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- Kevin
There are no birthdays in the Nest.
There had been no birthdays for Jean before the Nest either, no cakes or presents or parties. It wasn’t something he’d ever missed, because it had never been something he’d experienced before; he’d seen, sometimes, at youth exy his teammates bringing in a cake to share after class, the other children swarming around it in an excited mass, but he’d never been allowed to join them, had been whisked back into his mother’s car and their apartment in Sainte-Anne before Jean could even think about the possibility of joining.
It had seemed normal, then, that birthdays hadn’t been celebrated when he’d come to the Nest. Jean had overheard, a few times, some of the grumblings from the others, furtive congratulations shared between the freshmen who didn’t know any better at that point, but he’d been so focused on his own survival that he hadn’t paid much attention to the whispering that was going on around him. Birthdays, Christmas, holidays - they were all meaningless to him anyway, there was nothing for him to miss.
Still, Kevin had, for reasons unknown to Jean, decided to give him little gifts, tiny souvenirs picked up on his travels with Riko to prove to Jean that the world outside of the Nest still did, in fact, exist.
There weren’t many magnets or postcards, not really, and Kevin had a habit of hiding them under Jean’s pillow rather than giving them to him directly. Still, Jean had hoarded them like a magpie, a small stockpile of glimpses into an outside world that was as alien and fantastical as the fairy-tales he’d told Elodie, once upon a time, tucked under the childhood safety of his blanket. In an environment as tightly controlled as the Nest, it seemed unfathomable to have objects of his own and he clung to them, tracing the pictures and hard edges of the magnets over and over with his thumb. The places they show, the stories scrawled on the back, don’t seem real, a history and everyday life that Jean had never been allowed to experience before.
It’s why, even after Kevin goes, leaves him stranded and alone in the Nest in a way that Jean knows is necessary but can’t help but resent Kevin for, he can’t bear to part with them. They’re the only thing he has, the only reminder that a world outside of the Nest, outside of the pain and the terror and all-encompassing survival mode even exists. Jean doesn’t look at them, simply runs his finger tips over the glossy images where they’re tucked in the gap between his mattress and his bed, traces the wooden grooves of the magnets where they stick to the metal frame, and revels in this small act of defiance, the scraps of individuality that he clings to after everything else has been so violently stripped away. It’s only fitting then that they get destroyed when Jean finally leaves the Nest, the severance of that last tether Jean had never asked for in the first place.
The Ravens only know how to take, after all.
He gets one postcard back, before the Ravens burn that as well, scorching the ties he has to any sense of himself as a person. Jean doesn’t mind as much; in the face of everything that’s been lost, one single postcard is hardly significant. He’s more concerned about the other items that had gone, the sand dollar Cat had found him, the wristband from the fireworks Jeremy had dragged him to, even the shirts that he and Laila had so painstakingly chosen in the mall until they’d both become overwhelmed and frazzled. Jean clings to the memories associated with each of the objects, all that he is left with, and he doesn’t have the grip to hold on to Kevin’s guilty postcard as well. He’d barely had time to process the fact Kevin had sent him one at all before it had turned into ash, let alone unpack and come to terms with all of the emotions that had been attached with it.
There’s too much history between them, too much hurt and betrayal that Jean isn’t sure how they could ever move on except separately. Jean’s not sure if it could have been called love, before, or if it was just a childish crush on the first person who’d shown him any kind of care or kindness. Jean hadn’t been allowed to dwell on it long enough to figure it out, because Riko had caught him looking one too many times and Jean very quickly learned that those sorts of feelings were not permitted in the Nest. Theirs was a twisted relationship, one born out of closeness and a need to survive somehow, in any way, and Jean isn’t sure where they stand now, how they could ever be friends after escaping that nightmare. An entire country and more exists between them, and Jean knows that whatever they had between them would never be replaced, the edges too jagged and broken. It was too difficult to be in love with someone who had no interest in reciprocating, too scared to let any of those emotions show. Kevin had always had an ability to stick his foot in his mouth, and it often resulted in a rusted knife in Jean’s back.
Still, that wasn’t to say there could only be nothing. Jean reaches out first this time, picking up a postcard from the same bookshop his Trojan shirt had come from that first day in LA. It’s red and gold, like everything is in California, but, importantly, it’s not red and black, and that was all that really matters. He buys it and Jeremy gives him a stamp, and even though Jean simply signs his name rather than write any real message it seems to be enough, judging by the short text from Kevin he receives a few weeks later.
Thank you for the postcard.
It’s not much, but finally the knot that is Kevin existing in Jean’s chest starts to ease. They couldn’t be what they were, whatever that had been, but maybe they could learn how to be friends outside of the Nest.
For once, the idea didn’t seem too bad.
- Cat
Generally, there’s not much arguing between Jean and his roommates. There’s the odd bout of bickering, particularly when they’re tired from games or practice, and the occasional snapped word when stressed over coursework and tests, but generally things tend to take a pretty even keel and are worlds away from the perpetual tension that had hung over the Nest like a shroud. There are moments where fraught tensions counterbalance the tenderness they so painstakingly carve out, but they continue to try and create some semblance of a home out of the sterility of the new apartment, carefully picking out the objects they want to bring into their lives as if that could make up for everything that they had lost in the fire.
Arguments do happen though, because they’re human, times where their tempers burn hot out of fear and frustration. They’re usually resolved quickly, before voices become too raised and words turn into something unforgivable, too sharp for the inflicted wounds to ever heal, turning instead to little actions to soothe over any hurts that had been caused. They rarely evolve into fights, and the first time Jean sees it, he’s left not quite knowing what to do.
Jean doesn’t actually realise that Cat and Laila are in a fight until it’s too late, both the front and their bedroom doors slamming shut in quick succession as each storm out of the living room. Jean and Jeremy are left in their wake, semi floundering at the interruption to what Jean had thought to be a fairly peaceful and mundane afternoon. Jabberwocky whines at the disruption, nosing at Jean’s leg for reassurance over a matter Jean’s not entirely sure of.
“What was that about?” he asks, hand falling to Jabberwocky’s head all the same. Jeremy just shrugs.
“Not sure but it’s been brewing for a couple of days.”
“How can you tell?” Jean feels justified in his bewilderment, considering how closely he’s had to be attuned to others’ mood changes, and there had been no indications that this had been in the pipeline.
“I’ve known them a long time, it always goes like this. I’m going to see if I can catch Laila, check she’s alright. Will you be okay here?”
“Yes, go,” Jean says, shooing him off. “Take the dog with you.”
“You know, one day you’ll have to admit that you like him,” Jeremy jokes, even as he crosses to where the lead is hanging from a hook. Jabberwocky immediately perks up, abandoning Jean where he was still petting him, and Jean crosses his arms over his chest.
“Lies.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that. We’ll be back in a bit, I’ll text when we’re on our way. Let’s go see Laila!” Jeremy adds, turning to the dog and herding him out of the apartment. Jean watches them go, the apartment turning suddenly eerily quiet as soon as the door shuts once more, and part of him wishes that he’d insisted on going with Jeremy. That, though, would have left Cat on her own, and Jean could never be that cruel.
He considers knocking on Cat’s door to check on her, find out what exactly had happened, but he hesitates. Jean knows he’s not the best at comfort or reassurance, too out of practice after so long in the Nest where that sort of compassion had been considered a weakness and any weaknesses deemed unacceptable. He’s not sure if he would be welcome regardless, if Cat is more like him than she cares to admit, needs the time and space to come to terms with her feelings before inflicting them on company. Jean’s been on the other side of the door often enough since moving to California, but he’s not sure how to fit into this role reversal without causing further damage or upset.
He drifts a little, straightening the odd cushion and twitching the many blankets back into place on the back of the sofa. The apartment is pretty clean already, the routines from the old house already imported into the new apartment, and Jean finds himself in the kitchen, sitting at the bar top and thumbing through the recipe book Cat had found the weekend before at the second hand bookstore. They hadn’t had a chance to try any of the recipes yet, too busy in the week with classes and training to attempt anything particularly adventurous, but had been planning on making one of them that evening. Cat had even gone out specially the night before to pick up the ingredients, and now that Jean thinks about it he realises that Jeremy had been correct in his assessment that whatever fight Cat and Laila were having, it had been brewing since at least the night before. It was highly unusual for Cat to go food shopping in the evening, even more so without Laila, and Jean files it away for future consideration and observation.
Instead, he flicks through to the recipe they had been due to try, reading through the list of ingredients and instructions carefully. It takes him longer than he would like to admit, finger following along under the words to make it easier, but when he comes to the end he only has to consider it briefly once more before he’s moving to the fridge and pulling out what he needs, stacking the ingredients carefully on the side as he does so.
It’s not like cooking with Cat. With Cat, there’s music and talking, an easy companionship as they spin meat, vegetables, spices and sauces into things Jean has never seen or heard of before. Cat will talk him through what they’re doing, explain the macronutrients of the dish, show him the different techniques and give him specific tasks to complete, interspersing it all with various anecdotes about her family, Laila, the rest of the team, her classmates, and any other thought that seemed to cross her mind. It was, in its own chaotic way, peaceful, with no particular pressure for Jean to engage or behave in a specified way. All he had to do was whatever task he had been given, and it was enough to give him some stillness at the end of each day.
This, though, is difficult. Despite the recipe supposedly being French, an attempt from Cat to help Jean feel connected to a country that he was ambivalent towards at best, he had never heard of it or tried it and the dish was completely foreign to him. Jean follows along as best he can, re-reading each instruction carefully and trying not to swear too loudly when the book expects him to juggle multiple things at once. He’s convinced that the author had never actually bothered to try the recipe out, or if they had then they had clearly been cooking with a whole army of staff to help, and he considers chucking the book off the balcony more than once.
He doesn’t though, because if there’s anything that Jean knows how to do it’s endure, and an hour and a half later (and not the thirty minutes the book had promised), he has a fairly serviceable dish. He gives it one last stir, scraping it away from the edges so it doesn’t burn just the way that Cat had taught him, before turning down the heat and putting a lid on top. According to the book all that’s left is to let it simmer and thicken until it’s ready to be served, and Jean takes the opportunity to clear the mess that he’s made in the process.
He’s just finished wiping down the side when the bedroom door creaks, Cat slipping out and into the kitchen, settling at one of the stools. Jean notices her out of the corner of his eyes, sees the way her mouth is tugging down at the edges in a way that feels at odds with Cat’s usual exuberant nature, the red rims of her eyes, but chooses not to say anything. Instead, he pulls out two bowls, both of them mismatching and one with a slight chip in the rim already, and fishes some forks out of the drawer.
“It smells good,” Cat says eventually, as Jean is concentrating on ladling it out of the pot. It’s a subdued comment, but a comment all the same, and Jean matches her tone in his reply.
“Thank you. It is from the cookbook.”
“You didn’t have to. We could have ordered in.”
“I wanted to,” Jean says, carrying the bowls over and placing one in front of her. He hesitates, unsure what to do next, but when he places one, halting, hand lightly to her back, she tips into his side. He slides the hand around to Cat’s side in an approximation of a hug, leaning his cheek to the top of her head, and asks, “what happened?”
“Just an argument. It’s stupid, it was over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you were crying,” Jean says, and Cat blushes, looking down.
“I cry a lot,” she sniffs, sitting back up straight and offering a watery smile. “It’s kind of annoying. I just… all of this isn’t forever, you know?” Cat waves an expansive hand around the room and Jean frowns, not quite following her train of thought, but Cat explains before he can ask. “Laila and Jeremy graduate this year. And I know they need to, that it’s good, and I’m excited for them and know that they’ll go off to do amazing, beautiful things, but I’m not at that point yet. I’ll still be here when they’re gone, and just… I knew this would happen, when Laila and I got together, but I didn’t expect it to come so soon . And I got scared, and Laila’s scared because it’s a big deal for her as well, and it’s just come out in the stupidest, pettiest of ways. We were arguing over nail varnish, that’s not something to fight over.”
“I will still be here,” Jean says, not quite sure which part of Cat’s short speech to focus on and instead grabbing onto the first thing that registered. “I’m not Laila, or Jeremy, but I’ll be here and I can be your friend.”
Cat looks at him, studies his face, and Jean’s not quite sure what it is she’s searching for but it doesn’t seem to matter when she turns in her seat slightly and grabs both of his hands in hers, holding tightly and squeezing.
“Jean, you already are my friend. You’re right, you will still be here, and I’m glad you will be. We’ll have the best year, and we can show off your mad cooking skills when they come to visit.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” Jean warns, and Cat laughs, letting go of his hands and turning back to her dinner, scooping up a mouthful and shoving the whole fork in her mouth in a manner that has Jean wrinkling his nose. “You eat like a child.”
“It’s delicious,” Cat says, the words garbled around the food still in her mouth, and Jean reaches over to grab a paper napkin and throw it at her.
“Disgusting.”
“You love me anyway,” Cat counters, once she’s managed to chew and swallow the food.
“I don’t know why,” Jean replies, but he bumps their shoulders together gently to take any sting out of his words.
“It is good though,” Cat adds, eating at a slightly more sedate pace. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Jean says, before picking up his own fork.
It’s a little while before Laila and Jeremy return, Laila gesturing to their bedroom with a small, hopeful expression on her face. Cat slips from her stool immediately, but she reaches out and squeezes Jean’s arm as she passes, and Jean nods in understanding.
- Laila
It’s rarely just Jean and Laila in the apartment. It’s not that they spend no time together; they live together, but usually there’s Cat or Jeremy or both there as well, and the pairings are carved up differently as a result. Jean’s still not quite sure how he fits into the equation of Laila’s life. Jeremy is his partner and Cat is… Cat, the person he can ask questions of and who can get him out of his head, but Laila is Cat and Jeremy’s, a counterbalance to them both that lifts them up and grounds them as needed. Jean is her roommate, and friend, but he’s not fully sure he knows how to be either, both of them foreign concepts when all he’s really known is the toxic co-dependency of the Nest, a seething hive-mind of competitiveness and cruelty.
He tries, though, is still trying, follows the cleaning rota and learns some of Laila’s favourite dishes from Cat to surprise Laila with on her birthday; goes with her to the vets for Jabberwocky’s check up; shows her the pots of plants he’s started growing and listens to her advice about flowers. It’s a reciprocal sort of care, with Laila making sure to get the fruits Jean prefers for snacks when grocery shopping; offering the use of the TV whenever she catches Jean huddled on his bed watching exy games on his laptop; showing Jean a yoga routine to go through on the rare occasion that it’s raining outside, preventing Jean from going on his usual run.
It’s a quiet type of co-existence, one without fanfare and exuberance, but Jean wonders if maybe he should do more.
Jean’s perched on his bed when the tapping knock comes, notebook out and pen ready to dissect the various new plays that Penn State had adopted over the course of the year. He’d only paid attention to the old rivals peripherally so far, focus taken up instead with learning new teams in the western division that rarely made it into the knockout rounds, as well as the myriad of other requirements that came with being a fully functioning member of society rather than simply existing within the rigid, predetermined parameters of the Nest. It had, frankly, been an exhausting year, and Jean hadn’t realised that his preparations for the knockouts had dipped until he’d realised they were two weeks away from the Penn State game and his usual - Raven - tactics were no longer available.
It was an unforgivable oversight and one that Jean was determined to rectify as quickly as possible, even if that means shutting himself up in his room as soon as he gets back from class or practice, huddled on his bed over his laptop, the headphones Cat and Laila had given him for Christmas firmly in place until he’s tugged away to help with dinner, bringing his notebook with him to share his findings with Cat. She just nods along and Jean has a vague sense he’s being humoured, but if even just one of the points he makes sticks it will be all for the best.
It’s because of the headphones that Jean doesn’t hear the knocking at first, not until it comes again just after he’s paused the game to jot down some sort of scribbled diagram of the play Jean had seen over and over again in his cramming. He looks up just as Laila pokes her head around the door, pushing the headphones to the side to hear.
“Cat’s just texted, she’s stuck doing her project in the library and to go ahead with dinner without her.”
Jean glances at the time in the corner of his laptop, a little surprised to see how late it was getting, and shuts the lid, untangling himself from the headphones and uncurling from his position on the bed.
“Jeremy is at his mother’s,” Jean confirms, following Laila out into the living room. Laila nods.
“Yep, just us two and Jab tonight. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do about food.”
“Cat was going to show me a recipe,” Jean says, drifting over to the kitchen and opening the fridge door. “But I am not sure exactly what it was. I could ask,” he adds, tapping on the open door with his fingertips in thought.
“Or,” Laila says, hoisting herself up to perch on the kitchen island and swinging her legs once comfortable, “we could get takeout.”
“Takeout,” Jean repeats, slow and uncertain.
“Yep! Jab needs a walk anyway, we can pick it up on the way back.”
“What would we be eating exactly?” Jean asks, closing the fridge door and leaning against the countertop, the edge digging into his back.
“Whatever you wanted. You liked that biryani Ananya ordered right? We could go there again, or try somewhere else maybe.”
Jean thinks about it, glances between the closed fridge door and Laila’s hopeful expression, thinks of all the new things he’d tried since joining the Trojans. He’d liked the biryani, and had had it a couple more times since, but he’d also been enjoying trying the new recipes with Cat, slowly expanding his experience of different dishes and cuisines. Normally, they go through the recipe first, working out all of the macronutrients together, but Jean thinks he’s learned enough by now to be able to do it himself and trusts Laila enough to help him with anything unfamiliar.
“Where else did you have in mind?”
“Not sure yet, but we could have a look whilst we’re walking.”
Jean straightens, reaching for Jabberwocky’s lead from where it’s been left to snake across the kitchen counter.
“Alright then. Let’s go now.”
Laila grins, hopping down from her perch, and it doesn’t take long for Jabberwocky to appear with tapping paws across the wooden floors, staring at Jean expectantly until he clips on the lead.
They end up getting Chinese food from a place not far from their building, Jean waiting outside with Jabberwocky whilst Laila goes in and orders. They eat it sprawled out over the sofa when they get back, cartons spread out across the coffee table and revel in the extra space. Jean uses his foot to gently nudge Jabberwocky’s nose away from the food every time it gets a little close, the dog wandering off to huff in his bed by the balcony doors until he thinks Jean is distracted enough to try again.
“Jabberwocky, no. This is human food. It is not for dogs,” Jean says sternly after the fourth round of this, Laila snorting into her plate of noodles.
“He just wants to join in the fun.”
“He is being a pest and he knows it.”
“Aw, Jabby, you’re not a pest,” Laila coos, even as Jabberwocky curls up in his bed properly this time, apparently accepting the fact that he is not getting any of the takeout. Laila pauses, her chopsticks hovering over her food, before pinching another mouthful of noodles. “What made you change your mind? About having a dog?”
Jean hums, only half concentrating as he tries to get used to his own chopsticks. “You and Jeremy wanted one. It made you happy.”
“He does,” Laila says, quietly, and it’s enough for Jean to look up from his food. Laila’s watching him, and Jean’s not quite sure what to make of her expression, isn’t sure he’s seen it before. “Does he make you happy?”
“I- yes,” Jean replies, a little startled by the question. “Although I was not expecting him to, and he is quite a ridiculous creature.” He picks up his chopsticks again, trying to get them back into a position where he can snag some food, but his fingers slip and the chicken falls back into the rice. He sighs, leaning forward to put the plate on the coffee table.
“Do you want me to get you a fork?” Laila asks, amused, and Jean sighs again, taking the plate once more.
“No. I will figure it out.”
“I can show you? If you want?”
Jean nods, turning slightly so he can see what Laila does. She shows him how to hold them, reaching out to adjust his hold, and cheers when Jean is finally able to pinch some of his food up and eat it.
“See? Easy once you get the hang of it.”
“Maybe you are just good with your fingers.”
“Jean Moreau!” Laila exclaims, loud enough for Jabberwocky to lift his head up from where he’s curled up in his bed. “Was that a dirty joke? You’re spending too much time with Cat.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Jean replies a little haughtily that he almost immediately gives away as being fake when he’s not able to stop the little twitch of his mouth threatening a smile. “I was merely complimenting your dexterity.”
“Complimenting my ass. Hey, do you want to learn something else you can do with your fingers?”
“What is it? Laila,” Jean warns, as Laila puts down her own food and gets up, heading to her and Cat’s bedroom.
“Relax, I’ll be back in a second.”
Her words do nothing to reassure Jean, who remains tense right up until she returns, brandishing a hair brush and one of Cat’s oversized scrunchies.
“I already know how to brush and braid hair.”
“I was going to show you a new braid, it’s easier to do on another person. Really the scrunchie is too big, but I couldn’t find any smaller hairbands. Do you want to?”
“Yes,” Jean says slowly, “but maybe after dinner?”
“Sure. Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes. It is much better than what Josten tried to make me eat.”
“Not so much a fan of Thai food then?”
“Not really. I like rice more than noodles.”
He picks up more of his food, getting more and more confident with the motion until he’s finished. He puts the plate back on the table once he’s done, holding his hand out for the brush. Laila passes it to him, sliding off the couch and settling on the floor in front of him, and Jean passes the brush through her hair slowly, carefully untangling the snags that have built up over the course of the day until there are no more catches.
“Okay,” Jean says, once he’s finished. “What do I need to do? Three sections right?”
“Uh, no, just two for this one.” Jean does so, parting Laila’s hair down the middle and holding onto each half. “Okay, and then you just- maybe if I show you, to start off with?”
Jean nods, relinquishing the hair to Laila’s hands. She slowly starts weaving small sections together, Jean watching closely until he’s picked up the pattern and takes over. It’s more complicated than the one he’d done on the balcony and requires more of his concentration, but it stays neater than the last time he’d tried to braid Laila’s hair, even if most of it is obscured by the scrunchie.
“Is it okay?”
Laila reaches behind to run her fingers along what she can reach, and nods. “Perfect. Well done.”
“Looks like I am also good with my fingers.”
“Very dextrous. But maybe save that line for Jeremy.”
Jean blushes a bright, hot, red, cheeks burning in a way that makes him curse his own traitorous body and thank what few lucky stars he seems to have that Laila still has her back to him so she can’t see. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Sure,” she replies, clearly disbelieving, but mercifully drops the subject and even offers Jean an out to recover. “Did you want to keep watching your exy game?”
“Oh. I can, if you have something you need to do.”
“I meant out here, Jean. With me. Give you a goalie’s perspective.”
“Let me get my notes.”
They end up settled side by side, sharing quips and comments about Penn’s play-style, and Jean thinks that maybe just being together is enough.
- Tanner
Jean never considered himself a mentor, a teacher, a coach. At the Nest, the only thing he’d ever taught was French to Kevin, which had only given him grief and pain in the long run; otherwise, he’d always been a student or a partner, any techniques shared only due to desperation to avoid punishment. He’d learned the game from his little league coaches in Marseille, then learned it again from The Master Coach Moriyama, Thea taking pity in between and showing him the tricks she’s learned so that Jean could avoid the spotlight of The Mast Coach Moriyama’s attention. They were not given easily, Thea’s instructions sharp and commanding, but they were given freely unlike so much in the Nest and Jean had hoarded them, honed them until he’d reached a place where he could add a few of his own.
They were his, and his alone, the other backliners not worthy of them even if they had been prepared to listen to Jean in the first place. Every so often, Jean wondered about teaching them to Nathaniel, if and when he ever chose to arrive, but thirty seconds in the presence of him at the winter formal was enough to stop all and any of those thoughts. He’d buried them even further when Natha Neil came to the Nest that winter break, two - three - two whole weeks of painful incompetence that left Jean aching and frustrated, and then abandoned them completely when Nath Neil had left at the end of winter break, returning back to Palmetto. Jean had dropped him off at the airport, driven as slowly as he’d dared back to the Nest, and tried not to mourn what could have been, instead forcing himself to feel relieved that he hadn’t wasted the precious tips he’d learned on someone who was so determined to be a striker.
After, there came the Trojans, a whole new world in California where the light is golden and everything is upside down. The culture shock of it all is as exhausting as it is bewildering, a constant battle between what is expected of him and everything he knows. It grates on him, trying to override years of practice that have become instinct, but he does his best, knows that it’s his one shot at survival.
Then Tanner, fearless little Tanner who doesn’t seem to have the same wariness towards Jean that the others on the team seem to be trying to hide, comes up to him to ask about Raven drills. Jean tries to brush him off, tries to avoid bringing any part of the festering wound that is the Nest to the Golden Court, but Tanner is nothing if not persistent and Jean has an almost morbid curiosity to see what Raven drills would look like on the Trojan team. The decision is, ultimately, taken out of his hands when Tanner goes above his head to the coaches, and Jean is not about to go against their wishes or argue back. It’s almost the most frustrating experience Jean has had, right below Nath Neil’s stint in the Nest, and Jean’s surprised he hasn’t bitten his own tongue off in an attempt to hold back the sort of scathing words that he wished had been levelled at himself rather than the other correctional methods that had been used.
“How’s it going?” Jeremy asks one night, helping Jean stack cones back up in the corner after one of the extra practices, Jean having already shooed the freshmen off towards the locker room. Jean shoots him a withering glare, jaw working, and it only deepens when Jeremy laughs in response.
Eventually though, week by week and practice by practice, Jean starts to see the improvement. The accuracy is greater, and the speed, and although it’s not at the pace that would have been expected in the Nest, Jean feels a part of him settle, a deep satisfaction curling in his bones as he watches Tanner and Maddie and the little collection of others that have gathered as the semester progressed start to master the techniques Jean had taught them. He’s always slightly surprised when anyone even shows up, a small part of him that seems to exist in a near perpetual state of anxiety that his place in California is some sort of temporary dream that’s too fragile to bear the weight of the reality of Jean, that his position here will crack and send him hurtling straight back to the Nest, but without fail each time there’s a small gaggle of teammates waiting patiently for the next drill, the next instruction, dragging Jean a little further each time into the team’s dynamic and moulding the Raven drills into something that’s distinctly Trojan.
It’s a quiet kind of pride, but pride all the same, small flickers here and there that has Jean remember the parts of the game he’d fallen in love with in the first place.
The drills are put to the test late in November, when there are only two more games left of the semester. They’re down to a skeleton team after a nasty illness rips through them, players falling like dominos and leaving the rest scrambling to cover. Luckily, the way that the rest of the season had gone meant that they didn’t need to worry about qualifying for championships in the New Year, but that didn’t mean the game wasn’t an important one. Most of their games so far had featured particular key players, and all of the Trojans were anxious to show that their strategies were teamwide, to avoid the targeting of specific players by less scrupulous teams, and it had also provided the coaches with an opportunity to test some of the freshmen before they take their spots the following year. The illness had hit the backline the day before the game, relegating most of them to the bench or to their beds, and leaving Jean, Cat, and his little posse of after-practice freshmen to try and pick up the slack.
It’s a scrappy game, even with Jean directing his fellow backliners in an attempt to keep the ball away from the goal. He doesn’t care enough to remember where the opposing team have come from, much less learn their names, but there is clearly either some sort of vendetta or desire to exploit an opportunity to win over the Trojans judging by the way they’re unabashedly racking up yellow cards. They’re in the lead when they go back on at half time, but only just, a desperate goal from Ananya right before the buzzer enough to act as buoy and counteract halftime dejectedness, but the huddle is still grim in the locker room as they go through the tactics for the next half, Rhemann’s voice stern and not entertaining room for debate.
Jean is kept back next quarter, ostensibly to regain his breath and energy for the final push, but he can’t stop himself from standing by the benches instead of actually sitting. Tanner has been sent on in his place alongside Cat, the two of them doing their absolute best to keep the ball away from Shane in goal and down the other end of the court. Jean keeps his attention focused on Tanner, having played too many times now with Cat to be worried about her under the pressure of a game. Tanner darts across the court, all long, lanky limbs and a slightly stumbling grace that almost betrays his lack of experience. It’s Raven footwork, the sort of twist-turns that Jean has been trying to adapt into a Trojan friendly version for himself that he hadn’t been aware Tanner had even known about, let alone picked up enough to try for himself.
The stadium is loud, a booming roar of fans chanting and singing, cheering on various players and jeering at the others, yet Jean can’t help but try and be louder as he tries to call out various openings and plays to Tanner and Cat who can’t hear him on the other side of the plexiglass. Their opponents press on the tiredness and inexperience of Cat and Tanner like an exposed nerve, focusing their attention on keeping Cat cornered away from where the striker is bearing down on Tanner and, ultimately, the goal.
Tanner tries, sprinting and leaping for the ball right as it’s being hurled towards the goal in what is, to Jean, a rather unsightly and frantic attempt to equalise the score. Jean watches in near slow motion as Tanner’s arm stretches, as far as possible, and manages to just tap the ball and disrupt its path, before the running jump he’d made in order to reach it in time lands wrong and he ends up in a heap on the court floor, the ball rolling to a stop just short of the sensors in a forlorn corner of the goal box.
“You’re up, Moreau,” Coach Rhemann says rather gruffly, watching as Tanner is ushered off the court, and Jean nods, already fixing his helmet into place and taking his position on the court.
The game passes quickly, and they manage to scrape a win by the skin of their teeth. Jean feels exhausted, as do most of the others on the court, Cat coming over to lean against Jean’s side as soon as the final buzzer sounds.
“All I want to do is take a really hot shower, eat a mountain of pasta, and not move for the next week,” she grumbles into his shoulder, and Jean pats awkwardly at her back.
“You should stretch as well, otherwise your muscles will seize up and recovery time will take longer.”
“That’s remarkably well adjusted of you,” Cat replies, before they part and line up for the handshakes.
Jean doesn’t see Tanner again until they’re filing out of the changing rooms and getting ready to climb back onto the bus, Tanner hovering by the door looking rather forlorn and a brace strapped around his right wrist. Jean’s not sure if he’s ever seen Tanner looking so dejected, shoulders pulled up towards his ears and foot scuffing at the ground. Jean frowns, then taps on Jeremy’s elbow.
“I will meet you on the bus.”
“Okay,” Jeremy agrees, turning briefly to Jean before continuing to chatter away to Laila whilst they wait for Cat. Jean drifts away, clutching at the strap of his bag to prevent it from slipping down his shoulder, stopping in front of Tanner and waiting for him to look up.
“Hey Jean,” Tanner greets, and even his tone is off, not quite meeting Jean’s eyes. It’s enough for Jean’s expression to narrow, his mouth creasing into a flat line.
“What happened to your wrist?”
“Just a sprain. I landed on it awkwardly.” Jean watches as Tanner fiddles with the edge of the brace, running a finger over the stitching of the fabric. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, still avoiding meeting Jean’s eyes.
“Why?” That, at least, startles Tanner into looking up, apparently confused by the question, but Jean doesn’t wait for an explanation. “You were playing well. It was your first game, in an unusual line up that has not been tested in an actual game before, against an unruly opponent.”
“But I couldn’t finish the game.”
“You were injured,” Jean says simply, pointing to the brace. “And likely would have been more so had you continued playing. You still stopped the goal. You did well,” Jean repeats, a little softer this time, and Tanner’s shoulders finally slump back into their usual position, the tension bleeding out at Jean’s words. They feel a little foreign in his mouth, the knowledge that all Jean could have hoped for in the Nest was sharp criticism for his failings in the post-game review, but he’d been with the Trojans long enough now to know that the kinder, softer words were preferred. He’d never thought of himself as either kind or soft, but Jean finds himself wanting to at least pretend, even for a short while. “I am proud of you. You should be as well.”
The doors to the bus finally open and Jean climbs on, not wanting to stick around to see the impact of his words, the first time he’d ever said them to anyone else. He doesn’t quite get his wish, Tanner calling out to him before Jean’s even reached the first step.
“Thanks, Jean. See you Monday after practice?”
“If your wrist is healed. I want you to show me that footwork. I have an idea for you.”
Tanner doesn’t say anything further and Jean settles into his usual seat, stowing his bag into the overhead storage, and decides to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of the evening.
- Jeremy
The thing Jean has learned about Jeremy is that he is very, very good at pretending to be fine. Even Jean had made the same assumptions as everyone else when he’d first heard about Jeremy, the sunshine captain of the west coast, the epitome of the clean-cut, borderline righteous way the whole team played. The interest Jean had initially had at the glossy magazines Kevin had shown him had quickly turned to a scoffing derision that anyone could choose not to play violently in this godforsaken sport, that it could be anything but pain and misery, a form of subjugation for the weak.
Jean doesn’t think that way much anymore, and he definitely doesn’t believe Jeremy’s own pretences. It’s one of the first things that he notices beyond the bewilderment that is California, breaking through the bright haze of colour and vibrancy that had been absent from his life for so long. When he learns the truth, learns about Noah, it makes a little more sense, slotting in alongside his own grief. Jeremy promises not to lie to him, but Jean doesn’t think that Jeremy is even capable of telling the truth when it comes to his feelings, and instead Jean resigns himself to watching, discerning when Jeremy is actually fine and when the corners of his mouth are a little too tense, a pinching at the edge of his eyes that gives him away.
He’s got better at it over time, as the two of them grew closer and ended up tangling themselves into a relationship that seemed to be inevitable to all of their friends except for Kevin, who’d been surprised but generally, Jean thinks, supportive. Now that Jean could look, could watch Jeremy without fear of being caught, the minute changes in his expressions had become all the more noticeable. Jean had dedicated hours and hours to learning each part of Jeremy, mapping every microscopic part of his body and committing it all to memory. Every smile, each freckle that appeared in the sun, all the gasped mentions of Jean’s name were filed away, a mental Rolodex of information that Jean would spend forever adding to, if he could.
This, though, doesn’t need any special kind of decoding to know that Jeremy’s mood is off. He’d been quiet and twitchy the entire drive to Jean’s appointment, edges of his mouth tight and downturned in his most obvious of tells. Jean’s not really sure how to help, has never been particularly good at coaxing thoughts and feelings out of others. He knows that if he asked, Jeremy would tell him, had already promised not to lie to Jean, but Jean holds back, not wanting to pressure Jeremy into giving away more of himself than he is willing to.
The atmosphere is just as quiet and strained on the way back, and Jean thinks about it the whole ride to the Lofts, locking away the memories and emotions the therapy session had dragged back up to the surface and focusing instead on the problem at hand. It works well enough as a distraction, and by the time they’re climbing the stairs up to the apartment, a plan has started to form in Jean’s mind. Jabberwocky rushes them when the door is unlocked, the apartment otherwise empty. Cat and Laila had already told Jean about their plans for the day, something about some sort of museum exhibition Jean for the life of him couldn’t remember the name of, but had wished them a good day before he and Jeremy had left the apartment earlier that morning.
Jean leaves Jeremy to fuss over Jabberwocky, the two of them sprawling across the rug in the living room, and drifts over to their bedroom instead. He fishes his laptop out from under his bed, pausing only for a moment to make sure Jeremy isn’t going to come looking for him, before opening the lid and navigating to the internet browser. It doesn’t take much searching, really. Jeremy had kept the few DVD cases that had somewhat survived the fire, even if they had fused shut and rendered the contents unusable, stacked neatly on the small dresser by the door. Jean copies the titles into Google, navigating the various websites that had popped up and carefully dodging the various adverts that momentarily flashed on the screen until just the movie remains. The fan on his laptop whirs alarmingly, and for a brief moment Jean is worried that it might explode, but then it calms down a little and Jean sets it carefully on the dresser, making sure that there is some sort of airflow just in case and goes to find Jeremy.
Jeremy has, at least, made it to the sofa now, curled up in the corner that he usually sits in, staring out of the window absently and picking at the skin at the corner of his thumbnail. Jabberwocky is perched on the other side, in Jean’s usual seat, looking at Jeremy with his heavy eyes and the most morose expression Jean has ever seen on the dog. He doesn’t even look over when Jean enters the room, which is unusual, and Jeremy isn’t making a fuss of Jabberwocky, which is even more unusual. Jean sighs, then shuffles over to the sofa, standing in front of Jeremy and waiting until Jeremy is looking up at him.
“Come with me.”
“Jean,” Jeremy says, folding in on himself a little more. “I’m not really in the mood to -”
“Jeremy. Come with me.”
Jean doesn’t say it again, stepping back expectantly, but he doesn’t have to. Jeremy heaves himself up out of his seat, Jabberwocky perking up and hopping down after him, and Jean herds them both into their bedroom, trying not to trip over Jabberwocky dancing around his ankles. He ushers Jeremy onto the bed, encouraging him to get comfortable, not even scowling like he usually does when Jabberwocky jumps up onto his bed. Instead, Jean retrieves his laptop and settles down on the mattress next to Jeremy, balancing the laptop across their thighs.
“Jean?” Jeremy asks, and Jean can hear the confusion in his voice. His finger hovers over the play button, suddenly hoping that this was the right move and that he wasn’t about to make things inadvertently worse.
“There is something bothering you. I will not ask what it is,” he adds, stopping Jeremy in his tracks when he opens his mouth to interrupt. “It is your decision, if you want to tell me. But you said that your grandmother’s movies give you comfort, so I thought, maybe, you would want to watch one.”
Jeremy stares at him, expression stunned and seemingly not able to say anything at all. Jean starts to panic, worried that it wasn’t the best plan after all, and he starts to move his finger across the trackpad to shut the site down when Jeremy reaches out and stills Jean’s hand.
“Jean…” he says, a little breathless, and Jean’s whole body freezes and tenses, ready for the judgement about to be passed down.
“We don’t have to - I just thought -” Jean can’t get the words out, the static in his mind too loud to let him organise his thoughts into anything remotely coherent.
“I want to,” Jeremy interrupts, sliding his hand down over Jean’s and lacing their fingers together. “No one’s… nobody has ever offered to watch them with me before, not like this. I can’t believe you even found them.”
“It wasn’t so hard,” Jean says, but relaxes a little now that he knows the offer has been well received. “And if they were not… they are important to you.”
Jeremy makes some sort of noise low in his throat and hides his forehead against Jean’s shoulder. Jean takes it as permission to start the movie after all, and Jeremy resurfaces as the opening credits start. The two of them manoeuvre themselves into a recline against the pillows, a comfortable tangle of limbs on the bed. Jean holds Jeremy tight, drawing his own comfort from the scent of Jeremy’s shampoo and warm weight in his arms.
It’s easy to tell who Jeremy’s grandmother is, even without the sudden squeeze of Jeremy’s fingers the moment she appears on screen. Even with the stage make up and fuzzy edges of the old film, they have the same facial features, the same shade of brown to their eyes that is able to convey such a myriad of emotions. Jean can understand, now, how his grandmother was so successful as an actress. He wonders if in another life Jeremy would have followed in her footsteps, become a famous actor, but Jean can’t fathom another universe where he would be where he is now and doesn’t dwell too long on the what ifs. He’s here now, and that’s enough.
“I passed the LSAT,” Jeremy says finally, right towards the end of the movie when the characters are gearing up for the finale kiss. It’s quietly mumbled, the words caught between Jeremy’s cheek and Jean’s chest where he’s curled up tight, but Jean catches it all the same.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what to do. Mom - she’ll be so happy. But I don’t want to be a lawyer, or go to law school. I thought - I thought I wouldn’t pass, and that would be the end of it. The decision would be made for me and sure Mom would be disappointed but when isn’t she, but now - now I have to make the choice and I’m running out of time, because I got an offer from LA Titans and I need to respond.”
“The Titans are a good team,” Jean says, dipping his head down to press a slightly awkward kiss to Jeremy’s temple. “You would like them, I think.”
“I know I would.” He sniffles a little, and Jean holds him closer, a little horrified at the thought that Jeremy might be crying even though he knows why. “Ugh. This is dumb, I know - I know that I want to say yes to the Titans. I’m going to say yes to the Titans, that was the deal, I would stay at home until the end of college and then I would live my life. I just - I wasn’t expecting it to come so soon, that’s all.”
“It is not dumb, to be worried. You thought you would have to have one life, and instead you are getting a different one. It is… a lot, even if the different one is one you want. But you do not have to do it on your own, because you have me and Laila and Cat who will all help you. And Jabberwocky, I suppose, although he will be fairly useless at helping unless you enjoy dog spit.”
Jeremy laughs, a little wet hiccup of a sound, but Jean is happy to take it if it means Jeremy is no longer crying. “I guess I should reply to the Titans then.”
“No,” Jean says, one hand sweeping up Jeremy’s back all the way up to his head, threading fingers gently through Jeremy’s hair and softly teasing out the tangles. “The Titans will wait. Right now it is better that I hold you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. It is very important when you are stressed and worried.”
“Well, if it’s very important…” Jeremy teases, but Jean can feel where Jeremy is holding onto the front of Jean’s shirt, the way he always does when feeling especially vulnerable.
“Extremely,” Jean reiterates, before reaching to tug the laptop closer and putting on another one of Jeremy’s grandmother’s films.
+1. Elodie
Jean is four when Elodie is born. He likes to think he remembers it vividly; that small, pink, loud creature squirming in her blanket and coming into his life so abruptly, appearing one day as if by magic, sent to him like something out of one of the fairy-stories he read to her later, huddled under blankets and with a torch the length of his forearm. Jean’s not sure when he fell in love with her, whether it was gradual or all at once. Part of him suspects that he had been born loving her, some sort of cosmic knowledge reserving part of his soul for her to come and claim. He doesn’t remember much of life before Elodie, just snatches of a desperately lonely early childhood spent avoiding his parents, but then she comes along, someone to whisper to and play with and love, fiercely, a love he’s never had before and will never have again.
Jean didn’t know, when he left, clutching the strap of the one bag he’d been allowed to take with him, that he’d never see her again. If he had, then he’d have done something, protested more, indulged in Elodie’s fantasies of running far far away and never looking back. Jean would have scooped her up and held on tight, never to let go again.
Elodie’s the only thing he misses from Marseille. The grief is so acute that it stings, stealing away his breath and ability to stand, to think , a greedy take take take that leaves him hollow and floundering in its wake. It’s as if he’s drowning all over again, and it bends him in half whilst he learns how to re-bear its weight, remembering how to breathe when oxygen is impossible. Jean avoids it as much as he can, tries not to think about her and detaches himself as much as possible when Agent Browning hauls him in once more to give yet another statement about parents he never really knew and a sister he loves too much, but he still feels hollow and dragged apart when he makes it back to the safety of his friends and his partner. Jeremy waits for him outside of the office, perched on a wall with his headphones in and looking for all the world completely nonchalant, but Jean can feel the tension when he tips into him once he’s spat out of the office building. He almost falls into Jeremy’s arms, wants to tuck himself into Jeremy’s embrace and hide away from the shadows he’s had to drag into the light, but Jean catches himself at the last moment.
“Ready to go home?” Jeremy asks and Jean nods, ready to put as much distance as possible between himself and the mixture of memories spun into lies that he’s had to drag up. Jeremy’s soft, gentle in his words and his expression, the sort of carefulness to his demeanour that could only be born out of understanding and knowing, and Jean reaches out, clinging to Jeremy’s hand as a sort of compromise and letting himself be pulled to the car.
He’s silent that evening, curled up on the sofa with Jabberwocky on one side and Jeremy on the other. Cat and Laila flit about, trying to offer what comfort they can, and Jean is grateful for them, truly, but he’s not sure what to say, how to act, doesn’t have the energy to try and work through all the different thought processes required to come up with some sort of socially acceptable response that would pacify or reassure his friends. Jeremy seems to understand, always understanding, and takes any form of decision making out of Jean’s hands for the rest of the evening. There’s a film that’s put on, one that Jean thinks he’s been shown before but can’t remember and doesn’t care to try and follow along, and takeout is ordered, some sort of chicken wrap that Jean picks at rather than actually eats. He does, at least, tip into Jeremy’s side when he’s tugged, curls up in his seat and buries his fingers in Jabberwocky’s fur rather than his wrists, until it’s late enough for Jean to pretend to go to bed.
Jeremy follows, doesn’t comment when Jean fidgets endlessly before finally falling still in bed, curled up tight under the blankets. Jeremy presses a kiss to Jean’s forehead, soft and tender, and holds Jean each time he startles awake, clutching at the pillow or the covers and eyes stinging with tears he refuses to shed, over and over until the morning breaks.
“Cody wants to go to the beach,” Cat says, the morning after, biting her lip and peering at Jean carefully. Jean knows that he has the final say, that the three of them will capitulate to any demand he may have to stay in and hide away. Jean feels his jaw tighten, biting away the memories of the few times he and Elodie had been allowed down to the beach as children, of the shells she’d collected and lined up on their bedroom window sills, the tang of the salt and cry of seagulls bright and all encompassing.
He considers it, thinks of how exhausted he and Jeremy are and must be, how a day doing nothing productive in the apartment is an attractive out, but Jean doesn’t particularly want to spend the whole day inside, letting the ghosts intent on plaguing his life win. Jean has done enough of that in the Nest, and the waves of the Pacific Ocean are nothing like those of the Mediterranean Sea anyway.
“Okay,” he agrees, and Laila frowns from across the island.
“Are you sure? They’ll understand if you want to give it a miss and hang out here today instead.”
“I’m sure,” Jean says, and when Jeremy stares at him with big, searching brown eyes, adds, “I want to.”
“Okay!” Cat claps her hands together in an enthusiasm Jean isn’t sure is fake or not, and starts pulling out some tupperware from the jumble that’s already formed in the cupboard. Lids clatter down onto the countertop, but nobody says anything about the mess for once. “In that case, Jean, can you help me with some sandwiches?”
Jean nods, fishing out a chopping board and a knife. Laila passes out the ingredients from the fridge that Cat calls out and Jeremy packs it all carefully into a large tote bag. He sinks into the normalcy of the tasks as they present themselves, letting the actions take over all other thoughts whilst the radio chatters away in the background, Cat and Laila singing along to the songs and advert jingles alike.
They make it to the beach eventually, trudging across the sand to where Cody, Pat and Ananya have already set up camp. Jean watches as Jabberwocky races ahead of them, chasing and barking at the seagulls, Laila and Cat pausing only to dump their bags before tugging the others away to set up a game of beach volleyball to give Jean and Jeremy some space. The air is salty and sharp, strong enough to catch on the edges of Jean’s tastebuds in a way that is achingly familiar, and if he were to close his eyes even briefly then he’s sure that Elodie’s hand would be in his again, warm and trusting.
He finds it strange how neatly his life so far can be split into three parts, a triptych of endurance and survival. He had never considered it before, the trilogy that makes up Jean Moreau, and supposes that it makes sense when befores never counted in the Nest and afters had always seemed like an impossible dream. He wonders, briefly, what he’d be like if he was still Jean-Yves, still on the Marseille shoreline. It feels dangerous to be thinking of France again, but Jean can’t find it in himself to stop now that he’s started.
“Marseille is on the coast,” Jean says, forcing the words around the ache in his throat before cringing at the fact that Jeremy surely already knew. Jeremy is kind enough to not say that, just hums like he’s actually interested, and Jean barrels on regardless because he knows how to tell if something is just an act or not when it comes to Jeremy, and that hum was true enough to continue. “We would go to the beach, sometimes. Elodie used to like to collect the shells. She had a green bucket she would put them in and then when we got back to the house she would tip them up on her bedroom floor and go through them.”
“Would you ever want to go back to Marseille?” Jeremy asks, and Jean fidgets with the sand in front of him to keep his fingers busy, heart clenching around the instinctual no that blooms at Jeremy’s question, even though for years he’d wanted nothing more.
“Not now,” he settles on instead, fingers brushing across something sharp. Jean digs the object out of the sand and twists into a bitter smile when he unearths a small shell, perfect and whole, a dancing pattern of brown and cream rings alternating right up to the point dipped in pink. “There’s nothing left for me there now.”
Neither of them say anything else after that. Jean keeps hold of the shell, thinking about how it would have matched the collection of others Elodie had collected. He’d spent so long burying Marseille that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have the memories in the first place, but now that they’d all been dug up Jean can’t quite bring it in himself to push them back down again.
“Jean! Jeremy! Come help us out,” Cat calls, waving over at them. Jeremy gets up obediently, brushing sand off his legs, and offers a hand out to Jean.
“Are you coming?”
There’s no expectations in the words, just a gentle question that gives Jean all the choice he needs. He looks at the shell still clutched in his hand, thinks of the version of Elodie and Jean-Yves who used to play on the rocky French shores, dancing in and out of waves until it was time to head back to the apartment. Jean turns the shell over once more between his fingers, before slipping it into his pocket and taking Jeremy’s hand, letting himself be pulled up and over towards the game and leaving the memory of his and Elodie’s childhood laughter to dance off into the breeze.
