Why did Jean wrestle again?
The question isn't a new one; it's one he's asked himself every winter since the seventh grade, when he wrestled in the one hundred four pound weight class and his bones threatened to protrude through the singlet.
Now, he's an NCAA wrestler in the one hundred forty-nine pound weight class.
Or, he's supposed to be.
Coach Rivialle had been furious when he hadn't made weight yesterday. Thankfully, there hadn't been a match then — Rivialle was just really fucking anal about his wrestlers making weight before a match — but there was a match three days away.
And Jean weighed one hundred fifty-five pounds this morning.
"Dammit, Jean, just eat the goddamn carrots. You can't just not eat today. You'll lose more weight if you give your metabolism a jump start, you fucking moron."
Jean sniffs at the carefully prepared baby carrots laid out before him.
"I hate carrots."
Eren plants his hands on the table and leans in close to Jean.
God, his eyes.
"Just eat the goddamn baby carrots. Maybe they'll improve your vision so you don't have to wear those stupid fucking glasses."
"I thought you liked my glasses?"
"You do like my glasses."
"Shut up and eat your fucking carrots."
"I don't — "
"Do you think your opponents are going to give two shits about whether or not you like carrots? I bet they all eat carrots. Every day.
I bet even Rivialle eats carrots."
Jean's silent, because he has, in fact, seen Rivialle eating carrots.
After a beat, Jean looks up at Eren, and he sees something strangely desperate in Eren's face.
Jean huffs, but reluctantly takes a bite of a carrot.
It tastes terrible. Jean really does hate carrots.
He glances back at Eren, and decides that he'll eat the fucking carrots.
"Those carrots were disgusting."
Eren laughs, light.
"Want to go to bed?"
"I could burn a few calories."
He follows his skinny-jeans clad boyfriend out of the kitchen.
When Jean is declared the winner of the one hundred forty-nine pound weight class that weekend, he hears Eren's cheers the loudest.