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1.
There is a lack of warmth in the new apartment.
Jean isn't quite sure why that registers to him. Temperature isn't something that's taken up much if any of his consideration or thoughts. Better things to worry about and focus on. Worse things too.
What does it matter if it's cold enough to make his skin shiver or if there is a chill gathering at the nape of his neck and running down his spine? Comfort doesn't matter, not when there are drills to practice and stats to memorize and another day to get through.
Jean is no stranger to the cold. At Evermore it was constant. An ever present bite to any exposed skin. It kept them alert, sharp, just on edge enough to not relax, never relax, because when your guard is down, when tension isn't thrumming through every nerve, that's when mistakes happen.
And yet—
The warmth here he acclimated to without realizing.
The L.A. sun is vicious and far too brilliant undoubtedly, but the hot beam of its rays somehow seemed to not compare to the warmth he found in Laila and Cat's house. Home. Perhaps that is what it could have been. Very different from the soft summer fields in Marseille and the stone clutches of its city and the velvet touch of the ocean breeze.
Jean didn't even know he still had such memories. He was cloistered enough that when he thinks of where he grew up, typically against his will because the point of it is moot and he buried it away in the tattered mess of his gut long ago, all he usually recalls is the iron will of his mother, the blue sky he saw too little of, the slamming and locking of doors, El—
Nothing worth digging up. But he has been cracked open in more ways than one lately. And those soft memories that shimmer like a faded photograph, always accompanied by the sensation of a tiny phantom hand held within his own, they burst out every now and then.
The house he was moved into, the place he was brought to occupy when Evermore could no longer hold him, was no more vast than he was used to but certainly warmer, touched by life, messy, stained in various ways by Cat and Laila and Jeremy and then eventually by himself as well.
Leaving a footprint there was not his intention, but it happened all the same, the way things have been happening since he came here.
Against his will mostly, but not with him alone.
In such stark contrast, the apartment is barren of what made that house somewhere Jean could settle.
He finds himself agitated by it, how the kitchen is arranged differently so nothing is where it should be and how the carpet in the rooms is coarse rather than soft and how the light-fixtures imbue the place with both too little and too much light.
More often than not Jean's head is filled with grumbling over it all, complaints and curses that fill him up until it's all he is made of. Voicing them is something he tries not to do. For Laila's sake, and Cat's. Jeremy was right when he said Jean's guilt would be a burden and his current frustration over how this place could never be like what they had would be the same. Their shoulders are carrying enough, Jean will not add to the weight when he can bear it to himself.
So Jean keeps such pointless feelings to himself. It's a familiar endeavor. Settles underneath his skin with a vibrating prick that he is used to withstanding. Whether that gives him any peace or not, he doesn't know. Familiarity is better than nothing, better than being lost and punished for it, but he would prefer to stop ramming his knee into the too low bathroom counter and to not be overwhelmed and confused in the kitchen with it's pitiful design.
The cold though, it is becoming a problem. More so than the lack of—everything else Jean can't bring himself to identify or think about it.
His breakdown on Coach Rhemann is still a fresh bruise, one Jean cannot be bothered to touch, one that he will let spread through his skin until it turns invisible. Remnants of it still bubble in his blood, this awful pressure and yearning that Jean chokes on and pushes down because it cannot be allowed back out, not if he is to be steady enough to keep going and to keep playing, so missing the warmth which had nothing to do with temperature that he experienced in that house is a waste of time.
Hating the actual absence of warmth, the tangible reality of his chilled skin and shivering body and tense muscles, that he can do.
Strange, how it affects him now. He's on the couch, sinking into the plush cushions, knees casually drawn up to his chest, and a thin blanket wrapped around his legs. It should be enough to ward off the incessant blast of chill that runs through the apartment, but it's not.
Jean is cold. His mouth pinches tight with a disapproving frown and he's not sure what he is most unimpressed with, the way he can't get warm or himself in general, his overreaction to such an unimportant stimuli.
Evermore, the Jean Moreau who was a Raven through and through and nothing more, feels so very far away. Has he already been so weakened, so torn down, so coddled that he is fighting not to squirm where he is sat because of the damn temperature?
Perhaps he should be surprised at how little time it took. He is not. Expecting more from himself is something he knows well but so is his recurrent failures at following through when it comes to anything beyond tearing his way across an exy field.
Jabberwocky (Jean cringes every time he even thinks the name though perhaps it suits this scruff of an animal) lays his head on Jean's lap, big brown eyes looking up at him as if in solace or consolidation or, more likely, judgement.
Jean scoffs. "You have fur. I do not." He runs his fingers over the top of Jabberwocky's head, slicking back said fur and stopping for just a moment to rub across the bridge of his brow.
Jabberwocky's eyes close and he nuzzles deeper into Jean's thigh.
The warmth he offers and the pressure of his chin is pleasant enough so Jean lets him remain. For now.
"What did precious baby Jabberwocky do this time to warrant that tone of voice?"
Jean turns his head towards Jeremy, already finding him before all of the words are out of his mouth. He's coming Jean's way, one hand full of popcorn and the other holding two bottles of juice. The bottles are cradled between Jeremy's long fingers, the bones in his hand exposed by the thin stretch of his skin, all of it so very effortless.
Jean wets his lips and looks away, not bothering to deign Jeremy with a response.
Jeremy, of course, takes it in stride, not faltering a bit as he sits beside Jean, close enough that Jabberwocky is crushed gently between them, something he doesn't mind in the slightest based on the way he doesn't move an inch.
One of the bottles of juice gets practically shoved in Jean's face, the bottle cap just visible in Jean's vision as Jeremy waves it under his nose. "Here you go," he says brightly and determinedly.
Jean sighs. He takes the bottle because otherwise Jeremy would keep waving it in his face thinking that he is tempting Jean and not stop until his arm goes sore and most likely falls off. Jean needs that arm. Their team needs that arm. So Jean accepts the juice.
His thumb rubs back and forth across the label as he reads it and another frown settles into the furrow of his mouth.
Jeremy groans dramatically as he falls back against the couch, legs splayed wide, though there's a line of tension visible in his thigh where it's bared by his shorts, his knee carefully kept from colliding with Jean's. "Jean."
Jean ignores him. English is already an abomination when it comes to simple conversation but when it comes to lists of ingredients it is a true horror. This requires his full attention, especially to calculate everything in the way he and Cat have devised.
"Jean," Jeremy says again and it sounds close enough to a whine that Jean goes still.
He sees the flex of Jeremy's fingers out of the corner of his eye, approaching slow then following through all at once, the moisturized bumps of Jeremy's knuckles knocking underneath Jean's chin. It's the softest touch he's ever felt there.
Jean looks at Jeremy, brown flickering at him like the watery sunlight that has already dipped below the horizon outside.
"C'mon," Jeremy needles, voice threadbare and curling upward at the end just like his mouth.
Something pinches in Jean's chest. Carefully, he presses his fingers into his sternum in an attempt to get that knot to unwind and leave him alone. He blows a breath out through his nose as he pokes into bone harder and harder.
"It's supposed to boost your immune system!" Jeremy adds, hand falling back into his lap. Those eyes of his remain though, locked on Jean's, somehow both bright and dark. Like Jeremy himself.
"Does it need boosting?" Jean asks.
"Well, I—I don't know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn't hurt, right?" Jeremy's grin becomes lopsided, boyish. "Proactive care!" He snaps his fingers and points at Jean. "That's good."
"Hmm," Jean muses, eyes turning back to the label. The thin plastic is much less likely to burn him to cinders. "I suppose."
Jeremy perks up, the totality of his body puffing and preening. "Is that an agreement? I can't tell."
"I suppose," Jean repeats with a little more warmth. "Just one. For the month."
The slight force of Jeremy's shoulder nudging against his feels like a reward. Undeserved, but a reward nonetheless. "I'll take what I can get."
"I don't see why it should matter to you either way."
"It's for the betterment of your poor, neglected taste buds," Jeremy replies without missing a step. "And, besides, good for your health right? That matters to me. A lot."
Jean is mostly sure this isn't what Jeremy means yet he still says, "Ah. So my performance isn't affected. Makes sense. I will have you know that I ensure that doesn't happen. I'm not a—" he frowns and tilts his head. "What's the word—pouch? No. Starts with an s. Souch?"
"Slouch?" Jeremy offers.
A noise of disgust rumbles in the back of Jean's throat. "If it must be."
Jeremy laughs, bright bright bright. "Yeah, okay. But you know that's not the reason, right? It's just because…you're you."
Jean can understand that a little more now than he could have a few months ago. Still, it leaves him unmoored. Balancing on an edge he can't even see.
"I see," Jean says quietly and nothing more. He shuffles back into his corner of the couch which disturbs Jabberwocky enough that he huffs and moves. Chilliness seeps into Jean's lap.
More agitation flares within him, sickly hot in his gut in great contrast to every other part of him. If this goes on much longer it'll turn to anger and Jean doesn't have the time or energy to expend such a thing on the fact that his toes feel like icicles.
But he suffers it. All throughout the first half of the movie Jeremy puts on, something full of action and adventure. The plot is ridiculous enough that Jean doesn't bother following it, but some of the scenes with major stunts are—compelling.
He won't quite let himself curl into a ball where he's tucked against the couch's arm, but he imagines it. Perhaps it would make him warmer, but he has no interest in being so small, not when there isn't a need for it.
"Are you cold?" Jeremy suddenly asks.
Jean barely suppresses his jolt. He doesn't look away from the TV. "No."
"You keep shivering."
"What is this shivering you speak of? I do not do that."
"Jean," Jeremy says and the name is nothing but a laugh. He doesn't think anyone has said his name like that. It sounds too nice to dwell on so Jean doesn't. "I've lost count of how many times you have done that since the movie started."
"Why are you counting?"
Jeremy pauses. Jean watches as his gaze drops down to his lap where his hands fiddle with each other. His clean, clear nail beds are blue from the TV light. "Well, that's—That doesn't matter."
Jean figures the conversation will end there, but unfortunately, it does not.
"Jean," Jeremy says, quieter. A finger pokes Jean's shoulder where his t-shirt has ridden up. Goosebumps flare. They were certainly already there in the first place, Jeremy's touch just—focuses them. "You can admit discomfort."
No he cannot.
Jean says nothing.
Jeremy takes this as a form of speaking anyway. "You can," he presses on, firm, as if he knew what Jean was thinking.
He supposes this is one of those no way out but through situations. Despicable. "I would rather slide down a giant blade into a bucket of alcohol than do that." Framing it as his own stubbornness and nothing else is something he is learned is best to do. As most things, it doesn't always run in his favor, but what else is he to do? Admit the full truth instead of the fractured pieces he can give away?
No, Jeremy deserves something whole.
"Christ," Jeremy spits out with a wet chuckle. He brings his hand up to his face and digs his fingers into his eyes. "Okay. What the fuck? Why did that actually make sense? You know what, nevermind. Admit it or I'll bother you until you do."
"You always bother me."
What Jean does not say is that he doesn't mind in the slightest. Most of the time. This is not one of those times.
Jeremy just smiles at him.
Jean knows he relents far too quickly. He will have to work on that. "Fine. I'm cold." He raises his eyebrows at Jeremy and pauses for second before continuing, "What did that fix? Nothing."
The sweetness in Jeremy's expression doesn't fade. It stays. Makes his eyes shine and his near permanent smile endearingly crooked. Jean didn't know a crooked smile could be endearing. Or any smile for that matter.
He moves his eyes away from Jeremy's lips and back to his eyes. Traces of warmth gather in his cheeks and the base of his throat. He look back at Jeremy's mouth. Then back to his eyes.
Jeremy shuffles a little closer, every movement telegraphed as he nudges Jean with an elbow.
Jean stops looking at him.
Jeremy huffs. "Okay, you're pitiful admission didn't do nothing. In fact, it is eliciting a response in me." Jeremy lets out a little wonder-filled gasp. Jean debates cutting holes in all of his socks. "And that response would be me getting up and going to the thermostat to crank up the heat."
The couch shifts and dips as Jeremy braces to stand, his bare thighs flexing.
Jean bites down on his tongue and grabs hold of Jeremy's wrist to halt him, his fingers circling around the prominent bone there and lying flush against a warm pulse. Jeremy stops easily, without a fight.
"Do you think I'm an imbecile, Jeremy?" Jean asks, and perhaps it sounds a little breathless but he'll blame that on the cold and exasperation. Blaming it on anything else will only lead him down a road he cannot safely travel.
Jeremy blinks at Jean, slow. Color darkens the arches of his cheeks ever so slightly. He blinks again, more rapidly this time, and shakes his head. "Um."
Jean narrows his eyes and presses his thumb down on the increased beat of Jeremy's pulse. "Wrong answer. I already tried the thermostat. You know how incompetent that thing is. It didn't work."
Breath tumbles out of Jeremy, sounding sticky and rough, but there's that smile still tugging at Jeremy's mouth, and his lashes flutter down to almost meet the top of his cheeks. "Well, then. I, uh, I can fix that. Not the thermostat. Obviously. But, y'know, the you being cold thing. If you just—" He shakes his wrist, jostling Jean's hold but not dislodging him.
A hum buzzes out of Jean's throat. He releases Jeremy who gets up right away and disappears into Jean's room. When he gets back, strides long and confident and one hand clutching a hoodie while the other holds something fuzzy, Jean is rubbing his fingers together. He forces himself to stop and pinches the edge of his t-shirt between his fingers instead.
"Here," Jeremy declares. He tosses the hoodie into Jean's lap, one he actually recognizes. He assumes it's Jeremy's favorite since it is the one he wears the most.
A muted blue with a white design on the front that is so faded Jean hasn't quite been able to make out what it's supposed to be. It looks different in Jean's lap than it does stretched across the breadth of Jeremy's chest. Bigger almost. More substantial now that it's not fighting for its life.
Jean picks at the one of the threadbare sleeves. "This—You don't have to—"
"Jean. It's fine. I brought in with me just in case, but I'm not cold. You are. So use it. Please."
Jean scowls at the plea or maybe more so at how his heart upticks when Jeremy says it. He would keep pushing and resist, but—Goosebumps have converged along the length of his arms, and he can barely focus on a good day as it is but certainly not like this and—and he doesn't want to be cold. So Jean carefully pulls the hoodie over himself.
It settles nicely on his shoulders and sits snugly around his waist. At his biceps the sleeves bunch up a bit, slightly loose, but they are tighter around his forearms and stop just above his wrists. The collar is soft and smells like Jeremy. Just Jeremy. No one else. Though Jean supposes that soon enough it'll smell like him too.
He takes the collar between his fingers and stretches it up to his nose, eyes closing as he sniffs and inhales the remnants of Jeremy's skin and soap and cologne.
A tap on his knee brings him back into focus. Tension locks his spine tight and his eyes burst open. The collar falls back down where it belongs.
Jeremy is on his knees in front of Jean, and he has one hand up, palm facing outward, utterly harmless even though he has no right to be and really isn't. There's a flash of dark pink as Jeremy's tongue slips out to lick his lips. It retreats before Jean can fully study the color though.
Then the fuzzy thing Jeremy is holding takes up Jean's vision as Jeremy waves it in his face. He really has to get Jeremy to stop doing that. Maybe he can train him somehow, the way he's taken to doing on the court.
"What?" Jean asks. "What is it?"
Jeremy sighs. "Socks, dude. Very fuzzy, very warm." He taps Jean's knee again. Jean sets his legs down on the ground and knocks a toe against Jeremy's own knee. Jeremy grins.
Jean stretches his neck to the side to accommodate the tightness taking hold there and then just looks between the socks and Jeremy.
"They are for your feet," Jeremy says like it's an explanation that actually needs to be given.
"No. Really? Ingenious invention. All this time and no one has ever told me about socks, how cruel."
"Alright, smartass. C'mon, give 'em here."
Jean does not understand. They are—They are just socks. Easily put on. He does it every day. Obviously, Jeremy knows this. He knows Jean is capable. So why is he offering? Why does he think Jean should let him do this?
"Me being cold has not hindered my ability to put on socks," Jean says mildly, leaning forward and reaching to grab the socks out of Jeremy's hand.
Jeremy doesn't relent though. He moves his hand just past Jean's reach. He takes Jean's huff of frustration and glare like they are nothing to bear. He looks up at Jean, brown eyes wide. "I know that," he says softly. "It's just—nice, I guess. And I'm, well, I'm already down here so—" A laugh catapults out of him, shaky and quiet as his voice.
Something squirms right behind Jean's belly button. He shifts in his seat. Curls his toes into the rug laid beneath the couch. Pulls at the hoodie's sleeves until they come close to his knuckles.
"You are," Jean eventually says. "Down there."
"Yeah," Jeremy breathes.
Jean recites every curse word he knows in both French and Japanese in his head and says, "Okay."
Again with the relenting. A bad habit. One he cannot keep up with, one that can become far too dangerous and distracting. His only habit should be practicing drills until he is worn to the bone, not being worn down so thin by one sunshine bottle blond captain.
But Jeremy, Jean has learned, is very hard to say no to. Even when you know you can.
Jeremy is gentle as he grabs hold of Jean's ankle, fingers like a brace of fire, and he's gentle still as he settles Jean's heel in his palm and then slides the sock over his foot, fussing with it for a few seconds to make sure it's on properly and that the seam is settled right over Jean's toes because if it is anywhere else, even just a little bit, Jean can't fucking stand it, but he's not sure how Jeremy knows that.
It's the same process with the other foot.
Jean holds his breath the entire time.
No one has ever been so determined to put a piece of clothing on him before. The reverse he has experienced. Though, the point wasn't necessarily to get him unclothed. The point was easy access through his resistance. Collar of his shirt stretched tight around his neck. Hem shoved up to expose the small of his back, sensitive and vulnerable in a way he hates. Pants pushed no further than mid-thigh.
Fists into his shoulder blades. Kicks to the back of his knees. Hands everywhere.
Jean's stomach cramps and rolls. His head goes fuzzy, heavy and static and full of ringing.
Jeremy's knuckle brushes against Jean's ankle bone as he settles the second sock into place. Nausea swirls and rises, heating up Jean's throat. He endures one more touch from Jeremy, lungs captured in a fist and the rest of him still enough that he's not even sure if his heart is beating.
Being still is best, even if it frustrates others. Makes him an easier target, yes, but doesn't prolong the collision.
He pulls his foot out of Jeremy's hand, forceful enough that his heel bangs against the bottom of the couch. Jean doesn't feel it.
Jeremy glances up at him, his expression not frustrated or lecherous but soft. Still soft. So goddamn soft.
The rising tide of Jean's stomach settles, nausea gone and making way for shame.
His shame is cold, a bucket of ice thrown over a raw burn.
Jean curls his toes within the socks. There's more softness there, brushing against his skin, gentle and kind as Jeremy's touch had been. As his touches have always been. Perhaps Jean should stop waiting for them to turn into something else.
A dangerous thought, but he makes it nonetheless.
Jeremy's lashes shimmer like gold as he peers through them, taking Jean in with a calculation that doesn't come across as mechanical or inhuman or anything other than discerning, careful, warm.
That thin, transparent gold color is darker than the dyed strands that fight to flop over Jeremy's forehead. It alights an ache in Jean, a new one, to touch, to get a bit of that color on himself, something he can't make himself avoid like he did at the beginning.
Jean pulls his feet back up onto the couch, knees tucked to his chest. He nods at Jeremy and busies himself with settling the blanket more comfortably around his body.
A pop sounds from Jeremy's knee as he stands up.
Jean reacts fiercely to it, eyes swiveling to Jeremy's knee, glare hot enough that he can feel it in his skull.
Something that is not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff falls from Jeremy's mouth. "Stop glaring at my knee, you'll set it on fire, then we'll really be in trouble." He flops back down onto the couch beside Jeremy, close but not too close.
"Fire might be an improvement," Jean mutters. Then, before Jeremy can mouth off about that, "Why did it do that? What's wrong?"
"Geez, Jean. Nothing. It's fine. That happens sometimes, y'know. Inevitable."
"Pfft."
"Hey, I'm in tip-top shape," Jeremy boasts, sitting up with a grin and flexing his arms before falling back down into his favored languid sprawl.
Yes, well. Jean can see that certainly. Still, he reminds himself to keep an extra eye on that knee and make sure Jeremy takes care of it.
Jeremy stretches with a groan, the length of him becoming even longer. Jean takes a few deep breaths in and out and tries to not look like he is retreating into the collar of Jeremy's hoodie or taking refuge from the scent stained there.
Once Jeremy is done obnoxiously highlighting the angled lines of his body, he grabs the remote and hits play. The movie picks back up, somehow seeming louder now than it was before. Jean and Jeremy watch the rest of it in silence and then Jeremy puts another one on.
The night is theirs alone, free and just for them with Laila and Cat out on their newly self-imposed weekly date night, so Jean offers no complaint. He merely drinks his juice and does not eat the popcorn Jeremy is shoving in his face. Eventually, when they are on movie number three, drowsiness awakens.
Jean's eyelids turn heavy, his body lax. The apartment isn't home the way that Cat and Laila's house was becoming and it may be odd and too cold, but Jean feels safer here than he does most places, safe enough to give in to his body's demands.
He slides a little sideways, his body meeting Jeremy's. Jeremy's bicep tenses, a sharp jump Jean can feel down to his bone marrow, but then it's gone, soft and malleable again, so Jean relaxes and stays put.
They fall asleep like that, leaning into one another, the TV glowing on their faces, temples meeting from where their heads rest against the back of the couch, Jeremy's summer sun hair tickling Jean's skin, Jean's socked foot pushed up beside Jeremy's bare one.
Jean is warm.
2.
Two weeks later, Jean is alone in the kitchen. He is eating mindlessly, refueling his body after a grueling and frustrating practice.
Many days Jean still feels like he is ramming straight into a colossal and immovable wall, one that can only be penetrated by skills he does not possess, but he's working on it, dedicating himself to it in the only way he knows how. And it's getting easier, playing with the Trojans. A synchronicity is starting to bloom, one he didn't know was possible.
Still, there are times his body moves without his permission and the constraints the Trojans operate under leave him baffled enough that he can't bear it. Today was one of those days.
Though the familiar sting of failure that typically chews him up and spits him out was somewhat lessened by the way he made Cat and Cody laugh when he accidentally on purpose tripped Derek and then immediately helped him up as he said, "I would say I did not see you, but I did. Make yourself less visible maybe." Then he looked over Derek's imposing form and said, "Nevermind."
Cat and Cody howled at that, curling in on themselves and completely messing up the drill they were all practicing. Jean, for just a moment, didn't care.
A smile wants to break free as he thinks of it now, but he hides it away. Shoveling food into his mouth and going over what he did right and wrong helps keep it at bay.
There is little other distraction here. Especially since Jeremy hired someone to come by and fix the thermostat. The apartment's temperature is now easily controlled and much warmer.
Jean still wears the fuzzy socks Jeremy gave him.
Their softness presses sweetly against the arches of his feet as he flexes them against the rung of the stool he is perched on. Jean presses his feet more firmly onto that rung as he finishes eating then slides his feet along the linoleum floor when he gets up and cleans up after himself.
Once his plate is washed and dried and put back up, his phone, abandoned on the table, buzzes.
Jean expects a message from Renee or Jeremy, but it's from Cat.
Cat who is in the apartment with him. Only several feet away with a wooden door in between them. Her and Laila went to the bedroom about an hour ago, wanting solitude and, according to Laila, sweet ooey gooey cuddle time before going to sleep.
bring me some water
Jean frowns down at the message. His phone buzzes again.
please
Jean frowns harder.
why can't you?
Cat sends him a picture, it's off center and a little blurry, a close up of Laila who is curled up against Cat's chest, eyes closed and mouth wide open, looking very small and young.
do u c my predicament????
Jean huffs and leans back against the counter. He doesn't get a chance to respond in any way before Cat sends a flurry of more messages.
look @ her! precious! i cant disturb this
she will b grumpy
so grumpy jean
save me
if i have 2 wake her im telling her its ur fault
im so thirsty im going 2 die! dont u love me
Pressure wells up in Jean's throat. His heart performs this acrobatic move that, while he is becoming accustomed to it, makes him unbalanced and on edge and sore.
Jean rubs his knuckles against his sternum.
A dull thump sounds from the direction of Cat and Laila's room followed by what could be a very loud, dramatic sigh.
Jean grumbles to himself in a mixture of English and French. Scrolls back up a little to look at the photo of Laila again. Pang goes his heart. He saves the photo then goes to grab a water bottle from where a group of them are cluttered together by the sink.
His phone buzzes.
from the fridge
room temperature water is better for digestion and gut health.
dont care! not eating anything rn anyway
COLD!!!! FRIDGE!!!!
Jean rolls his eyes, but does as he is asked.
He deposits his phone back on the table and leaves it there as he carries the cold water bottle toward Cat and Laila's room. When he gets to their door he stops for a moment. It feels weird to just…enter.
Jean knocks gently, quietly.
His phone buzzes on the table. Jean takes that as permission.
Cat and Laila's room has accumulated an impressive amount of stuff over the weeks they have been here. It looks a lot like them, full of color and rather messy. Posters crowd one wall while photographs dominate the other. Two rugs stretch across the floor. Blankets are piled on the bed and clothes are thrown across the room. Pale fairy lights hang above the bed.
It is quite an assault on the senses.
Jean carefully steps over the blankets and clothes and bags on the floor, making his way to the bed where Cat is on her back, propped halfway up on some pillows with Laila draped across her body, face tucked up by Cat's collar bone.
Cat gives Jean a very pleased smile that is bright even in the dim room. She has a hand on Laila's back. It sweeps up and down in calm, gentle caresses, thoughtless and comforting.
Jean looks away. Steps over a pair of shoes. Holds the water out to Cat once he gets to the side of the bed.
"Can you open it for me?" she asks sweetly, her pitch not exactly what Jean would consider a whisper. Laila stirs but doesn't wake.
Jean twists off the cap and gives Cat the bottle. He stands there, firm and resolute, and feels a little…grey and drab compared to everything else here.
He twists the fingers of his free hand into the hem of his blue shirt.
Cat lets out a quiet ah after she's finished gulping down half the bottle then hands it back to Jean with yet another bright grin.
Wordlessly, Jean accepts it. Puts the cap back on. Sets it down on the nightstand. He begins to turn on his heel to leave, but Cat stops him.
She reaches out and catches his wrist, her fingers warm. Jean lets himself be caught, goes still, waiting. Cat shakes his arm a little bit, eyes shining. "Hey, stay for a sec."
Jean looks around the room, takes in the lack of any spare space, then looks back at Cat and Laila on the bed. "Stay?"
Cat blows out a breath. "Yes. Look, I love Laila, and I'm glad she is getting some good z's, but the right side of my body is going numb, and I can't sleep. I'm bored. Entertain me."
"Am I entertaining?"
"Oh, exceptionally," Cat says, baring her teeth and wiggling his arm again.
The urge to squirm squishes up Jean's insides. "You're rather bossy today."
"Aren't I always?"
Jean tips his head toward her, conceding the point. He's come to actually rather enjoy that about her. Rarely is he ever confused about what Cat wants or where he stands with her. It's nice.
Cat taps her thumb against Jean's wrist then lets him go to pat the bed right beside her hip. "Pop a squat."
"I'm sorry, you want me to pop what?"
Cat's mouth pinches closed and her chest heaves with silent laughter, jostling Laila a bit who grumbles and smacks her lips and tightens her hold on Cat.
The movement of Laila distracts Cat enough that her laughter fades. She looks down at her with a soft, threadbare smile, one that looks lovely and full of something Jean doesn't know the true dimensions of. He'd study it but he feels like he shouldn't even be seeing it in the first place. It's just for Laila.
"It means sit down," Cat says to him when she turns away from Laila. She pats the bed again.
Jean could protest. He finds it in him and is quite ready to do so, but—
There's nothing else to do. Coach peeled him off the court earlier and made him promise not to sneak in for extra practice. Jeremy is locked away in his pretty cage for the rest of the week and Jean has not yet managed to create a way to get him fully free. He's not tired enough to retire to his own room by himself. And, well, perhaps Jean just wants to spend time with Cat.
He tries not to think too hard about it as he sits on the bed, slow and hesitant so as not to bother Laila. He pulls one knee up onto the bed with him and gazes expectantly at Cat. "What should I do then? Perform a magic trick? Juggle? Perhaps make a, hmm, what do you call it…balloon animal?"
Cat grins hard enough that her nose crinkles but then quickly her grin drops. "Wait, can you actually do any of that?"
Yes and no. Sort of. The juggling and balloon animal making are not on his list of abilities, but the magic trick—
Jean didn't really intend to give that away. It's been so long though that he doubts he could do it at all. The last time he made a coin disappear it was for his sister. She never got tired of it no matter how many times he showed her. He tried to do it once when he first got to Evermore, thinking it might impress the others, thinking it would make the absence of his sister hurt less.
It did neither.
He barely got halfway through the trick before his coin was taken and used to scrape the skin off his knuckles. What happened to the coin after that he doesn't know.
Jean's fingers curl tightly into the hem of his shirt, the bend of his scarred knuckles harsh enough that blood floods away from the bone. It's all rushing up to his chest he thinks, too hot and pounding as it is.
"Not anymore. Probably," he finds himself saying. "I only had one magic trick but—" He trails off, unable to finish.
Cat doesn't push. She hums in acknowledgment and softly says, "Another time maybe."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Cat snorts loudly then winces. Her and Jean both look at Laila, but she continues sleeping, undisturbed.
"Alright then," Cat whispers. She pats Jean's knee then stretches out her to grab a book off her nightstand, impressively managing to not jostle Laila much in the process. The book gets tossed into Jean's lap. "Read to me then."
Jean stares down at the book. "Read to you?" His voice sounds far away, doesn't even feel like it comes out of him.
"Yeah. It's been a hot minute since I was able to pick up where I left off and it was getting good."
"You have hands. And eyes," Jean responds tonelessly, still staring at the book.
It sounds like Cat blows a raspberry at him. "Okay, one hand is occupied with soothing my lover and, well. Yeah okay I could use my other hand, the book is pretty thin, but I, uh, don't want to?"
Jean tears his eyes away from the too familiar cover to look at Cat whose expression is pinched and careful and not in the least bit mischievous.
"Oh, c'mon, don't look at me like that." She waves her hand around his face and then digs her finger into the corner of his mouth, stretching it toward his cheek like she is trying to make him smile.
Jean doesn't.
Cat rolls her eyes. Pats his cheek lovingly. Her catches her hand when it falls down to the bed and holds it in his own. Cat smiles.
"It's too quiet in here," she finally says, whining a bit. "And you've got a nice voice and who better to read me a French play than you!"
"Ah, I'm French so I should read a French play to you. Not even in French. No, in this abominable language called English that can in no way encapsulate the true meaning of Jean-Paul Sartre's work." Jean thins his lips and nods very seriously, thumb brushing back and forth across the glossy cover, a movement he cannot stop. "Of course. I understand."
Cat sticks her tongue out at him. "Watch it, white boy." She doesn't even look aggravated, only mildly amused, as if he is some baby animal pretending to be fiercer and bigger and meaner than it really is. "But I do gotta say, bitchy Jean is my favorite," she sighs.
"Bitchy Jean is jus' normal Jean," Laila mumbles into Cat's shirt.
At this point, Jean would leave, but he knows they would keep talking about him, so it would be rather pointless.
Cat looks down at Laila, her hand on Laila's back not pausing at all in it's continued soothing movements. "You're supposed to be sleeping," she whispers loudly.
Laila grumbles. "I am." Then she peeks open one eye and aims her cloudy gaze right at Jean. "Now read."
Jean obeys.
He allows Cat to tug him onto the bed beside them, laying down beside her, her fingers twisted tightly into his shirt until he's settled. He props his back against the pillows and headboard, tucked into the barest of space he is afforded at the side of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, feet warm in his fuzzy socks.
Jean holds the book in his hand, waiting for something that doesn't happen, then opens it to a page Cat has dog-eared. He turns a glare onto Cat and points at the bent page in disgust.
Cat shrugs, unrepentant.
"Animal," Laila murmurs.
Jean sighs. Straightens the corner of the page back out, nail gliding along the crease until it is as worn out as he can make it. His eyes skitter over the words on the page, black marks that are rough and blurry and don't make any sense for a split second.
No Exit is well-known to him. The copy he has in his room is immaculate but pieces of him have been left behind on the pages. No creases, because he has some class, but a few passages are highlighted carefully and his name, the one he was first given and didn't get to keep, is printed on the inside cover from a time when it didn't make his skin chill and revolt to see such a thing.
He's never seen the English version of this work, for obvious reasons. And that, plus seeing it here, amongst Cat and Laila's things, kept close by, awakens an emotion he can't quite make sense of.
"Why choose this one?" he asks, still staring at the page Cat left off at.
"If you thought I wouldn't take note of the the two singular books you keep in your room then you are sorely mistaken," Cat replies.
"You are reading it…because I read it?"
"Well duh."
Flashes of a tiny hand with rose pink nails trailing behind his over the page of a book filled with fairy tales flashes through Jean's mind. Jean's fingers twitch and clench.
"I don't understand," Jean says.
"No, I suppose you don't." Cat hums, her head tilting until it falls onto Jean's shoulder. She stays there like it's comfortable, like it's easy, like she's safe. "You like it. I like you. Simple equation really."
Simple. Nothing about that is simple. Nothing like this comes without conditions attached.
Sincerity and genuine affection are simple to Cat though. This much he knows.
How he accounts for such contradictions, he has no idea.
Jean says nothing to her. He swallows the thickness in his throat, covers up the images in his head, lays a hand over his chest to hold back the beat of his heart, and begins to read aloud.
Jean reads for Cat and Laila philosophies that he has grappled with and misunderstood and also understood far too well. He reads about the devouring gaze of the other and the freedom and cage of choice and responsibility. He reads about running, from yourself, from others. He reads about the creation of self, and how you can have very little to do with that at all.
Jean-Paul Sartre's words trip off of Jean's tongue, sometimes inelegant and ugly, whether because of their meaning or because Jean prefers them in French or because of what he can't help but remember—black walls and demands and inescapable cold and hungry hands—he's not sure.
When he gets to the famous line, one that does pack a punch but is perhaps focused on too much to the detriment of everything else, he looks over the English words and says them in French, "Hell is other people."
Laila, he believes, has already fallen back asleep. Cat is a heavy weight on his shoulder, along his side, radiating heat and comfort, but she stirs a bit and sleepily says, "Mmm. One of those words means, like, people, right?"
Jean blinks. "Yes."
Cat snorts. "Hell yeah."
"How did you know?"
"Jeremy is honestly a very shitty teacher but I think Laila and I are picking up a few things," Cat says, fingers tapping against Jean's forearm as she presses a kiss into his shoulder.
"You—Jeremy is teaching you?"
"Sort of, yeah. He's gate-keeping the good stuff, but, y'know, we're getting little things here and there. Laila and I wanted to know too. For you."
Something pounds in Jean at that, something altogether different from the fear and harshness and loathing he has thrived on for so long, all of which still sit heavy at the back of his throat. It is heavy but light, a pressure that isn't really painful. It bursts in his chest and bubbles up sweetly in his veins.
Jean didn't know he could hold something that sweet within himself, though maybe, if he really can become less a Raven and more a Trojan, if he can belong to sunshine, if he is finding many pockets of sweetness hidden all around here, he can find that that is a lie.
"Oh," Jean says, and that is all. All he can say. Any other words are stupid and inadequate.
He does turn his head to press a kiss on Cat's brow, a sort of thank you he's never quite given before but can't help himself from handing out to her.
Hell is other people.
For so long, Jean has known that truth. Now he looks at a happily slumbering Cat and Laila, utterly unbothered to be so vulnerable in his presence, and he looks at the socks Jeremy gave to him, and thinks, No. Hell is not other people. Hell is yourself.
Perhaps, though, if he's careful, neither of those things can be true. At least when he's here. At least when he is with his friends, these people he has chosen above all others.
For everyone else it can remain true. Jean doesn't care.
He reads out loud a little longer, until Cat is snoring and as motionless as Laila. Then he closes the book, thumb stuck in between the pages to save the spot, and shifts every so lightly so he can lean back against the pillows a little more comfortably. His neck is at an odd angle and he knows if he stays like this much longer there will be a painful strain or crick stuck there.
Jean can take the pain though. He's always been good at that.
So he stays. He stays in this uncomfortable position and he sleeps lightly, still vigilant for himself and his girls, but it's restful all the same. Maybe he can't let himself get used to this, but he can indulge just a little.
3.
The sound of violent, painful retching wakes Jean up.
It's not the worst way he has been woken up in the middle of the night, not by far, but it is disorienting. Enough so that he's not entirely sure of where he is until he blinks a few times lazily and sees the familiar shapes and figures in the darkness of his room.
There's silence now. The harsh expelling still echoes in Jean's ears though. And he feels a phantom tug in his gut, leftover memory of throwing up cold water and bile and all the hatred he couldn't contain.
Jean rolls onto his back. Digs the crust out of his eyes. Lays a palm over his stomach.
He breathes and breathes and breathes. Still there is nothing.
Jean begins to drift back to the oblivion he was yanked from—
Hacking startles him back to full consciousness. It is rough, sounding like it has been scraped over bone and sinew. Then there is the quieter sound of spitting. A groan.
Jeremy.
Jean flings the covers off of himself and bolts out of bed. The thin, bottom sheet gets tangled around his legs and makes him stumble. He curses in French then again in English for good measure. Rips the sheet away from himself. Hauls ass to the hallway where the wet noise of vomiting is louder.
The bathroom light is on, visible through the thin crack of the nearly closed door, outlining its shape.
Jean pushes the door open with his knuckles then halts in the entryway.
Jeremy is on his knees in front of the toilet, heaving torso curled over the opening, cheek smooshed against porcelain which forces his mouth into a pucker. His eyes are closed, golden lashes visibly sodden thanks to the bright fluorescent light. They stick to Jeremy's cheeks.
A horribly soft, bruised thing makes itself known in Jean's chest.
Jeremy sucks in a breath, shaky and stuttering and sharp. His eyelids clench. His head rolls. He pukes some more, shuddering throughout and making these little hurt noises that gurgle in the back of his throat.
Jean hates it. That sound. That pain. Unfortunately, it's not something he can punish or wrap his hand around to suffocate, so he's not sure what to do.
"Jeremy," he says quietly.
Anguish seizes Jeremy, carving such violent tension into his shaking muscles. His mouth falls open but no more vomit comes out, only a soft wail and then, "Oh God. I—Ough, this is so—" He breaks off with a cough then continues. "No one has suffered like this." His entire face pinches and then he spits into the toilet blindly before cracking open his eyes.
Jean just watches, frozen still. Useless still. There's nothing here to fight.
"Oh," Jeremy says quietly, after laying the side of his face back down onto the toilet seat. "Oh, Jean, it's you." His lashes flutter. Something resembling a smile flickers across his mouth before it dies. "Oh no. You can't—Oh. Can't say that to you. Not you." He frowns and then shivers, eyes falling closed again. "Please, don't look at me. Never look at me again."
Jean waits for more vomit but none comes. Neither does anything of sense fall past Jeremy's lips. All Jean gets is ragged breaths and the remaining of such a pitiful frown.
It doesn't look right on Jeremy's face. Jean doesn't like it one bit. It's an awful thing and he'd like it gone. Now.
Jean walks further into the bathroom, thinking of every smile Jeremy has given him, a little mad at how easily those memories come, how crystal clear and vibrant they are. He wasn't entirely aware he was collecting those smiles, but he was, maybe because Jeremy gave them away so carelessly but also with such gravity.
Jeremy taps his left thumb against each finger on his hand then moves to the right, tapping that thumb against his pointer finger and thinking to himself, Jeremy's smile.
He has no idea if he can manage to get such a thing right now, but the sight of such pain on Jeremy's face, a smile no where in sight, is such a reprehensible thing that he must try.
"Jeremy," Jean says again as he crouches down beside Jeremy's crumpled form.
Jeremy moans. Peeks up at Jean with one eye, brown rippling through gold, both colors dim. Brings up a hand to wave Jean off, his fingers trembling in the air and brushing over Jean's collarbone through his sleep shirt. "Please," Jeremy whispers, "leave me. Go on. Leave me to m—my doomed fate."
"That's a little dramatic," Jean says.
A whine catapults out of Jeremy. It's followed by the shaky roll of Jeremy's stomach and then another wave of puking.
"I said a little," Jean adds with as much softness and contrition as he can.
"Thanks," Jeremy spits out. "Feel much better now. Oh wait—" He vomits again. Tears leak past the wet barrier of his lashes and slip down his cheeks, transparent, sticky tracks that make his skin appear so very red and splotchy.
"I'm sorry," Jeremy then sighs, forlorn as if he has committed a terrible act of transgression against Jean.
Helplessly, Jean is…fond. It flutters in his chest and at the hollow of his throat like a heartbeat. Sticks to his mouth and tries to contort it into a shape he would much rather see on Jeremy's face than his own.
Jean censures it as best he can, though the twitch of the corner of his mouth is just enough for him to feel it.
Jeremy blinks at him, brown eyes wet wet wet like sodden earth and burning with a brightness that could scar Jean if he let it.
"Jean," Jeremy cries, hand once again reaching out, weak fingers grazing over Jean's chin. "Why are you smiling? Why are you enjoying this?" He sniffles and pouts, like a child.
Oh, that fondness in him grows. Fuck.
Jean doesn't answer Jeremy, not trusting himself to. Instead he grabs hold of Jeremy's fingers to take them off his chin. He keeps them. Holds them, because Jeremy looks like he could really use something other than the toilet to keep him somewhat upright.
He glances into the toilet and wrinkles his nose. The sight plus the smell is quite revolting.
"Well, this won't do," he muses, chin jerking toward the toilet when Jeremy makes a questioning face. "You can't successfully captain our team if you're puking chunks all over the court."
"Jean," Jeremy whines. His voice is cracked, roughening the syllable of Jean's name. It sends a shudder down Jean's spine. "How can you—At a time like this? Please."
"I'm being honest. You like me best like that, yes?"
"Not right now."
"And," Jean continues, ignoring him, "this just means I am going to have to take care of you. Get you better. Otherwise our team is fucked."
Jeremy pouts again, but Jean can tell it is more forced than genuine. "You'd be okay without me," he mutters.
"Perhaps," Jean agrees with a shrug. "But I don't want to. Be without you."
Jeremy takes this as someone would take a vicious blow. He rears back weakly, blinking rapidly, breaths coming on harder, the shine of his eyes as brilliant as the pink painted on his cheeks and sweeping over his throat down to his chest.
Jean eyes the color, following its path along Jeremy's skin, which is a little paler now than usual, making the pink a stark, riot of a thing. It seems to beat and writhe and pound like a pulse, dropping down and spreading over Jeremy's sternum, visible due to his loose collar.
"Oh," Jeremy breaths. His fingers tighten around Jean's even as they shake.
Jean's heart is in his throat, lodged against his windpipe and stuck. He tries to swallow it back down. Coughs. Looks away from Jeremy only to look right back at him again a second later. "On the court," he adds, too late. "Of course."
A pause. "Of course," Jeremy repeats.
"But also—" Jean doesn't finish, can't.
Jeremy smiles. It is a weak thing. Bare and small. Lazy almost, as if Jeremy doesn't have much energy to maintain it. But it is there. For Jean. Because of Jean.
Jean taps his fingers together. Taps twice when he gets to Jeremy's smile.
Goosebumps, not at all chilling or awakening because of imminent threat, pop up along Jean's skin as Jeremy taps his own fingers against Jean's then drags his thumb across the center of Jean's palm.
Breath is stolen from Jean. He fights to get it back.
Jeremy pukes.
He turns his head just in time for the toilet to catch it. His hand falls out of Jean's, coming up with the other to the toilet seat so he can brace himself as an awful wave of vomiting descends upon him.
Jean aches so badly, sore like Jeremy must be.
He shuffles closer on his knees, uncaring of the cold, hard bite of the floor. The hand that Jeremy had to discard hovers over Jeremy's trembling back, right above the wicked curl of his vulnerable spine.
"Can I?" Jean asks.
Jeremy doesn't open his eyes or ask what Jean means. All he does, amidst the retching and gagging, is whisper, "Please."
Jean lays his hand on Jeremy's back, flat and gentle. A tremor is there, buried in his bones, mimicking the restless shaking that Jeremy can't seem to discard as he hurls his guts into the toilet. Jean ignores it in himself. Starts rubbing circles on Jeremy's back, small at first and then gradually increasing their size until his palm is caressing over the breadth that stretches from Jeremy's shoulder blades to just above the base of his spine.
Jean rubs and traces the circles for an indeterminable amount of time while Jeremy pukes and whines in pain. Another stopping point comes, allowing Jeremy to collapse against the toilet, his damp, pale face once again flush with the porcelain, his breathing choppy and ragged.
"Is this helping?" Jean asks, not pausing his caresses in the slightest.
"I don't know," Jeremy answers. Then he gags and spits bile into the toilet.
Jean ceases his movements, hand coming to a stop over the knobs of Jeremy's spine where they just barely poke through his soaked shirt.
Jeremy whimpers. "Don't stop."
Jean continues, picking the circles back up as if he never quit.
A sigh tumbles out of Jeremy, soft and wet. A tiny thing that would have gone unnoticed were Jean not so attuned to every sound and movement Jeremy makes.
He eyes the harsh, white clench of Jeremy's knuckles, the quivering of his muscles, the working of his throat as he breathes heavily through more nausea, the pain etched so severely onto his face and making him appear somehow both younger and older than he is.
"What did this to you?" There's a bite in Jean's tone. He despises this helplessness, this inability to do anything other than pitifully try to comfort Jeremy with a touch that is unpracticed at such a thing. He wants to fight. Dig his nails into something and make it bleed for hurting Jeremy, for erasing his smile.
Jeremy opens and closes his mouth, some kind of noise rumbling in his throat but not quite making it to his tongue. He smacks his lips. Scrunches his nose. Presses back into Jean's hand like it's the only thing keeping him here.
"Food," Jeremy eventually says, sounding so very weary, as if saying the word costs him. "Tried new place. Thought the meat looked funny. Grey. Meat shouldn't be grey." He shudders and gags some more.
"Then why would you eat it?" Jean asks, genuinely perplexed even as he is devising ways of getting the name of the place out of Jeremy so he can make sure he never goes there again and maybe also so he can stop by and strangle the cook with his bare hands.
Jeremy shrugs pathetically. "Hungry."
Jean presses his thumb in between two of Jeremy's vertebrae and sighs.
Eventually Jean rearranges himself to that he is sitting on the bathroom floor and not kneeling on it. His knees ache, far too warm and sore. It's an unpleasant sensation, one he's endured far too many times for his liking, pushed down onto hard ground in forced supplication, but bearing it for Jeremy's sake isn't so bad of a thing.
Jean tries to rub the ache out of his knees with his free hand while keeping the other on Jeremy, rubbing his back again and again until the dampness of Jeremy's shirt has transferred to his skin and the soft material of it feels rougher than it actually is.
They sit together for a little while, Jeremy's head either in the toilet bowl or resting on the rim. The time between his puking spells gets longer and longer. His trembling begins to dissipate a little. Hurt is still etched on his face, but it's more of an echo now than a bright sensation.
Throughout it all, Jean traces out those circles and Jeremy moves with them, swaying a bit back and forth as if he is attached to a string that Jean has control over.
"I think," Jeremy says, quiet and hesitant as if afraid of disturbing something, "that maybe it's over."
Jean hums in question and acknowledgment.
Jeremy nods a little, breath stuttering. "Yeah. 'M good."
"Okay." Jean sweeps a long line up and down the length of Jeremy's spine then abandons his back so he can push himself up to his feet. "Stay right there," he orders.
Jeremy gives him a thumbs up.
Jean leans down to brush hair out of Jeremy's eyes then hobbles over to the sink. He gets a washcloth out of the cabinet and gets it wet with warm water. When he rings it out, water droplets plink against the bottom of the sink, the sound harsh and loud in the steady quiet they have built up around them.
He goes back to Jeremy, crouches down, then tucks his fingers underneath Jeremy's cheek to guide him up. Jeremy goes, easy as anything. His eyes blink open, bleary and far away, but they focus on Jean almost immediately.
Jean looks at Jeremy and lets Jeremy look at him as he uses the washcloth to wipe at Jeremy's face: cheeks, mouth, chin, then neck. Most of his vomit ended up in the toilet thankfully, but stray bits of his bile, spit, and tears have stuck to his skin. Jean knows how gross that feels, how degrading, how it makes you feel small and helpless. He would keep Jeremy from that if he can.
When he's done, he folds the washcloth so the clean side is facing outward, then presses it to the back of Jeremy's neck. Jeremy flinches a little, the cloth now cool, no doubt especially so against the heat of Jeremy's nape. Jean holds him close and still, his palm a grounding point at Jeremy's cheek.
Jeremy sighs and relaxes, unfurling as if he is in bloom. His head rolls back a bit toward the cloth held fast against his neck by Jean's hand and then he comes forward again, turning to the side to nuzzle Jean's wrist.
He might possibly be the lightest and most beautiful thing Jean has ever held.
Such a thought doesn't feel so terrible, so risky in this moment, encased as they are in this small room, tucked away from the world in a time and place where nothing is expected of them. Jean knows it won't last. He revels in it anyway.
Jean brushes a thumb against the warm swell of Jeremy's cheek and hopes the crack in his voice isn't too discernible when he asks, "Can you stand?"
Jeremy frowns and blinks at him. Then he takes a deep breath and nods. "Yeah. 'Course."
Jean discards the cloth on the counter next to him and stands up again, slower this time, in pace with Jeremy who wobbles a little but manages to hold himself up.
"Brush your teeth. I'll bring you some new clothes."
Jeremy huffs and waves him off, one palm braced now against the counter, the corner held in his palm. "S'okay. I can—I'm okay. Can take it from here." He aims a smile at Jean, the brightness of it so forced that Jean bristles and frowns.
"Brush your teeth. I'll bring you some new clothes," Jean repeats. "And don't bother smiling if you don't mean it. Not with me."
He turns on his heel, uninterested in Jeremy's reply, and hurries to his room where Jeremy always stashes his bag on the rare nights he gets to stay. He's managed a few weekends every now and then, though never on school nights. His mother's favor apparently only stretches so far even now.
Jean doesn't understand how someone can be so idiotic as to not see Jeremy's worth, his goodness, his trustworthiness. Putting someone like Jeremy in a cage is unimaginable, an act awful enough that Jean can't believe any redemption is possible. Maybe one day though, Jeremy will open that cage himself and leave it.
Jean will be here, either way.
The reality of that, the surety of permanence that required no second thought, makes his stomach flip and his heart race and his breath rattle in his lungs.
Jean shoves it all away and digs out a pair of sweatpants from Jeremy's bag. There's not another sleep shirt though, so Jean grabs one of his own, blue and soft, his favorite.
When Jean gets back to the bathroom, he finds Jeremy now hunched over the sink with his head under the faucet. He sucks a bit of water in his mouth and spits it out in intervals. His toothbrush is lying on the counter, abandoned in a small puddle. The curling ends of Jeremy's hair, a little lighter than the roots now which are due for a touch up that Jean both dreads and anticipates, stick to his temple, soaked and darker because of the water.
Jean clucks his tongue and steps forward, curling his fingers into Jeremy's collar to yank him away from the sink.
Jeremy sputters a bit but allows himself to be moved, grinning faintly at Jean as he blinks through the water in his eyes.
"I just cleaned you up," Jean mutters in complaint. He runs the back of his knuckles over Jeremy's cheek, catching some droplets before they can fall down his neck and soak the collar of his shirt.
A breath hitches in Jeremy's chest. "It made me feel better. Was refreshing."
Jean hums and yanks the hand towel off its rack then proceeds to drag it over Jeremy's drenched face.
Jeremy laughs though it's pained and certainly weaker than usual.
He's brighter once Jean removes the towel, a little more colorful and soft instead of pale and crunched with hurt.
Jean clenches his hand into a fist to keep from touching Jeremy's cheek again. He sets the spare clothes on the counter and jerks his chin toward them.
Jeremy sighs but obeys the silent command. He undresses clumsily, knocking his hip against the counter and getting his head stuck in his t-shirt. He redresses even more clumsily and Jean truly wonders how such lack of coordination can exist in someone so usually graceful, someone who can tear across an Exy court with precision and ease. It's rather disturbing.
Disturbing enough that Jean can focus on that more than the flashes of Jeremy's skin, the movement of his muscles and tendons, the flex of the bones in his wrists.
Once he is finished Jeremy's head falls back with a sigh and he slumps against the counter.
He looks so very tired.
"Come," Jean says with a tug to Jeremy's elbow. He pulls and guides Jeremy out of the bathroom and toward his bedroom.
"Where—" Jeremy cuts himself off as he stumbles. Jean pulls him closer. It steadies Jeremy. "Hey, no, s'fine. I'm staying on the couch."
"No."
"No?"
"Did the food poisoning affect your hearing? Or your mental capacity?"
He can't see it, but he knows Jeremy is frowning.
"No," Jeremy grumbles.
"Hmm," Jean replies, biting down hard enough on a smile that his teeth grind and ache.
At the door to this room Jean slows down and nudges Jeremy inside. "This is closer to the bathroom. And you should be—" he trails off, unsure of how to word this, if he should word it in any way at all, but restraint doesn't come so easily these days, especially at night, especially when he is alone with Jeremy. "You should be comfortable."
Jeremy looks at him, bare and searching. Jean endures it, willing to be seen.
"The couch is plenty comfortable to me," Jeremy points out.
Jean doesn't know if Jeremy is trying to provide himself or Jean with an out but he appreciates it as much as he loathes it. "Not as comfortable as my bed."
It's the truth and Jean puts no other meaning or intent behind the words but they sound…weighted.
Jeremy's lashes flutter and pink blooms over his cheeks and freckled nose.
"And," Jean adds, stepping forward so he can place a finger on Jeremy's sternum and poke him again and again until he walks backward far enough that the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, "I can't very well fit on the couch with you. Not stretched out. The floor is not an option because I don't feel like it. As your partner I go through this with you. So—" he raises an eyebrow and pokes Jeremy once more, just as lightly as all his other touches, but Jeremy crumbles beneath it and falls onto the bed.
"Okay," Jeremy whispers, smiling fully for the first time since Jean woke up. It brightens the room as if it is the sun. It is the sun.
Jean waits for Jeremy to get situated and settled in the bed before he joins. Tightness pulls at his chest, but it fades as quickly as it appeared, as if there is no room for it, no room for memories or panic, not when their bodies are side by side on this bed. Held within sheets. Warm.
Jeremy twists and turns restlessly as if he can't actually get comfortable or doesn't know where to place himself.
The constant shifting is bearable for about a minute. "I'm going to the one nauseous and puking if you keep this up," Jean grumbles.
"Sorry," Jeremy whispers. He lays flat on his back, still for a few seconds, then moves again.
Jean reaches out, a palm to Jeremy's hip. It's not slender or curved, a bit bulky actually, but Jean can feel the heat of his skin and the protrusion of bone. He'd like to drag his fingers over it, his nails, maybe his teeth.
He hiccups out a pathetic sound and tugs Jeremy onto his side, facing Jean, before letting go of Jeremy's hip.
Jeremy releases a heavy breath that smells like mint. His expression is just barely visible thanks to the bathroom light bleeding in through Jean's cracked door. Jean debates getting up to turn it off, disliking the way it illuminates into his room and highlights the open door, but—He likes seeing Jeremy.
He watches Jeremy blink slowly, bite his lip, fold his arms up in between them. He watches as Jeremy becomes a little more settled and relaxed, his body sinking into Jean's mattress.
"My stomach hurts," Jeremy says quietly, like it's a secret.
"I imagine so," Jean murmurs. "Sleep. You'll feel better."
"Can't."
"You haven't tried yet."
"Can't," Jeremy stubbornly insists, brow furrowed and mouth full with a pout.
Jean realizes he might have to kiss any possibility of rest goodbye.
He shuffles a little closer to Jeremy, mindful of not touching him too much, head a little dizzy and blood rushing from the saturated scent of Jeremy, heavier than what has long faded from the hoodie Jeremy loaned him.
"Close your eyes," Jean urges.
Jeremy opens them wide. They are so dark like this, almost black but still full of more color than any darkness Jean has experienced.
"No, the other way."
A small laugh escapes Jeremy. "Okay, okay." He closes his eyes, the curl of his lashes so very decadent and delicate this close up.
Jean reaches out for Jeremy's face with his hand, then pauses. "Can I?" he asks.
Again, without looking or questioning, Jeremy says, so easily, "Yes."
No one has ever trusted Jean like this. He's never wanted to be trusted like this. But—
Jeremy is impossibility wrapped up in sunshine, and his warmth is far too good of a lure.
Jean curls his thumb, pinky, and ring finger in towards his palm, leaving his index and middle finger outstretched. He presses both in between Jeremy's brows then he slowly slides them over the right one before doing the same to the left.
Jean traces over Jeremy's eyebrows, again and again. His touch is soft, gentle. A whisper of a thing. A flimsy, light expression of what he wants.
Jeremy sucked in a sharp breath at the first touch of Jean's fingers, surprised perhaps despite his consent, but quickly he goes lax beneath Jean's coaxing. Tension disappears. His body becomes a heavier weight. He sighs, quiet and happy. The corner of his mouth ticks up a bit, languidly poking into his cheek.
He is still and relaxed and wonderful beneath Jean's ministrations. His brow is warm, skin a little clammy, but to Jean it is the best thing he has ever dared to touch.
Jean looks and looks and looks, wide-eyed in the face of Jeremy, his vulnerability and sweetness, his softening under Jean's touch as if it is something good to have.
Perhaps—
Perhaps Jean can have something too. This. Perhaps he can have with his eyes what he can't any other way.
So, he keeps looking, feeling broken open and exposed as if he is the one being taken care of in this moment, and he keeps looking still even when Jeremy opens his eyes in thin slits.
He doesn't seem surprised to find Jean watching him, so Jean keeps doing it. Eyes following the repetitive movement of his fingers, dipping down every now and then to meet Jeremy's sheer gaze and less often than that going further to stare quickly at the rosebud of Jeremy's mouth.
"S'nice," Jeremy murmurs, eyes fluttering closed once more.
Jean increases the pressure ever so slightly. Jeremy hums in pleasure.
"I used to do this for my sister," Jean says, unable to stop himself. "When she couldn't sleep."
Jeremy's eyebrows twitch. Everything in Jean clenches.
"Oh," Jeremy breathes. Then, "That's nice."
As if it is simple. As if there is nothing more. Jeremy doesn't ask or push. He doesn't dig, even though he has every right to. More right than most. A right Jean has handed to him and doesn't care to take back. An odd thing that, but also it is kind of…freeing.
Jean is addicted to it.
The fingers of his free hand close around the cross at his throat and he prays, something he can't ever remember doing before, not this sincerely, not while believing it might mean anything or that he might deserve it. He prays to be able to keep this.
"Noah," Jeremy says, voice startling and rough even in its sleepiness, "had trouble sleeping. I used to—" but he stops there and doesn't finish.
"It's okay," Jean assures. He twists his wrist and brushes his thumb across Jeremy's brow, something more intimate about it for some reason.
Jeremy's nose wrinkles. His eyes stay closed. "No. It's not."
"It's not," Jeremy allows and agrees. He knows this pain, its weight and how it sours. The loss is different, but still, a bit the same. "But I don't mind."
He hopes Jeremy understands. Jean doesn't mind that Jeremy isn't always okay, that he hurts, that he carries this perceived failure on his shoulders. Jean would rather it wasn't there, would take it off Jeremy and put it on himself if he could, but, to be equal, to actually be Jeremy's partner, a good partner, Jean supposes he needs not to take the weight fully but to be a brace for Jeremy, help him stand when he buckles.
Jean doesn't quite know how to be a safe place to fall but he finds himself wanting to try.
Jeremy smiles then blindly places a hand on Jean's chest, right at the base of his throat, the round bottom of his palm resting on the top of Jean's sternum. Fingers curl into the collar of Jean's shirt, skin touching skin. "You're a good one, Jean Moreau," Jeremy says softly in French, imperfect but good enough that his point gets across.
Jean lets out a shaky breath. Such a statement in his language strips him bare. He's not sure if he likes it or not. But Jeremy says it like it is fact.
Jean Moreau. Good.
Seems a faulty equation to Jean. He hungers for its truth all the same.
Jean traces Jeremy's eyebrows until he falls asleep and keeps it up for a bit longer after that until his own eyes and body become heavy and drowsy enough that he has to stop.
Jeremy's hand stays on Jean's chest, his fingers tucked inside Jean's shirt. Jean's hand falls away from Jeremy's face to land on his hip. He keeps it there this time.
4.
Jean isn't sure what is worse, the sharp-edged pain in his bruised ribs and the raw scrape on his cheek or the incessant fussing Laila, Cat, and Jeremy have been performing since the end of the game.
Actually, no, he knows. The fussing is worse.
The pain can be ignored. It's familiar to him as breathing and extremely mild compared to everything else that's been done to him. The concerned fussing of his friends however is much harder to ignore and avoid.
Laila, Cat, and Jeremy have been stuck to his side since Cat had to help haul him up off the ground from where he had been knocked down seconds before the game ended and the Trojans secured their victory.
Jean was a bit winded at the time, wincing from where his opponent's racket had caught him in the ribs and then trailed upward to graze over his cheek, but more than anything, he was surprised the other player, whose name he didn't bother to learn because Jean knew well before the game that he wasn't as good as anyone on Jean's team, had it in him to take Jean out like that.
Though, he had been after Jeremy not Jean.
Jean was able to read it plain as day, every inch of his body primed for a hit that Jean knew from experience on both sides would topple Jeremy to the ground and possibly injure him badly enough to get him benched for a few weeks. A new but increasingly familiar fury invaded Jean then. So, he intercepted. Got in between them. Offered himself in Jeremy's place, allowing his captain to make their final goal.
The speed and surprise of Jean's interference meant that the hit wasn't as bad as it could have been, lacking the force needed to do much damage. But it was enough to throw him to the ground and leave him sore and stinging.
Cat and Laila hauled ass to his side. Cat immediately checked over Jean with her dark, scrutinizing eyes and gentle hands and then helped him up while Laila laid into the guy who hit Jean. Seconds later, Jeremy joined in.
He was a vision. Furious and righteous and golden. His words weren't cruel, but they were flat and cold. He seemed to grow bigger, large and dominating as he kept himself between the mouthy jerk and Jean, hands clenched into fists as if he was willing to fight.
Jean hadn't wanted him to. But a sick part of him was a bit thrilled. Pleased even. And he became even more so when Jeremy easily talked the guy down and deescalated the situation, turning his back on the other player as if he wasn't worth Jeremy's time.
But Jean wasn't greeted with Jeremy's smile. No, Jeremy remained tense, his mouth a thin line. His eyes were dark and far away, similar to how he gets when he's forced to go home for several days on end, but different. Darker. He looked like he didn't want to turn around. Like maybe he actually was thinking about fighting after all.
Jean was discomforted by that. Whether that was because he couldn't bear thinking about Jeremy being involved in such violence and possibly getting hurt or because he knew how it would weigh on Jeremy, that decision to fold beneath his anger and discard the kindness he carries like a weapon and a lifeline.
Either way, Jean had to do something. He disentangled himself from Cat's grip and bypassed Laila to get to Jeremy. His fingers circled themselves around Jeremy's wrists. He held Jeremy still and released one wrist only to grab Jeremy's chin between forefinger and thumb.
"You're here with me, yes?" Jean asked, tightening his grip on Jeremy's chin and wrist. "I'm fine, but I need you here."
Jeremy's eyes cleared and his shoulders dropped. He let out a shaky breath and fell forward to rest his forehead against Jean's. Jean took him.
"I'm here," Jeremy murmured. And that was that.
They got off the field and Rhemann insisted on Jean being checked out. He endured it, if only to get rid of the shining worry on the coach's face.
Once he was released, the scrape on his cheek cleaned and his slightly bruised ribs wrapped, stern instructions given to him to ice the bruising when he got home, Jeremy, Laila, and Cat were waiting for him.
They created a sort of semi-circle around him as they walked to the bus. A barrier. A shield. A fucking guard wall. Jean knew they wouldn't let anything through.
He hated the relief it gave him. Partly because he was fine and had no true fear that was the worth the bother of feeling, but also because it was proof of how much he trusted them, how much he could rely on them. Mostly, he hated how he didn't really hate it at all.
Jean made sure to complain plenty on that short walk and while on the bus and while the four of them finally got to the apartment and made their way inside.
Night has fallen, velvet dark and humid, by the time the door closes behind the four of them.
Jean takes a moment to lean against the door. Tired, so very tired.
This concern has been shown to him pretty much from day one but it's still not an easy thing to bear.
His friends have learned to straddle the line between caring and suffocating, but instances like this make it blur a bit.
Cat hasn't stopped touching him since they got on the bus. A hand on his back. Fingers circling his wrist. A kiss to his temple. An arm around his shoulders. Laila and Jeremy too have been attentive, hovering nearby like they are determined to not let their shield break until they are convinced of Jean's safety.
Jeremy kept a hand braced against Jean's ribs, so very light and careful, a pressure that helped him breathe. Laila picked dirt out of Jean's hair and tucked a few of the longer, wayward strands behind his ears.
Even now, all three of them are steadfast. Cat is at his side, her shoulder braced against the door, her forehead resting on Jean's shoulder. Jeremy is on his other side, the one where his bruised ribs are located, hand hovering over where Jean hurts, eyes trained on Jean's and communicating so much that Jean can't decipher it all.
Laila is rummaging around in the freezer, mumbling to herself as she searches for an ice pack. She peeks over her shoulder every few seconds, like she thinks she needs to keep an eye on Jean.
Jean is warmed by it all. Crisp and toasted. But also, he is—He doesn't know. It's a lot, being on the receiving end of all this. The air he breathes scrapes awfully against the sensitive flesh of his lungs.
"I am fine," he manages to grumble. "I do not need all this." He waves a hand around, gesturing between the three of them and wondering how his scowl can feel both genuine and insincere at the same time.
"Well, you're getting it," Laila huffs. "Aha! Found you, you little bastard." She lifts the ice pack up into the air, victorious.
Cat chirps against his shoulder and gently ushers him forward.
Jean, tired, lets her.
He stumbles toward the couch, bending down to scratch Jabberwocky's head which makes the dog huff and rumble, dark eyes looking up at Jean and shining before he closes them again and goes back to sleeping.
Jean huffs back at him then collapses down onto the couch, hissing a bit and clutching at his sore side.
Jeremy makes a noise of displeasure. Jean ignores him.
Laila weaves herself around the small island in the kitchen, graceful in her movements as ever, the ice pack clutched in her hand. The slant of her mouth is determined, and Jean knows there will be no dissuading her.
He tries anyway. "Unnecessary," he complains.
Laila scoffs. "You're unnecessary."
Jean frowns over at her.
Her face twists and she rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean. And look, this is how it goes, okay? You're our friend, we love you, we take care of you. That's how this whole thing works."
The muscles in Jean's chest clench. This is never how anything has worked. Not for him. It was not the way of his world, but those ways have changed so much and so abruptly in the past few months. Whether he will ever truly adjust, he has no idea.
He braces himself, half expecting Laila to lodge herself beside him and force him to let her take care of his bruised side in a way that is always carefully not actually forceful even with the power of her insistence, a strange quality he doesn't understand but appreciates as much as it aggravates him. But that's not what she does.
Laila stops at Jeremy's side. Jeremy, who is a couple feet away from Jean, still standing, loitering, looking at Jean. The thin thread of darkness in his eyes Jean caught on the field, the echoes of the fierce anger and protectiveness that seemed to nearly unravel Jeremy, is present.
Jean shudders.
Laila hands the ice pack over to Jeremy. He takes it from her as if he was expecting it, even though he has yet to look away from Jean, but he does break their gaze, his intensity staying behind even as his eyes leave, and he shares a look with Laila, one that is loaded, one full of a communication only the two of them understand.
There's a pause and then Laila nudges Jeremy's elbow. Jeremy nods. His eyes fall back on Jean.
Then he's erasing those two feet, suddenly before Jean, his legs placed in between the spread of Jean's. Jeremy bends his knees and takes hold of Jean's hand, firm. "Come. With me."
Jean goes with him.
Jeremy takes him to the bathroom and only then releases Jean's hand to nudge Jean's hip bone with the curl of his knuckles, gently pushing him toward the counter. Jean moves where directed, bracing his hands on the counter's edge and hopping up onto it, knowing that's what Jeremy wants.
Once he does so, Jeremy hesitates. He stays in the doorway, looking at Jean, still just looking, eyes dragging from Jean's head to his feet and then back again. Then he tilts his head and after a brief second of doing nothing, he steps fully into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
"Take good care of him, Jeremy! We will critique your performance!" Cat's wild laughter follows her words, knocking against the door.
Jeremy sighs and hangs his head back between his shoulders, a wry twist curling his mouth.
Jean just sits. Waits. Thrums with something he can't name.
Patience works for him in the end, or damns him. Jeremy comes forward, hips between Jean's spread knees. He clutches hard at the ice pack with one hand while the other comes forward, fingers poking at and fiddling with the hem of Jean's t-shirt, not once touching the skin beneath.
"Can I—This okay?" Jeremy asks. He seems better now that he's gotten Jean alone. A little more settled. Less dark. More golden and calm and steady. Maybe that should frighten Jean, but it doesn't.
Jean shrugs, not allowing himself to look at Jeremy fully.
"Jean," Jeremy says, firm like his touch, gentle like the rest of him. He abandons Jean's shirt and grabs Jean's chin, thumb pressing down just below Jean's bottom lip. "Look at me."
Jean does.
Jeremy was unfairly good looking in his fury, advancing on his opponent, seemingly ready to fight for Jean at a moment's notice, but like this, in this small space away from everyone else, lit up by fluorescent lighting that makes his blond hair shine like a crown, so incredibly tender as he asks for permission, he is devastatingly beautiful.
Not noticing that would be impossible. Not noticing that would be better. Though, Jean finds himself fine with it, uncaring if he gets hurt for it.
"I could do it myself," Jean says, copying the tone of innocent insistence Laila always manages to successfully pull off. Perhaps he manages it well enough, but—
He doesn't pull away. He doesn't reach for the ice pack. He doesn't want Jeremy to go anywhere.
He doesn't want to be alone.
"You could," Jeremy allows, a throwaway thing like it hasn't crossed his mind that Jean might think Jeremy doubts his capability. He would be right. "But you wouldn't take as good care of yourself as me."
Jean supposes that is right as well. Still, he doesn't have to admit it.
"Is it okay?" Jeremy asks again. His thumbnail brushes ever so slightly along the line of Jean's bottom lip. The ice pack gets situated between them, held out in the palm of Jeremy's open hand.
"Of course, Jeremy," Jean says, admitting something else he shouldn't. "It's you."
Such stark honesty, such a raw admittance, is almost worth it for the way it makes Jeremy's lashes flutter and how it lightens his eyes and darkens his cheeks and shapes his mouth into something that is far too pleasant.
Jeremy clears his throat and shuffles closer. He lets go of Jean's chin but maintains eye contact, looking looking looking as his fingers fall to the hem of Jean's shirt once again. Jeremy is always looking. Always wanting Jean to look back. He is attentive, very attentive, but never expectant. It's…nice. Freeing.
Jean's shirt slides up up up, Jeremy's soft fingers catching against skin as they push. Jean shivers, his ribs quaking with the movement, fluttering against Jeremy's touch. Light. Sweet. Unassuming and lacking any presumption other than completing his goal of taking care of Jean.
Continuing to breathe is a hard-fought thing, but Jean does it while white-knuckling the counter he is sat on.
Jeremy stops when he gets Jean's shirt pushed up to right below his armpit, the unnecessary wrapping covering Jean's ribs now bared. Jeremy's thumb brushes over the edge, warm against skin, warm through the bandage.
A little hurt noise bubbles up in Jeremy's chest, sounding thin and bitten down.
Jean takes the edge of his shirt between his own fingers so he can hold it up and Jeremy can let go.
"I am fine," Jean says for the dozenth time, a little less perturbed about it now with Jeremy looking so raw. Raw as Jean felt when he realized that oaf of a player was after Jeremy. "All of you are overreacting." He's not convinced gentleness is a strong suit of his, but he gives it his best shot, infusing his words with as little bite as possible because Jeremy looks one wrong word away from falling to his knees.
Jeremy scoffs. One hand falls to brace Jean's hip as he uses the other to press the ice pack to Jean's ribs right over where he is bruised, where the skin is hot and throbbing, as if it only took one look for him to remember exactly where the hurt lies beneath the thin, wide bandage wrapped around Jean's torso.
"You're hurt," Jeremy says. "That's not fine."
There is a lot Jean could say to that. Being hurt is nothing. Nothing other than what he's always known. Nothing less than he deserves. At least…before all this. Before Jeremy. Before Cat and Laila and this court of sunshine and smiles and fun.
Jean isn't sure about what he deserves anymore, not when his world has been uplifted and rearranged so much, but he doesn't necessarily want it. To be hurt. He doesn't think he ever did. Expected it, yes. Wanted it, no.
None of that leaves him with a suitable response though, so Jean bites back all the things he could say and just stays still, allowing Jeremy to do this.
After several minutes of silence, once the pain in Jean's side isn't bleating but dull, Jeremy moves on. He sets the now warm ice pack on the counter next to Jean and tugs Jean's shirt back down. Then he takes hold of Jean's face, turning it to the side so he can expect the scrape there, just below the three inked on Jean's cheek.
Jeremy frowns throughout his inspection. His fingers move and tuck themselves under Jean's jaw, strong, and his thumb hovers over Jean's cheek with a heated weight before it makes contact.
Jean was ready and braced for the sting that would come upon Jeremy touching the scrape, but he never feels it.
Instead, Jeremy's thumb brushes above the raw skin, tracing over the number there, as if it is a hurt he feels he can touch.
Jean flinches, fingers twisting in his lap roughly enough that his knuckles bark in pain.
Jeremy drops his hand, face closing off in a way Jean rarely sees when they are alone.
Jean doesn't like it. He releases his punishing grip on himself and slides two of his fingers through one of Jeremy's belt loops. Tugs once, twice. "I've endured far worse," he says.
"I know," Jeremy replies. "Trust me, I know." He coughs out something that could be considered a laugh if only there were any mirth in it. "And I fucking hate it. But this time…it was because of me."
"No, it was for you," Jean corrects.
Jeremy grimaces. "That…doesn't make it any better, Jean."
Jean blows out a breath. Strangles Jeremy's belt loop between his fingers. Nudges Jeremy's knee with his heel. Knocks his knuckles under Jeremy's jaw to bring him out of the stupid shame-faced, bowing position he has forced his head into.
Touch, touch, touch. It's never made anything better before. But it does now.
"I don't care," Jean declares, chest burning with something he can actually give into, this protectiveness overtaking him so much he aches from it, a pleasant ache, a fierce ache. "I don't care if you don't like it and I don't care if it bothers you. I will put myself between you and whoever, whatever, is coming for you. I am your partner. I am your shield. On and off the court."
Jeremy inhales, sharp. He ducks his head, lashes fluttering, flecks of gold trailing across Jean's vision, and takes hold of Jean, both hands on his waist, desperate, as if Jean grounds him, as if he needs him.
"And what about you, huh? I'm not gonna let you just be my protective barrier. Won't let you take every hit for me."
"You're impossible," Jean complains in French.
"Am not," Jeremy mutters back.
Ridiculously, Jean wants to smile. He does not.
"It is not—" Jean pauses, thinking over his words and how much he wants to reveal. "A—Whatever you call it. Two-way street. No, one way street." He exhales in frustration, forceful enough that his ribs protest.
Jeremy's smile shines in his periphery. Jean yanks at Jeremy's belt loop until his thighs collide with the edge of the counter between Jean's legs.
"You're my captain. I'm your partner. We—You protect me, I protect you. That's how I want it. That is how it's been, hasn't it? Don't start complaining now."
Oh, how golden Jeremy becomes at that. How pink. Brightening up and shining on Jean like he is part of a sunrise. It is overwhelming, enough so that Jean has to squint and carefully control his breathing and his, well, everything.
"I protect you?" Jeremy asks, pleased.
"There is another part of that equation. I know you heard it."
Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, okay. I heard you. I get it."
Jean allows himself to grin widely and pats Jeremy on the cheek. "Satisfied now, then?"
"Somewhat," Jeremy murmurs, tone low, thumbs tapping over Jean's clothed hip bones, eyes heavy as they brush across Jean from his mouth down to where Jeremy holds him then to where Jean is pulling at his jeans hard enough that the waistband of his underwear is revealed.
Jean's mouth is painfully dry. The rest of him is…flushed. Humming. Sticky with the pound of his blood and this desire he is losing control of.
Jeremy slides one hand down to Jean's knee and the other up to his bruised ribs. Then he leans in in in, close enough that Jean can see every freckle and count each of those golden eyelashes given enough time.
But there is no time, not when Jeremy is taking up space Jean is all too happy to give and angling his face, his nose separated from Jean's by mere inches, the flutter of his eyelashes heavy, his breathing loud and rushed and weighted, breaking out across Jean's mouth and chin.
No one has ever been so close to Jean and been like this. Slow and cautious and not taking anything and breathing like Jean is the danger. It shouldn't but it sends a sweet flutter through Jean's belly and awakens a hunger he's not sure can or should be satiated.
He sucks in a breath and trembles beneath Jeremy's sweetness.
Jeremy pulls back, lashes sliding over Jean's skin with a little tickle. "Sorry," he sputters, stepping back back back, leaving Jean cold. "I—" he huffs out a laugh and raises a hand to his mouth before quickly dropping it. "I just—I don't know why I, well." A wry grin twists itself onto his lips. "I, uh, like your smile."
Jean blinks at him.
Jeremy's eyes close like he is in pain. "Wow. Okay. Fuck. Heh. Why did I say that? No, you don't—Don't answer that. Sorry, I'm sorry—" He visibly flounders, stuttering out noises that aren't fully formed words and stumbling back from Jean farther.
His panic and retreat threaten to split Jean down the middle.
"Jeremy, stop."
Jeremy stops. Breathes deeply in and out. His eyes flick between Jean and the door, every bit of him tense and primed for flight, but he stays. He stays and looks like he is waiting for something.
It startles Jean to realize it looks like Jeremy is waiting to be punished, a familiar enough expression Jean has felt twist his own features.
"Come here," Jean says.
Jeremy blinks at that, apprehensive, but he obeys. He's not as close as he was when he—just seconds ago when he was in between Jean's legs and almost braced over him in a way that wasn't looming or threatening, but it's enough.
Jean takes Jeremy's hand and runs soothing fingers over Jeremy's knuckles.
Jeremy chokes. "Jean. I—I wasn't—"
"Hush," Jean says sternly. "Do not make me say I am fine again. I am quite tired of it."
It doesn't relieve Jeremy. He remains taut and still, as if afraid to move, but he does breathe a little easier and gradually relaxes within Jean's grip, nodding in acquiescence.
Jean is the one at fault here. Whatever happened here.
Perhaps he shouldn't have allowed such…whatever that was. Closeness. Intimacy. He has no idea.
But it's getting harder and harder these days to tell himself and Jeremy apart and not in the way he's used to where he is losing himself or stripped of any semblance of identity but in a way where he's finding parts of himself he didn't know existed and they fit so well with each part of Jeremy he discovers.
He has been letting himself pretend for too long now, not stopping when he swore he would, his minute of indulgence in thinking such things like this are possible having run out long ago.
Trouble is, he is finding it hard to care or to act any other way.
He'll damn himself for it later, right now he has to keep Jeremy from doing that very thing, because Jeremy is so good at punishing himself over any perceived wrong move or failure, no matter how small.
Well, Jean won't allow it. It's important to him. As important as anything can be.
How terrifying. How exhilarating.
"I appreciate your…help," Jean adds haltingly. "Your care." The admission is difficult to get out, ramming through barriers Jean has kept up for so long, but for Jeremy, he says it, this truth. For Jeremy.
Jeremy inhales a breath and then doesn't let it go. He holds it, tilts his head, and examines Jean so intently it makes Jean want to squirm. "Okay." A pause. "So w—you're good?"
Jean's cheek is warm and pulsing, but not with pain. He is once again, as has become habitual, terribly fond of Jeremy as he stumbles over himself, so determined to not be unkind or wrongly demanding. He has never felt so good while hurting before.
"Yes," Jean says. "I'm good."
Jeremy nods and releases a shaky breath. "Okay," he whispers again as he carefully disentangles his fingers from Jean's. He glances lightly over Jean, lingering and calculated, as if reassuring himself that Jean really is good, and then he turns toward the door after nodding again.
But Jean can't quite let him go.
He catches Jeremy's wrist, holds him in place. Jeremy stops easily and looks back over his shoulder, uncharacteristically shy. That shouldn't make Jean even warmer, fonder, blood rushing and sticky, and yet it does.
In French, Jean says, "Thank you, Jeremy."
Jeremy seems taken aback, as if that was the last thing he expected, but he deflates and smiles that smile Jean knew the exact dimensions of before he ever really knew Jeremy. Pink colors his cheeks and the hollow of his throat. His arm twitches, dislodging Jean's grip but only so Jeremy can latch his fingers onto Jean's and squeeze.
"Yeah, of course," Jeremy says softly, looking sort of shattered, almost heartbroken, but then that look is gone so quickly Jean isn't even sure it was there in the first place. Then, in French, with a much smaller, private, shaky smile, Jeremy says, "You're welcome."
5.
Something is wrong with Jeremy.
Jean is beginning to suspect that might nearly always be true. Jeremy has a depth to him, vast and wide, where so much is hidden. He has a complexity Jean did not expect to find when he first came here, a surprise that kept drawing Jean closer and closer.
Now he knows how sunshine can cover everything up, how it can blind you from truly seeing. Jeremy is adept at it, the brightness he wields to distract. It is genuine but it is also practiced, and Jean has slowly learned to tell the difference between the two.
Right now, it is practiced, hollow. And it has been like that for a few days. Ever since—Ever since Jean got hurt at their away game.
Jeremy hasn't avoided him or left Jean alone, but he's been distant in his own way. Wary and dark-eyed and more careful than usual. A subtle barrier placed between them.
He's barely touched Jean.
That shouldn't matter. Shouldn't be a factor. Jean shouldn't care. But it does and it is and Jean cares. Fuck, he cares.
And he wants to push Jeremy because of it. Not for physical contact because if Jeremy doesn't want it, if he'd rather give it to someone else, any other man who isn't Jean, then that's fine. It chews Jean up and makes something ugly and vicious eat at his belly but it's fine.
That doesn't mean he doesn't want to fight for an explanation though, because seeing how Jeremy has wilted more and more each day has strangled something in Jean but also stoked this protectiveness he can't get a handle on.
Unfortunately, Jeremy is a pro at side-stepping things. Wonderful at distraction. Superb at seeming fine.
Jean can see through it all of course. Each smile and throwaway comment and carefully planned errand or activity that keeps him away for a certain amount of time is flimsy and transparent. He thinks he has frustrated Jeremy more than once for not taking any of his bait, and that alone has given Jean some amount of satisfaction no matter how quickly it fades.
But tonight, things are worse. Everything about Jeremy more practiced and more hollow. Even through text, which worries Jean, more than it should.
Jeremy has been under his family's thumb an alarming amount this week. Sequestered away. Paraded around like a puppet.
Jean has had quite enough of it. Enough of this control and enough of Jeremy's camouflaged distance. And he knows Jeremy has too, even if he won't admit it. It rings through the lifeless cheeriness of his texts which don't distract Jean in the least.
So, he does something about it. He mounts the bike Cat helped him pick out and gets to Jeremy's house in what feels like a blink.
The sun has just set, washing everything out in pale greys and purples and blues. It makes the house appear…looming. Larger than it actually is. A bit sinister.
Jean isn't deterred. Nothing about this place is scary enough to phase him, to unlock the fear he keeps settled behind his sternum, except for what it does to Jeremy.
But that is why he is here. Jean parks haphazardly and stows away his helmet before walking up the steps while dialing Jeremy.
"Jean," Jeremy answers, a little breathless.
"Let me in."
"Um. What?"
"Let me in," Jean says slower.
"You're here?"
"No, I'm trying to hack into your fancy trust fund and need you to give me access so I can rob you. Of course I'm here, don't be stupid. Let me in."
A faint thump comes from Jeremy's end followed by a grunt. "You—Okay. Yeah. Coming."
Jeremy doesn't hang up so neither does Jean. He waits in front of the door, heel tapping against the ostentatious rug beneath his feet, Jeremy's breathing and footfalls echoing in his ear.
When Jeremy opens the door, he is flushed and confused, head tilted to the side, eyes squinted, and mouth held slightly open, an expression eerily reminiscent to the one Jabberwocky often makes when Laila is teaching him tricks and he clearly doesn't understand what she expects from him.
Velveteen softness ripples through Jean.
"Can I hang up now or do you want to continue like this?" he asks.
Jeremy shuts his mouth. Huffs and rolls his eyes. Takes the phone away from his ear and pointedly hangs up.
Jean does the same, sliding his phone into his back pocket and then stepping forward to bully his way past Jeremy.
He knows no one else is home, Jeremy told him so about twenty minutes ago when they started texting, but still, he looks around, straight-spined and vigilant as he tries to identify a threat he's not sure he can.
The sound of Jeremy closing the door is jolting enough that Jean settles back in his body and turns his back to the house's interior so he can face Jeremy.
Jeremy fiddles with his phone before putting it in the pocket of his sweatpants, his eyes heavy-lidded where they stay cast down to the ground. Jean waits him out.
Eventually Jeremy sighs and looks at Jean. "You didn't have to come here, y'know?" He is smiling as he says it, so unassuming and gentle and easy as if the tone of the words he sent Jean didn't communicate the emptiness he falls into whenever he is here too long.
It bothers Jean. That tone of his, pleasing and light. The way he is trying to shrug off having company in this gilded cage of his. It wriggles under Jean's skin, itchy and sharp. And there is…anger, boiling within him. Though that's not quite right, but he has no idea what else to call it.
Jean shrugs, waving that heat inside him off as casually as possible. "Well, I'm here. Deal with it."
"Charming as ever," Jeremy replies, grinning a little more sincerely now, his shoulders falling down as if he's released some tension. He eyes Jean, looking looking looking, and Jean feels suddenly microscopic no matter that he came here for Jeremy, to see him with his own eyes and gauge whether there was a diagnosis he could help with.
Jeremy licks his lips and shuffles forward, fingers tapping against the inside of Jean's elbow. The touch is as startling as it is soothing. "C'mon," Jeremy murmurs, gesturing to the stairs.
Jean follows Jeremy to his room, staying a little bit behind him even though he knows the way.
Some tightness lingers in his broad shoulders. But everywhere else he seems loose. The divot of Jeremy's spine is visible beneath his thin t-shirt and his grey sweatpants hang low on his swinging hips. Everything about him seems soft and held together. Jean finds himself wanting to touch to make sure.
He clenches his hands into fists and stuffs them in his pockets.
For a while, Jean lets Jeremy pretend everything is fine.
Even when the still dim but brighter light in his bedroom reveals a redness in his eyes and the stern set of his mouth which doesn't seem fully able to gentle. Even when Jeremy lingers very very close to Jean without touching. Even when Jean picks up a pile of clothes off Jeremy's bed to make room for them both and catches a scent that doesn't belong to Jeremy.
Jean allows the charade, allows Jeremy to get settled and comfortable, allows himself to stick to Jeremy's side on the bed with Jeremy's laptop sitting on both their thighs as a movie plays.
He has learned he has to do this sometimes. Be patient. Sit with Jeremy. Wait him out and wear him thin.
Other times that tactic doesn't work and Jean can take part in an approach he knows well and excels much better at, digging and prodding and yanking, determined enough that Jeremy falls into his hands. But he knows that's not what will do it this time. It's not what Jeremy needs. And Jean has long since resigned himself to being devoted to giving whatever he can, whatever he is allowed, to Jeremy, if it is what Jeremy needs.
Jean has learned Jeremy well, stripping him down to base components the way Jean would do any drill or play, and it may fill him up some small amount of unfamiliar pride, but he doesn't bother too much with that emotion.
His waiting does pay off though.
"Thanks," Jeremy says softly beside him. "For this."
Jean easily tears his gaze away from the computer to look at Jeremy. Jeremy isn't looking back.
Sharp heat scrapes against Jean's chest.
He crosses his arms and says nothing.
Jeremy shifts, as restless as the last time Jean had him in bed.
Jean bites down hard on his tongue until he tastes blood and can cover that thought up with its metallic taste.
Jeremy's eyes dart over to him, as if he can sense that hurt though there is no way he could.
"Have you come back to me then?" Jean asks.
A stuttering breath catapults out of Jeremy, sounding crunched up and battered. "I haven't gone anywhere," Jeremy says quickly with a jaunty little shake of his head and a mischievous curve of his mouth.
"I am not stupid," Jean declares, that heat in him flaring up and collecting in his mouth.
Jeremy reels back. "I don't—Of course, you're not. I didn't say you were. I never—I have never thought that about you, Jean. Honestly, you're one of the smartest people I know."
"Then treat me like it."
A flinch trembles through Jeremy's body and he deflates, turning small, all curled in on himself like he wishes he could disappear.
Jean has never once wished for that, and he hates that Jeremy would.
"Sorry," Jeremy whispers. He frowns and runs his hand over his mouth. Perhaps the word didn't taste like he thought it would.
Jean exhales through his nose. "I don't want your apology. I want—" No. He shouldn't.
"What?" Jeremy asks, looking very interested in the answer. There's a light in his eyes Jean hasn't seen in days. "What do you want?"
Jean uncrosses his arms to run his hands over his thighs, wiping away the sudden clamminess. It doesn't help very much so he presses his palms to the mattress, fingers fiddling with the sheets he is on top of.
He doesn't break eye contact with Jeremy though. That isn't what he wants, and he fears if he did so then he'd lose Jeremy.
"I want," Jean says haltingly, tongue slipping out to taste the shape of that awful, strange word, "for you to talk to me. Be with me. I want my partner." It sounds pitiful. He sounds pitiful. Small and timid like a child.
Jean wants to rip his tongue out. Never speak again.
Jeremy sighs, a hurt kind of sound. He bites his lip, forcing the pink flesh to go pale, and reaches out to Jean. He hesitates, as if Jean is some kind of spooked animal. Jean raises an eyebrow in challenge which gets Jeremy to follow through.
He lifts Jean's hand away from the mattress and tangles their fingers together.
"I would say sorry, but I think you're probably tired of hearing that."
"Extremely," Jean replies.
Jeremy laughs a little. Jean wants more of that sound, wants it to be bright and full again. Because of him. No other reason.
"Jean," Jeremy says, the single syllable sticking to his teeth like it doesn't want to leave, huskier than usual, uttered subconsciously with an accent Jeremy has been working to perfect. "This week has just been…kind of a mess."
A furrow settles deeply in between Jean's brows. "A mess?"
"Mhmm," Jeremy hums. "My family, my mom—" he exhales shakily and drops his eyes to their hands. Bites his lips again. Traces over Jean's knuckles. "I'm trying so hard to do right, to—to make up for—" he frowns and doesn't finish. Jean hears the words anyway. "But I'm not sure I'll ever actually be able to do any of that."
Jean isn't sure if he's more angry at Jeremy's awful family or more bruise tender with the need to comfort Jeremy, hold him. He goes with the emotion that will cause him the least amount of trouble.
"Why do you have to try at all?"
Jeremy frowns. "What do you mean?"
Jean sighs hard enough to crack bone. "You shouldn't have to work for their approval or affection. There is no penance or price to pay. You deserve better. Start demanding it."
"That's not—I can't. It's not that simple. Or easy," Jeremy scoffs.
"So?" Jean asks with a shrug. "Fuck easy."
That startles a laugh out of Jeremy. It sounds good, the way it always does, but it echoes strangely in the room, as if this place isn't used to such a sound. "Would if I could," Jeremy says with a lopsided grin.
Jean rolls his eyes and pokes Jeremy's side. "I'm serious."
"So am I," Jeremy insists, very unseriously. Something about him has livened up, as if he's been filled with a charge. A wonderful act. Jean is almost convinced. "I am quite easy, so—"
An awfulness without description or shape floods Jean's mouth and his stomach sinks. "Don't give so much of yourself away, Jeremy," he says, urgent and firm as he ducks his head to ensure Jeremy's eyes stay on his own. "Keep some for yourself, otherwise all of you will be gone too soon."
Jeremy goes quiet at that. Goes still, less animated now, less cheerful, as if the act can't be kept up anymore. The silence throbs between them, pulsing like it has its own heartbeat, like it's an infected wound.
"Not sure I know how," Jeremy says softly, sadly. He shakes his head then and clings onto Jean with stiff fingers, his body falling into Jean's, knee knocking onto Jean's thigh, their calves and shoulders pressed together. It reveals tension hidden so well in the looseness of his body.
"You can learn," Jean says.
"Oh, so you know something about that then?"
"This is about you not me."
Jeremy opens his mouth. Closes it. Says nothing. He looks unconvinced, doubtful of his ability to do anything other than what he has been doing for years. Jean understands and he wishes he could help, but he is wholly unequipped. Perhaps he needs to learn too. So he can help Jeremy.
"Jean," Jeremy murmurs and Jean knows what follows will be more denials, so he interrupts Jeremy.
"Why not?" Jean presses, holding down on a bruise he didn't even know existed, one he should certainly let go of so it can heal, but he doesn't. "Tell me."
"Because," Jeremy spits out, pained. "I'm—" he pulls his hand out of Jean's and gestures to himself with a frustrated wave.
Jean wants that hand back in his own. He also wants to wrap both of his around Jeremy's neck and shake him.
Looks like Jean will have to keep filling in the blanks for Jeremy. At least it means his attention, this strange unyielding devotion, can be put to good use. "You are good. And kind. Strong. Determined. A leader. A bit too much of a people pleaser, but no one can be perfect."
"Stop flattering me, I'll start blushing."
"Blush away," Jean replies.
That gets Jean another laugh. Lighter and sweeter this time and, yes, accompanied by a strip of pale pink that stretches from cheek to cheek and across the bridge of Jeremy's freckled nose.
Jeremy leans his head back against the wall, the curve of his spine deepening where it's braced against the bed's headboard. "You said that if my mother hasn't accepted me, forgiven me, by now then she never will. None of them will. And we'll never be—" A sigh. Jeremy rubs his knuckles into his eye. "Maybe that's true, but I can't let it be. Because if I do then it's really over. I've lost my family and it'll be no one's fault but mine."
Jean does not know what to do about that other than say, "I don't agree. That's not my truth."
"Well, this is about me not you, isn't it?"
Jean huffs and bites back something hateful. "Do you really have them, Jeremy? Are they not already lost to you because of their own choices and blindness?"
"Don't," Jeremy says gruffly, but it comes across as a plea more than anything else. "Please, Jean. Just…stop."
Jean chews on the inside of his cheek. "Very well."
Jeremy lolls his head to the side, eyes dark and almost fully hidden by his lashes. His lips move, a tiny quirk that would be unnoticeable if Jean didn't know that mouth so well. "Maybe you can convince me another day," Jeremy offers.
"But not today."
"Not today."
Jean accepts that and turns away. He picks up the laptop from where it became dislodged and discarded between their legs. Fiddling with it allows him to split his attention and appear less pushy than he knows he is. "Can I ask if there is anything that made it worse today?"
Jeremy hums and doesn't say anything for several seconds. Jean lets him, unsure if he is just thinking or avoiding. The laptop gets closed and thrown to their feet. He doubts either of them care about finishing the movie they were watching.
"Not exactly," Jeremy says. "Actually, no one has been here all day except for me. And I—I was out earlier, so—"
Jean leans back against the headboard hard enough that the wood digs painfully into his spine. "Were you with someone?" Someone who smells like cheap cologne that does nothing to compliment you and shouldn't be anywhere near you skin?
Something ugly and painful twists inside Jean, all biting and acidic and powerful enough to chew through the meat of him.
Jeremy coughs into his fist. "Uh, I—Yeah. Mhmm."
Now he gets shy about it. Jean wants to do something incredibly idiotic. Something that would get him in such trouble at Evermore that he'd never see the light of day again or taste anything other than his own blood.
"Nothing really…happened," Jeremy adds. He straightens his spine and re-situates himself more firmly along Jean's side.
"I didn't ask," Jean says coolly. Then, with mild interest, "Nothing?"
"Nothing," Jeremy confirms.
Delight swirls sickly in Jean's stomach.
"I kind of fell out of the mood," Jeremy continues, voice low as if he's unsure whether he wants Jean to hear him or not. "So I left. Came back here."
"He didn't—" Jean stops, rolls his words around in his mouth, changes trajectory slightly but probably not enough. "He let you?"
"Yeah, Jean." It's said so gently and yet those words feel like they could break Jean. "Of cour—" he breaks off, frowning. Then he tucks his elbow against Jean's ribs and pushes soft knuckles into Jean's bent knee and slides his fingers over Jean's pulse down into the soft heart of his palm.
Jean looks at him, suddenly breathless. He curls his fingers over Jeremy's and with his other hand pinches the outer seam of Jeremy's sweatpants. Everything hardens, crystallizing until his body is less flesh and bone and more iron and steel. "If not, I can, I will—"
"Down boy," Jeremy says with a smile. "I dipped with no problem."
Jean wrinkles his nose. "Dipped?"
"Yeah," Jeremy laughs. "Got out of there. Left."
"Dipped," Jean repeats. "What an abomination."
Jeremy laughs again, belly deep. Jean breathes it in and has to hide a smile.
Such a thing, this cackle Jeremy does that makes him curl in on himself and squint his eyes and collapse his weight onto Jean, should not be so arresting. But is is. Jeremy is. Alluring and exhilarating like stepping into the sun after only living in darkness.
Jean wants to keep Jeremy like this. Laughing. He vows to try his hardest.
Eventually Jeremy's laughter does die down though, and he settles back against the headboard, slouching amidst the trampled pillows propping him up until he just gives up and lies down on the bed. He sighs and turns toward Jean, expression hard to make out because of how dark it's gotten. Jean sees him anyway.
"You're a good friend, Jean," Jeremy says. "The best."
Jean feels sweet about that. It's odd. Reminiscent of what he vaguely remembers it to be like to stuff yourself full of candy that melts in your stomach and makes you burn bright before you crash.
"I'm trying," Jean replies.
Jeremy hums in reply and nuzzles into the pillow beneath his head.
Jean slides down until he's level with Jeremy, nudging at Jeremy with his elbows and knees until there's enough room for him to lie down fully beside Jeremy.
He stays still and breathes deep and slow as Jeremy blinks at him across the pillow and darkness. "No one will be here until later tomorrow," Jeremy whispers like it's a secret.
Jean nods.
"Stay?" Jeremy asks.
Jean nods again.
Jeremy's answering smile is radiant and for a moment Jean forgets what it was ever like to be cold.
+1
Gold flickers into the room, streams of early grey sunshine tinged with aged amber, light bursting back into the world with a slow whisper after being gone for a while.
Everything is warm, all around him. The baked morning light settles into Jean's sheets, his clothes, his skin, sticking sweetly and pulling him out of sleep with a tug.
Jean groans and mumbles a series of words that hold no meaning to even him. He turns away from the shimmering yellow peeking through his curtains so it splashes along his back and exposed nape. His discontent turns a little more towards pleasure and he hums as he's warmed along that side as well.
The bed shifts beside him, dipping as the sheets pull tight across Jean's legs.
Displeasure returns, falling out of him in a huff. He bends his knees to wiggle against the restriction. His foot bounces against a hairy calf and his knee presses into something soft and giving.
Jean hums again and reaches out blindly with his hand. It doesn't take long for the backs of his knuckles to thwack against muscle encased in soft fabric.
"Stop humming," Jeremy grumbles. "Y're not a Disney princess."
A snort of indignation pops out of Jean. He peels his eyes open carefully, blinking against the startling radiance of light that has very little to do with the sun rising over the horizon and shining into his bedroom.
Jeremy lies across from him, close. Close enough Jean can see the pale freckles dotting his face. Close enough that his warm breath fans across Jean's throat. Close enough that strands of his wild, blond hair tickle Jean's forehead.
That hair is as soft as everything else about Jeremy is. Little strands of silk latching onto Jean's warm skin and falling down to dance along Jeremy's furrowed brow.
Jean removes his hand from Jeremy's chest and brushes that hair back. Some of it tangles up around his knuckles, greedy, but it only takes a moment to dislodge the strands and position them so they are slicked back off Jeremy's forehead.
Jeremy's brow relaxes and he sighs. Then he smacks his lips loudly and snuggles deeper into the mattress and his pillow, pulling the blankets tight once again.
Jean would admonish Jeremy for it, and surely he will in a moment, but—
It's nice seeing Jeremy like this. Sleepy and loose and unguarded. Golden brown. Relaxed and close. Younger, in his languid vulnerability. No fear in having his eyes closed with Jean nearby.
This has become familiar, typical even. More often than not when Jeremy stays at the apartment he sleeps in Jean's bed. It's a habit Jean hadn't even realized they picked up until he was well in the middle of it, already expecting Jeremy to follow him once it's late enough so he could occupy the space beside Jean that never seemed empty until he had Jeremy to fill it.
Now Jean knows Jeremy's nighttime routine in excruciating detail, and he feels like he himself is part of that routine. Jeremy is for him. And on the nights Jeremy isn't here, it's not as easy to do any of it, especially not sleep.
Last night they stayed up later than they should have. Jeremy was in one of his moods, restless with energy, eyes bright and tongue loose. They talked for hours, trading words with their heads on the same pillow. Jean fell asleep to the sound of Jeremy's voice, his breathing, the movement of his body against the sheets. It was the best kind of background noise. Surprising in its efficiency.
Jean tugs on one tiny strand of hair before letting his hand fall back into the small space between him and Jeremy. Jeremy wrinkles his nose and blows Jean a weak raspberry, his eyes still shut.
There's no urgency here. Nothing pushing Jean to get up and go. Nowhere he'd rather be.
And there's no telltale sound of Cat and Laila being awake either, unsurprising of course, so Jean lets himself stay right where he is, lets his eyes linger, lets himself drink in morning Jeremy which just might be his favorite Jeremy, rivaled only by Jeremy in the afternoon and evening, Jeremy on the field, Jeremy laughing, Jeremy speaking French with him.
It's impertinent and inconvenient and the worst kind of trouble, feeling like this. But Jean can't make himself stop. Has grown tired of trying.
And since Jean is letting himself stay and look and enjoy, he might as well let himself do more than that, all that he can in this moment, because why not risk the entirety of himself, why not flirt with all the danger. It's worked out for others, namely that insane little toad Neil.
Jean wants this forever, or however long he has. Going to bed with Jeremy. Waking up to Jeremy. Just…Jeremy.
Terrible terrible terrible.
A flush rises in Jean, all at once hot and cold. His stomach flips and he's not sure whether it's from fear or excitement. Perhaps both. Sitting in it like this, indulging in what he has and what more he craves, can certainly do him no favors, but Jean doesn't care about that as much as he used to.
He has no idea how he can be like this, how he can be so greedy, especially when he has been given so much already, so much he never thought he'd have. But he does. It's given to him like it's nothing. Jeremy would probably give Jean anything he'd ask for. Jean hates and loves that in equal measure. It's too much, far too much for the likes of him.
Maybe he could deserve it one day. Maybe.
But Jean wants wants wants and, for once, that is bigger and louder than everything else.
Jeremy opens his eyes.
Jean blinks. Clutches at the thin sheet beneath them. Says, "Brown."
Jeremy tilts his head into the pillow. "What?"
Heat and pressure engulf Jean's throat. He shakes his head. "Nothing."
Jeremy's eyes narrow into thin slits. "Hmm."
"So you're allowed to hum but I'm not?"
"That wasn't a hum, that was—" Jeremy doesn't finish, mouth opening and closing as he grasps for words.
Jean arches an eyebrow and knocks a knuckle underneath Jeremy's chin to stop his pitiful impression of a fish.
Jeremy buzzes his lips. "Pfft, I don't know, okay? Too early for this." He turns his face fully into the pillow then, cutting off Jean's access to that pretty face.
A pout is dangerously close to settling on Jean's bottom lip. He bites the flesh hard to erase it.
Jeremy comes back to him anyway, never gone for long. His eyelashes glitter in the encroaching sunlight. Jean wants very badly to touch them, feel their softness against his skin, perhaps his mouth too.
Jean lifts a hand to Jeremy's face and brushes his thumb over those lashes.
Jeremy goes still beneath the touch. The thin skin of his eyelid flinches minutely. His mouth pops open with a tiny sigh shaped around an even tinier smile.
"Jean," Jeremy murmurs.
Jean swipes his thumb over Jeremy's lashes once more, strangely reluctant to let go, to stop, abhorred by not having that softness touch him any longer, but he pulls away.
Jeremy's smile widens. His eyes open, warm and deep like fresh soil. "Morning," he chirps.
A smile of Jean's own takes control of his mouth. Jeremy's eyes drop down. Darken. Expand.
Jean's tongue slips out, the tip tracing over his bottom lip just barely, wetting it, a tease he can't even pretend isn't purposeful or meant to elicit a reaction.
Jeremy's throat moves as he swallows. His tongue appears, copying Jean as he licks his lips and draws in a quick, sharp breath. His eyes close then open again, dragging back up to meet Jean's.
He looks—He looks as wanting as Jean feels.
Jean's room is full of sunshine and his heart rages against his ribs and he's never felt steadier in his life.
He kisses Jeremy. Quick enough that he's not even sure he has actually done it, pushing forward and catching that pretty, open, rosebud of a mouth with his own, velvet soft and without any weight or barely any force.
He thinks Jeremy might stop breathing entirely. Doesn't feel his chest move where it's nearly flush with Jean's own. Opens his eyes to see Jeremy more pink than gold now, blinking rapidly, fixated on Jean like he holds the answer to every question Jeremy has found himself asking.
"Jean," Jeremy says again, dark and warm like his eyes.
"Can you only say my name?" Jean asks. It comes out rougher than he'd like. More timid too. Extremely too exposing. It makes him want to squirm and hide a bit, but also, he doesn't mind so much, with Jeremy.
The shock on Jeremy's face fades as the pink in his flesh darkens. Jeremy laughs, stuttering and loud like the rev of an engine. "Jean," he says with a sweet sweet smile. "Yeah?" he asks.
Jean would say yes to anything and everything if it has to do with Jeremy. So, "Yes."
He decides to kiss Jeremy again, because he wants to, because Jeremy is bright and beautiful and has his fingers hooked in Jean's collar and looks like he wants to be kissed.
Jeremy's mouth is…lovely. Lovely as anything Jean has discovered lately. Hot and wet and talented. And it's opening up underneath Jean's, beckoning him in, slick and lovely lovely lovely. Jean might not know another word after this, his brain fried as if Jeremy has doused it in the box of blond dye he favors.
"Jeremy," Jean whispers onto Jeremy's tongue. It flicks against his own then drags over the backs of Jean's teeth. He didn't even know such wild sensation could be felt there, but oh, how it makes his body shudder and his blood light up.
A quiet rumble of a laugh hops from Jeremy's mouth to Jean's. Jeremy chases after it and Jean lets him.
He takes Jeremy's face between his hands, holding holding holding him, overwhelmed by the enormity of him, desperate to keep him close, adamant that Jeremy's brightness and warmth can beat back anything else that tries to flicker to the forefront of Jean's mind.
Jeremy's knuckles poke into Jean's collarbone, his fingers twisting into Jean's collar enough to make it too loose for him to ever wear it as anything other than a sleep shirt.
It's…exciting. How into this Jeremy is. How Jean can taste his excitement. How his own thrill seems to match Jeremy's.
He thought perhaps he forgot how to feel such a thing, or maybe he never learned in the first place, not when it came to this. Mouths and bodies used as they ought to be, not a battle or a show of dominance, not as a form of taking, but just…shared joy, shared pleasure.
Jean slides a hand around to the back of Jeremy's neck. Damp, silky strands caress his skin. Jean tugs at them while scratching Jeremy's nape and pressing down lightly, a bit of direction behind his touch as he angles Jeremy's head and pulls him up and over.
Jeremy settles half on top of Jean, eager and pliant and without resistance. He makes a happy little noise that shoots straight to the pit of Jean's stomach, filling with a warmth that sparkles and spirals out toward his thighs, his chest, his groin.
Getting nothing but that sound out of Jeremy takes top spot on Jean's to-do list. Well. Second, after everything he still needs to learn and teach in regard to exy before their next game. Jeremy will understand.
He'll explain it, whenever he's done with Jeremy. For now, he kisses and kisses and kisses, delighted by the goodness of it.
Then Jeremy's shifts and his chest sits atop Jean's, faint pressure, followed by the cut of his hip smacking into Jean's.
A pinch of discomfort twists Jean's gut. Something awakens beside the pleasure, something cold, something he doesn't want anywhere near here or near Jeremy.
Jean breaks the kiss with a gasp, gulping down air. He quickly counts his treasures on his fingers, tapping them lightly against Jeremy's quivering back, and mouths at the line of Jeremy's fine jaw.
Distracting himself typically works, but it's actually a bit difficult with Jeremy above him, shining and hot and gentle.
"Jean?" Jeremy asks alongside a heavy exhale. He noses at Jean's cheek and lifts himself up a few inches, eliminating the pressure on Jean's chest.
Jean squeezes the back of Jeremy's neck, the skin there almost blisteringly hot, the hairs fine and downy, but it doesn't deter Jeremy, so he moves his hand to Jeremy's face, cupping one flaming cheek and smiles up at him.
Jeremy rubs a big hand up and down Jean's side, soothing soothing soothing, and dips his head to kiss Jean's thumb. "Good?" he asks.
A wild laugh expels out of Jean, strong enough to crack bone and tickle his throat.
Jeremy's smile goes crooked, confused almost, and he goes a little still. Not tensing but slowing down. Waiting, Jean thinks, while holding himself above.
Jean wants more more more. He wants that stupid pinch holding him back to disappear. He wants to replace everything he has ever known with Jeremy Jeremy Jeremy.
"Here," Jean says, moving his hand once more, this time to place it flat against Jeremy's sternum. "Can I—"
"Yeah," Jeremy says instantly. "Anything. Anything."
Jean tries to glare at him for that, but he can't quite manage it. He pushes until Jeremy gets the hint and flops over onto his back. He lands with a little bounce and a cute, happy huff. And he grins, unrestrained and startling, when Jean curves over him.
Jean takes a deep breath, glad to find it unimpeded, and grins back at Jeremy.
Jeremy stretches beneath him, back arching, shirt riding up his toned stomach, then when he's done, winks at Jean while the other eye sparkles at him, no doubt fully aware of how he looks.
There's a chance Jean might have to live the rest of his life with this dry mouth, with this aching, hollow hunger that threatens to pour out of him, with this want that is so alive it has its own heartbeat.
"This is good," Jeremy says with a little nod. "I like this." Then he wraps his arms around Jean's shoulders and widens the space between his thighs, jerking his chin down to gesture to the area as if he's worried Jean won't know to put himself there.
Jean appreciates the direction and permission but resents the pleased cheekiness filling Jeremy up to the brim.
He shoots a playful scowl at Jeremy but settles in between those legs, slotting against the length of Jeremy with ease, with a sigh, with relief.
Jean fidgets a bit, feeling too large and gangly, but he finds a comfortable spot, his hips tucked between Jeremy's, a thin strip of his bared stomach pressed flush to Jeremy's t-shirt.
It's even warmer here, held in between Jeremy's legs and cocooned over his body. Sunlight spills over them, lighting Jeremy up and heating the stretch of Jean's already flushed skin.
Jeremy trails broad sweeps of nonsensical patters across Jean's shoulders and back, the touch so light Jean barely feels it. He drops down a little lower, paints the golden image of Jeremy on the backs of his eyelids, and nudges Jeremy's nose with his own.
Something quiet spills out of Jeremy's mouth, not quite a moan but not quite a sigh either. He bends and unbends his knees. Catches Jean's bottom lip in a quick kiss. Breathes shakily. "Is this—" Jeremy begins to ask.
Jean doesn't let him finish. "It's good," he assures him. Then he kisses Jeremy, a fierce press of their ungraceful mouths. "Very good," he murmurs, dropping the words in between Jeremy's teeth.
A shiver runs through Jeremy and Jean wonders if it feels as bone deep as everything feels to him right now. He grips one of Jeremy's thighs, bare thanks to his rucked up shorts. His hair shines pale and gold in the sunlight. His skin is even paler and soft, here where he's usually hidden.
There's strength too. Muscle. Jean clenches it in his hand, a strange sense of power overtaking him even though that strength doesn't belong to him, and he pulls until that thigh is up against his waist. His fingers press hard into flesh to communicate his desire for Jeremy to stay there.
Jeremy does. He holds his thigh there and closes the other one around Jean's waist as well, but there's not much pressure behind it. He hasn't exerted much pressure at all this whole time, except for his kisses and that brief moment when Jean's chest was crushed underneath his.
And he's still. Pliant enough to be moved. But—his usual energy seems…lacking.
Jean hesitates. He tugs at the hem of Jeremy's shorts while chewing on everything building up on his tongue. "Do you—Am I—" he breaks off, huffing harshly, mouth going thin and tight over the rest of his question. "You want this?" he asks then, breaking it all open without even exactly consciously choosing to do so. It's abrupt and full of force, almost ugly in this light and warmth between them. He lifts himself up, touching as little of Jeremy as he can.
Jeremy's brows scrunch together. "Jean, wha—Yeah. I—Fuck. Yeah."
That response was enthusiastic if a bit stuttering.
"Good," Jean says a bit dumbly. "Then touch me."
Jeremy laughs brokenly. He lightly squeezes Jean's hips with his thighs and trails even lighter fingers over Jean's shoulder, across his ear to his cheek, then down to his throat. "I am."
Jean in unimpressed. "More."
"Jean," Jeremy croaks out. He shuts his eyes then opens them wide again. Sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Tries to smile. "I just—don't want to do something you don't want."
"You won't," Jean says, because he trusts Jeremy. Then, "I won't let you," because he trusts himself.
Jeremy blows out a breath. Searches Jean with intent eyes. Then he nods and smiles a real smile, languid and strong enough to pinch his cheeks. He lifts his head up a bit, lashes dropping a little, beckoning Jean down for a kiss.
Jean obliges. Jeremy kisses him fully, and it's only now that Jean realizes he was holding back before. He is devoured, though paradoxically, it is in a way that is soft and slow and gentle. Jeremy gives and he takes, sliding into Jean's mouth like he belongs there and offering up the entirety of his own in return.
His body undulates beneath Jean, a siren call that has Jean burrowing down down down until they are pressed so tightly together he's not sure where Jeremy ends and he begins. It is a nice sensation. Utterly new and wonderful, like the sight of fireworks bursting across the night sky, like a warmth that blooms in you until you are intoxicated and content.
They kiss until Jean loses all sense, until everything else falls away, until his world is nothing but Jeremy and pleasure.
Jean's arousal builds throughout it all, heavier and more expansive than he's ever known it to be. It is a mass in the pit of his stomach, bubbling and fizzy. It is fire in his veins, boiling and decimating. It is sweat on raw skin. It is a spiraling ache that settles low and deep.
He's fully hard before he even realizes it and rutting against an equally hard Jeremy. The sensation of it is startling, a shock of something white-hot that blasts through Jean's nervous system and alters his movements into something jerky and off rhythm.
Jeremy makes a pretty noise, dark and deep and fucked out, the rumble of it vibrating along the tip of Jean's tongue. His hands fall to Jean's hip to guide him into a more elegant grind, somehow knowing exactly how to make it perfect for them both. His thumbs brush back and forth across the bottom of Jean's ribs all the while, soft soft soft, and his mouth works against Jean's with feverish intensity.
Jean can't help but smile. It's—good. So fucking good. All of it. More than he'd ever thought he'd get.
His smile shatters their kissing and it bares his teeth, so viscerally real and unable to be hidden to tucked away for later. And it doesn't feel strange on his mouth. It actually feels like it belongs there, like it's not even his but Jeremy's, and he wishes there was some way to make a memento of this moment.
Jeremy grins back, their teeth clacking. Jean finds the sound and sensation pleasant though he does not know why.
If Jean had ever given any thought to what love would feel like, it would be this, this right here, Jeremy. Perhaps that's all the memento Jean needs.
Jean adjusts himself, balancing on an elbow he places near Jeremy's head and on his sweaty knees that slip against the sheets. He moves his smile, dragging it over Jeremy's jawline and down to his throat. His free hand comes up to meet his mouth, fingers encircle the stretch of lovely skin, holding Jeremy motionless as he sucks and bites at the tendon in Jeremy's neck that he's been eyeing for months now.
Jeremy cries out and his body twists, his hips rising up and shoving his cock against Jean's in a brutal punch.
"Jean," he moans, throaty and drawn out.
"Again," Jean demands before moving to the sensitive hollow of Jeremy's throat.
"Jean."
He shouldn't take so much pleasure from it but he does. The wrecked way Jeremy says his name. The way it curls up delicately on his tongue and pushes sweetly past his teeth. Jean could hear that and nothing else and be utterly content for the rest of his days.
Maybe one day he can successfully get Jeremy to utter nothing else other than his name. He'll keep it in mind to try.
"Jean," Jeremy says once more, but it's a little different, threaded with a command that sends a skitter of electric heat down the column of Jean's spine. "Fuck. C'mere." He tugs lazily at Jean's hair, encouraging him to come back up to his mouth.
Jean goes, happy to suck on Jeremy's talented tongue and bite at the fullness of his cupid's bow.
"Off," Jeremy says suddenly.
It takes a moment to register but once it does, Jean goes gold and jolts upward.
Jeremy blinks at him, all languid and slow and blissed out, and Jean can't help but wonder if he looked like this when he was on drugs. He prefers to think not though, that this is for him and him alone.
"What are you—" Jeremy stops and shakes his head, tugging insistently at Jean's collar. "No. Want—" A huff. A kiss placed to Jean's chin. "My shirt. Off. Please. Wanna feel you." A tilt of his head. "And I'm getting hot."
Amusement curls in Jean's chest and puffs out of his mouth in a small laugh. Jeremy looks terribly pleased by it.
Jean leans back on his knees so Jeremy can lift up. It takes the both of them to get the damn shirt off. Jean tosses it aside, hoping to never see it again.
Jeremy is beautiful. Strong and toned. Golden. Freckled. Sweet.
It's different, being so mesmerized by him and not hiding it or pulling away. Instead, he gets to trace the curve of Jeremy's ribs and the indents on his stomach and the lines of his pecs.
Jeremy hums, pure delight, and takes hold of Jean's hand, dragging it up to one of his nipples, gasping and jerking when the heel of Jean's palm presses down against the nub.
"Sensitive," Jean notes.
Jeremy licks his lips and laughs wildly, everything about it indecent. "Are you?"
"Mmm, not there, not really, I don't think."
"Noted."
Jean kisses him. Can't get enough of it. Can't bear to stop for more than a moment. Jeremy is the most kissable person Jean has ever met and he's very much done with not doing anything about that.
Things blur after that, Jean turned into nothing but heat and urgency and a sharp, sweet goodness that coils in his belly and burns in the center of his heart.
Eventually though, Jean feels himself become a little more corporeal again, once Jeremy has his shirt rucked up to his armpits and his fingers are dancing along Jean's waist band.
"Can I?" Jeremy asks, with nothing but curiosity. It's not coy or leading. It's not hopeful. It's not filled with intent that Jean can't get away from.
Jean pauses. Considers. Shoves his hand between them to play with Jeremy's waistband too. And he knows he wants to touch Jeremy. He knows he wants to pull Jeremy out and squeeze what he can from him. So it only seems fair that Jeremy can do the same.
"Yes," Jean answers. "Can I?"
"Yes," Jeremy laughs, hitching his hips up so that Jean's fingers end up slipping past his shorts and underwear to where there is only hot hot hot skin and slickness.
They tug each other free in almost complete synchronicity. Jean is caught and held immobile by the sight of Jeremy's cock, enough so that he barely feels it as Jeremy pulls him out too.
Jeremy is long. Flushed dark. A little thicker than Jean. Wetter too.
It shouldn't be a surprise that Jeremy's cock is as pretty as the rest of him. Jean certainly should have expected it, but seeing him like this, bare and aroused and straining toward Jean—that sense of power wells up in him again right alongside his hunger. It could be dangerous if he let it. He won't. He won't.
"You're very beautiful," Jean murmurs, having to fight to keep himself from collapsing onto Jeremy. He traces a line up the length of Jeremy, from base to tip, skin quickly coated in the stickiness of Jeremy's precome.
Jeremy huffs against Jean's cheek. Kisses that same spot. "How can you say that when—God, you don't even know what you look like. I—You've driven me crazy."
Satisfaction curls in Jean, heavy and dark and rich. A smirk splits open his mouth. He makes sure Jeremy can feel it as he presses his thumb against Jeremy's slit. Jeremy's fingers are petting at his own cock too, but they are light, and Jean can barely feel them through everything else.
Jeremy chokes. Whines. Ruts up into Jean's loose grasp. Drags a heel along Jean's calf.
"I drive you crazy, hm? Tell me more about that."
"No," Jeremy replies, quick and short. Then, "You're unfairly gorgeous. And it's—it's effortless too. You don't even realize it, but—Every move you make, the shape of your mouth, your eyes—" Jeremy moans out a curse. "I want so bad. You're everything I've ever wanted."
Jean's ego has never been stroked quite like this. Sure, his abilities and excellence in exy have been praised by outsiders, but…that has never felt like this.
Jean knows how good he is at exy. He broke and remade himself perfecting his playing. He has devoted all that's left of him to the game, and he'll be this devoted until the day he dies because he knows nothing else, and maybe because there is some enjoyment to this obsession. Either way he doesn't have a choice.
But this. Jeremy squirming beneath him, releasing high-pitched keens, giving Jean such gentleness and pleasure, two things that have rarely gone together much less be awarded to Jean individually, while mumbling about what Jean does to him.
It could make Jean grow large enough he wouldn't be able to fit anywhere.
"Thank you," he says. It's too simple. A little pathetic. But it's all he has.
You're everything I've ever wanted.
Jean settles a little more firmly between Jeremy's thighs, his cock falling out of Jeremy's whisper of a grasp and sliding along the insane divot of Jeremy's hip. His heart races, fast and loud and fervent.
Give and take. Equality. Jean has to keep that between the two of them. So, he confesses, "You're everything I didn't even know to want," then kisses Jeremy deep and thorough and starts jerking Jeremy off with a steady, hard pace.
Jeremy messily kisses back, little cries popping out of his mouth every now and then. One hand clutches onto the hem of Jean's shirt where it's stuck to his upper back, fingers every now and then dropping to his skin, nails scratching over the arch of Jean's shoulder blades.
Jean focuses on kissing Jeremy, loving this mouth of his even more than he thought he would, even when it devolves into them merely breathing into each other. And he focuses on the flush of pleasure staining Jeremy and the increasing slickness of his cock and the pressure and finesse he's trying to maintain so he can get Jeremy off. That's all that matters.
But then Jeremy seems to come back to himself a little, turning sharper and brighter and more aware. He nibbles at Jean's bottom lip, smiling when Jean lets out a rumbling moan, then finds Jean's cock again, his grip sure and firm.
It sends a jolt through Jean. Nerves barking, electrical impulses firing too fast.
Jean knows what it's like to have hands that aren't his own all over him. Taken by force. Hurt and broken and split open with no kindness.
Something tightens. A cinch around his chest. Pressure holding his breath.
He slows and stops. So does Jeremy.
"Jean," Jeremy murmurs.
The thing is, none of those hands ever stopped. None of them attended to his pleasure. None of them were soft or caring.
Jeremy is though. Jeremy's hands are attentive and sweet and a little hungry. Not taking from Jean just because he's there. Not taking to teach a lesson. Not taking because he's been told to. No, he just wants Jean. Wants Jean to feel good. He has from the moment they met.
Jean settles back into his body. Breathes in in in and smells sunshine and Jeremy's lotion.
"Jean," Jeremy says again, careful. His mouth brushes over Jean's jaw. " We can st—"
"No," Jean says. "No. I want this." So so badly.
A pause. "Okay." Then again, "Okay." A hand settles into his hair, not pulling or yanking, just there, caught up in the strands, soothing. "Look at me."
Jean does, lifting his head out of the safe haven of Jeremy's throat. He hadn't even realized he'd taken refuge there.
Jeremy is blinding. "There you are."
Jean nods. Drops down a little and without words asks for a kiss. Jeremy obliges.
"Keep looking at me," Jeremy says. "Keep your eyes on me."
An order Jean can follow. An order he is more than happy to follow.
He fists both hands in the sheets by Jeremy's head and looks down at him, finding something so peaceful about Jeremy's soft beauty.
Jeremy's bare knee prods at Jean's waist, and it's the only touch Jean feels.
His breath spirals and cracks out of him, little quakes of air.
"Let me?" Jeremy asks, motioning between them.
"Please."
Jeremy guides Jean close, a hand on the base of Jean's spine to fold him in in in so that barely any space is between their bodies. His knees latch back around Jean's waist. Jean's cock slots in right beside Jeremy's.
Then Jeremy puts his hand around them both and encourages Jean to move. He does. And it is bliss. Hot, tight, slick bliss. Tension contracts his stomach. Shocks of bright pleasure explode in his cells. Light bursts behind his eyes.
And all the while he looks at Jeremy. He fucks into Jeremy's hand and slides against the wet mess of Jeremy's cock and fists the sheets so hard bone threatens to break through the skin of his knuckles and he gasps and whines and chases something fun and pleasurable alongside Jeremy and he never once looks away from the sweet golden darkness of Jeremy's eyes.
Jeremy murmurs nonsense and squeezes them so tight together that they both wheeze and cranes his neck to kiss Jean's throat, his chin, his mouth, brown eyes open open open and catching Jean as he falls falls falls.
"Next time," he registers Jeremy saying, the words dim as they pierce through the heavy, sweet veil encompassing Jean's body and the heartbeat flooding his ears, "I'm gonna blow you."
Jean's cock spurts. That heavy mass of muscle in his chest twists. He chokes on nothing at all. "I'm amenable," he mumbles.
Jeremy laughs so Jean does too.
He is unprepared for his orgasm. It rips through him, fast and fierce. The jagged rush of his breaths becomes nothing but moans. His blood pounds and roars. Strings of come splatter over their stomachs and Jeremy's hand, making that tight tunnel so slick that Jean sees stars.
Jean clenches his teeth and rides it out, feeling as if he has caught fire, so incredibly raw and hot. Jeremy keeps touching himself, once again murmuring a babble of words that Jean can't comprehend, and his knuckles prod against Jean's spent cock with each stroke. It hurts but it's so good, enough so that a little more come spills out of Jean.
"Fuck, Jean," Jeremy spits out, reedy and thin and right on the edge.
Jean's whole body twitches. The slickness between them and the brush of Jeremy's rough, fast knuckles and the scrape of his pubic hair against Jean's cock head are too much too much too much but Jean withstands it. He would withstand anything, to keep being here like this with Jeremy.
"Jeremy," Jean croaks, body ready to fall. He remains upright long enough to press a kiss to Jeremy's wide open, trembling mouth then slides down to bite at his Adam's apple, suck at the hollow of his throat, then farther still to take a nipple between his teeth.
Jeremy sobs and comes. His stomach contracts against Jean's and his release sticks to their skin, hot and thick, joining Jean's come until they are a terrible mess.
Jean lets his body fall fully onto Jeremy who grunts and whines a little then sighs and wraps an arm around Jean, his legs falling wide open.
A very pleasant exhaustion burrows bone deep into Jean. He doesn't fight it. He just breathes in the scent of Jeremy and sex and traces the line of Jeremy's pec and gazes sleepily at his window which is now radiant with yellow sunlight.
"Wow," Jeremy whispers.
Jean would like to look at him but the effort it would take is not worth it. Instead, he hums his agreement and kisses Jeremy's sternum.
He bounces up a down a little with the chuckle Jeremy lets out. Jean replaces his kiss with a scowl which makes Jeremy laugh harder, but he runs a hand down Jean's spine that is soothing enough that Jean doesn't bother letting the rest of his hackles raise.
They stay like that for a few moments, heavy and sated and warm and stuck to each other. But then, Jeremy breaks the quiet, lovely stillness.
"Hey, Jean," Jeremy says, still a little hushed.
"What?"
"This, um. Well, this—" He clears his throat and then two fingers are pressing up underneath Jean's chin. He allows them to move him until he's looking up at Jeremy whose expression is…complex. "I mean this—" He releases his touch on Jean and gestures between and around them.
"Yes," Jean says slowly. "I am aware you are talking about this." He copies Jeremy's hand gesture. "Get to the point."
Jeremy purses his lips and glares. "Rude."
Jean shrugs.
Jeremy laughs. "Okay. I just—This was good. Right? Like, really good. And uh, you are—I mean I—" He blows out a breath and stops completely.
"Jeremy," Jean says. He doesn't continue until Jeremy looks at him, so sweet and sincere and bumbling and sweet. "It was good. I like this with you. I like…everything with you. So—" He lowers his brows and adopts a stern expression he means one hundred percent. "You're sleeping with me from now on, yes?"
Jeremy's eyes go wide, and for a second, he looks like he is going to laugh but he doesn't. He just swallows and releases a shaky breath and says, "Ah, heh, yeah. Yeah. I'm—Just you."
Jean smiles. "Just me?"
"Just you."
Jean's heart threatens to lodge itself into his throat. "Just you," he says too.
They are horribly disheveled. Jeremy's shorts and underwear down around his ankles. Jean's shirt damp and bunched up around his collar bone while his own pants and underwear are riding low on his ass. Jeremy's hair is wild, a golden disarray with strands stuck to his temples. Their skin is slick and tacky and pink everywhere they touch—thighs, hips, stomach, chests.
It's the best mess Jean has been a part of. Strangely intimate too. So, he gets comfortable on top of Jeremy, shimmying his hips in between Jeremy's spread eagle and still trembling thighs. Sighs when Jeremy starts tracing shapes on his bare arm. Hums at the new feeling of his soft cock against Jeremy's.
Everything begins to cool down. The hot rush dissipating, leaving behind only a lingering sweetness.
Jean keeps his eyes open, to see the miles of Jeremy's skin open to him, to see the sunshine reaching out for them and cascading over their intertwined bodies, to stamp this moment into his memory, to stay away from the darkness his closed eyes bring.
Eventually, Jean's content starts to break down. The come they are covered in has cooled and started to dry, leaving Jean itchy and unsettled. His skin plastered to Jeremy's kind of chafes. Unpleasant. All of it.
"Clean," Jean mumbles into Jeremy's chest.
Jeremy makes a questioning noise and punctuates it with two taps against Jean's bicep.
"Clean," Jean grunts. "We are…nasty. I don't like it anymore."
Jeremy snorts and shifts which makes their attached tummies separate with raspy squelch. "Yeah, okay. You're right."
"Of course I am," Jean replies while heaving himself upward. Separating his body from Jeremy's is a feat, in more ways than one and for several reasons, but soon enough they are detached and he is looming over Jeremy while on his knees.
It is indecent. Filthy. The spread of Jeremy under him. Legs wide open, hair mussed, muscles tawny and shiny with sweat. Pale, near translucent strings of come painting his belly and chest. His eyes dark and twinkling and decadent. All of him so bare for Jean.
Jean feels for a moment he should look away. He shouldn't be seeing any of this. But Jeremy is so pretty, so fine in a way that is delicate but not, and he's like this because of Jean so Jean might as well reap the rewards of it.
A job well done, that's what this is.
"Smug is a good look on you," Jeremy murmurs, reaching up to poke at the smirk Jean didn't even realize he was wearing.
Jean hums and ducks his head, looking away from Jeremy as he tucks himself back into his pants and shoves his shirt back down. Exposure and vulnerability aren't new to him, but in this context they are, even if having Jeremy's eyes on him has only ever been a good thing that Jean wants to keep.
He has to practically peel Jeremy off the bed, his very bones loose and uncooperative as Jean pulls and yanks at him. Jean does get him up though and then they are carefully stumbling to the bathroom, thankfully without running into Cat or Laila. Jean knows he wouldn't survive such an interaction.
Cleaning himself off beside Jeremy and then helping each other with whatever spots get missed is a sweet kind of thing. Natural too. Jeremy's eyes stay on him the whole time, even when he's wiping himself down. Jean is sure his smugness increases enough to be radiant.
Once they are done and fully clothed—except for Jeremy who remains distractedly shirtless which frustrates Jean because he's just had Jeremy, yet the want hasn't lessened or been satiated, if anything it has grown—they meander back to Jean's room.
Jeremy instantly collapses back down on the bed, nose wrinkling at a large wet spot beside him.
Jean plans on making Jeremy change and clean the sheets, but later, right now—
"What're doing?" Jeremy drawls. He's flat on his back with his knees bent and legs hanging off the end of the bed. A glorious sprawl.
He could be a king, Jean thinks then quickly dismisses that thought.
Jean finishes pulling out a change of clothes along with the bag he always takes with him to practice. "Getting ready."
"What? Why? What?"
"Practice, Jeremy. You know, that thing we have today."
"In the afternoon," Jeremy protests as he dramatically hauls himself up.
Jean shrugs then discards his ruined shirt to put on a clean one. "The earlier the start the better. There's a lot we need to perfect. And I am feeling—energetic. Rejuvenated." He throws a half-smile Jeremy's way.
Jeremy exhales long and slow, the color on his cheeks seeming to darken.
Jean can't look at Jeremy like that for long because if he doesn't focus while putting on new pants then he'll trip over himself and like hell is he doing that.
"Come on," Jean demands while looking for socks. He swore he had another clean pair in his dresser, but they are suspiciously absent. "You're coming with me."
Something soft catches against Jean's knuckles. The fuzzy socks Jeremy gave him. He usually only wears them around the apartment and it's certainly going to be too hot for them today, but—
Jean grabs them and quickly puts them on. He'll change out of them soon for practice anyway.
"What are you?" Jeremy groans in complaint, but he gets up from the bed and comes over to Jean's side.
"Determined," Jean answers as he straightens. He tilts his head, thinking, then admits, "Pleased. And somewhat satiated."
"Somewhat!" Jeremy squawks.
Jean grins and it feels so bright, the type of brightness that belongs to Jeremy and the entire sunshine court, a type of brightness he never would have thought to find within himself. "It's okay, Jeremy. You can wear me out on the court, can't you?"
The sun must be tucked behind Jeremy's teeth because its light spills out of Jeremy's mouth and shines on Jean when Jeremy laughs and smiles. He puts his hands on Jean's hips. Jean cups his elbows, completing their little circuit.
"So an orgasm makes you all sunny and eager, huh? I can work with that." Jeremy leans in and presses his smile to Jean's mouth.
Jean is warm warm warm. Fit to burst. Made of unquenchable fire. God, how Jeremy makes him burn. He may turn to ash soon enough but until then he will enjoy this.
"I meant it, y'know," Jeremy says, pulling Jean closer and rocking up on his tiptoes.
Jean wraps his arms around Jeremy's shoulders and accepts the meeting of his cheek and Jeremy's lips. "Meant what?"
"What I said." Jeremy motions his head back toward the bed.
"You'll have to be more specific. You talk a lot generally, but especially during sex it seems."
Jeremy blushes but doesn't back down. "You're everything. That's what I meant."
"Oh." It's ridiculous and dangerous. Jean can't let it be true. But— "Okay."
Then, in French, "You are the joy of my life," because he has to offer Jeremy something in exchange and nothing is more terribly true than that.
The sound Jeremy makes is battered and bruised. Jean swallows it up when Jeremy kisses him.
This with Jeremy is wild and risky, Jeremy is wild and risky, but Jean thinks that despite that, Jeremy might be the safest thing he could find for himself.
Jean kisses and kisses and kisses Jeremy back, and he is the warmest he has ever been.