#jeankasasummerweekend

She wasn't necessarily wrong, either. He dipped in and out of town, sometimes with little bags of souvenirs for them and for his mother; he wouldn't say it was a relief to be without her, but there were comforts in being left to himself. The chance to explore, the things he could tell her when he got back, the rope braid bracelet he could show her form the morning's shopping. And the comfort returned twofold when he found her on the shore, sprawled out on a towel with a book in her hands and a large straw hat on her head.

"I heard there's going to be a bonfire tonight," she said, tugging at the hem of her swim dress and lowering her sunglasses to look at him. "Do you want to go?"

"Do you?" he asked, and then, as a joke, "You can't read, though. It'll be too dark, and your book might catch fire--"

"I won't." Her fingers curled around the pages, and she pushed her sunglasses back up. "Let's go."

---

That's how they end up here, still wet from an evening swim, with a towel around each of them and the flames flickering in their eyes. Paper plates laden with barbecue chicken and potato salad balance on their knees amid the chatter of the party, and Mikasa huddles close to him with her hair curled ad clinging to her cheeks and her fingers tapping against his bracelet. "Tomorrow," she promises, plucking the straw hat from the sand and placing it on his head. "We'll spend the day together."

Jean answers with a soft laugh and an arm around her shoulders, watching the light of the fire lick at their skin while she eats. "Still new to you?"

"Hm?" Her mouth is full, but she still dignifies him with a look.

"The whole 'being with someone' thing," he explains, threading shaky fingers through her hair. "It's still new to me, too. We'll... figure things out? Together?" They'll find a balance, somehow, between being alone and being together, once they get back to the normal schedule of things.

This time, when Mikasa answers, she hums and slackens against him. He barely catches it, but under her breath she says, "I'd like that." And they eat in relative silence, with their toes in the sand and a water bottle between them to keep their hands clean. Occasionally she says something about her book, or he says something about the shops, how he'll take her tomorrow before they have to leave, and she speaks a little louder, but only so he can hear.

"I have something for you," he tells her once their plates are empty and creased to resist the wind. Before she can answer, he's rummaging through one of the small plastic bags from the morning, smiling at the gentle quirk of her lips. He pulls out a simple hemp necklace, with polished cowrie shells arranged in the shape of a flower, and a dark red stone in the center, and he can't help but bite his lip before he speaks again. "I thought of you when I saw it, so I couldn't... not buy it."

At first she doesn't say anything, just stares at him and the necklace in his hand in turns; he starts to think he might have done something wrong until she turns his back to him, pushes her hair aside and lets the towel pool at her waist, and murmurs, "Put it on me."

There's a sort of intimacy in their silence that leaves him fuller than the food when he fastens the necklace on, when his fingers accidentally brush against the nape of her neck, and the novelty of it all makes them both shudder. She reaches back to clutch his hand in her own, and with a clumsy sort of turn she's looking at him again, with the cowrie-shell flower settled in the hollow of her throat, as though it was always meant to be there.

The question of whether she can get the wrinkles out is the last thing on her mind when she drops to her knees and coaxes the blanket from his grasp. "What's the matter?" she asks, slipping into the spaces between his fingers and smoothing the knot in his brow. Maybe she shouldn't have to, but she'll pay him the courtesy anyway, let him speak for himself. "When did you get home?"

Jean opens his eyes slowly, blinks a couple of times before he registers that she's even there. "Don't bother," he mumbles, tugging the blanket back around him. "I'll be fine. Go... make some tea or something. Change out of those clothes."

"Is it only a lie if it's the other way around?" she asks with a tilt of the head, and then she's slinking under the blanket with him. Their feet poke out from underneath, his bony and bare, hers still in nylon knee-highs, and it takes some slips of the hands and a couple of jolts at the flashes of lightning before she's settled under his arm, cheek pressed against his chest. "You never told me you were afraid of thunder."

"And you never told me you leave hair in the brush," he shoots back with his gaze trained on the floor, "but you learn more once you start living together, don't you." And then, after a pause, "Tell me about your day."

Her fingers find his again, brushing against the hair on the back of his hand before they drum against the spaces between his knuckles. He mumbles that they're cold, they're always cold, and she can't help but laugh under her breath, the kind he always says made him fall in love with her in the first place. "I'll tell you about my day if you tell me why you're scared."

He sighs. "S'dumb."

"I won't think it's dumb."

"You don't think anything's dumb."

"I think you are when you wear striped polos and plaid shorts."

Jean makes a face, then jumps at the next clap of thunder. He stills against the wall, and she reminds him to brace himself when he sees the lightning. "I...  my mom went to the grocery store one night, right. I think I was eight? And a thunderstorm started out of nowhere, except the power went out."

"And you didn't know how to turn it back on." She presses gently, with her arm around his waist, and busies herself with the rope braid bracelet tied around his wrist--a souvenir from their first weekend together.

"Nope." His knuckles go white, and he jumps a little less at the next flash of lightning.

Mikasa quirks her lips. "And you were scared of the dark."

"I told you it was dumb."

If they listen close enough, they can fill the spaces of silence with the hard pitter-patter of the rain against the glass, and the click-clack of Mikasa putting two and two together even after they've made four. And then she's rummaging through her purse, fishing out her phone and a set of earbuds, leaning back against the bookcase for a dual jack and another set. Wordlessly, she hands him a pair and plugs them both in, flicks through to a song, easygoing and odd-metered, and teaches him how to shut it all out. Fingers dance along skin and wires, catch on fabric and jawlines and stubble, tap out the gentle one-two-three beat against their thighs and the backs of their hands. They speak through touches and softened looks, because to speak is to let in the outside unwanted. She’ll tell him about her day later, when the duvet is smooth and the only remnants of the rain is the smell of the wet asphalt.

.

Summer

.

He hated summer.

He hated summer with burning passion.

Jean was an artist, not an iguana. Who on earth would like to lay down in the hot sticky sand with noisy people around them? Yes, he hated summer and for further clarification, he had repeated his whole life the same statement, still, for six days in a row, he dragged his friends to the beach. Sweating and complaining about sunburns, he sheltered himself under a gigantic umbrella with his sketchbook and his favorite black marker.

Marco and Connie watched him with a hopeless expression.

“Talk to her.”

“I have no idea what are you talking about it.”

But he had a perfect idea. Her as in the face he had drawn for six days since he found her. Her as in the mind-blowing lifeguard who happened to be his eternal crush.

“Common Jean, you are toasted for her,” Connie said with almost frustration. Same way he had told him since they were five that she liked her.

“This can’t be a simple coincidence, Jean, this is fate. Man up and talked to her.” Marco took the sketchbook from his hands.

They repeated the same over and over. Talk to her? He wanted, yet, he couldn’t. Jean doubted she remembered him anyway, and their complaints didn’t help his mood, so he decided to swim instead.

What could possibly go wrong?

He remembered little… he swam, or tried to swim, then, he was sinking fast and water flowed through the back of his throat; his heart hammered in his chest and Jean panicked, moving frantically arms and legs.

Did he scream for help?

“I got you.”

A strong embrace pulled him and he saw the sunlight while his aching-for-air lungs breathed, and someone dragged him to the beach. Perhaps he died and an angel came for him; Jean reached his arm, touching her face and mumble-jumbled some sort of declaration. His friends couldn’t believe him; the guy almost drowned and still, he was grinning.

When he awoke, Jean found himself in a fresh place.

“Hey sleepy boy, do you feel better?”

“Mikasa?”

Mikasa!

“Good to see you remember me,” she said while finishing typing on the computer. “Rest a little, the Doc says you’re okay, but you knocked your head and swallowed water. I’ll be back when my shift ends.”

She walked out the door and left.

Connie and Marco were there, a strange and awkward expression all over their faces; the entire time she spoke, they smirked like morons. They explained to him everything, how he acted like an idiot swimming next to the rocks and bumped his head. Mikasa saved him. Marco smiled with relief and Connie mocked him, “Man, we told you to talk to her, not to put this whole damsel in distress act. But, dude, duuude! She’s badass and so cool.”

They left, telling him they would come back as soon as possible. And as Jean laid there, shame, relief, and expectation filled him.

She saved me… Mikasa must believe I’m an idiot too.

He covered his head with a pillow, screaming in frustration. The nurse looked at him and rolled her eyes.

Mikasa returned as promised and she got a message from Marco, asking her—or begging for a more accurate word—to wait for them in Jean’s company. Jean didn’t know if the request annoyed her or not; the only-in-his-dreams future Mrs. Kirschstein never showed a wide range of expressions.

He looked and felt much better, and they waited outside, near to the parking lot. People waived her and two guys stared at him with angry expressions. They chatted about her summer job and his art classes until she got a call and moved out of his sight.

“Marco said he’s sorry but they’re coming a bit late,” she told him as soon as she came back.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I don't have plans, so it's okay.” She sat next to him, offering him a Dr. Pepper.

Damn, she’s perfect.

He needed to act cool for once and winging-it for better or worst. He owed big time to Marco for this unique opportunity; the best wing-bro on earth.

“And…" He paused, trying to keep calm. "... is your boyfriend cool with you babysitting me?”

“If you wanna ask if I have a boyfriend, ask it,” she said as an answer and her eyes seemed almost amused.

Shit.

Few people stayed that late in the beach and his heart ran fast, his hands trembled and his stomach struggled with his nervousness. Mikasa Ackerman was his personal goddess. Jean had dreamed with her his whole life.

The first drawing he ever made was of her face, and his mom still had that stupid paper on the fridge. A four-years old Jean believed with all his might that the little girl—with the red scarf—in the park was the most beautiful person alive. He had never stopped thinking that, even if they never talked, or hanging out, or being friends. Even if she ignored his existence and unwavering love.

Morphy hated his guts and Eren, his crush’s brother became his rival and they had fought over the stupidest things since he remembered. Nonetheless and animosity aside, Jean waited—hoping, to be honest—that if they got along he could have a chance with her. He tried to be Eren’s friend, but Mikasa… well, she played in a different league, and no mattered what, she was out of his reach. She seemed nice enough, polite enough and oblivious about his feelings.

Most of the time he thought he had his way with words; he was a cocky and sarcastic guy, never afraid of spit out his mind. However, when this particular girl appeared, he was speechless. Worse than that, he had an atrocious awkwardness around her; self-consciousness was the worst thing he could feel. His friends used to mock him when Mikasa walked in front of him, daring him to talk to her and ask her out. Countless of times he tried, hard, but never succeed.

Every boyfriend she had, every guy asking her out, stabbed his heart like a knife; but he didn’t talk to her, he couldn’t.

The Prom night she wore a suit—not a dress—and she looked devilishly hot as hell fire. Jean dreamed with her dazzling hair, falling over a fit and sensual jacket, her long and toned legs in a skinny trouser, and a silky shirt with too many bottoms opened. He stumbled and almost fell the minute his eyes found her exquisite existence. But she had company; his eyes didn’t miss her hand and her fingers intertwined with some dude’s the whole night. Love showed all over her face and she smiled at the other guy with dreamy eyes and complicity.

It broke his heart, and Jean ended in the rooftop with his friends and their best efforts to make him smile.

When they went to college he believed he’d never seen her again. Every university wanted her, and her stupid boyfriend studied in a college far, far away.

Yet, there she was: blood and—smokin’ hot—flesh. They didn’t attend the same college, but they lived in the same city. And for Sina’s sake and Jean Kirschtein preposterous luck, Mikasa Ackerman worked as a city lifeguard, scratch that, she was the stunning and perfect lifeguard who saved his dork ass. He wished for a second his rescue would have been more dramatic, and his dream woman would have given him CPR.

He stared at her, too caught in her eyes. Mikasa offered him a warm smile and took a more comfy position, lifting her head to see the sky.

“So… do you have?” He asked.

“Do I have what?”

He cleared his throat and spilled out what he needed to know, “A boyfriend, I mean.”

“No,” she answered and sighed.

There was definitely something off. Maybe he gained his knowledge on Mikasa Ackerman in some stalker-alike fashion and not first handed, but the girl he loved never had looked unsettled.

“What about that guy? The short… the college dude you dated.” He talked too much or not at all, however, he was doomed.

Her darker eyes traveled slowly to his face.

Is she amused? Please be amused and not pissed.

“Do I wanna know how you know about Le…" She interrupted her question, changing the words,"... about my ex?”

Ex? Fuck yeah!

“Didn’t everyone at school know? Not quite often the student council's president goes to the prom with a guy with a murderous glare.” Less often the unbearably attractive student council's president kissed the murderous guy in front of the principal, but those thoughts were just for him.

Did she laugh? Holy mother of Sina! What a gorgeous laugh.

“We broke up months ago. It was hard but we live so far from each other. When I was in high school we had this arrangement; he came to visit and everything worked perfectly for a while. But, it’s so complicated now; he’s in grad school and has no time for me.” She looked at him as if she wondered why she told him personal stuff. “Sorry, it’s not your problem.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” He said and she watched him in silence and nodded.

Fuck! Did she smile again?

“Anyway, a few months ago, we had plans and his stupid adviser asked him some even more stupid assignment. I don’t know, we had a huge fight, and I ended it.”

“Did you get angry with him because he had to work?" Jean asked to no one, was more like his brain trying to understand her. "Is that even a reason? Common, it’s not like he cheated on you. Sorry but that’s just stupid…”

Shit! Shit!

Did I say? To her? To Mikasa Ackerman? Wait a minute… Fuck!! Did I just tell Mikasa, she should still be with her ex?

Fuck! Fuck!

Fuck-My-Life! Do something! Choke with the soda or pretend you’re sleep-talking. Tell her you are having a seizure because your brain had severe damage from the drowning.  Yeah, that's it, oxygen deprivation.

Sina, please just kill me.

Talk! Jean, Do something.

“Mikasa, I’m sorry, it’s not my place.” He finally found the words.

Jean thought there was a chance he fell out from his crib too many times when he was a baby. There wasn’t another explanation for his obtuseness.

“It’s okay. You are right,” Mikasa said and her face kept her always on stoic expression. He couldn’t read her.

She stood up, offering him her hand.

“Wanna come?”

Jean remained in silence too afraid to talk.

“I’m hungry and your friends aren’t coming. We need something to eat, my treat,” she spoke with a tenuous smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad Jean. You’re really straight forward and I kinda like it. Too bad we never talked back in school,” she tilted her head and the sunlight made her hair shone. I guess we can fix that if you want.”

Mikasa held his hand.

“A lot!" He exclaimed with energy and she laughed, "I mean, please… no… ah, yeah… Sorry, it’d be nice.”

He had read about perfect moments and watched them in movies, he even drew few, yet, Jean never imagined he'd have one. Still, she walked next to him, holding his hand while dusk enveloped them and a soft breeze played with her hair.

“You saved my life, I should treat you.”

“If you wanna take me on a proper date, you can ask.”

“Can I…?” No words came to his throat, but she turned her face and smiled. A beautiful smile just for him.

“I would like that,” Mikasa said, raising her eyebrow.

Did she say?

Her hand pulled him softly, “Jean, stop blushing and walk.”