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I
Dead leaves waltz along with the crisp, winter breeze. It slices across what little parts of Marco's face that are exposed to the elements, as he stands atop the highest wall in the third ring of the castle. Wall duty can be tediously taxing. Left with only the opressive silence, howling cold, and their thoughts-- more than one man has surely been driven mad from it.
It's possible Marco would have been lumped among the wall veterans, who now flock to bars like they are holy lands, to drink away the chill that never quite leaves their bones, if not for the unexpected company of a certain someone. A weak glow stands out against the stark snow storm setting in, and it's coming closer. He smiles to himself, his cheeks miraculously warming as he blushes.
When the figure comes into view, Marco tries not to laugh at the Prince; he's bundled up far too much, and he looks like he is having trouble navigating the icy path with all the extra weight. There's a big wicker basket under one of his arms, and rolled up furs in the other.
"You look a looby," Marco chuckles softly to the Prince when he finally reaches him.
"Piss off," he bites back, but his fond smile shows Marco he hasn't spoken out of place. Sometimes he is still not sure how familiar he can be with the Prince. Their friendship is all so very new, and forbidden.
He shoves the basket at Marco and grumbles, "Mayhap you might like some food?" The Prince is blushing, and not meeting Marco's eyes while he busies himself with unrolling the furs. "A-and, you know... sommat to ward off the cold. It's bloody freezing up here."
Marco takes one of the furs gratefully, and wraps it around his shoulders with an appreciative smile. The Prince ducks his head sheepishly when he sees that smile, and Marco tries not to dwell upon how endearing his awkward nature can be.
"Where 'tis your crown my Prince?" Marco chooses to tease, hopefully he can evaporate the unsettled air between them.
Jean frowns. "There's no bleeding way I can wear it up here in this frigid hellscape, t'would freeze right into my skull and I would never get it off again..."
"I merely jest," Marco amends, "though an ice crown t'would suit you so well."
The elbow Marco gets jabbed sharply into his side is well deserved, but it makes him laugh even harder.
"Stop laughing at me," Jean gripes, pulling his tawny fur around his shoulders with an irritated huff. He leans against the Parapet and stares out into the empty, white scape just beyond the wall.
"I only laugh because you make it so easy to." Marco points out uncertainly, his dark eyes flicking to his Prince's face to constantly gauge his expression. Talking with the Prince is a lot like dipping his toes into unknown waters, trying to test the temperature and not knowing what is quite right to dive into.
Jean grunts at that, and doesn't refute Marco's statement. "You should start eating the food I brought ere it all freezes through." The Prince's long, nimble fingers deftly undo the ties on the side of the basket before Marco can say anything. "'Tis not much, but there's shepherd's pie, some pasties and spiced wine." He pulls out each item, carefully wrapped in cloth to help keep the warmth in for as long as possible.
"Thank ye," Marco murmurs, a shy smile sweeping over his face.
Jean holds Marco's gaze for a few moments before he nods his head and mumbles an embarrassed yet sincere, "Welcome."
Night creeps slowly by, the temperature plummeting to almost unbearable lows. Marco and Jean light the watch fire and huddle close as they eat and drink. The wine is starting to make Marco's head spin, and he giggles against the Prince's shoulder after he tells a particularly raunchy joke.
Jean is practically crying as he holds his sides, Marco's face after the telling is too hilarious that he can't stop laughing! "Oh gods, your face! One would think you were some saintly virgin, you look so scandalized."
Marco stops laughing and looks decidedly nervous. He rubs at the back of his neck, and refuses to look at Jean. There's a sharp intake of breath from Jean, and Marco cringes as he realizes how much he just gave away.
"Perchance, are you really a virgin?" Jean sounds so shocked that Marco can't help but look up again to see his expression. He expects to see the Prince's face twisted in mockery, so when instead he is met with soft, open curiosity, it makes Marco gulp and stare wide eyed at the Prince.
There really was no point in keeping it a secret or avoiding the question... it wasn't like it was a big deal right? "A-aye, I am." Marco feels his face burn, and it feels slightly unbearable.
"Gods wounds... I had you pegged as a dandy man forsooth."
"Nay," Marco almost laughs at the wonder on Jean's face, "I spend far too much time alone for that."
"But you're a strong, handsome knight. Don't you have the wenches swooning over you in droves?" Marco can't tell if Jean is teasing him or not, but the smirk on the Prince's face makes him believe he is being made the fool.
Stiffly, Marco moves away from Jean and scowls at the waning flames. "As I said, I have little time nor desire for such things."
Jean loops his arm around Marco, and it makes the Knight wonder if they have perhaps had far too much to drink for one night as the Prince whispers in his ear (voice dropped low and breathy), "We could change that, if you fancy."
"M-my Prince, I must decline. I think either of us has drunk too much, and need some time to gather our wits."
Marco almost thinks he sees hurt flash over Jean's face, but the nervous smile spreading over the Prince's face makes him believe he imagined it. "Aye, yer right. Mayhap I should get back to the castle ere the whole kingdom turns itself innards out looking for me."
"Aye... t'would be best, my Prince." Marco hates the distance wedged between them by his cool words. They are Knight and Prince, separated by entire worlds that should ne'r be mingled.
Jean stands, gathers the basket and his fur. Marco goes to hand back his fur, but Jean emphatically shakes his head. "Nay, keep it. Ye'll need it tonight."
"Thank ye again. The night passed by far more pleasantly with your company, my Prince." Marco smiles bashfully, but earnestly keeps his eyes on Jean's.
"Anon," Jean replies with a wave, before his bulky figure is swallowed by the swirling snow storm and the deep shadows of night.
II
"E'em, Marco."
Marco looks up from his watery stew as one of the more likeable Knights sits beside him with a cheery smile. Her helm is under her arm, so her long brown hair is visible, held up and out of her face by leather strappings. As usual her plates are balanced precariously along her other arm, and they are overloaded with food. Of all the years he has served in the King's service, Marco has never seen any one who can eat as much as Sasha Braus.
"E'em Sasha, perchance are you preparing to go into hibernation?" Marco shoots a pointed glance at the heaps of food the female Knight intends to eat.
Sasha laughs, half of a roll already bitten off and being chewed as she replies, "I worked hard today. A Knight has to keep up their strength, you know."
Marco can only shake his head in disbelief while Sasha stuffs her face, and talks to him with her mouth full. Her company is pleasant despite her abysmal table manners. It helps keep Marco's mind off of the other night. He cannot think of cloves and nutmeg swirling over his tongue, of the heady scent of wood smoke and the way Jean smelled of pine and musky fur as he leaned against him, while Sasha chatters away. How Jean's low, breathy voice caused strange and foreign desires to curl through his veins.
"... Marco... MARCO!"
"Hm?" Marco jolts out of his thoughts and looks to Sasha, startled.
She raises an eyebrow at his distracted behavior. "I asked why you think Prince Jean is over yonder--" Sasha jerks her head in a direction over Marco's shoulder. "--and I was wonderin' why he is fixing us with a look that could curdle milk."
Marco turns to look over his shoulder, and sure enough he spots Prince Jean. He is surrounded by his usual entourage of guards; a loud brunet with intense eyes, a tall woman with dark hair and an air of indifference about her, and a small, blond man who nervously looks between Jean and himself. And sure enough, just as Sasha said, Jean is boring a dark, and angry look in their direction.
"What do you think that's about?" Sasha leans over to whisper behind her hand. Marco can only shrug, unable to tear his eyes away from the heated intensity of Jean's amber eyes, that flash and cut deep even from so far a distance. He has a brief recollection of soft, enticing words spoken in his ear, and a look of crippling hurt at their rejection. Perhaps, Marco wonders, Jean is upset over that night. The night either of them had too much to drink, and a thirst for warmth that even the wine could not cure.
"I dunno," Marco replies with a distracted air. He only looks away when Jean is summoned and leaves the dining hall. Marco can still feel his burning stare branded into his skin hours later.
III
Icicles form long, crystal spears over the edges of the Wall. Marco is tasked with removing them, ere they fall and run some poor sod through down below. T'would be a grisly, an untimely end, so it is a chore with which Marco begrudgingly takes on.
Giant puffs of white scatter with the whistling wind while Marco exerts himself. The sweat he works up instantly chills, and it makes him shiver and shake; his teeth rattle in his skull as he dreams of kitchen fires, and warm bowls of soup with fresh baked bread straight from the oven. He sniffs, his nose won't stop running and he wipes at it distractedly with his sleeve.
The shattering crackle of ice being broken echoes loudly in the silence, and Marco holds his breath hoping that the sound won't disturb what remains of the icicles and send them crashing down. He lets out a sigh of relief when they stay perfectly still.
He is so absorbed in his task, he doesn't notice the small figure coming toward him until he hears a quiet "Perchance, are you Sir Marco?"
Marco jumps, almost drops the deadly ice spear onto his foot in surprise. That would not have ended well...
The man standing a few feet away looks familiar, and it takes Marco only moments to recognize him as one of Jean's guards. His shoulder length blond mop of hair is swept up under a fur lined helm that looks three sizes too big on him, and it falls over his big blue eyes, making the man constantly have to shove it out of his line of sight.
"O-oh... aye, I am Sir Marco. Pray tell, is there a reason why one of Prince Jean's personal guards is looking for me?"
"Jean wishes to speak with you, in private. If you will follow me, I shall take you to his chambers." The man speaks soft, but firm, a no nonsense attitude about him that makes Marco think he's had plenty of practice dealing with stubborn people. It makes sense, considering what he knows of Jean and his rebellious behavior.
"With all due respect, I am in the middle of doing one of my many duties to uphold the safety of the Walls. Mayhap Prince Jean can see me some other time." Marco has no idea why he is mouthing off to some one who quite possibly out ranks him, but the nervous butterflies he gets in his stomach when he thinks about being alone with Jean, might have something to do with it.
The man waves away Marco's words like they are bothersome flies. "No bother Sir Marco, I shall send an available Wall Guard as soon as I escort you to the Prince. Now please, follow me." He turns, gives Marco a meaningful look that drips with authority, before he marches onward; not once looking back to see if Marco is following. He knows the Knight has no other choice but to obey.
IV
Though he has spent most of his years in the service to the King, Marco has never once set foot inside the Castle. His world was barracks, and Walls ever since his parents signed him over to the royal family. The moment he was pulled away from his quiet farm life in Jinae, his life was no longer his own to live.
He does not look at the alabaster stones in wonder. The Emerald banners whipping violently in the breeze do not rouse a sense of pride within him. They are traitorous thoughts, one's Marco knows he cannot verbalize without dire consequences, so he passes through the vacant and drafty halls with a neutral expression.
His guide does not speak to him until he halts before a large wooden door. "Prince Jean is waiting for you beyond the door. When he is finished speaking with you, have him send for a maid to fetch me, and I shall guide you back to your post."
Marco nods, and the blond smiles at him before he breezes past like a gentle bluster of wind with too many places to be. His stomach feels like it's in knots, and his palms are suddenly cold and sweaty. But Marco tries breathing as evenly as possible, before he knocks timidly at Jean's chamber door.
He hears heavy footsteps thunder toward the door and Jean's angry voice snarl, "I swear Jaeger if you don't stop bothering me I'm going to ski--- oh..." Jean's startled face looks up at Marco's as the door wrenches open. "Sorry, I was not aware that Armin would fetch you so soon. Please, come in."
Jean ushers Marco in with a lazy wave, and Marco follows; the door shutting ominously behind them. What was once apathy at his surroundings, turns to blatant curiosity as Marco looks around Jean's room and tries to absorb every detail at once.
There are a plethora of old, finely crafted weapons decorating the walls along with a few lush, and colorful tapestries; one with a family tree, another with a scene depicting a King holding the head of a giant, and the last one stitched with the Wings of Freedom, the personal crest of the royal family. A large, plush bed is the central focal point of the room, and Marco is almost surprised by the amount of books he sees scattered around the bed and the rest of the room. It's equal parts sparse and ornate, and Marco decides Jean's room suits him.
"Pray tell, may I ask why I am here, my Prince?"
Jean studies Marco for long, intense moments as he circles him. He doesn't say a word, and it makes Marco increasingly nervous.
Finally, "That woman you were consorting with the other day. Who was she?"
Marco's brow draws together as he tries to decipher what Jean means, unless... "Are you asking about Sasha?"
"Mayhap. Was Sasha the woman you were speaking to in the dining hall, the day I snuck away from my guards to see you?"
"Aye, though I was not aware you came to see me, my Prince. Considering you never spoke to me." Marco weighs Jean's cool, calm demeanor with the fiery intensity in his eyes. He finds them a fearful combination. "Is there a reason you inquire after her?"
Jean stops his pacing, and suddenly rests his hands on Marco's shoulders. He looks desperate. "I forbid you from courting this woman," Jean blurts out, a blush rising from his neck to spread across his face.
"Courting... what in bleeding hell makes you think I'm courting her? And why would it matter if I was?"
Marco almost winces as Jean's fingernails press a little harder and he sighs in frustration. "I saw the familiarity you shared. I'm not daft Marco, I can spot a girl in love when I see one."
"Sasha's not in love with me," Marco replies incredulous, "if anything, the adoring look you perceived in her eyes was directed at her food, not me." Jean seems almost hysterical as he searches Marco's face for any hint that he is lying, and it makes Marco sigh. He raises his hands to cover Jean's before he softly adds, "If there is a burden weighing on your mind, let me hear it."
Jean seems to falter. He licks his lips and looks away sheepishly. "I... I care about you Marco. You see?"
"Nay, I don't... I'm more confused now than ever."
"Oh for the Walls sake..." Jean groans and rolls his eyes before quickly stepping closer and soundly kissing Marco on the lips. Jean's eyes are squeezed shut while Marco is stuck staring wide eyed at the Prince, until he pulls away with an embarrassed frown.
"Did that give you a clearer picture, or must I paint it again?"
Marco feels his heart thud faster, unsure of what to make of these turn of events. "I don't understand..."
Jean sighs long, and suffering. "You don't have to understand Marco, I don't understand it myself. I only know that I fell for you a little more, every day I saw you alone atop the Wall. It took me years to pluck up the courage to meet you..."
"So..." Marco begins slowly, "that night atop the Wall, when we both had too much to drink, that wasn't just the wine talking, was it?"
"Nay, it wasn't." Jean replies, a fond smile quirking at the edge of his lips. "I meant every word."
Marco can't help the shiver that runs across his skin at Jean's words. He smirks as he leans in to whisper, husky and enticing in Jean's ear. "Then perchance I shall take you up on that offer, my Prince?" When Marco hears Jean's sharp intake of breath, he pulls away and grins impishly.
The dead leaves waltz away with the crisp winter breeze as it swirls its maelstrom outside Prince Jean's chamber window. Prince nor Knight pay the cold any mind as they fall into heated kisses, and warm words spoken through sunny smiles that chase away the chill.
Marco takes Jean's hand in his, and kisses the golden rings upon his fingers, and here he kneels upon the ground, and propounds, to be forever his.