Work Text:
stop
no
stopstopstop
fuck—
Jean snaps awake, sitting up in his bed, drenched in a cold sweat. His eyes scan his dark room, testing the things in the shadows, daring them—
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and buries his face in his clammy hands. They come away wet with the sweat dripping from his brow. He grimaces and tosses the blanket aside before moving to his bathroom to wash his face with cool, calming water.
It’s been six months now. Six goddamn months, and he can’t stop having these nightmares. He looks in the mirror, water dripping from his sharp chin, and grimaces at the terrible visage he makes. Pale, bags under his eyes, bordering on gaunt… he pushes away from the sink with a grumble and wipes his face on a towel.
He takes care not to look back at the mirror after the bathroom light has snapped off.
With a sigh, Jean shrugs into a hoodie, a cigarette already hanging from his lips. Thank god for his balcony; it may not be much, but it’s his, and it saves him from having to make the trek nineteen floors down just for five minutes of peace.
The glass door slides shut behind him and he moves forward to lean against the railing. He’d stopped getting dizzy about three months after moving in here. Heights kind of lose their shock value at night, anyway. Jean lights his cigarette, glad for the outcropping of concrete on the other side of his neighbor’s balcony that keeps the wind at bay. It’s always windy when you’re this high up.
Jean rakes his free hand through his bed-rumpled hair with a sigh. Six months ago, he’d starting having almost constant nightmares. Some nights it’s not even worth sleeping. He’s not sure if he should be worried or grateful that he can’t remember them after he’s fully woken up.
His therapist says it’s a sign of internal turmoil. Isn’t that why I’m here? Jean had said, petulant. She had smiled slowly and asked him about work.
Jean curses softly, taking the last good hit off of his cigarette before flicking the thing into the flowerpot he’d appropriated for an ashtray.
The light comes on next door just as Jean drops his hand on the handle to his door. He pauses for a moment, curious, then retreats into his own dark apartment.
--
The next night Jean knows it’s not worth sleeping. He’d had a shit day at work, it had been pissing rain all day, and the dark corners of the universe seemed just a little more treacherous than normal.
Instead he stays up, folded into his office chair, and surfs the internet. He rests his scruffy chin on his knees as he scrolls through reddit, which appears to be having a slow night. Awesome. With a sigh, Jean sips his coffee and stands, about ready for his fourth cigarette that night. It’s only a little after two.
The sound of his door sliding open covers the matching sound from next door, so Jean doesn’t realize he’s not alone until he glances up and finds a surprised face staring back at him. He jumps about a mile, dropping his cigarette, before he realizes that what he’s looking at is just his nerdy-looking neighbor.
He recovers and retrieves his cigarette, giving the guy a short nod, which he returns with a soft smile. Jean kind of expects that to be the end of it and leans against his wall, away from the torrential downpour threatening to flood his balcony. It hasn’t stopped raining all day.
“It hasn’t stopped all day, huh?”
Jean blinks, pulling his cigarette out from between his lips, and looks over at his neighbor. The guy is tilting his head, as if trying to look up at the sky, and the low light from his apartment catches in his black hair.
Realizing he should probably respond, Jean grunts. Ever sociable. His neighbor is unfazed, though, and turns to smile again at Jean.
“My name’s Marco.”
“Oh.” Come on, Kirschtein.
“What’s yours?”
Jean stuffs his cigarette between his lips and reaches over the space between their balconies, offering a handshake. “Jean.” Marco smiles and shakes his hand, bridging the 19-floor chasm between them.
“How long have you lived here?”
Jean retreats to his previous position, back against the rough stucco wall, eyes surveying exactly jack squat in the minimal visibility before him. “About two years. You?”
Marco laughs and leans against the railing facing Jean’s balcony. “Yeah? I’ve been here for three, three and a half. How have we never met?”
Shrugging, Jean tosses his spent cigarette into the flowerpot. Thing needs to get emptied soon, the rain’ll make it smell terrible. “I only come out at night.”
“Do you work evenings?” Jean looks over at Marco, who’s leaning his chin on his palm and watching Jean interestedly. Jean notices that Marco’s face is a constellation of freckles, dark even in the low light. He squints a little and looks away.
“No,” he says shortly. He hadn’t really prepared an excuse for why he’s always up so late; another perk to having your own private balcony. “See you around, I guess.”
He catches Marco’s reply just as the door closes, a hollered ‘Yeah, okay!’
Leaning his forehead against the doorframe, Jean sighs and thinks for a few minutes before returning to the internet.
--
The next night his nightmares are worse than usual. He awakens as his forehead cracks off the sharp corner of his nightstand, heart pounding against the floor when he lands on his face and takes a second to just breathe.
Trembling hands are already lighting his cigarette before he’s even all the way outside, a bunched-up paper towel pressed to his forehead. He leans against his door, fingers almost in spasms, and stares over at Marco’s faintly-lit living room.
As if summoned, Marco’s door opens, and he pokes his head out. “Hey, Jean, I heard—holy shit, are you okay?” He comes to the railing, leaning over and peering widely at Jean. “You’re bleeding!”
Jean can only nod dumbly.
“No, you’re not okay, you big dumb,” Marco replies. He looks around for a moment, then holds up a finger and runs back into his apartment. Jean pulls a monstrous hit off of his cigarette, grimacing when the ember burns at the filter, and tosses the finished cigarette into the pot. Just as shaky fingers move to his hoodie pocket to pull another cigarette from his pack, Marco bustles back onto his own balcony with a little first aid kit in his hands.
“Here, come here,” Marco says, opening the first aid kit and wedging it between the bars of the railing. He reaches up to Jean and gives him a look, gesturing him closer.
Jean, mind blank, obeys, pulling his bloody paper towel away from his head with a wince. He lets his fresh cigarette rest at the corner of his lips, closing his eyes, and leans against the railing.
Marco works quietly, cleaning the cut and holding pressure to it with a cotton ball. He directs Jean to hold the cotton as he opens and slaps a good-sized bandage over it.
“Sorry,” the brunette mutters. “All I have are Angry Birds band-aids…”
Jean blinks, his brains coming back to him, and sucks idly on the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Smoke puffs up into Marco’s mouth, and he coughs a little as Jean asks, “Does my hair cover it?”
“… Not really.”
“Oh.”
The next night, Jean leans against his railing, staring out of the city. He’d replaced the band-aid with a normal one, although some part of him had been loath to do so. Marco doesn’t come out that night.
--
Three days pass before Jean sees Marco again. His nightmares are more than happy to keep him company, though.
--
“So, Jean,” Marco says later that week, sitting comfortably on the chair he’d brought onto his balcony. He’s not looking at Jean, choosing instead to look up at the sky. The stars are actually somewhat visible up here, just far enough to escape the city’s light pollution. “You don’t work nights, but you don’t sleep.”
Jean exhales smoke slowly, white tendrils curling above his head. He waits for Marco to continue, giving him a slight side-eye.
“So what’s your deal, then?” Marco turns to look at him, smiling kindly. “If I can ask.”
Blinking slowly, Jean examines the end of his cigarette, watching the ember burn at the paper.
Fuck it.
“I don’t sleep well.”
“What, like nightmares?”
Jean sighs, grinding out his cigarette in the recently-emptied pot. “Something like that.” Something exactly like that.
Just as Jean’s about to peace out, head back inside, never step onto his balcony again, Marco speaks. “I didn’t sleep through the night until I was sixteen.”
A pause. Jean blinks, and turns to look at Marco, who’s rubbing his finger under his nose bashfully.
They talk until the sun comes up.
--
The next few weeks pass that way. Jean finds his nightmares coming less and less often, the closer he and Marco get. They pass easily through all the usual conversations; work (Marco works at a bookstore), college (Jean never went), childhood injuries (Marco won that one with a broken arm and face). Sometimes their conversations are light-hearted. Sometimes they’re solemn and open. Sometimes they sit together in silence, just watching the stars.
Several months after they’d first met, Jean peels his sweat-soaked shirt off and leans against the railing between their apartments. It’s hot, unbearably so; summer is in full swing by this point. Marco’s sitting easily in his chair, strumming his guitar softly. The moon shines bright on his face, dyeing the scene blue, and Jean sucks on his cigarette.
“So, wait,” Marco says, genuinely befuddled. “You’ve never seen Moulin Rouge?”
Jean shrugs, looking over the city. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Musicals are pretty weird.”
“Yeah, but Moulin Rouge is in its own category. Seriously, never?”
Jean laughs. “Nope.”
“You should watch it. I’ll loan you my copy.”
“… Fine.”
Marco bounces up excitedly and rushes back into his apartment, coming back out sans guitar and waving a DVD. “Watch it soon so we can talk about it!”
“Can we paint each other’s nails, too?”
Laughing loudly, Marco reaches over and pinches Jean’s nose. He moves back over to his own apartment then, saying, “See you around.”
Jean grunts in return, looking down at the DVD and finishing off his cigarette.
--
It turns out Marco was right. Moulin Rouge is entirely in a league of its own. Jean watches it the next night, having already decided against sleeping, and it kind of sweeps him off his feet. Not that he’ll ever admit that.
When he’s done, he goes out onto the balcony, a little surprised that the light from Marco’s computer isn’t lighting the room. The curtains are drawn, a sure sign that the brunette is out. Jean mopes just a little and smokes his cigarette.
Just as he’s about to go back inside, the light comes on through Marco’s curtains. Jean tries really hard to look casual. After a few moments and several loud crashing sounds, the brunette opens his door and bursts through the curtains.
Oh god. Marco’s drunk.
Jean leans against the railing and smiles, resting his chin in his palm. “Hey there, wino.”
Marco squints at Jean, then gives him a huge grin and comes to the railing. The foot of distance between them has never looked so small. “Heyyyy, Jean,” Marco says, leaning perhaps a little too far over. Jean reaches over, laughing, and pushes him back a little. “’M fine, don’t worry. Hey, did you watch Moulin Rouge yet?”
Laughing a little at the beer scent coming off of Marco, Jean nods. “Yeah, I’ll go get it.” He trots inside and takes the DVD out, putting it in its rightful case before returning to the balcony. Marco has retreated somewhere, leaving his door wide open. When he bounces back out, he falls heavily into his chair with his guitar and grins up at Jean.
“Let’s talk about it and braid each other’s hair!” He’s already strumming out soft melodies, and Jean groans loudly.
“My god, you’re not going to sing it, are you?”
“Maybe a little.” Marco grins, face flushed.
“I need a drink.” Jean retreats into his apartment, leaving the door open, and pulls a bottle of whiskey out of his cabinet. As he pours himself a stiff one, he can hear Marco playing quietly and mumbling. Jean wonders if he’s serious and pours himself a double.
As he comes back out, Marco grins at him again. “What was your favorite part?”
Jean sips his drink and thinks for a moment. “The elephant.”
“Yessss,” Marco drawls, leaning his head back. His fingers are already moving over his guitar. After fucking up a few times and cursing quietly, he gets the sound he wants and stands up. Jean swears Marco’s eyes are glistening. “We could be heroes,” he starts, and Jean chokes.
“No, no, nonono. No way. Uh uh.”
“Just for one day!” Marco strums. He’s turning redder. Jean downs the rest of his drink.
“Stop it.”
“You’re such a great Satine, Jean.”
“Oh fuck you—”
“We should be lovers!” Marco’s voice is loud and clear, and his eyes are shining, and Jean’s heart is hammering against his ribs.
“Oh god what do I have to do to shut you up—”
“We should be lovers, and that’s a fact!”
Jean reaches over and grabs Marco by the shirt, pulling him forward just enough. He lunges forward and slams his lips against Marco’s, both of their faces hot. Jean refuses to open his eyes, the hand holding his glass shaking, instead tilting his head and leaning closer. Marco makes a small noise, his fingers sliding along the guitar’s strings, and by the time Jean has pulled away, his hands are slack atop the instrument.
“Um,” Marco mumbles, eyes wide. Jean stares right back at him, then chokes on his breath a little.
“S-sorry, sorry, I, uh—”
“N-no, I, um…”
Jean flushes bright and stuffs the DVD into Marco’s hands, retreating hastily into his dark apartment and locking the door.
--
Two weeks pass. Every time Jean wakes up in a panic, he takes the slow elevator to the bottom floor and smokes outside the lobby, and every time his hands quake visibly until the first deep inhale of his cigarette.
The night Jean wakes up screaming is the night he knows he can’t make it to the lobby. He stumbles out into the humid night, lighter shaking so hard that he can’t hold a flame long enough to light his cigarette.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Jean,” comes Marco’s soft voice, and Jean starts out of his skin. Marco wordlessly reaches over and grabs Jean’s lighter, holding it steady until the cigarette is lit. Jean exhales slowly and sinks down until he’s sitting, burying his face in his shaking hands.
They sit in silence for a while. Jean bottoms out on his cigarette and tosses it into the pot with a sigh. Marco doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t gone inside; the telltale creak of his wicker chair sounds loud in the quiet.
“Jean, I’m sorry,” Marco says finally. Jean folds his arms on his knees and rests his sweaty forehead on them. The apology hangs in the thick air.
“For what?” Jean finally manages, his voice thick. He blinks down between his thighs, his vision swimming a little. “I should’ve told you.”
“Told me what?” Jean hears Marco stand again.
“That I’m gay.”
The silence between them stretches unbearably long. Jean’s about to give up on life and roll back into his apartment when Marco speaks quietly. “Who says I’m not?”
Jean licks his lips. “Are you?”
“Well, I’m not straight.”
Sighing quietly, Jean closes his eyes. “That doesn’t mean it was okay to just kiss you like that.”
Marco is quiet for a while.
The sound of the chair moving across concrete fills the air, then a rustling, then feet hitting the ground in front of Jean. He looks up, heart hammering in his chest, and shrills, “Did you seriously just jump over here?!”
Marco sits down in front of Jean, legs crossed, and smiles. “Yup.”
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? We’re nineteen floors up, you could have slipped and fallen and died and then what the fuck would I do—”
Jean’s panicky stream of consciousness is interrupted by Marco taking Jean’s sweaty cheeks in his hands and kissing him softly. After a moment, Marco pulls away a fraction, just enough to rest their foreheads together.
“Now we’re even. How’s that?”
Swallowing thickly, Jean closes his eyes and relaxes a little.
“I like you,” Marco says after a moment. He chuckles softly. “You big dumb.”
“Big dumb what?” Jean licks his lips and glances up at Marco, who laughs again as he rubs his thumbs over Jean’s cheekbones.
“Big dumb cutie.”
“Oh god.”
Marco laughs and pulls Jean in again, kissing him gently.
The lease on Marco’s apartment is up for renewal sooner that Jean’s, so that October, Marco shifts his things next door into Jean’s apartment, which makes it much easier to annoy Jean with his taste in movies.