Jean Kirstein is Sick of This Shit

Reunion

Summary + Notes: Jean ends up at the place in between life and death, sees Marco again, and decides to do a little time travelling because Jean Kirstein is Sick of This Shit

Point of view of the story is mainly Jean's, third person. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Reunion

The last thing Jean remembers seeing was a darkness enveloping him. He heard voices, heard Sasha and Connie screaming distantly, the sound going through one ear to the next. He was tired, so fucking tired, he'd admit. It had been so long since he was finally able to rest, to be able to live with himself with what he was now doing. He didn't want to be doing this anymore. So, he figured he might as well close his eyes for just a moment, allowing himself to slip into that darkness, just as the bullet had slipped into his abdomen moments beforehand.

Jean awoke with a start, dreams fleeting and leaving him as he heard the soft voice of him, the echo of that beautifully ethereal man, for the first time in months. Propping himself up on his elbows, he shook his head and allowed the sleep to leave his eyes as his brain slowly awakened. How long had it truly been since he had heard that voice in his dreams? Seen him again, happy and alive and there? Far too long, he thought, and even farther since he had heard and seen him in person.

Images flooded into his mind, of a broken and damaged body, of eyes that no longer saw and a voice that no longer spoke.

"No." Jean croaked, sleep still evident in his voice. Those were the images that haunted him in his nightmares.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his body.

Where the hell am I, he thought.

His hands were smooth, uncalloused, like they were years ago. He startled, looking down further. Gone was his uniform, gone were the scars of old battles and fights. Gone were the bruises on his thighs from the ODM gear. Gone was the bullet hole in his abdomen, that burning pain that was just there. All he wore was a white cape, seeming to be a robe of some sorts, and a loose pair of matching white shorts around his waist.

"God, who's the topless wimp now." he muttered to himself. He brought up a hand, scratching at his face, noting that his scruffed out beard was still there. He finally took a look around where he was. It was a black room, if you could call it a room, but somehow there was enough light that he could see his body in perfect clarity. Jean brought his hand, a softer hand, down to the ground, watching the glossy black floor ripple as if it was a puddle.

"Where the hell am I?" he huffed out loud this time, spinning around in shock when he heard that voice again.

"Jean." Marco stood behind him, his grin larger than one Jean had ever seen on his face.

"Marco—" Jean stood up and crushed Marco in a deliberating hug. He looked like Marco, the Marco from before, not battered or bruised or broken. He smelled like Marco, and the barracks, and Jean buried his face in Marco's neck to make sure of this. He sounded like Marco, his voice twinkling and light and free and innocent. Most importantly, he hugged back like Marco, arms warm and tight around Jean and he laughed at Jean, laughed in his ear like he was delighted to just be able to hug Jean again.

I'm taller than him now, Jean thought as he held Marco, and that made him wonder how Marco would look if he was still—

"I missed you." Jean whispered quietly, burying his thoughts, face still bent down against Marco's neck, hand rising up to feel the smooth hair at Marco's nape. Jean watched his fingers splay out on Marco's skin, his neck, tracing the freckles that lined his entire body. It was his Marco, and his heart broke at that, because he wasn't going to ever be able to hold him again, not in any way that mattered.