chapter two—problem: girl
If there is one thing Jean doesn't understand, it is girls.
Exhibit A: freshman year, Mikasa Ackerman. Subject was pursued quite carelessly on pursuer's part, ending in one awkward encounter in which pursuer spoke admiringly of subject's hair. Not quite exactly flattered like the typical girl easily swayed by small compliments, subject accepted compliment with a nod of her head and a quick turn on her heel. Pursuer was left projecting a brooding aura and compelled to touch a random bystander's back—which he did. (Connie still feels wary of him.)
Any other girl was out of the question, as Mikasa remained to be his one love interest—until his sophomore year he begrudgingly accepted her obvious affections (not blatantly obvious, for she is a subtle woman, this graceful woman of his...but still annoyingly obvious, either way) toward one Eren Jaegar.
In a fit of rage (mental, of course, for a composed image was one to maintain) Jean began pursuing girls in the same high school he attended. That way, he reasoned, school work could be done, as well as sparing any yet-to-be-obtained girlfriend some time. Then, he could walk her home, as the obligatory boyfriend should do, and go home in satisfaction, for both student- and boyfriend-duties would be accomplished.
Exhibit B: spring of sophomore year, Christa Renz. Small, blonde, blue-eyed, and undeniably adorable. Subject wasn't obtained due to subject's protective, scary, dyke-friend, Ymir. Said companion of subject threatened to further elongate pursuer's face with disturbing stretching methods involving the use of various tools (that shouldn't be used nor put within reach of the woman) for attempting to hold subject's hand on their first date, to which she nearly fainted from.
Exhibit C: winter of junior year, Annie Leonhardt.
...Jean wishes to not even think back on what a complete fail it was in attempting to court Annie Leonhardt.
Exhibit D through K consisted of random girls he dated throughout the other half of his junior year, as well into summer vacation. No relationship worked out, and ended, in almost every break-up, disastrously. He still can't get over the fact that one ex-girlfriend threatened to beat his cat with a shovel, because she couldn't bring herself to mangle such a gorgeous face.
The nerve of some people.
(Connie insisted that she would've beaten his cat had his mother not opened the door—the door he used as a safety barrier between the crazy woman—to their home and forced him to resolve whatever the hell was left to resolve of a break-up. Jean had and continues to wisely ignore all of this.
His cat is still alive.)
Before he knows it, it is winter and Jean is already a senior. Still an asshole, and no new girlfriend.
"Life is pretty unfair at the moment."
"What?"
Jean jumps at the voice. The coffee he's holding in his hand tips slightly, and he curses as the scalding liquid grazes the top of his hand.
"Shit! That fucking burns!" he hisses out, eyes scanning the small square table before him for a napkin.
"Here, take this," the same voice from moments ago said.
His eyes widen as he registers the familiar voice. His shock is barely contained as he looks over his shoulder to see Sasha Braus, her extended arm reaching over to hand him a few napkins.
"T-Thanks." Damn. He doesn't stutter. Jean takes the napkins, using one to wipe his stained hand, and then using the same napkin to clean the small spill. He then becomes very aware of the woman taking a seat at the table right next to him.
Out of all the fucking seats in this dead café. Granted, it is small, but there are two other available tables, and the one other customer beside them is sitting at the stool situated in front of the counter. But, c'mon.
Jean clears his throat, and returns his attention to the book at the corner of his table. Inside contains his homework assignment. He really ought to work on it.
"Uhm."
Shit, she spoke. Mentally, Jean prepares himself. He remembers the last time he and Sasha made contact, a few years back in freshman year, when he insulted her and her eating habits, nearly made her cry, and rightfully earned the title of 'epic-piece-of-shit-asshole', courtesy of just about the whole school population.
However, just as about everything that occurs in high school and is made out to be a big commotion, it blows off just as quick. A few months later, everyone forgot about it. People continue to have their petty arguments, there is the occasional couple caught screwing around in the drafting room, teachers hate their students, and Jean has yet to raise his grade in English.
People move on. Jean moved on. Sasha did, too, he thinks. Well, so he surmises. She still eats; she still bothers others into giving up their food. She still drools in class, even if she's not sleeping. She's still fucking weird.
Maybe prettier. No need to deny that, Jean thinks, as he casts suspicious eyes over the brown-haired woman who has yet to speak. Her hair is down, the ends curled nicely and reaching just above her chest. Her bangs are pulled over her head, and held back by a red clip. She wears a plain green long-sleeve, a light-orange scarf with floral design around her neck. Blue jeans. Brown boots. Light coating of pink lip gloss. Smells good. She's staring.
Fuck. Avert eyes. He does.
Potato girl grew up, he nods inwardly. Yet she's just that—potato girl. There's nothing more to it.
Right now, she may yell at him, call him a douchebag or something more demeaning, for what occurred a few years ago in the lunchroom at school. He'll finally get confirmation, and have another person added to the list of those who hate him. However, Jean will accept it, and move on.
Jean stares at the brindled liquid in his cup, bitter and black and completely unfavorable to most that prefer the opposite. Bitter and black and so unappealing. What good is it, to add artificial sweetness and all that unnecessary flavoring and shit, anyway?
His reflection is contorted in the liquid before him. What good is it, really.
"I'm sorry."
His brow furrows at her words. "What?"
Sasha offers him a small smile. "I-I could have sat anywhere else, but I usually sit here, by the window. It feels nice."
"It's...fine?" he hears himself saying. This isn't what he expected.
She nods. "Thanks, Jean."
'I'm sorry' and 'thanks'. Where is the raise in voice, the malice laced in her tone? Where are the degrading names that should reduce his male ego into absolutely nothing, a dickless man (metaphorically speaking, of course)? What is going on here.
Sasha seems more comfortable now, as she fiddles with the handle of her coffee mug, and reads a book with the other hand.
Hm. Black, just like his. Yet there seems to be something missing...
"You're not eating anything?"
The question is out, and he mentally slaps himself.
Sasha's face colors visibly. Her fingers stop toying with the handle, and hastily grips it instead. Self-conscious, all of a sudden. Huh.
"No," she says, smiling uneasily. Her eyes dart upward, and it looks like she wishes she hadn't clipped her bangs back, for they would've been great assistance in hiding her gaze from him. "I am not."
"That's odd," Jean mumbles. "Not...hungry?"
She laughs nervously, the flush more apparent on her cheeks now. "N-No, it's not that."
Silence. Alright, Jean thinks, I can work with this. Deep inside, he has no idea why he wants to, though.
"No money?" No answer. Silence, yet again. Well, this is awkward now.
"Yes..." she admits, eyes never leaving her mug. "I spent nineteen dollars and sixty-three cents on three boxes of sushi...I've been craving it lately. And," she sighs miserably, "there went all my money."
He startles her, moments later, after her shy admission, when he laughs. It isn't restrained, either. He laughs so hard that the table shakes and his coffee nearly tips over again. Sasha looks pleasantly horrified, embarrassed. It is enough to make his laughter come to a stop. Jean clears his throat, and stands without a word.
"Jean?"
He ignores her, and proceeds to walk to the front counter. He scans the menu for a good two minutes before deciding on something Sasha-appropriate. When he returns to his seat, he deliberately pays no attention to her expression as he sets the chocolate sundae in front of her. It has bits of cookies. Chocolate syrup. Sprinkles. You know, fattening shit that she'll most likely enjoy.
"You—"
"Just eat it, damn it," he sighs.
"Okay," she relents. Good. She knows there's no point in getting an explanation out of him.
Nodding curtly, Jean busies himself with his schoolbook. He opens it, reads the page of contents—like, twenty times.
"Jean?"
When he turns to look at her, he almost does a double take at the sincere smile gracing Sasha's face. "Thank you."
He shrugs nonchalantly, turning away. That stupid smile should be illegal. "'S no problem."
Silence resumes, comfortable now, as she eats quietly. Properly, too, thank God.
"Though," she begins thoughtfully, breaking him from his thoughts, "it would've been nice if you had gotten me something else, preferably with meat."
Jean grouses at her response, the corner of his lips lifting in just the slightest.
"Yeah, yeah..."
Author's note: I am not planning on sticking to the comedic role Sasha usually plays ('potato girl'). C'mon, we know there's more to her than that. Jean will see that, too. POVs will alternate between the two, but it's mostly Jean-centric. I just love writing these two.
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