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Jean decides he’s going to be in charge of lunches. A little bit for Sasha, a little bit to keep his hands occupied, a little bit to avoid other the more thankless chores (Pieck and Connie are regularly seasick, and he has no desire to clean the shared bathrooms, thank you very much), a little bit to flee the endless meetings Armin and Onyankopon are having them attend to prepare for what’s coming next (whatever that is).
Jean knows how to cut vegetables, how to beat eggs and somewhat cook a piece of meat, but he quickly realize that doing all that, let alone for 10 people is a different kettle of fish. He appoints Connie as his line cook. Connie is brimming with the imagination Jean is cruelly lacking. He’s keen on testing out new recipes, trying to delight the boat’s occupant, even though he can barely cut vegetables. He mocks Jean various mashed vegetables dishes, and ropes him into trying to recreate something Niccolo made for them, recalling him pouring alcohol in a pan, setting it on fire, and serving them scrumptiously caramelized pink shellfish.
In the end, it’s Jean eyebrows that end up being caramelized. And a bit of his honor too, when they set a completely charred dish on the table. They eat in dead silence, Jean murderously starring down at anyone who as much as open their mouth. Armin is valiantly trying to finish his plate, gulping down water with each bite. Pieck is hiding behind her hair, and Jean is fairly sure she’s shaking with laughter. Reiner his pushing the food in his plate left and right with a dubious expression. Jean can’t help but think back to his own childhood, trying to escape the lackluster, soft and slightly sweet vegetables his mother would try to feed him. Annie’s plate is the only clean one, and Jean can’t help but feel impressed.
After that, he dismisses Connie and goes back to mashed root vegetables.
He opens every single kitchen drawers and stumbles upon three thick cooking book, filled with drawing of colorful, mouthwatering dishes. Unfortunately, despite the snippets of Mahr he managed to learn during their stay on the continent, he is unable to decipher the actual recipes. He suspects Annie still wouldn’t give him the time of the day, and still feels a bit uneasy around Pieck. He finds Reiner in one of the common areas, curled up on the edge of a couch. He’s asleep, lips slight parted, snoring lightly. His shirt is loose, showing his collarbones, and he shaved his beard, his face looking young and sweet. Jean has rarely seen him looks so peaceful. He considers waking him up , but comes to realize that although he himself spends hours lying on his bed wide awake, too terrified to fall asleep, he rarely, if ever, hears Reiner door opening. God knows what goes through Reiner’s mind after nightfall. He sits on the other end of the couch and wait for nap time to be over. When Reiner’s eyes flutters, and Jean waits a few seconds.
- I heard you complaining about the food after lunch, he says.
Reiner stretches lazily, turns to face him. His shirt pulls up a bit, and Jean can’t help but catch a glimpse of his stomach. He looks at Jean, still drowsy.
- Jean -
- But boy do I have some great news for you! You do know how to read right?
Reiner gives him a sullen looks.
- Well congratulations big man! You just earn the honor of saving your comrades from the apparent dullness of my cooking. And the considerable privilege to escape Armin and Onyankopons’s rants around eleven everyday!
///
They haven’t made landfall in two weeks. The kitchen’s tour is over before it even begins. Jean pushes the cooking books toward Reiner.
- You have my absolute trust, he says I do believe that, somewhere in those books lies the recipes that will transform the thirty kilos of potatoes we have left into a feast.
Turns out that Jean is right, even thought, that morning, he ends up peeling and boiling half a metric ton of potatoes once again. Next to him, Reiner is opening tins and tins of fish, careful not to break fillets into pieces as he takes them out from the cans. They don’t talk much, but manage to put together what Jean thinks is a cracking herring and potatoes salad. Even Levi asks for seconds.
The days go by. In the kitchen, Reiner is a bit quite for Jean’s taste but efficient, with great knives skills, even though his peeling abilities aren’t on part with Jean’s. He also knows more than him about the different condiments they find in the kitchen, and introduces Jean to the proper way of using soy sauce. The afternoon before they touch land again, they sit together on the deck and pick recipes for the following weeks. Reiner picks a few ones, Jean skims one of the recipe book, showing the drawing he deems the most appetizing to Reiner, who roughly translate the recipe for him, and do his best to explain the ingredients Jean has never heard of. He tells him about cassava, a cheap root vegetables, great for stew and frying, a staple in Liberio, and about peppers, and how the small ones are not the friendly ones. Reiner has a great handwriting, Jean notices as they write the grocery list. Neat and cursive, with beautiful flowery upper cases.
///
Jean decides they are now good enoughs chefs to try and recreate the recipe that cost him his eyebrows. That, and Reiner is far less reckless than Connie. He’ll tell him before setting anything on fire.
- I’ve never thought I’d find something like that in my plate, Reiner says as they shell the langoustines. He’s meticulously removing the head from the body of each of them before neatly lining them up next to Jean.
Jean nod, still feeling the eathy taste of the Scouts ration on his tongue as he carefully tries to break the hardshell of one of the headless langoustines. (He’s a little grossed out by the task but keeps it to himself. At least, that one time with Connie, they were already shelled).
- The food in Liberio was rationed, even for the Warrior Candidates and their family. We all had our mouth watering, as kids, when we would go past the rooms reserved to the Marleyyan officers. Huge tables, with white tablecloths, covered in dishes we couldn’t even dream of.
- Was none of you sharp enough to go ans steal a couple slices of roast?
- I don’t think so, Reiner says, starring off into the distance. Truth be told, at the time, it wouldn’t even have crossed my mind. And I was far from being as bold as Sasha.
Jean smiles fondly.
- Do you remember when she stole that salami?
Reiner looks at him with curiosity, head tilted.
- You got to remember! The day of our first mission! Right before the Coloss-
Jean doesn’t finish his sentence. Reiner has a wounded look to him, lowering his head, and the silence stretches, thick and hard to navigate. From the corner of his eyes, Jean sees Reiner clenching his jaws, beheading a langoustine with a little more energy than is necessary. He knows the same pictures are rattling in their head. Trost, Shiganshina. Marco, Berthold, Armin. With the both of them, they’d be able to write a full story. But it’s one Jean has no interest in reading.
He puts his hands on Reiner’s, preventing him from butchering another langoustine.
- Easy big guy. Those ones are dead already.
Reiner closes his eyes, breathing deeply, his free hand gripping the counter-top, the other one burning under Jean’s. They stay there for a while, none of them moving an inch. Slowly, the silence lifts itself.
- I think the worst was the fruits, Reiner offers, his voice raw.
Jean puts his elbow on the counter top, his head in the palm of his hand, and looks at Reiner.
- Meat… for a while after I got my Titan… it made my stomach churns. I couldn’t… Well, you know, he says, pursing his lips. Jean lightly squeezes his hand. So… well, I never really missed it. But the fruits… In Liberio, we mostly had apples. Brown-yellow-ish and sad. But them… they had huge, shiny, crystal bowl, overflowing with fruits of every color and every sizes. To this day, I still have no idea what some of those were. There was one… bright pink. With spikes.
Jean raises his eyebrows.
- Bright pink. With spikes. Looks like the lack of meat and repeated transformation made you anemic and delirious.
- I didn’t expect a horse to have refined taste, don’t worry, Reiner says.
Jean looks at Reiner, bewildered.
- Shut the fuck up Braun. You wish you had taste as good as mine.
Jean is willing to admit it’s far from his greatest comeback, but he was taken aback. Up to this point, Reiner had not as much as snickered at him, and even if cooking together made him slowly loosen up, he’s still far from the cocky little shit he used to be back when they were child soldiers.
If you asks Jean, the meal is a huge success. No one talks this time either, but it’s because they’re all busy licking their plate clean. Reiner catches Jean’s eyes at some point, and he smile at him, a smile small and intimate, but that goes up to his eyes, all crinkled and warm and golden. Jean smiles back, wide, all heart and teeth.
///
It’s all Reiner’s fault. He heard Connie and Peak talking about brunch, and said Jean and him could do that on Sundays. The three of them then looked at him with their big hopeful eyes, he didn’t have the heart to say no. So now it’s Sunday, barely ten, and jean would much rather be in be. Instead, he’s is beating egg white with all his might. It feels like he’s been at it for hours, there are no “stiff peaks” or whatever Reiner said in sight, and his arms is starting to burn.
- Give me that, Reiner says, taking the bowl from him.
- Hey! Jean protests. I can do it!
- Sure you can. And I can swim all across the ocean to the closest land. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna make it in time for lunch thought, does it?
- Stop lying. Your muscles are so heavy can barely stay afloat in a lake. I’ve seen it.
- My point exactly, Reiner says, and, God, Jean wants to smack him behind the ear. There’s more potatoes to be peeled.
Jean watches him out of the corner of his eyes. It only takes a few minutes for Reiner to get soft, glossy egg whites that gently fold over when he lifts the whisk. Jean is kind of impressed, but would rather choke that say it out loud.
Jean is cutting thin slices from a block of bacon when he hears Reiner cursing, holding his hand. He’s on him in a second, grabbing Reiner’s wrist. He can see the side of his palm turning red.
- I barely touched the pan, it’s nothing, he mutters. Look.
He wiggles his finger in Jean direction, his brows furrowing for a second. When nothing happens, he blinks, his jaw slacks, and he lets his burnt hand falls down, taking Jean’s with it. Jean looks at him gently, his thumb gently stroking the inside of Reiner’s wrist.
- Sit down, he says.
He walks up to the sink, fill a bowl with water and sets it in front of Reiner.
- It’s warm water, he explains, Reiner looking at him with wide eyes. It’s better than cold water for burns. For you hand. Put it in and stay right here. I’ll finish the pancakes.
Reiner does as he’s told, still silent. Jean takes the pancake in the pan, tears it in in two by hand, and gives Reiner the bigger half.
- You’ll be fine, he says. Stop mopping, eat up and keep your hand in the water.
- You have to see small bubbles on the surface before flipping them, Reiner barks when Jean flips his first pancakes. Otherwise you’ll mess them up!
- Oh my god. I take back what I said. Please continue mopping. I’m doing fine.
Reiner obviously disagrees, because, about three pancakes in, he walks to Jean and takes the spatula away from him, shaking his head. Jean sighs theatrically.
- Is your hand better at least?
Reiner relaxes. He offers a small smile.
- Yes. Barely burns anymore. Thank you.
///
Reiner decides to make bread, and who is Jean to say no? He apparently needs to mix flour to a mix of flour and water everyday for a week before making any bread. Jean wants to say it sound like a hassle, but can’t bring himself to when he sees the sparkle in Reiner’s eyes. So every evening after dinner, he finds himself perched on the counter top, watching Reiner feed his starter. And every evening without a fault, Reiner put the glass pot containing his baby under Jean’s nose, and Jean wrinkles his nose at the smell which gets more and more putrid every day.
It’s warm, one of the portholes is open, and if Jean bend his neck enough, he can see the Moon. He watches Reiner instead, as he dusts the counter top with flour, and then knead the bread, folding the dough on itself over and over again. Jean’s eyes go up Reiner’s muscled forearm, his rolled up sleeves, his focused eyes and furrowed brows. There’s a hair strand stick on his forehead, falling in front of his eyes. He reaches toward Reiner’s forehead, flicking the piece of hair with his index. Reiner’s hand stops for a second on the dough, and he blinks in Jean’s direction but doesn’t say anything, and resumes his kneading.
After covering the dough and washing his hand turns to face Jean:
- You could go to sleep, he says slowly, eying the cooking book. Apparently, it’s going to take a while before I’m able to bake it. I still need to fold the dough every half an hour for an hour an a half.
- And miss seeing the result of our hard work? Never.
- Our hard work? Reiner says as he swipes the counter.
- I’m offering tremendously important moral support, Jean retorts.
- You’re offering constant whines about how my starter stinks Kirstein. I would hardly call that moral support.
- But I’m right. And also, like, right there. Supporting you and your smelly week long tasks and cleaning the flour you leave everywhere like a goddamn maid.
- I don’t mind that it took us a week to make that starter, Reiner says.
Jean hums. To be fair, he doesn't mind either.
- It’s kind of like that stew we made, the one that cooked for eights hours, Reiner adds.
- And those eggs you put in soy sauce for three days too. And that that roast we made overnight. I get it.
- You do? Reiner’s voice is small, almost hopeful.
- Yeah. We’re not child soldiers anymore. Don’t have to constantly fend for our lives. We’re in the middle of the fucking ocean. We have all the time in the world. I forgot what it felt like.
- I don’t think I’ve ever known what it was like, Reiner whispers.
Jean squeezes his shoulder.
- We're in the middle of the fucking ocean, Jean repeats. We got all the time in the world to learn.
///
- I’m hungry, Jean says as he watch Reiner folds the dough for the last time.
- I can make two loaf if you still have time to spare. A small one for us now, the rest for tomorrow.
Jean can already feels the warm crumb in his hands. He shakes is head with enthusiasm. They watch the bread rise, the crust turn golden. The smell reminds Jean of Trost on holidays. Reiner’s stomach grumbles loudly.
- Do you want an omelet? Jean asks. My mom used to put it on bread for breakfast when I was a kid. It was my favorite.
Reiner’s stomach grumbles again, taking up Jean on his offer. As Reiner takes their loaf out of the oven and puts it on the counter top, Jean whisks four eggs in a bowl, drops a generous amount of butter (maybe too generous, given that it’s their last block of butter) and starts steering slowly. He gently folds the omelet on itself, and smiles proudly at the sight of the perfectly smooth surface. Reiner cuts two generous slices of bread and puts them on a plate as Jean cuts the omelet into two parts. He wants to bite into it right here and there, but Reiner motions him to the table.
- Good lord this is nice, Reiner says, his mouth full.
- One might even say… it’s eggcellent. My mom used to do that. She would give me a plate, and says “one eggcellent omelet for you!” and kiss me on the top of my head.
Reiner looks at him with a grin.
- Do I not get a forehead kiss then? To make up for that absolutely terrible pun.
Jean laughs, both surprised and delighted.
- Alright, alright.
He stands up, softly kisses the top of Reiner’s head and sighs. His hair smells nice, a fresh lemony scent. When he sits back, Reiner traps one of Jean’s ankles between his own, his cheeks pink, and they finish eating in silence.
///
They touch land a few days later. Jean goes to buy fruits and vegetables. When he comes back, three boxes overflowing with foods precariously stacked, Reiner is dragging a huge sack of flour in a corner. Jean puts the provisions on the table, eyeing a small brown bag on top.
- Hey Reiner, he says. Come here.
Reiner makes his way toward him, dusting his hands on his pants. The door bursts opens, and Levi barges in, holding five crates of food, Annie on his footsteps, her arms also full of food.
- Kirstein, Braun, he barks. Bright idea you had leaving all of this by the docks. Just in case someone was hungry. Bless your generous souls.
- What did you wanted? Reiner asks as they put away the food.
- I didn't find the pepper we talked about, Jean says hastily. You know, the yellow ones? For that chicken chili thing?
- Oh, Reiner says. It's fine. We'll just do something else.
///
That evening, Jean watches Reiner make brioche. The dough looks more slack than usual, sticking to Reiner hands even though he’s been kneading it for a good fifteen minutes. He laughs as Reiner struggles to take the scraps of his hands.
- Your moral support really knows no equal, Reiner grumbles, fighting with a table spoon which is now also covered in dough.
- What can I say, I'm nothing if not a benevolent prince.
He gently grabs Reiner's wrist, making his palm face up, and carefully scrapes the remaining dough with a wooden spaatula. Reiner washes his hand, and Jean puts the dough away.
- I got something for you, he says, as he closes the fridge, holding a paper bag.
He waits for Reiner to turn off the tap before sticking the bag in his hands, and watches him take out a pink fruit with small yellow-ish spikes. His eyes widen and his jaw goes slack.
- It’s called a dragon-fruit, Jean supplies.
Reiner still isn’t saying anything, his eyes going back between the fruit in his hands and Jean.
Jean snaps his fingers in front of Reiner’s nose.
- Oï, Braun. You broken or something?
Reiner gently puts the fruit on the counter top, steps forward, trampling on Jean’s personal space.
- Please do shut up, he says, his voice hoarse. He pulls Jean into a hug, one hand on the small of his back, the other on the nape of his neck. He smells nice, Jean thinks to himself as he hugs him back, one hand on his upper back, one on his waist. Those same hints of lemon, and something spicy, and oh, Reiner puts his forehead on Jean’s shoulder and hugs him a bit tighter, his thumb stroking Jean's nape. He shudders.
- I think we should kiss now, he adds, and, well, Jean is all for it.
Later, much later, Jean's hair are is mess, and Reiner... Reiner's cheeks are bright red, his shirt is all crumpled, and he's staring at Jean adoringly. He's the most beautiful thing Jean has ever seen. They walk up to the dock, unable to keep their hands to themselves. It’s a warm night, the moon almost full. Reiner skins and dice the dragon-fruit. Its flesh is off white, peppered with small black seed, midly sweet, melting on their tongues. Reiner is beaming at Jean the whole time, and he feels his heart grows three sizes. They lay down, holding hands. Reiner's hand is sticky in his own, but Jean finds out he doesn't really care.
- Was it like you expected? Jean asks.
Reiner squeezes his hand.
- The fruit? Or making out with you?
Jean elbows him, and Reiner laughs.
- Better. For both.