I've always hated brown eyes.

To me, brown eyes are dull. They're dark and mysterious, sure, but there's really no other emotion behind the dark irises. My mother, beautiful as she was, had brown eyes. It didn't make me love her any less, as she had light brown eyes that almost glowed with compassion. Her love and warmth was apparent every time she looked at me. It was almost unnerving.

My father, on the other hand, had pristine green eyes. Clear and deep, you could see right through him. He was blunt with his emotions, and his eyes made it impossible to try and hide how he was truly feeling. He was a terrible liar, something I unfortunately inherited from him. I picked up a lot of stuff from my father, actually. He taught me a lot about life, and as I grew older, I saw more and more of my father in myself. The fact that we looked almost identical didn't help. Although out of all those little physical features that seemed to have been copied from his face and pasted onto mine, I never got his green eyes.

I didn't get my mother's brown eyes either. Instead, my irises were cursed with a weird brown/green lovechild colour that no one had a name for. "Hazel," people would tell me. "But not quite."

It gave me quite a bit of grief as a child. Other kids were able to instantly point out the colour that reflected their eyes, while I was left pondering between 'honey cluster' and 'goldenrod', neither of which seemed to accurately portray the strange colour stuck into my eyes. Eventually I gave up trying to argue my case, and just went with hazel. After all, it's what all my official documents stated.

When I hit middle school and puberty took hold, I started looking at women in a whole new light. All of the girls I preferred either had blue eyes, or green ones. There was never really a defining moment where I realized the trend, until I once tried dating a girl who had brown eyes. She was cute, and a little on the nerdy side. For the whole six months that we dated, I could never see past those damned brown eyes. She would cancel our plans last minute, and every time I tried to ask her what was going on, her eyes put up a big wall between us, and I was left in the dark. Turns out she was using me to get closer to one of my good friends. He never ended up dating her; thank Christ. Bros before hoes!

I continued dating off and on for about two years, although I couldn't really call it "dating" as we were only fourteen year olds. But when I hit fifteen, I made a rash decision and joined the military. That later proved to be the best and worst decision of my life.

I was stupid, and brash. I caused a lot of ruckus in my first few weeks as a trainee because I said whatever was on my mind, regardless of what the consequences would be. I have my father to thank for that.

Eventually I started tolerating my fellow trainees, and they warmed up to me in return. One trainee in particular stuck out to me: Marco Bodt.

The first time I laid eyes on him, I was floored. He had brown eyes, and I liked them. Despite all the other brown-eyed people I had met, the depths of his eyes were endless. The colour was rich, and friendly. He had little premature wrinkles around them from how often he smiled. I spent a lot of time staring until he finally plucked up the courage to talk to me. I was obviously flustered, and I couldn't even will myself to blink; I couldn't bear even a fraction of a second without those eyes. He must've caught on, because he laughed and while we spoke, his gaze never left mine.

We settled into an effortless friendship. We took a bunk together (and by bunk, I mean two single-sized beds pushed beside each other. Cheap military bastards.), and stayed up half the night during our entire first week of training to get to know each other. I hung on to his every word, trusting everything he said. Once I got over the shock of his eye colour, I started to notice the rest of him. He had freckles that matched the ones scattered in his irises. He had thin lips that stretched out with his wide smile. His hair was a little weird, but it was dark – bringing his eyes to life even more. In short, he was everything I used to hate in a person. He took all my little judgments and quashed them with a simple bat of those long, full lashes.

Sounds really gay, huh? Well, hang on to your hats folks; it gets a lot gayer from here.

I could read him like an open book. I never knew if I was just as readable as he was. I never got the chance to ask. I knew what he was feeling before he could even vocalize it. That was another thing I liked about Marco: he didn't hide.

As weeks turned into months and we could taste graduation on the tips of our tongues, Marco started getting really antsy. He, like myself, had chosen to join the Military Police, far from the horrors of the outermost walls. But that didn't stop him from getting nervous. On the night before graduation, I learned why.

I was restless; although deep down, I knew I was gonna place in the top ten of our squad, earning my place with the Military Police. I was lying on my back, gazing up with unseeing, tired eyes, when a voice roused me from my stupor.

"Jean."

His voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to make me jump in surprise, turning my gaze to Marco's side of the bed. He was wound tight in his blankets, his eyes wide and fearful. My heart leapt slightly, and I waited patiently for him to speak.

"I'm scared."

Understanding the seriousness in his voice, I turned over to face him, the bed creaking beneath me.

"What for?" I whispered, offering him a small smile. "Just a little while longer, and we'll be off to the innermost wall."

"What if…" he paused to take a shaky breath. "What if I don't make it?"

I almost laughed. "Marco, you're gonna make it. Trust me, you're good enough."

"Not as good as you, though."

"Don't compare yourself to others," I chided, though I could feel myself glowing with pride. "Everyone has something different to offer."

He didn't look convinced. "What do I have to offer?"

I pursed my lips, trying to think of something to say that didn't make me look like a flaming homosexual. "You're smart," I said finally. "And you're an idealist. You see the bad in things, but you don't dwell on it. You focus on the good and you value your team above all else."

His eyes softened at that, and a tiny smile pulled at his lips. "You're right," he stated, letting out a long breath. "Sorry, I guess I'm just anxious."

"Hell, so am I." I adjusted my blankets and inched a tiny bit closer to Marco.

"What do you have to be nervous for?" he accuses with a breathy laugh. "You're heading straight for the Military Police. You're too talented to not be accepted."

At his words, my cheeks took on the colour of a cherry tomato. "Thanks. But just know that whatever happens, we'll be okay."

Marco smiled in gratitude, and we were left starting at each other for a few more minutes, our features blurred in the darkness of the trainees lodge. And for once, in those few minutes, his eyes were unreadable.

"Jean," he said again, and his hand unwound from the blankets to touch my face. "You look angry."

My skin tingled at the touch, and I focused on softening my expression. "No, it's not that. I just… don't know how you're feeling."

He chucked quietly, and his thumb traced a quick circle on the apple of my cheek. "Honestly," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Neither do I."

Before I knew it, we were kissing. Oh god we were kissing and oh my god I liked it. It started soft at first, both of us testing the waters to see if this was actually happening. I hadn't kissed anyone since joining the military, and kissing my bunkmate raised emotions in me I had never felt before. My pulse quickened and sent blood surging through my veins, warming up my skin and forming beads of sweat on the back of my neck. Our blankets somehow stacked on each other and wrapped us under their warm embrace, making it even hotter. Soft kisses turned animalistic as I suddenly rolled on top of Marco, my hand fisting in his short hair as I kissed needily. He accepted the kiss with an open mouth, breathing heavily against my tongue as I swept it over his lips. I sucked on his bottom lip, nibbling on the soft flesh. When I left his mouth and started planting kisses down the warmth of his neck, he didn't stop me. Marco didn't resist when I slipped a hand under his nightshirt, and I didn't resist when his hands found the waistband of my pajamas. Suddenly we were naked and I had never felt so close to anyone before. Hot with need, I ground my hips against his, my head resting against his shoulder. His breath hitched, and he let out meek sighs and groans as I ran a hand down his side. I was so overcome with what was happening, I didn't even think about the other trainees sleeping just a few feet away from us.

The bed creaked and shuddered beneath us as we touched and stroked each other, planting our lips on whatever piece of the other we could reach. It didn't take long for the touches to become stronger, as we each settled on the same goal. I stroked him soft and slow at first, but my pace quickened when I felt myself being brought to the cusp of orgasm by Marco's own hands. My mouth found a comfortable spot against his shoulder, and I bit down hard as I felt a shuddering wave course through me, and I spurted my seed against Marco's stomach. He came shortly afterwards, sucking in a quick breath and tensing beneath me. I felt the warm liquid trail over my fingers, running down my wrist and dripping onto the bed. In the moment, neither of us cared. Well, I didn't at least. Marco insisted on wiping everything up with an old towel before we went to sleep.

He slept in my arms that night. I was too mortified of what had happened that I kept my touch light, hovering my lips barely an inch away from his ear as I whispered comforting words to him until he fell asleep.

I haven't done anything with a guy since then.

As predicted, both Marco and I placed in the top ten of our squad. But you already knew that, didn't you? So I guess you know all about what happened in Trost shortly afterwards. Well, you know most of it. What you probably don't know is what went on behind the scenes. Some of us passed out. Some of us cried. Some of us even puked.

Marco and I managed to avoid all those reactions as we stood together, watching the horror unfold before us. We were put into separate teams, and I was honestly fearful that I wasn't going to see him again.

"Jean, remember what you told me the other night." Marco planted his hands on my shoulders, and I locked my gaze onto his eyes, and they were filled with determination. Emotions I would have rather not felt in that moment pooled in the pit of my stomach as he continued. "I'll see you when this is all over, alright? I know you can do this."

And when Marco left, it was like watching the only hope I had walking away from me.

We ended up meeting again later into the battle, and I swear my heart could've exploded if I wasn't so riled up with the supply team giving up on us. By some stroke of luck (probably thanks to Eren), we made it into the HQ, and I was finally starting to believe that Marco and I would make it out alive.

The last time I kissed him was when we were getting ready to take care of the titans in the supply room. I still remember everything we talked about so clearly in my mind. Marco was my reason for being. I was selfish, but he brought me down to a normal level and helped me see the reality of our situation. When the rest of our squad was ready, I planted one last chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth, not caring if anyone else saw us.

"When this is over…" I whispered to him, pressing my forehead against his, trying to block out the sound of the squad hurrying around, getting ready for the plan. "When this is over…"

Marco shushed me, and his eyes showed that he understood. I didn't even know what I wanted to say to him. And now, I really wish I had told him how much he means to me.

What followed in the next few days is something I'd rather not talk about. Although I'm sure anyone who had lost someone they loved could sympathize with me, it isn't the same. I think of Marco every day. Early on after his death, thinking of him felt like reopening a fresh wound and pouring salt on it. Now, years down the road… Well, I can't really say that I've accepted his death. I've come to terms with it in some sense. He is a driving force that pushes me to work harder every day. The stubborn part of me trains daily, trying to work up to being even the slightest bit as effortlessly caring as Marco was. The weird spiritual side of me is hoping that someday, I'll get to see him again.

The rest of me is still the same as it always was. I'm loud, and I speak without thinking. I'm stubborn and I can't lie with a straight face. And on top of all this, I still hate brown eyes.

Except for Marco's.