Cold

Most of the time, he’s alright. Jean can deal with a lot of things – old pain, being yelled at by his boss, colleagues talking behind his back about “that strange gay guy who’s probably anorexic. God, look at him, why’s he so thin, can’t he eat properly? I bet he’s jerking off while thinking of you, huh?”.

Jean doesn’t listen anymore. He’s doing a great job, he’s sitting at his desk and doing well and being quiet, nice, fulfilling every task he’s given. It’s never enough, never, not enough. Failure. His parents somehow knew that he’d fail, weak at birth and unwanted from some man his mother had barely known, and sometimes Jean can’t deny that it’s the reason they left him by the dirty sink of a cheap fast food restaurant, one night – over twenty years ago. 

Some days are bad. Some days have him walk home with his arms wrapped around his thin body, shoulders shaking, face wet from rain and tears. He doesn’t just get cold – Jean freezes down to his bones, rigid, motionless, stiff. The cold is a force of elemental magnitude. It’s gnawing, susurrating, tempting him to lie down and never move again. When he returns home, it’s just in time. His fingers are blue, lips trembling. It’s almost impossible to slip out of his shoes without breaking down.

His lips taste like salt and wet, dirty rain.

Marco is on the couch already, having set up their dinner, Jean’s favourite red blanket warmed by a heatable pillow. There’s mac and cheese with a bit of leek in it, because Marco knows what Jean loves and even if he himself doesn’t, he feels when there’s time for comfort food and disney movies. The dvds are out and ready, too. Jean loves him so much, and he knows it’ll tear his small helpless heart apart and scatter his pieces into the winds and waters.

Jean falls into his arms. He collapses, all tension breaking out, everything pouring out of his veins. He’s shattering into chips of quiet sobs, tears spilling in silent speechlessness.

Marco catches him. He’s always there, strong and warm like a fire burning steadily, dark scent of wood and love and home. And when a hand slips into Jean’s neck and fingers curl into his hair, lips trailing over his jaw, Jean closes his eyes to listen to Marco’s whisper.

“Welcome home, my love.”

“Mhm.” Jean buries his nose into Marco’s chest, inhales deeply. There’s the usual scent of Marco’s beloved wood, his work as a cabinetmaker shining through the thin veils of his bright form. Jean’s fingers lace up with Marco’s free hand, and he gives a weak noise when Marco runs short fingernails through his hair, massaging his skin, holding and owning and loving him.

“You hungry?” Marco speaks into his hair, breath warm and fiery. Jean tilts his head up a bit and catches Marco’s mouth into a kiss. They melt together, wet and hot happiness tingling on Jean’s skin as he parts his lips and moans when Marco’s tongue presses against his, licking and claiming everything so perfectly.

“Food later. Now kissing.” Jean isn’t really coherent when he’s with Marco, and a horrible day at work doesn’t help it. But Marco is perfect and gorgeous and the best boyfriend in the world, so he just laughs in a way that has Jean’s chest vibrate, toes curl, and then Marco leans over to grab the remote, turning on the tv.

“Alright, baby. How about ‘The Little Mermaid’ and cuddling then?”

Jean doesn’t know what made him deserve Marco Bodt. He doesn’t believe in Karma or reincarnation or good things coming to those who do good and are brave and wonderful. Jean isn’t any of that.

Marco came and conquered him with warm lips and dark eyes full of liquid gold, and Jean’s walls came crumbling.

“Sounds perfect.”