They probably should have, but the two didn't discuss sleeping arrangements. When Jean climbed the stairs, Marco followed, the same boards creaking under his feet only seconds after Jean's steps, as if an echo. But it wasn't unnerving, because Jean knew who it was that traced his steps.
A stop in the washroom was first, and Jean held still while Marco undid the top few buttons of his shirt for him, pulling the kerchief away and setting it on the counter before folding the collar over so that it wouldn't get too damp while Jean washed.
By the time Jean had finished with the basin, Marco had undone his own shirt and took his turn with the water, playfully sprinkling Jean with some of it when he refused to hand over the towel. It felt light, to play around with one another like that, in a way they'd never really had time to. It possessed a newfound familial edge, more comfortable than what they usually allowed to settle between them.
With cleaning up out of the way, they headed for the bedroom. As they passed the hall closet, feet quick as their romance left them giddy, a broom fell. Jean paused, picking it up and opening the closet to put it away, having neglected to do so after sweeping a day ago. Marco watched, a strange look crossing his face before it returned to his easy smile. Jean wondered about the expression for only a moment before shrugging it off as merely his imagination.
Once they'd entered the bedroom, slipping in and shutting the door behind them, both of them released a sigh of relief they didn't realize they'd been holding as they gained a new sense of privacy in the protection of the bedroom.
As he'd done that day they'd gone swimming in the river for the first time, Marco stooped down to help Jean out of his stockings and garters, rolling them down carefully over his legs before discarding them in a neat pile on the side table. His fingers began to undo Jean's breeches while his lips slowly sought out Jean's, kissing him even while he eased the clothing down, pausing to undress himself much less gracefully.
They had to part for Marco to get out of his trousers properly, and Jean got into bed with a breathlessness, watching Marco's movements glide through the moonlight cutting in through the window.
It wasn't long until they were together in the bed, pressed close to one another, the tips of their noses ghosting at a touch. Marco smiled, brushing some of Jean's hair aside before guiding him closer for another kiss that tasted like pastry and blackberries and chamomile. It was better than dessert had been.
Jean sighed dreamily, shifting so he could cling to the larger frame, drinking in his warmth and his scent and his presence, so there, so alive. If he pressed his ear against the other's chest, he could hear his heart beating, could feel his chest expand with breath.
Marco trailed his fingers along Jean's waist, touch barely there but maddening all the same as it traced the contour of his ribs down to his hips several times before sliding up under the shirt to resume the same touch, skin to skin. It made the smaller shiver, fingers twitching in search of something to occupy themselves with, clinging to Marco in the end.
His breath hitched as rough, calloused skin flattened over his stomach, stroking across his lower abdomen in a way that was foreign and almost entirely too pleasant. It was ticklish in a hypersensitive way, one that left Jean a shuddering mess, not even saying a word when Marco's fingers easily undid the buttons of his shirt, sliding it over his slim shoulders and baring him to the almost chilly air of the bedroom.
It wasn't long before Marco followed suit, letting both of their shirts fall to the floor, forgotten in the moment they were aching to share. They focused on each other instead, on the way that pale, porcelain thighs brushed against Marco's hips, the man himself looking almost like a sepia drawing in the scant light. It was breathtaking.
Years of Jean's life screamed at him, threatened him, warned him that he was going too far. Everything till then had been excusable. Every flower, every kiss, every touch; If he repented, he had a chance. He could go back to his old life. He could go back to believing every word out of the preacher's mouth and not being able to pursue the things he loved for fear of his father's wrath.
But this; this was it. He might not know exactly what was happening, but he knew it was the pinnacle of everything that had been building up between them. He knew, as Marco's square hips lined up with his, as the pressure of the other's weight against him increased, that this was the final choice between salvation and damnation.
It should have torn him apart. It should have whirled in his mind to the point that he couldn't think, couldn't see. It should have tortured him for days, weeks, months, years to come. It should have troubled him. It should have crossed his mind.
But the thing was, his mind was clear. And he'd already made it up long ago anyway, that day when he first spoke to the pagan boy, a low fence separating them as if the embodiment of all the misunderstanding that stood between them for so long, built up by the fear and hatred perpetuated by all those around them.
He was damned the moment he and Marco first existed in the same instance. The moment he was born was the moment his soul was lost.
And he found, with the way Marco kissed him, he couldn't really be distressed. What was an eternity of hell when he'd had the privilege of this pleasure from the one he'd always been meant for? No sacrifice was too great to keep him from pulling Marco down until they lay flush against each other, the dissonance of their breaths lessening as time went on, until they were totally in sync, fingers twined and eyes open in unabashed stares.
Jean moved first, shifting to take Marco's lips, to capture them and hold them hostage as long as his lungs would allow, longer than his lungs would allow, as he gasped through his nose, still refusing to separate even though his body longed for breath. Marco pressed their foreheads together after pulling back, lips barely parted as they panted.
"Jean." He breathed, not to get his attention, not to ask a question. Just to say it. His hands cupped the smaller man's face, propped up on his elbows as he gazed down. Jean thought it might seem insincere if he simply said the other's name back, so he opted instead for silence, accepting the strangely powerful show of affection. Eventually, though, he realized that he knew the best way to return it.
"I love you, Marco." He said, voice steady. It shouldn't have meant as much, since they were tried words, practiced and common. But because they were the hardest ones for him to say, they were the most potent, and Marco's reaction was nearly instantaneous.
His eyes widened, they softened, his lips found Jean's, his heart beat faster, his face flushed. He looked beautiful, Jean thought, as he always did. But even more like this, naked and close and his.
Marco kissed Jean until it hurt, kissed him even more. He kissed until the ache of loving someone so much blocked the rest of the world out. He ignored the cawing of the night birds, ignored the way the clouds moved over the moon, ignored the moth flitting about in the corner of the room, white and stark in the darkness and for him. All of it for him, daring him to ignore.
Jean was more important, his eyes lidded and expression belying the fact that he'd forgotten to be afraid. And Marco did his best to forget to be afraid. Because if Jean, scared, angry, compliant Jean had learned to ignore his fear, then so could Marco. Jean always said he seemed so strong, so brave. He wanted to be, had to be.
Jean had grown so much in so little time, as if he'd simply been waiting to change his whole life, and all it took was someone willing to listen and accept and nurture. But then, Marco had always known that Jean was his. It was, therefore, different for him. He'd always anticipated bending and changing for this boy, when the time came. He'd always known what was to become of them, what he was to become. But Jean was learning, was only just beginning to understand how fated they really were.
Still, he seemed to be catching up in leaps and bounds, not even batting a lash at how perfectly his hips fit between Marco's, or the way his shoulders were just wide enough for his arms to easily slide under Marco's in an embrace. It was as if he'd never expected anything different, as if he couldn't bring himself to even question the perfection. As if he hadn't claimed to hate him not even a year ago.
As if he couldn't see where all of this was going, where it was leading them. As if he didn't know how their love was going to end. As if he didn't hear the howling of Marco's white sheepdog in the dead of night.
Maybe he didn't. Maybe Jean was oblivious. Maybe he was ignoring, as Marco was trying to, as Marco's family was.
Forcing dark thoughts away from his mind, focusing his eyes on only the treasure below him, Marco smiled, hoping it seemed reassuring and not anxious. He wished he could litter Jean's bed with roses and coriander and cyclamen. But there hadn't been time, so he'd have to make do with littering his body with kisses instead.
It was a strange meeting of lovers that they partook in, neither one truly knowing the means nor the goal of the act, but somehow working things out until it was a pleasant experience, in the end. No one really advertised information on how to properly be a sodomite, and it involved more trial and error than success. There were as many groans of frustration as there were chuckles at mistakes. And there were just as many whines of pain as there were moans of pleasure.
The words they spoke came out clipped and unsure, both learning and teaching what little they knew as they went along, trying to mimic and create and guess. It was all tangled limbs and bumped foreheads and hisses of surprise. But then it was tender touches, gentle kisses, loving meetings of skin on skin and whispers of affections. When all was said and done, they found themselves satisfied, bodies lain close together and fingers tangled pleasantly.
Their breathing, as it slowed to normalcy, was the same in pattern, something they both noticed but neglected to change or mention. For the first time, Jean felt completely comfortable with who he was and what he was doing, and no thoughts of his father could keep him from the giddy elation that danced along his heart. No sermon could stop him from straining his tired muscles to kiss at already swollen lips.
And no amount of fear could eat away at how happy it made him to see Marco smile like that as he nodded off, brown eyes closed blissfully, as if he didn't notice a white moth landing on his nose for a moment before disappearing into the darkness of the room. Smiling like he meant more than the entire world, like their love was eternal, like nothing could ever part them.
And in that moment, he began to believe that smile.
A/N: Someone told me recently that I oughtn't apologize for being late, but… God, I don't even know what to say. I've really been dropping the ball lately, and I suppose it's to do with my recent reconnection with some old friends of mine. While my social life has been rather hopping, my fingers haven't been as glued to the keyboard as they once were.
So, without further ado; I'm sorry it's so short and so behind schedule. I tend to struggle with proper updates towards the end of a story, which we're fast approaching. But I will get it done, never you worry. Even if I have to tie myself to a chair, it'll happen.
Well, I'm hoping my laundry is done so I can go home, so I'm going to keep it short this time. Thanks for being patient with me, and I'm sorry that I can't return the favor with quick updates. I am pathetic but trying. Feedback is always appreciated, and I promise, I have read all of your comments and I slowly but surely work my way through them. Sorry for the delays.
Till next chapter!
KuroRiya
九六りや