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corner-stories · 1 month ago

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before the storm, after the flood (act 1)

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Post-Canon. Flashbacks. Paintings. Past Relationships. Present Tension. Seaside Cottages. 16,873 words. (ao3.) || (act 2.) || (act 3.)

Now.

Seeing The Painting.

...

It’s mid-September when she visits the west coast of the Island, a port town known for what comes in and what comes out as opposed to what stays. If it’s not foreign material goods arriving on the Paradisian shores, then it’s visitors of all kinds, even if they never stay for long.

Mikasa knows by this time tomorrow she’ll be gone. It had only been an hour since she stepped off her train with the intention to stay a single night, as most visitors of the town tend to do. Once her time is up she’ll be on a line bound for the northwest, so in the meantime she has nothing better to do than to keep herself busy.

As she weaves through the sea of strangers in the public market, she compares it to the one at home. Shiganshina’s street vendors always seem to be stocked with newly harvested fruit, freshly baked bread, and marbled slabs of perfectly cured meat. The port town fares similarly enough, yet Mikasa notices an abundance of items she doesn’t often see — like delectable dates, sun-dried tomatoes, and decadent candies she’s only ever tried on visits to Mitras.

As she browses a selection of fruit drops imported all the way from Hizuru, she feels something brush against her back. When she turns around she’s greeted by the face of the child who bumped into her. The little one is apologetic and briefly stops chasing their friends to mutter a quick “Sorry, Ma’am!” then continues down the street as quickly as they stopped.

In another world such a sight would make her think of her childhood — the prettier parts, to be exact — but nowadays it reminds her of her shifts at the Reiss Orphanage.

When the thought comes to mind she's quick to sigh at herself. She’s officially been on “vacation” for half a day and she already has a reason to think about work.

Yearning for some kind of distraction, Mikasa continues down the street, the rays of the late-summer sun warming the brim of her hat.

She finds herself on a street where on her left is an array of merchants lined up to sell their goods, and on her right is the ocean. Her eyes are drawn to the sight of the surf and the shore, admiring everything from the various boats floating on the surface to the seagulls that soar high above the water. The sound of the waves caressing the docks soothes her fears and assures her that taking this trip was not in fact a bad idea after all.

With the beauty of the sea so clear in front of her, Mikasa wonders why she hadn’t visited the coast a lot sooner.

Frankly, she’s sure that Historia doesn’t even care where she spends her time off, just that she spends it as far from the Orphanage as possible. It’s very hard to refuse a demand from the Queen herself. Even if Mikasa’s content to remain at work and keep a low-profile, her old friend had been surprisingly persistent on the idea, determined to have Mikasa experience something beyond late-night shifts and half-hour lunch breaks. At the end of it all, Mikasa had gone through with the offer just to get Historia off her back.

Now all that’s left for her to do is make it to tomorrow.

As she continues across the cobblestones and civilians, Mikasa passes by a barbershop. She walks by the window and it only takes a few seconds of witnessing a burly man performing his craft for an idea to pop into her head. She undoes her ponytail just as she enters the shop and hears the bell above the door ring. She promptly requests a haircut, a service that doesn’t take long, yet is unfamiliar enough for her to realize that she can’t remember the last time she had gotten one.

When Mikasa leaves the shop she’s sporting a style she has yet to wear in her twenty-seven years of life. The barber had called it a bob and claimed it was popular with women all around the Island. As she walks she catches sight of her reflection in store windows, noticing how the ends of her hair hang just above her shoulders and sway differently with every step. The style is still new to her and she’s not sure how she feels about it, but at least for now she can revel in the novelty of trying something new and the fact that hair always grows back.

By mid-afternoon she visits a tavern across the street from the inn she had checked into earlier. As she eats a lunch of bread and cheese she sees patrons from all around the world in every corner of the room — some are charmingly weathered from their travels and others look like their journey’s just begun. As of now she’s unsure what category she would belong to, because while she’s stepped farther off the Island that some Paradisians will in their entire lives, the scars from such outings have marked themselves both on and under her skin.

Before the memories can resurface and spoil her afternoon, Mikasa looks at the decorations on the tavern wall. Hanging corner to corner is a collection of photographs, enough to make her forget that the technology had only been introduced to the Island very recently. However, hidden in plain sight amongst the array of framed pictures is a single painting. And Mikasa is drawn to it, not purely due to the different medium, but rather for to the subject itself.

Through delicate brushstrokes, the shape of the hill filled with numerous houses is a familiar sight. The greens are bright, contrasted with a sky made of pigments so blue that it immediately reminds her of the past summer. Little squares of greys are carefully placed into the horizon to properly represent the buildings of the district. It’s a sight that's been burned into her memories for the last eight years.

“You like what you see, Miss?”

Mikasa turns her head to see a barkeep behind the counter. He’s a middle-aged gentleman with a round face and kindly brown eyes, someone who seems content in his life of pulling pints and chatting up patrons.

“It’s Shiganshina,” she replies.

The work depicts the view of the city from Eren’s Hill — specifically the view one sees when facing away from his tree and towards Paradis without its walls. Over the last few years countless travelers and visitors climbed the slope, making the artist just one of many. For a moment she lets herself wonder if even half the patrons in the tavern know what the painting really is and how many of them don’t.

“You got a good eye,” the Barkeep continues to say. With a rag he wipes a spot on the counter before redirecting his gaze to the painting on the wall. “The artist is local, lives just up the coast. His name is, uh… Jehan something. Nice guy. Real quiet sometimes.”

Mikasa nods along in silence, her usual reaction to when people are being chatty when she doesn’t want to be. A look to the corner of the painting shows that the artist signed it with one name and nothing else. She's unsure whether it's a pseudonym or a mononym.

Before she can go back to finishing her meal, she hears the Barkeep hum. Her eye is drawn to him as he puts down his rag and walks a few steps away. He finds a smaller framed photograph in the sea of many and takes it off the wall.

“This was the night he dropped off the painting,” the Barkeep explains, obviously referring to this elusive ‘Jehan.’ He walks back to where she sits and shows him the picture. “We asked if he wanted to stay for a drink and he was happy to oblige." He scoffs. "Never turns down a free pint, that Jehan.”

As Mikasa puts down her fork she begins to ponder just how talented this “Jehan” must be if the Barkeep keeps singing his good praises. She takes a good look at the photograph that depicts a whole group of people enjoying themselves on a busy night in the tavern, an evening where the laughter flows as freely as the drinks from the bar and the sweat collecting on every surface.

Due to how many people are crowding the frame, the Barkeep points to a person in the corner. When her gaze settles upon the alleged painter, Mikasa’s heart skips a beat.

It’s a different feeling from when she glanced at the painting. The shock that fills her makes her chest feel tight as her eyes go wide.

Who she sees in the photograph is someone she’s seen before, but someone she never expected to ever lay eyes on again. She says nothing to the Barkeep trying to make small talk. In her head all she can do is repeat a name that hasn’t crossed her mind in years.

Jean?

…

Then.

The Last Cigarette on Paradis.

Outside of the Palace of Queen Historia Reiss is the finest garden on the Island. Somewhere in the between the meticulously-trimmed shrubbery, beds of flowers in every colour, and animal-shaped bushes is an old tree in a clearing. Hanging on one of the branches is a pair of swings, something presumably built for the Crown Princess of Paradis.

Currently on one of the swings is someone a lot less royal, but Jean figures he can get away with it.

It’s barely been a day since the Ambassador’s return to the Island, yet the burden of work is already weighing on his shoulders. With a dinner full of smiles and handshakes behind him, he hopes that the royal guards have more important things to do than to shoo a wayward Ambassador from the garden. Sitting alone, he is illuminated by nothing but the moon in the sky and the distant torches near the palace entrance. The world around him may be dark, but at least here it's quiet, exactly what he needs to step away and take a breather.

He’s usually like this at the end of the day, so wound up from the stress of meetings that all he ever wants to do is loosen his tie and find his trusty cigarette case. Smoking is a habit he formed to de-stress from his travels and work, but not one that he’s necessarily proud of.

After finding the case in his jacket, Jean opens it and discovers only one roll inside, something that makes him grumble like an old man. Considering that it’s been a week since he last purchased a pack, he wonders if the hassle of getting to the Island had really gotten to him or if Annie’s habit of “borrowing” his cigarettes had increased. As he puts his final smoke between his lips, he tries to remember if he has any other stashed away or if he has to find a way to procure them on Paradis. The mere thought of the import fees alone is enough to fill him with dread.

Jean grabs a matchbox from his pants pocket before a soft voice disrupts the silence of the garden.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Jean glances up to see the last person he would expect at this hour. The one and only Mikasa Ackerman is walking on the stone path, the tips of her boots scuffing the ground every few steps. She moves with her hands clasped in front of her, yet her shoulders are slumped in a way that makes her seem smaller. The woven material of her sweater is draped over her like a cloak.

“Only on special occasions,” Jean answers, unable to keep his usual sass out of his words. “What about you?”

Mikasa stops and stands in place, watching him with glassy eyes under the moonlight. “I’ve done it once,” she replies like she intends to say more, yet doesn't.

Sensing the awkward silence growing between them, Jean continues. “...and did you like it?”

She shrugs. “It was alright.” She doesn’t seem like she hated it, but doesn’t appear to have particularly enjoyed it either.

Her answer is enough for Jean to assume that she’s okay with his little vice, so he puts his case away and strikes a match. He holds the flame to the end of his roll until it glows, and soon small puffs escape his lips and nose before he takes his first drag.

Just as Jean contemplates where can source more cigarettes, he looks aside to see Mikasa sitting on the adjacent swing.

Considering that he expected her to leave once he lit up, he’s surprised. He didn’t take her for someone who would so willingly expose themselves to the scent of smoke. After expelling a cloud into the air, Jean takes the roll from his lips and holds it out to her, a simple courtesy he developed over the years.

And once again, Mikasa surprises him by accepting.

Jean's memories remind him of a Mikasa who treats her body like a temple — a Woman worth a Thousand Soldiers, as some used to say. He can still remember the way she adhered to her workout regimen despite sustaining a rib fracture the month before, moving with the haste of a person who will only slow down when the battle is truly done.

But here she is now, sitting on a swing sized for a child and accepting a smoke from a friend.

Perhaps he’s not the only one looking for some kind of release.

He watches as Mikasa unflinchingly takes a drag of his cigarette, breathing in the smoke and expelling it just as slowly. She passes it back to him and he takes his turn, silently looking her way as little puffs hang in the air.

It’s only now that Jean remembers what it’s like being next to her again.

The red scarf he’s used to seeing her in is contrasted by the dreariness in her eyes. The pink cardigan he swears she’s had forever looks odd on a person so willingly accepting a cigarette. She doesn’t seem much older in a technical sense — as she’s still as pretty as he last remembers — but she certainly acts that way, like the last three years on Paradis were longer to her than to anyone else.

Thinking about it now makes him feel guilty to have left her here while he and his remaining comrades travelled to every corner of the world. Sure, the circumstances were far from ideal and much of it was out of his control, but Jean can’t shake the image of Mikasa stewing in the demons of her past with no one else around. Even her claims that the Reiss Orphanage keeps her busy isn’t enough to shake his worries. Who could she go to for comfort? Who would listen to the thoughts on her mind? And who could understand even a fraction of them? He wishes he knew.

Eventually, Mikasa glances aside and catches him staring.

“What?”

Something inside of him clenches as he averts his gaze. Nervously, he takes a puff of his cigarette and wonders just how long he had been eyeing her before she noticed.

“...you look good,” he tells her in lieu of anything smarter. He means every word of it. He hands her the cigarette again before he can say anything dumber.

Mikasa accepts the smoke and Jean can see the slightest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You, too.”

He’s not sure if she actually means that, seeing as several of his companions — namely Pieck and Connie — have derided his scruffy beard and slicked hair for making him look like he’s trying too hard. All his attempts to look more mature have led to him appearing far from it, as even the suit he wears on-duty hangs awkwardly off his lanky frame.

But Jean grins along anyway, if not to convince himself than to convince her.

“Thanks.”

With the roll between her fingers, Mikasa inhales, exhales, then knocks some ash off the end before handing it back to Jean, who does the same. They say nothing else as they fall into the silence, going between enjoying what could be the last cigarette on Paradis and taking in the view of the garden gleaned from the swings. When he glances up he sees a sky full of stars, a sight he’s seen a thousand times before. The light pollution on the Island is not as strong as it is in the rest of the world, and thus the twinkling dots in the atmosphere seem to shine just a little bit brighter.

When he’s not looking at the sky he’s looking at her. As Jean passes the cigarette again and watches Mikasa slowly inhale from what remains, he finds that the newness of discovering this side of her is fading away, like he’s getting used to it already. He also finds that maybe in this instance what Mikasa needs more than ever is a friend.

…

Now.

A Walk Up The Coast.

The Barkeep’s definition of ‘just up the coast’ turns out to be a half-hour walk. There are no roads leading there, just the dirt underneath her boots, the ocean to her left, and the hat on her head grows warm underneath the coastal sun. The surf keeps her company with every step. The sound of the waves ease her worries and make her forget the very real possibility that this could all be for naught, that her attempts to satiate her curiosity could be a complete waste of time.

In due time Mikasa spots something on the horizon. With a few more steps the dot in the distance gets bigger. The closer she gets the more she is able to see the unmistakable sight of a cottage by the sea.

Soon she is close enough to see the place in its entirety. The structure is built of wood on the grass, just a stone’s throw from where the earth turns to sand. Two storeys under a roof of slanted tile, a mix of greys, blues, and greens that reminds her of the painting in the tavern. It appears like something she’s seen in storybooks — she can already imagine the place housing fisherman’s wife, constantly braving the storm and as she waits for her lover to return.

Mikasa presumes that the place is as new as every other coastal building, yet the way the world has weathered the cottage walls makes it look just a bit older. The curtains are pulled over the windows, making it difficult for her to glean any signs of life. As she continues to take in the place she sees things like the dry, lifeless garden beds at the front and the laundry lines at the back, where an array of shirts and sheets dry in the ocean breeze.

Then cutting through the sound of the waves and the wind is the barking of a dog.

Mikasa’s attention is brought to the side of the house that's farthest from the water. She steps towards the sound before she is brought to the sight of a barn behind the cottage, a structure that is slightly smaller than the main building and made of much older wood.

In front of the barn’s slightly ajar door is a dog, one with dark brown fur, pointed ears, and a slender snout. She recognizes the breed as the kind that would be deployed alongside a squad of soldiers, where a vicious temperament and a set of sharp teeth could be trained to mar and maim. However, the canine in front of her now has such a sweet smile on its face that Mikasa can’t possibly imagine it being used for such things.

The dog is panting happily and wagging its tail so rapidly that its rear end shakes, assuring Mikasa that despite the barking it interprets her as anything but a threat.

She only takes a few steps towards the barn before stopping, still unsure on who actually lives here or whether this was all a good idea in the first place.

Mikasa’s eyes go to the window of the shack. Inside she can make out the shape of a person, as well as what appears to be various canvases covered in paint. Perhaps she's on the right track after all.

The dog barks again before another sound enters the atmosphere.

“Hugo! Shut it!” comes a man’s voice from inside the barn.

Through the window she watches the man walk in front of the paintings and towards the door, where he slowly steps into the light. Now standing in the outside with a paintbrush in hand, he glares at the dog currently yapping in front of his barn.

“What’s going on, Boy?” he asks, then barely a second passes before he looks up and sees her.

And immediately she knows it’s him.

The confirmation that her hunch was correct fills her not with satisfaction, but the kind of shock that one only feels when they’re doubting what they see.

He looks close to how he did in the photograph. She notices things like how the beard on his face is a little bit thicker — like he hasn’t trimmed it in a while — and how his hair is just a bit longer. He looks older as well, weathered and rough around the edges even though Mikasa knows he’s not a day above twenty-seven. His clothes are a far cry from the suits we would wear as an Ambassador, the last thing she can remember seeing him in. He’s sporting a rugged sweater, the kind she’s seen fishermen wear. Spots of dried paint are scattered all over his trousers and boots.

And after everything he’s still Jean Kirschtein.

Going completely still, her old friend lets his hazel eyes peer into her like he’s seeing a ghost.

For what feels like forever the only sound between them is that of the waves hitting the land and the wind blowing so fast that the warmth of the sun feels scant on her skin.

Then Mikasa breaks the silence.

“Hey.”

Jean looks her up and down, as if to make sure that it’s really her.

“Hey.”

…

Then.

Wine and Friends.

This particular room in Historia’s palace is not usually used by guests, but rather by the staff during their routinely breaks. The place is smaller and more easily tucked away, and in the middle of which is a table much smaller than those in the palace’s many dining halls.

Illuminated by incandescent lights, the room proves to be the perfect spot for old friends to converge.

In the middle of a round table are several bottles of wine, most of them uncorked and halfway finished. At this point of the evening Jean is only on his second glass, and while he's far from buzzed, the drink does wonders in keeping him at ease after a long day of meetings. As he sips on wine more expensive than his entire outfit, he listens to the conversations being thrown around him.

Connie is on his third helping of wine as he practically leads the discussion, gesturing wildly with his free hand and clutching his glass in the other. He's practically beaming as he recalls all the wonderful things he’s witnessed during the last few years.

With their work taking them all across the globe he’s certainly accumulated his fair share of stories, but what Jean doesn’t get is why Connie is choosing to tell the more humiliating ones. Specifically, the ones that involve him — Jean — making a fool of himself.

At least Armin and Mikasa seem to be having fun, though the former seems to be doing so because all it takes is one drink before he finds everything utterly laugh-worthy. On the other hand, Mikasa is doing a much better job at pacing herself, preferring to sip her wine slowly to savour the moment and appreciate the company of old friends.

Jean steals glances at her as the night goes on. Under the orange and yellow lights she looks almost ethereal, smiling sweetly as she listens to Connie’s every word. She looks far more calm than she did in the garden — more assured, more peaceful, like she doesn't need a cigarette between her fingers to numb whatever's inside. She looks out of place compared to him, Connie, and Armin, as she's donning her usual scarf and sweater while the three of them are still in their suits, albeit with pieces removed here and there. Even if Jean's removed his jacket and loosened his tie, the clothing that Mikasa wears is just another sign that she’s not a part of their life.

But that's not necessarily a bad thing. After all the travelling they've done in the last three years alone and the habits he's developed to cope with the stress, Jean can't imagine Mikasa ever enjoying it. Perhaps in some ways, her remaining on the Island was for the best.

Jean takes another pull of his wine as Connie recalls the time the Ambassadors stayed a night at some coastal village. Neither of them can even remember the name of the place, just that the drinks at the local tavern were plentiful and that the people were very welcoming to the visitors. It only took a few glasses of brandy for Jean to end up in the arms of a lady with green eyes, blonde hair, and an apparent affinity for horse-faced diplomats. Though maybe that was the alcohol speaking.

Nonetheless, Connie makes sure to use rather colourful language when describing the way the lady had been straddling Jean’s lap as she mashed her face against his, kissing him like the corner of the tavern belonged to them and only them. The fact that she eventually came to her senses and abruptly walked off was simply icing on the cake.

The story makes Connie guffaw and causes Jean’s ears to go red. If this hadn't been the first time he had seen Connie smiling in months, then he wouldn't have hesitated to smack him silly.

Armin trills with the laughter of a man who will feel everything in the morning. If Jean recalls Armin hadn’t been there when the incident happened, as he opted to spend the night at his room in the inn (and definitely not in Annie’s). Perhaps now he regrets his habit of never joining the guys to go drinking — he missed the opportunity to see Jean strike out in-person.

“And then... and then!” Connie continues with a goofy grin. “She just fuckin’ bolts! Leaves Jean standin’ there lookin’ like an idiot!”

Once more Armin laughs like a hyena and Mikasa hums, amused. In contrast, Jean gives Connie a glare before reaching for the bottle on the table. He tops up his glass before taking another pull, a longer one this time.

“Yeah, yeah, real funny, Connie,” Jean mutters after he puts his glass down.

Connie makes a childish face. “Lighten up, Horse-Man, can’t you take a joke?”

“Can't you learn to make one?”

“Why don't you suck my-”

Nearly at his limit, Jean shoots his friend a scowl and Connie holds up his hands like there’s nothing wrong with what he just said. In any other circumstances either Pieck, Armin, or occasionally Annie would intervene to stop the two from killing each other like feral cats. But considering that Armin's incapacitated and on the track to a lovely hangover, there's no one around to halt the chaos.

Before Connie can strike back, Mikasa speaks up.

“Okay, stop,” she chides, directing her voice to Connie specifically. “You're embarrassing him.” Her tone is playful, but firm enough to get her point across.

Mikasa’s words come through and Connie backs down. He settles back into his seat as he finishes the wine in his glass.

Once the moment is over Jean can feel the flame inside of himself starting to quell. When he eyes Mikasa across the table he notices that her smile is a little bit wider.

Their gazes meet just as Connie continues to speak and Armin continues to laugh at nothing in particular. Jean holds his glass up to his mouth and makes sure she can see the indebted look on his face. He mouths a quick ‘Thank you’ and she mouths ‘You’re welcome’ back, an exchange that is over as soon as it starts.

…

A Walk in The Palace.

As Jean walks through the palace halls, he feels the effect of the drink with every step. But yet he is cognizant of things like the ornate trim on the windowsills, the moon peeking through the cloudy sky outside, or the tipsy hooligans currently stumbling around in front of him.

Armin lives up to his reputation as the lightweight amongst the Ambassadors and wobbles about like a baby deer. Requiring the help to get to his room, he walks with one arm around Connie's shoulder while his legs struggle to keep him upright. It’s a sight Jean’s seen before, usually the aftermath of a night at a pub, and something that never ceases to bring a smile to his face. With his jacket slung over his shoulder he watches fondly as Armin’s attempt to walk nearly throws Connie off balance.

As Armin receives a scolding for nearly bringing both him and Connie down, Jean looks aside to check on their other comrade, the one who's not usually present during moments like this.

Mikasa walks with her hands clasped in front of her, beaming demurely as she watches her childhood friend lumber and lurch after two glasses of wine. She almost looks proud to witness Armin nearly tripping over his two feet and Connie narrowly preventing him from hitting his stupid head on the floor.

Once the group finally arrives at Armin and Annie’s room, Connie turns towards the less-drunk members of their little quartet and gives them a nod.

“Run along, you crazy kids, I got this,” Connie assures before opening the door. With Armin still on his shoulder he takes one step into the room before calling out, “Hey, Annie! I got your boy right here!”

Jean only gets a brief glimpse inside the room, but in that short time he is able to spot Annie on the bed clad in her usual sleepwear, a book balanced on her knee as her once-quiet night abruptly comes to an end. When she glances up and sees Armin leaning against Connie’s shoulder, her typical bored expression morphs into that of surprise. It’s enough to make Jean and Mikasa share a quick curt laugh before Connie tosses Armin to the bed, closing the door behind him.

Once they’re alone in the hallway Jean only spends a few seconds listening to the stumbling from inside the room before glancing aside, where Mikasa meets his gaze.

He clears his throat. “Could I walk you to your room?”

She nods her head. “I’d like that.”

Jean drapes his jacket over his forearm as the two begin to walk. It’s fortunate that he knows where her quarters are in this maze of a palace. He’s still unsure who made it so her room was directly across from his, but best case scenario it’s a mere coincidence and worst case scenario it’s Historia messing with him. It seems that even the Queen of Paradis needs ways to spark joy into her life.

At this time of night Jean doesn’t complain and simply lets Mikasa lead the way. Her usual scarf is draped loosely around her neck, the material remaining untied and swaying with every step.

“Tonight was fun,” Jean tells her. “We should do it again.”

“We should,” she agrees. Soon a playfulness seeps into her voice. “But only if Armin can handle it.”

As they walk Jean notices her glancing out the window more than once. Knowing how easily one can see the garden at any part of the palace, he wonders if she can see the tree where they shared a cigarette, an encounter that only happened the other night yet feels so long ago.

When they arrive at their rooms Mikasa goes to her door and Jean goes to his, but lets his eyes linger on her for a few more seconds. Just before she touches the knob, she turns her head and meets Jean’s gaze as he stands on his side of the hallway.

“See you in the morning?” she asks like it’s a possibility that she won’t.

The earnestness in her voice makes him grin. “Of course.”

Mikasa goes still as she stands in front of her door, then only a second passes before she’s walking towards him again. Before Jean knows it she’s embracing him, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding him in a rather stilted hug. He immediately stiffens under her touch. Her head is not against his shoulder like the way she hugs Armin, but against Jean’s chest, a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel. The rate of his heartbeat makes him feel uneasy, worsened by the fact that she can definitely hear it. It takes a moment before he’s hugging her back, though on his end the gesture is embarrassingly awkward.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of the wine. He can’t imagine her doing it without it. Once she breaks from him she goes back to her door, avoiding his gaze up until her hand touches the knob.

Still enraptured in newfound shock, Jean watches as she opens the door, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest still not going away. A new sense of heat begins creeping up into his face, making him wonder if he’s blushing and if she can see it.

Before she can slip away into the night, Jean finally finds the willingness to speak.

“Good night, Mikasa,” he tells her in a voice that’s just above a whisper.

Mikasa stops in place, slowly craning her head around to finally look at him. Her eyes look darker in this light.

“Good night, Jean.”

…

Now.

Spilling The Tea.

Jean is much more cordial than she expects. Despite the unmistakable wariness in his eyes, he invites her to sit on his porch before ducking into his home. For a few minutes she's left alone with nothing better to do than pet Hugo, who seems to be the only one who's happy she's here. She occupies herself by sitting on the front step and caressing the dog's fur — at least the sight of Hugo wagging his tail in absolute delight distracts her from the feelings inside. Soon Jean emerges from the cottage with a pot and two mugs. She didn’t even ask for tea, so she guesses that he brewed it more for his nerves than hers.

In silence they sit beside each other, the only thing occupying the space between them being his tea set and the sounds of the sea. Mikasa holds the mug with two hands, the warmth against her palms contrasting with the chill of the ocean wind.

It's from here that she can truly appreciate the simplicity of the sea — the scent, the sight, the intoxicating mix of sand, water, and sun. She's seen views like this in photographs and paintings, but no medium can capture things like the salt on her skin, the wind tousling her hair, or Hugo playing in the grass.

The longer she takes it in, the calmer she feels. It eases her worries as she takes a breath and braces herself to look Jean's way.

He’s currently slouching with his elbows on his knees, holding all of his tension in his shoulders as he avoids her gaze. His longer hair shrouds his face like a curtain. Instead of finding it in himself to look at her, he watches his dog roll across the grass, almost like she doesn’t even exist.

Mikasa tries not to compare him too much to the person she last knew, or even to the words of his final letter. Five years is enough time to change anybody, yet a part of her still expects him to be the same. To be the Ambassador who attends meetings by day and sneaks off to smoke cigarettes by night. To be the guy who slicks his hair with his fancy pomades and adjusts his tie before entering the boardroom. To be the artist kills time between events by sitting in the Queen’s garden with his trusty sketchbook balanced on his knee, either using charcoal or watercolours to create a masterpiece within the pages.

She wonders why he’s been hiding out here, of all places. There are certainly more glamorous towns for someone like him to reside in, even on the Island. But suddenly the world they live in comes crashing down like the ocean waves. She recalls that Jean betrayed the Island the second he joined the Alliance, knowing full well that stopping the Rumbling would label him a traitor for the rest of his life. Even if Armin had taken the brunt of burden that came with being the Man who Killed Eren Jaeger, to assume that no weight had been shouldered onto Jean — a close friend and ally — was shortsighted.

Perhaps this is the safest place for him to be, tucked away like a secret to remain hidden for the rest of time. It’s hard to imagine a Jaegerist coming this far to plant a bomb underneath his chair and exact revenge. Perhaps this is why he no longer goes by his actual name, preferring to hide behind the alias he signs in the bottom corner of his paintings, quietly secluded in his own corner of Paradis. Mikasa wonders if the people of the port town have any inkling of the truth.

She still doesn't know what to say. Her fear of being too forward is confounded with the fear of letting the silence between them persist for any longer.

The main questions pressing at her mind is why he never told her he was here and why he even came back. But her instincts tell she shouldn't bring it up, not yet. A flurry of possibilities spin in her head, potential conversations that she could blurt out and get it over with because the persistent wordlessness between them is becoming unbearable.

Somehow, Jean beats her to the punch by speaking first.

“How exactly did you find me?”

Mikasa focuses on her tea and can nearly see her reflection in the liquid.

“I was in town. I went to this tavern and… there was one of your paintings on the wall. The barkeep just kept talking and talking about it, he…” She glances aside to see if Jean is looking at her. He’s not. “...he showed me your photo. Said you lived just up the coast and..." She takes a breath to calm herself. "... and I thought I’d check on you.”

Jean says nothing for a few agonizing seconds before letting out a sigh. “Seb,” he says, frustrated. He continues to slouch and holds his face in his hand. “He doesn’t know when to shut up.”

The first thing she wonders is if Seb the Barkeep is privy to the truth, noting that Jean’s first-name basis with the man implies a level of familiarity. Perhaps Jean is better at hiding his past than she expected, even when spending his nights under the glow of tavern lights.

Judging by the quietude of his new home, no one has managed to deduce that ‘Jehan the Painter’ is one of the people who betrayed Paradis, or the Ambassador of peace who helped argue for a better world. Perhaps her recognition of him is the only one that slipped through the cracks — there are some faces in her life that she’ll never truly forget.

Noticing the furball on the grass, Mikasa tries to change the subject.

“How long have you had Hugo?”

“Two years,” Jean mumbles, taking his face out of his hand. “Two and a half, I think.”

She can’t stop the next question from leaving her mouth. “That’s how long you’ve been here?”

With the slightest bit of apprehension, Jean shakes his head and focuses his gaze to the sea. “No, uh… I’ve been here for three.”

Mikasa eyes him, confused. “Three?” She tries not to let an accusatory tone enter her voice.

It’s only now when Jean finally looks at her, cautious eyes settling into hers. “...yeah, three years.”

She doesn’t want to be mad at him, but the revelation sparks something in her that makes her even more aware of what she says and how she says it.

“That’s…” she starts, then takes a quick breath. “I’m happy for you.” She takes a sip from her cup — there’s a slight metallic taste to the tea but she doesn’t care.

Jean raises an eyebrow. “You are?”

“Of course.” Mikasa nods her head and refocuses her attention to Hugo on the grass. “This is a nice house.”

“It wasn’t when I first got here, but uh…” He turns around and looks at the front door with all the sheepishness of a nervous schoolboy. “I fixed it up.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘fixed it up?’ ”

Jean meets her eyes again and she tilts her head slightly, which seems to get across the fact that she’s toying with him.

A faint smile tugs at Jean’s lips. “I mean someone tried to build themselves a beach house and abandoned it halfway. I just did the rest.”

Mikasa hums as things begin to make more sense. Considering that her legs still tingle from the trek here, she can’t fathom why someone would even bother building a home so far from the nearest town. Then again, her little abode just off the Reiss Orphanage’s property is more removed from Shiganshina than she would like.

But in regards to the Jean's new home, finishing what one person began does feel more plausible than starting from scratch. In the time that she’s known him she never took him for the handyman type, yet the evidence to prove it is right in front of her. Perhaps helping build a railroad laid the seeds for him building himself a cottage by the sea.

The exterior of the place is painted light gray — except for the shutters and the windowsills, which are painted white. Even with the chipping on the edges she would be hard-pressed to call the cottage a shack. For a building under constant push of ocean winds, it looks comfortable, sturdy, like it could stand for a thousand years.

“You did a good job, Jean,” she assures him, smiling his way for what feels like the first time in forever.

There is a beat where the only thing between them is the ocean breeze and the sound of crashing water, then the bashfulness in Jean’s face returns.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “That uh… that means a lot to me.” There’s almost a sweetness to the way he speaks, a new sense of warmth imbuing his every word.

Feeling more at ease, Mikasa takes another sip of her tea. “Your garden could use some work though,” she points out, that familiar feeling of camaraderie having returned.

“Yeah…” Jean resigns. He finally picks up his mug from where it stands on the porch, holding it in front of him as he rests his forearm on his knee. “I’ve been busy lately.”

Mikasa takes note of the paint stains on his forearms, calloused hands, and clothing. They look fresh.

“I can tell.”

…

Living Spaces and Photographs.

Once the late afternoon meets the early evening, Jean gathers up his tea set and invites her into his cottage like the good host he is. He opens the door and it’s Hugo who reacts before she does. With little green blades sticking to his fur, he stops his romp in the grass before skipping past the guest on the porch and slipping inside. Jean rolls his eyes at his dog’s antics, but Mikasa simply smiles as she stands.

She enters the cottage to see Hugo getting comfortable in the main living space. Having hopped onto the couch, he rolls around on the pile of cushions and blankets like it’s what he was born to do. The grass that had once clung to his fur are now scattered onto Jean’s furniture.

The grin on Mikasa’s face gets wider, yet when she looks aside to see Jean stepping in he’s running a hand through his hair again. He seems embarrassed that his faithful companion is acting like that in front of a visitor.

“I’ll get started on dinner,” Jean announces as he moves past her.

“I can help-”

He barely takes a step before stopping where he is. “It’s fine,” he insists, raising his hand up. “You’re my guest.”

He doesn’t say another word before continuing towards the doorway leading to the kitchen. Soon the sound of him scrounging around his cupboards and drawers fills the air, leaving Mikasa with nothing to do but observe his new home.

Occupying the main space is a couch fit for a dog, a dinner table that’s seen better days, and an armchair near a lamp perfect for curling up with a good book. By the window is a desk being shrouded by what remains of the afternoon sun and a gramophone near a shelf of vinyl discs. The latter in particular is something she hadn’t expected him to have all the way out here, him living a simple life and all. Her best guess is that his proximity to the port town gives him slightly more access to new technology than the average Paradisian, recorded music included.

Mikasa steps over to the desk and observes the stack of stationery and well-loved fountain pen. Her hand touches the wood and she thinks of all the letters he writes in this cozy little spot. But upon catching sight of a familiar ornate cigarette case and a matchbox near the corner she suddenly has an inkling of what he actually uses this space for.

Considering his current profession, Mikasa is surprised to see that most of the decor in Jean’s home consists of photographs. She really did expect to see a lot more paintings. As she steps around the space, admiring the frames hung above his desk, she guesses that most of the pictures have come from his ventures off the Island.

One photograph is of Armin standing on a beach that she doesn’t recognize, barefoot and clad in a flowy linen shirt. It reminds Mikasa of the letters she’s exchanged with her beloved friend over the years, wherein he’ll make up for his inability to visit the Island by detailing his life with Annie at some coastal cottage on the mainland and she’ll read his words with unbridled glee. Armin’s letters always give her a sense of comfort, yet even with all the pictures he would send she never understood why he would constantly sing the praises of living so close to the sea.

Until now, that is.

Mikasa looks at other photographs, all of which contain familiar faces. One is of Jean and Connie standing in the hallway of a moving train, old friends that fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Another picture shows Jean sitting in a boardroom with Reiner and Annie, the latter two looking rather uncomfortable with having a camera shoved in their faces. Then one picture near a window catches her attention the most.

Armin’s cheery face is the closest thing to the lens. From the way his arm is reaching beyond the frame it’s safe to assume that he’s the one taking the picture, having turned the camera towards himself for once. Behind him is a tavern, a place that looks indistinguishable to the few she’s been in, and in the seats of a table are the rest of the Ambassadors. Connie and Pieck are on one end, his arm slung around her shoulder like they’ve been friends forever. The lively expressions on their faces is either an effect of the drink or a sign that they’ve grown quite chummy over the years. Reiner and Annie are in the middle of the table and are still proving to be painfully camera shy, Annie in particular holding up her wine glass to obscure her face.

And on the farthest end is Jean. He looks more relaxed than the first photograph she’s seen of him, holding up a foamy stein with a contented look on his handsome face. His tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up, painting a picture of a man who’s finally been given the chance to let go. He looks tidier than he does now, the edges of his beard clean and sharp while his hair is slicked back, a perfect look for an Ambassador of peace, but a far cry from the person currently making her dinner.

“Are you okay with wine?” Jean’s voice suddenly says.

Mikasa turns towards the kitchen and sees Jean in the doorway holding up a bottle. She nods and he mirrors her gesture.

In the background is the sound of something sizzling, a savoury aroma entering the air. Jean walks back into the kitchen and begins rummaging around again. Mikasa walks to the table in the middle of everything and wonders if she should offer a hand, even if she already knows his answer. She takes a breath and tries to find something to comment on, quickly scanning the walls until she spots a framed photograph of an older woman who shares Jean’s eyes.

“How’s your mother?” she asks.

Mikasa looks through the doorway and sees Jean holding two glass jars. Suddenly he goes still, his shoulders stiffening as he faces away from her. The way he halts himself is jarring. He stays like this for a second before saying —

“She’s fine.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

He still doesn’t look at her as he walks to the living space.

“A while ago,” he answers. His face remains stony as he uncorks the wine bottle and pours her a healthy serving of white wine into one of the jars.

Mikasa narrows her eyes, noticing the tension in the way he hands her a serving of wine, their fingers grazing for a moment. She can practically see the thoughts occupying his head, notions that are clear as day to him but aren’t reaching his mouth. She’s tempted to ask if he’s alright or if she’s said something wrong, and she damn near does before he speaks again.

“...I gotta finish dinner.” Jean pours some wine for himself, takes a healthy pull from the jar, and puts it down before walking back to the kitchen.

Once he’s gone Mikasa makes sure that the sigh she expels isn’t too loud. She lets herself watch him through the doorway again, where she sees him put down his jar and begin chopping vegetables. She takes note of how much attention and care he puts towards the meal, even for someone like her, then takes her first pull of wine for the night.

…

Dinner and Tales of Heartbreak.

Dinner consists of seared scallops, steamed potatoes, and a salad made of herbs, tomatoes, and onions. For something he hastily cobbled together out of whatever he could find in his kitchen, he's certainly gone above and beyond, she thinks. As she pokes at her food she wonders how often he has to cook for company, but decides against actually asking him about it.

The gramophone in the corner plays a melody over dinner. It still boggles Mikasa's mind how a machine can read a bunch of grooves on disc and turn it into music, playing noise that she had only associated with live ensembles. Something like that would have been unheard of not even a decade ago, she's not sure when she'll get used to it. The tunes that Jean has selected are filled with horns, plucked strings, and some of the smoothest beating drums that she's ever heard.

They sit apart on the farthest ends of the dinner table, Hugo lying underneath and curling up into a ball by her feet. As she spears a tomato slice with her fork, Mikasa wonders whether Jean gets his food from the nearby town or grows it, then is swiftly reminded of the abysmal garden beds outside. She’s tempted to bring it up again and make his lack of horticultural skill a recurring topic between the two, something she could tease him about and maybe share a laugh over. In fact, there are many things Mikasa can ask of him now — like where he learned to paint, or where he got Hugo, or how often he makes the half-hour trek into town. But when she looks up to meet him across the table, the first thing she sees is the tenderness in Jean’s eyes.

Something about it unsettles her. She feels a tightness in her chest when she realizes just how long it had been since he had looked at her like that.

“What?”

Silence follows and all Mikasa can focus on is the very subtle upturn of Jean's lips. He hasn't even touched his food yet.

“You look good,” he says, and Mikasa can't tell if he had said something similar to her back then or if it was the other way around. There are some things she can’t trust to be a memory or a dream.

The ache in her chest does not subside, so on instinct she reaches for the jar near her plate and brings it to her lips. She takes a breath to aid her composure before welcoming a pull of wine.

Jean chuckles as he reaches for his own jar. Barely an hour ago, the man sitting across from her was slumped on his front stoop, unable to even acknowledge a ghost from his past — but now he is unable to to take his eyes off of her.

He looks different in this light — scruffier, rugged, and sun-kissed from the past summer — yet some parts of him still feel the same. His broad shoulders, long face, and the way he fills out his sweater creates a familiar silhouette, even when the full beard and shoulder-length hair is still a novelty to her. For all her observations of how he’s gotten wiser, there’s a kind of boyish earnestness in the way he stares at her.

“The scallops are nice,” Mikasa decides to say, putting down her jar and ignoring the warmth now spreading inside of her.

“That’s good to hear.” Jean puts down his jar as well, finally picking up his utensils. “For a second I was worried.”

“Why so?”

“Because you don’t like seafood that much, right?”

Mikasa’s eyebrow quirks up. “How do you know that?”

“Remember that day by the beach?” Jean asks. “When Niccolo was cooking for us? You barely touched a thing.”

It takes her a second, but soon it comes back to her — a sunny day by the sea, plates of food she’s never seen before arranged on a table, Niccolo looking initially displeased to be cooking for Eldians, and Sasha stuffing her face with shellfish before proclaiming that it was the best thing she’s ever had. To this day Mikasa still can’t believe that this of all things sparked Niccolo’s affections for her old friend.

But as of now, the main thing she’s unable to believe is how Jean can remember such a vague detail while she can’t.

“I… a little bit,” she tells him. Even with the memory stirred, she can't recall actually tasting the food. No wonder Jean got the impression that she didn't like seafood. “That was so long ago, how do you still remember that?"

Jean pauses and she can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“I remember a lot of things, Mikasa,” he eventually says, a huskiness to how he speaks.

To distract herself from the way his voice grazes her ears, she gathers another forkful of salad and changes the subject.

“Where’d you learn how to cook?”

“Niccolo, actually.”

“You see him often?”

“Uh… I haven’t seen him in a while, actually, but he taught me a few things back then,” Jean admits. He rubs the back of his neck. “Is he still living with Sasha’s folks?”

Mikasa isn't sure but she can imagine it. She does not keep in contact with the Brauses as much as she should, and before she knows it the guilt of never visiting her beloved friend’s family washes over her. She wants to find something to blame it on — like her shifts at the orphanage or life in general — which is a good enough reason yet she still feels bad. The last time she saw them was four years ago, when she bumped into Artur and Kaya at a market in Shiganshina. All she can really recall from the encounter was the girl being taller than she last remembered and not much else.

In another world, Mikasa imagines that Niccolo could have become part of Sasha’s family another way. She has memories of lying in her cot after a long day of training or government meetings. Despite the events behind them Sasha would still have the energy to chat her ear off. Mikasa remembers listening to Sasha gush about how she took Niccolo for a walk by the river, or how Niccolo cooked something new for her to try, or how they kissed in the shade of an old tree. Even if exhaustion would inevitably take over and make Mikasa fall asleep, a part of her will always cherish her and Sasha’s late-night chats.

“I think so,” Mikasa answers. “Have you stayed in contact with anyone else?”

“Armin and Annie,” he starts. “Through letters, usually. Connie, obviously, and Reiner. Sometimes Pieck.”

Mikasa only knows the exploits of Armin and Annie, but in regards to everyone else she's unfortunately lost touch.

“What are they up to nowadays? Aside from Armin and Annie, I mean.” She gives him a knowing smile. “He sends me letters, too.”

Jean nods along. “Well, uh… we’re all kinda scattered nowadays. Last I heard, Connie and Reiner are still traveling together. Just…” He blows some air from his lungs as he tries to remember every detail. “...wherever they can go. They never stay anywhere for too long. And Pieck’s with her Dad. He’s…”

For a few seconds he goes still, briefly glancing down before taking in a breath. “...he’s not doing so well, guess she wants to be around him.”

After letting out a sigh, Jean reaches for his wine jar again. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Mikasa is tempted to ask what has him so bothered, but before she can Jean suddenly breaks eye contact and looks below the table. The canine that was once asleep by her feet is now pawing at his master’s lap in the hopes of getting some leftovers.

“Hugo, no!”

The dog is persistent and shows no signs of backing down. The slightest snicker escapes Mikasa’s throat as Jean struggles to calm the beast. He puts his wine down and pushes his plate away from the table's edge, which effectively keeps his dinner away from Hugo but knocks over his drink. White wine swiftly spills over the table and dribbles onto his clothes, causing Jean to stand and wipe at himself with a napkin.

“Fucking hell…”

“I can-”

“It’s fine,” Jean insists, gesturing for her to remain seated as goes to the kitchen.

Hugo continues to smile and wag his tail, completely oblivious to the chaos he just caused.

Mikasa watches as Jean returns to the living space with several dishcloths and cleans the mess with the kind of speed that would make Levi proud. She notices that most of the wine that didn’t get on the table now clings to his sweater.

“Dammit, Hugo!” Jean grumbles. “First girl we’ve had here in forever and you do this?!”

His words catch Mikasa off-guard in a way she can’t quite describe. In a day full of unexpected things, the world seems keen on finding even more things to surprise her. She sees the slightest hints of panic in Jean's eyes — he didn’t mean for the words to slip, but now that they’re out he can’t take them back.

For the last hour Mikasa had been watching what she says, but at this moment she can’t stop herself from asking the first thing that comes to mind.

“Were you seeing someone?”

Jean doesn't break eye contact. She’s not sure how many seconds pass before he finally opens his mouth.

“‘Seeing’ is not the best way to describe it,” he admits.

Before saying anything else, he cleans up the rest of the wine before walking back to the kitchen. When he re-emerges the initial jitters instilled in him are gone, but the nervous way he runs a hand through his hair says enough.

“But… I was in town delivering a piece, met her in a tavern and… yeah.”

It only takes a few seconds for a flurry of other questions to pop into Mikasa’s mind. She wonders if this woman knew the truth about the charming painter who lived up the coast. The thought of such a thing makes the anxious feeling in her chest return. She speculates that he called himself “Jehan” when in the midst of his tryst, anything to protect the little bubble of safety he created for himself, but she can't be sure. Instead of asking anything to satiate that part of her curiosity, she instead says —

“What was her name?”

“Loena.”

Mikasa hums as she realizes she’s never heard that name before. “Sounds exotic.”

Jean chuckles, the slightest sense of relief filling his eyes. “She was local, actually. Grew up in one of the villages out east.”

“And what was she doing around here?”

“Well… let's just say that she really liked me,” says Jean, sighing.

In the span of a second Mikasa conjures an image of the woman. Even if she can't think of much, the picture of Jean being so kissed lovingly by a different pair of lips comes to mind. She almost wants to chastise herself for even thinking of such a thing. Of course, he found comfort in someone else's arms over the last few years. Of course, he connected to someone the way only lovers can. What right does she have to say that he cannot?

Once more Jean steps away from the table, turning around and slowly pulling off his sweater. He slips into a room that leads to the back of the cottage, where the sight of a metal basin and washboard tells her that this is where he does his laundry. Through the swinging doors Mikasa respectfully diverts her gaze at the brief glimpse of his bare shoulders, allowing him some privacy as he fishes for something a little less wine-soaked. When he returns he's buttoning a spotless collared shirt over his torso, stepping back to the dining table without missing a beat. Through it all Mikasa is able to glimpse a familiar scar on his collarbone.

“Her husband, however…” Jean continues.

He rolls his eyes like he's already over everything, but in contrast Mikasa is concerned.

“She was married?”

Jean nods half-heartedly as he sits down again. “Guess bored housewives have nothing better to do.”

Despite her relief that the conversation has been steered in a less weighty direction, Mikasa now has other reasons to worry for Jean. His nonchalance over the whole ordeal makes her wonder if he’s had time to process things or wasn't as invested in the relationship as he could have been.

“Did you…” Mikasa starts, though she doesn't have the clearest idea of what to say. “...did you like her? Before you learned the truth?”

Jean’s unbothered attitude continues as he refills his wine jar. “A little bit, yeah. But shit happens, right?”

He takes a sip and the ever-present thought in Mikasa's mind is that he's still taking things a little too lightly. He deserved better than to be the plaything of a bored housewife, yet there he sits nursing his wine with complete disregard for the whole ordeal.

“How long ago did it happen?” she asks to keep the conversation going.

He takes a second to think. “A year? A year and a half ago, I think?”

“And here I thought you’d be staying out of trouble.”

“Well, sometimes trouble just finds me,” he scoffs. “But that's old news and… it’s not like I was being completely honest on my end either.”

The sigh she lets out is quiet, but at least another one of her questions has been answered. Mikasa looks down and refocuses her attention on the meal Jean so lovingly cooked for her. The usual taste she's learned to expect from shellfish is aided by a mix of lemon and butter, the sensation both surprises and pleases her. Before she can pay her compliments to the chef, she hears Jean speak again.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Mikasa looks up just in time to see Jean visibly cringing at himself. At least she's not the only person in this room embarrassed to be so forward.

He takes a breath and briefly looks like he would want nothing more than to stab his hand with his fork. “Or… have been seeing anyone?” he manages to stammer out. “...lately?”

Her instinct is to answer honestly. She could bore him with the details of how work keeps her hands full enough, that after making sure every child at the Reiss Orphanage is cared for she only ever has so much energy left for the day.

Her life as of now is more about surviving than thriving. The most socialization she tends to do involves lunch-time chats with her co-workers, errands in town, or the occasional visit to the palace because the Crown Princess of Paradis wants to see her Auntie Mika again. Anything beyond that feels superfluous, and truth be told she doesn't really fancy the idea of trudging to the nearest sweaty, crowded tavern to meet people.

“No,” she answers after a moment's thought, simplifying things for both her sake and his. "I don't really have the time."

The answer settles into Jean in a way that makes his eyes widen slightly, his newfound intrigue is as clear as day. Now more than ever Mikasa becomes acutely aware of how he's looking at her.

“The Orphanage keeps me pretty busy,” she clarifies, even if there’s really no need. Underneath the table her hand grasps onto her skirt and squeezes the material as tightly as she can. “It’s hard for me, too… to get to know someone new.”

Jean nods. “Yeah, I get that.” Looking slightly more content than before, he looks back to his plate and begins digging into his dinner for real.

Mikasa does the same and for a few seconds they eat in silence. She distracts herself with bites of steamed potatoes, onion salad, and seared scallops tossed in lemon and butter. The sound of music and the ocean blend together, mixing into the atmosphere in a way that calms her beating heart.

“I missed this.”

Mikasa meets his gaze across the table. “Missed what?”

Another beat, and as Mikasa waits for an answer the softness returns to Jean's hazel eyes.

“Being around you again."

On the floor Hugo returns to his original fate of curling up at Mikasa’s feet, content to continue his nap instead of begging for more leftovers. That combined with the utter fondness in Jean's eyes, a strange kind of heat begins seeping through her in a way that makes her think it could be the wine, but could also be something else entirely.

But Mikasa manages to collect herself and say —

“I missed it, too.”

…

Then.

Chaos In The Atmosphere.

Throughout his travels Jean has kept a little tin box at the bottom of his suitcase, an item that becomes his solace whenever his cigarettes cannot. Inside said box are little squares of dried watercolour paint all organized by hue. It is not a vast palette by any means, but it’s always been enough to get the job done.

He's only had the set for a year, a little memento he picked up when the Ambassadors spent a month in a city full of water and canals, but by now it looks like something he's used all his life. Little bits of pigment are splattered on every inch of the box. Bigger blots of dried paint remain where he mixed the colours, like little battle scars of the past. Even his routine wipedown of the box doesn’t rid it of every spot, but he doesn’t mind.

With his open sketchbook on his room's provided desk, Jean paints under the constant drum of a storm. Outside his window is the kind of gale that causes the rain to go sideways and the branches of a nearby tree to periodically tap the glass, a downpour that thoroughly drenches every bit of the land and hits the roof like handfuls of pebbles.

Under the glow of the candlelight, he is indifferent to the chaos in the atmosphere and paints like nothing is wrong. He’s grown accustomed to working in turbulent environments — whether it be the stateroom of a ship, the sleeping car of a moving train, or a room at an inn with Connie snoring one bed over. His room in Historia’s palace is certainly one of the more spacious places that he’s ever worked in, and for that he really can’t complain about the gale outside his window.

With the gentlest touch, Jean applies pigment over a sketch of a flower he saw on an afternoon walk in the garden. He doesn’t know what kind it is, just that the purple hue of the petals was so vibrant under the sun that he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

His skills with a paintbrush are still not where he would like them to be, a far cry from the masters of the craft that he had seen on his travels. To be able to depict landscapes of the countryside or views of the city at night in such meticulous detail is still a dream of his, one that’s far from where he stands now. So Jean keeps at it, painting for both the fantasy thinks of when pondering a life beyond the boardrooms, and for the part of his mind that had been searching for something to keep him sane.

The storm outside his window continues to bellow and blow. As Jean rinses the bristles of his paintbrush, lightning flashes in the sky. Seconds pass before thunder crashes outside the window. Then suddenly he hears a sound in the gale that makes his heart skip a beat.

It’s a scream, something loud enough to cut through the walls of his room.

Fuelled by instinct, Jean is instantly on his feet. He wastes no time as he grabs his shirt off his chair before dashing out of his room.

Pulling the garment over his torso, he crosses the hallway with haste. Panic imbues his every fiber as he finds the knob and flings the door open.

Jean’s heart is hammering inside his chest as enters the bedroom, where he is greeted to the sight of an old friend.

“What happened?”

Mikasa is sitting up on her bed, her breathing heavy and her eyes filled with the kind of terror that Jean finds sobering. It takes her a second to register that he’s in her room. Once she glances over she shakes her head, shifting until she’s sitting on the edge of the mattress and avoiding his gaze.

“I’m fine.”

Unconvinced, Jean closes the door behind him before refocusing his attention on her. “No, it’s not. You screamed.”

Mikasa looks like a mess, her hair unruly and unkempt as a sheen covers her face.

“Why are you even here?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

She shakes her head again. “No, I mean... why? ”

There’s something accusatory in the way she’s eyeing him and Jean doesn’t know what to tell her.

Because the last few years had attuned him to the cries of his friends. More than once has Connie or Reiner woken up in the midst of the night, gasping and covered in a cold sweat, struggling to gain control of their panicked breaths.

Connie gets it worse, however, often thrashing or screaming in his bunk and jolting Jean awake no matter how late it is. He doesn’t know the exact reason why Connie’s nightmares terrorize him even more, but he’s made a few guesses. Beyond everything they’ve seen in their twenty odd years of life, there are nights where Connie is too restless sleep or days where he is too sullen to eat. There are moments where he is so stressed from their duties as Ambassadors that he can’t let himself breathe.

And it's on the nights where everything boils over that Jean steps in. He’s gotten used to letting his best friend rest on his shoulder or in his arms as Connie waits for his world to feel normal again. He’ll ask Connie what he saw before he woke up and more often than not Jean won’t get a proper answer — just the ramblings of a man who can only ever see Sasha, Sunny, Martin, or his father in his dreams.

But Jean doesn’t tell her any of that. Instead he lingers on the sight of her looking fragile as glass on the edge of the bed, then and decides to say —

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Mikasa still looks stressed, but now he can see her expression softening into something bashful. As she catches her breath it becomes clear that she feels remorse for waking him, but some things can’t be helped.

“Go to sleep, Jean,” she whispers. Something about the rushed way she speaks doesn’t sit right with him.

“Could I sit?” Jean asks, the question leaving his mouth before he can stop it. His gut feeling tells him not to go, not until he knows that she’ll be okay.

A moment passes where the only thing Jean can hear is the sound of the storm, then she slowly nods her head.

Jean steps forward and joins her on the bed, choosing to sit on the other side to give her space. Outside the window another lightning strike briefly illuminates the room, the thunder soon following. The noise causes a slight rumble to resonate throughout the palace and makes Mikasa fidget with the bedsheets. The rain continues to batter the windows and walls.

Jean cranes his neck to keep his eyes on her and once again she looks away.

Sensing that she’ll need a moment or two, he takes the time to look at the room. The space is identical to his own but a lot more empty. His travels force him to pack light, yet as he observes the same desk, chaise lounge, and private bathroom that was provided to him, he notices a distinct lack of personal belongings in the space. At least her usual scarf is folded neatly on her nightstand.

Mikasa had never struck him as someone who owned a lot of things — not due to circumstances out of her control, but through knowing what she really needed to get by in life and shirking anything else. Yet somehow, the vacantness in her room makes Jean wonder if she’s even comfortable in the space.

“What are you doing up this late anyways?” Mikasa asks as the wind whips at the windows.

“I was painting,” Jean answers.

Various questions dance in his mind. How often does this happen? Was she awoken by the chaos of the storm? Does she still see Eren in her dreams or is something else haunting her tonight? His instincts tell him to say something, anything — but as Mikasa shifts on the mattress and rests her back against the headboard, a distinct air of melancholy hanging over her like a cloud, Jean can’t find the words.

He briefly considers running off to find Armin, something he defaults to whenever he doesn’t know what else to do. But something about the sight of Mikasa tucking her knees up to her chest motivates him to stay.

“I have this kit with all these little pans of colour, I bring it everywhere with me,” he explains to take her mind off things. “I was painting this flower I saw in the garden.”

“What kind of flower?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good with plant stuff.”

"What colour was it?"

"Purple."

“What shape were the petals?”

Despite staring at his own sketch barely a minute ago, Jean needs a second to remember. “Curved, I think?”

“Were they all clustered together?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

Mikasa begins to think, her lips remaining pursed. “It could have been a hyacinth.”

“A hyacinth,” Jean nods. A part of him is very relieved to have gotten her talking about something. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Another lull of silence follows as Jean sees her begin to mellow out.

“You know a lot about flowers,” he remarks, a friendly smile slowly finding its way onto his lips.

“I garden sometimes,” Mikasa admits.

“Have you now?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“More than the orphanage?”

Seemingly sensing the playfulness in Jean’s banter, she hums. “No. I wish I had more time for it though.”

“Maybe you’ll find it in the future,” Jean assures. A sense of relief begins to wash over him. In time the world around them starts to feel less heavy, even with the sounds of the storm outside.

“Uh… I can leave if-”

“Can you stay?”

Her words surprise Jean. After she speaks he sees something shift on her face that implies that the question surprised even her.

“I can," Jean promises, then gestures towards the middle of the mattress. "Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Jean nods. He shifts on the bed so he is sitting against the headboard. There’s still a certain amount of distance between them, as they are separated by a pile of needlessly opulent cushions and blankets. Somehow, the barrier keeps them both at ease.

As Jean crosses his arms over his chest, the most pressing thought on his mind is whether Mikasa will be okay. He wonders if the palace is really the safest place for her — because while she's far from any vengeful Jaegerist looking to cause her harm, everything about tonight is telling him that what’s hurting her now is something she can’t outrun. Her knees are still held close to her chest, her hands grasping her shins.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Jean tries, but he thinks he already knows the answer.

“No.” With only her eyes Mikasa glances aside at him. “Do you need to sleep?”

“I can stick around,” he says instead of answering her question.

She doesn't say anything else, but she nods her head. That in itself is enough for Jean to rest more of his weight against the headboard. He lets himself get a bit more comfortable, his bare feet rubbing against the silken sheets. His mind goes to the schedule of the day ahead of them, which is merely a continuation of the peace talks from the days before. He's already imagining his attempts to sneak a nap during the meeting or how much coffee he'll need to chug just to get through. But it's a small price to pay if it means making sure Mikasa isn’t alone.

Jean doesn’t know how much time passes before it becomes a struggle to stay awake. His head starts to feel heavy and begins drifting lower, but he catches himself before he can fully nod off and blinks furiously to keep himself conscious. The sound of the storm outside continues to rumble.

He looks at Mikasa's side of the bed to see her now lying under the blanket and facing away from him. He must have nodded off more than he thought because he doesn’t remember seeing her move.

While his memories are never as clear as he'd like — far too clouded by ghosts — Jean can recall an era sometime after the Liberio attack where Mikasa stuck fairly close to those she cared about. He couldn't blame her for not wanting to return to the room she used to share with Sasha, not wanting to be alone during such a sorrowful time. As a result she spent the next few nights in the same space as the boys and they didn’t mind. Jean can still remember looking across the barracks from the bunk he shared with Connie, where he would see her in the same bed as Armin and not be bothered by it one bit. It’s the kind of relationship they have always had and frankly, Jean would be more surprised if Mikasa didn’t turn to her old friend in a desperate plea for comfort.

Looking at her now, Jean is tempted to ask if she wants him to leave. But for once she looks so calm, seemingly asleep while encapsulated in the sheets. So instead Jean remains where he is. Conscious of the space between them, he keeps his arms crossed over his chest and takes a breath.

“See you in the morning.”

…

Now.

The First Goodbye.

The sun is just beginning to set when Mikasa leaves Jean’s place, casting the sky above the sea into a dreamy mix of orange and pink. As he opens the door and lets her out, she steps through with the extra weight of a promise to write and a note tucked deep in her pocket, one with the address of his mailbox in town.

“No, really, Jean,” Mikasa insists as she places her sunhat back on her head. “I can make it back just fine.”

Jean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

When she turns around she sees his jest in his eyes, but refuses to play his game. “I can handle a little walk.”

Before can respond with his usual snark, Hugo slips through the door and onto the porch. On reflex Jean manages to stop the mighty canine, promptly grasping Hugo’s collar and holding back the dog’s final attempt to leap on their guest.

“Hugo, no!” Jean exclaims for what feels like the thousandth time that day.

Mikasa lets out a polite chuckle as Jean wrangles the beast back into the house. In contrast, Hugo looks cheerful as he taps his paws against the wooden porch, his master struggling to haul him indoors.

As Jean continues his backbreaking task, Mikasa takes a moment to take in the view of the coast. In the distance she can see the water lapping at the rocks lining the beach, the sound caressing her ears with the grace of a worldly waltz. The sight of it all feels too good to be true.

To wake up to a view like this every day would be a blessing, she thinks, then once the thought comes to mind a pang of envy clenches at her heart.

Sure, she's thankful for the abode that Historia provided her, a cottage just off the property of the Reiss Orphanage, much like the one Jean built for himself. But the closest body of water to that is a creek that leads to a mere pond. To say that it pales in comparison to the cloud of seafoam gathering on the beach is an understatement.

Eventually, Jean manages to get Hugo into the cottage and closes the door before the beast can escape.

“I think he likes you too much,” he says, chuckling awkwardly.

Mikasa hums. “I was getting that impression.”

Soon comes a moment where neither of them speak, and in that time the sound of the sea does what it always does and resonates throughout this side of paradise. Only a few more seconds pass before Mikasa realizes that this may be it.

Their reunion over wine, scallops, and stories of heartbreak had finally reached its end. An afternoon and evening that had brought a sense of warmth to her, one that she hasn’t felt in the last few years, is over and she doesn’t know what to say.

She's tempted to try something like “We should do this again,” but decides against it because she's not even sure when ‘again’ would be.

Fortunately, Jean speaks before she does.

“Your hair looks nice, by the way.”

The sudden change in subject catches her off-guard. For a second she had even forgotten that she stepped into a barbershop just a few hours ago and stepped out with a bob. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly conscious of how she appears.

“I got it cut today,” she says instead of thanking him.

“Oh… well, it looks good,” he says with the earnestness he had shown all throughout dinner. “I was uh… gonna say something before, but I was afraid you’d just cut it all off again.” In no time Jean is visibly cringing at his own words. Again. “Sorry, bad joke.”

It takes a moment for Mikasa to remember exactly what he’s referring to, but soon the memory of a twelve-year-old boy telling a twelve-year-old girl that her hair was very beautiful comes to mind. Though the most vivid thing she can recall is the way Eren’s fingers touched the ends of her hair, followed by his suggestion to cut it and her immediate promise to follow through.

“You still remember that?” she asks, intrigued and impressed.

Jean chuckles again. “Well… I think I remember it a little differently.”

She wants to laugh with him, yet the only thing she can think about is how her memory is not as good as it used to be. Even if the incident he recalled happened fifteen years ago, she's embarrassed over her inability to recall even the most placid of happenings.

As Mikasa wallows in her own personal failings, Jean keeps his eyes on her and waits for her to speak again. When she doesn’t he simply runs his hand through his hair once more, unsure how to steer the conversation now.

“See you around?”

Something tightens in Mikasa's chest. “I’m actually leaving town tomorrow,” she reveals a little too abruptly.

“Tomorrow?” Jean asks, surprised. The slightest bit of disappointment is visible on his face. There's a chance that he had gotten too used to the presence of another in the last few hours, so much so that he had forgotten that it couldn't last forever. “Historia’s really forcing you on holiday, huh?”

“She’s very insistent,” Mikasa surmises, figuring that this may be the best way she can explain it.

Jean nods knowingly, though the wistful look in his eyes persists. “Come by any time, then?”

“I might,” Mikasa says, keeping the softness in her voice. She doesn't know if she'll stay true to her words, so to distract herself she glances upon the dirt beds in front of his house. “Your garden’s a mess, by the way.”

Jean sighs and nods. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t had time to uh… make it less shit. I’ve been busy.”

Once more, she notices the dots of paint on his trousers and boots, details that tell her all she needs to know.

“I figured.”

She meets his eyes again. It doesn’t take too long for her to realize that they've really been prolonging the inevitable. Another separation, but at least this one a little less bittersweet.

“I guess this is it then,” Mikasa says.

“It is,” Jean says. His words feel weighty. There's something in his eyes that tells her that he doesn't want to let go, not yet. “So… I’ll see you-”

“Jean, I’m sorry.”

She speaks before she can stop herself and already regrets it. Her sudden forwardness surprises both him and her.

As Mikasa takes a moment to ponder just how long she had been holding that in, Jean tilts his head and looks more concerned than confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry about how…” she begins, briefly thinking of the right words to say. “...how it ended last time.”

She sees Jean contemplate what she’s implying, an action that involves crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow. When he seems to realize what she had meant, his face visibly softens.

“I don’t think there’s anything to be sorry about,” he replies in a surprisingly charitable tone.

Once he says the words Mikasa thinks she should be relieved — because in theory, the weight of the remorse she had kept inside of her for the last few years should be gone. She had bottled it within her like a poison for far too long. But as she stands in front of Jean with the words of her apology now fading from the air, she realizes that nothing has changed.

“It was so long ago, too,” Jean adds, touching his chin with his thumb. “I mean… you did get my letter, right?”

The memory he asks of her is a lot more fresh — five years old, just like her regrets. But even then, she finds that she remembers it in fragments — like Jean’s handwriting on a piece of parchment, the glow of a lantern inside her log cabin, and something like a heavy cloud hanging over her head on a very dark night. Upon inspecting her memories a little more closely, Mikasa realizes that while she’s retained a lot of things surrounding Jean’s letter, she can’t recall the contents of the letter itself. Perhaps her inability to remember things precisely is trying to protect her.

“Yes,” Mikasa ends up answering, and in a way she’s telling the truth.

Jean nods like there's nothing left to stay. “Then that’s all you need to know.”

She accepts his answer with grace, even if it does nothing to change the hole in her heart. She worries if he’ll stay on the topic for any longer.

“Goodbye, Mikasa,” Jean tells her instead.

She breathes in and tries to ignore the pressing feeling that they’ve been in this position before.

“Goodbye, Jean.”

She turns around before she can say anything else, forcing her eyes away from her old friend as she steps off the porch. The wind continues to blow above the surface of the ocean, the ends of her newly trimmed bob, and at her scarf. She fears what would happen if dared to look back and moves with haste.

Her boots dig into the dirt. With every step she imagines that Jean's seaside abode gets smaller and smaller until it is nothing but a speck amongst the horizon. She leaves behind the life he had built for himself, in which he lives through brushstrokes on a canvas and quiet evenings with his dog, a life she had simply dropped in on like some goddamn tourist.

Mikasa isn’t not sure when she'll be back. But for now, she’ll return to his world and he’ll return to his.

…

Then.

The Breakfast After.

By mid-morning Jean is awoken by the light of the sun shining through the window and by the pain in his back becoming too prominent to ignore.

As he straightens his back, each ache is a lovely reminder that he had spent last night half-slumped against the headboard. The fact that his joints don’t hate him right now is a miracle, yet it doesn’t make the act of getting out of the bed any easier.

Disoriented and groggy, he blinks as he gets used to his surroundings. Once he's more awake, the first thing he realizes is that he's sitting on an empty mattress. The spot where Mikasa had slept is now completely vacant, the nightstand that once housed her neatly folded scarf is now bare.

As Jean stretches, he looks around the room and hopes for some kind of indication that she had at least slept well last night — because God knows that he sure as hell didn’t. Though he knows he’ll see her eventually, he can’t stop himself from sighing as he stands and leaves her bedroom. Even the sight of the sun rising above the storm's aftermath can’t deter the sinking feeling inside of his heart.

Jean goes across the hallway and back to his own room, where he changes into his work clothes before heading out for the day.

On top of keeping her guests sheltered during the peace talks, Queen Historia has also been keeping them fed. She had reserved one of the palace’s many dining halls just for the Ambassadors, thus allowing them to enjoy their meals in some semblance of privacy.

As per usual, Jean nearly gets lost on his way to the east wing and thanks a god he doesn’t believe in as he arrives at the door. Upon entering the dining hall, he’s immediately enchanted by the fatty smell of fried cured meats and the buttery scent of freshly baked bread. The sight of the spread on the table makes him forget about the pain in his shoulders in favour of his rumbling stomach.

He glances around to see the expected crowd. Reiner and Pieck are playing a game with her trusty travel chess set, the latter sipping casually on her tea as she takes down her opponent’s knight. Annie is boredly drizzling honey into her yogurt as she fights back a yawn, making it clear that Jean’s not the only one who slept badly last night. Connie is standing alone by the window, nursing a cup of coffee as he watches the palace staff clear the branches and debris that the storm had blown into garden.

And as to be expected, Mikasa is sitting next to Armin.

On the far end of the dining table, she and her beloved childhood friend are chatting in the dining hall’s placid atmosphere, poking at the fruit on their plate as they talk. There’s a content look on her face, far from the way it had been just a few hours ago.

As Jean walks past Connie and gives his friend a reassuring pat on the back, Mikasa glances at him and their gazes meet for a mere second. He sees that serene look of hers falter slightly, but soon she’s returning her attention to Armin and only Armin.

Jean tries not to think too much of their shared look as he finds a spot near Annie. He pours himself some coffee and thinks about how much food he can cram into himself before the first meeting starts. His mind barely wanders as he eats his fill of fried sausages, sliced strawberries, and scrambled eggs.

Then before Jean knows it, a servant of the palace alerts the Ambassadors and Mikasa that they are needed for their first meeting of the day. As everyone stands up, Jean hears Annie let out another yawn, as well as Reiner grumbling over how he was this close to a checkmate, only for Pieck to say “Sure, you were” with her usual dry wit.

Jean finishes the last bits of his coffee before putting his cup down. As he walks he slips a crescent roll into his jacket pocket and he joins his comrades, briefly wondering if somewhere out there Sasha’s laughing at his antics.

Fuelled by caffeine and fried sausages, Jean looks forward and tries to see if the opportunity to do what he needs to do will arise.

Mikasa is near the back of the crowd, trailing after the majority of the Ambassadors sans Jean. Once he’s close to her he taps her arm, garnering her attention. Their eyes meet again, a gentleness now permeating the way she looks at him.

“Did you sleep okay?” Jean whispers.

“I did,” she answers more quickly than he expects. “Thank you.”

He’s not sure if she means “thank you” as in “thank you for checking on me.” Or “thank you” as in “thank you for staying with me.”

He doesn’t bother asking for specifics because before he knows it, the Ambassadors and Mikasa are corralled into a meeting room. The space is occupied by a long table, multiple chairs, and various other people clad in impeccable formalwear. It’s a sight that Jean is starting to get sick of but knows better than to let it show. The last thing he lets himself look at is the sight of Mikasa walking away from him, the ends of her scarf and hem of her sweater swaying slightly as she moves and finds a spot next to Armin.

Without anything left to say, Jean takes in another breath and braces himself for another day of peace talks.

…

Now.

A Change of Plans.

In the morning she is awoken by two things — the bustle of the port town outside her window and a persistent dryness in her throat. On one hand she's not hungover, but on the other she takes a minute to recompose herself by staring at the ceiling and thinking about how tired she is.

When she stands from her bed she discovers that her clothes from yesterday are scattered on the floor, a reminder of the events of last night. She can only remember the latter half of the evening in parts — like how dark it had been once she arrived at the inn and how exhausted she had been after trudging up to her room. Whatever energy she had left was put towards undressing and slipping into bed.

In hindsight, perhaps the ‘two’ helpings of wine she had over dinner were a little closer to three.

Barefoot on the floor, Mikasa clothes herself with a sweater from the depths of her suitcase and tries to go on with her routine. After washing her face with the room’s provided pitcher and bowl of water, she gets a glimpse of her face in the mirror on the wall. The dark circles underneath her eyes are never as bad as she fears they are, but as she looks at herself now she cannot fathom how Jean could have possibly spent most of last night looking at her so adoringly.

When she finds her pocket watch the first thing she notes is that the train she's meant to board is leaving in three hours. The second thing is that despite having known what the plan had been all along, Mikasa can't find it in herself to be excited for it.

She spots her ticket on the table near the window, remembering the intentions that had already been set out for her. The village in the northwest awaits, a place she’s never been and could potentially explore, but internally the joy she’s meant to feel for the adventure is gone. The desire, the excitement, the zest and zeal for going far beyond her little place in the world isn't there.

Letting out a sigh, Mikasa lies back on the bed. Maybe some coffee could fix her.

With her eyes on the ceiling she contemplates contacting Historia and telling her that the trip was a bad idea after all, that the stress of travel is too much for her to handle and that she's better off holed up in her cabin for all eternity, shackled and chained like the madwoman in the attic.

As her mind goes through the possible excuses she can give, Mikasa exhales and wonders how one person could be so pathetic.

A few minutes pass as she listens to the sound of the town outside her window. She hears carts being pulled over cobblestones and civilians yelling over the noise, merchants trying to sell their goods and children running amok.

She hears one seller in particular raving about his potatoes, of all things, going on and on about how there's plenty to go around and even the smaller ones are worth saving and planting later.

Intrigued for a reason she doesn't even know, Mikasa pulls herself off her bed and goes to the window. She pulls back the curtain to see the seller standing on the street with a cart full of vegetables, a bright smile plastered on his face as he speaks to the flow of passerbys.

As Mikasa observes the crates of goods practically overflowing in his cart, as well as the bags of smaller spuds for those willing to plant them, an idea comes to mind. It feels farfetched, more improbable than anything she’s done in a while, but even after giving it a few seconds she finds herself warming up to the thought.

She takes a moment to compare her newly concocted plans with the one already set out for her. When she realizes that she would much rather do that than hop on a train in the afternoon and go to a town she doesn’t even know, Mikasa takes the first step. She gets dressed, heads downstairs to the manager’s desk at the entrance of the inn, and extends her stay.

#jeankasa #jeanmika #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #mikajean #post-rumbling #post-canon #snk #seaside cottage au #if you wanna know where i've been for months it's been writing THIS

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