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“This coin is an older one, but if you look closely, you can see the dolphins swimming around her,” Kevin says with barely restrained awe. His long fingers handle the ancient coin carefully as he pinches the edges, trying to not obscure any of the details. Jean thinks the coins would be lucky, to be lovingly smudged by those hands.
Jean aches to hold them.
Once Kevin has it in a satisfactory grip, he holds it up to Jean’s face at an angle, beaming. It’s an ordeal to tear his gaze away from Kevin’s smile.
Calm down. His teeth cannot sink in any further. He’s already stuck, and he knows it.
Jean doesn’t need to lean closer. He’s probably as close as he can be, without it being odd. Enraptured. That’s how he gets whenever Kevin goes on one of his history spiels. He’s particularly fixated on Greek and Roman history at the moment, and nothing escapes that sweep of interest. That’s why for the last hour, Jean has been learning about the creation myths and culture behind each member of Kevin’s ancient coin collection.
And Jean relishes the time together. He has Kevin’s undivided attention, his companionship. There’s no practice or meetings or dinners to get through. It’s the two of them, trading questions and facts, dreaming of worlds new and old. And yes, Jean knows…he knows he is the only person Kevin has. Kevin didn’t choose this. Jean happens to be the only one around to listen, and Kevin must be making do.
But Jean lets himself enjoy it anyway. It’s his fantasy, sitting here, pretending that Kevin wants to be speaking to him and him alone.
Like a true husband.
So, coins it is.
Kevin only has a few; that’s all the masters allow. Keeping Kevin, their golden boy, happy is a balancing act. Too strict and they risk him acting out, too lenient, and he may stray from the path carved out for him since birth. Thousands spent on sports equipment? No matter. But Kevin’s interests outside of exy are allowed one to two frivolous purchases a month.
Kevin has learned to school himself. At this point, the excitement he shows when receiving a book or collectible is nearly indecipherable from that shown towards a racquet.
Jean wonders a lot, if he too was a gift Kevin could’ve gone without.
They’ve been keeping their voices low, conspiring, hidden up on the second floor of the mansion’s library. There’s no need for the childish whispers. No one else ever comes in here.
Jean doesn’t dare tell Kevin to speak up.
Shyly, Jean smiles, letting his natural sass bleed in. Only for Kevin, only when he can’t be punished. “You mean the squiggles?”
Kevin’s smile drops, affronted to a degree Jean has to laugh at. He buries the foreign sound in his arm, resting against the table. He hates his laugh; it’s not attractive. Little snorts and wheezes, and smothering them only makes it worse.
His chest shakes with it, the ridiculousness of it. Why is he laughing this hard? He never laughs at all. But Kevin looked so shocked .
Kevin goes oddly silent above him; too long. There’s a beat of panic Jean’s not familiar with, not around Kevin.
Kevin is not like the others; there would be no retribution for offending him, no heavy hands or cruel insults. Kevin can be stern, harsh even, when it comes to things he believes in. But sadistic remains far, far away from his being. He thinks if Kevin had the capacity for any of that, Jean would’ve dropped dead by now, choked by his own feelings.
For now, he’s simply asthmatic. There’s something clawing him apart, day in and day out.
He tenses up, waiting for his misstep to be made known and for Kevin to cut their time short. There are apologies on the tip of his tongue, and he can’t help the reflex that comes with tightening his hand into a fist.
It’s the hand with his ring. Alexandrite. White gold. Kevin picked it out.
It cannot be taken away.
But then, he hears Kevin snort. Jean’s head snaps to attention, and there’s just greengreengreen .
It pins Jean like a moth. He wouldn’t mind being a collectible if Kevin stared at him like this all the time.
The laughter starts light, then morphs into a full-on fit. Somehow, the regality remains. Kevin’s chest out, not hiding, not ashamed. He snickers to his heart’s content, a flush that wasn’t there before high on his cheeks.
He almost drops the coin. Jean catches it in midair between them, and their hands get tangled up. It’s a drug hit, an involuntary inhale of the best substance money can buy. Better, perhaps. Kevin’s hands are so warm, stained by metal…
Jean flinches away, but his fingers are too caught up with Kevin’s.
Kevin doesn’t pull away. Jean tries his best to wrap his head around it as the library echoes with Kevin’s laugh.
Kevin doesn’t touch him like this, despite their legal agreement. They’re married, and it was stressed to Kevin by the masters that Jean belonged to him now. He could do as he pleased.
So, if he hasn’t, Jean can only assume it’s because he doesn’t want to.
Kevin never wanted a husband. He’s kind to Jean, tolerates him well enough. He’s come to rely on him for many things too. Kevin will ask Jean’s opinion on his plays, looks to Jean constantly during practice. In private, he shares his history lessons, buys Jean copies of books they can read together. They gossip about rivals and make up vacations they’ll probably never go on. They’re a team, an unlikely one, forced together by bad luck and birth.
Jean will not be deluded into thinking it is anything more than circumstance. It doesn’t matter that Jean’s feelings surpassed obligation long ago. It doesn’t matter that he would do anything to make Kevin’s life easier, to make him laugh, to hear him drone on and on about coins and archaeological digs and cinematic inaccuracies.
Jean knows better than to long this way. To yearn to touch . He thinks he would take it. He would take anything Kevin would give him. But it would never go beyond the physical, and Jean reminds himself of that every day, reminds him that even now, with their hands locked together, that it is only so for one reason:
Kevin is stuck with him.
They were engaged promptly when Jean turned sixteen. He was the obvious choice. A servant, an obedient one, but one Kevin was familiar with. After years at Kevin’s side, daydreaming, wishing, but ultimately assuming Kevin would be married off to someone of his caliber, the universe decided it was not done kicking Jean-Yves Moreau.
Jean got what he wanted. He would be promised to Kevin Day. Promised to a man he loved, but who did not love him.
And like that, Jean felt less a friend, and more a chain. Wrapped around Kevin’s ankles, another connection to this life. Was he not a constant reminder to Kevin? Of how charted his course was? Did Kevin grow tired, waking up to Jean across the bed, robbed of dreams where he was somewhere else, free of these expectations?
Jean wouldn’t know anymore. He supposed he dreamed of freedom once. Then, he dreamed of Kevin. Nothing could rival that. Thus came the problem, clawing his heart out, ripping his soul this way and that.
He wanted what was best for Kevin, though Jean was powerless to provide it. What was best for Kevin was to be away from this, probably at some museum, tinkering away, hands dirty like they are now with the dust of the ancients. No strings attached, no husband binding him to a world stripped of its joy.
But Jean also wanted for himself too, deep down.
How could Jean not feel guilty then? How could he live with himself, when the reminder of their marriage made him so happy? Before he could make himself remember their predicament, before logic could set in…he would be happy. Staring at his ring for hours, sighing like a schoolgirl.
The masters unknowingly gave him all he wanted, and he still could not enjoy it.
Kevin flops forward on the desk, bringing their hands down with him. Locked together. Jean must imagine it, the soft stroke of Kevin’s thumb. “Yeah, I guess they do look more like worms,” Kevin says. He takes one hand away then, eyeing the coin. Jean’s other hand, the one Kevin still holds hostage, begins to sweat.
“I’ll find a better one, one day…” The sentence hiccups at the end. Not finished, not sure where to head from here.
Jean, stupidly, waits for the promise of the future. The “ I’ll show you, then ,” but it never comes. Fool. It’s not a promise Kevin would ever give to someone like him. Or, maybe Kevin feels like he shouldn’t have to say it. They’ll still be together in the future, stagnant. Kevin will have no one else to show, even if he wanted to.
Kevin will undoubtedly move mountains in the exy world, but he won’t shake Jean off until he has the spine to ask the masters for a divorce.
Jean can’t bear to think about it right then.
Jean takes his hand back swiftly, and doesn’t look to see if Kevin chases the touch. He wanders off to look for a book instead, at least long enough for the phantom touch of Kevin’s skin to leave him.
It never really does.
Jean reads the same line in a children’s book over and over again, and when he goes back to the table, he can’t remember a word. Kevin’s sitting in the same spot, staring off into the distance. Jean tells himself it’s a coincidence.
He won’t ruin the rest of their time together thinking about useless things. He reminds himself of what he always does, his lifeline mantra: At least Kevin is by my side, here and now.
“Do you want to read this one next?” Jean says, cursing himself for the sweetness he can’t hold back. He barely bites down on the word, Love . Kevin perks up immediately, before Jean can so much as show him the title, and Jean won’t mistake it for trust.
Eager for the distraction, probably.
He sets the book down, Kevin doesn’t stop looking at him. “Yeah, whatever you want.”
--
That night, for whatever reason, Kevin crosses the line drawn with pillows on their bed.
He tosses them to the floor without once glancing in Jean’s direction. It feels like a challenge. Jean has no desire to oppose him.
It was something Jean did on their wedding night, not expecting anything to happen, not willing to make Kevin uncomfortable. Jean had to let him know he did not seek to take more from him, even through an arm curled around his torso.
Kevin had stared at him the whole time, pillow by pillow, expression unreadable, smooth as the silk sheets. Things so soft were not meant to build such harsh walls.
Jean left the room afterwards, unable to face his cowardice.
But tonight, Kevin curls around him, awkwardly at first, stiffened by the novelty of it. Their limbs are long and uncoordinated, unfamiliar with comfort. All that Moriyama training and conditioning, and for what? Cuddling was never part of the regimen. But they manage.
Hand over Jean’s heart, Kevin settles. He must hear it going a mile a minute, and Jean pleads with the universe that he won’t pull away.
Instead, he feels Kevin sigh against his neck. Exhaustion, just exhaustion.
But Jean never wants it to end, and he fights sleep for another hour before it pulls him under.
He wakes to arms around him. Not a dream, not a fluke.
And in moments like this, Jean almost believes they can have forever.
--
But he should know, nothing is forever.
Jean’s footsteps echo as he passes through the courthouse halls. Every squeak of his soles has him jumping, every dark corner, a pause. It’s not real. It can’t be real.
He knows he’s taking too small steps, feet inching with dread towards the final destination. Kevin, confident and regal as he’s always been, should have been strides and strides ahead of him, ready to put an end to this. The last thread of the Moriyamas, cut.
Kevin stays glued to his side.
Why? Whywhywhy—
Jean wants to hold his hand even now. One last time.
Pathetic .
But if he sways too close on purpose, would Kevin flinch away?
It’s perhaps a question Jean’s never been willing to know the answer to, and now, he never will.
The downfall of the Moriyama crime empire plays out in a rather anti-climactic manner. Jean’s not sure what he was expecting, probably because it was the farthest thing from possible in his mind. The Moriyamas were gods in his world, not out of reverence or respect, but out of fear. They owned him, controlled him. Sometimes he wondered if they pumped the oxygen that allowed him to breathe. There was no concept of them losing .
But had someone asked him to guess, he thinks he would’ve pictured Hollywood-level shootouts, a publicized media circus, or some kind of over-dramatized explosion. Nothing short of a nuclear bomb. Instead, the FBI crackdown had been swift, almost…routine. Paperwork, documents, taxes, fraud. A few arrests, some dissolutions of company hideouts, and a seizure of assets later and…
They were free.
Kevin was free.
The joy of that had been unexpected. It was such an unfamiliar emotion it did a full rotation into anxiety and uncertainty within the same hour, and Jean hadn’t been able to hold the contents of his stomach.
Jean didn’t know what freedom truly meant. Had never experienced it, had conditioned himself to not entertain so much as an inkling of hopes and dreams. What was he meant to do? Where would he go? What would be asked of him? And if the answer was nothing…
He had no idea how to be free. It felt equal to a death sentence for him, but Kevin was different. None of that applied to Kevin, not in Jean’s heart.
Kevin was meant to be free. He was always bigger than the Moriyamas; the most talented, the one with all the potential. He held more in his pinkie than the entire organization. That’s why they needed him. Jean had always known that, had watched them all corral Kevin like a prize stallion. Rope after rope, chain after chain, tying him down left and right so they could make him what they needed him to be.
Kevin would be able to live on his own terms. Unbound. For a moment, Jean thought that made it all worth it, and it wouldn’t have to be so scary, because they could navigate it together.
It seems the last of Jean’s optimism hadn’t been whipped out of him after all.
The crushing reality of things hit. Jean beat himself up for the assumption.
Because yes, Kevin was free, but that meant he was free of all the chains binding him. And Jean could never let himself forget the cold truth:
He was one of them.
The notary waits for them at the end of the hall. Jean can just make out the letters on the office door when Kevin grabs his hand. And he knows he shouldn’t, but it’s a useless fight. Jean squeezes it instinctively, fiercely .
When he turns, Kevin’s eyes, as vibrant as the ring still sitting on Jean’s finger, are hard to decipher. Jean wouldn’t dare call them pleading, but they’re glistening with something , and Jean wants to give him the world.
Kevin glances to the floor, unsure. It’s not a look Jean likes on him. Kevin should not be feeling guilt, or worry.
That’s why Jean arranged this. To make things as easy as possible.
I won’t weigh you down.
Eventually, Kevin whispers into the space between them, a mere crevice. When did he get that close?
“Are you sure?”
Don’t ask me that.
Jean’s not one for smiling, but it’s easier to fake with Kevin. Kevin’s the only one to ever receive his genuine smiles.
He does his best, though it breaks him in two. Pursed lips, no shakiness. He sure hopes it looks like a smile, but Kevin’s expression doesn’t change.
Stopstopstop.
Don’t make me ask you if it’s what you want too. I can’t handle the answer.
Jean thinks the selfish thing to do would be to beg to stay together, to admit he doesn’t want to let Kevin go. He wants Kevin to stay, stuck with him. Arranged or not, it’s what he yearns for most of all.
But that’s also how Jean knows this is real love. He can’t allow it.
Jean nods, too jerkily. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore,” he says. “You’re free.”
When did Jean get so bad at reading Kevin’s expressions? He’s never seen this look before. Slightly surprised, maybe hesitant?
Kevin’s mouth flaps open a few times, unable to grasp for the words. Jean wants to tell him he feels the same way. And yes, this was Jean’s idea, but he thinks he would stall forever, waiting for Kevin to get it all out.
They’re now twenty minutes late for their appointment. What’s another five, ten?
“What will you do?” Jean asks. He finds it’s not just to pass the time. He wants to know everything. From the minute they’re out of this courtroom and Kevin is not by his side, what direction will he go?
Kevin’s brow furrows, and he looks down at his left hand, as if expecting a racquet to materialize out of thin air. Exy has always been the answer, the default, the only option on a multiple choice question. Jean almost chuckles at him.
All those beautiful things going on in your head, and you haven’t thought about it?
“I’m not sure yet,” Kevin admits, huffing in amusement. His thumb brushes Jean’s knuckles. “I love exy but…”
He doesn’t have to elaborate. Jean understands. It’s all Kevin has ever known, something easy to fall back on. But why do so, when now the possibilities are endless?
Jean decides to be bold, one last time.
“I think you should work at a museum,” he blurts out. It’s worth it, when that slow, shy smile blooms on Kevin’s face. “It’s what you love. You should—you should do what you love.”
From now on, forever.
Kevin freezes. It’s a split-second thing, but Jean notices. Kevin’s grip stings, constricting. Jean doesn’t dare look away from his face to see if his hand is turning purple. He wouldn’t really care, either.
He watches Kevin swallow, does his best not to linger on the perfect line of his throat. Kevin’s smile isn’t as genuine this time, but they both went to the same school of positive emotions. Is that what Jean’s looks like too?
“So should you,” Kevin whispers. And no, Jean can’t stand here any longer. He can’t bear this a moment more. He stares down at the floor, measures time by the sun moving across the tile. All along he fights his tongue to keep it in check, to not admit that what he would love would be to stay at Kevin’s side for the rest of their lives.
Those were the vows, the vows he’s choosing to revoke. And it all makes sense to him but it doesn’t, a fucked up sacrifice, a final act of devotion. And despite all that he wishes he was a worse person, he wishes he could take what he wants. Once he’s outside these doors, he’ll have no choice but to learn how, but not yet.
Not with this.
During the silence, the sunlight streaming through the windows hits the ring on Jean’s left hand, and he doesn’t much believe in signs, but he supposes he can’t delay the inevitable any longer.
Carefully, he goes to pull his ring off, but Kevin stops him faster than one of his shots to the goal.
“ No .” It sounds like an order. It’s one Jean would have no issue following. Truly, the Moriyamas could not buy this level of endearment for all the money in the world.
Then, Kevin clears his throat, shaking his head as if pleading. “Keep it, it’s yours. Maybe you can…sell it or— or something.”
Jean would do no such thing. He will cherish it to the grave.
He simply says, “Yeah, okay.”
The gap between them closes more, it feels like every syllable bleeds into the other’s mouth. Jean’s not sure how long they stand there, but eventually, he hears the notary’s door open.
He can’t remember anything else, apart from signing his name, and the sweat of his palm when Kevin finally pulls away.
When they leave the courthouse, they choose to wave, rather than say goodbye.
--
The icing sugar on his clothes is still visible when he walks through the museum doors, falling off him in wisps and only visible under the brief slant of sunlight through the windows.
He hadn’t felt like going back home after work to change. He never does.
He smells like vanilla and lemon emulsion, like cake layers and brown sugar. It’s thick, toeing the line towards artificial. He should rinse it off, not mix it with the chemical-clean of polished museum floors. The longer he sits in it, the more it will set, but in a way, he likes the reminder that his life, though simple, is real.
It had been a good day, like most days are now. Busy, routine. He lost count of how many pastries he glazed, how many piping bags he wrung dry, dolloping cakes with the perfect amount of buttercream. There’s chocolate under his nails no doubt, long tempered and cracked, but never showing in his art. No, each piece of modeled chocolate lay perfect, unbroken, atop each creation.
He blinked and the day was over, but the evidence…he cherished it. It was not the glamor a professional exy career would’ve brought, nowhere close to the money, but he had loyal customers and a near-empty pastry case at the end of each day. He got to be creative, at peace in his own head, and he came to not mind sharing a piece of cake or two with his coworkers at the end of a long day.
But no matter how submerged in his new life he became, one thing never changed:
Every day, after work, he goes to a museum.
They call to him like a siren, so embedded in his routine he can’t bear to skip out. The bone-deep tiredness evaporates when he breathes in the air, the scent of floor cleaner and canvas. There’s a moment, when he walks through the doors, where he feels like he’s floating in another realm entirely. The noise from the outside and any lingering anxiety locked deep in his chest fizzles out in the stark silence. He’s in a safe place, swaddled by nothing but history, expression, and memories of a beautiful boy’s intensity.
He can make his escape in any way he likes. Through ancient history, modern art, classical. At least ten museums line the nearby streets in his city, each with rotating exhibits and featured artists. There’s always something new to notice, to pick apart and find meaning in. When he can’t, when a piece simply won’t make sense to him, he tries harder.
Kevin taught him that. That unflinching desire to find his own, personal answer, and grasp it with ferocity unmatched.
And oh, there it is again. Will those thoughts ever end?
The weight on his hand drags him towards the floor.
No, probably not. Not if he can’t so much as take off his wedding ring years later.
Jean sighs as he comes upon an art piece. It’s part sculpture, part painting. He thinks it’s asking too much for something to take his mind off Kevin, a Herculean task even when Jean isn’t less than a quarter mile away.
Today’s museum is contemporary art. He has to say, it tends to be hit or miss with him, his least favorite. Some pieces he could stare at for hours and never resonate with the hidden meaning, the emotions trapped within. He’ll read the placard over and over, the history, the context, the author blurb. But his heart will not beat any faster, his mind will not have the lightbulb moment.
But then others will unravel him with the slightest brush stroke. They eviscerate him, clawing for the heart until he could reach in through his rib cage and paint the world with it himself. He feels the ache of pieces like that, of longing, of love, of being trapped or chained. The remnants of the Moriyamas sneak up on him when he least expects, and he will stare at the piece for what feels like years, wondering how it manages to feel like a mirror.
This sculpture is like that.
It’s a canvas with scraps of fabric melded to it. The surface is uneven, wonky. Some parts of the canvas come from flat, silky pillowcases. The edges are bulked up with tufts of comforter. Shreds of sheets make up most of it, all splattered with paint. Some sections are a violent red, others a mellowed pink or blue. There are splashes of yellow, bold and obnoxious. Those, he thinks are his favorite. On one corner of the painting, a tattered sheet provides dimension. It hangs out of the frame to the floor, untouched and off-white behind the protective barrier.
Titled: Our bed.
Jean doesn’t need to finish reading the blurb. An expression of grief, of missing the one you’re so used to lying beside, through thick and thin. Through rage and sadness, the mundane. He feels all of it, without having to know the details. His hand weighs him down and he wants to fall with it, to beg the painting to give him the strength to walk down the street.
Because no, Jean doesn’t care for the contemporary art museum one bit. But it’s next door to the natural history museum, which is curated by one Kevin Day.
It’s the only one Jean hasn’t been to.
He really thought today would be the day that changed. He felt tired in a good way, content in his life. Knowing all that, even with things as good as they are, he still wanted Kevin. He thought about his inquisitive nature, his stubbornness and tenacity. The way he could never let things go, and how finally, Jean had the courage to ask if the same applied to what they had.
And if that feeling had persisted, after all these years, could he take the risk and ask Kevin? Settle things once and for all instead of living in this fantasy in his head?
But upon seeing the looming stone steps, he had swerved to the left, right into the echoes of contemporary art, which did nothing but plunge his desperation deeper.
Our bed. Jean still remembers their bed. Kevin’s arms around him, his breath against his neck…
He could still go.
He could leave the contemporary art museum, turn right at the road and walk up the stone steps. He has no idea if Kevin is even in today, where his office is, if Kevin would want to see him. But he could try. He’s been trying so hard lately, why not keep going?
The cons outweigh the pros, he knows that. Kevin’s life is what it should’ve always been. Jean was never part of the plan. He was a pity gift, a pawn to keep Kevin happy and distracted, and he could not even do that.
But if there’s a shot that he can lay in that bed again, that they can lay in it together, consequences and all, why would he not risk it?
His heart pangs with the thought of it, hungry and eager to know the truth. It’s always been this way, he knows. He just finally has the confidence to acknowledge it, maybe do something about it.
A quarter mile. Stone steps. Double doors. That’s it.
But when the fresh night air hits his face, he takes a right instead of a left, and ends up alone on a barstool.
He nurses his beer until it’s lukewarm and damn near undrinkable. The foam falls flat and he wonders if Kevin would even drink it now, if he were here.
Kevin.
Kevin, Kevin, Kevin.
Jean swallows a bitter mouthful, in retaliation. For what? His own cowardice, his own inadequacy. He retches and avoids the bartender’s gaze. He should go home. Shower, sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. A good one, a normal one.
Apart from this. But even this is routine. Not the bar, not the warm beer. The avoidance, the wrong turn, dreams of our bed instead of his own. And like every time this happens, he tells himself the same thing.
Today just wasn’t the day.
And he cuts the train of thought short. Pulls the lever. Because the last thing he wants to know from himself is if the day will ever come.
Jean stares out the large bar window, the streetlamps flickering on the dark streets. Figures pass, shadows dancing and distorting like the wild strokes on the museum paintings. For a moment, he’s disappointed in himself for another reason entirely.
He didn’t pay attention to the exhibit, nor the theme. He has no idea if Kevin would’ve enjoyed it or not.
A figure steps out into the lamplight, coming to a hesitant stop outside the bar. The steps slow and roll, lingering, debating on whether or not the owner wants a drink. A dancing shadow dissolves until there is just light, a burst of bright green. The figure leads with his left. Stepping forward, stepping back. Never this unsure when alcohol’s involved.
Jean can’t be sure he’s not dreaming, but he still smells like icing sugar. There’s chocolate under his nails and flour stains on his pants. He’s real. Realer than he’s ever been, and Kevin Day is standing in front of the bar looking as stunning as the day Jean lost him.
And what’s Jean’s first thought, despite all his anguishing?
Don’t come in. Stay outside. Please stay.
I can’t bear it, if you look me in the eyes.
And yet, Jean doesn’t duck his head. Not when Kevin peers into the bar, not when they lock eyes for the first time in years. He’s prepared for a lot of things. Shock, awkwardness, even dread. He’s imagined them all, late at night when he can’t sleep.
What he’s not prepared for, is the giant grin that blooms on Kevin’s face. Bright and grand. Primary colors on white canvas. He looks…relieved, like he’s finally found the thing he’s been looking for.
Jean’s never been prepared for anyone to view him that way. His heart, which has taken so much in his short life, invites this pressure wholeheartedly.
This time, instead of sinking, the ring on his hand wants him to float. Closer, close enough to burrow into Kevin’s chest and never come out. That’s the bed he wants to lie in.
He needs to leave. He’s not sure why. Instinct, fear, insecurity. Any one of the pathetic traits Jean can’t shake off. He stands abruptly, but his knees buckle. His body and his heart war against him, because he can’t run away and he can’t stand his ground either. Not when it’s Kevin.
It’s the chance Kevin needs, the one Jean never expected him to take. He can count on one finger how many strides it takes Kevin to make it to the door and yank it open. The soft jingle of the bell is not a fitting soundtrack for Jean’s world zeroing in on him.
For everyone else, it’s nothing. Kevin’s confident, strong footsteps get swallowed up by the chatter of the bar and the clink of glasses. For Jean, everything Kevin does is monumental. He’s not sure whether to be offended or grateful that no one stops and stares.
But then Kevin is there, and any thought of others is wiped out. A meteor shower, that’s what Kevin is. Commanding attention, radiating light.
And he’s here, burning and brilliant, all for Jean. He almost gets too close, feet stumbling and stopping just short of them touching. Jean nearly asks him what he was about to do, what his instinct wanted before his brain kicked in.
But Kevin grips the table like he feels as unbalanced as Jean does, and when he speaks, Jean shivers.
“Jean,” Kevin says, almost a sigh. Reverent. His fingers twitch at his sides and Jean wants now, more than ever, for Kevin to be braver than he is.
Defeated, taken apart, Jean’s shoulders drop. The tension bleeds out of him, the fight gone. He’s been so tired, he realizes, tired of not seeing Kevin this close up every day.
“ Mon beau ,” he whispers. He never did get around to teaching Kevin French. Even if he had, the pet names rolls off his tongue smoothly, free from the secret confines of his brain after so long.
The edge of Kevin’s mouth quirks up a little. Emerald eyes are no longer wary, or haunted, like they used to be. They’re playful.
“Uh, actually, I’m fluent now,” Kevin says, like a correction. Then, cheekily: “ Mon chou .”
Jean’s body doesn’t have enough blood to color all of him in that moment. He feels the heat in his face and down to his chest, and is suddenly very aware that he does not look presentable enough to be called something so cute. He looks down at his stained pants and work shirt, the apron hanging out of his bag. He fidgets and fusses, looking anywhere but at the put-together man in front of him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, backing up when Kevin steps closer. Like caging an animal, Kevin’s hands spread along the table, a silent plea. “I just got off work and I’m—this is—I should really go—"
“ No ,” Kevin says, quickly, clumsily. Have they both always been such a mess? “Stay. I want you to stay.”
He grabs Jean’s hand, and the rush of familiar comfort it brings is too much. Kevin’s hands are soft now, without exy wearing them out. They’re wider than Jean’s, as they always were. They never held hands much outside the bedroom, in the dark space where they couldn’t see each other’s faces. He always assumed he was the only one on cloud nine, smiling in the dark. The more and more he looks at Kevin now, with nowhere to hide, he starts to believe he wasn’t alone in that.
Kevin’s hand gently readjusts, curling itself around his. His thumb strokes Jean’s wedding ring.
The last strings of doubt within him get snipped one by one, until the last is hanging by a thread.
“Why?” Jean asks because he has to. If he doesn’t, the hope will kill him. It rides the wave of a glass clinking, but Kevin hears him.
And he learns the answer to everything was always so simple.
“You’re my husband,” Kevin says, like it’s so obvious. Like they were both fools, to go against it.
Yes. I am.
“That’s how it always should’ve been,” Kevin finishes, tone drowning in apology, in regret, none of which Jean is interested in. “I shouldn’t have let you walk away, that day– I’m–”
Jean cuts him off with more fire than he thought he possessed. He’s not sure why. These are words he’s always yearned to hear, deep down. A confession, no, a reassurance. Proof that the way he felt wasn’t all in his head, that their bond meant something more than shackles.
And here Kevin is, giving him all that and more. And yet, Jean can’t bear to see him so sad. They were always partners, and partners share the blame.
“And I should’ve reached out and taken what was mine.”
Because you’re mine, right? Then and now. Forever.
It comes out more serious than he intends. It’s hungry , a beast unearthed. A possessiveness he never learned, unfamiliar but oh so addicting. It’s his now. He can be whatever he wants. Dangerous, unwilling to share, clingy .
From the way Kevin’s eyes darken, Jean doesn’t think he minds. It’s something Jean will love getting used to.
And for a moment, the logical side of him thinks of all those papers they signed. The signatures, notaries, the divided assets. All that, for what? To do it all over again?
But then Kevin’s lips graze his gently, shyly. They haven’t kissed since their wedding day. It feels like breathing, good and long, before a much needed exhale.
Paper is paper. They can rewrite all they want.
Jean’s hand curls around Kevin’s, and he pulls him closer.