Jean found himself too afraid to see Marco again for several days. He went to the trouble of taking the long way to get home just so he wouldn't have to face Marco. It felt pathetic, especially since he couldn't figure out for the life of him what exactly he was afraid of. Was it dealing with Marco and his feelings, or was it the fear that his father would somehow find out, that he somehow already knew?
Regardless, Jean's own need of the boy's company eventually brought him back, lingering awkwardly at the fence. He wasn't sure if he was welcome anymore. As if he'd been waiting, Marco opened the door to his house, head coming out first to stare at Jean for a moment. Then his body followed, and he shut the door behind him, walking over to the fence. It was a slow pace, and Jean wondered if that was because Marco didn't want to see him, or if he was giving Jean the chance to run if he wanted to. Maybe it was both.
When Marco was before him, everything Jean had planned to say escaped him. He only stared, probably gaping a little. And Marco waited, holding still, not making any movements until Jean did. He began walking, straight to the meadow, and Jean followed wordlessly. It wasn't until they'd sat down among the wildflowers and tall grass that either of them spoke.
"…Sorry." Jean breathed. There was so much more that he wanted to say, so much more he needed to say. But nothing else would come out.
Marco didn't seem to mind, only nodding. For once, he didn't offer his sunny smile. But he didn't look angry, and that in itself was a comfort.
Already feeling relieved, Jean let himself fall into the grass, comforted by the familiar smells and sounds that surrounded him. For a moment, he forgot his fears, comforted in the thought that no one could see them when they were buried in such tall greenery.
And so, when Marco's hand sought his again, even more cautious this time, he let him hold it. He squeezed the long digits, filled the spaces between them with his own. Marco's hand was warm, and he hadn't realized that, in the past few days, he'd been feeling pretty cold. Even in the July heat, he had a constant chill, deep in his bones. And now it was gone.
They didn't speak again until hours had passed, and Jean announced that he needed to get home. Marco let him go, getting up to walk him to the fence. After hopping over it, Jean turned, and they exchanged one last glance before he headed for home.
In the days that followed, their routine returned mostly to how it had been. Jean would come in the morning to help with the early chores, and then again when he got done working for Levi, staying as late as he could.
The only thing that really changed was how they behaved around one another. Now, when they went to the meadow to pass their time talking, their hands remained linked between them. When Jean helped Marco fetch the eggs in the morning, his hand would linger against Marco's as they traded the basket between them. When they snuck off to the river to go swimming again, he didn't flinch when Marco's legs brushed his.
He didn't dare bring flowers home again. And Marco somehow knew better than to give him any bouquets. But after nearly a week of their revised routine, it seemed Marco couldn't help himself anymore. On his way over the fence, Marco grabbed Jean's hand, not letting it go until Jean had a grip on a single white carnation.
With a quirked brow and a grin, he turned back, looking at Marco expectantly.
"Will you tell me what this one means, or do I have to ask my mother again?" He wondered. Marco only smiled coyly, waving.
Jean barked a laugh, then went on his way, twirling the stem between his fingers and admiring the white petals, nearing full bloom. His good mood followed him all the way to the front door, then his heart slid directly into his stomach, no longer held aloft by fluttering butterflies of pleasant nervousness. No, that had quickly been replaced by a crippling fear.
Was his father home? What would he say if he saw the flower? What would he do?
He bit his lip, stuffing the flower into his waistcoat as delicately as he could while still being inconspicuous. Figuring that was the best he could do, he took a breath and opened the door.
A sigh of relief escaped when it was only his mother home, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, surprising her with a quick peck to her cheek. She nearly jumped out of her skin, but then giggled, shooing him out of her kitchen when he stuck his finger in the filling of the pie she was working on. He cackled as he shuffled out, licking the cherry off of his finger before heading for his room, placing the carnation across his headboard.
Nothing in his room had been disturbed since he'd found the broken vase, but that didn't mean that his father wasn't going through his things on a daily basis. Jean honestly wondered about it, but he didn't own anything incriminating, so it wasn't really an issue, more of an annoyance.
But now he had this flower. He could only hope that, seeing as it was a single bloom and therefore less obvious, that it would be left alone. It wasn't as if he could carry it around with him. And, beyond that, who's to say he didn't pick it himself? There was no reason for Joan to believe that it was a gift from the Pagan boy.
Still, he knew better than to ask his mother the meaning this time. No, that might have been his downfall last time. He'd just have to find someone else to ask, or simply live with not knowing. As long as it made Marco happy to have given it, then Jean was happy too.
He washed up, making sure no blades of grass stuck to his clothes, then he joined his mother in the kitchen once again, for once being a good child and helping her cook dinner. Of course, he also used the opportunity to steal bites when he thought she wasn't looking. She was always looking. But she didn't really mind, he could tell. She was probably just glad to have company.
They were just finishing when Jean heard his father's heels clicking against the front steps, and he stiffened, retreating from the food and hastily taking a seat at the table. If his father saw him cooking… Well, that was a thrashing he'd rather avoid.
When Joan made it to the kitchen, he sniffed appreciatively, taking a moment to kiss his wife and shoot his son a look, then his footsteps could be heard going all the way up the stairs and to his washing basin.
Jean sighed when the man was out of sight, shoulders stooping as his finger traced patterns in the wood of the table for lack of better things to do. His mother offered him a sympathetic glance, rushing to finish as quickly as possible, lest the man of the house come down and find he had to wait.
She finished making his plate just in time to set it down as he pulled a chair out and took his seat. Then she made Jean's plate, and finally her own. Then she sat, and they all said grace, and finally got to work on the meal. It was good, and Joan even complemented the potatoes, in a roundabout way. Jean did his very best not to grin with the knowledge that the potatoes had been his own doing.
After dinner, his mother sliced the pie, giving him a wink as she handed him an extra-large slice, and he beamed, scarfing it down fast enough that he nearly didn't taste it. Nearly.
Once everyone had finished eating, he tried to excuse himself to his room, but he was halted.
"Stay, boy. Let's all talk in the sitting room for a spell." His father suggested, and Jean halted, dread washing over all the good-food feelings dinner had given him. But, knowing better than to disobey, he followed his mother and father into the parlor, planting himself in one of the uncomfortable but stylish chairs his father insisted were in good taste.
His mother took a seat next to his father on the matching loveseat, and she reached for her needlework, getting to work while Joan cleared his throat.
Instead of talking, though, he set to work on lighting his pipe, inhaling the smoke a few times before finally picking his topic for the evening.
"Those damn idiots are trying to tell us how to run the town again." He seethed, and Jean perked up. This was one of the only things he and his father ever agreed on.
"Are they trying to sell here again?" He wondered, and Joan nodded.
"I've told the bastards to kindly take their damnable slave trade elsewhere, but they don't listen to me. Only the mayor can make them listen, and the man hasn't got any backbone or political skill to speak of." Joan elaborated, taking another puff of his tobacco. "I only barely managed to stop them on their way into town this morning."
Jean frowned, and his mother tutted.
"Isn't the mayor against it too, though?" Jean recalled, and Joan nodded.
"Of course he is. But the man has about as much courage as a wild rabbit." He complained. Jean was about to comment again, but Joan cut him off. "Too pathetic to even run those damned Pagans out of town." He hissed.
Jean's vision got a little blurry, and he deflated. Usually he'd blindly agree with his father's opinion. It was better than trying to argue his own. But…
Lie!
"I-I don't know…" He began, swallowing.
LIE!
"They've never hurt anyone or anything." He mumbled.
It was silent for a moment, and then Jean could practically feel his father's claws sinking into him.
"What was that, boy? Are you defending those witches?" Joan demanded. Jean winced, not having heard them called witches in a while. It was a bold accusation, especially considering the stories from Salem had only recently stopped coming their way.
Keep your mouth shut. Don't answer!
"T-They… They aren't…" He whispered, but he didn't get to finish.
"Dear Lord, boy! Has Satan gotten to you too?" Joan snarled, and Jean did everything in his power to sink into the chair, to make himself small.
"N-No." He stuttered, finally able to get his words to cooperate with his mind. "I just…"
"Just what? Out with it!" His father bellowed.
Jean could feel his eyes stinging, his limbs already curling in towards his body, as if they were anticipating a blow, as if they knew they would be needed for protection.
He couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing that wouldn't induce a beating, anyway. So he simply remained quiet, trembling minutely, eyes darting to his father's waist and back to the floor a few times. He'd managed to avoid punishment for a record amount of time. Had his luck run out?
To his relief, Joan simply scoffed, refilling his pipe and lighting it again.
Some of the tension in the room dissolved, and it seemed to Jean like he could breathe again, though he couldn't remember when he'd stopped in the first place. Regardless, he did his best to make vague comments until he was finally excused to go up to his room for the night.
Once he was in his room, the door shut and all of the tension gone, he stripped away his clothes and slipped into bed, looking up at his headboard to check that the carnation was still there. He allowed himself a small smile when it was, and he let his eyes close, content to know that he'd escaped a beating, and would be seeing Marco in the morning. Maybe he'd even have time to hold his hand for a bit before he had to report to Levi.
Only if he got to sleep soon enough to wake up early.
And so he did.
A/N: A lot of people were interested in Joan, to my surprise. Usually antagonists are mostly just hated and not thought of beyond that. But I'm glad that you're all interested in his dimensions, even if they aren't exactly good ones. There will be more development with him, but you can see some in this chapter already, or at least, so I hope.
I'd like to once again thank you all for all of the wonderful feedback. I can never mention enough how happy it makes me to see your lengthy comments, and I'm always happy when you guys actually want to talk about things. Like, seriously, I'm happy to hear your thoughts and interpretations, and I love to give you mine as well.
You've truly been a wonderful readership so far, and I'm lucky to have you guys. Someone's even working on fanart for me at the moment, and I'm super excited about it! It's looking amazing so far! I'll be sure to post a link when it's finished.
I'm tracking the tag "fic wwfg" over on tumblr, so if there's anything you want me to see, post it there.
Anyway, I have some things to do, so I'll call it a day here. Thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. Until the next update!
KuroRiya
九六りや