JeanMarco Drabble
Last night I did a draw Hisoka = I’ll write you a fic thing. @secret-fujoshi drew me a cute little Hisoka, so I wrote this silly JeanMarco thing for them in return. It’s been years since I’ve written them so forgive me. It’s SFW.
It was, without a doubt, easier to be charming when the only person you had to impress was your reflection, which was warped and stared at you from its place in the back of a spoon.
There was no question in anyone’s mind that he was indeed a regular at this particular diner. He stuck to a schedule: three days a week, alternating weekends, for two whole months.
The food was decent. Not the best he’d ever had. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t there to eat. Well, really he was. Otherwise, the staff would think he was weird, and things would probably end with the police being called on him. But the eating was secondary.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jean Kirstein caught sight of the real reason for his visit. There, standing behind the counter with a cheerful smile and freckles like the constellations was Marco.
And today would be the day where Jean worked up the courage to ask him out.
It was Wednesday, and the lunch rush had already ended. The diner wasn’t extremely busy. But it wasn’t empty. If he asked Marco out and Marco declined, there would be witnessing to his utter humiliation. He would have to be careful, would have to plan things out in a way that he could pretend it had all been a playful joke. It would be damage control, of course. Later, he would drown himself with a bottle of tequila while ignoring the paper he had to write, as well as its looming deadline. But he was getting ahead of himself.
He had to actually ask him first.
Closing his eyes for a second, Jean took a deep breath before waving his hand in the air. It was an action that signaled to his waiter—whom by of no coincidence was Marco—that he wanted a refill on his coffee. Marco spotted him almost immediately, and when he smiled and nodded his head, every witty line that Jean had masterfully slaved over vanished in a cloud inside his head and slipped out of his ears.
“Refill?” Marco said in a voice that made Jean’s heart rate quicken. It reminded him of a warm cabin during a snow storm, calm and comfortable, enveloping him in a sense of friendliness and security.
“Y-Yeah.”
Marco poured him another cup of coffee. His hands, much like his cheeks, were dusted with freckles.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No.”
No. No? That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say. What was wrong with him? Marco was leaving. He had to call him back, had to say something, anything, to show that he was interested. A joke. He could lead with a joke, and if Marco laughed, then he could casually ask him out. No big deal. He could do this.
“Wait,” Jean said, and Marco paused, his back still facing Jean. “I have to ask you something.”
“Oh?” Marco made his way back to Jean’s table, hand still wrapped around the coffee pot’s handle. “Yes?”
“A joke.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have to tell you a joke.”
Why was he so stupid? A joke? He knew approximately one joke. Connie had shared it with a few weeks ago, and it was as crude as it was disgusting. He couldn’t say anything like that to Marco. What had he been thinking?
“Oh, okay. Go for it.”
The air conditioner was blasting. But Jean was melting in a stew of his own sweat and anxiety. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and then immediately shut it. He was going to ruin everything. He had Marco right where he wanted, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Want me to go first?” Marco asked.
“Huh?”
“I have a joke, too. I’ll go first. Ready?”
Marco had obviously taken pity on him. It was embarrassing to say the least. But good things could come from pity, couldn’t they? A pity date was better than no date at all. After Marco told his joke, Jean would ask him out.
“Sure, go ahead.”
Marco sat the coffee pot on Jean’s table next to his plate.
“What did the waiter say to his regular customer on a Wednesday afternoon?”
“No idea.”
Marco said, “What are you doing later?”
Jean shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“No? Well, maybe you can.” And with a wink and a chuckle, Marco picked up the coffee pot, and then walked away.
Jean still didn’t get it. It wasn’t until he paid for his lunch, and received his receipt that he understood. On the back of it was a phone number written in elegant handwriting. Below that was Marco’s name. Next to it a hand drawn smiley face drawn in a way that made it look like it was winking at him.
Oh.
Now he realized what Marco had meant.
Well, that had been easy enough.
Stepping outside, Jean slid the receipt into his pocket and smiled. He knew it. No one would could resist his charm.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to work up the courage to call him later.
