Inside the walls they could have had some semblance of a normal life. Found a shred of happiness. They could have understood what it meant to feel safe, even if it was a lie. Jean had these moments when he was wrecked with nerves to the point where he couldn't eat or sleep. Marco got him through them. He was comforted when his hand accidentally bumped his, when his fingers lingered on his jacket sleeve, when he smiled a smile he should have outgrown years ago (the smile of someone who hadn't seen war), or when he made a stupid joke.
Jean hid his feelings with a smirk or a cruel remark, but Marco saw past his biting wit and calm eyes, saw him done to his shivering bones and his terrified heart. Jean couldn't hide from him, even if he wanted to. Where was he going to run? He shouldn't have let him in. He shouldn't have fallen in love with him. His shoulda-woulda-coulda's were as tall as he was.
Jean never wanted to be a hero. He never wanted to die for someone else, but he would have for Marco. He went to sleep knowing his only friend was gone…dead. He saw his face in his sleep. His cheeks were sunken in, his skin sallow, the kindness gone from his eyes. He smelled worse than he looked. Jean began to forget what he looked like when he was alive. In his dreams, if they could be called dreams, he mourned him. He apologized that he had left him and that he had died alone and scared, that Marco was dead and he wasn't and any world that cruel and unfair was made as punishment for man like him. He apologized over and over until he woke up in a cold sweat.
There were a few minutes when he woke up where he forgot that Marco was dead. He looked over at the next bed for him, called his name softly until it came back to him. He lived for those moments when he forgot. He was a coward. He was fine being a coward if it meant staying alive. If it meant never having to lose anyone he loved again.