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“Shit, shit!”
“Don’t sweat it Jean, everything’s gonna work out fine.”
“How’s everything going to be fine, huh? I screwed that one up bad…”
Jean sat fidgeting on the boy’s cabin porch, his hands pressed firmly on his cheeks. A little more, and he could have clawed his fingers over his sweaty, gloomy face. His teeth clenched hard enough for all of them to come off in one painful bite, and his chest throbbed butterflies—or large house flies, for that matter. His fingers inched closer to his eyes, but they always stopped before he could hit home. He would have gouged them out of frustration alone inside the cabin lavatory.
At his side was Marco, a small assuring smile on his lips. His friend had gone missing right after today’s training finished, and he had asked around for Jean. He mostly got shaking heads and shrugs until Armin mentioned the cabin and a suspicious figure slipping in its shadows. True enough, as Marco investigated one of two, he did find his friend huddled up under the shade of the porch.
“Jean…” Marco tried again for the umpteenth time, his attempts of reassuring words failing to get past clogged ears.
“Don’t tell me I could do better next time, Marco,” Jean hissed, his voice cracking as he went on. “That next time is tomorrow, and if I don’t get it by tonight, I’m doomed to live in the livestock farm in the outskirts.”
And nobody wanted that.
“You can always ask help from the others, you know?” Marco inched closer, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder as he gave a gentle nudge.
The brunette clicked his tongue and looked away, the wrecked glum look on his face failing to even soften.
“No freakin’ way. I don’t wanna see Eren’s face when he finds out…”
A soft chuckle broke the tense air around Jean as he stirred to look at his best friend: Marco had covered his lips, and his eyes had started laughing, tears emerging from the sides as muffled tones escaped the gaps of his fingers.
“The hell’s so funny, man? I’m in a seriously titanic pickle here!”
“Titanic!” Marco continued to giggle. “Jean, it’s hilarious how you worry so much!”
“It’s not!” Jean burst out, glooming over even more.
It definitely wasn’t at all—not one bit. Not after the ruse a month ago, following the Yeager kid’s false-alarm failure on the very first test in training. The very same test he had gloated (Eren was a pushover no one would ever want to be stuck with) his self-proclaimed expertise and inert skill. We can’t waste food on the useless. The phrase would only be batted back at him. Jean cringed and bit at his lip, balling his fist tightly at the thought. Eren must have cooties, he thought. And he had caught it.
His still bitten lip began to numb, and the pain had started to linger in an almost floating manner when Jean’s left arm suddenly grew warmer. Marco’s arm pressed gently on the brunette’s and their shoulders were connected flat; the freckled boy’s cheek rested on Jean’s shoulder, making the ends of short black hair brush on Jean’s half-exposed neck. A frown suppressing unsure words twisted on his lips, and Jean’s eyes had widened, his pupils searching for a concrete answer in Marco’s black tousled hair.
Marco hadn’t stopped laughing—though it was such a soft tune, Jean could only focus on the warm face on his arm. His clutched hand loosened and, instead, fastened on his knee. He turned his face towards the other completely, and found the ends of Marco’s hair tickling his nose. And then the warmth that spread on his cheeks.
Eren’s cooties…
“Jean,” Marco began. He had stopped giggling and slid his hand on top of the other’s, which quivered at the touch.
There was a pause. Jean blinked towards the open space just at the side of the cabin where a reddish orange light bled through; he blinked again at the growing warmth beside him before he cleared his throat. “What, Marco?”
Slowly, Marco lifted his head up and beamed. His freckles clearly and amusingly sat on blushing cheeks. Freckles on peachy pink cheeks. It tickled Jean’s racked-up brain for a while, but his gaze remained steady.
Marco’s smile turned into a grin as he looked into the other’s brown eyes. “You’re so funny, Jean,” he said in a half-whisper.
Jean furrowed his brows, his lips curled, mouthing a “what”. He stammered a little before he was disrupted; Marco held the other’s hand in his, squeezing firmly, their body temperatures rising in unison.
“You’re going to be okay,” he continued. “You can do it. I know you can. I believe in you.”
There was a brief distortion in Jean’s face, to which Marco added, “I always have.”
Jean flustered. “Goddamn it, Marco. What are you being so mushy about?”
“I don’t want my best friend moping about something he could pass so easily,” Marco answered earnestly. “Is that wrong?”
There was a sparkle in the freckled boy’s eyes as he spoke, and Jean sighed. He gave up. After all, who was the best in executing maneuver gear techniques efficiently?
“Get my gear ready after dinner,” he finally said, returning the squeeze the other had given him.
“That’s the spirit, Jean!”
And all so suddenly, Marco quickly bent forward and planted a kiss on Jean’s cheek. They both froze in bewilderment, Jean once again eyeing Marco who quietly shied his hands away between his legs.
“S-sorry,” Marco finally muttered, his ears started burning red as he hid his face from Jean’s view. Or so he tried.
“No,” Jean said, shaking his head. “Don’t be…”
But look at me and face me.
A throb in his chest startled him, and the house flies had swarmed someplace else. The pit in his stomach seemed hollow, and an invisible mass clogged the air from entering his lungs properly. And Marco… Marco was all he could see, a flustered heap huddled beside him—probably an inch farther than a few seconds ago.
“I wonder if we’ll get in trouble,” Jean mused aloud.
At that, Marco turned to peek at his best friend, his cheeks still flushed. “What..?”
The bait had been caught, and in a flash Jean leaned in and tugged at Marco’s arm, and he clumsily pressed their lips together. For a moment, Marco squirmed; his hands clutched tightly on Jean’s trousers, and he whimpered uncontrollably in the kiss. Their eyes closed instinctively, but their lips fumbled on each other as they tried to feel their way to a position more comfortable. Dry lip upon dry lip, Jean grunted and, for a while, let Marco go. He sighed and wet his lips, and leaned in for another. This time, he pressed gently, slowly working out the shape of Marco’s incredibly soft lips. Never in his fifteen years had he kissed anyone—not even a girl, and most especially a boy. A friend. But… at some point, he passed the time with his childhood friends about girls, who they liked, if kissing felt good. Heck, it’s only been a month and he had these kinds of talks with all the other boys in the cabin he slept in. Slept in with Marco.
Marco…
His—or was it Marco’s?—lips remained dry and coarse, and Jean unconsciously slid his tongue out and onto the other’s mouth. Marco let out a soft, muffled tone, and Jean’s eyebrows twitched. It was different. It wasn’t his laugh… it wasn’t a tired sigh, nor was it Marco’s hum of approval. He answered with a confused breath while his hands felt their way on the other’s arms. He held fast there, but he didn’t grip. And, the same way he had started, he slowly pulled away, and he peered at the freckled face just inches from his own. Marco had grasped at Jean’s sleeves, his hands trembling on the white cloth. His face was tilted towards the wooden porch they sat on, or somewhere below Jean’s collar, his eyes still fastened closed.
Shit…
Jean closed his eyes and listened. Marco’s breathing echoed in his ears, and the hands that gripped on his sleeves had ceased to vibrate. Sure enough, however, he would be facing the wrath of a cold, sweaty hand struck at his cheek, and the embarrassing silence of being stormed off of without another word. Would Marco do that? There was not a time that Marco was ever so cross with anyone. Marco had always smiled and was willing to help anyone who asked. But, Marco angered… and humiliated…
Shit…
“H-hey,” Jean heard himself say. “Marco, I—“
“Tonight…”
The brunette focused his eyes on the other, trying to get a good look at the eyes that hid under black locks and the shadows of Marco’s eye sockets.
“Tonight…” Again. “I’ll get your gear ready… you… you have to make sure you pass…”
It was quiet for a while, the air almost as tense as those few minutes Jean moped in the same spot. Or worse. And the worst may be happening—Marco had started loosening his grip and getting up his feet, the weight of his upper body leaning towards the other direction. But Jean quickly grasped his best friend’s hand, and just held it there.
“Wait.”
Marco didn’t answer.
“Do I pass?”
What was he asking this time?
“What?” Marco turned his face, and Jean saw the freckles popped out even more on such red, seemingly soft cheeks. How could a boy, a man have such soft lips and cheeks…
“Do I pass?” he repeated stubbornly.
At first, Marco’s eyebrows were knit together, his eyes slightly watery and his lips were curled. Then, almost instantly, his cheeks turned a shade darker than it was, and his eyes had started searching the ground frantically.
“But, Mikasa—“
“Not Mikasa.” His tone was firm, but his heart beat too fast as thoughts began spinning uncontrollably in his head, jumbling the blocks that whirled in his chest until he could not breathe normally. What the hell are you saying, Jean? “I’m asking you if I pass.”
The silence ruled them both again, though it was as if anything could explode in any minute. Anyone could suddenly come over and peek and wonder at what they were doing, and the questions were over. Dinner would be quiet between them, not a word about this little escapade, and Jean would not be able to sleep properly. Or worse, focus would bid farewell to him, and he’d bid farewell to the training camp. It was a life of farming and weed-pulling ahead of him. No.
A giggle.
Jean jerked his head upward and, there, Marco’s smile had come back—his sweet smile had returned to match his rosy cheeks, though his eyes had watered more than it was a second ago.
“Marco?”
“I believe we have more time to practice after tonight… so you better make sure to pass tomorrow, okay?”
Jean stared at him a while, his mouth slightly agape. He was about to answer when Connie’s familiar voice called from afar. Jean’s eyes averted towards the still empty space and noticed the light had begun to disappear. His hand was tugged and he reflexively stood up right in front of Marco, who still wore the smile on his face.
“Come on, it’s almost dinner,” he told the brunette, and held his hand as he pulled him towards the end of the cabin. Their hands remained warm in each other’s grip.
Jean sighed.
It was definitely a life of farming and weed-pulling for both of them from here.