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Cross-legged in the dirt, an elbow atop his thigh and his head resting in his hand, Jean watches as Marco disarms Thomas with ease. He pins the blond’s arm to his back, both wooden blades in his spare hand, expression serious with gritted teeth. He holds him still, steady, until Thomas relents, and gives up the fight.
Then Marco releases his hold, and his lips lift into a smile.
All this hand-to-hand training is stupid, but Marco seems to be getting better at it. Quicker, sharper, the wits he usually possesses during team training starting to spill over into this as well.
Jean still hasn’t had the opportunity to go up against Marco yet, their skill levels just a little too different for Shadis to put them together.
But he’s getting there, Jean thinks. Soon enough I’ll be able to see what all of this training has done for him. He might be a little taller, a little broader, hell, maybe even a little stronger, but I’m quicker, sneakier, and I’ll be able to pin him down before he even knows what’s hit him—
“You just gonna sit there all day, or are we going again?”
Jean looks away from Marco, up to Reiner who looms over him. There’s dirt on his face, and a bruise blooming on his cheek. Jean had gotten the upper hand on him just a few moments ago.
His eye twitches. “Sure, whatever, man. If you want to lose again.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“Can’t sleep?” Marco asks, his voice just a whisper in the dark.
Jean shakes his head—realises Marco can’t see him—then opens his mouth to speak. “No.”
“Me neither,” the bunk creaks as Marco rolls over to face him. Laying close to the edge of his own pillow, so he’s only a few inches away from Jean. “They say you usually can’t sleep if you’ve eaten too much cheese, or if you’re really excited for something.”
Jean snorts. “I haven’t eaten cheese in months, and we’ve got training all day tomorrow,” Jean fiddles with a loose thread beneath the blanket. “That’s not exactly exciting.”
“But it’s ODM training,” Marco reminds him, “and you’re still top of the class in that. So maybe you are excited.”
“Spare me,” Jean rolls his eyes, unbeknownst to Marco, “we both can’t sleep because Reiner’s snoring is too loud and it’s just a little too warm that it’s uncomfortable.”
Marco hums. “Maybe you’re right,” he takes a short breath, then, “oh, I know what’ll put you to sleep. I can tell you about that time I helped my grandmother knit a scarf.”
“Not again,” Jean groans, which makes Marco chuckle lightly. And he starts speaking anyway, because the last two times he’d told Jean this story, he’d been so bored that he’d drifted off.
Jean listens—mostly. He hears the part about seven year old Marco sitting beside his grandmother for hours on end whilst she knit, and he hears the part where the whole thing almost unravelled, but Jean spends the length of the story realising how soothing Marco’s voice is.
It’s not annoying, Jean thinks, not like Eren’s. And it’s not too high-pitched like Armin’s can get. And it’s not gruff like Reiner’s, or too quiet like Bertholdt’s, or too excitable like Connie’s. For a guy's voice, it’s…it’s nice. It’s warm. Inviting. It feels like home. It’s just so—
“Asleep yet?” Marco questions, and Jean tunes back in to the words, rather than the sound.
He fakes a yawn, and nestles further into his pillow. “Getting there,” he lies. “Just a little more.”
Marco giggles, and Jean’s eyes try to map his outline in the dark, to see if he can find his smile. But the moon isn’t shining hard enough or at the right angle for it.
Maybe it’s better that way.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Marco’s fingers aren’t as long as mine, Jean thinks.
It’s a weird thought he has, as he subtly looks down at his own hands to compare, before he looks back at Marco’s, hard at work fiddling around with Jean’s ODM gear.
It’s laid out on the table, pulled apart because it keeps squeaking and the triggers aren’t working as smoothly as Jean would like.
And when he has any problems with his gear, there’s only one person he trusts enough — only one person everyone trusts enough — to take a good look at it.
The tip of Marco’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth. His brow is furrowed as he concentrates, as Jean gives him the silence he needs, and though Marco’s fingers may not be as long as Jean’s, they’re more exact. More nimble, more dexterous, and cleaner, too.
There’s no dirt under his nails. There’s a little bit of dark oil on his skin from the ODM gear lubricant, but other than that they’re pristine. So cuts, no bruises, no scars, not that Jean can see, anyway.
Maybe he’s just lucky, Jean thinks. Maybe he’s just more careful. Or maybe he uses some sort of fancy ointment, because his hands look soft, too. Would they feel as soft as they look? Maybe I should ask to feel them, just to see if I’m right. Maybe I should see if my fingers really are longer than his, too. Maybe I should—
“Ah, here,” Marco smiles gently as he unscrews a rusty cog from the inner chamber, lifting it up to show Jean, who has to blink a few times to bring himself back to reality. “Just need a new one of these, and you’ll be good to go.”
Jean nods, and forces a tiny smile onto his face. “Great. Cool. Thanks, man.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It’s not that Eren’s joke isn’t funny.
It is. And Jean would’ve laughed at it too, had Marco not laughed first.
He laughs harder than he usually does, his cheeks turning a little pink, his smile bright and wide, his hand reaching for Eren’s shoulder, as they both laugh together.
As Armin laughs. As Connie laughs. As Bertholdt and Reiner laugh too.
And Jean just watches. The way Marco’s laughter seems to brighten up the room. The way the joke isn’t even funny anymore, because the way Jean feels is serious.
Feels—well, no, he doesn’t feel anything. Not really. Maybe.
Marco is just the sort of guy you can’t look away from. Distracting. Handsome.
Not handsome, Jean thinks. Well, actually, yes, handsome, but not—he’s not thinking about him like that, it’s just that he looks happy, and it’s not really fair that he’s laughing at Eren’s joke like that, and not laughing at my joke like that. I could come up with something funnier. I should come up with something funnier. What’ll make Marco laugh? He liked the joke about the barmaid the other day, maybe something like that, maybe—
“Ah, Jean, you didn’t find that funny?” Bertholdt asks, his voice as timid as always.
“Jean’s too thick to get it, Bertholdt,” Eren says, and Jean immediately wants to squeeze the maniac’s skull between his hands.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Jean would usually join in a conversation about the girls.
Not with the girls, because he’s utterly hopeless when it comes to talking to them. Sasha is no problem—because it’s Sasha—but the others scare him a little.
Especially Mikasa. He’s extra hopeless around her.
But tonight he’s staying well away.
He had started to join in the conversation at first. Had being the optimal word, because now he’s back in his bunk, pretending to write something in his notebook to try and distract from the laughter and teasing he’s hearing.
It had started when Samuel had asked everyone what their type was. Whether they liked long hair or short hair. Dark hair or light hair. Big round eyes or angled with long lashes.
Of course, the first image that had popped into Jean’s mind was Mikasa. Always Mikasa. His brain had lengthened her hair a little, though. Made her eyes a little sparklier when she’d looked at him. And he imagined her smiling, too, not giving him the sort of uninterested glance she so often does.
They’d gone around the circle describing their dream girls. Franz had just described Hannah, and Thomas had more-or-less described Mina, and the more teasing, the more time went on, the image in Jean’s brain had, well…
…it had changed.
By the time it was almost his turn—by the time Eren was already glaring at him, daring him to start describing Mikasa like they both knew he would—the image in Jean’s brain was no longer her.
Now, Mikasa was taller, an inch taller than Jean, to be exact. Broader, too. Her hair was shorter and the sparkle in her eyes was something Jean recognised, not something he’d just made up. Her lashes were just as long but they framed big, round, chocolate-brown irises rather than the usual stormy grey.
And there were freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose.
In fact, it wasn’t Mikasa at all.
Jean had immediately felt his cheeks heat up, and had left the group in a hurry. He’d crawled into his bunk and grabbed his notebook and pencil and used it to try to distract himself from his own mind.
Because there’s no way, Jean thinks, there’s no way I’m thinking of him. Maybe it’s just…a comfort thing. Because he’s my best friend, and I like him—not like that—and I want a girl to be nice to me in the same way he is. In a different way, really, of course, but…he cares. He knows me. I know him, and—
“Everything alright?” Jean glances up, over his notebook at Marco, who stands, hands on his hips, giving him an awful look. Awful, because he’s smiling a little, concerned a lot, and he’s…he’s just so…
“Yep, great,” Jean responds quickly. Curses himself and his red cheeks and his lack of ability to be cool, so looks away for a moment. “You, uhm, finished, uh, clearing the stables then?”
“Yeah, just about. Took Armin and I while, but we managed it,” when Jean looks back, Marco is still smiling. “They’re all having a good time tonight, huh? You’re not joining in?”
“It’s…stupid,” Jean decides lying is the only option, “they’re just talking about girls. Or whatever.”
“Ah,” Marco says with a knowing nod. Perches himself down on the edge of the bunk, his back to Jean for a moment, “I’ll stay out of that then, too.”
Politeness or lack of interest, Jean doesn’t know. But he doesn’t question Marco over it.
He doesn’t question the way Marco’s eyes linger on him for just a little too long, either.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It won’t be long, Jean thinks, as he surveys the training ground from the lookout, everything illuminated by the moonlight, until we’re out of here.
We’ll join the Military Police. We’ll rise through the ranks quickly, and it won’t be long before we’re both Commanding Officers. Living lives of luxury.
We’ll share a dorm for a while. Our own beds, for once. But it’ll probably get real cold as the warmer months disappear, so no doubt we’ll sneak into each others’ spaces. At least until we’re used to sleeping alone, anyway. Or maybe we won’t ever want to sleep alone again.
We’ll be a team, like we are here—but better. Partners, a duo, earning the highest praise from our superiors. Why have one without the other? It just won’t happen. We’ll be side by side, always.
And maybe we’ll have a little too much to drink one night. Celebrating. Something we’ve earned. I’ll probably drink a little more than he does, but he’s definitely a lightweight, so it’ll go to his head more. We’ll stumble back to our dorm and I’ll have drunk enough that I’ll be brave enough to do exactly what I want.
I’ll kiss him. I’ll do it. I’ll grab his face in my hands and I’ll kiss him. And he’ll be surprised, but he’ll reciprocate, because he feels the same—has always felt the same. No doubt about it. He’ll kiss me back, and he’ll taste sweet and I’ll kiss him better than he kisses me at first, because he hasn’t had any practice before.
Not that I have either, but it’ll come naturally to me. I’ll show him. He’ll learn quickly like he always does.
That’ll be it. Nothing else will matter. We’ll still grow together. Do amazing things together. Until everyday is easy, until we don’t need to worry about anything ever again.
That’ll be it. Me and him, always. Jean and Marco. Just us. It’ll just be—
“Tea?”
Jean’s thoughts disappear at the sound of Marco’s voice. He turns his head to face his friend, who offers him a cup of tea. The green cloak around his shoulders and the warmth from the hot drink doesn’t seem to help much with the slight chill in the air, because he shivers as he passes the tea over.
“Thanks.”
Jean takes a sip. Keeps looking out at the training ground below, as Marco sighs.
“What were you daydreaming about?”
He almost chokes on the drink, and splutters as he tries to play it cool. Impossible, really, when the person he was thinking about is right there, and giving him that knowing look he so often does.
“Nothing, nothing,” Jean forces out, shaking his head. “Just…nothing.”
“Hm,” Marco replies, like he doesn’t believe him. He leans forward against the wooden barrier. “Not long now, right?”
Jean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Watches as the light breeze blows Marco’s hair, and he shivers again.
“No,” he responds to Marco’s last words, but then tilts his head slightly. “Are you cold?”
“Ah, I’m fine,” Marco lies, and Jean tuts. “Really. Don’t worry.”
Jean isn’t wearing his cloak, and the material of his jacket isn’t exactly warming.
So he swallows, takes a breath and steps forward. Presses his side against Marco’s, holds his tea close to Marco’s soft hands, in the hopes it’ll warm him slightly.
He ignores how hard his heart is beating.
“Three weeks,” Jean replies to Marco’s earlier comment. Gives him a small smile, as Marco turns his head towards him, smiling right back. “Then everything’ll change.”