"Jean."
At the mention of his name, he only stirs lightly, moving his head a little upwards and feeling the soft, warm fabric of the pillow rub warmly against his cheek. His consciousness is fading, an endless sight of black peering at him from underneath his eyelids as he can feel himself slowly lulling towards sleep. He mutters a low grumble under his breath—under little consciousness—as a meager, heartful response to the call of his name. He would say more, he thinks to himself fleetingly, but it just feels too good right now.
"Wow, you must be really tired, aren't you?" Jean hears, but both the laugh and the words enter his mind—slip through his ears—like an echo, loud and reverberating within the abyss of his head. They're bouncing back and forth in his head and they're staying there until his finally falls asleep. He can only reckon that his mind probably likes the sound of this person's voice too and it makes him grin lightly even though every other muscle in his body is just about numbing themselves down into stone.
All of a sudden, he can feel a hand land on the top of his head. It spikes his nerves a bit; he didn't expect the surprise one bit. The shock keeps coming when he feels that hand, that familiar, comforting hand, run through his hair as though it's something he wants.
And it is; Jean can't help but admit that he likes the soothing comfort that he gets from feeling this person playing with his hair. He likes the how this person's body being next him, as he falls into vulnerability—falls into slumber and a world laden with dreams or nightmares—can make him feel safe. He likes that a lot.
"Are you asleep yet, Jean? Say something if you're not."
There's that laugh again, and Jean could feel the corner of his lips twitch into a smile again as he inhales a huge, deep breath, one that fills his lungs with a kind of fluttering goodness, and then exhales it out with a familiar sense of relief and 'hallelujah, this is heaven.'
This; this is what he loves.
Then, out of nowhere, he feels a dip, a strange fall on his side that makes him feel a little nerved. The hand that was running through his hair is no longer there on his head, no longer caressing him with gentle touches that tickle him softly. The body of warmth that had been by his side, the owner of the voice that makes him feel like he's floating on a cloud, is leaving him, leaving his side to an empty cold that doesn't feel right.
"Okay…" Jean can hear the other speak softly; he's bordering on the edge of sleep and consciousness. Yet, the loss of the other's body makes his eyebrow crinkle. "I can go and finish up on those reports—"
The hand that is running through his hair is no longer there and that same body of warmth that his own self can't seem to forget is leaving his side.
Before his mind even begins to form coherent thoughts, he shoots his hand out, not quite where to grab, but just blindly looking. Jean feels the grainy fabric of a polo shirt in his touch and soon hears a surprised gawk from the side. Even though his mind and body are numbed with sleep and exhaustion, he opens his eyes nonetheless, his vision groggy and blurred.
His mouth makes the next effort, his mind trying to pull itself together. He thinks it's enough when he manages a croaky, "Don't leave" with as much of a focused look that he can muster in his eyes. And with a little bit strength, he grounds under his breath, "Marco."
A surprised look from Marco meets his gaze, the male blinking at him with a confused tilt of the head. Although he keeps the sight safe in his mind, Jean doesn't focus on it too much, just lets his body fall back onto the bed like a rock, his eyelids fluttering wildly, and a deep breath pushing out of his nostrils. He lets out a light 'hmph,' barely audible to Marco's ears, and just keeps his hand still gripping onto Marco's shirt.
He lets Marco take a hint without doing anymore, and he's glad that the male knows him more than he knows himself.
"What is it?" Jean hears Marco laugh, and through a peek from under his eyelids, he can see the male cupping a hand over mouth just to keep from bursting out too loudly. "Jean?"
He can feel his grip being released from Marco's shirt, and soon enough, a dip on the bed returns—Marco's warm body returns to his side. He rolls his shoulders for a little bit, releasing the tension, and then makes his way to fixing his position again.
This time, however, Jean feels a spout of selfishness in his bones and traps Marco's leg by placing his head onto the male's lap. There's a low rumble that Jean could hear coming from Marco and he can only guess that he's being laughed at again.
He snorts—if only to just distract from it.
"Are you trying to trap me here, Jean?" Marco leans down, whispering into his ear. The closeness—the feel of Marco's breath on his skin—tickles him, but he doesn't pay much attention to it. Marco's hand is back on his head, running long fingers through the locks of his hair. "Why would you do that?"
He's too hypnotized by everything to answer right away, too mesmerized by the comfort seeping into his tired bones and aching head. There are times when even he feels tired, much too tired to keep a straight face or keep a chin up when he walks. There are times when he it's a little bit tiring by the time the day comes to an end, with the world still keeping tabs on him even when the lights are all out. His energy never fails to be drained, to be sucked right out of his bones.
However, when it comes down to this, to feeling this warm comfort from someone he cares about as he falls into sleep, he feels safe, he feels at home. And he can still muster up even a little bit more energy.
"Stay here," Jean breathes, low and hopeful.
He'll get his energy back to tip-top shape in the morning.
This, he promises.