Jean woke up later than he usually did. That was the first thing that gave him a clue. The sun was too bright against his eyes, already yellow instead of the normal grey of early morning, which he had grown accustomed to seeing every day working with Levi. He had to squint against it, and he groggily wondered why on earth his mother hadn't woken him up when he'd slept through breakfast.
He had to go through his normal routine quickly, since he was running late. Who knew what Levi would do if he didn't make it in till noon! He regretted that he wouldn't get to see Marco until after working, but he did have to prioritize, as unfortunate as it was.
Once he was dressed and his hair had been tamed to some semblance of normalcy, he headed down the stairs. Sure enough, his mother was there, awake, sitting at the table. He'd been prepared to demand an explanation, but she looked… Hollow. Like she wasn't really there. He felt like she had retreated into her own mind, and wondered what could have possibly caused that.
His suspicion was confirmed when she didn't respond, though he called her a few times. He finally gave in, shaking her shoulder gently, and her eyes suddenly snapped up to his face, a bit of sadness mixing in with the surprise and the… Fear? Why fear? Sure, if he was his father, that could be acceptable. But she'd never looked at him like that.
"Mother?" He called softly. "Why didn't you get me up?" He wondered, keeping his hand on her shoulder, afraid that if he let go she'd disappear inside herself again. "I'm late for work." He added.
Her shoulder stiffened, and her eyes went wide.
"I-I think you ought to stay in today, Jean." She suggested, voice quiet but urgent. It was a strange thing for her to say. Usually she was the one scolding him for trying to get out of work, not the other way around. Why the shift?
"Um… I can't just take a day off whenever I want to." Jean pointed out. "Levi would have my head…"
She winced, biting her lip so hard it started to go white. What was wrong? Why wouldn't she just tell him what was on her mind?
"Jean, please." She begged, reaching out and holding one of his hands tightly between hers.
He took a moment to think over what she was asking, and why. She looked distraught, and was acting as if someone was in danger. As if Jean was in danger. But why? Had he done something wrong? Well… He could think of a lot of things he'd done recently that would be considered wrong by almost anyone who saw, but he was confident he hadn't been seen. Was he wrong in so thinking?
But even if he had been… Well, he would be less afraid for himself, and more afraid for… Marco.
He could swear he felt his heart caving in on itself. His whole body went cold, even in the sticky summer heat that loomed in the house. He couldn't focus on anything anymore, not even his mother's concerned face. Her terrified face.
"…Where is father?" He asked. She only shook her head, not meeting his eyes, retreating back into her mind as if that might protect her from the horror overtaking her son's face.
Without another word, he bolted from the room, ignoring her cries of protest, and ran down the familiar path towards the main street.
What would he do if Marco was there? What could he do? Even if Marco wasn't dead, would he be able to save him? What would be the point? It would only condemn the both of them. But he couldn't very well let them hurt Marco. No. He'd only just admitted to loving him, he couldn't lose him. He hadn't loved anything before then, and now that he knew the feeling, he couldn't imagine life without it.
He barely registered that he'd passed a man. But when he did, he paused, turning to watch him. He was walking, but too fast for it to be a stroll. And he was headed out of town. Jean watched his retreating figure, mind curious about his hast and disheveled blonde hair and burning familiarity, but he didn't have time to dwell, and he resumed his run, urging himself to go even faster.
It felt like he couldn't breathe. The air was so thick, so wet, and his lungs were fighting him with every breath to squeeze out what little oxygen they could. It didn't matter though. His legs couldn't be convinced to stop even if he'd tried. No matter how they burned, they wouldn't falter till he reached his destination.
The tree was always the first thing his eyes saw when he approached town. Maybe it was just a fearful habit, maybe the tree was just noticeable. It was sort of a relief to see it every day, for it was empty, innocently so. As if it was just a normal tree.
But that day, it was anything but a relief.
Even from afar, he could see it. There was someone hanging from it. He couldn't tell who, but his heart screamed the only name that mattered. He already wanted to collapse, to cry, and beg for death himself, but his last shred of reason insisted that he get close enough to see. To confirm.
Somehow he pressed forward, only collapsing when he was truly in front of the tree. He couldn't bring himself to look for a long, breathless moment. He almost wished he never had to look. But he needed to know.
His breath hitched when he finally did look up, heart seeming to stop its beating in his chest for a drawn out moment. When his breath finally came, it was shaky. Both with horror, but also relief.
It was Levi. Not Marco. And Jean knew it was deplorable of him to be relieved to see his mentor dangling, lifeless. But all he could think was that, thank God, it wasn't Marco.
Once his mind cleared a bit from his frantic panic, he nearly vomited. It was lucky he hadn't eaten much the night before. There was a small crowd gathered, some cheering and congratulating each other, others looking on with pity or discomfort. No one paid Jean much mind.
Levi was nearly unrecognizable. His height was what made his identity obvious, but otherwise it might have been hard. One of his eyes was open, the other shut and bloody, a cut and swelling likely making it impossible to open. His nose was obviously broken, and the blood only flowed down to join more from his lips, soaking into the front of what had once been a clean, crisp white shirt.
Jean couldn't count the broken bones, and couldn't bring himself to look long enough to try. All he could do was hold himself and try not to think about it. He wished he hadn't come. He should have listened to his mother. But he couldn't have just left it without making sure Marco was alright.
But was Marco really alright? Probably right now, seeing as the entire town was gathered. But if they would do this to Levi, a respected member of their community, then what hope was there that they wouldn't do the exact same to the hated Pagan boy? It didn't matter that he was young, that he was harmless, that he wasn't doing any wrong. If they found out what he and Jean did alone in the meadow, they'd do the same, if not worse, to the both of them.
They weren't safe, and Jean couldn't fool himself into thinking so anymore.
So lost in his thoughts and terrors was he that he didn't notice his father approaching. He didn't register the man's presence, in fact, until he'd rested a hand on Jean's shoulder, knuckles bruised and usually spotless shirt sleeves splattered with angry red stains.
He leaned in close, to make sure Jean heard him. He smelled falsely of oranges and vanilla, a perfume he'd bought a year or so ago. Jean hated the smell.
"A Sodomite." He explained, as if that justified what he'd done, what they'd all done.
Jean vomited.
It wasn't until after Joan had gone to bed, and that Jean had already managed to escape his own home, that he realized who the man from earlier was. The one that was leaving town. It was the man that he'd seen with Levi. He'd never even learned his identity, but he suddenly understood, knew how he must have felt. And he knew the man must have been strong to be able to run away. He was strong to keep going, even without Levi.
Even though Jean was afraid, he couldn't stop himself from walking towards the Bodt house. Even though it wasn't Marco in that tree, he still needed to see him, to be sure that he was alright, that he was alive. It didn't matter that he was scared, or that he could get caught, or even that it was the middle of the night.
When he passed by town, as much as he wished he could have avoided doing so, he was thankful to see that someone had been kind enough to let Levi's body down. Jean wondered where it was. Had they burned it? Tossed it into the river? Simply abandoned it outside of town for the scavengers to pick at until Levi was nothing but unidentifiable bones?
He really hoped someone had taken pity and at least buried him. Even burning the body would be better than leaving it up to nature, he thought.
It sort of dawned on him then that he had a lot to think about, in regards to his employer. Beyond the grief he felt for the man, which was more than he actually expected, seeing as he never thought himself too overly fond of him, he had to think about his job too.
Levi had been the town's news reporter. Without him, there wasn't a weekly paper. Would the town go without one, or would a new person take over the position? Would Jean? Could he? He wasn't sure if he was qualified, but realized he was probably more so than anyone else in town.
But, after seeing what had happened to Levi, he was more afraid of his father than ever. Before, the hanging tree had served as an idle threat. Now its legacy was alive again. Jean had seen for himself. He could be next, if he wasn't careful. Marco could be next.
Joan thought journalism was a waste of time. It was a miracle that Jean had convinced him to allow him the chance to apprentice. And now, what with his master gone, what argument could he really make in his own favor? How could he convince his father to let him take up a sodomite's trade?
He had to dispel the thoughts, for he was at the familiar fence, presently staring into the dark yard. He could just make out the sheep, penned up for the night, some bleating softly even at the witching hour.
Now that he was standing there, looking at the house, which was dark save for a few candles flickering near the end of their lives in an occasional window, he felt foolish. The chances were that Marco was sleeping. Even if he wasn't, the rest of his family most likely was, and he had no way to know which room was Marco's. If he really wanted to see the boy, he'd have to knock on the front door, disturbing someone.
He bit his lip. He wanted to see Marco. Needed to see him. But he didn't want to bother his family.
His heart stuttered when he heard a sound, eyes shooting up in that direction. But he quickly calmed when he realized what it was. With impeccable timing, Marco had opened one of the windows on the upper floor, his head poking out. He didn't call out, but he waved at Jean, and then Jean saw his shadow walking past several of the windows.
In a few minutes, he emerged from the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Jean met him halfway after stepping over the fence, glad for the cover of darkness as he all but collided with the boy, clinging too tight for comfort as Marco did all he could to keep them steady.
Jean didn't even realize he was crying until Marco had pulled him to the other side of the house and was wiping the tears away with his thumbs. But then it was over for Jean. And this time, Marco didn't have to ask what was wrong. He himself didn't cry, but he trembled just a little as he held Jean against his side.
The moon was high when Jean finally calmed down. And still, they were quiet for a long time.
"What… What are we going to do?" Jean managed, looking up at Marco.
It was the first time he'd seen such nervousness on the other boy's face.
"There's not really much we can do. I assume that no one knows about us, seeing as I didn't wake up to a mob this morning. But we… We need to be a lot more careful." He admitted. Jean shuddered.
"What if they catch us?" He quaked, eyes darting around as if he might have summoned someone with words alone.
Marco frowned, searching out Jean's fingers and squeezing them.
"Well, that's up to you, Jean. If they catch us, I don't have any doubt that I'll end up like Levi. You might not get it as badly, but you won't be the same." He warned. Jean swallowed the bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. His throat still felt dry.
"If you…" Marco paused, taking a deep breath. "I understand that this changes things. And I will understand if you don't want to do this." He promised.
Jean had to wonder what exactly this was, but he couldn't bring himself to question it aloud.
"It's a lot more dangerous and a lot more real now. I couldn't blame you for being scared. I'm scared." He admitted. That shook Jean a little more than it should have. Marco never said things like that. Marco was so strong, he understood things in a way Jean couldn't. He was calm. Never scared.
They fell into silence, and Jean thought about it all for a long while.
"Do you want to stop?" He finally asked, looking up at the darker boy. Marco bit his lip, looking up at the stars, as if he was asking them for guidance. He was quiet for so long, Jean almost thought his question would go unanswered, but then Marco inhaled.
"I love you, Jean." Was his reply.
All at once, the night seemed so loud. Frogs and crickets shrieked, shrill and echoing. The sheep seemed to join in on the impromptu concert, and the dissonance was strangely comforting.
Jean knew the words should have turned him away. They should have been the thing that assured that he'd never come back to this place, back to this boy. He almost believed that Marco had said them in the hopes that they'd send him running.
But instead, it made him resolute.
"I'm not leaving." He replied, the quiver gone from his voice as he pulled Marco closer, pressing their lips together almost harshly. He was desperate for it now, to feel this precious person, alive and warm. And Marco didn't deny him it, motion easy and practiced as he curled his arms around the other, pulling till their chests were flush and they could feel their hearts pounding at slightly different paces.
Jean could have fallen asleep there, against Marco. But he knew better. That would be the most dangerous thing he could do. So, after a few tired and still terrified kisses, Jean left, watching until Marco was safe inside his house again before he began the walk to his own.
He kept his footsteps quiet, even before he got to his home, and even more so when he did. Not even a single floorboard creaked under him. He didn't so much as breathe until he was in his room, in his bed. He heard Joan snore, as he always did when he was deeply asleep.
He felt like vomiting again.
A/N: Sorry for the wait, my readers. I spent pretty much a week in Toronto, and that was quite the experience. My roommate and I went for a Supernatural convention, which was fun. But I managed to get incredibly sick the second day of the trip, and it was terrible by the third day. I started feeling better on the fourth day, but man, I thought I was dying for a minute there, and yet I still forced myself to walk to that convention every day.
Then our connection flight from Chicago got cancelled, and we wound up having to spend the night at the airport. One night of cramming ourselves into a tiny crevice behind one of the boarding desks and a lot of awkward spooning for warmth later, I am home and feeling better, though I do have a touch of post-con depression and a lot of Spanish to catch up on.
Not much else has happened, otherwise. EXCEPT for this: Where were you guys last chapter? I only got, like, one comment! Was the chapter that bad? You guys seriously have me worried! If I did something wrong, please tell me, because I've seriously been torn up about this ever since the last chapter came out. Feedback is hella important, especially if you spoil me early on with a bunch. Now I'm used to it, and not getting feedback is horrible for me. Call me selfish if you must, but please, talk to me.
I have started a Free! Fic and I shall not be stopped. I got sudden inspiration, and here I am. I'll post that someday, if anyone is interested in reading it. But for now, I need to do some work on TMTTR. Just remember, anything related to this story can be tagged fic wwfg on tumblr. I literally monitor that tag like a hawk.
And don't forget the fanart I linked in the last chapter! Check it out, give the artists some love! Artists love love! And I love artists. And they love me for loving them. And I love them for loving me for loving them, and we all love each other. And that's because none of us got enough love in our childhoods. And that's art, kid.
Alright, I need to stop. I've work to do. Till next time, my lovelies. Thanks, as always, for the continued support!
KuroRiya
九六りや