Hey, guys. So, this is for Jeankasa week on Tumblr.

Jeankasa Week Day 3; Wound. Part 2 will be for day 4; Safe.

Fandom: SNK

Pairing: Jean Kirschtein x Mikasa Ackerman

Rating: T (Part 2 will be M for smut, you've been warned)

Warnings: Angst, Tears and Feels ahead

Wound

There were no graveyards inside the walls. They didn't have the resources for such things. They held mass burnings for their dead. That is, if there was a body left at all. But there was a small building, one room of polished stone, filled from the ceiling to the floor with names. They were the names of soldiers, those who had protected humanity at the cost of their lives. Jean noticed that the engravings were starting to make their way onto the floor. It made his stomach sink.

Greif, for most people, came in seven stages; disbelief, denial, anger, bargaining, guilt, depression and acceptance. But he was a soldier, and soldiers had only one stage: move on. If only it were that easy. His shoulders burned and his legs screamed with exhaustion, but he needed to talk to him. He kept walking forward. It was dark in there, with only candles to cast a shadowy source of light, but he could find his way blindfolded. He stopped in front of the name, its letters smooth and bold; Marco Bodt. He reached out a hand to touch the engraving, touching all that was left of Marco. He bowed his head, both out of respect for the dead and to ease the dull pain in his chest. The first tear slid silently over his jaw. It had been almost six years, but time doesn't heal all wounds.

He was glad that no one was there. No one to see him break down like this, like he wasn't strong. In the back of his mind Jean was grateful for the fact Marco hadn't had to live through the carnage, to try and find the courage to put on his uniform, to push away the nagging fear of what's next. But there was another thought tailing that one, one wishing he had Marco there to help deal with it all. Jean coughed a rough laugh at himself. I'm sorry, Marco. I'm so pathetic. The tears were hitting the ground in a steady rhythm. For right now, he could pretend Marco was there, smiling with the innocence Jean no longer had, telling him to lighten up. He then choked on a sob as he realized he couldn't even remember the sound of Marco's voice. The more he tried, the fuzzier the sound became, fading into a distant thought. It was like he was underwater, and falling deeper. His teeth gnashed together as he tried to stop the sobs from escaping. His hands knotted into his hair and he fell to his knees. The half-stifled sounds of despair seemed to echo in the small space, bouncing off the walls and back into his head as if to mock him.

He heard the heavy thunk of the door closing behind him and squeezed his golden eyes closed. He really didn't feel like seeing anyone else right now. Quiet footsteps told him the intruder was approaching him but, to his surprise and relief, they passed him, continuing to the furthest wall. There was only the sound of silence and his own breathing, and he tried to pretend he was alone again. His eyes snapped open when he smelled smoke, immediately jumping to his feet out of habit. But his alarm faded when he realized that the source of the smoke was coming from the candles at the far end of the building being extinguished. The other person was methodically snuffing them out with a quick breath of air. Recognition hit Jean with a jolt as the intruder came closer to him. Mikasa. At that moment, Jean was thankful he was not an ugly crier. There was no snot, or red, swollen face. Just tears and tired eyes. None of that seemed to matter, though. Mikasa seemed not to notice him at all. Like usual, he thought, swallowing back his bitterness. The girl continued to blow out the candles until she reached him. Her eyes met his, and he felt his pulse quicken.

"Jean. It's time to go home." Her voice floated in the empty space between them.

"Home," He mumbled, feeling slightly embarrassed, "you mean the barracks."

Mikasa averted her eyes from his, "It's the closest thing we have." Jean leaned his back against the wall, his tired body almost unwilling to keep him standing. He couldn't help but stare at her. She was as beautiful as the day he'd first met her. The same glossy black hair, the same grey eyes, the same everything. It was nice for something to stay the same for once. He wished he were the same as he was at the start of all this. He missed the innocence he had before.

Something changed in him when Marco died. In that moment, staring at Marco's body-what was left of it- something inside of him broke. He could remember the feeling of finding his friend- his best friend. He remembered the bile rising in his throat, the smoke stinging his eyes, the smell of rotting flesh. It was nothing he would, or even could, ever forget.

"Do you visit him a lot?" Mikasa's voice brought him out of his memory. He must have looked confused, because she clarified, "Marco,"

"Not as much as I should." Jean muttered back.

"You have work to do, Marco would understand."

"He was my best friend. I should be able to make more time for-"

"Jean," Mikasa cut him off, "life is for the living."

For a moment, Jean just stared at her. She was so logical, so straightforward, so…Mikasa. It made the corner of his mouth turn up just the smallest bit.

"I know."

It was that moment she glimpsed it, the hollow look behind his eyes, the way something in him seemed dead. There was a wound not yet closed. She lifted a hand and placed it tenderly on his chest, right over his, where his heart was beating a bit too fast. His golden eyes darted from her hand back to her eyes. Her other hand was curled over her heart as well, silently connecting them in a strange, but powerful way. Almost suspicious, Jean placed his left hand over the one on his chest, covering it completely.

"Mikasa…"

"It's okay; mine hurts too."

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Thanks for reading :)