Chapter Text
Ten Years Old
Jean’s tenth birthday dawns bright and clear, grass green from weeks of rain and flowers dripping with early morning dew. The exquisite spring day is the first thing to catch his attention as he wakes, rolling over in his bed to look over the gardens and orchards stretching out for acres beyond his bedroom window. He huffs out an excited laugh at the sight and delights in the puff of breath that fogs the window above his sleep mussed hair and squinty eyes.
Carefully, with all the grace of a nine (ten, in only a few hours, he tells himself) year old, Jean rises from his mattress and wraps himself in the comforting warmth of his duvet. He trips on the blanket as he escapes the confines of his bed, but he hardly notices in his eager shuffle out the door and down the stairs. Disaster nearly strikes again when the boy reaches the bottom step, stubby legs tangling in the heavy fabric of the blanket and pulling him towards the ground at surprising speeds. Suddenly, a hand reaches out to catch the falling boy, and Jean shrieks in surprise as a tanned and freckled arm wraps around his chest before his face can hit the creaky floorboards below his feet.
“Careful,” the hand’s owner grumbles before nudging the boy harshly to his feet and yanking the blanket away from his grabbing hands. Jean looks up and squints menacingly at the perpetrator, trying to grab the comforter away from the much taller, much more intimidating woman before him.
“Uh, no. You’ll kill yourself dragging this thing around and I’ll be the one getting fired for it,” the maid hisses, dark eyes narrowed and shining with sincerity.
“Ymiiirrr,” Jean whines, stomps his foot; a habit he still hasn’t grown out of despite his mother’s insistence, “it’s cooollld!”
The woman shrugs her shoulders, folding the rumpled blanket over one freckled arm and sauntering towards the laundry room where she tosses the offending article into a wicker basket on the floor. “Then change, mate.” She supplies, heaving the basket onto the counter and turning towards the sink. The maid turns the water on, filling the basin halfway before taking out the wash board and soap. Jean watches in idle fascination as she dips her hands into the freezing water without so much as a grimace.
“But I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” Jean yelps once his fascination with Ymir’s handiwork has ebbed. The woman turns her head slightly to give him a nasty look from the corner of her eye and Jean pouts.
“Well I suppose you should fetch a bite to eat then, shouldn’t you?” Ymir sighs, irritated at the boy for pestering her during the worst of her early morning chores.
“Did you make breakfast already?” the child asks and Ymir rolls her eyes at the obvious skepticism permeating his words. Jean of course misses her annoyance and plunders on obliviously, “please tell me you didn’t make porridge again?” he moans.
“For your birthday? Don’t be dim,” the maid scoffs, reaching for the pile of dirty laundry and beginning the arduous process of removing a grass stain from one of Jean’s trousers. She feels a sudden weight clinging to her side while she’s inspecting the tarnished garment and looks down, startled, to find a pair of narrow amber eyes blinking up at her excitedly.
“You mean you remembered?!” Jean gasps and fists his hands more thoroughly in the woman’s skirts, peering up at the maid hopefully. Ymir tries to hide the smile spreading across her face but smirks at the excited child regardless.
“Have I ever forgotten, Mr. Kirschtein?” she asks, pulling the boy’s hands from her dress and leaning down to look him in the eye, eyebrow quirked in faux annoyance.
Jean takes a moment to ponder this. He thinks back to every birthday he possibly can, searching through his memories for Ymir’s satisfied smirk amongst the presents and parties and parents. The boy smiles, realizing she’s been there for every birthday; waiting patiently in the background and slipping him gifts in the night when his parents won’t catch her sneaking around.
“No,” he says proudly and pulls the maid into a fumbling hug made all the more awkward by the height difference between the two. Ymir smirks into the boy’s shoulder, carefully prying him away to tussle his hair with sibling-like determination.
“That’s right,” the maid says before standing and ushering Jean out the door of the laundry room, “now head to breakfast. I made pancakes.”
“Pancakes!” Jean squeals and Ymir takes a moment to wonder if the boy she’s been partially raising for nine (ten) years has really grown up at all. But watching his clumsy steps as he races to the parlor on the other side of the house, she can’t help but think he really hasn’t.
.
..
…
Jean spends the morning munching happily on a stack of pancakes far bigger than anyone his size should be able to consume. His parents flit in and out of the dining room, wishing him another year of good health in between hushed arguments about the writing desk in the living room they’ve been trying to get rid of for the past four months. Jean takes it all in stride, turning his attention to the syrupy goo on his plate instead of focusing on the irrelevant banter taking place around him. At some point, Ymir steps into the dining room to retrieve his plate - licked clean - and drops it in the kitchen, stopping by the boy’s chair to whisper an additional ‘happy birthday, mate’ into his ear. Jean accepts the woman’s well wishes gratefully, but truthfully there’s only one freckled friend he wants to hear the words from.
“Mother, I’m going outside,” he calls over his shoulder, pushing the chair out from underneath the table with a painfully loud squeak, bolting out of the dining room, and rushing down the steps. His mother responds with requests to be back before lunch time, to not dirty his sleep clothes, but Jean hardly hears her. The day is too bright and beautiful for Jean to concern himself with dirt-stained pajamas.
After heading down the stairs of the front porch, Jean finds himself faced with a minor dilemma. It’s a Saturday, which means Marco won’t be at school, but he could be anywhere on the large estate. Recently the freckled boy had started taking on part of the workload along with his father, and Jean wouldn’t be surprised if he tripped over Marco while traipsing through the daisies. Uncertain of Marco’s true location, Jean decides wandering around on a day so nice wouldn’t be too awful and begins making his way around the expansive gardens surrounding his house. He starts by meandering through the rose bushes. Then the perennials. Then the copse of pine trees and cyprus near the back of the estate. Then finally the orchards where he and Marco typically spend their afternoons. Still, there is no sign of the gardener’s son.
Jean huffs, irritated. Marco knows it’s his birthday, so why isn’t he coming to wish him well? With a childish stomp of his foot, Jean turns on his heel and makes his way towards the shack at the rear end of the estate. He’s mildly irritated at having to double back, but he’s also worried. Marco’s always been an early riser, and it’s getting late into the morning. Jean hopes his friend is well and finds himself muttering prayers under his breath as he pulls up to the wooden building and knocks on the red painted door. The sound of feet scrabbling across the floor is muted but clearly recognizable and soon Jean is greeted with the startled face of his friend.
“Jean!” the boy says in surprise before glancing back into the little hut with nervous eyes. Jean tries to peer around Marco to see what has him so anxious, but the taller of the two shifts so nothing can be seen aside from Marco’s scrawny chest and messy hair.
“Marcooo,” Jean whines, grabs his friend’s arm, “it’s my birthday, come play with me!” Marco allows the boy to pull him forward across the threshold of the door.
“Okay, okay. Just...give me a moment,” he says and Jean notices that his eyes are still wide with fear. Marco ducks back into the house before Jean can think too much of it. The bright red door is shut somewhat harshly in Jean’s face and he scowls as he waits for his friend to come back.
Several moments pass before Marco finally returns, closing the door behind him with a soft click and a brief glance back into the shack. His arm is immediately grabbed, freckled skin gripped tight between pale hands, and the two set off across the yard. Jean leads the other boy back into the orchard, scouting out the perfect tree for their games. Marco whines as Jean leads him in circles - arm still held painfully tight by the birthday boy - but Jean insists none of the trees they’ve come to stand before are right. He heads further into the orchard, closer to the main road that connects his driveway with the rest of the town.
Jean stops; suddenly, and with a whoop of excitement. Marco crashes into the shorter boy’s back, unaware of the sudden change of pace. He grumbles quiet complaints at having bashed his delicate nose into the back of Jean’s head, but he heaves a sigh of relief when his arm is finally released from his friend’s death grip.
“This one,” Jean proudly announces, hands on his hips. Both boys look up to marvel at the rather impressive apple tree flowering above them. There are no apples on it yet, but the white flowers are unmistakable and the smooth, silvery bark is absolutely perfect for climbing on without having to worry about splinters.
“Jean,” Marco warns, but the other boy pays him no attention, too busy scrambling up the trunk and climbing through the lower branches. He figures it’s safe enough climbing like this.
“Jean,” Marco calls again. Jean simply leans over a branch to stick his tongue out playfully at the boy scowling beneath him.
“What? It’s safe!” He laughs before climbing higher into the tree. He’s finally up where the branches aren’t strong enough to hold his weight, but sturdy enough to use as hand holds. Jean laughs again and sits himself down on the branch he’d been standing on, peering over the side and pouting at Marco, who’s now got his arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon, don’t be like that!” he calls down to the other boy.
“I just trimmed that tree,” Marco grumbles, but takes a step forward nonetheless.
“Oh, is that why it’s so perfect for climbing?” Jean taunts. Marco’s face lights up at that - praise from Jean is hard to come by, after all - but he still won’t give into temptation and climb the damned thing.
“Jean…” the boy in question looks down from his perch and watches his anxious friend below. Marco is chewing nervously on his bottom lip. After all these years together Jean has come to realize it’s a habit he only picks up when he’s scared of something. Like swimming in the lake for the first time, or sliding down the bannister in the main house even though Jean insisted a thousand times that it’s fine, Marco. Don’t be such a girl!
“What? What is it?” he tries to sound sincere, he really does. But honestly, Jean’s a little tired of his friend’s stubbornness and wants to get to playing.
Marco looks around the orchard with wide eyes, scanning for something, before casting his gaze towards Jean and whispering: “I’ll get in trouble.”
Jean practically falls off the branch from laughing.
“Of course you won’t get in trouble,” he gets out between giggles, gripping the trunk with pale fingers to keep himself from toppling face first into the manicured lawn below. Why on Earth would Marco get in trouble for climbing a stupid tree? he thinks to himself; the suggestion makes him laugh harder.
“But Jean,” Marco continues in his whispered tone. Jean can’t help but think it sounds almost conspiratorial, “your parents.” The boy in the tree sobers at the mention of his parents and he looks down at his friend with a puzzled tilt of his head.
“My parents?” he wonders aloud. Marco nods vigorously. Jean squints at the other boy curiously, but sighs and climbs down the tree when he spots the taller of the two gnawing on his lip like it’s a piece of licorice. He jumps to the ground with a quiet thump and stands to face Marco. “What about my parents?”
Marco stops biting his lip long enough heave a massive sigh at Jean’s supposed ignorance.
“Jean, I work for them,” he grumbles, “I’ll get in trouble if they find me climbing around on the tree I just trimmed. It’s unprofessional.”
Jean rolls his eyes and shoves the freckled boy in the shoulder. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs, “they won’t care.”
“But what if they do?” Marco persists.
“Then so what? You get in a little bit of trouble. It’s not that bad.” Jean remarks offhandedly, failing to notice the way Marco’s face falls with the statement.
“Jean…” he starts, his friend fixes him with an unamused glare.
“What?”
“If I get in trouble, my Dad might get fired,” Marco says and for a moment, Jean thinks he hears Marco’s voice fill with fear. He decides not to push the boy any further.
“Alright, alright. You don’t have to climb the tree,” he sighs. Marco nods.
“But…”
“But?”
“But...you know if you did get in trouble for something like that, I’d take the blame for you, right?” Jean says.
“You would?” Marco responds, confused. His nose wrinkles up ever so slightly, obscuring some of his more prominent freckles. Jean can’t help but think he looks a bit like a puppy who just ate something repulsive.
“Of course,” he scoffs and grabs for Marco’s shoulder, “that’s what you do when you love someone, right?”
The two share an affectionate smile for several moments, unbroken until Marco glances up at the abandoned apple tree with a calculating glance.
“It does look rather good for climbing…” he sighs. Jean grins and grabs his friend’s hand, leading him to the base of the tree and gesturing grandly to the expanse of twisted branches and flowers above their heads. Marco accepts his invitation with a broad and goofy smile before clambering up the tree into one of the lower boughs, pulling the other boy up behind him. The pair sit on the branch for several hours, talking about everything and nothing, until they hear Jean’s mother calling out to the boy and asking that he turn in for lunch with the rest of the household. Jean yells back a startlingly loud ‘GIVE ME A MOMENT’ which nearly knocks Marco from his perch and the two exchange a fit of giggles before beginning their wobbly descent from the apple tree.
“I’ll walk you back,” Jean suggests once both boys feet are back on the ground. Marco nods gratefully and together they set off across the yard towards the gardener’s shack sharing few words along the way. Once they’ve stopped in front of the painted red door, Jean gives Marco a dramatic bow and announces their arrival at Marco’s humble abode. The taller boy giggles, pushing Jean playfully, before giving him one last hug and whispering another happy birthday, Jean into his friend’s ear. Then he opens the door and steps inside the small house with a sad smile.
As he steps away from the closing door, Jean thinks he hears Marco asking, “how are you feeling, Papa?” in a slightly scared voice but he thinks nothing of it. It’s his birthday, after all.
With a spring in his step, Jean turns away from the gardener’s shack and makes his way home for his tenth birthday celebration.
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..
…
As usual, Jean’s birthday celebration extends well into the night. It isn’t until midnight that the boy finds himself tucked into bed, stomach stuffed with sweets and bedroom filled with new toys. But he can’t find it in himself to care about the wooden soldiers and jacks lining his walls when he knows there’s more to come.
A soft tapping at his door sends Jean’s heart into a frenzy and he springs from the bed to let in the maid he knows is standing just behind the door.
“Ymir!” he whispers happily, ushering the woman in as quickly and silently as he can. She’s really not supposed to be in this part of the house at this hour, but it’s become a tradition of theirs; every year for his birthday, Ymir will buy Jean one present and sneak it to the excited boy in the dead of night. Jean will never admit it to the maid, but Ymir’s present’s are always his favorites.
“Ready birthday boy?” Ymir plops herself down on the bed uninvited and Jean hops on excitedly after her. He nods his head vigorously and leans his whole body forward to try and spot the present he knows she’s hiding somewhere in her apron.
“Close your eyes,” she commands. Jean snorts rather unattractively.
“Why?”
“Because I had to tie your present to the inside of my thigh to smuggle it in and -”
“Ew, Ymir!”
“Just close your eyes, brat.”
Jean finally complies with Ymir’s wishes, but only because he really doesn’t want to see the woman’s underwear or - God forbid - anything she might be hiding below the waist. He hears a bit of ruffling and then silence as something is pushed into his waiting hands. Jean finally opens his eyes.
His gift is unwrapped; they always are. Ymir claims it’s because she can’t wrap without it coming out a mess, but Jean suspects it’s because she’s just lazy.
“Ymir!” he squeals in excitement once he realizes what he’s holding, his voice loud enough to wake his parent’s down the hall if he’s not careful. Ymir slaps a hand over his mouth to keep him silent but it doesn’t stop the boy from smiling brighter than the sun.
“Shh,” she reprimands, but takes the two objects from his hands to show off the gifts nonetheless. She shows off the book first - a little leatherbound thing that’s clearly meant for drawing - before moving onto the more exciting bit: a set of charcoal pencils and sticks that has Jean hopping on the bed in joy.
“How did you know?” Jean begs, snatching the pencils and notebook back from the maid and running skinny artist’s fingers over the new supplies.
“I heard you asking your Pop if you could take art classes. You seemed pretty upset when he told you to bugger off instead,” Ymir shrugs. Jean gently places the gift on his pillow and flings his arms around the woman, sending the both of them careening to the side in a fit of muffled giggles.
“Where did you find them?” the boy asks excitedly.
“I found them when I was out shopping for Christa,” Ymir replies, blushing furiously.
“Who’s Christa?” Jean questions and shakes his head. No. He definitely hasn’t heard that name before.
“She’s um, well she’s,” Ymir stutters. Jean raises his eyebrow, unamused.
“She’s kind of like my, uh how do I put this? Christa’s like my...girlfriend, I suppose.” Ymir finally gets out, face bright red with embarrassment even though Jean doesn’t find anything embarrassing about it. In fact, he’s more confused than judgemental.
“You can do that?” he wonders aloud and Ymir shoots him a worried glance.
“Do what?”
“You can...be with someone like that?” Jean asks, “someone of the same gender? That’s allowed?”
“Well…”
“So I could have a boyfriend?”
“WELL-”
“I could have a husband?” the boy continues excitedly; Ymir only shakes her head dejectedly.
“No, Jean. I’m sorry. It doesn’t work like that,” she responds sadly. Jean starts with a “but you said!” but Ymir cuts him off with a dangerous glare and sharp shake of her head.
“It’s probably best if you don’t dwell on it too much,” the maid says, reaching behind her to grab the blanket and tuck Jean in before he can ask anymore questions. The boy is back under the covers before he can even blink. “In fact, don’t even talk about it.”
“But-”
“No, Jean. And I never spoke of Christa, understand?” Ymir fixes the confused boy with a piercing gaze until he resigns with a huff and a irritated nod of his head. This makes the woman smile, and she finally stands to leave - whispering a farewell before tiptoeing out the door and leaving Jean alone with his thoughts.
Needless to say, Jean doesn’t sleep well that night. He’s too awake - in both senses of the word - to rest. He resigns himself to his first night of thinking about Ymir’s cryptic words and Marco’s smiling, freckled face.
It is not his last.