Chapter Text
Marco tried to be happy.
A lot of people thought he was crazy for it, but he just thought that he had to at least try, right?
It wasn’t easy. There were nights, when he was huddled under a bus shelter alone and soaking wet from the rain and not having changed his boxers for a week, when his resolve was truly tested.
He didn’t know where he would be without Jean. It wasn’t like he had any family left, or at least any that he could go to. His parents had split when he was little. He stayed with his mom because his dad wanted nothing to do with him, content to go make a family with somebody else. His mom had gotten in a car crash the beginning of his senior year in high school. She’d forgotten to change her will once Marco had turned 18, which had just been the summer before, so her ex-husband got everything.
Marco’s dad didn’t bother letting him ever see a dime of that money. Marco stayed with friends his last year of high school, but with the meager amount in his college savings – his mom had never been able to save a whole lot, since she was raising Marco alone – he couldn’t afford to go anywhere, so he decided to go into the army.
He’d never liked war, but he didn’t see any other choice. He wanted to get a college education, and if he served in the army they would pay for it.
He never expected to be wounded so badly.
They’d been sent to a town in the countryside, and all of the people there were nice. Marco and his squad members played soccer with the local boys, and they tried to help the people out whenever they could. They were sent there mostly just on a provisionary basis, and were set to move on somewhere else in a few weeks.
There was a girl’s school on the edge of the town, right by where Marco was walking one day. He almost didn’t notice it, but he saw a small glimmer in the corner of his eye by the school door.
He ran to a window and yelled for them all to get out, climbing inside to help evacuate the small building. He called for backup, but knew it would probably be too late. Most of the girls and the teacher made it out, but he was helping a girl out a window near the front door when the bomb finally went off.
Five girls and the teacher were wounded, and three girls died, including the one Marco was helping. That, more than anything else, is what haunts Marco at night.
At the hospital they told him he saved fourteen girls, but three still died, and that’s what mattered. His mom had always told him to look on the bright side, but for the first time in his life Marco couldn’t do that.
He spent seven months in the hospital going through rehab and seeing psychologists. He learned how to think positively again, to be grateful for what he had and for saving those girls when he almost didn’t even see the bomb.
Sometimes he still felt like he had his arm. Sometimes he thought he could feel it burn and shatter to pieces, a shadow of the last thing the phantom arm felt.
Sometimes he looked in the mirror with his one functioning eye and he started crying.
After he was discharged, Marco was given a monthly check from the government for the arm and eye they’d taken from him and he had nowhere to go. He got by for a little while, but it turned out that nobody wanted to hire a one-eyed, one-armed man with burn scar tissue over half his body like some sort of comic book villain. The rent on his tiny apartment went up, and he couldn’t find another place he could afford, so he ended up on the streets.
It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. It was just supposed to be until he could get himself back on his feet, but it was a lot harder than he’d expected.
He met Jean a few months back when the younger was kicked out of his apartment. Marco had set up post for the night across the street when he’d heard yelling coming from one of the units on the second floor of the building. The window was open, and Marco could hear people screaming at each other until a door slammed, and a minute later the door to the apartment building opened and out strolled Jean.
Marco didn’t mean to stare, but he doesn’t regret that he did.
“What are you staring at?” Jean had asked, jerking his chin at Marco.
Marco stammered. “Are- Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Jean huffed. He crossed the street and plopped down next to Marco, and Marco realized that for all his huffiness, Jean was probably lonely. Jean lit up a cigarette. “Just a fight with the ‘rents, y’know?”
“Oh,” Marco said. “I’m Marco, by the way.”
“Jean,” Jean said, holding out his hand. Marco realized Jean hadn’t yet noticed his eye patch or arm or burn scar. It was pretty dark out, so it wasn’t hard to assume.
So Marco awkwardly used his left hand to shake Jean’s. “Sorry,” he said, turning a bit so Jean would be able to see the eye patch. “I-“
“Oh,” Jean said, noticing.
“Yeah,” Marco said, smiling.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
They looked at each other.
“Why did you get kicked out?” Marco asked, and quickly added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, it’s fine.” Jean took a drag from his cigarette. “Dear old mom and dad don’t really like having a fag son.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Jean blew out a smoke ring for his own entertainment. “You get kicked out or you homeless?”
“Homeless.”
Jean nodded. “What happened to your face?” He wasn’t as polite as Marco, and so he forgot to add the ‘if you don’t mind me asking,’ but Marco didn’t care. It was just nice to have someone to talk to. Sometimes he got awfully lonely on the streets.
“Iraq. Same as my arm.”
“Ah. How long were you over there?”
“Less than a year.”
Jean whistled, impressed. “Sounds like you got lucky.”
Marco laughed. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
They looked at each other again, and Jean realized that their faces were awfully close.
Jean chuckled. “Uh, so I should probably find someplace to sleep-“
“You could stay here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not gonna try anything, right?” Marco may seem like a nice guy, but Jean still knew to be careful.
“Of course not,” Marco said, and he seemed so genuinely shocked that Jean surmised that he could probably trust him.
Jean took another drag of his cigarette. “Alright,” he said. “I guess. But if you try anything you’re dead.”
“I swear I won’t.”
Even with that comfort, Jean didn’t sleep very well that night.
They ended up hanging out quite a bit after that. Marco learned that Jean didn’t have any friends at school, and that he rarely went to school at all – Marco always chastised him for this – so Marco was the first friend Jean had had in a while.
Marco had some other friends, people who also lived on the streets or darn close to them, and over time Jean came to know them, too. But mostly, Jean and Marco just became inseparable. Jean’s relationship with his parents just got worse and worse and he started spending less and less time at home. He spent every minute he could with Marco.
Most of the time, they didn’t do much of anything at all. Jean would sit with Marco on the sidewalks while the guy panhandled or they’d take turns sleeping on the other’s shoulder. Over time they learned everything about each other. Marco learned about how Jean’s mom walked in on him jacking off to gay porn when he was fourteen and sent him to church to find Jesus. Two years later she walked in on him making out with Jesús, a kid his age from the church youth group, and she gave up any hope of him being straight. And so she and Jean’s dad gave up any hope of considering Jean their son. They never outright kicked him out, but the assumption was there that the minute Jean graduated from high school his parents would change the locks.
Well, it wasn’t really an assumption if it was screamed to him at the top of his dad’s lungs.
Jean learned about how Marco lost his arm and eye. He learned how to deal with the nightmares that would wake him up thinking that his arm was burning off again. He learned about Marco’s mom and the car crash that made him go into the military in the first place. He marveled at the lack of resentment Marco held for his father and often poked fun at him for being too nice. Jean thought that Marco was a good foil for him, soft and kind while he was crass and rude. He didn’t know why Marco liked him, but he wasn’t about to argue it.
Jean didn’t need to be told that he had a crush on Marco, but his friends liked to remind him. Especially Jaeger. Thankfully none of them were mean enough to say it in front of Marco, but they certainly brought it up whenever they could.
It wasn’t like he didn’t want to tell Marco. He did. And it wasn’t like he was afraid Marco was straight. They had talked about past relationships before, and Marco had told him about his girlfriend in sophomore and junior years of high school but also about his huge crush on this guy in his freshman art class. And it wasn’t a “I had a bit of a crush on a guy but then I started dating a girl and realized I was straight” way that Marco had said it. It was a “I was pining after this guy and then this girl asked me out and I was kinda interested in her and didn’t think the thing with the guy was going anywhere so I said yes and I enjoyed dating her until she broke up with me at the end of the year.” Jean knew Marco. He could tell the difference.
So he knew Marco was into dick. He just didn’t know if Marco was into his dick. He didn’t know if Marco wanted any relationship at all. He had a lot of other things going on, after all. And he didn’t know if Marco would even be interested in him, this lanky flunking high school senior with a pierced ear and two-toned hair. Marco was a good ol’ boy, who never drank and who chastised Jean for smoking.
It sounded cliché, but Jean didn’t want to ruin their friendship if Marco didn’t like him back. He was Jean’s only close friend, and where would he spend the nights he got kicked out of his house if he couldn’t spend them with Marco? He knew Marco wouldn’t get angry, because he never did. But things would get awkward until Jean decided he couldn’t take it anymore and he’d have to avoid Marco forever. So even though Jaeger and everyone else told him they were sure Marco liked him back, Jean kept quiet.
It was a rainy April evening and Jean had managed to hold off screaming with his parents until after dinner. He had grabbed an umbrella on his way out, which he was even more thankful for when he found Marco in the park, soaking wet. He sat down next to him, not caring that the butt of his jeans were getting wet, and he set the umbrella up to cover them both.
“Hey,” Jean said.
“Hey,” Marco said. He was smiling that adorable smile that always made Jean almost blush whenever he saw it. Jean looked away and they sat in companionable silence until he noticed Marco shiver a few minutes later.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Wet,” Marco answered, still with the damn smile.
Jean frowned, and after a second of thought he took off the red beanie on his head and shoved it over Marco’s.
“Your hat?” Marco asked.
“Yeah,” Jean answered, shrugging it off.
They sat in silence a minute longer, and then Jean turned to face Marco and said, “We should probably find somewhere drier to sleep.”
“I didn’t want to move and not be able to find you,” Marco said.
“I’ll always find you.” Jean smiled and then he noticed how close Marco’s nose was to his and oh God the fog from their breaths were mixing together they were so close and did Marco just glance down at his lips oh no abort mission abort mission.
Jean cleared his throat and turned away. “Well, we should-“
“Jean.”
He turned to face Marco, worried about the seriousness of his tone.
And then Marco’s hand came up and cupped Jean’s cheek and he leaned in or maybe Jean leaned in or maybe they both did, but then their lips were touching.
Marco’s lips were chapped and wet from the rain and a bit cold and Jean knew that his were probably the same way and he would’ve bought Chap Stick or something if he had known this would happen.
The kiss only lasted a second.
Marco pulled away like Jean was an electric shock and looked at his knees, but the sudden movement knocked the umbrella over so the two of them were getting quickly drenched by the rain.
“Sorry!” Marco said as he clambered to pick up the umbrella and kept fumbling it. “I’m so sorry! Sorry!”
Jean managed to get the umbrella set back up again.
“Sorry,” Marco repeated, and he met Jean’s eyes for just a second before looking at his knees, this time more carefully so the umbrella didn’t fall over again.
“Don’t be,” Jean said, and then he realized he waited a little too long to say it for it to be suave. “Sorry, that is,” he clarified.
“I just-“
“I have wanted to kiss you for so fucking long, Marco,” Jean admitted, realizing that Marco – for some insane reason – was worried that Jean didn’t want to kiss him.
“Oh,” Marco said.
“I’m gonna kiss you again, ok?”
“Ok.”
This kiss was longer. Marco was worried that Jean would be put off by the burn scar on the right side of his face, which made the corner of his lips rough and the skin of his cheek puckered and tough. Jean was worried when Marco’s tongue poked into his mouth that he would recoil at the taste of his cigarettes, which always lingered in his mouth no matter how many mints he ate.
Neither of them minded at all.
They only broke apart when Marco accidentally bit down on Jean’s tongue.
“Sorry!” Marco said, but he was definitely not as distraught as the first time he’d said it. “The nerves on that side are kind of whacked.”
Jean had his hand over his mouth as he made sure his tongue wasn’t bleeding. He smiled. “It’s ok,” he assured Marco when he found that it wasn't. He lowered his voice. “We’ll just have to keep practicing.”
He didn’t expect Marco to burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure that sounded a lot smoother in your head, but it didn't even really make sense.”
Jean would not admit that he pouted. “Hey,” he protested. “I am totally smooth.”
“Oh really?” Marco asked.
“Really.” Jean proved it by kissing Marco again.
He pulled away a few minutes later.
“An example of how smooth I am,” he began, and Marco laughed at how he was still on the topic. “Know when you were apologizing the first time? If that were me, when you said not to be sorry, I would have said, ‘But I am. I’m sorry I waited so long to do that.’”
Marco burst out laughing again. “Oh my god.”
“Stop laughing you jerk!”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t!”
“I am so smooth!” Jean argued, slapping Marco on the shoulder.
Marco composed himself as much as he could. “You’re right,” he placated Jean, giving him a small kiss. “You’re totally smooth.”
“I’m totally smooth,” Jean confirmed, kissing Marco back.
They both had colds two days later.