Jean hated Mondays. It was the first day of the week. It meant going back to work, getting up early, facing an entire week. But he'd never hated a Monday quite as much as the one he was currently being faced with.
He hadn't slept. No matter how much Mrs. Bodt tried to coax him into it, and no matter how much Marco's scent clung to the sheets, he couldn't reason with his mind. It raced a mile a minute, trying to calculate every outcome of the day that was slowly being birthed at the eastern horizon.
Each minute, the sun rose a bit more, as did Jean's anxiety.
If things went entirely in his favor, then Marco would be safe. They'd stop for his bag of things, and then be gone before the town even knew what happened. He hoped that the people would be rattled enough to leave the rest of the Bodts alone. It wasn't as if they could burn an entire family at the stake for no reason.
His concern was Marco. He felt he couldn't breathe in the boy's absence, yet forced himself to in order to even have a chance at having him again.
Too many times his mind had wandered to the darkest of places. What would he do if he couldn't save Marco? There were so many options, yet they felt absurd to him. Life without Marco, now that he'd had him, wouldn't really be life at all.
He tried to steer himself from that line of thinking, though, tugging the reigns harshly in the opposite direction so that maybe the pain would remind him not to venture that way again.
The Bodts woke with the sun, noise starting up downstairs and filtering up to Marco's bed. While he hadn't slept, Jean hadn't had an excuse to get out of bed until the noise roused him. He got up and went down to help with any chores that were deemed important enough to do despite the events everyone knew were soon to come.
Mrs. Bodt made breakfast, but it was picked at. No one could stomach more than a few bites. Jean helped her pack it up for storage, so the food wouldn't go to waste. By the time everything was cleared away, without even speaking, they each knew it was time to go.
Jean left first, a stream of freckled faces falling in line behind him. He bet, as they walked through town, that they looked something like a funeral procession. That's what it felt like, certainly. He tried to keep his head high, though, even as townspeople looked at him, and his entourage, as if they were Satan's spawn.
The post office came into view, and with it came the familiar, fear-inducing tree. It was ironic, now that he thought of it, that the tree would be in his own front yard; Something that caused him such fear, so close to the bed he slept in.
But the tree wasn't what he feared the most, in that moment. The sturdy wooden stake that had been plunged into the soft earth of the main square was. It didn't look to be well sanded, and Jean shuddered to think of how many splinters Marco likely already had.
How long had the boy been tied there? The stake hadn't been there the night before when Jean and a few of the Bodt children had snuck out, so not all night. Jean still hoped it wasn't long, his lips already trembling as he imagined the strain it must be putting on all the broken bones and dark bruises. Marco, however, didn't even seem to have the energy to cry or complain, his body leaning forward and slumped as much as the rope tied about his body would allow.
He heard Mrs. Bodt sob. He felt Marie tuck her little hand into his. He felt Nardo fist a hand in his shirt. He felt his own tears slip from his eyes.
No matter how successfully their plan might go, there was no denying how horrible this sight was. To see such a beautiful person reduced to a broken shell, so shattered he'd lost the ability to even lift his head and seek help, was painful, endlessly so.
Jean squeezed Marie's hand, reaching around and pulling Nardo before him, kneeling down so he was on their level.
"I need you to go stand with your father, alright?" He requested, voice soft. Nardo nodded, and Marie sniffled. Jean petted her hair, giving both of their shoulders one last squeeze before herding them in the right direction.
He met Mr. Bodt's eye for a moment as the man accepted the two children into the huddle of terrified, wide eyes that was his family. The man offered a nod, maybe acceptance, maybe encouragement. It didn't matter which, really. One way or another, something drastic was going to happen.
Jean, after taking a breath, surged forward, closer to the front. No one stopped him, parting to make a way for him in fact. And he realized, as he neared, that he was meant to be at the forefront. Joan waited for him. He could feel the eyes he'd inherited from his father on him as he picked his way closer.
He didn't cower when he stood beside the man. He didn't hide his tears. He didn't turn his gaze from the one he loved. Because, honestly, what more could his father take from him?
He wasn't afraid.
Not for himself, anyway. Because this wasn't about him. This was about Marco, battered, broken Marco who still managed to notice their proximity, who fought to lift his head, to see Jean before him.
Jean wished he could reach out, could help Marco lift his head, could cradle his tired body and promise that everything would be alright, that, for once in his life, he'd been wrong.
He couldn't promise that just yet, but he hoped his eyes could communicate his determination.
Joan did not seem pleased to be ignored, and probably would have given him a bruise for the trouble if his wife wasn't clinging to his arm, and the town didn't have their eyes trained on his son so carefully. He settled for a low growl, taking a few steps forward till he stood beside Marco, though at a safe distance. He wouldn't want to get infected, after all.
"Word travels fast in this town, so I'm sure you are all aware why we're here." He barked. The mayor joined him where he stood, before the crowd, wringing his hands. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want this blood on his hands.
The town didn't want this blood on their hands, not really. Burning people alive based on mere accusations was messy, something frowned upon by all that heard the tale second hand. Only recently, they'd shaken their heads in response to stories of Salem. They'd tutted, and prayed for the souls of the murderers who took lives based solely on the claims of a few young girls.
No one wanted their souls damned by taking very-possibly innocent life. No one wanted to be prayed for.
But no one dared to speak out against the few that were malicious enough to press forward. Not even the mayor could work up the courage to remind Joan of his place. He was afraid. They were all afraid.
"For those unsure, though, allow me to clarify." Joan continued. No one argued.
"This witch-" He spat, nodding jerkily at Marco who could only let out a shuddering sigh of protest. "Who we have allowed to live here peacefully, has corrupted one of our own."
Jean didn't care that every pair of eyes was on him. Only one pair mattered to him in that moment, and he held Marco's gaze with as much power as he could. The alcohol color was muddied, darker with doubt that his weakened body had allowed to creep into his mind.
Had he done something wrong? Had he really hurt someone? Was Jean worse off on his behalf?
Jean watched the thoughts flit behind the gaze, his brows knitting as he fought down the desperate desire to deny it, to reassure the only person he could say he loved every part of.
He just barely managed it.
"A sodomite. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one that turned our old postmaster." Joan sneered.
Jean took a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He had to remain calm, and he knew it. He couldn't afford to let his father's words tempt him into an action that would only condemn Marco further.
"Does anyone have anything to say on the witch's behalf?" Joan dared. It wasn't a question, it was a trap. No one took the bait. Joan looked satisfied, his eyes trained on his son who stood stiff, fists clenched at his sides. "I didn't think so."
There was a long silence that bore down on the crowd. The air felt heavy, made it hard to breathe. Everyone just stopped trying as the sound of a flint rung out, sparks flying a few times before he managed to light some kindling that was placed without remorse among the wood that had been amassed at Marco's feet.
Jean bristled, watching it catch, small flames licking up the logs, closer and closer to Marco's feet with each moment that passed by in semi-silence. The crackling of fire and the sobs of Mrs. Bodt managed to find voice, but everyone else was quiet, afraid to look but unable to look away.
He urged the flame to move the right way. He fought every muscle in his body that screamed at him to move, to cut the ropes away, gather Marco to his chest, and run. No. He had to wait.
It only got harder, though, as the fire grew closer, and Marco finally managed to get a sound past his lips, a distressed cry as he, unquestionably, felt the heat. His feet were bare and dangerously close to the flames that continued to grow at an exponential rate.
Wait.
He had to. No matter how much it hurt to hear Marco's increasingly pained noises. No matter how much his body ached to tear into those ropes. No matter how much it broke his heart to simply stand there and watch.
Wait.
He had to wait till it caught. Why it'd taken so long, he didn't know. But he couldn't start moving till the damned oil caught. No matter how much Marco sobbed. Because if he moved now, it was all for naught. Joan would catch him, make him watch as the flames consumed his love.
Wait.
He could see the skin reddening, blistering. Marco wouldn't be able to walk for a long time, broken bones or not. Jean was going to have to carry him. If he could only just get him down, though, he imagined he could carry Marco's weight by five.
It caught. Finally. And, just like water through a canal, the flame raced along the invisible trails of oil, surrounding the square and slicing between the crowd, the burning tendrils earning a fair amount of shouts and shrieks as people leapt back and dodged out of the way.
He was glad the oil hadn't sunken into the earth too much to catch, and breathed a sigh of relief, likely the only one in the chaos he'd created. But chaos was exactly what he needed to distract from his actions as he bolted to Marco, slicing through the ropes with a knife he'd borrowed from the Bodt kitchen and pulling the boy away from the fire before anyone could even get enough of a grip to know what was going on.
Don't wait.
Marco was heavy, but Jean was happy for the weight. Almost as happy as he was to hear Marco's soft groan. It was pained, yes, but also recognizing. He knew who was hobbling away with him. And he somehow found enough strength to wrap his arms around Jean's shoulders, clinging for what he knew to be his life.
Jean could hear his father calling after him. He imagined the man racing after him. But he wouldn't catch up. He couldn't. Jean wouldn't let him. He hadn't come this far to lose everything. It was his turn to be the brave one, and that meant putting one foot in front of the other until this damned town they'd called home was so far behind them that they couldn't even remember what colors the leaves in the trees were when they left.
He didn't look back as he bolted into the forest line, tracing paths that had become familiar from walking them with Marco's fingers laced in his. Paths his father didn't know. Paths his father couldn't follow. Not for long.
Sure enough, when he found himself too out of breath to keep sprinting, and he stopped to catch it, he didn't hear thundering footsteps or seething rage. Just his own breath, the rustling of the leaves, and Marco's soft sighs.
Thankful for the brief moment of rest, he carefully slid Marco down to the ground, his lips drawing into a deep frown as the other boy winced and let out a pained little whine.
"I'm so, so sorry, Marco." He breathed, maneuvering until he could gently pull Marco's head onto his lap, combing his fingers through dark locks.
Marco's hair was sweaty, and Jean's fingers came away spotted with dark flecks of ash that stuck with the moisture. It only made tears prick at his eyes.
"I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry that I'm so cowardly. I just… I couldn't… I had to be sure-"He rambled.
Even in his state, Marco managed to hush him, his lips rounding as the hiss of air came out. Jean didn't need to be told twice, and Marco deserved a moment of rest more than anyone. So he kept quiet, satisfied to just press his ear to Marco's chest and listen to the beating of his heart until he could breathe again.
When he'd managed, he got back to his feet and, after struggling with the weight that he'd just carried with apparent ease, began the trek to the hollowed-out tree where he'd had Marie hide the bag she'd packed them.
Marco felt heavier, but that was probably just because Jean wasn't running, literally, on adrenaline. His pace slowed considerably, but he kept to it, panting with the effort, but resolved to carry Marco as far as he had to.
When he got to the tree he was looking for, he let himself rest again. He realized he was in for one hell of a trip if he had to carry Marco several towns over. As resolved as he was to do what he had to do, he could feel some dread cropping up. It was going to take forever.
Maybe he could stop and somehow acquire a cart in the next town. It'd be easier to lug Marco around that way than actually carrying him. It'd be easier on Marco too, he reasoned. But it dawned on him how very little money they had. That being none. And it would be hard to pay for a cart without money.
He just about jumped out of his skin when he heard footsteps.
Who was following them? Hadn't they lost Joan? He'd thought so. Had he thought wrong?
He calmed down, but also stiffened when he saw it was his mother, not his father. Why? How?
"What are you doing here?" He demanded, his voice sounding harsher than he'd meant it to. But he didn't apologize, curling himself protectively around Marco, eyes trained on his mother.
She managed a small, sad-looking smile. She'd been crying. His heart hurt at the thought.
"I… Well, you'll need a pack." She reasoned, producing a small bag and holding it out to him. "I packed you some food, and a few of your things. I would have brought more, but they started to get the fire out, and I'm sure they'll be doing a better job of trying to find you two once they do." She added, glancing down at Marco.
Jean narrowed his eyes, looking between her and the bag.
"…Why did you come? How did you know where to find me?" He asked. She winced.
"I-" She paused, letting out a shuddering sigh. "I regret the way you were raised." She admitted, biting her lip as her eyes glassed over with fresh tears. "I never really stopped your father from… Well, I knew he was being too cruel, but I just… I wanted to think it would get better. I tried to understand."
She was rambling, and Jean urged her forward with his expression.
"Sorry. It's just… I still love you, Jean. Even if I can't agree with what you're doing." She confessed, sparing another glance at Marco. It didn't look as disgusted as it used to. "I… I know you love him, and I know I can't stop you. And your father went too far. And I want you to be safe. I know that can't happen here. So I want to help you get somewhere where you can be." She finished, taking the last few steps towards her son, settling down onto her knees. She passed him the bag, holding on a little too long when their hands brushed.
"I said as much to the Bodt woman. She told me where you'd be." She added. "I would have been here sooner, but I got turned around. I haven't been in these woods since I was your age."
Jean bit his lip, looking anywhere but her face. He wanted to cry into her shoulder like the child he was, but he had to be the strong one this time. Strong for his mother. Strong for Marco. Strong for himself.
"Thank you." He offered, shouldering the bag. She nodded, sniffling.
"And, um-" Her breath hitched. "You remember your Aunt and Uncle? The ones with the farm?" She inquired. His brows furrowed, not sure where she was going with this, but he nodded anyway. "Well, they've moved away since the kids all grew and left. The fields weren't worth anything anymore, though, so no one moved in. And a lot of their old farming tools are there." She offered. "You might find something useful. I won't promise anything, but they had that old cart you and Hitch liked to play with-"
Oh.
He found himself unable to help but wrap her up in an embrace, pressing his nose into her hair for one last breath of his childhood home.
"Thank you." He breathed.
She let out a little sob, pushing him away.
"You'll be there before sunup if you don't stop to sleep." She offered, standing up. Jean nodded, doing his best to do the same, Marco in tow. The weight seemed a little less with the hope that he wouldn't have to carry it for quite as long a time.
He paused, hauling the other pack out of the tree and shouldering that as well, then pressed a kiss to her cheek before he turned to begin his trek again.
"When you get a bit further away," She called, and he paused. He could tell she was stalling, but he couldn't help but oblige her. "There's some salve in that bag that might help his burns a little, at least."
Jean let himself turn around one more time, feeling himself split in two. Part of him desperately wanted to stay with his mother, to hold her and protect her and explain how much of a part she'd played in the majority of his good memories.
But another part, a larger part, made sure he knew he couldn't be apart from Marco. He couldn't even think it. So he settled with taking a few extra steps so he could press a kiss to his mother's temple.
When had she gotten so small? Once, he'd had to reach to fist his hands in her skirts. Now he had to stoop to reach her forehead.
"…Take care of yourself." He requested, holding her stare for a moment and trying to squeeze everything he wanted to say into his gaze. He didn't know whether she could read it, but he didn't have time to ask, and he didn't let himself turn back around as he walked further into the forest. Not even as he heard her breath hitch, and the sobs rise up in her throat.
He had to be strong. Stronger than his fear. Stronger than his father.
Stronger than his mother's tears.
A/N: I'm still alive, I think? It's been weird. I'm still trying. Sorry.