and you face this way,

But that's the thing. Its perfectly normal. It makes you shudder, maybe in your dream or in your reality, because you're all alone.

Leaving has always been an easy task for you. You're all too familiar with running away, not from tough conversations but from physical places. You leave no proof, no trace, you try to keep everything as tidy as you can, checking all your drawers and cabinets to see if you’ve packed everything like practiced routine, and no, leaving is not the hard part. The part that you cannot stop noticing, is that you're alone. You have no-one to say goodbye to, no-one that will hug you and say, maybe unconvincingly, that they’ll try to keep in touch. No-one to call out on that pleasant lie because at least it means that they’re thinking about it, they're thinking about your presence or lack thereof in their life. 

No. you're all alone in the airport, looking for a way to go back home, not knowing where that is, and not willing to find out. 

You don't know how to explain it. A quiet and almost all-consuming acceptance stills your mouth when you do try to reason with your own mind about the dream bothering you. Its not even a nightmare - which almost makes it worse - because its not scary. Its just too present, too important. Leaving has never been hard for you, no, because you’d been born looking for an exit, trying to map out the best route to open the next door on the front of your hand, your palm becoming a map of all your past efforts to flee rather than the future that you could be promised. You sit there, a little too dumbly, on the floor of your apartment, tracing the same lines on your hand for the nth time.

The rug is slowly slipping from underneath you. Jean’s knee brushes yours; he claims he needs more space for his legs as they stretch under the coffee table that now sits decorated with a half-eaten pizza and some leftovers from an over-cooked batch of pasta from the day before. Marco chews on the crust of his own slice, and Sasha grumbles about their long legs taking up too much space with her mouth full of food. Connie and Eren sit with Mikasa on the couch, discussing something that Connie is showing them on his phone. Armin sits in front of Marco, engrossed in an almost comical conversation about the lore of mario kart.

You're a little too aware of all of it. You're all too aware, also, about the fact that you sit separated from your friends a little too easily. There's space on either side of you as you sit at the shorter sides of the coffee table. Jean sits to your left while Sasha sits on your right, followed by Armin, and no-one sits beside you. There's no space to, but you’re sure if you moved a little to the left, someone would be able to squeeze in. The air is the only thing that caresses your shoulders, empty and a little stale, and in your head you try to map out the steps it would take for you to get out of this, though you're not really sure what it is you're running away from. 

The floorplan goes like this: your back takes support of the legs of the armchair behind you. As mentioned and noted, Sasha and Armin sit to your right, in order. Jean and Marco sit to your left, in the same order, their back also resting against the foot of the much larger couch behind them, on which Mikasa, Connie, and Eren are sit, all with their legs to themselves. There is one door to your right, a little ways behind and diagonal to Sasha’s back. There's the door of the balcony - you can see the tv glowing from someone else’s far-away apartment - glass windows that are left a little ajar to let the wind in. those are to your left, some distance away from the couch. The door to your room is the one that's the farthest away; you’ll have to take a short turn to reach it’s handle, which is a small hurdle that presents itself as too big. Your best option would be the balcony and it’s promise of fresh air, despite the lack of privacy. The route has already been cemented, and you shift in your rather uncomfortable seat to make sure the rug beneath you doesn't let you slip further. 

Sash takes the last slice of pizza, much to Eren’s dismay. Its a small argument that's akin to two siblings, and you're sure that in some other life, they really were, but right now you think of how your knee is against jean’s at an odd angle, and how it both makes you want to leave faster and also stay longer. 

Another recurring dream; the image of some sort of black tar that transfers onto whoever touches you. The disgust of it sits deep into your bones, always leaving you at the end of your worn-out seat, balancing yourself on the edge of a knife that you seem familiar with. You're worried that this might also be a dream, that Jean might find the tar stuck to his knee and get up with a repulsed scowl. Its knocking into your skin a little more now, a touch more urgent. 

Your eyes leave the fingers that have been drawing numbly on your palm and meet his. 

It traps you. A little more into knowing jean and your budding friendship with him, you realized how much you’re being contradicted. His gaze always seems to lock you into place, as though this reality is the only one that he’d prefer to see you in, not bothering to get lost in the hopes of your shape turning into someone new. Its all opposite to how you’d always been convinced you needed to be - entirely someone else, and entirely somewhere else to achieve it. 

You wonder if he knows your escape route, your plans to withdraw, because he looks at you and its enough to draw you into being right where you are. 

He nods his head towards you in silent question. Are you okay? The conversation has drifted away from him, but he does nothing to chase it. 

You breathe in deeply. You cant find it in yourself to quit looking into his eyes, so you nod once with a small smile and prepare to get up. 

The balcony door will welcome you. You will remain alone at this airport you've uncaringly created for yourself, covered in black tar. You don't want anyone to see you, knowing they wont come to say goodbye for the last time. 

Your escape is successful. You note the change in the air, the lifejacket placed upon your shoulders. Despite your relief, you have been followed. 

He doesn't say anything. Maybe he knows not to, and it terrifies you to be known so well. You look down, then up, your eyes naturally mapping everything out. An exit there, maybe for someone else, another exit that takes the shape of another balcony in a different building altogether. You can hear your friends - because that’s what they are, at the end of the day, although you're isolated and alone at the airport, they're your friends even if they wont come to say goodbye - are laughing, maybe arguing, maybe both, and the noise becomes itself, travelling through the small opening in the balcony. You're near enough to make out the blurry lines of their voices, but far enough not to be hear by them if you speak lowly enough.

“What's on your mind?” you're being asked. Jean’s shoulder is against yours. What was is about the tar? Was it on him now? He doesn't seem bothered by it. He knows how to trap you but he does it well, without force, and never for his advantage. His eyes are on yours, searching. For what, you're not too sure of, but you give him an answer because you're alone at the airport, trying to reach home.

“I have… this dream.” 

He hums, laying down the path for you to continue softly. 

“I'm standing at an airport. I don't know where I’m going. Everything is normal.” your pauses are short and comprehensive. The least words to say. “But it feels incomplete. I'm waiting for someone to say bye to, but no-one comes, and for… for a bit-” is this too vulnerable? You don't have a choice to not be, “-i cant remember who I'm looking for, but then it feels okay. I feel fine because I’ve… I’ve been told there's no-one for me. No-one to say goodbye to, yknow? No-one to… do that whole thing with. I wont see anyone later, or keep in touch with, and um… I’ve been trying to be okay with that. I have been okay with that, for the longest time-” your sentences stretch into a longer string, refusing to stop, almost by itself, “-I have been okay with it, but I sometimes realize I don't really have much to show for myself, not really much to leave behind, not much to… become something significant. I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying.”

All of it is too honest. You're aware of how he’s shifted closer to you, his warmth seeping through your skin, making it’s comfortable way into your bones. “And you don't know where you're going?” he asks. There’s nothing but patience that colours his voice, low but present. 

“Nope.” you say. You want to shrug, but your shoulder is too comfortable against his. 

He thinks. Takes a real minute. Your hands are still on the railing, your back facing the balcony door. You're not sure what your friends are talking about inside, but it cant be too important without jean there to witness it - they're not the type of people to leave someone out.

“Did you take everything? Passport, boarding pass, all your clothes?” he asks. The seriousness in his tone makes you blink. 

Eloquently, you mumble a, “huh?”

He has a soft, almost sad smile on his face. “I hope you have fun. I’m going to miss you. Call me when you land, okay? And please don't get lost on the airport.”

Ah. a similar smile paints your lips. At the airport, now, your hand that was still against the handle of your suitcase comes up to punch his shoulder lightly. “I wont get lost.”

“You cant tell the difference between right and left without doing the hand thing-”

“-that's just so I can be sure!”

“Of course. Yeah, no-”

“-do you want me to get lost there?” 

“You know what, be my guest. But promise you’ll call me when you do.”

“So I can entertain you for free, yeah, okay.”

He breathes out a laugh at that. A very real one, and you're on the balcony again, you're about to miss your flight but its okay. One last conversation wont hurt, not when he’s asking you to call him if you get lost - a very real possibility - so he can help you find your way back.

“Sure. entertainment. Here i am, worried about you getting lost in another city,” his smile is widening with each word, shaking his head at the end of this statement and you're afraid that this is all too real, that he’d actually come to say goodbye to you, to let you leave but to do it safely, knowing he’s still with you.

“Worried is a strong word.”

“Its apt.”

“Okay.” your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. You lean a little more into him. His hand rests on yours, catching yours under his. The map of your hand lays stationary, trapped contently.

Now, your coworker’s handwriting was almost always undecipherable. You could never read it correctly, so you weren't fully sure of why you even gave it a shot now. it had a strong start - the j was fully legible, but the rest of the letters wandered off the cup like her train of thought.

someone on your left cleared their throat expectantly, and you turned to them with what you hoped was their drink. 

“John?” you ask, and the guy presses his lips into a thin line, clearly displeased. 

“Did Sasha write that?” his tone is unamused, but he reaches for the cup regardless. 

You find it in yourself to breathe out a small laugh. Of course this stranger knows her, with the way he says her name like a sibling that’s been put through too much by her.

Nodding, you answer. “yeah. you know her?”

“wish I didn't. maybe then she'd stop taking a sip of my coffee before I do.” he complains, lifting the cup to his mouth.

“You’re lucky no-one spat in it,”

He snorts, similarly to sash. “Yeah, really high bar to reach.”

you shrug. He's mid-sip when you speak, “how else are we gonna make tips?”

it’s his turn to return your laugh. “good point.”

You figure this is a good time to ask as any. He’s finished his sip, licking his top lip to get rid of any residual coffee. “What’s your real name?”

“Jean. soft j.” he says, hesitating after it. Maybe he has something more to say, but he closes his mouth instead.

You shrug. “Close enough,”

“My mother would be wildly offended to hear you say that right now.” 

You laugh again. Not fully, but enough to make your chest contract. “I’ll get her a gift basket as an apology.”

He smiles. Not fully, but enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle under its effort. “See, now that’s how you get a good tip.”

“I am reaching that high bar.”

This feels fun. New. banter that never really suited you and your usual quietness, but you embrace it despite that, and he speaks before you can even think of something else that's clever but only within context.

“Pretty hard to do. I appreciate your effort,” he says, adding your name to the end of his statement. Another new thing that you barely have the time to recognize and appreciate, before an answer comes tumbling out of your mouth, now conscious. 

“Yeah. deserves a pretty hefty tip.”

He laughs at that. More than he’d laughed at anything else before. “And now you’re extorting random people.”

“Not random people. Customers. There’s a difference.” you say, confidently wrong.

This makes him laugh a little more. Had you known Sasha a little before moving into the city, you’d have been more brave about asking her to introduce you to her friends. You knew she had a tight-knit group with the vague stories she’d tell you about them, and maybe she’d mentioned this Jean with a soft j, but the importance of a bold ask for an invitation into their hangouts had never been as obvious as now. The conversation - if you dared to call it that - lasted only about three minutes before being interrupted by a call, but you enjoyed it nonetheless, appreciating the way he waved to both of you as he rushed out of the space instead of just Sasha.

What you did not appreciate, however, was the way Sasha teased you right after.

Must be one of those days, you thought.

-

Closing time was your forté.

You were alone in the cafe. Rose’s lights shone down on the now-damp floor, your mop laying to the side as you changed the music to something that was much more productive, the summer rain falling harshly enough for you to worry about how you were going to get home safely.

Just one of those days.

Just as you wipe your hands on the front of your apron, you hear a hard knock on the wooden part of the front doors. You turn, sighing at the unwelcome intrusion of the solitude that you had come to be content with.

“Sorry, we’re closed- oh.” 

Jean is fully soaked. He stands in front of the door, his hand on the glass, his hair sticking to his forehead. Water travels down from his nose to the equally soaked pavement, as he looks at you pleadingly. His voice is muffled when he yells, “just for a second,” pointing at the inside of the temptingly dry cafe.

You waste no time in letting him in. The floor is now damp because of other reasons, and you make a note to sweep it a second time after his departure, as you heat up a forgotten pastry from the display for him to nibble on. He takes it thankfully, trying not to shiver with the atmosphere. Even with the cautious dish towels you had laid on his seat in the booth on the far left, you knew you’d have to clean everything up later either way.

You don’t mind. Jean thanks you with a small smile.

“Sorry about this,” he says after a moment of pure silence, the music you had previously paused abruptly. You shrug, “no worries.”

“I know how much Sasha complains about closing and I'm making it worse-”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Any friend of Sasha’s is a friend of mine.”

He snorts, and though this isn’t the first time you’ve heard it, you’re endeared by it. “You sound like a wise old soul.”

“Hey, man, treat your waitresses with respect.”

“Please don’t spit in my next coffee.” his lighthearted comment is easy, and you hate to admit you missed it the past week.

“I won’t if you help me clean up,” you don’t mean it, but Jean nods seriously. 

There’s another pause in the conversation.

“Nice croissant.” he’s the one to break it, pulling apart at the flakes of the now-soggy pastry and popping it in his mouth.

“You don’t have to lie, it’s been sitting out for a while.”

He shrugs, “it’s not all bad.”

You stare at him, lifting a suspicious brow, waiting for him to come to the crux of his truth. 

“it’s pretty bad.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Sorry for not being french enough.”

“All my ancestors are looking down at me in pain, right now-”

“Im so sorry, french people,”

“-i can almost hear them. Cursing me out.” his voice remains serious but he still stuffs the croissant in his mouth. 

“Je suis vraiment desolee,” your limited amount of french vocabulary mixed with the fact that you looked genuinely remorseful makes Jean (with a soft j) laugh a little harder, your very un-french accent being the icing on the cake. 

He doesn’t correct you if you’re wrong. You sit up a little straighter, glancing down at his plate instead of his eyes, your right palm supporting the weight of your chin on it, elbow on the dark wooden table. Your left hand traced the grain of the wood, travelling up and down with its flow.

“I work at the bar. Two blocks down.” he says. Your eyes work their way up to his, finding a shade that was similar to the brown of the table in his watery irises. You nod. 

“And i work here.” 

He breathes out another laugh. You’re unsure of where this conversation is going or where you’re taking it, whether it can lead to anything particularly important or just a mundane, passing moment that you will only look at fondly in the context of someone bringing it up to you. “Do you enjoy it?” you prod.

He shrugs. “The pay is okay. I get really… entertaining stories from drunk people, so that’s… a plus. But I do also have to watch them cry over their exes or their love lives that they screwed up, so I’m not too sure where to place that on a scale of good job experience.” his voice is low. You’d almost think he’s confessing to something he’s been meaning to say for a while with the way his octave dips a little lower than usual. His croissant’s almost all gone now, stray flakes remaining on the ceramic plate that reflects the golden hue of the lights overhead. You nod along to him. 

“Whats the most interesting one?” you ask, tilting your head.

The rain patters softly against the large windows. Cars scoot past against the traffic on the road, puddles scattering against their movement. People hurry past, some without umbrellas, some with, some huddled against each other as they walk, a little slower than the rest. 

“This one time,” he says, after the unintentional pause in the conversation that you hadn’t noticed much of, “we had trivia night. The theme was pop-culture, and Connie - has Sasha told you about him?” he sidetracks. 

You nod eagerly, a soft smile on your lips. “Her unofficial twin?”

He rolls his eyes, “they love calling themselves that. Since high school.” 

“Highschool?” you’re a little in awe of how long they’ve known each other. Most of your friendships - if you even had the right to call them that - had faded away, weakening even before high school ended. Your graduation consisted of you going back home early after a night of pretending to enjoy yourself in front of people you barely knew despite spending 7 years with. 

“yeah. They were such idiots. They still are. Thank god they’re not room-mates. They would’ve probably burned their place down by now,” Jean speaks of the two of the fondly, warmth woven into his tone as habit, and the tenderness shakes you by your shoulders. 

You don’t dwell on the small bout of jealousy and distant want of long, unburdened friendship as Jean continues to speak, “anyway, Connie dressed up as Pitbull - he buzzed all his hair, by the way. If you meet him and comment about it, he’ll say it’s a fashion choice, but really it’s just because he’s too lazy to take care of his hair. He buzzed it on a dare once, and now he won’t stop doing it,” 

His talking reminds you a lot of Sasha’s again - the way he coincides multiple stories into each other, folding them until they can’t be recognizable from the other. And although he’s not as animated as her, his hands still draw shapes in the air in front of him while explaining his point. You’re sure this Connie person is the same, if they’ve all learnt their speaking patterns from each other. 

“So, he dressed up as Pitbull. Asked for my blazer from senior prom even if it was tight on him. But that’s not the funny part. He speaks like Pitbull, too, just to pull the whole act together. But then a group of guys - who, by the way, are already drunk, and have been drunk since two hours before the trivia - think he’s actually Pitbull and that the actual Pitbull is asking them questions about pop drama. They took pictures with him and everything, and one guy even asked him to sign his hip to get it tattooed. Imagine that, the real Pitbull asking questions about who-slapped-who at the Oscars.”

You shook your head with a laugh, “Thats a really easy answer.”

He shrugged, a smile of his own mirroring on his face, “it was the first one. We had to ease ‘em into it.”

“They really thought Connie looked like Pitbull?”

“Mr Worldwide. The one and only.” “Huh. He’s really been there and done that.”

He snorts. “Believe him.”

That makes you laugh harder. Your shoulders shake, eyes crinkling at the sides, and you wonder why this is so easy - to talk to him like this, knowing you don’t usually connect with anyone this fast, but it just must be one of those days.

He poses the same question to you. “What’s something different you’ve seen working here?”

You take a moment to think, going back to looking at the table. This time, your index finger moves in a small spiral, drawing the same circle over and over again with a nail that’s a little too short, chipped nail polish clinging to its cuticles untidily. 

“I think,” you start, not looking up. “I mean, this isn’t really a story, more of just… an observation. I like to see people slowly falling in love with something. We have this one regular, he’s a professor, or a teacher of some sort, I think. I saw this guy come in on my first day of work, asking for a black coffee. I think it was his first time here, too, so in a way I kinda related to him. I saw him take a seat at that corner booth-” you said pointing to the cozy little space with your chin, finally looking into Jean’s eyes. Shorter hair; the ones he couldn’t tame back, grazed his forehead softly, and his eyes locked into yours. His head was tilted a little, focusing on your voice, nodding along to it. “-and i saw him take a sip and immediately hate it,” you feel yourself smiling at the memory. He smiles just the same.

“And then he started coming in every other day to try a different drink from the menu. He’d still drink it if he didn’t like it. He knows my name, and I kinda know his, but that’s about it. He never asked me for any recommendations, he just tried almost every single drink to find his favourite. Now his regular order is a mocha cappuccino.” 

When you stop talking, Jean is still looking at you. You feel a little self-conscious under his gaze, like you do when anyone holds eye contact with you, but you don’t stiffen up like you usually do. You remain relaxed, your index finger going back and forth on the table, and you hold his eyes with yours, the space between you stretching indefinitely, unlimited in its expanse. 

He hums. “What else?” he asks, a curious eagerness to continue to hear you about your observations. You blink, finding the smile on your face to be more permanent, unafraid to stay put as it usually is. 

So you tell him. About most of it, anyways. About how you saw a couple meet, have their first date, fight, break up, and get back together all in the span of three months. About how theres always this group of highschoolers - about six of them - who sit at the booth you currently sit at, once a month, and all order extravagant drinks and sip them leisurely. About how you’d overheard them first talk about their summer, their vacation plans, and soon talk about their exams, finals, interlaced with their talks of future college applications and the consequent leaving of their home.

He listens. He asks more questions. Laughs at your retorts, speaks about his own job life, which is way more eventful than yours, but it doesn’t make you feel left out as you usually would, and a small part of you wonders if it’s just one of those days or if he’s just one of those people that you could realistically get along with, share a bit of your life with. 

The night only draws to a close when your mother calls you, asking you if you’d eaten, and you realise it’s already 10 p.m. Your room-mate has texted you a couple of times out of concern. The rain has subsided, and seems to have been for the past hour or so with the way the fog has cleared up from the window beside you.

Jean helps you close up in any way he can. He grabs his own plate and washes it as you mop the floor again, and you two connect over the songs on your playlist. When you tell him you listen to the band you’ve currently been droning about to your room-mate, he scoffs and says, “of course you do,” with a smile, teasing you as if he’s known you for a while, and you’d be a little offended, but you tease him all the same, and the conversation goes back and forth between gentle jabs about music to softer stories around them. He tells you the one time that Sasha had fallen off a bar table while dancing on it to the song he plays - an upbeat cliché that you undoubtedly would also dance to - and you tell him about the time you and your room-mate, in an effort to be more adventurous, went on a roadtrip, and got so unbelievably lost later at night that you had to resort to spending the night at a diner that played the song that you were currently listening to. It was a much softer melody, an older song that you’d probably heard in a cheesy rom-com.

He drops you home. You comment on the city, he comments on the weather making his hair too hard to handle. You tell him to go bald like Connie, and he pretends to be offended while running his hand through his hair protectively under the orange glow of the street lights. His eyelashes cast gentle shadows over his cheekbones, and his hair moves slightly when he shakes his head every time you make him laugh, as if he can’t believe that you managed to do it. He’s in the middle of speaking when you notice a sparkle on the street, your boots stopping right at the cause. 

The light gleams on the slightly-wet penny as you pick it up.

“Must be your lucky day,” he says with a small smirk. You roll your eyes, kicking his foot with the heel of your shoe with just enough force to still be considered friendly, “dont give yourself that much credit.”

But you already do. Must be one of those days.

-

Sasha and Ash meet on a random tuesday, all by their own fate.

You did really want them to meet, if you were being honest. It only felt natural, your room-mate and your coworker had too much in common to not have met yet. When Ash gets home later that day, she tells you all about it, and you smile ear-to-ear when Sasha recounts the same conversation from her side. You text Jean about it, feeling as though you were playing puppeteer, satisfied about being right.

You’d found him on instagram only a little while after he’d dropped you home. He’d followed you first, you realised, since you hadn’t logged in for a while, his request sat in your inbox waiting to be opened. He usually sent you memes late at night, which later turned into pictures of cats he’d found on the road after you’d told him about how much you loved them. He didn’t particularly see the appeal, but sent you videos of them nonetheless. You, in turn, sent him pictures of gardening tips after he’d shown you his mother’s impressive collection of hydrangeas in the backyard of his childhood home, along with movie recommendations that you think he’d like. When you text him about Sasha and Ash, you have a small smile on your face that you refuse to acknowledge.

Jeannotjeans:

Its like the multiverse colliding lmao

You:

Ikr

I feel like god

Jeannotjeans:

What a coincidence though

how’d that even happen?

You:

No ideaaa

Like out of all odds, they end up on the same bus? Going to the same grocery store?

I was about to go run errands myself but ash talked me out of it, she said i needed a break

Jeannotjeans: 

I mean

You do

But yeah, against all odds

Kinda like how we met, too

You:

YEAA

I love it when stuff like this happens

Like im not religious or anything but you gotta think this was written in the stars

Jeannotjeans:

LMAO yea i get what u mean

You:

Anyway

How was ur day

Jeannotjeans:

Exhausting tbh

It was trivia night tonight

And there were way too many fucking people, god

You: 

Goddd

On what topic?

Jeannotjeans:

Astronomy

Here’s the kicker, tho

You:

Mhm?

Jeannotjeans: 

Connie made all the questions on astrology, not astronomy

And everyone was so confused because we posted abt the topic tn being astronomy everywhere

You:

LMFAOOOO

HOWW 

I thought the manager would make the questions??

Jeannotjeans:

She usually does but because of her sister’s wedding being tomorrow, she couldnt 

She split her part between me and connie but i made the very grave mistake of not proof-reading the questions before the game

You: 

See now THATS stupid

Jeannotjeans:

OH IM SORRY I TRUST MY FRIEND?

You: 

I also trust Ash with my whole heart but i would

NEVER trust her with simple tasks

Jeannotjeans:

Ykw ur right

Its all my fault

You:

It rlly is

That teacher guy came by again

Jeannotjeans:

Oh?

You: 

Yeah, and he ACTUALLY TALKED TO ME

Jeannotjeans:

This is monumental

You: 

IT IS!

I was right he’s a teacher

Teaches middle-school science

Jeannotjeans:

Oh what

Wait whats his name?

You: 

Something Grace i think

Jeannotjeans:

HE WON TRIVIA TONIGHT

You:

WHAT

THATS FUCKING CRAZY

Jeannotjeans:

IT IS

Talk about fate 

Thats two insane things that happened today

You:

RIGHTTT

Istg if i find a lucky penny tonight

Jeannotjeans:

Or an eyelash on ur cheek or smth

You:

Thats to make a wish, dumbass

Jeannotjeans: 

Fuck u it can also b lucky

Lucky things grant wishes

You: 

im sorry i didnt kno the rules of wishes and luck

Jeannotjeans:

U should be

Im gonna call it a night, though

Its pretty late

You should also sleep soon

You:

Cant, i got an assignment to finish :/

Go to bed tho

Goodnight mr. luck

Jeannotjeans:

thats mr. fate to you

You:

Second time ur correcting ur name to me

Mr. Pretentious how abt that

Jeannotjeans:

Fuck off

goodnight idiot

You:

Yeayea

Goodnight asshole

-

“I thought the batteries for my digicam would be out of charge, but they aren't. Tonight’s gonna be a great fucking night,” Ash says from behind you as you sift through your closet. 

You turn your head to see her standing at your doorframe, leaning her weight against it while interesting the batteries into her digicam. She’d had it since she was a kid, and with your own camera being out of commission for a while, she’d been the designated camera person for all group hangouts. Her pictures made everything look like a part of a film, a little blurry around the edges but incredibly well-lit, even in the dingiest of bars. 

“Nice. Do you need help with figuring out what to wear?” you ask her, glancing back at your own options.

“God, yes. I don’t think I have anything.”

You hum. “What about that poofy white skirt? You can wear it with my boots and your long top.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and you imagine she’s contemplating. “Yes. I think that’d be good,”

You smile.

“Can I borrow your brown jacket?” she asks. 

You sigh. “I-”

“You can have my black hoodie!”

“I dont want your black hoodie-”

“-i’ll owe you,”

“Are you bribing me?”

“I mean…”

You pull out your light-blue knit sweater. It was warm enough to protect you from the slight chill the air had suddenly taken on, and you figured if you were to pair it with your raincoat if it rained tonight, you’d be alright. “Fine. You can have it,” 

“Thank you!”

The sweater, in fact, did nothing against the cold.

You should’ve known, too, as much as you’ve loved colder weather, you’d never been good in lower temperatures. Luckily, you weren’t out for too long. The topic for tonight’s trivia was Fiction and Literature, something you grew up on, so you felt a little bit comfortable walking up to the group that stood around the cramped circular table with Ash and two of your other friends. 

Tonight had been in the works for a while. Sasha had been insisting on meeting all of your friends, even though your circle is pretty small, and after she had hit it off with Ash so well, you weren’t going to refuse. Turns out, Marco and Nova had already met before in a film club on campus, and Connie and Dylan had apparently torn up a dancefloor of a party together. 

Coincidental connections. It made you a little bit suspicious, something that was a little too good to be true, but you trusted it regardless. 

Jean and Connie initially had their complaints about going to the bar on a day they weren’t scheduled, but Connie was quickly won over by the prospect of discounted drinks with his employee status. Jean took more time to get around.

Sashasonlyfoods:

PLSS ULL GET FREE DRINKS

THAT SHOULD BE MORE THAN ENOUGH TO GET U TO COME

Springher:

EXACTLY WHAT IM SAYING

Cmon jeanie boo pls

For me 

Marcospolos:

Your bar also doesnt ID people

Jeannotjeans:

This is peer pressure

Ashhhhhhhhher_:

Yes and

Dylanknowshit:

🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Super.nova:

Sent a location

This bar also doesnt ID ive heard!

You:

But its so farr

Scout’s is so much closer

Jeannotjeans:

God 

fine

Marcospolos:

So easy

Springher:

FINALLY OMG

I KNEW YOUD COME AROUND

Sashasonlyfoods:

So easy

Ashhhhhhhhher_:

So easy

Jeannotjeans:

???

You:

What r yall on abt

They never did tell you what they were on about. The conversation shifted from “good to finally see you,” to “im way too overqualified for this trivia,”. you stand among them, shoulder to shoulder, as you find out that you and Marco have a lot more in common than you previously assumed. You, Nova and Marco talk about the newest horror movie that’d released a week ago as you sipped on your drink - a long island that came in an abnormally long glass and made you laugh out loud when you first saw it. 

Connie and Dylan were in their own world as they conversed at the bar, waiting on the second round of drinks for the table. You were right, Connie talked just as animatedly as Sasha, if not a little more, his hands flying wildly in front of him, buzzing with energy.

Sasha and Ash hit it off again, talking about someone they have in common - a girl that Ash was telling you about that had pissed her off, and Aasha gave her own two cents about it.

Jean stood to your right, shoulder bumping against yours. The inside of the bar was warm, cozy enough to be intimate, a couple booths that were similar to the ones you had in the cafe scattered across the back, sporting friend groups that were just like yours, all huddled together. The jukebox was playing some song you didn’t know the name of, but was good enough to maintain the atmosphere of a saturday night against semi-sticky tables and laughter mixed into loud conversations.

Jean nudged his elbow against yours, sliding his own drink to you for you to sip. The comfort of it all would’ve taken you by surprise if you had told yourself of this maybe five months ago. Yes, you weren’t a particularly lucky person, you never have been. You don’t believe in something as grand as religion, nothing that would grant you to feel more importance about your existence, but as Jean points to his glass with his chin, you feel a little bit too important. And usually this would make you uncomfortable; the way he stands close to you, enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his jacket, or the way you can’t look at anything but his eyes, sparkling a little with the blue and pink lights of the bar, something that would usually make you feel a bit nauseous, now something you took more than a little comfort in.

You grab his glass, sliding your own towards him, not bothering to ask what his drink was before you take a sip.

It’s a little bitter. You didn’t expect anything less from him, but the amount of citrus and sweetness rounds it off, and the bite of alcohol only makes itself apparent after it pours down your throat, warming you instantly. You nod appreciatively, licking your lips. Your lipstick stains the corner of the glass as you put it down the same time as Jean puts his down.

“It’s…sweet,” he says. His nose is a bit scrunched up, eyes squinting a little. 

You breathe out an inaudible laugh. “That’s because you’ve been drinking the most bitter drink in mankin-”

“Its not the most bitter thing,”

“-your tastebuds are already ruined.”

“Im sorry, your highness, i’ll make sure to clean my palate before I take another sip of your concoction,”

“Yeah, you should.”

“I take it you hate the old-fashioned?”

“Is that how you’re describing yourself?”

“Wow. alright. This is what i get for being nice,”

“Nice? About what?”

He shrugs, an action you can feel more than see, preferring to look at his face instead. He’s shaved, you noticed, his usual casual grown-out stubble is now clipped a little closer to his skin. It looks nice. His hair is also pushed back, and every time some of it escapes, he makes sure to tame it back with his hand, something that you’ve grown to recognize as a habit. It’s cute. Endearing.

“Wanted to expand your horizons,” he excuses. He’s fumbling a little, his eyes looking in the distance instead of you.

“Are my horizons narrow for you to want to expand-”

“No. no, i mean… you know what, okay, i wanted to see your reaction. Happy?”

You pause. Grinning at him, you try to find his eyes as he glances back down to his hands on the table, peering your head to chase their gaze. He looks up. “My reaction to what?”

He shakes his head with a disbelieving smile, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

You’re pretty. He’s losing his train of thought, “i dont…” he trails off, his hand tangling in his hair. He already had a beer before this, and he’s never been a lightweight, but youre making him a little nervous, in all honesty. He’s afraid that the heart he wears on his sleeve is making itself a little too apparent, “i didnt know if you liked whiskey.”

You hum. Your chin rests on your palm, and he’s reminded of the night at the cafe. You wore a similar expression then, albeit a little more tired because of the already long day of customer service pleasantries, but you still looked annoyingly put-together despite it. Your lips hold a different colour now, and your nails are bare unlike that night, but your finger still traces small patterns on the wooden table similar to that night. He’s a little embarrassed of how easily he’s memorized you, but he couldn’t help it. 

“I don’t mind it, I think. It’s alright.”

He nods. “Good.”

“And you don’t like my drink either,”

“I… do like it. I just don’t think iI’d order it for myself.”

“Mhm. y’know, sometimes I assign people drinks in my head.”

He smiles. “Yeah? What am I?”

“A narcissist, apparently.”

“Hey! Im asking a genuine question-”

“Iced americano.” you say. Your eyes glance up before resting back on him, revealing something about yourself - and him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yep. reliable and no-bullshit.” you speak. His smile spreads softly across his face, pulling his lips slowly. “No bullshit?” he asks. You shrug, as if it’s obvious, “yeah. I mean, you’re honest. Kinda intimidating.”

His eyebrows jump up in surprise. “Intimidating?” he takes another sip of his old-fashioned, not moving the shoulder that’s pressed against yours. You don’t either.

“I was kinda scared of talking to you first. Thought I’d say the wrong thing and you wouldn’t get my joke, or something. But then you got what I was saying almost immediately.”

It’s your turn to take a sip. He nods, eyes never leaving yours. Your own hair tickles your cheek, the shorter ones in the front escaping from behind your ear. His finger twitches at the thought of being able to push it into place so you could drink better before he sees you doing it yourself.

“I think you’d be an aperol spritz,” he says. You tilt your head. The hair you just adjusted falls from its place again, but this time you let it rest against your cheekbone in favour of paying attention to him, which makes him a little jittery.

“Really? Why?”

“Bubbly. Sweet. Also reliable. I recommend it to everyone who’s new to drinking.”

Your smile never fades. He notes that your lipstick tonight is a deeper shade of magenta than what you usually wear, and it suits you. “So you’re saying you’d recommend me to everyone-”

He scoffs, but it has no bite. “And I’m the narcissistic one?”

“You literally just said-!”

Before you can argue further, however, the trivia starts with an enthusiastic cheer of everyone around you. He pretends not to notice Sasha’s raised brows beside Ash as he takes another sip, finishing his old-fashioned.

The night continues without the luck that he thought would be on his side, but your group does come second, which only extends the night further with a round of free drinks. You try an aperol spritz, and Jean finds himself talking to Dylan and Ash. The alcohol makes everyone conversing like they’re chasing their words. Connie loudly tells you and nova about Marco and Jean’s most embarrassing summer as Marco giggles with his glass lifted to his lips, with Jean’s loud defenses and complaints coming from beside you. Jean’s not too sure when he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, but he does remember you standing very close to him, remembers the way the light casts over your face and hair angelically as a flash goes off somewhere in the distance.

You take it home. He knows that much. He makes sure all of you get a ride home, and asks you to share your location. You wave at him with a smile that he reciprocates, watching the back of the car as it pulls away.

Sasha crashes the night at the apartment that Jean shares with Connie and Marco, leaving him to take the couch, snoring right as her head hits the pillow. Connie follows suit in his own room. Marco grabs a drink of water before muttering a tired but happy, “goodnight” at Jean’s direction. 

Jean’s phone reads 2.14 a.m. as he picks it up. He has a couple texts; some from his study group that he’d skipped today, some from his mom. Yours lies at the top, a simple, “reached!” sent a minute ago.

lucky penny:

Reached!

Jean:

Good

lucky penny:

I had funnnn

Liked the aperol spritz too

Jean:

I knew you would

I also had fun

Alot

Lucky penny:

Who knew mixing friend groups would be this easy

Wouldve done it sooner

Jean: 

Should have

I think Ash and i talked about alcohol

Extensively 

Lucky penny:

LMFAO YEA

She was talking about it in the cab

everyone was happy

:) 

Jean:

Im glad

Are you?

Lucky penny: 

Yup

Very

Jean: 

Me too :)

Lucky penny:

Goodnight iced americano

Jean:

Is that what ur calling me.

Fr

Lucky penny:

Yea

If u have any complaints pls contact customer service

Jean:

Wow

Ok then 

You will be getting an email from ur supervisor

Ok i think ur asleep

Goodnight aperol spritz

-

You hadnt thought about your luck in a while.

Your alarms had been ringing consistently at the right time, waking you up at the cusp of being late to being early, and your face wash wasn’t fully out, per say, but it was depleting at a leisurely slow pace. Your schedule was the perfect mix of work and break and classes, the weather was letting up to be bearably enough, and everything just felt a little bit right. Not suspiciously good, no, but just right. Maybe that was the luck that you thought didn’t exist, or luck that you wouldn’t prefer to test. There were no ladybugs landing on your shoe, no four-leaved clovers fluttering past your morning jog-walk to the station, no lucky penny to pick up, but the effects of being the universe’s unchosen one, the peace of indifference settled itself into the air. 

Jean promised to pick you up from work. 

“We can stop and get ice cream,” he had said, not leaving you much of a choice because he knew you wouldn’t have chosen another option either way. You called him a good bargain, and the line had gone silent on his end for a beat too long before he scoffed and answered with a, “yeah, you’re lucky.”

Maybe you are. 

With the cafe all locked up, you escaped through its back door, hope quick on your heels. The breeze tangled against your hair, your hands resting comfortably in the pockets of one of your thinner jackets, sounds of a distant saxophone carrying themselves through the unregulated road, past the sounds of the honking. Stood under an orange streetlight, everything tinged golden around you as you checked your phone for any updates from Jean.

“Hey!” you head turns to the sound of his voice before you can sigh impatiently at his arrival, a smile blooming on your face instead. 

Maybe this is luck. His voice calls out your name, warm and soft. You know, at an instant, that that’s your name. Not because it was something you had been given and had been predetermined, but because he called it the way he always called it. His half-jog comes to an eventual halt in front of you, feet pointing at yours, the apples of his cheeks cast under the artificial orange. 

“Sorry, my fucking manager was being…. whatever,” he says. Instead of explaining - because he knows you’ll understand regardless - he waves his hand in the air vaguely. You nod, eyes not leaving his. Inhaling, you figure it's your turn to speak. “It's okay.” the air smells like it’s going to rain but the ground remains dry. 

Everything is pleasant, claustraphobically so. Jean’s eyes have a speck of clover-green, shining under the light, his usual brown looking warmer, tinted penny-copper. He wears a dark red, almost maroon crewneck sweater that you had seen a couple times before, pairing it with dark navy jeans that looked a little black. Maybe you were lucky. You wondered what the time was, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of Jean’s moving lips.

“I think the ice cream place is closed,” his thumb points to somewhere behind him. He’s a little more aware of the sidewalk than you are, and his other hand gently guides you to step away from the walking of the hurrying pedestrians. “We can get tacos. Or if-”

“what time is it?” you don’t know why you ask. Maybe you already know the answer. It’s late, you closed up around ten minutes ago, you should’ve already had dinner by now, you’re certainly hungry. 

Jean is equally as confused as you, his brows furrowing with a tilt of his head. He doesn't question you, however, as he checks his phone, holding it at an angle that you can still peek at, and you’re right. It’s 10.10 p.m. on a thursday, and Jean stands in front of you, embodying the luck that you’ve tried not to believe in. There is no grand universal plan, no, the universe may as well not care about your existence, but Jean stands in front of you and asks you what you want to eat. 

Must be one of those days. 

No, it is one of those days.

“We can get the tacos. That sounds good.” you say. Your voice - if you’re aware enough to detect it - is also just as warm as his is. Soft around its usually blunt corners, like his presence had sanded it down because of knowing it for a long time.

“Okay. cool. We can…get the tacos.” he echoes, nodding. Neither of you move. The city moves around you, the universe taking special care of them.

You decide to test the thin string of luck that you now tread. It’s 10.10 p.m., and everything cosplays itself as fate; the usual eerie flicker of the streetlight you currently stand under is nowhere to be seen and it steadies you, if only by a little, the raindrops refuse to fall despite the clouds being grey the whole day.

“As a date?” 

He blinks at your question. It takes him a moment to register it. You take the same moment to try and taste regret. 

“No,” he speaks. Your shoulders drop as you try to build up to a profuse and poorly worded apology, but he stops you before you can start. “I meant… if we’re going on a date, i’d like to plan it out first. Properly. You deserve more than…street-side tacos,"

Oh. okay. 

The string of luck becomes more comfortable, transforming into a shareable space rather than a singular moment. Is it still 10.10 p.m.? Maybe it’s a little past that. Why is luck still standing on your side? Persistent routine has taught you nothing about the certainty of confession that stands in front of you, but you test your luck again, chalking it up to being one of those days you decide to be risky during mundanity. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure Sash would love a taco-date.”

Your luck scoffs with a smile on his face. The apples of his cheeks push up and the corner of his eyes crinkle the way you love as he speaks. “I’m not taking Sash out, though, am I?”

“So you are taking me out.” you conclude, as if you’ve caught him in something he’d already let you bear witness to. 

“Yes. I’d like to.” his uncharacteristic shyness kind of suits him. He can’t meet your eyes and his fingers fidget at his sides. 

“Perfect. Tacos, then?” you don’t know where your confidence resides in you. It makes your heart beat faster. 

“Youre so stubborn.” he’s grabbing a hold of your hand, starting to lead you towards the destination. 

“And you’re so persistent.”

“Isnt that the same thing?”

You shrug, your smile matching his; soft and gentle. “Are aperol spritz and americano the same-”

“Okay, now youre just making shit up,” 

➷ Friday, 7.38 p.m.

Thank goodness for early morning classes.

You were aware of how sarcastic the sentiment sounded, but you meant it wholeheartedly as you saved yourself from the onslaught of heavy rain pelting against the cafe window. An early start to the day meant that you could go home earlier, finish up your shift at the cafe at 7pm instead of the usual 9. Your neighborhood isn't particularly…scenic. It's a short walk from your apartment to the metro station, which itself is lined with stores that sometimes sell rare, never seen before brands of chips that you usually wouldn't be able to find elsewhere. There's always the inescapable smell of concrete blanketing the air, a continuous chattering of some building maintenance across the street. The breeze picks up lightly as you fiddle with some lint in your jacket pocket, walking closer to your familiar pace, your familiar apartment with its familiar lights- Three very unfamiliar figures stood outside of the locked entrance to the building.

They seemed to be whispering something to each other, muttering under their breaths while arguing. The tallest of them -  the brunette one who you'd mistook for a woman from afar - turned to you with his eyes reflecting his relief. “Hey, do you live in this building?” he asked, a little breathless as you stepped in front of the entrance. “Eren, you cant just ask someone where they live.” the shorter blonde one spoke from behind him, his hands hugging his own arms. “Im so sorry about… that, we’re not creeps, we swear,” he addresses. His glasses sit a little low on his small nose, and he’s looking at you through them by tilting his chin up, rather than just fixing their positioning on his face. Eren looks a little offended beside him, but decides on not saying anything as you shake your head as a wordless forgiveness. The last one of the three speaks before you can make up your mind on whether or not to engage with this. “I'm Mikasa. This is Eren,” she nods her chin to the brunette, then turns to the blonde, who seem to be fighting with each other, “and that’s Armin. We’re sorry to bother you, we just have a couple friends in this building. Apartment 201?” The blonde one - Armin - looks at you, breaking away from the unimportant side-discussion, “Could you please open the door for us? I promise we’re not freaks or anything, just that Marco, our friend, hasn't replied to our calls or texts, and-” You stop him before he can continue his nervous spiral with a soft smile, “oh! I know them, um, I'm their new room-mate, actually.”

Eren smiles widely, “See, I knew I’ve seen you somewhere!” Armin groans while looking at his shoes. “You’re getting creepier by the minute.” “How’s that creepy? I'm just saying, I’ve… seen you, I think, on campus. Aren't you the volunteer girl?” 

You pause for a minute and you swear you can hear Armin’s small sigh. “Oh, yeah. I did volunteer for the charity last semester.” Eren claps his hands once, “Guys, she's the one that made those cookies!”

Mikasa looks at you with a soft smile. It embarrassingly took you this long to notice her attire - a red and black plaid skirt with platform books and a skin-tight, long sleeved shirt that ended at her hips. Her eyes were lined with dark eyeliner, you noted, and even under the orange glow of the neighbouring streetlights, you applauded how even both of them were. Her hair was braided and draped across her left shoulder, ending just below her collarbones. You try not to let yourself get distracted as she speaks to you. “Those were really good, I still remember them,” “My girlfriend loved them. The brownie ones were her favourite.” Armin spoke from beside her, and even though his demeanor was more shy than his surrounding friends, his shoulders seemed to straighten when he talked about her. You waved a hand in front of your face, shaking your head. This amount of praise in such a short time was too much for you. “You guys are too sweet. I’d be happy to make them again for you, though, since we technically know each other.” 

Your pleasantries and almost-small talk was interrupted by Connie's voice from somewhere above you. “Hey losers!” The four of you glance up. Eren hoots when he spots the guy, while the guy in question squats on the fire escape of your apartment. You can barely see him, his form is only marked by the glow coming from behind him, the setting sun highlighting a soft glow against his cheeks. “We’re waiting for you, Sash is eating everything!” he screams again, his hands cupping around his mouth to act as a makeshift loudspeaker, even though he knows his voice is loud enough to reach us. Two floors up, he’s still louder than the honks and clattering of the main road. Eren shouts back. “We’re on our way!” even though the clarification wasn't needed.

The house was set. Noor was truly sorry she couldn't make it, but you assured her she wouldn't miss out on a whole bunch. Connie didn't fail to vocalise his disappointment, however. He now sits (which is a kind way of putting it) on the couch, animatedly talking to Eren about something that you’re sure you can make out if you can focus on it. Jean is in on the conversation, his brows furrowed like he’s withholding information that’ll prove them wrong, which you have no doubt about. Mikasa and Sasha sit on the ground, and you realise Sasha quite likes sitting on the ground, claiming the rug to be her own space. Their conversation is much quieter, and Mikasa's elbow rests on the seat of the chair behind her, her knees pushed up to her chest as she nods along to Sasha's tales. You want to talk to her. You want to talk to everyone in the room, simultaneously, if that was possible, but you’re comfortable holding a place in the kitchen. Polo nuzzles his head against Marco’s calves, Armin stands in front of you with his weight resting on the platform behind him.

“God, just…that movie was so incredibly good.” the blonde says. Marco shakes his head, agreeing, taking a sip of his lukewarm beverage. You nod as well, "I genuinely considered changing my entire career path after watching it.” “Right? Like, how do they… do that?” Armin’s voice is fond and awestruck. Unlike before, he’s not as timid. His shoulders are relaxed as he speaks, and his glasses are finally placed properly on his nose. “I’ve always wanted to get into something like that. I mean, I've always watched films and shows, but I've never really… I don't know, wanted to be a part of something that big.” 

He says these truths like it’s easy. You're practically a stranger, yet he doesn't seem to have a lot of hesitation when he’s speaking to you, and you’re partially aware of the fact that you’ve got a good word put in by your room-mates (friends? Were you allowed to call them that now? Or was that a boundary you were crossing without permission?), but you also selfishly wanted it to be just because of who you were. You, on the other hand, are more afraid of being vulnerable. Your revealing truths about your ambitions and goals are all jumbled because you don’t know of them yourself, and you know that voicing that out loud might make you seem a little less-than. You're not sure what exactly you're afraid of, however, when Marco himself is sharing his doubts about his career and how his first internship had put his esteem down in the dumps. You’ve always had a hard time distinguishing between things your peers would see as faults and what your friends would see as achievements. 

A simple conversation made your brain turn into crossroads that you didn't want to be in between, and dialogue became a choice that was a burden to choose. So instead, you blinked and didn't think while speaking. Who cared, right? These people still had to live with you for the next year at least, and if Armin never saw you again, that would be… fine. A true loss, but still fine. You didn't have much to lose either way, and the pause between Marco's last statement and your first isn't heavy or a burden. “Im… I also chose graphic design because I didn't really know what else to choose. I wanted to do something in fine arts, but I knew I wasn't really the best at it, and even though I love what I'm learning right now and I have a really good community, I just…. I don't know, I feel like I'm missing out on a bigger world? If that makes sense?” “Exactly. I want to do it all. I want to be a marine biologist but I also want to be an artist, I want to be a librarian but also an architect." Armin continues. You know he doesn't feel your relief in his relatability, but you do. Embarrassingly so, you were thinking of how confessing something off your chest would make everything uncomfortable. But it didn't.

“Please don't be an architect,” you don't notice when Jean enters the small space that the apartment has deemed to be a kitchen, tossing his can in the trash as he takes his place a small distance away from Armin. Polo’s attention drifts to Jean's pants momentarily, his tail wagging behind him. Marco chuckles at his friend’s intrusion as he opens the fridge to get himself another drink. “The food’s gonna take another ten minutes,” Jean says, his voice low and even as he glances back at the place where Sasha and Mikasa are sitting, “Sash has been asking me about it for the past twenty minutes.” “I'm so hungry.” you mutter under your breath, but Armin's laugh covers up your sounds. “She’s ready to go there and get it herself.” “Im sure she will if it doesn't come.” Jean nods. Marco simply shakes his head and leaves the warmth of the kitchen, and Polo follows promptly. Your heads’ follow his golden form as he leaves, and jean turns his head to you to ask, “you wanna eat some chips? If you're hungry, I mean,”

Did he have super hearing? What the fuck? You shake your head regardless, shrugging, “nah, it's okay. I can suffer for ten more minutes.” He nods in understanding, resting his hand on the marble counter behind him. “What were you guys talking about?” “Project hail mary,” Armin said, glancing at the two of you before taking a sip. “And wanting to do everything in the world.” “Which includes…architecture?” “Yep. on the topic, I’ve never seen a happy architecture student around here.” you say, pushing the conversation on Jean. He snorts in retort, shaking his head and weaving a hand through his hair. “Thats because there aren't any.” “Oh, I heard that there was some change happening with the department head?” Armin asks, his head turning to Jean's.

He shakes his head slowly, inhaling a deep breath in. “god, dont even fucking ask. The dude got fired for misconduct and now they’re looking for some other person to replace him in the middle of the semester. We have our mid-sem project starting already, and no HOD to coordinate it with,” he waves a hand in front of him, “its a whole mess.” His voice is a little rough by the time he’s done with his mini rant, and both you and Armin nod in understanding. “College management is always so weird.” “The one thing they can't do is manage.” you say, smiling sarcastically while setting your drink down somewhere near you. Jean huffs out a small laugh at that, and Armin smiles, about to say something when Eren calls out his name from the couch.

“Tell Connie I'm right!” “He’s not!” Connie argues back. Armin sighs to the both of you, muttering a small, "he's probably not,” before leaving. “Im… gonna get some fresh air,” you breathe out. Jean nods. “Want me to come with?” 

You take a beat to think. It feels like a small game, a multiple choice dialogue prompt that would usually make you question your entire personality. If you say yes, would you be the type of person to allow the warm noise that accompanies it? If you say no, would you be the type of person who prefers their own company over the laughter of others? Tonight, you're the type of person to choose the former. Maybe tonight you can be someone else, someone you probably didn't think you were. Maybe you’d be more comfortable in the discomfort of the unknown. “Sure.” you say, tilting your head towards the little fire exit situated between the wall of the kitchen and the main “drawing room” (because calling it that would sound a little too generous). 

The window is a little smaller, the same window that Connie yelled out of a couple hours ago, way smaller compared to the one that let light in through the drawing room. The platform of the fire exit was small, a makeshift and slightly dangerous balcony, the steel bars tinging brown and orange with rust in certain places. Your socked feet regret not having more protection, but you make room for Jean’s to climb through without complaints. The outside air is a little bit chillier than before, and though the clouds were a little gray against the dark blue of the night, it hasn't rained yet. From up here, you can see the smaller shadowy figures of the people walking on the sidewalk below you, and the people across from you watching something on their TV that you couldn't make out. You wondered what everyone in the world was up to, and you wish, just a little bit, that you were everyone else for ten minutes. It's a little breezy, and you catch the side of Jean's face against the faint glow of the compact city around you as his bangs blow away from his forehead. Your shoulder presses against him without any other choice. He doesn't complain either, and the conversation from the inside of the apartment floats between you, creating its own music over the band that Jean had put on his speakers, much to Eren’s dismay. 

“I like the song.” you say against the wind. The sounds around you quieten a little bit; the perpetual honking from the traffic down the street, the car alarms and the shaking of the metro a few minutes away. Jean nods slowly. “Thanks. I kinda thought you would.” You snort out a laugh. You're surprised about two things; that you’d be comfortable enough for yourself to laugh without restraint, and that you're comfortable enough to be perceived like this by someone like him. “Whats that supposed to mean?” you prod anyway, because it feels like the right thing to do. “It's… stupidly hopeful and happy. I thought you’d be into that.” “...wow.” “I'm kidding, I heard you singing it last week in your room.” “Jesus, that's embarrassing.” “Nah, it wasn't. It's a good song.” “Stupidly hopeful and happy, though.” “Cant believe youre agreeing with me,”

You scoff. “I can… agree with some opinions.” “Some opinions. Not all mine, though-” “-I agreed with you day before when you said that Connie might be dyslexic,” “I think that's more of just a general fact.” “General and concerning. He should get it checked out.” “God knows how he made it this far,” he says, but there's an unshakeable fondness in his voice, a little gentle lilt to it. 

You see yourself in this. If you were watching yourself from the outside - which you usually are, but tonight you decide to be the type of person who doesn't - the little traits you share with Jean, all the ways you were similar to him. You'd never admit out loud how smart and kind you found Noor, how much you appreciated the girls in your class for not making you feel like a stranger, how much you loved working and walking to class with one of your regulars at the cafe that you had way too much in common with some days. All the different people that you’d probably find it a little too difficult to admit to, not out of fear or because you thought you were above it, but because saying it out loud always felt more daunting. You knew Jean felt almost the same, or maybe you’d like to believe that he did, and he trusted himself to make it clear that even though he made fun of the people he’s close to, it's out of love and comfort that strangers don't usually get from him. “His guardian angel’s a strong one.” you comment, and you feel the conversation sloping off. You stay outside for another fifteen minutes. Seven minutes into it, however, Jean does have to get the door for the food, but not without sparing you a, “take your time, I’ll save you some.” to you. 

You eat sitting between Sasha and Mikasa, who immediately make you feel cozy. Your legs are pulled up to your chest as you have your own plate of chowmein and side of orange chicken, and Mikasa is speaking about her family the same way you’d speak about yours. “One time, he spilled hot tea all over my science project. He was trying to do something good but I was so mad at him,” she said. Her voice, you realised, was inherently soft, a lower octave that matched her gentle smile and complimented it at the same time. You smile, breathing out a laugh. Her younger brother, now a freshman in high school, was the light of her childhood. She told you about how much she waited for him to arrive, and how much she loved being an elder sister to him. Sasha related. From beside you, her body leaned more towards the table, her hand reaching towards the fortune cookie, which, admittedly, was a weird choice between the meal, but she claimed she needed a palate cleanser. “My younger siblings are so chaotic, it's insane. Like no day in our house would be quiet and peaceful because there would always be a fight about a missing hairclip or a missing hot wheel.” “Dude, same. I love Sunny, you know I do, but she's such a pain in the ass. Genuinely, she hit me with her drawing board on my ass when I was laying on my stomach once,” Connie says, plopping a dumpling into his mouth, immediately regretting its heat. His mouth opened and closed in panic like a dying fish, fanning his hand at the air in front of his mouth. “And, you know, just out of curiosity, what were you doing before that?” Marco asked, pointing to the victim with his chopsticks. “Nothin’” Connie said, mouth still unable to close, his voice pitched upwards. “Oh, sure,” Jean said from beside him, rolling his eyes. “Sunny would just do that unprovoked.” “Shedid!” “Dont speak with your mouth full, Con,” Armin said. He sat on the floor just like you, Sasha and Mikasa, but his back was pressed against the legs of the sofa chair behind him for support. “Sorry, mom,” Connie said, and you and Jean shared a passing look, amusement on both of your features.

“Zeke once poked my eye with a pencil,” eren said, “and I didnt even do shit to him before that, he just came up to me and then I was half-fuckin-blind!” Your back straightened at the mention of the pencil, pointing to the brunette, “dude, my brother stabbed my knee with a pencil once too!” you unfurled your position on the floor to pull the hem of your pants up, enough to show your left knee and the discoloured scar that still held proof of all those years ago, “look, I even have a battlescar.”  Eren leaned in slightly to check. From his spot next to Jean, he had a small smile with slightly squinted eyes, looking at the scar in awe. “Fuck, I dont have a scar,” “Which means it didn't happen,” Jean mumbled. “It fucking did! You weren't even there, hors-” “Elder brother stories always sound so traumatic,” Sasha said, shaking her head. The corner of her lips had a small crumb from the fortune cookie. 

Connie and Marco look at her, a little offended that she’d even say that, “older brothers have the right to traumatise-” “-we’re not all bad!” they defend, and even though Connie’s argument leans more towards why he’s right, Marco tries to use the not-all-older-brothers rhetoric. Mikasa just sighs next to you. Jean and Eren continue their own petty argument, and you join in Sasha's pestering, deciding that it simply cannot be a two versus one situation.

There's a lingering smell of garlic and soy sauce in the air, and Jean has taken the courtesy of stacking all the plates on top of each other. And they say chivalry is dead. 

Sasha pats her belly as she leaves, calling it a beautiful but incredibly late food. You hug her and Mikasa goodbye, and Mikasa says that she’d love to meet you again at the cafe, exchanging her socials and number with you, the action feeling like more than just an empty promise. Armin speaks about how tired he is, but leaves after you and Marco have excitedly booked tickets for the Backrooms movie for next week, the perfect three seats in the middle of the theatre at night. Eren stretches his arms above his head, his hair now no longer in a bun. Mikasa tells him how he should cut it, and he looks at her with an argument ready, but relents and instead says that he probably will do that tomorrow, and you can't help but note the certain softness that has taken shape around the corners of his voice. He points his chin at you and says you're not all that bad, which you take as a compliment, and when Armin jabs his side, he says, “please make those cookies again, I'll pay double,” to which you roll your eyes with a smile, “triple, and you clean the kitchen afterwards.” He smiles boyishly, clapping your hand with his, “you got it.”

The house doesn't feel empty after they leave. The warmth still lingers in the air, and Marco rubs his eyes as he bids you guys goodnight. Connie says that chinese food always fucks up his stomach lining. “Then why’d you fucking suggest it in the first place?” Jean asks, incredulous from beside you, and you were a little suspicious that he already knew of this fact but decided to let it slide while ordering, knowing Connie wouldn't respond to him. “Beauty is pain, or whatever,” Connie says, scuttling himself towards the bathroom, walking backwards. “She gets it.” he points at you, dragging you into the bit. Jean looks at you as if you really do get it, waiting for you to explain. You decide to be the type of person to bullshit something just for the fun of it, “the beauty of chinese food is worth the pain of having it.” your voice is serious and almost wise, as if you truly believe what you're saying. Connie has long since escaped, and Jean just shakes his head with a smile and you continue cleaning up as best you could.

Another stupidly hopeful song plays on Jean's phone, and you smile as you clean the last of the plates - you only used a couple of them tonight, to your surprise. Jean hums under his breath and you decide to be the type of person to hum alongside him tonight. “I had fun tonight.” you say. Your voice is low, matching the stillness in the air. “I'm glad. Eren, Mikasa and Armin are like… peas in a pod.” “Like you guys,” He nods slowly, glancing at you. You don't allow yourself to meet his gaze, focusing on placing the plate in the cabinet. “Like all of us, now. You're, unfortunately, a part of this.”

You close the cabinet, turning yourself to him. His palms rest on the edge of the sink, a little wet. There's a small smile on his lips - not fully there, but not dismissable, either - enough to make his eyes squint a fraction. You lean your hip on the marble as well, your head tilting to rest on the bottom of the cabinet. You can feel its edge digging into your scalp, but you don't mind. “Whatever shall happen to me,” The small smile that Jean wears stretches to be a bit bigger as he steps away slowly. “Nothing that’s in your control.” You shake your head with a smile, hearing him take his phone back to his room, the shuffling of his footsteps accompanying the soft end of the song.

You hope it's not in your control. You've been in control of too many things. What was it he said about your music choices? Stupidly hopeful and happy? 

He’s right. Another thing you agree with him on, and yet another thing you probably won't outright say aloud.

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⁀➷ a/n ➷ hello everyone i lowkey had an amazing last couple of months of college??? im also moving away from my city soon for masters so things are Ramping Up and i got lost in the sauce with the whole visa process and everything and i truly apologize. coming back to this fic feels kinda nostalgic now because i started this when i was starting my second year in college and now i've finished my third and i've grown SO much its insane. anyway, i hope you guys liked it at always! i've made a proper outline for this fic till atleast season 3, and i will be posting more this summer, hehe. thank u!

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The distance remains. All the way back to your home - he insisted to walk you, “i want to know what happened next,” he had defended when you said he was being too much of a gentleman - there was a gap between the two of you. Your feet fall in unsynchronised beats, two sets far apart from one another, distanced even in the realm of sound. Neither of you tries to change it, not wanting to match eachothers pace; fearing it would be too gentle too soon, too soothing too fast. 

when the door of your apartment closes, however, there's no mistaking it. Sashas voice greets you from the kitchen but your feet still try to trace his stance, hoping to walk with him soon.

he sits in front of you next.

it's been a couple months. many months, but you don't keep count. its cold enough to almost snow now, by the space between you and jean remains the same.

there's a dingy little diner next to your college campus - far away enough to not bump into someone you know and make it awkward, but near enough to walk - to which your little haven has visited far too many times after far too many occasions. the tables are marbled, menus worn; the type of place you have to go to the counter to order something, the type of place that gives you a discount if you speak the same language as the person behind the counter. 

your faces are too familiar there. you suppose that's a good thing as Connie and sasha argue about the game on connie’s brand new phone, marco snoozing on the table with his hands crossed under his chin for cushioning. Armin, eren and Mikasa had gone to their hometown to visit erens mother for the long weekend, which left only you and jean coherent and awake at the table, waiting for food. 

your knees almost touched. you tried to keep yours tucked to yourself. jean looked at you with his arms on the table after sliding the menu shut, an unknown familiarity in his eyes that you hadnt seen directed towards you before; the making of something you didn't dare naming. too gentle too soon. 

“so….is the new creative writing professor doing his job well?” he asks. there's music in the back, some old tune you don't fully recognize, and despite the cold, reflective marble separating you from him, he allows his voice to create your own world in the centre of it all. the collision of two worlds, the making of something alive and different and familiar all the same without an explosion to sound it's entrance, rather marking itself with a low, comforting hum. you realise it's your own, as your voice traps itself under your smile. 

you wonder if he feels it, for a moment. your hands trace the shining white streaks contrasting the dark smooth surface of the table, and you tell him, “very well, actually. what about your Theory of Structures guy?”

he scoffs. “guys a fucking dork. he talks about astrology in his lectures as if-” he makes air-quotes around his words, “‘-aligning our chakras’ is going to teach us how to build a good foundation.”

you breathe out a laugh. “maybe he's on to something.”

“really?” he asks, teasing, relaxing his back against the faux leather of the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. the world between you stretches to accommodate the wider space between you, rotating and evolving all the same. “how so?”

you shrug, leaning forward. the world does the same. “you can't build something without making sure mercury isn't in retrograde,”

“the drink?” Sasha says, momentarily losing interest from connie's screen. 

neither of you explains. her eyes quickly avert themselves to temple run again, claiming, “it was my turn you fuck!”

“no, this time he called on one of the girls in class and asked her what her birth date was. and then asked for the time of her birth too, but then she told him that he has to be a…. leo? to be acting the way he is? I honestly don't know, but everyone laughed anyway. it shut him up.” he says, a smile lingering on his face as he leaned back into the table. 

“I don't really understand any of it.” 

“yeah, me neither. All i know is that im an Aries.” 

“What does that even mean? For you, i mean.”

He pauses. “ i dont really know.”

“Hold on,” you say, pulling out your phone from your pocket, “we have the infinite power of google in our hands-” 

“I fucking hate their AI shit,”

“-me too….okay, aries. It says your element is fire.”

“Is that good?” he asks, and you smile at the fact that he suddenly sounds a little nervous. Too curious. You shrug with the same smile, reading further.

“As the first sign in the zodiac, the presence of Aries always marks the beginning of something energetic and turbulent. They are continuously looking for dynamic, speed and competition, always being the first in everything - from work to social gatherings. Okay, zodiac sign dot com.” 

He laughs, covering his mouth with a loose fist. “Alright, atleast its not insulting me.”

“Wait! Biggest flaws… 'Aries’ fiery passion is often a positive trait, but it can turn into anger or competitiveness. Competition is not a bad thing — this can be the fire that fuels a great project or a new career move, but avoid getting unnecessarily competitive’” you look up from your screen to see his expression shift.

“Bullshit. Theyre trying to sugar coat it too,”

“I.. jean, i think this is scarily accurate.”

“Huh?!” he exclaims, leaning in further, trying to catch a glimpse of the letters on your phone.

Your smile grows, cheeks pushing into the corners of your eyes. “I mean, ive never seen you get more passionate than when you and marco were playing uno,”

“Uno literally requires you to be competitive!”

“You sulked for half an hour when he beat you-” you point out.

“I wasnt sulking, i was…. thinking of a game plan for next time.”

“Sure. next time you’re gonna, what, shove the cards up your ass when no-one's looking?” you ask, your right hand pushing itself forward slightly, bumping into his hand. It’s warm. Your fingertips shock themselves with the surprise, jutting themselves back.

“Get out of my head,” he grumbles. His hand remains in the same spot, and he rests his chin on the palm of the other one. 

“Your fries,” the server says, breaking you out of whatever had pulled you to spill parts of yourself so easily with jean. Even though you hadnt outwardly said anything too revealing too soon, the ease of conversation flowed through the two of you without hesitation, an act that was rare for you. 

The server sets down the rest of the orders, connie and sasha digging in almost immediately. You and jean manage to poke marco awake, making him eat something before knocking out again out of sheer exhaustion.

You always knew distance was easy.

Sasha had a new walking companion. Atleast, for now. Nicolo walked with her as her hand lay comfortably in his. He was speaking about some song he’d heard and about how it felt like home, with sasha listening contently, matching the pace of his walk. 

Marco and armin were right behind her, a couple steps away. You could hear them talk about a manga leak for their favourite series, how the author was “out of his mind” for introducing a new character so deep into the series, and marco’s hands gestured wildly infront of him to drive his point home, armin nodding at every move. 

You and jean - somehow this became normal - fell into step behind them. January air nipped at your nose, the scent of a new year, and consequently, growing up almost suffocating you with its realisation. Only one more year of college left, one more year of certainty, one more year of free learning without real consequences. Youve let yourself rot behind the walls that you made for yourself for a long time, and the arrival of your twenties brought about the arrival of the realisation to be vulnerable without forcing regrets upon yourself. When else would you be able to be selfish? When youre old enough to no longer be able to count the number of greys in your hair? Or maybe it was the newness of it all, the turning of the clock making you question every time you kept silently to yourself, too afraid too soon.

“Any resolutions, horse-boy?” you asked, turning your head to look at him. The slope of his nose wrinkled at the sound of the nickname, making you almost laugh with selfish amusement. 

“To not be called that fucking nickname.”

“I dont think you have any control over that, unfortunately,” you said, a bit too satisfied. Jean gulped. His strides were a bit longer than yours, mismatched from your own.

“Dont seem too happy about that.” he remarked, turning his own face to you. You could see his scowl that was stained with his smile, giving away his softness, wearing his heart on his worn-out sleeve.

You realised this also - there was no need for you to be intimidated by jean. Winter was thick and heavy as the group of you trudged through it, in need of alcohol to warm you up and excusing it as celebration. The space between the two of you still remained, but it was easier to ignore the more you walked. 

“Dont tell me what to do,” you bit back.

He shook his head, rolling his eyes, pretending to be fed up. If he really was, you knew he wouldnt hesitate to walk away from you, to stop talking to you entirely, but he didnt. A testament to his character, he kept walking by your side, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Fuck off.” 

“Telling me what to do again-”

“-well, someone has to.”

“Whats that supposed to mean?” 

“You dont wanna run your mouth and get yourself in trouble, do you?”

“No, but youre not going to give me trouble. Are you?” you ask. Its almost tender - trust that colours your voice, a sort of knowing that isnt given a name by either of you for fear of it being too soon. 

“You never know.” he says, but he’s losing his conviction. You both know it as you laugh and shake your head. 

“You didnt answer my question.” you say, softly, turning the conversation on it’s heels.

He takes a moment to answer. 

“Call my mom more.” he breathes out, as if it’s been weighing on him. His voice grows a little quiet, the confession being too important to mingle with the rest of the conversation that was taking place all around you.

You hum, just as quiet. Its enough of an agreement, prodding him to continue. “I… when i went back home during the holidays, i realised just how much everything had changed. She’s seeing someone. Hes a good guy. He asked me…  well, he wants to marry her. He asked me if that was alright.”

You nod slowly, saying nothing. Youre good with words; you speak your mind when you feel necessary, knowing your passion needs a voice, sentences that could make your feelings far more tangible than theyd be if they remained in your head, a trait the two of you had in common, too similar, too far. You know what words to use and when, but you also know when to let them lie in between your throat and your lips. You keep looking at him, however, letting your body do the rest of the speaking. 

He glances at you from where his eyes had taken interest at his feet. “I said yes. I mean, they’re grown adults. My mom knows what she’s doing and i trust her judgement. But… i dont know, the thought of everything happening so fast made me realise i havent been with her in a while. Id like to be her friend again, not just her annoying son.” 

Theres a brief silence again. Connie laughs from somewhere up ahead, and you bump your shoulder with jean’s in silent comforting. “Good resolution,” you finally say. You know - or rather, bravely assume - that he doesnt need you to patronize him by calling him brave, by saying he’s a good son, by telling him that growing up is scary but exciting or any of the nonsense youre sure would be viable in this situation. 

“And,” he says, licking his lips against the cool, looking at you with an unreadable expression - your brave assumptions going astray - “to be open to new experiences.” 

Your footsteps sync. Boots against pavement matching with thick sneakers, even and matching.

You hum in agreement, nodding happily, slowly.

“What are yours?” he asks, fixing his gaze ahead again.

“To not be afraid of doing something different.” you say easily. The truth has been running rampant in your head, youve been too scared to do anything of much importance to you. Jean nods, a movement you can see from the corner of your eye, and you take it as a sign to continue. His shoulder is warm against yours. Theres familiarity every time they brush, your world beating and alive.

“Ive been too… hesitant in doing things that need courage. Like, i kinda grew up in my own shell, building walls where they werent really needed, you know? I dont know, i figured… theres no harm. Im not hurting anyone.” you say, shrugging. “Fuck around, find out.”

He breathes out a laugh, eyes crinkling at their sides, his face turned to look at you. Distance was always second nature to you, to keep everything at arms length meant comfort, meant reassurance of never being too hurt, too fast.

But - and you named this because of your brave assumptions - the soft, kind warmth that jean showed you was worth so much more than that, a regret you knew would never form even if you wanted it to. 

“Fuck around find out.” he spoke, confirming your eloquent statement.

You begin questioning what distance ever meant.

Your shoulder sagged down from the weight of your bag, only having the energy to wear one strap. Your hands stuffed themselves comfortably into the pockets of your coat, playing with a ball of lint in it, the movement being the only thing occupying your mind that seemed to be shouting at you only a minute ago as you placed one step in front of the other. Your eyes were locked below, scrutinizing every sound that your boots made against the uneven pavement, grass growing in-between the cracks of the sidewalk that you were too unbothered to step over. Your slow blinks stirred an unsettling burning behind your lids. 

You were tired.

The walk from campus to the subway was short when you had your friends with you. You could almost soothe yourself with the thought; the wish of having sasha beside you, having your hand laced with hers as you crossed the road, knowing she wouldnt check the road to walk further, having connie by your side as he explained some part of his day in great detail to the both of you. Neither of them accompany you now. 

Sasha lies on the couch, chewing on her bottom lip, knowing she wont be able to submit the assignment before the timer is up, connie finishing up his shift at the local mart. 

You reach the crosswalk alone. Curse yourself for having forgotten your headphones at home. Your fingers, having lost the lint in the deeper crevice of your pocket, now focus on worrying onto themselves, nails digging into the other’s beds. Despite there being no cars on the road, your legs refuse to cross the street, staring at the green pedestrian walking sign in front of you. You had four meetings today, almost back to back, and college admin had refused to give your club any funds to function further, leaving the rest up to yourself to decide. To top it all off, you had only finished about two thirds of the submission that was due tonight, the weight of knowing you’d only be greeted to more work when you reached home far heavier than the day that had occurred before that.

Your name was called out behind you, too softly, too warm.

You turned. Jean stood, with his own hands in his pockets, a beanie covering his hair, protecting his ears from the biting cold of the snowfall.

“What are you… it’s late,” he says. City lights are awake behind him, some golden and some blinding white, fading into eachother, blurring your vision and creating a silhouette against him, framing his form in pure light.

He stepped towards you. You stood silent as he stopped a couple inches away from you. His eyebrows were scrunched together, and you wouldve named the action as worried, but you didnt. Afraid of it being too knowing too soon. 

What was soon, anyway? You questioned the time. Ten pm on a weekday was really late for you to be out in the now-gathering snow, and knowing jean for six months was not soon. The time seemed to drag on as he opened and closed his mouth ineffectively. 

Neither of you could count on the words you so heavily used; him for his headstrongness, and you for your ambitions, both of you wanting to prove yourselves competent by using words against argument, against judgement. Being too similar, too close. But those same words failed you two now, where gentleness was needed rather than teasing. Where you had to tell him of your exhaustion, where he had to soothe you out of it.

The world between you almost stopped on its axis, unsure. The green light blinked red. Snow kept falling. A beat passed where nothing but everything moved, the space between you obvious and breathing alive.

Fuck it.

His hands freed itself from his pocket, pulling off his forest-green beanie from his head. His eyes remained trained on you, soft and knowing and warm, so warm, brows doing that gentle thing where they twitched upwards a bit and showing tenderness you had never known about. With the same gap between your feet - your scuffed boots and his worn-out converse - he fixed his beanie on your head. 

The world between you spun it’s easy rotation, squeezing itself against both of you. Jean wondered if this was enough. If you could hear his thoughts, if you could find the words he’d lost a while ago, searching for something better than himself.

But your head bumped into his chest, shoulders relaxing, letting yourself fall into him a little. Your eyes closed, breathing even. The light behind you blinked back to green again, and jean’s hands circled your frame, chin tucking itself over your head. His heart stuttered as he breathed, his exhale creating a cloud of warmth. 

words didnt need him. world leapt through the space - now too narrow - and away from your bodies, and your minute reactions felt too important, too strong. jean had to remember to breathe, because if he forgot, he knew - and he presumed this bravely - that you'd forget too. in and out, the soft waft of air from his nose and the loud beating of his heart in his ears became the only proof of his existence as his hands rested against your back. 

he'd be happy just like this. holding onto you, doing good on his new year's resolution even in the midst of February, arms open to new experiences. arms open for you. 

City lights made everything blurry around the edges. glowing orbs of headlights whizzed by the two of you countless times. when you pulled apart, there were no tears in your eyes, your shoulders felt a little more relaxed, you walls crumpled without regret. distance restoring itself anew, knowing too little, too late, that distance never meant anything when it was just the two of you.

your couch was a small space.

you realised this months ago, when you first moved in. most of your friends’ knees bumped against yours and sasha had settled on laying her legs on your thighs completely.

even now, as you sat with just jean sitting on the opposite end, resting his back against the cushioned armrest and reading a book that he'd selected from your bookshelf, you realised the space was too tiny. 

your thighs were covered by a fuzzy blanket. his arms held a pillow under the book that you had filled with notes and annotations that you couldn't help but now be too aware of, but you didn't mind. the awareness only brought comfort, knowing jean would read your little quips in the columns and understand their blatant meanings.

forgotten coffee on the table beside you rested alongside the similarly forgotten music playing from your phone. a book of your own sat resting on your lap, your legs outstretched, copying jean’s stance, toes touching eachothers. 

there's still distance. the same space. between the two of you - always just the two of you - there lay the same silence that created its own world, a low hum without any explosion or grandiose marking, just simple recognition. 

your book settled close. you made no effort to mark it with anything, knowing that you had just started. your head rested against the backrest of the couch that was covered with a poorly crocheted blanket made up of different granny squares that you couldn't quite get right, taking a moment. 

you're not sure how long you stare at him. blinking slowly, soft against your own eyes, as if your eyelids decided, now, suddenly, after twenty years of life, that they'd be more gentle on you if you would allow them to look at him without restraint. 

the middle of his brow was crinkled with focus, something you knew, a little too soon, that he did a lot. his lips were parted by a milimeter or two, and you could see a little bit of the white of his teeth peeking out from them. his jaw was snapped shut, but he wasn't grinding his teeth like he usually did when he was sitting idle. you wondered why that was. what changed? why? his cheeks were tinted a slight warmth under the glow of the lamp beside him, yellow laying on his own flesh. one of his fingers was stuck between the page he was currently reading and the rest of the book, in preparation to turn it, eager to know. he was only a couple pages in, but still completely hooked, and you realised, too little too late, that he was more engrossed in your scribblings than the carefully written and precariously edited contents of the page. 

he caught you staring right as he was about to turn the page. you figured this was it - that he'd smirk and tease and ask if you found his face handsome, and that you'd have to deflect and throw insults at him till his ego shit back down to the couch you sat on. but he did no such thing. surprising you, he set the book down and looked right back at you, blinking. 

the corner of his lips lifted slightly, fighting against themselves. 

“what's up?” he asked. 

you shook your head, resting it on the fist that you had made of your hand, your elbow resting on the back cushions. your socked feet played an unnamed tune on his, and he didn't seem to mind.

distance spread the two of you apart. despite that, however, you still chose to be close without hesitation. 

neither of you say anything. music plays regardless, the world spins slowly, and the coffee sits on your table, getting colder. nothing changes. everything does, too much, too soft. 

“do…. are you freaked out by it too?” he asks, uncharacteristically shy, looking almost past you.

“a little.” you say. you both know what you're speaking of, afraid of naming this closeness without ruining it. 

“I’m… I've never….” he says, trailing off. closing his eyes, he shakes his head in frustration, wanting to give up but knowing he won't. 

“jean,” you say. his name is distant, but he knows it's his because you say it with familiarity that shakes his bones.

he says your name just the same. his eyes don't leave yours and he thinks of how he has to do this, how he has to put a word to this before it takes him by the throat and threatens to drown him completely until he's unable to talk about anything, losing his voice. 

fuck around find out. be open to new experiences. 

“fuck, I think I'm in love with you.” he says. it's all in one breath, now in the space between you, floating in the air before crushing itself with its weight. the cushion does nothing to support it's fall, but your voice catches it just in time.

“Im in love with you too.” you say. 

there they are, the words you know to speak, now against eachother, between the distance that you created. there's no kiss, no closeness but the intimacy that your words themselves create without any intervention of your bodies. 

the kissing can come later.

for now, you're content with this. his toes against yours, his smile - soft, tender, warm and sweet - ever-present.

the world spins. coffees are getting cold. music keeps playing. 

The kid shrugged as a loud crash sounded at the back, followed by a frustrated grunt. A small, muttered “sorry,” echoed in the silence, and Gabi hunched over the shot of espresso that now lay spilled over the counter. 

Falco turned back to Jean, painting a nervous smile on himself. “hah, can't complain,” 

the familiarity of it all made jean almost want to laugh. “i think you should,” he mutters, “she’s kinda like Yeager,” 

Thankfully, Falco finds this a little funny, his shoulders shaking with a small laugh. “that says alot about me. anyway, should I put in the usual today?”

jean chooses not to ponder on the former part of that statement. “actually, do you guys have two dozen donuts?” 

that makes Falco pause, eyes widening a fraction either by surprise or by disbelief. “two dozen?” 

jean nods, pursing his lips together without choice. not only did he now not have any lunch, he was spending money for the bet that he lost.

the kid hums in consideration, turning his head over his shoulder to call out to gabi. “do we have two dozen donuts in the back?”

“I'll…go check,” she says, heaving a sigh as she finishes cleaning the marbled counter. 

only about fifteen minutes later, Jean's hands are now heavier with two boxes of assorted donuts, a cup of iced mocha balanced on top of the lid, his wallet significantly lighter. 

tossing a loud “thank you!” to Falco and gabi, jean makes his way out of the bakery, balancing the donuts in one arm, the other hand holding his coffee to his mouth, barely noticing the fast approaching body in front of him.

before jean had a moment to relax and enjoy the cool mocha, the wind was knocked out of his lungs, half his drink spilling onto the stranger, and, god, now the sleeve of his jacket was wet.

“watch where yo-” “I'm so, so sorry,” the warm familiarity of your voice makes him snap his mouth shut, his rapidly increasing annoyance quickly diminishing to nothing.

he felt like he was in a stupid romcom. not that he'd know, he doesn't watch that many, much to Connie’s dismay, but with the wind whipping his hair away from his forehead, kissing his cheeks with redness that he wished would leave immediately made him feel like the cameras were on him, catching his fluster by the throat, he felt like he was living in a cliche with cameras pointed directly at him.

“Detective Kirstein.” you speak, and he watches the softness of your lips pull apart and together to spell his name. Such little effort that still made jean want to legally change his first name to Detective.

He mumbles your name sheepishly, his hand still dripping with the residual coffee. “Good to see you again,”

“Im so sorry, i was barely watching where i was going- let me make it up to you,” you said, looking at his stained arm. Thankfully, wearing a leather jacket had somewhat protected him; he could just wipe off the residue and then send it to the dry cleaners. He’d received the jacket as a birthday gift from his sister as soon as jean graduated from the academy and it soon became a part of his daily uniform, and the fact that your hand was now touching it was sending shivers down his spine more than the coolness of the drink.

“There's… no need, really-” “-come on, i wasted your 6 bucks,” you cut him off, and if this was anyone else, he’d argue more. If this was anyone else, he would've grumbled at them to pay attention for bumping into him and went on about his day, but no, it was you, and selfishly, he wanted to spend more time with you.

“If you insist.” he conceded with a soft smile, taking you up on your invitation without an ounce of remorse. The universe’s apology for a shitty week came to him with a casual smile and a light blue sweater, now dabbing off the coffee with a cloth, holding his left hand with a gentleness that he’d never felt before.

“Y’know,” you spoke, making him look into your eyes. He wondered if you knew that you were still holding onto his hand. “I didnt know that the stereotype was true.” 

Jean tilts his head in confusion. “Stereotype?” 

“Youre carrying two entire boxes of donuts… as a cop.” you point out, head nodding towards the boxes, forgetting that he was carrying them in his right arm, gripping them into reality.

He breathes out a laugh, shoulders shaking softly. 

“Hey, in my defense, these arent for me.” he says, shrugging, an easy smile on his lips. 

“Oh? Who are they for, then?” you push, brows shooting up; not with curiosity, but with challenge.

Oh, jean liked you.

“Theyre for my friend. We had this stupid bet where i didnt think she could finish my lunchboxes - two of them, by the way, and full portions - in less than three minutes,” you smirked knowingly, as if you were in on it. “I guess it was my bad that I underestimated her. She finished it with seventeen seconds to spare and gloat.” his annoyance was warranted, yet his voice still held the affection he couldnt shake off for his friend. 

You hummed, “sounds like she came prepared.” 

He scoffed, “i dont doubt that. She eats in a way that gets me scared of her ending up in the hospital.”

“And yet you dared her,”

“Hey,” he says, tone defensive. His smile never slips, however, “that was more of a rhetorical question than a challenge. She told me, i can finish those boxes in like two seconds,” his voice pitches up almost comically, trying his best to impersonate his best friend. You laugh without constraint as he continues, making him smile wider in the process, a little proud, “and i said, i dont think you can, and then bam, before i knew it, eren and connie - my other coworker, were recording her and timing her.”

“Truly traumatizing,” you say, laughter softening.

“The worst ive ever faced in my career.” he says, earning himself another laugh. Youre still holding onto his hand and he wonders if he can feel his pulse beating under his skin, if you can sense it going in sync with the sound of your laugh. “Come on, lets head back in, i’ll buy you another iced… whatever that was.” you say. Your voice makes it sound like its not even a command - which it’s decidedly not - but the gentle tilt of your head makes him think he’d follow you anywhere youd ask him to.

Describing the situation later was not easy.

Sasha almost demanded an explanation for why her donuts were cold and late, why he left for the bakery almost an hour before and returned with a brighter mood and a small smile.

Connie made kissing noises from his seat as they huddled next to jean (without his consent, he’d like to point out), marco joining from his desk as well. The rest remained seated at their own places, but he knew their ears were peeled for the latest - and probably only - update on jean’s non-saucy, non-descriptive love life.

“Thats it, she just… bought me a black coffee,” he said, lying straight through his teeth. Marco smiled earnestly, but sasha rolled her eyes. “Bullshit. There has to be more.” “was this a date?” connie asked, his elbows leaning on the back of his chair as he sat backwards on the worn-out cushions.

“There isnt more, and even if there was, i-” jean says, eyeing the rest of his coworkers suspiciously. Eren was tilting a little too much towards jean from his seat, armin glancing back to his work, and reiner unashamed about his public eavesdropping. Jean shifted closer into his huddle, mumbling, “i wouldnt say it here. And it wasnt a date, connie,”

“But you like her.” 

The pause before jean's answer sealed his fate more than any word he could utter. “No,” another blatant lie, one which he knew none of them would buy as they leaned back into their chairs almost simultaneously.

“HA!” eren’s voice was loud and mocking, and he now made no attempts to cover up his own nosiness, the rest of the bullpen now suddenly finding themselves near jean’s desk. Before jean could even argue, however, eren continued his mocking.

“You shouldve seen the guys face when we met her! He was all moon-eyed and he couldnt even ask her basic questions.” he boasted, a laugh punctuating the end of his statement. 

“I was not moon eyed-” “-oh my god, i can so see that!” sasha speaks, followed by an infuriating “jeanboy's in looooooveee” by connie.

“Im not-”

“impressive as hell, kirstein” reiner says, nodding his head to god knows what. “How is it impressive?”  marco says, and to jean’s surprise, he finds himself a little offended at that question. 

“I dont know, finding love in this landscape-” reiner starts. “like, politically?” armin asks, followed by a, “no, i think he means sexually.” by eren.

Everyone falls silent at that, chairs creaking as all of them turn to eren’s mumble.

He looks up from his paper, noticing the eyes on him. Glancing at reiner, almost shrinking in his seat, he says, “no i mean… because your last crush was… yknow,” 

“A lesbian,” mikasa uses her rare words to describe the Sergeant's situation. It seemed to be all the speak last month, with reiner never shutting up about his crush on historia, the pretty blonde with a stolen - and very expensive - purse.

Reiner cleared his throat. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning back around to his desk. 

“How do you know she's not a lesbian?” marco asks, leaning his weight on his left arm, elbow resting on the bent plastic of his chair.

“No!” sasha exclaims before jean can even try to think about his question. 

There’s another pause in the precinct. Sasha defends herself with a anxious laugh, “i mean, she clearly seems to be reciprocating,”

“Yeah, she wouldn't have asked to buy you a coffee otherwise!” connie says, uncharacteristically nervous, jean and marco glancing at each other with suspicion. Reiner - now standing against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, looks just as suspicious as the other two. “Is that wishful thinking or are you just that desperate for jean to get a girlfriend?” 

“Hey!” jean did not appreciate his love-life being put on full blast without his consent. “For the record, i dont think she’s a lesbian either-” “-is what reiner thought too-” “-fuck off, yeager. But i agree with connie. She wouldnt have offered to buy me black coffee otherwise.”

“Kirstein, Yeager, what’s the update on the Hoffmann murder?” Captain Ackerman’s voice booms across the precinct, cold and demanding. Connie rolls back to his desk, struggling to scoot his body back to facing his desk. Jean and Eren stand up, backs straight, faces serious. 

“We have a lead,” eren says, beating jean to it. 

From his spot near his cabin door, Captain Ackerman nods. “Come into my office to discuss it. And kirstein?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Stop pretending you drink black coffee.”

“...yes, sir,” 

Everyone snickers.