Chapter Text
The clock ticks through a couple seconds on the wall. The air in the room is humid and there’s sweat rolling down the back of both of their necks. Jean Kirschtein’s teeth are clenched as what he’s just said settles in his stomach. Into the heated air between them Jean’s mother turns and shouts, the dish towel flailing. “You don’t want me to have to provide for you? Go get a job, then! Do something!” She turns back to the kitchen counter, the rage still tense in her shoulders.
And Jean—the tears burning his eyes and his hands shaking—turns and slams the porch door shut. And does.
Armin is no help about the idea of a job, of course. He assures Jean that his mother isn’t forcing him to do anything and that she was just angry; that she loves him. But Jean continues on his one-track train of thought, flicking a crumb off the table between them. He has to do something. Armin finishes his sandwich and they leave the restaurant together, Jean still trying to convince the shorter blonde of his plans all while keeping his brows furrowed in a determined line. He ends up sleeping on Armin’s floor like he sometimes does that night. It’s not that bad. Armin looks distressed during the entire ordeal and he can’t stop absently running his hands through his blonde hair, but Jean knows that Armin would never tell him to flat-out leave. Besides, it’s only a few nights. Some time to calm himself down.
Jean folds some of his things in a neat pile in Armin’s closet and hopes that he doesn’t notice. He likes the way it makes it look like he belongs there, even if it isn’t for long. He just needs a little time to get on his feet.
Thus begins the search for every help wanted sign around the city. Riding through the blazing summer on his custom 3Dmaneuverboard, flannel blowing behind him like the pretentious skater douchebag he is, he looks into the window of every shop he sees the first day. They either don’t suit him or the owners give him a once over before slamming the door in his face, which maybe he should have expected. He thinks it’s his lack of a shave in the past two weeks or the fact that he looks like the idea of an honor student that’ll end up getting nowhere in life. Which is what he is.Jean can’t help that he looks like an asshole. Or that he is somewhat of an asshole. In fact, he’d consider it a gift.
He makes the search into a group event as well, inviting along Armin and Sasha on his daily job hunts through the winding streets. Armin gets them lunch, and the park is the perfect place for them to sit around and reminisce on old high school memories half the day. Sasha Braus is a better boarder than himself, so later around sunset she sails in front of Jean on her electric green maneuverboard that her parents had gotten her for graduation, a vision of beauty in a ratty tank top and cut-off shorts. Jean would never be able to afford something like that amazing board he can’t stop staring at, especially at this rate.
Connie even tags along one day, even though he should be working at the grocery the time he shows up. Instead, he holds Sasha’s hand while they sail together, and Jean can’t help but ride by them both and flick the stupid snapback off Connie’s head.
It’s on a day when nobody comes with, however, that Jean pitches his maneuverboard next to an array of well-trimmed bushes and hops up to the curb before sauntering inside St. Maria’s Books on the edge of town. It’s part of an ancient strip mall complex and looks like the least visited place in the entire row of small stores that line the chipped road. But Jean’s eyes are focused on the bright orange sign in the window. Get a job, Jean, he tells himself. Support yourself and make some cash so you can get the hell out of here.
Hearing a tiny bell ring above his head, Jean is immediately overwhelmed when he almost crashes into a shelf of books upon walking in. He weaves his way around, the comforting smell of ancient pages guiding him through an aisle of books that travels all the way to the ceiling. Maybe it’s old fashioned, and books aren’t really his thing, but then again he hasn’t walked back out the door yet. He stops walking through the aisles, touching every spine with his index finger, to face the employees sitting behind a desk; four heels kicked up on the polished wood, faces hidden behind two newspaper headlines. Forgetting to watch his footing, Jean knocks his foot against the corner of a rack of “JUST ARRIVED!” books and one of the newspaper pages lowers slowly, revealing a man with hair messily falling away from his face in an undercut and a messy scowl to match. Jean swears under his breath, his foot throbbing. The other tips her newspaper down as well and looks down at Jean over her glasses.
“And what might I help you with?” she asks, mouth curling into a smile that somehow gives off the impression that she’s ready to kill him. Jean smirks at the growling man next to her, then glances around himself.
“I saw you’re hiring,” he says. The man gives absolutely no reaction, then puts his paper back up.
“But not kids like you.” Jean is taken aback, biting his tongue to keep from calling him out. He’s still insulted even though he knows he’s right, and settles for a glare at the newspaper headline. He walks closer to the counter, still. The woman, now looking at him straight on through thin-rimmed glasses and a blinding smile, hasn’t seemed to notice any of this exchange. She leans over the desk, up in Jean’s face so close he can see the glint from the window in her brown eyes.
“And what makes you think you’re good enough to work in this bookstore, squirt?” She vaults the counter, so gracefully with her ponytail flying that Jean jumps back, tripping over the end of one of his shoes again. He watches her bound over to one of the shelves, pick a title and open it slowly. “How deep does your passion for literature run?” Jean stares. “Are you willing to dedicate your time being the main caretaker for these novels? These masterpieces?” Jean tries to keep a straight face.
“Um, yeah,” he replies. The woman slams the book closed with one hand and eyes Jean skeptically, a hand on her hip.
“Give him a break. If he has anything that could pass for a brain in his skull he’ll be able to organize a bookshelf and work a register.” Jean glances back at Grimace by the desk.
“I’m Levi,” he says, kicking his feet off the desk. “Just Levi. Anything but Levi could get you tugged out the door by the collar of that dirty flannel of yours. I’m sure you’re going to love having Hanji and I as your bosses.” Levi looks as uninterested as ever as his eyes shift over from Jean to something next to him. “Hanji—could you leave the fresh meat alone?” Jean jerks when he feels warm air on his neck. He turns to find Glasses touching one of the key chains clasped to his backpack, and instinctively Jean jerks them from her reach. She grins at him and walks back to the desk, vaulting it again. Jean checks to make sure every decoration is in the right place on the canvas bag. What the hell has just happened.
“Here brat, fill these out. We’ll call you within a week if you’re worthy.” Jean turns back toward his possible new bosses and feels a sort of tentative excitement slowly start to build as he sees the application forms he’s about to fill out.
“I’m Jean, by the way—“
“And I’m waiting. The forms, kid.”
Jean takes them. “Was this my interview? Or—“
“We’re good judges of character,” Hanji interupts with a wink.
“We’re desperate.” Levi says, impassive. Jean takes the pen and fills out the sheets with a slightly shaky hand. Levi and Hanji go back to their reading. And when Jean takes their business card from the counter and says his goodbye, they don’t respond.
Feeling especially proud of himself, Jean jogs out of St. Maria’s Books, silently thanking whoever Saint Maria is for getting him a job that sounds like the easiest fucking thing in the world. Levi and Hanji’s numbers are on the business card in his hand, a promise of within a week still ringing in his ears. He’s going to get the job. He’s going to make enough by the end of the summer. He’s gonna get out of here before his mom starts screaming at him about college and how long his hair is getting. He’ll be on a bus before he can blink, set on a road to nowhere. Just like he wants it.
He goes to grab his maneuverboard first, which is lying on its side next to the bushes a little ways away from the store. Maybe he’s a bit of an abusive owner to his precious board, but it’s survived this long already. He marvels at his hand-painted work for the thousandth time before bending down to pick it up, smiling a little to himself. He’s a good skater. Really good. Maybe that’s his arrogance talking, but who even cares. Maneuverboarding is hard and Jean is actually good it. At something. Plus this thick piece of plastic he’s holding has the potential to take him far away from home, which is always a plus. But then there’s crunching of dry grass behind him and a voice that Jean prayed he’d never have to hear again after graduation.
“Hey, what’re you doing here, Kirschtein?” says the voice behind him. “Since when have you been into reading?” Jean turns to Eren Jaeger’s dumb smirk and mirrors it.
“Ever since now. Just applied a summer job,” he grins, not even Eren’s expression turning his mood down. Eren looks at him like he’s just told him he’s decided to become a part time pole dancer instead of selling books a few feet away.
“Here?” Eren asks, looking at the building in utter revulsion. Jean wants to tell him that Jesus, it’s just a building. It’s while Eren’s probably trying to think of some sort of follow-up insult when Jean realizes that by the corner of the street, Reiner and Bertl, boyfriends and Eren’s almost-bodyguards, are standing holding their shining new maneuverboards and looking both huge and terrifying. Jean winks at them. Just like high school.
“Hey Kirschtein, you should ride with us today. We’re headed up to the pool. They just drained it because of some mold or whatever.” Jean looks at Eren, his permanently angry face somehow contorting into a smile. He would get excited over that.
“And why the hell would I want to do that?” It didn’t take Jean half a second to remember that Eren’s idea of fun is sliding down rails at top speed, breaking into private skate parks and basically trying to kill himself any way a maneuverboard can help. He’s dangerous, and irresponsible, and it’s one of the many reasons why he can’t stand the look on Jaeger’s face right now.
“A congratulations on your job! Plus, we’ve got things to catch up on,” he sneers. Memories of their rivalry come dropping into his brain like tiny bombs. No thank you. Jean drops his board to the ground and stops it with his foot. He’s not dealing with this today. He’s not going to let himself get angry over this.
“Not today, Jaeger.” Eren’s grimace grows wider.
“Oh come on Jean. You could finally try those jumps you never wanted to do during school.” Eren knows that he doesn’t do jumps. He doesn’t go tricks. He’s not a show-off jumping shrimp like Eren was and is. He uses his maneuverboard for speed. To give him the easiest way out.
“It’s not like you have anything better to do-“
“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Jean watches Eren’s face slowly shift. He bites his words one more time at Eren’s curled back lips. “Another time, for sure. Oh, and I can invite Armin too if you want.” Jean knows he’s pouring salt in Jaeger’s open wound, and it triggers something in the wild haired boy. Probably because Armin and Eren had a falling out and it may or may not have been Jean’s fault entirely. Armin barely even looked at Eren senior year and became Jean’s closest friend, his right hand man. Jean can see Eren going over it in his mind. His loathing for Jean just grew from there. Jean doesn’t blame him.
Jean watches as Eren’s green eyes fill with fire and as he whips toward Bertl and Renier. He jerks his head for them to come over, and Jean swallows. He then realizes that Annie Leonhardt is with them, hidden behind Renier’s thick frame before. Jean’s feet immediately hit his board without a thought and he kicks his foot out behind him after cursing under his breath. He could hold off Eren, but all four of them? Annie? Hell no.
It takes about three seconds before Eren realizes Jean is frantically skating away, and then he hears Eren’s shouts as he hops on his maneuverboard and screams for the others to hurry the fuck up. Jean takes a sharp turn around the corner of the street. Things aren’t too busy right now, but there are still cars here and there and Jean has to bend his body to avoid a side mirror on a parked car while he passes. Keeping his hands out on the sides of him for balance while he dodges another honking car, he rolls along the pavement, glancing behind him at surveying how much of a head start he’s got on them. He’s got a mantra of curses flowing through his veins, almost losing his footing when the sun peeks through one of the buildings and almost blinds him. This isn’t freshman year anymore. He can’t afford to deal with this guy after high school. Even if it was himself who started this in school with just a friendly opposition between them, he didn’t think that he would be skating away from Eren’s rage four years later.
He decides that if they catch him, he’ll fight back. It’s just Jaeger. Well, Jaeger and three of the toughest graduates Jean’s ever had the misery of meeting.
The sun is starting to set, and Jean goes over his options. He needs to find somewhere to stop; he’s speeding up so much now and there’s traffic ahead and there’s not much else he can do. They’re getting close. He can hear the hiss of their wheels burning the pavement behind him. He glances one last time behind him, at Annie skating emotionless but with more grace than any of them, and Eren in the front, basically becoming the Human Torch. Jean can’t help but roll his eyes through his fear. If he can just make it past this next turn he could avoid traffic— and then a rock hits his wheel and Jean flies forward at top speed toward death.
The first thing to hit the sweltering street is his left arm, scraping against the empty road, the rest of his body following. His entire body is in a massive meat grinder, tearing skin off until his momentum finally ends. When he slows to a painful stop, he can’t move. Every ounce of air is far from his gasping lungs. Opening one of his eyes, Jean sees a tiny pool of blood next to him, which must be from where his cheek feels like it’s been ripped away. He can feel the bloody skin replaced gravel throb as he lies there. He has barely enough time to take an overview of his pain before another stab comes; the sound of his board being picked up off the ground. Jean can hear someone saying a string of insults about him above his uninjured ear. Then, Jean hears the unmistakable sound of his board cracking in two. It was probably Renier who did it. He’s strong enough. Or Annie. And then they’re gone.
Jean doesn’t move after that. He waits until the air returns to his lungs, until he can just hear his mothers screeching words in his mind; “go get a job! Do something!”
Jean looks out at his arm sprawled out in front of him, the one that still clutches the crumbled piece of paper in his hand with Levi and Hanji’s numbers on it.
I think I did.
Levi drops a set of keys in Jean’s hand after three training days a week and a half later. Thus concludes Jean’s guidance in the book selling business. Hanji had already showed him the cash register and tip jar, but Jean has worked in retail before, so obviously he zoned out throughout the whole thing. Now, Hanji pushes her glasses up her nose and gives Jean and enthusiastic thumbs up partnered with a frenzied smile.
“We’ll be with you on Tuesdays and Thursdays, four to ten. Other than that, you’re on your own second shift, kiddo.”
“That’s fine, really.” Jean breathes, relief flowing from his fingers. Being an asshole could really wear someone out. He thinks he needs this time alone. Levi looks indifferently toward Jean and then toward Hanji.
“We have security cameras, remember. Take something and you’re dead.” The glare afterwards makes Jean believe that Levi has already picked out his coffin color.
This whole thing is so casual, letting him take care of the quiet bookstore, and he’s not even sure if it’s legal, but he’s getting paid to sit and take that mom, I’m working again.
When they’re almost out the door, Levi turns around, the little bell already ringing above his head.
“Lock up at ten. But if those kids with the shitty skateboards come back around here again, don’t wait to lock the goddamn door.” Jean feels himself start to half-smile, to which Levi quickly turns away.
“They’re called maneuverboards, boss,” Jean calls, and Levi slams the door.
The sweltering air begins to cool and the shops along the street are flooded with visitors that are blissfully unaware of how they’ve found themselves in a place where Jean wants to escape. It’s then when St. Maria gets her customers for the day. They come around just as the sun starts its dip into the sky, Jean works the cash register, then they’re gone. And when they’re all gone it seems that the rest of the night is his. On the first day of working his fantastic new job alone, Jean makes a few sales, mostly some of the classic books that the people here feed on like parasites. But after Jean watches the crisp orange fade through the glass display windows, he jumps out from behind the wooden counter and finally takes his first tour around the store.
It’s amazing. Jean hates to admit it to himself. This small store with its dim lighting and cozy feeling is amazing. Through a small aisle of science fiction novels he walks, stopping to pick up one about an alien abduction with a generic looking Martian on the cover. He might read it later, who knows. He’s not real big on books, but still. He could have all the time in the world, it seems. Jean hears a small tap from behind him, turns and wonders why the bell didn’t ring above the door to tell him someone’s walked in. After staring back into the aisle towards his desk, the book still in his hands, he hears the old building settle back into silence. He lets the air out of his nose in mock-relief. First day jitters. Even if it is his fourth.
While he reads the description of the book in his hands, Jean glimpses over at the damage on his arms and feels his frown settle into place. The scabs are starting to cover up to his elbow and let him move his arm without wincing. The scrapes on his cheek are already halfway healed, but the ones on his shoulder where his t-shirt tore still pulse when he turns. There’s even scrapes on his ankle, so walking here earlier was hell. But, turning the book over in his hand over and over again so as to watch his healing skin, he knows it’ll be fine. They’re sort of like battle scars, instead of the product of his own dumb mistake. Skin can heal.
Placing it back on the shelf, Jean hobbles over to the section of non-fiction novels and autobiographies, some worn and torn at the edges. Half the books are resale, and it’s easy to pick out which ones have had their pages turned before, and which ones have been straight up abused. Eren Jaeger’s probably a person who does things that that to books. Bends their pages. Draws in the corners. Maybe he can’t even read. The bell above the door rings and Jean tries not to notice the taken-aback look on the elderly man’s face as Jean appears around the bookshelf shouting a greeting, the scabs on his face peeling.
Towards the end of his shift, Jean is staring at the darkened windows again, wondering if he should just close up the shop. Nobody’s come for the last hour, and if this is how it’s always going to be Jean wonders if he’ll be able to stand it. He glances at his phone. Just a congratulations from Armin on his first day back alone in the working world. That blonde boy has signed the text with three smiley faces. Jean wonders how long he’s been praying for Jean to get his shit together. He cracks his back over the chair behind him and prays that his train of thought won’t lead him where he thinks it will. It does.
It was hard, leaving Armin’s house and going back home. It was hard with his mom. Showing up at the door with his backpack and covered in road burn up and down his body and no apology on his lips.
It was hard before when he went to Armin covered in blood and without his board. And it was especially hard keeping in the screams when Armin called Christa to come clean him up in the Arlert family’s bathtub. Christa is working as a nursing assistant over the summer and was so sweet in high school and even sweeter after as Jean greeted her bleeding in the tub in only his boxers. She was polite and gentle but it was hard not to want to snap at her when she went after his bloody side with a washcloth.
And when Armin finally told Jean that he should go home, it was hard trying to move himself back in. His mother screamed and cried about him getting into trouble and going nowhere, and Jean was silent as usual as he unpacked his things back into his room. When his mom finally left the doorway, Jean sat down on his bed and took in those four walls around him. His bed was his again, though it never really felt like it.
On the third day of working and his second shift alone, Jean finds the infamous back room. He’d been so bored behind his desk and though he’d never think of moving more than a few feet when Hanji or Levi are there for fear of screwing something up, when they’re gone Jean can’t help but want to explore every part of the store he can find. But Hanji had stressed while filing her nails that he’s never go into unless they were here with him. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but then he remembers the reminder of security cameras and the look that Levi gave. He finally gives in to his better judgment, lowers his hand and moves over to another part of the store.
“Shit,” Jean whispers to himself, moving over to a section he’s never seen before filled with old CDs and tapes. Not just that, but actual vinyl records and a record player displayed in the corner. Jean looks over to it earnestly, rocking up onto his tiptoes. There’s already one in there, a Nirvana record that’s starting to show off its new coat of dust. Jean flicks through the rows of records next to it, blowing air through his nose in disbelief. None of the CDs nearby are new, and maybe that’s why St. Maria mostly sells books. Some of the used CDs look like they’ve survived a war. Eren’s face flashes behind Jean’s eyes again, the sound of Annie or Reiner cracking his board.
Turning back to the record player, hoping to not let himself reminisce on high school drama or the pain in his shoulder, Jean adjusts the needle and flicks it on. Midsong, a guitar riff hits Jean’s ears and he laughs to himself in the empty store. He bobs his head all the way back to the desk and even taps his fingers like drumsticks in the air even though he feels like someone might be watching. He only stops when the record does.
It becomes a routine when Hanji or Levi isn’t there. Jean turns on the record player when the sun sets, and sings to himself from behind the cash register. He only turns it off when he’s about to lock up, and once it’s off and the silence fills his ears it’s enough to make Jean a little uneasy. At least when Levi’s sitting next to him with his head bent over some documents (he apparently always does his tax work at St. Maria’s) Jean can hear breathing besides his own. Hanji will talk Jean’s ear off if he lets her, but when he’s alone—the building itself can be a little eerie. It’s old, but more importantly, it feels old. It smells old. The only time when the place doesn’t smell like ancient books and an old roof is when Hanji returns from the backroom with a bag of microwave popcorn, which of course causes Jean to piece together that they probably keep their snacks hidden back there among the unsorted books. Jean wonders if this business is even legal, sometimes. Or if his bosses just don’t want to share their snacks.
Jean discovers that Hanji really does take this job too seriously just like he thought. She talks about books; all the time, every day. She shows off a new book-related t-shirt every day. His first impression of her was too correct; she’s insane, but not like Levi-insane, but insane all the same. Jean doesn’t know much about her other than her undying passion for a book series called The Titans. Jean had heard of it before, but he doesn’t need to read it now after all that Hanji’s told him. She gets this grin on her face when she talks about those books, an uncontrollable excitement that Jean just doesn’t understand. Excited about books? Really? After a while he imagines it’s what he looked like back in high school when he got talking about maneuverboards, or school breaks, or Mikasa Ackerman; another reason Eren hates him.
Jean doesn’t know anything about Levi, but he’ll chime in about something that Hanji’s got wrong during one of her Titan spiels, so Jean guesses he’s just as much of a nut as her. The looks that he gives Hanji are softer than they are to Jean, too. Not by much, but a little. There’s only one other thing that Jean has learned about the cold man; that he is a complete and utter germaphobe. And if Jean decides to go get McDonalds before work and he spills even the tiniest bit of honey mustard Levi will threaten homicide. So Jean cleans when he’s told and tries to stay out of Levi’s way even when they’re behind the desk together. He usually just flicks through the same maneuverboard catalog when his bosses are around, feeling sorry for himself that he can’t afford another one to replace his broken one yet. If he wants another one, he’ll have to put off his escape plan a couple of months. The city feels like it’s closing in on him.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Jean feels the silence. When there are customers inside he just listens to them, their quiet chatter, relishing in it. It’s even better when they make small talk with him, or ask him where a certain novel is because at least then he can hear a voice besides himself. Because after a week, Jean feels like the old building has a feeling other than old to it. Jean’s flicking through records in the corner one day, trying to find his record of the day and he feels it over his shoulder. Like a customer could be right behind him. After glancing over his shoulder to see there’s nothing but him and a thousand books in the room, of course he brushes it off and he sings along to Bob Dylan as he goes to dust a shelf. Halfway through the first aisle his phone vibrates, and checking the number he groans loudly when he sees it’s his mom.
“I’m working.” Jean answers, voice flat and searching for excuses.
“Yeah, so am I. I need you to get groceries tonight after you get home. The money’s on the counter.” He can hear the sound of his mom typing at her desk in the background. At least she’s in a good mood.
“But I don’t get off until ten.”
“I can’t do everything, Jean. When you get a place of your own you’ll have to do this all the time.”
“Fine.” His mind is telling him to hang up, but instead he listens to the seconds of dead air between them and dusts another shelf.
“How’s your arm?” It’s the same trivial question as always. Jean has become a patchwork quilt, if he’s being honest. Some scabs have turned white; he finds it hard not to pick at them and they itch all the goddamn time. But he just breathes into the phone “It’s fine. I’ve got to get back to work, okay? There’s a lot of customers coming in.” There’s silence from the other end.
“Yeah. Don’t forget the groceries.” And then Jean shoves his phone back into his pocket. He wants to cry, for some reason. Maybe it’s because she didn’t yell. Or that no one’s come in the store all day. Or that he really is alone right now.
It’s on Wednesday of the second week of working, when the final few customers are leaving with their shiny new copies of Pride and Prejudice, when Jean lets out an overdramatic, exhausted sigh. This whole “working” thing is getting old. This is why he quit his retail job in high school—it was so repetitive and tiresome; and even with this miracle of a job Jean feels it getting old. He picks a scab to pass the time. His mom yelled at him last night for the fact that his arms are still patches of uneven skin, but Jean can’t help how restless he becomes when he’s alone in this place. He needs something to do, even if it hurts. He gets up from his chair and musses his dumb, two-toned unwashed hair.
Jean returns back to the desk after putting on a Bon Jovi CD and reaches for his McDonald’s coffee, taking a couple chugs. Levi’s not here, so Jean can bring any sort of food he wants to work, as long as he picks up any stray crumbs. He doesn’t think Levi will notice the food stain in Jean’s chair, at least.
Placing the plastic cup back on the counter, Jean turns and heads toward the back room, to which his entrance has now been granted. Upon its great reveal, Jean now knew that there were no rotting dead bodies inside, just an uninteresting wall lined with boxes of books that need to be sorted and processed, a microwave, and minifridge in the corner. Jean won’t ever gain access to those.
A new shipment of books are in, a heaping pile of copies of Catcher in the Rye on top and Jean eyes them disdainfully, remembering all the essays in high school. Armin was ace at English, his hand constantly raised, and back when they were reading Catcher in the Rye as sophomores it was Eren who looked at Armin like he was some sort of angelic being when he understood one of the bullshit metaphors. Jean didn’t really have anyone to look at like that, back then. It sort of set him up for his jerkoff personality, he guesses. After their falling out Armin never brought Eren up, bit Jean’s always wondered if Armin misses that monstrosity.
Carrying the box back out into the store, Jean lugs the damn thing past the desk and—Jean feels something wet splash across his ankle. He drops the box with an embarrassingly high shriek, the cardboard landing in the growing puddle of brown coffee that is filling the cracks in the floorboards. “Shit,” Jean hisses, bending to pick up the mess. Levi will literally kill him if he can faintly make out a coffee stain tomorrow. Even if he smells it he’ll be on Jean like a bloodhound within minutes. Jean runs to the back room after putting the box somewhere safe, searching for the paper towels he knows Levi must have. He finds them in a cabinet and Jean whispers “gotcha” before grabbing them and hurrying back out to clean up. Bon Jovi’s rusty voice is still crackling from the corner as Jean cleans like Levi is breathing right down his neck. It isn’t until he stands up that he realizes.
On his desk, there’s a ring of moisture where Jean had set his coffee down on the middle of the desk. No where near where it now lies on the ground. Jean feels his cheeks go hot, ice spreading over his body. What the hell? His eyes look back and forth from where he set his cup down to where it is on the floor. Back and forth. How the hell.
Glancing at the clock, Jean sees he still has an hour and a half left of his shift. Too early to sprint out of here in complete terror.
He must have moved his coffee without remembering. There’s no possible way something could have moved it. He can feel himself calming down with that thought. All that matters is that Jean doesn’t have any coffee anymore and that he’s going to have to stay awake on his own pure willpower. Jean throws away the dirty paper towels behind him, still feeling like something is wrong. He tries to shake it off him again, but he can’t hide it from himself that he’s now uneasy in his tiny safe haven.
Sitting next to Hanji while she types on her laptop, Jean is stamping prices on books when he sees it. Only for half a second, but Jean flinches and Hanji’s fingers stop.
“What’s the deal, kiddo? Are the covers too scary?” Jean turns back to her, trying to laugh along when he looks down at the horror genre books he’s been stamping. The shadow that had moved slowly across the wall by the window is gone. There had to be a car passing—the shadow of a car. Sure. That’s it.
“I’m fine.” Hanji’s fingers start to move again, her fervent voice starting to make comments on the author of the book in his hands and basically reciting the Wikipedia article of his life story for ten minutes. Jean presses the stamp to the back cover, half listening. He can feel his attention still drawn to the wall where he saw the dark hint of something moving past. He must have seen something.
The fact that Jean is uncomfortable when he’s working alone doesn’t help with the fact that he’s started glancing through some of the novels in the horror section of the store, even the one he’s holding right now. The thick, terrifying ones with a collection of scary stories within their covers that make Jean want to curl up into a ball afterward. He knows it’s a complete dumbass move but he does it anyway, making sure to set the books back on their shelves before it gets dark. Which is also a dumbass move because then Jean is sitting there in the empty room going over the books in his head and psyching himself out. It’s all in his head, but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing his stuff and locking up with lightning speed as soon as the clock across the room ticks to ten.
Hanji stops with the author spiel but starts another one, this time about The Titans again. Jean starts to press on another price tag.
It’s not like Jean has put in any actual effort over his first summer out of school to reconnect with any high school acquaintances—working second shift was hard enough to make plans around, and Jean thought that maybe people might take the hint and give up. But suddenly Jean is invited to a party.
It’s not common—high school wasn’t his best time obviously and the people in it weren’t his favorites. And the few highschool parties he did go to ended up with him passed out drunk. But he got a text anyway from Connie that said that Christa’s girlfriend Ymir was throwing her a surprise party, and to ‘fucking be there, man’. Jean knows that there’s a chance that Jaeger could be there; Christa is friends with everyone, after all. But he says he’ll try to make it anyway after his shift.
So another workday alone drags by, a day full of stacking the next month’s shipment and smiling at old people who buy even older books and trying not to think about the coffee incident, the shadows and the stupid feelings he’s been getting over these weeks. It storms like hell tonight—huge clouds that scrape up the sky into a churning mess—and the store gets even more shadowy and dark than before. Every corner whispers that there’s something hiding in it, every sound of the wind whipping against the windows echoing in the silence. Jean texts Connie to make sure that the party is still on, mostly just to occupy himself from looking around the room. Jean listens to the rain fill the gutters and the soft music that it plays on the roof, and settles into his chair.
As nearly no people enter the shop at all Jean puts on his music early. Finding an Iron and Wine disc, Jean puts it in the CD and tape player he brought here himself and then proceeds to stare out the glass windows at the shops across the street for some time. The rain dripping down the glass makes him start to feel even worse. He’s been by himself for a while now. This sanctuary gives him too much time to think. He feels like he needs to open the door and start running right into this summer storm just to try to feel something new again.
But instead he remembers Levi’s sticky note reminder on the counter that he has to sweep and sighs before moving to the back room. No one has come inside for two hours now, so Jean takes the liberty of being able to turn up his CD to a usually unacceptable volume. He and his broom sway with the slow songs as the sun goes down, utterly alone but happy somehow. The CD ends when Jean has only swept half the store, so he moves back over to the shelf of discs with a song in particular on his mind. He’s humming it a little to himself to fill the void of silence when the lights flicker for a moment in the already dim store. Jean feels it again; the sensation that makes him want to run out of here or check over his shoulder a thousand times. The storm clouds cover up the last of the sun and throw the room into a greenish light as the lights flicker back to life. Jean glances over his shoulder finally and laughs to himself; he’s an eighteen year old boy who’s afraid of being alone at his own job.
The rain pounds on the roof. He finds what he was looking for—a Frank Sinatra record. He turns on Fly Me to the Moon, the only one on the sleeve he knows, and goes back for his broom. After only a couple notes he is in such a danceable mood; so eager to move his feet in some way now that his board is broken and he hasn’t really got much else to get his feet gliding. And it helps to get his little jazzy steps get going with a laugh to himself when he remembers he’s going to be at a party later.
Jean switches on all the lights after stepping over to the beat of the bass guitar, rain streaks still dripping quickly down the store’s windows. He knows that passing cars can see him dancing through the windows in the man-made golden light, but as the floors creak with the movement of his feet Jean doesn’t give a damn if he’s dancing around St. Maria Books. He’s parading through each aisle. He’s singing loudly into his broom handle. He doesn’t even sound that bad while he serenades a woman’s face on the cover of a book.
He gallops around the room, belting out the chorus as the bookshelves become a screaming crowd. When he grasps that no one is going to be coming tonight, that he’ll just close up early and head out to the party, he sings louder while bringing the broom handle away so he can take a breath. Jean spins theatrically on his way to close the blinds, still singing the words totally in tune, his eyes closed as he finally hits the high note off key. He opens them—and his voice sticks in his throat. The boy’s smile is mocking, his hands in pockets, leaning against the side of the desk. Jean’s gaze flicks from the boy in the window’s reflection back to his own terrified eyes then back again, and then he turns around. There’s no one in the room. The song ends and the record stops playing.
Jean stands there, heart pounding, for a lifetime. He’s holding onto the broom handle for dear life and his eyes are locked on the spot where the person must have been. Jean’s heart doesn’t slow, but his mind starts to turn. There was a boy there. There’s no denying that. It wasn’t someone standing outside watching Jean make an idiot of himself. It was someone behind him, who somehow got inside the store and got past him and what the hell is going on. Jean tries to breathe once. Maybe he’s behind the counter.
He takes one step forward, and the lights flicker again. Icy air moves over his body. Terror starts to take over for a few seconds. “Oh my god,” Jean says out loud, his voice cracking. He takes another step, moving so the end of the broom points out like a spear.
“Who the hell is in here?” Jean barks, coming toward the desk. Maybe the kid is hiding behind it, but how the hell did he get past Jean? That damn bell above the door. Or. No. Not even considering it. Jean cannot accept the idea that he could be working in a goddamn haunted bookstore.
“You’re not supposed to be behind the desk,” Jean says, walking forward still. He reaches the desk and peers around the side, ready to hit the intruder over the head with his makeshift microphone. But there’s only his hoodie tossed carelessly to the floor. Minutes have passed.
Jean lets his shoulders go slack. At least he finished sweeping before his insanity kicked in. His hands are shaking, and he decides that it’s best if he just left. He reaches for his keys and then turns to leave, more important things coming to mind. Like what present could he get Christa on the way there that could cost him little to no money? And how was he supposed to—
“Hey.” Jean jumps back in shock when he almost walks into a boy standing in front of him. Jean stumbles back five steps, trips on the tip of his shoe and falls backwards, the world falling away, only to be suddenly clear again and the boy who was standing ten feet away now holding him up in his arms. “Whoa, sorry,” says the voice above him, and Jeans looks up to see a smiling boy with tan skin and freckles dusted across his cheeks who just teleported across a fucking room. Jean screams, thrashing in his arms.
Jean’s head hits the ground after he falls and he stares up at the ceiling for a moment, his mind frozen on the feeling of arms supporting him seconds before. He then scrambles to sit up and whips his head in every direction, searching for the person who had caught him. Jean’s breath has gone heavy again, his arm’s impact with the floor causing some last unhealed scabs to start to bleed again. He can hear his heart hammering in his ears. Somehow finding the way to stand, Jean looks all around him again. “Anyone there?” Jean asks the air. There’s no response, of course. Without second thought, he grabs his hoodie and the keys from where they’d fallen to the floor, leaves the broom out and turns the light off, locking the door behind him and then sprinting in the rain the full ten blocks to Christa’s house.
He only stays at the party maybe fifteen minutes before it’s too much. Everyone keeps asking him why his clothes are soaking wet and he can’t stop thinking about the boy in the reflection and he ends his visit by giving his best wishes to Christa before making an excuse to walk home. Sasha ends up driving him home, a little tipsy and pissed at Connie for being the first one to get absolutely trashed. Jean didn’t see Eren there, but Annie was in the corner with a frown and a glass of water and Jean didn’t want to make eye contact, much less go over and call her out about the incident weeks before. He didn’t want her breaking his body instead of his board this time.
Armin looked heartbroken as Jean turned to leave, but then again Jean is disappointed in himself. He’s crazy, after all. A crazy person who thinks they may have seen some sort of teleporting ghost person at their job today. If only his mom cared enough to ask how his day was that night after Sasha dropped him off and he stumbled up to his room, panting.
“Work was great, mama.” Jean would throw his arms around his mother in their well-lit kitchen, his clothes freshly-pressed and his mother sober with cheeks glowing. “I think I met a ghost!”
Jean comes in the store at four on Monday petrified of the possibility of seeing something in there with him when he’s sitting alone. But instead, Jean gets to see something worse. He’s facing away from Jean, tall figure and boyishly wild hair sitting on top of the desk facing Levi. He turns when he hears the bell above the door ding and Eren Jaeger’s remains of a smile from whatever Levi said falls and turns to a death glare when he sees Jean has walked in.
“Afternoon, Levi,” Jean says, coming to the counter and moving to place his bag on the ground. He’s brought the new catalog of maneuverboards to gawk at and he didn’t want Levi commenting on it when he walked in. Now he’s extra thankful as he swallows anxiously. He has to force himself to remain civil. Do not punch Eren in the face. Your hands just fully healed. Jean looks down at the desk, taking off his hoodie and draping it around his chair. “Jaeger,” he acknowledges. It sounds like he’s trying not to gag. Which is totally happening.
“Hello and goodbye, brat. Try to actually clean up after your fucking self before locking up, next time.” Levi bites off his words, and Jean sits down and tightly nods. Don’t throw a punch. Don’t be the kid you were in high school.
“Why does Jean Kirschtein being a shit employee not surprise me,” Eren says, meant for Levi’s ears but they’re two feet away from each other, seriously. Levi grabs his paperwork off the desk and moves out from around the counter, Eren hopping off his spot on the desk like he’s landing one of his dumbass maneuverboard tricks. Then they meet in the middle and lace their fingers together. Jean’s face contorts into something he’s so glad they can’t see. That is so fucking weird. Isn’t Levi like, thirty?
Surprisingly, without any other sort of sarcastic comment from Eren, the door closes, the second shift begins and Jean lays his head on the polished wood. Of course his terrifying boss would date his worst enemy. Of course.
“It’s a shame Levi ended up with someone like him,” says someone next to him. Jean rips his head from the desk and to his left, where a freckle faced boy in a white t-shirt and faded jeans is facing the window. Jean is frozen, staring at the boy’s profile as his brown eyes watch them leave. “I’ve been watching him for all these years and you’d never think he’d go for someone so…angry? Reckless? You’d think that so much rage and apathy could only come from one person in a couple, not both.” The boy moves a little forward, turning the “JUST ARRIVED!” rack a little with his fingers. Jean’s fear turns to boiling hot anger as he watches the boy’s back.
“Who the hell are you,” he asks, not sounding like a question. The boy turns to Jean, wide eyed, and it’s then when Jean notices a small cut above the boy’s right eye.
“Marco Bodt.” he says, and then flashes a row of perfectly white teeth before he disappears into thin air. Jean stares at the place where he used to be before coming to his own conclusion and yelling into the air “you’re a fucking ghost, aren’t you? Am I talking to a fucking ghost? Or am I insane?”
“You could be both.” the voice comes from the other side of the desk, behind him. Jean spins his chair, his jaw going a little slack when he sees the ghost sitting on top of the counter next to him. The boy’s—Marco’s?—eyes flash with something like excitement before he hops back to the floor, his short dark hair cut into an undercut sort of like Jean’s, but a hell of a lot better. “I really didn’t know any better way to try to talk to you. Sorry I kind of scared you before.” Jean is glued to his chair, mostly because there is a ghost half a foot away from him but also because it’s bad how fast Jean’s heart is starting to hammer just from how close he is. It takes him half a minute to respond, and in that time Jean watches as Marco’s entire figure sort of shimmers into transparency before becoming solid again. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, you scared me all right.” Jean swallows. He ends up laughing quietly in utter disbelief. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Yet there’s one sitting next to him.
The fucking ghost boy laughs too, something that somehow makes Jean’s heart rate increase even more. But Jean’s brain is trying to turn so fast that the first thing he tries to say is a flurry of questions.
“So…it was you, with the shadows, and the cold air, and the flickering lights?” Jean finally looks him in the eye. Marco squints a little, considering.
“When I’m invisible, I guess you can still see my shadow, but then again what do I know.” Marco beams, looking right at Jean and waiting for his reaction, but Jean just stares. Marco adjusts his shoulders. “And the cold air; probably me walking by. But the flickering lights? Hm, nope, just shitty electrical wires.”
“And my spilled coffee?”
Marco’s eyes widen and he looks like he’s ready for Jean to stand up and start beating him over a spilled cup of coffee. “Oh, sorry.”
Jean starts to smile on accident.
“I had just reached over to see what it was. I wouldn’t—“
“It’s fine.” Jean is smiling now. He’s crazy. He’s crazy and he thinks the heat on his cheeks might be him blushing.
“What happened to your cheek?” Marco reaches a tan hand toward him and Jean immediately goes to grab his blushing face, only to realize that he meant the scabs. Marco’s hand retreats and curls into a loose fist. Jean stumbles through his sentence.
“Oh. I uh, I fell off my maneuverboard.”
“Your what?” Marco’s head tips a little to the side.
Jean sighs. “They’re basically skateboards. I’m just a little pretentious.” Marco waits, looking nowhere but Jean’s eyes. He can feel his cheeks grow hotter. “That kid that just left with Levi sort of helped with these. But it’s my fault I fell.” The other boy’s brown eyes widen and he turns toward the glass door, his eyes narrowing. Jean can’t stop looking at the tan boy’s jawline and he ends up trying to look anywhere else.
“Yeah. He’s an asshole. But hey, look what I have.” Jean feels a little twinge in his chest when he moves over to his bag and pulls out the new maneuverboard catalog he’d brought along. Jean sets it down on the wood in front of him and points to one on the cover. “These are maneuverboards.”
Marco moves closer, almost too close, and Jean tells himself that it’s fine, he’s fine, it’s just a ghost while Marco leans quietly over Jean’s shoulder to look.
“Skateboards have gotten a lot better.”
“You could say that,” Jean answers, confused. Marco continues to quietly look, for so long that Jean gives half a peek in his direction to make sure that the ghost boy is still there. Finally when it’s too much, Jean clears his throat and watches as the body next to him is gone and then reappears in front of the desk he’s sitting at.
While Jean sits in shock again the other runs a hand through his ghost-hair while eyeing the floorboards. Jean watches how the light from the windows don’t exactly hold onto his skin, sort of catches it halfway before passing through.
“I’ve never really done this before; I haven’t talked to anyone in forever. I’m sorry, I just…hi, Jean.” The boy looks up at him from an embarrassed glance at the floor through thick lashes, then shoves a hand for Jean to shake in his direction. As Jean reaches out to meet his hand, his confusion and anger stirs thickly together with something else he can’t seem to figure out.
“You know my name?” Jean asks. Marco’s hand feels like a hand, which confuses the hell out of Jean. Wasn’t he supposed to be—what, an apparition? A phantom? Why does his hand feel soft and real?
“Of course I know your name.” Marco looks genuinely hurt that Jean would think otherwise. “I see you around St. Maria’s now or then…a lot. All the time. I have nothing better to do, okay?” The boy pulls back and turns from real to just a shimmering mist within a few seconds, his eyes falling back to the floor. Oh.
“I’ve never done this before either…but um…do you know you’re see through right now?” a switch must have been flicked back on because Marco’s back into solidity. He smiles, a light air of something unattainable around the both of them.
“Sorry, that happens too.” Jean watches as Marco puts a hand in front of him, glances up at Jean’s bewildered eyes and back down to his hand, watching it dissolve into thin air. Jean’s mind is racing while the arm disappears. How the hell…?
Marco sees Jean looking like he’s witnessing the end of the world and his arm reappears. “I heard the music from the back room the other day and I came out here to see you and you were dancing and—“ Jean feels the blush creep up his neck further, staring at Marco’s tan face. “I know it sounds strange, I just—“
The bell above the door rings and Marco’s figure is gone. A middle aged woman and her daughter mill through the store as Jean leans back in his chair, trying to close his dry mouth, searching the room with his eyes to where Marco could be waiting.
He was watching him all this time? Jean did some weird shit on his days alone. And now he knows that a boy—a ghost—could have been watching him shimmy to Shakira while drinking a dollar soda.
Jean assumed that after the mother and daughter left empty-handed Marco would appear again, maybe on top of a bookcase like a bird or something this time, but nothing comes. Jean sits in the silence.
“Um. Hello?” He asks, certain that he’ll get an answer this time. Nothing.
“Marco?” Jean dares. Nothing but the gentle hum of a car passing outside. He settles back into his chair, rubs a hand over his face.
“All right, I’ll be here,” He gets up, grabs the nearest book of a shelf, and sits down again. He’s gone insane. Off the edge. Into the deep end.
Jean heads out for the night four hours later, his neck hurting from when he may or may not have fell asleep while reading a western romance novel out of sheer boredom. As he reaches the door trying to shake the sleep from his mind he thinks he feels a brush of cold air, then eyes over his shoulder. Somehow a smile comes to his face as Jean waits, pretending like he doesn’t feel it as he starts to open the door. He continues to fuddle around with the doorknob before whipping around and taking in Marco’s stunned face as his casual stance of leaning against the counter again is broken by him falling backwards to the ground. He noiselessly hits the ground as Jean lets out an embarrassingly loud laugh.
“How’s it feel like being snuck up on?” Jean says, excitedly bounding over to where Marco is still on the floor. He has been bored out of his mind all day and seeing Marco again sends a chill up his already insane spine. He spent the last hours half asleep, finally accepting his own insanity and deciding that yes, the thought of Marco the Ghost that he’s just met did give him butterflies of the weirdest kind.
“Apparently painful.” When Jean looks down at Marco’s grinning face he notices a trickle of blood on his forehead from the small cut he’d seen earlier, running down his cheek.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” He must have hit his head on the way down. Jean rushes to help Marco up—his skin isn’t cold this time either. Not human, but not cold and dead. Marco looks at Jean intently while Jean scrambles to get him upright.
“Yeah, I’m fine, I was joking.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Marco looks thoroughly annoyed while he looks blankly across the room. “So that’s starting again. It’s just this thing that happens…” Marco wipes his hand across his forehead and smears the blood. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t get any worse.” Jean opens his mouth to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but Marco turns slightly misted, his entire body partway falling through Jean’s fingers and Jean jumps a little. He doesn’t want him to disappear again.
“Whoa, don’t worry, I won’t ask questions.” Marco is already moving away from him. “Though there are many,” Jean adds with a breath of a laugh, eyeing the blood on Marco’s hand. Marco’s eyes shift toward his hand, then the ground.
“It’s late, Jean. I’d prefer if we talked when I didn’t look like this.” Marco retreats, going around the counter and toward the back room.
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Jean asks, following.
Marco speaks quickly and pointedly, moving further. “I can’t leave. But you should. Sleep well, Jean.” He vanishes while Jean is thinking up something to say in protest.
“Goodnight,” Jean mumbles, looking all around the room for a sign of him before finally moving toward the door again. Jean finally calls “I’ll see you again, right?” into the store. He waits for a few seconds before hearing a voice next to his ear tell him “absolutely” before Jean knows he’s alone again.
On the walk home, he can’t stop the visions of Marco from flitting through his mind and he can’t stop breathing the summer heat far into his lungs. An actual ghost, talking to him. He hops up onto the curb, the corners of his lips refusing to fall back down. A dead person. A boy. He starts to walk faster. If he wanted to he could just keep walking into the night and be two towns over by morning, though he doesn’t think he wants to right now. Jean sighs to himself, the humid summer night sticking heavily to his lungs.
He’s met a boy who can disappear into thin air.
What a lucky bastard.