Work Text:
Proms aren’t really my thing if I’m honest. But Jean is going and he asked me to be his date so ironically – but giddily – I’m fixing my tie in front of the mirror and mentally asking myself if it suits me or not that I adjusted my hairline asymmetrically so my pitch-black hair is swept to the side.
My dad happens to pass by my room, drops by and checks on me, “You look great, Marco.”
Slightly startled, I turn to my father rather abruptly and stammer, “T-thanks, Dad.”
It’s not common for my dad to compliment. Receiving such feels like winning the lotto by chance and I’m all surprised, with my jaw dropped, about it. Not that my jaw did drop when my Dad complimented me.
I hear the doorbell ring from downstairs, and although I anticipated who it is, it still feels surreal when my Mom calls out, “Marco, Jean’s here!”
And I feel more and more surreal when my Dad said, “That must be your date.”
A gentle smile plays on my dad’s thin lips, his kind and genial nature radiating about him despite his sharp and lean nose and angular jaw. Sometimes I wonder what I got from my dad because I border more on the pudgy and soft-edged side, on par with his beveled features. Maybe his green eyes.
My dad squeezes my shoulder and tells me, “Enjoy your night.”
“Thanks, Dad! I’m gonna head down now.”
When I’m running down the stairs, for a moment I feel like tripping over with how light I feel in the head like I’m running in my dream. Honestly, the idea of dating Jean hasn’t set in yet , like how you forget those awesome dreams you have ten minutes after you woke up but you have to figure out what they were because they’re that awesome . Dating Jean is awesome in my vocabulary.
And surely, when I reach the threshold, Jean is standing on the other side of it. And it seems the ground is swept under my feet that I’m left floating in the air because Jean’s playful smirk over the bouquet of white carnations he’s holding over to me is just too much for my heart to process.
Honestly, from my Dad’s compliment to being Jean’s date and to having him physically taking me out, I do doubt why I am not yet fainting.
“My, what beautiful flowers are those, Jean! You’re a good picker, aren’t ya?” I’m brought back to my senses with my mom’s squeal.
Jean turns his head away, hiding his blush but jokes on him because I catch it. He scratches the back of his neck bashfully as he stammers, “T-thank you.” He delivers the gratitude rather tight than he’s supposed to.
“Take good care of our son tonight,” My dad appears from behind me I almost jump.
Jean jerks up straight and delivers a sharp, except for the stuttering start, “Y-yes, sir!”
I don’t blame him. I was too close to react the same way but thanks (sometimes) to my quick brain, it reminds me I am my father’s son. It isn’t that my father is scary, but he holds such nobility around him you can’t help but treat him like a King. (Meanwhile, me, his son, acts and looks like a peasant.)
“Come on, Kirschtein~ Drop it off. You make me sound like a scary colonel,” my father chuckles.
“I-I’m sorry ....Mr. Bodt,” Jean brings up his hand to the back of his neck again and I’ve never seen him more bashful than ever.
“Please, just call me Gabriel.”
“Y-yes…Gabriel,” Jean tries to hide his flustered cheeks by looking down.
In my attempt to save Jean’s cornered confidence (poor baby), I step out of the threshold and take the bouquet, bringing the flowers up to my nose and savoring the strong scent of carnations. “Thanks, Jean.” I smile at him.
Jean seems to be struggling to meet me in the eye, and his scratches on the back of his neck are going down the aggressive route. I feel sorry for him for a moment, but I like this side of him no matter how tormented he must have been feeling.
“I…uhm…I’m glad you liked it,” Jean mutters under his quivering breath.
“Let’s go. We’ll be late at this point,” I grab his hand and we both hop down the porch. As we’re running our way to the street side, I shout over my shoulder, “Goodbye, Mom! Dad!”
My mom catches up a, “Enjoy your night, both of you!”
Jean pulls off from my grip and guides me to his Honda scooter waiting by the roadside.
“I thought you don’t like this?” I ask, motioning to the scooter.
Jean rolls his eyes before sighing, “Of course, I don’t. But I don’t have a choice since my dad wouldn’t let me have anything other than this because, as he said , ‘This is good enough for you for now.’ Just wait till I’m college, I’m pulling off some sports one.”
I did ask him one time why not a car which he reasoned out a) doesn’t make any addictive noise and b) “I can’t feel the rush of things” in verbatim from him.
“So this is the carriage,” I comment and snigger at my own joke before the punchline, “And you’re the horse.”
Jean whines, “Come on, Marco~ Do you really have to pull off that joke right now???”
“I had the chance, Jean. Of course, I’m taking it,” I say, laughing, as I take the red helmet he’s handing me.
“You know you’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?” says Jean as he pulls the helmet over his head and securing the straps under his chin. He whispers something after but I can’t make out any of it except for the feel of his lips on my cheeks that made my nerves jump. I feared I could have dropped the helmet but phew, good thing I didn’t. Instead, my hold on it gets tighter as I feel my blood rushing up to my face.
Jean sniggers and, quickly, he climbs up the bike. “We have to hurry, Marco,” he says as he switches on the engine.
“This isn’t fair! Don’t I get a payback?” I protest but climb in anyway.
I try to ignore the way my insides seem to twist and turn into marshmallows and butterflies when I edge closer to Jean’s back, and though it isn’t as broad as mine, his back has a reputation for being lean and strong. And I also definitely absolutely painfully try to ignore how weak and clammy my arms become when I wrap them around Jean. But all throughout the ride from my house to the school, all I had done was try.
*****
The Chainsmokers blasts through the speakers when we get inside the school’s gymnasium, holding each other’s hands. Kinda in line with my taste of music, however, modernized, but not really my cup of tea. But who really plays MCR during prom? And in 2017? If some school does, I’d like to transfer. Right now .
The waltz… or cocktail dance….. or whatever that is where you dance together romantically hasn’t started yet. And although it’s not really up in my dictionary, if I’m doing it with Jean I sure as hell would do it. I never even imagined doing it in my whole life but wow, am I a step away from a dream I never know is a dream until it’s actually happening.
“I-I have something to do,” says Jean as he’s uneasily looking around him, perking up my curiosity. “Just a minute. I’ll be back.” He tells me before letting go of my hand – and before I could even ask about his business. But it isn’t like I would actually ask. I like giving other people the benefit of the doubt.
But now the absence of Jean’s fingers in the spaces between mine is too sharp for me I can’t shake it off.
“Hey, Marco!” I turn around and see Eren, swarmed in the crowd of high school students dressed elegantly for the night, waving at me. “Come over here!” I jog my way to the bandstand where he and the rest of his friend circle – Mikasa, Armin – are lounging around.
“We still can’t believe it, Marco,” starts Eren when I arrive at their place. He looks pretty alright tonight, though the flannel suit is pretty big for him Marco gauges, but Mikasa will still look past that and gaze at Eren like he’s Jay Gatsby.
“About what?”
“About you and Jean.”
I and Jean only started dating for the last three weeks after an unfortunately three-year-long mutual pining and giving each other hints which we both dropped down because we’re literal ditzes. Yeah, we wasted three years like that .
Eren adds, sporting crossed arms across his chest, “Really, you’re so kind, Marco. You’re a literal angel. And Jean’s a jerk.”
I can only chuckle, “But once you get to know Jean, he’s a great guy.
Eren rolls his eyes and scoffs, “I don’t know about that.”
“You’re just saying that Eren because you’re still bitter about him winning over you in this year’s soccer,” states Armin matter-of-factly, as he hops out of the bandstand and stands beside Eren.
“What??” Eren gives Armin an incredulous look, “I’m over that already, Armin! That’s like a first-semester thing!”
“Yeah Eren, you’re just bitter,” I hear Jean’s voice from beside me (I wonder when he did arrive) that I turn to him as he flings an arm across my back and looks down at Eren with the usual cocky smirk he throws at the guy.
I already know where this is going. Good grief .
“Speaking of the devil himself ,” emphasizes Eren and gives Jean the glare .
“Guys…” I warn calmly and early before this is going to turn into a fistfight, “I hope you’re not thinking of fighting in the middle of the prom.”
“Ha, why would I ruin my getup because of a little bastard like him?!”
“Well yeah, I would so I can knock that smug look off your horse face!”
And Eren said something that he shouldn’t say.
“Ha?!” Jean advances, grabbing Eren’s lapel, “Dare say that again, asshole!”
“Jean!”
Quickly, I clutch on the arm he uses in grabbing Eren’s coat, trying to tug it off before he ruins it.
“Hey, guys!” Armin also tries to pull Eren away.
“Jean, don’t. Teachers might kick us out,” I plead softly while I check the surroundings for sights of teachers looking interrogatively to our direction. I spot a few teachers by the stage but, fortunately , are busy giving instructions to the audio manager.
Jean loses his rough grip on Eren. He dusts off his arms, neatening some creases here and there, “Let’s go, before I lose my shit here and waste it at him.”
We both start walking our way out Eren and Armin’s space.
“Yeah, get lost!” Eren yells behind us.
“Fuck off!” shouts back Jean.
“You’ve been classmates for, like, three years but you still can’t stand each other.” I shake my head.
“I hate his guts.”
However, that seems to be the only explanation Jean supplies every single time this happens.
A bit of an opening program commences, with the stout principal’s speech I listen to attentively while Jean keeps yawning and mumbling under his breath to make it quick. I look around and the other students are in the same bored or impatient situation.
When the start of the cocktail announced though, they have their energy back as they stroll around the gym floor, taking their dates with them.
Since I and Jean haven’t left each other’s side since the opening program, only a turn of our heads is all it takes for us to find each other.
“You take the lead because you’re a bit taller,” Jean shrugs and adds, rolling his eyes, “which I really hated. Ugh, those few inches are damn annoying.”
Tittering, I face Jean, “I’ve never really done this before.”
“We practiced, remember?”
I did remember our not-so serious practice where we only keep tripping over and laughing so, “I thought that wasn’t serious!
“Come on, you got this,” he winks at me and takes my hand, holding them surprisingly gently considering how Jean is basically rough around the edges – the duality something I can never get used to – and pulling them up over my shoulders. He places my palm on his shoulder and holds my left hand up, firm but genteel.
I put forward a step rather too early Jean didn’t anticipated, stepping on his shoes and spitting an “Oww!” out of him.
“I’m sorry!”
Jean chortles before it turns into a hearty laugh, “Guess we just have to do it the simple way then.”
We decide to just sway our bodies side to side, but we have to step closer that we’re practically touching. He hooks an arm around my waist, pulls me closer, and rests his head against my shoulder. We’ve never been really this close before, so right now it feels over-the-top electrifying even though we’re covered with coats and all.
Strange magic – I’m familiar with the song because it was played in one of the animations my little brother happened to watch on TV – croons sweetly all over the gym building, the colorful lights dancing around us.
I sense Jean’s sudden tension a few minutes into the song, his shoulders rigid and his wrap around my hips tight.
“Jean?” I prompt him, “Are you okay?”
“Ah, yeah,” I make out from his muffled voice against my coat. He takes in a sharp breath, maybe inhaling my perfume or being nervous.
He doesn’t say anything else after that while I didn’t prod further, both of us just stay tenderly swaying to the music as I quietly inhale the lavender in his hair.
“I’m just gonna miss you is all,” Jean finally says.
I don’t have to ask why he’s gonna miss me.
Two weeks before the prom, when our school allowed universities to pay a visit to our grounds and distribute fliers to promote their programs, university incentives and how cool and unique their institute is, discussions about our college plans and dream schools were fairly normal among us around that time.
When I told Jean about taking up Psychology, we both checked out his choice of school rather excitedly only to find out his choice doesn’t offer my preferred program. But I know I can’t force him to give up Fine Arts and pick whatever school I’m gonna pick just so we can be together. I can never do that, especially that he can’t shut up about art ever since we’re elementary.
In the end, we have to pick two different schools and plan to enter the realm of Long Distance Relationship – pretty much cruel for us who only started hanging out with each other for three weeks.
I hug Jean even tighter, practically lifting him up, “I’m gonna miss you too, Jean.”
“Can we really pull it off?” Jean has pulled away from the embrace and looks up at me, a worried scowl on his face. Seemingly embarrassed for his uncertainty (I guess), he looks away and down at the ground, “I mean….it’s just….. not gonna be easy. Even if we both stay loyal.”
“Hey, the university is just in the city next to yours,” I cup his chin and lift up his face, “We can visit each other when we have the time.” I give him a reassuring smile.
Jean smiles tentatively, “I guess so. What’s my bike for, anyway?”
“See? I told you.”
“But damn , why did it take me so long to tell you everything?!” Jean, grunting in frustration, buries his face on my chest.
I chuckle and stop my hand before tousling Jean’s hair, remembering it isn’t the usual fuzzy style and crisp texture he normally wears on when he’s at home. It’s a habit of mine, specifically when we’re playing video games and Jean is frustrated that I’m getting ahead of him, I tousle his unsprayed, un-gelled and un-styled hair, feeling his crisp hair prickling my hand – and the feeling something only I know about.
I put my hand back to my side; forget I even thought of it at the moment.
We dance through the song peacefully, sometimes laughing at Connie and Sasha who aren’t romantically dancing as much as they are inventing silly moves and how the other teachers have to drag Mr. Pixis out of the venue because he’s already very wasted he started to walk up on stage and almost strip-tease. (He’s our music teacher and, really, he always comes into class reeking of alcohol, even bringing a flask with him. The whole class always wonders how he gets away with it when it’s against the codes.)
We also gossip about how Mr. Smith seems to be having a hard time asking Mr. Levi out for a dance and it’s such a complete shame because, if I and Jean have wasted less than three years pining and hinting without confessing outright right away, then those two have wasted more than three – five, even. Everyone wonders when will those two gonna pick up the clues and hit it off. Jean’s betting his bike that a ten-year worth of alumni has to pass by before that happens. I laugh, he might be right.
Anyway, we both didn’t finish the whole prom program (despite my protests and warnings that our teachers might sanction us and we can’t graduate), escaping through the backstage door (on Jean’s lead, of course) just as the emcees announce the Prom King and Queen. When we reach the parking lot, we climb on his bike and drive our way to the other plans we have – or Jean have – for the night, as it is still young and wild.
********
Since the start of this week, I couldn’t stop whining about this band concert in town that, as bad luck would have it, happens on the same night and at the same time with our prom. Jean proposed the idea of not staying through the whole prom so we can go but now that we’re out, I feel guilty and my goody-two-shoes (as Jean calls it) ego can’t help but worry.
“Jean, are you sure about this?” I shout behind Jean, who is scurrying the bike through the cars along the main highway.
“You’ve been asking that fifteen times, Marco!”
“It’s just—-”
“Don’t worry too much! If you can’t graduate, at least I’m also not graduating without you,” quips Jean, cracking up.
“Hey, that’s not funny!” I protest, “I don’t wanna be stuck in high school!”
When we reach the concert venue, the noise and lights give me a sense of relief that the concert isn’t over yet. After securing a space in the parking lot, I and Jean step into the colorfully noisy crowd. We didn’t jostle our way into the throng, deciding to just party along the sidelines where there’s easy access to the exit when we wish to get out.
The band is fairly new in my playlist, but when I got a whiff about their live concert in town, I was curious so I secured two tickets (I never left out Jean in this because, even if it isn’t up to his music taste, he doesn’t want me to go alone). But right now that I’m here, I think it is not so bad especially when, if I imagine the trendy pop our school’s hired DJ cooks up in the disco portion after the prom, I shudder. No offense to the jockey or to the modern music industry, but I’d rather be where I am right now.
I’m headbanging and shimmying to the tunes, even imitating a rockstar going wild on electric guitar riffs. Jean is pumping his hands in the air and jumping on place, in time with the beats. And mind you, we’re both wearing suits right now. But it’s a rave show and the best part here is no one gives a damn about what you wear. And also what you do, so we set ourselves loose.
Jean mumbles something to me but with how loud the crowd is, all I can hear is something and drink through minimal lip-reading skill.
“What???” I ask as I step closer, directing my ear to him.
Jean closes his lips to my ear and, unexpectedly, says, “I said, I love you!”
I take a staggering step back and stutter, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks, “J-Jean….”
But Jean only laughs at me before grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the crowd. We walk our way to the bar with our fingers knit together tightly. Jean doesn’t let go even as we reach the counter and sit on the bar stools.
“One Coke,” Jean holds a finger up to the bartender with his free hand. He turns to me, eyebrows raised, “And you?”
“Just sparkling water.”
When the blond-haired bartender walks back to our counter with our drinks, he places the cans in front of us, opens them and, looking at us, asks, “Ditching prom, are we?”
“Y-yeah….” I nod shyly as I pick the bubbling sparkling water up to my lips with my free hand. Jean hasn’t let go yet and I wonder if we’re gonna spend the rest of the evening without letting each other go.
“We don’t like the songs they’re playing there,” replies Jean, after chugging a good portion of his Coke.
“Understandable,” the bartender chuckles.
“And we want to be alone with ourselves, out of the eyes of our classmates. Just with strangers,” Jean adds.
“I see, you’re a couple.”
“E-Eehh??” I almost choke on my sparkling water. “Is it really that obvious??”
“The way he looks at you,” the bartender looks at me, wiping droplets off of the glass, and motions to Jean, “…..says everything.”
Jean also almost chokes on his Coke, putting a mouth over his hand to keep some Coke from spaying out. He glares at the bartender, with flustered cheeks, and mutters, “You don’t have to point that out.”
I also have to cover half of my face, and feeling suddenly too hot even if it’s still February.
The good-humored – and pearly-toothed (he has a nice set of teeth) – bartender laughs, setting the glass he just wiped under the counter. A customer from the other end of the bar calls for him so he excuses himself from us, but not without throwing a meaningful wink at us.
I place a palm carefully on the countertop, the chilly tile glaring in comparison to the traces of warmth in my cheeks left on my hand. I try to calm my crazily beating heart down but I’m a stuttering mess when I speak up, “W-well, that was….funny…”
“I…I think we should go back,” Jean’s also failing the calm-down mission. He almost stumbles face first on the ground when he hops off the barstool, thanks to my reflexes I was able to hold him back.
“Wait,” Jean pulls back when I try to drag him to the crowd. I turn to him, curious, and he continues, “I have something to give you.”
I trace my steps back to Jean.
“It’s not much but,” Jean reaches down his pocket and fumbles his hand inside. When he pulls a tiny black box, I can’t hide my surprise. “B-but I just want people to know that you already have someone, especially when we’re apart.”
“Jean….”
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears when Jean slowly opens the box. I can feel my breath going a mile per second, my nerves drum-rolling to an imaginary beat. I can’t even hold up a hand for Jean without it apparently shaking.
And when Jean fixes up the other ring on his own ring finger, I can’t help but feel like – and no matter how dryly romantic this sounds – there’s an imaginary string between his ring and mine, now tying us together, making us connected and complete.
I can’t even care if I bump into another person now but, fuelled with too much happiness, I pull Jean abruptly and drag him to the crowd where everything is alive and in full color.
When we reach the crowd, I pull Jean close to me, cup his face and plant a full kiss on his lips. It takes him five seconds to open his mouth and slip a tongue right away before I can take the upper hand – or upper tongue, whatever. It isn’t our first kiss but it’s the first one that seems less of a smooch and more of a borderline make-out session.
Jean slides his hands up my waist, holding me in place before pulling me closer. I run my fingers through his neck up to his hair, not caring if I mess it up, and he holds the back of my head as he kisses me deeper and fuller I feel my mind spinning and spiraling into oblivion.
The band music is fading away, my heartbeats far too loud for the music to take over. College plans are a few states away from where we are right now. Prom feels like a century ago. Seriously, everything just keeps getting suck away from us, as though we’re at the center of the black hole where nobody can reach and touch us.
With our foreheads still touching, I break away with a sigh and look at him in the eyes mischievously, “That’s the payback.”
Jean smirks, “But why do I feel like I’m winning?”