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Marco can tell by the cadence of the footsteps alone that it’s Jean, and not Bertholt or Reiner who’s come into the house. It’s that muted footfall of curiosity as Jean makes his way from one end of the house to the other in search not of his brothers, who he already knows won’t be home, but for Marco.
He’d assured Jean that he’d be home tonight, though this is difficult to judge as there are no lights on downstairs. Marco knows this on account of having turned every one of them off himself. He knows they remain off by the way Jean’s steps drift all too cautiously through the house. First through the living room, then onto the downstairs bathroom. He pauses at the oddly placed go-between nestled in the middle of the front of the house and the kitchen.
Another moment passes without a sound, and at first Marco thinks he’s lost Jean. Within a matter of seconds, however, he’s found him again. He can hear the slow-rusted creak of the wood oven’s door giving way as Jean feeds it pieces of cedar.
Before long Marco can feel the addition of the stove’s heat, can smell the burning cedar even from beneath the extra covers he’s thrown over himself in bed. He doesn’t move, but continues to listen as light switches flick on in the kitchen. Cupboards open and shut, and there’s a slow drag of a kitchen chair.
That’s it, then. He might as well stay in bed now if Jean’s assumed there to be no one home. Ever since moving back more than two years ago, Marco is sure Jean has sat at the kitchen table more than himself and his housemates combined.
That’s alright. Let Jean sit and wait. Nestling deeper into the old flannel comforter, Marco can easily come up with several different things Jean can be working on at the old oak dining table while he waits for him to show up.
He’ll be waiting for a while, Marco imagines. Reiner’s gone for the night. Bertholt hasn’t been home all week. Jean’ll figure it out eventually, come looking again like he usually—
“Boo.”
Marco starts at the sudden invasion, and scolds himself for covering his head and sleeping with his back to the door. Jean’s hands are cold against his skin, though it’s enough to make him feel among the living. Regardless, Jean is always a welcome addition.
Mumbling in acknowledgement of his boyfriend, Marco tries to bury himself deeper into the nest he’d created that morning and perfected throughout the course of the day, only to find his covers being pulled away from him.
“It’s dark out.” Jean’s voice comes gentle enough, though something about his tone still feels like an intrusion. “Thought you were getting your hair cut today?”
“Change of plans.” Marco offers monotonously. “I’m fine. Music PhDs are allowed to look like scrubs.”
“Sure.” One of Jean’s arms wraps around Marco’s waist, and a hand considers the mop of cowlicks atop his head. “Your hair’s so soft, dude. You know it curls when it gets long, right?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“C’mon.”
Where Marco is expecting to be pulled upright, he’s pushed forward instead, and made to stand before he can fall onto the floor.
“Hope you’re wearing socks.” Jean muses. “Cold hardwood is a bitch.”
“Jean.”
“Hm?”
He takes Marco by the hand, lacing their fingers together while leading him into the dim hallway and down the stairs. Marco allows himself to be led, moving completely of Jean’s volition and not his own.
“I figured you didn’t go out today.” Jean tells him, no sign of pity or judgement to detect in his tone. “It’s almost eight, and you mentioned that you should’ve been done with everything hours before that. All of your stuff is right where it was last night, too. So.”
Sometimes it’s frustrating to be so deeply cared about by someone who makes good use of deductive reasoning. It’s tough to complain, though, when Jean leads them into the kitchen where a chair awaits them by the sink. Sitting on the counter are bottles of shampoo and conditioner, comb and scissors, and a stack of towels recently put through the dryer.
It isn’t the first time Marco has felt like crying today, but this time is different than all the others.
Jean says nothing when he lays his hand at the small of Marco’s back and directs him toward the dining chair. Marco obliges him, sitting quietly while Jean tinkers with the faucets until he has the water the way he wants it.
Warm terrycloth nestles against the back of Marco’s neck, and is quickly followed by fingers raking through his hair. Jean drags slowly against his scalp, fingers therapeutic and firm, until Marco can’t help but let go of a grateful little moan.
Eyes sliding closed, Marco trusts Jean completely when one hand eases the back of his head toward the sink. Blissfully hot water begins to slow carve a trail through Marco’s hair, Jean’s free hand not too far behind. Marco’s heart swells and his senses calm as Jean wets and massages his entire head.
Jean takes his time and misses nothing, neither criticizes nor complains about anything. For a moment all Marco can think of is how people have commented on just how thick his hair is since he was a child. Thick hair had typically sounded much less like a compliment when applied to Marco, and much more like an imposition.
Where logic implied that he was likely being admired, as a boy Marco had quickly learned to take care of his own needs, lest he become time consuming and inconvenient. His mother—who he knew to love his curls—had praised him for being such a self-sufficient child.
And then there’s the way Jean’s fingers work at wetting each lock of hair. Jean takes his time, his hands careful and full of reverence each time they pass across Marco’s scalp. As if he’s the one being done a favor. It’s enough to soothe the insecurities of the child that hides inside every person, and Marco could never have asked for this solace even if he’d tried.
Jean turns the water off, and for a moment the only sound is the crackle of the old wood stove one room over. Its warmth permeates the kitchen, and the smell of cedar is soon accompanied by notes of pine as Jean runs shampoo into his palm.
He pays close attention to Marco’s temples, running circles across the delicate spot before trailing his fingers behind Marco’s ears. It’s an unconscious movement when Marco’s neck turns upward at the attention, and Jean can’t help but smile, is glad and wanting to provide more.
“Up.” The word is barely audible as it leaves Jean’s mouth, though Marco obliges him by straightening in the chair. Jean wrings as much water from Marco’s hair as he can get, before toweling him dry. He allows that particular towel to drop to the floor before neatly draping another around Marco’s shoulders.
“You cut hair.”
A placid metallic snip overlaps the crackle of the fire as pieces of Marco’s hair fall to the floor.
“I can cut hair.”
“We’ve actively been in one another’s lives for over two years now, and I’m only now learning this.”
“Reiner did ROTC back in high school.” Jean clarifies. “He let me try doing his once, and as it turns out I’m pretty okay at it. Haven’t done it in years, but yeah. I can cut hair.”
Marco hums in consideration of this. “The more you know…”
Jean smirks, but his body fills with relief as he cherishes Marco’s demonstration of humor. “I like this. If you don’t hate how it turns out, you should let me do it again some time.”
“Mm. It’ll depend on your rates, I guess.”
“We’ll talk.”
They continue in warm silence. Jean deliberates a snip here, measuring Marco’s curls between careful fingers before cutting there. When Jean’s finished he runs playful fingers through what’s left of Marco’s hair, shaking his tapered hair loose.
“I didn’t look for trimmers.” Jean mentions while bent over, sweeping up scraps of unruly curls. “We can do that now or later, if you want—“
The moment he stands, Jean finds himself enveloped in an emotional hug. It’s been quite some time since the two of them have shared a moment like this, and it prompts Jean to lose the towel in favor of embracing Marco immediately.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, neither of them dares move. Jean stands as straight as his body will allow, makes himself as much a pillar as possible when he tells Marco in no uncertain terms that he loves him. It would be so easy for him to go on. To tell Marco just how much he’s adored. How remarkable Jean believes him to be, and how much he hates that he’s made to feel less than he truly is.
Instead Jean decides to keep things simple, and repeats himself.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Jean.” Marco’s hug become tighter before he lets go, opting instead to claim Jean’s hand, where he proceeds to lay kisses against his knuckles. “Would you care if we went back to bed now?”
Jean shrugs nonchalantly. “Can I bring cereal?”
“I don’t care.”
“Alright.” Jean smiles kindly. “Then let’s go back to bed.”
Before climbing the stairs together and retreat into Marco’s bedroom, Jean takes a moment to clean up the kitchen. The towels get stashed in the laundry room, and he pulls the chair back over to the old oak dining table. Taking Marco by the hand he proceeds to turn off the kitchen lights, then pulls Marco along.
Finally, Jean puts out the cedar embers. They can hear the last of the crackling and the creak of old iron as they shut themselves behind Marco’s bedroom door.
===
The sun has barely had the opportunity to rise when Jean wakes to the smell of food cooking downstairs. He’s alone in Marco’s bed, though the warmth that emanates beneath the blankets tells Jean he hasn’t been by himself for very long.
Turning his head sideways, he inhales Marco’s scent before looking toward the clock.
“Quarter to six.” He mumbles blearily. “Gross…”
Within minutes he’s made his way downstairs, having changed into the pair of scrubs he keeps stashed in Marco’s bottommost dresser drawer. It seems as though more and more of Jean’s things are finding their way into Marco’s space these days.
It makes leaving slightly more bearable, even though he’s aware that Marco’s day is just as full. Jean has come to revere the sound of drums, as it often entails leisure and release for his boyfriend, while anything off the piano is an indicator of Marco pouring over what direction he should take with his dissertation.
Really, though. Jean loves hearing both. It’s all Marco to him, and therefore all relative.
Entering the kitchen, he’s greeted by the smell of peppers and eggs, though his eyes are fixed on the French press Marco is currently holding in one hand. Jean comes up from behind, leaning his chin on the back of Marco’s shoulder while removing the coffee from his grip.
“Mine.”
“It’s dark roast.”
“That’s fine.” Jean answers with a yawn, making sure not to spill as he fills the two mugs Marco’s set on the counter. “You went with fancy coffee today.”
“I drink dark roast every day.”
Jean leaves a kiss behind Marco’s ear in answer, and doesn’t bother to dwell on the fact that the French press only comes out when Marco is in the process of picking himself back up again. There’s an omelet waiting for him at the table, which Jean is more than happy to tend to.
“What have I ever done to deserve you. “ He mutters to the cooked eggs, taking his time to rotate the plate while waiting for Marco to join him.
“Who knows.” Marco drawls, nudging Jean’s shoulder with his own as he takes a seat beside him. “Honestly, I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or the omelet.”
“Yes.”
Two years have gone by since making themselves official, yet early mornings are still a novelty within their relationship. At least, early mornings of the domestic variety. The kind where Jean pulls his own clothes out of Marco’s dresser. Where Marco starts his day knowing he’s left Jean in what he’s come to think of as their bed.
Whether he means to or not, Marco has made a habit of noticing the nuances that come with being Jean. He doesn’t mind the way he’ll sometimes see his boyfriend for mere minutes over the course of days; their main source of communication being sporadic texts sent most likely from a cold sidewalk or hospital breakroom. And Marco rather likes how Jean often skips his own apartment, heading straight for the old Dutch Colonial, or how he ends up in Marco’s bed whether or not he happens to be there.
Marco loves not knowing whether he’s going to be greeted by over-fatigued silence or random, impassioned banter. There’s a lot to be said for noticing by the shuffling of instruments, or the smell of a room that even if he missed him, Jean had been near.
It all adds up to a level of familiarity and comfort Marco was once certain he’d never have.
Marco has long since decided that life is better with Jean in it. Looking up from his breakfast, he finds a certain level of amusement in the way Jean is shoving eggs into his mouth around what can only be described as a shit-eating grin.
“Can I help you sir?”
“No.” Jean swallows his breakfast before continuing. Always a bit of an ass, but always a gentleman. “Just wondering who gave you such a dashing haircut.”
Marco sighs and smiles while running his hand across the back of his neck. He’d woken early, unable to stay in that bed for any longer, even if Jean had been there. Though he has only one private lesson amid a day full of course work and lectures, he’d thrown on his best fitting dark wash, along with a fitted vest over an old, comforting flannel button down. Marco had topped himself off by parting his recently cut hair left of center.
Honestly, Jean’s barber skills were pretty good.
“Some high-end know-it-all. You wouldn’t be able to afford him.”
“On a nurse’s salary? Probably not.” Jean reaches out, and ghosts his fingers through Marco’s hair. “Also, he forgot to clean up your neck.”
“Would you help me with that?”
Their eyes meet, and Jean gives him one of those genuine smiles. The kind that only God, mothers and lovers are ever privileged to see, and Marco is certain he’s just fallen in love all over again.
“Yeah.” Jean says quietly. “I’d love to help you with that.”