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The noise is unlike anything Marco’s ever heard before in his life. Sure, he’s seen live performances on their little TV, and sometimes the girls’ screaming would overpower Jean’s mike, but being surrounded by it in the packed auditorium, Marco wonders if this is a little like what Hell sounds like. He’s never heard so much noise from so many people at once before; it’s disorientating, discombobulating, and down-right unsettling. It’s making his already racing heart pound, and Marco’s almost struggling for breath with all the excitement and unease.
Jean’s not even on stage yet.
He cuts a look to his sister nestled beside him, who’s thankfully not joining in with the screeching and chants, but is smiling wider than Marco’s ever seen, her eyes wide and framed with unfamiliar make-up, staring excitedly at the empty stage. She looks a picture tonight, and if Marco’s having issues with how grown-up she looks, he’s baffled at how his parents finally relented in letting her come to a Jean Cherry concert in a full-skirt dress with a sweetheart neckline and little more make-up than any of them are used to seeing.
But of course, Marco does know how. That’s why he’s here after all. Because Carina had been on all their backs since the show was announced, because she could be persuasive and headstrong when she needed to be, and because Marco is a strong, good, boy who would be sure to take care of his teenage sister, and was earthbound and sensible enough to take Carina out of there if the concert got too inappropriate.
It has nothing to do with the fact Marco loves Jean’s sound, or that he’s listened to every one of his records enough to know each lyric off by heart. He certainly isn’t here because seeing Jean dancing is thrilling and new, and Marco is enthralled with every movement of his shoulders and legs and hips.
He is here for Carina. He’s standing at the front, shoved against the front of the stage because Carina desperately wants to see Jean up close. He can barely bring his eyes off that velvet curtain because he wants to make sure Carina doesn’t miss his entrance.
Marco’s only here for his sister.
And no one need know different.
His breath catches as the slightest of ripples flows through the curtains, and suddenly the lights dim. The screeching noise around him somehow intensifies for a split second, then the red veil flies apart, and now Carina is screaming, but Marco couldn’t care less because Jean Cherry is right there!
Marco’s pretty sure he has in fact stopped breathing. The delirium of the crowd around him feels infectious; he feels an odd sense of detachment, like he can’t focus on more than one thing at a time. And the only thing Marco can think about right now is how darn gorgeous Jean is. He’s always looked handsome and – Marco freely admits to himself – sexy on TV and magazines and record sleeves, but what Marco’s seeing now, from the three or four meters separating them, is that none of them do Jean justice. He’s pretty. Far more handsome and sexy – oh gosh, he’s doing that smirk! – and beautiful than any picture suggested, but he’s also pretty. His eyes are sparkling in the spotlights, his cheekbones are high, his jaw is sharp and smooth, and his jacket fits unusually snugly, showing a slight curve from his waist and hip that Marco’s never seen on a man before.
Marco remembers to breathe just in time to lose it again as Jean steps forward.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen.”
Marco doesn’t know how the crowd keeps getting louder, but it does and almost drowns out Jean’s voice, and Marco has never been more thankful for anything in his life than being able to stand so close to him, for so many reasons.
The screaming doesn’t let up for a good while, and Marco can do nothing but watch as Jean takes it all in, smirking and chuckling in a way that suggests he’s still a little bewildered about the reception he gets, like he finds it all hilarious, even if he greedily sucks it all up with a glint in his eye.
His eyes roam the crowd Marco’s not sure he can actually see, but then his gaze drops to front, and Marco knows they’re all in the stage lights’ glare and that Jean would be able to see them as clearly as they could him, and Marco can’t believe he didn’t realise that before and-
Their eyes meet.
It’s half a second before Carina’s squealing cracks and Jean’s continuing down the line, but Marco is frozen, and he’s pretty sure his life just changed.
Maybe it flashed before his eyes.
Maybe he just forgot to breathe again and his heart gave him a warning thud.
Whatever it was, it’s a moment Marco’s never going to forget, and in all frankness, he believes it’s something of a miracle that he’s able to snap out of that moment enough to listen to Jean speak again.
“I wanna thank y’all for coming out to see me tonight. And thank the good men behind this great venue for making tonight possible.” The crowd’s not letting up and barely letting him speak, so with a wry smirk, Jean finishes up quickly. “I think y’all been waiting long enough; shall we boys?”
The sudden beat of the snare and strum of the guitar make Marco jump, but he can feel the stretch of his smile as he recognises the song. He wishes there was enough room to be able to move and dance along, but that thought’s soon forgotten as Jean start’s moving his arms and legs wildly before pulling the mike stand against his body, and if Marco thought his voice was good on record… well, he’s beginning to see nothing in this world can do Jean Cherry justice.
“Oh, you’re mighty fine lil’ lady,
And I want you to be mine lil’ baby,
But it only lasts the night,
Don’t make me sick of the sight,
You promised not to confine, lil’ baby.”
Marco can feel his cheeks aching with how wide he’s smiling. He bounces his knee to the beat in the little room he’s given, and mouths the lyrics as he doesn’t wish to add to the noise in the room; he wants to hear Jean sing in person. That gets infinitely harder when Jean does a sharp dance move between verses and the cheers get louder and higher, covering up the second verse entirely.
Marco’s a little irritated, but mostly he can’t bring himself to care when it makes Jean smirk into the mike and his eyes glisten. Besides, Marco knows the song well enough to still be able to silently sing along.
The cheering subsides by the time the chorus comes along, and it’s easier to pick out the audience singing too, which makes Jean smile wider and sing louder into the mike.
“Oh, oh, I’m not a horse,
I’m not your pet, your statement, your tool.
Love ain’t something you can force,
I know your games, and I won’t play the fool.”
As he sings, his eyes keep flitting down to the front, looking at the faces he can actually see; probably wanting to connect more with the audience, Marco thinks. But whatever the reason, Marco’s eternally grateful as their eyes meet, not once, but twice more, and every time it sends a rush through his body that’s terrifying and addictive.
And then the instrumental comes.
And Jean slides to his knees, right in front of them, shimmying his shoulders to the drumbeat. The screaming increases, but Marco can barely notice between his own voice catching in his throat and the delirious thought of how Jean’s so close he could actually touch him. His knee is 30 centimetres away, and Marco can’t stop watching the way the material bunches and stretches over Jean’s thigh as he rhythmically rises and falls, dancing wildly to the music.
Marco’s eyes snap to Jean’s face the second he realises the opportunity he’s missing, and goodness, he’s the most beautiful thing Marco ever seen. His slicked back, loosely quaffed hair stays in perfect place as he nods his head, shakes his shoulders, and rolls his hips, all with a precision and rhythm that sends Marco’s mind reeling. He’s not even breaking a sweat, but maybe that’s because Marco is doing it for him.
As the guitar riff eases off, Jean snatches the lead of his mike and catches it with the other hand, not bothering to stand back up as he sings the chorus again, and Marco can hear his voice, his actual voice before it reaches the microphone and becomes amplified and the tiniest bit distorted.
Marco prays to God that he’ll remember every fine detail of this moment for the rest of his life.
“Oh, baby, I’m not a horse,” he sings into the front row, falsely reaching out to some of the more distant people.
“I’m not your pet, your statement, you tool,” he punctuates with a point to each individual in front of him, all with a smirk and slight laugh to his singing.
“Love ain’t something you can force,” Marco gasps again as their eyes meet, and Jean’s are gold. He swears they are. Pretty, beautiful gold.
“I know your games, and I won’t play the fool.” He sings to the rest of the row before his eyes snap straight back to Marco, who immediate loses his breath. “One more time, baby.” He says into the mike, and then winks at Marco, before jumping up to his feet and repeating the chorus, singing out to the greater crowd.
Marco truly can’t remember to breathe.
It could have been to Carina, or to the girls behind him, jostling his unmoving body. But it felt like he winked at Marco, and that’s enough to send his heart racing and the already hot room’s temperature soaring. He’s regretting wearing his dinner jacket now; tries to undo the buttons and even risks unbuttoning the top of his shirt to flap the collar to get cool air – any air – on his face and neck.
It doesn’t work.
He tries to focus on Jean, on how he’s moving and what he’s saying (when did he stop singing?), but Marco can’t stop thinking about how beautiful his eyes were, how sexy that smile and wink was.
He winked at Marco.
It’s so silly, and Marco feels like a little school girl, but just remembering makes him feel dizzy. He never even dreamt that something like that would happen tonight, and he’s struggling to come to terms with it. It’s so silly, because it’s just a silly wink, but it’s Jean Cherry, who’s so much more handsome than Marco realised, and he winked at Marco.
Everything else in the room fades away, like it’s all swallowed up by shadows and Jean’s the only thing Marco can see and hear, and when he looks back at him from behind the mike stand, starting the next song–
“Beautiful, when you look at me…”
– even that fades. It’s just Jean’s eyes and Jean’s lips, and the way they curl makes Marco’s knees feel weak, and his breath short and-
And Marco faints.
His eyes flutter open with a groan, and it takes him a while to realise where he is; lying down on a makeshift bed in an unfamiliar room, with distant murmuring being covered by an even more distant ruckus. There’s a couple of older people standing in the corner of the small room, but they don’t seem inclined to pay him any attention, so Marco looks down at himself in an attempt to discover why he’s lying around and feels like he’s been hit by a Rod.
He’s confused when he sees his best jacket and cuffed jeans, but soon remembers the concert and realises he fainted after the first song. He groans and rubs hand down face, feverish in his embarrassment and disappointment. He’d missed the whole show. He was in the front row, continuously catching Jean’s eye – a jolt of excitement shoots through his body as he remembers The Wink – and he’d missed the entire thing. It was surely a once in a lifetime opportunity, certainly for Marco and he and his family’s meagre earnings, and he’d gone and fainted like a fool.
He isn’t sure if the pressure in his chest means he’s going to die of embarrassment or burst into tears.
He suddenly remembers Carina, but before he can worry about where she is or what happened, she bursts into the room and flings herself at him, thin arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and dressed up body knocking the wind out of him.
“Marco, you’re awake!”
“Yeah,” he wheezes, gently coaching her back, hands lightly roaming her frame in some kind of instinctual – and ineffectual – action of checking she’s alright. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry I fainted, Carina. You must hate me for making you miss the sho-”
“Are you kidding?!” She squeals, and it’s then that Marco notices the exuberant air about her, the restlessness in her body, and the giddy smile that’s constantly straining to be wider. “You fainting was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life!”
Marco stares are her bouncing figure for a full minute, before gesturing for her to sit on the bed and shuffling himself upright to lean against the wall. “What?” is the only word he can get out in his confusion.
She eagerly offers up an explanation.
“I didn’t notice at first that you’d fainted,” Marco’s mildly wounded by that, until he reminds himself where they were and the likelihood of him doing the same. “But then Jean was rushing towards me – y’know, he kept singing the whole time, he’s such a pro! – and gestured to a couple of big guys to the side, ‘n’ they rushed over too, and that’s when I noticed you’d fainted. I sort of panicked then and tried to wake you up, but you were like this dead weight, ‘n’ I couldn’t do anything. One of the guys picked you up – like, actually lifted you in the air – and the other one told me where they were taking you ‘n’ asked if I needed help getting out of the crowd, ‘n’ I was like, ‘no, he’s still playi-”
“Wait,” Marco places a hand on her knee – her arms and hands dancing frantically in the air as she speaks quickly and fervidly – frowning at her in equal confusion and disbelief. “You stayed? I fainted, and you just kept watching?”
“Marco, it’s Jean Cherry! I’ve been waiting for this show for months, of course I stay-”
“Carina!”
“What?!”
“I can’t believe you!” He puts his hand on his forehead, rubbing at the forming lines and residual ache. “What if I was seriously ill? And anything could have happened to you out there; you know Ma and Pa only let you come ‘cause I was gonna be with you.” He sighs as his hand drops, looking up to the ceiling. “Lordy, I’m dead when they find out I left you on your own.”
“But nothing happened Marco!” Before he could argue back, she continues with an oddly joyful smugness. “And nothing would have, because you know what happened when you were taken away?” Marco barely has time to shake his head before she rushes on, both hands snapping to hold his. “Jean kept checking up on me!” Marco gasps as she excitedly rabbits on. “Through the whole concert, he kept looking back at me, smiling or giving a little nod, and-oh Marco, it was crazy!”
Marco’s ashamed at how jealous he feels, and disheartened – perhaps The Wink was for Carina after all. Before he can wallow in the feeling for too long – or even respond – Carina continues with a uselessly sharp tug on his hand.
“But it gets better! After the show finished, the same guy from before came over and offered to help me here, but the crowd was so packed and moving everywhere – real Antsville – so it took a while before I got to you. And I was in here, for like, 5 minutes when you’ll never guess who came in?” Marco sucks in a breath, instantly knowing the answer, but convinced it’s impossible. “Jean. Jean came in to see if we were alright and he talked to me and I got a hug and his autograph, and Marco, he’s so handsome and tall, and he smells so good!”
Excited tears are welling up in her eyes as she rambles on, and at any other time, in any other situation, Marco would be just as flipped for her happiness. But lord above, is he jealous. It’s not even that, he’s frosted and disappointed with himself for missing it all. It wasn’t just the concert, it was his second opportunity, a personal meet and greet, and he’d slept through it!
He struggles to talk past the lump in his throat, but feels like he should engage in Carina’s very obvious excitement.
“You got his autograph?” He chokes out with a weak smile, halting whatever mindless rave she’s on. He expects a slip of paper magically appearing as she smiles in ecstatic joy. What he gets, is a faint blush and an unfitting, devious smirk as she releases his hand and grabs the hem of her skirt.
It takes an awful long time for Marco to figure out why she’s inching up her dress, but the second he sees the edge of stark black cursive against the pale of her thigh it clicks into place. Quickly.
“Carina!” He sits up and holds her knee, snatching her full skirt with the other hand to yank it up, and there it is, in thick black lines, the signature and name Marco knows all too well. “Ma’s gonna kill you! She’s gonna kill me!”
He’s not sure what the multitude of emotions swirling inside him are, but there’s a distinct taste of anger near the forefront. “I can’t believe you.” He hisses, frowning at the lines, unbelieving that his little sister would have the gall to ask for such a thing; that Jean Cherry would possibly take advantage of his little sister like that.
“What?” He doesn’t fall for the purposefully innocent intonation, not this time. “I didn’t have any paper on me.”
He casts her a distasteful look, only to see she still has that small smirk on her face and not even remotely trying to hide her pride. He shakes his head sharply, turning to look at the signature again. He belatedly realises how high he’s hiked up her dress, and quickly pulls it back down, glancing over at the people in the corner, thankfully too engrossed in their own conversation to notice any of their antics.
He sighs as he looks back at his sister’s covered thigh before closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples. “I’m dead.” He mumbles. “I’m so dead.”
“Ma doesn’t have to find out.” Carina offers, clearly looking for some kind of secret accomplice in Marco, but he frowns at her.
“Ma always finds out.”
“No she doesn’t.” Marco doesn’t want to know what that means. Although, the longer he watches his sister, the more it looks like an empty statement. “It’s on my thigh, Marco; how often does she see my thigh?” She brushes whatever response he has off before he even puts a voice to it. “I’ll wash it off tonight and won’t go swinging for a while. It’s no sweat.” She cuts him a purposeful look. “Unless you say something.”
Marco huffs and falls back against the wall, eyes constantly flicking back to her thigh.
“It’s irresponsible, Carina. And… inappropriate.” She tuts and he sighs. “But it’s your body, so…” He frowns at her and catches her attention. “It was you who-?”
“Of course.” She rolls her eyes. “He asked his manager for photograph or something, but I asked him to do this instead.” She answers, pointing at her leg, and Marco releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Good. Fine. Well, it’s up to you what you do with your body. Just… be careful, okay?”
“It’s just a signature, Marco.” She teases, but smiles understandingly as she leans forward and places a kiss on his cheek. “So you’re not going to tell Ma and Pa?”
“No.” He sighs, and gets another kiss in return before she sits up quickly with a more familiar smirk on her lips.
“Only because you’re worried about getting in just as much trouble as me.”
He waves her off, not even trying to deny that, and she laughs as she stands up and smoothes out her skirt.
“Doc says you shouldn’t drive in this condition,” she changes the subject, and Marco sarcastically thanks her in his mind for giving his plight the slightest thought in her Jean-dream come true. “So I’m gonna call Pa to pick us up, ok?” He nods, and she adds before walking away, “I’m telling them you sprained your foot as we were leaving, so remember to limp a bit, yeah?”
She’s out the door before he can ask how she came up with a lie so quickly, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to know the answer to that anyway.
It’s oddly quiet once she’s gone, her rambling so loud and immersing that it’s left the sensation of ringing in his ears now that it’s gone. The group by the door have cut out too, and all Marco has to focus on is the disappointment he feels for missing out on everything tonight.
Well, at least he gave her sister the day of her life.
He turns when he hears the click of the door opening.
And promptly stops breathing.
Jean Cherry flashes a smug smile as he sees Marco sitting up, and quietly eases himself into the room, pushing the door closed behind him and kicking off the thick wood to saunter towards Marco’s bed.
“You’re finally awake then.” Is he? It sure doesn’t feel like Marco’s awake – he barely feels alive watching Jean watch him as he walks around the foot of the bed.
Marco takes a mortifying gasp of air as he reminds himself to breathe.
“Mind if I take a seat?” He gestures to Marco’s side, who thanks the good Lord that he finds the sense to nod, even if his voice and breath seem predominately lost. Jean graces him with a soft chuckle as he settles down beside him, sitting on the opposite side Carina had, with his back purposefully to the door.
And Marco is a child for having the mantra of his butt is touching my leg running through his mind.
“How’re doing - Marco, was it?”
He knows my name! He knows my name!
“Good.” Marco squeaks, and if his eyes weren’t the size of saucers, he’d wince at the sound he makes.
“Yeah?” Jean asks with a light laugh to his voice, and Marco knows he stares for a long moment before shaking his head.
Jean laughs softly again, and sits himself more comfortably, bringing a leg to rest on the bed, angling himself more to Marco.
“Well, anything I can do to help?” Amongst the white noise and cranked squealing and the looping chant of He’s so pretty! He’s so pretty! filling Marco’s fool head, he’s baffled by what Jean expects of him. Does he really think Marco has the capacity to hold a sensible conversation? Does he not know the effect he has on people?
The smile on his lips tells Marco he knows perfectly well.
He chokes on a cough before trying to answer the singer, but all that comes out a confused, pitiful whine, and Marco could just die, if every physically painful mortification wasn’t worth being in this unreal man’s presence a thousand times over.
Jean’s lips quirk in amusement, and he shuffles a little closer up the bed.
And Marco wishes he could tell him that that’s not going to help.
“You mind if I sit here a while, with you?” Marco shakes him head emphatically, and Jean smirks as he continues to talk. His voice is gorgeous, a little deeper and huskier than the TV and radio interviews had him believe. “See, unfortunately, my dressing room’s been bombarded by some of the crowd, so I have to hide away until security have sorted it out; these little rooms are the safest, most private they’ve got right now.”
“Oh.” Marco breathes, and Jean brightens at his answer.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here though.” Marco inhales sharply at his words and smirk, and the way he ever so slightly leans into him. “Never had a guy faint at one’a my shows before,” Marco feels his face flare in embarrassment. “Kinda wanted to meet ya; see how you’re doing.”
“Fine,” Marco manages to force out. “Thank you.”
“So I see.” He whispers, edging closer, and if he keeps doing that, Marco’s going to pass out again. “You know, your sister tells me you only came to chaperone her.” There’s a glint in his eyes that says he knows that’s a huge, fat lie. That Marco’s been lighting up the tilt sign; that he’s biggest shuckster in town. “I was going to offer you an autograph, once you came ‘round. Y’know, to make up for you missing the show. But if you’re not a fan…”
“No!” Marco squeaks, again, and he coughs, trying to get the overwhelmed out of his throat as he sits up a little straighter, knee brushing along Jean’s behind, and undoing whatever little that cough managed. “I-I’d like one. Thank you, sir.” Jean’s the same age as him, but he’s just so much… more that it seems appropriate.
Jean’s humoured little chuckle says he thinks otherwise.
“Just call me Jean. I’m not old enough for sir just yet.” He insists as the moves to take out a thick pen from his pocket.
“I, er. I don’t have any paper.” Marco stutters as he watches Jean pop the cap of the pen.
“Well,” his eyes flick back up to Jean’s face as he notices his low tone, only to see him looking at something by Marco’s neck – which he suddenly realises is still fully bared from earlier – but his eyes quickly snap to Marco’s again. “Your sister didn’t either.” He waits for a sign of recognition from Marco before continuing. “Would you be ok with something like that?”
Heavens, yes!
“On my thigh?!” Is what comes out in a high wheeze.
“Well, that might be a bit tricky.” Jean laughs softly, a ghost of a pat on Marco’s thigh making his entire leg tingle. “But what about…” he trails, his eyes moving languidly over Marco’s body, and he’s strung so tightly he feels like he’s going to snap. “Right here.” He whispers, resting his hand lightly on Marco’s stomach, making him suck in a breath and his abdomen clench.
He meets Marco’s eyes again, being sure not to move until Marco gives a stupefied nod, then he’s gently ease Marco’s shirt from his pants, never breaking eye contact and keeping that beautiful smile stretched on his lips.
Marco’s completely lost. He forces himself to breathe – shaky and noisy pants of breath – as his body positively buzzes with anticipation and emotion. He can’t believe this is happening. He’s dreamt of Jean touching him, undressing him, a thousand times, but to think it’s actually happening…
He briefly wonders if he didn’t pass out, but straight up died during the concert. But the way Jean’s skin against his own sends electrifying pulses though his body tells him this can’t be anything other than real.
Jean leans down a little, his left hand holding Marco’s waist as the other holds the pen over his stomach, his forearm resting over his hip and thigh and so close to Marco’s crotch, he can barely think. Then he feels the tip of the pen touch and drag over his skin, making the muscles beneath quiver.
“To Marco,” he enunciates slowly as the words appear on Marco’s skin. He’s honestly beside himself. There’s so much going on he doesn’t know what to concentrate on; feeling the words being spelled out on his stomach, hearing them, the warmth of Jean’s chest pressed against Marco’s right thigh, the feel of Jean’s other fingers gently stroking over the smooth skin of his waist, the faint sense of Jean’s hot breath as he speaks; there so much to take in, Marco’s surprised he hasn’t fainted again. “I like your hair.” Marco instantly reaches up, self-consciously brushing his quiff more to the side, suddenly worried about how it looks after he fainted so many hours ago. He glances down to see Jean looking up at him and biting his smirk.
Oh, Marco thinks dazedly, watching as Jean goes back to writing low on his abdomen, a surging heat filling his cheeks. It kind of looks like-
“Thanks for coming,” Marco swallows thickly, hands gripping the sheets by his sides. “Jean Cherry.” They both look at Marco’s stomach when Jean pulls away, and Marco blushes all over again when he sees the little heart at the end of his signature. “Looks good.” He whispers, hands and fingers trailing before he finally pulls Marco’s shirt back down, and for one horrifically frantic moment, Marco thinks he’s going to tuck his shirt back in for him. Thankfully, he just lets it rest over his hips – Marco’s quite certain he wouldn’t have survived if he had.
Jean replaces the cap on the pen, and shoves it back in his pocket, his eyes still on Marco, when they both jump as the door opens, someone - presumably Jean’s manager - poking his head in.
“Security’s finally done its job. We should head out A.S.A.P.” Jean nods and waves the man away.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” Marco breathes again when the door clicks shut, but it doesn’t last long when he realises this impossible dream is coming to an end. “Well, time to split.”
Marco faces the singer again, Jean’s eyes seeming to trace over every detail of his face, and Marco wishes he weren’t so helpless, so lost, ‘cause he knows there’s a lot of things he wants to say to this beautiful man, if only he could grasp them.
“Hey Marco,” Jean asks, scooting closer again and finally meeting his eyes. Marco notices his hand reach up and unwittingly flinches as knuckles brush softly over his jaw. “Think I could get a kiss?”
For the nth time, Marco loses all breath, and stares wide-eyed at the man, the star, in front of him. It’s so forward, and anyone could walk in, and it’s Jean Cherry…
Marco doesn’t know where he finds the strength, but he nods, sighs a ‘yeah’, and tilts his head, welcoming Jean leaning into him.
His lips are unfathomably soft as they touch Marco’s, a faint brush at first, that becomes a gentle press, and they both sigh at the feeling. Jean’s mouth opens slowly to suck Marco’s bottom lip between his, and some outside force wills Marco’s hand up to curve around Jean’s long neck, thumb stroking over the hinge of his jaw.
It’s a gentle, sensual kiss that’s drawn out but still feels far too short when Jean slowly pulls back, lips and hand reluctant in their retreat, and Marco lets his own fingers trail down his throat as his arm falls back to the bed.
Jean stands with the most beautiful smile Marco’s ever seen, and much like before, his eyes track every movement as Jean walks ‘round the end of his bed.
He thinks the singer will head straight for the door – and maybe he meant to – but he looks back at Marco and walks swiftly to his other side, dipping down to take his lips one last time and stroke his hand over Marco’s stomach, where his words lay in bold ink.
“See ya around.” He whispers as their lips part, eyes bright and smile wide, before he slips out of the door.
Oh, Marco’s real gone.