Chapter Text
The last thing Marco remembers is a yawning mouth, stinking of rotten blood and gaping like an abyss before him. He wakes screaming, but he can’t tell if he’s screaming in his dream or in his memory. He doesn’t know which. All he knows is that he’s covered in cold sweat and swathed tight somewhere warm and soft.
Opening his eyes, he sees he’s in the infirmary. As he sits up, he moves to brace himself against the bed with his right hand, only to find it isn’t there. His right arm isn’t there. In shock, he clings to the one familiar thing he sees.
"Jean?"
The other boy jerks awake, long limbs flailing, and he nearly falls out of his chair. Marco wonders how long he’s been asleep.
"Are you okay?" His voice sounds scratchy. Probably a while then. A dust mote floats into eye, so he winks it shut out of habit but is shocked to find the world dark. He brings his hand to his right eye. Bandages.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," Jean says, finally pulling himself together. “I, um, what about you? Well, er, obviously you’re not fine but um, like you know what I meant."
Marco’s right arm is gone. His left eye is gone? Injured? Like this, armless and with his depth perception wrecked, he can’t use the 3D maneuver gear. He can’t join the military police. At least, he thinks bitterly, he’ll get an honorable discharge and receive a reasonable pension. It’ll help his family, he supposes.
"Oh, shit, you probably want water, right? You’ve been out for so long." Jean clumsily reaches for the pitcher and cup on the nightstand, but knocks the cup to the ground. Luckily, it’s made of metal and doesn’t break.
"Jean, you-"
"I’m just," Jean says. He stops, body shaking as he tries to hold back a sob. “I’m just really happy okay. I know it’s shitty of me and it’s bullshit because you always wanted to go into the military police and now you can’t but I’m still so fucking happy, okay. I’m just happy you’re still here."
Marco is uncomfortable with the ensuing silence. He stares at Jean; Jean, with his two eyes and his two hands as he pours water from a pitcher into a cup. Jean, as he holds out the cup in front of Marco, but doesn’t have the strength to look him in the eye. Instead, he looks away, other hand (and wouldn’t Marco like to have his back) clasped lightly on the back of his neck like he’s hanging it in shame.
There’s something ugly and awful curling in the pit of Marco’s stomach, and the sight of just water is enough to make him nauseous, like he’s scared of what will happen if he opens his mouth. And Jean, with his working body and intact dreams, doesn’t deserve that. Marco can’t do that to Jean, who is his best friend, who tries so hard. Jean doesn’t deserve that, so Marco takes it into his own hands.
“Jean, I think.” He licks his lips (dried and cracked) because he’s sure this is the right thing to do, but it’s still hard. “I think I need to be alone.”
“Marco?” The word comes out feeble and wavering, and for a moment Marco almost wavers too.
“I really need for you to not be here right now. It’s not; it’s not your fault. I can’t see you right now. Just not right now.”
At that, all the tension in Jean snaps and his whole body slumps. His face contorts into confusion and hurt and his mouth gapes like he wants something to say but can’t find the words.
“Please Jean,” Marco begs. “I need to be alone.”
“O-okay. I’ll be back tomorrow? After my clean up shift.”
Has Jean been spending his breaks here? His nights? How long has he been out?
“Yeah,” he says, a little awkwardly. “I’ll still be here.” He laughs a little. “I don’t think I’m leaving anytime soon, so.”
Jean laughs a little too, like somehow it’s almost normal and they’re just cadets again, and doesn’t Marco wish for that too? “Yeah, you’re, that’s right.” He stiffens, like he always does when he shoves his foot into his mouth, but only when he does it around Marco.
“I’ll just head out now. Before I uh. Before my commander starts wondering where I am.”
Jean shuffles down the aisle and out the door, and Marco can’t bring himself to say a good luck or a good-bye. With Jean gone, Marco feels like he can breath again, and he’s met with the acrid odor of disinfectant. He coughs, but his stomach churns and he feels like he’s going to vomit, but there’s nothing to vomit. He hasn’t eaten in days, so bile rises in his throat instead, burning and bitter. He chokes on it, forces it back down as he forces his breathing into something steady, or at least he tries.
He tries, but doesn’t do a good job of it, ends up wheezing like he’s sobbing but he actually is crying. It’s so stupid, so stupid because he’s only crying out of one eye-and wow that feels really weird-but also because he’s alive. He survived the titans when a lot of his friends didn’t, and shouldn’t he be thankful he’ll at least see his family again (unlike Daz, poor Daz) when they won’t?
But then there’s Jean, who lived through everything too and came out just fine, and why couldn’t that be him? Why couldn’t that-
He thinks it’s for the best Jean doesn’t come back the next day.