Archive of Our Own

2009

“Would you watch where you’re going?”

There’s a rapidly spreading stain making its way across the polished tiled floor of the old arts building, and Eren is really wishing he’d packed that handy travel sized packet of Kleenex he’d bought yesterday into his backpack so that he could have at least something to mop up this expensive coffee smelling mess, which had cost him a good $2.15 only ten minutes earlier and is now going to waste on the floor because some idiot couldn’t watch where he was going.

He looks up and glares at the offender who had barged straight into him, and comes face to face with a pair of narrow hazel eyes, framed by arched dark brown eyebrows. The man (boy? What’s the right word for when you’re eighteen and can’t decide which side of the spectrum you fall on?) has one hand on his hip and the other holding a backpack in place over his shoulder.

“Oh geez. Sorry dude.”

Eren feels his eyebrow twitch. “You walk into me on purpose and then have the audacity to say ‘watch where you’re going’ and now you’re apologizing only because you saw that you made me spill my coffee?”

The man grins. “Well. Coffee is expensive on campus, wouldn’t you agree?”

Eren would agree, but right now he really wants to punch this motherfucker in the face and make his way over to class before he’s late for the lecture. He gets up from the floor, scowls down at the puddle of what was once Irish cream with 2% milk and three sugar packets, carefully stirred, and smoothes down the creases of his shirt. He gives himself a once over. No coffee on his sweater or his jeans; that’s a relief, at least. Coffee never comes out.

“Well, excuse me, but I need to head to class now. And now I have no coffee. Thank you.” He hopes he sounds scathing enough.

“Is it around here?”

Eren stares. “Yeah. Why do you care?”

“History of Film? At 1pm?”

Fuck.

“Yeah.”

“I’m in your class then.”

“Well that’s just lovely,” Eren says, “but there’s no way I’m sitting next to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Eren doesn’t reply, but instead pushes past the man and sets off at a quick walk to the screening room. He’s acutely aware of the other jogging to keep up.

“Hey, look man. I’m sorry about your coffee. And I’m sorry for being a bit of a prick. But don’t hold it against me.”

Eren stops in the doorway, before moving aside slightly to let a girl push past him with an enormous bag slung over her right shoulder.

The man sticks out a hand for Eren to shake. “I’m Jean.”

Eren looks him up and down quickly. Fairly tall, blond hair with a darker undercut (dyed), a loose blue v-neck, beige cardigan, skinny black jeans, two gold studs in his left ear.

Pretentious artsy prick.

(not that he’s much better, really)

Eren reaches out his hand as if to take him up on his offer, and then slaps it away as soon as they make contact.

“Don’t sit next to me.”

He walks into the room and makes a face at the positively freezing temperature. Universities like to do this; keep the air conditioning at arctic weather so nobody falls asleep. Eren thinks he’s probably going to die of hypothermia long before he’d ever fall asleep in this class though. Film has been a passion of his ever since he was little, and he can’t wait for this semester. He sets himself down on one of the chairs and pulls out a notebook and pen from his bag.

There’s a sound next to him and Eren looks over to see Jean sitting down in the chair next to him, fiddling with one of the studs in his ear and checking his phone.

“What did I say?” Eren grits out.

“There’s no law that says I can’t sit here, is there? No specific spots with people’s names on them.”

God, Eren’s going to kill somebody by the end of this class. And that person might just be the fucker sitting next to him.

“Go away,” he hisses, and then winces slightly at the childish wording. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh, am I bothering you, Eren?” Jean replies, reaching down to pull out his own notebook. “Too bad. I think I’m going to have fun messing with you.”

Eren pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and points his pen threateningly at Jean. “Now look here. Fine. I can’t fucking stop you from sitting next to me. But if you dare interrupt me learning during this class, I will end you.”

Jean only grins in response.

To his credit, Jean doesn’t say anything aggravating during the lecture itself, and he even brings up some interesting points of discussion (not that Eren’s paying attention to what this asshole is talking about, of course not).

He doesn’t even say anything stupid during the first screening after class as part of the lab, some of the earliest films ever recorded on camera, and as the last video ends and Eren packs away his things, he hears Jean saying goodbye.

“See ya later, Eren.” Eren nods curtly in response, and pulls his backpack over his shoulder when he realizes he never actually told Jean his name.

He stops.

He frowns.

And promptly goes running off after Jean, causing a few of his classmates to give him dirty looks as he pushes past them roughly, without so much as a ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’. Jean’s standing on the stairs leading up to the main entrance of the building when Eren catches up to him, glancing at his phone, not a care in the world.

“Jean!” Eren calls, “Hey Jean!”

Jean stops, turns around and pulls one headphone out of his ear. “What is it Eren?”

“How the hell did you know my name was Eren? I never told you that.”

Jean pauses, and suddenly looks utterly confused. “I… I dunno. It just came to me. I guess you just seem like an Eren, I suppose.”

“Bullshit,” Eren replies. “Eren isn’t that common of a name.”

They stand there for a long moment; Eren on the bottom of the stairs, looking up; Jean on the top step with one hand on the door handle, looking down at Eren.

After a while Jean opens his mouth again and ruins the moment by speaking.

“So what, Eren? Are you saying I’m psychic or something? Because that’d be really great. Maybe I could get A’s on all my midterms. Just know the answers without even reading the questions.”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Eren replies. He looks at Jean again, really looks at him; his messy blond and brown hair, his relatively long face, the eyes and those eyebrows and the curve of his jaw. “I feel like I know you.”

Jean snorts. “Well there’s a romantic cliché if I ever heard one. Are you coming onto me man? Not that I have any problem with men coming onto me, but you’re not exactly a looker, and… well. I have standards.”

Eren practically sprints up the stairs to Jean and Jean books it, throwing himself out of the doorway as fast as he can, face contorted in what looks suspiciously to Eren like a fucking grin. Eren chases him down the short pathway leading to the patch of grassy area outside the library, and manages to grab one of the handles of Jean’s backpack, pulling him around to face him. Jean latches onto Eren’s upper arms and throws him back roughly, and they begin scuffling, ignoring the stares of the other students passing by and then the shout of somebody far off.

Jean throws a punch and Eren catches it perfectly, sending out a leg to catch Jean at the back of the knees which Jean avoids easily. Jean’s movements aren’t as polished as Eren’s own, but they’re fighting as if they had known each other all their lives; as if they were old sparring partners.

Eren doesn’t quite know the moment when he realizes, but he thinks later it’s probably the moment when Jean grabs a handle of Eren’s shirt and they just stand there for a bit, staring at each other and panting from the exertion.

“What the hell do you want, Eren? You’re lucky I don’t have a class right now, or I’d really rip you a new one.” He pulls sharply at the fabric of Eren’s shirt.

“Don’t pull so hard on my clothes!” Eren yells back, as if the words are instinctive, “You’re gonna rip them, dammit!”

There’s a long pause. And suddenly Jean is staring straight into Eren’s blue-green eyes and he knows.

“Oh my god.” He says finally. “Oh my god. It’s you.”

He lets go of Eren’s shirt and slumps down onto the grass, sitting there with his head in his hands. Eren awkwardly sits down beside him, and fumbles with the straps of his backpack for lack of anything else to do with his hands.

They don’t speak for a while; just watch the passing of other students and the occasional sound of bird chatter from up above in the trees.

“It’s you,” Jean repeats, like they’re the only words his brain can make his mouth form. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.” Eren agrees, and they just sit there on the damp grass, watching the rest of the world walk past.

1191

Jean’s really going to kill whatever idiot squire had been assigned to him after his own, Theobald, had fallen under the wheel of a cart and was now looking likely that he was going to lose the arm. The replacement, who goes by the name of Philippe, had already dropped his greaves twice today and didn’t shine his helmet properly before going to bed the night before, and… well. Jean knows how tough being a squire can be, he was a squire for his father and his older brothers when he was younger, but you at least need some level of competence.

Especially if you’re going to send yourself on crusade to the Holy Land in service of one of the Knights Hospitaller.

Jean never thought he’d become a knight, to be honest. Although his father was one of the wealthiest men in the province, a knight in his own right, Jean always thought that the honour would go to his older brothers before him, and he would be left organizing peasants and checking granaries back home to make sure no one had been stealing bread and cheese.

And then his two older brothers had fallen in battle on crusade and Jean was suddenly indoctrinated into the Order of Saint John, which his father had been an active member of in his younger days.

Of course, Jean had been trained since he was born to ride, and joust, and how to fight with a sword and how to shoot a bow. But he never thought he’d see real action in anything. If he really admitted it to himself, he would have preferred it that way. He never wanted to be an actual soldier.

And now here he is, grumbling at his pathetic excuse for a squire as the poor boy struggles to put on his armour and hand him his sword. It’s far too heavy for the lad to carry.

Jean swears, reaches over and plucks the thing from the boy’s hands before he drops it and severs a limb.

The sword had been a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday. It’s heavy, with the coat of arms of his family embossed on the hilt. Jean waits for the squire to finish with his armour, then pulls the sword up to his face and kisses the hilt. It’s a tradition he had started for himself after his first battle, after watching a dozen knights in front of him knocked down by Saracen arrows and go screaming under the hooves of their own horses.

He exits his tent just in time for his Commander to come riding up, sweating under the hot sun and wiping his brow with a rag cloth.

“Kirschtein!” he calls. “You’d better be ready. We’re moving out today through Arsuf to Acre to meet up with the Teutonic Knights there. Saladin’s been giving us trouble.”

Jean crosses himself once and says a prayer, and calls for his horse.

It’s at Arsuf where Jean, in his long life, comes closest to death. One minute he’s sitting on his horse, ignoring the roaring sound of blood in his ears and the frantic thudding of his own heart, sword and shield out and ready, watching the battle unfold in front of him. He’s thirsty, but he can’t complain when a good number of knights have already lost their horses and have had to move to stand with the common infantry.

The next minute he hears an ear piercing cry of “St. George!” and then suddenly the men next to him are breaking ranks and charging, and Jean knows it’s time, and he swallows down his own self doubt and yells, stirring his horse on and riding down the dusty desert ground to meet the enemy.

He slashes and hacks the way he’s been trained to do; but there’s a difference between two boys fighting with wooden swords in the damp, muddy courtyard of his father’s stately home and the dry, unbearably hot weather of the Holy Land, with dark eyed men shouting in a language he doesn’t understand, arrows raining down from above and a horse moving frantically between your legs, trying to avoid missiles from above and swords from beside you.

He hears the cry of a man next to him, and watches as one of his comrades goes down with a wickedly long arrow shaft jutting out from his neck, blood bubbling up, thick and red. Jean almost throws up into his own helmet, but swallows it down in time. Men die in battle. Men go down as easily as flies. Such is the nature of war.

Jean hates war. He hates fighting; hates watching people he had come to know so well go down so quickly, so effortlessly, like puppets made of straw; as if they were nothing but pawns on a chessboard that kings threw around like empty chicken bones after a meal, meat and gristle ripped from their bones.

A long curved sword comes down at Jean’s thigh, and through the pain and sound of his own flesh ripping underneath folded steel Jean thinks, I never want to be a defenseless pawn again.

Two weeks later, Jean wakes up on a straw mattress dressed in only his underclothes and a wet cloth on his forehead. He groans, attempts to sit up, and falls back down again when his right leg erupts in a sickening flash of pain.

“Awake at last, I see.”

Jean turns groggily. There’s a young man, probably the same age as him sitting on a chair next to his bed, dressed in a white tunic with the insignia of the Teutonic Order. He has messy brown hair, and his eyes are green.

“Do I know you?”

“Not particularly. You’re in Acre, by the way. At the headquarters of the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem.”

“Did we win?”

“The battle? Yes, we won.”

Jean sighs in relief.

“Why am I here?”

“Can you not feel your leg? You were wounded, and dragged off the battlefield afterward. The commander recognized you. Apparently you’re the son of some famous Lord.”

“I am. What happened to all my stuff?”

“It’s all safe, don’t you worry. Though your horse is dead, I’m afraid. And I have no idea where your squire went. Probably high-tailed it back to France.”

Jean groans, and throws an arm over his face. “I wish I were back home.”

“Why?”

“I hate it here. I hate the heat and the flies and the smell of blood everywhere I go. I never wanted to be a knight. I just wanted to live out my life in peace managing my father’s estate.”

The other knight rises from the chair and strides over to the bed, grabbing Jean’s left arm and wrenching it nearly out of its socket. Jean hisses in pain and glares.

“You selfish bastard,” the other man hisses, “don’t you see why we’re fighting? We’re fighting for a higher cause. We’re fighting for God. But of course, you wouldn’t understand, would you? You’re just some noble rich man’s son who’s never had to work for anything. And now when he’s asked to step into the role for which he’s been raised all his life, he backs out like a coward.”

Jean glares at the other knight. “And you’re not?”

“I worked to get where I am. I wasn’t born in some gilded cradle like you.”

“Aren’t we special? What’s your name anyway, sir knight?” Jean says sarcastically.

The man lets go of his arm and slowly sits back down again. “Eren. Eren Jaeger.”

“I hope you die in some warm, disgusting hole, Eren Jaeger.”

“I hope the same to you.”

Jean grins then, despite himself. “I’m Jean. Jean Kirschtein, third son of Lord Kirschtein.”

Eren reaches beside the bed and picks up a jar on the table, pouring out a cupful of water. He hands it to Jean. “Drink. You’re probably dying of thirst.”

Jean grabs the cup and drains it immediately, and thinks that none of the wine he’s ever had in his life had ever tasted as good as that cup of water did in that moment. Eren takes the cup from him almost gently, and sets it back down onto the table. Jean shifts in the bed, and makes a noise of pain. Eren looks at him almost sadly.

“Please don’t tell me I’m going to die from this.”

“Only God knows,” Eren replies, “but you managed to wake up from your fever, so that’s good at least. You probably won’t die, but you might not be able to walk properly again. So you’re getting what you want, at least. You can go home and die in your warm bed with your wife at a grand old age, surrounded by your fifteen sons and twelve daughters.”

Jean snorts. “As opposed to what? Dying young in a pool of my own blood or on some dirty table with an untrained surgeon hacking off a limb with a rusty saw? Tell me; what’s so wrong about dying old in my own bed?”

Eren sniffs. “It’s defeatist.”

“You’re barking mad, you know that Eren?”

“Some have said.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Why are you here, watching over me while I sleep? Surely you’ve got more important things to do than take care of an invalid.”

Eren is silent for a moment. “I’m… not sure,” he admits finally. “When I saw you, I felt a connection. I felt like I knew you. Like I’d seen you before.”

“I’m fairly sure we’re not from the same village.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Eren snaps, hands curling into fists on his lap. “I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe you just look like someone I knew. That’s it.”

“Maybe.” Jean sniffs, and closes his eyes. He feels Eren take the wet cloth from his forehead and move to splash more cold water on it, and sighs in contentment when Eren puts it back, ignoring the feel of water sliding down his face, like tears.

He suddenly remembers the sight of Eren crying, and his eyes open again in shock.

“What?” Eren asks, confused.

“The 104th,” Jean says, and that’s all he can manage before he passes out again.

1926

“Eren!” he hears the voice calling from downstairs. “Eren! The new pianist’s here!”

Eren pushes away the pile of papers on his desk, picks up the half empty glass of wine on the piano, drains it in one go, and hurriedly makes his way downstairs with the sheet music. They’ve been looking for a new pianist for a little while; the old one had decided that apparently his calling in life was to sail off to Egypt and discover treasure, like Howard Carter and the Tutankhamen spectacular a couple of years before, and had vanished quite literally in the night, taking most of Eren’s savings he had kept stashed under the pillow in a genuine expression of ‘fuck you, your music’s crappy anyways and you’re a lousy lay.’

Eren flings himself down the rickety stairs, pulls his threadbare waistcoat so it’s sitting properly on him, shuffles the stack of papers in his hands, and shoots Donna, his partner and dancer, a grin.

She scowls at him, ruby red lips curving up in a grimace not entirely unlike a horror mask he’d seen at a fairground once when he was little. Her hair is cut short, as it is on most women these days, but some of the strands are getting longer than others and it’s quite obvious she needs a cut.

Maybe later he’ll offer to do it for her.

“What’s his name?” Eren asks, attempting to alleviate the tension between them as she blows out puffs of smoke in the hallway.

“Jean,” she replies, bored. “Maybe he’s French. Maybe he’ll run off in the night like the last one.”

“Maybe he won’t.”

“Maybe he’ll be a better cocksucker than the last one. In which case, I’ll be rather upset. Because I’ve quite gotten used to getting eight hours of sleep now and I really don’t want to be kept awake by your moaning and screaming again.”

“Maybe you never slept with the last one. Or any man actually, so how the hell would you know?”

“Maybe I’m not a slut like you, Eren Jaeger.”

“Maybe I’m not a prude like you, Donna.”

She reaches out to poke him affectionately in the side. Eren grins, and then looks up as the doors of the studio open and a man walks in. He’s dressed in a striped suit and a high-waisted jacket, a few years out of fashion, shined shoes and a straw boater atop his head. Eren swallows. He’s quite good looking too. There’s a cigarette half hanging out of his mouth and a smirk on his face that gives off the casually charming look.

Eren hates him on first sight.

How dare he be good looking. The last pianist was good looking and look where that ended up for all of them.

“Good day,” says the man –Jean– and tips his hat almost mockingly.

Eren swallows.

With all due credit however, Jean is a good pianist. He can read Eren’s scrawled handwriting nearly perfectly, cracks the occasional joke with Donna, and even suggests modifications to Eren’s score which Eren totally doesn’t think are good improvements, no sirree.

Eren looks down at Jean’s faintly penciled-in suggestions on the sheet of paper, growls, and goes to find some liquor.

Jean finds him later in the evening, after Donna’s crept back to her rooms and firmly shut the door, and knocks vigorously.

“Eren! Hey Eren!”

Eren groans. “Fuck off.”

“No chance. You got any liquor in there?”

Eren looks at the bottle on his bedside table. “Nope.”

“You’re a really awful liar, Eren Jaeger.”

Eren rolls himself out of bed, kicks off his shoes into a corner of his bedroom, and goes to open the door. Jean is standing there, that annoyingly perfect grin still on his face, though the hat is long gone. His hair is dyed blond up top, but there’s a darker shadow underneath that suggests bleaching.

“You’re gross, Jean.”

“You’re drunk, Eren.”

“You dye your hair like a woman.”

“So what if I do?” Jean leans casually on the doorframe. “Doesn’t stop you from finding me hot. Oh come on, don’t give me that look. I know when people are interested in me.”

“I don’t… Eren staggers around slightly, “swing that way.”

“Yeah, and Donna’s a goddamn liar then.”

Eren blushes furious crimson at the thought of Donna spilling all of his intimate details to this guy they just met today, but Jean appears to like the sight of him blushing, so he makes a face instead and goes to sit down heavily on his bed, messing up the sheets.

Jean walks in and shuts the door behind him. “How’s the score going? It was quite good, actually. I enjoyed playing it.”

“Enjoyed showing off and giving me corrections, you mean.”

“Artists helping other artists. Constructive criticism. Ain’t you ever heard of that?”

“What do you know, you’re just a pianist.”

“Now you’re just being rude.” And Jean sits down next to Eren on the bed like he’s entitled to, or something, and Eren pointedly ignores him.

Jean points to the half empty bottle of liquor. “Can I have some?”

“Go knock yourself out.”

Jean leans over to reach for the bottle, and in doing so he nearly pushes Eren flat down onto the covers. Eren makes a noise and lifts his arms to push Jean away, and Jean takes a long drink straight from the bottle and grins down at Eren.

Fuck it, Eren thinks. Fuck it and fuck this and fuck Jean to hell.

“So are you gonna kiss me or what?” Eren asks, finally, and Jean smiles and leans down.

It’s somewhere in the vicinity of 4am when Eren finally realizes. He’s sprawled out on his back, naked under the thin sheets of his bed, dried cum between his thighs and on his abdomen and a fresh new set of teeth marks going all the way up his neck. Who knew Jean would be a biter?

He huffs, leans forward and pushes Jean’s hairy leg away from where it’s tangled with his own, and reaches over to his nightstand to get a cigarette. He feels filthy, but he’ll clean up later. Jean’s not that much better himself, actually, a few scratch marks down his back and one spectacular bruise forming where earlier Eren had hit him on the shoulder when he entered too quick.

Eren smokes lazily in the darkness, idly watching the moonlight shining in from the window, and glances over at Jean, also naked, who’s curled up in the fetal position, hugging a pillow against his chest.

The sleeping position is suddenly so familiar Eren nearly swallows a mouthful of smoke and starts coughing violently. He drops the cigarette into the ashtray and pounds a fist against his chest.

Jean wakes up and blinks groggily. “You trying to off yourself?”

Eren, who is still coughing madly, can only shoot him the dirtiest look he can muster.

“Shame really,” Jean keeps going, “'cause you weren’t half bad in bed.”

He makes no move to help Eren, just watches him, amused, from his position on the mattress. After what seems like an eternity Eren stops coughing and then firmly pushes Jean off the bed in revenge.

Jean goes down onto the wooden floor with a loud thump and a curse, pulling the sheets down with him, and from behind the thin walls that separate their bedrooms they both hear Donna yell, “If you’re not fucking, keep it down!”

Jean looks up at Eren from the floor. “...Wanna fuck again?”

“Hell no I don’t,” Eren replies, picking up his cigarette again. “You know, you seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t work out why.”

“I was thinking the same thing, right that moment when I blew you.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting.”

“No really, I meant it. So like, I was there and ready and everything, and then I think ‘wow, for some reason this feels like I’ve been here before.’ You ever get that feeling?”

“I think they call it déjà vu.”

“It was different.”

“Well I don’t know,” Eren snorts. “I’m tired. Going back to bed, goodnight. You can show yourself out.”

“Who said I’m leaving?”

And now Eren’s wide awake again. “This is my apartment, you little shit. You can’t just stay here.”

“Donna said the other guy did. For at least three months.”

“Fuck Donna. And fuck you too. She has no right to talk about my private business with you.”

“Were…” and now Jean looks almost sympathetic, “were you in love with him?”

Eren pauses. “No. Not really. I don’t know.” He sighs, and knows he’s lost. “There was…” he takes a deep breath. “When I was younger, I used to have these dreams. In them, I was a soldier, but unlike any other soldier I’d ever seen in newspapers or anything. I had swords, like warriors of old, but they weren’t sharp. More like long rulers actually. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. But in those dreams I fought things. I can’t remember what, that part was always too hazy. But there was always some people that kept reappearing. A girl, with black hair. A boy, with long blond hair. And then there was another boy with messy blond hair and hazel eyes. He looked a bit like you. The other guy did as well. The other pianist. I guess that’s why I fucked him.”

Jean is staring at him with an expression Eren can’t quite make out.

“So,” Eren continues, “I think in this world, the boy and I were lovers. Or friends. Or something. But I’m not sure. It seemed like it.”

“So you go around having sex with people who look like this boy you see in your dreams because you think you and him were once friends?” Jean asks, eyebrows raised. Then he laughs. “Oh man, you’re weird. You’re really strange.”

Eren growls and launches himself off the bed at Jean, and they begin scuffling around on the floor, ignoring Donna’s yells from the next room and thinking to themselves this feels familiar, why does this feel like I’ve been here before?

1899

Jean sometimes really hates himself.

He’s standing in the bar, waiting for the girls to come out in their frilly dresses and garters, hair crimped and tied up, rouge on their cheeks and lips and black around their eyes.

But all he wants is to see that man again.

He was working atop of the stage the last time Jean came down to the Moulin Rouge, a stagehand who hoisted ropes and changed backdrops for the dancers. He had very green eyes.

Jean likes women. He likes a voluptuous pair of hips, a dainty face, and a good bosom to bury his face into.

He also likes hard lines of muscle carefully concealed under a stained shirt and breeches, messy brown hair and a wicked smile like the thorns of a rose.

Who knew it would come to this. That Jean Kirschtein, part time artist and part time poet would spend his life wasting away in a cabaret hall staring. Not at the famous courtesans of Montmartre, but at one of the insignificant stagehands who just so happened to have caught his eye one day as he slipped money into the hands of a dancing girl.

He’d pay any amount of money to see that man again, but that man isn’t for sale.

Jean sighs, and downs some more absinthe.

There’s a tapping noise to his left, and he looks over idly to watch two women spinning each other around on the empty floor, a violinist playing several dissonant chords somewhere off in the pit.

Jean wants to get really, really drunk tonight.

“You alright?” comes a voice next to his shoulder, and Jean glances over.

His eyes catch onto a pair of green irises, and he suddenly feels the floor tipping underneath him. He grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turn white, and the glass of absinthe shakes dangerously.

The stagehand reaches out and steadies the table. “I think you’ve drunk too much, my friend. Come on; time to get you to bed.”

“Your bed?” Jean blurts out, and then bites straight through his bottom lip.

The man looks at him again, and then giggles softly. “Sorry mate. I’m not into that. But if you can pay, I’m sure someone here might indulge you. We cater to everyone’s fancies here at the Moulin, no need to be ashamed.”

“I haven’t got any money,” Jean confesses. “I’m just the typical starving artist type.”

“And I’m the typical starving labourer type. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The man reaches underneath Jean’s arms and hoists him up from the chair. The ground is shaking underfoot, and Jean feels woozy, but the man’s arms are strong and don’t falter.

Eventually he is thrown down onto a bed surrounded by at least six others in a backroom, and the stagehand pulls off his shoes and sits down next to him.

“So you did end up on my bed after all. Sorry for the décor. We sleep back here. I doubt you could go home in the state you’re in.”

Jean lifts a hand to this throbbing temple and groans. “Sorry for being such an inconvenience.”

“It’s no problem at all. Hey, you said you were an artist. Anything you’re working on at the moment?”

“Not… particularly. Just some essays and a sketch, really.”

“A sketch of what?”

“Something I see when I’m drunk.”

The stagehand raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Too much of the green fairy?”

“Huge humanoid creatures that rampage the earth, looking for food.”

The man laughs nervously. “Sounds like something out of the Old Testament to me. Not that I’ve ever really read it. Never learnt how to read at all, to be honest. Some preacher did tell me I would go to hell for stealing once, though.”

“Shame. You could have looked over some of my essays for me.”

“And what are your essays about?”

“Life. Love. The social injustices in Paris and London.”

The stagehand throws his head back and laughs, a deep throaty laugh that makes Jean’s heart clench painfully. “Don’t know nothing about that.”

“You don’t know anything about love or life?” Jean asks, incredulously.

“Do you really think I would? I’m not cultured like you artsy types. I go in for a smoke, a drink, the occasional fumble around in the dark with something that’s got curves, and I’m good.”

“Can you dance?” The question even surprises Jean when it comes out of his mouth.

The man stops, and looks at him. “Dance? Well, yeah. All of us can here. If you’re gonna be throwing those girls around, you need to be sure you’re not gonna drop them flat on their arses.”

“Dance with me.”

“You’re drunk and need to lie down.”

“I want to learn how to dance.”

“You call yourself an artist and you don’t know how to dance?”

“If I teach you how to read, will you teach me how to dance?” Jean grins the wicked grin he knows can get him whatever he wants, and when the man’s face softens, he knows he’s won.

They manage to stumble back down to the stage floor and pay the musicians a few francs to stay behind for a couple of minutes. Jean feels a pair of hands take him by the waist, and he doesn’t think about the weird sensation he’s feeling inside his chest, or inside his pants, for that matter.

The music strikes up, a dark, smoky sort of tune, and Jean stares into the stranger’s deep green-blue eyes. His skin is darker than Jean’s own, his hair longer and messier.

It feels comforting to look at his face.

“You’re gonna have to be the woman, since you’re learning.”

“That’s fine with me,” Jean replies quietly, and feels the brush of hands on his waist. The warmth of them goes straight through the fabric of his thin shirt straight to his skin, and he inhales deeply. The other smells like smoke and sweat and something he can’t quite place.

He is spun around and instructed on footwork, and Jean feels the fogginess in his head clearing with each moment. He picks up the footwork quickly, as if he already knows what the steps are going to be.

“You learn fast.” And they’re both surprised at the revelation.

After a turn, Jean feels himself slip slightly on the polished wooden floor, but a pair of strong warm hands seizes his hips and pulls him up before his nose can make a sharp impact onto the ground.

“Thanks,” he says breathlessly, and the stagehand takes a good look at him for a moment, before slowly letting go of his hips.

“I feel like we’ve met before,” he whispers, “but I haven’t the faintest idea where.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Eren.”

“Jean,” Eren replies, and steps backward.

1974

Eren runs down the wet street, cursing the rain and his own stupidity. Why didn’t he bring an umbrella again?

That’s right. Because he woke up late and had to get out of the house as quickly as his legs could carry him.

He reaches the end of the road, launches himself across the stile, and through the field. Hopefully the farmer whose field this is won’t get too annoyed at Eren treading on all of his carrots.

And if he did… well. He could go suck it.

Eren looks down at his trousers and curses the splatterings of mud that have made their way up to his knees. His mother is going to have a fit when he gets back home later.

When he crosses the next stile and finds his way onto the country road, Eren stops and breathes heavily. His jacket is completely soaked and his hair, so perfectly combed earlier, is now plastered to his forehead. He curses.

Then he hears a beeping from down the road and looks up to see a red Pontiac Astre coming his way down the narrow country road. It stops right in front of him, and a man leans out.

“Need a lift, young man?”

“Down to the station,” Eren gasps out, “late for a school trip.”

“School trip?”

“We’re going down to the beach today.”

“In this weather?”

“Well yeah, I didn’t plan it,” Eren snaps out, but the man only laughs in response and reaches behind him to unlock and open the door. “Get in.”

Now Eren’s been told time and time again by his mother not to talk to strangers and especially not to accept rides from them in strange vehicles, but he’s really, really late and he can’t afford to miss this trip. He hasn’t been down to the beach since he was seven, and he so wants to see the ocean again, as lame as it sounds.

He’s fifteen now, and if somehow this stranger turned out to be a serial killer, Eren could take him on. He’s about 99% certain of that fact.

The stranger, for all his strangeness, does in fact do nothing out of the ordinary; he drops Eren off at the train station, wishes him a good day down at the beach in a vaguely mocking tone, and drives off again. Eren smoothes his wet hair out of his face and goes to find his school party.

“Woke up late did we, Eren?” The teacher calls. Eren sighs.

The train ride is long and boring, and Eren stares out the dirty window at the countryside flashing past. It’s all green and wet and green.

When they arrive, the sullen voice of his teacher instructs them to not get lost, and to have fun, and to make sure they’re back at the station at 2pm or else they’re going to be left here. The rain has cleared up a little, so now it’s merely drizzling slightly, though there are a few dark clouds on the horizon that don’t look promising to anyone.

Eren ditches his designated group and ducks into a small café, hoping for doughnuts or ice cream.

They don’t sell doughnuts here, Eren mourns silently, but they do have soft scoop. Vanilla soft scoop.

As he makes his way through the café, ignoring the tables of parents and rowdy infants, spilling messes all over the plastic tables and chairs, his eye catches onto the boy working at the cash register. He looks about his age, wearing a faded Beatles t-shirt, with a mop of bleached hair and a rather long face. Eren sticks his hands into his trouser pocket, scowling at the faint mud splatters, and pulls out a handful of change. He walks straight up to the counter, drops the coins with a clatter, and asks for a vanilla ice cream.

The boy, without looking at Eren, turns around and fills up a cone. He turns around with the ice cream in one hand, and stops.

And stares.

And Eren stares at his ice cream, which is now starting to melt and drip onto the plastic counter.

“…Eren?”

Eren frowns. “What?”

“Oh uh, sorry. Thought you were someone I know.” The boy hands Eren the ice cream and wipes his sticky hands on his apron.

“No. I mean. My name is Eren. How did you know it?”

“…I have no idea, actually.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Eren demands. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know how I knew. Weird occurrences. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to serve customers.”

Eren ducks away, but stares at the boy for a good moment before walking away.

What a weird day.

The beach itself is rather unspectacular; nothing like the pictures in his mother’s travel brochures of places like California and Spain. It’s dull and grey, with stones instead of sand, and the water is freezing cold.

But Eren likes staring at it anyway. It’s… calming in a way that he can’t explain. Just the sound of the waves slowly reaching the shore and ebbing away, the gulls overheard and the wind whipping around his clothes.

It feels like he’s supposed to be here, for some reason.

2pm comes, and Eren walks back to the train station.

That night, he dreams.

He dreams of huge monsters that look like humans and yet somehow not.

He dreams of forests, and horses sprinting, and people swinging from the branches on wires like trapeze artists in a circus.

He dreams of soaring through the air like a bird, a pair of enormous blue and white wings on his back.

He dreams of a line of people, all different heights and weights, though their faces are blurred from his vision.

He dreams of a wall.

He dreams of a boy. A boy, slightly taller than him, pushing him against the wall of a stable and kissing him fiercely. The boy is strong, but Eren is stronger, and soon they go down in a flurry of limbs, sending straw flying into the air. But they don’t care; they’re laughing together, even as they wrestle around, and pretty soon Eren’s pinned on his back and the boy is pressing chaste kisses against his jaw.

Eren wakes up, sweaty and feverish, in a pile of his own mussed up sheets.

And knows.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Jean.”

He leaves the house at around 8am, ignoring the shouts of his mother and breakfast on the table, and runs straight back down to the train station.