Right Wrong Number

1

A modern AU JeanMarco story! Warning: Mature language and themes. Hope you enjoy!
-Jean-
After a long day of work, I was just about ready to crash on the couch and sleep for years. The world was moving so fast, I didn't know what to do. Stress was the word that I used to excuse my tiredness. In reality, it felt like so much more than that.

My father had just passed away, leaving a complicated mess of finances and debt. I was working full-time at a crappy job. Perhaps it wasn't the worst it could be, but it weighed heavily on me. Depression had been an issue in my family for many generations. I refused to let it get to me. I'd been described as headstrong and brash, but really, I was just trying to keep my head above water. And I'd been rather successful: for someone with a history of aggressive actions, I'd managed to control myself recently. Except when I was alone in my apartment, where I could punch pillows and walls however much I wanted.

I did that now, slamming my fist into the couch cushions. I was sprawled face-down on the sofa, wrinkling my last good dress shirt. It didn't look very dignified, but it helped me let out anger.

As I started to calm down, the doorbell rang. I stood and went to see who it was, opening the door wide. It was a mailman, carrying a package.

"What do you want?" I snapped, looking down at the poor guy.

"Delivery, sir." Quickly, he handed me the package and scurried away.

I closed the door, immediately regretting my harshness. Why couldn't I be nicer?

I placed the cardboard box on the coffee table, inspecting it. It was about the size of a dictionary, an address neatly printed on the front.

From: Marco Bott
1616 Titan Lane
Jinae, Wall Rose, 11001

I didn't recognize the name, which prompted me to notice who the package was addressed to.

To: Gunter Robinson
4242 Titan Boulevard
Shiganshina, Wall Maria, 11001

That's not Jean Kirschtein.

I sprinted away and tore open the door, screaming into the hallway.

"Hey, Mr. Postman?! You gave me the wrong box!"

No one responded. He was gone already.

"Shit!" I yelled. My neighbor, Christa, poked her head out of her apartment.

"Jean, can you keep it down, please?"

"Yeah, sure."

Her voice was so quiet, like a little rabbit. In comparison, I was an annoying turkey.

I slammed the door. Stupid. I didn't know any Marcos.

My phone chimed. It was my mom, texting me.

Jeanbo, can you Skype with me? We need to talk.

Sighing, I grabbed my computer from the coffee table, turning it on and settling onto the couch. I opened Skype. This was probably about my dad's stuff. I really didn't want to. I hated talking to my mom. I loved her, but I was tired. Stressed.

I clicked on my mom's icon, and it dialed. She didn't pick up for five rings, which was unusual. She asked me to Skype, so she should be there. And then the call connected, and I was looking at a stranger.

There was a man on my screen who I'd  never seen before. The first adjective that came to mind was cute, which I quickly dismissed. I wasn't gay. He had short, perfect black hair, parted in the center. His eyes shone golden brown, and they were underlined with adorable freckles. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about the wrinkled, messy, half-unbuttoned dress shirt I was wearing. A strange blush was rising to my cheeks.

"Uhh, sorry, wrong number, I guess." He smiled awkwardly, a slight stutter in his voice.

"Yeah," was all I managed to say.

"How does that even happen on Skype?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. It was only then that I looked below his neck, at his shoulders, and realized he was shirtless. I couldn't see below his shoulders, thank goodness, or I might've stared awkwardly. I noted the freckles on his shoulders as well. He was pretty well-built and strong.

"I dunno." I said. God, why was I such a klutz? I should've just hung up. Now it was really awkward.

"Well, sorry to bother you! Have a nice day!" I saw his hand move to hang up on me.

"Wait." I blurted out. I had no idea what I was going to say. I just needed to talk to him, to make him mine.

"Yeah?" The guy tilted his head, flashing a smile. Oh my god. He was so cute. But I wasn't gay.

"Um...what's your name?" Immediately, I blushed in shame. I shouldn't ask personal questions to a mistake. Wrong numbers were not chances of relationships.

"It's Marco." he answered. "Hey, I know this is kind of weird to ask someone you accidentally called, but...um...maybe we could talk again some time?"

My heart flipped. "Yeah, of course. I'm Jean."

All thoughts of calling my mom went out the window.

"Jean. That's a pretty name."

"Yeah." I smiled. I smiled! I thought I had forgotten how to smile. Marco made me so happy somehow. "I'm named after a Finnish composer, Jean Sibelius. My dad really liked him, but I..."

I stopped, partially because I was talking too much and partially because the mention of my father kind of hurt. Marco listened though, and he really seemed interested in what I had to say. No one ever listened to me before.

"I think my name has something to do with Mars, the Roman god of war." Marco made the cutest confused face ever as he said that, wrinkling his nose, freckles moving.

Someone yelled, and both of us jumped in surprise. It took me few seconds to realize it was on Marco's side.

"Marco, dear, could you bring me my pills?" It was an older female voice, thin and scratchy, and followed by a round of coughing.

"Coming, Mama!" Marco turned to me one last time. "Sorry, Jean. I'll call you back, okay?"

I nodded, and Marco hung up. I closed my computer, and sat back. Then I curled up, hugging the pillow for once, instead of punching it. My emotions spiraled out of control, but not entirely badly. I was smiling, laughing, tearing up. Marco. He made me feel warm inside, and no amount of crappy work or dad problems could distract me from that.

It was time to wait for Marco's next call.