clementines. 🍂 a jean kirstein collection

the drywall confessions.

summary ; making a home out of the walls that surround you was easy when it was the two of you.

warnings ; none! (what a shocker)

a/n ; something short and sweet! im still in the process of writing d2d and masquerade hehe. summer break just started so it might take just a little more time :3 also requests are now open since i have more time to write!!

-🧸-

If walls could talk, they'd sing praises of your love.

the dark brown scuff against the right wall of the living room that was left when you and jean tried to move the couch by yourself was all but proof of that moment. He almost stubbed his toe, and you almost tripped over the carpet, but after the couch found it's new home only a tad bit to the left from where it was before, the two of you heaved a breath as you reaped the rewards of your hard work on the couch, wiping the sweat off of your forehead. Jean grumbled about how it didn't really make a difference. You had a ready answer on your tongue; pointing to the now one inch of extra space – "look at all this free space we have!" with a sarcastic grin on your face. Jean took one glance at you and knew he had to laugh, if only a little, if only to please you, if only because he loved you.

if walls could talk, they'd tell jean about how much you missed him while he was gone.

The business trip wasn't even that long, only about two weeks, and it wasn't even the longest the two of you had gone without each other, but it was enough for you to notice his absence after your move into the apartment together. The walls watched softly, reflecting the sunlight off of themselves, as you accidentally pulled out two mugs instead of just yours – your see-through, glass mug with small hand drawn flowers on it with a thin crack along it's base that you were only mildly concerned about and his usual mug that said, in big bold letters, "NUMBER 1 COUGAR". the walls noticed how often your eyes strayed away to the screen of your phone, hoping every time that it would be his message lighting up your screen. And later at night, when everything was dark and he finally did, the walls observed, that you eagerly picked up and talked and listened and talked until the only thing they heard was your small snores. The phone call ended three hours after you had slept, they'd note.

If the walls could talk, they'd whisper critiques about your decoration choices.

It didn't make sense, really. Everything on the shelves was eclectic and without any structure. The bookshelf was really just a name of what it was supposed to be, but held objects that were far more precious than pages. Jean's hereditary vinyls that he'd unapologetically stolen from his childhood home along with the record player, small plants that each had their own names, pictures from photobooths that you had taken throughout the years – some with just the two of you, some with your friends, some with you and your cat. lamps with warmly lit bulbs in them of varying heights and colours, collecting a small but unseen amount of dust on their bases simply because "jean. This looks exactly like the lamp that crushed pixar's 'i'" "why are we supporting an abuser, then?" and "this one looks like a mushroom!" "babe, we have so many lamps already-" "jean, this one is a mushroom." They were good lighting for your old and new artworks, some of them messily made but with more than enough personality for the walls to be able to speak through them. And if they could speak, they'd tell you about all the sketches of you they'd see jean draw but never show; all his loving being silent but all-consuming.

And the walls would scold you for ruining their perfectly white canvas into something better-worse.

Jean agreed that maybe the smudges could be fixed by painting over the whole damn wall. "im getting sick of this white." "that's very racist." followed by a scoff from the former, as he opened the pinterest browser on his laptop, asking you to shift closer to him to get a better view at his screen. Not because he thought your warmth was mandatory for him to function, of course not.

The walls would retell how scared they were when jean got those small pots of paint, you sat in your most worn-down and ruined pair of pyjamas infront of the white wall that currently had too many stains for it to go unnoticed. Jean opened the can with a butterknife with a, "dude, couldn't you have gotten, like, a popsickle stick?" "a whole pack of fifty for one paint can?" "we could've made popsickles." "uh huh. You just want an excuse for something sweet." to which you only smiled ear to ear and jean wondered if you knew that he didn't need something sweet as long as you were infront of him.

The painting job inevitably failed. Two sort-of artists that thought it was something they could accomplish ended up with a wall of mismatched paint and aching shoulders and stained fingers. You called it a night with pizza and washed hands, jean cradled calcifer – your adorable but petty cat – in his arms like a spoiled baby and placed several kisses on his furry forehead as you sat down with plates in your hand. jean joined you on the ground, letting the furball run free across the apartment before resting his head on your thigh.

The walls would have notes of what not to do while repainting them as one of those two sort-of artists waited for her beloved to leave the house the next day and once again, sat down and drew a small heart with the residual pastel paint left in the pot, a small and satisfied smile on her face even if it was only for a small mark.

The day after the next, when she took the paint, her fingers itching to claim the walls as theirs again – she found three small stars around the heart that she did not remember drawing. Smiling, you put down your signature flower and leaf combo before closing everything back up and waiting for the vandalism wars to begin.

By the time the walls could recall how jean proposed to you, the bottom of the bedroom wall that was conveniently covered up by the bed held countless doodles. Some of them were smaller, cuter versions of the two of you with big eyes and small bodies holding hands, some of them were far more detailed version of them – just their faces with their eyes looking at the other - despite their small size. The most remarkable ones, however, were your initials written on the wall. Bottom corner of the bedroom wall were the initials of the people that loved the most while residing in their walls that could only be seen if anyone was actively looking for them, seeking them out.

If the walls could talk, they would talk about you and jean.

Despite the bustling and distracting city outside, jean's vinyls played their safe melodies as you pulled out two mugs from the cabinet in the kitchen, jean's arms wrapped around your back as you prepared coffee for the pair of you in your respective mugs. Jean would hold back a small grin at the mug that was now his signature – the one that you gifted him when you were only friends and just getting to know each other, the one that made him know that he'd want you in his life for far longer. The walls would sing the songs of jean's record player as you sat near the coffee table in your living room and typed away on your laptop, calcifer snoring peacefully on his father's lap, the latter with his own laptop infront of him. The walls would tell you how much he loved you because he would look at you so often they wondered if he ever got sick of the view – but they didn't. the walls didn't talk because they knew you knew. They could tell you accounted all his actions and return them tenfold, in your own silent but all-consuming ways.

If the walls could talk, they wouldn't want to because you slept on his shoulder after coming home late from work and finding him on the couch with his eyes closed. They wouldn't talk because they'd see you wrap a blanket around his shoulders before snuggling up next to him – gently, softly, so as to not wake him up.

If the walls could talk, they'd say nothing because everything was already said and known.

If the walls could talk, they wouldn't have to.