A/N

This is a JeanMarco Christmas special. I've only been writing for one year, and I haven't been reading enough to discern any of my mistakes (though I'm trying). Also, this is based off of the song, "Baby Please Come Home." I hope you enjoy! 3

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly fala-"

I slam the off button, shutting the wretched contraption up. But as the room descended into silence, I realized how much more suffocating the reticence is. I climb back on the bed, one foot after the other, and return to my initial position, where I curled my legs to my chest, and tightly wrapped my arms around them. I leave the blanket shuffled up into a disorganized lump of cloth to the side. I'm not cold anyway.

If this whole night is described as a race, then depression would be the car that's catching up to me, and I would be the one losing the battle. I'm not even motivated to pull the covers overtop my body.

Besides the tiny tree on my desk, everything in the house has been turned off. It's dark, and I prefer it that way - made my surroundings calm, made me concentrate a little harder, made the sounds a little softer. Even with the minimal amount of Christmas lights shining through the slats, the atmosphere is forlorn, but then again, I know that it's better to feel what I'm feeling rather than avoiding it.

As far as I know, I'm a nictophile.

Funny how darkness becomes my friend during the times I need to look to the light.

'This is Christmas,' they said.

'Oh, where's your Christmas spirit?" They asked.

'It only comes once in a year. Celebrate it. Have fun,' they said.

The only answer I have to that would be a no. The joyful, cordial attitude was what initially possessed me, but not anymore.

It was when I heard the news this morning. Then the 'Merry' in the phrase, 'Merry Christmas' seemed nonexistent. After that, it seemed as if my light switch went to off, as if the happy part of me died along with him.

I decided to mourn for the rest of the day. Christmas dinner was left on the table, untouched. I was well aware that with the amount of time it took to get everything done, it was both a waste of my effort and my time. But to put it in perspective, I think this whole holiday was. All that anticipation and patience it took for me to wait that long was for nothing; a waste. And no, I wasn't excited because it was Christmas. I was excited because Marco was finally coming home.

My vision focuses on a picture resting atop of a desk. It depicted happier times, a happier Christmas. There are other pictures like it, some more treasured than others, but each of them are framed and placed around the house. Now, when I inhale, it's as if my lungs choke on every painful reminder he leaves behind. My heart fluctuates to the thought of him and everything we had. Sometimes, my eyes stutter, but tears replace words and the clarity of my sight replaces incoherency.

My mind is unlike my physical self. It's similar to a virused computer, and it brings a relentless glitch to my perception of reality. It doesn't want to believe that he's gone, so it replays memories of us, and hopes that I buy into the illusion.

His arms still ghost around my body, his lips still brush my neck, his words still whisper into my ear, his smell still lingers between my thighs, his freckles still reminds me of stars, his smile still inspires me to do the same, and Marco is still by my side.

"This isn't Christmas at all," I say, as I got back up.

Unwilling to move the rest of the aching muscles in my body, I reach for as far as I possibly can to have the picture in my hands. When I successfully grasp it, I open the frame and take the picture out. Then, I turn the paper over to look at the the note. I bring it closer to me as I throw the rest back on the table.

"Jean, I printed the selfie we took on our first date. You were a lot of fun and you helped forget about the terrible things happening to me, even if it was just for a short amount of time. Thank you for cheering me up."

For some reason, after reading the short letter, the emotions come charging towards me all at once -the fluctuation in my heart, the constricting feeling in my lungs, the stutter in my eyes - they are all coming back, and they mercilessly sweep me up like a storm.

Before I can I stop myself, tears begin to form, accompanied by a heaving sob.

"You were supposed to come back. You promised. You promised to be back by Christmas so that we could be together," I repeatedly mumble to myself.

But it's because I wanted to drown away the sound of the soldier's voice.

"He was brave, the best leader I ever followed. I'm sorry this had to happen to you. Especially during Christmas."

"No, it can't be true. Don't fucking tell me you're sorry. Sorry doesn't fucking fix anything."

With the unending loop of what I'm saying and what I'm hearing instead, I firmly believed that it won't be long before I completely spiral out of control, and into absolute insanity.

"Jean, stop crying."

I look up, wiping my tears away. That can't be...I thought...

Either I'm so sad, I'm starting to see things or this is their sick idea of a joke.

But to be honest, I can't care less. He's here, in front of me. He made it for Christmas.

"Marco!"

With one quick motion, I get myself off of the bed and to his side.

He smiles.

"Long time no see," he says.

I wrap my arms around him, but I go right through his body and when I attempt to kiss him, I'm unable to feel his lips.

"So are you a ghost now? Is that why I can't feel you?" I ask.

"I'm sorry."

I can hardly make out his words. He'll be gone again. I just know it.

"Marco, please stay. Stay for me. Just until Christmas is over. We can just lie in that bed together. We won't do anything. We'll just lie down," I beg.

If I'm actually responding to this delusion, then I'm truly a sad, sad person.

"I can't stay here for long. I just came by to say that I love you, Jean," he says.

"No, please, stay," I plead.

The last words were merely a whisper, knowing that I am too weak to say it.

He walks up to me and kisses me on the cheek. But I can't feel the kiss, only the yearning sensation for it to be felt. And it hurts so much, I never thought that I was capable of feeling so much pain until now. He's dead, I'm alive. I'm the one taking the damage and carrying the heavy load.

Not being able to feel him, losing him, being left alone, today, Christmas - everything - fucking hurts.

"I'm not ready. Stay," I say one last time.

When I open my eyes, his figure is already disappearing.

"Goodbye. I'm so sorry," he says.

"Don't go..."

Something brushes my cheek, wiping a tear away. It was as if that contact was the key; it made me realize something relieving, and it helped me breath more refreshing air into my lungs, a newer life into my being altogether. It's a calming gesture, one that's painfully familiar. And it didn't take me long to associate it with Marco.

"Jean," I hear him say.

I take a deep, and raspy gasp for air, pushing myself into full consciousness. Before I know it, I'm awake.

He's here. Really here, not some hallucination, not a part of my dream, not a figment of my imagination, but here, by my side. And that's the miracle of it.

"Marco," I cry as I get up and wrap my arms around him.

He seems surprised at first, and the thought of hugging me back slowly comes when he's assured that I'm alright. His arms are secure, holding me together, and keeping me from falling apart. These are the arms from the same Marco that I know and love. I'm amazed by my ability to feel, see, hear, smell, and touch him.

"Another bad dream, eh?"

I nod, feeling my hair rubbing against the cotton of his Christmas sweater. I like the sound of it, and it comforts me. Then, I press my ear around the area of his chest to listen to his heart. It's beating steadily, just like his breathing. He's alive, and here. The dream got to me so badly, the very idea is still astonishing.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He laughs, showing off his beautiful dimples. Oh, I could watch him laugh for days, and I wouldn't get sick of it one bit. It's thick with richness, but somehow soft and comforting at the same time.

"Ok, ok. I didn't say that you have to," he says.

I hold him tighter.

"Hey, let's stay like this, ok? I want it to be quiet for a while," I say.

Well, at least I had the intention of keeping it that way until I finally notice the snow outside. I have been unconsciously watching it fall before I realize that I have been staring at it at all.

"Oh my god, it's snowing," I say.

It hasn't snowed in a while, and all the radios have played 'White Christmas'. So I easily believed that it wouldn't.

He laughs again.

"You said that you wanted it to be quiet, didn't you?" He asks.

"Yea, sorry. Let's start over," I say.

So we settle into a second round of peaceful silence, but that doesn't last long either.

"Actually, I need to talk to you about something," he says.

"Ok, what do you want to talk about?" I ask.

"Turn around for a second, because I can't trust you to keep your eyes closed," he says.

"Sure."

I do as he says, and I turn around, facing the wall instead of the window. As I hear him shuffling out of bed to look through a plastic bag that I've failed to notice before, my mind begins to wonder.

'What is this freckled idiot up to?'

"Ok, you can face me now," he says.

When I turn back around, I find him kneeling before me, but I'm still on the bed. Shortly, however, I get to my feet.

"Oh my god."

His hands hold a tiny black box, heralding a beautiful silver ring.

"Marco, we've been dating for a while now. Four years, actually," he confidently begins.

My eyes begin to water, and I cup my mouth with my hands. This can't be happening.

"Will you marry me?"

I can't find the words, so I vigorously nod.

"Yes."