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“Cheers!”
“Congratulations!”
“To Jeanbo and his big fancy job!”
“Guys,” Jean rolls his eyes, clinking his near-empty glass first against Marco’s, then Sasha’s. Connie’s glass comes careening at him fast from his left, beer sloshing over the rim as he slams their drinks together. “It’s not that big of a deal.” He grabs a paper thin drink napkin and fruitlessly attempts to mop up the mess.
“Of course it is,” Marco shoots Jean a warm smile from across the table, swatting Sasha’s hand away from the pitcher in the middle of the table and wrapping his slim fingers around the handle, lifting the thing and pouring Jean another pint without asking. “Don’t talk yourself out of being proud of this one, okay? It’s a really reputable firm. You’re on your way Jean, just like you planned.”
Jean smiles a little sadly at the timbre of Marco’s voice and attempts a halfhearted shrug. It used to be a “we” thing. Jean knows it’s over. He does. That was then. It’s still jarring when he remembers his long term plans have been recalibrated for a party of one.
“My friend is a lawyer now,” Connie slurs, eyelids drooping already. Jean sighs, discomfort and doubt churning in his gut. He taps his phone screen and glances at the time. Barely 10:30. It’s looking like he’s going to end up carrying Connie home tonight.
“Not a lawyer. Paralegal,” Jean corrects, though he’d rather not have to.
“I do not know the difference,” his friend states proudly, signaling to their server for another pitcher. “Anyways,” he slams his hands down on the table dramatically, “this is a celebration! Let’s drink and dance and fuck and get crazy!”
“The four of us?” Sasha asks, blinking rapidly in her attempt at feigned innocence. “Who’s going where?”
“I’m going to my own bed tonight and I hope not to see any of you there,” Marco says with a good-natured chuckle. He stops abruptly, blushing and dropping his gaze away from Jean’s face.
It’s just one of those things. Jean’s never not had Marco in his life. It’s not like he can stop knowing him now, even though he knows it would be easier. Sometimes, at least.
Being friends with your ex is hard.
Harder when a drunken idiot keeps bringing up the prospect of Jean getting back in the saddle in front of said ex. Or boldly stumbling into a joke about hooking up with them again.
They’re making it work just fine, he supposes. It’s not like Marco doesn’t understand that Connie and Sasha can’t change their stripes. Still.
“Christ, Con, please,” Jean begs. “Let’s stick to the drinking thing for now, okay?”
“Maybe just one dance then,” Sasha says, snaking her hand across the table and snagging Connie’s beer.
“Not that kind of a place and it’s a no either way,” Jean replies firmly, resolutely ignoring her crestfallen expression.
“It’s been too long, Jean,” Connie cuts back in, leveling him with his drunken hazel glare.
“What? Three days?” Sasha asks, taking a healthy swig from his recently liberated glass.
“Not me,” Connie says, raising an accusatory finger in Jean’s direction. “Him. Even Marco is—”
“Alright,” Marco says quickly, overlapping with Jean’s exasperated “okay.” Sasha reacts, slowly but decisively, delivering a sharp kick to Connie’s shin beneath the high-top table.
Jean pushes his stool back from the table with a loud scraping sound and dismounts, bound for the bar at his back, ignoring Connie’s responding yelp, Marco and Sasha’s pleas for him to stay put.
It’s not like he didn’t know. Of course he did. Ever considerate of Jean’s feelings, Marco made sure to run it by him first, to call him and ask if it was okay. Of course it wasn’t, but what was he supposed to say? Plus it’s not really Jean’s business what Marco does in bed or who he does those things with. Not anymore.
All of the seats at the counter are filled but it’s no matter. Jean’s only there to collect his thoughts and ask the bartender for something a little stronger than what’s on tap. He slides in between the two stools right in front of where the bartender is currently standing and leans forward over the glossy bar top, intent on catching the man’s attention quickly.
The slight man with black hair and steel gray eyes pays him no mind, nor does it seem as though he’s interested in any of his patrons for that matter. He appears to be muddling mint at the bottom of a highball glass with intensity and precision, reverently attending to his current drink order and allowing the rest of the world to melt away.
“Hey!”
The bartender’s eyebrow twitches. The only indication Jean has been noticed at all. He fumes. Some celebration this is turning out to be. He didn’t even want to go out that evening. It just so happens that he has a weak spot for Sasha’s wheedling and he always will. A fact his friend never fails to exploit.
It’s those big brown doe eyes, Jean thinks. He seems to be particularly defenseless against them. He frowns. He’s simply going to have to stop taking her calls.
He raises his hand and waves. Calls out again.
“I’ve been throwing everything I can at him all night and he doesn’t seem to care,” a low, conspiratorial voice sounds at his right shoulder.
Jean sighs and nods, eyes trained on the liquor bottles meticulously arranged along the mirrored bar back. He feels the man beside him shift, draping his body across the mahogany ledge. He watches the reflection of his dark-haired neighbor as he pushes his lower lip into a disappointed pout.
“What’s it going to take, handsome?” Bright green eyes flash behind thick, fluttering lashes. “My friend and I are so very thirsty.” The man twirls a lock of long brown hair coquettishly around his finger. It’s a little much and definitely ridiculous, but it makes Jean laugh.
The bartender grumbles something under his breath, jabbing a long spoon viciously into the tall glass before him.
“What,” the man deadpans, folding his arms across his chest, steely gaze boring straight through Jean’s soul. It takes the stranger elbowing Jean in the side to realize the friend he was talking about is him.
“Oh,” he starts, completely unprepared now that he’s gotten the attention he so desperately needed. The bartender’s scowl deepens. “Uh. Double Jameson I guess.”
“Tequila soda,” the stranger says, voice syrupy sweet. “Bring us two of each and I promise not to bother you again for at least… Thirty minutes? How’s that?”
The black-haired man seems to weigh his options for a moment, finally ducking beneath the bar top and reappearing with four glasses. The stranger turns to Jean and grins, bright white teeth peek from his plush pink lips, accentuated by two silver rings bracketing the lower. He tosses his long, dark hair over his shoulder and winks.
“He made the right choice. I would’ve been so incredibly annoying. Maybe would’ve bothered him until closing. Maybe even after, on his way out to his car...”
Jean laughs and only just catches his first glass as the bartender slides it none-too-gently in his direction, the follow-up right behind. Jean downs his first drink and takes a deep breath, turning to lean back against the bar, his attention drifting towards his wayward friends. Sasha gives him a thumbs up and Connie makes a rude gesture that requires the use of both of his hands. Marco smiles uncomfortably and fiddles with his napkin. Jean narrows his eyes and shakes his head, decides he’s pissed at every last one of them.
“So, what’s the occasion?”
“Huh?” Jean blinks, turning back to the brunet beside him.
“The occasion,” the stranger says, gesturing towards the table.
“Oh. I hate my friends,” Jean says, taking his first sip of drink number two.
“Salut,” the man smiles, bringing his glass to gently kiss the side of Jean’s. “I hate mine too.”
“Oh?” Jean asks, turning back to face the brunet, grateful for something to think about besides Sasha’s oppressive optimism or Connie’s wiggling eyebrows. Marco’s hands sliding low on his hips…
“Yeah,” the stranger says, teeth worrying over the dual rings and sinking absently into his lip, “they left me hanging. Something about early mornings and responsibilities.” He laughs airily and rolls his eyes.
“They hardly sound like friends at all,” Jean agrees, nodding emphatically.
“Right? It’s like. Who works on the weekends?”
“Exactly!” Jean says, though plenty of examples come to mind. He’s not sure if his new friend is being willfully ignorant if he’s just the regular thing. “I got a new job,” he says, unprompted, after a few beats of companionable silence, not quite ready to rejoin his table yet.
“Congratulations, man,” the stranger says warmly, clinking his glass against Jean’s again. “That’s great.”
“You don’t know what it is, it could be horrible,” Jean laughs.
“Mm. Well I guess then I’d assume you deserve it either way,” the man smirks, wide green eyes trained on Jean’s lips. Jean swallows, suddenly hyper aware of his proximity to the brunet, the warm hand resting gently on his forearm where he’s leaned back against the counter.
“Asshole,” Jean gathers his courage and lifts the corners of his lips briefly, returning the gesture.
“Close. It’s Eren, actually,” he says.
“Jean.”
“Hi, Jean.” Eren leans forward and stage whispers in his ear. “What are you wasting time with me for when you could be celebrating your horrible new job?”
“Escaping,” Jean admits, as much as he’d like to play the game, he’s completely hamstrung knowing his friends are right there watching, waiting for him to return. He feels Maro’s warm dark eyes particularly strongly, though when he checks in his periphery, his ex-boyfriend is facing the other way.
The fact that Marco’s not even watching makes his heart contract painfully in his chest, leaving him more vulnerable than he’d ever feel comfortable admitting. He figures dumping his problems on a stranger is one way to start healing.
“The one with the short hair over there is Connie,” Jean starts, preparing his vent on the heels of a deep breath. “He won’t stop talking about me getting some to celebrate. Which is already fun in and of itself but also he won’t stop doing it in front of my ex… who is also here.”
“Hm,” Eren seems to turn the new information over in his brain, lifting his thumb to his lips and chewing thoughtfully on the black painted nail. “Which one is your ex? Ponytail or Freckles?”
“Freckles,” Jean says, cracking a smile, wondering what Eren would call Jean if he were to reduce him down to one trait. He already knows he’d call Eren Eyes. They’re unnervingly big and immediately noticeable. As it turns out, Eyes has been speaking as Jean ponders and it takes him a moment to catch up.
“—give ‘em a show then, huh?” Eren says, moving his hand from Jean’s arm to cup the side of his jaw, drawing him in close and brushing a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth. Shocked, Jean’s lips part and fall open to admit a tiny, startled sound, which Eren seems to take as a sign to keep going. He slots their lips together and tilts his head, urging Jean to open wider, pressing his tongue inside.
Maybe it has been too long, or maybe Jean’s just buzzed enough not to care that anyone could be looking, that Marco might see. Kissing Eren feels nice and fun and free. It hardly compares to the weightier, loaded experiences he remembers last. He groans softly into Eren’s mouth and lets his tongue slide over Eren’s in response, finding the lingering taste of tequila there.
“Fuck, Jean,” Eren breathes, parting and resting his forehead against Jean’s. “That was unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” Jean gripes, good-natured and giddy, “You started it!” He runs his tongue over his lower lip and stares at Eren’s, missing the gentle press of the thin steel rings against his skin.
“I would be more than happy to finish it too. If you’d like…” the invite hangs heavy in the air between them and Jean risks a look back at the table. Well. Everyone’s eyes are certainly on him now.
“Uh. Yeah,” Jean says, dazed and drunk on the promise of more.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” Eren says, repeating himself when Jean furrows his brow into a hesitant frown.
“No. Let’s– No, not here.” Jean doesn’t hook up with strangers in bathroom stalls. No matter how promising the kiss from any one nonspecific stranger might be.
“Alright Jean, go tell your friends goodnight and meet me out back, we’ll go to my place,” Eren commands, like it’s decided, swiping his thumb over Jean’s cheek. Jean nods along, fine with Eren taking the reins in the moment. Maybe some other time he’d at least fight for the last word, maybe make it clear that he’s doing things on his terms and not someone else’s. Maybe he’d even go home and sleep it off, setting himself up for an uneventful Sunday morning.
This time though and only for a moment, he lets himself feel the sting of sadness, the dull and horrible ache, the pit in his chest, ever expanding and incapable of being filled.
The hole that Marco left.
If Eren wants to take a crack at easing that pain tonight, he’s more than welcome to be Jean’s guest. He nods briskly and departs, dimly aware of Eren draping himself over the bar again in an attempt to pay his tab. Marco glances up with a carefully veiled expression of bland curiosity as Jean finds his footing and approaches the high table.
“Con got his wish, I’m gonna go celebrate,” He says to the group at large, eyes drifting from face to face, chin tilted in defiance, daring anyone to say anything to the contrary. Marco breaks the stunned silence and Jean’s already predicted what he’s going to say.
“Text when you get home, okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll let you guys know,” Jean directs his answer to Sasha, turning back towards the bar to check on Eren’s progress, surprised to see the man heading for the rear exit already. The bartender must’ve been so relieved at the prospect of Eren’s departure that he wasted no time in helping him settle his debts. “Alright, gotta go.” He takes off after Eren, throwing an ill-advised peace sign over his shoulder which Connie will no doubt latch onto and make fun of him for in the morning.
He follows the brunet down the narrow hall and plants a hand on the door above the handle, pushing it open further before it has a chance to fully close, eyes widening in surprise when he catches Eren swinging his leg up over the back of a black motorcycle, paint gleaming bright beneath the flickering exterior lights.
Jean pats his pocket and scowls, wondering how long he’s going to have to wait for a rideshare back to his empty bed so early on a weekend night when Eren grins, brilliant and blinding, tossing Jean the helmet that hung from his handlebar moments before.
“You good to ride?” Eren asks, amusement plain on his face. Jean rolls his eyes, equal parts rankled and entertained by the implication.
“I dunno. You good to drive?”
“Sure,” Eren responds easily, retrieving a tie from around his wrist and clamping it between his teeth while he works on pulling back his hair. “Never had any complaints before,” he mumbles around the elastic, fingers plucking the thing from his mouth and securing his mane in a messy ponytail. “I think you’ll like it.”
Jean ignores the double meaning for the moment and replies. “Those things are dangerous.”
Eren shrugs. “I’m gonna die sometime, aren’t I?”
“None of my business and you’re not taking me with you when you do,” Jean shoots back, walking to stand beside the motorcycle, turning the helmet around in his hands as Eren laughs and pats the seat.
“So I promise not to die tonight then, how does that sound?”
Sounds to Jean like hubris, but he doesn’t say. He swings his right leg up and lands astride the bike at Eren’s back. He fights the slight tremor in his hands as he pulls the helmet down over his head, grateful that the visor offers a bit of privacy as he mentally calls into question every decision he’s ever made that’s led him up to this very moment.
Eren shifts on the seat, turning around to glance at Jean, lower lip trapped between his teeth.
“Here.” He reaches for Jean’s arm and pulls it forward to rest around his waist, bidding Jean do the same on the other side. “You’re going to be fine… Besides, I’m barely even drunk.”
“Not fucking funny,” Jean says, smiling despite himself, sealing his chest to Eren’s back and tucking his chin over the other man’s shoulder. Eren flips a switch on the handlebar, centers the bike and kicks up the stand. Jean’s grip tightens automatically around Eren’s middle as the engine rumbles to life. He steers the bike slowly to exit the lot, picking up speed as they turn onto the street.
The brief ride passes in a blur of adrenaline and nerves, the comforting warmth of Eren’s body against his chest. Jean finds the courage to finally exhale when Eren hits the kill switch in front of a neat row of apartments.
“You survived.” Eren turns and shoots Jean a grin, easing the bike down onto the stand, waiting for Jean’s less-than-graceful dismount before hopping off himself. Jean removes his helmet with unsteady hands and passes it back to his companion.
An awkward beat passes between them. Jean wonders belatedly if it's because he forgot to respond to Eren’s statement.
“So–”
“Come on in,” Eren says, catching Jean’s hand in his own and half-dragging him down the sidewalk to the complex. He stumbles silently up the stairs, unfocused eyes trained on Eren’s leather-clad ass, into unit 211 where he stands in the dimly lit entry, unmoored and blinking.
The ride had the unintended effect of sobering him up a bit. He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing, not anymore.
This might not be–
Eren steps in close and reaches up, pressing a thumb into the crease between his brows, laughing at Jean’s puzzled stare. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he says, then seals his lips to Jean’s.
–the best idea.
Jean finishes his thought, humming into the kiss, looping his arms behind Eren’s neck and tangling his fingers in his long dark locks and tugging gently, smirking as Eren draws away and sighs, lips dragging down from his chin to the skin beneath his jaw.
“I don’t bite… much,” Eren whispers, nipping lightly at his neck. Jean bites his lip to stop an embarrassing noise from escaping his throat and tosses his head back, smacking it gently against the hall mirror, which clanks in protest against the wall. “Let’s get a drink,” Eren says, disentangling himself from Jean’s embrace and leading the way once more to a cramped and brightly lit room to their immediate right.
Dizzy and disoriented, Jean tucks himself out of the way, leaning back against the counter beside the sink and watches as Eren opens the fridge and disappears behind the door.
“What do you want,” He calls back over his shoulder. “I can make you anything provided you’re into clear liquor. And if it’s simple. You know what, if you want a Moscow mule or a gin and tonic or a vodka soda… those are your options.”
Jean wrinkles his nose. He’s actually not into clear liquor, plus he’s already mixed plenty tonight. He’d rather keep his drinks somewhat uniform, though there’s no real evidence he’ll have a worse time if he doesn’t. “Gin and tonic,” he replies, after another moment’s deliberation.
“Gross,” Eren laughs, letting the fridge door fall shut, “what are you, eighty-one?”
“You offered it?” Jean frowns, stymied.
“Yeah, well,” Eren waves dismissively, a nearly full liter of vodka in hand, “my friend drinks gin sometimes. Anyways, out of tonic. Do a shot with me.”
“What are you, sixteen?” Jean grins, relieved his opportunity for a comeback came so quickly.
“Uh-huh,” Eren says, approaching Jean and setting the bottle down beside him on the counter, pressing himself flush to Jean’s front, leaning past him and reaching back behind his head to retrieve two glasses from the cabinet above. Jean’s breath catches in his chest, body tingling and electric where they connect.
“Sorry,” Eren says. He doesn’t sound it. He catches Jean’s lips in another kiss, drawn out and slow and messy. It leaves Jean flushed and breathless. Eren laughs as Jean leans forward, chasing that sly mouth as he pulls away. “Tight fit.”
Glasses acquired, Eren slides to the right and attends to their drinks. Jean sucks in a harsh breath, becoming increasingly impatient with the hot stranger’s bullshit. He’s starting to wonder if the juice is worth the squeeze. Eren picks up on the shift right away. He pushes his tongue against his lip ring and waits expectantly for Jean to speak.
“Are you planning on teasing me all night?” Jean mutters, face heating up as the question leaves his lips.
“No,” Eren says brightly, passing Jean his glass. He knocks it back and coughs. Eren follows suit, wiping his hand across his mouth. “But it’s hard to stop when you get all–” and he visibly tenses and frowns, doing what Jean assumes is an impression of him. Jean rolls his eyes and holds out his glass for a refill.
Eren pours them each another shot and Jean is jelly by the time he hits the bottom of it. Pleasantly liquid and lazy, sighing delighted as Eren starts kissing him again, this time with more urgency. Jean leans back and hooks a leg around Eren’s waist, hoping he’ll entice the man into continuing on towards their destination. His eyes flutter shut as he feels the hard line of Eren’s cock brush against his own.
“Fuck,” he gasps, unable to hold back a pitchy whine when Eren attaches his teeth to the side of his neck.
“I like the way you taste, Jean,” Eren says lowly, breath humid against his flesh. He runs his tongue over the sore skin and Jean shivers and chokes back another noise.
“You’re so strange,” he mumbles in reply.
Eren hums thoughtfully and sinks to his knees. “You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”
“Fuck,” Jean says again. Because he’s short circuited, he assumes. Because he can’t think of anything else to say in the face of Eren kneeling at his feet, running his tongue over his lower lip, batting his eyelashes as he stares half-lidded up at Jean.
Eren lifts his ass off his heels and shuffles closer to Jean’s feet, slender fingers reaching for his waistband, popping the button on his jeans and drawing the zipper down. Jean has less than a second to register the chilly air hitting his skin when Eren draws his dick from the fly of his boxer briefs before he’s enveloped in a velvety wet heat.
“Fu– hah–!”
Eren draws back and laughs quietly like Jean just said something mildly amusing. “Hang on to something up there, I’m not planning on stopping until you come. This is a celebration, after all...”
*
Jean groans, pain settling into his head, his limbs, his back as he wakes, consciousness coming back online slowly. He elects not to open his eyes. He knows exactly how that will exacerbate things.
Jean hasn’t had a hangover this bad since he was sixteen, when he and Sasha split a bottle of her dad’s whiskey between them. Back then he recovered quick. Now that he’s pushing thirty, there’s no way this won’t be an all weekend event.
The question now is why. Jean puts on his detective hat as his stomach churns viciously and his too-warm skin breaks out in a cold sweat. He's undoubtedly going to have to throw up in a minute.
He went out drinking, that much he knows. Sasha and Connie were there. Marco… Right. It was about the job. Jean winces at a particularly pronounced spike of pain in his head.
The guy from the bar.
Evan. No way. That can’t be right.
Eyes.
Yes. Eren. Long dark hair and a silver studded grin swirl lazily through his mind. He remembers Eren’s watery green gaze aimed up towards Jean as he took him down to the base.
Fuck.
His stomach twists. Sounds and snippets and broken snapshots from the night prior rushing back into his inflamed brain.
Eren propped on a forearm above him, mess of tangled dark hair tumbling around his shoulders and into Jean’s face. Bright green eyes screwing shut, pouty lips parting and falling open as he eased his way inside.
Jean thinks he can recall at least five separate times. It would account for the pronounced ache in his spine, the substance, dried and white, flaky across his chest and abs.
He groans again, dismayed he can only remember parts of it. He thinks it was good. He remembers Eyes breathlessly chanting his name, sinking his teeth into Jean’s neck as he came. Whatever round it was, he doesn’t know. Jean lifts a lazy hand to his throat and prods his fingers experimentally at the sore flesh there, sucking in a hissing breath through his teeth.
It’s all the drinks, he thinks. Eren brought the bottle to bed, he’s pretty sure. Take a shot, answer a question, go again. That was the thing.
“Still thinking about Marco?” Eren asked, somewhere in the middle of everything, his hand slowly pumping Jean’s cock.
Jean had whined then, some stupid, small sound he hopes now his hookup won’t remember, eyelids fluttering as he thrust weakly into Eren’s grip.
“Not fucking r-really… God—! Eren—!”
Jean presses the heels of his palms hard into his eye sockets and takes a breath. Okay, he tells himself. It’s time. He can sense he’s alone in bed. He’s likely outstayed his welcome. He needs to text his friends.
Cracking open his eyes, he yelps as Eren’s muted white ceiling swims into view. He’s eternally grateful to the man for his blackout blinds. Things could’ve been a lot worse otherwise.
Shit.
His headache compounds with the return of his sight and his stomach clenches in a desperate warning. He’s going to have to look for Eren’s bathroom right now and his first guess better be right.
Luckily, it is. His knees hit the tile and he throws up almost instantly, draping his shaking arms across the porcelain seat. Freckled cheeks flash through his mind and he grimaces, grits his teeth. Marco would be so disappointed in him.
Who cares, he thinks, pushing his sweat soaked hair off his forehead. Marco’s judgements of Jean’s character shouldn’t mean anything to him, not now.
Still, he should text.
He reaches for his pocket only to find he's completely naked.
That settles things. He’ll clean up first, get dressed, then leave. After that, he can check in with someone who isn’t him. If he remembers correctly, Eren doesn’t live too far from the bar, so he can’t live more than ten to fifteen minutes from Jean. A blessing. He figures he’ll probably need to throw up one more time before he catches a ride home, but shouldn’t have too much trouble keeping it together once he calls for a car.
He straightens up to stand, gingerly making his way to the sink. He gasps at his reflection, his hand flying automatically to his neck. That’s where the worst of the damage is, yes, but his entire body is covered in bites and scratches.
The angry red lines ripping down his back unlock a new memory.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” Eren said strained, digging his nails into Jean’s neck as Jean began to move, slowly, gently working himself in and out of Eren’s tight heat. “Fuck… yeah… you can pick it up, dummy, I’m not going to break.”
Jean winces, running the tips of his fingers over the top of the marks at his shoulder. Eren pushed a button there. The casual insult goaded him into doing exactly as he asked.
He hopes Eren doesn’t feel too bad this morning.
Speaking of which…
Jean splashes his face and chest with cool water from the tap and uses Eren’s hand towel to pat himself dry. He throws up one more time. Borrows a little bit of Eren’s toothpaste and scrubs it over his teeth and tongue with his index finger and departs back for the bedroom.
Dressing is its own special hell. Jean hisses as he pulls his shirt over his head and down to cover his torso. He sits on Eren’s bed and eases his legs into his pants. He’s not looking forward to re-experiencing the bite marks on his inner thighs when he has to make the brief walk out to the street.
He finds his phone, nearly dead beneath the debris on Eren’s nightstand. He has one new message.
Marco, probably. Jean’s heart beats wildly in his chest. He’s so stupid. Why did he do this? Now that it’s done, he can’t come back from it. They’re really over, aren’t they?
Jean’s heart sinks. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize. He’s already swiping to delete the message when something in the preview catches his eye.
Unknown: I had to run! If you hit the bottom lock on your way out I’ll love you forever!
Another message comes in in as Jean reads.
Unknown: sorry for getting a little carried away ;)
Unknown: good luck with your shitass job
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
The two messages back to back remind Jean of his impending doom. In less than twenty-four hours now, he has to show up at his new job.
Like this.
Jean ignores Eren’s texts and orders himself a ride. He limps down the hall and past the kitchen. The place is empty. Eren really left him alone there.
Inconsiderate bastard, he thinks, hitting the bottom lock with more force than necessary on his way out.
*
Monday comes all too quickly.
Jean exhausts all his options for covering the marks his clothing doesn’t. Band aids would attract even more attention, he decides. A scarf indoors isn’t practical and he doesn’t own any business casual turtlenecks. Popping his collar would be completely unhinged. In the end, he settles on a thick layer of Sasha’s foundation and a prayer.
Smith & Zoë is located on the fifth floor.
Jean shifts his weight from foot to foot in the elevator. He tells himself that the woman with the ash blonde hair beside him isn’t staring. She gets off on the fourth floor and Jean rides to his destination alone.
He pushes open the heavy wooden door and glances around warily. Mx. Zoë had said they would show him to his desk first thing in the morning. Problem is, Jean doesn’t see them anywhere.
Luckily there’s someone at reception. A brown-haired man sits behind the large walnut desk in the entry, his chair turned partially away from Jean, his head bent low in concentration. Jean strides forward, confident as he can muster, clearing his throat in a bid to catch the man’s attention. The man exhales a harsh sigh, causing the wisps of hair that had fallen from his bun to flutter away from his forehead.
“Mr. Kirstein! Jean! Over here,” Hange says, appearing from down the corridor on his left, waving their hands energetically.
The receptionist looks up from his phone and locks eyes with Jean, his own widening in shock and recognition. A slow smile spreads across his face. Jean notices two small indents in the skin beneath his lower lip.
The perfect place for two thin steel rings.
Jean seethes. He claps a hand automatically over his neck. Eren’s smile grows.
“Eyes!” Eren exclaims. “What’re you doing here?”