Thank you all so much for reading. I appreciate every person who gives my story a chance.
A special shout-out goes to Bobmango4. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Thank you so much for the review!
Marco would never look at zombie films the same way again.
He could finally relate to the undead, bodies stiff and uncoordinated, and minds focused on a single objective. The only difference was that his goal wasn't feasting on fresh brains—it was getting a good night's rest.
Trying to survive on a few hours of sleep could do that to a person.
He craved his old bed like an addict craved their next hit. The desire nipped at his heels as he rose from the threadbare mat that served as a makeshift mattress, took a bite out of him as he waited an hour in line for a turn at having a cold shower in a stall caked with what looked and smelled like a volatile combination of decades-old mildew and urine, and finally consumed him whole when he dropped his breakfast tray only seconds after receiving it, oatmeal splattering in near perfect circles on the grimy linoleum floor. The custodial staff wasn't happy about that mishap, even after Marco had practically gotten down on his hands and knees to beg them to let him clean the mess himself.
A savior came in the form of a bespectacled caseworker shuffling towards his table, arriving roughly around the time he was ready to doze off into his replacement bowl of watery oatmeal.
"Mr. Bodt?" Her nasally voice was almost overpowered by the loud babble of those around her. "Come with me, please."
The shelter's basement was not the most hospitable of places, all unfinished drywall, dim lighting, and concrete floors stained from years of use. He trudged alongside the much shorter woman, his mind working overtime to force his feet to not drag on the ground. They wandered deeper into the labyrinth of closed doors and office windows decorated with kitschy stickers of cartoon biblical characters. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner was nearly overwhelming by the time they reached their destination, a small office near the beginning of a long hallway, sparsely furnished with a tiny desk and two broken-down chairs. There was also something else in the air, its odor slightly bitter, yet familiar and inviting. It reminded him of mornings spent sitting in his old kitchen, alternating between reading the newspaper and catching snippets of the morning news.
When he saw the coffee machine tucked at the end of the corridor, the dark liquid pooling in the glass canister like a spring straight out of the Garden of Eden, he knew his morning could properly begin.
It was only a few minutes later that he believed the only purpose for the free coffee was for it to act as a pacifier for the grilling one would receive in the subterranean dungeon.
"Are you a homosexual?" The question was posed more like it was a matter of national security than a simple inquiry about his orientation. Marco was relieved to not have been swallowing any coffee at that moment because it would have ended up sprayed all over her wrinkled face or even worse, aspirated in his lungs.
His fingers tightened around the styrofoam cup, sloshing some of the now lukewarm liquid onto his fingers. Why did it even matter? Shouldn't she be asking about something more relevant?
She must have taken his lapse into silence as an admission of guilt. Her face twisted into something resembling the knotted roots of an old oak tree, cherry lips puckering as if she had just ingested an entire bucket of lemon peels.
"We don't hold such behavior against our guests," She said, tapping the tip of her ballpoint pen against a large pile of paperwork. "—but we like to know these things for placement and service purposes."
Marco tried to not laugh at her attempts to spread soothing balm on the figurative burn she had initially caused. He managed to quell most of it, only letting out an amused hum instead. For placement purposes. Right.
He was sure he would be on the next bus heading to one of those bizarre Pray-The-Gay-Away programs chronicled on numerous news programs if he told her half of the things he had done with other men. A quarter, even.
There was also another feeling bubbling deep inside of him, spreading around his gut like a bad case of indigestion. He could nearly taste it as he squirmed in his seat, the ancient chair emitting a loud popping sound every time his thighs ran over a large crack in the middle of the plastic.
He knew the sensation well; it was fear.
All the air seemed to escape from his lungs at once when the woman leaned over and pulled his free hand onto her plywood desk, nearly knocking over a cheap-looking ceramic angel statue placed precariously near the edge.
"I know you're not like that," she cooed as she placed one of her gnarled hands over his, her chipped red fingernails tracing over some of the more prominent freckles near his knuckles. "You look like a sweet boy. It's just…you wouldn't believe how many of those types we get in here."
He let out another hum as he gently pried his hand out her grasp. "I'm sure."
She leaned back in her office chair and grinned, displaying a slight smear of scarlet lipstick on the top row of her yellowing teeth.
"As you can tell, the safety of the children is our number one priority."
Marco's stomach lurched at the allusion she was obviously trying to make. The thought that he could—that he ever would consider— Just because he—
He wanted to knock that stupid statue off her desk. He wanted to throw the rest of his coffee at her, crush the styrofoam cup, and smear the broken pieces over her stupid smiling face. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He wanted to do many things. But as he sat in his cracked chair, head slumped, hands fisted, shoulders trembling slightly from the silent rage coursing through his veins, he found that he could do nothing. The words of protest died before they reached his lips, forming a viscous mass in his throat he found he couldn't clear no matter how hard he tried.
Marco left the basement office complex with a schedule of life skills classes he had to attend, a red paper band signifying he had gone through the intake process, and a nagging sense of guilt.
It wasn't until he had found a seat on the public bus heading downtown that he realized he hadn't drunk any of the damn coffee.
The Trost city library was completely different from what he was used to, all minimalist lines and large panes of glass; the exact opposite of the ancient domed structure that constituted the library in Jinae.
Under normal circumstances, he would have been positively giddy at the thought of having a chance to sample all the books a library of this size could offer, but all he felt was remorse. He shuffled across the polished marble floor and into the closest restroom, holing himself in one of the stalls across from the urinals. Sitting fully clothed on a toilet wasn't his greatest or most hygienic moment, but the closed stall provided just enough privacy for him to properly get his thoughts together without what felt like a million eyes on him.
He rested his head against the right side of the stall and closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering from the sudden rush of coolness against the side of his forehead.
When did he become such a pushover? He was never the overly outspoken type, but he sure as hell wouldn't have let someone insinuate all queer folk were pedophiles without saying something.
The rational part of his mind told him he was doing it for self-preservation. Admitting his orientation could have had some negative effects—effects that would cause him to end up with nowhere else to go. And with no other shelters in the immediate area, the option of being candid seemed less and less appealing.
His mind drifted to the guy he had met the night before. How did he react to the question? Did he become angry over the blatant invasion of his privacy? Annoyed? Or did he simply laugh, amused at the mere idea of him having that kind of relationship with another man?
Another man…like him.
He shook his head as if the thoughts could be knocked out by sheer force. All it did was give him a slight headache.
He managed to eventually clear his mind enough to leave the stall, but not before flushing the toilet. His last minute decision to tap the toilet handle with his foot immediately paid off when he discovered someone else was in the bathroom with him. A young man was standing in front of the sink closest to the stall Marco was just in, intently scrubbing his bare chest with a wet washcloth, a few suds dripping off his fingers and down the length of his toned arm.
"Man, I thought you had died in there," The young man's mid-pitched voice echoed slightly off the shiny tile walls as he rubbed the cloth under his arms, his head never turning to physically acknowledge Marco. "Are you okay?"
Marco slid past him and towards the sink closest to the door, staring at his shoes in an attempt to avoid direct eye contact. He could feel the man's large green eyes following him, trailing his every move.
Marco could only go so long without acknowledging the other man's presence. He didn't want to address the obvious elephant in the room, so he settled for talking about something completely innocuous as he turned on the faucet and rinsed his hands, a nervous, yet genuine smile appearing on his lips.
"Some weather we're having today, isn't it?"
The young man didn't seem to be very receptive to Marco's change in subject. He only grunted in response and went back to scrubbing himself, hands trailing down his abdomen and slightly under the waistband of his stained jeans.
Marco turned away and tried to focus on washing his hands, taking time to pick at some of the dirt that had accumulated under his fingernails. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment, but didn't to seem rude by leaving in a rush. It was obvious the young man was in a situation similar to his own, and it was not wise to be unkind to someone who seemed fairly harmless.
What seemed like half a minute had passed before Marco felt the man's fingers tug at the red band on his left wrist, pulling Marco's hand towards his chest.
"I see you're a member of Club Hope," The young man chuckled as he turned the (thankfully) waterproof paper around on Marco's wrist, slicking it up with the remnants of bar soap on his fingers. "Must be a glutton for punishment."
Marco jerked his wrist away and backed into the hand-drying machine, turning it on by sheer force. The loud whoosh of mechanically-propelled air seemed to startle the wild-haired brunette. He dropped the washcloth he had been holding, causing the bar of soap that had been wrapped in it to ricochet across the tile and smack the tip of one of Marco's boots.
"Dude, chill out. You're among friends," He held out a slightly soapy hand, displaying a far more crumpled red band hanging loosely around his tanned wrist. "I'm Eren."
I apologize for the lack of Jean in this chapter. It's more of a plot point than my attempt at a slow-build romance. He's a big fixture in later chapters, so I guess it will all even out in the end. Thanks again for reading!