Someone Like Me

Chapter 1

The sweet scent of roses lingered in the  warm winter air. He wrapped his scarf around his neck tightly, ensuring that he was nice and snug. His eyes were tired, bags showing clearly under his tansy coloured eyes. The man looked like he had nothing to live for. As if life wasn't worth living at all.

And this man was Jean Kirschtein.

He clicked his tongue. He tapped his foot to the beat. He strummed gently on his acoustic guitar.    He hummed a simple tune. He nodded his head side to side. He strummed gently on his guitar.    

This was the life of Jean Kirschtein.

Get up. Earn money to buy food. Sleep. He lived a life on the streets and that's all he could do as of now. But no-one cared. No-one stopped to listen to him; buy him food; get him a nice warm place to stay. No-one did that. Not in this generation anyway. They always thought people living on the streets were faking it to earn more money. But it's not like that at all. Some homeless people do. But not everyone. And especially not Mr. Kirschtein.

--

He took a break from his work and returned with his usual Starbucks coffee. That'd be his last however. No more change aside from that single penny left dangling in his pocket. Fingers rubbed at his pink-tipped nose before letting his glasses rest on the bridge. He stroked his guitar as he wore these filthy, grey, finger-less gloves before picking it up and cradling it like a baby. He continued his usual morning routine.

He clicked his tongue. He tapped his foot to the beat. He strummed gently on his acoustic guitar.          He hummed a simple tune. He nodded his head side to side. He strummed gently on his guitar.

"I can't believe I trusted those shitbags," Jean whispered.
"Eren, Mikasa, Reiner, even Bertolt." The pale-skinned man continued to mutter names that he knew from his childhood. All those who he thought would take him in but instead just ignored his presence as if he wasn't there at all. As if he didn't exist.

Jean ruffled his hand through his messy hair, strands of it coming of at all sides before he decided to place his grey beanie on, covering his undercut. His pupils grew small as he watched people walk past. Jean reckoned he had something, but with no-one zoning in to listen, he grew rather self-concious about his "talent".  Nevertheless, he continued to strum on his guitar. Even if he didn't get him the money he needed, playing the guitar pleasured him.

Clink. Clink.

Several pennies and pounds dropped into his guitar case and a weak smile plastered on Jean's porcelain-skinned face. Should he just stop? No. He may not get a lot of money, but he had to keep trying. He had to keep selling his artwork, demonstrating his guitar skills. Even if it took a while, he'd get there. He'd earn enough money to stay somewhere warm and cosy. To get some food and make sure his ribs weren't showing any more. To make a proper life out there, and not suffer living on the streets.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Jean was getting more money than usual. He raised an eyebrow, pausing before he gaped his jaw in shock. Down floated a twenty-pound note into his guitar case. Then a ten-pound note. Then a five-pound note. What the hell was going on? Thirty-five pounds in the matter of a second? Kirschtein looked up to see a man in a blue-grey suit with a pink tie nicely done.  He had a somewhat pale and freckled complexion. Chocolate brown eyes sparkled like the stars and his black-brown hair was parted nicely. He offered him his hand.

Kirschtein wasn't sure if he trusted this man, but took his hand and shook it, having to take of his dirt-ridden gloves to make sure this man didn't get all dirty. Eyebrows raised, Jean finally spoke.

"Heh," He began, unsure of what to say. His voice was low, but audible- "Thanks, I guess?"
The other smiled, a slight laugh escaping. "No problem, the names Marco Bodt. You are?"
"Jean. Jean Kirschtein."
"Well then. Nice to meet you Jean Kirschtein."

Jean didn't reply, just let a smile plaster on his face. Tansy eyes averted his chocolate brown gaze, expecting this 'Marco' to go away. But he didn't. Marco stayed put, his white smile still stuck on his face as if he was expecting something in return. What did he want, exactly? Jean huffed, leaning back on the wall - hands in pockets, legs crossed - as he looked up at Mr. Bodt.

Rain began to dance lightly on the cold pavement, bouncing up and down.

"Look. It's raining now. You don't want to get sick, do you?" Marco coughed, a slight tickle at the back of his throat.

"I don't want to get sick like you," He laughed.

"Come with me then. I need to speak to you about your music. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," Marco complimented to Jean's surprise. No-one had ever said that about his before. Ever.

Jean scoffed. "Beautiful? 'Course it's not. No-one ever compliments it." 

"No! Trust me! You're music is honestly beautiful. I know people may not see that, but I do. People may not see how beautiful how your music is because you live on the streets and people like to stereotype these days so they ignore what true talent you have," He shuffled a newspaper out of his briefcase, sheltering his hair with it as he continued speaking. "Your music is great. Don't let anyone say otherwise. Don't let anyone say your music is horrible. It's not. Now,"

Marco grabbed Jean's acoustic guitar, placed it in the guitar case, closed it, and threw it over his back. He offered his hand once more. Jean took it up, and stood - his gaze showing confusion

"I want you to walk with me. I want to get you involved with the music industry."