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Jean comes back to himself in pieces, the way he has so many nights before.
But this time, there is no blood or broken bone to greet him when he wakes, just the sound of Jeremy’s snores from across the room, and the sight of BarkBark’s soulless eyes staring at him from by the door.
You’re in California, Jean reminds himself. At Laila’s. With Jeremy, and that stupid godforsaken dog.
The reassurance is, quite honestly, ridiculous, but Jean cannot deny the calming effect it has as he repeats it several more times. He is not in the Nest, but in California. Not in that suffocating room with Zane, but at Laila’s, with Jeremy’s tortured breathing and a stupid, cardboard golden retriever to keep him company.
In the Nest, Jean would have been forced to lie still and suffer through the come down. But here—here, he can get up and toss open the windows, or go outside and stare up at the sky, and remind himself that he is out.
He moves to do just that, tossing off the covers and swinging his legs off the edge of the mattress, but the moment his feet hit the floor, Jeremy cries out.
“Don’t!”
Jean startles. It takes him a moment to realize that Jeremy is not talking to him, or even awake at all, and a moment longer to realize that Jeremy is having a nightmare.
The realization is so peculiar that at first, Jean doesn’t move. But then Jeremy twists in the sheets and cries out again, and Jean has no choice.
“Jeremy,” he says, quiet but firm, a gentle attempt at rousing Jeremy long enough to reset the dream.
But the effort amounts to nothing. Jeremy cries out a third time, voice catching on a desperate please, and Jean is up and across the room before he can think to do otherwise.
“Jeremy,” he repeats, louder now, and places a single hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.
The reaction is immediate.
Jeremy comes alive with a desperate gasp, one arm swinging wide before he even knows who he’s swinging at.
But Jeremy is not the first person Jean has ever pulled from a bad dream, so when his fist comes up, arced to smash into Jean’s cheek, Jean’s hand is waiting.
He catches Jeremy around the wrist, grip firm but not tight enough to hurt, and starts talking.
“You’re in California,” he says, and it’s only after the words are out that he realizes how stupid they sound. Of course Jeremy is in California. Jean should have started further down the line. “At Laila’s. With me, and your stupid inanimate pet.”
“Jean?” Jeremy’s breathing is still coming in quick, short bursts; his voice is hoarse with sleep, and after a brief moment, filled with the horror of realization.
“Oh god,” he says, and slowly, Jean relinquishes his grip. “Oh gosh. Jean, I’m so sorry. Did I—?”
“No,” Jean tells him, and for a moment, wonders if he should ask what Jeremy was dreaming about. He told himself he would not pry—at least, not until it affected Jeremy’s performance on the court—but the sight of Jeremy like this, scared and caught off guard in the dark, is too much to ignore.
Hesitantly, and a little awkwardly, Jean clears his throat. Shifts his weight. “You were having a nightmare,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jeremy exhales. He pushes himself up on an elbow, runs his free hand through his hair. “Nah. I hardly even remember it, anyway.”
His voice is shaking just slightly enough for Jean to know he’s lying, but Jean doesn’t press. Instead, he nods, and then tips his head toward the hall door. “I am going to get a glass of water. Do you want one?”
Jean can practically hear Jeremy’s smile. “That would be really nice,” Jeremy says. “Thank you.”
Jean nods again, even though Jeremy can’t see it, and then turns to head for the kitchen. The rest of the house is silent, as it usually is at this hour, but tonight, as Jean reaches for the glasses in the cupboard, he can hear Jeremy’s distant steps to the bathroom.
The addition of another person is odd, but not unwelcome. Jean takes glasses and sets them on the counter, retrieves the Brita from the fridge, and fills the first. As he’s filling the second glass, though, he hears the sound of the toilet, and Jeremy’s footsteps draw nearer.
Jean glances up at him. “I was planning to bring it to you.”
“I know,” Jeremy says. “But I had to pee anyway, and then…I—well, I. I just really didn’t want to be alone.”
Jean considers that. Considers Jeremy, and this shred of vulnerability he is uncharacteristically offering up, and decides to offer some of his own.
“Lucky for you, you do not have to be.” He hands Jeremy his glass. “Are you going back to bed?”
“Not yet,” Jeremy says. “Are you?”
“No,” Jean says. “I…was going to go outside.”
Jeremy frowns at him. “Outside?”
“To see the stars,” Jean clarifies. And then, after a beat of silence, adds, “Do you want to come?”
Jeremy smiles at him, slow and soft, and Jean looks away before he can stare too long. He turns toward the sink, downs his glass of water, and then braces himself for the sight that is sleep rumpled Jeremy Knox.
Jeremy’s hair is sticking up in three places, and smushed down over his forehead in a way Jean’s only ever seen briefly during some mornings. He has the ridiculous urge to reach out and push it back into place, but instead, forces himself to turn for the front door.
“Come on,” he says.
Jeremy’s footsteps pad softly behind him, and Jean slips on his shoes before twisting the knob. Jeremy follows suit, but before he can follow Jean out to the front step, pauses in the doorway.
“Oh wow,” Jeremy says. “It’s kinda cold out. Don’t you want a jacket?”
Jean cocks an eyebrow. Jeremy huffs. “Okay, well some of us were not made for this kind of weather. I’ll be right back.”
Jean shakes his head and takes a seat. It doesn’t take long for Jeremy to return, and within seconds, he’s dropping next to Jean with a little oof.
Jean turns to him. Jeremy holds out a bundle of fabric. “Blanket?”
“No.”
“It’s big enough to share,” Jeremy insists. “Are you sure?”
Jean thinks about it. Already, he can feel the cold of the porch step seeping through the thin fabric of his pants, and knows that soon, he’ll be uncomfortable enough to ask. Better to accept the offer now, than to have to admit the need later on.
“Fine,” he says. “Toss me half.”
Jeremy beams. He leans close enough for Jean to smell the citrus shampoo he uses, and then tosses half the blanket around Jean’s shoulders. When he’s satisfied that it won’t fall off, he presses himself against Jean’s side, and then tugs the remaining half around himself.
Jean blinks down at him, and hopes it’s dark enough that Jeremy can’t see the way his ears are burning red. But when Jeremy looks up again, Jean sees that his face is flushed too.
“Okay,” Jeremy laughs. “Blanket’s a little smaller than I thought. But we can make it work, right?”
Jean doesn’t answer. He is busy staring at the way the porch lamp highlights the freckles smattered across Jeremy’s cheeks and nose, and noting the way they look like the stars above.
Jeremy must catch on though, because his smile grows wider, from shy to amused. Jean clears his throat.
“Sure,” he says, and turns back to the sky.
At his side, Jeremy presses a little closer. “So,” he asks. “Got a favorite constellation?”
Jean doesn’t, but he points out the ones he knows, and after he’s run out, is content to sit in silence. Jeremy on the other hand, is not.
“Thank you,” he says.
Jean only shrugs. “I did not invent them.”
Jeremy laughs again. “Maybe not,” he agrees. “But you did invite me out here.”
Jean bites his tongue. There is a retort waiting there to say that Jeremy would have probably followed him out anyway, but he remembers the sound of Jeremy’s cries, and the way he’d so reluctantly admitted to not wanting to be alone, and instead offers a simple, “You’re welcome.”