Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4860512.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_|_Attack_on_Titan
  Relationship:
      Marco_Bott/Jean_Kirstein, OMC/Jean_Kirstein, OMC/Armin_Arlert, Hitch
      Dreyse_&_Marlo_Sand
  Character:
      Jean_Kirstein, Marco_Bott, Mike_Zacharias, Armin_Arlert, Hitch_Dreyse,
      Marlo_Sand, Eren_Yeager
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Child_Abuse, Blood_and_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-23 Updated: 2015-10-22 Chapters: 3/? Words: 18994
****** Yet to Come ******
by tiggeryumyum
Summary
     In an AU where prostitutes are brought to the castle to entertain
     Military Police, Jean is a companion who began his training at 11,
     and Marco Bott is a cadet newly graduating into the Military Police.
     Some really dark stuff here, but there will be a happy ending.
***** Chapter One *****
Jean is seven years old when he discovers hate inside himself.
"You should be very proud," the man who says this has a hand on Jean's
shoulder, bending to look him in the eye. "Your father died for a very noble
cause."
The man isn't the only one – the room is full of people, all adults, saying the
same stupid thing and nodding to one another.
"A great man."
"A good death."
"A noble death."
"We'll always remember his sacrifice."
Jean knows he's the man of the house now, so it's not right for him to cry, to
hit and kick at the ground, but it's all he wants to do. He wants to scream, at
all of them. His father is dead! His body is right there! Why are they acting
happy? Why are they saying happy things? Why do they talk like this is
something good? This is sad and they're all stupid. Jean hates them. Jean hates
all of them and he hates his father the most, for dying.
He hates his father for picking something over him, and he'll never forgive
him.
But life goes on.
Jean has never been popular with his peers. He learned early on that he could
be liked, but not admired – he's often teased for silly mistakes, speaking
awkwardly or stumbling. Other children would learn to laugh at themselves, to
take the teasing in good humor, but Jean has always been very fragile in that
sense, unable to stop protecting his delicate pride, unable to accept his
assigned role as a stooge. Jean distances himself from the other children
fairly quickly, and the town, and nearly everything about it except his mother.
At ten years old, Jean makes the final decision that Trost is just not for him.
There's nothing else for it, and if he's going to move, there's no better place
than past Sina's wall. Behind the last wall is ultimate protection, but the
only realistic way for a commoner like Jean to make it to Sina would be to join
the military, hope to score well enough to make it into the police, or, more
likely, to become a member of the Garrison or Survey Corps, and hope to earn a
mentorship with an officer in the castle. Jean decides this is the path he will
take, but the chance to enlist is still three years away. This seems like an
impossible wait to Jean, who burns with impatience that his mother can't
understand. She is so content in this town, with these people, and is often
baffled by Jean's hurry to leave it, though it sometimes feels like it will
never happen.
But sometimes Jean isn't so unlucky - of course there are other ways past Sina,
the castle and the military need servants and cooks and tailors and whatnot,
though Jean doesn't see himself fitting into any of those roles, not until a
recruiter from the king makes regular visits to Trost, looking for young boys
and girls that would be suited for life inside the castle itself.
Having been overlooked every year previous, Jean never considered this as an
option, but it appears that sometime after his tenth birthday, he stopped being
ugly.
Of course no one around him noticed it themselves, not even Jean, not even
Jean's mother, as it happened in small, daily changes – growing taller and more
slender and more mature, until Jean is eleven, and lovely, and catches the eye
of one such recruiter.
Jean is walking alone, like he usually does, deep in his own head, when a man
calls out to him, and for a moment Jean can't believe it's directed at him –
the man stands outside of a bakery, wears fine, well tailored, clean clothes
and offers Jean a sweet, speaking in a soft, gentle voice that Jean knows would
only be used toward someone who deserves it, someone pretty and good.
He asks for Jean's name and his heart races – how is it possible the man is
mistaking Jean for this? But it's obvious he has.
Jean is clever. If the man thinks he is pretty and good, Jean knows he ought to
do his best to act like it. He smiles in a way that feels fake on his face,
bright and happy like he is a bright and happy child.
"I'm Jean. What's yours?"
The man smiles. Charmed. There are more questions; does Jean get mad easily?
Does he have many friends? Is he quick to help a neighbor in need? Does he
listen to his mother, is Jean a good boy?
It's not as hard as Jean thought. He remembers how other children act in class,
and does the same, smiling and laughing, and lies through his teeth. Of course
he has lots of friends - he's not the lonely, melancholy boy who walks
aimlessly through the city when he has nothing better to do, because he's
simply too prickly for anyone to manage outside of his mother. He's endless
sunshine and charm and grace and everyone loves him and he loves everyone else.
Smile.
It works.
"Jean, would you like to work for the king?"
He can't believe his good luck, and of course his mother celebrates the great
opportunity, so proud of her son she can't stop bragging to their neighbors.
Other children around his age are starting to leave town for their own
apprenticeships, with blacksmiths and science academies and even the church.
Jean is the only one heading straight for the castle. He holds his chin high in
the air and it's clear in his classmates' faces, they're seeing him with new,
clear eyes. They watch in surprise, and even some distaste, as Jean hugs his
mother goodbye and steps onto the carriage for Sina. Good. Jean likes that even
better. He hopes the envy consumes them like wild undergrowth, twining around
their hearts and choking them.
But this confidence dies out quickly.
Jean's not the only one making this trip, there are three girls and one boy
along with him. They're older, and very pretty, and just that quick Jean feels
as out of place as ever, in over his head. His instinct is to keep to himself
as much as possible, but one of the girls is apparently curious, glancing at
Jean over and over before finally introducing herself.
"I'm Hitch," she says.
"That's a weird name," Jean says.
"Well, that's a weird face," Hitch says. Jean frowns at her. "Don't look at me
like that. What, you insult me and don't expect to get anything back?"
Jean shrugs, pulling his legs up to his chest. She's probably at least
fourteen, a real teenager, and the age difference is intimidating.
She scoffs and rolls her eyes and Jean feels even worse, and, less than an hour
into his journey, misses his mother.
The castle is the biggest structure Jean's ever seen, outside of the church –
and it's about twenty of those. Jean is stunned by the sight, literally
stumbling as he exits the carriage, falling to his knees.
Hitch sighs as though her life is very difficult, and hoists Jean back up to
his feet. "You're not going to last ten minutes, are you?"
Jean scowls and pulls his arm free.
They're brought into a large, beautiful room with thick carpeting and pink
colored walls. There are candies set out on small tables and Jean quickly takes
a whole handful, then feels a bit silly as no one else does - still, they're
good, richer than anything he could find it Trost and pops them in his mouth
one at a time as they wait. More teenagers are brought in, and Jean watches
with building nervousness, eating the candy slower. He hasn't seen a single
person his age and is beginning to feel more and more ridiculous and babyish,
and suddenly can't stand the taste of chocolate on his tongue.
After some time, a tall, solid, blond man enters the room. He takes a seat in
one of the large armchairs and tells them all to gather around. He seems nice,
and calm, and this settles Jean's nerves somewhat.
"I'm Mike. I was where you're standing almost ten years ago, I've been through
all this before and I've watched hundreds of kids do it since then. You're free
to do whatever you like, but it'd be a smart thing to follow my advice.
Alright?"
Jean likes that part – about being free to do whatever he likes. He smiles to
himself.
"We're gonna be training you guys for two years," says Mike. "You're gonna have
a place to stay in the castle, and food every day. As payment, you're gonna be
available to any of the soldiers and officers any time they request you."
"What about after?" Jean asks. He doesn't want to stay in the castle for just
two years and head straight home to Trost, the idea is awful.
Mike looks at him, sizing him up. He smiles. "Ah, you're a little spitfire
aren't you?"
Jean smiles, because that sounds like a positive thing, at least Mike saidit
like it was a good thing.
"After two years you're on your own. You can stay in the castle but you'll have
to pay your own way. If you're smart, that won't be a problem. If you're not,
you'll be packing your bags for whatever hole in the earth you came from."
Jean decides this is nothing to be worried about. Two years is a very, very
long time away. Lots of time to prepare. He rocks back on his heels, confident
and excited.
Mike starts speaking to each companion individually, learning their names and
ages.
"And how old are you, spitfire?" asks Mike, encouraging Jean to move closer,
and Jean stands at the side of his chair. Mike lifts Jean's chin, stroking the
side of his face. Even though it's gentle touch and it doesn't hurt, it makes
Jean nervous in a way he can't really describe.
"Eleven," he says, quietly, feeling shy.
"Nice," Mike says. "Lot of potential. Very nice. But you can't be timid, kid."
Mike keeps his hand on Jean a moment longer, and Jean tries to relax but he
can't quite manage it. Mike gives him a pat on the shoulder and Jean hurries to
his spot, back in the group.
~
Jean expects the training at the castle to be hard work, but everyone there
seems to move as though they're half asleep. It's warm and lazy, and Jean is
immediately pulled under the lukewarm atmosphere. They spend the rest of the
day on a tour of the castle, encouraged to explore on their own. Other
companions, ones who have lived here for years, sit around lazily, reading or
eating or in the company of a passing officer. Jean's never seen adults acting
like this, like big, lazy cats, and is fascinated.
The next day, Mike wakes them all up in the early, early morning, sky still
dark, and tells them it'd be a good idea to come with him.
"Don't bother to change," he says.
The few older, more experienced companions that still share their bunks groan
at the light, pulling the blankets over their heads, as the new group trails
out the door. Mike leads them deeper into the castle, an area Jean hadn't
bothered to explore the previous day, more attracted to the outside gardens.
"These are the communal baths of every high ranking officer in Utopia. Any
companion behind the walls would kill to spend an evening in here," Mike says.
"This is your best chance to work your magic on successful men and women in the
castle. It's where you want to be."
"That's where the king bathes," Hitch whispers to Jean, pointing to a huge,
ornate tub to the side. "Saw it yesterday. Imagine – "
"Do not. Approach the king," Mike says, eyes on Hitch and Jean. "Companions do
not approach the king. The king approaches them."
Hitch slumps, frowning so hard her lip pokes out.
A year ago Jean thought nothing of nakedness, other than occasional
opportunities for humor. He's only just started to discover a sense of privacy
and insecurity about his body, and it has him paralyzed when Mike encourages
them to try out the water. The rest of the companions begin disrobing like this
is is nothing. Determined to not act even more like an infant, he yanks off his
own clothing quickly, to get it over with – and it is a little exciting, he's
never seen a room so big and beautiful and clean in his life, the floor is hard
like stone but polished like metal, and Hitch tells him it's marble. There's
more marble in the bath itself, the patterns under the water colorful and
bright, his immediate instinct is to cannonball in. Which he does.
"Jean!" Hitch sputters, swimming away and Jean laughs, lifting his feet to kick
more water in her face. "Knock it off!"
"Real cute, Jean," Mike says. "But you can't pull off cute."
Jean stares, confused. That's not how he expected the reprimand to go. Then
again, it wasn't really a reprimand, after all, Mike says they're free to do
whatever they want.
"Pull off...?" Jean asks, not sure he understands what advice Mike is trying to
give.
"I get you're a little younger than the rest of these guys but you're going to
have to learn to be dignified," Mike says. "Trust me, it'll serve you way
better. And if you do it right, the officers'll treat you with more respect,
too. It's a good thing."
"Oh," Jean says. His face burns in embarrassment, of course it'd be very
childish to jump into a tub full of old men and women, kicking water in their
face. "Hey!" he says, ducking when Hitch gives him a quick splash in
retribution. "You can't pull off cute, Hitch!" he repeats, though he really has
no idea what he's saying.
They wash themselves and enjoy the warmth in the water, the high ceilings and
how their nervous giggles echo through the room. Jean is not the only one who's
never seen such luxury and they're all openly relishing it, until the officers
start entering.
Their steps and voices are loud and confident, booming in the room, and Jean
drifts a little closer to Hitch.
"Ah, don't tell me the new blood's already here!" One says. "It's already been
a year?"
"That it has," Mike says, sitting on the side. "Go easy on them. It's their
second day."
"Freshest meat," says one of the men. He looks really happy about this,
whistling to himself as he yanks off his clothes, hurrying into the water.
These first two men are entertained by the companions on the edge of the group.
Jean floats toward the other end, watching with increasing worry. He hadn't
really understood that nakedness would be involved with this, adult nakedness,
and they're so bold about it, moving in close with the companions that they've
chosen, laughing and talking in that same sweet, kind voice the recruiter used.
Jean wants to leave the bath. He doesn't want men getting that close to him or
talking to him like that.
More soldiers start entering, though, and one enters the tub directly behind
Jean.
He makes a sharp, panicked noise of surprise, pushing away.
"Hey, it's okay kiddo." This one is a woman. Her breasts are full and large,
water lapping between them, and Jean feels his face heating. He feels dizzy. He
scrambles for the edge of the bath, pulling himself up, then rushing for his
towel.
"Jean," says Mike, but Jean ignores him and hurries back to the companions
quarters.
~
"Too much, too fast, huh?" Mike asks.
Jean nods. He's fully dressed under his blankets and still can't forget how
embarrassing it felt to be naked with all those people.
"Well, I got bad news," Mike says. "That's basically the entire job. That's
what a companion does."
"I don't like it," Jean says.
"Such a shame, Jean," Mike sighs. "If you had a different face... this
temperament would be perfect."
Jean scowls at Mike. He doesn't like that he keeps saying things like that.
"Each companion has their own strengths. Yours is going to have to come from
confidence," Mike tells him, hands on Jean's back. "You can't be timid. You
have to be strong, sure of yourself."
"I am sure of myself," Jean says, scowling. Sure he doesn't want them to touch
him.
"And most importantly, you must be agreeable, Jean," Mike says, sighing. "Some
of these soldiers are coming back from seeing their own comrades die. They
don't want to see such a sour face, do you understand? You're their escape. You
have to play the part."
Jean does not like this. At all. He thinks maybe he'd like to return to Trost,
then remembers his classmates stares. Are they worse than the nakedness of the
soldiers?? At least here he has safety.
"You can learn, if you want. Or you can leave. Up to you."
"I don't want to go back to Trost," Jean mumbles, hitching up his shoulders.
"Then I'll see what I can do."
Mike arranges for Jean to meet an officer in his chambers for lunch. Just the
two of them, so it should be easier. Jean is told to sit with the man, Anacker,
and be very sweet. This is not so hard, but like before, it leads to touching,
which Jean does not want or like, and he wilts away quickly, whining under his
breath.
"Yeah, Mike wasn't lying," Anacker says after Jean pulls free. "You're timid as
hell, aren't you?"
Jean frowns at him.
"Ha, kid. You're not going to last long around here with that expression. You
should be smiling. Aren't you happy to be here? Don't you like the castle?"
"Yes," Jean says, slowly. He does. He thinks the castle is pretty. He likes his
bed, he likes sleeping in the same room with the other companions. He likes not
being in Trost.
"Then be a good boy for me," Anacker says. "We're gonna do this fast, it'll be
easier once we break you in."
Anacker hoists Jean up and puts him on his lap. Anacker is a large man with
dark hair, and big hands, who easily holds Jean in place when he tries to climb
away. He puts both hands under Jean's shirt.
"That doesn't hurt, does it?"
It doesn't hurt but it feels weird, feels even more strange when Anacker starts
touching his nipples. Jean scrunches his face and tries to arch his body away
from the touch but he can't. One large hand keeps Jean pinned to Anacker's
chest with the other goes between his legs.
Eventually he stops fighting, but his breathing goes very strange and he cries,
light and confused, not sure what to make of what's happening to his body. It's
the first time he gets hard, and the sensation makes him cry harder.
"You cry very nice," Anacker praises. "Very nice. Gonna be very popular around
here. Gonna end up bragging that I had you first, I bet."
Jean keeps crying.
But he's stopped by the time Mike comes to visit him again, after the visit.
"Feel any better about getting naked?" Mike asks.
Jean nods. Because he's learned being clothed doesn't actually prevent the
touches at all.
"Good. Like I said, I think you have a lot of potential. I'd hate to see that
wasted," Mike says.
~
Jean is clever, and in the next three years, he learns to be agreeable.
A few of the companions ended up leaving after the two year free ride in the
castle ended, but more remained, Jean and Hitch among them. In time, Jean
learned what Mike had been trying to tell him and he has a large, successful
group of high ranking officers that request his name regularly. He decides to
stay in the castle even though he could afford a space of his own – it's just
easier for both him and his clients, and he's not sure he's really interested
in entertaining the entire inner city at large. He's heard it's better, there's
more freedom, but he's familiar with the castle, and the other companions, and
prefers it.
Commander Erwin is never interested in Jean's type of company, and though he's
faultlessly pleasant – sometimes even humoring a flirting, hopeful companion –
Jean learned a long time ago that it's not worth wasting his good stuff on the
man. When he enters Officer Grese's private chambers and sees Erwin waiting he
just nods, dropping on the couch to wait.
"I'm early," Jean says to Erwin's stare. "Just ignore me."
"I will," Erwin says. "Grese is another matter. Won't be able to focus with you
in the room, will he?"
"Sorry," Jean says, but isn't, really. Grese is one of the men who likes Jean
to be relaxed and easy when they're together, really just a limp doll that he
can fondle, so Jean helps himself to the man's liquor cabinet, pouring himself
a shot.
Erwin laughs quietly at Jean's gall, so Jean asks if he'd like a drink, too.
"No, thank you..." Erwin says. Then, abruptly, "How tall are you? 173?"
"75."
"Weight? 63? 62?"
"Good eye," Jean smiles, then yelps, dodging with time to spare when Erwin
suddenly throws something small and hard at his head. It's a cork. It hits the
wall behind him and falls to the floor.
Jean stares, baffled.
"Such a shame," Erwin says. "Tell Grese I'll reschedule."
Jean nods numbly at Erwin's retreating back.
Jean drinks in little sips, but this just makes the taste worse. He shudders
each time, even though this clashes with the image he generally tries to
project: smooth and welcoming of just about any experience, especially naughty
ones, but he's never been able to enjoy alcohol, forcing a smile whenever it's
bought for him as a treat. Maybe when he's older, it's what Mike says, but Jean
can't imagine this.
He knows what Erwin was implying, but the man is generally strange and Jean
decides to dismiss it without much thought. It's possible Jean would've made a
good soldier. It was his first childish dream, after all. But it's possible
Jean would've been good at many things he hasn't done. This is the life he has,
and it's one of the best available behind the walls.
"Naughty child!" Grese says.
Jean smooths his expression, then turns to face Grese with a shameless smile.
"You were taking so long! I got bored."
"Mmm, we can't allow that, can we?" Grese is a fat old man with many children
and his first grandchild on the way – in fact, he reminds Jean somewhat of his
own grandfather. His beard is spotted in gray and his body is saggy with age.
His hand is clammy between Jean's legs, pushing down into his pants. He fumbles
unpleasantly, pinching, pushing aside Jean's underwear, gripping Jean's balls
in a firm, uncomfortable hold. Jean smiles like this is enjoyable, because
Grese likes his partners to enjoy themselves.
"Certainly not bored now," Jean says. Calm. Agreeable.
~
Mike was absolutely right about the baths being the best opportunity to make
connections, and like all good, observant companions, Jean's learned the
schedules of the senior officers. The king bathes in the early afternoon,
though it's kind of a dead hour for companions. Everyone is on their best
behavior in front of the king, none of the rowdy and playful flirting, it's a
quiet and solemn time, and Jean only bathes at that time when his schedule
leaves him no other choice.
"Busy day?" Jean asks when he sees Hitch already in the tub.
She sighs, heavy and long. It's enough of an answer. Jean feels bad for the
female companions. They do have breasts and that's a pretty nice bonus, but
there's also a risk of pregnancy which makes them no-go for several of the
officers just on principle.
It's rumored the king is one of those people, that he prefers the company of
boys, but Jean's never seen any evidence. He frowns over at the man, who is
currently looking over some book in the tub, drinking from a large goblet. He
looks bored.
"Mike said we don't approach the king," Hitch reminds him in a quiet, sing-song
voice, reading Jean easily and the voice sets him on edge.
"Mike said we're free to do what we please."
"Right. Big talk. You're a coward, Jean, you'd never – " It's impulsive as hell
but just seeing Hitch's eyes go so big and round in shock when Jean lifts
himself out of the tub is satisfaction enough. But then Jean is actually
standing, actually moving – this is a terrible, shitty idea, but he commits,
forcing himself forward before he can properly think about it.
He steps in long, confident strides, chin high, and it's so fast the king's
guard doesn't even react until he's at the side of the king - close enough to
touch, closer than he's ever been before. It's kind of underwhelming. He's an
older man, handsome-ish. Large, stomach soft with a thick trail of hair going
down his stomach, disappearing into the water.
Planting one foot on the edge, Jean spins smoothly, and then he's straddling
the tub, standing over the king's chest in a breathtaking act of arrogance.
This is easily the most terrifying thing Jean has done in his life, but he
keeps his expression cool, staring down at the king with his chin held high,
and knows the gamble pays off when the king's hand flies up – halting his guard
from removing Jean.
Jean swallows, and the relief that washes over him is enough to make his knees
weak, but of course he stays standing tall.
The king's hand lands on Jean's foot, then slides, slowly, to his ankle.
"Very nice," the king says. He pinches, lightly, at Jean's Achilles tendon,
then up until he's at the tender skin behind Jean's knee. That's as far as he
can reach. Jean tilts his head to the side, doing his best to remain unaffected
by the king's touch, the king's unspoken desire to explore more.
For a man in absolute power, a person like Jean – utterly nothing – acting in
this way is an amusing, enticing novelty. Jean keeps this at the forefront of
his mind as he lifts one leg, pressing his foot against the wall beside the
king's head, still looking down his nose at him.
The king actually swallows, his eyes tracing the length of Jean's calf, then up
to his thigh.
"Get down here, boy," he says.
Jean smiles, and joins him in the water.
The king yanks him until Jean is practically sitting on his lap, his long legs
stretched up, one on the king's shoulder, the other on the rim of the tub.
Finally, he glances up at Hitch, who he'd actually somewhat forgotten in his
kamikaze run. She's peeking over the side of the tub with eyes the size of
saucers. He smiles at her and turns his attention to the king, but the man
doesn't really acknowledge Jean after that, carrying on with his business,
occasionally rubbing up Jean's leg, to his thigh, but that's all.
Jean is pruney and woozy from the heat and steam by the end, but smiling and
proud of himself. He passes out immediately when he reaches his bed, still wet
and dripping all over the blankets. He doesn't care. He feels like he just
wrestled a titan and won.
~
"I have a direct order from the king," Mike says.
Jean lifts his head, still sleepy. Is Mike talking to him? Blinking open blurry
eyes, he realizes yes.
"You're keeping your legs hairless from now on."
It takes Jean a moment longer to process that, then he smiles. "Alright."
"'Alright,'" Mike mimics, disgusted. "Kirstein, you're coming with me."
Annoyed but knowing better than to show it, Jean hurries to get dressed,
stumbling after Mike in the hall.
"Will I need shoes?" Jean asks, trying to get any clue about their destination
without being too forward.
"Nah. Right through this door," Mike says, shoving open a set of double doors
that lead toward the courtyard, the king's study, offices, his private kitchens
– where Jean would never dream of being taken. He hurries his step, sticking
close to Mike. "So, you wanna be close to the king."
"Of course," Jean says.
"Well, it comes at a cost."
"Oh?" Jean asks. He's getting truly annoyed now, and does his best to suppress
it, biting his tongue as they walk. Calm. Agreeable.
Mike pushes open another set of double doors and for a moment Jean thinks
they're in the courtyard, then realizes no, it's a garden – the area is
beautiful, large and spacious, and Jean has to stop, staring in awe at animals
he's never seen before – birds and reptiles, something that looks like a cat
but bigger and more dangerous – laying out in the sun. A large fountain and
trees with fat leaves. It's like an utterly new world, and Jean marvels
silently.
"Here we are," Mike says. "Jean, I'd like you to meet Armin."
Mike is pointing out into the garden, where a young man sits a good distance
away – on a bench overlooking the fountain. The first thing that catches Jean's
attention is the boy's eye patch, and as he looks closer he sees an ear is
missing, too. Maybe some kind of accident, but they're on opposite sides of his
head.
When he notices Armin's missing an arm and a leg as well, it's so surprising he
almost takes a step back.
"What happened?" Jean asks before he can remember himself, and his training. "I
– I'm sorry."
"The king gets his favorites," Mike shrugs. "He sees something he likes and
wants to make it as powerless as possible. Armin's not the first kid, and he
won't be the last. So what do you like more, Jean? Protection seem worth the
price of your legs? Arms? I mean, I'm not one to judge, maybe it is. Not many
people get to sit in the king's private garden, and Armin's the last person in
the walls that's gotta worry about titans. Heaven on earth. That worth it to
you?"
Jean can't stop staring at the boy, speechless.
"Want to go say hello? He's a nice kid," Mike says.
Jean shakes his head, taking several steps back. He's silent as he follows Mike
back out, eyes on the floor, unsure of his own emotions.
He begins bathing in the early mornings, avoiding the afternoon crowd, but of
course, starts shaving his legs. It's the order of the king, after all.
~
"The new graduating class of Military Police will be arriving soon," Mike says.
"There's going to be a ceremony, you're all invited."
Jean stops paying attention. This is information for the new companions that
arrived this year, who watch with nervous, wide eyes. Jean's been through this
process three times now.
" - After the initial meet and greet they'll be able to request you by name.
That'll be good for you. These guys are gonna be the new elite. They're the top
performers in their classes. You wanna make an impression on them now," Mike
says, glancing at Jean. "The old fogies hanging around here aren't gonna last
forever."
Jean just rolls his eyes. Unlike many of the companions, Jean has a healthy
repertoire with multiple senior officers and several up and coming soldiers. He
doesn't feel the need to expand it, can't think of any reason to join them,
until he remembers – he's fifteen.
He shows up to the ceremony in the thin, casual clothes he usually wears for a
sudden, late night call to an officer's bed, what he wears when he doesn't have
to put effort into his appearance, and lingers in the back.
If things had gone differently – if he'd kept walking when the recruiter called
out for him, if he'd never gotten pretty, if he'd been sick that week, if
countless other maybes had happened – this is the group he would've graduated
with.
They look young. It's their faces, maybe. Their open, happy expressions. The
new graduates always looked young to Jean, out of place in the castle, but this
has new context when he sees them as a group of his peers. They're elbowing one
another in congratulations, reminiscing about their lives at the training camp.
Could Jean be one of them? Could he ever really look that oblivious? That
young? That happy?
He wonders how old the blond boy in the king's gardens, Armin, is. If he
thought about becoming a blacksmith or a painter or a farmer, a member of the
Military Police. He wonders how he's spending his time tonight, if he's laying
on his back under the king. If, in another reality, he's standing in this room
wearing the Military Police insignia on his back instead.
He doesn't like these feelings, but isn't really sure what else he thought
would happen.
Heading out the door for the evening, he sees a new graduate – he has to be,
he's got that same youngness – standing alone in the hall, looking down at his
drink.
There's something about his pose, or his expression, just something, that
catches Jean's attention, sends a spike of interest through him. It's rare that
he gets to act on preference alone, so Jean decides to take advantage of it,
putting a smile on his face and approaching.
"Hi," Jean says, leaning against the wall beside him.
"Hello," the boy says, clearly surprised.
"What's your name?"
"... Marco Bott," Marco Bott says. He's desperately trying to look anywhere but
Jean. It's cute. But Jean wants his attention.
"I'm Jean," he says. "I was thinking about ditching the party. Want to come
with?"
"I – " Marco finally looks at him. Travels up his stomach, up his neck. He
looks  nervous , so Jean makes his smile less enticing, less come-hither,
going for  easy and relaxed. No big deal.  "Shouldn't you be with the – uh –"
Jean does not lean closer, making a point of respecting Marco's boundaries. He
doesn't want to spook him. "I'd rather spend time with you."
"I don't, uh," Marco says. "I mean – you're so –  young."
"I'm fifteen. How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
Jean smiles, inching closer to Marco, wanting to see his expression. "Well
that's not much older."
"I heard about … " Marco glances over again, eyes dragging slowly up Jean's
legs. "Companions for the Military Police but I thought they were adults. This
is – wrong. You shouldn't be doing this."
Jean stares. Calm. Agreeable – it seems impossible for a moment, to be
agreeable about someone disagreeing on his very existence.
"My job isn't nearly as dangerous as what the Military Police do, is it?" Jean
says, finally. "You risk your life every day and you're old enough for that,
right?"
"It's different," Marco says. "We don't have a choice, the king needs
protection. The walls need protection. But there's no reason to do this. They
don't needto use people like this."
"You're sweet," Jean smiles. Sweet and stupid with a condescending attitude
that makes Jean seethe, but he'll focus on the first part for his needs just
now. Later, oh, later he will mock this boy with his fellow companions, like
they will mock many of the soldiers they have to smile and fawn over today.
Marco looks over at Jean with narrowed eyes, as if he can hear Jean's thoughts.
This is unnerving and Jean does his best to make his expression innocent,
unassuming.
"If the king knew about this – "
Jean laughs before he can stop it. It's a rude, mocking laugh, and he bites his
lip, trying to compose himself again, barely managing to make his apology sound
sincere. "I'm so sorry. What were you saying?"
"Don't pretend like the king would be okay with children – doing this in his
castle! This has to be the other elite officers," Marco pushes away from the
wall, confident now, hands on his hips.
"Ah," Jean says. He certainly likes a challenge, and he thinks trying to seduce
Marco would be a nice one. But oh, the joy he'd get out of knocking that
confident look off his face. "I can assure you that the king does know. He has
a thing for legs, by the way." Jean smiles, lifting his leg and rolling his
ankle.
Marco's face goes slack in outrage. Yeah, there's no coming back from this.
Jean stands and smiles, feeling oddly satisfied.
"I'll let the others know you prefer to take care of your own needs," Jean
says, tossing his drink in a plant as he walked by. He knew the party would be
a waste of time.
~
Jean thinks he has Marco Bott figured out pretty neatly – a naive, well meaning
child who will grow into a man and marry a woman and father many children,
children he'll scare with tales of the scary boogie-man whores that live in the
castle and corrupted the king. He must have miscalculated, though, because none
of that adds up to seeing Marco's name, requesting Jean's presence the next
evening.
They're not allowed to kill the companions.
Jean reminds himself of this as he heads down the hall to the MP barracks, numb
with dread. He's dressed his best, how he's supposed to when being requested
the first time – the jewelry up his arms, on his ankles and dangling from the
headpiece chime with each step. The fabric of his robes are long and drape over
his hands, behind him as he walks. He's never gotten used to the outfit, and is
usually looking forward to the officer in question to take it off of him, layer
by layer.
A year ago, Jean had absentmindedly corrected Anacker one evening. It was a
passing, thoughtless comment, something about the location of a steel factory
in Maria. But a dark shadow had immediately fallen over Anacker's face, and
Jean knew he'd made a mistake. He behaved himself the rest of the evening, and
the moment had passed – until the next time Anacker requested him. He had been
unusually kind, welcoming Jean into his rooms, sitting Jean on his lap and
whispering sweet things. Then he grabbed a fistful of Jean's hair and forced
his head into his full basin, holding him underwater long enough for Jean to
get truly frightened, start fighting against Anacker's grip, desperate to
breathe. When Anacker had lifted Jean's head he'd gasped for air in a terrified
sob, trying to thank him and beg at once, figure out which Anacker wanted to
hear – but before he could finish he was pushed back under. Again and again,
Jean gasping for air in the brief window he was allowed before he being forced
back down underwater again. It's when Jean learned that he didn't particularly
care one way or the other about anything any of the soldiers said – let them be
wrong, let them be stupid and proud, whatever. Jean doesn't care.
Why did he forget that? Was it worth it, Kirstein?he asks himself, stomach
knotting in fear as he knocks on Marco Bott's door.
Marco can hurt him – he can leave Jean bleeding and bruised. But he can't kill
him.
"Hi, Jean," Marco says, opening the door for him. His eyes go round and wide
when he actually processes what Jean's wearing. "W-wow – you look so –
important."
Important. Definitely a new one.
"Hello, Marco," Jean says, smiling. No anxiety in his voice or face. Calm.
Agreeable. "I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Listen, I just – I'm sorry," Marco says. "This whole situation took me off
guard and I took it out on you, I don't know why. I'm usually way more rational
than that. "
Jean stares. He doesn't know what to say.
"I… "
"I know we're both just doing the best we can with our circumstances, you know?
But – were you… did the king really do that to you?" Jean doesn't know what to
make of this, tilting his head to the side as Marco talks. He's never been
spoken to like this by an MP, and Marco seems utterly sincere, looking at the
floor as he apologizes, as he frets for Jean's honor.
"The king is the most powerful man in the world," Jean says, finally gathering
himself. "He's earned his vices. I'm happy to serve him in whatever way he
requests."
"This is more than a vice," Marco says, rubbing his arm. "… Is that your actual
accent? Trost?"
Jean straightens, clearing his throat. He hadn't slipped thatmuch, he's
unnerved and impressed. "I – yeah. It's not what most MPs like to hear."
"I like it," Marco says. He smiles weakly. "It suits you. You look really
pretty, by the way."
This is it – and it happens really that instantly and easily. In retrospect
Jean will know this is the start, and how completely it pierced through him,
and what it ruined as it went.
But in the moment, Jean just smiles in return, before even realizing he's doing
it. It's the smile he had as a child, before he decided that he was going to be
charming. Before he decided he was a liar.
He enjoys the rest of his evening with Marco, who talks about his training and
his friends, eventually trying on Jean's headpiece and Jean laughs so hard he
falls over.
They don't have sex, but Jean knows he'll be seeing Marco's name again, and the
idea makes him flighty and happy.
It'll be strange to have sex with someone so close to his own age, someone who
is most likely a virgin, but he's eager for the experience. He's learned
enthusiasm with his regulars, how to warm up those parts of himself,
deliberately. But it's an organic thing with Marco, an actual, real interest.
He likes Marco's dark coloring and his broad shoulders and his kind eyes. He
likes that he's around the same height, and he likes the freckles that dot down
his neck and under his shirt. If he has to kiss someone – and he does, he has
to kiss many people, at request – then he'd like at least one of them to be
Marco.
~
In the following weeks Jean gets used to seeing Marco's name, and grows very
well acquainted with his room and his bed, though they still have not had sex.
Marco doesn't pay for his time, doesn't even seem to know that he's supposed
to, and Jean knows it's beyond stupid to deny actual, paying customers because
of Marco's ridiculous demand of his schedule, but he does it anyway.
At first Jean thinks of it as talking to the other companions, because there
doesn't seem to be any consequences to what he says, Marco never thinks of
hitting him or sending him away, and because Jean is allowed to wear his loose,
baggy pajamas into Marco's room, and leave his hair a mess, and Marco never
comments. But it's not like that – because Marco is far more knowledgeable
about the world than Jean, and indeed most of the people in the castle. Jean
likes to imagine he'd be just as worldly, if he hadn't arrived in Sina at
eleven, if he'd gone into military training like he'd originally planned. Marco
knows advanced math and can read maps and music sheets, and likes to have Jean
read to him from his fantasy books, stories about people who do impossible
things, traveling into night sky, arriving on the moon. Stories about cities
beyond the walls, about whole chunks of land separated by gigantic rivers,
ponds so big you can't see the end, and then more land beyond that, out of
sight.
"This is ridiculous," Jean laughs, turning from one page to the next.
"It's one of my favorites," Marco says, unoffended, smiling. He has his arm
draped over his eyes, just listening. "Keep going."
"If I must," Jean sighs. "The island of Levania is located by fifty thousand
German miles high up in the sky, and the route to get to there from here, or
back to this Earth, is rarely open…"
Jean's never met anyone like Marco before, someone who likes it when Jean said
what he really thinks and feels, even when they disagree. In fact, sometimes
Marco seems to delight when they disagree, wanting Jean to explain himself, to
hear Jean's perspective. It makes Jean feel important in a new way, a way he
likes, something different from pretending to be carved from stone or very coy
or even powerful. Just Jean.
"Why do you shave your legs?" Marco asks one day. Jean is laying on his stomach
on Marco's bed, reading one of his books, and his pants have slipped down,
revealing his bald calf.
"Order of the king," Jean says, absentmindedly. "I told you. He likes legs."
"Right," Marco says, and looks like he's tasted something sour.
"Do you think less of me?" Jean asks, voice light and careful, while he plays
with the corner of Marco's book, bending the page.
"No," Marco says. "I think less of the king."
There's a pregnant pause as the words sit between them, then Jean sits up,
stunned laughter from deep in his chest. It's the kind of thing that could get
a man killed at the right time and place. He can't believe Marco has the guts,
but Marco doesn't look like he regrets it, smiling back.
~
Jean rarely goes to the south side of the castle, it's where most business
happens – court is held and meetings and everything else, not really suitable
for companions. Sometimes he's requested for a brief grope and tumble by
officers between their business schedules, and he's forced to navigate through
the halls, which are filled with officers that sneer at Jean as he walks by.
He's just finished visiting Mohr, a tall, thin man who is really into pain and
wanted to see Jean gag on his dick for a half hour, and trying to find his way
back out.
He opens the wrong door.
Inside sits the king, and he's got blond little Armin in his lap, who looks so
small, especially so with that space where his arm should be. They both look up
at Jean's appearance.
"Sorry, Your Majesty," Jean says, bowing to leave.
"No, no, come in! Ah, it's the boy from the baths! I was beginning to think I'd
imagined you," says the king. "This is Armin. He's the sweetest companion I've
ever had, and that's really saying something." The king kisses Armin's cheek in
a way that, strangely, reminds Jean of a doting grandmother. "Very pretty,
isn't he?"
"Yes," says Jean. He can already hear his voice is too timid, this is not the
Jean the king found so appealing, and he can see the disappointment in the
king's face. Jean clears his throat and imagines himself a man of marble,
strong as stone and smooth as metal. He walks confidently toward them, and
sits, rather daringly, on the table positioned in front of them, rather than
the chair. "So where did you find him?"
"He was one of the refugees from Maria. From what I understand little Armin was
one of the first people to see the titans. Isn't that right?"
"That's right."
For some reason it's startling for Jean to hear the boy talk, almost as
startling as the news itself.
"I didn't think there were many survivors from Shinganshina," Jean says.
"There aren't," Armin says.
The doors open. They're heavy and oak and Jean understands now why they both
turned to stare, it's quite a noise. A messenger is bringing a letter to the
king, which apparently holds very urgent news. He makes a show of lifting Armin
off his lap and setting him down gently. "Entertain one another, I'll return
shortly. This is good, you are already such fast friends!"
The door closes behind him.
A long, long awkward pause.
"Do you regret becoming a companion?"
"You don't mince words, do you?" Armin seems amused. He adjusts his position
carefully, and Jean wonders if he's about to see the boy tip over. "I wasn't
really told what they wanted me for, just that I'd be able to provide for my
family. I don't regret that, but I don't think I would've picked this if I had
known."
Jean nods. He'd felt similarly in the past. He'd been so young. "Why didn't you
leave?"
"Oh," Armin says. "Once the king knows your name, you can't really leave."
Jean can feel the fear rising in him, intense enough to make his bitter little
laugh shake. "I figured."
"I mean, it's not too late for you," Armin says quickly, his remaining eye
widening. "Sometimes he just has short bursts of interest. He'll probably
forget about you if you play it right. In fact... maybe it's best if you were
called away by another officer before he gets back."
Jean stares, but Armin just gives a weak, halfhearted smile.
"Thanks," Jean mumbles, feeling stupid, it doesn't feel like nearly enough,
especially considering how quickly he ducks out the door, leaving Armin alone
in the silence.
~
It's easy to pretend Bockelmann and Lucas are Marco, they're young and all they
want is a good time. They're not much into conversation, just Jean's naked
body, but they're both gentle, most of the time, preparing Jean, and Lucas
sometimes pets up Jean's back, like he's happy with him, while they fuck. Jean
closes his eyes and imagines if Marco did that. He'd like it a lot, and the
thought makes him hide a smile behind his hands as he's fucked, feeling pretty
silly.
"You're so sweet today," Lucas laughs when they finish and Jean gives him a
playful kiss on the chin. It gets him almost triple his usual payment.
In retrospect it's this, and Marco's constant presence, that caused the problem
- made Jean very stupid, made Jean forget himself the next time he's with
Anacker.
There's strict regulations about when companions are allowed wander
unaccompanied in the MP barracks, Jean certainly should not be there when he
hasn't been requested at all, not at this late hour but he's on another
kamikaze run, he feels wild and out of control and instinctively knows there's
only one person who will tolerate him like this.
"Oh my god, Jean," Marco is horrified when he opens his door, his sleep-soft
face sobering immediately, tense and ready for action. "Stay here, I'll get a
medic - "
"Don't," he hisses. Medics are a free courtesy only to the Military Police
themselves. ""I'm ruined for the next month," he says, furiously. His eye is
swollen and fat, purple around the edges, cheek split, lip split. There's deep
bruising around his neck and it hurts to move his head, hurts to walk. Tomorrow
will be worse, tomorrow he will not be able to walk. He can already feel the
pain in his throat, hot and wet, and knows it will soon start swelling and
he'll speak in unattractive, breathy croaks.
"Who did this?" Marco asks.
"Just a regular," Jean says, shortly, and it feels thrilling, strange, powerful
to be riding on this crest of anger like he is, to let it show on his face.
"Regular?"
Marco's got a clean rag soaking in his basin, wringing it out before carrying
it over to his bed.
"He's influential. Rich," Jean says. "But – it's not worth it." Never again.
Never, ever again.
He'd been so scared. He was so sure this time Anacker wasn't going to stop, he
was just going to squeeze and squeeze at Jean's throat until he crushed
everything inside. The fear is pretty intense, even now, after being shoved
from Anacker's room, finding shelter with Marco, it's still a pressure high in
his throat, enough to make his eyes sting, and the look of utter devastation on
Marco's face isn't helping. "I'm m-mostly," Jean's grinding this out, slow and
careful, desperately needing the sense of control. "Worried about the money.
The only one who'll see me like this is – Fuchs, maybe. Maybe."
Fuchs usually likes to watch Jean finger himself, and Jean usually gets pretty
into it, but the idea of touching himself down there, where it's so ripped and
raw, is unpleasant to say the least.
Marco is on the bed, touching Jean's lip with the rag, sopping up the blood.
His touch is gentle, annoyingly so, almost, Jean wants to take the rag from
Marco's hand and do it himself, and - and then does, he yanks it from Marco,
because he can, and Marco lets him, just watching with a look of confused
heartbreak as he looks over each of Jean's injuries.
"Is he insane?? Why would he do something like this?"
"I just – I teased him, I knew it was a bad idea, I just forgot – I know it's
s-stupid but," Jean is gritting his teeth hard, trying to stop the tears. He
can't keep going or he will cry. He drops his hand, and the rag, to the bed
sheet, putting everything he has into keeping his expression as contained as
possible. Then the rag is pulled gently from his fingers, set aside. Marco is
inching closer, bit by bit, nervous to touch. When he finally gets close enough
to take Jean's hands in his own, Jean realizes it's the first time they've made
much contact at all.
He clings to Marco's hands very tightly.
He had thought of Marco, a lot, wishing he was there, for some reason. Wishing
anyone was there, but Marco likes Jean because Jean is Jean, he likes to hear
Jean read and tell jokes, and that had felt very important and meaningful when
Anacker was screaming that no one would bother looking for a whore's cold, dead
body.
His chin goes wobbling miserably at the memory, and he hates himself for it,
but it gets Marco to wrap and arm around his shoulders gently – it hurts, a
bit, shifting around until he's pressed against Marco properly, but it's worth
the pain, Jean can't get close enough. His mind is blanking out, too
overwhelmed from the pain and the fear and, now, the relief. He doesn't care
what it means, what it implies, just that he has it and it makes him feel like
an actual human being.
***** Chapter Two *****
Chapter Summary
     We meet way more characters here! Ugh this should definitely be
     finished in the next part, this just got away from me and I couldn't
     resist such a perfect chapter break!!
     More Armin in the next part!
"Eyes open, sleeping beauty," Hitch singsongs, tapping her nails on Jean's
headboard. "There's a certain MP waiting outside for you."
Jean wakes slowly, having to concentrate to make sense of the words. Memories
from last night fall into place, helped along various pains flaring to life as
he slowly sits up in bed.
He knows without having to ask that it's Marco, it wouldn't be anyone else, and
there's a certain tone Hitch gets when she's teasing Jean about him, about
Jean's favorite, Jean's baby faced soldier.
"I think he's – " Hitch's teasing voice stops short when she sees Jean's face.
It's far worse than last night, the entire side of his face is throbbing,
swollen and hot to the touch. "… Anacker?"
Jean nods, and shuffles off to the door.
It is Marco there, standing at attention, as he usually does when he isn't sure
what else to do with himself.
"Marco," Jean says. His voice is worse than he thought it'd be, barely above a
whisper. His mouth tastes metallic, like blood, but he's pretty sure that's
mostly just in his head.
"Jean," Marco says, stepping close then hovering awkwardly, like he knows
Jean's about to fall apart and he's not sure if touching will make it worse.
"You're not supposed to be down here."
"I know, I'll be fast – I wanted to give you this until you – ah. Get on your
feet again."
Jean stares at Marco's outstretched hand. "Your badge?"
As a member of the Military Police, Marco is given a near limitless food
allowance, which is good at nearly any vendor in the district, a bill sent
directly to the crown.
"They'll just assume I stole it," Jean says, and it actually hurts to speak. He
closes his eyes from the effort, pushing Marco's hand and the badge inside it
away. "I'll be fine."
It's probably true. He was panicking when he went to Marco, and now he's had
time to compose himself and realize the situation is not nearly as bad as he
first thought. He really had no reason to be that upset, and it's kind of
embarrassing in the light of day. He has a decent sized savings... well, a bit
less than it was before he met Marco, relying on it more and more to indulge in
his company... but enough that Jean should be able to make it stretch.
He doesn't want Marco's help, Marco's favors, because it will almost certainly
send their easy, unthinking dynamic into a tailspin. As they stand, Marco owes
him, but Marco will never know it – and he is fine hiding this debt from Marco,
forever, because when it's his hands, he knows nothing will change. He's
terrified to pass this over to Marco, to trust him with it, see the fallout. He
already holds so much power over Jean.
"Jean – "
"I'll be fine," Jean breathes out again, trying to make it sound forceful.
"I already sent off my extra money this month back to Jinae, I won't get any
more for another week – "
"Marco," Jean says, trying to stop him. He would have so much to say if it
didn't literally hurt to speak, and narrows his one good eye in frustration.
"Just … I'll help you when I can, okay? I'll come over with food tonight – "
"Marco – "
Marco steps in close, suddenly, and Jean is startled back, against the wall.
"I'm going to help," Marco says, quiet, intense, leaving no room to argue.
"You... " Marco closes his eyes, like what he's about to say is going to hurt
enough that he has to brace himself. "You're the only person I've met in this
place worth anything."
Jean pauses.
Knowing Marco, knowing Marco's fervent, deep belief in this place, the royal
family, the entire system, what it represents – what he wants it to represent,
how much he wants to believe in the general inherent goodness of man... It's
the saddest admission Jean's ever heard.
He stares down at their feet, grabs Marco's hand and gives it a firm squeeze,
actually glad for a moment for his throat because he doesn't know what he'd
say. Apologize, maybe, on behalf of the world, that Jean's really the best it
could offer Marco.
In less than a fortnight Jean's more serious wounds have healed, but the
superficial swelling and bruising takes ages. Showing his face around the
castle like this wouldn't do anything good for his client base: Mike was right,
he does not have a face that inspires tenderness. Being seen like this would
not endear him to any of his regulars, get any useful sympathy – it'd just ruin
his mystique. Jean doesn't even bother to look at names requesting him, finding
it painful to see the money and opportunity slip through his fingers.
But Marco comes, every morning, sometimes with treats but usually with fresh
bread and thin slices of meat from the kitchens, enough to last until lunch,
and these really are a godsend especially in the first few days, when even
getting out of bed is a painful challenge for Jean. At night Marco brings soups
and fresh vegetables and fruits, and, eventually, what Jean knows is an obscene
sum of money for Marco's salary, which Jean will use for rent to the castle.
Marco never makes a production of this or even stays very long, sometimes
handing off the meals to Hitch, trusting her to bring them to Jean, which she
usually does with only a few bites missing.
"Your fiance is so sweet," Hitch teases, handing over the bag and taking an
apple for herself. "Where's he from, anyway?"
"Jinae," Jean says.
"… Yikes. Sorry," Hitch says, sincerely, dropping the subject there.
If Marco was from inside Sina – if he was rich, this kind of attention would
only be good. It's possible that Marco could rise up the ranks and become an
elite, influential officer all on his own, but it's not a likely a poor farm
boy from Jinae will amount to much, and not many officers – not many anyones
would be willing to commit seriously to a companion in the long term. Sometimes
companions will have clients that get very attached, but the only ones that
stick around tend to be obsessive and usually dangerous people. Marco is not
those things; he's not someone Jean can retire for; he will not be around long.
The bread feels like clay in Jean's mouth, thick and unappealing against his
tongue. He didn't want this to happen, he didn't want to think like this. But
Marco's actions, his relentless kindness in the face of Jean's need, make it
impossible not to… it's gotten too heavy, too serious. They haven't even
kissed.
He hates Anacker most for this, forcing this him, and Marco a little, too, for
probably not even being able to understand it. It's even possible he sees his
actions as just that of a very good friend, and nothing else.
~
Rother is the only officer requesting Jean by the time he's fit to entertain,
and the first client he visits.
"I was beginning to think you'd gotten tired of this old man," Rother says,
with obviously forced laughter.
"It's not that," Jean says. "You just... exhaust me too much for other
clients."
"Oh, please."
"It's true, sir. Last time we were together I couldn't visit any other officers
for a week," Jean says. "I was a mess!"
Rother blushes at this praise, puffing out his chest while Jean keeps his
expression as straight as possible.
Rother is nearly sixty and sensitive about it, and he likes Jean because he has
no problems pretending it's not true. He's an insecure man, despite being in a
very powerful position with the Garrison, and certainly not the only senior
officer who has difficulty maintaining an erection. But where some of the older
men get mad and mean, sometimes blaming it on Jean himself, when Rother can't
get it up, he actually pays Jean more than he would otherwise, like he's afraid
of what Jean thinks of him.
He knows Rother dreads getting naked and failing to preform, so if Jean can
make him feel very, very virile and masculine with words alone, that's usually
as far as it will get.
It's an easy, undemanding session, a nice return to work after his month long
break.
Slowly, as Jean starts making more appearances in the baths and around the
castle, the interest starts picking back up again, and he easily catches the
eyes of new clients.
"You look like royalty when you wear that," Marco says, watching from his bed
as Jean adjusts his headpiece. Jean is going to meet one of those new clients
tonight, but stopped by Marco's quarters first – he looks just as hopelessly
impressed to see Jean in his formal wear as he did the first time, and
sometimes Jean wishes he didn't make it so impossible to forget that he's from
Jinae.
"Royalty does not look like this," Jean says, frowning at his reflection. Like
a dressed up doll, an enticing plaything, a present to unwrap.
"Why don't you wear it more often?" Marco asks. "You'd definitely get more
clients."
"It's uncomfortable, it takes forever to put on, and it's expensive," Jean
says. Marco looks just slightly disappointed, so Jean sighs, and makes his
voice a little kinder. "Apparently the first companions dressed like this all
the time. It's probably still a rule somewhere, but they don't enforce it
anymore. Thank god."
"I guess it would get annoying," Marco says. He looks thoughtful, now, and Jean
waits, standing still, knowing he's checking Jean's face. He's looking for
signs of Jean's injuries. They're there, faint, barely visible scars on his
cheek, on his lip, but Marco seems to miss them, along with the rest of Jean's
barely-there battle scars. "I wish…"
Marco trails off and Jean doesn't make him finish. Of course he knows Marco's
wishes: Marco wishes people didn't hurt one another. He wishes pretty was
simply pretty, not a performance or a sacrifice. He wishes the king was good,
the titans were gone, and it rained gold coins.
"Me, too," Jean says, flat.
He leaves to meet his new client, skinny, timid Captain Pauly. They met in the
baths and Jean spent nearly an hour waiting for him to stop staring and work up
the nerve to approach. Jean had been as gentle and patient as possible and is
prepared for this again, expecting a very slow, long night.
He is very wrong.
The moment Pauly closes the door behind him, he's slamming Jean against it.
This is awkward, as Pauly is about the same size as Jean, maybe a little
smaller, and has no real force behind his push.
Jean acts like there is, though, even giving a little bit of a squirm, like
he's trying to get away but can't, held in place by Pauly's weak, noodle-like
arms.
"I could s-see you watching me in the baths," Pauly says, humping up against
Jean's leg, already hard. "You're hungry for it, right? You – you're a whore,
you l-live for dick."
At first Jean thinks his shaking voice is nerves, then realizes, as Pauly
fumbles through Jean's layers, that it's excitement – pure, trembling
excitement. This is obviously a fantasy he's had for some time, finally working
up the nerve to act, probably. The man is in his forties at least, and it's a
lot of pent up energy.
He rips the sleeves of Jean's last layer in his hurry, and Jean throws his head
back and moans to cover his annoyance. Pauly likes this – a lot, and rips
Jean's collar to get him to do it again. Jean moans, pushing himself up against
Pauly in "ecstasy" in order to still him. His free hand very, very quickly
undoes the clasps of the last layer himself, shrugging it off before it can
suffer anymore abuse.
Pauly licks his lips, eying Jean's naked flesh. "I wanna h-hear you scream,
whore."
And so Jean spends the rest of the night growing more and more theatrical, even
as Pauly shoves himself inside Jean in one brutal thrust. He's small, it
doesn't hurt as much as it could, but it's hardly enjoyable.
Jean lays, face down in the blanket, moaning like an idiot, wondering idly how
he can bribe Hitch into stitching up his ripped formal wear.
~
After a while Marco stops requesting Jean in an official sense, but Jean barely
notices – it's become the normal thing for him to simply visit Marco's quarters
when he knows he'll be free, and he prefers this. It seems like Marco's charity
wasn't the poison Jean was afraid of. Things changed, but for the better.
Today is supposed to be one of Marco's rare free days – entirely free, no
patrol, no practice, no sentry duty – so Jean decides to surprise him with some
breakfast, though Marco strikes him as someone who wakes and gets ready for his
day very early, so he buys something sweet, a fruit pastry coated in icing, as
dessert for the respectable breakfast Marco certainly already ate.
Jean opens Marco's door, knocking has he does, opening his mouth to say good
morning or hello or something, but he sees Marco rushing across the room in a
panic and stops.
"Titans are in Trost."
Jean blinks at Marco, unable to process that.
"The civilians were all evacuated safely," Marco says. He's getting dressed,
starting the long process of putting on the belts for the gear everyone in the
military wears. Jean's seen countless officers pull it off and on, enough times
to set aside the pastry, stand beside Marco and help with the straps going
along his back, still numb, still processing the news.
"The people – they made it to Rose?"
"Yes," Marco says. "No civilian causalities. Garrison is asking for volunteers
in the Military Police to help make up the numbers they lost in the
evacuation."
"Did – did the big one, that different one – "
"Colossal titan was spotted," Marco nods. "No word on the Armored titan. If
that one appears..."
"Then you should be here. Defending the king." Jean's pieced it together now,
why Marco's acting like he's about to go fight titans – it's because he's about
to go fight titans.
"They need soldiers in Trost," Marco says, wrapping the black strap around his
foot. "We need to stop them there. We can't lose Rose."
"But they have Survey Corps for that. The Garrison – "
"Those are my friends," Marco says. "I have friends in Survey Corps and in the
Garrison."
"So you're going to – join them?" Jean is unable to comprehend the stupidity,
or hide how he thinks about it, horrified. "What was the point of joining the
Military Police if you're just going to run out and get eaten like the rest of
them?"
It was rude enough to get a reaction even out of Marco, he's sure, but this
doesn't get the reaction he was expecting – Marco actually smiles, cocking his
head to the side. "I had this friend in training... he was in the top ten, but
he joined the Survey Corps. He believed in it so much he convinced six other
top ten graduates to join it, too."
"He sounds terrible."
Marco is still smiling, shaking his head, yanking on his boots with firm steps.
"I've been … questioning a lot, lately. What I thought was important, what I
thought would do the most good… I was naive about a lot of things. Honestly,
the only reason why I don't regret picking the Military Police is meeting you."
"Happy to help," Jean bites out each word, seething.
"I have to do this."
"You're going to die, you – selfish – and – " Jean has no threats. He has no
leverage. He's like a child in a tantrum: he's only allowed insults because
Marco is especially understanding. This is all he has: "I'll hate you for it."
This isn't an idle threat, it's not cute, Jean still has not forgiven his dead
father for this same pointless, stupid decision, and never will.
Marco stands and sighs, adjusting his boots. When he looks up, his expression
is resigned. "Will you forgive me if I come back?"
Jean sneers at him, taking a step back. He'd forgotten the hate he was capable
of, it's been muted and quieted for some time, but it's rising, now, like the
awful, choking smoke of burning a branch that's still green, not meant to die
just yet.
But he will.
As long as Marco is there to ask it, he knows he'll be too weak to resist.
"Then I'll come back," Marco says, seeing it on his face, past the hate and the
rage. He presses a kiss against Jean's cheek, and leaves the room.
That – that fucking – Jean is actually shaking with anger, now, touching the
highest point of his cheek, where Marco's lips pressed. It's the first time
they kissed.
He turns around, storming after Marco, and it's easy to catch up – he's still
in the corridor, trying to straighten his jacket.
Jean grabs Marco by one of those ridiculous belts, spinning him around, and
punches him in the face.
~
As far as Jean can tell, only two Military Police volunteers join Marco in
Trost, which is more than he expected.
Everyone in the castle is talking about the titans, but not with any kind of
real urgency. If anything, it's relief. The dialogue seems to follow Jean's
first assumptions – the people have evacuated, Survey Corps and Garrison will
take care of it from here. The crisis of Shiganshina has been successfully
averted. Despite arguing that very point only moments earlier, Jean finds
himself annoyed by the simplicity of it now. It could get so much worse,
they're not out of danger.
It still doesn't mean Marco has to be the one to stop it, though.
"He was in the top ten of his class," Hitch says, breezily. "He's not an idiot.
He'll be fine."
Jean didn't ask for her opinion, and it's not much of a comfort. He bounces one
leg continuously, staring blankly over the gardens. He feels very useless and
stupid. It takes less three hours to cross the largest districts in Rose, Marco
is almost certainly in Trost. Marco could be dead already, and Jean won't find
out for weeks – it's not likely that anyone is keeping tabs on fresh graduates,
his death would not be news and Jean isn't family, he has no way of getting
notified. He'll have to make a pass at Commander Pixis, maybe, try to sweet
talk him into letting him take a look at the causality list.
"… It'll be over fast, too," Hitch is still talking. "Just think, if you'd
taken one long nap today, this whole thing would've been over before you even
woke up! Then you wouldn't have be worried at all!"
Hitch's voice is beginning to sound a little odd, just a little strained – he
glances over at where she's nervously spinning a coin on the table.
"Hitch?"
She looks up. "I … one of my regulars is in Trost, too."
Jean sits up straighter, surprised. "Since when do you care about your
regulars?"
"I don't, really, except this one just – " Hitch seems frustrated, slapping the
coin out of its spin, flat onto the table. "He's just hopeless."
"… You like him that much?" Jean wants to ask why she never said anything
earlier, but he supposes it was her business… and Jean never really told her
about Marco outright, he just wasn't all that subtle about it.
"I don't," she says, rolling her eyes. "And he's not even handsome like yours."
At that, Jean knows who she's referring to immediately, the younger soldier
Hitch has been having regular lunch sessions with. "That bowl cut guy? Black
hair? With the nose?"
Hitch groans, collapsing into her arms, hiding her face. Jean wants to laugh,
tease – then remembers that he might be dead, and Marco might be dead.
"He's not even impressive. He's like – funny," Hitch says.
"He didn't look like much of a sense of humor," Jean says.
"He doesn't. I mean – like. Pathetic. He's funny to laugh at."
"Oh," Jean says.
"He'll probably get wounded crossing the street and never even see Trost,"
Hitch says, and Jean pretends not to hear the shake in her voice. "Probably
should've never even been allowed to graduate, let alone top ten. What were
they thinking?"
"He'll be fine," Jean says, but he's never been very good at comforting people.
It's what she said to him, so it's probably what she wants to hear, he figures.
"He seemed like a... prepared kind of guy."
Hitch scoffs at that, but doesn't say anything else.
They wait in the garden until sunset, then return to their quarters to wait
there.
~
There's a knock on the door, oddly tentative, quiet enough that Hitch sleeps
through it. Jean is still blinking sleep from his eyes when he opens the door,
glancing out the window to see it's still dark out – he feels strangely
drained, on edge, and it's not until he opens the door and processes Marlo's
face that he remembers why.
"Hello – do you know Hitch Dreyse?" he asks, with awkward formality. Then,
slightly unsure. "I believe this is her room?"
"She's asleep," Jean says, clearing the sleep from his throat, gripping the
door handle tightly. "Marco Bott, he left with you – "
"He's in the infirmary," Marlo says, and before Jean can start to lose his
mind, "Minor injuries, he'll recover– "
"Oi! Sleeping beauty!" Jean hollers over his shoulder, and he and Marlo brush
past each other, too impatient for anything more.
Minor injuries, Jean thinks, trying to imagine what that could mean as he
rushes up the four flights to the medic. What's a minor injury from facing a
titan?
Jean decides he doesn't care, as long as he's alive, and can talk – that's all
he'll need. The Military Police don't value real soldiers anyway, they want men
and women who work safely, manning a desk. Marco can do that, even if he's
injured, it won't be bad at all.
There's a surprising number of officers in the halls for this hour, and Jean
nearly falls over a smaller one – wearing the Survey Corps wings.
"Oi, watch it!" He shouts over his shoulder, but doesn't seem too bothered.
Jean watches where he goes and sees a whole flock of them – it's a strange
sight, he doesn't think he's ever seen soldiers from Survey Corps in the castle
before.
But it's something to think about later, rounding the corner of the infirmary.
" – only be a few minutes!"
Another member of Survey Corps – young, with shockingly bright green eyes – is
in the face of a the officer stationed outside of the infirmary, yelling in a
way that reminds Jean a bit of a barking dog.
Jean steps around him, avoiding the fight like he would stepping into a puddle.
"Marco asked for me to see him as soon as he got back," Jean says. This is a
lie, but the officer is a vaguely familiar to Jean, and must feel the same –
he's probably very used to seeing Jean and Marco together, and steps to the
side.
"What?! He gets in but not me?! I thought you said no healthy soldiers
allowed!!"
"Do I look like a soldier to you?" Jean asks.
The boy looks Jean up and down.
"Oh," he says, piecing it together. Whatever the boy thinks about it is off his
face too quick for Jean to catch. Now, the Survey Corp dog is barking in his
face. "You're seeing Marco? Marco Bott? Give him a message – tell him to meet
up with Jaeger at the wall."
"I don't think I'll need to," Jean says. "You're so loud he probably heard you
himself, along with everyone else in – "
"Hey." The officer at the door is looking at Jean in disgust. "You're talking
to a soldier of the crown."
Jean blinks, rapidly, wondering what the hell – he was thinking – there's no
official rules, there's nothing that says Jean ought to defer to the soldiers,
it's just common sense, it's part of his training, it's something he had no
problem with, for years. Is he losing his mind?
"I apologize," Jean says, with a brief nod toward the green eyed boy, reaching
for the door again. "I forgot myself. Of course I'll give Marco your message."
"Right, uh. Thanks," he says, looking between the two of them like he's not
entirely sure what just happened. "Remember – Jaeger. At the wall."
Jean literally has to bite his cheek to keep from saying something very
sarcastic, but manages not to, nodding again as he closes the door behind him.
He finds himself scared to turn around. Minor injuries, he reminds himself. In
fact! It might be good if he was injured, because then he might not run off and
do this again.
"Jean!"
Marco's voice is so happy Jean turns around without thinking about it. He's
laying in bed – Jean quickly checks him over, top to bottom – and feels his
body go suddenly lax in relief. Marco is shirtless, a bandage wrapped around
his forehead, another around his wrist, and a few bruises on his face and
shoulder, but obviously whole.
"I didn't think you'd be awake," Marco says. "We just got here."
"We were waiting," Jean says, crossing the room. The infirmary is well stocked
and huge, and probably has only ever seen half the beds in use at one time,
probably even then only from drunken fights or fires. Marco is the only patient
in the room now, and he seems more or less fine. For some reason, and this kind
of thought doesn't normally occur to Jean, he wonders what the Garrison's
infirmaries look like just now, or the living hell of the Survey Corps.
But he doesn't actually care, he is standing in this one, with Marco.
"Look at you," Jean says, looking him over as though he is disgusted. He sort
of is. Happiness is radiating off of Marco like sunlight. Jean has gotten to
know him as handsome and somewhat solemn, but like this – bright eyed and
vibrant – he is stunning.
"Look at you," Marco says. Not loopy, just… happy. Jean wants to sneer again.
He realizes one of the bruises on Marco's face is from his punch. Jean is
surprised – he didn't think he'd hit that hard, that he even could.
"I ran into one of your friends," Jean says.
"So I heard," Marco says, smiling. "Jaeger. The wall. That was Eren, by the
way, the one I was telling you about."
"The terrible one?" Jean says, somehow utterly unsurprised.
Marco just laughs. "So… do you forgive me?"
"You haven't apologized," Jean says, clenching his hands into fists. He's going
to lose Marco again, he knows. This is going to be it, the pattern, forever. He
can see it in Marco's stupid, joyous face. Again and again, this is going to
happen. An apology would mean nothing.
"Well... that's because I'm not all that sorry," Marco says, sitting up in bed,
excited to share. "I actually helped, I actually did something worthwhile down
there. All my training – it was actually useful."
"So what happened here?" Jean asks, nodding toward his bandaged wrist.
Jean almost regrets asking. Marco launches into his adventures in Trost, seeing
his former comrades – Marco was in the top of his class, of course, he was
friends with the most talented, brilliant soldiers, and there were no
causalities of anyone he was particularly close to.
It's been hours since the battle, but Marco still seems to be high on his
nerves, the breathless victory, as he talks. "I should join Survey Corps – "
"Stop."
"You can come, too, you – you should marry me," Marco says, eyes so bright it's
painful. Jean finds himself touching the place on his cheek where Marco kissed
him before he can stop himself.
"Great. I'll wait in some miserable little shack to hear that you're dead
instead of the castle."
"Listen," Marco says, suddenly very serious. "I told myself I wasn't going to
say anything, that I didn't want make it weird for you… but I was just being a
coward. I know you probably hear this a lot from your – your regulars. But I
really care about you, a lot."
"No, I really don't," Jean says, numbly.
"I don't expect you to do anything, or anything, I know this situation is
pretty weird," Marco says. "But I thought you should know. It's important to
know when people care about you."
"I… care about you, too," Jean repeats back, like a child. It's true, but it
feels awkward in his mouth, it's not his words, but he couldn't very well let
it go unsaid after that.
"I thought maybe you did," Marco says, smiling, and Jean realizes he must have
heard it in Jean's own words, ages ago.
Jean crosses his arms, desperate to touch. Somewhere. Anywhere. Touch his
shoulder or his arm and test that it's still warm. He's going to be losing
Marco forever now, his life is just going to be this, a chain of losing Marco
and hoping to get most of him back, but he's here now and he wants that.
But he's stuck.
"Hey…" Marco says, but doesn't really seem to have a follow up. He's moving in
bed, getting ready to stand up, which is jarring. Jean frets for a moment that
he keep still for now, but he really does seem fine –
Marco is taller than Jean, really not by much, but he feels it now, as they
stand this close, having to look up to meet his gaze. He can feel the warmth
coming off him, and can't stand it anymore – he grips Marco's arms, and holds,
tight. He is solid and alive, muscles shifting under his hand when Marco's hand
goes to the back of Jean's head.
They kiss.
Marco is a patient, careful kisser, which isn't a surprise. He lets Jean decide
how far he wants to go, meeting him at that point enthusiastically and then
waiting, first just a press of lips, then tongue, then slow, methodical
exploration. Jean's found many men fuck the way they kiss, and he shivers,
imagining this as a preview – of course. What else could Marco be but a
patient, careful lover.
He thinks they could maybe have sex here, right now, but he senses Marco is
fine stopping here, and it's certainly enjoyable. He likes Marco's large hand
traveling down his neck, up his back, in a very gentle touch he doesn't
normally experience. When they pull away, after the sun has risen quite
comfortably into the sky, he sees the dark smudges under Marco's eyes and
thinks yes, this is probably for the best, for now. They'll have until the next
titan attack, he supposes, to get further.
"Come visit me later today, okay? When you have the time?" Marco asks, and Jean
presses a kiss to his nose as an answer.
"Did you tell him??"
"Jesus!" Jean yelps, literally falling over. It's the Survey Corps boy, Eren,
pouncing the moment Jean left the infirmary. "Yes. He heard."
Jean is a bit more careful of all the Survey Corps members underfoot this time
and manages not to run any over or be startled by any by the time he makes it
back to his rooms. He's very exhausted and ready to sleep and isn't
particularly quiet about opening the door, but the people in the room already –
specifically Hitch and Marlo – are too distracted with their activity –
specifically fucking – to notice.
Jean sighs, shuts the door and sits outside, waiting for them to finish.
~
The very next request he gets for his company is Marco, a formal request, and
Jean knows what's going to happen.
He remembers the last thing they did together, and the passion between Marlo
and Hitch. He bites his lip in excitement, quite possibly for the first time in
this castle. He thinks he ought to dress in his formal robes, considering how
much Marco had enjoyed the sight of him, but – Marco doesn't want to meet in
his rooms, he wants to meet in the south side of the castle – where the
business happens – and the officers over there can barely refrain from spitting
at Jean when he's dressed like a normal citizen.
Still, he prepares himself as much as possible, washing in sweet smelling
perfume and dressing particularly nice, arriving early at the conference room
Marco requested his presence.
But Marco is not the only one in the room.
Sitting around a large table is Commander Erwin, he knows. Eren as well.
Captain Levi, he's heard of from stories but never spoken to. A handful of
other members of Survey Corps Jean's never seen, the little short haired boy he
practically ran over earlier, a brunette with huge eyes… most of them seem his
age or a few years older. It's a strange group, made stranger by his own
presence: a castle whore.
"Jean," Marco stands, greeting him properly, and Jean realizes he's taken a
step back, out of the room in his surprise.
"Yes, Marco?" Jean asks, falling back on his training because that's how he's
best learned how to handle stress. Calm. Agreeable. Smiling.
"Listen," Marco says. "We have a favor to ask."
Jean grips his hands tight behind his back, eyes flying over the group. They're
placid, neutral about his presence.
"We can't tell you much, this is confidential – it's official military
business," Marco says. "But I told them you can handle that – right?"
Jean nods, slowly.
"We have reason to believe a member of the Military Police is assisting
titans," Erwin says.
"Why would anyone help a titan?" Jean asks. It's about the dumbest thing he can
imagine. What would be the gain? What would even be the point? A titan wouldn't
know the difference.
"That's what we want to find out – we have a plan to smoke them out, but we
need the element of surprise, so we can't ask for permission. We need a
distraction," Marco says. "I told them that you might have a way of… keeping
the king's attention elsewhere for a while. We only need a half hour or so,
nothing drastic."
"Oh," Jean says.
"We've discovered a lot in the past few days, in Trost. It's exciting – it's
changing the way we're fighting the titans – "
"Are you going to share our new formation with him, too?" Levi asks, staring
impassively past blabbering Marco to Jean.
"We can trust him, he won't – "
"He won't," Levi agrees. "Whores don't care about this kind of thing. But he
doesn't need to know it."
Jean returns Levi's stare – it's not an insult, just stating facts that are
basically accurate. Jean's more certain than ever that the rumors he heard were
true. Once upon a time Levi was a castle companion himself, caught the eye of a
particular commander, and became his pet project on the field.
"Well? Are you willing to help us?" Eren asks, standing as he does, earnest as
hell.
Jean doesn't really want to. He doesn't want to go anywhere near the king
again, and this plan, from what he hears of it, sounds terrible. He's spent
enough time getting literally fucked by officers, he doesn't want to add
figuratively to the list – he doesn't care about their business. He's made a
point of that.
But it's for Marco.
"In the early afternoon I'll have access to the king," he says. "I can distract
him for an hour or so."
"You're sure?" Eren says.
He remembers the king's face last time they met. He knows that look, seen it
countless times on many officers faces, from soldiers to Squad Leaders. Lust,
driven higher by Jean's teasing presence.
"Yes," Jean says.
Marco looks unbearably proud of him, and Jean smiles weakly in return.
~
Jean arrives in the baths just after lunch, laying around lazily until mid-
afternoon, just to make sure he doesn't miss his opportunity. There's supposed
to be a flare in the sky, black, to let everyone in the operation know when
it's in motion, but for Jean's business, starting then would probably be too
late. He needs the king already hooked on him at that point.
When the king arrives, Jean watches from a distant corner, waiting for him to
truly settle in. Then he gathers his supplies and walks over to the king's tub.
The guards must be familiar with him at this point, not even batting an eye
when Jean pulls out his razor.
He sets it in the king's eyeline before settling down on the rim of the bath.
Then he lifts his leg. His skin is already soft and wet from his hour or so in
the bath, and he doesn't need to lather. He lifts the blade and sets it at his
ankle, drawing it up his leg in a long, smooth motion.
The king watches, silently, enjoying the show.
Jean smiles at him from over his knee, taking his time. They need an hour. He
can make this stretch, he thinks, if he goes slow enough. Maybe pause in the
middle for some actual fondling, though he no idea what the king actually likes
– if he'd like to see Jean touch himself or have Jean reach into the water –
"Oh – " His racing thoughts are derailed by the king's hand, reaching out and
taking the razor from Jean. This is so startling Jean almost wants to laugh –
but he stays calm. Agreeable.
Jean smiles, and stretches his leg out for the king. He tells himself this is a
once in a life time chance; how many people can say they bathed with the king?
That the king took care of them? He tries to enjoy the moment, even when the
king drags the blade up Jean's legs roughly, to his thighs where the hair is
soft and baby fine and Jean barely ever bothers to shave. This is where the
king seems the most focused, though, eyes heated and bright as he runs the
blade over Jean's skin. It's not a careful touch, a sloppy, rushed job.
When the king suddenly grows more careful, turning the blade over in his hand
and resting the very tip against Jean's inner thigh – he only has a moment to
wonder what the king is doing, before he presses the razor in, and cuts down.
It's so startling, all Jean can do is work his mouth silently, watching it
happen. His blood spills freely, like it was just waiting for the chance to run
over, down his pale leg, staining the water pink..
"Oh... " is all he can say, dazed, before the king does it again, digging
deeper, a second cut. Jean gasps in pain, feeling partly blinded by it – he
holds hard onto the urge to get up, pull away from the pain, gripping the rim
of the bath behind him. His vision has tunneled, unable to see past the hand on
his thigh, the blade inside of it, the blood, the pink water.
A black flare. High in the sky, Jean sees it fly just over the king's shoulder,
and it renews his efforts. He keeps his leg extended for the king, tries to
stop its shaking, as the king goes for a third time.
So much blood, already. It's so much, rushing out. Is he going to die? So much
of his flesh is fine, the cuts are small in comparison to the rest of his body
as a whole, and suddenly Jean is amused at the pure inefficiency of it all.
It's like a fruit: one bite, no matter how small, and the entire thing will rot
and spoil. Jean is going to leak out now, through these holes in his body, how
ridiculous. Absurd.
THUD THUD THUD–
The sound catches Jean's attention but he looks up through frantic, wild eyes
and sees the king is still distracted by Jean. Doesn't hear the noise outside
the window. It's working, but just to be sure, Jean lets his mouth fall open,
letting the surprised cry escape, loud and sharp, and – well that actually
helps with the pain, surprisingly – the king doesn't notice the large figures
run past the window, and then out of sight. Too caught up in Jean's sudden
sobs, shaking pants for breath.
Sixth cut.
What an idiot, Jean thinks as he sobs, staring down at the king, who grins,
expression disgusting in its greed and baseness, breathing hard and fast. He's
so erect that Jean can see the tip of his dick surfacing in the bloody water.
What a fool – to be distracted so thoroughly, so easily, like a dog. Like a
pig. Jean came to Sina to escape such common things, and now he's finding
himself entertaining one. Bleeding for one.
The mayhem of – whatever it is, titans behind the wall, titans in Sina. They're
getting closer to the castle. Jean can feel the movements approach. Even this
idiot will notice it soon enough. Jean's just not going to have enough blood to
distract him with.
He's beginning to feel woozy, head spinning, thoughts running away from him. He
needs to distract the king. Marco needs him to distract the king. It's all he
can focus on. He needs to distract the king. Jean blinks at him and the idea
comes to him when the next cut digs into his flesh – instead of suppressing the
urge to kick, he flails, wildly – it's a believable flail, he thinks, and at
this angle – Jean's foot was so close to the king's jaw.
The king's head slams hard into the wall, and Jean barely sees the man slump
into unconsciousness before he follows after, finally pulled under.
~
Jean wakes up in a cell.
"Congratulations," Mike says. He's on the other side of the bars, arms crossed.
"You're by far the biggest fuck up I've ever had."
Jean blinks at him, then lifts the thin blanket to see what is giving that
uncomfortable itch – it's his thigh, which has been wrapped tight in a bandage.
"They're saying you assaulted the king," Mike says.
"I didn't mean to," Jean says. "It was an accident."
"You're being tried for treason," Mike says. "What were you thinking?"
Jean shrugs. He's not being purposefully glib, he still feels pretty dizzy and
doesn't know how he'd go about explaining the bizarre situation, even if he
could.
"Do you know how serious this is? Do you realize what's going to happen?"
"I think I need… to sleep a little more."
Mike closes his eyes and sighs, waving his hand in dismissive permission, and
Jean does just that.
~
He doesn't get to see Marco before the trial. He doesn't know if the operation
was a success, no one seems to think to say anything about it and Jean doesn't
want to give anything away by asking.
"It's dirty down here," Jean says, frowning, an hour before his meeting with
the king. He allows it to sound like a petty complaint, because Mike will know
the significance. Jean's appearance is his primary weapon, it'd be like a
politician trying to argue his case without his tongue. Mike gets him a basin
of water and helps him bathe as best he can, and Jean smiles, feeling the loss
and disappointment so keenly it's all he can do. He remembers how excited he'd
been doing the exact same thing, a few days ago – washing as best he can,
hoping to impress.
"This isn't serious to them," Mike warns him. "They've got more important
things to worry about, they don't care if it was a mistake. The easiest thing
for them to do will just sentence you to death."
"The king has the final say, though, right?" Jean asks.
"He does."
The king is an easy mark. Jean knows it for certain, now. He's dealt with way
more perceptive and difficult officers and soldiers. Trying to sway Erwin would
be a nightmare, but as long as Jean can make eye contact with the king – can
speak to him – he can come back from this, he's sure. He's lead through the
halls by a guard, and they don't bother to shackle his hands or restrain him,
just pushing him in front of the crowded trial.
"Your Highness – " Jean rushes forward like he's not aware he'll be stopped,
and speaks like he doesn't know he'll be shut up. "I've been so worried!"
"Quiet, boy!"
Jean covers his mouth, as though surprised, abashed. He keeps his gaze on the
king, like he can't imagine looking elsewhere.
It's that easy. The king returns his stare with soft, touched eyes.
He doesn't listen to the man listing off the case against Jean, he doesn't care
– the king has already decided to forgive him, his mystery bath boy.
"Jean Kirstein," he says, interrupting the proceeding, smiling with interest.
"You're free to go."
Jean's not requested after that, he's simply moved to the king's personal
garden.
***** Interlude: What Never Was but Should've Been *****
Chapter Summary
     Well if you check out the rest of my stuff you'll probably pick up on
     my obvious preference for Jean bottoming, but I felt this universe
     needed something to balance it out. UNFORTUNATELY the plot no longer
     allows for this scene! At least how it plays out here. And the
     dynamics between Marco and Jean are so unique in this fic, I don't
     think I'll be able to reuse it for another one.
     So, here is a tragically missed chance between Marco and Jean – if it
     had happened, it would've been in the infirmary after Marco's return
     from Trost.
Jean's had an eye on Marco's ass for a while, of course.
It's fit and nicely curved, muscled with just a touch of fat rounding it off,
plump and perfect. Jean sits between Marco's thighs, between his spread legs,
and there's his entrance. Certainly untouched, and Jean knows just the right
amount of pressure it will take to make it open for his fingers...
"… Anything?" Jean asks, just to make sure.
"You know what feels good, right?" Marco says. He sounds just a little nervous,
arm thrown over his eyes, but he's smiling. "You're the expert."
Jean smiles back, though Marco can't see it. He is. He knows what feels good.
He's never felt this excitement about sex before, a sort of giddy childishness.
Anything he wants. He can do this, he can make Marco feel good – he'll make him
feel so good he'll have to relearn his own skin. All at once, every awful
touch, every awful stare, every – every awful moment, every choking, tear
filled humiliation is worth it, because Marco is never – never – going to feel
that way, and Jean gets to use what he learned to make Marco scream.
"Alright," Jean says, breathing it against Marco's dick, just barely making
contact with his tongue, wrapping his fingers around the base with one hand,
the other sliding down, nestling behind his balls. He times it perfectly,
lightly pressing his thumb up against that sensitive spot as he makes the first
solid, long lick of Marco's dick.
"Ohmygod," Marco hisses, thighs turning to stone and Jean hums happily, giving
another teasing lick, but firmer this time – a slow build. Too much at once
would be shocking, unpleasant. Jean will give him a steady, easy rise of
pleasure. When he takes the head of Marco's cock into his mouth, he presses
again against the spot behind his balls, a stroking, firm rub, and Marco
actually takes a sobbing, desperate breath.
Jean glances up and sees Marco's moved his arm, staring down at Jean in awe.
Jean closes his eyes, basking in it, taking Marco in deeper, in time with his
thumb. Marco's hands are shaking, fingers landing lightly, tentatively on the
back of Jean's head. This is normally an assertive move, dominating, but Jean
knows it's just Marco's desire for closeness and his soul thrills a little:
this is a loving touch.
Jean pulls back, then relaxes his throat and takes Marco as deep as he can –
he's, shamefully, never been very good at deep throating. This was a positive
to some of his clients, but Marco doesn't seem the type to get off on Jean
gagging.
He's very pleased to find he can take almost all of Marco, about an inch and a
half left, easy to wrap the rest of his fingers around.
"Aah – Jean, that – feels amazing," Marco says, and Jean swears he can see
literal stars in Marco's eyes.
With his mouth still full of cock, lips stretched wide around his thickness,
Jean winks up at him and Marco tips his head back, moaning loud, long and
wobbly.
Very gently, Jean moves his finger from behind Marco's sack to just a skip
behind that. He knows Marco will not yank his hand away, won't slap or push him
away, but daring to do this the few times he tried without explicit instruction
had such awful consequences it's impossible to forget. He gives Marco plenty of
gentle, soft warning before pressing his finger against his hole. They'll need
Jean's oils later, but for now, just one finger, the resistance should only
heighten Marco's pleasure.
He watches carefully to make sure, pressing his tongue flat against Marco's
dick and rubbing against that thick, delicious ridge traveling up Marco's cock.
Oh, that ridge. Jean's toes curl at the very thought, he can't wait.
Marco is doing his best not to thrust up into Jean's mouth, which he
appreciates, but the concentration on Marco's face makes it harder for him to
read his reactions as he finally presses up inside Marco's opening. It might
not matter how well Jean handles it, Marco might just not like it, sometimes it
just isn't to some men's tastes –
"Oh my god. Jean. Oh my god, Jean," Marco spills apart, limp and stunned, when
Jean slips inside and targets in on his prostate.
Relieved and confident, Jean renews his efforts on Marco's cock, pressing in
light, pleasurable rubs of his finger on that wonderful knot inside Marco. Not
too much. But as he presses a little harder – then a little more – testing
Marco's limits – there doesn't seem to be too much. Jean pulls off of Marco's
cock completely with a tender, loving kiss, focusing entirely on his hole.
"You like that?" Jean asks.
"F-feels good," Marco says, voice tight. He's losing himself to it completely,
and now rocking his hips, shallow at first then wild and deep as he finds a
rhythm he likes, impaling himself on Jean's finger. Jean watches, somewhat
stunned, breathless.
Jean was not unpopular with women, but like most soldiers they preferred a
sense of power over Jean when he pleasured them, penetration was never under
Jean's control, it was something he submitted to.
Jean was not popular, though, with the soldiers that preferred to be fucked –
there were bigger, stronger, older companions first. Mike predicted he would
start noticing a trend of soldiers wanting him to top, the soldiers just
starting to test those waters out. Jean was reaching an age that would imply
competence, and he was a pleasant, unintimidating middle ground between the two
extremes that companions tend to land.
But it hadn't happened yet. The few soldiers who did roll over and ask for it
were embarrassed, they seemed almost resigned to Jean's cock pushing inside,
wincing and covering their face, biting hard to hide their reactions. Some of
them seemed to want it to hurt, wanted Jean to use his dick like a weapon,
thrust inside and ignore what it ripped and tore along the way.
Jean's never seen anything like this, Marco's open enjoyment of Jean,
unguarded, unashamed. He licks his lips, feeling a new, exciting hunger
growing.
"You – you want me? Inside?"
"Yeah, yeah," Marco nods, reaching for Jean. Jean practically falls over
himself to comply, and they kiss. Marco stares up at Jean, dark eyes blown and
loving, traveling over the features on Jean's face like he's hopelessly charmed
what he finds there, and Jean has to stop, close his eyes, because they're
starting to sting.
"I don't know what you've heard," Jean says, all business, reaching for the
oil. "But this should feel good. It's going to be – intense at first, but – uh.
Tell me if it hurts."
He uses too much, it drips from his fingers, running down his hand, as he
travels back down to Marco's opening. He spreads his free hand over Marco's
firm, muscled stomach, running it down in a soothing touch, to distract from
his spreading fingers. He doesn't want to stimulate him too much, doesn't want
him coming early – he's started thinking about seeing Marco come while he's
inside him, fucking him, and is getting more and more attached to the idea.
This is much easier than he's used to, there's so little resistance, Marco is
practically melting under his touch – staring up at the ceiling with pleasure
glazed eyes, and Jean squirms, getting harder than he has in some time, seeing
a partner enjoy his touch this much.
"Jean," Marco moans, and Jean has to bite hard on his lower lip not to moan in
return, unable to believe how much Marco saying his voice, like that, went to
his cock. "J-Jean – "
Jean freezes his spreading fingers. "What?" What had he done? He'd been
watching so close, Marco seemed to be enjoying it –
"C'mere," Marco says, reaching for him again.
"Oh no," Jean moans, but does, and they kiss again, up Marco's neck, down
Jean's shoulder, until Jean pulls away. "This will – it'll end too fast."
"Right, yeah," Marco says, but kisses him again, until Jean whines and pulls
away. He's cradling his cock, which is hot and needy, so ready for more, and
has to focus in order not to come when he slicks himself up with the oil.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Jean says, eyes still closed. He's good at dirty
talk, of course, but can't find the words, here, between Marco's spread thighs,
feeling the warm of him against his fingers. Marco doesn't seem to mind, giving
a sharp, excited little moan at Jean's promise.
He cracks open an eye as he starts pushing in. Marco's biting hard on his lower
lip, staring at the ceiling above them once again, and Jean reaches for his
cheek, wanting those eyes on him – wanting to see Marco's expression, the
pleasure from before, as Jean forces his way in, as Marco's body resists, but
only slightly, getting to know this kind of touch.
"You feel so good," he says.
"G-good," Marco says, staring at Jean, even as he gasps, even as his mouth
drops open when Jean bottoms out inside him, as deep as he can get.
"Did – are you good?" Jean asks. He's tense, under Jean, expression tight.
"Yeah, I just – wait," Marco says. He's gotten a little softer, Jean can feel
it against stomach. He leans in for a slow, easy kiss, while gripping Marco's
cock, not moving, just holding, just feeling it in his hand, a few reassuring
squeezes.
"You're so tight, Marco," Jean moans, unable to believe it. Most of the men who
came to him on some kind of suicidal mission were usually this tight, but this
isn't something forced and awkward – Marco flutters around him, growing
accustomed to his size and shape and it's welcoming, it's wanting, Marco wants
him, his body is making love to Jean's dick and it's the most amazing thing
he's ever felt.
"I never – even thought of this," Marco says. "Not with anyone."
"Not with your fingers?"
"No!" Marco says, and seems embarrassed at the very idea. Jean laughs with what
little breath he has, running his hands up the back of Marco's thighs, sliding
around to the front, scratching lightly back down. He likes Marco's body, it's
lovely and perfectly proportioned and his thighs are thick with the same sort
of pleasant muscle plumpness of his ass. He's perfect. Perfect.
"I'm going to start moving," Jean warns, feeling delirious from how much he's
enjoying this.
"Yeah," Marco nods, watching Jean as he pulls back, then rocks back in, oh god.
Yes, Jean's body knows this itch, knows how to scratch it, everything in him
lights up in excitement, rocking in and again, in, in, in.
"How's it?" Jean asks tightly, through grit teeth. "Does it hurt?"
"Doesn't, no," Marco says, quickly, gripping Jean's hands. "It doesn't hurt,
doesn't hurt, doesn't hurt."
"Feels good," Jean nods, speaking for himself, for Marco, for the room at
large. He can tell when Marco is ready for more, harder, and rolls his hips to
give it – he keeps himself camped on Marco's prostate, hoping to send wave
after wave of pleasure through Marco's body without having to slam into him
wildly – he thinks he could like that with Marco, he thinks he could like
anything with Marco, but even frantic, almost cruel fucking. But he doesn't
want that today, he wants this, Marco staring at him in awe as Jean builds this
heat between them, higher and higher – He can see it in Marco's face, his
sudden, impending orgasm. Instead of holding it off, Jean quickly tries to make
it as pleasurable as possible, licking his palm, bringing it to Marco's cock,
stroking in time with his hips.
"Oh – " Marco sounds so surprised about it, and that's what does Jean in, what
sends him tripping over his own two feet, falling after Marco, coming inside
him. "Oh, Jean – come – come here."
He grabs Jean around the shoulders and kisses greedily, still rocking onto
Jean's softening dick in the afterclap of his orgasm, wanting to ride it out.
Jean loses himself in this kiss, in Marco's taste, in how he looks pleasured
and sweaty and spent. He ducks his head against Marco's shoulder and slowly
pulls out, with a regretful stroke of Marco's puffy, freshly abused entrance.
"That was fast," he says, hoping Marco won't hear just how bad his voice
shakes.
"Was it?" Marco asks, still breathless. "It's normally longer than that?"
"Yeah, but – sorry, I kind of..." Jean stutters, looking around. "You felt
really good."
"Better than you're used to?" Marco seems surprised, blushing.
"Much, yeah," Jean says. Marco smiles, and kisses him again.
"I'm surprised I even rank," Marco says.
"You – everything is better," Jean says, realizing how true this is as he says
it. "They didn't... they didn't really look at me – it's completely different."
It's hard to word, nothing Jean is saying sounds right. To them, Jean was
simply there for convenience, like the towel they would use to clean themselves
up when it was over. Like the towel that was consequently tossed aside.
But Marco is holding him so tight, like they're in midair and he's afraid Jean
will drift away if he relaxes even for a moment. Jean's never had someone hold
him like this, look at him like this, touch him like this – want his touch like
this. He feels oddly raw from these thoughts, and pulls himself closer to
Marco's body, remembering how warm and perfect it felt to literally fall into
it.
Marco tips his chin up, staring at his face. It's the same look from before;
exploring, loving. Jean's chin is wobbling again and he hides his face quickly
against Marco's shoulder. Marco lets him hide, stroking down his neck, down his
back.
"I love you," Marco says, almost as an afterthought.
Jean covers his mouth, shuts his eyes.
"I love you so much, Jean," Marco whispers it, still petting the back of Jean's
head. "You're the only thing that matters, you know that?"
What a ridiculous thing for Marco, who literally loves every person he meets,
to say. But it feels – good to hear, it touches something aching inside him,
removes some long stuck thorn, a pain he's learned to live with, ignore, until
now, a sudden sharp reminder of how deeply it hurts that makes tears squeeze
past his eyelids as it's removed, then immediately soothed, healed at Marco's
touch.
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