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corner-stories · 2 months ago

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before the storm, after the flood (act 2)

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Post-Canon. Gardening. Borrowed Sweaters. Games of Chess. Collarbone Kisses. 19449 words. (ao3.) || (act 1.) || (act 3.) || (epilogue.)

Now.

The Second Walk.

As to be expected, the trek to Jean's cottage is accompanied by a view of the ocean, the dirt underneath her boots, and a breeze that plays with the ends of her hair. The walk feels longer this time, a feeling that is not helped by the sack currently slung over her shoulder.

It’s noon when she arrives at his little homestead. She is greeted by the same charmingly quaint cottage painted a lighter shade of grey, the same arid garden beds, and the same coastal sun warming the land.

Adjusting her hat to get a better view of the building, Mikasa stops in front of the porch and tries to spot the owner through the windows. When she doesn’t see a soul within the empty house, she adjusts the sack over her shoulder so that she's holding it by her side and starts making her way to the barn at the back.

The door of Jean's shack-turned-studio is propped open with a rock. As Mikasa gets close she spots a familiar furry blob resting inside the workspace, a creature lying on his back in a block of sunlight.

Soon Hugo opens his eyes and spots her on the grass. With haste he flops over and gets onto his four legs, shaking briefly before dashing out of the barn and onto the grass. His entire backside is wagging in a classic expression of unbridled canine joy, letting out high-pitched squeals of absolute delight as he nearly jumps up on her. The same beady brown eyes and pointy ears greet her like an old friend. Unable to hide her own smile, Mikasa sets her sack on the ground and kneels down to acknowledge the dog.

Hugo squeaks like the goofball he is and licks her face. In response, Mikasa showers him with all the pets and hugs that he deserves, happily running her hands through his short, dark brown fur.

“Yes, I missed you, too.”

After a minute of playing with the dog, Mikasa grabs the goods she had hauled all the way from the market and heads into Jean's studio.

The building itself is somewhere in between a shack by the sea and a small barn. It's taller than she last remembers, though saying it has a second storey would be generous. She guesses that like the cottage, the place had been halfway built before Jean came along and finished the job, turning the shambles of a building into a space where he could paint to his heart’s content. The wood doesn't look as new as the material of his actual home, but it seems just as sturdy.

As Mikasa steps in she realizes that she's never been in a painter's workspace before. The place meets her expectations of being some flavour of mess, with a paint-splattered workbench on her left and a collection of dirty aprons and rags hung to her right. Organized on a shelf are the tools of Jean's trade — wooden pallets that have yet to be cleaned, glass jars that have been rendered milky grey now holding clean brushes of every size, and various tubes of watercolour paint — some are fresh and unopened while others have been squeezed and compressed to utilize every last drop.

Despite the signs of life in every part of the studio, Mikasa has yet to find the artist himself. She can’t imagine that Jean simply left the door open and left Hugo alone in his workspace.

She looks around until she spots a canvas set up on an easel — his most current project, she guesses. On it is a mix of greens, blues, and yellows that create the image of a vibrant grass field underneath an endless sky. It's unfinished, but as she steps closer she spots a small reference photograph on the closest table, a print placed on top a stack of many. She steps closer to get a better look at the picture. On the new medium is a field of flowers on a sunny day and a castle in the distance far enough to blend with the clouds in the sky.

As she picks up the photograph, she notes that it's not a sight that she can recognize, so she assumes that it exists off the Island. She wonders what kind of people he manages to get commissions from and regrets not asking him more about his craft last night.

Soon Mikasa calls into the barn —

“Jean?”

“Huh?”

The voice comes from above. She turns around and looks up, spotting an area of the barn that’s elevated on the support beams, a structure that would usually hold bales of hay had the building been used for its original purpose. But instead of various blocks of dried straw, the loft now holds a variety of canvases, some are fresh and untouched while others are finished works left out to dry.

Napping on the floor of the loft is the artist himself. A meter or two above her, Jean is on his back and looking upwards, his eyes closed as he rubs his tired face. He looks exhausted despite the day being relatively young, perhaps a secondary effect of the work he does. He appears the same to how she left him yesterday — the same head of unkempt shoulder-length hair, the same battered trousers and boots, but his old sweater having been swapped for an even older collared shirt.

He takes a breath before sitting up and getting into a position where his legs dangle off the edge of the structure. Once his eyes settle on her, she can see the same kind of surprise he showed the day before, this time with a lot less gut-wrenching shock.

But still, everything in the way he stares implies that he didn’t expect to see her again.

“Welcome back, I guess?” Jean says, unsure of what to make about his old friend coming all this way again. “I thought you left.”

“I missed my train,” Mikasa explains.

He raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

“Well, I didn’t miss it exactly. I just… I didn’t go.”

“Oh...” Hunched forward, Jean keeps his hands clasped together on his lap, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “...and why’d you do that?”

Mikasa holds up the burlap sack and pulls out a single, tiny spud. “I got these for you.”

Jean begins to look even more perplexed. “You got me… potatoes?”

“They’re for your garden.”

“I thought you said it was shit.”

“I did, but…” She takes a breath, slips the potato back in the sack, and tries to fight the wave of embarrassment causing her chest to tighten. “...you could plant these there. Make it less shit.”

“Oh, uh… yeah, that’s a good idea.” His hand goes to his hair again, a habit of his that she’s beginning to get used to.

Jean looks behind him to the various paintings he’s set up to dry, then slips off the loft.

The drop is short, his well-worn boots hitting the studio floor with a distinctive thump. Undeterred by her presence, he walks past her and goes to his largest workbench, where he gathers up the stack of photographs she had briefly rifled through. As she watches him separate his main reference photo from the bundle, Mikasa swears she sees the view at Eren’s hill in the pile.

Jean crosses the space and puts the remaining stack on his shelf. “I’m a little busy though.”

Mikasa doesn’t hesitate to pull the sack back over her shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ll do it.”

She walks out of his little workshop and steps onto the grass. A beat passes before she hears Jean say —

“...well, that’s awfully nice of you.”

Her eyes fall upon the sight of the sea, once more taking in the way the beach looks under the sky — it’s only now when she realizes that she had missed it. As to be expected, Hugo is rolling around in the grass, but the second he sees her he scrambles onto his legs and dashes up to her. She scratches the spot between his ears before hearing the sound of whistling behind her.

“Hugo! Here, Buddy!”

With haste the dog rushes back to his master. When Mikasa turns around she sees Jean having stepped out of his workshop. On the grass in front of his studio he kneels to greet Hugo, running his hands through his dog’s fur before glancing up towards his visitor. The look of confusion and hesitation on his face seems to have dissipated. Now he appears more amused by her actions than anything else. He gives a friendly smile, a look that she returns.

But as accepting as Jean appears to be, she’s compelled to ask —

“You’re okay with this, right? Because if not I can leave and I can-”

Jean cuts her off. “It’s fine, Mikasa. Really.” He stands and scratches his head, squinting slightly in the sunlight. “I’m just uh… surprised you came back.”

Mikasa lets out a stiff chuckle. “I am, too, actually.”

Before she can say anything else she turns around and begins heading to the front of the cottage. Despite the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of Jean’s homestead filling her senses, she swears that she can hear him speak amongst the noise.

“It’s alright, Boy,” he tells Hugo. “She’s just sticking around.”

For a reason she doesn’t even know, his words make the smile on her face just a little bit wider.

…

Borrowing.

Jean gives Mikasa the tools to help her work, a hoe and shovel from the corner of his workshop, a bucket that’s seen better days, and a rusted spade that looks older than both of them combined. He even offers a pair of trousers from his laundry line that can stand to get dirty, which she accepts without hesitation. Though in hindsight she wishes she thought of something like that herself. The notion reminds her that some parts of her plan had not been entirely thought out.

Nonetheless, she changes from her skirt to his clothes in his cottage. When she emerges onto the porch and pulls the leather suspenders over her shoulders, she expects Jean to have disappeared into his workshop for the rest of the day. To surprise she finds him on the grass near the front of the cottage.

Jean is playing with Hugo by a tree in front of his home. He waves a stick in front of his dog’s face, then with all his might he throws it as far as he can and watches his faithful companion rush into the grass to retrieve it.

Jean turns her way and sees her adjusting her hair. As she can no longer wear it in a ponytail, she takes the ribbon off her sunhat and wears it like a headband to keep the strands out of her face. As she fastens the line of silk, she catches Jean’s eye and realizes that she’s starting to get used to the way he looks at her — whether he be slightly bewildered to see her again or elated that she’s here.

Despite her growing comfort with being near him again, she can't ignore the occasional nervous pang that fills her chest, a sensation that had plagued her for most of last night’s dinner. When it's not tempered by a jar of wine or the distraction of Hugo causing a mess, it’s hard to deny how being in his presence causes something to grasp her from within.

She’s not sure where it comes from or why the feelings are so sporadic. Is it because he's changed over the years? Or has she? Has enough time passed that the Mikasa Ackerman standing in front of him now is no longer the one from his memories?

Last night Mikasa had learned that she and Jean were not as far apart as she thought, despite the five years between now and then. Dinner had reminded her that he's still the man who she once knew, even with the physical changes. He still holds himself with a distinct willingness to care, a gentleness he obfuscates with his snark, a strength that can build houses and a sensitivity that paints masterpieces.

And he had even forgiven her for everything, having bestowed her a sense of absolution even if she doesn’t think she deserves it. Beyond his words, he delivers it through things like the casualness in how he speaks to her now, the fondness in his eyes, and even his willingness to be around her again.

Even the fleeting feeling that she's wasting her time is halted when she glances across the grass to see Jean looking at her so tenderly, a look that she can recall seeing across the dinner table now under a new light. Suddenly, her thoughts that maybe he’d prefer it if she left him alone for the rest of time are nowhere to be found.

Now more assured, Mikasa grabs one of the tools Jean had given her — the shovel — and steps off the porch. By that time Hugo has returned to his master's side with a stick in his jaws, which Jean takes before launching back towards the field.

After Hugo runs off, the affection in Jean’s eyes remains as he looks her way, something that makes Mikasa wonder why she had been riddled with doubts in the first place.

Soon Jean leaves Hugo with her and heads back into his studio, allowing Mikasa to finally get to work.

The beds of dirt prove to be as dry as a desert on the hottest day of the year. As she sifts through the soil little clouds of dust get thrown in the air. Even if she knows how to remedy the situation, she laments not being even more prepared to tackle the main problem. Then again, it's not like she had a pack mule to haul supplies all the way from town.

Hugo proves to be good company as she performs the chore. As he’s more suited to the role of a housepet than of a war dog, the canine opts to rest in a beam of sunlight on the porch while she works, something she absolutely does not mind. Every few minutes, Mikasa will allow herself a moment to admire the loaf napping in the sun.

To fix the issue of the arid dirt, Mikasa digs in the grass far away from the beach and gathers some soil with a bit more life. She takes it to the beds one bucket at a time, a time-consuming act that covers the once-clean trousers that Jean had lent in dirt. As she takes her time building a pile by the garden bed, her thoughts are occupied with whether she can cobble together a wheelbarrow from the junk inside of Jean’s workshop.

At one point of the task she’s tired, rubbing sweat off her forehead, and lamenting how she’s not as strong as she used to be. Barely a decade ago she had lived a life that required her to be at her peak and never anything less. Now she's here and stewing in the fact that even shifts at the Orphanage don't push her this hard.

Before she can get too wrapped up in her thoughts, she sees Jean stepping out of his studio. As he arrives at the front of his cottage she notices the newer bits of paint on his forearms, fingers, and shirt. There's even a little bit stuck in his hair. He wipes his hands with a rag as he approaches her, looking slightly more exhausted than before, but brightening up once he’s in her presence.

Mikasa is just beginning to dig at the beds as he gets close to her.

“You need a bath,” she tells him in place of a proper greeting.

Jean looks her up and down, something impudent coming to his eyes, then reaches towards her.

His movements are slow yet her heart skips a beat as his hand approaches her face. In another life she would have reacted to such a motion with her fist — but in this one she simply lets Jean’s knuckles caress her cheek and wonders if they’ve been in this position before.

Jean's hand hovers near her face before pulling back to show her a leaf pinched between his fingers.

“You’re one to talk,” he says with his own kind of snark.

Her beating heart continues to race. She prays he doesn’t notice the heat on her face as she rakes her fingers through her hair.

“Thanks,” she says when the only thing she finds in her bob is a very tiny twig.

“Want some coffee?” Jean quickly asks, a distraction she’s secretly thankful for. “I’m making.”

“Coffee sounds nice,” she accepts as she turns and refocuses on the garden beds. Looking away from him seems to be the only thing to quell the latest instance of her chest feeling restless and tight. “Thank you.”

…

Then.

In The Garden.

Every day the Ambassadors are given some kind of respite between peace talks. Most of the time it involves coffee in one of the many dining halls or tea in one of the many sitting rooms, but today fares differently. Instead of enjoying food and drink within the confines of the building, the group are given the privilege to stretch their legs and escape the four walls, something Jean thinks is motivated by the dreadful storm that had plagued Mitras last night.

Free from the tie around his neck, he sits against a tree in Historia’s garden, admiring just how quickly her housestaff managed to clear the branches and debris. Lying on the grass next to him is Klaus, a dog with black and white fur that the Queen has lovingly employed as a house pet and farm dog. The canine rests under a ray of sunlight, allowing the perfect angle for Jean to balance his sketchbook on his knee and draw Klaus with a stick of charcoal.

Scattered across the yard are the rest of his comrades. Sitting at a table are Reiner and Pieck, the latter having brought her chess set out for a rematch under the sun. At a bench by a bed of roses are Connie and Historia, who chat like old comrades instead of like a Queen and a royal subject. Underneath the shade of a different tree is Annie, who enjoys a glass of lemonade as Armin rests his head on her lap. Even the de facto leader of the Ambassadors needs time to nap as his lover caresses his hair.

As Jean shades the contrast in Klaus’s fur, he glances up at the yard to see the heir to the Paradisian throne treating the royal gardens like her personal playground. Princess Maria Valeria Constantina Frieda — or Val, as her mother insists she be called — kicks leather a ball across the grass and cries out in joy as it rolls to her playmate. Mikasa holds a handful of her skirt as she passes the ball back with a lot less force.

Mikasa looks to be in her element in the presence of a child, easily forgetting the worry of last night and embracing something more bright. Whether the smile on her pretty face be a front for the little Val or a reflection of her true feelings, Jean doesn’t know. What does know is how beautiful the sight of Mikasa playing with the Princess is, a memory he will forever associate with the presence of a bright, blue, endless sky.

Jean watches Val kick the ball towards the tree that shelters the Ambassador’s resident tiny blondes. It hits Armin’s leg and startles him awake. To spare the Princess the sight of an annoyed Annie and a groggy Armin, Mikasa gestures for Val to stay put and rushes off to grab the ball.

As Mikasa heads to the other tree, the Princess turns around and runs to Jean. He expects her to kneel in the grass and play with her royal dog, but instead she remains standing and tugs at his sleeve.

“Up! Up!” Val chirps. "Horsey!"

Jean chuckles but doesn’t resist. “Again, Your Highness?”

Val nods so fast that the ribbon in her golden hair almost goes undone. “Yes! Yes!”

In no position to resist a royal request, Jean heeds to her commands and stands. For very good reason he towers over the three-year-old. Leaning down, he takes little Val into his arms and lifts her onto him so she is sitting on her shoulders, her stubby feet hanging over his torso. Then like a powerful steed, Jean dashes across the garden with long-legged strides, happily parading the Princess around like it’s his only purpose in the world.

Jean has done this with the Princess before, as Historia was keen on letting her old comrades socialize with her daughter. Even though each and every one of them had a chance to lift the toddler, it seemed that Val had taken a liking to him the most. For what reason he doesn’t know, but in his years of life Jean has learned that some things in the world just cannot be understood. At the very least he knows that there’s something utterly heart-melting about the way Val looks at him, like a newborn puppy finally laying eyes on its loved ones. That in itself is enough to make him adhere to her every whim.

As he makes his rounds across the garden, Jean hears laughter filling the air. In the corner of his eye he can spot Pieck politely giggling at him after devastating Reiner in another round of chess. Even Queen Historia stops her conversation with Connie to chuckle at Jean being her daughter’s preferred horse.

When he finally stops to catch his breath, Jean is in front of the tree providing shade for Armin, Annie, and Mikasa. Still beaming brightly, Princess Val hangs onto Jean by his hair and waves to the trio with her free hand. Despite the tiny fingers clutching at him, Jean can’t hide his grin as he watches his friend’s reactions. Armin goes from disoriented to delighted in the span of a second, Annie hums, and the already serene expression on Mikasa’s face gets just a bit prettier.

Jean’s eyes linger on her a little longer than the others. To say that the sight of it all doesn’t make his heart race would be a complete lie.

…

Sketches of the Past.

At night Mikasa’s quarters are far more quiet. By candlelight Jean sits on the side of the mattress that he slept on last night, noticing how different the room feels when the roof is not being pelted by rain.

Mikasa sits with her back against the headboard and seems far less stressed than she did before. Having brought over his sketchbook as a conversation starter, Jean keeps his eyes on her as she slowly observes each page. As she looks over the most recent creation — that being of Klaus in the garden — he tries to gauge her reaction to his work, but as to be expected her eyes are still as steely as ever.

He doesn’t often show his art to people, and when he does it’s usually to ask the subjects of his drawing if he got their good side. There’s a whole section near the start of his sketchbook filled with Connie from different angles, as a year ago the Ambassadors boarded a ship for a week-long journey and Jean had no other way to pass the time.

Even when he’s not being shuffled around like a piece of cargo, sketching is Jean’s preferred way to stay busy. His drawings may never be as detailed as Armin’s fancy photographs, but there’s something about the sensation of marking a medium that keeps him sane, a calmness that comes with focusing on something in front of him and trying to replicate it on a page. The feeling of charcoal between his fingers will always trump that of a camera, no matter how much Armin raves about the clicky-ness of the shutter button or the crispness of the lens.

After admiring the sketch of Klaus for long enough, Mikasa flips the page and arrives at a drawing of a mountain — a large, snow-capped peak underneath a cloudless sky. Jean notices her eyes widening very slightly, as well as the subtle tilt of her head as she takes the image in.

“Where is this?”

“Hizuru.”

Mikasa meets his gaze. Immediately, he can sense the unease behind her dark eyes.

“... right.” She takes a moment to breathe and calm herself. “Kiyomi may have said something about you guys heading there.”

“Yeah.” Jean nods his head, mindlessly rubbing his feet against the silken sheets of the bed. “It was a while ago.”

“What was it like?”

“It was…”

Jean’s not sure where to start. A lot of the places he’s visited over the years begin to look the same, the sight of gargantuan footprints where civilization used to be blending into one. Camps of people still working together to tend to the survivors of the Rumbling, passing out any available food and providing shelter to those who need it. He remembers the sky above burning so bright and blue as a sinking feeling permeated his heart, a heavy reminder of how many lives were lost on the ground below his feet. A similar restlessness inflicts him during negotiations for peace, where the side of him that knows unity is worth fighting for is at war with the part of him that fears it's all for naught.

When he looks at Mikasa she’s still anticipating his answer, so Jean clenches his fist and tries to recall anything about Hizuru that doesn’t remind him of the reality he lives in.

He manages to remember the tree he sat at when he had some time to sketch, when he rested against the trunk and drew the mountain depicted on the page in front of her. At the moment of drawing the world around him felt calm, and at that time of year in Hizuru the trees that remained were slowly sprinkling small, pink petals from their branches. Jean can remember said petals collecting in both his hair, clothes, and the pages of his sketchbook, and how he was still dusting them off his shoes a week after leaving the land.

“...beautiful,” Jean soon tells her. He unclenches his fist and his hand goes to the sheets again, where he feels the material between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s left, at least.”

Sensing the dreary look now creeping back to Mikasa’s face, Jean tries to change the subject in any way he can.

“Do you talk to Kiyomi often?” he tries.

“Sometimes.”

“About what?”

“Usually about how I should visit Hizuru,” Mikasa answers. “And I always tell her that I have work.” She sighs, exasperated. “I don’t know why she keeps trying.”

With the weight of the initial subject matter off his shoulders, Jean chuckles.

“I think that’s why Kiyomi says that you should visit ,” he teases. He's tempted to nudge her playfully like he does with Connie and Armin, but decides against it. “I’m sure Queen Historia could get you some vacation time if you ask.”

Mikasa looks to be giving it a second's thought before internally deeming it a bad idea. “I guess,” she says before turning the page.

The next drawing she sees is one that makes Jean grin. Etched in lines of ink and coloured pencil is another dog, one with short yellow fur, a pair of pointed ears, a conical snout, and big beady eyes. He can't remember the exact name of the breed, but the elderly man who owned the dog said that it was native to Hizuru and a symbol of national pride.

“Check it out,” he tells her.

He can recall everything from the way the canine ran up to him as he sketched by the tree, to the way the owner rushed over before apologizing profusely. Apparently, after living in one of the survivor camps for so long the dog was dying to greet any visitors, a notion that apparently translated to trying to piss on said visitor’s shoe.

“That’s Yuzu,” Jean explains, the fondness evident in his voice. “He was a little shit, but he was fun.”

Mikasa brightens up considerably and Jean’s heart soars.

“I can tell,” she replies, amused.

She turns the page to find another filled with a variety of doodles, most of which are depicting Yuzu’s facial expressions — ranging from soft and appeased to energetic and excited.

“You really like dogs, don't you?” Mikasa remarks.

“They’re nice to be around,” Jean answers, shrugging. “Sometimes more than humans.”

“Ever thought of getting one?”

As appealing as it would be to have a constant companion by his side, the logistics of the idea makes Jean sigh.

“I would if I didn’t have to travel so much,” he admits. “But that's not gonna stop anytime soon.”

He's always had a soft spot for dog. Even as a child, Jean remembers being drawn to the strays that roamed the streets of Trost. His mother always advised him against it, but more than once he snuck out to feed bits of bread and cheese to a mutt known to frequent the district's alleyways. The feeling of said mutt happily eating from his palm was worth the inevitable lecture from his mother.

His little dream had slipped his mind once his life became more chaotic, and not just because Jean had become witness to canines bred to maim and mar and nothing else.

The concept of actually owning a pet had only re-entered his mind more recently, like when he lovingly drew little Yuzu into his book or spent the afternoon sketching a sunbathing Klaus.

“I could see you with a dog,” Mikasa admits, clearly in approval of the idea.

Jean smirks. “A big ol’ strong one?”

There is a beat before Mikasa shakes her head. “No… a tiny one. The kind that’s about…” She holds her hands in a way that resembles how one would hold a loaf of bread. “...this big? Maybe a fluffy one.”

Jean scoffs while Mikasa looks serious enough to tell him that she's not joking. He can picture it somewhat, attending peace talks with a little puffball in his arms or trailing after his feet.

“I’ll think about it,” he decides then and there.

It’s certainly not practical in his current position, but what does he gain from acting like it could never happen? Maybe for his own sake he could benefit from acknowledging that his life as an Ambassador, an existence distinguished by the tie around his neck and being shuffled around to every corner of the globe, won’t last forever. Even if he doesn’t know how it will end or where he’ll be when it does, what he does know is that he’ll have a whole life to live when everything is said and done.

The evening doesn’t carry on for much longer before Jean realizes that he's done his job. The thing he had set out to do — that being to check on an old friend and ensure that she won’t be haunted by anything tonight — had been completed. So like a gentleman he slips off his side of the mattress.

“I think we should call it a night,” he tells her. Now standing, he adjusts the unbuttoned shirt currently hanging from his torso.

Although something falters in her once placid face, Mikasa manages a nod. “Right, we should.”

She closes his sketchbook and hands it over to him, but Jean raises his hand up to refuse.

“You can hold onto that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” A casualness remains in his voice. “You can keep looking. Just give it back to me in the morning, sound good?”

Once more Mikasa nods and Jean returns the gesture back at her. He walks to her bedroom door, but looks over his shoulder to keep his eye on her for just a second longer.

“See you in the morning.”

Mikasa connects her gaze to his, holding a stronger sense of composure than she did not too long ago.

“See you, Jean.”

Jean leaves her quarters and shuts the door behind him. It’s only when he’s out of sight does he realize how tired he is. With a yawn he walks barefoot across the hallway, a space illuminated by nothing but the moonlight from the window.

He enters his room as the exhaustion of the day finally catches up to him. Rubbing his tired eyes, he promptly discards his shirt and slips under the sheets, utterly lacking the energy to do anything else. Despite being unused to material this plush, the smoothness of the silk against his bare chest is suddenly able to lull him to sleep. He closes his eyes and rests his face against the pillow, sighing in relief as he sinks into the mattress. Before he knows it slumber washes over him like high tide.

An hour later Jean hears a doorknob turning. Dazed and confused, he opens his eyes and looks in the direction of the sound. At this time of night the moonlight has gotten dimmer, and thus he can barely make out the sight of the door opening. The hinges creak as a familiar shape in a white nightgown slips into his room. She moves like a ghost in the dark as she closes his door and creeps towards his bed.

Jean goes still, his heart feeling tight in his chest. The sight of Mikasa traversing the floor of his quarters is soon followed by the feeling of her weight settling onto the other side of the mattress. Like the night before she faces away from him, bundled comfortably in the sheets. There’s only a little space between them, something that is occupied by sheets and blankets. He’s expecting her to say something, anything to make the circumstances a little more clear, but as he lies on the mattress with his eyes affixed to her nothing comes. The silence of the room drones on and on.

For his own sanity and comfort, Jean pulls the pillow out from underneath his head and places it between him and Mikasa. He hopes it will make her more comfortable, even if the nerves he’s looking to soothe are his own.

He’s tempted to speak up, to say something while he still can. But as the moments pass Jean’s eyelids begin to grow heavy. He breathes in and out, getting used to the unfamiliar sleeping position before greeting slumber once more.

…

In the morning Mikasa is gone, just like before, but unlike last time his heart feels less heavy as he embraces the day.

…

Now.

Prolonged Interlude.

Jean makes enough coffee for the both of them and serves it in ceramic mugs instead of his metal teacups. Just like before they sit on his front stoop so she can admire the view as the heat off the drink warms her fingers.

It’s only now when Mikasa realizes how tired she is. The chore had taken more out of her than she expected and she wonders if it’s because she lacks the proper tools to make things more efficient or if she’s no longer the soldier she once was. A distinct sense of ache stings her joints as she nurses her coffee.

While she rests Jean sits beside her, his back against one of the porch's supporting beams as he takes a break from painting. Hugo places his head on his master’s lap, happily accepting between-the-ear scratches as Jean talks about whatever’s on his mind. He ends up telling her the story of how he had gotten the furball in the first place, speaking so much that his own drink remains next to him, forgotten.

Two and a half years ago he was in the midst of finishing the half-built cottage just up the coast. During a visit to town to pick up an order of reasonably-priced lumber, he had retreated to the local watering hole to both rest and refuel. It was under the tavern lights that Jean overheard a conversation between Seb the Barkeep and a local man who made his living by breeding dogs.

Mere smalltalk between a Painter and a Breeder led to Jean learning of the man’s current dilemma. One of the dogs being trained for military work was faltering in the curriculum, proving to be far too docile for what was expected of the breed. The canine was barely a year old, but the Breeder already feared that it was not reaching the standards that the New Eldian Army imposed on their war dogs.

Despite being saddled with a medley of responsibilities, Jean — or rather, Jehan — asked the Breeder if he could meet the problem dog.

One thing led to another and now Hugo lives a quiet life by the sea, the biggest problem he’ll ever face being whether he’ll nap in the grass or in the lap of his beloved human.

The story makes Mikasa smile just before she takes the first sips of her coffee. She catches sight of Jean scratching Hugo between the ears, the fondness in his hazel eyes looking different in this proximity. The loving way he looks at his napping companion makes her heart feel warm, like a proud father to his child. There’s something assuring in knowing that Jean isn’t alone as he lives his new life — that of an isolated existence so far from what she ever thought he wanted. At least when he wakes up in the morning, pre-destined to a fate of being elbow deep in watercolour paint, he has someone to keep him company.

Jean looks up and the subtle upturn of his lips says it all. At this point she’s seen that look a dozen times last night, when the biggest thing between them was a dinner of seared scallops and jars of white wine. But unlike that evening, Mikasa feels bold enough to ignore her beating heart and call him out on it.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks, trying to keep a sense of levity to her voice.

Flustered, Jean looks down. “Sorry. It’s just… memories.”

Her heartbeat doesn’t slow. She takes a pull of her coffee before changing the subject to calm her nerves.

“Why do you go by Jehan? Aside from the… obvious reasons.”

“Because I needed something to cover my ass,” Jean answers, though it feels halfhearted. He finally reaches for his own mug and takes a sip. “And all artists use aliases, it’s a whole thing. It’s a small price to pay for all this.”

He doesn’t even need to gesture around him to tell her what he’s referring to. The ocean view, the wind that tousles his hair, or the cozy home that he had built with his bare hands.

“It’s a nice place, Jean. It really is.”

He looks away from her again, a blush creeping at his cheeks as the smile on his face gets just a bit wider.

“Thank you.”

Mikasa gets halfway through her coffee before Hugo opens his eyes. He lifts his little head off of his master’s thigh before hopping off the porch and onto the grass. Similar to before, he finds a spot underneath the sun to lie down and rest, a sight so adorable that it makes her nearly giggle.

Soon Jean is standing with his coffee in hand. He takes a longer pull as he begins to walk.

“I should get back to work,” he says before moving around his cottage again.

Mikasa decides to follow his example. As nice as the view is, she should end her prolonged interlude and continue the job she set out to do, even if she already knows that she’ll have to come back tomorrow.

But as she stands and finishes her last bits of coffee, she’s unable to take her eyes off Jean as he slowly walks to the back of his property, where he disappears into his studio once more.

…

Crabbing.

Gardening reminds Mikasa of when she was young, back when the worries in her world were a lot smaller. She has some memories of planting potatoes with her Mama, but like everything in her life she remembers the sensations a bit more vividly — like the cool soil against her fingers, the sun warming her hat, or the playful way her Papa laughed when she entered the house covered in dirt.

Things have changed over the years, yet the peace of mind that she associates with horticulture has stayed the same.

As of now Hugo is at her side, playing in the grass as she toils away in the arid garden beds. Every few shovels she’ll stop her chore to admire his cuteness or give him some much-deserved pets. It’s a good distraction from doing anything more productive, but makes her wonder how Jean gets anything done with such a cute blob around.

Soon she finishes prepping the beds, the lifeless soil having been replaced with something more fertile. She draws lines in the dirt with a shovel, then wonders if she should ask Jean if he has anything she can use for compost. It certainly can’t be hard to procure fish bones around these parts.

When she goes to the porch to retrieve the bag of potatoes, Hugo suddenly perks up. He stands, takes a second to shake the blades out of his fur, then zips past her and towards the side of the house.

Mikasa follows the dog and sees Jean exiting his workshop. Hugo goes to his master’s legs and receives some loving head pets as Jean keeps walking. Like a gentleman, Jean gives her a kindly nod before slipping into his home from the back entrance.

Mikasa returns to the porch and begins fishing through the potato sack in search of the smallest spuds. By now her hands are nearly stained brown, the soil having found its way onto her palms, fingers, and underneath her nails.

As the thought of scrubbing herself clean comes to mind, Jean walks out of his cottage, the dog slipping through the door soon after. Jean is still dressed in the same paint-stained shirt, ratty trousers, and leather boots that she swears are from their Scouting days. He is holding a steel cage the size of a basket, a bundle of thin rope, and two buckets — one is empty and the other is holding what appears to be inedible fish scraps.

“I’m going to have to come back tomorrow,” Mikasa tells him upfront.

Jean nods, unbothered. “Fine by me.”

He steps off the porch and onto the grass, where he is promptly joined by Hugo. As the dog plays around his legs, he turns to her.

“Wanna take a walk?”

“What for?”

“Dinner,” Jean says as he slings the bundle of rope over his shoulder. “Hope you like crab.”

Seeing no need to refuse, Mikasa nods.

The walk up the coast takes about twelve minutes. In that time Hugo prances around the beach like a deer in a dog's body. He very happily runs into the surf, rolls in the sand, then repeats the process over and over again.

The sight of it all brings a smile to Mikasa’s face, but every time she glances at Jean she is greeted to the eyes of an exasperated dog-owner who will inevitably have to clean a beach’s worth of sand from his couch later.

When Jean is not sighing at his dog’s antics, he fills the silences with another story.

He tells her of how he built the house. As of now he still doesn’t know exactly who attempted to build a cottage by the sea and abandoned it halfway, just that two-thirds of a home had been left to rot on the coast before Jean discovered it. It’s certainly not the strangest thing one can come across when drunkenly stumbling up the beach, a detail that Mikasa isn’t sure she needed to know but will now be trapped in her head moving forward.

Something about the remains of a dream had struck a chord with Jean, a notion that was possibly aided by the place only needing exterior elements and several coats of paint. Over the course of a few months he had spent days completing the cottage and nights recovering at the local inn, soothing his sore muscles in the bed and bath before doing it all over again. Lumber in this area isn’t exactly expensive, but he needed more than he expected to get the job done. It still pains him to think of how little savings he had left by the time he finished his new home.

When Jean wasn’t nursing bruised thumbs from wayward hammer swings, he was applying wood stain to the exterior of his home. When he wasn’t calling in favours to help install the windows, he was borrowing horses and carts to help haul everything over. To this day Jean still owes people for all that’s been lent to him, but he doesn’t mind.

Soon the roof became adorned with tiles, the porch had been freshly stained and sealed, and what was meant to be a shed in the back back had been transformed into a spot where Jean could perform his craft. As he explains how he built his studio with whatever materials he had left, Mikasa wonders if Jean ever considered a career in carpentry on top of painting.

After completing the cottage, Jean moved in and expected nothing more than a quiet life by the shore and the perpetual weight of a paintbrush in his hand. But barely a week passed before a handful of buyers began walking up to his door, as the formerly half-built home up the coast had suddenly become of interest to those looking for new property.

And evidently, Jean said no to all of them. Mikasa isn’t sure if it’s because the offers were too low, too high, or because his little corner of the world was never for sale in the first place. She can see it now — Jean still bandaging the nicks on his calloused hands as a well-dressed gentleman from Mitras tries to sweet-talk his way into purchasing a summer home, Jean being given a slip with the offer before shaking his head, and Jean being unbothered as yet another wealthy buyer leaves his property with their pride hurt.

Mikasa isn’t an expert in the art of real estate, yet her instincts tell her that the value of Jean’s cottage could easily replenish what he took out of his savings to finish it. But no amount of money could convince him that selling the place was favorable to actually living in it.

As the sight of a small dock on the coast comes to view, Mikasa thinks of all the answers and explanations Jean had thrust upon her and realizes that there’s still a lot that she doesn’t know.

As they move forward, a different thought keeps itself tucked in the back of her mind. Mikasa thinks of all the time Jean had spent between the port town and his would-be home, then wonders how truthful he was as he began to settle amongst the locals. Even with the peace accords being signed all those years ago, she knows that a piece of paper won’t change the public opinions on the “traitors.”

The fact that Jean managed to build a new life for himself at all should speak enough, but the reality of his current existence being so detached from the rest of the world speaks just a bit louder.

As she looks at him now with his scruffy beard, chin-length hair, and the ill-fitting shirt that hides the build of a former soldier, she gets the impression that the locals knew him as “Jehan” from the start.

Soon the two step on a dock that looks older than time itself, a structure that stretches farther into the sea than those she’s seen at lakes.

Jean brings her and Hugo to the very end, and at the edge of the sea he kneels and places his crabbing equipment down. She expects him to ask for help, even if it’s just to make her feel useful, but he instead avoids her gaze as he gets everything in order.

Mikasa has nothing to do but cross her arms and watch as he uses twine to tie old fish heads to the wiring of the ring cage. He takes said cage into his hand, stands, and tosses it forward. It flies in the air for a second before hitting the water and sinking underneath the surface, the only thing tethering it to him being the length of rope in his fist.

Minutes of silence pass after the trap disappears below the surface, giving Mikasa a chance to admire the ocean from a different angle. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get bored of the way the waves caress the sand and rocks, or how every once in a while a flock of seagulls will let out a cry as they soar underneath the endless sky.

When she refocuses on Jean she watches him work in fascination. She compares his task of crabbing to the few times she’s fished at the stream near her home, a process that’s not remotely as intricate and often accompanied by the trees of the forest.

Eventually Jean lifts the cage from the water and inside are three crabs that have been lured by the bait, crustaceans with reddish-brown shells. He is quick to grab them from the trap, toss them into a bucket, then throw the whole contraption back to the water. He repeats this process a few times and she continues to observe him, internally anticipating that he’ll ask her for a hand yet that moment never comes. She’s not sure how long they’ve been standing by the water by the time Jean has procured an entire bucket of shellfish.

“And that’s dinner,” he says, tossing the last two crabs into the metal container. He starts gathering the rest of his equipment into his arms.

For a second Mikasa catches sight of Hugo rushing across the dock and back towards the beach, where he hops onto the sand and begins rolling around.

“Do you do this often?” she asks, looking back to Jean.

“Yeah.” He starts wrangling the rope, little drops of water slipping down his fingers. “Gotta eat somehow.”

“Seems like a lot of effort.”

“So is walking all the way from town two days in a row,” Jean says without hesitating. His expression remains neutral as he stands and holds the bundled rope towards her. “Hold this for me?”

Mikasa feels her face go hot as she takes the rope.

“Thank you.”

He turns away with both the cage and buckets in hand, soon walking down the dock and towards the beach.

She follows him and they don’t talk on the way back to the cottage.

…

Then.

Chess and Confess.

Sleeping next to her the first time had been an accident, a byproduct of his intentions to make sure she felt safe on a stormy night. It’s something he never expected to happen again, yet the evening after had proved Jean wrong.

Her slipping into his room had been an unexpected occurrence, as was her climbing onto his mattress and sleeping next to him for a second time through her own choice. They didn't even speak about it in the morning, attending the usual group breakfast on opposite sides of the table. Jean didn’t mind and neither did she, as before either of them would know it they would be drawn to the same old boardrooms to partake in the same old meetings that are certainly taking their sweet time.

It’s only when Mikasa returns to his room the following night that Jean begins wondering if he should get used to this.

It doesn’t take long for them to fall into a routine, and by the time that they do the Paradisian Peace Talks have been going on for almost two weeks. As per usual he spends most of his waking hours at a table full of diplomats, politicians, and foreign dignitaries. His tie will often feel tight around his neck as he watches Armin lead their quest for peace, chipping in when necessary like the Ambassador he is.

Mikasa fares differently, often being present for one meeting a day, a fate that is much more merciful than his own and results in him not seeing her as often as he would like.

There’s a day where Jean is standing at a window in one of the palace’s sitting rooms, nursing some coffee between meetings as the other Ambassadors continue to chat behind him. More often than not he’ll catch her in the garden, watching fondly as little Val turns a woman worth a thousand soldiers into her playmate. And when Mikasa is not pushing the Crown Princess of Paradis on a swing or passing a ball across the grass, Jean sees her walking through the garden either alone or with company.

There’s one occasion where he sees Mikasa and Historia sharing a stroll amongst the roses, giving him the impression that she and the Queen had grown closer over the years.

There’s also an early morning where Jean is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes at the start of his meeting. Upon glancing out the nearest window he sees Mikasa walking on a path in the garden with Kiyomi. As Jean’s mind begins to wander in the midst of the discussion, he wonders if Kiyomi is continuing her attempts to get the last Azumabito on Paradis to visit Hizuru. He also wonders if his sketches of the snow-capped mountain and the cherry trees may have swayed Mikasa’s opinion on the matter.

Nights are more quiet and gives Jean more time to talk to her in private. Because even if a storm isn’t currently ravaging the land, something compels Jean to help get Mikasa’s mind off of whatever she’s running from.

He begins showing her the trinkets of his travels that he keeps in his suitcase. He shows her his sketchbook again, where she makes sure to take in every drawing and painting he’s made. He’ll mention the empty cigarette case on his nightstand, lamenting the lack of actual cigarettes inside while joking that import fees are for suckers. He also shows her the travel chess set he barely uses, a version of the game made with little pegs beneath the pieces that fit into the holes in the board. Granted, his set is not as nice as the one Pieck keeps on her for impromptu games, but Jean has spent his fair share of train or boat rides with the board between him and an opponent.

Unsurprisingly, he and Mikasa end up using the set on a table near the window. Their game is illuminated by candlelight, shrouding the chess pieces with a warm glow on a very quiet evening. He's not sure how late it is, but they're at a point in the game where most of her pawns are gone, both his rooks have been taken down, and one of her knights was sacrificed to protect the queen. In retaliation, Mikasa uses said queen to assure that the loss was not made in vain.

“I thought you played against Armin,” she says as she takes the black bishop off the board and onto her side of the table.

“I play against him,” Jean explains. “I don't win against him.” He moves one of his pawns with the confidence of a person who knows the game isn’t over yet. “But I’m better than you think,” he adds, smirking.

Mikasa eyes the board, then something mischievous lights up in her gaze. “Better than to do that?”

Jean looks at the board. His act of pushing a single piece forward had created the perfect path for her queen to take down his, a move that was shortsighted on his end but a perfect opportunity on hers. Despite knowing that the tides have turned, Jean doesn’t let it show. Instead he refuses to let his smugness falter and speaks like nothing is wrong.

“Why not?”

Mikasa is amused at his sudden waggishness. “Because I’ll kill her,” she says in a lighthearted, factly tone.

“What if I asked you not to?”

“I still would.”

“What if I asked nicely?”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”

To prove her point she moves her queen and uses it to take down his, causing Jean to sigh.

“You wound me,” he jests, but continues the game nonetheless. He moves one of his pawns forward — not because he thinks that doing so will put it in a favorable position, but to stall for time until another opportunity arises. “Who’d you learn to play with? Armin?”

“Usually,” Mikasa answers as she uses her queen to take down another one of his pawns. “But sometimes I’d play with…”

“...Eren?”

A strange kind of chill enters the air, a stark contrast to the candles casting warmth and light onto the old friends. Jean sees the friendly look on Mikasa’s face begin to fall, as if a ghost had suddenly entered the room.

“...that checks out,” Jean continues, unsure how to keep the conversation going. “That you’d play with… him, I mean.”

Sucking in an uneasy breath, he uses his sole knight to take down her queen, a game-changing move that doesn’t alter the stilted atmosphere between them.

“You can say his name in front of me.” Mikasa's voice is low and grave. “You should stop acting like you can’t.”

Jean looks up and sees something shimmering in her eyes. Half her face is illuminated by the flame on the wick and the other half is shrouded in shadows — warmth against cold, light against dark.

“Sorry, I just figured that… that it’d be a sensitive subject.” Jean reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, a habit he does when he needs to do something with his hands. “I… we can talk about something else.”

Mikasa nods and lets out a shuddery breath. “Yeah… yeah.”

In silence Jean and Mikasa nudge their pieces across the queenless board in a half-hearted attempt to end the match. Soon Jean gets his knight in a spot to take out Mikasa’s king, a fate that could be avoided if she simply moves the piece in question. But as he waits for her turn he sees the motivation to keep playing fade from her face.

The glistening in her eyes continues and she goes still. She lets out a wary huff before reaching for her king and laying it down on the board, defeated.

“You win.”

She doesn’t look him in the eye as she reaches up and brushes her hair out of her face, her breaths sounding more laboured as she struggles to maintain her composure.

Sensing the agitation on the other end of the table, Jean begins re-arranging the pieces of the board.

“Wanna play again?” he asks, then sighs when he realizes that it was a stupid question. “Actually uh… it’s late. Should probably head to bed.”

Mikasa nods as she leans her elbow on the edge of the table.

She rubs her eyes and doesn’t speak as Jean puts the game away. He stands from the table to bring everything to his open suitcase. After closing and tucking his luggage back underneath his bed, he straightens up again and looks to his old friend by the window.

She’s looking down, her hair covering her face as her hands rest on her knees. Her breaths are slow and methodical, air coming in and out of her like a mantra.

Jean takes one step forward, soon getting down on one knee to be at her level.

“You alright?”

She nods, still not looking him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He can’t help but wonder how often Mikasa will insist that everything is okay while everything about her screams the opposite.

Unable to take his eyes off her, something inside of him makes Jean reach forward, very gently touching his hand to hers. He doesn’t even dare to hold it, merely grazing her.

In the span of a second he can see realization slip back into her eyes, even if it’s slight, and their gazes meet.

Jean tries to pick his next words carefully, his mind rushing through a plethora of possibilities on what might be the right thing. He wants to say something that will ease her worries, something that will bring her comfort when she’s utterly despondent.

He sees the pain that she’s been experiencing for the last few years, left alone on the Island to fester in her own trauma — grappling with feelings for a dead man while compounded by a thousand other things at once. He can’t even fathom a fraction of what she had gone through over the past three years, where in a way the war never ended for her. Taking in the sight of her now, the culmination of all that time to sit and stew with her emotions, fills Jean with the guilt of having left her behind.

“He loved you, did you know that?” he decides to tell her. He finally finds it in himself to actually hold her hand. Her skin is soft against his.

Mikasa runs her thumb across the back of his hand before finally looking at him. Jean feels a strange sense of tightness in his head, a sensation that aches him right behind his eyes. But he ignores it to keep his attention on her and only her.

“I know,” Mikasa eventually says, a confirmation of what he already knew.

“Did you…” Jean starts, then stops himself short of asking something he knows the answer to. He breathes in and lets out an awkward, pained chuckle. “Sorry, stupid question.”

It had been obvious to everyone, even back in the day. Though sometimes it seemed that the only person it wasn’t the most apparent to was Eren himself, which Jean never understood.

What he does understand now is that Mikasa’s love was reciprocated, but it appeared that knowing such a thing made other occurrences more confusing.

To say Jean never thought about the harm Eren had put Mikasa through would be a lie. To say he never mused about the time Eren claimed to have hated her was absolutely untrue. On one hand Jean could acknowledge what was fabricated to achieve a certain end, but on the other the lingering misery it had caused was clear on Mikasa’s face.

“He should have never put you in this…” Jean begins, then loses his train of thought once Mikasa looks at him, her eyes shimmering and welling on the verge of tears.

From there he doesn’t know what else to say, getting the feeling that anything else could cause more harm than good.

“Nevermind.” He stands and runs both his hands through his hair, letting out a sigh of defeat. “I… I gotta sleep.”

Jean avoids her gaze as he turns around, the pain in his own head not subsiding. He blows out the candles, then in a dark room makes way to the bed. He sheds his shirt before slipping underneath the sheets. Positioning himself far from the window, he rests while facing away.

Time passes and he keeps expecting to hear something in the silence. The creak of her chair as she stands from the table, her footfalls as she steps across the floor, and the door opening — all so she can get far away from the guy who can barely comfort a friend in need without running his own stupid mouth.

Because after all he’s said, Jean can’t imagine a person who wouldn’t.

An unknown amount of minutes pass before Jean hears her stand, but to his surprise she doesn’t leave. Instead he feels the mattress below him shift in a familiar way. Mikasa gets underneath the blankets and lies on the other side of the bed, and though Jean can’t muster enough courage to turn around and sneak a glimpse at her, in his mind he imagines that she’s on her back, staring up at the ceiling like she’s looking at the stars.

The silence continues and Jean feels far from falling asleep. His stomach is still tied up in knots. He keeps his eyes closed and wonders when he’ll finally nod off.

But soon a soft, tender voice pierces the quietude.

“Jean?”

“Hm?”

Jean opens his eyes and shifts so that he’s on his back. When Mikasa comes into view he’s surprised to see that she's on her side and looking in his direction, focused on him and only him. For once they are no longer separated by a pile of pillows and blankets. Even in the dark he can see the fragility in her pretty eyes.

“I thought about running away with him…” she begins, her voice barely a whisper. “...back then.”

For lack of anything smarter to say, Jean nods. He can somewhat remember being told of this before, though he can’t remember from who. Maybe Armin or Sasha.

“It felt so perfect at the time, to leave this all behind…” Mikasa continues. Her hands are holding onto a handful of blanket, squeezing it tight as she tells her tale. A cautiousness enters her voice as she speaks. “...to live far away from all this… to live peacefully.”

Jean nods again, holding onto every word, yet he can’t stop himself from asking the first question on his mind.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if I actually did it,” Mikasa says like it’s something she’s been holding back for too long. “I would’ve deserted you all just to be with him.”

Jean tilts his head to the side, then adjusts himself on the bed so that he’s facing her. “If that was what you really wanted, then I couldn’t have stopped you.”

He speaks his truth, even though in his heart he knows it would have hurt to see her and Eren gone without a trace. One side of him acknowledges the weight of dissertation and how the Scouts would charge them accordingly. But another side of him can’t bear the thought of suddenly not seeing her every day.

“I know, but…” Mikasa starts, then pauses. Even in the dark Jean can see her brow furrowing in thought.

She speaks like every thought she’s had is selfish, like suddenly she’s the worst person in the world because she has a dream, an ambition, something to keep her moving forward. He’s tempted to tell her that he knows what that’s like, to hold onto a possibility that brings so much joy, even if one must ignore the reality of the world they’re currently in just to entertain a fleeting fantasy.

Mikasa finds it in herself to continue talking.

“...I’ve had a lot of time to think about how you guys would feel if we ran off and…” She takes in a breath before meeting his gaze, her voice becoming even quieter. “...I don’t know if I could live the rest of my life with you guys hating me.”

Something about the way she holds herself makes Jean ache. Partially hidden by the blankets, her hair falling over her face, her body slightly curled into a ball as she lies next to him on this very bed. The space between them makes him feel like they’re far apart.

“Mikasa, I could never hate you,” Jean says without any hesitation. The tension in his head finally starts to subside. In the dark he sees the heartbroken deliberation in her eyes finally disappearing.

“Good night,” he tells her, hoping that some of his words had brought her comfort, somehow.

“Good night,” she repeats back, the sweetness of her voice becoming the last thing on his mind before he finally falls asleep.

…

Now.

Cooking and Revelations.

Like before, Hugo spends the late afternoon napping in the main living space, picking a spot in front of the unlit fireplace. Like before, Jean cooks for her again, utilizing both what he has in his kitchen as well as what he gathered from the sea. And like before, the sound of the sea is ever-present within the walls of the cottage.

But in contrast to yesterday, Mikasa decides to get a little bit closer. With her arms crossed, she stands in the doorway of Jean's kitchen, watching him work with great interest. The space is not as small as she expects it to be, providing just enough space for a wood-burning stove, counter, and sink — but the tension Jean holds as he cooks makes her wonder if he's not used to having an extra body in the space.

Mikasa observes him standing at the sink, where he rinses each crab under a steady stream of freshwater. As he works she notices the chapped texture on his hands, a roughness that covers his palms and fingers like a layer of dust. She’s not sure if it’s a result of his craft or the errands he performs to keep himself fed, though perhaps it’s a mix of both.

Every once in a while Jean will check on the stockpot on the stove, where a metal basket is nestled within the boiling vessel, the water below just starting to simmer. In a bowl on the counter are whatever aromatics he has on hand — roughly-chopped cloves of garlic, one and a half lemons all sliced up, and several carrots that look too bruised to actually eat.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Mikasa asks, though a part of her can already anticipate his answer.

“You’re still my guest,” he reminds as he rinses off the last crab. He tosses it into another bowl on the counter before drying his hands on a tea towel.

He meets her gaze across the kitchen, the slightest hint of concern entering his eyes. “You alright?”

At first Mikasa doesn’t know what he’s referring to, but supposes that it might have something to do with the way she’s wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m cold.”

Jean nods and his worry persists. “You can borrow a sweater if you want. There should be one upstairs. In the closet.”

“Thank you.”

She turns around and leaves the kitchen, thinking about how she was planning on changing out of his dirty trousers anyways.

In the main space she grabs her skirt off the couch, then slips into the bathroom to dress herself in her usual clothes. After she changes and rinses all the dirt from her face, she exits and heads to the staircase. The steps creak underneath her feet as she ascends.

The second level of the cottage is far smaller than the first and only consists of Jean’s bedroom. It’s roomier than she expects, but in the corners she can see the slant of the rooftop that would inevitably force him to slouch. His bed is unmade but seems big enough for his frame, a carpet covers most of the floor, and between two windows is a dresser made of aged lumber.

She spots the open closet in the corner and goes to it. Every garment inside is clean and free of paint droplets, each one hung with absolute care. She even spots his old Ambassador suit hanging unused and untouched in the back. She only spends a few seconds searching for something warm before coming up empty-handed, unable to find something in the collection of dress shirts, trousers, and old leather belts.

Mikasa ends up spotting a sweater on Jean’s bed, the navy blue knitted pullover she had found him in yesterday. She doesn’t waste time and takes it, swiftly tugging it over her torso. When she remembers Hugo’s little wine spilling incident, she curiously sniffs the material. The scent of salt and sandalwood fills her senses and makes something flutter in her stomach. As she rolls up the sleeves so they don’t fall over her hands, her eyes wander and spot something peculiar on his bedside table.

A postcard lies near an unlit lantern. Mikasa stops herself short of reading the paragraph of text scribbled onto it, but notices the name written at the bottom. Evidently, Jean’s ex-paramour has very pretty handwriting. The sight of it all agitates the nervousness Mikasa has been trying to ignore and causes her to leave the bedroom a little faster than she expected.

When she descends the stairs and re-enters the kitchen, Jean is lowering a steamer basket full of crabs into the boiling stockpot. He spots her in the doorway and takes a second to look her up and down.

“You changed,” he notes, surprised.

“I was going to anyway.”

He nods as he places a lid on the plot, then crosses the kitchen and takes a knife off the counter. For a few moments all that fills the air is the scent of the steaming seafood and the sound of Jean chopping tiny shallots.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks after a lull of silence.

“Sure.”

“What was Loena like?”

Just like yesterday Jean stiffens, mainly in his shoulders, and he doesn’t look at her. When he glances up it’s to peruse the shelves above the counter, where a variety of jars filled with spices are organized in a neat row.

“She had red hair, she liked to dance, and she was sweet.” He looks down and begins mincing a handful of parsley. “You know, aside from that ‘lying-about-being-married’ thing.”

Mikasa notices the flippant way he speaks and leans against the doorframe. “Did she know who you really were?”

“I never got the chance to tell her. Why do you ask?”

“I saw one of her postcards in your room.”

Once more Jean stops what he’s doing. This time he turns and furrows his eyebrows when he looks at her. Even if he doesn’t appear angry, he seems alarmed.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she’s quick to explain. “I saw it on your nightstand. It was just there. I didn’t… I didn’t read it.”

Against all odds Jean scoffs, rolls his eyes, and smirks in a way that many would deem playful.

“Thought you’d have more class than that, Mikasa.” He looks back to his cutting board and resumes his task.

Once she’s out of his sight Mikasa takes in a breath to recompose herself.

As she watches him cook, she can't help but imagine an even clearer image of Jean’s past tryst.

In her mind she sees Loena with a smile so bright it rivals the sun, standing an entire head below Jean as they dance the night away in some sweaty tavern, her hair moving like fire with every twirl. Mikasa sees the flagons of ale they consume over the evening and the kisses they share in moments of bliss. She sees the smile on Jean’s face as he connects with a person for what could be the first time in forever. She sees the frills in Loena’s dress swaying in the wind as she walks hand-in-hand through the town with her new lover. She sees Jean happily nuzzling Loena’s neck. She sees Loena kissing the scar on Jean’s collarbone. She sees the hands that now handle paint brushes and ring cages caressing the face of another.

For a relationship technically built on lies, Mikasa sees the two being happy together, even if for a little while. Fortunately, she stops herself short from imagining what the two had gotten up to in the walls of this very cottage.

“I hope you treated her well,” she says to keep the conversation going.

“I like to think I did,” Jean says as he crosses the space in the kitchen. “But I don’t think it would’ve lasted.”

“Because of the whole ‘married’ thing?”

“No,” he starts, and suddenly a strange kind of heaviness enters his voice. He looks at her and holds eye contact for a few agonizing seconds, his expression serious and unmoving. “Because a week before we broke up she said that every time I looked at her, she kept getting the feeling that I was thinking of someone else.”

His words hang in the air, accompanied by the sound of the simmering pot and the familiar backdrop of the ocean waves outside. Jean goes back to cooking like nothing is wrong, tossing the bowl of aromatics into the steamer basket on top of the crabs.

It’s in his nature to be blunt and to say what needs to be said, even if it hurts or pricks at her skin. His habit had never been rooted in a desire for cruelty, but a desire for truth — yet that doesn’t stop her face from going warm. She feels exposed, edgy, something that makes her wish he hadn’t spoken to her so brusquely.

Thankfully, Hugo wanders into the kitchen before Mikasa can think of the next thing to say. She sees Jean glance towards his dog and sigh.

He rubs his tired face before carrying on like nothing strange happened.

“Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

…

Then.

The Morning After.

Jean wakes and expects to see what he’s been witnessing for the last few days — an empty bed, a quiet room, and the sun shining through the windows. But in the morning after the heartache, his expectations are only partially met.

Because after Jean opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling thinking about how tired he is, he promptly notices the unfamiliar weight now resting on his chest.

He adjusts himself and is greeted to the sight of Mikasa sleeping on top of him, her head pressed against his torso like she’s always belonged there. Her breathing is quiet, slow, and serene, her pretty face remaining shrouded by her hair.

Jean takes a moment to wonder if this is really happening. He thinks of all the circumstances that had led them here, the hours of time they've spent in each other's presence all culminating in this. It still doesn't feel real, not even like a dream.

Panic fills him as he realizes that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He raises them up slightly and they hover over her head.

Soon he plants one hand on her shoulder and the other on her head, expecting her to flinch at his touch yet she doesn’t. Very gently moves one of the locks covering her face, nudging it with his finger until it’s behind her ear. He does it again, then again, then once more before Mikasa starts to stir.

She opens her eyes very slightly and Jean's heart skips a beat. Deep down he feels that he's being caught doing something he shouldn’t — because despite the closeness and confession they have shared in the last few hours alone, a part of him knows that she probably only sees him as a friend. The knots forming in his stomach only get tighter.

But Mikasa manages to surprise Jean again. She doesn’t move, not even to shift and look him in the eye. Instead she remains she is, closing her eyes and getting comfortable with the way her body entangles with his and how her head rests perfectly atop his beating heart. Underneath the sheets her knee is slotted between his legs, keeping her close to him in a way he never imagined.

Jean still has no idea what to do, but he remains where he is — where he holds an old friend, plays with the ends of her beautiful hair, and inevitably falls asleep for just a little bit longer.

…

Now

The Time Between Letters.

The dinner Jean makes consists of steamed crabs and more white wine served in glass jars. Like before they dine on opposite sides of the table while his trusty gramophone in the corner plays a song above the ocean waves. It’s later in the day, meaning that the world outside the windows casts orange light into the home, something that makes Jean’s eyes look a little bit warmer when it hits him at the right angle.

It’s been a while since she's had crab and she’s sure spends less time eating and more time digging around the husks for the best bites of meat. When Jean’s not politely laughing at her inability to dissect a cooked crustacean, he tells her more stories. And when he pauses and takes a moment to dig into the crevices of the shell, she thinks back to their conversation in the kitchen.

The persistent visions she has of him and Loena, that being of them smiling in each other’s arms and walking through the port hand-in-hand, are now tainted by Jean’s revelation.

The reality that things were not as joyous as they seemed creates a sense of agitation within her. On one hand she truly did want Jean to be happy, to have someone to adore and kiss and accompany him in his new life, to have a partner to appreciate him from the start. But on the other hand, a strange sense of alleviation fills her once she concedes to the reality that Jean and Loena wouldn’t have lasted anyways, and not for reasons strictly related to Jean becoming to plaything of a bored housewife.

And in the midst of the two wolves inside of her is a third feeling, one begging the question of whether it’s morally okay to be relieved that Jean’s last relationship didn’t work out. It’s certainly not the first time that her gut instinct is to deem herself a bad person for even thinking such things, no questions asked, and it certainly won’t be the last time.

At least she finds comfort in Jean’s stories. The sound of his husky voice continues to grace her ears like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Jean explains that he still keeps up with the Ambassadors despite everyone living in different parts of the world, even if the time between letters is long and arduous.

All Mikasa knows is that Armin is living with Annie in some kind of seaside abode on the mainland and that Pieck is back with her father, kindly playing caretaker if it will bring her father joy in the time he has left. The whereabouts of the others, however, are a bit of a mystery. She’s surprised to hear that Reiner and Connie have been living together ever since the group went their separate ways — though unlike the other ex-Ambassadors they don’t stay in one place for too long, opting to continue traveling the world and see where their curiosity can take them.

Last Jean heard they were living in some commune up north, a place so isolated that it’s a day’s walk to the nearest post office and back. The fact that Connie and Reiner are alive and happy is all Jean really needs, but that doesn’t make the literal months between letters any easier.

As Jean speaks Mikasa can’t help but notice the life in his eyes, the ease of existence that comes with the new air between them. It’s barely been a day since she learned he had returned to the Island but she can already feel herself getting used to him again.

By the time they’ve both had their fill of steamed crab, the sun outside is halfway below the horizon. The sight is so pretty that Jean asks Mikasa if she would like to finish her wine on the back porch to better appreciate it, an offer she gladly accepts.

Behind the cottage are empty laundry lines, a delectable view of the ocean at twilight, and a lone wooden chair on the porch. Like a good host Jean offers her the only seat and Mikasa doesn’t argue.

Once she sits she expects Jean to join her, but to her mild confusion he slips into his cottage again. For a few moments she is left alone to sip her jar of wine and let Hugo curl up by her feet. When Jean returns he is bearing a handful of letters and postcards, which are similar to the one she had seen near his bed except the names signed on the bottom are ones she recognizes.

Jean encourages her to read the messages from their old friends, confident in the words being as much of a saving grace for her as they are for him. While she peruses the letters he sits on the stoop in front of her, his bare feet rubbing against the grass of his backyard. At this angle the rays of the setting sun hit his hair with a warm glow, enveloping him in light as he sips on his wine.

As the waves continue to crash against the land and churn clouds of seafoam onto the sand, Mikasa reads the letters and postcards. The first she sees is from Armin and Annie, but mostly Armin if the neat handwriting is any indication. It has been sent from the mainland town that they currently reside in, one close to the sea much like Jean's little arrangement, except Mikasa assumes that they didn’t need to obfuscate their true identities in search of a peaceful life. Armin's paragraph is brief and talks of the alleyway cat Annie insisted they take in, a stray that was looking for a home and found it in the couple living by the shore. They've named the cat “Captain Archibald” and Armin promises to send a photograph as soon as he can.

The next letter is from Connie and is dated from two years ago. True to Jean’s word, he and Reiner have been living far from the reaches of humanity, so much so that Connie is already apologizing to Jean for taking so much time between messages. The farmwork he and Reiner perform at their commune keeps them more busy than they’d like. As bittersweet as it is to see the distance between the brothers in every way but blood, Mikasa can practically hear the reverence in Connie's voice as she reads his scribbly penmanship. Whatever bond they had formed since they were young had survived the years of war, a life as Ambassadors, and the oceans between them now.

The final message Mikasa reads is from Pieck, consisting of a very succinct paragraph written on the back of a postcard with the photo of an old lighthouse. She gives an update on her father's health and how at the very least he will have his daughter with him for his final years. Pieck notes that the stress of the situation is giving her the first taste of grey hairs. On one hand, to be able to age should be considered a gift, as she’s been blessed with a second lease on her once-shortened life. But on the other hand, Pieck is far from ready to start calling herself a silver fox. The message ends with Pieck commenting on how tacky it is for Armin and Annie to have named their alleyway cat “Archibald,” of all things, causing Mikasa to curtly snort and wonder if Pieck had the guts to tell the couple themselves.

After Mikasa puts Pieck's postcard down, she notices a photograph in the pile of letters she placed on the chair's armrest. Curiously, she takes it between her fingers and holds it to the light. On the medium is a clear image of a cat on a wall by a rocky sea, a place that doesn’t seem like it exists on Paradis. She's been sent a few pictures of Archie before, but this one is in colour and gives a more vivid look at the cat’s fur than she’s ever gotten. The orange strands burn like fire against the horizon.

When Mikasa flips the photo around she sees the words “Captain Archibald Arlert-Leonhardt, reporting for duty!” written in handwriting so messy that it cannot possibly be Armin's.

The sight of Archie framed in front of the ocean brings a smile to Mikasa’s face.

“They really love this cat, don't they?”

“They do, indeed,” Jean agrees. He’s shifted a bit on the porch, now resting his back against a supporting beam and sitting with his knees pulled close to his chest, a casual position made amusing by his longer limbs. He laughs before eyeing Hugo asleep at her feet, the canine having rolled over to rest on his back at some point.

“Can't relate though,” Jean says. He reaches over to scratch his loyal companion’s belly. “I still prefer dogs, but don't tell ‘em I said that.”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.”

She takes the jar of wine placed on the chair’s armrest and takes the last few sips. As it slips down her throat she can feel the ever-present warmth in her chest intensifying.

“One more of these and you'll have to carry me back to town,” she jokes.

Jean smirks. “Is that an invitation?”

Mikasa almost chokes on her wine, then something in her heart clenches and her instincts tell her it’s not entirely due to the alcohol.

“I’m kidding,” he quickly assures, though the initial unease in her nerves has yet to fade away.

Jean stands from his spot on the porch and collects her empty jar. He finishes what remains of own drink before heading towards the door, making sure to avoid her gaze.

“I'll get you some water.”

…

Back at the Inn.

It’s far into the evening when Mikasa returns to the inn, where she kicks off her dusty boots and makes good use of the bathtub in her room.

She heats up the water and fills the vessel, promptly shedding her clothes and stepping in. The warmth that envelops her immediately soothes her tired muscles, a process that makes her sigh as she lies against the back of the tub.

She scrubs at the grime on her skin, cleans the dirt from underneath her fingernails, and washes her hair. It’s only now when she notices the way her feet tingle, which she’s not sure is from the walk to the cottage, her work in the garden, or a mix of both. As she remembers that her plans at Jean’s homestead have yet to be completed, she wonders how much her joints will pain her once she’s finally done.

Somehow, the thought of having to walk all the way back tomorrow brings a smile to her face.

…

Then.

Visits.

Arielle Kirschtein is invited to the palace two weeks into the Paradisian Peace Talks. She is accompanied by Nora Springer and a handful of the Queen’s royal guards, an unfortunate necessity made to protect the loved ones of the Ambassadors. Three hours in one of Historia’s sitting rooms is far from what Jean expected when he and Connie requested time with their families, but it’s all they can receive given the circumstances.

Jean tries to make use of the time they have, as little as it is. In the afternoon he stands in a room at the palace’s west wing. Once his mother steps in he lets out a sigh of relief. She looks the same since the last he saw her — a head shorter than he is, a round face, and a pair of hazel eyes that are much softer than his. Jean wastes no time in stepping across the room and pulling her into a hug.

Arielle rests her chin on her son’s shoulder as she revels in his embrace, a sensation that Jean hadn’t realized he missed until now.

Once mother and son pull apart she immediately falls into her usual habits. With an affectionate voice, Arielle puts her hands on his cheeks and mentions that he’s gotten taller, that his beige Ambassador suit fits him strangely, then asks if he’s been eating properly as of late. Her usual motherly pestering brings a smile to his face and fills Jean with a kind of levity he hadn’t felt since he first arrived at the palace.

With Connie and his mother occupying the neighbouring room, Jean and Arielle sit on the couch as they catch up. They are served tea and biscuits as they talk, wherein Jean tells his mother of his adventures abroad and she listens to his every word. He speaks of how the Ambassadors continue to be shipped around like luggage and thrust to every corner of the world. He explains that on some days they are moved so quickly that the only caveat to it all is the sight of the sea outside a ship’s porthole. There are even days where it’s a relief to not have to get a full-night’s sleep in a moving vehicle.

On the other end of things, Arielle tells her son of what life in Trost has been like for the last three years. Jean anticipates her explaining what the Jaegerists must be doing with their level of control, but his mother surprises him by speaking of other matters. She talks about Nora Springer visiting often, where they will not do much but drink tea and awkwardly skirt around any uncomfortable topic. Any instance of Arielle asking how Nora's adjusting to things post-Titanization tends to be answered with a nod, a hum, then a very abrupt change in subject to avoid dwelling on things for too long. Talking about the weather seems to be Nora’s go-to.

Eventually, Arielle tells Jean about how she’s been seeing someone for the last few months, a topic that makes Jean roll his eyes yet he still tries to hold himself in a way that says, “Yes, mother, I hear you.”

A man named Ulrich has moved down the street, having relocated from Karanes to Trost to start a new life. He’s as old as she is, came to the district with the skillset of a blacksmith, and is evidently unbothered by his girlfriend's son being a traitor to the Island.

The reality of his mother dating doesn’t bother Jean as much as he expected. Ultimately, his reaction is neutral. As he listens to his mother’s recollection of Ulrich taking her for a walk near the mountains, he finds it in himself to be happy for her. There is something assuring about knowing his mother isn’t living a life constricted by his actions, that despite everything happening on the Island she’s making connections somehow, whether it be through Nora Springer’s awkward weather chats or with the kindly blacksmith just down the road.

Mother and son continue to drink tea, nibble on freshly baked biscuits, and chat to their heart’s content, then before either of them know it their three hours are up.

Ever the gentleman, Jean remains by his mother’s side as she is escorted through Historia’s palace by a pair of guards. At this point in the stay, walking through the opulent hallways reminds him less of the cushy existence he had dreamed of a lifetime ago and more of a prison. To be unable to leave these very walls without the risk of a Jaegerist exacting their revenge is a heavy burden to hold, and to an extent he can’t imagine what it’s like for his mother to exist while sharing the name of a traitor.

But he believes in Historia’s ability to keep her and Nora Springer safe, he has faith in the powers that be to ensure protection to those who need it.

Jean walks out to the palace courtyard with his mother by his side, the sun shining bright above their heads. Ahead of them is a carriage that Connie is helping Nora into.

“Promise me that you’ll write more, Jean,” Arielle tells her son when they’re a few steps away from her ride.

Jean shrugs and stops walking to face his mother. “That depends, what’ll happen if I don’t?”

When Arielle reaches for his ear and pretends to pinch it, a playful gesture she’s done since he was young, Jean flinches with a smile on his face.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” He squirms out of her grasp and lets out a laugh. “I will, Ma, I promise.”

“Are you sure you can’t find a way to Trost after this?” asks Arielle in a hopeful voice.

With a sigh he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. After this we’re actually needed on the mainland again.”

Arielle looks perplexed. “So soon? For the love of Sina's ass-crack, they really won’t give you a break, won’t they?” She huffs. “What a shame, I really did want you to meet Ulrich.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet someday,” Jean says, though deep down he knows that his words may not hold their weight. He puts his hands in his pockets as his face falls. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Arielle repeats, pouting, then reaches over to plant her palm on her son’s cheeks. “And don’t make that face, Jean, he’s a nice man.”

Jean rolls his eyes as he taps his mother’s hand away from him. “Yeah, I get that, I just… I just didn’t think this topic would come up.”

“It’s not exactly an easy thing for a mother to tell her son, but I’m glad you know,” Arielle admits. “Shame you can’t come home at all — Mrs. Scheer did say her daughter was single…”

As amusing as it is for his mother to set him up with the neighbour’s daughter, Jean can only chuckle and shake his head. “Not possible, Ma. Not for now, at least.”

As with everything regarding her son’s crazy life, Arielle seems to understand. “I do hope it will be one day.”

“You and I both,” Jean agrees. “Life’s a bit complicated right now. But if that changes you’ll be the first to know.”

From there on mother and son share a hug, Arielle’s arms wrapping tight around him for a blissful few seconds. When they break apart Jean takes her hand and leads her over to the carriage as planned. When she steps in she sits across from Nora Springer, who’s heartbreak is evident in the eyes she shares with her son. Leaving him for a second time cannot possibly be easy.

Jean gets a final look at his mother in the moment between her settling into the ride and the footman shutting the door. Jean and Connie then step back and watch as the horse-drawn carriage moves around the palace’s courtyard, soon heading towards the shiny gates and driving off the property. They stare until the vehicle turns into a speck amongst the horizon and disappears.

On instinct, Jean looks to Connie to gauge his state. For once his beloved friend is not locked in a constant state of melancholy, a rare sight on its own. The light in Connie’s eyes makes Jean reach over and put his arm around his old friend, pulling him close so their shoulders bump.

“Feeling good, Connie?”

Connie turns to him, still looking elated from the visit but unamused at his friend’s antics. “Yes, Dad. ”

He pulls away and Jean laughs, pleasantly entertained. Connie walks forward, rolling his eyes and adjusting his tie as he heads towards the palace. Jean follows, adjusting his hair so it remains pompously slicked over his head. While he moves his eyes wander around the building’s exterior, where he inspects things like the ornate balconies, the row of symmetrically-trimmed potted plants near the entrance, and the various windows that line the building.

One window in particular catches his attention, a pane in the corner where Jean sees someone standing behind the glass. Even from where he stands he can recognize the figure, a sight that tickles him once he realizes who it is.

Mikasa stands in a room on the palace’s third floor. While he can’t recall the purpose of said room, it’s apparently an excellent spot to eavesdrop on all the ongoings in the courtyard.

Despite the distance between them, Jean sees her flinch from her stillstate once she realizes that she’s been caught staring. With all the grace of a frightened doe, the girl who had rested in his arms just that morning scurries from the window.

Once she’s gone he lets out a laugh and wonders just how long she had been looking at him.

…

2ND PASS COMPLETE

Scars and Cigarettes.

In the evening Jean bathes in a tub full of sumptuous soaps and scents. Despite the elation he had felt after reuniting with his mother after three whole years, the feeling of relief had left the second he re-entered the boardroom. The stress of another cycle of meetings and negotiations goes down the drain with the bathwater.

Dripping wet, he steps out of the tub and dries off with a towel, appreciating the floral scent now wafting throughout the air. The amenities of a Queen differ greatly from what he’s been provided during his travels, most of which start and end with a frigid shower and a bar of soap. In the palace things are different — the suds feel unbelievably luxurious against his skin, the hot water soothes every ache in his muscles, and the provided lotions smell of shea butter and marula oil.

After Jean dries his hair, he wipes the fog off the mirror and gets a glimpse of his reflection. It’s at this time of the month that his facial hair is starting to veer away from stubble and into the territory of a short beard, a sight that is fitting for a grizzled sea captain but not at all for an Ambassador of peace. As he rubs lotion into his skin, he wonders if he has time to shave before hearing a knock at his door.

“Just a second!” he calls out just as he finishes his task and leaves the bathroom.

Jean drops his towel and steps into the bedroom. He puts on the bottoms of his sleepwear before grabbing the top off the corner of his bed. He pulls the latter garment over his shoulders and lets it remain unbuttoned as he heads towards the door.

When he opens said door he is greeted by a face he’s seen a thousand times, yet it is not the one he has come to expect at this point of the evening.

“What do you want, Pieck?” Jean asks in lieu of a proper greeting.

His comrade, travel companion, and occasional source of irritation stands in the hallway. Pieck Finger is cloaked in a silk robe that goes far below her knees. Her hair is neatly brushed and tied back. The smile on her face feels uncharacteristically bright at this time of night. It’s her usual way of holding herself, but over time Jean has learned that such an expression has a fifty-percent chance of being genuine or is simply a way to obfuscate her true intentions. Lucky for him, it’s probably the former at this hour.

“I got you a gift,” Pieck announces in her regular half-dry, half-chipper way of speaking. From behind her back she pulls out a small rectangular box and holds it out to him.

The label tells Jean what the box contains — cigarettes, and the good kind to boot. He takes the pack into his hands and is impressed to find that it’s unopened.

“Shit, who’d you snag these from?”

“One of the diplomats from the Mid-East,” Pieck explains, shrugging. She begins playing with the sash of her robe. “He tried to sneak them around his wife but to no avail. It’s a whole thing.”

“And he gave these to you?”

“Technically his wife did after she confiscated them,” Pieck corrects, chuckling. “Anyways, I figured you’d be desperate after finishing your last stick, so enjoy the gift.”

Jean rolls his eyes and slips the pack into his shirt pocket. “You sure you don’t want one?”

Pieck scrunches her nose. “No thanks, I’m too smart for that.”

Before either of them can say anything else, they are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Jean looks forward and Pieck turns around. They are both greeted to the sight of Mikasa standing on the other side of the hallway. From where he is Jean can see a distinct agitation entering her eyes when she sees he’s not alone. Her hand is still on the doorknob and he notices that she’s holding it tight.

“Hey,” Jean starts, breaking the tension in the hallway.

“Hey…” Mikasa manages, eyeing him and then Pieck. “...am I interrupting something?”

The ever-astute Pieck Finger looks over to Jean. As to be expected, it only takes a few seconds for her to read both of them like a book. The confused expression on her face turns into a knowing look. He’s seen this face before, as she wore it when she realized exactly what was going on between Armin and Annie, or when she figured out what Jean was really doing whenever he needed to “step out for some air.”

She also seems to know exactly what this looks like from Mikasa’s perspective, a situation that is not remotely helped by Jean’s unbuttoned shirt or her silk robe.

Despite circumstances, Jean can see the playfulness tinged in Pieck’s smile as they share a brief look. His stomach clenches as he becomes overwhelmed by the urge to crawl under a rock forever or throw himself out of the nearest window. Or maybe both.

Relief washes over him once Pieck looks back to Mikasa.

“Not at all! I was just leaving,” she insists, slipping her hands into her robe pockets. An sense of informality enters her composure. She steps out from the space between them and faces the two.

“I’m gonna go… bother Armin and Annie,” Pieck ends up saying, giving Mikasa a rather cheeky grin as she walks off. “Maybe they won’t kick me out of their room this time. Nightie-night!”

She gives a cheery wave before making her way down the hallway and disappearing into the palace.

Staring at the floor, it takes Jean a second to glance towards Mikasa again. His heart is still beating fast, but at least the need to curl into a ball and start rocking back and forth is starting to dissipate.

Mikasa still looks on edge, but manages to speak first.

“I didn’t know you two were close.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Close friends?”

“Just friends.”

Another beat follows and the air around them starts to feel heavy.

“...do you still wanna come in?” Jean tries, stepping back slightly and holding the door open.

Mikasa nods and walks to him. Her shoulder brushes his as she enters his room. In the brief moment that his face is obscured from hers Jean finally lets out the sigh he’s been holding in.

When he closes the door and turns around, he sees Mikasa standing in his room like she always does. She’s wearing her same old nightdress, the white one that flows behind her as she walks. As beautiful as she always is, looking at her now doesn’t quell the turmoil inside of him. It’s strange that an occurrence he’s grown so used to still has the ability to make him tense, but at least he’s getting better at hiding it. His first instinct is to take the pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and hold it up to her.

“Do you want one?”

She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

Jean hums before opening the box and walking to his desk. Instead of lighting up he simply takes his cigarette case and fills it with the newfound bounty.

“How was your mother?” she asks.

“She’s good,” Jean starts, then briefly thinks of a way to summarize the visit that isn’t utterly boring. “She’s surviving, thriving, and seeing some guy named Ulrich, apparently.” He can’t stop his tone from sounding just a little bit caustic.

Mikasa tilts her head to the side. “You don’t sound happy for her.”

“No, I am, it’s just… I never thought that her dating would ever… come up," Jean explains. He sighs, but manages a smile for Mikasa’s sake. “You should’ve come down to see her. She’d like you.”

“Why so?”

“Because you’re…” Jean begins, but stops himself short of saying what’s on the tip of his tongue. He looks away from Mikasa while words like ‘kind’ or ‘caring’ or ‘the strongest person I know’ dance in his head.

“...she just would,” he ends up saying instead.

Judging by the look on her face Mikasa seems inclined to believe him.

To distract himself, Jean finishes filling his case with cigarettes. He expects to make good use of it later, undoubtedly during the day when he finds a moment to himself, but for now he steps over to the closet and pulls out his Ambassador uniform, which has been neatly placed on a hanger. He slips the case into his jacket pocket, keenly aware that Mikasa’s eyes are on him the whole time.

Before he can say anything else she takes a step forward until she is standing beside him. He turns to her and notices that she’s looking at his torso — that in itself is enough to make the nervous pang within him intensify. She reaches up and moves a part of his unbuttoned shirt aside, just enough to expose a section of his upper chest.

Jean knows exactly what she’s looking at and is surprised that she’s only noticed it now.

“What happened here?” she asks, running her finger over the scar on his collarbone.

“Bar fight,” Jean answers without missing a beat. “It was a while ago though. Just kinda happened.”

“Who started it?”

“Connie,” Jean says nonchalantly. “I was just back-up.”

The incident is so far behind him now that all he can recall was how stupid the whole thing was.

The fight had been at some tavern in a town at the base of a mountain. Jean had walked in expecting to find Connie waiting for him with a friendly smile and a pitcher of ale. Instead he found his best friend currently engaged in a fist fight against a drunk patron who had the gall to make fun of his hair. Things had escalated at such an alarming rate that Jean had barely any time to grab Connie by the collar and pull him back, something that had unfortunately left him open to an unlucky attack. Though in terms of what injuries he could’ve sustained after being lunged at with a broken bottle, Jean had certainly gotten off easy. He didn’t even need stitches once the fight was broken up.

The only remnant of the night is now etched on his skin, a mark that will slowly fade with time but for now lies atop the right side of his collarbone.

“Sounds like something that would happen,” Mikasa says.

Jean chuckles. “Connie getting into bar fights?”

“No, you having his back.”

Jean fights the urge to blush and averts her gaze. “You’re giving me too much credit.” He steps back slightly and approaches the bed. “I’m beat, I gotta sleep.”

He hears her hum in agreement as he sheds his shirt and turns off the lights. Moonlight fills the bedroom as Jean slips under the sheets. Being freshly bathed, the blankets feel softer against his skin, something that helps him relax as his head settles on the pillow.

As per the last few nights, the sound of Mikasa’s gentle footfalls is followed by the feeling of the mattress shifting. With open eyes he sees her bundled in blankets and lying across from him. She looks to be at peace and once more Jean realizes just how much he prefers to see her this way.

In the faint light he is drawn to the scar underneath her right eye, a remnant of the past that is far more faded than his. At this distance he notices that it’s not as deep as he remembers it to be. He had never known her to cover it, but wonders if she’s ever been compelled to.

Jean’s musings are soon interrupted when he sees her reaching out to him. Her fingers touch his collarbone once more and he fights the urge to shudder.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little bit.”

She glances up to meet his eyes — for a moment their gazes remain connected as she runs her thumb across his scar. Mikasa focuses on the mark again, then slowly she moves across the mattress to close the distance between them. Something inside Jean clenches when she feels her bare feet grazing his shins, the warmth underneath the blankets feeling like heaven. Then before he knows it she presses a sweet kiss to his collarbone.

The kiss lasts barely a second and in that span of time he goes still. When she pulls away his eyes are wide and he becomes acutely aware of the positions of their bodies — both are on their sides, both are close like they were that morning, and both are existing in each other’s atmosphere like they’ve always belonged there.

And Jean is still tempted to pinch himself to see if this is all real.

Despite his heart hammering hard against his ribcage, Jean reaches to her and touches his palm to the back of her head. Emboldened by their proximity, he sucks in a nervous breath before finding the courage to run his fingers through her hair again. Like before Mikasa doesn’t move. She lets him touch her before looking up again, unambiguously aware of what he’s doing. Her eyes look nearly black in this light.

Jean’s not sure how much time passes before Mikasa surprises him again. She shifts a bit and her lips touch his.

On instinct Jean closes his eyes and reciprocates as gently as he can. The kiss, if he can even call it that, lasts a little longer than he expects.

After a few seconds it’s done. She pulls away and he opens his eyes. There’s only an inch between them now, their noses nearly brushing. From where he is Jean tries to read her expression. He sees the curiosity in her shimmering eyes, then gets the feeling that she’s testing him, experimenting with a gesture to see what feels right and what doesn’t.

Under different circumstances Jean would let her continue. Perhaps a past version of himself would let her play with him all night, no questions asked. But who he is now isn’t entirely comfortable with the idea.

He needs a part of this to be real, even just a little bit. So very gently Jean touches the back of her head again and pulls her towards him. The space between them closes again, his lips meeting hers with just a little more intent.

Kissing Mikasa the first time had made him tense, but the second time fares differently. The second time feels sweeter, quieter, more gentle. As Jean feels her reciprocate his affections against his lips, the pressure that had been plaguing his heart is suddenly gone — in its place is some kind of warmth, something that eases every worry inside of him. He deepens the kiss slightly, tilting his head to the side so he can try a different angle, holding her closer to him than he ever has.

He feels her arms snaking around his torso, an act that is clumsy and unprepared. Soon her hands are running across his shoulders, a movement that is done with enough fervor and desire that Jean realizes she wanted to do this — she wanted to kiss him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to be close to him. And for what reasons he may never know, but for now that’s not what matters.

What does matter is that she’s kissing him back. His hands move and play with her hair, his thumb running across the scar on her cheek. He feels her shift on the bed and soon he’s on his back. She moves until she’s on top of him, their kiss remaining unbroken as she straddles his hips, a gesture that’s more brazen than he anticipates. Her hair drapes around them like a veil, their teeth clashing for a brief second as she continues to taste him, to test him.

And Jean enjoys every second of it, letting her hover over him as much as she wants. The shock of getting to kiss her still hasn’t worn off.

Deep down a part of him is expecting this to abruptly end, like all things in life that are too good to be true. He anticipates the moment where she will suddenly pull away, deem the last few nights as a huge mistake, and to walk away and leave him in the shambles of a friendship he once adored.

But that moment never comes.

Instead she keeps kissing him and he keeps kissing her back. It only ends for real once she falls asleep in his arms again.

#jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #jeankasa #jeanmika #mama kirschtein #snk #seaside cottage au #pieck finger #post-canon #post-rumbling #hugo the dog

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