SURVIVE.

if anybody has ever expected me to be constant here, im here to inform u that u.... might be disappointed

jean wears an ugly hanukkah-themed sweater when he gets invited to christmas party and gets drunk off of eggnogs

id: punzel

finally someone fucking says it

you’re here with me.

we’re walking down the shopping districts and the lights are reflecting out of your eyes like stars. when we walk in the chaos that is the human race, our shoulders bump. i wish i’m far stronger in the cold so that i’m courageous enough to let our knuckles touch. every time we do, you send shivers right down my spine like no snow could.

with each minutes passed, and each stores we visited, your hand and mine gets heavy with wrapped presents and bought items. i don’t usually like the crowd, not like this, but the way you rush to starbucks’ stands that has heaters stored in them while scrunching up your nose all funny from the weather makes me forget about the bad things. instead, in spite of my initially grumbling act and protest of this trip, i grin. i grin so hard, my cheeks ache.

you ask me, “how do you think eiffel tower looks like right now”

and i tell you, “i don’t know.” because i don’t. because how would i know. because i’d rather be looking at you than any towers or skyscrapers in the world. you shrug. we let the conversation pass.

we’re walking down the shopping districts tracking our paths to go home. when we walk in the chaos that is the human race, i use my height to always oversee the bob of your head as you walk ahead of me. there are times when you notice. and in these times, you’d turn. “why are you so slow?”

do you even know how your voice makes me all warm like i’m hot summer sun in the middle of december?

“you’re red, jean. you okay?”

it’s because you’re here with me. you’re here with me.

i just saw somebody saying jean still liking mikasa even after seven years is equivalent to him not maturing up and eventually filling up the shoes of a squad leader because him having a crush is like saying he’s still childish, and i’m here to just say:

jean can have a fucking crush on anybody he wants for however goddamn long he wants it because who he wants to love and desires has nothing to do with the trauma that has literally forced him to grow up far quicker than he should’ve

headcanon jean loves the notre-dame more than the eiffel tower

my papa stacks up books.

high-up, one after another, shelves after shelves, and sometimes there’s a system to it: by authors, by alphabets, by genres. sometimes, there isn’t an order. there is no visible pattern. like madness, like chaos, he puts away the latest read that’s had his heart trapped hours to the chair in the corner, as he turns the page, thirsts relentlessly for the ending. 

my papa stacks up books.

vintage, old, hardcover, some torn at the edges, worn by years. i’m not a loyalist like he is, but i pick up the books when my time isn’t stolen by my insecurities and my need to please them; i remember my papa’s warmth behind me as he teaches me how to read ( now jean, if these two letters are together, what does it spelled? ) and the impatience he must’ve had to deal when my temper flares, throwing the pages he’s adored so much into a cluster, trampling them on how i can’t do it i don’t know how i’m so stupid but he sits there, obedient, nodding his head and hushing me down.

my papa stacks up books.

in his favourite one, he has a picture of my maman in a dusted black-and-white that isn’t so black-and-white anymore; it’s a dull dark-ish grey coupled with a yellow-tint over the lighter parts, but that doesn’t matter, because the youth in maman’s smile still shines regardless. when i thumb over the picture the first time i see it, i can feel the definition of his love as he immortalises his wife in his most-liked book like a secret: that, like the words he loves so much, she is timeless. their love is timeless. they are untouched by the past-present-future that has continuously swallowed generations.

my papa stacks up books.

he says, when you return, jean, maybe we can read together. i wished i’d read with him sooner. in that quiet corner of our house, smelling the grass and my maman’s baked goods from the kitchen. but i’m not. and, honestly, i don’t know if i ever will.