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You’ve always thought he was handsome, but tonight he was practically glowing.
He’s beside you on the sofa, surrounded by all your friends. Connie and Sasha laugh together over some joke that no one else could possibly understand. And of course, Jean is sprawled across your lap, looking right up at you with his signature cocky expression. Whenever he does something like this, a part of you wants to push him away and roll your eyes, but his charm is undeniable, infectious even. So you can’t bring yourself to do that. Instead, fingers run through his hair, over and over again, unable to stop. A normal person might close their eyes and rest; Jean wasn’t like that. He was in no way mundane enough to be considered normal. His eyes stay open, wandering over his surroundings, taking it all in, watching the faces of his best friends, that ever-present hint of a smile dancing across his lips.
People might say no one loved you more, if not for him. Marco.
And, God, how you loved him back…
Impossible as it seems to get any closer, he keeps trying. His head is rested atop your shoulder, wedging himself into the space beside your neck. You lean right back into his touch, melting together as though you were one inseparable body.
Out of nothing resembling jealousy, a hand reaches over to grab hold of one of yours, pulling it gently away from Jean’s hair (and eliciting a playfully grumpy reaction in the process). He isn’t quick to slide his delicate fingers into yours, not just yet. A smile breaks across his face. Your hands are held up, right beside each other, palms just barely touching. Comparing the size is something he had a habit of doing, something you find adorably endearing. It’s a contest that he already knows the answer to, and has for quite some time. Not that it matters. Whether it be the first time or the millionth, the enthusiasm is all the same. His hands are larger than yours, and Marco makes up the difference by curling his fingertips over yours, protecting them from a threat that didn’t even exist.
“You still haven’t realized theirs are smaller?”
Naturally, the remark comes from Jean.
The pink tint that comes to Marco’s cheeks only causes his friends to fully turn their attention onto him. Jeans looks to you before breaking out into laughter, amused by his own joke, inspiring Connie to do the same, filling the air with that sweet sound. And Sasha, deciding to be the most merciful, chooses only to lean over and mess up Marco’s hair before delivering a quick kiss to the side of his face.
“I think it’s sweet.” She said it with a grin on her face before lazily collapsing back against Connie, having already exerted all the energy she wished to spend.
Marco, normally so calm in whatever situation he was thrown into, could only manage a soft ‘thanks’ in response. Having waited long enough, your fingers become intertwined, a squeeze given before the beautiful, blushing boy beside you brings the back of your hand up to his lips. The kiss is careful and sweet, a perfect match for his personality, for the kindest, most perfect person you have ever met.
He holds your hand there, refusing to take it away. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hide his face from his friends and from the world, so full of embarrassment. That wasn’t the case. He could never be embarrassed by how much he adores you. A stranger would only need to watch the way he looks at you for a few seconds before they could figure that out.
Marco Bott is ceaselessly, endlessly in love with you. That much was obvious.
When he finally relents and releases your hand away from his grasp, no time is wasted. He can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment. Arms come around your neck. He pulls you in tight, nestling himself right beside you. Unable to resist the temptation, countless kisses are pressed into your cheek, your jaw, your temple. The blushing still hasn’t quite disappeared. His skin has transformed into a blend of that gorgeous red shade and the freckles that cover the space below his soft, brown eyes. Marco wears that bashful pigmentation with all the pride in the world.
Your hands shift over to cradle his head so quickly that you fail to notice the frustrated pout coming from Jean when he slips from being the perceived center of your attention. He’s stubborn, though, and makes a point to stay right where he is, comfortable.
“Look at me,” You say softly to Marco. A subtle laugh accompanies the words, brought on by the tickling sensation felt as he playfully nips at the top of your neck, smiling all the while.
He listens and turns his gaze completely to you, as if nothing else in the world exists but the two of you. It’s impossible to not get lost in his face, his eyes. You notice every little detail. The tiny scar an inch above his left eyebrow that he got during a mishap while helping you move into your new apartment, the way the lighting from the lamp nearby turns his eyes a hue of honey. You see the way he works to suppress that unshakable urge to grin widely whenever he’s near you, despite having told him half a hundred times that he doesn’t have to hide it. You see how truly beautiful he is, and you know that you could never put it into words just how handsome he’s grown to be.
“Happy Birthday, darling.” His arms draw you in closer, close enough to feel his heartbeat through his maroon sweatshirt, a rate faster than normal, one that exhibits his excitement at the close proximity shared between yourselves.
In response, your hands cup his face, thumbs running back and forth over his cheekbones. A kiss is placed onto his forehead and kept there, just as he had done moments prior with your hand. That urge to prevent himself from smile is wiped away in an instant. He lights up, eyes closing and his teeth flashing. There couldn’t possibly be a more precious sight anywhere else.
So caught up in his adoration and his affection, Marco retracts his arms from your neck and instead wraps them around your torso, squeezing tight. Naturally, all this causes Jean to finally be forced out of your lap with a scoff. He moves to sit upright instead, leaning back into the couch with arms rested behind his head, making himself at home.
“Why can’t you share?” He says it with a sideways glance towards the pair of you, and even though you can’t see him, you’ve known him long enough to visualize the smirk on his face.
“Because it’s my birthday,” Marco replies with a chuckle, his voice pronounced yet soft.
“Wait your turn, idiot.” You barely give Jean a chance to retaliate before you’re bringing your lips down to meet with Marco’s. Immediately, you can feel his mouth curving into a smile, full of ecstasy and brimming with euphoria. Each kiss was like this. It felt like falling in love all over again. You love the taste of him, his familiar smell, the sense of comfort being in his arms brings you.
And when you break apart, you stay swimming in those eyes, relishing in the sweetness.
It takes a combined effort to draw you back to reality.
“I’ll kiss Connie if you don’t stop.”
“Hey!”
“When are we having cake?”
Marco allows his head to fall forward enough to rest against your chest, already getting far too comfortable to move again. You resist the desire to play with his hair, knowing that when you start that, there’s no going back and you could be there for hours.
“How about now?”
Without bothering to respond, the three surrounding you jump up to gather all the other party guests and finish all the preparations. You observe as Jean and Sasha grab people by the arm and drag them over to the table covered in decorations of various colors. Connie holds the cake in his arms, carrying it over in a manner that would be considered less than careful by most, though that was just his style.
The sweet boy beside you brings himself to stand and offers you his hand.
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Seated at the table, your eyes dart around, taking in the atmosphere. These people are all here for you, to celebrate you. And you get to do it all with him. That invokes a smile.
The cake is covered in dark green icing, with your names written in white frosting that you can immediately recognize as having been completed by Jean. The lack of professionalism in his penmanship amuses you, finding it overly endearing and sweet.
That fact means you feel no surprise upon the realization that Jean has placed himself directly behind your chairs, and you have a sneaking suspicion that he intends to lead the singing.
“Like it?” You feel arms come around your neck, holding you tenderly in an embrace.
Leaning back, you reply with a grin, “I think you could do better.”
Jean squeezes you hard, as though trying to decide whether or not to strangle you for your endless teasing and mocking. He keeps a smile on his face despite that consideration.
“Oh, whatever.”
He moves away to start calling out for everyone to be ready, and in the most obnoxious way possible, he lifts his arms as though conducting an orchestra.
The room breaks into song, as off-key and out of tune as one would expect, but you don’t care in the slightest. That doesn’t matter at all.
And you’re so focused on the singing that you fail to notice Marco. He’s entranced by you, unable to tear his eyes away from yours. He’s smiling without his teeth showing, just enough so that your friends and family can notice it. He looks at you like you’re art in a museum, the way that all the men look at their loves in those corny romance movies that you claim to hate. His eyes are latched onto every inch of your face as though he was terrified that this would be the last chance to do so.
He reaches for your hand under the table and grips it hard, his fingers dancing around and drawing shapes all over your skin, too in love to stay still.
You look at him. He looks so perfect you could cry. That’s just what he does to you.
And when the singing stops and the cheering begins, you pick up the knife together and cut into that cake. He likes the corner pieces and you like the ones in the middle; it doesn’t need to be said out loud, you just know, and you move together and grab what you want.
Everyone clears the table to leave the two of you alone. Together you eat the cake your friends so lovingly made for you, and you talk about everything and nothing all at once, you smile and you laugh and you share kisses that never seem to last long enough.
One bite leaves Marco with a bit of that dark green frosting stuck to the side of his mouth, and you spare him the humiliation of letting someone else find it first.
“Stay still for a sec,” You request, amusement clear in your expression. The brief confusion you get in response fills your heart with happiness, for you’re sure no one else could make being a mess look quite so adorable and lovely.
When your finger wipes away the frosting, his cheeks return to a state of red and his eyes dart down towards the floor out of embarrassment.
You reach for his chin and take hold of it gently, lifting his face back up, seeing his eyes once more.
“You’re so handsome, you know that, right?”
The color he turns is a deeper scarlet than you’ve ever seen before.
When your lips press together, you can even feel the heat radiating off of him.
He whispers against the kiss, not patient enough to wait.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you.”