Chapter Text
Date: October 31
Date: October 31
The red ink seemed to bleed across the page.
67%
You stared at the number like it might change if you looked long enough. Like maybe if you blinked hard enough, that six would shift into an eight, the seven into a nine. But no matter how many times your eyes traced over Mr. Ackerman's scrawling handwriting, the grade remained the same.
F.
Failing.
You.
You'd never failed anything in your life. Not a test, not a quiz, not even a fucking pop quiz in freshman year when you'd been half-asleep and running on three hours of rest. Your GPA had been perfect since high school,a gleaming 4.0 that you'd guarded like a dragon hoarding gold. It was more than just a number. It was proof. Proof that you were smart enough, good enough, worth something in a world that seemed determined to make you prove it over and over again.
But now, sitting in this lecture hall with its too-bright lights and the musty smell of old textbooks, that perfect record felt like it was slipping through your fingers.
The bell rang, a shrill sound that made you flinch. Around you, students started packing up,zipping backpacks, shuffling papers, laughing about Halloween plans. You didn't move. Couldn't move. Your eyes stayed locked on that test paper, on the sea of red marks that covered problems you'd been so sure you'd gotten right.
"Ain't no way," you whispered, gripping the paper so hard the edges crumpled. "Ain't no fucking way."
A hand touched your shoulder, gentle but firm. You jerked your head up to find Colt standing there, gray eyes full of concern. He wasn't packing up either, just watching you with that look he got when he knew you were spiraling but didn't know how to help.
"You good?" he asked, even though you both knew the answer. "You haven't moved since Ackerman handed those back."
You shook your head, those dark curls you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting this morning now falling into your face. "Nah," you said, shoving the test into your bag with more force than necessary. It crumpled between your green Chemistry binder and the purple Communications folder, disappearing like you wished this whole morning could disappear. "I'm very agitated right now."
Colt winced. "That bad?"
"That bad," you confirmed, yanking the zipper closed. You stood up, slinging your bag over your brown knitted sweater,the one that was maybe a little too warm for the broken heating system but felt like the only thing holding you together right now. "I don't know what I'm gonna do at this point."
You started down the lecture hall steps, and Colt fell into step beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The hallway outside was already crowded with students rushing to their next class or heading out for an early weekend. Halloween decorations hung from the ceiling, plastic bats and cotton spiderweb that had been there since the first week of October.
"I know this might seem crazy," Colt said finally, his tone careful like he was approaching a wild animal, "but you know normal people, in situations like this... they get a tutor."
You shot him a look that could've curdled milk. "Okay, Mr. 45."
"Hey!" Colt's face flushed. "That test was hard as hell. I'm just saying, maybe you should get someone to help you. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."
"Okay," you challenged, crossing your arms as you walked. The hallway was getting more crowded, students pressing in from all sides, but you didn't care. "Go ahead. Name one person who could help me."
Colt was quiet for a beat too long. "Try asking Jean."
You stopped walking so abruptly that someone behind you nearly ran into your back. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Jean Kirstein," Colt repeated, like saying the name again would somehow make it more palatable. "He's got the highest grade in Calc. Ackerman literally uses his tests as the answer key sometimes. If anyone can help you-"
"No." The word came out flat and final. "Absolutely not."
"Come on,"
"Colt." You turned to face him fully, and something in your expression must've been serious because he actually took a step back. "I would rather stick my head in an anthill. I would rather retake this entire class. I would rather drop out and become a fucking stripper before I ask Jean Kirstein for help."
Colt held up his hands in surrender, but there was a knowing look in his eyes that made you want to punch him. "Alright, alright. If you're so set on failing, then sure, keep doing what you're doing. But we both know he's the smartest person in that class."
“Is he, though?”
“Yes, Y/n. He is. Don’t be mad, it’s not you.”
He pulled out his phone, glanced at the time, and started backing away toward the elevators. "I gotta go. Promised my brother I'd pick him up from soccer practice. Good luck, though. You're gonna need it."
He disappeared into the crowd before you could come up with a response to his last little comment.
You stood there for a moment, people flowing around you.
Jean Kirstein.
Just thinking his name made your blood pressure spike.
You'd known Jean since middle school,twelve years of being compared to him, competing with him, watching him smirk every time he scored one point higher on a test or finished an assignment two minutes faster. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Too smart for his own good and fully aware of it. Where you worked yourself to the bone to maintain your grades, everything seemed to come naturally to him. He'd show up to class looking like he just rolled out of bed, barely take notes, and still somehow ace every exam.
And the worst part? He never let you forget it.
Every snide comment, every casual flex of his intelligence, every time he'd lean back in his chair with that insufferable smirk and say something like "Having trouble with that problem? It's pretty basic",it all piled up into a mountain of resentment that you carried aroundfor twelve damn years.
That pompous jerk.
That smug-faced bastard.
The idea of asking him for help, of admitting that you needed him, felt like swallowing glass.
No, worse. It felt like eating shit right out of his hand.
You made your way to the vending machine near the student center, fishing a crumpled dollar bill from your bag. The machine hummed as it accepted your money, and you jabbed the button for a Dr.Pepper maybe harder than necessary. The can clunked down into the dispenser, and you grabbed it. You took a swig before walking towards the elevator yourself.
You needed to get home. Change. Get to work by 2:15. You could worry about the Calculus situation later. Or never. Never was also an option.
The elevator was already crowded when you reached it, but you squeezed in anyway, finding a spot near the back. That's when you noticed him.
Jean was leaning against the opposite wall, hood up, headphones in. He wore a blue hoodie under that vintage black jacket he was always wearing, the one that probably cost more than your rent. His light-wash jeans were perfectly worn in, and he looked so frustratingly comfortable, so unbothered by the world, that you wanted to scream.
You quickly looked down at your phone, letting your curls fall forward to hide your face. If you didn't acknowledge him, maybe he'd leave you alone.
"You're terrible at pretending like you didn't see someone."
His damn voice spooked you a bit. He wasn't even looking at you, just staring at the elevator doors with his hands in his pockets.
"Who said I was pretending?" you shot back, still not looking up from your phone.
"You forget who you're talking to sometimes."
And damn it, he was right. Jean had this annoying ability to read you like a book, to see through whatever front you put up. You'd tried for years to build walls around yourself, to keep him and everyone else at arm's length, but he always found the cracks.
You finally looked up, meeting his gaze for half a second before turning your attention to the elevator doors. "Whatever."
The elevator dinged at each floor, people filtering out in ones and twos. By the time you reached the lobby, it was just you and Jean left. This would be a good time to kill him, or sadly ask him tutor you. Nah, screw that.
Killing him sounds better.
Jean stepped out first when the doors opened, and you followed a few paces behind. The rain had picked up outside, fat droplets splattering against the windows. You pulled your clear umbrella from your bag and pushed through the doors, immediately popping it open.
Your Jeep was parked near the back of the lot, and you half-jogged to it, rain pattering against the plastic above your head. You threw your bag in the backseat and climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind you and just sitting there for a moment.
The clock on your dashboard read 1:58 PM.
You had seventeen minutes to get home, change, and make it to work. Seventeen minutes to pull yourself together and pretend like your entire academic career wasn't potentially crumbling around you.
"Get it together," you muttered to yourself, starting the engine. Music blasted from the speakers,you'd forgotten to turn the volume down last night,and you quickly lowered it to something more reasonable.
The drive home was a blur of rain-slicked streets and brake lights. Your mind kept circling back to that test, to Colt's suggestion, to the impossible idea of asking Jean for help.
No. You'd figure something else out. You always did.
|♩♩♩- Cherish The Day|
By: Sade
The rain was still coming down when you pulled into your designated spot behind Wall Rose Coffeehouse. You were late as hell. You got home, changed out of your jeans and into black work pants, swapped your sweater for the required work shirt, and even managed to fix your hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail.
But then you got to talking to Kenny, your apartment security, and whatever else he did. That man could talk for hours if you’d let him, and now you are suffering the consequences, and showing up at 2:45.
The bell above the door chimed when you entered, and you took a deep breath. It always smelled so good in the cafe. The smell of fresh coffee and vanilla hit you first, followed by the underlying scent of the Mahogany Teakwood candles Miche insisted on burning. It was busy for a Friday afternoon, students cramming for midterms, a few regulars reading newspapers, someone's laptop open with what looked like a half-finished essay on the screen.
Bertholdt was behind the counter, his tall frame bent over as he arranged pastries in the display case. He looked up when you came in, offering you one of his rare, genuine smiles.
"Hey," you called, grabbing your red apron from the hook. "Miche here today?"
"Nah, I don't think he's coming in," Bertholdt replied, straightening up. "Said something about inventory at the other location."
"Thank God." You tied the apron around your waist and joined him behind the counter. "I don't think I could handle hisface seeing me come in late." Bertholdt studied you for a moment before speaking again. "You're never this late. What's up?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." You busied yourself with checking the coffee machines, making sure everything was stocked and ready.
"Don't play with me." Bertholdt leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He'd known you since freshman orientation, had watched you stress yourself into oblivion over exams and papers. He could read you better than most people, which was both comforting and annoying. "What's wrong?"
You sighed, your shoulders sagging. "Just stressed about classwork. Nothing major."
"Uh huh." He didn't sound convinced, but he also didn't push. Instead, he moved to the espresso machine and started making drinks. "You want your usual?"
"Yeah, thanks."
He made your cinnamon bun iced coffee exactly how you liked it,extra ice, extra cinnamon syrup, a splash of vanilla creamer. He made himself something with way too many shots of espresso and handed you your drink.
"So," he said, leaning back against the counter with his own cup. "Conspiracy theory time. I think pigeons are government drones."
Despite everything, you laughed. "Bert, we've been over this. They're not drones."
"Then explain why you never see baby pigeons. Explain that."
"Because they stay in nests until they're fully grown!"
"That's exactly what the government wants you to think."
Thank God for Berty. He always knew how to take your mind off of things. Bertholdt had a way of making everything seem less terrible, even when your brain was screaming a million things. He was always like that. Well, ever since you were kids, of course. The door chimed, and a customer walked in, a tired-looking woman in scrubs who ordered a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin. You rang her up while Bertholdt prepared the order, and for a few minutes, you could almost pretend everything was fine.
Then the tablet on the counter dinged with a DoorDash order.
"Cinnamon bun iced coffee and two chocolate chip cookies," you read aloud, squinting at the screen. "Name's Junebug."
"That's cute," Bertholdt commented.
You assembled the order, carefully placing the coffee and cookies in a bag. You were just finishing up when Bertholdt let out a long, frustrated sigh behind you. You turned to find him with his phone in his hand, staring at the screen with a look of pure distress.
"What's wrong with you?" you asked.
"My professor emailed me." He ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "About my grade. Apparently, I'm failing."
Your stomach dropped. "Damn, Bert. You need to get on that."
"Okay, Ms. 4.0 GPA," he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. "Not all of us are academic weapons."
"I'm being serious. You need to fix that before it's too late."
Even as you said it, you felt like a hypocrite. Here you were, giving advice about grades while your own Calculus score was circling the drain. Maybe your professor had sent you an email too. Maybe it was sitting in your inbox right now, waiting to confirm your worst fears.
You'd check later. Or maybe you wouldn't. Schrödinger's failing grade,if you didn't look, you could pretend it didn't exist.
The door chimed again, and a man in a rain-soaked jacket walked in. He didn't say anything, just walked up to the counter and held out his phone with the DoorDash app open.
You hated when customers did that. Like you couldn't read or something, like you needed to see their phone screen to understand what "Junebug" meant. But you kept your customer service smile plastered on, confirmed the order, and handed him the bag.
He left without a word of thanks.
"Tch, rude," you and Bertholdt said in unison, and you both started laughing.
The rain hadn't let up by the time your shift ended at 9:28. If anything, it had gotten worse,a proper downpour that turned the parking lot into a minefield of puddles. You and Bertholdt stood under the overhang by the back door while he locked up, both of you huddled in your coats.
"You saw Eren's text, right?" Bertholdt asked, pocketing his keys.
You groaned. "Yeah. About Friendsgiving next month. Don't remind me."
Eren's annual Friendsgiving had become something of a tradition in your friend group. What had started as a casual dinner sophomore year had evolved into a full-blown event complete with assigned dishes, a group chat that blew up your phone for weeks beforehand, and Sasha eating her weight in mashed potatoes.
"You know you're doing the main dishes again," Bertholdt said. "You, Mikasa, and Sasha. Since the rest of us can't cook to save our lives."
"I knew y'all were just using me for my mac and cheese," you said, but you were smiling. Despite the stress, despite everything, the idea of Friendsgiving made something warm bloom in your chest. Your friends were chaotic and loud and sometimes too much, but they were yours.
"You know we care about you," Bertholdt said, his tone sincere. "Right?"
"I know." You bumped your shoulder against his. "Now go home."
He laughed, jogging through the rain to his red Nissan Altima. You watched his taillights disappear into the downpour before getting into your own car.
The drive back to your apartment took you through the main campus area. Despite the rain, students were everywhere, stumbling between parties in various states of costume. You saw at least five Harley Quinns, three Lola Bunnies, and an entire frat house's worth of guys in Ghostface masks.
Be original, you thought, shaking your head.
Under different circumstances, you might've joined them. Throw on a costume, hit up a party, let yourself be young and reckless for one night. But you were exhausted, bone-deep tired, and the thought of going home, showering, and falling into bed sounded infinitely better than any Halloween party.
|♩♩♩- This To Shall pass|
By: India Aire
Your apartment was dark when you got home, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside your window. You dropped your bags on the black couch in your living room and immediately went to close the curtains, shutting out the world.
Your hair had been up all day, and your scalp was aching. You pulled out the hair tie and shook your head, letting your curls fall free. “Oh, that feels so much better.” With a sigh, you sank onto the couch and reached forward to grab your laptop from the living table.
Your student email loaded slowly, the little spinning wheel mocking you. When it finally loaded, two new messages sat at the top of your inbox.
One was spam, something about student loan refinancing that you immediately deleted.
The other was from Mr. Ackerman.
Your cursor hovered over it for a long moment. You could close the laptop right now, pretend you never saw it, deal with it tomorrow. Or next week. Or never.
But that wasn't who you were. You didn't run from things, even when you wanted to.
You clicked.
Subject: Calculus II - Grade Concern
Good evening,
I'm reaching out regarding your recent exam performance. Your current grade in Calculus I has dropped to 71%, which puts you at risk of failing this course. Given your typically strong academic record, I wanted to address this before it becomes a more serious issue.
I strongly recommend seeking additional help, whether through our tutoring center or a private tutor. The concepts we're covering now are fundamental to the rest of the course, and falling behind at this stage will make it increasingly difficult to catch up.
Please let me know if you'd like to discuss this further during office hours.
Best regards,
L. Ackerman
You read it twice, then a third time, like the words might change if you looked at them long enough. They didn't.
71%. At risk of failing. Strongly recommend.
You closed the laptop harder than necessary and dropped your head into your hands.
This wasn't you. You didn't fail classes. You didn't need tutors. You figured things out on your own because that's what you'd always done. Asking for help felt like admitting defeat, like proving that you weren't as smart as everyone thought you were.
As smart as you needed to be.
You could practically hear her voice clawing its way back inside of you now.
But the alternative was worse. Failing Calculus. Watching your perfect GPA crumble. Proving all those little voices in your head right,the ones that whispered you weren't good enough, weren't smart enough, were just faking it until someone finally called you out.
You dragged yourself off the couch and into the bathroom. The shower was hot enough to turn your skin to flames, and you stood under the spray longer than you should have, letting it wash away the day. Your coconut Dove soap smelled like summer and simpler times, and you focused on that instead of the growing panic. Once your shower was done, you gotout and wrapped a towel around you.
Skincare routine time. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer. Brush your teeth. Silk bonnet to protect your curls.
Once that was done, you changed into an oversized t-shirt and shorts, pulled on fuzzy socks, and climbed into bed. The rain was still coming down outside, you and your dad loved the rain. It was always so calming, but you weren’t feeling very calm right now. Even as you walked around your apartment to turn off your lights and grab your laptop, you still didn’t feel calm.
You walked into your cozy bedroom and sank down onto the mattress. You opened your laptop one more time and pulled up the tutoring center website.
All slots filled.
Of course they were. Every struggling student on campus had apparently had the same idea. You scrolled through the list of available tutors anyway, hope dwindling with each "FULLY BOOKED" status. Math tutors, writing tutors, and science tutors are completely unavailable for the next two weeks at a minimum.
You slammed the laptop shut and stared at the ceiling.
Colt's voice echoed in your head.
Try asking Jean.
"No," you said out loud to your empty room. "Absolutely not."
But another voice, quieter, more rational, whispered back, What other choice do you have?
You grabbed your phone off the nightstand and opened your notes app. Started typing.
Reasons Not to Ask Jean Kirstein for Help:
1. He's insufferable
2. He'll never let me live it down
3. I'd rather die
4. His ego is already huge, this would make it worse
5. He'll probably say no anyway
6. I hate him
You stared at the list for a long moment, then deleted it.
None of those reasons mattered if you failed Calculus. None of your pride or stubbornness would mean anything if you lost your scholarship, if you had to explain to your family why your perfect record wasn't so perfect anymore.
"God help me," you whispered into the darkness.
You were going to have to ask Jean Kirstein for help.
The devil you knew was better than the failing grade you'd get without him.
You turned off the lamp and pulled the covers up to your chin, but sleep didn't come easy. Your brain was too busy planning what you'd say, how you'd approach him, how you'd survive the inevitable smirk he'd give you when you admitted you needed him.
Tomorrow. You'd do it tomorrow.
And maybe, if you were lucky, the earth would open up and swallow you whole before you had to face him.
The lecture hall was nearly empty by the time you worked up the nerve to move.
Class had ended ten minutes ago. Most students had fled the moment the professor dismissed them, eager to start their weekend or grab lunch or do literally anything else. But you'd stayed in your seat, watching Jean pack up his stuff.
Everything he did was so… aggravating, even simple things. He didn't just shove his notes into his bag like a normal person, he straightened them first, tapping the pages against the desk until they were perfectly aligned. Then he pulled out a highlighter and went back through something he'd written, marking it with neat yellow strokes. His textbook got closed with care, bookmark placed at the exact right page. Pencils went into a case. Laptop into a sleeve.
It was infuriating how organized he was, how put-together. Like he had all the time in the world and no stress about anything ever.
You gripped the strap of your bag tighter, digging your nails into the fabric. Your heart was pounding like you were about to jump out of a plane, which was ridiculous. This was just Jean. Annoying, arrogant Jean who you'd known for over a decade. There was no reason to be nervous.
Except you were asking him for help, which felt like handing him ammunition to use against you for the rest of your natural life.
Just do it, you told yourself. Get it over with.
You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor loud enough to echo in the empty room. Jean didn't look up. Of course he didn't. You descended the lecture hall steps. By the time you reached the front of the room, your palms were sweating and your mouth was dry.
"Jean," you said. It came out more forceful than you intended, almost aggressive.
He glanced up from his bag, one eyebrow raised. "What?"
No greeting. No acknowledgment of the fact that you never voluntarily spoke to him unless forced. Just "what," like you were interrupting something important. You crossed your arms, defensive. "I need your help."
"With?" He went back to organizing his things, barely paying attention to you.
"Calculus." The word tasted like ash in your mouth.
Jean paused for half a second, then let out a short laugh,not quite mocking, but close enough. "No."
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." He zipped up his bag and slung it over one shoulder, finally giving you his full attention. His brown eyes were completely indifferent, like you'd just asked him for spare change and he couldn't be bothered. "I don't feel like it."
Heat flooded your face,anger mixed with embarrassment. "Jean, don't play with me right now."
"I'm not playing." He leaned against the desk, casual as anything. "I'm just saying no."
"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious." Your voice was getting louder, frustration bleeding through. "You know I don't,I don't ask people for help."
"And I don't usually say no to people," Jean countered, which was such a blatant lie you almost laughed. "But here we are."
"Why are you being difficult?" You stepped closer, invading his space in a way that would've made anyone else back up. Jean didn't move. "You know I'm not out here failing classes for fun."
"Then figure it out." His tone was flat, bored even. "Like you always do. You're good at that, right? Being perfect all the time?" The way he said "perfect" made it sound like an insult.
"Jean." You were practically seething now, hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I'm asking nicely."
"And I'm saying no nicely," he shot back. There was the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, like he was enjoying this. Enjoying watching you squirm.
"You're such an," You cut yourself off, biting down on the insult. Took a breath. Tried again. "Look. I need help. The tutoring center is full. I can't afford a private tutor. And you're..." You forced the words out. "You're the best at this. So I'm asking. Please."
Something shifted in his expression, but you couldn't read it. He studied you for a long moment, those brown eyes scanning your face like he was looking for something specific. The silence stretched between you, loaded with twelve years of competition and resentment and things neither of you had ever said out loud.
"Why me?" he asked finally, and his voice was different now,quieter, more serious. "Why not ask literally anyone else?"
"Because no one else is good enough," you admitted, and hated how true it was. "Because you're," You gestured vaguely at him, at his perfect test scores and his stupid organizational system and his ability to make everything look easy. "Because you're…God, help me.."
You had to tilt your head back and let out a sigh before speaking again. “Because your smart, damn.”
Jean's jaw tightened. For a second you thought he was going to say no again, going to tell you to figure it out yourself and leave you standing there feeling like an idiot.
Then he sighed, long and suffering, like you were asking him to donate a kidney.
"Fine," he muttered. "Library. Tomorrow at five."
Relief crashed through you so intensely your knees almost buckled. You caught yourself, keeping your expression neutral. "Thank you."
"But we're doing it my way," Jean added, pointing at you with that warning look he got sometimes. "You don't get to argue with my methods or tell me you already know something when you clearly don't. You do what I say, when I say it. Got it?"
Every instinct in your body wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn't talk to you like that. But you swallowed your pride and nodded. "Fine."
"And don't be late," he called as he started walking toward the door.
"I'm never late!" you shouted after him.
"Uh huh." His voice dripped with sarcasm, echoing back from the hallway. "Sure."
You stood there alone in the empty lecture hall, your heart still racing. You'd done it. You'd actually asked Jean Kirstein for help, and he'd said yes.
You should've felt relieved. Triumphant, even.
Instead, you just felt tired.
And maybe a little bit terrified of what you'd just gotten yourself into.
You grabbed your bag and headed for the door, muttering under your breath: "God help me."
Because if Jean Kirstein was your best option for saving your GPA, you were definitely going to need divine intervention.
Outside, the sky was gray and heavy with the promise of more rain. Students rushed past in both directions, laughing and shouting, blissfully unaware that you'd just made a deal with the devil.
Tomorrow at five.
You had twenty-eight hours to prepare yourself.
It wasn't going to be enough.
"God, help me."