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"Hey, Jean?" the freckled, black-haired male called, knocking on the younger's door in concern. He was sure he'd heard a yell from his male counterpart and him cussing from the other side of the wall, and worry flooded through his veins. He knew that Jean was a complicated individual; hell, he'd had to put up with his rants and breakdowns firsthand. They'd known each other for nearly five whole years now, so it was expected. However, as soon as he knocked, the room opposite went completely silent, and all he could hear was his heart drumming against his ribcage. "It's Marco. Are you alright?"
"Yeah, whatever," he heard brunette mumble from inside, but he could hear a very slight voice break. He wasn't sure whether Jean was crying or not, and although it was highly unlikely that the kid would be doing such a thing, he didn't particularly want to leave him alone and feel guilty all night. "It doesn't matter."
"Jean, I'm coming in," Marco stated, and, hearing no protests from Jean, pushed open the door. Thankfully, Jean was not crying but was instead sat on the edge of his bed clutching his fist. It was clear as day what'd happened; the small dent in the wall proved everything.
Marco, surprised by his friend's actions, closed the door and rushed over, kneeling in front of Jean. His eyes were wide as he tried to prise Jean's fingers away from his clearly injured hand, but the brunette wouldn't let him see that easily. He quietly cursed under his breath, snatching his wrist away from Marco's grip.
"Let me see, Jean," the taller said, his eyes always portraying a friendliness in them that anybody could trust. But... Jean was embarrassed. He didn't want to show his weakness to his best friend, and people died every day... Marco would call him an idiot. "Why did you punch the wall?"
"I didn't," Jean muttered, but it was obvious he was lying. Not only could he not look Marco in the eyes, but there was also a gaping hole in the wall. "And you'd call me an idiot."
"When have I ever called anybody that?" Marco scoffed, his eyebrows raised as he finally saw the marks on Jean's hand. His knuckles weren't only split open, but one of them looked fractured too, and already, a bruise was beginning to form. He brushed his fingers gently yet soothingly over the marks, and Jean winced. "Come to my room, Jean. I've got a first aid kit in there."
"I'm fine," Jean snapped, pulling his hand away. "It doesn't matter."
Sighing at his stubbornness, Marco pulled himself up and examined the mark on the wall. He'd punched it hard, meaning there was certainly something on his mind. How the boy was going to prise it out of him was another matter that'd be near impossible. Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he turned back around to face Jean, who was sat awkwardly on his bed trying to fix his hand as best he could. Needless to say, it wasn't working.
"Did Eren say something?" Marco asked, knowing that the boys, unfortunately, didn't get on as well as people had hoped and had the habit to argue.
Jean scoffed, "Why would that prat say anything? He gets on my nerves but he doesn't make me punch walls."
"So you did punch the wall," the other said, and Jean rolled his eyes.
"I thought that was obvious."
Marco chuckled to himself with a small smile, glad the boy was joking around again, even if he was still in pain. However, he continued to press on. "Was there a death?"
"What?! No!" Jean replied defensively, raising his eyebrows. "Of course not! Just, stop asking! I don't know why I did it. I had a lot on my mind and... I couldn't think of how to get rid of it. Now I've got a painful hand, broken wall and STILL GOT a lot on my mind."
"Yeah, punching walls doesn't usually help," Marco sighed, sitting down beside the agitated male and thinking of ways to calm him down. He wasn't and never had been the best to fix up people's moods. In fact, he'd never known someone with such complex emotions as Jean, so it was difficult for him to even comprehend the fact that someone had just punched the wall. "Is there... anything I can do?"
"Be my punching bag," Jean muttered under his breath, and the older raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I'm kidding, I'd never do that to you."
"You better not," Marco warned, and the younger chuckled to himself, shaking his head softly. "Anything that doesn't involve in me getting hurt."
"I guess just a..." Jean mumbled, going slightly pink in the face as embarrassment washed over him. "a hug."
"A hug?" Marco asked, a little louder than expected, and Jean cursed to himself, hiding his face. However, the brunette didn't expect the raven-haired boy to comply, and he was completely taken aback when he felt Marco's arm wrap gently around his shoulders and pull him close. He put his arms around the older's waist and put his head into Marco's shoulder, hiding his face. It was an utterly embarrassing and unmanly thing for him to do (at least, that's what he thought at the time), but he couldn't help it.
"Sorry for worrying you," Jean muttered, and Marco smiled. It was an out-of-character thing for Jean to say or even do, but he didn't mind at all.
"It's okay," he responded, ruffling Jean's brown hair. "If you ever need me, always remember I'm next door."
Why was that memory coming back? And why now?
He needed his best friend, that's why.
Jean froze in place as he watched a woman holding a gun jump past and shoot, time going in slow motion. He heard the yells of Connie, Levi and Armin, who were all watching in suspense, but there was no way Jean would be able to avoid it. There wasn't enough time, and the three bullets were zooming towards him at top speed. He tried to move his arm up to block them, but he was too late.
They pierced his skin so easily, and he instantly vomited blood when one of them hit his abdomen. Then, he fell to the floor, and his eyes closed. They always say that the last sense you lose is the ability to hear, and the tortured, fading cries of his friends were the things he really didn't want to listen to as he died.
His eyes snapped shut, and a searing pain shot through his body before it... all vanished.
A strange tingling replaced everything he felt, and his ears rung. Groaning hoarsely, he allowed his eyes to open, but he squinted in the bright light. Where was he?
Trying to sit up, his hand shot to the throbbing pain in his head. It was as if he was regaining his senses all over again, and when his memories of what felt like five minutes ago came flooding back, his other hand began to scan across his body, searching for the bullet wounds and blood that should've been there.
But there was nothing.
Once his eyes finally adjusted, he was able to see that he wasn't wearing his new, black Survey Corps uniform anymore. Instead, he was wearing a pair of baggy black shorts and loose black v-neck that he often wore to bed. He raised his eyebrows, and when he looked up, he gasped out loud to realise that he was sitting in what he could only call a cloud. Except it wasn't a cloud; it was a hard floor with mist surrounding him and covering his surroundings. He stood up, hoping he wasn't in some sort of trap, but then, a figure walked towards him.
No weapons on hand, he put up his fists. He was twenty years old now with enough experience to fight off anybody, including Eren, his proudest win yet. However, his jaw dropped when someone oddly recognisable walked over.
The man was a little bit taller than him, with a mop of very slightly curly black hair and sun-kissed skin. He wore a similar outfit as Jean, showing off his muscles and the freckles that were scattered not only across his face but across his arms as well. No...
Was he dreaming? No, he'd died. This must be... the afterlife, right? Jean gulped, and his arms relaxed lightly as his mind whirred at a million miles per hour. It must be, he got shot three times and woke up here. Worst of all, he couldn't feel his legs, and now he was faced up with the man he'd left five years ago, guilt overflowing from his body almost every day since then. It should've been Jean instead of... him. The black-haired man had always been a better leader and people-person, whereas Jean was useless. He took a step back, but his racing heart was somewhat soothed by this man's gentle smile.
Then, he opened his mouth to speak, and Jean burst into tears, unable to hold his emotions anymore.
"Hey Jean, it's Marco."
He jumped up and ran into the taller man's arms, hugging him just like they had years before. He pressed his face into the raven-haired man's shoulder and cried, not caring how he looked right now or if anybody could see him. He wasn't sure whether he was crying more over the fact that he'd died or the fact that right there was his best friend, the man who'd died and he hadn't been able to do anything about it. His heart was pounding, and he could feel Marco's warm embrace as he sniffled.
"I-I'm sorry," Jean stuttered, but Marco hushed him.
"It's understandable," he chuckled, and Jean was so unbelievably relieved to even be able to talk to Marco, never mind touch him. There were so many things he wanted - no, needed - to say to him, including all his adventures and losses and brilliant deeds he'd done. Most of all, he needed to thank him. Even though he'd been gone, Jean had been able to survive and keep pushing on just because of the times they'd had together years ago. He may be a grown man with a stubble and long hair, but he couldn't help his waterfall of tears.
Suddenly, Jean felt Marco thump his fist against his back, and he looked up in surprise. "Hey! What was that for?!"
"Dying so soon."
"Yeah right. you can't say anything."