The barracks were dark, and the steady breaths of his comrades lulled him as he lay on the hard floor, the scratchy blanket irritating the skin upon his wrists.
Trost lay in ruins, and as the remaining soldiers fell into an exhausted, worry laden sleep, he wondered about the plan General Pixis had conceived. Doubt weighed heavily upon his mind that they were going to make it out of this alive, and his teeth worried at his lip, already bloody from anxiety and lack of hydration. Fear gripped him violently as the sight of his comrades dying flashed before the backs of his eyelids and with a sob, he raised his hand to his mouth, tears flowing silently down his cheeks, slow at first, then furious and painful.
"Marco?" Jean's voice was steady and Marco started at the abruptness of the voice, stark against the stillness of the room.
He hurriedly swept the traitorous tears from his cheeks, clearing his throat. "Yea, what is it Jean?" he answered, terrified lest the other man realize that tears were being shed.
Blankets rustled and Marco started again when Jean's hand brushed his shoulder in the dark. It was like electricity sparked between them, and Marco resisted the urge to shiver. He turned slightly toward Jean's voice, attaching to the tether that bonded him with another human there in the dark.
"Are you okay?" he asked the other man when the silence stretched between them.
"I just wanted to make sure you were still there," Jean's voice was low, and Marco thought he heard a catch in the usually confident tenor. Catching Jean's hand in his, he gave it an encouraging squeeze.
"Always," he answered, his own tears forgotten. "How could I go anywhere? Who else is going to keep your ego in check," he said with an attempted laugh that fell flat between them as he again recalled the broken, bleeding bodies of his comrades scattered throughout the town of Trost. How could he be making these promises when he knew...he knew he would never be able to keep them. Not with Titans walking through these streets...through the fields of the world, ever hungry, ever questing to wipe humanity from the planet.
His grip on Jean's hand tightened. It could be Jean next, and in the blink of his eye, he could see Jean's broken body, twisted and grotesque, blood splattering his proud cadet's uniform, mouth slack and weeping sputum. His beautiful hazel eyes were glazed and staring, their arrogant life gone like a candle snuffed by the fickle wind.
"Marco?" It was a question, and as Jean's hand brushed the tears off Marco's cheek, he realized he was crying again.
"Please don't die, Jean," he whispered hoarsely. 'I can't-"
There was another rustled of blankets and Jean was suddenly there, pressing his body against Marco's, holding him so tightly Marco could hardly breathe. Marco's arms tentatively wrapped around Jean's slender form, and he could feel the other man's breath hot against his cheek, his weight comforting and warm.
"Marco," Jean told him, his tone almost harsh. "I'm not going to die. Neither of us are going to die." He put a hand over Marco's eyes. "Close your eyes, Marco," he whispered. "Close your eyes, because nothing is going to hurt you while I am at your side. We are going to protect the King, you're going to be safe behind Wall Sina, and I will be right there with you, safe and sound."
Marco clung to him, and he buried his face in Jean's shoulder. They would be alright...somehow...they were going to be alright.