The bass must have dropped because now Bertholdt can feel it in his midriff, deep in his bones. He is so close to his senses, every breeze, every bead of sweat that licks down his neck, teases his nerves to attention. Heat swells and pulses under his skin. He is right there with it. Next to him, a bomb could have gone off, and he is not certain that he would have noticed. His field of vision has blurred into a kaleidoscope of blues and pinks and Marco’s inviting eyes.
Bertholdt remains undeterred; he inches closer as his friend grins back at him. The small speck of their native tongue flits between them, a silver fish beneath the murky surface of a pond. Among all these new sensations, foreign sights and sounds that intoxicate and fascinate, Marco remains an anchor, a gentle homing beacon. Bertholdt feels as if he could turn any which way and find him staring back at him. Everything around them is teetering, off-balance. Bertholdt holds onto Marco’s arm and tries to catch him.
Heavy eyes blink once against the music, and then a mouth is on him. He feels the smooth lips, the sweet breath. A spark leaps over, sets his brain stem aflame. It happens faster than he thought it would, even as the kiss melts into him like candy. He licks the taste off Marco’s lips, tries to pull him closer. Something pink and glittery glows in his chest, from behind the prison bars of his ribs. But his advance is interrupted by a brief retreat.
He almost laughs, a breath on his lips, a tipsy, off-kilter smile sprawling across Bertholdt’s face. If he wasn’t seeing double before, he is now. His pulse pounds in his ears and drowns out the song. A searing hot palm slides over Marco’s shoulder, up the side of his long neck. Bertholdt brushes the pad of his thumb along the curve of his jaw. He is so cute. How did he never notice that before? He makes him melt.
“Please.” Bertholdt rasps out as much before he sinks into him again. He pulls him closer by the hand on his jaw, finds his lips, and kisses him deeper. His tongue tenderly licks into his mouth. No need to hurry, no need to sparkle or glisten. He slips a practiced arm around Marco’s waist, tugs him closer by the waistband. A gasp of breath, another giddy smile. Bertholdt’s nose bumps against Marco’s. “I’ve been wanting to do this for hours.”
there was a contradictory innocence to the moments that flickered by like film reel. a cinematic quality etched itself into his thoughts, as if his mind was trying to catch onto the plot — though, even in his many nights huddled close to his small TV, watching movies of old, he couldn’t recall a moment that felt as gorgeous as this one. the word beautiful was far too overused, he thought; he could count the moments of true beauty on one hand — perhaps he needed to count two, one for the kiss and one for the sheer existence of the man in front of him.
Bertholdt’s smile, his laugh, both became salves to his nervous fingers, tangled into dark hair as if he needed more reason to bring him closer. his expression betrayed his desperate happiness, showed the process of his mind understanding this was all real. the noise that left those warm lips when his neck was paid such close attention dripped with intoxicated pleasure, eliciting another smile, another breathless laugh that died on contact with the second kiss — please?
Marco aimed to do just that,
only for him.
he mirrored the movements Bertholdt’s tongue took, forcing his eyes closed only after promising himself that he’d be able to see that face again. by the time he heard that whispered voice over distant music, he had already attempted to chase those full lips he’d succumbed to.
“Sorry — “ he giggled, his tongue tying itself without any extra help. “Sorry that I kept you waiting,” Marco joked, and even if it was unintentional, his tone painted itself with a teasing coat, sheer and laid bare. “Promise, I won’t do it again.” he lifted a hand from Bertholdt’s hair to cross his fingers between them, resting just against their lips, distinctly showing just how close they still were, how much closer they were getting. the hand fell, giving way to another kiss, a grip held to his friend’s waist. no longer did he crave the blue, smooth, sweet burn, all he wanted was to taste him.
just barely aware of the beat of the music that surrounded them, his hips pressed in flush against Bertholdt’s, the close fitting fabric giving him exceedingly little room to hide how much of the heat between them had fallen south. though he was usually one to fall in step, he used the pressure between them to his advantage, levering the swing of his pelvis to pull Bertholdt with him in the swaying rhythm.
“Bertholdt,” his whisper came gentle, quickly shuttled to the just barely taller man’s ear. “How well do you want to know me? Because — “ the blade of Marco’s tongue brushed warm wetness against the shell of hot skin. “I think, I want to know a lot of you.”
Warmth sparkles in his chest, runs in shivers over his skin. The heavy bass beats pound in the air and set his bones to vibrating. He sways and bobs, slightly out of time. There is an earnestness to this, a honest joy that intoxicates him as much as the cockails, the sharp sweetness swirling in his belly. He wishes he was coordinated enough to dance, to grab Marco by the wrist and drag him into the crowd, to move in tandem with him. But they are both too out of breath from laughter, their bodies putting out heat by the degree.
Unsteady fumbling accompanies their half-shouted, half-whispered conversation. An errant ray of pink light casts them in sharp outlines, deep blue contrasted against the ridge of Marco’s nose, the handsome curve of his jaw. They are at best two colors in human shape. Bertholdt feels them mixing, mingling, where long fingers curl around the back of his neck. Frissons crawl down the curve of his spine, pool as warmth in his lower body, somewhere in the area of the small of his back. So nice. Marco whispers and Bertholdt leans in.
How fortunate that they’re so close in height. Most of the world happens a head below Bertholdt’s line of sight. But Marco is right there. He watches him with ardent attention, half-lidded eyes clinging to each gesture, each minuscule detail of motion. He talks of wanting, of knowing. Bertholdt, drunk, nods along, closer still. He feels the warmth of his friend’s breath, how it splays on his lips. He can taste the sweetness of his blueberry drink on the tip of his tongue.
Just a little closer— Marco wiggles his fingers, a mischievous look to his face, and Bertholdt feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat. The tension breaks, he snaps out of it. Albeit briefly. Touch is a rolling stone once it get started. They knock into each other, hip to hip. And Bertholdt’s warm hand finds Marco’s waist, completely the tipsy embrace. He agrees. That’s why. This should last. This warmth, this tingling in the back of his head, the irresistible well of gravity that opens up between them, each time Marco beams at him. Bertholdt smiles back, his head gently tilted, inches away from him in serene patience.
“The night just got started,” Not something he ever thought he’d hear himself say. And he didn’t even hear it over the music. Bertholdt’s hand, possessed by a spirit far bolder than himself, skates up the side of Marco’s body. “I wanna know you…”
Marco had always found himself drawn to light. he was an early riser, one to see the sunrise as it came up to meet his eyes, whether that be in the confines of the small apartment above the noodle shop, or within the vast sight of his fire tower. here, he danced on a fine line, bathed in light at one moment, and sunk into darkness the next. it was a dichotomy, one he couldn’t deny was giving him a pleasant case of whiplash.
Bertholdt managed to steady him.
it was an odd dance they’d fallen into, on the wings of all the actual movement. they moved constantly, and yet didn’t travel across the floor. they were completely entangled, a mesh of long limbs and eager whispers that kept dragging them closer. had gravity chosen this spot to lean into? he could feel himself getting heavier as Bertholdt grew closer. maybe it was the sensation of air getting caught in his lungs, weighing him down. how long had he not been breathing?
“You already know me, silly,” he muttered the last word in Italian, a playful smile tugging at his lips. if he wasn’t already enamoured by the way Bertholdt looked, the way he moved, he adored how they could whisper in secret, voices lilted into their shared language, even when surrounded by another. it was something they shared that no one else in the room could intrude on — as if anyone could get in between them. “But — we could know each other better, right?”
there wasn’t any room between them anyhow.
the meeting of their lips was a dance in and of itself, spurred by a need to collapse the inward drawn energy, to fill the space, to learn, to consume; Marco was too spellbound for his thoughts, racing by in flashes timed to the lights. he kept the contact light, brief in its duration, even if he didn’t pull away far.
it tastes like blueberry.
“Was that okay?” Marco whispered, a smile returning, soft, sincere, if not a bit drunk. “... do you still want to know me better?”
@fraterniite said: ❛ you needed someone to blame, so you cast it on me: a dead person. ❜ ( from Marco at fraterniite uvu pick your poison on which verse it is! )
————– “Shut up, Marco.”
Slurred syllables stumble past his lips and into the near-empty glass his absent-minded eyes seek to drill into. His latest report lies on his desk, discarded and forgotten already - when he was still a candidate, never would Marcel Galliard leave a task incomplete. How things have changed. Inches away, the light of a lampdesk flicker; casts shadows around the room that, in the dead of night, thicken, swell, end up taking all the space and even, sometimes, body and voice.
Sometimes the shadows become people, and he can’t seem to be able to shake them off. Especially not when they are dead. Persistent ghosts with mouths that keep yapping at his ears.
He can feel it drilling into the back of his neck. Marco’s gaze, or what he imagines to be Marco, tucked away somewhere in one of the dark corners of his room. Whiskey turns sour in his mouth, a metallic twinge dancing on his tongue - blood, so much blood, oozing and pooling, dark and black and thick like tar; Marcel knows what blood feels like, tastes like, nobody had warned him that the Jaw’s senses would be so directly connected to his. He was not the one who had eaten Marco; but he thinks he can taste it all the same, and it makes him sick beyond what he knows himself capable to stomach.
“If you hadn’t heard anything…” Worse. If he hadn’t said anything, they would have been none the wiser. Maybe they would have even pretended. Marcel’s fingers curl into a fist that he presses to his forehead. Stop justifying yourself, Galliard. Doesn’t he owe him at least some sincerity, in this hour of perfect solitude and desolation? Even if he is only a ghost. Even if he is only a part of the sick imagination of a young Warrior with nothing left to his name but the flip side of a blood-stained medal engrave directly onto his chest.
“Your death was not the cause of our failure, no matter how much it broke the others.” The others. Not me. I couldn’t. “You were only the beginning of the end. We were screwed the minute we broke through the wall.” The minute we didn’t turn back. His fist is clenched so hard, he feels the sting of fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. In the darkness, amber irises flick over his shoulder to drill into the shape standing in the shadows - come out, Marco. Aren’t you dead already? What else do you have to lose? “If you want me to say I’m sorry, I am. Hell, I’ll even admit we shouldn’t have done it. But guess what.” A growl at the back of his throat; a beast, restless, blood-thirsty; it never sleeps, never quietens, always stretches and claws and longs to roar. Don’t say it, a quiet voice whispers at the back of his mind. Own up to it, another one barks. There used to be a time when he knew how to weave kindness and toughness together; how to keep his back straight without making himself too sharp-edged. No longer. Not anymore. No matter how much he tries to remember. “If that was the only way I could keep them safe, even just for another day, I’d do it again.”
𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐀 ; 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 . ( a series of kiss prompts . some nsfw material present . )
❛ 01 . a kiss to say hello .
❛ 02 . a kiss for the first time .
❛ 03 . a kiss after a long time apart .
❛ 04 . a kiss to apologize .
❛ 05 . a kiss to forgive .
❛ 06 . a kiss during a fight .
❛ 07 . a kiss to say what you can’t say aloud .
❛ 08 . a kiss in secret / a forbidden kiss .
❛ 09 . a kiss to prove a point .
❛ 10 . a kiss against a wall .
❛ 11 . a kiss on a rooftop .
❛ 12 . a kiss that seals a marriage .
❛ 13 . a kiss before one goes away .
❛ 14 . a kiss in the shower .
❛ 15 . a kiss that comes out of nowhere .
❛ 16 . a kiss first thing in the morning .
❛ 17 . a kiss last thing at night .
❛ 18 . a kiss during combat .
❛ 19 . a kiss during a fake relationship .
❛ 20 . a kiss out of desperation .
❛ 21 . a kiss on the cheek .
❛ 22 . a kiss on the forehead .
❛ 23 . a kiss on the back of the hand .
❛ 24 . a kiss on the neck .
❛ 25 . a kiss on the fingertips .
❛ 26 . a kiss on the stomach .
❛ 27 . a kiss to end the sexual tension .
❛ 28 . a kiss over a scar .
❛ 29 . a kiss over a wound .
❛ 30 . a kiss to say goodbye .
@fraterniite said: he’d heard Levi’s command to stand back. he’d felt Jean’s fingers ripped away from his shoulder as he flew forward in the air. for a few moments, he felt weightless, staring at the bone white pillar careening into the sky, at the chaos of titan combat below him. he’d become so comfortable with death – he’d stared it in the face once and he’d do it again. with another shot, hid against the night sky, he surged forward, straight toward death’s maw. scarred arm pulled back, he launched a thunderspear into those gaping jaws. as much as he wanted to erupt in rageful screams, he kept his lips pressed tight. talking hadn’t gotten him anywhere last time.
————— Hellfire has rained in Liberio; and all the devils are here, be they clad in black or titan flesh. Incendiary rage surges as faithful companion to panic and terror, one the shadow of the other, fueled by the gallons of blood spilled upon cobblestone below them. Marcel’s anger burn so hot, it burns white and icy; oh, the irony, oh, how the tables have turned. That, he can accept. That the Paradisians would one day seek retribution for the destruction inflicted upon them had been as inevitable as snow in winter in the mountains. Marcel is keenly aware of it; doesn’t mean he will offer his neck to the executioner and not put up a fight. There are innocents, down there. Children crushed under piles of debris. His own brother, joining in the fight somewhere below.
There is another innocent; the ghost of one, an unfortunate victim to circumstances and the cruelty of his cold, immutable determination. Scars had not changed Marco Bodt as much as a near-brush with death had, Marcel had gathered when he first laid his eyes on him. Innocent no more: the thunderspear goes flying right at him, right into the open maw of his titan; shit, shit, shit. The pain is as explosive as the device upon ignition: it sears into the upper half of his body, burn through the right side of his face under the Jaw’s flesh, coaxes a roar of agony out of his monster as he goes crashing into nearby building. Only a lucky reflex had saved him from worse, the titan’s head turned at the last second; the plated bone of its face is severely damaged, but the muscles still hold, and the Warrior inside, injured as he may be, still lives.
He is like a devil jumping from its box: fragments of bone falling off yet as swift as though he had walked it off unscathed. A torrent of steam hisses from the wound, Marcel putting all his energy into accelerating the healing process, pouring it all into moving the Jaw as fast as possible. The small, cruel eyes of the Jaw barely register Marco’s face; so does Marcel’s brain, a filter put up between him and his victim. Faces blurred. All recognition deliberately thwarted, kinship denied in the must cruel of ways. Should he stop, should he think, should he feel… he shudders, thinking what would happen then. He shudders, and he shuts it down. A switch flicked, a coldness beaten and shocked into him since infancy; sorry Marco. Nothing personal.
He had said it then. He will say it again now.
Finally the Jaw finds its angle; Marcel pivots abruptly and bounces, surges up in the air, claws out to catch the wires of ODM gear - cut his escape route or send him crashing onto the street, doesn’t matter - he will catch him next. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold. This is the anger Marley has drilled into him. A savagery thirsty for blood, violence begetting violence. Four years ago, he couldn’t stop, no matter how much Marco begged him, no matter how much his pleas had made his heart shatter, how sick and disgusted the churn in his stomach had felt. Today, he cannot stop either; no matter how much he wishes he could. For Marco, for all the others.
@fraterniite said: Marco stood at the edge of the bay of the air ship, staring quietly down at the destruction wrought upon Liberio. an easy death sentence sat before him, begging him to take one, two steps forward. he swung his boot forward before he felt arms grasp around his waist from behind, dragging him back and down, sunk to the floor with a crash and metallic clang. his eye focused on a visage staring wide eyed, teeth gritted together. her words registered, briefly, before fading into a high pitched ringing noise. “Sasha,” he whispered, but it went unnoticed. “Sasha!” his voice boomed over the hum of engines and rush of air. “… I just wanted to get some fresh air.”
—————– Her heart leapt out of her chest; and she had had no choice but to follow it - act first, ask questions later. Had she been paying particular attention to Marco, or does she only have chance to blame for her extraordinary reflexes - chances, or perhaps those famed instincts everyone was so prompt to lend her. Her friend had been there, hovering at the corner of her eye, her attention still hyperfocused on every single sound out there; you’re our lookout Sasha, be careful. Well, looked out she had; the friction of his ODM gear, or perhaps that of the sole of his shoe on the floorboards, a bit too close to the edge for comfort; and she had leapt at him, arms stretched out and claw-like in their strength, predator diving on its prey.
Something rings at her ears; baffled voices muffled in a distance that only exists in her head, witnesses horrified as though she is a feral animal attacking an innocent child. Maybe she is. She must be, all claws out, pupils dilated and jaw clenched; she yanks herself from under Marco’s weight and rolls on the floor before rising up and gripping firmly at the collar of his uniform. “What are’ya thinkin’?!” Adrenaline and fright burn into her voice, turn it into searing hot lava on her lips; blood beneath her skin is boiling too. Finally Marco’s voice reaches her; it grates against the surface of her mind and leaves it bleeding raw.
Some fresh air? Some fresh air?? Claw-like grip tighten on his shirt; do you think I’m that stupid, Marco? Can he not hear the pounding in her chest, the scream of panic she has been holding back since she had thought, for a fraction of a second, that he would disappear through that open door? She clings hard, so her hands don’t shake. She grits her teeth harder, so she doesn’t say anything she is going to regret. Somebody puts a hand on her shoulder and she abruptly shrugs it off. But she gets the message. Calm down, Sasha, she thinks to herself, forcing the erratic arythmy of her breathing to slow down. He is safe now. He’s on the ship. He is here. He is safe.
“… there might be shooters outside, knucklehead! Don’t get so close to the edge.” If only her voice could be as assured as his. Fingers uncurl and free him from her deadly grip. Colour has deserted usually tanned cheeks; deep in the depths of her gaze looms an old familiar pain. A fear. Four years old and tenacious as ever. “… don’t do this again.” Order comes as a plea draped in a murmur. From one terrified friend, to one who seemingly decided he has nothing left to gamble. “… please.”
————– Ten days. That is all the time left before the 104th Cadet Corps recruits officially get to decide on their next assignment. The top ten trainees have been announced; all that remains to be done is for everyone to transition into a soldier’s life by way of a few weeks of work in the Garrison. Ten days. Wishful thinking, of course. It is almost too easy, letting oneself get lulled and deceived by this countdown, when another one, only known to a few, is already at work.
If everything goes according to plan, there might not be a ceremony at all.
No point thinking about that now. A file of reports in hand, Marcel Galliard takes a left turn in the Garrison’s assembly hall and slips into one of the long-winded corridors leading to the meeting rooms. His pace is assured, decided; not a beat missed or a hesitation before he knock at the door and pushes it open, only to find Marco already inside. “Marco. Feels like it’s been ages.” His tone is less cordial than his words; no real fault of his own. Five years spent trying to polish it into a soldier’s voice leave marks; in his case, the marks had only ever hardened it. “I hear Squad 19 needs reinforcements to scout a damaged section of the wall after last night’s storm? Captain Hannes is sending me - my squad is yours. How can we help?”
This is not a mission he tries to make his own; Marcel has borne witness to Marco’s capabilities more than once. He will go far, this one. If he gets the chance to, that is. Deep down, Marcel wishes it for him.
it took him a moment to look up. he quietly folded up a small moleskin notebook, tucking it into the inside of his uniform pocket. the pen stayed between his fingertips, flipped around absently but delicately. “Marcel —” he started, taking a silent note of the distinction between his tone, words, and his face. “We have been busy, that’s true. It’s ten days to the ceremony, I think everyone’s scrambling.” Marco stilled the pen, tucking it behind his ear.
“Truthfully, I took at the section of wall this morning, before first call. There’s just a few titans hanging out there.” upon closer inspection of his face, dark circles had begun to carve themselves underneath his eyes, beginning to compete for the most distinct feature on his face outside of his freckles. “Not to go against Captain Hannes’ orders, but — I think we could take them on our own. Look — “ the taller teen slid a small map across the table, closer to him. “I marked out places that we could take a clear entrance from, and where we need to avoid. The circles in green are locations I know there’s small abandoned supply drops at, in case things go wrong. The titans themselves are clustered around an old church. Once I can get a bit closer, I’ll remember the details to report back to Captain Hannes.“
once the map had been studied, and questions answered, he folded it back up, returning it to his pocket with the notebook.
“Besides, I think we need some time to talk, away from our squads.”
A confusion of neon lights flashes in Bertholdt’s eyes. He loves the sidelines as much as the dancefloor. Heat has been building up under his skin until he feels searing to the touch, clinging to one sweet iced drink or another. Clubbing has never been his forte, let alone in a completely foreign country. But Marco is an excellent guide. He has done his level best to keep everyone entertained and together so far. And— Okay, so currently Bertholdt isn’t too sure where Jean and Sasha have run off to. But he’s sure they’re fine.
He cannot waste too many thoughts on them with a gust of sweet breath tickling the soft spot beneath his ear, a familiar voice brushing against him. A shiver runs down Bertholdt’s back, curls in his lower body in a pulse of melting warmth. The hands seem to have been wandering over him all night. Marco is so sweet. And Bertholdt is happy, too. For the first time in years, especially since the harsh blow two years ago, he feels as if all responsibility has fallen off his shoulders. He feels young enough to be his age. And he knows who he has to thank for that, who invited him, coaxed and persuaded him nonstop.
Bertholdt feels his face heat up, cheeks aching with all the smiling he’s been doing tonight. He doesn’t know what’s so funny, but his friend’s laughter is infectious. He’s already had one drink too many. He sees double in the best of ways. Every shadow and light splits, doubles around him, gives the evening a dream-like quality. He feels as if he’s floating in his own body. He laughs back at Marco, delighted to the point of frissons.
“I’ve never had it.” He admits. Blueberry? Okay, why not! Bertholdt’s long arm snakes around Marco’s shoulders, so warm so warm, and his free hand takes the presented bottle. He needs the support for a moment. And Marco feels heavenly against him. Bertholdt drinks the first gulp down without really tasting anything. “Hold on,” He chuckles, and slows himself down. He tries again, drinks the liquor as mindfully as he can. Alcohol burns down his throat, immediately warms him down to the bones. And there he finds the fruitful flavor. Like berries. Sweet. “Is good,” He manages a low hum, half a purr at the back of his throat, a haphazard smile slapped across his face when he returns the bottle to its owner.
Bertholdt stays where he is, an arm slung around his friend, their faces cast in bright ever changing lights, half shadows. The world spins around them. Who needs to dance when the whirling never stops? He can’t stop smiling. Or staring. Marco really is very sweet. He’s so nice. He’s such a wonderful friend. And he’s got firm shoulders, too.
“Wh-What’s this song about?”
he’d never been a particularly pushy person ( though, this was mostly the fault of one Jean Kirstein, who had an awful habit of never saying no to Marco ), but he was infinitely thankful he had urged and pleaded with Bertholdt to come to his home town. making friends, despite his general soft and effervescent personality, was difficult, always hard to find those souls who melded with his. Jean had been a longstanding partner in crime, while Sasha had crashed into his life like a bull in a china shop — Bertholdt had wandered in quietly and made himself at home.
he felt like home.
“Right? And it goes down so easy — too easy, they’re dangerous.” Marco quipped, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the corners before he took a large draw from the bottle, shivering from head to toe and bubbling with giggles. “We’re gonna have to stop in that little mart on the way home, I’m craving blueberries so bad now.” he took another drink, capping the bottle and slipping it back into his pocket. stepping just that little bit closer ( in aim to balance them just a bit more ) to Bertholdt made him smile. in a short moment of wobbling, his hand came up to hold at the back of his friend’s neck, finally finding a perfect balance, here in this disjointed embrace. a slide of fuchsia light passed over his face, mixing and blending with the darkness of his eyes as he looked up at it.
“Oh... this one is so nice,” he whispered, listening intently. absently, his free hand came up to his face, the pad of his thumb pressed gently to his own bottom lip, fingerprint to pink softness as he took in the lyrics, mouthing along with them. “It’s about wanting to know someone so badly, wanting them close forever, because the love feels like an eclipse, like it’s going to be brilliant and beautiful, but then — “ he looked back at Bertholdt with an expression of mysticism, holding up his surprisingly lithe fingers in a little show of magic.
“It’s gone.”
a bright smile returned from his pensive face.
“That doesn’t sound so bad, huh? But... I want this to last forever, Bertholdt!”
“This song is about falling in love with someone for one night,” he leaned in close to utter into the shell of the taller man’s ear in an effort to be heard over the pounding bass and cacophony of voices. Marco stood on his toes, as if he even had to reach — it let him bounce back down, revealing a bright smile and eyes closed into crescents. he rocked to the beat of the song, movements a bit more languid than they’d been at the beginning of the party. nevertheless, he still managed to reach out and grip Bertholdt’s shoulders, thumbs soothing into the muscle. “You look so amazing.”
Marco grinned, taking a moment to bop along again, mouthing the lyrics to himself. the right words just wouldn’t come to him to explain how free he felt in the moment, so it all came out in giggles. “Bertholdt, I’m so happy you came with us, seriously! I know I’ve said it already, but you’re such an amazing guy, you —” he paused as his laughter took over, highlighting the star map of freckles on his cheeks.
“You’ve gotta try the blueberry soju.”
he fished the small bottle out of his pocket, twisting open the cap and proffering it up to him with a blissful smile.
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