Chapter Text
It takes Marco about thirty minutes of wandering around the crowded grounds before he finds any sort of leeway between the distance of his body to the nearest person. It’s as though the band had decided to ensure that the venue called for the entire audience to be packed like sardines. At some point he’s had friends flanked on either side of him as a barrier to the unknown but at some point they’d gotten lost in the crowd – the sea of never-ending people.
Coming to the fairgrounds in the dead of night on his only free Saturday of the next three months before finals week and ending up wandering alone hadn’t been the plan but there he is. Standing next to a trashcan with a three feet breathing room, where all he could really breathe in was the smell of moldy beer cups and rotting trash, scrolling through social media feeds. The concert itself had ended a while ago and he prayed to every god out there that he and his friends would be leaving soon but the crowd hadn’t shown any signs of dispersing any time soon and in no way was he about to go searching for where Sash and Connie had decided to bone each other. He could be content, for now, with checking every snapchat story available for him to watch. Especially when most of them involved amazingly, hot viners and Youtube celebs with really cool life updates.
It was a shallow hobby, staring at the adventures other people went on through a 5 inch lens with no actual relationship with the person themselves, but it gave him something to do and generated the creators profit and Marco was a people pleaser. It had also been a far off dream of his to one day be one of those people that created content for people for entertainment but the realities of school and having to work to help support his family had been the rude awakening that brought him to scheduled finals and hours of studying. Tonight was meant to be a time to relax, as Sasha had screamed into his ear over the phone, and he was meant to forget about everything that bothered him. So for the sake of the online community and his friends, he’d tagged along and attempted to update anyone that would listen over his phone.
For now, he set about watching through minutes on minutes of hilarious content that left him chuckling quietly into his fist.
One of his favorites was further down the long list of strangers. K.Jean was his pseudo account name but by the time Marco had finished doing a bit of googling, he’d found out the guy’s real name – Jean Kirschtein. And oh boy was he Marco’s favorite. The guy was gorgeous. His tawny irises and two-toned undercut were flattering and although it was normally the butt of other Viner’s jokes (see Eren Jaeger aka TitanSmash) – it suited the guy and his personality. Or, at least, the personality he showed behind a camera.
The guy was funny. His jokes usually a little vulgar or rougher on the edges never meant to disrupt or stir shit up with anyone. They were dumb jokes essentially and no one ever became offended. Most people in turn had started, over Tumblr, calling him the foil to Thomas Sanders but even that was taken as a compliment to his personality and “angry muffinhead” became the normal tag that even he’d approved of over every social media he cared to check.
He wanted to make content and that’s what he did, a dream that Marco wished he’d been able to take. The fact that it had landed him a sweet deal in entertainment had been a happy surprise to everyone who appreciated his material.
Marco was just about to open his snapchat story, an account he and others had somehow managed to follow and gain a follow back on probably was one of his better, nicer days, when a notification popped up on the corner of his phone. Even with the roar of speakers still playing songs straight into his ears, the vibration had startled Marco and he nearly fumbled his phone into the dirt before catching it swiftly mid-air. He read the text and sighed to himself for all the hassle that it was worth.
It was a picture message from Connie nearly eating Sasha’s face off and Marco wondered why the hell he would send it as a text where the offending thing automatically saved onto his phone and not as a five second affair when a message soon followed. Marco groaned at his screen again.
“Give me like 20 minutes.”
“What the hell had those two been doing for the last thirty minutes?” he muttered to himself.
Deciding retribution was as sweet as can be in this situation, he pulled up snapchat again because no way was he ever falling for sending actual picture messages to the evil Springles monsters again. A photo in return of a photo was how the game would be played and he needed it to look like he was having way more fun than the two of them banging in a dirty restroom.
Seeing as how a trashcan as a picture mate wasn’t the most appealing thing to take a selfie with, Marco decided to roam a bit more to find the perfect place. He ended up somehow crammed between heated, sweaty bodies again where everyone was interest in a body to grind into. It took a little bit of struggling and shaking his head in response to some of the lewd suggestions thrown his way across numerous people or whispered drunkenly into his ear before he finally made it close enough to the stage to get a decent-looking shot.
Turning his back to the crowd of messy bodies, trying to make this a quick affair, he aimed the front-facing camera behind him and centered himself near the bottom. Quickly taking the snap and clutching the phone to his chest in fear of dropping the thing through sweaty hands, he quickly punched in the recipients’ names – KConnieS, K.Jean and PotatoSash – and hit send.
What?
K.Jean?
“Hold on that’s not right. That little red box shouldn’t be-”
“FUCK!”
In a blur of panic Marco quickly closes out of the app, all intentions of scrolling through miles of posts and looking at snapchats gone from his head as he stuffs the thing into his pocket. The thoughts flying through his head were definitely arbitrary. What does it matter if he accidentally sent a snap to the guy? It’s not like he’s likely to even open the damn thing. He probably gets a million of them on the daily from horny girls looking for their own slice of fame. Dating the blond would probably be amazing. Being the guy would be life-changing.
Marco turns around and finds himself held behind a wall of people way to wasted to notice any sort of distress etched on his face. In retrospect, he’s thankful for being ignored but also tired and upset over not having someone to console him over his tiny mistake.
Resigning himself to the fact the wall doesn’t seem to have any cracks for him to slip between without risking more whispered confessions from drunk college kids, Marco edges himself against the bodies and the walls of the stage towards the opening in the fencing where steps lead up onto the stage. Sliding in and finding no threat of getting kicked out for loitering, he steps up and plops down on the cleaner of the steps, burying his face into his lap.
The vibration of his phone calls him back from the pits of regret and Marco digs back into his pocked for it. The corner of his darkened screen blinks yellow and his stomach fills up with inexplicable butterflies as he unlicks the screed and slides the notification bar down. There’s no way Connie would drag his ass during the middle of-yeah-to respond to a stupid snapchat and the app’s notification flows in the dark field and Marco’s ears shit out the shouts from the writhing bodies and loud, pumping music as he stares at the name.
“K.Jean has sent a snap”
He doesn’t even give himself the time to panic again as he clicks the bar, opening the snapchat within the second. The red box next to his name is no longer an outline of viewed pictures and seeing it filled with a new message waiting to be opened fills Marco with apprehension. This guy is essentially a famous a celebrity and here is, sending replies to snapchats to a lonely boy sitting by himself waiting for his friends to get laid. Taking the plunge, Marco finally opens the snap and stares down at his screen, cheeks turning pink at the face looking back at him.
He turns a sickly shade of pink to green when he realizes what he’s looking back at. It’s definitely the Jean Kirschtein everyone knows. His blond hair styled and sticking out of a floral snapback and blinding smile thanking Marco for sitting down in the first place as his legs turn to jelly. He seems to be alone as well or at least none of his usual friends are found loitering the background and that’s when the reality hits him again, no longer distracted by Jean’s face. It’s the place surrounding him and the caption that gets the butterflies really fluttering inside of him. The crowd behind him resembling that of the mob of people in front of Marco now and the distant sign for the bathrooms and concession stand the same as the one across the field from where Marco’s still sitting. He’s here. He’s at this stupid event with Marco. Well not with Marco but in the vicinity of Marco enough to make his choke on his own spit. And then there’s the caption that could blow away anybody when coming from a stranger.
“Trost Festival?! Where U AT THO??”
Where is Marco? He’s drowning in the overwhelming fact that Jean is talking indirectly yet directly at him. He’s probably bored like Marco and had decided to open the snap on a whim but whatever the intentions had been, they involved Marco and Marco was on the brink of passing out from excitement. Or maybe it was the nerves again. He swipes the main menu screen to the right as the message disappears. Had the thing been a full ten seconds long? Okay holy shit!
Swiping across Jean’s pseudonym, the front-facing camera pops through showing Marco’s face riddled with nervous lines across his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together in anxiety. He’s going to reply even if it kills him. There’s a chance that Jean may actually be interested in talking to him and the chance to meet the guy was not going to get away from him. He had praises to give and questions to ask.
He takes the picture, empty stage behind him, and manages a small smile at the last minute to hide his anxiousness. Deeming it a well enough picture, he types out a quick caption to accompany it.
“Loitering the stage’s steps :P”
He throws his fingers across the send button and sticks the phone between his palms and back between high thighs waiting for that familiar buzz to bring out the swirls in his chest again.
It takes only a few minutes for the reply to come and Marco stares at his phone, more sure about opening the message but still as anxious. He holds his thumb against the touch screen and stares at a picture of himself sitting on the steps by himself, a worried look across his face. The caption reads “You look comfy” and brings a squeal and the flush of red back to his cheeks and he claps his hands – phone included – back across his face and glances around the people, less congested together but still as loud and drunk. His eyes roam from face to face and flicks back down back to his phone in confusion. Jean took his picture. He’s seen Marco looking pathetic and there’s no immediate reaction to the revelation other than the face that he’s embarrassed as hell. Marco knows he probably looks insane, brown eyes wild and searching, eyebrows furrowed in permanent confusion and apprehension. If he’s seen him where the heck did he go?
Marco’s phone buzzes again and he automatically opens the snapchat. It’s from Jean and it’s another picture of Marco – from a different, much closer, angle this time. In the pic, Marco’s flinging his head around and embarrassment fills him again threatening to overflow out of his body over the existing anxiety and throwing up onto the stage’s steps.
The words, “Can you see me now? :D” stares back at him for all but ten seconds.
Always the jokester. Falling in to play the game, Marco shakes his head, both to clear his thoughts and knowing Jean is watching at this point from wherever he’s hiding. He slides the screen and takes a quick picture of the crowd in front of him and types out his thoughts/
“I can barely see the people ten yards away!”
Sending the message, Marco settles back into his seat. He can do this. Jean’s just like any other person looking for someone to talk to and Marco appreciated being the focus on his attention even if it could be far short-lived and end at any point in this exchange.
The reply vibrates in his palm and Marco sighs in relief and immediately turns to blanching at his screen.
The picture is much, much closer and of Marco smiling to himself – to the unnoticing crowd. And it projects itself up at him with the most nerve-wracking caption anyone could ever expect.
“They’re missing out on a nice smile.”
Marco can feel his ears and cheeks blazing as his hands sweat up a storm. He reaches back with one arm and rubs at his neck and tries to cool himself down before someone notices his internal panicking. The picture was taken so close to him and Jean could not see him like this. He’s about to stand up and make the trip himself to find out Jean’s hiding place until a pair of old red Chucks plant themselves in front of Marco’s scuffed up boots.
“Hi.” The voice smooth and Marco finds himself wondering what high-havened angel created such a warm tone that could sound so amazing even when sloshed by the cheap beer he can smell coming from the guy in front of him. And so he does the only thing that come to him.
“Holy shit!!”