He came again after Levi told him to go home for the day. It was a bit earlier than the day before, so he had more time to spare. He knew he should be concerned that he fully intended to spend it with Marco, but he wasn't. Because, now that he wasn't scared of the boy anymore, he was left with burning curiosity, inquisitiveness. He wanted to know everything that Marco could tell him. And his father said he would never make a good Journalist. Ha!

As if he'd been waiting for Jean to come, Marco rounded the corner of the house, a watering can in hand. A younger boy followed, holding another can, just like Marco's. When he saw Jean, Marco headed over to the fence, his younger brother hot on his heels.

"Jean." He greeted, smiling. "Hello."

"Hey." Jean returned, awkwardly putting a smile on as well, glancing down to the shorter Bodt that had caught up to his older sibling.

"This is Nardo. Say hello." Marco directed at the younger boy, nudging him.

"H-Hi." The boy offered warily, staring up at Jean with his brown eyes, almost the same shade as Marco's. He didn't have as many freckles though. Marco rolled his eyes, nudging him again.

"You'll have to forgive him. Like the lamb from yesterday, he hasn't quite found his legs." He laughed, mussing the dark hair upon Nardo's hair. "You can go inside now, if you like. It's Arturo's turn to bring the sheep in, so we're done for the day." He offered. The boy quickly retreated, taking Marco's can as he went and putting both of them in a shed before he went inside. Jean watched, intrigued by the boy's introverted nature. It contrasted so starkly with Marco's openness and comfortable air.

"Is he always so shy?" He wondered. Marco smiled grimly.

"With strangers, yes. He knows that we're not exactly the most welcome people in town. It doesn't help that you look so annoyed all the time." He pointed out, grinning. Jean blanched, fumbling for a retort. "You ought to work on that. You'll have nasty wrinkles there if you keep that up." He added, laughing as he pointed to the spot where Jean's brows always furrowed.

"Oh hush." Jean finally managed, trying to cover as much of his red face with his hands as he could. Marco laughed a bit longer, then it died away, and he gestured for Jean to come in. He hopped the fence, without so much as a thought this time. The motion was fluid, natural, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, not just a couple of days.

He followed the brunette to the other side of the house, where he'd emerged from earlier. They passed the field, leaves and vines already poking out, and walked instead to a meadow, all grass and wildflowers. Marco sat down, stretching his arms over his head before falling onto his back, sighing. Jean, a little more hesitant, eventually copied, lying next to the boy and resting the back of his head on his crossed arms.

"Any interesting stories today?" Marco asked, voice a little deeper than usual, since he was lying down. Jean scoffed.

"Not unless you think that Annie Leonhardt beating up Reiner Braun for the umpteenth time is interesting." He replied. While the two were supposed to be friends, along with Bertholdt Fubar, they often ended up at odds, and Annie always got the upper hand, in the end. It was funny the first few times, but it wasn't news-worthy anymore.

"Ah, you'd think he'd learn his lesson." Marco suggested, and Jean nodded.

"Yeah. But it's part of this town, now. They'll probably be telling their grandkids about how famous they were in their day." He guessed. Marco was quiet for a while.

"I… I don't think either of them will ever have grandchildren." He admitted when Jean glanced over at him.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Jean questioned. Marco looked uncomfortable, though his posture remained relaxed.

"It's just a feeling." He replied, lids sliding closed over dark eyes. Jean could tell he didn't want to talk about it, so he let it go, relaxing back into the grass. He was worried about his clothes, doing his best to avoid grass stains. His mother would have his head if he came home looking like he'd romped around in his work clothes. But Marco didn't seem to care in the least about his own clothes. And, Jean supposed, they were already dirty anyway.

Marco was never entirely clean, from what Jean had seen. He was always covered in the thin layer of dust, with a few streaks of dirt across his cheeks or arms. But it didn't bother him. It suited the boy, really. He felt earthy to Jean, like he belonged to nature instead of the confines of society. He seemed so comfortable lying in the grass, surrounded by the green; it was as if he might sink in and become a patch of flowers. Pale, mysterious moon flowers, springing up all in one place, quiet beauty like that of the person who'd become them. Jean thought it would be a lovely sight, but one he'd rarely see.

In fact, he'd only seen them once, with his grandmother before she died. He was too young to remember much of anything about the woman, but he had that one memory. Walking hand in hand with someone he could barely claim to know, kneeling down before a shriveled stalk. He hadn't understood at the time why he'd been brought there. Not until they started blooming. Then he'd been filled with that childish delight, able to appreciate the beauty, the etherealness, through fresh, innocent eyes. Now, as jaded as life had made him, he'd likely miss it. They were just flowers, he reminded himself, not some otherworldly being.

Marco began humming lightly, drawing Jean from his thoughts. He didn't know the tune. Most of the songs he heard were hymns from church. It made sense that he didn't know it. Marco was from another plane of existence. His life didn't revolve around the word of the same God that Jean feared.

It shook him to the core as he thought that. Feared. He couldn't say, truthfully, that he loved his God. Was he supposed to? Other people did, and he could tell. The ones that sang the loudest to be heard over even the music, over the choir. The ones that held their hands up, as if the Lord was a tangible substance, something they could touch if they only reached high enough. Maybe they could.

But Jean didn't feel that love. He only felt fear, debilitating fear. There were so many rules, so many expectations, constructs that he had to fall into, lest he be declared a sinner. He envied Marco and his comfortable, easy beliefs. There was a stark difference between them; Marco felt accepted and loved by his gods. He went through life knowing they'd accept him for what he was, unconditionally. And, even if one didn't, another would. At least, that's what it seemed like.

Jean's God was not so forgiving. He was supposed to be, but how could he forgive so much? So many things could damn him for eternity. Repentance couldn't save Jean, not the way he wanted it to. Being around Marco just reminded him how wrathful his Lord truly was. Just being around Marco was a sin. The boy spewed blasphemy as if it were friendly conversation, spoke of gods other than God as if it were possible. Jean cringed, his body beginning to inch away slowly, even without his mind's permission.

He'd sinned, over and over, by coming to see this boy, by speaking to him. And he'd actively sought it. Was it too late, had he gone too far? Would he be extended forgiveness? If he left, right then, and prayed for the rest of his life, and never saw the Pagan boy again, could he be saved?

"You're scared again." Marco breathed, not asking, not belittling. It was just a statement. His eyes were still closed, and he didn't move as Jean sat up, looking down at brandy skin, spotted with freckles, warmed with sun but not flushed. Jean didn't reply, couldn't form the words.

"That's alright." Marco said, his eyes opening and his hands coming to rest against his stomach. "Everyone's scared."

Jean swallowed, watching big hands rise and fall with the breaths that Marco took. Marco's hands were bigger than his own. They looked worn, calloused, but still youthful. The boy himself was like that; Older than he should be for his age, yet still thriving in the remnants of his childhood. It was a strange juxtaposition that Jean had endless trouble trying to unravel. He only stared for seconds, and Marco let him.

He laid back down, breath shaky as he looked up at the clouds in the sky. No wrathful lightning struck him where he lay, no mob rushed him for his sins, not even a blade of grass showed him any contempt. His breath came as Marco's did. They both breathed, the same air, the same rhythm. And it was alright. Marco was a person, he needed air, he needed lungs, just like Jean. Marco was a person.

"You know, Jean, you don't have to share my beliefs to be my friend." Marco finally said after a silence that spanned minutes. And Jean's breath stopped coming as Marco's did.

He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps… Perhaps it wasn't as terrible as he thought. The world didn't stop when he lay back down. He received no wrath, in any form. Not even from Marco. Friends. Friends? Could they be? Is that what they were? He felt like they were less than friends, but also more. It was more than he could comprehend, yet Marco seemed to understand it, and so much more.

"Like I said, I haven't made a personal mission out of trying to convert you. All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy. I won't demand anything but that." He promised, sitting up. Jean looked at his back, a few crumpled blades of grass clinging to the fabric of his shirt. And he sat up too.

He still couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Friends? Friends. How could that one word mean so many things at once? Friends meant sin. Friends meant going against everything he'd been raised to believe. But it also meant tolerance for the things he'd be raised to believe. Friends meant someone who was willing to teach, but not demand. He could learn, but not commit.

But friends also meant time. Time spent, together, apart. Friends meant secrecy and anticipation. When would someone find out? When would his father find out? When would the Father find out? What were the repercussions? Friends meant punishment. Rejection, rebuke, banishment. Friends meant many things, too many things, and how could he agree to such a loose term?

Still, his heart wanted him to say yes. Friends meant companionship. Friends meant conversation, and understanding, and fun. Friends meant smiles, and laughter, and troublemaking, and learning. Friends meant Marco, tanned, freckled, smiling, and Jean, pale, spoiled, and afraid. But curious. Always curious.

He nodded, unable to think of the correct words, relying on gesture. It was enough though. Marco smiled, nodding as well. And he lay back down, shutting his eyes against the sunshine, not bothering with trying to elicit words from his companion. Jean wouldn't know what to say anyway. But it felt strange to him to have taken such a big step, yet to participate in nothing new. They were friends now, shouldn't that change something?

He remained upright for a while longer, watching the other boy breathe, watching soft breezes tousle his short bangs. And, still, it felt like Marco would dissolve into the ground. But he wouldn't be moon flowers. No. He didn't know why, but Marco seemed more like periwinkle. Had he been mistaken in his previous comparison? No… It had simply changed. No longer was Marco mysterious and unobtainable. He was a new friend, open, exciting. And Jean couldn't wait to get to know him.

He fell back, lying down as well at last. And he tried to think of all the people he counted as friends. The list was pitifully short, and even a little questionable. Any list with Eren Jaeger on it was questionable. If he had to count Jaeger as a friend to make himself feel better about the length of his list, then something was wrong.

But now there was Marco. And Marco, even in the scant time they'd been together, had been more of a friend than most of the people on Jean's list. Even though he was different, was Pagan, was everything Jean had been silently taught to hate, he was wonderful. He was calm, and understanding, and patient. And that was perfect. That was what Jean needed. He didn't even realize he needed it, but he did.

Maybe that was why he'd been unable to resist coming back. Maybe he knew, before he even knew that he knew, that he needed this. He needed this acceptance, this patience, this understanding. He didn't have to be anything when he was lying next to Marco. He didn't have to quote the bible after every sentence, didn't need to hide his fear, didn't have to censor his thoughts. It seemed that, even if he did, Marco would know better. He was intuitive to the point that it made Jean wary. Perhaps he knew Jean better than he thought. Or maybe he just knew people.

Because, truly, who knows people better than those considered lesser by them?

Marco began humming again, and Jean listened. The tune was another one he didn't know. It sounded sad, but hopeful. And maybe that was what Marco was. Sad, but hopeful; A song to be hummed among grass and wildflowers, heard only by the ears of a friend who was learning to be sympathetic. What kind of song would Jean be? Likely quick paced and dissonant, he decided. Unlike Marco, he couldn't think in any sort of order, his thoughts coming and going in panicked waves of uncertainty.

But Marco didn't seem to mind. He just continued humming, the steady tune steadying Jean's thoughts enough that he began dozing off, only realizing when the song ceased, and the sun was setting. He bid goodbye, going home, stunned. He'd spent hours laying in a bed of flowers and grass, listening to someone hum, not conversing, not accomplishing anything. But it didn't feel wasted, didn't feel worthless. It felt nice. He liked it. He liked Marco.

A/N: This chapter wound up being sort of a bridge chapter. In a way, it's that strange point in time when a friendship becomes such in name. It doesn't really serve much more purpose than that, other than showing exactly how Jean's religion plays a part in his life.

For Jean, religion isn't something that betters his life. It's something that controls him to a degree that he can't overcome at this given point. I'd like to mention that this is not at all how religion is for everyone. Some people really do love what they believe in, and it teaches them a way to live their life that they feel is more rewarding. But Jean isn't there with his faith, and it's fear that keeps him faithful, rather than love.

I'm sure these little explanations I put in my notes are sort of unnecessary; people are clever creatures. But I also worry that my way of thinking and writing might not translate as well as I hope, so it gives me peace of mind to sort of sum it up in the end.

With that in mind, if you're ever confused about something, or just want to understand my thinking on a particular part, feel free to message me. I'd be happy to clear it up and talk with you about it. This story has sort of become my favorite, and I'm very invested in the universe, so I'm more than willing to help you get into it too!

Alright, time for me to call it good. My author's notes are always so long… Sorry about that. Just so you all know, the next chapter is a lot more eventful. More action, less thinking. Till then!

KuroRiya
九六りや