Chapter Text
“If you lick me again, our friendship is over.” -Jean Kirstein
On the eve of his 29th birthday, Jean Kirstein never thought he’d be a divorced, single dad all before 30. The birthday cake Sasha and Niccolo made him reads “Happy Birthday Jeanboy” in Barbie pink icing, no doubt leftover from the Barbie movie party Sasha threw last summer. He thinks it should read “Congrats on Failing at Life Before 30.”
“Want another beer?” Connie hands him another pale ale without waiting for an answer.
Jean knows he should be grateful that his friends are throwing him a birthday party, but in all honestly, he just wants to go home and look forward to picking up Mason from school tomorrow. Instead, he’s forcing a smile at Armin and Annie’s house for his party at the latter’s insistence – but not because Annie has a hankering for hosting.
She’s five months pregnant and still dealing with nausea, and said she refuses to throw up at anyone else’s house. Jean knows pregnancy is a tricky devil – Mikasa was violently ill for weeks, though thankfully that had subsided in her second trimester.
“Time to blow out the candles!” Sasha exclaims and lights the fat “2” and “9” candles.
Jean pauses. The “2” and “9” mock him. Every year, there was something to celebrate – until last year. He lists off each year in his head.
22 – graduating college.
23 – dating Mikasa for one year.
24 – becoming a father (albeit unexpectedly).
25 – getting married.
26 – buying a house.
27 – celebrating Mikasa graduating law school.
This time last year, he wished at 29 he’d have something to celebrate. The wish didn’t come true.
“Quickly!” Connie screams in his ear, pulling him out of his silent moping. “Before she salivates all over the cake and ruins it for everyone!”
Sure enough, Sasha has that familiar, feral gleam in her eye. Niccolo hovers behind her, a concerned look on his face.
“Sasha, chill out,” Marco hushes her as she hums and vibrates like a persistent cell phone.
Sasha leans over the cake, and Niccolo grabs her long, brown ponytail out of the way to prevent a fire hazard.
“Alright, alright,” Jean mutters and blows out the candles without wishing for anything. Everyone cheers.
He cracks open the pale ale and turns away from the cake. Chaos ensues as Niccolo tries to slice the cake for everyone and fend off Sasha at the same time.
“Jean?” He offers him the first slice of cake and bats away Sasha’s demanding hand.
“Please Niccolo??” She clasps her hands together as if praying to her fiancee. “I helped bake and didn’t take a single bite!”
“It’s okay, she can have the first slice.” Jean forces a laugh and shakes his head. Without waiting for an answer, Sasha grabs the plate and devours the slice in mere seconds.
“Gross,” Connie mutters.
Jean leans his back against the kitchen island, takes a swig of beer, and tries to ignore everyone’s custom requests for how big or small of a slice they want.
“So,” Connie jumps up next to Jean, startling him. “Have you thought more about it?”
“For fuck’s sake Connie, can I ever have a moment of peace?”
“But have you?” Connie pleads, his eyes widening.
“Have I thought about what?” Jean growls. The pale ale is not strong enough to deal with a persistent Connie Springer.
“Letting me perform at the Third Place? I got a whole John Mayer line up planned! The ladies will love it.”
For the past several years, Jean had been doing marketing work at the Third Place, a local concert venue mostly geared toward artists trying to get their start, although every once in a while, a big headliner would come by to perform in the unique venu. They also held open mic nights and other community events, and Connie was desperate to show off his new guitar skills.
Jean puts his beer down and rubs his temples. He’s lost count of how many times he’s fended off Connie’s requests to perform there.
“Connie, it’s 2024, women don’t like John Mayer anymore.”
“And what would you know about what women want?” Connie scoffs and crosses his arms.
The room falls silent. Even Sasha stops devouring her second slice of cake to peer over. Every eye scrutinizes Jean, waiting for his response.
“You asshole,” Hitch whispers and elbows Connie, whose eyes are practically popping out of his sockets, realizing the implications of his retort.
“Shit, I’m sorry Jean. I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers.
“Yeah yeah.” Jean waves. “I know.”
He’s not religious, but he begs any deity that’s out there for this moment to pass. Heat rises to his face. Everyone’s eyes dart between him and Connie.
“It’s hot in here, gonna get some air,” he mumbles and pushes past everyone to open the back sliding door and steps out onto the deck.
The cool, early spring evening refreshes his flushed face. He leans over the railing and releases a massive sigh.
Just another two hours of this birthday bullshit, and then he can go home. And then he can pick Mason up from preschool at a sharp 3 pm.
The sliding door opens again. Jean doesn’t turn around to see who it is, but he knows Marco’s walking pattern from a mile away – especially with his prosthetic clicking against the deck.
“You okay?” Marco asks.
The tall, dark-haired man sets his drink on the railing and peers over at Jean.
“Yeah. Fine.”
His best friend sees right through Jean’s lie. But he also knows better than to disagree with Jean when he’s in a mood. “Have you ever thought about. . .” Marco trails off, second guessing himself. “Have you ever thought about trying it again? Dating, y’know?”
Jean’s shoulders tighten. This is exactly the kind of conversation he wants to avoid – and has avoided. But it’s coming from Marco, so he knows it’s genuine.
Marco was the first friend Jean told that he and Mikasa were getting a divorce. He didn’t bat an eye when Jean sobbed on his couch all night and recounted how everything fell apart. He was also the first friend Jean told that Mikasa was pregnant, and listened to his one million concerns about how to be a good parent when he wasn’t prepared to be.
Marco never told a single soul either of those secrets until Jean was ready to share. It’s for those reasons that he gives Marco a truthful answer.
“Honestly?” He pauses, crossing his arms tighter as the spring wind picks up. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But I don’t think I’m cut out for dating anymore. Nobody wants to date a divorced, single dad barely under 30. It’s not exactly a good look.” Jean gives a bitter laugh.
Last year, he gave online dating a serious first try. Jean will be the first to admit he was a living menace on Tinder in his college days, but this was different. The first date he went on, the woman ghosted him after finding out he had a kid. So Jean tried a different approach and got on a dating app for divorced singles.
It was a humiliating shit show. Most of the women on there were much older than him, at least 40 and with multiple kids. Nothing wrong with that, but not exactly the demographic Jean wanted to date. He was miserable, trying to market himself.
Then he finally found one woman close to his age. They went on a few dates and hit it off, but she had nearly full custody of toddler twin boys. The chaos of trying to line up their schedules eventually led them to breaking it off. Jean found himself thankful that he and Mikasa were able to get about as evenly split custody as you can get.
“Yeah, I get it. Still though,” Marco pauses to turn to Jean. “I think any woman would be lucky to have you. And you never know – maybe you’re exactly what someone is looking for.”
“You trying to ask me out, Bodt? I think Hitch might have a problem with that.”
“You wish,” Marco chuckles. “She’s got me locked down and she’s not sharing.”
Jean cracks his first genuine smile of the evening. Marco and Hitch were like a crack ship personified. He never thought it would work with his naive nature and her abrasive personality. Marco was a soft spring day, while Hitch was like a summer lightning storm.
“But no, I think I’ll take a hard pass on dating,” Jean says, returning to the conversation. “I’ve got you guys and Mason. I can be happy with that.”
“That’s good.” Marco nods, but Jean can tell he doesn’t quite believe him. “Cheers to 29.” He holds out his drink.
The two friends clink their glasses together.
“Cheers to 29,” Jean repeats.
~ ~ ~
You huff and wipe sweat off your brow. Despite the chilly spring weather, you’re flushed with heat from moving boxes around your apartment all day.
“That’s the last one, Reiner,” you say and point to a box that’ll go to his truck and then the donation center.
“I got it,” he responds and lifts the heavy box up on his shoulder like it’s an airy loaf of bread.
As he walks out the door, he swings his hips and hums to Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso,” which plays on the speakers Bertolt brought to make packing up all your belongings a little more enjoyable.
“Remember when we thought he was straight?” You whisper and giggle to Bertolt as his long-time boyfriend walks out to his truck.
“You thought he was straight,” Bertolt corrects. “I knew.”
“Please, there is no way you knew the high school quarterback was closeted.”
“Nope, I knew. It was my gaydar,” Bertolt gives you a knowing look and taps his temple.
“That’s not even a thing.” You wrinkle your nose.
“Maybe not,” he pauses and shrugs, “but I’m telling you – I knew from the moment we were lab partners. It was the chemistry between us. Get it?” He grins.
You moan. “Get outta here with your lame-ass jokes.”
“We all gotta get outta here before you landlord kicks you out,” Bertolt says, reminding you that this is your last day of your lease. “You know,” he glances at you with his cobalt blue eyes, “you don’t have to do this. Run away.”
“I’m not running away.” You pretend to clap dust off your hands. “I’m getting a fresh start is all.”
“But do you have to get a fresh start all the way in Paradis? You could move back in with me and Reiner. Hell, you could just move to a different part of Liberio. C’mon,” your best friend says your name and pleads with you.
“Bert, we’ve already talked about this.” You shake your head and pick up your scattered cleaning supplies. “I need somewhere totally new for a fresh start. Plus I already signed the lease in Trost – I can’t get out of that now.”
“I know, I know I just. . .” Bert trails off. “I’m going to miss you.”
You pause your tidying to meet his shimmering eyes.
In truth, you don’t want to leave your friends. You’ve known Bert since kindergarten, when neither of you knew how to tie your shoes, and the teacher sentenced you to learning together. It took you a few weeks, while Bert didn’t figure it out until the fifth grade, which is why he wore velcro shoes until then.
You were there for Bert when he came out to his family, and his dad kicked him out, leaving him to live with you and your family for months at a time.
Bert returned the favor for you when your short-lived marriage came crashing down. He watched movie marathons and drank pink wine with you all hours of the night, and you eventually moved in with him and Reiner while you looked for an apartment.
“I know,” you say softly. “I’m going to miss you too.”
The moment is interrupted by none other than Pieck and Porco Galliard barging through your front door.
“The party has arrived!” Pieck proclaims, shoving her small frame in front of Porco to beat him inside. She carries several boxes of pizza that nearly tower above her. Behind his wife, Porco holds two growlers in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other.
“Careful!” Bert darts to Porco and offers to take the wine bottles from Porco’s precarious grasp.
“Relax, I just got the cheap shit.” Porco waves, but allows Bert to take the wine bottles, who frowns in return. Pieck organizes the pizza by topping on the barren counters.
“It’s her last night,” Bert says your name, “you couldn’t have gotten something good?”
“What?? I got good beer!” Porco defends himself and lifts up the growlers to Bert’s eye level. Bert bats him away.
You make eye contact with Pieck and roll eyes at each other. Leading up to your last night in Liberio, Bert and Porco had opposing ideas of what they should all do for your last night. Bert wanted a dinner party planned to perfection, while Porco wanted a rager that rivaled his fraternity parties.
“Boys boys boys,” you rush the two, placing one arm around Porco’s shoulders and the other around Bert’s waist. “I want nothing more than to eat pizza and drink good beer and cheap wine with you on camping chairs.”
“Um, about that,” Pieck interrupts. “We forgot the camp chairs. And the paper plates.”
“But you remembered red solo cups?” Reiner teasesas he re-enters your apartment, biceps bulging from carrying boxes all afternoon.
Porco gives a sheepish grin and shrugs.
You laugh because you expect nothing less from the disaster that is Pieck and Porco.
You had sold or donated all of your furniture and kitchen items by now. You didn’t even have a bed. Though you are all celebrating in your apartment, you’re sleeping over at Bert and Reiner’s tonight before your plane takes off for Trost tomorrow afternoon.
“Shoot,” Bert mutters and pulls out his cell phone, which has a picture of his black cat, Mildred, on the lock screen. “Maybe Ymir and Historia can pick some up on their way over here-”
“Nah,” you say and give Bert’s arm a gentle tug. “It’s fine, they’re probably almost here. We can sit on the floor and use the pizza boxes as plates. It’ll be perfect,” you reassure him.
He nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“This is exactly what I want.”
When Ymir and Historia arrive hand-in-hand, the seven of you line up for pizza and drinks.
“Hey, leave some for us.” Pieck pokes Reiner in the arm as he takes nearly half a pizza.
“I’m a growing boy.” He puffs out his chest and pours beer into his red solo cup, balancing the pizza in his other hand.
You tap on Pieck’s shoulder. “Um, Pieck?” She whips her dark head around to you and raises a brow. “No one else is coming, right?” You whisper.
She nods in immediate understand of exactly who you’re talking about.
“No. He asked if he could come say goodbye, but. . . Porco and I told him it would be best to stay home tonight.”
“Good,” you sigh with relief. “Thanks.”
Pieck grabs your hand and squeezes.
“No problem.”
A few chaotic minutes later, you’re all sitting on the floor, pizza in one hand and a drink (or in Porco’s case, two) in the other.
One year ago, you were all doing exactly the same thing when you moved into this apartment. The only difference is that a year ago, boxes on boxes of your things towered around you.
Though the apartment is completely barren, your friends’ personalities are more than enough to fill the empty space. The same can be said for your heart.
Not for the first time, fear strikes you. Your friends in Liberio had dragged you out from rock bottom. What would happen to the hole in your heart when you left them? It’s too late to second guess now.
You wanted this, you remind yourself. A fresh start. Away from him.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Reiner calls everyone to attention. “Everyone go around and say a favorite memory together,” he refers to you. “I’ll start. I’ll never forget when you and Bert came to every single one of my football games senior year of high school. You were the only ones that didn’t have our team t-shirt or hat – though it made you easy to pick out,” he chuckles.
“Only for you Rei,” you say and take a sip of white wine.
When they first started dating, Bert insisted you go with him to every game so he wouldn’t get too bored.
“You next?” Reiner turns to Bert with doting eyes and places a hand on his knee.
“When you forced me to go to see Twilight in theaters with you,” Bert laughs, cobalt eyes sparkling.
“Then you read all the books in a week.” You remind him.
“Team Jacob forever.” Bert raises his red solo cup in honor of your tween Twihard days.
“Shush, my turn,” Porco jumps in and also raises his cup, contents sloshing. “I’ll never forget when you told me that I was a piece of shit for always singing ‘Country Roads’ for bar karaoke.”
You snicker, recalling that it only took the power of two cocktails to speak your mind.
“And she was right,” Ymir groans from across the circle. “You can’t sing that song when you’ve lived in the city your whole life.”
Pieck grabs Porco’s cup right as he’s about to spill. “My favorite memory is when we met in second grade. You forgot your lunch, and I shared my pickle and hummus wrap with you.” She winks.
“I was so skeptical.” You shake your head. “But turns out it was the best lunch ever.”
You were nearly in tears because of the forgotten lunch, and to make it worse, Bert was home sick that day. But you loved the wrap. At recess, you and Pieck played PowerPuff Girls and made “witch potions,” forming a bond only possible between two seven-year old girls.
“My favorite memory,” Historia pipes in with her melodic voice, “is when carried all my books around campus for me after I broke my arm. That was really nice of you.”
Historia was a talented college gymnast, but broke her arm after a bad fall from the uneven bars.
“Hey, that was only when I wasn’t able to.” Ymir crosses her tattoo-covered arms, fully visible with her muscle tee.
Historia beams in return and gestures for her girlfriend to go next. “My favorite memory,” Ymir places her hand on her heart, “is when you told off that misogynistic asshole in film class.”
You grin ear to ear at one of your bravest moments. In the aforementioned college film class, one student gave a presentation on an action movie and said all women look ridiculous holding a gun in movies. You raised your hand and asked him what exactly he meant by that, then proceeded to rail against his patriarchal bullshit. Ymir led the class in giving you a standing ovation.
“It was a proud moment.” You mirror Ymir by placing your hand on your heart. You turn to the rest of your friends. “Thanks guys. This really means a lot.” Your voice cracks, revealing your sorrow at the prospect of leaving your best friends in less than 24 hours. You didn’t know a single soul in Trost.
“Of course.” Reiner nods and holds up his red solo cup. “To April seventh.”
“Why April seventh?” You crook an eyebrow at Reiner and raise your cup in return.
“Because that’s today’s date, dummy,” Porco says, following an “oof” after Pieck elbows him hard in the stomach.
You give Porco the middle finger, and he responds by sticking out his tongue – both actions stemming from only the deepest affection.
“Dunno.” Reiner shrugs. “Just feels like a special day for a new beginning.”
“To April seventh,” you concede. “And new beginnings.”
“To April seventh,” you all repeat together.