#also theres lots of pebbles and the sidewalk has bumps

[bat-luun]

trying to decide what rollerskates to get :((

[ppushable]

just us.

jean kirschtein x gn!reader / oneshot / wc: 9.4k

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It's the last summer of high school and it's time to grow up. Too bad I have to do it without you.

Nights like this I wish could last forever: just us in the rain.

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ao3 tags:

FUCK / Alternate Universe - High School / or the tail end of it / Reader-Insert / gender neutral reader / How Do I Tag / Kissing / Angst / Fluff and Angst / Growing Up / Separations / Rain / Late Night Conversations / POV First Person / Present Tense / Pining / French-Speaking Jean Kirstein / Reader is emotional / theres some music for this too / Don't Examine This Too Closely

to make some things clear:

it's the last summer after high school (i.e. about to enter university)

based in canada which is basically the us but it doesn't really matter

reader is gender neutral (let me know if something seems off)

we don't know Connie in this one

i also got some songs which i thought fit the mood based on what was playing as i wrote. the songs will be indicated (==) in the writing. here's the queue:

dream, ivory; dream, ivory

heart to heart; mac demarco

little person; matt maltese

cry; cigarettes after sex

everything; the black skirts

if you're on iphone, i recommend doing the rain sounds when it rains, but it's up to you. without further ado ♥

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== dream, ivory

The rock I’ve been kicking skids off the edge of the sidewalk, into the dark grass. I already miss the feeling of its bump against my foot. I’m going to miss a lot of things. Even before I finish the thought the familiar feeling of dread rises up from the depths of my gut. 

Shush. 

Jean’s face is illuminated harshly directly below the streetlight, hair glowing as if powdered in some otherworldly dust, shadows hard and soft defining and redefining themselves as we walk. Aimless wandering, that’s all we’re doing, but I’d rather be doing this than anything else. I’d rather be with him.

I almost miss the signature little smirk on his face mid-head turn but double take in time to see it grow. 

“What? You like what you see?”

Well, yeah.

But I stick the side of my finger against his teeth and he squirms. “Wh— hey! What was that?” There’s a chuckle between those words, though, and it makes me want to crack open like a stupid little egg and pour out all the feelings I have for him onto this very concrete, cover it with my devotion, stain it forever and ever. But all that comes out is a laugh and that’ll have to be enough. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“I was just asking you an honest question!” He holds up his hand as if preaching. “Honest to god, hand on the bible.”

Okay, Jean. “And if I said no?”

He has the nerve to look offended. “Then I’d know you’re lying.”

“Fff,” I huff, and I have to turn away because the grin on my face is at a dangerous level. “This boy. You’re too full of yourself.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jean says smugly. “But you like me that way, don’t you?” His arm hooks my waist to pull me closer and I do the same, gripping the back of his Stohess University hoodie. At this point this position is second nature — no more awkward touching or not-so-subtle shifting. Now we’re like… two stones in a river that just happen to fit together like pieces of a puzzle. That’s right, us, the walking pebbles, down the dark streets of 3 AM that would be scary under any other circumstance. 

Happy as can be. 

Until summer ends, at least. 

Sometimes I want to rip that hoodie off him and tear it into a million pieces, destroy the place that wants to take him from me so badly. But it makes him happy. It makes him really fucking happy. And who am I to take that away from him? 

“Hey,” he says, and I loosen my grip on the thick cloth before he notices the pulling. 

“Yeah?”

I feel his voice, a low hum against my side, just as much as I hear it. “What’re you thinking about?”

The windows of the houses around us are empty, void. It’s strange, isn’t it? To think that in every house is a different life, multiple lives which I’ll never know. An entire life with emotions and memories and experiences and desires. A human animal. “You, of course.”

He doesn’t respond at first and when we pass under another streetlight his face is a little redder than before, all across his nose and cheeks and ears, and it takes a lot not to stop right there and throw myself on him. I love it when he does that, when he proves that his bad-boy front is just that. A front. “Hah. What a flirt.”

Leaning in, I say, “I learned it from the best, didn’t I?”

“So you’re—” his face pulls even closer, and we stop under the broken buzz of a streetlight— “calling me a flirt.”

My feet scrape the concrete as I turn on the spot and drape my arms over his shoulders. Trepidation lines my bones and leeches into my legs, drop by drop. “Maybe,” I say, and I feel the air of my breath off his reddened skin. Gorgeous, gorgeous. I wait for him to close the little distance between us, which might as well have been no distance at all, because when we touch, when I feel the familiar, burning warmth of his lips pressing against mine, I… I forget what I was thinking about. 

I claw for his neck, the hair I begged him to grow out that I know will look so good on him, I need us to be closer, and he knows, pulling my body into his with his arms against the curve of my back, chest to chest, pelvis to hardening pelvis. I huff into his mouth from the sudden pressure and Jean takes me up again immediately after the brief separation without a breath to spare with a little moan, leading me stumbling backwards to god knows where but I trust him. I love the way the world just goes. My back hits something hard and I grunt from pain which just makes Jean snap and double down harder, reach further, a futile attempt to satisfy the beastly desire in my core that grows with every passing second. 

“Ah…”

I love his hand lowering to the small of my back, the way it trembles, the way it goes lower. The other slides under my shirt, roaming well-travelled areas, but that doesn’t make it any less enticing. I cling to the back of his head like my life depends on it because it very well might, following his every small movement like it’s the guiding star. He opens up for a quick huff of air and I use this opportunity to take the reins; to plunge deeper. 

I love how his hair feels. And when I pull it just right he makes a helpless noise into my mouth and oh fuck I could fold for him right now. 

I love how disgusting we are. Probing every part of each other with our tongues. The little pits in the skin of his cheeks. Heat in my core. Heat in my brain. Heat between our bodies. The taste of him. 

I love how I don’t know where I end and he begins. Burning lungs. Pull harder and he groans louder and I don’t know what noise belongs to who. Can you tell dogs apart by their bark?

I love his taste. Desire for air, but greater desire for him . His hand stops now in that place he knows I love, skin to burning skin, but the other never moves, keeping me locked in place. Need to be closer. Just us. 

I love his eyes, half-lidded but brimming with want. A fistful of his locks, tightening. Mind going places my hands can’t. Not here, not now. 

I love…

Just when I think my heavy heart is about to give out, we separate, the heat is gone, and we gasp for air both, separating the line of drool that connects us with a blistering snap. Colours come back. My head drops to his shoulder and his warm breath lands in the sensitive crook of his neck as he lets his hand slide out of my top and return to the small of my back with the other. I keep mine firmly anchored around his neck. We pant like mutts in the street, unmoving save for the heaving of our chests. The buzzing of the streetlight returns, but it never really left, did it? We did. 

I hope he likes me back as much as I do him. I hope he’s not doing this because he has to. Swallowing takes up precious time; immediately after I’m back to laboured breathing. If he’s anything but happy I’ll recede into the darkest, damndest reaches of the Earth so he can enjoy the sun. I would never tell him that, though. I hope I’m not… I hope I’m not too much. 

Maybe a little too abruptly I let go of him and he does the same after a moment's delay, a little reluctantly, but I’m imagining it. I wipe my lip before smiling. “You flirt.”

Running a finger across his mouth, Jean scoffs, a hint of his softer side still showing through as if his usual act hasn’t fully hardened yet. “You started it.”

“Hardly.”

“Do I need to bring out the case files?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do I need to pull out the evidence?”

“Evidence being what, exactly?” I point to his pants pockets. “You have a little pocket hamster witness? Or a boob camera?”

Gasping lightly — yet still maintaining a tone of exaggeration — his arms fly up: one to cover his chest, and the other his crotch. “You’re lucky my ass doesn’t report you right now.”

Obnoxiously, I smack my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, and stick my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants. “I bet that ass can do a lot of things, princess. Walking all alone at night. Isn’t it dangerous?” I produce a crude rendering of Jean’s own smirk (to cover my own growing smile) while flipping my hair. “Let a handsome man escort you to your house.”

His act drops immediately. “Okay, you’re a little too good at this.”

I laugh.

“No, like seriously—” he raises his voice a bit to be heard clearly a smile grows on his face— “you’re creeping me out.”

“Hush, you.” With unspoken agreement we start walking again. “I need to keep up my creepy guy persona in case I’m ever approached.”

“What, your plan is to outcreep the creep?” He shakes his head. “Good luck with that one.”

I make my voice go gravelly again while making a squishing motion. “Let a man cop a feel. It’s the least you could do for all his hard work.”

“Okay, first of all, no, stop that. Secondly,” he says, pushing my hand away, “nobody’s gonna approach you as long as I’m—”

He freezes, then closes his mouth and swallows, Adam’s apple pushing back down the words unsaid. As long as I’m around . The dreadful feeling comes back like cold lead in my veins. But you’re gonna be around for long, are you, Jean?

We reach the junction directly between two streetlights, the darkest point of the sidewalk. There usually aren’t many stars where we live; regardless of the weather, city lights always blot out the little speckles in the sky that are supposed to just appear every night like in the pictures. Jean always wanted to see them. The Milky Way. The closest thing we have to a galaxy are the fluorescent glows of store signs that reflect off the bricked walls of the apartment buildings and cracked asphalt roads. 

“Hey,” I murmur, linking my arm through his and pointing at the splash of white light down the street. “Let’s go over there.”

“What, the 7-11?”

“Let’s get snacks and have a picnic together.”

A little chuckle escapes him. “At this time of night?” He doesn’t allow time to respond. “Well, alright.”

The mechanical beep greets us as the door opens. As expected, the place is empty, resided only by the eye-chokingly bright junk food packages haphazardly lining the shelves. My warped figure in the security camera screen hanging from the ceiling holds open the door for Jean and he steps through. He hasn’t been properly illuminated in a while so I take the opportunity to drink him in a little. There’s some darkness under his eyes and the scruff beginning to grow on his chin is getting longer than he prefers it (shaved off completely). His jaw clenches and unclenches seemingly at random as if he’s chewing gum, but he’s probably biting the inside of his mouth. It’s a nasty habit of his, and it never means anything good. He’s probably stressed about university. 

I sniff. Lysol. This place is a little too normal, a dip back into the waters of everyday. “Do you have your wallet?”

He stops and taps his pants pockets — first the back, then the front — and nods. “Yeah, I got my card.” 

“Sugar daddy me?”

A blush rises to the occasion and he rolls his eyes with a quick “yeah” before disappearing into the aisles. He hates getting flustered (but loves to inflict it on me) and does so at the weirdest things. In his own words, blushing is a ‘boner for your face.’ Okay, Jean. So what if I want to see you pop face boners. You like seeing mine, don’t you?

I scurry after him, scanning the items in his hold. “Strawberry Pocky. Black Doritos. Cola gummies.”

He holds out his arm so I can see better. 

“Nothing healthy? Nothing wet?”

“Okay, first of all, it’s a 7-11. Healthiest thing here is the air quality. Second of all.” He sets his palm on top of my head. “We’re getting there, alright? And don’t say wet.”

“Nothing moist.”

The flat hand turns into a fist and knocks lightly once on my skull. “Can’t win with you, eh?”

I flick his hand away and we keep weaving through the aisles. Marshmallows. 

Picking up the bag of sweets I stare at, Jean says, “we’re never gonna finish all these, y’know.”

“I know.” 

“What happened to getting healthy stuff?”

“You walk so slowly that I have to pick up everything I see. Or I’ll be understimulated and die.”

“Understimulated, huh?” he muses. I look up at his face but he’s reading the wrapper. “Maybe you’re my pocket hamster. Like a lab rat. Do I need to put you in a really big maze?” He shakes the bag like it’s cat treats and shoots me a smug look. “I’ll use these instead of cheese. If you solve the puzzle right I’ll toss you one so you have something to munch on.”

I don’t dignify him with a response. Steeling my fingers, I plunge them into his front pocket. 

The impact wracks through him, nearly making him drop the package. “Wh—”

“Won’t fit.” I shake my head and wiggle my fingers. “I can’t be your pocket hamster.”

I swear a tiny bead of sweat accumulates on his cheek but he’s quick to scratch it away. “I can make you fit.”

“Really?”

His eyes narrow. “You know more than anyone that I can make things fi—”

“Oh, hey.”

My head snaps toward the new voice — it’s the cashier, appearing from a door to take his place behind the counter. His grey hair’s been buzzed short (he hovers around our age despite the colour), almost to the point of bald, and various piercings on his face gleam even in the horrible 7-11 lighting as he cocks his head. “Sorry, didn’t notice you guys come in. Need anything at all?” 

“No, we’re good,” I say, subtly (I think) sliding my hand out of Jean’s pocket. Was the pocket thing too much? I overstepped again, didn’t I? “Thanks, though.”

The cashier nods once — I’m too far away to see his nametag but not the exhaustion that leaks out of him like a broken tap — and messes with something under the table. My gaze once again finds Jean’s and he looks like he’s seen a ghost which almost makes me feel like laughing. His big hand encloses mine and he leads me somewhere out of sight. Slurpee machines. They start humming as Jean lets me go and pinches the bridge of his nose as if on cue. “That was a little too close. Oh my god.” He chuckles lightly and it’s muffled. “He nearly saw us.” 

When he drops his hand and meets my eye the humour disappears in a flash; gravity immediately weighs down his features. “Is something wrong? Did I say something?”

“No!” I didn’t even say anything yet and he’s already this serious. Guilt settles already; why did I make him feel bad? “No. It’s— you did nothing wrong. I’m sorry.” I shoot for a grin and hit a grimace. “I’m just kinda tired.”

“Yeah. You look tired. Darling.” The word is raspy with the breath of his throat yet also strangely tender, as if uttered through honey, and we both pause at the new label. Darling. He called me darling. It’s getting warm. “Sorry. That sounded stupid, didn’t it?”

== heart to heart

Darling . “Dont— no! It’s not stupid at all! I— um.” I put a hand on his shoulder and Jean, recognizing the cue, leans his tree of a body down so he can stare straight into my eyes. “It was really… it was really cute. You should…” I trace a crack in the floor that reveals dark grout underneath while idly tucking some of his hair behind his ear. “Use that name on me again.” 

A little huff escapes him, brushes against my lips, and I’m compelled to look into those eyes again. Brown, hazel, green; depending on the lighting or weather they can be any of those colours, but I always find myself falling in regardless. There’s no reason for it. How layers of cells and pigments can trap me so hopelessly like it’s hypnosis, how even a scraping glance reminds me of our bests and worsts, how I want to look in there forever and ever, a bottomless well of all that was and could be and all that I want. “Well, since it’s got you looking all red like this, I really should.”

I just hope that you feel the same. I hope my thoughts are wrong. I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable. I hope that I can be good enough for you (but how can I)?

And I wish, I really fucking wish, that

   we never lose each other

      but I know it’s going to happen anyway

It’s going to happen anyway

and it hurts.

It hurts like a teddy bear on the ground in an abandoned house. A cracked picture frame. Sleepless nights with only tomorrow for comfort. Returning, over and over again, to the places I keep promising myself not to go to. 

Knowing that, at some point, we’ll walk together for the last time. Kiss each other for the last time. Eat together, dance together, listen to the same song together for the last time. 

So I’ll walk alone. I’ll pleasure myself. I’ll eat alone, dance alone, listen to that song until it becomes monotonous and you’ll become a stranger or a ghost or die forever and the initials so painfully carved into my heart will become fetid. Everywhere I look I’ll see your face and hear your voice and feel your warmth and smell your breath. I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it and loathe every moment of it.

Oh, Jean, if only we could run away and gossip and lay in the sun together somewhere far away where there’s a big field and lots of flowers and a clear stream that brings us cool, fresh water and berries from the forest. Where it’s always daytime, except when it’s not, and I’ll weave flowers into your beautiful hair and you’ll do the same for me and we’ll look to the open sky, with nothing to obstruct us, no buildings, no wires, no light, and there are so many stars, beautiful and so bright, so wonderful that it’ll take your breath away like a little kid seeing dinosaurs and we’ll lay for hours in the weeds together and just look at them until the sun comes back up. And we’ll be so happy we’ll cry. Just us and nothing else. 

But I know that what I want isn’t what you want. I know that. So I’ll do the right thing. I’ll do the right thing! I said I’ll do it, so leave me alone. 

Now Jean’s breath rustles my hair. “Hey.” 

At some point I started looking at his shoes. They’re creased and dirty. Not because he can’t afford them, but because he doesn’t know how to take care of his stuff. “Really, Jean.” I suck in a big breath disguised as a yawn to maybe disguise the wetness — sorry, moistness — of my eyes and point at his feet. “You’re like a little kid sometimes.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“So dirty.”

“My shoes? It’s only a little bit.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“It looks cool like that. Doesn’t it look cool like that?” 

“Okay, Jean.” The slurpee machine hums again and I’m drawn to the mechanical whirring. Who cares if there’s rat poop or salmonella or whatever in there. I’m a little thirsty and my throat could use some loosening before I start croaking. 

“It— it’s cool, right?” Jean leans against the wall, right behind the stack of cups that jut out horizontally, packed together so densely the transparent plastic becomes opaque. I slide one out of the holder and snap one of the lids out of their holders, too, and combine them before angling the cup under one of the spouts. 

“I dunno, Jean,” I say, pushing down the plunger. Synthetic heaven plops into the cup, making it jump at the initial impact. I look back in time to see him get a cup of his own. “You’ll have to ask yourself that.”

“That usually means no,” he says glumly, setting his cup down to fill. “It’s fine.” He’ll be getting coke on the bottom and cherry on the top, like he always does. “I know how to use a laundry machine. Just like you taught me.”

Sliding my cup underneath a different spout, I smile. “Good boy. You’re learning so well.”

Jean watches his cup overflow. 

“Oh. Jean. Jean .” I grab his wrist and take his hand off the lever. I shouldn’t have said that. “Wake up, Jean.” His face matches the artificially dyed cherry smeared over the hand he’s using to hold the cup and I laugh. “Jean, come on. We have to ask the guy for paper towels.” I pull him back in the direction we came from. “ Jean .”

“I’m coming.” He takes a few heavy steps before pulling himself together, tensed as if electrified. 

The guy behind the counter has earbuds in with the wires wrapped backwards around his ears and doesn’t notice us until we’re a few paces away. He jumps and fumbles to take one out. “Uh, you guys ready to check out?” His eyes, maybe a little wider than they should be given the circumstances, are drawn to Jean’s hand. “You’re… just getting the one slurpee?”

“Uh, no, we… our stuff is back with the slurpee machine.” What am I saying? Jean’s always been the better one at talking. “We, uh, need to clean up. Paper towels!” I squeeze Jean’s hand but it seems he’s still in stupor, melted cherry slushy dripping to the floor. 

“Oh,” is all the cashier says.

“Can we have some paper towels, please?” I continue. “We made a mess with the machine.”

The cashier seems to relax a bit. “Oh.”

“I’m really sorry. We’ll help clean up. Like, you don’t even need to do anything, just tell us where the paper towels are—”

“No, it’s all good, it’s my job. Plus it gets pretty boring here y’know?” He smiles and his teeth are crooked. “I’ll grab ‘em.” And he disappears behind the employee-only door. 

I wait a second or two before elbowing Jean lightly.

“Ow!”

“You alright, zombie?” I ask, trying not to let too much tease slip into my voice.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He looks at his slurpee-d hand, brings it to his face, and wraps his lips around the base of his thumb to slurp the area where the juice drips out. Then his mouth opens a bit more and his tongue inches out, up the side of his palm against the cup, in and out, motions intended to lap up every last drop of the juice like it was never even there in the first place. His other hand rubs firm circles into mine as he goes back to licking the base of his thumb, making small slurping noises. “Mmm,” he moans as he runs his tongue from his hand to the tip of the cup, and now I realize his smug eyes have been on me the whole time, “tastes good. Un goût de paradis. ”

“You didn’t pay for that,” I say as flatly as possible without bursting on the spot.

“It’s fine, it’s just the drops.” He smirks. “You’d change your mind if you knew what it tasted like.”

“And what does it taste like?”

“Maybe,” his leer deepens as he leans in, pulling my hand gently, “I could show you. But…” he pulls back at the last second. “Nah!”

It smacks me in the face like a dead fish. “You— Kirsch—” use your big girl words!— “bastard.”

He chuckles as something metal drops behind the door; another few seconds and the cashier comes back out with a thick roll of the brown paper towels they use in bathrooms (the ones that can’t absorb for shit). “Sorry about the wait,” he huffs, one earbud still clinging to his ear as the other dangles from the neckline of his green uniform. “Hard to find anything in there.” He opens a little side door to get out from behind the counter and his feet drag a little as he walks toward the slurpee machines. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “you guys are coming, right?”

“Right behind you.” Jean calls, this time leading me back.

The cashier tears some of the paper and starts mopping up some of the stuff on the grill, though only succeeds in pushing the little chunks that are left into the gutter. He clicks his tongue and starts murmuring Spanish obscenities. 

“Here.” Jean hands me a piece of paper towel and I take it, getting to work on the ground. The cashier shuffles aside to make room and I utter a quick thanks. As expected, the towels don’t really absorb, but push the liquid around. 

“Maybe you should lick this up, too,” I tease as Jean kneels beside me. 

“Funny.”

But we do manage to clean it up. We toss the soiled paper into a hole built into the slurpee counter for garbage as the cashier continues to scrape the grill. He sighs, bringing his hand up while balling up the napkin and letting it slap against the side of his thigh. “No use here, I’ll get it later. But, uh, thanks for helping out.” Nodding, he tosses the garbage at the garbage hole and misses. 

Jean bats it in for him. “No problem, man.”

He nods again. I can see his name tag, now that he’s closer: 

CONNIE

“It was nothing, really,” I smile. “Thanks, Connie.”

“I’ll be at the counter when you guys’re ready.” He returns the gesture before shuffling away. 

“Well.” Jean collects our little hoard. “You think this is enough?”

Pocky, gummies, chips, marshmallows. And the slurpees. “I know that’s enough.” I cling to his arm like a parasite. “Let’s go.”

Jean pays, we say our goodbyes to Connie, and then we leave. Back to the buzzing and the empty sky, just the same as before, except with food and a vague destination in mind. 

“You know,” I say, swallowing the slurpee still in my mouth, “did that guy seem familiar? Or is it just me?”

“The cashier?”

“Yeah, Connie.”

“Huhh…” Jean licks his lips which are already cherry red. ��I don’t think I’ve seen him around school before. But you’re right, he does seem familiar. It’s weird.”

“Maybe,” I muse, throwing him a teasing look, “in another life, you guys did laundry and taxes together.”

“No way,” he chuckles. “We definitely would’ve done something cooler together. Like, fight giants, or something.”

“Giants.” I grin. “Tell me about these giants.”

He shrugs. “They’re big. And they’re naked all the time.”

“Wooow.” 

“What?” he laughs. “They don’t have enough cloth to make clothes so they just go naked all the time! Except in Malaysia.”

“What?”

“And they run really weird, and the girl giants have these—” he charades huge boobs— “giant tits—”

“What about the guy giants?”

He pauses. “They don’t have anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

He scowls. “Why do you wanna know so bad?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “Are the giants good-looking, at least?”

“The important ones are.”

“Hmm.” I take another slurp. “So I could have a cute, important, constantly naked, big tiddie giant girlfriend.”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“All the giants wanna eat people.”

“Eat people, huh? I can live with that.” 

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

We walk in silence until the next streetlight. “On second thought,” I start, “I think, in another life, you guys would survive the zombie apocalypse together.”

“Zombie apocalypse,” Jean echoes. “Why do I feel like I’d die first?”

“You almost do. But Connie sacrifices himself for you.”

He hmms . “Then you’d be part of the secondary group of survivors that ends up betraying the main force.”

“That’s weirdly specific. So I end up betraying you?”

“It’s okay because we join forces in the end.” He shrugs. “Either that or I charm you to our side.”

I grin. “You do, do you.”

== little person

The walk to the park is a short one, and before long the entrance is visible down the void road. A cold drop lands on my hand.

“Huh, we’re almost there.” Jean shifts the bags of chips in hand — the pocky is in his pocket. “Then—” his eye twitches strangely— “ah! Did a bird just shit in my eye?”

“What?” I sputter as another drop lands on my cheek. “There’s no birds. I think it’s raining.”

Blinking hard, Jean utters, “rain?” 

We look up at the same time. The sky is no longer cloudless, and the familiar pitter-patter emanates from the roofs around us. We look back at each other.

Well, shit.

“It’s not that bad,” I start. Jean opens his mouth to reply but something suddenly falls on my head. 

Rather, a downpour of rain, like water from a bucket, pushes me down. It’s loud! Loud like firecrackers.

“Holy shit!” Jean squawks, barely heard above the sound of rain. “No! My slurpee!”

The coke and cherries is on the ground now, cratering with every heavy raindrop that lands in it. I snatch his now-free hand.

“Forget it! We have to go!”

His face is devastated, but he nods. No recovery. I jut my head in the direction of the park; he nods again, and we make a break for it.

Being the taller one, Jean could easily outpace me, but we run side by side, feet sloshing first in the asphalt then in the grass as we finally make it to the park. “There!” he cries, pointing at the nearest tree that looks like it could provide some decent cover. I run until I feel my legs are going to give out and we crash under the leafy cover like it’s the finish line to a marathon, not letting go of each other even when our clasped hands crack into the tree’s trunk and we smack into each other on the other side with the full force of our momentum. 

“Hooo!” Jean huffs. There’s no light in the park but I still can’t miss the wild look in his eyes, the way his hair drips and sticks to his forehead, just long enough to brush his upturned eyebrows. “You alright?” 

“Yeah!” I cheer, feeling a laugh bubbling out. There’s no houses here, and probably no people. Who cares anyway? The sudden escapade snapped me into a different state. “Yeah, I’m good! Are you okay?”

“I’m soaked!” His huffs turn into a laugh and he waves vaguely at the sky. “So much for a picnic, huh?”

I blink a few times, then open my eyes wide. There’s no lights installed at the park, at least none that are on at this hour, but even in the pitch dark I know where the main areas are. “Why don’t we go to the pavilion?” I yell, turning back to face him. 

“Mmp!” Jean pulls his head back, but not quick enough. “As you wish, darling,” he garbles quickly, wiping the corner of his mouth. 

My jaw drops and I hold up my cup. The juice is now half of its original volume. “You little—” Without thinking, I swing the bag of marshmallows at his head but he blocks it easily with his arm. 

“I couldn’t help it!” he bursts, dribbling a small amount onto the mulch floor with a splat .

The words die in my throat as we stare at the regurgitation. A moment later Jean takes off and I swear I see the raindrops fly off. 

“Jean!” What choice do I have? I pursue.

The thief never strays more than a few feet ahead, allowing me a few more rain-laced swings before a picnic bench suddenly appears in front of us. At the last minute Jean manages to slam his feet onto the bench part and leap onto the table, but I don’t lift my knees high enough and the wood dings my shins and before the pain has time to register the soaked, half-rotten tabletop screams toward me

and when it’s supposed to hurt, it doesn’t. 

Vision isn’t required to know that my face is squished up against Jean’s palms which cushion me from the wood. His wet hands peel off and travel to my shoulders. “Shit! Are you okay?”

Now my legs hurt. I blink at his blurry face and put my hands over his. The stuff I was carrying is on the ground now; I’m kneeling on the bench. “You saved me.”

“Of course.” 

“Even though I hit you with marshmallows.”

“Darling.” He takes my hands in his, clasping them between our bodies. We’re soaked thoroughly now; the sweater I have stupidly unzipped weighs down heavily on my shoulders and rainwater constantly runs into my eyes and the valley of my lips, while Jean’s bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyelashes clumped together, and rain drips from the end of his nose onto our hands. “I would save you if it killed me.”

Then save me now. 

Tell me you won’t accept that program at Stohess. Tell me we can go away somewhere far, far enough to avoid going to a school I don’t want for a degree I don’t want for a future I don’t want. 

At the very least, tell me I can find the strength to break away from it all and make something decent out of this life that I’ve forcefully been granted. 

How do you do it? How do you forge your own path, create a light that’s so blinding it renders me a moth? How do you find the courage? 

I bring the bundle of our hands close to my face, let my breath run down the slick side of the back of Jean’s palm. “I would do the same for you.” And gently, as if handling the most precious jewel, I press my lips against the ridge of his knuckles and whisper, “ mon chéri. ”

Rain continues to fall in that familiar, comforting hum as it patters softly onto the grass and soil and leaves and wood. Jean stays silent for so long and if not for the look in his eyes I would think he didn’t hear me at all. But his lips crack open, and it takes a few tries for him to say what he wants. 

“I… I wish…” His Adam’s apple bobs and rests precariously on his throat, holding the power of the things left unsaid. “I wish you’d finally admit that you’re a bigger flirt than I am.”

Out of reflex I scoff and release myself from his grasp to pull some hair off my face, covering the blow of his sudden change of heart that makes my insides feel as if they’d been scraped on hot concrete and poured back in. “You’re insane, Kirschtein.” No, it’s stupid and selfish of me to expect him to say something. 

Shrugging plainly, he rubs his palms against his knees as if to dry them (ha ha), but gets up a moment later to pick some things off the grass. He returns a moment later with the pocky and gummies and drops them on the table before dropping down himself. The pocky box is soggy. “Let’s have our picnic right here.”

I shoot him a skeptical look which I hope he sees. “In the rain?”

“I know it’s your favourite weather.” His voice is soft and he speaks as if he had committed a grave sin. 

“What if you get sick?” Now I remember to zip up my sweater. 

His eyes follow the movement. “I can take care of myself.”

Fat chance of that, boy. “What if I get sick?”

“I’ll take care of you.”

I take a seat beside him on the table, feet on the bench. “And if we both get sick?”

He smiles a little. “Then I can hold you without worrying about transferring anything.”

“And you’re not a flirt.”

“What—” he opens the pack of gummies with a plastic crackle— “ever,” and sets the package between our bodies. 

These are Jean’s favourite snacks. I’m sure he’s gotten sick by eating too many of these before, but he was convinced it was something else he ate. Idly, he pops one in his mouth, and I follow suit. They do taste good, though. 

“Wonder if anyone’s ever been here this late,” Jean mumbles as I open the pocky. 

“I’m sure they have. And I’m sure they will be.” I draw a length of the strawberry-coated stick like a sword and crunch. “None of them are idiotic enough to have a picnic when it’s raining, though, so we’re probably a first for that.”

He chuckles. “Pioneers, I’m sure.”

We eat in silence. The rain slows down, but doesn’t let up. 

What am I doing here? What’s even the point of this? It’s only going to hurt me more, spending time with a ghost like this. 

“Jean.”

“Hm?”

“Do you know the pocky game?”

“Hmm?”

“You know.” I stick one of the candies in my mouth and point to the other end. 

Jean only looks more confused, and, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I pry open his lips with two fingers and probe him with the pink tip. A strange and perhaps exaggerated noise gargles out of him — the candy slips from my grasp and falls. 

“What the heck!” He bristles like a cat, even in the rain. “Stop laughing!” 

“You’re— you’re supposed to bite it,” I choke. “Why do you look so scared?” 

“I was just surprised .” He shimmies another stick out. “Let’s do it again. It’s just like Lady and the Tramp, right? Come on, let’s do it. Stop that!” 

My attempt to stifle the giggles is piss-poor and Jean knows it. But I stop when I feel him grasp my chin and turn my head toward him. 

“So,” he says slowly around the pocky in his mouth, “are we gonna do this?”

Smiling, I bite the other end, and then we’re connected. The stick vibrates as Jean starts to nibble, and when I follow suit he puts his hand down. We inch closer—

Crunch!

Our eyes widen. 

Wordlessly, Jean lets go of his end of the stick, finds the source of the disturbance, and holds it up sheepishly. 

The entire bag of pocky, compressed to dust under his palm. 

“Whoops.”

I stare. 

“I’m sorry.”

I push the remainder of our pocky in my mouth and chew. 

“Fuck, I’ll— we can go back to the store and get another box. Hey. Don’t turn away…”

Wow, that tree over there sure looks interesting. 

“Forgive me?”

I turn back. He looks absolutely crushed. (As he should.)

“I know they’re your favourite.” His head hangs. “I’ll…” Without warning, he grabs the bag of gummies and dumps the sweets on the ground. They tumble and disappear from view. 

What!

“There. Now we’re even.” He looks up and smiles, shaking the plastic. 

“What— Jean— what’d you do that for?”

“I wanted us to be in the same boat. It’s my fault for destroying the pocky anyway… and both of our slurpees… and I stepped on the chips when I jumped on the bench so I ruined that too. Plus I nearly got you killed.” He shrugs. “Retribution.”

My chest shrivels in on itself. “I didn’t care that much. Those were your favourite.”

“And the pocky was yours. Besides, we still have marshmallows.”

Pointing, I say, “I dropped them back there.” 

“Oh.”

‘Oh’ indeed. I put my hands flat on the table behind me — despite how grimy — and lean back. 

“We’re never gonna finish all these, y’know. ” Guess he was right. 

One sigh turns into another, and soon I’m giggling like a schoolgirl. The rain falls all over my face, my neck, and runs down my shirt, like tiny tickling fingers. This is ridiculous. Here are two stupid dumb teenagers, at three in the morning in the rain, sitting on a bench surrounded by crushed wrappers and gummies and pocky crumbs. How does one even end up in this situation? They must be so young and in love. They must have no worries at all. Just two stupid dumb teenagers and nothing more. 

Humans can only know each other so much. Words can only do so much. Actions, too. 

Maybe, somewhere far away, far into the future or perhaps the past, someone will truly understand the sort of predicament I’m in. 

But it’s a little selfish of me to be comforted by that thought when I don’t even try to make others understand. 

“What’s so funny?”

I let my eyes roll shut. It’s a mistake to spend money on me, Jean. Just run away now before I absorb you like an amoeba. “Nothing. Nothing is funny.” Well, I don’t have to worry about that, since we’re leaving each other anyway! 

It doesn’t matter. What makes you think you can sustain a healthy relationship when you obviously have your own issues? What makes you think you deserve him? You suck away at his happiness like a vampire. You make it so hard for people to be happy. You’re horrid. 

The rain becomes vulgar and suddenly I hate the way it touches every inch of me. 

“Hey.” Jean’s voice is soft, tentative. “Are you okay?”

The wood turns to slime under my palms. “Yeah. I’m just tired.” Maybe we should head home soon, I almost add, but I can’t. “Hey, Jean.” To my dismay, I open my eyes, and the world blinks back at me. Like it’s pissed at me for ever imagining it could disappear. But when I look at him it makes everything a little bit better. 

== cry

Piece of shit. 

A deep booming emanates from the ground like a great burrowing beast about to snap out but it’s just distant thunder. 

“Yeah?” He’s in the same position I’m in, leaned back, eyes shut to the elements. Hair still glued to his forehead but slowly pushing back. Trembling ever so slightly with the shivers. Idiot boy. 

Ever so slowly as to not disturb him or the picnic table, I stand, put my foot down on the other side of him, and come back down, weight fully balanced on his hip, effectively straddling him. He flinches at initial contact but otherwise doesn’t move as I wrap my arms around his chest 

and cling to him

   like a parasite. 

      Please just hold me. 

Another wave of trembles strikes Jean as he lowers himself so he lies flat against the wood and I lay flat on him. His arms wrap around me a moment later. 

I don’t want to think. Jean pulls me a little tighter against that waterlogged hoodie but I don’t mind. My balled hands are getting crushed under our weight and they’re probably hell on his back so I flatten them as much as possible and grasp him. Just us.

Just us, just us, just us…

Jean speaks first, breaking the vow of silence. “You know—” his voice cracks— “we only have three weeks left.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for the pit in my stomach to open up so quickly I’m surprised Jean doesn’t get stabbed with it. For the dread to boil over and suddenly take control of my entire body, render me prone, double my mass. “Don’t.” That word was too weak even for me. 

“I’m really… I’m really going to miss you.” The arms tighten and force some air out of me but this time the contact does nothing to help smooth me out.

Stop talking. 

He keeps going. “I can’t ignore it for much longer.”

“Stop.” 

“I try to and I can’t. I’m…” Jean’s chest jerks beneath me as his breaths turn shuddering. The floodgates. “I’m just scared.”’

My throat hurts so much it’s like it’s going to collapse in on itself and my eyes burn and it’s hard to breathe—

“You’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me. And now I have to leave you.”

“Stop,” I rasp, but apparently not loud enough. 

“When we— when we part ways—”

“Don’t.”

“—I hope you find someone who’s better. Someone who doesn’t get emotional over dumb shit, someone who can treat you right, someone with an actual future—”

I smack his chest with it. My hand. Not hard at all. But enough to get him to stop . 

“Jean…” I rise back into a somewhat sitting position. His chin is wrinkled and he’s biting his lip so hard and we lock eyes for a shattering second before he turns his head. Red eyes in a sea of sadness. 

What… do I say now?

“You do have a future.”

He scoffs and the smirk is like razors to the eye. “Because I’m going to make it so far with an art degree.”

“Jean, you’re doing what you want to do. Who cares if you don’t end up getting a ‘traditional’ job? You’re gonna be happy with your life.” Which is a lot more than I can say for myself. 

Jean brings his gaze down to look at the table. “Yeah, you’re right.” His hands slide from my back to the outsides of my thighs. “It’s going to be different without you, though.” 

Deep breath doesn’t do anything. “It’s going to be different without you, too.”

He gives my legs a chaste squeeze, perhaps of comfort. Breathily, he asks, “what now?”

“We enjoy the time left together.”

“And after?”

“We don’t think about after.”

“We have to think about after.”

“Jean…” 

He thinks for a few seconds. “We could try long distance.”

“Jean.”

“I mean, sometimes it works, sometimes. As long as we keep communicating, it should be fine. Right? Yeah. Yeah…” Somewhere, a lone mourning dove calls, its familiar swooping cry piercing the dark. “Say something.”

“I don’t…” know. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“What if it does?” He shifts up on his elbows. “What is there to lose?”

The idea comes immediately to mind but it’s harder to put into words. Late-night research on advice boards and internet forums only proved that everything that can go bad does go bad, and imagining Jean or even me in any of those scenarios renders me feeble. It could work, but it could also fail spectacularly. I don’t want to lose him in one of those ways. 

But, at the same time, I’d rather not lose him at all. 

Jean waits, expectation heavy in his upturned eyes. Who am I kidding. Of course I’d take that risk. “Yeah. You’re right.” I bite the inside of my lip and worry it between my teeth. “It could work.” Because that’s what everyone says before it all goes south. 

Worst case scenario, he walks off with another person to love. At least he’ll be happy. He’ll have a real person to look at. Maybe someone less miserable and self-pitying and broody. Someone better-looking, for sure. Someone who he can rely on, instead of a brick wall who can’t express its feelings. Yeah, that would be nice. They’d meet in college through a shared passion for art and make it through the hardships of life together in a crappy little one-bedroom studio apartment that’s lit by yellowed fluorescents overlooking some shady alleyway that he’s definitely saved them from. Walls covered in portraits of each other, blurry polaroids, their favourite albums, photos of graffitied underpasses and empty parking lots that would be so meaningless to anyone else. Windows open in the summer to let in the breeze because on extra humid days it smells like wood. Windows open in the winter because the colder the air, the more burning hot their skin feels against the other as their limbs tangle under the warm pile of blankets on the couch as they watch their show together, even though they’ve seen it enough times to quote every line. Communicating, at every opportunity, how much they mean to each other and their concerns and their plans, quick chats as they pass each other on the way to class, hours-long nighttime discussions that never seem to end. Words strung together so intricately that neither of them gets up out of bed the morning the same as they were last night. 

“What are you thinking about?”

I’m still staring into his eyes. “Just— the future.”

His jaw starts grinding again. “You really hate talking about yourself, don’t you?”

“It’s not—” I start to say before Jean suddenly sits up at a right angle, bracing a hand behind my back so I don’t fall backwards. His eyes fixed on me the whole time. 

“It’s not what?” There’s a furrow in his brow. “Not important?” 

Suddenly, I realize my hands are on his chest.

“Listen, I know you have… trouble with speaking up sometimes, and the last thing I want to do is force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But—” his hands tighten around my thighs— “sometimes I can’t read your mind, and I can’t help you; all I know is that you’re struggling all by yourself and I’m sitting there useless. Listen—” his breath gives out, and he tries again: “listen. I’m not— I want to help you. Especially now. So if you have anything to say, please, please say it.”

At some point the rain had slowed to a drizzle. 

Do something. Say something meaningful. For once in your life, please, just open your stupid fucking mouth and say something. 

I’m scared too I’m really scared of the future and I want us to run away together and live in the weeds and the one-bedroom apartments I want to stand outside with you in the alleyway I want to have a picnic with you in the underpass I want you to steal my slurpee I want to make you laugh I want to make you happy I want to give you this teddy bear let’s take pictures of each other I’ll teach you how to make a flower braid I want to forget the whole world and all the human animals it can be just us I’ll come out of my dark corner and drag you back in we can be together and never come out just be with me and I’ll be happy wherever

“I’m not really thinking of much.”

“Why don’t you look me in the eye and say that?”

Layers of cells and pigment. Jean’s eyes and my own. My lips part but it’s as if my throat’s turned into a deep, dry well. Something. Something… “When— if —” I inhale— “if we don’t make it, find someone who can treat you right.”

He blinks. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“The times I spent with you have been the most precious parts of my life. So if you decide to spend your time with someone else, that’s fine. You’ve given me enough happiness to last a lifetime, you know?”

“What the hell are you spouting,” he grunts. “That’s never gonna fucking happen. Don’t you— are you listening? I’m never doing that.” Now his hands are on my arms. “Don’t you realize how much you mean to me?”

“I don’t think you know a whole lot about me.” Stohess University, his sweater says in big embroidered letters. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it.” Fuck, I sound edgy. Please don’t pursue the subject. 

“No, I will worry about it. Hey, look at me.” He pulls my chin up. “I’m allowed to worry about you too, you know? Do you really think by not saying anything I’ll just go on about my day like it’s nothing? Fuck. I care about you. Why can’t you realize that?” Jean’s eyes glisten dangerously. “You— you do care about me, right?”

That’s it. I grind my teeth so hard they might shatter as the hole in my gut deepens. “Of course I do.” You don’t know how much you mean to me and the fact that I made you this upset makes me want to condense into a dark point and disappear forever. How could I be so stupid? 

“Then let me care about you too.”

Treating him like a little kid without any emotions. Shunning him to the point he feels… uncared for. Discarded. My doing. 

Are you ever going to tell him that you love him?

No you’re stupid you’re a hormonal teenager who’s emotional about growing up stop being such a baby and think about your future that’s what matters that’s all that will ever matter get a job that will make mommy and daddy proud 

   I don’t want to see you with that boy again 

      big kids don’t cry

“Darling?”

A rough warm thumb swipes the skin under my eye and takes away the hot tears that make everything so blurry. Piercing throat pain. “I can’t see you, Jean.”

“You’re crying.”

== everything

“No… I’m not.”

But even as I say it a warm drop runs down my cheek and not a moment later it’s wiped away and he plants a most delicate kiss in its place. There’s something wrong with my breath because I can’t seem to inhale smoothly. 

“Just let it out, my love.”

“I can’t— I can’t see you.” The words come out half-mumbled and airy. 

“Shhh.” He envelops me in his grasp, arms wrapped carefully around me, chest to chest, chin to shoulder, and I find myself clinging on like a parasite. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. I’m right here for you. Right here.”

“Jean—” I gulp. “I—” 

“Shhh.” And his chest vibrates as he hums and rocks and I don’t think I’ve been held like this in a very long time. 

His body so warm beneath me, his arms so secure. Nothing to hear and nothing to see. 

I haven’t felt like this in a very long time. 

Breath after jerky breath

   is it finally my turn?

      is it okay like this?

         it’s okay, right?

            it’s safe. 

Jean doesn’t stop. When I twitch or gasp or burrow into him he doesn’t stop, he mutters and sways and holds me as I sob and dirty his shoulder and I don’t think he’ll ever let go. I don’t want him to. 

At some point in the morning, when the park is alive with the sounds of birds, the convulsions stop, and so does Jean, pulling me off and scanning my face.

“Don’t.”

He ignores me, though, and wipes everything revolting off my face with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” 

“I got emotional.”

“I know.” Without an ounce of hesitation, he presses his lips against my forehead and holds it there. “Thank you.”

I take a deep breath and it somehow seems easier than before. “Three weeks.”

“Three weeks.” Jean returns to eye level. 

“Do you ever get that feeling of missing something that isn’t gone yet?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that you miss me.”

“Do you miss me?”

He pushes some hair off my face. “With every fiber of my being.”

Slowly, I do the same — pulling his bangs so that they split on the left side of his face, sweeping them to the side. Jean shuts his eyes as I work and tilts his head forward but I don’t know if he’s conscious of it or not. Meticulously placing every damp lock. He doesn’t open his eyes again until I’m finished. 

The time will pass, dates will tick by like seconds. And when it’s finally time, the inevitable will happen. 

Goodbyes hurt the most when the story isn’t finished. 

Maybe, in another life, it goes on for a little longer. 

A story with just us. 

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

one fun fact is that i have never stepped foot into a 7-11 before. i just based it off circle k. makes me wonder why i chose 7-11 in the first place. (if you happen to be one of the four pocket hamsters in a single trench coat that read my zombie au fic, the reference here isn't a spoiler. or is it??? haha just kidding. maybe.) thanks for reading my dumpter fire! to be honest i was a little embarrassed posting it but whatever its ao3tumblr. i hope every single one of you experiences a clear night sky and/or strawberry pocky in the forseeable future. take care :) secret tumblr-excluive a/n: am i doing it right? does my post like nice and pretty? did i spend an hour formatting the cover? no i didn't!!