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WARNING: This is an English translation of one of my older fanfictions. You can read the original Italian version at this link
Marco has changed.
When exactly it started, Jean doesn't quite know. But Marco has changed.
Perhaps it all began the morning when, instead of frowning with that blend of anger and despair that always seemed to say to Jean, 'Why did you make me go through all this?!', Marco dared to smile. A genuine smile. He stretched his lips, lifted his bandaged cheeks, and—damn it: Jean couldn't even remember what Marco's smile looked like (nor how much he liked it, enough to make him blush like a shamefaced schoolgirl in love).
Or maybe it started a few weeks ago. Ever since that time when, before returning to his duties, Marco stopped clutching his hand in that dreadful way, and Jean stopped pulling away, leaving behind a piece of his soul that would render him a hollow shell until he saw him again, there—on that bed. With the same fear and the same desire to seize his hand, squeezing it until it hurt.
Marco has changed now.
When he sits against the iron headboard, curiously watching Jean's (vain) attempts to present him with a rice omelette like his mother's, even asking him to at least taste the non-burnt parts no longer sounds like an additional torment.
Jean would have never believed it. On days when the sun's rays penetrate through the windows and disguise his bandages, making them appear almost incandescent; almost as if nothing had ever happened and the missing parts of his body were still there, hidden somewhere in the light, Jean likes to believe that Marco has even stopped hating him a little.
For not letting him die on the stretcher at the district hospital in Trost, or for not heeding his 'let me go' pleas that would have spared him all this.
For not being able to prevent him from ending up there, torn apart on a street corner, along with the bodies of Trost that no one ever recognised.
For not being able to protect him.
Yes, Marco has changed.
And his way of perceiving the world around him has changed too. His expression is no longer the same when he sees the boisterous figure of Squad Leader Hange at the door.
The light that shines in his eye, free from bandages, is now vivid and suspicious—sure, sometimes he still looks at her as if he fears she might stab him at any moment, but at least it would happen on this planet.
Not on one light-years away that none of her efforts would have allowed him to reach.
“Let’s do just one more, come on. Just as a precaution.”
Until recently, it was 'Alright, I’ll try to give you one more. But this really is the last one, for today,' and a new, displeased expression replaced the relief that Hange’s phrase—and especially that syringe—used to evoke.
“Oh, come on, don’t sulk as usual. I already told you it’s the last one, just this one. Then, no more injections. I promise!”
Jean crosses his arms over his chest, curling his lips. “That’s what she said last week.”
Marco doesn’t even scold him for using that presumptuous tone. And yet, Jean is quite sure he’s lost count of how many times he’s preferred to bite his tongue rather than question the originality of the squad leader’s therapies, persuaded by Marco’s groans and gaze, eager—at least on his part—for a truce.
But now, he simply lets his head rest on Jean’s lap, allowing himself to be stroked, finding comfort even in the hand that Hange lingers on his side longer than necessary to uncover and prepare him.
“I miscalculated, that’s all—” she then says, not at all surprised and not at all intending to take her eyes off the graduated cylinder she holds up to the light. Nor to reveal anything about last week’s relapse.
Because Marco has changed, and probably, Hange knows that his challenges have changed too. Ending relations with the Marco-from-some-time-ago, even the one from-a-week-ago, is one of them.
“Ah—”
He whimpers when the needle pricks him, blows through his teeth when the plunger starts to slowly descend. His head tucked between his shoulders, he bites his lower lip between his incisors as if trying to clamp down on all the words still hesitating to come out.
And there must be something wrong with him, he must be a little mad, Jean—because on that furrowed face, on those broken breaths that warm his lap more than the sun, Jean sees the Marco-who-wasn’t-Marco slip away, leaving behind one who a needle still has the power to offend.
And that suits him, he asks for nothing more. That Marco, so agonised that he no longer notices a piece of metal entering his flesh, is only in the past now.
“Finished, all done—” Hange drags out, motherly and understanding, along with another series of words that Jean is sure mean something to this-Marco—just as he’s sure that her drumming her fingers on the back of his neck, the brushing of her knuckles under his damp eyelids, are there for a reason.
“We’re a bit whiny today, aren’t we? Not long ago, you eagerly awaited this moment, and now? Look at you! You almost glare at me! I’d better be careful, or one of these days you might actually make me pay for this.”
“Whiny?!”
He’s not really offended: Jean knows it’s just another way Hange has devised to tell him he’s done well, that he’s made it.
Damn it, damn it, she’s so glad.
Damn it, she’s proud to see him so different, so changed.
And even if Jean is fairly certain these are no longer the squad leader’s thoughts, but definitely his own by now, seeing her kneel on the mattress just to lean in and keep stroking his back now that Marco is sitting up again and holding onto him (because now, yes—he can lift and hold him close again) confuses him.
And almost, almost, Jean likes being confused.
“How did it go yesterday? I heard Moblit managed to find time to get you some physiotherapy, is that right?”
Her circling around the bed to place the syringe among the items to be sterilised is just an excuse to regain his face. Jean can’t see it, but he imagines it still marred by the affront.
But he feels Marco nodding against his shoulder, and doesn’t pull away when Hange gently smooths the hair from his forehead and temples, as if it’s almost a way to apologise.
Jean feels his chest asking to release the breath it’s holding. After all, Marco’s fingers on his shoulder have softened; it’s a good sign. He’s probably already forgiven her.
“Then I really should be afraid that sooner or later you’ll actually make me pay for this.”
Marco’s vigorous shaking of his head tickles Jean’s chin a bit, and it’s nice, Jean thinks. He runs his fingers along the sharp bones of his spine, now less sharp than he remembered. He buries his lips and nose in his neck, filling his lungs with his scent: that too has changed.
“I’ll have lunch brought to you at twelve.”
Jean lifts his head abruptly, glancing sideways.
“Ah—no, I’ll be cooking for him, I’m off today!”
At the doorframe, Hange stops. She tilts her head to the side, looks at Jean, then Marco. She curls her lips.
“Oh, Marco—I really do feel sorry for you.”
“What—what’s that supposed to mean?!”
Before he can finish stammering like an idiot, Hange is already gone. And perhaps it’s just as well.
“Jean—”
Because it would be exceedingly inappropriate, being watched as Marco reaches for his chin and pulls him close (as if he really needed to be pulled close—as if just hearing his name, or even the rare sound of his voice, wasn’t enough to draw all his attention to him).
“I l-like...how you cook.”
Jean gazes at that gaunt but now bright face a little longer in silence.
He gazes and finds him so beautiful. Beautiful like he hasn’t been in a long time. Jean kisses the tip of his nose. He lets a blush colour the space between his freckles.
“And if you like how I cook, then wait until you see me while I’m cooking. Come on, I’ll take you with me!”
Marco raises an eyebrow, not entirely convinced by what he’s just heard—and indeed, Jean isn’t entirely convinced either, but he decides to let it go. Better to keep looking at Marco, and think about how much he has changed.
When he gently pulls away from the hand around his shoulder and plants his heels on the floor, Jean realises that it’s indeed time to give him credit for it.
The end