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Art had never been Jean Kirschtein's best subject. He glared angrily at the sketch he'd been working on for the past half hour before placing his elbows on the desk and resting his head on a graphite-smudged hand as he looked out the window. After days –hell, maybe even weeks- of rain, the sun was shining brightly in the pristine blue sky. Today was the one day of the week where he was stuck in the art department for a double period. He groaned quietly; wishing he was outside getting some laps down on the track instead of being cooped up in the stifling heat and uneasy silence of the art room. He glanced at the charcoal drawing Marco was working on. It put his attempt to shame. Marco was suited for art; he had a keen eye and the patience of a goddamned saint. Jean, on the other hand, had only chosen the subject because he'd thought it would be a breeze. The instructor, however, had other ideas. Even now, at the very start of the year, he was struggling to meet deadlines. He stared at his half-hearted sketch once more before pushing it aside and resting his head on the desk. God, this was going to be a long afternoon.

Jean shot up the moment the door to the art room creaked open. He grabbed the pencil sitting beside him and attempted to look like he was actually doing something constructive with his time instead of dozing off in the middle of the lesson. He turned to the door where the instructor, Mr Dawk, was talking quietly to a nervous-looking young man. He wasn't the only one who was staring; the whole class seemed to have glanced up to have a look at the new arrival. Jean didn't recall having seen him before. Due to its small size, Rose Academy was one of those schools where everyone knew everyone. Jean deduced the boy must be new. Everyone had gone back to their work, but Jean chewed idly on the end of his pencil as he regarded him. He was tall- even taller than Marco- with black hair and a slight tan. Jean smirked inwardly at how nervous he looked. The boy stared at the floor, cheeks flushed and beads of sweat forming on his brow as he mumbled a quiet response to the instructor, who nodded and indicated he should take a seat.

Bertholdt Fubar nervously scanned the classroom. There were a couple of seats available, but only one that backed onto a wall. He had never liked the feeling of people watching his back and there was something reassuring about being able to see who was coming in and out of the classroom. He kept his eyes on the floor as he made his way over to the table, clutching his bag and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He pulled the seat out before hastily muttering a quick "I- uhh- is anyone…?". Jean shook his head in response and Bertholdt nodded shyly and sat down. He rummaged about in his bag for a pencil, trying his best to keep his head down. Jean viewed the new arrival as a welcome distraction from his work.

"You new?", he asked.

"…Yes.", Bertholdt replied uncertainly. This was his first time in school without his childhood friend, Reiner. He wasn't used to being on his own or to being addressed directly. But at least someone was talking to him, right? Reiner had said he should make some friends. Maybe this was his chance?

"What's your name?"

"Bertholdt.", he mumbled. "What's yours?"

"Jean Kirschtein. The one and only." Bertholdt nodded in response, offering a nervous smile at his last comment.

"What school are you from?".

"St Maria's.", the dark-haired boy answered. Jean grunted and offered a nod. St Maria's High School had been demolished at the end of last school year. He wasn't the first to arrive from there, and he probably wouldn't be the last. There was a moment of silence before Bertholdt mustered up the courage to ask what it was the class was currently working on. Jean waved his pencil in the direction of an assortment of random items that sat across from him. "Still life." He cast an angry glance at his incredibly rough looking sketch. "God help me."

"Jean, quit complaining.", Marco whispered, elbowing him. "It could be worse."

Jean snorted and turned his paper over so that he could start afresh. He put his head down and got to work again as the instructor wandered idly past them. He was thankful that there was no room for Dawk to lean over and get a good look at his work (or lack thereof). He tried to settle down and get his head in the zone, but everything he drew just seemed to turn out so wrong. He persevered, only giving up again after his third attempt at drawing a worn, mangy looking teddy-bear. His pencil was blunt and there were smudges of grey from the graphite on his hands littered all over the piece. Things just weren't going his way. He peered over at Marco, who was completely absorbed in his work. He hadn't even noticed the smudges of charcoal on his face from when he had gone to scratch his nose or the back fingerprints on his pristine white shirt from when he had adjusted his collar. Jean shrugged inwardly. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what his friend found so exciting about art. He turned to see what Bertholdt had produced.

"God fucking damn." were the only words to leave his mouth as he stared at the tall boy's drawing. The lines were nowhere near as precise as Marco's, but he seemed to capture the essence of the heap of junk in front of them even after only ten minutes spent working. He had all the details faintly sketched out, even down to the cracks on the jugs and marbles and the worn label on one of the bottles. Bertholdt looked up, surprised, charcoal still pressed against the paper.

"…I know it's not that good, but charcoal has never been my favourite medium...!", he stammered, cheeks flushing with what was probably embarrassment.

"Are you fucking shitting me-"

"Language, Jean!", barked Mr Dawk from across the room. Jean sheepishly looked back down at his work, only casting a glance up when he was sure the instructor had resumed working at the front of the classroom. He glared at Eren Yeager, who had let out a stifled laugh and was now smirking at him from across the room. God, how he hated that kid. He stuck his middle finger up at him, mouthing a quick "piss off, Yeager" before turning back to Bertholdt.

"How the hell are you so good?", he demanded, keeping his voice low.

"I- I'm not really that good… Just practice…", the black-haired boy replied, trailing off towards the end of the sentence.

"…Just practice, huh?", Jean said, frowning a little as he glanced out the window, praying the sky would stay blue and that he wouldn't get into too much trouble for giving up entirely and putting his head down to sleep instead.

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