Chapter Text
When Marco died it hadn’t at all been what he’d expected. He had expected to feel pain, maybe see his life flash before his eyes, or experience some strange phenomenon. Instead, he was faced with an odd feeling of serenity. He felt like he was suspended in mid air, and could almost feel the clouds curling around him comfortingly as his eyes lazily closed. And he slept like that. He slept for a long while.
When Marco awoke he found himself standing in his kitchen, his mother humming away as she diligently sliced up a round tomato. His father was attempting to boil pasta, yelping as the hot steam nipped his hand when he dumped the noodles in, eliciting a chuckle from his mother. Marco’s younger sister padded in the room with a yawn, clutching her favorite ragged stuffed bear. It all seemed so normal, yet something was off. The atmosphere was almost…too perfect, rendering it delicate.
“What are you cooking?” Marco asked, making his way over to the counter where his mom had finished dicing the tomatoes and had since moved on to washing her hands. She turned the water off and dried her hands brusquely, not answering. “Mom~.” Marco drawled teasingly. Again, she seemed to blatantly ignore him. “Mom.” Marco repeated. “Mom!” He reached out to touch her, but she felt delicate, not quite real, and Marco received no response or acknowledgement in the slightest. Panicking, he approached his father and called out to him, yet to no avail. It was as if he didn’t exist.
And then it hit him like a punch to the gut.
Oh.
That’s right.
I’m dead.
It was not at all how Marco had assumed he was going to die. He’d personally hoped to simply die in his sleep as an old man, after he’d led a more or less successful life. One could say the manner of his death was something of a curveball, the details of it even eluding Marco himself. All he remembered was Jean getting angry over something and next thing he knew Marco had been lying in a pool of his own blood, gasping in short breaths as he clutched Jean’s shirt and stared desperately into his panicked eyes before Marco fell back into nothingness and slept.
Utterly lost and puzzled, Marco wandered aimlessly around his house before leaving. The moment he tripped walking to the front door was the moment Marco discovered that he could walk (or, more appropriately for this situation, fall) through walls. He had had to do a double take and ponder what had just transpired for more than a few moments. Had he really just tripped through his front door? Marco decided to test this theory and took a couple of steps back before sprinting forward and racing straight through a wall of his house. He occupied himself this way for a while, weaving in and out of buildings around the neighborhood before feeling bad for essentially trespassing on people’s property. He had even tried talking to several people he saw on the street, but as with his family they seemed to be unaware of his existence.
What exactly happened to me? Why am I here? I know I died…but…just what am I? A ghost?
Marco gazed sullenly through a window of the fast-food restaurant Jean and he had used to frequent. His eyes fell on the digital clock that read 12:07. I’d be in school at this time.
Curious to see how his friends were doing, Marco headed for the school. He jumped on city bus, only feeling slightly ashamed for hitching a free ride. He arrived at the school shortly and took in a deep breath before entering the grounds. He made his way into the courtyard where he observed that their lunch period was still ongoing. Immediately, his eyes found the bench under the large oak tree where Jean and Marco tended to eat together. A lone figure was sprawled out on the bench and as Marco approached he took note of light brown eyes and pale brown hair.
“Jean.” Marco murmured, staring down at the young man who gazed listlessly upward, straight through Marco, at nothing in particular. His usually bright eyes were dull and vacant which worried Marco greatly. He reached down tentatively to brush Jean’s cheek with his hand before retracting it quickly and blushing. He found himself strangely disappointed that Jean hadn’t reacted in any way. Not that Marco had expected him to. He was practically non-existent. In fact, Marco realized, flushing a deeper crimson, he could do anything to Jean and the boy wouldn’t notice.
Marco started as someone walked through him and leaned down to peer at Jean. Marco backed up a few paces, taking in the sight of Eren Jaeger. Mikasa and Armin stood a few feet back too, watching cautiously.
“Listen Jean, it was hard on all of us, you know. But you’ve got to quit moping around like this! Just look at yourself, pathetic!” Eren sounded as if he was trying to give Jean a pep talk. The latter boy only continued to stare up at the sky, unfazed. Eren straightened up with a sigh and lowered his head a bit. “Marco would want you to move on.” He added quietly. “He would want you to appreciate the friends you have here and now and not dwell on the past.” After a few moments of prolonged silence, Eren clenched his fists in frustration. “Dammit, Jean! This is the part where you’re supposed to yell at me and tell me how wrong I am! Why are you being like this? You aren’t the only one who misses Marco.” With that, Eren stormed off in a fury, with Mikasa trailing fast behind him. Armin, however, lingered.
“J—Jean. Eren—he didn’t really mean it like that. All he meant was that…we’re your friends too…and we’re here for you.” Armin spoke in a hushed voice.
“I know…thanks.” Jean spoke up for the first time, surprising Marco. “It’s just…I’m not really in the mood for talking right now.”
Armin nodded. “I understand. Don’t give up just yet.” Armin gave a small nod before retreating to follow his friends.
Marco crouched next to the bench and stared wistfully at Jean’s face, grasping the boy’s hand and only wishing he could be of more comfort. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.” Marco’s voice shook as he stroked Jean’s hand with his thumb.
I wish I could speak to you again, one last time. I’d tell you all the things I left unspoken. I’d tell you how I love your smirking smile, your arrogant laugh, or your soft brown eyes. I’d speak endlessly of how adorable you look when you’re embarrassed, how gentle you can be, and how silly you look trying to act cool. I would recount to you all the times you left me falling even more in love with you. I’d tell you about the time I almost confessed to you on the beach last summer but decided not to because I didn’t want to ruin our relationship. I’d tell you so much. It hurts how many things I didn't tell you. Yet now, now that chance is lost; I can tell you all I want, but you will never hear. I can touch you, but you won’t feel me. I can simply be, yet you won’t acknowledge my existence, for I am nothing.
“Marco.” The name was uttered in such a hushed voice on Jean’s lips that Marco wondered if he’d heard correctly.
“I’m here. I’m here, Jean.” Marco’s voice broke and tightened his grip on Jean’s hand, only to end up going straight through him. He was beginning to understand his current situation a bit better. Whenever he applied a greater force he could meld through things. Light touches were the limit before he simply faded through a body or object.
This is a curse. You are so close, close enough for me to touch you. Yet you are so very far away. Still, I cannot reach you. But then again, it’s always been this way, hasn't it?
The school bell jerked Marco from his thoughts. Jean sat rigidly upright before standing to his feet and slowly making his way into the school building. For the rest of the day, Marco tailed Jean throughout his classes, hovering behind him and watching him take notes. It was during this time that Marco discovered the little things he could do. Sasha’s pencil had been placed at the edge of her desk and Marco, unaware, had brushed against it with his hand when he leaned back against her desk and the pencil rolled off onto the floor. When he attempted to pick it up, however, he went directly through it. Sasha’s hand glided clean through his own to retrieve her pencil and placed it back where it had previously been. Feeling mischievous, Marco repeated his action and lightly prodded the pencil and watched, almost with glee, as it clattered on the floor once more. Sasha frowned now, considerably perplexed. When she grasped her pencil this time she did not set it down. Curious, Marco decided to test the limits of his interference with the physical work on poor Sasha.He poked her shoulder, no reaction. Tried pushing her books, but they were too heavy and Marco’s hand slid through them when he applied too much pressure. He stared her head on, inches away from her face, but she gazed right on through him as if he weren't there. Marco breathed in and let out an exasperated sigh. Sasha blinked and recoiled a bit, glancing around.
Wait a minute…
Marco moved around to Sasha’s right side and lightly puffed in her direction. She glanced in Marco’s direction with a shiver.
“What’s up with you?” Connie, who was seated next to her, prompted as Sasha raked the room with a scrutinizing gaze.
“I keep feeling this cold breeze. But none of the windows are open as far as I can tell. I think I’m getting the chills or something.” Sasha half-murmured.
For the remainder of the day, Marco pondered on possible ways to contact Jean. He couldn’t pick up a pencil, at least not yet, so writing was out. Then again, Marco wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to contact Jean in the first place. It would only confuse Jean and perhaps upset him even more.
I am dead, and it should stay that way. I’ve done enough damage already; I don’t want to renew Jean’s pain anymore. So I won’t try to contact him. Even if he is unaware of my presence, I want to be there for him, always.
Jean drove home in silence that day, not even bothering to turn on his music. Marco sat in the passenger side seat, staring out the window. Marco heard the engine whine as he was pushed violently back when Jean suddenly floored the gas pedal. Marco jerked around to glance at Jean whose face was impenetrable as ever.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marco demanded. The car began to drift lazily toward the left lane where an eighteen-wheeler was barreling down the opposite direction. “Jean, you’re drifting, not to mention speeding, pay attention…” Marco warned his friend urgently, forgetting for a moment that Jean could not hear him. That was when Marco sensed that something was more than a little off. Time seemed to slow and suddenly Marco could percieve every detail of the next moments with a strange clarity. There was a burning smell from the friction the car had experienced at the unexpected jump in speed. Marco became hyperaware of Jean’s fingers thrumming steadily against the center console, the way his other hand gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. Jean’s mouth parted and he seemed to draw in a large breath. Then the car jolted as Jean turned the steering wheel sharply, leading the car to enter the left lane, confronted by the oncoming truck.
In a heartbeat it all became clear as a summer’s day. It was something that had never crossed Marco’s mind, something he’d never expected. Then again, plenty of unexpected things had been occurring as of late. Yet Jean was just so…Jean. He was tough, resilient, and above all stubborn. Jean was too determined, too driven, too stubborn to give up like that. But as surely as the sun shone in the sky, Jean was going through with the unthinkable. Reacting with shocking speed, Marco shot forward, his heart hammering in his chest, and harshly veered the wheel to the right with such ferocity that the car went completely off the road just as the truck’s horn blared. Jean managed to slam on the brakes, throwing the pair forcefully forward, barely halting the vehicle before it collided with a telephone pole.
Marco sat shaking and panting with a single thought dominating his mind: Jean just tried to end his life. Jean groaned. For the first time Jean felt like a stranger to him, and Marco was frightened at his own powerlessness to help the person he cared for most.
“Fuck.” Jean murmured, his face in his hands, elbows on his thighs, leaning forward wearily. He stayed in that position and Marco froze when he heard a broken sob. Jean was crying. Marco felt as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest as he reached out to set a hand on Jean’s shaking shoulder.
“This is…my fault again isn’t it?” Marco whispered. “I’m sorry I left you. I don’t know how I let this happen. I had so much to tell you, to do with you.” He paused for a while, silently dying with each of Jean’s pained sobs. “…It’s kind of nice.” Marco continued with a raw voice, on the verge of tears himself. “I can finally confess all that I feel freely, without worrying endlessly about you rejecting me. But, you know, I’d give anything if you could hear me and speak to me again. I wouldn’t even care if you rejected me, hated me, avoided me. It wouldn’t matter, cause it’d be better than being stuck in this—this state of nonexistence I’m drowning in. And I want to be true to myself for once. I want to tell you what’s been lingering on my tongue, left unspoken for years. I want to tell you of the secret I’ve been bearing since the day we met.
“I want to tell you that I love you, Jean Kirschtein. ”