Chapter Text
This is all that damn Jaeger’s fault.
But, then, what isn’t ? In his few months working the evening shift at the restaurant, Jean Kirschstein swears that he has never experienced such horrendous coworker relations as those endured with a certain Eren Jaeger. Maybe it’s the awkward curve of Eren’s nose (ever-so-slightly twisted—obviously broken once or twice as a child—bent just enough to catch Jean’s eye and drive him up the fucking wall). It might also be the grating of Eren’s shrill voice when it calls an order back to the chefs in the kitchen; Jean swears his shout could collapse an entire civilization, were he the size of Godzilla (scratch that—he could do it at his current shrimpy height, Jean muses with a snort). Or, perhaps, it’s the manner in which Eren can so effortlessly remember every little detail of a customer’s order without so much as picking up the pen and notepad and—
Regardless, the fact of the matter is that Eren Jaeger is and always will be a little shit.
Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe. There are those select few moments at the work place where Jean has been able to confide in Eren for tips on balancing that godforsaken tray of plates, or for a quick swig of wine snuck before closing up shop for the night. Why, they might even be capable of establishing a friendship, if Eren ever learned to not be kind of a douche. But such a thing was never meant to be, regrettably. Real pity, too, for Jean knows without a doubt that Eren could benefit from befriending somebody with as much class as a Kirschstein. He’s never been a narcissist, but between the option of associating with a Jaeger or a Kirschstein… Well, Eren might as well not even be an option.
In fact, based on this logic, Eren should not be an option for Mikasa Ackerman.
Out of the multitude of petty complaints Jean holds against Eren, his peculiar relationship with Mikasa is perhaps the most irking of all. It isn’t that the two are dating—if that were the case, Jean could accept it (it would disgust him to the point of blowing chunks in the potted ficus by the door, but apart from occasional nausea and constipation, he thinks he could handle it). No, no, nothing so trivial—Jean’s greatest complaint about their odd friendship is Eren’s utter nonchalance about the beautiful woman who practically waits at his side (be it out of ignorance or sheer indifference, Jean is not sure; probably some horrid combination of the two). Jean has been anything but silent on the matter—Eren has received such an earful from the other young man that he once came to work with lilac ear plugs stuffed in his ears (which eventually proved inefficient for working in a restaurant and taking orders, so that only lasted a few minutes anyway—but it’s the fact that it happened at all that digs its way under Jean’s skin
—and lilac?).
Oh, Eren might swear it was because he was swimming beforehand, but there is no fooling Jean on this matter. Even if Eren’s hair was wet when he arrived for his shift—even if Jean had yanked the belt loop on the back of Eren’s slacks to check for underwear (as proof) and found a pair of orange swim-trunks adorned with octopi (along with a fist to the face later that evening). Eren wasn’t swimming; douchebags can’t swim.
Jean can’t swim either, but that’s beside the point.
(And Jean admits to being a douche at times, for is anybody ever truly undouchey? In this world of Erens and Mikasas and Jeans, there are varying degrees—varying breeds of douche, each of their own mannerisms and their own level of doucheiness. Jean is the least douchey of these douches, apart from Mikasa. Mikasa, despite her femininely douchey qualities, is not a douche, but an angel descended from heaven to forgive Jean for all of his douchey ways and lead him away from the douche side of the force, toward a path of great power where one douche shoots first and another gets tossed down a hole [it’s probably Eren—useless, douchey Eren…]).
Such are Jean’s aimless thoughts as he pushes open the back door of the Italian restaurant at which he works, entitled Muro Maria—Italian Restaurante (which Jean once heard was incorrect Italian, but the food is authentic as hell, so he really didn’t look into it—at all, actually; put simply, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass). He strolls in large strides, clad in the typical table-waiting attire (the black slacks, the bow tie, all that jazz—hey, this “restaurante” is so fucking classy that it has an “e” tacked onto the end of it in the name, so if anybody has a problem with Jean’s uniform, they can suck it). Running a hand through his hair, he kicks the door shut behind him and shuffles past a waitress in the hall on the way to the kitchen; the scramble to fill orders and avoid obstacles whilst holding a tray of food has gotten the better of a-many of Jean’s coworkers, and it would probably be best if he evaded all of these people on the way to get orders; he ran into Sasha once in the past while she was carrying a hot bowl of minestrone (his sleeves had been conveniently rolled up that summer evening—he still has scars on his forearm where the soup had splashed). Tugging his sleeves down subconsciously at the thought, Jean steps out into the kitchen, eyeing the stacks of plates on display atop the window, free for the picking—platters of little rigatonis and raviolis and rotinis, bowls of stracciatella and minestrone soups, freshly baked slices of crostata crowned with perfectly plucked apricots, baskets and baskets of wheat and rye and dammit Jean forgot to eat dinner before driving over. Crap.
Ignoring the nag from his empty gut, he dodges another waitress and catches sight of a closely-cut head of hair springing up from the floor; Connie picks up a towel and tosses it coolly into the soap-filled sink with the dirty dishes. “Jean, you’re late again! Levi’s gonna have your head.”
Jean shrugs the idea off with a literal lifting of the shoulders. “Yeah, but you can cover for me, right?”
“I’ve “covered for you” six times already. You’re gonna get me fired.”
“The head honcho hasn’t talked to me about it yet,” Jean retorts, sniffing harshly as his stomach wanders back toward the savory scents wafting over from steaming plates of food. “He already knows, and if he doesn’t, then he’s denser than I thought.” Stealing another hungry glance at the plates of food waiting on the window, he reaches out and takes a circular tray in his fingers, tucking it under his arm; he grabs a towel and stuffs it into a crevice on the waist apron around his hips. “Does anyone have dibs on those plates yet?”
“Beats me.” Connie begins to shrug, but thinks better of it and allows a sly smirk to grow on his face instead. “Hey Jean.”
A single brown brow lifts above Jean’s hazel eye. “Connie, your face is really freaking me out.” The smirk does not so much as twitch, and Jean finds himself wincing visibly at the continued gesture. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? I swear to god if you don’t tell me what’s up, I’ll call you out on your baldness for the rest of the night.”
“Hey, Jean~ ?” Connie’s voice takes on an almost sing-songy tone, and Jean finds himself shuddering inwardly.
“What, Charlie Brown?”
“So, Mikasa...”
“What about her, Aang ?”
“I’m not that bald, Jean! I have… head-stubble.”
“Professor X?”
“Will you let me—?”
“Popeye.”
“Andy Warhol!”
“How do you even know who that is, Connie?!”
The grin that graces Connie’s face is a bit more acceptable than the one that preceded it (though only a bit). “You called me Connie~.”
“I’ll call you a hell of a lot of other things if you don’t get on with it. Now what’s up with Mikasa? Is she alright? Did that moron Eren tell her off again?” Come to think of it, “moron” and “Eren” are rather similar… Perhaps he’s a Meren.
No, Jean, that’s the epitome of stupid.
“No, nothing like that…” Connie shakes his head vigorously, motioning to the plates of food stacked on the window’s countertop. “See that small plate of ravioli over there?”
“See it?” A tiny groan slips past Jean’s lips; he gnashes his teeth and sets his jaw in attempt to hold back any more precluded noises. “I can smell it.”
“Well, what if I told you that that plate was ordered by a certain dark-haired damsel, who is sitting just outside, waiting for a hopeless hero to come deliver it?”
Connie’s voice fades from Jean’s comprehension mid-sentence, however, as the plot ensuing slowly delves its way into the depths of his mind. Surely this cannot be—surely this is naught but some sort of sick ploy, a devious trick set by either Baldy himself or by the universe (Jean decided long ago that his stroke of ill luck is all the result of the universe holding some personal grudge against him—probably his kickass hair). After these dragging, monotonous months of eyeing Mikasa from afar and nothing more, he now has the opportunity to engage in casual conversation—and to serve her no less? He’s never been one for the master-and-servant relationship, but at this point it sounds as good to his wild heart as the food sitting on the counter sounds to his stomach. Swallowing hard, Jean steals another quick, questioning glance at his shorter companion. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” His arms fold over his chest, which presently huffs out in an attempted display of confidence. “I’m not stupid, and I wouldn’t try to mess with ya or anything.”
(Which is utter BS, Jean thinks with a snort, as Connie has made it a routine make his life as miserable as humanly possible in the past—on Jean’s twentieth birthday, Connie convinced everyone to buy a bunch of elderly gag gifts. Jean wound up getting a pink walking cane, a bulk pack of denture paste, and a subscription to a local Bingo Parlor for his birthday that year. He consequently gave Connie a black eye the next day and apologized the day after that. They go to Bingo Bash together every Sunday.)
Why, if this is true, then Jean might have a real chance to talk to Mikasa! Asking her out is the ultimate goal (immediate marriage is out of the question—he hasn’t found his grandma’s old wedding ring anywhere yet, so he’d rather hold off on that for now), but he figures he could work his way up and save that for later in the evening, after he’s had a chance to appeal to her. Oh, this is almost too perfect! All he needs to do is freshen up a bit and—no, stop, Jean, that’s hella stupid, there’s no time for that! Her food is getting colder by the second, and going to the restroom to primp up is unnecessary and kind of girly, so there is no way in hell he’s wasting any more time than he already has. Already is. Shit, time is ticking as he stands here mulling things over with a stupidly vacant expression on his face! Stop, Jean!
Shaking his head with vigor, Jean hastily reaches up with his free hand to muss up the top of his hair, frantically peering between the platters of food and the top of Connie’s stubble-head. “Ah-uhh, how do I look? There’s nothing stuck in my teeth, is there?”
“Your teeth are as yellow as always, now go get that food before someone else does, good god!”
“Awesome, thanks Homer.”
“No problem, Vinny.”
“Who’s Vinny?”
“Go, already!” With that, Connie steps forward and presses his hands to Jean’s arm, shoving him toward the window and almost causing the plates to topple over onto the floor; luckily, they only shift. “What’re you waiting for?”
“Nothing—get your grubby hands off of my arm before you push me into the sauce!” Shifting away from Connie’s hands, Jean untucks the tray from under his arm and sets it atop the counter; he loads one plate of mushroom ricotta ravioli and a relatively small bottle of white wine onto the tray’s surface, trying to arrange them in a way that is as aesthetically pleasing as a ceramic plate and glass bottle can possibly get—this needs to be perfect, and he’ll be damned if it’s faulty tray Feng-shui that keeps him from exchanging words with his dear Mikasa. He rearranges the wine bottle once, twice, before settling with the upper right corner of the tray—but not too far to the upper right, because that’s just a sin—and subconsciously releases a shuddery breath he was unaware of holding. Here it goes—there’s no stopping him now. He will speak to that beautiful woman—hear her sultry, smooth voice in return, meet those gorgeous eyes of hers (he knows not what color they are though—he’s never been quite close enough to see), maybe even run his fingers through those silken black-as-night strands of hair, feather-soft as a raven’s wingtips, billowing gently with every subtle movement of her perfect head atop that long neck…
Dang. For never having been within three feet of Mikasa, Jean can sure as hell visualize. He ought to become a poet, really, if the whole college shebang doesn’t work out like he wants it to.
Scratch that. Only nerds become poets. And while he might be a nerd in some respects (who isn’t, really?), he is not a literary nerd. He’s not a literary anything. He’s Jean Fucking Kirschstein, not Jean Fucking Whitman.
Clearing his throat dismissively at himself, Jean eyes the tray and ever-so-slightly lifts it up on his fingers, carefully adjusting the weight on his palm before bringing it further up, closer to his bicep. That’s probably the best height for the weight of the tray… right? He swallows again, willing down the tremors that threaten to slink along his skin. Now isn’t the time to get jittery—when does he ever get jittery about anything? It’s not like Mikasa will be his first girlfriend or anything; why, of course he’s asked girls out before. Of course. Jean Kirschstein does not have ill luck in those sorts of endeavors, and he certainly didn’t avoid girls at every cost in high school out of sheer lack of balls (in the figurative sense, he assures you). Which isn’t to say that he does not have an interest in girls—he’s definitely not asexual, and he’s never been attracted to guys or anything, so that leaves being gay out too (despite what his mother seems to think). Come to think of it, why has he always suffered such rotten luck in the romance department? Is he truly so unapproachable? He wouldn’t think that that’s the issue here—after all, he generally tries to just be himself, and he’s not overly unfriendly (unless your name is Meren Jaeg—screw it, yeah, that mock-nickname is stupid). He’s not unattractive, surely? He has never thought so, at least. It’s not like he has some kind of disease.
Maybe women simply avoid him because his last name is so bizarre. Who wants to marry a guy and take the name “Kirschabblaghfshtinstein”?
No, no, that’s stupid too; girls have married far worse, and some don’t even take their husband’s surname, so that’s not the problem either.
Oh, fuck his life. (He’d wager that the universe is to blame for this, too).
Slowly maneuvering away from the window, Jean hooks a tray stand under his arm and proceeds cautiously out of the kitchen, eyes darting this way and that in search of Mikasa’s familiar head of black hair in the (thankfully sparse) crowd of customers. As he dodges a chair to his right, however, his hazel eyes, despite their scrutinizing precision, catch no such sight in the dimly-lit expanse of the dining area. Wha—? Is he just missing something? Was this all some little ploy of Connie’s, in some strange attempt at humor? Or perhaps there’s less to this awkward ordeal than he’s acknowledging; after all, Mikasa could simply be in the bathroom, or taking a phone call outside or something. Come to think of it, he really should have taken a table number… Whoops. “Guess there’s still time to do that...” With a small sigh, he spins on his heel and takes a step in the direction of the kitchen across the way, a small frown on his face as he mulls over his options in his mind. Well, he supposes he can find the table number in the back, and if that doesn’t—
“Ack—!”
His foot catches on something suddenly, and everything that happens consequently is a bit of a blur (quite literally, as stumbling forward is a rather quick motion and—forget it, he’s fucking falling, who has time to clarify anything when they’re falling ?). His stomach churns and his eyes roll as he trips over whatever-it-is and collapses onto the table in front of him; the clothed edge of the table juts out into his mid-gut, ushering forth a low string of mouthed curses at the pain as the air is knocked from him for a brief moment. His head spins; blinking, glazed eyes remain unable to focus as the dizziness gradually dissipates from his system. What just happened, exactly…?
“A-Augh…”
So he tripped over something… Or did he slip on the flooring? His shin hurts a little, so he assumes he tripped over a shoe or a table leg. Lifting a hand to his head, he weaves his fingers in and out of his hair, massaging his scalp absently as his brain scrambles to correct its current state of disarray. He is still on his feet, at least, though his upper torso is draped over some poor customer’s table (which must not have had any food or glasses or anything on it, which is a colossal relief, given the fact that his stomach would be a sloppy, bloody mess if this were the case).
“E…Excuse me…” A voice perks up from beside him—hesitant, trembling with some form of discomfort (be it natural awkwardness or anger or sadness or fear, Jean cannot quite discern). “Uhh…”
“… Hah?” Jean’s neck cranes to the right, curiously inquiring about the voice that tried to get his attention so abruptly. “If you have something to sa—oh shiiiiit.”
This table does belong to a customer, and while said customer might not be Mikasa (for this he is eternally thankful to the deity(ies) of your choice), his face doesn’t turn any less crimson out of sheer humiliation. He is mostly unacquainted with this man; the freckled face strikes him as familiar, and Jean believes he has served him before. A thin mop of styled mocha hair sits atop his head, dripping in the front where the bangs were splattered with marinara.
Marinara…?
Bits of pasta litter the tablecloth beside Jean’s body, staining the white fabric a dark, seasoned scarlet; while most of the little ravioli noodles remained either in the (now upturned) bowl, a few have strayed off and now rest nestled in the customer’s lap, along with the (thankfully saved) bottle of wine. The wine glass flew off of the tray when Jean tripped; it hit the floor and shattered a few meters away, by the kitchen door—Connie is already hastily trying to sweep it up before Levi comes out and realizes the horrifying mistake Jean has just made.
This is so going to cost him his job…
With a small gulp, Jean gradually lifts himself up straight again, brushing off the front of his uniform which, luckily, received only a minimal amount marinara splatter. Albeit hesitantly, his gaze drifts back over to the poor customer sitting beside him, who has proceeded to rise as well; his fingers latch onto the napkin on the tabletop.
“Oh god, I’m—I didn’t—” Jean’s words catch in his throat and his mouth goes dry. What does one say in a situation such as this? “Sorry” just doesn’t seem to quite capture the meaning behind what he means to say. Instead, he hopes that the apology and embarrassment show in their shared glance as he and this marinara-speckled stranger exchange an awkward stare; at last, he remembers the existence of his lips, teeth, and tongue, and speaks coherently once more. “—I have clothes in my car, if you need to change. When your order comes out, it’ll be free of charge! Uh… Sorry, dude. My bad.”
Well, nobody ever said “coherently” equated to “eloquently”.
“Ah… No, that’s okay, my clothes aren’t that bad…” Clearing his throat, the customer shakes a stray ravioli noodle off of his sleeve with a tiny grimace; he sets the bottle of wine down on the table next to the upturned platter. “I’ll just go clean up in the bathroom… And, uh, this is my food… So…” He clears his throat, forcing a grin at the absurd awkwardness of the situation; a few probing stares are directed at the two as they struggle to form intelligible sentences, but he pays them no heed (Jean is still a vivid shade of red from humiliation, but his face has been like that for a while now). “I’ll take the same order as before. You don’t need to add anything; free food is a plus in itself. Thanks.”
……
Did he just say that this was his order?
Mikasa’s plate was—
Connie, you sorry son of a—
Forget it. Connie’s not worth the calories burned establishing simple thought processes.
“Look, sir—”
“Marco.”
“Hm?”
A small, more natural smile forms beneath glops of tomato paste and basil. “My name. It’s Marco—Marco Bodt.”
Now hardly seems like the time for introductions, but if it prolongs the inevitable fate of Marco complaining to the manager, then Jean will stall to his deathbed (which, given Levi’s location in the office in the back, is probably sooner than one would think). “Oh. Uh, Jean Kirschstein.” He reaches forward and gives Marco’s hand a brief, firm shake. “Look, I can’t stop you from complaining to the higher ups, but—seriously, don’t complain to the higher-ups. Especially Levi. Or Irvin. Or anyone, for that matter. I can’t afford to lose another job and—”
“Calm down, that’s not—!” Marco’s hands rise in defense, and his smile gives a little twitch of uncertainty at Jean’s sudden forwardness. “That’s not what I was going to do anyway.”
“… Oh.” Way to jump to conclusions and make an idiot of yourself, Jean. His eyes linger over Marco’s messy face once more before remembering something with a quick downward glance; he tugs the towel out of his apron and tosses it to Marco, who comes close to catching the towel, but misses slightly. It plummets to the floor, but the freckled man wastes no time in picking it up. “Not the best catch, are you?”
Marco shoots up suddenly at that question, one eye widening in some sort of frantic uncertainty; this guy sure is jittery today, a quality he cannot recall the man having beforehand when he served him a few weeks ago. “What did you—oh. The towel? It’s just my depth-perception, that’s all. It’s a little off sometimes… Most of the time… Don’t worry about it.”
What is he implying? Jean has half a mind to question him, and parts his lips to do precisely that, though relinquishes this desire upon another, closer look at Marco’s face; his right eye, though akin to the other in its sweet chocolate iris, possesses a glossy haze—a clouded sheen, not overly noticeable initially (at least, not to Jean), but there undoubtedly in this moment of realization. “… You’re blind.” It comes out as a blunt statement more so than a question; Jean does not comprehend exactly how he has just spoken at first, but as understanding sinks into his system, a faint blush reconquers his cheeks. “U-Uh, I mean…”
“Only in one eye.” Marco’s face veils itself momentarily as he dabs gently away at the marinara caked to his nose. “And I was born like this, so it’s all I’ve ever really known. No biggie.” He continues to wipe at his face, slowly wandering in the general direction of the restroom; Jean follows subconsciously as Marco continues to engage in conversation. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure that out earlier. That’s the first thing people usually seem to notice.”
“I don’t pay that much attention…” Shrugging his shoulders, Jean cracks a small grin—this damn Marco guy has one hell of an infectious smile. “So anyway, what did you order again? Mushroom Ricotta Ravioli—the smaller portion?”
With another quick wipe of the face, Marco nods his head. “Yep, that’s it… What’s your favorite thing on the menu here?”
One of Jean’s eyebrows rises inquiringly at the sudden question. “Me? I almost never eat here; even with employee discount, I can’t afford it…” The interest in the other’s stare does not falter, however, as he looks on at the shorter man expectantly. “Uh… I’ve only ever had this one lamb dish. It was really good. Pretty expensive though—actually, if you have a free meal, then you might want to go for something on the pricier side.” A quick wink strikes Jean’s eye. “That’s what I would do, anyway.”
“I’ll think about it, thanks.” Another swift, fleeting look hops from one pair of eyes to another, a visual exchange between two, a look of one meaning for a single party and an entirely different meaning for the other. “It was nice meeting you, Jean. Even if it wasn’t under great circumstances…”
The manner in which Marco’s tongue utters his name sends a trail of goose bumps along Jean’s spine; he shudders involuntarily at the sudden feeling and rubs it off with an incredulous frown. “U-Uh, yeah, you too. Fuck; that was weird…”
“Hm?”
“Just… Just let me know if you need those clothes I talked about earlier. You know, if you decide you don’t wanna hang around smelling like tomatoes.”
“I think it’s too late for that.” A tiny chuckle erupts from Marco’s chest, like a little barking mongrel longing to communicate with others though a fence. “But thanks anyway. I’ll see you around, I guess? How long does your shift last?”
“I’m here until close tonight, so… Until ten?” What time is it now? Six? Seven? Subconsciously, his eyes flit downward to the plastic watch on his wrist and, in a flash of apprehension, tugs his sleeve hurriedly downward to cover the blue Bubbles time-teller with his cuff. He had forgotten about this tacky piece of nineties cartoon memorabilia (another kind gift from Connie, from his fifteenth birthday—the time presently reads 7:14). “Only three hours tonight. I’m not leaving anytime soon though.”
Marco gives another curt nod. “Alright. I’d better go get the rest of this sauce off… Bye.”
“See ya.” And with a final, minute smile, Jean watches Marco vanish behind the restroom door, which swings on its hinges once, twice, forward, back, and silently slows to a stop.
~w~w~w~
“Hey, Connie?”
Pushing the door into an open swing, Jean steps into the kitchen with large strides as he scuttles over to the window between the chefs and the wait staff; he sticks a note to the top of the frame and gives a double knock, signifying the arrival of another order. “Connie?”
“Huh—oh, yeah?” Connie shakes his head a few times, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he leans against the wall for support. “What’s up? Ever find Mikasa?”
Oh.
Mikasa.
… Right.
… Shit, he had forgotten about that.
“Whoa, hey, Jean—!”
In a single, breakneck motion, Jean whips his hand out and grasps a handful of Connie’s uniform, grabbing the cloth tightly in his fingers and yanking his little, lanky form upward; they meet at eye-level. “Connie, what the hell are you trying to pull, anyway?”
“Ow! What are you talking about?”
“Mikasa’s not here, is she?” Jean’s voice rises in volume, a rigidness running along his bones as he rattles Connie’s body a few times out of frustration. His eyes light up a vivid amber, light catching hazel as he searches Connie’s (relatively vapid) face for some sort of answer. “You set me up back there! You know, I dumped a plate of food on someone because of you!”
“I swear, Jean, it wasn’t my idea!” Vigorously, Connie shakes his head to and fro and tries to wriggle free of Jean’s clutches. “Put me down before you rip my shirt!”
Gnashing his teeth together behind bared lips, Jean reluctantly shoves Connie away and relinquishes his hold on his shirtcollar. “Alright, then, fess up; whose idea was this?”
“Whose do you think?” Readjusting his collar, Connie turns toward a plate of food on the window counter, sliding a tray out onto the bar beside it and beginning to arrange the dishes on its surface.
“Some friend of Mikasa’s?”
Connie nods once, indifferent. “And if you honestly think it’s Armin, then we need to have a talk.”
“Jaeger…” So, that’s Eren’s game, eh? Although he can see very few ulterior motives for Eren to do something so downright lame, he can’t help but feel a little put off by this explanation. Sure, Eren is like a flea that feeds on his blood from beneath his hair, and no amount of mediation can ever rid him of the Jaegerscum, but the other man usually has a little more class, a little more elaboration in his schemes. Was Eren’s plan simply to lure him into the open looking like an idiot? Was Eren trying to involve Marco in his ploy all along, or had that been simple coincidence? Was Mikasa supposed to be here initially, and she had to leave for some reason or another? Something is missing in this supposed ploy—Jean can feel it in his stomach, but there isn’t much more that can be said at this point. It’s over anyway; might as well move on and confront Eren about it tomorrow, during their next shift (he hasn’t seen Eren all say, so he assumes that their shifts don’t overlap this evening). “God, Jaeger… Now I have that Marco guy to worry about too, thanks to him…”
At the mention of Marco’s name, Connie perks up suddenly, turning to face Jean as he grabs another plate of pasta from the window. “Marco?”
“Yeah; the guy I dumped food on earlier.” Jean jerks his head in the direction of the door, motioning towards the dining area with a thumb shot over his shoulder. “Seems nice enough—I offered him free dinner and all—but he’s been here for three fucking hours, and I swear he’s had his eyes glued to me the whole evening. I don’t think he’s even gotten his free dish yet! It’s been behind the window this whole time, so I can’t reach it, and every time I look back at him, he’s just sitting there. Not gonna lie, I think he’s a stalker.”
This conclusion earns a subdued snigger from Connie’s direction, though it cuts off the moment Jean turns back to look at him. “A stalker? Seriously?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s possible. He could be gay, or maybe I just look like someone he knows or something. Beats me. But he’s creeping me out.” Jean steps back and unties the apron from his waist, pulling it over his head and off of his body; he drapes it neatly on the hanger by the door and releases a small sigh. Another evening on the job has waned to a tranquil night, save for his potential stalker, and it is usually this time of night that Jean finds himself relishing the most; the traffic has died down and the night life has yet to begin, thus creating the perfect period of time to spend in whatever way he pleases.
(At least, this is what he would think, were he not being watched through the wall by a stranger who probably has x-ray vision. Yikes. The thought drives a tremor along Jean’s spine. Of course, if Marco did have x-ray vision, then he could probably see through far more than just these walls…
Oh dear lord…
At the same time, however, Marco having x-ray vision can imply that his potential stalker is, in fact, a superhero, and even Jean has to admit that having Superman stalk you is pretty damn awesome, in a way. Marco’s hair isn’t so different from Clark Kent’s, either. He can see it all falling into place now—Marco Bodt: Freckled Wonder—
… It’s probably best if he goes straight home and sleeps tonight).
“Maybe he just doesn’t have anything else to do today or something.” Connie shrugs again. “Dunno, man, but I have one more table to feed, so… Move it or lose it.”
“… What table?”
“Uh… table five?”
Table five, eh? With a brief glimpse at the plates on Connie’s tray, Jean spots the only food he needs to know exists (not for his own nutritional purposes, for ravioli is but a small portion of the ever-vast Food Pyramid of Jean Kirschstein, but for the purposes of deduction!
And apparently he is now Sherlock Holmes. Fan-fucking-tastic. Stupid Bodt. Stupid, stupid Jaeger.
This has absolutely nothing to do with sleep deprivation on his part.)
“That’s Marco’s table…” He swallows. Well, it’s probably best if he approaches this issue head-first. After all, what’s to prevent Marco from returning the next evening, and every other day after that—why, the freckled weirdo could follow him home, for pete’s sake! “Give me that tray.”
“Huh? What are you—hey, Jean!” Without so much as an utterance, Jean pries the tray of food from Connie’s hands—he takes extra precaution to make sure that the plates are balanced before doing so (there is no way in hell that he’s going to repeat the earlier mess). “Jean!”
“I’ve got this one. You can go home.”
And so it is that Jean Kirschstein, spinning on his heel and turning away, bursts through the swinging door and maneuvers his way into the dining area. His eyes catch sight of Marco almost instantly, who seems preoccupied with his phone again (texting away, Jean assumes, given the rapid tapping of his fingers on the little buttons—he still has a flip phone with a telephone “2-ABC” keyboard, good god…); said freckled man appears to catch a glimpse of Jean out of his peripheral vision, however, and presses his phone shut with his left hand—it is shoved almost instantaneously into his coat pocket. Jean flinches a little, swallowing again in anticipation. This is nerve-racking— be it because he’s approaching a stalker or because he might very well drop the tray a second time; he’s not quite sure which option frightens him more at this point. Their eyes meet, cool chestnut and striking amber, the former alight and serene and the latter erratic and clutching the pupil like a lifeline—like an ever-consuming weed. With a quick intake of breath through scarcely parted lips, Jean sets the tray down on a nearby table, sliding it near the center to avoid any chance of knocking the tray again. The atmosphere of the dining area is strange, almost unsettling—silence—not a noise abound, save for a few clinking pans resonating in from the kitchen. The sign on the front door has been flipped to “closed”, and every other customer has either left or is in the process of receiving a receipt to leave.
And then there’s Marco Bodt.
Damned, sweet Marco Bodt.
If this man is truly a stalker, then his art has been perfected, for it is incredibly difficult for Jean to see much of anything beneath that façade of glee (for real, though—does this man ever stop smiling ? Jean dumped a tray of tomato sauce and wheat glop all over him—what fucker isn’t at least deterred by something like that?). “Marco?”
“Yes?” And his voice. It’s not super giggly or anything, but it might as well be, as far as Jean’s concerned. Puberty didn’t treat him well, that’s for certain—maybe when he’s not happy it drops or something? That would certainly be interesting, Jean muses with a little smirk. It’s almost tempting to fling some more pasta at his face, just to see if he can piss him off enough to lower his voice an octave.
Okay, so maybe it’s not actually that high, and yes, Jean has heard worse from guys many, many times before. But that doesn’t mean anything. It also doesn’t mean Jean is pulling at straws for anything to lure him away from this curious freckled entity sitting so contently before him but damn is that smile inviting. Were Marco a girl, then you’d better believe that he would—
No.
Stop that.
Focus.
“… Your food’s here.” Clearing his throat, Jean picks a plate up off of the tray and sets it gently on the table in front of Marco’s face, trying to steady his trembling fingers. “About time too. Sorry if it’s cold, but—you did wait three hours for it.”
Marco’s smile falls for a moment at Jean’s tone, and it’s clear to Jean in that moment that he has made a mistake. The delight dies in his face for a second or two, and the glint in his eyes fades; the look that replaces it is one of sadness, one of a bitter sort of sweetness—a smile soon returns, but it’s far from the same smile that has graced Jean throughout the entirety of the evening. “Oh… right. I’m sorry if this seems too forward…” A faint pink rises on Marco’s cheeks, catching Jean slightly off-guard but reaffirming the idea that Marco is either really creepy or really gay for him. Or both. He could always be both. “I just… I haven’t dated in a while, you know?”
… He could always be both.
The sudden utterance of the d-word draws forth a little gasp from Jean; a look of utter perplexity crosses his face—a bright crimson dusts his ears, his eyebrows rise a bit, his jaw unclenches, and his eyes widen. So… is Marco trying to ask him out? To say that Jean is utterly confused is utterly understated. There’s still something about this that seems a little… off? He can’t quite place his finger on it, but like hell is he going to just go along with this bizarre proposal. “Well, I’ve never dated at all, so, uh… Guess we’re even on that field, but—” His gaze hits the floor. “Uhhh—god damn this is awkward—I can’t go out with you. Yeah. Sorry, man, but I really have no idea who you are, and, like I’ve said, I’ve never dated before, and I wouldn’t know where to start, so the answer is flat-out no.”
“I could learn along with you?” Marco clears his throat, glancing down at this plate of ravioli with a wee grimace; Jean almost pities the hungry man—cold pasta is kind of gross, really. “I-I’ve never dated guys before, but that really doesn’t matter too much, right? We can make it work; I’m willing to try it if you are too.”
It doesn’t take long for this awkward conversation to prompt a similar grimace on Jean’s face. “Did I say or do anything this evening that would make you think I’d want to date you? I’m not saying you’re not a nice guy, but I’m really confused at this point. What the actual hell are you talking about?”
Marco’s grimace-grin-hybrid twitches downward into a look of bafflement. “You mean… You don’t want to…?”
“No!” Jean shakes his head and places his forehead in his hands. “Not right now anyway—that’s nuts! Sorry if that’s disappointing, but… I mean, what the hell—I don’t even—what made you think that I did would in the first place?!”
“Well…” Marco rubs anxiously at his chin for a moment, fingers scratching absently at the skin as he ponders over what to say amidst the uncomfortable atmosphere. “Eren told me he had a friend that was interested in me—someone who served me here. I’ve only been here once though, and you were my waiter, so I figured it was you. He never gave me a name, so maybe I’m wrong?”
“Jaeger?”
“Yeah. I, uh… I haven’t seen anyone—uh, romantically—in almost five years, to be honest, and I’ve been need—wanting to find somebody that fits the bill. It gets lonely, you know? And—”
But Marco’s ramblings fade to silence in Jean’s state of consciousness; the shorter man slips into the crevices of his mind, struggling to put all of the pieces of this convoluted puzzle together into some discernable shape. So… According to Connie, Eren set Jean up to find Mikasa—no, to not find Mikasa—right? And now Superfreckle is saying that Eren set Marco up to ask Jean out? What’s going on here?
(And did Marco just say that Eren referred to Jean as a friend? Pah! Now he knows this story is riddled with baloney and bullshittery. Stupid Eren. Stupid Connie. Stupid Wonderfreckle—).
“—but you might as well eat.”
“—what?” Jean’s voice grows blunter by the minute, and he clamps his lips shut instantly. Nothing he says is coming out right tonight, it seems. Bugger. Perhaps if he takes a moment to collect himself, he can actually muster up something in coherent English. “Eat? Eat food?” Apparently not.
A faint laugh, light and airy, slips from Marco’s mouth. “Do you usually eat things other than food? Do I even want to know?”
“Honestly? No, you don’t.” Jean shakes his head, clears his throat, and, with a swift glance at Marco’s face on last time, slides into the chair opposite him. Well, at least he knows that this guy isn’t a superhuman gay stalker or anything like that (because that would be ridiculous), and given that they were both duped by Eren, Jean figures they could learn to have quite a bond—not romantically, but as friends, at least. Jean can always use more of those. What he has now in the friendship department hardly qualifies anyway (especially Connie, who barely counts as an entity in the first place). “Seriously though, I’m starving. I forgot to eat before my shift. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Sounds awful.” Marco nods his head in agreement before chancing a glance to his left; that infectious, toothy grin suddenly spreads across his slightly squared face. “But, you know, you have food too.”
An eyebrow lifts at the gesture. “I wha—oh, you didn’t.” Following’s Marco’s good eye, Jean looks to his right at the tray sitting on the table beside them. Surely enough, nestled on the edge of the tray near the center of the table is a plate of pre-cut lamb leg, garnished in some unidentifiable green seasoning and accompanied by asparagus with an oil-based dressing and ohhh is Jean’s mouth watering at the sight. “Skip dating; just marry me now.”
Marco beams wider as Jean reaches over to pull the plate of lamb onto their table and sits it in front of himself. “That’s why I asked what you liked earlier. I honestly thought you were going to have dinner with me after your shift.” His hand lifts to rub the back of his neck; his fingers curl a short strand of dark hair at the nape in an absent manner. “The more you think about all of this, the more awkward it gets, huh?”
Jean glances up suddenly mid-bite; he sets his fork down and scrambles to chew the all-too-large bite of meat in his mouth before swallowing and covering his mouth with a napkin. “Well, at the base of things, yeah—this was hella awkward.” He swallows again. “But now that we’ve sorted things out, it’s pretty cool. I mean, we’re eating food—” this ushers out a light snort and a grin from the taller man, “and just… chilling? Nothing wrong with that.”
“That’s true…” Marco’s grin falters a little, though only out of contentment; it’s sort of refreshing, really—his constant seeping of joy. Given Jean’s not-so-fantastic-college-student lifestyle, it could be to his benefit to keep him around for a while. “So… Ah, what do you do? I mean, other than working here.”
“Not much.” This probably isn’t the best way to win someone over, but lying never got him anywhere, so he gave that up long ago. Maybe that’s why he’s never been the most socially-adept in this fabricated world of lies and falsehoods. “I’m finishing up my third year of college.”
The fork in Marco’s hand pauses suddenly on the way to his mouth, and his face contorts into a mild confusion. “College…?” He seems to mull this over in his head; Jean is mostly uncertain how to interpret this, however given the circumstances. Is college good for Marco? Bad? He’d love to know why, if that is the case, but—well, best see how things play out from here and damn his lamb is cold. “How old are you, then?”
“Twenty.” A slight heat creeps up into Jean’s face as his eyes flit to the wine bottle sitting beside Marco’s elbow; it remains entirely unopened. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no! Not really, I mean.” He shakes his head and takes a bite of his ravioli, wincing at the cold sliminess of the little stuffed noodles. “I’m twenty-five… That’s not a problem for you, is it?”
Jean shrugs his shoulders. “Nah. It’s just five years.” Marco seems to appreciate this response and takes a sip of his wine with an unreadable smile lingering devilishly behind the cloudy white beverage.
They sit like this in silence for some time, taking a bite or two of their respective meals, exchanging fleeting glances and gentle grins, gestures and guffaws and other such things, simplicity at its finest art as it dances between their mirthful faces in the dim glow of the restaurante’s fixtures above. Despite having no real encounter prior to this meeting, they hit it off surprisingly well, in Jean’s general opinion, as they converse about their lives—aspirations, childhood, little moments shared between bites and sips in the comfort of one another. The lack of people puts Jean at ease, much to his own surprise; everything becomes so much more personal… He never thought he would enjoy such heart-to-heart small talk with a complete stranger, but Marco retains a quality—an inkling of some indiscernible trait, be it his sweet disposition or his calm mannerisms or perhaps even the way his freckles stand out in such fervency against his lightly-tanned face (Jean can’t help but wonder if they would glow under a blacklight—he vows to test this theory in the near future). Whatever it may be, Marco has enraptured him—encased his attention for the remainder of the night—to the point where, midway through their meal, he whips out his phone and exchanges numbers without so much as a shred of hesitation. The other man obliges happily and provides him with said information, dodging all of Jean’s mockeries regarding his prehistoric cell phone.
It is far from what either of them came here to do tonight, yet neither party would have it any other way.
And, as Jean will rise from his chair with the intention of making his departure, Marco will follow in suit, shadowing him to the car where, with a swift peck to the temple, he will say a simple goodbye for the remainder of the night.
Marco will successfully ask Jean out a week later.
~w~w~w~
“Yeah…” Jostling the cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, Jean readjusts himself in the uncomfortable leather seat of Marco’s Mini Cooper, nibbling his lower lip as he shoves his fist against a bag of clothes looming behind his head. “Look, Connie, I’m gonna need to call you back—Marco’s car is smaller than you and I have laundry pushing me into the dashboard.”
At this comment, Marco simply sighs, shaking his head and giving a little, contented smile; he gave up on pleasing Jean’s expensive tastes months ago. Turning the wheel a bit further, he pulls slowly into the neighborhood, turning his head zealously in attempt to see everything in his general vicinity—while driving with one eye is entirely possible, it can certainly prove difficult (Jean sometimes has a hard time wrapping his head around the concept that Marco has been half-blind his whole life and that he’s still perfectly capable of doing things like driving a few hours and popping a bag of microwave popcorn—err, not at once, of course, for that would be impressive for anyone, really).
“Okay, sounds good. Later, Lex… Wha—how the actual hell do I resemble Cruella DeVil? You know, whatever…” With a final snort, he hangs up the phone and stuffs it in his pocket to the best of his ability; his other hand reaches awkwardly behind his shoulder to shove the bags away from him once more. “Remind me again why you don’t have a truck or something?”
“Because I usually don’t need one?” Marco sighs semi-dejectedly once more, readjusting the rear-view mirror above his head. “Besides, this is cheaper in the long run.”
“By, what, three thousand?” His arms fold across his chest; his foot taps absently to the beat of the quiet dance tune spewing out from the radio. “Are we almost there?”
One of Marco’s eyebrows rises in curiosity, and a tiny frown grows on his lips. “Are you okay? Just… calm down. We’re almost there; just a few more turns.” As per usual, his frown hardly remains beyond five seconds, and is soon replaced by a tiny, almost docile grin; as he slows to stop behind a crosswalk, he leans across and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Jean’s lips. “We got this.”
Jean’s face flushes a furious pink, though even he cannot subdue the happy smile tugging at his lips; it isn’t long before he mirrors Marco’s smirk full-force, despite the twitchiness of his unwilling lips. “You’re so full of it, you know that? Well, whatever. All I know is that my stuff better fit in your house somewhere; I’m not going back to that grubby old apartment and unpacking everything again.” As the car begins moving once more, jaggedly rolling along on what Jean believes to be the bumpiest road in existence, his face turns toward his lover in the driver’s seat and he exhales slowly, finally willing down the majority of the embarrassing red that always prickles his cheeks when Marco decides to be forward. At this point, after dating for four months or so, Jean can’t really say that he cares anymore—sure, Connie and Eren poke fun at him at work sometimes, but Jean now has blackmail of the both of them at his disposal (after one considerably curious night of Bingo Bash—it’s best if the details are left under veil for now). Nothing they say or do can render his affections toward his companion false or weak. Sure, he had had an interest in Mikasa—and to say that he doesn’t still find her attractive as can be is a downright lie—but a relationship based solely on physical attraction would only have lasted so long anyway.
And, besides, Marco’s not a bad looker, himself.
“Alright, we’re here!” Putting the vehicle in park, Marco turns off the Cooper and removes the keys, turning to grin widely at Jean. “Ready? A whole new chapter in our lives… It’s pretty exciting, huh?” He voice trails a bit as he studies Jean’s eyes more closely; a questioning eyebrow lifts above the working eye. “Jean, what are you thinking?”
Jean’s gaze flits up and down a few times, and the grin on his face spreads all the wider as a sudden multitude of thoughts sneak into the fissures of his mind. “I think you know exactly what I’m thinking.”
A brief chuckle slips out past Marco’s lips as he gives a little shake of the head. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen too much for a while. Especially in this house, with Nico around…”
“What, your cat?” This earns a half-stifled snicker from Jean as he unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door to the Cooper; Marco mimics the action in suit, shutting the door behind him and peering over at Jean with an unreadable look on his freckled face (which, ordinarily, Jean would interpret as a sign of the Armageddon, but, in this moment, he is far too preoccupied with enjoying himself, relishing life, and entirely adoring the life he has ahead of him—at least, for the summer; then his fourth year of college swings around and he doesn’t wager that’ll be a particularly celebratory time). “Call me crazy, Marco, but I don’t think your cat will be too concerned if it walks in on—what’s wrong?” A sudden concern laces his voice and his grin falters into a look of utmost confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that? Sorry if I insulted your cat and all, but—”
“Jean…” Marco’s chocolate stare glues itself upon Jean’s hazel, unwavering as the older man gradually maneuvers his way around the front of the Cooper to come closer to his boyfriend. “… I don’t have a cat…” At Jean’s inquiring eyebrow lift, Marco’s own brows knit together in the center of his forehead, and a horrified expression, wide-eyed and jaw-slackened, replaces his typical glee. He claps a hand to his forehead, running it back through his hair once and gripping it in the back in a nervous manner. “Oh god…”
A small, baffled scowl forms on Jean’s face. “What?”
“Nico…” He repeats the name once, twice, and chances an anxious half-smile; when his lips part to speak again, each word rolls out sluggishly, unsteadily, as if assuring himself that whatever point he is trying to make comes out clear as day. “You know… Nico. My son.”
“Oh.”
“…”
“…”
“… Jean?”
It takes a minute for Jean to process Marco’s words fully, but it is upon such comprehension that his breath hitches in his throat and his eyes expand about twice their normal size; all thought processes cease in that moment, and were his heart not erratically threatening to burst from his chest, Jean might just die where he stands.
… Did Marco just say—
—what sort of sick joke—
—what—
—how—
—in—
“Your what ?!”
~w~w~w~