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It’s been an ideal spring. There are flowers blooming at the edges of the training fields and the meadows far beyond camp, and the May storms have truly been more like showers.
Overall, Marco thought this exercise would be easy and was actually looking forward to being outdoors. Nature is familiar and calming, and it’s been a while since Shadis sent everyone on a survival exercise.
“Damn it, why does it have to be brambles? Of all things, it’s gotta be thorns?” Jean is muttering and grumbling to himself as he’s taken the lead to push and tramp through the underbrush toward where the shelter is supposed to be.
Marco sighs.
What he hadn’t expected was the temperature to drop twenty degrees and the rain to turn into a torrential downpour.
Dusk is starting to settle, and Marco’s getting worried. There’s only so much stamina he and Jean have, and they’ve spent the last four hours on foot trying to get to the elusive point of rest.
“Um,” Marco says, cringing a little, “do you think we’re almost there?” Jean had been playing navigator up until recently.
He just growls and makes a noncommittal noise, giving a particularly frustrated, vicious swipe at a bush with his soaking boot. At least they’re properly waterproof—the 104th can’t be faulted for shoddy equipment.
“I can do it for a while.”
“You already did it for the first two hours,” Jean replies dismissively, sneezing. He sniffles a little, before adding, “I owe you.”
Marco grabs Jean’s shoulder to stop him, offering a friendly smile when he whirls around in surprise with wide eyes.
“I’ll do it,” Marco repeats, his voice firm. Jean relies too much on his erratic spikes of energy and determination to push him forward; so when he does crash, he crashes hard. “You can do more tomorrow after we sleep. Yeah?”
Jean gives a grudging look and sets his jaw stubbornly, but his eyelids are practically drooping, and Marco knows he’ll give in. His face is wet even though they both have their hoods up, and he finally nods.
Now Marco takes the lead—slow and steady does it, as the saying goes—and Jean doesn’t criticize the approach.
The wet leaves and mud squelch under Marco’s feet, and he shivers, pulling the green cloak more tightly around himself.
“Okay,” Jean says, relief evident in his voice, “it should be up here.”
To Marco’s relief, they finally reach a clearing, but then he can only stare. Jean bumps into Marco and murmurs an apology, and then he stares, too.
“I mean,” Marco says after a moment, tilting his head to the side, “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.”
In front of them is a small lean-to structure made of rough timber with three walls and a roof; it looks dry, though, and the three walls will probably keep the wind out from those directions. There’s a long slab of wood running along the back that looks like it’s intended to be some sort of bench or rudimentary bed—obviously somewhere to at least sit down.
Jean groans behind Marco, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. “At least we still have some supplies.”
“I have two strips of jerky left,” Marco replies grimly, raising an eyebrow as he turns to look at Jean.
Jean cringes and makes a face. “That makes... five strips of jerky.” He sighs. “We’ll have to go hunting tomorrow.” His weakest skill is hunting.
“Or fishing,” Marco adds with a shrug. “We passed a creek back there, and I know how to make a fishing hook and lure with the supplies we have.”
“You can...” Jean trails off and shakes his head, but something warm tugs at Marco’s heart when his mouth upturns the slightest amount. “I should’ve seen that one coming.”
Jean is convinced that Marco was raised by wolves and spent his childhood foraging for berries. While it’s a stretch, it’s certainly a closer description than what Jean’s childhood in Trost must have been like.
“Let’s bunk down,” Marco says. “At least it’s a roof.”
“No chance of starting a fire, huh?”
“Not unless you want to burn down our only source of shelter.”
“Maybe it will stop,” Jean ventures hopefully with raised eyebrows.
He turns to stare at Marco for a moment, as if waiting to see if either one of them really believe the possibility, and then they both just heave fatigued sighs. As Marco’s mother frequently says: “it is what it is.”
The two of them clamber into the shelter and pull off their packs and wet cloaks. It’s cold, but the uniforms and jackets aren’t actually poor insulation. It’s also a stroke of luck that hoods are regulation for training, since avoiding wet hair makes a big difference.
“Okay,” Marco says decisively, facing Jean who’s rubbing his upper arms rapidly as he tries to warm up, “let’s eat something and then go to sleep. We can get up early and try to find some real food.”
“Sounds good,” Jean nods. He looks like he’s about to keel over, and Marco eyes the platform-slash-bed. It’s barely big enough to fit two people, but he knows it will fit both of them.
Nevertheless, Marco offers to sleep in shifts, trading off between the floor and the “bed.”
He smiles, clearing his throat and hiding the fatigue. “I don’t mind taking the floor first.” Jean is in worse shape than Marco, whether he’ll admit it or not. “If we put our blankets underneath for insulation, and then cover ourselves with our cloaks, it’ll be easier to—”
“That’s stupid,” Jean interrupts brusquely, staring at Marco with a slight frown. “I don’t care if we share it.” He shrugs dismissively. “You’re kinda skinny anyway.”
That gets a laugh out Marco—he’s definitely not skinny, even if he was slightly gawky at the start of training—since now he’s even taller and solidly built.
Marco snorts at the statement, and Jean gives that silly little smile again that makes Marco’s heart beat faster.
“Besides,” Jean adds, turning away to root around in his pack for his share of the food, “um...” A blush travels up the back of his neck, and Marco’s eyes widen in surprise. “The body heat will help, right?”
“Body heat?” Marco squeaks, and then he clears his throat awkwardly, feeling silly. He’s not a teenager with a crush (well, even if he kind of is)—this is serious. Both of them are training to occupy important military positions in service of the king.
“Can you stop thinking for five minutes?” Jean asks in exasperation. Marco blinks, and sees there’s a piece of jerky being offered to him. “You think more than almost anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Well,” Marco say carefully, accepting the jerky, “I like to mean what I say.”
“So do I,” Jean retorts immediately. They stare at each other for a moment, and then both laugh, because it’s obvious their respective communication styles are a little different.
They wait for the cloaks to dry as much as possible, and then they lay out the blanket on the narrow cot-like shelf and settle down next to each other.
There’s no getting around the fact that they’re pressed flush against each other. It’s not even a big deal. Marco knows it’s not a big deal to Jean, whose breathing is already deepening; his mouth is hanging open partway, and even in the cold and damp, he’s ready to fall asleep.
He shivers a little, though, and shamelessly huddles against Marco. They’re both lying on their sides, front to front, and Jean seems to have lost some of his typical bashfulness as he looks for warmth.
“Do you want to be on the inside?” Marco asks quietly.
Jean’s still more awake than Marco first thought, and he answers, “Won’t make a difference.”
“Um, you can get... closer,” Marco offers awkwardly. To his surprise, Jean doesn’t need to be asked twice, immediately pressing closer and pushing his face against Marco’s chest.
Marco, on the other hand, is trying desperately to maintain a neutral, level-headed mindset.
This is a training exercise. They’re both cold. Jean is depending on him because they’re training partners. This is all out of necessity.
The problem is that Jean smells really good and feels really warm, and the weight of his body is something Marco has routinely thought about more than he should.
Marco’s never had feelings for someone like the ones he has for Jean, but it’s more complicated than hormones. Trysts between cadets isn’t uncommon, especially given the squad’s average age, but the thought of having a “tryst” with Jean actually makes Marco unhappy. Jean isn’t just a stolen kiss in the middle of the night or a peck on the cheek when the cook isn’t looking on potato-peeling duty.
Marco has... feelings for Jean. Feelings that are something like friendship, but much more intense, and much more emotional. He feels like sometimes he can see right into Jean’s core.
“Cold,” Jean grumbles quietly. And he must be really cold if he’s admitting it.
Marco reaches around to tuck the cloak underneath of him so there’s no draft against his back, and his breath catches as Jean twists slightly so he can’t bring his arm back to where it was. Now, Marco’s arm is wrapped around Jean; but he doesn’t question it, because it feels good.
“Better?” he ask hesitantly, voice barely working.
“Mhm,” Jean hums, sounding even more sleepy. “You?”
“I’m good,” Marco reaffirms. It always puts him at ease when he can fall into the role of caretaker; it just comes naturally.
The rain pats down on the roof, and Marco watches the darkness of the underbrush and trees where it’s fully turned into night. There’s not much threat of anything coming to bother them thankfully, since the surrounding area is populated mostly by deer.
Marco slides his hand down to Jean’s waist to let it rest there and close his eyes; he’s more tired than he first realized, and despite the cold, he immediately starts to drift off.
But he’s unable to fall asleep, because instead of getting better, Jean’s still shivering.
“Jean?” Marco asks softly, tapping his waist.
“Yeah?” he yawns.
“You’re shivering.”
“Well, it’s goddamn cold,” he retorts, immediately sounding defensive.
“Um,” Marco says, trying to sound calm and swallowing hard, “if we’re skin to skin, it’ll probably be better.”
Jean stiffens and makes a self-conscious noise, but then relaxes again.
“Yeah,” he grunts out simply, and immediately brings his hands up to unbutton his shirt.
There’s something about the way that the fabric whispers between Jean’s fingers and how it parts to reveal his chest that makes Marco bite his lip and blush. He’s seen Jean naked plenty of times—in the showers and bunks—but there’s a certain vulnerability to him right now that no one usually sees.
Marco displaces his arm to unbutton his own shirt, and then pulls Jean close.
They’re chest to chest now, hips bumping each other, and Jean lets out a sigh of relief.
“This is better,” he admits, laughing a little.
Marco tries to push the thought away that he wishes it could always be like this—the feelings that are swelling uncontrollably—and he just laughs lightly, too. “Yeah.”
In reality, Marco’s head is spinning, and his can’t stop thinking about how his ribs feel against Jean’s, the sensation of muscle flexing slightly as Jean gets comfortable, how strong both their bodies are now.
Suddenly, Jean shifts and takes a breath, like he wants to say something, but hesitates.
Marco hums nonchalantly, a noise that could be an invitation to speak or just a sleepy sound; he’ll let Jean take it however he wants.
Apparently, it’s taken as an invitation.
“You ever think about doing this with a girl?” Jean blurts out, and Marco’s eyes widen in mortification.
“Uh, what do you mean?”
Jean snorts derisively, but just as quickly as something dark and painful curls in Marco’s stomach, he realizes that Jean is directing the noise at himself.
“Weird question, right?”
“Kind of, but I don’t mind,” Marco finally replies. He have to admit that, despite his interest in the feeling of Jean’s body against his own, he’s genuinely curious now since it’s so rare that Jean speaks candidly about his emotions.
“Well, we’re going to graduate soon,” he says softly, settling more comfortably against Marco. “I guess that means... that eventually we’ll get married, right? Especially if you’re in the Military Police?”
“Not everyone does.” Not everyone does, but Marco does relate to that expectation, since that’s what everyone back in Jinae will expect of him. It doesn’t matter that his career is going to be based on constantly putting himself in harm’s way in order to serve humanity and the king.
“But... yeah, I guess so,” he agrees with a slight shrug.
“I guess every guy dreams of having a girl like Mikasa. I mean, not that I think she’d marry me or anything.”
Marco laugh a little; Jean’s crush on Mikasa doesn’t even sting anymore. At one point, Marco had felt a hint of jealousy which he promptly and forcefully quashed; now it’s just water under the bridge.
“I don’t know if she’d marry anyone. But who knows?”
“Yeah,” Jean replies softly.
The rain is coming down harder now, even though it doesn’t seem possible, and the rustle of the tree leaves sounds deafening. There’s sure to be downed branches tomorrow, too.
Jean laughs a little. “You’ll probably get married as soon as you get into the Military Police.”
“Why do you say that?” Marco ask curiously, tilting his head to the side slightly.
Jean feels the action from where his face is still resting against Marco’s shoulder, and he draws away slightly so their eyes meet in the dark. His features and expression make Marco feel a dull ache that he tries to ignore.
Marco knows what he can have in life, and his greatest ambitions—as he’s learned—are minor compared to other people. Regardless, he’s always been satisfied with the possibilities, and falling in love with Jean Kirschstein just isn’t in that plan for a multitude of reasons.
“Because you’re that type, Marco,” Jean says, poking Marco in the shoulder as if it’s obvious. “I mean, you must know that.”
“What type?” Marco echoes in bewilderment.
Jean just stares in disbelief, and then frowns a little. “I mean... the type who gets married. The type who can have his pick of anybody.”
“You think I could have my pick of anybody?” Marco replies in surprise, his eyes wide. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
Jean rolls his eyes and retakes his position, breaking the stare. “Yeah, it is,” is all he says.
“Well, so could you,” Marco replies in kind.
Jean makes a cocky snort, but it’s not immediately clear that he agrees, as Marco expects.
“You’re also really good looking,” Marco adds, feeling daring since this conversation has taken such a surreal direction.
“So are you,” Jean challenges.
“You’re going to be at least in the top five, much less ten.”
“You’re probably going to be number one.”
“Well,” Marco replies, desperate to one-up him, “You’d actually have your pick of anyone, because you’re braver than you used to be.”
“You think so?” Jean asks, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You mean like that time I tried to tell Mikasa I liked her hair, and then she cut it because Yeager told her to?”
“Well, yeah,” Marco says softly, the challenge dying. “Because you’re not like that anymore.”
“You think I’m braver?”
“Yeah,” Marco repeats more steadfastly.
For some reason, he realizes Jean is holding his breath, and then he exhales, “Okay.”
And just like that, a hand is sliding up Marco’s back to splay across his shoulder blades, and he’s pretty sure that Jean is kissing his collar bone.
“Um, I... what...” Marco stutters.
Jean recoils, almost falling off the narrow slab of wood, and stares at Marco in mortification.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out with wide, shocked eyes.
Marco’s not sure what’s more surprising—the fact that Jean just kissed his chest, or that he actually apologized for something.
“No!” Marco corrects, shaking his head fervently. “Don’t be sorry.”
Jean blinks and swallows hard, biting his lip, and they just stare at each other.
“Um...” he says, his eyes still wide and his pupils dilated. And then, instead of explaining it all away, he leans forward to push his lips against Marco’s, his mouth moving slowly.
Marco doesn’t know what to do; his back is pressed against the wall, and his eyes are wide open as he stares at Jean’s closed ones.
Jean Kirschstein is kissing him.
Marco never actually expected Jean to be a good kisser (in the occasional self-indulgent moments he’d allowed himself to even ponder the possibility), if only due to how awkward he was when it comes to Things Like That.
So Marco kisses back, letting himself relax into it as Jean slides a hand up and through his hair. His mouth opens slightly, and Marco’s entire body quakes with need.
Jean finally breaks the kiss, but instead of saying anything, he just goes in for another one as his grip tightens in Marco’s hair.
They kiss for a long time, and Marco finally lets his eyes close to get lost in the sensation.
Jean doesn’t taste like much of anything—just the warmth and surprising softness of his lips—but from this close, Marco can smell him.
He smells even better now—faintly of sweat, of at least two days hiking through the woods, and like rain. More to the point, though: he smells like Jean.
Marco knows he’ll never forget Jean’s smell, no matter how long he lives. He hopes he never has any reason to in the first place.
Jean finally draws away, but he still doesn’t speak, pressing shy little kisses along Marco’s jaw as he slowly lets his hand slide downward.
It ends up resting at Marco’s waist, the long, deft fingers curling around the blunt indent of Marco’s body, and Marco gasps as Jean licks at his throat.
“Um...” he finally breathes.
And just like that, all of Jean’s confidence vanishes in an instant, and pulls away sharply.
“I’m going to sleep,” he says abruptly, and just like that, goes to turn away.
Marco realizes that he’s embarrassed, and he grabs Jean without thinking so he can’t turn away.
“Don’t stop,” he blurts out.
Jean just stares at him, Marco blinks, and then they collide again as Jean kisses him desperately, wrapping his leg around Marco’s body so that their hips grind together at the same time.
“You’re...” he whispers as the kiss breaks.
“So are you,” Marco replies breathlessly. He’s not even sure whether it’s an accusation or a happy observation.
“I like kissing you,” Jean blurts out. “A lot.”
“I...” Marco says, feeling the heat of a blush creep up to his cheeks. “I do, too.”
“Okay,” Jean whispers, moving his leg and pressing his lips against Marco’s again.
This time, though, his hand keeps going past Marco’s waist right down to the front of his pants, and Jean squeezes gently.
Marco knows he should stop and think this through, think about the repercussions, about how Jean probably doesn’t view this the same way he does, about how—
“I’ve never done this before,” Jean murmurs, his hand still moving.
Marco’s eyes roll back in his head as his breath quickens, and he pushes his hips toward Jean’s hand. He doesn’t even know anymore whether it’s hormones or emotions pushing him forward, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now, because Jean’s hand feels perfect. The fact that it’s Jean touching him, that Jean wants to touch him.
“I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone except you,” Jean whispers, and before Marco can register the full extent of the words, Jean captures his mouth again.
This time, Marco’s hand comes up to tangle in Jean’s hair as Jean unzips his pants, fingers skimming curiously over sharp hips and then down further with more purpose.
Marco gasps, his mouth hanging open as the kiss breaks, panting as Jean starts to stroke. His lips are whispering across Marco’s chest as positions himself low enough to reach down and palm Marco’s cock.
Marco would feel embarrassed if he were more coherent by the little hiccupped sounds and hoarse cries that are coming out of his mouth; they just grow more pronounced as Jean pauses to spit into his hand, and then continue with what he was doing.
Jean bites gently—almost timidly—at Marco’s shoulder, and finally, Marco loses it.
His entire body shudders as he comes, and then he clings to Jean tightly.
And in short order, he feels absolutely mortified by the entire event; but Jean hasn’t pulled his hand away yet.
Instead, he traces the slight jut of Marco’s hip bones with careful fingertips, still pressing lazy little kisses against Marco’s skin.
It’s distinctly affectionate; not driven by lust, but by...
“Wow,” is all Marco can manage to croak.
“Was that...” Jean says quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain, “was that okay?”
“Will you kiss me again?” Marco replies very softly, flushing.
Jean doesn’t need to be asked twice, and he slides his hand up to press against the small of Marco’s back and pull their bodies together. He presses their lips together again, and Marco kisses him hard this time.
This only seems to push Jean on as he deepens the kiss, and then finally, it reaches a pinnacle when he brings his hand up to touch Marco’s face.
Marco closes his eyes and doesn’t think, pressing his hand against the back of Jean’s.
They lie there for a long time that way, until Marco murmurs, “Are you ready to go to sleep?”
Jean finally pulls his hand away and presses against Marco, his head under Marco’s chin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. After a few moments, he adds in a halting whisper, “I don’t care about doing this with a girl. I always wanted...”
He doesn’t have to finish for Marco to know what he means.
He hums and rubs his hand over Jean’s back. “Are you warmer now?”
“Yeah,” Jean replies softly. He doesn’t speak again, and Marco finally falls asleep.
When he wakes up to a bird calling the next morning, Jean is still there against him, snoring softly and pressed close.
Marco closes his eyes to inhale deeply as he presses his nose against Jean’s hair.
No matter how long he lives, he’ll never forget this smell.
Jean grumbles slightly as he starts to wake up, but then, smiles sleepily as he says Marco’s name.
“Another day,” he says softly, but then closes his eyes again.
Marco decides to wait just a few minutes more before they get up and venture back into the cold.