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There was a part of you that had always loathed silence. You couldn’t leave anywhere without your headphones, and you refused to do utterly anything without music. Yes, that had meant you would constantly wear them when instructed otherwise, and with that followed warnings and codes from countless numbers of teachers from high school. At least it made for comical stories that you could share with your friends late at night years later, all laughing at the severity of your punishments despite being a grade a student who proved that being music obsessed didn’t change a single thing. Connie had described your love of music as comparable to Sasha’s love for food; there wasn’t a single moment where her mouth wasn’t full, and you didn’t have an ear in listening to something.
“Marco asked if we’re free to hang out tomorrow,” Jean mumbles, his face glowing against the light of his phone. He throws it onto his bed after a moment, already knowing your answer despite showing no sign of response.
More than anything you could not stand the awkward kind of silence. You simply detested conversations which fell into quietude. You spoke to fill those gaps, to not allow any moment of rumination. With silence came thought. You weren’t afraid of many things, and gaps of noise weren’t necessarily one of them, but the thoughts that ensued in such moments were ever consuming and utterly terrifying. That was the real terror that kept you up in the quiet that was known as night.
Your own thoughts were one thing, they leered from their refuge which was the back of your mind. There wasn’t a single moment in which they did not critique you, analyse your every move.
Yet, the thoughts of others were further discomforting. Perhaps the gaps in conversation would come after you said something foolish, or after having done something particularly embarrassing. Regardless, they were moments of time which allowed bad thoughts of you to linger, leaving people to ruminate on, well, you. Which is why you simply refused any of it to exist, even if it meant dragging on a finished conversation or saying something pointless, maybe even revealing a secret.
“Is that a no I’m hearing?”
“Maybe.”
“Can’t be bothered?” he teasingly nudges.
“A little bit yeah… and I don’t want to leave that assignment until the night before like I did last time.” It’s a pathetic excuse and he knows it. Which is why he takes a moment to respond. “As if you’re going to do it then anyways.” Over time you have come to learn that quiet means reflection, even if it is with someone as witty and quick thinking as Jean.
“I appreciate the motivation.”
You presume that he is grinning at you for you cannot quite see in the dark which is his room. The most the light of night lets you see is his eyes which are trained on your face and seem to be indicative of a smile on his. “Of course, that’s what… friends are for.”
The hesitance in his words fly past as you sit together. In tranquillity.
Somehow, it’s never as terrifying when it’s with him. It is nowhere near as foreboding as the harshness of silence. It’s softer, far gentler.
He shifts after a moment, reminding you that you have both chosen to sit on the floor.
“You think too much.”
“I what?”
“Don’t overthink that.”
“I think too much?”
“What did I just—yes.”
You look away sheepishly, but your visage is all that reflects from his eyes. You’ve never quite understood it. How something you hate so greatly becomes something you seek comfort in with him. Well, it is Jean after all, there’s never been a moment where you have felt terrible around him. Sasha says it’s because he likes you, but you know she only says such things to cheer you up.
“Hey,” he whispers your name, leaving your eyes to meet his. Perhaps a little too quickly, as he clears his throat and shifts in what you presume is anxiousness. Yet rather than his words are you met with his touch, his fingers grazing against yours. An accident you presume, despite the touch still lingering.
“What’s bothering you?” He sounded like his mother, a thought which made you grin.
“Nothing.” You weren’t necessarily lying; it was the lack of something which frustrated you instead.
“Please don’t lie to me. There’s always a certain glint to your eyes whenever you’re busy upstairs.”
“Busy upstairs? Is that the most creative metaphor you could have possibly thought of?”
“Ah-Ah-Ah don’t change the topic. You didn’t deny it either.”
“How am I supposed to know what my eyes look like when—”
Peering down, you see—no—you feel his hand hold yours. You seek solace in the night which hides the rouge that colours your face. He’s never been like this, and you do not want to assume what it means, but it takes you by surprise regardless.
“Jean…”
You do not know how to combat the silence; you cannot think of a single thing to say at all. Instead, you choke out his name and look up at him, hoping that it shall do suffice even if he does not respond. Only now does silence held with Jean feel as although it is killing you. Words are not passed, and you swear neither is a single breath as his eyes meet yours. Even the beams of moonlight that slip past his curtains do not fail to capture the glimmering hue of his eyes. Honeyed in warmth, his gaze is all of the reassurance you need, and he knows it too, even if you do not speak of anything outwardly.
“How often do you wonder of what others may think of you?” you utter, evading all apprehension as you glance back at the light.
He hesitates again for a moment, allowing you to revel in the stupidity of your inquiry before a giggle slips out. “Me? What kind of question is that? Of course I do. There isn’t a single second where I don’t wonder what people think of me.” You turn to look at him bewildered, after all how could Jean of all people care about what others think of him. “Y-You?” you choke out.
“Who doesn’t? Even Eren does if that makes you feel any better.”
“I think that would make you feel better.” He glares at you whilst you stifle a chuckle.
“Okay well, let’s look at it this way then. Do you think poorly about others?”
“No, why the hell would I—"
“Then why do you assume that others think like that about you?”
“Because I’m—no—it’s different.”
“Is it really? You’re no different to the rest of us. Well, no that came out wrong you’re different—no—special in your own way. Not the bad way of course but… look what was I saying?”
You cannot tell if it is your hand getting warmer or his, perhaps an embarrassing mix of both. Regardless, you refuse to continue holding his stare, heat creeping up your neck.
The silence lasts longer this time. Yet, now with every second does it become more unbearable than the last. The air is different now, oddly delicate but you haven’t a clue as to why. In moments like these you tend to wonder what the other is thinking yet now you cannot think at all. Sure, you wonder greatly what Jean had meant by ‘special’ but anything more than that was a complete disaster.
“You know you worry me sometimes. Well, sometimes feels like an understatement but…” he exasperates. “I—how do I say this without sounding odd…” he pauses. “I care about you, you know? I want you to remember that I… yeah. It’s hard to not think about you—no—not like poorly I mean,” he coughs. “Jean, are you okay?” You pout, your eyebrows knitting together. You haven’t a clue at what he is getting at, but your stomach swirls in anticipation.
You hear him exhale. “Y/N.” His eyes glimmer in the moon’s light. “You’re special to me. In the good way. Like whenever I just think of you, it’s in that way I’m sure you hear about in the countless love songs you listen to. Moments like that are nice actually. You’re too busy listening to your favourite songs to catch me looking at you,” he laughs. “Now that I think about it, I can’t help but love those moments where we’re together in any kind of silence. Gives me a chance to think about you. Especially when we’re together. You’re right there next to me and your presence just makes it all the more special. It allows me to think of all of the...” he swallows thickly, and you cannot help but drown in anxiousness as his head turns away. “All of the lovely things about you…”
Oh.
“Jean—”
“No—ah—no sorry. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t perceive you in the way that you see yourself, or however you think others do. It’s far from that—no—even further than that. Sorry am I even making sense?” he splutters.
The room falls silent. Well, it should, neither of you are talking, yet a loud crashing rings in your ears. You pray that he cannot hear it either, the mysterious noise that your chest emits. It’s not the type of thump you receive after walking three flights of stairs to your classes, or from running to the bus when you’re late, no, it’s completely different to that. It’s far more erratic, tumultuous. Organs can’t run about, right? So why does it feel as although your heart has traversed up your throat and decided to throb so deafeningly?
You know what this means, or at least you think you do, and to say you’re not flustered just ruminating on the topic is an understatement. You had never really mused about it in such great detail before. When it came to liking Jean, you had acknowledged the thought, you were aware of its existence, but you had never taken a step back to really think how you felt. It was more than obvious now, yet that did not stop the giddy light headiness that came with being in love. You want to say something, anything, yet nothing came as you opened your mouth.
His gaze locks yours as you notice as his hand now squeeze yours ever so gently. They’ve always been calloused and rough, yet now you find them to be so delicate. Despite the paint debris beneath his nails and the half-healed blisters that decorate his palms, you seek solace in the warmth that they bring. His eyes are just as tender and unwavering. The prolonged eye contact has you unequivocally enamoured, and the thudding of your heart has drowned out as you find yourself captivated at how long his eyelashes are despite the darkness.
His thumb traces the back of your hand, and you cannot help but smile softly. The touch of his hand is gentle, and it is no different when he brings the other to the apple of your cheek, his fingers carding through your hair. You’re surprised to feel the beat of your heart fasten; it had already seemed to be pounding so quickly.
With every blink, the distance between the both of you disappears, and you hope that he cannot suddenly see how red you are as you begin to discern his own features.
“Can I?” he whispers. The question makes you giggle, you’re both so close after all, yet you still give one sure nod as you let your eyes flutter closed.
You were not sure what you were initially expecting, yet his touch was soft; delicate. Warmth emitted from his lips as they pressed against yours, and you could not help but bask in the profoundness of it all. His breath too was warm, but so was yours so it did not matter. And nor did his stubble, which tickled your chin, bother you, for you knew that your hair brushed against his face just the same. The kiss itself was chaste, yet it was not anything less than sweet. The pleasantness of his lips was unlike any other touch, and you were simply enamoured by being the first one to receive it, it was simply dizzying in the most wonderful of ways. His hand squeezes yours once more, yet it is much firmer than the last, and it was more than all the reassurance that you had ever longed for.
As your lips parted, and the moon’s light shone between you both once more you could finally see him properly despite the ill-lit nature of his room. With the proximity came the realisation that he was smiling too. And it was not just any smile, it was type of smile that you would only ever see once or twice within your life. It was different to any smile of his you had the pleasure of witnessing. Now, there was a certain glint to his honeyed, crinkled eyes which reflected your newfound joy in life.
“I’m glad to have met you. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here now, sitting beside you, and sharing the most intimate act any two people can do. Well, yeah, I would say so. It is, isn’t it?”
“Why has kissing you suddenly made you talk like me?”
“No, it—whatever fine…” You catch his Adam’s apple bob, and your smile widens. “Thank you though.” Your eyes widen, and you’re sure you turn redder than you ever have. He seemingly has a hidden talent that of which is always flustering you. You chew your bottom lip for a moment before saying it too.
“No Jean, thank you.”