
You nod vigorously, “oh yeah, i dont think making some fake food needs a deep dive on textiles.”
She scoffs. “And then when i walked into class he immediately came over to my desk to bother me and namedropped the prof as if they were old buddies. God, i hate that.”
“Me too,” you say, half agreeing with your ears fully peeled for her voice. Undoubtedly, connie had started growing on you, especially with the whole rat fiasco. Everytime he heard the squeaks, he would glance at you as if waiting for you to translate the sound into something that made sense for his human mind. You'd catch him leaving treats for the mouse, and when asked, he said he was doing the “opposite of white fang. Black toothing.” the literary ramifications of which you weren't even going to unpack. To fuck with him, though, you did make a soundtrack with over three hours of the ratatouille soundtrack interlaced with Mouse Squeaking sounds so he’d be jumpscared by it.
You think you accidentally desensitized him instead.
But now was not the time to disclose that.
“He just gets on my fucking nerves. He wouldnt let me concentrate the entire time. His fucking perfume, too, god, it’s like he bathed in it. Smelled like a macho-man version of what he thinks could be vanilla.”
“Oh, i think that might be jean’s, actually.” you say, an amused smile playing at your lips. “He’s very pretentious about his…smells. I think he has an entire space in the living room for it like a display,”
She takes another sip before laughing. “So stupid. Hows that going, by the way? I mean… like, living with practical strangers and a manchild?”
“You could be talking about either of the three and i’d agree with you. Except for marco.”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”
You sigh, looking back ahead. Only a couple more minutes for her awaited apartment, and then a couple more for yours. You didnt mind leaving her at her place before yours - you preferred it, in fact, because her goddess of a room-mate would always give you something from the fridge or the pantry, asking you to stay for longer.
But not tonight. You had a mission tonight.
“Its… i mean, he did awkwardly ignore me for almost a whole week? But then it was fine because i called him out on it yesterday. We’ve been…chill? I think? I dont think i’ll ever know where i stand with him.” you say, shaking your head.
Noor hums from beside you, something you feel more than hear, your shoulders touching hers, a natural rhythm settling over your bones. It was easy with her. Not having to second guess, always knowing the jokes would land because she’d be the ones catching the stray ones that don't usually stick.
“God. that fucking sucks,” she says plainly, and that’s all you needed. No solution to ‘talk it out’ (something your mother would recommend, not that you’d told her that you were living with two strange men, one normal one, and one dog. She’d make you give up and move back home), no patronising ‘i know how you feel’, either. Just a fact that was laid for observation and attention, something she provided tenfold.
Her thumb traced a familiar warm pattern on the sleeve of your arm where her hand rested - a silent acknowledgement.
You rest your head on her inviting shoulder.
She rests her head on yours - muscle memory. “Wanna spend the night at mine?” another warm invitation, this time said out loud and open.
You hum, “I wish. I need to get the rat out of our place, though. Dont know how connie-” she fakes a gag at that - “will sleep tonight if i dont,”
“Youre going to put a trap up only for him to be the one to get trapped in there.”
You breathe out a laugh. “Are you saying he’s the rat?”
“No, I'm saying he’s stupid enough to do that as a human being.”
You agree.
➷ Monday, 10:31 p.m.
Dinner was had. The preparations were set. Connie wore his old blue basketball helmet that you were sure was too small for his head.
“What are you even trying to protect?” jean asks connie, sitting on the couch, observing your moves with precision, almost like he’s noting them down for future reference.
Marco sits next to you on the floor, holding a piece of the crust of a slice of bread smothered in butter. “is this… are you sure about this?” he asks as you open up the rat trap, opening the cage.
“Yeah, dont worry. Ive done this many times.” you mutter. You try not to let the rust of the cage bother you - it was one of the items you had been given by a rather kind old neighbour from your old place after you had asked her about the rat problem.
She told you about leaking pipes and moldy food. Something about capitalism and the rat race? You couldnt remember the details of the conversation, but you remembered the absolutely delicious watermelon she had cut up for you that day.
With your tongue poling out of your mouth in concentration, jean and connie sitting on the couch stiffly - the former clutching a pillow to his chest and the latter clad in his helmet, chest and knee pads along with a bat - murmuring their arguments to each other, marco sitting next to you, leaning in close to view your work, and polo sleeping on his dog bed on the opposite end of the room, it seemed like the whole room held its breath, walls contracting in anticipation.
“Done!” you exclaimed with a smile, standing up and cracking your bones. “Now we wait.”
The anticipation lies still within the apartment. “....we wait?” connie asks, voice small. You almost cant make his face out of the bars that conceal it. You nod to his question, plopping down on the cushioned chair yourself.
All three of them are looking at you. “What?”
“So i dressed up like this….for nothing?” connie asks, a little broken-hearted. Jean’s grip on the pillow loosens. “Thats a you problem, nobody told you to dress like this.” “im trying out a new type of fashion,”
“Speaking of fashion,” you start, and connie looks at you - or so you assume. “Noor was telling me you were in her textile class today?” you ask. Not really meant to be a tease or a threat, more of a simple prod of his intentions. You wiggled your eyebrows, “whats that all about, man?”
“Oh my god,” marco said, still on the ground, his hand now covering his face in embarrassment.
Jean just groaned while rolling his eyes, back relaxing into the couch.
“I was just trying to talk,” connie says, voice anything but innocent, but he shrugs like its not a big deal.
“Why are you hellbent on annoying the poor girl?” marco asks, and you nod in agreement.
“Hey! Im not annoying her-” “-i dont think he can help being annoying, to be honest-” jean mutters. Connie pays him no mind “-i was genuinely trying to talk to her. I think she’s a nice person, and you know me, i always want to make friends!” he says, convincing no-one but himself.
“Right,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.
He doesn't say anything for a second, lost in thought. Then, “why? Did she say something about me?” he asks. If you knew him better, you might assume he was hopeful.
You try to break the news to him gently, “well…she thinks…” you trailed off. Catching jeans eye, he nods with a smirk, egging you on. “She thinks youre… persuasive.”
“Yes!” connie cheers. Jean scoffs from beside him. Marco just shakes his head in disbelief, a smile on his lips.
“I didnt mean that as a compliment,” you inform, which simmers his spirits down.
“Dude, im telling you, apologize to her first.” jean says, patting connie’s back placatingly. Marco nods in agreement, but your face twists in displeasure, catching jean’s eye again.
“I dont think that’ll work, but youre welcome to try,” you speak. “I mean, she’s amazing and kind but she might need more than that,”
“I can get flowers. What flowers does she like?” “thats not-” “or i can get her coffee! Whats the one she always gets?” “i dont think you should-” you try, but jean cuts you off with a quip of his own. “Yeah? With whose money? Besides, buying your way into forgiveness isnt going to work.”
Connie settles back down with a groan. “Okay. i guess i’ll say sorry.” he concedes.
“Wait, so when do we catch the rat?” jean asks, diverting the topic.
You shrug. “We just have to leave it where we think the rat is and hope it gets lured in by the toast.”
“I guess polo’s going to sleep in my room tonight.” marco says, glancing at the mop of golden hair in the corner of the room. Jean nods in understanding. Connie shivers dramatically, “ugh, i can feel him crawling on me.”
“It could be a her,” you say.
“Nah, all rats are men.” jean snorts at connie’s confidence, “yeah, youd know wouldnt you?”
“What the hell does that mean, horsey?”
“Fuck you.”
“Youd like that, wouldnt you?”
The rest of the conversation is blocked by your ears, making your way to your room with a shake of your head and smile, muttering an exhausted goodnight to marco and lightly petting polos golden fur.
➷ Tuesday, 7:47 a.m.
You crouch next to the prison that traps the rat, who scurries around the limited cage. Waving to it with your finger, you smile at it.
“GET THAT FURBALL AWAY FROM ME.” connie shouts, refusing to step out of the threshold of his room. Jean stands a couple steps behind you, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Marco made himself scarce this morning after sending the text, claiming he needed to tend to polo’s needs.
“Thats a slur.” you joke, raising your head to look at your room mate. He clutches the door frame with white knuckles, his helmet and pads still adorning his body. He seemed to have slept in them, and you wouldnt doubt the fact that he slept with the bat he had been clutching last night either.
Jean’s brows were twisted in slight concern, slight amazement and worry, his face showing his emotions more than his demeanor or words could. “You…. you need help in… killing it?”
You whip your head towards him, eyes wide. “We’re not killing this guy,” you claim, shaking your head. There was no way you could allow something other than natural causes to bring any misfortune upon this little creature. It must already be so scared being in an unknown trapped environment.
“Sorry bud… we’re not killing you, i promise.” you address the rat - Squeak, you’d named him, as sasha had pointed out the other day - and then turn back to jean. “We’re gonna let it go downstairs. Besides, logically speaking, there's no way we can kill Squeak. He’s pretty big.”
Jean hums thoughtfully, “fat ass rat.”
You breathe out a laugh at Squeak’s expense. He seems to hear you, stopping his needless pacing. “Can you grab the door real quick?”
jean leaves your side to do as instructed, finding it very easy to be as far away from the rat as possible in his current state. He hadnt even gotten the chance to eat breakfast or comb his hair back when connie’s relentless screeching woke him up. How you slept through it, he had no idea. With what jean can only define as pure bravery, you hold up the cage by its handle and walk out of the door, leaving his eyes to trail after you. The rat seemed to have calmed down and patiently awaited its release, staying in place as the cage softly swung in your grasp.
“Jean,” you call out, snapping his attention to your eyes instead of the load in your hands, “can you-” your head motioned for the elevator doors. He scrambled to open it, ensuring the doors wouldnt close by shielding the opening with his back pressed against cold metal.
squeak. squeak.
the rat seemed to almost speak it's excitement to leave the cage - and subsequently also their apartment - as the elevator creaked into action. “so when you said you'd do this often…” jean started, trailing off when he found himself lacking the words to makes coherent sentence while the gremlin in your hands stared at him with beady eyes. he'd never vocalize it, though, because the slight smile on your face was enough to not speak about his fears.
you shrug, an easy expression on your face. you'd also just woken up, and clad in your shirt that was splattered with different blotched of bright paint against the stark background of the fabric with shorts to match, you didn't look disgruntled. somehow, you still looked put-together to your best possible efforts, and jean felt a little out of place knowing he probably looked like shit.
“there were a couple in my old apartment.” you said. jean nodded, listening. “did you ever name any of them?”
that seemed to get your attention to his eyes, smile growing slowly
on your face, soft and present.
“there was one that I named Tuna.” you said, reminiscent. “for ironic purposes.” you added. there was a pattern there - easy to read and open for jean to see - that you liked to name things ironically. he'd have to ask you why some other time, he notes, opting to continue the non-hesitant back-and-forth you have going on.
“purr-poses,” jean says, almost out of instinct, and before he could apologize or correct himself, you laugh.
he counted it as a win. first laugh of the day, and it had only been accomplished about twenty minutes in. score.
“that wasn't bad,” you comment.
jean shrugged with a smirk that bordered on being genuine, “eh, I've done better,”
“sure you have.”
“what does that-”
the elevator doors opened before jean could argue with your statement. he swore he could see your teasing smile as you escaped the cramped four walls, and jean breathed out a sigh of relief.
the birds were chirping almost too loudly when he stepped out behind you, following your lead as you made your way to the edge of the sidewalk.
“well, Squeak, this is it,” you said, setting the cage down and crouching next to it. jean simple watched you with his arms crossed over his chest, the same expression adorning his face from before - slight amusement and slight concern.
“be brave, bud. make sure to stay away from traffic.” you said. if jean didn't know any better, he could've assumed you were talking to your own pet. you turned your face enough to glance at him, “do you wanna say anything to him?”
he blinked. “uhm… best of luck? thanks for not eating our food unless offered. I'll….miss your squeaks,” he said, nodding in satisfaction after he was finished with his goodbye speech. he felt like he was giving a eulogy.
turning back to the cage, you waved at the rat before opening the door. it seemed confused at first, but soon after sending his freedom, rushed out of the cage, scurrying away from the pair of you.
you stood up. jean observed as Squeak ran with his tail dragging behind him, in search of the nearest drainage inlet.
“i hope he finds his way.” he hears you speak, and if he wasn't close
to you, he'd probably wouldn't have heard.
“i think he will. seems like a smart mouse.”
“i knew it, you're warming up to him!” you say, turning to jean with the same teasing smirk as before. this time, jean can see it in full bloom - against the morning sun, your eyelashes created shadows on your under eyes.
jean scoffed, “a little to late for it,”
“but you're admitting it, though. that you like Squeak.” you push.
he does. He thinks he might just actually miss squeak. or maybe that's because you've convinced him to. Either way, he did grow to care for the rat, and it was easier because he was comfortable admitting it to you more than anyone.
“im not admitting anything,” he counters. he saying it just for the sake of argument, but his resolve had already crumbled.
you hum knowingly, “sure, jean.”
the way you say his name would've made his heart stop in a different context. maybe in a public setting, or if you were to whisper it the way you just said it, he would've dropped his drink.
“you’ll miss him and you know it. and I know it too,” you say, turning around to head back into the building, your hair lighting up with the rays of the sun.
his mind works its way through various loops, the cogs in his brain turning to provide a suitable quip to your sentence.
“you think you know everything, pip?” he says after a bit. it's his turn to retain a teasing smirk now, as you look at him with eyes that seem to have laughter etched into them. “Pip?” you ask, but he knows you already know the answer.
“like, yknow… Pip and Squeak. your hypothetical rats. i think it suits you.” he says, his eyes refusing to meet yours because he's making a very important point that he cannot stand being refuted.
but you don't refute it. instead, you laugh softly, nodding to the new proclamation as if you're feeling out the name. “is that what you're gonna call me now?”
jean hums in agreement. “yeah. can't change it.”
“right,” you say, smile still present, “I like it.”
jean smiles too. you like it.
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⁀➷ a/n ➷sorry for lowkey abandoning this (can be said about a lot of my fics tbh) im trying to work on it!! its just that these fics take a lot of time to with edit all the pictures and making sure theyre perfect to post. its p hard to do it all in one sitting :( anyway! hope you guys liked this one! :) also please leave any and all constructive criticisms you have about this fic! im swimming out of my comfort zone with this one, so if anything can be made better or changed, id love to do that to the best of my abilities <3
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This is thorough, easy to follow, and funny as hell. If you don’t know where to start on Sketchup and want to use it for comics or illustration, READ THIS.
