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Marco huffs.
He makes his frustrations known, in the escape of air from between his slightly parted lips. The line between his brows is deep, warm eyes focused on the task at hand.
And the task is exactly that: Jean’s hand.
It’s bruised, freshly clean of blood, and being wrapped in fresh bandages by Marco’s practiced fingers. Practised, because this isn’t the first time he’s had to come to Jean’s aid.
It most certainly won’t be the last, either.
His delicate, light touches contrast spectacularly to how annoyed he is. How, when he’d warned both Eren and Jean to cut it out, Jean didn’t listen to him. How his “Someone is going to get hurt!” fell on deaf ears, and how Jean had taken a swing for Eren a second after, fist colliding with his cheek and knocking him to the floor.
Jean was proud of that hook, briefly, until he felt like all the bones of his fingers had splintered, cracking under the force of the punch— and then Eren had kicked at his shins, knocking him face-first into the wooden flooring of the barracks.
A bloody nose, a black eye and probably several fractured bones in his hand.
That was Marco's assumption. He’s probably right.
He often is.
“-need to stop.”
“What?”
Jean hadn’t been listening. Focused solely on keeping as still as possible, letting Marco work, watching how he does it, and how gentle he is. How he always treats Jean like something to be handled with care.
“I said,” Marco huffs again, tucking the end of the bandage into the other pieces wrapped around Jean’s hand, before lifting his eyes. “You need to stop.”
“He started it,” Jean grumbles. Because Eren had. This time, at least. Taunting him for getting less points in their training session today, joking about Jean not making it into the Military Police with blade skills like that. “I just gave him what he deserved.”
“And now you’re all bruised and bloody. Was it really worth it?”
Marco is looking at him, judgement written into every millimetre of his face. Judgement, concern, annoyance.
Jean cowers. His shoulders lift towards his ears, making his body smaller. His eyes shift from Marco’s, back down to his bandaged hand, that still rests in Marco’s soft grasp. He won’t be able to train like this. Not for a few days, at least.
“No.”
“Hmph,” Marco lets go of Jean’s hand, and reaches down beside the benches they’re sitting on. There’s a jug of warm water and a cloth that he dips, wetting it, before he brings it close to Jean’s face. “Look up.”
Jean does as he’s told. Tilts his head back, as Marco takes his chin between his thumb and his finger. Holding him steady, holding him still. Jean swallows thickly, eyes dropping to Marco’s who is already looking at him, before he dabs the cloth against the dried blood around his nostril, leading down towards his mouth where it stops.
Marco’s eyes avert, just slightly south, gently cleaning the stained skin. Jean can’t look away though. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from Marco’s face.
Marco. Every single time this happens, it’s him and Marco. Marco, bandaging him up, Marco, telling him off. Marco, gently touching him, not wanting to break anything else.
And Jean, watching, studying every part of him, like he hasn’t seen Marco’s face and hands a million times, like he couldn’t sketch every pore, every hair, every scar and crease from memory.
This time, though, is different. Because in the silence, between the feeling of Marco’s fingers against his skin, Jean says something he so often loathes to speak.
“I’m sorry.”
Marco stops dabbing. Lifts his eyes to meet Jean’s, to find sincerity in the fiery amber.
You should be. You owe me more than that. You should promise to never do it again, so I don’t have to keep dealing with you. There’s so many things Jean expects Marco to say.
Not what he does.
“Don’t be.”
It’s followed with a resigned sigh. Marco’s hands drop into his lap, and Jean tilts his head forward.
“I should be, though,” Jean chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before, “I always make a mess. You always clean it up.”
Marco laughs— though it’s more of a heavy breath. A kind of sad laugh, not the usual sweet giggle (if that’s what it can be called, because, really, that’s the best way to describe it) that Jean draws out of him with a terrible joke. With a cheeky comment. With a teasing jibe.
With the want and need of an addict.
“It’s what I’m here for,” Marco responds.
“But it’s not. You didn’t sign up for this.”
“I chose to sign up to eventually join the Military Police,” he scoots forward on the wooden bench, just an inch, but he’s notably closer to Jean now. Not invading his space, but slotting himself back into the empty gap that was always meant for him. “and I choose to take care of you when you make stupid choices. Often as they are. Now look up again, I’m not done.”
Jean can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips. He winces at the pain from his nose and his eyes, but it doesn’t stop his expression. Not when Marco’s thumb and forefinger grip onto his chin again, tilting his head back for him, and especially not when he catches sight of a smile creeping on Marco’s lips too.
They sit in silence for a little while longer. Until Marco is happy that Jean is blood-free, until the cloth is wrung out and laid to dry over the table, the jug of water emptied onto the dirt just outside the door.
And when Marco comes to sit back down next to him, Jean allows himself to do another thing he usually wouldn’t.
He touches.
Reaching for Marco’s wrist, which moves just at the last second, Jean’s painless hand drops into Marco’s healing one.
A flush of pastel pink warms the tops of Marco’s cheek. His mouth drops open just slightly, breath catching in his throat. Surprise, shock.
Jean speaks before he’s scared away, to prove there was intent behind the touch. That it wasn’t a mistake. That it never would be. “Thank you.”
Marco’s fingers curl around Jean’s, lacing together, fitting together like two puzzle pieces. It’s just a moment, barely a few seconds, before he pulls away, settling his hand on the bench between them, disconnecting without another word. Shy, like Jean hadn’t been the first to move anyway.
Like Marco had done something wrong.
As if he could ever.
“Don’t need to thank me,” Marco gives Jean a smile. “But you can’t always rely on me to bandage you up, you know? Even if I want to, I might not always be around to do it for you.”
Jean scoffs. Leaning back against the table, his own hand also coming to rest between the two of them on the bench, barely an inch from Marco’s. His pinky finger twitches, wanting to find soft skin once more, but instead it lingers on rough wood.
He never claimed to be brave.
“Ha, what’re you talking about, you idiot? Where else would you be but right here?”