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Chapter Text

I've always sort of had shaky hands for some reason, but my fist was suprisingly steady as it punched Eren Jaeger directly in his dumb, smug face.

Eren fucking Jaeger.

Eren and I may have become friends at some point in our several years of knowing each other if we weren't so incredibly similar (we were both massive dicks, to be honest), but seeing that he was unreasonably angry, and I was unreasonably angry, it just made sense that we would unleash our unreasonable anger out on each other. I knew he wasn't a particularly unlikable person, but we were in far too deep to ever revive whatever measly piece of friendship that we ever could have had before we realized that we would make perfect punching bags for each other.

Everything the idiot did pissed me off: the way he disrespected his adopted sister, Mikasa (who was strikingly exotic and beautiful); how he rebelled against authority (I actually did the same thing); and even when he swore as I drove my knuckles into his cheek.

"I'll fucking kill you, Kirstein!" he shrieked in his typical trademark Jaeger bellow as he staggered backward, clutching his cheek. I stepped forward, planning on hitting him again, but he flung his arm towards me furiously, his face contorting into an obsene, bloody snarl.

He was slightly smaller than I was, which I loved to tease him for, but he certainly had quite an arm, which made me regret not taking out the piercings in my face before I had attacked him. I prayed to God that they wouldn't be somehow ripped out as we fought, seeing as I didn't desire having a split eyebrow, lip, or septum. He wasn't an outstandingly good fighter, but sheer determination occasionally led him to ending up with the upper hand in our periodic squabbles, though he pretty much never won before Mikasa could drag him away. We were fairly equally matched, though, him being an obsessive little freak and me possessing an advantage in size.

After landing a hit to the side of my face, Jaeger launched himself at me, spitting in rage like a cat. We scrabbled desperately, both of us unwilling to be beaten. He was aiming a punch to my stomach when his arm was caught by an indimidatingly straight-faced Mikasa Ackerman. I made eye contact with her as I raised my fist again, before deciding to let her take him away. She took a firmer hold of his arm and hauled him away from me with a warning look in my direction. I did not bother trying to pursue, knowing Mikasa would kick my ass if I dared lay another finger on her precious Eren. Even though I was battered and stinging from our relatively short brawl, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction from seeing the punk being dragged away by a girl, scowling and protesting under his breath to her. I decided that the fight had ended in a victory in my corner, and that I'd celebrate by marathoning five hours of Cake Boss when I got home.

I dusted tiny rocks from the parking lot that had materialized during the fight off of my favorite grey sweater. I noticed in dismay that a few droplets of blood from my general face area, and maybe Eren's, too, had dripped onto the front of it. I rubbed at one spot dejectedly, hoping that they would come out. I lifted my hand to my face next, feeling the warm wetness underneath my finger tips, knuckles on fire. All three of my piercings seemed to be intact, thankfully. I sent a bored look to the few people that had gaped at us as we rolled around aggressively. There weren't quite as many spectators as you might expect to watch a fight in high school, but it was twenty mintutes after the end of the school day and I'm sure that everyone had gotten used to the two of us attempting to injure each other. The few people quickly dipersed, most likely made uncomfortable by my gaze, and went about their business.

Everyone besides a tall, dark haired boy adorned in a painfully pastel blue sweater and skinny jeans covered in grey roses standing about twenty feet away from me wearing a concerned expression as he stood in the middle of the school parking lot, staring at me. I shot him a quick nod, a little weirded out, and began to turn around to make my way home.

I had only made it a few yards before I felt a gentle hand on my bicep and heard a soft "Hey, wait."

I turned once again, suprised to find creepy tall guy practically trembling as he released my arm and held a band-aid to me with his left hand.

"It's fine," I said, raising my eyebrows at the offering. I looked back up at him to find a fair amount of freckles smattered across his face and down his neck, particularly on his cheeks, and a pair of large brown eyes blinking at me bashfully. "Besides, it'll probably take more than a band-aid to clean this up." I motioned to my general being listlessly, completely aware that I sounded like a pretencious douche bag.

"Yeah, you're right," he said, dropping his out stretched hand to his side and appearing slighty crestfallen. "I'm sorry."

A sudden pang of guilt surged through me. This dude was just trying to help, and I had shot him down mercilessly. I softened up, attempting to be a little friendlier.

"Don't be sorry," I said, in what I hoped seemed like a kind voice. I didn't often have a reason to use a kind voice, so I probably just sounded pained. "Thanks."

"Do you walk home?" he inquired, puzzled. I bit back a sarcastic remark, since I had obviously been beginning to walk home before he stopped me.

"Yeah."

"I could give you a ride," he said, pointing behind him to where several cars were parked. "My house is nearby, I could help you clean up."

"Um, I don't really need help cleaning up," I was trying to sound as bored as I usually did, but kind at the same time, my eyes traveling over his girlish apparel. This admittedly strange dude was just trying to help me out, so it would be pretty douchey of me to act like... well, like my usual self. But I had a reputation to uphold, after all. "My house is pretty close, I'm sure I'll be fine...." I trailed off, beginning to think that I didn't particularly actually want to walk home in my current state.

"Oh," he looked a little disappointed, his freckled face falling. "Well, I hope you're alright." He pivoted, starting towards his car, and had made three strides with his long legs before I sighed and asked him to wait.

He turned, big eyes looking at me hopefully. I sucked up some air, along with some pride, and informed him that I had decided that I would accept his offer and his help, and we were soon in his car driving down the road.

He glanced at me a few times through out the ride, his long fingers (which were also dusted with freckles) drumming against the steering wheel to the beat a soft indie song playing from his stereo.

We were already halted in his drive way when his tan cheeks suddenly turned red, and his eyes widened as he let out a small "Oh!" I sent him a questioning look, clutching my green back pack in my left hand, my free hand resting impatiently on the door handle.

"I completely forgot to tell you my name," he said bashfully. He didn't continue his sentence until he noticed my expectant look. "Oh!" he said again, turning even more red, his neck and ears turning pink. "It's Marco. I'm Marco."

"Jean. Jean Kirstein."

"Okay. Nice to meet you, Jean," his smile was dazzling, white teeth constrasting against his red cheeks and dark eyes.

"Likewise," I chuckled, attempting to loosen up. I found it easy to relax around this boy: his dumb smile was a little infectious and his general being put me at ease.

I exited the car, bringing my backpack with and shutting the door as gently as possible. I knew some people were extremely sensitive when it came to their cars, and I didn't want to get beat up verbally or physically by a smiling giant for accidentally slamming his car door. I quickly wondered whether I could take this guy in a fight, which was a habit of mine. Probably, though I didn't know if I could ever bring myself to hit such a pretty- kind, I meant kind- face. I was careful with his subtley rusted car anyway: better safe than sorry.

It seemed I had no reason for caution, as Marco shut the driver's side door with a loud thud, twirling his keys around his finger.

Marco's house seemed to be just as happy as he did; it stood out from the other houses on his street like a light house in a fog. It was tall and thinner than mine, grey siding giving the place a cool feel. Contrasting the grey, brilliant flower beds placed strategically through out the yard brightened up the place. The yard was immaculate: grass trimmed, flowers vibrant and organized, gnomes loitering around the grounds.

"Cool flowers, bro," I said sincerely. I was honestly pretty impressed with the sheer amount of effort that must have gone into caring for the plants. I would never have the patience for that shit. I was so entranced by this dude's freaking grass that I practically forgot that my eye was swelling up and that my cheek was bleeding. Not to mention my aching and raw hands.

"You should see them during the summer," he said proudly, a gentle smile spreading across his face. He gazed at them fondly as we walked up his drive way, keys still swirling around his finger. He looked like he was seeing his new born baby for the first time, Jesus Christ. "The back yard is even better."

I nodded silently. The door wasn't unlocked, and he threw his back pack to the side and kicked his shoes off as he strolled thorugh it, yelling "I'm home" to whoever was currently in the house.

It was really dim, so I had to concentrate on not knocking anything over as he led me deeper into his house. We tromped through a long hall way plastered with photos until he made a sharp turn into a room on the left, which I could tell was the bathroom. He flicked on the light, and I allowed my eyes to get used to the light for a second before sitting on the edge of the sink and looking up at him as he rummaged through a medicine cabinet. He pulled out a a dark bottle of liquid, a few more band-aids, and a green wash cloth. I had no idea why he had a wash cloth in the medicine cabinet, but I shook it off.

I turned my head a little to look in the mirror above the sink, taking in my haggard expression. My light brown eyes had some serious dark baggage underneath them, but they always did. I wasn't big on sleep. However, one of them was a little swollen and tender looking, and I reached up a careful finger to brush against the inflamed skin. I pulled it back when it hurt a little, continuing to move my eyes down along my face. Dirt and blood was smeared over it, the blood leaking from my nose, various scrapes and a cut high on one of my cheeks. The metal rings in my face were slightly slicked from the red liquid leaking from my body, so I removed them and set them carefully onto the counter next to where I sat. I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of weariness, and I blinked tiredly at my reflection.

I quickly came back to my senses when I remembered that I was not alone in the room, and I snapped my head to the side to look at Marco, who was waiting patiently for me to finish checking myself out before he began to work on my face. He wasted no time in wetting the cloth with water from the sink and tenderly dabbing it across my face.

"Let me know if it hurts too bad," he muttered, biting his lip in concentration. I nodded, trying not to move my head too much just incase he poked me in the eye or something. I stared at his freckles, which were much more pronounced when he was this close to me.

I noticed as he wiped at my face that he smelt like flowers. Dude smelt like a friggin' pansy. I couldn't help but find it a little endearing, which I would never admit, lest I crack my rock solid punk exterior.

Once he was happy that he had gotten most of the dirt off of my face, he rinsed off the cloth thoroughly and poured some of the liquid onto it, grimacing as he held it up towards me.

"This might sting," he said, looking pained. I braced myself.

"Go ahead."

It did sting. It stung like a motherfucker, but I didn't allow myself to express that, since I didn't want Marco to think that he was hurting me when he was actually helping me a lot. Or that I could feel pain.

"Is that okay?" he asked as he pulled back from my face.

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks."

"Sure," he beamed, then grabbed my hand gently. I raised an eyebrow at him. Did he think that just because he had helped me out that it was okay for him to hold my hand now? He hadn't even graced me with a 'no homo' before doing so.

I found that I didn't even mind that much.

I realized shortly that he had only grabbed my hand in order to take care of my knuckles, and that I was the one being gay. I felt my face get hot, reprimanding myself for seeing the gay in every situation.

After he had finished and the stinging had subsided a bit, he unwrapped a band aid and placed it over the cut on my cheek. Then he smiled at me, shocking me once again with how... familiar he was.

"Done?"

"Yep," the smile was still plastered to his face. "Can I confess something?"

"Uh, okay."

"I didn't really know what I was doing," he laughed, almost nervously. "I just imitated what I'd seen my mom do."

"It worked well enough, I think," I laughed, feeling more at ease than I had in a while. Which was weird, since after I got into a fight with Eren I usually fumed for three hours like a twelve year old.

"Are you hungry?"

"Actually, yeah," I said, realizing that my stomach felt hollow now that he had reminded me that it existed.

"Come on, we'll get something in the kitchen."

I stood up, following him out of the bathroom and down the hallway again. This time, he flicked on a light, so I wasn't forced to be overly cautionous like before.

Once in the kitchen, Marco asked me what I wanted, and of course I gave him one of those "whatever you've got is fine" answers.

He threw an apple to me, which I barely caught, and immediately bit into. I silently thanked God that my lip hadn't been split open by Jaeger, because that would have sucked.

"So," Marco began after he swallowed a bite of the fruit. "Why did you hit Eren?"

"I fucking hate him," I shrugged.

"So you punched him directly in the face?"

I laughed. "No, we had been arguing and he said something that made me really angry."

After a beat of silence, I spoke again.

"I started it you know. Like, the argument. I said something about his boyfriend. Well, his sweater that his boyfriend bought for him."

Marco's eyes flashed suddenly with something I couldn't quite identify... fear? Dissappointment?

"Do you... not like gay people?" he asked hesitantly, leaning back a little, rubbing his thumb against the skin of his apple.

"What? No!" I exclaimed.

"Why not?" Marco suddenly seemed cold, the usual light in his eyes replaced with emptiness. My eyes widened when I realized what I had said, and I kicked myself mentally.

"Wait, fuck, that's not what I meant! I meant no, as in that I don't not like gay people. I don't have a problem with them," I held up my hands desperately, showing I meant no harm or offense. And I didn't. I honestly, truly did not have a problem with gay people. I had a problem with Eren Jaeger. He just happened to be gay. Marco still seemed wary, though, so I continued to talk.

"Seriously, Marco," I said. I didn't want him to hate me just because I accidentally worded something wrong. "I don't care whether the kid prefers boys or girls or freakin' body pillows. I don't hate him because he's gay, Marco, I hate him because he's an angry garbage can."

"Oh," the scary, distant look was gone from his eyes, replaced by curiousity."What did you say about his sweater, then?"

"Um, I think I asked him if his rich sugar daddy found it in his ex wife's closet or something. I don't remember," it hadn't been particularly clever and I was suddenly embarrassed for being such a child.

Marco let out a small giggle, however, causing warmth to spread through out my body at the sound.

"Eren Jaeger has a sugar daddy?" Marco giggled, clasping his hand over his mouth.

"Yeah!" I exclaimed, then stopped myself. "Well, not really... but his boyfriend's like 26 or something. Everyone knows that."

"That's illegal."

I shrugged.

"Do you think they..." Marco's face was the color of a tomato again, and his words quickly came to a halt, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"What, Marco?" I teased playfully, knowing full well what he was going to say. Though I was loath to think that Eren Jaeger could get laid and that I was still a virgin. Ew. "Finish your sentence!"

Marco was avoiding the question by taking a giant bite of the apple in his freckled hand and choking on it (which probably wasn't intentional) when a short, rounded woman appeared in the entry way of the kitchen and we fell silent. She was even more freckled than Marco, and about half as tall. Alright, that was an exageration, but she was tiny.

She rubbed sleep from faraway eyes that had even darker circles than mine did, wordlessly heading towards the fridge and opening it, staring into its contents before grabbing ingredients to make a sandwich. She didn't say anything, and it was like she hadn't even seen us. The room suddenly felt colder, but maybe it was because she had opened the fridge.

"Hey there," Marco said softly. She jumped, dropping a piece of bread and a butter knife slathered in mustard onto the counter as she spun around, eyes wide with recognition and shock. Then they settled on Marco and I, and rapidly filled with tears. I looked at Marco in confusion as to why this tired woman suddenly had tears leaking down her cheeks, and his expression was filled with pain.

"Oh, M-Marco," she choked out. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

I had no idea how she could have not seen us, since we were literally right in front of her. I looked back and forth between them, trying to keep from drowning from awkwardness.

She didn't acknowledge me, but turned back towards the door, abandoning her unmade sandwich. Before she exited the kitchen, though, she faced Marco again, shaking.

"You sound just like him, you know," and then she let out another sob and fled.

Marco rose from his chair, running a hand through his hair. He walked over to where she had begun to make food, and picked up where she left off. I watched the muscles in his back move as he prepared her sandwich, cutting the crusts off solemly.

"Be right back," he muttered, going the exact same way the woman had gone.

In the few minutes Marco was gone, I threw away my apple core and wondered how this crying woman could possibly be related to sunny, smily Marco. I assumed that she was his mother, and my mind wandered as I tried to think of what could have possibly caused her to act in such a way.

He returned quickly enough, smiling once again and acting as if that little episode had never happened.

"Marco...?" I said questioningly.

"Sorry about that," he said apologetically, as if he had stepped on my foot or called me by the wrong name. "Do you want me to drive you home now?"

I found that I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to ask him what had happened to his mom, and who she had said he sounded like, and why their front yard was so pristine when the woman who probably took care of it seemed to be such a wreck.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

It wouldn't be great you idiot stay stay stay and talk to him don't leave get his number become his friend you're so lonely he's so beautiful he actually smiles at you stay please stay.

I ignored the pleading voice inside of my head and got into his car, stealing one last glance at the flowers as he pulled incredibly slowly out of the driveway, making sure to check all of his mirrors and put on his seat belt. The drive was spent listening to cute acoustic songs he had chosen and me directing him towards my house.

....

The next day in English, I was met with a pleasant, freckly suprise.

"I-I'm sorry," Marco gasped as he tumbled into my English class five minutes after the bell had rang. I wondered how the giant dork had managed to make his way into my classroom. "I'm Marco Bodt and I was told that my schedule had been switched up a little and that I'm supposed to be here I'm really sorry I'm late I couldn't figure out where the classroom was I'm-" his words seemed to form into one long breath, no breaks or punctuation to be heard.

Mr. Pixis smiled kindly at Marco, informing him that he had already been told that Marco would be transferring to this class, and to take a seat at the empty desk in the back of the room.

Fate would have it that the open seat in the back of the class was the desk next to mine. I had sat in the back of the room right next to the window at the beginning of the year, gazing out the glass at the trees spanning out below us, and no one had felt the need to sit next to me, so I sat alone and content every day.

It wasn't that people didn't like me, because I did have a few friends, though they weren't particularly close to me. People to sit with at lunch, you know. They were alright, and I didn't mind their company. None of them happened to have English with me, though, and I couldn't be bothered to meet new people, so I sat by myself. I didn't mind.

But, of course, Marco Bodt came tumbling into my life and my era of solitude was interupted by his tall form leaning over to me as Mr. Pixis passed out worksheets to the class.

"Hey," he smiled, his teeth clean and white against his tan skin.

"Hey, yourself," I tried to smirk and say it cooly, but I was caught off guard by a fragrance of flowers. I couldn't lie to myself: I liked it. This dude smelt beautiful and I wasn't going to deny myself the simple pleasure of appreciating the fact that my bro smelt like flowers.

"Mr. Pixis is nice," he remarked.

"Yeah, he's pretty cool," Marco was probably the type of person to think that every old person he met was nice, I thought. "You're in here now?"

"Yeah, I was placed in a Freshman English class before they realized that I wasn't supposed to be there," he looked a little red.

"Woah, and they didn't notice until like two months into the year?" My eyes widened at the idiocy of the school. Poor Marco had been stuck with annoying kids for far too long, and I was glad that he didn't have to deal with them anymore.

"Well, it was only a couple days," he said. "I only started going here on Monday."

I raised my eyebrows. If he had only moved here a short time ago, why would he know so much about the flowers in the garden? Why did his house already look so lived in?

He must have noticed my questioning expression, because he continued.

"I was homeschooled before now," he explained.

It made sense now. Why I hadn't seen him before, why he seemed so awkward around other people, and why he was being so nice to me. He obviously hadn't realized what an angry loser I was, and I decided to not let him find out, for completely selfish reasons.

"Why are you coming to public school now?" I asked, picking at the skin on the side of my finger nail as I observed him intently. His ears turned red under my gaze.

"Um, it's kinda complicated," he muttered. I nodded, facing the front of the room again and trying not to think about how this asshole smelled so strongly of anything and everything floral. Freckled flower child.

...

Marco ate lunch with my friends and I that day. The table had originally consisted of Reiner and Betholdt, who were ridiculously in love or whatever, and Connie, but Connie eventually had made his girlfriend, Sasha, join us too. She was hilarious and all, but her quick hands making their way into my lunch tray to steal my food got old after a while. I'd learned to accept it.

I liked everyone and all, but it kind of sucked being a fifth wheel. Reiner and Bertholdt were all over eachother at all times, and Connie and Sasha were too busy goofing off to pay attention to me, so I pretty much sat there and ate my lunch quietly as the other four messed around.

"New boyfriend?" Reiner asked as he detached himself from a blushing Bertholdt, examining Marco from head to toe. He grinned in stupid gay approval and I rolled my eyes, demanding that Sasha move over to make room as Marco stammered that we were merely friends.

"No, Reiner, this is Marco, my friend. He's new and he's gonna sit with us," Marco gave a nervous wave to everyone, flitting his eyes to each of my friends in turn.

"Hi, Marco," Sasha said with a kind smile, pausing long enough from shoveling food into her mouth to make him feel welcome him. Connie gave a similar greeting, tracing disgusting little circles on his girl's free hand.

"Those two are Connie and Sasha, and I'm Reiner, and this is Bertholdt," Reiner said smoothly, grinning at Marco and I with that stupid grin of his. I recognized the smile. He wore it when he was thinking about something gay, whether it be his friends or Betholdt. I hated it, because most of the time it was aimed at me.

Alright, Reiner thought that I liked dudes because once, just once, I got drunk and made out with one. But that wasn't my fault! The party was crazy and everyone was wasted and everyone was doing weird things, so in the heat of the moment I just happened to grab a guy dancing next to me and shove my tongue down his throat. It didn't mean that I was completely gay, it just meant that I was a horny teenager. I had moved on.

Reiner hadn't. He never failed to remind me of my supposedly repressed homosexuality whenever he spotted the chance.

It's not like I didn't think guys could be hot, because some were, but it didn't mean that I was prepared to engage in a relationship with one. Admiring them from afar was enough for me, and I couldn't be bothered to take my fascination any further.

Once you got past Reiner's hints aimed at Marco and I about our nonexistent relationship, lunch was a lot more enjoyable when Marco was seated next to me. He was immediately accustomed to my friends' humor, and he quickly became comfortable with laughing and joining in on their jokes. Reiner and Sasha talked to my freckled friend about his fashion taste, which was soft and colorful, and he seemed thrilled that they appreciated the effort he put into finding his clothes. I discovered I didn't mind listening to him talk about shopping and clothes and stuff, even though I hated things like that. I actually felt included.

Not that my friends ignored me when Marco wasn't there, but having him there just seemed... right. Feeling him shake with laughter next to me and tap my shoulder lightly with his fist when I teased him made my chest swell with a sense of belonging.

Lunch passed by much more quickly than it usually seemed to, and I was regrettably forced to say good bye to my companions (particularly the freckled flower boy) and slouch off to my next class.

Chapter Text

Once again, I was stopping Jean Kirchstein as he was trying to walk home.

"Hey!" I jogged after his slouching figure once I spotted him, waving one hand frantically like the idiot I was. "Hey, Jean."

"What's up?" he asked, as he observed my breathless, flushed figure. Jesus, I needed to exercise more.

"Um, ah," I suddenly didn't know where to start, with his cynical eyes pressing me for an explanation as to why I was stopping him for the second time. "Do you need a ride?"

He seemed to mull it over a bit, swiveling his silver lip ring around with his tongue as he scratched the back of his neck and allowed his eyes to wander over our surroundings.

"Sure," he nodded after his moment of hesitation, letting a small smile pass through his usual grim exterior. I felt my body warm with happiness, turning back into the direction of my car.

"How's your face?" I indicated to his cheek, which hadn't bruised as bad as I thought it would. He touched a long finger covered in pen ink to it.

"It's alright."

We sat in a semi-comfortable silence before he opened his mouth again.

"Yo, what are you doing right now?" Jean was the only person I knew that could pull off saying "yo" and not sound like a douche bag.

"Um, 20?" I figured he was asking how many miles per hour I was going, not giving his question a second thought until I stretched my arm out to turn on the radio and I saw him giving me an incredulous look out of the corner of my eye.

"What?"

"What?" I pushed in a Green Day CD at a stop sign, confused. I admit I mostly put in Green Day so that Jean would think that underneath my dorky, nervous exterior I was secretly just as hardcore as he was. "Oh my god, did you mean to ask what my plans were after school?" I hoped desperately that was what he meant, and that I wasn't digging myself into a further hole.

"Yeah, dude," I saw him repressing a laugh and felt myself turn red.

"Oh, um, I'm not busy. I have a little homework but-"

"Let's go to my house," he interupted me smoothly.

My chest inflated in happiness. One of the coolest people I'd ever met wanted to spend time with me at his house.

"Will your parents be okay with that?" I asked, knowing full well already that even if they weren't fond of the idea that Jean just brought strange boys over to their home that he would do it anyway. Thinking about Jean's parents made me think of my own mother, which sent a twing of sadness coursing through me as I took down a mental note to text her once we were at his house.

"Dude, yeah. Do you even remember how to get to my house?"

"Uh-huh," I hummed along to the song vibrating out through the radio, wishing that I could comfortably burst into song with out feeling like a serious loser. I paused a few seconds then spoke again, "Do you like Green Day?" I already knew the answer, of course.

"Duh," he actually grinned at me this time. "How'd you know?" I could tell he was being sarcastic, but I never really could tell when to shut up.

"I actually didn't think that a prep like you would know anything about good music," I said, trying to imitate his trade mark non-chalant tone and failing miserably.

"I don't think that I've ever heard someone actually say 'prep', Freckles," he laughed, the sound filling the car, accompanied by the voice of Billie Joe Armstrong and golden rays cast upon us by the afternoon sun. He ran a hand through his hair, still smiling.

"I don't think I've ever been called 'Freckles'," I said, feigning astonishment, which was complete bullshit.

"Good one," he saw straight through my lies, gripping his back pack tighter as I pulled the car into his drive way.

"Why the fuck do you drive like you're 84 years old and blind?" he asked, walking without waiting for me to his front door. He produced a shiny silver key from his back pocket, shoving it into its designated hole.

"Why do you wear a leather jacket when it's 84 degrees out?" I retorted before I could stop myself like I usually did. I resisted the urge to clamp a hand over my mouth, praying he wouldn't kick my ass for my unwarranted sass. Instead of hurting me, he chuckled and muttered something I couldn't make out. Probably about how it was only like 65 degrees out.

I didn't really know why I drove so slowly. I guessed I just liked to be careful, especially if there was someone else in the car. I couldn't even imagine the horror I would endure if someone was hurt on my account, so I had decided that I'd rather drive like an old person than hurt someone. I liked to keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road at almost all times, and that's what I did.

Jean's house was average, inside and out. Nothing special. It didn't smell like him, or feel like him (not like I knew what he felt like), or even look like he lived there; he had left no trace, and if I hadn't known better, I would have thought the house belonged to two middle aged white people with no kids.

"Where are your parents?" I asked nervously, peeking around him as if I would find one lurking silently in the corner of the immaculately pristine sitting room.

"Work, I guess," he shrugged, leading me up the stair case towards what I assumed would be his room.

I hadn't really hung out with another person actually my age in while, and I was unsure about exactly where I should sit once I was in his room. It wasn't like hanging around the young neighborhood kids after they got out of school: this was an actual teenager. A rebellious, angry looking, cute teenage boy that looked like he could rip me to shreds if I made the wrong move on his turf.

Yesterday had been fine when he came to my house because he had actually had a reason to: he had been hurt and I was the kind, totally not gay, soul that had offered to help him out. I cleaned his face and gave him fruit, and everything had been fine until my greiving mother had ruined everything by sobbing all over some bread and making Jean uncomfortable.

So, yeah, today was different. I was standing in the middle of his room, watching him remove his leather jacket and set his backpack down in the corner of his room. He looked at me expectantly, and I was incredibly aware of what I dork I looked like, with my white back pack clutched over one shoulder nervously, pulling the wide neckline of my pale sweater even farther over on my shoulder, revealing my collar bones. Was it just my imagination, or did Jean's eyes linger on the freshly exposed flesh revealed by the bag...?

The possibly non-existant moment was quickly gone when he hauled himself up off the bed and returned to his leather jacket, rifling around in its pockets until he managed to pull out a gently bent pack of cigarettes.

"I fell on it yesterday when Jaeger fuckin' jumped on me," he grumbled, fishing a lighter out of the back pocket of his black skinny jeans. I nodded weakly as I felt the blood rush out of my face, eyeing the pack nevously. "Do you smoke?" he asked. I shook my head in a negative response as he walked past me out the door the way we came. "Alright, well I need some nicotine in my body before I flip a table, I hope you dont mind if I go and light one. You can come if you want."

I don't know why I followed him, but I did. I followed him down the stairs and right back out his front door and onto his porch. Why hadn't he just smoked before we got inside? Who knows.

He lit the cigarette, dramatically leaning his head back and exhaling towards the clouds as he did so. His throat was pale and clean, but I really couldn't focus on checking out my new friend when the stench of the tobacco was clogging my nostrils. I tried not to gag, tearing my eyes away from him.

"Yo, Marco, why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" Jean chuckled, flicking the ashes off the end of the cigarette as I looked back at him. He was smiling at me, and I was a little flattered, since I got the impression that he didn't smile at a lot of people.

"Uh, sorry," I let out as casual of a laugh as possible in return, but it just came out sounding pained.

"You okay?"

Was I supposed to tell him? I mean, he was my friend now. Was our friendship on the level where we could tell personal things about ourselves like that to each other yet? I didn't have much actual experience to go off of, but I had read enough books to know that this would usually be the part where I told him my entire life story. And television had taught me that after I told him every single thing about me, we would promptly have meaningful, boring sex and then I'd wear his leather jacket to school, and hold his hand at lunch- ha! That might have happened if I were a girl, but I knew that no one named Jean Kirstein was having sex with another dude anytime soon. Well, I mean, I knew there was probably more than one person named Jean Kirstein in the world and it was fine if he liked guys but-

"My dad died from lung cancer," I said weakly, cutting off my own inner monolouge.

"Wh-what? Marco-" he looked at the offending object burning away slowly in his hand, only half smoked, as if it had lied to him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Hey, it's fine," I waved my hand breezily, putting on a brave face and immediately regretting my desicion to tell him about my father. Now he would only pity me and tip toe around me, eternally afraid that he'd trigger some kind of fit and hurt me. "I'm over it."

"You are? Uh, when did it happen?" A gentle breeze ran its fingers through his carefully styled hair, and I allowed myself to envy it. He lowered the hand holding the cigarette, letting it dangle dangerously close to the bottom of his black band shirt.

"About three months ago," I said as nonchalantly as possible.

He threw it away from him angrily, rubbing the back of his neck now, staring at me with piercing brown eyes.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he didn't sound angry.

"I... I didn't want to interupt you...?" I had wanted him to think I was cool. That I was totally fine with him ruining his body and risking his life just to feel a temporary rush.

"Interupt me? What the hell?" he demanded, a little more heatedly. "You can tell me if I do something that makes you uncomfortable, man, seriously."

"Alright," I muttered.

We watched the cars pass his house as we leaned on the railing of his porch, my finger nail picking at a stray splinter in the wood, eyes wondering idly to where the cigarette was still burning in the grass.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. I turned my head to look at him again. The sides of his hair were cut shorter than the rest of his hair, which sat in a subtly spiky mess on top of his head, the ends dyed black. I wished that I could pull off such a cool hairstyle for a second, then refocused my attention on what he had said.

"It's okay, Jean," I smiled at him as brightly as possible, really hating that I had dampened the mood.

Thankfully, before he had any more time to pity me, a shiny silver car pulled into the driveway, coming to a stop next to my own vehicle, which looked clunky and ragged in comparison to the pretty automobile parked next to it.

"Shit, my mom's home," Jean mumbled, spinning on his heel and opening the door.

"Aren't you gonna say hi to her?" I asked curiously as he stepped inside the house. I followed him, making a prediction that his relationship with his parents wasn't the best.

"Preferably not."

We went up the stairs for the second time. Once we had returned to his room, he pulled out a drawer of his desk and placed the pack and lighter he had inside of it. He grabbed his jacket once again after shutting the drawer and instructed me to pick up my back pack.

"Uh, do you want me to go home?" Did his mother not like when he had friends over? Why was he getting his jacket if I was going home?

"No, no, we're gonna go get dinner," he pulled the sleeves over his arms, running a hand through his hair afterwards and looking at me expectantly.

"Um, I don't have any money on me..." I blushed, trailing off. He waved it away flippantly, informing me that he'd pay. Of course, I had to pretend like I didn't want him to buy, which was quickly crushed by his insistency. I agreed to let him buy me dinner.

We trodded back through his sitting room, my keys in one hand, bag slung over my shoulder. However, before we even made it half way to the door, we were stopped by a tall woman with bleach blonde hair and a long nose similar to Jean's.

"And who's this?" she asked, looking from Jean to me, flashing her blindingly white teeth all the while. Jean let out a sigh.

Before he could say something rude, I offered my hand and told her my name. She shook it stiffly, and all I could really gather from this woman was a feeling of plastic. Not her skin, which was soft to the touch, but her entire being. I didn't think that I liked her. But I had just met her, so I told myself I'd be just as polite to her as I was to everyone and give her a chance.

I watched her evaluate me, and her smile seemed to falter the tiniest bit. My heart dropped. She took in my clothes, running her eyes over my wide necked light grey sweater and pastel blue skinny jeans. I tapped my finger against the strap of my backpack nervously, already knowing that she thought I was some sort of outrageously gay abomination. I got that vibe from a lot of adults, and it sometimes stung even though I knew that it was sort of true.

"Nice to meet you, Marco," her almost-genuine smile had not returned to her well made-up face after she had looked me over, and she looked a little pained. I tried to shake it off, telling myself that if she didn't like the way I dressed it was her problem. I liked me. Jean probably liked me in a totally not homosexual way. People at school liked me. Who cared about some plastic woman whose plastic smile seemed to melt when she observed the way I dressed?

I knew that I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that Jean's mom didn't like me.

"Likewise," I smiled at her in my usual kind manner.

Jean attempted to make his way to the door again, but was once again halted by her voice. He winced.

"Where are you two going, Jean?"

"We're gonna go get dinner," he said through gritted teeth. It shocked me how much visible hatred rolled off of him in the direction of his mother. What had she possibly done to cause him to act like this?

"It's only 4," she stated.

"Yeah," and then he was gone. I gave her a flustered good bye, and trotted out to my car, where Jean was waiting in the driver's side. I slid into the passenger seat and handed him my keys, praying that he was a good driver.

He wasn't.

...

He drove too fast, yet complained about the brakes on my car. Thankfully, he had found a suitable album to play before he had started driving, so I didn't have to worry about him killing us because he was to busy trying to find something punk enough for our drive. He had chosen a Nirvana CD from the glove compartment of my car, and he shouted the lyrics to 'In Bloom' as he sped down roads. He had rolled down the window, allowing the wind to touch his hair as it had seemed to be doing ever since we left school.

The music vibrated in my chest, and I tried not to make it obvious that I was staring at him as I let my eyes travel over his face. The silver and black rings piercing three different pieces of cartilage on his face glinted in the afternoon sun, his several earrings doing the same. He was pretty beautiful, for someone so wild and unreasonably angry.

I guess he noticed me staring at him, because he turned the volume down once the song was over and glanced at me.

"Do I have something on my face?" he joked. His sour attitude from earlier was gone, thoughts of my father and his own parents seemingly washed away by loud music and the thrill of driving fast with the windows down.

"Um, yeah," I laughed, gesturing to where his rings were on my own face. "A few things."

He rolled his eyes, smiling.

"Dude, you smell like a pansy."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Do you smell a lot of pansies?"

"Yeah, actually, and I cancelled my daily pansy smelling appointment so I could hang out with you, but it looks like work follows me everywhere."

I laughed, looking out the window, a smile still on my lips as I watched trees flash by as he drove us down the highway. I guess I'll be honest: I used girl shampoo. It smelled nice and it made my hair soft, so I used flowery girl shampoo. Sue me.

"Where are we going?"

"A diner, I told you," he said, talking a little louder in order to be heard over the wind and the music.

"But, like, where? I don't know of any diners off the highway."

I didn't exactly get out much, and it was kind of weird that my mom had bought me my own car, since I could just take the bus to school and drive hers when I needed to. I appreciated it though, and it seemed I'd be using it more often, which gave me a slight thrill.

"I'll pay you back for gas, don't worry," he said. My eyes immediately widened. I hadn't even been thinking about it, but now that he mentioned it, it sure sounded like I had been.

"Oh, no, I was just wondering!" I exclaimed, feeling my face get hot.

"I will," he grinned. He seemed to enjoy making me uncomfortable by trying to give me things, I noticed.

"Jean, no, seriously."

We continued like this for a few more minutes before he exited the road and we were suddenly in a parking lot in front of a cute little restaurant. It had only been about twenty minutes of driving, but it was no wonder I'd never seen it before, it was so tiny.

"Alright, Marco Bodt, welcome to your new favorite joint," he made a wide gesture with his arms after he had removed my keys from my car and slipped out. I shoved my hands in my pockets as we strolled into the diner.

"Jean!" a woman practically bouncing with excitement wearing a red apron greeted us from behind the bar as we entered.

"'Sup, Hanji," Jean waved at her cooly, leading me to a booth in the far back corner of the restaurant. The woman was soon standing at our table, beaming down at us, eyes flashing almost manically behind her thick glasses. I smiled, trying not to hint at how much she intimidated me. "This is Marco."

"Hi, Marco!" I returned the greeting, and she layed down menus in front of us. "So Levi told me you attacked Eren?" she was grinning as if she was talking about a simple prank and not a full on fist fight.

"He was being a dick," Jean shrugged, not seeming ashamed at all.

"Yeah, well, Levi wasn't very happy to hear that you roughed up his little friend," she said the words 'little friend' suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows and fingers. My own friend made a disgusted face, groaning.

"That's literally not even legal," he said.

"Do you know Eren?" she looked at me now, a slightly gentler smile adorning her face now.

"I know of him."

"He's a real sweetheart, I don't know why he and Jean don't get along, they'd be such good friends!" she gushed, not stopping there. She gushed about Eren and Jean and the mystery man named Levi.

"Hanji, please, I'm starving," Jean said after allowing her to blabber for about a minute without pausing.

"Oh, right! Jean, I know what you want; how about you, Marco?" With a jolt, I realized that I hadn't even looked at the menu, as I was too entranced by the way she could talk for about 30 seconds with out breathing. I quickly scanned the menu, and then looked up.

"I'll have what he's having," I said politely.

"Cute!" she said, turning away rapidly.

"Hanji, could we have something to drink?!" Jean called desperately after her, but she either didn't hear or didn't care. "Jesus, she can talk," he sighed again.

"Whose Levi?" I asked. I assumed that he was Eren's 'sugar daddy', but that had never been completely clarified.

"Oh, he's the manager or owner or something of this place," Jean told me. "Eren's old ass, grumpy boyfriend."

I imagined the man in question as wrinkled and deaf, and wondered just how rich he was to have a cute boy like Eren pining after him. I had to cover my mouth with my hand at the sudden thought of the very angry Eren Jaeger calling some old man 'Daddy' in a seductive purr. Shortly after those thoughts arrived, I remembered that Jean had told me that Levi was only in his lates twenties. I wasn't sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.

"What?"

"Nothing," I giggled.

It was probably a good thing that the diner didn't have many customers, because Hanji quite frankly sucked at her job and she seemed to be the only server working at the moment. Jean explained that she studied psychology whenever she could, and only worked at the diner because she needed extra money. Our food came out at a reasonably good speed, though, and taking the first bite out of the double cheese burger that I had bought was like taking a bite out of Jesus's left calf. Which meant that it was really, really good.

"Holy- ohmygod, Jean," I practically moaned, taking my eyes away from my burger to find him grinning as he watched me eat. His chin was resting in one of his hands, his own food untouched below him. He took a lazy sip out of the soda that Hanji had finally brought a few moments before she had delivered our food.

"You're welcome," he said smugly.

"This is the most beautiful thing that has ever been in my mouth," I informed him, taking another bite.

Once again, I was greatful the diner was empty, because I probably wouldn't have felt comfortable voicing how fantastic I thought the burger I was holding was. Jean began to eat his own food, shaking his head at me.

"You don't get out much, do you?"

"I am just really emotional about this burger right now, Jean," he nodded in mock understanding, still smiling.

We finished our food quickly, and Jean insisted that I try the milkshakes, so that's what I did. He ordered chocolate while I ordered strawberry, which Hanji laughed at for some reason.

"Hey, wanna see something cool?" he asked, grinning at me. I looked up from where I was absorbed in my milk shake, and nodded enthusiastically.

He leaned over the table and took the cherry from the top of the whipped cream in my glass cup. I scowled at him, because I actually liked cherries, but he didn't seem put off in the least by me. I guessed that my attempt at an intimidating face was no where as good as his was, since he'd had a lot more practice than me.

He placed the cherry, including the stem, on the tip of his tongue, then closed his lips around it, eyes locked on mine the whole time. I tried to ignore the pulling in my gut, telling myself that it certainly wouldn't be ideal for me to be arroused anywhere near Hanji. Or Jean, for that matter. The teasing I'd have to endure would be insufferable.

Apparently he hadn't simply eaten my cherry, but was instead working it around in his mouth. I watched him furrow his brow in concentration as the outline of his tongue brushed the insides of his cheeks, and assumed that he was attempting to tie the stem into a know.

I was proved correct when he stuck his tongue back out, revealing the knotted stem. He smirked proudly, then swallowed it.

"Why did you swallow the stem?" I gaped, still thoroughly impressed at how skilled he was with his tongue. I tried to make myself stop thinking about it, and forced myself to think of the least sexy things possible, distracting myself from my new friend's mouth.

"I don't know," he admitted. I giggled, looking out the large window next to us at the sun, which was beginning to set.

"Hey," I turned my head to Jean again to see what he wanted me for, and his hand was once again heading towards my side of the unstable table. I felt my face get hot as his thumb brushed just below my bottom lip, his infuriating tongue making an appearance yet again as he brought his hand back and licked his index finger, cleaning a creamy pink liquid off of it. "You had stuff on your lips, asshole," he told me. I was already all too aware of that.

"Thanks," I said, mustering up as much sarcasm as my naturally kind body was capable of.

"No problem," he winked playfully.

Jesus, I thought, shaking my head as he laid a few dollars on the table, paying for our dinner. This guy's gayer than I am, and he's straight.

Chapter Text

I really had no idea how Jean got away with acting like he did towards me with his other, much less submissive friends. All he did was make innuendos and provocative jokes at my expense, and he didn't even realize it. It was almost endearing, in a way: all that repressed homosexuality shining through as he licked strawberry milkshake off of his finger while staring straight into my eyes. I was sure that if he knew that I was gay that he wouldn't be this open with me.

Jean began driving us back to his house at around 6:30, and he sat in the driver's seat of my car for a few seconds after we had come to a stop in his drive way.

"Gimme your phone."

I wordlessly handed him my phone.

"Unlock it."

I unlocked the phone, fingers tapping the little numbers carefully. He then quickly entered his number into it, and gave it back.

"Text me so I'll have your number, too, okay?" he asked, and I obeyed. His own phone vibrated in the pocket of his leather jacket and he pulled it out, registering my name in his phone. His was the next model up from mine, but it had a few scratches. His case was a plain black, while mine was a pretty pastel purple. "See ya tomorrow, Flower."

"Flower?"

"Would you prefer I call you Pansy?"

"You could call me my name?" He laughed, and made his exit, waving to me as he unlocked the door to his plastic house.

The drive home seemed a little lonely without Jean yelling Nirvana songs next to me, but the sky was pink and the October air was warm, so I didn't mind it.

...

Jean and I hung out at my house a few times over the next three weeks after our diner experience, and one afternoon I received a text from him demanding I meet him at some park.

M: It's kinda chilly. Couldn't we go to one of our houses?

J: wear a fuckin jacket nerd

M: Ugh :(

J: i'll bring a very large, very hot cup of coffee.

M: In that case, I'll see you in a few minutes! (;

I swore internally after I sent that last message. My clumsy fingers had accidentally pressed the semi-colon button instead of the one I had originally meant to choose. I quickly made haste to correct myself.

J: plz stop trying to flirt w me marco

I prayed that he was joking, but with the complete lack of emotion that he displayed through his text, I wasn't sure if he was or not.

M: That was an accident! I meant "(:"

J: I FUCKIN KNOW NOW GET UR ASS TO THE PARK

I began my quest to the park after pulling on a thick white knit sweater with a picture of Totoro sewn into it. I briefly wondered if Jean would understand my choice of dress as I walked down the sidewalk towards the park, admiring dandelions poking through the cracks in the cement. My house was only a few blocks away from it, so I could comfortably walk there, and it seemed like a great idea before I realized just how cold it really was. I shivered, momentarily debating going back to my house and getting another sweater, but I steeled myself against the chill and continued on.

I pondered on the fact that the other day I had been lounging around with my window open in a T-shirt, and that in only a few days the temperature had dropped about 20 degrees. The flowers struggling to survive in people's yards looked a little sad, their wilting petals leaning towards the ground. I sighed. I hated winter.

After about ten minutes, I sighted the park, where a lanky figure was seated on a swing, clutching what seemed to be two cups of coffee against his ears.

I placed myself beside him, making a small noise to announce my presence.

"This was a mistake," he said gravely, continuing to hold the beverages to the sides of his head.

"Yes, it was, Jean," I said kindly. "Maybe you should buy a hat instead of pressing boiling liquid to your face?" I suggested.

"Shut up," he grumbled. I made a mental note to buy him a hat.

After a few moments of waiting patiently, my black clad friend handed me my designated cup of coffee grudgingly. I sipped it, and found that it had partially cooled and that it was exactly how I made it myself.

"How'd you know what I wanted?" I asked, suprised.

"I figured you'd want it sweet," he shrugged. A shiver ran down my spine, but I quickly chalked it up to the cold. I certainly wasn't thinking homosexual thoughts induced that sentence.

"Y-yeah, thanks. Do you drink yours black?" a smile came to my lips.

"I tried to for like a month," he grimaced. "I thought it'd make me look and feel more hardcore. I hated it."

I laughed, shaking my head. We chatted for a few minutes, and I bent over to pick up a dandelion sprouting through the wood chips covering the park. I touched it's pretty yellow petals with my thumb, listening sympathetically to Jean whine about some band that had broken up the night before. He was getting pretty heated before he suddenly broke off mid sentence.

"Marco?" he said.

"Yeah? I was listening, I was just kinda looking down, sorry," I reassured him, not wanting him to think that I was disregarding his feelings towards the band.

"No, it's fine, I had a question," he said hesitantly.

"Alright, go ahead," I was confused.

"Did you plant all the flowers and stuff at your house?"

How did Jean go from cursing some old man's very existence to asking me about my garden? He was like the weather, changing without warning.

"Oh, yeah," I chuckled, dropping the dandelion and kicking wood chips over it with my foot. "Why?"

"I don't know. You kinda seem like you like plants."

I laughed again. I did. I had ever since I was younger, looking at flowers in books and begging my parents to take me to flower shops and gardens. I always took care of our yard diligently, finding that planting and maintaining flowers soothed me. I liked to watch them grow, reaching towards the sun happily.

"I guess," I shrugged. "It's a hobby."

"Maybe you should be a florist," he offered, sounding genuinely enraptured by my interest for pretty things.

"I don't know," I moved my shoulders again. I didn't know at all. Did I actually like flowers or did I just like anything that was beautiful? I guessed that I had time to figure it out.

He hopped up from his swing then, setting his drink onto the ground carefully, then taking mine from my hand as well. I looked at him curiously, covering my fingers with the sleeves of my sweater as I clutched the chains supporting the swing. I was thankful that I couldn't feel the cool metal through my sleeves. I let out a small noise of suprise as I felt Jean's hands push my back gently.

...

Jean
Stupid, stupid Marco, with his cute ass sweaters and dumb purple phone case and his proper grammar while texting.

The nerd had his sweater sleeves covering his hands, and I literally could find no other way to describe him besides adorable. Who did he think he was? With his fashion taste and the way he looked at me when I had licked the milkshake off of my finger. How his dumb sweaters always slipped a bit to the right when he hitched his backpack over his shoulder, flaunting the freckled skin stretching over his collar bone for everyone to see.

God, I was now one of of those asshole white boys who got all excited over shoulders. I was now the reason that schools across the world had put the no tank top policy to work. I mentally apologized to every girl that had been reprimanded for wearing a sleeveless shirt, it wasn't their fault. Not like I was looking at girls, or anyone besides Marco Bodt.

I had a big gay crush on this dude, and we'd only met like a month ago. I hadn't even known that I could really like a guy until last week, when Marco and I had sat in his room and actually talked for the first time.

He had told me about how his dad had died, and his mother had pushed him away and sent him to public school for his senior year. I told him about how my parents wanted the perfect son and basically hated me and how I had trouble relating and getting close to other people. He told me some more about his mom, and reluctantly let a few tears leak down his cheeks as he spoke. I pulled him into my side and allowed him to bury his face into my shoulder as he silently cried.

I discovered that Marco was not as cheerful as he let off. Not that his bright smile was fake or anything, because he was genuinely a positive person by nature, but he sure was good at hiding his feelings. He wasn't one of those people who fell into dark moods like ever, at least not around anyone. He kept what hurt him inside, releasing it gradually through acts of kindness towards others. He took his negative experiences and turned them into something beautiful, which I only wished that I could do.

It was while he was pressed against me and actually expressing true emotion that I realized that maybe my feelings toward my best friend weren't completely platonic. But I kept it to myself, not allowing myself to think about him in the shower or say anything more suggestive to him than I would my other friends. I kept it inside like he did his own feelings, but I was unfortunately unable to release it in a positive manner like he was.

I didn't keep my feelings to myself for the reason that I thought that he was straight, because I was like 70% sure the dude was at least bisexual. Reiner had informed me that his gaydar beeped whenever Marco was within 20 feet of him, and Reiner's gaydar never lied. The rest I could figure out for myself, of course: the way he never made comments when I spoke of girls, or how he sort of freaked out when he thought I had made a homophobic comment about Eren. That was kind of wishful thinking, though, I guess. Any decent person would probably have had those reactions. And I knew not to base assumptions on his sexuality off of the way he dressed, since I dressed like I snorted cocaine off of hookers everynight, but was apparently a raging homo. Maybe he was straight.

No, I was afraid that Marco would be disgusted at any advances I made. What if he freaked out and never spoke to me again? I didn't want to lose him.

Besides, he deserved so much better than some punk in a leather jacket.

So, there I was, pushing his back lightly with my fingers, not wanting to apply too much pressure lest I shatter him.

God. I was so gay.

He giggled delightedly, however, clutching the chains of the swing with his fabric covered hands. He threw his head back as the swing climbed higher, looking at the cloudy sky. We did this for a few minutes, occasionally laughing when I made a joke or his feet hit me in the stomach.

Eventually, he informed me that he was freezing and that we needed to find somewhere warm before we caught colds.

"Want my jacket?" I asked, stepping to the side from behind him towards our abandoned coffee. I began shrugging out of it, perfectly willing to give it to him if it meant he wouldn't freeze, but he quickly declined.

"No, no, it's fine, let's just go," he said, shaking his head avidly.

"We'll go, but it's a ten minute walk," I growled. "Take it."

"Jean-"

"Marco," I held it out, annoyed that the dork was making such a big deal out of a dumb black jacket covered in cloth patches from various punk bands.

He sighed, shivering slightly before finally accepting it. It fit him perfectly, as it was about a size too big for me and he was bit taller and built a little more broadly than I was. I grinned, handing him his beverage and turning to make my way back to my house, my freckled friend following closely on my heels.

He hadn't been back to my house since the first day he'd been there, when he'd told me about his dad and we'd left abrubtly when my mom had made an appearance.

We talked as we made our way down the sidewalk. He had, of course, asked me whether my parents were okay with him coming over and I assured him that it was fine, rolling my eyes jokingly.

We arrived at my house quickly, my bare arms covered in goose bumps from the crisp air. I was greatful to see that only my car was parked in the driveway, and that my parents weren't home.

As soon as I opened the door, I was met by barking and a waggling figure weaving around my legs.

"Jean, I didn't know you had a dog," I don't think I'd ever heard Marco sound so thrilled, and he imediately fell to his knees in front of my excitable Golden Retriever, shedding my jacket and handing it to me before he went to work on her. He ran his lightly freckled hands through her hair joyfully, speaking to her in a voice that was an octave higher than his normal one, happily asking her what her name was and how old she was and all that shit.

He hadn't seen her the last time he'd been over since she had been in the back yard, this was his first time meeting her. It was obviously love at first sight, and I couldn't help but feel a little jealous of my dog.

I tucked my jacket under my arm, watching him.

"That's Titan," I said, deciding to answer his questions for her, since she was unable to do it herself. "She's like three, I think."

I allowed the two puppies to finish greeting each other, then led him up to my room, followed by Titan.

He flopped onto my bed, much more at ease than he had been the last time he had been here. The dog jumped up next to him, seeming to have taken a immediate liking to him. Marco patted her sweetly as she nuzzled into his side with her wet nose.

He pulled out his phone, checking it as I rifled through movies on a shelf, settling on some dumb action movie I'd seen like three times. We didn't really watch it; we mostly fucked around, only paying attention when an explosion was heard from the speakers.

After the first movie came to a gory end, we watched another, and made plans to go to the mall the next day. He said he wanted more sweaters and I nodded, telling him I needed new lip rings. He agreed to pick me up some time after noon, only leaving after he'd given my dog a thorough good bye.
...

Marco's ugly car pulled up to my house at about 2 p.m., and once he saw me emerge from my home he rolled down the window and shouted:

"Get in, loser, we're going shopping!" he couldn't keep a straight face as he did so, and quickly collapsed into giggles as I slid into his car.

"Marco, oh my god," I groaned. "Have you been watching Mean Girls?"

"Yeah, I watched it twice last night," he nodded, checking his mirrors like he always did.

"Why?"

"Because it's a good movie!"

"No, it's not," I told him. He rolled his eyes affectionately and turned on his stereo, pressing some buttons until a song with an acoustic guitar and whistling for an intro came on.

"Marco," I said, exasperated. He completely disregarded me as he attempted pitifully to whistle along, bobbing his head. "What has gotten into you?"

"Why are you so obsessed with me?" he giggled, beginning to sing along as Ke$ha's voice came through. "Hello, where ever you are..."

I couldn't help but laugh as he wiggled in his seat and attempted to rap along to the song, stumbling over words and dancing in his restricted space. I found I didn't mind listening to annoying pop songs when Marco was the one playing them. I laughed even harder as I watched him attempt to hit the high notes towards the end of the song, quickly running out of breath and sighing dejectedly.

The entire ride to the mall was spent this way, listening to him belt out the lyrics to shitty pop songs and laughing. He found a parking space and turned off the radio sadly, grabbing his wallet and stepping out of the car.

"What's gotten into you?" I chuckled, referring to the music. He usually listened to soft indie songs, but today he was clearly leaning towards songs with female vocalists and raunchy lyrics.

"Reiner," he sighed. "We skyped and he made me look up a bunch of songs and stuff."

"Oh my god," I laughed. Reiner loved that shit, and it was pretty painful to see him force Betholdt to dance with him to that sort of music at parties. Marco, on the other hand, was a different story... I thought, licking my lips and letting my mind stray only momentarily before pulling myself back to reality. "I refuse to listen to that on the ride home."

"Then you can walk home, bitch," he said, almost managing to be serious this time.

"I'm gonna kick your ass if you make one more reference to Mean Girls, Marco," I said, rolling my eyes, trying to hide the amusement I felt.

We walked around the mall a while, and Marco was back to normal after a few minutes away from that obnoxious music. He pulled me into several stores I'd never heard of, pointing out colorful sweaters and other various articles of clothing he found. He seemed almost as excited around the clothes as he did flowers, and he had in depth conversations with employees and various teenage girls as he browsed through rack after rack of fabric.

He had decided that he needed to repeatedly apologize to me and offer to go to the food court as he went into stores, telling me how he knew I hated this stuff and that he felt selfish for 'dragging me around.' I assured him repeatedly that I didn't mind, and I really didn't. I was completely content with him doing his thing while I looked at the stores' music selection (which usually either sucked or was completely nonexistant) and watched his face light up when he found something that he liked.

He had bought a couple of inexpensive sweaters and a black beanie when a couple of girls a year or two younger than us came up to where we were standing as he browsed through men's skinny jeans.

"Hey," one smiled as the other giggled, and I figured that one of them had approached us in search of a phone number.

"Hello," Marco said politely as I remained silent, waiting for them to begin flirting with him.

"You guys are so cute!" one gushed, gripping her purse tightly.

I raised my eyebrows, not expecting them to be so blunt. Marco looked at me, blushing, then back at them.

"O-oh, aw, thank you!" he exclaimed, digging his fingers into a pair of black jeans nervously. He prodded me, probably wanting me to thank them, too.

"Haha," I said, as if that was a sufficient response.

"Could we take a picture of you guys?" the more confident girl asked, holding up an iPhone with a case very similar to Marco's. I raised an eyebrow. What the fuck?

...

Marco

I had felt Jean stiffen beside me as the girl had complimented us, and I had to resist the urge to flee.

I didn't feel attracted to girls, and I had never been in a situation where one had called me cute. What did I do? I had looked to Jean, expecting him to flirt back, to get their numbers and wink playfully, but he was just smiling wryly, looking slightly pained.

I had been homeschooled! I was gay! Jean was the one who was supposed to take charge in these situations, what was he-

"Could we take a picture of you guys?"

"Of us?" What? What the hell had I missed while I was homeschooled? There was never any mention of anyone taking pictures of someone they found attractive in the books I had read or the television I had watched. "Why?"

"For my blog," the girl explained. Blog? Why'd she want a picture of us for her blog?

"Oh, okay then," I was still confused, but I never knew how to say no when someone wanted something from me.

"Alright, could you guys stand closer together?" she motioned with her hands, the girl next to her still hiding her face and giggling. Jean was sending me panicked looks, but I silently urged him to just go with it. "Put your arm around him," she commanded me.

"What the-" Jean tried to interject as I obeyed helplessly.

"And maybe you could kiss his cheek or something?" she directed this at Jean.

"What the fuck?" I squeezed his shoulder, willing him to be polite, but he was pissed. He tried to pull away from me and escape, but I had committed to this and quietly told him to stay.

"Oh, wait, this is perfect, stay just like that!" she exclaimed, holding up her phone and snapping several photos before putting it back in her pocket. "Thanks, guys."

She pulled a piece of paper and a pen out of her pocket and scribbled some letters onto the paper, handing it to me. It was the address to some website.

"No problem?" I said questioningly, Jean fuming silently beside to me.

"You guys are really brave coming out in public, thanks again," she said, making her way out of the store, her giggly friend following close behind. "Bye!"

"Why the hell'd you let her do that?" Jean asked me angrily, walking out from where my arm was still around him. "Why'd she want me to kiss you? What'd she mean with 'you guys are really brave'?"

I shook my head, completely unsure myself. A sudden look of realization washed over my companion, and he began to laugh, clutching a rack of clothing and bending over.

"Oh my god," he wheezed. "They thought we were gay."

My eyes widened. How was he laughing? Did I act gay? Did he act gay? What did a gay act like?

I looked down at my clothing and the bags I was holding and groaned.

"Do I act gay, Jean?" I asked nervously as he wiped tears of laughter out of his eyes, his irritation gone.

"Uh, no," he hesitated. My heart sank. Did he know? Would he care? I hated to think that Jean would think differently of me if he knew that I liked guys, but it was a possiblity.

I had never been afraid of my sexuality before now. When I was about 14 and I informed my parents that I didn't like girls, they completely supported me and encouraged me to embrace my sexuality. They told me I didn't need to hide, and I never really felt the need to try to change myself after confessing to them.

But I had never gone to a public school, and I was a little unsure how others would react. I thought about Eren: everyone liked him! Why should it be any different with me...?

"I do," I muttered.

"Who even cares?" he asked. "If you are, then you are, and if you aren't, you aren't. It doesn't matter, Marco."

I lifted my eyes, finding him staring at me deeply. I smiled weakly.

"Dude, you need a jacket," he told me, poking at my stomach. I squirmed away, extremely sensitive. He grinned. "Are you ticklish?"

"No and no," I said.

He poked at me again, but this time I managed to cringe away before he could touch me.

"Jean," I held back a squeal, pushing my hands full of bags out in front of me.

"Alright, but you seriously need a jacket," he told me, pulling away from me.

"I don't like jackets," I told him.

"You can't go through your entire life wearing only cute oversized sweaters."

"I can, and I will," I then felt my face get red, realizing what he had said. "Wait- you think my sweaters are cute?"

"I like them," he shrugged, then turned away. I watched his ears and neck turn red as he pretended to examine croptops.

"Thanks. Do you like croptops, too?" I asked. He spun around, scowling now.

"No."

"You should try one on," I urged, holding up a plain red half shirt.

"We're going to go eat," he growled, marching out of the store as I laughed, trying hard not to think about Jean in one of those crop tops too much.

...

Jean had dropped the talk of me getting a jacket once I had brought up the topic of croptops, and we ate. Once we had finished, I drove him home. However, I didn't allow him to get out of the car until I had fished the beanie I had bought out of one of the bags in the back seat. I placed it carefully over his hair, allowing the front to stick up messily.

"You got this for me?" he raised his eyebrows, obnoxiously cute.

"Uh huh, you need one," I nodded, smiling.

"So do you!"

"Believe me, I have several." I did indeed own several hats, which I held close to my heart.

"Thanks, dude," he grinned. He touched a finger to the poof of hair sticking out from under the hat, and exited the car.

As usual, I waited for him to walk into his house before I drove off, slowly replacing my poppy playlist with the punks songs that he liked.

When I got home, I found the piece of paper with the girl's blog address on it. I debated for a moment, then opened my laptop, typing in the address and allowing my computer to load.

The layout of the blog was littered with pixelated pictures of band members and famous people, and the latest post was a picture of me and Jean.

I stared at it, observing the way Jean's nose was crinkled and his expression irritated, my arm slung around him lazily. I was looking down at him in the picture, my cheeks a little red.

We made quite a pair, the two of us. His punk exterior seemed to compliment my soft, colorful one. I smiled for a second, before saving the picture to my computer and transporting it to my phone, making it my lock screen.

I dreamt of Jean that night. Jean clad in a croptop and extremely short black shorts. I could barely look at him once I got to school, stuck between ashamed and incredibly amused at the fantasy image that had planted itself into my brain. What had gotten into me?

Chapter Text

I soon saw the picture of me and Marco on his phone, though he hadn't specifically shown me. I simultaneously cursed and worshipped those girls for confronting us and taking that photo.

It was official: I had a 'big lesbian crush' on my best friend (he had stopped the flow of Mean Girls quotes for the most part after our ride to the mall, but he occasionally slipped one into a conversation, thinking he was being slick), and I had stopped trying to convince myself that I was completely straight and that I only thought I liked him because he was nice to me.

Nope, I had decided that he was some kind of angel from the moment that he had wiggled that hat onto my head, causing my heart to race and my lungs to freeze. Or had it been before that? I wasn't sure, but I knew that no girl had made my stomach (or my dick) feel like he did.

The week started off normally enough, Monday and Tuesday passing slowly and with out disturbance.

However, Marco had to talk me down from trying to kill some punk on Wednesday.

I was leaning against the locker next to the freckled flower child, making him laugh at some stupid joke I'd made, my stomach in pleasant knots. He shut his locker lightly, clutching his books to his chest and beaming at me, his sleeves covering most of his hands like they always did.

He opened his mouth to respond to me, but was quickly cut off by kid about my size bumping into him roughly, growling something I'd never wanted to hear under his breath.

"Fag," the word hit me like a punch to the gut, though it hadn't been directed at me.

Marco looked after him, hurt blooming in his eyes and embarrassment flooding his cheeks. I was fuming, my muscles wound up and ready to pounce onto the acne covered monstrosity that had dared hurt him.

Not only had he uttered a disgusting slur, but the kid had physically touched Marco, too, and I refused to let him get away with it. No one touched Marco with ill intentions, not if I could help it.

"What the fuck did you just say?" I asked, squeezing my fingernails into my palms furiously.

The dude turned, regarding me with a disgusted expression.

"What?" he said mockingly, his friends giggling around him. I stepped closer, so close that I could feel his breath on my face.

"Jean, stop it," Marco whispered, though he sounded unsure whether he actually wanted me to back off or not. "He's just... ignorant. He's not worth it, we're gonna be late. Let's go."

"What the fuck did you say?" I hated to ignore Marco, but I was too focused on what I was going to do to this asshole to respond to him.

We were now only inches away from each other, his unapologetic smirk full blown.

"Just because most of the idiots here think that it's okay for you two to whore away at each other doesn't mean that everyone does," he said. "You two are fuckin' gross."

Rage flared up in my chest.

That's when I hit him, silently driving my fist into his gut, hoping it hurt him as much as he had hurt Marco emotionally. I didn't yell or grunt like I usually did when I fought, I just pinned him down and hit him, over and over and over, until I couldn't feel it when he managed to hit me back. He wiggled around on the cold, tiled floor of the hallway as I demanded he kept still.

After a few moments of beating the shit out of this dude, I heard Marco's voice yelling, paired with someone else's bellows. Hands pulled at me, lugging me off of the homophobic asshole as best as they could. I demanded they let go, struggling and beginning to scream obscenities at the guy.

"Jean, Jean, please," Marco whispered against my ear, holding my bicep firmly. If I hadn't been afraid of hurting him, I'd have ripped out of his hold and made sure the complete garbage can laying on the ground never said another thing to him again. "You got him, it's okay, I'm okay."

I stopped struggling, realizing Marco wasn't the only one that had a hold of me. Eren Jaeger was on my other side, glaring at the boy I'd beat up as his own friends helped him to his feet. Teachers ran towards us, pushing students out of the way and demanding that we come with them, but I wanted to stay with Marco for as long as possible. However, Eren's grip was soon replaced with Mr. Smith's, the school principal. He pulled me away from Marco gently, and I went only a little unwillingly. Mr. Smith was a fairly nice dude, I remembered, so I probably didn't have much of a reason to worry about my punishment.

"Come on, Jean," he muttered, leading me towards his office.

...

About twenty minutes of explaining the situation and picking at the skin around my fingernails later, the boy and I were suspended for three days each. Marco and Eren were questioned too, but I was quick to inform Mr. Smith that they had nothing to do with it, and that they had merely stopped me from putting that asshole in the hospital. Even Eren.

Marco actually looked close to tears during the entire thing, so I guessed that what had been said to him really stung. I squeezed his shoulder, attempting to be comforting, but I think that I only made it worse. He apologized repeatedly as we left the school a few hours before dismissal, pulling at his sweater and avoiding my gaze as he did so.

"It's my fault," he muttered. "You didn't have to fight him."

"How the hell was it your fault?" I asked incredulously. Marco had done nothing wrong.

"I... I dress like... you know, I kind of bring it upon myself. I've heard stories of people that look like me getting insulted and sometimes hurt, but I didn't think it'd ever actually happen. I'm kinda dumb."

"Marco, the way you dress is perfectly fine," I muttered, aching to touch his face. I controlled myself, but just barely. "Do what makes you happy."

"These clothes do make me feel happy, and I like them, but if that stuff keeps happening..." he trailed off, his eyes studying the chipped paint on his car. "Jean, I should..."

"What?" he obviously had to tell me something, but he couldn't seem to force it out. He kept looking at me, then down, and then up again, the muscles in his jaw working. The pain in his eyes was, for once, fully visible.

"You're gonna think differently of me... if I tell you," he whispered, terrified eyes locking onto mine. I wanted to reach out, hold him, tell him that I'd never leave him and that whatever it was that was worrying him didn't even matter.

What was bothering him? What could have sweet, innocent Marco done that would make me think badly of him?

"You can tell me," I said, trying to steady my voice.

"I'm gay."

I was elated. Thrilled. I couldn't quite help the smile that had broken across my face at his confession, but I tried not to look as happy as I felt. It was not the time to grin like an idiot because maybe, just maybe, Marco might eventually learn to like me in the way I liked him.

He seemed confused at my sudden joyfulness, though, and sent me a confused look, his eyebrows pushing together.

"Why would I think differently of you?" I asked, heart soaring with joy. I had been right. Marco was gay, and maybe that meant I had a slight chance with him.

"B-because you're always teasing me and making jokes and stuff-"

I couldn't take it anymore, and I pulled him into me, hugging him. He buried his freckled face in my shoulder, and I felt his thick eyelashes through the fabric of my thin shirt as he closed his eyes. I cherished the feeling of his body against mine, rubbing my thumb against his arm in what I hoped was a friendly manner.

"Marco, I don't care if you're gay, you're my best friend."

He sniffed and pulled away from me, smiling blearily. I missed him pressed against me instantly, but I released him and grinned.

I absolutely cared if he was gay. Marco being gay was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.
"You're my best friend, too," he said, his usual kind smile shining on his face once again. "Hey, Jean?"

"Yeah, Flower?"

"Don't fight anymore," he was blushing for some reason, probably because I called him flower. Was he worried about me? I felt my own beat up face become tinged with pink.

"I'll try," I grinned, heart beating madly. Marco liked dudes and I was a dude.

Fuck yeah.

...

Sasha invited me and Marco to her giant house a couple of days after the incident.

"Like... a party?" Marco asked her nervously, fiddling with a stray thread on his soft purple sweater.

"Well, kinda," she smiled. "There'll only be a few people."

"Like who?" I could tell that he wasn't sure whether he wanted to attend or not. He chewed his lip nervously, eyes flitting around the lunch room as he thought.

"Um, just us," she gestured to our lunch table and I stared at her sceptically, sincerely doubting the honesty of her response. "Just come, it'll be fine."

Marco looked at me. My lungs inflated with joy as I realized that he'd only go if I went with him, and I gave him a small, straightfaced nod, hiding my feelings well. He turned back to Sasha, a small smile on his freckled face.

"Sure."

...

Marco slid into my car in an almost silky fashion, and I had to force myself to ignore the urge to pin him up against the car door. His perfect collar bones were exposed by his loose floral sweater, causing me to wonder how I had become the type of asshole to get excited over fucking shoulders. He smiled at me wordlessly, not bothering to make an attempt at conversation over the violent music pulsing through my speakers.

I tried not to lick my lips as I stared at him in what I hoped was a subtle manner, my eyes running down his neck and towards his unbelievably tight grey skinny jeans. He turned the music down a little, and my eyes snapped back up to his own dark pair guiltily. I hoped he hadn't noticed my wandering gaze.

"Is this okay?" he asked, spreading his arms out a little, allowing me to view his outfit properly.

"Perfect," I said, kicking myself mentally for letting the word slide out in a threatening hiss, making me sound like some kind of sexual predator. He turned the volume of the music up once again, and I sped towards Sasha's house, trying to ignore any inappropriate thoughts involving the innocent looking boy next to me that might have made him blush.

The large house wasn't pounding with an annoying bass line quite yet, and there weren't any drunk teens littering the yard this early on in the night, but Marco still looked nervous as we walked towards the largest source of light on the dimming street.

"You don't have to drink or smoke anything," I assured him, trying to sound helpful, but only succeeding in making him look even more stricken. I patted him comfortingly.

After Marco had admitted that he was gay to me, we had become even closer than we had been before his confession. In a completely 'platonic' way, we spent more time with each other and talked about slightly deeper subjects than we had before, when I wasn't completely sure about his sexuality. When I was with his flowery ass, I forgot about my asshole parents and my dumb teenage problems, and everything felt fine, besides the butterflies threatening to break free of my insides.

I opened the door with out knocking, knowing that Sahsa wouldn't care. We were greeted by a drunk Eren Jaeger.

"Here are the boyfriendssssssss!" he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around us. Eren got way too friendly when he was drunk, and I pushed him off of us in disgust, hoping he hadn't spilt any cheap beer on Marco.

Several strangers already occupied the house, laughing and sipping drinks.

"Shut up, Jaeger." He just grinned, poking Marco's red, freckled cheek lightly and prancing away. So that was why Sasha hadn't told us who'd be there: because she had invited Eren, and probably Mikasa, Armin, and his 'sugar daddy,' too. I wasn't angry, though. I was too excited about spending time with Marco to think about being pissed at Jaeger's presence. God, I was whipped.

I hadn't gotten into a fight with Eren since I'd met Marco, and I now only felt a mild irritation towards him at most times. Sometimes my eye still twitched when he was being particularly idiotic, but I controlled myself. I found that it was actually fairly easy.

Indie music was playing through out the house, to Marco's delight. He looked at me excitedly when he recognized the song playing, nudging my shoulder.

We greeted everyone, including Eren's boyfriend, who looked like he absolutely did not want to be hanging out with a bunch of highschoolers. He was a short, dark man and he had empty beer bottles surrounding him like a herd of cows. He must've been really drunk, but he was silent for the most part.

"Baby sitting us?" I asked him, smirking.

He rolled his eyes, taking another swig from his almost empty bottle.

"Eren made him come so he could meet everyone," a cheerful voice to my right informed me. I turned my head, recognizing Armin Arlert. I liked Armin, even though he hung out with Eren. "He's actually pretty funny. I've met him a bunch of times."

Armin eventually evaporated after having a quick discussion with the ever friendly Marco about Levi and Eren. I led my freckled friend to the kitchen then, knowing that there'd be alcohol, planning on giving him his first drink even though I'd told him he wasn't obligated to become intoxicated.

I handed him a can of beer, not taking one myself, as I had to drive home and sort of hated beer. I watched his face carefully as he lifted the cold can to his lips, taking a hesitant sip as if he was afraid it would burn him. His face immediately screwed up in disgust.

"This is gross," he set it down on the table, wrinkling his nose. I laughed.

"I don't like it either."

I then grabbed a vodka bottle and poured a little into the bottom of a plastic red cup, not planning on making the beverage too strong. I mixed it with orange juice, figuring he'd prefer this. He took a sip, and after recoiling momentarily, didn't seem to mind it as much as the beer.

"It's okay," he shrugged. I nodded, and took his abandoned can of beer and led him to the living room.

We sat on a couch across from where Levi was seated on it's twin. The short man now had a much taller Eren planted on his lap, and I avoided looking at them as much as I could.

In the center of the large room, Reiner was forcing Bertholdt to dance with him, and quite a few people I didn't know were drunk and stumbling into each other, 'dancing.' Marco sipped his drink innocently, smiling brightly when anyone made eye contact with him.

He finished the liquid quickly, looking down in surprise when he found that his cup was suddenly empty. He looked at me questioningly, and I quickly brought him another, this time a bit stronger.

By the time he finished his second, his cheeks were flushed and he was beginning to laugh a bit louder than usual, to my delight. His knee bumped mine as he swayed to the beat of the song playing.

The music was a bit poppier now, and more people had arrived, flooding the house with hormones. I felt Marco become impatient with simply sitting on the couch, and he was soon jumping up and informing me that he was going to go get another drink. I nodded, watching his hips sway as he headed towards the kitchen.

I waited a few minutes, thinking that maybe he was talking to someone in there, but soon became worried.

I found Marco and Connie fucking giggling, standing against the counter and gripping shot glasses.

"God damn it, Connie," I sighed. Marco's eyes shot to me, widening. He tittered even harder, leaning against Connie as he laughed.

"Speak of the devil," the almost bald boy grinned.

"Talking shit?" I laughed, raising my eyebrows.

"No!" Marco said, suddenly defensive, taking another shot.

"How many has he had?" I groaned to Connie, who had a much higher alcohol tolerance than my freckled friend.

"I lost count."

"Come on, Marco," I sighed again, gently taking a hold of his arm and leading him back to our couch.

Two thirds of it, however, were being taken up by two people I didn't know. I began looking around for another place to sit, but Marco continued towards our original destination, taking me with him.

He plopped onto the tan cloth, holding my wrist even as he sat down.

"I'm gonna go fi-"

My sentence was interupted half way through by my freckled friend wrenching at my arm clumsily. The girls next to us giggled.

I found myself sitting on my best friends lap, his long arms wrapped around my wiry figure. He smelt like a flower garden, as usual, and I resisted burying my face into his neck in order to take the girlish smell in even further.

"There's no other seats," he explained patiently, breathing the words into my ear as my face turned red. I swore internally.

"I can see that, Marco, but you're ruining my image."

"Your punkrock image?" he teased, not moving his mouth away from my overly sensitive neck. I clutched the arm of the couch, trying not to think of what might have been happening if we had been alone.

"Yeah."

"Who cares?"

"Me. This isn't punk."

"Cuddling is totally punk."

"This isn't even cuddling! I'm sitting on your lap like a dog!" I thanked God he couldn't see my outrageously red cheeks, and I was hyper aware of the warmth his body was giving off. Our friends were trying not to laugh as they watched our little scene play out, and I sent them glares, which shut them up for the most part.

"You're so skinny!" he exclaimed, wrapping his long fingers around my hips, digging them into the sensitive flesh. A gasp escaped my lips and a jolt of pleasure ran through my body. People were definitely staring at this point.

"Marco," I hissed, almost involuntary leaning into him before I quickly stopped myself. I needed to get away from him ASAP before I did something really dumb.

The girls occupying the couch seemed to take pity on me, and they got up to go dance or something. I gratefully spilled my body onto the newly available room, panting and wishing that we were alone so that I could shove him against a wall for playing with me like that.

"Awwww," he looked like a puppy, widening his eyes and whining at me sadly. He was fucking cute and I had an overwhelming desire to punch a wall or get another tattoo in order to feel manly again.

Jean Kirstein, despite the several piercings, tattoos, band shirts, leather jackets and angry glares he is known for, apparently can be found sitting on another boy's lap on a Friday night. A boy wearing pretty pastel colors, at that.

I didn't have a problem if people thought I was gay, no, I didn't care about that at all. But I also couldn't allow people to think that I was the submissive one in our nonexistant relationship. A boy wearing a purple sweater could not be more agressive than me, absolutely not. I then reprimanded myself for thinking that anything like this would happen again if he was sober. He obviously only thought of me as a friend.

"Sorry, man," I rubbed my neck, looking around nervously. He grinned at me, looking away and upwards as he identified the song now playing through Sasha's speakers.

He jumped up, turning to look at me. He pulled on my wrist, but I knew for a fact that I was not dancing to whatever Kesha song that had begun playing. At least, not while I was sober.

"Oh my God, this is my song," he practically squealed it.

"Go dance, then," I suggested, sort of secretly wanting to see how good he was at moving his body to music.

"Come with me!"

"No."

"Johnny, I don't want to go alone," he whined.

"Johnny? Does that make you Ponyboy?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Whatever, I'm gonna dance, bitch." Bitch?

He flounced off then, joining Reiner, Bertholdt and several girls in the center of the room.

"Did I just get called a bitch by Marco Bodt?" I voiced aloud to no one in particular.

"He's fun when he's drunk," laughed someone to my right. I turned my head quickly recognizing the voice as Jaeger's.

"I guess," I said, being completely civil. I was proud of myself. "Where's Levi?"

"Trying to find harder liquor. Apparently he needs to be as intoxicated as possible around my 'bratty friends'," he said it affectionately, not minding that his boyfriend was kind of an asshole.

"Ah."

"You haven't hit me in a while," he mused.

I shrugged.

"It's Marco, huh?"

"What?" I turned to look at him, confused.

"He makes you less angry?"

"He... actually, yeah, I think so."

"You should go dance with him," he winked, and I turned back to watch Marco, who had his arms stretched above his head and his hips moving rhythmically.

My eyes were traveling down his body when he suddenly stopped moving, a few people watching him as he hooked his fingers under the bottom of his sweater, quickly pulling it off so he was left shirtless. A cheer rose from the drunk teenagers, and he laughed, throwing his head back. My heart raced, and my pants were a lot tighter than they had been a few seconds ago. How much had he drank?

"Now you should really go dance with him."

"I hate Kesha," I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. As much as I loved his cute sweaters, I sort of wished that he'd wear tighter shirts, because he was pretty hot.

"Are you gay?" I snapped my head back to Eren, reluctantly removing them from Marco's body.

"I just don't like Kesha," I shrugged. "I mean, her songs are catchy but I'm not into her genre-"

"Dude, no, are you gay for Marco?"

Did Eren Jaeger expect me to talk about my dumb crush to him? After all the times we'd attacked each other? After all the insults we had flung at each other?

"A little."

He nodded knowingly as Levi returned to the couch opposite of ours. Eren stumbled a little as he strode towards him, practically on top of the grey eyed man as he latched his mouth to the smaller guy's neck.

I looked back to Marco, furrowing my eyebrows as I decided whether I should risk embarrassing myself in order to be able to touch him without being weird. I was probably way worse at dancing than him, too, and I really didn't like to be inferior...

I was soon pressed flush against his bare back, settling my hands on his half exposed hips carefully. He immediately responded to the touch, turning around so that we were facing each other. He smiled in a seemingly innocent manner, but the growing bulge in his pants told a completely different story. I studied the freckles dotted across his shoulders and chest, avoiding his eyes.

I wondered briefly if I should have been self conscious or annoyed at the hungry stares we were getting, but honestly, I just felt happy and aggressively aroused in response to my own decision.

The song was over within thirty seconds, not giving me near enough time to be close to him, and I made to move away from him before he pulled me back to his lightly freckled chest almost pleadingly.

"Come on," he whispered against my ear again. "Just one more?"

I didn't trust myself to speak, so I nodded, wishing I had taken off my jacket before I had begun dancing. His skin was smooth under my finger tips.

Could he feel my heart pounding through my ribcage?

His eyes lit up as we recognized the new song: Sweater Weather. I laughed to myself a little, thinking that it was always sweater weather for Marco, despite the warmth inside of him.

The song was sort of perfect for him, I thought as I moved with him to the moderately paced beat, our hands twisting together as he buried his face into my neck. His lips brushed against my skin and I removed one of my hands from his, running my fingers up his spine, resting it on the back of his neck. I briefly wondered where his actual sweater had gone, but then disregarded the thought when I realized I probably wouldn't get the chance to be pressed up against him while he was shirtless for a very long time. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, aching for him to finally press his lips to mine instead of my neck. Of course, that didn't happen.

I relished the feeling of his fingers stroking my wrist as the song slowed, coming to an end all too soon.

"You tired?" I asked slowly, only releasing his hand when he picked up his sweater from the ground. He looked at the shoe marks on it sadly, pulling away from me and putting it on. I found that I missed the sight of his pretty freckled skin, his flashing collar bones alone not enough for me.

"A little," he rubbed his eye with a fist. How could he go from making me want to tie him up and run my tounge all over his skin to making me want to warm up milk for him and tuck him into bed so quickly? "Can I stay at your house? My mom would be mad if I came home like this..."

"Sure, dude, you ready to go?"

"Uh huh, let me go say bye to everyone," Marco Bodt was ever the polite gentleman.

"Sure."

After he finished, we piled into my car and turned on the radio, the image of his bare torso engrained into my mind. He sang softly and sweetly, and I almost swerved off of the fucking road when I felt his hand on my knee. It seemed to burn through my black jeans, and I slowed the car down a little so we wouldn't hit a tree at a high speed if I had a sudden Marco-induced heart attack.

"M-Marco?" I choked out, glancing at his hand, which was rubbing circles through the black fabric, hardeing me up once again. He was back to making me want him in a not-so-nurturing manner.

"Yeah?" he asked, sounding perfectly innocent and oblivious. I knew he wasn't. He knew he wasn't, too, and a small smirk was building on his lips.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Uh," his hand inched up my thigh, resting about midway. My pants were becoming increasingly tighter, and I let a small sigh out. I allowed him to keep his hand there.

We stayed like that, Marco not moving any further up my leg throughout the ride. It stayed halfway up my thigh, the fingers ocassionally tracing patterns there. I didn't object.

Once we were at my house, I gave him an old band shirt and he quickly changed into it, removing his pants. I offered him sweatpants, but he refused, opting to sleep in his plaid boxers instead.

When he was safely in bed, my dog curled up next to him, I guiltily grabbed my pack of cigarettes and a lighter, taking them to the front porch. My parents had probably been in bed since nine, so I didn't have to worry about getting bitched at for smoking.

I lit a cigarette, hating myself a little. I hadn't been smoking as much since Marco had told me about his dad, especially not in front of the boy, but it was really hard to quit. I only had about one or two a day by now, and I was hoping to quit all together at some point in the future.

I reflected on the night's events as I inhaled, observing how the white stars scattered brightly across the dark night looked like clumps of sugar I had once spilled on my mothers black fur coat. Was Marco simply a horny drunk, or did he actually like me? Should I talk about it to him in the morning? Should I try to forget?

I knew I wouldn't be forgetting the way his body felt moving against mine, or how his freckled hand felt on my leg, or how his hot breath felt against my ear anytime soon. That boy was not as innocent as he appeared.

I couldn't deny what I felt for him, and my stupid feelings only got stronger by the day, pulling at my stomach and making me feel light headed. So what did I do? I hadn't had a real attraction to a person emotionally since I was in like seventh grade, and that certainly hadn't lasted long. I was clueless when it came to situations involving romance.

Throwing my cigarette into my yard, I resigned myself to the fact that I was stuck with my feelings for Marco Bodt.

I walked up the stairs quietly, standing in the door way of my bed room momentarily. Was I supposed to slide into bed next to him? My bed was certainly big enough for the both of us. Would he be freaked out? Probably not, since he had made me sit on his lap earlier in the night-

"Jean, come here," he whispered, scooting over towards the wall. I removed my jacket, jeans, and shirt, pulling on sweatpants.

"I don't sleep with a shirt on, sorry," I wasn't sorry.

"It's okay, I don't sleep in pants," I nodded thoughtfully at his response.

"Good night, Flower."

"Good night, Bitch," he giggled.

We were silent for a few minutes, my bare back to him.

"Jean?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you turn the light on?"

"Scared of the dark?"

"I wanna see your tattoos."

I turned it on, and I felt him trace a finger around the rose on my back, going over the lines and the shading. It felt fantastic, and I closed my eyes.

He moved his hand to my ribs, and I felt him prop himself up on his elbow in order to see it more properly. The tattoo had been designed to look like vines were spilling out from my ribcage, and it was certainly my favorite. His hand ghost over my bones, sending shivers up and down my spine and directly to my dick. I wanted him to kiss me.

But, instead, he laid back down, turning away from me and letting the feeling of his skin on mine linger. He didn't even know what he did to me.

I sighed affectionately, turning the light off and falling asleep next to my best friend, wrapped in the scent of flowers.

Chapter Text

I woke up in Jean's bed, my head pounding and my underwear uncomfortably tight. Where were my pants? Where was his shirt?

He was pressed against me, our legs intertwined and our arms thrown across each other's waists. His face was buried in my neck and the heat of his breath sent shivers down my spine as it tickled across my skin, warming it and chilling me simultaneously. I was tempted to stay in this outstandingly gay position all day, but I forced myself away from his outstandingly shirtless form when I saw that the digital clock on his bedside table read 11:33 A.M. My eyes lingered on the ink permenately etched into his skin as I scooted away from him, the pale expanse of skin almost flawless. As the blanket slipped down to reveal his torso, I observed that he had a single freckled under his ribcage, opposed to the hundreds littered across my own body.

I pulled on my pants, fishing my phone out of the back pocket. I had several missed calls and angry messages from my mother, who was most likely desperate to find out where I'd been. I sent her a text informing her that I was coming home, hoping that she wasn't freaking out, my gut twisting nervously.

My eyes traveled back to Jean's resting body, absorbing his tattoos and smooth skin once again, trying to memorize the image so I'd be able to save it in my head for whenever I needed it.

"Marco..." Jean's sleepy voice caused me to jump, and I twisted back to look at him. "Where ya going?"

"I gotta go home," I told him, heart pounding. He rolled over, blinking at the light filtering through the blinds. His tounge twisted his lip ring around, his hair messy and spiky. He was beautiful, and I didn't want to leave him alone in his big bed, surrounded by sheets and a lack of warmth.

"Stay a little."

"I really gotta go, Jean, I'm sorry."

"Marco, I drove you here," my heart sank. I really didn't want to walk home in the cold alone, my head hurting, being forced to reflect on my embarrassing actions from the night before. Plus, I was exhausted.

"I can walk."

"No, I'll drive you," I didn't want him to get up from where he was, partially because I didn't want to trouble him, but mostly because he looked kind of perfect sprawled sleepily across the bed, the blanket low on his hips, his lips parting lazily as he blinked in the bright light of the morning.

"Seriously, it's only a few blocks, and it's nice out," it would only take me about twenty minutes to get home, probably.

He sat up, slowly, pulling the cream sheets up his thin frame, covering his chest like a freaking princess.

"Just tell your mom that you're with me, and stay a while," he said softly, making it hard for me to breathe.

I was a bitch and I couldn't say no to him, so I said yes and I told my mom that I'd be home later that day. He settled back against the pillows, smiling at me in satisfaction.

How could he still want to be around me? After I had touched him so much last night, and it wasn't like he didn't know I liked guys. He had certainly known that I'd wanted him, and he wasn't freaked out at all. He had even slept in the same bed with me! He was even patting the spot next to him, urging me to lay next to him once again.

I couldn't say no, and I didn't want to.

So I laid down next to him once again, turning towards the wall and shutting my eyes, sleeping until two in the afternoon, when he finally drove me home, the feeling of him pressed against me imbedded in my skin.

...

"Where have you been?" she wore her sweaters like I did: too big, sleeves covering her hands. She was sitting on our almost threadbare couch, clutching a cup of tea, eyes red and face tear stained.

"... Mom?"

"Where?" Her bloodshot eyes looked dead, like they had been for the past few months.

"I-I was with a friend."

"You couldn't answer your phone? Send me a text?" her voice was beginning to become higher in pitch.

"I texted you this morning..." I really didn't want her to yell at me, because she got scary when she was angry these days. She threw things. She screamed.

"This morning? I wanted a text last night, at three in the morning, when I didn't know where my only fucking son was!" I was taken aback, not used to hearing her, or any adult, swear.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. She stood up, setting her tea on the coffee table. My mother stood close to me, only inches away from my face.

"You smell like cigarettes," she hissed. I groaned inwardly. Wearing Jean's shirt and being so close to him must have made the smell rub off on me. I could feel her rage building up, threatening to break loose and cause hell. "Have you been smoking?"

"No, Mom," I said honestly. I hadn't smoked anything last night, from what I could remember. I remembered most of it.

I received no warning before her tiny hand was snapping across my cheek, her face crumbling. My head whipped to the side, and I didn't make a sound as I reached my own freckled hand to the stinging red patch that was surely spreading across my skin. I didn't say anything as I retreated to my room, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over until I was safely behind the door. They leaked down my cheeks, and I wiped at them furiously with my sleeves, angry at myself for crying because I had been scolded by my mother.

But I knew that I wasn't crying because she had hit me. I was crying because I was terrified for her: she was coming undone as the days progressed, her mind poluted with thoughts of my father. She was lost, unsure how to raise me now that her only solid support system was gone. She didn't know what to do with herself, now that her best friend had been taken from her.

My mother had never touched me with ill intentions before; she had always been kind and loving and supportive as I grew up. I missed how she used to smile when I made her flower arrangements and helped her pick out clothes. I missed her being attached to Earth, and to me. I missed her.

I laid on my bed for a few minutes, allowing the flow of tears to wear their course, letting myself wallow in thoughts about how utterly fucked everything was.

A small knock came from the door.

"Come in," I called, sitting up and trying my best to not look like I had been sobbing silently.

She stepped over the threshold hesitantly, picking at her fingernail, avoiding my gaze. Even when her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was blotchy, she was pretty.

"I'm so sorry, Marco," her voice broke, and a fresh new wave of tears racked her body. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Mom, no, it's fine," I didn't want her to feel even worse, and I tried to sound like I was completely sure that everything would be okay.

I stood up, crossing the floor quickly and wrapping her in my arms. I rested my chin on her hair. It was rouch against my skin, but I didn't mind, rubbing circles on her back, sighing quietly.

"I never thought I'd be the sort of mother to hit her kid," she chuckled sadly.

"Mom, you didn't mean it, I barely felt it," it actually kind of hurt. She was strong, for being so small.

"Do you want some tea?" she smiled weakly, the rivers flowing from her eyes slowing.

"Sure," I hated tea, but when she was sad, I allowed her to make it for me, since I knew it made her feel better.

I choked down the bitter liquid as we sat on the couch, her legs across my lap. It felt good to actually spend time with her after so long.

"You haven't been smoking, have you?" she asked worriedly during a comercial.

"No, of course not. I spent the night with a friend and his parents smoke a lot."

"The boy that comes here all the time? Jean?" I was surprised she had bothered to remember his name.

"Yeah, him."

We watched an episode of Pawn Stars before she said she was tired and retreated to her room, taking my not even half finished tea with her.

...

When I got home from school three days later, I was met with an unfamiliar smell.

The scent of chocolate wafted through the house, twisting inside my nose, and I walked into the kitchen to investigate the source of the smell.

My mom was covered in flour, kneeling before the oven, worrying at her lip with her teeth as she peered at whatever was baking inside.

"Whatcha doing?" She jumped, leaping up to her feet.

"Darn, you weren't supposed to be here until they were finished," she said wryly, pulling at a strand of dark hair that had escaped from her ponytail.

"You're baking?" What had happened?

"Obviously, sweetie," she smiled again, the expression disorting her features. "And I was thinking you could call your friend Jean and ask him to come and stay for dinner?"

"Um, are you sure?" My mother hadn't made an actual dinner in weeks, much less had guests over.

"Yeah, it'll be fun, I was thinking I'd make pasta."

"Alright, I'll text him."

M: Can you come over now and stay for dinner?

I received a response within thirty seconds.

J: cant we just go to the diner? i need something meaty inside of me

M: My mom wants to meet you, I think.

J: she has

M: You know what I mean.

J: ill be there soon

I was still kind of trying not gag at Jean's 'meat' comment when I told mom that he was coming.

"He's cute, huh?"

I spun around to look at her quickly. I almost asked if Jean wasn't a little too young for her, but stopped myself when I remembered that it might have been a little early on after my dad's death for that.

"Yeah," I agreed, not wanting to put her out of her good mood.

"Opposites attract, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" I was blushing at that point.

"Oh, you know," she winked. I crossed my arms.

"Please enlighten me," I said, trying not to be too defensive lest I dampen her delicate spirits.

"He's a rocker boy," I rolled my eyes at her lame choice of words.

"We're just friends."

"You don't talk to anyone but him, Marco."

"That's not true! I talk to a lot of people, he's just the only one you see," it was pretty much true.

"Okaaay," she laughed. "Do you like him?"

"M-Mom! No!" I exclaimed, turning red. "I'm gonna go put my school stuff away."

I sped away, listening to the forgein sound of her laughter as I dumped my backpack next to my bed.

Was it that obvious that I was kind of into Jean? If even my mother noticed, then what did other people think? What did he think?

I decided that I couldn't ruin my friendship with Jean under any circumstances. I couldn't let him know how I felt, so from then on I had to keep my distance. I had to stay away from him until I was able to push the feeling down. Starting tomorrow. I'd let myself enjoy him for one more night, and then I'd become a lot less affectionate, in order to protect both of us.

I was still dwelling on this when the door bell rang, and I jumped up to answer it.

Before I could reach the door, however, my mom was already opening it, greeting my darkly clad friend kindly. I could see the look of thinly veiled surprise on his face from where I stood, and I shrugged in his direction. I didn't know what had inspired this sudden change in my usually weepy mother either.

"Uh, hi, Mrs. Bodt," I silently thanked God that he hadn't only said 'Miss', because that would have probably caused her to tear up.

"Hello, Jean, Marco's right over there," I could practically hear her smiling. "He's been waiting for you!"

"No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have."

Jean laughed, only sounding a little nervous, and trodded over to me, staring at me expectantly.

"Wanna go watch T.V. or something?" he asked, and I nodded, leading him to the living room.

"Marco, take the cookies!" Mom called.

I brought the cookies with us to the couch, handing them to my friend. He accepted them greatfully, closing his eyes as he ate one happily. It made me angry, how endearing he was.

I scooted as far away from him as possible, not wanting to make too much physical contact. He didn't seem to notice. My heart fluttered nervously like it always did when I was around him, and I finally understood what characters in books meant when they said that they wondered if their heart beat could be heard.

"Hey, dude, are you okay?" About twenty minutes into the show we were watching, he turned his head to look at me. I noticed that he had gotten a new septum ring. This one was black.

"O-oh, yeah, why?"

"You look kind of freaked out. Is The Dog Whisperer too much for you? We can change it if you don't think you can stomach it," he teased.

"I'll be fine," I assured him.

"Jean, do you like salad?" Mom called from the kitchen, and I could hear her bustling about, probably excited at the thought of cooking an actual meal again.

"Sure," he responded, more gently than he usually spoke.

We sat like that for about another hour, me pressed as far away from him as possible and sweating, and him acting just as he usually did: making inappropriate jokes and twisting his lip ring around with his tonuge.

My mother called us in for dinner, the table already set and various dishes of food littering the counter. Jean and I quickly served ourselves, piling pasta and salad onto our plates enthusiastically. Something told me that Jean's mother didn't cook very often either.

We dug in quickly, thanking my mom for preparing everything. She smiled broadly, showing her straight teeth, but I could detect a growing hint of weariness reflecting in her eyes. I looked at her worriedly, but she did not return my gaze.

"So, Jean, you're in Marco's grade?"

"Yes, ma'am," it was almost comical, watching him be so polite while he was dressed completely in black and looking like he beat up bikers for fun. In a cute way, of course. I kicked myself for thinking he was cute.

"Do you have a lot of classes together?"

They talked like that for a while, Jean actually making her laugh with jokes that were acceptable at a dinner table. Barely.

My heart swelled as I listened to them chattering, appreciating how well they got along. My two favorite people.

"I made pie for dessert," Jean's eyes lit up, and I could practically see him salivating. I tried to repress any dirty thoughts I might have been having as I watched him lick his lips in anticipation. His tongue really should have been illegal, I thought.

We thanked my mother once again after we'd finished dessert, and retreated to the couch as she cleaned up the dishes. He stretched his arms above his head in an extremely infurriating manner, and I had to look away from him, ashamed.

"Are you sure you're alright, man?" he asked, sounding worried.

"I'm fine, Jean," I must have said it a little more harshly than I had originally intended, causing him to look shocked. He seemed to get the point, though, since he checked his phone and announced he should probably go.

"I'll see you later, Marco."

I nodded, muttering a quick goodbye, feeling like my body was tearing in two as I watched him leave. He called a quick thank you to my mother and made his way out of my house, rubbing the back of his neck in confusion.

My mother was already in her room by the time he was out the door, and I finished the rest of the dirty dishes in silence, the warm water cleansing my hands of any nervous sweat that had gathered through out the night.

...

I was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of broken sobbing, and I blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds before getting up out of my warm bed and padding to my mother's room. I knocked tentively, reprimanding myself for thinking that she'd be automatically free of her depression after a simple dinner where she had appeared to be happy.

I heard her get up and make her way to the door, probably wiping her face desperately.

"W-what is it?" she mumbled, trying not to meet my eyes.

"You want some tea?"

She shook her head, that dead look returning to her eyes once again. I felt my own heart break as I watched her, but I kept up my brave face.

"You did really good tonight," I muttered. I didn't mean the dinner, which was actually great, but I meant how she had made conversation and got out of bed and had done things that she hadn't been able to do properly since Dad died. "It's a step forward, you know."

She shrugged hopelessly, abrubtly shutting the door in my face and retreating to her bed. I stared at the wood for a few seconds, fighting down tears. I refused to let them free; I was barely hurting. I had no right to cry anymore.

I returned to my own bed, soaking my pillow with tears anyway.

Chapter Text

I felt empty for the next few weeks.

Marco claimed that nothing was wrong, but he barely acknowledged me in school and he ignored my texts. He was unusually quiet through out lunch, sitting as far away from me as possible. He still talked to me, but he was reserved and aloof, not showing his teeth when he smiled. I stayed awake at night and wondered what I had possibly done to make him angry at me.

What had I done? After I ate dinner at his house, we hadn't spent time with each other outside of school at all. Was he already tired of me?

Had he noticed I liked him?

What was his fucking problem? I stared him down shamelessly during class, and I could see him wriggling under my gaze as he pretended not to notice my eyes on him. He gripped his pen tightly during English, trying to look natural as he avoided me.

Marco may have been good at acting pleasant while he secretly felt really upset, but he was complete shit at acting like he didn't care. He tapped his foot and blinked a lot whenever I tried to talk to him, attempting to pretend like he wasn't interested. It would have been amusing if it didn't hurt me so bad. Why was he acting like this?

I smoked about three packs of cigarettes that week, which was an uncharacteristically large amount for me. I needed something to relax me, since the new nicotine substitute I had found had seemingly abandoned me.

Marco

I knew I was hurting Jean, but I continued to ignore him for about the next six days. I felt him staring at me in class, and I could feel the pain that was rolling off of him when I sat next to him at lunch, but it was for his own good.

I had to seperate myself from him so that any silly romantic feelings I had for him would dissapitate, and we could continue being normal friends. I didn't want to ruin my relationship with my best friend just because I couldn't keep my pants on.

God, the thoughts I had would terrify him if he could hear them. They were filled with images of him, some not so innocent. I knew that even though he occasionally made jokes that could be interpretted as flirting, he was completely straight, and he'd be incredibly freaked out if he knew about the crush that I was currently harboring for him.

"Hey, Marco," he whispered after three days of me giving him the cold shoulder.

"Yeah?" I muttered, not looking at him, doing my best to seem uninterested.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," I said simply, my voice listless and low.

"What's wrong, then?" he sounded desperate, but I knew I couldn't give in.

"Nothing," I tried to snap the word out like he was annoying me, but I knew it probably just sounded dejected.

He did pursue the topic, however, leaning back into his chair and staring at his desk solemly. I only had to do this to him for a few more weeks, just until I could trust myself to not jump him when we were watching movies in his room.

I know what you're thinking: "Marco, aren't you just risking your friendship even more by being a massive dick?"

Maybe, but I also had about a 65% chance of saving it if I remained cold for just a short time. Soon, things would be back to normal.

Then it struck me. The best way to make make myself become disinterested in Jean: date someone else.

It was perfect: I'd be so totally distracted by my new love interest that I'd completely forget about Jean!

Except, I didn't know of any other gay guys besides Eren in this school, and I doubted Eren would be willing to cheat on his super hot older boyfriend with me. Not that I even wanted him to.

A girl? Could I make myself date a girl?

No, definitely not. I couldn't bring myself to even look at anyone else but Jean. No matter how hard I tried, I was infatuated with him. I wouldn't be able to use some person in order to try to forget about my best friend, I was too guilty. I'd have to get past it on my own.

...

I closed my locker to find an angry Jean leaning against the one next to mine, staring at me coldly. It sent chills down my spine.

"Yo," he said, and I steeled myself to greet him and then push past him, making my way to my next class.

"Hi, Jean," I tried to get around him, but he gripped my arm tightly. Not enough to hurt me, though. Jean thought of me as some sort of fragile flower petal, and I knew he'd never even try to cause me pain.

"What's your problem?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I tried to imitate the snarl he reserved especially for Eren, but I knew mine couldn't hope to compete with his.

"Don't try to bullshit me, you know what's up," his eyes were glowing dangerously, and I noticed that the usual bags under them had become more intense from the last time that I had seen him. So he hadn't been sleeping well either.

Guilt coursed through me, almost causing me to give up my act and throw my arms around him.

"I really don't."

The anger seemed to bleed away from his face, being replaced by raw confusion and pain.

"Dude, I can tell when there's something wrong with you, I just can," his voice lowered and he pleaded with his eyes for me to tell him my reasoning behind abandoning him. "Just... tell me what I did?"

I broke.

"You didn't do anything," I mumbled, looking away from his sharply featured face. "A lot has been going on."

"You're my best friend."

I nodded, still not meeting his gaze, trying to hold to what remained of my resolve.

"Please, Marco," he almost whispered it, and I was struck with the sudden realization that I was a fucking idiot.

By ignoring him, I hadn't only been putting myself through hell, but Jean, too. How could I forget that he barely spoke to anyone but me? How could I forget that his face soften when he talked to me? How could I forget that I might have actually mattered to him?

I mattered a lot to Jean, and it was obvious by the look on his face that he was hurt that I had suddenly left him.

But I was only avoiding him for his own sake, right? It would hurt him less if I toughed it out for a few more weeks and then returned to him? I had to try. It was selfish and I hated myself even more, but I had to try.

"I'm gonna be late, Jean."

He closed his eyes momentarily and released me, backing up and shoving the hand that had previously been holding my arm into his pocket. I stepped past him, forcing myself to stare straight ahead as I walked down the empty hallway towards Calculus.

...

Jean didn't come to school for the next two days, and I barely spoke during them, his absence protruding into my head whenever I tried to cheer myself up.

The lunch crew questioned me vigorously, demanding to know what my problem was.

"I don't have one."

"Denial isn't a fucking river!" Connie yelled from across the table.

"Connie, that's not how it goes," Bertholt told him.

"Shut up, Bertl," Connie flipped poor Bert the bird, not even sparing him a glance, his large eyes trained on me.

Before Connie had the chance to question me further, Eren Jaeger slid into the seat next to me, his friend Armin perching next to him.

"Where's Horseface?" he asked, his inquiry aimed at me.

I shrugged.

"Did you guys break up?" Armin asked curiously, tying his hair into a short ponytail. I choked on the water that I had been trying to swallow.

"We weren't dating!"

"You guys might as well be," Reiner added, and I didn't let his use of the present tense slip past me.

"Oh! I'm sorry," Armin sent Eren a tiny glare, his face too childish for it to be very threatening. "Eren told me you were."

"I thought they were!" Eren said defensively.

"We weren't." Reiner rolled his eyes at my response.

"You've been a bitch lately, Marco," Sasha spoke brashly, not afraid to hurt my feelings.

"No I haven't!"

"You have," almost everyone chorused simultaneously. My face became hot, and embarrassment filled my chest.

They continued to gang up on me about Jean until lunch was over, and they were forced to give up grilling me. I jumped up gratefully, trying not to let them sense my growing anger towards them. I knew I was only angry because they were right.

I drove home after my last class in silence, reflecting on the day and wishing I could forget about Jean. That was the entire point of the ordeal! That I'd forget any creepy feelings I had for him! I wondered if I had dug myself in too deep to ever revive our friendship once I had decided that I could control myself around him. Would he even take me back?

Rain began to pour from the dark clouds about halfway through my drive, and I rolled the window down. I loved the rain, and thought that maybe smelling it and feeling it on my skin would relax me. I ached to close my eyes and take the feeling of the droplets peltering the left side of my body in, but I knew that would be a bad idea, since I was driving.

I had almost gotten myself to push thoughts of Jean into the back of my mind once I had arrived home, but he quickly jumped back front and center as I pulled into the driveway.

There he was, sitting on my porch, drenched to the bone. He was holding his famous leather jacket in front of him, covering something up with it. I jumped out of my car, furrowing my brow and slamming the door shut after rolling up the window, heart starting up once again. He stared at me in silence.

I walked up to him, gripping my backpack tightly as I slung it over my shoulder.

"Where've you been?" I asked, crossing my arms and trying to sound cool.

"Home," he didn't stand up from where he was seated on the damp wood of my porch.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Had I hurt him that bad?

"What's that?" I pointed to his jacket, which he was holding carefully. The thing under it must have been fragile, I thought. What was it?

"Ah..." he was suddenly very red, and he rubbed the back of his neck. I realized he was wearing the beanie that I had bought him, and that he looked really, really good.

He lifted his jacket up from the object, revealing a bouquet of gorgeous pink lilies. A gasp left my lips and I gave in, my resolve crumping like a dirty napkin at the diner we frequented.

"Jean...?"

"I miss you, asshole," he was drenched and pitiful, now standing, looking desperate. The rain flattened his hair against his forehead and he looked like he hadn't slept in days (which he probably hadn't, thanks to me), but I couldn't help but want to pepper him with kisses.

God, I missed him, too.

I was tempted to leap into his arms, but I knew I couldn't, since he was holding an extremely expensive set of flowers and I was trying to not be too gay around him.

"Come in," I sighed, my heart pumping wildly.

I led him into the house, taking the flowers from him. I settled them into a vase silently, adding water and telling myself I'd fix them up nicely later.

"How long had you been sitting there?"

"Only like ten minutes." I wanted to kiss him.

"What're the flowers for?"

"Uh... I don't know? You like flowers."

Why couldn't he be gay? Why the fuck would he bring expensive lilies to a guy that he knew was gay? Why was he playing with me?

"Weren't they expensive?"

"Not really," I knew he was lying. I also knew he had probably used his parent's money to pay for them, and that didn't make them any less special. "Where's your mom?"

"Sleeping, probably," she hadn't been active and cheerful since Jean had eaten dinner with us.

We stared at each other for a few seconds, and he licked his lips.

"Do you like them?" he was standing a little close to me, only about a foot away from where I was leaning against my kitchen counter. He smelt like coffee and rain.

"They're beautiful. Thank you."

"Do you forgive me?" Was he leaning towards me? I couldn't tell, I was only looking at his lips.

"I wasn't angry at you."

"Liar," he whispered, swiveling his lip ring around with his tongue like he always did, one hand now braced against the counter, right next to my hip. His eyes burned as he stared at me dangerously, and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Kiss me, you idiot.

He didn't kiss me, of course, just took another glance at me and stepped away.

"Well, I just wanted to give you those," he muttered, adjusting his hat. "I'm gonna go."

"I'll drive you."

Screw it, I couldn't stay away from him. If he was gonna buy me flowers and stand incredibly close to me, he'd have to deal with anything gay I might have done. He'd brought it on himself and it wasn't my problem anymore, I decided. If something happened, it happened, and that was it.

"Alright."

We rode in silence, but I could feel him sneaking glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Of course, I did the same.

He exited my car and I asked him to tell his dog hello for me, and he nodded. I thanked him again for the flowers, too, ever polite.

No one had ever given me flowers before, and my gut twisted in pleasure at the thought of it. They were lovely, their pink insides dotted with tiny brown spots. I loved lilies.

I recieved a text at three in the morning from the boy that had been making my heart race all night with out even being within 300 yards of me.

J: let's go to the carnival

M: Carnival?

J: carnival

M: When?

J: friday

M: Alright.

That was in only two days, I thought nervously. Would we be alone or would our friends accompany us? Was it a date?

I reminded myself that he was straight, rolling over in my bed, sheets tangled uncomfortably around my legs.

He lingered in my mind, and my dreams were littered with flowers and the feeling of his hands on my skin, causing me to wake up damp and panting the next morning.

I was screwed.