Jean had kissed Marco many times. He didn't really remember when it started, but he did remember when it started to mean something more. When those small little kisses finally helped him, finally destroyed those niggling fears, and unnecessary doubts. This is just a few of those small things, each gaining in importance as time goes by.
It started when Jean was little. That much, he knows. They had been next-door neighbours since the day they were born, though Marco was a bit older than him. They had always been close, even when separated into different years at school. They had protected each other, and had been the bestest of friends. The earliest one that Jean can remember, is when he was six years old, crying after falling off of his bike.
"Oh Jean, it's ok." Marco had soothed him, as Jean's mother had dabbed at his bloodied knees with disinfectant. Jean hiccupped through the tears, and rubbed a raw hand across his face to clear away the tears. He bit his lip as he stood up, and Marco helped him into his room to get a change of clothes, since his were now all ripped. Jean had cried again as the fabric caught on a cut on his palm, and Marco had lent forwards, and placed a gentle kiss on his hand, before giving him a big smile. "There! All better!" He had proclaimed, and Jean and Marco's mothers had giggled at how cute their boys were.
When Jean was ten, his father left. Jean felt betrayed, and angry. He punched a wall, and told his father that he hated him. His mum didn't speak for a week, just stayed silent. She didn't cry, she didn't yell, nothing. She just went mute. Jean begged his mum to say something, anything. But all she did was hug him, and run her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. His mum went away after a while, to get away from things for a month, and so he stayed with Marco and his family. At night he would wake up crying, and without saying anything, Marco would crawl into his bed and cuddle him close. He would place a soft kiss against Jean's cheek, and hum a tune until he fell asleep.
When Jean's mother came back, she seemed better. She apologised to Jean profusely, and took him and Marco to a theme park for the day. Jean forgave her, he said, but inside, he was still scared that he would be left again. Marco promised to help him, whenever he needed.
It happened again when Jean was thirteen. When some boys told Jean that it was no wonder his father had left, and that his mum was a slut, he attacked them. He broke one boys nose, and gave the other a black eye, and bruised shin. They sent him home from school, and he was surprised when Marco was sent home with him too. It seemed Marco had heard what had happened, and had winded the third boy who had bullied Jean, and told on him to a teacher. He had then slammed the boy into a wall, in the middle of lunch break, and informed him that was for Jean.
Marco had kissed Jean's bloodied knuckles in the car on the way home, and with that dimpled smile, told him that was what friends were for.
When Jean was fifteen, his father remarried. He didn't even tell Jean, his mother did. Jean didn't say anything. He stormed out of the house, and went to the park a few streets away. Once he got there, he pushed through some of the bushland, until he got to the old willow tree. It was an unspoken rule that you didn't go in there, unless you were looking for trouble. There was a gang of teens that hung out there usually, but for once Jean didn't care. He stayed there for a few hours, until at sunset Jean's mother got worried and told Marco that Jean had disappeared. Marco came and got him, and when he saw Jean curled up under the tree, staring blankly at the sky, he grew scared for his friends wellbeing. He panicked, wanting to get Jean home safely before the gang arrived. Jean didn't even acknowledge him. So Marco bent down, and lifted Jean up. Jean was rather scrawny, while Marco was tall and muscular, so it was easy for Marco to carry Jean bridal style home. Marco stayed over that night, and though Jean didn't say anything, Marco curled up with him in Jean's bed, not saying anything, just softly singing the same song he always sung to calm down Jean. When Jean whispered a quiet thankyou into Marco's shoulder, Marco had smiled and gently kissed the back of Jean's head.
When Jean was sixteen, Marco came out as pansexual, and began dating Bertholdt. Jean felt as though his father was leaving all over again, felt betrayed by the only person he had ever gotten close to. Sure he had friends in his class, Sasha, Connie, Armin, Mikasa and Eren. Armin was probably closer to him than the others. But it wasn't the same.
Jean kept all his pain hidden though, and as much as he hated it, he actually liked Bert. He was a kind, quiet person, and spent time becoming friends with Marco's friends. Jean, when he compared himself to Bert, felt useless. Bertholdt was so much better for Marco he felt, didn't come with all the emotional baggage Jean did, and he was a very thoughtful person. But that didn't stop Jean from hating himself, hating how jealous he felt when Bertholdt and Marco kissed. Marco's kisses were his, he thought.
But after three months, Bertholdt broke it off with Marco. He was very sweet about it, and Marco said he understood, and it was ok, but Jean could still see how hurt he was. Reiner asked Bertholdt out a month after that, and Bert said yes. But that didn't help Marco. Marco put up a brave front, and seemed happy still to his friends at school, but Jean got to see the other side. How Marco truly felt. The tears that would silently roll down his cheeks when he thought Jean was asleep. Jean cried silently along with him, and hugged him close. Marco didn't seem annoyed that Jean was still awake, and curled up into Jean's chest. Jean wept for his friend's agony, and also at the horrible thoughts that entered his mind. The thoughts of how, now that Bertholdt was out of the picture, he might have a chance. Of how happy he was that he wouldn't have to see them kissing, or holding hands. How angry he had felt, every time Marco would kiss him. He didn't want to share Marco's kisses.
And so, every time Marco cried that night, he sung the same song that Marco used to sing to him. The next morning when they woke up, still wrapped up together, Marco had kissed Jean's cheek in thanks. And suddenly, Jean felt wanted again.
When Jean was nineteen, he kissed Marco. He wasn't drunk, or sad. They were just having a Lord Of The Rings marathon, as they did every Friday. Movie marathons were a good excuse to check out Marco when he wasn't watching. Marco had accused Jean of being a nerd, but Jean had just laughed, and pointed out that Marco was too, as he was the one who owned the trilogy, never mind the fact that Jean had picked it out. That was the first time Jean kissed Marco, and Marco seemed surprised. Until Jean kissed him again on the lips, and suddenly Jean's anger towards Bertholdt made sense. He had been jealous. Marco smiled at Jean, before kissing him back. And that was how Jean confessed to Marco, in the middle of a Lord of the Rings movie marathon.
At twenty, Jean and Marco moved in together. They had to make an extra trip back, when Jean forgot his box of clothes, and Marco had bought new CD's to listen to while they drove, and then unpacked. That night, Marco kissed Jean when he made them their first dinner in their new house, and Jean accidentally over-cooked the pasta. Jean had blushed, usually he was a very good cook, but he had been so excited and nervous, that he hadn't been paying attention. Marco had kissed first his lips, and then his neck as the blush ran down it.
When Jean was twenty-three, Marco kissed him again on their wedding day. All morning, Jean had been trying to sneak into Marco's dressing room, and get a look at him in his suit. Marco had giggled, and locked the door, telling him to just be patient. They wore matching suits, and Jean and Marco's mothers smiled and giggled at how cute their two boys looked together, and at how grown up they were. Marco's father made a speech, about how when Jean was six, and Marco was seven, Marco had kissed Jean then too. Jean cried, and Marco smiled at him. Jean's father wasn't invited, and nobody brought it up. Nobody questioned why Jean's mother walked him down the aisle. It wasn't something you could bring up.
When Jean was twenty-five, they adopted a little girl. Her name was Leora, and meant light, and compassion. She lit up their world, laughing and smiling all the time, and making friends with every one, including their grumpy next-door neighbour Levi. She had long black hair, green eyes, and pale skin. Marco kissed Jean that night, as they tucked Leora into bed. Her own parents had given her up, and wanted nothing to do with her, but they swore to never neglect her.
When Jean was forty-eight, he cried as Leora moved out. Marco had laughed, and called him an old man as he kissed away his husbands tears. Together, they helped her pack away all of her stuff, and stood waving in the driveway until they could no longer see her. Jean always had been the more emotional one, more prone to crying. Hell, he even cried during Spirit, even the third time they watched it. Most people didn't believe Marco that Jean cried easily, but he was just that kind of person. He now tried to understand people, and was no longer the same angry, confused teenager he had once been.
When Jean was sixty-eight, he kissed Marco one final time. Marco had kissed him as he left to go pick up their grandchildren, who were going to stay the night. And he never kissed Marco again. A car hit Marco at four past three, on a Friday afternoon. He had been walking across the road when a car, being pursued by the police, slammed into him. The car continued forwards, and slammed into a pole. Marco never stood a chance of surviving.
An hour later, Jean got a call. At first, he thought it was a joke. Not Marco, who had that morning made him breakfast in bed, and then forgotten about the toast, which had been charred beyond recognition before he remembered. His Marco, who had promised him homemade lasagne, and had baked a cake for their grandchildren for dessert that night. Then he grew angry. He threw a lamp through the window, and swore.
Then, he just broke. He collapsed, as the realisation shot through him. He would never again get to pinch Marco's ass, as they cooked together. He wouldn't get to draw on Marco's face while he was asleep, and connect his freckles. He wouldn't get to fall asleep, curled up with his best friend, and soul mate. He felt as though he had been ripped apart. He felt empty.
Jean's daughter and grandchildren came to see him the next day, letting him have time to himself before coming around. When they arrived the next afternoon, they had to let themselves in. Jean was curled up in his bed, hugging Marco's pillow close. It still smelt like his freckled angel.
He listened as the funeral arrangements were made, he picked out an outfit for Marco, but not once did he say a word. Marco was buried in his wedding suit. For two weeks after the funeral, Jean refused to speak. He did not cry again, and refused to see anyone. Then, one night, on a Friday, at four past three, Leora received a phone call. Jean apologised profusely, and, crying, told her how much he loved her. She agreed to come around the next day.
But on Saturday, Jean didn't answer the door.
His funeral was a small affair; he was buried with Marco, in his wedding suit too. It was only fitting. Upon his grave stone, was a small sentence. It had been found on a note, in Jean's hand. A kiss is how it began, and a kiss was what ended it.*
And you can be sure that in heaven, the two of them are still laughing and sharing kisses together. Because without one, the other is not whole.
*A kiss is what began Jean's happiness, and a kiss is how Jean's ended.