La Douleur Exquise

by spazmoid

"la douleur exquise" - (n.) the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable.

les ailes des oiseaus noir
et un bec
sont mon costume.

je chante
le chanson sans un mot.
c'est a toi.

---

Marco never understood why he would wake up in bed, fully clothed, shoes on his feet. He stared at the ceiling and made the water stains into shapes. A rabbit. A kitten. A face. A cloud. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair before rolling to check his phone. He squinted in the darkness, able to make out the time. "Early," he yawned reading the hour as four. He had to shower for work. His skin always smelt metallic to him. He was not sure what it was, but he always blamed his job at the morgue. Who knew what chemical stenches clung to him as he embalmed and cleaned up.

His shower tap creaked when he turned it. He was used to the sound just as much as he was the way he had to run it exactly for fifteen to twenty seconds before the water warmed. He brushed is teeth usually as it ran, counting the seconds with his brushes before checking the water. It was a twenty second day.

It took him a short while to get dressed in comfortable black jeans and a kitten Metallica t-shirt. He put his hand on the window to test the temperature. Sweater weather. He slipped on a brown cardigan before going to grab his keys and wallet. His cat meowed at him from the kitchen reminding him to feed her before going. "Here Jeanne," he murmured as he slipped her food into her bowl. He stroked her silky blond and brown fur as she ate some before really taking in the time. Shit. He really had to go.

The shuttle was always late. Marco had averaged the trip at forty-five minutes total back and forth. If he was lucky, the shuttle would be so late that it would arrive on time for its second trip. He stepped on, making a mental note of the tacky 70s carpet lining the floors, and took the first empty seat he could find. He rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. The sun was rising now; he could see the pink and light orange hues of it as it brightened the once dim morning sky. He stared out at them, lightly humming the tune of the Infected Mushroom song playing from his music player. It was a cheap off-brand thing, nothing fancy. As long as it held music, Marco was happy with it.

He stepped off the shuttle when he reached his stop, walking the rest of the distance to the morgue. He shivered as he entered. He had almost forgotten how much of an icebox the place was. He quickly slipped on his lab coat and chatted with the front desk for a while before heading downstairs.

Why was there always another one?

The young woman on the slab could not be much older than him, stretched out on the table under a white sheet. Brown hair and death-paled skin-the same as the others. That meant that Jean would be coming. The series of murders that had been taking over Trost had been left in the young officer's hands. When Jean first received the case, he had come to Marco with a firm face and nervous eyes. Marco had told him a really bad science joke, and he could never forget that expression of surprise before the other laughed. "You're a weird mortician, know that?" The words echoed in his mind as he lifted the cloth and took out his recorder.

Weird was an understatement.

"29th of April 2014. Tuesday. Jane Doe. Appears to be one of the Trost Ripper murders. Body is laying prostate on the back," Marco said as he inspected the cold cadaver. He lifted her hair. "Uneven cut. Perhaps cut post mortem. Further analysis by investigators on the hair follicles will be needed." He parted the cold lips. "Body was not kept, but the tongue has hardened and swollen some from rigor mortis." He moved down to pull down the sheet. "A long vertical cut down the tor-"

"Marco, you down here?"

Click. Marco paused the recorder and then moved his goggles a little to adjust them. They always felt a little tight. He broke into a small smile when golden eyes and two-toned hair greeted him. "Yeah. You know I always come first. Only licensed mortician in this morgue." It was a family thing. After all of Marco's family died in a car accident when he was in high school, he ended up with the place. He liked it despite the usual quiet. When he wasn't recording, he could fill the silence with his heavy metal music. He could even bring Jeanne if he wanted to. (He was just worried that she might interfere with his examinations.)

"Hmn," Jean hummed and went over. He made a face. He was never one for dead bodies. He held a hand over his nose and mouth before Marco handed him a bandana.

"Cover your mouth with this. It'll help with the smell."

Jean nodded and tied over his mouth and nose. "You think it's one of the Ripper's?" he asked. The fabric muffled his voice, and it was a little hard to understand him.

Marco nodded. "Definitely. The organs are gone. Everything has been cleaned out of her," he said. He smiled a little sadly. Over the years, the deaths all still bothered him. He wondered what she would have done with her life if someone had not taken it first. Even still, he would clean her, so the family would not have to see the gory remains of her current state.

If Marco had been looking at Jean, he would be able to see the grimace yet again. "How about you meet me during lunch to talk about this? I can't stand this damned smell." The stench of death that Marco had grown accustomed to never seemed to lessen for Jean at all. He just could not get used to it.

Marco laughed and nodded. "Yeah. Okay." His heartbeat sped up, but he just turned up the song he was currently listening to. Jean probably did not hear it, but he did not want to take any risks and preferred a cautious approach. Jean grimaced even more, making a face and covering his ears.

"I will never understand how you listen to that trash. Meet me in the usual place all right?"

Marco made a face right back at him, taking out his scalpel and utensils yet again. "'Thy Disease' is golden okay? I should make it my ringtone." Jean rolled his eyes and waved him off with his ears still covered. "I'm coming, so don't be late again. I have things to do."

"Blah blah, can't hear you," Jean said as he walked out, although he could hear Marco. He just liked messing with the freckled man. Marco made sure to flick a cotton ball at his back before going back to the body. He actually did not really need the utensils. The body was cut so cleanly with what looked like surgical precision. He could not see one hint of the organs that had been in the body before.

Marco sighed. That just meant he would not have anything to update Jean with later on their lunch date. He retrieved his recorder and started where he left off. "A long vertical cut down the upper abdomen, starting in between the clavicles..."

.

Jean always liked his coffee dark and black like the mood he tried to give to his coworkers. Marco liked his sickenly sweet with caramel and chocolate with a hint of espresso to match his saccharine smile and attitude. "So...," Jean started.

"Nothing," Marco replied from behind his mug. He did not fail to notice Jean's frustrated look.

"Months. This has been going on for months, and there is not a single lead besides a man, strong build, probably young. Probably. Everything is fucking probably," Jean muttered under his breath miserably. He rubbed his hands over his face. This was his first big case. He wanted to solve it. "Not to mention they're getting more frequent. Almost once a week."

Marco offered him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, scooting his chair next to him. "Jean, of all people, I'm sure you'll solve it. You have the resolve to crack this case." Marco grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners from his dimples. "You can accomplish anything you put your mind to. You were in the top ten of our class, after all."

Jean peeked over at Marco and found himself smiling softly. He reached over and pinched at Marco's cheek. It was a temptation he just could never resist. "Yeah I know. I'm great ain't I?"

"Sure. Modest too."

That earned him an elbow in the arm. Marco laughed it off and rubbed at the spot before lifting up his mug again.

"Hey, I finally bought it."

Marco felt something heavy way in his stomach.

A stone.

Jean reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. It was small. Jean could not afford much on his policeman salary, but he had really saved to buy his fiancée's favourite stone. It was simple but beautiful, a red ruby nestled in dark silver with engravings in both German and French along the sides. Marco could not make out the words, but he could guess them. Jean had been throwing quotes at him for months now.

"Think she'll like it?"

No. It was a fucking boulder weighing him down now. Marco had to work really hard to work his mouth around it. He was choking on something he could not admit to. He nodded and looked down at his mug. He was going to need a refill. Marco had thought of getting food, but he suddenly did not feel hungry any more.

"She'll love it. You have great taste."

"You helped."

Marco nodded in silent agreement. Yes. He had gone to the jeweller with Jean.

It was one of the worst experiences of his life.

"Had to. Who knows what you would have picked without me?" Marco forced a smile back to his lips. It was easy to do after he had been faking it for so many years. Jean was either too slow to notice that it never quite reached his eyes or Marco was just too good at lying. Maybe it was a bit of both.

"Hey, I think I have great taste!" Jean put a hand over his chest, mimicking offence, but the grin on his face was giving him away.

"Yeah right. If you weren't wearing that uniform, you'd be wearing one of those awful plaid shirts you insist on buying."

"Whatever metalhead. At least I don't wear a t-shirt with a cardigan."

Marco pouted. The pain was ebbing away some. Jean always had that way about him. He could make Marco feel terrible (not on purpose-never on purpose) then say something simple yet heartwarming to brighten his mood again. It was a never-ending pattern, a cycle Marco could just not tear himself out of.

"I love this shirt."

Jean just scoffed and sipped his coffee. They were pretty quiet after that. After years of college cramming together and bunking in the same dorm room, comfortable silences between them were not uncommon. They parted after college and Marco thought they would never meet again-until Officer Jean Kirstein had shown up in his morgue that is.

Marco stared out the window again, his eyes glazing over with something unreadable. Jean glanced at him and frowned.

"Marco?"

"Hmn?" The smile was back, soft and turning up the corners of Marco's lips, and there was a warm glint in the depthless brown. Whatever unease Jean had been feeling was gone.

"Nothing, I guess."

.

It was so dark. He opened his mouth, and it crept inside the wet cavern. He reached up his hands to grip at his throat as he felt it slither down, hoping in vain that would ease It out. His head was throbbing. He could not see anything wherever he was. He tried so hard, but it was just black on black, an endless nothing. He had fallen into a void buried deep within his bones and hidden in his heart.

He screamed. Silent. Wordless. Nothing was coming out to mix with the nothing around him. Where was he? He did not like it here. It was terrifying, horrifying. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to watch morning cartoons and forget whatever nightmare he was locked in. He wanted-

Marco's eyes shot open to stare at the ceiling. He was breathing heavily, one pant after another leaving his lips. He could hear Jeanne at his side, mewling pitifully and pawing at him. He smiled and rolled over to tug the cat to him. "'M okay," he murmured into the cat's warm fur. She still mewled some although, nuzzling him to ascertain that he was really there. Marco just moved, so that the cat rested on his chest as he stroked her fur.

Cat therapy was the best cure for any nightmare.

The next part of his cure for his nightmares was a hot shower, a big cup of coffee, and a bowl of cereal.

He stepped out of his shower and did not even bother to put on clothes before going to the kitchen. He just simply tottered around his towel. "Ugh, Jeanne," he protested when the cat rubbed against his damp legs and left her fur on them. He might as well let her be. It was too late anyway. "I hate you." He muttered the words at the cat as he went to flop on his couch and catch the morning cartoons. Thanks to his nightmare, he had woken up early enough to catch some of the good ones. He ate his cereal, Jeanne now curled somewhere on the couch as he ate. She was not too much of a morning person. All she pretty much did was sleep.

Marco hummed around each sugary spoonful of the colourful cereal. He slid his empty bowl on the table before stretching out on the couch. He stared at the television while his eyes grew heavy. Marco's fatigue was annoyingly recurrent. He yawned. His mind failed to comprehend the simple plot of the vibrant characters moving across the screen. He closed his eyes. Marco was just so damn exhausted.

When he opened them again (had he fallen asleep?), he was in the morgue. He blinked in surprised and worried at his bottom lip. Those blackouts were becoming more frequent. He was going to have to see a doctor. He was not even sure how he had gotten here. Marco sighed and went to find his tape recorder. He wanted to make sure he checked that body thoroughly. He could leave no room for mistakes. This was for Jean after all.

He tensed.

It was for the woman's family. That was what he meant.

He began go through the usual procedure and froze when he saw a new body welcoming him that day. Two in one week was rare. Unheard of. Jean would definitely not be happy to hear about it. Marco went up to the body and cringed. Her face was gone and so were any available prints. It had almost been bludgeoned in with something. Nothing at all like the usual surgical precision this killer did. He thought it was a different murderer (which would be awful), but clean cuts were on the abdomen, slicing through the ventral muscles, and then two small horizontal cuts to form a makeshift doorway. The ribs were all cleanly pushed apart, completely exposing the cavity. Not an organ to be found. Marco actually felt sick for once. Nauseous even. He should be used to this kind of thing, he internally scolded, but he found himself feeling like he would keel over any second. He quickly went to fish a peppermint with shaky hands from his pocket and slid it into his mouth.

Marco sucked on the peppermint as he gathered his composure. He hit play on his tape recorder. He listed the date and position per usual before going into the more gruesome details. He had to stay together. "Her face is completely indistinguishable. Fingerprints and the bottoms of the feet have also been removed. DNA or dental analysis will be needed for identification." The woman would have to have a closed casket funeral. Marco could not fix this. "Her chest is open per usual of the Ripper cases, and..." Marco paused. There was something in her chest. He had not noticed before because of his nausea. He placed down the recorder and made sure his gloves were secure before prodding in with his fingers. His hands clasped around hard, irregular shapes. He tugged it out again and dropped the objects with a clatter on the steel table.

Stones.

.

Marco could not bring himself to talk to Jean that afternoon. He ended up spending his lunch in his apartment with Jeanne sleeping on his chest. Marco was too afraid to sleep. He could not remember the nightmare, but he could remember the feeling of choking. What it felt like to not be able to breathe. He sighed deeply. He would talk to someone after a while. Some people could not handle a job like his. Marco thought he was doing fine, but there was something seriously wrong. He slept constantly yet was tired in the morning. He blacked out. He could not remember gaping hours of most days.

His mind buzzed with the thoughts of what was wrong with him when he heard a rough knock on his door. "Marco! I know you're in there!"

Oh no.

He heard the click of the lock turning, and then he heard the knob turn following suit as Jean pushed inside of the small apartment.

"Marco, something happen? You locked up that freezer of yours for once." Jean walked up to the couch and was met with those eyes again. The empty ones that reminded him of the dead bodies he occasionally saw in the morgue when he was not too chickenshit and too soothed by Marco's voice to inspect alongside him. They were the eyes of a corpse, a living corpse from the same gentle face that he had come to love.

It took a long time for them to look normal again, the pupils focusing on him instead of empty space. He felt frozen to the spot the entire time as he watched them change so very slowly. It took him a year-no, a millennium, to work words into his mouth. "... Uh, Marco...?"

The eyes were brown again, dark, innocent brown, and Marco's nose scrunched up in recognition. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He looked at Jean sheepishly. "I was going to answer, but I must have fallen asleep," Marco laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

Jean was quiet. Too quiet. It made Marco nervous. He looked up at his best friend who was staring down at him as if he had grown a second head. He wondered if he had drooled or something or... Shit. He might have said Jean's name in his sleep. His blood ran cold.

"Never noticed you slept with your eyes open."

Jean received a slow blink in response. Marco's nose scrunched up again but this time in confusion. He did not notice that either. "Must be because I was just that tired," he said and stretched.

Jean did not really believe him, but there was no way he was going to push the subject. People who slept with their eyes open did not tilt their head back and stare. No. Marco had not been asleep. Jean was absolutely positive of that. Marco had definitely been awake and just looking at him with bleak, melancholic, downright empty fucking eyes. His uneasy feeling was back.

"Earth to Jean."

Jean looked back down at Marco. He had been looking at him, but he only just now noticed the worried expression on Marco's face. He was smiling, but it was a little forced. There was a hand brushing against Jean's cheek before he could really absorb it. He must have imagined everything. Marco was right there in front of him. "Hey, and you call me spacey. I only have cereal if you want some lunch?"

Jean nodded to the question. Cereal sounded good. Perhaps the sweet food would wash whatever taste what was in his mouth (it was bitter and stale and tasted like gravel on his tongue). Marco smiled a little easier and stood up, the cat staying on the couch as he went to the kitchen. Jean followed, watching as Marco took out the cereal and then went to get the milk.

"Hey... Marco..."

Jean could see the shoulders of the one in front of him tense.

"... Are you doing okay?"

Marco turned around and looked at Jean. For a fleeting moment, he looked as if he would say something, but then he just put the milk down and went to grab a bowl. "I'm fine. Just a little stressed out with the amount of bodies I'm getting." It was a half-truth but a truth all the same. He slid the finished bowl of cereal to Jean before going to his thrift store coffee pot.

"You got more today?"

Marco nodded and stayed quiet. "Yeah. I think... your case is getting worse." Marco's head was hurting. He was trying really hard to mask it, but he had to go to the cabinet to find his aspirin and a peppermint. Nausea was in the back of his throat to accompany his aching head.

"Your headaches are getting bad."

That was right. Marco had always had migraines. He remembered Jean having to rush to the store one or two times for aspirin when they were in exam season, and Marco was too crippled with them to leave his bed. He held onto the aspirin in his hand, not noticing that it was shaking until some spilt onto the floor. He quickly fell to his knees to pick them up. If Jeanne ate them, both Marco and Jeanne would be in trouble. She was all he had.

Jean bent down to help him, but Marco waved his hand away. He was still shaking. "Jean. You should go okay? I'll talk to you later." He could feel himself growing lightheaded with each passing second. He did not hear Jean move. He finished cleaning up the pills and stood up and looked at Jean. He feigned the best smile he could, but it came off more as a borderline grimace.

"Stop worrying about me. I've dealt with worse. You have a city to protect."

That seemed to make Jean move some. He nodded, but he cast another glance toward Marco. "I'm calling you tonight Bott, and you better answer or I'm breaking in again."

"You used your key 'though, and besides Mr. Officer I don't think 'breaking in' is very legal." The jokes were hard to make. It was hard to even think at this point. Jean nodded again, but he kept glancing at Marco before leaving.

Marco waited until he heard his footsteps fade before sliding back down to the dirty tile of his kitchen. It was always stained no matter how much he mopped it. He opened the aspirin once again and took as many as he legally could (and maybe a few extra). He hated aspirin. It got rid of his headaches, but they were a shot of energy for him. He was not sure what was worse: dreaming when he was awake or when he was asleep.

He swallowed the pills with no water, letting them slide down dry. One broke in his mouth and the bitter taste of the powder stained his taste buds. Please just make it stop. He closed his eyes tight, ignoring the feeling of what felt like something embracing him. Something on his shoulders, someone touching him. It was terrifying and surreal. He opened them again and saw nothing.

Marco opened his mouth.

Nothing.

No. No. He could not have fallen asleep... could he? This was the dream again. He could hear something skittering in the darkness. He moved away from it only to see it around him. There was blackness, no deeper than that, surrounding him. A vacuum of endless space all around him. Marco found the source of the skittering and turned to it. He was greeted with a radiant white smile that felt like it was stabbing his eyes. He lifted his hands to it, but he could not see them. He could see nothing but that smile as it laughed and moved closer. He made out the hands just when they moved around his throat. Why did it hurt so much?

"Because you're fighting Marco."

He did not know who said the words, but he found himself nodding. He did not know what he was fighting, but he was too weary to keep pushing against whatever was on his throat wrenching every gasp from his bluing lips and slowing down the beat of his pounding heart with each passing moment of that hold on his neck.

There was laughter. Marco could not pinpoint it anywhere. He could not even pinpoint if he was standing any more. He felt as if he was falling back. The choking had stopped. Was it because he stopped fighting? He closed his eyes and took a breath.

He just wanted to fade into the blackness and sleep.

.

When Jean came back, he saw Marco leaving. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was a certain chill keeping him quiet. Perhaps it was the quiet and relaxed way Marco walked. It was not his usual jaunty and humming step of the but a slow sort of lag that resembled a cat walking on a tightwire. He could hear humming from the other's lips, but he could not think of the song. He just knew it was a metal song Marco would listen to on repeat on some days.

Jean used to joke it was that kind of music that gave Marco the constant headaches.

Suddenly Jean did not find the jokes funny any more.

Jean followed quietly, making sure not to make a sound. He had a sinking feeling, like he was wading into dark waters and being pulled in by a freckled tide. Night was approaching, the bleak, velvet sky dotted with sparkling crystal stars that disappeared behind the smog of the city that Marco delved deeper into. He walked past his apartment, deeper into the grottos and deeper still before stepping into a bar. Jean was hesitant. He didn't know what to expect.

Marco's smile flashed across his mind followed by those bleak eyes. He was trying to piece everything together, but absolutely nothing made sense.

"You followed me Kirstein."

That was Marco's voice, but it was different, calm. He did not know how Marco came up behind or how he ended up pressed against the brick wall. He looked into Marco's eyes that were not bleak any more. They were terrifyingly dark yet there was a glint to the smirk below them. Jean just could not make out the expression. It was darker than hatred and loathing, something sick and twisted as-No. Not Marco. It couldn't be-Marco continued to press the knife to his throat and backed him up to the wall. "Give me your gun."

Jean's breath hitched. This was surreal. Marco was looking at him, but he was not. He recognised the freckled skin, but he did not recognise who was wearing it. There was an aggressive, almost sensual way that he spoke, purring out every word like sweet antifreeze. "I said give me the goddamn gun Jean."

Jean gasped as the knife dug into his palm. He scrambled for his weapon and handed it to Marco without a second thought. The shock of the stab was making him not feel the pain, but the warmth of blood trickling down his pale hand reminded him that he would feel it later. Marco took the gun in a black-gloved hand and slid it into his pocket. He stared at Jean and used the hand not holding the knife to wrench back his head. Jean closed his eyes, not breathing. This was all there was. This was the end. He prepared himself for it-for his throat to be slit across. His legs were shaking, and then...

Marco kissed him.

His brain just shut down. It was a reluctant kiss at first, like someone was fighting against it (like Marco was fighting himself), and then it was tender and rough and a mixture of things Jean just could not possibly understand. He hissed out when he felt teeth bite down on his lip. Fuck. That was going to leave a scar.

"Marco..."

"Marco? Marco? That's all you can say to me?" The polite tone in the not Marco's voice was almost taunting as he played with the knife now dancing dangerously over Jean's chest. "I know that's who I am, but I don't ." He laughed softly. "This is your fault. For not noticing. For sleeping with me and kissing me, and always forgetting the next morning. Me telling myself it was okay because you didn't get angry over me taking advantage of being drunk with you. Me realising you're marrying her even when you told me 'you'd date someone like me if you could'. You could have me any time you wanted Jean. You already had me."

Jean opened his mouth.

If he thought his brain had shut down before, it was melting down now.

Jean shut his mouth again.

"I loved you, and you didn't notice, and I tried so hard to tell you. This hurts Jean. You have no idea how much it hurts going shopping with you for baby things and picking out rings when I want it so badly to be me."

That sounded like Marco. The polite tone was crumbling, and he could see him shaking now as he slumped against Jean's chest. One shaky breath after the other. Jean was not sure if he was breathing heavier or Marco. He reached up with his uninjured hand and tentatively ran it through the soft black hair. Once he was certain he was not going to get stabbed any more, he tangled his fingers in the obsidian strands. He slid down the brick, taking Marco down with him. "Hey, remember what we used to do? Count your breaths with me Marco. Match them with mine."

It was weird being the one holding someone up. Marco was usually his boulder. Even when Marco used to have his migraines, he still managed to fake a smile. Having the other clinging to him so tightly and shaking was something he never even thought could happen. His hand was throbbing, shock worn off, but he could not bring too much attention to it. He let it stay beside him on the ground as the other hand stayed clutched around the freckled, broken boy who was trying so hard to keep his shaky, raspy breaths together with Jean's heavy but steady ones.

It took Marco over half an hour to match them, and by then the blood on Jean's hand had crusted over, caked in his palm and at his wrist. Marco was not moving from his place on Jean's chest, just lying there quietly as he did his best to piece himself back together with a shaking conscience and an even shakier heart. He moved away from Jean after a while and stared at him, trying to absorb the situation and where he was. He remembered saying something, but the words were coming through static and not completely processing through. He could not remember anything at all, just bits of sound that had no meaning and barely words.

Jean was staring at him with that look again, that uneasy look as if he was afraid of who he was touching.

Marco's stomach churned. He did not know what he did to earn that expression. He sat up and rubbed at his clothes, frowning when he saw the dark shirt and gloves. "Marco." Confused brown eyes met golden topaz, snatching away his attention before he noticed the blood. Jean breathed out and tugged him into a hug. Marco did not understand a single thing that was happening, but he was not going to turn away a bone-crushing hug from anyone-especially Jean.

He wrapped his arms around him to return the embrace as Jean buried his face in in the place where Marco's neck met his nape. He could feel each warm breath tickling his freckled skin, and he could feel the way it almost sounded like it was wavering, shaking like Marco's heart beating so hard in his chest. "Hey..."

Neither Marco nor Jean were explaining anything-not that Marco could, but Jean was acting like something was seriously wrong. The only other time Jean had hugged him like this was after Marco had his breakdown during exam season and ultimately told Jean about his nightmares and how he missed his family so badly that sometimes he did not understand why only he survived out of them all (Jean never spoke again of peeling the aspirin and sleep aides from Marco's fingers nor did Marco ever bring up the topic again).

"I'll tell you later. Let's just get back to your place," Jean said unwrapping his arms and inconspicuously slipping a bloodied knife into his pocket. Marco just nodded and stood up. He dusted himself off, and then he held out his hand for Jean to take.

Jean only hesitated a little before taking it.

He really hoped Marco did not notice.

A shock of electricity shot up his legs when he stood, the limbs having fallen asleep in their disuse. He moved them some, stretching out the muscles before walking ahead. He could feel Marco watching him, but there was no chill up his spine this time, only the ever-present feeling of a gaze.

Jean was an idiot for not noticing before.

Jean started walking first, Marco alongside of him now looking away and perplexed at his hands. He had blacked out before, but he always woke up in his regular clothes or pyjamas. He did not even remember buying these. The leather felt well worn between his hands, moving easily with each clench and unclench of his fist. They had been used a lot before, and they were his size.

He turned his gaze to Jean, surprised to catch eyes staring right back. They both looked away, and Marco felt like his heart was jumpstarted a little too soon, back to beating like hummingbird wings nervously in his chest. He bit the inside of his cheek. It was a habit he developed when Jean noticed him worrying his lip-the inside of his cheek was much more subtle and sent the same faint pain to his system to keep him grounded. He hated to let his mind be carried away to fantasies he knew would never come true.

There was a word for what he was feeling-"la douleur exquise." He remembered it from the bit of French he had forced himself to learn for Jean's sake when Jean told him they were going to spend the holidays at his house since Marco had no real house (no home, no anything) to return to. Those days always made him happy.

Now there was just an ache where those memories were supposed to be. He took off the gloves, suddenly hating the feeling of leather on them and the black turtleneck he was in. It all felt stifling, and he just wanted to hide out in his shower and then cuddle with Jeanne until the feeling went away.

He tugged at his turtleneck as Jean used his spare key to unlock the apartment. Jeanne was the first to greet them, crying out for food and weaving between their legs. Marco lifted up the cat who was growing a little tubby from his spoiling, but that just gave him more of her to love. He carried her to the kitchen, letting Jean just make himself at home. He fed the cat before slipping off the turtleneck and depositing it in the dirty laundry, but he kept on the dark skinny jeans clinging to his legs and the combat boots. There were leather garters clinging to his legs and going through the trouble of undoing them just did not seem worth it. He slid down on the floor next to the cat as she ate, stroking her fur idly as he looked at the ceiling.

Marco did not like these moments.

The moments when he felt so empty that it would swallow him. The moments when he realised there was something missing, but whatever it was just would not come to him. No. He would not let it come to him. Whatever it was felt dark and overbearing, and he was scared to think about it too much, like if he let whatever that Something was in he would become the Nothing it was.

Marco sometimes told Jeanne these things because she always listened. Even when he did not say any of his thoughts out loud. "Jeanne, I'm scared," Marco murmured as the cat finished eating and settled into the comfortable warmth of his lap. He suddenly remembered Jean was there when he heard footsteps. The two-toned haired man just slid to the floor next to him and handed Marco the aspirin before taking two himself. Marco's eyes flitted to the bandage on his hand. He frowned.

"You didn't burn yourself with coffee again did you?"

Marco's eyes travelled up from the hand and to the split in Jean's lap. It focused there, on the forming blood. "... I thought you stopped fighting?"

Jean nodded and reached a hand to touch the wound. It stung some. The blood was hardening, but when he pulled his hand back the flakes were bright red rather than crimson. "I did too," Jean said softly, not looking at Marco.

There was another silence in between them. Not the pleasant ones they usually had, but a heavy, stifling one that weighed down on the both of them. Marco was pretending not to notice by petting his cat, and Jean was trying not to show how scared he was too. Jeanne, he's not the only one scared right now.

"Jean."

Jean looked over, meeting Marco's brown eyes. "... I was doing something when I sleepwalked... wasn't I?"

Yeah, you've been murdering people all over Trost.

"Not really. You went to a bar or something."

Marco scrunched his nose. "Really?" he said and sighed softly. "I'm going to have to see a specialist or something. That, or you're going to have to babysit me." He laughed at his own words, pushing aside some of the heaviness. He felt like a weight was growing between them, and he could feel a lie in Jean's words. Jean was hiding something. Marco's thoughts spiralled down. What if he said something when he was half-asleep? He often did not remember his dreams, but... He tried to pick through his brain only to worsen his headache. Marco sighed again, a little more heavy. He rested his head back against the cupboard and closed his eyes.

.

Jean looked over when he heard Marco's breath soften. He stood up carefully. He was not the best cop, but he knew he should get the fuck out of here. He was having a hard time staying composed. He needed a cigarette, but Marco never allowed him to smoke in the apartment. Said he didn't want nicotine stinking up his walls like it did Jean's clothes.

He glanced over at Marco, and he realised he could not just leave. He swallowed and walked to Marco's bedroom. It was clean, per usual, with some posters on the walls and a bunch of old grandma quilts on the bed Marco had probably bought from a yard sale. He walked over to the dresser and found a scrapbook. He remembered when he saw Marco first making it he had laughed and called him a dork, but he honestly thought it was cute how Marco would take pictures of them and paste them into a book, carefully sandwiching the pages with wax paper to keep them safe. He turned and could see Marco's scrawled handwriting on every page, describing the events and what they were doing. There was Jean passed out on Marco's bed because he was too drunk to remember which side of the room belonged to him. There was Marco trying to hide his face, and the pillow in Marco's hand Jean had seen a little too late. Both of them at a school football game, Marco's freckles hiding behind face paint and Jean hiding behind a scowl that was looking more and more like a smile the longer he stared at it.

A bunch of photo booth pictures from when they went to every town fair together before Jean started dating. Jean with his glasses on over a textbook. Marco and his braces because his teeth were so bad that he still needed them despite starting college.

Jean had teased him about it unmercifully.

He had been the biggest asshole in college.

He was pretty sure, judging from today's events, he still was.

Jean traced a finger over a photograph. It was from college. They were in Marco's bed (Jean could tell because the sheets were this vibrant shit that was a total eyesore for anyone who woke up with a hangover), and they were both facing the camera. Jean was apparently asleep against Marco as the other took a shameless and candid picture of them. They had always ended up in the same bed together at least once a week. Whether it was Jean's nightmares, Marco's, or simply "you have a softer mattress," they always ended up there. Sometimes Jean would wake up aching and not remembering the vital 'why's or ever-confuddling 'how's, but Marco had never told him more than he should stop drinking when he had class the next morning.

He should have questioned the sad look in Marco's eyes then.

"Oh, you're still here," came Marco's voice tired and still sleep ridden. Jean looked over at him. Marco's hair stuck out in every direction, tousled from sleep, and his chest was still bare,a constellation of freckles stretched across the brown skin. Marco slid onto his bed and stretched out on the comforter. His back arched, knocking out some kinks, before he settled back down with a tired and satisfied groan. Jean's tawny eyes stayed on him, but he caught himself and averted his attention the scrapbook. He placed it back on the desk. He should probably go, but Marco's words still echoed in his head.

"Yeah... Planned on staying the night."

A laugh left Marco's lips, but it was tired just like his body. "Like in college huh? We're not kids any more Jean." He was speaking lightly, but Jean could hear a hint of seriousness behind his words.

Jean pretended to only hear the light tones. He smiled, that half smile of his which bordered between a smile and a smirk. It came automatically to him really. "We weren't kids then either," he said as he flopped down on the bed. "Besides, you said you needed a babysitter right?"

Marco laughed, this time the tiredness seeming to ebb away some to show genuine happiness. "Touché. Don't know if you're the best choice 'though."

"Heh, you're right. I'm the worst."

There was a moment of silence-no, an eternity of silence-before Marco moved to tug the blankets over them. His comforter was heavy, and he always had the habit of pulling it over their heads. Jean remembered that from college. It was like he was secluding them both inside a tent made for Just Them. Just Them in their little blanket world where the monsters stayed out and didn't live in a hidden part of an aching heart and best friends stayed together instead of pushing each other away. It was his fault for pushing Marco away. All of this was his fault.

"Hey, remember that time your cousins came over to our dorm and completely wrecked the place?" Marco said with a soft smile, completely crashing through Jean's negative thoughts. "You were practically red trying not to yell at them until I took pity on you and talked everyone into Super Mario."

"Super Marco you mean," Jean replied remembering how Marco was remarkably good at that game. It was what happened to foster kids who mostly played around with old video games and in arcades.

"Yeah. Super Marco and LuiJean."

"Oh God. Please don't try to bring that back."

Marco laughed. "LuiJean," he repeated teasingly.

Jean groaned and hit Marco's cheek lightly with his uninjured hand. "Go to fucking sleep already you big dork. You're tired right?"

Marco sighed and muttered protests under his breath, but he was tired. He was already forgetting to keep a little distance between them, closing it by moving the few centimetres it took for him to be pressed to Jean. He breathed out and closed his eyes. He could not make out whose heartbeat belonged to whom, and for a moment he allowed himself to foolishly believe they could be Something one day. Not the Nothing he knew they were.

.

Marco woke up with Jeanne on his stomach and an emptiness on the other side of his bed and in his chest. He stared at the cold side of his bed before standing up. The emptiness had pooled down to his stomach. At least, he thought so when he felt it ache, but then he remembered that he had not eaten since the lunch. No. Before then. He lost his appetite at lunch. He headed to the kitchen, pausing when he saw a bowl and cereal out. He could see a poorly folded (more like crumpled) note in the black and white bowl and picked it up. He recognised the sloppy, scrawling blocks of letters the instant he saw it.

hey made you breakfast actually eat something
-your babysitter

He smiled some, the emptiness falling away as he decided he would rather microwave some bacon with how hungry he was. Still, the thought was nice. He could feel the headache faintly there, but he just swallowed Aleve and aspirin down with his orange juice. He sighed some and lay down. He was going to have to go to work today. He was not looking forward to it.

He was practically sulking as he slipped the bacon into his mouth (and he did decide that maybe he could stomach some dry cereal too). Usually, he looked forward to seeing Jean, but...

He decided to shovel another handful of cereal into his mouth, not even bothering with the bowl as he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity.

The headache was back with a vengeance.

Marco sighed and pushed himself up from the table. He put everything away and washed the dishes before heading to his bathroom. He did not even wait for the water to heat up this time as he stepped inside. He cringed at how cold it was, but he counted the seconds for it to heat, to cool his thoughts and hopefully relieve the headache.

The water went from cold to warm to cold again, but the headache did not even budge. He sighed softly as he stepped out and decided to deal with it until he could take his next dosage of Aleve and aspirin. He could live with it for now. He had dealt with worse before. It was just kind of dull, throbbing ache in his left temple... Or his right. He was not completely certain.

He sung softly in a way to outdrown it (was that possible? Marco hoped it was.). He hummed the tune when he did not know the words. "Dire straits and dirty consequences... An invitation to your personal disaster...," he sung softly as he slipped on a pair of jeans despite how tempted he was to wear pyjamas to the morgue. It was not like his supervisor would care much as long as he did his job correctly. "I'll take you deeper and strip you of salvation. It's a crusade to bring you to your knees." On went the Infected Mushrooms t-shirt. "I'm taking you down with me... 'Til you... Can't sleep. Can't breathe." The black sweater with homemade holes in the sleeves to put his thumbs through. He hummed the rest of the words as he slipped on his weathered trainers.

It almost worked. He almost had outdrowned the headache. He slipped in his earbuds, singing softly as he made his way down the street to the bus stop. It was cool but humid, such contradicting weather only possible in Trost. He thought of Jinae. How things had looked so pretty when the flowers of their garden grew, and how one day everything was gone. The memory had faded now, bits of patchwork Marco could not quite put together.

He tried to stitch them together once, but he learnt it was obviously something he did not want to know. His mind would not allow him access, and he ended up asking Jean to help him with homework he obviously understood, just wanting to drown in the other to block out everything else. He sighed as he remembered it, the music failing to help him forget everything.

Marco turned it up to the max as he stepped onto the bus and slid into his seat. He focused on not remembering. It worked for the most part. He remained somewhat out of it the entire ride. He shifted when it parked at his stop and stepped off to head to the morgue. Marco was relieved to not be greeted with any new bodies today. Just the old ones broken and full of stones. He stepped over to examine the corpses, to compare their similarities. They both had bruising on their necks, the gloved prints heavy and bruising the waxy skin and permanently colouring it violet in death. He could see some of the bones had been snapped in their neck from the sheer force of it. He wished he could see the organs to tell if the strangling had been what led to their death. They could have been alive...

He brushed his hand through the brown hair, letting it cascade through his fingers.

I hope they were.

The thought snapped him to attention. He could hear gasps and felt fingernails on his skin. His breath shook, and he backed away from the examination table. The girl's eyes in his mind's view were full of begging life, eyebrows twitched up in fear, mouth hung agape and gasping in vain for air as a scalpel dug into her abdomen...

Marco ran to the trashcan to vomit out the oh-so-considerate breakfast Jean had made for him.

What was that? Oh god, what the hell was that?

He shook as he tried to calm down. The deep breaths weren't working. The thoughts and images raced through his mind, juxtaposed like vintage photographs with white-washed colours and blurry faces. The only thing clear were the eyes, and, god, he could hear them. He could hear them clear as day in his head. Their desperate pants and gasps. The way it sounded when their nails tried to cling to brick, to fabric, to something to hold them there before they weren't, before they were gone and dead. He was there. He had to be. He just couldn't remember exactly. It wouldn't come to him.

His eyes burned, a slow burn right behind his eyelids, and a dry laugh came out of his lips. It disappeared as fast as it came, and Marco sat on the floor with his lab coat fallen undone partway and head pressed back against the frigid morgue walls. He stared at nothing, stared at everything. He was the Nothing and the Something, and it hurt just as much as the headaches. He thought his chest ached before, but now it was overbearing. He let it spread through him as he sat there, standing up after several minutes on dead legs and walking back to the examination table.

After that, he could think clearly. The headache was gone allowing him to dig through his muddled thoughts some. His heart hurt, but that was okay. It had always been that way hadn't it? He was Marco B. Team, the fallback for when Jean's Plan A didn't work. The person who was there to kiss him better because he was 'just that nice of a person' even when he knew that romantic feelings would never be tangled with any of what he, what they, had done.

He pulled all the rocks out of her chest and put them in a jar for evidence after taking photos. He busied himself as he waited, that ever longing, ever desperate ache just seeping from his heart and into every bit of blood in his veins. He never had to wait long. Jean was there in a few minutes, and he looked up at him and smiled.

"Hey."

It didn't sound right. Jean noticed it before Marco. He was looking into those brown eyes and the light had dimmed. It was there, but it was clouded up with that same storm he had seen the night before. The smile was right, but there was something so very wrong Jean could taste it, clogging his throat like cotton balls.

"... Hey." It took him a century to reply. Marco was staring at him, smile still there but eyes even dimmer. Maybe it was just the dark lighting of the morgue. It had to be.

"I found some evidence for your case to go for examination," he said looking away as if to avoid the awkwardness he felt. "Just the stones and maybe match the glove prints."

"... I'm dropping the case."

Marco nearly dropped the glass jar. In fact, he did. It tinkled against the metal table, luckily not breaking thanks to its density. He turned around slowly, jar in hands. "... Uh huh," he said. He raised a brow. Jean was not one to just give up. Well, he was, but his whole career was riding on this particular case. He could be demoted, or even worse, the case could be given to another person in the force-like Eren Yeager. He knew Jean could not live with that.

"Yeah. Getting... stressful, and I need to plan the wedding."

Jean never said the right thing. The jar fell again, this time to the floor, splintering to various bits and pieces and scattering bouncing stones.

"Uh huh."

Marco did not even move to pick them up. He just stared at the debris on the floor, as if he was staring at the fragments of something else other than the evidence.

Where is my mind?

The thought came as he continued to stare at the broken jar. It was several minutes before he looked up with a smirking smile playing at his lips. "I'll help with the cake design," he said as he bent down to clean up the glass. His smile and movements looked as broken as the jar pieces he collected into his latex gloved hands.

( Or maybe it was his heart he was picking up.
Maybe his mind. )

Marco decided as much as he loved Jean Kirstein, he hated him. He hated the way Jean never thought through what he said. He hated the dumb undercut Jean never seemed to grow out of. He hated the way Jean would come over and just look at him, studying him with those stupid, enticing tawny eyes that looked golden amber in the summer's evening sun. He hated the stupid, ugly plaid button-ups that Jean wore on his casual days. He hated the way Jean could never quite read his mood or thoughts. He hated the way Jean made him sick. He hated the way Jean could be right at all the wrong times and wrong all of the rest. He hated that Jean was a terrible liar. Marco hated laughing with him, crying over him, smiling because he thought about him, falling apart when Jean wasn't there. Marco hated the way he was so desperately in love with someone who was getting married in a few months and moving from the city and leaving him behind.

Leaving him behind with a bunch of bittersweet memories that were like marshmallows filled with glass shards, sweet and deadly and always hurting when he tried to swallow them down. Leaving him with thoughts of romantic clichés that would never play out, stolen from the romantic comedies Jean only pretended not to like and Marco pretended to like more than he actually did. (It was like trading one fantasy for another really. The fictional love of the film matching the one running through his head.)

The glass shard was digging into Marco's palm, and he hurried to throw it away when he finally registered the sting.

"I mean, you don't have to help with the cake... I know you're stressed."

Jean seemed to catch on that he had fucked up. His mind just kept screaming how wrong this all was, and he just wanted to fix it. He wanted to put things together again, Marco back together again.

"I'm fine."

That was a lie, and they both knew it. However, what came as a surprise, was the way the lie slid so smoothly off of Marco's tongue. Marco had never been such a great liar before. Well, Jean had thought he hadn't been. Not when he was conscious of his lies.

Marco washed off his hand, put a Band-Aid on it, and slipped on new gloves in a matter of minutes. He went back to finishing the corpse. Marco just turned on the tape recorder, ignoring Jean completely. Jean frowned as he watched him move around smoothly yet robotically, as if on autopilot. Occasionally the scalpel would stab a bit too deeply, but other than that, the only sounds in the room were their breathing, Marco's voice speaking into the recorder, and metal music wafting from the speakers.

"I'll meet you for coffee," Jean said speaking over the Nine Inch Nails song playing from the speakers.

Marco nodded to his words, tweezers picking gravel out of the cadaver's scalp.

Plink.

One piece.

Plink.

Another.

Jean was out of the door by the dozenth one, not even seeing that Marco's smile had completely fallen into a frozen and impassive expression.

.

Jean was nervous as he waited for Marco to arrive. His tawny eyes stayed frozen on the cafe door, and his ears remained peeled for the ringing of the bell when it opened. His fingers drummed on his black coffee that was almost finished off. He nervously sipped at it, his sips increasing in frequency with each slow passing second Marco did not arrive.

He stood up to leave, jumping when he saw brown eyes on him. "You never were that patient," Marco teased as he sat back down. "I got held back by Hansi. They talk so much you know." He laughed with genuine amusement, but the uneasy feeling Jean had around him had not faded.

He played with his own coffee beverage, stirring it a little more than necessary before bringing it to his lips. "So are you really dropping the case?"

Jean looked over at him, seeing that Marco's gaze had not wavered at all. He was still staring dead at him, eyes peeking above his cup as he took one long and slow sip.

Jean found it impossible to look away again. He wet his lips some and drunk his coffee, throat dry. "... Yeah."

"Because of the wedding?"

"Yeah, and... it's getting a little stressful."

Marco hummed around his cup, seemingly concerned but not at the same time. Like he knew the real reason Jean wanted to drop the case. Maybe he did.

They sat in a tense and awkward silence.

"Before you move, let's hang out."

"When?"

"Today."

"But I'm not moving for a while... Like a month..."

"I know."

Jean just nodded and laughed softly. "Well, I am off today. Just wanted to see how the case was going. Before I left it."

"I don't have much to do either. We could go drinking." It was a dangerous invitation. Jean was a reckless drunk, acting on all of his desires just because he would forget the past mistakes in the morning. Marco could remember countless times he would have to help Jean find his wallet and keys because he could never where he left them (why his pants were off, why his hair was a mess, why his muscles ached-no, he could never remember a single thing).

Jean was dumb enough to accept. He wanted to forget. Needed to. The stress was eating at his very core. He did not want to keep noticing the way the way Marco's eyes dilated when they stared at him, or the way they seemed to fixate on him, staring at his movements and boring in.

That was how he ended up in Marco's apartment with a full bottle of candied vodka (Marco's choice), a bottle of gin (his choice), and a case of Budweiser (his choice again). Marco had added Skittles to his drink despite Jean jokingly tell him that all of his teeth were going to fall out. Marco only laughed and took his first sip from the bottle, the once clear beverage now coloured with a myriad of colours as the skin on the Skittles wore off.

Jean needed this. Marco needed it. They both needed to forget themselves for a little while.

Marco laid back on the couch with Jeanne on his stomach and Jean's hair tickling his legs from his place on the floor. Jean had already downed one can of beer. He forgot to use a coaster again, and Marco thought of the circle stain it would leave on the wooden coffee table. He also thought about how nice Jean's hair felt touching his skin. His flannel pyjama pants were well past thinning, and he could clearly feel how soft Jean's hair was through the fabric. Jean was nursing the second can gingerly, and Marco just took another sip of his vodka. He had not drunk much, but he was already hazy.

Marco was not sure if it was because of the alcohol or not. He just knew that he was trying to think, and thoughts filtered poorly. Suddenly the lips of the bottle weren't the only ones he wanted, but unlike Jean, he would remember the mistakes he made the next morning. He stuck to his bottle, forcing himself not to think for a little longer, to shove the thoughts back.

Jean was on his third can.

Jean was crawling onto the couch and curling into his side.

Marco was losing control, and he could not stand the proximity. The way Jean just did not care. He moved a little to look at Jean brush back his hair. He was on his fourth can. Jean used Marco as a headrest to keep his head up as he drunk. When he finished the can, he tossed it onto the coffee table with a plink and a plop, the can bouncing from the wood onto the carpet. Neither of them felt like standing to pick it up. Marco had undeniably drunk over his limit.

Jean sat on Marco's stomach and moved to kiss him. Not thinking. He wasn't thinking.

Marco snapped.
Broke.
Fell apart again.

The cracks in his heart cemented themselves with tar as he tugged Jean down for a rough kiss. He could not tell who he was any more. Only what he wanted and what he needed, and everything, absolutely everything was about Jean. About the cliché red string that Jean tried to sever with scissors made of commitments he couldn't keep and the distance both of them always ended up closing. Their mouths melded together. A taste Marco knew well, alcohol and poison and so very Jean. It was his favourite kind of bittersweet even if he could feel that aching rage grow larger and larger.

The couch creaked beneath them as they moved on it. Jeanne had disappeared, not liking the amount of movement and leaving them to their own devices. Marco was sinking lower and lower, deliciously lower. Jean's tongue intertwined with his after he nipped at his lip (or Jean bit at his-it was honestly too hard to tell). He did not even care how far he fell down into this hole, into himself, just that Jean was coming with him. If he fell, they fell together.

"Jean." The sweet despair was swallowing Marco whole. He could feel it, leaking into his veins, and he knew that the juxtaposed photographs in his memory were just that, fragments of things he did. Not someone else. Him. In all of his anger and aching powered by a restless heart. It did not want to be disguised any longer, and it was breaking the surface as the kiss turned a little vicious (but pleasurably so-Jean only gasped and whimpered rather than tell Marco to stop).

His name was a breath when it fell past Jean's panting lips and into his mouth and mingled with Jean's when Marco breathed it back. "I love you," Marco muttered so painfully clear in between their pants and the creaking of the ancient couch beneath them. "Don't leave me." Because Marco was not letting go. His eyes were dark from what Jean knew was the shade and angle, but he swore it was from something else. He could feel Marco's grip on him tightening, bruises forming beneath cinnamon brown fingers on apricot skin.

"I..."

"You can't leave me."

"I'll stay. I promise." Jean's words were slurred, but Marco had always been told that a drunk man tells no lies. He sighed softly in relief and bent down to kiss him again. Just as vicious as before, but the words, both said and unsaid, made it sweet. The most bitter coffee with a hint of maple syrup. When Jean ran his tongue across his bruised lips, Marco bit his rough enough to reopen the wound already there. He could taste the coppery, irony, metallic taste of Jean's blood on his tongue, mingling with the kiss, but he did not care.

He wanted all of him: mind, body, heart and spirit. Jean was matching his pressure, kissing Marco hard, despite the sting in his split lip. Marco's tongue pushed past the teeth between the lips moistened by the kiss to mingle with the other's. His fingers fell to touch along Jean's fringe and pushed it back revealing the darker roots. They tangled in the blond strands and yanked. He could practically hear Jean wince as a gasp left his lips.

Never let me go.

His mind whispered the words as he moved to take off Jean's shirt. He did not break the almost painfully too intense kiss as his hand moved up Jean's thighs and in between them to push apart his legs. Jean's hips sought out his touch with a slow roll as Jean leant his head back and groaned. Marco couldn't resist the temptation of grazing his mouth down his neck, harsh bites followed by teasing butterfly kisses. He broke the skin enough to leave the imprint of his teeth. Jean flinched at the rough treatment and reached to grip his shoulders. He could feel Jean's dull nails biting the skin, the way Jean stammered out his name into the air to mingle with panting breaths-their breaths.

Jean moaned, tawny eyes wide and pupils dilated, as Marco's hand pressed against the growing erection in his pants. He dragged his nails purposely down Jean's thighs when he pushed them down. The hiss Jean released and the faint pink marks he left sent pleasure through him. There was no way Marco was going to let Jean forget this time. Jean was going to breathe him in. He would remember the way his fingers pressed into every sensitive dip of his skin and between his lithe muscles, the way Marco's teeth bit into those same parts. Jean was going to remember Marco in his bones, in his flesh, ingrained in his brain and veins.

"Suck."

Marco's fingers pressed against Jean's lips, pushing past them some. He could see the hesitation in Jean's gaze before he complied and took them into his mouth. He watched Jean's eyes slide closed as he concentrated on wetting the fingers. Marco's pants grew tighter as he pressed them in deeper. Jean gagged a little, and his eyes watered. He pulled back with a gasp as Marco inspected his slicked fingers (just a glance) before sliding them down to Jean's entrance. He could not hesitate before slipping one inside. Jean's hands trembled on his shoulders as he moved the finger to stretch him. "Relax," he said moving his mouth against Jean's. His voice was silky and smooth as he gave out the command. Jean shivered at the tone and relaxed as Marco pushed in knuckle deep and stretched him. He was just getting used to the first when he felt the second slip into him.

Jean stopped counting after that. It was already hard enough to focus on keeping his breathing relaxed with the state his mind was in. He rolled his hips against the fingers, however many there were, to get some sort of friction. A noise broke past Jean's lips, breathless and begging, and Marco loved that he was the cause of it, eliciting it with certain movements of his knuckles. He pulled out his fingers and looked down at Jean, committing his dishevelled appearance to memory before he lifted Jean from the couch to carry him to the bedroom. Jean did not seem gung-ho with the idea, but he was more satisfied when he saw Marco reach for the black bottle of lubricant in his bedside drawer.

He was even more satisfied when Marco pushed inside, the lubricant and stretching making him slip inside easily. Jean could feel him filling him in all the right places, the alcohol and lubricant numbing the ache of being thrust into all at once. He bit at his lip and rolled his hips to tell Marco he could move, sliding his arms to touch the brown skin of the man above him. It was sticky and slick with sweat beneath his fingers as they fell into a pace. Jean's fingers nestled in Marco's hair and tangled in it. His other hand scraped at Marco's back, leaving marks that made the other groan against his skin. He felt like he was tumbling down into something, and Marco was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.

Each thrust sent Jean into the mattress, and Marco had to reach with one hand to somewhat still the headboard from knocking against the wall. Marco's mouth was on his, vulgar noises melting into their sloppy and brutal kiss. Jean could hear Marco speaking, but he could not hear the words. It was like he was not really talking to him but... The thoughts evaporated as Jean's legs shook around Marco's waist and he arched to press them even closer. The words were white noise, a static chant in his ears mingling with his moans and the sound of skin slapping skin. There was also the ever-present sound of the bed creaking.

When Jean came he could make out his name on Marco's lips along with a three-worded phrase reserved for bad rom-coms and Nora Roberts novels. It leaked into Jean's ears and into his mind.

"I love you Jean."

.

Marco needed to buy some sun-blocking curtains. He came to this epiphany every time he woke up to sunbeams stabbing through a hangover migraine. He blinked at the morning sun and moved to pull his blanket over his head only to discover someone else already had stolen them all. He sighed and sat up, recognising the leg that was pushed out from the coverlets. Jean always remembered to hide his head but never his (noticeably bare) legs. Marco reached to run his fingers through his dishevelled black hair as his mind tried to drag him through yesterday's mistakes.

Strangely, he did not feel any regret, only relief. He cracked his muscles and walked to the kitchen. His back stung from the nail marks there. He reached to touch them, and a light smile caught his lips at the memory. A soft laugh escaped from him,uncontrolled and surprising. A thump from the bedroom interrupted Marco's laughter, drawing his attention toward the cracked bedroom door. He walked slowly, able to hear the most colourful mutterings wafting from the bundled heap on the floor. Jeanne seemed to be the cause of Jean's fall for the words he could make out the most were "fucking demon cat." He crouched down and knelt down in front of Jean. He pushed the blankets off of his head and could make out dishevelled hair and a grouchy scowl.

"I need to stop fucking drinking."

A soft laugh left Marco's lips again. "Me too."

Jean nodded and sat up. His legs felt rubbery to walk on, and his back hurt almost as much as his head. He reached up remembering the split in his lip. The blood had crusted over it again. He thought he had cleaned it, but it must have reopened during the night. Marco was watching him as he inspected himself. Marco finally broke the silence.

"You remember?"

There was a way he said the words that had Jean's stomach lurching from more than the alcohol still in his system.

"I..."

"Jean."

Jean looked up at him. The smile was gone. There was a serious expression on Marco's face. He leant forward and lightly licked Jean's lips before kissing him. Jean almost shot back into the bed.

"You promised to stay with me."

Marco's hand trailed down his neck as he spoke, fingers the colour of cafe au lait tracing the bite marks and dark contusions he had made on Jean's skin.

"I think it might be best if you left me 'though."

That was not what Jean expected Marco to say. Marco's fingers had moved to play with the nape of his neck. Jean was still tense, but he leant back into it, drawn to the touch.

"Back in college, we shared a dorm, but you didn't tell me you had bad dreams too until our sophomore year. When you told me that, I was really happy that you could confide in me. That I could be your friend."

Marco was quiet. The entire room was quiet. His fingers were now playing in Jean's hair. It felt like he was combing through them.

"I stopped wanting to be your friend in junior year. I wanted to be more than that. I felt like I could be until you met Sasha. I hate Sasha. I like her, but I hate her."

Marco's other hand moved to cup Jean's injured hand. The bandage had come undone.

"Whenever I'm with you, I don't want to let you go again. I didn't want to ever hurt you. I was scared if I didn't hold back and restrain myself, you'd run away from me. You have before."

Jean broke it off after college. Jean didn't return his calls. Marco did not help by not pushing it, but why would Marco go where he wasn't wanted?

"... Sorry." It was a pitiful apology, not even breaking a whisper. Marco could barely hear it even with how close they were. The fingers of one of Marco's hands intertwined with Jean's, while the other's twisted themselves in the lightest part of his hair.

"Don't be. You shouldn't have shown up in the morgue. I'm afraid. I don't want to hurt you, restrain you, but I also have this strong urge to lock you away to keep you from leaving me again. I can't let you leave me again."

Marco was not making any sense. He was talking in a rambling monologue Jean just could not grasp. Jean tried to make out what he was saying, but no matter how hard he tried he could not understand it-whether that was due to his still raging hangover he did not know. The words were spoken with such clarity form Marco's lips, but they muddled in Jean's thoughts and in his ears. Jean could feel words caught in his throat and opened his mouth to say them. He felt like a beached fish struggling to breathe out of its natural element. This wasn't his natural element.

"It's okay."

It wasn't, and it wasn't what Marco want to hear. Jean just did not know what else to say. He did not want to go although he knew he needed to. He wondered if there was a name for the ambivalent feeling in his chest.

"I know it will be."

Jean did not understand what Marco meant by those words until he felt a sharp pain in between his ribs, slicing down. He gasped out in pain and quickly moved to grab onto something, onto anything. His fingers only clawed at carpet and burnt almond skin. "Marc-o." His words were broken as they came out of his lips. He could feel the feeling of shock settling through him again but giving way to agonising pain as the knife dug past muscle, as deep as it could go without hitting that one organ that was now beating so fast Jean thought it would collapse.

Jean could see calmness Marco's face. He could see Marco smiling as he clenched Jean's injured hand.

"You're not leaving me again Jean."

And then Marco pushed down.

.

Jean was still warm when Marco crawled into bed beside him. He had found the aspirin and the Aleve along with medication he didn't even know he still had. He was trembling, but that was probably from the aspirin contradicting with one of the NSAIDs eating at his stomach lining.

He wrapped an arm around the figure next to him and curled up. He had made sure to clean up all the blood, to make Jean look all right again before letting each powdery pill slip down his own throat with bottled waters. He closed his eyes and sighed softly. He could feel his eyes burning. He was tired. He was so tired. He was not sure if he was still shaking or if the Hydroxyz Pam had begun to take effect.

He could hear his breathing slow as he fell deeper and deeper down into the blackness behind his eyelids. He counted his breaths as he gave in to the drowsiness and promise of the most peaceful kind of sleep.

One.
Two.
...

---

le amour comme les animaux,
nous avons noyé
dans ce amour.

tu as dans mes os,
tu as pénétres dans le courant sanguin.
je bus dans toi, mais je n'évacue pas.