clementines. 🍂 a jean kirstein collection

winter sun.

summary ; wintery sunsets and a cold walk with jean, secrets being peeled apart.

warnings ; none :)

a/n ; hey divas im. dying there is so much work i found like a slither of time to write this </3 that being said requests are open even if i'll take time to write them. have two losers in love till then. ps - listen to sunsetz by cas while reading <3

middle tile art creds ; @plutocisms on tumblr!

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The apartment was surprisingly quiet.

The rare occurrence where sasha's voice didnt permeate through the thin door of your home, where connie's protests to jean's choices in music didnt make their way to your ears even as you were climbing the stairs, the surprising lack of marco's voice trying to mediate the two while the smell of something deliciously preparing in the kitchen, no doubt being observed with careful precision and hawk-eyed vision of the guy. None of that. It almost sent a chill down your spine, the jingle of your keys being the only thing that could be heard on your floor - your neighbours were tired of complaining about you and your friends' loudness - and you made sure to not make too much noise unlocking the door.

The curtains were drawn, the only sound coming carefully from your own room, a soft yellow hue from under your door. You put your things away, your socked feet still cold despite being covered, fingers frozen and buried deep in your pockets.

You pushed the door to your bedroom open with your foot.

Jean sat in your bed - laid down, really, like it was his own. It might as well be, and his hair was set, absorbing the golden light from your bedside lamp, his phone his his hand. He was dressed in your favorite, almost a knowing, well-kept secret in your mind. How he became aware of it you had no idea, but his deeply forest green sweater flowed gently over him, hugging his arms.

He looked up, his eyes shining, gleaming. "You're back," he says, sitting straight up, back no longer supported by the pillow behind him, the cushion only holding an impression of him that you'd like to keep forever. A proof of sorts, but that wouldn't be necessary as long as he was in front of you.

"Hey." you said, warmly, because that's what he made you be. You set your bag down at the foot of your bed, and jean gets up with a question on his mouth, his chapped lips spilling out the statement as if he'd been mulling it over for a time longer than himself. "Wanna go see the sunset?" he asked, lips twitching at the corner - another well kept secret in your mind, your favorite passing expression on his face. There were a lot of things you liked about him, in passing, in secret, truth kept hidden between you and your mouth. Kept close, kept quiet.

You hummed as if you even had to think about the answer. Dramatically, you stretched your arms over you, faking a yawn. "I dont know, jean, im pretty tired,"

His shoulder slumped in a way where he thought it wouldn't be noticeable - something you couldn't help but notice - and he said, "oh, okay. Some other day th- oh you're fucking with me. Oh, okay. Fuck you," he says, a joking scowl on his face as he started to walk out your door, refusing to turn his back on you. You laugh in teasing, a small, conscious sound. "Im never going to ask you, now, and years later when im dead-" "-how many years are we talking?" "twenty thousand. Im going to outlive you. You're going to regret ever doing this to me-" your laugh becomes just a little louder, a little less conscious, a little more comfortable against the sound of his voice, and he smiles wider knowing you're happy. "I'll write it in my eulogy, then," you say, following him to the hallway. "you better." he leads you to where you kept your shoes, your welcome mat folding as he halted in front of it, removing your coat from the rack along with his. "here lies jean kirstein, died out of spite," you wear your shoes and he holds out your coat to put your arms in. "you're joking about this but im pretty sure that would be the only reason i'd ever die." he wears his own coat, and the door opens gently, with your laughter replacing the sound of the empty, dimly lit stairway.