Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jean wasn't used to his house being quiet. 

The halls always echoed of sounds that stuck to the walls, to the perfectly carpeted floors, to the panes of the many windows that decorated the structure. It was either his own merriment - his band of clowns, as his mother had termed it, that were the sole cause of the noise, or it was the peaceful silence that rarely came with their company - the type of silence that felt enjoyable, a quiet that came as a repercussion of being alive.

No, Jean wasn't used to his house being quiet. Which is why it sent shivers down his spine when it finally did. 
On the incredibly rare occasions of when his father - Viscount Kirstein, he would demand to be called - acknowledged his own home with his cold presence, the halls remained silent. Every footstep caused a heavy thud. The crumpling of paper sounded like thunder splitting up the ceilings. The house felt like a skeleton without life, a corpse bled dry, despite having living organisms feeding it. 

Jean knew he’d never get used to that suffocating silence. But what Jean didn't know, however, was just how silent it would be after his father passed. Moving from the countryside to his father’s estate in the gentle bustle of the town, with the halls that he had called his own left behind, the bones of this new house felt hollow. Empty. Devoid of the affection that tainted the bricks of his previous one. Despite the same people living inside its walls, there was the same impending silence that Jean couldn't quite shake, leeching into his organs, threatening his tendons.

It was the same silence that choked him now. His collar seemed to be too tight around his neck, the cuffs of his sleeves felt mismatched, riding up his arms waiting to be pulled down again.
He did what he was asked to do. Exchanging his smiles with the all-too-important crowd that blurred into faceless figures draped in the season’s fineries, humming in agreement about the taste of the wine despite not having had a taste himself, nodding to unimportant tales of a family that was on the cusp of being ruined. The glittery glow of the candles did nothing to ease him, burning under his lids as he blinked.

Marco’s eyes on his despondence barely went noticed by everyone but Jean. His mother seemed to be mingling well, having left his side the moment she entered in favour of some ladies he barely remembered the names of. His best friend cleared his throat from Jean's side, leaning towards his ear to whisper, “are you doing alright?”

Dark brown eyes cloaked in concern, and the silence in Jean's ears lessened, though its weight remained. He nodded once, letting himself hear the melodies of the orchestra echo throughout the wide room, battling the sound of the crowd itself.
“I just need some air.” he said, adjusting his collar for the nth time that night.

“We just have to greet the host,” Marco confirmed, his eyes roaming the room, threading through the faces until he found the one he was looking for. With a warm smile gracing his lips, Marco nodded to the person of interest. Sometimes Jean wondered why Marco couldn't have been born in his place. He seemed more suited for the roles that trapped himself - Marco was more of a leader than Jean ever could be, despite his extensive and forceful training, why Marco couldn't be the one born as a Kirstein, why fate decided on the least likely fit to be the one to bear the unfortunate title rather than his Advisor.

Jean’s eyes followed his. The crowd seemed to part in interest of the host, some bowing their heads in a respect that Jean wasn't entirely sure was earned.

Lord Ackerman's posture was pin straight. Well taught, well learnt, well performed. His hair is trimmed, beard clipped close to his cheeks, enough to show his age but hide his wrinkles, vain in a way that was only expected from men. Beside him was who Jean knew to be Levi Ackerman. His performance was less of the act that Lord Ackerman portrayed, hands behind his back with a bored expression, eyes remaining sharp, studying Jean under the too-bright lights.

Jean bowed just as the crowd did. “Lord Ackerman. Thank you for hosting this evening,” he says. Practised, precise, jaw clenched. Making sure his smile - polite and small and barely-there - remains intact through it all, he feels like he’s wearing a mask of himself. Forced upon his face, strategically placed just as the colour he was wearing tonight.

He feels eyes on him. Observant and knowing, making his own eyes glance towards the room to find them, impatient.

Ah .

You look beautiful. He knew as much - you’re beautiful even under a large coat, hiding your entire figure in darkness, even under the deep shadows of the night with nothing but the dim glow of the moon shining the sides of your face. You stand now, however, dressed in the same shade of blue as the night that he had met you in, your face shining under the thousands of twinkling candles, highlighting the pupils of your eyes and the softness of your cheeks, your eyelashes casting a soft shadow on the apples of them.
For a moment, he’s in awe. For a moment, a slight mishap, his mask falls. But it’s back on his face again as Lady Ackerman, whose voice is shrill against the band that plays its peaceful tunes furiously, tells him that she’d introduce him to Mikasa.

Jean glances at her, nodding in agreement, smile remaining on his face. If Marco notices anything, he makes sure it remains unknown. Lady Ackerman makes quick work, dragging a rather pretty young lady towards him, with your hand looped into hers. For another moment, brief and soft, Jean swears the silence in his mind ceases completely, just as it does on the nights his sleep is a far fetched thought, just as it does when the sound of your scribbles carve themselves into the soft flesh of his brain. 

But the moment passes, and Marco answers the question that was not directed towards him. “yes, only recently. About two months I’d say? Right, Jean?” he says, his eyes scanning the side of Jean's face. 

He nods and states something in vague agreement. Lady Ackerman has her arms proudly around her daughter. Her dark hair is pinned neatly behind her head, only a few strands escaping its forced placement, her gown matching his suit - perfectly tailored, gold ornamenting it with gaudy simplicity - deep red. An indirect contrast to the dress you were wearing, and Jean couldn't help but observe; as artists living under a precarious guise usually do, that you were the only one dressed in blue within this family, a silent but obvious outcast. 
You - his artist - did not belong with them.

With his mask falling back into its rightful and grand place, he acknowledges Lady Ackerman introducing Mikasa, who bows just as practiced. Jean does the same, capturing her gloved hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles, his other arm pinned behind his back. By the time his spine straightens, you're nowhere to be seen.

“We are glad to have you here,” Lord Ackerman's voice rings out, deep and commanding attention. 
Jean shakes his head, his smile remaining cemented. “It is my pleasure,” he says. The silence rushes into his ears again, deep and condensed, settling against his eardrums like thick cotton, reminding him what he’s here for. 

He sets his eyes back on Mikasa again, lacking much of the warmth that would usually be seen towards his closest comrades, towards his artist, clearing his throat. He makes sure his smile is charming and inviting before uttering the statement that he’s sure locks the cage he’s trapped in even further, the bars tightly closed with no chance of escape. “Would you like to join me for a dance, My Lady?” he asks her, unrecognizable to himself. 

With a glance towards her mother - who only nods with a well-concealed threat - she casts her thundering eyes towards Jean, nodding with not much choice.
He smiles with faux satisfaction, offering her his arm to take, leading her to the dancefloor that waits for them, his shoes making no noise.

“You’ve learnt this dance well, Lady Mikasa Ackerman," Jean comments, his feet stepping to the sound of the orchestra, the strings playing out a familiar tune. 

Mikasa is shy. This is what he prefers to deduce - not that she, much like him, is being forced into a life that hadn't felt like hers to begin with - because being under a facade is preferred over becoming the corpse of their living bodies. She maintains her distance, keeps eye contact as she answers, "I've been taught from a young age. Same as you, I presume?” she asks with not much room for him to answer.
Jean tries to enjoy himself. If this were him more than a year ago, he would’ve been sure to join the festivities with his friends by his side through his forceful and tempting persuasion. Not that he had to persuade Connie Springer to join a party - the mention of merriment would spark a glint in the man’s eyes. Sasha Braus didn't need any other reason to join a plan other than the prospect of glorious food. Marco would have joined him regardless, much as he is now, but rather than staying silent at his side, Jean would often find him charming people (mostly ladies) with an easygoing smile and strategic conversations. 

But so much wasn't right. Springer wasn't here, weaving himself through the crowd with music in his steps. Braus wasn't there to flock around the tables of pastries, and Marco remained glued to the wall, knowing his place in this town. 
His comfort was nowhere to be found. He was sure he dreamed up his artist in a shade of indigo that only accentuated your eyes, as you had slipped away like a ghost, away from his presence. 
He was nowhere to be found. He doesn't recognize what he’s saying, and he doesn't know who this performance of himself has become.

But he continues. Presses on - he knows if he is to be wedded to Mikasa, he would not let her remain a stranger sharing his walls. 
“What do you interest yourself in?” he asks. He feels like a little boy again, a dusting of pink scattering across his cheeks as he wants to shrink in embarrassment of the obvious prodding. 
Surprisingly, Mikasa's lips twitch. For a fraction of a second, as if she finds either him, or the situation, amusing. Entertaining. Jean wants to breathe a sigh of relief. 

He does not need this to be pleasant. No, pleasant and comfortable are reserved for someone else. He needs this to be tolerable .

Yes. That is what he settles for. 
“I… suppose reading does.” she says curtly. After a beat, she asks, “and you?”
There is an air of obviousness. A bare open conversation flows between them, and under the guise of small, well worded questions lie a larger confession. They do not wish for this, but this is what they’ve gotten dealt with. They did not wish for this, but they can make it less hellish for each other by being tolerable .

Jean answers. Tells her, making sure to keep up with the rhythm, that he enjoys playing parlor games that he’s grown familiar with.
He asks her what she prefers to read. She tells him she’s interested in History and Geography - books that Jean would not personally reach for. She asks him what his favorite parlor game is in return, and the dance continues much like the game that Jean prefers - his turn, and then hers, and then his again. 

Tolerable. That is what they settle for; an unsaid understanding.

Marco’s promised breath of fresh air arrives just after the two finish their dance, Mikasa excusing herself, leaving Jean to find Marco. 
His best friend stands outside the main venue, near the doors of the hall overlooking the garden. At night, its beauty is less noticeable, flowers lost under darkness, grass only partially shining under the soft glow of the heavens. But they make themselves present by providing a home for the cicadas that chirp their own symphonies of the night, away from the stringed quartet that plays out inside with the clinks of glasses and tinkling of jewelry. 

“How did you fare?” Marco asks, a cheeky smile replacing his polite mask as Jean finds himself beside him.
Shaking his head, he breathes out an incredulous laugh. “I’ll be sure to ask her grading of me, if that is what you're asking.” he says, unsure of how to feel with the proclamation he had been dealt with, the sudden air he’d been given after being suffocated by this godforsaken collar -
“You just need to feel comfortable around her.” Marco says as a light, helpless suggestion.

Jean sighs. Nods because he understands, but his mouth tumbles a “It might take a while.” 

There's a brief silence. Jean tries to pay no attention to the way Marco is looking at him; placating, concerned, understanding despite not being in his shoes, and instead decides to immaturely kick around the dirt near his perfectly polished shoes, the leather almost reflecting his own face through its weathered wrinkles. The cicadas chirp in the cool summer night, restless, and Jean’s slight shuffle seems to harmonize with their symphonies. If the night was perfectly silent, he would hear the rustling in the bushes that could be mistaken for some simple wind playing with the leaves, but Jean pays it no mind, all too consumed with the silence within and around him.

“I’m not looking for a….grand love match,” Jean says. Declares, really, because he’s already made up his mind about this topic only a couple nights ago, when he’d found out about it. His father’s will and his perfect handwriting - poised and taut - and Jean's own undoing loyalty brought him to send a letter to Lord Ackerman. It only so happened that the Ackermans were in a dire enough position to find their funds dwindling, needing help from the Viscount. 
Really, Jean had no choice but to obey. He’d been taught how to since his childhood, given to him as a far-off scenario with a hopeful future. No, Jean had no choice because his father had conspired with Lord Ackerman, waging off the children's future for an - although sizable - tangible fee.

“Im not.” he says, convincing himself with finalty. “Love is the last thing I desire. The point of any of this is simply to tolerate each other long enough for us to be recognized by the king and queen. And if the Ackerman's prized possession can bring this as such, then so be it. I will find it in myself to tolerate her.” he says. His words are forced, clipped to their letters, allowing no room in his mind to argue.

There’s another pause. Jean prepared for a reprimand from his friend, but it came in the form of, “You know i can tell when you’re ly-” cut off by a noticable CLANK .

In the bushes. Jean should've known. Really, he should've known this silence was being heard by someone other than himself.

“Who’s there?” he asks loudly, stepping forward to a direction he’s unsure of. Before any answer, he finds his feet leading him towards a suspiciously tall bush that would be beautiful in the sunlight, but bathed with shadows seems like a thief. Like a mask.
There's another rustle, to which he replies, “you’re not being slick, i can hear you-” 

Ah .

Its you .

The brilliant, deep blue of your gown almost blends in with the night, almost enough to make you invisible with the lack of any jewels to show your being, your hands curled up at your sides. Your hair shines under the moonlight as if the night only basks its spotlight for you , following you everywhere you go. Or at least, that’s how Jean sees it. It's you , his artist, under the glorious moonlight, just as when he first found you, just as he kept finding you, stealing his nights with witty comments under your breath and whispered laughs.

“It's you,” he breathes out, eyes scanning every bit of you, memorizing it like he’s studying his painting subject.
But you're looking at him with…. mild disgust?

Marco finds his footing next to Jean as he always seems to. Jean pays him no mind, even as he introduces himself to you with his usual charming smile, lips stretching as if he was the one who was acquainted with you before this meeting.
“Fine evening, isn't it? Marco Bodt, the Viscount’s Advisor,” he says, his arm stretching out to take your knuckles into a polite kiss as greeting.

You eye his hand. For a moment, nothing happens. But when you do start, when your hand does stretch towards his - Jean's blood almost boils - it shakes Marco's hand.

Confusion blooms across his friend’s features, exchanging the same glance with Jean. Your gloved hand returns to your side again, and you're back to how you’d been discovered; angry. At Jean, it seems, and he only smiles a little in a way that seems natural with the conversation he’s used to having with you.
“Pleasant evening, is it not?” he asks, repeating his friend’s greeting, trying not to seem too giddy in seeing you without your guise.
“It was . I… hear you’re planning to wed Lady Mikasa,” you speak, voice cold. 
Jean steps back, if only slightly, in surprise. 
“I…am.” he says. He’s unsure of his place - he’s familiar with you. Arguably more than he would be with most other people in this town. Yet you act like you’ve never met him. Or worse, that you’ve been burnt by him before he was even aware of the spark.

Oh, he knows this silence. He realizes this after you’d called Mikasa by her first name without her last. He realises it with ice spreading in his veins. The silence is louder now, more noticeable, the cicadas seemed to have stopped chirping, the world stopping completely to hold its breath. Not in anticipation, but in dread.

Yes. He knows this silence. It sits in his bed, waiting for him to crawl into it, to give into the truth that lies within it all. Silence that tells him that his choice has already been made. Silence that tells him he’s nothing but a pawn in hands that have never held him. Silence that has pushed him to the brink of insomnia, chasing the streets for something that would help his ears - chasing the streets until he found you. 
And it comes rushing to him, pushing him further back on his heels. His feet are still planted on the plush, firm ground, his face still as stone, gauging you.

Marco steps in before you speak your mind as Jean knows you will. You’ve always been honest, something he admires in a town full of whispers that are half lies and half stories, but he knows what a double edged sword this honesty can be. He's seen it in the mirror himself.
“Perhaps I can take you inside, miss? Get you a glass of the champagne, I hear it’s wonderful-”
“And love is not what you desire?” you ask, attention solely on Jean’s eyes. 

He doesn't flinch. Not this time. The silence consumes him in the inches that he’s apart from you, and your voice travels to him in a vacuum. He doesn't speak. He knows you’ve made up your mind.
“How do you plan on marrying her without love, Viscount?” you say, his name remaining so painfully obvious but so obviously hidden, a calculated move. Your voice refusing to say his name despite it being given to you previously, the same voice that told him just the other week about his sketch being lively. About his sketch making you feel , and how you had confessed, in a voice smaller than it has increased into now, that it made his scene seem alive. That his hands lack famed magic but have experience and stories that somehow can't be kept hidden even when he tries to. The voice that told him something about himself that even he hadn't known; the voice that finally, finally broke through his silence without a shout or a scream but rather a softer whisper.

“I will do as I see fit.” he says, mouth forming a hard line.
You nod once. “I see.” another pause. Marco doesn't intervene - he doesn't dare to - and you speak again, “you have this all planned out, I assume.” 
“Yes.”
“I see.” you repeat. He can see you making your mind up. “Have a good night, Viscount. And you, Mr. Bodt.” you say, taking your final bow.

Jean watches your silhouette as it heads back into the venue with its lights seeming even more menacing than before, almost swallowing you whole.

His chest aches. He breathes, once - in, and out - adjusts his collar, and the cicadas continue to chirp as if he hadn't been talking to his revered artist in what he assumed was without secrecy. But the secrecy upheld still, too loud to ignore, too large to move past. You weren't yourself.
Silence swallowed him whole, settling into his lungs like thick tar. 
Marco looked at him, questions swimming in his eyes. Jean only spared him a glance before turning around into the venue himself, leaving his friend bewildered and even more concerned than he previously was.

Your legs ached when you finally made it to your little attic-turned-room. The worn gown you had been given by Lady Ackerman was removed promptly after the ball, not allowing any more contact with you even by you a second after its promise was over - a fact you were glad for; it was far too uncomfortable to move around in. 
Your body collapsed into bed without protest. 

Mikasa had asked about your absence, and questioned you about your sour mood afterwards, but you had deflected it with the same exhaustion that clung to your bones now. While undressing her, you'd asked her about how her dance with the Viscount went, and she had replied with a curt nod and a, “it was fun.” 
You know she hadn't meant it. She knew she hadn't meant it. It was a truth that was meant to sit in silence until it would rot.

You didn't question it. You didn't prod - half for your sanity and half for hers. 

The Viscount was to wed your best friend. The Viscount was your muse. The Viscount was to marry your employer. The employer was your best friend. The Viscount, your muse, was to marry your employer, your best friend.

Too many titles. Too many relations. You wished - for once - that you would've kept your conversations to yourself. That you wouldn't have opened your heart for either of them. Maybe it would've saved you from the trouble of caring for them so deeply. 
The Viscount - Kirstein, Jean, your muse, all the same person - had been clear about one thing. He was not to marry Mikasa with the intention to love her.

You scoffed. Absurd . Why was he in this, then? Mikasa was a perfectly capable young lady with interests and a mind of her own, guarded and beautiful. How could the Viscount not even allow a potential to fall in love with her?

How could the Viscount be so cruel to not give your best friend the love that you dreamed of for her? 

Out of everyone, it had to be her . It had to be her to have someone that loved her. Out of everyone - and you knew this to be true because she was your best friend - she had to be loved. She had to be. And the Viscount couldn't provide her with that. He never intended to. What kind of a friend would you be if you just sat back and allowed it to happen?

The house made no sound, the grandfather clock that was sitting in Lord Ackerman's study was the only proof of these walls ever being a home to you. The walls were hollow and unwelcoming, and despite the merriment and mingling having just taken place downstairs, it seemed haunted. Emptied out, unlived in, too pristine. 
Using your elbows for support, you pushed your body upwards, observing your unkempt room with tired eyes. 
You could run. You could pack up your scarce belongings and run again. You need not leave a note this time; not many things here will remember you. You won't leave proof. It would be as though you never existed. You'd be far away from here, from your best friend, from your artist.

You could learn to live without the latter. But Mikasa had ingrained herself into your life with a force that left you wheezing and catching your breath. Holding your hand to lead you out of that basement, even as yours stubbornly shook with refusal. Her hands were too perfect, too soft - and when they held yours, it felt like a blessing disguised as punishment. Your palms were cut up, rough, calloused. Too worn for someone as young as you were. But she didn't mind. She held your hand, and in doing so, grabbed your heart along with it, and you were afraid she still hadn't let go.

Or maybe - and this was the worst of it all - your heart, being as stubborn as the rest of you, hadn't left her .

The Viscount had to love her. He had to feel the same softness that she had lent you, the same warmth that lies in her breath as she succumbs to a sleep that she had told you wouldn't come. He had to feel the same breath in his lungs that you had felt after she hadn't let go.
The Viscount had to love her. If not him, then you’d only leave after making sure that someone did. You'd be damned if you ran away without accomplishing it.

The canvas in the corner of your room sat patiently. Your eyes swept over it, lost in thought, and you noticed the half-painted ginger cat that you spotted only a few nights ago with your muse - the Viscount. Not your muse. Not Jean, not Kirstein. The Viscount. 
Despite your obvious fatigue, you made your way over to it, studying it with eyes that were now detached from the stranger (because that’s all he was - Hitch was right) that had unknowingly claimed this piece for himself before even knowing its existence. 

The candle burnt low when you were finished with it, the sun peeking out of its cave. 

And just as it was born - spontaneous, unplanned, ugly - it was kicked under the bed, fossilizing its unknown fate.