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For almost a year now, Colt's favorite part of the day had been hanging out with Marcel in the evening. Granted, they weren't able to meet up every day of the week—training was time-consuming and draining, not to mention that Colt was assigned to clean-up duties after everyone went home more often than not—but he was always looking forward to it.
So there they were again, in the alleyway behind Colt's house, playing with Marcel's new set of marbles that he'd gotten for his birthday.
“Don't flick it too hard,” Colt said as Marcel prepared for his turn.
Marcel didn't so much as spare a glance at Colt, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he focused. “How else am I supposed to knock the marbles off the ring?”
“You're gonna have us chasing them down the street again…” Colt mumbled, at the same time as Marcel flicked the marble.
The shot knocked three marbles off the circle they'd made on the ground with chalk, and just like Colt predicted, one of them rolled off with way too much force. He was on his feet immediately, running after it.
“YES!” he heard Marcel cheer from behind him as he stopped the marble with his foot before it left the alleyway.
Colt leaned down to pick it up and rushed back to his friend. “I'm not going after it next time.”
“You won't have to,” Marcel said, taking the marble. “You won.”
Colt plopped on the ground across from him, looking at the circle. There were still two marbles left inside of it. “What?”
“Even if I knock these out, you still win.” Marcel held out his hand, where he was holding five marbles in total. “You have eight,” he said and pointed at Colt's hand.
If Colt were honest with himself, he hadn't really been keeping score. He'd been too distracted by Marcel's stories about his birthday the day before. His Mom had made his favorite food—homemade pizza with tomato slices on top, made with pita bread since yeast for actual pizza dough was rare to find in the internment zone—and a chocolate cake for dessert. There was nothing in particular about the night that made it stand out from any other kid's birthday dinner, but Marcel described it with such fondness that it made it the most interesting thing Colt had heard in a long time. (Then again, he found most of the things Marcel had to say interesting.)
Colt unclenched his fist, and surely enough, Marcel had been right; there were eight marbles in his hand.
“You're really good at this game!”
Colt looked up from his hand, only to see Marcel staring at him with a grin. “Oh—thanks,” he said, laughing nervously.
Marcel chuckled too, picking up the pouch next to him and starting to put the marbles in. “Do you have your own set at home? I'm assuming you must play often if you have such a good aim.”
“We're training to be soldiers,” Colt said. “Anyone in the warrior program could pull it off.”
“Not Porco,” Marcel said. “He sucks at this game.”
Colt gasped, but couldn't hide his smile. “Don't tell him that!”
“Don't worry, I don't have a death wish,” Marcel joked. “And anyway, it's only because he's bored of the game and doesn't put the effort in it.” He held out the pouch so Colt could put in his own marbles. “You seem to like it though.”
Ever since the day they met, Marcel had been perceptive. Admittedly, Colt didn't have a friend as close to him as Marcel was to compare him to, but he could tell there was something different about him from miles away. He took notice in the smallest of details; like how Colt's favorite color must have been blue because he went out of his way to pick the blue tray at lunch during training, or how he disliked crowds because they always hung out in the quiet part of the internment zone.
He'd been right once again—this was one of his favorite games.
Colt smiled. “Yeah,” he admitted. He didn't know why he was so embarrassed by the fact. “My set is made of plastic though.”
“Is it so Falco won't get hurt?”
“What?” Colt looked up at him for a second in confusion, before finally realising what Marcel was talking about. “No, no!” He chuckled. “No, Falco is too young to play. Can you imagine giving these to a four-year-old?”
Marcel snickered. “Probably not a good idea if you love your vases.”
“Probably not,” Colt agreed. He didn’t even want to think about his Mom’s reaction if she ever found out her favorite pot had been shattered to pieces. “They're my Dad's marbles. He's had them since he was my age.” He put the last marble in Marcel's bag. “He's the one that showed me how to play.”
“The plastic ones feel really different though,” Marcel said. “Porco and I used to have them when we were younger.”
Colt shrugged. “I guess.”
“So you're good with both of them!” Marcel said excitedly, making Colt smile against his will. He never knew how to respond to Marcel’s praise. “Which ones are better?”
“The glass marbles,” Colt said surely. It was the first time he’d ever used them, but it didn’t take long to get the hang of it. The extra weight helped steady his aim, and they felt nicer to flick, not to mention how much prettier they looked.
“Maybe you can get some for your birthday too,” Marcel said. “Our games will be longer then.”
A heavy feeling settled in Colt’s chest. He knew Marcel’s heart was in the right place, but he could never ask this much of his parents. As much as they tried to hide it from him, Colt knew they were in a tight place with money. His job was not only to remain focused on the warrior program, but also to convince his parents he was. The last thing they needed was to see their son get distracted by games.
“When is it, by the way?” Marcel said, snapping Colt out of his thoughts. “Your birthday, I mean.”
“Oh.” He briefly considered changing the subject, but couldn’t think of any way to distract Marcel from the question; he was too sharp for that. Colt looked away in embarrassment. “It’s, um… it’s tomorrow…”
“WHAT.”
Although he wasn’t looking back at him, Colt could feel the way Marcel’s eyes pierced through him. He sighed, closing his eyes as if it was going to make it better. “Y-Yeah…” he mumbled.
Colt felt like an idiot.
The last thing he’d wanted was to make a big deal out of this, and yet there he was, panicking in front of his friend about something that didn’t matter. Except it did matter, apparently. It mattered to Marcel—why else would he have reacted so strongly to the new information? Friends were supposed to know stuff like this about each other, so why hadn’t Colt just told him like a normal person instead of waiting till the last minute? Would he have even brought it up by himself tomorrow, if Marcel hadn’t asked? The more he thought about it, the more he realised the answer would have probably been no. What kind of friend did that make him? He should have realised stuff like that mattered to Marcel, but instead he only managed to—
“Here.”
It took him a second to open his eyes, and when he did, he was met with the sight of Marcel’s hand. Confused, he looked up at his friend who had a thoughtful expression on his face, and then back at his hand, only to realise he was holding something.
A pouch.
“What are you…”
Oh.
“I can’t take this,” Colt said, feeling his face heating up at Marcel’s offer—an offer Colt couldn’t possibly accept.
“Sure you can,” Marcel said, holding out the pouch further.
Colt shook his head. “But it’s yours—”
“And I’m giving it to you,” Marcel said.
There were a million things running through Colt’s head, and he didn’t have time to voice any of them. And what could he even do? Marcel had once again proven he was the most altruistic person in all of Marley, and Colt remained someone who didn’t deserve him. There was nothing he could say.
“They were a gift…” Colt ended up mumbling, and after a few seconds passed, he shot Marcel a quick look.
He could only watch as Marcel reached for his hand, turning it around and placing the pouch in it. “They’re still a gift.” He softly squeezed Colt’s hand close and smiled. “An early birthday gift.”
Colt wanted to argue, but it was becoming more and more apparent Marcel wouldn’t take no for an answer. He looked at the pouch; it was made of leather-like material, and aside from a small scratch, it was in perfect condition. Could he really accept a gift like that?
“Colt,” Marcel said, catching his attention, “I can see you’re still struggling with this for some reason, but I want you to take them, okay?”
“But won’t you parents—”
“I’ll just say I lost them.”
Against his better judgment, Colt snickered.
Marcel raised an eyebrow. “Did I say something?”
“Lost ‘them’,” Colt repeated, not able to hold back a smile. “Your marbles. Lost your marbles.”
“Lost my ma…” Marcel muttered, and he must have suddenly realised what Colt was talking about, because next thing he knew, he was grinning as well. “You think I’m crazy, Grice?”
Colt shook his head, but couldn’t help giggling again. “No…”
“You do!” Marcel exclaimed in an accusatory tone.
“Stop, that’s not what I said!” Colt tried to defend himself, which was proving itself harder and harder to do in the middle of laughing. “It was just funny, how—”
“I can’t believe it,” Marcel interrupted, seemingly trying to appear hurt but, much like Colt, he was also laughing. “My dear companion, the person I trust the most…”
“Hey, stop that—!”
“… there’s no need to sugarcoat it; my best friend thinks I’ve lost it!”
“Marcel!” Colt said through his giggles. “I told you, don’t think you’ve—”
And suddenly, he stopped.
My best friend thinks I’ve lost it.
Best friend.
“Hey,” Marcel said, his laughter slowly dying out too but not entirely. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m your best friend?”
Colt didn’t think he’d ever seen Marcel’s expression change so fast in his life before; his eyes widened, his grin disappeared, he went quiet… and then he smiled again, only this time, he looked nervous.
“Of course you are,” he said softly, but it still felt like Colt had been hit by a brick. A kind brick. “Is that… is that okay?”
“Yes,” Colt said way too quickly for comfort. He cleared his throat. “Uh, I mean—”
“It’s fine,” Marcel interrupted, and chuckled. “Sorry if I freaked you out or—”
“You’re my best friend too.” My first friend, Colt wanted to also say, but didn’t dare to. “I’m… Thank you.”
Marcel shook his head. “There’s nothing to thank me for, it’s just a gift—”
“Not because of the marbles,” Colt said. “For… For being my friend. Thank you.”
He didn’t know how to feel now that the words were finally out of his chest. There was a sense of relief, but an equally heavy sense of humility.
“You shouldn’t thank me for that either, dummy…”
The two boys looked at each other, surrounded by silence. It was then that Colt realised Marcel’s hand was still wrapped around his. He mumbled an apology under his breath, trying to take his away, but Marcel held him tighter. Instead, he leaned in, and pulled Colt into a hug.
It was a bit awkward. Both of them were on their knees on the floor, so the position was more uncomfortable than not, but Colt didn’t care. He sighed, hugging Marcel back, and relaxing into his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held by someone outside his family like that—probably because he hadn’t been.
It scared him a bit; how dependent on Marcel he’d become. Colt thought back to his life a year ago, before Marcel had approached him one day after training, and couldn’t remember any significant events. It was only after the two of them became friends that he started really looking forward to things.
“Are you feeling less gloomy now?” Marcel whispered playfully, to which Colt replied with a whine. Marcel sighed. “What is it now?”
“I didn’t get you anything for your birthday…” Colt said, his words getting muffled by Marcel’s shirt as he hid his face in his shoulder.
“Colt, I swear, I’m going to—” Marcel stopped himself before he could finish. “I didn’t get you a gift because I’m expecting something back.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.”
“But—”
“No! Buts!” Marcel pulled away, grabbing Colt by the shoulders and looking at him in the eye. “I mean it. We’re even.”
Colt didn’t know what it was about the look Marcel was giving him, but he was feeling a little more convinced. “Are you sure…?”
Marcel glared at him.
Colt sighed. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Great!” Marcel said and clapped his hands. Colt cursed himself internally for being disappointed at the loss of contact, but the thought quickly went away when he saw Marcel plop down on the ground a few steps to the side, lean his back against the wall, and pat the spot next to him. Without wasting a second, Colt sat where Marcel was pointing at. “Now walk me through what’s in store for the Grice family tomorrow. How are we celebrating?”
Colt felt a smile tug at his lips when his friend scooted closer to him so their legs were touching. He gave Marcel a side-glance, only to see that he was smiling back at him, and then turned to the pouch in his hands.
“Well,” he began, “I was thinking of asking my Dad if he wanted to play a game of marbles.”
And thanks to Marcel, he did.