The first time that he went inside the house, he could barely breathe. It shouldn't have been such a scary thing to do. He'd met several of Marco's siblings before, so it wasn't as if he would be entirely surrounded by strangers. Still, though his mind knew all of this, he couldn't stop his heart pounding as he edged towards the door that Marco was holding open for him.
He'd finally agreed to have dinner with them. He wasn't sure what it was about this particular time that Marco invited him, but he apparently couldn't resist. Maybe it was the face he made, or maybe Jean was just growing soft on the boy. Regardless, he'd agreed, and now there was no going back. They'd made extra food for him.
With one last deep breath that he hoped would calm his heart, but did very little for his nerves, he stepped through the threshold.
The inside was clean, and it smelled pleasantly of heavy foods. That made sense. Most of the Bodts were at least a little plump. Even Marco had a soft layer of pudge. It made him very nice to lay on. Jean's own diet was sort of lean, and his body showed it. Compared to Marco he was scrawny and more than a bit boney. Compared to anyone, really. It was something his father never failed to belittle him about.
Under the smell of food, he detected hints of cinnamon and chamomile, explaining why Marco perpetually smelled that way. And underneath that, there was a faint smell of dust. Jean guessed that, no matter how much dusting they did, that wouldn't change. But it wasn't stifling, instead just giving it a homey touch. It smelled like memories of old relatives that danced perpetually on the edges of his recollection.
It was better lit than he expected. There were several windows, and a few candles were already aflame, casting an orangey glow, sort of like a warm fire in the winter. Cozy was a good word for it.
If he were to be honest, the house was the opposite of what he expected it to be. It was bright, cozy, and warm. No matter how many times he'd seen it from the outside, Jean had always had the mental picture of gloomy interiors; Scant lighting, sparse furniture, long hallways that led to locked rooms, scarce upkeep. He'd anticipated cobwebs and symbols painted on the walls.
Yet it seemed even more pleasant than his own house. He felt surprisingly at ease, his initial nervousness dying down to only a small fluttering in his stomach, mostly about meeting Marco's parents.
Marco led him towards the inner part of the house, the smells of food getting stronger as they continued walking. They moved slowly, and Jean realized that he was being given the opportunity to look around. The walls were spotted with hung embroidery of differing levels. He stopped to look at one, and realized that the cloth that had been embroidered had once been a shirt, though it was obvious that it'd been on its last threads when it was reappropriated.
That was when it dawned on him how privileged he really was. Sure, he lived in a smaller town, so it was nothing like what some city brats had. But his family could afford to buy panels of fabric to embroider. They could afford to pay someone to embroider them. They had enough to buy French toiles. They had enough to paint their walls with colors, instead of just white-washing.
Still, the embroidery was good. Better than some that he'd passed. He'd never been taught how it worked, since his father was firm in his belief that it was woman's work. But he imagined it was long and tedious. It was obviously done by one of Marco's family, which made it all the more impressive.
He'd been so absorbed in tracing over the stitches that he forgot he was supposed to be walking. Marco reminded him with a gentle hand on his back, urging him forward with a small smile.
"Sorry, I got distracted." He murmured, fingers flexing at his sides. He kept his glances small as they made their way by the kitchen, not stopping again till he was before the table.
It was already set, and enormous. He'd never seen such a huge table. They must have made it themselves. And every single spot was set. The plates were simple in decoration, and mismatched, at least three different sets present, and several were chipped and showing signs of wear, but it somehow still looked orderly. And the mayflowers in the middle gave it extra charm.
Marco led him away from the table, into what must have been their parlor. There were numerous children inside, so many that they couldn't all fit on the furniture, and several were busying themselves with handmade toys on the floor. Somewhere in the sea of young faces was an older man, smoking on a pipe and flipping through a worn-looking book. His hair was peppered, but had obviously once been a light brown. His face was pale, dotted with freckles. Still not as many as Marco though.
It was this man that Marco approached, smiling fondly.
"Hello, papa." He called. It struck Jean as very odd that he still called his father that way. Jean himself had stopped that when he was still young yet. But Marco was a grown man, so it wasn't the most appropriate. The man didn't seem offended though.
"Welcome home, Marco." His father returned, setting the book aside. He then looked to Jean, a greying eyebrow raising. "And welcome, Mr. Kirstein." He added, lips quirking into a smile. Jean stiffened, trying to straighten his posture.
"T-Thank you for having me, sir." He offered, biting his lip. That had sounded pathetic. But the man's smile didn't fade, and he stood, offering his hand. Jean took it, glad his body hadn't hesitated as his mind had.
He could feel the wear, the age of the man's hand. The skin was rough, obviously overworked. The man looked tired, but friendly, and Jean felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was nothing like Joan.
"Sir is a tad too formal for me." The man laughed. "I'd say you could call me 'papa' too, since everyone does, but that might be taking it a bit far. Mr. Bodt will suffice, for now." He suggested. Jean blinked, then quickly nodded. What a strange family.
Mr. Bodt sat back down, taking a puff from his pipe.
"Marie, Art, why don't you play on the floor for a bit. Let Marco and his guest use the sofa." Mr. Bodt asked. True fatherly-fashion, it wasn't treated like a request, but a command, and a small girl and young teen boy hopped off the sofa and to the ground, stealing away some of the corn-husk dolls from other siblings and joining the play. Marco nudged Jean towards the sofa, sitting next to him.
Once they'd taken their seats, Mr. Bodt offered Jean his pipe, which was politely declined.
"It's a terrible habit." He admitted, taking another puff. Marco frowned.
"You say that, but still smoke it every day." He pointed out. Mr. Bodt laughed heartily.
"You grow smarter with age, son." Mr. Bodt informed him, looking towards the boy in question with a smug grin. He took a long drag, then set the pipe aside. "I've heard you frequent our meadow." He began, looking at Jean this time.
The one in question glanced at Marco, unsure of what he should say. He'd always been bad with social engagements, especially when they involved adults. How much did Mr. Bodt know, how much could he safely say?
"No need to fret so. I don't mind." The man promised, smiling kindly. Jean relaxed. "Marco mentions you from time to time. Tells me you're the reason he's always out so late." He added with a chuckle.
Jean felt a flush creep up his cheeks. The way it was said implied that Mr. Bodt knew more than he probably ought to. And that openness baffled him.
"I um… I work sort of late. Sorry." Jean breathed.
"No need to apologize to me. He still gets his chores done, so it's no problem of mine. Don't your parents worry after you, though?" He inquired. Jean shrugged, leaning into Marco's side as discreetly as he could.
"I do the newspaper, so there's no helping it." He replied. Mr. Bodt's eyes lit up with understanding, expression sobering quickly.
"Ah, that's right. You must have taken over for Levi." He realized, frowning. "Shame about him."
And the way he said it made it sound like he truly was sad about Levi's death. So many people in town would say something similar, but none of them held the same remorse. No one else really cared. Jean looked down at his lap, trying to bite back the grief that welled up.
"Y-Yes, sir… Er, sorry. Mr. Bodt." He corrected. His nerves had welled up with his sorrow. Maybe it was because sorrow was, at least in Joan's eyes, a sign of weakness. If he'd caught Jean crying over Levi, he'd have thrashed him. But Mr. Bodt didn't seem fazed. Marco carefully reached for Jean's hand, squeezing it softly. Jean flinched, almost moving to pull away, but Mr. Bodt didn't say anything about the show of affection, so he tried to relax into it. After all, that's what the gesture was meant to accomplish.
"He was a kind man, despite that attitude of his. He tried to help the town get along with us. I'm sure the only reason we're still here is because of him." Mr. Bodt trailed, looking wistfully towards the ceiling. "Hopefully the people have settled enough into the idea of us living here, though. Wishful thinking, I suppose." He chuckled, but there wasn't any humor in it. Jean frowned, for he understood. They would likely never accept the Pagan family on the outskirts of town.
Jean was glad that the conversation was brought to a forceful end as a voice called everyone for dinner. Jean made to stand, but Marco held him in place, and he quickly learned why; A sudden stampede of children, all racing to get to the kitchen, ran past. He could hear water splashing in a basin, and several shouts of protest or joy. He blinked.
"Is dinnertime always so hectic?" He wondered as he and Marco finally stood. The taller boy laughed.
"Always. We can go upstairs to my room to wash up." He offered, leading Jean to the staircase. "They'll be taking up the kitchen basin for a while."
Jean nodded, taking the steps easily, but with a new wave of anticipation. He was going to see Marco's room. He wondered what it'd look like, if it would reflect its occupant. He wondered if it was brimming with flowers, and if it smelled the way Marco did.
It was underwhelming, to say the least. Inside were three beds, two stacked on top of each other. Beyond that, the only other furniture was a washing basin and a small table that was bare aside from a single flower in a tall glass. It looked sort of like a daisy, but was just a bit different.
"What sort of flower is that?" He wondered, following Marco over to the basin. Marco stepped aside to let Jean go first, and glanced at the flower.
"Oh, aster. Art always complains about the flowers I bring in. He says they take up too much room. He likes to hog that table." He laughed, taking his turn at washing. "Mama lets me put them in the kitchen, though. She's the one that taught me about them." He added.
Jean blinked, realizing that, indeed, Marco would have had to learn that from someone. No one just had knowledge without gaining it. He wondered what sort of woman Marco's mother was. He supposed he'd learn soon enough.
They went back down the stairs, and Marco led Jean back towards the kitchen. Already the majority of the chairs were occupied by children buzzing with excitement at the prospect of food, yet some were still scrabbling for the washbasin. Jean wondered how on earth anyone could cook for so many people. He found a seat next to Marco, a small girl on his other side. Marie was her name, if he remembered correctly.
She stared at him openly, eyes narrow and lips pursed. Her cheeks puffed out though, which sort of defeated the scrutinizing look. She only managed to look cute, and very much like Marco. She had a lot of freckles.
"Marie, be polite." Marco scolded, noticing his sister's gaze. She huffed, rolling her eyes. Jean smiled.
"You aren't papa." She argued back at her brother, but didn't say anything further as Mrs. Bodt finally emerged, along with several other girls, carrying several big dishes of food that she set on the table. Jean took a moment to take her in; Her dark skin and hair, like Marco's. Her big brown eyes. She was plump everywhere his own mother was thin and wispy. Everyone waited until she'd finished bringing in food, and then it was chaos.
Jean could only blink and watch as about a million hands began grabbing for things, everything something of a blur. Even Marco had joined in, but he thankfully helped Jean fill his plate as well. Jean probably would have gone hungry otherwise.
It quieted down as everyone got their food, and it went silent as Mr. Bodt began something akin to a prayer. Jean watched with respectful curiosity as the man mentioned a god he'd only heard of in the epic legends of Greece and Rome. No one said amen, though. He felt odd eating without thanking his own god, but he was sure the gesture would be unwanted, so he kept it to himself.
With the children busy with eating their fill, Mrs. Bodt was finally able to address the guest.
"Jean." She called, and he looked up at his name, surprised she'd used his given. She didn't seem perplexed by his shock though. "It's lovely to finally meet you." She called from across the table, offering a smile. It reminded him of his own mother's smile, though he didn't get to see it very often. His mother had such a lovely smile, but she'd been forced to school it into a more modest curving of lips. She had to be proper, after all. But Mrs. Bodt's smile was all teeth, and it felt inviting.
"U-Um…" He began, unsure of what to say. He wished he could return the sentiment, but he'd never really heard about Marco's mother before, aside from a few comments made here or there. She laughed, shoving a spoon into the hand of one of the smaller boys who had been eating with his hands.
"No need to worry so. I'm sure Marco is rather shy around you. But he talks up a storm when he's finally come in." She explained. Jean watched Marco's face flush a pretty pink.
"Mama, please." He groaned, his expression mirroring Marie's pout from earlier. Mrs. Bodt cackled good-naturedly. Jean found he adored the sound.
"He goes on and on about you." She continued. Marco made another, high pitched noise, and Jean couldn't fight down a snicker. He was suddenly very glad he'd accepted the invitation. He'd never seen Marco behave that way, and it was incredibly endearing.
It was also sort of jarring. Jean was so used to Marco being calm, and quiet, and in control. He just seemed old beyond his years. Yet, here, with his family, he acted just like any boy his age ought to. He acted a lot like Jean did on a daily basis. It was refreshing, and Jean was thankful for the chance to see it.
"You should have heard him when you agreed to come to dinner yesterday." She added.
"Mama, enough!" Marco whined, and she finally gave in, sharing a knowing glance with her husband. Jean laughed along with her, easily sliding his hand into Marco's. And it was nice to not have to worry about who would see. It was nice not to care.
They ate rather quietly, a gentle hum of conversation a comfort that filled in for their silence. And there was even dessert, in the form of a big chocolate cake. Jean was surprised they could afford to make one, and realized that they'd probably only done it because they had a guest. He tried to take the smallest piece he could, and wound up giving half of his to Marco's sister, though it was some of the best cake he'd ever had.
She looked less disdainful towards him after that, a grin spotted with chocolate serving as her thanks.
Once the cake had been finished off, the children began retreating, only the older ones lingering to help with dishes. Jean tried to inch his way to the sink, but Mrs. Bodt was having none of it, shooing he and Marco away. He was too nervous to argue.
"Th-thank you for dinner." He offered, scratching at the back of his hand. She beamed at him.
"Any time, Jean. Please, do come back." She replied. Then Marco pulled him away, back towards the parlor. Mr. Bodt was smoking at his pipe again, but there were significantly less children.
"Papa, I'll be back in a bit." Marco called. The man looked up, then nodded, waving goodbye.
"It was nice to meet you, Jean. You're always welcome." He called. Jean returned the sentiment, following Marco out of the house. He was brought to the meadow, and he smiled, laying down next to Marco in the moonlight, looking up at the stars.
They were quiet for a long time, the only sound being the rustling of grass as their hands sought each other in the dark. Marco turned over to be on his side.
"I hope my family wasn't too overwhelming."
Jean laughed.
"I liked them." He offered after a moment, smiling fondly. "I liked you with them." He added. Marco's cheeks flushed, visible even in the darkness. "You're different around them."
Marco sighed, laying back down. Closer this time. Jean felt his breath when he spoke.
"They're embarrassing at best. But they are a loving family." He agreed, moving till he could rest his head against Jean's shoulder. He was so warm. Jean smiled.
"They make up for mine, definitely." He pointed out. He felt, rather than saw, Marco frown. He seemed to be thinking over his words.
"I get the feeling that your father isn't a very kind man." He finally ventured. Jean sighed.
"That would be putting it in polite terms." He responded, hand coming up to tangle in Marco's hair. It was starting to get a little long. He needed a trim. Still, it didn't really look bad. "The only person I know of that he really loves is my mother." He admitted. "And he has a bad way of showing it." He added.
Marco hummed to show he was listening, his hand grazing Jean's chest, tracing circles.
"I don't know if he's ever loved me, but I'm sure he doesn't anymore." He continued. "I think he's starting to realize that I'm not going to end up like him. I think he knows that I don't get all of my flowers from a girl."
Marco glanced up, face sympathetic. But it wasn't false. He was truly concerned. Jean couldn't help but kiss him.
"He could put up with me not taking the same job. He'd be mad, but he'd learn to accept it. But this…" He trailed, looking down at Marco again. "This is the worst thing I could do, in his eyes." He finished.
They both fell silent, and Jean felt his heart racing with a bit of panic as he realized the truth of those words. Truly, this was the single most terrible thing he could ever do to his father. And here he was, another man lying against his chest, pressing kisses to his collar.
He let Marco's easy breathing pull him back into some semblance of calm, matching the pacing.
"Why is that?" Marco finally prompted once Jean had collected himself.
"He…" He paused, thinking of how he should phrase it. "This is only what I've heard, but I think his own father was a sodomite. His mother caught on, and in the end, the town wound up hanging his father. So he had to take on work early to support his mother. He honestly worked himself up to the position we have now. We owe our wealth entirely to his hard work." He admitted. That was one good thing he could say about his father.
"But it's made him incredibly bitter. I think that the years have sort of… Warped the way he thinks about it. I'm sure that, at first, he hated the people that killed his father. But after a while, I think it turned more into hatred towards his father for ruining their family." He tried to explain. Marco nodded, fingers still tracing those patterns in the fabric of Jean's waistcoat.
"I don't blame him entirely for it, but it's still no excuse. It's made him so harsh, especially with me. You probably can't imagine the thrashings he's given me. He caught me trying to mend a pair of my breeches once, and I was feeling the bruises for ages. Said a man should never pick up a needle." He winced at the thought, then sighed. He'd only wanted to save his mother the trouble. "I think he's always been scared of me growing up to be that way. Like his father, I mean. I guess he was right to be scared." He laughed, realizing how ironic it was. "I suppose, in a way, it's just his way of protecting our family." He finished.
Marco didn't reply, moving to give Jean another kiss, then another, and another, until Jean's mind was dizzy. It was a pleasant feeling.
"Well, you're always welcome here, if it gets to be too much." Marco promised, resting his forehead against Jean's. The smaller smiled, wrapping his arms around the other and pulling him down so he could kiss him again.
"Thank you." He offered.
They lay for a bit longer before Jean admitted that he needed to be getting home. He said his goodbye, then was on his way. He still felt full from the dinner he had, and knew he'd be scolded for not eating what his mother had put out for him, but he couldn't manage another bite. He'd deal with that in the morning though.
The house was dark when he entered it, feeling gloomy in comparison to the Bodt house. It wasn't fair to say, since it was the middle of the night, but still, it didn't feel nearly as welcoming. It felt like a beasty might jump from the shadows at any moment. Or maybe just Joan. Maybe those things were the same.
He hurried up the steps, stripping down and getting into bed. He thought of Marco, flushed and stuttering as his mother teased him to help him get to sleep. It worked better than he expected.
A/N: Same excuses, different day. As I near the end of the semester, things only seem to get harder and harder. But at least it's almost the end of the year! I need a break, to put it kindly.
To be honest, I sort of worked on a different story, which I try not to do when I'm in the middle of writing something, but I couldn't help myself. I'm sure a few of you guys have seen it, but just in case it didn't get around, it's called "Today for You." It's a ReiBert story, but be forewarned, it is a TransBertholdt story, so be aware of what you're getting into before you start it, if you do. It was a lot of fun for me to work on, though, so I'd love if you guys gave it a go.
In other news, if you haven't seen Over the Garden Wall, DO. I personally have been incredibly disappointed in cartoons here lately. I used to be an avid watcher, but channels like Cartoon Network have really let me down as the years went on. I'd honestly lost my hope for decent cartoons. And then this thing came along, and I heard about it a few times, and tried to ignore it.
I'm not sure what possessed me to watch it, but as soon as I saw the first episode, I was hooked. Seriously, this show has rekindled my hope for the future of American cartoons. And that was not an easy task. So, if you've even considered watching Over the Garden Wall, let me be the one to urge you to give it a go. I promise you won't regret it!
Alright, that's enough advertising. Off I go to regret my life choices and wish I had more markers. And that I didn't lose my tablet pen. I'm having a rough week. Well, regardless, happy holidays!
KuroRiya
九六りや