Some mother's wasted son

                   ”—you know, it’s quite rude to stare at someone you’ve never spoken to before.”

ciel very rarely spoke out, but this was just ridiculous. this person had been eyeing him for the past ten minutes from across the little room, and it was rather annoying.

"Oh– shit- Sorry, I wasn't staring I swear."

It was just a kiss on the cheek but he swore every time he got his mind back right she turned everything upside down again and he almost spilled the metaphorical beans right along side the literal noodles. He thought his heart stopped and he knew his face lit up like a fuckin' roman candle but he was cool. Collected. Took some god damn useless deep breaths and kept on trucking because if he made a big deal out of it they were right back where they were five minutes ago with the awkward conversation about love when Jean of all people didn't need a speech or a conversation on it cause he knew damn well what and where it was but he also knew thinking about it was just plain painful at this point. So he didn't. Ever. Swallowing the slimy slithery noodles he'd had half way shoved in his mouth before resorting back to rice. It had to be impossible for rice to feel like wormy invaders, right? One last inhale through the nose and Jean was good. He had nerves of steel damn it.

" I could but then that just wouldn't be me, would it?"

He tried for an off hand wink– playful. Silly. That's what he was going for at least. Who the fuck knows how it came off but either way he laughed. He could be himself. Or.. What's the saying?? Fake it until you get it?? Something like that.

Dear person I hate,

Dear person I like,

Dear ex boyfriend,

Dear ex girlfriend,

Dear ex bestfriend,

Dear bestfriend,

Dear *anyone*,

Dear Santa,

Dear mom,

Dear dad,

Dear future me,

Dear past me,

Dear person I’m jealous of,

Dear person I had a crush on,

Dear girlfriend,

She guessed it was. But it was a just a joke, and there wasn’t any harm intended so— Jean’s reaction wasn’t exactly what she expected. She thought he’d laugh. She wishes he’d have genuinely laughed. The atmosphere feels different, and though Mikasa is usually alright at reading the mood, she doesn’t quite understand what set Jean off. It honestly was a dumb joke. Suddenly her prior hunger lost its presence, and was replaced with worry for her best friend. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was that mean of a joke.”

"I dunno. What's the point in a love life? You're probably the only person who could stand to be around me for more than a few days anyways."

Suddenly the exact curvature of Jean's cheap splintery chop sticks was so interesting he could hardly look away. His eyes stayed glued to his utensils for a solid minute while he thought about it all. What was the point in a love life? Most people were fucking irritating. Despite popular thought, most of the time Jean spent alone was his choice, not because there was nobody masochistic enough to be willing to hang out with someone so, for lack of better phrasing, habitually grumpy. It seemed like more hassle than it was worth. Yeah. Jean sighed, really it was more of a huff, maybe a little bit of a laugh there at the end –because really, what's the world without a little self deprecating laughter?– and ran his fingers through his hair sleep matted hair.

"You're a bad liar. Especially when you're trying to lie to yourself just as bad as you are to me."

It wasn't an accusation, it wasn't anything really. Maybe a fact, maybe not. Jean probably just liked to think he knew her better than he really did. But thankfully, the more he refused to think about things, the more his appetite started coming back. He offered a hint of a smile before promptly flicking her smack dab in the middle of the forehead. Stifling a laugh, Jean kicked his feet back up on the table, finally settling back into his skin after the weirdly, heart pounding awakening and now the, also weirdly, unsettling love life conversation.

saintedfrecklesmarco

It was all Marco could do just to sit down with help and then not laugh as he was pelted with questions by someone who was very clearly flustered. He waited till he was finished, a smile curving his lips and inspected his ankle for a moment, electing to see just how much damage had been caused before doing anything else. He prodded it with careful fingers, hissing at a tender spot and flexing it a bit with a pained expression. It wasn’t broken, it wasn’t even a particularly bad sprain and likely as not he’d be able to walk on it and ease it out soon enough.

"Marco," he said when he looked back up and his smile grew wider now he was okay, "and less of the kid!" So he had a baby face, no need to rub it in!

"It’s fine, just a twist and it’ll be okay in a few minutes I’m sure and yeah, I speak a lot of French. I’m from Belgium." Able to see what the other looked like now and the male in him noticed the two-tone hair, sharp features and light coloured eyes whilst the medic saw the look of someone who was perhaps dehydrated (a hangover?) and over-tired. He felt almost guilty for tripping over his shoes and waking him up.

"What do I call you then?" he prompted and turned to look for his water bottle, seeing it lying a few feet back. "Oh. Umm…would you mind?" he nodded over to it.

Jean chuckled, mostly because this guy– Marco, sounded just like him at sixteen with the 'I'm not a kid’ stuff. “Got a problem with being referred to as ‘kid’, Marco?” Even if he did try to keep his mouth shut, he called everyone kid. It was force of habit, nothing personal.

Jean’d heard the French and was almost hopeful, maybe someone from around where he grew up came here too– even if he’d rather not think about anywhere or anything near there. No luck, though. Belgium. “Oh, man, are you sure? I’d give you a ride somewhere so you didn’t have to walk but I didn’t drive here..” Jean felt legitimately bad, like he had to do something to make up for ruining a random semi stranger’s day. See, he thought to himself, he could have a conscience when it counted– he could at least try to be a good guy. “That’s too bad, I’d uh, thought you might be French or something. I’m uh, I’m from there so.” He rubbed at the back of his neck– talking about anything even remotely related to his childhood always put Jean in a weird sort of mood, changing the subject was probably his best shot at maintaining any sort of conversation with the guy.