Church had never felt so stifling. Sure, it was always bothersome to get up early Sunday morning, to put on his nicest, stuffiest clothes, to walk in his tightest, pinchiest shoes all the way to the church. But what made it particularly unbearable on that particular July morning was that he had to pass by Marco without acknowledging him.
He couldn't wave. He couldn't smile. He couldn't walk over to the fence, couldn't hop over it, couldn't walk to their meadow and lay in the grass for hours. He had to look at Marco, who was out getting eggs, and then look away. He had to force a sneer onto his face, just like the one his father wore. Just like the one everyone around him wore.
It hurt. He didn't have to look to know that Marco was feeling the hurt too. He'd never been out while Jean was heading for church before. He couldn't even watch as Marco returned to his home with haste, not turning back to look at the procession of people heading for their weekly sermon. He heard the door close, though. He wished he was behind it.
He was shoved in between his father and his neighbor. She smiled at him, lifting her arms up as the small choir started singing. Her voice was terribly off key, and he could smell her sweat when she lifted her arms. Was she touching God up there? He wondered.
The air was hard to breathe. It was sticky already with summer humidity, and then they continued to fill it up with hymns and prayers. The words were thick, laden with meanings that Jean suddenly found he was having a hard time understanding. The words filtered into his ears like he was underwater, the sound warped and more confusing than it ought to have been.
His father looked down at him, a sneer pulling at his lips as he looked upon his son. He wasn't sure if he was flushed from heat or if it was just the remnants of his sunburn, but either way, he was sweating like… Well, a sinner in church.
He fanned himself absently with his hand, feeling literally no relief from the action but pretending like he did. It was better than sitting idly. And he tried to focus on the preacher, on what he was saying. He'd heard it a million times, they all had, but he needed to appease his father. He needed to appease everyone.
He mumbled amen when everyone else did, he stood when it was time to stand. And, when it was all over, he walked home with his mother and father and spent the day doing nothing, as was his job. Laying in his bed, the once-cool sheets warming with his body heat and making him even hotter, he wished that he could be with Marco instead. It felt like a waste of time to sit in his stuffy room, but he wouldn't be able to sneak out without being questioned about his intentions. It was easier to just pretend that everything was as it always was on a Sunday.
But by midafternoon, he couldn't take it anymore. Making some excuse about taking a long walk, he scurried off, taking the least visible route he could think of to get to the Bodt house. He knew everyone was in their house, lounging, just waiting to catch someone not doing the same. So he tried his best not to be seen at all.
When he got to the right property, disoriented at first by coming from a different direction, he hopped the fence. He was near the meadow, yet unable to see the house in much detail. But he knew Marco wouldn't mind him letting himself in, and he walked with purpose.
He yelped when he tripped over something, stumbling into the tall grass. Whatever he'd tripped over yelped too, and he scrambled to get himself upright so he could see what exactly he'd walked into.
A pair of earthy eyes stared back at him, freckled limbs stretched out across the grass. His hands were busy nursing his side though, likely where Jean had walked into him.
"Hello, Jean." He offered, wincing even as he tried to smile. Jean blinked, then sat down next to him.
"Hi, Marco." He returned, lying down. The sun had moved enough that it wasn't directly in his eyes, and he was able to find shapes in the clouds as they lapsed into silence. Jean could barely hear Marco breathing, but it was a nice sound, soothing even.
"How was church?" Marco finally asked, turning his head. Jean barked out a laugh.
"Hot." Was all he mustered. Marco chuckled, stretching his arms towards the sky.
"That's why I'm out here. It was too hot in the house, with all those children running around." He lamented. Jean scoffed.
"You don't count yourself among the children?" He wondered.
"I'm technically a man." Was the reply.
They lapsed into silence again as Jean considered that information. He'd never asked how old Marco was. It hadn't ever really mattered.
"When is your birthday?" He questioned. Marco smiled, hands falling back to the ground. His fingers brushed against Jean's.
"June sixteenth. I turned nineteen." He offered. Jean hummed in acknowledgement.
"Sorry I missed it."
"And I'm sorry I missed yours. You'll be eighteen next April, right?" Marco said, as if he wasn't sure. Jean knew better.
"How did you know that?" He wondered. He didn't recall ever mentioning that.
"I listen." Was all that Marco said.
It was quiet again, and they returned to staring at the clouds. Jean could still feel Marco's warm fingers against his own, but he didn't dare move his hand away. He didn't want Marco to take it the wrong way. He didn't mind touching Marco. Not anymore, anyway. He wasn't scared.
At some point, Marco rolled over onto his side, using one arm to prop him up, the other resting against the grass, still barely brushing against Jean's knuckles. He looked over Jean's face, smiling brightly.
"You're still red." He observed, and Jean felt his face get even hotter.
"You're still freckled." He retorted. Marco laughed, his nose crinkling.
"And always will be." He agreed, sobering a bit. "We Bodts die freckled."
Jean grinned too, imagining Marco, almost exactly the same, but with white hair. Still covered in freckles. That made him laugh just a little. Marco chuckled along, even though he couldn't possibly know what Jean pictured.
Even when they calmed down, Marco's smile stayed in place, tugging at the very corners of his lips, as if that was an easier expression for him to maintain. Smiling was always tiring for Jean.
His eyes, the color of rum again that day, fell downward, and Jean thought he was tracing over different blades of grass. It seemed he'd theorized wrong though, for in the next moment his eyes were drawn to the same place. Marco's fingers had danced along his own, and now they rested nearby, curled as if unsure of what they should do.
Jean looked up, but Marco wasn't looking at him, eyes still trained on his hand. And he looked there as well, his own fingers twitching now. He suddenly felt restless, like he needed something to occupy his hands with. So he ripped up a few blades of grass, but that brought him no relief.
Marco lay back down on his back, heaving a sigh. Jean tried to distract himself with the clouds again. But now all he could think about was Marco's hand. His big, tanned, freckled hand. Not even an inch away.
He got a bit of a start when he felt the fingers he'd been thinking about wrap around his own. It was a slow motion, each one carefully sliding into place until his hand was trapped beneath Marco's. But it wasn't forceful. He could easily pull away. And his mind was telling him that that was exactly what he needed to do. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, they were holding hands.
But his body wouldn't listen. He just sort of froze up, lying still as Marco sighed next to him. It sounded almost happy. He wondered why.
Marco squeezed, and Jean felt his stomach leap. It felt like fear. But it was different. Just a little.
Marco didn't say anything, and Jean couldn't get his mouth to cooperate. He was left instead to think about what exactly it was he was doing. He knew they were holding hands, but refused to acknowledge what that meant. It was like his mind was actively trying to block him from coming to any sort of conclusion.
But eventually the sermon started to filter its way into his mind. They'd spoken about these sorts of feelings just that morning; The devil himself was trying to sway him to sin.
He leapt away from Marco as if he'd been burned, eyes suddenly wide and frantic. Marco stared at him, holding his gaze until, in a panic, Jean bolted for the fence, legs not slowing in their sprint until he was gasping for breath on his front porch. He took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. Just in time for his mother to come out, concern lacing her features.
"Jean?" She called, startling him to the core. He took a step back, eyes going wide yet again, as if she might suddenly lunge at him. She did no such thing, brows knitting instead with worry. "Jean?" She repeated.
Realization snapped him to attention, and he immediately tried to make himself presentable.
"S-Sorry mom." He offered shakily. She looked him up and down, eyes seeking out an ailment. When she found none, she frowned.
"Take a moment to calm down." She warned. "Then come inside. Dinner is nearly ready."
He could have cried with relief that she hadn't asked any question. He was fortunate that it hadn't been his father that came out to see what had him so flustered. His mother could be reasoned with. His father's belt could not.
Once he'd caught his breath and the flush from his run had died down, he went inside, washing up for dinner and saying the prayer with his family, as he always did. He tried his best to ignore his father as the man blamed the scorching heat on the Bodts. Jean wasn't sure how he'd come to the conclusion that the two were even remotely related, but he was too afraid to say so.
When the meal was over, he retreated to his room, shutting himself inside and praying he wasn't bothered again for the rest of the night. Inside, he headed for his bed, but halted as his eyes were attracted by a bright splash of yellow. He turned to the flowers, his hand tingling where it had touched dark skin. He retraced his steps, joining his mother in the kitchen where she was washing the dinner dishes. He could smell the tobacco from his father's pipe, and knew that he'd be in the parlor to smoke. That meant he wouldn't be able to hear.
"Mom." He said softly. She jumped, turning to him.
"Oh, Jean, you startled me!" She laughed, returning promptly to the dishes. He sidled up next to her.
"Sorry. Um…" He paused, searching for the words. "You remember those flowers I brought home?" He began. She nodded. "Well, I know you said that you couldn't tell me what they mean…" He trailed. She halted, turning slowly to look at him. He looked away.
"Look, I know you want me to figure it out for myself, but I don't know who else to ask." He admitted, turning back to her hopefully.
She stared him down, then sighed.
"Oh, alright." She huffed, picking up another dish and scrubbing. "Day lilies are a flirtation." She explained. Jean swallowed harshly.
A flirtation? Like holding hands. A flirtation.
"T-That's it? There's no alternate meaning?" He hoped. She shook her head, and his stomach fell a little.
"And… And daffodils?" He whispered. She tutted.
"Well, that depends on the situation. They can mean that the giver feels sympathy for the recipient, or that they feel their love is unreciprocated. So you'll have to determine which one it was for yourself." She barked. He flinched, backing away from the counter.
She watched him carefully, eyes narrowed as he slowly retreated, stumbling when he ran into the table.
"Jean?" She said, motherly concern lacing her tone. His lip trembled.
"U-Um, thank you." He offered, making a break for his room. He banged his shoulder against the frame of his doorway, but even that would not slow him down. He hissed against the pain, otherwise ignoring it as he shut himself in once again, eyes flying once more to the flowers. They were the same as when he'd left them, still vibrant yellow and orange, still lilies, still a flirtation.
He approached, letting the pads of his fingers dance along the petals, each one feeling like a soft caress of Marco's hand against his. But each one also felt like a thrashing with his father's belt. Each one felt like a pair of eyes staring at him as he walked down the street, murmuring slurs even worse than 'pagan' or 'witch.'
With unwarranted anger, he grabbed the entire vase, storming over to his window, still gaping open in hopes of letting in a breeze, and his arms got as far as thrusting the entire vase out, but he hesitated, hands trembling where they felt the weight of all the gorgeous, still-fragrant lilies.
He tried again to let them fall. Vase and all. But it was like the damned thing was glued to his hands. He couldn't pry his fingers away.
With a frustrated groan, he pulled them back in, glaring at their overwhelmingly bright petals, hands still shaking as he sat the vase back down on his table. He collapsed in his chair, running his hand down his face.
"What am I doing?" He asked aloud, voice shaky. His fingers came up to subconsciously trace the contours of each petal. And he found he didn't have the energy to stop himself. All he really had the energy to do was fear, and anticipate.
Jean was headed down a dangerous road, and he was well aware of it. He should have realized it sooner. Maybe he had, and he'd just denied it. He knew that his friendship with Marco was not accurately named. He'd known from the beginning that they weren't friends. They were more. They were less. They were something else entirely. He knew that. He'd ignored it.
He'd known that Marco sought more from him than just company. It was obvious in the way his eyes would find Jean automatically, even before Jean knew he was coming over, Marco's eyes would be on him. It was like he sensed it.
It was obvious in the way that Marco lingered in any touch, even the smallest brushing of arms or shoulders. In the way he held the egg basket just so that Jean would have to almost hold his hand to get it. In the way that he'd stretch just enough that they wound up closer together in the grass.
It was in the way his eyes, the color of good alcohol and life shone every time he looked Jean's way.
He'd ignored it. He'd ignored everything.
Unable to deal with anything in that moment, he threw himself into his bed, pulling his sheets over his head, ignoring the heat that threatened to choke the life out of him. Maybe that was for the best.
He buried his face in his pillows, inhaling his own familiar scent. It was just a little sour. He needed to air out his bedding. He tried to keep telling himself that, to distract himself. It wasn't working. All he could think about was Marco. Marco who had talked to him. Marco who had been his friend. Marco who had taken him swimming. Marco who had given him flowers. Marco who had held his hand.
Marco.
Marco who wanted more than friendship.
It wasn't even the fact that he was Pagan. Sure, that was a problem, but it wasn't the biggest problem. No. The problem was, Marco was a boy. A man. If he was seeking Jean's affections… That made him a sodomite. And Jean knew what Christians thought of people like that. Knew what his father thought of people like that.
If there was one thing that Joan Kirstein hated more than the Pagans, it was the homosexuals. Often, over dinner, during parties, even around the fire when Jean was young, he'd tell the story of the time he'd led a lynch mob and dealt with one such sodomite. He was proud to describe how unrecognizable the man's face had been when they finally took pity and hung him.
They'd left the body to dangle from the big tree on the main road. Right near the post office. Everyone saw it. No one dared take it down till it was putrid and close to rotting.
Jean retched at the mental image. He'd been fortunate enough not to be alive yet, but he could imagine. He could picture the body, sturdy from work, but still powerless under so many angry hands. He could smell the burning flesh, could almost taste the coppery flavor of blood that would be on the air. And he could see the gaping wound that might have once been a face. He could see where part of a jaw had once been. He could see one eye left, whiskey brown and frozen open in terror. He could see a white shirt, cheap linen ripped, one arm unaccounted for. One buckled shoe was missing too. Only one brass buckle, fighting against the dirt and blood coating it to gleam in the sunlight.
And he could see the freckles. So many freckles. More than he could count.
He cried out, sitting up and panting, looking about his room frantically. It was dark. When had it become dark? What time was it?
He leapt up, still clothed from his day, and ran for his door. Then he was down the stairs and out the front door, not even stopping when his mother, candle in hand, tried to question him. He ran for the post office, as fast as he could manage, collapsing in the street once he'd arrived.
Nothing. There was nothing in the big tree. Only leaves.
He cried, holding himself as he leaned against a barrel. He tried to stay quiet, lest someone hear him. But still, his wails were too loud. He knew it. But he was too relieved to stop.
When his sobs had been reduced to soft hiccups, he forced himself to his weary feet, trudging back home. There was a candle in the window, flickering, waiting for him. He sucked in a breath of air, pressing forward. His mother was upon him immediately, worry overtaking her usually kind features. She pulled him into the parlor, and there was his father, smoking his pipe still.
His father looked up, and looked at his son harshly.
"Where did you go?" He demanded. Jean froze, words caught in his throat.
"T-To the post office, sir." He replied, his words betraying his mind's desperate need to lie.
His father quirked a brow. A seemingly innocent but incredibly dangerous gesture.
"And what on earth for, boy?" He inquired. Jean swallowed with much effort, toes curling nervously in his shoes.
Lie. His mind begged. LIE.
"To see the hanging tree." He answered, frame quivering. Joan watched him for a long moment, then a grin found his lips.
"A worthy trip." He announced, heels of his shoes clicking as he stood. They had gold buckles. Just like his belt. Jean flinched when his father's hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't ever forget what that tree is for." He whispered, passing Jean and heading up the stairs. With a worried glance between them both, Jean's mother followed.
Jean stood, stunned, unsure of what he'd learned that night. What, exactly, did his father know? How would he ever find out?
With a shudder, he went up the stairs, letting himself into his room. He was just about to lie down in his bed again when he realized something. His room was different, somehow. Something was wrong. He paused, looking about.
His eyes found his table. It was clear. Nothing on it. Not a single petal.
He blinked, approaching it, as if the table might be playing a trick on him, as if his eyes were. But no matter how hard he looked, the flowers were nowhere to be seen.
His heart fell into his stomach, and he looked at the window. It was still gaping. And he walked over, looking outside, first at the stars, then at the ground.
Below lay the shards of the vase, the lilies crushed from impact with the ground. They looked like they'd been stepped on, too.
Breathless, he pulled his head back into his room, shutting the window and crawling into bed. The house was silent, dark, and yet… He felt cramped. As if, somehow, there were eyes on him every second. He'd never felt that way before, but one thing had become clear.
Joan knew.
What he knew, Jean didn't know. Maybe he knew little, maybe he knew everything. Regardless, Joan knew too much. And Jean felt fear even greater than that he held for the Father. For his own father had proven much more frightening than God on so many occasions. Jean felt threatened, he was scared.
But the thing that scared him the most, even more than his fear of his own father, was that he was not afraid for himself.
He was afraid for Marco.
And what did that mean? Did that mean that, without even realizing, he'd come to return the boy's feelings? Did he want more than friendship from Marco too? Was he really willing to forsake his own soul for love of another man? Well…
Damned if he did.
Damned if he didn't.
The question was, what sort of damned did he want to be?
A/N: I wish I had time for a long author's note, but I have to get myself to work, I'm afraid. This chapter is the longest one out of 15, if I'm not mistaken. And I think that's because a lot happened, huh? Well, I feel that way, but maybe you guys don't. It's hard to think of this in the terms of someone who doesn't know as much as I do. Such is the bane of every writer's existence.
So, the day lilies got a lot of attention last chapter, and apparently caused no shortage of confusion. They've been defined here, but for future reference, I go to buzzle's list of flowers with meanings and pictures for my definitions. You're welcome to look that list up, or you can use any one that you want. I was surprised at how well other meanings from other sites could be applied to the story as well.
Alright, I really do have to get going. If there's anything else you'd like to discuss, you're welcome to ask about it or bring it up in a comment/review. I do reply to all of those, to the best of my abilities. And, if you feel inspired, or just want to say hello, you can tag things for this story with fic wwfg on tumblr. Till next time!
KuroRiya
九六りや