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Sometimes it was soft.
Sometimes he would hold Jean, cradle him close and kiss the crown of his head, trailing feather like kisses down his head, down his cheek, across his nose to carefully place his warm lips on the others. It was always so careful, never squeezing the other too tight, never kissing him too hard unless lost deep in the throws of passion, breath hard and bodies flushed as they moved in sync with one another. Hard but never rough. Always so caring, always putting Jean first. They would sneak around, endless nights awake in each others embrace, making the other feel things that could only be imagined. But they were becoming real. They were happening, they would make each other shake, always imagining this would be it for the rest of their lives, with one another, never to lose the other.
Marco would gladly accept kisses in return from Jean. Gentle kisses along his soft cheeks, lightly dusted with freckles, down his jaw and along his chin. They knew what the other wanted, it was never forceful, never hard or pushy. Jean would always quietly praise a higher up being for allowing such happiness, such gentle warm loving. A warm smile would grow on Marcos lips, always questioned. No, I'm not laughing at you. I'm just happy. Very happy. Happy with you. You make me so very happy, Jean.
Happy... Would often come a bewildered response. It never struck Jean how happy he was with Marco, how he made his heart flutter, how he sent butterflies and hurricanes to his stomach. Marco would calm him down, hold him back from fights, pull him away to chasdise Jean for being so aggressive. It never stopped him loving Jean. Nothing could. After Jean had calmed down, drifted off into sleep, Marco would sneak out, writing small apologises to whomever had gotten the bad end of Jean. It always amazed Jean how Marco could break him down, how he could see inside, make him so vulnerable, make him talk without pushing him. He'd long forgotten the terror that awaited them when they left training.
It didn't matter to him, he knew they would be together in the inner district, how they would serve the king and live well together. They would try all the foods that had been drooled over in the dining all. The wines, chocolates, expensive pastries. They would be together, Jean would make sure of that. He refused to let Marco go. But Marco was there. He was there for him. He would kiss his tears away, squeeze his fears out of him until he was left shaking with his head on a tear stained pillow, or Marcos tear stained shirt, to which he would profoundly apologise with a weak laugh and a wiry smile. Marco was kind, always so kind, reminding him not to be afraid, not to worry about his shirt, not to cry any more because he was there. He wasn't going to leave Jean, not ever. Not in this life time.
Those times were soft.
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Sometimes it wasn’t as soft.
The bones sticking out of Marcos chest were not soft. The first voice he had heard after losing him was not soft. The words spoken weren't soft. The ground where his body lay was not soft. The look on his fallen comrades face was not soft. Oh but how soft his rotting flesh was. How soft the parts of his hair which weren’t matted with blood were. Even how soft and weak Jeans knees felt, ready to collapse from underneath him. How soft the core of earth was, ready to collapse and swallow him whole. He almost prayed for it.
But strength was needed. Strength not to collapse and cradle the body before him as it had once cradled him and weep. Strength to speak. Strength to walk. Strength to keep breathing. It seemed impossible to keep that strength, that willpower to move on, to keep going. It felt almost impossible to him. It was impossible without Marco, without Marco edging him on to be strong, holding his hand and whispering in his ear. Don't cry any more because he was there. He wasn't going to leave Jean, not ever. Not in this life time.
Jean was the last one to leave the bonfire of bodies, the one containing his dead love. His strength had left him, burnt away as the flesh of his loved one had for hours with the dozens of pained nameless faces piled up and next to him, all lost to regain Trost. Such a sacrifice taken for such a small amount of land. It felt stupid to him. Why must he go through such agony for one town? The bones were stacked up, countless skulls, thousands of ribs and spines, all belonging to those who had families, friends, enemies, lives gone in the blink of an eye, taken by monsters in broad day light.
No one came that evening to hold Jean as he wept for his loss. No one came to hold him and kiss his tears away. No one told him it would be alright, Marco was there, Marco wouldn’t let him be hurt. Marco wasn’t there any more. How could he? How could he leave Jean like this? he wasn't ready to say goodbye just yet. He wasn't ready to let go. He needed him, he needed his warm loving embrace, his soft kisses, his heartbeat in Jeans ear. Marco had been right. Jean wasn't strong. He didn't have a fraction of the strength he claimed to have. But Marco had lied. He left him he promised he wouldn't leave him. Not ever. Not in this life time.
He had never felt more alone in his life.
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After Marco was gone, things were harder.
Getting in the bunker alone, sleeping alone, crying alone, getting out of the bunker alone. Fighting. Breathing. Eating. Moving. Living. It was a miracle Jean slept at all. It was a miracle he managed to do anything at all. All the energy had been drained from him, wasted on tears and silent cries throughout countless sleepless nights, fighting the will to give up, to lay down and stop moving.
The first night was the hardest, he was told it always was. The dorm was quiet, faces cast down to the floor where their fallen comrades would sit, laugh and smile. None of them were used to such silence. Jean could almost laugh at how he could hear himself think for once. If he had the energy. It was too quiet. Deathly quiet. Marco wasn't there to hold Jean's hand behind his back and laugh with him. It felt as if a part of him was missing. No ones hand to hold onto, no body to squeeze, no one to listen to him, laughing and smiling in all the right places. It pissed him off. A surge of fury overcame him, kicking up off of his bunker to land hard on the floor. All the empty faces turned to him as Jean clenched his fists, clenched his teeth and narrowed his weary eyes, staring one by one at each of the tormented faces in front of him. He could only imagine how he looked to them. Weak. Jean couldn't read these faces, he couldn't read them how Marco could read them. No one could read them how Marco could.
A moment had passed before he moved. It amazed him how he managed to walk with such purpose out of the dorm. It amazed him how he managed to keep walking, refusing to turn his back, refusing to acknowledge where he was going. He kept walking until it came to the surface, the heartbreak, the agony of losing a lover, the agony of losing the only one he could open up to, the only one who could see past his strong façade. Knees buckling underneath him, he fell to the floor, arms out in front of him to hold him up as the tears came. The tears, screams and fears overtook him, leaving him a shaking quivering mess on the dusty ground, alone in the darkness. Everything he feared had crept out of his worst nightmares and found him, a cold black claw around his neck, drawing strangled screams and ugly sobs from his dry throat, screams and sobs no one could hear. Allowing himself to fall to the floor, Jean wrapped his arms around himself as if he could keep himself together, as if he could stop his agony and aching, even if for a second. He needed someone to hold him together, he needed someone to do it for him because he couldn't do it alone. But he was alone. He had never been so alone, never been so lost. He wasn't trained for this. He was trained to fight, not to lose his friends, not to deal with such torment.
After what felt like hours, Jean was reduced to empty sobs, his throat tight and eyes dry. He mustered up what was left of his strength to pull himself up, legs shaking as he slowly took step by step back toward the dorm, wobbling on his feet. Before long he arrived back, taking a shaky deep breath before pushing the door open. The same faces were on him, reading his puffy red eyes like a book. He had shown them just how weak he was. How he couldn't deal with the same torment they were all going through. Refusing to speak to anyone, Jean kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed, facing the empty bed beside him, hand reaching out to clench the sheets in front of him.
It was a matter of minutes before Jean gave in, shuffling over into Marco's bed, wrapping himself tight in the others blankets, face buried in an unfamiliar pillow with such a familiar smell. The smell was all that was left of Marco, all that he could hold onto in his darkest moments. It was like greeting an old friend. An old lost friend. It was a great comfort as well as a great burden. Fear washed over him. What if the smell faded? What if they took his sheets and washed them? What if they refused him what was left of Marco? No, he needed this. He needed something to hold onto, something to keep him sane. Something to remind him Marco was real, all the love he had felt, all the love he had received was real,
After the torches had gone out, it was as if the darkness could pull him down and swallow him whole, leave no trace of his existence. In the darkness, the sobs were noticeable. The quiet cries and moans of those he could call his friends echoed around the dorm.
The first night was always the hardest.