Work Text:
White. The ceiling is white, Jean knows at least that much. He blinks at it for several long moments before deciding that he has no idea where he is. The thought arrives without panic. Just fact.
His mouth tastes vaguely metallic, and his head throbs somewhere behind his eyes, more dull pressure than actual pain.
He turns his head.
A young man is asleep half in the chair beside the bed, and half sprawled out onto the foot of the bed, folded at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable. Dark hair spills across his forehead, and one arm is tucked beneath his cheek, the other splayed across the bed, fingers just barely brushing the edge of Jean's blanket-covered leg.
Another person sleeps on the narrow hospital sofa beneath the window, and sunlight pours across him, setting his hair ablaze.
Neither of them looks particularly comfortable.
Jean watches them in silence, taking in the room. Even moving his neck like this is mildly nauseating, so he goes slow.
Before he can make any more inane observations, the door opens abruptly and a short blonde man walks in. His eyes catch Jean's and he raises a pale eyebrow.
"Back to the land of the living, Valjean?"
At the sound of his flat voice, the dark-haired man blinks awake immediately, snapping up. "Jean?" His voice is rough with sleep, and he reaches instinctively for the call button before looking back at Jean.
He has the most startling green eyes Jean has ever seen.
"How are you feeling now?" the man asks. His hand comes up to cup Jean’s face, the touch gentle despite the rapid pace of his questioning. "Does your head hurt? Can you tell me where you are?"
Finally a question he can answer with confidence. Jean opens his mouth. "No."
The man falters, hand dropping slightly. "No?"
"I do not know," Jean glances around, "but I assume this is a hospital."
The man studies him. "It is."
The blonde man snorts from the corner of the room. "See? Eloquent as ever. Told you he'd be fine."
At the commotion, the redhead on the couch wakes with a grunt. "What...?" He squints, sitting up. His hair fans out in a way that reminds Jean of a dandelion. This man also has rather electrifying eyes, icy blue instead of green. "Oh, Jean. Thank god. You're awake."
The dark-haired man turns to him, leaning in close, and tips his chin up with his fingers, inspecting his face with wide eyes. "But you're confused, aren't you? Does it hurt very much? You didn't answer before."
"…I am nauseous."
The man nods, stroking his thumb over Jean's temple, careful of the bandages there. "Yes, the doctor said that would probably happen. There's water if you can stomach it, or ice chips I can get you instead."
Jean's brain catches on the beginning of the sentence. "The doctor," he muses. "So that is not you?"
Realistically, he knows the man in front of him is not a medical professional, dressed the way he is, but it gives him a place to start.
"That's not funny," the redhead cuts in from behind, rolling his eyes. "Kevin nearly had a damn aneurysm last night. Save the jokes for later."
But those emerald eyes are widening, fixed on Jean's face. "He isn't joking," he says weakly. "You…"
The redhead tenses behind him at whatever he hears in the other man's voice, peering over to look at Jean more closely before shooting the blonde man a look Jean can't bother to decipher. These people clearly know who Jean is, but…
"I apologize," Jean decides to say first, because it is clear he is causing some sort of distress here. "But I do not know who you are. Any of you."
Immediately, the short blonde leaves the room with a flat I'll get the doctor.
The dark-haired man is staring at him as if imploring him to take it back. "You don't know who I am? Are you sure?"
Jean isn't sure of much right now, but that he can answer. "No. Should I?"
One would think Jean slapped him with the way he flinches. "I—"
The redhead clamps down a hand on the taller man's shoulder, giving him an unreadable look. "Let's just wait for the doctor, okay?"
"But—"
"Who are you?" Jean interrupts, not wanting to be left in the dark any longer. "What—If this is a hospital, why am I here?" He glances down at himself, at the white gown and bandages around his left arm. "What happened to me?"
The redhead blinks at him. His gaze is rather unnerving.
"My name is Neil, and this is," Neil glances at the dark-haired man, "Kevin. You were in an accident, Jean. A motorcycle accident. You've been unconscious the last couple hours."
A motorcycle accident? "Oh."
Kevin has gone silent next to them, watching Jean as if he's a live grenade that could go off at any second.
"Are you alright?" Jean asks him before he can really evaluate the necessity of asking the question.
"Am I—?"
His response is interrupted by the door opening once more.
The blond man returns, accompanied by an older gentleman in a white coat. His silver hair has long since surrendered to age, combed neatly back from his forehead, and wire-rimmed glasses perch low on his nose. Deep smile lines crease the corners of warm brown eyes, making him look more like somebody's grandfather than a physician.
"Good morning," he says warmly, smiling as he approaches the bed. "I'm Dr. Rosen. It's good to see you awake."
Jean inclines his head.
"You've certainly given everyone quite a scare."
The doctor spends the next several minutes examining him, while Neil and Kevin sit on the couch and the blonde leans against the wall. He is staring Jean down with an intensity that makes Jean look away.
Dr. Rosen shines a light into Jean's eyes, asks him to follow a finger across the room, checks his pupils, his reflexes, the strength in both hands, the feeling in his fingertips and feet. Jean answers every question patiently despite the growing ache behind his eyes.
"The nausea?" the doctor asks.
"Still present."
"Headache?"
"Yes."
"Dizziness?"
"A little bit."
The doctor nods approvingly, jotting something onto his chart. "Those are all expected after a concussion." He gestures toward Jean's left arm. "You also fractured your ulna when you landed. Fortunately it was a clean break, so we've set it in a cast. You've got several stitches across your shoulder and back, bruised ribs, and enough scrapes that I suspect showers will be unpleasant for a little while."
Jean absorbs this with a thoughtful nod. The thought of him clad in leather driving around on a death trap feels out of character but really, what does he know about his character right now?
"I imagine motorcycles are not especially forgiving."
"No," the doctor says with a faint chuckle. "They rarely are."
He studies Jean for another moment. "So. Tell me your full name."
"Jean Moreau."
"How old are you?"
"...I am not certain."
"That's alright. How old do you think you are?"
Jean looks at his hands. "An adult."
"You're doing very well. Do you know today's date?"
"No," Jean answers, confusion trickling into his brain. It feels like the answer is there, he's not overly disoriented, but for whatever reason he can't place his finger on it. It is frustrating.
"The month?"
"No."
"What is the last thing you remember?"
Jean racks his brain. "Marseille."
There's a soft intake of breath from the couch.
"That's quite alright, Jean. How long do you think it has been since you lived in France?"
Jean frowns. "Many years. It is strange…" he looks out the window, the bright light making his head throb. "It all feels very far away. Like I know it was a long time ago." Jean searches for words. "But there should be years between then and now."
"You've had a head injury, Jean. Disorientation and memory loss is very common. I am just trying to get a feel for the exact nature of your condition. Can I ask you more questions?"
Jean nods, and the doctor proceeds to ask him a slew of questions, each one more bewildering than the next. Jean is…he knows who he is, knows he is an adult, but almost nothing else.
Dr. Rosen closes the chart. "I'd like a few minutes alone with Mr. Moreau, if that's alright."
Kevin immediately straightens from his place on the couch. "I should stay."
"It won't take long, Mr. Day."
"But—"
"Kevin." The blonde's voice is sharp. Kevin doesn't move, fingers clenching down into the couch so hard his knuckles turn white. His eyes never leave Jean. Jean cannot understand why the sight unsettles him.
"You may go," Jean says after a moment, confused as to whether Kevin feels he needs his permission to leave. "I will still be here."
A complicated expression flickers across his face, but the blonde is already opening the door, and Neil rests a hand briefly against Kevin's shoulder before steering him into the hallway.
The door clicks softly shut behind them. Silence settles. Dr. Rosen sets the clipboard on the bedside table.
"I wanted to ask you a few questions without worrying about upsetting anyone."
Jean nods.
"What you've described is consistent with retrograde amnesia."
"Amnesia?"
"Yes."
"The concussion appears to have disrupted access to your autobiographical memories. Your reasoning, language, attention, and general knowledge all appear intact, which is encouraging."
"So I have not...become less intelligent."
"No." The doctor smiles kindly. "Not at all."
"You know who you are. You know how to speak, how to reason, how the world works." He folds his hands. "What seems to be missing is the story of your own life."
Jean lets that settle. "Will my memories return?"
"They might." The honesty surprises Jean. "They also might return gradually. Or all at once." Now the doctor sighs. "We simply don't know yet."
Jean considers this. "How many years are missing?"
The doctor hesitates, but only briefly. "From what you have described, I believe you are missing several years of your autobiographical memory. Around a decade."
Jean exhales slowly and is quiet for a long moment.
Several years of his life. He cannot picture them, cannot draw back a single image. He instinctively searches for grief and finds only absence. Apparently he cannot mourn something he cannot remember.
"I see."
"You've had a long day," Dr. Rosen says gently. "And you're taking this very well, but I would like you to get some more rest. I will explain the rest to your friends and family."
Family? Jean thinks blearily.
By the time the nurse returns with medication, his eyelids already feel impossibly heavy.
When Jean wakes again, late afternoon sunlight has replaced the bright morning glare.
Kevin is back in the chair, discussing something quietly with the blonde man who is sitting on the couch. Neil is sitting on the other end and has his legs splayed out on the blonde's lap. He's munching on a granola bar loudly.
As if sensing Jean's gaze, Kevin turns around.
"Jean. You're awake," he says softly, whole demeanor less harried than when Jean saw him before.
Jean nods. He moves to sit up and Kevin immediately makes it to his side, helping him so skillfully it makes Jean reevaluate whether or not he could be in the medical field.
With him this close, Jean is able to catch a small black tattoo on the highest point of his cheekbone, of what looks like a chess piece. How strange.
After Jean sits up, he eyes his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Bruising blooms across the left side of his face in deep violets and sickly yellows, disappearing beneath the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his temple. A jagged line of stitches disappears into his hairline, his lower lip still faintly split. There are scrapes along his jaw that have already begun to scab over.
He studies himself for a long moment. He looks older than he expected. His eyes catch on a black mark on his face, and he once again glances at Kevin's cheek once again. Dread pools in his stomach.
"Am I in a gang?"
Neil cackles from the couch. "That's your first question? Never change, Jean. But yeah, close enough."
That answers absolutely nothing.
Jean glances at the blonde man, trying to search for any signs of a joke, but his stare is focused on Kevin.
"You are my friends then?" Jean tries instead.
"We are not friends," the blonde says immediately.
Jean is starting to think he does not like this tiny man.
Neil rolls his eyes. "Don't listen to him, he's kidding. Yeah, we're your friends. Don't mess with him right now, Drew."
"You are Drew?"
"Andrew," Kevin corrects quietly. "That's Andrew and Neil. They are your friends. And," his eyes linger on Jean, almost imploring, "I'm Kevin."
"Kevin," Jean murmurs, feeling the shape of it in his mouth. "Hello. You are not my friend?"
"I—We are…Well, you'll be staying with me," Kevin says slowly.
Jean blinks. "We are roommates?"
Kevin purses his lips. "Of sorts."
"For fuck's sake Kevin, spit it out," Neil says.
Jean catches Kevin rubbing the heel of one thumb over the knuckles of the other. The repetitive motion seems unconscious. "Right. We live together, yes. But that is because we are married."
Whatever Jean was expecting, it was not that.
"…Oh." The room is entirely silent for a moment. "I see."
"Is that all you have to say?" Neil demands.
"I am processing," Jean says. He tilts his head. "I am twenty-four?"
"You are," Kevin confirms.
"We must have gotten married very young then," Jean muses. Perhaps it doesn't make sense to get stuck on that detail but…marriage?
Kevin still looks uncertain but he nods. "We did. We...didn't want to wait." It's clear that Kevin is choosing his words very carefully, not that he's making much of an effort to hide it. Why, Jean does not know.
Married. This is his husband. That means Jean—or perhaps Kevin—got down on one knee and asked for the other to walk by their side for as long as they may live.
"Yes. Married, Valjean. You two are young lovebirds, equally as obnoxious as you are disgusting," the blonde, Andrew, his mind supplies, cuts in.
"My name is not Valjean," Jean informs him, making Kevin snort.
"I think you'll find that's a bit of a hopeless case. I would just leave it." He reaches behind him and grabs a stack of clothes, placing it on the bed next to Jean.
Jean finds himself staring at him blankly.
"Do you have any more questions?" Kevin asks after a few seconds.
"I have several."
Kevin huffs out a small breath. "Fair enough. I'll answer anything you'd like, but for now, you've been cleared to leave. So if you want, you can get changed and we can head home."
Jean glances at the stack of clothes. He would rather like to avoid the indignity of going in public in the flimsy white garment he is in, but does not know if he can manage getting into his clothes in his current state.
"I can help you," Kevin says softly, as if reading his mind. "If you would like."
Jean isn't particularly prudish, but something about this situation has him feeling so off-balance that he hesitates. Still, if this is really his husband then it's nothing to get shy about. He nods, and the other two men leave the room silently.
Kevin keeps his eyes resolutely on the zipper of the sweatshirt as he eases Jean's injured arm through the sleeve.
"Tell me if something hurts," he instructs, lifting Jean's arm without jostling his ribs.
Kevin is clinical about the process, tugging on the garments when Jean needs help and steadying him when he wavers, but his touch does not linger.
Jean studies him. Even in the short time Jean has spent with him, it is clear that there is something very self-assured, almost gravitational, about Kevin's presence, like he expects the world to bend around him.
"Neil and Andrew will drive us home," Kevin says, interrupting Jean's thoughts. He looks up from where he's kneeling at Jean's feet and lacing up his shoes. "Tell me if you get nauseous in the car, alright?"
Jean nods obediently. "Neil and Andrew. Are they also married?" he asks, trying to search for some sense in this storm of information.
Kevin lets out a dry laugh and stands up. "Be glad you asked me and not Andrew. No, they are not married, but they are together. I wouldn't mention it."
The ride home passes in quiet fragments.
Andrew drives, and Neil occupies the passenger seat, one arm draped lazily over the open window, offering the occasional direction despite Andrew appearing perfectly capable of navigating on his own.
Jean sits in the back beside Kevin. No one seems particularly interested in forcing conversation, and Jean appreciates it.
Outside the window, California unfolds around him. The hospital gives way to neighborhoods tucked between low hills, narrow streets shaded by towering eucalyptus and Monterey cypress. Small cafés sit on corners beside bookstores and flower shops, bicycles leaned carelessly against wooden fences. Every garden appears determined to overflow: hydrangeas the size of dinner plates spill over white picket fences, lavender grows wild along sidewalks, bright orange poppies sway beside weathered mailboxes.
One moment there are rows of houses, and the next, the ocean appears, almost accidentally. Between two streets, stretches an endless ribbon of blue. Jean watches it disappear again.
All in all, it is not a bad place to have settled down. It is quite beautiful.
Beside him, Kevin remains almost unnaturally still. He hasn't said much the entire drive, just quietly asked once, "How's your head?"
"It still hurts."
"And the nausea?"
"It is manageable."
Kevin had nodded, and nothing more. Jean wonders if he is actually a man of few words, or if today has just stolen them from him.
Andrew leaves the main road, turning into a neighborhood a few minutes from the coast. The streets are still busy enough to feel lived in. People drift in and out of cafés, someone waits at a bus stop with grocery bags at their feet, and a cyclist weaves easily through the afternoon traffic.
He pulls into the driveway of a small blue two-story house.
It is neat without being extravagant, the sort of home that has been cared for over many years rather than decorated all at once. Flower boxes sit beneath the windows, and a narrow porch faces the street.
Jean studies it quietly as the car comes to a halt. "It is beautiful," he comments, turning to look at Kevin. He is already watching Jean's expression.
Kevin follows his gaze. "It is. You picked it."
"I did?"
"Yes. You insisted, in fact."
"I see."
Jean files that information away. Apparently he is the kind of person to be opinionated about where he lives.
Andrew climbs out of the car first, and Neil follows, stretching dramatically before circling toward the back of the car.
Kevin doesn't reach for the door immediately. He simply sits there for a moment before opening it. He glances back at Jean.
"Do you need any help getting out? I'll get your bags, obviously, but are you in any pain?"
Jean's gaze catches on Kevin's hand on the door. There are thin, white scars spidering across the skin of his left hand, and on the ring finger, an understated gold band.
He shakes his head no.
Neil crouches beside the open door, startling them both. Andrew is next to him, having already retrieved two overnight bags from the trunk and is on the phone.
"We're heading to the airport," Neil says. "Andrew's getting us a cab."
Kevin looks up, rubbing absently at the scar on his palm. "You don't have to. I can still drive you in the morning."
"No," Andrew cuts in, slipping his phone into his back pocket.
"Our flight leaves at six," Neil explains, probably for Jean's benefit. "It's easier to just stay at the airport hotel."
Kevin opens his mouth, then closes it. "Alright."
Andrew gives him a bland look. "You aren't driving anyone tomorrow." There is almost no inflection in his voice, but it is obviously a command.
What a bizarre relationship the three of them seem to have.
Kevin exhales. "Okay."
He finally steps out of the car, and Jean follows him, standing awkwardly to the side.
Neil steps forward abruptly and pulls Kevin into a tight embrace, into which Kevin goes easily. Neil holds him for a few seconds before he pulls back, gripping Kevin's shoulders so hard Jean can see the whites of his knuckles. He shakes Kevin a little, the taller man swaying with the motion.
"You will call regularly. You will tell us if you need anything."
"Yes, Neil. I'm not a child," Kevin grumbles, turning to look back at Jean as if embarrassed.
When they separate, Andrew merely squeezes Kevin's shoulder once. Neil's gaze drifts to Jean.
"We'll see you again soon, Jean," Neil says with a smile.
"Try not to fall off anything else," Andrew adds.
Jean wishes them a rather awkward goodbye, and watches until they disappear around the corner.
Only then does he turn back toward the little blue house. The evening breeze carries the scent of salt and blooming jasmine. Somewhere nearby, waves break against the shore with a rhythm too distant to see, but close enough to hear.
This, apparently, is home.
Kevin unlocks the front door and steps aside, letting Jean enter first. The house is warm in a quiet, lived-in sort of way. A pair of shoes rests by the entrance, books occupy nearly every available shelf, and framed photographs are scattered across the walls. Somewhere deeper inside, a grandfather clock ticks softly.
Jean turns slowly, taking it all in. None of it is familiar, but equally, none of it feels wrong.
"May I look around?"
Now that he is alone with Kevin, he feels more on edge than before, the air between them charged.
"Of course. You don't have to ask. Just...don't overdo it. The doctor said you should take it easy for a few days."
"I shall endeavor not to fall off anything again."
Kevin snorts. "I would appreciate that."
He disappears down the hallway and Jean takes to wandering around the living room. He notices the framed photographs on the table, the rather ugly fox-pattenred blanket on the couch, the stitched pillow on the chair by the window. The house is warm and welcoming, clearly lived in.
Kevin returns in a black Henley and sweatpants. Like this, he should be less intimidating, but the black clothing gives his eyes an almost unnaturally green sheen. Jean feels his heart rate pick up.
"The bathroom is just down the hall, second door to the left. If you need help, call me."
Jean nods, heading in to freshen up. It's a slow process. When he catches his reflection, he lingers for a moment. Twenty-four is not particularly old, but there is a steadiness to his face that seems earned rather than given. Thin white scars trace his arms and shoulders, remnants of experiences he cannot remember.
He supposes life did not become any kinder after he left Marseille.
When he returns to the living room, he catches Kevin pattering around the kitchen.
"I was going to make dinner," he says, looking back when he hears Jean approach. A tiny pause. "…While I do, you can ask me whatever you want."
Jean nods, settling down on the barstool near the counter. Like this, he has a clear view of Kevin as he works, of his lean figure, his sharp jaw, his elegant hands.
Kevin pauses in front of the refrigerator. "I should probably warn you, between the two of us, I'm not much of a cook, so it won't be anything impressive." He meets Jean's eyes. "I don't actually know what you'll want anymore. I was thinking pasta."
Jean hums in agreement and Kevin smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and turns back to the counter.
He fills a pot with water, sets a pan over the burner, and begins chopping garlic with quick, economical movements. Nothing about it suggests a passion for cooking, it is simply another task to be completed.
Jean thinks back to the bathroom. Two toothbrushes, two towels. Everything in pairs. He thinks back to Marseille, to his parents and their marriage, and what became of it. Thinks back to blood, and shouting and misery.
"I never thought I would get married," Jean offers. He hopes he isn't about to offend Kevin in the first real conversation they have.
Kevin's lips curve up imperceptibly. "I know."
Jean falls silent. He has nearly a million questions, but he does not know where to start, does not know what would be appropriate to ask, never mind that it is his own life.
How did we meet? Are we very sweet with each other, or are we already a cranky old couple? Are we in love? Are we happy?
Kevin doesn't seem to mind the silence, plating the pasta as soon as he is done with it. Before he slides over Jean's plate, he sprinkles green herb over it before looking up uncertainly.
"You like basil," he explains.
Jean smiles politely. "I shall take your word for it."
When Kevin moves to sit down on the stool next to him, Jean frowns despite himself. "Should we not sit at the dining table?"
Kevin gives him an amused look. "You're right. Very improper of me."
Jean gets the distinct impression he's being made fun of, but it does not feel unkind.
True to his word, the pasta is nothing spectacular, but it is good enough that it must be a meal that Kevin has made many times in his life. Jean does enjoy the basil.
Jean glances at Kevin's wedding band again.
"How long have we been together?"
Kevin swallows, dabbing at his lips with a napkin primly. Something about the way he carries himself is almost regal, in an old-fashioned way.
"We've been married two years, but we've been together longer than that."
Jean does the math. "So I was twenty-two."
"Yes. I'm around two years older than you, by the way."
"We were very young when we decided to get married," Jean says again, hoping to hear more of the story.
Kevin is not exactly closed off, but he's not very forthcoming with information either. Jean tries not to feel like he's interrogating him.
"You said that then too."
"I did? Does that mean you proposed?" Jean tries to imagine it.
Kevin's expression turns contemplative. "No, you proposed. But I suppose I am the one who asked first."
That…doesn't clear anything up either, but Jean figures he can ask Kevin to elaborate later.
He thinks back to the hospital room. "The doctor called you Mr. Day. Did we not take each other's last names?"
"Oh…ah. We both have rather high-profile careers, so it was mostly to keep things private."
Good lord. They better not be famous. Jean's next question was going to be about what they do for work, but now he isn't even sure he wants to know.
"Why did we get married?"
Kevin blinks up at him. "Why does anyone get married?"
Jean tries very hard not to get annoyed with the beautiful but apparently rather difficult man sitting in front of him, claiming to be his husband.
Kevin clearly reads something in his expression because he snorts. "Sorry. I know you hate when I answer a question with a question. I just…" He furrows his brow, looking to the side. "It's a bit of long story, really."
Jean accepts that answer for now. Trying to lighten the mood, he jokes, "I imagine it was your face."
Kevin looks up at him, puzzled. "My face?"
"The reason why I married you," Jean clarifies. "Because you are extremely beautiful."
Kevin's mouth drops open, a soft flush coloring his cheeks. "…You think so?"
Jean stares at him. Each reaction is more confusing than the last.
"Why are you so surprised? We are married, are we not?"
"Well, yes, of course. You just caught me off guard."
Jean frowns. "Do I never tell you that?" It seems wasteful to have such a beautiful person all to himself and never tell him. "That seems rather foolish."
Kevin shakes his head. "No, no. You do."
Jean tilts his head. "And you do not believe me?"
Kevin opens his mouth, closes it again, then exhales through his nose. "…Isn't there something else you're curious about?"
Jean snorts. "I have many questions. But truthfully…I am a little tired," he admits reluctantly.
Kevin sets his fork down immediately. "Right, of course you are. I made the bed already, so everything should be ready for you. All you really have to do is brush—no shower for you tonight, sorry—but the doctor said we can wipe you down if you feel the need. Are you done?"
Jean blinks. "What?"
"With your food."
"Oh," Jean glances down, "yes."
Kevin picks up the plate from in front of him, and gets to cleaning up after them.
"Can I help you?" Jean asks, trying not to feel completely useless.
Kevin looks up at him from the sink. "You were discharged three hours ago. Go get ready for bed."
"I can still wash a plate."
"Can you? Me too."
Jean sees no path to victory here, so he obeys. It is only when he settles into the large, plush bed in the master bedroom that he realizes there is only one.
He pads out into the living room, where Kevin has finished cleaning up and is laying out a blanket on the couch.
"There is only one bed," Jean says stupidly.
Kevin glances up. "I know. Don't worry, I'll be sleeping on the couch."
"I cannot exile you from your bed in your own home," Jean protests. He may not remember much of anything, but he hasn't completely forgotten his manners.
Kevin frowns, stilling his movements. "You do not remember me. I would not make you sleep next to a stranger."
Jean wants to protest, but the words die before they reach his mouth. Kevin is right. Whatever they may have been to each other yesterday, tonight he is a stranger to Jean.
Still, the idea of sending him away from his own bed sits poorly with him.
Kevin seems to read the objection on his face and sighs. "Don't worry about it, we actually have a rather comfortable couch. It wouldn't be the first time someone has crashed here."
That's right. They have friends, family, people they are close enough to that they come over and fall asleep on their couch instead of heading back home. An entire life Jean has forgotten.
"Alright," he agrees. "Goodnight, Kevin."
"Bonne nuit, Jean-Yves."
The next morning, Jean takes his time waking up, the ache in his body reminding him of the events of yesterday before his mind can. He exhales, bringing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Exhausted as he was, his sleep had been fitful, broken by several restless awakenings.
He glances to the nightstand and finds two pills on a tissue along with a glass of water. There is a note next to it, written in elegant, sloping handwriting:
As soon as you wake up, take two pills for the pain - Kevin
It was not there the night before, so Kevin must have placed it there while Jean was sleeping.
The signature is almost amusing because really, who else could it have been? Still, considering Jean has forgotten nearly everyone in his life, he cannot begrudge Kevin the clarification.
After taking the pills, he freshens up in the bathroom before making his way into the living room once more.
Kevin has evidently been up for a while. The makeshift bed of blankets has been cleared off the couch, and there is a candle burning on the table, making the room smell of sandalwood. The area is tidier than before.
Kevin himself is pattering around in the kitchen again with headphones in his ears. He has donned a large red and yellow hoodie to fight off the morning chill.
When Jean gets closer, he makes out the lettering on the back. USC.
"Did you go to university there?" Jean asks, making Kevin jump. He yanks an earbud out of his ear and whirls around to face Jean, one hand over his heart.
Jean places both his hands up in surrender. "I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you."
Kevin shakes his head. "My fault," he says, a little breathless, "I was lost in thought."
"I could have announced myself."
"Nonsense." Kevin settles almost immediately. "This is your home. You don't have to announce yourself."
Your home. Jean wonders if Kevin is reminding him, or himself.
"What were you saying?"
Jean gestures to his sweatshirt. "I was asking if you went to university there."
"Oh," Kevin glances down. "No, actually. This is yours."
Upon further inspection, Jean can tell it is a little large on him. Kevin is not that much shorter than Jean, but he is slighter, and the shoulders of the hoodie hang off of him.
Shamefully, Jean feels his cheeks heat at the thought of Kevin wearing his clothing.
When he glances back up, Kevin is staring at him with an unreadable expression. "I'm sorry," he says.
Before Jean can ask why, he continues talking.
"How did you sleep? Did you take the painkillers I left beside you? I did have to enter the room while you were sleeping, I hope that didn't bother you."
Jean blinks at the onslaught. "It is alright, I did not mind. I did take the pills." He crosses over into the kitchen to look curiously at what Kevin was making. "But I slept poorly. I woke up many times."
"I see. The doctor did say that could happen," Kevin responds. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm making breakfast, by the way. Eggs."
Jean nods, letting him get back to it. Up close, he looks worn down, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. Jean wonders if he slept at all.
"And do you…feel the same?" Kevin asks after a moment, without turning around.
Oh.
"Yes," Jean says, watching the way Kevin's shoulders drop at his answer, as much as he tries to hide it. "I still do not remember."
Kevin hums in acknowledgment, not lingering on the topic. "Do you want coffee?"
"Yes."
They settle onto the built-in bench beneath the kitchen window. From here, the street slopes gently toward the ocean, just enough that a narrow strip of blue glitters between the rooftops. The window is open, letting in cool salt air that carries the distant rhythm of waves.
A glance at the clock tells Jean it is almost afternoon.
"Do you not have work today?"
Kevin sips at his orange juice. Apparently he is not a fan of coffee, from the way he wrinkled his nose when Jean offered him some of his own.
"Not for a while. I took off."
"You took time off work?" Jean asks. Maybe it shouldn't be surprising, given the circumstances, but, "Back in the hospital room, Neil implied your work is very important to you."
Kevin snorts. "Oh, you heard that? I'm not sure he was implying anything, though."
True, Neil used a lot more profanity and a rather vulgar metaphor, but the meaning was the same.
Kevin takes a bite of his breakfast, turning to look at the ocean. "I can afford to take some time off, at least until you are feeling better. It's not a problem."
"What is it that you do?" Jean asks finally, curiosity winning him over.
Kevin purses his lips. "Well, we both play Exy professionally. For the Monterey Sea Lions. I am their starting striker, and you are their starting backliner."
Jean looks down into his coffee. A striker and his backliner. Husbands. Partners on and off the court. They really must be attached at the hip.
Absentmindedly, Kevin spears a peach slice from his plate and places it in Jean's.
"Professionally," Jean repeats, thinking back to his time playing in France. "So I must be quite good now."
Kevin's eyes sparkle. "Not just quite good. You are the best defensive player in the league."
The intensity of the words catches Jean off guard, and he turns to humor to deflect. "Not the best player overall?"
Something in Kevin's expression shifts. His eyes sharpen with amusement, his chin lifting ever so slightly. "No. That would be me."
Jean waits for some indication that he is joking. None comes.
"…Is this why we have these ridiculous tattoos on our faces?"
Kevin's glances to the side. "Kind of."
Jean isn't even surprised by the nonanswer anymore.
As they eat, Kevin slips easily into talking about Exy. One topic leads to another until he is explaining their practices, teammates, coaches, and obscure league rivalries with quiet enthusiasm. Jean quickly discovers that Kevin's opinions are both numerous and severe. He delivers judgments with such matter-of-fact certainty that it takes Jean a moment to realize how harsh they are. But as far as Jean can tell, there is no malice behind them, it is simply that Kevin seems to regard his own assessment as fact. It is an unexpectedly arrogant streak from someone who has spent the last day treating Jean with such careful consideration.
For some reason, Jean finds himself more intrigued than put off. He listens more to the cadence of Kevin's voice than the details themselves. He has a lovely, smooth, almost melodic voice, and certain words sound slightly strange through his lips.
"Do you—" Jean realizes he's interrupted him in the middle of a sentence. "I apologize."
Kevin waves his hand dismissively and gestures for him to continue. "Go ahead. I've been told I can drone on endlessly when it comes to Exy."
Jean believes that. "Do you have an accent?"
Kevin blinks in surprise. "You can hear it?"
"Just a little. You said a couple words funny." And I was paying very close attention.
"I was born in Ireland, but I came here when I was very young," Kevin explains. "I never quite lost the accent."
"Is your family still there?"
Kevin’s expression twists, and Jean realizes too late that he has unintentionally stepped on a landmine.
"No," he says, clipped. "I have no family there, at least that I know of. My biological dad is here, in the States. And my mother is dead."
His voice remains matter-of-fact, but his gaze drops to his plate on the last few words.
“I am sorry.”
Kevin nods once, accepting the apology without looking at him. “She played Exy too, actually.” Something in the careful way he says it catches Jean’s attention.
“Professionally?”
“Yes," Kevin says. "She helped create it.”
Jean stills. There are only two people in the world that sentence could belong to. Jean looks at him properly.
The dark hair, the green eyes. The Irish accent worn thin by years elsewhere. The surname Kevin had given him yesterday, which Jean had been too disoriented to examine closely.
“Kevin Day,” he says.
Kevin glances at him. “Yes.”
Kayleigh Day’s son had been impossible not to know about. Even in France, even as a child, Jean had heard his name. Kevin Day, raised alongside the Moriyamas. The boy expected to inherit the sport his mother had built. He remembered magazine covers of the two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, one with a black one beneath his eye, the other with a black two.
Jean's eyes involuntarily drift towards black queen piece tattooed onto Kevin’s cheek. “…You are the Son of Exy.”
Kevin frowns. “Don't call me that. It sounds strange coming from you.”
“When you said you had high-profile career, you meant you are actually famous. And when you said you are the best…”
Jean cannot reconcile the answer with the man who left painkillers beside his bed and spent the morning making eggs in Jean’s oversized university sweatshirt.
“Did you think I was joking? And I said we.”
Jean continues staring until Kevin shifts beneath the attention.
“I am beginning to think I was extremely ambitious marrying you.”
That startles a laugh out of him. It changes Kevin’s entire face, quick and bright enough that Jean feels an answering warmth in his chest.
“Not at all,” Kevin says. "If anything, it was the other way around."
The next week is one of the strangest of Jean's life, memory or not.
He learns more about the life he has built for himself. About USC and his old teammates who all called, worried out of their minds about Jean.
Kevin is rather evasive about Jean's family situation, although Jean can make his own guesses as to why. When he mentions Elodie cautiously, Jean prods at the memory of her. There is pain there, but it is dulled, like pressing on an old bruise that never fades.
"You do not talk about her," Kevin says, eyes careful.
"…I see. But I told you?"
"Yes."
Jeremy Knox, his former captain, is particularly enthusiastic. Jean had the most missed calls from him on his phone, and when he finally video calls him back, he is greeted by a mop of blond hair and a pair of wide, worried brown eyes.
"Jean!" Jeremy exclaims before launching into a list of questions about his recovery without waiting for the answers. "Sorry, sorry," Jeremy says, catching himself when he notices Jean's blank expression. "I know I'm overwhelming you." So he must know Jean well. "I was just so worried, like seriously, you have no fucking clue, and yeah, Kevin called and told me what was going on but…it's good to hear your voice."
Jean finds a faint smile crossing his lips at the sincerity in Jeremy's voice.
"It is nice to meet you. Kevin called you my best friend."
Jeremy looks so absurdly fond at the phrase that Jean is almost embarrassed on his behalf.
They talk for a long time. Jean answers all of his questions and assures him that he is doing as well as he can, and Jeremy tells him everything will be alright and makes him promise to call him back later. He tells Jean that he will drive up and visit the second he gets some time off work, and Jean tells him not to worry too much about it.
He's different, Jean supposes, than what he would have thought his best friend would be like, but after speaking to him Jean can see how they might fit. He finds himself looking forward to the next call, and for Jeremy's visit.
"Give my love to Kevin too," Jeremy says before he hangs up. "This can't be easy on him."
Jean spends the week learning more about Kevin too. His initial impression of him as a cold, reserved man of a few words turns out to be inaccurate after all. In fact, Kevin is rather prone to monologuing about a variety of subjects, most often Exy, but also surprisingly, history.
It is fascinating to watch him talk. He gestures quite a bit with his hands, growing increasingly animated the longer he goes on, and speaks with a confidence that seems inherent rather than performed. His opinions are delivered as fact and his criticisms merciless. Not to mention, he has a habit of wandering down increasingly obscure tangents without seeming to notice.
Jean does not mind. Kevin lights up when he talks about something he loves, green eyes brightening and his usually severe expression becoming remarkably open.
Eventually, Kevin catches Jean staring at him and falters, bringing his fingers to his lips as though only just realizing how long he has been talking.
"Don't just let me go on and on, Jean. Tell me if I'm boring you."
Jean does not think he will be telling Kevin that anytime soon. Even when he has little interest in the subject itself, Kevin's enthusiasm is infectious, and Jean finds he rather likes listening to him talk.
Jean also learns about Palmetto, where Kevin had played before turning professional, and about Wymack, his biological father and coach. Kevin tells him about each of the Foxes when he asks, whose names mean nothing to Jean despite Kevin speaking of them with poorly hidden affection.
"They're awful," Kevin says like he's delivering a compliment, "be glad you can't remember."
He learns that summer is the off-season and they do not have actual games, which explains why neither of them has to rush back onto the court. Their coach insists they take whatever time they need, and Jean is quietly grateful. He cannot imagine trying to relearn his own life between practices and matches.
His injuries improve steadily. Every morning his ribs ache a little less, and the bruises soften from deep violet to yellow.
Kevin flits around him constantly, seemingly without realizing, his eyes tracking Jean's movements constantly. He changes bandages with steady hands that indicate experience and reminds Jean when to take his medication.
One morning, Jean drops his phone beneath the table, and as he ducks to retrieve it and straightens again, Kevin's hand appears over the sharp edge of the tabletop. Covering it before Jean's head can reach it.
Jean pauses.
It's a gesture Jean remembers doing only once before, for Elodie, when she was small enough that every table seemed built at exactly the wrong height.
Warmth settles unexpectedly in his chest.
"Am I a child?"
Kevin gives him a flat look. "Because you have such a good record with head injuries? Bite me."
Jean presses his lips together. "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Do you always…hover like this? Or is it just because I am unwell right now?"
Kevin pauses, a strange expression crossing his face. Maybe at one point in his life, Jean could read these tiny changes in his face with ease, but now it's lost in translation in the space between them.
"I…am usually like this. Perhaps it is a little heightened right now, but it is close to my usual personality." Kevin studies his expression. "Is it bothering you?"
As far as he can remember, which is admittedly not very far, Jean has never been fretted over in his life. No one has ever cared to.
"Not at all."
Clearly, Kevin is well-accustomed to deciphering whether or not Jean is lying, because he accepts that answer easily and moves on.
The first time Kevin helps him in the shower, Jean feels a mixture of humiliation and gratitude.
Kevin kneels beside the tub to wrap Jean's cast in plastic before helping him step beneath the warm water. His touch is careful without being tentative, behaving as though helping one's husband bathe were no more remarkable than setting the table. Jean suspects the casualness is deliberate, another attempt to spare him any unnecessary embarrassment.
When he washes Jean's hair with careful fingers, avoiding the stitches hidden beneath damp strands, his touch is gentle enough that Jean barely feels it.
Kevin talks while he works, voice low and soothing, about the new grocery store that opened up nearby. Jean loses himself in his own thoughts.
He dislikes needing the assistance. But more than that, he hates the slow, creeping feeling of uselessness descending on him. Since he has woken up in that hospital room, Kevin has done everything for the both of them, Jean unable to contribute in any way.
Abruptly, he realizes Kevin has gone silent. He glances up, and Kevin is already looking at him.
"I know this is probably uncomfortable," Kevin says quietly as he rinses the shampoo away.
Jean blinks. "Not really."
Kevin frowns. "It must not be nice, having a stranger help you with this."
Jean catches his wrist before he can think any better of it. Kevin stills at the contact, but does not pull away. His eyes flick down to where Jean's fingers circle his wrist.
"I am not uncomfortable," Jean repeats.
"Alright." Kevin studies him for a long moment. There is something strange in his expression again, something Jean cannot read.
Jean loosens his grip but does not let go entirely. "If I am uncomfortable, I will tell you."
"Okay."
Jean nods, satisfied, and releases him. Kevin reaches for the showerhead again, but Jean stops him with a quiet, "Kevin?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
Kevin looks almost startled.
"For this," Jean clarifies, gesturing vaguely between them. "For everything, really. I know this cannot have been easy for you."
Kevin's expression hardens so abruptly that Jean wonders what he has said wrong. "You got hit by a car. You don't need to worry about what's easy for me." Kevin turns the water back on and tests the temperature against his wrist. "And you don't have to thank me every five minutes for taking care of you."
"I do not thank you every five minutes," Jean protests. Kevin gives him a flat look, not bothering to respond. "I think I would remember."
Jean realizes his mistake approximately half a second too late.
To his surprise, Kevin laughs. It is only a small sound, startled out of him before he can stop it, but Jean feels some of the heaviness in his chest loosen with it.
"At least we know your humor is still awful."
Jean smiles despite himself. "That was an accident. But I think it is rather funny."
"Of course you do."
Kevin tips Jean's head carefully back beneath the water and resumes rinsing the shampoo from his hair. Jean lets him.
The uselessness is still there, sitting heavy and unpleasant beneath his ribs, but it feels marginally less suffocating than it did a few minutes ago.
After a moment, Kevin speaks again. "For what it's worth, you've spent years taking care of me. I think I can manage a few weeks."
There is something strangely intimate about the statement despite the matter-of-fact way Kevin delivers it. Jean tries to imagine what taking care of Kevin might have looked like, but, as always, finds only empty space where the memories should be.
"Was I any good at it?"
"Yes."
Something about the simplicity of the answer makes Jean's chest ache. But for now, he just closes his eyes and lets Kevin take care of him.
Two weeks pass more quickly than Jean expects.
His stitches come out at his final follow-up appointment, the angry red line across his temple now cleanly healed. His ribs ache only when he twists too quickly, and although the cast remains for another few weeks, Dr. Rosen seems pleased with his recovery.
That night, as they are washing the dishes together, Kevin turns towards Jean.
"I have to start going back to practice this week," he says.
Jean looks up. There is something faintly apologetic in his expression.
"Only for a few hours at first. I don't want you alone all day yet."
Jean gives him a flat look. "Do not sound so guilty. I am twenty-four years old. I can manage being alone for a few hours."
Kevin snorts. "Right."
Jean ignores that, passing Kevin another plate and watching as he rinses it beneath the water. The mention of practice has reminded him of something he has been avoiding thinking about.
"Kevin?"
"Hm?"
"What happens with my career?"
Kevin pauses his movements.
"Theoretically, I should still know how to play," Jean continues. "But I am missing years. I don't know our team. I don't know any of the plays, or the coaches, or apparently half the rules that have changed since I last remember playing."
Kevin sets the plate he was washing down. "You're still a few weeks away from being cleared for contact," Kevin says. "So nothing happens yet."
"And after that?"
"After that..." His fingers drum once against the counter. "Dr. Rosen thinks your procedural memory should still be intact. Physically, you should know how to play. Everything else can be relearned."
Jean considers this. "And if I am not able to?"
"That's not an option. You have to play." Kevin's eyes have gone wide, something almost frightened in the intensity of his expression.
Jean blinks. "I have to?"
A beat passes.
"Yes," Kevin says. "I didn't mean to—Yes, you do."
It makes sense that Kevin would want him to continue his career, but there's something strange about the way he's phrasing it. "Why?"
Kevin looks away. "It's complicated."
Jean suppresses a sigh. He is becoming increasingly familiar with that answer. It is not the first time Jean has noticed that Kevin is remarkably adept at explaining things without ever quite explaining them. Perhaps it's all the media training he got as a child.
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"That is not an explanation, Kevin."
"I know." Kevin rubs absently at the scar on his palm. "There are things about your career, and about how you ended up here, that you don't know yet. I'm not…" He falters, jaw tightening. "I'm not trying to keep them from you. I just don't think now is the right time."
Jean studies him. There is something in his face that keeps Jean from pushing. "Alright. If you say so."
Kevin picks the abandoned plate back up. "You're not cleared yet anyways, so we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Right now, you need to heal."
Jean nods, although he thinks Kevin leaves something else unsaid. Heal, yes, but mostly,
Remember.
Kevin has never asked him to. He has been almost aggressively careful not to, answering Jean's questions without ever suggesting that he should know the answers already. But Jean catches him sometimes, the way his attention sharpens when Jean pauses over a photograph, or when something seems almost familiar. That tiny flicker of hope, quickly smothered, whenever Jean hesitates as though a memory might be within reach. Kevin never says anything about it.
Jean changes the subject. "What would I usually do? While you are gone."
Kevin contemplates this. "Depends on the day. We don't always have practice at the same time."
"And when we don't?"
"Hm. You sleep in later than me."
Jean frowns. "Do I?"
"Much later." Kevin looks faintly disapproving of this. "If I have morning practice, you're usually still asleep when I leave. Sometimes you go for a run when you wake up, or to the gym. You read a lot." He pauses, thinking. "You have friends here. You see them often."
Jean leans his hip against the counter. "Without you?"
Kevin gives him an amused look. "Yes, Jean. Without me. Did you think we were attached at the hip?"
"I was just clarifying."
Kevin snorts. "You have an entire life outside of me," he says. "You talk to Jeremy constantly. And Laila and Cat. You hike with Tim. You go out by yourself. You ride your—" Kevin stops himself.
Jean brushes over that smoothly. "What else?"
Kevin reaches for the dish towel. "Well, there's a bakery around the corner you like. Mrs. Peterson adores you, and she usually has croissants ready by eight if you go early enough. There's a bookstore on Harbor Street too. They let you sit and read without buying anything."
Jean takes that in, trying to picture himself moving through these streets with the easy familiarity Kevin describes.
"You bake a little yourself, actually. You read. You watch terrible television when you think I'm not paying attention."
"What constitutes terrible television?"
"Reality television."
"I do not," Jean denies, aghast.
Kevin presses his lips together. "You do."
"I refuse to believe you."
"Why would I lie? I've been subjected to two seasons of rich women screaming at each other because you made me watch it."
Jean stares at him.
Kevin's mouth twitches. "You loved it."
This is becoming increasingly concerning. What kind of heathen has Jean grown into?
Kevin dries the last plate and slides it into the cupboard. "Anyway, the point is, you know how to entertain yourself. You don't need me here every second."
"I still do not believe you about the television."
Kevin rolls his eyes, but there is no real irritation behind it. "I'll leave after breakfast on Monday. I'll be back around one."
"Okay."
Later that evening, as Kevin lays out his makeshift bed on the couch once again, he glances up at Jean.
"Tomorrow is Sunday." He smooths out the blanket before continuing. "I was thinking we could walk down to the bakery in the morning. If you're feeling up to it."
"The one with the croissants?"
Kevin smiles. "The very one."
In the morning, the fog has already begun to burn away by the time they step outside, leaving the air cool but threaded with sunlight.
Kevin locks the door behind them. "Tell me if you get tired," he instructs. "It's not a long walk so it should be fine, but still."
Jean sighs. "Kevin, if I get tired on a five-minute walk like this, all hope is truly lost."
Kevin gives him a look.
Chastised, Jean sighs, "I will tell you."
They really do have a lovely neighborhood. The ocean is never far away, and on the weekends there are quite a few children running around. Jean can smell coffee in the air, mixing in with the smell of salty ocean air.
"Are the children always this loud?"
Kevin wrinkles his nose. "Yes. Louder usually, if I'm being honest."
The streets become a little busier as they approach the small commercial block Kevin had mentioned. A florist has buckets of fresh flowers outside. An elderly couple sit on a bench sharing a newspaper. Someone has left a bowl of water on the sidewalk for passing dogs.
Jean finds himself slowing in front of the florist. The hydrangeas are beautiful. He turns to find Kevin watching him with a warm look.
"You usually stop here all the time. You have quite the green thumb."
"Do we garden together?"
Kevin grimaces. "I am hopeless when it comes to plants. You made me stop even coming near our garden, somehow I kept killing everything." He toes at the floor. "Even succulents," he admits.
Jean laughs.
The bakery is small and warm, the air thick with the scent of butter, sugar, and fresh bread. Kevin doesn't even glance at the menu before ordering a cinnamon bun for himself and an almond croissant and coffee for Jean. True to Kevin's warning, the elderly woman behind the counter abandons the register the moment she sees them.
"There you are," she says, reaching up to pinch Jean's cheek before he has a chance to react. "You gave us all quite the scare, sweetheart." She pats his cheek affectionately. "Don't you go frightening me like that again."
Jean blinks in surprise, glancing at Kevin, who merely looks amused.
"I did tell you she'd do that," he says.
They eat their breakfast outside, Jean sipping at his coffee and watching Kevin tear at pieces of his cinnamon bun. Jean reaches over and snags a piece. Kevin's lips curve up.
Jean studies him over the rim of his mug.
The morning light catches in Kevin's hair, turning the dark strands almost bronze. He's wearing a light green sweater, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows, and he has a crumb on the corner of his mouth. He looks younger outside the house somehow. Less perpetually worried.
Before Jean can think better of it, he says, "You look good like this."
Kevin nearly chokes on his food. "What?"
"Less," Jean gestures at his face, "worried. Stressed out." Jean frowns then, not wanting him to misunderstand. "You always look good, of course. You are very pretty, but—"
"I got it, thanks," Kevin cuts in, ears red.
After several seconds he speaks again.
"You are very handsome as well."
He says it to his cinnamon bun rather than Jean, the tips of his ears still red.
Jean can't help but laugh at him to his face.
The more time Jean spends with him, the more Kevin reminds him of the stray cats back in Marseille. Beautiful, wary creatures, quick to hiss when approached too directly, only to turn around and quietly follow you home.
He is unexpectedly…cute.
Kevin's eyes narrow. "Don't laugh at me," he says, although he doesn't look all that upset.
As they walk back, their shoulders brush, neither of them moving away. Jean frowns faintly. It feels natural to him. He has no memory of walking these streets before today, yet he finds himself matching Kevin's pace without thinking, unconsciously leaving just enough room for them to walk side by side.
Jean had understood, theoretically, that Kevin was famous. Apparently, he had underestimated the scale of it.
He discovers this while absentmindedly flipping through a magazine left on the coffee table and finding his husband's face staring back at him from a Calvin Klein advertisement. Kevin is wearing considerably less clothing than Jean is accustomed to seeing him in.
Jean pauses.
Kevin is...in very good shape, he thinks unhelpfully.
Jean has barely had time to examine the photograph before the magazine disappears from his hands.
"Don't look at that nonsense," Kevin mutters. "It's embarrassing."
Jean snorts. "Why are you embarrassed? People volunteer for these things, don't they?"
Kevin scowls.
Jean smiles. "You look very good."
The last comment is perhaps unnecessary. Jean says it anyway, mostly because he enjoys the way Kevin flushes and grits out, "Shut up," before retreating toward the kitchen.
Jean watches him go, amused.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of Jean, and he looks him up online. There is, quite frankly, an uncomfortable amount of information about Kevin Day on the internet.
Jean finds interviews, championship highlights, endorsement deals, photographs from tournaments stretching back years. There are articles dissecting his career, his statistics, his childhood, his relationships with other players. Kevin seems to have spent most of his life beneath some degree of public scrutiny. Jean himself appears surprisingly often.
Some of it is mundane, like photographs of them on court together, statistics comparing their performances, articles discussing the Sea Lions' defensive and offensive lines. Other results are considerably more invasive, and Jean closes those quickly.
Certain details repeat often enough that Jean begins to piece together the broad outline of Kevin's life. Kayleigh Day's son. The Son of Exy. Queen of the Court. Evermore. Jean recognizes that name from several articles about himself as well.
He asks about it over dinner.
Kevin goes still. "We both grew up there," he says eventually. "Trained there."
Jean waits. Kevin stares down at his plate. By now, Jean knows enough to recognize when Kevin is choosing his words very carefully.
"It wasn't a good place," Kevin says finally.
"For either of us?"
"No." There is something about the flatness of the answer that keeps Jean from immediately asking another question.
He has already gathered pieces of the story himself. Kevin's supposed skiing accident. Jean's abrupt transfer to USC. The scars covering Jean's body that no motorcycle accident could account for. There are gaps everywhere, but the shape forming between them is not particularly pleasant.
Still, Jean would rather hear it from Kevin than from strangers on the internet. "What happened?"
Kevin's fingers tighten around his fork. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, "If you want to know, I'll tell you."
Jean studies him. Kevin's expression is blank, but his shoulders have gone rigid.
"It's your life," he continues. "You have a right to know. I'm not going to keep it from you." He pauses. "But if you're asking what I think..." Kevin looks away. "Not yet."
The answer surprises Jean.
Kevin exhales slowly through his nose. "You just got out of the hospital. You're still recovering. You don't remember any of it." His jaw tightens. "It isn't a story I particularly want to hand back to you before I have to."
That only makes him more curious, but something in Jean's chest twists at Kevin's expression.
Whatever happened at Evermore, its absence has not erased it entirely. Jean sees evidence of it every morning when he looks in the mirror. He sees it in the scars scattered across Kevin's hand and the black number beneath his eye. He sees it now, in the way Kevin has gone unnaturally still across the table.
"Not yet," Jean agrees.
Kevin's shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly. "Okay."
Jean picks up his fork again. After a moment, Kevin does the same.
The conversation drifts elsewhere. Neither of them brings it up again.
After a month, Jean has to admit, he must have a sleeping problem.
At first, he assumed it was the injuries. Bruised ribs are hardly conducive to a restful night's sleep, and taking painkillers before bed had helped him drift off more easily. But now the pain has faded, yet the sleeplessness has not.
When he wakes this morning, he finds it is seven on a Saturday, much too early for any self-respecting person to be awake.
Frustrated, he drags his exhausted limbs into the living room to make coffee, quiet as to not disturb Kevin.
The sun has just started to rise, and pale rays of light filter in through the window, and as it so happens, Kevin is already awake, curled up with a book on the couch.
Come to think of it, Kevin is always awake before Jean. In fact, Jean cannot recall ever waking to find Kevin still asleep.
"Oh," Kevin acknowledges when he walks in, "Bonjour, Jean-Yves. You're up early."
"Are you a morning person?" Jean asks crankily.
Kevin presses his lips together as if trying to hide a smile. "No. But I am more of one than you are."
Jean pads over to the couch and, without really thinking about it, stretches out beside Kevin until his head rests near Kevin's thigh. Jean shifts closer towards the inviting heat until their bodies touch.
Kevin looks down in surprise, then tentatively threads his fingers through Jean's curls. Jean makes a pleased noise at the touch.
With a pang of concern, Jean realizes that Kevin actually looks rather tired up close, shoulders slumped and dark circles under his eyes. He really should not be waking up early just to read.
"What book is that?" Jean asks.
Kevin glances down. "It's called The Histories."
Jean looks up at him to expectantly, so Kevin reaches over and places a bookmark in his spot, before placing it to the side.
"It's by Herodotus. Greek historian, from fifth century BCE."
Jean hums to show he's listening.
"He's often called the Father of History," Kevin tells him, eyes brightening. "Although that's a little unfair because he also includes stories that are...well, questionably true—"
"Questionably?"
"Things like giants or gold-digging ants. Various impossible creatures."
"Oh."
"Yes. But that's what makes him interesting. He wasn't only trying to record what happened, he wanted to record what people believed happened. People tend to dismiss him because he gets some of the details wrong, but I think that's missing the point. Even the myths tell you something about the people telling them: what frightened them, what they admired. Basically how they understood the world."
Jean loses himself listening to Kevin speak—the soothing hum of his voice, the comfortable scratch of his fingers against Jean's scalp. He lets his eyes flutter shut. Before long, Jean realizes he is no longer following the history lesson at all. He is only listening to Kevin.
After a while, Kevin goes silent, making Jean's eyes snap open.
"Am I boring you?" Kevin asks, looking unoffended.
"Not at all. You know quite a bit about history."
Kevin huffs out a laugh. "Yes well, you used to beg me to stop talking about it so much when we were children. I won't blame you if you fall asleep."
That cannot possibly be true, Jean thinks. Never mind that he hasn't retained a single historical fact, he just likes hearing Kevin speak.
"I am not bored," Jean tells him again. "I just…have not been sleeping well."
"Oh." Kevin's fingers still in his hair. "I didn't realize." A conflicted expression crosses his face.
"What?"
"I—Perhaps I should have warned you. You usually don't sleep well alone. I didn't think you would remember."
Jean blinks. That would explain the insomnia. "I see. And what about you?"
Kevin tilts his head back and sighs. Jean's eyes linger on the elegant line of his neck, the sharpness of his jaw.
"No," he says. "I don't sleep particularly well without you either."
It sounds rather codependent. Jean searches himself for any discomfort at the thought and finds none.
Jean studies the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Will you come back to bed?" he asks after a moment.
Kevin looks down questioningly. "Do you want me to?"
"I would not have asked otherwise."
"Right." Kevin resumes slowly scratching his fingers through Jean's hair. "Okay."
Jean hums, eyes already drifting shut again.
"Tonight," Kevin adds. "For now, go to sleep."
Jean does.
That night, true to his word, Kevin walks into their shared bedroom, hair slightly damp from his shower, and face shiny and flushed with skincare.
Reading the hesitation in his body language, Jean pulls back the blanket and pats the spot next to him. Kevin climbs in a second later, leaving almost too much space between them.
It is the fastest Jean has fallen asleep since the hospital.
During the night, Jean wakes up once, disoriented and limbs heavy with sleep.
Blinking blearily, Jean sees the room is dark, save for the slightest bit of light peeking into the room, so it must be early in the morning.
There is a warm weight on him.
Kevin is a hazy shape in the darkness, his face nestled into the crook of Jean's neck, breath escaping in soft puffs against his skin. He has one arm draped across Jean's waist.
Jean smiles faintly, letting a wave of sleep pull him back under once again.
When Jean wakes up for the second time, it is to sunlight in his eyes and Kevin's hair tickling his chin. As if trying to escape the brightness of the morning, he has curled even further into Jean, clinging.
Jean looks down.
Kevin's lashes are a dark smudge against his cheeks. His lips are pink and parted ever so slightly, brow relaxed with sleep.
Jean doesn't know how long he looks at him until Kevin begins to stir, making a soft noise before snuggling in closer. Jean's breath catches when he feels soft lips against his neck.
"Jean," he mumbles, voice soft with sleep. His tone is fond, much more affectionate than Jean has heard it. The vibration of his voice tickles.
There is none of Kevin's usual carefulness in it. No hesitation, no strange little pause before touching him. Half-asleep, Kevin reaches for Jean as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
Another kiss.
"Kevin," Jean says hesitantly, not wanting to break the sanctity of the morning.
Kevin groans in response, nuzzling in. It is extremely sweet.
A moment later he tenses, scrambling backwards.
His hair is sticking up, and in his disorientation he nearly throws himself off the bed. Jean reaches out to catch his wrist.
"Careful."
"Sorry," Kevin blurts out. "Sorry—I—I wasn't fully awake, and I forgot that you—I'm sorry."
Jean truly is not bothered, but Kevin looks so panicked that Jean takes pity on him.
"No harm done. I could tell you were doing it unconsciously."
"Still. I shouldn't have molested you in your sleep."
Molested, Jean mouths, amused. "It was hardly molestation. It's alright, I really did not mind."
When Kevin still looks unsure, Jean adds, "I liked it. I would like it if you did it again."
Now Kevin's mouth drops open. "You are…so forward."
"Am I not usually?"
"You are but…it's a little different. Not bad different," Kevin says, catching his expression.
"Should I stop?"
"No." Kevin looks away, apparently finding the blankets suddenly fascinating.
Jean decides to spare him.
After a moment, Kevin clears his throat. "I'm volunteering today. Would you like to come?"
Kevin explains on the drive over that he volunteers there every Saturday morning.
"It's a community clinic," he says simply. "Most of the children wouldn't otherwise be able to afford equipment or coaching."
"That's very kind of you."
Kevin frowns as though Jean has misunderstood him. "Not particularly." He keeps his eyes on the road. "We're in a position where we can help. I think that's reason enough."
Jean nods, expecting a handful of children kicking a ball around a park.
Instead, they pull into a bustling community sports complex. Several dozen children in borrowed helmets and mismatched pads race across a full Exy court while volunteers drag equipment between stations and attempt to organize them into something resembling orderly lines.
The moment Kevin steps out of the car, one of the other coaches waves him over.
“Morning, Coach Day! Good to see you again, Mr. Moreau. We already started warmups.”
Kevin glances toward Jean. “Find a seat. I’ll come over once they’re settled.”
Jean nods and climbs the bleachers. By the time he settles onto the bench, Kevin is already halfway through demonstrating a passing drill.
"...and if your teammate is here," Kevin says, nudging one of the cones with the toe of his shoe, "you don't throw the ball where they are. You throw it where they're going to be."
"What if they don't know where they're going?" A little girl asks while raising her hand.
Kevin considers this with complete seriousness. "Then your teammate has made your life considerably more difficult."
The children dissolve into laughter. Kevin doesn't smile immediately, though the corners of his mouth twitch. He waits until they've settled before continuing.
Jean finds he is quite content to watch.
There are perhaps fifteen children in Kevin’s group, ranging from six or seven to early teenagers, and every one of them appears utterly captivated. Not because Kevin is particularly entertaining. Quite the opposite, in fact. He speaks to them as though they are very small adults, listening to every question with grave attention and correcting them without condescension.
His standards are as severe here as they are everywhere else, but he is careful about where he directs them. He never praises a child for being naturally talented. He praises effort, patience, listening, and good decisions. Every compliment concerns something they can control, and every criticism comes with precise instructions for how to improve.
A young red-haired boy struggles through the same drill four times. Kevin makes him repeat it a fifth, then crouches beside him and adjusts his grip one finger at a time. When the boy finally succeeds, Kevin nods once and says, “Better.”
The child beams as though he has been handed a trophy.
Later, a girl with two pigtails spills what appears to be very sticky fruit juice over both herself and her partner. Kevin closes his eyes for one long second, then produces a packet of wipes from somewhere and begins cleaning them up without comment.
Jean watches Kevin tie shoelaces and celebrate tiny victories. He even tolerates the younger children hanging off his arms and throwing themselves against his legs, although Jean has begun to suspect Kevin does not naturally enjoy being touched.
It's rather silly to feel jealous of a child, but that doesn't stop Jean.
During their break, Kevin glances toward the bleachers with one child perched on his shoulders and another gripping his hand. Something in Jean’s chest tightens at the sight.
Kevin catches his eye.
Okay? he mouths.
Jean nods.
One child follows Kevin's gaze, spotting Jean immediately.
"Jean!" Another follows the girl's gaze.
"Mr. Jean sir!"
Within seconds, half a dozen children are wandering toward the bleachers. Jean blinks and points at himself. "You know me?"
"You're still so silly!"
Still?
"You showed me how to catch with one hand!" a young girl exclaims. She is missing two teeth.
"You said my stance looked weird," a boy adds.
Another child tugs gently at Jean's sleeve. "Are you gonna coach today?"
Before Jean can answer, Kevin appears beside them carrying a crate of water bottles. He hands one to the little girl without looking. "He isn't coaching today."
The children immediately quiet. Kevin's expression softens.
"Jean is still recovering," Kevin says. "And recovery is part of getting stronger, isn't it?"
A chorus of little nods.
"So let's give him a little space today, alright?"
"Okay, Coach Kevin," they mumble, sounding a little dejected.
"Can he still watch?"
Kevin glances toward Jean. "As long as you don't wear him out."
The children nod with solemn determination. One little boy whispers much too loudly, "We have to be gentle."
Kevin pretends not to hear. Jean bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling foolishly.
On the drive home, Kevin rolls the windows down, the afternoon air warm and pleasant on Jean's skin. Neither speaks for several minutes, content to sit in companionable silence.
Finally Jean says, "You are very good with children."
Kevin snorts. "Do you think so?"
"I do."
Kevin considers that. "I suppose I like them. They're easy to teach. And very honest."
"I noticed."
Another stretch of road passes beneath them. Jean watches the coastline appear and disappear between the buildings, blue water flashing in the distance. The question sits uneasily at the back of his throat for several minutes before curiosity finally wins.
"Did we want children?"
Kevin's hands tighten almost imperceptibly around the steering wheel. "We never really talked about it."
"No?"
Kevin shakes his head. "We were still young. There always seemed to be time."
It seems like such a waste. Kevin is patient, thoughtful, and endlessly encouraging. Jean can picture him kneeling to tie tiny shoes, helping with homework, reading bedtime stories in the same careful voice he uses to explain Exy.
He would be wonderful at it.
Kevin glances briefly toward him before returning his attention to the road. “I think we would’ve been happy either way,” he says. “Children or no children.” Then, after a moment, quieter, “I mostly just wanted to grow old with you.”
Jean turns toward the window before Kevin can see the warmth spreading across his face.
Outside, the coastline slips by in streaks of blue and gold. Jean rests his elbow against the window and watches the reflection of Kevin's profile in the glass.
Somewhere deep inside him, beneath memory and reason and everything he has lost, something settles quietly into place.
Whoever he had been before the accident had chosen well.
That night, when Kevin slips into bed beside him, he looks pleasantly exhausted.
The room is dark, save for the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Kevin murmurs a quiet goodnight as he settles beneath the blankets before reaching over to switch off the light.
Silence follows. Jean lies awake for a while.
He thinks about Kevin surrounded by children that morning, one hanging from his hand and another perched on his shoulders. The patience with which he answered every ridiculous question, the way he remembered every name. He thinks about the volunteers Kevin thanked before they left, and painkillers left beside Jean's bed every morning when he still needed them, and his quiet hesitation the night before.
Kevin is very kind, Jean realizes. In a way that is not obvious at first glance, but is unmistakable the longer you spend in his presence.
I mostly just wanted to grow old with you.
Jean turns his head.
Kevin lies beside him with his back turned, leaving that careful strip of empty mattress between them again.
If he wants to cross the ocean of distance between them, Jean will have to be the one to take that leap. Kevin is far too careful with him to have it any other way.
Before he can second-guess himself, he reaches across the mattress. His hand settles against Kevin's waist.
Kevin stills immediately.
Jean gently draws him closer. "May I hold you?" he asks softly.
Kevin's breath catches. "...Yes."
Jean pulls him the rest of the way into his arms.
His hair is still faintly damp from his shower, carrying the scent of oranges. He fits perfectly in Jean's arms.
For a moment, he simply lies there. Then, carefully, almost cautiously, Kevin slides an arm around Jean's waist. He hugs him just a little too tightly.
Jean feels something click into place. Kevin has been holding back.
The distance, the hesitation before every touch, the careful space he leaves between them in bed. Jean had assumed some of it was simply Kevin's nature, but he understands now that it has been deliberate. Kevin has been waiting for him, probably afraid of making him uncomfortable, unwilling to take anything Jean has not offered first. Because the moment Jean does offer, Kevin goes easily.
He settles into Jean's arms as though he belongs there, soaking up the affection with an almost embarrassing eagerness. Like a plant finally turned toward the sun.
Something warm and terribly fond unfurls in Jean's chest. He tightens his arm around Kevin. Kevin makes a quiet sound and presses closer.
Jean closes his eyes. Sleep comes easily.
After that night, reaching for Kevin becomes effortless.
Jean finds himself doing it without thinking. A hand at the small of Kevin's back as they pass one another in the kitchen. Fingers briefly brushing his wrist while handing him a cup of coffee. A light squeeze of his shoulder before Kevin leaves for an early morning practice.
Kevin never reaches first, not yet, but he does soften into every touch as though he had been waiting for it.
It is well after sunset by the time Jean is ready for bed.
He is halfway through Howl's Moving Castle, wrapped in one of the blankets from the sofa. Kevin had insisted he watch it after discovering Jean remembered none of it. Jean has to admit, it is very good. He is just reaching the scene where Sophie and Howl walk through the flower field when someone gently pokes his shoulder.
"Boo."
Jean looks up.
Kevin is standing behind the couch, hair still damp from his shower, wearing an oversized zip-up and looking altogether too pleased with himself.
"Were you attempting to frighten me?"
Kevin rolls his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitch. "Not seriously. Trust me, you would know if I was. I have been told I can be very scary."
"You've been lied to," Jean tells him.
Kevin smiles before walking around the sofa and perching on the armrest. He tucks his socked feet under the cushion there.
"Hello there. Were you enjoying yourself?"
"I was."
Kevin grins, entirely unperturbed by Jean's snark. "Ouch. So mean. Do you want to go to the park?"
Jean blinks in surprise. "But it is late. It's already dark outside."
Kevin comes over to sit next to him on the couch, leaning in closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That's the lovely thing about being adults, Jean. We don't have bedtimes."
Jean gives him a flat look. Kevin meets it with bright-eyed expectation.
He is in a very good mood tonight.
Perhaps a stronger, more cold-hearted man may be able to deny him, but not Jean.
"Very well."
Before they leave, Kevin takes care to wrap Jean up in a scarf because apparently, West coast summers are the coldest season in the world, Jean.
As if that makes any sense.
Kevin tucks the ends carefully beneath Jean's jacket, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration. Jean finds his attention drifting there and has to deliberately look elsewhere.
Then Kevin catches him by the wrist and pulls him out the door. True to his word, it is chilly. Jean hikes the scarf higher over his mouth and decides not to give Kevin the satisfaction of commenting on it.
It isn't long before they end up at a park. A fenced park.
A fenced and very obviously locked park.
Jean stops. "Are we allowed in there right now?"
Kevin shushes him. "We have to jump the fence," he whispers, despite there being no one else around.
"Kevin."
"What?"
"Why is there a lock if we are meant to jump the fence?"
Kevin looks at him as though Jean has said something profoundly stupid. "We're not meant to jump the fence, silly. We're sneaking in. Obviously."
Obviously. Jean closes his eyes.
"Are you scared?" Kevin asks.
Jean glances over to see if he's being serious right now.
Kevin is staring at him with a rather stupid expression on his face. He sighs theatrically. "How dreadful. It seems I have a scaredy-cat for a husband."
"Are you five years old?"
Jean ignores the pleased flutter in his chest at being called Kevin's husband.
"Come on, Jean," Kevin says. "Follow me."
Jean does.
Kevin hops the fence with ease, as though he's done it a hundred times before. He waits on the other side and gestures for Jean to go, who eyes the flimsy metal apprehensively.
"Don't worry. I'll catch you if you fall."
"That is not reassuring." Jean looks pointedly at him. "You weigh less than I do."
"I'll have you know I've lifted you before, Jean. Have some faith."
Jean decides not to examine that statement too closely.
He starts over the fence, fully intending to ignore Kevin's outstretched arms. Unfortunately, his shoelace catches on the top rail. His leg jerks backward, and Jean pitches forward directly into Kevin. They hit the grass in a graceless tangle of limbs, Kevin taking the worst of the impact beneath him.
Jean scrambles onto his hands. "Merde—Kevin, are you hurt? I—"
Kevin giggles.
Jean stops talking.
Kevin is sprawled beneath him, cheeks pink from the cold, one hand pressed over his mouth. Another helpless laugh escapes around his fingers. "You—" Kevin tries, only to dissolve again. "You're so clumsy."
Jean stares at him.
"How did you even manage to fall? This fence is barely taller than you!"
Jean should probably defend his honor, but he forgets what he was going to say when he catches sight of Kevin's expression. Apparently, Kevin has twin dimples on each side of his mouth.
Jean has seen Kevin smile before. He has seen him amused, pleased, even happy. But he has never seen him laugh like this. With a bittersweet pang, Jean wonders how many times he must have seen those dimples before and how many times Kevin has smiled at him exactly this way.
Jean reaches down and pressing a finger into the divot before he can stop himself. Kevin's laughter fades.
"You have dimples."
Kevin's eyes are soft. "I do. Do you like them?"
His tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"I do."
Kevin smiles again, smaller this time.
The swell of affection that rises in his chest is so strong, that Jean does not bother trying to stop it. He lets it take him under, lets himself think,
I want to kiss him.
The thought is startling only in its certainty. Unable to do anything but give in, Jean leans down and presses lips gently to Kevin's cheek. He lingers there for a second before pulling away.
Kevin stares up at him with enormous green eyes. Slowly, his fingers rise to touch the place Jean kissed.
Only then does embarrassment catch up with Jean. He abruptly finds it impossible to meet Kevin's eyes.
A kiss on the cheek? Good lord. Forget Kevin, is Jean five years old?
Presumably they have done considerably more than this, yet Jean abruptly feels like a blushing schoolchild. Kevin does not appear to be faring much better. His cheeks have gone noticeably pinker.
Neither says anything about it.
Kevin gets to his feet first, still looking faintly dazed, and offers Jean a hand up. Together, they wander through the empty park.
Kevin insists on demonstrating that he can still cross the monkey bars "despite what Neil claims," only to nearly slip halfway across. Jean catches his elbow before he can fall.
"I had it under control," Kevin insists.
"Of course you did."
"You don't sound convinced."
"Well, that is because I am not."
Kevin bumps his shoulder against Jean's with exaggerated offense.
They pass the swings a few moments later. Kevin pauses.
"One more thing."
Before Jean can ask what he means, Kevin has already dusted off one of the swings with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"Sit."
Jean raises an eyebrow. "Kevin."
He gets an expectant look in response.
Jean sighs with all the long-suffering dignity he can muster and sits.
Kevin steps behind him and gives the swing a gentle push. It is embarrassingly enjoyable—the cool night air brushes past Jean's face as he drifts back and forth beneath the streetlights. Behind him, Kevin hums softly to himself, one hand resting briefly against the back of the swing each time it returns.
"Higher?" Kevin asks.
"Do not you dare."
Kevin laughs. "I wasn't going to."
Jean does not entirely believe him.
By the time they leave, Jean is warm from running around despite the chill. His cheeks ache, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize it is because he has spent most of the evening smiling.
Their shoulders bump as they walk. Jean looks down at Kevin's hand swinging beside his own.
This time there is no accident to blame, no sleepiness, no practical reason for touching him.
Jean reaches over and takes it.
Kevin glances down. For one brief moment, Jean wonders if he has miscalculated.
Then Kevin's fingers close around his.
He swings their joined hands once between them, a small, almost playful motion, before letting them settle again.
They walk home hand in hand.
Jean thinks he's settling into routine rather well, so, in hindsight, the thing that sets him off is rather embarrassing.
The sun is beginning to set, painting the living room in soft shades of orange and pink. Kevin has been on the phone with either Andrew or Neil, or perhaps both, for nearly half an hour. Eventually, he pokes his head through the doorway.
“Sorry. I know it’s getting late. I’m almost done.” He glances toward the kitchen. “I can make dinner afterward, or we can go out.”
Jean looks up from his book. He has been making his way through Le Petit Prince. It is deceptively simple, written in the kind of clear French meant for children, yet there is something strangely comforting about a story that insists the most important things cannot be seen, only remembered by the heart.
"I could make dinner," Jean offers.
He has noticed the worn recipe book in the kitchen, and judging by Kevin’s limited culinary ability, Jean suspects he was usually the one who cooked for them.
Kevin tilts his head. "Only if you want to."
Jean lifts an eyebrow. "I can still follow a recipe."
“Alright.” Kevin smiles faintly. “Thank you. I’ll be done soon.”
He disappears back into the bedroom.
The recipe Jean picks is simple enough, one of the first pages to fall open when he lays the worn book across the counter. The binding has softened from years of use, the corners rounded where fingers have turned them over and over again. There is something comforting about that. He likes the thought that this book has lived in this kitchen longer than he can remember, even if he cannot remember it.
He gathers ingredients almost absently, before returning to the book.
Only then does he notice the writing in the margin.
It is not part of the recipe, but a note scrawled along the edge in small, slanted black ink. Jean has seen Kevin’s handwriting. This is messier, so it must be his own.
does NOT need less salt. Kevin is trying to give you hyponatremia
Beneath it, in more elegant writing is:
rude, jean-yves. why do you even know that word?
Jean's fingers drift over the faded ink as though touching it might summon the moment back to him. He can almost see it now. Perhaps they bickered about it so often that Jean put it in the book just to mess with Kevin. Perhaps Kevin found it one day and wrote back.
He can almost see it, but he cannot remember.
He flips through the pages some more. They are sparse, but it's not the only note left in the margins. Some are more mundane, actual adjustments to the recipes, but some are notes back and forth between the two of them.
Everything in this book, everything in this house speaks of repetition, of evenings spent together. Thousands of insignificant moments, and Jean remembers absolutely none of them.
His fingers tighten against the edge of the counter. The notes blur.
The man who had stood exactly where Jean was standing had known, with absolute certainty, that Kevin would complain about the salt before tasting the food. He had known which arguments were worth having and which jokes would make Kevin roll his eyes.
That had loved him well enough to predict him, that man had lived an entire life in these walls.
Jean cannot remember being him.
His chest constricts.
The recipe book slips from suddenly numb fingers, hitting the counter with a dull thud. He grips the sink until his knuckles turn white.
The breath catches somewhere beneath his ribs, refusing to travel any farther. Another follows, quicker this time, then another, each one shallower than the last until he is standing over the kitchen counter gasping like a person who has surfaced from deep water only to discover there is still no air left.
His vision tunnels. He cannot stop staring at the words. He remembers writing them no more than he remembers being born.
"I can't..." he whispers, though there is no one to hear him. "I can't."
His pulse pounds against his throat so fiercely it hurts. Without thinking, he reaches for it, adding just enough pressure to quiet the frantic beating beneath his fingertips.
"Jean?" The voice sounds like it's coming from miles away.
Footsteps approach rapidly.
"Jean." Gentle hands come up against his face.
"I can't—"
Kevin immediately kneels beside him.
Is he on the floor?
Kevin is speaking, but the words reach Jean through rushing water. As though Kevin is standing safely on the shore while Jean is somewhere far out at sea, drowning, drowning, drowning.
His fingers claw downward, digging into soft flesh. Anything to stop the terrible feeling inside him.
“Breathe. I’ve got you.”
Jean cannot catch the words. He cannot breathe.
He cannot feel his hands anymore, cannot feel any pain. He cannot feel much of anything except the terrible certainty that if he closes his eyes, he will disappear entirely.
The darkness comes anyway.
...
When awareness finally returns, Kevin is still beside him.
He is leaning over Jean at an angle that cannot be comfortable, but he looks as though he has no intention of moving. Both hands are pressed over Jean’s neck, cradling his jaw while his thumbs rub slow circles into the skin beneath his ears.
Kevin is speaking softly.
Jean blinks, his thoughts sluggish. His gaze drops. Angry red lines run across the backs of Kevin’s hands where nails have broken the skin.
Jean has clawed into his skin.
He freezes. "Your hands—"
“Are you back with me?” Kevin asks. “There you are.” He shifts closer, one hand settling firmly on Jean’s shoulder.
Jean cannot stop staring at the damage he has done to Kevin’s lovely, capable hands.
“Forget about that right now.” Kevin catches Jean’s chin and guides his gaze upward. His thumb brushes away a tear. “Breathe with me first.”
He gently takes Jean's wrist and guides his hand against the center of his own chest. Jean can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat.
"That's it," Kevin murmurs. "With me."
Jean tries. The first attempt catches painfully.
Kevin does not react. "Again."
Another breath.
"Good."
Jean clings to the rhythm beneath his palm. Kevin is the only fixed point in the chaos of his thoughts, those green eyes steady and bright enough to guide him back.
"Kevin—"
"I'm here."
Jean catches at his waist and pulls himself closer, burying his face against Kevin’s chest. From here, he can hear the beat of Kevin’s heart through his shirt.
“That’s it, darling. Just breathe.”
Jean shuts his eyes and hides in the darkness of Kevin’s shirt, letting his voice wash over him.
Kevin continues speaking, and it takes Jean several moments to understand the words.
“You speak French?” he asks hoarsely, looking up.
The words are fluent, not the simple greetings Kevin has offered him these past few weeks, but full, gentle sentences spoken in the same accent Jean hears when he speaks himself.
Kevin brushes away some more of his tears with his thumbs gently. "I do. Are you feeling better?"
Jean nods.
"Good. Let me get you some water."
Jean tightens his grip around Kevin’s waist. “Later.”
Kevin pauses.
“First tell me how you speak French.” Jean swallows. “You have my accent.”
Kevin runs a hand through Jean’s curls. “Of course I do. You taught me.”
“I taught you?” Jean frowns. “I am a terrible teacher.”
Kevin hums, amused. "At least you can admit it. You were very strict, and you got upset at me more often than necessary. But," Kevin brushes a curl off Jean's forehead and tucks it behind his ear, "you taught me well."
Jean turns that over. “Did you learn for me?”
"I did."
"At Evermore?"
"Yes. At Evermore. You taught me in secret."
“Did you love me then?” The question leaves him before he can stop it.
Kevin’s expression changes. Jean immediately regrets asking. Something about that look on his face makes Jean want to kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness, but he has lost his memory, not his mind, so he refrains.
Kevin sighs. “I did. But I don’t think you knew.”
Jean is not convinced.
He pictures a younger Kevin hanging on every French word that left his mouth, repeating each one with fierce determination until Jean nods his approval. He imagines correcting Kevin's accent and teasing him when he gets a verb wrong. Listening to him stumble through sentences until they become fluent. All for Jean.
What else could that be, if not love?
"Can I get you water now?" Kevin asks.
Jean nods, still lost in the image.
Kevin returns quickly with a cold glass. “Drink slowly.”
Jean does.
Kevin watches him with such tenderness that Jean nearly looks away. It feels too intimate to be seen like this, emptied out and shaking, every ugly edge of him exposed.
“Do you want to move to the couch?” Kevin asks.
Jean’s gaze drops again to Kevin’s hands, now resting lightly on his knees. It seems that, in his panic, Jean went to claw at his throat, so Kevin placed his own hands there instead.
"Kevin," he says hoarsely, "Kevin, I'm sorry."
“I told you to forget about it, Jean. It’s nothing.” Kevin dismisses the apology with a shake of his head. “Let’s get you a blanket. You’re shivering.” He studies Jean for another second. “I’ll make tea.”
Jean nods automatically, then catches Kevin’s sleeve before he can rise.
“I want to stay with you while you do.”
The request feels childish. Jean cannot remember ever being particularly clingy, and embarrassment begins creeping up his neck.
Kevin does not so much as blink. “Alright.”
He helps Jean to his feet and laces their fingers together without comment before leading him into the kitchen.
Kevin fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. When he steps away to retrieve two mugs, Jean catches himself reaching for the back of his shirt, pinching the fabric lightly between his fingers so Kevin cannot stray too far.
Kevin glances over his shoulder, notices immediately, and says nothing at all. He simply continues making the tea, allowing Jean to follow him through the kitchen like a duckling convinced the world will end if it loses sight of its mother.
The tea helps calm Jean down, the mug warm and grounding in his hand. They sit side by side on the couch, Jean feeling wrung out and embarrassed. And hungry.
“I’ll order something,” Kevin says after a moment. “You need to eat.”
Jean lets out a miserable laugh and drops his head into his hands. “Not only did I hurt you, I could not even manage dinner.”
“Jean.”
“I only wanted to do something nice for you.”
Kevin reaches over and nudges one of Jean’s hands away from his face. “You tried. That was nice.” His voice turns firmer. “It’s just dinner.”
Jean studies him. It is not just dinner, but he does not have the strength to argue.
“This cannot be what you signed up for,” he says instead.
Kevin’s mouth tightens. “I don’t know what that means.”
"You were married. You had a life, and now—"
"I am married," Kevin snaps.
The correction lands between them. Kevin exhales and rubs a hand over his face.
“Jean, you may not remember this, but I made vows to you. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.” His gaze does not waver. “I meant them.”
Jean is suddenly, painfully envious of the man he used to be. The man who stood beside Kevin at the altar and received the promise of his entire life.
He looks away. "You should have a husband who remembers your birthday."
It is not quite what he means, but Jean feels too worn thin to explain it properly.
Kevin’s expression becomes unreadable. “I do have a husband.”
Jean looks at him. They both know that is not what he meant.
“And for the record,” Kevin adds, quieter, “you forgot my birthday before the amnesia too.”
Jean blinks. That sounds rather unlike him. “I did?”
“No.” A tiny smile curves across Kevin’s mouth. “I wanted to see if you would believe me.”
Jean stares at him. Unbelievable.
Kevin does end up ordering food, and they eat the takeout cross-legged on the couch, cartons balanced on the coffee table between them. He puts on a movie neither of them pays much attention to.
Jean finishes barely half his food before the exhaustion settles over him completely, his eyelids growing heavier each time he blinks. Kevin notices before he says a word, quietly taking the carton from his hands and setting it aside.
They brush their teeth in companionable silence before climbing into bed. Jean slides beneath the covers automatically, waiting for Kevin to settle beside him.
Kevin gets in slowly. After a moment, one arm slips carefully around Jean’s waist. Jean answers by leaning back into the embrace without thinking, covering Kevin's hand with his own.
Kevin's chest rises steadily against his back, warm and familiar, his heartbeat slow enough that Jean finds himself matching it without trying.
Tonight, wrapped in Kevin’s arms with the quiet rhythm of his breathing at Jean’s back, the absence inside him feels a little less enormous.
Jean decides it is time to meet one of the teammates he apparently used to spend a great deal of time with.
He is due to return to practice soon, and it seems sensible to reacquaint himself with at least one person before walking into a locker room full of strangers who already know him. So, over the weekend, he agrees to go hiking with Tim, one of their teammates and, according to Kevin, Jean’s usual companion whenever he found a new trail he wanted to try.
Tim is nearly a decade older than Jean, with a wife and two daughters he speaks of with obvious affection. Within the first half hour, Jean begins to suspect the man must have taken him under his wing when he first joined the team. There is something distinctly fatherly about the way Tim checks that Jean has enough water without making a production of it, or quietly moves to the outside edge whenever the trail narrows.
Apparently, the California coast has mountains.
They rise abruptly beyond the highway, soft and sun-bleached where the trees thin, their slopes covered in dry grass, scrub oak, and dark clusters of redwood. The higher ridges disappear into a hazy blue that seems to stretch forever, while glimpses of the Pacific flash between the hills whenever the trail curves toward the coast.
The route begins gently enough, winding beside a narrow creek whose water moves lazily over smooth stones. The air is still cool from the night before, carrying the scent of damp earth, sage, and eucalyptus. Sunlight filters through the trees in scattered patches, never remaining in one place long enough to become warm.
For the first twenty minutes, neither of them speaks much.
Jean finds he does not mind.
Tim possesses the remarkable ability to make silence feel companionable rather than awkward. Every so often, he points out something Jean would otherwise have missed: a hawk circling above the ridge, a lizard vanishing beneath a rock, bright orange poppies growing stubbornly through the dry soil.
“You used to stop to look those,” Tim says when Jean slows near a patch of flowers.
“I did?”
“Every time.” Tim glances at him. “Usually while claiming you were not tired and taking a break.”
Jean decides not to dignify that with an answer.
The incline arrives gradually, almost politely. The trail narrows into a series of switchbacks climbing steadily along the hillside, and before long Jean becomes significantly less interested in admiring the scenery. His lungs burn, sweat gathers at the back of his neck, and Tim, infuriatingly, continues at exactly the same pace.
“You are enjoying this,” Jean says between breaths.
Tim only grins.
Overall, it is strangely satisfying. Each step feels earned in a way Jean has difficulty explaining, his legs growing pleasantly sore as the trail winds higher. His body knows how to regulate itself, when to shorten his stride and when to slow his breathing, even if Jean cannot remember learning any of it.
By the time they reach the overlook, his calves burn every time he shifts his weight.
The view, however, is magnificent.
The mountains fall away beneath them in layered green and gold, the coastline cutting a dark line against the water far below. Morning haze softens the horizon until sea and sky become almost indistinguishable.
Jean lowers himself onto a flat boulder with considerably less elegance than he would have preferred. Tim hands him a bottle of water.
“You made good time.”
“I nearly died.”
Tim snorts. “You're still the same, huh. You say that every time.”
Jean twists the cap from the bottle. “Perhaps that is just because I mean it every time.”
They eat in comfortable silence for several minutes. Tim has brought almonds, fruit, and a sandwich cut neatly in half, which he informs Jean was packed by his youngest daughter because she did not trust him to remember lunch.
Eventually, Jean says, “I start practice again next week.”
Tim nods. “Everyone’s looking forward to having you back.”
Jean turns the bottle slowly between his hands. “I have been gone a long time.”
“A month isn’t that long.”
“It is when I remember none of them.”
Tim looks out over the ocean. For a moment, Jean expects reassurance, some grand declaration that everything will return to him the moment he picks up a racquet.
Instead, Tim shrugs. “You’ll work it out.”
Jean glances at him.
“You work hard,” Tim continues. “You listen when it matters, and you don’t complain much.”
“I just complained for the entire climb.”
“Less than usual, actually.”
Jean huffs out a laugh.
Tim appears finished, and the brevity is oddly comforting. He does not promise that Jean will immediately become the player he once was. He simply speaks as though whatever happens next will be manageable.
The hike back is easier on Jean’s lungs and considerably harder on his knees. By the time they return to the trailhead, the morning chill has disappeared, replaced by dry California heat. Jean lowers himself into the passenger seat with tired legs, dusty boots, and a pleasant ache settling into muscles he had almost forgotten existed.
As Tim starts the car, Jean realizes it has been one of the nicest mornings he has had since waking up.
For his first practice back, Jean only watches.
Tim greets him with a brief hug, and Jean receives more than a few pats on the back and, irritatingly, one ruffle of his hair as the rest of the team filters past.
"Good to have you back, man."
"Glad to see you're doing better."
"Don't judge us too hard today, Moreau."
He makes no such promises.
He settles into the bleachers with a bottle of water and watches the team trickle onto the court below.
Of course, Jean knows Kevin is an excellent player. He has only heard it a hundred times in a hundred different ways. He has seen the statistics, watched old recordings, read articles that seem to run out of superlatives trying to describe him.
Seeing him play in person is something else entirely.
Kevin changes the moment he steps onto the court. Not completely, Jean recognizes the sharpness, the confidence, the almost unreasonable certainty with which Kevin delivers his opinions. But here, none of it is restrained. He is merciless.
Aside from that, Kevin seems to exist a heartbeat ahead of everyone else: he sees passing lanes before they open, mistakes before they're made, opportunities before anyone else has even realized they're there. Every movement is precise without ever seeming calculated, effortless without ever appearing lazy. He demands excellence from everyone around him, but somehow makes them believe they are capable of it.
Jean finds himself smiling before he realizes it.
It only confirms what Jean knows—what he has known, for a while.
That Kevin is an exceptional, extraordinary, one-of-a-kind person. A center of gravity around which others circle.
And it seems that, years ago, a younger version of Jean had looked up into the night sky, reached out, and plucked a star all for himself.
Life seems to move a little faster once Jean starts playing again.
For one, he goes to bed sore and aching and happy. The days gradually fill themselves in around Exy.
Morning runs become routine again, and he lingers after practice to stretch with the others instead of hurrying home. Books begin appearing on his bedside table, borrowed from the library simply because they looked interesting. He wanders the farmers' market on Saturday mornings and comes home with fruit or fresh bread because they caught his eye rather than because they were on a list.
Little by little, his life stops feeling like something paused. It simply becomes his life.
Today, Jean tackles the daunting task of changing a light bulb.
The bedroom light has been flickering for days, much to Kevin's frustration. Jean had wanted to surprise him by quietly fixing it himself.
Perhaps he could have chosen a sturdier chair to stand on, but in his defense, he could not have predicted the task would prove quite this difficult.
The sloped ceiling means a normal chair leaves him just short of the fixture, and now Jean is balanced on his toes, one hand gripping the light fitting while the stool wobbles beneath him with alarming enthusiasm.
He is teetering precariously, almost finished, when Kevin walks in.
"Jean!"
The sudden noise throws him off balance enough that he wobbles, making Kevin rush forward to secure it.
Jean frowns. He was so close. And he's been at this for so long.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Jean looks down. Oh. Kevin looks furious.
"I was almost finished," Jean complains. "You made me lose my balance."
Kevin's hands close around Jean's calves, apparently deciding that stabilizing the stool alone is insufficient. "Get down."
Jean rolls his eyes. "Kevin, I'm almost—"
"Jean." Something in his voice makes Jean stop.
He climbs down obediently.
Kevin rounds on him immediately.
"What the hell were you thinking? That thing was about to tip over. Are you actually out of your mind?"
Jean tries not to feel like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Even if I fell, I would have landed on the bed."
"Or you could have fallen the other way, hit the dresser, cracked your head open, and lost the rest of your fucking brain function."
Jean blinks.
Kevin's face is flushed. His eyes are impossibly vivid when he's angry, but beneath the fury there is something else now that Jean knows how to look for it.
Oh.
”I did not mean to scare you," Jean says, quieter.
Kevin's expression shutters immediately.
"Shut up. Like you could scare me," Kevin mumbles, looking away. "It's you who has the terrible track record with head injuries. Be scared for yourself."
Jean decides not to point out the obvious lie.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Kevin exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face.
"There's a ladder in the garage. We bought it specifically because neither of us could reach that stupid light. I've just been too lazy to get it." He scowls at the stool. "I didn't realize you were going to attempt acrobatics first thing in the morning."
"It was hardly acrobatics," Jean mutters, mimicking Kevin's accent.
Kevin gives him a flat look.
Jean is beginning to discover that he really does not like it when Kevin is genuinely upset with him. Apologizing again will probably only irritate him, so:
Jean reaches forward and pokes him on the nose.
Kevin stares back at him, unamused.
Jean tilts his head, considering him. Kevin's eyes really are vibrant like this.
"I think I think you look very beautiful when you are angry with me."
Kevin's mouth drops open. "You think you think?"
"Yes."
"What does that even mean?" Kevin demands, although his cheeks are pink. "And is now really a time to flirt?"
"But I like your face right now, even though you are obviously furious." Jean muses, genuinely thinking it over. "I do not know why I would have that reaction. Were you angry with me very often before?"
Kevin's scowl deepens, though Jean is beginning to suspect it has very little bite. "No," he mutters. "I wasn't. Stop saying stupid things."
Jean chuckles.
The effect is immediate. Kevin tries valiantly to maintain his glare, but something in his expression gives way. It is extremely endearing.
"You are so prickly," Jean informs him. "Like a cactus. Like a cute, spiky little—"
"Are you just trying to piss me off now?"
"Maybe." Jean smiles. "Will you make that face at me again if I do?"
"Jean."
"Ah, there it is."
One weekend, Jean tells Kevin they should go to the beach. The house has grown stifling in the summer heat, every room seeming to trap the afternoon sun, making thought of cool water suddenly irresistible.
"You want to swim?" Kevin asks, a note of surprise in his voice.
"Should I not?" Jean ask. A thought occurs to him. "Do I not know how anymore? I lived in the sea back in France."
Kevin stares at him for a long moment.
"You can swim, you do not always choose to, that's all. Maybe not today. We can dip our toes in instead."
There's a note of something in his voice that Jean cannot place the reason for. Kevin is certainly a master of deflection, but Jean trusts his judgment, so he lets it go.
The drive down is quiet, the windows cracked just enough to let the warm salty air drift through the car. Then, rounding the final bend along the Pacific Coast Highway, the water suddenly unfolds beside them in an endless sheet of blue, sunlight scattering across its surface like shattered glass. Jean finds himself staring until Kevin quietly points out the parking lot they almost miss.
"Why did we pick California?" Jean asks. His feet sink into the sand pleasantly.
Kevin hums. "You grew to love it here during your time at USC. We did play in Boston first, but we moved here a year and a half ago."
"Which did you prefer?"
Kevin tilts his head, considering the question. "You've always cared more about the actual location more than I did. I would be happy to follow you anywhere."
He says it casually, but the sentiment behind that statement nearly sweeps Jean off his feet.
As if realizing the depth of what he's said, Kevin kicks a pebble and keeps talking. "Anywhere with a good team, of course. I guess I preferred Boston, though. It can get rather hot here."
"You do not like the heat?"
Kevin lips curl upwards, turning around to face Jean completely. It’s barely a grin really, but the sweetness of it makes something in Jean melt.
"You have so many questions." He sounds delighted, and it occurs to Jean that perhaps this is what he should have been doing the entire time.
"I'm curious," Jean says honestly. "I want to know."
Tell me what you like, what you dislike. Tell me what makes you happy, better yet, tell me how I can make you happy.
"You want to know whether I prefer hot or cold weather?" Kevin repeats, sounding amused.
"Fine, do not tell me," he pouts. He's sure the warmth in his eyes gives him away.
Kevin's eyes flicker to his lips, and for a moment Jean thinks he might kiss him. Hopes he will, really.
But Kevin's smile just turns shy and he looks down. "I like the cold."
They spend the afternoon wandering the shoreline with their shoes in hand, the tide rolling lazily over their ankles before retreating again. Later, they spread a faded picnic blanket across the warm sand and share the fruit Jean had sliced that morning while the hours drift quietly past.
They talk about everything and nothing. Kevin tells him about Boston, about teammates Jean cannot remember and restaurants they used to frequent. Jean asks question after question, discovering that Kevin prefers winter to summer, hates papaya, and has very strong opinions about historical inaccuracies in movies.
By the time they begin walking again, the beach has emptied considerably.
The afternoon heat has softened, and the sun hangs low over the Pacific, turning the water gold wherever it touches. Children shriek farther down the beach as they chase the retreating tide, and somewhere behind them a dog barks furiously at a gull. The sounds seem distant somehow.
Kevin slips off his shoes, so Jean does the same.
They walk without any particular destination, shoulders brushing every few steps. The water rushes over their feet and retreats again, leaving the sand cool and firm beneath them. The silence between them settles as naturally as the sea itself.
Kevin shivers.
"Do you want to leave?" Jean asks, although he was silently hoping to watch the sunset.
Kevin pats the bag hanging from his shoulder. "No, I brought jackets. I figured you would want to stay and watch the sunset." He starts digging through it without looking at Jean. "If you—Jean?"
Jean has stopped walking.
Kevin takes another few steps before realizing and turns back toward him. The setting sun catches him full in the face.
For a moment, Jean simply looks.
Kevin's dark hair has turned bronze at the edges, the wind pushing it carelessly across his forehead. Behind him, the ocean glitters gold and blue beneath the fading sky.
But that is not what has stopped Jean.
Kevin knew he would want to stay.
He had known before they left the house, apparently. Had packed two jackets without mentioning it because somewhere in the years Jean cannot remember, Kevin had learned that Jean would want to sit beside the ocean until the sun disappeared beneath it.
Kevin knows him. Really, truly, knows him.
It is a strange thing, to be known better by another person than he currently knows himself. And perhaps stranger still is how much Jean likes it.
"What's wrong?" Kevin asks.
He walks back toward Jean, concern already beginning to crease his brow.
"Nothing."
Kevin clearly does not believe him, but he pulls the jackets from the bag anyway. "Are you really that cold?"
Jean watches him shake one out.
This is the first time Jean sees Kevin standing on this beach with him. The first time he sees Kevin with the sunset caught in his hair, the wind tugging strands of dark hair across his forehead.
It's Jean's first time seeing this image, but somehow, he knows it is a scene he has seen before.
Kevin is so, unfairly, unbearably, beautiful. This is a face Jean could spend his whole life knowing, and still miss.
Kevin steps close and drapes Jean's jacket over his shoulders, tugging it into place.
"You've frozen still," he says.
Jean blinks. Kevin's mouth curves sheepishly.
It's such an awful joke. Jean thinks he may be falling in love.
His eyes drop to Kevin's lips. They're a little dry, after being by the ocean all day, but no less pink, no less perfect.
When Jean meets his eyes again, Kevin's expression is cracked open. Perhaps he knows what Jean is thinking. He must be familiar with how desire looks on Jean's face. His lashes flutter.
Jean steps closer, using one hand to unhook the bag off Kevin's shoulder. He lets it fall into the soft sand.
Jean brings one hand to Kevin's waist, and uses the other to cup his face gently, thumb pressing down over his lip. Jean's heart is a trapped bird against his ribs.
"Can I?" he murmurs, so soft it's probably lost to the sound of the waves and wind.
"Yes," Kevin breathes out, reaching forward to grab his collar and pull him in before Jean can move.
It's not their first kiss, he knows. Jean does not remember it, and he suspects that loss will always ache a little. But this one belongs entirely to him.
Despite his initial hurry, the press of Kevin's lips is tentative, like he fears Jean will change his mind.
For weeks, Kevin has waited for Jean to reach first. Every touch Jean offered, Kevin accepted; every inch of affection, he soaked up greedily, but he never asked for more. Even now, with Jean's hand against his face and permission already given, Kevin is waiting.
Jean has no intention of making him wait any longer.
Jean parts his lips and deepens the kiss, bringing both his hands up to cradle Kevin's face, the way one might hold something precious. Kevin exhales, soft and shaky against his mouth, a quiet sound escaping him that Jean feels more than hears. His lips are salty from the ocean air.
Warmth unfurls low in Jean's chest, slow and certain. He can feel it in his bones that he knows this man, knows his body like his own.
When they do break apart, neither of them go far. Jean's hands come to rest on Kevin's waist, and Kevin brings his hands up to hold Jean's face. They're cold against Jean's flushed cheeks.
Kevin's eyes are glistening.
"Did I do something wrong?" There is absolutely no reason to, but Jean whispers, as if speaking too loudly would break the sacredness of the moment.
Kevin shakes his head rapidly. "No." Kevin gives him a small, precious, smile. "Not at all. I…I'm just happy."
Jean leans in and kisses him again, soft and slow.
A week later, Jean wakes with a start, the afternoon sun blinding him.
They're going to be late for practice, is Jean's first thought.
Followed by, Well, that's strange.
Kevin is never, ever, late for practice. In fact, the vulgar joke Neil made at the hospital to describe Kevin's passion for Exy was probably understating it.
Jean finds Kevin in the kitchen slicing fruit and walks over to peer over his shoulder. Peaches, cut into neat crescents.
"Peaches are my favorite," Jean informs him unnecessarily, dropping his chin onto Kevin's shoulder.
Kevin turns his head, bemused. "Are they really? I had no idea."
With Kevin's mouth suddenly so close, Jean cannot help stealing a kiss.
"Careful," Kevin warns, turning away. "I'm handling a knife." He's smiling, though.
"What about practice?" Jean asks.
Kevin gives him a strange look. "What practice? It's Friday."
Jean pauses. And…so it is.He sighs. "You are so obsessive about Exy that I have started hallucinating practices. Take responsibility."
"Just say you can't keep track of the days, Jean."
Jean pinches him lightly in retaliation.
Kevin finishes slicing the peaches and places them in a bowl, sliding it across the counter towards Jean.
"What is yours?" Jean asks, popping a slice in his mouth.
"Mine?"
"Your favorite fruit."
Kevin tilts his head. Jean watches, oddly fascinated by the way he can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.
"I don't really have one the way you do." Kevin considers it another moment. "I'm partial to melons, I suppose."
"Melons?" Jean hums. "I enjoy them as well."
Kevin's expression changes.
It is slight, just the faint disappearance of whatever ease had been there a moment before, but Jean notices.
"What is it?"
Kevin drums his fingers against the counter. "At the Nest," he begins quietly.
Jean stills. It is the first time Kevin has brought the place up willingly.
"Fruit was rare," he continues. "But it was one of the few things you genuinely liked." Kevin looks down at the cutting board. "You told me you hated melon."
Jean blinks. "Why would I do that?"
Kevin looks at him then. "So you could give me yours." His mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. "You'd figured out they were my favorite. I didn't realize what you were doing until much later."
Jean looks down at the peach between his fingers.
He cannot remember it, but the image comes easily. Two boys sitting beside one another somewhere Jean cannot picture, eating whatever they had been given. A younger version of himself discovering that Kevin liked something and quietly deciding he could live without it.
Kevin doesn't name it outright, but he doesn't have to. Jean knows himself.
Knows what that must have meant.
"I must have loved you very much," Jean says.
He can't imagine anything else. Every gesture, every clue around their house, every memory Kevin has let slip, all point towards one thing.
If Jean was like this since they were children, then he has spent the better part of his life hopelessly in love with Kevin Day.
Kevin's eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. "You did."
The words are quiet enough that Jean almost misses them. Something twists unpleasantly beneath Jean's ribs.
Did.
He realizes too late that his casual use of past tense was unnecessarily cruel.
"Kevin, I—"
Kevin reaches past him and takes the bowl of peaches from the counter.
"We're watching old games tonight," he announces, bumping Jean's hip playfully with his own as he passes. "Since you're apparently already in the mood for Exy."
That night, Jean wakes to the summer heat.
It has settled over the house like a second blanket, heavy enough that even the ceiling fan seems to accomplish very little. With a quiet sigh, Jean pushes the sheets down to his waist.
His hand drifts instinctively across the mattress beside him. It is empty.
Jean opens his eyes. For a moment, he simply stares at the space Kevin should occupy. An unfamiliar tightness settles low in his chest.
It is probably nothing. Kevin could be getting a glass of water, or using the bathroom.
Even so, Jean sits up. He pads into the hallway, the hardwood cool beneath his feet. The bathroom is dark when he passes it, door standing open.
Jean frowns. Then he hears it.
A quiet, broken sound from somewhere beyond the hallway.
Jean stops in his tracks.
"I don't know how to do it again."
Kevin. Jean's stomach drops.
Soft, sobs echo through the night. Quiet enough that Jean would not have heard them if he was not already awake.
In all the weeks they have spent together, Jean has never seen Kevin cry. Not once. He has seen him frightened and exhausted, furious and heartsick, but never this.
Another sound, quickly muffled.
Jean takes another step before realizing Kevin is speaking to someone.
"I don't know," Kevin says again. His voice cracks. "I don't know how I even managed it the first time. I was so fucking lucky, Neil, I—" His breath catches.
Jean goes very still.
There is a murmur from the other end of the call, too faint for Jean to make out.
Kevin laughs wetly. "Yes, well. Look how well that worked out."
More talking.
Jean knows he should leave. This is not meant for him. Kevin has hidden himself away in the middle of the night for a reason, and Jean has no right to stand here listening.
A fierce, inexplicable ache blooms in Jean's chest. Without seeing his face, Jean can conjure the heart-wrenching image of Kevin's lovely eyes full of tears, spilling over the brim down his cheeks.
Jean misses the beginning of his next sentence.
"—his eyes and there's nothing there. It—"
Jean forgets to move.
"It just..." Kevin's voice disappears for a moment. When it returns, it is barely more than a whisper. "Sometimes he looks at me and I forget. For half a second, I forget, and then he says something and I remember that he doesn't know me."
Something twists painfully inside Jean's chest.
Neil says something, louder this time.
"No." Kevin answers immediately. "No, you don't have to come."
Another response.
"Well, that's not what I meant."
Neil keeps talking.
Kevin lets out a shaky breath. "You would too, for Andrew. Don't pretend you wouldn't."
Silence. Jean presses his lips together.
"Look," Kevin's breath hitches again, voice dropping to a whisper. Jean has to strain his ears to hear. "I was just…Something he said earlier got to me. That's all. I'm fine."
Whatever Neil says in response makes Kevin scoff.
"Seriously, no. Don't you dare." A pause. Then, much quieter, "But...thank you, Neil."
Jean leaves before he can hear anything else.
He returns to their bedroom and slips beneath the covers, settling onto his side exactly as he had been before.
He does not know why he pretends to be asleep.
Perhaps because Kevin clearly does not want him to know. Perhaps because Jean has already stolen enough from a moment that was never his to witness.
It is a long while before Kevin returns.
Jean hears his footsteps in the hallway, then the quiet click of the bedroom door. The mattress dips beneath Kevin's weight.
For several seconds, nothing happens. Then fingers brush a curl away from Jean's forehead. Kevin presses a soft kiss there, then another right beneath Jean's eye, directly over the black number tattooed into his skin.
Jean's throat tightens.
Kevin settles beside him without another sound.
Jean keeps his breathing slow and even. He does not sleep for a long time.
Jean cannot let it go.
He wakes up the next morning feeling strangely unwell, sluggish in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Kevin notices immediately, brows knitting together as sips his orange juice.
"Are you getting sick?"
Jean shakes his head. "Just tired."
Kevin looks unconvinced, but lets it go.
The phone call follows him throughout the day, through practice and lunch and the walk home. It lingers at the edge of every thought, impossible to shake.
Jean cannot piece together exactly what Kevin had been talking about. He only caught fragments, broken apart by sobs and long stretches of silence. But he understood enough.
Kevin was crying because of him. Once Jean allows himself to acknowledge it, he wonders how he ever pretended otherwise.
He thinks of all the times he has caught Kevin watching him across the breakfast table, something wistful flickering across his face before disappearing. The way his attention sharpens whenever Jean pauses over a photograph or hesitates before answering a question, as though perhaps this time something has returned. And the tiny disappointment afterward, always hidden so quickly Jean could pretend he had imagined it.
Kevin has been grieving in front of him for months. Jean has simply had the luxury of looking away. Because while Jean has felt the keen sting of forgetting his past, his friends, his lover…The truth is, Jean cannot mourn what he cannot remember.
More than that, Jean has been happy. He has spent the last several weeks discovering Kevin piece by piece, delighting in every new thing he learns. Giddy with the elation of getting to know him, hold him, kiss him.
All the while, Kevin has been quietly mourning what Jean cannot even remember losing.
The unfairness of it makes Jean feel sick.
Kevin married someone who loved him so dearly Jean can still feel the echoes of it in every corner of this house. In photographs and recipe books, in the garden outside, in the way Jean's body reaches for Kevin before his mind thinks to.
And now Kevin has to live with a man wearing his husband's face who remembers none of it.
Jean has known that it hurts him. He simply convinced himself that refusing to acknowledge it was kinder than pressing on the wound. Kevin's grief is too poignant, too all-encompassing.
What comfort could the person responsible for it possibly offer?
After last night, that excuse feels embarrassingly thin. Maybe looking away had never been kindness, just his own cowardice.
Because every day, Jean falls a little more in love with Kevin, and every day, the thought of losing him becomes a little more excruciating.
If Kevin tells him the truth, if he finally says that this is unbearable, that waking beside a husband who no longer remembers loving him is slowly tearing him apart, Jean does not know what he will do.
He knows what he should do. That is the problem.
Jean loves him enough now to know he could not ask Kevin to remain somewhere that makes him miserable. He is selfish enough to desperately hope Kevin never asks to leave.
The thought turns his stomach.
"Jean."
Kevin's voice cuts through his thoughts.
Jean blinks and finds him watching from across the table.
"You've barely touched your food." Kevin's brows draw together. "What's wrong?
"Oh…right."
Kevin sighs. "I let it go this morning, but you've been strange all day." He reaches across the table. "Tell me."
Kevin knows him so well.
Jean looks at his hand.
"…Are you unhappy?" Jean asks miserably. It's perhaps the most inelegant way to start this conversation.
Kevin's expression drops.
"Am I unhappy?" He sets his fork down. "About what?"
"That was a stupid question," Jean mutters. "Of course you are."
"Jean." Kevin catches his wrist. "Explain."
It's a command more than a question, but it helps Jean organize his thoughts.
"This is not a situation you ever expected," Jean begins. "I know that."
Kevin goes very still.
"Sometimes I look at you and..." Jean presses a hand absently against his chest, trying to ease the tightness there. "You look so sad."
Something in Kevin's face softens. "That isn't your fault."
"But I am what makes you sad."
"No." The answer comes immediately. Then Kevin exhales. "You never make me sad. It's complicated."
"Do not spare my feelings."
"I'm not."
"It cannot be that complicated." Jean looks down at Kevin's fingers around his wrist. "It must be difficult, having me look at you like a stranger."
Kevin is silent for a moment. "...Yes," he admits.
Jean's chest aches.
Kevin's grip tightens. "Where are you going with this?"
Jean swallows. "I should have said this before."
Kevin's expression changes.
"Back at the hospital, perhaps. I don't know." Jean forces himself onward. "I know you never expected any of this, and I have been selfish not to acknowledge what it has done to you."
"Jean."
"I cannot keep you trapped here simply because we were married before I lost my memory."
Kevin's fingers go slack around his wrist. Jean almost loses his nerve. Almost.
"If you wanted to leave," he says quietly, "I would understand."
Silence.
Kevin stares at him. "If I..." His lips part. "You..."
"I should not have waited this long to tell you. I just…"
There is no dignified way to admit the rest. That Jean has fallen sufficiently in love with Kevin that the possibility of losing him now feels unbearable. That every day he waited made it harder to offer Kevin the choice at all.
Jean traces the grain of the table with his thumb.
"Waited," Kevin repeats. His voice sounds strange.
Jean looks up. Kevin has gone pale.
"You..." Kevin swallows. "Do you..." He stops. His breathing has turned unsteady.
"Kevin?"
Kevin stands so abruptly his chair scrapes against the floor.
Jean startles, instinctively rising with him.
"I need to go."
"What?"
"I..." Kevin looks toward the door. "I'll be back."
Something cold drops through Jean's stomach. "What do you mean? Go where?"
Kevin is already moving.
Jean gets up after him. "Kevin."
Kevin grabs his keys from the table by the door with visibly trembling fingers.
"Kevin, you—just wait."
"I can't." His voice cracks. "I just need to—"
He doesn't bother finishing that thought and wrenches the door open.
"Kevin," Jean repeats numbly.
But Kevin is lost to him, and the image walking out the door without so much as a glance back looks like Jean's worst nightmare indeed.
Jean doesn't know how long he stands in the hallway until he finally gathers himself enough to walk over and collapse on the couch, putting his head in his hands.
He presses his heels into his eyes until he sees white spots.
He does not know what to make of Kevin's reaction.
Does he—is he truly so upset with Jean that he could not stand to look at him anymore? That does not sound like him but—
He's rudely snatched out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. Jean reaches automatically to decline the call before the name on the screen registers.
Neil.
Jean answers immediately.
"Jean—thank fuck. Where are you?"
Neil sounds nothing like the last time Jean spoke to him. There is enough panic in his voice that Jean's own heart rate picks up in response.
"I am at home. What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Neil snaps. "What the fuck did you say to Kevin?"
Jean's stomach drops.
"…Is he very angry with me?"
There's a beat of silence.
"Angry with you?" Neil parrots back unnecessarily.
"He is, isn't he?" Jean asks miserably.
"What are you talking about?"
Jean closes his eyes. "I do not know what just happened."
Neil exhales sharply. "Just tell me what you said. Exactly."
So Jean does.
He recounts the conversation as faithfully as he can, including Kevin's increasingly strange reaction and abrupt departure. Neil does not interrupt once, which somehow makes Jean more nervous.
When he finishes, the silence stretches.
"Is Kevin alright?" Jean asks, unable to help himself.
"...Jesus Christ."
Jean sits straighter.
"Every time I think one of you is worse, the other puts in overtime to steal that title."
Jean has no idea what he's talking about.
"Speak plainly," he demands, irritated breaking through. "Tell me: is Kevin okay?"
"He's safe," Neil assures him, tone gentling.
Jean shuts his eyes briefly. "Okay."
"…He's just convinced you just told him you don't want to be married to him anymore."
Jean's eyes snap open. "What?"
Neil sighs. "From what I gathered, he thinks you were trying to leave him."
Jean stares blankly at the wall. "...I did not say that. I would never say that."
"I know, Jean." The certainty in Neil's voice catches him off guard.
"Then how could he possibly think—"
"You told him you'd been thinking about this for a while, that you were selfish for letting it continue, and that he could leave."
Jean opens his mouth. Closes it. Put that way—
"But I meant he could leave me."
"Yes," Neil says dryly. "I gathered that. Look," Neil says, "that's why I called. Something has been lost in translation."
Something indeed.
"You and Kevin have a lot of history. It…sometimes colors the way he hears what you say. Don't ask me why, I don't even know all the details anyways. All I know is, it took you guys a while to work it out the first time."
Neil is trying to comfort him, Jean realizes. Perhaps they are closer than he originally thought.
"I need to find him," Jean mutters. Maybe before he would have known exactly where Kevin would go when upset, but now he's hopeless.
"He's at the park," Neil supplies. "It's—"
"I know where it is. I will go there now." Jean gets up, nearly dropping the phone in his hurry.
"Good."
Jean hesitates. "Neil."
"What?"
The question feels humiliating the moment it reaches his tongue. "Do you think he will forgive me?"
Neil is silent.
Then he makes an incredulous sound. "Jean. Kevin doesn't even know how to be mad at you."
Jean hurries down the short path toward the park, his bag thumping against his shoulder.
He had hastily filled it with a thermos of tea, Kevin's jacket, and a scarf before rushing out the door. It is fully dark now, and Kevin left wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt.
He must be cold.
Jean spots him before he even reaches the fence.
Kevin is curled up on one of the benches with his back to the path, knees drawn tightly to his chest. In the dim light, folded in on himself like this, he looks strangely small.
Jean makes quick work of the fence this time.
Leaves crunch beneath his feet as he approaches, announcing his presence long before he speaks. Kevin does not look up.
Jean lowers himself onto the bench beside him.
"...I said I would come back," Kevin says. His voice is hoarse.
"It is cold," Jean replies.
Kevin finally glances at him.
Jean ignores the look and reaches into the bag. He drapes the jacket over Kevin's shoulders first, then winds the scarf around his neck and tucks it beneath his chin. Finally, he presses the thermos into Kevin's hands.
Kevin stares down at himself. Then, unexpectedly, Kevin lets out a soft laugh.
It is a weak, watery little sound, but unmistakably a laugh.
Jean frowns. "What is funny?"
"You." Kevin shakes his head. "You're still the same." Kevin finally looks at him properly. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes still damp. Jean's heart sinks.
Twice.
That's twice now that Jean has made him cry.
"You misunderstood me," he says immediately. This is the most important thing. Everything else can come after. "I would never ask you to leave me. I do not want you to leave me. And I would never not want to be married to you."
Kevin goes completely still. "…Andrew called you?"
"Neil." Jean corrects.
Kevin closes his eyes. "Of course he did."
"I am sorry. I should have explained myself better."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I do." Jean looks down at his hands. "I heard you last night."
Kevin's eyes open. "What do you mean?"
"Your phone call."
All the remaining color drains from Kevin's face. "You heard that?"
"I woke up and you were gone. I went looking for you and..." Jean swallows. "I heard you crying. I did not intend to eavesdrop. I knew I should leave, but I could not." Jean twists his fingers together, willing his voice not to shake. "I know you meant your vows. I know you loved the man you made them to." He hesitates. "But I don't remember being him. I wondered whether that mattered," Jean continues. "Whether I am still the person you promised yourself to."
"Jean—"
"I see how sad you are sometimes," Jean interrupts. He needs to get this all out now. "When I ask you something I should know. When I don't recognize something. When you think I might remember and I don't." Jean looks down. "I knew you were grieving. I simply did not know what I could possibly do about it."
"You don't have to do anything."
"But I thought perhaps you stayed because you believed you had to. It did not seem fair for me to never ask whether this was still what you wanted."
For several seconds, Kevin does not move. Then, one of his hands comes up over his mouth. "Jean," he says faintly. Kevin lowers his hand. "Listen to me. When I got the call from the hospital, I thought you were dead." Kevin's eyes are shining again. "They wouldn't tell me anything. Just that there had been an accident, and I..." He swallows hard. "The entire way there, I thought I was going to walk into that hospital and they were going to tell me you were dead."
Jean cannot speak. He can still hear the echo of panic, the pain in Kevin’s words.
"And then you were alive." Kevin's voice breaks on the word. He looks down at the thermos between his hands. "You were alive, and you didn't know me, and it was..." Kevin presses his lips together. "It was like a dream. Like I'd gotten you back only to wake up and lose you all over again."
Jean's chest aches.
"But you were alive," Kevin says again. He looks at Jean. "I would rather have you forget me, fall out of love with me, hate me, even, than be dead and cold in the ground."
"Kevin."
"So yes." Kevin laughs shakily and wipes beneath one eye with the heel of his palm. "Sometimes I'm sad. Sometimes it hurts. But don't ever confuse that with me wishing you weren't here. And you're still you," Kevin continues, almost fiercely now. "You don't remember everything. That's not the same thing as being someone else."
He shakes his head before Jean can interrupt him.
"You're still impossibly stubborn, you still flirt with me every chance you get." A faint, watery smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You still make awful jokes. Still worry about everyone else before yourself." His eyes flick briefly to the jacket draped over his shoulders and the thermos sitting forgotten between them. "You still take such good care of me."
Jean cannot bear it anymore. He reaches for him. Kevin comes just as easily. Jean wraps both arms around him, pulling him close enough that the thermos becomes trapped awkwardly between their bodies. He does not care. Kevin clutches at the back of his shirt and buries his face against Jean's neck.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
Then Kevin speaks against his skin. "Je t'aime." Jean's eyes sting. When Kevin finally pulls back, it is only far enough to look at him. "I love you," he says again, as though Jean might not have understood the first time. "So, so, much." His thumb brushes across Jean's cheek. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to overwhelm you. I didn't want you thinking you had to say it back because we're married, or because you used to love me."
Jean's throat tightens.
"If I'd known you thought I regretted you..." Kevin laughs once, miserably. "God, Jean. I would've told you every day."
The words rise so suddenly they almost escape him, gathering at the back of his tongue with startling certainty.
I love you too.
He wants to say them. More than that, he wants Kevin to hear them.
But…not now. It would not be fair. Kevin has waited months, has spent every day asking for nothing in return. If Jean tells him now, Kevin may wonder if it was born of relief or obligation. Jean wants, suddenly and fiercely, to give him this properly. He deserves to hear those words in a moment that belongs to them alone.
"I didn't mean to make you cry," Jean says instead, stupidly.
Kevin stares at him for a second before he snorts. "Don't worry about it. I'm not usually this much of a crybaby."
Kevin stands, pulling the jacket more securely around himself.
"That's quite enough for one night. It's cold." He holds out his hand. "Let's go home, Jean-Yves."
Jean looks at it for only a moment before taking it.
It is two days later that Kevin finds him.
Jean is standing on the back porch in the late afternoon, watching the ocean pull steadily against the cliffs below. The house is quiet. Somewhere behind him, a screen door slides open and shut. He does not turn.
A moment later, Kevin's arms slip around his waist from behind. Jean relaxes instinctively into him. Kevin folds himself against Jean's back with an ease that still catches Jean by surprise, resting his chin lightly on Jean's shoulder. His mouth is level with the nape of Jean's neck, and every word sends the faintest vibration across Jean's skin.
"I'm sorry," Kevin murmurs.
Jean tilts his head. "For what?"
"The other night. I didn't give you a chance to explain. I just..." Kevin exhales. "Assumed the worst."
Jean begins to turn toward him, but Kevin's arms tighten, keeping him where he is.
"Stay like this," Kevin says softly.
Jean stills obediently.
After another long silence, Kevin draws a careful breath. "You asked me about Evermore once. A while ago. I told you I'd explain later."
"You did."
Kevin’s hands have started to tremble where they rest against Jean's stomach. "Thank you," Kevin says after a moment, "for not asking again."
Jean lays one hand gently over Kevin's, gently stroking it.
"I want to tell you now," Kevin whispers. "Okay?"
Jean nods. "I will listen."
Kevin gives presses his lips to Jean's neck before disappearing inside without another word. Jean watches the screen door slide shut behind him.
For a moment he wonders if Kevin has changed his mind.
Instead, the door opens again scarcely a minute later. Kevin steps back onto the porch carrying the faded navy blanket that lives perpetually folded over the arm of the living room sofa.
"You'll get cold," he says.
Jean raises an eyebrow. "It is nearly seventy degrees right now."
"This will take a while."
Jean decides this is not worth arguing over.
They settle onto the outdoor sofa. Kevin shakes the blanket open and drapes it over both of them in one practiced motion. It falls warm across Jean's lap, still carrying the faint smell of their house.
Kevin tucks the edges around himself before drawing both feet onto the cushions. He hesitates, then nudges Jean's leg with his knee.
"Move."
Jean looks down at him. "You have plenty of room."
"I know."
"...Then why must I move?"
"Because your lap is warmer. Now stop arguing with me, do you want to hear the story or not?"
Jean stops arguing, and with a sigh that is more theatrical than genuine, he shifts his weight just enough for Kevin to slide closer. Kevin promptly tucks his feet beneath Jean's thigh with a pleased little hum.
"You are impossible."
"Really? I've never gotten that one before."
Jean snorts.
The wind has begun to change with the hour, carrying the smell of salt and cedar through the yard. Far below, the waves strike the cliffs with patient regularity. The sun hangs low enough now to paint the water in bands of gold that shift with every swell.
For several minutes, neither of them speaks.
Kevin worries at the edge of the blanket. Jean notices the movement before he notices that his fingers are trembling again. When Kevin finally inhales, it sounds resigned.
"You know, I hated that stupid motorcycle," he says quietly.
Jean turns to look at him.
"I barely let you take me anywhere on it. It made me so nervous." Kevin keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You asked me once if you should get rid of it."
"And?"
"I told you no." Kevin rubs absently at the scar on his palm. "It was one of the first things you chose entirely for yourself after getting out of the Nest. You loved riding it." His mouth twists. "I couldn't be the person who took that away from you."
A quiet settles between them. Jean studies him.
"Kevin," he says carefully, "you cannot genuinely believe my accident was your fault because you failed to confiscate my motorcycle."
Kevin gives a small, humorless laugh. "Maybe not," he concedes. "But it is one of those things that makes you wonder. I'm controlling about everything, and somehow that was the one thing I decided I had no right to interfere with."
"Because you didn't," Jean supplies.
"Yes," Kevin agrees, still sounding troubled. He sighs, heavy and full of regret. "That's besides the point, really. This isn't about the motorcycle."
He’s silent again, for longer this time. Finally, he speaks so quietly Jean almost misses it.
"I haven't always been good to you, Jean."
Jean frowns.
"When we got together, after everything, it—it felt like God had finally thrown me a bone. Because, I am not someone who gets what I want dearly, not really. And then, when I got the call from the hospital, it just felt like…" Kevin pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. "Like terrible, delayed cosmic karma.” He sighs. "Which is probably self-centered. Thinking the universe would punish me through you." Another exhausted little laugh. "Then again, I am self-centered."
"Kevin—"
"And it wouldn't be the first time you paid for one of my mistakes."
Jean presses his lips together. Every instinct tells him to argue. He can hear the cruelty in the way Kevin speaks about himself, casual only because the words are apparently old enough to have worn smooth.
But if Jean interrupts now, he suspects Kevin will stop. So he waits.
Kevin's fingers return to the edge of the blanket. "I've been putting off telling you about the Nest. At first it really was because you were hurt. You'd just woken up in a hospital and you didn't remember anything. I wasn't going to hand all of that back to you on top of everything else." He pauses. "But that wasn't the only reason."
Jean watches him.
Kevin's jaw tightens. "I didn't want to ruin whatever you thought of me before you even had the chance to..." He trails off.
"To what?"
Kevin shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."
It clearly does, but Jean lets him have this small cowardice.
Kevin draws in another breath and meets Jean's gaze, green eyes just as startling as the day Jean saw them in the hospital room.
He starts at the beginning, with Kayleigh.
His voice changes when he speaks of her. Softens in a way Jean has rarely heard. He tells Jean about Ireland, about coming to America, about a little boy who lost his mother and was absorbed into another family before he was old enough to understand what that would mean
Then Riko. The Nest. He tells Jean about growing up in a place where pain became routine, where obedience meant survival and kindness became something precious enough to hide.
Jean listens.
He tells him about the first time they met, about learning each other's language without speaking. About French lessons whispered between bruises, and late-night stitches. About Riko's abuse towards Jean. About a promise Kevin held Jean to with no mercy.
And then Kevin tells him about his hand. His voice falters for the first time. Jean watches his fingers curl reflexively against the blanket. Kevin tells him about running. About leaving Jean behind.
Palmetto comes next. Andrew. Neil. Renee, his savior. Then Baltimore. Riko's death. USC.
Kevin tells him that he sent Jean across the country because he had convinced himself that wanting Jean near him was selfish, and therefore distance must be kinder.
Jean has several thoughts about that logic, none particularly flattering, but he keeps them to himself.
Somehow, eventually, they found their way back to one another anyway.
By the time he finishes, the sun has slipped low enough that the ocean has turned copper beneath it.
Silence settles between them.
Jean had expected something terrible.
He has seen the scars mapping his own body. Felt the ache that never entirely leaves certain joints. Watched Kevin wake from nightmares with Jean's name caught in his throat. He has read enough since the accident to understand that whatever happened at Evermore was not merely unpleasant.
The details do hurt to hear. But he feels removed from them the same way he did when he heard about his family. Like pressing on an old bruise.
Kevin is staring resolutely at the ocean.
"Is that all?" Jean asks. It's the first time he's spoken since Kevin started.
"Yes. That is all." His voice is slightly hoarse after speaking for so long. "I..." Kevin's fingers twist in the blanket again. "I don't want to make any assumptions about how you feel about me."
Jean's brow furrows.
"But it wasn't fair to keep this from you anymore. And now you know everything, so you can..." Kevin swallows. "Make an informed decision."
"Decision," Jean repeats.
"About me." Kevin still does not look at him. "About us. What you want."
Ah. Jean looks at him properly.
Kevin is keeping it together, likely for Jean's sake, but he can't disguise the tremor in his voice or the tension in his frame. He looks like a man scheduled for execution.
"Kevin," Jean says slowly, "I already made my decision."
Kevin finally looks at him.
Jean reaches over and takes Kevin's left hand. He turns it palm-up between them, then runs his thumb over the delicate gold band around Kevin's finger.
Kevin stares. "What?"
"I chose you."
"Did you hear anything I said?"
"I did. All of it."
"Then how can you just..." Kevin pulls his hand away, frustrated. "You don't remember what happened. You don't remember what I did."
"No," Jean agrees. "But I used to. I remembered the Nest, I remembered you leaving, I remember every terrible thing you just told me." Jean takes Kevin's hand again. "I married you anyways."
Kevin's lips part. Jean trails his finger over the wedding band. Something in Kevin's face crumples.
Jean's voice softens. "And now, even without my memories, I still choose you. Apparently I am very consistent," Jean says lightly.
Kevin stares at him, eyes wide. "Jean."
Jean sighs and opens his arms. "Mon chéri, you think so much. Come here."
For once, Kevin obeys without argument. He lies down on top of him, resting his chin on Jean's chest.
The last of the afternoon sun spills across his face, turning his eyelashes gold. Jean runs his fingers through his hair.
There are worse ways to spend an evening than watching the sunset with someone beautiful in his arms.
Kevin places a soft kiss on his chest, right over his heart. After a moment, he says, very quietly, "...I love you."
Jean smiles, and resumes combing his fingers through his hair. Eventually the tension begins to leave Kevin's body, bit by bit, until he is heavy and warm against Jean. Only then does Jean asks the question that has been lingering at the back of his mind.
"…Was I not a good husband?"
Kevin's head snaps up. "What?"
Jean flinches, caught off guard by the sudden movement.
"Why would you ask me such a stupid question?" Kevin demands.
The indignation is so entirely on Jean's behalf that he nearly laughs.
"You are remarkably unsure that I would choose you again," Jean points out. "I wondered whether I failed to convince you properly the first time."
"No, Jean. Of course not." Kevin pushes himself upright. "You were—you are—wonderful. I never doubted you."
"Then why do you doubt me now?"
Kevin opens his mouth. Closes it. Clearly thinks over the question.
"I didn't realize you would think of it like that," Kevin says eventually, pressing his lips together. "Don’t be so quick to blame yourself." He pinches Jean's side gently in disapproval.
"Ow," Jean intones.
Kevin looks down at the ring on his finger. "It's the circumstances, really. This isn't anything I had ever imagined happening."
Jean snorts. Fair enough.
"We met when we were children and we grew up together. For a long time I was…Well, there wasn't much good in that place. I knew that. I knew what I was to you there. Then we got out, and everything changed, and somehow we found our way back to each other anyway." Kevin swallows. "You chose me then, I know you did."
There is absolute certainty in his voice. Something in Jean's chest loosens.
"But this..." Kevin gestures vaguely between them. "You don't remember any of it. You don't remember meeting me. You don't remember loving me. You don't remember why you ever chose me in the first place. It's a lot of history to lose." Kevin looks at him then. "I've never had to wonder what you would think of me without all of that."
Jean thinks of waking in the hospital and seeing Kevin for the first time. Green eyes, dark hair, a stranger wearing Jean's ring.
He thinks of everything that came after. Kevin asleep against his chest, Kevin laughing beneath him in the grass. Kevin standing barefoot at the edge of the ocean, sunlight caught in his hair. The endless questions Jean cannot seem to stop asking because every answer only makes him want another.
Jean cups the back of Kevin's head and draws him close, pressing his lips to his forehead. Kevin goes easily, settling against Jean's chest again. Jean wraps his arms around him and watches the last of the evening sun disappear beneath the horizon.
He does not think Kevin has anything to worry about.
The next morning, Jean decides to bake.
Kevin is out for a meeting, something about a brand deal, and he has left Jean alone with strict instructions to eat breakfast and a reminder that there is leftover fruit in the refrigerator. Jean had rolled his eyes appropriately, waited until the front door shut behind him, and then found himself standing in the kitchen thinking about the conversation from the night before.
He thinks about Kevin sitting beneath the blanket, hands trembling as he tells Jean every terrible thing he has spent months trying not to say. He thinks about the way Kevin had looked at him afterward.
Now you can make an informed decision.
As though Jean might hear the worst parts of their history and discover some hidden escape hatch in his marriage.
Silly man.
Jean opens the cupboard. He has no intention of spending the morning brooding.
Instead, he pulls down the recipe book. The sight of it still makes something uncomfortable twist beneath his ribs. Jean pauses with his hand resting on the cover.
For several seconds, he considers putting it back. Then he opens it. The familiar handwriting waits inside.
does NOT need less salt. Kevin is trying to give you hyponatremia
Jean stares at it. The ache comes, but it is quieter this time. He turns the page.
There are other notes. Measurements changed in his own handwriting, ingredients crossed out, Kevin's annoyingly neat additions squeezed between them. Evidence of a life Jean still cannot remember. But it is his life. And Kevin is still here.
Jean runs his thumb once over the edge of the page before continuing.
He finds a recipe for lemon cake several pages later. There are enough stains across the paper that he assumes he has made it before.
More importantly, beside the title Kevin has written:
good. make this one again
"Demanding even in writing," he mutters, unable to stop his lips from curving up.
Jean sets to work. By the time Kevin comes home, Jean has flour on his shirt, sugar on the counter, and a cake cooling beside the stove.
The front door opens. "Jean?"
"Kitchen," he calls out.
There is the familiar thump of Kevin dropping his bag by the door, followed by footsteps.
Kevin appears in the doorway wearing workout clothes, hair damp with sweat and curling slightly at his forehead.
Jean's attention catches.
”What?" Kevin asks, noticing his stare.
"I thought you had a meeting," Jean says.
"I did. It was in a part of town I don't get to go to often, so I went for a run after at one of the parks I like." Kevin tilts his head. "You weren't listening this morning, were you?"
"I was," Jean argues. He looks Kevin over again. "You are sweaty."
Kevin glances down at himself. "Yes. I went for a run. Generally, one sweats." Kevin's eyes narrow. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
Kevin gestures at his general expression.
Jean has no idea what he is referring to, but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that Kevin's shirt is clinging unpleasantly well to his chest. "I am only looking at you. Is that allowed, your highness?"
Kevin rolls his eyes. "Sure." His attention finally shifts toward the kitchen. He stops. "What did you do?"
Jean follows his gaze. "You make it sound so criminal."
"Well, to be fair, it does look criminal."
Jean glances around. The kitchen is perhaps slightly more chaotic than he had realized. "I baked."
"I can see that." Kevin steps farther into the room, eyes landing on the cake cooling beside the stove. He goes still. "Oh. You made lemon cake."
"I did."
Kevin looks at Jean, then at the cake, then back at Jean.
"What?" Jean asks.
"Nothing." Jean has become quite familiar with Kevin's various forms of nothing, and this one is soft around the edges.
"Tell me."
Kevin shakes his head. "It's just my favorite."
"Oh." Jean had suspected as much from the note, but hearing it aloud sends a small pulse of satisfaction through him. "Good."
Kevin's gaze falls to the open recipe book. Understanding flickers across his face. "You found my note."
"I did."
Kevin reaches out, tracing one finger beneath his own handwriting. "I wrote that years ago."
"So I gathered."
"You used to make this for me on my birthday." He pauses, glancing back at Jean. "Sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I don't know. I don't want everything you do now to become something you used to do."
Jean steps closer to him and leans against the counter. "I did not make it because I used to. I made it because you were sad yesterday."
Something in Kevin's face softens.
Jean continues before he can make the moment unbearable, "And because the note implied you liked it. Although in hindsight, perhaps I should not have indulged you. You are already terribly demanding."
Kevin rolls his eyes. "You like it."
He does. Jean feels that familiar tug beneath his ribs, and he moves in closer. Kevin looks up just as Jean cups his face between flour-dusted hands.
"What are you doing?" Kevin grasps his wrists, but doesn't push them away.
Jean kisses him.
Kevin makes a startled sound against his mouth. It lasts only a second, then his hands find Jean's waist, and the last of the tension leaves him all at once.
Jean smiles against his lips.
Kevin kisses him back sweetly, once, then again when Jean begins to pull away. The second kiss is softer, almost absentminded. Jean lets him have a third. When they separate, Kevin stays close. "You have flour on your face," he murmurs.
"Now you do too," Jean reminds him. Kevin wrinkles his nose. "Don't make that face. You were going to shower anyways."
Kevin's mouth twitches. Jean kisses the corner of it. Kevin wraps his arms around Jean's neck and kisses him again.
There is something strangely endearing about how receptive Kevin is to affection once Jean gives it. He never asks for more—he hardly ever asks for anything at all, really. But as Jean kisses his cheek, Kevin tilts into his palm. As Jean brushes his thumb beneath Kevin's eye, Kevin's shoulders loosen.
Jean kisses his forehead, and Kevin's arms tighten around him. "You are being very affectionate," Kevin says.
"Do you dislike it?"
"No." The answer is so immediate that Jean laughs. Kevin opens his eyes. "Don't."
"I said nothing."
"Yes, but you're obviously laughing at me. Mind your manners."
Jean kisses the tip of his nose. Kevin goes slightly cross-eyed trying to follow the movement. Jean laughs harder.
"It's because I like you so much that I find you adorable. You can’t be mad at me."
Kevin glares at him.
With a sudden and rather alarming rush of fondness, Jean thinks that he could spend the rest of his life knowing Kevin and still never reach the bottom of him. There is always something else. Another strange habit, another opinion Jean would never have guessed, another story he has not heard. Every answer seems only to produce ten more questions.
Oh, but how Jean wants to ask them.
He wants to know everything. Every insignificant little thing Kevin has never thought important enough to tell him. He wants years and years to figure him out.
Jean blinks, catching the direction of his thoughts.
Good lord. Is he being normal about this?
Judging by the man currently standing in his kitchen with flour on his chin because Jean apparently cannot stop touching him, perhaps not.
"Why are you staring at me now?" Kevin asks suspiciously.
"I am contemplating something."
"Oh no," Kevin cooes with faux concern. "Don't hurt yourself."
Jean ignores him. "Go shower."
Kevin looks offended. "Excuse me?"
"You smell." Kevin does smell, like a mixture of deodorant and cologne and sweat, but really all it does is make Jean want to get closer.
"I do not smell," Kevin says primly. "I ran six miles."
"I gathered that from the smell."
Kevin's eyes narrow. "You're becoming awfully bold." He doesn't sound upset about it. In fact, he sounds rather fond.
Jean smiles pleasantly.
Kevin sighs and turns toward the hallway, heading for the bathroom.
Jean reaches for the knife to cut the cake. He has barely touched it when arms slide around his waist from behind.
Kevin presses himself briefly against Jean's back and drops a soft kiss onto the nape of his neck. "Thank you," he murmurs.
Jean turns his head, but Kevin is already releasing him.
"For the cake," Kevin adds.
Then he disappears down the hallway before Jean can respond.
Jean remains standing in the kitchen, knife still in hand. A smile pulls helplessly at his mouth.
It's midway through September, and Jean is halfway through The Count of Monte Cristo when he realizes he has been reading the same paragraph for several minutes.
It is late enough that the house has gone completely quiet around them. The bedroom window is cracked open to let in the cooler night air, and somewhere beyond it Jean can hear the distant rush of the ocean. Kevin is stretched out beside him beneath the sheets, one knee bent, absently scrolling through something on his phone. His hair is still damp from his shower and smells faintly of oranges.
Jean returns his attention to the page.
Three sentences later, Kevin reaches across him for the glass of water on Jean's nightstand.
Jean catches his wrist before he can retreat, jostling the glass enough to spill water across his shirt. He gives Kevin a flat stare. Kevin shrugs as if to say, Your own fault.
"Get your own."
"Yours is closer."
"That does not make it yours."
Kevin takes another sip while maintaining eye contact. Jean sighs.
It is then that his attention catches on the thin band around Kevin's finger.
He has noticed it a thousand times by now. Kevin has worn it every day since Jean woke in the hospital, so consistently that Jean barely registers it anymore.
Tonight, however, Jean turns Kevin's hand over in his own. Kevin lets him.
The ring is simple. Gold, worn smooth enough that Jean suspects Kevin rarely takes it off. Jean runs his thumb across it.
"Where is mine?" Jean looks up. "My wedding ring," he clarifies. "What happened to it?"
"Oh." Kevin looks strangely caught off guard by the question. "I have it."
"You do?"
Kevin nods. "Of course. They took it off at the hospital, but you usually wear it around your neck. It was in a bag with your things."
Around his neck. That sounds right.
"I kept it," Kevin continues. "I didn't think you would..."
He trails off. Jean understands anyway.
"Where is it?"
Kevin studies him for a moment before climbing out of bed.
He disappears into the closet and returns carrying a small wooden box Jean recognizes from Kevin's dresser. Jean has seen it before but never thought to ask what was inside.
Kevin sits beside him again. He opens it. Jean's ring rests inside.
It is almost identical to Kevin's, a narrow band of gold with a few tiny scratches across its surface. The only difference is a thin gold chain looped through it. Nothing elaborate.
Jean stares at it. There is something strange about seeing proof of his marriage separated from his own body. He reaches for it. Kevin watches silently as Jean picks it up and turns it between his fingers.
"It has scratches."
"You usually don't take it off."
Jean glances at Kevin's hand. "Yours does too."
Kevin gives him a look. "That’s because I don't either."
Jean looks back at the ring. He tries to imagine choosing it: standing somewhere with Kevin and deciding between different bands, maybe bickering about their favorites. Sliding this one onto Kevin's finger. Kevin sliding its twin onto his.
Nothing comes. The absence hurts, but not with the same sharpness it once did.
"Do you want to wear it?"
Jean looks up. Kevin's eyes have gone very wide. The question is careful despite the naked hope in his expression.
Jean almost laughs. "Why else would I ask where it was?"
"I don't know. You could have just been curious."
"I was curious." Kevin's expression falls slightly. Jean folds immediately. "And I want to wear it."
"Oh." Kevin looks down at the ring. "Okay."
Jean holds it out to him.
Kevin blinks. "What?"
"Put it on me."
Something happens to Kevin's face. It is subtle enough that Jean might not have recognized it a month ago. Now he does.
Kevin is trying very hard not to cry. Jean's heart squeezes.
"Unless that is somehow incorrect," Jean says, gentler now. "You did put it on me the first time, did you not?"
"Yes," Kevin says quickly. His voice is slightly rough. "I did."
"Then come here."
Kevin takes Jean's hand.
For all the emotion written plainly across his face, his fingers are steady. He slides the ring slowly over Jean's knuckle until it settles at the base of his finger.
It fits perfectly. Jean turns his hand beneath the lamplight. The chain pools loosely across his palm, the gold band catching faintly in the light. Something about it looks right, if not familiar.
Jean threads their fingers together, bringing the two gold bands side by side.
Kevin exhales shakily. "You know," he says after a moment, "you don't have to wear it just because we're married."
"You know that's not why," Jean responds flatly.
Kevin immediately looks defensive. "I'm just saying."
"You are always just saying."
"I don't want you to feel obligated."
"I know."
Kevin quiets. Jean lifts their joined hands and presses his mouth against Kevin's knuckles.
"I want to wear it."
Kevin's expression softens. "Okay." He presses a soft kiss to Jean's hand. "Does it bother you? That you don't remember it. The proposal, the wedding."
Jean turns the thought over. There are photographs downstairs of a day that is supposedly one of the most important of his life. Somewhere in his missing years, he had asked Kevin to marry him; he had stood in front of people they loved and made promises Jean knows only because Kevin has told him about them.
"A little," Jean admits.
Kevin nods like he was expecting that, but he does look a little troubled.
Jean nudges his knee. "It cannot be helped. But it would have been nice to remember asking you."
Kevin gives him a small smile. "Well, if you want to know, you weren't nervous at all."
Jean raises a brow. "I doubt that."
Kevin shakes his head, "No, really. I mean, you already knew I would say yes."
Jean looks down at their joined hands. He says eventually, "I could always ask you again."
"What?" There is something soft and startled in Kevin's face.
"If it bothers me so much that I cannot remember proposing to you, there is a fairly obvious solution."
"You want to propose to me again?"
"Not right now." Jean looks pointedly around their bedroom. "I would hope I have more imagination than this."
Kevin's mouth falls open.
"But someday." Jean shrugs, suddenly feeling strangely shy. "I could ask you again. We could do the whole thing again, if we wanted. There are no rules against that."
Kevin kisses him. It is so immediate that Jean barely has time to register the movement before Kevin's mouth is on his. Jean smiles into it.
"Well, you know my answer," Kevin says when he pulls away, voice light. A faint flush has spread across Kevin's cheeks, but his gaze does not waver. "I would say yes a hundred times over, if you asked."
"Only a hundred?"
"Oh, fuck off."
"What ever will I do with only a hundred? I will have to ration them."
Kevin shoves at his shoulder, but he's smiling. "Fine. A million, you big idiot."
"Better," Jean says, and kisses him, because there is really nothing else to do with that.
In the morning, he will take it off his finger and wear it around his neck. But when Kevin turns off the lamp and settles beside him, Jean leaves the ring exactly where it is, hand in hand with Kevin.
The past two weeks have been busy.
Summer has faded almost without Jean noticing. The oppressive heat slowly loosens its grip, evenings cooling enough that they stop leaving every window open overnight. The sun disappears earlier, the ocean breeze carries a sharper edge up from the cliffs, and one morning Jean steps outside for his run to find the air crisp enough to sting his lungs.
He has been back at full practices long enough that the novelty has worn off. No one watches him quite so carefully when he takes a hard hit anymore, and their coach has finally stopped asking how he feels after every drill. Jean considers both developments victories.
Their first real game is a little over a week away, and practices have intensified accordingly. Scrimmages are rougher, film sessions longer, and Jean finds himself looking forward to it. He likes practice, but he has begun to understand that he misses competition. There is a particular satisfaction in having someone across the court actively trying to beat him.
Kevin, naturally, has taken Jean's approaching return to professional competition as a personal project.
Jean has been subjected to opinions about his footwork, his reaction time, the condition of his racquet, three opposing strikers, two defensive formations, and what Kevin considers an unacceptable deterioration in Jean's ability to anticipate rebounds off the walls.
Jean had eventually informed him that if he continued talking about Exy over dinner, Jean would divorce him.
Kevin had pointed at the ring hanging around Jean's neck and said, "You've only just started wearing that again."
Jean had told him not to test how quickly he could remove it. This threat apparently had no lasting effect.
Which is how, a few nights later, Jean finds himself on the couch being told his education is severely lacking.
"You cannot play your first game back without watching this."
Jean looks skeptically at the television. "I have played hundreds of games."
"Yes, and you don't remember any of them."
"I remember how Exy works. I have been practicing with the team. We have done scrimmages."
"That's not the point."
Jean looks at him blandly. "What is the point, then?"
Kevin ignores him and presses play.
It is as Jean suspected. Kevin really just wants to watch this game.
They are sprawled across the couch after dinner, the balcony doors cracked open to let in the evening air. Jean has one leg stretched along the cushions and the other thrown carelessly across Kevin's lap.
On the television, an arena erupts into noise.
USC, Kevin explains, playing Penn State in the national semifinals.
"You've seen this before?" Jean asks.
"Obviously."
"Recently?"
Kevin gives him an offended look. "No. I watched it live."
Jean turns his attention back to the screen. His younger self appears a moment later. It is still strange to see himself like this.
He knows intellectually that the person on screen is him. The face is his, if slightly younger, and the body moves the way his does. Even some of the expressions are familiar. But watching himself feels strangely like watching a brother he has never met.
His hair is longer, curling damply around his ears beneath his helmet. He looks leaner than Jean is now, although perhaps that is only the uniform. There is a black roman numeral three beneath his eye.
The whistle blows. Jean understands within the first few minutes why Kevin chose this game.
He is very good.
That should perhaps be a more embarrassing realization, but Jean cannot think of a more delicate way to put it. His younger self is vicious.
He moves across the court with frightening economy, anticipating attacks before they develop and forcing opposing players exactly where he wants them. He seems to possess a particular talent for making the striker across from him miserable.
Jean watches himself slam an opponent into the wall hard enough to rattle the plexiglass.
Kevin snorts. "This is after you started playing Trojan style," Kevin tells him.
Jean glances at him. "Trojan style?"
"Less aggressive. More focused on positioning and control." Kevin gestures toward the screen. "You adapted pretty quickly after you transferred."
Jean looks back at his younger self.
He understands the implication without Kevin explaining it. There are years of footage from before USC as well. Years of himself playing for Evermore, wearing black and red instead of cardinal and gold.
Jean isn't sure he wants to watch a Raven game. Not yet, anyway.
Several minutes later, USC scores.
Jeremy Knox barrels into Jean immediately afterward and nearly knocks him over in celebration. Onscreen Jean shoves him away, visibly irritated, but there is a smile pulling at his mouth.
Kevin smiles too.
Jean's attention strays from the television. There is, after all, a considerably better view beside him.
Kevin doesn't notice. "You were happy at USC," he says quietly.
The shifting light from the television moves across his face. His hair has fallen into his eyes, and every few minutes he pushes it impatiently away. He mouths along with one of the commentators when they announce a play, apparently remembering the call word for word.
Jean feels something warm settle beneath his ribs. "You really watched all of my games."
Kevin looks over. "Of course I did." As though there could never have been another answer.
Jean thinks about Kevin sitting somewhere hundreds of miles away, watching him play. About a younger version of this man learning Jean's habits through a television screen, knowing when he was happy from the shape of his smile.
Onscreen, Jean says something to Jeremy that the cameras cannot catch. Jeremy throws his head back laughing.
"I remember watching you that year," Kevin continues. "You seemed...less burdened, I suppose." There is something wistful in his expression.
Jean watches Kevin instead of the game. "Is that why this is your favorite?"
Kevin blinks. "What?"
"This game."
"No. It's my favorite because you played extremely well." Kevin pauses. "Well, and because you got a yellow card for telling the referee to go fuck himself. In French."
Jean's mouth twitches. "I see."
"Of course he didn't understand you, but your tone was clear enough."
That gets a laugh out of Jean. Kevin grins, apparently pleased with himself, and turns back to the game.
A few minutes later, he pauses it.
"There."
Jean follows the direction of his finger. "What?"
"Look at what you do when their striker crosses center court."
Jean watches.
"You give him space," Kevin explains. "You've been closing the distance too early in practice. Here, you wait until he commits before you move."
Jean sighs but leans forward. Kevin rewinds the play and lets it run again.
Jean tries to pay attention. Really, no one can say he does not try.
Kevin's hand is resting on his knee.
It is not even particularly suggestive: he's hardly touching him, really, thumb moving slowly over the fabric of Jean's sweatpants while he watches the television. In fact, he seems entirely unaware that he is doing it.
Jean is aware enough for both of them.
"And there." Kevin pauses the game again. "That's what I mean about your positioning."
"Hm."
"You see it?"
"Yes."
Kevin glances at him suspiciously. "What did I just say?"
Jean presses his lips together. "You said I positioned myself in a way that…was a good position."
Kevin gives him a flat stare.
Normally, Jean likes this. He likes listening to Kevin talk about Exy, likes the particular intensity that comes over him when he is explaining something he cares about. Tonight, however, Jean finds himself considerably less interested in the defensive structure of a game played years ago.
Kevin is warm beneath his leg. His hair has dried into soft waves around his ears, and every so often he shifts beneath Jean, fingers tightening briefly around his knee before relaxing again. He smells clean and familiar, faintly of oranges and whatever lotion he had used after his shower.
Really, with Kevin sitting beside him like this, how is Jean supposed to think about anything else?
He wants to be closer. The thought arrives simply.
Not even necessarily to kiss him, although Jean would certainly not object to that. He just wants to eliminate the irritating inches of couch between them, wants Kevin's weight against him, wants to tuck his face into the warm place beneath Kevin's jaw and stay there until Kevin complains about his hair tickling his nose.
Jean shifts his leg farther across Kevin's lap. Kevin glances down. Then up.
"I'm glad you're comfortable, at least. Even if you're completely ignoring everything I say."
"I am very comfortable," Jean confirms.
Kevin rolls his eyes, but his thumb continues its slow path across Jean's knee.
Jean shifts closer. This time there is nothing inconspicuous about the movement. He pulls his leg back only so he can crawl across the cushions until he is seated directly beside Kevin, thigh pressed fully against his.
Kevin finally looks away from the game.
Jean reaches up and runs his thumb across Kevin's bottom lip.
Kevin goes quiet. His gaze drops briefly to Jean's mouth before returning to his eyes. "Something you want?"
Jean leans in. From here, he can smell Kevin's body wash, clean and faintly citrusy beneath the warmth of his skin. He is suddenly hyperaware of every place they touch. Kevin's thigh against his. His shoulder beneath Jean's arm. The warmth of his breath against Jean's mouth.
"Yes."
"I think you're just trying to get out of watching more matches," Kevin teases.
"You caught me." Jean's thumb traces Kevin's lip once more. Kevin's smile fades into something hungrier. "May I kiss you?"
"You don't have to ask," Kevin breathes, already reaching for him. His hands come up to cradle Jean's face, and then Kevin is pulling him in.
They kiss slowly at first.
Jean has grown familiar with Kevin's mouth by now, but familiarity has done absolutely nothing to lessen its appeal. If anything, it has made things worse. He knows the slight tilt of Kevin's head before he deepens a kiss, knows the quiet sound he makes when Jean's hand settles at his waist.
Jean's grip tightens there. Kevin makes that small sound now. Jean swallows it greedily.
He fits so nicely in Jean's arms, sounds so lovely beneath his mouth. Jean tugs him closer, increasingly dissatisfied by every centimeter of space that remains between them.
Kevin pulls away. Jean makes an immediate noise of complaint.
"Wait." Kevin is breathing hard. "Let's..." He presses a palm to Jean's chest.
Jean allows himself to be pushed backward until he is lying along the couch. A second later Kevin climbs over him, settling astride his hips.
This is considerably better.
"Good?" Kevin asks, because of course he does.
"It's great." Jean makes an impatient grabbing motion with his hands.
Kevin laughs, but indulges him, bending down until Jean can pull him back into another kiss.
The match drones on in the background, forgotten by both of them.
Their kissing grows messier. Jean slides one hand beneath Kevin's shirt, encountering warm skin, the softness at his waist giving way to hard muscle beneath his palm. He drags his hand upward until his fingers brush the ridges of Kevin's ribs. Kevin shivers.
The reaction sends a sharp pulse of satisfaction through Jean.
Kevin breaks away from his mouth. Before Jean can protest, Kevin's lips find his jaw instead, then the sensitive skin just beneath it.
Oh.
With his mouth unoccupied, Jean's head tilts back in pleasure, giving Kevin more access. "Kevin."
Kevin hums against his neck.
Jean closes his eyes. More. Jean wants more. The realization itself is uncomplicated, but what exactly more entails is considerably less so.
"Can we…" Jean begins.
For perhaps the first time in weeks, he feels genuinely inexperienced. Kevin knows how Jean likes to be touched, and Jean presumably once knew the same about him. Now Jean doesn't even know what he is supposed to ask for.
Kevin lifts his head, face changing the moment he sees Jean's expression.
"Whatever you want," he murmurs, uncharacteristically indulgent.
Jean swallows. "I don't know."
Kevin brushes his thumb gently across Jean's cheek. "Hm. Should I give you some ideas?"
That sounds simultaneously terrifying and extremely appealing. Jean nods.
Kevin's amusement disappears. "First, are you absolutely sure?"
Jean groans and lets his head fall back against the cushion. "And you say I ask stupid questions."
"It's not stupid." Kevin waits until Jean looks at him again. "I mean it. You can change your mind whenever you want. Five minutes from now, halfway through, for no reason at all. You don't owe me anything just because we've done it before."
"I want it," Jean says plainly. He reaches up and catches Kevin by the back of the neck. "I want you," he corrects, because that is closer to the truth.
"I want you too," comes Kevin's quiet confession. There is something almost shy about it.
Jean had known, obviously. Kevin is currently sitting astride him with swollen lips and his shirt pushed halfway up his ribs. It would take a truly remarkable degree of obliviousness to misunderstand the situation.
Still, hearing it is different.
"You said you had ideas?" Jean prompts, excitement thrumming in his veins.
Kevin brushes a thumb over Jean's lips. His eyes are warm, green like sunlight through leaves.
"Well," Kevin leans down again, placing a soft kiss at his jaw. "What would you like? Do you want my hand?"
Jean shivers as Kevin mouths at the hollow of his neck. Kevin brushes a hand at the hem of his shirt, dragging his hands up Jean's abdomen, fingers tracing the muscle there.
"Maybe my mouth," Kevin continues, sounding smug now. Jean can feel the press of his smile against his neck.
Wonderful. Kevin has broken his brain. Jean hopes he is pleased with himself.
"Kevin," he says helplessly. "Are you trying to kill me or help me?"
Kevin laughs softly, pulling back. His hands dip ever so slightly beneath the waistband of Jean's sweatpants.
Jean is not sure he will survive this experience.
"You wanted to hear my ideas," Kevin reminds him. "I was just trying to be inspiring. They didn't sound good?"
Before Jean can protest, that they absolutely did, Kevin leans down to kiss him. Like this, his hips align with Jean's and Jean's hips buck up into the feeling.
"Hm. How about me inside you?"
Oh, so he really is trying to kill Jean tonight.
Kevin pulls back, green eyes alight with arousal and amusement equally. "Or would you like to be inside me?" That makes Jean shudder, grip tightening around Kevin. Kevin smiles. "Oh? What was that? Do you want to fuck me, Jean-Yves?"
Jean lets out a strangled noise. Any attempt at seduction right now would be made with the grace of an elephant, so he decides to go with honesty. "I just want to be close to you," he manages.
It's a simple sentiment, almost embarrassingly so, but the teasing expression on Kevin’s face melts into something fonder. Jean is struck by the impression that he has just handed him something precious. Kevin leans into him, the weight warm and reassuring. Jean thinks he could become very greedy about this. Thinks he already has.
"Okay," Kevin says quietly. "We can do that."
Kevin leads Jean to the bedroom, pressing him down into the bed. He takes his time undressing him, taking Jean into his mouth until he can only think of Kevin, can only moan his name.
Then, he works himself open, letting Jean touch him as he pleases in the meantime. He looks lovely like this, working himself down on his own fingers, cheeks flushed bright pink in pleasure.
When he lays Jean flat on his back and sinks down onto him, Jean's world narrows down.
There is only Kevin: Kevin on top of him, Kevin surrounding him. He would not have it any way.
Above him, Kevin looks almost inhumanly beautiful. His hair falls loose around his face, dark against skin gone warm and flushed.
Jean has thought Kevin beautiful from the moment he first saw him, but this feels different: there is something devastating about having all that beauty turned entirely toward him. Kevin is looking at Jean like there is nowhere else he would rather be, mouth swollen from kissing him, breath uneven, and Jean feels briefly overcome by the sheer improbability of it.
Perhaps this is what happens to foolish planets that wander too close to the sun. They burn, certainly, but for one impossible moment, they are close enough to touch it.
Kevin rides him in a way that could only indicate years of experience, bringing Jean to the edge embarrassingly quick. He himself, is whining, unraveling at the edges, and when Jean wraps a hand around him, he comes, clenching down on Jean like a vice.
Jean is helpless to follow.
For several minutes afterward, Jean does not move. This is partly because he does not want to and partly because he is not entirely certain his legs would cooperate if asked.
Kevin is draped over him, warm and pleasantly heavy, his face tucked into the crook of Jean's neck. Jean can hear the television is still playing in the living room. At some point the game has ended and another has begun, the commentators discussing two teams neither of them is currently capable of caring about.
Jean stares at the ceiling. Kevin shifts against him. "Good?" he mumbles.
"Yes."
Kevin lifts himself onto one elbow. His hair is a disaster. His cheeks are still flushed, his lips pink and slightly swollen, and there is a faint crease between his brows. For a moment, Kevin simply looks at him. Something in his expression softens.
"Hi," he says.
Jean's smile grows despite himself. "Hello."
Kevin brushes a curl away from Jean's forehead. The touch is so gentle that something warm twists behind Jean's ribs.
There is so much Jean could say.
That he understands now, perhaps, another small piece of the life they had before. That there had been moments during it when Kevin touched him and Jean knew exactly what came next, knew every expression and every sound without having to learn them. That the thought should make him sad, but right now it does not. Right now, Kevin is here.
Then Kevin ruins the moment. "You really weren't paying attention to the game at all, were you?"
Jean stares at him. "You cannot possibly be thinking about Exy right now."
"Some of us can think about multiple things at once."
Jean narrows his eyes. "You really are insufferable."
"And yet."
"And yet nothing."
Kevin's mouth twitches. Jean reaches for the nearest pillow and shoves it directly into his face.
Kevin makes an indignant noise and catches it before Jean can suffocate him. "Ow, Jean. Not very romantic."
"Because talking about Exy after sex is so romantic? Perhaps to you, but to a normal person—"
Kevin clamps a hand over his mouth, but he's giggling. "In my defense, you missed the best part of the game."
Jean closes his eyes in exasperation. "Kevin."
"Okay, okay," he acquiesces. He bends down and kisses Jean once, softly. There is no urgency left in it now. Just the warm press of his mouth, lingering for a second before he pulls away.
Their fingers tangle together against his stomach, Jean's ring resting cool against his chest where it hangs from its chain.
Kevin stays where he is.
Jean's first game back arrives the following week.
He is nervous beforehand. He does not call it nerves, obviously, it is simply a reasonable amount of apprehension considering he has not played a professional game in months and remembers approximately none of the games that came before it.
Tim calls him full of shit. "You've been pacing for ten minutes. "You're wearing a path into the floor."
Jean gives him a rude gesture and continues pacing.
It is strange, standing in the locker room surrounded by people who have apparently done this beside him dozens of times before. Everyone else moves through the familiar rituals of game day without thinking. Racquets are checked and rechecked. Someone across the room is arguing about tape.
Jean sits at his stall and turns his racquet over in his hands. He knows this part.
Not the room or the rituals, but the weight of the racquet does not feel foreign. Neither does the gear strapped around his body or the helmet waiting beside him.
When they finally file toward the court, the noise reaches them before the lights do. Jean's pulse jumps. Then he steps onto the court. There is no room left to be nervous now.
The first few minutes are ugly.
Jean mistimes a pass he should have caught easily and swears viciously enough that Denis laughs at him from halfway across the court. He takes a hit against the wall harder than necessary because he reacts half a second too late.
After a few minutes, something settles. Jean stops thinking about where his feet should go, and he simply moves. The court narrows around him. Noise melts into something distant and unimportant. He watches the striker opposite him shift his weight and knows, somehow, where the man intends to go before he moves.
Jean cuts him off. The ball changes possession.
His body knows this. The realization sends something bright and almost giddy through him.
By halftime, his lungs are burning. By the final quarter, there is sweat dripping into his eyes and a bruise blooming unpleasantly beneath his ribs.
They win by two.
The final buzzer sounds and the court erupts around him. For a few seconds, Jean simply stands there, chest heaving.
His entire body hurts. Sweat is cooling beneath his armor, his ribs ache where he took a hit against the wall, and tomorrow morning his legs are going to make him regret every decision that led him here.
Someone slams into his back hard enough to send him stumbling. "Don't get sentimental on me now, Moreau," Ben says, catching him by the shoulder before Jean can turn around and hit him.
"As if."
The court is chaos around them, teammates knocking helmets together, racquets lifted overhead as the crowd continues roaring from the stands. Jean catches Kevin's eye.
He is across the court, caught in the middle of two of their teammates. His hair is plastered damply to his forehead, cheeks flushed red with exertion. There is a fresh scrape along his jaw that Jean does not remember seeing happen.
He grins, bright and lovely. Jean feels the answering smile pull helplessly across his own face.
Kevin extricates himself from the celebration and crosses the court toward him. "You played well," he says when he reaches Jean.
Jean raises an eyebrow. "That is all?"
Kevin's grin widens. "Take the compliment, Jean. I can give you the corrections when we get home."
"Generous as ever."
After that, the days seem to settle into place.
Jean does not notice exactly when he stops measuring his life against the one he cannot remember. There is no morning where he wakes and suddenly everything belongs to him again. It happens quietly.
The house becomes home without him deciding to call it that. He stops opening the wrong cupboard for glasses, and he knows which floorboard outside the bedroom creaks. He knows which window sticks when the weather turns cold, which side of the couch catches the last of the afternoon sun. His books have begun migrating through the house, abandoned facedown on tables and tucked between couch cushions. There is fruit he picked out in the refrigerator and a jacket he bought hanging beside the door.
Exy changes too. He no longer feels like a guest at practice, borrowing another man's place on the court. His teammates are simply his teammates. Tim texts him terrible photographs of birds he sees on hikes. Their coach annoys him more. There are games ahead of him now instead of only games he has forgotten behind him.
And Kevin—
Jean no longer feels as though he is learning how to be Kevin's husband.
He knows how Kevin takes his coffee and which shampoo he buys and that he will steal Jean's water rather than walk three additional feet for his own. He knows the difference between Kevin being angry and Kevin being worried, knows when his silence means he wants to be left alone and when it means he wants Jean to come closer. He knows the particular crease that appears between Kevin's eyebrows when he is concentrating and exactly how long he can tease him before Kevin gets genuinely upset.
There are still photographs Jean cannot remember taking, and stories that begin with do you remember and have to be corrected halfway through. Whole years of his life remain inaccessible to him.
But they no longer make everything that came after feel borrowed.
Jean has stopped waiting to become the person he was. Somewhere along the way, this has simply become the person he is.
They go out for dinner on Friday.
Practice ends early, neither of them feels like cooking, and Kevin suggests a burger place near Cannery Row.
The restaurant is small and aggressively casual, tucked into a narrow storefront a few blocks from the water. There are plastic baskets instead of plates, laminated menus curling at the corners, and a collection of faded photographs of Monterey Bay covering one wall. The tables wobble whenever Jean puts his elbows on them.
Jean likes it immediately.
Kevin reaches over and steals one of Jean's fries. Jean kicks him beneath the table.
Jean isn't quite sure how, but the conversation drifts and they end up debating whether pickles improve a burger or ruin it.
It does not really matter to Jean either way, but Kevin is getting so impassioned, so worked up, that Jean can't help but be contrary.
In his passion, Kevin gestures so hard that water goes spilling into Jean's lap. Cold water immediately soaks through Jean's jeans. He looks down at himself, then slowly back up.
Kevin is staring at him sheepishly. "I didn't mean to."
Jean considers him for a long moment. Kevin's mouth begins to twitch.
By the time they leave, Jean has mostly forgiven him. Mostly.
Outside, Monterey has settled into the particular chill Jean is beginning to associate with evenings by the bay.
The warmth of the day has vanished almost entirely. Cold air comes rolling off the water, smelling of salt and kelp, and a thin layer of fog has begun gathering over the dark shape of the bay. Jean can taste the ocean when he breathes.
The street is quieter at this hour, the crowds have thinned, leaving only scattered couples and families wandering between restaurants and souvenir shops. Strings of lights glow above patios, reflected in windows darkened for the night. Beyond the buildings, the bay stretches black and enormous beneath the sky.
Somewhere out on the water, a buoy bell sounds. A moment later comes the distant, unmistakable barking of sea lions.
Jean stops. "That sounded demonic."
Kevin snorts. "It's just the sea lions."
Jean looks toward the harbor suspiciously. Another bark echoes across the water.
"You like them," Kevin adds, then keeps walking.
They have nowhere particular to be, so Jean follows. They wander slowly, stopping whenever something catches their attention. Kevin spends an unreasonable amount of time examining sunglasses through a shop window despite having no intention of buying them. Jean finds a rotating rack of terrible Monterey postcards outside a souvenir store and begins reading the worst captions aloud until Kevin lectures him about being a tourist in his hometown and physically drags him away.
Eventually they get ice cream.
"You were the one complaining about being cold," Jean says.
"You like the ice cream. Shut up and stop complaining."
They carry them toward the water. The farther they walk from the restaurants, the quieter everything becomes. The cheerful noise of Cannery Row recedes behind them until Jean can hear the waves striking the rocks below the path.
The bay is almost completely black now. Across the water, the lights of the peninsula scatter along the coastline, little pinpricks of gold suspended between ocean and sky. Cypress trees lean dark against the horizon, their branches shifting whenever the wind comes in from the Pacific.
Kevin walks close enough that their shoulders occasionally bump.
Kevin likes proximity. Not necessarily touching, although he likes that as well. He simply seems happiest occupying Jean's immediate space. Now, with an entire empty path available to them, Kevin walks close enough that the back of his hand brushes Jean's every few steps.
Jean catches it the next time. Kevin glances down as Jean threads their fingers together but says nothing. His hand is freezing.
"You are cold."
"I'm fine."
"Your fingers are ice."
"Warm them up then."
Jean does, gathering both of Kevin's hands between his own and bringing them to his mouth. He breathes warmth over his fingers, rubbing them gently between his palms before pressing a kiss to his knuckles for good measure.
The wind keeps pushing Kevin's hair into his eyes. Every few sentences he blows it impatiently away, unwilling to release Jean's hand to fix it properly.
Oh, how Jean loves him.
He looks out across the dark water. Jean has known for a while.
It had been there in the kitchen when he baked Kevin a cake simply because Kevin had been sad. It had been there when he put his wedding ring back on. It had been there when Kevin told him the worst things he had ever done and Jean's only response had been to pull him closer.
Maybe even earlier.
Jean does not know exactly when affection became love. Likely, there was no single moment at all, only Kevin, accumulating quietly inside him until one day there was simply nowhere Jean could look without finding him.
Kevin is still talking. Jean has completely lost track of the story.
"...and then she had the nerve to tell me that technically—"
"Je t'aime," Jean says gently, because he does.
Kevin stops walking. Jean takes another step before their joined hands pull him backward.
He turns to find Kevin is staring at him. "What?"
"I love you," Jean repeats, watching the way Kevin's eyes widen. "I have fallen in love with you," he clarifies after a moment. "I imagine it is not the first time."
For several seconds, Kevin says nothing. But he does not look surprised. A smile slowly pulls at his mouth, small and helpless and terribly fond. His eyes have gone suspiciously bright beneath the waterfront lights.
"I know," Kevin says.
Jean raises his brows.
Kevin steps closer. "I know what it looks like when you love me." Kevin reaches up and brushes Jean's hair away from his face. "I love you too," he says, quieter now. "In case that wasn't obvious."
"It was."
Kevin pokes his nose. "Don't ruin the moment."
Kevin kisses him before Jean can respond. He tastes like strawberry ice cream.
When Jean was very young, he imagines he must have thought about love in the vague way children sometimes do. A beautiful house, perhaps. Someone kind, someone who would love him. The indistinct shape of a person he might one day marry, assembled from whatever scraps of romance a child understands.
He could never have imagined Kevin.
Kevin is nothing like anyone Jean might have invented for himself. He is too sharp in places Jean would have thought should be soft, too difficult where Jean might once have wished for easy. He is vain and stubborn and particular.
He is also kinder than Jean knows what to do with.
There is no childhood fantasy that could have accounted for Kevin's green eyes, or the ridiculous little crease between his brows when he concentrates. Nothing Jean could have dreamed would have prepared him for the ferocity with which Kevin loves, for his impossible loyalty, for the strange tenderness hidden beneath all those thorns. Jean could not have imagined the sound of his laughter because there had never been anything else like it to compare it to.
Perhaps that is why loving him sometimes feels less like something Jean chose and more like stumbling across something sacred. As though somewhere along the course of his life, Jean had been handed something far more beautiful than he possessed the imagination to ask for.
And somehow, impossibly, Kevin had looked back at him and thought the same.
Jean's memories return, quietly and without ceremony, on a Saturday morning in November.
It is the weekend before his birthday, and Kevin has been behaving suspiciously for several days. He has taken three phone calls outside, closed his laptop the moment Jean walked into the room yesterday, and received a package he had immediately carried upstairs with all the subtlety of a man transporting stolen goods.
Jean has chosen not to investigate. Mostly because Kevin is a terrible liar, and watching him attempt secrecy has been entertaining enough on its own. Whatever he is arranging has apparently exhausted him.
When Jean wakes, Kevin is still asleep. This is unusual enough that Jean lies still for a moment simply to appreciate it.
Morning has only just begun to reach the bedroom. Pale November light filters through the curtains, cool and gray, falling in narrow strips across the bed. The window is cracked open, and the room smells faintly of the candle Jean burned the night before.
Kevin is curled on his stomach beside him, one arm shoved beneath the pillow and the other stretched into Jean's half of the bed. His hair is an absolute disaster, flattened on one side and sticking up at the crown. His face is turned toward Jean.
Jean has always liked watching Kevin sleep.
The thought passes through his mind so naturally that, at first, Jean does not notice anything strange about it.
For one suspended second, there is nothing. Then:
A hotel room in Chicago. Kevin asleep against his shoulder on a flight to Boston. Their first apartment, sunlight falling across Kevin's bare back.
Kevin at fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three.
Kevin feverish and miserable, insisting he was perfectly capable of going to practice. Kevin drunk, laughing into Jean's neck. Kevin asleep beside him the morning after their wedding, his left hand curled against Jean's chest, a new gold band around his finger.
Jean stops breathing. The memory does not arrive alone. There is no great rush, no violent breaking of a dam. It is stranger than that.
Jean simply reaches for things, and finds them.
The Nest. Riko. A fresh tattoo on his cheek, still stinging. The smell of disinfectant, and Kevin's touch as he stitched torn skin back together. French whispered in darkness. A promise. Kevin leaving in the dark of night, the betrayal and despair that accompanied it.
Jean shuts his eyes.
Renee. USC. Jeremy. Laila. Cat. Learning how to ride a motorcycle. The first apartment Jean ever lived in alone, the first night he slept through without waking. Boston. Then California.
And throughout it all, woven in like a thread of gold, Kevin.
Kevin, Kevin, Kevin.
Years of him. Jean presses the heel of his hand against his mouth.
It is like discovering he has been walking through the world with one of his senses missing. Nothing around him has changed, and yet suddenly everything has another dimension.
He turns to look at the ridiculous ceramic dish on his nightstand, and now remembers how Jeremy gave it to them as part of an even more ridiculous set just to mess with him. Jean had threatened to throw all six into the Pacific.
A laugh escapes him, thin and unsteady.
Beside him, Kevin shifts. Jean freezes. But Kevin only makes a quiet sound and burrows farther into his pillow.
Jean studies his profile. Kevin's face is soft with sleep. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, probably because whatever ridiculous birthday conspiracy he has been organizing has kept him awake half the week.
Kevin has come to matter to Jean more than he thinks anyone should matter to anyone. Jean fell in love with him, recklessly and without abandon, twice.
Jean reaches out but stops just before touching him. His hand trembles.
He lets Kevin sleep.
He spends another half hour in bed before hunger eventually drives him downstairs. By then, the initial shock has faded into something quieter.
He makes coffee. Finds eggs in the refrigerator. Burns the first piece of toast because he becomes distracted halfway through buttering the second.
Everything feels remarkably ordinary, the kitchen looks exactly as it did yesterday. Gray morning light spills across the countertops. The coffee machine makes the same irritating sputtering noise near the end of its cycle. Jean still knows without thinking which mug Kevin will reach for. Only now he remembers buying it.
Jean is standing over the stove when he hears footsteps behind him.
"You're up early." Kevin's voice is rough with sleep.
Jean looks over his shoulder. Kevin has stopped in the doorway.
He looks exhausted, hair mussed up and eyes half-closed. He comes closer, hugging Jean from his side and placing a kiss on his neck before meeting his gaze.
"You made…" Kevin trails off, something in his face changing.
The sleepiness disappears at once, and his eyes move over Jean's face once, searching. The color drains from his cheeks.
Jean turns off the stove. "Kevin?" he asks gently.
Kevin's lips part. There is something almost frightened in his expression now. "You—" His voice catches. "How much do you remember?"
Jean doesn't even bother asking how Kevin could possibly know already. "I think everything," he admits.
Kevin steps back, a hand over his mouth. "Since when?"
"Since this morning," Jean answers. He steps closer, placing his hands carefully on Kevin's shoulders as though approaching a frightened animal. "Kevin—"
Kevin shoves at him once, not very hard, but not gentle either. "You—you asshole," he hisses. "How could you do that to me?"
Jean softens. "Kevin—"
"Do you have any idea what—what this has done to me? How much I—" His breath catches, and he brings a hand up to clutch at his chest. Jean steps forward, ready to apologize, but before he can, Kevin crumbles. Jean barely has time to catch him before Kevin throws his entire weight into the embrace. His arms lock around Jean's neck.
"Kevin," Jean says again, startled.
A thick sob tears out of him.
"Kevin," Jean repeats, quiet and devastated.
Kevin just cries harder. His knees seem to give out beneath him, and Jean lowers them carefully to the kitchen floor, one arm around his waist and the other cradling the back of his head.
"I thought—I—I thought—"
"Kevin, breathe."
"I thought you were dead."
Jean closes his eyes. Kevin's fingers twist desperately into the back of his shirt.
"I thought you were dead when I got that call, and then—and then you weren't, but you didn't—" His voice breaks violently. "You didn't remember anything—You didn't remember me, you didn't remember loving me. How could you do that? How could you just forget me?"
"I'm sorry," Jean murmurs. He strokes a hand slowly down Kevin's back, presses his mouth to his temple, his wet cheek. "I'm sorry, mon amour. I must have frightened you terribly."
Kevin makes another awful, broken sound.
"Kevin, look at me."
Kevin ignores him. Jean catches his face gently between both hands.
His eyes are red and wet, his entire expression torn open in a way Jean has rarely seen. Even with everything Jean already understood before this morning, remembering makes the sight hurt differently. He knows how much Kevin has already lost.
"Come on," Jean murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. "Breathe."
Kevin tries. The first breath shudders apart.
"You—I—"
"I left you all alone, I know," Jean interrupts softly. "I remember."
The words make Kevin's face crumple again.
Jean strokes both hands slowly along his sides. "But right now, I need you to calm down. Just breathe first."
Kevin obeys. The first breath shudders apart. The second is hardly better. Jean keeps his forehead pressed against Kevin's and breathes with him until, eventually, the terrible gasping begins to ease.
Kevin immediately wraps himself around Jean again, holding him so tightly it almost hurts. "Never, ever," he says emphatically, voice hoarse, "do that to me again. Never—I can't do that again. I'll die. You have to promise me, Jean-Yves, please—"
"Kevin—"
"Promise me," he snaps.
Jean stares at him.
It is an impossible promise, really. Jean cannot promise never to be injured. He cannot bargain with chance or death or whatever terrible randomness sent a car careening into him months ago.
But Kevin is looking at him as though a promise from Jean might somehow make the universe obey.
And Jean has never broken his word to Kevin.
"I promise," he says softly.
Kevin's face crumples again, and Jean draws him back into his arms. For a while, they simply sit there on the kitchen floor.
Eventually Kevin's breathing evens out. His fingers have loosened in Jean's shirt, although he still seems unwilling to release him entirely.
"I'm sorry," Kevin says after several minutes. His voice is hoarse. "I shouldn't have said that. I know it wasn't your fault. The police said the car crashed into you. I know—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I know you're a safe driver," he finishes in a whisper.
Jean remembers the conversation on the porch. Kevin beneath the blanket, worrying at its edge as he confessed how much he had hated the motorcycle. Jean reaches over and covers Kevin's hand with his own. "I will get rid of the motorcycle."
"No," Kevin shakes his head. "No, you love that stupid fucking bike. I won't take it away from you." Kevin wipes at his eyes roughly. "If you decide you don't want to ride anymore, that is your choice. Don't do it because of me."
When they first started dating, they argued quite a bit. Kevin's instinct to control anything that frightened him colliding spectacularly with Jean's refusal to ever be controlled again. Kevin learning, slowly and imperfectly, that loving Jean did not entitle him to make Jean's decisions for him. It seems Kevin still remembers.
Jean smiles sadly. "Even after all this?"
Kevin nods, small and precious.
Jean leans forward and places a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "It's not worth it," he says. "However much I like it, I love you more."
Kevin's breath catches. "Say it again."
"Say—? Oh. Kevin." Jean's heart aches. "Je t'aime, mon amour. Of course I do. Je t'ai toujours aimé."
Kevin lets out a noise like he's been hit, pulling Jean into a fierce kiss. There is nothing careful about it. Kevin catches Jean's face between both hands and kisses him hard, desperately, still wet with tears.
Later, they sit on the back porch beneath the old navy blanket.
The weather is cold and clear, sunlight scattered silver across the water. Kevin has tucked both feet beneath Jean's thigh despite wearing socks, his head resting against Jean's shoulder. Neither of them has spoken much. Jean does not mind.
Far below, the ocean pulls steadily against the cliffs. A gull circles lazily overhead before disappearing toward the water.
Eventually, Kevin speaks, "You seemed lighter."
Jean looks down at him. "What do you mean?"
"When you didn't remember." Kevin keeps his eyes on the water. "Not different." He frowns. "Just less burdened, maybe. And…I wanted you to remember so badly." Kevin's fingers still. "But sometimes I wondered if that was selfish."
"What do you mean?"
"You forgot me, but you forgot everything else too." Kevin swallows. "Everything that hurt you, everything anyone ever took from you." He looks down. "Sometimes I thought maybe it was kinder to let you live without it."
Jean stares at him.
Kevin shifts uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny. "What?"
Jean frowns. "They were memories of you." Jean reaches beneath the blanket and finds his hand. "Yes, there are things I would rather not remember," he says. "But you are in them too."
"Jean—"
"I would take the pain a thousand times over if forgetting it meant forgetting you too," he says honestly.
Kevin's eyes glisten, and he looks down.
They are quiet for a while after that. Jean takes to watching the sunlight move across the water. Kevin's thumb traces idly over the back of his hand. A thought occurs to him, making him snorts.
Kevin looks up. "What?"
"I fell in love with you twice," Jean muses. He looks down at him. "How will you ever outdo that?"
Kevin considers this with appropriate seriousness. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
"Oh?" Jean raises an eyebrow. "Does it perhaps have something to do with my birthday surprise?"
Kevin's face falls. Jean smiles.
"You could at least pretend not to know," Kevin complains.
"Where would be the fun in that?"
"The fun would be letting me think I surprised you, for once. Ugh. I liked you better without your memories," Kevin grumbles. "You were nicer to me."
Jean gasps in faux offense. "What an awful thing to say to your recently recovered husband."
Kevin rolls his eyes and settles back against him. "Your fault. You've been recovered for less than twenty-four hours and you're already pissing me off."
"And yet you cling to me so. You've shoved your freezing feet beneath my leg."
"Well, they're warm now."
"Yes, because you leeched off my body heat."
"Whatever."
Jean looks down at the top of his head. "Do I at least get a hint?"
"No."
"Is Jeremy coming?" Kevin goes suspiciously still. Jean grins. "Jeremy is coming."
"I don't know who that is. Fuck off."
"Laila too?"
Kevin yanks the blanket over his head. Jean laughs and reaches underneath it until he finds him, ignoring Kevin's protests as he drags him back out.
"You are terrible at surprises."
"Have you ever considered you're awful at being surprised?"
Jean kisses his disgruntled husband on the forehead. "You can try again next year. Maybe I'll pretend."
Kevin hits him with the pillow.