Work Text:
—
“wait, please —“
it isn’t supposed to be this way.
i’m supposed to be a hero.
there was an idea, a plan for victory, for revolution, for salvation. one minuscule step toward change for all of humanity.
how did i get here?
it’s all in flames. buildings crumble and burn. soldiers are snatched from the air. their screams are all anyone can hear.
it’s getting hard to breathe.
rough hands jerk him around. his head hurts. his chest feels hollow. someone is crying. maybe it’s him, but he’s not sure.
why?
there is a decision being made. hot tears track down his dirty cheeks, bitter bile rising in his throat. his gear is gone. he should run. he should fight.
why can’t i move?
“we can’t let him live.”
why can’t i fight back?
“reiner, the—the titan. it’s coming this way!”
the hands release him. he’s pretty sure he’s begging, and it sounds pathetic even to his own partially deaf ears.
“leave him.”
gigantic footsteps echo through his head, a looming threat, an inevitable attack on its way. he should move. he can’t stop begging.
“i’m sorry, marco.”
marco steals one last glance at the people he thought were his friends. one last glance at annie’s grief stricken face. one last glance at bertholdt’s red rimmed eyes. one last glance at reiner’s back, as they all make their escape.
as they leave him.
for dead.
“we haven’t even had the chance to talk!”
he’s pretty sure he’s screaming. he has no weapons, no escape route.
it isn’t supposed to be this way.
why would they do this? to us? to all of humanity?
why did it have to be me?
a massive hand takes hold of him, his only free arm swinging and reaching for purchase, trying to push away. marco tilts his head back, screaming until his throat is raw, eyes pouring out hot tears he’s not even aware he’s shedding. he tries desperately to lean away, kicking and flailing. there is no way out.
marco’s whole life, all the small moments he held closest to his heart, flash before him like treasure being held just out of reach, taunting him and reminding him that he’ll never have those things ever again.
this is it.
his parents. a lucky coin in his breast pocket. his mother kissing his cheek. his father charting stars at midnight. they were so proud of him. he never got to say goodbye.
his friends. campfires under moonlight, laughter filling his ears. fighting over the dinner table. stealing extra bread rolls. telling stories instead of resting. charging into battle together, headfirst and full of fire.
we were supposed to go home. we were all supposed to go home together.
he thinks of jean. he thinks of a hand holding his own in the dark.
i’m supposed to be a hero.
his screams never cease as he waits for the brutal pain of being eaten alive. he begs and he begs, he asks can’t we talk? and why? and how could you? he doesn’t have time to pray. he doesn’t have time to think, only cry out useless pleas for his life when he knows that this —this is the end of the line for him.
i couldn't protect them. i couldn't protect anyone at all.
reiner, bertholdt, annie—their secret will die with him, right here, right now.
marco closes his eyes, and the pain is blinding. his right side goes numb.
it’s over.
and then there’s another sound—a vicious, bloodthirsty howl—a soldier’s howl—and he’s airborne.
“marco!”
he’s falling .
there’s a violent crash, and the howler flies across the sky with smoking titan blood on their blades, a blaze burning in their eyes—but marco barely sees it as he falls down, down, down.
there’s no time to readjust in midair, especially not without his gear. he can barely even brace himself as he lands face first on a pile of rubble, high with broken pieces of walls and shattered glass panes. more white hot pain shoots through his eye—no, his entire skull.
“ marco !”
it all happened so quickly.
get up. you’re alive, dammit. so get up!
even with very little left to give, that voice is calling out to him, and he knows that maybe, maybe, there’s a chance for survival. so with every bit of strength marco has, he flips over onto his back with the intent of keeping an eye out for who’s coming. instantly, blood begins pools around him, soaking through his shirt; it’s unpleasantly warm, and the rubble isn’t like his bed at home. marco’s eyes fly open and his chest heaves as adrenaline and shock and pure, unbridled fear course through him.
the pretty blue sky above him is clouded with ash and debris and death, but somehow—
i’m alive.
though, he can’t move. again , he can’t move. he’s frozen.
“where did he go?”
someone is coming.
“ marco, where are you?”
it’s hard to focus, his vision blurring around the edges. blinding pain saps any of the strength he might have had left. if reiner has returned to finish the job, marco’s done for, but the voice sounds different. familiar, lulling.
here. i’m right here.
the pain doesn’t ebb. the blood keeps flowing. everything is blurry. what’s the point in being saved if he’s just going to bleed out on this pile of rubble before that voice can find him?
marco lifts a weak hand to grasp at his right side. when he pulls it back, his fingers drip blood. dark, unforgiving blood. his empty stomach churns at the sight, hand dropping to his chest helplessly.
that blood is mine. my arm—
“there you are! oh, god,” that voice says, careful and shattered, coming closer and closer. “please be alive. please be alive.”
not reiner.
when marco turns his head, he sees his arm is gone. not attached, not dangling, not even broken. just gone. bone and muscle and blood flood his vision—then, his savior is at his side, muttering and weeping and panicking. familiar.
“marco, hey,” they gasp, relief and stress evident in their massive sigh. “oh, you’re alive. you’re alive. ” they’re on their knees, and he can see their tear stained cheeks, clean tracks cutting through ash. they're bleeding from a cut on their forehead.
that voice. those eyes. recognition floods through him, and marco wishes he had the strength to reach out for the person before him.
“you’re okay. i’m gonna get you out of here, okay? we’re gonna go home,” they say, breathless and frantic. strangely, it’s this moment marco remembers that they ramble under pressure. “we’re gonna go home and you’re gonna be just fine.”
he decides as they tap his cheek that even if he bleeds out here, at least this face will be the last one he sees. at least he won’t be alone. the tap forces him to focus on their face. even a gentle tap hurts.
their eyes are wide, likely assessing what state he’s in, his wounds. he wonders how much of himself there is left. those eyes, despite being frantic, are so comforting, made of honey and sunlight, even in the middle of this bloodied wasteland.
it’s easy to get lost in them, to unfocus and to dream of a morning waking up next to—
“focus on me, okay? stay with me.”
he… came to save me. i’m saved. i have to thank him.
he can’t really speak, though; his voice is used up from the screaming. the fall really busted his head, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding there, too. that, and his arm is gone. if he had any energy, he might vomit, but he wants to at least say thank you.
he wants to at least say thank you , for a thousand different things, just in case this is the place he dies.
but the person before him is on their knees, begging for him to keep hanging on as they tear the bottom of the shirt they’re wearing to try and cover the hole that used to be his arm. their hands are coated in his blood almost instantly. it’s dizzying. all this work, all this panic—all to keep him alive. to keep him from bleeding out.
so we can go home.
“marco, look at me.”
more torn shirt gets wrapped around the right side of his face. maybe there’s less of him leftover than he thought. but—
how do you say thank you or i’m sorry when your voice no longer works? why is it so hard to say anything at all when you know you’re running out of time?
“look at me, dammit.” their voice crumbles, giving way to genuine panic, lashes wet with more tears.
i can’t die now. i can’t die here. i haven’t told him yet. haven’t told him—
marco gives every last ounce of courage and heart he has left, despite it getting really difficult to stay focused on the words this person is speaking. “come on—please, please , marco. just—“
alive. i’m alive.
he opens his mouth to finally thank this lovely mess of a boy before him, to say something clever or witty, but nothing comes.
his vision spots, his jaw falls slack. everything goes dark.
—
marco bodt wakes with a jolt, coming out of a freakishly realistic nightmare, out of breath and slick with sweat.
when he leans up, his head begins to spin like he might throw up. he’s unstable, too, carrying too much weight on one side. that, and he can’t see out of one of his eyes.
where am i?
his knuckles press into the fabric beneath him. he’s on a makeshift bed made of piles of blankets thick enough to sort of disguise the concrete floor. there are other beds around him full of sleeping people. though, some of the beds are empty. even worse, some of them are stained with blood.
are we home?
sunlight that might signify dawn pours in from windows behind him.
he goes to lift his right arm and finds there’s nothing there to lift.
ah.
using his left hand instead, he ghosts his fingers over the bandage. a real bandage , and not a torn shirt, he notes.
it’s… gone. so i wasn't having a nightmare. that—all of that was real.
his arm is gone, and—
those fingers trail up to the right side of his face, and he finds more bandages there, over his eye and his forehead. he touches it gently, just barely, and finds that he feels more numb than anything. the bandage is thick, but he’s not even sure if there’s an eye under there, or if this bandage is to just cover the possible gaping hole in his face.
the memory of the white hot pain pricks at him, like a much too vivid dream that was just strange enough that there’s no way it could have possibly been real.
so he’s not whole, but he’s alive, and this is all very real.
that’s fine . he clutches the thin fabric of his shirt, feels the rhythm of his own heartbeat, semi-steady and sure.
his stomach lurches as more memories flash before him. the grip of the titan, the gnashing of teeth. the helpless screaming, the blood bath. the howl of a boy betrayed, the slashing of blades. the fall, trying to come to terms with death.
none of it matters anymore.
i’m alive.
a door opens. marco’s head tilts up, and it happens in slow motion, like his muscles have long since forgotten their proper job. someone is standing in the doorway, drenched in sunlight. marco squints, and eventually he can focus on the person as they make their way across the room, directly toward him.
his semi-steady heartbeat picks up the pace.
jean.
“you’re awake,” jean remarks, his voice careful and quiet, not at all like it was when he found marco battered and broken on that pile of rubble. his steps are light, too, and marco can’t tell if he’s being thoughtful for those still asleep or if he’s just wary and nervous to be here. “finally.”
finally? how long has it been? who cares?
jean is here. whole and alive…
he looks like shit. like he hasn’t slept in days.
( he hasn’t. )
marco looks worse off, what with the whole not having an arm thing and possibly not having an eye as well, but jean’s eyes are dull and exhausted. that simple detail makes marco’s chest ache. he wonders for a brief, heart wrenching second if the exhaustion in jean’s expression is his own fault.
it doesn’t matter. he’s just thankful for the warmth and promise of life underneath jean’s skin, the heartbeat in his own ribcage. despite that nightmare, they're alive. both of them.
“wasn’t sure how long you would be out,” jean continues, shrugging, and when he crosses the room, he sits very carefully at the end of marco’s makeshift bed, just at the edge of arm's length.
what he doesn’t say is this: i wasn't sure if you were going to wake up at all.
“you were… in and out the entire way back. lost a lot of blood, but we’re home now.”
home.
“they promised me you’d be okay, so…”
he doesn’t say this: i cried and i begged for hours and hours on end. i prayed and pleaded but i wasn't sure it would be enough. all i wanted was to see you open your eyes.
jean doesn’t say this, either: even after facing death, i’m still too afraid to tell you how much i’ve missed hearing you laugh, seeing you smile. all i want is you.
he’s looking at marco’s shoulder, and marco follows his gaze, too. the bandage around his shoulder is clean, so whatever surgery they might have performed on him must’ve gone well, right? it’s a miracle he doesn’t have some sort of titan-saliva-induced infection.
miracle after miracle. it’s all a miracle.
marco opens his mouth, but no sound comes.
i'm gonna be okay.
his squeezes his eye shut, takes a deep breath. the simple fact that they were both just alive is enough to pluck marco’s weakened heartstrings. it's all unbelievably overwhelming and marco wishes his throat would just work properly. so he can say something, anything.
without thinking, he touches the bandage over his eye again. everything is miraculous and unbelievable and immense.
jean notices, watching his tiny movements like a hawk. when he frowns, he says, “don't touch it, marco.”
his voice is achingly mellow, painfully tender.
marco blinks. maybe there really is nothing under there.
that’s fine. he’s alive, right? that’s more than enough. you can only ask for so much before the universe starts charging you.
say something. anything at all.
“jean,” marco tries, and it comes out harsh and dry. no telling how long it’s been since he’s properly spoken. the last time he made any noise at all was pleading for his life in the jaws of a titan, and those pleas were nothing more than broken screams.
jean notices the rasp.
“when you fell,” jean starts again, “you landed on a busted up pile of rubble, you know. you’re lucky you didn’t get impaled or something.”
lucky.
his lip quirks. marco realizes he’s trying to be light hearted, trying to ease the tension in marco’s shoulders without even touching him. he’s trying , and marco’s heart jumps, leaps, soars.
and, oh, god , he’s getting emotional all over again.
jean also notices marco’s inhale, the chew of his lip as he reaches for the right thing to say. maybe he doesn’t need to say anything at all. jean being here is enough, and it takes every bit of marco’s self control not to fall forward and plant his face into jean’s chest.
“ jean ,” marco says again. unexpected tears well up and overspill. his cheeks burn, and it’s too much, and it’s not enough, and he wants to be closer. he wants to say thank you. he wants to apologize. he wants to pull jean close and never let him go. “i—“
i’m sorry.
for what? he’s not sure.
i have something to tell you.
there’s a thousand somethings to tell.
i would be dead if not for you.
that’s not enough.
i never want to go out there again.
he’s a soldier. a hero. that’s his job.
what can he say?
i want to tell him—
jean doesn’t give him the opportunity to finish. his brows pinch together, and marco knows he’s reading him like a children’s book. that’s just how well jean knows him.
“i know that look,” jean sighs. “don’t worry about the rest of us, marco. conny, sasha—mikasa, armin—even that dumbass, eren—we’re all alright. tired and permanently traumatized, but alright,” he finishes with an exasperated, weakened chuckle.
relief washes over him so fast he gets dizzy all over again.
what about you?
marco purses his lips. jean is so close, just at the end of his reach. his shoulders sag, and the air is heavy. there’s a weight on jean’s chest, and marco can see the way it bears down on him. he can see it because he knows, after all this time, what to look for when he studies jean.
marco reaches for him. he plants his palm over jean’s heart, and he feels the way jean stiffens, hears the hitch of his breath. he taps his heart, holds his eye, eyes burning and brimming with fresh tears. oh, how he wishes he could stop crying.
marco says what about you? without saying anything at all. he says i want to know you’re okay. he says, will you let me take care of you, like you have for me?
and he knows jean sees it, because jean sees everything.
“don’t cry, marco,” jean murmurs to roll the attention off him, in lieu of answering marco’s silent questions. he shifts ever closer. “we’re home now. i’m right here. that’s all that matters, right?”
he pulls marco closer like marco isn't several inches taller than him. he pulls marco closer like they didn't almost both die, or perhaps exactly like they nearly died, and he’s making up for lost time, making up for what he’d been missing out on had marco actually bled out back there. for some reason, the tears don’t stop, wetting the sleeve of jean’s shirt as marco tilts his head against the boy’s shoulder.
that’s all that matters, right?
i have to tell him—
it’s in the gentle hold of jean’s arms, in the way his fingers ghost over marco’s cheek, over the thin fabric of his shirt, that marco comes to fully realize jean understands. in the safety of their bubble, in the warmth of the contact, the tender, painfully human press of skin on skin, jean lets marco know that he hears him, that he’s listening and that he’ll wait on marco forever, if he needs to, to find his voice.
it’s here, as they melt and mold together like the universe had always intended them to, that marco begins to think that if jean could communicate all those wonderfully comforting things within a single touch, the tiniest connection, then maybe it’s okay that he doesn’t have his voice yet. maybe it’s okay marco hadn’t been able to speak when he felt it really mattered.
the only thing that matters is the boy next to him, warm and lulling and alive beneath his fingertips.
“i’m not going anywhere,” jean insists quietly, and it’s enough.
he plants a ghost of a kiss on marco’s cheek and it’s enough.
—