When Jean pushes the office building's front doors open, the muggy smog of the night air hits him in the face like a wet, dirty rag. King's Row is the gas station urinal of Trost, and thirty years ago the janitor quit. Pieces of trash roll across the cracked pavement sidewalks that could break a person's ankle, and if you ever asked the lawyers of Jean's building, it's a million dollar payday. Street thugs wander in broad daylight, while the organized gangs patrol their territory after dark. The trees, what few can survive, are a kind of color that Jean is sure isn't natural. For every dilapidated factory inhabited by a superpowered street group, there's a rundown apartment with a slum lord living on Peregrine Island. As he takes a deep breath of existential resignation, his lungs are burned by an air tainted with any number of questionable chemicals. But he's used to it by now, and doesn't even notice it.
Jean can feel the eye strain like a needle through his corneas. He works an eight to five job in the office building as an IT security specialist and support technician. It's a glorified way of babysitting office drones who don't know that "password" isn't a clever password, and will get the shit hacked out of their law firms. A quick fast food dinner and he's back in the building, helping his mother with her cleaning job. She helped him stay in school, he helped her through the divorce. She got him his job by knowing one of the lawyers, he helps her with the cleaning job, just like he did in college. That's the deal he's made up in his head to justify time spent scrubbing toilets, because he will not admit it's an act of love.
She offers him a ride each day after he walks her through the parking garage, but he turns her down each time. Exercise is what he tells her, but it's stubborn pride – the same reason he moved out. His apartment is four blocks away, and street smarts keep him safe each night as he walks back.
The first rule of street smarts is that you don't walk down a dark alley in King's Row at night. That's what's ringing in his head when then bigger of the two thugs slams him into the greasy brick of the building. Fuck Old Lady Hood, the drug addict who hangs out on the stairs of his building, who he tried to avoid by going in the back door.
"Cough up the wallet and this goes smooth," the thug says. When the thug's hand gets a little too close to more than just his wallet, it's a reflex that he tries to shift away. The thug spins him around and slams the butt of his pistol into Jean's cheek, sending him slumping down to the pavement. A foot slams his side. Jean is winded, but doesn't feel the rib break, which is all that matters.
"Fine," Jean says with a wheeze and groan as he reaches in his pocket. The pistol cocks and is on the back of his head. Jean knows it's a power trip, it's not the first time he's been mugged. His body doesn't care. His body is ready to piss his pants, his arms trembling, a sob of frustration bubbling out of his throat.
"It could have gone smooth," the thug says. "Flip your pockets." Jean does so, his cell phone rattling onto the pavement alongside his keys. His fingers are shaking as he claws at the dirty concrete, gulping for air as the fear takes over. When the thug reaches down to pick up Jean's phone, something heavy thuds onto the concrete behind them. The next thing Jean knows, the thug is flailing in the air, lifted up from behind by his jacket.
"Is this man bothering you?" Jean looks up and sees a man twice the size of the thug lifting him into the air like a grocery bag. His rescuer is massive from Jean's view on the ground, wearing heavy blue jeans, steel-toed boots, a plain sweatshirt, and a mask that covers the top of his head and upper half of his face. Freckles shadow his cheeks, his eyes a soft brown like hot chocolate, and his jaw is strong and sharp. He's clearly a small time, if not amateur, hero. He's one of hundreds in Trost, a city with a handful of big league heroes, a small force of competent ones, and five complete idiots in tights for every one of the decent ones. But with his vision still swimming from the pistol whip, it isn't the time for being picky.
Jean can't answer the question before the thug fires three shots from his pistol as he flails. Two of them hit the brick of the apartment building, but the third sinks into the hero's leg with a fleshy thud. Jean expects a scream and for the mugger to be dropped, for the entire rescue to fall apart, for both Jean and the wannabe hero to die then and there. Instead, the hero shakes the thug until the gun falls from his hand. He gives a small smile, like a parent to a mildly disobedient child. The hero kicks the gun away before the second thug can grab it. The second thug doesn't even try, he's already running away. The first yells after him, threatens to kick his ass for leaving him there.
"Can you stand up?" the hero asks Jean. Jean nods and struggles to his feet, wobbling a bit. The hero has a look of concern, but Jean is more stubborn than he is dizzy. Jean is more stubborn than most other things. "I have some rope in my backpack."
Jean can't help the snort. A dark blue, worn backpack with black trim. How professional. Jean unzips it and pulls out the rope, noticing a medical kit, emergency radio, and spare mask also in the bag. The thug struggles, but the hero has no trouble holding him with one hand. "You should call the police," the hero says.
"Can't you fly him in?" Jean asks, shaking from the adrenaline rush and not because he's scared.
"I'm… not licensed," the hero says, rubbing his neck as he looks away with a sheepish grin.
"Of course you aren't," Jean says, harsher than he means for it to be. He catches the flash of surprise and slight hurt that crosses the hero's face. The smile fades just slightly, forced on his face now.
"They can take him in. You should stay safe. No more alleyways," he says.
"Hey, look, I'm—" Jean starts to say, but the hero is flying away before he can say he's sorry, or even thank him. Jean looks down at the thug, who's struggling against the well-wrapped rope. Jean kicks him hard in the jaw before he dials 911.
After the cops have come and gone, after the adrenaline has crashed and the long day's toll is fully felt on his body, his ribs and cheek down to a dull throb with some aspirin, Jean cracks open his computer, immediately typing "Trost apartments" into the search bar, because now it's well past the limit of acceptable muggings for a single apartment. He picks up his scuffed cell phone and calls the one person who he knows won't fuss about his wellbeing, but instead will help him actually apartment hunt.
"Hello?" Eren has a mouthful of something when he answers, and from the crunching that comes through like static over the line it's a handful of chips or pretzels.
"Swallow, you fucking idiot."
"Funny, you used those exact words when we—"
"I got mugged again, help me find an apartment." Jean has four browser windows open, each with tabs already full of apartments in different price ranges and locations.
"Damn, man, sorry. You okay?"
"Yeah," Jean says, "Just pistolwhipped."
"Did you punch him?" Eren asks.
"No, I—"
"Pussy."
"Fuck you," Jean says, ripping the phone away from his face to hang up, but decides he would be too lazy to redial. "Some hero got there first."
"Yeah?" He can hear Eren typing in the background.
"Well, amateur." It suddenly dawns on Jean that the man was shot. He knows he was shot. He heard the bullet hit his flesh and saw the hole in his jeans. The guilt of how he treated the man washes back over him. Eren's chewing brings him back. "I'm serious, if you don't fucking swallow that and stop eating I'll take the tram over there just to beat the living shit out of you."
"Sounds like you don't even have the balls to beat yourself off… there's one here for $550."
"I could swing that," Jean says, knowing that with student loans and helping his mom with her rent that it would mean ramen three nights a week. But if he saves money from no longer being mugged, then maybe… "Email it to me?" The link pops up in seconds. "How's Armin? You two doing okay?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't we be?" Eren asks.
"No reason," Jean says, rolling his eyes at how oblivious Eren can be.
The concept of adequacy is fluid and highly dependent on context, and it was in the context of a swollen cheek and throbbing left ribs that the apartment somehow met the definition. A top floor apartment in a four story building with creaky floors, wallpaper from the early 90s, a highway on one side of the building and a Mexican restaurant on the other… but, in the context, it was adequate. The neighborhood was safer – he checked the crime report statistics during work – compared to the others in the price range, the landlady was a kind woman in her 70s, and being so close to the interstate made the commute almost as easy as walking had been.
And so a day later Connie and Eren are helping Jean haul boxes and furniture into and out of an elevator that Jean isn't completely sure is up for the task. His new apartment is the second to last from the end of the hallway, giving Eren plenty of time each trip to bitch and moan about how Jean's poor taste in apartments is an inconvenience to his precious time and effort.
"Suck it up and lift from your knees, Yaeger," Jean says.
"That's what your mom said," Eren says, out of breath. Jean shoves into his end of the couch as hard as he can, sending Eren flying back. "Hey, I'm fucking helping you!"
"Best I remember, it was this or helping Armin edit his interview with the recycling center guy. This has beer at the end, so get off your ass and carry something," Jean says. The promise of beer gets Eren back onto his feet, but not without a hard punch to Jean's shoulder the next time Eren passes by him.
After a day of Eren's terrible driving on the highway, unloading the furniture from Eren's truck, and rides up the sketchiest elevator in the city, Jean has his legs draped over the side of the lounge chair while Eren is sprawled out on the couch, his feet in Connie's lap. There's light from two lamps that are sitting on the floor next to an almost-empty box of beer, split mostly between Jean and Eren, with Connie nursing half a can. Jean is pleasantly numb from the throbbing pain in his ribs after a long day. He's just past buzzed but a hair shy of tipsy. Stacks of cardboard boxes surround them, and Jean can't summon a single fuck to give about unpacking tonight.
"Your face looks like shit," Eren says.
"Still better than yours ever has," Jean says.
"Did you get it checked?" Connie asks. Jean huffs.
"Yes, Mom. It's just bruised, nothing broken."
"Sounds like that guy got there just in time, then," Connie says.
"I'd have kicked his ass," Eren says.
"You aren't supposed to fight back," Connie says, and he gives Jean a look.
"I didn't," Jean says.
"Pussy," Eren says. Jean throws the empty can at Eren, but with his compromised level of sobriety it's nowhere close.
"I didn't thank him," Jean says after a few seconds, frowning. Eren snorts.
"You really are an asshole," Eren says with a grin. When Jean doesn't take the bait, Eren sits up with a slight wobble. "It happens. Don't beat yourself up."
"Yeah," Jean says, unconvinced. A silence hangs, exacerbated by the lack of T.V. and punctuated by the trucks passing on the nearby highway.
"Jean," Eren says as he stands up, putting a hand out for balance and walking over next to him. "I'm only saying this because I'm drunk—"
"Lightweight," Connie says, smirking. "I thought the infamous Eren Yaeger could down a bottle of vodka and still run a half mile." Connie groans and keels over against the lounge chair as Eren gives him an elbow to the gut.
"Because I'm drunk, I'll say this. You're a sarcastic ass."
"Gee, thanks," Jean says, sinking lower in the chair.
"You're a sarcastic ass because you're a cool guy deep down and you're scared to get hurt. It's a reflex, like the way Armin starts to sound like the Pillsbury Doughboy during awkward situations. You're also a stubborn piece of shit who won't cut yourself any slack." Eren puts his fist and against Jean's cheek and pushes with a gentle punch. "Lighten up or I'll kick your ass."
"So is your being a dumbass a reflex?" Jean asks.
"See?" Eren says with a grin. "Sarcasm in the face of a compliment." Jean furrows his brows.
"In his defense," Connie says, "only you would compliment someone by calling them a sarcastic ass, Eren."
"Twice. He said it twice," Jean says with a small smile at Eren. "But thanks."
"Don't thank me. I'm drunk. Remember? Like I'd ever give your stupid horse face a compliment while sober."
Jean gives a small laugh, "Right." He accidentally shifts his head to the side, hard, catching Eren in the crotch with the crown of his head. It's a slower reaction from the beer, but Eren grabs himself and whines as he drops to his knees.
"Fucking hell, you piece of shit," he says, winded. Connie nearly chokes and drops his beer can as he keels over, laughing.
With Eren half asleep by the end of the night, Connie takes care of driving him home. Jean is too comfortable draped over the lounge chair to move, and falls asleep as soon as they leave. When he drifts awake a few hours later, it's to the sound of clanging outside his door. It's in that moment Jean realizes his front door isn't locked. Grabbing the nearest thing to him – one of the lamps – he creeps up to his door. Peeking out through the eyehole, he sees a man dressed in a sweatshirt, carrying a bag, struggling with the door to the roof. In a moment of half-awake, liquid-fueled courage, Jean whips the door open and rushes forward, slamming the lamp down at the base of the man's neck.
The man turns his head, surprised, completely unfazed.
Jean freezes. The man smiles and lets out a tired chuckle.
"You must be the new neighbor." His voice is warm, soft, and familiar. Freckles on his cheeks, eyes like hot chocolate, and a strong jaw. "Would you mind helping me? I got my bag stuck in the door." Jean looks down and sees the door closed on one of the straps of the man's backpack. A familiar, worn backpack, dark blue with black trim.
"You're—"
"Marco," the man says, chuckling. "It's nice to meet you."