Chapter Text
When Jean wakes up, dim sunlight is filtering into his bedroom through the basement window. Instinctively, he covers his face with his arm. He feels like complete shit, though he's not absolutely sure why that is, for at least a minute. Stuck in the hazy place between asleep and awake, he simply lays there, contemplating the blooming headache that infects his whole body with lethargy. The insides of his eyelids are dark, little spots flashing. Immediately, his mind travels to the previous night. Only after the pain in his head subsides, of course. Something is undeniably different, and it couldn't have possibly happened in one night. More than likely, it has progressed silently, unaddressed by both of them. Jean simply never noticed, since he tends to disregard the issue as unimportant. Marco, on the other hand, probably recognized the issue, but was complacent enough to simply avoid it for as long as possible. He was probably thinking of Jean, over himself. Empathetic to a fault, as always. Maybe even selfishly so, but Jean really isn't capable enough to delve into that.
There has to have been signs, Jean reasons. He’s positive, but he can’t think of any. None that he noted, consciously or subconsciously otherwise. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides the obvious. Probably because guys are different than girls, which is all he's had to deal with up to now. Even if he gets a kick out of mocking the fairer sex, they're probably all better at him than this. More able to figure out the complexities of boys, anyhow. Then again, he can't be sure. He tries desperately to find something, anything. He's combing through his memory purposefully, trying to view them through the lens of romance and tension. It doesn't really fit. Everything is tinged with desperation and blurred with age. He can't say that it does much good. He wishes he could simply point out when and where it began, for Marco. It makes him feel the slightest bit worthless, that he can't. Like he really doesn't know Marco well enough to pick up on something of that nature. Briefly, he rubs his face in the crook of his arms before moving it, head pulsing dully in protest. He glances down onto the floor, unsurprised that there is only a neatly folded blanket, over a pillow. Typical Marco. Jean doesn't have to look far for confirmation. There's a receipt on his nightstand, with familiar scrawl on the back. He was clearly in a rush, since it's messier and closer together than usual. Jean imagines Marco folding his borrowed blanket, and writing out a quick message on whatever he found first. Maybe he paused only to make sure he hadn't woken Jean up, and then just fled the house without a second glance. It's oddly winding, like a punch to the gut. Like it's a goodbye, he recognizes, and immediately wishes he hadn't. The permanence that lingers in his mind is agony. He knows, just as well as he knows the lyrics to Dream On by Aerosmith, that neither of them plan on simply ending an eight year old friendship over this, of all things. And yet it looms over him, foreboding. He can't shake it. So he'll assess it later.
'I need to think for awhile.-M' Marco confirms what Jean already understood. Both of them are at a loss for what to do.
Jean sighs, and discards the note on the floor, rubbing his eyes wearily. It's such a clusterfuck of mixed emotions, he doesn't know where to start.
So he never does, burying it deep under less difficult thoughts. He avoids everything Marco, as well as he can. It's monumentally difficult, since he's got Marco's clothes scattered everywhere, and pictures of Marco scattered amongst various family members, and the first thing out of his mother's mouth is,
"Where's Marco? He's usually up before you." She's dressed in her uniform, coffee cup in hand.
Jean responds, with little difficulty,
"He had a thing to go to really early. He's gonna be gone for a little while." Casually, he opens the fridge, pretending to eye the contents critically, as per usual.
"That's funny, Marta didn't say anything." His mom comments. Marco's mom is the receptionist at the police station; they know each other well.
"Something with his dad." Jean covers quickly, figuring that would buy him some time.
"Oh, alright. I've got to head out, love you." she replies distractedly, looking at her watch. She pats him on the back in passing, setting her mug in the sink, and is out of the door in the blink of an eye.
"Love you too!" He calls quickly, relieved. Luck is on his side, as she's running a little late this morning.
Jean takes Peaches for a walk, goes to work, mows the lawn, and makes dinner for himself, all without a certain constant presence at his side. He makes sure to do all the activities he can that he does alone anyways, falling into familiar monotony. It's a welcome distraction, something he can fall into without thought. It's not as though they're always together anyways, they spend plenty of time apart. They can usually go weeks without contact, physical or otherwise, and come back together just as easily.
There's no reason why this can't be the same thing, Jean thinks briskly as he finishes the lawn. He pats his face with his shirt idly, feeling a little better than this morning. Certainly less fatal. Standing up straight, he's a little startled to see one of the neighborhood girls examining him with interest, sitting on her porch a house down. She can't be much younger than him, a year or two, and Jean notes that yes, he isn't actually wearing a shirt, is he? It's tossed over his shoulder, where he doesn't really remember putting it, as it's a force of habit. Confused, he looks down at himself. Really, he's not very impressive, the faintest definition of muscle present only when he's flexing. But she's still staring at him, like he's a piece of meat. It's a little funny, and he might even feel like preening over it, yet he can't really be anything other than apathetic.
It's a little scary, the stark uncaring with which he views her attention. He generally likes being admired in any situation, soaks up praise and attention even if they embarrass him, especially if they're from someone attractive. The girl is pretty, maybe not his exact type, but in her own right, which he can respect. Feeling appreciated is nice, and he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. But he just doesn’t feel much up to humoring anyone. He’s probably just tired. He didn’t sleep well, too preoccupied to really catch much rest. It wasn’t entirely about Marco, though that’s what it began with. The whole idea opened up some existential crisis he was putting off, and he's just made a mess of himself.
In the end, maybe it was inevitable. This awkward period of unsureness, before some sort of conclusion. He's fairly sure of how it will go, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. There is nothing he can do but wait for Marco to be ready. He heaves a great sigh, and heads to the medicine cabinet for relief, suspecting that sitting tight is easier said than done.