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“In my 35 years as a photographer in the industry, I never met a model quite like Eren Yeager.” Jean stands before a crowd, all of whom are wearing their fanciest dresses. His hands grip the podium he stands behind, hoping that nobody can see the nervous shake of his hands. Jean rarely needs to read from cue cards or a script anymore— sharing the intimate details of his and Eren’s life now feels somewhat like second nature. Though he wishes it didn’t. But after thirty years he has gotten used to talking about Eren in front of such large crowds, but by no means did it make it easy to do so.
“I don’t say this just because he is my lover, but because he is truly a once in a lifetime talent.” He can’t help but smile at the words, he can picture Eren rolling his eyes at him as he spoke such praise.
”The first time I met Eren we were both 18. He had already been in the industry for a few years.” This part of the story has always been the easiest. Simple biographical details that anyone with the slightest interest in the industry already knew.
“If you know Eren, then you know that he was just some scrappy kid from Brooklyn, the son of immigrants who hardly spoke a word of English,who was scouted for his beauty— that stunning androgyny that made him who he was.” Eren didn’t talk a lot about his parents when they first met, but in the years since Jean had the pleasure of meeting them many times. It took them a while, but they warmed up to the whole idea of Eren being gay a lot easier than expected. His father had taken a little longer, but his mother was just happy that Eren wasn’t alone.
In this way, Eren was an anomaly, and Jean supposed he was as well. He had been lucky to have a mother who loved him no matter what, who thought nothing of whom he loved. It had made being gay in the 80s and 90s a little easier.
”Usually when models walked into wherever we were shooting, everyone swooned as if they were the best thing they’d ever seen. I didn’t get it until the day Eren walked in.” His grip on the podium loosened, the memory of the first day he saw Eren replaying in his mind. Just as it had millions of times before.
What he didn’t share is that he had seen Eren before, but seeing him in photos was not the same as seeing him in person. In the years of photographing Eren he had never been able to capture his true beauty, those stunning blueish-greenish-grey eyes, the natural sharpness of his features, the way his body flowed effortlessly as he moved. But he had a softness to him, one Jean had never been able to explain to anyone except those who knew Eren on a more personal level— then again those that did were now far and few between as time marched on.
“It was the summer of ‘89 and I was just some photography intern at a magazine that has long since died. I didn’t know a lot yet, but I knew enough to know Eren wasn’t like the others.” Jean is growing more relaxed, his grip on the podium loosening as he reflects on the day he met Eren. How precious those early days were as two dumb gay kids in New York City; the prospect of adulthood and true freedom still so fresh that it felt as though the world was theirs.
“We went on our first date a few days later. It was safe to say I was truly in love with Eren Yeager. We were idiots and we moved in together two months later. The rest is history I guess,” Jean takes in a deep breath, catching a glimpse of himself in the large screens that sit at either side of the stage. A means of ensuring that those with the seats furthest from the front of the gala can see him clearly. He takes a mental note that he needs to book another appointment to get his hair coloured again. He wonders if they can see the grey poking out near his roots, a marker of the fact that he is indeed in his fifties. Because if they can see it, Eren definitely can.
Shit. He has been quiet for too long. In reality it has probably only been a few seconds, but the air seems to have a weight to it— one that didn’t exist mere moments ago. Everyone knows what is coming, Jean knows what is coming, how this story ends. But every time he goes to a speaking engagement he somehow hopes for a different ending.
“Or at least it should have been.” He can hear a croak in his voice and the telltale feeling of tears welling in the corner of his eyes.
“But in 1996, not long after our twenty-fifth birthdays, Eren was finally able to rest. He had never had a moment in his adult life where death wasn’t looming over him.” It was so silent you could have heard a pin drop. It always got this way, but the silence felt stronger this time. More potent than it ever had before. Usually he doesn’t get this emotional— one would think that thirty years would create some emotional distance. That grief and guilt wouldn’t tear into you the way it did before.
It was like being transported back in time, as he finally shared the detail that everyone knew was coming. He could remember the sobs, the screams that wracked through his body— his mother had been staying with them to help out in what they all knew, but would not acknowledge, would be Eren’s final weeks. She had raced up the stairs and had held him so tight that he thought he might suffocate..
As he stands in front of everyone now, and he squeezes his fists tightly, he can almost feel the fabric of their sheets— stupid Ralph Lauren Egyptian cotton sheets that Eren had insisted they buy. And had then later insisted on being on his death bed. He gripped them so tight that his nails dug holes into them.
“I would have given anything to marry him, to spend the rest of my life with him. But being able to call him mine, here and now, in front of so many people will have to be enough.” Jean could feel the tears running down his cheeks now, he reached up to wipe them away— a sad attempt to hide what was now clearly on display.
It’s the fact that even after 30 years, Eren Yeager’s life and death still haunted him, the guilt of not having been able to save him was still as strong as it had been the day he realized Eren had finally stopped breathing.
Eren was only 24 when he became certain that he was going to die.
He had woken up in bed, reaching over to Jean’s side of the bed in hopes of finding him. Except Jean was already out of bed and he just ended up with a fistful of their sheets. Stupid Ralph Lauren Egyptian cotton sheets that he and Jean both hated admitting was the nicest thing they'd ever slept on. They were too damn expensive, and admitting how comfortable they were would only mean losing a game that they both played. One where they acted like the finer things in life couldn’t possibly be any better than the run of the mill alternative.
Eren sighed at the emptiness next to him. Opening his eyes to see the indent where Jean had once been. He could smell the sweet carby scent of pancakes being made in their kitchen. Jean knew he loved pancakes, it was one of the few breakfast items he had been able to stomach as of late.
Getting out of bed was getting harder. Most days Jean would help him, but neither would acknowledge that that is what was happening. It was always just a tender moment where Jean would lean down to kiss him— hands settling on his waist and only pulling away when Eren would wrap his arms around Jean’s shoulders. It had become an unspoken signal that Eren would use his weight, his sturdiness, to hoist himself to his feet. Jean’s hand always rested so perfectly in the small of his back as they made their way down the stairs to have breakfast.
Today he didn’t want to bother Jean, today was going to be a good day. He wanted to strut into the kitchen all by himself and Jean would smile that big dopey smile, his eyes would twinkle and he would be so proud that Eren had managed to get himself ready and down the stairs on his own. He pulled his sleep shirt, which was just one of Jean’s t- shirts, over his head and discarded it and his boxers on the floor. Eren planted his feet firmly on the ground and his hands next to him on the plush mattress, mustering his strength to get himself to his feet.
When Eren arrived in the bathroom he found himself in front of the mirror. He wasn’t unfamiliar with his naked body, hell half of the industry was familiar with his naked body, but it wasn’t quite one he recognized anymore. Fingers traced over his body, from shoulders to hips, taking in the sight of himself touching his own shape. While he had always been thin, his hipbones were starting to protrude, and as he turned around to inspect his backside he could see the hard bone of his spinal column poked along the line of his back. If Jean had noticed, which he definitely had, he had been too kind to mention it.
It was as he stood there that he realized he was going to die. That soon his time on this earth would soon come to an end. Eren knew that it was bound to happen, a truth that he had come to accept, after all being HIV positive was a death sentence. Since being diagnosed at 18 it wasn’t a question of if, but a question of when.
A few months ago Jean had rushed him to the emergency room after he started having trouble breathing. He remembered very little of it; according to Jean he had been so ill, snuggled up in bed with a fever, barely able to keep his eyes open as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. When the doctor told them that he had Pneumocystis pneumonia, they both knew what it meant. Eren was sure that the doctor had said the words, Acquired immune deficiency— or AIDS, but neither of them spoke the name of it themselves.
Eren almost completely stopped working as a result. He was already working less anyways as he was getting to be quite an expensive model to hire. What little did come out was always shot by Jean in one of their private homes; strategic angles hiding any visible signs of illness. Perhaps he was lucky that heroin chic was still in, his tired eyes and his thinning shape were simply on trend.
“Babe, can you come help me?” Eren called out to Jean, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. He still stood in front of the mirror, only now he gripped the edge of the sink for support. Knuckles turned white as he took slow and steady breaths.
“Yep! One minute,” he smiled as he heard Jean’s voice call back a response. Usually Jean dropped whatever he was doing and didn’t bother to answer, instead appearing next to Eren with record speed every time he called. He knew he was lucky to have someone, they had heard of people who died all alone, no family, no lovers, no friends to care for them as they took their final breaths. Eren could say with the utmost confidence that when his day finally came, Jean would be next to him— he’d be able to look at those sweet honey coloured eyes one last time, feel the warmth of his lips, and the softness of his hands.
“Breakfast is ready,” Jean hummed as he strolled into the bathroom, quickly turning on the shower before his hands found their place in the curve of Eren's waist. Pressing his front to Eren’s back so could lean back, put his weight onto him and take a moment of rest. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, Eren smiled as he felt Jean lean down slightly to kiss his cheek.
They were a well oiled machine by now. No longer did Jean need to ask what Eren needed, he simply knew. Jean would help Eren onto the shower stool when the water was just right and stand off to the side as Eren cleaned himself— just close enough that if he was needed he could help, but far enough away to grant Eren privacy. Nudity was meaningless to Eren, Jean knew this, he had seen him naked a million times before. But still, his heart felt warm and fuzzy with the knowledge that Jean truly respected him.
“I’m going to die.” Eren finally announced after a few minutes of silence, only the sound of the water sitting between them.
“Excuse me?” Jean replied. While Eren couldn’t see his face, he could imagine his expression. Brows furrowed, any hint of joy disappearing from his face.
“You heard me. I’m going to die, I think by this time next year I will be dead.” Eren spoke matter of factly as he ran conditioner through his hair. Jean knew this statement to be true, Eren knew he did. But it had sat between them, unspoken for so long; frankly Eren was running out of time and he was sick of acting like he wasn’t dying.
“You shouldn’t say that, things could change. I heard that they are doing a study on new treatme—” Jean began, but he was quickly interrupted by Eren.
“Sure they fucking are! They always do, none of them ever fucking worked, Jean. What’s to say they’d work for me this time?” Eren snapped. So many times they had talked about treatments— hell Eren had already tried several to no avail. They both knew his time was coming, but Jean would be the last to acknowledge it, even as he helped him amble towards life’s end.
Jean was quiet for a moment, he could imagine that he was carefully thinking over his options— scanning through his brain for the right thing to say. The shower curtain opened slightly, and Jean peaked his head in, tears already filling up his eyes. For a moment, Eren felt guilty for broaching the subject, he couldn’t stand the sight of Jean upset.
“If you’re going to die, don’t spend the time you have left getting mad at me for having hope.” Jean spoke, voice cracking slightly as he fought to keep the tears from running down his cheeks. Quickly wiping away any that dared to spill over his waterline.
“I’m sorry…” Eren whispered quietly. Staring now at his hands in his lap, unable to look up and look at Jean anymore.
“Don’t be. Now finish up, I made you pancakes,” Eren didn’t understand how Jean could recover so quickly from his outbursts. But some things were better left a mystery— especially when pancakes were waiting for him downstairs. Jean was there as Eren left the shower, wrapping him up in a towel and pulling him into a hug with little care for if his clothes got wet.
He whispered a soft ‘I love you’ as he placed kisses along Eren’s face, landing on his lips for a brief moment, holding Eren as tight as he could while helping him dry off.
Ever since Eren started getting sicker, breakfast became a very quiet meal. Eren would see how much he could stomach before he started feeling ill, a steaming cup of chamomile tea. Jean had his coffee as he looked through the newest editions of Vogue, Elle, and Harper’s Bazaar, occasionally sliding one across the table to show Eren something.
Back when they were both working consistently they would talk about what was scheduled for the day, the shoots Jean was doing, the events, meetings or fittings that Eren would be going to. When the magazines came in the mail Jean would always proudly show him shoots he had done, the images so clear on the glossy pages.
These days they spent most of their time at their private lakeside home, tucked away in upstate New York, far from the prying eyes of the industry. When they returned to the city it was usually for medical appointments. Jean hardly left Eren’s side, not even to work. Only when he could have a friend of theirs, or his mother come over to stay with Eren did he feel he could safely leave the house. Before leaving he would kiss Eren as much as he could, his hands would touch him in every way that was innocent— as if Jean feared in his brief absence that Eren might disappear. He’d kiss Eren’s hands last, warm lips brushing against his cold bony knuckles.
“We should take photos today. I feel pretty good.” Eren finally broke the silence, clearing his voice as he started to speak. He lifted the cup of tea to his lips, taking a sip of the steamy liquid to soothe his throat. It was a nice warm day, the lake was calm and maybe they could take a dip afterwards.
“A shoot, just for ourselves. Maybe one day you can publish them.” Eren continued, setting his tea back on the table as he carefully observed Jean’s expression— or at least what little he could see of it from behind the magazine Jean had his nose stuffed into.
“What were you thinking?” Jean asked, setting his magazine aside.
“Something raw, minimal,” Eren began explaining, knowing Jean would follow his train of thought and complete the thought.
“It is a nice day outside, we could shoot down by the lake,” Jean smiled as he spoke. It was a beautiful smile, one Eren would never tire of. He waited patiently for Eren’s feedback, Jean had grown a reputation in the industry for being unreceptive to criticism of his style, but you would never think it with the way he yearned for Eren’s opinions.
“I like that. But can we shoot nude?” Eren quirked a brow, closely tracking Jean’s expression.
“Are you sure?” Jean’s once happy expression morphed into one of concern. Eren could imagine that the caretaker part of his brain was currently overtaking the creative part— coming up with a million different reasons that this was a bad idea.
“Absolutely certain.” Jean could never say no to him. Eren knew this to be a fact, one he had spent the last five years of his life confirming.
“Alright. Let’s do it.”
“Eren kept me on my toes that day, it was the most energetic I had seen him in a long time. But neither of us could ignore that his body was failing, even though it was a warm spring day he was freezing. Between shots I wrapped him up in our warmest blanket.” The memory was so fresh to Jean, even though it had been thirty years since that day. He could remember every detail of Eren as he stood before the crowd, and not just because he had taken so many pictures of him. Eren had carved himself into Jean’s brain on the day they met, Eren was his muse. There had never and would never be another model like him— another lover like him.
“He started getting sicker after that. Getting the photos developed was the last thing I was thinking about. Caring for him became my full time job.” Jean spoke as clearly as he could as grief grew into a heavy lump in his throat, a brick in his chest. He cleared his throat, looking out at the crowd for just a moment as he turned his attention down to the podium again, allowing himself to look at the glossy paper before him for the first time since he came onto the stage. Eren was there, in full colour, those piercing green eyes looking at him from over his shoulder, his long hair tucked just so behind his ear. It was like seeing a ghost.
He tried to take a deep breath, but it felt like someone was pressing down on his chest. His body suddenly unwilling to accept that he must continue to live, to breathe, in a world that did not have Eren Yeager in it.
“After he passed, I couldn’t look at any photos of him without having a breakdown. I felt powerless, so I joined as many advocacy groups as I could. I told Eren’s story to everyone who would listen.” Those years had simultaneously been the best and worst years of his life, in the wake of Eren’s loss he met some of his best friends. He had let people into his heart again, Eren’s closest friends in the industry had become his rocks— Mikasa and Armin had remained key fixtures in his life since. He had more friends in the wake of Eren’s death than he had in Eren’s lifetime, but he never had another lover. How could he? Every time he tried it felt like a betrayal.
“When I was moving a few years ago I found a magazine of old film, it had been years since I developed photos from film but I figured it was worth a shot because it seemed to be in good shape.” Jean felt like he was outside of his body, sitting off on the sidelines watching himself speak. His consciousness stood in the wings next to Mikasa, one of Eren’s closest friends who had joined him today as his support person. Mikasa had been for him even when he had not wanted her to be there, he was forever indebted to her, for the way she had kept him afloat in the days, weeks, months and years following Eren’s death.
“It was like seeing a ghost when I saw Eren staring back at me in those photos, I kept them to myself for a while. It felt like he was back. Like he was alive again.” Jean looked out at the crowd, even with the glaring stage lights that shined in his face he could see people wiping tears from their eyes, total strangers mourning the loss of his Eren.
“Vogue reached out to me, informing me they were writing a piece to mark thirty years since his death. They wanted to see if I had any photos to contribute. I was hesitant to share these images, but I knew I had to. Eren would have wanted that.” Jean had initially hated the idea, some possessive part of his brain told him to sue Vogue into the ground for daring to write about Eren. Part of him blamed the industry completely for Eren’s death, for exposing the younger version of his lover to such a harsh world, a world that made him sick and then killed him. He blamed himself for not being there to protect him, as if his own younger self would have been capable of standing up to the evils of the industry that he was now all too familiar with.
He had told them he would think about it. Eventually his rational mind won, filled with ideas of using this piece, these photos, to serve a greater purpose. To not only draw attention to Eren’s story, the parts of it that had long been held close to Jean’s chest, but to allow himself to mourn. Of course he had mourned, he spent his whole life mourning what should have been a lifetime by Eren’s side— but big anniversaries like this one were hard. He struggled to grasp that Eren had now been dead for longer than he had been alive, that Jean had now lived more than twice as long as Eren had.
When he looked out in the crowd, he felt his body freeze, his heart and mind stopping dead in their tracks. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but for a moment he swore he saw Eren, standing off to the side of the room leaning up against a wall, arms folded over his chest. Those beautiful green eyes that Jean loved so much staring into his soul— it was undeniably and without a doubt, Eren. His beautiful Eren was here, watching him. Jean could see his mouth moving, he swore he could hear his voice, a whisper of ‘I love you. I am so proud.’ But it was an impossibility, he had watched Eren take his final breath, he had watched the morgue come and take his body. He had sat in the front row at the funeral, unable to walk without the assistance of his mother and their friends; not once did he stop crying. His eyes were full of tears now, he forced himself to blink, unable to take his eyes off the spot where Eren stood. But when he opened them again, he was gone.
Jean collected himself, taking a deep breath and beginning to speak again.
“Today I am showing these photos to the world for the first time, and I have been given the pleasure of unveiling the cover for the September issue to you all.” Somehow he had gotten through the worst of it— even if tears clouded his eyes as he made his way to the enlarged version of the cover photo, cloaked in a lovely red velvet cloth to keep it safe from the eyes of others until it was time.
Jean hated the way velvet felt, Eren had too, he always complained whenever a shoot or show required he wear the godforsaken fabric. He grabbed the red velvet cloth and pulled it away, unveiling the cover.
For a moment the room was silent, Jean’s breath caught in his throat as he stared up at the image, the tears in his eyes finally falling onto his cheeks. If people were clapping, Jean had no idea. He felt truly alone in the moment, just as he had the day he developed the photos— well not truly alone. If he focused hard enough he could hear Eren’s voice, smell his cologne, feel his touch. A ghostly hand sitting on his shoulder as he cried, his shoulders heaving as sobs tore through him.
Jean knew he was being ushered away for the stage, from the photo. He knew the crowd was standing up, applauding for him— no— for Eren. His rational mind knew the arms that guided him off stage and sat him down in his green room were Mikasa’s, that it was her that held him as he grieved Eren’s loss just the same as the day he first lost him. But he wanted so badly to believe it was Eren.
He didn’t know how he got back to his hotel, how he had gotten undressed or had gotten into bed. But as he laid there, fingers running against the sheets he let himself imagine those dumb Egyptian cotton sheets. He imagined the rise and fall of Eren’s chest as he slept in the bed next to him, even before Eren was sick he would lay awake for hours just to watch him breathe— to confirm that the man in his bed wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Jean would place his hand on Eren’s chest, and his sleeping lover would always unconsciously roll over, bringing their bodies to press together.
As Jean laid in bed, he pulled the pillows on the empty side of the bed into his chest. He buried his face in them the way he used to with Eren. And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself believe that Eren was here, safely tucked into bed and pulled up against his body. He let himself believe that Eren was alive.