clementines. 🍂 a jean kirstein collection

no big deal (I love you)

warnings : none tbh, just pure fluff and maybe a little too wordy. oh and mentions of religion. read author's note for specifics!!!!

a/n : this is a super duper self indulgent fic. uhh i was feeling kinda off and i wanted to write something for myself and something that would make me feel comfortable. i also got accepted into a French based college so,,,, inspired by that, too, I guess? but anyway, this IS very self indulgent, as said before, so read at your own risk cause some of the things might not be understood or like. they might not be your thoughts(?) usually i try to be more reader inclusive since yk everyone comes from different backgrounds, but i was really proud of the writing here so I decided to post it :) you don't have to enjoy it (!) it's just a ramble of thoughts, really. anyways have fun <3

- 💐-

Jean's love doesn't feel new. His love feels more like something you'd already lived in before, something that was yours before you even claimed it to be.

And maybe it was. He had offered to sit and sketch with you in the park near your university, bringing you a warm coffee and holding you sketching materials for you before you could have a chance to complain. His free hand took a hold of yours as if it was meant to. And out of all things, you noticed his hand every time you weren't holding it. His left hand would be free, dangling at his side, his fingers flexing and unwinding until they found yours, until you let them find your right hand to slip in, fitting in beautifully. The ridges in your hands were meant for his calloused ones, you think, and you keep thinking that maybe the slots in your hands, the folds that claimed to hold your future fit perfectly against his. Maybe it was overthinking, maybe it was wishful and stupid, but you wanted a future in his hands. If he sculpted as well as he drew, you'd let him sculpt the rest of your life just so it could have a part of him, just so he could imprint his fingerprints meticulously into the shape of your future. Your shared future, you hoped.

He's sitting beside you and you're aware of your shoulder brushing his on the small Parisian bench, watching the people walk their dogs, listen to music, talk on the phone, hold hands, share an ice cream. You wonder if they've felt love like this, you wonder if they've tasted the same taste you have when you love him, the metallic taste of your own pumping heart and the sweet citrussy taste of the oranges he peeled for you the other day. you wonder if they smelled it too, his cologne, but then again, you're glad they didn't because if depriving everyone else of the love you had for him and vice versa meant that you could have it all for yourself, then you would. You would sit in this park bench forever, tasting your love, the one you stored for him, smelling his love for you, watching as his left hand danced gracefully on his sketchbook as if it had to show an audience. You don't dare take a peek in his sketchbook - you don't want to disturb his craft until he asks you to. Until he lets you.

He licks his lips, cold against the rainy weather. The wind is picking up a bit, you note, glad you were carrying your umbrella even if it would be futile to run home in this weather. You had come across this experience countless times since moving here - the rain starting as expected, as unexpectedly, as beratingly, and the cold pelts of the water hit you with sudden realisation that the wind was too strong against your umbrella as you abandoned it when jean took a hold of your hand, drifting to the nearest indoor establishment. His hair would be damp by the time you'd reach, and it would have made no difference to keep walking towards your home, but the quiet of the new store was welcome, as was the warmth. you'd pant, hands on your knees, and jean would run a hand through his hair, removing his scarf and handing it over to you with a small smirk.