"Shush," the freckled man said, although he knew he wasn't being silent either. Nails dug into his hips and his breath came out in soft huffs.

Jean looked up at the other, watching him ride him. He was called horse face, but he didn't mind it when Marco rode him like one. Plus, he was so fucking tight. His grip on his lover tightened, looking over his body. He had exactly 238 freckles on him. He was restless one night and somehow, he had managed to count them all. And right now, all of his freckles looked perfect in the dull moonlight.

It was times like this, both of them were thankful to have found a spare bedroom with a window. The small amount of natural light allowed them to worship each other in ways they had grown accustomed to.

"Ah, fuck," Jean grunted, hearing the other gasp his name. Marco was too hot. He leaned up and kissed the freckled man, their tongues messily brushing against each other, just like their sweaty skin was. Pulling away, he huffed once more, trying to keep all moans in. "Shit, Marco, you're tight."

Marco's cheeks flushed again, his hair sticking to his face. They had a mission tomorrow and this was their third time. Or was it more? They had both lost count. But even so, Marco swore he could hear Jean gasp that phrase and not have a reaction. Guess he still blushed. His tan hands grabbed at Jean's shoulders, suddenly going a bit slower. He was scared. They both were. Shit, they could die at any moment tomorrow and they both knew that.

Both of their gazes softened, realizing they were both thinking of the mission tomorrow. Marco had to pull away and Jean was thankful. They couldn't do this. They needed to just hold each other for a moment. As their breathing slowed, Jean began to play with Marco's damp hair. He knew they'd start up again and finish soon, but he just needed to hold Marco. He needed to remember this moment, engrave it into his mind. He'd engrave it on his flesh if he had to.

"I love you," he said, nuzzling into the other. Why wasn't he getting a response? What was wrong? Jean pulled back and chuckled softly. "Okay, Marco. Quit faking like you're asleep," the man said in a soft, light tone. Marco was playing.

He turned his lover towards him and his eyes widened. Marco was dead? Since when was he standing in the street?

"Do you know this man?" He heard, just barely registering it.

His face, oh god. His face was gone. A giant chunk of it was just bitten away. And not even for food. Just for some fun.

His eyes suddenly opened and he realized his cheeks were wet. Jean's hands balled up into fists, a quiet sob escaping him. Why did Marco still haunt his dreams? Why? He tossed and turned, biting his lower lip.

Marco was dead.