Chapter Text
Five Years Old…
“It’s such a shame,” his mother was saying, “he really was an exceptional gardener.” She sounded wistful.
“Yes,” his father agreed, though he clearly wasn’t very invested in his statement, too focused on the daily paper in his lap. Fortunately Mrs. Kirschtein didn’t seem to mind and continued on with her one sided rambling.
“We’ll have to find a replacement,” she sighed, holding her teacup out over the edge of the table for one of the maids to fill. A young woman scurried over immediately, filling the cup with his mother’s favorite tea, and Mrs. Kirschtein continued as if she hadn’t even noticed the exchange. Her son giggled at her for it.
“Yes,” the man at the head of the table agreed once again, his wife completely oblivious to his pitiful addition to the conversation. Her focus, it seemed, was centered entirely on the loss of their estate gardener and the high collar of her dress that she was fiddling with.
“Oh!” She suddenly exclaimed, releasing the fabric of her dress and plopping the teacup on the table with a harsh clatter that cut through the silence of the dining room. Several maids turned to locate the source of the noise, but Jean just giggled wildly as his mother continued on with her theories. “Perhaps one of the maids will know of someone?” she said before beckoning over the young girl who had filled her teacup moments ago.
“Ymir, do you know of any gardeners looking for work, dear?” she asked; the young woman scowled in thought.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied. Jean thought it was funny to see her talk like that. She was always so brazen when his parents weren’t around to see.
“Oh?” both his mother and father said, though his mother was clearly more invested in an answer than his father since he had yet to lift his gaze from the periodical in his hands.
“Yes, ma’am. My uncle, Charles Bodt. He’s very skilled,” Ymir said, voice stiff from restraint. Jean giggled once again.
“Oh wonderful! Would you ask him to come meet us sometime this week, dear? I don’t want the hedges growing over,” his mother whispered, almost conspiratorial. Ymir nodded once, bowed, and made her way to the kitchen to converse with the other maids. Jean had no doubt she would complain about this turn of events with the other young women, but that only made the whole situation funnier to him.
“How exciting! If his work ethic is anything like his niece’s, he must be an excellent worker, don’t you think?” Mrs. Kirschtein asked, seemingly to no one in particular. His father hummed in agreement, but Jean just snorted into his bowl of oatmeal. If he didn’t like Ymir so much, he might tell his parents that her work ethic was purely a figment of their fascination, but he wasn’t planning on risking it. He liked the young woman, after all. She didn’t sugarcoat things, she treated Jean as her equal even though they were years apart, and she was funny. He’d be awfully bored without her.
“Jean, your tutor will be here any minute! Go upstairs and get changed into something more appropriate,” his mother suddenly said, startling the young boy out of his thoughts. Warily, he looked down at his slacks and loose sleep shirt, not entirely sure why he needed to dress up just to sit around the house with his tutor. No one was going to see him, right? He thought to tell his mother so, but it was futile. She’d just dress him herself if he put up a fight.
“Yes, mother,” he mumbled, even though his father was always telling him not to. Jean jumped from his seat to kiss both parents on the cheek before rushing upstairs to change. He closed the door quietly once he’d made it to his bedroom, pulling off his clothes as fast as possible to avoid the early spring chill on his bare skin. Once he suspected that everything was in order, Jean wandered over to the large window overlooking the estate. He liked the view; he could see everything from the rose garden to the shack at the back of the yard to the fountain in the center of the lawn. It was beautiful, and sometimes he wished he could be the one tending to the flowers and plants, just to give him something to do, but it wasn’t his place. He was fairly certain his mother would have a heart attack if he even suggested it.
With a parting glance at the beauty outside his window, Jean turns on his heel and prepares for a day indoors.
.
..
…
Mr. Bodt arrived at the Kirschtein estate two days later, just as Jean was finishing up with his cranky old tutor, Mr. Ackerman. He’d never liked the tiny man, and he was fairly certain that he himself had never liked Jean, so he rejoiced at the chance to escape from their tedious lesson. He was getting rather tired of practicing his letters; a change in scenery would do him good.
Jean’s mother beckoned to the pair from the foyer, heralding the end of the session. Her son eagerly leapt from his place on the floor, bowed to Mr. Ackerman, and sprinted from the study. Once he reached the foyer, he flung his arms around his mother’s waist in gratitude, burying his face in the fabric of her dress. Mrs. Kirschtein chuckled at his sudden behaviour - her son so rarely showed affection outwardly - and led the boy outside to meet the newest addition to the estate staff.
He wasn’t exactly sure why, but Jean was expecting Charles Bodt to be a lot...skinnier than he actually was. Maybe it was because their old gardener had had the physique of a beanpole and Jean just assumed this was universal of all gardeners. But Mr. Bodt was anything but a beanpole. He was tall, well built, with round features and an even rounder stomach and eyes that lit up whenever he smiled. Jean liked him already.
“You must be the man of the house,” Mr. Bodt said, kneeling to Jean’s level and sticking out one callused hand for the younger boy to shake. Jean smiled and gladly took it, pleased with the new gardener’s cheerful face and non-patronizing attitude.
“No, I’m Jean!” he laughed and Mr. Bodt’s smile grew even wider.
“And how old are you, Mr. Jean?” the man asked.
“It’s just Jean,” he giggled again before adding in, “I’m five years old.”
“Well, just Jean, I have a son just your age...would you like to meet him?” Mr. Bodt said and Jean suddenly felt a hand on his back. When he turned around, he saw that it was mother and he let her guide him past Mr. Bodt’s tree trunk legs until he was face to face with another boy about his age and height.
Jean stared. He knew it wasn’t polite, and he knew his mother would have his head for doing it, but he couldn’t exactly help himself. The child in front of him was just so…interesting, but Jean couldn’t place why. Was it the freckles? No, Ymir had those, too. Was it the deep brown eyes? It couldn’t be. They were almost the same shade as his father’s. The button nose? Lot’s of kids had those, it wasn’t as if he’d never seen it before. Maybe, he decided after a few moments of careful deliberation, maybe it’s the combination of all three of those.
“Say hello, dear,” he suddenly heard his mother say, words accompanied by a light press to the middle of his back. Jean took a hesitant step forward and extended his hand to the other boy, expecting him to shake it.
The shake never came. Instead, the other boy just looked up at his father, eyes wide and uncertain, and waited for his approval. Mr. Bodt nodded his head and the boy followed suit, holding his hand out and grabbing Jean’s carefully.
“I’m Marco,” the freckled boy said and Jean repeated it in his head. Marco. Marco. Marco.
“I’m Jean,” he said aloud, dropping Marco’s hand and starting to step away. To his surprise his mother wouldn’t let him finish the job, placing one hand authoritatively on his shoulder and keeping him in place. He whined at the gesture, glaring up at the woman in lieu of outright asking for an explanation.
“Why don’t you and Marco go play while the parents have a talk, hm?” Mrs. Kirschtein said, pushing her son along in the direction of the flower garden. Jean was pleased to note that the gardener’s son followed him without hesitation, though he was still feeling rather bitter about not being allowed to say while the adults had their chat. In retaliation, he decided to stomp the rest of the way to the garden. He didn’t even care if the gardener’s boy followed him at this point.
“Jean!” a voice called from behind him. He didn’t slow down. “Jean! Where are you going?” They were approaching the neatly trimmed rows of flowers at the center of the estate, the Bodt boy would figure it out soon enough.
“What are we doing here?” Marco asked again once they’d come to a full stop in the middle of the garden, voice slightly out of breath. Jean thought it was kind of a silly question - wasn’t it obvious? - so he waved his hands in the direction of the flower beds before flopping down in the neatly trimmed grass. A quiet “oh,” was heard from above followed shortly by the sounds of a young boy sitting cross legged on the grass. Jean didn’t look up.
“It’s very pretty,” Marco whispered and Jean thought he could hear the wonder in his voice.
“Haven’t you ever seen a garden before, Macko?” he grumbled, displeased to find that his lisp prevented him from sounding out Marco’s name properly. Fortunately, the other boy didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was used to it.
“Lot’s of gardens! But this one’s really pretty,” he said and Jean sat up to look at the other boy. Marco was only a few feet away, but he might as well have been in a whole different country with the far off look he had in his eyes. Jean squinted, watching as the boy took in the endless rows of yellow, pink, white, and blue that stretched around them in patterns you could only really make out from the air. He wondered if Marco could tell there was a precision to it all, or if he was too distracted by the sheer quantity of flowers to notice.
“It’s fine,” Jean said. He’d been looking at this garden for his whole life. It wasn’t that impressive.
“You don’t like it?” Marco squeaked, practically appalled at Jean’s apathy.
“I don’t like flowers,” he responded with a shrug. Marco’s jaw dropped.
“You don’t like flowers?” the freckled boy hissed, like it was some big secret they needed to keep under wraps; like Jean had just told him he kicked puppies for fun. He shrugged again.
“That’s - that’s...mad! That’s what it is!” Marco yelped and suddenly Jean found himself sitting alone in the middle of the garden while the other boy ran between the rows of flowers, looking for something. He tried not to watch Marco scurrying between the plants, but once again he was unable to look away. Was it the black hair? No. Mr. Ackerman had black hair. Maybe it’s the little gap between his two front teeth? No, that’s weird. What is it?
Jean snapped himself out of his thoughts; Marco was stalking back towards him and it wouldn’t do him any good to stare. At least, that’s what he told himself before he saw the wide assortment of materials gathered in Marco’s freckled hands.
“What’s that?” he asked as Marco flopped to the ground beside him, dropping his burden between them. Jean leaned over to inspect it, but found the cache rather uninteresting. It was just daisies and some long grass, what was so special about that?
“Daisies!” Marco replied happily, “you make ‘em into crowns!”
“Huh?” Jean squeaked in confusion. He’d never seen a crown made of daisies before...all the books said that crowns were made of jewels and gold.
“Yeah, see?” Marco then held a handful of the delicate flowers out in front of him, demonstrating a rather simple knot for Jean to see. Carefully, Jean picked up a handful of the flowers and held them close to his face to examine. He tried to recreate the knot Marco had made, but the stems snapped in his hands. Grumbling, he tried again. Once again, the stems snapped. He tried a third time. And one more time after that before finally throwing the flowers down in disgust and crossing his arms over his chest.
“That’s stupid,” Jean huffed, kicking the pile of broken daisy stems as far away from him as he could manage. Marco giggled and held out his crown, nearly completed.
“It’s okay, Jean. It takes lots an’ lots of practice. You’ll get it one day!” the boy laughed, tying off a few more loose ends and examining the circlet in his hands. With a satisfied nod, he lifted his creation up until he could rest it on Jean’s head. It was a little too big, but neither boy minded. Marco was merely pleased with his handiwork and Jean was simply happy to be wearing a crown.
“See? Now you’re a prince!” Marco cheered, clapping and jumping to his feet. Jean quickly followed suit.
“Yeah, an’ you’re my knight!” he said, playing along without a second thought. “Bow down before me!”
“Yes, sir,” Marco giggled, kneeling in front of the other boy. Filled with glee, Jean reached around for a few of the discarded daisies, picking one up and wielding it like a sword. He carefully tapped Marco on either shoulder before commanding the boy to rise.
“C’mon, we gotta go save the princess!” Jean shouted, turning on his heel and sprinting in the opposite direction. His new friend quickly rose to his feet and followed at his heels, shouting warnings about a dragon and a castle they’d have to infiltrate. Both boys laughed as they ran, stumbling over their feet and swinging the daisies at each other in a poor mimicry of a sword fight.
“Jean, it’s time for lunch! Leave Marco alone so he can move into the gardener’s shack with his father,” Mrs. Kirschtein suddenly yelled, voice resonating around the estate and interrupting the boys in their play. Jean cocked his head to listen, unsure if he really wanted to stop his game, but his rumbling stomach persuaded him to comply. He hadn’t eaten all day, after all.
The two boys trotted back to their mother and father, finding them sitting across from each other on the stone benches around the fountain. They seemed to be finished with their conversation, and as soon as the boys approached they stopped speaking entirely. Jean jogged to his mother, letting her pet him on the head a few times before asking him to get dressed for their meal, while Marco jumped into his father’s waiting arms. From the corner of his eye, Jean could see Mr. Bodt swinging his son around in a wide circle, both of them laughing in glee as Marco recounted his slaying of the dragon.
“What’s this in your hair, darling?” his mother said, drawing his attention from the jovial pair. She was brushing her hand through the sandy blonde hair on top of his head, picking out daisy petals every few inches.
“Oh, uh…” he didn’t want to answer. Marco’s flower crown was special to him and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Not his mother, not his father, not Ymir, not even Mr. Bodt. “Just some petals. We were playing the the garden.”
“How lovely,” she cooed and grinned. Jean returned the smile before spinning around to find Marco. To his dismay, the freckled boy had already started walking in the direction of his new home, hand in hand with his father. As if sensing Jean’s eyes on him, Marco suddenly turned and waved, smiling sweetly at the boy he left behind. Jean returned it easily.
“Did you like the new gardener, dear?” his mother asked, pulling him in the direction of the house.
“Yes,” Jean said, thinking more of the gardener’s son than the gardener himself, “I like him very much.”