Work Text:
It was only a movie. That was all it was. They bid each other goodbye with lifted hands. He remembered craning his neck over his shoulder to watch Jean walk away.
He was hunched over against the wind. The soft curve of his shoulder blades was visible through the thin material of his grey sweater. It was fitted and, if Marco squinted, he could make out the ridges of his vertebrae.
He forced himself to keep looking forward. Don’t look at him, it only makes it worse. The wind was already rubbing his cheeks raw and he could feel his hair blowing all over the place and his glasses were slipping down to the bridge of his nose. Why had he decided to park so far away?
It wasn’t worth it to take his hands out of his pockets to fix his glasses. They were the only part of him that felt halfway warm. He tried to distract himself by tracing the outline of his car key. He felt it with his fingertips, trying to memorize the ridges of the key with each finger. By the time he was touching it with his middle finger, he had reached his car.
He crawled into the front seat and turned the key in the ignition. He hastily turned the dials to get the heat going, but he didn’t make a move to touch the steering wheel. A feeble current of lukewarm air flowed from the vents.
We were just hanging out, right?
He stared through the dashboard at the neon sign for the 7/11 on the other side of the parking lot. His heart pounded in his rib cage, like it did every night when he worried, like it wanted nothing more than to be free.
He threw the car into drive and flipped on the headlights. He had to get home before he felt any worse. His hands could barely keep a solid grip on the steering wheel. By the time he reached the stoplight, he couldn't see through his tears. He pulled forward to make a double left turn and he prayed that his memory of doing this drive home hundreds of times would be enough to get him there. The static of his thoughts was steadily growing louder.
I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, he repeated to himself. I’m not.
His thoughts wandered back to the darkened movie theater. He could feel the ghost of Jean’s fingers brushing his hand. His face burned. He didn’t want that.
His hand jerked away at the memory and he accidentally swerved the wheel. He corrected it before drifting into the next lane.
His chest was constricting and it felt like someone was pushing his lungs closer together. They were making fists over each one and he couldn’t breathe.
He brought the car to a stop at the light right in front of his subdivision and waited for the red arrow to change. He gripped the wheel and felt tremors that made his whole arm shake.
Just get home, he told himself as he took another shaky breath. He pulled into his garage. The only thing in his mind was the sound of the car’s wheels on the concrete of the driveway.
The garage door shut behind him, but he didn’t move from his car seat. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
u ok?
He didn’t know how to answer. Jean must have noticed he was off after the movie. How did he put into a little message how the night had sent him into a whirlwind of panic?
It wasn’t Jean’s fault - it was never his fault. He was comfortable with being out. He hung around with the kids in the drama club, where pretty much all the boys were like him anyway.
But Marco was a wallflower. He kept to his studying and never tried to call too much attention to himself. He had a lot of work to do. The assignments for all his AP classes weren’t going to do themselves. He didn’t even think there was anyone in his group of friends that was… well, like that.
Why can’t I say it? Marco propped his elbows on the steering wheel and buried his face in his palms. The sensation of the tears slipping down the sides of his fingers soothed him slightly.
There was no other way to explain why he wanted to run his fingers through Jean’s hair. He wanted to know what it felt like, what it smelled like. He wanted to borrow one of Jean’s shirts and bury himself in it, letting the smell of his soap envelope him. He wanted to go to the mall with him and hold his hand. He wanted laugh at the irony of Jean sitting on a wooden bench and criticizing other people’s haircuts. He wanted to memorize the point of his nose and the shape of his hands.
He’d never had a girlfriend before. He never wanted one. Was this what it was supposed to feel like?
He fumbled with his phone as he swiped Armin’s number with his index finger. He answered on the second ring.
"Marco?" he said, his voice tight with worry. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I - " he could hardly choke out the words. He listened to his own breathing echoing through the phone and he wished he could stop the panic.
Armin automatically switched into counselor mode. “Do you need help? Do I need to come get you?”
"No, no, I made it home. I just need to calm down," he said with a very unflattering sniff. He wished his voice wasn’t so raspy.
"Is there any kind of a threat? Are you safe?" Armin continued.
"Yes, I’m safe."
"What happened? Weren’t you hanging out with Jean?" There was a momentary pause. "Did he do something? I swear I’ll kick his ass."
Marco managed a laugh at that comment. Jean was twice Armin’s size, but it was the thought that mattered. He felt a rush of affection for Armin that seemed to counterbalance his anxiety.
"What are you going to do, trip him?" Marco teased. In the moments that followed, he could feel his heart rate normalizing. They bantered back and forth about the different ways they could get back at Jean.
"Maybe if I say enough big words in a row, it’ll be enough to take him down. But, seriously, are you okay?"
"Yeah, thanks. I’m okay now." Marco said. He gnawed on his lower lip out of nervous habit. "I just think too much."
"Well that’s nothing new," Armin replied. Marco listened as Armin adjusted his phone, his hair crackling over the microphone. He pictured him sitting at the desk in his room with his cell phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear.
But Marco didn’t know how to formulate the next sentence. He needed to say it, but it sat in a knot somewhere near his heart and he didn’t know how to unravel what he was feeling. All he knew was that there was something inside of him that he yearned to put it into words.
"Marco?" Armin prompted. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, sorry," Marco said hastily. "Thinking again."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I just… yes. But I-I don’t know how to say it. I have this feeling, but I don’t know - " he stopped again, mid-sentence.
"Does it have to do with Jean?" Armin wondered. Marco frowned. His stomach churned. Armin had always been too intuitive for his own good.
"Yes?" Marco kept his phone pressed to his ear and rested his forehead against the upper portion of the steering wheel. He was careful to avoid the horn; the last thing he needed was to announce to his parents that he was having a crisis in the car.
"I’ve seen the way you look at him, Marco," Armin said gently. As if that explained everything. "What happened tonight?"
"His hand kind of brushed against mine and I don’t know if it was an accident. For a second, I kind of wanted him to hold my hand but…" he trailed off.
"But what?"
"I’m not. I mean, I don’t know if I’m… " He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t think it. "I think I could be, you know…"
"Gay?" Armin finished it for him. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"Yeah, that. That’s my problem." He blew his breath out between his chapped lips.
"It isn’t a problem at all," Armin said simply.
"It is," Marco persisted. "Because it feel like there’s something wrong with me. He’s my best friend.”
"There’s nothing wrong with you," came the soothing reply. "And there’s nothing wrong with having those feelings."
"But we’ve gone to the movies hundreds of times and I’ve never felt that way before…"
Marco was silent for a whole minute. He looked through the windshield at the garage door. He noticed the white paint peeling away from the wood and the dullness of the golden door knob.
"What do I do, Armin?"
He felt like he had suddenly turned six years old again. He was still hunched over the steering wheel, and he wanted Armin to have all the answers.
"Talk to him," Armin urged. "You owe it to yourself to tell him how you’re feeling."
Marco pulled his phone away from his ear as he received an incoming text.
can i come over?
Marco sat straight up in his seat.
"Shit, he wants to come over," he said to Armin. He heard the rustling of paper in the background. He wondered if Armin was working on math or chemistry. He hadn’t started either assignment yet.
"Do you feel like you can handle it?"
Marco conducted an assessment of how he was feeling. His heart rate was relatively normal, his hands weren’t shaking, and he could breathe.
"Yeah, I’m much calmer now," Marco replied.
"Okay. Be brave, Marco."
"Thanks. Wait, Armin, it doesn’t bother you that I’m, um…"
"Marco, no. Good luck!" he said before they ended the call. He sent a text back to Jean before finally getting out of the car.
Marco hastened to his bedroom, doubly thankful that none of his siblings were around to torment him on his way upstairs. He heard strains of orchestral music coming from his parents’ master bedroom. He caught the reflection of the television screen in the window as he passed their half-open door.
He closed his door quietly behind him. He pressed his back against it, still clutching the knob. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
His eyes jolted open as he heard the familiar click of a pebble on his window. He crossed his room and pushed open his window. He removed the screen and watched as Jean scaled the lattice woodwork on the side of the house, as he had many times before in the past, and climbed through.
"One day, I’d love to come in through the front door," he said as he brushed off his clothes. Marco remained silent. He locked the window.
Jean shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and wandered over to Marco’s bed. He sat down on his usual place, his legs dangling over the mattress. He wasn’t very tall yet; his toes barely scraped the carpet. He patted the spot next to him, as if it was his bedroom instead of Marco’s.
Marco dropped down next to him with a sigh. His eyes lingered on the Bastille poster plastered to the opposite wall. Jean followed his gaze.
"That’s new."
"Mm. I’ve had a thing for them lately."
"Cool."
"Yeah."
"Marco, are you okay? You were acting kind of weird when we left."
"I’m doing alright now," Marco said. He started to knead his hands together so that they had something to do.
"Did I do something?"
"What? No!" It’s me. It’s me, I’m a screw up, he wanted to say. When Marco looked up again, Jean’s face was alarmingly close to his own. Marco listened to the sound of his own palms scraping together. Jean reached out and stilled his hands.
"Marco, please tell me,” he pleaded. “I’m worried about you.”
Jean’s honey brown eyes were wide with concern. He was sitting with his back to the lamp on Marco’s night stand, which provided his outline with a sort of glow. Marco could feel his heart skip a beat. Jean had come all this way and scaled the side of his house, something he hadn’t done in months, to make sure he was okay.
"I-I…" he faltered. He looked down at their hands and then back up at Jean.
He thought back to the brushing of their hands and the moment in the garage when he was thinking about all the things he wanted to do with him. He thought of his conversation with Armin and allowed the strength of all that emotion carry him onward.
"I like you," he said, slowly so as to savor the revelation. "Like you, like you,” he clarified.
Jean’s grasp tightened around his hands. “Well you don’t have to say it like somebody died.”
"Sorry," Marco said with a small laugh.
"Well, I like like you, too,” Jean said with a smile.
"For how long?" The words were out of Marco’s mouth before he realized what he was asking.
Jean’s eyebrows furrowed as he considered his answer. “Almost a year now.”
"Oh. Well. I guess I’m trying to say that…" But Marco still couldn’t say the word. They were so close now that Marco could see a smattering of tan freckles on the bridge of Jean’s nose.
Jean released his grip on his hands. Marco suppressed a whimper. He reached up and grasped the rims of Marco’s glasses.
"May I?"
"Uh, sure?" Marco said, unsure of what he was doing. He watched as the world around him suddenly lost all its sharpness. His room was blurry and all he could see was Jean sitting right in front of him. He realized that it was kind of like the visual equivalent of how Jean made him feel - like he was focused on one thing only and everything else fell away. It was a nice feeling.
"Why did you take my glasses off?"
"So that it’d be easier when I did this." Jean rested his hand on the nape of Marco’s neck and pulled him closer. Their lips were only inches apart now.
"Is this okay?" Jean asked, his warm breath fanning over Marco’s cheeks. It smelled vaguely minty. His thumb absentmindedly stroked the back of his neck.
"Yes."
Jean closed the rest of the distance between them. Their first kiss was short and sweet, lips pressed together lightly. But the next one was a bit more forceful. Jean began to trail kisses along the curve of Marco’s jaw, using it as an excuse to memorize every one of his freckles. Jean progressed to his neck, pressing gentle kisses there and falling in love with the little noises coming out of Marco’s mouth.
"Marco?" he asked in between kisses. "Are?" Kiss. "You?" Kiss. "Gay?"
Jean paused, his lips hovering over skin. He had sensed Marco’s hesitation in saying the word and wondered if anything had changed.
"I’m definitely gay." Marco anchored his own hands on the back of Jean’s skull and titled his head up so that they were at the same eye level. "Now kiss me again. Please."