Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five Years Old…

“It’s such a shame,” his mother was saying, “he really was an exceptional gardener.” She sounded wistful.

“Yes,” his father agreed, though he clearly wasn’t very invested in his statement, too focused on the daily paper in his lap. Fortunately Mrs. Kirschtein didn’t seem to mind and continued on with her one sided rambling.

“We’ll have to find a replacement,” she sighed, holding her teacup out over the edge of the table for one of the maids to fill. A young woman scurried over immediately, filling the cup with his mother’s favorite tea, and Mrs. Kirschtein continued as if she hadn’t even noticed the exchange. Her son giggled at her for it.

“Yes,” the man at the head of the table agreed once again, his wife completely oblivious to his pitiful addition to the conversation. Her focus, it seemed, was centered entirely on the loss of their estate gardener and the high collar of her dress that she was fiddling with.

“Oh!” She suddenly exclaimed, releasing the fabric of her dress and plopping the teacup on the table with a harsh clatter that cut through the silence of the dining room. Several maids turned to locate the source of the noise, but Jean just giggled wildly as his mother continued on with her theories. “Perhaps one of the maids will know of someone?” she said before beckoning over the young girl who had filled her teacup moments ago.

“Ymir, do you know of any gardeners looking for work, dear?” she asked; the young woman scowled in thought.

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied. Jean thought it was funny to see her talk like that. She was always so brazen when his parents weren’t around to see.

“Oh?” both his mother and father said, though his mother was clearly more invested in an answer than his father since he had yet to lift his gaze from the periodical in his hands.

“Yes, ma’am. My uncle, Charles Bodt. He’s very skilled,” Ymir said, voice stiff from restraint. Jean giggled once again.

“Oh wonderful! Would you ask him to come meet us sometime this week, dear? I don’t want the hedges growing over,” his mother whispered, almost conspiratorial. Ymir nodded once, bowed, and made her way to the kitchen to converse with the other maids. Jean had no doubt she would complain about this turn of events with the other young women, but that only made the whole situation funnier to him.

“How exciting! If his work ethic is anything like his niece’s, he must be an excellent worker, don’t you think?” Mrs. Kirschtein asked, seemingly to no one in particular. His father hummed in agreement, but Jean just snorted into his bowl of oatmeal. If he didn’t like Ymir so much, he might tell his parents that her work ethic was purely a figment of their fascination, but he wasn’t planning on risking it. He liked the young woman, after all. She didn’t sugarcoat things, she treated Jean as her equal even though they were years apart, and she was funny. He’d be awfully bored without her.

“Jean, your tutor will be here any minute! Go upstairs and get changed into something more appropriate,” his mother suddenly said, startling the young boy out of his thoughts. Warily, he looked down at his slacks and loose sleep shirt, not entirely sure why he needed to dress up just to sit around the house with his tutor. No one was going to see him, right? He thought to tell his mother so, but it was futile. She’d just dress him herself if he put up a fight.

“Yes, mother,” he mumbled, even though his father was always telling him not to. Jean jumped from his seat to kiss both parents on the cheek before rushing upstairs to change. He closed the door quietly once he’d made it to his bedroom, pulling off his clothes as fast as possible to avoid the early spring chill on his bare skin. Once he suspected that everything was in order, Jean wandered over to the large window overlooking the estate. He liked the view; he could see everything from the rose garden to the shack at the back of the yard to the fountain in the center of the lawn. It was beautiful, and sometimes he wished he could be the one tending to the flowers and plants, just to give him something to do, but it wasn’t his place. He was fairly certain his mother would have a heart attack if he even suggested it.

With a parting glance at the beauty outside his window, Jean turns on his heel and prepares for a day indoors.

.

..

…

Mr. Bodt arrived at the Kirschtein estate two days later, just as Jean was finishing up with his cranky old tutor, Mr. Ackerman. He’d never liked the tiny man, and he was fairly certain that he himself had never liked Jean, so he rejoiced at the chance to escape from their tedious lesson. He was getting rather tired of practicing his letters; a change in scenery would do him good.

Jean’s mother beckoned to the pair from the foyer, heralding the end of the session. Her son eagerly leapt from his place on the floor, bowed to Mr. Ackerman, and sprinted from the study. Once he reached the foyer, he flung his arms around his mother’s waist in gratitude, burying his face in the fabric of her dress. Mrs. Kirschtein chuckled at his sudden behaviour - her son so rarely showed affection outwardly - and led the boy outside to meet the newest addition to the estate staff.

He wasn’t exactly sure why, but Jean was expecting Charles Bodt to be a lot...skinnier than he actually was. Maybe it was because their old gardener had had the physique of a beanpole and Jean just assumed this was universal of all gardeners. But Mr. Bodt was anything but a beanpole. He was tall, well built, with round features and an even rounder stomach and eyes that lit up whenever he smiled. Jean liked him already.

“You must be the man of the house,” Mr. Bodt said, kneeling to Jean’s level and sticking out one callused hand for the younger boy to shake. Jean smiled and gladly took it, pleased with the new gardener’s cheerful face and non-patronizing attitude.

“No, I’m Jean!” he laughed and Mr. Bodt’s smile grew even wider.

“And how old are you, Mr. Jean?” the man asked.

“It’s just Jean,” he giggled again before adding in, “I’m five years old.”

“Well, just Jean, I have a son just your age...would you like to meet him?” Mr. Bodt said and Jean suddenly felt a hand on his back. When he turned around, he saw that it was mother and he let her guide him past Mr. Bodt’s tree trunk legs until he was face to face with another boy about his age and height.

Jean stared. He knew it wasn’t polite, and he knew his mother would have his head for doing it, but he couldn’t exactly help himself. The child in front of him was just so…interesting, but Jean couldn’t place why. Was it the freckles? No, Ymir had those, too. Was it the deep brown eyes? It couldn’t be. They were almost the same shade as his father’s. The button nose? Lot’s of kids had those, it wasn’t as if he’d never seen it before. Maybe, he decided after a few moments of careful deliberation, maybe it’s the combination of all three of those.

“Say hello, dear,” he suddenly heard his mother say, words accompanied by a light press to the middle of his back. Jean took a hesitant step forward and extended his hand to the other boy, expecting him to shake it.

The shake never came. Instead, the other boy just looked up at his father, eyes wide and uncertain, and waited for his approval. Mr. Bodt nodded his head and the boy followed suit, holding his hand out and grabbing Jean’s carefully.

“I’m Marco,” the freckled boy said and Jean repeated it in his head. Marco. Marco. Marco.

“I’m Jean,” he said aloud, dropping Marco’s hand and starting to step away. To his surprise his mother wouldn’t let him finish the job, placing one hand authoritatively on his shoulder and keeping him in place. He whined at the gesture, glaring up at the woman in lieu of outright asking for an explanation.

“Why don’t you and Marco go play while the parents have a talk, hm?” Mrs. Kirschtein said, pushing her son along in the direction of the flower garden. Jean was pleased to note that the gardener’s son followed him without hesitation, though he was still feeling rather bitter about not being allowed to say while the adults had their chat. In retaliation, he decided to stomp the rest of the way to the garden. He didn’t even care if the gardener’s boy followed him at this point.

“Jean!” a voice called from behind him. He didn’t slow down. “Jean! Where are you going?” They were approaching the neatly trimmed rows of flowers at the center of the estate, the Bodt boy would figure it out soon enough.

“What are we doing here?” Marco asked again once they’d come to a full stop in the middle of the garden, voice slightly out of breath. Jean thought it was kind of a silly question - wasn’t it obvious? - so he waved his hands in the direction of the flower beds before flopping down in the neatly trimmed grass. A quiet “oh,” was heard from above followed shortly by the sounds of a young boy sitting cross legged on the grass. Jean didn’t look up.

“It’s very pretty,” Marco whispered and Jean thought he could hear the wonder in his voice.

“Haven’t you ever seen a garden before, Macko?” he grumbled, displeased to find that his lisp prevented him from sounding out Marco’s name properly. Fortunately, the other boy didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was used to it.

“Lot’s of gardens! But this one’s really pretty,” he said and Jean sat up to look at the other boy. Marco was only a few feet away, but he might as well have been in a whole different country with the far off look he had in his eyes. Jean squinted, watching as the boy took in the endless rows of yellow, pink, white, and blue that stretched around them in patterns you could only really make out from the air. He wondered if Marco could tell there was a precision to it all, or if he was too distracted by the sheer quantity of flowers to notice.

“It’s fine,” Jean said. He’d been looking at this garden for his whole life. It wasn’t that impressive.

“You don’t like it?” Marco squeaked, practically appalled at Jean’s apathy.

“I don’t like flowers,” he responded with a shrug. Marco’s jaw dropped.

“You don’t like flowers?” the freckled boy hissed, like it was some big secret they needed to keep under wraps; like Jean had just told him he kicked puppies for fun. He shrugged again.

“That’s - that’s...mad! That’s what it is!” Marco yelped and suddenly Jean found himself sitting alone in the middle of the garden while the other boy ran between the rows of flowers, looking for something. He tried not to watch Marco scurrying between the plants, but once again he was unable to look away. Was it the black hair? No. Mr. Ackerman had black hair. Maybe it’s the little gap between his two front teeth? No, that’s weird. What is it?

Jean snapped himself out of his thoughts; Marco was stalking back towards him and it wouldn’t do him any good to stare. At least, that’s what he told himself before he saw the wide assortment of materials gathered in Marco’s freckled hands.

“What’s that?” he asked as Marco flopped to the ground beside him, dropping his burden between them. Jean leaned over to inspect it, but found the cache rather uninteresting. It was just daisies and some long grass, what was so special about that?

“Daisies!” Marco replied happily, “you make ‘em into crowns!”

“Huh?” Jean squeaked in confusion. He’d never seen a crown made of daisies before...all the books said that crowns were made of jewels and gold.

“Yeah, see?” Marco then held a handful of the delicate flowers out in front of him, demonstrating a rather simple knot for Jean to see. Carefully, Jean picked up a handful of the flowers and held them close to his face to examine. He tried to recreate the knot Marco had made, but the stems snapped in his hands. Grumbling, he tried again. Once again, the stems snapped. He tried a third time. And one more time after that before finally throwing the flowers down in disgust and crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s stupid,” Jean huffed, kicking the pile of broken daisy stems as far away from him as he could manage. Marco giggled and held out his crown, nearly completed.

“It’s okay, Jean. It takes lots an’ lots of practice. You’ll get it one day!” the boy laughed, tying off a few more loose ends and examining the circlet in his hands. With a satisfied nod, he lifted his creation up until he could rest it on Jean’s head. It was a little too big, but neither boy minded. Marco was merely pleased with his handiwork and Jean was simply happy to be wearing a crown.

“See? Now you’re a prince!” Marco cheered, clapping and jumping to his feet. Jean quickly followed suit.

“Yeah, an’ you’re my knight!” he said, playing along without a second thought. “Bow down before me!”

“Yes, sir,” Marco giggled, kneeling in front of the other boy. Filled with glee, Jean reached around for a few of the discarded daisies, picking one up and wielding it like a sword. He carefully tapped Marco on either shoulder before commanding the boy to rise.

“C’mon, we gotta go save the princess!” Jean shouted, turning on his heel and sprinting in the opposite direction. His new friend quickly rose to his feet and followed at his heels, shouting warnings about a dragon and a castle they’d have to infiltrate. Both boys laughed as they ran, stumbling over their feet and swinging the daisies at each other in a poor mimicry of a sword fight.

“Jean, it’s time for lunch! Leave Marco alone so he can move into the gardener’s shack with his father,” Mrs. Kirschtein suddenly yelled, voice resonating around the estate and interrupting the boys in their play. Jean cocked his head to listen, unsure if he really wanted to stop his game, but his rumbling stomach persuaded him to comply. He hadn’t eaten all day, after all.

The two boys trotted back to their mother and father, finding them sitting across from each other on the stone benches around the fountain. They seemed to be finished with their conversation, and as soon as the boys approached they stopped speaking entirely. Jean jogged to his mother, letting her pet him on the head a few times before asking him to get dressed for their meal, while Marco jumped into his father’s waiting arms. From the corner of his eye, Jean could see Mr. Bodt swinging his son around in a wide circle, both of them laughing in glee as Marco recounted his slaying of the dragon.

“What’s this in your hair, darling?” his mother said, drawing his attention from the jovial pair. She was brushing her hand through the sandy blonde hair on top of his head, picking out daisy petals every few inches.

“Oh, uh…” he didn’t want to answer. Marco’s flower crown was special to him and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Not his mother, not his father, not Ymir, not even Mr. Bodt. “Just some petals. We were playing the the garden.”

“How lovely,” she cooed and grinned. Jean returned the smile before spinning around to find Marco. To his dismay, the freckled boy had already started walking in the direction of his new home, hand in hand with his father. As if sensing Jean’s eyes on him, Marco suddenly turned and waved, smiling sweetly at the boy he left behind. Jean returned it easily.

“Did you like the new gardener, dear?” his mother asked, pulling him in the direction of the house.

“Yes,” Jean said, thinking more of the gardener’s son than the gardener himself, “I like him very much.”

Chapter Text

Seven Years Old…

Jean was convinced he’d never been more bored in his life. This was largely untrue, he had seen some pretty dismal afternoons around the estate, but he was still very prone to exaggeration at his age. Even if it wasn’t out loud.

His lessons with Mr. Ackerman had just finished and they had covered history; Jean’s least favorite subject. It definitely did not put him in a good mood, and neither did the absence of both his mother and his father - who were both running errands for party they intended to throw later that week. Why they hadn’t started sooner, Jean didn’t know. But he did know it irritated him to no end to be left alone with neither mother nor father to play with. Even the maids were busy preparing for the gathering! It was completely unfair.

Bored out of his mind, the young boy continued to do what he had been doing for the past hour: stare out the window. It wasn’t his own window - it was far too nice a day to torture himself by looking out over the garden - it was the window looking out over their front porch and the driveway beyond. Occasionally he could see a car driving by in the distance, but those were few and far between. For the most part the driveway was excessively quiet...almost unbearably so.

That was until Jean noticed a small figure walking down the gravel path. Curious, he cocked his head to the side and squinted to get a better look at the person. They were obviously young, based on their size and stature, but he couldn’t make out any distinctive features except for the book they were holding in their hands and seemingly reading as they walked. Jean leaned even farther forward in his seat. If they would just step a little closer maybe he could…

“Marco!” he suddenly shrieked, several maids bustling about the house turning to locate the source of the piercing noise. Jean pretended not to notice their curiosity, instead flying from the armchair he’d been perched in and grappling with the doorknob until he was standing on the front porch. He scanned the yard, spotting Marco only a few feet away. The other boy seemed too engrossed in his book to have noticed Jean’s presence. “Marco!” Jean yelled again, this time flinging himself down the steps and across the driveway until his arms were securely fastened around the other boy. Marco squawked at the sudden choke hold he’d been thrust into, but returned the hug nonetheless. He was finding this practice more and more common the longer he hung around the Kirschtein estate.

“What are you doing?” Marco giggled, gently prying Jean’s arms off him so he could look the other boy in the eye. Jean sighed dramatically.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he whined and pulled on Marco’s arm in the direction of the orchard behind the house, “but you’re here now! Which means I finally have someone to play with!”

“Quiet day?” Marco asks, covering his mouth to stifle his giggles. They were coming up on the orchard remarkably quickly and Marco thought it best to ask why Jean was in such a hurry before they made it to the treeline. Asking after they crossed the threshold it would be a waste of time, and he found a response very unlikely.

Jean groans, which answers Marco’s question to some degree. It doesn’t stop the barrage of complaints spilling from Jean’s lips, though.

“It’s so boring here Marco!” he moans, “Mother and Father left me alone with Mr. Ackerman for the whole day and he didn’t let me outside once! I wish I could have gone to school with you instead.” Marco chuckles at the other boy’s voice, which has pitched up impressively in his latest bout of complaints.

“That sounds fun,” he muses, letting Jean lead him farther into the grove of peach and apple trees, their footsteps falling quietly over freshly mowed grass and fallen leaves.

“The funnest,” Jean agrees before pulling the other boy to a stop under an old yet beautiful cherry tree. Under it lies a small stone bench, carved from marble and almost unbearably cold to the touch from sitting in the shade of the orchard for the entire day. Jean pulls Marco down anyway, though both boys shiver at the cold seeping through the fabric of their trousers. Marco draws his knees to his chest to preserve some warmth and Jean follows suit before bombarding the freckled boy with questions about his day.

“How was school?” He begins, picking loosely at a piece of lint on the elbow of his shirt and waiting eagerly for Marco’s response. He always loved hearing about Marco’s adventures at school, especially since he himself was never allowed to attend one or even leave the estate without his parents at his side.

“It was good. Ms. Eleanor gave me some new books to read and we learned how to add numbers together,” Marco responded thoughtfully, waving the book he’d been reading during his walk up the driveway in his friend’s face. Jean leaned back and scrunched up his nose, trying to read the title.

“The Language of Flowers?” he enunciates slowly, seemingly confused at the words coming out of his own mouth, “I don’ get it...flowers don’t speak, Marco.”

Marco giggles and opens the book carefully, afraid of damaging his new prized possession. “No, silly!” He says, pointing to a random page filled with beautiful illustrations of peonies and roses with small cursive script written along the margins, “it’s called symbolism. Ms. Eleanor told me ‘bout it.”

“Sym-ol-is-em?” Jean parrots back. He tries rolling the word off his tongue a few more times but each time somehow sounds worse than the last. It just doesn’t sound or feel like a real word to him.

“Yeah, it’s when you use something to represent something else,” Marco says, flipping through pages and looking for a good example. Jean leans over to watch as Marco searches.

“See! Look!” Marco says suddenly, startling Jean enough to make him lose his balance and fall off the bench so he’s sitting on the grass at Marco’s feet, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. Without missing a beat, the other boy follows him to the ground and rests his back against the cool marble, handing the open book to Jean before scooting closer to read over his shoulder. Jean takes the book with unsure hands, but glances down at the page to please his freckled friend.

The page in question is filled with detailed illustrations of roses, each a different color than the one preceding it. Next to each image is a carefully written explanation of what each color represents, though Jean still doesn’t understand it and continues flipping through the book. Marco huffs out an irritated sigh next to him, so Jean pretends to be fascinated by roses for a while to keep Marco happy.

“So white roses sym-olize innocence...and...yellow roses mean friendship?” Jean shakes his head and hands the book back to Marco, “I don’ get it. Why those colors?”

“I dunno,” Marco replies softly.

“And who says red roses have to sym-olize beauty? Why can’t red roses sym-olize puppies? Or rainbows? Or playing hopscotch?”

“I don’t think that’s how symbolism works, Jean,” Marco giggles and scours the worn leather book in his lap for a more appropriate example. Eventually he settles on a page filled with flowers Jean immediately recognizes as daffodils from the garden behind the house. He squints at the drawings, trying to make sense of it all, but Marco beats him to it.

“See? So daffodils bloom in early spring, right?” He points a freckled hand at the words excitedly, “so they represent new beginnings because they mark the beginning of the season.”

Jean tilts his head to the side, supposing that makes a little more sense than the whole red-roses controversy but still unsure of the whole symbol system in general. Carefully, he pinches the page between tiny fingers and turns it to the next in a silent request for Marco to continue.

Marco smiles at his friend, the small gap between his front teeth on full display, before diving back in and explaining more to Jean. Some flowers Jean doesn’t recognize, others he does. It seems like only minutes have passed with Marco’s voice filling the air so perfectly and his excitement keeping Jean constantly interested, but when he looks up the sky is tinged with streaks of pink. His friend seems to notice it too; tucking the book back under his arm and moving to stand.

“W-wait!” Jean hears himself shouting, voice echoing too loudly in the resounding silence of the orchard. Marco sits back down and turns to him expectantly without hesitation, cocking his head to the side and waiting patiently for Jean to speak his mind. “W-wait just - uh just one more? Please, Marco?” He begs.

To his surprise, Marco nods and reopens his beloved book, flipping to a random section somewhere in the middle.

“That’s a gardenia,” he says softly, pointing to the delicate white flower taking up the top half of the page. Secretly, Jean thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“What’s it mean?” he asks, voice equally as soft as he carefully reaches out a hand to trace the beautiful flower with his fingertips.

“Secret love,” Marco replies and Jean squints in confusion.

“I don’ get it,” he says, pulling his hand away from the paper to look Marco in the eye. Marco grimaces in concentration, his eyebrows scrunching together and his tongue poking out between cherry red lips in a motion Jean has come to expect of his friend whenever he’s stumped.

“I don’t know why it symbolizes secret love, Jean,” he shrugs. Jean shakes his head.

“No not that. I mean I don’ get...love. I don’ know what that is,” Jean replies and pulls his knees to his chest, suddenly insecure of his inexperience. He’s heard the word, of course. Mother says she loves him when she comes to tuck him in at bed tonight, but he’s never had a definition for it.

Judging by the look on Marco’s face, he’s never had a definition for it either.

“W-well it’s like...it’s like…,” Marco scrambles, biting his lip in thought, “it’s like when you feel happy around someone o-or like when Mama used to kiss Daddy every morning when she woke up.” The freckled boy’s lip trembles slightly at the memory; Jean tries to pull up a similar image.

“Like when Mother and Father kiss before Father leaves for work?” he asks, struggling to put all the pieces together.

“R-right. They do that because they’re happy...and that’s what love is?” Marco’s voice raises on the end like he’s asking a question, unsure if what he’s saying is true or not.

Jean leans back until the cool marble of the bench makes the muscles in his back seize up, thinking it over. Marco leans back with him, both boys staring into space. Neither of them know what the other is thinking, but neither particularly care. They’re content enough as is; happy to share in each other’s company.

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” Jean suddenly muses aloud, his friend turning his head to the side to find amber eyes staring into his own.

“I’m happy when I’m with you, too,” Marco whispers back. His eyes remain transfixed on the way the pink light of dusk reflects off those golden irises.

“So...does that mean we love each other?” Jean asks shyly and Marco’s view of his friend’s eyes is suddenly replaced with the sight of his sandy blonde hair as Jean turns away in embarrassment.

“Hmm,” Marco wonders aloud, “I guess so.”

“R-really?” the other boy squeaks before throwing himself into Marco’s waiting arms with joy. Marco clings to him in earnest, laughing and wiggling as the two are pushed to the ground with their arms around each other.

“Yes!” He giggles, Jean’s weight nearly crushing him.

“Does that mean...I get to kiss you goodnight?” Jean suddenly asks and Marco laughs even harder. Jean glances around warily, now unsure of his question. Is he not supposed to kiss Marco? He thought Marco loved him. Was he wrong? He feels his body tensing up with nervousness, pulling away from Marco and scrambling until he’s resting on his knees a few feet away.

“Jean?” Marco asks, propping himself up on his elbows and looking at his friend. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I just thought...I thought I was gonna kiss you goodnight, tha’s all,” Jean mumbles. He hears Marco sitting up somewhere to the side, but he ignores his friend until the warmth of a hand on his cheek forces him to take notice.

“Of course you can kiss me goodnight, silly!” Marco says, sparkling eyes meeting his own. Jean smiles happily and leans forward.

Their first kiss is short and sweet; hardly even worthy of being called a kiss. In reality it’s just a quick brush of lips, but Jean feels his heart swelling with joy at having a label to slap onto his friendship with Marco. He’s also pleased to have Marco’s lips pressed against his own, their warmth making their parting all the more enjoyable.

Marco is the first to pull away, a quiet whisper of ‘goodnight, Jean’ breaking free from his lips. Both boys stand then embrace before heading their separate ways; Marco towards the gardener’s shack, and Jean towards his comfortable bed inside the main house. On the walk home, he can’t keep the smile off his face, and he falls asleep thinking about the warmth of Marco’s mouth against his own.

.

..

…

“Jean, dear, isn’t that your little friend coming down the drive?” his mother says two weeks later and Jean feels his heart squeeze with excitement. He turns his head to stare out the window and true enough, there’s Marco with his head stuck in a book and a concentrated scowl on his face. Jean spins back around to face his mother, a pleading look on his own face, and she nods to excuse him from his place peeling potatoes at her side. Soon enough, Jean finds himself sprinting down the porch steps and flinging himself at the freckled boy below. Marco looks up in surprise and drops the book in his hands.

“Hi, Jean!” he giggles before leaning down to pick up his discarded reading material. Jean gives him a quick hug in retaliation.

“Marcooo!” the boy yells, “come play! I’m so booored!”

“Alright, Jean,” Marco says, following his friend’s lead and stepping across the lawn towards the orchard. When he looks down, he notices the grass is turning slightly yellow. He ponders this for a moment - it is only May, after all - before concluding the grass is only dying from constantly being walked on. He and Jean have been walking the same route every day for the past two weeks.

At some point, both boys find themselves sitting on the cool marble bench in the middle of the orchard, the smooth bark of the cherry tree rubbing against the back of their shirts. They spend the afternoon much as they always have; discussing Marco’s day at school in quiet tones and laughing at Jean’s complaints about Mr. Ackerman’s daily lessons. Like every other day, the sun begins going down hours into their conversation. And like every other day, Marco stands with a slight chuckle and announces his departure with a sad smile.

And just like every other day, Jean stands as well and presses his lips softly against Marco’s own, a silent ‘I love you’ that lingers between them even after they’ve gone to their separate homes and fallen prey to the blissful dreams of careless children.

Chapter Text

Ten Years Old

Jean’s tenth birthday dawns bright and clear, grass green from weeks of rain and flowers dripping with early morning dew. The exquisite spring day is the first thing to catch his attention as he wakes, rolling over in his bed to look over the gardens and orchards stretching out for acres beyond his bedroom window. He huffs out an excited laugh at the sight and delights in the puff of breath that fogs the window above his sleep mussed hair and squinty eyes.

Carefully, with all the grace of a nine (ten, in only a few hours, he tells himself) year old, Jean rises from his mattress and wraps himself in the comforting warmth of his duvet. He trips on the blanket as he escapes the confines of his bed, but he hardly notices in his eager shuffle out the door and down the stairs. Disaster nearly strikes again when the boy reaches the bottom step, stubby legs tangling in the heavy fabric of the blanket and pulling him towards the ground at surprising speeds. Suddenly, a hand reaches out to catch the falling boy, and Jean shrieks in surprise as a tanned and freckled arm wraps around his chest before his face can hit the creaky floorboards below his feet.

“Careful,” the hand’s owner grumbles before nudging the boy harshly to his feet and yanking the blanket away from his grabbing hands. Jean looks up and squints menacingly at the perpetrator, trying to grab the comforter away from the much taller, much more intimidating woman before him.

“Uh, no. You’ll kill yourself dragging this thing around and I’ll be the one getting fired for it,” the maid hisses, dark eyes narrowed and shining with sincerity.

“Ymiiirrr,” Jean whines, stomps his foot; a habit he still hasn’t grown out of despite his mother’s insistence, “it’s cooollld!”

The woman shrugs her shoulders, folding the rumpled blanket over one freckled arm and sauntering towards the laundry room where she tosses the offending article into a wicker basket on the floor. “Then change, mate.” She supplies, heaving the basket onto the counter and turning towards the sink. The maid turns the water on, filling the basin halfway before taking out the wash board and soap. Jean watches in idle fascination as she dips her hands into the freezing water without so much as a grimace.

“But I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” Jean yelps once his fascination with Ymir’s handiwork has ebbed. The woman turns her head slightly to give him a nasty look from the corner of her eye and Jean pouts.

“Well I suppose you should fetch a bite to eat then, shouldn’t you?” Ymir sighs, irritated at the boy for pestering her during the worst of her early morning chores.

“Did you make breakfast already?” the child asks and Ymir rolls her eyes at the obvious skepticism permeating his words. Jean of course misses her annoyance and plunders on obliviously, “please tell me you didn’t make porridge again?” he moans.

“For your birthday? Don’t be dim,” the maid scoffs, reaching for the pile of dirty laundry and beginning the arduous process of removing a grass stain from one of Jean’s trousers. She feels a sudden weight clinging to her side while she’s inspecting the tarnished garment and looks down, startled, to find a pair of narrow amber eyes blinking up at her excitedly.

“You mean you remembered?!” Jean gasps and fists his hands more thoroughly in the woman’s skirts, peering up at the maid hopefully. Ymir tries to hide the smile spreading across her face but smirks at the excited child regardless.

“Have I ever forgotten, Mr. Kirschtein?” she asks, pulling the boy’s hands from her dress and leaning down to look him in the eye, eyebrow quirked in faux annoyance.

Jean takes a moment to ponder this. He thinks back to every birthday he possibly can, searching through his memories for Ymir’s satisfied smirk amongst the presents and parties and parents. The boy smiles, realizing she’s been there for every birthday; waiting patiently in the background and slipping him gifts in the night when his parents won’t catch her sneaking around.

“No,” he says proudly and pulls the maid into a fumbling hug made all the more awkward by the height difference between the two. Ymir smirks into the boy’s shoulder, carefully prying him away to tussle his hair with sibling-like determination.

“That’s right,” the maid says before standing and ushering Jean out the door of the laundry room, “now head to breakfast. I made pancakes.”

“Pancakes!” Jean squeals and Ymir takes a moment to wonder if the boy she’s been partially raising for nine (ten) years has really grown up at all. But watching his clumsy steps as he races to the parlor on the other side of the house, she can’t help but think he really hasn’t.

.

..

…

Jean spends the morning munching happily on a stack of pancakes far bigger than anyone his size should be able to consume. His parents flit in and out of the dining room, wishing him another year of good health in between hushed arguments about the writing desk in the living room they’ve been trying to get rid of for the past four months. Jean takes it all in stride, turning his attention to the syrupy goo on his plate instead of focusing on the irrelevant banter taking place around him. At some point, Ymir steps into the dining room to retrieve his plate - licked clean - and drops it in the kitchen, stopping by the boy’s chair to whisper an additional ‘happy birthday, mate’ into his ear. Jean accepts the woman’s well wishes gratefully, but truthfully there’s only one freckled friend he wants to hear the words from.

“Mother, I’m going outside,” he calls over his shoulder, pushing the chair out from underneath the table with a painfully loud squeak, bolting out of the dining room, and rushing down the steps. His mother responds with requests to be back before lunch time, to not dirty his sleep clothes, but Jean hardly hears her. The day is too bright and beautiful for Jean to concern himself with dirt-stained pajamas.

After heading down the stairs of the front porch, Jean finds himself faced with a minor dilemma. It’s a Saturday, which means Marco won’t be at school, but he could be anywhere on the large estate. Recently the freckled boy had started taking on part of the workload along with his father, and Jean wouldn’t be surprised if he tripped over Marco while traipsing through the daisies. Uncertain of Marco’s true location, Jean decides wandering around on a day so nice wouldn’t be too awful and begins making his way around the expansive gardens surrounding his house. He starts by meandering through the rose bushes. Then the perennials. Then the copse of pine trees and cyprus near the back of the estate. Then finally the orchards where he and Marco typically spend their afternoons. Still, there is no sign of the gardener’s son.

Jean huffs, irritated. Marco knows it’s his birthday, so why isn’t he coming to wish him well? With a childish stomp of his foot, Jean turns on his heel and makes his way towards the shack at the rear end of the estate. He’s mildly irritated at having to double back, but he’s also worried. Marco’s always been an early riser, and it’s getting late into the morning. Jean hopes his friend is well and finds himself muttering prayers under his breath as he pulls up to the wooden building and knocks on the red painted door. The sound of feet scrabbling across the floor is muted but clearly recognizable and soon Jean is greeted with the startled face of his friend.

“Jean!” the boy says in surprise before glancing back into the little hut with nervous eyes. Jean tries to peer around Marco to see what has him so anxious, but the taller of the two shifts so nothing can be seen aside from Marco’s scrawny chest and messy hair.

“Marcooo,” Jean whines, grabs his friend’s arm, “it’s my birthday, come play with me!” Marco allows the boy to pull him forward across the threshold of the door.

“Okay, okay. Just...give me a moment,” he says and Jean notices that his eyes are still wide with fear. Marco ducks back into the house before Jean can think too much of it. The bright red door is shut somewhat harshly in Jean’s face and he scowls as he waits for his friend to come back.

Several moments pass before Marco finally returns, closing the door behind him with a soft click and a brief glance back into the shack. His arm is immediately grabbed, freckled skin gripped tight between pale hands, and the two set off across the yard. Jean leads the other boy back into the orchard, scouting out the perfect tree for their games. Marco whines as Jean leads him in circles - arm still held painfully tight by the birthday boy - but Jean insists none of the trees they’ve come to stand before are right. He heads further into the orchard, closer to the main road that connects his driveway with the rest of the town.

Jean stops; suddenly, and with a whoop of excitement. Marco crashes into the shorter boy’s back, unaware of the sudden change of pace. He grumbles quiet complaints at having bashed his delicate nose into the back of Jean’s head, but he heaves a sigh of relief when his arm is finally released from his friend’s death grip.

“This one,” Jean proudly announces, hands on his hips. Both boys look up to marvel at the rather impressive apple tree flowering above them. There are no apples on it yet, but the white flowers are unmistakable and the smooth, silvery bark is absolutely perfect for climbing on without having to worry about splinters.

“Jean,” Marco warns, but the other boy pays him no attention, too busy scrambling up the trunk and climbing through the lower branches. He figures it’s safe enough climbing like this.

“Jean,” Marco calls again. Jean simply leans over a branch to stick his tongue out playfully at the boy scowling beneath him.

“What? It’s safe!” He laughs before climbing higher into the tree. He’s finally up where the branches aren’t strong enough to hold his weight, but sturdy enough to use as hand holds. Jean laughs again and sits himself down on the branch he’d been standing on, peering over the side and pouting at Marco, who’s now got his arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon, don’t be like that!” he calls down to the other boy.

“I just trimmed that tree,” Marco grumbles, but takes a step forward nonetheless.

“Oh, is that why it’s so perfect for climbing?” Jean taunts. Marco’s face lights up at that - praise from Jean is hard to come by, after all - but he still won’t give into temptation and climb the damned thing.

“Jean…” the boy in question looks down from his perch and watches his anxious friend below. Marco is chewing nervously on his bottom lip. After all these years together Jean has come to realize it’s a habit he only picks up when he’s scared of something. Like swimming in the lake for the first time, or sliding down the bannister in the main house even though Jean insisted a thousand times that it’s fine, Marco. Don’t be such a girl!

“What? What is it?” he tries to sound sincere, he really does. But honestly, Jean’s a little tired of his friend’s stubbornness and wants to get to playing.

Marco looks around the orchard with wide eyes, scanning for something, before casting his gaze towards Jean and whispering: “I’ll get in trouble.”

Jean practically falls off the branch from laughing.

“Of course you won’t get in trouble,” he gets out between giggles, gripping the trunk with pale fingers to keep himself from toppling face first into the manicured lawn below. Why on Earth would Marco get in trouble for climbing a stupid tree? he thinks to himself; the suggestion makes him laugh harder.

“But Jean,” Marco continues in his whispered tone. Jean can’t help but think it sounds almost conspiratorial, “your parents.” The boy in the tree sobers at the mention of his parents and he looks down at his friend with a puzzled tilt of his head.

“My parents?” he wonders aloud. Marco nods vigorously. Jean squints at the other boy curiously, but sighs and climbs down the tree when he spots the taller of the two gnawing on his lip like it’s a piece of licorice. He jumps to the ground with a quiet thump and stands to face Marco. “What about my parents?”

Marco stops biting his lip long enough heave a massive sigh at Jean’s supposed ignorance.

“Jean, I work for them,” he grumbles, “I’ll get in trouble if they find me climbing around on the tree I just trimmed. It’s unprofessional.”

Jean rolls his eyes and shoves the freckled boy in the shoulder. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs, “they won’t care.”

“But what if they do?” Marco persists.

“Then so what? You get in a little bit of trouble. It’s not that bad.” Jean remarks offhandedly, failing to notice the way Marco’s face falls with the statement.

“Jean…” he starts, his friend fixes him with an unamused glare.

“What?”

“If I get in trouble, my Dad might get fired,” Marco says and for a moment, Jean thinks he hears Marco’s voice fill with fear. He decides not to push the boy any further.

“Alright, alright. You don’t have to climb the tree,” he sighs. Marco nods.

“But…”

“But?”

“But...you know if you did get in trouble for something like that, I’d take the blame for you, right?” Jean says.

“You would?” Marco responds, confused. His nose wrinkles up ever so slightly, obscuring some of his more prominent freckles. Jean can’t help but think he looks a bit like a puppy who just ate something repulsive.

“Of course,” he scoffs and grabs for Marco’s shoulder, “that’s what you do when you love someone, right?”

The two share an affectionate smile for several moments, unbroken until Marco glances up at the abandoned apple tree with a calculating glance.

“It does look rather good for climbing…” he sighs. Jean grins and grabs his friend’s hand, leading him to the base of the tree and gesturing grandly to the expanse of twisted branches and flowers above their heads. Marco accepts his invitation with a broad and goofy smile before clambering up the tree into one of the lower boughs, pulling the other boy up behind him. The pair sit on the branch for several hours, talking about everything and nothing, until they hear Jean’s mother calling out to the boy and asking that he turn in for lunch with the rest of the household. Jean yells back a startlingly loud ‘GIVE ME A MOMENT’ which nearly knocks Marco from his perch and the two exchange a fit of giggles before beginning their wobbly descent from the apple tree.

“I’ll walk you back,” Jean suggests once both boys feet are back on the ground. Marco nods gratefully and together they set off across the yard towards the gardener’s shack sharing few words along the way. Once they’ve stopped in front of the painted red door, Jean gives Marco a dramatic bow and announces their arrival at Marco’s humble abode. The taller boy giggles, pushing Jean playfully, before giving him one last hug and whispering another happy birthday, Jean into his friend’s ear. Then he opens the door and steps inside the small house with a sad smile.

As he steps away from the closing door, Jean thinks he hears Marco asking, “how are you feeling, Papa?” in a slightly scared voice but he thinks nothing of it. It’s his birthday, after all.

With a spring in his step, Jean turns away from the gardener’s shack and makes his way home for his tenth birthday celebration.

.

..

…

As usual, Jean’s birthday celebration extends well into the night. It isn’t until midnight that the boy finds himself tucked into bed, stomach stuffed with sweets and bedroom filled with new toys. But he can’t find it in himself to care about the wooden soldiers and jacks lining his walls when he knows there’s more to come.

A soft tapping at his door sends Jean’s heart into a frenzy and he springs from the bed to let in the maid he knows is standing just behind the door.

“Ymir!” he whispers happily, ushering the woman in as quickly and silently as he can. She’s really not supposed to be in this part of the house at this hour, but it’s become a tradition of theirs; every year for his birthday, Ymir will buy Jean one present and sneak it to the excited boy in the dead of night. Jean will never admit it to the maid, but Ymir’s present’s are always his favorites.

“Ready birthday boy?” Ymir plops herself down on the bed uninvited and Jean hops on excitedly after her. He nods his head vigorously and leans his whole body forward to try and spot the present he knows she’s hiding somewhere in her apron.

“Close your eyes,” she commands. Jean snorts rather unattractively.

“Why?”

“Because I had to tie your present to the inside of my thigh to smuggle it in and -”

“Ew, Ymir!”

“Just close your eyes, brat.”

Jean finally complies with Ymir’s wishes, but only because he really doesn’t want to see the woman’s underwear or - God forbid - anything she might be hiding below the waist. He hears a bit of ruffling and then silence as something is pushed into his waiting hands. Jean finally opens his eyes.

His gift is unwrapped; they always are. Ymir claims it’s because she can’t wrap without it coming out a mess, but Jean suspects it’s because she’s just lazy.

“Ymir!” he squeals in excitement once he realizes what he’s holding, his voice loud enough to wake his parent’s down the hall if he’s not careful. Ymir slaps a hand over his mouth to keep him silent but it doesn’t stop the boy from smiling brighter than the sun.

“Shh,” she reprimands, but takes the two objects from his hands to show off the gifts nonetheless. She shows off the book first - a little leatherbound thing that’s clearly meant for drawing - before moving onto the more exciting bit: a set of charcoal pencils and sticks that has Jean hopping on the bed in joy.

“How did you know?” Jean begs, snatching the pencils and notebook back from the maid and running skinny artist’s fingers over the new supplies.

“I heard you asking your Pop if you could take art classes. You seemed pretty upset when he told you to bugger off instead,” Ymir shrugs. Jean gently places the gift on his pillow and flings his arms around the woman, sending the both of them careening to the side in a fit of muffled giggles.

“Where did you find them?” the boy asks excitedly.

“I found them when I was out shopping for Christa,” Ymir replies, blushing furiously.

“Who’s Christa?” Jean questions and shakes his head. No. He definitely hasn’t heard that name before.

“She’s um, well she’s,” Ymir stutters. Jean raises his eyebrow, unamused.

“She’s kind of like my, uh how do I put this? Christa’s like my...girlfriend, I suppose.” Ymir finally gets out, face bright red with embarrassment even though Jean doesn’t find anything embarrassing about it. In fact, he’s more confused than judgemental.

“You can do that?” he wonders aloud and Ymir shoots him a worried glance.

“Do what?”

“You can...be with someone like that?” Jean asks, “someone of the same gender? That’s allowed?”

“Well…”

“So I could have a boyfriend?”

“WELL-”

“I could have a husband?” the boy continues excitedly; Ymir only shakes her head dejectedly.

“No, Jean. I’m sorry. It doesn’t work like that,” she responds sadly. Jean starts with a “but you said!” but Ymir cuts him off with a dangerous glare and sharp shake of her head.

“It’s probably best if you don’t dwell on it too much,” the maid says, reaching behind her to grab the blanket and tuck Jean in before he can ask anymore questions. The boy is back under the covers before he can even blink. “In fact, don’t even talk about it.”

“But-”

“No, Jean. And I never spoke of Christa, understand?” Ymir fixes the confused boy with a piercing gaze until he resigns with a huff and a irritated nod of his head. This makes the woman smile, and she finally stands to leave - whispering a farewell before tiptoeing out the door and leaving Jean alone with his thoughts.

Needless to say, Jean doesn’t sleep well that night. He’s too awake - in both senses of the word - to rest. He resigns himself to his first night of thinking about Ymir’s cryptic words and Marco’s smiling, freckled face.

It is not his last.