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It had been a particularly rough day at practice. Jeremy had missed three goals in a scrimmage that were practically wide open because his aim had been so off. He had stumbled during drills and dropped more passes than he could count. By the end of it, he just wanted to get out of the stadium as quickly as possible, not even bothering to shower in the locker room, so he could throw his stuff in his bag and leave.
His teammates were used to it at this point, his silence and reserved demeanor. They had stopped trying to coax him into conversations months ago.
Silence greets him as he steps into his apartment. Jabberwocky is staying with Jean and Cat this week, their turn to have him. The space is barren outside of the essentials and what he had moved in with, his measly possessions he had managed to grab from his family’s home before they officially disowned him.
He has lived here for nearly ten months now, and with a professional exy salary, he really could decorate the place to make it feel a bit more homey. But he just can’t find the care to do so.
In all honesty, he hates his apartment. It is lonely and cold and hollow. But he can only blame so much of that on the space itself because if he is being honest, so is he.
After graduating, he had moved out of the loft, which he had only officially lived in for two months. Laila had moved to Seattle after accepting a position as a goalie on their professional exy team. And Jeremy had taken a spot as a striker on the Los Angeles Raiders. It was his perfect scenario. He could stay close to Jean, no need for long distance, and LA was already home to him.
But now it feels like all the warmth and comfort has been bled from the city, leaving it a shell of what it once was for him.
Jean is not far, only forty or so minutes away, perhaps an hour if traffic is really bad. With Jeremy’s professional exy schedule and Jean in his last year at USC, they make it work, spending two or three nights a week together, the weekends if neither of them has away games. Jeremy had even given him a key to the place, so Jean could come and go as he pleases.
His life is objectively good. He has his dream job and the perfect boyfriend. He has friends who cared about him. He should be happy.
And that makes it so much worse. Because he isn’t happy. He isn’t happy at all.
It started off as a sting when his family cut him off and kicked him out. He knew that was coming when he had chosen himself, the career and future he wanted. It didn’t dull the hurt that came with it, though.
A month after he had moved into the loft, he had been reading the newspaper and saw the obituary for his father. The mug of coffee he had been about to take a sip from slipped from his hand and shattered. Jean had snatched Jeremy up before he could drop from the stool to his knees on the shattered porcelain, cradling him close and asking him what was wrong over and over as Cat and Laila scrambled to clean up the mess.
Then, a month later, he had graduated.
No one had warned them that the accomplishment, the milestone, would feel like such a loss. A loss of his friends as they scattered across the country and into different job sectors, a loss of his routine, a loss of the home he had found on campus. A loss of his team, his people, his place in the world.
He moved out of the loft and into his own place, because it was closer to the stadium he’d be practicing and playing at almost daily, and because that’s what you were supposed to do when you graduate. You move on, move up, and out into the real world.
But Jeremy felt like he had lost himself at some point there, because he left USC feeling like he was trudging through life without really knowing why.
He had started practice for the Raiders almost immediately, and while that should have returned him to some sense of normalcy and grounded him in a routine, it didn’t. He felt like there was this wall between him and his new teammates. Part of that was on him. Most of it, actually. At some point, he had become solemn and withdrawn, a far cry from the outgoing, bubbly, smiling player they had originally recruited.
Each week seemed to be harder to get through, every day more exhausting, and yet he could scarcely sleep at night, lying in bed and perhaps finding an hour or two of sleep before waking up in the morning already spent.
Jean had caught on eventually to the fact that Jeremy wasn’t sleeping, that his smiles had changed, that his laughs were forced. Jeremy could tell he had caught on before Jean even brought it up. In the ways Jean would watch him more carefully when they were together, in the ways that he always made sure to have a hand on Jeremy, the soft kisses that became more frequent in the silences.
But soon Jean just started to look worried every time he was with Jeremy, and it made the ache in his chest so much worse. Because, of course, he was so awful, he was bringing Jean down with him. He hated it.
Slowly, he just started pushing people away. He felt the way he brought the mood down at everything he attended, the way people felt like they needed to tiptoe around him or constantly check in with him. It was painful watching his own sadness infect everyone else, so he just removed himself so it couldn’t anymore.
He slips off his shoes and walks into the kitchen, opens the third drawer down beside the stove, and digs through the dish towels until he feels a plastic bag. He pulls it out and digs around until he finds the other one.
He drops the bag of percocets onto the counter for later and opens the bag of white powder. He pours out just enough for three lines, which he makes with his credit card.
He hadn’t been able to sleep last night for more than two hours, even though Jean had held him so close. He was unable to find rest even after Jean had opened him so gently, forcing moans and soft gasps out of him. He couldn’t turn his mind off even after Jean had fucked him so slowly and thoroughly, whispering praises in Jeremy’s ear. Telling him how good he was, how perfect he was, how much he loved him.
And it had taken everything in Jeremy to not burst into sobs right there, because how had he manipulated Jean so thoroughly into believing those things?
He looks down at the counter, studying it as if the answer might be written there on how he could’ve let himself fall this far. Then he leans over and snorts the first line, then the second. He pinches his nose, closing his eyes and taking a sharp inhale. He stands up, waiting for that numb euphoria to take over. It’ll take a minute for it to kick in. He looks down at the last strip of white powder.
And his mind starts whirring.
What if he just keeps going? What if he doesn’t stop? What he just lets it all e–
There is a rustling and cracking of plastic.
Jeremy straightens from the counter to find Jean only feet away from him, staring at him with wide eyes, lips parted. There’s a grocery bag at his feet and what seems to be takeout containers that have split open.
He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand, moving to shield the counter with his body, his back to the drugs so that he’s facing Jean, but it’s too late. Jean has already seen it all.
He stalks towards Jeremy, not even looking at him as he grabs him by the shoulders, forcing Jeremy out of the way.
“Jean, I –”
Jean leans over to inspect the contents of the counter, running his finger through the line Jeremy still had left and rubbing his fingers together. Picking up the bag of little white pills and inspecting the contents. He drops it back onto the counter before slowly turning to Jeremy.
There is no shock in that steely gray gaze anymore, only anger. And maybe hurt.
“What is this, Jeremy?” Jean’s voice is low and rough.
Jeremy opens his mouth and closes it. Tries again to speak. But he can’t get the words out.
Jean grips Jeremy’s chin, forcing his eyes up to meet that burning glare as he scrutinizes him beneath it. If Jeremy could melt into the floor right now, he would.
After a few seconds of searching, that anger ebbs and gives way to full-blown hurt. Jean drops Jeremy’s chin, stepping back as if he burned him. Jeremy wishes he had just punched him in the stomach instead.
“You have been – That is – These past few weeks – You have been high.”
It’s not a question, it’s a realization.
“How long?” When Jeremy doesn’t answer, Jean’s voice raises ever so slightly. “How long has this been going on?”
Jeremy looks at the ground, squeezing his eyes shut. “Two months,” his voice is just barely above a whisper.
“Two months?” It sounds like Jean is choking on the words.
“It wasn’t every day at first,” Jeremy hurries to add.
“And it is now?” Jean turns a bewildered gaze on him, and Jeremy knows he has said the wrong thing. “Now it is every day?”
“Yes,” Jeremy says, his voice so weak and pathetic.
He only knows Jean heard him because he slams his fist against the counter, before running his hand through his dark hair, squeezing his eyes shut.
Jeremy wants to claw off his skin and run his insides beneath soapy water. Maybe then he would stop feeling so disgusted with himself, so awful, and grimy and dirty.
“Is this it?” Jean nods at the counter. “Or is there more?”
“Jean –” Jeremy takes a step towards him, reaching for him.
But Jean only held up a hand, pressing his lips together and taking a step back. Jeremy bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood.
Jean inhales slowly and then blows out a long breath before speaking again. “Is this it, or is there more?”
“I’ll stop,” Jeremy shakes his head, his eyes heating. God, he is so fucking pathetic. “I’ll stop, it’s – I don’t –”
“Jeremy,” Jean snaps, and it is the closest Jean has ever come to yelling at him.
Jeremy flinches, the words dying in his throat. Jean closes his eyes, taking another deep breath before fixing Jeremy with a hard look that makes his breath hitch.
“You will stop,” Jean says so quietly, Jeremy nearly has to lean in to hear him. “You will stop because I am taking you to rehab. Right now.”
Jeremy stumbles back until his thighs hit the kitchen table.
No. No, he can’t. He can’t do it again, can’t go back there. He had been so alone, and it had all hurt so much, and he had just lost –
“No,” Jeremy shakes his head rapidly, and he’s pleading now. “No, I can’t. I’ll stop, I will –”
“I don’t trust you, Jeremy.” It isn’t said with malice. There is only hurt and anguish written across Jean’s face, bleeding into the words.
But it hurts like Jean had driven a blade into his chest, like he had poured acid on Jeremy’s lungs.
“Jean,” Jeremy’s voice trembles as the heat in his eyes spills over to his cheeks.
Jean turns his head, looking at the wall as if he can’t bear to meet Jeremy’s gaze, as if he’s disgusted with him. And why wouldn’t he be?
A sob escapes Jeremy’s throat, and Jean startles, looking back at him. His gaze is hard, resolute.
“I am taking you to rehab right now. This is not a discussion.”
“No,” Jeremy shakes his head, curling in on himself. “I won’t, I won’t do it. You can’t make me go–”
“You will let me take you now, or this is over, we are over,” Jean points between them.
“Jean,” Jeremy takes a gasping breath.
“I am serious, Jeremy.” And he looks serious.
“I can’t. I won’t,” Jeremy tries again, tries to make him understand.
Jean’s cold expression cracks, for just a second, there is agony written across his features, before they are sealed behind that mask. That mask that he is never supposed to use with Jeremy, is never supposed to have to use with Jeremy.
“I won’t watch you destroy yourself,” Jean whispers, pursing his lips and looking away.
Jeremy lets out a choked sob, words lost to him.
Jean stares at the wall for a moment, waiting. When Jeremy says nothing, Jean does not even look at him as he speaks the words.
“Then we are done.”
It's like someone cut the strings that were holding Jeremy up. He folds in on himself, collapsing into a pile of self-loathing and tears and aching.
It’s all a blur from there. Jean is talking to someone, but it’s not Jeremy. There are footsteps, shuffling, a door slamming shut, and then silence.
Time passes, but Jeremy isn’t sure how much.
A hand on his shoulder is shaking him, and he scrambles up so he is sitting.
“Hey, just breathe. Just breathe, Jeremy.” Two hands are on his shoulder now, and he blinks a few times before he can focus on Cat kneeling in front of him.
When he meets her eyes, they are glistening. “Oh, Jer.”
It hurts, it all hurts so much. Every look towards him, every word spoken to him, every breath he fucking takes. He needs it all to stop.
Cat coaxes Jeremy up and to his room. She changes him into clean sweatpants and a sweatshirt, gently pushing him into bed and beneath the cover. She forces him to drink some water and tries to get him to eat a granola bar, but he’s so nauseous he gags at the sight of it.
A garbage can is placed beside the bed, and Cat pulls up a chair, sitting beside him and running her fingers through his hair.
Jeremy’s gaze is fixed on the ceiling, and he feels a million miles away from it all.
“Please, just let us take you to rehab. Jean is really worried about you, and I don’t –”
“Get out,” Jeremy whispers to the ceiling, and Cat’s hand freezes in his hair.
She has never known this version of him, barbed and rabid and biting. She has never seen the ugly that lurks beneath the sunshine captain persona. Perhaps it's shocking. Perhaps he is more manipulative, a better actor than he had thought.
“Please,” he softens his words, hating the person he’s turning into, the person he’s reverting to. He needs everyone out, gone, pushed away before he hurts them anymore than he already has.
“Please, just leave.”
“Jeremy, please just –”
“Leave, Cat.” His voice is stronger this time, more insistent.
The hand slowly leaves his hair, wood creaks.
“Jeremy,” she starts, but he keeps his gaze on the ceiling.
“Get out.” If he has to be the bad guy, he will.
There’s a sniffle and footsteps growing more distant. Beyond his room, he hears a dial tone and soft words. Minutes pass before there’s a soft click of a door closing.
His phone buzzes on the bedside table before his ringtone for Laila starts. Cat must have put it there. He lets it ring until the sound dies out. Seconds later, it starts up again. He doesn’t reach for it.
A few seconds pass before it buzzes with a text. Finally, Jeremy grabs it, flipping it open to find a text from Laila.
Please call me, Jeremy. I’m worried about you.
He lets out a cold laugh that sounds hollow even to his own ears. That’s all he seems to be able to do lately: worry people. God, his mother was right. He is such a fucking burden.
Sitting up quickly, he launches his phone at the wall opposite his bed as hard as he can. It explodes on contact, shattering into tiny pieces that scatter this way and that.
Dropping onto his side, he wrenches open the drawer of his bedside table, digging around until his hand brushes up against a plastic bag. He pulls it out and opens it, pouring out three of the little white pills into the palm of his hand. He studies them for a moment before pouring out another two for good measure.
Dumping them into his mouth, he swallows them dry, letting them scratch and tug at his throat uncomfortably. He drops back onto his pillow, closing his eyes and allowing the hazy numbness to wash over him. Finally, he feels just a modicum of peace as the darkness swallows him whole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He wakes up the next morning feeling like someone has gutted him and then hollowed out his insides. Almost mechanically, he sits up and climbs out of bed. He walks into the bathroom and digs through the top drawer, pushing aside the floss and toothpaste until he finds a small blue bag, and with that, a small bag of powder.
His fingers brush up against something cold, and he freezes. He pulls the bag out, digging around until he finds the smooth piece of metal and pulls that out as well.
He holds up the razor blade, inspecting it. A spare from the razor that sits on his counter.
Dropping it down onto the marble, he opens the bag, dumping out the remainder of the coke. It’s just enough to get him through the morning, as if the universe were rationing him. As if the world knew he had other intentions.
Picking up the razor blade, he divides the white powder into three lines. One by one, he snorts them, pinching his nose and sucking in another sharp breath before dragging the back of his hands beneath it.
He licks his pointer finger, picking up the residue from the counter and rubbing it along his gums.
He closes his eyes, letting his head drop back as he slowly feels the high set in.
When he opens his eyes again, he finds dull brown eyes looking back at him. He’s pale, and when he turns his head ever so slightly, his reflection follows suit. His jaw looks a bit sharper than it used to.
He wants to smash his fist into his reflection until there is nothing left, until the glass cuts into his knuckles.
His gaze falls to the counter where the razor blade sits beside the now-empty bag. He picks it up, pinching it between his thumb and his forefinger, turning it over to inspect the thin silver piece of metal.
There’s some white residue on it, which he wipes off on his sweatshirt before inspecting it again.
Satisfied, he reaches down to the waistband of his shorts with his freehand and pulls them down so his right thigh and hip are exposed. He stares at the unmarred expanse of skin, for how long he isn’t sure.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, and with his right hand, he drags the razor blade along his thigh. He moves it a bit lower and does it again. And again. Three thin lines bead with blood and drip. He watches it, as if detached from his own body, as if watching this happen from far away.
It feels right, it feels fair. He deserves this. He deserves to bleed and hurt and bear the scars of all the ugliness he feels inside. It’s only fair.
He drops the razor onto the counter, not bothering to clean the blood off it. He grabs a tissue and roughly wipes off the excess blood, haphazardly slapping a bandage over the cuts so he doesn’t get blood on his clothes. The movements tug on the cuts, and he relishes the burn of it, the painful stretch of his skin.
He looks up at himself again in the mirror. Can he really blame anyone? If he could leave himself, he would. But he’s stuck, trapped in his head with himself.
He turns his back on the reflection and walks out of the bathroom.