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Chapter Text

When they laid Riko’s body to rest, the only thing Jean could think about was Kevin Day. Kevin Day, Castle Evermore, and the fragile blades of grass near his feet. He thought he must’ve been imagining their brightness, the absolute intensity of the iridescent neon bright fucking green of them.

Riko was dead.

The pallbearers were four enormous Japanese men. Jean was thankful; he couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t have dropped the casket. It was black, of course, and emblazoned with a bright silvery ‘R’ where a cross would normally be featured. The insignia flashed white in the sun. Jean was thankful, also, that the Moriyamas were Shinto – Jean didn’t think he could handle an open casket. The other steps of the burial ceremony, specifically the wake, had been private.

The surrounding crowd wasn’t sparse. Social media blew up with tweets to Riko’s official account, ESPN lurked at the edges of the graveyard and fans sent mountains and mountains of flowers. Hydrangeas and hyacinths and poppies and lilies and baby’s breath all now piled onto the black casket until they spilled like wine over the edges, staining everything with an unreal beauty, an indecent contrast to the man himself.

There were three rows of fold out chairs filled with only Moriyamas, save for the most important one. Why would Ichirou have come? His brother was a stranger. Ichirou did nothing out of obligation – he owned Riko, but owed him nothing. To one brother, the other was an unpleasant gouge mark, marring the glass of the Moriyama’s glittering reputation.

Castle Evermore was never going to be the same again.

Jean stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Ravens, at the forefront of the crowd. Their matching postures, their frowns, and their all black ensemble – none of it was unusual except for its absence of red. Perhaps Tetsuji was trying to avoid media backlash; one might think it crude. Jean didn’t think so. He wanted red sleeves. He wanted red from the cufflinks of his mourning suit to the creases in the shoulders, crinkled from one too many hands resting there and one too many, “The Ravens will come back from this.”

The Ravens will never come back from this, thought Jean, and he watched as Riko’s mother went to stand silently next to Tetsuji. They weren’t holding hands. They stood like Ravens, feet planted shoulder width apart, hands clasped together in front of their stomachs. There was no silent show of support between the two. In fact, if Jean didn’t know who they were, he would have thought them complete strangers. The two feet between them stretched years, oceans, lifespans.

Jean thought of Kevin Day.

The Ravens stepped forward as a unit to toss soil onto the coffin. They weren’t as disconnected as the Moriyamas; they wore their grief proudly. Luke – one of the two starting backliners – was crying. He was pissed at Luke almost before he realized it. His mouth twisted into a sneer before stilling at the taste of salt. Jean hadn’t recognized the fat tears dripping off his own face.

A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to stare at the devil’s familiar green eyes.

“I’m—” started Kevin, but he trailed off. Jean shifted his weight from one leg to the other and Kevin’s hand fell away.

“He was…” Kevin started and stopped again, in French, “Have you thought any more about the Tro –”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Jean interrupted, in English. “I changed my mind.”

Kevin’s eyes flickered from the lowered coffin to the Moriyamas, who had begun to get up and leave. A black line began to form and descend from the green to a vehicle waiting at the graveyard gates. Jean stared hard at the gaunt corners of his former teammate’s face.

It felt like falling asleep. This funeral. The vastness of it.

“You can’t stay here,” said Kevin.

Jean didn’t respond. Instead, he tracked the movement of the priest wandering next to Riko’s mother. The priest lifted a hand as if to console her, but the glare she sent him was enough that he awkwardly meandered away to another dark haired family member. Their glare sent him scuttling backwards, knocking into another Moriyama.

Kevin began to say something else, something about signing with the Exy team at USC.

“I haven’t signed anything yet,” said Jean, a lie too big to fool either of them.

As if sensing Jean’s stare, the priest looked right at him. Kevin started to say something else. The pair must have looked far from friendly, but the priest, with a bravery known to few men, made his way over.

He made as if to put his hand on Jean’s shoulder. The Raven quickly stepped out of his reach but the priest was already speaking. “You must be Jean. The three – you were part of Riko’s perfect –”

Jean’s stare was hard but he’d been raised a Catholic so he kept his mouth shut to keep the lord’s name from escaping. Though he had to bite his lips closed do it.

The glare was enough. The priest faltered and faced Kevin instead, bumbling through his first name. “Kevin Day? Two and three together, here. You know, it’s truly something. Riko was your best friend, you know that, didn’t you? His Court. His family. You were like a –”

“Excuse me,” said Kevin and it was a strangled sound.

The priest looked startled but he quieted before taking a step away. Though he moved on, Jean’s former teammate did not.

“The Trojans want you for a backliner.”

Unbelievable.

“Now isn’t the time,” Jean hissed.

“You’re doing it,” Kevin’s voice pitched low, momentary tension from before vanished. “You gave me your word months ago.

“I gave my game to someone else first.”

“Jeremy Knox already announced it on live television.”

“I haven’t yet discussed this with the Master.”

“Because he won’t speak with you,” Kevin said. “You’re not a Raven anymore, Jean.”

“It’s too late for you, but not me,” Jean said to make Kevin flinch. “Not if I go back now.”

Kevin didn’t look away. “He never forgives.”

“He isn’t even cold in the ground.”

There was quiet between the two now. Jean watched Kevin from the corner of his eye and Kevin watched the people who were placing offerings on the coffin.

The shrill words were like a bucket of ice water upended on both their heads, chilling them with the shock of it. Jean said it to wound but wasn’t expecting the potency of the hit with the way Kevin shuddered.

Jean could feel it leeching the heat from his own limbs.

When the Ravens moved forward, Kevin and Jean moved with them, following their former coach. Tetsuji began to lower something ornately and extravagantly decorated. It was an Exy stick.

A laugh rang out before it was stifled at the edges of the green. Jean wasn’t the only one who whipped around, furious.

They weren’t wearing their jersey numbers, but he would have recognized the blond midget and his scarred boyfriend anywhere. Neil Josten had his face turned away, one hand reaching up to tug a baseball cap down over his eyes. His shoulders were shaking. Jean doubted it was from grief. Judging by the blood draining from Kevin’s face, he probably didn’t think so either.

“Scurry back to your guard dogs,” sneered Jean. “The Master isn’t fond of interruptions. Take them away before he sees fit to kill them for it.”

That night, as Jean lay hidden away at the Fox’s team nurse’s house, he thought about Exy.

At the moment, he was so sore; he almost wondered if he could play before summer. His whole body was a Munch painting, a brilliant plethora of reds and yellows, browns and blues. He thought he could, though. His nose and ribs were broken but nothing else was. He’d also have to be careful about getting checked; if his helmet shoved against him the wrong way, it’d pull at the 16 stitches that kept his right cheek attached to his chin.

His biggest issue right now was that he was stuck in South Carolina. Not only were his escape attempts futile, but they also cost him his privacy: he could hear Abby move from bedroom, to kitchen to living room and back again until well past one in the morning. He knew she was keeping awake to keep an eye on his closed door.

Kevin’s influence, he was sure. By signing with the Foxes, Kevin had gained a second chance but in Jean’s opinion, he’d also signed his own death certificate. And right after dotting the i in his name, Kevin crossed Jean’s off the list of important people in his life.

And then Kengo died and everything went to hell.

Jean thought about what Kevin said at the funeral, about the announcement on live television. That Trojans’ captain put it out there like that said a lot about their team. He was ensuring Jean didn’t go back on his word, without the harsh bite of a physical threat. Paper was just paper, after all, Jean pretended to convince himself; it was easy to misplace, or rip up.

The Trojans’ post-game interview after losing to the Ravens was shockingly optimistic. They’d been eliminated from championships but Jeremy Knox said, “We almost had it, right? I don’t think anyone was expecting us to get that close.”

No kidding, thought Jean, the first time he watched that interview; Kevin had warned him ahead of time that his transfer would be announced after the Trojans/Edgar Allan game.

“Worst time of year for someone to be injured,” the reporter agreed. “Rumor has it Jean won’t make it back in time for finals.”

Onscreen Jeremy didn’t hesitate, displaying an eagerness that translated well across the TV screen. “Yeah, I spoke to Jean earlier this week. He’s definitely done for the year but he’ll be back in the fall.”

Then, impeccably, a twitch at the corner his mouth. “He just won’t be back in black.”

Jean’s eyes narrowed.

“Yesterday he faxed us over the last of the paperwork we needed to make this thing official, so I’m allowed to tell you: he’s transferring to USC for his senior year.”

He heard the words and felt the weight of Riko’s coffin on his chest. In a way, Jean put him there himself. He closed his eyes.

Ichirou’s agreement was fragile as a spiderweb. In a thunderstorm it would fall apart and the signed contract in the bottom drawer of his borrowed dresser was a very dark storm cloud. Jean pushed himself off of the bed, wincing when the too big breath in his lungs pressed against his cracked ribcage. He stuck the end of one crutch in the handle of the drawer to pull it open. He pulled out the papers just to look at them.

The room was just starting to light up with the pale blue of dawn. Jean had spent the night staring at the ceiling, remembering the half of his life spent in the windowless Nest. The sunlight streaming in now was unnerving.

In June, Kevin and Wymack flew Jean out to USC. It had been four months since Renee had taken it upon herself to find Jean a new home and one since the worst of his injuries had completely healed.

Jean texted her, “This is a mistake.”

Her reply was instantaneous. “The Trojans aren’t Ravens but they’re one of the top teams in the country.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say exactly, but it did make Jean feel marginally less regretful about getting on the plane. When he took too long to reply, Renee sent him another text.

“You will find your place.”

It was followed by a smiley face that made Jean scoff. She couldn’t possibly think the Trojans could offer him a safe space. There was no such thing. The words themselves were an illusion. The closest thing Jean had to that was the warm feeling in his muscles after a tough practice.

Kevin and Wymack were sitting in the front of the rented car, not speaking. Andrew Minyard sat this trip out, for reasons unknown to Jean. Likely, the man no longer wanted any part in Raven affairs. More likely, he felt his deal with Kevin didn’t include ex-teammates. All the better. Ever since New Year’s, the line of Minyard’s mouth was hard, his eyes cold and blank. The man was more Raven than Jean was comfortable with.

As they pulled into the court parking lot, Jean spotted a man in red and gold track pants at the stadium entrance. He left the court doors open before jogging over to where Wymack pulled over on the curb.

“Coach Wymack,” the man beamed.

“Morning,” said Wymack, “Jean, Kevin, this is Coach Rhemann.”

“Kevin and I are already on good terms,” said Rhemann, “But Jean, we haven’t met in person yet. We’re very excited to take you on.”

His handshake was firm and too long.

“Can’t wait to see what you can do here, Jean.”

Jean opened his mouth, but thought better of it. The drive had been lengthy, and it was hot out, his clothes too heavy for this California sun. His mood was so sour right now, the only thing that could come out was something hateful and he didn’t want to make a bad impression on his coach before he even got the chance to meet the team.

Wymack jumped in, “Thanks, again, Jimmy.”

Rhemann let out a belly laugh. “Well Wymack, you know, it’s taking a chance of course, but I’ve seen the boy play. He’s a real talent. I’m not the only one who thinks so, but – ”

As they talked Jean’s eyes drifted from the conversation to the court’s open door. It was bright enough outside that he had to squint but he could just make out the inside, a long hallway lit up by fluorescents. His chest tightened. There weren’t any stairs. No twenty-six steps leading down, that he could see.

“—good investment –”

The words caught Jean’s attention again, and he tuned back into the conversation. Wymack was nodding to whatever Rhemann was saying, cutting in with, “Yeah, Jean’s a good kid.”

Kevin’s eyes were on him. Neither of them missed the terminology. They were trying not to make Jean sound like a pity project, but the word investment stayed with him. I’m still property, he realized. I’ve just been traded from one team to another.

The grim reminder must have shown on his face because Kevin took one look at him, and started walking towards the court doors. Jean followed, grateful for the chance to leave this awful conversation and the scorching sun on his back. The coaches trailed behind them, not pausing in conversation.

“When I got your e-mail, David, I couldn’t believe it,” Rhemann was saying. His voice lowered. “Of course, it’ll be hard, and he’ll have to take it easy with the injuries and all—”

“He’s almost completely healed but yeah, Jimmy, he won’t be up to jumping immediately into practice– ”

Kevin pushed open the court doors and, as if sensing Jean’s hesitation about stepping into new territory, he sped up. Wymack and Rhemann paused when Jean did, though he quickly got over his hesitation and followed Kevin, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

“No, no, of course not, this is just a meet and greet. Though, I have to admit, the best way to integrate him is during a team practice.”

Rhemann raised his voice a little, “You’re welcome to watch, until you’re feeling up to joining in.”

Jean knew he was being addressed but didn’t turn around. He wondered, absently, if Rhemann said it like that to rankle him. Ravens didn’t sit out.

The group fell silent as Kevin led them though the Trojan’s locker rooms, lobby, and the coach’s office. Rhemann started to explain each station but gave up when neither Kevin nor Jean paused in their pursuit of the court.

Finally, Jean pushed open huge double doors, and the unmistakable sound of a ball smashing against Plexiglas echoed around his head. He didn’t falter, didn’t smile but increased his brisk pace until he was staring out into the stadium.

It was smaller than what he was used to, though significantly bigger than the Foxes’ little hole in the wall. The letters USC were in gold on either end of the court behind the goals, and the stadium seats were stripes of red and white. He’d played here before, and he felt a surprising ache at being on familiar territory.

A few Trojans were doing laps around the court, but the count was too small to be the whole team. A tan, freckly man broke away from the group when he saw Jean and Kevin. As he got closer, his grin took over his whole face.

“Kevin Day! In the flesh!” He reached out and the two clasped hands.

Kevin beamed back at him fiercely. “Jeremy. It’s good to see you.”

“‘Bout time you came around! Here to take notes?”

The corners of Kevin’s mouth threatened to touch his ears. “Not this time, unfortunately. I know you guys have met before, but here’s an official introduction: Jeremy, meet Jean Moreau.”

Jeremy Knox still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Jean! Great to meet you! Saw that last game against Penn State – that was an absolutely incredible play in that second half!”

Jean instantly despised him. Instantly.

If the Trojans’ captain noticed, he didn’t let on, but his smile remained cheery. “You’re just in time, bro. Practice hasn’t started yet but a few of us were just doing some laps.”

It wasn’t a question so Jean didn’t say anything. Kevin answered for him.

“We’ll join you in a sec. What time does practice start?”

Jeremy rolled back on his heels. “Uh, when everyone gets here, I guess. Officially it starts at nine, but we thought we’d do introductions first.”

Kevin nodded empathetically, as if he would ever wait for anyone else before starting practice. A girl with dreadlocks tied back into a bun came up behind Jeremy, her face significantly less smiley.

“Jean Moreau? I’m Laila Dermott. Vice-captain of the Trojans.” She gave him an assessing look. Unconsciously, Jean stood a little straighter, though he already had about half a foot on her. Her presence was large enough Jean considered offering a handshake, though the thought was quickly dismissed. Her hands stayed planted on her hips. Jean’s stayed clenched at his side.

One by one, Trojans flocked over, introducing themselves excitedly. As more players trickled in through the court entrance, their noise got louder until they were shouting over each other to be heard by Jean and Kevin.

A red-haired boy with an upturned nose stuck his hand in Jean’s face. Jean, who was eyeing the court more than the people on it, flinched back.
“You must be Gene – I’m Dyl— ”

“Jean.”

“What?”

“It’s pronounced Jean.”

“Shawn?”

“…Ok.”

“Anyway, I’m a backliner too. We watched that game against the Jackals earlier in the semester and that defense was incredible, you have to meet–”

As he prattled on, more and more of them pressed in, and not just to speak to Jean. One or two of them greeted Kevin like old friends, and Kevin, clearly uncomfortable with the familiarity, shook some hands before retreating into conversation with Jeremy. When Jeremy glanced away, Kevin made a quick escape with a flimsy, “I have to talk to Wymack.”

Jean rolled his eyes. It was half amusing to watch Kevin struggle but hard to keep from doing the same thing.

After all the introductions were made, Jeremy clapped his hands together and pushed his team towards the court.

“Okay everybody, that’s enough of that. How about we run some drills? And then I want to split up for scrimmage.” He caught Jean’s eye and grinned again. “It’s only been a month but I don’t want to see any sign that someone hasn’t practiced. Freshmen, that goes for you too. Play hard, because afterwards, I have an announcement and not all of you are going to like it.”

There were some murmurs. A moment later, Laila nodded and strode briskly towards the court. Jean watched a girl with skin like melting gold run to catch up, hip-checking her when she was close enough. Laila didn’t stumble, but cast an offbeat glance her way. The rest of the team followed, chattering like monkeys.

“Jean,” Jeremy caught up to him when he began to follow the rest. “You can… you can sit this one out for today. We know you were pretty badly injured.”

Jean’s eyes narrowed. “I thought this was a meet and greet.”

Jeremy faltered. “Well… yeah.”

“How am I supposed to get to know the team if I’m not playing with them?”

Jeremy opened his mouth like he wanted to argue more.

Jean couldn’t hold back the thought: if he’d spoken like that to Riko, he would have been beaten hard enough he actually needed to sit out. Captain Sunshine, on the other hand, only pursed his lips before nodding.

“Alright. Run a few laps before jumping in. Have you played at all since March?”

This was the question Jean was dreading. In truth, he hadn’t, save for a halfhearted drill against Kevin, midway through which he stood up and left the stadium. He held an Exy stick and felt the weight of it smashing against his face. He saw doors lock for practice, and remembered the sound of them clicking shut when all the lights went off and he lay on the Raven court, bleeding.

“Jean?”

Jean jerked himself out of his memories. “Yes. I’ve played.”

Jeremy didn’t look one hundred percent convinced. He stayed silent then said, “Look, I know it’s early. I’ve got some five-hour energy bottles in my duffle you’re welcome to. It’s on the bench, the yellow one.”

Some? Jean thought at the same time as someone from the court bellowed, “Jeremy!”

“I’m not tired,” said Jean.

“Alvarez, hold on!” Jeremy hollered. As his back was turned, Jean began to make his way towards Kevin, who was standing with Wymack and Rhemann near the benches.

They were speaking enthusiastically, not paying attention to his approach. Kevin was wearing a superior expression on his face.

“Ravens don’t like being alone,” he said, looking Jean right in the eye. Jean didn’t know whether he was responding to Wymack or Rhemann. Both coaches were giving him a cryptic look.

Jean’s expression stayed flat, and he didn’t slow down. Kevin was right, after all. Ravens didn’t like to be alone. The sting was in the fact that Kevin knew this, and he still left.

“It’s what we’re most comfortable doing,” Kevin was explaining. “We play Exy.”

Wymack was watching Jean too, and shaking his head. “You damn kids. Jean, you went through a traumatic experience. No one would think less of you for sitting this one out.”

Jean wished they weren’t having this conversation in front of Rhemann. “I’m good to play,” he bit out and the words were addressed to the Trojans’ coach.

He shrugged and told Jean and Kevin where to find gear to change into.

He already had a locker here, with a note and his new number – 9 – letting him know that his jersey and all his new gear were inside. Changing into backliner gear again felt right.

Perhaps right wasn’t the word. Jean hadn’t felt right since running away to South Carolina. Reconnected, maybe. Safer.

Kevin didn’t change, though he sent the spare gear a longing look. When Jean was changed, they jogged in slow laps around the court, silent as they watched the Trojans drills. Completely alone like this, Kevin reminded him of all the ways it was harder for Ravens to integrate themselves when separated. Only Ravens knew Raven drills and absolutely no one played Exy quite like them.

Jean thought of all he was leaving behind and tried not to shiver.

Riko is dead.

If he said it enough, possibly, maybe, it would seem true.

Jeremy held up a hand to stop for practice after their fifth lap around the court. Jean and Kevin slowed. They exchanged a long look.

“Wymack said we’re dropping your stuff off at your dorm,” Kevin said, finally. Jean nodded. He didn’t have much stuff. “Our plane is tonight. If you need anything…”

He left the thought unfinished. Part of Jean wanted to appreciate the sentimentality of it, but mostly he felt sick. He held out his hand. Kevin clasped it and pulled him in for a short hug and hard pat on the back.

Jeremy waited until they separated before speaking. Jean hadn’t even noticed the captain approach.

“You gunna get going?” he said to Kevin.

“Our flight is at 7.”

“Can’t leave the Foxes alone for too long, huh?”

Kevin grimaced. “Even a day is too long. By time I get back, Neil probably will have already released scandalous photos of the team, tweeted something cryptic and rude the press is going to lose their shit over, and set the place on fire.”

“Minyard wouldn’t have stopped him?” Jeremy joked.

“Andrew will have helped.”

Jean rolled his eyes as Jeremy laughed, and then looked over at the court again. He saw the rest of the team still practicing drills. Suddenly familiar hard plastic was being pressed into his hands.

“We’re going to split up for scrimmage in a second,” Jeremy said, letting go of the Exy stick and taking a step back. Jean saw his eyes flicker behind him, to a place in the stands. He threw a glance back to see Rhemann shrug, faking nonchalance, but his hands were laced together and he was leaning forward intently.

Kevin was already walking off the court, but the look he threw back to Jean spoke volumes. Prove yourself on the court. Let the game consume you.

Then Jean was alone.

Chapter Text

“Laila!”

The goalie in question perked up as her captain made his way over. The reluctant new Trojan followed, ignoring the overeager look Jeremy shot him. He had a skip in his step that Jean normally associated with children.

“We’re splitting for scrimmage. Grab a striker, a backliner, and a dealer, then meet me at home goal,” Jeremy told her.

He scanned the crowd and shouted out five names from the group still sweating from drills. “You’re at the away goal. The rest of you, take a breather and in twenty minutes we’ll switch out.”

He set off again, not towards the away goal but to where his duffle bag was slumped over the athlete’s bench. Jean began to head to the home goal but the shout of his name had him rocking to a stop. He schooled his features to keep the aggression out of the look thrown over one shoulder.

Jeremy was digging around his bag. He rummaged until he found a plastic reusable water bottle.

“Alright Jean!” His toothy grin was blinding. Jean squinted.

“What is it?”

“So just a rehash – Laila’s a goalie and I’m a striker and—” he peered in the direction of the home goal “—looks like she’s got Dylan, he’s a backliner too—”

“I know who they are,” Jean interrupted.

“You’ve been here for what, two seconds? Let me finish –”

“Didn’t forget.”

Jeremy laughed. “I’m sure. But they all kind of threw themselves at you at once. They want to see what you’re made of. Just don’t let them get to you.

Jean ignored the twitch in his fingers and the excited tremble right above his ribcage. He was eager to oblige.

In front of him, Jeremy didn’t miss Jean’s hand becoming a fist. He worried the bottle’s cap between index finger and thumb; evidently, he was coming to the wrong conclusion.

A tiny orange and purple bottle was withdrawn from the duffle bag. He shook it at Jean.

“You’re welcome if you want it.”

Jean eyed the bottle with a certain amount of incredulity. Energy enhancers gave you a burst of adrenaline that wore off in a few hours and left you a collapsed mess on the floor. The look didn’t go unnoticed; the bottle disappeared back inside the bag and was replaced by a second water bottle.

“I always pack two,” said the fucking Boy Scout.

Jean chugged a third of the bottle and then swished the water around his mouth.

Then he headed down court. He didn’t look back to see if the good captain was following him; his sight was focused on the home goal. Figures in blue mesh scrimmage shirts stilled as he got near. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others slowing on their way to the away goal and he ignored the burning stares on his back from the players in the bleacher.

He walked slowly to give them a show, straightening his shoulders and standing tall. Arrogance dripped from his helmet to the tip of his Exy stick.

Dylan was examining his gloves, feigning nonchalance, but his stance was forced, feet unnaturally far apart. The dealer – Maria, Jean remembered – was shifting her weight from hip to hip and back again. Jean didn’t waste time scrutinizing her.

Laila barked at Jean where to stand, pointing with a helmet dangling off her fingertips.

“Keep it friendly! No checking!” Her voice was loud enough to ring across the court.

Jean took his place.

The game promised to bruise. Everyone on both teams tracked the ball with their eyes as the dealer slammed it at the away goal. It was intercepted by Alvarez not a full second later. She took nine steps and smashed the ball against the Plexiglas, where it was taken next by a nearby striker. That person was Jean’s mark. His feet were hot against the floor as he took off towards her, ignoring the other players circling.

Dylan was standing completely still, Jean noticed, annoyed. He was at four steps when he slid to a stop. The striker’s racquet shifted in her hand and Jean could see her wrist angling to throw to her teammate. Directly behind her, Alvarez grinned at him, the smile all teeth.

The striker let the ball fly. Jean took another three steps, and caught it before it could enjoy freedom for more than a moment. He spun, spotting a second enemy striker bouncing on the balls of his feet a good distance behind Dylan.

“Pay attention,” Jean snapped at him.

Startled, Dylan glanced around to all sides. Jean didn’t wait to see if he would notice his mark. Instead, he darted between players before lifting the racquet to pass the ball.

He only got a split second’s notice. He looked up and there was a player tripping over his own feet towards him. Jean was taller but this person had the advantage of out of control speed that sent him flying towards Jean.

Jean could have braced himself for a shoulder in his stomach. He could have side stepped it. Laila said no checks. But there was adrenaline buzzing in his ears and suddenly his racquet was shaking too hard for him to hold.

He fumbled.

The two steps he took forward to meet the striker were full of malicious intent but his arms seemed to have forgotten how to play Exy. His racquet felt like it was made of stone.

His hands dropped and the ball bounced out of his net.

Jean froze.

A sharp pain pressed against the soft hollow in the back of his head. With a belated bout of dizziness, Jean realized it was an oncoming migraine. He didn’t have time to readjust his grip on the racquet.

No shoulder came. Incredibly, the other player skidded to a stop and stumbled around Jean to slam into the Plexiglas. The man pushed himself off with a wince and faced Jean. A split second after the striker turned his head, he stuck out his racquet. The ball flew directly into the net from somewhere behind Jean. Jean’s legs buckled and he staggered forward, no outlet for his violence except a frustratingly close call with the ground.

“Jean!” he heard the sharp edge in Jeremy’s voice. “Get on your end of the court!”

Knox was right. Somehow, he’d ended up closer to the away goal.

Jean jogged back to place, keeping an eye on the ball as it wrestled its way expertly from hand to hand. When the striker came back again, Jean tried to block him, but didn’t give chase. He observed.

It was as if the team was engaged in a complex, 12-person fight. They functioned as a unit but there was no mechanical drive to the motion. It was fast and aggressive and intimate.

The striker fired at the goal but Dylan snatched the ball out of the air.

The Trojans were a team other Class I players looked up to. Even the Ravens watched their tapes.

However, the Trojans hadn’t beaten the Ravens since the year before last. Jean remembered playing these people. He remembered their weak spots and used them. It might’ve worked out better for them if Jeremy had put any freshman on the court. But when Jean got called out for the third time for knocking a player to their ass, he started to pull back.

Alvarez was baiting him in the way players baited each other to push them past their comfort zones. He could tell she was expecting more fight. She met his eyes across the court and sneered at him every time she neatly tripped up a striker without checking him. Jean sneered back.

Playing Exy took him to a ruthless place. He would lose himself there and when he was lost, he didn’t care who he knocked down. At some point during the scrimmage, he became more of an unwilling bystander than an active participant. Every time his racquet reverberated too hard against the floor, his mind filled with memories of his wrists pressed hard against the cold court floor and Tetsuji beating the sympathy out of him with an oriental cane.

Now, he barely felt anything. Riko clung to his brain.

The game slowed and Jean’s head felt light as he spun the racquet in his hand. When he was a backliner for the Ravens, Riko had always been open to receive the shot; but that was a crutch. Kevin called Jean out on it when they practiced together, and he could feel the burn of Trojan gazes calling him out on it now. He could be as aggressive as he needed to be with the Ravens. Here, there was no striker waiting by the goal for the right pass, the right shot. The Ravens and the Trojans were two well-oiled machines – but made of completely different material.

After twenty minutes had gone by, Rhemann blew the whistle and the teams switched out. Those who just got off the court began dissecting their performance.

This was familiar. If the feel of an Exy racquet in his hands wasn’t enough for him to fall into routine, this brutal scrutiny of each player’s mistakes would do it.

Jeremy fell onto the floor next to Jean and pulled his duffle bag close to open it. He chugged the water he found inside, and then spoke, “Okay, for the first practice scrimmage of the season, it was…a really good start!”

He wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. Some players shuffled closer.

“A good start!” he repeated with a grin. “But there was a lot of mistakes out there and a lot we can improve on. Laila? You wanna go first?”

The goalie sat cross-legged next to Alvarez. She rubbed at her eyes, complained about her contacts, and then ripped into the team in the most ruthless, systematic take down Jean had ever heard.

She went into generous descriptions of each player’s style and flaws, what she remembered from last year and how to fix the bad habits that carried on into this year.

Her critique was wordy and grotesque; every time she took a breath, everyone winced and sat up straighter.

Jean was surprised when the Trojan captain stayed silent. He glanced over and saw that Jeremy was absorbed in watching the other team’s scrimmage.

“Look,” Jeremy said, suddenly. “Laila’s harsh but she’s right. Look how Jason is handling the ball. And see... - see how he pulls a v-cut before passing? And he’s there next to the goal, to catch the pass to score. He never stops moving.”

He glanced at Laila to make sure she was finished and then scooted forward a bit, tapping an energetic beat on his knee. “I’m so excited, you guys. This year we’re taking home the championship! But we have some work to do before we get there. Anyone else have anything to add?”

Laila looked bored. Alvarez had a maniacal smile and Dylan, the other backliner, was fidgety. Jean leaned back on his hands and waited.

“Yeah,” Alvarez spoke up. “I do.”

She cut her eyes to Jean.

“Actually,” Jeremy said, cheerfully. “Why don’t we take a break?”

Alvarez laughed. Laila scoffed and pulled her girl to her feet. Jean dug his fingernails into the ground’s wood grain and thought about his performance on the court. Laila hadn’t spared anybody, but when his turn came, she hadn’t lashed out either. Instead, she was almost gentle in chiding him about not sticking close enough to his mark and letting Dylan block the majority of the shots.

Jean waited until Jeremy had stood up and strutted over to where Coach Rhemann was making notes in the stands. Then he heaved himself up and followed Alvarez to the lockers.

When she saw him coming, she stopped. Next to her, Laila turned, considered him, and carried on.

Alvarez didn’t wait for him to catch up. She pivoted left, away from the locker rooms, and towards the court doors. The two slipped quietly past the open doors and once in the hallway, Alvarez rocked to a stop. Jean, familiar with Raven hazing, kept a good distance between them.

“You let Dylan do all the work,” was the first thing she said.

It seemed like she was waiting for a response but Jean had nothing to add. Her nostrils flared.

“Your playing is weak,” she shot at him. “Laila was nice about it but let’s be honest.” She waited for a rebuttal and glared at him when he stayed quiet. “We’ve seen your tapes. We know you can play.”

There was a great piece of wall right behind her left ear.

“So what. The fuck. Was that?”

Jean shrugged.

Alvarez was a shark. All teeth. “Listen, I saw that thing with Martin. You froze when you thought he was going to ram into you. And then you dropped the ball. And then you let him go.” She took a breath. “And then you stopped playing.”

She wasn’t smiling anymore. “I know the Ravens were a difficult team to be a part of, but the scrimmages here aren’t violent. There are no real rules, but just don’t get a red card. You don’t have to be afraid of—”

“You don’t know anything,” Jean interrupted, “Bon sang, could you be more condescending? Christ.”

She fell silent, both eyebrows arched.

“Listen, asshole. You need a friend and I’m here to be that person for you,” she said, putting a hand over her heart and giving him a sincere look that, by Jean’s math, had to be at least 80% bullshit. “But I’m not going to be fucking nice about it.”

“Whatever.”

“Seriously, were you even trying?”

“Were you?” Jean shot back. “Any of you? Dylan was too busy watching me to pay attention to his mark; he almost cost us a point within the first two minutes. Martin is good with his hands, but shit on his feet. Even when he was about to hit me, he was stumbling everywhere. You call this Exy? Watching you play is like watching a complex game of fetch.”

She didn’t say anything but there was something suspicious lurking in the corner of her mouth. As Jean turned to go, she spoke up.

“I was worried,” she said at last. “But you know what? I think you’ll do just fine here.”

Jean grimaced and they were both silent for a moment.

“A bunch of us are going out on Friday,” said Alvarez, turning to head back to the court. “We’re going to a bar off Main.”

Jean scoffed. “No thanks.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“I’m not going.”

Her answering cackle echoed in the hallway as the court doors shut behind them.

“Okay guys,” said Rhemann, clapping his hands together. “Got some news that’s going to affect you in a big way.”

After another hour and a half of practice, the Trojans regrouped, critiqued their performance and then finished off with brief drills. Now, they all sat in a circle in the center of the court, tired, sweaty, and ready to go home. They’d been chatty and shuffling around, but at their coach’s words silence fell over the group.

“We’re going to try something a little bit different this year. For you freshmen, let me explain: Last year, we lost during finals to the Foxes.”

“We wanted to see if we were really hot shit or not,” Jeremy said, mouth curved up in a lazy grin. “We shortened the line up to nine people.”

The twenty-eight Trojans cast their eyes around at each other and squirmed in place.

“Yes,” said Rhemann. “And we lost—”

“We’re stronger for it,” Jeremy said.

“You’re right. But we lost. Our biggest problem was that we barely practiced playing full halves. ”

“Full halves?” someone repeated.

“Instead of switching out when a player got tired, or over-exerted themselves—”

“We tried to keep the same people on the court from the beginning of the game until half time,” interrupted Jeremy. “We’re going to try something a little different this year. If the Foxes can play a full season with only nine people, I don’t see why we can’t either.”

Jean wasn’t the only one who raised an eyebrow. Exy teams had six players on the court at a time, with two or three subs for each position. Starting line up was made up of the best players on the team, but when they got hurt, they were switched out for another player.

“You mean for starting line?” some else called out. It was Dylan. He was splayed on the ground but when he asked his question he pushed himself forward with a confused look on his face.

“Not quite! The starting line from last year was –” Jeremy started and then caught Rhemann’s eye. “Sorry, Coach.”

“By all means, Captain.” He gestured for Jeremy to continue.

“As you guys know, starting line up is based on how well you perform on the court. We take effort, consistent improvement, and efficiency into consideration. But there’s something to be said about putting the same players on the court each week. Instead, you’ll have the chance to earn your place on the starting line up to play full halves every game for the entire next season.

“So you’re saying, realistically, someone might go a full season without playing?” asked Karley, a senior dealer.

“Not if everybody puts their best foot forward!” Jeremy replied, sidestepping the question with a deceptive puppy-dog smile.

There was a collective groan and somebody mumbled something about extra practices.

“This isn’t to torture you guys, but strive to push ourselves to constantly change and improve!

“You’re striving to push me to cardiac arrest,” Dylan groaned. “I couldn’t even stand up after last year’s game.”

“Better work on that. Or come December, you’ll be packing your bags,” Rhemann cut in.

The grumbling came to an abrupt stop. “What?”

Jeremy’s smile turned apologetic as he looked over the shocked faces of his team. He met Jean’s eyes. “If you can’t demonstrate your ability to keep up with your teammates, then you’ll be cut from the team.”

It had been three days since the Trojans’ captain had made his announcement. Since then, two freshmen had decided to transfer to other schools rather than stick out the season and see if they made the cut. Jean couldn’t blame them. It was risky; being cut from the team meant losing their athletic scholarship and all the perks that came with it. It was June; just barely early enough for some of them to call up their fall back schools.

Jean was scooping protein powder into a blender bottle. Today’s practice had been just as lovely as the past four. A blind, aggravated grizzly bear holding an Exy racquet might have done better than Jean, today.

Jean was exhausted; the last few months’ lack of playing had made him sluggish. His skills weren’t where they should have been. The second team practice he spent with Alvarez, Laila and Jeremy, learning Trojan drills. He saw the other players watching them from the corner of his eye and ignored them. He wasn’t here to make friends.

Despite that, Alvarez and Jeremy were giving it their best effort. Alvarez texted him twice, reminding him about their bar plans, and showed up at his dorm once, to ‘assess the situation’. Apparently that meant check if he had roommates (he didn’t) and clothes beyond athletic wear (he did). It would be invasive if Jean weren’t so used to a team where the word privacy meant sometimes you got to piss by yourself.

He pulled almond milk from his mini-fridge and the bag of chia seeds that sat on top. Protein shakes were his primary source of nutrition, as he didn’t care to join the others in the dining hall. It was enough he had to see them at practice, and all over the athlete’s dorm, Trojan Hall. The three-story residence hall consisted of a TV area and lounge, a gym, a faculty apartment, and 12 double rooms on the first floor. The second and third floors each had 44 double rooms and a study room.

Jean lived in a double on the third floor by himself. When he saw the empty bed next to his, he had immediately called Kevin.

Apparently, Kevin had told Jeremy about the Raven mentality: the pair system and how Ravens functioned together or not at all. Jeremy ran with this information in the idiotic way Jean had come to associate with him: he wanted to teach Jean how to ‘overcome his fear’ in the hopes he would have to find comfort in the Trojans’ company. Jean understood better after that why Alvarez was so adamant about their friendship.

There was enough room underneath the empty bed to set up a desk and chest of drawers. He took the mattress and propped it against the wall until he could think of a better use for it. In its place he set up a stereo system – his only major purchase since arriving at USC.

Jean looked at the set up and felt a twitch in his chest. It was still painfully bare. All of his things were still at the Raven dorms. He wondered if Ichirou would send his things to him or if they would keep his room the preserved museum exhibition Kevin’s had been.

The thought scratched at the walls in his head every night after practice. He dreamt his old room was an Exy Court and as he ran towards the away goal, he found himself tripping and sliding but moving at a pace too fast to stop. Sometimes he wound up back at the Raven’s nest, looking twenty-six steps up at a rectangular block of white light. Other times, he found himself in Riko and Kevin’s room, trapped without a door.

He spent a lot of nights awake. Which was why he was making a protein shake at nine pm. The second night at his new residency he went to the gym and powered through weights and ten mile run until he was halfway to crazy with fatigue. It became routine.

He was shaking the blender bottle when he heard a knock on his door. For five minutes the knocking was ignored. The sound stopped. Then started again, but louder. The corners of his mouth tugged down.

By the time he opened the door he was half snarling. He told Alvarez he wasn’t going out with the team. He hadn’t been kidding around and he meant to say as much but it wasn’t Alvarez at the door.

“Jean,” said Jeremy.

Chapter Text

 “Jean,” said Jeremy. “I don’t know about you, but after this week, I’m so ready to get wasted.”

His captain looked far removed from the athlete he was at practice. Jean took a step back into the room and Jeremy followed him without a moment’s hesitation. “Seriously dude, is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

The ex-Raven rolled his eyes and dropped the blender bottle onto the desk. Jean hadn’t kicked him otut so Jeremy took in the room with a low whistle.

“Nice,” he said, pointing at the stereo. “I would have pushed the beds together, like made your own king size super bed, you know? But honestly your set-up’s even better. Hey what are you going to do with the extra mattress?”

The captain’s face split into a grin when he saw Jean’s acid expression. He waltzed by the mattress and tossed a hoodie off a spot on the bed so he could sit down. “Seriously,” he said. “You can’t wear sweatpants tonight.”

“Why not?” asked Jean, just to be stubborn. He fell into his desk chair and took a sip of his protein shake. Jeremy jumped up and pushed the chair with Jean on it out of the way before throwing open the closet.

Jean was on his feet in an instant, shoving him out of the way. “Privacy!”

Jeremy laughed as he held up his hands in surrender and wandered over to Jean’s desk. “Why, what are you keeping in the closet? Store your secrets under the mattress like everyone else.”

Jean didn’t spare him a look. Jeremy didn’t need to know that he still kept his Raven gear in a plastic dress bag. He brushed his hands over the various black shirts and pants. There wasn’t enough variation in his wardrobe for him to take longer than a few seconds to find an outfit. He was tugging on a long-sleeved shirt before it registered that he’d somehow agreed to go out tonight.

Jeremy was fiddling with something on his desk. It was a charcoal grey fashion ring of Jean’s, with a thick band and square head.

“Hey this is cool, can I wear it tonight?” asked Jeremy, examining it in the light.

“Nope,” said Jean, snatching it back and slipping it on his thumb. Jeremy didn’t appear to mind, already moving on to pull open one of the desk drawers. It revealed a collection of rings and necklaces.

“You like jewelry?” Jeremy sounded surprised.

“Stop going through my stuff.”

“We have lovely Trojans cufflinks at the school store.”

“Please shut up.”

“They’re very fetching.”

The mini-stapler Jean flung bounced off Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Ow!” Jeremy winced but he still looked too delighted for Jean to feel any sense of victory.

The place off of Main Street turned out to be a small dive bar tucked on a corner street, fit snug between an old warehouse and a pier. The bar was an old cement building, once painted white but now a mottled dirt-brown. Inside, an abandoned pool table sat in one corner while the other corner held a makeshift stage, though no one was performing now. Top 40 hits blasted from the speakers. There was hardly enough space to squeeze a free body in the crush of college students, let alone try and find a free chair.

It took Jeremy all of thirty seconds to disappear into the crowd and even less time for Jean to give up on finding a space to sit. Instead he caught sight of familiar dark hair, straightened so it fell down to the waist. He squeezed himself into the space next to Alvarez at the bar.

She wore plum-red lipstick and towered over the people around her in clunky heels. His elbow knocked hers, and when she turned, she scowled.

“Seriously? Did you just elbow me to get my attention?”

Flashing green lights lit up one side of her face. She looked him up and down with pursed lips before giving a nod of approval. “The Ravens sure didn’t teach you any manners, but I guess they taught you how to clean up. You’re late, you know. Everyone else got here an hour ago."

Jean acknowledged her with glance, before trying to get one of the busy bartenders’ attentions. Alvarez cackled when he was ignored. It was ten minutes before someone let him order a beer, and another five before it made it’s way to him.

The long sleeves were a bad idea; sweat was already dripping from his hairline to be caught in the collar of his shirt. He surveyed the place. He recognized his Trojan teammates but no one else.

“Wait until August! This place fills up!” Alvarez shouted in his ear. She noticed his wandering eyes. “Want me to introduce you to anyone?”

Jean assumed that was a joke and gave her a dark look that said as much. His fingers felt slick with condensation from the bottle. He pressed cold hands to the pulse on his neck for a split second before struggling in equal parts to twist the cap off his beer and come up with a conversation topic.

“Jeremy has Rhemann’s blessing to cut the team, potentially down to nine people,” he said abruptly. “Why aren’t you guys more pissed off? Didn’t you sign a contract?”

Alvarez took the beer from him and held the bottle’s mouth against the edge of the bar before slamming her palm down on the cap. It popped off and she took a swig. “It’s in the contract, apparently. Plus Jer’s our captain. And he loves us. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think it was the best idea ever. It might suck but I trust him.”

Kevin would love this, thought Jean, and he stole the bottle back. If his own team wasn’t already at its bare minimum, Kevin would have implanted the same strategy. He almost smiled when he imagined Kevin calling up Jeremy to congratulate him on his determination to succeed.

Alvarez saw the smirk and opened her mouth. Jean waited for something sassy to spill out but a moment later, Alvarez’s eyes lit up, distracted.

“Hey pretty lady, can I buy you a drink?” she hollered at someone at the other end of the bar. Jean shrank away from her, but she only had eyes for the blond girl with dreadlocks who slid into a space on her other side.

Laila cast a critical eye over him. “You look gaunt,” she said. “It’s not cute. You’re eating before and after practice right? What’s your caloric intake?”

Jean flicked a glance at her and didn’t answer. He knew her well enough after four days to recognize that her brutal honesty had nothing to do with her Long Island being mostly gone. She considered him for a full minute longer, and then tossed her dreadlocks over her shoulder and turned away. Jean was at once grateful for the silence and annoyed by it.

“Who cares?” shouted Alvarez. “Let’s do shots!”

Somehow through the noise, the whole bar heard her. Suddenly, Trojans shouting for saltshakers and limes surrounded the three as bartenders got to work lining the counter with tequila shots. Everyone quieted as they grappled for the cut limes.

Jean found himself explaining the process to an underclassman named Henry. He felt vaguely outside himself as he licked the skin between thumb and pointer finger, and coated the spot in salt.

“Alright!” someone yelled.

“Count of three!”

“On three or after?” There was laughter. Jean rolled his eyes and didn’t wait. He downed the shot to hoots and hollers, and a striker named Maria was stuffing a lime in his face before he had the chance to grab for one himself. He bit down on it, meeting her eyes.

“Shit!” A senior dealer named Taylor squealed and followed suit. Then there was a split second of silence before a cascade of gasps and choking sounds as the less experienced learned for the first time that Jose Cuervo was no one’s friend.

Someone shouted for another round. Afterwards, Jean felt someone tugging at his arm and he pushed himself away from the bar. Dylan introduced him to a group of athletes who identified as themselves as members of the USC swim team living in the area. They were stiff when they first started talking to Jean but before long, they were all discussing swimming tactics and reminiscing about some form of hazing where they went skinny dipping in the ocean.

“Jean!”

The man in question groaned. The swimmers were enthusiastically wrapped up in their conversation, and didn’t notice Jeremy grasping Jean’s shoulder and leading him away.

“Hey!” called out Jeremy, “Stealing this one.” Then, to Jean, “Lookin’ sharp! Ha. Uh… literally, actually. You eating enough?”

Jean cast a cool look in his direction and then took a swig of his forgotten beer.

“Is that an IPA? Wow, dude,” Jeremy laughed. “Meant to say it earlier but I haven’t seen you at all in the dining halls! When do you go?”

Jean didn’t reply, turning to search the bar for a troublemaking blond. Laila avoided his gaze, focused too hard on a chatty Alvarez. Jean retook his spot next to them and tried to ignore his new captain. Unfortunately for him, Jeremy was already at that blissful stage of drunk, content to wait out Jean’s silence.

“I don’t,” Jean said, finally.

“Don’t what? Eat?”

“Know where the dining hall is.”

The corners of Jeremy’s rambunctious grin twitched downward. Jeremy ran a hand through his sun-stained hair and wrapped a finger around Jean’s empty shot glass. Alarms echoed in Jean’s head.

“Watch out man, this stuff gets dangerous pretty quick.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “I can handle a couple shots,” he said, or at least he thought he did. Jeremy was staring at his mouth and for a full second he wasn’t smiling. Jean almost blinked and missed it because in the time it took him to take a breath, Jeremy was roaring with laughter.

“Man, I know I’ve had a few, but I swear to god what you just said wasn’t English.”

Jean rubbed at his mouth, like it was his lips that failed to keep the offensive language from spilling out.

“My bad,” he said, definitely in English.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow and raised his martini glass in acknowledgement. Jean watched him take a sip, incredulous.

“Is that –”

Jeremy chugged it and then raised a single eyebrow. “You know, the meal plan is part of your contract. Have you been eating out everyday?”

“No.”

“So…”

“I have a microwave.”

“That’s –”

“No, I can’t talk to you about this when you’re sitting in front me drinking… what even is that?”

Alvarez finally noticed her captain and she swung an arm around his shoulder, though he had a good six inches on her. “It’s a martini.”

Jean felt dizzy hearing himself laugh, and he ignored the sirens in his head. He was almost enjoying this. “A what?”

“It smells like coffee,” Laila said, and ignored the pointed look Jean gave her.

“Why stop there?” Alvarez snickered. “Get a white Russian next.”

“I don’t get it!” wailed Jeremy. “What’s so wrong with a guy ordering an espresso martini? It’s goddamn discrimination!”

Guys like Jeremy shouldn’t swear, thought Jean, and then, a smaller thought, guys like Jeremy shouldn’t wear tight black V-necks.

Alvarez’s expression turned fierce. “Oh? Oh really, skinny white boy, we’re talking about discrimination now?”

Jeremy and Jean’s eyes both went wide as saucers.

“She’s fucking with you,” Laila informed him. Belatedly, Jean saw that Alvarez was laughing and waving a hand in front of his face. He smacked it away and glared at her. She turned back to Jeremy.

“Seriously, you’re going be hyper all night with all this coffee liquor.”

Jean tuned out Jeremy’s response, his fingers tracing the wooden grain of the bar’s counter before he tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, trying to release some of the body heat. Distantly, he heard some of the others coming up to join them. Since the tequila shot, Maria had been trying to catch his eye all night, and Jean didn’t trust himself to be polite about telling her to fuck off.

Instead, he watched Alvarez attempt to flag down the bartender, who was watching Laila shake her head at him. Guess they weren’t getting another round, then.

He looked down at the empty bottle in his hand and the empty glasses next to it. He should probably take it easy; he kept thinking he saw Riko in the back of every black haired head.

Jean wouldn’t have been surprised if someone tried to take advantage of his insobriety to ask about his old team but the Trojans were an honorable bunch. The word ‘Raven’ didn’t even come up, though he could tell by the way Jeremy danced around the topic that he wanted to ask. He wondered if the captain was really as drunk as he was taking credit for.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” Jean said flatly.

Jeremy blinked at the abrupt change in tone. He turned away from whatever conversation he was having with Alvarez.

“Why should I?” Already there was a grin threatening the edge of his words.

Maria tumbled onto the stool next to the two. “You shouldn’t! It’s why we love you!” she slurred and then promptly turned to Jean and began talking. He immediately lost track of what she was saying, and only partially because her words sounded so garbled.

His eyes wandered slowly across the bar. Without intent, he found the remains of the swim team. They were leaner than Exy players, slim where there should have been hard muscle. Skinny legs coated in blue jeans that hugged tight right below their backs. 

His eyes snapped away when he realized how hard he was staring. A flash of red caught his eye. Whether it was the lights from the overhead or Dylan’s hair, either way, Jean found himself caught in the other backliner’s burning gaze. Jean tore his eyes away instantly, and wondered if Dylan held eye contact for a second too long on purpose.

It didn’t matter. Jean was too tipsy to make sense of the blank look the other man gave him. He came back to the conversation a moment later to see his phone blinking with a text from an unfamiliar number. He considered it, but the text was blurry and he knew better than to try to make it out, let alone reply. Jean’s shirt was choking him; sweat trickled down the line of his back.

“Hey, Pepé le Pew!” Alvarez called across the counter. “Are you gonna make me take this shot by myself?”

“Yup,” said Jean, and ordered another beer.

Jean hadn’t felt this ill since last winter when the Ravens played the Belmont University Bruins. One of their strikers had slammed him into the Plexiglas so hard he’d spent the second half of the game on the bench, trying to tame the concussion the Raven’s team nurse wouldn’t let him go to a hospital for.

He woke at 7 AM and forced a glass of water and some prescription pain meds down his throat, both of which immediately came back up. His shower was closer than the toilet and afterwards, he turned it on to clean up the mess.

It’d been months since the last time Jean had tried to work out while he was sick but his body remembered how to fight it’s failing better than it remembered how to play Exy. When he could drop to the floor and do a push-up without feeling anything rising up, he pulled on a hoodie and headed to the first floor gym.

The stairs smelled like sweat and old plastic and made his gag reflect twitch in his throat though he knew, logically, there was nothing left in his stomach to puke up. He made it five miles on a treadmill by stubborn will alone.

When he made it back upstairs, he felt marginally better, though his twitching muscles’ relief might have been more psychological than anything else. He took a quick shower, and fell onto the bed. It occurred to him later that the Trojans weren’t the kind of team who would force themselves to work through pain. He certainly hadn’t seen Jeremy on the weights.

He didn’t meant to drift off but his body sunk into the mattress like he and it were two parts of a whole. He was just sighing into a dream when there was a knock at his door.

He groaned into his pillow and considered ignoring it. He would have, if he didn’t know for a fact that the knocking would only grow louder. Every rap felt like a sledgehammer to the skull.

“Wow,” said Jeremy when he opened the door. “I’ve never seen anyone’s face that shade of gray before.”

The backliner gave him an exasperated look.

“Don’t you answer your phone? You remember anything from last night?”

Jean grunted. His memories were hazy but he doubted he had forgotten anything. He regarded a gold and maroon hoodie. The hoodie was the only patch of color in his entire closet; a gift he found in his locker, along with his new gear. He considered the effort it would take to rip it from its shrink-wrap and tugged on a dark turtleneck instead.

His phone went off, and he looked in the direction of his bed. It was lost somewhere in the sheets.

“That’s probably Laila,” said Jeremy, already poking around a still-empty chest of drawers. Jean sent him a weary look and ushered him out of the room before he had the chance to stumble on anything important. His captain twisted out of his grip and followed him out of the room.

“Why is Laila calling me?”

They made a funny picture, Jean hunched over as he stalked forward and Jeremy swinging his arms as he tried to keep up with Jean’s fast pace. “Well, if you get any skinnier, someone might mistake you for a racquet. So we decided you’re joining us for team breakfasts from now on.”

So stupid. Jean scoffed but didn’t protest. His belly was grumbling after his workout, and even though his stomach knew it couldn’t handle more than saltines at the moment, he let Jeremy load a plate up with eggs and lean-cut ham, knowing he needed the protein. He grumbled but took the cup of coffee shoved at him before wandering over to a table with Alvarez, Laila, Dylan and Maria.

It was only 10:30 but all of them looked less perky than he did. Alvarez had an untouched fruit cup in front of her, and her head was pillowed in her arms. Dylan was gazing into his coffee as if it was lecturing him on the history of philosophy and Maria was still enough Jean was sure she was sleeping with her eyes open. The only exception, of course, was their sunshine captain, whose bright smile only got wider when he took in all of their faces.

“Everyone have fun yesterday?” he teased.

“That’s like, your third cup of coffee, Jer,” said Laila, eying the half empty Styrofoam cup in his hand.

Jean set his plate down with a clang. Alvarez’s knees knocked the table when she burst awake, spilling Dylan’s contemplative coffee all over.

They moved tables. To Jean’s surprise, Alvarez wouldn’t meet his eyes when he sat next to her. Next to him, Jeremy pulled out a chair and dropped his tray loudly. The table let out a collective hiss.

Laila glared at him and then at Jean. Jeremy ignored her. Alvarez, as opposed to her avoidance before, was now starring so hard at the side of Jean’s head, he could feel the hairs singeing.

“What?” he snapped. The others at the table turned to him and then dropped their gaze when he met their eyes.

Jeremy let out a snort. “C’mon, guys.”

Laila still hadn’t stopped glaring at him. Alvarez pushed her chair back from the table and hauled herself to her feet. “I’m getting more eggs.”

Laila followed her.

Now Jean was really confused. “What happened?”

Jeremy eyed him uncertainly. “Do you not remember?”

He was sure he hadn’t gotten drunk enough to not remember anything. He could vividly recall the lights highlighting the bar counter, turning Laila and Alvarez’s intertwined hands into shades of blue. Drunken singing? Karaoke? Although, looking back, Jean hardly remembered if there had been any actual music playing. He’d watched his teammates around him get steadily dizzier until they held onto each other to keep standing. There was more tequila at one point. People on other teams started sharing their initiation rituals.

“Circle jerk, Jean in the middle,” screamed Alvarez, her words sliding into one and other. Jean rolled his eyes in disgust. Laila was hiding her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

“What’s the point of initiation?” asked a freshman.

“It shows who’s really committed to the team. If you can go through that than you truly love your sport and nothing will stop you from playing it,” claimed Dylan.

Jean remembered that conversation clearly. He remembered adding something to it but then there was suddenly Maria grabbing for Jean’s face, way gone, shouting about initiation, and Jean pushing her away. Alvarez shrieking that as his only friend, it was her job really to initiate Jean into the Trojan circle, and them both laughing as she pulled his face to hers.

Oh.

The others had kept speaking but Jeremy was still looking at Jean. Jean stood up. He wasn’t hungry and watching them all pick at watery chunks of scrambled egg was giving him a stomacheache.

He made his way to the dining hall’s salad bar and picked at the limp arugula. Nearby, someone sniffed and he felt something hip-check him. His head snapped up. A girl he didn’t know was glaring at him. He glared back and wondered how he’d managed to piss off someone that wasn’t even at the bar last night.

He threw down the tongs. The dining hall wasn’t limited to athletes and the Trojans weren’t the only students staying in the dorms over the summer. His first meal here and already he could tell mealtime interactions were going to be the worst part of his day. The past four days had taught him that not everybody was happy with his being here. USC fans gave him shitty looks. Raven fans sent him actual shit in the mail.

By the time he returned to the table, Jeremy, Laila and the others were gone. Only Alvarez remained.

“You know, you’re mad lucky I’m so determined to be your friend,” she said, standing up with her empty tray. “You wouldn’t last two minutes here on your own.”

Jean bristled.

Alvarez gave him a once-over. “Don’t give me that,” she said, using one hand to gesture up at her own face. “It’s been four days and you’ve already managed to piss off everybody on the team.”

He looked at her sideways. He’d never been in this kind of situation before. “Look,” he said, awkwardly, “I’m not – I didn’t mean to kiss you. Yesterday. I don’t operate on drunk women.”

She snorted. “I got that impression.”

“…I don’t need more enemies. I’m sorry.”

“Please. Stop. This is painful.”

“Really.”

“Carajito. Jean. First off, it was a peck and p.s., I’m gay. I’m gayer than the 4^th of July. I bone girls. Hardcore carpetlicker—” she laughed when Jean held up both hands in a defeated, please-stop-talking motion. “Say hardcore carpet licker in French and I’ll forgive you.”

“Camionneuse.”

She laughed harder. Jean took her tray from her, and dumped them both on the conveyor belt that took the dirty plates to the kitchen.

“That’s not what everyone’s mad about, anyway. Last night, you were gone. You told the entire team how much you hate us. I’m shocked that Jeremy’s even talking to you. You told him his methods were second-rate and you weren’t surprised we were the #2 team in the nation. Among other things.”

“Other…” mumbled Jean. Last night’s bass pounded behind his eyes. He remembered, in a flash, after one of the many tequila shots, saying all those things and more. Alvarez saw the memory hit him full force because she snickered at his grim expression.

Abruptly, Jean thought of Riko. How, if he were around, he never would have let Jean get away with saying something like that to his captain. Riko would have given him a reason to use a Hennessey sedative that night.

“You have no idea how to make friends, do you?” Alvarez said.

Jean resented the implication. “I haven’t even spoken with everyone on the team.”

“That’s what’s pissing half of them off. They think you’re unfriendly. Which, by the way, you are.”

He didn’t respond immediately. “Let me guess, the other half is upset because I hurt the sunshine captain’s feelings.”

“Hey, how do you say sunshine captain in French?”

“Capitaine Soleil.”

She snickered. “Capitaine Soleil is the one you should be worried about. My advice? We don’t have practice today, but Jer’s probably at the court anyway.”

Jean wouldn’t go find him. If Jeremy had a problem with Jean, he could take it up with Jean himself.

The two pushed open the dining hall doors. Outside, the sky was a bleary gray too shades too pale for summer. Jean wrapped a loose string around his finger until it lost circulation. He tugged, distracted by the sting, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed Alvarez to Trojan Hall.

Chapter Text

After three weeks, the court was still the only place Jean didn’t hate in California.

He showed up an hour and a half early to practice, wary of running into Jeremy but knowing that if he stayed in his empty room another second he was liable to commit mass felonies. Every morning he woke up and didn’t take a match to the dorm, he considered a success.

Breakfast with the team became a habit. Even when he tried to skip it, Alvarez was persistent – knocking on his door every morning even after Saturday’s unpleasant brunch. That day, he’d dug around his bed for his phone after. It took him the better part of an hour before he found it, fallen in the small space between the wall and the bed.

He had scrolled past Alvarez and Jeremy’s missed calls and other nonsense, before finding a text from Friday night. He didn’t know the number but he knew the area code.

Some minutes later he realized he had sunk to his knees.

West Virgina.

Jean shook his head and brought himself back to the present. These sweat-drenched hallways were the only place he could be. An Exy ball ricocheting was the only noise that didn’t sound like it was filtered through cotton. He practiced knocking down cones and then lay on the court floor and let the cold from the AC burn up his arms until the rest of the team arrived.

Tension came to a head at practice that day. It was only slightly Jean’s fault this time. He was busy using all his extra energy keeping his grip (defending Laila’s goal was much harder when the anxiety of holding an Exy stick made his arms shake. He hadn’t dropped the stick since that first scrimmage but there was no room for doubt, not with the way his hands were sweating now).

Dylan was his partner again. He blocked a shot and sent the ball straight into Jeremy’s racquet. He sent Jean a condescending look.

Jean was careful now to count exactly how many shots he could hand to Dylan before he got accused of not playing his hardest again. And if he didn’t make starting line this season, who cared?

Suddenly, a ball hit him so hard in the gut he felt it in his teeth. He was on his knees before he even registered how quickly the ground came at him. The sound Jean made was a disconnected grunt, nothing so shaky as a gasp.

“Shit! Are you okay?” Alvarez dropped her racquet to crouch next to Jean and Laila was right behind her, running from her spot in goal. “Is he breathing?”

Unexpectedly, there was a water bottle in his face.

He hadn’t seen Jeremy jog over.

“Captain, I’m fine.”

“Bench. Now.”           

“Seriously?” Jean snapped, lips tight in a snarl. It was then he noticed there was no sound of balls catching net.

“Seriously.” Jeremy’s voice was tight and his eyes frustrated. He stood above Jean, light from the overhead blurring the outline of his sun-bleached hair and turning it white. “Sit out.”

Jean stood up and stretched. “I don’t need to sit out.”

The whole team was watching now. Good. They all needed to stop treating him like broken glass.

“I’ve been though worse, remember?” he said, ignoring the uncomfortable shuffle. “I’ll tell you if I’m hurt, Knox. I’m not a fucking martyr.”

Jeremy swallowed whatever he was about to say. He tore his eyes away from Jean and stared hard at a far off place in the stands, as if just now realizing that the Raven might have been too much to take on.

Jean watched a muscle in Jeremy’s jaw clench. He blinked and then Jeremy was smiling again. For some reason, it pissed him off. He chalked it up to residual alarm; Riko’s smiles were rare and cruel.

“Alright,” said Jeremy. “Alright.”

With Jean standing, there was about a foot of space between them. Old instincts screamed at him to take a step back but instead he glared into Jeremy’s shifting eyes.

“I think,” said Jeremy, watching him, “It’s time to announce our preemptive starting line.”

“Don’t bother,” Jean spat.

“Oh? Why not?”

They both knew Jean wasn’t ready to be on a court again. But with Ichirou on the horizon, that kind of admission was dangerous. Jean didn’t like the vulnerability, and he took it out on the only available target.

“It’s not my fault your team is terrible,” said Jean, arrogantly. “It’s yours.”

Jeremy’s smile widened but for the first time, Jean saw something that wasn’t kind, a grin with more teeth than mirth.

He should’ve remembered Riko’s wildfire rage and felt afraid, but Jeremy had all the threat of an unlit match. He only felt smug that the blow landed.

“Terrible? If terrible means being one of top three in the nation, I’ll take it,” said Jeremy.

Jean scoffed. “Both the Ravens and the Foxes beat you last year, and Penn State came close.”

“You don’t have to be the best in the nation to not be terrible.”

“You’re not the best. You’re not even the second best.”

“And you’d know all about that, right, number three?”

Jean felt the sting of it but the pain was lessened when he saw the internal war written all over Jeremy’s face. Jean was incredulous. That was a good hit! Why couldn’t Jeremy just take the win? Why did he have to be so damn nice?

When Jean punched him, the infallible Jeremy Knox’s unstrapped helmet flew off. He didn’t know who caught his arms to heave him back or who was helping Jeremy up but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhemann sprinting over.

Dylan was faster.

“What exactly did you do to make starting line before, huh?” Dylan shoved Jean’s chest, but before he could do much more there were bodies in between the two. Unable to physically reach him, Dylan sneered and gestured expansively instead. “Hard to believe it was through talent.”

Jean went tense, his hands clenched at his sides. “And yet, here you are.”

“No, really, I’m curious,” said Dylan. “After an abysmal month like this. What’d you do for Riko, huh? You guys were, uh, pretty close right?”

His smile was too innocent as he touched the place on his face where Jean’s tattoo was. “How close again, number three?”

“Dylan,” barked Jeremy. He might have regretted the number three comment but now that Dylan had latched onto it, it was never going away. “Fifteen laps. Now.”

Dylan whipped around. “Cap–“

“Now.”

Jean had never seen Jeremy this mad before.

For a moment, Dylan looked like he wanted to disagree. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, quietly deciding if the disobedience was worth his captain’s wrath. Jean privately hoped it was. He wanted an excuse to put his fist through his new teammate’s teeth.

“Twenty-five, Dylan. Take a breather.” Jeremy crossed his arms. Jean half expected Dylan to walk off the court, but the other boy began jogging.

With that, the spell on everyone was broken and Rhemann started splitting people up into new teams for drills. Laila followed his lead, snapping orders until the Trojans were mostly dispersed.

“Jean.”

Jeremy’s voice was soft but the smile was still absent. He twisted. Jeremy’s gaze wasn’t cold but he only had a few seconds warning before it flickered and then the captain was pushing him back with one end of the racquet in his chest.

“Stay after with me. We’re having extra practice.”

Hours later, Jean was expecting the sunshine captain to sit him down and (possibly with the threat of a tear in his eye) explain exactly what made a team a team. He expected a speech about players sticking together, likely with a complex Exy metaphor.

That did not happen.

Instead, Jeremy pointed to the far side of the court. Jean positioned himself in front of the away goal and waited for Jeremy to come at him from half court.

Jean’s knees were braced, bent to run. He knew Jeremy’s method of attack – a quick feint right, then a run to the goal, full sprint. Like he expected, Jeremy did exactly that and Jean took pleasure in bouncing from right to left and then knocking Jeremy’s racquet hard enough to smack the ball from his net. He caught it mid-air and threw it away.

Jeremy grabbed another ball from the bucket. Jean spun his racquet in one hand.

He saw something slightly too ruthless to be a smile on Jeremy’s mouth and gripped the racquet tighter. When Jean saw Jeremy feign right, his body automatically followed suit, pretending to fall for it before shifting his weight to block left.

This time, Jeremy followed through on the right.

Jean wouldn’t let him score. Jeremy zigzagged and Jean gave chase, but the captain was moving too much and too fast to be hip-checked, even if Jean got close enough.

The goal was almost within shooting distance. Jean stopped trying to catch up to Jeremy and instead, wildly threw himself in front of him. Jeremy wasn’t going too fast to stop – if he wanted to avoid a red card, he’d have to pivot to avoid Jean and that extra second was all Jean needed to knock the ball from his racquet again.

Jeremy didn’t pivot.

The crash was a bomb, knocking the two to the floor with an explosive kind of energy reserved for war.

They both scrambled up, eyes darting around for the ball. Jeremy deflated when he saw the ball had popped out of his net at the force of the collision and vanished. Jean was staring at Jeremy in shock.

“Red card,” he said.

“This isn’t a real game,” Jeremy replied, pushing his body off the ground. “You ready to go again?”

“Depends,” said Jean, with acid. “Are you going to play like a Trojan or a Raven?”

Jeremy froze and sent Jean an incredulous look. His face looked different when it wasn’t split by a smile. Then, “Can I ask you something?”

“You’re the captain,” said Jean dryly.

“Why did you stay?”

Jean sat back on his heels and was quiet for a long moment. Renee asked him this too. He shrugged. “I didn’t stay because I wanted to. Kevin had a way out; he had a family.”

“What happened to your family?”

“Who knows? They sold me to the Moriyamas and I never heard from them again.”

Jeremy didn’t respond to the flat rejection of Jean’s parents. “What about when you were eighteen?”

“What about it?”

“You could have left then.”

Jean was more exhausted than he thought. He’d been on the court for over six hours – the words slipped out before he really thought them through.

“I don’t think you’re comprehending how impossible it is to actually leave the Nest. They find you. They find you and then everything gets worse.” Jean remembered the feel of hard Plexiglas at his back, Riko’s body pressed against his, hands squeezing his throat. It took effort not to add the word ‘always’. Jean swallowed it with his next breath and then unfastened his helmet to pull it off.

“We have someone on the team you can talk to, if you need to,” Jeremy offered and it was so predictable, Jean’s only answer was to scoff.

“He hurt you, Jean.”

What Jeremy didn’t understand was that Riko was more than just the physical abuse. Riko took full advantage of being captain of the Ravens; he took everything from his players until the only thing any of them had was him, each other and Exy. It was too easy to hate the things Riko did and too easy to hate himself for evolving into a better player under Riko’s tutelage.

Too easy to hate himself for liking the recognition that came with earing the three on his face.

“In retrospect,” Jean murmured at last, because he knew if he didn’t answer, Jeremy would keep pushing. “No, you can’t ask about it.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to –”

“Great.”

“But our campus psychologist, Dr. Dywer—he’s pretty good.”

Jean stood up. Jeremy scrambled up in a flash but Jean was already headed towards the bleachers to collect his duffle. The enormity of Castle Evermore was too vast to cover in a therapy session. Jean would have to stay in school for ten more years to go over every fucked up thing that ever happened to him.

“Jean!”

The man paused.

“Will you think about it?” called Jeremy.

Jean turned back to look at him, one hand on the court doors. “Will you let me play if I don’t?”

Jeremy jogged over to the bleachers and didn’t answer. He scooped up the missing ball from somewhere underneath a bench before looking at Jean. “Can you play?”

For the first time since coming to the Trojans, Jean left the court first.

Jeremy stayed behind; Jean suspected to work off excess energy if he wanted to sleep tonight. Jean recognized how the captain’s hands shook. It wasn’t unusual with athletes.

The campus was electric with color at nine pm. The grass was a little wet and the sidewalk glittered rainbow because of a late summer shower and Jean felt it in the soles of his sneakers. Far off in the distance, he heard a car pass on a main road and when he looked up, the florescent orange of the campus streetlights melted into the night sky.

As he walked home, he thought about what Jeremy didn’t say. The unspoken: I know one thing, Jean Moreau. If you keep the entirety of all that’s happened inside of you, it’s going to manifest in ways you can’t imagine.

The Trojans were low-key compared to the high-intensity environment Jean came from. He savored the violence of the sport. But his aggression on the court was the only thing keeping him off it.

His cellphone felt like hot coals in his pocket.

Jean activated the screen and went through his call history. He saw a familiar number and his thumb was pressing on the call button before he comprehended what he was doing.

“I was in the middle of practice,” said Kevin, when the line connected. His voice was irked but he didn’t hang up. Jean took that as invitation to talk.

“Ichirou Moriyama sent me a message.”

“…What was it?”

Jean squinted at the pulsing light from a campus security booth. The cobalt turned the sidewalk purple. “He said he’ll see me at my first game.”

There was no sound except the white noise of connection on the other end. He hadn’t called Kevin for reassurance, but when Kevin said, “He’s trying to intimidate you,” he believed him.

He breathed in until his lungs hurt sharp with extra air. “Do I call him back?”

“No.” Kevin’s voice had an edge of panic. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He’d forgotten how generally unhelpful Kevin was in these situations. But it was good to talk to him. “Were you really at practice, you asshole?”

There was an indignant sound on the other end that was answer enough.

“Devoted,” murmured Jean, conveniently omitting where he had just been himself.

Kevin was the one constant in his life, the one relationship he could fix. They talked for a few more minutes, about Exy, about settling in, but the topic of the Moriyamas shifted, silent but restless in a dark corner of his mind.

When he hung up, he was almost back at the dorms. He thought about the emptiness of campus, the warmth of summer, the colors and the cicadas. He wasn’t alone walking home, but everyone he passed traveled with him in an ethereal dream state as if their heads were empty except with thoughts of their destination. He watched two strangers pause at a stoplight to cross the street. Standing next to each other, neither of them said a word.

Chapter Text

There was a sleek Maserati straddling the stadium curb, one wheel resting on the sidewalk while the other was on the street. Jean tore his eyes away from tire marks on the road to glare at Jeremy, who matched him with a beam.

Jean had to speak to keep his teeth from grinding together. “What are they doing here?”

From the moment he woke up this morning, he knew it was going to be a bad day. He heard the rain pounding against the window and after shoving the curtains aside, discovered a bleak and gray sky – sixty-three degrees even though it was mid-summer.

Now there were two small creatures climbing out of the extravagant car. The owner of such a vehicle should have been someone more posh than a black pinprick of a person like Andrew Minyard. His boyfriend wasn’t much better except it wasn’t black clothes that sucked light from Neil Josten’s surroundings, but his expression.

The only reprieve from their visit was that Kevin was there too.

Jeremy pulled Laila into a side-hug and Jean was close enough to hear him say, “We’re practicing with the best of the best today.”

She scoffed at his grin but didn’t shrug off the arm. The rest of the team stood ways behind them, peeking out from behind the court doors to see why Jeremy had pulled them all out of practice an hour early.

Jean curled his lip. This visit couldn’t have anything to do with him; he hadn’t talked to Kevin since that call a few weeks ago.

Jeremy overtook them like a monsoon, Kevin looking very windswept as he shook the offered hand before being pulled into an embrace with a heavy thump on the back. As they talked over each other about the upcoming season, Alvarez dug her elbow into Jean’s side.

"They look like you,” she said, offhandedly.

Jean grimaced. He wanted to deny it but he saw the resemblance in the Foxes’ expressions. “Birds of a feather.”

Unlike the last time Jeremy introduced Kevin the Trojans didn’t swarm, perhaps weary of the two stone-faced Foxes behind him. All the same when the group went inside, the team bickered over who would be playing with Kevin Day and Neil Josten.

Andrew Minyard ignored the offered goalie gear and found a comfortable place in the stands.

"Andrew!” Kevin called from the court floor. He gave Neil a meaningful look but the other boy was busy making his way towards the back of the Trojan pack, where Alvarez and Laila trailed behind. Much to Jean’s surprise, Alvarez and Laila paused, and then greeted Neil enthusiastically when he began talking about last year’s finals game.

Jean kept an eye on the goalie and strikers, even as the rest of the Trojans headed to the court’s center. Jean didn’t want to ignore his weary instincts when Kevin joined them but he pushed the suspicion back and followed the rest of the Trojans to center court.

Jeremy hadn’t noticed his missing guests and players; too busy trying to gather his team into a circle. Jean glanced again at Alvarez and Laila.

Jeremy clapped his hands together. “It’s your lucky day, boys!” he said and then grinned sheepishly. “And girls. We’ve been practicing everyday this week. And to be honest, guys, you’ve been doing a fantastic job. I can’t describe how proud I am of all of you.”

Rhemann rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Jeremy.”

“Sorry, Coach, go ahead. I just think it’s important for everyone to know how much I support them –”

Rhemann waved him off. “Okay, okay, what Jeremy’s trying to say is that you guys get today off. We know you’re all concerned about starting line, what with school picking up again in less than a month and the first game of the season two weeks after that.”

“But we’re going to be announcing that later,” Jeremy interrupted, “That’s got nothing to do with the Foxes visit today.”

Jean thought of Jeremy’s comment to Laila earlier. “Then what are they doing here?”

A few Trojans swiveled to face him. It was odd for Jean to ask a question post-practice.

Jeremy bounded from one foot to the other. “Can you grab my bag, Jean?”

He did.

Jeremy pulled out a thermos. “They were taking a road trip and decided to stop in. Neil, Andrew and Kevin wanted to see how we’re holding up, what with the new player and all. Thought they could get a sneak peek of the next starting line.” He gave the team a silly grin. “So we’re ending practice early.”

It made sense. The Foxes and the Trojans were still two opposing teams. Letting the Foxes observe flaws with the new players was giving them a generous advantage for future games.

“Speaking of road trips!” Jeremy put the thermos down. “As you all know, plane tickets, gas money to go from state to state, new uniforms, all of it gets expensive! So we’re thinking we should get a head start on fundraising. We’ve got ticket sales from games, but if we want to splurge for a team bonding exercise, we have to go the extra mile and raise the money ourselves!”

Someone in the back groaned, and Jean was bewildered to see almost everyone wore an identical expression of pure dread. Laila, who’d finished talking to Neil, pressed her lips into a hard line.

“Last year,” Laila murmured to Jean darkly, “he made us work on a food truck.” She lifted two fingers in air quotes, “’The Trojan Taco Truck’.”

Jeremy looked dreamy. “Ah, the Trojan Taco Truck.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Don’t knock it; we made some decent cash from that.”

“If we don’t do a car wash this year, Jeremy, I’m quitting the team.”

Jeremy’s face sank but a moment later his expression was roguish. “Okay… but think about this… what about… a retreat? We could build homes or something. Like Habitat for Humanity.”

Silence was the only response. Jeremy insisted, “Just…think about it!”

Rhemann’s hands were on his face. “Any more questions for today?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “Where did you get a food truck?”

The round up ended pretty quickly after that.

Jean leaned back on his hands as the other players stood up and left. He could smell the coffee from Jeremy’s thermos on the other side of the circle and he watched Jeremy take a sip, waiting patiently for him to tell Jean to stay after a moment.

As predicted, the Trojan captain caught his gaze but shut his mouth when he saw Jean already looking at him. His lips quirked up in what might have been a beam or a smirk – difficult to figure when Jeremy hid the expression behind another gulp of coffee.

Jean’s eyes dropped to the bobbing of Jeremy’s throat before Jean caught himself, pushing the palm of one hand into an eye socket. His nighttime exhaustion only seemed to be getting worse these past few weeks. The workouts left him too tired to be afraid of anything after his eyes shut but waking up to an empty room was still embarrassingly terrifying.

Jeremy stood up and stuck out a hand. Jean eyed it wearily but let him pull him to his feet. As he did, Jeremy called out to the retreating team. “Strikers! Stay a minute!”

He let go of Jean’s hand and jerked his head towards Kevin and Neil. “We’ll meet you at home goal.”

Jean nodded and headed over but glanced over his shoulder when he heard Alvarez’s low voice carry. “You’re drinking coffee.”

“Oh!” He heard Jeremy laugh. “Yeah, didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

Jean slowed his walk to listen in.

“It’s 6 PM. Drink some water.”

“I know, I know; I really should. Apparently it’s just as stimulating as caffeine.”

“Jeremy.”

The conversation faded out as he got too far to hear and for a moment, he debated fiddling with a twisted strap on his helmet, pretending to adjust it to keep eavesdropping. Jeremy’s caffeine addiction wasn’t a secret, and while it wasn’t healthy to drink before practice, privately Jean thought that there were worse habits to have.

Alvarez’s voice had a touch of something severe and not motherly; an accent Jean hadn’t heard before sharpening the ends of her words. Jean wondered if there was something more he didn’t know.

Abruptly, Jean remembered that he didn’t give a fuck. He unstrapped and re-strapped his helmet, shaking out the twisted tie, and then stood in front of the empty goal between Kevin and Neil. He watched an instigator’s smile creep up Neil’s face.

“This will be fun,” Jean said, and startled a cold laugh out of Neil.

Kevin didn’t bother preparing them with an explanation; he only dragged the bucket of Exy balls to the center of the court. Then, he reached over and tossed one in the air.

Jean wasn’t expecting the whirlwind of attacks after that.

At first, Kevin bounded towards him in a familiar ruthless pursuit. Jean held up his racquet and the ball was caught in his net before it registered that Kevin had thrown it. Jean hurled the ball back at him. Kevin’s racquet jerked back as he caught it while it was going too fast mid-air before lobbing it back at him again and again.

While his old friend might have been going easy on him for the first shot, he definitely wasn’t after the second. Kevin moved his feet like the floor was hot coals and Jean matched him step for step. His lips pulled back in a not-quite smile.

It didn’t even feel like he was holding an Exy stick any more. The racquet wasn’t a racquet; it was part of his arms.

An icy thrill seeped down his spine as he blocked all but four of Kevin’s attacks in twenty minutes. It felt personal. Kevin snarled at him to pick up the pace, but he ushered Neil over with a jerk of his hand and suddenly it was two on one.

Jean loved it.

He couldn’t match Neil’s fast footwork but he could zigzag and try to trip up the other striker. Meanwhile, Kevin tried to go around them both but Jean doubled back and hip-checked him hard as he could.

Neil slammed the ball at the goal and Jean, caught in the inertia of a fall by hip-checking Kevin, knew it was going toofast to catch with his net. The most he could do was deflect it’ which he did by bringing his racquet down, hard, to slap the ball out of the air.

Exhilarated, he let his hands slide down the racquet’s length, finally remembering the feel of being so, so good at this.

Then, a ball smacked him across the faceguard and he pulled himself back to the present to see Alvarez, already loading up her racquet with another ball, and Jeremy looking ecstatic.

It felt like minutes; it must have been hours. Eventually the other Trojan strikers subbed in. They played ferociously, four at a time against one. Neil tried to make it five against one but Minyard was adamant about taking a break from Exy on his vacation. (Privately, Jean was disappointed. He wondered if he could get Laila to practice shooting at him from goal while defending it from strikers – it would be an incredible exercise in training his blind spots.)

Jean couldn’t have deflected every single goal but it felt that way, especially when two, then three strikers stopped shooting at him. He didn’t follow where they went; he only glared at Jeremy, who hadn’t stopped grinning like a maniac since that first blocked shot.

“Stop smiling,” Jean snarled as Jeremy charged him.

The Trojan captain let out a whooping laugh. “Can’t, sorry!”

Then, he spun around Jean to get to the goal. Jean chased him to quarter court, and then slammed his racquet against Jeremy’s. The ball didn’t pop out, like Jean intended. He was about to try again, already registering Jeremy’s knees buckling, like he was planning on springing backwards to –

“Hey, Cap-ee-tan Soh-lay!”

Both Jeremy and Jean whipped around to stare at Alvarez, who spoke with an exaggerated French accent.

“Take a break! I’m going home!” she called from the top of the bleachers. Her duffle bag was slung over one shoulder and next to her, Laila was on her phone. The other Trojans must have already left. “Call me tomorrow!”

Jeremy and Jean watched her leave, the former giving a wave before turning to face Jean again.

Jean was already searching the court for Kevin. He found his ex-teammate up on the bleachers, talking to Neil and Andrew. Jean tore his eyes away and returned to see Jeremy taking off his gloves.

“I think I’ll take a break after all,” said Jeremy. Jean opened his mouth to speak but closed it. There was something in Jeremy’s voice that set Jean back. It was sharp indifference and the sound that came from a smiling mouth.

Jeremy Knox. Jean thought he was finally starting to understand the Trojan Captain. He was a sunny guy, but Jean knew what frustration looked like when he saw it.

Jeremy turned and began picking up the discarded balls, his endless stash of energy seemingly evaporated. Jean pondered Jeremy for a moment longer before firmly placing the thought of him in the back of his head and headed over to the bleachers to talk to Kevin.

Jean was reeling, to be honest.

He hadn’t played like that in months.

By time he got up there, Kevin was pushing himself up from his seat. He didn’t greet Jean but stopped right in his path. Kevin searched his face, and though Jean knew what he was looking for, he didn’t know how to tell Kevin why he was able to do what he just did.

Jean adjusted his grip on the helmet under his arm. Kevin’s hand drifted down to squeeze Jean’s shoulder and then, he trudged down the steps to help Jeremy.

Jean glanced back at Andrew and Neil; Andrew was watching the court but Neil gave Jean a casual look that he took as an invitation.

Jean let himself fall into a seat beside them and they all stared out at the court, where Kevin and Jeremy stopped picking up the balls and looked up at them too.

It was a long, strange moment.

Kevin broke the gaze first, to say something to Jeremy. Jean, Andrew and Neil were too far away to hear but they all saw the ruddy color Kevin’s cheeks turned when Jeremy laughed a response.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Kevin pops a boner every time he sees Jeremy on the caller ID.”

Neil scoffed but looked at Jean, “Not the only one, huh?”

“What?” said Jean, but got distracted when Jeremy lifted a ball into his racquet net and tossed it into the ball bucket, almost on the other side of the court.

Kevin took it as a challenge, taking a deliberate couple steps back and then scooping up a ball before sending it flying.

“We aren’t friends,” Andrew said, suddenly. Jean’s eyes slid over to him. “I’m clarifying to avoid any awkward misconceptions. We are only here because Kevin’s here. You are not my problem. After today, I’m not babysitting you.”

Jean sneered. “Good, I’m not here for friends.”

“Believe it or not, that’s obvious,” said Neil, still watching the court. Jean shot him a nasty look.

Andrew must not have liked that because he kicked the seat in front of him, twice, so that Jean’s full attention was on him again. And then Jean couldn’t focus anywhere else because suddenly, there were knives. Not one, but several, and they were falling into Andrew’s lap before Jean could fully comprehend where they were coming from. It took him an extra minute but it registered that Andrew was pulling them from his sleeve like a goddamn magician.

“If you make one wrong move in this fucked up chess game the Moriyamas are playing, anything at all to jeopardize Kevin or Neil’s place in this, I will personally reassure the Moriyamas that you won't be playing again.”

Jean glared at the knives. He wasn’t going to fight the Moriyamas; he was a survivor, not a rebel. He already knew this about himself.

“Fuck you,” said Jean, and stood up too quickly to go.

“Hey,” said Andrew. “Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

Jean didn’t understand the expression on Neil’s face but he understood the intent behind the way he caught Jean’s arm.

“Wait,” said Neil, “We don’t have anything against you. But we can’t take risks with them. If Ichirou’s coming to your first game, you can’t keep playing like you’re afraid of getting knocked down.”

Jean seethed. He didn’t know what pissed him off more: that Kevin hadn’t kept his big mouth shut or that Jeremy hadn’t kept his big mouth shut.

Neil continued, “What is it about the Trojans, Jean? You won’t play with them. Why do you bother staying here?”

Something in the air changed, a new hostility making it tense.

“I don’t know, Neil.” The words were like rot on Jean’s tongue. “Remember when I told you to get a good look at the sky before we went down to the Raven’s Nest? Was it as blue as you remembered when you got out?”

Neil looked confused and angry. “I genuinely don’t know what the fuck your problem is. But I remember everything before and after the Raven’s Nest.” His voice dropped. “I remember that you were like a brother to Riko. I mean, wouldn’t you say you were the closest thing Riko had to family? Or wait – wasn’t it the other way around? I’d pity you if I wanted to waste the energy. As is, I feel like I just played a full half.”

Jean flipped him the bird as he shoved himself out of his seat.

His chest was heaving as he barreled into the locker rooms and threw his helmet at the lockers. The resulting bang filled the room, loud enough for anyone to hear within a twenty mile radius — but not loud enough to get him out of his own head.

Chapter Text

Jean showered off, still seething, still thinking about Neil’s unfounded accusations. The idea of Riko with brotherly intentions didn’t make his head hurt nearly as much as thinking about the hits that were much closer to home: before he turned 18, Tetsuji was technically his guardian.

Jean deliberately took as long as he could in the shower. He was hoping the others hadn’t waited for him but when he turned the water off, there were voices outside the locker room. He wrapped a towel around his waist before checking it out.

The locker room was empty. He changed and followed the sound of voices until stopping in front of Rhemann’s office, where he could more clearly hear Jeremy and Kevin speaking on the other side of the door.

Jean leaned against the wooden frame, waiting patiently for the conversation to make itself clear.

“-Is that why the media called you guys brothers?” That was Jeremy. Neil and Jean’s conversation in the stands must have carried.

“Tetsuji told them that. It was easier.” Kevin.

"But you and Jean weren’t adopted. Weren’t…”

“Weren’t family. No. Not even close.”

Jean sagged against the wall. Family was too giving a word to describe his home life with the Moriyamas. But Kevin’s venomous voice was wrong.

Family was all he had to go on when trying to comprehend the emotional response when he so much caught sight of a smudge too thin on a stranger’s cheekbone.

“I’m sorry for asking. It’s not my business, except Jean’s a Trojan now. And he won’t see our team psych. I can’t help him if I don’t understand.”

Jean exhaled. For half a second, he considered pushing open the door and waltzing in, halting the conversation in its tracks. But icy anxiety held even his fingertips still.

There were shuffling sounds; their talk was over. Jean started to move before he heard the intake of breath.

“What did you do to make him play like that? How did you know he could?”

Kevin’s voice was haughty. “He was a Raven. Ravens do well in high-pressure situations.”

Jean scoffed. He pushed himself off the wall and headed back to the locker rooms, his curiosity extinguished. However, before he had taken two steps in any direction, the door creaked open behind him.

Kevin gave him a steely-eyed nod before walking briskly in the direction of the stadium. Jeremy closed the door to the office and Jean saw there was a tremor in his hands as they fell to his sides. Jeremy noticed his stare and he crossed his arms with a bland smile. There was an awkward quiet. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t been listening in.

“Telling him about the beach?” asked Jean, dryly.

Jeremy glanced at him, surprised. “Did you make a joke? I can’t tell if you were making a joke or not.”

Jean hadn’t been but he shrugged. “About my playing then?” he asked.

Jeremy laughed, which was annoying because Jean hadn’t been joking here either. Wordlessly, they started to walk towards the court.

“Kevin said your playing isn’t the problem here.”

Jean’s brows furrowed as he stared down at Jeremy’s hands and realized they weren’t shaking, but twitching. “What do you mean, the problem here?”

Jeremy’s smile didn’t disappear but he raised an eyebrow, like the answer to that was obvious. “Why don’t you play like you played today when you’re with the rest of the team?”

Jean said nothing, raising his eyes to glare at his captain. Jeremy matched him with a smile.

“You know,” Jeremy said. “At first, I thought you just weren’t into Exy anymore.”

“I’m not going to stop playing Exy,” Jean surprised himself by speaking from the heart. His muscles craved it, even when he hated the memory of the sport after he left the Raven’s Nest. But to know something so intimately, to know one's own self through that, made it too intoxicating to quit.

“Don’t. You’re too good, Jean.”

Jean didn’t like the praise, wasn’t used to receiving it so carelessly.

They reached the court doors. The Foxes were gone, the court clean and empty. Jeremy flicked off the lights and they went off one by one – an eerie decrescendo of the ceiling going black. The seats disappeared in the darkness until only the court itself was lit up, the rectangular Plexiglas box glowing in artificial light.

“What are you going to do,” asked Alvarez. “Punch him again?”

Jean sent her a half-hearted glare. “I can’t punch a guy who willingly captained a taco truck. It’s too easy.”

The captain in question glanced over, made a face and then zealously ignored them, opting to engage in conversation with their teammates around the breakfast table instead.

Alvarez forked a leafy piece of spinach omelet and said, “Thought so. Even you can’t stop him from punishing this team with terrible bonding exercises.”

The team breakfasts had continued. Jean walked down to the dining hall every morning with Alvarez for the sake of routine, no longer paranoid of the Trojans trying to pat him down for Raven secrets. Nobody ever asked. Most days, the attention he gave his teammates was unenthusiastic at best, but yesterday’s conversation was nagging at him.

He hated the idea that his failure to be a part of the team stemmed from not physical inability, but inaction to interact with them.

Alvarez raised her voice a little, so Jeremy could hear. “I’m serious about that car wash, Jeremy! I’ll clean cars in a bikini but I’m not peeling stickers off a hundred and fuck tomatoes again.”

Jeremy deliberately scooted his chair a little closer to the two sophomores he was talking to.

Jean peeled a banana and watched them. It was a minute before he recognized the girls as Trojans. Had they been here this whole summer?

Jean looked around, picking out the names he knew and observing the ones he didn’t. After a minute, he learned the two sophomore girls were roommates and didn’t speak to anyone but Jeremy and each other.

Then he watched Micah, a junior dealer who always came late to breakfast, following Henry, who he recognized as the underclassman he taught to take a tequila shot. At first, he thought they were roommates too but came to a different conclusion when he saw one grab the other’s hand.

He took note of the ones who came down in pajamas, who wore athletic wear, who hated the class they had afterwards and who didn’t. He took note of the four freshmen guys trying to create a casual workout schedule that would coincide with the three senior girls and he took note of those girls shooting each other dubious looks and texting under the table.

For the first time, he realized they were on the same team.

He took a breath and brought his attention back to Alvarez. “So what was so bad about the food truck?”

“Nothing!” came Jeremy’s scandalized reply from across the table.

Alvarez shot him a razorblade smile and stirred her cold coffee. “Nothing, except none of us knew how to run a food truck. There are all these expenses to consider: napkins, forks, paper plates, hard taco shells… Plus we forgot about the health inspector. It was halfway into October before we could even start selling.”

Finally, Jeremy twisted around in his chair and said indignantly, “But we did great once we got going! Right, Emily?” This last was directed at one of the sophomore girls, whose eyes darted from Jean to Alvarez. Jeremy sighed and looked at Alvarez again.

“We did a car wash my freshmen year, Al. Trojan Taco Truck made four times the profit,” he said.

“Well you have more girls now, Capitaine,” said Alvarez. “Trust me, we’ll be able to buy the Trojan Taco Truck and a Trojan swimming pool by October.

Jean rolled his eyes. “You just want to see Laila in a swimsuit.”

“You’re goddamn right, Frenchman. Jeremy. Listen to Jean.”

Jean was halfway to amused before he was able to turn the smile into a sneer. “You live in California. Go to the beach.”

In the seat beside Alvarez, Laila rolled her eyes. Her voice was characteristically monotone as she corrected him, “We live in California.”

“What’d ya say, Marcy? Beach, yes or no?” Jeremy said to the other sophomore girl. She glanced at her friend, then at Jean, then at Alvarez, then at Dylan, who had just sat next to her with a plateful of ham and a yawn.

“Well… I don’t really like sand…” she said.

Jeremy nodded sympathetically. “Alright. No beach then.”

“What about a party?” Dylan chimed in. Jean glanced at him. The other backliner hadn’t brought up Riko again but had taken to calling Jean number three on the court. Jean thought it would bother him more but in all fairness, he still had the ink on his cheek. Laila was more fed up than he was. The other day, she made Dylan run laps around the court “until the bullshit you’re spouting is too tired to leave your mouth”.

If Dylan was throwing a party, Jean wasn’t going.

Alvarez jumped on the idea, though. “Hey, that’s something. Who’s throwing it? Is the swim team doing a back to school thing? Jean can officially meet all the teams here for summer conditioning.”

“Wait, I’m lost,” said Emily. “Are we… having a party… for a fundraiser?”

“No,” said Jeremy at the same time Alvarez gave an enthusiastic, “Yes.”

Laila said, “We’re not doing it for a fundraiser. Just fun.”

Jean expected the conversation to drop but it continued all the way to practice, twenty-eight Trojans excited planning until Jean was sure they’d need to block off an entire floor in Trojan Hall to make room for all the activity.

By the time they split for scrimmage, Jean was scrambling for excuses not to go. Alvarez and Jeremy were annoyed with him for it, enough so that Jeremy put Jean’s team on the bleachers for the first round.

He didn’t take offense; Dylan was on the bench too, and the other player’s fuming expression was enough to placate him.

They split into four teams, two in play and two in the stands. Alvarez waved at Jean from the court. Jean grimaced and studied the scoreboard but after a moment he lifted two fingers in reluctant acknowledgment.

The team interacted the same when scrimmaging as they had at breakfast, although now that he was paying attention to them, the playing field transformed.

Used to being constantly berated by Riko and his teammates, Jean wasn’t entirely prepared to see that here court time was bonding time. Jean played Exy with single-minded, animalistic intention. On the court, he didn’t have to be anything other than the creature he was trained to be.

Jeremy Knox couldn’t understand that. Jeremy was callous as an Exy player – but he treated practice with an informality that, to Jean, was infuriating. He asked about players’ families and the freshmen how they got into sports. He bartered penalty shots for information, let his players horse around.

Jean was waiting, just waiting for Jeremy to try that shit with him. But all he ever asked Jean about was Exy.

He called Jean out once a week for rough drills that made Jean wonder if this captain was trying to break him. Neither of them needed the extra practice and Jeremy seemed to be practicing moves that would get him a red card. Jean put up with it because he remembered being on the same team as Kevin, and knew that it wasn’t about him at all.

Rhemann blew a whistle; it was Jean’s team’s turn to switch on. As he passed, Jeremy hooked his fingers in the faceguard of Jean’s helmet and shook it to annoy him. Jean slapped his hand away and spat out something nasty in French. Jeremy shot him a cheeky grin.

“Hurry it up, number three,” grumbled Dylan, passing him.

Jean glared and followed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Give him a reason not to,” called Jeremy, making his way towards the bleachers.

Jean would. Dylan murmured something under his breath when Jean was close enough. Jean shouldered past him without saying anything. Dylan didn’t need encouragement to egg him on.

“If you don’t want to go to the party, just don’t show up, shithead.” Dylan tossed a look at Jean over his shoulder. “Actually, that goes for practice too, but honestly, we both know I’ll make starting line whether you’re here… or… not….”

Dylan’s eyes got wide at something behind him and Jean whipped around.

There was a bright mess all over the floor.

Vomit.

Chapter Text

There was a loud cascade of footsteps all clambering down the bleacher steps at once. Laila was running full speed from her place at half-court. Jeremy was on the floor next to the mess, with his head in between his knees.

Dylan pushed past Jean, who reluctantly followed. Were they just not going to have full practices anymore?

Laila dropped to her knees beside him and rubbed his back. “Jeremy, what happened? You’re shaking.” Her voice pitched with worry. “Where’s your water bottle—”

“What the fuck,” said Alvarez. Everyone’s eyes darted to the bench, where she was rummaging through Jeremy’s duffel bag. Jean craned his neck to try to see what she was looking at.

“Alvarez –“ Jeremy started. A few people started to shuffle closer.

Alvarez zipped the bag shut with violence. “Practice is over today.”

"What?” said Jean.

Alvarez seized the bag and stalked to where Jeremy was on the ground. At the sight of her, his face went even greener and he groaned. Laila gently pushed his head back between his knees and gave Alvarez a bewildered look.

“What’s in the bag?”

Every head on the team was whipping back and forth between Laila, Jeremy, and Alvarez. Laila, ever the responsible vice-captain, let out a loud whistle.

“Davis! Maria! Work on that footwork! The rest of you, I want five laps for cool down.”

At first, nobody moved. To Jean’s distaste, Dylan was the first, murmuring to the seniors he passed on the way to the outer court. They cast anxious looks at their captain but followed his lead.

Jean ignored them and jogged to where Laila was crouched, Alvarez standing over her. He stared down at Jeremy on the ground. He wanted to tell him to suck it up so they could continue practice, but that kind of remark wouldn’t earn him any favors with the team.

“I can’t believe you did this again,” Alvarez was saying in undertones, but she fell silent when realizing Jean was there. He couldn’t help but notice the way she glared at Jeremy and the way Laila was murmuring something to him in a low, soothing voice. Their very different reactions were puzzling.

“That color can’t be good. It's bad, right, if it’s bright green? We’re taking you to the hospital.”

“No,” groaned Jeremy. “No hospitals. I’m good.”

Alvarez looked like she was seconds away from slapping him. Jean discreetly moved out of her way to allow better access.

“You’re kidding me. No – don’t,” she said, putting her phone to her ear when she saw Jeremy get up. “I know you’re going to try and clean that up. That smell makes me want to puke. Babe, call maintenance.” That last was directed at Laila, who was already dialing.

Jean surprised himself by reaching out and plucking Alvarez’s phone from her hands and ending the call. “He said no hospitals.”

Alvarez stared at him, a mélange of expressions crossing her face before she settled on the most prominent: a ferocious glare that was startling in its potency. He hadn’t seen that kind of poison in her expression since his first week here.

“Excuse me?” Alvarez hissed. “Give me back my phone.”

“No.” He suspected he knew why Jeremy didn’t want to go to a hospital.

“Alvarez it’s fine, seriously.” Jeremy was picking himself up off the ground, with strength recognizable as fabricated. He let out a little laugh that was probably meant to reassure. “Jean is going to take me back to the dorm.”

Jean nodded and Jeremy let him wrap an arm around his back to pull him up. When he was standing, his legs didn’t shake but he still looked pale.

No one said anything as he gently shrugged off Jean’s arm and led the way to the doors. Jean stuck close, knowing that if he fell, Alvarez would be pissed. He could feel her glare burning in his back and wondered if he’d lost his first real friend today.

When they made it outside, Jeremy fell onto a bench and breathed deep, elbows on his knees.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

Jean didn’t say anything. Jeremy raised his head and looked at him. “It’s not.”

“You don’t mind going to CVS to prove it?” Jean shot out.

Jeremy tried to brush off the tension with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Jean dropped onto the bench beside him. “Forget it. I don’t care.”

Jeremy sat back and looked at Jean like he could prove his innocence with sheer force of will. “Well, I do. I can’t earn your respect if you think I’m on steroids.”

Jean gazed out to the parking lot. Did Jeremy really think that in all the time Jean spent with the Ravens, he hadn’t seen somebody else a little too desperate to improve? In the end, Exy players were all the same. Anything it takes to win, right?

Jean wanted to believe Jeremy wasn’t like that. “Then give me something.”

“Like what?”

“An explanation would be good. An excuse… I don’t care. A reason not to drag you back in there and let Laila and Alvarez fight over who gets to rip your head off and who gets to take you to a hospital.”

Jeremy sighed. Jean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hands threaded together. For a minute, neither of them said anything while Jean gave Jeremy time to think.

It was early afternoon, the hottest time of day. This LA heat was dry and windless. The practice schedule was an early morning stretch and workout at the gym, followed by practice later in the afternoon. Sometimes they played outside, but days like today were court days.

“What was in the bag?” Jean prompted, feeling a trickle of sweat roll down his neck.

The captain took too long to come up with something; Jean wondered if Jeremy had ever lied before in his life.

“Coffee.”

Jean gave Jeremy a hard look.

Jeremy’s smile had no humor he tried to wipe it away with his hand as he stood. “I’m not lying. It’s that ridiculous. Look, I’m good. I’m going back to the dorms.”

Jean’s arm jerked out and he fisted the back of Jeremy’s shirt. It didn’t take much effort to push him in the direction of Jeremy’s car.

“Give me your keys.”

“What, no,” Jeremy sounded exasperated. “Jean, I’m serious, it’s just caffeine in there.”

“Thought you said coffee.”

The two crossed the parking lot, slowly because Jeremy was still shaky on his legs. Despite his protests, Jeremy fished a key ring from his pocket. From a small Jeep came the distant sound of an unlocking beep. Jean pulled open the driver’s door and draped himself in. Jeremy looked annoyed, but Jean cut him off before he could come to the wrong conclusion.

“I need to go to the grocery store. Either get in or walk to the dorms by yourself.”

Jeremy got in. He had a little scowl in the corner of his mouth. Jean started the car.

“Move your elbow, please,” said Jeremy, and Jean lifted it off the center console. Jeremy popped it open and then did the same to the glove box. Jean took his eyes off the road to glance in and see what was inside.

Bright orange and purple bottles. 5 Hour Energy.

It would be comedic if there weren’t so many. They filled both compartments, and Jean guessed there were more in the duffel bag they had left at the court. Some tumbled out of the glove compartment when the car hit a bump.

Jean glared at the road, then at the compartment, then at Jeremy and then the road again.

“I don’t even know what to say,” said Jean.

Jeremy snapped both compartments shut.

“Wouldn’t steroids have been cheaper?”

Jeremy squirmed in his seat and looked out his window. “Probably. I don’t know. I just. Kept getting tired.”

Jean’s mouth snapped shut, locking a snarky reply inside. They drove in silence until Jean’s phone rang. The caller ID said Renee and he felt a stirring of guilt; he hadn’t texted or called her in a while. He ignored it.

They pulled into a supermarket and Jeremy immediately got out and started moving. Jean pulled himself out of the car slowly, watching Jeremy walk briskly to where an empty cart was abandoned in the parking lot and bringing it to the car.

“Stop,” said Jean, letting the car door slam shut.

“Stop what?” said Jeremy, not halting.

“Fidgeting,” said Jean. “Look, I used to play for the Ravens, alright?”

This time, Jeremy froze.

Jean propped his elbows on the hood of the car and let his captain give him a searching look.

“If we didn’t play well enough, we lost our place on the starting line. We operated on sixteen-hour days. I know tired.”

Jeremy joined him next to the hood of the car, listening quietly.

Jean tapped the ink under his eye. “This number is a life sentence, not a lifetime guarantee. Riko’s court is only made up of the best. Kevin and I knew that better than anybody. We’ve been the center of Riko’s field of vision since before high school. He’d kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but Kevin didn’t always go the lengths he does now to take care of his body.

“It’s easy to get wrapped up in Riko’s idea of perfection and it sucks to fall short. More than sucks. Falling short means getting…” Jean trailed off. “You saw what I looked like in May.”

Jeremy wasn’t smiling. His eyes flickered over the long, still pink scar on Jean’s right cheek.

“We got tested monthly for steroids and other energy enhancers but there’s a few that don’t show up on tests. Kevin used to get meds over the counter. He thought he’d be a faster striker with less mass, so he used Bromatan to increase his aggression and suppress his appetite. It’s not my place to tell you what happened after that but you can probably guess.”

“He wound up in the hospital,” Jeremy said.

“The Ravens thought Tetsuji hit him too hard, but he was my partner. You notice when your partner’s not eating. The doctor said he was low on all these essential vitamins. So I helped him come up with a meal plan that didn’t include energy enhancers. Pretty sure he hasn’t touched the stuff since.”

Jean glanced back at Jeremy, whose face was carefully blank.

“Look, we’re not going to go to a hospital, but we are going to get you some damn real food. So just… quit looking like your dog died.”

When Jeremy didn’t move, Jean pushed himself off the car and set off in an impatient stride towards the store. “Let’s go. Believe it or not, I’m sick of thinking about Riko.” His name still hurt to hear. Still hurt to say.

Jeremy jogged to catch up. He stayed silent, letting Jean’s words hang in the air. At last: “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so much in one go. Did you know you have an accent?”

Jean was disturbed to hear the warmth in Jeremy’s voice. He scowled in the direction of the grocery store. “I take it all back.”

“It’s not obvious. Must only come out when you’re mad.”

“I don’t have an accent. I lived in West Virginia for years.”

“I know; you can hear that too. It’s a weird mix.”

Jean didn’t bother with a response to that ridiculous observation, instead pulling a shopping cart from the line and shoving it at Jeremy, who caught it with a grin. The doors slid open in polite welcome and Jean shivered at the onslaught of AC.

The inside was bright with browns, greens, and reds. The beauty of the store was in its organic produce, a fact that they didn’t fail to advertise by placing a sign up front. Jeremy looked interested in the pastries on sale by the door, but Jean didn’t stop to wait for him as he pulled the cart forward by its front.

The dining hall meant Jeremy didn’t need to prep full meals, so Jean held up a peach for inspection.

“Fruit for snacks. 5 Hour Energy has an artificial sweetener and if you try to go without sugar right off the bat, it’ll backfire on you. I don’t want you running for a Snickers bar when you need a boost. Eat a piece of fruit or a protein bar for a snack if your next meal’s not for a while.”

Jeremy took the peach from him. “I like oranges more.”

“Sucks they’re not in season, then.”

Jeremy laughed. “Yes, coach.”

Jean shot him a nasty look and pulled an avocado off of a crate nearby. “Avocadoes are a great source of fat, fiber, and calories. As an athlete, you need to eat 2500, 3000 calories a day. Keep in mind, vegetables have the most nutrients and will fill you up quicker, but you’ll also get hungrier sooner since they don’t have a lot of calories. You know this. We have nutritionists.”

Jeremy nodded like he knew but was letting Jean lecture him anyway. He pulled the cart forward and led them through the grains aisle, picking out what was best to eat after practice, and before. They toured past the coffee aisle, but not before Jean made Jeremy promise to limit himself to one cup a day.

When they got to a section for natural supplements, Jean took some magnesium off the shelf. “Some people take this if they’re tired,” he said. “I don’t know about it, though. Seems like something you should check with your doctor about first.”

He turned to see Jeremy on the other side of the aisle, picking up a little purple and yellow bottle. He waited until Jeremy returned it to its place and said, “How long have you been using those for?”

Jeremy rubbed his hair sheepishly. “A couple of years?”

Jean shot him a glare and pushed the cart away from the energy enhancer section. They wandered past the soda and turned into the canned goods aisle. “At first, I thought those night practices were you trying to get to know me or bond or some stupid shit.”

Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean? That was me trying to get to know you.

Jean arched an eyebrow. “Was it?”

“Well… yeah!” said Jeremy, tugging the cart to a stop. “What did you think?”

“I think you had a lot of extra energy and aggression after practice and you needed an outlet.”

Jeremy’s grin faded from his face and he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the canned beans in wonder. Jean realized this was a revelation for him.

There was something relaxing about being in a grocery store in the middle of the day. There weren’t a lot of people in here, the freezer section almost completely empty save for an old man and a young girl about twice the size of the grocery basket she carried. There was a fan that let off a low hum and the quiet murmur of people at the cash register carried over the Top 40 song playing over the loudspeakers.

Jean closed his eyes and breathed in. It felt good, to not be in the Nest anymore. He didn’t have to be back at a certain time or shop as quickly as possible before Riko came looking for him. He could spend all day here.

His world slanted when Jeremy threw an arm around Jean, throwing him off balance. Jean cursed whoever it was in Jeremy’s life that told him it was okay to just hug people. “Get off,” he said.

“You’re like my wife right now, dude. Trying to look out for my health and stuff.”

Jean gave him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me?”

“Mom, then.”

“Oh my god. And you think I have issues.”

Jeremy snorted hard. He obviously wasn’t ill anymore if he was laughing like that but Jean couldn’t help but notice he still trailed half a step behind Jean and half a beat slower.

“Hey, you know, speaking of… thanks for telling me about the Ravens.”

He avoided whatever weird expression Jeremy wore in favor of pushing the cart towards the registers. “Yeah.”

“Why won’t you see Dwyer?”

Jean grunted. “The shrink? Seeing him is not part of my contract. I checked. Why are we even still talking about it?”

“Because I think this is the first time you’ve actually opened up about the Ravens since you left them. Keeping it inside… It’s going to hurt you, Jean.”

Jean knew, in some corner of his mind, that Jeremy was right. If he let this hurt fester, it would eventually spread like mold, rotting not only the part of him that loved Exy, but his whole being.

Instead of acknowledging that, he sneered. “It already did hurt me, actually.”

Jeremy grabbed the cart by its front and blocked its path. His joking voice changed, replaced by the one he used to captain the Trojans. “At this rate, there’s no way you’re making starting line. Either you leave now, or you sort this all out.”

Jeremy’s eyes burned into Jean’s. Every conversation they’d had so far suggested leaving was the last thing Jeremy wanted for him. Jean wasn’t above using that as leverage.

“What are you saying? Forget Riko or I’m done here?”

Jeremy hesitated. Jean wasn’t bluffing. He’d walk out if that’s what it came to, but he wasn’t reliving his horrific experiences with a complete stranger. Several shoppers turned their head at the sound of their argument, growing in volume.

“One session with Dwyer! That’s it.”

“No!”

“It’s us, or them, Jean.”

Jeremy had a gaze that wanted Jean to fight for the Trojans, a gaze that overestimated his will. Jean was never a fighter.

Jean’s phone was ringing again.

“Hello?” he said into the receiver, breaking eye contact with Jeremy.

“Jean. How are you?” Renee.

Jean had absolutely no idea how to answer. “I’m fine.”

There was silence on the other end for a while before: “In my experience, those words are often misrepresented.”

Jean hated that he was this mad and worse, that Jeremy didn’t look nearly as aggravated. He left Jeremy to pay for the groceries himself.

“Now’s not a good time, Renee. Can I call you back?” he said, abandoning the blissful AC of the grocery store and headed into the California sun towards the Jeep.

“Yes, of course. Is everything alright?” asked Renee.

“Yeah,” he replied immediately. It was too quick. Renee was quiet on the other end of the line, and Jean sorely wanted anything but silence all of a sudden. “How are you?”

He heard the chuckle in her voice as she began telling him about the Foxes, in a way that left no room for him to interrupt. He was grateful for it. He closed his eyes and listened to her voice, leaning against the scorching metal of the jeep until it got too hot through his tee shirt. By then, Jeremy was back.

“Do you want to Facetime tonight?” said Renee, just before they disconnected. Jeremy had loaded the groceries in the car and was waiting in the driver’s seat for Jean to finish his call.

“Ok,” said Jean, dropping into the passenger seat. Jeremy purposefully stared at the wheel.

“Ok, talk to you tonight.”

“See you later.” He hung up.

Jeremy started the car in silence, and they drove with soundlessly save the faint bass from the radio. The settling dusk turned the backdrop gold. When they parked at the Trojan Hall, Jeremy stayed in the car while Jean pushed open the door. Before he slammed it closed, Jeremy spoke.

“If you’re not going to see Dwyer, then there’s no point to coming to practice on Monday.”

Jean shot him an incredulous look that quickly turned cold. “Fine. It won’t make a difference cutting the line then, ‘cause you know it’s not Dylan fucking taking you to championships.”

And then he slammed the door and stalked up the stairs, hating the sound of his stupid accent turning the th’s into z’s.”

Chapter Text

“How was your day?” asked Renee.

Jean thought about Jeremy’s glove compartment, holding an avocado up for inspection and Riko. The word “Bizarre” slipped out like a groan.

“Oh?” Through the tiny iPhone screen, Jean could make out Renee raising a single dark eyebrow before she shifted positions; rainbow locks fixed in a blur as the screen froze and readjusted itself.

Jean rolled over on his bed. When he picked up the video call, Renee was sitting up in bed, so he followed her example, but the feel of the mattress had him slumping against the wall in exhaustion. He waited for her to say something. She only shifted the pillow behind her back and watched him through the screen. He thought about coming up with an elaborate explanation that would segue into Exy practice, but Jeremy’s name slipped out instead.

“Jeremy Knox? He’s… bizarre?” Renee repeated.

“And stubborn. Like you,” said Jean, earning himself a teasing smile.

“What exactly happened?”

Jean rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. How are the Foxes?”

“They’re good. Andrew, Neil and Kevin are still off on their road trip. I think they’re in Wisconsin now. Oh! I forgot to tell you earlier but Dan and Matt finally signed the lease on their new apartment! Allison and I are going over tomorrow to help them move in. Did Jeremy say something?”

“Not about Dan and Matt’s apartment. Are they staying in South Carolina?”

“Yes,” said Renee, in a tone of voice that emphasized the period at the end of the sentence. She gazed at the camera expectantly.

Jean didn’t know what to tell her. His tongue burned to explain how his happy-go-lucky captain was Exy-starved, obsessed in the way that Kevin was – who was crazy enough to play with only nine people, literally, in the semifinals against the Foxes last year? Who was that stupid about improvement?

“He didn’t say anything,” Jean gritted out. “It’s his attitude. It’s driving me crazy. He’s too… optimistic.”

“…Optimistic?” The camera on Renee’s end tilted and blurred as she sat up to reach for something on her nightstand. “As in… happy? That bothers you?”

“He doesn’t bother me,” Jean stressed. He didn’t know how to say the words. “Jeremy’s sunny, but he’s also…I don’t know.”

Renee said, “If I’m to quote Kevin, ‘an excellent example of professionalism on the court’? Or according to Kevin, as paraphrased by Allison: ‘owner of the prettiest eyes on the court’?”

Jean groaned and pressed the little phone screen to his forehead. “Angry, Renee,” Jean clarified, scowling. “He’s angry.”

She only smiled. “Angry about what?”

“That the Trojans are never going to be anything better than second place with him as their captain.”

“He’s angry that you think that?”

Jean huffed, “He’s angry that it’s the truth.”

“That’s a very one-sided assessment. I’m not sure it’s entirely fair, to be honest. Jeremy’s one of the best captains in college Exy. Have you thought about how he might feel about you saying that?”

Jeremy already knew Jean’s opinion of him. Jean thought about when Dylan hit him in the gut with a ball, and how, in the time it took to blink, Jeremy was thrusting a water bottle in his face. He thought about him talking over Coach Rhemann to gently tell the Trojans he was cutting those who couldn’t keep up. He thought about all the private practices and realized Jeremy understood something about taking care of people, a fundamental part Exy that Riko never got.

The problem was that Jeremy misunderstood something fundamental about teams. He couldn’t just take a group of people and love them into shaping up. It wasn’t appropriate – hanging out with them all the time, not even to talk about tactics but just to talk about school and their social lives. If he really cared about his team at all, he would have kicked Jean off a long time ago – a teammate who barely gets along with the rest of the team is a liability and a lost cause.

He thought about Jeremy mixing tequila shots and espresso martinis, the look on his face when Jean faced off against the Trojan and Fox strikers, and the sharp welcome of A/C at the grocery store after sitting in the car’s sticky heat. He thought about the piercing glint of sun flashing off Jeremy's side mirror and ‘That was me trying to get to know you.’

A lost cause.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, and the movement made a pillow fall from the edge of his bed. He made a grab for it but it tumbled just out of reach.

“I really don’t like Jeremy Knox,” said Jean. “He doesn’t run his team the right way.”

“And yet they're number two in the nation." Renee paused, and then said delicately, "You know, with the recent…administration changes within the Ravens, the Trojans have a good chance of making it to first. What’s up, really?”

“Jeremy wants me to see Dwyer,” said Jean suddenly.

“Who?”

“Trojan shrink.”

“Oh. The Trojan Betsy, I suppose?” Renee took a second to think about it. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course you do,” Jean mumbled.

“I understand the hesitation, though; talking about trauma can be both rewarding and incredibly frightening.”

“It’s not that,” said Jean. “It’s just so hypocritical.”

“Hypocritical of… Jeremy?” Renee looked terribly confused and Jean didn’t know how to tell her about the energy drink thing. That what confused him was that Jeremy wanted more for Jean without affording his own body the same consideration.

He shrugged at the phone camera and picked at a stray thread on his pillow. “How’s Allison?”

“She’s fine.” The shift in topic was a surprisingly effective distraction. Renee examined her fingernails like they were suddenly more interesting than this call. “She’s good.”

“Good,” said Jean, slowly.

“Yup. She and Dan are trying to get Matt to sign up for a swimsuit competition.”

Jean cracked a grin he didn’t feel. “I think you should sign up for a swimsuit competition.”

The laugh Renee let out was obviously forced and it made Jean frown. Flirting with her felt different than it had last year. When he was in the Nest, she and he were unabashed in their texts, offering words of comfort to one and other when everything else was beating away at them.

Something had changed.

“Are you seeing someone?” he asked, because he had to know.

Renee fiddled with the cross around her neck. “I’m not. But it’s a bad idea, Jean.”

“Why?”

Through the tiny phone screen, he watched Renee tuck a rainbow colored strand of hair behind one ear. “I think… we’re not right for each other.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

Jean ran one hand through his hair, dragging it down until it was covering his mouth, keeping in an exhale, or something louder that would feel closer to validation than this nothingness sitting in his chest where he thought disappointment would be. “Of course not. I respect your feelings.”

It wasn’t a difficult concept, Jean almost said, his mind still stuck on Dwyer.

“I hate this,” complained Katie. “It’s like Mom and Dad are fighting. Jean, whatever you did, fix it.”

Jean scowled at his oatmeal. The mush looked like an inorganic, sloppy pile of goop and the brown sugar he dumped in had melted into a dilapidated mess like someone’s rotten loogie.

Jean’s dreams were turbulent and vivid; for the first time in a couple weeks, he woke up without remembering where he was – he was groping around in the dark for the gear he kept next to his bed before he realized he didn’t have to go to Riko’s 4AM practices anymore. The primal instinct of waking up in the middle of the night from a nightmare is to spare oneself the pain of another by associating sleep with fear.When morning finally came, he dragged himself out of bed but it felt like he’d spent more of the night awake than asleep.

Everyone at the team breakfast was quiet and sulky. Jean debated skipping it entirely, but when he ran into Micah at the gym they’d gotten to talking and before Jean knew it, the two of them were walking to breakfast together. To retract himself from the gathering was to open up a line of awkward questioning that he didn’t want to engage in.

However, it was clear that Jeremy wasn’t as mad at Jean as Jean was at him. He stared Jean down from the moment he entered the dining hall until the moment he sat down to greet the team. Then Jean stabbed a slice of ham with his fork while looking Jeremy in the eye and he pointedly looked away to examine the straw dispenser.

Alvarez snickered and Jean’s head shot up to look at her. She rolled her eyes at him and smiled as she kicked his seat. His eyes narrowed in a glare. She stole one of his hard-boiled eggs and he hid his smile with a bite of oatmeal before it became too obvious he was trying to hide his relief. She wasn’t mad at him.

“Which one’s Mom and which one’s Dad?” asked Micah, confused.

“Obviously, Captaine Soleil is Mom,” said Katie. Alvarez grinned wildly, while Jean snorted.

“You’re not even pronouncing it right,” said Jean, irritated that the nickname somehow stuck. “Cap-ee-ton. Soh-lay.”

“Capee-tan Swah-leh,” repeated Micah. Jean, recognizing an unwinnable battle, nodded. He pushed his oatmeal around his plate, uncomfortable with the way Micah, Maria, and Katie leaned in towards him.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that nickname,” said Jeremy.

“I’m thinking of taking French,” Maria told Jean.

“Don’t,” said Alvarez.

“If anything,” said Laila, “I’m the Dad.”

Jean wondered exactly how he went from eating in uniform silence with the Ravens to watching Alvarez twist her pinky finger around her girlfriend’s and say, “Babe, only when we’re alone. Besides, thinking of you and Jeremy like that is seriously grossing me out. Jeremy, give that to me.”

Jean looked past Alvarez and saw Jeremy next to her, lifting a cheap ceramic dining hall mug to his lips. Jean reached over Alvarez without thinking and covered the top with his hand.

There was a square patch of sunlight falling from one window and brightening half Jeremy’s face. Jean was irritated to see that this light turned even the Trojan captain’s eyes gold.

“Hey Jer,” mock-whispered Alvarez from between them. “I see that manic gleam in Jean’s eye. You started those self-defense classes yet?”

Jeremy studied Jean’s face intensely as a lion studies a gazelle, and Jean sat back in his seat with a sneer.

“Stay away from the caffeine, Capitaine Soleil.”

Jeremy’s eyes flickered down Jean’s face and then back up, before his face split into a grin. He pushed the ceramic cup across the table until it was sitting in front of Jean. “I want a new nickname,” he said.

“What, no,” said Alvarez. “Sunshine is perfect.”

“That’s what that means?”

“We can think of something better, Jeremy,” piped up one of the sophomore girls – Emily. Jean remembered Jeremy had been trying to get them to bond more with the team; it must have been paying off. Emily and Marcy started to look at Jeremy the same way Maria looked at Jean when he spoke French.

“I’m sure you can,” said Jean.

The team fell silent as they pondered.

“Captain… Happy?” Micah offered weakly. Jeremy laughed.

Alvarez nudged Jean’s elbow as they rest of the team burst forth with nickname alternatives, each more uncreative than the last. “Jeremy told me everything,” she murmured.

“About…?” Jean wasn’t sure he wanted her to know about everything that went down yesterday; the memory felt private somehow.

“The caffeine thing.”            

“Oh,” said Jean.

Then, Emily burst forth with, “Captain Charming! Like Prince Charming!”

Jeremy grinned at her and her face turned cherry-red.

There was a coffee at his elbow. Even after all Jean had said to him, even after punching him, Jeremy was still nice. How was anyone this nice? It was annoying as hell and Jean longingly remembered the days when he wasn’t a nice enough person to be guilty about finding more reasons to hate his new team. He eyed the cup mistrustfully but took a sip.

Things got awkward when they all stood up to go to practice. Alvarez was whispering something in Laila’s ear that was making her blush while Emily and Micah were arguing over whether Captain Charming or Captain Prince Charming rolled off the tongue better. Jeremy was wincing, and begging them to drop it and forget this entire conversation.

Jeremy stopped walking when he saw Jean following him and the rest of the team to practice. He gave Jean an apologetic look but stood his ground. Jean watched him for a moment longer as the chatter of their teammates died down as they wondered why they were no longer on their way to the court.

“Jean,” said Jeremy.

“Jeremy,” said Jean. He wasn’t about to let this be a standstill. He slipped like water between the ranks of Trojans and carried on past his captain, to the stadium. Jeremy could try and kick him out of practice; it just wasn’t going to work. He’d do push-ups and bounce shots against the wall in the locker room if he had to.

Practice was awful. Dylan, who’d missed breakfast, showed up late, which earned him five laps around the stadium. Each lap he glared at Jean, who had been isolated to the bench as the team did one on one shots.

When Jean marched up to Jeremy, intent on either playing or riling him up enough to actually kick him out, the Trojan captain paired the former Raven with a freshman no taller than Jean’s elbow. To Jean’s immense displeasure, she was quicker than he was and spent the majority of practice tripping him up.

Jean’s already limited patience was fraying at the edges. He could see Dylan notice how little it would take to completely unravel him. Jean shot at the freshman girl and the ball smacked against an uncovered soft spot on her arm. She let out a shriek and Jean dropped his stick immediately.

Dylan was there in an instant. “Hey! Hey, you okay?” he said. “C’mon, let’s get that iced.”

He glared at Jean.       

“It was an accident,” growled Jean, and hated the way the words sounded coming out of his mouth. He tore his gaze away from Dylan to look at the girl. “Sorry, Michelle. I forgot myself.”

“It’s okay. Really. I’m fine,” said Michelle.

“She’s fine,” said Alvarez, who made a point of practicing near Jean when she saw things were still tense between him and Jeremy. She pushed Dylan and Jean away. “Can you hold your Exy stick?”

Michelle spun her racquet around in a circle and then brought it around in a large arc as if to throw a pass.

While Alvarez lifted her sleeve to inspect the spot where a bruise would soon form, Jean glanced around the court to see if their captain had noticed. He hadn’t, too busy blocking Laila’s goal from a sophomore striker.

“You’re lucky he didn’t see that,” came a quiet voice near Jean’s ear.

Jean whirled around and saw Dylan watching Jeremy too. He tightened his grip on his racquet to keep himself from using it to push the other backliner to the ground. He used his shoulder instead, pushing past to go get Jeremy. Dylan stumbled but pressed on.

“He should have. It’s your fault; don’t think I haven’t noticed he’s avoiding looking over here.”

Jean gritted his teeth. It was Jean’s fault that Jeremy was this unfocused but Dylan didn’t know it was because Jeremy likely hadn’t had any caffeine in the past twenty-four hours.

But that was Jeremy’s own fault, wasn’t it?

There was a large part of Jean that wanted to start a fight. He was about to step closer when Alvarez pushed Michelle between them.

“Hey!” she glared at each of them. “Keep it off the court. If you two have a problem to sort out, do it on your own time.”

Michelle looked uncomfortable. “Can we get back to practice?” she asked.

Her pleas went ignored. Jean and Dylan were glaring at each other like the first to look away would be attacked, gladiator style. Alvarez was bodily pushing herself between them, while Michelle was sneaking looks at the distracted Jeremy. If anyone else from the team noticed, they ignored the commotion, used to Jean and Dylan clashing on the court.

It was near time for the tension to break, as Alvarez inelegantly pointed out by reminding them, “Party Saturday night. Fight it out there.”

She shoved their chests until one of them took that first step back, though their eyes remained locked.

This was far from over.

Alvarez’s party was initially supposed to take place at one of the nearby on-campus houses, but the swim team was too afraid of the police stopping by and shutting it (and their athletic careers) down. Jean wanted no part of it. But sitting alone in his room that night, he could feel the bass thumping hard beneath his floorboards. There was a glass of protein shake on his nightstand that was quivering in time to the beat, and Jean spent a good fifteen minutes glaring at it, his arm crossed behind his head as he plugged his ears with headphones.

He didn’t want his own athletic career to go down the drain, and he was still mad at Jeremy for trying to keep him from going to practice almost every day this week. He hadn’t thought Jeremy would stand so firmly on this issue but evidently, this stupid shrink was important to him.

The music faltered for a moment between songs and the whole room fell into stillness while the DJ switched tracks. A moment later, the place was nearly vibrating once again. He kicked his sheets off and stuffed a pillow over his head.

He wasn’t going to answer to Dylan. He wasn’t going to answer to Jeremy. He didn’t owe either of them anything.

His phone was buzzing on the nightstand. It was probably the hundredth time Alvarez had called him in the past half hour. The texts started coming in at six, with the pleas to help set up, then the request to go get more beer then the request for ice and then the insinuation that he was a coward for ignoring the team again and honestly, ‘jeannnnnnn didnt we get past this after the first week?’

Then the reassurances: ‘everybodys missing you come downstairs and join the partyyyy’ and then the angry ‘ficasdauck youuuuuuuu’ that was from a quickly deteriorating Alvarez, then the pity text from Laila – ‘She’s gone, ignore her. But come down already.’

He tossed the phone onto the bed, where it bounced against the sheets and hit the wall.   

The beat pounded on.

According to Alvarez, everyone on the summer conditioning sports teams was down there. Swim team, football team, cheerleading and a plethora more. A hundred and one new people Jean didn’t care to meet.

“Whatever,” he said to himself and threw on a gold and maroon hoodie.

Downstairs, the floor had transformed – a lounge at the end of the hall was now a beverage station; colorful bottles of soda and liquor were lined up behind half-empty cups and brownie plates. If there was food once, it was gone by midnight, nothing but crumbs littering the bottoms of large chip bowls.

The four rooms closest to the lounge were thrown open in welcome; half-naked football players wandered in and out of open doors. Jean peeked in one; there were people all sprawled over any open space. Jean counted twelve girls squeezed onto a bed, some of them asleep with legs strewn over one another. One or two people stopped talking when he entered but after a moment, they picked right back up again. He didn’t recognize anyone in there, so he took a step back and turned around.

A wave that smelled of heat and sweat hit Jean suddenly, and he stumbled backward into a room crammed with dancing bodies. It was completely dark, save for a plethora of black lights and a tiny, cheap disco ball that was doing a surprisingly effective job. One of the dancers must have been on his team, because he heard his name screamed and then people spilled out into the dark hallway. Jean felt himself get caught up in the rush and he followed the crowd out to the lounge where he saw Alvarez and Laila making out in an armchair.

There was a thick, skunky smell coming from underneath a closed door and he felt a flicker of amusement as he placed his hand on the doorknob and wondered who on his team was into the mellow drugs.

Jean would have worried about the RA had he not seen her doing a keg stand to the drunken shouts of surrounding athletes. Just behind the RA was Jeremy, and Jean didn’t entirely like the painful press in the center of his chest at the sight. Jeremy was picking up an empty bowl and walking away with it. Jean wondered if he was planning on dropping it off at a kitchen in one of the suites or if he was so drunk, he just needed something to pick up and do.

“JEAN!”

Jean turned at the sound of a familiar shriek, just in time for a small person to barrel into his chest. He caught Maria by the arms, putting her back down as she tried to jump up on him again. “We thought you weren’t coming! Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Oh. Yeah,” said Jean, eyes darting up and around to see if anyone was sober enough to help him out of this one. Maria was clearly gone.

“No,” she said, emphasizing, “I’m really glad you’re here.”          

“Great,” said Jean. “Do you want a glass of water?” 

“I’ll tell you what I want,” said Maria, and then sat down.    

“…A glass of water?” Jean turned her slowly by the shoulders and she clambered back up. He guided her to an empty spot of wall, which she promptly slid down with a moan.

“Yes… please…”

Jean gave her a barely there smile. “What’d you have?”

“Jungle juice. Lots.”

“Dangerous,” said Jean, sliding down the wall next to her, still keeping an eye out for any familiar faces.

“Very,” Maria agreed and then pillowed her head in her arms.

“Where is everyone?” asked Jean, watching Jeremy swaggering back and forth between one of the suites and the table of empty bottles and bowls.

Maria’s eyes glanced blearily up at him and then darted around. They both watched the Trojan captain slowly clear away the mess for a moment before she pointed a finger towards the suite entrance. Jean’s eyes darted to where she was pointing and saw a grinning Micah wave to Jeremy. Micah ambled over and traded him an empty bowl with a red solo cup.

“Oh,” said Jean, watching Micah beckon Jeremy closer in order to shout something in his ear. “There’s Micah. He’s helping Jeremy clean up.”

Suddenly there was a cup shoved between him and Maria.

“Jean! Polite of you to show up!” bellowed Alvarez. She was standing above Jean and Maria, shaking the plastic cup between them. Laila was attached to her arm, looking uncharacteristically smiley. The two were bathed in lilac light from the homemade black lights set up around them.

Jean’s arm shot out, taking the cup from Alvarez, just so she would stop shaking it in his face.

“I can’t believe you almost didn’t come! Come play beer pong!” she said.

“No, thanks,” said Jean, and watched Micah take another step closer to Jeremy. Jeremy hopped up to sit on the table, talking excitedly.

Alvarez grabbed both of Jean’s hands and hauled him to his feet. “Maria gets a free pass for being too drunk to stand; you have no excuse to avoid the rest of the party. C’mon, I’ll find Dylan and winner can be starting line.”

Jean took a sip of the jungle juice and then winced. It was overpoweringly sweet; not a good sign. He tried to ask Alvarez what was in it but then, someone turned up the music and the beat poured from four enormous speakers in one of the open door rooms. Laila threaded her hand through his and squeezed before letting go and helping Maria to her feet. Jean hoped Laila was taking her home.

Jean tried to ask but his words were lost as Alvarez pulled him through the crowd. Then he was stumbling in front of the beer pong table. Alvarez’s momentum kept her going, and she would have knocked the whole thing over had Jean not pulled her back.

A group of Trojans was playing against a bunch of swimmers. Jean called out to Dylan mid-throw. Dylan swore as his ball landed with a wet splash and then bounced out of the cup.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute!” he yelled at Jean over the music and then stuck his tongue between his teeth again as he tried to perfect his second shot. By the time the game was over, Jean’s cup was empty. He knew himself well enough to recognize the anger in his ribcage as a spark, burning greedily when he thought about Dylan’s antagonism, Alvarez’s pushiness and Micah laughing with Jeremy in the lounge. It made the muscle in his chest jump a little out of tune with the thumping of the bass.

He tried to brush it aside.

Light came from the glowing purple black lights, the moon and a nearby streetlamp shining in through an open window. Jean watched the pong ball bounce off another cup of water and tried to ignore the brightest thing in the room, and the headache of figuring out why he couldn’t stop looking at Jeremy and thinking about the sun.

Chapter Text

Jean and Dylan were not evenly matched. It was Jean’s first time playing beer pong and he was losing, sorely.

Dylan shot a Ping-Pong ball into the air and watched as it landed with a wet splash into the cup, a quarter of the way full with water. He fished it out and shook off the water with a loose wrist before sending a triumphant wave to the small crowd that had gathered around. Jean ignored Dylan’s self-satisfied look and scowled at the study desk turned beer pong table.

“One more game,” he said.

“Nah, man,” said Dylan. “This is like, the fifth game. I’m bored.”

He rolled the Ping-Pong ball across the table towards Jean, who caught it to keep it from rolling off the edge. “Keep practicing, buddy.”

Someone grabbed the ball from Jean, and the crowd pulled him back so the next two players could have a turn. Jean’s eyes found Dylan before he could walk away.

“What about a different game?” asked Jean. He knew a few from his Ravens days that might be disallowed at USC but were still pretty fun.

Dylan was already making his way out of the dorm room and towards the lounge. Jean followed him to the liquor table. Almost all the bottles were empty, save for a nearly full handle of peppermint schnapps, an open mason jar of moonshine, a third of whipped cream Smirnoff and half a pack of Bud Light. Dylan pushed all of it aside, selecting a bottle with a few inches of rum left.

“Is there any diet coke left?” asked Dylan, picking up an empty liter of Pepsi. Jean grabbed the diet coke bottle hiding under the table and shoved it at Dylan; it was also just about gone. Dylan exchanged it for the Pepsi bottle and examined its’ contents before tapping it against Jean’s chest. The plastic made a hollow sound. Jean smacked it away.

“Guess not,” Dylan said and picked up the handle of Captain Morgan. “There’s probably enough left for a couple of shots. You in?”

Jean looked around but there weren’t any plastic shot glasses in his immediate line of sight- not any clean ones, anyway. He pushed the leftovers around but only found used ones, which he and Dylan both considered wearily.

“Fuck it,” said Dylan, and he plucked two used ones from Jean’s hands. “I’m not using someone’s nasty cup. Kitchen.”

The two backliners made their way into one of the suite kitchens, where Dylan roughly dropped the handle of rum on the counter and then turned on the sink. They rinsed out the cups with their hands, rubbing the residue away with their fingers before inspecting them in the light and then deeming them fit for use. Jean handed Dylan the rum and he poured them both shots until liquor was spilling over the edge. He didn’t wait for Jean before downing it.

The sweet alcohol was like fire running down his throat and igniting his lungs. Dylan poured them both a second one and when that was finished, Jean leaned against the counter and spoke.

“You don’t like me,” he said.

Dylan was still exhaling a hiss from that second shot, but at Jean’s words, he looked up. “You don’t like me either.”

Neither of them was wrong. From day one, Jean had belittled and antagonized Dylan, brushing him off with criticism of his performance. He hadn’t taken Dylan seriously as a backliner, let alone considered him a threat when Jeremy announced that the team would be cutting down to nine. After one scrimmage, Jean already knew he was the better player. It only took that long for his haughtiness to strike the wrong nerve.

If Dylan didn’t insist on calling him number three during practice, in front of the whole team, Jean might have stuck to ignoring him for the year. But Dylan was obnoxious.

The boy belched and Jean made a disgusted face. “I really don’t.”

“What’s your point, Moreau?” said Dylan.

“The fact is we have to work together if we want to make it to finals,” said Jean, hating the words coming out of his mouth but knowing that it was necessary to start rebuilding bridges. “I am a very good backliner. If Jeremy is serious about cutting the team down to nine people – he hasn’t cut anyone yet, so maybe it’s just a motivational gimmick – but if he is, he can’t keep me out of the game.”

“Techinically,” Dylan droned, “he’s got more muscle and about four inches on you. He probably could.”

Jean’s eyes flashed. “Let me rephrase: He could try. He would fail.”

Dylan reached around and scratched his armpit. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there are four backliners on the court at all times. Two on the opposing team, and two on ours. You’re barely adequate, but you’ll do.”

Dylan regarded him with eyes too unfocused to be sober but his flat words were clear enough to be understood. “You’re saying you want us to be friends.”

“No. Partners. Teammates.”

“Teammates…” Dylan repeated like he was thinking it over. Jean thought privately that Dylan was a baby chick compared to any of the Ravens, and besides, his teammates listened to Dylan. Whenever Rhemann punished the team with laps or drills, Dylan didn’t hesitate to be the first to fall in line. Whether that was a sign of stupidity or submission, Jean didn’t know but the team respected it. In return, Dylan was quite defensive of them, if his aggression on the court after Jeremy got sick was any indicator.

He was a good person. Just annoying.

“You are not the worst person I’ve ever met,” said Jean.

“Hey now,” Dylan looked awkward and a little embarrassed.

“Not the best either. Especially not when it comes to Exy.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

Jean crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. There was some rum still left in the handle of Captain Morgan and Jean poured it for himself. Dylan took a step closer and thrust his shot glass at Jean, who scowled and poured the remaining swallow.

They both tried not to wince after downing this one but their exhales were vulgar.

“Too bad beer pong is not a national sport,” said Jean, offhandedly. There was a slur to his words that made them disdainful.

“Name the game, Moreau,” Dylan said, inebriated and fired up. “I’ll kick your ass back to West Virginia.”

Jean pushed himself off the counter and took a step forward. Dylan took a step back, and then another, until his back was against the wall next to the trashcan. “You sure about that?”

“I… I am so sure. So sure.” But his eyes were darting to the door and back to Jean’s face. To scare him, Jean leaned in a little closer and tried to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Are you really sure?”

Dylan hesitated before giving a jerky half shrug, half nod, eyes more focused than a moment ago, as if remembering something. His eyes darted around Jean’s face. There was a smell from the garbage next to them that was not only off-putting but made Jean’s eyes water. It might have been why Dylan was holding his breath. Then again, it might not have.

“Do you have a cigarette?” Jean asked.

Dylan’s face scrunched in confusion. “The stoners might.”

Jean pulled away and turned toward the kitchen entrance. Just past there was the lounge. From behind him, Dylan let out a brassy noise and followed before pushing past him to a closed door emanating a thick smell. Jean leaned with his back against the wall and waited as Dylan shouted at those inside for Marlboros. Jean was surprised that it took almost nothing for someone to send a pack flying past Dylan’s left ear.

Dylan scooped it up and said, “Guess there’s not a lot of stoner athletes. Just two.” He wiggled his eyebrows with a randy grin.

Jean eyed the stoner’s room wearily and caught a glimpse of a shirtless cheerleader before the door was slammed in their faces. He rolled his eyes and took the pack. A cigarette was shaken out and Jean watched Dylan’s gaze narrow in on it. He held it between their faces and waited for Dylan to look at him again before saying, “We’re going to need more alcohol.”

Jean thought about his life up to that point. Sure it hadn’t been perfect, but if anyone asked him three months ago where he’d be at the start of the school year, the answer sure as fuck wouldn’t have been here.

“Holding up okay?” asked Dylan through gritted teeth.

“Peachy,” responded Jean, in French. “Wonderful.”

Dylan let out a grunt, the breath of it brushing Jean’s cheek in an entirely unpleasant way. “What did you just say to me?”

“Nothing. Nevermind,” said Jean.

“Say it… again… I dare you.” The last three words were squished together in a too fast gasp that could only come from a person in pain.

“You sound like you’ve got something shoved up your ass,” said Jean, still in French.

“Okay, fuck off,” said Dylan between breaths. “We may be bros now, but that definitely sounded like something rude and I’ll still kick your ass.”

“Need both arms for that,” said Jean, pressing closer.

They’d had more to drink. Half of Jean’s words were in English, but he couldn’t tell which.

Dylan seemed to get the idea, though. He hissed and pushed back, forearm flush against Jean’s. “Then we’re both at a disadvantage.”

Despite his scathing words, skin was starting to bubble. Jean faltered. He was shocked, frankly, that Dylan was holding out this long, but the other guy really didn’t like to lose. Unfortunately for him, neither did Jean.

Dylan squeezed his eyes shut and Jean, narrowing in on weakness, pressed in again, careful not to extinguish the cigarette lit up between their arms.

Dylan yanked his arm back, and the cigarette fell to the floor, sparks exploding harmlessly against the ground. Jean picked it up and put the unlit tip in his mouth, drunk and hungry for the brackish taste.

“Seriously,” panted Dylan. “Where do you even come up with this shit? Is this a Raven thing?”

It was a Riko thing, specifically, but Dylan didn’t need to know that. Riko did it, not as a way of inflicting pain but as a bonding exercise, to test teammates against each other. Jean didn’t even realize that’s what he was doing until the cigarette was lit and a small crowd had gathered to watch the two biggest idiots at the party.

Suddenly there was a hand on Jean’s shoulder and someone was pulling him back around. He lashed out, fist half curled.

Jeremy caught his wrist. Jean tried to wrench it back but Jeremy held on tight. The anger in Jean’s stomach burned petulant and small – a candle compared to Jeremy’s dark, wildfire gaze. “What are you two doing?”

Dylan held up both hands. “No, Jeremy, it’s cool – we’re teammates now –”

Jeremy’s annoyance zeroed in on Dylan. “You’ve been teammates this whole time, Dylan.” He rounded on Jean. “Explain.”

“It’s a Raven game. You hold a lit cigarette between your arms and whoever can hold out the longest wins,” said Jean, still trying to free his arm. Gently, Jeremy turned Jean’s arm over, and even Jean had to admit that the vermillion, bubbling blister looked incriminating.

“Both of you. Bathroom. Now.” Jean couldn’t tell if the panicked edge in Jeremy’s voice was actually there or if the shots of rum and all the jungle juice were finally hitting him.

Dylan pulled himself from the room, one hand braced against the sill of the doorway, the other reaching up to cover his face. Jean suspected by the hurried pace that he was barely keeping himself from retching.

He didn’t close the bathroom door on the way in, and the sounds that followed confirmed Jean’s suspicions. Jeremy blanched and took a step back, apparently forgetting all thoughts of scolding Jean for his childishness. Jean rolled his eyes and steered Jeremy forward, hands warm against Jeremy’s shoulder blades. Three bodies made the closet-sized space even smaller.

Jeremy reached past Jean to pull open the medicine cabinet for a Band-Aid. Jean turned his chin to watch Jeremy peel back the plastic and tried to ignore the sounds of Dylan being sick.

“I’m going to throw up,” said Jeremy, trying to back out the door again, his eyes glued to Dylan’s heaving form.

“Well, the sink is not open,” said Jean, hopping up to sit on its edge. “Tough luck.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine,” Jeremy told him, as if fine was a wish, and repetition of the word would make it come true. He tore his eyes away from Dylan to stare up at the ceiling, Band-Aid forgotten.

Dylan shoved himself off the toilet and fell against the tiled floors.

“Why are there so many chunks?” asked Jean. “Incredible. You can almost taste what his last meal was.”

Dylan was aiming for the toilet before he finished rising like the undead from the floor.

“Impressive. Minimal to no splatter,” said Jean.

“Stop talking,” Jeremy groaned.

“But the color is not so bad. Yours was much worse, Captain.”

Jeremy plugged his nose with a delicate index finger and thumb. “You know, they say color is a good indicator of vitality.”

“Where?” groaned Dylan, voice echoing like sob against the porcelain. “Where the fuck do they say that?”

“Cambodia,” said Jeremy. His eyes were locked on the ceiling.

“No, this is true. Dylan, for comparison purposes, which do you think was more saturated?” asked Jean.

There was a smile twitching in the corner of Jeremy’s mouth. His eyes darted to Jean before he pressed his lips together until the pink was closer to white. “Good, God. Can you go back to French now?”

“Saviez-vous que dans le cambodge, Capitaine,” said Jean. His words echoed too loud against the all the ceramic in the room so he dropped to a murmur, “l’une des boissons les plus populaires faites avec une tarentule fraîchement morte?

Jeremy’s eyes broke away from the ceiling and Jean felt a shiver of something electric dance along his skin at his stare.

“Actually, that’s not an improvement. Thank you, anyway,” Jeremy said politely. “I’ll just count the ceiling tiles, I think.”

“Did you say tarantula?” asked Dylan from the toilet.

“Are you seriously counting ceiling tiles?” asked Jean, from the sink.

“What did I do wrong in my life to wind up here with you dimwits?” asked Jeremy, from the eighteen inches of space between them. “Oh, wait, now I remember.”

He fixed Jean with a look and Jean tried very hard to ignore the small part of him that wished Dylan were somewhere else.

“What’s with the lit cigarette? Seriously guys, there’s gotta be a ruler somewhere in one of these rooms. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just whip it out?”

“I’ll whip it out right now,” slurred Dylan, his hand wandering halfheartedly like it knew the direction, but not the intention. In the end, he wound up gesturing to the space around him.

“Now I’m scared,” said Jean, watching Dylan’s hand return to its grip on the toilet. “Look at that thing. Will it fit?”

“Fuck off, man, that’s gay as shit.”

“He says from the toilet,” said Jean.

“Guess you do have the best vantage point, dude,” said Jeremy.

Jean laughed, and everyone in the room was startled by the sound.

“You,” said Jeremy, rounding on him. “I am one hundred, one hundred and one percent sure this was your idea.”

Jean didn’t say anything, certain that neither positive affirmation nor denial would benefit his situation. Jeremy tried to cross his arms but the lack of elbowroom had him flinging them back down to twitch anxiously at his side. He turned to face Jean head on, so they were nearly chest-to-chest. Jean pressed himself further back and felt the cold edge of the mirror touch the top of his spine.

“I’m not sure what made you think it was a good one. Didn’t it hurt?”

“It’s just a game,” Jean murmured, leaning back on his hands and letting his head fall sideways to a tilt.

“You are literally hurting yourself. That’s not a game.” Jeremy’s voice was fierce.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Jean shot back at him. “It doesn’t even compare.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. They both knew what he meant. There was nothing laughable about the vast difference between Trojan Hall and the Ravens’ Nest but he laughed anyway. It was hard and unpleasant and reverberated unforgivingly against the four walls.

Jeremy frowned. “You think it’s okay because you’re too used to pushing through the pain.”

Jean let out a scoff, thinking of the energy enhancers that littered Jeremy’s car. “Like you don’t.”

Jeremy was tangibly disturbed. “Are you comparing me to Riko?”

Jean hadn’t been. Jeremy was the furthest thing from Riko that Jean ever had the fortune of encountering. Riko was rotting in a pit six feet under, probably digging himself deeper to claim Hell from the devil himself. Jeremy was leagues away, climbing clouds to burn in the sky as stars do.

“Why?” asked Jean, tongue loose from booze. “You think it’s common courtesy to be furious on my behalf?”

The college-cheap light bulbs doused everything in yellow. He thought about what he said to Renee the other night, about Jeremy being angry. The desperation that must have driven Jeremy to the point of cutting his own team down to potentially nine players must have been something devastating. Jean knew the feeling. He knew what it was like to never lose, until you did.

He wasn’t comparing Jeremy to Riko, not even close, but he watched the way Jeremy captained his team, with affection and determination that could only come from Jeremy comparing himself to Riko and not liking the conclusion.

“I’m not being courteous,” said Jeremy, quietly. “I’m being a decent person. I’m pissed off.”

“Don’t be noble. You have no right,” said Jean. “Worry about your own team.”

“You are on my team,” said Jeremy. “What he did… human beings don’t treat each other like that. He never should have hurt you. Any of you. He was your captain.”

Jean’s nostrils flared and he leaned forward, done trying to be less aware of the inches between them. He opened his mouth, and Jeremy’s eyes dropped down to it, and Jean forgot everything he was going to say about the only reason he was in the same room as Jeremy Knox at all was revenge against Riko for nearly taking everything from him. What came out instead was, “Careful, Jeremy. ”

Jeremy’s gaze was heavy. Blistering. Jean watched him clench his jaw, and when his breath caught, Jean felt the absence of its heat, feather-soft just under his chin. Sitting up on the counter like this, Jean was taller, but not by much.

“I’ll make you a Trojan if it kills me, Jean Moreau,” Jeremy said.

One side of Jean’s mouth lifted, a poor echo of a disdain. “You think your second-place team is worth my time, Jeremy Knox?”

The responding smile was slow. “Yeah, maybe. I just know you’re better than third.”

Any of Jean’s remaining indifference was spoiled by that. He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the counter until a shot of pain laced through his fingertips. He wanted to laugh, but his throat was too dry.

Someone banged on the door.

“Hey! Open up. Someone’s gotta puke!”

Jeremy’s head snapped up to look at the doorway. Jean kept his eyes where they were, watching the curve of Jeremy’s tan throat bob as he let out a shaky loud exhale.

“Seriously, open the door!” came again. The knocking intensified. Jeremy still hadn’t moved away.

“Hey, is the Exy captain in there? Someone’s looking for him.”

Jeremy’s skin was close, too close, and every time Jean breathed in, it was all he could taste.

“Someone’s bleeding out here!”

Jeremy took a step back. Unconsciously, Jean felt himself fall forward slightly, gaze still locked with Jeremy. His hand itched with the need to grab Jeremy by the shirt and pull him forward but Jeremy had torn his eyes away, and they were now locked on the door like it was made of Plexiglas and he could see the entire party on the other side. The banging came again.

“Jeremy! You in there?!”

This was followed by a loud snort. Simultaneously, they started and whipped around to look at Dylan, who was singing quietly to himself, curled up on the floor. His eyes were half open, and he let out a noise that was either an ugly snore or the start of a bad cold.

“I can’t tell if he’s out or not,” said Jeremy.

I was just thinking the same thing about you, thought Jean.

Jeremy threw the door open. Micah was standing with a group of drunken athletes. One of them had fallen against his shoulder and he had one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her standing.

He cast a glance inside: at Dylan wrapped around the toilet, and Jean on the sink, wearing an intense glare.

Micah didn’t spare either of more than a passing glance, forcing his way inside while those surrounding him looked on anxiously.

“What’s happened?” asked Jeremy, helping him heft the unconscious athlete into the bathroom. Jean hopped off the sink and slipped past them. There was barely enough room in the bathroom for three people, let alone five.

Jeremy caught his wrist. Jean stilled, dragging his gaze up from the floor to meet Jeremy’s turbulent eyes. He turned Jean’s arm over, and they both glanced down at the forgotten blister. Jeremy was still holding the fresh Band-Aid and he pressed it on Jean’s arm. His thumb was warm where it brushed Jean’s skin.

Jean paused, waiting if Jeremy had something else to say or if this conversation was over. Jeremy searched his face, opening his mouth and then shutting it, and then opening it again.

“You ever check out those cufflinks?” he said, looking at the fashion rings on Jean’s thumb and forefinger.

“Go help someone else,” said Jean, taking a step back.

He left as quickly as he could, heart pounding, and vision blurry, symptoms he tried to package neatly as alcohol related. But the painful dread in his stomach was a premonition of something else entirely, and he wondered if all summer conditioning was this tumultuous or if the stakes on Trojan’s first game next week was more high velocity than any of them could have predicted.

On his way out the door, someone slammed into his chest. He stumbled back, and made a grab for them, before realizing that the squirming girl desperately trying to escape his grip was Laila.

He released her but she didn’t leave, her head whipping back and forth, searching the room.

“Where is she?” said Laila. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“I- I have to go. They said she’s in the bathroom. Did you see what happened?”

“Who?” Jean asked, again.

“Alvarez.” 

Chapter Text

Autumn had yet to catch up with the back to school rush. The still summer heat blistered, and the bright backpacks of slow moving college students irked Jean for no reason. It was five days into the first week of school, six days since Alvarez’s party, and seven days since the last time Jean got a full night’s rest.

Last night, new characters appeared in his nightmares. The picturesque memory of his mother stroked his hair as his father smiled at him, both in their 90’s clothes from the photos he had of them. He couldn’t remember what he was doing in this dream, only the out-of-focus kitchen, the dust motes gently descending in a patch of sunlight and Jeremy walking into his room in Marseilles. He almost didn’t remember that it wasn’t natural.

Then Jeremy opened his mouth, choking on wisteria, and Jean woke up.

“Jean!”

He turned at the sound of his name and let the Trojan campus surroundings wash away the dregs of his dream. Alvarez was bounding towards him, her dark hair tied back in a bun that bounced with each step.

“Hey,” he said, waiting for her to catch up. When she had, they continued towards his next class.

“So Laila made a petition online, for a new cafeteria chef or something,” Alvarez said immediately, trying to affect a bored tone. “She’s been bitching for the past four years about the food. I mean it’s not great but you know. Whatever. Okay, I mean it’s pretty awful.”

Jean grunted confirmation when she paused, looking at her from out of the corner of his eye. It was unusual to hear Laila’s monotone coming out of Alvarez’s mouth. Alvarez spoke with feeling or not at all.

“—and now that she’s graduating this year, she’s decided it’s the perfect time for a change, I guess.” The words came quick, her pitch high.

“Change,” repeated Jean. “Oh.”

Alvarez whirled around. “Her words. Not mine. ‘Now is a good time for change.’ What does that mean?” The crack in her voice betrayed her worry.

“It’s autumn,” said Jean.

“She’s not talking about the leaves,” Alvarez’s response was tart. “She’s talking about us.”

“Us?” asked Jean, bewildered.

“Not you.”

“Oh. What does this have to do with cafeteria food?”

“Jean,” Alvarez threw her arms up in the air. “Do you know nothing about relationships? When a girl says it’s time for change to her girlfriend, it literally doesn’t matter what she’s referring to in context. It’s the subtext.”

“Careful,” said Jean, eyeing her bandaged forearm. Alvarez followed his line of sight and lifted the injured arm.

“Oh, God, not you too,” Alvarez replied. “What was that sound? Was that worry? How Trojan of you.”

Jean scoffed. “I take it back.”

“Too late. To answer your unasked question, I’m fine. I’m doing great. My arm’s in a sling, I’m out for the first game of the season and my girlfriend wants to dump me.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “You’re not in a sling.”

“Not the point.”

“Besides, even if she got enough signatures for a petition,” continued Jean, “It wouldn’t take effect until next year. She will have graduated by the time they employed a new staff.”

“Oh my god. I am seriously never ever talking to you about relationships again.”

“Sounds good.”

Alvarez looped her arm through his as they entered the social sciences building. “I’m not cheering for you for one second tonight.”

The reminder of tonight’s game felt like an ice cube sliding down Jean’s spine. Jean tried to shake Alvarez off, but she held on tight. He sighed and gave up, wary of accidentally jostling her injury.

“You won’t have to,” replied Jean. “I didn’t make starting line. Found out this morning; Rhemann pinned up the roaster in the locker room.”

He watched her face for a reaction. Disappointment and pity were there but surprise was suspiciously absent.

“Sorry, Jean,” she said. “I think Jeremy just didn’t want to take any risks for the first game, what with me being out and all. There are a lot of eyes on him tonight.”

Jean glared at the people in front of them. She was right. First games weren’t the hardest of the season, but there was an added level of difficulty with new players, a rhythm every team had to find. Additionally, the Trojans came in second place last year. They’d practically given the game to the Foxes; a kindness not everybody in the Exy world approved of. Jeremy got away with it because he used next year’s improvement as leverage. Now, everybody wanted to see if the risky tactic paid off.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, by the way,” said Alvarez. “Jeremy said that when, you know, this happened,” she gestured to her arm, “After everyone came to see me, you didn’t ride home with the rest. He said you stayed? But I don’t remember seeing you.”

Jean paused at the foot of the stairs. His classroom was just at the top and class was starting soon. He could have used that as an excuse, but Alvarez deserved some kind of explanation.

“I was emotional, I guess,” said Jean. “The last time I was in a hospital…”

“Oh,” said Alvarez. “Oh, God, that’s right.”

“It was harder than I thought it would be, being there.”

Alvarez looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of emotion. She looked like she might hug him, so Jean took a hasty step up onto the stairs.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” she said, and it was a little awkward because it had been a week since. “It was probably really hard but I’m glad you were there. Lucky they only kept me for a night, eh? So… thanks.”

Jean cast a longing glance up the stairs, and then hopped back down to wrap Alvarez up in the world’s quickest side hug, a startling and uncomfortable moment for them both.

Alvarez was surprised enough to stay silent when he let go, which gave Jean plenty of time to escape up the stairs. She watched him and let out an embarrassed laugh.

“Don’t get excited, Moreau,” she called up, cheekily. “I’m still a camionneuse!”

At the top of the stairs, Jean snorted.

Alvarez deserved an explanation. Even if it wasn’t really the truth.

That night was a bit of a blur. Jean had returned to the bathroom after running into Laila. At that point in the night, Laila had no idea what happened to Alvarez since she had taken a drunk Maria back to her dorm. While Dylan was steadfastly purging his system of all alcohol, Alvarez was doing body shots off a Trojan cheerleader. Alvarez described the precursor to the incident as, “She had a belly button piercing. I have a tongue. I regret nothing.”

According to onlookers, the cheerleader had been startled, jumping up when she felt a tongue on her stomach. Alvarez was knocked back into a glass television stand. Some said that the television was stolen earlier that night, while others said the television was there and that the weight of it being knocked back was what broke the glass stand in the first place. Regardless of the television, Alvarez’s crash resulted in an arm full of glass shards. She was brought to the bathroom straight away to assess the damage, where it was determined that a hospital visit was necessary.

Nothing vital was ruined, though there was a significant amount of blood. It got everywhere.

Twenty-eight Trojans sat drunk and anxious in the waiting room as a doctor removed the glass. When the doctor came out of surgery, he assured them that Alvarez was fine, and while she was barred from the upcoming first game, she would be able to play for the rest of the season.

The Trojans had let out a collective sigh of relief and waited another hour until Alvarez woke up. At 6 AM, visiting hours were long over but after a conversation with the nurses on duty – a long conversation that involved lots of pleading – they were allowed to see their wounded teammate. Laila cried.

Afterwards, the team headed home. Jean would have joined them but he’d gotten a text.

It wasn’t Ichirou Moriyama this time.

Waiting room. Left wing. First floor.

It wasn’t Kevin Day either.

An ice-cold chill raced through his bones at the words and Jean had to stop himself from retreating to Alvarez’s hospital room to hide. Instead, he’d locked himself in a janitor’s closet until his panic attack receded, and then he straightened the gold and maroon hoodie speckled with Alvarez’s blood and went out to meet Tetsuji.

The older man waiting for him could have been anyone’s father. He sat with a bowler hat pulled low over his forehead, flipping through an Exy magazine. He didn’t look up even when Jean stood right in front of him, but he closed the magazine and placed it gently to the side. Jean’s eyes focused on the colorful portrait of Mark Wei, a striker on the US Court. Everything else was blurry. His body would not move.

“Humans are incredible,” said Tetsuji Moriyama. “So durable. So resilient. We make mistakes all the time. To trip, to fall wrong. To lose one’s temper, just for a moment.” He lifted one hand from the ornate cane between his knees and flexed.

“It only takes one mistake, wouldn’t you say, Jean?”

Jean nodded jerkily. Once his eyes found the cane, it was impossible for them to leave it. He was towering over the seated Tetsuji – an unintentional shift in the power balance that felt horribly unnatural. He studied the cane’s pattern under his former master’s knobby hands.

Tetsuji cleared phlegm from his throat in the loud way that older men do, disgusting and careless.   

“I debated coming to see you earlier,” he said, the last of the phlegm catching the start of his words. “But I did not want you to feel pressured by me. Now you’ve had the summer. Your first game is next week, is that correct?”

Jean forgot sometimes that the Moriyamas had eyes everywhere. He didn’t know how Tetsuji knew, or what it meant that he did but it’d only been a few hours since Alvarez got hurt, and the quick response time was terrifying. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth, afraid of what might come out. Tetsuji had a way of making Jean feel like he’d done something immorally wrong; even now, begging for forgiveness seemed like the quickest and easiest solution to get him out of this waiting room.

“Yes, Master,” he settled on, trying to keep the tightness in his throat from affecting his speech.

“You aren’t wearing black.” 

Startled, Jean reexamined his former coach’s black suit. With an aching guilt, Jean realized he was not expected to stop mourning just because he switched teams.

“I apologize, Master,” he said, head bowed.

“Disrespectful.”

“I am sorry.”

Tetsuji coughed again.

“You are a Raven,” he said, voice gravelly. “Do not allow yourself to fall under the illusion that you might be anything else. Do not allow anyone,” here, he paused, until Jean lifted his gaze from the cane to Tetsuji’s piercing stare, “anyone to make you forget that.”

“Yes, Master,” Jean mumbled, his words a whisper caught only between him and Tetsuji.

“Do not embarrass us. You understand what it means to lose, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” His eyes returned to the cane.

Without another word, Tetsuji stood. Jean took a step back, half stumbling in his haste. Tetsuji did not look at him as he left, and afterwards, Jean sat by himself for a long time.

Why had he come? Just to see if Jean was still the brainwashed bird he’d been at Edgar Allen? To remind Jean of the painful memories that kept him compliant?

Abruptly, he remembered: Tetsuji was to be put on trial soon, thanks to Neil Josten. He hadn’t brought it up, but Jean wondered if he intended to put Jean on the witness stand. Jean reclined against the waiting room chair and ignored the way it felt like an iron maiden.

Would Tetsuji try and make Jean vouch for him at his trial? What would he have Jean say?

He wouldn’t. Jean wouldn’t do it.

Every passing day it got harder for Jean to remember that he was here at USC for himself, fighting this battle when the easiest thing in the world would have been to give up Exy entirely. He was fighting back, against Tetsuji, against Ichirou, against Riko. He wasn’t just living to survive anymore. If he had been, he wouldn’t have kept playing at all; Exy almost killed him. Exy was rebellion for a survivor like him.

Every passing day it got harder.

“LET’S GO TROJANS, LET’S GO!”

Energy in the locker room was off the walls. The Trojans chattered incessantly, pausing in reverence every time a cheer was heard on the court. Everyone was done changing except Alvarez, who sat with her team for the first game speech. Her bandaged hand was held by Laila, while the other hand was gripped tightly by a buzzing Jeremy. Literally. Jeremy was vibrating with nerves and excitement and it was putting the team on edge. Jean could not stand to be anywhere near him.

“Sit down,” he snapped at the Trojan captain, who had let go of Alvarez’s hand and stood up to pace.

“Seriously, Jeremy, don’t worry,” Alvarez chimed in, eyes following Jeremy to the water fountain and back.

Jean blew a sigh through his nose. “Just because Alvarez won’t be out there to hold your hand doesn’t mean we won’t still win. Rodríguez will do fine.”

Rodríguez, the senior striker taking Alvarez’s place tonight, nodded. Jeremy shot them both a nervous grin and sat down, leg bouncing.

“Better than fine!” came a voice from the doorway. Couch Rhemann pushed a freshman out of the way and said, “We’re winning this.”

Before Rhemann could launch into a pep talk, Jeremy stood up again. Rhemann deflated.

“Sit down, Knox.” His voice had a trace of defeat.

“Don’t mind me, Coach,” said Jeremy. “I just want you all to know how excited and proud I am of every single person in this room.”   

“Alright, Captain.”

“Sorry, Coach, let me just –”

“Jeremy, do we have to do this every time?” Despite his words, Rhemann wore an amused smile as he took a seat.

There were snickers around the room at Jeremy’s indignant face. “What do you mean, every time?”

He tapped the butt of his Exy racquet on the floor until every athlete in the room was looking at him intently. Even Jean found himself leaning forward. Once Jeremy was satisfied he had the attention of everyone in the room, he threw an arm out, gesturing to those around him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been working our asses off this summer.”

There was a rowdy cheer.

Jeremy grinned. “There’s been so much improvement from every one of you. Every one. You want to know who’s in the crowd tonight?”

Jean felt something like stones dropping on lungs.

“Shirley,” said Jeremy.

Jean did not know a Shirley. His fists unclenched.

“That your girlfriend, Jer?” Micah shouted from the back.

“What?” Jeremy laughed. “No! I mean, she should be, really. She makes about the meanest hash browns you’ve ever had in your life.”

“What are you getting at, kid?” said Rhemann.

“I’m just trying to say that Alvarez’s mother is in the stands tonight, and she’s looking forward to a win. She’ll be sitting with Alvarez and the USC Song Girls, cheering us on. I think we owe it to her to give it a good go!”

Jeremy’s voice got louder as he kept talking, and Laila nudged Jean as the Trojans pumped their fists in the air, shouting over each other. Alvarez scoffed but she was smiling as she bellowed a cheer.

“One, two, three, TROJANS!” 

Naturally, disaster.

It happened right before half-time. Jean was meant to be on the bench all night, but he was on the edge of his seat, half watching the game, half scanning the crowds for Tetsuji. He checked his phone constantly, terrified of seeing the screen light up with an order to leave the stadium or poison Coach Rhemann or something.

But his phone stayed dark.

It was because he was checking the phone so adamantly that he missed when Dylan slammed into the Plexiglas. He only looked up when suddenly the athletes next to him were standing and screaming at the referee, “Call it! Call it, are you blind?”

Jean didn’t have to scan much of the court before he saw the enormous Washington State Cougar.

“Fucking number five,” groaned Micah, next to him. “Dylan’s out.”

Jean turned his head so fast he got whiplash. He ignored the sharp pain as his eyes met Jeremy’s across the court.

From here, Jean couldn’t make out much of his expression, save for Jeremy’s mouth tugged down in worry. He and the nearby Rodríguez helped haul Dylan to his feet. Dylan tried to push them off but only succeeded in unbalancing himself. Jean had seen enough concussions in his lifetime to know when a player was out of the game. The trio made their way towards the benches.

“You don’t have a choice now,” he said to Jeremy when the three of them were close enough. “You have to let me play.”

Jeremy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Dylan blustered, “He does not. You’re not the only backliner on the bench.”

Jean glared at Dylan. So much for last week’s drunk treaty.

Dylan looked guilty for all of ten seconds and then said, “Just saying. You’re not the only one who’s been working hard this summer.”

“But he has been working hard,” Jeremy cut in, thoughtfully.

“Yeah but – ”

“I understand you’re concerned...”

“What if he drops his racquet in the middle of the game?”

“Hey, fuck you,” snarled Jean. “I haven’t dropped the racquet since June.”

“Sorry, bro,” said Dylan, not looking at him. “Just don’t want a repeat of this summer.”

Jeremy had a weird look in his eye, but Jean was too focused on Dylan to decipher what it meant.

“Dylan,” said Jeremy. “Benches.”

“But Jer – ”

“I trust Jean.” Jeremy’s golden eyes flickered to Jean, and then back to Dylan. “And you should too. Trojan rule number one: trust your teammates.”

Dylan glared and looked between them like he thought he knew exactly why Jeremy was giving this opportunity to Jean.

Jeremy laughed at his expression. “If you get elected captain next year, Dylan, then you can call the shots.”

Dylan pursued his lips and limped forward; Rodríguez awkwardly shifted her weight to accommodate him.

Jeremy hauled Jean over to the end of the bench, where his duffle was. He let go of Jean’s arm to dig around in it, and then pulled out a water bottle. He took a drink and looked out at the court. Halftime was ending and people were slowly filing back in. Jeremy watched the stands fill with gold and red.

He didn’t look at Jean when he said, “I think I see some black and red in the crowd tonight.”

Jean knew better than to think Jeremy said it to be mean. When Jeremy glanced over at him, his eyes caught on the scar tissue on Jean’s face. Jean knew from looking in the mirror that it was healing up nicely, fading to a rosy pink.

“Do yourself a favor and worry about something important,” Jean said when Jeremy had been staring at him too long. His expression was intense, and it suited him. Jean didn’t realize he’d taken a step closer until Jeremy lowered his water bottle to his side to make space between them.

The back of Jean’s neck was burning. He shoved his helmet on to create a barrier between what he wanted and what he knew was a bad, bad idea and tried to busy his uncooperative hands with the strap.

Jeremy watched Jean struggle for another moment, before reaching out and brushing Jean’s fingers out of the way.

“I’m good,” said Jean, and he wasn’t talking about the tricky knot under his helmet. The Raven fans in the stands didn’t intimidate him.

He could feel the Trojans’ captain’s hands stilling and Jean took a full step back. When Jeremy glanced up, Jean pretended not to notice the searching look, but he didn’t cut his eyes away. He thought of the silvery R on the coffin until the coldness in his chest hardened into steel.

Jeremy opened his mouth to say something, but a shout from Rhemann cut him off.

“KNOX. MOREAU. THE GAME IS STARTING NOW!” he bellowed. He was shoving players off the bench and through the Plexiglas doors. “Get your ass out there!”

“Riko’s in the ground, Jean,” said Jeremy, shoving his own helmet on. “Remember that.”

Jean followed him out onto the court. “Don’t worry, Capitaine,” he said, his voice chilly, “I never forget.”

An overhead voice announced their jersey numbers and even Jean couldn’t ignore the responding roar from the crowd.

“There’s something to be said about the home court advantage,” said Jeremy, smiling. He looked up towards the stands were the cheer was thunderous. He lifted a hand to wave, and the noise became earsplitting.

His grin grew until he was pumping both fists into the air in time to the Trojan fight song. He looked ridiculous. Jean rolled his eyes and didn’t give Jeremy much more than a passing glance as he went ahead of him. “If you don’t stop, your face is going to freeze like that.”

“What, smiling?” called Jeremy after him, and his exultant laugh followed Jean all the way to the backliner spot at quarter court. 

Chapter Text

When Jean walked onto the court, he was startled by the response. The stadium was alight with fans cheering, roaring, spitting his name. He lifted a fist and there was nothing else in this world besides the sound of the white noise screams above him. A bird’s heartbeat was erratic in the hollow of his throat.

Jeremy turned to face him and his grin was wild with puppy exuberance. It was too loud for the Trojan captain to offer his newest player any words of encouragement but he shot Jean a thumbs up, which Jean ignored as he made his way to his place in front of the goal.

He thought of Kevin Day.

Kevin Day, Jeremy Knox, the Trojan Court, and the blinding overhead lights that bounced off the top of every helmet. He must’ve been imagining the jersey logos flashing Raven red and black and then back to Trojan red and gold. The glare shifted with every moment, shining directly into Jean’s eyes, merciless as God and twice as holy.

"What did you do to make him play like that? How did you know he could?”

Kevin’s voice was haughty. “He was a Raven. Ravens do well in high-pressure situations.”

Jean scanned the stands again, looking for a middle-aged man in a bowler hat, hoping his oriental cane would catch the light, but he didn’t see Tetsuji anywhere.

Kevin was right. He bent his knees low and felt energy reverberating up the floor through his legs, across his sternum, down his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Jean breathed and felt the wood grain of the court floor shift beneath him like he was standing on top of a live creature. Perhaps he was.

Both teams on the court readied themselves in their places and then the cheers died down as every player held their breath, held their bodies immobile. In Jean’s mind, it was he holding the stadium in unbroken stillness. He inhaled the taste of sweat and rubber and expectation, and exhaled the bone-deep worry that the Moriyamas watching the game right now had any say in the outcome.

The first goal Jean blocked might have been an accident it felt so effortless. The second one, moments later, definitely was not, and the third time Jean swung his racquet and sent the ball to the other side of the stadium, he could hear Rhemann’s triumphant roar from his place all the way in the middle of the court. The opposing team retreated and he watched the mountain of a Washington State striker crash the netted end of his racquet against the Plexiglas in frustration.

He beckoned the WSU striker with a haughty come try again motion. The second the ball was back in his racquet, he made for Jean, not even pretending to go for the goal. Jean braced himself.

Moments before the expected collision, Jean ducked down, slamming into the WSU striker’s knees. The striker flew.

He hit the ground with a sick thud and skidded several yards but he was back on his feet in moments, throwing his racquet down and running at Jean before Jean could fully comprehend the way his arm arched back. The fist that swung too fast towards his face was unavoidable, practiced though Jean was at dodging hits.

Both players tumbled, and Jean grabbed the striker’s jersey by the collar, keeping him close so he wouldn’t be able to get the momentum to swing another heavy hit. He knew fighting; knew it was harder to hit at close range.

Distantly, he heard the referee’s whistle screeching but his arm was already drawn back for retaliation. He was too slow; the enormous striker shoved his shoulder and Jean flinched hard at the burst of pain. Then someone was grabbing both his arms and forcing him back. Belatedly, he saw Jeremy and a few other Trojans between them, shoving the two away from each other.

The striker aimed a meaty fist for Jeremy’s head.

With renewed vigor, Jean ripped himself out of the grip of whoever was holding him back and pulled Jeremy back by his jersey. Jeremy let out a yelp that might have been Jean’s name but Jean was already forming a punch, close enough to the striker to bring his hand down on his shoulder.

His knuckles ghosted across the rough cloth of the striker’s uniform before a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his chest and yanked him back, hard enough that Jean lost his balance. He stumbled once before regaining his footing and rushing forward again. Jeremy used both hands to urge him back, and Jean felt more Trojans grabbing at his limbs to stop him from getting a single hit in.

Anger was filmy on his tongue but the red was fading from his vision. His chest heaved as he tried to regain control of his emotions. Voices finally broke past the blood rushing in his ears.

“ – RED CARD,” someone was screaming near him. Jean whipped his head around to look at the referee blowing his whistle inches from the snarling WSU striker’s face.

Jean tried to twist out of his teammate’s grip but the other player held tight. A sharp pressure built in his chest and he watched the referee mouth the words ‘yellow card’ at him before he let himself go still. He couldn’t keep struggling. His gaze was on the floor.

His ribcage was collapsing in his chest.

“A yellow card’s okay, Jean!” he heard someone yell to him, but all he could focus on was the floor and the weird taste in his mouth and the arms that were still holding him too tight, tight, tight, like Riko had Kevin hold his arms tight, tight, tight, the first time he used a heavy racquet to smash Jean’s fingers.

It was years ago. A forgotten memory of a day Riko had systematically bent half the fingers on Jean’s right hand until his fingernails touched his wrist. He had Jean himself bend the rest with thumb and forefinger. It was difficult to get the fragile bones to snap.

Someone was shaking his shoulders.

“Moreau! Jean! JEAN!”

Hands on either side of his helmet forced his head up, and he stared Jeremy dead in the face and only saw Riko.

“Captain,” said Jean quietly.

“Jean! Focus!” yelled Jeremy.

Jean could only stare at him blankly. They were close enough that Jean could see the flecks of bronze in Jeremy’s irises but he could barely make out the words coming out of his mouth.

“I’m – I – I –”

Jean focused hard on a string coming loose around the insignia of Jeremy’s jersey. He blinked hard and looked up.

“Just, just give me a minute.”

He saw the moment the light bulb went off in Jeremy’s head. Jeremy pulled Jean close by the helmet before grabbing a fistful of the back of Jean’s jersey. Onlookers might have mistaken the move for a one-armed hug but Jeremy was talking frantically in Jean’s ear, barely loud enough for him to make out the words through his helmet.

“Jean. Jean. You’re okay. You’re not in West Virginia. You’re on the Trojan court.” A pause. “Jean.”

“Riko.”

“He’s not here. He’s dead.”

“He –”

“He’s in the ground,” Jeremy told him.

Jean nodded. His lungs filled with air. “Riko’s in the ground.”

“Yeah. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Jean shook his head. Remotely, he remembered that he was still kneeling on the court but when he made as if to move away, Jeremy gripped the back of his jersey tighter to pull him back.

Jean twisted but Jeremy held him steady. Jean grabbed the collar of Jeremy’s jersey and shook him. Jeremy’s eyes never left Jean’s face.

“You aren’t chained to him,” he said.

“Evidently, they make chains longer than six feet,” said Jean, through his teeth.      

Jeremy gave him a tight smile. “They definitely don’t make chains that stretch from West Virginia to California.”

When Jean didn’t reply, Jeremy released his grip on Jean’s jersey and sat back enough to give him breathing room. But he stayed close, only sparing scant inches of space between them. Jean had no choice but to look him in the eye.

“Alright,” said Jeremy. “But you think Riko’s got the key clasped in his cold, dead hands. What you’re not realizing is that when he died, he gave that key back to you. What are you going to do with it?”

Jean’s eyes focused on the players arguing with the referee behind Jeremy’s head. “You want it?” he sneered.

“Yeah,” said Jeremy, his voice quiet. “I do.”

They stayed like that for a heartbeat, then two, before Jean shoved him away. This time, Jeremy stood up, though he studied Jean’s face until Jean turned away.

The entire Trojan team let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the WSU striker jogging to the penalty box.

Despite their biggest player being detained, the WSU team regained their confidence and pushed back harder than ever. The game went downhill from there. It was like Jean had reverted back to the self he had been at the beginning of the summer, cowering at every chance of getting hit, not afraid of the violence, but of the blood he tasted in his mouth. He knew if he was hit again, naked panic would consume him until whoever dared oppose him was on the ground, bleeding.

He tried not to think of Dylan glaring at him from the bench, or Alvarez and her mother, waving a Trojan banner in the stands, or Tetsuji with his oriental cane, lurking unseen. In his mind’s eye, he saw Ichirou sitting only a few seats away from Alvarez, and knew he should be afraid of the ever-present gun resting on his lap. The gun was a frightening enough metaphor – from then until the final buzzer sounded, every time he blinked, he saw Ichirou nestling the muzzle against Riko’s temple.

At some point, Jean’s hands started to shake. Every time he came close to dropping his racquet, he imagined the spray of Riko’s blood.

The other Trojan backliner must’ve been furious with him – Jean never let his new mark get past him, not once, but whenever the WSU player lifted his racquet high than his shoulder, Jean flinched back so hard, it was amazing Rhemann let him stay on the court.

It wasn’t long before the WSU players noticed Jean’s agitation. In no time at all, they were all lifting their racquets above their shoulders and swinging down violently in a move that would have been unabashedly illegal if they’d been close enough to Jean for the racquets to touch him. But they performed this move from a good distance away, their only goal to make Jean flinch, so the referee did nothing.

Jean went to grab some water from his duffle eventually and saw that Alvarez had made her way down the stands and was screaming at Rhemann to do something, gesturing out at the court.

“They can’t do that!” she was yelling. “It’s blatantly threatening!”

“This whole sport is blatantly threatening!” Rhemann was yelling back. “There’s nothing I can do!”

It was humiliating to overhear the argument, and in Jean’s mind, he saw Ichirou overhearing it too, despite the wild screeching coming from the fans in the stands. In Jean’s head, Ichirou cocked the gun.

The Trojans fell from their two-point lead until they were one, two, and then three points behind. He could hear Jeremy begging Rhemann to let him back on the court, but he’d been playing for nearly half the game and Rhemann wasn’t budging.

They were in the last five minutes of the game before Rhemann finally let Jeremy switch on. He was out like a shot, energy rolling off him in waves.

One of the reasons the Trojans were losing this game was because of Jeremy’s tenacity. The entire starting line for today’s game was made up of players who could go for almost full halves – like Jeremy said that first practice, he was trying to get the whole team proficient in playing an entire half. By the end of the night, even Jean felt his legs shaking.        

A year ago, he would have been fine being on the court for this long. Ravens operated on 16-hour days, after all. But he was out of practice.

Jeremy, on the other hand, took advantage of every second of those last five minutes. The WSU players, confident in their lead, grew slow. Jeremy was counting on that. He dodged players like a bullet, tripping the WSU defense up in a ruthless zigzag, and scored a point back within the first two minutes of being on.

The ball ricocheted between players, an endless back and forth as the Trojans played with a desperation foreign to them. They scored another point by the skin of their teeth. Their determination made Jean guilty tenfold that he was performing so badly.

Then, the ball landed in his racquet. He looked at the scoreboard, and the seconds trickling down. There were only moments left in the game. Some WSU players on the court had turned around to talk to one another, already sure of their victory.

Jean was running, running faster than he could remember ever running, and he bounced the ball off the wall every ten steps until he was nearly past half court. Backliners weren’t meant to play offense though, so his eyes darted around for Jeremy, who was standing next to the goal, racquet lifted in preparation for the catch.

The WSU players around Jean, bewildered by his appearance, brought their racquets down in the threatening motion they’d made before. This time, Jean ignored them, too buzzed to think of anything but how many steps it would take to get past the player in front of him. He took nine long strides, almost going illegally too far away from where backliners were supposed to stay, and then slammed the ball against the court floor as close to Jeremy as he could manage.

The ball didn’t land neatly in Jeremy’s net. He had to take several uninhibited leaps to snatch it out of the air but when he spun and shot it at the goal, Trojans and Trojan fans alike let out a thunderous, deafening sound before the goal lit up red, at the same time as the final buzzer.

Jean was dumbfounded. And then he was thankful for his helmet, so no one could bear witness to his ear-to-ear grin – which disappeared as quickly as it’d come as his teammates grabbed him by the jersey, shaking him and hugging him and screaming at him, “Did you see what you just did?”

He’d won them a fifteen minute overtime, during which the Trojans scored, on shaking legs, one more point.

Dylan pulled a red and gold windbreaker from his locker. Normally, the locker room was full of people, but with tonight’s win, the twenty-eight Trojans had gotten showered and changed out as quickly as possible. There was a party planned for later.

Jean hadn’t joined them. After the game, he’d spent twenty minutes searching the stands for any sign of Ichirou or Tetsuji. Neither of them was there. Jean knew that there was no chance they’d missed the game, just that they hadn’t had anything to say to Jean afterward.

He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a very bad one.

By time he made it to the locker rooms, nearly everyone had gone except one. It was a relief; Jean couldn’t bear the thought of facing them after tonight’s game, knowing their near loss was entirely his fault. Worse, he couldn’t bear their easy forgiveness. For the first time ever, seeing Dylan alone in the locker room was a comfort.

He hadn’t forgotten how quick Dylan had been to disregard their agreement, to argue against putting Jean on the court. If Dylan had his way, Jean would have been on the bench all night. For a minute, Jean wanted to be a Raven again, just so he’d have an excuse to shove the other man into a locker and threaten him into seeing the bigger picture, into seeing Jean as an asset to the team. That was easier anyway, than nodding at him and calmly tugging his shirt on after his shower.

There was silence as the two shuffled around, getting ready to leave. Metal clanged against metal as lockers were shut, jackets zipped up, and keys jangled as they were stuffed in pockets next to cell phones and lighters.

“So you’re gay, right?” came from behind him.

Jean’s fists tightened as he stuffed his Exy gloves in the pocket of his jacket.

“I’m just asking, cause you know, no one else will,” continued Dylan.

He might get to punch his teammate after all. Jen debated responding, and then remembered he didn’t owe the other backliner anything. He shut his locker without a word. Dylan watched and didn’t try to stop him as Jean made his way towards the door until:

“I saw you at the bar. That first week. You were checking out the swimmers. Guy swimmers.”

Jean paused. The remark was so out of the blue that it took a moment for the memory to come. He remembered the night Dylan was talking about – the lean bodies he was too inebriated to pretend to ignore, the searching look he’d received when caught.

Dylan was quiet, watching Jean. Jean lingered with one foot out the door.

“You’re not my type,” Jean said, at last. It wasn’t a secret.

Dylan exhaled the breath he’d been holding and Jean felt a ripple of amusement at that and the shaky laugh that followed. “I… no, I know.”

“You know?”

“You go for more happy-go-lucky, captain types, right?”

Jean’s eyes narrowed and he turned to face Dylan head on.

Sensing the animosity, Dylan threw both his hands up in surrender and stumbled around an explanation. “Stop, I’m not… no – my brother’s gay. I don’t have a problem with you.”

He lowered his hands. “But Jeremy’s my friend.” He matched Jean’s glare with one of his own. “He’s a good person. He tries to do right by everybody. Don’t fuck with him or we will have a problem.”

Jean stood in the doorway, panic taking the place of ambivalence. Of all people, he hadn’t expected Dylan –

Well, he’d seen the looks Dylan gave him. He hadn’t realized what they meant.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Distantly, Jean heard voices down the hall, loud whoops and shouts and footsteps that meant a few people from the team had waited on them, and were coming this way.

Jean pushed down the apprehension budding in his chest. Dylan started to say something, but Jean interrupted him with a dead, “You are wrong. Your captain –”

“No,” cut in Dylan. “I’ve seen the way you watch him. I know what it means.”

“Don’t,” said Jean. There was an edge in his voice, a warning. Jean didn’t want to think about it, this feeling of heavy stones dropping one by one into his stomach.

“Whatever man,” mumbled Dylan. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think anyone else’s picked up on it.”

Jean didn’t bother repeating himself, just shoved himself out of the doorway. He saw Alvarez and Laila at the end of the hall and paused to consider avoiding them, but before he could do much more than take a step back, Dylan was pushing past him, Laila had turned and then it was too late and Alvarez was running at him at full speed.

She threw open her arms to embrace him and he stumbled backwards like his feet were tied together. He barely managed to get out of the way in time. She fell forward, her arms holding an empty, Jean-shaped space.

“Jean,” Alvarez wailed. “Why do you hate affection?”

“He’s not a hugger,” said Laila in response to Alvarez’s pout.

“Hug your girlfriend,” said Jean, eyes darting back to the now empty locker room.

Alvarez hesitated. “Laila didn’t score the winning goal tonight.”

“Neither did I,” said Jean.

“Close enough,” said a new voice, teasing, and Jean lifted his gaze above Alvarez’s head to see Jeremy striding towards them. He wore a proud, tongue-in-cheek smile on his face.

Jean’s world narrowed in on him through a kind of tunnel vision and he tried to pretend the agitated swooping in his gut was lingering exhaustion from the game.

He waited a lengthy moment for the feeling to pass.

Jeremy lifted a hand to clap Jean on the shoulder, but Jean hopped backward, narrowly avoiding his captain’s touch. Jeremy faltered.

“Can I talk to you?” said Jean.

Jeremy’s eyebrows furrowed and he gave him a searching look. “Sure.”

He heard Dylan cough. Jean ignored him. He took off down the hallway without a glance back to see if Jeremy was following. He strode past the locker rooms, past the lounge, and the court, until his teammate’s voices had faded to indecipherable obscurity.

They’d reached the dead end of the hallway. Jean had unintentionally trapped himself in the corner, so he circled around Jeremy until he was on the outside; a move meant to be threatening.

Jeremy looked entirely unthreatened. There was an amused twitch in the corner of his mouth. He stuffed both hands in the pockets of his windbreaker and asked, “What’s up?”

“You knew I wasn’t ready. You put me on to fail,” Jean said.

The smile faded from Jeremy’s face.

There was too much about tonight that didn’t line up, the way Jeremy had put all of his trust in Jean for absolutely no reason other that faith, despite having practiced with him every day of the week and knowing that even now, Jean barely had a grip on his aggression. And Dylan hadn’t been wrong about the other backliners on the bench having worked hard this summer. Jean was confident enough in his abilities; confident he was better than anyone else on the team, but even Dylan knew it was a risk putting him on tonight, of all games. There’d been too much on the line.

“You knew what would happen.”

“I didn’t know you’d crash,” Jeremy said at last. “I just didn’t think you’d play as well as you used to.”

Jean hated so badly that he was right. He clenched and unclenched his jaw and then tore his hands out of his jacket pockets, clutching tight what he found there. Jeremy stepped forward and caught his fist, before Jean even realized his arm was arched in a vicious curve, about to throw his Exy gloves at the wall next to Jeremy’s head.

“You know how to fix this if you want to,” Jeremy said, lowly. They sounded like prepared words.

Jean lowered his hand and gave him a cold stare. Jeremy’s brown eyes were too warm. “You’ve got her number. Ask Renee what she thinks.”   

“You’re not still fucking on this,” he threw out and heard the sharp way his voice echoed like a slap against the concrete walls.

Jeremy didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. There were two people in this world whose advice Jean heeded on all matters. It was vexing Jeremy knew who they were.

“What happens next game?” asked Jeremy. “I already told you, if you spend the season on the bench, you’ll be kicked off the team.”

It was like Jeremy had plucked the words directly out of Jean’s head. Bearing in mind that this was the USC Trojans, it was a duplicitous move. Jean ground his teeth and didn’t answer right away, in part because it felt like a lie saying, ‘I’ll figure it out’.

The hallway lights flickered and dimmed.

He was thinking about Riko again. What was worse was that Jeremy knew it; he could see it in the way Jeremy’s gaze flickered to the number on Jean’s face.

“If I had ever played as a Raven the way I played tonight, Riko wouldn’t have kicked me off the team,” said Jean. “He would have carved the skin from my hands, so they would remember not to make the mistake of hesitation ever again. I should have destroyed that striker.”

Jeremy’s eyes were a summer day thunderstorm.

“You know what they call it when you do something extreme and it’s bad?” he said.

“Trojans playing Exy?” said Jean, because it would make Jeremy pout.

"Crime.”

“Call it what you want,” said Jean, the words falling out of his mouth like small bombs. “But you know what they call it when you do something extreme and it pays off?”

Jeremy sucked in a breath like he wanted to speak, but the words were confined to his throat. His eyes burned.

“Glory,” Jean said. His whole body was inclined towards Jeremy and it took everything he had in him not to take one final step forward.

“Glory. Don’t you want to remember what that’s like?” asked Jeremy. He should have been worried, back up against the far wall as he was, but it was a big enough hallway that he could step around Jean and walk away at any point.

Jeremy didn’t walk away. Instead, he came a breath length closer, millimeters that felt like miles.

Jean nearly tripped as he stumbled back. “Fine,” he bit out, pretending like that small voice screeching in the back of his skull wasn’t Riko’s reminding him of the pain that had come last time he’d trusted his captain. “Have it your way.”

Chapter Text

“You are not Dwyer,” said Jean immediately upon entering the room.

“That’s what I tell my bank,” said the man at the desk. “Funnily enough, they never seem to believe me. Mr. Moreau. Pleasure to meet you. Take a seat.”

Jean stayed standing, but he shut the door behind him. Dr. Dwyer was a much less intimidating person than Jean had pictured. For whatever reason, he’d pictured a business man in a crisp white button down, with a clipboard and square wireframes, who clicked pens unnecessarily. What he got was…not that.

A squat, middle-aged man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Danny Devito sat before him. Jean glared at the noticeable but unidentifiable stain on the collar of his Hawaiian shirt.

“Tell me about yourself,” said Dwyer.

Jean pursed his lips. Dwyer seemed content to wait.

“Jean Moreau. Number th—number nine backliner. Currently playing for the USC Trojans.”

The shrink nodded encouragingly, but Jean didn’t elaborate. When it became clear that Jean had nothing else to add, Dwyer began telling Jean about himself. Every other sentence was a question aimed at Jean, but he refused to engage. He stood with his arms crossed at the doorway; his only movement in forty-five minutes was to shift his weight from one foot to the other.

The second Dwyer’s timer went off, Jean was off like a shot.

It was two weeks before he came back. Three before he spoke in more than five sentences, and five before he responded to any questions about his former team. 

The fall banquet was on September 15^th.

Despite the new coach and management, Jean had no doubt Tetsuji would attend. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tetsuji was coaching vicariously, pulling the strings from the background. He wondered if anything at all about the Ravens had changed since he left.

If Jean went, he’d fall apart. The team knew it, the media knew it, the whole world knew it.

Alvarez addressed the topic while they were walking to class.

“You know you don’t have to go, right?” she said, trying to sound casual but it came out like an order. “You seriously, really, honestly don’t have to go.”

Jean didn’t slow his pace.

“I need to see my old teammates,” he said. He did not say aloud I need to know they’re okay but Alvarez heard anyway.

“You’ve seen them,” she said. “You watch all their games.”

Jan sent her a blank look. They both knew it wasn’t the same. Not one member of the Ravens had tried to contact Jean since he joined the Trojans, and even though Jean had expected that, it still stung. This was his chance to see them, to speak with them. Although if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he could stand hearing what they might have to say.

Alvarez pulled her windbreaker a little tighter around herself as a chilly gust of wind swept the campus. “Well, I’m not taking the bus to the banquet. I’ll drive,” she said. “It’s only an hour away and I have to leave early to water my plants.”

“You have to water your plants,” repeated Jean.

“They’re very finicky.”

“Are they?” A note of amusement snuck into Jean’s monotone voice and the desired effect of disinterest was lost.

“Yep. Very. You’re welcome to come along for the ride, you know… if you want.”

Jean stopped and looked at her. He didn’t know why it still surprised him that kindness came as easy as breathing to the Trojans. The offer was so easy for Alvarez to make, and she was so shameless about it that Jean felt the tips of his ears getting a little warm.

It wasn’t very Raven to accept other’s kind gestures.

When Alvarez realized Jean wasn’t still following, she paused to look at him. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

“Are you blushing?” she said, a grin creeping up on her face. “Are you that surprised? It’s really not a big deal.”

“Stop talking,” Jean said, and shouldered past her. He was careful to school his expression into its default scowl but Alvarez didn’t stop pestering him about it for the rest of the day.

Rhemann found him next. It was common knowledge that Jean liked to work on drills for an hour before practice officially started, and when he entered the locker room the day before the banquet, his coach was sitting on one of the benches.

Jean nodded at him and made to walk past him. Instead of pleasantries, Rhemann said, “You don’t have to go. We’ll cover for you.”

Jean was equal parts taken aback and annoyed by the tenacity of the goodhearted. Why didn’t they get that he did have to go?

“I’m going,” he said flatly.

“If you go, they win,” said Rhemann, point blank. He pushed himself off of the bench and stood in front of Jean. He was several inches shorter than Jean, pudgy around the waistline, and his hair had more white than gray but Jean still found himself taking an involuntary step back.

The move didn’t escape Rhemann.

“I remember when David brought you here. You did that then too,” said Rhemann. “I tried to shake your hand and you took a step back and then I noticed that you kept a firm distance of five feet between yourself and anyone else.

“The Ravens did that,” said Rhemann. “Tetsuji did that. When David first sent me your file, there was a picture and I’ll be honest with you: I thought, wow, look at the bruises on this kid. He can take anything.”

Jean didn’t speak, concentrating hard on the red lockers just above Rhemann’s right shoulder. But he didn’t walk away and that was all the encouragement Rhemann needed to continue.

“Maybe you can’t see it but you’ve made real progress here, getting past that. I’m your coach. I see it and I don’t want to see you regress. Jean, it’s not unsportsmanlike to ditch this thing.”

“Coach,” Jean started.

“Just let me finish. I know Riko hurt you. I’m guessing he hurt you a lot. I’m guessing he made you play, afterward.”

Jean swallowed, eyes glued to those lockers. He didn’t nod in confirmation, but his silence was as good as anything else.

“I’ve known Tetsuji for a long time and he’s always been cruel like that. He never gave his players the chance to heal. Take the time to heal. There’ll be more banquets. And when you’re ready, you go in December and you throw it in their goddamn faces. We’ll follow your lead. We’ll all stand behind you as you show them that when Jean Moreau falls down, he gets back up.”  

Jean’s nostrils flared and he took in a deep breath before finally dragging his gaze away from the locker’s to meet Rhemann’s eyes. He wanted to be angry but there was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t speak past. He blinked hard.

Rhemann must’ve seen the emotion Jean didn’t want to address because he pulled his cap down low over his eyes and said, “It’s OK.”

When Alvarez knocked on his door the night of the banquet, with arms full of candy, a bucket of popcorn and a purse packed with DVDs, Jean couldn’t say he was surprised. Jeremy followed her in, throwing a bag of mini carrots at Jean’s chest before disappearing and reappearing with a 24-inch monitor that they hooked up to Jean’s laptop.

Jean noticed that Laila hadn’t joined them. When he brought up her name, Jeremy shot him a warning look that made him fall silent instantly. Alvarez pretended not to notice as she popped in The Mighty Ducks.

For the first time, maybe ever, Jean felt like he was going to be okay.

October arrived.

The Trojans kept up their winning streak, though Jean remained on the bench for the next few games. This time, he didn’t protest. He could feel himself getting strong again, years of hard training breaking past the trauma as he practiced with the Trojans. He stopped giving shots to Dylan, and started taking them. They practiced with two backliners defending the goal against four strikers, and it became something of a competition to see who could block the shots. Jean’s years of experience gave him a leg up as he slowly but surely began loving the game again.

Then it was Halloween.

Breakfast on October 31^st was loud and excited as the Trojans tried to pick a time to meet up. They’d decided to go to an LA club, famous for its spooky vibe and hardcore parties. Jean hadn’t realized he was included in those plans until Alvarez said, “I’ll come by your room at 7.”

Jean sent her a level glare.

“Seven,” repeated Alvarez, lifting the spoon from her bowl of cereal and shaking it at him. Jean leaned away to avoid a splatter of milk. “Which I know is early, but let’s be honest: you didn’t get a costume, which means we’re going to have to scrounge something together. I have this friend in the drama department and last year she let me go through the costume closet –”

“I’m not going,” Jean interrupted, scowling down at the raisin bran in his bowl.

Alvarez bit into an apple. “Can we skip the part where you insist on moping? Alone in your room? And I argue with you until five minutes before when you finally decide to come along? You always have fun when we do go out – don’t lie, I can tell – so –”

Jean sent her a glare so venomous she immediately fell silent, though she glowered back at him.

“If he says he doesn’t want to go out, then he doesn’t have to,” said Jeremy cheerfully, appearing suddenly to pull up a chair next to Jean. Jean and Alvarez put their argument on hold to stare.

“Jeremy,” said Alvarez at last, leaning over Jean. “You look great!”

“Are you a Trojan?” Maria chimed in.

“It’s incredibly unlikely Trojans wore Egyptian cotton,” deadpanned Jean.

Jeremy grinned at all of them, even Jean. He wore a red sheet over his khakis, a black tee shirt, and a homemade Greek helmet. He carried a plastic toy sword.

“Almost forgot this year,” said Jeremy, dropping the toy on the table. “I can’t believe that none of you dressed up.”

“I can’t believe that you brought your bed sheets with you to breakfast,” replied Jean. “Are you incapable of embarrassment?”

Jeremy’s grin only got bigger. “This kind of thing doesn’t embarrass me.”

“I’m embarrassed for you.”

“I’ve got a matching toy dagger if you want in.”

“Get a real dagger and people might actually take you seriously.”

Laila raised an eyebrow. “What does he need a real dagger for?”

Heads looked up. Way too late, Jean remembered that he wasn’t at Edgar Allen anymore. Halloween was… different here.

Every now and again, he let something from his days as a Raven slip. Last week, they were talking about food to eat before practice, and Jean accidentally let slip how he had kind of a sixth sense at the nest, waking up and knowing to eat light enough so he didn’t have anything to puke up at practice. Just in case.

They’d stared.

Now, Jeremy, who usually saved him from these sorts of situations, just gave him a confused look. It was Dylan who asked, “Didn’t you celebrate Halloween at Edgar Allen?”

Jean could have told them that Halloween was his least favorite holiday. He could have told them how at the Ravens’ Nest, Halloween was an annual event to see who would survive the night. He could have told them about how death wasn’t an option, not at Edgar Allen, not when the backlash for the death of a student meant paperwork and bad media, but that didn’t stop Riko from getting creative.

He could have told them that it went like this:

Riko liked a different setting every year. Jean’s freshmen year, it was the woods behind Edgar Allen. His sophomore year, it was an abandoned building, littered with old medical equipment. Junior year he survived a pack of feral, half-starved dogs that Riko let loose in a locked stadium.

The underlying thing of it was that it was just the Raven team alone for the night, with Riko. Tetsuji wasn’t a part of these activities, though he had to know about them. Riko called them tests of courage. They were not tests of courage. They were a cruel joke.

And yet a small part of Jean, insubstantial and ashamed, looked forward to those Halloweens. Maybe he’d hide in the woods until morning and then escape. Maybe he’d make it to the hospital doors and then make it out to the city. Maybe the Moriyamas wouldn’t hunt him down. Maybe Riko would finally slip up and kill him.

He could have told them that kind of fantasy used to get him through the night. But Halloween at USC meant silly string and jump scares and Jean didn’t want to ruin the mood.

“No,” he told Dylan, and hoped that was the end of that.

But: “Never?” Laila pushed.

“He said no,” Alvarez said to her. Laila’s head snapped in her direction, and Jean was acutely shocked to see the tension between them. Alvarez was sitting next to Jean, her hand squeezing her boxed orange juice. Laila, next to Jeremy, sat with her back ramrod straight, cutting her waffle into very tiny pieces. They weren’t looking at each other.

He shot Jeremy a look, but Jeremy’s eyes were darting between his two best friends, mouth pursed shut.

“Maybe no means not this year,” said Laila.

“Maybe no means never,” said Alvarez.

For once, the tense, dead silence wasn’t about Jean.

Laila quietly stood up, piled her empty plate and glass and trash onto her tray, and walked away.

Jean was incredibly confused. What was that about?

Without even trying to be inconspicuous, he openly stared at Alvarez, who ignored him. He elbowed her. She put her head in her hands.

Jeremy cleared his throat and opened his mouth but Alvarez interrupted him before he could get a word out.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just go to practice please?”

They did.           

It was almost amusing to watch the rain splatter against his window, Jean thought, thinking of all the trick-or-treaters whose nights would be ruined by this unaccounted storm. It wouldn’t affect Jeremy and the other’s night out. The club they were going to was indoors, and even if it hadn’t been, the rain wouldn’t have kept the Trojans from their fun.

Alvarez hadn’t come knocking at seven, like Jean was sure she would. Jeremy must have told her to back off. Part of Jean was triumphant but another part, distant and unfamiliar, was vaguely melancholic. Not that he’d wanted to be a part of their plans in the first place, but sitting here alone in his room, he was trapped with the memories of a year ago, scrambling around an unlit stadium to find a good hiding place.

He brushed a finger against the pane of glass. It came away wet, condensation from the humidity outside fogging up the window. Would Riko have kept up tradition this year? Would he have had the Ravens out in the rain? The answer was yes, of course, it was always yes. Would Riko –

There was a knock.

Jean’s head snapped to his door as a clap of thunder echoed around the dorm. He waited, but the knock didn’t come again, even when he slid off his bed and warily approached the door. Safe inside, he knew better than to be scared. His imagination wasn’t that creative.

Then again, he certainly wasn’t imagining the flicker of lights as the power struggled to adjust with the tempest brewing and the whole building shuddered with the wind. He strained his ears for the sound of knocking again – but still, nothing came. He saw something flutter out of the corner of his eye, black against the wall of his dorm. He could have sworn he saw the outline of feathers.

He whipped around, but all he saw were his maroon curtains, made dark by the lack of light in the room.

Now he was creeped out.

The knocking came again, more hurried than before.

Jean bounded across the room, and threw open the door before he could think twice about what might be waiting for him on the other side.

“Boo!” said Alvarez.

Jean stared at her, and tried to push his heart down from his throat back to where it belonged in his chest. Jeremy peeked out from behind her; his arms piled high with random objects. Before Jean could protest, they were both pushing past him, followed by a group of Trojans. Dylan, Maria, Micah, Henry, Laila –

There were eight of them in total, and seven of them lugged various decorations and bottles of alcohol.

Jean didn’t even have time to ask what they were doing there before Jeremy dropped an orange and black feather boa around Jean’s shoulders and launched into an explanation about Halloween being a social tradition. Jean instantly struggled to tear it off, but before he could succeed, Jeremy was handing him a pumpkin.

It was a random enough object that Jean thoughtlessly took it. He couldn’t seem to wipe the bewilderment off his face. Jeremy ushered him out of the way of the doorway and Alvarez moved past him, presumably to get more Halloween decorations.

“Happy Halloween, bro!” he said with a grin. The others chimed in, though Dylan scoffed as he said it. Maria climbed onto Jean’s bed to pin up a library printout poster of a cartoon witch.

“Take that down,” said Jean, irritably.

Dylan must have noticed the look on Jean’s face because he took a huge step back and said, “If you kill us, there’s no way we can play in finals.”

Which did nothing to ease the temptation.

Alvarez returned, and took the small pumpkin from Jean’s hands, replacing it with a small cup with a green logo on the side.

“Pumpkin spice latte. Drink it. Enjoy the cinnamon.”

Jean was still astonished that they were in his room at all. Part of him wanted to push them out, to rip down the decorations they’d put up so quickly.

“No,” he replied. “Get out.”

Jeremy, who’d busied himself hooking up his 24-inch monitor to his laptop, looked up at that. “Do you really want us to leave?”

Maria lowered her arms and looked from one to the other. The kicked puppy expression on their faces was should have made him feel bad, but it didn’t.

“Take the plastic skeleton with you,” said Jean.

Alvarez let out a snort and took the pumpkin spice latte out of Jean’s hands. She took a sip, and then popped off the top. Reaching past Jean, she gestured to the plethora of drinks the Trojans had lined up on his desk. The drinks ranged from sample bottles of whiskey to super-sized straight Svedka.

“You can’t play drinking games alone,” said Alvarez, “And besides you’ve never had an autumn cocktail before, have you? Jean. Jean. There isn’t anything you wouldn’t like about it. Try the latte with whiskey. It’s good.”

Jean glared at her and didn’t take back the latte. Jeremy took it instead and unscrewed the cap off the whiskey.

“What if we play a game?” he said to Jean. “You win, we leave. If I win, we play kings and watch Hocus Pocus.”

Jean took a look around, from the cinnamon nutmeg candles, already lit, to the decorations, half hung from his walls and off the edge of his bed. The cinnamon branches on his windowsill Jean knew would stink up his room for weeks to come. He sighed.

“What’s the game?”

Jeremy’s grin was monstrous. But apparently, he’d only thought out the plan as far as coming up with a game, because he had to look around for suggestions. Everyone began talking at once and there was a mechanical thump as someone got an amp connected. Thriller flowed from the speakers. Jeremy, who was preoccupied with coming up with a decent set of rules, didn’t notice Jean take the alcoholic latte from him and try a sip.

It was sweet.

“Told you guys he’d be pissed,” Dylan was complaining. Maria was trying to be inconspicuous as she started folding up the paper cut out of Frankenstein. Jean sighed loudly through his nose, feeling thoroughly inconvenienced.

“Forget it. You’re already here. Just stay.” The Trojans were cheering before he even finished getting the words out of his mouth.

“What do you think?” asked Alvarez intently, noticing the latte in Jean’s hands.

He scowled. “This is diabetes in a cup.”

“No, it’s festive okay. Oh, also here, help me find a place to pin up these fake skeletons – ”

“But can I have those back later?” Jeremy cut in, “They’re actually my suitemate’s; I’m just borrowing them – ”

The only quiet one was Laila, who handed him a plastic pumpkin full of candy. Then, she set to work mixing drinks.

Everyone around him was busy with his or her own thing, their own plans for how they wanted to decorate, what movie they wanted to watch. Bette Midler sang in the background as the Trojans played drinking games, truth or dare, and then kings.

Some of drinking games Jean had played before but most of them, he hadn’t. Somehow the conversation delved into old family traditions for Halloween. Jean considered participating but he soon realized that wasn’t required of him. He dropped himself into his desk chair and watched the people around him chattering excitedly. He took another sip of the now cold latte and winced. It really was sweet.

Jeremy noticed him, and Jean rolled his eyes at his captain’s self-satisfied expression.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” Jean grumbled.

Jeremy came to stand in front of him. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You first,” he said.

Jean hadn’t realized he had been. It was a foreign feeling, trying to force the corners of his mouth down, and being unable. It was the alcohol, he knew. He didn’t bother trying to tell that to Jeremy though. Jean didn’t think he’d believe him.

Chapter Text

There were a thousand and one ways to say thank you. The problem was that Jean didn’t know if any of the ways he’d learned in West Virginia were applicable here. The barista at the on-campus cafe said it with words and placating smile, as she handed back his change. That kind of thank you felt like rain, light and chilly and harmless, sliding off his skin like water.

Kevin Day didn’t say thank you with words, but with fists pumped in the air, an arm wrapped around his neck in victory, and later, foreheads pressed together. Palms pressed together. Kevin was only warm after a win, and his thank yous sounded like a fight and a miracle and noises Jean would never admit making.

Riko said thank you with tolerance, with a reprieve from pain. His thank you was an evening where Jean’s flesh ached preemptively, and then the startling surprise when his door remained shut for the night.

Those thank yous were well known and familiar, but here in territory that Jean was still learning to navigate, those gestures seemed out of place.

He could steal Jeremy’s thank yous – the arm thrown over his shoulders, the ruffling his hair, the warm, lingering looks and the way he said Jean’s last name. Muh-row. Like the tail end of a song. He was okay with the thievery, as he had already taken comfort in the red and gold-coated acceptance offered by the rest of the team.

He wasn’t sure that thank you was what he wanted to say.

When Jeremy spilled whiskey-soaked pumpkin spice latte all down his front, the Trojans (mostly Alvarez) screamed at him to take off his shirt. Jeremy rolled his eyes, but he was laughing as he looked down at the beige mess.

Jeremy pushed himself to his feet, breaking the circle of players who’d forgotten they were playing Kings. Hocus Pocus was playing again, repeated at Alvarez’s insistence and Sarah Jessica Parker’s heckling laugh followed the Trojan captain out the door as he left to go throw his shirt in the washing machine.

Jean cast a glance around the room, but the players didn’t notice him standing up, too engaged in a fight where half of them wanted to change the movie now and the other half wanted to wait until the sisters had turned to stone. Confident that he wouldn’t be missed, Jean slipped out.

The Trojan Hall was set up with a lounge containing two sofas at one end, and an elevator on the other. In between were forty-four doubles, a study room, and a laundry room. Jean called out Jeremy’s name, just as he saw the other disappearing into the laundry room. Before the door swung closed, Jeremy’s head poked out. He spotted Jean and held open the door until Jean reached him.

Jean let the laundry room door shut with a heavy slide as a pungent wave of cleaning detergent and cold air brushed over him. An air conditioning vent was loud above them, and Jean shivered in sympathy as Jeremy pulled his shirt over his head, baring his chest to the four washer/dryers in the room.

The sugary latte had already soaked through the material, and Jeremy frowned at the stain. Then, he lifted the shirt to his nose.

“It smells like pumpkin spice,” Jeremy told him, because he was a little drunk.

“Serves you right,” Jean responded, because he was a little drunk too. “Why did you do all this?”

He knew the answer; Jeremy would tell him that he guessed Jean never had a real Halloween or been trick-or-treating. Jean didn’t have to acknowledge that he was right, but he did want to hear how Jeremy would try to spin the words ‘pity project’ into something pretty.

Jeremy reached over one of the washers and pulled out a container of Tide detergent from one of the cabinets. He carefully measured out a quarter cup of the blue cleaner into the cap, before dumping it in the machine and tossing his shirt in after it. The metal lid echoed around the laundry room with a clang as it shut. The lights flickered again as Jeremy screwed on the cap to the detergent before catching Jean’s eye.

“Uh, not stealing this, don’t worry, dude,” he said, putting it back where he found it. “It’s mine, I just keep it in here, you know, in case someone runs out and needs to borrow some. Just in case.”

Jean crossed his arms and tried to twist the annoyance out of his frown. “How… good of you. Question: does it ever get tiresome, to be in a constant state of holier than thou?”

Jeremy sent him a cheery smile. “Only around you, it seems.”

Jean didn’t know what to make of that. He scoffed. “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you bring the Trojan fright fest to my room?”

“Because Halloween is awesome. And I wanted to,” said Jeremy. “Don’t read into it.”

The air conditioning unit kicked up a notch, roaring alongside the sound of the washing machine coming to life. Distantly, they could hear Nina Simone’s ‘I Put A Spell On You’ playing through the plaster walls, but louder than that was the rain pounding against the laundry room window.

As if it occurred to them both at once how small the laundry room was, they took a step away from each other. Jean was unlucky enough to find his foot in a puddle of unidentifiable, murky liquid. It could have been spilled detergent or water, but it soaked through the bottom of his sock, and the cold of it along with the AC made goose bumps break out across his arms.

Jeremy laughed with the unrestrained inhibition supplied by whiskey. It echoed loudly. Jean glared at him until he’d finished.

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” Jeremy asked, his grin rounding his words into something playful.

Jean glowered at the wall. He’d had fun tonight, and he wasn’t familiar with the easy feeling, not when it was non-Exy related. He didn’t know whether to thank Jeremy for it or pretend it hadn’t pushed him far out of his comfort zone. In the end, he settled for saying nothing at all and turned to leave.

“Are you… still having nightmares?” he heard from behind him. Jean stopped so suddenly it surprised even the lights, and they flickered in response.

He turned back to face Jeremy, who had one hip carelessly braced against the washing machine. Jean tried not to let his gaze travel up Jeremy’s black jeans, but it was difficult, as it was unusual to see Jeremy wearing something with no color. And if anyone had been around to ask why Jean couldn’t seem to rip his eyes away from memorizing the shape the denim made around Jeremy’s defined thighs, well, the whiskey and spice on his breath was a good enough excuse.

“Yes,” he said, a second too long later. “Sometimes you’re in them. Don’t read into it.”

Jeremy tried to force his mouth out of the shape of a smile, but it wasn’t working. He ran one hand through his hair, and then dragged it down to cover his mouth. Too late, Jean realized the cost of throwing Jeremy’s own words back at him.

“You dreaming about me, bro?”

Jean sent him a foul look, but it only served to make Jeremy snicker. Jean spun on his heel and turned to go but Jeremy called out, “Wait, wait, I’m done, sorry, I’m done.”

Jean threw a look over his shoulder to see his captain holding both hands up in surrender, though he was struggling to keep down a noticeably smug smile. Jean’s wet sock smacked against the floor as he took a few steps forward. He leaned back to rest against the dryer opposite Jeremy. Resentful of the turn in the conversation, Jean didn’t hold back from a particularly cruel, “When I dream about you, you’re dying.”

Jeremy shut up.

“It’s Riko,” Jean said before Jeremy could ask. “It’s always Riko.”

Jeremy’s eyes took on the look they sometimes got when Jean brought up the Raven King. It was a rare look, an angry one. “What does Dwyer say about it?”

“Dwyer says I have to think about something other than the Ravens.”

Jeremy fiddled with one of the quarters resting on the washing machine. He balanced it on his thumbnail and then flicked it into the air before catching it again. “What, you mean forget everything that’s happened?”

Jean shook his head. “He doesn’t expect me to forget it, just… to let other things become more important.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Perfect, you’re all set then. The Trojans are more important.”

Jean scoffed at the conviction in Jeremy’s voice. “Yeah.”

He watched light glint off the quarter as Jeremy dropped it back onto the washing machine and then stood up completely straight. The space between the washers and dryers spanned a few feet. It felt like less. It might as well have been nothing.

“I’m serious,” said Jeremy, and the sunshine was gone from his tone. The air conditioning unit suddenly shut off above them. It felt like every sound in the world had vanished along with it. In muted minutes afterward, the sound of rain pounding against the laundry room window came back, along with the Halloween music. Jean became acutely aware of his cold sock and the lack of air circulation in the room and his icy fingertips and Jeremy. The glare he gave Jeremy through his eyelashes was so evil, it should have made the Trojan captain back off.

Jeremy did no such thing, instead letting the tight lines around his eyes relax, and the momentary seriousness faded from his face. It was replaced with a lopsided grin that suggested Jeremy knew exactly the path that Jean’s thoughts had taken.

Jean breathed out, his eyes tense on Jeremy, as he tried a different method of attack. He opened his mouth to ask, “Are you drunk?” but the words never made it out. His one-track mind was too focused on the wide expanse of chest and a trail of dark blonde hair.

“If you need someone to think about instead of Riko, think about…” Jeremy let the last word drop off the end of his sentence – was that hesitance? Jean could have picked it up, finished the sentence with the word Trojan or Rhemann or Alvarez… but he didn’t.

“Kevin,” said Jeremy finally.

Jean’s eyes snapped to Jeremy’s face and it took a moment for his senses to return. When they did:

“Kevin.” His voice was flat.

“Yeah. Kevin,” said Jeremy.

“You want me to think about Kevin.”

“…Yes.” Jeremy’s voice was pitched a fraction higher, and he began fiddling with the quarter again, flipping it into the air and fumbling when he tried to catch it. It bounced off the ground. Jean waited for him to continue, vaguely incredulous and a little annoyed.

When Jeremy kept his eyes planted firmly on the coin, Jean crossed the space between them and pushed the container of Tide away so he could lift himself into a sitting position onto the neighboring washing machine. Jeremy moved over to make room.

“Kevin’s a good guy,” Jeremy said, at last. “There’s a lot of history between the two of you.”

“One might think there’s too much history between us to ever make things right again.”

“I don’t believe that. He calls me sometimes to check up on you, you know.”

Jean hadn’t known that, and the information took him by surprise. The lights shuddered once more and then went off. At 11 PM on Halloween night, it should have been dark, but pale orange light filtered through the window blinds from the streetlamps outside. It didn’t take long for their eyes to adjust. The washing machines were cast in stripes of ethereal white.

There was a thrumming in the place between Jean’s lungs and he was buzzed and he felt less and less like a person bound by physical law. The light that fell across him shifted as he moved.

“Fine,” he said, and his voice was softer in the dark. “Then I will think about Kevin. It might be a good distraction from the nightmares.”

“That’s… for the best. For the nightmares,” Jeremy let out a nervous laugh, which was intriguing because although Jean had seen an unhappy Jeremy and an anxious Jeremy (his pre-game tension was astonishing), he’d never witnessed a nervous Jeremy who rambled. Jeremy’s head was bent down as he looped the quarter around his fingers.

Jean’s hand brushed his as he took the quarter away to make Jeremy look up. “Like,” Jeremy’s voice raised in pitch, “think about him before you fall asleep or something.”

Jean hummed but his eyes were laser-sharp on Jeremy’s. “Okay. Before I fall asleep, then.”

Now Jeremy heard the double entendre. His throat bobbed. Jean stretched back, resting his weight on his hands.

“When I’m laying in bed alone, at night,” he said, casual as if he were discussing the thunderstorm outside, “in my single dorm, and it’s too dark to see anything or hear anything… I’ll think about Kevin Day.”

Jeremy’s breathed picked up and Jean took it as a sign to continue. “We used to share a room. Kevin and I.”

“Huh. Really,” said Jeremy. It was a lie, but if Jeremy talked to Kevin as often as he said, he probably knew that. His voice was absolutely too high, and it wasn’t too dark to see the bright red flush creeping up his neck.

“Yes.” Jean leaned in a little closer. “I taught him French, you know. Should I think about those nights?”

Jeremy’s head snapped to him, and they were suddenly nose-to-nose.

The rain was so loud. Without really considering what he was doing, Jean’s eyes darted down and Jeremy’s mouth parted like he had something to say but no words spilled out.

“Jean? Jeremy!”

Alvarez’s yowl was like a cold bucket of water and Jean scooted back so suddenly he fell off the washing machine. He could only thank God that the laundry room’s door was heavy, because the half breath it took for her to open it was just barely enough time for Jean to flatten himself against the window as Jeremy stumbled over his own feet to create space between them.

“The lights went out,” Alvarez informed them both, as she struggled to properly get the door fully open.

“We noticed,” said Jeremy.

Jean avoided Jeremy’s eyes for the rest of the night, obviously enough that had his teammates been sober, they might have noticed. As it was, they concentrated most of their energy on thinking up bizarre stories, and then told these stories in a circle ritualistically, with flashlights under their chins. Jean didn’t understand the point, but everyone seemed happy so he sat back and listened to them talk.

The party didn’t break up until after 3AM, though Jean tried to kick them out around midnight. He didn’t look at Jeremy, even when they exchanged goodbyes. Tonight’s mistake was a near thing. It wasn’t happening again.

Chapter Text

October fell away to November, a month Jean remembered as a valiant fighter beating away the green of the world until all that was left were the blood-red trees and five o’clock that rusted everything. LA wasn’t anything like West Virginia, though, and dead palm fronds littered the ground like a parody of seasonal transition.

It’d been a good month for the Trojans. They were on a winning streak, and even the court itself seemed to buzz with adrenaline. Any and all suppressed emotion found release on the court, though players handled the new intensity in their own ways. Jean heard Micah was in the gym three times a day, Dylan ran twice as fast as anyone else during warm-up laps while Alvarez and Laila, whatever they were fighting about, took the tension to a whole new level on the court, unafraid of pushing each other’s buttons.

After one practice where Laila successfully blocked every shot aimed at her goal, Jean watched her jog over to Alvarez and murmur something Jean was too far away to hear. Alvarez stilled. Jean watched a cruel smile carve itself onto Alvarez’s face with all the apprehension of watching someone drop a live wire in a bathtub. She spun her racquet around in her hand, and stared straight ahead as she responded.

Whatever she said, Laila hadn’t liked it, scoffing as she walked away. Alvarez turned slowly to watch her and if Jean had been close enough he would have made a snide comment about the way her eyes went up and down Laila’s retreating form. Before Laila was far enough away, Alvarez twisted the racquet in her hands and smacked Laila in the butt with the netted end.

It took four players to restrain Laila, as she clawed at their arms and raged. Alvarez looked too much like she was enjoying the show before Jeremy threw an arm around her and dragged her away.

Game-wise, it was a good month for the Trojans. But for Jean, who was barely a Trojan, November was a long month.

November was six months in and that was an awfully long time to be where he shouldn’t have been. In West Virginia, the trees would be changing color right now, and the Ravens would have weeded out the freshmen that couldn’t keep up. Real training would have already begun.

He watched November make the shadows grow longer, as a subconscious list of reasons to leave grew longer. He couldn’t chase the miserable notion from his head: ‘What am I still doing here?’

He picked fights, with Rhemann, with Jeremy, with a stack of towels and a racquet stand. The towels probably didn’t deserve it. The stand had it coming.

He bought himself a black leather jacket so he wouldn’t have to keep wearing the Trojan’s oversaturated red hoodie, and tried to keep his ill thoughts to himself. Every time someone on the team screwed up, he couldn’t help but think that the Ravens played the game better, and he knew that was a messed up way of thinking, he knew that.

But he still screamed at Dylan during practice just to make someone react because Christ, he wanted to throw a punch. God knows he couldn’t do it during a game, because his captain told him not to and what his captain says goes, regardless of whether or not he disagreed. Obedience was ingrained in him like his first language.

Jeremy watched him lash out, and tried his best to redirect Jean’s anger so it wasn’t at the team itself. Even Alvarez was silent as Jean threw his racquet to the ground and yelled himself hoarse trying to tell her she would be able to move faster if she just shifted her weight every three-four seconds instead of ten-eleven. She took it until he took a breath and couldn’t speak another word and then said, “Okay, 1) did that actually help?” and when Jean glared at her, speechless with rage, “Great. 2) Don’t ever yell at me like that again.”

He wanted to break his Exy racquet in half. It was hard aluminum and if smashing it against the court floor didn’t do the job, he was willing to get creative.

One day, he left the court mid-practice without bothering to pick up his racquet. He pressed his back against cold, red lockers, curling in on himself as his fingers hovered over the call button on Tetsuji Moriyama’s contact.

He wondered if Kevin struggled like this.

“Hey.”

His head jerked up to see Laila. Jean hadn’t noticed her following him out of practice but when she slid down the lockers next to him, he slipped the phone back in his pocket.

“This is the men’s locker rooms,” he said, closing his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy to sound scandalized, still caught up in the fight at today’s practice. No one had even done anything wrong; that was the worse part. He just lost his temper.

“Yeah, this place looks packed,” Laila replied, her voice echoing in the empty room. “Don’t all strip at once.”

Jean opened his eyes just to glare at her.

“What do you want?” he asked. Maybe he’d ask Jeremy to start up with the night practices again. They’d stopped after September, after Jeremy finally quit it with the caffeine.

“He asked me to check on you,” said Laila.

“Who?”

“Who do you think? The one with the smile that doesn’t quit.”

Jean scowled and got up. He opened his own locker and heaved his duffel bag out onto one of the benches before unzipping it and pulling out a bright yellow water bottle loaned to him by Jeremy, who refused to take it back. He also had a bubblegum pink one from Alvarez. He tugged the clasp off, and gulped down the water.

“I am doing quite well. It’s the rest of you that need improvement.”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” asked Laila.

Jean sent her a scathing look, and pointedly started taking off his gear. She waited, averting her eyes to his duffel.

“Who knows,” Jean said. Then, “What are you doing with Alvarez?”

“None of your damn business. Jeremy wants to do a Trojan potluck.”

Of course he did. Jean rolled eyes. “Whatever you two are fighting about, it is throwing off our game.” Like he was one to talk.

Laila crossed her arms. “Most of the team is staying for Thanksgiving break. We were thinking of using the communal kitchens to cook a turkey.”

Jean pulled off his jersey and neatly folded it before placing it next to his duffel. “Can’t you just get along on the court?”

“Stay out of it,” she said flatly. “Are you coming or not?”

“Not. Obviously.”

“Jeremy’ll be disappointed.”

Jean sent her a sharp look. She raised an eyebrow, and then her mouth twisted into a little smirk. He halfheartedly threw an arm guard at her.

She ducked, and then threw it back. Then she said, in the same serious voice, “I have no idea what to do about Alvarez.”

Jean busied himself with pulling off his chest and shoulder padding, as he tried to think of a response. He’d meant to bring it to her attention so she could figure it out on her own. Asking him his advice? He had no advice. It was like his mind had been wiped clean. Alvarez? Alvarez who?

He sat down on the bench and tried to think of a good way to escape the conversation. “You know,” he said. “There are a lot of palm trees here.”

Laila raised a brow. “It’s LA.”

“There are no palm trees in West Virginia.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, they’re cool.”

“The leaves here… they stay green.”

Laila was giving him a weird look. “Yup,” she said awkwardly. “Autumn in West Virginia was probably much prettier.”

Jean nodded and wiped a bit of condensation off the side of the water bottle. “It is a change. You could say that. The world goes from green to red and orange - and the smell, you can smell the cold in the air, and the wind’s a little crisper, a little sharper. It’s not overnight but it is a big enough change that it feels so.”

“Must be nice.”

Jean zipped his duffel shut. “Here though? Not a lot of change.”

Laila didn’t respond immediately.

“Change is good,” she said, but she sounded uncertain.

“Alvarez doesn’t deserve it,” said Jean. “If you’re going to make her cry, find a way to deal with it or stop coming to practice. Or get back together already.”

Laila stared at him. “That was… You really are terrible at giving relationship advice. I’m serious. That was probably the worst advice anyone’s given us.”

Jean shrugged, and reached down to pull off his socks. “Us,” he said after a moment, “is not a pronoun people who want to be single use.”

There was a shuffling sound as Laila stood up.

“Goodbye,” he said, when he looked up and saw her still standing there.

“Potluck,” said Laila finally, and she escaped out of the door. 

Jean highly suspected the potluck came into existence because he’d already turned down Micah’s, Maria’s, Dylan’s, Laila’s, Alvarez’s, Jeremy’s, and even Rhemann’s offers of spending Thanksgiving with their families. Where is your family, Jean?

Trust them to back him into some kind of compromise. He did not intend to go to this potluck, just as he hadn’t intended to go to any of the other extracurriculars the Trojans tried to include him in. So naturally, Alvarez bothered him about it until it became too much work to avoid it.

She took him to the supermarket and insisted he bring the wine while she got store-bought apple pie (“Even though homemade is the shit, we’re really operating on short notice. We still have to find something for you to wear.” “No, you don’t.” “And something with color, Jean.” “Are you hard of hearing? No.”)

Despite his protests, Thanksgiving found him in denim jeans that felt tighter than they looked in the mirror, and a maroon V-neck in the darkest shade he could convince Alvarez to let him buy.

If Jean thought the Trojans were ridiculous about Halloween, they were worse about Thanksgiving. Holiday music played at full volume, and when Maria saw that Alvarez had brought store-bought pie, the disappointment on her face brought a shamed flush to both Jean’s and Alvarez’s.

“It’ll do,” she said, taking it. Jeremy provided a solution when he burst into the festivities an hour late with a crate of apples, though he wouldn’t say where he got them.

Maria guessed that he helped a neighbor clean out an orchard. Micah said that that was a very East coast thing to do, and that it was more likely he got them from a fruit stand on the side of the road.

No, came from Alvarez, he probably saw an old man struggling with his fruit stand on the side of the road, offered to build him an entirely new fruit stand, and at the end of the day, the man rewarded him with as many apples as he could carry.

Jean wouldn’t have been surprised if a fruit stand had nothing to do with it, and Jeremy just walked underneath some apple trees that, possibly mistaking him for the sun, allowed their leaves to bloom into flowers and the fruit to fall at his feet. He did not voice this opinion.

However he got them, fresh apples meant fresh apple pie, and Alvarez’s contribution was unceremoniously shoved in the back of the fridge. The kitchen was busy enough during prep that the Trojans had to wait until after dinner to attempt the pie, and at that point, most were happy to settle for ice cream and a long nap. Someone turned on ESPN and they moved to the communal lounge to watch the Harvard Crimson versus UConn Exy game.

Jean would have preferred to watch the game from start to finish, but both teams were predictable enough that he could settle in during the middle. Although, if he was being honest with himself, watching Exy did nothing to help him stop thinking of this week’s frustrating practice.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he looked up to see Jeremy nodding towards the kitchens. He heaved himself off the couch without much of a second thought, took the paring knife Jeremy offered him, and dug out a cutting board.

“I think we’re gonna change up practice next time,” Jeremy was saying.

“Laila and Alvarez,” Jean guessed.

Jeremy nodded. “We’re going to have them on the opposite ends of the court during drills. So the team will split into four, two of which work on drills while the other two do scrimmage and then we’ll switch. They won’t have to interact at all.”

“If I know Alvarez, she’ll have something to say about that.”

“So will Laila,” Jeremy agreed. “And they’ll both be pissed Rhemann’s taken them off starting line for next week’s game.”

Jean thought that was a good move. But they were two of the best players on the team. He thought about the blunt advice he’d offered Laila as he began skinning and slicing an apple. Hopefully, it would spur Laila into action, so they could function as a team again.

He pushed the apple slices aside, and then picked up another apple, and then did not move.

His thumb brushed along the blade’s handle.

“It’s a paring knife,” someone said, and Jean thought it might have been Jeremy. His knuckles, the bone of them, jutted out from thin skin but to his credit they weren’t shaking. Someone moved the wooden cutting board out of his line of sight; it made a scraping sound, dragging off to the side, and the apples, cut in uneven, sloppy triangles, shifted on its surface. Jean’s eyes followed the movement involuntarily until the board stilled and his eyes trailed up the tan hand to Jeremy’s steady eyes.

“It’s a paring knife,” he found himself saying again, and realized he’d been repeating himself.

Jeremy took the knife from him.

“I can cut the apples,” he said.

“I can do it.”

“Can you make the mix? The recipe’s in front of – ”           

“I can cut the apples,” Jean interrupted harshly, though he made no move to take the knife from Jeremy, who was already chopping the apples into bite sized slices with an infuriatingly bright smile.

“It’s okay,” Jeremy told him cheerfully, glancing up at Jean between slices. The grin slid away, however, when Jean didn’t argue. Jean realized his hands were fists on the table, probably at the same time Jeremy did.

“It’s okay, Jean, it’s okay,” said Jeremy quickly, dropping the knife. Jean moved away from him swiftly, taking one step and then two back –

Jeremy mirrored him, following him right out of the kitchen.

Get away from me, Jean thought, and Jeremy stopped. Jean knew he hadn’t spoken aloud, which somehow made him angrier because. Because.

Because Jeremy saw his tight expression, the teeth grinding so hard against each other it hurt and he knew to back away. Because he didn’t know him well enough yet to know that Jean didn’t want reassuring words.

“Jean. Look at me. It’s just me. Riko’s not here,” Jeremy said, voice soft.

“No shit,” Jean said, through his teeth.

Jeremy shut up, watching him helplessly.

Jean didn’t have an answer for him. He took another step backward, though he didn’t look away.

“Do you want to be alone?” Jeremy asked after a minute, reaching one hand up as if to touch Jean’s arm. Jean withdrew instantly, though he kept his eyes locked on Jeremy.

Jeremy didn’t look away. Not for a moment.

“I want to be somewhere else,” said Jean, finally.

“Then,” said Jeremy, “let’s get out of here. Hold on.”

He stuck his head back in the lounge room and shouted something about picking up some stuff at the gas station. Jean gritted his teeth and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans so he didn’t have to keep looking at the shape of his white fists. He didn’t want anyone within a foot of him, but he didn’t want to be alone.

Jeremy reappeared a moment later, struggling with the back tie of his magenta kiss the cook apron. He bunched it up in one hand and followed Jean out of the kitchen.

Jeremy seemed perfectly happy to follow six feet behind him and Jean was grateful for the distance. He led the way to Jeremy’s Jeep. It wasn’t until they were on the road that they realized it was almost midnight, according to the glowing red digits on the stereo. There weren’t any gas stations open.

Well, that was a problem for Jeremy to deal with; Jean closed his eyes and let his head tilt back onto the headrest.

Jeremy kept up a stream of pleasant chatter as they drove, though Jean thought he might have preferred silence. In the review mirror, Jean watched the dirty reflection of brake lights on black road. They stopped every few miles, to pull into a gas station where the lights were lit up just enough to be misleading. The effect was creepy – these large Mobil stations, insides dark but blue fluorescence and logos glowing like beacons.

Jeremy didn’t seem discouraged. If anything, he seemed to see it as a challenge. He’d hooked up his iPod to the car, and the music that flowed from the speakers was low and heavy and Jean found his heartbeat slowing. He nodded off, a little, but woke to the slam of the car door.

Anxiety accompanied wakefulness, as it always did, but he spotted Jeremy jumping around out of the corner of his eye so he unlocked the door to the Jeep. He kicked it open to make a point.

He could hear Jeremy shouting something, followed by the metallic sound of a swing set under heavy weight.

Jean scowled and looked around. “We’re in a children’s playground,” he said.

A cheeky laugh came from somewhere near the swing sets and Jean frowned as he groped around in the dark.

“If you fall off the fucking Playscape and break your fucking arm, I’m leaving you for dead. We have a game next week.”

A breeze sent a shiver down his spine and when he opened his mouth, he tasted salt. Distantly, he heard waves, and when he turned his head he saw the outline of palm trees against a sky so black, it seemed to suck the fluorescence directly out of the few lampposts still on.

“What?” Jeremy appeared suddenly in front of him. “That’s cruel.”

Jean shrugged and watched his captain jump on the tire swing. “Maybe it is.”

Jeremy didn’t reply; too busy trying to gain momentum.

“How long are we going to be out here?” asked Jean. He pulled at the sleeves on his arms. He hadn’t brought a jacket.

Jeremy howled into the night when the tire swing really got going, the metal support creaking with the unexpected inertia.

“However long we need to! I want a slushie, can we get a slushie?”

Jean rolled his eyes.

“Did you ever hang out at one of these places when you were younger?” Jeremy asked him, doing a flying leap off the tire, and then making his way towards a set of monkey bars.

“What, a playground?” Jean hadn’t, but the disdain in his voice was real. He walked over, examining a particularly grimy bar. Jeremy started doing pull-ups, bending his knees to keep his feet from touching the ground. After a moment, Jean pulled himself up as well, and then it was a challenge, to see who could keep going.

It felt like a hundred pull-ups later before Jeremy finally fell to the ground, panting. Jean kept at it for another minute, if only to smirk down at Jeremy. Jeremy rolled his eyes.

When he let go, Jeremy didn’t bother to move away and their arms pressed up against each other. Jean found he didn’t mind, even though woodchips were digging into his skin. Above him, past the monkey bars, a cloudy sky was just starting to clear away, and the stars left in its wake seemed too ethereal to be real. He exhaled and watched the white tendrils of his breath slowly disappear.

“So… earlier,” said Jeremy quietly. His voice was close, and seemed louder due to the sea breeze being the only other sound.

“…Panic attack,” Jean said, and ignored the twinge of shame. He had them a lot this year, but Dywer had been helping him work through them. Knives were always going to be triggering, though. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought to put the paring knife down when it was handed to him. He supposed he just, for a minute, forgot.

“We were talking.” Jeremy seemed to hesitate. “Was it something I…?”

Jean’s fingers twitched against Jeremy’s wrist. “Get over yourself. It was the knife.”

“Oh.” Jeremy sounded relieved. “What about… after?”

Jean could see their cold breath mingling in the air above them. If Jeremy were a Raven, Jean wouldn’t have thought twice about their close proximity. All Ravens were close.

“Sometimes,” said Jean, “I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want anyone near me.”

“Right now?” asked Jeremy, drawing his arm back.

Jean shook his head, looking at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye. “Not right now.”

Jeremy pushed his arm back to where it was.

One finger brushed along the back of Jean’s hand. Jean felt it in his toes.

The air seemed quieter out here, without birds or people chatter. Everything else alive was asleep, Jean guessed, though in truth he wasn’t entirely sure what time it was. After midnight, definitely. 1AM? 2?

Jeremy touched Jean’s forearm. Jean tensed.

“Not okay,” Jeremy confirmed lightly, and immediately withdrew.

Jean turned his head to give him an irritated look, and then dropped his whole arm roughly on Jeremy’s stomach. Jeremy let out a surprised grunt. He rested one hand on Jean’s elbow, and then turned to smile at him.

Jean hated the soft expression, hated how unguarded it was, hated how even now he was comparing it to Riko’s. But more than he hated it, he wanted to draw it out, wanted to prove to himself that even though he was still numb from the Nest, after six months that passed like days, he was no longer afraid that every time he blinked he risked waking up.

It was cold out, but Jeremy’s touch was warm as it travelled down from his elbow to the exposed skin of his hand. He brushed one finger across Jean’s palm. Shivers that had nothing to do with the cold of the night raced up his arms.

There was a freckle just under Jeremy’s right eyebrow. Another one, right above his lips.

Jeremy didn’t look away from him, and Jean didn’t breathe.

Cloth and woodchips rustled as Jeremy sat up, and then the only sound in the night was the sound of skin brushing against skin as Jeremy lifted Jean’s wrist to his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Jean’s voice was rough.

“I don’t know.” The words were muffled as Jeremy’s lips pressed against Jean’s pulse, and the heat of his breath against Jean’s skin sent a different kind of heat down his chest, down his stomach, down, down. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jean didn’t answer. Jeremy’s phone chirped in his pocket. Jeremy ignored it.

Absently, Jean knew his skin was icy cold, but the rest of him was burning. Jeremy whispered something against his wrist but Jean couldn’t hear what it was. He couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of his damn heartbeat.

Jeremy’s phone chirped again, and then began to ring.

For a moment, the stillness was unbroken, as Jeremy made no move to answer it. Then, Jean sat up, and dug through Jeremy’s pocket to check the caller ID.

“I’m beginning to hate her,” said Jean, showing Jeremy the flashing Sarah Alvarez on the screen. Jeremy laughed, but it was low and throaty and Jean wanted badly to close the distance, right now, to steal the laugh right out of his mouth.

“Jeremy, where are you?” Jean could hear Alvarez’s tinny voice from where he sat.

“We went to get pie stuff but –”

“Now? Nothing’s going to be open.”

“We noticed,” grumbled Jean.

“Is that Jean? Jean, tell Jeremy to forget the pie crust, we’re just going to make apple crisp.”

“Now? –”

Jean didn’t hear the rest of Jeremy’s response. He stood up, shivering, and made his way to where they parked the car. He heard Jeremy behind him, trying, unsuccessfully, to hang up on Alvarez. The car was unlocked but Jean didn’t get in; instead, he turned around and met Jeremy’s eyes from across the playground.

Jean looked at him and wondered what this game was. Wondered if he even knew how to play. Wondered if either of them had any idea what they were doing.

Chapter Text

The Trojans had their final game for the fall season on December 1^st. That day, Kevin called Jean three times.

Jean put his phone on silent, and crammed it in his locker. If it were four, Jean told himself, he’d call Kevin back. Four calls was borderline impolite. Four calls meant it was important.

But three calls weren’t enough to justify answering before a game. Not before the final game of the season – Jean knew Kevin, and could picture him sitting in front of his laptop, probably chewing his nails off as he held the phone to his ear. Jean didn’t need to be distracted by Kevin reminding him what to watch out for, a thousand and one tips on how to play, and weak points in the Arizona State Sun Devil’s offense line. He already knew their weak points.

He shut his locker and looked around. The Trojan men’s locker room was a loud place; nervous gossip bounced off of the metal, and half the team had their phones out. Some played games; some, music; some, cat videos; none of them with headphones.

Jean’s eyes fell on Jeremy, who’d changed out faster than the speed of sound and was waiting for the rest of them to finish up. His leg was bouncing. He stared hard at Dylan, who was laughing loudly at something on his phone from where he sat on the bench in the middle of the room, half-dressed. Micah and Henry were talking about the freshmen that hadn’t made starting line this season. Jean paid half-hearted attention to their conversation, wondering frankly if the Trojans had the balls to kick any freshmen off the team.

Thirty minutes until game time, the guys made their way down to the lounge to meet with the rest of the team. They listened to Rhemann and Jeremy interrupt each other for what passed as a pep talk. Jean followed suit when they all stood up to cheer, though if anyone asked him what was said, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them.

He could barely concentrate. He wondered if Kevin had called him again.

Jeremy disappeared ten minutes before they went on, which didn’t seem to worry Rhemann but sent Laila into a tailspin. Surprisingly, Alvarez was the one to sit Laila down and tell her that their captain was probably cooling down somewhere else so as not to worry the rest of the team. It was believable; Jeremy’s bad nerves were notorious.

Jean watched Alvarez.

Thanksgiving had ended without much fuss, though Jean didn’t feel much like socializing after he and Jeremy had returned to the dorms. Neither had the rest of the team. Half had gone home, while some stayed to talk quietly. Micah and Henry were leading a conversation about thankfulness, while sending sly glances at the two girls without fucks to give draped across each other as they dozed on the couch.

When Jean asked Alvarez about it later, she sputtered something about beer and a headache and Jean took that to mean she didn’t want to talk about the way her fingers loosely threaded through Laila’s as they slept. Jean didn’t push. He didn’t really want to know. Especially since they’d gone right back to arguing when they were at practice, and ignoring each other’s texts when they weren’t.

The next day, he tried to think of advice to give, using Jeremy as a sounding board. An amused Jeremy told him honestly that his advice was marginally offensive and that he was better not saying anything at all.

The Trojans milled around the lounge room, waiting for the game to start. Jean sat back against his chair, fingers absently looping through the thick mesh of his racquet, and watched Dylan group the team up to talk strategy. It wasn’t anything new; the Sun Devils were expected to be particularly difficult opponents.

Where was Jeremy?

Jean tightened his gloves and tried not to think about it. Instead, he thought about tonight’s game. Their opponents wore white today, but usually the Sun Devils’ colors matched the Trojans’ closely: only a shade or two darker maroon paired with a bright florescent yellow. Startled, Jean realized he preferred gold to yellow – at what point did he notice there was a difference between the two? At what point did those colors start to feel natural on him?

He scowled. He wondered at what point Jeremy Knox decided not to show up for a game.

Two minutes.

Rhemann yelled, “For the love of God, somebody go find Knox!” and Jean was striding towards the door before Rhemann even finished the sentence.

“Hurry up!” called a panicky Laila behind him.

He jogged up the stairs to the locker room. It was empty; that was immediately apparent in the face of the complete stillness and silence broken only by the metal squeal of him opening the door. His eyes lingered briefly on his own locker before he turned back the way he came, trying not to dwell on the thought that Jeremy was never an irresponsible captain, and that, despite his nerves, he preferred to stick around before a game and annoy everybody else with his tension.

Jean skipped steps in his haste as he made his way back down the stairs. He ran down the hallway, flinging open the door to the lobby where the concession stands were. People still buying popcorn were pushed aside as he looked around for a familiar jersey. Unfortunately, at a college Exy game full of hometown fans, there were far too many familiar jerseys, and it didn’t take any of them long to notice Jean. His name, whispered, followed him as he made his way to the open doors at the entrance. A cold breeze brushed his face as he scanned the people buying tickets and being patted down by security.

Jeremy couldn’t have left the building. They had a game.

Jean turned and headed back the way he came, fully intending on searching the stands. When he shoved his way into the stadium, he was immediately stopped by the sheer size of it, the rows and rows of people still trickling in. They looked like ants.

The court was empty – though not for long. Jean could see the Sun Devils’ coach talking to a ref, just as the Trojans’ fight song started to play. The responding cheer was deafening, and Jean stumbled back at the power of the voices around him. It didn’t take him longer than a second to get a grip, before he took off running back to the Trojans’ lounge.

He wondered wildly how he was going to explain to Rhemann that Jeremy was gone, probably kidnapped, maybe even killed –

“Jean!”

Jean tripped over his own feet as he spun around to see Jeremy coming out of one of the stadium entrances.

Thank God.

Jeremy opened his mouth to speak but broke off at the sight of Jean marching towards him.

Jean stopped, just short of crashing into him. He searched Jeremy’s expression for an explanation, something sloppy about nerves, but Jeremy didn’t look nervous. If anything, he looked at Jean like Jean had all the answers. Like Jean was a moment from solving the problem of world peace. He took Jean in like someone might ask him to reconstruct Jean’s face from memory.

Jean’s whole face felt hot. His chest was still tight with panic, and his anger felt like chalk on his tongue. He tried to put a name to the weak flutter in his heart but nothing came to mind so instead he grabbed the front of Jeremy’s jersey and shoved him forward. His fingers were shaking.

“We’re already late,” he said harshly, and pulled Jeremy along until they both began to run towards the Trojan lounge.

They could hear the broadcaster announcing the names and numbers of their teammates, and then their opponents.

“I’m sorry,” said Jeremy finally, as they ran. “I was – It seemed important. I mean. For being late. I – I’m. I was trying to.”

Jean was still so mad he couldn’t speak. He didn’t respond, not when they got to the lounge, not when Rhemann yelled at Jeremy, not once throughout the whole game until the very end when he finally said, “What? Trying to what?”

Jeremy was with him on the bench. Rhemann had made him take off his gear, letting Jeremy know he wasn’t playing in this game or the first game of the next season.

Jeremy’s gaze slid from watching their teammates play to examining Jean’s jersey.

Jean gave him a moment to think but when a moment turned into a minute, Jean said, “We’ve won almost all of our games. Even if we lose today, we’re still going to spring championships. Laila thinks you were nervous. I know you weren’t.”

Jeremy was quiet.

The crowd screamed as someone scored a point. The broadcaster’s voice could barely be heard over the sound of it; with so little time left in the game, every point was exhilarating.

Jean reached out and tipped Jeremy’s chin up, so he was looking Jean in the eye. Like this, Jeremy couldn’t hide his expression.

“I was trying to find Kevin,” Jeremy said. “He called me before the game.”

“He was trying to get ahold of me,” Jean said, surprised. “He’s here?”

Jeremy nodded, just as Rhemann barked at Jean to sub in.

Jean had to stand, because his coach had told him to get on the court, but his eyes were still locked on Jeremy’s. Jeremy stood up too, and followed him to the court door.

“That’s not all,” he said, searching Jean’s face. “He texted me too, he said –”

But Jean didn’t find out what Kevin said, because Dylan was clapping him on the shoulder as he moved past him, sweating, and Rhemann was pulling Jeremy away from the door.

They won the game. It wasn’t hard, not with the extra practice they’d all been putting in to get better at playing full halves. The Sun Devil’s team was twenty-five people, but the Trojans only used ten of their own, a calculated decision meant as a message for the Foxes. It was a less-than-subtle warning: This spring, we’re winning.

It felt less like a warning and more like a direct hit now that Jean knew Kevin was in the audience. He told himself he was never leaving his phone in his locker again. Jeremy disappeared again after the final horn, and instead of joining the team huddle, Jean pushed his way past them and the reporters, and set out to find him. Again.

When the Trojan lounge proved empty, he threw open the doors to the hallway. It was usually devoid of people, as it separated the place with the concession stands from the athlete’s space, with a locked door the only thing between them.

He saw Kevin before he saw Jeremy.

Ever since he’d seen those three missed calls from Kevin, something like discomfort had hung over his head. At the sight of him, that unnamed itch suddenly solidified into a distinctly bad feeling.

They were standing at the end of the hall, only just in the direct line of sight of the Trojan lounge. They must’ve been waiting for him after the game.

Then he saw Tetsuji.

A sudden cold went through his whole body. The breath went out of his lungs like he’d been punched in the chest and he felt his pulse in his legs, in his throat, in his back where he found himself pressed up against the wall.

He was startled by the violence of his shock, the way his feet refused to move when he told them to.

“Yes, we like the court at USC, but you’ve got a great place over at Edgar Allen,” Jeremy was saying, with a smile that didn’t crinkle his eyes. “I always enjoy our away games.”         

Jean forced himself to stand up straight, but couldn’t take a step forward. Something was wrong. It was the way Tetsuji rubbed his thumb over his ornate cane that brought Jean back to their last exchange, the hatred in the words, “You aren’t wearing black.”

It was the two bodyguards on either side of him. It was the curious flatness of Kevin’s eyes.

“You’re welcome to tour the facilities if you like,” said Tetsuji.

There was a dangerous hostility crackling in the air. Electricity danced along Jean’s skin and he stared hard at Jeremy. Don’t accept, don’t agree, he chanted internally. Jeremy, this is a trap.

"That’s very kind of you.”

Dread slid down the column of his throat. His jaw worked and he stared hard at the silky smooth finish on the shoulder of Tetsuji’s suit. He took a step forward, and then anther one, until he was close enough that they all had to know he was there.

Jean didn’t dare look Tetsuji above the neck to see if his offer was serious. Seconds trickled by like hours until one fear overwhelmed the other.

“We have the winter banquet next week.” Jean’s voice cracked on the first word as his gaze darted up to meet Tetsuji’s.

Tetsuji’s eyes were black. They were black as night, dark as demons, a physical embodiment of revulsion. Jean held his hands behind his back to hide their shaking.

Jeremy’s voice was strong, bright and sturdy as always. “That’s right. We have to spend this week going over games from this season. Based on that, we’ll be coming up with a game plan for the spring.”

“And the week after?”

Dead silence. Jean’s head snapped up; his nerves were about to break. He couldn’t look at Tetsuji again so he searched Jeremy’s face for any sign of acceptance.

Jeremy wasn’t looking away from Tetsuji or Tetsuji from him. Jean felt the burn of Tetsuji’s dislike vicariously. The two men stood their ground but Jean saw the moment Jeremy’s chin tilted down. No.

“I’d be honored.”

No.

“Good.” Tetsuji’s voice had a lilt like he was rewarding a dog. “Jean will send me your information. We’ll be contacting you shortly.”

“Sounds good,” said Jeremy, as if having the last word was a victory. Jean just looked at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tetsuji walk away. For some reason, he expected Kevin to stay put, but without a goodbye, Kevin followed his former master.

Jeremy and Jean listened to the footsteps receding down the hallway. When there was complete quiet, Jean let out the shaky breath he hadn’t know he was holding.

Jeremy said his name.

Jean’s head snapped up to look at him. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he snarled.

“What? Tell me,” said Jeremy. He looked frustrated. “He didn’t come for me, he was coming for you.”

“You should have let him come for me,” Jean hissed.

“That was never going to happen.”   

Jean sucked in a breath.

“I’d say go fuck yourself,” he said, “But, you know, you just did.”

The echo of the words bounced off the concrete walls of the hallway. Jeremy looked at him, shocked, and then they both looked at the doorway to the Trojan lounge. No one came out to chastise Jean for yelling at their golden boy; the team had likely already gone up to the locker rooms after dealing with the press.

“Overprotective,” said Jeremy. There was a smile in the tilt of his lips but it wasn’t kind.

Jean didn’t care. He wasn’t taking it back.

“You’re not going,” Jean said, point blank. Jean wasn’t even sure this was anger. If it was, he’d been angry for hours. He’d been angry for months. His fists were shaking with it.

Jeremy leaned against the wall and tilted his chin up in defiance; high and mighty like he thought he was noble.

“I’m going –” started Jean, the line of his mouth tense.

“Don’t,” growled Jeremy, and abruptly, Jean thought of how hard the captain had slammed the ball across the court at practice. It sent a pulsing spike of something that was definitely not anger right through him.

It wouldn’t take much to step closer, so he did.

“Stop me.”    

Jeremy looked at him through narrowed eyes. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

Jean felt like his body was buzzing with excess energy, a combination of endorphins from the game and fury. Jeremy was the opposite. He hadn’t moved from his place against the wall, standing too still, watching Jean’s every movement with the same daring look he wore when he put his mouth on the skin of Jean’s wrist last Thursday.

Jean wondered what would happen if they didn’t stop.

Jean wasn’t sure if it was him or Jeremy who reached out first. All he knew was that suddenly there were hands gripping the collar of his jersey, and his fingers were tangled up in Jeremy’s hair and their mouths were sliding together with an earnest insistence that lit every nerve ending beneath his skin on fire.

His hands reached to pull Jeremy down, thumbs pressed just behind his ears as he kissed his mouth, his jaw, his nose. Jeremy made a sound, low and desperate, and it hit Jean like a hammer striking hot iron.

Jeremy was everywhere. His lips were all Jean could taste, all he could feel were Jeremy’s hands, impatiently pulling at his jersey like he could get Jean any closer. Jean liked his impatience. He showed his appreciation by licking into the seam of Jeremy’s mouth and pushing the hem of his shirt up with his hands. He scraped a nail across the smooth skin he found there and Jeremy shuddered.

So Jean did it again.

Jeremy pushed Jean back. Surprised, Jean stumbled, but Jeremy caught him immediately, flipping them so it was Jean’s back against the wall. Jeremy caught his mouth with a gentle scrape of teeth against tongue that made Jean’s knees go weak.

Jean’s name slipping out of Jeremy’s mouth took them both by surprise, and Jean’s eyes snapped open to meet Jeremy’s wide and astonished gaze.Don’t stop, he almost said, but they had to. He felt Jeremy pull away at the same time he did, both taken aback by their intensity.

“I,” said Jeremy at the same time Jean said, “That was.”

They both stopped.

Jean knew he should move away but he really didn’t want to, not with their hips still pressed together like this, not with the way Jeremy’s eyes got darker as Jean brushed a thumb over that inch of tan skin where Jeremy’s shirt had ridden up.

He didn't know he could have something this soft. Jean was, all at once, fiercely glad it was Jeremy in front of him, and not anyone else. 

There was no way in hell Jean was letting him anywhere near Evermore.

“I need to talk to Kevin,” Jean said, but he was leaning in.

“I can’t believe you’re thinking about Kevin,” said Jeremy, but he met Jean halfway.

Chapter Text

The winter banquets were a chance for Exy captains and their teams to get together over a cup of spiked punch, to come to terms with their losses, where a dance off was as good a place as any to address petty rivalries. Jean remembered ironing his black suit before last year’s banquet. The sharp detail of each crisp shoulder was a subtle kind of violence, cleanliness its own tool of intimidation. The Ravens didn’t care for camaraderie.

Trojan intimidation was different.

If everyone hadn’t been sure that the Trojans were taking home the championships this spring, Jeremy’s firm confidence and Alvarez’s cocky grin made sure they knew after. The Trojans walked around and shook hands like they knew all eyes were on them and when that was done, they took up the center of the dance floor, the huge circle of them – nearly fifty, dates included – and danced wild and vain like uninhibited royalty.

Jean didn’t know if Rhemann hadn’t known that the team was tailgating the whole bus ride here or if he just hadn’t cared, but either way, this was not how a Class I team acted.

Jean couldn’t meet absolutely anyone’s eyes as Micah draped himself across him and slid down, his hands steady on Jean’s hips. Jeremy was singing to him, and laughing, his eyes screwed up and voice passionate, before he slung an arm over the shoulders of Jean’s white dress shirt. Jean sent a glance back to the coaches’ tables where Rhemann looked like he was dozing off.

The lights were dimmed in the banquet hall, the dance floor lit in flashing blues and greens and purples. At its edges, coaches and a few players lingered around where it was bright, tables set up with food and punch. Everyone else was spinning, people dancing like they’d forgotten they were people.

Lights rippled across the crowd and he blinked hard against split second blindness. He looked away from Rhemann to try and make sense of the dark shapes around him and couldn’t, drunk on the taste of punch and vodka and sweat and electricity. He knew the chances of Alvarez letting him escape this carnal mess of a dance floor were slim to none. He found he didn’t entirely mind. The bass pounded up through the soles of his feet, vibrating through his whole body. His heart felt supercharged, like someone hooked up jumper cables to each bone in his ribcage.

This was dangerous. It had to be.

Jeremy’s hand brushed the short hair at the nape of Jean’s neck.

There was something sticky on the scuffed floor; Jean could feel himself stepping in it. Sweat slid down the line of his back and into the crease of his pants as he lifted his arms with the rest and waited for the bass to drop as the DJ, spinning as though he intended the music be heard from space, lifted one hand in acknowledgement of his crowd and then there was a moment –

A moment.

Quiet.

And then, sound.

It flooded the room, heavy and grandiose. Alvarez was grinning as she pulled Maria up close and danced against her. Laila was laughing as Alvarez grabbed her wrist and pulled her in too. The three of them moved together, slowly.

Dylan, who was there because of course he was, that asshole, froze in his movements and stared, slack-jawed, and Jean wanted to make fun of him for it but couldn’t because honestly, he was doing the exact same thing. Mon Dieu, girls were pretty. Had a human being ever moved that slowly? Yet still somehow in time to the music beating twice the rate of Jean’s heartbeat? Had a human being ever danced like that to music? Who taught girls to dance like snakes moved through them, biting lips like Eve bit into the apple, like there was something holy either above or below them and they could get to it if only they kept their feet on the ground.

“Your eyes are glazed over,” Jeremy breathed in his ear.

Jean didn’t know how to snap out of it. He was so, so very bisexual.

Laila pushed her hands into her hair and sank down. She rose and Jean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way she managed to keep her torso nearly still, while the bottom half of her body rolled in slow, undulating circles.

“Woooooooow,” said Jeremy, watching him. Jean felt the Trojan captain tugging at his sleeve, but it took an extra second for him to turn and follow Jeremy off the dance floor.

Alvarez and her dance partners followed, sticking close and pushing past the mass of people until they reached a table littered with pitchers of ice water.

Jeremy made sure everyone had a cup as they collapsed in the chairs, ignoring the side eyes from amused, much older coaches. Jean felt a little thrill but also, surprisingly, grief. Last year, that’d been him, sitting out with the Ravens, hating every second of the banquet and every member of the dancing crowd.

The Ravens weren’t here. It wasn’t their district but he was certain they would have tried to check up on him. Possibly, Tetsuji had seen Jean hadn’t gone to the fall banquet, and that was why he’d decided to check up on him at their final game. He must have been waiting all of November for Jean to come running home to the Nest, his tail between his legs.

But Jean hadn’t.

He took a sip of his water and brought his attention back to his own table.

Laila whispered something in Alvarez’s ear and Alvarez cackled.

Jean and Jeremy exchanged a look. Were they back together? Was it safe to ask?

They watched Alvarez steal a drink from Laila’s cup and Jean ignored the warning elbow digging into his side.

“So what’s going on with that?” Jean asked. Jeremy groaned.

Alvarez arched an eyebrow. “Going on with what?”

Jean gestured to her and Laila.

Alvarez crossed her arms, her face still as a gambler’s, and said, “Use your big boy words, Jean.”

Jean rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he searched for the words. “You guys…”

“Mmmhm.”

“Alvarez. C’mon.”

Thankfully, Jeremy took pity on him. “You know what he means. You two, uh, don’t seem to be. That is. Looking for new dance partners.”

Alvarez looked delighted. “That was pathetic. New dance partners. Awful.”

“Just ask,” sighed Laila. “Just ask if we’re together –” at the same time Alvarez said, “Just ask if we’re fucking.”

Jeremy made an offended noise through his nose.

“Well, are you?” asked Maria.

“No,” said Laila immediately. Alvarez’s smile took on a sharper quality. Jean wondered if there was more to the story, approximately realized he shouldn’t care, then calmly placed that feeling aside to continue wondering. How could they move together so intimately, but insist on keeping each other at arm’s length?

“New dance partners,” Alvarez snorted. “Jesus.”

“Who are we finding a dance partner for?” asked Dylan, appearing suddenly to collapse in the chair next to Maria.

“Jeremy,” said Alvarez.

Jeremy shook his head next to her, a huff of laughter escaping. “Do not.”

Laila, stone cold serious, went, “What about that girl from U of N?” and tilted her chin towards one of the tables. The Trojans turned to check out the group of five U of N Lions, occupied in what looked like an intense game of table football with a folded up paper triangle.

Maria squinted at the only girl among them. “She’s ok. Jeremy could do better,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Jean had to agree.

“Capitaine Soleil is a sophisticated creature,” Alvarez confirmed. “He needs someone a little more cultured.”

“Someone tough, who knows the way of the world,” said Laila.

“And someone who’s good at Exy,” Maria added.

“Who says he’s looking for a Lioness?” said Dylan. “There are lots of different teams here.”

Alvarez nodded thoughtfully, “Excellent point about the teams, Dylan.”

Jean hated every one of them.

Jeremy smiled down at his water.

The EDM beat was slowing, the music pulsating. Jean wasn’t even sure there was a song behind it, snatches of spoken word that might have been a Frank Ocean song filled in the pauses in sound.

“Someone with a good sense of humor,” said Jean. “A kind demeanor.”

The others at the table immediately swiveled to look at him. Luckily, he’d had a lifetime of practice at keeping a blank face.

Alvarez wore a shark’s smile as she said, “Someone with a dark side. A bit of a badass.”

“Someone sweet,” Jean insisted.

Jeremy made an interesting, contorted sound – a laugh? – and the others turned back to him, whiplash-quick. He laughed again, and then ran a hand through his hair, messing up his carefully slicked back do.

“If you wanted to dance, Alvarez, you should have just said,” he said cheerfully, and stood to pull her up.

Laila followed. She detangled Jeremy’s and Alvarez’s fingers and then tugged her girl towards the dance floor. Jean yelled a sendoff after them.

“Guess you’d better find someone else,” said Maria, before she stood up too.

Dylan scoffed, and then followed her lead. “Why is it that I can’t get laid, but I have to watch you saps all day?”

“I heard the girl from the Lions is single,” called Jeremy as the two disappeared into the dance floor.

“I think,” Jean said, “she heard you.” He tilted his chin to where the U of N Lions had apparently finished their game and were now sending curious looks to their table.

Jeremy made a non-committal sound.

“Maybe she wants to dance,” said Jean, draining the last of his water before crumpling the paper cup.         

“Maybe I don’t,” said Jeremy.

Jean’s eyes slid from where he was looking at the girl from the Lions, back to Jeremy. It was no wonder she kept glancing over. Jeremy was every inch a prince, his body sprawled across the plastic chair like nothing could ever ruin him. Jean’s gaze dropped to Jeremy’s hands, curled carelessly around his paper cup. His thumb caught a drop of water along the rim.

Jeremy wasn’t anything like Jean had expected. He was better. He was intense. He was kind. He was ruthlessly moral, and people were happy to only see that of him. Leaders should possess only good qualities, but because that was humanly impossible, a wise prince would avoid any vices that could damage his influence. Vices like Jean, whose temperament was endlessly agitated by nobility.

“Alright,” Jean said, and leaned back in his chair. He looked back at the crowd.

“Aren’t you going to ask me who I want to dance with?” asked Jeremy. Light curved like a caress around Jeremy’s cheekbone. It looked almost like someone had painted streaks of gold leaf across his face.

“No.”

“You don’t care?”

“I don’t care,” Jean said.

Jeremy cast one look around lazily, but eventually, his gaze settled back on Jean. “Maybe I don’t want someone sweet.”

When the sun peaked out over the ocean after a long night, did Icarus look east with relief? Did he see the chariot and think, Thank God, some warmth, finally. Some light, finally.

Did Apollo smile at him, as he guided the sun forward? Was either one of them aware that the wax was dripping?

Jean didn’t reply but he didn’t look away again.

Jeremy wouldn’t be the one to kill him, but if this was goodbye, it was because his dumbass self got too close.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Jeremy’s expression shifted, from a flirty smile to one of surprise. He scrutinized Jean, and Jean couldn’t tell if the bewilderment was because of something Jean did or because of a realization. If Jean didn’t know any better, he would have thought he’d taken something of Jeremy’s and Jeremy was trying to figure out where he hid it.

Jean arched an eyebrow at him and leaned in. Inexplicably, he felt amused.

“Why,” asked Jean, “do I feel like I just watched you realize you’re gay?”

Jeremy’s jaw didn’t drop exactly, but it did form a little ‘o’ for a split second before he closed it. Jean almost gave him a minute to catch his breath but he was too fixated on Jeremy’s face. He waited for Jeremy to move, to shake his head.

He didn’t.

Jean’s eyes dropped to the freckle above Jeremy’s lips.

Jeremy looked briefly like he had an answer, but instead, his mouth opened and out spilled, “Nice cufflinks.”

“Thanks.” Jean felt the corner of his mouth curve up watching Jeremy trace one finger over the tiny silver T on Jean’s sleeve. “They were a gift.”

Tetsuji Moriyama should never have been there that night at the game. He shouldn’t have even been allowed to show his face at Exy games, after half the league banned him from their courts when the news of his abuse came out. Ichirou Moriyama had almost completely cut him off, and in the first place, Tetsuji was never supposed to have had any power in the Moriyama Empire.

He wasn’t supposed to.

But he did.

And the realization made everything under Jean’s skin catch fire, and then turn immediately to ice. Whatever Tetsuji was planning was bad news.

After the run in at the Arizona Sun Devils game, after he’d kissed Jeremy Knox, and then after Jeremy Knox kissed him back, and then after they’d kissed some more, Jean had tried to find Kevin. But his ex-teammate was nowhere in sight and he wasn’t picking up his phone, so after the eighth voicemail Jean left him, Jean dialed his keeper.

“Salut,” said Andrew, his voice effortlessly empty.

“Minyard,” Jean sneered. He wanted to get on the bus back to USC immediately, sweaty from the game. He wanted to be back in his dorm, he wanted to sit with Jeremy. He wanted to see if Jeremy wanted to kiss him again. But he lingered in the parking lot instead, staring up at the bus while the others loaded in.

Andrew didn’t respond, but he didn’t hang up either, so Jean continued, “What does Kevin think he’s doing?”

There was no audible sign that Andrew heard him. Jean heard a voice, distant on the line, and the brush of cloth as Andrew covered the receiver.

“Whatever he wants,” Andrew said.

Jean breathed in and out through his nose. “He’s with Tetsuji,” he said, just in case Andrew didn’t know.

“We’re working on it.” And that was Neil; Jean must’ve been on speaker now. “Jean, whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t,” said Neil. “Don’t start something. You’ll ruin everything.”

Everyone was on the bus. Jean could hear it rumbling to life. Rhemann held open the doors impatiently but Jean didn’t move.

“I won’t,” said Jean, “But tell me what’s going on. Why did Tetsuji show up at my game tonight with guard dogs and Kevin?”

The other line was silent for a long moment. Neil swore, or maybe it was Andrew. Jean stared at the Trojan bus, and then looked down at his hands. There was a scar on the flesh of his palm from when Riko went through his garden shears phase. Kevin had a matching mark.

“Probably to punish Kevin more than you,” Andrew said, and Jean scowled. “Tetsuji’s been meeting with Ichirou a lot lately. That’s all we know. Neil thinks he might be angling for a position outside of coaching. An international sports liaison or something.”

Jean felt sick. “Can he build a team from that?”

“No,” injected Neil. “But he could gather up players from his past to go with him on trips to Japan. To facilitate communication between NCAA and whatever the Japanese version of that is.”

Jean thought of Kevin alone with Tetsuji on a private jet, flying thousands of miles away from any chance of escape. He dropped his arm and looked back at the Trojans bus.

“Has he gone on any trips so far?”

“Not with Kevin,” Neil said, voice hard. “But we have a plan. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Is Jeremy involved?” said Jean immediately.

There was quiet on the other end, before a sly, “Oh?”

Jean could practically hear the gears whirling in Neil’s head – Jean’s affection was a weakness that he was sure Neil and Andrew had no problems exploiting. Not if that’s what it took to get Kevin back.

He scowled into the receiver. “Jeremy doesn’t have anything to do with any of this. Keep him out of it, or I will. I have no problem getting on a plane.”

Alvarez and Laila were the last to board the bus, while Rhemann and Jeremy lingered, talking as they waited for him.

“Thousands of miles in the air, with no witnesses?” Jean said, “I don’t know what your plan is but mine could be very simple. Knowing Tetsuji, I probably wouldn’t even have to bring my own knife.”

“Huh,” said Andrew, blank. He continued, ignoring Neil’s noise of protest, “Do what you want. But if it affects Neil or Kevin in any way… I’ll kill you.”

He didn’t say it casually.

Jean hung up. He dragged his gaze to Rhemann, who tapped a finger against his wristwatch and pointed at the bus.

That conversation had been over two weeks ago, and Jeremy still hadn’t mentioned Tetsuji’s orders.

But it’d been in the air.

Jean didn’t know what made Jeremy bring it up now, but it took him a minute to grasp Jeremy’s words.

“You’re going to do something stupid about Tetsuji.”

The banquet had cleared up some. The music that played was slower, and players milled around, more concerned with getting water than getting their groove on.

“I am not,” Jean almost said, but it was a lie in every context.

Jeremy rolled his eyes, like Hamlet might have rolled his eyes at Ophelia or Paris at the mention of Romeo.

“Look,” said Jeremy, “Whatever you’re afraid of happening, tell me.”

Jean pursed his lips. He didn’t think he needed to explain the years of abuse; or rather he couldn’t, still trying to come to terms with it himself. Instead, he said, “Don’t go to Castle Evermore.”

Jeremy searched his face. “If I don’t, will you?”

Jean tugged his sleeve out of Jeremy’s hand, but his eye caught on the gleam of his cufflinks and his fingers moved without permission to brush against Jeremy’s.

“Jean.”

He turned his head to try and find his teammates on the dance floor. Alvarez and Laila were talking, not dancing, and Maria and Dylan were nowhere to be seen.

“You think he’ll hurt me,” Jeremy guessed.

“I think he will try very hard to take you and never let you go,” Jean said.

Jean didn’t know what Tetsuji was planning but if it was anything like what Andrew and Neil had guessed, and Tetsuji was looking for players to take with him overseas, there was a very real chance that after winter break, Jean would never see Jeremy again.

Jeremy courteously did not call Jean out for being dramatic. Instead he said, “He won’t.”

“Ravens only accept athletes with spotless records. You’re the perfect candidate.’

Jeremy leaned back in his own chair. “I’m not a perfect candidate.”

“Modesty,” said Jean, “is fucking annoying.”

Jeremy frowned at him. “I’m not. I’m not perfect.”

“Your record is,” said Jean, still watching the dance floor.

“It’s not!”

And Jeremy, he actually sounded mad. Jean inclined his head to look at Jeremy from out of the corner of his eye. Jeremy’s arms were crossed and he was scowling, deeply.

“The Ravens never scouted me,” said Jeremy. He was bouncing his leg under the table. “Didn’t you know why?”

Several things seemed to click into place at once, and Jean felt something under his skin stutter and come to a stop.

“You seemed like you knew,” said Jeremy.

Jean should have. He’d guessed it, hadn’t he? The thought was in his head; he’d even said it out loud, back when it seemed too preposterous to be a real possibility.

Because Jean knew people who got obsessed with what should be harmless things: he’d known people who chewed gum incessantly, people who bounced their legs around cigarettes, etc. People with habits just a step to the left of normal.

Nobody gets addicted to five-hour energy.

Jeremy’s lips pulled at the edges like he was trying to force a smile but at Jean’s blank stare, he stopped. Jean wanted to push Jeremy’s sleeves up and check the insides of his elbows. Jeremy must’ve seen Jean’s eyes dart to look at his arms, because he uncrossed them, and let them fall onto the table, still staring out at the dance floor.

Jean didn’t touch him.

“When?” said Jean.

“Stopped in high school.”

For a moment, they were strangers. Jeremy kept an eye on Alvarez and Laila on the dance floor as Jean mentally re-evaluated every conversation they’d ever had.

“I will jump to the worst conclusion if you don’t explain,” Jean said.

Jeremy looked alarmed. “What’s the worst?”

“Steroids?” Jean hedged, his eyes on Jeremy’s face for a reaction. “Heroin?”

Jeremy was shaking his head before Jean finished speaking. “Stop. No. It wasn’t that serious. It was just something a lot of guys on the team did. I thought it would help me, I don’t know, become what I was supposed to be. Better.”

“Pot?”

Jeremy laughed, but it was strained. “No.”

Jean gazed at the dance floor. The lights had come on some, and the room wasn’t quite as dark as before. Bits of colored glitz and paper cups littered the floor, and Jean caught sight of one or two stray suit jackets flung forgotten across backs of chairs.

People wiped sweat from oily faces; ethereal in the way they slowly picked up their discarded clothes, adjusted their ties and dress shirt buttons, and kept up conversations that involved language and not tongues. The whole scene was a little fuzzy to Jean, noisy in the way a Polaroid picture was. He felt outside himself, like he was looking down at a photograph and he realized that years down the line, he might want to remember today. It was fun, he realized.

Today was fun.

Everyday was fun.

Was that Jeremy? Was it Dwyer, or Rhemann or did it have more to do with himself? Life in the Nest was the little shop of fucking horrors and afterwards, he wasn’t sure he was capable of growth, let alone qualified for any kind of happily ever after.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Jean glanced at Jeremy, to see the other was looking at him too.

“You don’t need to tell me,” said Jean. “Not about any of it, because it’s not who you are now. It’s in the past.”

Jeremy’s face looked frozen, as he stared at Jean. Like a cloud after a rainstorm. Like opaque little wisps of cloud drifting and clearing away as sun burned through.

Jean gave him a long look, blank and unbothered. Then, he reached out and pushed the side of Jeremy’s mouth up with one finger.

Jeremy’s eyebrows quirked up.

“You weren’t smiling,” Jean told him.

Jeremy turned his head and smiled against Jean’s palm.

“You’re –” started Jeremy.

“Let’s talk about Exy,” Jean interrupted, because he knew Jeremy was about to say something ridiculous and cheesy and Jean could barely hold himself back as is.

“What?” said Jeremy.

“The Team Save Percentage has gone up by .92% since last year,” said Jean.

Jeremy grinned.

“Rhemann mentioned it,” continued Jean.

“Did he?”

“He also mentioned that we have the most team members who can play full halves in the entirety of college Exy.”

“Oh?”

“That includes the Foxes, and the Ravens, and Penn State.” That meant out of the big three – USC, Edgar Allen, and Penn State – USC’s stamina would give them the upper hand this spring. Jean waited for Jeremy to remark on that, but Jeremy seemed perfectly content to keep smiling at him.

“Edgar Allen increased their lineup. They’ll have too many players to take care of before –”

Jeremy hooked one foot around the leg of Jean’s chair and jerked him forward, and Jean, for almost a full minute, completely forgot about Exy.

“Jean –”

“Pay attention,” said Jean. “The Foxes are trouble now that Kevin’s got them whipped into shape, but Edgar Allen and Penn State have always been the real opponents here.”

“Penn State,” echoed Jeremy. “They’ll be tough; they’ve increased their seasonal average points by upping their offensive line. They want to score more points than they lose. I want to really up our defense. I want to win spring championships and I want to kiss you right now more than I’ve wanted anything else in my entire life.”

The world slowed.

“Anti-productive,” Jean said. “Exact opposite of Exy.”

Jeremy grinned around his words as he said, “Right, sorry. Exy. Exy, Exy, Exy. Penn State’s senior dealer, I forgot his name, but he’s got a nasty rate of receives, catches almost every shot that’s aimed at him.” He paused, still smiling. “What else? I can’t remember anything else.”

Jean scoffed but he was pulling Jeremy in by the collar until their noses brushed. The music seemed like a distant hum now, and the sounds of people talking got louder. The table next to theirs was making plans to find their teammates so they could get home. “You were saying, about the senior dealer.”

“You stood right in front of me,” said Jeremy. He sounded awed. “Got right in Tetsuji’s face.”

“That’s hardly what happened.”

Jeremy swept his thumb across Jean’s palm before tightening his grip and raising their hands to kiss the back of Jean’s hand.

“Your hands were shaking.”

They had been.

“I’ve never seen you like that.”

That’s because Jean hadn’t been that scared since he left the Nest. Like he was breathing in water. But he didn’t want to say any of that out loud so he tried for disdain. “What, terrified?”

His voice was too quiet.

Jeremy’s breath ghosted Jean’s knuckles before he kissed them. “That brave.”

“You have to stop,” said Jean, and he didn’t know if he was referring to the kissing, the talking, or Jeremy’s general presence.

“Okay,” said Jeremy, and he let their hands fall between them. “Penn State. They’ve been scoring, three, four goals above average, way better than last season. Their last game, they won by 8 points, I think, against Maine. It—”

Jean said, “It wasn’t brave.”

Jeremy said, “Kiss me.”

And then Jean’s thumb was brushing Jeremy’s jawline before he really considered their location, or the hush that fell around them. Jean thought of the captain who’d never earned a red card before and tried to reconcile that Jeremy with the one who leaned in and kissed him with a mouth that might have inspired Helen of Troy. Vicious. Soft. Starting wars and whatnot.

Jeremy laughed against his lips when Jean pushed back with a gentle scrape of teeth against tongue. This kiss was slow, and it wasn’t until they broke apart that Jean registered the hoots and whistles. Alvarez’s, of course, was the loudest.

“This might kill your career,” Jean murmured. His lip brushed against Jeremy’s.

“It won’t,” Jeremy breathed, bringing their mouths together twice more. “We’re pretty good at Exy.”

“You know that doesn’t matter. They’ll find any excuse.”

“Then we’ll be icons.”

Jean wasn’t as optimistic, but he played along. “Is anyone out in the NCAA yet? You would be the first.”

“We’d be the first.”

“We’d beat Kevin, Neil and Andrew, then.”

Jeremy pulled back, and whispered, shocked, “Kevin’s gay?!”

The metallic sound of a chair scraped across the floor as Alvarez pulled it out and plopped down. It brought the two back to the present to the looks of an amused team, a wide-eyed Rhemann and Dylan, who said, “You guys do know you’re still in a room full of people, right?”

 When they got back from the banquet, Jean and Jeremy immediately and without discussion, headed to Jean’s room. Jeremy spent that night, though they didn’t do anything but make out and talk. They didn’t even sleep in the same bed when they did finally fall asleep around 4AM.

This wasn’t real, thought Jean, when he left sleep-warm sheets behind.

It was curiosity. It might have been gold and red tinged desperation and impatience for a forgotten act that made his neck itch and his palms restless.

His feelings were out of control. They were volatile; they wouldn’t last.

He left while Jeremy was sleeping, though, not entirely heartless, he did call him later.

But first, he called Alvarez.

As the line rang, he touched the empty skin on his index finger, where he usually wore silver rings. He dropped his gaze to the ground, and scuffed his feet on the gritty pavement, littered with cigarettes butts and old gum.

The line connected.

“I have to know,” said Jean. “What happened with Laila? Why’d you guys break up? Seriously, it’s driving me crazy.”

There was silence on the other line.

“You’re kidding right?” Alvarez’s voice croaked and Jean could hear shuffling and a yawn. “What time…? – You called me at 6 AM for this?

She yawned again and then said, “Remember when I was in the hospital? It freaked her out. So, of course she did something stupid and drastic, and asked me to marry her. And I was like, no, that’s stupid and drastic, you can’t just marry people because you’re afraid they’ll get hurt and leave you. Then she was like, crying, like she was really scared for me and I was like, Laila! A girl’s got do what a girl’s got to do, you know? Sometimes there’s going to be a cheerleader laying half naked for you on a table, and maybe that table’s made of glass but you gotta calculate the risk and reward with that and you gotta take a chance! And then she said–”

“Ok,” Jean said, because Alvarez didn’t sound like she was going to stop talking.

“Actually, she kind of disagreed. I don’t think she liked the cheerleader. Hey, where are you?”

Jean watched a car pull up on the sidewalk, a little ways away from where he stood. A family of four piled out to meet a young woman with a suitcase. The sound of their reuniting was loud but not loud enough to drown out the passing cars or flight announcements over loudspeakers.

“I have to get going, Alvarez. Talk later,” said Jean, and hung up.

He checked his phone for the time, and then dialed again.

Jeremy’s voice sounded warm over the phone. It reminded Jean, abruptly, of the first time he’d heard Jeremy speak.

He said, “You know, the first time I ever saw you, you were on TV telling the world I wasn’t going back to Edgar Allen.”

It wasn’t a traditional start to a conversation, and Jeremy paused before responding.

“Besides watching my tapes, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

They were both quiet.

“I thought you were so arrogant,” Jean admitted quietly. “I barely agreed to go, and there you were announcing it on live television.”

“You thought I was arrogant?” His voice was too tense to be teasing. “Is everything okay? I hope you’re getting coffee and bagels. You’re calling to ask for my bagel order, right?”

Jean heard himself laugh. “No, Capitaine. Just. Wanted to hear you smile.”

Jeremy went dead silent.

Jean examined his plane ticket, running one finger over the small black gate number.

“Alvarez and I have decided to run away together,” Jean said.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Break it to Laila gently, will you?”

“Don’t do this.”

Jean’s breath caught. His mouth parted, dangerously. Then, before he could say anything else stupid, he hung up.

Chapter Text

Jean didn’t go for Jeremy Knox. He went for Kevin Day. He went for any future players Tetsuji might try to sink his claws into.

He went for himself.

It was cold on the plane, the breath of A/C unpleasant on his skin. A stranger crammed herself in the seat next to him and made quick work of fishing a pair of headphones from her purse. He was glad when a voice over the speakers reminded the plane’s occupants to turn off their phones because it gave him a good reason to ignore Alvarez. Alvarez, who’d been texting him nonstop since ten minutes after he hung up on Jeremy.

Where are you?

Jean

Pepe le pew

Jean

Boo-boo

French fry

Jean

Jean

Jean

What happened to talk later??

Are you alone?

Are you coming back?

He powered off his phone, and then reached up to adjust the A/C. Cutting off the flow of cold air was a temporary relief, much like any reassurances he could give Alvarez.

He waited for Jeremy’s name to come up, and it did, both in her texts and on the caller ID. He ignored eight calls, and didn’t punish himself by listening to the four voicemails. He shoved his phone in his carry-on before the temptation to call back won over.

He sat back against the airplane seat, fingers drumming an uneven beat against his thigh. When he realized what he was doing, he abruptly crossed his arms and heaved a sigh through his nose. The girl next to him slumped in her seat. They were close enough he could feel her put in her headphones, and Jean closed his eyes, conscious of how hyper aware he was of her movements, just because she sat next to him.

It was a discomfort, but a manageable one. He was fidgety and terrified beyond belief, but that had more to do with the destination than the journey. The fact of his traveling alone hung over his head in a way nothing really had before. He was proud, he realized, proud of a solo journey, proud of doing it by himself. It was a ridiculous thing to be proud of being able to get on a plane, but he was. A year ago, he never thought he’d have to travel alone.

Six months ago, he’d thought he never could.

What an extraordinary, little victory.

Early morning sun filtered through the plane windows and a voice over the loudspeaker told the passengers what time they’d be arriving and the weather at their destination. Jean slid his window shut against the onslaught of golden pink and closed his eyes. He thought he’d be too restless to nap but he was asleep almost instantly.

Marseille was warmer than he’d thought. Back in California, the sun shone whether it was December or July, but here, the summer weather took him by surprise.

Jean thought about taking a taxi but it was too tempting to walk along the sidewalk, to take in the Christmas markets scattered around the town – more for tourists than anyone else. The harbor, once he got to it, was loaded with boats, packed tight like sardines with glowing Christmas lights strung along the docks. But he’d forgotten how two-sided the city was, some of it clearly proud of its largeness, of its Greek architecture, while the rest was comfortable with its danger, its criminal reputation. He turned a narrow street corner and saw that behind le Panier was a city tagged with graffiti from sidewalk to sky.

It was familiar, and he’d missed it.

He dragged his palm along the walls, looking up at the skyscrapers that sent billowing shadows over the city. Sunlight peeked over the top of one building, and a square of it glowed against the wall above his head.

He hadn’t come to admire the city.

It wasn’t hard to get to his family home. He’d imagined this route so often in his head, plotted it in the late of the night obsessively as if he would ever get the chance to go, so it was more like muscle memory than anything else to find a bus station that would take him to the heart of the city.

The crime rate here was the worst in France so his family prospered. Their south end apartment looked the same from the outside, the familiarity of it aching within Jean as he hovered near the steps, too afraid to get near enough to the door to knock.

Their brass knocker – more for decoration than use – was a gleaming contrast to the rest of the city, intimidating in its newness. He shifted his carry-on over his shoulder, wondering if it was a bad idea to wait out here like this until someone got home. Or, a more likely scenario, called the cops.

So it was almost a relief when he saw the door to his childhood home crack open, and a set of steely gray eyes peek out. They widened when they took in who was on the steps. Then the door slammed shut.

Jean heard the locks come undone from behind the door, and shifted from foot to foot.

The door opened again, quietly, and then:

“Jean,” said his mother. She took him in, the bruised, jetlagged whole of him, and opened her arms.

Jean tripped over himself to get to her, flying up the steps and sweeping her up in a too tight, desperate embrace.

There’s a specific love you need the most when you don’t have it anymore.

Inside was just as Jean remembered it, the kitchen table marked up with old dents and knife cuts, woven square placemats strategically covering the worst of it. A beam of summer light filtered through the window above the ink. Jean focused on the way his mother pulled out a chair for herself, still holding his hand. She looked up at him, her eyes glossy with unshed stars, before sliding her gaze to the left. Jean followed the movement.

His father was sitting, half in shadow, not at the head of the table, like Jean had expected, but one seat to the left, close to the wall. Jean couldn’t make out his features, only that he looked like a stranger.

He stared at Jean.

Jean’s jaw clenched so that the emotion choking up his throat wouldn’t escape in the form of words he might later regret. The senior Moreau wasn’t sentimental; Jan wasn’t expecting a ‘you’ve grown’ or anything. But he was expecting… something.

Instead, the man who’d sold Jean off was silent. Jean stayed standing. He let his mother’s hand slip from his grasp.

“What did I pay for?” asked Jean in French, skipping the hello.

“What?”

“What debt did I settle?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I don’t see why it matters,” said his father, leaning back in his chair.

Jean’s fingernails dug into his palms. “I was tortured for thirteen years. I deserve to know why.”

“Has that been bothering you this whole time?” asked his father.

Jean startled.

It wasn’t the question, but the way he phrased it. His father lacked the 3-dimensionality of a real person, Jean realized. It was a though tthat solidified into a terrible certainty: I am not supposed to be here.

Summer light flooded the kitchen, but it wasn’t summer yet.

Jean answered him anyway. “Yes.”

Even all this time later, he still woke up some mornings with that nagging, errant curiosity scraping just above the nape of his neck. What was my life worth to them? It was a question that usually faded between the moments of waking and lucidity.

His father watched him, unable to answer. Jean waited anyway, for his subconscious to give him something, any kind of reprieve.

Nothing.

Finally, Jean turned his head away, trying to will himself into waking up. As he did, his mother caught his cheek with one hand, thumb brushing over the cheekbone with no tattoo. He closed his eyes, letting himself miss her.

The world came into sharp focus again too soon, airplane televisions staring back at him and people standing up to get their bags. The girl next to him jostled his arm as she shifted and Jean woke up completely, the taste of the dream still bitter on his tongue.

People shoved past him as he pulled his carry on over his shoulders and made his way off the plane, speed-walking past baggage claim until he was outside.

It was chilly out.

Cars drove up and down the terminal, rumbling past him, stopping to pick up tenants, honking at those crossing the streets before their time. He watched them and let the second-hand smoke from the waiting passengers outside fill his lungs. It was calming like this, to see the world through the eyes of an onlooker. For just a moment he could pretend that there wasn’t a black convertible with an Edgar Allen license plate coming to pick him up.

He put off thinking about it as long as he could, aware of the fear bubbling like thick sludge, hot and pungent, just below the surface of his skin. In the past, he would’ve refused to let it take hold. The only way he’d known to control the panic was to not feel it. To disassociate his pain from reality.

But he knew better ways to cope now, had picked up a few tricks in Dwyer’s office. He tried to practice the mindfulness Dwyer taught him. How the bite of cold air felt in his throat. The texture of the pavement beneath his feet.

Despite that, it was almost ten minutes before he mustered up the will to slip his phone from his bag and turn it on.

The screen lit up with notifications. He read through the new texts from Alvarez, faintly amused by the snappy tone, but it was Jeremy’s name his eyes were hungry for.

Jeremy was frantic – where are you and give me something just tell me if I’m calling the police or the Moriyamas and I don’t need to know why but tell me if I need to buy a plane ticket right now –

Jean grimaced. He opened the text to punch out a reply, but the words wouldn’t come. He started and deleted several responses before the screen lit up with an incoming call. He stared at the phone in his hands, his fingers hovering, shaking above Jeremy’s name.

Someone took the phone out of his hands.

Jean’s head jerked up.

“Oh,” he said, voice flat. “Of course they sent you.”

“Of course,” Kevin mimicked Jean’s detachment. He ended the call without checking the caller ID, and then pocketed the phone. “Let’s go.”

Kevin looked thinner, in an all black ensemble, sporting a new haircut with close-cropped sides. His queen tattoo was still there, and Jean wondered if it was restraint on Tetsuji’s part that let him keep it, or disinterest. If Riko were alive, he would have waited until Jean arrived to remove it. It would have been a demonstration.

Kevin gave Jean the moment to look him over, before turning to face the still running black Escalade parked up close to the curb.

“Kevin,” said Jean.

Kevin ignored him in favor of yanking open the passenger door with unexpected savagery. Jean took two steps forward to catch the door before it could swing back shut.

“Kevin,” said Jean again.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Kevin said harshly, before sliding into the front seat. Jean followed, dropping into the passenger seat before slamming the door behind him. They pulled out of the terminal.

“I’m not going back there unarmed,” Jean told him, as Kevin turned onto the highway.

Kevin turned the radio on.

Jean turned it back off.

Kevin glared at him. “I don’t keep ammunition in the trunk.”

Jean returned the look. “I don’t mean a gun. Tell me what I am walking into or I will leave."

Kevin snorted, eyes back on the road. The lack of response was more worrying than any scathing dismissal.

Jean hadn’t had the chance to really look at Kevin when he’d come with Tetsuji to the Trojan game because at the time, he’d been pretty preoccupied with the looming black miasma that was his former coach. Now though, he took the opportunity to examine his former teammate and oldest friend. Kevin’s cheekbones were gaunt; his hands white where he gripped the steering wheel. He wore no personal items and no seatbelt. Kevin always wore a seatbelt.

Kevin’s eyes were dead in a way Jean had hoped he’d never have to see again.

“I don’t have a contract with the Ravens anymore. I can go,” said Jean in part to get a reaction from Kevin but mostly to reassure himself.

“California’s made you chatty,” came the reply, after a minute. Kevin’s voice was more bitter than angry.

“It’s all that sun,” said Jean.

Kevin sneered but didn’t say anything.

Jean continued, “I look forward to returning.”

“You won’t be,” said Kevin.

Jean stared hard at the road ahead of them. “We’ll see.”

Kevin shot him a cold, incredulous look. “You still think – ”

“Don’t.”

“Jean, you will never go back. The second you got in this car, you became a Raven again.”

“Shut up, Kevin.”

“You’ll be a Raven for the rest of your life –”

“You’re wrong.”

Kevin swerved off the road.

Jean’s shoulder smashed into the glass window, seatbelt digging into his neck from the force of the turn.

Tires squealed against asphalt.

He grabbed the door handle to steady himself, watching with wide eyes as Kevin took the car off the grassy West Virginia back road.

The Escalade rocked to a stop in the dirt.

If Alvarez was here, she would have said, “Ever heard of a turn signal?” but since it was just Jean, all he could gasp out was, “Kevin, what the fuck?”

Kevin sat back in his seat, chest heaving. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You’re not an idiot, Jean, you know what happens when we get there. Get. Out.”

Jean exhaled shakily, heart hammering. He didn’t move.                  

West Virginia was cold in December, but not snowy. The landscape was desolate but the trees hadn’t lost their green, and the rolling hills beyond the plains were coated in purple. The midmorning sun hadn’t burned away the fog from the road and Jean wondered, just for a millisecond, how far he could get on foot if he followed the road.

But the only thing that felt worse than staying in this car, knowing where they were going, was leaving it and all this unfinished.

He leveled a look at Kevin. “You haven’t changed, then.”

Kevin jerked his head back at Jean, eyes blazing: the first sign of genuine emotion since they got in the car.

“You want to leave, then leave! Either get out now or retire the red and gold. Don’t you get it? This is your only change – I can’t help you after this!”

“You don’t understand – Have you talked to Neil?”

“What, you have a plan? It won’t work. The Moriyamas are smarter than you. They’re prepared for any situation.” Kevin looked miserable.

Jean desperately wanted to tell Kevin what he was going to say to the Moriyamas, but couldn’t risk the chance that the car was bugged. Kevin thought Jean would offer himself up to save Jeremy. Which was fair. Neither of them wanted Jeremy anywhere near Evermore’s violence, the kind of darkness that had built them.

But martyrdom wasn’t part of the plan.

“The Moriyamas won’t be able to say no to this.”        

Kevin’s eyes were flat as he gestured out at the plains. “Run while you can.”        

Jean let himself be vicious. “I’m not you.”

“Let me guess,” said Kevin. “The Trojans. Why did you get on that plane? Why did you get in the car you senseless – I didn’t want this for you! You were supposed to be happy! California was your second chance! You know, don’t you, that you aren’t getting a third? In my opinion -”          

“No,” said Jean, vehemently. “You don’t get an opinion.”                 

“All I’m saying is –”

“You don’t get a say! Because you left. You left me alone in a place where no one should be alone.”

Kevin looked as though Jean had struck him.

“I didn’t have a choice,” said Kevin. His eyes were on the empty stretch of road.

“No,” Jean agreed. “You had to leave.”

Maybe two years ago, Jean had held it against him, but he understood Kevin better now. Jean was selfish for a chance at happiness too.

Kevin searched his face. The two of them knew better than anyone else the difference between emotion and duty, where they separated and where they collided. Jean didn’t quite know how to explain why he had to fight. But maybe he didn’t have to. He had Jeremy now, but he’d had Kevin first.

Kevin exhaled, loud, and they both looked out onto the road.

“They’ll be wondering where we are,” mumbled Jean.

Kevin nodded and they spent the rest of the drive in silence.

Trojan life had made Jean soft. To take down the Moriyamas, he needed to think like a Raven. If asked a year ago, Jean never ever would have even considered the consequences of confronting the Moriyamas. Fighting them at all wasn’t even a daydream.

Edgar Allen didn’t look the same as when Jean had left. After everything – well, everything released to the press – was made available to the public, the public had retaliated. The damage they inflicted made headlines – headlines Jean avoided – but he was still surprised to see a maintenance worker scrubbing spray paint off the sidewalk.

Jean realized he was staring when Kevin took his arm, gently tugging him towards the entrance. He’d thought Raven fans were loyal than that. It shouldn’t have surprised him that they’d turned.

“The Master is waiting.”

Kevin had to pull him forward. Jean had been waiting for the fear to hit, and when it did, it was potent, with the violence of a tsunami, undulating waves pounding down on him. His legs didn’t feel like his own. Fear had an icy grip on his ankles, his knees, his thighs.

He saw the door. He saw the twenty-six steps. He saw fifty-one steps, then twenty-six again.

Kevin’s fingers laced with Jean’s, and he squeezed once. Jean tried to take strength in it, but the most he could stomach was the next step forward. Kevin let go when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Jean understood that for what it was – there is no compassion in the Nest. Leave it at the door.

Every inch of Neil’s plan was wiped clean from Jean’s head, terror making him feel drunk. He didn’t remember much of the walk down the hallway, or even passing his old room. They only thing he registered were the court lights flooding his vision, Kevin behind him, and the squeak of their shoes against the floor meant for shoes with a grip.

Tetsuji stood in the center of the court, a gaggle of Ravens Jean all recognized standing in military-like formation behind him. Hands clasped in front, feet shoulder width apart, like how they’d stood at Riko’s funeral. The symbolism of it made Jean choke with inappropriate laughter, frantic and airless.

Old, habitual respect punched him in the gut and he fell, dropping to his knees before he was even halfway across the court.

“Get up,” hissed Kevin.

Jean shook his head. He couldn’t move.

Even from this far away, he could see the disgust on Tetsuji’s face. Tetsuji waited another minute, and then strode forward, his Ravens waiting where they stood.

This wasn’t real.

This was real.

It seemed so long ago now that he’d last been here. How had so much happened in six months? He’d hoped never to come back here but now that he was, he couldn’t help but take it in, the bleachers, scoreboard, the penalty box – every inch of this stadium was a different memory.

His remembrance was short lived. As Tetsuji got closer, Jean began to panic.

Ichirou. Neil said he needed to talk to Ichirou. Tetsuji wasn’t high enough in the chain of command.

“Jean Moreau.”

Jean tuned out Kevin, the rest of the Ravens, and everything but the man standing in front of him. He didn’t know where he found the strength to square his shoulders, let alone speak, but when he did, his word choice was deliberate.

“Tetsuji Moriyama,” Jean said.

He waited for the blast, the oriental cane to meet his cheek, but nothing came. Tetsuji was very still.

Jean hesitated – an electric, terrifying second – and then said, “I must speak urgently with Lord Ichirou Moriyama.”

The pacifism was surprising, but not nearly as surprising as the moment’s consideration Tetsuji gave Jean’s request. His face was frighteningly blank.

“You will not.”

Jean kept quiet, his eyes on Tetsuji’s collar but no higher, as a sign of respect.

“He is not here,” said Tetsuji. “I am.”

Jean expected this. He’d discussed the possibility with Neil and Andrew over the phone. But kneeling here, now, his racing thoughts coming together and bursting apart couldn’t – he couldn’t – what’d been plan B?

Jean’s voice came out stronger than he felt. “He’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

But Tetsuji always had a sixth sense for weakness and he zoned in on Jean’s hesitance. “Have the past ten years taught you nothing? Nobody is interested in what you have to say.”

It was a manipulator’s trick, Jean reminded himself, not an accurate statement. His voice was louder when he said, “I must correct myself, then. It’s a remuneration proposition I have to make.”

Tetsuji’s expressions were almost non-existent but Jean had known him long enough to know exactly what twitched when he was smug about something.

“You, of all people, should know the value of the Moriyama Empire is immeasurable. Nothing you have to offer could tempt us. You simply do not have enough monetary value left. Last March, Neil Josten signed away a percentage of your annual income to the Moriyamas in exchange for your immediate resignation from Edgar Allen.”

As if Jean didn’t already know all this.

Tetsuji continued, “That was provided you sign with a professional team upon graduation – which, I’ll be frank – I don’t think you have the capacity for. After a season like this? You will fade into obscurity.”

I could only be so lucky, thought Jean, and then said out loud. “It’s not that kind of proposition.”

Tension crackled in the air, as each waited for the other to speak first. His former master’s loathing was nearly palpable.

Jean could hear Kevin’s panicked breathing beside him, though he didn’t dare look away from Tetsuji’s shirt.

He waited until he was sure he didn’t have another second to wait, before he passed out from fear of what he was meant to say.

Jean said, “The Moriyama Empire is vast, with branches not only in America, but in Japan and France. The build of it is genius, international connections tied like strings to the top, entwined with one another so that if one Moriyama goes down, there will be a ripple effect of consequences.”

“I know how the family is structured.” Tetsuji’s response was sharp.

Jean couldn’t stop his flinch but he recovered quickly. “It is an endlessly intricate system. It would take years to dismantle. Generations, even.”

Jean paused, letting the words sink in, and settle. Kevin shifted next to him. Tetsuji’s face was full of familiar irritation – irritation that suggested that if Jean had any survival instincts, he’d press his nose to the floor and be silent.

“Two generations, to be exact,” said Jean. “There is a crime family in London who have spent years slowly infiltrating the main branch,” he continued. “They are not alone. Some time ago, your henchman – the Butcher – killed one of their daughters, and in retaliation, they joined forces with the FBI.”

“We are aware of this,” Tetsuji cut him off. “Make your point.”

“It’s too late to stop them,” said Jean. “It is too late to save yourself.”

Tetsuji’s face gave nothing away but the red flush creeping up his neck was not a good sign.

“What are you hinting at?”

Though Jean tried, his venom overruled fear and he couldn’t hold back. “If you think I am hinting at anything, then I am not being clear enough. You will die.”

In retrospect, he should have expected the kick, the knock that snapped the cartilage of his nose with an audible crack, and the polished shoe that crushed his face against the floor.

When his ears stopped ringing, he could make out Tetsuji saying something above him, threats that sounded like promises, silky, controlled words.

"Not everyone has to go down with you,” Jean spat against the wood grain. “Lord Moriyama has a son.”     

Kevin hissed above him, and Tetsuji’s shoe dug impossibly deeper into his skull. Jean’s world grew spotty, a migraine building.

“You will be punished for this nonsense.”

“I can have the FBI on the phone with you in thirty seconds. The deal they’re offering is generous.” His words were strained. “If you kill me,” gritted out Jean, “They won’t offer twice. And it’s a deal you can only turn down once. Which I’ll be frank – I don’t think you have the authority for.”

Tetsuji pressed down harder.

After two minute of silence and unrelenting pressure, Jean knew if he opened his mouth, he’d be screaming. Finally, the weight disappeared.

Jean’s vision took a few moments to clear, and he sucked in steady breaths to stave off blacking out.

“This is a hefty bet you’re making, boy.”

Tetsuji had sunk to a squat. He snapped his fingers and Jean couldn’t make out the motion he made, but suddenly Jean’s phone was dangling in front of him.

Tetsuji held it out. “Call them. Go ahead.” There was a real note of amusement in Tetsuji’s voice, like he thought like he thought Jean was bluffing. “Call the FBI.”

It was a good thing Jean had saved the number on speed dial, because he couldn’t even look at the bright screen. After a few seconds of ringing, a voice on the other end picked up.

“Hello?” said Neil.

Tetsuji withdrew the phone from Jean’s grip and spoke.

“Neil Josten,” he said into the receiver. “How funny.”

Jean tried to move but his head was still spinning. He blinked and everything was a splotchy dark gray. He missed whatever Tetsuji said next, but the floor was cool against his cheek, so for a moment, he decided to stay put, at least until the sounds in the air turned into words again and he could think.

The plan was for Neil to be waiting on the other end with the government agents, for them to calmly explain how the Hatfords had been working their way up from the bottom to dismantle the yakuza. The FBI would place Ichirou’s son in a witness protection program, which no idea who his former family was if the Moriyamas, who at this point would be quivering with fear, agreed to their terms and conditions.

From what Jean could make out, the plan was failing. Spectacularly.

“—No, I will not be speaking with them,” Tetsuji was saying. Maybe saying. Jean’s connection with reality felt very shaky right now.

“—and if you think threatening this organization was a wise move, you will learn—”

Jean needed something to ground him. He thought of Kevin’s words in the car, of Neil’s tenacity, of Jeremy’s bourbon gold eyes.

Surprisingly – or maybe not – it was his last session with Dwyer that stuck in his mind. They’d been talking about the team’s improvement on the court, about Jean’s influence and skill. Jean had it drilled into him by the Ravens that his only real redeeming quality was his talent. Dwyer disagreed, telling Jean that he was made up of more selves than just the one who loved Exy.

“But who are you?” Dwyer had asked, hands gripping the back of Jean’s chair and shaking it. “Who else?” he said, as if this was the most important part of any conversation ever had and ever to be had between the two of them here in this small room with light blue walls.

Jean, who disliked anybody speaking from where he could not see them, turned in his seat. He barely had to lift his chin to look up at his short shrink, though he drew back when Dwyer leaned forward to speak in Jean’s face.

“You’re from France, right?”

“Yes,” Jean replied.

“Then, you’re not just the man who plays Exy, you’re the French boy who played with dinosaurs when he was four, the immigrant that came here to learn a new language and what else? You aren’t only the person you once were, but also the person you have tried to be, the person you have avoided being, and the person you fear you might be.

“What happened to you doesn’t have to define you. It’s not the only part of you.”

The memory blurred.

“Neil Josten is a fool. He will be disposed of soon, I’m sure.” Tetsuji’s voice was quiet, surreal in its softness. Confident, and already bored.

That was when Jean knew they’d well and truly lost.

“Using the last Moriyama heir as leverage? Do you think that Ichirou has no provided every failsafe to protect his successor? The main branch must always be prepared for that.”

Jean tried to stay with the conversation, but he must have missed something important. Kevin said something, his voice unsteady.

Tetsuji’s fingers snapped in front of his face.

“Get up,” he said.

Jean pushed himself up to his elbow, his head swimming with nausea.

“Your insolence will not be tolerated. Get up.”

He tried to focus on the court, but couldn’t make out much more than the trainers that stepped in front of him, blocking anyone from coming closer.

“Move,” Tetsuji said.

“No,” Kevin said.

Jean pushed himself off the ground and into a sitting position, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. Tetsuji didn’t even look at him, eyes focused entirely on Kevin, one thumb stroking the head of his oriental cane.

If Kevin didn’t move, Tetsuji would make him.

Jean needed a back up plan.

“Have you been in contact with the Hatfords?” Jean asked, and tried not to wince at the volume of his own voice. It felt like sandpaper against his skull. “Do you really think they won’t follow through?”

Jean had never met the Hatfords. All he knew was Neil’s grim but unshakable confidence in them.

Tetsuji’s lip curled. “I will have them all killed.”

Jean blinked. That Tetsuji had responded at all, instead of shutting Jean up without words, had to mean something. There was a sore spot here. There was a way out.

“How many families have you destroyed?” said Jean. “I know I can think of at least one other.”

Tetsuji’s stillness was his tell.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Jean groped around for Kevin, who helped him to his feet.

“You split my family to settle a debt.”

Tetsuji sneered. “The Moreaus? They will not testify. It’s been ten years since we cut ties with them.”

In all honesty, Jean agreed. It was a bluff and Tetsuji looked like he knew it. But he held Tetsuji’s stare, knowing that a good poker face could turn the tides in any negotiation.

Time ticked slowly.

Tetsuji’s lips curled up into a measured smile. “Let’s call and find out, shall we?”

Something in Jean’s heart stopped. Tetsuji was actually going to call his family?

Kevin’s hand curled around his arm, but other than that he was completely still. Jean took a step forward.

“Call them.”

Tetsuji did.

Chapter Text

Jean thought about what it’d been like when Renee came for him.

That rescue had been quick; quick in the way dreaming is quick, with Jean nearly blind as he practiced, too caught up in Riko-inflicted pain. One minute he was trying not to let the racquet fall from his still-numb fingertips, the next he was staring at Renee through Plexiglas court doors, the dean of Edgar Allen next to her, a whistle blowing, the game paused.

He didn’t want to remember – didn’t need to dwell on a circumstance so different than now, but how could he not? Part of him, the part that was struggling to stand through the pain, the part of him that was slumped against Kevin, the part of him that felt okay about leaning on someone else, it was that part that kept looking at the Plexiglas doors, waiting for Renee to show up like the miracle she was.

Or maybe not Renee. Maybe someone else.

It’d been a quick rescue that day.

Tetsuji didn’t move as the phone rang and neither did Jean. He kept his eyes firmly on Tetsuji’s despite every survival instinct he had begging him to look away.

He wasn’t going to be rescued today.

Tetsuji looked about two steps from doing something about Jean’s unrepentant gaze but then the line connected.

It was maybe the only fatherly thing Jean’s mob boss of a sperm donor had ever done for him.

Jean watched as the phone rang, and rang, and rang, and by the way Tetsuji’s face moved, eyes stilling at a point just over Jean’s shoulder, he could tell no one on the other end was picking up.

Tetsuji hung up. Then, before Jean could come to any real conclusions, Tetsuji was dialing someone else, and it wasn’t Ichirou, not judging by the quick French Tetsuji hissed into the phone that Jean was too concussed to make sense of.

His head hurt but his vision was clearing. Jean was reassured by the fact the ache was mild enough for him to sit up without a blinding migraine. His nose was gushing. That was probably broken.

Tetsuji gestured with his chin and then switched to English.

It wasn’t as helpful as one might think. The one side of the conversation he could hear was Tetsuji discussing Jean’s threat, and then the silence as Tetsuji listened to the response on the other end.

The seconds dragged.

The Moreaus hadn’t picked up. That was worrisome enough that Tetsuji had to call and let someone else know.

Without another word, he hung up, and then stared at Jean. It was hardly a glare as much as it was a frown, but old, cold fear laced through him, and Jean fought hard against reminiscent instincts pushing him to cower. He won, and stood up straight.

“Never heard of a Trojan horse before?” Jean asked, and with the last dregs of his courage, smiled.

 And then, there was nothing in this world quite like watching Tetsuji’s face break – a fracture, the wrinkles between his eyes deepening, a movement so miniscule and gone so quickly, that if Jean blinked, he’d have missed it. But fractures turn to breaks, and cracks in thin glass spread fast and the thunder that rippled across Tetsuji’s face was something he visibly fought to contain – before it was wiped, blankly clean.

Tetsuji reached down, and pulled his own phone from his pocket. He stared at it.

It was a waiting game, for the verdict. The Moreaus wouldn’t back Jean; it couldn’t benefit them, and they probably weren’t sentimental enough to rebel out of spite. But as Tetsuji’s silence stretched, something like hope picked stubbornly at Jean’s ice heart.

The Moreaus hadn’t answered Tetsuji’s call, which begged the question: was that imminent enough of a threat that Tetsuji would bother Ichirou with it?

If he called Lord Moriyama and petulantly complained, “The Moreaus are ignoring us,” then he’d have to also explain the threat of the FBI and the Hatfords, and that surely wasn’t a call he wanted to make. Especially if there was nothing to worry about in the first place – just because the Moreaus hadn’t picked up didn’t mean they were on Jean’s side.

But then, who was Tetsuji on the phone with just now?

Jean really fucking hoped Kevin had a better grasp on the situation than he did, because he had no idea what he’d started. All his cards were on the table, but even he couldn’t see if he had a royal flush or not. Had the Moreaus been an ace after all?

Jean would be shocked, frankly. But then, he’d been shocked to see Renee last year too.

Leaning on Kevin like this, Jean was close enough to feel Kevin’s phone vibrate in his pocket. Kevin shifted Jean’s weight against him without letting him go – a small movement that had Jean’s nausea making an unpleasant come back – and then pulled his phone out slowly, quietly like he didn’t want Tetsuji to notice, despite the fact Tetsuji was right in front of them and couldn’t have missed it. Jean didn’t look away from Tetsuji’s face – the miniscule expressions were too important to miss – but it didn’t matter because a moment later, Tetsuji turned away.

Kevin pushed the phone into Jean’s hand and Jean risked a glance down at the lit screen.

It was a text from Jeremy. He was on a plane. He’d be here in a few hours.

It occurred to Jean, dimly, that he and Kevin hadn’t been at the Nest more than a half hour.

Kevin started texting, and Jean watched him, feeling numb. Some kind of tiredness was setting in his bones, a sort of fatigue different than the kind that came with hard Exy practices or staying up too late. If he closed his eyes right now, he doubted he could sleep, but the intensity with which he’d felt… everything these last few hours, it was exhausting.

Tetsuji seemed to come to a decision, back stiff as he pulled out his own phone and tossing Jean’s back at him. Jean caught it, incredulous, as Tetsuji strode past them to the court doors.

He exchanged a confused glance with Kevin before the Ravens that had shadowed Tetsuji pushed past him to follow him off the court.

Jean didn’t have the patience to wait for them all to exit before he was dialing Jeremy’s number.

Voicemail. It was a four-hour flight from Cali to here, and Jeremy probably had his phone on airplane mode. Jean had so much to say, suddenly. Wanted to tell him what happened, wanted to apologize for keeping him in the dark.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted Tetsuji never to come back and also for him to burst back through the doors and tell Jean whether he was going to live or not. He wanted to buy a plane ticket and be back at the Trojan court now, but he knew the thing to do was wait.

He pushed off of Kevin, wobbly but still standing.

“I texted Neil,” Kevin said, after a short moment. “Told him what you said to the – to him.”

The look Jean gave Kevin was more razor than not. “And?”

“Andrew was already on a flight here. He’ll be here soon.”

Kevin hadn’t taken his eyes off his phone. Jean wondered what his conversation with Neil and Andrew looked like; when he’d talked to them after the banquet, Jean was the one who told them Kevin was with Tetsuji. He wondered what excuse Kevin had given them, and asked as much.

Kevin grimaced and then said, “I told them I was on a retreat.”

Both eyebrows went up. “They couldn’t have believed that.”

“They did – I told them it was an invite-only Exy conference.”

Jean glanced around the court. “Technically not a lie.”

He hadn’t said it to make Kevin feel better but by the look of his pinched eyebrows, he might have succeeded in making Kevin feel worse.

Kevin’s face was a downer, so he looked away to take in the empty Raven court. The lights were only half on; shadows from the dark stands crept through Plexiglas and cold, white light bounced off of the wood grain to illuminate the court itself. Knowing the Ravens, it was probably lit for dramatic effect. Nevertheless, taking it in left Jean with an uncomfortable, hollow feeling.

He knew this court as intimately as he knew himself – every notch in the floor, the uneven spot midcourt where the hardwood rose just a little, the stubborn scuffmark no cleaning solution could remove; it’d been there longer than Jean had. At times he hadn’t been so much a person as he was a fixture of this room.

He’d grown up here. Coming back, he thought this might feel like home, but he was startled to realize it just felt like a place.

Kevin was looking over the court, just as Jean had, but his face was a little tighter around the mouth, around the eyes. What was it like for Kevin, when Jean hadn’t been here? Was it anything like what Jean went through when Kevin wasn’t there?

It was a horrible thought, and he didn’t want to voice it, so he hastily avoided Kevin’s gaze before his face could give him away.

Kevin sighed and brought it up first, because they’d known each other for too long not to have their thought patterns and reactions in sync.

“Tetsuji found me a few months ago. I agreed to come to the Nest every few weeks; it was the only compromise he agreed to instead of forcing me to go on business trips with him to Japan.”

He sounded grim. But not traumatized, so Jean guessed it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.

“What happened?” asked Jean.

“Do you really want to know?”

Jean thought about it, and then said, “No.”

With Tetsuji gone so abruptly, nothing was making them stay, but to leave was too much of a risk so they lingered, staring at the court that made them, until it’d been ten minutes, then twenty.

Kevin took a few steps towards the Plexiglas doors, and then paused when he noticed Jean wasn’t following him.

“We’re leaving,” said Kevin.

Well. Jean didn’t need any more convincing than that. Kevin sounded a little incredulous himself.

But something was bothering him. Tetsuji walked out first. It was ungraceful and unlike him to show them his back.

They avoided their old rooms, and Jean had never walked faster than he did towards the stairs leading up out of the Nest. He kept waiting for Tetsuji to appear, to call them back, to say, this isn’t over. The uncertainty was worse than anything else.

Even as Jean threw open the door and felt the sunlight on his face, he knew this might never be over. But it hadn’t been Jean who started this fight, this time or the last. He threw a glance to his left and saw Kevin desperately scanning the parking lot.

“Kevin,” said Jean. “You have to know something.”

Kevin whipped his head back to look at Jean.

“Well, two things,” Jean corrected himself, after a moment.

Jean wanted to reassure him, to let him know that even though the Moriyamas were smarter than the FBI gave them credit for, the other crime families – they were smart too. But he knew Kevin wouldn’t care about that, couldn’t take the Hatfords seriously as a threat by themselves. To Kevin, the Moriyamas were immortal.

“Mine wasn’t the only family he broke,” Jean said.

Kevin didn’t acknowledge he’d heard, only faced skyward like he was checking for rain. It must have occurred to him too.

Jean looked up as well. It was an even brighter blue than he remembered.

The rumors surrounding Kayleigh’s accident hadn’t escaped Kevin’s notice, but there’d been no allowance for grief. There was hardly the time for that now, either, but –

“We are not the only ones he hurt. We don’t know who might come forward, but to believe there is no one else trying to get back at the Moriyamas, after over twenty years?” Jean’s smile felt less like a curve than a crack. “Mobsters are a vengeful people.”

Kevin still didn’t look at him. “You’re not the hopeful type.”

“I… am not,” Jean admitted. “But this isn’t hope. It’s certainty. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”

Kevin scoffed but didn’t say anything to that except: “And the second thing?”

Jean hesitated.

Kevin looked like he sorely wanted a drink. He might be happier not knowing the second thing. Did Jean really have to say the second thing? Maybe they should both just forget the second thing.

Better to bite the bullet. “It’s about Jeremy.”

Kevin’s face filled with dread. “He’s not involved in this?”

“No! Not that. He’s not, I mean, it’s. Something else.” Jean was more than happy to put the topic of the Moriyamas to rest, though he felt stiff still standing on Edgar Allen property. Half of him was still waiting for Tetsuji to return, at the most inopportune time. He hoped Andrew would be here soon, but because he wasn’t yet, Jean found himself averting his eyes to the ground, trying to find words.

“Jean.” Kevin’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s something else?”

Jean pushed his hands into his pockets and wondered if the heat on his face answered Kevin’s question enough that Jean wouldn't have to actually, verbally say it. If Kevin had a heart, it was plastered with Jeremy Knox fanart.

“I,” Jean said, feeling Kevin’s heavy gaze on his face. Maybe he should wait until they got back to talk about this. Back wherever there might be vodka close by. “Jeremy and I—”

Jean glanced at Kevin, only to see the blood draining from his face. Too late, he remembered that Kevin knew Jean’s face better than his own. If Kevin had a heart, it was breaking, and Jeremy Knox paraphernalia was spilling out like candy from a broken piñata.

“Yeah,” said Jean.

Kevin made a noise.

“That’s not everything.”

Kevin made another noise, but higher.

“I told Jeremy about you.” This really was the most inopportune time, but it was better for Kevin to know the second part of the second thing sooner, rather than later. “And Andrew. And Neil.”

Kevin was quiet.

“I’m sorry,” said Jean. “It just… came out.”

They both winced.

They knew what it was like to be homosexual in sports, had it drilled into them that whoever they liked they kept it to themselves. But to out somebody else, in any context, was massively inappropriate. As much as he hated it, it was part of the conversation when people were being picked for training camps, and for pro teams. More than that, it was a breach of trust, even if the told were not the type to tell. People’s reasons for not coming out were their own, and not someone else’s to decide.

Jean waited for Kevin to say something and it was an awkward few minutes when he didn’t.

“Fine,” Kevin said, at last. “Is there going to be an article about me I should know about?” His tone was frosty.

“No.”

“About you and Jeremy, then?”

Jean grimaced. Probably not, except maybe a headline about a congratulatory bro-kiss during the banquet. The media would no-homo them faster than they could no-homo themselves.

“He’s jealous,” said Andrew. “He doesn’t want to picture you and Jeremy doing bunny kisses so he’s projecting.”

Jean and Kevin’s gazes whipped up to see the blond goalkeeper standing a few feet away, sucking on a cigarette halfway gone. He looked like he just got there, rental car idling on the sidewalk.

If Kevin had a heart, Jeremy Knox wasn’t really the name on the label.

“Andrew,” Kevin said, in a voice not normally heard in public.

Without any regards for Jean’s presence, Andrew took long steps forward until he was right in Kevin’s space, and even then, he wasn’t tall enough to get in Kevin’s face, so he pulled the taller man down by the collar and said words not meant for an audience.

What an interesting crack in the sidewalk.

Kevin and Andrew had a conversation that didn’t include Jean. Jean gave them a few minutes, but they were still on Edgar Allen property, and every extra second he was here felt like hours.

His eyes strayed to the door to the Nest, the fear of Tetsuji’s return metallic in his mouth. Why had Tetsuji left so abruptly? Who had he been talking to on the phone? What was he doing now?

“How did you know to come?” Jean interrupted Andrew, both because he wanted to know and because the tension was stiflingly, horribly awkward.

Andrew cast him an uncaring look. “Thank your captain. He called Coach, freaking out, and asking for Kevin about two hours ago.”

Jean tried to ignore how Kevin perked up at that.

“Have you heard from him since?” Jean asked, though he knew Jeremy was on a plane right now.

Andrew didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. In fact, Jean was noticing that his face didn’t tend to make much movement at all. “No. He’s on a plane.”

“Yeah,” said Jean, but that meant no one had talked to Jeremy in two hours. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Tetsuji just… walked out. It was too suspicious – the realist in Jean told him there was something else coming.

“Why are we still here," said Andrew, a statement, not a question. “Kevin, we’re leaving.”

Kevin nodded, then looked at Jean. “Coming?”

Jean looked at him, and then looked at the doors of the Nest. He wanted to say yes.

“I can’t,” he said instead.

“C’mon,” said Kevin, pulling at Jean’s shoulder. “We’re getting out of here.”

Jean hesitated, and then shook him off. Kevin looked aghast.

“I can’t go to Palmetto,” Jean said. “Jeremy is coming here.”

Kevin and Andrew exchanged a look. “He’s not going to be here for hours. He can get on another flight when he lands.”

Jean shook his head, still weary. He knew he was being paranoid but he didn’t care. The Moriyamas – what if they intercepted Jeremy at the airport. What if Jeremy wasn’t even on a plane in the first place? What if they already got to him? Why had Tetsuji left like that?

“I have to stay,” said Jean again.

“No,” said Kevin. “We have to go—”

The door creaked open behind them and Jean felt a few years of his life expectancy exit through the gaping hole his heart must’ve pounded through his chest.

A boy – younger than any of them – stood in the doorway, the red and black on his chest making no mystery of who he was.

“Moreau,” said the Raven, giving his attention only to Jean. “You are coming with me.”

Kevin might not be able to defend himself against Tetsuji but lower level Ravens he seemed to have no problem shouting at.

The Raven ignored him and pushed the door open wider, for Jean to come back through. “You will come with me and then you can go.”

Kevin’s hand was tight around his arm, but Jean shook him off.

“Don’t,” said Kevin, lowly.

“Pick Jeremy up at the airport,” said Jean.

Andrew grabbed his arm, his grip painful. He addressed the young Raven, “Neither of them are going back down there. Your master can come out here.”

It was a moment, then another, before the words registered. The Raven wore a shocked and offended look, one that Jean and Kevin mirrored. Jean opened his mouth to contradict him, but Andrew squeezed his arm and Jean fell silent.

To Jean’s enormous surprise, the Raven was left with no other choice but to fetch his master. He returned soon after, not with Tetsuji but with a Japanese man in a black business suit. To their surprise, he only tried to threaten them, and then warn them of the seriousness of their involvement, before holding out a phone to Jean.

Considering the thirty minutes he spent down there had passed like months, it was an amusing contrast for the next few hours to pass like minutes.

He was still on the phone when Andrew left, and still on the phone when he returned.

The call was definitely tapped, but the FBI only had questions about his family. They’d been able to get ahold of the Moreaus before Jean even left California, though he had no idea. He strongly suspected Neil had fingers in more pies than he ever let on. Back up plans on back up plans on back up plans. Jean had questions too. Did Neil know Tetsuji was going to call the Moreaus? – No, just a hunch. Did he know any other crime families? – Yes, and they’d been contacted. Did he know Jean was going to punch him the minute he got back? – No, but the information would be passed along.

He heard a car door slam, and turned.

Jeremy looked like hell.

He was motionless where he’d slammed the car door shut, tired showing up in tree rings around his eyes, hair messed and sticking up all over the place like he’d kept running his hands through it, sweatshirt twisted like he’d thrown it on in a hurry, stupid school backpack hanging off his shoulders like he’d come to do homework and Jean had to physically restrain himself from going to him and kissing him senseless.

Jean hadn’t realized how scared he’d been. No, that was a lie, Jean knew fear, but he was suddenly, achingly made aware of another kind, something he hadn’t known he could feel, staring at Jeremy’s torn up face with something like toothpicks stabbing into his heart.

Jean stayed in place, still on the phone with the FBI, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jeremy. Against the stark of Jeremy’s Trojan-red sweatshirt, the lot looked colder than a snowless December should, sky white and gray and blue like it’d just woken up.

Finally, they’d asked all they needed, squeezed every bit of information they could from Jean, and stuffed the hole it left with promises and deals and conditions. Jean felt hollow by time he hung up, and he’d talked so much that his voice was hoarse.

He scratched at his face and remembered too late when his fingernails scrapped at dried blood, that his nose was broken, though it’d long since stopped bleeding. No wonder Jeremy looked about two seconds from losing it.

Jean might have expected Jeremy to look sad. Maybe worried but generally relieved that Jean was all right. He might have expected tears. He wasn’t judging; Jeremy was just that kind of person. Jeremy’s eyes got wet watching newborn puppies cuddle, his voice cracked when he was giving inspirational team speeches and when Alvarez made them watch The Mighty Ducks, Jean swore he heard sniffles in the dark.

Jeremy did not look sad. 

Jeremy was trying to keep a blank face, maybe not let on how obviously aggravated he was. It wasn’t working. Jeremy’s poker face was terrible.

The man in the black suit must’ve left, and Kevin and Andrew must’ve still been there but Jean genuinely had no idea. He couldn’t bring himself to quite care. Jeremy was here and he was fine.

Jeremy’s arms were crossed.

“You just left,” he said, an eerie repetition of Jean’s earlier words to Kevin.

“I did.” Jean stuffed his hands in his pockets, affecting the casual, haughty posture of a Raven. He knew Jeremy was mad but all Jean felt was relieved.

“You didn’t say…” Jeremy swallowed. “Anything.”

“Didn’t I say goodbye?” Jean said with a mean smile, but the hands in his pockets were shaking. Animosity came easier to him then tenderness. “What, got abandonment issues, Knox?”

Jeremy’s eyes burned into his.

“Projecting much, Moreau?” Jeremy shot back, leaning against the car door.

Jean bit back another smile. Jeremy was posturing. It was sort of amusing, but Jean could see the knuckles peaking out from under his crossed arms were white. The veins under Jean’s own skin were buzzing, high voltage, susceptible to any old copper wire thought.

“What,” said Jean, “Were you worried?”

And that, that was too far. Jeremy gave a shake of his head, indignant, and then turned to get back in the car, because he knew he always lost at poker.

The sidewalk between them stretched miles. Jean didn’t know how to broach the distance.

“I left my stereo,” he blurted out. “It was expensive. If anything, I’m coming back for it.”

There was a beat and then Jeremy said, “Your stereo.”

Jean said, “It has good sound.” 

Andrew said, “Can one of you get in the car already so we can leave?”

Kevin said, “Seconded.”

Jeremy said, “Your stereo.”

Jean didn’t smile, but it was a close thing. On the other side, Jeremy only looked more offended.

Andrew said, “Car,” and finally, they got in.

The car ride to the airport was silent, and the airplane ride itself was stifling. Jean and Jeremy weren’t in seats anywhere near each other but Jean kept twisting in his seat to see where Jeremy sat. Jeremy slouched down when he noticed, staring out the window with a moodiness Jean normally would’ve been impressed with.

Fuck it. He still thought it was cute.

When they landed, Jeremy walked right past him off the plane. Jean followed, and tried to keep up. When it seemed like Jeremy was intent on the silent treatment, Jean caught his arm.

Jeremy shook him off with a very un-Jeremy-like scowl, and to Jean’s surprise burst out, “You don’t even use that stereo! I don’t even think it’s plugged in!”

“Jeremy,” said Jean.

"Alvarez was really scared, Jean,” Jeremy punched out. “She thought you weren’t coming back.”

There were too many people pushing past them, busy like ants, busy like mice, busy like bugs in the summer, not one paying attention to the two of them standing still.

“Only Alvarez?” asked Jean.

Jeremy glared at him, “Laila too.”

“Laila was?”

“She thought you were a dick for not answering your phone.”

Jean adjusted the carry on on his back, and then reached out to touch frayed hem of Jeremy’s red sleeve.

“Anyone else?” prompted Jean.

“Dylan didn’t care at all. He didn’t care after the first voicemail, or the fourth.”

Even in an airport as crowded as this Jeremy stood out. It wasn’t just the red of his sweatshirt or the fact of his standing in front of Jean. It might've been his lips, bitten pink with worry, or the sunlit honey of his eyes more saturated than anything else that could ever catch Jean’s attention.

Jean was kissing him before he really even registered it.

Jeremy’s lips were slack against his, no reaction at all, and Jean wasn’t sure if that was surprise or if he was just that angry. Jean pulled away, but it was only seconds before Jeremy grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him in for real, mouths moving together like they’d had years of practice. Jean bit at Jeremy’s lips and Jeremy responded in kind, lips sliding against stubble, fierce, like at any moment either of them could disappear.

“Jean,” Jeremy murmured against the corner of his mouth, then along his jaw.

“I knew you’d be trouble,” Jean replied.

“My line, I think.” Jeremy didn’t pause.

They were in an airport.

At least one of them should care. Anyone’s guess who.

Jeremy breathed a laugh at their close proximity, and the wide berth people were giving them now. Close like this, Jean could trace the freckles smattered lightly across Jeremy’s nose. The wind’s sigh would knock them away. “I’m still mad, man.”

“I know,” said Jean. He would be mad too.

“We should get back. We can talk more when we’re not in the middle of an airport,” said Jeremy.

Jean hesitated.

Sensing his tension, Jeremy paused. “What?”

Jean opened his mouth to explain, but found himself silent. He never wanted anything as bad as he wanted to stay right here but to say that out loud was to admit that he couldn’t. Worry grew like dandelions; Jean could see it, strong and sure around Jeremy’s heart.

“Jean?” Jeremy said again.

He still had time.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Chapter Text

It was April and no professional scouts had come for Jean. 

April. 

Which is, as they say in France, terrible.

The plastic guard tasted like iron against his mouth and Jean yanked it off his face, his mind burning.

There should’ve been scouts by now. If anyone in the world wanted him to play professionally, then there should’ve been scouts.

On the court, Dylan was nose to nose with the ref, screaming about a foul. The ref responded as unprofessionally as a hard whistle could get and it was a minute before Dylan sulked off to the penalty box, muttering under his breath.

Jean’s gaze flickered to the opposite side. Kevin was stalking the goalie box, where an apathetic Andrew was adjusting his gloves. Andrew hadn’t let the goal in, but the foul that resulted from his block was giving the refs pause. Andrew was the better goalie - not that Jean would tell Laila that -  and if he got sent to the penalty box for even fifteen minutes, that’d be enough time for the Trojans to take back the game. 

From minute one, the Foxes had been vicious. They were neck and neck now in a way both teams could only savor like cotton candy - if cotton candy were made of steel and sweat and unexpected resentment. Winner would face off against UPenn at finals. 

A hand landed heavy on Jean’s shoulder.

“Stop staring and get your head in the game,” Rhemann ordered, and shoved him toward the Trojan goal. Jean retook his place at the defensive line while they sent Micah to cover Dylan’s. 

He readied himself and watched Kevin jog back to starting midline. The refs were back at the sides and Andrew was planted firmly in place at goal - so much for the reprieve. Jean bit back a smug look, and his eyes slid over to the bench, where Jeremy was taking a breather between shifts. 

Jeremy was already looking at him, the corner of his mouth tugging in a mirror of Jean’s.

It didn’t matter if Andrew was in goal or not.

It meant more to Jeremy than it did to Jean. They matched the Foxes player for player, just like last year. Except that last year, it’d only been nine - the luxury of new recruits meant the Trojans and the Foxes had twelve bodies each.

Jeremy’s stunt last year was what the public, Jean included, saw as wide eye-eyed sympathy, a pity excuse to give the underdogs a better chance at winning. He knew better now, knew that wide-eyed was one thing Jeremy was not, that ruthlessness came in all shades, including California gold. 

Jeremy promised Rhemann - promised the world - that he’d come to this game with the same goals as before; promised improvement over all else, promised to match the heights Kevin had taken his team to and in doing so, created possibly the most efficient group of college athletes on this side of the world. That’s why scouts from New York, Dallas, Chicago, and, shockingly, London - teams that needed strikers - were at today’s game.

In the end, only one freshman was cut from the team. The Trojans had picked and trained fine recruits. 

Championships were the end goal here, but this game was the one that counted. This was the game where Jeremy would establish himself as the best captain in college Exy.

Jean couldn’t stop staring at him. 

Jeremy was at the edge of his bench, muscles coiled as tightly as if he was on the court himself. He looked away from Jean to eye the refs and Jean missed the warmth of that intensity almost immediately. But like a magnet, Jeremy’s eyes flickered back.

Jean’s mouth cut a smirk like glass.

Jeremy’s leg was bouncing.

Jean’s eyes flickered to the jumbotron, then back to Jeremy and his smirk grew even wider.

Jeremy motioned with two fingers to where the ref stood with a whistle. Eyes on the court, he mouthed. 

Jean’s legs carried him to center defense, but his gaze didn’t break from Jeremy’s as he motioned with two fingers to himself.

Eyes on me.

Black scuff marks marred the court’s wood grain floor, constellations violence had etched into the skin of the ground. Jean’s body was nearly vibrating, all of his weight on the balls of his feet, ready for the second the ref’s whistle sounded. He tried to tune out the broadcast commentators detailing the Trojan’s stats, the heckling from the Fox’s offensive line, the sound of his breath too loud in his lungs, his blood too loud in his ears.  

There’s a sound when a game starts, a real sound that Jean imaged was a lot like what the mountains sounded like. 

Silence.

Pure, unfiltered quiet, everything capable of breath in the room holding it. Not even space could be this quiet.

And then, the dealer launched the ball into the air, and the world blurred as Jean raced to block the striker who caught it. 

Five minutes into the second half and the two teams were pitiless, fighting like a ship fights the ocean, like ballerinas fight gravity. Each too confident that they were well equipped to deal with the other. 

Dylan danced around with the ball when Neil charged him, and then launched it at Jean. 

Neil’s speed meant he was within racquet length of Jean in seconds, and Jean passed the ball to Alvarez before he even felt the weight of it. 

Alvarez took off and was on the opposite side of the court before Neil could change direction. 

Neil spat something filthy and creative, words that Jean had never heard put together quite in that way, but was technically grammatically correct. 

“Who taught you French?” Jean hissed, as Neil covered him.  “Google Translate or a whore?”

Neil’s grin was wolfish, though his eyes stayed glued to the ball.

The striker made to move around Jean but the ball would be back on this side of the court in seconds, and Jean darted in front of him. Neil ducked and feinted to get away from Jean, but an extra foot and the practice with Neil on the Ravens’ court last winter gave Jean an advantage. 

“Is your captain teaching French now?” Neil replied.

It startled a mean laugh out of Jean but there was hardly time to respond - Kevin had possession of the ball, and the immediacy of the game took welcome precedence. 

He didn’t want to think about Jeremy right now, couldn’t, because if he did, he would remember Jeremy was watching him. 

Or, worse, and more likely, Jeremy wasn’t watching him. After yesterday’s conversation, Jean was surprised Jeremy was letting him play at all. Which, in hindsight, was entirely the fucked-up part.

Jeremy made every excuse to touch him, a warm ghost at the small of his back, fingertips lingering at the jut of Jean’s hip, a hard shoulder bumping his on the walk across campus on the way to the court. And to Jean’s unspeakable surprise, he quite liked it.

He liked brushing his own fingers along the line of Jeremy’s wrist, so soft it could only be the weight of his shadow that made Jeremy shiver, shift, eyes darting to Jean, hungry but not daring. A foot, hooked around Jeremy’s when Jeremy decided to ignore him, stealing his coffee mug at team breakfast, smug satisfaction in the way Jeremy watched him out of the corner of his eye as Jean pressed his lips against the ceramic where Jeremy’s mouth had once been.

It made them both restless. 

Spring passed in a daze. Right after they’d gotten back to school from the airport, Jean had told Jeremy everything that happened back at the Nest. What Tetsuji had said. What Kevin had said, and Jean. What Jean had been called back inside for, what was said over the phone after Tetsuji released them both.

The Moreaus were a complicated family, grown more complicated by abandonment and heinous crime syndicates. They’d protected Jean, but not out of any familial obligation.

Jean didn’t explain what any of it meant and Jeremy wouldn’t bring it up again until months later, the day before the championships game when it burst out of him like a snake that’d sat coiled in his mouth:

“Are you sure you want to play today?”

And it finally dawned on Jean just how much of what goes unsaid can be misleading.

“Of course,” Jean replied.

They were in the locker room, long before anyone else would get there, long after Laila insisted they get home early in order to eat a lot of carbs and get a good night’s sleep.

“Why wouldn’t I want to play tomorrow?”

Jeremy hesitated. And then, straightforward, “I don’t know what it is, but even Dylan noticed that you’ve been off. He’s been complaining about it. Is there something... holding you back?” 

There was something in Jean’s shoe. A sharp pain on his heel, a tiny rock or bit of gravel.

Jean rummaged through his duffle bag, looking for his water bottle. His mouth felt dry. “No.”

“Jean.”

“I said there’s not,” Jean repeated.

The resulting silence felt heavier than any verbal response. Jean didn’t need to look up to know the twist of Jeremy’s frown. He couldn’t find his water bottle.

“You have water?” he asked Jeremy, who didn’t respond except to dig around his own bag and pull out a half-empty plastic bottle. 

Jean held out his hand.

Jeremy’s eyes were searching, in a way that even after almost a year, Jean still hadn’t gotten used to. 

“Are you asking as my captain or my boyfriend?” Jean said finally.

Jeremy gave him a level look. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

 “No,” Jean replied. He took a swig from the bottle and tugged off his sneaker to peer inside. “Do you not want me to play tomorrow?”

Jeremy looked surprised. “I want you with me on that court more than anything,” he said immediately. “I want you--”

Jeremy stopped. Hesitated. “Is that the problem?”

Jean gave him a sharp look.

The locker room was quiet - loudly so. The game wasn’t until seven tomorrow night. The familiar squeak of sneakers on linoleum wasn’t there to distract. The metal lockers only repeated their voices back at them, an unwelcome echo of conversation in a mostly empty room.

“What do you mean?” Jean asked.

Jeremy spoke quieter. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re thinking. I know your family wants something from you, but I don’t know what, and you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to -- but --” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if after December, standing on your old court again, I don’t know, you might be having second thoughts about... the team.”

“Your team?” said Jean.

“Our team,” said Jeremy automatically.

“Exactly,” said Jean, standing up. Jeremy made to stand up after him but Jean took a step forward, too close.

“I am part of this team. I will never not want to be a part of this team.”

The elephant was in the room, the loaded gun. “You are not what Riko was to me.”

Jeremy’s hands, normally jittery when he was anxious, were still.

Jean reached out to steady them before he realized what he was doing, trailing calloused fingertips down Jeremy’s wrist to slide between his two worried hands.

Jeremy pulled away before Jean could lace their fingers together.

Jean paused, noting Jeremy’s gaze steady on their hands. “I’m not getting any tanner. Did you think gold still doesn’t suit me?” 

Jeremy smiled but it was without feeling.

“I’m wearing our colors because I want to wear our colors,” Jean said, voice low so it wouldn’t catch and echo against the metal lockers.

Jeremy’s head jerked up. “So you’re staying?”

Jean paused. As it turned out, Jeremy knew more than he let on, even what Jean hadn’t said in words. “I don’t know.”

“Alvarez saw you googling French Exy teams on your phone,” said Jeremy. “Really?”

Jean felt the words like an arrow to the lungs. “I don’t know yet.”

Suddenly Jeremy surged up from his seat, getting up in Jean’s face in a way that usually promised a kiss, and made the lack of one all the more lethal. The press of Jeremy’s mouth on Jean’s jaw was a familiar, welcome weight, and it vanished abruptly, leaving Jean little control over the way he tilted forward, mindlessly. 

Its absence was a taunt and Jean responded in kind, bringing it back with a tug of lip between teeth. If Jeremy didn’t want to be kissed, he knew better than to get so close.

Jeremy pressed back against him, hard in a way that wasn’t filthy. He could feel the shape of Jeremy’s mouth, twisting underneath his, and Jean couldn't see Jeremy’s expression but he didn’t need to to understand the sentiment. Some kisses came with words and this one was full of Don’t go.

Jean never wanted anything as bad as he wanted everything that was Jeremy Knox. “I have to.”

Jeremy pressed his face against Jean’s neck and breathed in. The world paused its rotation, heartbeats stuttered once before taking their next heavy thump and Jeremy let go, leaning back just enough so Jean could see the question in his eyes.

But there was patience there too.

Jean couldn’t think of how to explain the circumstances.

“Nothing is free, Jeremy,” he tried, but that just sounded ominous and, according to Jeremy’s raised eyebrow, also ridiculous. 

“This is,” said Jeremy.

Jean closed his eyes. “My family. They-”

Jeremy didn’t play dumb. Jean liked that about him.

“They want you to go back,” Jeremy said, flatly.

“They don’t want it,” said Jean. “They’re demanding it.”

“Say no.” Like it was that easy.

His thoughts must’ve been written on his face because Jeremy took a step back, hands leaving a fading imprint of warmth. Jean knew he should be grateful for the space, but he wasn’t.

“Jean,” said Jeremy. “Then go. You and me, it’s - I can’t speak for your family, I can’t even ask you to stay. If you need to go, I’ll never be the one to hold you back.” 

Jean’s mouth moved, and then, in a stunning display of self-preservation, clamped shut. 

“You should know something, though. For me, you’re it. You and I…” Jeremy took a breath. “Whether you go to France. Whether you stay in Cali. You’ve changed my life, you, I still… about you-- I’m trying -- I’m trying to say that I won’t make you choose.” 

He didn’t say the one thing Jean couldn’t bear to hear. Three words that would change everything, and nothing, and were an unfair weapon for either of them.

Jean knew what Jeremy was saying, knew what Dwyer would say, that, bottom line, there’s a lot of hard decisions in life: some because you don’t see any way out, some because they’re so easy, that they come more naturally than breathing. But you could always say no.

Jean opened his mouth to explain all that but what came out instead was: “I don’t know what to do.”

Jeremy inhaled sharply. His eyes darted around Jean’s face, obviously conflicted. He wouldn’t tell Jean what to do, not about this. He was Jean’s captain and Jean knew Jeremy didn’t want his words to carry the same weight Riko’s once did. 

But he was also Jean’s, and he knew what Jeremy would say anyway - Jeremy’s advice would be straightforward, to follow his heart, and do what he needed to do, whether that was to repay his parents or shun them forever.

“I’ll stay for the game tomorrow. For championships, if we win,” said Jean, leaning down to retie his shoe so he wouldn’t watch Jeremy’s face for a reaction.

Jeremy didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough that Jean wondered if the conversation was over. Then, Jeremy swallowed and said, “You don’t have to keep playing.”

Jean froze. No one had ever said that to him before.

“Oh,” Jean said. There was a finality to Jeremy’s tone; he wasn’t talking about championships. “You…are kidding.”

Jeremy shrugged and opened his mouth but before he could speak Jean talked over him. “It’s not about loving the game. You cannot pay off the Moriyamas with love. Love isn’t a feasible hundred-thousand-dollar salary.”

Jeremy looked at him, his gaze unreadable. “CEOs make that Doctors. Actors. There are other professions.”

Jean felt a nervousness building in the core of him. A stomach ache.

The idea that he could ever stop playing Exy had never occurred to him. Not while he was with the Ravens and especially not after. Jeremy was telling him to quit?

He sat back on the bench and leaned down to tie his other shoe. He didn’t look up again until he heard the sound of the locker room door slamming shut.

The ref’s whistle shrieked as a Dylan earned his second yellow card. He avoided looking over at Rhemann, who was doing his best to get Dylan’s attention via spitting or yelling - hard to tell. Three yellow cards in Exy were an automatic red card and the Trojan’s record was notoriously blood-free. 

He slid into the penalty box as his replacement scrambled off the bench and jogged onto the court.

The whistle sounded for players to get into place, and in the time it took for Jean to plant his feet the ball had been launched into the air.

The Foxes’ dealer fired the ball at Kevin, who caught it and spin o’rama’d it to the backliner, Boyd-

where it was intercepted by Micah, who ran with it like it was hot coals in his racquet, which might’ve been why Neil got a hold of it -

He took a shot at the goal - 

Laila blocked and catapulted it at Jean - 

He caught it, barreling into Kevin who tried to intercept it -

Jean looked around wildly to see who was open for the pass -

Dylan was covered by Neil, who’s snake-like eyes and reflexes Jean knew better than to underestimate - 

When Jean got to USC he had to take the #9 jersey, which was the next available. He didn’t mind, he liked his 9 now, but there was one player on the Trojans’ team whose name Jean never bothered to learn, whose jersey read #3, and Jean had never formally interacted with this Trojan nor forgiven him. Mostly he just pretended that guy didn’t exist. Screw that guy. 

That guy was the only one open. 

Jeremy had mentioned his name so many times. What was it? Ralph? Ricky...?

“Number three!” Jean yelled and pitched the ball.

Earlier that spring, they’d finally gotten around to doing the fundraiser. No one wanted to do the car wash in the cold, so the team waited for a consistently sunny week - that first misleading bit of sun and warmth in March that would, as March does, disappear, ghosting them for weeks until one odd optimistic April shower was to end the purge of cold weather. 

Alvarez got her way, with a tiny bikini and unbuttoned Daisy Dukes. Laila wore an even more promising ensemble of three triangles of cloth for the important bits and a set of sensible sunglasses.

Later, Jean wouldn’t be able to recall their suits or even what he himself wore - or anything much else besides how dark Jeremy’s hair got when it was wet or the spikes he rucked it up into as it dried. When he caught Jean staring, Jeremy threw a sponge at him, one that splashed wetly against Jean’s chest.

Distantly, he heard the dregs of “In Your Eyes”. He swiveled and saw Alvarez, a boom box hoisted above her head, facing Laila, who looked determinedly at the car she was washing.

“BABE!”

“No.”

“Babe.”

‘We’re not - No.”

Alvarez ignored Laila’s protests and sang along to the melody. She placed the boom box on the ground next to her and, still singing, came up behind Laila. Jean expected her to obnoxiously begin yelling the words to the movie’s script but instead, she kissed Laila’s skin. 

Face warm, he took a step back, bumping into a freshman holding a huge bucket of soapy water, snow white suds, icy and opalic.

“Can you hold this?” she asked and handed it off to Jean before turning to dig a phone out of her pocket.

Jean looked down at the bucket in his hands. There was something in the shifting water… something –

It was just water.

He couldn’t breathe.

He physically, could not bring air into his lungs. If he opened his mouth, the water would rush in. It was so primal, drowning, the fear of it incapacitating.

“Jean?”

Jean came back to himself to find the only noise was the music from the boom box. Everyone else in a ten-foot radius had fallen silent.

“Find Jeremy,” he heard someone say.

He didn’t understand the fuss but he understood the blood roaring in his ears and the bucket in his hands and the fingernails digging into his neck and – oh. The water. He hadn’t even dropped the bucket. He was still holding it. He had, without word or explanation, dumped its contents on the ground. He tried to let go and found that he couldn’t. 

There was a hand on his arm.

“Hey,” said Jeremy.

Six months ago, Jean would’ve ripped his arm away. He wasn’t sure what to think of the way his jackhammer heartbeat… slowed. It was the opposite of what it usually did around Jeremy.

“Hey,” said Jeremy, again.

“Hey,” said Jean, watching him take the bucket.

“Help me set up the cash register,” said Jeremy, letting his hand fall away once he was sure he had Jean’s attention. “We had this problem with the Trojan Taco Truck too. It just keeps spitting out pennies.”

Jean let his eyes wander over Jeremy’s face until he came back to himself. Jeremy seemed content to wait, watching him for a minute before gently repeating himself. This time Jean heard him and comprehended his words.

He went to sit with Jeremy on thin plastic chairs behind the cashbox.

“So our budget for this thing was five hundred, and I’m thinking we could make at least a thousand percent profit,” said Jeremy.

“We will if Laila and Alvarez keep that up,” replied Jean, watching the two struggle to climb up onto the hood of a car. He was one hundred percent sure that Alvarez planned on dancing once she got up there. 

Jean must’ve been staring pretty hard because it wasn’t long before he felt a pinkie brush against his. He looked at Jeremy, who was looking out over the parking lot.

“Twenty bucks Alvarez falls off the car,” said Jean.

“No, Laila’s gonna fall, then Alvarez will try to help her up and they both fall.”

At the Nest, that kind of reckless behavior wouldn’t have been tolerated. It took effort to cut off his thoughts from imagining how the Master might’ve punished them and instead cup one hand around his mouth and yell at the two to get down, which they faithfully ignored.

Jeremy laughed and Jean’s face relaxed into a comfortable scowl. He shifted closer, arm pressing against Jeremy’s.

 Jeremy quirked an eyebrow. 

“We’re never going to be like that,” said Jean, frowning in Alvarez and Laila’s direction, where Dylan was now yelling at them to get down. 

Dylan looked over at Jean and Jeremy, too far away to hear, and waved at them with his phone, like he wanted to take some pictures. Jeremy waved back and then looked at the girls.

“Making out inappropriately in public? Squeezing suds to the Kill Bill theme? Climbing cars in the world’s smallest bikinis,” he raised his voice with a significant look at the girls, “at a family car wash - fine by me.”

Jean scoffed. “You know what I mean.”

Jeremy ran one finger up Jean’s arm, obviously liking the way it gave Jean goosebumps. 

“I do?” he said absently.

“Yes,” said Jean.

“Actually, I’m 100% okay with making out inappropriately in public.”

Jean rolled his eyes.

“You want to climb a car? We can climb a car.”

“You’re not going to climb a car, you’ll break your neck,” Jean replied, and then, after a pause, because knowing it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off didn’t make it any easier to do, “Riko waterboarded me. We won't be like that because I am not like that. The Nest... it's always on my mind."

Jeremy went quiet.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” said Jeremy, after a moment. He stood and Jean was close on his heels. 

Jeremy waved Dylan over to mind the cashbox.

Jean didn’t wait for him, already heading back to the Trojan Hall. Too late, Jean realized he’d left his shoes back in the parking lot, bits of grit sticking to his feet as he made his way past the lobby to the stairs. Jeremy was quiet when he caught up and Jean could sense his hesitation, close enough for Jean to feel the heat of his body but avoiding the skin to skin contact that could volatilely be reassuring or suffocating.

Jean’s hands were cold, opening the door to his room with the fob key. 

“Jean,” said Jeremy, once the door closed behind them. He opened his mouth again, and Jean knew it was an out, a ‘we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to’, words to take the pressure off that would honestly only add to it. 

“Come here,” Jean interrupted, leaning against the bed frame. He didn’t move until Jeremy was close to him, until he could feel the puff of Jeremy’s breath on his forehead. Looking down, he saw Jeremy had forgotten his shoes too. Wet footprints lead from them to the door.

Jeremy laced his fingers through Jean’s and waited.

Jean’s eyes traced a path from the freckle above Jeremy’s lip to the one on his collar bone, just below the jut of bone and skin. He tugged Jeremy closer and kissed him there, felt the sudden inhale of breath and Jeremy’s chin brushing against his hair. When he raised his head, Jeremy’s mouth was there, the tips of his fingers scraping against the hair on Jean’s neck. 

“Jean,” he said.

Jean dragged his mouth along Jeremy’s ear, tugging at Jeremy’s ear the way he knew made Jeremy groan, and waited patiently for the push back, which came by way of teeth on lips, tongues tangling together, broad kisses and gentle kisses and chaste kisses when they got tired that turned back into kisses that made noise. One pulled the other too close, pressed against him without room for air. 

“Jean,” Jeremy gasped. 

Jean loved it when Jeremy said his name.

They were alone in an empty dorm room and the presence of the bed next to them was felt. An arm wrapped around Jean’s waist.

Jeremy pulled him from his center of balance but Jean barely stumbled, hands snaking down to the jut of Jeremy’s slim hipbones and gripping soundly. Jeremy’s breath hitched in Jean’s mouth, and Jean released his hold, fingers dancing across his lower back instead, just above the waistband of Jeremy’s trunks. Jeremy exhaled, a subconscious, displeased sound and flicked his tongue against Jean’s soft palate, a move that always sent a spark of heat downwards. 

Jean made a sound low at the back of his throat, and pushed Jeremy’s left hip hard, effectively startling Jeremy into falling into bed.  

The sheets were soft where Jean pressed Jeremy down. 

Jeremy’s breath was on his cheek, on his chin, when their mouths weren’t moving together, both of them pushing back, tangled in the comforter because it was there and neither of them thought to kick it off. Jean could feel Jeremy through his swim trunks, insistent, and for a minute, the only rational thought he had was how to get his hands there, how to make Jeremy feel something neither of them had words for. How to get from point A to point B when point A was all that mattered.

Jeremy’s abs tightened and jumped at the feel of Jean’s fingertips against them. 

Jean traced the line of his waistband, making sure Jeremy feel the brush of his knuckles against bare skin. Jeremy’s voice was rough when he said Jean's name.

It was electric, the tremor in Jeremy’s voice like static going down Jean’s navel.  

It was almost five, and March was when the nights started earlier. The sun was turning the parking lot to liquid gold when they left, its setting light flashing magenta against the cars’ side mirrors. Twilight came early, in the spring months. 

Blue light filtered through the blinds in the curtains. It turned Jeremy’s skin a sweet shade of pale, as he moved against the bed, Jean’s hands pulling at his swim trunks; then, they were on the floor. 

Jeremy’s elbow knocked into the headboard of the cheap dorm wood bed frame. 

The tightening of hands on shoulders. Hands dragging down, nails like hot pain, good pain, on his back. 

Lips, soft like gauze against his throat. 

His body, too warm, too much fire in his chest, too much memory in his head, not enough clear thought, but in a good way, in a way that burned like a match down his throat. A match dropping from his stomach to the core of him. Pushing Jeremy down harder, worrying, for a split second, that he’d pushed too hard, Jeremy’s whimpers easy to misinterpret except the murmured ‘come on’. Begging in the form of Jeremy’s hands on his ass, pulling, trying to get Jean closer, though Jean was already doing his damnedest to occupy the same space. 

Jeremy swearing was maybe Jean’s favorite sound. The harsh words that tumbled from Jeremy’s mouth could only be used here, now. Jeremy swearing during practice didn’t have quite the same sweetness. 

He moved his hand in favor of slotting his hips in the space Jeremy’s legs created. It was too easy to move against him, skin sweat-slick, and when Jean leaned down to kiss him, Jeremy’s lips attempting to keep up, rough stubble scraping against Jean’s chin, Jean was consumed by the smell of him, of man and cologne and sweat. He reached down to wrap a hand around his cock. 

“Jean,” Jeremy all but growled. “Need you to, c’mon, Jean -”

The friction of rubbing against Jeremy’s stomach was both too good and not enough. He groaned at the ease in which Jeremy’s hand joined his, their knuckles bumping.

“I want you to- Jean, I want-” Jeremy said, words coming out uneven. “Please, can you -”

Jean let go of his cock and wrapped a hand around them both, and the deep sound that came from Jeremy’s throat pushed him right up against the edge. 

“Like this?” Jean asked, his hand speeding up, “Or slower?”

“Jean,” came Jeremy’s hoarse reply. 

It was almost too much, the touch of them both and his calloused hands, on over-sensitive skin. 

It was too much. Like itching at poison ivy. Painful, but more painful to stop, even when blood welled up under the skin. 

Jean’s hands slowed, slowed until it was barely his thumb, stroking the tip Jeremy’s weeping cock, smearing precum around the head. Jeremy tried to pump his hips, desperately trying to fuck up into Jean’s fist but Jean’s own hips had stopped moving.  

“Wait,” said Jean.

“I’ll try,” said Jeremy, his body rolling to press up against Jean’s hard chest.

“No, I mean, wait,” Jean said again, his hand releasing them, his dick still hard, begging Jean to forget the importance of communication and get back to where things were going, thank you very much. 

Jeremy seemed to be much on the same train of thought, hips following Jean’s like a magnet, even as Jean leaned back. 

Jeremy paused, and then froze, realizing. 

Jean didn’t know what was going on, only that it didn’t feel right anymore. His memories of acts like these were choppy at best, and he knew why, knew he’d blocked it out because it was too horrible to remember, and his fear of remembering had caused something in him to stop, to wait because he didn’t want to remember any of that when he was with Jeremy. 

He didn’t want to think about the Nest. But it lurked.

Jeremy did something. Moved, or something.

Jean sat back, speechless. He understood what was happening, why the memory of what happened was on his mind, but he didn’t comprehend the magnitude of it, of why his muscles stopped working, when he barely remembered what happened except in those rare moments when everything seemed to happen in vivid detail. 

“Jean?” Jeremy’s voice was distant but it grounded him. 

“Sorry,” said Jean, “Let’s keep going.”

He leaned forward but Jeremy’s hesitation showed, dodging Jean not more than half an inch, but half an inch was a lot when two people were this close.

Jeremy shook his head. “We should-”

“-Not talk about it,” Jean cut him off.

Jeremy grimaced and then put a pillow over his dick. “Okay.”

Jean’s eyes dragged from the pillow to Jeremy’s eyes to the sweat gathering at Jeremy’s temple. 

“I’m still hard,” said Jean, palming his boner, who didn’t seem to care about the tension in the room. It felt good, the memory of his hesitation neatly fading away, his years in a bedroom with Riko growing fuzzy. “We can talk or we can…”

Jeremy’s eyes followed the glide of Jean’s hand but all he said was, “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Jean sighed and sat back again.

LA springtime never got cold. Night was the closest, eternal palm trees smirking up at the sky, ocean moving slowly, contentedly to crash against beaches that’d never know the concept of snow. If the sky knew cold, it didn’t tell, late-setting sun crashing through Jean’s window to splatter unevenly across his desk. It peaked between the blinds and made the papers on his desk glow white. 

Jeremy was the same way. Unobtrusive. Warm.

He looked down and watched the way Jeremy’s fingers twisted with his. When it was clear Jean wasn’t going to say anything else, Jeremy raised Jean’s hand to his mouth, lips pressed against his fingertips. 

“When I first got here,” said Jean, “I was just property. But I’m not property and I know that now because I met...”

Jeremy’s fingers, human in their nervous shuffle, stilled. 

“I don’t belong to you,” said Jean. “I don’t belong to anyone anymore but I want to be with you.”

Jeremy reached like he wanted to hold Jean’s face, but detoured, his hand dropping to the curve of his neck.

“But you do belong,” said Jeremy. “Not to, but with, not me but us. Here. I’m saying -”

“That I’m yours,” said Jean. 

“Yeah,” said Jeremy, sounding relieved. “Yeah. Listen, I know you don’t want to get close to people and I know-” the words came fast, tripping over themselves to get out.

“Stop,” said Jean, not unkindly. “You don’t know. But I don’t also want that to be the reason you hesitate when you touch me.”

Jeremy ran a thumb Jean’s collarbone, eyes tracing the length of the scar on his cheek. Jeremy, who cried during the Mighty Ducks movie, had hard eyes now, and was looking at Jean like he was something to be protected, something to be taken care of – but that wasn’t right either.

“I don’t need to be taken care of or babied. What you and I do, we do together, on equal footing.”

He leaned closer, close enough to hear the catch in Jeremy’s breath, and he said, “When I touch you, it’s just us in the room. I don’t want Riko anywhere near it. It’s different with you and me than it was with me and him.”

“If I stop, it won’t be because of you,” said Jeremy, after a minute. “I might stop whether you want me to or not.”

Jean gave him an unreadable look. 

“Not because you,” Jeremy said again.

“Oh,” Jean said. Being gay was still a recent realization for Jeremy.

Jeremy’s nervous fingers made a welcome reappearance. They drummed against Jean’s breastbone and it was almost ridiculous how quickly Jean’s mind went to the gutter, eyes taking careful note of the shape of Jeremy’s fingers. He tore his eyes away.

“Well,” said Jean. “In this day and age, it’s common enough - Micah and Henry might be able to give you some advice.”

“—or Kevin,” Jeremy cut in, grinning wider when he saw Jean’s eyes narrow. 

“Kevin won’t have anything of substance to offer,” said Jean, flatly. “Give me your phone. It’s probably better if I delete his number altogether-” Jean was cut off as he reached for Jeremy’s swim trunks, thrown to the end of the bed, and Jeremy, lightning-quick, fished out his phone and held it out of reach. 

“I think Kevin’s the perfect person to ask-”

“Why? Because he used to be mine? I know everything he knows; I don’t see the purpose of asking him to rehash the lesson when the one who taught him is right here.”

“Wait, yours? Wait no, go back to the part you just said --” sputtered Jeremy.

“--and not Alvarez because we both know the advice she’d give, or Laila, I’ll never hear the end of it -” continued Jean.

“Okay, you were right; new rule: no mentioning Kevin in regards to sex. Ever.”

“I wish he was here to hear you say that,” said Jean. 

“Starting now,” Jeremy followed up quickly.

“Starting now?” said Jean, raising an eyebrow. “Well-”

And then he had to stop because Jeremy was trailing a hand down Jean’s waist, brushing his hand across Jean’s abs and the warmth Jean felt through his shirt made him shiver. Jeremy’s lips quirked up in a way only someone who knew him could tell was a smirk, fingers brushing hip bones as he reached to hold Jean, to tug him in.

Jean met him there, the flat of his hand curving around Jeremy’s neck as he pulled him down for a kiss.

“What are you doing?” said Jeremy, words muffled by Jean’s tongue. “Are you reaching for my phone?”

“No,” said Jean, reaching for Jeremy’s phone, still held just slightly out of reach. “Yes. I just want to tell Kevin something.”

“No,” said Jeremy strongly and then kissed the laughter out of Jean’s mouth.

The sound of the final buzzer was deafening. 

Victory tasted like sweat and iron and he whipped his head around to look for Jeremy, grin splitting his face like a cut but instead he found himself meeting the eyes of Kevin Day.

Kevin Day, who looked pissed but not surprised, nose flaring as he narrowed his eyes at Jean and then, so subtly Jean might’ve missed it, he nodded. 

Good game, he mouthed from the other side of the court. Neither of them made any move forward. 

Jean nodded back, eyes flickering to where his team had dogpiled, the elation of going to finals resulting in a mass of Trojan hugging that Jean fully intended to stay far away from - but when he looked back at Kevin, Kevin watching him thoughtfully. It’d been a long time since he felt homesick for the Nest, but Kevin’s eyes reminded him abruptly of the ache.

Jean looked away, back at his team. Alvarez, Laila, Jeremy, Dylan, Micah, and Henry - so what that he knew all their names now? So what that he yearned to walk over and join in their shouting? So what?

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, and then his feet were taking him there. He didn’t look back to see what Kevin thought about it.

Let Kevin believe some part of his humanity was restored in the mere ten months he’d been a Trojan. Had it?

Alvarez hooked an arm over Jean’s shoulder when he was close enough and pulled him in. 

Rhemann tried hauled the lot of them off the court, barking orders about talking to the press before cleaning up. The postgame handshake was quick, bumping fists with the Foxes, high fives a little hard, Laila, impressed and exhausted, congratulating the Foxes on a game well played, and just behind her, Alvarez whispering something in her ear. At the end of the line, a freshman in orange shook Jean’s hand and said, “Good game, Shawn!”

“Actually, it’s Gene,” Dylan corrected.

“You know it’s not,” came from Alvarez, behind him.

Kevin was at the end of the line, and he held Jean’s hand in a tight grip a millisecond longer than necessary. Jean didn’t pull away but gripped Kevin’s scarred hand tighter. 

“Someone’s here for you,” Kevin murmured so quietly it was more the shape of his mouth making words that Jean understood what he said. 

Jean’s eyes immediately flashed to the stands, towards the edges where the scouts were, but he knew they weren’t who Kevin was talking about. No scouts were here for a backliner.

There’d be a party in the Trojan locker room, Jean was sure. A celebration without beer or streamers, just the team hollering proudly about their win, Rhemann trying to bring them all back down to Earth with a gruff ‘it isn’t over yet’ speech, inevitably to be interrupted by Jeremy who wouldn't leave a dry eye in the house.

Jean followed Kevin off the court, and the two made their way to the stadium exit, deftly avoiding the crowd by using the athletes-only halls.

A plain man with watery eyes and carefully combed back hair was waiting for them. Kevin shook his hand and gestured.

“Jean, Martin Palourde.”

The handshake was a brief contact of clammy skin. Palourde's eyes jumped from Jean’s biceps, to his calves, to his height, all with the smile of a real estate agent. Jean wore a good look for a backliner.

Palourde was one of the agents the Ravens usually employed, undoubtedly sent by Tetsuji. He’d signed a Raven last year to one of the top teams in the world, a viciously competent team that only used their rookies for two years before the players’ overworked bodies inevitably betrayed them, usually in the permanent sense. A few years before that, according to rumor, he signed a player to a team in Russia who’d dropped off the map a few years later. 

The lines of his dark jacket were stiff in that brand new way like he’d worn the blazer right out of the store. His silver cufflinks were shaped like tiny raven heads and they glinted in the light as Palourde began speaking, prattling about his experiences with such promising players as Jean, insinuating this chance was one of Jean’s last but could turn out to be the best thing that would ever happen to him. Notoriety. A heartfelt and inspiring comeback story. Fame and lots and lots of money.

He wanted to sign Jean to a team in France whose scouts hadn’t even been at the game. Jean knew, down to the deepest recesses of his heart, that all they wanted was a benchwarmer, someone to even out the line. Best case scenario.  

Palourde kept going, one hand landing heavily on Jean’s shoulder.

It was so abruptly violent, that spiked edge of panic pressing into his sternum, his reaction to the idea of this man’s hand on him, the way it felt worse than air being forcibly removed from his lungs by a vacuum. His whole chest was crumpling in and he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stand there and try to keep his face still. A year ago, he wouldn’t have reacted at all, even though it felt like everything he liked about his life was falling apart around him, his mouth was an engine that wouldn’t start and a year ago-

A year ago, he tried to remember, he wanted this. 

“Jean?” said Palourde. “We still have to sign some contracts, but-” 

His mouth was dry, tasteless. He could pretend what happened wasn’t happening, but that wouldn’t stop it. Was the Master here? Would he dignify this game, of all games, with an appearance? Jean hadn’t heard from him in months, not since December.

“Wait,” said a voice from behind them.

He strode towards them, his exy stick still in his right hand. 

Neil Josten.

Kevin’s eyes darted between Jean and Palourde and Neil, wearing Fox colors and a Raven expression. He didn’t say anything. 

Neil stepped up to Kevin, their eyes locked, loaded with conversation only they could understand. 

Kevin’s mouth straightened into a defiant line and Neil rolled his eyes and looked at Jean. Jean had no idea what his contribution to this silent discussion was supposed to be so he looked away, wondering if Kevin hadn’t told Neil he’d be introducing Jean to a Raven agent. Or maybe he had, and Neil thought Kevin would change his mind about doing so. Or maybe they were trying to decide what to do for dinner. Their secret language and loaded looks were way over Jean’s head. 

But Kevin, Jean knew. His guilty face, the mouth twisted up waiting for Jean to say without words: you started this. You started it when you left, didn’t come back and forced the Moriyamas to come up with a reason why. 

Jean looked away, knowing his face would only confirm it, but also knowing that it wasn’t Kevin’s fault they were here now. This story had begun long ago and its ending was a long time coming. They’d finish it, but it wasn’t Jean who could. Kevin had derailed Edgar Allen by leaving, it was he who had the most to lose if he didn’t somehow ensure that the Moriyamas wouldn’t go after him again. 

Neil and Andrew - they were that insurance. They’d proven time and time again that they’d protect him. That protection only marginally - very, very marginally - extended to Jean.

Neil was, more than anything else, was a creature from a past life. He represented everything Jean had loved and hated, had lost and left.

He belonged to Kevin, who Jean would always stay in touch with, but the bond that had forged their two souls together had vanished and now, Jean finally understood, he and Kevin were too far apart to understand each other. 

“And you are?” said Palourde, awkwardly. He had to know who Neil Josten, miracle rookie, was, and the blazing glare Kevin shot the agent said was easy enough to decipher. 

Neil didn’t dignify him with an answer, just took up a spot on the wall and waited, eyes landing on Jean. 

Palourde looked to Jean as well, thin lips stretching back into that winning smile. “So what do you think? Your home country misses you, Jean, and this is how they want to win you back. How about I give you my card, Mr. Moreau, and you - Jean? Jean!”

Jean barely made it out of the plexiglass doors when he was overtaken by the crowd, still flowing towards the exists, loitering around the concession stands. The game had been over at least an hour by now, and he hadn’t changed or showered yet. He shoved past the people, ignoring their noises of recognition, their Good game! shouts, strangers trailing after him for a few steps, calling out his name, clapping, wanting his autograph.

Finally, he made his way through to the nearly empty stadium, bursting through the side doors of the court. Since this was a home game, they’d probably still be in the showers, maybe waiting up for him, maybe already back on campus -

Jean looked around, eyes scouring over empty seats. Maintenance must’ve already been up and down the aisles because the debris was gone, stairs clear of popcorn and confetti. 

He wondered, just for a second, if things had been different, if - if he didn’t have these intense smells and sights around him because Exy courts all smelled the same, didn’t they? Except here. Here, the courts smelled like whipping wind and looked like motion blur reflections of neon advertisements. This, and all the grime that came with it. For a moment he imagined it was his.

He wondered what his life would’ve been like had he been born into this. And then, abrupt and breathtaking, the thought finally breaking into him after all this time - could he one day live in a place like this? Was he meant for it?

There was a figure on the player’s bench. A red and gold hoodie hunched over.

Jean took the steps down three at a time. He hopped the divider and banged on the Plexiglas wall separating the audience from the player’s bench.

The figure turned, startled, and then let Jean in.

Jean backed him up until he fell against the benches, wordless, eyes narrowed with questions Jean couldn’t answer.

Why was he here? For one last shot to convince himself to stay? Because he was done waiting for someone to rescue him from his own bad decisions? Because he hadn’t seen Jeremy’s stupid face yet and wanted to see what he looked like after they won? Because he couldn’t find him and then all of a sudden he’s right here -      

“You always forget to say goodbye,” said Jeremy. 

His looked fresh-faced, hair curling neatly at the ends, still damp from his post-game shower. His face was coloring, his voice rough, uncertain.

“Jeremy,” said Jean, and then dropped to his knees. 

Jeremy made a startled sound that he promptly swallowed as Jean pulled his basketball shorts from his skin, nosing Jeremy’s length through the cloth when they wouldn’t go down far enough. 

“Here?” Jeremy gasped. “Here-” 

Jeremy tried to talk, but whatever he wanted to say was bitten out, mumbled and when Jean paused to make sure none of the words were ‘no’ or any variation thereof, he felt pressure from a hand threading through his hair, pushing him back into place as Jeremy slid to the edge of his seat. He smirked against the hardness digging into his cheek and he mouthed it through Jeremy’s shorts, until Jeremy shoved them down himself. 

Jean blew him fast and hard, rougher than he usually was, mostly because someone could come back at any moment and it was turning Jeremy on, big time, fingers shaking as they pulled Jean’s hair nearly from his scalp and then let go, trying to find a grip on something, anything.

One hand found itself on Jean’s throat, feeling it work as it swallowed around Jeremy’s cock and Jeremy’s stuttered breathing got louder and Jean realized the sounds he was making were words. 

Jean moaned and Jeremy’s ohGodOhGodOhGod’s suddenly went quiet and afterward, he slid from his seat onto the ground next to Jean, who had wet shorts, trying to catch their breath, staring at each other in amazement. 

“You usually forget to say goodbye,” said Jeremy, when he had enough breath to do so.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” admitted Jean. 

“Yeah,” said Jeremy, grinning. 

“I don’t usually need to say goodbye, said Jean, next. “Not when you’re just going to bring me back. But you said you wouldn’t this time so I figured best not to go at all, then.”

Jeremy’s eyes were sharp on his. 

“Who did you go meet after the game?”

“Martin Palourde.”

“Friend of Kevin’s?” Ah, Jeremy had eagle eyes. 

“Not anymore,” said Jean.

“What did he want?”

Jean couldn’t help but sneer, “Scouting for the number one team in the nation.”

“Which one? Nation, I mean.”

Jean’s breath caught like a sparrow in a net, frantically reminding him that his heart was in a dangerous place. Jeremy’s intelligent eyes bore into him, very nearly intimidating, which only served to make Jean smile, which he tried to stamp down, out of principle.

“I need to change,” he said instead of answering, glancing down.

“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, and how one word could be filled with such smug possessiveness, Jean would never know -

The booming shudder of the overhead backlights going off echoed through the stadium, probably from lack of movement. They must’ve been the only ones left in here.

“I have to say it,” said Jeremy. “What I should’ve said before. What I’ve been thinking since - ” 

“Don’t,” Jean didn’t say, because even though it would be too much even though he knew it would hurt, he selfishly still wanted the confirmation, the words that bubbled up from Jeremy’s throat like blood from a wound.

“France or California-”

“Jeremy-”

“I love you. I’ll love you if you stay and I’ll love you if you go. It’s you and me. It’s always going to be you and me.”

Even after all this, thought Jean. He’d never catch his breath around Jeremy. Jeremy who had such sweet eyes, too soft; they made you hate him just a little, just before you remember he fought his way here too.

“I won’t keep you from your family, Jean.” But Jeremy’s face was hard, decidedly telling Jean to go to France. It wasn’t a forgiving expression. 

“Ask me to stay,” said Jean quietly.

“No.”

“Ask me to stay.”

Jeremy looked him dead in the eyes, “I hate being your captain sometimes.”

“Trying to piss me off to make me go? Sorry, mon cher, but that trick didn’t even work the first time.”

Embarrassment flashed across Jeremy’s face. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off,” Jeremy said. “Not then. Or now, either.”

“Oh. Well in that case, au revoir. I will always keep you in my heart--”

And then Jeremy’s lips were on his, two fingers pulling him forward by his collar, and words murmured meanly into his mouth, “Stop it.”

“Jeremy,” replied Jean, “Ask me.”

“Stay. Stay until championships and then when a scout approaches you after the game and offers you a place here in the US, take it. Take it and stay here with me.”

“Okay,” said Jean.

Epilogue

One day he woke up and realized it'd been weeks since he thought about the Nest.

The ingrained habit of waking up at four am was less intense than when he’d first left the Ravens and now, two years later, he let himself sleep in until five. 

The light that filled his room was brighter and more saturated than peaches, turning his skin a ruddy orange. It was the start of the summer months, just warm enough not to worry about turning on the AC. He’d left the windows open during the night to let the cool air in. He was lucky. It wouldn’t get warm like this in other states for another month.

Jean’s inhale was needy as his limbs stretched out, a satisfying strain shuddering down his shoulders to the tips of his toes, and he turned his head to face the window, blinds leaving stripes of shadow and apricot light on the desk.  

It was the little moments Jean would be stunned by. The moments that made him go back to Dwyer 8 weeks after his last session because he needed not only the confirmation that this wasn’t a dream, but that he was allowed to feel reality wash over him. It was Jeremy, waking Jean up, half an hour after they’d fallen asleep, one arm wrapping around Jean’s head, and planting sudden, sleepy lips in his hair. Jean abruptly wide awake, the warmth of Jeremy’s arm disappearing as Jeremy turned to his other side in his sleep.

Fear and not fear, something worse, something like hope, nestled in his heart, tinting the room. Something like this could be ripped away by any mundane thing, which terrified Jean but also created a resolve to hold onto it, to protect it for as long as he could. 

The sun continued to rise, colors glowing brighter and louder against the darkness of the room, chasing away the night. Jean watched. It was such a simple thing. Crickets and birds made their wakefulness known and as he listened, he wondered how Jeremy could sleep through it. 

Jeremy’s body was warm next to him, too warm, and Jean pushed off the thin sheets to better feel the cooling breeze. 

Jeremy disagreed in his sleep, moving closer to Jean. Jean let him. He felt like he’d known Jeremy fifty years. He could hardly remember what his life had been like without this sort of warmth. 

They’d both come so far since that hot day in July when they first met, Jean refusing to give ground and Jeremy doing nice and unnecessary things just because he could.

Jean didn’t say anything, just turned and pressed his forehead unrelenting against Jeremy’s. Jeremy only breathed and Jean felt the fluttering of eyelashes shut against his cheek as Jeremy moved to nose the delicate skin at Jean’s neck, doing nowhere near a good enough job at covering the erratic noise of his heart.

“Again?” came the reply, barely more than a mouth moving against his neck, “I-”

Jean moved suddenly, smothering the words with his mouth as he pressed against Jeremy, stealing the kiss with an undignified groan.

“Love you,” said Jeremy, with his mouth, his eyes, the soft brush of his cheek against Jean’s.

“I love you.” He said it again, and again, and again until Jean was stealing the words from his mouth as a beggar does, little uncontained wild laughs escaping him as he did so.

“Really?” said Jeremy.

Jean only looked at him, his eyes passing over the full length of Jeremy’s face. He’d never had anyone else say that to him before, Jean knew. A first for them both then.

Jean’s eyes fell onto the navy jersey draped over his desk chair. 

There’d been no guarantee of a scout showing up at that last game, but Jean played like his life depended on it. After they won, reporters swarmed them, and they put up with a full forty minutes of dumb interview questions, and then someone from the Atlanta Lions came up to Jean, and now he wore their jersey. The distance between Atlanta and Kansas City was significant but it was a lot closer than Kansas City and France, and, while they didn’t love the flights, it was near enough that a weekend trip wasn’t out of the question. Facetime worked for now, too. 

They were pretty happy. 

Exy was a part of Jean in a way that was different than obligatory love. One of the only things in life that brought him true joy was the hours he spent on the court, the team he surrounded himself with, and the camaraderie of the sports world. He didn’t know if he’d ever fit into another place so well but he admitted one day to Jeremy that he sort of wanted to try. To study something else one day, when his knees or hips or arms gave out and he couldn’t play Exy anymore, he wanted to start a company, to fund a charity, maybe one for abuse survivors. He wanted to do those things, to have that. A small proof to himself that he wasn’t just the person who plays Exy, the person the Moriyamas made him. He was not a machine.

Jean had the Moreaus’ information now. He had a way to get in contact with his parents, though he thought it might be years until he was ready for that. Then again, two years ago he thought it might be decades before he let another person access every part of him again. Yet here he was, pressed flush against Jeremy and only wanting to get closer. 

He could send Dwyer a bouquet for that. A bouquet in the front seat of the Italian sportscar of his choosing. 

Riko was on his mind, of course, he always was, and sometimes what happened to him overwhelmed Jean and he couldn’t stand the warmth of another person against him. But Jeremy at his farthest was always just a phone call away. 

Every once in a while, Jean felt a pain that was so sharp, so unspecific, brought on by a random smell or moment in the evening before bed when everything was quiet. When his head felt empty, a rare occasion, he listened to the sound of his hands smoothing down the blanket, pushing his desk chair into place, the air conditioner. His breath. An overwhelming, trembling nostalgia would take him, though he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly brought it on. Not a memory, vaguer than that, but a happy feeling he associated with being a teenager, messing around with Kevin and their teammates years ago. Home, though it wasn’t home anymore. 

The moment was confined to his room, and if he chose to sink into it, it could last a lifetime, so when he felt done of feeling it, he shook it off, as Dwyer had taught him, found his thoughts returning to the last happy thing he’d thought of, which was, more often than not, Jeremy.

There were some days that felt too hard to let go of, to push away from his heart, nothing that would make the pain stop. But every day it got better. Those moments fewer and farther in between. Gaps of happiness he’d learned to take advantage of.

Jean had a crazy, terrible thought and it was this: tomorrow, everything will keep getting better.