Archive of Our Own

November 848

Marco doesn’t know the exact day of his birthday. His mother is relatively sure it was sometime in the month of June, but she doesn’t recall the precise date.

It’s not that his family doesn’t care; it’s simply that no one celebrates birthdays by number in the rolling foothills of Jinae. They measure time by temperature changes, how the sun arcs across the sky and for how long it stays out, when things grow. Time is measured in cycles, rather than in numbers—years, months, and days with abstract markers make no difference.

The first birthday that passes during their training is interesting, to say the least. Marco is baffled when cadets from more affluent areas receive gifts in their monthly mail haul. He asks Jean about it in curiosity, and Jean tells him—with a raised eyebrow as if he thinks Marco might be messing with him—that it’s common to receive gifts on the day of your birthday.

Marco and his large family have always celebrated birthdays as a group—whatever season your birthday fell into was how you celebrated. If a person was born in the fall, then they’d get baked apples along with the rest of the autumn children. It was a far less formal affair than receiving an individual gift; in Jinae, that only happened when a person got married or had their first child.

“So,” Marco says, tilting his head in fascination to the side, “what do you get for your birthday, Jean?”

The trees are bare and it’s cold—a harsh autumn day—and they’re gearing up for more torturous ODM training. The bunks are freezing, and it’s early enough that Marco can see Jean’s breath turn white as they talk.

Jean groans at Marco and rolls his eyes as he twists the leather straps nimbly around his feet and over his legs; it’s second nature for all of them now. They don’t even have to look at what they’re doing anymore.

“It’s five in the goddamn morning,” he grumbles, yawning shamelessly. “Can you save the stupid questions until noon?”

Jean still hasn’t gotten used to waking up so early, even though they’ve been here for little over a year already.

Marco just shrugs good naturedly. “Okay, I’ll ask you later.”

Jean blinks sleepily, but then focuses his eyes on Marco; his pupils dilate as his brain wakes up, and he raises an eyebrow as he sits on the edge of his bed to pull on his boots.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“Well, isn’t your birthday coming up?”

“No, not for at least six more months. It’s in April,” he says with a shrug. “I thought you didn’t do birthdays, anyway.”

Marco laughs as he stretches his arms above his head, twisting his torso to get himself ready for flying through the air and physical exertion. His spine cracks, and Jean grimaces at the noise.

“We do birthdays,” Marco replies, rolling his neck, “just not like you. We do it by what grows from the ground, although sometimes we get extra special stuff.” He adjusts his gear—Marco’s been ready to go to breakfast for fifteen minutes now—and fixes Jean with a curious look. “Have you ever tasted oranges?”

His mouth practically waters at the thought. Marco has tasted oranges exactly twice in his life—once, when he and his sister had stolen some from a traveling merchant (the aftermath of that incident makes ODM gear training look like a stroll through a flowery meadow), and then again, on an occasion that happened to coincide with his birthday month. One of Jinae’s residents—who happened to be in the Scouting Legion—had died gloriously in battle and taken down a Titan. A sack of oranges had been sent to the village as a gesture of sympathy.

Marco’s thoughts are interrupted when Jean retorts, “Of course I’ve eaten a stupid orange.” He shrugs, and gives a cocky, dismissive jerk of his chin.

Which obviously—at least obvious to Marco—means that he hasn’t.

It sometimes surprises Marco how well he can read Jean. He’s not sure what to make of it, because although he’s perceptive—as he’s been told by quite a few people throughout his life—there’s something about Jean that he can intuitively tap into. Marco’s never had a friend quite like Jean, who fights tooth and nail to keep him distant, and yet is constantly around him. Jean is confusing and fascinating, but most of all, Marco likes what he sees when he manages to get close enough.

“They’re delicious,” Marco says, grinning a little, “although I’ve only tasted them twice.”

Jean’s face is downturned as he finishes buckling the straps of his ODM gear, and then he glances up at Marco, feigning disinterest.

“So, uh, what do you think they tasted like?” he asks casually. “I thought they were kind of weird.”

Marco forgets that, although Jean isn’t from a tiny village like Jinae, Trost also isn’t the Interior.

“They taste really sweet,” Marco enthuses, his eyes widening in excitement, “they’re... um...” He frowns, trying to come up with the right word. “They’re sweet, but tart. They make you want to eat more, but your mouth sort of purses...” he purses his lips like a fish and makes a face, “like this.”

“You are so weird, Bodt. C’mon, let’s go. Stop messing around,” Jean says gruffly, but he waits for Marco to follow him out of the bunks and toward the mess hall.

They walk in silence, and Marco cracks his knuckles in the cold.

“Your hands are going to get all gnarled and stiff if you keep doing that,” Jean warns, casting Marco a wary sideways glance.

Marco just grins at him and tilts his head to the side. “I’m limbering up.”

Jean snorts, wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself as a brisk wind blows through camp. “So, what do you think is for breakfast?”

“Not oranges,” Marco deadpans.

Jean laughs derisively at that. “Tell me about it.”

It’d never occurred to Marco to even complain about the gruel they were served—only that it had enough of the right ingredients to keep them healthy—until one day, Sasha and snuck some salt into the mess hall. No one knew where she had gotten it, and no one asked. It was shocking she’d even shared it.

“You’ve never tasted salt? I mean, I know it’s rare... but... never?” Jean had asked incredulously as Marco had closed his eyes blissfully after mixing it with that day’s meal.

Salt was rare, but once Marco had a taste for it, he couldn’t quite go back to being happy with bland gruel. It was similar to how once he became friends with Jean, he couldn’t go back to keeping his distance, no matter how many fights Jean got into.

And then there were those times when Jean would let his guard down; those moments were becoming more frequent the more time they spent time together.

“Think the water will be frozen again?”

“I hope not,” Marco groans as they enter the mess hall. “But if it is, there’s always that stream just beyond that first bank of trees as you leave camp.”

Jean raises an eyebrow at him. “Raised by squirrels,” he remarks, but there’s a grin tugging at his lips.

Jean routinely informs Marco that he must’ve been raised by squirrels, since he knows so much about the outdoors.

“No,” Marco corrects, smiling good-naturedly, “just my mother.”

The water isn’t frozen, and the gruel is at least filling.

= = =

March 849

Days as a cadet in the 104th Squad blur together. Everything is one training exercise after the other—running for miles, swinging through trees, learning to ride a horse, hand-to-hand combat, and then the classroom lectures. The lectures seem to be most terrifying to most of Marco’s fellow trainees, because everyone is forced to think about what they’ll be facing, rather than the cut-and-dried process of perfecting a skill that equates with a neatly ranked grade.

Marco knows Jean hates the classroom lectures; he spends a lot of time doodling things in his notebook, then erasing them and drawing something else. (They each get one notebook per year with only a few pages, which is the reason everyone quickly learns to depend on memorization to pass written exams.) Jean even confided in Marco once—maybe delirious with fatigue, since Jean admitting to a weakness is on par with a Titan befriending a human—that he prefers grades on practicals because he doesn’t have to think too much.

Marco, on the other hand, thinks far too much. He likes the classroom lessons, being able to really comprehend what he’s fighting; it strengthens his ideals and resolve to fight in the name of the King and protect the people.

“Hey,” Marco murmurs under his breath, kicking Jean’s foot under the desk to wake him up. “You’re going to get in trouble.”

Jean glances sideways at Marco across the desk they’re sharing, head cradled in one hand, and he rolls his eyes sleepily.

It’s a rainy afternoon, surprisingly warm for March, but no one’s complaining. The instructor has been droning on about the history of ODM gear for nearly two hours now, and even Marco is getting sleepy.

To be fair, no one else is faring very well, either, given that every pair of trainees sharing a desk are doing something they’re not supposed to.

Sasha actually is asleep, while Connie tries to balance two pencils on top of each other. Eren is tracing the rough wood grain of the desktop idly with his fingertip as Armin stares out the window at the sky. Reiner has his hand conspicuously over most of his face and he’s starting to snore; Bertolt—known for his interesting sleeping positions during bad weather—is leaning back in his chair, long legs sticking out from under the desk, half-slumped against Reiner. Annie is sitting across the aisle from them next to Ymir, and even her normally icy gaze has glazed over, similar to the way a glacier slowly melts. Ymir is also slumped back in her chair, drooling, muttering inaudibly to herself in her sleep.

Even Mikasa is buried in the red scarf she always wears, and Marco almost has to laugh when he realizes it’s very likely she’s fallen asleep with her eyes open. Krista is sitting next to her, hands crossed neatly on the desk, but she’s staring ahead blankly as if giving one last valiant attempt to sit up straight.

Marco blinks hard and sits up straight to keep himself awake, even though peer pressure to nap is taking its toll.

Jean nudges him, startling Marco back into the waking world, and slides a piece of paper across the desk.

The paper reads: “Are you seriously paying attention to this shit?”

Jean’s handwriting is scratchy and nearly illegible, but Marco is used to it.

He frowns disapprovingly, and then writes underneath in his small, impeccably neat handwriting: “Your going to get in trouble,” before sliding the note back to Jean.

He has a feeling he left out some punctuation in there, but he didn’t learn to properly write until he was around ten. Most people in Jinae are literate, but education isn’t a first priority.

Jean rolls his eyes at Marco again and reclaims his paper. “Boring,” he mouths.

Marco rolls his eyes in return, and refocuses on the front of the classroom.

A matter of minutes—and several daydreams later—Marco starts as Jean taps him on the arm, a self-satisfied grin on his face. He’s wearing his regular clothes today—that same familiar white shirt with the brown vest over it—only he’s managed to accidentally smear some pencil on the collar.

Marco reaches over and taps Jean’s collar with a raised eyebrow. When he looks down and realizes what he did, he scowls and mutters, “Shit.”

“What was that, Kirschstein?” the instructor’s loud voice cuts through the classroom.

There’s an orchestra of noise as everyone is collectively woken up—pulling in chairs, shuffling to sit up straight, snorting as snores cease.

Jean looks up, and there’s a blush creeping up his neck. “Um...”

Marco smoothly takes the piece of paper that Jean was about to push across the desk and hides it neatly in his own notebook.

“He broke his pencil,” Marco interjects.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Jean mumbles, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at Marco. “That’s what happened.”

The instructor eyes both of them skeptically, but Jean just shrugs, and Marco stares at him unflinchingly, an earnest expression on his face.

“I think that’s enough for today,” the instructor finally says, and almost everyone in the room gives an audible sigh of relief. “You’re dismissed for dinner.”

“I don’t need you to save me,” Jean mutters at Marco grumpily as they gather up their things. He wets his finger and rubs at the graphite on his shirt collar.

“That’s just going to make it worse,” Marco warns.

Jean scowls at him and Marco just raises his eyebrows; he already knows that when Jean is hungry, Jean is grumpy.

“Whatever,” Jean retorts, standing up and turning toward the door.

Marco rises to gather up his notebook and pencil, pushing his chair in neatly, when he realizes that Jean is waiting for him.

“Why do you always take so long to do everything?” Jean demands.

“If I’m so slow, I’ll race you to dinner,” Marco retorts with a grin, before taking off into a sprint, leaving Jean blinking with wide eyes.

Marco knows Jean won’t run after him because he’s still recovering from the boredom—and he’s probably too hungry—and the real reason Marco runs ahead is that he’s wildly curious about what Jean had written on the paper he was in the process of passing to Marco.

Finally, once Marco’s almost to the mess hall, but far enough away that no one is paying attention, he flips open his notebook, and then bursts out laughing.

Jean has drawn a picture (that’s surprisingly not bad) of himself and Marco sitting on a pile of what appears to be 100 oranges.

“Why don’t you frame it, Bodt?” says a voice from behind him, and Marco whirls around, laughing.

“I will never see that many oranges, even if I lived to be 200 years old,” he says as Jean walks past him.

He falls into stride, and Jean doesn’t say anything when Marco slips the drawing back into his notebook.

= = =

April 849

“Oh my god,” Marco whispers with wide eyes.

It’s the dead of night and he’s crouched behind one of the outbuildings at the edge of camp, staring at Jean.

Jean is also crouched with equally wide eyes; there’s a citrusy, fresh smell lingering in the air, and they continue to just stare at each other.

“Your mother sent you an orange?” Marco asks breathlessly.

“For my birthday,” Jean whispers, slowly unwrapping the brown paper and looking at the fruit as if it’s not real. “I made that thing up—about eating an orange,” he blurts out, looking up at Marco. “I’ve never tasted oranges.”

“But why are you hiding it?” Marco asks, staring down at the small visible part of the rind in the brown paper.

“I don’t want to share it,” Jean says, frowning. “I mean... if there was more than one, whatever. But there’s one.”

“So, wait... why am I out here?” Marco asks curiously.

“Um, I don’t know how to open it.”

“Open it?”

“Yeah,” Jean confirms in embarrassment. “I mean, I don’t want to ruin it.”

Marco can’t help but laugh silently, and Jean hits him in the shoulder.

“You’re an ass, Marco.”

“All right, all right,” Marco says, taking the orange out of Jean’s hand. He slides down to sit down on the ground and lean against the building.

It’s dark and quiet where they’re hiding, and Marco breathes in the calming air around them, able to smell the forest where the tree line starts just beyond camp.

Jean settles down next to him, staring intently as Marco peels off the brown paper which makes a rather delightful crinkling sound, like a precious gift being unwrapped.

“For future reference,” Marco explains, turning slightly toward Jean, “it’s just like regular fruit. I mean, you peel off the rind and eat what’s inside.”

“So you don’t bite it like an apple?” Jean asks, tilting his head.

For once, his face isn’t cocky or defensive; he just looks curious, totally focused on what Marco’s saying.

“No. It’s sort of like... um...” Marco wracks his brain. “I guess it’s sort of like a wrapper. Anyway, you peel it off, but make sure you don’t dig into the fruit.”

He deftly peels off the rind as Jean watches in fascination; Marco’s always had quick, sure hands, and now is no exception.

He deposits the rind into the brown paper on his lap, and then splits half of the orange into separate sections.

“See?” he says, handing Jean a handful of sections and the intact other half. “When you want the other half, just separate it like that. You can eat it all at once like an apple, if you want, but it’s more fun in my opinion to eat it in sections, because it lasts longer.”

Jean grasps the intact half in his free hand, and then hesitantly takes a bite of one of the sections Marco had given him.

He then promptly makes the same face Marco had made when he’d first described the taste of oranges.

Marco almost starts to laugh out loud, both hands clapped over his mouth to muffle the sound. His hands still smell like oranges, and he inhales deeply.

When he opens his eyes, and Jean is halfway through the sections, chewing enthusiastically.

“Good?” Marco asks, still laughing a little.

Jean nods; he reaches the last section, and slowly pops it into his mouth, making it last longer.

“You’ve still got another whole half to go,” Marco snorts at Jean’s hesitance to finish it, and then to his surprise, Jean offers the remaining half of the orange to Marco.

He swallows, and then says bashfully, staring at the ground, “I owe you for showing me how to um... eat it. So, here—take it.”

Marco isn’t about to turn down an orange, but he can’t help but stare at Jean in surprise.

“It’s your birthday,” Marco says finally, pushing the orange back toward Jean, “and I didn’t even get you anything.”

“You’re giving me an orange I tried to give to you?”

“Sure.”

“Isn’t this time of year your birthday, too?” Jean asks skeptically, his eyes locking with Marco’s.

For reasons Marco doesn’t quite understand, his face heats and he flushes. “Um...” He’s shocked Jean remembered. “Kind of.”

“So, then... take it. For your... uh...” Jean cocks his head to the side, trying to find a way to phrase it, “your birthday season, or whatever you call it.”

Marco laughs a little, but he’s still blushing. “Thanks,” he says in embarrassment, looking down. Although normally unflappable, Marco isn’t used to receiving gifts as generous as the one Jean is offering him.

It’s right then that Marco goes from seeing oranges as small slices of heaven to something else; because when Jean hands the remaining half over, their fingers brush.

And a single thought pops into Marco’s mind: he wonders what the juice tastes like on Jean’s skin.

His eyes dart up to stare at Jean’s mouth—the slickness of juice still on his lips—and he stares at Marco with a baffled expression.

“Uh, do you want it or not?”

Marco blinks hard, forces himself to smile and stop staring. “Thanks.”

He says it happily, smiling, and although he means it, his voice is just a touch too enthusiastic. Jean gives Marco a strange look, and as always, just blurts out what he’s thinking.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not staring,” Marco retorts immediately, hoping the darkness will hide the blush, taking the orange quickly and breaking off a section. “I’m just excited about... um, oranges.” He pops it into his mouth, and he’s so distracted by his sudden untoward thoughts that he barely tastes it.

This is also in addition to the fact that he’s just become very aware that his left knee is touching Jean’s thigh, and suddenly, this seems to matter quite a bit.

“Bullshit,” Jean immediately says. “What’s up? What are you hiding?”

“Nothing!” Marco squeaks. He eats another piece of orange, and somewhere, the non-hormonal part of his brain is vehemently chiding him to actually taste it.

“Do I have something on my face?” Jean asks in bafflement, staring at Marco as if he’s lost his mind. He brings up his fingers to feel around his mouth, as if looking for an errant piece of pulp or rind that’s sticking there, and Marco curses everything in existence when Jean actually licks the remaining juice off his fingers.

“God, Marco, are you just going to inhale that without even tasting it?” Jean asks in exasperation as Marco consumes another piece, barely even chewing as he stares very pointedly at the ground and not at his best friend’s mouth. “At least break it into sections.”

And just as Jean reaches out to do just that, his fingers end up in very close proximity to Marco’s mouth.

“Um,” Marco blurts out.

Jean locks eyes with him, and to Marco’s surprise, he realizes that Jean is blushing, too.

Marco doesn’t stop to let himself think; he drops his hand, breaks the orange into the remaining three segments, and then gives two to Jean.

“Here,” he says awkwardly, “um... you’re right, and...”

Jean is biting his lip, and Marco doesn’t know quite what’s happening until Jean’s hand is in front of his face, and so is the orange segment.

“Taste it,” comes Jean’s hoarse whisper, sounding very unlike his usual cocky, brash tone.

And then Marco realizes that Jean Kirschstein is trying to feed him an orange.

Marco gasps, but when Jean doesn’t back down—and because the truth is that Marco wants it—he opens his mouth and lets Jean slip the orange between his lips.

Now it tastes good; now he can really savor it, and right behind it are Jean’s fingers.

Marco grasps Jean’s wrist to hold his hand in place, and then sucks on them quickly, drawing back immediately.

Jean snatches his hand back with wide eyes, as if he’s just settled his fingers against a roaring wood
stove, and they gape at each other.

Marco thinks Jean is going to run; he sometimes resembles a frightened animal who, when cornered, lashes out. His shoulders are stiff, he’s staring at Marco with wide eyes, and he’s got the fingers that were just in Marco’s mouth clutched in his other hand.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that Marco blurts out. He stands up awkwardly, his legs stiff and cold, and he stumbles backward. “I, um...”

He can still taste Jean’s fingertips.

Jean stands up, too, and grabs Marco, swinging him around to press up against the rough hewn log wall of the building they’ve been sitting against. He holds up another orange slice with shaky fingers.

“Here,” he whispers, offering it to Marco.

Marco just stares at him, unable to look away, and mechanically opens his mouth.

Jean offers him the orange, and Marco accepts it, closing his eyes. He doesn’t suck on Jean’s fingers this time, but kisses his fingertips.

It’s gone too far to pretend what’s happening is something innocent, especially when Jean pops the remaining orange slice into his own mouth, and then leans forward to kiss Marco.

Jean tastes like oranges and mint, smells vaguely of ODM exhaust and lye soap from this close, and he’s so real and warm as he presses against Marco, that Marco’s mind goes blank.

They break apart, Jean swallows the orange, and then he bites his lip, staring at Marco.

Marco’s never seen him look so vulnerable, and he can’t help the way his hand immediately raises to brush through Jean’s hair and then down to his neck.

“I’m going to get you sticky,” he blurts out.

And to his surprise, Jean laughs.

There’s no lashing out or attempted escape—Jean laughs, and presses his face against Marco’s neck to kiss him there, too.

It’s at that moment that Marco realizes there’s far more to Jean than even he first realized, and he closes his eyes to let Jean kiss him.

There’s some awkward fumbling, a little more laughter, and then finally, they head back to camp.

Marco knows they’ll act like it never happened the next day; probably never talk about it again. He thinks about how he’s on the same path as everyone his own age, or at least there’s a set path in his own village—join the military, and if you can, get married and have a few children. Serve and die honorably, if need be, but otherwise be useful.

Suddenly, though, none of these things appeal quite as much to Marco, because right now, all he wants to do is kiss Jean again.

Unfortunately, he’d need an orange as an excuse.

= = =

December 849

The last wagon load of failed cadets that gave up left three months ago, and they’re on the homestretch to graduation. Several cadets have been given permission to take two days off for the winter holiday and go home. Although this isn’t an official practice, it’s a given that most of the top ranking cadets will be given some leeway to spend time with their families. It’s also an indication of who exactly will end up in the top ten, since no one really knows until the actual graduation ceremony.

Unsurprisingly, both Marco and Jean have been given the go ahead to visit their families before the final six months of training leading up to graduation.

“Trost must be pretty this time of year,” Marco says with a smile as he packs up a few belongings to take with him. “All snowy and decorated, right?”

Jean shrugs indifferently where he’s sitting on the edge of his bunk. “It’s okay. I uh... I’m not going home. The last time I did, my mother begged me to leave the military and find something else to do.” He sighs, rolling his eyes. “I can’t lose focus this close to the final stretch, so I’m just going to stay here. It’s only six more months.”

“You’re going to stay here when you don’t have to?” Marco asks incredulously, his eyes widening.

The truth is that Jean needs a break; Marco can see it plainly, whether anyone else can or not. Jean’s been running himself ragged to meet his own standards of personal perfection, ensuring that he gets dibs on the Military Police. Everyone is nervous, which makes sense given the stage of training they’re at, but Jean is especially obsessive about it.

Marco knows that if left to his own devices, he’ll spend the entire two day holiday swinging around in his ODM gear.

Convincing Jean to do something is a matter of letting him think it was his own idea; if he doesn’t think he came up with it first, he’ll never agree.

“Well,” Marco says easily, tying his pack shut and straightening his shirt, “it’s too bad you’ll be busy here.”

“Why?”

“You should come home with me,” Marco says, trying to make it sound casual. “But obviously you’ve got other plans, so—”

“You’re inviting me to go to Jinae with you?” Jean asks in disbelief. Marco can tell he’s searching for an ulterior motive, his eyes moving over Marco’s face in confusion, but Marco just smiles.

“Sure, if you want to go. But like I said... if you’re busy...”

“Well, I guess I could go,” Jean says, bending over to rub at a scuff in his boot and looking at the floor. “I mean, I don’t have anything better to do.”

He starts as Marco claps him on the shoulder, and before he can say anything else, Marco starts to talk excitedly.

“Great!” he exclaims. “It’s close to the mountains and cold this time of year, so make sure you’ve got all your warmest underclothes. It’ll be great! And my mother is always bothering me to bring friends home, and—”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” Marco tries not to sound like a ten-year-old boy who’s just been invited into a candy store and instructed to choose whatever he wants.

“Yeah,” Jean confirms. “So, uh, how do we get there?”

“There’s a merchant cart headed out there in about an hour I was going to take,” Marco explains. “Just throw some things together and we can go.”

“A merchant cart?”

“Have you ever been outside of Trost, Jean?” Marco asks, meeting Jean’s eyes.

Jean sets his jaw and just shrugs. “Once or twice.”

Meaning that Jean has been out of Trost as many times as he’d also eaten oranges before his birthday present arrived earlier in the year.

“There are lots of bears. They’re worse than Titans.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I’m totally serious,” Marco deadpans.

“You’re a jerk, Bodt,” Jean retorts, but he’s starting to smile, too.

“Good!” Marco grins, patting Jean on the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

Jean gives a long-suffering sigh, but gathers up his things and follows Marco out into the training yard where there’s a cart waiting. Inside there are five sheep, making a racket and baaing, and Marco hops up into the back without blinking.

“We’re sitting back here?” Jean asks in surprise.

“Well, of course,” Marco answers, giving him a confused look. “Where else would we sit?”

“Um, in the front?”

“That’s where the driver sits,” Marco says. They’re both looking at each other like the other one is crazy, until Marco closes his eyes and outstretches his arms toward the clear blue sky, smiling. “C’mon, it’s like an adventure, Jean. You’ll like Jinae!”

Jean eyes the cart warily, but then shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

He hops in the back with Marco, and within a few minutes, the cart jerkily starts to move.

“So,” Jean asks in between bumps, his body jerking up and down, “how long is this ride?”

“Only about two hours,” Marco replies. “Here,” he says, repositioning how Jean’s sitting, “try sitting with your legs crossed so you don’t get all bruised up.”

Jean looks around curiously as they pass through the countryside, and Marco just watches him. First comes the flat fields, and then it gets a little more mountainous. Jinae is located in a stretch of foothills, and Marco can tell it’s further away than Jean’s ever been.

“Wow,” Jean comments in open awe, “those are big mountains.”

In the distance, a few large peaks rise up; Marco smiles, because he knows they’re not even the biggest.

“Are we going up there?” he asks in surprise, staring at Marco. He jumps suddenly as one of the sheep gives a particularly loud wail.

Marco laughs and shakes his head. “No, we’re almost there.”

It’s fascinating to watch how Jean functions outside of the world he knows. He looks around with a confidence that’s becoming increasingly forced the more foreign the scenery becomes, and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, his back straight and tense.

But he’s also curious, his eyes taking everything in, absorbing every detail of the unfamiliar surroundings. One thing about Jean that has always fascinated Marco is how observant he is, which is directly contrary to the fact that he his ultimate goal is to end up hidden within the Interior.

“What?” Jean asks, meeting Marco’s eyes.

“Just thinking,” Marco answers with a shrug, and looks away.

“So, uh,” Jean starts, looking down into his lap and shifting his small pack on his shoulders, “is your family expecting me?”

“Not specifically, but I did write them and say I might bring a friend home eventually,” Marco says with a shrug, looking to reassure Jean.

Until he realizes that he just inferred he’d been planning to bring Jean home with him for quite some time.

He can feel the blush rising up his neck, and he looks down in embarrassment.

“You know,” he adds, knowing already that it’s almost worse to try and cover himself than not, “just in case, uh, someone wanted to visit with me.”

“Like who?” Jean asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Marco decides to come clean; he’s never been good at lying.

“Like you,” he replies immediately. Jean’s obviously not expecting Marco’s earnestness—he never is—and blinks.

“Oh,” he retorts, “um...” He’s cut off suddenly as the cart jolts to a stop, and Marco jumps up, relieved for the interruption.

“We’re here!” he shouts gleefully, and jumps over the back of the cart and out onto the ground. Having long legs has always been useful.

Jean, on the other hand, scrambles up to awkwardly climb over the cart and avoid the sheep. When Marco holds out his hand, though, Jean looks around nervously; but then he finally smiles a little as he takes Marco’s hand for balance and hops down.

It’s dusty and Jean coughs a little, and then Marco spots his two youngest siblings.

“Hey!” he calls, bending down with open arms.

“Marco!” his youngest sister calls, catapulting herself into one arm. His only brother—older than the sister by about two years—lands in his other arm.

“Hi!” he says enthusiastically, hugging them both close. “You guys have gotten so big!”

The last time Jean saw the two of them was a year before; now, they were their own small people.

“Who’s that?” his sister asks shyly as Marco straightens, beaming. She’s pointing at Jean, who looks as though he just got dropped into the middle of a vast desert; Marco recognizes the stiffness of his shoulders and the dilated pupils. He’s nervous.

“That’s Jean. He’s in my squad,” Marco says. “You can say hello.”

“Um, hi,” she says in a small voice, and then hides behind Marco.

“I don’t have any siblings,” Jean blurts out, looking at Marco cluelessly.

“Just say hi,” Marco says, laughing, taking his sister’s hand and guiding her in front of him.

“Um, hi...” Jean says awkwardly, smiling sheepishly. “What’s your name?”

“Matilda!” she squeals suddenly, and then runs over and hugs Jean’s legs. “Are you Marco’s friend?”

“Um, yeah,” Jean says uncertainly, looking at Marco with wide eyes. “Yeah, I am.”

“Neat!”

“And this is Max,” Marco says, pointing toward his brother. “He wants to join the Scouting Legion.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

“Well,” Jean starts, and to Marco’s surprise, crouches down, “it’s pretty hard to go through training, but we’re almost done.”

Max looks like he just found a new hero in Jean, and he grins widely. “I like your jacket.”

“Thanks,” Jean laughs, and then turns to Marco with a truly genuine smile—unguarded and easy now.

“Okay, let’s go. I bet mama’s making vegetable stew, right?”

“Yeah!” they both shout, and then run up ahead into the main village.

“Your family has a thing for the letter ‘m,’ huh?” Jean asks in an amused tone as they walk into town.

Marco chuckles with a bemused shrug. “I guess so.”

“And do you all have those freckles?”

“All eight of us—my mother’s fault,” Marco laughs.

Jean stops and turns to stare at Marco. “Eight?!” he exclaims.

“I’m the second oldest,” Marco explains with a shrug. “I’m the only one to go into the military so far, although Max wants to.”

“So you helped take care of six kids?” Jean asks curiously.

“Yup.”

“That explains a lot.”

Marco turns to look at Jean in surprise. “What do you mean?”

He sees Jean’s face color slightly, but before he can reply, they stop in front of Marco’s house.

It’s a humble three story house on the main street in town, at least five decades old with heavy, wide wooden beams and brick. At some point, Marco’s mother had decided to paint it white, and for that reason it sits apart from other houses on the street.

Marco spots at least two of his sisters sitting in the top window, obviously awaiting his arrival, and as soon as they spot him, their faces light up and there’s a legitimate racket as half his family thunders out the door.

There’s a chorus of his name, a wild scramble of hugging and cheek-kissing, and Marco almost laughs as he sees Jean disappear with wide eyes into a sea of Bodt sisters as they’re both pulled into the house.

“Is this Jean? We’ve heard so much about you!” Marco’s mother crows, sporting a wide smile. Marco notes a little more somberly, though, that she looks tired.

Then he has the good grace to blush fiercely when he realizes what she just revealed.

Jean is grinning at him slyly. “You’ve told them about me?”

The grin is wiped off his face when Marco’s mother exclaims, “We’re so glad to finally meet Marco’s best friend!”

Marco turns away quickly in embarrassment, not meeting Jean’s eyes as he slips off his pack and sets it down on a nearby chair.

“Dinner is going to be ready in about two hours,” Marco’s mother enthuses, “so why don’t you two get settled—maybe go out and explore a little—and then we can all eat together and get to know Jean.”

“Okay,” Marco mumbles, and then leads Jean upstairs without looking at him. Once they’re alone, he starts, “Uh, I...”

“I smell like sheep,” Jean exclaims, effectively shutting down the awkward conversation.

Marco laughs a little, taking the opportunity to leave the revelation that he’d written his family about Jean behind.

“You can air out your clothes if you want. I have some normal ones you can borrow, although Max will probably be disappointed if we don’t wear our uniforms the entire time we’re here.”

They finally reach the attic which serves as both a storage space as well as Marco’s room, and he turns to finally face Jean.

“So did I meet everyone?” Jean asks curiously, swinging his pack off his shoulders. “You have... one brother and six sisters?”

“Yup,” Marco nods with a grin.

Jean sets his pack down on the small bureau in the corner with a cracked mirror above it and turns to face Marco.

“And everyone wants to get to know me?” he asks nervously.

Marco smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his head, looking at Jean. “They’re really friendly and they love meeting new people. Uh... is that okay?”

Jean makes a dismissive noise and rolls his eyes. “Marco, have a little faith in me. I’m not that awful—I’m not going to embarrass you.”

Marco can’t help but be intrigued that embarrassing him would even be a priority in Jean’s mind. “I know,” he says simply. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s lots of things to do! And since it’s our last winter before graduation, we should have fun.”

Jean agrees, nodding, and Marco notes the excitement that sparks in his eyes. He hides it—acts like he doesn’t care about anything or anyone except his own personal goals—but Marco knows that some of it is an act. This is the Jean that only he gets to see sometimes.

“Well, we’ve got two days,” Jean reasons. “So what is there to do?”

“There’s a festival Jinae has on the eve of the winter solstice,” Marco says shyly, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious about Jinae’s traditions. Jean must be used to a grandiose, loud celebration, with lots of people and fancy decorations. “Um, people stand in the town square, sing songs, and hand out scented sachets filled with herbs—mostly pine needles.”

He looks up at Jean and laughs nervously, but to his surprise, Jean looks completely intrigued.

“Pine needles?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Yeah,” Marco says, laughing a little and sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You’re supposed to put them in your wardrobe, so your clothes smell good. It’s also supposed to keep bugs away.”

“That’s... interesting,” Jean replies with raised eyebrows.

“I’ve always had one,” Marco laughs, walking over to the small dresser in the corner and sliding open the top drawer to fumble around for the old pine needle sachet he knows is there. “See?” he asks, tossing it to Jean.

Jean catches it easily, and then holds it at eye level curiously, like it might sprout wings and fly away. Then he inhales, and a delighted look crosses his face. “Oh, wow...” he says, looking at Marco, “it smells like... pine needles and flowers.”

“You can put lots of things in it,” Marco says with a shrug. “Fruit rinds, dried flowers, pine needles. Anything that can be dried and smells good.”

“Huh, well... okay.”

“My whole family will probably go,” Marco adds, “so, it’s sort of required.”

“Sounds good,” Jean says, smiling a little. “I’m um...” he falters awkwardly, and then looks down at the floor. “I’m here because you invited me, so I’ll do whatever you want. And uh...” Marco smiles a little when he realizes Jean is starting to blush; he’s never been good with anything that isn’t a show of strength—or in other words—feelings. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Sure,” Marco says easily, “I’m glad you came. It will be more fun with you here.”

“All right, all right,” Jean says gruffly, bending to rub at an imaginary scuff in his boot, “enough with the sappy stuff.”

Marco outright laughs and straightens his coat. “So, are you ready to go explore a little bit?”

Jean gives an enthusiastic nod, and they set off.

They spend their first afternoon walking around the town. Marco shows Jean all the different places he’d spent his childhood—the well he’d fallen into when he was ten, the herbalist shop he’d worked at part-time at up until he joined the military, and the town square where he’d spent every winter holiday singing with his family—pointing everything out enthusiastically, and watching Jean’s expressions.

For once, Jean doesn’t say much; he just listens and absorbs, looking around curiously, watching all the different people pass in the street.

They get a few moments to be cocky and feel special, when some passersby give them nods since they’re in uniform, and they salute together.

Then they dissolve into ridiculous giggles when Marco pulls Jean into the woods, taking off into a run and bidding him to follow.

He feels like he’s a kid again, running through the forest as free as a bird without knowing the evils of the world, without death breathing down their necks, and he skids to a stop in front of his favorite place.

Jean almost runs into him, panting, and starts to laugh. “Where in the hell were you running?” he pants.

“Here,” Marco says, smiling as he turns around.

“Oh, wow,” Jean breathes with wide eyes.

They’re standing in a forest glen, and there’s a small waterfall across the wide creek; only it’s frozen, and Marco takes a fearless step out onto the ice.

“You’re going to fall through!” Jean gives an unexpectedly panicked shout. “And I can’t swim!”

Marco turns in surprise, skidding around easily and keeping his balance. “You can’t swim?” he asks in disbelief. It’s true that swimming wasn’t a skill they had to master during training, since it isn’t as if there are lots of oceans or lakes to traverse inside the Wall.

“No,” Jean grunts, scowling and turning away slightly. “So don’t die by being stupid.”

Marco laughs and slides across the ice toward Jean, grabbing his hand. “C’mon,” he says, pulling Jean forward, “I’ve done this every year since I can’t even remember. It’s not deep and it always freezes. It’s fun!”

He slides in a circle—his ice skates are actually back at the house, and if they had more time and Jean was a smaller shoe size, they could properly skate—but this will have to do for now.

Jean doesn’t have the same luck, and falls down the moment he tries to move.

Marco starts laughing, and Jean just shoots him a dark look.

“C’mon,” he says, holding out his hand to help Jean up, “I’ll show you how to balance.”

“I’m not a kid,” Jean grumbles, but he grips Marco’s hand anyway and struggles up.

The trees rustle as a chill wind blows through, and Marco hears the faint call of a bird. He’s missed this part of his life more than he’s willing to admit; he’d just tried not to think too hard about it when they’d be swinging through the woods in ODM gear.

“Wow,” Jean remarks suddenly, keeping his hands clutched in Marco’s so he doesn’t fall against, “it’s weird to be in the forest without being up in the trees.”

Marco laughs a little, but it comes out more melancholy than he intends.

“It’s nice sometimes,” he says simply, letting go of Jean’s hands, “to be on the ground.”

Jean faces him with a searching look, but Marco just shrugs and smiles a little.

Jean takes a tentative step forward on the ice, and Marco points at his foot. “Try to balance on the ball of your foot. It’s easy once you get the hang of it—like ice skating.”

“Um...”

“You’ve never done that either?”

Before Jean can go on the defensive, Marco slides back and spins around on the sole of his shoe. “Well, then you can just learn how to ice boot.”

“Ice boot?” Jean gives him a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Marco says, laughing. “Besides, if you can use ODM gear, you can totally balance on some ice.”

Jean crosses his arms haughtily and grins. “I’m a natural at ODM gear because I’m talented.”

Marco snorts. “Not in the rain.”

Jean glares at him; Marco smirks. It was Marco who had to help Jean figure out how to maneuver successfully in the rain; Jean has had to learn how to adapt over the course of their training. Once he thinks he’s good at something, he assumes that he’ll just be able to do all of it.

Marco had taken the time to figure out that the wires didn’t attach to the trees the same way when the bark was wet, and he’d helped Jean out without asking for anything in return.

It was the first favor that Jean hadn’t tried to pay him back for.

As if the weather can read his thoughts, it starts to rain lightly, and Marco shivers. “Hopefully it’ll turn into snow,” he says in dismay, pulling his jacket around him. “Let’s go!”

He helps Jean get off the ice, and they run back through the woods toward town.

It’s almost time for dinner anyway, and Marco is starving; he can tell Jean is, too, because he’s starting to look a little cranky.

“Hope you like vegetables,” Marco says as they open the front door of Marco’s house. “That’s what our family does—mostly grow things.”

Jean looks like his mouth is practically watering at the prospect of food, since they haven’t actually eaten since that morning.

“Hello, boys! Have fun today?”

Marco beams at his mother and nods. “We went ice booting.”

“Oh my god,” Jean mutters, giving Marco a sidelong stare.

“You ready to eat?”

Just the word “eat” summons the entire Bodt household crashing down the stairs—all six sisters and brother—and Marco hugs as many of them as he can get into his arms.

“I’m so glad to be home!” he exclaims.

The large hearth with its continuously burning fire warms the room, and the large, rough beams of the floor are familiar and reassuring—they look strong, as if the house will never break or sway. It smells like cooked vegetables and wood smoke, and Marco smiles.

When he opens his eyes, he looks over at Jean, only to realize he’s being stared at.

Jean blinks, and then looks down awkwardly.

“Okay, everyone find a seat.”

It’s always a free-for-all with seating when Marco’s home, because someone always ends up sitting on his lap or eating on the floor.

“Jean gets to sit at the other end of the table, because he’s company,” Marco declares. No one argues, and Jean worries his lip, looking embarrassed for once when he’s made the center of attention. It’s possibly the first time Marco’s ever seen him not trying to be in the spotlight.

“Um, that’s okay,” he mumbles. “I’ll sit wherever you want.”

“Of course Jean’s at the end of the table!” Marco’s mother agrees in her booming, cheerful voice, directing Jean to his seat with a friendly, maternal hand on his shoulder.

Jean sits down with wide eyes, looking at Marco for help, and Marco just grins and laughs.

He sits down next to Jean, and then grabs Max off the floor and pulls him onto his lap. “Here, why don’t you sit here and talk to me and Jean?”

“Yeah!” Max agrees enthusiastically, and he stares at Jean in absolute fascination.

“Um...” Jean says awkwardly.

“Let’s say grace,” Marco’s mother says, holding out her hand.

Everyone clasps hands, and Marco tries to quell the rush of feelings that rise unexpectedly when he feels Jean’s hand in his. It reminds him of things he’s tried to forget, and his eyes open abruptly; everyone else has their head bowed and eyes shut, except Jean.

They look at each other, and Jean blushes, closing his eyes again; his fingers squeeze Marco’s hand ever so slightly, though, and Marco bites his lip.

He rebukes himself for acting like a silly teenager with a girl he’s courting and stays quiet.

“To our gracious King, who brings us prosperity and protection from the threats outside the Wall, and provides the bountiful harvest with which we are blessed every year. Good health and bless life and limb for the King.”

All of Marco’s siblings—including Marco himself—mutter the customary, “Bless life and limb,” they’ve grown up hearing, and it suddenly occurs to Marco that it might be something Jean’s never heard before.

His suspicion is correct when he looks over to see Jean’s confused expression, and he knows that Jean’s fighting to keep the skeptical look off his face; he succeeds, much to Marco’s relief.

Inevitably, Jean is subsequently quizzed on every possible fact about himself: where he’s from, how he likes the military, what division he wants to work in, how he and Marco became friends, right down to what his favorite food is.

Jean is surprisingly amicable, and Marco finds himself just as interested in Jean’s answers as the rest of his family, even though he’s known Jean for two years now.

“You want to join the Military Police?” Max asks in sudden wonder, staring at Jean.

Jean offers up one of his cocky trademark grins and nods. “Sure do. Only the best of the best get in, so obviously, me and Marco will be working side by side.”

“I want to join the Scouting Legion!” Max declares.

“Max,” Marco’s mother sings from the other end of the table, “you’re not joining the Scouting Legion.”

“Am so!” Max argues, shooting his mother a dark scowl.

Marco rolls his eyes and taps Max’s shoulder. “Don’t argue with Mama,” he rebukes sternly, and Max immediately stops talking.

“Sorry,” he says softly, and Marco pats his shoulder.

“It’s okay. We can talk about it later, all right? I can tell you all about ODM gear.”

“Yay!” he cries, already back in good spirits. Sometimes, Marco is relieved he’s still only six. Max is strong-willed, and he’s going to be a handful by the time he’s old enough to really argue.

He twists around in Marco’s lap to look up, and gives Marco half of a hug. “I’m glad you’re home, Marco,” he says in a small voice. Marco hugs him back and smiles, kissing his head.

“I’m glad I’m home, too,” he agrees. “Now finish your soup, or else I’m going to.”

Max happily finishes his soup, and then to Marco’s surprise, Jean pipes in with a few particularly entertaining stories about ODM gear training. He even tells the one where he almost fell and broke his leg—which, up until this point, he’s refused to acknowledged even happened—and by the time he’s done, everyone at the table is laughing.

Jean looks the most relaxed Marco’s ever seen him, and he’s smiling so stupidly, he doesn’t even realize he’s staring at Jean.

Then Jean is staring at him, and as their eyes lock, Marco can’t look away.

But instead of blushing or trying to pretend like he isn’t looking, Jean just smiles. It’s not a big smile, or particularly exceptional, but it makes Marco feel warm in a way that very few things do.

Finally, he looks away and sets Max down.

The clean-up goes quickly, and Jean even offers to scrub the dishes, which Marco’s mother promptly dismisses and tells him to go up to bed, since they need to get up early for the festivities in town.

Jean thanks her, and gives a rather formal salute which makes Max squeal with excitement—it’s obvious Jean does it for him—and then he nods and retreats upstairs.

“I’ll be up in a few minutes,” Marco says, helping his mother clear up the last of the table.

The rest of Marco’s siblings all run upstairs to their respective shared rooms, and Marco is left down with his mother and oldest sister, Margit.

Margit is slowly going blind, but she helps with needlework to assist the family; right now, she’s embroidering rough linen with tiny pine trees to make into sachets the following day. She has her long brown hair twisted up in a braid, and Marco sits down next to her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“Those are beautiful,” he says softly. “How do you do that with your hands?”

Margit smiles at Marco, pausing in her work to put her hand over his and turn her head to squint at him. She can see a little, but Marco knows by now it’s mostly just shapes and vague colors. “It’s nothing compared to you.”

Marco laughs a little and pats Margit’s wrist. “I fly around trees with wires. I can’t make beautiful things like you,” he corrects.

“Jean is such a good friend,” Marco’s mother interjects from the fireplace as she blows out the candles on the table. “It’s so nice you finally brought him to stay.”

“Convincing him was sort of a challenge,” Marco says nonchalantly with a shrug. The truth is that he never thought Jean would actually say yes. “He’s, uh... shy.”

“Can you please talk to Max about this Scouting nonsense?” his mother adds with a sigh. “I know you joined the Military Police to serve the King, but Marco...” she bites her lip, and Marco meets her eyes—a mirror of his own face—and she looks worried. “The chances of you actually coming to harm are at least less, thank His Majesty, since you’re not going outside the Wall.” She shudders, and wraps her shawl more closely around her shoulders.

“Mama,” Marco retorts with a roll of his eyes, “I know you don’t want me to get hurt, but I pledged my heart.”

She sighs and walks over to pat Marco’s head. “You’re too good-hearted,” she says softly, and Marco looks down when he hears the tears in her voice.

“I’ll talk to Max,” he finally says softly.

His mother nods and rubs Marco’s shoulder before stepping way to make sure the fire is low.

“Will you read to me for a few minutes?” Margit asks. “I’ve missed the sound of your voice.”

“Sure,” Marco says softly. “Then I have to go up to Jean, although maybe he’s already asleep.”

“I got a new book,” she says, and suddenly her voice is clandestine. “It’s one of the ones we’re not supposed to have.”

“Margit,” Marco breathes, “you’re breaking the law?”

“Well, it’s just little fragments of text,” she says with a shrug. Margit has a fiery spirit, even though she’s quiet; she actually reminds Marco of Mikasa in some ways. “I think it’s poetry.”

Marco settles down with the book with a sigh—at least it’s small and easily hidden—and he gives in.

“All right,” he finally agrees. “Where did you get it?”

“Not telling you,” she says with a playful little smile, “you’ll tell the King on me.”

Marco grins a little, and opens the book. “Hm,” he says curiously, “this is interesting. I don’t know what it means, but it’s sort of pretty. I’ll just read a few, but then I have to go up to Jean. He is a guest, after all.”

Margit nods with a smile, and she continues her embroidery as Marco starts to read in a soft voice.

“There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes...”

After he’s read a few poems, Margit thanks him and takes the book back.

“Here,” she says, taking the piece of linen she’s been embroidering off the wooden hoop and reaching into the pocket of her apron to retrieve another. “I made one for you, with flowers, and one for Jean, with pine trees. You can use them for tomorrow when you make your sachets.”

“Oh, Margit,” he says in surprise, his voice awed, “thank you. These are beautiful. I’m sure Jean will love this.”

She smiles at him. “Keep track of him—he’s a good friend, even though he’s a little grumpy.”

Marco laughs loudly at that, and he leans forward to hug Margit gently. “Good night,” he says softly.

He gets up and crosses the room to hug his mother—he has to bend slightly to do it now—and he holds her tight. “Good night, Mama. Don’t worry about Max.”

She sighs wearily, and returns the hug. “Thank goodness we have you, Marco.”

He holds the sachets gently in his hand as he ascends the stairs, expecting Jean to already be asleep, but he’s surprised to find something he’s not expecting.

Jean is sitting on the floor of the room, wearing nothing except a pair of sleep pants, drawing on a pad of paper. He’s worrying his lip, concentrating very hard on whatever he’s working on, and Marco clears his throat.

“I didn’t know you liked to draw,” Marco remarks as he makes himself known, and Jean almost breaks his pencil as he shuts the sketchbook abruptly.

“You scared me!” he hisses, his eyes wide.

“Sorry,” Marco replies in a whisper, laughing a little. “You were, um... really concentrating. What are you drawing?”

“Nothing,” Jean grumbles, sliding the sketchbook back into his pack. “Just stupid things. It’s not like I’m good or anything.”

Marco smiles, and decides not to press the issue, since apparently he’s just discovered Jean’s secret hobby.

“Look what my sister made us,” he says, sitting down on the floor across from Jean. He holds out the two pieces of fabric, and Jean’s expression immediately transforms from irritable to awed.

“Oh, wow,” he says, his eyes wide. “She made one of those for me?”

“Yeah,” Marco nods. “She said the one with the pine trees was for you, but I don’t mind which one you want.”

“No, it’s...” Jean stutters, his face reddening, “that’s, um... she didn’t have to do that.”

Marco reaches out and takes Jean’s hand to press the embroidered linen into his palm.

“For tomorrow, when we make sachets,” he says.

Jean sneaks a look up at Marco, and mumbles a thank you, closing his hand gently around the fabric.

“Wait, which sister?”

That gets a laugh out of Marco, and he claps Jean on the shoulder. “The oldest one, Margit. She’s easy to keep track of because she’s the tallest.”

Jean laughs softly, too. “Your family looks like you were hatched from pods.”

“Yup,” Marco grins, “so I’ve been told.”

“Um... what...” Jean clamps his mouth shut suddenly, and looks embarrassed, apparently thinking better of whatever he was about to ask.

“What?” Marco asks curiously.

“Nothing,” Jean says, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have even started to... never mind.”

“Now you have to tell me,” Marco says, poking Jean in the arm. His skin is warm and smooth, and Marco very pointedly does not let that thought linger in his mind.

“I was going to ask where you father is,” Jean blurts out—always a master of tact.

Marco just shrugs. “He died in the Scouting Legion.”

Of all the answers Jean was expecting, apparently that was not at the top of the list. “I’m really sorry,” he says, looking down in embarrassment, “I didn’t know he was... um, enrolled.”

“Yup,” Marco says, shrugging. “It was a while ago.” He gives a little bittersweet smile, adding, “If it hadn’t happened, I might have more like fifteen siblings.”

Jean unexpectedly leans forward to wrap Marco in a one-armed hug, and says gruffly, “I’m glad you’re joining the Military Police.”

“Jean...” Marco replies softly in surprise, and then pulls Jean in for a proper hug. Jean doesn’t pull back immediately, but after a few moments, they let each other go.

“I’m so tired,” Marco says casually to diffuse the intense moment, standing up and yawning. “You can sleep in the bed, of course. I’ll sleep on the floor—I have a sleeping bag ready.”

“You don’t... I don’t...” Jean says, shaking his head. “I’m not a princess.”

Marco laughs. “I know that, but you’re my guest. That’s just how we do things here, Jean. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Jean grumbles a little, shooting Marco a challenging look, but then finally acquiesces.

He settles down in bed with the heavy quilt over him, politely averting his eyes when Marco turns around to undress and pull on a pair of warm pajamas from the small bureau, and then turns back over to look at Marco.

“Did your sister make this, too?” he asks curiously, holding the quilt between his fingers. Marco smiles a little as he watches Jean’s hair becoming more disheveled than it already is as he lies against the pillow.

“Yeah,” Marco says, laying out the sleeping bag on top of some extra blankets. “She’s really talented.”

“It’s nice,” Jean says unexpectedly, admiring the bedspread. It’s embroidered with little pine trees and snowflakes against a few elaborate, decorative swirls of scrap fabric sewn into patterns.

Marco smiles at him sleepily. “I’ll tell her you said that,” he says, before leaning up to turn down the knob on the oil lamp and put it out.

The room goes dark, and Marco stares at the ceiling. There are some distant lights shining in from outside since the house is on the main road in town, and he listens to Jean breathing. He can tell Jean’s not asleep either, but it might just be all the excitement of a new place. That, and there’s always someone walking up and down the stairs at night in the Bodt household—his mother cleaning up, his sister going to bed late, his younger siblings going down for a trip to the outhouse. Jean’s probably not used to all the noise.

Finally, just as Marco starts to drift off, he hears Jean turn over and then sees a face peek over the edge of the bed.

Apparently, Jean’s expecting Marco to be asleep, because he freezes. Marco grins at him in the dark, and yawns. “What’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Jean murmurs, clearing his throat. “I was wondering if you were asleep.”

“Not yet,” Marco replies, pillowing his hands behind his head. “It takes a little getting used to, being at home again. I’m too used to the smell of exhaust now.”

“You could get up here,” Jean says quickly, and at first, Marco thinks he heard wrong.

“What?” he asks carefully, frowning.

“I said,” Jean repeats, his voice resolute but nervous, “I bet I smell like exhaust. You could get up here.”

“You think you smell like exhaust?”

Jean groans at Marco, and then Marco can hear him turn over, pulling the quilt over his head, because his voice is muffled when he says, “Never mind. Goodnight.”

The floor creaks as Marco stands up, but Jean apparently is content to hide under his quilt fort; sometimes, Jean really does act like he’s a kid. Mostly when it comes to dealing with other people, though.

Marco pulls the quilt off Jean, and Jean looks up at him like he’s a Titan.

Marco doesn’t hesitate and lies down next to Jean, facing him, and pulls the quilt back up over them.

Jean just stares at him, and doesn’t do anything else.

“You invited me up here,” Marco says innocently, smiling a little, “but you don’t smell like exhaust. You smell like pine needles now.”

“Pine needles?” Jean exclaims, momentarily forgetting his nervousness.

“We were in the forest today. I guess they stuck.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

When Marco gently rests his hand on the indent of Jean’s waist, though, his mouth clamps shut.

“Switch places with me,” Marco says, and surprisingly, Jean doesn’t argue. He switches places with Marco, and Marco curls up behind him, pulling Jean so his back is against Marco’s chest.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly as he wraps his arm around Jean. Neither one of them are wearing a shirt, and he’s not quite ready to fully acknowledge how wonderful Jean’s skin feels.

“Yeah,” Jean confirms breathlessly. He pauses, but then asks, “Do we... get to eat oranges tomorrow?”

Marco can feel his own face heat, and he shuts his eyes. “If somebody managed to get some this year—we always try, but never succeed.”

Before Jean can say anything else, Marco presses a very soft, very hesitant kiss against the back of Jean’s shoulder. “Is that what you meant?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yeah,” Jean whispers back.

Marco kisses him again, and then slides his mouth over to Jean’s neck.

Jean makes one of the most intoxicating sounds Marco’s ever heard, his voice turning breathless and high.

“You sound really nice,” Marco murmurs in between kisses, “when you make that noise.”

Jean makes an embarrassed sound of denial that immediately melts into the same breathless moan that makes heat spark through Marco’s entire body when he sucks a little at the back of Jean’s shoulder.

“Is that going to leave a mark?” Jean whispers.

Marco hesitates. “Um, I’ll try not to.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jean says more softly. “You can.”

Jean is different when he’s in bed like this. His overly confident, cocky demeanor flies out the window, although Marco has learned to expect it, given that Jean could barely even tell Mikasa her hair was pretty without turning bright red and stumbling over his words.

It’s not that Marco is that much more experienced, but he is a little; he’s also not as oblique about what he wants, once he figures it out.

Marco likes the way Jean falls apart under his touch; Marco himself has gotten less shaky and more sure of himself since that first time they ate the orange together.

The thing that scares Marco, though, is that Jean seems more like home to him than his own house—the scent of his skin and the warmth of his body, the texture of his hair and the strength of his shoulders.

Everything about Jean is home to Marco, and Marco isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. He’s never loved anyone as much as he loves his own family, but that’s changed now.

He kisses Jean’s spine tenderly, running over the first few grooves with his tongue; it makes Jean gasp and arch his back, and Marco moans very quietly at his response.

“Wow,” Jean stammers in a hushed whisper, “you, uh... know what you’re doing. I guess... you’ve gotten more practice.”

It’s Jean’s way of being jealous, and Marco doesn’t have the heart to call him on it.

“Nope,” he says simply. “Just more brave, I guess.”

“Oh,” Jean says softly.

Marco gets close and curls against Jean, pressing his face against the back of Jean’s head. He inhales deeply to smell Jean’s hair, and to his surprise, he feels Jean tentatively link their fingers together.

“I’m really glad you came,” Marco whispers.

“Me too,” Jean replies.

They both fall asleep before they can talk anymore.

= = =

When Marco wakes up, the place in the bed next to him is empty, and Jean’s boots are gone. He blinks sleepily and looks around the room, stretching lazily.

“Jean?”

“Nope, just me,” comes Margit’s voice from the stairway.

Marco smiles and sits up, yawning widely. “Good morning,” he says as Margit pokes her head in.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” But then reality sets in, and Marco looks around. “Um...” he says uncertainly, feeling the blush crawl up his neck, “have you seen Jean?”

“I saw him on his way down for breakfast about half an hour ago,” Margit replies, her voice neutral.

“Oh.” Marco feels dread welling up in him.

Margit doesn’t say anything—just comes to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not,” Marco insists, changing the subject quickly. “Um, Jean really likes your quilt. He said it was nice.”

“That’s kind of him,” she says, smiling. “Did he like sleeping under it?”

“He didn’t sleep under it—I did. I mean... wait...” Marco bites his lip in frustration, and to his chagrin, Margit laughs.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, her voice fond. “I’ve just never seen you flustered, Marco. You really care for him.”

“What?” Marco squeaks. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, please,” Margit says, flicking Marco in the shoulder; he sometimes forgets that she is his older sister. “I knew it even before I accidentally walked in here this morning and Jean nearly fell on the floor.”

“Why didn’t you knock?” is the only thing he can think to say, the dread fast becoming full-on panic.

“I did. Jean said to come in, only he was asleep.”

“I hate him,” Marco groans, hiding his face behind his hands. “He talks in his sleep and drives everyone crazy in the bunks.”

“Don’t worry,” Margit says softly, patting Marco’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I know it’s not exactly... um, common. It’s no one’s business anyway.”

“Did you already give Jean this speech?”

“Yes.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Definitely not.”

Marco laughs weakly and shakes his head. “I’ll talk to him. Is he sitting down there right now, stiff as a board and not talking to anyone?”

“Mama already offered to take his temperature.”

“Ugh, why me?” Marco groans, and Margit laughs.

“Does he love you?” she asks unexpectedly, and Marco’s eyes widen.

He doesn’t answer, and instead, opts to lie back down and pull the quilt over his head.

She pokes him through the quilt. “C’mon, Marco.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles from under the quilt. “I mean...” he sighs, peeking out over it at Margit, “yeah, in terms of... well, he’s my best friend.”

She shrugs. “That’s enough, then. As long as he cares for you as much as you care for him... whether as friends or something else.”

“Um,” Marco says, looking down as he feels his face heat all over again, “yeah, I think so.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Margit says with a decisive nod. “Otherwise, I’d have to stitch him into my next quilt.”

“You’re really scary sometimes. You know that?”

“Good,” Margit replies, smiling softly. “Now, time to get up, lazy bones.”

Marco relaxes again and grumbles at her, but gets himself out of bed. Margit shuts the door to let him get dressed, and he splashes some cold water on his face from the basin on the bureau.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror and wonders why Jean would want Marco to kiss him. In his personal estimation, he’s got the most common face possible—lots of freckles, dark hair parted straight down the middle, no particularly distinctive features—and he’s tall and clumsy. His sisters are all natural beauties, in fact, but Marco figures he at least got some decent coordination in the deal.

Jean, on the other hand, has gotten to be almost startlingly good-looking over the years. When they first started, Marco had privately seen why Eren called him horse face; but over time, he grew into his looks, and Marco is still surprised that half the girls in the 104th aren’t all over him. Okay, well, it’s not like anyone really has time for those types of things, but still...

But Jean... Jean wants Marco to kiss him. Jean wants him that way.

Or maybe Marco’s just in love with him—this thought causes Marco dunk his entire head in the cold water.

No more thinking. Time to start the day, and reassure Jean that Marco’s entire family isn’t going to think that they’re having a roll in the hay every time they’re alone together.

He suits up in his uniform, pulls on his boots, and heads downstairs with a big smile plastered across his face.

“Marco, you’re up!” his mother crows delightedly as Marco comes to kiss her on the head. “And look at Jean here—up first and setting a better example for your siblings.”

Marco snorts, and then reaches over her shoulder to try and steal a roasted potato. She hits his fingers with her big wooden spatula before he can get it, though, and he laughs even as he holds his stinging fingers.

He looks at Jean with a long-suffering expression and shrugs. “I never get to them.”

“That’s because I’m faster than you,” she declares, stirring the potatoes around in the skillet. “I should be training in those DMO outfits you’re always talking about.”

“ODM,” Marco laughs. “And you might be right.”

Jean is sitting stick straight in his chair, staring just past Marco’s shoulder at the wall.

“Jean is sick,” she declares suddenly, turning with a hand on her hip, tsking. “He’s said two words all morning and he looks pale.”

Jean blinks, and then meets Marco’s eyes; his pupils are dilated and he looks mortified.

“I think Jean just needs from fresh air,” Marco says easily. “We’ll go on a walk before those are done roasting and clear his head, yeah?”

“All right, but be back in ten minutes, or else you’ll miss breakfast.”

Marco grins as he grabs Jean’s arm and hauls him up from the chair he’s been clinging to. “Don’t worry—there’s no chance of that.”

Jean just mindlessly follows him out the door, and Marco pulls him along the road until they’re out of earshot of the main street.

And then Marco starts laughing, shaking his head at Jean.

“It’s not funny!” Jean cries, throwing his hands up.

“It’s a little funny,” Marco says, snorting. “Well, okay,” he admits, “it wasn’t funny until I talked to Margit. But here’s the thing—she won’t tell anyone. So don’t worry, okay?”

Jean is still gaping at him like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Honestly, she won’t,” Marco insists. “She and I are really close. Do you remember that story I told you about how I had only tasted oranges twice?”

At the mention of oranges, Jean goes nearly scarlet; but then he refocuses his attention and looks interested.

“Yeah?”

“Well, the first time, it was me and Margit who snuck some from a merchant’s cart,” Marco explains. “And you know that wooden spatula my mama just had?”

“Yeah...” Jean says expectantly, raising an eyebrow.

“If you think ODM blades are bad, try taking a hit with that.”

That finally gets a slight smile out of Jean, and he sighs heavily. “So, she... really won’t say anything?”

“No, I promise,” Marco reassures him, settling his hand on Jean’s shoulder.

It hurts a little—even though Marco should be expecting it—when Jean jerks away.

“Do you...” Marco starts, looking down. His voice catches and he takes a few steps back. “Never mind.” He shakes his head and turns away; it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but he can’t bring himself to ask Jean if he regrets it.

“Um,” Jean murmurs, touching Marco’s shoulder hesitantly, “you left a mark.”

Marco immediately blushes, and he turns around slowly. “Sorry.”

“No...” Jean hazards awkwardly, dropping his hand, “I mean... I like it.”

Marco just stares at him, and his eyes widen. “You do?” he squeaks.

Jean nods, his face red as he crosses his arms over his chest as he changes the subject quickly. “So, are you ready for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Marco says breathlessly. Then he asks timidly, “Are we okay?”

“Yeah,” Jean nods. He sneaks a suspicious look at Marco, though. “She really won’t say anything?”

Marco laughs, and is relieved when Jean doesn’t jerk away this time after patting him on the shoulder. They start to walk back toward the house, and Marco reiterates his statement

“I promise,” he repeats. “She likes you, too.”

“Um... good?”

“Yeah, it is good. Or else you’d get stitched into a quilt.”

Jean laughs as they walk through the door, and Marco’s mother looks up in relief.

“He just needed a little air,” Marco explains. “It’s kind of stuffy up in that attic.”

“Oh, my,” Marco’s mother says in dismay, frowning. “Jean, would you like to sleep down here tonight?”

“No,” they both reply in chorus at the same time.

Margit laughs quietly in the corner, and much to Marco’s relief, Jean’s lips curl into a little smile.

“I’m fine,” he says calmly. “The air here is different, and I’m still getting used to it, is all.”

Marco’s mother seems to be satisfied by this answer, especially after Jean eats everything on his plate and starts to talk again.

= = =

The morning passes quickly. Every member of the Bodt family is in a hurry to finish up preparations for the winter festival that night—hemming dresses, baking pies, assembling spices for sachet-making, and even impromptu singing practice.

Jean just watches the entire ordeal with wide eyes, his gaze going back and forth between each of Marco’s sisters as they pass in and out of the kitchen in different states of readiness for the upcoming evening.

“Mama! Where’s my hair ribbon?”

“Where’s the lavender? I can’t give Erik plain old pine needles without lavender!”

“Where are the cookies?”

Marco laughs, wielding a rolling pin as he calls, “I’m doing it! Don’t worry!”

One of his sisters yells from several rooms away, “Thank goodness! But make at least 100!”

Marco snorts and continues rolling the dough while Margit sits in the corner, darning a sock and minding the oven.

“So,” Jean says, crossing his legs where he’s seated himself at the table, “what’s with all the spices?”

“You mean in this recipe?” Marco asks curiously, looking over at Jean in surprise. “Um... well, there’s vanilla extract, and some ginger somewhere in there, and—”

“No,” Jean interjects. “I mean... why is everyone talking about lavender and pine needles and all of that?”

“Oh!” Marco exclaims, laughing a little. He’s wearing a frilly apron over his uniform, rolling dough and cutting out cookies. “You know the sachet I showed you last night?”

“Yeah,” Jean says, nodding. Then he looks over at Margit bashfully and murmurs, “Um, thank you for that.”

She smiles warmly at Jean, leaning across the table to touch his shoulder. “I’m glad you liked it. And thank you for your compliments on the quilt—I hope it was warm.”

Jean swallows hard, and Marco tries not to laugh.

“Well,” Marco continues, “normally, you make your own sachet, but if someone gives you one they made themselves, it means they like you.” He snorts, thinking out loud as his fingers nimbly fold the fruit into each cookie. “Although, personally, I think it’s a dumb tradition. If you feel a certain way about someone, you shouldn’t just leave it up to chance with a gesture.” He looks over at Jean with a dismissive shrug.

“Oh,” Jean says simply; then he swallows hard and turns quickly to ask Margit if she needs help with taking the next batch of tarts out of the oven.

By the late afternoon, everything is finally ready—dresses hemmed, cookies baked, sachets ready to be filled, and everyone bundled into warm coats.

Marco is delighted to see that it’s begun to snow as they all fall out the door, the twilight sky a deep, dark indigo that’s soon going to fade to black. He’s carrying a few trays of sweet tarts—a cookie that the Bodt family is known for during the winter festival—and Margit is carrying the other batch in her arms.

“Can I please do something?” Jean practically whines at Margit, and she laughs. Marco laughs, too, because he knows Jean hates watching everyone else work. He associates it with falling behind.

“Okay,” Margit finally gives in, stopping to hand Jean the three large trays she has in her arms. “But don’t tell Mama I let you carry these. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She turns away with a swish of her grand, blue evening dress—a hand-me-down from their mother in her younger years—and dashes to catch up with the rest of her sisters.

“So, do we have to sing?” Jean asks Marco quietly once Margit is out of hearing range.

Marco laughs and looks over at Jean. The lights of town square that they’re slowly approaching have silhouetted him against the cold mountains, and suddenly, Marco realizes how happy he is that Jean is here, and not far away back at camp.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he says with a shrug. “It can be fun, though.”

“I can’t sing.”

“Neither can I, but no one complains.”

Jean makes a noncommittal noise, but Marco sees the small smile on his face. He’s let his guard down again, and he’s having fun.

“Did you bring your sachet?” Marco asks.

Jean’s eyes widen, and he looks over in surprise. “Damn it...” he hisses; then bites his lip and stares up ahead at Marco’s family with a look of dread. It appears no one heard, though, and he lets out a breath. “I forgot it,” he finishes with a roll of his eyes. “I left it on the table in the kitchen.”

“It’s okay—I’ll go get it,” Marco replies with a shrug. “I think Margit left her gloves back at the house anyway, and she gets cold easily. Can you carry these?”

“Is your mother going to reprimand the entire family if I do?”

Marco grins, laughing as he shifts the trays he’s carrying into Jean’s arms. “Probably. Just tell her we were treating it as a military training exercise.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, but shrugs and takes the trays. “See you in a few minutes.” Marco’s glad that Jean doesn’t immediately display nervousness at being with his family alone.

He runs back through the snow to the house, his boots clopping heavily on the road. Inside, the hearth is glowing very faintly, and he sees Jean’s sachet and Margit’s gloves immediately where they’ve been forgotten on the table.

Then, suddenly, he’s glad he ran back, because he remembers that he forgot his own secret item. It’s in one of the spice jars, and he’s had it for a long time, unsure of when to use it. His stint at the herbalist’s shop had earned him the occasional acquisition of a rare or interesting herb, and over the years, he’s used them to make sachets sparingly.

He knows exactly what to do with the few he still has left, though—the really special ones he’s been saving—and he slips one particular, small jar into his pocket.

By the time he’s caught up with the rest of his family and Jean, they’ve already positioned themselves in their typical locations. Margit is sitting with his mother and a few of her friends, his remaining five sisters are lined up in size order in the chorus that’s about to start singing, and Max is located in the men’s section, balanced on a neighbor’s shoulders.

Jean is standing there by himself, looking a little nervous, but more fascinated than anything else. He’s obviously never seen anything like Jinae’s small festivities before. When he sees Marco, he motions rapidly at him to come over.

“Hi!” Marco greets him with a smile. “What’s going on?”

Jean’s eyes go a little wide, and he cocks his head to the side. “They want us to salute before the rest of the... uh...” Jean explains, searching for the word, “formalities.”

“Okay,” Marco says, forgetting about Jean’s sachet for the moment, “that’s not a big deal, right?”

“Are we the only ones?” Jean asks in disbelief, hugging himself and rubbing his upper arms to stay warm.

“Yeah,” Marco says, giving Jean an odd look. “Who else would there be?”

“So, no one has ever joined the military from this town?”

“Well,” Marco replies with a shrug, “sure. But I’m the only one who’s come back this year.”

Jean’s face sombers, and he stares down at the ground. The snow that’s accumulated is at least an inch deep now, and he pushes the toe of his boot through it, looking at the cobblestones that are revealed.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

“That’s okay,” Marco says cheerfully, “you didn’t ask anything wrong. To be honest, a lot of us end up joining the Garrison. No one likes to aim too high.”

Jean looks up in surprise to meet Marco’s eyes. His breath makes white clouds in the air, and he looks expectant.

“You’re just really ambitious, then?” he asks curiously.

Marco tilts his head to the side in thought, worrying his lip. “Well,” he finally says, “not exactly. I’m fast and I have good balance. It’s a great honor to serve the King, so I thought I might be good enough.”

Jean just stares at him incredulously, and Marco waits for an explanation for the expression. When one doesn’t come, he keeps talking.

“My father didn’t want to join the Scouting Legion,” he says, lowering his voice, not wanting to upset his mother and siblings. “He just didn’t get high enough marks to enter the Military Police, or even the Garrison.

“No one expected much from me until I started to get really tall. Seeing us salute in our uniforms is really exciting for a lot of people that live here.”

Jean’s wearing a blank expression—his way of hiding what he’s thinking—and he just nods, a serious look in his eyes.

“Okay,” he states. “Do they know how good your grades are?”

Marco laughs now, shaking his head. “I don’t even know how good my grades are.”

Jean rolls his eyes and pokes Marco in the shoulder. “Everyone knows you’re at the top of the class. Even if you don’t know your exact marks, you’re sure to be in the top ten.”

Marco tries to stop the shadow that falls over his face, but judging from the widening of Jean’s eyes and the quickening of breath, he’s not expecting Marco’s doubt.

“I guess,” Marco replies with a sigh, and then turns away to halt the conversation. This is supposed to be a fun night, and he doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he’s failed to accomplish the goal he set out to achieve and worked so hard for over the last two years.

He can tell Jean wants to say more, but he’s cut off as Margit hurries over to them.

“Are those my gloves? Oh, thank you!” she exclaims, taking the gloves from Marco’s hands. She’s fine-boned and gets cold easily. “Always taking care of everyone,” she says warmly, reaching out to rub Marco’s arm affectionately.

To his surprise, he hears Jean sigh a little. Margit pretends not to notice—opting to leave their personal business between them—and motions toward the wooden bleachers that have been erected for the evening for the singing.

“They’re about to start. Are you two going to salute to start off the evening? Everyone’s been talking about it.”

“Yes,” Jean says clearly as he turns to look at both of them. He smiles—it’s forced, but sincere—and he nods in determination.

“Perfect!” she says excitedly.

There’s a short introduction by the mayor, and then Jean and Marco are motioned on-stage to represent the military.

“We are honored to have here Jinae’s own Marco Bodt, and his comrade, Jean Kirschstein, of the 104th Squad. They’ll be graduating next spring, and will go on with the honor to serve our esteemed King.”

There’s loud applause, and Jean and Marco walk onto the small stage.

When Marco looks over at Jean to smile reassuringly, though, he’s not expecting the conflicted look in Jean’s eyes. It’s not that anyone could ever tell, but Marco knows that look—Jean is thinking about something, and it’s unnerving him.

Nevertheless, he gives a hearty salute alongside Marco, and they stand there for a moment as a few people whistle and applaud. Finally, they’re released and the singing starts.

Jean follows Marco to the back of the crowd, and they lean against a nearby building, watching. For some reason, there’s an awkward silence, and surprisingly, Jean is the one to break it.

“Your sisters can really sing,” he remarks idly, looking over at Marco.

“They’re all talented,” Marco replies. He doesn’t know what else to say, because it’s obvious something is bothering Jean, but he can’t tell what it is. “Um, are you all right?”

He can tell Jean is about to dismiss his concern with a snarky comment, but then his mouth shuts abruptly. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and exhales slowly.

“I’m sorry for that time when I said you only wanted to live in the Interior,” he blurts out, turning to stare at Marco, the emotion showing plainly on his face.

Marco just stares at him in surprise, and then laughs; Jean’s expression immediately darkens.

“No, no,” Marco corrects, reaching out to touch Jean’s shoulder, “I just can’t believe you remembered that.”

“Well, if you think it’s so funny...” Jean retorts, pulling away.

Marco stops laughing and sighs. “Jean,” he says more seriously, “you don’t need to apologize for things like that. We’re both a lot different now.”

“Not in what we want,” Jean replies immediately, fixing Marco with one of his intense stares.

“Well, that’s true,” Marco admits, reaching out to touch Jean’s shoulder again; this time, his hand stays in place. “Maybe we just... understand each other a little better now.”

Jean shoots him a hesitant look—Marco can tell he wants to agree—and then finally he nods. “Well...” he says haltingly, “okay, fine.”

“Are you having a good time?” Marco asks, intentionally trying to take him off guard.

It works, and Jean blinks. “Well... yeah.”

Marco smiles and drops his hand. “Good. Forget about all that stuff for tonight—we have six more months to worry about it. Right?”

Jean looks down at the ground, frowning a little, but Marco knows he’s won. “I guess. Okay, fine.”

Marco laughs delightedly, and then takes two steps back, stretching his arms out and looking at the sky. “Look how pretty it is!” he exclaims, closing his eyes and letting the snowflakes gather in his hair.

When he looks back at Jean, there’s a poorly hidden look of amusement on his face. He doesn’t say anything, but he does glance up at the sky, watching the snow as it falls.

They stand together and watch the singing for another half hour, and then finally it ends, and a band strikes up a tune. Once again, Jean looks on in interest, watching the largest man plucking a low-pitched instrument with two strings, and then shifting his attention to the whirl of dancing couples in the town square.

They walk through the various assortment of tables—all kinds of spices for sachets, cookies, candles, and every other type of household delight imaginable.

“So you can just... take things?” Jean asks in wonder, holding a beeswax candle he’s stopped to smell curiously.

“Everyone brings something, and everyone takes something,” Marco confirms. “It’s the honor system.”

Jean snorts and puts the candle down. “If you tried something like this in Trost, it’d be gone within five minutes and resold underneath the Capital.”

Marco shrugs. “But I bet the decorations are pretty.”

That gets a laugh out of Jean, and then they make their way over the sachet-making table. Margit is sitting there, and she smiles at both of them.

Marco snaps his fingers and cringes suddenly. “I forgot your sachet, Jean! I’m really sorry.”

Jean actually looks disappointed, but then perks up when Marco suggests, “Well, why don’t you help me with mine?”

Margit helps them choose a combination of pine needles and chamomile tea leaves to fill Marco’s sachet.

“Why does everyone include pine needles?” Jean asks curiously as Marco takes a handful of pine needles and carefully adds them to the pile on the fabric.

“See all these trees around us?” Marco asks as he works, and Jean looks mystified.

“Yeah. Why? Do pine needles symbolize... nature and the King or something?”

“The trees around us are pine trees, Jean.”

Jean starts to laugh and kicks Marco lightly in the foot. “You’re a jerk.”

Margit just watches them with a soft expression, smiling a little, and when Jean notices he blushes.

“Um, I’m going to... go watch the band,” he stutters in embarrassment, ducking his head. “I’ll see you over there when you’re finished.”

Margit laughs and Marco gives her a reproving look. “You scared him away.”

“He scared himself away,” she corrects. Marco has to laugh quietly, because he knows she’s right. “Did you really forget his sachet?”

“Of course not,” Marco whispers, discreetly shooting a look over at Jean. He really has disappeared into the crowd, and Marco looks back at Margit. “I’m making him a gift.” He takes some more pine needles, pulling out the small, embroidered sachet, and piles them in.

When he takes the small jar out of his pocket, though, even Margit’s eyes widen.

“You’re using your last spices?”

Marco smiles, and he can’t keep the overwhelming sense of joy he feels off his face.

“Yeah,” he says simply, and then fills the remaining space in the sachet with the contents of the jar he’d selected. Once finished, he secures both sachets with the small ribbon laced through the top and ties them shut. “There,” he declares with satisfaction, “perfect.”

Margit nods in agreement, and unexpectedly, she places her hand over Marco’s.

“I’m really happy you found someone,” she says softly.

Marco is relatively sure he blushes harder than he’s ever blushed before, and he pulls away self-consciously. “Well... it’s not necessarily like that, and he’s just... we... I...”

“I hope he likes it,” Margit interjects; and with that, she turns to talk to another person who’s just approached the table.

Marco leaves the table, slipping the two finished sachets into his pocket, as he makes his way through the crowd to find Jean.

His heart flutters suddenly at the thought of actually giving Jean the gift. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he takes it the wrong way?

Of course, what “wrong way” is there to take it? There’s no going back once he actually smells it.

Finally, Marco’s thoughts are interrupted when he sees Jean.

Jean’s grinning, apparently having recovered from his bashful moment with Margit, as he watches the band play a folk song that Marco is very familiar with. Jean turns at that moment, as if sensing Marco is looking at him, and waves.

And then, before Marco can walk over, he’s surprised by a familiar voice.

“Hi, Marco,” comes a quiet greeting.

Marco turns expectantly to look behind him. “Letta!” he says in surprise, a smile coming over his face. “How long has it been?”

“Oh,” she says, smiling a little as she looks down shyly and folds her hands, “probably a year since the last time you visited. Um, you’ve gotten even taller.”

He envelopes her in a friendly hug, smiling, and she holds on a little longer than necessary. Her blonde hair is coiled into a braid and pinned to her head, and she has a sprig of holly tucked behind her ear. “You look festive,” he says, poking at the holly teasingly. She blinks her large brown eyes at him, and a few snowflakes catch in her eyelashes.

If Marco has ever had something that might be considered a sweetheart, it’s Letta. They’ve been friends since they were children, but then their relationship changed right around the time Marco joined the military.

When he’d left, Letta had kissed him goodbye. On the lips. And then cried and told him to please write her. He’d just blinked in shock, but then was ushered into the cart that was to take him to the training site.

Marco hadn’t had much time to write after that, but the first time he visited Jinae during the winter holidays, they’d spent more time together. They’d kissed a few times, but that’s as far as it had ever gone.

Everyone in Jinae had always said that Letta and Marco would make a good match, and apparently—much to Marco’s surprise—she had been fond of him for far longer than he’d ever realized. Not just that, but half the town knew it before him.

“Your mother told me you were going to be here,” she says, “and—”

“Hey, Marco!” Jean says, suddenly behind him as Marco turns. He’s still smiling, his mouth open to say something, when suddenly he spots Letta standing there.

Marco watches in surprise as Jean’s mouth clamps shut, and then settles into a thin, straight line.

“Jean,” he says, not knowing what to make of the reaction, “this is my friend, Letta.” He smiles, and puts his hand on Jean’s shoulder, pulling him over. “Letta, this is Jean Kirschstein. We’re in the same Squad.”

“Hi,” Letta greets him, giving a warm, friendly smile as she sticks out her hand.

“Hi,” Jean replies in monotone. Marco can tell he’s trying very hard to be friendly, but something has set him off. “Um, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she says as they shake hands. “Any friend of Marco’s is a friend of mine.”

“Yeah, uh...”

“What were you going to say, Jean?” Marco prompts, turning to look at Jean expectantly.

“Uh, nothing,” Jean answers, taking a step back.

The snow is falling a little harder now, and the flakes are catching in Jean’s unruly hair. He huddles into his jacket slightly, and shifts his stance into a more defensive posture.

“Marco,” Letta speaks up again, reaching out to take Marco’s hand as his eyes widen, “I made you... um...” she’s blushing brightly, but she doesn’t let go of his hand. “I made you a sachet. It’s got... rose petals in it.”

She presses the sachet into Marco’s hand, and then steps back abruptly, looking at the ground in embarrassment, until she peeks up at him.

“Oh,” he says softly, “thank you, Letta. That’s really nice of you.”

“I hope you like it,” she says, and then turns away to run off and join her own family.

She wants Marco to properly court her; it’s very clear now, and he doesn’t even know what to do for a minute.

“Wow, I didn’t expect that to—” he turns to look at Jean, but then he doesn’t see anyone there.

There’s only a pair of footsteps—obviously Jean’s—in the snow leading in the opposite direction, away from the square.

He dashes off after them, but then they just seem to go in circles, lost in the myriad of other footprints that are fast becoming buried as the snow continues to fall.

Marco fights his way through the crowd and ends up back near the craft-making tables, when he sees Margit.

“Margit!” he cries in dismay, and she looks up in surprise. “Have you seen Jean?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, her eyes widening. “He went back to the house and said something about being freezing, and that you had to get up early tomorrow anyway.”

Marco feels like he’s going to cry, and he knows Margit can hear it in his voice.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, bending forward to speak quietly so no one can hear them.

“I saw Letta,” Marco replies, wringing his hands, “and she gave me a sachet. And since Jean knows what it means...”

“He thinks you’re interested in Letta?” she whispers, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Well, are you?”

“Of course not!” Marco exclaims, his face anxious.

“Are you in love with Jean?” Margit asks bluntly, reaching up to rub Marco’s shoulder comfortingly.

“I think so,” Marco whispers, his voice almost tearful.

“So go after him,” she says simply, pulling Marco into a hug. “It’s pretty obvious he feels the same way, at least to me.”

Marco doesn’t even need to say anything else, just pulls away and breaks into a run toward the house.

There’s no one on the street. Everyone is gathered at the town square or asleep, and the road is slippery, even under Marco’s boots which are made for rough terrain. He looks around wildly, and finally, as he gets closer to his house, he sees Jean.

“Jean!” he shouts, but the wind eats up his voice. Jean is just stepping inside, and then the front door shuts behind him.

Marco reaches the door and flings it open, shutting it just as quickly to prevent the chill from coming in. It’s still warm in the main sitting room from the kitchen, and he sees wet footprints leading upstairs.

For a moment, he just stands there, suddenly filled with nerves. What is he going to say? What will make this better? Does Jean think Marco is pining after Letta? Does he even care? Is that why he left? Maybe he’s really just tired?

Marco sets his jaw and pushes the uncertainties out of his mind; he’s too old for this, too old for indecision and fear, because he knows what he wants.

And then he remembers what’s in his pocket, and his face softens.

He climbs the stairs steadily now, no longer scared. The worst thing that can happen is that they fall asleep and never talk about kissing again, never eat another orange together, never think about how skin feels, how they’ve held each other in a way that Marco knows goes far beyond hormones and lust.

He reaches the top finally, and the attic door is slightly ajar; he knows Jean can hear him, and so he sticks his head in tentatively.

Jean is staring intently at the door, his expression closed and his mouth still set into that thin line.

Marco wants to kiss the rigidness away, make Jean smile and say Marco’s name and gasp.

“Hi,” Marco says simply.

“Oh,” Jean replies casually, looking away and stretching as if he’s about to go to sleep, “hi.”

“You disappeared.”

Jean shrugs. “I was cold and tired.” Marco waits, because he knows what’s coming. “And you looked pretty busy, anyway,” he adds, a poorly hidden tinge of resentment in his voice.

And with that, Jean lies down in the bed, rolling away from Marco to face the wall and pulling the quilt right up to his neck. He’s not wearing anything except a pair of pants and probably some socks, but he’s never liked sleeping in a shirt, even when it’s cold.

“Were you jealous?” Marco asks bluntly, entering the room fully and closing the door behind him.

Jean just snorts at him dismissively.

“Were you?” Marco repeats.

“Of course not,” Jean says, but his voice is strained. “Why would you think something so stupid? You’re not my girlfriend.”

That statement would have hurt a year before, but now Marco knows that it’s really Jean lashing out, not wanting to show his wounds.

“Letta’s not my girlfriend.”

“Whatever.”

Marco doesn’t answer for a moment, bending to pull off his wet boots and stand them in the corner next to Jean’s to dry; then shrugging off his gear and uniform and neatly folding it. He pulls on his own pajamas which are blissfully warm, and then sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Jean moves as far away as possible, not even acknowledging Marco’s presence.

“I made you something,” Marco says simply; then just waits.

Curiosity gets the better of Jean, and he rolls over slightly to look at Marco out of the corner of his eye.

“What?”

“I made you something,” Marco repeats, trying to smile and poking Jean in the shoulder. “Do you want it?”

“Um...” Jean looks confused now, which is at least a step up from defensive. “Yeah, I guess.”

Marco stands up to go paw around in his pockets, relieved that Jean’s attention has been captured enough that he actually sits up in the bed, the quilt falling around his waist.

Marco tries very hard not to stare at his chest—and especially the mark he knows is just behind Jean’s shoulder—as he pulls out the sachet.

“I made this for you,” he says softly, looking down at the floor as a blush immediately burns his cheeks. He sticks out his hand abruptly and offers Jean the gift.

It’s the sachet with pine trees embroidered on it, only Marco’s filled it with pine needles and dried orange rind.

Jean just blinks at him in surprise. “I thought that if you... made this for someone, then...” he trails off, realization dawning on his face.

“Oh,” he says lamely, clearly dumbfounded. He takes the sachet from Marco gingerly, as if he’s afraid to touch it, and then brings it up to his nose to inhale. “Did you put...” he coughs a little, a blush starting to creep up to his cheeks, too. “Did you put oranges in this?”

“Orange rind,” Marco corrects, his throat suddenly dry. “Dried orange rind. Um, it smells good.”

“Yeah,” Jean says softly, staring down at the quilt intently.

There’s a short silence, and it’s snowing so hard now that Marco can practically hear the big, fat flakes hitting the window pane.

“I’m not interested in Letta,” he says suddenly, making Jean jump. “She’s really nice and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but it’s not like that.”

“She’s pretty,” Jean says simply, his eyes still downcast. “Like, really pretty. Mikasa-level pretty.”

“Would you make Mikasa a sachet?” Marco asks suddenly.

“Uh,” Jean says, his hand tightening around the sachet Marco made him. “I guess if I...”

Marco’s stomach drops, and he feels sick.

“I guess if I didn’t have anyone else who wanted one from me,” he says softly, finally looking up to meet Marco’s eyes, “then I might.”

“And what if you had someone who did want one from you?” Marco whispers, trying not to let his voice crack.

“Well, how would I know that if no one tells me anything?” Jean snaps, frowning. Marco can practically feel the anger erupt from him; but then he realizes it’s not anger. It’s emotion—it’s Jean’s brand of emotion which is tumultuous, volatile, and achingly sincere.

“Because I made you one.”

Jean blinks at Marco in surprise, and then looks down again. Marco’s expecting another outburst when Jean’s free hand tightens, but then he sees that the hand Jean’s holding the sachet in isn’t tight—he’s holding it very carefully in his palm, gentle and cautious.

“You’re not interested in her?” Jean finally whispers in a harsh voice.

Marco knows what it cost him to say it, and he sits down on the bed again, pulling Jean into a hug. His skin is warm, and Marco closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

Jean just rests his head against Marco’s shoulder, and Marco strokes his hair. The snowflakes hit the window, the oil lamp hisses occasionally as the wick burns down, and everything is very still. There’s no one in the house, not even a soul to be heard on the street.

Marco finally pulls back after what seems like hours to look at Jean, and he brings his hand up to rub his thumb over Jean’s cheekbone.

Jean bites his lip and doesn’t meet Marco’s eyes, but he brings his own hand up to lay it over the back of Marco’s.

Marco kisses him. It’s technically not the first time, but it feels like it.

Jean’s lips are surprisingly soft, and unlike last time, they’re not sweet or slick with juice. They’re just Jean’s lips—hesitant, probably inexperienced, but eager—and Marco breaks the kiss to gently bite at the bottom one.

Jean sucks in a breath, obviously not expecting the action, but he doesn’t protest. His hands tighten on Marco’s shoulders where he’s placed them and he moans softly.

When Marco pulls away slightly, Jean stammers, “You really haven’t gotten any more practice?”

Marco laughs a little, because he knows it’s not a question wrought of jealousy, but of surprise.

“No,” he says honestly. “I just feel more...” he searches for the word, trying to be careful about what he vocalizes, “calm.”

Jean opens his eyes to look at Marco, obviously trying to process the meaning.

“Like, you’re bored?” he squeaks.

Marco starts to laugh and shakes his head, and then lies down on the bed and crawls under the quilt.

Jean just sits there awkwardly for a moment, but then abandons his own sitting position to join Marco.

“Do you...” Marco starts, feeling embarrassed suddenly. “Do you like what I did?”

“Yeah,” Jean breathes immediately, turning on his side to face Marco boldly, “that felt really good.”

“Oh,” Marco murmurs, hazarding a turn of his head to look at Jean.

They just stare at each other for a minute, and then their limbs tangle as they reach wildly for each other, ending up in a discombobulated mess of half-embraces and eager touches.

It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re laughing in between kisses; and then Marco even receives a few gasps for his efforts as he manages to lie on his back and pull Jean on top of him.

The laughter stops as Jean presses down against him, and Marco throws his head back and moans.

“Oh god you sound so good,” Jean murmurs, the words coming fast and unplanned, “you sound so good when you make those sounds Marco ah...” He kisses down Marco’s neck, pushing his tongue against the hollow of his throat, and he stiffens in surprise as Marco spreads his legs apart so that their cocks rub together.

To Marco’s surprise, though, Jean recovers quickly and reaches down to hook his hand around the back of Marco’s thigh, pulling his leg up and guiding it to wrap about Jean’s waist.

Marco likes the way it feels, so he keeps going, pulling Jean fully against him and wrapping both legs around him, linking his ankles at the small of Jean’s back.

Jean moans softly and pushes his hips forward, and they both gasp. Then he presses his face against Marco’s neck, breathing harshly as he starts to frot slowly against him; Marco moans softly, biting his lip and then taking a shuddery breath in. Marco’s hand raises to tangle in Jean’s hair, while the other splays across Jean’s shoulder blades tensely. He clutches clumsily as their bodies move together, becoming more ragged by the second and making the bed frame creak.

Marco’s mouth falls open and he moans. “Ah, Jean... like that... Oh, god...”

Jean nips at Marco’s neck, keeping the rhythm of his hips steady. “Like this?” he whispers. His tone isn’t confident and sultry—like Marco knows he wants it to be—but breathless, unsure, too caught up in what’s happening to control it.

He gasps and moans sharply as Marco slides both hands down to grab Jean’s ass and force him to pump his hips harder, and Jean shudders.

Their cocks are sliding against each other now through the fabric, both damp with precome, hard and aching for release.

“Marco,” Jean practically whines, inhaling sharply, “I’m going to...”

“Jean,” Marco moans in response, his eyes closed tight as he arches his back, “Jean... for me.”

Marco can feel Jean’s orgasm as his body stiffens, hips pressing down hard one more time, and then he relaxes, breathing hard.

He just lies there for a minute, and to Marco’s surprise, presses a tender, slow kiss against Marco’s forehead before climbing off him.

“Now you,” he whispers simply, and sidles up next to Marco to reach between his legs.

Marco throws his head back against the pillow and lets Jean massage his cock through his pants; the orgasm is building as he thrusts his hips up, and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that there are small, indistinct noises pouring out of his mouth, his eyes screwed shut.

Marco reaches down to fumble for Jean’s hand until finding his fingers and pushes them down the front of the pajama pants.

Jean gasps, but he doesn’t pull away, hesitantly taking Marco’s cock in his hand and stroking. It’s not hard to figure out—they’ve both jerked off before—but Marco knows how intimidating it is to pleasure someone else.

Jean doesn’t seem to have a problem with this, though, as he strokes Marco and nips at a shoulder at the same time—he’s always been a fast learner.

“I want you to...” Jean whispers suddenly, his voice hesitant, but his hand is still moving and then speeds up.

“Say it,” Marco moans.

“I want you to come for me,” Jean whispers, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against Marco’s shoulder.

That’s all it takes, and Marco comes with a sob, his body wracked with shudders as he orgasms harder than he’s ever felt before. It knocks him sideways and makes his heart feel like it’s stopped, makes him want to cry, lays him bare; and then he feels both incredibly blissful, but also scared.

But then, to his shock, Jean turns his head to the side with gentle fingertips to look him in the eyes; then leans forward to kiss Marco on the lips, hand settling against his chest, as if unsure of what to do with it.

He breaks the kiss after a moment, and then asks suddenly, “Can I sleep here again?”

Marco blinks—Jean is completely serious as he stares hesitantly.

“You’re such an idiot,” Marco murmurs, grabbing Jean and pulling him close, holding him tight, wanting to never let go.

“Marco,” Jean gasps after a moment, “you’re suffocating me.”

But when Marco doesn’t let go, Jean’s arms encircle him in return.

“No matter what happens,” Marco whispers into Jean’s ear, not brave enough to say it to his face, “I’ll always be your best friend. I promise.”

“Okay,” Jean replies; and if Marco’s not mistaken, his voice is choked.

Jean is the type of person who would never ask to be held; but Marco is the type of person who doesn’t need to ask in the first place.

It’s the most blissful sleep Marco’s ever had.

The next day, they say goodbye to Marco’s family and everyone gives Jean a hug, and there are even some tears.

The ride back to camp is almost exactly the same as it was on the way to Jinae, only this time, Jean smiles more.

= = =

Things mostly are the same after that, only now their days are filled with pressure to achieve the highest possible grades in the home stretch to graduation.

That, and Jean occasionally will grab Marco after a long day of training and pull him into a dark storeroom; or Marco will grab Jean and pull him away to the stables. Overall, not much has actually changed, except the fact that they kiss a lot now—and more, when they’re feeling brave—but even that dies down a little as the months pass.

It’s April again, and only a few months before graduation, when Marco realizes that it’s almost Jean’s birthday.

“Hey, Jean,” he says excitedly over breakfast, “what do you want for your birthday this year?”

Jean groans and puts his head on the table. “Fifteen extra minutes of sleep every day. Can you get me that?”

Marco laughs and rolls his eyes, kicking Jean’s leg under the table. He’s getting no help there.

He thinks about what Jean might like. Another sachet? No, he doesn’t even know what happened to the one Jean had that they made during the winter holidays.

Although, he does find out one day, and it gives him an idea.

It’s Eren that brings it to his attention, when one morning, he scoffs at Jean—the night before, they had gotten into a fight over something petty—and says, “Do you sleep with perfume? Getting ready for the Interior?”

Jean whirls around, and Marco’s senses prick; lately, Jean’s been avoiding getting into fights since he’s mere months away from achieving his goal, but there’s a different type of charge in the air when Jean growls this time.

“Yeah,” Eren laughs, pointing down at Jean’s bed. “What’s that?”

Even Mikasa looks puzzled as she looks down at Jean’s neatly made bed, and then her eyes land on something.

Marco takes a few steps forward to look more closely, and discovers what Jean had done with the sachet.

Something swells in Marco’s chest when he realizes Jean’s been sleeping with it under his pillow all this time; but then he’s interrupted when Jean takes a defensive step back. He’s in the injured animal pose, and Marco cringes.

“What, you want to smell good for your new cushy life?” Eren scoffs, taking a step forward. Marco knows Eren’s not really intending to do anything to Jean’s possessions, but Jean’s in such a heightened state of defensiveness, that knowledge ceases to matter.

“Touch it, and I’ll cut off your fingers,” Jean growls in a low, predatory voice. Something about the way he says it, though, makes Eren actually take a step back for once.

“We used to make those,” Mikasa says suddenly, her eyes widening as she looks at Jean curiously.

Eren looks over at her in surprise, and then his scowl lessens. “I wouldn’t just mess with your stuff for no reason, Kirschstein,” he mutters. “I was just... whatever.” He turns away abruptly to leave, and Jean stands his ground.

Mikasa, however, doesn’t follow right away, and casts another interested gaze at the sachet; but then retreats with Eren after a moment.

Marco sighs wearily, but in some way, he feels a sense of calm. He knows that one day, they won’t hate each other, and things will change; he just feels it.

“C’mon,” he says calmly, walking up to Jean, “you’re going to miss the test.”

Jean scowls at him, but then shamelessly kneels down to tuck the scented sachet back under his pillow, eyeing his bed defensively.

“Don’t worry,” Marco says, patting Jean’s shoulder and offering his hand to help Jean up. “After that little display, no one will touch your bed.”

Jean laughs wryly, and shrugs. “Well,” he says, looking down, “it’s important, okay?” He brushes past Marco with a blush on his face, and Marco smiles as he follows, feeling warm.

And so, Marco comes up with a brilliant idea for Jean’s birthday present.

It’s the night before graduation, and he runs to catch up to Jean after dinner.

Jean starts and looks at him in surprise as Marco leans over his shoulder to reach around and offer him a gift. It’s small and wrapped neatly in brown paper—it’s all Marco had—but when Jean eyes it curiously, Marco shakes his head.

“It’s for your birthday,” he says, giving an affectionate little half-smile, “but it’s also for graduation, so don’t open it until after, okay?”

Jean cocks his head to the side, but then shrugs. “Okay.”

Marco smiles, his face softening, and he squeezes Jean’s shoulder as he murmurs, “I hope you like it.”

= = =

Jean never cries willingly.

He fights it every time, shaking and gasping, willing the tears not to fall and his breath to remain steady. Even when he stands in front of the pyre, he still tries not to weep; he clenches his fist and he thinks maybe he’s saved a little piece of Marco, maybe some bone.

But even then, he doesn’t cry willingly.

He feels like his face is burning off, and in some way, he wishes it would. He doesn’t know anymore whether his skin feels like it’s peeling away because the tears have dried there or because the heat is too much.

He watches their bodies burn, and he can’t forget Marco’s expression, laid out there against the houses of Trost like he’s just another nameless corpse.

“What was his name? If you know his name, tell me right now.”

His name was Marco Bodt from the 104th Squad, and he was a great leader. He had the best smile Jean’s ever seen—and will ever see—and a stupid haircut with a part straight down the middle. He was a loving brother and looked like all of his seven siblings. His father died on a Scouting mission. He liked oranges and roasted potatoes. The best time to kiss him was right before he was ready to fall asleep. He knew how to ice skate, and he fell down a well when he was a kid. He knew a lot about plants. His mother’s wooden spatula is terrifying, and his sister makes beautiful things from common scraps. He had 20 freckles on his cheeks, seven next to his eyes on either side, and about five on his neck, just below his hairline in the back. He was really bad at buckling the first parts of his ODM gear and almost fell from a tree their second time out. He smiled easily and everyone liked him.

He loved Jean Kirschstein. And Jean Kirschstein loved him.

He is now in the past tense; he was Marco Bodt from the 104th Squad.

And now, he’s bone.

= = =

It takes days for Jean to remember the package. He’s been carrying it around in his pack since Trost went to hell, toting it around on rest breaks and efforts to clean up.

He’s scrounging around in his pack for a fresh shirt when his fingers brush up against the paper, and his throat tightens.

Marco’s gift to him for his birthday and graduation.

He unties the string with shaky fingers and peels back the paper carefully; inside is a small sketchbook, and he tries not to let tears fall on its cover. It’s bound with fabric embroidered with tiny oranges—obviously Margit’s handiwork—and filled with blank pages pilfered from their cadet notebooks for classroom lectures.

As he opens it, he realizes that Marco’s written an inscription on the first page.

Dear Jean,

Wow! By the time you read this, I guess weve already graduated. I hope we both got into the Military Police, just like we dreamed. If I'm standing behind you when you read this, then I’m probably laughing because I already know what I wrote. I get one chance to tell the future!

But if I did’nt make it in, do'nt worry about me. Do’nt forget about me either—I'm just on the other side of the wall, hopefully in the Garrison. I know your probably busy doing lots of important things, but come visit sometimes. And when you do, bring me an orange from the Interior.

Happy birthday, and happy graduation.

Your friend,
Marco Bodt

PS I know I forgot some punctuation, but I’m pretty sure this is all spelled right. I wouldve asked someone else, but this is supposed to be a surprise.

Also, look in the back!

Jean can barely see as he flips to the back, and he can’t control the hiccupped sob that escapes from his throat when he finds the drawing that he made so long ago during a boring lesson—it’s of him and Marco, sitting atop a giant pile of oranges.

He clutches the sketchbook against his chest even as he fights not to cry; but he can’t, and so he finally lets himself grieve, sobbing so hard he can barely breathe.

Thankfully, no one finds him in that state, and he cries himself to sleep.

He dreams of Marco and sliding across ice in their boots, lying on a straw mattress in Jinae; only this time, Marco hugs him and tells him it’s okay as Jean cries, tells him that he made a good decision joining the Scouting Legion, says that they’ll see each other again one day, kisses Jean’s hair and strokes his face, until Jean wakes up the next morning alone.

He keeps his sachet of pine needles and orange rind close, still sleeps with it under his pillow, and when he goes outside the Wall for the first time, he kisses his blade—and the fingers that held Marco’s bones—and promises to make him proud. Jean promises that until he dies, he’ll live the type of life that Marco would have wanted.

And for every year that follows, Jean eats an orange in the spring, and visits Jinae when it snows.