YOU FEEL IT (JUST LIKE ME), jean x reader
Jean asks you to pick him up after another failed night out. You didn't expect to stay the night, but if your best friend needs you there, then how can you say no?
modern au, artist au - (SFW, slightly suggestive, mentions of drugs and alcohol)
Downtown Mitras is still alive at 2:45 AM.
You only drive around for about 13 minutes, but in Jean’s drunken state, it feels like much longer. Even then, he doesn’t want it to end. He stares out at the city beyond the walls of the car, at the twinkling lights and neon signage of late-night restaurants, clubs, and bars. The streets are much less clogged, and of course there aren’t as many people milling around as there were at the beginning of the night, but Jean can feel the energy coming from the city’s nightlife through the open windows of your car. It’s nice to just observe, to people watch. You’re playing some laid-back R&B playlist with a lot of good beats and synths, which adds an even nicer buzz to the feeling in Jean’s veins as he watches the world around him.
Then, he glances over at you. You’re quiet as you focus on the road, eyes tired and face fallen into a soft pout as your head bops gently to the music. Jean’s stomach flutters at the pretty sight beside him.
He likes the world when it’s like this: just the two of you in your own pocket of space. It’s like nothing else exists, like no one else exists in these hazy little moments. He’s had this feeling from the start, back when you were this pretty mystery neighbor who lit his cigarette on New Year’s Eve. He felt it again that night at the bar when you first became friends, then when you spent Valentine’s Day being alone together, then again at the museum, in his art studio, over and over, again and again. Who knew that match would spark everything, spark all of this up to now?
He wonders if you felt it back then, if you feel it now, just like he does.
“You know how you’ve mentioned feeling lonely?” he murmurs after a second. The music isn’t loud enough to feel the need to shout. It’s soothing, soft, a peaceful backdrop for wherever this conversation may go.
“Yeah.”
“Do you still feel like that?”
You click your teeth against your tongue. You don’t comment on the drunk slurring in his voice. “Yeah.”
“A lot?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Even with me?”
“Less with you.”
Jean hums and stares back out the window. He likes that. He knows he’s probably not some cure-all for something as isolating as loneliness and not belonging to a completely different city, but he’s content with being the reason why you feel less-so. It’s similar to the way you make him feel, especially when he’s as in-his-head the way he was this past week leading up to Marco’s birthday, how he’s still feeling right now.
“I feel that way too sometimes,” he says after a moment. Your brows raise. “Really?”
“Yeah. But less with you. A lot less with you.”
“Me too,” you say softly. “I feel that a lot less with you too.”
You don’t indulge him any further. It’s not like you’re hiding something, but more like you’d prefer not to think or talk about the loneliness any more than you have to. Jean gets it. He does it too, pushes the feeling down and keeps moving forward, keeps reaching and grasping and working for things that’ll make him feel better, feel more accomplished, feel like he’s moving on and away from that ugly lonely feeling. And while he wishes you’d talk more about it, he knows you’re not going to unless it reaches a breaking point—because he’s the same.
Still, he wishes you’d talk to him more about this.
“What do you mean?” you ask out of the blue. “I do talk to you. We talk all the time, don’t we?”
Shit, did he say that out loud?
“Yeah, you did,” you huff in amusement, glancing over at him again. He groans in embarrassment at the realization that he just did it again. “You’re funny when you’re drunk.”
“And high.”
“And high, sure.” You laugh aloud at the blasé way he says it. It makes his heart feel light, makes him feel a little bit giddy. “Anyway, what did you mean by that?”
Jean licks his lips. “You’re kinda like me. You don’t like to open up.”
You don’t deny it. You tilt your head from side to side, not even looking at him. “I don’t. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. I don’t like to dwell on things.”
“I wish you did. Even just with me. I wanna know what bothers you,” he mumbles. Your jaw drops slightly in obvious surprise and Jean continues. “I know your mom bothers you. I know that you hate your job. And being here alone is hard and I know that bothers you too, but the way you say things is so…”
He pauses, trying to find the words in his scrambled brain. “It’s like you’re trying not to make a big deal of things that upset you.”
“Because it isn’t really that big of a deal.”
“It is to me though.” He frowns, sinking deeper into his seat. “I think you’re a big deal. Everything you do is.”
You blink at him curiously, then nod as you reach another stoplight. “Okay. I’ll try to talk to you more. It’s just hard sometimes.”
Maybe you’re only saying that to placate him in his drunken stupor, but he doesn’t mind. It’s some reassurance. He continues to observe you, even in the comfortable silence.
“I know.”
You look pretty. So tragically pretty. Jean’s fingers twitch as your eyes flicker and linger on certain lights, how the red stoplights cast a glow on your face and how the neon signs create a soft, blurry halo behind your profile. He yearns for the weight of his paintbrushes in his hand, for the smell of paint freshly squeezed out the tube. He wants to immortalize you in this moment, wants the world to see the beauty of the city in your eyes and projected on you, wants to capture the way the lights from outside hit your skin and the night shadows fall across your face.
Most of all, Jean really wants to hold your hand.
He wants to feel the weight and the comfort of your hand in his again. He’s yearning for it, desperate for it. He wonders what it would be like to hold it once more, to feel the tender scratch of your nails on the back of his hand, to play with your fingers, to press his lips against your knuckles. A shiver crawls up his spine as he can practically feel the ghost of your touch on his hands. He wonders what it would be like to kiss you, to pull your hand and bring you closer to him. The idea of it all is so tender and intimate that it makes his head spin just a little bit—in a way that the drugs or alcohol can’t do.
He feels a little bit guilty for thinking it, for desiring this type of touch as bad as he is. Is a friend allowed to think that about another friend? Probably not, honestly. Could this be the loneliness finally getting to him? He’s not sure.
After a moment, you glance over at him, eyes widening slightly when you realize his eyes have lingered on you this entire time. You shake your head ever so slightly.
“Uh, are you ready to go home now?”
“Yeah. I think so?”
“Okay. Let’s go home then.”
As you make your way back down the familiar route back home, Jean melts into his seat with a sigh.
“I wish you came with me.”
The ghost of a smile crosses your lips. “You’re joking.”
“Why would I joke about that? Shit’s not even funny.”
You just laugh, giggling over the music playing in your car. Jean licks his lips as he watches you, a pleased smirk making its way onto his face.
“Hey,” he says. Your eyes flicker over to him. “I’m curious. Why didn’t you wanna go? You were so excited the first time.”
“You have a lot of questions for 3 AM.” You snicker. “I told you I was tired, right?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. You pull up to the apartment and park your car. Jean manages to get out of his side by himself as you grab your bag from the backseat. You head inside and into the elevator, which is when you glance up at him and sigh.
“I wasn’t just tired. I just didn’t want to be forgotten again. Not like last time.”
Jean’s chest clenches. “What?”
“Last time, I thought we were having a good time dancing. Then you left, and it’s like your friends completely forgot I was there. I know it’s stupid to still feel weird about that—”
“No, it’s not—”
“Let me finish,” you huff before he can fully interrupt. “I…I already have an issue with being alone and feeling like I don’t belong here, which is kinda dumb, but it’s the truth. And I was getting thrown around and touched by strangers and I kept seeing all your friends checking in on each other and having fun…and it felt like I was all by myself because I wasn’t."
You shake your head. “I didn’t want history to repeat itself. It felt so shitty then. I just…I don’t know how to deal with the feeling.”
The both of you walk (stumble, really) down the hallway to his place. He stares down at you, heart heavy as he looks at you, at the way you shrug and act like it hurts less than you say it does. Jean thinks to himself. He didn’t go home with someone this time. He didn’t even want to be there. Maybe things would’ve been different this time if you had gone with him.
“I wouldn’t have left you this time.”
“You say that,” you giggle half-heartedly. “I can say that I’d follow you even if you did, but we’ll never actually know.” You shrug again. “…Didn’t want to risk it. Just in case.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” You hum. “It is what it is.”
He wants to hold your hand again. He wants to hold your hand so badly that his chest aches and his fingers twitch.
So he does.
You glance down in surprise. In a flash, Jean’s hit with the sudden, terrifying feeling that you might let go, but you don’t. The ache goes away when your fingers squeeze his back gently. In his still-drunken stupor, he’s not able to unlock the door, meaning you have to do it. Once it’s open, he turns slightly to face you once he feels your hand tug at his.
“Okay. Here we are. Goodnight, Jeanboy.”
He steps past the threshold of his apartment and accidentally bumps into the wall. He doesn’t want to be alone right now and a needy, desperate part of him hopes that you don’t want to either. While he doesn’t say it, everything about him practically screams for you to come inside with him. So you do. You take your flats off and push the door shut quietly with your free hand. Jean’s fingers move with a mind of their own, tapping against the skin of the back of your hand as his hazel eyes linger on you. He can still taste the alcohol on his breath and winces as he realizes he still probably smells like it too.
“Do you have to go?”
You giggle softly. Under the dim apartment lighting, Jean’s struck with how badly he doesn’t want you to leave. He doesn’t want this night to be over, doesn’t want this image of you in your ridiculous t-shirt and sweats with your tired eyes and your little pout to become just another memory to lock away in his head.
“I have to go to bed, Jean. My beauty sleep…” you joke, though the exhaustion is too clear in your voice.
“You can sleep in my bed.”
Your brows shoot up.
“You need to sleep in your bed. I already know your hangover’s gonna be crazy tomorrow. Plus, I’m only one floor down, so it’s not like I’m far. You can just text me if you need me—”
“Don’t go.”
Jean’s voice is firm but quietly desperate. Pleading. He looks at you from beneath long lashes, brows furrowed and jaw set. His eyes are smoldering, and his touch burns where he holds your hand.
“What?” You don’t move from where you’re standing. It doesn’t seem like you want to either.
“I said don’t go.”
“Jean…” you move your wrist. His grasp is loose enough where you could definitely pull your wrist free, but you don’t. “Jean…I don’t know.”
“Please.” His voice cracks ever so slightly. “Please stay with me. Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my best friend,” he says. “You’re my best friend and I need you. I don’t usually tell people I need them or want them around. I don’t tell people to stay with me. But I want you to stay. Don’t leave yet.”
“This might not be a good idea.”
“Stay,” he murmurs quietly. His fingers play with yours mindlessly. “Just for tonight. I don’t wanna be alone right now…and I don’t want you to be alone either.”
You frown, though it looks like you’re genuinely considering it.
“I shouldn’t…” you say half-heartedly. It’s like you’re saying it out of obligation rather than actually being against the idea. Jean huffs.
“We can share the bed. It’s not like we haven’t slept together before.”
Your brows shoot up and you bark out a laugh.
“What are you—? Not like that!” Jean’s face heats up in embarrassment. His cheeks are probably pink now. He can feel the heat crawling under his already drunken flush. His voice pitches to a low whine. “Stop laughing at me!”
“My sleep clothes are at my place,” you say once you calm down a little bit. It’s like you’re grasping at straws, trying to find any flimsy excuse to convince yourself to leave. Even though he’s having a hard time standing up straight right now, Jean can see right through you.
“You can wear my clothes, I don’t care.”
You scrunch up your nose. “You still need to shower. You stink.”
“I will if you stay.”
You laugh again. The sound makes Jean’s chest feel warm. “Ew! You’re such a boy sometimes. The fuck do you mean you’ll only shower if I stay?”
He cracks a slight grin.
You sigh. “Okay. Fine. Just for tonight. Don’t get used to it though.”
Jean’s eyes practically light up as he stumbles into his room, and you giggle as you drop your purse on your desk and practically push him into the bathroom to shower. Jean pretends like something as simple as your little bag placed among all his things doesn’t do anything to him, doesn’t make his heart skip a beat at the domesticity of it all.
“Your clothes?” you ask.
“Shirts are somewhere over there…I have some shorts there…uh…”
He’s blabbering at this point, pathetically pointing in the general direction at his drawers to let you know where he keeps his clean clothes.
“Hold on. You’re okay with me digging around? You don’t have any weird shit hidden in here right?”
“Like what? Sex toys? You think I just have them laying around?” he snickers with too much candor and an eye-roll. “No, obviously. Unless you wanna see ‘em…”
You laugh again and point at the shower.
“You’re ridiculous. Go shower. You smell like shit, horseface. And brush your teeth while you’re at it, my god!” you snicker. He flips you off and shuts the door to his bathroom. By the time he reopens the bathroom door, you’ve already changed into one of his college t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts, slung low on your hips and so baggy that you’re basically swimming in the fabric. You look like you’re about to doze off any second, even as you freeze mid-crawl onto the bed.
His heart squeezes in his chest at the sight.
“You look kinda cute like this,” he says, eyes trained on you. “You’re a real fashion icon.”
You roll your eyes and take a seat on one side of the bed, pulling the blanket over yourself. “Stop, you sound like Ymir when she’s blowing smoke up Levi’s ass.”
“I’m just saying. Nice outfit,” Jean laughs. He’ll neither confirm nor deny the way he’s blatantly checking you out if you confront him about it. You don’t.
Your eyes flicker down his torso before meeting his again.
“Nice shirt. I’m loving the view,” you say back. Jean looks down, only for his face to redden at the sight of his bare torso. He reaches into the nearest drawer, pulling out a white tank over his muscular chest with a soft, “Oh!”
He can feel the burn of your stare on his skin the entire time.
Jean stares at you with low eyes as he trudges to the bed and plops down unceremoniously with a groan. You settle against the pillows beside him, never breaking eye contact. Your faces are so close, and under the stream of moonlight and the twinkle of the city lights outside, Jean can see the curve of your lips and the flutter of your lashes and the reflection of the light on your sleepy eyes.
Beautiful, he thinks. So beautiful.
He wonders what it would be like to kiss you.
“You smell better now,” you say quietly, but so drily. Never mind, he thinks to himself. Jean whines and pushes his head into the pillow again as he covers his face in embarrassment. He cranes his neck to face you. “Oh, shut up.”
“What? I’m just saying. You smelled like someone poured an entire bottle of tequila on you earlier.”
“Basically,” he huffs. “Didn’t you say you were tired or something?”
“Still am.”
He rolls his eyes. “Then go to bed.”
“I’m trying. Some dumbass with a mullet keeps talking to me.”
Jean rolls his eyes and pokes the tip of your nose.
“Good night.”
He feels you poke him back, your finger jabbing his ribs under the covers. You melt further into the sheets and shut your eyes. Your voice barely comes out, petal-soft as you say, “Good night, Jeanboy.”
You fall asleep almost immediately, face finally relaxing and melting into something much softer than your usual sharpness. Jean can’t help but look at you one more time, even as his eyes grow heavy and his vision fades. All he can hear is your combined breathing, the rustle of the sheets, and the gentle ambiance of the city outside.
There’s only one thought going through his head by the time he actually falls asleep. Maybe it’s only there because he’s still drunk and still feeling the effects of everything in his body. Maybe when he wakes up in the morning, the thought will have faded away. Jean’s not so sure. It feels wrong of him to think, but he can’t help it:
He’s never wanted to kiss you more than he did tonight.
