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Vanilla.
One word, three syllables, and seven letters.
Even thinking of those particular stringing of sounds made Jean want to hurl.
They reminded him too much of home. They reminded him too much of warm arms embracing a body that he would claim to be forever too cold to let go of. They reminded him too much of soft eyes, shimmering to life with a mere touch upon soft skin. They reminded him too much of long lashes that dusted across freckled cheeks he's been spending years yearning to carry between his palms once again.
The smell of vanilla reminded Jean too much of the smell that filled his senses when his sight was accompanied with nothing other than long shadows in flickering candle light, his breathing as slow and steady as the body next to him.
The smell of vanilla reminded Jean too much of a man who was too beautiful for a world that was too cruel.
One would think that he'd slowly but surely forget each detail, as if each frozen fragment of a each moment they spent together would fade alongside the passing of time, but Jean couldn't forget.
In his younger years, the thoughts and images of Marco all but permanently branded within the deep confines of his mind only served to fuel the determination that Jean felt towards finding him. He spent months on end searching for a sign, amber eyes growing more and more tired with the false hope that came into reading far too much into a certain sway within a walk, or a particular note heard from a laugh. Eventually, Jean became exhausted from the efforts that amounted to nothing, and the search had aged him with a swiftness that was blinding until--suddenly--he found that he was pushing thirty.
It wasn't easy for him to give up.
It'd taken him longer to do that than it had to begin searching in the first place. And even when more years stretched on from that decision, Jean wasn't able to keep himself from twitching at the sight of short black hair flowing lazily in the wind, or a lanky body hunched defensively over a thick book.
Everything had hurt for a long while, but Jean found that the pain was indefinitely more bearable when sharing it with someone who carried a mirror of it within themselves.
It wasn't hard for him to continuously find comfort in beautiful green eyes he felt a surprising amount of affection for.
Jean found solace in the one man he recalled somewhat irrationally despising a lifetime ago.
He found solace in the feeling skin meeting upon skin, heated hands grabbing desperately for love they both knew they wouldn't be able to find. He found solace in the whispered sounds of harsh breathing, and a murmur of stories that all revolved around a name that was not his. Jean found solace in the smell of cinnamon, sharp and spicy as it chased through his lungs, pushing away any traces of vanilla found in the deepest core of his being.
Today would mark the third year that he'd been living with Eren.
Their relationship was nothing short of infuriating; all jagged rocks and crashing waves, both of which refusing to give in and simply meld together instead of repeatedly crashing against one another. But neither of them left, neither of them even thought of leaving. They needed each other.
Jean was currently walking down the cement sidewalk leading to Eren's favorite bakery, his hands shoved deep within the pockets of a jacket he knew for a fact made him look like a marshmallow. Sure, he wasn't all too expressive when it came to showing his affection, but he wasn't so much of an asshole as to bring home nothing on such an important anniversary. A cake was--what--thirty bucks?
A couple bucks wasn't nearly enough to show just how thankful he was to Eren for taping back the pieces of his heart he'd been so sure he'd left with Marco.
Stepping through the door to the bakery brought a snug relief settling about Jean's shoulders. It was warm enough within the little shop for him to remove his jacket, which was something he took advantage of quickly, uncaring of the fact that he'd be leaving soon anyway. He held the bloated fabric between his arm and his waist with a hand placed within his pocket, and ran his fingers through the hair that he'd long ago kept brown before looking up.
The first thing Jean processed when looking up at the man behind the counter of pastries was a mouth agape. The thin lips were parted in what was obviously shock, and the sight would have made Jean either laugh or send over a flurry of insults, depending on his mood. As it was, he did neither, and instead felt himself mimicking the exact expression of the baker he was standing across.
He couldn't forget those eyes, so beautiful and big and brown; those long lashes framing them so gorgeously, so perfectly. He couldn't forget that jaw, squared and sharp and soft all the same. He couldn't forget those cheeks, adorned with every freckle he still vividly recalls pressing kisses upon, and briefly he wondered whether they were a testament towards the number of lives that Marco had been through; and the thought hurt him as much as being away from Marco had.
It didn't matter how many years had passed, or how many lifetimes they spent simply passing by one another. Jean could never forget the man that made his blood race with a single glance, he could never forget the man that made his stomach churn with one breath fanned against his skin.
He felt tears well within his eyes, his gut dropping down to the floor as he memorized each feature he hadn't forgotten in the centuries that they'd been apart.
"Marco."