Even after a few weeks into the school term; I hadn't really done anything social-wise except annoy Marco, go through one set of friends only to find my old ones, and mess around at a basketball club acting as a captain who pretended to know what he was doing.

I tried asking Connie to hang out uptown with me, a little while before the away game, and he didn't show up. Like, not in a nasty "I stood you up" way (probably), but it turned out he hadn't even heard me ask him. I mean, I knew I was quiet at the lunch table, but really?

It kind of made me really reluctant to go out with people after that, and being banned from Marco's work wasn't much help. It meant I had less excuses to go out.

I didn't really mind not going out, because I was used to being on my own during middle school (You know, with the whole "I must bury my past and avoid the people from it" phase) and I actually preferred it that way.

I just… didn't want to prefer it that way.

I spoke to people in school; in classes, in homeroom, at lunch. Acted like a moron, made fart jokes and picked on Jaeger; you get the idea: I had one side that was relatively social if you got past my glare and sarcasm.

But it was really disheartening to hear about people going up town or just doing whatever. Then someone would invite me out -after inviting a bunch of others first- and then I'd just feel like I needed my own space; even though it hadn't been taken from me in the first place.

You've gotta run around before you're allowed to get tired, you know?

Connie saw I was becoming a recluse, and thought it was his fault that I wasn't being a normal teenager and doing jack shit with other people, and was doing it by myself in my room instead, like a depressed teenager.

So he made this habit of going round to my house when I told people "I can't go out; I've got homework" when really I'd wanted to say "no, fuck off and leave me alone". Either he didn't understand what I had meant, or he just didn't give a damn. (Most likely the second) I liked that.

He'd hang out with me. And Claudia, whenever she was around. She got him into the habit of flicking directly to the kid's channel. My dad would light up whenever he saw Connie (dad apparently worked with Springer Sr. when Connie was little… Not that he isn't still little).

His visits didn't really do much, since I still wasn't leaving the house and I actually hated it when he showed up uninvited, made a mess and put the T.V on too loud. But he was a good friend. He listened to me about how I hated Jaeger and had a love/hate relationship with Shakespeare and of all the little tidbits I liked about Marco.

I didn't cry, though. Not like I had that night. But the sentiment was there. I mean, Marco and I were closer, just not in the way we had been before, and I had good reasons for still wanting to chase him. So yeah I got a little moany.

It wasn't just a teen phase of wanting to hump then dump (that's plain vulgar, jesus; I'm judging you if you do that. Friends with benefits is a no go for me, bleh).

Why the hell would I know what I really wanted?

PUBERTY HAS MET ME BEFORE AND WE AIN'T GOOD FRIENDS.

I managed to get through it too. I've been through puberty twice; so I'm as mature as I'm ever going to fucking get.

Eventually, I think Connie got bored with being the good guy. I whined a lot, and I know I did. Connor didn't shove that controller up my ass for nothing.

Connie lashed out at me too, not in the same way as the psycho, but he did shout at me and told me; just tell him already.

It's all or nothing, he said. Either that, or I didn't really like Marco and I was just going through a gay phase; just like the media wanted us to believe.

So was it worth it? I had another Marco incident on my hands. Was it worth going to him once again?

I was glad he was my friend, but I didn't want to be annoying. I didn't want to be the over emotional, clingy guy that only ever had problems, but I was. I didn't even know who Connie liked. If he even did like anyone at all.

I put my phone in my pocket after hanging up the unanswered call.

I reckoned it was Sasha, but I hadn't heard it from the horse's mouth (not my mouth-fuck you very much). What's the point in having a friend if you can't be their friend too? Yet he never really had any problems… so I didn't know how I could be there for him if he didn't need me.

The orange light from the lampposts blinded me as I sat down on the kerb by the road. It was dark around these parts, but still not dark enough to see the stars. Was that a metaphor? Or no, I think Marco told me that if it was the weather that reflected your feelings, it was a pathetic fallacy? Some weird shit like that anyway.

I didn't care what anyone said; I liked Marco.

I would repeat it for as long as I'd have to, until it actually came out my mouth and reached his ears. It was practice for the real thing. Not inner fangirling over the guy.

I liked the way he smiled and how his face brightened when I sat at our table at lunch, and that he unconsciously put his arm around my shoulder. I liked how he was really calm and how he made the atmosphere cosy during break in our hovel at the stairwell.

I liked that he said 'eh?' at the end of a sentence whenever he wanted someone to agree with him on something. I liked that he blushed whenever I called him Mar-Mar. I liked that he bossed me around when I needed it.

He was a sarcastic asshole? I liked that too. To some extent.

And I really loved that he could be just like me, hating his own flaws with a vengeance and wishing he could be better. How he was god damn terrible at throwing a ball into a hoop during weekend practice and how he was a Canadian/Belgian Marvel fan. (Mostly Belgian.)

It made him more human, not like the Marco from out past lives that never showed any sign of weakness. The Marco that wasn't actually too bad at fitness but just slowed down to let everyone else get ahead of him. He had supported others.

Now, he supported himself, and that was something I wished I could do too. I thought maybe if I stuck around him long enough, his confidence would rub off on me. No more having to annoy Connie or crying too much because I was hormonal. (Man periods are the worst.)

I was too damn scared to tell him how I felt, but it was still true. As true as the sky is blue. And sometimes orange… and pink, and that weird grey colour that nobody likes because you only ever see it on a Monday morning.

He was never going to want me to confess to him, but if I wanted him to know everything about me like my best friend should, I was gonna have to tell him. That's it. That's just life. I hate telling people that, but it's life. If Marco could sit his ass down at a table full of gays, then I was going to bloody well confess.

Oh, and then there's the fucking thing with his repressed memories. What the hell was that about? What on earth could be traumatising enough that he had to forget it completely? I wasn't going to avoid him though, even if there were chances that I might trigger his memories (I highly doubted I would).

I didn't want to be that guy, the one that made life more difficult in the drama T.V show because he thought he was being selfless and good and bleh.

So Jean; what're ya gonna do?

"JEAN! Get inside the house right now!"

I'm going to get grounded, that's what I'm going to do.

Sitting in the living room with my old man standing up wasn't the most comfortable thing for me.

We were deadly quiet around each other on a daily basis, with only Louise as our flitting messenger. Until she showed up after my parent's divorce, my dad and I had barely spoken to each other, and if we did; it'd always end up as a fight. But no fists involved, don't worry.

He was also like a reflection of my future self. And I don't know what it was about him, but he always seemed pretty miserable. He had a wife, two kids, a pretty decent house and a stable job; but he still wasn't happy.

Plus, whenever we were in the "I stand up and you stay sitting down so I can talk down to you" position we had going on, it definitely meant I was going to get in trouble.

The living room was dark grey, with only a fake Tiffany's lamp on the cabinet below the T.V giving us light. I was half convinced he'd just shove the lamp in my face and be like: "Let's shed some light on this situation, shall we?!"

He liked to avoid the topic by being funny. Or laughing. That was really annoying. He even started laughing after he'd been told my grandma died in France a few years ago (not immediately afterwards, but it sure felt like it).

He scratched his two toned hair, grimacing at something. Dad sighed as he glanced over at me with blue eyes. He shook his head. Oh no; the disapproving look. Whatever shall I do? His wiry frame slouched, breaking out of his usual "lawyer mode" stance.

"Jean," His voice sounded husky from sleep. "You can tell me what's wrong, yeah? I know you always bottle things up and try to get rid of all the negative stuff with your sports, but you don't need to look like you're going to cry or hit me every time I try and talk to you."

Don't talk like you know me. "I don't want to talk. It's nothing. Sorry I left the house without permission." I crossed my arms, glaring down at the floor with a sneer itching at my nose.

"Jean, I don't care all too much about that. You've been looking happier when you come home, and I love that. Claudia said you made friends with a doctor's son, and Connie even told me the same thing, and that this new friend's really opened you up. But if something happened with your friend…" Dad paused, his eyes hesitantly flickering between mine when I looked up.

"… If it's about what happened during the war, I can explain what happened with me and your mom back then-"

"It's not about that." I hissed.

His eyebrows quirked. "Well what is it then? Were you going off to see someone? Did she break up with you or something? I saw you with your phone…" he winced, and I had to roll my eyes at that.

"I didn't get dumped over the phone, dad. It's just… stuff. About the doctor's son that everyone seems to be telling you about." I licked my dry lips. "His name's Marco, by the way."

My dad's thin forearms raised and his hands balled into weak fists. His blue eyes gleamed as he widened them. "Do I need t' beat him up?"

I sighed, a growl caught in my throat. "I'm pretty sure I'd be capable of beating someone up now. Unlike you."

I wanted to tell him to not joke around, but I think it worked as a coping mechanism for him. He'd do it whether or not I told him to stop it. I had my reasons for not wanting to talk to him. The joking thing only being one.

He shrugged. "I'm just glad you look a little better now. You were shaking when you were sat outside, you know? And you never came downstairs for dinner. I made it for once. I thought that'd pull you downstairs."

"Your cooking sucks."

"I know. But it's worth getting you to come downstairs just to tell me just how bad it is. I never thought you'd take on my comedy gene."

I leaned my elbow down onto my thigh, rubbing my eye with the heel of my palm. Dads… just dads, man. Don't ever have one, they'll ruin your life. At least mine doesn't tell dad jokes.

"Are you going to ground me?" I whispered, but I wasn't too worried.

He tilted his head sideways, pursing his lips like some awful George Clooney wannabe, and folded his arms.

"Depends. I won't ground you if you tell me what's wrong." he sat down beside me, his frail pyjamas sliding quietly over the black leather.

He put a hand on my back, just below my neck, and I hunched my shoulders in the hopes I would squeeze him hard enough so that he'd remove it. He did. Thank fuck. Hate being touched there. Too sensitive.

"It's about Marco, right? I'm listening."

But the question is, mon pere, will you understand?

I almost forgot he wanted me to answer him, caught u in thinking about when I was learning English when I was seven and started calling dad "my pear" because I was an idiot and thought I was hilarious.

The English teacher wasn't as amused and kept telling me "No, Jean, you call him dad, or father. Sometimes people are really posh and call say papa. You don't look all that posh, so you can't say that."

I never liked that teacher. I made sure to learn curse words and ask her what they meant, and flapped my arms, pretending to be an eagle, and cawed PAPA when dad came to get me after lessons; just to mess with her. Those were the days…

I stared at him with a bland expression, like Levi on a regular day. "I like Marco."

He stared back at me. I never broke eye contact.

Why is it that people have to 'come out the closet'? No-one ever has to tell their parents 'oh hey I'm absolutely straight, just thought I'd let you know'. Like, just, why? What the point? I mean, it's your own business, right?

Highly ironic, considering that was exactly what I was doing. Coming out the closet. Running into the light. A lump grew in my mouth. Dad wasn't saying anything. He actually looked like he was going to cry. Maybe shout. My body tensed up when he did finally open his mouth.

"Ah. I see."

Was that an 'I see' as in; 'I see where you're coming from'? Or an 'I see' as in; 'I see you, my gay son, and I don't want to see you. Pack your bags. Now.'?

His mouth dropped open but he quickly snapped it shut, choosing to look away from me and at the floor instead. Why wasn't he saying anything? My heartbeat raced. It was too quiet, too dark to properly make out his expression, the meaning behind it. My tongue felt like it was dry glued to the roof of my mouth. I dug my nails into my palm, and tried continuing.

"C-Connie knows. My friends at school know, but not Marco. He's… he's a homophobe. And uh, yeah. That's not really working in my favor." I used my front tooth to dig into my lip. He was still staring glassy eyed at the floor.

I know I'm a quiet guy at home, dad, and I usually hate your jokes, but right now I need your usually annoying light heartedness.

His eyes found mine again. "R-really? I mean, that's great. No wait, not great, but it's great that you know that you're…? You sound, uh, pretty certain there, petite poire-"

Fuck, he hasn't used that nickname in years.

"I just thought, um. I thought it was Connie that you liked."

I balked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You know!" He waved his hand in mild gesture. "Because he's such a nice boy. And he's the only friend you ever bring around."

"Connie just comes over when he wants. And I've invited Marco round." Once.

First and most likely last time. For reasons including; a) this idiot of a man and b) Well, I'm pretty sure I scared him off last time. Guess he just couldn't handle the Blurt. (That's my ship name for Blaine and Kurt, by the way)

He pouted. "That's a shame. I had my bets on with Louise that it was him you liked." I rolled my eyes when he whimpered, 'that's five dollars, down the drain… all of it gone…'

"She said it was an Asian girl called… Mérida?" he still had that French habit of hacking out his r's.

"Mikasa. And that was so three years ago."

I yawned, reaching into my jean pocket to see the time on my phone. Clicked the screen. A message notification in the corner. Time: twelve oh one. In the morning. No wonder my dad found me out. He normally sleeps later than that.

I ended up telling him about the whole thing. My sob story that's T.V worthy. There was a guy I liked, but he didn't like me back. Boo-hoo. Aw didums. Pass the boy a hankie.

Next up; we were reincarnated, I remembered my past life-drum roll-Marco didn't, though he had done at one point (starring: Jean's tears and Hubert, aka the huge version of Marco).

Now, I was left with the possibility that Marco might have liked me back in my past life; but gasp and revel in the plot twist folks, sit at the edge of your seats; for if Marco ever were to remember, he would, um, ca-boom? Mentally. Yes, he would 'mentally ca-boom' if he ever remembered our past lives.

And now there was nothing I could do.

"You want my advice?"

"Go for Mister Pear."

He chuckled, showing his dorky teeth, and his eyes crinkled at the sides. He shook his head.

"I don't think you need to do anything. There's not anything you can do. Just leave things as they are. In fact, I would tell him about how it might be dangerous for him to remember, and let him decide on what he wants."

Finally; there is a Kirstein that actually makes sense for once. I just never thought it'd be him.

"I want to know how he responds when you confess though."

Fuck you old man. Fuck. You.