Chapter Text
Je t’ai vu d’un œil solitaire
Le pied dans l’arène pour te plaire
Et briller aux regards que j’ignorais
Le tien comptait plus que les autres
Même si tu ne t’en rendais pas compte
Et j’aurais tout faire pour connaître tes fins
-Golden Baby, Cœur de Pirate
Jean let out a loud sigh, resting his cheek against his hand as he looked out the rental car window. It had been about three hours since their flight had landed in Kansas City, and Jean was already tired of how American everything was. They were surrounded by skyscrapers and tall buildings on both sides, and there were American flags flying off of every rooftop. His father had turned the radio onto a news station, the reporter speaking too quickly in English for Jean to really understand most of what they were saying.
“Jean, tu regardes trés malcontent.” His mother said, turning in her seat to look at him. You look really unhappy.
Catching his reflection in the window, Jean realized he was wearing a rather sour look on his face. It didn’t really surprise him, however, and he didn’t bother trying to soften it. He’d been in an almost incessantly bitter mood for the past several months—ever since his father had announced that they’d be moving to the US.
“Juste fatigué,” Jean muttered. Just tired. It wasn’t really a lie; they’d been travelling since 5am. Their plane had taken off at around 8am, and, after a twelve hour long flight, including a layover in New York, it had finally landed in Kansas City at around 8pm, Paris time. Then they had had to go through customs, retrieve their baggage, and get their rental car, which altogether took about three hours, which meant it was almost 11pm in France by the time they had actually left the airport, thoroughly exhausted.
The clock at the front of the car read 4:06pm.
Still, despite being the most tired he’d probably been in his entire life, the unhappy expression on Jean’s face was mostly due to the fact that he wouldn’t be going back to France for another year at the least; two at the most.
Jean was used to moving; his father was in the French military—it was something you had to get used to. They’d lived in almost every region of France, from big cities like Paris to smaller military bases. But they had always stayed in the country.
And, of course, the first time they do move out of the country, it had to be to a town in the American Midwest, right on the edge of the Bible Belt.
“It will not be as bad as you think, mon chou,” his mother said, obviously knowing what Jean was thinking. He had been making his unhappiness with the situation very clear for the past few months, and she didn’t suspect it would change anytime soon. Still, she tried. “You should be excited. Tomorrow we are going to see our new town and house, and your new school. Everything will be alright.”
“Ouais, ouais...” Jean muttered, sinking further into his seat. His father had finally managed to find the hotel amongst the maze that was Kansas City, and the thought of finally being able to lie down in a bed made Jean feel even more tired than he already was.
When they had finally checked in and carried their luggage up to their room, Jean was pretty much ready to collapse. He all but fell into bed, and had no intentions of ever getting up again.
Jean woke up at around 5:30am the next morning. The sky was still dark, though the stars had started to fade and the moon had disappeared beneath the skyscrapers.
His father was already awake, sitting at the hotel room desk with his laptop open, and his mother was just starting to stir. Slowly, still groggy with sleep, Jean started to calculate what time it would be in France—something he figured he’d do a lot until the jet lag disappeared, just so he could know if the times he was awake at were reasonable or not.
Add seven to 5:30 and... it was 12:30pm in France.
“C’est midi...” he muttered, burying his face into his pillow. It’s noon.
There were about two weeks left until school started. Jean would be attending the local high school, in eleventh grade. He didn’t understand why they had to start school in early August, seeing as he had started his summer break less than a month ago, but he supposed he would have to put up with it.
Their house was only about six minutes from the high school, and was already pre-furnished, as they were coming from overseas. It was a nice enough place to live--two floors, with light beige siding and a reasonably-sized, fenced-in backyard. The neighbourhood itself was the absolute pinnacle of American suburbia, filled with perfectly-kept green lawns, flower beds, and playing children. A lush, hill-filled forest surrounded it, which Jean’s mother had warned him almost immediately not to go near, at least not until it got colder, saying it was probably filled with poisonous snakes and ticks.
“Formidable…” Jean had muttered quietly to himself in response, kicking a rock off the driveway and into the yard. Wonderful.
Their things arrived two days after they did, all packed into a sea container and carried on a flat-bed truck. It didn’t take long to unpack, as they didn’t bring over any furniture, and by their fourth day in the US Jean and his parents had completely moved in.
About a week before the start of school, Jean was made to take an “American Orientation Course”, held by the US Army Command and General Staff College, which was the whole reason he was stuck living in the States. The college offered a program for army officers from all over the world, which his father had been accepted into. Typically, the foreign officers would only stay for a year, though some were accepted into yet another year-long program, extending their stay in America to twenty-four months, instead of twelve.
Jean really did not want to go the orientation course, but his mother made him, telling him that if she had to go to one, he did to.
There were around five other teenagers in his class, all from different parts of the world. Once they had all arrived and taken their places around a long, rectangular table, they were told to, one by one, introduce themselves.
The first one to go was a rather tall, dark-haired boy seated near the head of the table, who looked around nervously at the others as he spoke. “Hallo,” he said, his voice quiet, and Jean wondered if he had purposely spoken in his native language or not. “I’m Bertholdt, and I am from Germany.”
There was a chorus of only slightly enthusiastic, accented “hello’s”. Bertholdt, seemingly uncomfortable with the attention, turned to the person next to him, a beefy, blond boy, as if asking him to save him. By the way the boy placed a hand on Bertholdt's shoulder and leaned forward, ready to introduce himself, Jean assumed that the two knew each other; well enough to be able to tell when the other was unhappy, it seemed.
“Hi, I’m Reiner,” the blond said, giving everyone a small wave. Jean didn’t fail to notice the little sigh of relief that Bertholdt let out as the attention shifted from him. “I’m from Germany, too.”
Like before, there was a half-mumbled round of greetings, and then everyone turned to look at the person beside Reiner, a girl with long auburn hair tied back into a pony-tail. She had a pair of glasses resting on her head, and it was only after she moved her bangs aside that Jean realized it was actually a pair of shutter shades patterned with a Canadian flag. “Hey, I’m Sasha,” she said, looking at everyone with a wide grin on her face. “And I’m from Canada.”
After Sasha it was the turn of a very serious-looking, short blonde girl. “Hello,” she said, not really looking up from her hands as she absentmindedly picked at her nails, obviously bored—or at least trying to look bored—of the whole thing. “I am Annie, and I am from Russia.” She easily had the thickest accent of anyone in the group, and it made some of the things she said difficult to understand, at least for Jean.
It was his turn after her. He had silently gone over how he was going to introduce himself in his head several times; even though he’d been learning English since he was in primary school, he had never been particularly good with the language. “Hello, I am Jean,” he said, speaking more carefully than he needed to, enunciating each word as best as he could. “I’m from France.” Everyone gave him a quick wave, which he returned with a small smile.
The last person to go was a girl around Jean’s height, with tanned skin, a face full of freckles, and short dark brown hair. Like Annie, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much, but she at least looked up at everyone as she spoke. “Hey,” she said, and it almost came out like an exasperated sigh. “I’m Ymir, from Australia.”
After that, the introductions were finished, and the rest of the two hours allotted for the class were rather boring and monotonous. The instructor passed out several sheets of paper, told them all about how America might be different from their country, and explained a few things that they might not know much about—mostly just the currency and units of measurement, like inches and Fahrenheit.
Sasha and Reiner were easily the loudest, most boisterous of the group. They were constantly making comments and cracking jokes, and by the end of the class were running around throwing a basketball at each other. Annie, on the other hand, didn’t say a single word to anyone unless directly spoken to. Bertholdt was very much the same, but it seemed his reasons were more because he was too shy to say anything; once or twice he had said something quietly to Reiner, though it had been in German. The only times Ymir really talked were to add a sarcastic comment to something somebody else said; other than that, she spent the entire time trying to discreetly use her phone.
By the time it was over, Jean didn’t really want to go back again. Of course, though, his mother would make him.
August 11th marked the first day of school.
It was a hot, stiflingly humid day. Despite being early in the morning, the sun was already up and shining by the time Jean left his house to go his bus stop, beating down on everything from above. There were only about five kids at his stop, including him, and they all talked rather loudly and obnoxiously for a group of teenagers who had had to be awake at 6:30am, probably for the first time in months. Jean, however, stood quietly by himself, toeing at the gravel beneath his feet with the tip of his shoe and wondering how awful the bus ride would be.
Jean hated school buses. They were always too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and everyone was loud and liked to sit one to a seat, even if they’d be talking to their friend, who had decided to sit all by themselves one row up. This meant that, at least 50% of the time, there weren’t enough seats for everybody, and you had to sit with some random person you didn’t even know.
However, after the bus pulled up to the corner where the group of teens was waiting, its wheels screeching to a stop, he managed to get his own seat for the, thankfully, short ride to the school. Everyone climbed off rather slowly when they arrived at the school, and several students meandered outside in large groups, talking excitedly to each other about their summers.
The school looked very much like it had two weeks ago, when Jean had visited with his parents for a tour. Everything had seemed new and impressive, like it had just been touched up. It still had that same air now, as Jean walked through the front doors, though he wondered how long it would last, now that the school year was starting.
When he had gone for the tour, the woman in charge, a guidance councillor, had told him that there would be lists up on the walls with each student’s name and homeroom number on it. Sure enough, just like she said, there were several tall pieces of paper pinned up on the walls of the school’s main entrance, with over a dozen students crowded around them.
Walking over, Jean managed to push his way through to the front, elbowing several people out of the way. There were a few angry glares, and one rather annoyed “fuck off” from some kid, but Jean ignored them. Quickly scanning the list, he found his name listed near the middle of the K’s—Kirschtein, Jean; homeroom number 217.
Shoving his way back out of the crowd, he wandered the halls for a while, trying to remember which general area room 217 would be in. Weaving through the groups of students clustered throughout the halls, he eventually found a staircase and was just about to climb up when he heard someone call his name.
“Jean!” Sasha ran up to him, barrelling past three girls, who shot her annoyed looks that she ignored. “I’ve been looking for you!”
“Why?” Jean asked, flinching a bit as she threw her arm around him.
“Because you’re someone I actually know here,” Sasha explained, giving him a wide grin. “I was looking for the others, too, but I haven’t seen any of them yet. Have you?”
Jean shook his head.
Sasha shrugged. “We’ll probably find them eventually,” she said. “But anyways, what class do you have?”
“I’m in classroom 217.” Jean said, his tongue fumbling slightly over the number names as he slowly started up the stairs.
“Really? I think I’m in there later.” Sasha bounded up after him. “I’m pretty sure it’s English… Which is kind of weird, because I figured they’d put you in an ESL course.”
“ESL?”
“English as a Second Language.” Sasha said. “It’s like a class for people who don’t speak English as their native language.”
“Oh.” He guessed that made sense. Especially for him, considering his English skills were definitely not up to par—he’d been having trouble just following what Sasha was saying.
She shrugged again. “Maybe you are in one,” she said. “It could be something you do during another period. Whatever. But I think I know where 217 is—come on.”
Jean let Sasha lead him up the rest of the stairs and down a long hallway, which branched into a smaller corridor, lined with only a few doors. Students milled in and out of the classrooms, talking happily to each other and laughing.
“Ah, yep! There it is!” Sasha said, motioning to the first door on the left. A small plaque beside the entrance had the number 217 printed on it, followed by the teacher’s name—a confusing jumble of letters Jean didn’t bother to try and decipher or pronounce—and the subject, which, as Sasha had thought, was English.
“Thank you.” Jean said, and she beamed up at him.
“No problem!” she said. “I had better go find my own class now, though. Have fun!” With a little wave, she spun on her heel and started walking away.
“Bye!” Jean called after her, turning and walking into the door.
The class was almost full, so he assumed it was around the time when the bell rang. Most of the seats were taken, or claimed by a binder and pencil case, so he stood awkwardly near the doorway for a while, before finding an empty desk near the right side of the room.
The person sitting in the next seat, a boy with messy brown hair, was talking animatedly with two other people, who were both laughing. Jean didn’t really pay them any attention, instead looking up at the clock and wondering when class was going to start.
“Oh! Hey, you’re new!”
He jumped slightly at the sudden voice, right beside him. Looking over to see who had spoken, he saw that it was one of the kids that the scruffy-haired boy had been talking to, now leaning towards him with a kind smile on his face.
“Um... Yes.” Jean said, blushing slightly at how close the person’s face was to his.
The boy had lightly tanned skin that was covered in a multitude of freckles, stretching from his face down his neck to his arms and the tops of his hands. His hair was dark brown, shorter in the back with a middle-parted fringe, and his eyes were a warm coppery colour. They seemed to light up when he smiled, making his entire appearance look cheerful.
He was also probably one of the most attractive people Jean had ever seen.
“Where are you from?” the boy asked, tilting his head slightly in question.
“France,” Jean replied, turning his face a bit so they weren’t staring directly at each other.
“Whoa, really!?” the brunet cried, his smile somehow growing wider. The two friends that he had been talking to earlier leaned around him, both looking at Jean. “That’s so cool!”
Jean shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “It’s always just been normal for me.”
“So you speak French?” the messy-haired kid asked. The other person he’d been talking to, a boy with chin-length blond hair, gave him a rather incredulous look.
“They do speak French in France, Eren,” he said, before looking over at Jean. “Are one of your parents part of the program they have going at the Command and Staff College?”
Jean nodded.
“Oh, I’m Marco, by the way,” the freckled boy said. “That’s Armin,” He motioned towards the blond one, who gave him a small smile. “And that’s Eren, like Armin said.” He pointed at the other boy, who was too busy pouting at Armin to notice Marco introducing him.
“My name is Jean.” Jean said, smiling at them all.
Just then, the teacher walked in, letting out an annoyed huff as she walked to her desk, as if she hadn’t been having a very good morning. She stopped, however, when she spotted Marco and Armin, eyeing them suspiciously. “Oi!” she called, causing almost everyone in the class to jump in surprise. “Bodt! Arlert!” Both Marco and Armin spun around, only to meet the scolding gaze of the teacher. “Neither of you are in this class this period. If I remember correctly, you’re both in my AP English class, which is this afternoon. So I suggest you go and run pretty quickly, if you don’t want to be late for your actual first class.”
“Yes, Ms. Brzenska!” They both replied, almost in perfect unison, before hurrying out from amidst the desks and towards the front of the room.
“See you later, Eren!” Armin called as he ducked out the door, Marco in suite. There was the sound of one set of footsteps rushing down the hall, but Marco suddenly stuck his head back into the class, giving Jean a wide grin.
“Bye, Jean!” he called, before disappearing again, followed by the bell only a few seconds later.
The teacher—Ms. Brzenska—shook her head slightly, sighing a bit in exasperation, before going the rest of the way to her desk and placing her bag down. After introducing herself and taking attendance, she handed out the class syllabus, as well as everyone’s locker number, combination, and schedule for the rest of the day. Jean only quickly glanced at his, seeing that he had science next, then tucked it away in his binder.
They all went over the syllabus together, with the teacher explaining what units they would be covering, different books they would be reading, and how much each part of the curriculum would be worth to the their grade. Halfway through her explanation of the Media unit, however, she paused, and looked over at Jean.
“Jean!” she cried. “You’re Jean, right?”
He nodded, wondering why she was suddenly yelling at him, interrupting her own spiel on media. She just nodded, before looking at someone on the other side of the room and pointing at them.
“And you’re Bertholdt?”
Jean turned in his seat, looking to where Bertholdt was sitting, tapping his pencil on his desk. He hadn’t even noticed the German boy when he walked in, which was surprising, given his tall stature. When Bertholdt glanced over at him, Jean gave him a small smile, which he returned with a slight nod.
“Great!” Jean looked back to the front of the room when Ms. Brzenska started talking again. “I almost completely forgot to tell you guys that you’re signed up for the ESL course. You’re still going to be in this class, of course, but starting tomorrow you’ll be going down to the ESL room every second day for the entire period. It’s more like extra help than a completely different class.”
“Isn’t ESL English as a Second Language?” someone called from the back of the room. “Does that mean they don’t speak English?”
Jean sighed. “I actually do speak English,” he said, rather loudly. “It’s just not my first language.”
“Then what’s your first language?” someone else asked.
“French.” Jean replied, only turning in his seat slightly to look at the person. “I’m from France.”
“What about you, Mr. Super-Tall?” they asked, looking over at Bertholdt.
That question sparked a flame which erupted into a loud stream of inquiries aimed at Jean and Bertholdt. A large amount of them were, honestly, probably some of the stupidest questions Jean had ever heard—things like “Did you have running water?” “Is there electricity in Germany?” “Isn’t France in Asia?” “Say cheese omelette in French.” It was almost as if these kids had never looked at a map in their entire lives, or done any sort of reading ever.
Ms. Brzenska drew the line when somebody asked Bertholdt if he was a Nazi.
“Ok, everyone!” she cried, smacking a yard stick against her desk before placing her hands on her hips and glaring at them all. “Sit down, and shut up! That’s more than enough questions.” Glancing between Bertholdt and Jean, she asked, “Are you two all good with the ESL thing?”
When they nodded, she added, with a bit of a sigh, “I hope all those questions haven’t made you hate everyone on the very first day.”
Once all the students had settled down and stopped talking, they got back to discussing the syllabus, and the rest of the class passed by slowly.
Jean’s science class was on the complete other side of the school, so he almost had to run to his locker in order to drop off his stuff, grab a new binder, and make it on time.
The class was rather small, with only around fifteen students, none of whom he recognized, though the room itself was quite large. He sat down in the first empty seat he saw, right by the door, as everyone else walked around talking to each other.
The teacher, a medium-heighted person with long brown hair tied back in a tail and a set of large glasses resting on their nose, was rummaging through their desk, looking for something. They stopped, however, when the bell rang, straightening and grinning at everyone.
“I guess it’s time to start class!” they said, walking out from behind their desk and standing at the front of the room. “As most of you know, I’m Hange, and I’m the grade eleven science teacher!”
They seemed like one of the most enthusiastic teachers Jean had ever seen, talking animatedly to everyone with an overexcited tone in their voice.
“Unfortunately, however,” they continued. “I can’t find the syllabuses I made.” They frowned at their desk, which was covered in papers and pencils, with a laptop stacked on top of everything.
“I think you put them on the lab counters,” a small, petite girl with long blonde hair said, raising her hand and pointing towards the counters in the back of the room.
“Oh!” Hange cried, walking over to the counters where, sure enough, a stack of papers was sitting. “Thank you, Christa!”
Grabbing the papers, they started handing one out to everyone, talking happily the whole time about how great the following year was going to be. Right before they finished, however, the door opened and in walked Marco. He caught sight of Jean almost immediately, and gave him a big goofy grin; Jean felt his face heat up, and he quickly waved at Marco before looking down at his desk, pretending to be interested in what the syllabus sitting in front of him said.
“Marco!” Hange cried, turning and raising an eyebrow at the boy as he walked into the classroom. “And why are you late?”
“I had to stay after class to talk to Mr. Smith because I was late to his class.” Marco explained, staring down at the ground and shuffling his feet. It was obvious he wasn’t very used to being interrogated by teachers, or to getting in trouble.
“Late to your first two classes at the very beginning of the school year?” Hange shook their head. “I really thought Marco ‘Four-AP-Classes’ Bodt would be more diligent.”
“I’m sorry...” Marco muttered, fiddling with the zipper on his pencil case.
Hange sighed. “Go take a seat,” they said. “It sounds like you got a hard enough time from Mr. Smith, so I won’t be too mean.”
Marco nodded, taking the syllabus Hange offered him before going and sitting at the desk next to Jean.
“It’s mostly your fault I was late,” Marco said quietly to Jean when Hange started reading the schedule out loud to everyone.
Jean looked over at him, blinking. “...What?” he asked. “My fault?”
“I was late to my first class because I was talking to you,” he said. “And I was late to this class because I was late to that class. So it’s your fault.”
Jean smirked at him, before letting out a little laugh. “I am sorry,” he said, shooting a quick look at the teacher to make sure they hadn’t heard him. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Marco grinned. “I’m saying it’s all your fault.”
“Everything?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Everything.” Marco confirmed, nodding.
“Sorry, but no.” Jean shook his head.
Marco was about to answer when Hange’s voice cut him off.
“Marco! Jean!” they called. “Do you two mind? You can get all chummy-chummy buddy-buddy after class. But right now we’re going over this very lovely syllabus I took the time to write out.”
“Yes, Hange,” Marco said, looking down at the syllabus. Jean did the same, mumbling a quiet apology to the teacher.
“Good.” Hange nodded, going back to reading about the different chapters in the textbook they’d be studying.
About ten minutes later, when they had finished looking over everything and had been given an information sheet to fill out, Jean turned to Marco, a slightly confused expression on his face.
“Okay, what does ‘chummy-chummy buddy-buddy’ mean?” he asked, and Marco laughed.
He had one of the nicest laughs Jean had ever heard.
“So you’re actually from France?”
Jean looked over at the kid sitting across from him, a boy with short, bristly dull-brown hair, and nodded. He had just finished his fourth class of the day, history, and was sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch with Marco and several of the boy’s friends, as well as Sasha.
“That’s so cool,” the kid, whom Marco had introduced as Connie, said. “Say something in French.”
“Baguette.” Jean muttered in a deadpan tone, leaning against his hand. People had been asking him to say things in French all day, and it was getting a little annoying.
Connie frowned at him. “Say something that’s actually French,” he said.
“Baguette is a French word.” Jean pointed out, smirking.
“Here, I’ll say something,” Sasha said, resting her hand on Connie’s shoulder. “Tu es vraiment un idiot.”
Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know you spoke French.” He said, while Connie quickly glanced between the two of them, repeatedly asking what Sasha had just said.
Sasha shrugged, pushing Connie away when he leaned over towards her. “I’m from Canada; we speak French there,” she said. “I’ve been learning French since like grade one. Tu n’es pas aussi spécial que tu penses.” You’re not as special as you think.
He scowled at her. “Je ne pense pas ça…” he muttered. I don’t think that.
Sasha just grinned, leaning back and popping a grape into her mouth.
“Can you two speak English?” Eren asked, looking up from the questionably-coloured green beans that he had been poking at with a fork. “You make me feel like you’re talking about me.”
Jean snorted slightly. “Hardly...” he mumbled, though it was mostly to himself.
“I dunno, I like how it sounds,” Marco said, a small smile gracing his lips. “It’s so... flowy.”
“It’s supposed to sound like that.” Sasha explained. “The words should flow into one another.”
Marco hummed quietly, nodding. “I wish I could speak French,” he said. “It’s such a pretty language.”
Jean shrugged. “It’s not that pretty when you are being yelled at in it, trust me.” He said.
“But English is so boring...” Marco said with a sigh. “How do you say that in French?”
“That something is boring?” Jean asked, thinking for a few seconds before answering. “C’est ennuyeux.”
“Say an-wee-uh…” Marco repeated, and Jean couldn’t help but laugh at the butchered pronunciation.
“ C’est ennuyeux.” He said again, this time slower. “Ehn-uie-yuh.”
“Ahn-uie-uh.” Marco dragged out each syllable as he spoke, his tongue tripping over the foreign word.
“Eh, that’s a bit better,” Jean said, grinning a little. “It’s still pretty bad, though.”
Marco frowned, and Eren let out a rather loud groan.
“That’s enough French lessons for today.” he said. “Because seriously... Does anyone else think Hange got even crazier over the summer?”
The rest of the day was slow and boring. Jean had four classes in the afternoon, which included a study period at the very end, and nothing really exciting happened. When the final bell rang, he collected his stuff and went to wait for his bus outside, under one of the tall oak trees that dotted the school’s property.
People ran around him, yelling and laughing with their friends. Sighing, Jean pulled out his headphones, sticking them in his ears and turning his music up loudly—hearing people scream in English all day was giving him a headache. As the music filled his ears, he quietly mouthed along to the lyrics of the song, bouncing back and forth on his heels and watching his feet.
Et si je compter, je compterai pour toi,
Je te conterai mes histoires.
Et je compterai les moutons, pour toi...
“Hey, Jean!”
Marco was suddenly in front of him, grinning and waving his hands to catch his attention.
Jean pulled out one his earphones, raising an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing?” He asked.
“I came to say hi,” Marco explained, shrugging. “You were standing all alone. And I wanted to ask how your first day was!”
Jean had to smile at how cheerful he was. “It was fine.” he said. “Better than I thought it would be.”
Marco’s grin grew wider. “It must be weird going to a school that’s completely in your second language, though.” He said. “But I hope it won’t be too bad.”
“I don’t think it will be.” Jean said, nodding.
“Well if you need any help,” Marco added. “With English or science or whatever, I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.”
“Thank you.” Jean gave him a small smile, looking down at his phone and flicking through the songs, trying not to blush as Marco looked at him, a beautifully content expression on his face. They stood in silence until the first few buses pulled up, and Marco had to go.
Jean watched him as he walked towards his bus and climbed on, before turning and looking for his own bus.
“Merde...” he mumbled quietly to himself, running a hand through his hair.
Jean was pounced on the second he walked through the door by his mother, telling him that his sister was on the phone and wanted to talk to him.
“Je ne veux pas lui parler.” He said, trying to slide past his mother and upstairs. I don’t want to talk to her.
Jean’s sister, Aimée, was six years older than he was, and had been an absolute menace to him since he was about two years old. Throughout his entire childhood, all they did was fight and yell and insult each other. When he was nine, after what Jean came to call “the boyfriend incident”, it only got worse, with Aimée throwing the absolute worst insults she could at him. His parents all but forced her to go to university as far away as possible, just so they could get some peace and Jean would stop locking himself in his room, crying over the things she called him.
It had been well over five years since Aimée had gone to university, and the two siblings had hardly spoken more than a few civil sentences to each other since. When she had come home for holidays and breaks, Jean had avoided her like the plague, and had only talked to her when absolutely necessary. After she graduated and began working as a nurse at a Parisian hospital, her visits thankfully became fewer and further in between. They had had a conversation over the phone less than two weeks ago, however, just after Jean and his parents had moved to the US, and it had been their first in two years; he still hadn’t recovered from it.
“Jean,” his mother said, an almost warning tone in her voice as she blocked him from the stairs. “Parles avec ta sœur. S’il te plaît.” Talk with your sister. Please.
Jean groaned, dropping his backpack by the door. His mother gave him a small, apologetic smile, before stepping away and letting him go to the kitchen, where the phone was resting on the counter.
Holding it up to his ear, he asked, “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” What do you want?
“Wow,” Aimée said, and he could just see the expressions she was making—one of mock surprise, as if she wasn’t expecting him to be unhappy over having to talk to her. “That is not a very nice way to start a conversation, J.”
Jean shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Je sais que tu ne soucies pas,” he said. I know you don’t care.
“Bien, excusez moi,” she said, and Jean noticed that she used the same voice she always did when she tried to make herself out to be innocent. “I just wanted to talk to my little brother, and ask him how his first day at an American school was.”
“It was fine,” Jean said, hoisting himself up onto the counter and sitting down. “Not very exciting. But do you not have better things to do than talk to me? Like, I don’t know, your job.”
“I am hurt that you would try to get rid of me,” Aimée said. “But I am on break right now, so do not worry.”
Jean didn’t try and hide the loud sigh that escaped past his lips. “Well if there is nothing else you want to talk about, can I go?” he asked.
“Mm, d’accord,” Aimée said. “Au revoir, pédé.”
He hung up on her.
Pédé.
The word ran laps in Jean’s mind as he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t the first time his sister had called him that, and it wouldn’t be the last. It had always been a word he had heard tossed around casually, as if it meant nothing and hurt no one. The same was true at his new school, where kids threw the English equivalent at each other as a joke.
And even though none of the comments were directed at him, specifically, it felt like they were. As he walked through the halls and someone behind him yelled about how that one person was “such a fag”, he quickened his pace, and never looked back, trying not to let his anger show on his face.
Jean had come to terms with his sexuality during his last year of junior high, right before he turned fifteen. The first time he realized, however, that he wasn't straight was when he was nine, during the “boyfriend incident”. Aimée had brought home her first boyfriend, Dominique, and Jean had flat-out told everyone how cute he thought he was, and had then proceeded to ask him to marry him.
His sister had been the first one to tell him that he was wrong to think that. She had called him a pédé, and she and her boyfriend had laughed at how “silly” he was. Even though Jean hadn’t known what the word meant back then, he had sat in his room and cried for hours.
After that, every time Dominique saw him, he’d call him le petit pédé. His sister did it, too, whenever their parents weren’t around and she really wanted to upset him. By the time he was eleven and his father’s job was sending them across the country, Jean never wanted to see Dominique ever again.
He isolated himself. He stopped talking to people, and for the first two years of junior high he didn’t have any friends. He beat himself down and pushed any thoughts that his sister would mock him for to the back of his mind. He didn’t think about the fact that he might be gay. He told himself that he couldn't be—he liked girls, so there was no way that he could be gay. But he still made sure it all stayed buried underneath piles and boxes of worthless memories—a long car drive to Cherbourg when he was seven; hiking through a forest in Mercantour National Park; sitting on the back porch of his grandparents’ house eating ice cream.
But as he got older, it only got worse and harder to ignore. When he was thirteen he got a crush on the boy who sat next to him in math class, and it got so bad he could barely even look at him without blushing. Eventually, he started refusing to barely even say a word to the kid, and panicked when he had to be closer to him than absolutely necessary.
And then, that summer, they moved. Aimée had gone off the university, and Jean began to relax more. He put cracks into the walls he had spent years building to protect himself against his sister’s abuse, and actually made some friends. A few months after that, he read about a term online that he'd never heard before—bisexuality. He realized that was exactly what he was, and everything seemed to get so much better.
Then, two years later, he kissed his friend Étienne, and was pretty much outed to everyone at their school. Jean accepted it, even though they all insisted that he was gay, and ignored his attempts to correct them. But he was tired of making himself miserable, and that’s what he was doing by trying to convince himself and everyone around him that he was straight. He let everyone at school think what they wanted and, a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday, he came out to his parents.
They were both very loving and supportive, and promised they wouldn’t tell Aimée when he asked them not to. By that point it had been years since she had moved out, but whenever he saw her she would still mock and insult him. He just didn’t want her to know—not yet.
Life carried on. Jean began to realize he might not ever work up the courage to actually come out to his sister. Despite all that happened, and after everything he had discovered about himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of Aimée calling him a pédé and having the satisfaction of knowing it was true.
Then he had moved to the United States with his parents, and now he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about the stupidly kind, freckled American he had met only twelve hours ago.
Jean was in a sour mood for the rest of the day and for most of the following morning. The ESL teacher, a cheerful young woman with cropped, strawberry-blonde hair named Ms. Ral, asked him several times throughout their hour-long class together if something was wrong, but he always told her it was all fine.
Along with Bertholdt, both Reiner and Annie were also in the class. It was held in one of the smallest rooms of the school, with just enough space for around ten desks. The four of them managed to spread themselves around the room as thinly as possible, with Bertholdt and Reiner near the far wall, Jean in almost the exact middle, and Annie as far away from everyone as she could be.
One of the first things Ms. Ral did was ban Bertholdt and Reiner from speaking German, claiming that they would never get better at English if they spoke in their native language all the time. Then she made them take what she called a “diagnostic quiz”, just to see how much they knew.
Jean was rather surprised to find, at the end of class, that he was actually not the worst at English—Annie was, having gotten only 51% of the questions right, compared to Jean’s 55%. Reiner was by far the best, with 83%, and Bertholdt was right in the middle with 68%. Ms. Ral finished off the class by handing out the books that they would be reading in their English classes, telling them that they would be getting a head start by beginning them a week before everyone else.
Their homework, she said, would be to start reading the books and to go over their quizzes with someone else and try and find where they went wrong and why.
“You’re good at English, Marco, yeah?”
Jean looked over at the freckled boy, who was currently bent over his biology textbook, inspecting the diagram of an animal cell they were supposed to be labeling.
“Hm?” Marco hummed, looking up at the sound of his name and glancing at Jean.
“You,” Jean said, pointing at him. “You’re good at English. Yeah?”
Marco raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Ms. Brzenska says I’m one of the best students she’s ever had, so I’m probably good at it?”
Jean nodded. “I need you to help me with my English,” he said. “We took a quiz in my ESL class, and I got cinqu—wait, no... I got fif...?” He trailed off, mentally going over the English names for numbers—something he had always had trouble with. Five, fifteen... “Fifty. I got fifty-five percent.” God, math class was going to suck.
“Ooh, yikes,” Marco said, wincing slightly. “But I can definitely help you.” With a small grin, he added, “Maybe we can start with numbers.”
Jean scowled at him, flushing slightly and turning to focus his attention on his desk. “I didn’t do the worst at least...” he grumbled, fiddling with the pages of his textbook.
Marco let out an airy, light-hearted laugh, giving Jean something of an apologetic look. “I’m sorry; I’m just teasing you.” He said, lightly placing his hand on Jean’s shoulder.
Jean had to smile.
Later that day, during lunch, Jean sat watching Marco as the boy flipped through his quiz. The pages were peppered with red ink, standing out amongst the white and black, marking whether his answers were right or wrong.
“Have you looked over the ones you got wrong?” Marco asked, and Jean shook his head. They hadn’t gotten the quizzes back until the very end of class, so he hadn’t had time. Marco nodded. “Okay, well, it seems like you did the worst on the more complicated questions, especially the ones that were based around reading a passage on something.”
“So...” Jean said, going back over what Marco just said in his mind and making sense of his words. “I did bad on the hard parts?”
“Yeah,” Marco said, giving him a small smile. “That’s understandable, too. English is your second language. There are some native speakers who would’ve had trouble with this quiz.”
“Like Connie.” Eren said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and sitting down. He was met with a disapproving glare from Armin, who had been right behind him, and a scolding comment from a girl with short black hair Jean didn’t recognize. The two sat down at the table, as well, sliding into the spots beside Eren.
“Oh, you haven’t met Mikasa, have you, Jean?” Marco asked, gesturing to the girl, who gave him a little wave.
“It’s nice to meet you.” She said.
Jean nodded, not exactly sure how he was supposed to respond. She didn’t seem to mind his silence, however, and instead turned towards Eren and Armin, starting up a conversation about what sounded like the recent topics in a geography class.
“So, back to your quiz,” Marco said, drawing Jean’s attention to him. “We can through all the questions you got wrong from the beginning, and try and figure them out together. Sound good?”
“Yeah, it sounds fine,” Jean said, leaning over slightly to get a better look at the paper sitting in front of Marco, which he had turned back to the first page.
Slowly, they worked their way through the first set of questions, with Marco explaining the answers to Jean as best as he could. Right as they were about to start the second set, Sasha appeared, with Connie in tow, talking loudly about how amazing the potato wedges sold in the cafeteria were.
“They’re like little wedges of heaven!” She cried, setting herself down in the seat beside Marco, who chuckled at her, shaking his head. “No, Marco, I’m being serious. Have you ever tasted these? They’re works of art.”
“I’m sure Monet would shed tears over those potato wedges.” Marco assured her, before looking over at Jean and sliding his quiz back towards him. “Maybe we should do this later. You have to have it looked over by Thursday, right?”
Jean nodded.
“Why don’t you come over to my house after school?” Marco asked. “It’s only like a ten minute walk from here, and we can work on our other homework, too.”
“Uh, I guess,” Jean said, shrugging. “If it’s alright.”
Marco smiled widely at him. “Of course it is,” he said. “I offered, didn’t I?” He let out a little laugh, and Jean felt his heart flutter in his chest.
Blushing, he looked down at the paper in front of him, picking at the corner with his thumbnail.
“I’ll find you when school’s over and we can just walk there.” Marco continued. “Sound like a plan?”
Jean looked up at him, trying not to focus on the way his freckles were splattered around the corners of his eyes. “Uhm, yeah,” he said, nodding. “That sounds good.”
Marco lived in a brightly-coloured yellow house, only two blocks up from the school. It was surrounded by a small grove of trees, and the driveway leading up to the house was narrow and cracked; it was actually too small for any vehicles to park on, Jean noticed, spotting a small silver car sitting on the lawn, in between two oak trees. Inside, the house was cluttered and homely, with things like keys, glasses, and scribbled-on notepads littering every surface. There were antiques in every room, whether it be an old set ceramic jugs near the door or a spinning wheel in the corner, beside an over-stuffed burgundy couch.
It was a rather stark contrast to Jean’s own home, which seemed almost completely bare compared to Marco’s, where there was something hanging on every wall. Jean’s parents had never really been the type of people who enjoyed decorating; both of them liked everything simple and clean. Not only that, but they had only been allowed to bring over a certain amount of things with them from France, which had been dedicated to clothes and his mother’s extensive book collection.
“Mom!” Marco called as they walked in the door, which led right into the kitchen, going off and wandering around the house. “I’m home!”
Jean stood silently by the entryway, unsure of what to do. Marco hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and he could hear him walking from room to room, the soles of his sneakers tapping against the floor as he looked for his mother. If Jean didn’t take off his shoes when he went inside at home, his parents would skin him alive.
“I’m upstairs, Marco!” A voice called, rather close to Jean. Looking around, he saw a small doorway carved into the wall beside him, revealing a set of stairs leading upwards. A few seconds later, there was the sound of someone coming down the staircase, and a skinny woman with an inordinate amount of freckles and curly brown hair streaked through with grey appeared beside him. She paused, blinking and looking Jean over.
“You’re not Marco.” She concluded, her voice tinged by a faint southern accent.
“No, I’m not.” Jean answered.
“I’m right here, Mom,” Marco said, walking back into the kitchen. “This is Jean. I go to school with him.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bodt straightened, a cheerful smile stretching across her face. “You’re the French boy, aren’t you? Marco was telling me how there’s a bunch of foreign students in his grade this year.”
“That’s me.” Jean said, giving her a little nod.
“I was going to help him with his English work,” Marco explained. “He needs someone to look over a quiz he did in his ESL class.”
“Oh, okay,” Mrs. Bodt said, before turning to Jean. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
He nodded. He had texted his mother during lunch, and, after a bit of badgering (mostly her asking him if he thought his friend was cute), she had agreed to let him go, as long as he was back by 7pm.
“Good,” Mrs. Bodt said, before shuffling past the two. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jean.” She called over her shoulder, and he cringed slightly at the way she said his name, like it was John instead of Jean. She disappeared into the next room before he could correct her, however, and then Marco was pulling him upstairs.
Marco’s room was quite a bit different from the rest of his house. Everything was neat and tidy, with not a single item out of place. His bed was made perfectly, and a clean line of knick-knacks stood at the back of his desk. Even the posters that hung on his walls, most of them star charts of the night sky, were carefully and evenly placed. The most noticeable thing, though, was the large telescope resting on a tripod in the corner, right near the window.
“You like observing the stars?” Jean asked, walking over to the telescope.
“Yeah,” Marco said, coming up behind him. “I’ve always found them really interesting.”
“Hmm.” Jean hummed in agreement. “Do you know a lot about them?”
Marco nodded, smiling slightly to himself. “I’ve probably read every book out there on space.”
Jean smirked, leaning back and looking around the room. “What made you so interested in it?”
“I guess it started when I was little...” Marco said. “I used to sit on our back porch with my dad, and he’d tell me about the stars and stuff.” He grew quiet for a moment, before shrugging. “I just find them really interesting, I guess.”
“I wish I was so dedicated to something.” Jean said.
Marco gave him a reassuring smile. “Sometimes it takes a while to find what we really like,” he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. A few seconds of silence passed between them, before Marco spoke again. “Hey, Jean, what’s the French word for ‘star’?”
Jean smiled. “Étoile,” he said, the word easily falling from his lips.
Unlike the day before, Marco didn’t try and copy the word. He just let it fill the quiet of the room, a content expression on his face. “What about ‘space’?”
“L’éspace.”
Marco’s smile grew wider. “Just talk in French,” he said, looking to where Jean stood, leaning against his dresser. “Say whatever you want.”
Jean paused, thinking of something to say. He wanted to say something about the stars, or space, but looking at Marco, sitting there with his lips curved up at the corners into such a happy expression, all he could think of was, “T’as un trés beau sourire.”
You have a very beautiful smile.
“What does that mean?” Marco asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.
“Uh...” Jean stood there, panicking slightly as he tried to think of something to falsely translate it to, all the while reprimanding himself for flirting with Marco, who was almost definitely straight, in French. “I just said, that, um... Your room is very clean.”
Marco laughed. “Wow, it sounded a lot nicer in French,” he said. “Almost romantic.”
Jean froze, a small bit of fear momentarily gripping him before he realized that Marco didn’t speak French, and couldn’t possibly know what he really said.
“I guess everything sounds romantic in French, though,” Marco said, bringing Jean’s attention back to him. “It’s the language of love, right?”
Jean let out a little laugh, shaking his head. “I guess so.” He said.
There was a moment of silence between them.
“We should probably start our homework now,” Marco suggested eventually, reaching for his backpack and pulling it towards him. “As much I like hearing things said in French, this stuff needs to get done.”
Jean nodded, grabbing his own backpack and taking out his books. As he sat down in the desk chair, right across from where Marco was on the bed, he glanced up at the ceiling, and noticed something he had somehow overlooked when he first walked into the room.
There were dozens of glow-in-the-dark star stickers stuck to the ceiling, all patterned in the shapes of different constellations.