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“Jean, please,” Marco complains, the side that can still blush turning bright red, “that side’s gross.”
Jean presses his lips harder to it. “Nope.”
It is, though, Marco knows that perfectly well, and no matter how many kisses Jean insists on raining on his scars that’s not going to change. The first -and only- time he’d seen himself in a mirror after the accident, Marco had had a hard time deciding what part disgusted him more. Was it the hollow space, so very sinister-looking, where his right eye was missing? Or was it the dark red and brown of his exposed flesh, neck and jaw and cheek deformed? The doctors had done their best to keep him as human-looking as possible and Marco had the very convenient idea of getting an eye-patch, but you could never quite disguise an injury like that, especially not when emptiness remained where an arm should have been.
Marco counts himself lucky, though. And it’s better this way, he tells himself during the days when he’s feeling particularly optimistic. His loss could never compare to humanity’s if someone important for the team had suffered his fate - like Mikasa.
“Are you done?” he asks Jean, voice laced with affection. It may be gross, but the tenderness of the gesture does not go missing.
“Not yet,” Jean mumbles. His fingers are quick to unwrap the scarf that Marco insists on wearing around his neck, and then he’s dipping his head and his mouth is on the scars and Marco digs his fingers into Jean’s back with a little gasp of surprise. The flesh there is sensitive, unbelievably so, and the tingling under Jean’s touch is so very different from the tingling that almost makes Marco cry during sleepless nights, when the phantom parts of his body beat and itch and hurt. “Relax.”
“I still haven’t figured out,” Marco breathes out, “if you know it’s horrible but you lie for me, or-” He can’t help turning his head to kiss Jean’s ear, smiling into his hair when Jean makes a sound like a purr and a pleased hum, “if you really are that weird.”
Jean’s hand is trailing over Marco’s collarbone, the part that is still intact, and he’s nosing at Marco’s (gross, gross, so gross, why would you, Jean?) disfigured cheek. The soft brushing of it sends shivers down Marco’s back, and he feels embarrassed and awkward and disgusting and so very loved.
“Does it hurt?” Jean asks simply.
“No.”
It feels good. That hasn’t changed. It felt good then and it still feels good now.
“Then stop worrying, Marco, damn it.”
(The first time Marco had told Jean that he understood if he didn’t want to be physically close to him anymore, Jean had tackled him to the bed and kissed him stupid until Marco’s lungs were about to collapse, he was so breathless.)
“Okay,” Marco says, as Jean’s lips kiss the corner of his mouth that is a bit too crooked, as his hands slip under Marco’s sweater and he presses cold, long fingers to his stomach, “Okay.”
Jean’s hands slide lower, and Marco effectively stops worrying.
(Just for a bit. The next morning he will wake up to Jean gently tracing with his index finger the outline of his destroyed jaw, and Marco will try to hide his face into the pillow and mumble something about having the weirdest boyfriend ever - then Jean will pull him close by his hand on Marco’s hip, yawn against his mouth, and say, Yeah, well, you’re just gonna have to deal with it.)