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If the first time had been bad, then the next was infinitely worse; it takes Jean longer than it should to realise what the ovular purple mark on Jeremy’s jaw, and the squarish shadow over his Adam’s apple is. It’s only when Jeremy ties back his hair to start warming up, and Jean is given the additional context of four ovular bruises in a line down the curve of Jeremy’s neck, on the opposite side to the jaw bruise, that he realises what that is — a fucking handprint. Jean had once been asked the infinitely stupid question where is your rage — the answer is right here, boiling hotter than a lava flow under his skin, because someone had put hands on his captain, his partner. And under that rage, is a smaller, quieter type of anger.
Anger that Jeremy would let someone do this to him - that he’s content to let whoever it was actually hurt him. Anger that he’s laughing at something Cody has said as they run through a warm up jog, with that handprint visible, like nothing had ever happened. And then, within the anger; a flicker of confusion. Why does Jeremy allow this?
Jean has never learned how to be a selfish person. If he had, perhaps he would let himself give in to the rage. This is his partner—his person to protect—but an immediate reminder of their last confrontation hits him like a bucket of cold water to his system.
Jeremy had defended that heinous louse of a man the last time Jean had demanded a name, and no doubt he would do so again without hesitation. Some nothing and nobody bully of a man had put his hands around Jeremy’s throat just hours ago, and the picture it paints in Jean’s mind has him clenching his trembling fingers at his sides, so tightly that it’s painful.
How is Jean meant to accept that Jeremy enjoys being held down, being strangled, being at another man’s mercy, when that very thing is the root of some of the worst nightmares that plague him at night? Jean tries to breathe in, to get air down past the ghost of fingers digging into his own throat, cutting off air and circulation and— he slams his fist into his quad as he runs, trying to disrupt the spiral of memory. He’s loath to admit the frisson of fear — his own, and fear for Jeremy — that weaves somewhere deep under the anger, but it’s there. One little vein of it. The anger is easier, though.
Jean will not make this about himself though, even when his first instinct is to demand answers and give whoever the miscreant is a matching set of bruises to start, until he learns to mind his manners.
He will not make this about himself, but he also cannot stand the sight of Jeremy, especially since he has not missed the periodic, unsubtle glances in his direction all morning. His captain knows he has seen the bruises and is waiting for his rage. Jean will not let him see it this time—not when he knows now that it will not change a thing.
So, he pairs himself with Derrick and Derek for drills and pretends not to notice Jeremy freeze in his tracks, already halfway to him. He pretends it doesn’t shatter him to see the way Jeremy’s face falls as Jean turns away.
If Jeremy continues to let these men hurt him, Jean will learn to cope the only way he knows how: by pretending he doesn’t see it happen — by locking it away deep inside, some place the anger and pain cannot reach. Otherwise, it is far too painful for Jean to see Jeremy hurt and know, deep down, that he allows this because he somehow thinks he deserves it. And if he must pretend he does not see Jeremy at all as a consequence, it will be yet another thing for him to endure.
He will look at Jeremy again when he is once more the sun — unmarked, bright, beautiful — instead of the moon — ravaged and marked by man.
“You okay, Jean?” Laila asks, as they line up on the baseline for dynamic stretching. Her eyes linger over the tense set of his shoulders, and, in the corner of his vision, he sees Jeremy’s head tilt towards them, just a little. Listening.
“Peachy,” he says dryly, borrowing a phrase from Cody. If it sounds sarcastic, well, that’d be because it is, but Jean knows it’ll be passed off as the baseline level of French derision with which he exists.
Jeremy can read him well enough by now to know when he’s deflecting, and for a moment Jean thinks he will ask, but then his eyes drop down to the ground instead, a picture of abject misery where he had been laughing only minutes ago. This only serves to make Jean even more irritable, because what on earth more does Jeremy want from him?
Cat corners him the minute they split up by position to practice stick work in pairs. “What gives?” she asks bluntly, eyeing him.
Jean doesn’t look at her, letting the familiar weight of the racket in his hand steady him. “I have nothing to give,” he monotones, catching the ball and passing to her in one graceful arc.
Cat makes an impatient clucking sound with her tongue as she snatches the ball from the air. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain blonde captain who didn’t come home last night, would it?”
Jean just continues to stare petulantly at her, refusing to say the words out loud. He doesn’t have to in the end, when her eyes dart across the court to land on Jeremy.
“Yeah, Laila isn’t thrilled with him either, but he didn’t want to hear it from her,” she admits, clearly alluding to a conversation between them that he hadn’t been privy to. “I am surprised you aren’t over there right now shaking him like a ragdoll until he reveals his secrets.”
Jean holds her gaze unflinchingly, and enunciates clearly, his voice ringing across the hardwood. “And exactly what good would that do?” Then, when Cat has no good answer for that, Jean taps his stick heavily against the floor and gestures for her to come on.
Cat obediently passes back to him, and Jean thinks they have exhausted the conversation until she asks, “Will you be okay when the Wildcats get here?”
Jean scowls. “If you tell me it was that detestable cockroach who—” he starts to say, but Cat raises her hands in surrender quickly.
“I don’t know who it was,” she says. “He wouldn’t tell us.”
Jean searches her face for any hint that she’s lying to him, but he finds none. “Regardless — I know the contract I signed, Catalina; I will behave. I will not cross a line Jeremy does not want me to. I am not a brute.” Not anymore.
She shoots him a pitying look and Jean isn’t entirely sure if it’s that she’d never describe him as brutish, or that she pities him and his silly feelings for someone he can never have.
Jean passes back to her, harder than he means to, and Cat takes the hint and shoots him a weak smile as they get back to the business of warming up.
Jean lets himself and his simmering anger be soothed by the process of warming up, and he tries to sink into the zone of focus on the game ahead. He won't look at Jeremy and be reminded that he let a man put hands on him with the intention to hurt.
And if he finds out who’s handprint that is, and comes up with a way to make the detestable man suffer that isn’t violent, then what Jeremy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Out of context, you’d never be able to piece together what’s happening. Unfortunately for Jean, he’s got a miserable amount of context; the memory of another time a necklace of bruiser circled Jeremy’s neck, the name Faser accidentally being let slip, the word history, and a shot that never should have missed. So Jean sees Faser line up on Jeremy, say something, and then hold up his hand in a brief mimicry of the handprint that’s mostly hidden under Jeremy’s neck guard. And then he winks. So the understanding is immediate, a bolt from the blue that hits Jean with cold certainty, and there’s his rage. Faser.
Cat’s sharp, “Jean!” stops him in his tracks; he’d already taken a step, fist clenched, anger raw in all his nerve-endings, without even realising what he was doing.
He’s lucky it is only Cat who catches him in his moment of weakness; of pure, blinding anger that’s so strong he forgot where he was for a moment. She’s the only one he trusts enough to pull him back before he slips too far. “I cannot play with him right now,” Jean confesses, before he knows what he’s saying, “I do not know how.”
Cat’s eyes soften with something too close to pity for his liking, knowing his uncertainty is in regard to Jeremy, not Faser.
“Jean…” she starts tentatively, “Do you want to ask Coach to put the two of you in different halves?”
Jean recoils instinctively at the suggestion. Jeremy and Jean always play in the same half. They’re set to do so again in this game — with Jeremy, Ananya, himself, Cat, Laila, and Xavier to start the Trojans off. Who is Jean to disrupt Coach’s strategy, simply because he can’t get himself in check moments before the game begins? He won’t — can’t — be a burden to his team. He can’t afford to operate at anything less than his best, and benching the best backliner out of the strongest starting line is not what’s best for the Trojans either.
“No,” he manages, through gritted teeth. “I will just have to endure it.”
Cat frowns at the worn-out refrain. “One day I’m getting you an ‘I must endure’ swear jar. I’ll make millions.”
Derrick has already previously explained the purpose of ‘swear jars’ to Jean. “I have no money,” he reminds her plainly.
Cat mutters something in Spanish under her breath—too low for Jean to catch. “Okay, scrap the swear jar, I forgot you require more of a direct approach.”
Before he knows what’s happening, she grabs him by his shoulders and gives him a sharp shake. “Repeat what I say back to me. No, I’m not taking any objections at this point in time.”
Jean presses his lips together, knowing any further argument will only encourage her ridiculousness.
“My name is Jean-Yves Moreau, and I deserve good things.”
Jean makes a face. “Cat, for the love of—” He hisses when she pinches him hard on his forearm and then has the nerve to look up at him expectantly.
“My name is Jean-Yves Moreau, and I deserve good things,” he repeats, with all the enthusiasm of a funeral dirge.
To his absolute horror, it appears Cat is far from finished. “I don’t have to endure the bad things in my life. It’s okay for me to be upset when things get tough.”
Jean decides the only way out of this ridiculous situation is through compliance, so he repeats the absurd declaration back to her, word for word.
“Good,” Cat sounds satisfied. “Next: I’m a badass motherfucker with great hair and a huge dick, and any man or woman would be lucky to have me—Jean, wait!”
Jean turns on his heels without another word, and stalks furiously onto the court. He may humor her more than he does most people, but even he has limits to how much nonsense he can endure.
He takes in a deep breath that burns its way through his lungs and drags his focus back to the court. He cannot afford to let Jeremy, or Faser, or even Cat distract him. The game must remain his first priority, always.
He doesn’t mean to look for Jeremy at the half-court line, he really doesn’t. And yet, there’s a quiet, relentless pull between them, as impossible to ignore as always.
Their eyes meet from their respective spots on the court as the referee blows his whistle.
It lasts only a second — a flicker, a heartbeat — but it’s enough to shake them both to the core. The world seems to narrow around the two of them, to where brown eyes lock onto grey. Jean takes a deep, bracing breath, and he makes himself look away first.
Ananya finally lets out a little shriek as another rocket pass comes for her, and though she manages to make herself look good on the stretch, Jeremy can see that she barely collects it, and that she’s blowing hard when she takes off towards goal. He can’t fault her for it — Jean has been throwing her these wicked passes all through the first half, and Ananya is good, of course she is, but Jean is Perfect Court. Every pass is pinpoint to where he wants her to be, not where she is at that given moment, and with the full force of his powerful arm behind it. When the load is shared amongst a full roster of excellent strikers it’s magic — one of the many reasons why Jeremy loves having Jean on his team — but when it’s all on one person, it’s very clear she’s being run ragged.
Jeremy glances up to the clock. There’s a couple of minutes left in the first half, and Jean hasn’t actually passed to Jeremy once. Like, at all. And it’s weird, because they’re usually so in sync, as if they can predict each others’ thoughts and moves ahead of time, but even more than that… Jeremy is hurt. He’d probably be embarrassed by that if the hurt wasn’t so acute, but the exhaustion and adrenaline of a game means he doesn’t have time to intellectualise and compartmentalise and repress and pretend it’s something else when that’s exactly what it is. Hurt. Jean won’t pass to him, won’t even look at him, and Jeremy doesn’t have any idea what he might have done to offend his backliner.
Jeremy jolts into movement on instinct alone, taking off after Ananya. He takes maybe five steps before Faser body-checks him, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Jeremy tries to go left — Faser is there. He tries to dart right, then back left again, trying to throw the backliner off, but he blocks Jeremy again and again. It’s with none of Jean’s finesse and skill either; Faser achieves his objectives through hands grabbing Jeremy’s jersey where the refs can’t see, yanking at his wrists, jabbing elbows between his ribs hard enough to wind him. Jeremy growls in frustration.
Faser just chuckles.
Jeremy darts forward again, eyes on Ananya, and suddenly, Jean is moving fluidly with him — a ghost in the corner of his vision. Jeremy feints hard in one direction — come on, take the bait — then goes back in the other, taking the pass from Ananya and thinking, yes, because with a burst of speed, he leaves Faser reeling on the change of direction, and then a moment later, Jean hip-shoulders Faser off his chase line, legally, but so hard that bones crunch and Jeremy has a clear break. The ball slams home past the goalkeeper and the stadium erupts.
Jeremy grins savagely, high-diving and stick-tapping his teammates as he jogs back into position. He’s nearly caught up to Jean, who is walking back to his line with his arm around Cat’s shoulders, murmuring something into her ear and he reaches out, catching the elbow of Jean’s jersey with his fingertips. At that moment, Faser looms up at Jeremy’s shoulder, with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, and Jean looks over his own shoulder; his eyes snap from Jeremy to Faser, and his jaw tightens. He shakes his arm a little to untangle Jeremy’s fingers from his sleeve, and then he takes off at a jog back to his position. Cat only offers Jeremy a grimace before she goes, and as the two teams line up for the reset, Jeremy doesn’t look away from Jean for even a second.
But Jean doesn’t look back, in fact, he looks determinedly away, and that strange, unfamiliar hurt pulses in the hollow of Jeremy’s throat again.
It takes Jeremy a few seconds, and Xavier’s sharp “Cap!” to refocus, and when he does, the play has started and the Trojan crowd are going ballistic, and Jeremy sees why too — one Wildcat striker tries to pass to the other, but the ball is very much within the danger zone. Jean sees the opportunity, Jeremy knows he does — he’s not sure if Jean even knows he does it, but in the split second when he knows he’s going to make an intercept, the corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly, and this gleam comes into his eyes — the savage satisfaction of beating an opponent. Jean takes three or four steps, his quads recoiling powerfully, and then it’s like he levitates. He leaps, stretching impossibly far into the air, every line of him long and lean and athletic perfection, and he plucks the ball out of the air before it ever makes it anywhere near the Wildcats striker.
Jeremy rolls off Faser’s shoulder and takes off at a run towards goal, anticipating the fast-break pass from Jean and the opportunity to score while the Wildcat defence scrambles… but the pass doesn’t come. Jean pulls up his stride ever so slightly at half-court, his arm whips, and the ball sails between the legs of the goalkeeper and the wall lights up. The noise from the crowd in the stadium seats nearly brings the roof down, but Jeremy can barely hear it through the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s clearly done something wrong, something to upset his partner — he just doesn’t know what.
“You didn’t pass to Jeremy once the entire half. Any reason for that?” Though Rhemann’s voice holds none of the cruelty Jean once knew, his body reacts all the same — his shoulders tighten, shallow breaths seize in his chest; always bracing for a blow that never comes.
“I will do better, Coach,” Jean promises, swerving the question and banking on the Wildcats coach swapping out players after how abysmally the opposing team is losing to the Trojans; 11-5. After all, he may be the best backliner in Class 1 Exy, but there’s really no excuse for a team performing so poorly that a backliner can score from the half-court line. If nothing else, Jean will have to apologize to Ananya for running her ragged in his single-minded effort to avoid Jeremy’s existence entirely.
Coach Rhemann doesn’t look convinced. “I’m trading Jeremy for Nabil and keeping you on for the start of the second half. Whatever’s going on between the two of you, figure it out by practice on Monday.”
There’s nothing going on—and Jean now suspects there never will be. The rules for him haven’t really changed that much, after all, and his feelings will, as always, have to remain buried. “Yes, Coach,” he manages.
He waits for his Coach to dismiss him, but Rhemann seems content to continue studying him, eyes thoughtful.
“That was an amazing catch at the end, Jean,” he says at last. “Truly spectacular. You should be proud of yourself.” Jean flounders, heat in his neck, still uncertain how to respond when he’s being praised and not punished.
The moment Coach dismisses him, Jean spots Jeremy searching for him across the court. He turns on his heels and marches voluntarily into Davis’ office, muttering something to the nurse about needing an ice pack.
In hindsight, Jean should have expected that Jeremy would follow him in. “You’re hurt? When did you get hurt? I was watching you the entire time!”
Davis shoots Jeremy an unimpressed look, but doesn’t make him leave as he hands Jean an ice pack.
“My wrist’s a little sore,” Jean says, keeping his eyes fixed on the counter. “I want to ice it since I’m playing the second half.” Jean hoists himself to sit on the side of the bed, briefly cutting his gaze sideways and watching Jeremy watch him do so with two hands and clearly two healthy wrists.
“Right.” Jeremy’s voice dips. “Jean, are we okay?”
Jean is silently thankful to Jeremy for asking a question he doesn’t have to lie to answer. “Yes, we are okay.” I, on the other hand, am far from okay.
“Are you sure?” Jeremy presses, “Because I kept waiting for you to—”
The distinctive buzz of Jeremy’s phone cuts through the air. Hookup tone, Cat has called it before. Jean wishes fervently that he didn’t know it so well. His lungs feel like lead in his chest.
He wonders if it is Faser; if he’s off in the second half too (he should be, after that pathetic effort) and if Jeremy will go and slip away with him, or if he’ll at least wait until the game is complete before sneaking off. Jean wonders if it is someone else entirely. He finds he cannot stomach staying put long enough to find out.
“I have to go find Cody,” Jean says quickly, before Jeremy can look up from the offending text message.
“What?” Jeremy turns, confusion breaking across his face, crinkling his brows. “Wait! Jean—where are you going? Jean!”
He is safely by Cody’s side by the time Jeremy jogs out looking for him. Jean pointedly ignores Cody’s raised eyebrow, setting his jaw in a way he knows is formidable, and refuses to say another word until the second half begins.
The Wildcats step it up in the second half, but in the end the six-point gap proves too large a hurdle to surpass. By the time the match is over and the two teams meet at midcourt to shake hands, Jean can grudgingly admit to himself that the opposing team has earned his respect, if only for not giving up and letting it turn into a bloodbath when it became obvious they could never match it with the Trojans. Naturally, this new benevolence has nothing to do with a certain lizard-like backliner being taken off the court for the remainder of the game at half-time, nor the view of him slumped on the bench, petulant and put-out for the entire second half.
Jean decides it is well past time to put Ivan Faser out of his mind. He has made it through their game, and tomorrow the Wildcats will board their bus back to Arizona. Jean will not have to lay eyes on that aggravating face again until the winter banquet — and by then, he hopes he will have learned to endure the sight of him a little better.
Still, the agitation clings to him, a sharp and restless itch beneath his skin. He wonders why he cannot seem to let the matter go — why he still feels the need to avoid Jeremy’s eye, and shift out of range of his touch like smoke, as the Trojans celebrate.
Whatever the reason, he finds himself in need of a moment alone, to find space to try and fill his inexplicably tight lungs, so he moves a short distance away from the huddle of raucous, overexcited bodies. And yet his gaze finds Jeremy anyway, at the center of it all, grinning as the Double D’s toss him into the air.
“Don’t you think it’s getting a little pathetic?” The grating voice from behind Jean has him turning – only to come face to face with Ivan Faser, in all his greasy glory.
Jean stares at him impassively. “I beg your pardon?”
Faser seems more than happy to elaborate; his smile is sharp with the satisfaction of Jean playing into his hands. “I just think it’s a little sad the way you cling onto Jeremy and call him your partner, when anyone with eyes can see Jeremy isn’t interested.”
Jean’s jaw tightens, and he folds his arms across his chest, pressing his fingertips into his own biceps to stop his hands forming fists. The smugness in Faser’s voice crawls under his skin, but he forces his expression to stay neutral as his eyes flick over the court to make sure none of his teammates are in earshot — and immediately lock onto Cody, watching from across the lines. At Cody’s questioning lift of an eyebrow, Jean gives a small shake of his head, refusing the offer of help, before turning back to face his prey.
“I don’t see why this is any of your business,” he begins, leaning in a little, despite the near-debilitating stench of Faser’s body spray. “But since you were the one to approach me first, I’ll tell you what I really think of you. You, Ivan Faser, are a fourth-string defenseman who isn’t worthy to lick the dirt off Jeremy’s shoe. You have the most atrocious aim I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing, and if your Coach had any sense, he would switch you out for someone less likely to cause your school immense shame. And I’ll take your opinion seriously when you can block a single one of his shots with your talent and not with the filth that leaves your mouth.” He takes another step closer, so Faser is forced to look up in order to maintain eye-contact with him. “I don’t care to hear a word from an uncivilized ape who doesn’t know how to keep his hands where they belong. Jeremy may not be mine—but that sure as hell doesn’t make him yours.”
Faser’s face flushes an ugly red as he realizes the exchange isn’t going the way he’d hoped. His fist curls tight, trembling at his side. Jean has been punched enough times to recognize the signs, and he clenches his jaw, bracing for the hit that never comes. Instead, Cody cuts through the space between them in a blur, stepping in front of Jean and pressing a steady palm against Faser’s chest.
“That’s enough,” they say, their voice deceptively calm.
“What’s going on here?” Jean doesn’t turn at the sound of Jeremy’s voice approaching. A second later, Cat appears at his side, her glare sharp enough to cut straight through Faser.
“Just caught Wildcat here about to throw a punch at Jean,” Cody says evenly, their eyes remaining fixed on Faser. “That’s not how we play here, friend.”
Jean decides it’s well past time for him to remove himself from the situation, especially when Jeremy’s eyes are hot on the side of his face, and his hand is hovering in the air like he wants to touch Jean. “Good luck. I hope you have the season you deserve,” he drones tonelessly, throwing Faser a fuck you kind of salute, two jaunty fingers to his brow, before turning on his heel and heading back toward their team’s dugout.
“Jean—” Jeremy’s voice follows, soft and pleading, but Jean plows through, keeping his eyes fixed ahead as he makes a beeline for the benches, banking on the safety of numbers to keep him from Jeremy. It’s easier for them all this way — or at least, it will be when the sting wears off — he tells himself, even as he cannot quite make himself forget the way Jeremy’s voice broke on his name.
“What did you think was going to happen here, Jeremy?”
Laila’s voice cuts through the air, freezing Jean mid-step outside the door to the Trojan lounge. He’s just about to retreat, to give them privacy, when Cat’s hand lifts beside him to grab the fabric at his chest — a silent shake of her head, a finger to her lips; stay.
“I don’t know, I didn’t think…” Jeremy’s voice wavers, thick with the suggestion of tears. Jean’s heart twists painfully at the sound, even as he obeys Cat’s silent cue to listen in. “He won’t talk to me. He won’t even look at me. Laila, I can’t handle him not talking to me.” A shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Jeremy…” Laila begins in censure, before choosing to go down a more diplomatic route. “Why don’t you wait till we all meet up at the bar? Tensions won’t be half as high once the Wildcats clear out.”
“You think he’ll listen to me?” Jeremy’s voice wobbles with uncertainty at the question.
“He will,” Laila sighs, “but you can’t keep doing this, Jeremy. You can’t string him along like this—it isn’t fair. If you leave with Faser again, even I don’t think I can keep defending you.” There’s some rustling, and then she adds, “I also warned you what I’d do to you, if you met up with him again — but maybe you’re already suffering enough.”
“Stringing along—it’s not like that,” Jeremy responds, like he didn’t hear her addition, “I swear, the last thing I would ever want is to hurt him.”
“Then what is it?” Laila presses, her tone softening only slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re running away because things are getting a little too close and vulnerable — too real.”
An impossibly loud silence follows. Then: “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Maybe start by figuring out what ‘this’ is,” Laila says, her tone sharp once more.
Jean sucks in a breath that burns its way down his chest, then turns and makes his exit before Cat can convince him to stay and listen in any longer. The hallway stretches before him, quiet and cold, the jubilant roar of the locker room fading to a low hum the further he walks. Cat doesn’t follow this time, and he’s grateful for it — he wouldn’t know what to say to her.
He can’t make sense of the situation he’s in at all — how Jeremy can keep running back to Faser, or any of the others, then cry over Jean as if he’s the one whose heart is broken. He knows Jeremy is the furthest thing from cruel, but his indecisiveness feels like cruelty all the same.
The music in the bar is loud, loud enough to encourage people to get close to each other to talk, and Jeremy’s gin and tonic sweats in its glass under the death grip he has on it. The bassline vibrates through the surface of the bar, through the elbow Jeremy has leaning on it, and rattles in his ribs. The press of bodies around them forces Faser closer, but he’s definitely closer than he needs to be, speaking close to Jeremy’s ear, and with a possessive hand on his forearm keeping him in place. Faser could have been telling him literally anything in that moment and Jeremy still wouldn’t have recalled a word; he’s too busy jumping out of his own skin, watching the door constantly. He and Laila and most of the rest of the team have been here for more than an hour already, and there’s yet to be any sign of Jean joining them, despite his gruff assurance in the locker room after the game that he would.
Laila is across the room, near the booths, with Cody, Pat, and Ananya — whose slow blinks give away her exhaustion, after what was, for her, a very intense half of exy — and a few others are playing pool. Jeremy might have half a mind to think they’re giving him a wide berth due to his current companion, but he actually can’t even really put any thought into it. He’s too busy watching the minutes tick by on his wristwatch, and feeling the thrum of his heart underneath his breastbone.
“We could ditch,” Faser murmurs, his mouth up against Jeremy’s ear. “Let's go back to my hotel room.”
Jeremy opens his mouth — to say what, he’s not sure yet, but he’s pretty set on a denial, what with Laila’s pretty harsh words still ringing in his ears — but his gaze snaps to the door about half a second before he completely knows why.
As if he can’t help himself, like it’s against his will and like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, Jean steps through the door of the bar and his eyes sweep the room without stopping until they land on Jeremy. And then, a second later, when they slide to his companion, standing too close to Jeremy to be innocent, a minuscule crease forms between his dark brows, and the corners of his mouth tighten a little.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Jeremy says, prising Faser’s hand off his forearm and not waiting for a response, because Jean is already turning away again, again, and his jaw is tense, and Jeremy hates it.
“Jean. Jean!” he says, lifting his voice over the hubbub and the music of the bar, when he finally catches up to Jean and Cat at the far opposite end of the bar to where he’d been sitting and waiting. Cat looks over her shoulder at him, drumming her fingertips on the bar mat while she waits to be served. “Jean, let’s talk, please?” Jeremy says, barely seeing her.
“Oh so I’m chopped liver or something, am I?” Cat grumbles.
Jean, who is, of course, not waiting for a drink and is merely keeping Cat company, slices his gaze sidewards to Jeremy, but otherwise stays still and with his arms crossed. “There is nothing to talk about, Jeremy.”
“Please, I just want to talk to you — I don’t understand what’s going on, but I want to,” Jeremy says. He lifts his hand and gets halfway to touching Jean’s forearm before he thinks better of it and drops his hand.
“Pâté, maybe?” Cat mutters, and then smiles in relief when the bartender comes to her. “A very big vodka soda, please.”
Jeremy barely spares her a glance, still gazing pleadingly at Jean. His jaw is still hard when he says, “Jeremy, I refuse to watch my partner allow himself to be hurt, to—to relish in it. That you think I should just be okay with it, is...” Jean pushes an agitated hand through his hair, then crosses his arms over his chest again. Defensive posture, Jeremy thinks, literally keeping him at bay. Something in his own chest catches on the word partner, some sharp little snag, because Jean means it one way, while Jeremy… Jeremy is finding it harder and harder to pretend these days that he doesn’t desperately want someone to be a real partner, in the usual sense of the word.
“I get it,” Jeremy tries to rush out, before Jean does another runner, “it doesn’t look great, I know.” He gestures vaguely at his neck. “But it wasn’t on purpose, and I didn’t say no.”
Jean’s dark brows pull together, and Jeremy’s stomach drops with the instantaneous knowledge that that was not the right thing to say.
“Do you not think it is time to demand better treatment from your lovers?” Jean says the word lovers like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth, and he hears Cat suck in a breath through her teeth. Jeremy tries not to flinch away from it too, and that same ache that he gets when Jean refers to him as partner blooms between his ribs.
Jean is finally looking at him, but it’s with intensity, and a scrutiny that Jeremy knows he can’t hold up against — all his confidence in himself is as brittle as fool’s gold. Jean is perceptive too; he reads off Jeremy’s face that flicker of doubt, that moment of but I don’t deserve better, and it pisses him off. He steps closer, finally uncrossing his arms and taking Jeremy’s chin in one hand.
“Just one question,” he asks. “If you really think you don’t deserve better, then why tell me I didn’t deserve anything I got? In this, your actions are speaking louder than words, captain.”
The blow lands exactly as hard as Jean clearly hopes it will; Jeremy feels his eyes go wide, hears the painful breath knock itself violently out of his chest. Jeremy wants to make a million denials — of course it’s different, of course Jean didn’t deserve anything that had happened to him, and that Jeremy having fingers squeeze his neck until his head is empty and floaty and he can’t feel the weight of all the times he’s fallen short in his life is not condoning those horrors — but Jean is already pushing his way through the crowd across the room, leaving a devastated Jeremy and a worried-looking Cat behind.
Not for the first time that day, Jeremy tamps down an absurd desire to cry as he is forced to watch Jean walk away from him, yet again. Talking to Jean has always been so effortless, so natural that Jeremy has never noticed before how much he’s come to rely on him in six short months. He is so used to turning his head and finding Jean less than a step behind, that his throat tightens with pain every time instinct makes him turn and look — only to find his best friend, his partner, nowhere in sight. Now he’s here, and he’s angry, but Jeremy needs to try and make this right.
He decides to follow after Jean, to try his luck once more, even if he must continue to beg, but just then, he watches Maddie hesitantly walk up to Jean, intercepting him with a hand on his bicep, with an older girl at her side — so alike in their features that she can only be the older sister Maddie loves to rave about. She says something to Jean, using her hands to gesture between the two of them, and Jeremy braces for the usual dismissal — only to feel something in his chest drop when Jean gestures for Maddie’s sister to take the bar seat within reach of him. He pulls it out for her, and stands close, resting his forearm on the bar top.
Jeremy can’t see Jean’s face from where he stands, but it is impossible to miss the way his head tilts towards her in obvious interest. He says something — no doubt dry and sarcastic, as he so effortlessly is — that makes the girl burst into lighthearted laughter. Jeremy has the sudden, irrational urge to shove her off the stool so he can take her place. He realizes with a sudden, gnawing hunger, that there is nowhere else he would rather be, than at Jean’s side.
“There you are.” He doesn’t turn at Faser’s voice at his side. “You’re playing hard to get tonight.”
“Just go home, Faser,” Jeremy says distractedly, as he watches Maddie’s sister inch her face closer to Jean’s. “I said I’m not interested.”
“You always say that,” Faser murmurs in his ear. Bruising fingers wrap around Jeremy’s wrist, down by his side. “Makes you feel better, doesn’t it, to refuse at first? But you always end up where I want you in the end.”
Jeremy hears the degrading and unspoken on your knees and is hit by a sudden bolt of shame; it pulses, hot and sickening, under his skin. Is this really what he deserves – this man he has come to dislike immensely, this man who talks to him like he’s something to be owned? Who doesn’t listen when Jeremy doesn’t really like something, or isn’t in the mood?
This man who would have hit Jean, if Cody hadn’t come between them in time.
“I’m heading out, but you know where my hotel room is,” Faser continues, with an easy confidence, like he’s got no doubt Jeremy will come crawling. “Last chance to get a ride.”
Jeremy doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat feels thick with disgust — at Faser, at himself, at how long he’s let this go on. The too-tight fingers around his wrist tug insistently.
His gaze stays locked on Jean and the girl. He’s certain Maddie has introduced them before, but his brain, in petty protest, refuses to recall her name. He watches as she leans in a little closer and brushes something invisible off his biker jacket, her eyes alight with a hungry interest that Jeremy is intimately familiar with. She presses her face even closer, so she can whisper something in his ear over the noise in the bar.
Jealousy floods every cell in his body, hot and undeniable — but beneath it is a realization that is quieter, yet far more terrifying in its certainty. Finally, he looks at what he cannot have, and he understands.
He wants Jean. And he’s been fucking it all up by continuing all his old patterns, even when he knew Jean was different. He’s spent his adult life in the belief that he’s only worth what he can give others — his body, if it’s men, his obedience, if it’s his family — but maybe it’s time to want more for himself again, as terrifying as it to face the possibility of getting hurt in the process.
Faser has pulled and corralled him across the room, towards the door as he’s been thinking, and at the last possible moment, as Jeremy is being ushered out the door, Jean looks up over Maddie’s sisters’ shoulder and catches his eye briefly.
Almost faster than he can blink, Faser has Jeremy around the corner, into the alley alongside the bar, and is pressing him up against the rough bricks with an equally rough hand at his throat, and the other taking his hip in a bruising grip. Teeth scrape over his jaw, and for a second, Jeremy goes limp like a prey animal playing dead, like he usually would, before he remembers that he’s just now made a promise to himself to have more respect for himself, and hopefully, along the way, earn the respect of the man he really wants. His hands find Fasers’ shoulders, and he tries to push him away.
“Come on man, how many times do I have to say no?” he says, trying to sound lighthearted enough that Faser won’t get pissed off.
The fingers around his throat tighten though, and Jeremy struggles to turn his head to the side to avoid being kissed roughly. “You say no, but I think you’re full of shit,” Faser says, squeezing harder, sucking a mark under Jeremy’s jaw.
That might have always been true before now, but Jeremy knows if he lets this happen again, then he’s going to lose Jean for good and that’s an unacceptable risk. Plus, there’s a frisson of fear pulsing in his gut that he’s not willing to ignore — Faser is pressing hard against the bruises he left last night, and where he’d earlier been smugly confident that Jeremy would cave, now there’s something hard in his face that says he’s not taking kindly to rejection.
“Get off,” Jeremy snaps, pushing harder, but all he gets in return is a shove that knocks the back of his head against the bricks and makes his vision swim for a moment.
Real fear ratchets up his heart rate — he’s an athlete, sure, but built for speed and agility, and Faser has at least 60 pounds on him. He digs his nails into whatever skin he can find, and he kicks out, but then, suddenly, Faser’s hands are off him and he’s stumbling back with an undignified squeak of shock, and Jeremy is sucking in a ragged breath, almost doubling over in relief. It’s only a split second of what just happened before Jean is between them, arm swinging, fist connecting with bone with a sickening crunch and Faser goes sprawling across the filthy alley floor.
Jeremy blinks at the sight of him, bloody nosed and dazed, and then he lifts his gaze to look at Jean, open-mouthed with shock and… something else. Jean is rubbing at the knuckles of his hand, and, after a moment, slides his gaze to Jeremy.
He shrugs, unrepentantly. “I heard you tell him to get off. My behaviour contract does not apply outside of game time, and where your safety is at risk.”
Jeremy’s heart hammers harder than ever before. He knows this is hardly the time, but he is so unbelievably attracted to Jean in that moment—at his fierce protectiveness, at the furious vein throbbing in the side of his neck, at the strength that sent Faser to the floor with a single effortless punch. He knows now, with startling clarity, that he is impossibly in love with Jean—and he cannot imagine how he ever managed to convince himself otherwise.
“I—” he begins, his voice a breathless tremble, but then their friends are rushing over, and Laila’s arms are around him, and Cat is fussing over Jean’s bruised knuckles, and Cody is already hailing the bouncer to drag Faser away.
Jeremy barely absorbs any of what is happening around him. The world feels muffled around the edges, as if sound has to travel through water to reach him. The only solid thing he knows is Jean—Jean, who is looking anywhere but at him.
Jeremy knows he has done everything wrong. He has been his own worst enemy, the biggest roadblock to his happiness time and time again. He wants to reach out, to grab Jean’s wrist and beg him to give Jeremy another chance.
He has so much he wants to say to Jean, he doesn’t know where he would even begin. But if he tries—if he actually fights his way past the worst of his insecurities—would Jean still be waiting for him on the other side? If he allows himself to want more than just being a warm body and a willing participant, will anything actually come of it?
At that moment, Jean turns, and their eyes meet across the dim alley.
Jeremy hasn’t the first clue what must be written all over his face, but whatever it is makes Jean’s eyes widen and his step stutter. Something fragile and hopeful begins to flicker to life between them, and he makes to take a step closer, a step towards Jeremy, when the bouncer returns with the club’s harried manager in tow.
The fragile tether formed between the two of them is cruelly ripped apart. He can only watch, with his heart in his throat, as Jean turns and walks away without a second glance. And this time, Jeremy can’t pretend—not even to himself—that letting Jean go unimpeded doesn’t cost him everything.
Jean tosses his house keys onto the kitchen bench with a sigh. Cat and Laila close the front door behind them, press twin kisses to his cheeks, and then bid him goodnight and head for their room, and he makes for his. His head is spinning while he gets ready for bed — he has no regrets about handing Ivan Faser a fist he very much deserved, and which was a long time coming, but now Jeremy is heading ‘home’ to his awful family, instead of coming back to the Lofts with them. It means Jean has no answers to that odd look on Jeremy’s face in the alleyway (almost like… hope?) and he’s left with his worry that maybe he did mess up, and what feels like a big, un-had conversation between him and Jeremy. Some version of the conversation they both made very poor attempts at, over the course of this long day.
Jean huffs and buries himself in his duvet, and his head spins, and his heart pounds, and his throat feels incredibly tight. And then… tiny footsteps, little nails clicking, and a soft thump somewhere near his feet.
“Go away, insufferable little mutt,” he murmurs, not lifting his head. He feels little footsteps up his thigh, and repeats himself in French — but of course, Jeremy has not properly trained his beast yet in either language. Jabberwocky narrowly avoids stepping on an area Jean would not appreciate a sharp little paw hitting, and then nearly winds him — unbelievable for such a small animal, how heavy he makes himself — as he climbs over Jean’s stomach and burrows himself into the curve of his neck.
“You are not allowed on the bed,” Jean gripes, but Jabberwocky just nestles in closer, giving Jean one little lick on the edge of his jaw, before laying his head across the front of Jean’s neck and sighing like his life is impossibly difficult.
Ordinarily, sustained weight across his neck like this would bring on panic, a ghost of a memory of fingers choking, cutting off his air, digging in, squeezing—
But this is… not that. Jabberwocky is warm, and his breathing is gentle, and the small weight of him is almost comforting. It’s like he knows Jean is in some sort of distress, and it’s nice to be seen, even if it’s only by an annoying little beast. It’s his own fault; it took him so long to understand that the rules had changed for him — that they’d never even really existed in the first place — that he’d kept looking away. And it’s hard to be seen, if you’re doing your best to not look.
Something feels heavy and tight in his chest. Slowly, he lifts one hand and tangles it in Jabberwocky’s fur, and the small dog lets out a little whine of delight. The pressure in his lungs eases, ever so slightly, and if the corner of his eye is warm and wet — well, that’s between him and the dog.
Jean jerks awake with a sudden jolt to the sound of his ringtone slicing through the stillness of the night. He can count on one hand the number of people who would call him at this hour, and not one of them ever means anything good for him. His heart is already in his throat as he scrambles in the dark for the phone on his bedside table.
He doesn’t even glance at the caller ID in his haste to pick up.
“Hello?”
“Jean?”
There is a tremor in Jeremy’s voice that Jean has never heard before, and it chills him to the bone.
“Jeremy? What is wrong?”
He hears a sharp, unsteady breath on the other side of the receiver. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call. When I got home, Bryson was there and… things got ugly. Jean, I can’t stay here. I have to go, but I don’t think I should drive, I’m so—”
“Are you hurt?” Jean asks, voice tight as he swings his legs off the bed, careful not to disturb Jabberwocky where he’s curled up in a ball beside him. “Did he hurt you?”
A familiar anger sparks to life low in his chest. Because Jean is not above punching the daylights out of two assholes in the same night if he must. In fact, he rather thought he might enjoy it. If Bryson Wilshire has harmed even a hair on Jeremy’s head, Jean will hunt him down, and this time, the brain-dead rat wouldn’t get away with just a warning.
“No, no, I’m just… You’re right, I’m not hurt. I should just drive. Jean, I’ll just—”
“Don’t you dare,” Jean warns. “I will be there in 30 minutes.”
A pause. Then, soft and hesitant: “Jean, I live an hour away from you.”
“Just stay there, Jeremy. Promise me you won’t go back inside.” He waits for Jeremy’s answer as he pulls on a hoodie over his track pants and heads into the hallway in search of his keys.
“I promise,” Jeremy says, voice wobbling. “I’m really sorry, Jean. I know we’ve been—”
“I’m going to start driving now,” Jean cuts him off, making sure to grab an extra helmet before swinging his leg over his motorcycle and turning on the ignition. “I may not be able to pick up if you call me, but I will be there soon.”
Jeremy exhales, the sound breaking halfway through. “Yeah… okay.”
Jean barely waits for the call to disconnect before revving his bike to life and tearing out into the night, determined to get to Jeremy as fast as he possibly can.
True to his word, he makes it to the Pacific Palisades in just over thirty minutes, weaving through traffic and pushing the throttle harder than he knows he should, breaking his promise to Cat to always drive under the legal speed limit.
He slows to a cruise on the right street, and sure enough, spots a figure hunched in on himself on the footpath outside the Wilshire mansion. Jeremy is sitting on the curb, hugging his knees to his chest. Jean eases to a stop, kicking the stand down and pulling the key from the ignition, before making his way over to Jeremy.
Jeremy looks up at the sound of Jean’s arrival, eyes red and swollen, and his face tight with exhaustion and fear that softens into relief when Jean crouches down beside him. Jean feels the familiar anger take root within him again, and he barely stops himself from demanding to know what happened to Jeremy in the few hours they’ve been apart. But he knows his rage can wait. Right now, all that matters is getting Jeremy as far away as possible from this cursed place.
He holds his hand out in the space between them. “Let’s go.”
For an excruciatingly long minute, Jeremy simply stares at the hand being offered to him, before he swallows audibly and takes it, letting Jean pull him to his feet.
“Home?” Jean asks quietly, pulling Jeremy over to the bike and settling the spare helmet over his head, fastening the strap beneath his chin with careful fingers.
Jeremy shakes his head, his gaze on Jean warm and full of a storm of emotions Jean cannot even begin to decipher. “I don’t— can we go somewhere else?”
Anywhere, Jean wants to tell him. I’d go anywhere with you, take you anywhere you wanted, if only you would let me.
Instead, he just nods and gestures for Jeremy to climb onto the bike behind him. He waits until Jeremy’s arms wrap around his waist, and he feels Jeremy’s thighs tight against his and the gentle press of his helmet settle between his shoulder blades, before he takes back off into the night.
Jean drives long enough to put good mileage between them and the Wilshire house of horrors. He eventually pulls into a beach carpark, and he and Jeremy traipse silently down onto the sand, sinking down to sit at some undefined point that somehow they mentally agree upon without a single word needing to be exchanged. Jean stretches his long legs out, and Jeremy sits cross-legged, his knee just barely brushing Jean’s thigh. It’s dark, and cool without being too cold, and the waves crash out in front of them; just slashes of white on the edge of an endless black that stretches on and on, no horizon, no end point, eternal.
He watches Jeremy from the corner of his eye, watches him lean his elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped dejectedly, drawing shapes in the sand with his index finger. He looks young when he’s sad like this, but not in a good way — the kind of young that innocence has been stolen from, the kind that’s never had a warm place to rest.
“What happened?” Jean asks eventually, not convinced he’s going to get a straight answer.
Jeremy chews on his bottom lip, and he is silent for a very long time, but Jean can practically hear him thinking. And he’s used to silence anyway; he can sit in it comfortably for as long as it takes. Finally, Jeremy says; “Bryson saw all this.” He gestures vaguely at the mess of bruises and hickies that litter his neck. He sighs. “He’d had a skinful, and God only knows what else on top, and he couldn’t quite keep his opinions to himself.”
Jean feels his lip curling in disdain, but he can’t help it. “Please say next time I can actually put him through a window.” He lobs it softly, intending for it to land with humour, but Jeremy’s expression doesn’t change — still far too sad and remote for a face born for smiling.
“I don’t think I’m welcome back,” he says, after a long silence.
“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got a real home to come back to,” Jean says. He lays himself out flat on his back, and lets that hang in the air. It doesn’t solve anything — there’s the issues of Jeremy’s documents, of all his earthly possessions, and the cold punishments his mother will no doubt dream up in order to reel him back under control — but all of that is a later issue. For now, all that matters is that Jeremy knows he’s safe, and loved beyond measure, and to hope that one day that might finally be enough for him to stop looking for it where it doesn’t exist.
Jeremy loses track of how long they silently sit on the sand with their knees just short of touching. He lets the melancholy seep through his bones as he watches the dark waves crash against the surf and wonders what he is meant to do with his life now.
The sun has begun making its way over the horizon when Jean finally speaks, and when he hears the gently delivered words, they hit him like a fist straight to the sternum.
“This belief that you do not deserve good things, where does it come from? I would like to understand.”
Jeremy has no idea how to even begin explaining his particular brand of neuroses to anyone, let alone Jean. How is he supposed to admit that something happening once in your life is an anomaly, but happening again and again becomes an irrefutable pattern? That at that point the common denominator has to be yourself? How is he supposed to look at himself and see someone worth choosing, worth keeping, when no one in his life has ever wanted him enough to stay? How can he confess that tenderness—real, unguarded tenderness—is what he longs for most, when trusting someone that deeply again might be the very thing that finally breaks him?
“Is it because of Leo? That is his name, is it not?”
Jeremy’s blood turns to ice. “How… who told you about Leo?”
Jean doesn’t turn to look at him; he stares out at the sea, where dawn is beginning to stain the water golden. “When I was out on a run with Cody a few weeks ago, two men came up to us in the park by our house. One of them was your stepfather, the other was your family lawyer. Your stepfather was under the impression that you and I were together romantically, and he asked me what price it would take for me to leave you.”
Jean’s mouth pulls into a familiar, disdainful line at the confession. Jeremy isn’t sure how he manages to hear his words through the sudden thunderous pounding between his ears.
“You…” he chokes out. “You never told me.”
Jean lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “It meant nothing to me, but I knew it would upset you. I saw no reason to bring it up. If I was the first person he had tried to blackmail in this way, then yes, I would have said something to you, because you deserve to know what a piece of garbage that man is. But Cody told me about Leo. They thought I should have the full picture before I spoke to you.”
Leo is the furthest thing from Jeremy’s mind at this moment. He can feel his pulse threatening to hammer itself through his throat, and he really wishes Jean would just put him out of his misery already.
“What…” he swallows, “What did you say to him?”
Jean blinks, as though he cannot fathom why Jeremy would bother asking a question with such an obvious answer. “Your stepfather? I told him that the day I find anything in this world that is worth giving you up for, I will be sure to let him know, but not to hold his breath, because I am quite convinced you are priceless.” He lets out a mean little laugh. “He did not like hearing that. His face went as purple as an aubergine. I wish I had asked Cody to take a picture.”
I am quite convinced you are priceless. Priceless. Jean thought Jeremy was priceless.
Jean doesn’t give him even a heartbeat to breathe, let alone process the enormity of this revelation, which has already begun shredding his mind into tatters.
He keeps going, relentlessly. “Just because one idiot chose a car over you does not mean that is what you deserve, Jeremy. That says nothing about you or your worth as a person or as a lover — the only thing it proves to me is that this Leo wasn’t worth your time to begin with. You cannot let a moron like him hold so much power over your life; he does not deserve to take up any more space in your brain.”
Jeremy glances down when cool, familiar fingers wrap around his own, grounding him.
“You are the kindest man I have ever met,” Jean goes on, quiet and entirely earnest, “not because it comes easily to you, but because of how hard you try to be a better person than you were the day before. You had nothing to gain by taking in someone like me, yet you did it anyway, simply because your friend asked you to.”
Jeremy makes a weak sound of protest at that, because how could Jean think he has nothing to gain? Forget Exy and forget the Trojans, Jean has given Jeremy everything. Jean has brought light back into his life, and Jeremy can’t imagine ever returning to the version of himself who lived without it—without him.
“I know Kevin did not prepare you for what you were getting into with me. And yet, you never hesitated. Even with all the darkness you witnessed within me, you stayed. You gave me a home, a second chance, a list of things to live for. You believed in me long after I stopped believing in myself. I have never known a warmth like yours, Jeremy, and I do not think I ever will again. I hope that one day, when someone reaches for you with the truth of how extraordinary you are, that you let him in. I hope you let that happiness in and let yourself believe you deserve it, even if you cannot do so today.”
Jeremy’s brain struggles to comprehend how they could possibly see the same person so differently. And for the first time, he wonders if he has been harsh on himself for so long that he simply does not know how to treat himself any differently.
If Jean believes so staunchly in his worth, maybe it is possible for Jeremy to believe in it himself one day too.
“You really think so?” he whispers, frightened of the ember of hope curling and sparking to life inside his chest.
“I do,” Jean replies easily, and then his voice turns wistful, almost aching with a quiet sadness. “I only wish it could have been me.” The next moment, Jean’s voice is back to its usual matter-of-fact cadence, as if he hasn’t just knocked Jeremy’s world straight off its axis with eight quiet words. “We should head back now, if you want a few hours of sleep before practice.”
Jean is already halfway to his bike when Jeremy’s brain finally catches up to the fact that Jean is walking away from him, again. He’s leaving. Again. He’s walking away because he’s under the ridiculous assumption that he isn’t the man for Jeremy, as if Jeremy wouldn’t choose him, every time, now that he’s finally allowing himself to go after the things he wants. He doesn’t know how he has stood by and let Jean-Yves Moreau walk away from him so many times before, but he decides then and there that he will never let it happen again.
The sight of Jeremy frantically scrambling through the sand in his sneakers would have been funny, if not for his single-minded determination to reach Jean.
And instead of stopping him like a normal person, Jeremy barrels straight into him, tackling him into the sand. Jean lets out a startled grunt as he goes down, their limbs tangling messily as they collapse in a disorderly heap.
“Jeremy?” Jean asks, confusion softening his voice. “What is going on?”
“Did you really mean it?” Jeremy asks, practically sitting on top of him to keep him from slipping away. “That you…wish it was you?”
Jean’s expression crumples with abject disbelief. “I do not know how I could have made my feelings for you any clearer. I have been in love with you for months. I never hid them from you, or anyone. I do not think I know how.”
Oh. And…oh, Jeremy has been such a fool.
Jeremy can feel the smile on his lips resonate all the way down to the deepest recesses of his heart. For once, he lets it stay as it is. He does not let his worst thoughts claw their way in. He does not think about the past nipping at his heels, or the uncertainty of whatever might come next. He does not worry that he will never be enough to keep a man as beautiful as Jean at this side.
Jean seems content to let Jeremy sit on him, his palms resting lightly on Jeremy’s thighs and blinking up at him with a faintly confused, unbearably lovely expression in his beautiful storm-grey eyes.
“I love you too,” Jeremy whispers into the dawn, because he is simply unable to hold the words back a moment longer. He drops down beside Jean, propping himself on his side, and tugs him closer until he’s mirroring Jeremy’s position, their faces only inches apart, breaths mingling in the chill of the morning air.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he goes on, mapping the curve of Jean’s jaw with his fingertip. “I won’t do it again. You can trust me. I’ll be better.”
“I do,” Jean exhales softly, his gaze warm and unguarded. “You are you, so I trust you. You have never given me a reason to do otherwise. Just…” His thumb skims over the bruises along Jeremy’s neck, and something tightens in his voice. “Just…not this, Jeremy. Do not make me have to see this again.”
Tears rush to Jeremy’s eyes as he wonders what he could have possibly done to deserve this man’s gentle devotion. “I promise.”
A promise like that should be sealed with a kiss, so Jeremy tilts his chin and leans in, stopping just short — because it has to be Jean’s choice. The weight of his gaze on Jeremy’s mouth is like a kiss before a kiss, and he follows it with a soft, slow, exploratory press of his lips to Jeremy’s. Something blooms in Jeremy’s chest, behind his ribs, something as soft and warm as the dawn, and gentle fingertips tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck and they tip over a little, Jeremy landing half on top of Jean, his hand spreading across where his heart beats.
Plans of sleep long forgotten, they remain as they are, curled together in the sand, watching the sun rise over the waves. Jeremy thinks he has never seen the sky look this beautiful—like it’s rising over the beginning of something new, something his heart has only now become brave enough to hope for.
“A sunrise on the beach,” Jean muses from under him, as if he is trying to capture this moment in his mind forever.
A sunrise on the beach, Jeremy muses, as he watches the sunlight catch on his partner’s face.
Just the two of them, and a sunrise on the beach.