Shingeki no Oneshot

IX. The Arena (Jeanmarco)

        "Not fair enough," Jean muttered. He watched as Marco applied the serum over the gash in his leg. The lead-like feeling in his leg lifted instantly; there was still a small itch, like a paper cut that's healing, but that was all. "I still can't believe you stole medicine off of the Careers." 

        "It really wasn't that hard. Now..." Marco drifted off just as he finished applying the medication, putting the small container back into a hidden pocket of his jacket. He took off his jacket and the black t-shirt he wore under it and, against his own will, Jean's face began to heat up. 

        "Marco, what are you–" 

        The sound of the black shirt ripping interrupts Jean's questioning. He watched as the District 9 boy wrapped the material around and on top of his wound. "This should help manage any bleeding until the medicine takes full effect. You'll be fine, though. I know it." 

        Jean gulped. They may have been in a life or death situation, but he couldn't help himself when he asked, "Do you think anyone will find us here? We're in a pretty big opening, you know." 

        Marco shook his head. "No one will find us. Not for now, anyways. If you want to rest, though, you should do it now. I'll wake you up if anything happens near us. Worst case scenario is I'll just end up carrying you to another safe location." 

        "You're too kind for your own good," Jean mutters. "I'm your enemy, you know? We're not like the people who entered the 74th Hunger Games. We can't be like them." 

        "I never said we would be." Marco looked up at the sky; it was becoming darker by the minute. "Come on, Jean. We need to rest if we want to save ourselves till the end. If we move locations, you'll know why."

        Jean swallowed harshly. "Okay." What else could he say? He knew from seeing him interact with the others that when Marco made a decision, it was a set decision that couldn't be changed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the grassy forest floor tickling his neck and the sides of his face. He directed his gaze from the treetops to the boy beside him, chest rising and falling with the heaviness of sleep. Marco was attractive, it couldn't be denied.

        I want to kiss him before something happens to either of us. 

        Although his leg was injured, he twisted himself from lying on his back to propping himself up on his right arm. His face hovered over Marco's, inches apart. And Jean would never have to tell Marco about his underlying crush, right? 

        He leaned down and pressed his lips to Marco's ever so lightly, afraid that too much pressure would wake him up. He moved away slowly, shifting himself so that he was lying on his back once more. It was only a few minutes after he closed his eyes – his mind still conscious – that he felt a pair of lips press against his own with the same featherlight touch. As shocked as Jean was, he kept his eyes closed in fear that the moment they were sharing would be ruined. 

        Before drifting out of consciousness, Jean heard Marco utter, "I care about you, too. Goodnight, Jean." 

——————

The second nightfall was approaching fast, and Jean was alone. He was currently hiding in a cave that was known during the 74th Hunger Games, except there was no Marco with him to share the moment. 

        Jean had woken with the upper half of his body inside of the cave; one of his shoes had fallen into the ravine nearby. He knew it was because he and Marco ended up being in danger during the night, but he was confident the District 9 boy would return to him. 

        I hope Marco's okay... It's been almost twenty-four hours.

        Right after his thought was complete, the Sinan anthem echoed through the arena, and Jean poked his head out of the cave to see which tributes were dead that night. He had counted four cannon sounds throughout the day. 

        The District 4 girl, District 6 boy, District 9 boy, and—

        Marco. 

        "Oh no," Jean whispered. A hand flew to his mouth and he felt tears welling in his eyes. He didn't care who was watching his pain on television, he only hoped that everyone understood what pain he was feeling. 

        He should have died, not Marco. Marco was supposed to win this year's Hunger Games. That was the goal. 

        But now it wouldn't happen. 

        Jean looked down at his leg and removed the black shirt, forgetting the tears that still fell from his eyes occasionally. He didn't care about those. His leg was completely healed, the only evidence that a wound was there in the first place was the thin pink line that served as the knife's entrance. 

        His tears dried almost instantly as a new feeling overcame him – determination. 

        He stuffed a part of the black shirt, Marco's shirt, into his jacket and tied another thin strip around his head like a bandana. 

        Marco Bodt of District 9 would not die in vain, and Jean was ready to win for his sake.