Chapter Text
When the earthquake hits, Jean is in the kitchen, studying the magnet he bought from the campus bookstore.
It’s a tacky little thing, a rubber red helmet with the Trojans’ logo on the side, but it’s his tacky little thing all the same, and he’s careful as he sticks it to the top right corner of the freezer door.
That’s when he hears it—a low, unfamiliar rumble, insistent and far away.
It grows louder, and louder, and before Jean can even try to decipher it, the silverware is clattering where it was left to dry on the drain, and the heavier magnets and wire basket are sliding slowly down the length of the fridge, and Jeremy is emerging from somewhere down the hall, saying something that sounds like, “Rats.”
A moment later, he’s in the kitchen, snagging Jean by the elbow and tugging him along. “Over here,” he instructs. “C’mon.”
Jean follows, lost and confused, as Jeremy shoves the stools away from the island and pulls Jean down toward the floor. The panic must be clear across Jean’s face, though, because Jeremy looks a little stunned, and then maybe a little guilty.
“Earthquake,” Jeremy explains. His hand is warm where it’s still pressed against Jean’s elbow. His face is mere inches away. “It happens sometimes. Not too often, but often enough. I’m sorry, we should’ve warned you.”
He’s yelling a little over the noise, and Jean wants him to shut up. Jean wants the ground to go back to not moving.
Jean knew, distantly, that California was prone to earthquakes. But knowing and experiencing are two different things, and while he’s become accustomed to the sensation of the rug being pulled out from under him, he is very much unaccustomed to the literal Earth shaking beneath his feet.
It’s unfamiliar, and unsettling, and Jean hates it.
And then it’s over.
Jean stares around at the sudden stillness, at Jeremy, who is way too close and looking way too worried, and blinks.
Jeremy squeezes his elbow. “Are you alright?”
No, Jean thinks.
“Fine,” he says, removing his arm from Jeremy’s hold, and getting to his feet. His heartbeat is too fast, too loud. He heads for the fridge, and slides the wire basket back into place, trying desperately to get his pulse under control again.
Jeremy comes to stand at his side. “What’s this?”
Jean glances over to see him pointing to the helmet, looking both insufferably delighted and curious. “A magnet.”
”I walked into that one, I’ll admit,” Jeremy says. He manages to hold his tongue until Jean puts it back in place, but then, predictably, he tries again. “What’s it for?”
Jean cocks an eyebrow at him. Jeremy sighs. “Don’t answer that, either. I just wasn’t aware you had so much school spirit, is all.”
“I have no such thing,” Jean tells him, and is saved from whatever Jeremy is about to respond when his phone starts barking.
Jeremy tugs it out of his pocket. Jean cannot believe someone like Jeremy exists.
“Laila,” Jeremy explains, and presses his phone to his ear. “Hello? No, yeah. We’re fine. You and Cat?”
Jean tunes him out, and goes back to staring at the helmet. Dobson was annoyingly pleased when he told her he bought it, and as much as he hates to admit it, he finds a creeping satisfaction spreading through his chest as well.
Jean can’t stop staring at the ground.
Having to anticipate Riko’s moods was bad enough, but having to be alert at all times in case the literal Earth decides to move from beneath his feet is exhausting.
He spends his morning run wondering when the cloudless blue sky will shatter, and the silence will become a rumble, and the road will open to swallow him whole. He zones out on both his afternoon lectures, sure that the truck passing outside is going to turn into his desk rattling, and his pen clattering, and the earth shaking so hard the building collapses around them.
He wonders how long he’ll be able to have the new life he started to carve for himself. If it was all just a trick. If he was set up to get attached, only for the things he came to love to be taken away, the earth split beneath his feet, and the ground marked with his fingernails as he tried desperately to hold on.
And then he comes home from class, and sees it.
Ever since he arrived in May, the fridge has been nothing but a disaster zone of memorabilia: photo-booth pictures, and heaps of tea shop magnets, and whatever else Jeremy, Laila, and Cat could get to stick. But now, nearly half the freezer door has been emptied, revealing a smooth, dark gray surface.
Jean stares at it, at the place where his helmet still sits in the top right corner, and then at the new magnet pressed to its side.
Arguably, it’s uglier than the first. A flat, white square that says “I <3 LA” in obnoxious bold text.
Jeremy’s contribution, no doubt.
Jean hates it as much as he likes it. But his memories are tangled with his thoughts, his past is intertwined with his present, and he spends half the afternoon looking at the fridge instead of writing his paper, and struggling to separate the two.
By the time Laila and Jeremy get home, Jean is still standing in the middle of the kitchen. He swears at the sound of the door, and finally manages to tear himself out of his trance. They only have a few hours before they need to be at the court, and if he doesn’t finish this paper before they go, it’ll never be done on time.
“Hey,” Jeremy greets.
“Hey, Laila echoes. She takes one look around the kitchen and follows up with, “Where’s Cat?”
Jean tips his head toward the hall. “Napping.”
”Figures,” Laila says. “I’ll go get her. She needs to pack, and we need to eat. I will not be caught dead buying airport food, thank you very much.”
Jean watches her go, but the moment she’s gone, his gaze trails back to the fridge. Jeremy notices, and breaks into a dimpled smile.
”You like it?” He asks. “We cleared a section in case you wanted to add more, but, well, then we realized how lonely your one looked. I got the second to keep it company.”
Jean looks at the bold black letters, at the atrociously large red heart, and thinks that the whole thing is so undeniably Jeremy. “It is hideous.”
Jeremy’s smile flickers a bit. “Tourist shops are always a little corny,” he shrugs. “We could take it down, if you want.”
He reaches out to do just that, but Jean stops him. ”Leave it. It almost makes the helmet look bearable, in comparison.”
Jean turns to him, and finds that Jeremy’s smile has turned into something softer. Jean can’t stand it, nor the heat that rises to his cheeks in response.
He moves to start on dinner, and pretends he can’t feel Jeremy’s eyes burning a hole in his back.
Jeremy is in a good mood for the rest of the night.
He’s already packed, so after dinner, he wastes time chatting with Laila and Cat while they stuff three days worth of clothing in duffel bags, and periodically comes to make sure Jean hasn’t lost his mind while he types his paper. It’s unhelpful, and Jean shoos him out each time, but Jeremy always finds his way back.
When the paper’s finished, Jean collects his own bag, and then the four of them head to the court.
They lose Jeremy to captain duties the moment they step through the door, but the remaining three of them stick together, and head to find where the rest of the team has started to gather in the locker room.
It’s November now, but it’s not the same November Jean has become accustomed to. The frigid winds and threats of snow of West Virgina are gone, and replaced by something warmer, and less harsh all around.
But still, Washington is colder than Southern California, and everyone has a coat tucked in their bag, or in their arms, and Jean finds the swishing noises the fabric makes as they move slightly irritating.
It doesn’t take long before the noise is lost to chatter, though. The Trojans are a big team, and they’re a loud team, and even after all these months Jean marvels at the way they’re allowed to speak so freely, and without care.
He’s lost so thoroughly in the thought that he doesn’t hear Xavier’s question.
“That was your first earthquake, right?” Xavier repeats. “Major one, at least. How’d you find it?”
Jean thinks of the way he pauses at the sound of every truck or helicopter, or even, recently, the sound of the washing machine going off balance. He thinks of the way he’s even warier of silence, of the way he doesn’t trust the ground beneath him. “Annoying.”
For some reason, this makes Xavier smile. “Sure is,” he agrees. “But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it eventually.”
The statement only makes Jean worry more. To think that he has to experience that feeling again is enough to turn his stomach, and he welcomes when Jeremy appears unceremoniously in the room, and stands on a bench.
Jeremy claps twice to get everyone’s attention. Everyone claps twice back, and Jeremy smiles, wide and bright.
Suddenly Jean’s stomach is turning for a new reason.
It’s getting inconvenient, this desire, this attraction, and Jean wills it to go away as Jeremy starts calling out players by their last names, and ticking them off as they respond.
By the time Jeremy’s gone through all twenty-nine of them, everyone is on their feet, and Rhemann is at the door to inform them that the bus is outside.
Jean follows the rest of the team onto it, watching as they spread out amongst the rows. It doesn’t take long for him to spot Jeremy, who’s holding onto the seat in front of him and staring down at the remaining Trojans. He smiles when he sees Jean, and Jean finds himself drifting toward it.
“Saved you a seat,” Jeremy says.
“And if I wanted to sit with someone else?” Jean asks, but he’s already sliding into the empty space.
“I’d weep from here to Seattle, and my ego would never recover.”
He’s teasing, Jean knows. A warmth spreads through his chest anyway. “You are dramatic.”
”Perhaps,” Jeremy allows. “Or maybe I’ve just grown attached.”
Maybe Jean has, too.
For months, he’s felt the fire sparking. He should’ve smothered it when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have leaned into it so carelessly, should have run away, or distanced himself at the very least, but instead, he tended to it steadily, let Jeremy feed it each day, each week, until it was a blazing inferno, unable to be tamed.
And now he’s here.
A crinkle from Jeremy’s direction draws his attention.
“Traveling requires snacks,” Jeremy says defensively, and holds up a green lined bag of…something. “We can share, if you want. They’re like, a healthy version of chips. Look, they’ve even got vegetable in the name.”
Jean’s not sure vegetables have gone anywhere near this processed horror, but he takes the bag from Jeremy’s hand anyway, and browses the back.
He takes a moment to scowl at the nutrition facts, and then passes it over again. “Somehow, I think I will live.”
The bus ride to LAX is half an hour, and in that half an hour, Jeremy proceeds to eat the entire bag of his so-called healthy veggie chips. He also proceeds to talk with his mouth full so many times that it should work to dislodge Jean’s ill-advised crush, but once they’re at the airport, Jean is watching all the lights glisten off his hair and in his eyes with the same amount of awe as he always has.
Thankfully, he has the process of getting through security to distract him. He’s been here a few times since his flight with David Wymack, and mostly, he knows what to do. But the steps are still lengthy, and the airport is still large, and Jean’s sitting vicariously on the edge of frazzled when they reach their gate.
“Alright?” Jeremy asks.
“Fine,” Jean says.
They have another hour or so before they board, and around them, he can see a few souvenir shops. Jean walks toward the closest one.
Unsurprisingly, Jeremy follows.
Cat and Laila call for them to wait up, and a second later, the four of them are splitting in two directions. Laila and Cat toward the snacks, and Jean and Jeremy toward the magnets.
There are two four-sided spinning racks lined with several types, and Jean browses through them slowly, trying to find the one he likes best. Several are mashed up landmarks on a way too small canvas, and others are variations of the Hollywood sign, or license plates with the words “Los Angeles” place of where the numbers should be.
Jean thinks them all ugly. He frowns, spinning the rack again, and again, trying to decide which one he will regret the least, until Jeremy says, “What about this one?”
He’s holding up a different magnet, from a rack Jean hadn’t seen—a little pink star with a film camera in its middle, and the word Jean right above it.
It’s clearly meant to be a name that isn’t his, but Jean takes it from him anyway, and heads to pay.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, their plane is boarding.
Jeremy finds their seats, and Jean stuffs their bags in the overhead. On account of Jean’s knees being pressed into the seat in front of him, Jeremy offers him the aisle, but Jean waves him off, and takes the window instead. Zane used to hog it, and keep the shutters closed the entire flight, no matter the time of day.
Jean plans to keep it open, and stare out at the world.
He watches the lights of the runways as the seats around them fill out, tracks the movement of planes on the ground, and in the air. It’s been months since he arrived here, months since he was introduced to open roads, and the size of the world, but even now, he still finds himself surprised at the seemingly endlessness of it all.
Beside him, Jeremy starts to shift a bit, and Jean realizes they must be getting ready to leave.
He knocks his finger against the back of Jeremy’s hand in question, and Jeremy flashes him a smile that is nowhere near as bright as usual in answer. Jean lets him have it.
Until his leg starts bouncing.
Jean tolerates it for a few seconds, and then reaches down and presses a hand to Jeremy’s knee.
Jeremy freezes.
“You are shaking the entire plane,” Jean tells him.
He says it to make Jeremy laugh, or at least to narrow his eyes and come back with his typical Har-Har, but Jeremy only apologizes. Jean sighs.
He flips the hand on Jeremy’s knee over, so that it’s palm up, and waits. It takes a moment for Jeremy to catch on, and a moment longer for him to link their fingers.
He squeezes Jean’s hand once, in thanks, and doesn’t let go until they’re well into the air, and California is nothing but a patchwork grid of lights far, far below.
In the cold, damp air of Washington, Jean’s bones ache.
He feels it the moment they step outside the airport—every break, every sprain. His fingers and knee and ribs and nose and wrists and—
“Hey,” Jeremy says, “you look a little shell-shocked. The East Coast was cold like this, right?”
Jean hums his acknowledgement. “It is not that,” he allows. He wages the reaction he knows he’ll get with the question he wants to ask, and decides it’s as tame as he can go. “Have you ever broken a bone?”
Jeremy’s face gets that look it usually does when Jean mentions his past—anger and sadness warring for control of his expression—but he manages to push it down, and replies with an easy, “My wrist, years ago.”
Now Jean looks at him curiously. “And you cannot feel it?”
“No,” Jeremy says carefully. “I was really young, so I don’t—is something bothering you?”
”It’s the weather,” Cat chimes in, coming up on his other side. “Broke my arm in high school, and I can still feel it every time we go somewhere cold, or whenever it rains. I’ve got Advil, if you want.”
Jean’s surprised that he does. In the Nest, the pain was all that kept him grounded. But here, under the Trojans’ hands, he has grown…soft. He hasn’t had a real injury in months, and he wonders at the strangeness of it.
“Sit with me,” Cat says, as they make their way onto yet another bus. “I have to find it first, and it’s better to not pass drugs up and down the length of this thing.”
Jean follows her into a pair of seats in the middle, and stares over her out the window as she digs around in her bag. He watches the rain on the glass, but anything beyond that is lost to the frost, and the night.
“Aha!” Cat shouts, and brandishes the promised bottle of painkillers. “Two for you, and two for me.”
Jean swallows them dry, but Cat tugs out a bottle of water. She makes a face at him when she sees he doesn’t need it, and then mutters something in Spanish before swallowing her own.
”So listen,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I had something to ask you, and I know we’re still like, a few weeks out, but I didn’t want to spring it on you last minute, or make you feel obliged.”
Jean raises his eyebrows. Cat taps her water bottle against her leg. “Where are you going for Christmas?”
Out of all the questions Jean expected her to ask, this was not one of them. “Am I being kicked out of the house?”
Cat blinks. “What? No. Why would you…? You signed a lease, but that’s not what I meant. I’m asking about the actual day. Who you’re celebrating with?”
The words are out faster than he means them to be. “Celebrate what?”
”Jesus, I was only asking because I wasn’t sure if you were heading back to that girl on the East Coast. Don’t tell me you’ve never—“ She cuts herself off at whatever she sees on his face. “Nevermind. You know what? Let me start over. Did Renee ask you back to South Carolina?”
She hadn’t, but even if she had, Jean would have refused her offer anyway. He shakes his head.
“Good,” Cat says. “Then it’s settled. You’ll be coming home with me, and I’ll fight whoever else I have to for your company that day. I still have kid siblings, so we’ll go the whole nine yards. Sound good?”
It sounds like a nightmare, but Jean nods anyway.
At the hotel, the Trojans congregate in the lobby, and absolutely overwhelm the girl behind the desk. She hands Rhemann a stack of keycards, which then get passed to each pair as they approach, and as they start to leave two by two, she looks more and more relieved.
Jean and Jeremy get assigned a room on the fourth floor with half the team, but Cat and Laila get stuck on the second with the other. It’s a big enough space—comprised of two queen beds, a bathroom, a window, and a television—and Jean automatically claims the bed closest to the door as his.
Jeremy accepts this without complaint, and Jean almost wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes Jeremy wasn’t so…Jeremy.
If he was violent and angry, instead of cheerful and kind; if if he didn’t cede Jean’s so space so readily; if he wasn’t so infuriatingly easy to look at—if, if, if—then maybe Jean would stand a chance.
But he is, and he does, and he is, and Jean hates it. Jean can’t get enough of it.
“I think I’m going to shower. I smell like stale air,” Jeremy says, and Jean startles at the sound of his voice. “Unless you wanted to?”
“No,” Jean manages.
He waits for Jeremy to shut the bathroom door before scrubbing his hands down his face. He needs to pull himself together. He needs to remember that this isn’t allowed, that Jeremy is too much, too bright, too good for him.
And then Jeremy comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and all Jean’s thoughts go out the window.
“I totally forgot everything I need,” Jeremy explains with a laugh, and why he couldn’t have remembered when he was clothed, Jean doesn’t know.
Jean watches him rifle through his duffle, watches the way the muscles work in his back, and when Jeremy turns around, finds newfound interest in the ugly striped carpet.
“Be right back,” Jeremy says, and disappears once more.
Jean forces himself to his feet, and starts digging through his own things. He strips out of his shirt and pants and swaps them for ones he can sleep in, before pulling out the magnet, and setting the bag back on the floor.
Jeremy finds him like that—sitting on the foot of the bed, and studying the print of his name on the star.
”Washington has some cool ones,” Jeremy says. He’s running a towel over his hair, and—thank God—he’s dressed. “They’ve got the Space Needle, and Mount Rainier.”
“I have never seen either.”
Jeremy frowns. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”
He folds the towel between his hands, and takes a seat beside Jean. “Can I ask? About the magnets? I know you had some before. But, well, my question is, why the newfound interest?”
Exercise a little freedom, Neil had said. You might like how it feels.
Jean turns the star over again, and presses his thumb against a point. “Everything has always been decided for me,” he admits. “Those magnets were gifts. I wanted to know what it would be like, to get something for myself.”
Dobson had loved the idea so much Jean had nearly hung up on her, but he couldn’t deny that choice, even if just an illusion, was a novel feeling. When he turns to Jeremy, though, the other man only looks thoughtful.
“Jean,” he says, and he sounds more than a little hesitant, “would you—“
A knocking cuts him off. Jean wonders idly what Jeremy hadn’t been able to say. But Jeremy doesn’t elaborate, or even offer to come back to it later. He just presses his mouth into a grim line, and stands.
“Hello, hello,” Laila greets when Jeremy opens the door. Jean’s more stunned than he should be to see her, and he’s even more stunned to see Cat at her side, and bags in both their hands.
“Our room has mold,” Cat supplies. “The desk is working on getting us another, but they don’t think they’ll have any until at least tomorrow morning. Do you mind if we bunk with you?”
Jeremy turns over his shoulder, and Jean knows Jeremy is leaving the choice to him. What a terrible, addicting thing.
“We were brainstorming in the elevator,” Laila says at his silence. “One of us could take the floor? Or we could squeeze Jeremy in with us. Whichever you want.”
”Or we could go bother someone else,” Cat adds. Laila nods her agreement.
Jean studies them, and their willingness to wait for his response. If he turned them away, he’s sure they would go. But they’d taken him in when they’d thought him a monster. He would not turn them away when he knew them to be friends.
“Do not be obtuse,” Jean says. “These beds can easily fit two each.”
Jeremy looks a little more than uncertain, but at Jean’s words, he waves them inside. Cat and Laila each press a kiss to Jean’s temple as they pass him to reach the other bed, and Jean prepares himself for a strange, and somewhat torturous, night.
Jeremy moves his stuff, and then hovers until Cat and Laila take to the bathroom to brush their teeth.
”I really have no problem squishing in with them,” he says. “We’ve done it before.”
Jean gets momentarily distracted by the thought of that. He shakes his head. “There is more than enough room for both of us.”
If he thought Jeremy would let him get away with taking the floor, he would. But Jeremy won’t, so Jean doesn’t, and ten minutes later, after they’ve both brushed their teeth, they take to opposite sides of the bed.
Jean chooses the side by the door, but he still hesitates at the edge, and Jeremy notices. ”Say the word, and I’ll leave.”
“You would not be in here if I did not trust you,” Jean tells him, and means it. He swallows down the lump in his throat, and slips under the covers. “Now stop talking, before I doom you to be squished.”
“We’re excellent cuddlers,” Cat protests, but Jeremy only hums, and reaches to turn out the light.
From the other bed, Jean hears movement, followed by a yawn. “Good night, you two,” Laila says.
“Good night,” Jeremy returns, and then there is just the silence, and the sounds of three other people in the same room.
With both of them lying on their backs, there is only a little space between their shoulders. Jean rolls onto his side, and props himself up on an arm. It makes him feel marginally better to have the advantage of height, but Jeremy seems unconcerned by his lower position.
“I will try not to wake you,” Jean tells him.
”It’s alright if you do,” Jeremy says softly. It’s a softness the Nest carved from each of the Ravens, and even after all these months, even though he craves it like nothing else, Jean doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Go to sleep,” Jean instructs. “You will be of no use to me tomorrow if your eyes are closed when I pass you the ball.”
He can almost hear Jeremy’s smile. “It would be a pretty impressive catch, though. Right?”
Jean gives him an unamused look. He hopes, that even in the dark, Jeremy can see it.
Jeremy must, or maybe he just assumes, because he laughs. “Alright, alright. If you need me, though, or if at any point you—“
”I will toss you out,” Jean interrupts. He means it as a warning, but Jeremy takes it a different way.
“Hey,” he says, “if I’m making you uncomfortable, then I deserve it.”
Jean can think of several things Jeremy deserves. None of them include being shoved out of a bed. All of them are better than Jean.
”Good Night, Jeremy,” Jean says, if only to put an end to this conversation.
Jeremy sighs. “Good night, Jean.”
He rolls over, giving Jean his back, and it’s only after his breaths even out, and the world settles into quiet, that Jean realizes he never asked if Washington experiences earthquakes.
Jeremy wakes first.
Jean can tell by the slowness of his motions that he’s trying to be considerate, but Jean has always been a light sleeper, and he has been in and out of consciousness all night, tossing and turning and breaking himself out of dreams where the world collapses on everything he’s ever known, and everything he’s ever loved.
At the first shift of the mattress, Jean blinks awake for good, and wills his heart to stop beating at the speed of light.
Jeremy doesn’t notice right away. Jean is content to watch as he throws off the covers, and stands, and stretches. But as Jeremy’s shirt rides up, and reveals a sliver of skin above the waistband of his pants, Jean decides to put an end to his misery.
“Good morning,” he says, and feels slightly guilty for the way Jeremy jumps.
Jeremy stares at him, wordless. And then he blinks, and seems to come back to himself. “Sorry,” he says, “I was trying to be quiet.”
“It is not your fault.” Jean sits up, and swings his legs out of bed. “I am going to shower.”
He grabs what he needs before heading in, because he is not as cruel as Jeremy, but he is not above emerging naked from the waist up just to see the reaction it gets.
It feels dangerously like walking the line between fanning the flame and getting burned, but when Jeremy’s eyes flick over his face and down to his chest, Jean’s satisfaction outweighs his common sense.
“Breakfast?” Jeremy asks, and finds interest in smoothing down his already re-made side of the bed. “Or did you want to sleep longer?”
“Breakfast is fine,” Jean says. He reaches for a shirt, and runs his hands through his hair, trying to give it some sort of life. It’s gotten long since the last time he cut it, and he has to push it out of his face just to see Jeremy again.
He’s still standing by his side of the bed, but now instead of watching Jean, he looks…pensive. “Breakfast it is, then,” he says. “But we’ll have to wake the girls first. Laila’s a bear when she doesn’t eat.”
On the other bed, Laila shifts, and rolls over from where she’s draped around Cat. “I heard that.”
Washington State’s exy court is much smaller than USC’s.
That is the first thing Jean notices upon being given a tour. The second, is that their colors are nearly the same. Only, instead of gold, they have opted for the much less vibrant gray.
Jean wishes he could have such a luxury.
But as they head into the locker room, which is half the size of theirs, he is suddenly grateful to be where he is.
They change and head out, collecting their sticks and helmets on the way, and are herded into the Away section. Already, the noise level is high, and Jean wonders distantly if they’d hear an earthquake coming.
He means to ask Jeremy, but the other man is engaged in a conversation with Derek (Thompson, not Allen), and the question seems wildly out of place.
It hardly matters, anyway. Before Jean can so much as open his mouth, he spots someone coming their way.
“I’d heard the news,” the person says, and as they get close, Jean recognizes him as Captain Ken Monteith. “I’d even seen that interview you did with Day. But still, I had to see it myself. And now that I have, I can’t say I believe it.”
He smiles wide and bright, and sticks a hand out in Jean’s direction. “Ken Montieth,” he says.
Jean stares down at it until he pulls it away. “Jean Moreau.”
Ken is taller in person than on camera, landing between Jean and Jeremy in height, and Jean judges the difference to be about two inches all around. He’s a fairly good dealer, but Jean only had eyes for the teams’ strikers when he was watching tapes of old games.
“You sure are,” Ken agrees, unfazed by the hostility. “And Captain Knox! Sorry to make you feel left out. I am simply enamored by your new star. I mean, c’mon, a Raven at the Gold Court? No fair.”
He extends the same hand to Jeremy, who shakes it, and then says, “I can hardly blame you. I’m quite enamored with him myself.”
Jean glances at him. But Jeremy’s watching Ken, who’s watching Jean. “If I’d known poaching you was an option, I would’ve been begging my coaches years ago.”
Ken cuts him a conspiratorial look. “Any chance I could persuade you farther north?”
Jean isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. Beside him, Jeremy’s gone tense. The change is small, but Jean spent too long trying to gauge Riko’s moods, and recently, too much time with Jeremy, for him not to notice.
“I am a Trojan now,” Jean tells Ken. “I do not plan to be anything else.”
Ken shrugs. “Hard to compete with the second best in the nation,” he says, and Jean is surprised to see that he’s so good humored about it. “Best of luck, and if you kick our asses, well, we’ll try not to take it personally.”
The game goes like this: Washington State gets two yellow cards, USC gets none, and by the time there’s two minutes left in the last quarter, they are tied at 15 across the board.
Jean’s equally impressed, and annoyed.
The first of the last two minutes gets squandered away to nothing more than push and pull between offense and defense, and the second hangs in the balance, frozen on the clock until the ref blows his whistle.
Jean watches as the other team sets up again. Their defense is nearly solid, but there’s a tension between three and seventeen that’s caused them to miss several passes, and a hole in eight’s control of the goal.
It’s a long shot, but Jean has an idea.
He leaves his position to head toward Laila. “Next ball you get,” he tells her, “send it my way.”
The ref blows his whistle in warning. Laila considers the concept. “You know what you’re doing?”
“You insult me to imply that I do not,” Jean says. “Just pass it to me, and I will get it where it needs to go.”
“Sure,” Laila responds, like maybe she doesn’t believe him, but Jean has neither the time, nor the patience to convince her. He jogs back to his position, and makes certain to pass Jeremy as he goes.
”Go long,” he instructs, and can only hope Jeremy understands.
It takes only a couple of seconds for the plan to come into action. The ref blows his whistle, and just like that, the ball is being thrown from one player to the next, until it’s soaring toward the goal, and into Laila’s waiting hands.
She slams it to the right. “All yours, Moreau!”
Jean hustles. He catches the ball and pivots, launching it across the court as hard as he can. He sees someone sprinting down the length of it, and can only assume it’s Jeremy.
Both teams take off after him, but they’re a second too late, and a second is all Jeremy needs. The ball goes down, and then must go airborne again, because a moment later, the goal flares red.
Jean taps his stick on the ground in satisfaction.
The game stops and starts, but when the final buzzer sounds, the Trojans are still ahead by one goal.
Cody claps him on the shoulder. Cat launches herself at him, so that Jean is forced to catch her before she sends them both flying backward. “That was beautiful,” she cries.
Jean sets her back on the ground. “I did not make the goal.”
”No,” Cody agrees, “but you made that insane pass.”
There’s a familiar whoop from somewhere on the court, and Jean looks up to find the sea of red splitting, and Jeremy heading toward them with a wide grin. “Jean Moreau, you crazy, crazy man.”
“Nice catch,” Jean says, and finds the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
”Eyes were closed, too,” Jeremy teases. Jean knocks their shoulders, and Jeremy laughs. “But give me more than a five second warning next time, would you? My heart is racing. I didn’t even know if I was going to make it.”
“I had no doubt that you would.”
Cat crosses her arms over her chest. She looks from Jean to Jeremy, and positively amused. “If you two are done gazing into each other’s eyes, we have handshakes to get to.”
Later, half the team heads down to the bar in the lobby to celebrate. The freshman and sophomores can’t drink, but some of them linger just to chat. Jeremy orders a soda on account of them having to be on an early flight, and Jean takes up a place at his side at a back table.
“So,” Jean says, while the others are getting their drinks. “You are…enamored with me?”
Jeremy’s face tints a shade of pink. He glances away, busying himself with pushing his straw around, and Jean fights with himself over things he knows he can’t have.
”How could I not be?” Jeremy says. “You’re the best backliner I’ve ever seen.”
”True,” Jean replies.
Jeremy snorts. “And the most humble, too.”
The others return shortly, with drinks of their own, and for the next hour and a half, Jean steadily brushes off praise, and bullies his way out of conversation unless he absolutely has to speak. He focuses on the ground more than he should, but it isn’t until most of the table peels off that he braves the question he meant to ask since they landed.
”Does Washington also have earthquakes?”
“Why?” Jeremy asks, and that tenseness from earlier is back. “Are you considering Ken’s offer?”
“I just want to be prepared,” Jean says. “In case the Earth splits open beneath me.”
Jeremy stares at him. Jean wonders what he said wrong, but before he can ask, Jeremy is running a hand over his face. “I knew it freaked you out. God, Jean. I’m so sorry. We really should’ve warned you.”
He puts his glass down on the table, and a hand on Jean’s shoulder. ”Okay. So from what I understand, any place on Earth can get them, but some do experience them more than others. California, for example. We can look up exact locations later. Chances of the world splitting open beneath you are slim, though. But even if it did happen, I’m either going to haul you up, or go down with you.”
He searches Jean’s face. “You know that, right?”
Jean knows this conversation is not something he wants to be having in a hotel bar.
“I am going back to the room,” he says instead.
Jeremy frowns. “I’ll come with you.”
“Stay here,” Jean insists. “You are enjoying yourself.”
”It won’t be fun without you,” Jeremy says, and then brings his glass to the bar, and starts bidding people goodnight.
Jean, despite his protests, waits for Jeremy anyway. They head up to the room together, and the silence that follows them into the elevator is uncomfortable. Jeremy’s words are echoing around Jean’s head.
If the Earth splits open beneath them, Jean knows he would shove Jeremy out of the way and take the fall himself. But he cannot deny that the concept of falling together, even if it is just a fantasy, is slightly comforting.
Jeremy opens the door to their room, but before he can go farther than a few inches, Jean catches him by the wrist, and pulls him to a stop. He pushes the door shut behind them, and crowds into Jeremy’s space.
“Jean?” Jeremy asks. The word comes out a whisper. If Jean was standing any further, he wouldn’t have even heard it.
Jean swallows, and it’s a wonder his throat doesn’t stick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He isn’t allowed to look, but he hasn’t been able to stop, and lately, he’s found he doesn’t want to.
“I do not want to drag you down with me,” Jean confesses.
They’re so close that Jeremy’s forced to tilt his head back to see Jean fully, so close that Jean’s worried Jeremy can hear his heart, fast and loud against his rib cage.
“You wouldn’t be dragging me anywhere,” Jeremy says. “I meant what I said last night. I’ve grown attached. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Jean thinks about Neil and his goal keeper, about Cat and Laila, and wonders how either of them got past this horrid moment. He tries to remember what Cat had said, something like, If you don’t want something enough to fight for it, you don’t deserve to have it.
Did Jean deserve to have this?
His place in the world had been taught to him years ago—what he deserved started and stopped with what the Moriyamas saw fit.
But Riko is dead, and Jean is no longer a Raven, and he’d walked out of hell and through a door marked Ichirou at his back, and into the light of the sun. The hard part is over. The hard part is just beginning.
Jean wants this new life as much as he fears it. He wants Jeremy as much as he fears him.
And hadn’t Cat said she’d been terrified, too?
“No,” Jean agrees. “It seems I cannot.”
He slides his hand from Jeremy’s wrist, and down to his hand, runs his thumb over Jeremy’s knuckles. “I want to kiss you,” Jean says, and it feels like a swing. “Is that okay?”
Jeremy is still looking up at him. His gaze has softened a little. Jean watches him carefully, wondering if he’s changed his mind. If he’s suddenly remembered who Jean is, and where he’d come from, and how much he does not want to be attached to such a disaster.
But then Jeremy nods. “Yes,” he says. “I’d like that.”
Jean wastes no time. He puts his free hand under Jeremys chin, and leans down, and in, watching as Jeremy’s eyes flutter closed before shutting his own. He can feel Jeremy’s heart beneath his fingers, and the quickness of his pulse is both a comfort and an encouragement.
After it becomes apparent that Jeremy’s free hand has yet to touch Jean at any point, Jean lets go of his chin to place it on his shoulder, and then tugs Jeremy closer by his waist.
He feels Jeremy’s tongue lick across his bottom lip, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there, and Jean is left wanting in its absence. He imitates the motion, wondering if he’s doing it right, wondering if Jeremy will react the same way. But Jeremy gasps in response, and Jean pulls back, searching his face.
“That was a good gasp,” Jeremy explains, and he looks a little flushed. “Promise.”
If it were anyone else, Jean might not believe him. But there’s an earnestness to his words, and on his face, and in his eyes, so Jean nods, and leans back in.
Jeremy’s mouth is soft, but firm, and Jean tries to copy whatever moves he makes. He’s kissed before, but never like this. Slow, gentle.
It’s unlike anything he’s ever had, unlike anything he’s ever felt, and he can’t get enough of it.
He lets go of Jeremy’s hand to pull him even closer, but it’s nowhere near as close as he wants to be. Jean finds himself drifting forward, into Jeremy’s hands on his shoulders, and into Jeremy’s space, and into the heat of his mouth, until Jeremy makes a noise that sounds like oof, and their chests bump a little more forcefully than they’ve been.
Jean draws back, and blinks around. Somehow, they’ve managed to cross nearly the entire room. Jeremy’s back is pressed against the wall by the television, and when Jean looks down to check on him, Jeremy is laughing.
“I think we got a little too into it.”
Jean wants to get back into it.
His eyes drift from Jeremy’s, and down to his lips, which are a little pinker than normal. Those same lips move, but whatever Jeremy’s saying is lost in the swirl of Jean’s thoughts, in the satisfaction pooling in his stomach.
“Hm?” He asks, and manages—how, he isn’t sure—to bring his gaze back to Jeremy’s.
Jeremy looks a little amused. Jean wants to kiss the smirk right off his mouth. ”I asked if you were alright?”
Jean raises his eyebrows. “Did I make you believe otherwise?”
”No,” Jeremy says carefully. “But I like to check in. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking you talk too much,” Jean tells him, but when Jeremy gives him a look, adds, “I am fine. I want to kiss you again.”
He pauses, tags on, “Are you alright?”
Jeremy smiles. “I’m great,” he says. “Kiss away, but if at any point good goes to bad, you have to tell me, okay?”
Jean nods. “You will tell me, as well?”
“I will,” Jeremy agrees, and there’s something in his eyes Jean doesn’t have a word for. Heat floods his cheeks.
”I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, if only to hide it, and is all too pleased when Jeremy tips his chin up.
This is a bad idea, Jean tells himself as their lips meet. How could he ever hope to hold onto something in a world that shakes and breaks and takes? How could he ever hope to resist this, now that he’d had a taste?
Neil was so certain that making connections made him a smarter investment, but Jean knew better. If Ichirou ever wanted to hit him where it hurt, he would come straight here, straight for this, and Jean would never forgive himself.
Jean would never survive it.
Jeremy must sense his hesitation, because he runs a hand down Jean’s bicep, and breaks away enough to speak. “Do you want to stop?” He whispers.
Jean thinks about it. There are things they need to talk about, but he hardly trusts such thin walls to hold such a heavy secret, and he is already well beyond saving.
“No,” Jean whispers back.