Work Text:
“Jean, just go over and talk to him.”
“No.”
This is generally how his Friday nights go.
It’s the first almost warm night of the spring--by no means warm enough for an all-night backyard rager. But Mina’s parents are gone for the weekend, and she lives in the Shigan backwoods with no neighbors to come snooping through, and the pit they dug from their last bonfire is still perfectly usable. So.
Jean’s drinking the punch, a mistake in and of itself, but he’s two cups deep, and whenever he drinks bonfire punch he gets, well--
Moony.
“Look at his hair,” he mutters into the rim of his cup, throwing back the last of it, “Stupid.”
Marco pries the plastic cup out of hand. “So go tell him his hair’s stupid.”
“No.”
Marco sighs. “Jean.”
“M’not talking to him,” Jean snatches his drink back. “So drop it.”
“You’ve had enough.”
“Not even close.”
Marco serves him a dry look. “How d’you figure?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’m like a soft five right now,” Jean peers inside the cup, then up to the edge of the beer pong tables, where Eren Jaeger’s standing looking all soft in the firelight. He glares. “And I need to be at an eight, at least.”
“Alright, fine. I gave it my obligatory Jean, no,” Marco waves a hand. “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”
“Me and my self-destructive habits thank you,” Jean tips his cup towards his best friend, and then knocks back the rest of the punch inside.
--
He knows he leaves the party. In his memory, he can see through hazy eyes, the windshield of Marco’s mom’s car, the radio on and the heat blasting. Taylor Swift. That one song, the oldish one, crooning out through the speakers as he slipped in and out of consciousness, “you belong with meeeeee…”
The next truly conscious moment he has is falling out of Marco’s bed.
“Oh, good,” Marco’s voice floats in from the doorway, “you’re up.”
“I can literally,” Jean mutters into the carpet, “feel your words in my face, oh my god.”
“I tried to get you to drink some water last night. You proceeded to pour it over your head and kept asking me repeatedly if you looked like a face wash commercial.”
Jean tries his best to sit up. “That does sound like something Drunk Jean would do. It also explains why my clothes are damp. Sober Jean is relieved he didn’t piss himself.”
“Consider my debt for Annie’s Halloween party fully repaid,” Marco slides down onto the floor, holding out a bottle of water. “Here.”
“Thanks,” Jean takes it, unscrewing the cap. When he realizes Marco’s staring at him, he pauses. “What?”
“Do you want food before or after I tell you the shit you got up to last night?”
Jean’s belly gives a hard tug, and he hangs his head. “Fuck, what’d I do?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
Jean snaps his head up, glaring. “Just tell me now--can’t puke if there’s nothing in my stomach.”
Marco sighs, reaching behind him for something. “Alright, but I warned you.”
He tugs his phone free of it’s charger, tapping at the screen and scrolling down to something. “Okay, so before I show this to you, just know--”
Jean yanks the phone away, and the instant what he’s looking at registers in his mind, the blood drains from his body one chilling wave of realization.
It’s a picture. A picture of him. Hanging off of Eren. Like, arms around the shoulders and face nestled into the crook of Eren’s neck in front of the bonfire. And Eren looks unnervingly nonplussed, carrying on a conversation with a half-out-of-frame Reiner, Solo cup in one hand and his other pressed against the small of Jean’s back. A surge of sense memory comes back to him, the smell of burning wood, of Eren’s shampoo, the weight of a hot hand burning through his hoodie holy fucking shit.
“Once he got past his initial confusion, Eren was actually pretty cool about it,” Marco says. “He let you just kind of hang off of him for like, an hour until I finally got you to cling to me instead.”
“Why the hell didn’t you stop me?”
“Consider my revenge from Annie’s Halloween party fully exacted,” Marco leans back. “You plied me with Fireball, I pushed you at Eren Jaeger.”
“Not equal, not equal in the slightest!” Jean stuffs hands into his hair. “Oh man, this sucks.”
“It’s not that bad,” Marco waves a hand. “I told you, he was cool about it.”
Jean checks his own phone. “I’ve been tagged in seven different pictures on Instagram.”
Marco grabs the phone from him. “Wow, you know what sounds great right now? Pancakes.”
Jean yanks the blankets off of Marco’s bed, wrapping himself in them. “Goodbye, that’s it. Leave me to just quietly die here.”
Marco starts pulling at the comforget. “Jean, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“Um,” Jean pops his head out. “Did you go up to the guy you’ve been into for fucking forever and nuzzle him last night?”
“Think of it as progress.”
“I don’t want progress,” Jean flings a pillow at him. “I wanted to wait out this dumbass infatuation, graduate, never see Eren Jaeger again, get super hot over the summer and whore my way through college with people who aren’t ridiculously out of my league.”
Marco’s eyebrows draw together, and a tiny voice in Jean’s head mutters a quiet shit, because he knows that face. It’s the face Marco gets whenever his inner-mother starts to come out. A perfect combination of pitying and shallowly reassuring, carrying with it a ringing tone of oh, honey underneath whatever Marco chooses to say while making it.
This time it’s, “Jean, Eren is not ridiculously out your league.”
Jean squints. “Are you blind? He so is.”
“I literally watched him get into a belching competition last week. With you. I’m pretty sure you’re playing in the same incredibly juvenile and gross ballpark.”
“Okay, but like, on a scale,” Jean starts.
“No,” Marco waves his hands. “Not another one of your scales.”
“On a scale of one to ten,” Jean continues, “Eren’s easily like, an eleven.”
“Jean, if you’re gonna set shit in an arbitrary numeral scale, you need to at least keep said shit within that arbitrary numeral scale.”
“Fine, he’s a ten,” Jean flops back, staring up at the ceiling. He can picture that face so well, the curve of Eren’s jaw, the straight line of his nose, eyes that never give anything other than a thousand yard stare. The small sliver of a scar right under his chin from where one of Jean’s rings caught him in a fight. Jean’s tummy tightens, and he turns onto his side to face away from Marco. “He’s like, movie star good looking. Or like, at least sitcom boyfriend good looking. He’s beautiful, okay? And I’m like…”
Marco leans over his body, making Jean look up at him. “You’re what?”
“I’m like a six. Maybe.”
Marco stares at him, and the longer he stares the deeper the creases in his face fold. “Jean, you’re not a six.”
“Says the eight.”
Marco throws his hand up. “Those numbers don’t mean anything!”
Jean chooses to remain quiet, reaching for his water.
Marco’s phone vibrates, and looking down at the screen he says. “Sasha wants to know what time you’d wanna meet up to study.”
“I don’t wanna meet up,” Jean says, grabbing TV remote. “I don’t want to see anyone right now except maybe Giada telling me how to make smoked mozzarella meatballs.”
“The study group was your idea. You have to go,” Marcho kicks at his side. “C’mon. You can shower here and I’ll lend you a shirt so you don’t even have to face your mom hung over.”
“Fuck,” Jean sits up. “Fine. But the second Ymir says a damn thing about anything I’m out.”
Marco reaches out and messes Jean’s hair, ignoring the indignant hey! he lets out, swatting wildly. His hair is enough of a mess as it is, and probably a metaphor for his life. He doesn’t need anyone messing it up even more.
-
“The second,” Jean throws his bag down on the table, “anyone says anything about you know what I’m out, and y’all can forget about using my parents’ lake house for after prom.”
“I’m spending my after prom actually getting laid no matter where I am, so I don’t give a shit,” Ymir pushes his backpack out of her space. “I can’t believe you tried to mount Eren Jaeger last night.”
Jean whips his head around, expression absolutely desolate. Marco waves his hands. “You didn’t--Ymir, cut it out.”
“You were like,” Sasha twirls a pen, “all up on him, though.”
“I’m,” Jean pulls at his lower eyelids, collapsing into the open chair across from her, “aware.”
Sasha tilts her head. “You should really just nut up and ask him out. He’s not gonna say no.”
“Um, no offense but I’m not gonna take advice from the girl who wore the same Ryan Cabrera shirt every day of seventh grade.”
“It wasn’t the same shirt. I had at least three in rotation.”
“That’s really not the biggest problem here.”
“Alright, let’s all just,” Marco sighs, pulling out the chair next to him, “chill out.”
Jean snaps, “I am chill. I am so freakin’ chill it’s not even funny.”
“Seriously though,” Sasha pokes at the side of his face with the end of her pen. “Put us all out of our misery and just tell him already. It’s not like he can’t guess how you feel after last night.”
Jean lets his head collide with the table.
“Maybe,” Ymir drawls, “But this is Eren Jaeger we’re talking about. He’s getting an A in AP Bio but it takes him at least three tries to get his locker combo right.”
Jean’s glad they can’t see his face, and the dopey-ass grin slapped across it at the mental image of that dumbass unable to open his locker. Eren definitely remembers it, but he probably just turns the dial too enthusiastically. A Taylor Swift songs comes on over the cafe speakers, the slow one about teardrops and guitars, and Jean feels so goddamn high school in every inch of his greasy skin.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jean finally sits up again, fixing at his hair. “There’s no way he’s interested, so.”
Sasha shoots him a look. “The hell do you think that for?”
Marco cuts in, “Jean thinks he’s a six.”
“Oh,” Jean covers his face with a hand, “my god.”
Sasha frowns. “A six?”
“Like, on a scale.”
“Yo, what is with you and scales, Jean-Baptiste?” Ymir kicks her feet up onto the table, balancing on the back legs of her chair.
Jean steals Sasha’s notebook. They came here to study, for fuck’s sake. “First, that’s not my name. Second, quantifying things on an easily identifiable scale is a great method of organization.”
Marco mutters, “More like compartmentalization...”
Jean waves a hand. “Just because you’re the only pure soul here who doesn’t rate people based on looks, doesn’t mean that anyone else is like that. Ymir, you’re jaded and cynical with just the right amount of vindictive--please tell Marco that everyone uses and Hotness Scale.”
“Well, yeah,” Ymir barely spares an uninterested glance. “But all dudes are like a 3 at best to me, so.”
“What about Eren?” Jean asks.
She pauses, eyes flickering towards the ceiling for a beat before closing in resolution. “A solid four.”
Jean turns to Marco, raising an eyebrow to say see?
Marco turns to his left. “Sasha?”
“Don’t look at me,” Sasha sighs. “It’s human nature to identify people we think are physically attractive for breeding purposes.”
“See, Marco,” Jean points his pen in his friend’s face. “Breeding purposes.”
Marco slaps it away. “Don’t be gross.”
“And Eren Jaeger is like,” Sasha leans her chin against his hand. “At least a nine.”
Jean snorts, finally opening his notes. “Don’t let Connie hear you say that.”
Sasha shrugs. “Connie thinks Eren’s hot, too. You don’t stop noticing other peoples’ hotness just ‘cause you’re in a relationship.”
“See?” Jean nudges at Marco’s side with his foot. “Eren’s hotness is a truth universally acknowledged, Mr. Bingly.”
“Okay, but, Sasha, let me ask you this,” Marco holds up a finger. “Who are you more attracted to?”
Without even hesitation, “Connie.”
Jean blinks, slowly. “You just said--”
“Yeah, Eren’s hot, and he’s nice, but he’s like...” she makes an intense, strained face, “all the time. And he definitely wouldn’t watch hours of Appalachian Outlaws with me, or bring me a heated pad when I’ve got cramps, or play the ham game.”
Marco squints “Ham game?”
Sasha shrugs. “One of us will take pieces of ham and put it on our face with the eyes and mouth still exposed, hide, and wait for the other person to walk in the room to scare them.”
Jean and Marco stare.
She stares back. “And then we eat it.”
Marco coughs. Jean grimaces. “You two are freaks.”
“Yeah, well, at least I have someone to be a freak with,” she snaps her book shut. “I’m out. I only came here for Ymir’s notes anyway. Marco, have fun convincing Jean he’s not butt ugly, I’ve got better things to do.”
“I don’t think I’m ugly, I just think I’m a six!” Jean shouts after her. Everyone sitting around them turns to stare, and Jean ducks.
-
Once they’ve all collected their things, Ymir bids them goodbye with a quick salute and walks straight up to the counter where Christa’s working the register. Jean glares, because sure, they make it look so easy. Like liking someone and then actually talking to them and getting together is the most natural progression of human interaction when it’s literally the hardest thing in the entire universe.
“This was nowhere near as productive as it should’ve been,” Marco mutters, looping his bag strap over his shoulder.
“If everyone had just shut up like I wanted them to, we would’ve stayed on topic instead of spending the entire time gossiping about--Eren,” Jean halts, stopping short in front of Eren Jaeger in all his weekend glory--jeans he’s cut off at the knees, frayed threads hanging off, sandals with tube socks, paint splattered shirt with a green hoodie thrown over it. He’s atrocious looking, but it still makes Jean almost melt on the spot. To cover it up, he grunts, “Did you pants lose a fight with a lawnmower?”
Eren squints. “Did your face?”
“Hey, Eren,” Marco cuts in, diffusing the fight. The last thing they need is to get banned from another local eatery. “You get home okay last night?”
“Mmhmm, Armin drove so,” Eren keeps looking past them, but when his eyes flicker forward again, they can’t miss Jean trying his best to fold into himself. “What about you guys? You left together?”
“Yeah, ha. I don’t know if you could tell, but I was the designated driver.”
Jean makes a sound low in his throat, tearing himself away from Marco and bulldozing past Eren, grunting, “I’ll be outside.”
“Jean--” Marco tries.
He pushes through the door.
-
He sits in the passenger’s seat, staring at the vanity mirror, not even bothering to fix his hair because it’s betrayed him when he feels the door open, Marco climbing in.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Jean slumps down in his seat. “Don’t be. You were just trying to make it normal, and I freaked out.”
“Still,” Marco turns to him. “He asked about you, when you left.”
Hean ignores the way his heart lifts a little. “Something probably along the lines of what the hell is his problem, right?”
“He just asked if you were okay,” Marco says, and then, quieter, “Are you okay?”
The impulse to cry crashes through his chest. He inhales sharply through his nose, cool air wedging itself it his throat. He turns to stare out the window, nodding because he can’t trust his voice.
There’s a pause, then the jingling of keys before the car rumbles to life, the radio blaring that same Taylor Swift song that was on in the cafe with same slow sad guitar. Jean whips forward, smashing a hand against the buttons. “Shut the fuck up--are you kidding me?”
Marco throws his head back, laughing as he puts the car in reverse.
-
They wind up back at Jean’s. His mom looks like she’s about to evoke a reckoning of biblical proportions until Marco pokes his head out from behind Jean, smiling and apologizing so sweetly she melts on the spot. Jean breathes a sigh of relief, bolting up the steps to his room with Marco following a few minutes later.
“Dude,” he says as Marco closes the door behind him. “You are like parental crack--I could come home missing an arm, but as long as you walked in with me my mother wouldn’t even care.”
Marco dives onto the bed. “I have a really honest face.”
“You mispronounced ugly,” Jean reaches over and flicks his nose.
“Not that ugly, you said I was an eight.”
Jean sits back. “Yeah, but you don’t believe in the Hotness Scale.”
“I don’t,” Marco sits up. “It’s got like, zero nuance to it.”
“It’s a Hotness Scale,” Jean rolls his eyes. “It’s not supposed to be nuanced.”
“But hotness is such a nuanced thing,” Marco stresses.
“How?” Jean asks, “How the hell is hotness nuanced? You see someone hot, bam, boner town. Simple as that.”
“Okay, but consider this,” Marco leans in, and emphatically says, “Ryan Gosling.”
Jean blinks. “What.”
“Ryan Gosling’s hot, right? Everyone thinks Ryan Gosling’s hot.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Just, like, forget everything you know about Ryan Gosling. Forget that he’s charming, and loves animals, and sings, and has a ripped body,” Marco wipes a hand through the air. “Forget he’s a great actor and really funny and sweet and all that.”
“Um,” Jean inches away. “Okay? I didn’t know you were so into Ryan Gosling.”
“And now just...think about his face,” Marco follows. “His eyes are kinda like, off, right?”
Jean reaches for his pocket. “Hold up, lemme pull up a pic on my phone.”
“They are, his eyes are kinda off, and his nose is very prominent and distinct, and he’s got a long face and it’s got this crooked foot curve to it.”
Marco’s not wrong. He’s not wrong at all, but.
“But he’s still Ryan Gosling,” Jean waves Google images at Marco. “He’s still that guy.”
“Yes, exactly, he’s still incredibly attractive, even though he’s not like, perfect super model goodlooking,” Marco grips at Jean’s shoulder. “You get it?”
Jean shrugs it off. “I’m not Ryan Gosling.”
“No, you’re Jean Kirschstein,” Marco nudges Jean’s shoulder with his foot. “Arguably just as good.”
“And are you saying I’ve got a big nose?” Jean asks, “And a foot face?”
“Well, I mean,” Marco falls back on his hands, “Um.”
“I’ll kill you!”
This devolves rapidly into one of their infamous, no holds barred wrestling matches. There’d been a torrid WWE fascination when they were kids, spanning years where they would practice fighting each other. Temporarily suspended when they turned 13 and Jean’s mom caught them in the backyard, resulting in the most incredibly awkward drive home ever with her patiently explaining she would love him no matter what.
Marco’s on top of him and has him in a full nelson when Jean’s bedroom door opens.
“Oh, um,” Jean snaps his head to the side to see Eren Jaeger standing in the doorway of his childhood bedroom. “I could come back later.”
Marco jumps up. “Actually, I was just leaving. You should stay though!”
“Uh,” Eren looks flustered. Jean doesn’t get to see him like this often, and he wishes he could enjoy it more instead of dealing with his own short breath and hot face. “That’s--I’m--”
“Jean, I’ll text you later,” Marco practically dances out the door, grabbing his coat off the desk. He pats Eren’s shoulder. “Have fun!”
Have fun Jean mouths in silent astonishment after Marco, then rights his attention back to Eren. His face falls into a familiar scowl, something easy to remember even with his jittery nerves, the familiar words as he pulls his knees to his chest, asking, “The hell’re you doing here?”
Eren glares right back, “I came all the way here to bring your jacket. You left it at the party last night. So don’t be a dick, ‘cause I’m trying to be nice.”
Jean eyes him. “You’re distinctly jacket-less.”
“Yeah, well, I gave it to your mom,” Eren had the gaul to cock an eyebrow and smirk, like they were still in 7th grade. Like your mom jokes were ever funny. “Then she said you were in here, and I could just go right up.”
Neither of them say anything for a solid ten seconds that tick by at the rate of molasses.
“Well,” Jean clears his throat, absently twirling the stud in his ear. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” Eren doesn’t make a move to leave. “I actually also wanted to talk to you--”
“Excuse me, sweetie,” suddenly, his mom is busting into the room past Eren with a basket full of laundry in her arms. “Jean, I’ve got your whites here. Put them away in your drawers, don’t just leave them in the basket.”
“Thanks, ma,” Jean bites out, eye twitching. His underwear is on top. Of course.
She makes a face, setting the basket on the bed. “It smells terrible in here--it’s beautiful out, open a window.”
“Okay, ma.”
“There’s no place for you friend to even sit--”
“OKAY, MA.”
She sighs, that patented mom-sigh that conveys she’s dropping it, for now. She lingers for a moment, looking between Eren and Jean as she slowly steps out of the room, pushing the door all the way open. She locks eyes with Jean as she says. “Keep this open while you’re up here.”
Jean falls back against the floor, covering his hands with his face as he hears her footsteps retreat. “Jesus Christ….”
A beat, then, “So you’re a briefs guy, huh?”
Jean jolts up and throws the nearest thing at Eren’s gross, beautiful, perfect 10 face. An empty Coke bottle he easily side-steps, grinning the whole while. It only succeeds in knocking over a precariously perched soccer trophy on his dresser, which hits a stack of old CDs, all of them falling in a giant clatter that has his mom screaming up the stairs, “What happened?! Who fell?!”
“It’s fine!” Jean groans back, listening for her sigh through the floor. Years of training have allowed him to hear it within a two block radius. He looks up at Eren
Eren stares. “So.”
Jean echoes, “So.”
They’re locked in this totally unwarranted staring contest that’s making Jean start to sweat. This time last year they would’ve either been resolutely ignoring each other or at each other’s throats, but this…this is new territory. This is different, unfamiliar, uncomfortable. Jean rubs at the back of his neck, hot to the touch. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like Eren being in his room, in extremely close proximity to where Jean jerks off.
“I hear it’s nice out,” he finally says. “We should maybe...go for a walk?”
They bumble down the stairs, Jean yelling to his mom that he’s stepping out, and the second he does he regrets it immediately. Ma was right--it’s beautiful out, sky bright and sun shining with just the barest breeze, puffs of white clouds dotting the sky over neatly packed townhouses. Everything smells new, like fresh grass and damp earth and blooming flowers. The first real spring day, and Eren Jaeger is there with sunlight caught in his hair, in his sandals and tube socks against a backdrop of blossom dotted trees and smiling people. Jean pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up, feeling like death warmed over, dehydrated, and his forehead’s breaking out underneath a sheath of greasy fringe he’s using to try and hide it. He’s not even wearing deodorant.
And Eren’s just--
Jean’s chest clenches. He’s beautiful, and this sucks.
Eren rubs at the back of his neck as they start shuffling down the sidewalk. “So--”
“Sorry,” Jean cuts him off. “About it. Like, the hanging off of you thing. I don’t know, party punch makes me weird. I’m pretty sure I saw nail polish remover go into it.”
Eren hums. Jean’s mind is a steady chant of, don’t look at him, just stare straight ahead, do not look at him.
Annnndddd now they’re just stuck taking a fucking walk together. Jean doesn’t even know where they’re going. Around the block? Down to the park? Until Jean walks off the shame of being a drunken hussy?
“A piece of advice, though,” Eren starts walking faster, hands jammed into his pockets, keys jingling against his belt at his hip. “You shouldn’t get drunk and hang all over other guys if you’ve got a boyfriend.”
Jean cocks an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You gonna put that one on you life advice column, Dear Abby?”
A hard gaze socks Jean in the gut. “You know, I knew you were a dick, but I didn’t think that you were the kind of dick who’d fuck around on your best friend.”
“What,” Jean stops walking, “are you even fucking talking about?”
“You and Marco,” Eren crosses his arms. Jean blinks, barely having time to process before Eren launches into, “I mean, I don’t know what you guys are, and I get that you were wasted but I’m not comfortable with you touching me like you did and whispering shit to me about my hair when you’re clearly involved with someone.”
Jean balks. “I was whispering shit, too? God, I’m never drinking party punch again.”
“And Marco’s a really good dude. He’s too good, y’know? And I feel bad that I let it happen like I did because I’ve got like zero impulse control.”
“That we can agree on,” Jean finally catches up. “But everything else? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“C’mon, Jean,” Eren rolls his eyes. “You guys are together 24/7, and I just walked in on him on top of you, so don’t pull this shit.”
Jean blinks.
“God,” Jean winces, “dammit.”
Eren rears back, startled.
“Again. I can’t believe this is happening for the second time,” Jean drags his hands down his face, pulling at his lower eyelids. “No. No times a billion. Marco is my best friend, he is my brother, and I would-I would never--”
He stops when he hears a very faint, “Oh.”
The heat in Jean’s face sizzles. “Yeah, oh is right. You get so pissy when people think you and Mikasa are a thing, you’d think you’d be a little more considerate. But you’re you, so I guess that was just wishful thinking on my part, you goddamn wrecking ball.”
“Um,” Eren at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jean sighs, coming down from his self-admittedly melodramatic high. “S’not like this is the first time someone’s thought that. Probably won’t be the last.”
Eren arrows his eyes. “The hell was he on top of you for, then?”
“We were just messing around,” Jean shrugs. “He kept giving me shit about this six thing, so I tried to make him eat his words.”
Eren tilts his head. “‘Six thing’?”
Jean rubs at his eyes. “Like, on a scale from one to ten, how attractive is person X.”
Eren gapes. “Marco said you were a six?”
“No, I said I was a six, and he went on a rant about Ryan Gosling.”
The reaction is immediate. “Jean, you’re not a six.”
Jean huffs. “Oh yeah? What am I, then?”
“I don’t know,” Eren shrugs. “It’s not like, a number thing. I don’t think it can just be scaled like that.”
Jean steals himself. This is the speech you give someone when you think they’re so horribly unattractive and you’re just trying to be nice. Even Eren Wrecking Ball Jaeger has enough social nicety chops to not call someone gross outright. Kudos to Mrs. Jaeger for at least shaking one ounce of manners into her ridiculous son.
“But if I had to,” Eren tilts his head, eyes shining as he says, “probably like...a ten.”
Jean’s head snaps up, whipping to the side to stare at Eren, who has to be joking, except Eren Jaeger doesn’t joke. Too serious, too intense, too goddamn literal. He remembers sixth period lunch freshman year, wanting to claw his eyes out as he listened to Connie and Sasha try to explain for a painful 40 minutes the punch line to why did the chicken cross the road?
(“To get to the other side,” Eren had said, “but I don’t get why that’s funny. He had something to do, so he did it--why is that a joke?”
“Because it’s so obvious,” Connie’d stressed. “And because the joke’s so old it’s unfunny, so when you tell it now it’s only funny ironically.”
“...what.”)
Eren makes a face, cheeks pink. “What? Was this a joke thing? ‘Cause then you’re like, a negative 6 billion, okay? Negative 6 trillion.”
“You--” Jean tries, but the smile stretches the words out, and he can’t get them past the barricade of teeth he’s flashing at Eren. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculous? You’re the one assigning levels of physical attraction on a one to ten scale.”
“I am ridiculous, I acknowledge that, ‘cause its taken me over a year to do this,” Jean pulls his hood back. “I need to go home and shower because I’m gross, but are you doing anything later?”
“Uh,” Eren blinks. “No?”
“Wanna like,” Jean feels his face burn, “Go get something to eat?”
Eren pauses. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”
“Like, y’know,” Jean rubs at the back of his hot neck, sneaks scuffing against the ground. “Y’know.”
“Clearly I don’t, asshole, so just--”
“I like you,” his face immediately flares, molten. “Like, y’know, a lot.”
“Oh,” at least Eren’s blushing now, too.
“Yeah.”
“Me, too,” he jumps forward, face such an open expression of honesty and earnestness it only makes Jean feel more embarrassed. He’s close now, close as he goes, “I really like you, too.”
They must look something, standing outside the market by the bench, bright red and struggling to look at each other for more than five seconds at a time. This is terrible. Jean thought he’d feel better after he got this shit out of the way, but he feels like he’s about to explode with this tidal wave of want and need that’s trying to burst out of his chest.
“So it that a yes, for a-a date later?” Jean’s voice actually cracks.
“Yeah,” Eren straightens. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Cool…” should he go? He simultaneously wants to run away and grab hold of Eren and never let go. He looks up from the ground where his eyes have been fixed, just as a breeze sweeps through the street, tousling Eren’s hair. Run, his mind screams, run before you do something so stupid--
“Can I kiss you?” Eren asks, like Jean hasn’t been staring at his lips for the last solid thirty seconds.
He nods, leaning in. This is it. This is it, holy shit, this is happening--
“Jean! Good morning!”
“Mr. Smith,” Jean tears himself back, sweating profusely, “hey!”
“Beautiful weather, eh?” Mr. Smith, another unfairly beautiful person in his life, owns the local grocery store and has known Jean since he was a kid. “Tell your mother I just got those brussel sprouts in, and that I set aside some for her.”
“Yep, yeah, of course.”
“Also, try to refrain from making out with boys in front of my store.”
Jean.
Wants to die.
“S-Sorry,” he squeaks, and Eren’s pulled up the hood of his jacket, looking across the street. He waits for Mr. Smith to dissapear into his store, before he turns, going, “So, uh--”
“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Eren walks backwards towards the corner. “I’ll text you.”
“Right,” a warm wind whooshes through the street. Jean does’t know why but he’s holding his hands up like he’s surrendering (and maybe he is. To the universe) as he echoes himself. “Right.”
-
“What,” Jean yells into his phone, “In Christ’s name do I wear?”
“Wear what you were already wearing,” Marco replies. “Maybe change you shirt.”
“Do I wear a button down?” Jean kicks open his closet door. “Or is that trying too hard?”
“Jean, you’ll be fine,” an exhausted sigh floats through the phone. “Think about Eren Jaeger’s fashion sense for a second--is he really gonna be judging you on your outfit? Really? He wore black crocs to junior prom last year that he spray painted himself.”
This is true, and still--
“I’m gonna try straightening my hair,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to you later.”
-
They meet up outside the diner after Jean went around his block two or three times to try and work up the momentum, sweating through his shirt, and went back home to put on the button down he said he wasn’t going to wear. It’s plaid though, so it’s still casual, with the sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. Straightening his hair hadn’t worked out well, so he jammed a beanie on his head and kept fussing with it the entire walk.
Eren’s changed too, into a sweater and a pair of jeans with only one hole in them, and honest to god actual Vans (the rattiest, grossest vans that look like they headlining Warped Tour since ‘98, but still. They’re not sandals). The butterflies that were wreaking havoc in Jean’s stomach quiet at the sight of Eren looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It feels good to know he’s not the only one. “Yo!”
Eren turns and the breath leaves Jean’s lungs. “Hey.”
He reaches up to smooth down his hair again. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Eren slumps forward. “I’m gonna stuff my face.”
“Sounds hot.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Eren waggles his eyebrows, walking backwards through the door.
-
They order a shit ton of food, because if their mouths are busy eating there’s less of a chance of one of them saying something stupid. That’s Jean’s reasoning at least, but as they wait he’s realizing he was worried for nothing. Everything they say is stupid. There’s no point in trying to avoid it when it’s the best way the two of them communicate.
“Are you,” Eren ducks his head under the table, “trying to play footsie with me?”
“What?” Jean’s face explodes with heat. “No.”
“You keep kicking me.”
“I thought that was the leg of the table!”
Eren kicks him back. “Nope, that’s me.”
“Ow, don’t kick me. I wasn’t kicking you hard, or on purpose.”
“I’m gonna wake up tomorrow with bruises all over my shin.”
“You’re such a baby,” Jean grins, trying to hide it in the palm of his hand, kicking back.
They scuffle for a few minutes, going back and forth until their waitress comes back over with her arms full of plates. Eren promptly traps Jean’s feet within his own, and doesn’t move them. Jean settles for throwing fries at him instead, laughing when they get stuck in Eren's perfect goddamn hair. The jukebox in the diner starts churning out another Taylor Swift hit about running away together, and instead of feeling betrayed by the universe his face warms at the lyrics as he watches Eren Jaeger get more and more pissed, and Jean laughs harder and harder.
-
Eren shoves his shoulder as they walk down Jean’s block, slow and ambling the closer and closer they get. “Shut up, man.”
“I swear to god,” Jean balances himself. “Ketchup. Everywhere.”
“Oh man,” Eren lets his head fall back. Jean watches his throat bob, and then whips his head back forward. His front door comes into view as they round the corner. He wonders if maybe he could walk right past it without Eren noticing, and they could just keep walking like this together.
But Eren walks his up the steps, standing there as Jean fiddles with his keys, trying to think of a way to make it last.
“I uh,” Jean pulls his beanie down. “I had fun.”
Eren eyes tunnel into him through the low stoop light. “Can I kiss you now?”
Jean can’t find the words, just nodding as he brings his hands up to grab at the lapel of Eren’s jacket and pull him forward.
Jean’s experience with kissing has thus far been pretty lackluster--the initial electric spark is usually completely muted by the sudden realization that everything is like...wet. And kind of tastes like cafeteria meat, but that might’ve just been the time he made out with Tomas when they both skipped sixth period right after lunch. Any kisses before or after that had been motivated almost solely by experience points. To keep trying until that electricity was all he felt, worrying that he’d never feel that with anyone. That he’d always settle for people he really didn’t like because the ones he did like were what he considered ridiculously out of his league. Eren had become the pinnacle of that fear, the farthest out of reach, the least likely to return his feelings, and the one Jean without a doubt had ever felt the most for.
But there they were. Somehow, Jean getting blown open by the blast of Eren Jaeger’s impact. Eren backs him up against his front door and knocks the cap off of Jean’s head to thread fingers through his hair and pull, to expose to column of Jean’s neck to bite kisses down, to slot their bodies together so neatly. Jean’s head swims, breath short and hips rolling forward with his only coherent thought being shit Eren’s so fucking hot, holy shit--
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Eren huffs against Jean’s skin, carding his hand through Jean’s hair again before pressing another kiss to the hollow of his throat.
“I wanna ask you inside but,” Jean clears his throat, “my mom’s home and I’m pretty sure she’s spying on us through the blinds.”
Eren doesn’t seem put off by this, leaning in for a soft kiss, fingertips brushing over Jean’s collarbone. He pulls back, eyes still stuck on Jean’s mouth as he asks, “Can I see you again?”
“Well, you’ll see me second period on Monday.”
Eren serves him a dry look. “You know what I mean.”
Jean is hyper aware of how his hair must look right now, fingers restlessly trying to matt it down. “Ask me upfront and I’ll give you an answer.”
There are hands on his. Eren’s hands, forcing him to stop fixing his hair before they come back up to thread through as they kiss again. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Wanna go out with me again?”
Jean wants to be all cool and aloof and say something like I’ll get back to you or whatever, but all he can manage is a uh-huh that his voice cracks halfway through.
“I’ll text you, then,” Eren pushes his hand through Jean’s hair, one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before he steps back and away. He turns, but keeps looking over his shoulder as he hops down the steps and heads down the street, around the corner. Jean slumps against his front door, pressing cold hands to his burning face.
“God,” he mutters, bumped out of his daze by the buzzing in his pocket. He slips his phone out, message on the screen from one Assface, reading, so on a scale from 1-10 how good was that kiss?
Jean snorts, writing back, negative 6 billion.
Because, after all, getting kissed breathless against your front door by the guy you’ve been into for an eternity--
That kind of thing can’t really be put on some scale.
/end.