Begin Again / Dream On
It wasn't meant to end like this.
He wasn't supposed to die before me, without me.
I wasn't meant to let him go without me coming with him.
Without telling him.
Telling him that I loved him. I loved him.
I loved him I loved him I loved him I loved himIlovedhimIlovedhimILOVEDHIM-
Love him.
Jean sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving and sweat clammy on his skin. White knuckles grasped at white sheets, twisting the material between pale fingers, colour washed out from the dawn light streaming in through cracked open curtains. After a few seconds of heaving pants, Jean tipped his head back slowly, where it banged against the top of the metal headboard with a thud. The tension coiled around every muscle slipped away. Stiff fingers unclenched from their death grip on the sheets as he closed his eyes and blew out a breath in a long, low sigh.
It was terribly lonely, being without Marco. He'd have wrapped tanned arms around Jean's lean torso, calming his still fluttering heart with a press of warm hands against his pulse. He'd have pulled Jean back under the sheets with whispered promises of safety and kindness and sleep. He'd have brushed butterfly kisses along trembling shoulder blades, dry lips a comfortable familiarity. The nightmares never ceased in any lifetime, no matter how many kisses were burned into his skin, but at least the kiss brands lessened the pain.
But it was inevitable that Marco would go first and leave him alone to face his nightmares. He always did.
They may have been soulmates but Jean was convinced that they were star-crossed. In any lifetime since the first, in the era of the Titans, it was always Marco that bit the bullet before Jean - often literally. This lifetime had been easy, relatively speaking. A simple car accident: one second, he was alive, the next, Marco was nothing more than a memory. It wasn't always. Wars, being hanged, succumbing to cancer, the range of deaths were long and painful. But they found invariably each other again, once Jean had died as well.
In his bed, Jean felt a prickling burn behind his eyes. He squeezed them tighter, but hot tears rolled down his cheeks. The cool air stung as they dried. Jean brought his knees up to his chest and rested his head against them, digging his hands into his hair and pulling at the longer, lighter strands on the top.
This life had taken Marco away from him far too soon. He hadn't even told him-
Hadn't had the chance to say-
Hadn't had the time to hold him and touch him or even know his new (but still wonderfully freckled and lovely and forgiving) self properly. He just had to hope that the next life would be kinder and that they could spend more than fleeting weeks together. Hopefully years would pass before death would take Marco again.
Jean whispered against his own skin, trying desperately to ignore the lack of splattered freckles decorating his knees, praying to whoever was listening for a better beginning and a nicer ending. He knew it was pointless to dream for the impossible; after all, he screamed and cursed and wailed after every one of Marco's deaths for a better life next time, please, just once... He would dream on anyway.
"I love you Marco, I love you, I love you, I love you..."
AN - Day 1 of JeanMarco week, 5 days late as an update here. Enjoy!