Jean sort of started to understand why people made such a big deal about kissing. He'd never really comprehended why everyone else his age went to the trouble of sneaking around in order to indulge with whoever they fancied. But, as soon as he was able to do it with Marco without the risk of a small panic attack, he found he very much enjoyed it.
Marco was always warm in his arms, and always happy to oblige. He never said anything. He didn't ridicule Jean for being unsure about the whole thing, for letting his fear linger though he'd promised himself he'd leave it behind. He wasn't smug that he'd won Jean's affections. He didn't point out that Jean was damned now, that he was directly going against his own religion.
No, he'd just stop whatever he was doing, carefully snake his hands around Jean's waist, and hold him just long enough for them to press their lips together. Then he'd let go, and get back to work, almost as if it hadn't happened. But the wave of nervous happiness that Jean felt afterwards made sure he knew that he never imagined it.
It helped his courage a lot that he was met with no repercussions. Ever since he'd found his vase of lilies smashed below his window, he'd been wary that Joan knew more than he let on. Yet, Jean was getting so brave as to kiss Marco at the gate, albeit after looking both ways to make sure that no one was watching. And despite this, Joan never appeared to be any the wiser. He continued smoking in the parlor, continued complaining about things that weren't going as he wanted them to over dinner, continued yanking him out of bed way too early on Sunday to go to church.
Nothing changed.
And that was what gave Jean the confidence he needed to lay against Marco's chest in the late-afternoon sunshine, frequently craning his neck to steal kisses. It seemed that Marco always knew exactly when Jean wanted one, for he would always turn down just in time to catch the other male's lips with his own. Then he'd simply go back to staring at the clouds, like he always did.
"Do you talk to clouds too?" Jean wondered, realizing too little too late that his question most likely seemed out of place to someone who wasn't following his train of thought. But Marco took it in stride.
"No, not really. There are a few types of fortune-telling that rely on clouds, but I'm not much interested in fortune-telling." He replied. "Clouds are simply nice to look at."
Jean nodded, glancing up that way as well. They were indeed a nice sight to behold.
"Don't you ever bore of them?" He asked, and Marco smiled wryly.
"That's like asking me if I ever bore of you." He said, and Jean scowled.
"I'm only as interesting as clouds?" He demanded. Marco's chest rumbled with laughter as answer.
Jean opted to let it go, instead busying himself with finding Marco's hand and lacing their fingers. He liked the way that Marco's calluses felt against his own scrawny fingers. But his own hands were starting to get sturdy as well, from all the work he helped Marco with in his spare time. Of course, it wasn't even half as laborious, but he'd manhandled a bit of hay since he'd begun spending time with the other boy. Luckily he could just chalk it up to new writing utensils the few times his mother had mentioned them.
Marco's fingers fit easily with his, now used to the gesture. It was almost as if their fingers were the perfect size, no space left between the digits, but nor was it an uncomfortable squeeze. It made Jean smile for reasons he wasn't even ready to start considering. And it almost seemed as if Marco had been more prepared to deal with whatever they'd become before it even began.
When the thought occurred to him, he realized how accurate that actually was. It felt like Marco had somehow foreseen that they would end up like this. He shuffled a bit to look up at Marco. The other seemed to sense his gaze, and he looked down at almost the same time. Jean worried his lip.
"…You knew." He breathed. Marco blinked, processing the words for just a moment, then he smiled.
"I did." He admitted, as if he knew exactly what Jean was talking about without even the smallest bit of explanation. And he did, Jean realized.
Jean's brows furrowed, and he busied himself with finding each freckle on Marco's face as he thought. When had Marco figured it out?
"How long have you known?" He finally managed to demand, looking Marco in the eye seriously. The other only closed his own eyes, his easy smile still in place.
"Always." He replied.
Jean thought that over for a while. Always? Did that mean since the day they'd met? Since the day they first existed at the same time? And beyond that…
"How?"
At this, Marco paused, smile falling a bit. Jean recognized the face he made, brows knitted and bottom lip between his teeth, as Marco's nervous face. He usually only saw it when Marco wasn't sure if what he said would bother Jean or not. It was the face he wore when he said the most blasphemous of things.
The darker boy took a deep breath, finally returning his gaze to Jean, but only for a moment before it was stolen away by some wildflowers growing nearby.
"You keep saying that I talk to flowers." He began, smiling fondly at the blooms.
"Maybe because you always tell me that they have a lot to say." Jean defended. Marco looked back at him.
"Well, I don't have conversations with them. At least, not two-sided ones. The reason I can identify each as a certain meaning is because of their shape and their color. That's what sets flowers apart, after all." He continued. Jean quirked a brow, considering the fact that Marco was avoiding his question. But he opted to see where this train of conversation was going. Maybe it really did tie in somehow.
"Humans are a lot like flowers. Flowers might not be able to think or feel deeply, nor can they move of their own accord. But each one is different, and those small differences in shape and color can change the interpretation greatly. Humans are like that." He offered.
Jean felt more confused than he had when Marco started, but he tried to keep up.
"Their shape and color matters?" He tried. Marco allowed himself a small chuckle.
"Well, Jean, I see the world a lot differently than you do. I'm not the only one, but I suppose it would be hard to find someone else like me around here. Anybody could be, even you could be, if only they were open to seeing things differently."
If Jean was confused before, he was entirely lost at that point.
"Um, how is the way you see the world different from the way I do?" He wondered. Marco was silent for a long time, watching one cloud in particular crawl across the vast blueness of the sky. When he finally looked back at Jean, it was with hesitation.
"I still see all the things you do. I just see more. Each… Each person has their own color, their own shape. I'm not sure exactly what to call what I see. I've heard it called a lot of things; Auras, souls… Regardless, I've taught myself how to read them. Some colors go well together, some shapes just can't fit. Sometimes I can be a bit off, but I've gotten to the point that I have a general idea about anyone I see." He described.
Jean sat up, looking at the freckled boy in awe, and, if he was being honest, fear. What was he on about? Seeing people's souls? That wasn't possible. That sounded like magic. Until just then, Marco had seemed entirely normal, but if he was telling the truth about what he saw… Could he really be a witch? Jean hadn't even humored the thought in so long that he'd almost forgotten what the family was suspected of. Now it was coming back to him much faster than he was prepared to deal with.
He tried to remain calm. Hadn't he already committed to this, to Marco? He was already in the middle of an unforgivable sin, did it really matter that he was hearing this? After all, damnation remains damnation, regardless of the offense. That was something of a pessimistic comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
Marco seemed to notice his internal strife, and he sat up, slowly inching closer until he could easily take Jean's hand again.
"That's how I knew that you and Mikasa wouldn't end up together." He offered softly. "Though the color… Well, I call it color, but it's more of a feeling that I can't describe that is just easier to verbalize as a color. Anyway, yours and hers did complement each other. The shapes, however…" He paused, searching for his words. "Well, to say there was no chance would be putting it nicely. They were so completely different from each other. They say that people have soul mates, and I agree; some of the… souls that I see are perfectly fitted together, colors absolute compliments. Others sort of fit, but it isn't perfect. My mother and father are the latter, as are yours. People like that make it work, they compromise." He elaborated. Jean, now considerably less fearful, nodded.
He'd heard about soul mates, and Marco's use of the familiar and common term made him feel better about the entire conversation. After all, Joan had used the term before. Levi had used the term before. The minister had used the term before. If it was such a common idea, it couldn't be a bad thing that Marco could see it. Perhaps he was blessed?
"So it is possible to be completely happy with someone, even if your souls don't quite fit all the way. But there was simply no way for yours to even come close to suiting Mikasa's. That's why I could say with confidence that it wouldn't work out." He added.
Jean scowled. So all that time courting the girl was entirely worthless. There had never been so much as a small hope. He wished he'd known that from the beginning, but then, he'd probably have ignored the information anyway, just as he'd done with Marco's warning.
It was quiet for a while, and it seemed that Marco was giving his companion time to process everything. He actually looked a little apprehensive, but he visibly calmed when Jean pressed closer, stealing a kiss before settling against his side.
"If it had been someone you had a chance with, I wouldn't have said anything. Like… You could probably make it work with Armin Arlert." He listed. Jean frowned deeply. Another boy. That was scary. "You could have been happy with him. Just as my mother is happy with my father. But I've noticed, people that manage to find the other person that goes with them perfectly… Well, they tend to be a lot more vibrant. They know a happiness that no one else can understand. And it's amazing. When you find the person you fit with, you know it, even if you can't see it." Marco sighed, smiling to himself.
"Most people don't even notice at first; All they know is that they're incredibly drawn to the person. They can't seem to keep away. And they can't be kept away from each other. No matter what is between them, they will find a way to get to each other, without fail. It might be gradual, but they will give up everything for each other, their beliefs, their way of life, even their lives. It's truly beautiful." He breathed, looking over at Jean, leaning over to steal Jean's lips in a chaste kiss.
Jean mulled it over, letting his head rest against Marco's shoulder. He'd call the boy insane if he wasn't so specific and knowledgeable on the topic. He really doubted anyone could come up with something like that; It was too fantastical to be imagination.
"So… What are we?" He wondered, thinking about it. "We've got to fit together at least a little, huh?" He mused. Marco hummed, squeezing his fingers.
"I'm not going to tell you." He said, and Jean scoffed indignantly. "I know you well enough to know that if I told you, it would change your attitude, and the way you do things. And I don't want that. I'd honestly rather you just treat our… Relationship the same way that you would treat one with anyone else. There's no need for you to change." He continued, punctuating his argument with a peck on Jean's cheek.
Jean felt heat rising where he'd been kissed, and he squeezed Marco's fingers.
"Alright. If you really don't want to tell me, then I won't bother you about it." He decided, letting his back fall until it hit the grass below, and he tugged on Marco's arm until the other teen obliged him with a giggle, laying down next to him so that the smaller could reproduce their earlier position, head perched easily on Marco's shoulder.
Even after he'd bid Marco farewell and was halfway home, he was still thinking about what Marco could see. He found himself wondering what people's souls were like. He even began to imagine it. Levi was the first he tried. He pictured it a very cool blue color, almost metallic, with sort of a misleadingly complicated shape. He thought it might seem sort of difficult to match at first, but wouldn't actually be that complicated once someone took the time to figure it out.
He remembered that someone had, apparently, taken the time to figure it out. Then he tried to stop remembering it, before it sent him into another panic attack. He thought instead about his mother. Well, her and his father. He bet his father's shape was jagged, and that his mother's somehow accommodated it, smoothing out the edges as best it could. His mother's color… He couldn't decide. Something warm, but not overpowering. Maybe a maroon or deep red?
His father, on the other hand… Gold. Jean didn't even have to think about it. He wanted to ask Marco, but he felt he almost didn't need to. Just like Joan's shoe buckles, like his belt buckle, like his ambitions. Gold.
Jean shuddered again, forcing the thoughts from his mind, thinking instead about Marco. Could Marco see his own soul? Jean thought about it. What would his look like? Earthy, maybe brown like soil or green like trees. Or maybe he was blue like warm summer water and skies. There were a lot of possibilities. He sort of wished he could see them, now that he'd learned they existed.
But he knew it wasn't to be. He wasn't like Marco. He was too afraid. But that was alright, because that meant that Marco was brave in a way he couldn't be. After all, they were compatible, weren't they? That meant Marco must make up for his shortcomings.
Or maybe that was only true for soul mates.
But then, who was to say they weren't? After all, hadn't Jean felt drawn to Marco, even before he would admit it? He had had no way to explain his desire to know what was going on behind the Bodt fence. He had no way to explain why he kept coming back, even though he was so obviously afraid of what Marco was. He had no way to explain why he was putting aside his beliefs, which were against practically everything he did, just to spend time with the boy.
Didn't that imply that they must be soul mates? Was that why Marco wouldn't tell him? Perhaps he thought that the information would frighten Jean. And, honestly, it did. But it was also a strange sort of comfort to think it. For, if they were truly meant to go together, then surely it couldn't be wrong for them to do just that.
But the bible said different, and that's the part that scared him. Because, if he were to admit that he thought he was right to be with Marco, then that would be admitting that there was a fault with what he'd considered to be the undeniable truth.
If there was one mistake, then there were many.
Considering that small fact was terrifying, rattling. But he couldn't unthink it.
Marco felt right. It seemed like they were always going to end up like this, regardless of what decision they made. Even if Jean hadn't come back when he did, even if he'd forced himself away, had gone to church every day and hung on to every single word, even if he'd succeeded his father as the tax collector, or if he'd become a journalist… Someday, he would come back. He might be older, more stubborn, less afraid, more afraid… But he'd be the same. He felt Marco was meant for him, just as he was meant for Marco. It was the first time he'd really thought of it in lingual terms, but he'd had the feeling for a long time.
He had grown to love Marco. And he knew, without verbal confirmation, that Marco loved him as well. And Jean doubted that could ever be different.
It terrified him. He was meant for Marco. Marco was meant for him. It was preordained, which had to mean it was divine.
It was a glaring contradiction to what he had always believed to be true. It was a fault. And with that mistake he had to question what else was wrong. What else had been transcribed improperly? How much of what he'd been taught was true?
So wrapped up in his alarming revelations was he that he didn't even hear Joan or his mother as they talked over dinner. Not a single word was comprehended. Not even one threatening word out of Joan's mouth made it into his mind.
It was an oblivious night he came to regret more than most in his life.
A/N: I am a busy bee here lately, and I do want to warn you that it might be a while before you get another update, unfortunately. I have to somehow finish a costume by the fifth (heaven help me) save and pack for Torcon next weekend, go to school, work, and all the other things those entail. Which basically means I have a whole lot on my plate.
Still, I'm doing my best to keep up. I just want you guys to know that the next chapter likely won't come out in just a few days like they have been. Think more like a week or so. Sorry in advance!
In other news, FANART~! Oooh yeah! It has begun, and I'm super excited! Thanks to Illien-Chan on Devi, and aamukaste on tumblr! As I'm sure we're all aware at this point, FF won't let me post links. If you want to see them, you can check out Illien's devi, the fanart is titled "Hold ya Hand." Aamukaste's piece is tagged "fic where wildflowers grow" and it's the only thing in that tag. Thanks to both of you, you lit up my days when I saw your work. 3
On that note, anything related to this story can be tagged "fic wwfg" on tumblr. I check it regularly and stuff, and get more excited than I probably ought to on the rare occasion that something new appears in there. I seriously appreciate the support thus far~!
Alright, I need to get to work on another of my stories. I may or may not have let swimmer boys take over my life again. *sigh* Till next time, I'd like to thank you for following along, taking the time to read, and to leave me such fantastic feedback. You guys mean the world to me, so keep that feedback coming. It keeps me going!
I must away. Farewell dear ones.
KuroRiya
九六りや