HAPPY BIRTHDAY moami !! ❤ ❤ ❤
NICOLAS. Nic, ahhhh, I am screaming. This is the first time I see your Jeanmarcos, and they are so precious! Thank you so much!!
I can imagine them actually walk up to my door and ring and hold up the sign while grinning so happily. You made them so cute, adorable, just perfect. Thank you. I feel all giddy that we got to meet and became friends, that you invested so much love and time to do this for me.
Thank you, Nic – you are amazing ♥ ♥
Marco’s always had enough feelings and liquid happiness and warm, soft-red love for the both of them.
Maybe that’s why Jean’s mouth is empty of any sound when the titan’s jaw closes around him, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t scream, or cry, or close his eyes.
He’s lost his heart months ago. It’s only now that it does its last beat, and stills.
“You should be proud, Jeanbo. There are only a few men who stay a soprano even after voice break.” His mother smiles, warm fingers running through Jean’s hair as she hugs him tightly. Jean hates that he’s still comforted by this even at sixteen, that his tears and dark sobs stop coming after an hour or so, that he almost forgets about the teasing of his classmates about him singing the solo in the town’s small choir. They’ve always looked down on him. Now, it’s bullying.
A soprano. He had hoped for tenor, at least, but his voice break came and went without any change to the melodies echoing in his throat. Speaking, yes, that works, but he’s got no friends to talk to anyways, and as soon as the ‘gay’ rumours start, all is lost. It’s true, yet he wishes it wasn’t. He loves singing and he loves boys. None of it is right to the people that share a classroom with him.
“It’ll be alright,” his mother hums, a melody of Jean’s favourite song on her lips. “Everything will be fine. You’ll find your place, somewhere, believe me.
Jean finishes school without knowing what a camping trip with friends feels like, but knowing very well what the words ‘fag’ and ‘disgusting’ feel inside his chest.
His mother cries and kisses him goodbye when he leaves for a town that’s bigger in mind and smaller in space than the cold village he grew up in. It will take time to figure out a major, but he’s got a flat and food and a warm bed, and – his university has a choir.
On his first day of university, Jean enters the rehearsal room. There aren’t a lot of people to audition, and he’s up quicker than he’s hoped. The choir’s leader is a short man with dark hair and even blacker eyes that frown at every applicant equally. He points out that Jean’s choice of song is “a bit unconventional, isn’t that a duet?” And before Jean can say anything else, the choir leader waves another singer closer, and asks whether he’s familiar with the score.
The answer is a yes. The other singer has a nightsky of freckles on his nose, and a smile that drags the floor away from underneath Jean’s feet. He quickly looks down when the man stands by his side.
“I’m Marco,” he says, but the choir leader orders them to start already, and Jean’s world blurs into a caleidoscope of music and melodies as soon as the first word leaves Marco’s lips.
No more talk of darkness
Forget these wide-eyed fears
I’m here, nothing can harm you
My words will warm and calm you
The warm shivers running through Jean’s blood shouldn’t feel so good. He closes his eyes and listens, floods away with the heavy drawl in Marco’s voice, some accent he doesn’t know and cannot care about. It’s like they’re singing together, for each other, voices and words melting together. His part comes up – and Jean breathes, natural, opens his mouth.
Say you’ll love me every waking moment
Turn my head with talk of summer time
Say you need me with you now and always
Promise me that all you say is true
That’s all I ask of you
The room is quiet around them. Jean doesn’t notice the taste of salt on his lips until a hand comes down on his shoulder. Somewhere, in the back of his vision, he can see the rest of the choir staring as he opens his eyes. But right in front of him is Marco, fingers curling around Jean’s shaking shoulders, and the words
Love me, that’s all I ask of you
on his lips. Marco smiles. He brings a hand to Jean’s face to wipe his tears, and says something that sounds like “welcome” through the daze of emotions inside Jean’s head. Jean blinks and smiles back, weak, overwhelmed.
“I like your voice,” Marco says, suddenly.
Jean’s first day at university is new and strange and nerve-wrecking. And still, he couldn’t have asked for more.
“Oh my God,” Jean says. “Oh my fucking – God.”
“Would you stop that, please, I’m trying to make a sandwich here.” Marco’s face is redder than the ketchup bottle he’s clutching tightly to his chest, as if he’s trying to defend himself with the poor condiment.
“You are incredible,” Jean repeats and shakes his head, a wide grin spreading on his lips. Something gleams in his eyes, gentle mockery and amber adoration. “Unbelievable. My boyfriend just got a thousand times cuter. Didn’t think that was possible.”
“I didn’t even do anything. Now, could I just – “
“Marco.” Jean takes the ketchup bottle, sets it on the counter and points at the sandwiches as if they’re convicted criminals. “Marco Bodt. You paint little ketchup smileys on your sandwiches. It doesn’t get any cuter than this.”
“Uhh,” Marco says and tries to shove the second plate behind his back. “Yeah, you’re right, doesn’t get any, ah. Cuter. I guess.”
Jean’s reflexes aren’t the fastest, but when it’s about food and slash or his boyfriend, he’s quicker than a cat with cream. He snatches the plate with a triumphant howl, gently peeling the upper toast off the sandwich and – blinks. “Did you – okay, I take everything back. You did just get cuter.”
Marco buries his face in his hands. “I used to make sandwiches for my sisters, okay, this isn’t my fault. And I’m not cute.”
But Jean just leans in to kiss his forehead, the fingertips that hide his face, grinning like the lovestruck idiot he is. “Baby, you draw ketchup smileys on my sandwich and circle them with mustard hearts. Fucking mustard hearts. I think I couldn’t love you any more than I do now. And you’re fucking cute, okay?”
Marco rolls his eyes and accepts the kiss before finishing their sandwiches.
How the Sun loved the Moon
an individual post for the cover I made for mariechaan and I’s playlist, which you can listen to here
Jeanmarco Week 2015. Day 1: B
egin againorDream on
“Marco!”
If all other laws of nature crumble apart, this one will always and forever stand adamant and untouched – when Jean calls his name, loud and wild and with a smile that has his face light up in amber, Marco follows, every single time, no matter what.
Jean finds new dreams for them, and Marco takes his hand to guide him around stones that lie in their way. Together, they walk. Together, they dream on.
“Do you think we have a chance?”
Jean’s fingertips sow embers on Marco’s skin, and he shivers when warm hands dance down his spine, tracing the vulnerable bones that protect the flesh under which his soul flows. Marco doesn’t know what to say. They are lucky, this time. This reality is free of war and blood, there’s cars and a blue sky and a warm bed that belongs just to them and nobody else. Marco knows that Jean is afraid. He knows that he jolts awake at 4 a.m., crying and shaking, a hand digging nails into Marco’s shoulder until he opens his eyes. That’s when Jean sobs “alive, you’re a-alive” and crawls into his arms as if he wants to vanish inside Marco’s thundering heart.
He turns around, catches Jean’s soft cheeks between fingers and kisses him. The tiny noise Jean makes when Marco backs away is gorgeous, and he wants it only for himself. He smiles. Jean’s eyes are gold, liquid hope.
“Yeah. I think we’ll be alright.”
Jean knows he doesn’t deserve happiness. He’s not brilliant or talented, and he certainly doesn’t do any good to the world. But Marco smiles, sun rising on his cheeks, and kisses away all doubts from his trembling mouth. “You’re always enough,” he says. Jean knows he’s telling the truth. He’s never heard a more beautiful story than the one Marco whispers to him through touches, kisses, a strong body against his own. Maybe Jean doesn’t deserve it, but god does he take all the happiness Marco radiates into his heart.
Moami 
