The slamming of the door was what woke him, but it was the footsteps that struck fear in his heart. Familiar footsteps. Footsteps he would never forget, no matter how many years he spent away from his father. Footsteps that meant punishment and bruises and crying, and another thing he'd never be able to do without flinching.

But why here? Why now, as Marco stirred in his arms, grogginess making his eyes heavy and his intuition slow. He smiled, really smiled, managing to find Jean's lips for a kiss before noticing anything at all was amiss. Why did it have to be now? Why did he have to watch Marco's face fall from bliss to a flash of terror, followed quickly by a morose acceptance that was almost worse than fear.

He knew. He'd known.

"How long?" Jean croaked, brows already knitting as the footsteps thudded against the stairs.

"Always, Jean. I'm sorry." The brunette whispered, the weak coffee color of his eyes dimming to almost a murky chocolate as he closed them tightly, taking in a shaky breath as he pulled Jean closer, pressing his face into the smaller man's chest and inhaling heavily, as if he was trying to commit the feel, the smell, everything to memory. As if this was his last chance.

It was.

"I love you." Jean wasn't sure if he'd said it, or if Marco had said it, or if both of them had said it, but it was said, and it hung heavy in the air as the door was flung open, a lantern in Joan's hand to ward off the early-morning slate of the sky. The sun hadn't even peeked over the horizon yet.

His father said things, screamed things, but he wasn't hearing them. He was too scared about losing Marco to be scared of his father. He was losing Marco, he was already lost.

He sobbed as he clung to the other boy, even as his father did everything in his power to wrench them apart. He wrapped his arms and legs around him, wishing it was a dream, wishing he'd wake up. He wasn't waking up, though, and the pain of Joan's fingernails digging into his shoulder was real enough to guarantee that he wasn't dreaming.

Marco held on too, but Jean could tell he'd already given up. He wondered when that had happened, when he'd lost his hope. Had he ever had it in the first place?

In the end a few other men, roused by the commotion and Joan's words, helped to tear them apart. Jean was thrown into the corner of the room, his back and head hitting the wall in a way that winded him and had him seeing stars, too dizzy to even get up, to even give chase as they grabbed Marco by the arms and dragged him down the stairs.

He heard the thumps though, knew that they meant the boy had been thrown down the stairs without care. He heard Marco's low groan when he reached the bottom.

As quickly as he'd leapt to his feet and taken a single step towards the door, Joan had planted a knee in his abdomen, sending him reeling yet again, fallen against the floor with a groan almost identical to his love's.

"I always knew there was something off about you." Joan hissed, the words finally making it through the haze of adrenaline that had hit Jean when he first woke. "Never were quite right. Always doing woman's work, always chasing your mother's skirts."

Jean remained where he was on the floor, partially for the pain still racking his frame, partially for fear of facing his fate. He knew what was coming. He'd prolong it as long as possible.

"I did my damnedest to stamp it out of you. But every time I'd give you crops to plant, you'd feed them to the animals. Every time I gave you money to clean yourself up, you'd buy your mother flowers." He spat on the floor, and Jean watched its trail from the man's lips to the wood, looking anywhere but at his father.

"The baker saw that boy heading over here last night. Didn't say anything till this morning. I ought to send for his head too." He seethed, fingers clenching, fists forming. Jean trembled. "And what do I find when I get up here? You didn't even have the shame to try and hide."

Jean got to his knees, shakily testing his limbs till he was on his feet, still feeling weak, as if his bones couldn't support him anymore, but he forced himself to stay upright.

"You're disgusting!" Joan sneered, voice losing its calm edge and giving way to more obvious anger. Jean flinched. "Do you even understand? You're a sodomite!"

Jean withered, pressing himself against the opposite wall as the man advanced towards him.

"A sodomite!" He screamed, the first move a backhand, Jean's entire body stumbling to the right from the impact. His cheek hurt, the stinging numbness making it impossible to know if he'd cut the inside on his teeth. He probably had.

Next was his stomach again, and the same cheek, at which point he fell to the ground, curling up in the most protective ball he could. Joan paused, though, not delivering the expected blow. Jean chanced a glance up when he was left alone for several seconds, only to see his father grinning. That couldn't mean anything good.

"Do you want to know what they're doing to him?" He jeered. And Jean wished he could hear anything but that. God, anything but that. But he knew better than to even open his mouth.

"They're going to drag him back to his family's farm, then beat him till he doesn't have an unbroken bone in his body. Then they're going to tie him to a stake, and he's going to stay put until tomorrow. Can't sully the Lord's day with burning a witch." He mused.

Jean felt his heart sink, his entire body feeling like it'd been thrust into a bath of ice.

Burned. Burned.

He bolted for the door, ignoring his father's shouts, narrowly missing the hands that darted out to grab him as he all but flung himself down the steps, panicking at the door till he managed to slam it open, scurrying out and sprinting down the street as fast as he could.

It hurt. It hurt worse than he could imagine. He had the growing suspicion that one of his ribs was broken, but he kept the thought from his mind, because all he had time to think of was Marco. Sweet Marco who wasn't even fighting, just letting himself be dragged across the path, his feet leaving tracks that Jean followed carefully.

He wondered if Joan was on his heels, but found he didn't care as he neared the Bodt home, pausing for a moment to toss his head about. It hurt, the action feeling as if it was rattling his brain itself around. But the splitting headache was forgotten when he heard the cry of pain, the voice that had been whispering affections to him only the night before.

Rushing towards the noise was foolish. He had no plan, and had not prepared himself to see. To see Marco so battered, already so broken after so little time, already not himself anymore.

A plan would have been wise, but Jean wasn't the wisest person, as his entire life seemed to prove. All he really had was himself, so he draped his own body over Marco's, fully prepared to take the blows for him. Because he would rather it be him, would take Marco's place a hundred times. Because Marco had so much to live for, when all Jean had to live for was Marco. Because Marco had taught him how to live, and he would die for that.

But the blows stopped coming when it was him, and he realized how truly privileged he was, but choked when he realized that they were saving him for his father, knowing that punishment from him would be harsher than anything they could do.

As things went silent, he felt Marco breathing beneath him, the air coming labored, the exhale shuddery.

"Jean?" He murmured, voice small, and it brought fresh tears to the boy's eyes.

"Yes, Marco, yes." He whispered, shifting so his protective stance was more of an embrace, finding Marco's face and cradling it in his hands. He couldn't open one of his eyes, the flesh already swelling from what looked to have been a particularly nasty blow. And the one he could open was barely a dull chocolate color, unfocused. He was still beautiful. "I love you, Marco. I love you. So much." He sobbed, burying his face in the other's shoulder, holding him tighter than he should have, considering their respective conditions.

Marco inhaled deeply, then coughed a few times, spitting out a bit of blood, and Jean hoped to every god he'd ever heard the name of that the blood was just from his mouth, not somewhere more important.

"I'm sorry." Marco sighed, arms fumbling weakly to cling to Jean's back, fingers sliding in the fabric of his shirt.

"Don't say that." Jean hissed.

"I'm sorry, Jean. I love you." Marco repeated, his eye fluttering open, as if the motion was draining. Jean shook his head, his whole body shook.

"Don't you dare say goodbye." He warned, glaring at one of the men crowded around them that had dared take a step forward, as if daring him to take away from their short time left together. He took a step back, glancing around at the others with uncertainty. It seemed none of them were really sure what to do, since they apparently had reservations about laying a hand on Jean, despite his equal guilt.

"What did he ever do to you?" Jean demanded suddenly, addressing the crowd. "Who was bothered by us being together?" He screamed, hugging the other tighter against his chest. "None of you even knew until today! And what does it matter? So what if we're going to hell? That's our problem!" He seethed.

They seemed taken aback that he'd begun screaming at them. Like it was the last thing they'd expected.

"It's not like we're going to rub off on you! What right do you have to decide whether or not we ought to be condemned to death? And if you plan to burn him, then why not me? We're guilty of the same crime." He pointed out, ignoring Marco when he made a noise of protest.

"I just… I don't understand. How can you really think that love is wrong?" He croaked, looking down and staring at the boy in his lap, their eyes locking as much as possible with Marco's unfocused gaze.

It was silent until Joan stomped up, a bit out of breath, wrenching Jean away without care for his crushing grip. But Jean didn't even have it in him to yelp, just holding on as long as he could, so numb already that he couldn't even cry as he was pulled away from Marco, a dry sob heaving out as the other was dragged away yet again.

Joan didn't give him the chance to escape, easily seizing him and dragging him just as gracelessly back towards the house, throwing him inside the door without fanfare. He heard his mother gasp, scurrying towards the entryway at the sound. She froze as she took in the scene, falling to her knees with a thump.

"Oh, Jean-" She breathed, her fingers reaching to brush his hair aside.

"A sodomite." Joan hissed, her fingers freezing just before meeting the skin of her son's forehead. Her eyes went wide, and her lips fell open, brows knit.

"No-" She began, but Joan didn't let her finish, landing a kick against the boy's thigh. Jean couldn't do much more than flinch and groan, too drained to scream anymore.

"Joan, please, just-" His mother began again.

"No, no more! He's lucky he's not dead! I'm going to make him wish he were!" He growled, rolling his sleeves up. But he halted his motions when his wife slipped between them, holding her arms out.

"Please. Leave him be. He's hurt enough." She plead, tears gathering in her eyes. And, as harsh a man as he might have been, not even Joan could stand to see her cry that way. He spat distastefully on the floor, stomping towards the sitting room while shooting Jean a withering glare the whole time.

It was still till they heard the sofa shift under the man's weight, then his mother turned, disbelief written on her face.

"What were you thinking, Jean?" She demanded. But she received nothing more than a haunted, empty stare. "What's gotten into you? Answer me!"

But he didn't, couldn't. He wasn't even looking at her. He knew she was before him, but all that flooded his vision was Marco's crumpled body, looking small for the first time, laying in the field of wildflowers almost as if they'd known that was where they had loved.

Now the flowers were stained, and the place would never be the soothing oasis it had come to be during their time together. He held no hope for either of them, but even if there was any, that place would never be the same.

"Jean!" His mother snapped, shaking his shoulder. He winced, letting out a sharp hiss. His rib was definitely broken. She stopped, cupping his face and drawing it up to look at her. He saw the concern, the love, but he couldn't explain, couldn't return the sentiment. "Please. I need to know what's happening." She begged.

His mind raced for answers to questions he wasn't sure he had been asked, but the only answer he could find was Marco. Marco. Marco.

"I love him." He whispered, his tears finally renewed, carving hot trails down his cheeks, blurring his vision.

His mother only looked more confused, and more distressed.

"Who, Jean? Who?"

And, finally, his mind knew the right answer.

"Marco." He sobbed. "Marco, Marco, Marco!"

She stilled, whole body stiff as she deciphered the crazed mumbling. She knew. Everyone knew when a Bodt was mentioned.

"Oh Jean, why? Why him?" She lamented after a pause, biting her lip raw. "Why did it have to be him?"

Because it had always been him. It would always be him. There was no one else for Jean, and he didn't want anyone else. Because before Marco, he'd been surviving. Because Marco had shown him how to live.

"I love him." He repeated sternly, wrapping himself in his own arms since his mother wasn't making a move to do so herself. "They're going to burn him. They're killing him." He hiccupped, the verbalization making it all the more real.

She couldn't respond, and he just cried for a long while, burying his face in his arms.

"They're killing him." He repeated. "I'm-He's dying."

She didn't know what he meant. She couldn't. She didn't know that they were perfect. She didn't know that he couldn't live without Marco. She didn't know that there was a difference between surviving and living. She didn't understand that, all his life, he'd been waiting for freckles and drunken eyes, for kisses and lazy afternoons, for twined fingers and wildflowers. She didn't know that, without his life, he couldn't live.

"Jean, I'm going to make you some tea." She announced, pursing her lips and standing up. "We'll talk about this when you calm down." She added, a little more gently.

But he wouldn't calm down. Maybe she knew that. But then, maybe she didn't. But it didn't matter, because she stood up and walked into the kitchen. He heard her put the kettle on, then heard her trotting into the parlor. He heard her sit, presumably with Joan. Maybe she was trying to calm him down. Maybe she was admitting that there was no hope for their son, and that they should just burn him along with the witch boy.

It didn't matter.

Because he was gone. With no shoes on, no gold buckles weighing his feet down, he was silent, and he was halfway to the Bodt house before anyone even had a chance of knowing he'd gone.

He didn't know why he ran that way. He knew they wouldn't want to see him. He knew they'd hate him for damning their son. He knew they'd throw him out or curse him or give him bruises to match Marco's. But he needed to see them.

The door shook under his fists, and his nervousness and adrenaline made it impossible for him to stop banging until the door swung open, and he was quickly pulled inside, the deadbolt locking behind him.

It was Mrs. Bodt that had opened the door, but a vast majority of the family began flooding towards the front of the house once Jean was inside. He wondered what they'd do, but knew he wouldn't fight them, whatever it was. If they wanted to kill him, then so be it. A life for a life.

But no, they did something worse. They embraced him. They cried, and got out bandages for the gashes left by his father, and sat him on the sofa, and rocked him till he stopped sobbing. Marie petted his hair as Mrs. Bodt hummed sadly, arms warm around his frame. Mr. Bodt smoked his pipe slowly, frowning through the whole affair.

Once the sobs had subsided, Jean opened his mouth. He needed to apologize. He needed to tell them that he never meant for this, that it was his fault, that Marco didn't deserve any of this. But they didn't let him get a word out.

"Don't you say you're sorry." Mrs. Bodt warned, face tired but stern. Jean's voice cracked as his words morphed into simple air. "Don't ever be sorry for loving him." She grit out, rubbing her eyes for a moment.

Jean's lip trembled, but he nodded, looking at the ceiling. He needed words, he had to speak. They deserved that much.

"I-"

Nothing followed, though his lips moved wordlessly. They looked at him expectantly, and it only made it harder. But he had to speak.

"I… I don't want him to-" Another hiccup of a sob. "I don't want him to die." He finally managed, heart sinking. There was a murmur amongst the Bodts as Mrs. Bodt took over for Marie and carded her fingers through his hair.

Mrs. Bodt had clearly been trying to put him to sleep, maybe to help him escape his worries and fears, even if just for a moment. But he was too hyped to find sleep. His mind raced with thoughts of Marco, of what he could do, of what anyone could do. He should have been exhausted, all things considered.

But he wasn't.

He let her pet his hair for a while, let her sooth him, hoped that it soothed her in turn. But after a while, he sat up, brow set and lips pursed against the pain.

His body ached. He was bruised, and he had no doubt anymore that at least one rib was broken. But he didn't have time to dwell on his pain. Marco had it worse, he had to remind himself. So much worse.

Looking around, he found the Bodts still amassed, all looking scared, sad, and unsure. They looked like he felt. But he couldn't afford to dwell on it, couldn't allow himself to fall into dysfunction because of how he felt. Right now, he needed action. He needed to move. He needed to help Marco.

He wasn't taking this laying down. Marco had never been wrong before. But he couldn't afford not to try.

"I need help." He admitted. They looked at him, the words jarring after so much silent grief. He wasn't ready to grieve just yet. "I need to save him." He explained. They all clearly thought he was crazy, but they kept their thoughts to themselves.

He thought to himself for a long while after that, mind racing for ideas on just how he could do that.

"Jean," Mrs. Bodt began, voice soft, as if afraid she might startle him. "They won't let you near him." She pointed out. She sounded hopeless.

Jean stood, walking for a moment before realizing he had no idea where he planned on going. He wound up pacing in front of the fireplace, though there was no fire lit.

He couldn't physically get to Marco. If it was that simple, he'd already have done it. What he needed was a way to get everyone away. To give him just long enough to free him and carry him away. But what would draw them away?

Mr. Bodt looked worried that, left to his own devices, Jean would wear a hole in the floor. He nudged the younger man out of the way and lit a fire, not so much for warmth, but more as a way to deter Jean from pacing there.

Jean watched as the wood caught, tendrils of smoke eventually followed by licking orange flames. It made him shudder to think that, in just a few hours, those flames would be clawing at his love.

His eyes went wide.

"Do you have any oil?" He asked. Again, they all turned to look at him, his voice crashing through the silence. After a pause, he repeated himself. "Oil. Any kind. Lamp oil, cooking oil, anything that'll catch."

They were hesitant, but then got to work looking around the house, returning with anything they found. In the end, it was quite a large amount, and he was glad for that. It was enough for what he needed, but too much for him to do on his own.

"Will anyone come with me? It'll be tonight, when it's dark. I can't carry all of this by myself." He admitted, looking from face to face.

After a moment of hesitation, Arturo nodded, taking a few steps closer. He was joined soon after by Nardo, and then one of the girls, Mona, stepped up too. Jean nodded, looking over his assembled team.

"Thank you." He offered, doing his best to smile at them, hoping to show his true appreciation since words never failed to fail him. "But I want you all to know what you're getting into. If we get caught… We'll be in a lot of trouble. And I… Well, I'm sure it's obvious, but I can't guarantee your safety. So if you go with me, just… Just know that you're in danger. I know I have no right to ask that of you, but, if you still want to help…" He trailed, frowning awkwardly. He'd never really been good at conversing with people, let alone trying to lead them into what might indeed prove to be incredible danger.

But they only looked more ready, gazes hardening from the uncertainty of the previous moment.

He's our brother.

They didn't have to say it. It was written in their expressions. He was their brother, obviously a family favorite judging by the way they all picked on him. It was written in the way they all gathered to weep for the loss of such a precious light in their lives. It was in the way little Marie surged forward to join her brothers and sister.

Jean smiled, getting down on his knee to be at her level.

"Marie, thank you for volunteering, but I don't think you should come along." He admitted. Her cute face wrinkled into a pout, her freckles, so much like Marco's, folding into the minute creases.

"I can help!" She insisted, stamping her foot, to little effect.

The blonde sighed, sitting fully on the ground and reaching out to wrap his arms around the little girl, pulling her to him for an embrace. Though she was different, she had so many quirks similar to Marco's and it hurt, ached to hold her. But it also reminded him why he needed to be brave.

"Yes, you can, Marie. You can help by making sure that Marco's things are all packed up, so that I can take him away." He offered. She drew back, looking at him with illy-veiled curiosity. Jean's smile strained, but he held fast.

"Where are you taking him?" She demanded, bottom lip drawn forward.

He hadn't really thought of it. They couldn't stay here, not anymore. That much was painfully clear, and his mind grasped onto that, claws deep. But where could they go? He wished he'd thought about escape before, wished he'd thought that far ahead.

He wished he had any idea what he was doing.

Mrs. Bodt put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

"His cousin, Ymir, she's our closest relative that would help you. She lives a few towns to the east, working at the local tavern. If you can get him," They both grimaced at the staggering twinge induced by the indefinite 'if.' "Then you should take him there. She'll be able to put you two up for a good while, and she'll be happy to do it if you explain the situation." She promised. "Just ask at the tavern for her."

Jean gave her the best smile he could muster, standing up to give her a hug. She didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around him, crushing him tightly to her chest, her desperate hope bleeding through where their bodies met.

She wanted him to succeed. She was scared to hope, though.

"I want to help!" Marie cried, effectively regaining the attention she'd lost in the short moment. Jean returned to her level, his gaze more determined.

"Then please, Marie, get everything ready." He plead. "Find a bag, and pack all of the important things Marco will need; His clothes, some food, anything that is precious to him-" He trailed, hoping she got the idea. Her brows furrowed, though, and she tilted her head, eyes trailing his form as if examining him.

"…I don't think you'll fit in a sack." She commented. It took Jean a moment to understand what she meant, but when he did, his heart warmed, melting just a bit at the ice that had set in the moment Marco had been stolen from him. A few of the Bodts laughed, but Marie didn't seem to understand what was so funny, her cheeks filling with air as she returned to pouting.

Jean grinned, tilting her chin up with a finger.

"Can you pack everything else?" He hoped, holding her stare until, begrudgingly, she nodded.

"You better save him." She warned, taking a step back.

With that, she scurried off up the stairs, likely to get started on her task. It was a relief that she'd agreed without too much argument. Jean felt bad for sending her away, but he couldn't keep track of someone so small and young, and didn't dare to be responsible for her tiny life.

Mrs. Bodt seemed thankful, squeezing his shoulder yet again. He nodded her way, then gestured for Arturo, Nardo, and Mona to gather closer. They did, huddling to his side and taking a seat, eyes wide and ears open.

It wasn't a very elaborate plan, but Jean hoped that it'd be effective anyway. There wasn't much they could do with so little time to prepare, and so little time to execute. Once the sun rose, everything needed to be done, ready. If even one mistake was made, it might cost Marco his life.

After explaining the task at hand, Jean shooed the children to their rooms to find the darkest clothing they had, trotting over to the entryway and looking out the window as the Bodts resumed some semblance of life. Little feet moved across the floor, some of the girls shuffling into the kitchen to prepare a meal of sorts, though it was doubtful that anyone felt much like eating.

Mr. Bodt smoked his pipe, free hand gently stroking the back of his wife's in soft circles. Mrs. Bodt allowed herself to be comforted as she tutted at the children speaking to each other too loudly. There was life inside.

But outside was eerily silent, still. Even the fields seemed to cease their swaying. Jean would have expected someone to be keeping watch on the house, for Joan to be storming up the sidewalk to drag him through the doorway and finally beat the very breath out of him.

No one came. Nothing moved. There was not a sound to be heard outside the walls.

Jean should have been thankful, should have been comforted by the stillness. It only unsettled him.

They were confident. So confident that they'd scared the Pagans into submission that they weren't even bothering to monitor them. While that was to Jean's advantage, it still bothered him. Because he knew they had every right to be confident. One misstep, and everything would fall apart.

He came away from the window, his back sliding against the wall as his body dropped to the floor, hands coming to tangle in his hair while his head bowed to rest against his knees. It made his ribs hurt something awful, but it was still too comforting a position for him to shift.

It was still easy to detect the movement around him. He felt it when Nardo came to sit by him, knowing without even looking up who it was and what they were doing. The younger boy, after a moment of hesitation, wedged his way between all of Jean's tangled limbs, pressing to him in an unsure bid for comfort.

It dawned on the older that Marco had been the emotional epicenter of the Bodt family. While the Bodts were, by no means, an emotionally reserved family, it was clear in the way that they were keeping mostly to themselves that they weren't used to seeking comfort in each other. But all people need someone they can go to to cry without facing judgment. Someone who will just hold them and share a soft moment of sorrow or frustration, no questions asked.

Without Marco, his siblings were unsure of what to do with their grief, their anxiety. And, while Jean might not have been anything close to a reasonable substitute, he let the boy press his face into the fabric of his shirt, held him loosely while his frame shook, patted his back to help alleviate the tension building as the night grew closer and closer, chasing the sun away with the darkness of a graciously new moon.

Nardo was joined by Mona, who sat down to Jean's right, pressing against his side. She didn't cry, but she clung, her bare toes flexing idly.

They were some of the older children. Not the oldest, but old enough to keep their wits about them. And, like Marco, they were old beyond their years.

But they were still children. Jean was ashamed to ask them to put themselves in danger, was ashamed that he was a very large part of the reason they shook with tears and nerves. But still, he respected their need to help their brother. He might not have had siblings of his own, but he was coming to grasp at the bond the relationship innately created.

Once dusk had passed and the night pressed in, thick and black, Jean got up, his three companions trailing behind and helping him to divide up the oil into four roughly-equal portions. They each took one, determination taking over where anxiousness and uncertainty had been only moments prior.

They paused for only a moment to say goodbye to the family, each receiving a kiss to the temple from Mrs. Bodt before scurrying through the door and out into the brisk chill of the early-fall night.

A/N: While it gets harder and harder the longer it goes on, I am determined to complete this story. I'm so close! I've sort of distanced myself from SnK, to be honest. I still really love it, and these boys, but it's not really on my mind much lately. Still, I've got to finish what I start.

As a reward to anyone who is actually still waiting for my slow ass updates, I combined two chapters into one update for you guys, so it's a little lengthy this time. Someday I'll get better at writing densely, but today is not that day omo.

I'm actually really uncomfortable with this section. It's meant to feel abrupt, but maybe I went a little overboard. Some people mentioned the imagery of the last chapter, namely with the moth, and I was surprised how positively it was taken. The previous chapter was actually stuffed to the brim with death omens. It did make for a pretty scene atmosphere though, hmm?

Thanks for sticking it out with me, my lingering readers. We'll get through this together, probably.

KuroRiya
九六りや