Jean Kirstein is soo pathetic for you ~ ♡
— Jean messes up when he tells the world he’s single, so he spends the next month and a half trying to fix his mistake while being a pathetic ex.
Tags: Angst (LOL!) with comfort, kinda fluffy idk I love it. SFW. HOCKEY!JEAN AND ARTSY JEAN oh how I love him. Welcome to the masterlist!!!
“Get off my front door, Kirstein.”
“Don’t be like that, Y/N.”
The 6 foot 3 man standing in front of you, leaning against your wooden doorframe—all dark and polished oak—clad in a white shirt too tight around his arms over his bulging biceps, threatening to snap the seams, does not get the memo.
That you won’t be fucking taking him back.
Not today, and not tomorrow.
You sneer back, feeling the blood circulating through your veins boiling to the point of evaporation.
“Get the fuck out of my face, I don’t feel like repeating myself any more.”
Because you’re fed up with the dusty grey-pink undertoned mulled hair asshole you once dated. Once being up until one week ago.
Why did you break up again?
Because he genuinely thought telling the whole school—the entire world actually—he doesn’t have a girlfriend when interviewed by a sports reporter last week after his big-shot game, was okay.
Like erasing three years of dating just to maintain an image that wasn’t even anything now, was fine.
You were fed up. He didn’t apologise, didn’t even see the bad in it and shrugged you off everytime you tried confronting him about how wrong it is.
And when the girls started sliding into his dms, you lost it.
He was a liar like they all are, and you dumped him before the sun hung in the horizon again, three days after the interview aired.
Packed your shit from his apartment and went back to your dorm, dodging Hitches questions left and right about what you were doing back at your shared apartment when for the last year, you had spent almost every single night at his place.
Because it truly did make no sense. You had a whole wardrobe there, toothbrush that sat next to his in that cheesy couple way, pijama shirts that smelled like him because they were once his, and now all of those belongings were back in your old closet.
The one that starts loudly groaning when you pull the door open, springs worn down by the years.
It’s not like the rest of your apartment is any younger too, the floorboards need a break, there’s a leak every six months.
But it felt so much better than sleeping under the same roof as a no-good liar.
During the last week, you learnt to love your old bed all again—even when at night the springs dig into your back through the mattress.
You also learned to escape about 10 people without even needing to see them with your eyes.
Sasha and Connie tried following you around campus to try and pry answers out of you about what happened because there was just no way the it couple was just over like that.
Truth is, everyone already knew you were with Jean anyway. Everyone on campus was aware that you were both high-school sweethearts since senior year.
Which is why the revelation on national television hurt so much more. Because it was like he was saying you were both done while talking about future plans that same night with him in your arms.
Acted like he never existed. Stopped going anywhere near the hockey rink where he played with literally half of your friend group—Eren, Bertholdt, Marco…Meaning you lost more than just your boyfriend, but your friends too.
Cause you can’t look at them in the face. Can’t look into Mikasa’s eyes and take her seriously as she tries to convince you that he didn’t mean it like that while your head rings like tinnitus with the memories of you and the man you thought you were going to marry.
Dodged Historia’s soft voice asking you if everything was fine, avoided even more looking into Ymir’s eyes because you knew she would strip you bare of your walls if you caught a glimpse of those prying irises.
“Sunshine.” He breathes out, chest deflating once he sees he might not be able to change your mind.
Your eyes clamp shut as you internally wince at the nickname he has called you even before dating.
From when you were too young and too naive to even know what love was about. But he taught you, and losing him hurt tenfold because he showed you how love is supposed to feel.
And it stings all the more because he’s your first everything.
You can’t even think of anyone who would hold you through the rough nights when the walls would close in on you like he did.
Of anyone else who would drive seven hours to comfort you when your relative died in Paradis and you had no one to be there for you.
Of a single other soul who could ever touch you like he did—even with beat up hands and scarred knuckles.
Your heart weakly jerks in your chest because it hurts to do so when it’s not for him when all that was in your veins once was the smell of him, his essence.
The tears are quick to brim your waterline, and fuck, you miss him so fucking much it’s excruciating.
Both of your eyes are matching with red rims and glossy coats over blown pupils.
“Don’t call me that.” You croak out, trying your best to hide the cracks in your chest at the mere sight of him.
The nickname stirs up more emotion in your chest than you had braced for, reminding you of every bad and good moment you were forced to put behind you.
Jean can physically feel the level of hurt in your voice gnawing at his bones.
“Go to the hundred fucking girls in your DMs since you’re actually single now.”
Worst part is, everyone knew it was wrong when it came out of his mouth. It felt wrong—head-over-heels Jean saying that when he had always been utterly smitten with you till the day you broke up and even now as you block him out.
“That somehow hurts so much more coming from you.” He breathes out, arms uncrossing and one going to hook behind his neck as he stares at the floor.
“I don’t want to be single, Y/N.”
“You should’ve thought about that before publicly erasing me from your life.” And you slam the door in his face.
Jean is pathetic. So pathetic and ruined without you that he might just listen to what anyone tells him to get you back.
Buy you flowers? He’s already gotten you seven bouquets of flowers he saw you drop off at graveyards instead of throwing them away—made his heart sting, yes, but did it also make him fall in love with you even more after seeing you unable to even throw them out, instead choosing to put them to good use? Also yes.
What about apologising? He has, even blocked. Sent a heartfelt SMS to every.single.platform. you have him blocked on just in case you ever unblock him. Sent a letter to your apartment—actually multiple, but Hitch threw them out after you said to.
Came knocking at your door times he knew you were at home 100%, waited hours and eventually went home the days your roommate didn’t force him out.
Tried to get different people to give you the letters, even teachers, till everyone started to avoid him too.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Sulk in his bed, get yelled at by his coach—actually the reason he’s even in his mess after the bald man drilled into his head that it would be a better look for him to be a career-oriented girlfriendless young star in front of the camera—for slacking off, and whine some more.
Well, he sure is girlfriendless now.
And the whole group is suffering from it.
Nothing really feels the same without you there.
Even though “sunshine” was the nickname Jean would call you, they all saw you as their sun and it felt pretty weird being gloomy under the real star on hot days.
“I’d rip Jean’s head clean off if I could right now.” Grumbles Connie, sparking a patato-chip-mouthed Sasha’s attention.
“Why?” She barely manages to say while her mouth is full.
“ ‘cause I could be laughing about Eren’s ugly ass fucking hairstyle right now with Y/N but we literally don’t have her around now, do we?”
The times where Connie is actually serious and pissed off are extremely rare, considering how he’s always fooling around.
Everyone spins their head to dart daggers at the culprit in question.
Jean sits with his back against the thick truck of the tree the group is sitting under with the absence of Reiner, Bertholdt and Annie.
Hair tousled, some pale brown strands bathed in the sun that filters through the leaves, and head dipped low—lost in the sketchbook cradled in his lap.
No one needs to peer inside of the notepad to know he’s probably sketching every soft curve of your face into the paper again.
Matter of fact, they can tell it’s you that’s subject of his pencil by the way his strokes are deliberately slow and the absentminded, solemn smile on his face.
Connie yanks the open book from his hold anyway, angry all over. And yeah.
Between the universe and Jean though, that’s you from one week ago when you slammed the door in his face.
“Don’t you have some fucking practice to be at instead of doing this pathetic shit?”
Jean’s face is perfectly stoic at the jab, but he’s disintegrating inside.
Great, his lifetime-long friends also hate him as if he doesn’t also do that by himself every second of the day.
Mikasa sends him a pitiful look when he gets up, snatches the sketchbook back and heads to the gym with Eren, Marco and Bertholdt following behind.
Jean is so miserable that he wouldn’t even admit to Marco—his own best friend—that he’s taking the breakup so bad he spends hours at your favorite places during the week hoping you pass by. Yet, you never do.
It’s like you’re a ghost.
He starts to rethink how your nickname really suits you. How you’re so bright and yellow like joy, his favorite color.
How you light up the world because as he stargazes alone now—the stars seem dimmer and a lot more far away.
The first time he sees you after you threw him out of your face, is three weeks after that and the breakup is four weeks fresh.
Still gnawing at him like a parasite.
Still being laugh-worthy, sitting at a takeout restaurant you used to religiously hit up, he received a text from Eren at midnight hitting him in all the wrong ways.
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Y/N is at our bar rn with some people.
Keep quiet about this or—
He’s parking outside of the place before Eren even has the time to convince him to not come, bursting through the front door without thinking it twice.
Jean finds you swiftly amongst the crowd and the sight is worse than he could have ever imagined.
He should have read Eren’s texts, the warnings.
Because there you were for the first time in weeks. Dressed in a skin-tight mid-thigh black dress with spaghetti straps, long knee-length black books to match and… his leather jacket?
You look criminal, illegal.
And Jean is suffering the consequences of his damn actions.
But it hurts more when he sees you laughing at the bar with Colt who is weirdly close and Petra, Reiner’s arm hooked over your shoulder, clearly batshit drunk, which is why you probably even allowed the friendly giant to stay with you as your ex friend group glares daggers at the lucky traitor from across the building.
Eren yanks the awkwardly staring Jean from the front of the place and over to their table where everyone is present minus the blonde haired man with you.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He breathes out, feeling the world collapse on his back.
Sasha rubs a supportive hand on his back, feeling his tense muscles beneath her soft palm.
“Someone go get her, god what the hell.” He’s damn near hyperventilating. After chasing you for weeks, you show up in plain sight, chatting freely with Colt.
“Send Armin.” He croaks out, the seams of his self-control undoing.
Armins lips purse, Annie steps in.
“She almost left when she saw him going her way.”
Fuck, you really want nothing to do with them.
A gloomy shadow settles over the circular table again, letting the bustling sound of the Friday night in the bar and your distant laughter surround them.
Jeans head swivels around to catch the melody better over the sound of “Rein Me In” by Sam Fender and Olivia Dean bleeding through the speakers.
He doesn’t expect to lock eyes with you.
The history between the both of you crashes like waves in your head.
The headache that follows is entirely enough for you to slip from under Reiner’s arm, feeling all too aware again that he’s with them. Picking up your bag and muttering a quick “See you home, babe.” To Hitch, you leave.
Zero beers in and zero drinks in, you walk just fine despite the pain in your head on the sidewalk.
Three long steps away from the bar entrance and coated by the moonlight, you hear the doors you’ve just left through shoot open again.
And you say a silent prayer in hopes it isn’t him—
“Hey! Wait! We have to talk, please” You hear him beg as he jogs up to your quick-paced try to escape.
He reaches in no time due to his height and it angers you more. His voice goes soft as he bends down, trying to match your pace and attempting to reach your earshot.
“You already know what I want to talk about so just stop for a second, I really need to speak to you.”
“God, leave me alone! You can’t pull me by the reins you cut, Jean! Get that in your head! You did this to us!”
Your head is in shambles, barely thinking of what you’re saying as your legs tirelessly work.
“I know I did, I’m sorry about it everyday. Can’t you just listen to me for once?” He sounds so hurt you just want to turn back and hug him, but you continue.
Just like that, he’s locked out again.
It doesn’t matter, the next week when his friends tell him it’s already been well over a month since the breakup, he shrugs and says no “it hasn’t been a month, It’s only been a few weeks.” But when he counts in his head, it’s already been a month and one week.
He’s back on your doorstep again, pathetically holding a bag of snacks in his lap as he sketches over the bottles in the nylon.
Tracing you from last week, outside of the bar, your side profile—the one he caught while you fled, all while he waits for you to possibly leave your dorm.
The whole campus knows it.
He saw you replay K. by cigarettes after sex—the one you silently dedicated to him—over a billion times since the breakup and that’s the only spark of hope he’s still clinging onto because you forgot to block him there.
Something stirs behind him—behind the door—and it flings open the second he manages to lock himself upright and not fall behind as Hitch leaves the apartment.
“You again?” She bores, turning to lock the door when Jean gets a great idea.
“Hitch.” He says, dusting himself off after getting up. “How is she?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve already tried this with me before, I’m not telling you anything.” But he catches the way her gaze is distant, hesitant.
Seeing that he’s about to question some more, she turns on her heels and heads straight for the elevator.
The door is left unlocked.
This is so morally wrong.
But he walks inside of your apartment again, the one where he knows exactly where your cutlery is, where the switches are and where you hide your candy from your roommate.
What he doesn’t expect to hear though, are muffled sniffles coming from your room. The door is slightly ajar, calling his name.
His feet are dragging him past the doorframe before his mind can even catch up, eager to calm you down from whatever.
Even when he is the root of it.
You jump under the covers at the sound of footsteps breaching and knocking against the wooden floor.
Having thought Hitch had left you to your own time, your heart stops when you see Jean frozen at the side of your bed from over your shoulder.
Tear stained eyes look back at him, fragmenting his heart in thousands of pieces.
And you don’t even need to tell him why you’re crying, he knows it’s because of him because you continue sobbing twice as hard when you lock eyes.
His arms are around you in a breath, bringing the warmth and comfort you were met with the last three years but can’t allow yourself to want today.
“Go away.” You hiccup, hands fisting his shirt, half pulling and half pushing him away. “Please go.” You plead.
He shushes you, gently rubbing your hair, combing through your worries.
But he loves you so much.
“I love you so much.” He whispers back, inhaling your homey scent.
“Tell me,” you croak out, voice raspy, nose clogged.
“Were we ever bad for eachother?”
“No.” The answer fights its way out of his lips so quicky.
You don’t miss a beat either.
“Then why? Why would you do that to me?”
He doesn’t know what else to say. “I love you.”
He does, so much it suffocates him.
He hates being a stranger that knows everything about you.
The interaction between you and Jean leaves you shaken up, really shaken up—so much that you go home for the weekend to your parents for a breather.
It does no good when they keep asking about him and you have no answers.
Because you’re both done, but you miss and want him so much it eats you alive.
The scene replays in your mind every second, eating at the white material in your brain little by little.
You going home is a blow to Jean and the group too considering how little you go home as you preferred staying with them.
The breakup is more painful than everything you have ever experienced—not to be even dramatic but you struggle with getting up in the morning.
Struggle to get out of bed when there’s not arms wrapped around you like you used to feel everyday for the last year.
It’s the kind of mental struggle not that his hold isn’t there to physically render you unable to attend classes or go to places you had to be at in some time.
Food isn’t all that appealing anymore.
The stars don’t make sense anymore.
You’re cold in an interior way.
Monday you’re back on campus, fighting the urge to fall asleep in professor Erwins class which is usually attention-grabbing.
However, your soul is so tired from fighting your days that you just want to sleep anytime.
Petra and Hitch are both on your left, whispering about something you’re struggling to hear until the words “hockey” and “match” catch onto your ear.
“Huh? What?” You mumble out, head over your crossed arms.
They freeze, hesitantly turning to you.
“TSU has another major game Thursday. Classes are cancelled.” They try to tip toe around the subject carefully, knowing who is brought up inevitably when the spot is talked about.
“We won’t go if you don’t—“ Petra is about to start rambling but you cut her off, feeling a fuzzy feeling stir in your chest at a thought.
Maybe you can watch him from afar.
He won’t know you’re there if you’re really far right?
You wear his very first jersey, a faded dark blue now, beneath his leather jacket—the one you couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind—paired with some washed out denims and work-out black converses.
The number 7 with Kirstein embroidered on top is snugly hid beneath the black layer.
That’s your little secret to the universe.
The trumpets roar and the players glide onto the ice seamlessly in messy rows.
Players disperse, your eyes track Jean immediately once they fall on him. Seven on his back too, Kirstein on top.
His eyes roam over the crowd as he circles the rink on the way to his position, you bow your head as he passes your section and crouch behind the person in front of you.
He skates to his spot and you resume your previous sitting.
The game starts, it’s all chaos and cold in the gym. They’re on fire. From Eren and Jean attacking, to Bertholdt and Marco defending, everyone is on their A-game.
The statistics blur into mid-game as your chest feels heavier by second—that empty void in your chest taking control again as you watch him play.
Knowing you used to cheer for him, wait by the bench with water because all he wanted to see during his breaks was you.
Maybe you’re just as pathetic as him.
You see the scouts on the side, close to the separation boards. This is another one of those matches, the big ones that decide his career.
If he gets signed by one of these labels, he’s set for life.
And you know that’s what Jean wants. It’s been his dream since he’s been a kid—you remember him telling you.
Maybe that’s why he did it.
In the spur of the moment, his inner child striking and doing anything to achieve his goal.
Yet, it still stings somewhere inside of you.
A loud whistling indicates the end of the match, hockey sticks halting, puck freezing after some time.
You see their figures huddle, the celebration. The reds retreat sourly.
None of it reaches your brain, not like Hitch and Petra are celebrating by you. Or how three rows down, Colt and Floch are jumping in happiness.
Eren flings his helmet off, Bertholdt follows, Marco tackles Jean, his helmet falling soon off too when he tugs it off too.
Reporters, scouts, girls bundle up at the board, banging against the plastic—calling out for him.
“Jean! JEAN! Give us a moment!” He stops Marco in their play-fight, slipping his gloves off and skating to the edge where a reporter hangs over the uncovered part of the rink.
“Anyone you’d like to thank tonight?” The question is simple, yet he’s never been so ready for it.
There are so many people he has to thank for tonight’s victory—his teammates, their coach, his parents…
“I’d like to thank my girlfriend, Y/N.”
His eyes lock on your across the hall, knowing exactly where you are. Your brain short-circuits.
“Y/N, baby, I know we haven’t been great lately and I’m so sorry. I’m an asshole, scream out to the whole world how much I fucked up everything, I’ll be sorry for it forever. But I couldn’t have made it anywhere without you. You made me who I am today—the hardworking, dedicated man I am by holding me up when I was at the bottom, for soothing every rough edge of mine and I owe this and every single part of me to you with every inch of my soul. I love you so much, sunshine.”
The crowd erupts in cheers, some people turning to even look at you once you’re located. Your friends stay frozen by your side when your legs unlock and you run down.
You run, cling onto the railing as you get down the bleachers as quick as possible. The screaming filters out as you reach him.
He’s on the other side of the rink, on the ice.
But you jump over the fence and wrap your arms around his neck, legs dangling off the floor as your upper body hugs him on the other side.
You’re supported by his strong arms around your waist.
And the world stops right then.
When your eyes are spilling tears with no remorse.
When his cushioned arms are digging into the leather of his own jacket and your waist.
When you finally decide to forgive him.
Because you simply can’t live without Jean Kirstein.
The good thing is, after being smeared over every national newspaper under “A romantical reunion between rising star Jean Kirstein and his girlfriend” , he still got signed and is now playing in the big leagues.
Oh, and he put a rock on it to solidify that he is not single.
And that he never will be ever again.
Spamming because im really productive in clearing my drafts lately and cause im not nonchalant idgaf. Take it or leave it.
Not proofread cause yall know me lol… maybe one day… MASTERLIST, AOT MASTERLIST, TAGLIST.
