Archive of Our Own

To set the record straight: there is not a single part of me that wants to go to Eren’s Christmas party.

Number one, I don’t particularly care for him – and when I say “don’t care for,” I’m trying to be nice. Really, I can’t stand him. Like, not even a little. He exists in his own orbit, and I exist in mine, and that’s the way we like it. I don’t like being around him, even though it’s not something I can necessarily get around, seeing as how my dad and his mom are getting married next year.

Number two, I don’t know his friends. Yeah, it’s not like a family Christmas party – which I’ve already attended.

(And, believe me, Eren’s family is not my type. I mean, if you could choose your family, that is. What I mean is, you can totally tell that he’s been raised by that group of people. They’re all overly-intense about everything and really competitive, and they keep trying to talk to you and include you in stuff which is not something I particularly enjoy because I don’t particularly enjoy people.)

But, I digress – the Christmas party Eren’s mom (and my dad) are forcing me to join him in attending is being hosted by one of his friends… From Shiganshina. Basically, if you’re not familiar, Shiganshina is major hick-ville. I can only imagine what his friends are like – aka, big dumb losers who I do not feel like trying to converse with all night.

Number three – this one’s the kicker – I’m Jewish.

It’s not that I don’t understand the allure of Christmas parties, or that whole festive culture surrounding Santa Claus or whatever… But I just don’t really do the whole “chestnuts roasting on an open fire, The First Noel, angels singing about the unsanitary birth of a baby surrounded by farm animals” type of crap. My family does the menorahs. The dreidels. The eight sequential and totally awesome days of gift-giving. That’s my shit.

So really, when Carla found out that Eren was making a trip back to Shiganshina for his Christmas party, she told my dad, and they insisted that I join in because they’re getting married. Basically that means, in their world, my ass should be just as married to Eren’s at any given opportunity.

Puke.

It’s snowing when Eren honks the horn of his pick-up truck, signaling that he’s ready to go. I finish zipping up my jacket and shoot my dad the look.

“Jean…” he starts, but trails off when I roll my eyes and start out the front door. “Just try and have fun!” he calls after me as I trudge down the steps, and without looking back, I wave bye and keep walking toward the car.

My father is sending me to hell and he wants me to try and have fun, I mutter internally. How thoughtful.

I walk through the headlights flooding the driveway and around the front of the car, pulling open the door with a rusty squeak. Immediately, Eren’s shitty electronic music pours out of his car and I can feel myself cringing. I don’t bother hiding it.

“Come on, dude, I’m ready to go!” he shouts, but I can tell he’s not really mad, just excited. “Get your ass in the car n’ let’s scoot.”

“Don’t use ‘scoot’ in the same sentence as my ass,” I tell him, tossing the snack bag Eren’s mom packed for us into his completely trashed backseat and slamming the door shut.

He looks at me stonefaced for a moment before a smile cracks the corners of his lips. “Jean. Scoot the boot.”

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” I say passively, and before I can buckle my seatbelt, he throws the car into reverse and takes off down the road.

It takes us about an hour to get to Shiganshina, which isn’t terrible, but it’s just long enough of a drive that I feel like jumping out into traffic. Eren listens to that shitty music the entire way. He drums his hands on the wheel during the breakdowns. He imitates the sound of the synths with his voice and he’s a terrible singer, so it’s all really off-key and generally awful. I just keep my forehead on the frozen window and try that deep-breathing shit I’ve always heard helps calm you down. It does a little, but not enough, and when we get there, I put my hands together in prayer and send god a little thank you for finally ending the suffering.

But, of course, the suffering is far from over. Eren’s out of the car and heading up the front steps of whoever’s house we’re at before I can get my door open, and I realize in this very instant that he’s not even going to introduce me to these people. He’s in his element, and I’m completely out of mine.

This is going to be awesome.

Once I’m out of the truck, I notice a bright light coming from the house. The door’s open, and a short boy with blond hair stands in the doorway; behind him, Christmas lights twinkle. Eren bends down to hug him for a really long moment before letting go, and when they pull away, I see the boy’s eyes light up.

I try and hurry because it’s cold as balls out here and I don’t want to have to ring the doorbell, so I slam the door shut and hurry after him before the munchkin shuts the door behind Eren.

Just as soon as I hit the front steps, Eren glances back at me. He’s starting to pull his boots off on the front mat, and the blond kid glances over Eren’s shoulder at me with wide eyes.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

“Ah,” Eren says – and suddenly, there’s a chorus of laughter that spills from somewhere inside. “That’s Jean.”

“Oh, of course! You did say you were bringing your new step-brother.” The boy smiles, and holds the door open for me. He’s only a little taller than half my size, which I realize once I get closer, and he has nice white teeth. That’s weird. I didn’t realize they had dentists out here. I thought people in Shiganshina would look like George Washington. Ya know. The whole “wooden teeth” thing. (I mean. I think he had wooden teeth. Maybe that was just a myth. Who knows. Who cares.)

“It’s nice to meet you Jean,” he says honestly. “I’m Armin – I’ve known Eren since we were really little.” He holds out a hand, which is tiny, just like him. I have to try really hard not to laugh when I see it, because it’s just so hilariously small. I didn’t know people came in this small of a size.

“I applaud you for dealing with him for that long,” I grin despite myself, and shake his hand. “Living with this guy has made me realize that I must be serving time for something I did in a past life.”

Armin laughs, like I’m joking. I’m not.

“Well, come in,” he smiles, stepping aside for me to enter, but before I know it, Eren’s talking with him, and they’re heading further inside while I’m still standing on the welcome mat.

I can hear them all in the room down the hall. I can’t tell how many are there – too many voices, all going in circles in overlapping conversations.

There are few worse feelings than knowing you’re an outsider.

My chest falls, but I force my shoulders back and take a deep breath. I slap my cheeks – suck it up, Jean, there’s no way out now – and start down the hallway.

Twenty-one.

There are twenty-one people sitting in the living room, standing around in the kitchen, seated at the dining room table playing a drinking game, coming in from the back door. There are so many people, everywhere, that it’s a miracle they all fit. This place isn’t huge – it’s a country home – but somehow there is enough space to accommodate this massive Christmas extravaganza.

When I enter the room, nobody looks up. No one gives me more than a single look – no one questions the stranger.

For just a moment, I try to pretend I belong here. I try to pretend what it must be like to know everyone, to be able to laugh and talk normally with anyone without feeling self-conscious. But I’m not that person. I realize it when a girl walks by me, accidentally bumps my shoulder, and apologizes quickly before continuing on her way without a second glance.

I’m not like Eren, who can make friends with seemingly anyone. I don’t have that tolerance for people… I don’t have that charisma.

Eren. My eyes slowly move toward where he sits, already immersed in a group of his friends – and for just a split-second, his eyes flicker up to meet mine. He sits up a little straighter, mouth open – and for a fleeting moment, it seems as though he’s about to introduce me – but then the big beefy guy sitting next to him cracks a joke and Eren falls back against the couch in laughter.

Typical, I think. I turn back around, head back down the hall, and open a random door before closing it tight behind me. My stomach feels like it’s in my throat.

I hate this.

When I realize where I’ve found myself, my nerves begin to relax. It’s a study. Or, a small library. (Another crazy discovery – I didn’t realize people in Shiganshina could actually read. I mean, that’s kind of a joke, and it’s kind of not. Eren hasn’t opened a book in the entire time I’ve known him. Not even a text book – and he’s enrolled in 15 credits this semester. But, then again, that’s because Eren is a freak of nature with unbelievable luck.)

I sigh, letting my back fall against the door as a wave of relief washes over me. This is the kind of place I can hide myself until morning, someplace no one will bother me. I don’t have to talk to Eren’s friends. I don’t have to hear him tell any of his wild and crazy stories that I doubt actually ever happened. I don’t have to pretend I’m one of these people, that I fit in, when I so obviously don’t.

I can simply wait this thing out. Maybe sneak back into the kitchen and grab a couple beers, and before I know it–

“Hello?”

And at that exact moment, I let out the most blood-curdling scream of my entire life.

One thought runs through my head, faster than I can even comprehend it: Someone’s in here with me.

There’s silence that follows – a long, unsettling silence – and then the aftershock creeps up my spine and my eyes go wide. My hand flies to the light switch faster than I ever realized I could move. Every fucking hair on my arm is standing on end and I can only imagine what’s about to happen: some murderer that has been lurking in the shadows is going to jump me and, yes, this is exactly how I never wanted to die: in the house of some tiny bowlcut fucker with Eren’s howling laughter acting as the soundtrack of my demise.

…Except, when I finally look, it’s not a murderer.

It’s just boy, sitting by himself, Ray Bans sunglasses over his eyes with freckles splattered all across his cheeks, his arms. He’s looking up at me, smiling the most peaceful smile I’ve ever seen on someone’s face, and I get the feeling he knows exactly what he just did.

So I don’t try and be nice. Instead, I take a deep breath, feel the shock building up inside of me, and when I open my mouth, the electricity bursts out.

“Fuck your entire ass, Glasses Boy!”

And you know what he does?

He laughs. And all I can do is stare back at him in complete and total shock.

“Sorry!” he apologizes between laughs, which simmer out into giggles until they dissipate entirely. “I’m sorry! I just, I saw the opportunity…”

“That was incredibly rude,” I fume.

“Rude?” he says, standing to face me – except, in a way, he’s not. Not directly, anyway. “Okay. Maybe. But you called me ‘Glasses Boy,’ and that’s kind of rude, too.”

“Well, it’s better than freckled axe murderer,” I shoot back, sputtering, “which is what I thought you were.”

“Yeah, you know, I did hear that there were a lot of freckled axe murderers in Shiganshina. Best to watch out for them, I think.”

I take one more deep breath before realizing, this kid is probably not worth my time. I don’t want to argue, or socialize at all to be perfectly honest – so I start to turn around, and just as I grab the door, I feel a hand on my upper arm.

“Ah,” he says, startled at his own forwardness it seems – when I turn back to face him, his ears are pink. “Sorry, I didn’t really mean to… Um.” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair – and, watching him, I see his chest tremble a little as he takes a deep breath. “It was just a joke,” he tries again. “I’m sorry if I really did scare you.”

“You frickin’ almost made me shit my pants! Look into my eyes, pal,” I scowl, pointing at my eyes furiously. “That’s real fear there.”

Suddenly, he stops. Looks back at me through his dark lenses. There’s a silence that looms between us, and when I see him bite his lip, press his glasses further up the bridge of his nose – it clicks.

Goddammit. I’m a dick.

“Oh,” I manage finally, embarrassed as I shove my hands in my pockets. “I didn’t realize you were–”

“It’s okay!” he assures me, holding up both hands. “To be fair, I don’t think we’ve met before, so it’s okay.” Then he laughs and says: “I mean, you probably wouldn’t have called me ‘Glasses Boy’ if you knew about the whole ‘blind’ thing.”

I laugh, and it sounds so awkward in my ears that I can only imagine how it sounds to him. “Yeah,” I offer, “uh, I probably wouldn’t have gone that direction.” I pause, swallow, and avert my eyes. “Sorry.”

“Really, it’s fine,” he laughs – and something about his laugh brings my eyes back up, to his smile that seems… honest. In a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

At the corners of his lips, there’s dimples.

Suddenly, he holds out his hand. “I’m Marco.” I listen to the way he says his own name; the way his mouth forms the syllables comes out soft.

Slowly, I take a step forward, reach out my own hand, and when mine meets his, it’s warm.

“Jean,” I say simply. “Um, Eren’s step-brother.”

“Oh!” he says, bringing his other hand up to grab mine before shaking it once more in earnest. “Yeah! The others were talking about you earlier. Eren said he was bringing you.”

“What all did he say?” I ask, feeling my heart sink just a little as his hands fall back to his sides. I suddenly don’t know what to do with mine, so I just tuck it back in my pocket. “Wait, nevermind,” I shoot back quickly, “I don’t want to know. But… what I do want to know is why the hell you were just sitting in here in the dark. Aren’t your friends all out there?”

“Ah, yeah,” he says, laughing a little, “sometimes when there’s too much going on, it’s like a sensory overload kind of thing.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” I swallow. “Um, in that case, I can go…”

Marco smiles, shakes his head, then slowly slips back to the floor. “You’re fine.” I stand there awkwardly for a moment before he leans to the side, patting the carpeted floor beside him. “Sit for a while.”

And… I don’t know why, but I do.

Marco is a good guy.

He’s sweet. Funny. A total dork – but I knew that from just about the second I met him. He’s a music buff, a junior in college, and he’s only 20. He’s read more books than anyone I know. He’s obsessed with Reddit.

After sitting next to him on the floor of Armin’s study for an hour, I find myself thinking that I probably have never spoken to someone so genuinely in my entire life – and that I’ve never felt closer to someone in an entire year as I have with Marco in an hour.

Maybe it’s because he can’t see me. I wonder so many times if that’s why I feel this way – because he can’t see the way my eyes start to wander down, watching his lips, watching his hands fiddling with rogue threads in the carpet. I keep finding myself taking in these small aspects of him without realizing it, and the second I do, I feel relief – because he won’t know.

Still… I find myself giving myself over to him. Before I can think to stop, I’m telling him about my life, about Eren, about Hanukkah, about how parties freak me out, and it’s not just because this one isn’t happening in Trost.

And for everything I tell him, he nods – understanding, or at least trying to, because you don’t have to see to understand. Not always.

Not with Marco.

“Come on,” he says eventually, clapping his hands on his knees and grabbing the cane leaning against the wall behind him before he stands. “Let’s go out there and have a beer.”

When I don’t say anything, and when I don’t stand, he sighs. “I’ll introduce you. I promise it won’t be that bad – they’re all really nice.”

“I’m 19 years old… I feel like a little kid,” I find myself saying honestly – and I can’t believe how bare a moment this is.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I feel like a kid sometimes, too. It’s just how life is.” He holds a hand out to me, waiting, and through his dark lenses I can see his eyes crinkle at the corners.

For just a moment, I study his hand – study the freckles splattered on his knuckles like spray paint cast over his honey skin. I study the fingernails, bitten and uneven. I study the way his fingers seem to tremble slightly.

And then I reach up. I take his hand.

He pulls me onto my feet.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. Lets my hand go. His cane splays across the ground in front of him, and he reaches the door with one of those soft freckled hands. Turns the handle.

I follow him out into the hall, and when I look up, he turns his head to shoot me a smile.

All at once, the light switch inside me seems to flicker on.

And then we’re walking, down the hall and into the kitchen; as soon as Marco walks up, everyone turns their heads, smiles widening.

“Marco!” a tall blond with incredible sideburns calls to him, raising his red solo cup. “Where you been?”

“Just chillin’,” he says simply. God, what a nerd.

Sideburns just nods, then points his thumb at the fridge. “You want a drink? I’ll get you one.”

“I got it,” another girl offers. She’s got dark hair, dark lips. Around her neck is a red knitted cowl. “What would you like, Marco?”

“Whatever is fine,” he smiles – and then he turns to the side, finally allowing them both to see me standing there behind him. “Hey, guys, will you get something for Jean, too? This is Jean, Eren’s step-brother.”

I can almost start to feel my face heating up when they look back at me – but before it does, they smile. They nod.

“Nice to meetcha, Jean,” Sideburns says. “I’m Thomas.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I tell him, nodding when the girl pulls out two Bud Lights from the fridge and hands one to me.

“I’m Mikasa,” she smiles. “Eren’s told me a lot about you.”

“All bad things, I’m sure,” I laugh, and so does she.

“Well… not exactly,” she shrugs, sighing. Hm. Wonder what that’s all about.

I take the beer from her hand and raise it a little in thanks before cracking it open. When I look over at Marco, I can see him fumbling with his beer while also trying to keep the cane in hand.

“I gotcha,” I say suddenly, and with my right hand I reach over and open his beer for him. As I do, my knuckles brush against his.

When I look up at him, his mouth is open slightly, and all at once he swallows, putting on a smile. It’s not fake, but… Surprised, I guess.

“Thanks,” he says.

I take a drink to force back the stupid smile on my face. “Don’t mention it.”

And then, more people filter in through the kitchen doorway – they all see Marco and can’t stop from smiling, greeting him. I can tell from just these first few interactions that people like Marco, a lot, and not in a pitying kind of way, either. They view him as an equal, rather than a disability. When I see them smiling together, for some inexplicable reason, my chest feels full.

He introduces me. Keeps introducing me. We leave the kitchen, head to the dining table where a bunch of kids are sitting around playing some drinking game. He introduces me to them, and – totally smashed – they greet me in earnest. Sloppy earnest.

One of them is that big beefer who was cracking Eren up earlier. He not only says hello to me, but he stands from his chair, opens his arms wide (wow this guy has got an impressive wingspan) and goes: “Come on.” His fingers twirl, inviting me into his loving embrace, and I can’t believe myself when I let it happen, and I hug him back.

“Nice to meet you, bud,” he says, squeezing me once more for good measure. “I’m Reiner.”

“Reiner’s the life of the party,” Marco says honestly. “We all love him. He’s like our group dad.”

That earns Marco a beefy hug, too.

When we start to enter the living room, my stomach turns over. It’s happening all over again, that feeling of wanting to totally disappear – but, shockingly enough, when we step inside, Eren is the first one to greet us.

“Marco!” he cheeses, standing up to rush over and give him a hug. “Hey, where’d you find Jean?”

Then, in a plot twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan, it’s not Marco who introduces me to the rest of the party… it’s Eren.

“Guys,” he says, calling attention, “I meant to say earlier – this is Jean, my new brother.”

I swallow. I try to wrap my head around his words.

“He hates EDM, but he’s alright,” Eren laughs, and then, shooting me a quick look, he elbows me in the ribs.

“Fuck,” I blurt, doubling over, clutching my chest while trying not to spill my beer. Everyone laughs, even Marco, and when I look up, they’re all grinning up at me.

“Um,” I start again, “hey.” And, raising a hand, I wave a little.

They all greet me in their own way – but, not unlike Marco had said, they’re all kind. Smiling. I can’t tell if it’s just the booze, but a part of me hopes it’s not.

Now, I’m going to set one more record straight: I’m not a huge boozer. Like, I don’t get drunk every weekend, I have only ever been to maybe one party that was not birthday-themed, and I certainly don’t have anyone willing to buy for me, so the amount of times I get drunk a year can probably be counted on one hand.

However, it’s times like these that I see the appeal. Not for any actual fun-related reason, though. Really, it just loosens you. It helps ease the anxiety away. It helps ease you into smiling more, into laughing. Making friends is easier when it’s dark and you’re buzzed.

By the end of the night, we’re all crowded in the biggest of the three rooms – the living room – and people are sitting on the floor, in each others laps, across the back of the couch, on the armrests of chairs. The room is packed, but nobody seems to mind.

For the first time, I don’t seem to mind.

Especially because Marco’s at my side. He’s telling a story to me and a few others around us, about the time his mom took him and his four (wow) younger sisters to Six Flags. His speech is animated as he retells an awkward and terrifying story of how everyone on the rollercoaster started singing happy birthday to him, even though it wasn’t his birthday, while being shot down the giant hill of the coaster. (I’m sure it’s also a lot scarier when you can’t see the drop coming.)

When Reiner interjects at the end of Marco’s story and starts telling us about how he met his boyfriend, Bertholdt – seated to Reiner’s left, hiding his face in Reiner’s shoulder – I realize just how close Marco is to me. His knee brushes against mine, and it stays there so long that it feels like more than a coincidence.

Then, when Reiner’s story takes a hilarious turn – something involving Bertholdt accidentally opening the door of his dressing room, when he meant to open his sister’s, only to find Reiner admiring himself in the mirror wearing nothing but a pink, leopard-print thong – we all burst into laughter… and Marco’s head falls onto my shoulder. He rolls it, breathes laughter against my skin, silky hair brushing against my neck.

And when he pulls away, I hate that I’m flustered. I hate it because I don’t understand it – why whenever his head is turned, I’m watching him, calculating how many freckles there are at the back of his neck, how many probably exist at the small of his back. I want to straighten his hair up for him after a girl eating a PB and J passes him and ruffles it, before jumping away to sit with her little friend with a buzz cut.

I keep watching him – I keep waiting for something – and when it never happens, when people start dropping like flies, one-by-one – I know my time’s almost up. The night’s ending before I’m ready for it to, and I know nothing will ever come of this because that’s just how things are.

I understand how chances work – and I understand when there isn’t one.

It’s nearly five in the morning when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d started falling asleep, chin to my chest, eyelashes practically zippered shut.

But, when I look up, it’s Marco standing above me.

“Uh, Jean?” he whisper-asks.

“Yeah,” I whisper back, “it’s me.”

“Oh, good. I was scared you were Ymir.” I stare up at him blankly. What is a Ymir?

Marco doesn’t give me time to ask, though. He just motions for me to come, follow him, and he starts down the hall adjacent to the living room. I stand up, careful not to step on anyone in the process, and make my way out of the snoring maze of passed out college kids to follow his shadow.

If I weren’t so tired, I would probably question this – but I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted. My body is not meant to drink and socialize on the level I have tonight. My body is made to eat Doritos and play Skyrim for eight hours straight.

With one hand on the wall, I follow, and when he opens a familiar door, I sigh gratefully. He waits at the door to make sure I’ve found him, but when he hears my footsteps approaching, he turns and heads inside. I make sure to shut the door behind me.

“I woke up a few minutes ago to you talking in your sleep,” he says quietly once we’re both inside, “and your breathing was going all ragged… I got worried. So I figured, uh, we could sleep in here.” Marco pauses, breathing. “It’ll be more comfortable, anyway.” Then, from under his arm, he lets a blanket fall to the floor.

I sigh. “Yeah, I’ve been known to do some weird shit in my sleep.” My hand runs through my hair, sticking every end out of place. “Thanks, man. My neck already hurts from sleeping like that.”

“No problem,” he replies simply, sliding downward to take a seat on the floor. “Um, you can lay wherever looks comfiest.”

“Let’s set up under the desk,” I say. “It’s cool. Kind of like a fort.” I’m completely oblivious to the fact that I’ve just invited him to lie with me; even if it’s completely nonsexual, it’s… Well. It’s not nothing.

I grab the blanket from off the floor, straighten it beneath the desk, and kneel down onto the ground. “Over here,” I call quietly, and Marco nods, crawling across the floor toward me until his hands find the blanket and he relaxes, pulling it over himself and ducking his head down so as not to bonk his dome against the edge of the table.

I scoot over to give him some more room, and when both our backs fall flat against the carpeted floor, we laugh lightly in unison.

“Thanks again, Marco,” I say as my eyes slip closed, as my chest’s movements synchronize with his and we start to breathe in the same sequence. “I don’t know how I would have got through this night without you, dude.”

I don’t have to look to know he’s smiling. I wonder if that’s how he hears me – in the shapes my mouth makes.

“You would have got through it,” he tells me honestly, “because they’re them, and you’re you. That wouldn’t have changed… just because I didn’t exist… They would have found you. Included you.” He sounds so tired, his words interjected by deep breaths. “But still… I’m… glad we met.”

I roll over onto my side, bend my arm to rest my head on, pull my knees up to my chest. And I smile.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “same.”

Except I wasn’t just glad to have met Marco.

I was lucky.

In the morning, I wake to being kicked in the shin.

“Owww,” I groan loudly, sitting upright – and then bonking my head on the underside of the table with a loud bang . “OW!” I shout even louder.

Before I crack open an eye, I feel a stirring beside me – and then, like a flood, the memory comes back. Last night, and the party, and my brother , and Marco.

I look to my left to see Marco starting to wake; his arms pull up over his face, hiding his eyes where his glasses are no longer positioned.

“Dude.” A voice from above barks at me. “I have to be to work in like, an hour… we gotta head home.”

Peeking out from under the table, I look up at Eren – who stands before me wearing a hoodie that reads “SCC – Mathletes” above an anthropomorphized calculator dunking a basketball. Dark circles ring his bright green eyes.

“What time is it,” I ask him, even though I don’t think I’m going to want to know.

“8:30.”

I groan. “God damn, goddamn.”

“You said it, Drake.”

Squinting back up at him, I find myself smiling against my will.

“So,” he winks, letting this moment last just a moment longer than it should, “you and Marco, huh.”

“Shut up,” I say, and that’s enough – it’s time for us to go. I’m standing, grabbing the socks I must have kicked off in my sleep from off the floor and pulling them on while resting my butt against the desk.

Eren makes a gross kissing noise before turning around and heading toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

I manage to get my socks on in record time, but when I stand back, stretching my arms above my head, I hear a familiar warm voice beneath the desk murmur: “G’morning to the world’s most insane sleeptalker.”

A laugh pulls itself from my throat, and even though this is probably going to make Eren late for work, I take a seat in the leather desk chair to ride these last few minutes out as best as I can.

“What did I say last night?” I ask.

He massages his eyelids with his fingertips. “Something about eating a beef buffet… And… something about sideburns.”

I laugh. “That sounds gross. Sorry you, uh, had to be a part of my weird fantasy.”

Marco sits up on his elbows, squinting a little. The light coming in between the blinds casts a yellow glow unevenly across his face.

And then, finally, he opens his eyes.

It’s the first time I’ve seen them in plain view, and not from behind his thick Ray Bans. They’re a warm hazel. Overcast. Tired tears gather in the corners, and he wipes at them again.

He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Like he wants me to say something. Like he’s nervous.

I clear my throat – and when I speak, it’s the first thing that comes to my mind.

“Did you know you have green flecks in your eyes?”

I’m not sure if that’s a good reply or not, but I swear… For a second, the tips of his ears seem to color.

“I don’t know if you even know… green…” I say, trying to smooth things out but only making them exponentially worse. My hands find themselves in my hair out of nervous habit. “Uh, but. What I mean is. You, uh. You have nice eyes.” I swallow the lump growing in my throat, cough, let my hands fall into my lap, and breathe. “They’re really nice.”

Marco’s face finds its way into the crook of his arm as he bends forward, leaning on his knees. “Geez,” I hear him murmur – voice strangled by something indiscernible… but it sounds like happiness.

I laugh. “Sorry, I don’t really know what I’m saying… But, uh, look. You should, if you feel like it, give me your number. Maybe… if you’re not busy over break we could ‘chill’ again, or something.”

My hands find themselves in my hair again.

JEAN YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL, I scream internally. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.

“Okay.”

It catches me so off-guard I practically choke.

“Seriously?”

Marco’s head pops up from his arm, and that’s when I see him: completely and totally blushing .

And, seeing him so affected, I can’t stop myself from blushing a little, too.

“Yeah,” he says – and even though his cheeks are beet red, he smiles. “I’m so sure.”

I hurry to stand from the chair, trying to find a paper and pen, and when I do, I tell him to go ahead with his number. He says it slowly, but even so, I can feel my hand shaking, and I can see it in the way my lines seem to wobble on the Post-It.

“I’d give you my number, too,” I joke, peeling the note off the pad and shoving it into the deepest part of my pocket, “but… somehow I don’t think that would work.”

“You could just tell it to me,” Marco says simply. “I’ll remember.”

I blink. “Wait, for real?”

“I have a great memory,” he says. “My mom says its from reading so much, but… I think I just have a lot of extra room in my brain or something from not having to spend storage space on visuals.” He shrugs. “Lay it on me.”

So, I do. I tell him my phone number, and when I ask if he wants to hear it again, he just shakes his head. Taps it with his pointer finger. “Got you penciled in.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he echoes back.

“Hey man. Don’t ‘John Green’ me like that.”

“Like what?”

I look at him really hard for a long moment, but then I see the corners of his lips turn upward and I know he’s just messing with me again.

I sigh. “Alright. Um, I gotta go.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, then, crawling out from under the table, he stands. Faces me as best he can. Holds a hand out. “It was nice to meet you, Jean.”

And, look, I know that I said I’m not into the whole Christmas thing. I know.

But if I were the Grinch, this would have totally been the moment my heart grew three sizes.

I smile – unadulterated as I can manage, because that’s what Marco deserves – and take his hand in mine.

“You too, Marco.”

On the way back, Eren doesn’t play his shitty music. He doesn’t play anything. It’s silent – and I’m pretty sure it’s because he has a hangover, which sucks. He keeps massaging the bridge of his nose and pinching his eyes shut at the stoplights.

Remembering the snack bag Eren’s mom packed, I shoot god another internal peace sign – thanks homie – and reach around to grab it. I wordlessly hand Eren a water bottle and he accepts it with a weak “thanks” before guzzling ¾ of the bottle in one big gulp. A few seconds later, the bottle is cashed and he tosses it carelessly into his backseat.

He lets out a loud screech, similar to that of a pterodactyl. “I’M DEHYDRATED,” he growls. I just hand him another bottle, and the cycle repeats.

Once his hydration levels get back under control and we’re about 20 minutes from home, Eren finally brings up The Thing I Really Don’t Want to Discuss.

“So,” he starts casually, grabbing a handful of trail mix out of the bag now sitting between us in the cupholder. “What was all that with you n’ Freckles last night?”

Briefly, I consider rolling the window down and hurling myself out of the car.

“Ah, literally nothing,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “He said he heard me talking in my sleep, so he got me up and we ended up sleeping in the study.”

“Riiiiiiiiight.”

“I’m telling you, that’s what happened.”

Eren clicks his tongue. “Ya know, that sounds… a lil bit gay to me.”

Pause.

Let me take a second to consider my options.

The first option: I tell Eren I'm flame-o, hotman. He either:

A. Secretly judges me,

B. Openly judges me, or

C. A miracle happens.

The second option: I pretend I'm not even a little gay and have to live the rest of my life knowing I lied about this stupid crush.

There’s really only two ways to go, and the second sounds a lot worse because I might be a good liar, but lying sucks. Plus, when I think about the fact that I really don’t give two shits what Eren thinks, since to be perfectly honest I judge him on a daily basis on his music taste and collection of tasteless snapbacks, I decide to give route one a shot.

“It kind of is a little gay,” I say finally, shrugging – and when I do, Eren goes quiet. 

He clears his throat about a half mile down the road and goes, “I mean, that’s cool.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Really?”

“Really, really,” he says. Except he says it in a total Shrek voice, and I pretend to shove a finger down my throat in typical mock-gag formation.

“No, seriously though, dude,” he shrugs, straightening. “I really don’t care. At all. You do you, brother.”

I snort. “Brother from another mother.”

He sticks his fist out to me. I don’t think twice about bumping it with my own.

I see Marco again. In fact, I see him so much over break that it shocks my family how much I leave the house. They aren’t used to me actually having plans, let alone – gasp – consecutive days’ worth of plans.

Marco’s actually from Jinae, which isn’t too far from Trost. I mean, it’s a little farof a drive, and I’ve almost died a few times driving out to meet him because of incredibly poor road conditions (thanks Snow Miser) but, honestly, at least it's not a drive every other day to Shiganshina.

I guess what surprises me most about hanging out with Marco is how normal of a life he has. I mean, yeah, he has to walk with a cane. He lives in almost complete darkness (although he has told me that he can see vague lights and values of brightness). But, regardless, he's really just a regular guy.

He has me read him funny Reddit threads for hours, because he says it's a lot better than having his text-to-speech translator read it to him. He shows me his collection of vinyls, which is honestly quite varied. He seems to like a little of everything - there's some mellow 70s rock, some 80s glam rock, a couple of early 90's rap albums, The Sound of Music original soundtrack... Each of his vinyls are labeled with a sticker in the corner that has the title printed in braille, thanks to a nifty label maker he got for Christmas a few years ago.

I end up bringing some of my vinyls over, since I've got a ton in my possession that Dad just doesn't listen to anymore. I introduce Marco to the Pixies, to Elliot Smith, to Hole. Marco tells me I need to expand my musical horizons, and I tell him to suck a fuck. That makes him laugh.

Over the course of the week leading up to Christmas, and the few days that follow it, Marco and I hang out a total of eight times. That sounds like a lot, but it doesn't feel like it. Not really. When I'm with him, time seems like it's going at 150 miles per hour. I'm getting whiplash without realizing it; the days, already so short, seem even shorter. But we keep pushing it - keep pushing the clock later and later with every hangout.

On December 30, I drive over to Marco's at noon. He asks if I want to go see a movie, and I say yes - and on the way over, I ask him what's so great about seeing a movie if you can't even really see it. He explains that it's like listening to a radio show, the way they used to a really long time ago. You can't see it, but you can imagine.

I wonder what Marco's mind looks like. How many colors he's painted there - how many that names don’t exist for.

We end up seeing a drama. Marco likes those the best. It's a colonial romance with major heartbreak at the end; the woman has to return to England to care for her sick father, and the man knows he will never see her again. When I look over at Marco, he's wiping his eyes under his glasses, tears spilling down his cheeks. I wonder if the way he's imagining this scene going down is a lot worse in his head than it is in reality.

I can't help smiling, my hand finding his shoulder, rubbing it gently. "It's gonna be okay, man," I murmur. "'S just a movie."

He sniffles, nodding... and for a second, it feels like he actually leans into my touch.

After the movie, I take us out for dinner and frozen yogurt (which is Marco's fav). He already seems to know what he wants on both accounts, he just asks me to find where the yogurt toppings are for him and stuff.

Then, when we get back to Marco's, he tells his parents we're going out for a walk, and we decide to do some laps around his neighborhood. He asks if I mind if he leaves his cane at the house, and when I say I don't, he seems to sigh a little. Relief. As helpful as it is to his daily life, I'm sure it really feels like a ball and chain sometimes.

I'm in the middle of trying to warm my hands by rubbing them together when, in a fumbled motion, Marco steps toward me and loops his arm with mine.

Ah. So that's what he meant by "do you mind if I leave my cane at home."

I look down at my shoes as we start walking, my head probably steaming from the sudden heat rushing to it. No, I think, flustered, I don't mind. Not even a little.

Marco doesn't get it though. He can't see me blush whenever he smiles at me, can't see the way I study him like he's my key to a 4.0. He can't tell how bad I have it for him because the signals I’m sending out aren't auditory.

Beside me, his grip on my arm tightens. He leans into me shamelessly now, because he's relying on me - and I don't bother pretending I'm not leaning back. This feels natural. Being with Marco feels natural.

Marco isn't even a little awkward though - which is good, because I'm awkward enough for the both of us.

We walk for a while, talking about the movie from earlier, about how good dinner was, how I don't actually like froyo very much (Marco takes personal offense), and what’s on the agenda for tonight. Of course, Marco already has a playlist completely lined up for us. Of course.

I don't want to stop walking, because I don't want to let go. Eventually though, we both get too cold; Marco insists because, he says, my hands are probably going to get frostbite from the bitterness if we stay out any longer.

Once we get inside, we pull off our hats and scarves and coats and head downstairs to Marco's room. He's got the whole basement to himself, and even though it's only about halfway finished, it's spacious as hell.

The only downfall, however, is the heat. Or, lack thereof.

Simply put: Marco's room is freezing.

He shudders, and without having to use his cane, walks directly over to the space heater and turns it on. It lets out a deep breath before blowing warm-ish air out, but this heater is clearly on its last leg and I don't have the heart to tell Marco that for the past two weeks, I've been freezing my ass off down here. This heater doesn't work for shit.

"Here," Marco says, and when I look back up at him, he's holding a blanket out to me. Like he knows.

I offer an appreciative "thanks" before unfolding it and wrapping it around myself. He slowly lowers himself down onto the floor across the room, kneeling as he searches for the correct vinyl, and letting out a happy sound when he finds it. I watch him bend over the machine, watch as he searches for the center of the spinny part with his opposite hand, watch as he carefully aligns the record and feels for the edge before lowering the needle onto the disc.

The music starts, and I have to laugh - Marco sure does love his Hall and Oates.

"Don't laugh," he says defensively, then walks back over to where I sit leaning against the side of the bed and plops down beside me. "You know it's good."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "They're alright." I stop myself just before I let it slip that I think it's cute Marco likes them - even if I can't explain why.

But to be honest, I'd probably think it was cute if Marco liked ICP.

(Well. Okay. Maybe not.)

(You never know though. Marco's pretty fucking cute. He could probably turn me.)

Marco closes his eyes, leans his head back against the mattress. He hums, bobs his head; his fingertips tap the beat onto his knees. We sit, listening in silence, and when the song ends, he sighs happily, sitting up again and smiling over at me.

"So," Marco starts, sitting back, "d'you have a New Year's Resolution?"

I shrug. "Hm. Not really." I start fiddling with a string at the end of my hoodie sleeve. "I feel like there's a lot of aspects on my life that need work. Coming up with a single resolution seems counterproductive when I should be working on, ya know," I pause, gesturing to my chest with both hands, "all of this."

Marco sighs.

"Hmm?" I ask, nudging his knee with my foot. He smiles a little. Pushes his glasses up his nose. Sighs again.

"I was just about to say something... corny and self-deprecating," he says dismissively.

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "What was it?"

Another shrug. "You know," he gestures sadly with his hands, the corners of his smile turning downward a little. "You said something about... needing to work on 'all of that'... I wish I knew what 'all of that' looked like, is all."

The joke I'd been prepared to come back at him with diminishes in my throat.

Silence. I try to think of something to say, anything, but nothing comes because the fact is that I can't even begin to imagine what Marco struggles with every day. And it's not something that's on my mind when we're together; sure, it's part of him, but that's not his ultimate characteristic.

Because Marco is funny, and charismatic, and caring, and understanding. He's kind. He's original. He's so much more than blind.

But, for Marco, that's not something he can just forget about, the way I can. It affects him every second he's alive.

It means canes, glasses. It means he'll never know what I look like.

"Hey," I tell him suddenly, "give me your hands."

Marco starts, his shoulders which had once curved forward now stiffen. He looks up at me, confused. I watch his eyebrows pull together, watch his lips as they part.

"Here," I murmur, crawling closer, abandoning the blanket to sit before him on my knees. I'm so nervous.

Just do it, I think, frustrated - and so I do.

I move slow, taking one of his hands in both of mine, careful, watchful. He sucks in a breath, tensing, and for that quick moment, I'm worried I've done something wrong. Worried I've stepped over the line, crossed it, destroyed it. And then I see his chin fall to his chest, see the smile start to spread across his face.

His front teeth catch his lower lip and my heart stutters.

Don’t you know what you're doing to me?

He couldn't possibly know - so, with one more shaky breath, I show him.

I lift his hand, and at once, press his palm to my cheek. I feel like I'm on fire - my face, my hands, my everything. I let his hand go when, on his own accord, he brings his other to meet my cheek. My hand falls, trailing down his arm - warm. He presses his thumbs to my jaw, runs fingertips across my cheekbones, traces my eyebrows and the bridge of my nose to the tip. He flutters over eyelashes. He lets his breath go.

"Jean," he whispers.

This.

This is the distance, bridged; the closeness I've been struggling to obtain ever since that night we fell asleep together at the Christmas party. It's that, and then some - it's nervousness. It's need.

His hands find the front of my hair; he takes his time, feeling the coarseness of my bad dye-job, of my split-ends. I see him smile at it - as his fingers move downward, as his thumbs feel the buzzed texture of my undercut.

My eyes slip shut.

"You're... blushing," he realizes, and his voice is quiet. As his hands find their way back to my cheeks, all I can do is nod faintly.

He laughs, light, coming out as more of a breath. "It's okay," he says, and his hands... His hands. They slide down my cheeks, down until they're pressed against my neck, my jaw, thumbs holding me still.

"I'm blushing, too," he whispers. I open my eyes and realize he's right. Another quiet laugh. I find myself laughing, too.

"I still don't know what you look like," he continues, voice tinged with something, "but, I have an idea... I have pieces."

"Is that okay?" I ask.

He smiles. He doesn’t let me go.

"It's enough."

And at his words, I feel it. Like a magnet, like gravity, like a train at 150 miles an hour - I don't stop myself. It's too much. Too far.

My hands move upward again, shaking as they do - God, why do I keep shaking - and finally, they hook in the fabric near the collar of Marco's shirt. I stare at it, wrinkled in my hands, then look up. From this close, I can see through his glasses to his eyes, closed. His lips press together tightly before they fall open, and--

"Jean?"

I can feel myself inching toward him, slowly, painfully. "Marco," I murmur, "can I..." I try to ask him, but I can't finish. Something in me won't let me. A block - a wall.

And in one word, Marco knocks it down.

"Please."

My body pulls forward, upward; by the force in my fists, I draw myself to Marco by his shirt collar. I tilt my head. I bend down, lean in.

And then, my lips are on his. I breathe against them, shaking, shaking, everywhere. His hands don't move from my jaw. Instead, they keep me from breaking, to still me. To calm. His lips catch mine every time they part, every time I stop to breathe - and at once, I know that this is what stars feel when they burst. This is infinity.

My heartbeat is out of my chest, in my hands, in my lips, in every place my skin touches his.

I nearly blurt: "I'm sorry" - before I realize that if I did, I would be lying. Because I'm not sorry. I'm not guilty, for letting my heart out.

For letting him see me.

So, instead, I say:

"I've wanted to do that ever since we met."

It takes only a moment for his smile to grow. His cheeks burn. He hides his face in my neck, his hands falling to my sides. I can't help it, either; my eyebrows pull together, my arms wrap around him. My head falls to rest on his.

"I never thought," he says, voice stifled by my skin, and by an emotion bubbling in his throat. "Never."

"I... Marco, you like me too, right?"

He lifts his head, flabbergasted. "Of course! You couldn't tell?!"

I smirk. "Never learned how to read braille."

Marco hits me, and when I see the look on his face, I burst out laughing. So does he. And then, when we fall quiet once more, I press my palm to the corner of Marco's jaw, fingers curling around the back of his neck, and pull him into another kiss. His lips are chapped in the middle, rough from how often he bites them, but the way he kisses me is so soft that I hardly realize it. I start out forceful, but when I feel the gentle way his lips open and close against mine, I pull back. Release.

I let him lead, and suddenly, he's lifting me, my legs curled around his waist, and he rests my back against the floor of his room. He kisses the corner of my mouth once before pulling away, I look up at him, silent, studying. Then, I'm reaching; my hands find the sides of his glasses, and gently, I pull them away from his eyes.

He blinks. Hazel eyes clouded and sparkled with green. They’re just like I remembered.

I take him by the sides of his head, pulling him downward, and when his eyes slip shut, I press my lips to them - first the right, then the left. And when his eyes open again, I see that they've become glassy.

"What's wrong?" I ask hurriedly, voice soft, low. Worry pangs in my stomach and I wonder - was this what he wanted? Does he regret this?

But he just shakes his head, presses his forehead against mine. I feel a teardrop transcend, skin against skin.

"No, no," he murmurs, voice breaking. "I'm happy, Jean. You... you make me feel loved."

I can't help it now - I'm laughing. I'm pressing my lips everywhere on his face; his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his lips, his lips.

And when my laughter finally dies, I say, simply: "You are."