Feel New Chapter Six: So Why The Hell Should I Go?"Settle down, you'll all be clear
Don't pay no mind to the demons
They fill you with fear
The trouble-it might drag you down
If you get lost you can always be found
Just know you're not alone
'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home"
-Phillip Phillips "Home"
The bottle fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. You looked back up to your drunken father, realizing that if he wasn't so drunk that he could've hit you with the bottle. His rages were getting worse by the day as his drinking increased. At first it was just a can of beer a day, but then he was drinking stronger alcohol to dull the pain of the loss. You knew he was grieving. You knew he was broken, worn down to the bone. You knew he wanted to die just as much as you. You knew the pain he was feeling, the grief that wouldn't go away no matter how much he drank.
You knew.
"Dad, please," you pleaded, now on the verge of tears.
He only took another big swig from the bottle in his other hand and wiped at his mouth. He growled and kicked at the shards, sending them towards you. You shrunk back, cowering.
"Shut up!" he yelled, voice thick and slurred. You could smell the alcohol from this distance.
"Please," you whispered, tears spilling. "Please…"
With a roar, your father threw his now empty bottle at you and you stepped out of the way, terrified, but it hit your arm. Shards fell onto you, some cutting into your skin. You ran, out of the kitchen and up the stairs and to your room where you locked the door and wept against it, hearing crashes and bangs and shouts downstairs, muffled by the door. Your shoulder bleed from where a jagged piece of glass had scratched you, another shard lodged in your forearm. The other tinier cuts bled as well, though not as much.
You stared at the dark red in horror. Your father was never like this when he drank. Sure, he would throw a bottle, but not at you. He never did that.
You shrieked when you heard a loud thud downstairs, vibrating the whole house. You cried harder, covering your ears so you wouldn't hear anymore. You knew he would soon calm down and then pass out, and the next morning you would have to clean up his mess and his vomit from the floor, and then he would apologize and ask you for forgiveness and you would give it to him. He would promise to stop the drinking. To get better.
Of course, he never did.
And you got tired of hearing his empty apologies and hollow promises. This wasn't a place you wanted to be in anymore. Another loud boom echoed within the house, making your whimper. The pain in your shoulder was getting worse as you bled more.
This house was red and always will be. Such an unwelcome color.
This wasn't your home anymore.
—
You opened your eyes, confused. Did you just…fall asleep? Or did you just close your eyes? When did you close them? You shook your memories away, memories that you had locked up in a vault. Why were you remembering that at a time like this? You sighed through your nose and focused on the test in front of you.
School was boring as ever. You sat hunched over your math work, quickly figuring out the answer of the long ass question. You gazed around the room at your classmates as they worked furiously on the test before them. You barely even knew anything on it and couldn't even solve the first question. Still, you were stupid enough to take the test, even if you haven't even been in school for four months. You should've asked for an easier one. Your eyes landed on Jean, his hunched form hovering above his desk, nose an inch away from the paper, scrunched up in thought.
He still hasn't spoken to anyone but you and Hanji. Still no one.
You had to admit: you felt pretty damn special.
You turned back to your test and frowned at it, still not understanding what you had done wrong in your work. You checked it over and over again but still came up with the same solution. The answer wasn't even on the paper… And that's when you saw it. Right there, right in front of you. There it was: the answer, letter B. For some crazy shit reason you hadn't even seen it before. You shaded in the bubble, face palming both physically and mentally.
You had stayed at Hanji's for three weeks now. You felt pretty proud of yourself for staying so long. Levi had even called you the other day to congratulate you. You still remembered his words.
"What took you so fucking long, _?"
You had shrugged. "This place is pretty interesting, I guess."
"Tch. Yeah right. She probably has you hostage. Need me to call in the S.W.A.T?"
You had chuckled and said with a smile, "No, Levi.
You still remembered when you first arrived at Hanji's house, expecting to only last a few days. Instead, you lasted a few weeks, and still counting. The only thing keeping you from leaving was Jean. And Hanji's antics. But it was mostly Jean. You glanced at him again, finding him looking at you. You caught his gaze, causing him to frown and blush slightly before turning back to his test, chewing on his pencil eraser nervously.
He was doing that a lot more often. You'd look over to him and find him already looking at you, and then he would scowl or frown and blush. You found him doing that in particular a lot. Maybe he was just embarrassed you had caught his gaze? Or was it something else?
You shook off your thoughts and continued with your test until after another frustrating fifteen minutes, you answered the last question. Teachers would usually tell their students to check their work, but you knew most of them don't even do that. You didn't bother to check your work, not wanting to redo the problems and get confused all over again. What a pain in the ass.
You doodled on the back of your test, drawing the faint outline of a head. Carefully, you began sketching the features: the long thin nose, sharp jaw, the usual furrowed eyebrows, those observant eyes, and a pair of sealed lips that only opened to you. You quickly drew Jean's hair cut and shaded in the darker parts. You observed your work, finding that his chin maybe a bit too pointy and his eye a little lopsided, but overall he was pretty darn cute.
Wait-what?
You frowned. Why would you even think that? What was wrong with you? You pushed that weird thought away and looked up at the clock just as the bell rang, signaling the end of a long period. Your classmates groaned in relief and began packing up. You stood and gathered your things, not noticing Jean was beside you already, staring at your drawing of him. You turned to pick up your test, realizing he was right beside you, making you jump a little.
"Jesus Christ, man," you breathed. You followed his gaze to your doodle and blushed, moving to take it, but he snatched it before you could.
"This is amazing," he said quietly, eyes wide.
You scratched at your cheek. "I-it's nothing."
"Yeah right," he muttered, handing back your test. You quickly placed it on the pile on the teacher's desk, ignoring his lingering gaze on you and Jean as the two of you left the classroom.
You both had your lunch period together, which was where you were headed next. Thank god, because you were growing hungrier by the minute. You and Jean weaved through the mass of students to get to the cafeteria. It was fairly large; four long tables, six round tables, and there was even an eating area outside. You and Jean liked to eat outside since there was barely anyone who wanted to.
After you grabbed your lunch, you sat outside at the farthest table from the school, enjoying the warm sunlight. You munched on your sandwich, taking in the scenery. Well, you couldn't see much because Jean always sat in front of you and blocked your view from the school garden. He caught your gaze and glanced over his shoulder to the garden.
"Did Marco work there?" you asked quietly.
There was a pause before his answered. "Yeah. He loved it."
"Hm," you hummed.
He looked like he was about to say something else when his eyes shifted past your shoulder, returning to their indifferent state. You looked up in time to see Armin, Eren, and Mikasa set their trays down around you.
"Mind if we sit here?" asked Armin politely. You glanced at Jean and he rolled his eyes, shrugging his shoulders lightly.
"Uh, no its fine," you answered.
He smiled and the three of them sat down. You glanced at the three as they did so. When they settled down, an awkward silence lay heavy in the air.
"Um…," you began. "There something you guys want?"
Armin turned a little red. "Uh n-no."
"Are we, uh, interrupting something?" Eren asked, scratching his neck.
It took you a second to realize what he meant, and you blushed slightly at the implication. "N-no. What makes you say that?"
They were silent. It seemed like none of the three wanted to say anything. Jean picked at his salad, glancing from person to person at the table. That was when Mikasa spoke up.
"You're talking to him and he's answering. No one's done that before."
Eren joined in. "So we thought there might be something between you two…"
Armin shrugged. "It seems that you're pretty special."
You stared at them. "Seriously? That's what you think?"
"But he's talking to you!" Eren said.
"And?"
"We've been trying to make him talk for months! We've known him for years and even we couldn't manage to do that."
"Oh fuck off, Eren, she's different from the rest of you."
The four of you turned to Jean, who's eyes were only trained on Eren. He just…spoke out. Even Mikasa, who always seemed indifferent to everything, looked surprised. Eren opened and closed his mouth, not knowing what to say. As for you on the other hand, you started to clap.
"Atta boy, Jean!" you praised.
His eyes moved to yours. He rolled them, smiling a little. "Oh, shut up, _."
"I'm impressed; first me, then Hanji, and now Eren? Or should I say the three of them? Keep that mouth open, Jean."
"You're talking to me like I'm a fucking five year old."
"Well, sometimes you actually act like one, you big dork."
The other three watched you two bicker, speechless.
Eren finally spoke up, "W-wait…Jean, are you really talking?"
Jean looked back to Eren, forgetting the others were there. "Is my mouth moving and are words coming out?"
"I'm guessing sarcasm is included with his voice," Mikasa muttered, surprise gone. She picked at her yogurt.
You took a big bite out of your sandwich, smiling to yourself. Thank god he started talking. But would he keep doing so? Or was this just temporary?
Armin broke into a grin. "Wow! I'm happy for you, Jean!"
"Thanks, Blondy," he replied with a slight smile.
You snorted and swallowed. "Oi, Jean, we gotta go."
He sighed dramatically. "Yeah, I know."
The two of you stood and gathered your things, slinging your bookbags over your shoulders. Mikasa, Eren, and Armin watched as you turned and wiggled your fingers to them in a wave and followed Jean. He glanced at you sideways with an eyebrow raised and you only have him a small smile. He looked away, cheeks pink, and the two of your exited the cafeteria and headed for your next class.
—
The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. You gathered your things into your arms and walked out with Jean, heading for counseling. You glanced at Jean as you followed him down the stairs. He caught your gaze.
"What?" he asked.
"Uh, nothing."
The two of you rounded the corner into the hall where the room was. You watched Eren go inside. Why was he in there anyway?
You turned to Jean and opened you mouth to ask, but he said, "Killed two people when he was nine."
You sputtered, speechless. "A nine year old? What? I don't believe you."
"Not lying. Mikasa's parents were murdered in front of her and she was kidnapped. I don't know all of the exact details, but I know Eren came in and killed two of her attackers. She stabbed the other one."
"Whoa. I don't…wow. Why isn't Mikasa in there?"
"She hates it."
"I could see why."
"Yes."
So the kid fucking killed someone. No, two people. How the fuck… And he looks so harmless… Now you were just… You didn't even know what to feel or how. What feeling were you supposed to feel when you found out your friend killed someone? How did his parents feel like?
You were cut off abruptly from your thoughts when you bumped into Jean. He glanced at you before opening the door and letting you walk in first. You gazed at the cheesy yet somewhat encouraging posters on the walls and took a seat in front of the armchair in your usual spot beside Jean.
"Hi, Eren," you said a little too cheerfully, trying to forget the fact that the kid was capable of murdering. Must've been why he was such an outcast.
"Hey," the boy replied, twiddling his thumbs. His eyes moved to Jean. "Hi, Jean."
"Sup, Jaeger," he replied, making Eren grin.
"Man, everyone's missed that voice you know-"
The door opened and Rico stepped in holding a box of art supplies and rolled up posters. She looked at the three of you and smiled. "Hello, everyone! How are doing today?"
"Great," Eren said.
"Fine," you mumbled.
You glanced sideways at Jean, but he didn't say anything. Rico turned to look at him and asked, "Jean, how was your day?"
He turned to her and gave her a cheeky grin and answered, "I'm doing fantastic, Mrs. Brzenska. How are you?"
She stared at him, mouth open. "J-jean! W-well…uh…it's been good…thank y-you."
Eren piped up. "Jean's finally talking!"
Said person rolled his eyes. "It's not that big of a deal, Eren."
"What're you talking about?" you said. "Of course it's a big deal. It's your first step to mending."
He didn't say anything, only looked at you.
Rico lay the box on her chair and clasped her hands together. "Jean! I'm so happy for you! After all these months, none of us thought you would ever get better. I mean, you lost your best friend…"
How forward, you thought.
Jean stared at her. "Um…yeah."
She wasn't done. "But now you have a new friend! The teachers have been seeing you talk to _, but we never thought you would start talking so soon. She's only been here for a month."
"I get it, Mrs. Brzenska-"
"But now you're talking! Oh, Jean! Have you spoken with your parents with?"
"Uh, no, but Mrs. B-"
"No? Well you must! They need to hear the news!"
Jean rubbed his temple, annoyed. You held back your laughter as the woman continued to babble, and then suddenly she was firing questions at you.
"How did you do it? How did you make him talk? I've been counseling him for all these months and nothing has worked on him."
The room fell silent as they waited for you to answer. Did they really want you to answer that? You weren't even sure how you were supposed to. But what did Jean say, about feeling the same things as him?
You opened your mouth and answered, "The only reason he spoke to me was because he found out we were the same." There. You weren't going to add anymore details; these were yours and Jean's secrets.
Mrs. Brzenska cocked an eyebrow, confused, but then looked like she kind of understood. Counselors could only help so much, but they lacked one thing, and that was understanding. Sure, they may know how a person reacts to a certain situation, but they don't know the weight of the grief, the pain, how horrible it feels to be detached from something you loved and cherished deeply. They didn't know how it felt like to be ripped apart and then chewed up and spit out. They would never know until they experienced it themselves. You and Jean both lost someone, and so you both knew how heavy the grief was. Grief is like a brick tied to you that's dragging you down.
The weight of the brick varied from person to person, but nonetheless, was still a reminder to what it represented, and then it would become heavier and heavier until your eyes start glancing at your bathroom door more often until your feet took you over to it and the brick is just so heavy that you barely have enough strength to reach for the razor and bring it down to your wrists and just-
Calm down, you thought to yourself.
Rico must've noticed your little outburst because she asked, "Are you alright?"
You nodded, waving off her question. You nodded at the box. "What's with the art supplies?"
"Ah, yes! I thought you guys would help me set up posters for the end of the year Celebration that's coming in a few weeks. Since I'm in charge of getting word around, I need all the help I could get. And I thought maybe you guys would like to help!" She grinned at all of you.
You could tell she was excited. What was this Celebration anyway? Armin said the whole town participated in it since everyone loved summer. That's what he said, right? But was it like a…prom or something? A dance? Or just something like a festival? Whatever it was, you weren't sure if you wanted to go. But you glanced at the blank posters, itching to draw something on there. This would be the first thing you would have drawn since the accident…
"I'll help," you told Rico, who beamed at you.
"Me too," Eren said.
Rico turned to Jean, eyebrows raised. Jean shrugged, crossing his arms. "Fine."
The three of you helped move the chairs and clear out a space to lay the posters on the floor. You arranged the supplies beside you, disappointed at the shitty brands Rico brought, like Crayola and Cra-Z-art. But at least the paint tubes in there were decent. Rico, whom you thought would help the three of you, instead sat at her desk and shoved her earbuds in her ears and opened her laptop. Not a minute later did you hear loud opera singers blasting out of her ears that echoed throughout the room.
Finally you sat in front of the long, blank poster paper, holding a sharpened pencil in your hand, unsure of what to start with. You glanced at Eren, finding him already hard at work making bubble letters across the top. You felt a presence beside you and found Jean taking a seat on the ground, holding a box of markers in his hand.
"Need help with something?" he asked, opening the box and letting the markers fall into the space between the two of you.
"What's does the Celebration even have? I mean…what am I supposed to draw on here?"
"Ah. Well, there's always the fireworks show. And there are lots of booths to go to, and there's the arcade."
"Arcade?"
"Yeah, but most of the games on there are shooting games."
"Really?"
"Yeah…" He looked confused. "Wait, you like those kinds of games?"
"Hell yeah," you said, flashing him a grin.
"Oh." He looked absolutely baffled. "You don't look like you play those games."
"Looks can deceive," you replied. "Now what else?"
"There's funnel cake. I think they're having a contest this year again with the prize being a giant funnel cake. I think you have to go up against other contestants in a race or something? I don't know."
Eren spoke up without taking his eyes from the paper, causing you and Jean to turn to look at him, "So are you two going together?"
"What do you mean?" asked Jean.
"Haven't you heard? There's a dance this year in it."
"Wait," you said, something clicking into place in your head. "Do you mean like…as a couple?"
Eren looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Duh."
"Uh, no. We're not…no."
"What made you say that, Eren?" Jean asked, scowling and doing that thing with his hand on his cheek, almost like he was covering something.
The other teenager shrugged. "You guys just look like a match."
You glanced at Jean and did the same as you. What was Eren talking about? As if. You were barely a match for anyone. How could someone as broken as you ever be loved by someone else? That is, unless they're broken as well. Wait-why are you thinking about this? These kinds of thoughts haven't occurred to you since the accident. When did this start happening?
"_?" Jean waved a hand in front of your face, snapping you out of your trance.
"Huh?"
"What's up with you all of a sudden?"
"N-nothing." You stared back at the blank poster, raising your pencil and leaning over the paper.
"So are you going?" asked Eren.
You sketched a faint line on the paper, curving it into the letter C. "Going where?"
"Celebration, idiot," Jean scoffed, opening a box of colored pencils and setting them beside you.
"Oh. No."
"Why not?" Eren asked, confusion in his voice.
"Well, why should I go? I have things to do." That was a lie. You didn't like going out, especially if there was going to be a lot of people in a cramped place. It just didn't feel right to you. Not only that, but you were afraid of the cluster of people. It reminded you of the accident, when the impact had crushed the car, causing it to cave into you, and the swarms of policemen, paramedics, and firefighters. You'd rather not be reminded of the accident.
"It's fun," was all Eren said. You didn't say anything, only sketched the rest of the bubble letters. He turned to Jean and asked him the same thing.
"Not going."
"Well okay then. Stay home and do your lame ass things."
You looked at Jean, finding him avoiding your gaze and pretending to struggle with fixing the straps of his wrist watch. You knew there was more behind his answer. He wouldn't say just anything in front of anyone. He would talk to you later, or maybe you would ask him about it. But you knew it had something to do with Marco.
The three of you were silent as you worked on your posters, the sound of pencil tips scratching on the paper and muffled opera music the only sounds in the room. It was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking. It was getting annoying. You reached behind you, knowing there was a pack of markers behind you. Your hand touched something else, and, startled, you turned around.
Your hand was on Jean's thigh, the markers you hoped you were grabbing right beside his leg. He stared at you, startled just as much as you. You blushed and quickly snatched the pack of markers, muttering a quick, "Sorry," and turning back to your poster, ignoring his gaze on you. You thanked your hair for falling into your face and covering your red cheeks. Oh god, why didn't you just turn around and take the markers WHILE looking? Why didn't you just ask him to give you them? You realized that if you aimed a little higher, things would have been much worse.
Again, that awkward silence was killing you.
But then the bell rang.
You thanked the gods and quickly shoved the markers into their boxes and helped clean up, fumbling with the posters. Fuck, just fucking great, fucking awesome, fucking peachy keen.
You hurried out of the room, not even waiting for Jean. You already knew he was behind you anyway. You quickly made it to your next class, knowing that for two periods you wouldn't see him.
—
When it was homeroom again, you dragged yourself into the empty classroom, having accidentally ran too quickly through the halls and arrived early. You ignored Mr. Zacharius's loud sniffs. You had gym a few periods ago and still smelled a little if sweat, your deodorant masking most of it. Key word: most.
You fell into your seat, happy that it was a Friday and that there was no homework for the day. You brought out your notebook and doodled on a random page, ignoring the rest of your classmates filing into the room rather noisily, laughing or talking loudly. Jean sat at his seat beside you with a sigh. You glanced at him before turning back to your doodles, though calling them doodles was most likely an understatement due to how realistic the people you were drawing on the paper were. You felt Jean's looming presence above you, watching you draw.
"Can I see your sketchbook?" he asked.
"How do you know I have a sketchbook?"
"Don't all artists have one?"
You looked at him. "Well, you got me there. You can, but I don't have it with me. It's at my house."
"Oh. Okay."
You continued drawing, enjoying the silent room. Wait- silent? You looked up and found the whole class staring at you and Jean, surprise in their faces. You had forgotten that not everyone knew about Jean and his now open mouth.
"H-he spoke?" asked Ymir.
"Thank the gods!" Connie cried, pulling back his head and raising his hands to the ceiling like he was actually thanking the gods.
"Yay, Jean!" squeaked Christa.
Someone started clapping, and soon others joined in. You thought they were being sarcastic, but when you looked more closely at their faces, you realized that they were relieved. They really thought Jean wouldn't open his mouth ever again. You grinned at Jean and he scowled at all the attention, cupping his cheek with his hand and resting his elbow on his desk.
"Yeah, yeah, whoop-dee-doo," he muttered when the clapping and cheers were settling, causing a few chuckles to go around the room.
You snorted a little too loud, catching the attention of your classmates. Oh fuck.
"Wasn't Jean just talking to her?" asked Reiner.
"I'm telling you guys, she made him like this!" Connie said.
Chatter burst among your classmates as they spoke to one another. You stared at them, surprised by their sudden transition. It reminded you of Hanji.
"Annoying as fuck," Jean muttered to himself.
You laughed lightly. "Does everything annoy you?"
"Oh don't worry; you don't annoy me."
"I'm flattered."
He snickered, hiding most of it with his hand. You spent the rest of homeroom doodling and trying to ignore Jean watching you. Maybe you really were helping him.
—
You had lost Jean in the hallway, so you decided to do something productive, so you found yourself standing outside the school's library. There were two entrances to the library actually, one from the inside of the school, the other on the outside nearby the outside lunch area. You stared at the glass doors, contemplating whether or not you should go or in or just go home. But curiosity got the better of you, so you pushed through the glass doors and into the library.
You underestimated its size. You though it was fairly big, but it was huge. The ceiling was so high, and up there you saw hundreds of hands, people's hands, that they covered with paint and pressed into the white ceiling. Each had a different design in the palm, some had hearts or animals or intricate lines and boxes that formed a figure. And these hands covered the whole ceiling, some overlapping others due to barely any room. The walls were covered in posters for movies that you recognized had been based off of books. The shelf to your left was full of comic books and manga, a shelf behind it occupying the rest of the collection. In front of those two shelves were multiple tables and chairs, which, to you, looked like you could sit at for hours. To your left was a very cluttered c shaped desk that curved in front of a long wall. You assumed it was the librarian's desk, as well as the check out and check in desk. The piles of books on the desktop were stacked so high, you thought the principal might consider purchasing a 'DANGER' sign. It looked as if those things could topple any moment. And the stacks were all along the counter, the only space not take up by books was the part in front of the computer.
You glanced at the rest of the room. In the back was a row of computers, where multiple students sat at, typing reports, researching, or either playing weird computer games. The bookshelves stood in rows like a silent yet proud army, the tops of the shelves touching the ceiling. Some shelves were shorter than others, so they were able to advertise books on the tops of them. You spotted a reading encouragement poster here and there among the shelves as you walked forward, letting your fingers brush over the dust covered books. You recognized many of them. Your mother loved to read. It was something she always did in her free time. You hated reading. It was so difficult for you. Sometimes you would read a word, but when you looked back at it, it was an entirely different word. Letters would become alien symbols in a matter of seconds after opening a book. Loud rummaging behind the librarian desk caused you to look back at it. You spotted a flash of red and there was a loud twack! behind the desk, followed by a sharp intake of breath and an, "Ouchies!"
You raised an eyebrow. Who the heck says 'ouchies' when they're in pain? You strode to the desk, curious. You peered through the empty section of books.
"Hellooo…?" you said, timid.
A face appeared behind the computer, blue eyes meeting your (e/c) orbs. Freckles covered the skin below them, littering the man's face with dots. Red hair sat in long messy clumps atop his head. His mouth curled into a smile, and he pushed up his glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose.
"Oh! Hey there!" he greeted, rubbing his head. He cocked it, inspecting your face. "I don't think I've seen you around here…you new?"
You nodded slowly. "Ah…are you okay?" you asked, glancing at the hair sticking up on his head, knowing that that was where he bumped it.
"Huh? Oh yeah, I'm fine. Um, is there anything I can help you with?"
"Oh. Um, book?"
"I would never have guessed. By the way, I'm the librarian here, Mr. Francis." He spun around in his swivel chair behind the computer, grinning cheekily to himself.
"You seem pretty young to be a teacher," you commented, watching him spin.
"Ah well. I get that a lot actually. I've been working here for a while. I'm actually only 24."
Shit, this guy is young, you thought.
"Then what're you doing working in a library? You could be working somewhere else, somewhere greater."
He huffed, looking at you strangely. Mr. Francis answered, "Well, that's because I like this job. It's comforting being surrounded by books." He pushed up his glasses indignantly.
"How is that comforting?"
He paused. "You're not fond of reading, aren't you?"
"Not much."
"Why not?"
You shrugged. "I try to read something and the words get all mixed up in my brain."
"So you see this as a reason to stop?"
"Sure."
He leaned back in his chair, swaying side to side. "Hm. Have you ever thought that if you keep reading, then maybe it'll get easier to do so?"
You paused. "No."
"Lets to find you a book then!" He smiled and stood, coming around to stand beside you. "Uh, what's your name?"
"_?"
"_? Oh. Oh," he repeated. You glanced at him, seeing that familiar look of pity that you knew all too well in his eyes.
"I've heard about you," was all he said. You understood right away.
"Everyone knows about me," you muttered.
"I know how you feel," he said, leading you throughout the vast library. His blue eyes skimmed over book titles, searching for the right one. He glanced over his shoulder to look at you and gave you a small smile.
You scowled. Yeah right, you thought.
"You don't want to be known as the girl who's in a foster home. You don't want to be remembered as the girl everyone pitied and felt bad for, not knowing how strong she could be," he went on absently, choosing a thin chapter book.
You swallowed. "C-crap. I guess you do know how I feel… What are you-physic?"
He chuckled lightly. "No. I never went through what you did. The only loss I ever experienced was when my grandmother died. When you read a lot, you don't just read about a story. You read about a person's life. And you read about them, you find the chinks in their armor before they can themselves, you know what they're thinking without them realizing it." He turned to you and handed you the book. "It's just the same with real people."
You stared up at him sheepishly, taking the book. You inspected the cover, two bare feet standing in the dirt, the coloring black and white. You read the title, 'Pictures of Hollis Woods.' You turned it over and looked at the back.
"I think you'll find that you connect with Hollis on some levels, if not all. She's a really well made character."
"Thanks for the book," you said quietly, eyes widening at the words as you read the summary with some difficulty.
He looked at you sympathetically. "I used to hate reading, too. But when I got to college, I found that it was so important for me to read. I was the slowest reader in the whole campus."
"Is that all a book can do?" you asked.
He clicked his tongue, running a hand through his shaggy red hair. "Of course not. Books make you feel better, they distract you from this world and bring you into a new one. It's a great experience."
You stared at the book in your hands. How could a book make you feel better?
"I can tell you're doubting me," said the librarian, "but once you start reading that book, you'll see."
Will you really? You couldn't even see the truck that slammed into your mother's car. You wanted to say that, but knew it wouldn't really help with anything.
"Is there anything else you need?" Mr. Francis asked.
You shook your head, but then though better of it and said, "Actually, have you seen Jean? I usually walk with him and I lost him in the halls…"
"Jean? Oh yeah. He comes in here a lot, but I remember hearing he has guitar lessons after school every Tuesday and Thursday."
Well, today was Tuesday. "Ah, thanks," you said, and turned around to leave. You pushed through the doors that lead into the school as Mr. Francis called to you, "Tell me how the book goes!"
You didn't reply and started down the hall and rounded a corner, now in the main stairwell. You stopped in your tracks and mentally smacked yourself in the forehead. You forgot to ask what room Jean was in. Dammit, you thought, annoyed. Now how were you going to find him?
Think, _. Where would guitars be? In a music room, right. So where's the music room? By the bandroom? Then where's the bandroom?!
You sighed and decided to go floor by floor, starting with the one you were on. It was tedious, but you made your way searching two floors until you reached the bottom level. Breathing quite heavily, you stepped off of the stairs and turned down the hall. You walked and quickly glanced into classrooms, occasionally looking into a faculty room and such. Giving up halfway through the floor, you pivoted on your heel and started the other way, deciding to walk home alone. That was when you heard a faint noise, a strum-almost like a piece of heaven. You whirled around and followed the noise, coming upon double doors that led into a large room. Through the window you could see chairs arranged in a semi circle, a podium in the center. All along the walls were lockers. They varied in size, from something half of your own locker to something about the size of a small bookcase. You pushed through the doors, the guitar music louder than before. Posters hung all over the walls where there was space, musical notes and charts printed on them. On top of the lockers were trophies and group photo after photo of different years and generations of students were displayed for all to see. There was only one other person in the room, who sat in a chair with your back to you, strumming away at the guitar, starting at the music in front of him.
You walked as quietly as you could to Jean, standing behind him as he played. You recognized the song when you looked down at the sheet music, reading the words printed below the notes.
'Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
And they were all yellow.'
It was Coldplay.
That was when you realized he wasn't playing anymore, instead he was staring at his music with wide eyes like he couldn't fathom what he was seeing. But ever so slowly, he stiffly turned his head to gaze up at you slowly, startled.
He made a surprised noise and asked in a strained voice, "What are you doing here?"
"I didn't know you played guitar," you said, ignoring his question. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked…"
"Whatever. You can keep playing; I won't disrupt you or anything."
He turned back to the music, grumbling as you sat down next to him. "You already disrupted me…"
You rolled your eyes and waited for him to play. He only stared at his music, brows furrowed like he was trying to concentrate. He let out a huge sigh and turned to you, leaning back in his chair and clutching his guitar. "I can't do this."
"Why not?"
"I don't like it when people are staring at me when I play. It's fucking annoying."
"Oh well I'm sorry," you said a little too harshly.
"Whatever," he growled, mouth twitching.
You frowned. What's his problem?
He raised his hand and strummed the guitar, the sound reverberating throughout the empty bandroom.
"Nice," you breathed, liking the sound of the open strings.
He glanced at you quickly before turning back to his music again, slumping. He sighed loudly, and you rolled your eyes. You stood. "If you don't want me here, then I'll go," you said.
"No, no! Don't go…"
"What? I though you didn't like it when people were around when you played."
"I don't it's just…"
"Don't want me here?"
"No, no! You see, that's the problem." He waved his hands, gesturing to all of you. "It's…you. If you're here then I can't concentrate right for some reason."
Dumbfounded, you sat down. "Okay then. What do you suppose I do, then?"
"Stay. Please." He looked away, making a face that made him look like a little kid.
"Fine."
He attempted to play again as you sat and watched him. You noticed that as time passed on, the number of restarts and errors decreased. You shifted a little closer to look at his music better, curious, when he suddenly played the wrong note loudly, his guitar pick falling into the instrument.
"Fuck!" he cursed, laying the guitar down on its back to peer into the sound hole.
"Oopsies," you said, worried. "How are you going to get that out?"
He but his lip. "Give me that pencil over there."
You took the pencil from the podium and gave it to him. He slid the pencil in between the strings into the sound hole, the tip digging into the pick. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he repositioned the guitar so it was on its side, the pencil still keeping the guitar pick in place. Quickly, he let the guitar fall onto his lap, strings first, letting go of the pencil. He produced the pick from underneath the guitar, grinning wickedly.
"Smart," you commented.
"It happens a lot," he said.
He played again, strumming the intro. You looked at the notes for it: A, Asus, D, D2, A, and Asus again. You moved closer to Jean absently. He suddenly strummed the wrong strings and shifted his hand down the finger board, causing a high and low sound to resonate through the room. You cringed.
"Jesus, Jean," you said.
"S-shut up," he growled, positioning his fingers on the frets. He tried to play the intro again, but failed when he played the wrong note.
He groaned and lay his guitar on its side beside him. "I need a break."
"Come on, Jean!" you coaxed. "You can do it! Just concentrate!"
"Concentrate my ass," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
You pouted and took his head in your hands, making him look at you. "Concentrate!" you said, louder and more firm this time. His wide eyes stared at you, startled, and his cheeks turned pink. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked away, grumbling, "Okay, okay. Now can you let go of my face?"
You did, allowing him to lean back. His cheeks were still pink, and he raised the hood of his hoodie a little higher over his neck, almost like he was creating a barrier between the two of you.
He picked up the guitar and took a deep breath. His fingers moved to their places on the frets for the first note. He strummed, going on with the intro. You rocked in your chair to the tempo. Your eyes left his sheet music to look at his face, finding it relaxing as he played. You hummed the lyrics, hoping it would help him with playing. He played a wrong note, but continued like nothing happened.
You opened your mouth and sang, "And your ski-in, oh yeah your skin and bones. Turn in-into something beautiful."
God, you sounded horrible. You grinned and swayed from side to side, still singing. "And you kno-ow, you know I love you so."
You paused in your singing to let him play before opening your mouth again to say:
"You know I love you so."
He smiled, playing louder and with more confidence. You laughed a little. Even if you were a horrible singer, you thought that this was fun. You always enjoyed your time with Jean. But something was different about today. There was definitely something in the air. Was it the music? Somewhere deep inside you you already knew the answer, but it was still waiting to come out.
It'll come.
You and Jean stayed in the bandroom until it was almost five. The whole time you were laughing and watching him play, occasionally singing along. He even taught you a few chords. Now walking on the sidewalk in the cool April air, you hummed and kicked your feet a little, adding a bounce to your walk. Jean gripped his bookbag straps, watching your feet match his pace rather lazily.
"When can I see your sketchbook?" he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid of asking.
You eyed him. "I could show you when I get home if you want. You could stay for dinner…" you suggested. What were doing? As if he'd want to stay for dinner! And come to your house? Wow, you were actually inviting him this time. You smacked yourself in the forehead mentally.
"Sure, we could stop by your house. But I won't be able to stay for dinner though," he said with a hint of sadness.
"Why not?" You edged closer to the curb with Jean to let a woman and her stroller walk past. The baby waved his toy in the air.
"I have some parents to talk to," he answered with a sigh.
"Oh. Okay." You gave him a smile.
He stared at you and then looked away, playing with his watch straps. Why was he being like that so much?
"What's gotten you into my sketchbook all of a sudden?" you asked him.
"I like you're drawings."
"They're fine…"
"They're beautiful."
You scratched at you cheek, feeling your face heat up. Compliments always had this affect on you.
"Bu…ehh..," you stammered, not knowing what to say.
"You need more confidence in yourself," he said, smirking at your reaction. "Believe in yourself more, you know?"
"Sure. But that's some pretty cheesy advice."
"Sometimes cheesy is the only way to go, _," he replied.
"So cheesy is good then?"
"Uh-huh."
You felt the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile. Soon you came upon your street. You took the lead and picked up your pace. You stepped over the cluttered lawn and flicked the pink lawn flamingo, causing it to sway, and up the porch stairs. You heard Jean noisily try to make his way through without breaking anything, but it wasn't going well.
You produced your keys from your bookbag and unlocked the door, stepping inside with a sigh of relief.
"Finally inside," you breathed, dropping your pack on the floor by the stairs.
"I never get tired of walking in here," Jean commented, closing the door.
"Why is that?"
"Because of all these carvings," he answered, picking up the sculpture of the boy and the dog, examining it.
"Hanji's great, huh?"
"Yup."
You went into the kitchen and opened the freezer. You took out a Popsicle and looked back into the living room to find Jean still looking at the carving of the boy. "Oi, Jean," you called. "Want a Popsicle?"
"Yeah, sure," he answered, not looking up.
You took another one for him and ripped the paper off of yours and took a big bite from it. You handed him his own Popsicle and gestured to the stairs with a flourish.
"My sketchbook awaits you," you said, making him snort unholyly.
The two of you went up the long flights of stairs to your room, breathing heavily. You closed your bedroom door behind you as Jean gazed around the room.
"You have a bigger room than mine," he commented, biting his Popsicle in half. Your teeth chattered when you hit into yours. Sensitive teeth sucked.
"This is my domain," you replied, gesturing to the whole room.
"Uh-huh," he said, unimpressed.
Rolling your eyes, you strode to your drawing desk and opened the drawers, searching for your sketchbook, biting the popsicle. You moved the color pencils away and found it: the brown covering and black metal spiraling around the holes to keep it in place. But this was one of your newer sketchbooks that you hadn't even filled with any drawings yet. That was when you realized the only one with drawings in it was the one from the accident. You paused, contemplating whether or not you should give it to him to see. You took another bite from your frosty goodness on a stick before moving the brown sketchbook aside and looked at the one from the accident. The yellowing cover was ripping by the edges. You didn't even know why you kept it; there was a bloodstain on the back of it. It would always remind you of the day your life changed.
"You okay?" Jean asked, noticing you bent over the opened drawer stiffly. He came up beside you, worry etched into his features. You noticed that in his hand was a Popsicle stick. Already?
You cleared your throat. "I'm fine," you said a little too harshly. You handed him the old sketchbook and closed the drawer.
He stared at you, confused. "You don't seem alright."
"I'm fine," you said, trying to add as much sincerity as you could to your tone.
"Nope. You're not."
"And what makes you say that?"
"Because that's how I am," he answered, "pretending everything is fine when it isn't." He looked down at your sketchbook. "Does it have something to do with this?"
You didn't answer and only watched as he turned it over to look at the back, his eyes widening at the bloodstain. Suddenly the emotions you forced down were jumping into your throat, threatening to hold a Boston tea party and dump its contents all over the place. You leaned on the drawing desk, staring at your feet.
"_…I didn't know," he gulped.
"You know, my dad told me to throw that thing away when I was still living with him. He tried taking it from me once, but I managed to get it away from him." You laughed sadly and cast aside your Popsicle stick. "And to think I don't want to be reminded of that day. I still kept it. Ironic."
He could only stare at you, not knowing what to say. You waved your hand, gesturing at the sketchbook. "Go ahead; open it."
Jean did so slowly, eyebrows knitted in worry. The first few drawings were only sketches and ideas that would never be finished. A boy riding a bicycle, but his legs were missing, as well as most of the bike; a woman and her child during the holocaust, waiting for the train to arrive and take the boy away because of kindertransport; your mother, lifting your baby sister in the air, laughing and the corners of her eyes crinkling like they always did when her mouth was upturned in a smile; a light sketch of a leaf; an orange; and then the portrait of your baby sister.
Jean stared at the drawing, eyes wide and taking in every detail. Your eyes welled up with tears, and then all of those emotions were on the verge of bursting. Why was it that every time you were alone with him, you were reduced to tears? You felt so vulnerable. You didn't want to feel like this anymore. You didn't want to feel anything anymore. You wanted it to be numb.
He glanced up at you and his gaze softened when he saw your reddening eyes. "_…," he trailed off, closing the sketchbook. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-"
"No." You took a shaky breath and smiled reassuringly at him. "There are just somethings you always have to say, right? I-I think this is one of those times."
"What do you mean?"
"The accident, Jean," you answered, taking a seat at your drawing table. You turned the chair so you faced him. Jean sat on the carpet in front of you, the sketchbook still in his hands.
"That last drawing is of my little sister," you began. "We were in the car, driving to the store. It was you going to be her birthday soon, so we were going to get streamers and paper cups and that shitty shit. She really liked the color purple. And Minnie Mouse. I always take my sketchbook with me, so I could draw, you know? So I drew her because I was bored and because she was beside me in her booster seat, and she was pretending to be an elephant, using her arm as a trunk." You smiled at the memory, the sweet and innocent memory. "My dad called at that moment, and my mom went to answer it. She took her eyes off of the road for two seconds, Jean. Two.
"But even if it was two seconds, it was enough for the truck to slam into the side of the car, the side my sister's booster seat was on. You know how people say that in a snap, their lives have changed? I think I get what they're saying. And I was drawing. When the truck hit us, it moved my hand and made that ugly mark on the sketch. I hate that mark. Why haven't I erased it?
"And you know why I can't stand oranges? Because it was an orange truck, Jean. The fucking smell of oranges was everywhere that day, it was the only thing I smelled when I came to. And the blood. Oh god, the blood. The paramedics say that if it wasn't for the way the truck driver had swerved, we could have been crushed, and we all would have died. One of them told me I was lucky. Lucky? What's so lucky about loosing your mom and baby sister? She had a future, Jean. And just thinking about that…it makes me so fucking angry. And I don't know who to blame! The truck killed them, but then again, my father called us when he knew we were driving, but why did my mom answer?"
You realized tears were streaming down your cheeks. You sniffed and wiped your eyes. Jean stared at you, eyes emotionless.
"I don't even know what to feel anymore," you said. "I don't know anymore. And sometimes, the only thing I can register from the damn sea of emotions is anger."
"Do you sometimes wish everything was numb?" he asked.
You nodded. "I don't want to feel anything anymore. It's too damn much."
"But…wouldn't that mean it would take away the good emotions, too? What about joy?"
You blinked. You never thought of it that way.
"And what about love?" he asked, staring at his hands. "Does that mean we loose that feeling, too?"
You stayed silent.
"I don't want to loose it," he said quietly, barely above a whisper. "But I feel like I already am…"
You knew what he meant. There was nobody who would love you the way the person you lost did. Ever. There was a giant hole in your hearts, and it grew as that love was no longer given. And soon you really would feel nothing. Nothing but pain. All you wanted was for someone to fill that hole. But being here with Jean made it seem like it was being filled. Jean…your best friend…was filling your heart? Were you doing the same for him?
"Thank you," Jean said, interrupting your thoughts.
You looked up at him. His eyes were downcast.
"For what?" you asked.
"For making me feel like I'm not dying," he said, and he looked up to you and you realized his eyes were welled up with tears.
"It's hard for the both of us, I know. Especially when no one knows how it is. But you know what? I don't care."
You stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Why? Because I have you." He was practically growling. "And you have me. So I things are going to be just fine."
"Jean…"
"I know its cheesy, but sometimes you just have to roll with it." Jean grinned up at you, and you watched a tear roll down his cheek slowly. "I mean, cheesy is good right?"
You sniffed, and wiped at your eyes, nodding. You left your chair and found yourself welcomed into his warm embrace. This time, it wasn't you with the crumbled walls. It was the two of you now, holding onto each other, comforting each other without even knowing it, filling the hole in your hearts. You didn't care…he didn't care. Screw those damn walls.
You were home.
I cried three times writing this.. Sorry for the terribly long wait. This is a very long chapter! Over 9,300 words!? Phew!
I don't own snk nor its characters.