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The streets of Le Havre were empty, but Jean liked them that way. The harbour town was no where near as busy as Paris, but it was still a bustling town. He liked it best now, when the air wasn’t clogged with emissions and people weren’t always shouting across the streets at one another. He enjoyed France, quite a lot, actually. It was good to spend so much time with his cousins after not seeing them for several years. He had his own room and had bonded well with their dalmation, Sparkles.
He yawned and looked up the street. The Le Havre cathedral loomed ahead of him. He wasn’t particularly religious, but he appreciated the ancient stonework and intricate architecture, both inside and out. He knew it would be open, and he knew he could go in there to think and enjoy the profound, comfortable silence that only churches provided. Approaching it, he pushed open the heavy wooden doors and quietly stepped inside. He took a seat in the last row of pews, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.
Candles burned at the altar and in tiered metal constructs along the walls, flickering off the stained glass. The cathedral was empty, and Jean laid down on the pew, staring up at the vaulted ceiling and wishing, not for the first time since he arrived in France, that Marco had been able to accompany him.
They’d been brotato chips for years, and the original plan had been for them both to travel to France that summer. University was hard, and being dweeby freshmen again, they hadn’t exactly been invited to all the frat parties. They’d planned to fly to France and spend the summer in Le Havre with Jean’s relatives. Then Marco’s mother had fallen ill. Marco stayed home to help his sister care for her, and insisted that Jean go.
"They’re your family, they’d be upset if you canceled on them because of me," he had said.
So Jean had spent eight hours on a plane, bored out of his damn skull.
France was fun. He’d been all over Paris, including the Lourve. He spent the entire museum tour snapchatting Marco pictures of sculptures and paintings with crude little messages, imagining that Marco’s laughter was beside him, instead of thousands of miles away. He’d also been to Germany, where he sent Marco a picture of him drinking beer, legally. Marco replied with a pouty selfie that Jean quickly took a screenshot of.
He sighed loudly. It had been a several days since he and Marco had talked on the phone. His parents had gifted him with an International cell phone, so he was able to keep in contact with his friends. He was sure he and Marco had racked up an inappropriately massive cell phone bill, but whatever. His parents could afford it. He was the apple of their eyes, damnit, and he was incapable of functioning without Marco.
And then like some scene out of a teen romance movie, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Jean fished it out with a grin and unlocked it.
"Hey," he greeted warmly.
"Shouldn’t you be speaking in French by now?" Marco teased.
"Hon hon hon, baguette," Jean said in an exaggerated French accent. "Non, mon petite soleil." He felt his face burn a little; did he really just call Marco his fucking sun? That was hella gay. Fortunately, Marco didn’t know enough French to fill a gnat’s food bowl, so he didn’t worry about it much longer after hearing Marco laugh.
"Cute," he said. "Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve called; mom came home from the hospital, and the house was kind of a wreck."
"Well, maybe if you weren’t such a damn pig. I bet there’s at least three pizza boxes in your room. One of them still has pizza in various stages of decay in it," Jean predicted.
"Slanderous and untrue," Marco sniffed. "They’re not there anymore."
They talked for an hour, and Jean was careful to keep his voice low. It echoed in the cathedral, and there was probably a nun or someone trying to sleep in a back room. Eventually they lapsed into comfortable silence. Jean could hear the clicking of buttons on Marco’s xbox controller on the other end. He check the screen of his phone - it was eight PM back home. If he were there, they’d probably be playing Minecraft or watching old kung-fu movies and consuming enough energy drinks to power a small city.
Yeah, he loved France, but he was excited that he’d see Marco in just another week and a half.
"Man," Jean sighed. "I fucking miss you.” His voice came out far softer than was heterosexually acceptable, but at this time of night, he didn’t really care. The clicking on Marco’s end stopped, and he could be heard inhaling sharply.
"I miss you too," Marco said, his tone almost a murmur. "I can’t wait to see you."
"Be prepared to hug it out," Jean warned him playfully.
"I might not let go," Marco laughed, somewhat breathlessly.
Before Jean even knew what he was saying, the words were falling out of his big, dumb mouth.
"I might not want you to."
There was a pause on the line, punctuated by their breathing. Jean wanted to strangle himself. Who the fuck says that? That was ultra gay. Like, full-on homos don’t say that. Hugh Grant says that to swooning women in rom-coms. Jean wasn’t gay and he wasn’t Hugh Grant, though he was only absolutely positive about one of those things.
Maybe he was a little gay. For Marco. Marcosexual. Oh god, where was this going?
"Well that works, because the sweatshirt I took from you before you left doesn’t smell like you anymore," Marco finally answered, breaking Jean out of his spiraling inner monologue of self-discovery.
"You wear the same deodorant that I do, Marco," Jean said with a tight laugh.
"No, I mean you. Your… youness,” he said lamely.
"Are you for real right now?"
"Ugh, you don’t know what I’m talking about? Yanno, when I get really close-" holy shit did his voice just drop? "-and we’ve got our arms wrapped around each other-" yes it fucking did “-and my face is in your neck, and you smell…”
"Fuck."
"No, not like that," he replied cheekily. "You smell earthy and warm… and I know you’re not a place or anything-"
"Oh, so you’re calling me fat?" Jean joked. He tried to keep his voice light and teasing, but fuck it all, it came out tight and strained.
"Shut your mouth and let me compliment you," Marco snapped good-naturedly. "I’m trying to tell you that wherever you are is my favourite place to be.”
"Marco.." Jean whispered. His words caught in his throat, and he swallowed thickly. He realised then that he was palming something else that was tight and strained, and he squawked, nearly dropping his phone. "Shit-"
"Jean?" Marco asked. "Hello?" Jean fumbled for the phone and jammed it between his cheek and his shoulder, attempting to squirm into a comfortable position. Jean groaned.
"Jean, are you-"
"Yeah, shit, I’m okay,” he hissed. There was a silence on the other end for a moment, and Jean could only hear Marco’s halted breathing.
"Jean, I - where are you?"
"Shit, I’m in a fucking cathedral,” he grumbled.
"Oh god, I gave you a chubby in a church," Marco mused in awe.
“Shut the fuck up!" Jean hissed. "Shit, I gotta get the hell out of here before the patron saint of traditional marriage strikes me down or something," he growled.
"Well, hurry up,” Marco whispered intently.
"You too?" Jean asked, scrambling to his feet and silently apologising to the chosen deity of the cathedral. He scurried out of the church, all but body-slamming the door in an effort to push the heavy wooden slab open. He staggered into the cool night air, gulping in a deep breath. He hurried around to the side of the church that bordered another building, happily ensconcing himself in the darkness of an alley. He pressed his back against the stone of the ancient cathedral, letting his head fall back.
"You did that on purpose," Jean breathed. "How did you know?"
"You always sound different when you’ve been looking at porn on your phone and then denying it," Marco answered simply.
"Well what the hell were you expecting? You talk to me like you’re comin’ on to me-"
"Does it bother you?"
"What?"
"Does it bother you because I’m your friend, or because I’m a guy?" Marco asked. His breath was somewhat short and his voice quiet, but not hurt.
Jean groaned; his erection hadn’t gone away, especially with the knowledge that Marco was also pitching a tent three thousand miles away. He palmed at his crotch again, biting his lip.
"No, I don’t know. No, no, I’d rather it be you," he gasped. He heard Marco hum on the line, and just knew that he was grinning that smug little grin to himself, the freckled shithead.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmured. The tone of his voice sent a jolt of desire through Jean, and he didn’t bother to suppress a shudder.
"The fuck do you think I’m thinking about?" Jean snapped.
"Tell me," Marco insisted. Jean groaned and unzipped his pants, cursing Marco for not being there to do it for him. He shamelessly stuffed his hands into his boxer-briefs and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock.
"Your-your lips," Jean moaned. He twisted his wrist as he jerked his fist up, gasping into the phone.
"Where?" he heard Marco asked. He took pleasure in the breathless way in which Marco spoke to him. Good, he thought. Let that saucy little shit get as worked up as he is.
The moan Jean let out eventually bled into a low, “My dick.” Yeah, Marco definitely gasped into the phone after that one.
"No foreplay?" he teased breathlessly.
"Then you tell me where you’re going to put your mouth, if you’re such a master of phone sex," he hissed. He squeezed his cock and gasped into the receiver again.
"I’d put my lips on yours," Marco began, panting slightly. "I’d move down your neck, and I’d sink my teeth into your collarbone. I know you don’t like heavy necklaces, and I’m assuming that’s because you’re too fucking sensitive there." Jean let his head fall back, not really giving a shit about how hard it hit the stone.
"You’ve got the best skin, Jean… it’s so soft and smooth and pale, and I just want to leave marks all over it." With a strangled moan, Jean gave his cock another squeeze and a twist of his wrist. His hips began moving on their own, and he thrust up into his fist.
"I might tie your hands above your head. Your arms look so fucking good when they’re stretched out," Marco murmured silkily. "But we’ve got all the time in the world for for romance later." He paused and moaned loudly, and Jean hoped that Marco’s poor mother was hopped up on medicine and passed out in a blissful, drug induced slumber so that she didn’t have to hear her beloved son moaning onto the phone to his best friend. "You wanna watch me ride you?"
Oh sweet fucking angels in trenchcoats, where, when, did Marco learn to fucking talk like that? Hell yes Jean wanted to watch Marco ride him. And he wanted to sink into Marco from above, from behind, from any position involving Marco’s ass and his lubed up dick.
"Nnn," Jean moaned in agreement, bucking up into his hand. He felt like he was on fire; the heat that had begun in his stomach had spread to his limbs, his appendages. It was consuming him, and he liked it.
"I’m so tight, Jean," Marco whispered. "You ever fingered yourself? It’s hot and tight and the way it squeezes my fingers… oh fuck, your cock’s gonna feel so good when I drop down onto you."
Jean whimpered and bucked into his hand more insistently. He’d never done anything like this before, and he was shocked at how much he could feel just by hearing someone’s voice describing what they could do to him.
"Oh god, your dick, Jean. S’good, mm." Jean could see Marco’s face in his mind’s eye, and the image became clearer with every moan. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed. He’d be biting his lip, or maybe his mouth would be hanging open, and he’d be begging Jean to fuck him hard, fuck him fast, fuck him till he can’t walk, and dear god maybe he was fingering himself right now.
"And you’d push up into me, and you’d find my prosta- aahh!" He cut himself off with a strangled cry, and yes, he was definitely fingering himself, holy shit, holy shit, holy sh-
"God, Marco, I’m close," Jean whimpered. His cock was slick with precome, making it easier to fuck into his hand faster.
"Come on, Jean. I’m gonna come, wanna come on you," Marco moaned. That was his last audibly coherent sentence - the rest was a babble of moans and Jean’s name, and then his voice escalated into a series of breathy whimpers. Jean squeezed his eyes shut as he listened to Marco reach his peak with his fucking name on his lips. One flick of his wrist and he nearly shouted, his voice a cracked cry as he came into his hand. He slumped against the wall, his knees shaking, willing his breathing to return to normal.
Quickly, before he could be embarrassed by what he was about to do, he tapped the home button on his phone, opened his camera app, and snapped what he hoped was an erotic picture of him licking his own fluids from his fingers. He looked at it briefly, decided that hell yeah he looked fucking hot, and them put his phone back to his ear. Marco’s heavy panting had subsided, and Jean could just picture the shitty grin on his face.
His next words were blurted out before he could stop himself (because why the fuck not? Look where it had gotten him tonight - covered in his own spunk and happier than Connie with someone else’s credit card in a liquor store), before he could think. “Please tell me you’ll call me again tomorrow night.”
Marco laughed. “I was going to anyway. And don’t forget, I’m picking you up from the airport when you come home.” That unspoken promise in his voice made Jean almost whimper.
"Good," he breathed.
They didn’t speak about it any more after that, and they hung up fifteen minutes later. With a smirk, Jean quickly sent Marco a snapchat of the photo he’d taken, along with the words, “À bientôt.”
Ten days to go.