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Jean woke to the smell of something cooking.
It was raining outside, grayish morning light streaming in through the window, and it battered the glass, droplets casting shadows in the room as they slid down. He took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent coming from the kitchen below that made his mouth water, and rolled over, shoving his face into the pillows before pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. Marco wasn’t in bed, so he assumed that he was the one making breakfast.
He slid out of bed, bare feet planting on the soft carpet, and stretched his arms above his head with a yawn, before putting them on his lower back and arching backwards, popping his stiff spine. He scratched at the thin beard on his chin, and looked out the window. The street below was empty, save for the occasional car that passed by.
Bending over, he grabbed his t-shirt off the floor from where he’d thrown it the night before, though he didn’t bother grabbing his pants. Pulling it on over his head, the collar catching on his nose and his chin, he padded out of the room, bedroom door creaking when he pushed it farther open.
Pictures decorated the walls of the hallway, put there upon Marco’s insistence. There was a photo of them in front of the Eiffel Tower, from the trip where they visited his grandparents. A picture of Jean on the beach, and one of Marco sleeping on the couch with his youngest sister on his chest, next to the Bott family photo, where Jean stood with his hand on Marco's shoulder, surrounded by his sisters, parents, and cousins. At the end of the hall, there was a photo of them sitting together on stools wearing kitschy sweaters, their three cats held in their arms.
One of those cats, an orange tabby, rubbed against his leg as he approached the staircase. He followed him down with a plaintive mewl, trying to get under his feet, so Jean bent down and picked him up, clutching him close to his chest as he descended the final steps. He peaked around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, looking into their kitchen, and that's where he found him.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, Marco flipped a pancake on the griddle. He wore a loose sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, socked toes tracing the gaps in the tile floor. He leaned on the counter, back to Jean, though when he heard the frustrated meows of their feline companion, he glanced over his shoulder.
"What are you doing to our son?" He asked.
"He tried to trip me down the stairs," Jean deadpanned, extending his arms to hold the cat away from him as it scrabbled for purchase on him, "so he's in baby jail."
Marco's serious façade broke, and he snickered, a smile splitting his face. He turned back towards the griddle, and slid the spatula in his hand underneath a pancake, lifting it up and flipping it onto an empty plate. He did the same to another that was cooking next to it, before grabbing a measuring cup full of batter next to it, pouring it onto the griddle with a sizzle.
He was gorgeous, even with his hair still disheveled from sleep, wearing baggy clothes that swamped his lean form. Bruises marred his neck where Jean had sucked them in the night before, leading below the neckline of his sweatshirt, and Jean admired the freckles that were scattered across his skin. Forty-two on his cheeks, fifteen on his throat, twenty-two on his chest— stop it, Jean, he scolded himself.
"It smells good," Jean mused, setting Goldfish down. He gave a final rub to his leg, hoping he could convince him to feed him, but Jean could see the remaining crumbs of wet food still on his plate. Marco had already fed them.
Marcos ears turned pink. "Thank you, Jean."
He'd gotten lucky with Marco. After years of pining after unreachable girls and dating out of convenience, when he'd finally realized just how much he liked his first and best friend, Marco had been patient with him as he came to terms with his attraction to him. He'd been putting up with Jean and his pissy attitude since they were twelve, even when nobody else did. Jean had pushed him away, but he'd seen through him and stayed. Every day, Jean worried that he'd realize what mess he was dating and leave, but with every day that passed, he worried a little less.
He wanted to wake up like this every morning.
“You should marry me.” Marco’s head whipped around, his hazel eyes widening comically large, and it was only then that Jean realized what he’d said. It was the wrong moment, and though he'd been thinking about it for awhile, he didn't even have a ring yet. It wasn't the proposal Marco deserved. His heart leapt into his throat, and he hurried to reassure him, “I mean, only if you want to. I know that I’m not, ah—”
“Yes,” Marco breathed.
Jean’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
“I’ll marry you,” Marco said, a tremor in his voice. His eyes were shiny, and he hiccupped a sob, tears starting to dribble down his cheeks. “J-Jean...”
Jean had to catch him when Marco threw himself into his arms, spatula clattering to the floor. He jumped up, throwing his legs around Jean’s waist, and Jean almost fell before he could find his balance, holding him up with a hand on his thigh and another around his back.
He said that he’d marry me. Marco’s warm tears were starting to seep into the fabric of his shirt. He sniffled wetly, and laughed into his collarbone, pressing his forehead against the junction of Jean's neck. Jean backed up, lower back hitting the counter. He wants to marry me.
"Are you serious?" Jean asked, numb.
Marco could only nod, and blubbered something incomprehensible, unable to form a coherent sentence. Jean started to chuckle, disbelieving, and it soon devolved into a laughing fit, hoisting Marco higher onto his hips when he started to slip. When his muscles started to tremble, he had to set him down, but they stayed standing in the kitchen, holding each other like they didn't intend on letting go.
Clutching at his shirt, folded securely in Jean's arms, he rubbed his eyes and nose with it. The fabric was already soiled enough, Jean supposed. "Do you smell smoke?" He managed to choke out. Jean sniffed the air, and— "Shit!"
Marco pulled away from him before Jean could register what had happened, throwing open the window and pinching a burnt, smoking pancake by the corner, hissing in pain as he threw it out into the rain. For a quiet, surreal moment, it seemed like they were safe, until the smoke alarms started to wail, sprinklers turning on as they doused the kitchen in water. Marco yelled in frustration, throwing his arms up towards the ceiling, and Jean laughed so hard he had to sink down to his knees, kneeling in the puddle forming on the tile floor.
They had the rest of their lives ahead of them.