Work Text:
r/confessions
sonofhistory
Sometimes I think that I might be fundamentally unlovable.
I am not a good person. At least I don't think I am. I often run away when things get hard, and I used to drown my sorrows in alcohol. For a long time, the only thing that mattered was rising to the top of my career path, being the best at what I do, and letting everyone know.
Somewhere along the way, I got…lost? I've been through some shit, and I thought that, if I only worked hard enough, I would forget about it. That it would all fade away eventually, you know?
But it didn't. It only got worse. I don't know who I am anymore. I have lost a lot of friends or disappointed them in ways that are unforgivable.
In hindsight, I feel like there were more than enough opportunities to prove that I'm not who everyone thinks I am, who I fear I have become. I often wonder if I could have done something. Could I have stopped everything if I had been less of a coward? Would it have mattered in the grand scheme of things? Or would it have led to nothing?
I want to say that I have grown over the years, that I have become a better person, but in all honesty, I am not entirely certain. Although my friends are the ones who suffered more, they have all moved on. I am the only one left who seemingly hasn't.
While they set off to live their lives, I am still stuck here, blindly reaching for the way out while all those memories keep haunting me. I see them, over and over again. Every single time, I stand there, unable to move an inch. It's like my feet are rooted to the ground, like I'm frozen to the spot with no other choice than to wait it out.
I don't know what else I can do to feel better. Sometimes, I think that I deserve to feel this way because of all the things that I have or haven't done. I wonder how so many people can look at me and see something of worth when it's all just a hoax. I often question what I am worth these days, what people see in me. I feel like I've lived a lie, and I don't know how to escape it.
But most of all, I feel so incredibly lonely. I'm not good at being alone, and I don't expect anyone to be able to stomach me. I don't think anyone could. I used to think that something other than loneliness would eventually find me, that it was just waiting until I was getting better.
The more time goes by, the more I think I was made to be alone forever.
The crisp fall breeze that skates through the park Kevin frequents for his morning runs is a welcome balm for his overheated skin. Sweat gathers at his temples as he slows to a halt and chances a glance at his fitness watch. Every breath stings with needles pricking his lungs, and he wipes a hand over his forehead in exhaustion.
"I fucking hate cardio," he murmurs, and almost instantly, a tail wags against his shin as if to reassure him. With an amused huff, Kevin bows down to smooth a hand over the fur of his golden retriever. "At least it's fun for you, right, Nika?"
Nika barks and wags her tail, bumping her snout against his shin in excitement. Kevin can feel his lips pull into a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Good girl."
He straightens up with a groan before stretching out his arms over his head, trying to loosen up his muscles and settle his racing heartbeat.
It is roughly two weeks until the next season is set to begin, and Kevin has already been sitting on pins and needles for the last month. He'd ended his last season a wreck, and even the victory of the championship title hadn't been enough to stop him from spiraling until he'd eventually accepted that he had a problem.
Three months later, he'd gotten out of rehab, and ever since then, his day-to-day life has consisted mainly of intense therapy, a rigorous training schedule to get back into form, and a general air of misery.
The only thing that isn't too bad is the fact that he finally let himself be convinced to get a dog. Knowing that he would have someone who was relying on him to get his shit together helps, in a way.
He boops Nika's nose with the tip of his index finger before clipping the leash around her neck again. Nika doesn't seem to mind and follows him happily as he heads for his go-to coffee shop around the next corner.
The bell above the door chimes merrily when they make their way inside. The smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wafts through the air, making his mouth water. For a second, he plays with the thought of buying one of the pastries tempting him from behind the glass display next to the till, but quickly decides against it. If he wants to get back into form, then he'll have to stick to his meal plan.
Besides, the overly enthusiastic barista is on shift this morning, and Kevin generally tries to avoid lengthy conversations with her. As if on cue, she notices Kevin lingering behind the counter and flashes him a too-bright smile. "Well, hello there. If it isn't my favourite Exy player."
Kevin puts on his best attempt at his camera-ready smile and quickly darts his eyes to her name tag. "Hello, Liz. Could I get my usual?"
"Coming right up!"
During this time of day, the coffee shop is still blissfully quiet, the only background noise the sizzling of the steamer and the buzzing of the coffee machine as Liz prepares his order. Fiddling with Nika's leash, he tries his hardest not to let his thoughts drift to everything he'd missed over the summer. The program had required him to stop following anything Exy whatsoever, and he'd reluctantly agreed to his current therapist's request to keep it up until the new season began.
All he's left with now is the constant itch to do something, to distract himself from the hollow feeling gnawing at his ribcage with no way to curb the edge with a drink or time on the court. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't exactly help that the new season is steadily approaching while he hasn't exchanged more than a few sparse texts with his coach.
He simply has to hope that his team will welcome him back with open arms. They'd be stupid not to, anyway.
Before Kevin can go further down that road, the barista enthusiastically places his coffee in front of him. "Extra large cappuccino for Kevin Day."
He can't quite hold back a grimace as he hands her the cash, but quickly schools his features back into something resembling a smile. "Thank you."
Fortunately enough, she doesn't seem to notice anything off. "The pleasure is all mine."
Unbeknownst to him, a gun designed to kick off a landslide of long-since-buried emotions is being loaded with a single bullet. Maybe he would have appreciated his conversation with Liz more if he had been aware of the trigger being pulled. Carefully, the shot is fired, aiming right at where it would catch him off guard most. Life is cruel that way sometimes.
Instead of pain, the hit reaches him in the form of a surprised, "Kevin?"
Numbness shudders down his spine, and the breath in his lungs stutters for a beat as he slowly turns around. There is no mistaking the soft twist of an intimately familiar accent fitting around the syllables of his name, the melodic lilt that still haunts his dreams and nightmares.
Coming face to face with Jean after years of minimal contact — after Kevin spent months trying to piece himself back together— hits him square in the chest, stirring up memories he'd rather leave untouched.
"Jean, please, please do something. Please make him stop." Bones crunched, followed by pain so excruciating it made his knees buckle.
"What was that?" Riko hissed, burying his fist in Kevin's hair and dragging him up. "I gave you everything. Everything. Even went to those stupid history classes. And you turn around and let this whore teach you French?" Kevin whimpered when Riko dragged him even closer by the hair, but the burning of his scalp barely registered in comparison to the fire spreading through his left arm.
"It wasn't like that."
"Shut the fuck up!"
The moment Riko let go of him, Kevin crumpled to the floor, cradling his bloody arm to his chest to protect it. Seconds later, Riko's shadow was looming over him once again. "Please," Kevin sobbed, eyesight blurry from the tears and the pain. "Please—"
"Jean." Uttering the name scrapes his throat raw as it rolls off his tongue with long-lost familiarity. It stings on the way out, lungs squeezed by a sudden weight collapsing on top of them as he scrambles to patch up the holes in his fragile composure left by Jean's sudden appearance.
He clears his throat. "What are you doing here?" It comes out snarkier than intended.
Jean's expression is indecipherable, slate-grey eyes narrowed and brows drawn together as he gestures towards the counter. "Getting coffee."
"Obviously." He shifts his weight and can't help but follow Jean's gaze as it drifts to Nika beside him. "But I meant, what are you doing here in Buffalo?"
This time, Kevin clearly picks out the bewilderment flashing across Jean's face. "The new season starts in two weeks."
Kevin simply stares at Jean in the hopes that he might fill in the gaps. Instead, Kevin miserably notices that Jean looks good. His cheeks have gained color since the last time he'd seen him, tiny freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. Kevin's eyes linger on the silver cross necklace resting between his collarbones before he pointedly averts his gaze. "And?"
"I signed with the Bandits," Jean says slowly before stepping past him and rattling down his order. Kevin doesn't hear him over the ringing in his ears.
"What happened to the Redwoods?"
What happened to Jeremy?
Jean makes a cutting gesture with his hand and seamlessly switches from English to French. "What do you think happened?"
Kevin almost wants to laugh. He isn't thinking. He has successfully not been thinking about Jean until he showed up at his favorite café. He doesn't want to think, because it would inevitably lead him back to the festering insecurity that no one really cares about him unless it's about Exy. That he feels like the world is spinning out of control with nothing to hold on to.
The air around them is fizzling with tension, so much so that even Liz's cheerful customer service voice can't dispel it. Just as Kevin debates whether he is simply going to flee the situation and revisit it later, his leg is nudged by a cold nose, once, then a second, more insistent time, pulling him out of his thoughts and back into the moment.
He tries to focus on Nika, but his mind fixates on the familiar smell of Jean's cologne clogging his nose.
"Care to tell me why you haven't been training with us?" Jean asks as he slides his card out of his wallet, not bothering to turn around.
"Not really," Kevin says dismissively. "You didn't care to tell me that you were gonna be traded to my team, either."
"I assumed that your coach would fill you in, but apparently that was too much to ask."
Kevin scoffs and stares at Jean in agitated disbelief. "You have my number. You could have called me. You could have texted me. 'Hey Kevin, I will be playing for the Bandits next season.'"
Jean slides him a cool gaze. "We haven't texted in months."
Hearing the accusation swinging in Jean's words, Kevin balks. "I—so?"
The stare Jean fixes him with is nothing short of snide, aquiline nose crinkling in annoyance. "I guess it doesn't matter now."
Kevin says nothing, not trusting himself enough to speak without subsequently revealing the pit of frustration and anger that is bubbling low in his gut.
Jean playing on his team changes everything.
It will alter the team's dynamic, the way they play as a whole, but most of all, it will inevitably fuck with Kevin and his ability to do what is needed of him to carry this team to victory. They haven't played a game on the same team since Kevin left the Ravens. Up until a few minutes ago, Kevin would have said that they'd likely never do so again, and that just because they'd trained together as Ravens, it didn't mean that they'd ever function on the same team again.
Except Jean already made the decision for him. And there is nothing Kevin can do about it except swallow the exasperation rising like acid in his throat and conjure up a strained smile. "I guess it doesn't."
The minute Kevin steps over the threshold of his apartment, he lets out a harsh breath and sets the untouched coffee cup on top of his shoe cabinet. Curling his hands into fists, he tries to sort through the knot of emotions rolling inside his chest.
Because he doesn't know what else to do, Kevin slips his phone out of his pocket and dials Neil's number from the top of his head, shaky fingers jamming in the digits.
After what feels like hours, someone finally picks up the phone, static crackling at the other end of the line, followed by a short, "Neil."
"Did you know?" Kevin asks without waiting a beat.
"What are you talking about?"
"Did you know about Jean coming to play for the Bandits?" he asks, voice growing more insistent.
At the other end, Neil pauses. "Yes," he says after a while, slowly, like he is piecing together the situation.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew. We all thought you knew."
"Who is 'we all'? Are you saying that everyone except me was aware of the fact that Jean was traded to my team, and no one deemed it necessary to talk to me about it?" A jabbing and insistent pain begins to throb behind his temple, a warning sign Kevin steadfastly ignores.
"We thought you knew," Neil replies, as if it is obvious. Kevin can hear someone murmur something in the background, but it's too quiet for him to understand much. "Have you talked to him yet?"
He lets out a bitter laugh and leans against the door, slowly sliding down until he is crouching on the floor. Nika is watching him with her tail swaying wildly behind her, so Kevin leans forward and clips off her leash before pulling her into a hug.
"Kinda. We didn't exactly get off on the right foot."
Neil hums. "You never do."
"Yes, but it was —different. This time it was different." Kevin bites his lip, eyes squeezed shut tightly as he tries to sort through the weight of emotions clamping down on him. "Do you know if he and Jeremy—?"
"They broke up," Neil replies after a pregnant pause, followed by rustling and another hushed murmur.
Then Andrew's voice filters through the speaker, assessing, "I trust you won't do anything stupid?"
"I'm not a child," Kevin shoots back, not bothering to conceal the irritated edge to his tone.
"Fine. Suit yourself."
"What Andrew means to say," Neil interjects, "is that you can always crash here for a few days if you need some distance. Have you talked to your shrink yet?"
"I'd rather not hear you two go at it again," Kevin says dryly, ignoring the shrink part of Neil's sentence.
"You should try getting laid. It helps with the—"
Kevin hangs up the phone before Neil can finish speaking. He appreciates Neil's blunt and straightforward nature, but there's only so much heat he can take on a day like this one.
Sex has been a sensitive topic for him ever since he broke up with Thea, and if he were honest with himself, even before that. It was only shortly after their relationship ended that Kevin cautiously approached the loaded subject of his sexuality. After weeks of agonizing over where it all went wrong, he ventured out into a bar and got so drunk that the voices of Riko and the Master were drowned out by the liquor clouding his head.
It was embarrassing, really, but he somehow managed to pick up a raven-haired guy with a Quebecois accent. He remembers the way the man's hands palmed Kevin's skin underneath his shirt, the hard line of his body pressed against his own, hands wandering further south in the dimly lit alleyway behind the bar.
He remembers waking up the next morning and rushing to the toilet before puking his guts out, remembers the sinking feeling in his chest at the realization that he enjoyed having another man's hands on him. He remembers the color of his eyes, a storm cloud grey that was close enough to the real thing for him to pretend.
The truth is that by this point, Kevin is done pretending.
Taking another deep breath, he slowly draws himself up and reaches for his long-since-forgotten cup of coffee still sitting on the shoe cabinet. Carefully, he removes the plastic lid and promptly freezes when he sees the little Exy racquet made out of milk foam.
He swipes his index over the rim of the cup and makes a mental note to tip extra the next time Liz is working.
The night before his first practice back with the Bandits, Kevin doesn't get a wink of sleep. He tosses and turns and gets up twice to take a piss before he decides to give up. By the time the sun peeks through the blinds, he's watching his third taped Exy match, eyes heavy and itching. He considers throwing himself out of the window and decides against it when Nika starts clawing at the door to his bedroom.
He takes her for a quick walk and forces down a protein bar before heading out to the Bandit's gym. His apartment is located about a mile away from the stadium grounds, but if he takes a few extra laps around the park, he can get in three miles, which qualifies for a decent warm-up as well as reaping the benefit of getting in some much-needed cardio.
This morning, the trek is nothing short of brutal, with his lack of sleep only adding fuel to the fire. By the time he reaches their practice gym, his breath is coming in short little bursts, lungs prickling, and legs burning. He will never understand how Neil does this for fun. Considering Neil's family tree, sadism must be hereditary.
With his lungs no longer fighting for air, the nausea he's been trying to suppress returns at full force, and it's taking everything in him not to keel over and throw up on the threshold. Mercifully enough, Kevin has garnered enough control over his body to avoid that particular embarrassment. He lingers in the foyer and grabs a bottle of water from the lounge to delay the inevitable confrontation with his teammates.
Coach Lazo is the only one who knows the details of Kevin's incriminating absence the last few weeks, and he's also the one who suggested framing his rehab as a treatment for burnout. Considering that many Ravens have been proven to burn bright before their flame extinguishes just several short years into their pro careers, it makes sense to spin that sort of story. Still, Kevin can't help but feel the cold claws of fear dig into his insides at the prospect of facing his teammates again. Not only them, but Jean as well.
As Kevin's luck has it, it is just at that moment that Jean pushes the door open, halting in his tracks at the sight of Kevin. Seeing him in anything other than black is still jarring to look at, even if the deep purple of the Bandits' team jacket brings out the grey in his eyes.
Those same eyes are trained on him with laser focus, a wrinkle creasing Jean's brows as he scrutinizes him with barely concealed disapproval. "Is someone chasing you?"
"I took a run. It's good cardio," Kevin says defensively, pulling on his hoodie to fan himself some cool air.
"You detest cardio," Jean says, and Kevin hates that he still knows him so well.
"You say you hate Exy, yet you're still here," Kevin shoots back before he manages to bite his tongue. Jean's eyes narrow as he takes a step closer, gaze flitting to the exposed line of Kevin's stomach.
"Pretending like you have no responsibility in this?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Was it not you who sent me away to your sunshine captain, making me live out your dream of playing house?"
"Pretending like that's not exactly what you needed?" Kevin echoes Jean's previous inquiry, raising his brows. The drab look Jean aims at him only serves to confirm Kevin's argument, as it is one he recognizes all too well. California might have changed Jean tremendously, but it could never drive out his spiteful obstinacy. Part of that has always been refusing to admit when Kevin is proven to be correct.
"You don't know what I need."
Kevin crosses his arms. "Your denial would almost be cute if you weren't so dead set on proving that you'd rather be miserable."
Jean breathes in sharply and clenches his teeth, the muscles in his jaw working. "That's rich, coming from you."
"Good thing we're not talking about me, then."
Kevin knows what he needs, feels it in every fiber of his aching and sweat-slick body. He needs to get back on the court, needs to feel the weight of a racquet in his hand as he aims it at the goal. He needs to feel the high of sneaking between backliners, the crash of a rough brawl, the metallic tang of blood coating his teeth when his mouth gets ahead of itself and he earns himself a right hook. He needs to make the Olympics just to get a chance at playing another game with Neil and Andrew by his side.
There are many things he needs, and even more he can't have.
Most of all, he desperately needs a drink. Or a good fuck. These are hard to come by these days, not even counting his ongoing sexuality crisis.
He is ripped out of his thoughts when Jean starts cursing at him in French, followed by an indignant, "Kevin, I am talking to you!" The French accent sneaking in between the words tells Kevin more about Jean's agitated frame of mind than a single glance ever could.
Even back in the Nest, Kevin was always able to tell when Jean was holding a grudge simply by paying attention to the way his voice took on a more nasal quality or the unmistakably French intonation of his 'you'.
On bad days, it follows him into his dreams, spinning words and phrases that haunt him for days to come.
"You are a spineless coward. You ruined me. I'd be free if it wasn't for you."
Kevin shakes his head to rid himself of the painful reminders and wordlessly shoulders past Jean, heading to the locker room without allowing himself to think about what might await him. He ignores Jean's irritated huff, silently holding open the door for him instead. Jean shoots him a venomous look but steps past him nevertheless.
Upon entering, the smell of linoleum and deodorant immediately greets them, easing Kevin's buzzing anxiety to a faint hum underneath his skin. Avery, a fellow striker, is the first to notice them, his face breaking into a grin. "Oh, hail, the Queen is back!"
Chatter erupts, surging through the locker room like a tidal wave, enveloping him in a storm of enthusiastic 'welcome-backs' and 'we-missed-yous', and Kevin soon loses count of how many times he's being patted on the right shoulder. Something churns in his gut when he realizes that there's not a single question about where he's been, no weird looks of suspicion, just…genuine excitement.
Only after they've properly welcomed him back does their focus slowly shift to Jean. It's less awkward than Kevin assumed it would be, riddled with a noticeable spirit of respect and curiosity. Jean shakes a few hands here and there, albeit tensely, and excuses himself after a few minutes to go find Coach Lazo, who's supposed to show him around.
"So, you two have history, right?" One of his teammates asks him eventually as Kevin is changing into his workout clothes.
"Obviously," Kevin says, training a sidelong glance at him. "Where are you going with this?"
Heathers raises his hands over his head, chuckling awkwardly. "Sue me for being curious, man. You just don't seem close, so I was wondering what's going on." Kevin bites his tongue and slams the locker shut.
"Keep wondering, I'm not stopping you. Just don't ponder it too hard on the court this week. I want your head in the game."
He doesn't wait for Heathers' reply and heads straight to the gym, where he snatches himself the last leg curl machine.
Years ago, he and Jean were close. Before Kevin abandoned him, leaving him fighting for air in a place so dark that every sign of life was stifled before it could take its first breath. 'History' doesn't begin to describe everything they've been through, and can not possibly explain their complicated relationship. Even if the bond has long since been eroding, fraying under the weight of past grievances.
He knows that Jean used to keep his magnets and postcards, safely tucked away in a worn shoe carton underneath his bed. He discovered it after Riko had cut Jean with particularly nasty ferocity, so that Kevin had been forced to change Jean's blood-soaked bandage for a week straight. On the search for more gauze, he'd accidentally pulled out Jean's box of trinkets and postcards instead.
He wonders whether the postcards Kevin sent him after he got sent to the Trojans have found a similar home, or if Jean never bothered to keep them.
The ticking of the clock above the door is the only sound that interrupts the charged silence between him and his therapist as she leans back in her armchair and adjusts her glasses.
"I fear I don't quite understand what you're afraid of."
"Isn't that your job?" Kevin asks pointedly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"My job is to help you sort out the pieces, not put them back together. That is something only you can do. But in order for me to help you, I need your cooperation. Would you mind elaborating?"
In fact, Kevin very much does mind, but he swallows down a belligerent comment and simply scoffs.
"I guess," he begins after a few seconds, absentmindedly interlacing his fingers, "I have been afraid that I am not a good person."
His therapist hums, and Kevin hears the scrape of her pen against the paper. "What makes you think that you might not be a good person?"
He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he tries to unclutter the carousel of thoughts spinning ceaselessly with no way out. "I keep getting these memories. I used to be able to shove them aside if I drank enough, but ever since I've been sober, it's been…harder."
"Do you want to talk about these memories?" his therapist questions gently. Kevin briefly allows himself to look at her just to avert his eyes again when he finds an encouraging smile on her face.
He feels sick. If he tells her, that smile will be certain to slip, and then she'll see what kind of monster lies beneath his outward-facing demeanor. If he doesn't tell her, he likely won't feel better any time soon. Or ever. Then again, he's not sure she'll actually be able to help him. Maybe no one can.
"As you know, my relationship with Riko was…complicated," he begins hesitantly.
His therapist nods. "He was the one who broke your arm, correct?"
Kevin's mouth feels so dry that his tongue is chafing against his palate, but he nods. "Yes, he did. Back then, he hurt me. But it wasn't just me. There were others." Clearing his throat, he forces out the words before he can second-guess himself. "And many of those times, I helped him."
The dim light of the table lamp next to the sofa reflects in his therapist's eyes as she adjusts her glasses and crosses her legs. "Helped him how?"
"I have a friend who lived with me at the Nest. Whenever Riko had a bad day, he liked to — he liked to let off some steam." He clears his throat and swallows, but the motion feels like glass shards tearing up his esophagus. "Occasionally, he tied me down and cut me where no one would see, but the potential consequences of Coach Moriyama finding out weren't always worth the risk. He usually chose Jean."
"Just to be clear, Jean is the friend we're talking about here?"
Kevin nods again. "Riko usually had me tie him to the headboard and made me hold him down while he was hurting him, and I rarely resisted. I tried to help Jean in my own ways later, after we both escaped, to try to make up for everything I fucked up."
He wrings his hands, sucking in some much-needed air. "Jean got better after he joined the Trojans, but I can't help but ask myself how. I know what he's been through. I was there. I helped Riko. And I'm glad that he's gotten better, but I don't understand how he managed to move on from all the horrible things that have been done to him."
After a beat of silence, his therapist slowly asks, "How did it make you feel when Riko made you do those things?"
Kevin swallows against a lump in his throat. "Like I was drowning."
Ironically enough, Kevin's never been a victim of Riko's most unorthodox methods of physical torture, including waterboarding. It was Jean who was subjected to hours of darkness, water running down his throat as he struggled not to strain against his binds.
"Can you imagine trying to swim to the surface the next time you have one of those memories?"
Kevin frowns. "I don't understand."
"It is important to let your body feel the emotions these memories evoke without getting lost in them. In a sea of memories, you need to learn how to swim, so you can reach the surface." She gestures at the Japanese-style poster to Kevin's right, a replica of Katsushika Hokusai's The Great Wave off Kanagawa. "You'll learn that sobriety is so much harder than just reaching for the bottle. It's important to remind yourself that the reprieve is an illusion. All you're doing is dive so deep that the storm can't reach you, even if it's still raging on the surface."
"I am sober."
His therapist hums. "Can I ask you something, Mr. Day?"
Kevin stares at her with narrowed eyes, unable to conceal the skepticism in his tone when he says, "Sure."
"Do you blame yourself?"
"What?"
"I am asking because it's quite common for victims who've been in your situation to feel some kind of guilt."
Something flutters in his ribcage as he wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. "I am not a victim. I did this. It didn't happen to me."
She leans forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. "You're just as much of a victim as your friend, Mr. Day. And just like him, you deserve to get better. You deserve to move on."
"I—" Kevin bites his tongue, clamping his lips shut as bile threatens to rise in his throat. "I helped Riko."
"It is a lot to process, but I suggest you work through your feelings until our next session. Write them down. Remember the exercises we went over last time. Today's session is nearing its end, but before I let you go, I want to urge you to ask Jean how he feels about things. Just to get a change of perspective."
Do you blame yourself?
Her sentence rings on in his ears, even way after he's left her office and made his way home. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to rid himself of it, or the feeling that follows. It quietly slips into his mind as he's preparing dinner, nagging at him, causing a wave of nausea to roll over him. He forgoes dinner and watches ESPN instead. But no matter how hard he attempts to drown it out, the treacherous voice continues to plague him until he's lying wide awake and has no further means to distract himself.
Do I blame myself?
Kevin doesn't ask Jean how he feels about things. The option seems too laughable, too daunting, even for Kevin, who's never shied away from doling out the truth to Jean. There was no place for reticence or secrets in the Nest, not when, during some nights, the only thing that prevented them from falling apart was each other. But the Nest was long ago, before Kevin lost the privilege of Jean's trust. The only one to blame for the miles of distance between them is Kevin himself.
Naturally, he avoids Jean instead. It works well for about two and a half weeks until Jean ambushes him before morning practice. The sun is in its early stages of climbing up the sky, painting the clouds in gradient pastels, when he hears the purr of a motorcycle creeping up behind him. He doesn't pay it any mind because he's almost reached the stadium with only a few feet to spare, but the driver slows down just behind him and trails him to the parking lot.
Unease prickles low on his spine, and he makes a point to jog to the entrance of the stadium before glancing over his shoulder and glaring daggers at the asshole who tried to intimidate him. The guy dismounts slowly, fiddling with the strap of his helmet. As soon as he manages to take it off, he shakes out his hair, and Kevin's jaw drops to the floor, because it's Jean.
Almost as if to challenge him, Jean holds his gaze and raises a brow as he lazily zips open his leather jacket while heading in Kevin's direction. Kevin has to tear his gaze away forcefully, but the heat creeping up the back of his neck is a treacherous giveaway.
Hoping that Jean hasn't noticed, he just narrows his eyes, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Do you have a death wish?"
Jean rolls his eyes and nods at his helmet. "Not that it's any of your business, but I am perfectly safe."
"None of my business?" Kevin snaps in disbelief. "What are you implying?"
Jean steps closer, putting on a tight smile. "Have you not been avoiding me for the past weeks?"
Kevin sputters and leans away. Scrambling his thoughts to come up with a way to try to diffuse the situation, he manages nothing but a weak, "I have not." His stomach tightens when Jean tilts his head without looking away from him.
"Don't try to deny it, or you'll embarrass yourself further. You're not a very good liar."
"I used to be", Kevin says, and immediately regrets it when Jean's face goes blank. Jean would know after all. He paid the price for it when Kevin lied to Riko's face and fled the Nest without looking back.
The headlights of an oncoming car have Kevin squinting against the blinding brightness, shaky fingers gripping the wheel just a tad harder. He can feel himself dripping blood onto the leather of the seat, but it pales in comparison to the pain wrecking his arm if he so much as moves it a single inch.
Cold sweat drips down his spine, bile rising in his throat if he thinks about the implications of what this means.
He can't afford to stop now. Not if he wants to have a future.
Jean lowers his eyes, pensive gaze focused on the grey asphalt. He looks like he's somewhere far beyond the stadium parking lot, somewhere darker, narrower, a tunnel of endless nightmares. When his eyes land back on Kevin, the edge in them has softened to something more malleable. "I suppose, I don't blame you."
Guilt churns in Kevin's gut so violently that he feels sick with it, and he flinches back.
That's not right. He must have misheard. Jean should blame him.
Kevin is the living and breathing reminder of Jean's misery. He still remembers the way Jean's muscles tensed underneath his grip when he locked the cuffs around his wrists. He remembers his scars, knows with certainty that there are more of them now. Every new scar is incriminating evidence of Kevin's selfishness.
He takes another step back, and another, unable to look at the man before him. "I have to get inside," he says, his voice strangled, before he turns around and flees.
He doesn't wait for Jean to object, doesn't risk seeing his own feelings mirrored on Jean's face. Even so, Kevin has witnessed Jean when he was plagued by anguish, so his mind supplies him with the grating memories only too easily.
An hour later, only after he's locked himself in one of the bathroom stalls and spent 20 minutes on FaceTime being talked down by Andrew and Neil, does Kevin finally appear on the Court, attempting to pretend like nothing's off-kilter.
He doesn't need to look at Jean to feel the weight of his gaze bore through him. He ignores it and does what he does best: He takes his racquet in his left hand and aims for the goal.
A few hours later, the whole team is slick with sweat after being put through the wringer. It went about as well as Kevin expected, considering the circumstances, which is to say not very well at all. He was distracted, fumbling passes and drills, and it came to a point where Coach Lazo took him aside and asked if Kevin needed to go home. Kevin protested vehemently, refusing to be coddled, and was let go with a sigh and a muttered curse.
In hindsight, Kevin wishes he had taken the offer and just gone home. His muscles are burning with exhaustion, and not even the hot water cascading down his back can remedy the wired tension spreading through his body. Judging from his teammates' pained groans, they are faring at least somewhat similarly, not that it's any consolation. After he's done scrubbing himself down, he turns off the water and grabs his towel, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground when he passes Jean. He doesn't know if it's because he can't bear to look at his scars or because he's afraid his thoughts will take on a life of their own.
He doesn't deserve Jean, and even if he did, Jean is off limits for more than one reason.
As soon as he's toweled himself off, he gets dressed, quick and efficient. Underwear, socks, sweatpants, hoodie. A reliable routine that grounds him even on days like these, a fragment of stability among the chaotic whirlwind of his life. He's wrestling his hoodie over his head when one of his teammates approaches him and claps him on his shoulder. "You coming tonight, or what?"
He struggles for a few seconds longer before he successfully emerges from the hoodie and turns around. "What's tonight?"
"It's Coach's birthday dinner! Don't tell me you forgot?"
Kevin doesn't bother to remember such trivial things, not with his form still lacking, and the looming threat that Ichirou might come knocking any day to ask why Kevin's been compromised. That said, even if he did try to remember, he's sure that, between everything he's got going on, he would have forgotten anyway.
"Of course not," he lies, turning back around to hide his face in the safety of his locker. "Where are we going again?"
"Italian place downtown, I can pick you up if you want."
Kevin shoulders his duffel and gives him a grateful smile. "Thanks."
When he crosses the locker room, he catches a glimpse of Jean's form: toned arms, raven black locks still damp, back rippling with strong muscles. Kevin turns his head sharply and practically sprints to the door to escape the sight and the man who offers it. He needs to calm down before he goes out tonight, sort out his thoughts, maybe get off. Neil mentioned something about pleasure being the key to relaxation once, and at this point, Kevin is willing to listen to the devil incarnate if it means taking the edge off.
After Kevin eventually let off some steam and vacuumed the floor, it's not long until a horn blares outside, making him scramble to pack his things. He clips the leash around Nika's neck and packs her bag of treats before locking up behind him and jogging towards Donovan's Ford with Nika in tow.
As soon as Kevin has ushered Nika into the back and taken his place beside her, Donovan turns around, a wide grin on his face. "Hello there! Aren't you a good girl!"
"You can give her some treats later," Kevin says, buckling up.
The drive downtown goes by without a hitch, and before long, they've made it to North Park. Although Kevin doesn't have the best eye for aesthetics, even he can admit that the restaurant looks inviting, homely even. Fairy lights are strung up in the garden and above the doorway, lining a gravel footpath that crunches underneath his feet. The inside is covered in warm beige and brown tones, with a brick oven in the back pointing to the authenticity of the cuisine. His mouth is watering from the rich smell of fresh herbs, ripe tomatoes, and homemade bread. Nika sniffs the air, but follows him dutifully as they navigate to their table.
Kevin grimaces when he spots the only available seat next to Jean and digs his nails into the palm of his hand as he resolves himself to his fate. Before Kevin can even remotely prepare himself, Jean turns his head, eyes zeroing in on Kevin with cool determination. Kevin swallows, feeling like a man who's being walked to the gallows, except his personal gallows come in the form of a French scourge with an extremely well-defined back. Which Kevin had noticed, obviously. First in a non-gay and then in a very gay way. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud.
"You brought your gremlin again."
"Nika is not a gremlin," Kevin snaps back, huffing. Nika inclines her head, tail swishing from left to right as she looks at Jean expectantly.
"She does seem quite lovely," Jean muses and reaches out his hand for Nika to sniff before he pets her behind her ears. "No thanks to you."
"She has everything a dog could dream of. Give credit where it's due." Kevin is not embarrassed to admit that a healthy portion of his salary — at least what's left of it after Ichirou's deduction— goes to Nika. Food, the groomer, the right gear, toys, the best vet in town…Some would call her spoiled, but Kevin has never been known to be stingy when it comes to things that really matter.
"Don't spoil her too much, or she'll turn into her dad," Jean says, the corner of his lip quirking up.
Kevin scoffs and pins Jean with a look. "A dog can't ever become the best player of the league."
"You want to teach your dog Exy?" Donovan chimes in from across the table, eyes crinkling at the corner. "Will she be the next champion?"
"That's not what I—"
His protests go unheard over the laughs and exclamations as Donovan raises his glass to make a toast. "To our future champions, Kevin Day and his dog!" Glasses clink together as the team follows his example, and Kevin wrinkles his nose at the potent smell of beer and wine around him.
No one seems to notice him clenching his hand into a fist, and he is ever so glad for it. When the waiter arrives, he orders a Coke Zero and pasta even though his appetite has faded considerably at the sight of all the liquor around him. He drowns out most of the conversations and lets his attention drift to Jean instead.
As much as it grates on him to admit, Jean's presence is a source of comfort, draping itself around Kevin's agitated nerves and reminding him of a time that held as much pain as it provided security.
Jean gives him a sidelong glance before he diverts his attention and starts chatting with some teammates to his left. It gives Kevin the opening he needs to really observe Jean, to take note of all the small changes the years have brought upon him. His cheeks are sun-kissed now, with a few new moles embellishing his skin. There's one near the right corner of his lips, right above a smaller one Kevin's gaze always used to snag on when he wiped the blood from Jean's split lips.
Jean's more open now, too, no doubt thanks to the Trojans' positive impact. It's like he's dropped the weight that's been tied to his shoulders, and along with it, the shadow of the Nest that used to cling to him like a second skin. He wonders how much of that can be attributed to Jeremy. Just why did they end things?
His therapist's words suddenly echo in his head, followed by an unwelcome barrage of feelings he has no capacity for right now. He shoves them away and tightly secures the lock before returning to the moment and accepting his drink from the waiter.
He tries his best to engage in conversations here and there until the food arrives, but his mind keeps slipping away, returning to the Nest, his therapist's office, the bus ride back to Fox Tower after he'd begged Wymack to let him stay. The memories overlap with the chatter around him, creating a dizzying picture of interwoven frames. He almost doesn't notice the food arriving, and only after a scrutinizing look from Jean does he start poking at it, more out of spite than hunger.
"Hey Day, what's gotten into you?" Heathers calls from the opposite side of the table, wiggling his brows. "Why are you not shitfaced yet?"
Kevin lowers his fork and forces a smile onto his face. "Special diet."
"Come on, loosen up!" Donovan drags out the last word, voice slurred at the edges, and waves down the waiter. From the corner of his eye, Kevin sees Coach Lazo make a frantic gesture at his teammate, but Heathers has looked too deep into the bottle to notice it. "A vodka soda for our Queen, please!"
Irritation flares up in his chest, and he takes a sip of his Coke to wash the phantom taste of liquor laced with citrus out of his mouth. "I'd rather not."
"You used to be so fun," Heathers insists with a grin and imitates throwing back a drink. Kevin drums his fingers against the side of his Coke to stop himself from throwing his plate across the table.
"I said no."
Ignoring him, Heathers mindlessly barrels on, "Time to cut loose," which is what sends Kevin over the edge.
"Ravens do not let loose." His slip-up makes the table fall silent, and next to him, Jean goes very, very quiet. The beat of his heart drums deafeningly in his ears as Kevin stands up, chair scraping across the floor. "I'm tired. Have a nice evening."
He doesn't remember much of his sudden exit apart from the rush of cool air as soon as he steps outside, mind running a thousand miles an hour. His hands itch with the urge go back inside and rush straight to the bar, throat dry and chest fluttering. He's — he's sober. He wants to stay sober. He wanted to stay sober until fuckass Heathers started bitching about it.
The truth is that it's been so hard.
Every day, the thought of running to the store crosses his mind at least once, lingering in the back of his head like the remnants of a cold he can't seem shake off. Most days, he can easily brush it off, distracting himself with Exy or Nika. It's not so easy now after Heathers tore open the wound and poured salt in it, not when every fibre of his being is screaming at him to go back and drown himself in vodka just this once.
He crosses the street without looking and barely hears the frantic honk as the bright headlights of a car swivel past him, laser-focused on heading to the next bus stop. It might not come for another hour or several, but Kevin will wait if it means he doesn't have to go back to the restaurant.
Streetlights cast their feeble light onto the sidewalk as thunder rumbles low above him. Nika trots happily beside him, clueless to Kevin's internal dilemma. When the first drop of rain hits the pavement, Kevin draws his jacket closer around himself and squints toward the sky, only for the clouds to open their floodgates soon after, rain pouring down in torrents. He sighs and switches to a light jog, but by the time they reach the canopied bus stop, both he and Nika are already thoroughly soaked.
His body seems to weigh a ton as he crumples onto one of the run-down benches and buries his head between his thighs. He stays like this, even as Nika shakes out her fur and showers him in tiny droplets. For a while, there's nothing but the rhythmic sound of rain spattering the roof with no indication that the downpour will wane anytime soon.
Only when the familiar purr of a motorcycle starts creeping nearer does Kevin find the strength to lift his head, if only to glare weakly at an oncoming Jean. After coming to a stop in front of them, Jean peels off his helmet, stupidly attractive locks framing his face in a way that makes Kevin want to clench his teeth together. Jean tucks them behind his ears and ducks under the roof, seeking refuge from the rain, before crouching down in front of Kevin. "Are you okay?"
"Why are you here?" Kevin asks instead, drawing his knees closer to his chest.
Jean sighs, rolling his eyes. "Don't be difficult."
"Just answer the question."
"Let me take you home."
Kevin stares at him in disbelief. "On that thing?"
The muscles in Jean's jaw shift as he meets Kevin's eyes head-on. "I even have a harness for your dog, from when I used to drive around with Jab."
"Absolutely not."
Jean breathes out through his mouth and gets up, slowly turning around. "Fine. Suit yourself. Then I'll take your princess for the night."
Kevin looks at him with narrowed eyes, straightening up. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" Jean procures something from the storage department of his bike and twirls it around his wrist before taking a few deliberate steps in Nika's direction. Kevin's arm shoots out to grip Jean's hand, and Jean stops in his tracks to regard Kevin with raised brows. "Are you done?"
"You are incorrigible," Kevin hisses, but snatches the harness out of Jean's grip and proceeds to secure it around his shoulders. "California has gotten to your head."
Jean clicks his tongue and wordlessly slaps Kevin's hands away to help him adjust the harness. Kevin's breath catches in his throat when Jean's fingers graze the fabric over his skin as he leans in closer to pull the straps tight. Goosebumps pebble his skin when an errant strand of Jean's hair brushes Kevin's cheek, and he swallows around a sudden dryness in his throat.
"You'll sit behind me, and your dog in between us," Jean says quietly, stepping back as soon as he's done. Despite all of his instincts advising him to stay off the rickety thing, Kevin clambers onto the bike and watches Jean lift up Nika. He straps her to Kevin with clinical efficiency before putting his own helmet on Kevin's head. Kevin's protest is cut off with a clipped "I don't have two," and then Jean turns around to swing his leg over the helm of his bike.
It's a cramped fit, and Kevin can barely see anything over the pouring rain clouding his view. He wraps his arms around Jean's waist in an iron grip as soon as the engine revs to life, praying for his life to be spared. He's about to say that he thinks that this is a very bad idea when the motorcycle lunges forward, wind and rain whipping past him as the lights of the cityscape shoot past them with staggering speed. He's glad for Nika being sandwiched between him and Jean's back, because he's certain that otherwise, Jean would have felt the jackrabbit beat of his heart even through his leather gear.
There's a moment when Jean leans into a curve so sharply that Kevin sees his life flashing before him, and then it's over before it even began. After that, the drive flies past in a disconcerting haze. By the time they arrive in front of a building that looks nothing like Kevin's apartment complex, Jean slows down until they come to a stop.
"The rain is too heavy, and my place wasn't far," he says over his shoulder, dismounting with practiced ease before he turns around and blinks some water out of his eyes and unclasps his helmet from around Kevin's chin. As soon as it's off and Nika's been freed from the harness, Kevin slides off the bike, knees weak and stomach lurching.
Jean abandons the bike in the rain and rushes to the door of a quaint little house tucked in between a cluster of trees, swinging back and forth, urging both him and Nika inside with a cut-off gesture. Kevin lets out a breath when the door shuts behind him, leaning against it with his whole weight. "Let's never do that again."
"Don't be so dramatic," Jean mutters, rolling his eyes and shaking off his leather jacket. "You'd still be stuck under that decrepit thing if it wasn't for me." He flicks on the light and disappears into a room down the hallway before returning with a few towels.
Kevin accepts them with a muttered thank you, proceeding to dry off Nika before she can shake out her fur all over Jean's entrance. Only after he's done with her does he towel himself off and follow Jean through a door to his left. A warm floor lamp illuminates the open kitchen and adjacent living room, and Kevin is surprised to find that the space is decorated with trinkets, framed pictures, and tapestries.
Jean is tinkering with what Kevin presumes to be a kettle, not bothering to turn around when he says, "I laid out some clothes for you to change into on the couch over there."
It's weird to undress in front of Jean again, even when he's turned away, but with his teeth already chattering, Kevin has no other choice but to change. Both the sweats and the shirt carry the unmistakable scent of Jean's cologne, and Kevin feels a weird tug in his chest that he conveniently ignores. He hovers in the kitchen, feeling awkward and useless. When Jean turns around and presses a mug into Kevin's hands, cool fingers softly brush his knuckles, making Kevin shiver. He leans against the counter and turns the mug around in his hand, unsure what to say.
Unexpectedly, it's Jean who breaks the silence.
"When did you stop drinking?"
Kevin stiffens, eyes darting to Jean, who looks at him with a furrow tugging at his brows. He doesn't know what's gotten into him when he replies honestly, "I went to rehab a few months ago."
Understanding flashes across Jean's face, and he adjusts the grip on his mug. "Rehab."
Kevin takes a sip of his hot tea, humming.
"That's why you were away," Jean murmurs softly, and Kevin hums again.
"Why did you and Jeremy break up?" Kevin asks after a brief bout of silence, carefully observing Jean's face as it goes from thoughtful to a grimace.
"There were several reasons, mostly that we drifted apart." He fixes Kevin with an indecipherable look and licks his lips. "Are you and Thea still—?"
"God, no," Kevin says quickly, almost choking on his next sip of tea. "She deserved better than me."
"Stop pitying yourself," Jean says so sharply that Kevin looks at him, surprised.
"I am not pitying myself," he starts to explain. "It's just a fact that—"
Jean is in front of Kevin within a few strides, clasping his hand over his mouth to interrupt him. "I dare you to finish that sentence."
Kevin swallows sharply and tries to move Jean's wrist, but it doesn't budge. He blinks, tries again, and only when he kicks Jean in the shin does he relent his grip. "You should know best what I'm talking about."
"Enlighten me."
"I left you behind."
Jean breathes in sharply but stays where he is, lips parted as shock crosses his features. Kevin waits with bated breath, terror churning in his gut. When Jean eventually speaks, it's in French, as quiet and soft as they used to murmur to each other when they were still living under Riko's thumb. "There are a lot of things I blame you for, but leaving me behind is not one of those."
Blame.
The word fits itself between Kevin's ribs, where he's carved out a space for it, oozing into the wound that's been festering for years. He's used to the sting of it, and the gentle balm of Jean's appeasement catches him off guard.
He lowers his gaze, frowning. "Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'?" Jean asks, nose flaring with irritation.
"Why don't you blame me?" Kevin asks slowly.
"What do you want me to say, Kevin?" Jean throws his hands up and steps closer until he's crowding Kevin against the counter. "That you should be begging for my forgiveness because you did the only sane thing and chose self-preservation?"
Kevin falters. "I don't want your forgiveness."
"What do you want then, hm?"
"You!" It sputters out of his mouth before he can stop it, the world around him coming to a standstill.
For a moment, Kevin feels like he's dangling off the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold onto but the fragile thread of possibilities waiting above. The silence is deafening, the ravine below ready to swallow him whole should he lose his footing. He holds on tighter —refusing to let go— when Jean's breath tickles his neck as he drops his head on Kevin's shoulder.
Kevin fights the urge to stiffen and grips the counter with both hands to find purchase, not daring to move an inch. He's hyper-aware of Jean's lips grazing the side of his neck, tension coiling in his muscles. Seconds, hours, days later, Jean straightens up and just looks at Kevin through a curtain of fine lashes.
The longer Jean stays silent, the more his agitated nerves start to make themselves noticeable, and he swallows. "Are you gonna say something?"
Shaking his head, Jean breathes out audibly before he catches Kevin's chin between his index and ring fingers. "Do you mean it?"
A shock of lightning zaps down Kevin's spine, their lips only a hair's width apart. The tension is electrifying, and without thinking, Kevin feels for the silver necklace around Jean's neck, hooking it with his index finger and pulling Jean closer. The metal is warm on his fingertips, a fragile mirror of Jean's body heat. It's a bad idea. Kevin knows this is such a bad idea, but he's done being a coward, so he jumps — he leans up and kisses Jean.
For a few, terrifying seconds, Kevin thinks he's falling.
It's the steady weight of Jean's lips on his own and his hand on Kevin's throat that anchors him to reality. It starts out cautious, an exploration of something they'd never been allowed to do, something neither of them ever thought they'd get to have. As soon as Kevin buries his hands in Jean's soft hair, something switches. Jean's thumb smoothes over his Adam's apple, the gesture so simple yet possessive, sending a shock through Kevin's system. Heat kindles low in his abdomen as he tugs on Jean's hair just for Jean to retaliate with a sharp bite to his lower lip. Parting his lips without a second thought, Kevin moans at the hot slide of Jean's tongue against his own and wraps his legs around Jean's hips to pull him flush against him.
Jean groans, a sound low in his throat, and rucks up Kevin's shirt before flattening his hand against Kevin's lower back. Kevin moans again, his hips instinctively seeking out friction, but Jean keeps him in place by the firm grip around his throat and nips at his jaw. "You're so impatient."
The words cause a shiver to run down Kevin's spine, and he leans his head back to grant Jean more space. "So?" His breath hitches embarrassingly loud when Jean licks a stripe up his neck, hips twitching upwards.
"Your greed knows no bounds." In spite of his words, Jean's lips find his own again, and he sighs into the next kiss.
"You can't say no to me," Kevin murmurs between kisses, letting his left hand smooth over Jean's broad shoulders.
"I hate you."
"Funny way of showing it." There's no way Kevin could ever take it seriously, not when blunt fingernails dig into his waist, not when Jean starts mouthing down his neck with a determination he rarely exhibits anywhere else than on the Court.
Instead of replying, Jean's hand travels lower, over the dimples of his back, until his hand is splayed right above Kevin's ass, just shy of toying with the waistband of Kevin's underwear.
Kevin groans into Jean's mouth and gives a nod, expecting Jean to ravish him right then and there. He yelps when Jean grips his thighs instead, picking him up and carrying him across the house. They briefly stop against a doorway just for Jean to kiss Kevin lightheaded, before they finally stumble onto a bed together, limbs tangled and breathing hard.
"Wait. Nika?"
Jean dips down to press soft kisses across his collarbone, where his short collar has dipped low. "Sleeping on the couch."
Kevin doesn't need to say anything for Jean to understand what he wants next; he has always been good at reading him. When Jean takes him apart with his mouth, Kevin grips Jean's hand so tight it must hurt. Even later, when they're both breathless and moaning, Kevin refuses to let go. Never again.
There's still so much they need to talk about, but for now, this is enough.
"Oh. You kept my postcards."
Jean looks up from where he's cracking an egg into a pan, eyes flitting to the postcards on the fridge. "You didn't see them yesterday?"
"I was distracted," Kevin says, pouting, and steals a cherry tomato from the counter.
"I reckon," Jean mumbles with no small amount of satisfaction, earning himself a slap over the back of his head.
It feels odd, being this domestic. Kevin has never really thought about what it might entail to finally give in to his feelings for Jean, but he certainly never thought it would lead to this — a slow morning, hair still rumpled, and the inviting smell of a home-cooked breakfast sizzling on the stove.
He still doesn't know if he deserves this, if this is something he's allowed to have, but he is tired of being alone. He is tired of denying himself. Kevin might still be fucked up beyond hope, and there's a real possibility he could fuck this up, too, but he's willing to try. Jean is worth it.
Leaning up, Kevin presses a chaste kiss to Jean's cheek and imagines what it would be like to wake up to this every morning.He thinks it doesn't sound too bad.