Y'all, I think I might've found the best video essay analyzing Jean
Don't let the words in the thumbnail get you wrong, this is a fantastic analysis on what makes Jean tick and how he fits so well into the story.
It especially touches upon his connections and parallels to other characters. There's discussions of how he interacts with EMA, Springles, Reiner, Marlowe, Floch, and of course, Marco. Something for the whole gang.
It's just a very succinct summary of Jean's development throughout the story. I love it.
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My first Fanfic on here and it's already Angsty. But then again the AoT Fandom wouldn't be itself without it.
Warning: (Canon) character death, heavy mourning, season 1-4 spoilers, guns (mentioned), Jean and Connie are a lowkey OOC(sorry)
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My mom made you a blanket.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three days. It's been three days, nine hours, forty minutes, and fifty-two second since Sasha died, it's also been that long since Connie has gotten a decent amount of sleep.
It was still so painfully hard to believe that Sasha Braus, top ten in the 104th cadet training, was dead. So childishly disrespectful to Sasha's legacy as a soilder; killed by a brat no older than he was when he had first meet Sasha himself.
Turning to the right he caught sight of a familiar empty bed, freshly made as if no one had slept in it to begin with which is in fact very true.
It's been a week since he's last slept in his own bed at base, either sleeping in a bunk in the airship or sleeping in Jean's bed since coming back home knowing he won't mind since he's been at his mother's house handling his grief in the warm embrace of family.
God, Connie misses his family even more than he misses Sasha. With Sasha's death there was a faint feeling of understanding. (No understanding wasn't the word none of them would ever understand why she had to die) Sasha was dead and couldn't come back no matter how hard Connie and Jean cried, cursed, and screamed she wouldn't come back.
But Connie's mother she could come back if she were to eat a Titan shifter (Eren) she could come back and hold him again, tell him false lies of everything is going to be OK, and that Sasha is in a better place, but even though the solution is just a couple blocks away from him he can't grab it, instead he's force to except the fact that almost all the people he has ever loved are gone.
The door to Connie and Jean's shared room opens quietly, though it didn't matter since Connie's has been awake for an hour by now.
"How was your visit to your mom's house Jean?" Jean Kirstien. One of the most important people left in his life. Lord, what depressing ass thought. Connie's only friend, a horse.
(There's a small voice in the back of his head that reminds about the others that are somewhere in the base that he also considers friends)
Jean's holding a brown tote bag filled with what looked like a variety of things. Jean not expecting Connie to be awake had answered in the dumbest way possible.
"You're awake?" Oh Jean boy, how we love you so. "Yeah, I've been up for a bit now, what about you? Never answered the question Jeanie."
There's small air of youthful teasing the kind that was always around when they were younger and didn't have to worry about anything other than what they were gonna eat the next day and when the next expedition was.
Jean walked towards his bed with light footsteps and places a brown tote bag by the foot of the bed and sits by Connie's feet patting his leg. "It was good, I had been planning to visit her soon anyways so better now then never."
Connie took his time to study Jean's appearance. His hair had grown nicely over the pass four years, not surprising though, Jean has always taken pride in his appearance, ever since they were cadets. He was waiting simple clothes, orvas simple as clothes got when it came to Jean's sence of fashion. He wore a white button shirt and gray suit vest, and a pair of slacks Connie swears he's never seen Jean go a week without wearing at least once.
"My mom said that next time I come over I should bring you." He has eye bags. Or to better phrase it he has even darker eye bags, but its not like he can talk when he's eyebags are just as bad, being apart of the military will cause you to gain things you wouldn't normally gain when getting a job.
"Really now? Mama Kirstein just couldn't handle not seeing her favorite son for so long, huh?" Instead of humoring Connie, Jean grabs the bag and hands it to Connie. "Ma, said to give these to you and the others."
Inside the bag was six neatly folded blankets, all of them looking homemade and warm. "The one on top is yours." Connie reach his hand out and grabbed onto the top blanket pulling it out to examine it.
It was knitted and dual colored, brown and grey; brown and grey; brown and grey, over and over again till it was big enough to wrap around Connie's body, in one of the corners Jean's mother had stitched on a patch on with the words 'Connie Springer' in thin black lettering.
Connie rubbed his face against the soft material. It smelt of lavender and pine, similar to the way the village would smell during spring and his dad would let him and his younger brother and sister explore the woods to pick freshly bloomed flowers for mom.
Damn Mama Kirstein, I could kiss you right now.
"If your thinking about kissing my mom I'm going to take the blanket back." Jean reached out the take the blanket back but stopped when Connie jerked back a little to hard as if he was actually scared Jean would take the blanket back.
"...ease don...like home." What? "Connie a can't hear you move the blanket if your going to talk." With another attempt at moving the blanket Jean figured it was just be easier to move it from his face than to take it away completely.
Bad choice.
Connie was crying which wasn't a new sight he'd seen Connie cry plenty of times, during their time as cadets (but who could blame him Shadis is terrifying anyone would at least tear up around him at some point in their lives), he remembers Connie crying silent tears for his mom turned Titan when he thought no one was looking, the night Sasha died Jean was confident the only reason the others wouldn't be able to hear Connie and Jean's heavy sobs was because everyone else was busy doing the same.
But not all those tears were bad. Connie and Sasha both have laughed themselves to tears multiple times, Jean usually being the the one to get stuck in between the two when that would happen, but this type of crying was different. It made Connie look younger somehow, and it reminded Jean of just how young the two of them were not even twenty years old and constantly risking their lives for hundreds of strangers.
"Con, what's wrong? You-you know I was just kidding right? Come on Connie. Tell me whats wrong." What wasn't wrong, his family got turned to Titans, Sasha's dead, Eren betrayed everyone and is trying to start the rumbling, Marly and Paradise civilizans hate the survey corps, everything was wrong.
"Do you not like the blanket? You know if my mom found out she'd drag you all through town by your ears." Connie laughed because how the hell could he not love this blanket, and how the hell could he not love Jean. Stupid, self-absorbed, mama's boy, Jean, who would risk it all for his friends.
"No. No, I love it. It's just- this blanket just smells like my village. How was she able to- how long did it take to make all of these." Connie aggressively waver his hand in the direction of the bag full of the rest of the blankets. "Mom had said it took her a couple of months to do. She said with all the money and souvenirs I've been sending her she was able to make them."
What a mama's boy. "Well let her know that the effort was 100% worth it, because these things are perfect."
And Connie meant it. He truly, truly meant it.
"Well that's good to hear. Now let's get going." Jean got off the bed, grabbed the bag, and offered a hand to Connie. "Going?" Connie grabbed Jean's hand allowing himself to be pulled up momentarily dropping the blanket. "Yeah we have to drop the rest of these off. I just thought it would be good for you to get out for a bit even if it's just to run chores and see friends. That's not to much right?"
Connie sat and stared at Jean's calloused and large hands that have been used to slay Titans and humans alike yet still seem so nice to hold. Reaching up to grab them was like a cup of water after a hot day. It was the first time in the past three days, 10 hours, thirty-seven minutes, and four teen seconds, that Connie felt like things might actually work in his favor even for just a little bit.
Based on the way everyone's faces look as they received their custom made blankets (Red for Mikasa, a pink looking futon with yellow cat like faces on it for Armin, Levi's was a dark shade of grey with two dark green stripes in the middle, Hange's was a shade of brown that reminded him of the coffee mom would drink after she adds milk.) They felt the same way.
The official day of Sasha's funeral was even more painful than Connie had imagined it to be. Sasha's family, what was left of the Levi squad, and Niccolo were gathered. Everyone there was crying minus Hange and Levi who were far to use to death by now.
Connie couldn't find it in himself to look at Sasha's body, everything was feeling all to real right now, the cold rain, the constant shuffling as people walked to and from Sasha's bady to give there final goodbyes and I love yous, the last person to walk uo being Jean since he had chose to stay by Connie's side through out the service.
The walk to Sasha's coffin felt to long and quiet, the gifts in Jean's hands felt like weights, but somehow just like that he was looking at Sasha for the first time in over three days. Sasha was beautiful. She wore her scouts uniform, the same one she wore to Historia's coronation, she held a bouquet of Sunflower, Lilac, Hyacinth and Gardenias, cerise of he family. Her old scout jacket folded by her feet from Mikasa, a recipe book of all the foods she liked from Armin, a metal of honor from Historia, a Purple hyacinth from Levi, and a Chrysanthemum from Hange.
Jean felt frozen yet hot at the same time when he went to pick up the first thing in his arms he thought it might as well have caught fire. His finger tip felt unbelievable warm and sweaty. Connie's gift was the first to gently be placed down. As silly as the gift looked upon first glance but Jean knew better, far better.
It was a picture of Connie and Sasha. Yes. A picture the two of them took it together when they had first landed in Marley. Sasha had been blurred out and unclear and Connie seemed to be focused on something outside of the cameras view.
When the both of them had came out the building holding their sides and out of breath Connie had explained that Sasha had sneezed the moment the photographer snapped the picture making her look like a quick blur of black and white.
The last item that Jean had to give was the blanket.
"Hey Sasha, my mom made you a blanket," He felt as if he could hear and see everything all at once. "She was planing og dropping them off herself, but we all came home early and I had went to see her," How was was it that even in death she looked so beautiful. "Sasha. I'm going to miss you." Jean probably would have started crying if he hadn’t already emptied himself outta his moms house.
No longer wanting to stall more than he already has Jean carefully lifted Sasha's head and layer the blanket under it. "Sasha, when you get to heaven do me one last favor and find Marco, he's going to be so exited to see you again."
Placing a sweet farewell kiss on Sasha's forehead Jean back away from the coffin and stood back at Connie's side.
The bedroom was cold, but luckily Connie's body has always run a little high so being under the covers with him was a nice contrast to everything else.
"Jean. Do you think Sasha will be okay by herself? I mean I know she's a strong person but still. What if she gets lost, or lonely without us?"
Connie's head was heavy on Jean's shoulder as they laid side by side by the fire place. It's been eight hours since Sasha's funeral had ended and Connie was taking it as well as you can after watching your other half get buried.
"I don't know Connie, but your right Sasha is a strong person and she'll be fine, just like I know you'll be fine too."
Connie looked up at Jean in obvious confusion. "What I mean Connie is that you're strong and something like this isn't enough to tear you down. You've lost your Mom, your village, your siblings, friends and comrades yet you still fight and that is absolutely amazing, Connie. You need to give yourself more credit for everything you do."
Connie was crying heavy and loud sobs on Jean's chest and Jean was more than willing to let Connie weep all the tears he had held in from the funeral onto his night shirt.
With Jean by his side, the remaining members of the Levi squad on his team, and his new brown and grey blanket wrapped around him Connie felt like things might just get better. Cause it was like Jean said Connie was a fighter and he'll continue to fight for his family, the Levi squad, Jean, and especially for Sasha.
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wdym jean and connie became titans huh if you know how i feel why would you say that like you put me in such an uncomfortable situation like you know i'm not happy you know i'm trying
From the kitchen, I listened to Jean talk on the phone with his mom. Since quarantine started, he’d gone from calling her every few weeks to calling her almost every day. It’d been over a year now since he’d flown home, and since then we’d gotten engaged, and we were waiting to tell her until we could see her in person. He was impatient, of course. He was always impatient, that didn’t surprise me. But he was also homesick, something that I had never witnessed in him in the five years we’d been together. He hadn’t liked growing up bi in the south, to say the least, and ever since moving to Chicago for school, he’d been much happier.
Granted, meeting me and us getting together probably had a lot to do with that.
On the stove, I stirred the Southern jambalaya I was making. When Jean introduced me to his mom a few years ago, his mom prepared this for him because it was a family recipe, and because she was the only person alive who could get it right and because it was Jean’s favorite. By the fifth or sixth visit to his childhood home, his mom had figured out we were pretty serious even if we hadn’t yet. During that visit, Jean happened to go to bed early one night, and I was comfortable enough to stay up with his mom without him.
“Come here, Connie,” she said to me, after the first snores from Jean’s childhood home rumbled down the hall.
I followed her into the kitchen where she pulled a notebook out from one of her cupboards. She flipped to the page she’d written the jambalaya recipe down on.
“Can you cook?” she asked.
“Uh, absolutely not,” I blurted.
She laughed warmly. “Well, this was the first meal my mom ever made for my dad. When I was your age, she taught me how to make it for Jean’s dad. Now I’m going to teach you how to make it for Jean.”
We spent the rest of the night cooking. I made frequent mistakes. I had never before chopped vegetables and I cut myself. My fingers burned from the peppers. I put too much thyme in and undercooked the rice. We had to throw the batch out, but his mom reassured me that she wasn’t expecting me to make it for Jean that night. She was expecting me to make it for him someday.
“Why someday?” I asked.
“Well, to put it bluntly, it will take you years to perfect it,” she said, and I got the distinct impression she was holding back that it might take me a couple more years than it had taken her, because she didn’t want to be cruel, which I was grateful for and aware of anyway. Then she added, “But also because, this is a family recipe. The only people who cook this meal are in my family. Do you understand?”
My eyes widened. “Mrs. Kirstein, I –”
“Shush. I know. You’re not ready. He’s not ready. But you will be, and when you are,” she said, lifting the notebook, “Here’s the recipe.”
“How will I know I’m ready?” I asked.
“When your relationship is seasoned enough,” she said, like that made complete sense. I was tempted to explain to her that I was not the brightest bulb, and that she needed to spell it out for me, but seeing my expression, she laughed and added, “And you’ll know when that is.”
It took until earlier today, when I saw Jean curled on the couch, burrowed into a blanket, and pouting because he missed home, to realize now was when that was.
Well, it took that, and a conversation I’d had with Sasha earlier this week. She was seeing someone again, and of course, filling me in with all the details. The dates, the gifts, the sex, etc. She was smitten. Heartsick. Gross, and I said so.
She scoffed. “Like you and Jean weren’t gross at first.”
I realized, abruptly, that she was right. It felt so long ago now, but when we first started dating, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Could barely stand to spend the day apart. When we were apart, I couldn’t stop talking about him with her. If I was alone, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Of course we were gross then. New love was like that. Fresh love, raw love, was like that. And while you were in it, that love felt like the deepest, truest, most meaningful love in existence.
But it wasn’t, not really. Love like that was insecure. It was naïve. Fragile. All the touching, all the talking, the thinking – it made up for a weak emotional connection that would take years to strengthen.
To season.
I grinned now, lifting the ladle from the Dutch oven and tasting the broth.
“Needs something,” I said, and glanced along the countertop scattered with various seasonings Jean likely had no idea we even owned, because I kept them way in the back of one of our cupboards, behind ingredients we were much more likely to use in our kitchen on an ordinary night like this one – ingredients like peanut butter and ketchup, for example – all so that Jean would never suspect I might have learned to make this meal in secret.
I reached for the salt and sprinkled more in. As I did so, I heard Jean say goodbye to his mom on the phone.
“Connie?” he called a second later, from the living room. “What’s that smell? I thought you were gonna make –”
And then he was stepping into the kitchen, and I spun to face him. I could see the recognition in his eyes as he inhaled. He tilted his head to catch sight of the stove.
“Is that –? How in the hell did you…?” But he didn’t finish. He walked up to me and placed one hand on my back, and with the other reached for the ladle so that he could sample it too. Immediately, he moaned.
“Oh my God, Connie,” he said, around another spoonful. “I love you. I love you more than I ever have.”
I snorted. Blushed. Looked away from him. I couldn’t stand to let him see what that meant to me.
“Your mom taught me,” I said.
“She did?” he said, lifting another scoop up, this time with some sliced andouille sausage. “When?” he asked, mouth full.
I shrugged. “Years ago.”
Jean shook his head. “I’m starting to think she’s not going to be surprised when we tell her we’re engaged.”
I laughed. “You know, I think you might be on to something.”
He put the ladle back in the Dutch oven and then pulled me into him by the waist.
“Thank you for this,” he said.
“I wanted to give you something from home,” I said.
“I am home,” he said. Then he leaned forward, and I stood on my toes – a gesture that we used to struggle to get right, used to fumble with, and was now as natural as breathing, borderline instinctual – so that we could kiss long and deep and thorough.
