Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I thought you quit?”

Jeremy Knox billows out a stream of smoke and lowers the arm holding the cigarette between two fingers. He shoots Rhemann a sheepish smile as he says, “I did.”

Rhemann isn’t deterred by the admittance in the slightest. He sits down next to Jeremy on the stone curb close enough that their shoulders are touching. Jeremy subconsciously leans into the sturdy presence on his left side, right hand dropping the cigarette on the ground to join the pile of other snuffed-out stubs. The fading winter throws gusts of chilly winds between harsh sun rays, shattering the illusion of a perfect California climate. Jeremy squints his eyes against the light and tries not to think too hard about the ramifications of being caught.

“Don’t waste a perfectly good set of lungs. Your voice doesn’t deserve this,” Rhemann speaks when it’s silent for too long.

Jeremy closes his eyes fully. “I know. I wasn’t lying when I said I quit. It’s just…” He trails off, unsure how to articulate the complex root of his issue. Feeling like there’s no choice but to fall back on an old habit seems weak to say out loud. Only doing it once for old times’ sake is a naive excuse. Not wanting to waste the cigarette box he bought almost a year ago is an even worse excuse, since they’re set to go stale in no time. Telling the full truth is also out of question, because confessing he smoked so he wouldn’t partake in a trashy hookup again would reveal he has problems less desirable than lung disease.

Rhemann doesn’t chastise him for omitting the truth; he never does. “Wilshire again?” He asks as a light guess, and Jeremy’s silence is telling enough.

“C’mon,” Rhemann orders, grabbing Jeremy’s shoulders to pull him up. Jeremy relents and slowly reopens his eyes as he’s dragged away from the isolated farmhouse and back on the trail leading toward Sunshine Garage. They pass by the landowner’s home on the way, and Adi waves at them from where he’s watering plants on the patio. Rhemann calls out a greeting, and Jeremy tries not to let his adoration drown under the pressure of jealousy. He owes the couple his life and would never hesitate to go to them for help if he truly needs it—truly, as in rarely, because Jeremy is dealing with everything just fine right now.

As the dirt trail splits, they make a right turn away from the large plot of fenced-off thin grass reserved for parking. The more popular Trojan Horse gets, the larger the need to pave all that nature down with flat cement, but Rhemann refuses to destroy what came before them. It’d be endearing if he wasn’t like that with every other part of his old-school lifestyle; even Adi jokes about his partner’s nostalgic blindness sometimes.

So instead of creating modern roads like most growing garage bands do, they hired landscapers to thin out grass and build fences for parking and mow down to dirt for walkways. Since Adi got the massive plot of land passed down to him, they’re free to do whatever they want to make changes. With his and Rhemann’s house at the center, they both decided to split it in half; the left side of the house is reserved for the small farm, and the larger, more embellished side houses the Sunshine Garage and its many accommodations.

Jeremy still can’t believe the magic, even after seeing it every day for over two years. He walks down the small hill and revels in the size of what used to be a simple shipping container. Together, with the help of enthusiastic locals, Trojan Horse built an entire stage out of old walls and recycled parts. half the size of a football field. almost the width of an Exy court. an entire half-open stage. He’s shocked they made it this far each time.

“Still starstruck?” Laila jests, nearly scaring the light out of him with how quickly she appeared. He hears laughter behind her and can feel Rhemann’s weighted gaze on the side of his head.

He takes too long to respond. She drags him away from Rhemann with a knowing look, and Jeremy throws himself into the interaction with a curt, “Every time.”

“Don’t worry, me too. And you know how Cat is every time she gets up on stage. Speaking of…” She fishes out her phone and flips it open to show him a text message. “Cat went out on her bike again after lunch to fish for more road signs. She sent me this about half an hour ago!”

Laila shoves her phone into his face. Jeremy uses his hand to shield the screen from the sun, grinning when he sees the grainy photo. Underneath a “look at what i found babe!” is a photo of Cat holding up a rectangular sign titled “PLEASE DO NOT FEED ME” above an image of a distressed waterfowl.

“Do I even wanna know where she got that?” Jeremy asks.

Laila laughs and takes a moment to send a text message back. “No idea. She did say she was going to dig around dumpsters near the abandoned pier though, so she probably found it there.”

Jeremy grins, trying to imagine such a ridiculous sign displayed behind the stage. “Do we even have waterfowl in California?”

“Jeremy, I love you, but waterfowl just means ducks that live near water. Of course we do.”

“Ok, ok, we get it, you’re a nerd—”

“So are you! Mr. “I ace all my LSAT practice—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, cutting herself off with an immediate remorseful look. Jeremy ignores her regret in favor of flashing her a genuine smile. “Don’t sweat it. We’re just different types of nerds, yeah? Let’s leave it at that.”

“Right…” Jeremy watches her swallow and send another text to Cat. He hates thinking about what his parents tried to force him to do, but he hates seeing his friends upset even more, so he continues saying, “Good news is, I think there’s a perfect spot where one of our old rusted signs had to be taken down. Why don’t you see if Cody can help you decipher its spot?”

Laila’s brightness returns, and she shoots him a thumbs-up. “On it, boss!”

As she skips back down the hill toward Cody, Rhemann puts a hand on his shoulder. He half expects a lecture, but he only tells Jeremy, “Take care at practice. I have some business to take care of.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy answers, and hopes the sincerity in his tone is enough to convey what two words could never.

Rhemann smiles and wanders back off. He doesn’t have to say it, but Jeremy knows the older man understands what he’s trying to say. When Laila calls back over to him, Jeremy jogs down the hill to where most of the crew are meandering around Sunshine Garage.

The half-open stage was strategically placed to have the sunset hit their faces when performing, so the entire back wall glimmers in a bright orange as the afternoon passes by. It hurts to look at the sun’s reflection bouncing off metal, but an audience of enthusiastic fans squinting up at the stage always gives the illusion of them shining rays of light; their entire image is the pain hidden beneath sunshine—deceiving people with kindness.

“Crazy, right?” Xavier asks when Jeremy hops onto the stage. Xavier fiddles with nubs on one of the amps, and Jeremy drags a spare foldable chair over to collapse in front of a mic stand. With Cat still out and it being a Sunday, their practice for the rest of the evening should be light.

Jeremy grabs the guitar that had already been balancing on a stand and sits down to start tuning. “What is?” He eventually asks.

“This,” Xavier says as he gestures, “I saw your lovestruck look. Glad you’re not getting tired of us yet.”

“I could never!” Jeremy laughs and means it when he says it. They still have their hiccups here and there, but they’ve come so far that he refuses to consider them all anything but family.

“Yeah, well, Jillian did,” Laila chirps in and sits on the stage floor near Xavier. right. her.

Jeremy still remembers the resignation letter and regretful look as she declared her movement to another country. He doesn’t hold it against her, but losing their number one bassist had been rough. Over the past month since her departure, they’ve settled for substitutes, but no one else has come close to her skill. The fans are as supportive as ever, of course, and no one on Trojan Horse ever says anything.

But that doesn’t mean the lingering tension isn’t there, and what’s left unsaid usually ends up being the loudest.

“She was your housemate and best friend,” Jeremy reminds Laila with a lighthearted jest. She sticks her tongue out at him and goes back to typing on her phone.

“Maybe she got tired of third-wheeling you and Cat,” Cody says as they approach with the tools for altering the garage. They set it down toward the back of the stage and walk over as Laila argues with them.

Jeremy watches with a comfortable silence. Moments like these remind him of why he chose music over his predetermined future in the first place. It hadn’t been easy, and he’s still on a leash, albeit a looser one, but just existing in such contentment and trust is enough to make the compromise worth it. When his mind drifts too far out where hidden emotions wait with belated breaths, he coughs and re-focuses on the strings under calloused fingers.

He messes around a bit before snagging a guitar pick from his pocket once he’s confident in how it’s tuned. With it not connected to any amps or speakers, the sounds it produces are smaller. They are calmer. They are the setting sun slowly disappearing behind the horizon line of the hill, and not the darkness that comes after it. He strums lazily for a few seconds, wondering what he should work on first.

“Wanna run our setlist opener for this Saturday?” Xavier asks from the floor behind him. “I got new cables yesterday since our old ones were starting to corrode. I swear it’s from everyone always stepping on them.”

Jeremy grins and says, “Sure.” Xavier gets up to hand him his end of the cable that he plugs right into his guitar. When he’s given the thumbs up, Jeremy easily plays out a chord progression that vibrates the floor and shakes the spare water bottles plastered about the stage. Everyone turns to look at the source of the loud noise, shooting wide grins and enthusiastic hollers as the speakers blast his instrument.

“Sound good?” Jeremy asks.

Xavier smiles wide and proud. “Like nothing ever changed.”

“Should we get new speakers too? We’ve had this one since we used to be The Floozies,” Laila says as she inspects the wide speaker placed in the center on the floor beneath the drum set.

Cody gasps and runs to put an arm across the speaker protectively. “I’ve had this since before we even met at USC! If you lot need to upgrade, fine, but just don’t throw it out.”

“Maybe you can throw some graffiti on the front and place it next to our giant traffic cone,” Min suggests over her shoulder as she walks toward the break room door.

Jeremy looks to the spot right in the middle of other mismatched knick-knacks and laughs. “This really is a wayward garage.”

“And that’s why everyone loves it,” Laila responds with a wink. Jeremy opens his mouth to joke back, but freezes when his phone rings. His jaw locks in an awkward drop as a fox barking ringtone breaks the light atmosphere. He has specific call and notification sounds for each of his friends, and this is one hep thought he’d never hear again.

“Isn’t that…”

“I need to take this,” Jeremy says, waving off Cat’s concern and hastily standing up. He nearly trips over a TS cable on his way off the stage and ignores Xavier’s lighthearted cry of dismay. Jeremy shouts an unnecessary apology over his shoulder and jogs to the side door leading to the break room. When he enters, Min looks at him curiously, so he continues further out the second door leading outside.

“Hello?” Jeremy answers once he’s outside, heart pounding from both fleeing and in anticipation of weary news. He walks back and forth instead of standing still, using the movement as a release for his nervous energy. A voice he hasn’t heard in a while greets him; the last time he heard it, it hadn’t been good.

“It’s been a while, Jeremy,” Kevin Day, lead guitarist for FOXƧS, answers. After meeting at a gig when Kevin used to be a part of Evermore, they’ve hit it off ever since, constantly exchanging upcoming news about the garage band scene or exchanging tips from one guitarist to another.

Except that had been over text, and the last time Kevin had called had been him admitting through panicked breaths that Riko broke his hand. Jeremy still remembers the articles—Kevin Day injured in a skiing accident, an ex-Evermore stage crew member hinting at something worse, Kevin Day leaves Evermore and Riko behind. Having to pretend he didn’t know the truth left the taste of bile in his mouth for weeks, but Kevin’s fearful cries of never being able to play guitar ever again lasted longer.

That didn’t happen, of course, because not only did Kevin fully heal to the extent of playing just like he used to, but during the healing process, he had become a master of playing with his non-dominant hand. Jeremy had supported him nonstop throughout the process to the point of the FOXƧS and Trojan Horse becoming heavily associated with one another. The other members still remain strangers to each other, but on the outside, their support is a factor in both of their never-ending growth.

Kevin doesn’t take kindly to his reminiscent silence, saying, “Is now a good time? Can you hear me?”

Jeremy coughs and tries not to crave the burn of a freshly-lit cigarette. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. What’s up?”

“It’s about your band. You’re looking for a new lead bassist because your old one moved overseas, right? I have one for you.”

“Straight to the point as ever. Couldn’t have let me know through text?”

Kevin pauses for a moment, and Jeremy swears he heard something muttered in a foreign language. “Sorry, I keep being interrupted—” he spits out the last word as if it personally offended him, “but no, this isn’t a texting matter.”

“I see,” Jeremy speaks out against his own anxiety. “So who is this mysterious person you’re trying to recruit into my band?”

A beat of silence. Then a quiet, “Jean Moreau.”

Jeremy pauses his pacing in an ungraceful halt. His phone weighs heavily in his right hand, and he really, truly, wants it to be another cigarette right now.

“Jean Moreau,” Jeremy repeats, as if saying the name again would make it any less truthful.

“Yes, Jean Moreau. Don’t tell me you don’t know who that is.”

Of course Jeremy knows who that is—who doesn’t? Evermore’s lead bassist, numbered as three, constantly duo-playing with Kevin and backing Riko’s vocals with gut-wrenching screams. The three of them gained fame as being “perfect stage” right at the peak of Evermore’s fame. Even as rotations switched and new members got introduced for experimental songs and further reach, no one ever forgot about the staple three.

Then Kevin left, and it became just Jean and Riko for a whole year.

Jeremy had been so caught up in his own band’s performances and schedule that he barely paid attention to Evermore’s rapid decline since the end of last year, save for the extreme bits and pieces of news he shoved away in the back of his mind; Jeremy struggles to decipher if that’s a testament to his business or Moriyama Enterprises’ expert control over scandals. Evermore’s Halloweenfest in late October, straight from the Nest in West Virginia, had been the last time Jeremy remembered seeing Jean on stage. “Healing his throat” had been the one-off explanation that allowed Jean to fade into the background.

Jeremy hadn’t sweat the details because Riko’s announced suicide at the start of the new year swept everyone off their feet. Evermore went on a hiatus, and two months later, Kevin called him to offer up Jean on a silver platter. It’s too surreal for him to fathom right away.

The silence stretches on too long. Kevin swears in that foreign language again—French, perhaps—and tries to explain himself. “Listen, I know the circumstances are sudden and extreme, but so were mine. Look at how that turned out. You know I’d never turn down a good instrumentalist, but Jean can’t be with us. He’ll do what you need him to do. Someone like you will be good for him.”

Jeremy nods as if Kevin can see him. someone like me. It’s almost ridiculous how warming those words feel coming from Kevin’s mouth. Kevin Day, who’s notorious for his sharp tongue and deep criticisms, hands Jeremy words of high praise; he instinctively guesses something larger is at play here, but chooses not to question it.

So Jeremy resigns to his fate and says, “If you trust him, then I will too. The gang’s been itching for a replacement anyway. When do you think he’ll fly out here?”

Kevin is silent for a suspicious moment. “He should be arriving on the West Coast tonight. Maybe 11 pm your time, I think.”

“What?!” Jeremy yells out in shock. When Min peeks her head out the door in concern, Jeremy waves her off and prays she hasn’t been paying attention to their conversation.

“I know it’s fast, but we can’t hold him here in South Carolina any longer. We’re about to start our East Coast tour, and he can’t be left alone. Wymack bought the plane tickets only an hour ago.”

Jeremy stands as if the roots from the weeds nearby have crawled over his foot and cemented his shoes into the dirt. Every twitch of his muscles, every breath he lets out, exists as a lesser to the distressed knot in his mind. The Jean Moreau is likely already on a plane to California, and Jeremy has less than eight hours to prepare for his arrival. Rhemann and Adi can probably host him for a while, but the mere thought of that conversation sends his stomach twisting. Jeremy’s shallow agreement with his family means Jean staying at the mansion is way out of the question, which leaves Cat and Laila as the only other viable option, since Jillian left an empty room at their house anyway. Everyone else either lives too far from the farm to be of use or has their own problems going on.

“Jeremy?” Kevin’s voice cuts through his stupor. “Are you there? I have to finish packing soon.”

“I’m here! Just trying to, ah, process it all. Just text me his flight information, and I’ll sort out the rest.”

“Right. Thank you.”

Kevin hangs up, and Jeremy is left to reassemble the pieces shattered by the unexpected news. He doesn’t perceive it as bad, per se; it’s certainly not as tragic as their last call. However, Jeremy knows little to nothing about Jean Moreau outside of what Evermore advertises him as. Even Kevin barely talks about him despite them being close bandmates for around three years.

Jeremy shakes off the details with a heavy sigh—no sense in tackling it alone.

“Jeremy! Are you back?” Min calls out when Jeremy emerges back into the garage. Xavier waves him over to the open entrance, where Lucas stands next to him with a camera around his neck.

“Lucas?” Jeremy calls out as he jogs over to meet them. “What brings you here?”

Lucas points to the new sign Cody is nailing into the garage’s wall of collected street signs right behind the stage. Cat must’ve returned while he took the call. “Photographing the process of making art. Or, that’s what Cody called it. They know more about art than me.”

“Isn’t photography art?” Xavier asks with a playful push.

“Yes, but they’re Cody.”

Xavier laughs and responds with, “Touche.”

Jeremy allows them to continue what they’re doing before he drops the sudden news. Lucas kneels at the foot of the stage to capture Cody drilling the ridiculous new sign in an empty spot near the bottom portion of the large wall. Laila hands them screws while Cat takes photos on her own phone. Xavier walks over to Min to chat with affection, and Jeremy tries his hardest to figure out the future in the next ten seconds.

He thinks of Jean and how he’d fit into the picture the Trojans have fought so hard to make for themselves. Would he be as violent as the rumors say? Would his soul-wrenching metal screams interrupt their upbeat flow? Would Jean slide to his knees below Jeremy, blasting low and smooth riffs as a taunt to Jeremy’s own struggle with control? Jeremy knows only of shady articles and stalker photos of Evermore’s behavior behind the scenes; they’re infamous for their cult-like production process as much as they are popular for their talent. At the end of the day, that’s all they are—rumors.

but so were mine. and they were true.

“Jeremy?”

He blinks and realizes Cat had called out to him.

“Jean Moreau is going to be our new bassist,” Jeremy blurts out because holding it in has been driving him crazy, and he needed to get it out before he burst.

The reaction is as expected: Laila drops the bin of screws and Cat screeches in complete surprise. Cody looks completely taken aback, which isn’t surprising considering their bigoted cousin is a part of Evermore. Xavier and Min exchange silent glances without speaking, and Lucas—the crew member who also has a relative on Evermore—looks at Jeremy like he grew a tail and sprouted wings.

“Jeremy. My man. Y’know I love you,” Cody is the first to break the delicate silence, “but what the actual fuck?”

“Ok wait, let me explain!” Jeremy puts his hands up so no one asks anymore questions. “Kevin called just now to tell me Jean needs a new band. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. I only know that he’s arriving here tonight—”

“Tonight?!” Cat yells, and Laila doesn’t try to calm her down this time.

Xavier, bless his soul, tries to help out with damage control. “I mean, we do need a new lead bassist, right? And if it doesn’t work, he just won’t join, simple as that. Tonight is fast, though. Did Kevin say why?”

Jeremy nods in relief and says, “FOXƧS are leaving for their East Coast tour and can’t watch him. I assume that means Jean has been staying with them, but I wasn’t told anything further than that. You guys worry about adjusting to the news, I’ll be the one in charge of settling him in.”

Everyone nods at their own pace, taking the time to let the sudden change sink in. Lucas, who’d been idly fidgeting at the side the whole time, tries to argue. “But he is a Raven.”

“Was,” Jeremy stresses. “Not is, was. Let’s just see how it goes before we knock it, yeah? Who knows! Maybe he’ll be exactly what we’ve been looking for this whole time.”

“Will he fit?” Cody asks. “I say it as a genuine question. Evermore is known for only having one singer, and we’re like, known for the complete opposite. I don’t think Jean has ever sung before.”

“He does metal screams all the time?” Min questions.

Xavier shakes his head. “Not the same, love. Don’t get me wrong, the screaming is dope as hell, but it’s not really,” he gestures to the whole group, “us.”

“I think we could make it work!” Cat jumps in with an optimistic smile, “I’m sure there’s some way we can adapt to him or vice versa. We’ve done it before.”

“But his play-style is so aggressive! Surely, you’ve all heard the rumors of how he became Perfect Stage in the first place. And Grayson—” Lucas cuts himself off at the mention of his brother. Cody walks over to put a hand over his shoulder; having relatives in Evermore makes the situation all the more complicated, and they both know that struggle too well.

“I know, Lucas,” Jeremy sighs and tries to sort his own thoughts alongside the words he needs to say. “But Kevin knows this guy better than we do, and if he says Jean will fit, I believe him. You all don’t have to be best friends right away, but at least try to make it work. If there are issues, we will work through them like we always do, and if it really doesn't seem possible, I’ll handle it.”

Xavier hooks an arm around Min’s shoulder and says, “I’m more shocked than worried. There hasn’t been any news about Evermore at all since Riko’s death. And now their third star member is suddenly transferring to a band across the country? Why was he staying with FOXƧS in the first place?”

“Don’t you think it’s sketchy? Two of Evermore’s best members leaving a year apart before Riko kills himself?” Min adds to the ever-growing questions with innocent curiosity.

“I can scavenge the internet for juicy articles when I get back to my place,” Cat says. “I bet I can find something.”

“Or we can just ask him when we meet him?” Xavier chips in.

The Trojans continue to argue about what to do and what the possible circumstances could be for such an abrupt and unexpected transfer. Jeremy thinks about Rhemann and his first year when they used to be called The Floozies, and makes a decision: “Listen, I know firsthand what it’s like trying to fit into something you’re not. Let’s just give him a try? We do need a new bassist, and his talent is no joke.”

Some nod while others hold their tongues. This isn’t Trojan Horse’s first conflict, and certainly won’t be the last, but Jeremy’s hunch tells him this won’t be remotely easy. He almost wishes he was back at home tearing up the LSAT results and limping up wooden patio steps to a concerned Rhemann—what’s unknown is always scarier than what he’s lived all his life bracing for.

Cody ends the silence and asks, “Does Rhemann know?”

“Do I know what?” Rhemann asks from behind him because that’s been Jeremy’s luck the whole day.

Jeremy rubs his hands down his face and tries not to envision the shape of the cigarette box still in his right pocket. “Can we talk at your place? You guys can test the new cables without me. There’s more stuff I need to discuss with Rhemann.”

No one protests, so Jeremy finds himself strolling up the dirt paths alongside Rhemann once more. By now, the sky has faded into a nice faded blue with hints of orange, which Jeremy curiously studies as he walks in favor of ignoring the heavy silence between them. Birds chirp and leaves rustle, but their journey to the house in the middle of the plot of land remains silent otherwise.

The wooden steps creak under Jeremy’s shoes as he walks up to the porch. Rhemann unlocks the front door and calls out inside the house. When Adi doesn’t answer, they walk into the silence with an awkward air.

“C’mon. Talk to me,” Rhemann says as he pours a glass of water. He offers it to Jeremy, who takes it and stares at the dim reflection of his uncertain eyes in the serene surface. He leans against the kitchen counter with the cup in hand while Rhemann roams about around him, likely making dinner for when Adi comes home from his errands.

“Kevin called me,” Jeremy starts, pausing to take a sip of water. “Said he knows someone who can fill our lead bassist spot.

Rhemann pauses to look at him curiously. “He’s your friend, right? How are he and the FOXƧS doing?”

“Good. They’re about to go on an East Coast tour.” Jeremy follows up his answer with another large swig of water. He knows Rhemann is stalling to give him some time to relax; he doesn’t know why he’s so afraid of telling the truth. Rhemann is one of the most understanding men Jeremy’s ever met, so he doesn’t doubt he’ll accept Jean without rebuttal. i doubt myself.

As Rhemann eyes him patiently, Jeremy swallows down the uncertainty and comes clean: “Kevin said Jean Moreau should join Trojan Horse.”

Rhemann’s neutral expression cracks ever so slightly. “Oh.”

“Yeah!” Jeremy laughs sheepishly. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

Neither of them speak for a moment. Jeremy knows this isn’t the craziest sentence that’s come out of his mouth, but it’s certainly one of the most surprising. Kevin leaving Evermore had been controversial enough to take up gossip and headlines for months. Riko’s suicide is still at the peak of its popularity and is constantly taking up interview topics and scene talk. With Jean crusading under the radar for months, his sudden reappearance as part of another band is sure to cause a stir. They both know the dilemma has less to do with Jean Moreau as a person and more to do with Trojan Horse’s reputation.

“What do you think?” Rhemann asks. He shows no sign of dismissal or disgust, which makes it easier for Jeremy to be honest. He clutches his now-empty glass of water tightly and rants: “I don’t know. I mean, we’re always open to helping those who need it. Just look at me, right? I’d love to have him on, and there’s no denying the talent in how he plays. But…”

Jeremy inhales sharply and tries to get through the next part of his worries. “We worked so hard to get where we are. Is it bad I’m worried about breaking what we’ve become? I’ll welcome him in regardless without hesitation because that’s what Trojan Horse does, but I feel a bit scared.”

It’s the rawest he’s spoken in months. Rhemann walks over to put a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and say, “That’s part of what makes you all special, Jeremy. It’s not that you’re perfect sunshine and rainbows; it’s that you fight to hone such ideals despite what you all go through. They’ll take time to warm up to him, as will you and I most likely, but my answer is yes.”

Jeremy’s knees nearly give out on him in respite. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I’ll try my best to ease him in, but I’m honestly unsure where to start.”

Rhemann turns his attention back to preparing dinner as he speaks. “Take a day off to get him accustomed to the area. I’m sure California’s vastly different from West Virginia. I’ll talk with our coaching and training staff too, and see what we can do to assess him. As a bassist, I have no doubts he can play any chords you throw at him, but it’s the singing I’m worried about.”

Jeremy is also unsure how a metal scream expert would sound in their harmonious codas or emotional duets. While being mostly known for pop punk, they’ve experimented with enough people and genres to be diverse, but still not enough to have a perfect slot for someone like Jean.“Evermore has strict training, so I assume Jean would know enough basics to sing outside of screaming.”

“I’ll talk to Lisinski about vocal assessment. We won’t know until he gets here, so for now, just focus on figuring out his accommodations. When is he arriving?”

oh. right.

“Tonight,” Jeremy admits bluntly, because the initial fear of telling Rhemann has vanished, but an uneasy energy still lingers; he’s starting to get tired and wants to erase the nerves of extreme change by getting it over with. The faster they figure this out, the more time Jeremy has to prepare to meet Jean face to face, and the quicker he has an excuse to not go back to his own home.

Rhemann expresses more outward shock at that, eyes widening in an incredulous expression. “And Kevin gave you no warning?”

“Nope.” Jeremy shakes his head. He’d almost laugh at Kevin’s ridiculous confidence if it didn’t mean he trusted Jeremy enough to know that he’d accept Jean without question. Jeremy stares out the window to where the sun is almost fully dipped underneath the horizon, and wonders what Jean sees right now outside of his plane. Would the sun be higher up? Would he be asleep and staring into the back of his lids? Such humane questions spark way too much intrigue for a mystery as notorious as Jean Moreau.

When Adi eventually pops in, not even a few minutes later, the three of them settle at the dining room table to discuss the issue over food. Jeremy didn’t need to be asked if he wanted a portion of dinner reserved for him; he never does. Rhemann and Adi have both explicitly expressed that he is welcome whenever, and Jeremy has taken them up on that over more times than he wants to admit.

They settle on Jean staying with the two of them for a while. The guest room is big enough that they can set up a blow-up mattress next to the bed that Jeremy has been calling his for a few years now. If Jean isn’t comfortable with that, Jeremy is also more than willing to crash on the living room couch despite their protests. He finds solace in couch hopping—a nostalgia for how far he’s come from those days, and a comfort that’s never left.

Jeremy expresses his gratitude for Rhemann and Adi’s never-ending kindness. They’ve done so much for both him and Trojan Horse already that anytime they go above and beyond with their generosity, Jeremy feels bad for not doing anything in return. They can tell him he doesn’t need to do anything all they want; he constantly fights to figure out what he can do to pay them back.

just keep doing the good work you’re doing.

keep being you.

How conflicting, in a world where freedom exists as a selfish desire and not a gift to give out to those who’ve been fighting too hard for such a novel concept. Rhemann and Adi’s journey to creating Trojan Horse hadn’t been easy in the slightest, and Jeremy will do anything to preserve that happiness, even if it means pursuing his own.

Dinner continues on through specifics: Jeremy finally harasses the flight details out of Kevin and agrees to pick him up from the airport alone. Hopefully, in the forty-five-minute drive from LAX to their plot of land away from the bulk of the city, they’ll get acquainted enough to ease Jean into staying at Rhemann and Adi’s place temporarily. They agreed to keep their relationship a secret for now, and that he’ll meet the rest of Trojan Horse one by one instead of all at once.

Rhemann promises to contact Wymack to see if he can press a bit more details. With only violent rumors and unsettling gossip to go on, Jean will remain a mystery until Jeremy can put a real, human body to the famous name. He never talks during interviews either, which further fuels his curiosity.

Now that they have a plan, the rest of the night flows smoothly. Rhemann cleans up the dishes while Adi picks out food for Jean to eat if he’s hungry when he arrives. They work expertly around each other with subtly woven affection, existing in each other’s space as if the universe decided that’s what is right.

Jeremy watches them with ease and finally relaxes knowing Jean will be in good hands. The future might be as bleak as everyone expects it to be, but for now, the night seems promising.

Chapter Text

LAX’s arrival terminal squeezes the air out of Jean as he trudges through thick crowds and loud noise. The lone backpack across his shoulders barely digs into his collarbones with how light it is. He keeps his head down as he walks across squeaky-clean tiles toward where Kevin said Jeremy would pick him up. His stomach curdles as he walks, and between the jet lag and lack of nutrients from the past eight hours, his consciousness threatens to wane alongside his ability to remain level-headed. If he stares down at his shoes for too long, his vision will start to double. If he looks up and ahead, where walls are too square and too small, he’ll be back there again.

Airplanes are tubular; airports are pointedly not.drive

When the crowd expands, and the sound of car engines gets louder, Jean looks up. At the edge of terminal three, behind a tall pillar, a blonde-haired man fiddles with a yo-yo. Clad in obnoxiously bright gold shorts and an even uglier red shirt, Jean knows this is the man he’s looking for.

Jeremy notices his gaze and turns over. His smile—bright and large—knocks the wind out of Jean, and he walks over with the yo-yo haphazardly dangling around his wrist in an awkward tangle. He opens his mouth to speak, but two young girls run over and interrupt their prospective meeting. They rant about Trojan Horse and an upcoming show this weekend, and Jeremy, all flowers and sunshine, laughs with them as he autographs their airline tickets. The sight is as unsightly as it is infuriating. Jean remembers autographs in the distance as he wallowed behind the curtains and watched as the two golden kids signed their lives away to unsuspecting fans. i am not here for such frivolities.

Jean doesn’t notice when they wander off. He comes back to it when Jeremy waves a hand in front of his face with a more subdued smile. “You ready to head out? I know it’s pretty late, so we can save the hefty introductions for tomorrow. I’m Jeremy Knox, but you already know that. Probably.”

“Let’s go,” Jean says without any unnecessary remarks. Jeremy starts walking away from the exit, which elicits a confused hum from Jean.

Jeremy turns around curiously. “What?” He asks. “Baggage claim is this way. Oh! Unless you’re getting your stuff shipped over? Trust me, I get it, sometimes hauling show supplies in planes can be a handful, and who knows what might happen to anything that's not a carry-on?”

Jean’s grip on his backpack straps tightens as he answers. “This is all I have.”

Jeremy’s features twist at an awkward angle where furrowed brows don’t belong on the West Coast’s most upbeat face. How odd, for the sunshine singer himself, to produce such a look; to Jean, of all people, which rattles his nerves more than it should. “Not even your bass guitar?”

“I never had one. It was Evermore property.”

If Jeremy wants to argue, he chooses not to and grins away the lingering concern. Used to poking and prodding, Jean is surprised by the results of Jeremy’s internal battle. Whether he had won or not wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Jean wouldn’t have given a truthful answer.

The outdoor tunnel brings with it cool breezes that rejuvenate his lungs, overworked from panicked breaths on the plane ride across the country. rectangle. long. not box. but alone. Jean follows Jeremy to the car parked on the side of the curb and gets in the passenger side without a word.

Unfortunately, the car ride itself doesn’t bring that sort of luck.

“Our garage is closer to Malibu than LA, so it’s about forty-five minutes away, even without rush hour traffic. You up to music or no? I know the jet-lag must be crazy, so it’s fine if you wanna get some sleep now. Tonight, you’ll be staying at the owner’s house, so don’t worry about accommodations yet. That’s for tomorrow. You’ll start meeting people then, too, but not everyone at once, so don’t worry! But you don’t need to worry, regardless, because everyone on Trojan Horse is nice. Uh, I’m not sure how Evermore was, but most people live in the actual city and then drive out to the garage, which is why you’ll stay with Rhemann and Adi for now. Oh! That’s our manager and the land owner, respectively. They’re super nice, I swear. I’m ranting. Um. How was the flight?”

Jean bristles in the seat, eager to leap out and let his body be dragged across the cement by the force of the car. Jeremy’s rant got more anxious the further he kept chattering on, and Jean doesn’t do well with emotions. he’s scared. of me. as if i’m not a hair’s breath away from breaking down myself. He also doesn’t trust himself to speak, so all that comes out is a feebly whispered, “Fine.”

“That’s good!” Jeremy continues on, like a record with the player’s stylus permanently strapped down onto the turning disk. “It must be jarring, but you’ll get situated in no time. Although we have a show this Saturday, it’s more of a local exposition to experiment with new songs and see which ones get the most out of the crowd’s reaction before we record them in our actual studio. It’s attached to the garage—which we all made ourselves by the way—oh, but Evermore got like, super popular to get an official one, so it’ll probably be a downgrade. I’m proud of what we accomplished, though, so don’t get it wrong. It’s part of the charm, I’d say. If there’s anything you need—”

“Do you always talk this much?” Jean interrupts, his words escaping more facetiously than hostile, despite how exasperated he thinks he feels.

Jeremy hits him with that same stupidly upright grin. “Sometimes. Only when I’m nervous or excited.”

“Which one are you now?” Jean asks. He casts his gaze outside the window and pretends he’s not tempted to watch Jeremy’s expression.

“Both? You’re a really talented bassist and we’ve been looking for Jillian’s replacement for too long. But you’re also…” He trails off and lets the sentence hang unfinished.

Jean finishes for him. “I am a Raven and a Moreau. But you don’t have to clip your words because you are afraid. I made a promise to behave and will uphold it. Plus—”

plus it’s not what you think. i am not the violent one.

“Plus what?”

He ignores Jeremy and watches palm trees melt into blurry shadows. Street lights add yellow trails to fading nature, and if the dark sky has any stars, LA’s thick pollution hides them. No matter how many times Jean travels outside, the world around him continues to remain an unexplored mystery. Ravens weren’t allowed to leave The Nest; traveling for shows meant quick glances outside buses and hotel windows, but nothing more.

California has a lighter air to it. Flat. No mountains on this part of the coast or cold nights despite it not quite being spring yet. Even at almost midnight, people ride on scooters with earbuds attached to MP3 players clipped on their waistbands. College kids walk in big groups near bars and people walk their dogs despite the lack of adequate lighting. Jean still doesn’t understand how the outside world can be so lovely and fun to warrant throwing yourself into it so willy-nilly; he’s perfectly content with just staring at it from afar—from a place he’ll never be free of.

“I need to stop for gas, if that’s okay,” Jeremy speaks up again because apparently, he is allergic to a moment of silence. “And the cheapest place is after the city ends closer to the garage. I know it might seem sketchy, but I swear it’s fine if we keep our heads down. It’s just that we weren’t that prepared and spent most of our time with the logistics and accommodations that I kinda forgot my car was running a little low. I drive further out to Cat and Laila’s house too often, so the engine eats it up, y’know? But if you need to get rest fast, I can try—”

“It’s fine, Jeremy.”

It’s the first time Jean says his name out loud. The r’s rolled more than he wanted them to, and his tone was too honest for his liking. Jeremy’s silence doesn’t help, and Jean finally looks over to the rear-view mirror. All he can see are brown eyes under furrowed brows. Jean doesn’t know what to say, so he rolls his head over and admits, “I need to buy a protein bar anyway. I refused to eat the airline’s pathetic excuse for food.”

Jeremy laughs, and the sound burns more than it should in ways it should never. “Picky eater? I get it. I’ll eat anything, but sometimes when I fly for tours or to visit the East Coast, there are certain airlines I cannot eat from. One time, Xavier—our audio engineer, awesome guy—got food poisoning so bad he had to be hospitalized! Crazy day that was. Something something undercooked something? That was so long ago I can barely remember.”

Jean doesn’t offer anything above a hum, so Jeremy continues: “Man, I can’t wait to tell you all these fun behind-the-scenes stories about Trojan Horse. And for you to meet the rest of the gang, of course. Super duper cool people.”

“I see.”

Jeremy talks the rest of the ride, but Jean doesn’t have the energy to tune him out. Or maybe he does, but his body subconsciously chooses not to. Random stories of Southern California’s area and tidbits about Trojan Horse fall on inexperienced ears; they are fairytales to the captive prince held hostage in a cage with other ferocious birds. He mentions beaches, and Jean hopes the sound in his throat wasn’t as loud as he thought it sounded. If Jeremy heard it, he doesn’t mention it and moves on to discuss Trojan Horse plans for the upcoming summer.

As Jeremy talks of recordings and making lyrics, Jean balls his hands up into fists and lets his nails dig into the flesh of his palm. He knew before flying that Trojan Horse’s image is nothing like Evermore’s. He knew as he walked through GSP’s departure gate that he is not allowed to sing or play anything short of perfect. He knew as he sat down on the plane’s uncomfortable seat that he’d be signing his soul away for a promise he’ll dread keeping for the rest of his life.

i do not sing. i do not write.

That will be a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, Jean rests his temple against the cool glass window of the car as they pull into an empty Chevron. They park at the pump, and Jeremy walks with Jean to the small building. As he goes to pay in cash, Jean scans the half-stocked shelves for a high-protein snack that won’t personally offend his appetite and nutritional goals. He settles for one and a bottled water before shortly joining Jeremy at the counter.

Jean places them down, but a hand juts out to prevent him from pulling out his wallet. Jeremy puts a few bills on the counter and says, “Host’s treat.”

“You don’t have to,” Jean counters immediately. He doesn’t want to owe Jeremy anything, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about the consequences of slowly being bought out. Jeremy shoots him a weird look, to which Jean ignores and swats the bills away. He takes out his card to pay and yanks the items away so hard that the tired gas-station worker scoffs at him.

“What the heck was that?” Jeremy asks as he runs after Jean. “You good man?”

Jean’s instant “I’m fine” escapes on instinct; it is a mantra carved into his vocal cords, imprinted onto the back of his throat.

“Too good to accept a gesture from a nobody like me?” Jeremy asks. He doesn’t smile, but his light expression completely contrasts his harsh words. That’s not at all why Jean reacted like that, but the truth is as dangerous as a familiar knife on his back.

Instead of getting in the car, Jeremy unlocks it and starts heading back into the gas station. “Forgot something. Be right back.”

Jean hops in the passenger seat and grips his drink tightly. He doesn’t know Jeremy’s rules just yet, so he refrains from eating and making a mess, despite the many wrappers tucked inside dusty drink holders. To pass the bubbling anxiety from waiting alone in Jeremy’s car, Jean pulls out his earbuds and connects the end to the latest iPod model. It was the one personal possession he was allowed to have, as a good musician never went too long without music—a bittersweet relic of what he wants to push far behind him.

He skims through songs mindlessly, not in the mood for anything in particular as long as it wasn’t deafening silence. Jeremy comes back sooner than expected, but doesn’t plug in directions on the GPS attached to the windshield, nor does he take the car out of park. He simply rolls down the window and takes a lighter out of his pocket to light a cigarette out of the car.

Jean tenses. “You’re a singer,” he says sharply, “what the hell are you doing?”

Jeremy takes a short drag and hums out with a puff of smoke. “I don’t do this often, I swear. Don’t tell the others, please? Especially not Rhemann.”

“Answer my question then,” Jean says and yanks the string of his earbuds away from his ears.

Jeremy turns around, left arm dangling the lit cigarette out the window, and asks, “Why do you care? I was under the impression that you don’t like me? Which is fine! Difference of opinions or whatever. But with what happened earlier, you seem to think of me as... and that makes me kinda...”

He trails off and turns around to take another hit of the cancer stick. Without seeing his expression, Jean struggles to discern the reasoning behind the admission. He’s never been good with emotions and honesty and vulnerability; those are weaknesses at Evermore, and Ravens were supposed to be anything but. Jean’s mind replays the past events, and he settles with a slight truth—a branch he’s more than just uncomfortable extending. “I did not accept your offer because I’m tired of being bought, not whatever excuse your feckless brain decided to come up with.”

“That’s not—” Jeremy whips his head around immediately, but coughs from trying to speak mid drag. After a moment, he continues saying, “It’s a gesture of kindness. I’m not trying to buy you or—” he waves his hands dramatically, causing ashes to fall into the front map pocket. “I wouldn’t—oh, Jean. Oh wow, I totally assumed—hold on.”

Jeremy takes one last, drawn-out drag and snuffs out the end in the ashtray. “Sorry, this car totally stinks now. Let me just—” he interrupts himself, again, to grab an air-freshener out of the middle console to spray haphazardly around himself. Smoke and fruits blend in an unbearable stench, but the sight of Jeremy floundering around helplessly tugs a humorous huff out of him.

“Jeremy,” Jean finally says, pityingly. “Stop flopping around like a fish. It is unsightly.”

Jeremy laughs and relaxes back into the driver's seat. “Right. Sorry, it’s just been a long day, and I have some stuff going on that’s not your problem, like at all. And then I misunderstood your intentions and made it all about myself for no reason. And—you know what? Let’s just head out.”

Jean doesn’t say anything as Jeremy takes the car out of park and eases it away from the pump and back onto the main road. He doesn’t put his earbuds back in either, letting his iPod sit loosely in his grip. Jeremy doesn’t talk or put on music; he taps his fingers erratically on the steering wheel without once glancing over his shoulder. Jean doesn’t know him, nor has he cared about Trojan Horse more than a fleeting mention twice a year, but the sight stirs something up in his stomach that mixes poorly with the resting bile.

Jeremy is the type of blonde and smug and sunshine that goes against everything Evermore made Jean out to be. It’s the type that brings back memories of forbidden nights, of exchanging scant glances away from Riko and the master’s scouring eyes. Jean is many things painful, but he is not ignorant or dumb. He knows this feeling and quickly buries it away with the rest of his prohibited thoughts.

But his tired body runs with a fuel of its own, and Jean speaks before his mind can snatch his impulsiveness away from him. “Don’t look so much like a beat-up puppy. It doesn’t suit you.”

out of all the things to say—

Before Jean can open the door and throw himself onto the moving road, Jeremy’s loud laugh short-circuits every part of Jean’s composure. As they approach a red light, Jeremy quickly looks over and says, “I should apologize. Not for freaking out, but for making assumptions. You’re not at all how I expected? In a good way. I think you’ll love Trojan Horse, and I know they’ll love you.”

The confession renders him speechless. He turns to look outside in favor of spotting buildings in between thickets of nature as the journey continues onward. Jeremy doesn’t push for a response or start another conversation. He hums to himself, and it takes a while for Jean to recognize the song as an old single from the FOXƧS.

Local businesses he doesn’t recognize and road signs that fly by too fast for him to read whir by as Jean stares out the window. Away from the heart of the city, the blanket of pollution dissolves away to reveal the brilliant stars underneath. They’re insignificant specs of white to a piece of property like Jean, but sometimes, he’d look up at black ceilings and imagine them as wish-granting entities. get me out, he’d think in the silence of the bedroom, when Zane would snore on the bed on the opposite side, or when Grayson would pin him down. Not wanting to think of him or there, Jean watches the real deal and feels weird knowing those tiny dots don’t live up to the fantastical hype he made up to save some sanity.

After another half-hour or so—Jean’s so tired he can’t keep track—Jeremy breaks the silence with a quiet, “Can I put on some music? It’s so I don’t fall asleep behind the wheel.” He reaches for a CD stashed on top of the dashboard and adds, “If that’s okay with you?”

“Why are you asking me?” Jean bristles at the question because apparently, he has a say in how Jeremy uses his own belongings.

Jeremy shrugs. “Courtesy? If you don’t like loud noises, or if you’re too tired or have a headache.”

Jean has to stifle a tight smile. “I play bass and scream for metal. Why would I hate loud noises?”

“Just because you’re around it so often doesn’t mean you like it,” Jeremy says it so matter-of-factly, Jean twitches. He doesn’t like playing bass; he never has. What he likes is the concept of freedom that comes with etching your ideas and fears onto paper and singing them out through your chest so hard the pain always festering in between his ribcage would escape with the notes. But he’s never been allowed to sing outside of basics training and metal screams, nor has he been able to put a pen to paper for a song. He did it once, silently, in a locked bathroom; the consequences of the notebook being found days later still haunt him.

Jean wants to like playing bass. He wants to create what he wishes he’d had and put it out there in hopes it’d save others. He wants to like sitting down with a pen and brainstorming how the words would sound in his tone.

He can’t create. He can’t sing. And how can he save others if he has never been able to save himself?

“Worry about yourself for once,” he imagines Kevin’s voice as they knelt together on cold floors. He swallows that memory down alongside the taste of acid in his throat and speaks without looking to Jeremy.

“Overthinking is bad for you, Mr. Sunshine Singer. Just put on the music.”

Jeremy laughs awkwardly and hands an album for Jean to put into the radio as he drives. Jean doesn’t look at the band name or cover as he takes the CD out and slides it into the correct slot. A fast, aggressive drumbeat nearly breaks the car’s fragile speakers, but neither of them moves to turn down the volume. When the guitarist joins in with an overly optimistic vocal tone, the sounds of Jean’s heartbeat and racing thoughts are drowned out by the pop tune.

The car eventually drives through thinner roads and thicker trees. With no streetlights or stray buildings, they wind through a dense forest with nothing but worn-out headlights illuminating the way. It’d be horrifying if not for the upbeat album blasting through the car speakers. Jean feels disconnected from the experience, wondering how he went from being patched up in the back of a renovated shed in South Carolina to idly cruising on the abandoned roads branching just outside of Los Angeles's bounds. He brings a hand to tug at the cross necklace and wonders how much further he’ll be able to go.

Another handful of quick-passing minutes later, the nature opens up to a wide view of a seemingly never-ending field. Large signs lit up by lights show graffiti directions to the Sunshine Garage. He spots a few build boards with Trojan Horse's info on them, and even a large LED display as they get closer.

“I thought you complained you’re a downgrade?” Jean asks while pointing to a large, pixelated image of Jeremy’s sweaty, toothy grin on stage. It feels out of place in between large trees and acres of farmland, but that’s somehow more fitting of Trojan Horse than not.

Jeremy shrugs. “We are.”

“That’s a very expensive digital build board. The most recent model, no?”

“Did The Nest not have those?” Jeremy asks. When Jean refuses to answer, Jeremy changes the subject and says, “It was a gift from Laila’s uncle. You’ll meet her and Cat tomorrow. They’ll be your more permanent roommates for now, but since it’s late, you’re crashing with Rhemman and Adi tonight.”

Jean watches as the build board screen transitions to a wide-panned image of a crowd with various Trojan Horse shirts blending together in a giant red and gold blur. “I don’t understand. Trojan Horse is very popular. What do you all do with all your money?”

“We donate them to charities and local organizations,” Jeremy says without missing a beat, “each member has something they’re passionate about that they send money to as sort of an open secret. Then we decide as a group every month to donate to one publicly.”

“Like the FOXƧS,” Jean says.

“Similar, yeah. Though not as, ah, beaten-down, I’d say. But sometimes, we even do joint events! Always a pleasure seeing them and Kevin again.”

Jean freezes. A hand subconsciously reaches up to feel the outline of a cross under his thin shirt. “You do?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know. Didn’t you stay with them for a while?” Jeremy asks.

Jean had been too busy flickering in and out of consciousness to listen to band gossip and fun facts. As Riko’s final act of violence had continued to rip him apart, his mind had shut down to a state of nothingness to cope with the pain. It’d taken weeks of their on-site nurse’s aid, Manager Wymack’s connections, and their stupid psychiatrist’s incessant meddling for Jean to finally feel like a human again. And as soon as he had, Kevin had shipped him off to the opposite side of the country for a different band to deal with.

Sensing Jean’s frozen stupor, Jeremy pulls off onto the side of the road into a patch of gravel and looks at Jean. “You good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jean breathes in a sharp gust of air and holds it. He lets go and counts out the second it takes for his lungs to empty, and repeats the process until his vision is clear again. A house sits out in the distance, and a large, painted sign points to “Sunshine Garage” down a hill to the house’s left. If he sits up tall enough, parts of the garage’s roof can be spotted past the hill’s peak under bright field lights surrounding the whole building.

“Why are the lights on?” Jean asks instead of addressing his reaction.

Jeremy bites his lip but doesn’t push; Jean is starting to realize he never does. “They’re automatic. About a week ago, we had a show that ran extra late and had the shut-off time set to around 2 am. Problem is, no one here knows how to fix it. The double d’s are in charge of stuff like that, and they’ve been on vacation. Oh, that’s Derek and Derrick! Different spelling. They’re our maintenance guys, real life savers despite their laid-back attitude. Min Cai is in charge of the actual stage lighting during shows, not so much the outside ones. You’ll meet them all one day, so don’t worry too much about remembering names right now. Ready to go? The house is just up ahead.”

Jean nods, and the car starts moving again, slowly as it returns to the thin dirt and drives through the garage’s actual property now.

After the abrupt mention of the FOXƧS, Jean fishes out his phone to send Renee the quick text he promised to send her once landing before he can forget: Arrived.

Good. Have fun :) She texts back immediately.

Jean hashes out another text: It is late on the East Coast. Go to sleep.

She doesn’t reply, so he shoves the phone back into his pocket and watches as the car pulls into a large trapezoid-shaped driveway. The transition from rough dirt to smooth pavement shakes his seat as they drive until they’re stopped behind a vehicle that looks to be about a few decades too old for the current era.

“Can that thing even drive?” Jean asks sharply.

Jeremy laughs. “Yes, it can. Barely though. But don’t tell Rhemman that! He loves that thing like it’s his child.”

Jean takes that statement and tucks it away for later to remember. He turns to study Jeremy’s face under the visor’s dim lighting, watching as he fixes his hair and sprays something minty into his mouth. If Rhemann is someone to worry about, he needs to know now so he can adjust his behavior accordingly.

“This Rhemann person doesn’t like it when you smoke,” Jean phrases it as a statement and not a question.

Jeremy sighs and pulls cologne out of the middle console to spray over his shoulders as he says, “Not in the slightest. He caught me doing it earlier today, actually. These past few days have been a little rough, but I swear I’m not usually like this.”

Silence fills the car, but the overwhelming oceanic scent is more unbearable than the awkward atmosphere. Jean thinks of Rhemann’s seemingly strict authority and Jeremy’s odd behavior and says, “You keep saying that. Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

Jeremy stops what he’s doing to shoot Jean a curious look. He doesn’t flinch or drift off with a faraway gaze, telltale signs of a man caught in a painful lie; Jean would know firsthand. Jeremy only tilts his head. “Convince of what?” He asks. Jean doesn’t know if he’s being purposefully obtuse or not, but he doesn’t press because he doesn’t care. He already made his assumptions, so he’d much rather brace himself for the upcoming introduction to his new masters than waste his energy away with a man who refuses to face the truth.

The car stops, and the motion-sensor driveway lights ignite as they get out and walk up toward the front. On the porch, various plants glisten under the lone porch light, some in long planters and some in large pots on the ground. Two reclining outdoor chairs sit on one side with a small circular table in between them, while the area with the plants is clear of decor. It’s a warm, welcoming sight straight out of a home catalogue in a newspaper—an intricate, well-done facade for the horrors that lay inside.

The Master’s house had a more Japanese-style architecture, and it was constructed on the peak of the mountain, whereas The Nest had been built at the base.

Jean hadn’t realized he’d stopped before the porch steps until Jeremy snaps in front of his face. “You good man?”

no.

“Yes.”

Jeremy doesn’t believe him because instead of walking up to the front door, he sits on the porch steps so he can stare up at Jean. “You keep hesitating every time I talk about Rhemman and Adi. And you got this look on your face, like you’ve seen something scary. I won’t pry, because you’ve made it clear you won’t be honest, but if you can’t tell me why, at least tell me what I can do?”

Jean doesn’t know where to start: being observed so heavily is a punch in the gut, because being property meant to blend in the distance has meant never showing his true self past the perfectly-crafted image Riko gave him. Then to see Jean’s hesitance, and try and work around it instead of forcing it out of him—it snatches his breath away in disbelief.

And Jeremy, sunshine singer and leader of Trojan Horse Jeremy, sits with his legs out and arms on either side of him, holding his weight up as he stares up from where he’s sitting, all patient and sunshine, and Jean chokes, not out of fear, but again with pure disbelief. What he knows and expects is scary enough; what’s unknown has now proven to be even scarier.

“Jean?” Jeremy eventually whispers after a while. “Are you—”

“Is everything alright out here?” A deeper voice asks. Jean looks up past Jeremy to see an older man holding the door open, looking outside with… concern? He wears white sweats and a graphic Trojan Horse shirt, not the black silk pajama set Jean is so used to seeing in the dead of the night.

Jeremy whips his head around, and instead of flinching or kneeling, he gets up with a rejuvenated burst of energy. “Rhemann! Man, that drive to the airport was crazy, but that’s a story for tomorrow. We just got back a few seconds ago. Here, this is Jean,” he says, moving away to give space for Rhemann to eye Jean up and down. Jean tenses his body, adjusts himself so he stands upright with his arms by his side and knuckles clenched. His tongue presses into the roof of his mouth so he doesn’t say something he’ll regret.

“Nice to meet you, Jean. I’m Rhemann, the head manager for Trojan Horse. My… Adi, the landowner, is making some tea if you all would like some? I’m sure it’s been a long night.”

Jean tries to mentally stifle down a wave of bile and says, “Yes, sir.”

Rhemann’s eyes widen in slight surprise, before his expression quickly melts into a more neutral one. “Oh please, just call me Rhemann. I feel old enough as it is. C’mon, let’s get you inside. Are the rest of your bags in the car?”

“He only has that bag. Not even a guitar, since it was Evermore property. We can lend him Jillian’s old one, right?” Jeremy pipes in before Jean can let out a word, looking at Rhemann curiously as he speaks for him.

“Sure. It might not feel the same, so eventually, we’ll take you down to LA to pick out one of your own. There are a lot of shops near Hollywood that sell the best of the best.”

my own?

“What do I have to offer in exchange?” Jean spits out before he can stop himself. He waits for an answer that will tell him what to expect in his upcoming contract—my autonomy. my body. my voice. my creativity. my—

“Nothing, son,” Rhemann says quietly. “Did Evermore offer your guitar upon contingency? Is that why you couldn’t take it with you?”

“I do not know that word.” The lie escapes easily, because although it might be partially true, context is all he needs to piece Rhemann’s assumption together. Jeremy coughs and starts walking up the steps, gesturing for Jean to follow.

“It’s been a late night. Let’s head inside and go try that tea, yeah? I’ll show you to the room you’ll stay in so you can set your stuff down first,” Jeremy says.

Jean doesn’t thank him for the subject change, but follows him silently into the house. He ignores Rhemann’s heavy gaze and watches as he disappears into the kitchen. Jeremy leads him down a hall to the immediate left and starts giving him a tour of the place instead.

“Sorry, he’s just worried, I swear. The house is kinda big, so I’ll try showing the more important rooms. That’s the gardening room. Oh, that’s the flower I planted a few weeks ago! It’s getting so big…” Jeremy trails off, and Jean spots the isolated sprout Jeremy pointed to.

“You garden here?” Jean asks in surprise.

Jeremy nods without explanation, so Jean pushes: “You’re allowed to?”

“Yes? Look, it’s like I said earlier, I won’t push, but if you ever wanna talk about your circumstances, you can,” Jeremy says after a beat of silence. “I’ll listen. We all will. We can plant stuff here and talk to Rhemann about pretty much anything. Trojan Horse is fun, I promise.”

Jean doesn’t understand why or what he’s offering, or maybe he does, and his mind refuses to believe it. He says nothing, so Jeremy sighs and shows him the other rooms in the house. He points out the downstairs bathroom, Adi’s and Rhemann’s offices, as if Jean would ever have permission to enter, even if Jeremy says he can knock on those closed doors anytime. They pass the wide sliding door to the back door, the living room, and walk away from the open attached kitchen to go upstairs. The guest room is to the immediate right, which Jeremy opens and ushers him inside.

The decor is bare, but there are at least clean sheets and pillows for Jean to rest on. The connected bathroom already has supplies—a half-opened package of toothbrushes, some toothpaste, and other various toiletries. Sensing Jean’s gaze, Jeremy explains, “I crash here sometimes. Not as much as I do with Cat and Laila, though. Only when I need to, or, y’know, give those two some privacy.”

Jean ignores the first part of his sentence to ask, “Who are Cat and Laila? You said I’d be living with them starting tomorrow?”

Jeremy’s face lights up instantly. “Right! They’re my best friends. Cat is our drummer, and Laila plays keyboard for the songs that need it. Cute couple, but don’t let that fool you away from how excitable Cat can get. They’re good company, and I trust them with my life, so I can promise you when I say they’ll be good to you. Oh, but if they need their private time, feel free to come here! That’s what I do when they kick me out anyway. But that’s way better than saying nothing; Jillian had so many stories of walking in on them. Ah, the memories…”

A distant echo of teeth and knees rips Jean straight into the past. If he focuses hard enough, Riko’s cruel words are right up against his ear, as hot and intimidating as ever. He’s no longer of this world, but for some reason, his memory continues to permanently haunt Jean’s. Sensing Jean’s shattered conviction, Jeremy mistakes it for something else and shoots him a dark look. “If you have a problem with that—”

“How?” Jean interrupts.

Jeremy looks at him, confused. “How what?”

“How is it allowed?”

“How is what allowed?” Jeremy asks again, his previously misplaced seriousness now overtaken by bewilderment.

Jean wants to elaborate, but the words die off before they can reach his throat. They’re blocked by a knot in his lungs, fighting against the large and thorny memory until his hands are on his throat and his nails are dragging bloody trails behind rapid streaks. Jeremy moves to break his wrists off, but Jean steps back. Too much too fast fills his thoughts with gray matter until his head throbs with the sensation of being overfilled with poisoned cotton.

i will bleed it out of you.

Before Jeremy can twist the context, Jean throws his bag onto the bed and jogs down the stairs. He briskly walks through the halls in the same pattern Jeremy showed him until he’s in the bathroom with the locked door behind him. Safe from Jeremy, safe from Rhemann, safe from Trojan Horse's abhorrent image, he sinks to the floor and breathes. He breathes until painful bursts of air are smoother, steadier, real breaths. Jean struggles to see without the light turned on, but the beach scent from the freshener plugged into the wall is an anchor away from darker, scarier bathrooms.

this is california. i am here. not there.

He takes another deep breath and stands up. Jean’s hand slowly curls around the handle and unlocks the door, but when he opens it, he doesn’t see anyone. Distant voices sound at the end of the hallway, so Jean carefully walks toward the source with practiced light steps and shallow breaths. He comes up to the side of the wall where the kitchen entrance merges with the living room, stopping just at the edge.

Jean knows he shouldn’t, but curiosity gets the better of him. He puts an ear to the wall and tries to pick up on the rapid conversation on the other side:

“—like Evermore’s reputation.”

“I understand, Jeremy. We can—”

“… for now. I’ll ask the other trainers too.”

“Thank you, Adi.”

There’s no time for Jean to back away before a stranger turns the corner, until he’s suddenly face-to-face with a person he’s never seen before. His knees lock, and for a moment, the master's looming gaze pierces into his skull. He closes his eyes and waits for the impact of a heavy cane against the sensitive skin of his cheek; it never comes.

“You’re Jean, right?” Another low, but smoother voice sounds. “I’m Adi, the owner. Would you like some tea?”

Jean lifts his head. He ignores Rhemann’s pained expression and Jeremy’s pitiful shock to analyze Adi. He doesn’t have the master’s permanently taut eyebrows or sadistic scowl, but that means nothing. He stares at the floor and follows socked feet into the kitchen. A mug enters his vision, muted green and chipped slightly on one part of the rim. Jean takes it and drinks with closed eyes, savoring the hot liquid against his dry mouth.

“Good?” Adi asks.

Jean doesn’t know how to respond: Silence toward an adult is inexcusable, but a “yes sir” would go against Rhemann’s orders. In the midst of his internal struggle, Jeremy speaks for him, saying, “Wonderful. You always brew the best tea, Adi.”

“Thanks, kid. A lot of the leaves come straight from my garden! Real piece of work, but worth it when the end result turns out better than expected. How about you two take your mugs upstairs to the guest room and get ready for bed? I know I need my beauty sleep to function properly, and Jean here is probably jet-lagged out of his mind.”

Instructions mean something concrete to follow. With rocks in his throat, Jean follows Jeremy upstairs to the large guest room. Having showered and changed before the flight, he sets down the mug on the nightstand and sprawls across the bed with his back to the soft blanket and gazes up at the ceiling—off-white instead of pitch-black.

“Listen, I—” Jeremy starts talking, but doesn’t finish his sentence. Jean knows he has a lot to say and a lot of doubt about actually saying it, with how often he cuts himself off; he isn’t sure if he should be grateful he holds his tongue or fearful for the day Jeremy finally speaks.

Jeremy’s next words escape more easily. “I’m spent from driving, so I’m gonna crash here too. I’ll take the couch downstairs—”

Jean instinctively lets out a sharp, “No.”

“No?” Jeremy questions, his body halfway between walking out of the room and back toward Jean.

With exhaustion already closing his eyes, and his energy too depleted to come up with a believable lie, Jean settles on saying, “I don’t like being alone.”

“Oh,” Jeremy replies blankly. A million questions flash through Jeremy’s eyes, some warranting a more serious expression, so Jean elaborates before more assumptions can be made.

“Ravens operated on a partner system. Even Evermore’s stage crew never traveled alone. We are assigned partners, because...” He takes a moment to come up with a believable lie; he settles on a half-truth. “Safety reasons.”

Safety, because someone always had to be there to patch the other up. Not safety, in the sense of warding off crazy fans or paparazzi. Jeremy understands it as the latter, showing Jean a sympathetic look.

“I bet. Man, I love eager fans, but some of them can get kind of insane. The two girls at the airport were fine, though! We love getting approached in public. It’s more the yelling, and touching, and photos without permission. You get it.”

touching. yelling. photos.

“Yes, I get it. The partner system is something hardwired into me because of that,” Jean says more honestly than he wanted to.

Jeremy hums and offers an open look. “We can be partners then, if it makes your transition here easier. Unless you prefer someone else? You’ll slowly start to meet people, but for now…”

“Okay,” Jean says without thinking. Jeremy’s instant bright smile melts away his humiliation. It tugs him toward dark corners left unexplored, something forbidden and tempting just within reach. Jeremy said earlier that he’s nothing as he expected, but Jean can confidently say the same. Not in the objective way, because Trojan Horse and Jeremy Knox are about as obnoxious and bright and stupidly sunny as the world paints them out to be.

It’s more about how much Jean finds himself intrigued by it.

Jeremy walks out of the room to grab something and reappears with a large bag under his arm. “A blow-up mattress,” he says as he sets it next to the bed and starts running the fan to inflate it. It’s loud and nearly startles Jean into another panic, but he’s too tired to do anything but curl up under the comforter and watch Jeremy gather a blanket and pillow from the closet.

A lot of questions die on the tip of Jean’s tongue. He hasn’t even seen the actual garage yet, nor has he met any of the other members outside of Jeremy, yet his expectations have already been shattered. The FOXƧS unlocked the cage that Evermore trapped him inside of, but Jeremy and Rhemann and Adi and California have painted a world tempting enough for Jean to want to step out and explore. It’s new. It’s—

it’s dangerous.

Those thoughts fizzle out as the light gets turned off and Jeremy settles on the floor underneath him, swearing he’s fine with the arrangement and prefers not to sleep on the couch anyway. Jean hears muffled footsteps walk up the stairs that disappear after the sound of the door closing. His heart races in an anxious staccato, but his lidded eyes and sore muscles and still-healing lingering injuries suck the nerves right out of him and replace them with a more relaxed hum.

Jean inevitably falls asleep to the newfound sounds of Jeremy’s steady breathing and loud crickets outside the window.

Chapter Text

Jeremy wakes up to the sound of a choked sob.

He doesn’t know where he is when he opens his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he’s back in his childhood bedroom, tucking his chin beneath thick covers as Bryson enters the front door of the mansion, holding in a cry of his own as sleep continues to escape out of his grasp. In the darkness, it takes a while for Jeremy to adjust, but when he does, the sight is one that hurts more. From the floor, he spots a twisted look on Jean’s face illuminated only by the pale moon through the window.

“Jean?” He whispers so low he barely hears it himself. Before he can try again, Jean squeezes his eyes tighter closed in a pained expression and bites so hard into his lip that the chapped pink gets stained with a faint red. Jeremy opens his mouth to let out a louder interruption, but the sight of Jean’s suddenly wide-open eyes has them both freezing in place.

Neither of them speak. Sweat trickles down Jeremy’s temples, an ache blooming across the back of his neck as he strains his head to see upward. Jean doesn’t move, body locked in place, lips pursed as if opening them would let out something forbidden.

“Jean?” Jeremy tries again, louder this time. He sits up and rubs his eyes before crawling to the bedside table. The air mattress dips where his knees dig into it, creating harsh sounds of trapped air in the dead silence of the bedroom. He fumbles around for the metal string of the lamp and turns it on once his fingers wrap around the stringed beads.

A burst of bright yellow stings his eyes. It creates a sphere of light, a beacon in the early morning’s darkness. Jeremy then looks at the alarm clock that switches to five AM as soon as his eyes wander over it. Through the window on the opposite side of the room, a thin line of pale orange outlines the mountain’s horizon. Morning doves sing on branches in the distance, belting out faint coos in between Jean’s heavy breathing and Jeremy’s own racing heart.

He looks to Jean again, searching for a proper question. They’re strangers in every definition of the word, but the Trojan Horse contract with Jean’s name on it creates an illusion of friendship that Jeremy has never once questioned. He’s always been loud and talkative and overly welcoming to anyone who’s ever joined. Trojan Horse’s newest lead bassist—that makes Jean one of his people.

But seeing Jean turn away so his back is facing Jeremy’s concerned gaze causes an eruption of self-doubt.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks again, morning voice still ragged from lack of use.

Jean doesn’t answer. His back rising and falling with deep breaths is the only indication of him still being alive. Jeremy decides to give up for now. He crawls off the air mattress and hovers near the door, hand an inch away from the handle. Before he can move to make his way downstairs to fetch them both some water, Jean’s words from last night creep into his thoughts, topped off by Kevin’s ambiguous warning. he doesn’t like being alone…

“I’m getting water, if that’s cool with you?” Jeremy says once more. The chasm into which he speaks doesn’t return his statement, remaining a silent, irrefutable wall instead. Without any protest, Jeremy takes that as his cue to go on ahead. The house is silent as he tiptoes down the stairs to his immediate left, save for the sporadic creeks as his bare feet step on old wood. By the time he rounds the corner to walk down the hall and into the kitchen, he almost jumps out of his skin at the presence of another human.

Rhemann turns around, similarly startled but calmer in the way he schools his expression. “Ah, good morning, Jeremy. Didn’t think you’d be up so early.”

Jeremy crosses the threshold and grabs two glasses from the cabinet near the fridge. “Jean woke me up,” he says, carefully picking out which truths to admit and which to hide. Jean’s business should be his own, but Rhemann is the head manager of Trojan Horse, and Jeremy’s absolute ride-or-die father figure who replaced the hole his previous ones have left. Although that’s never been said out loud, they both know it. It’s shown more in gestures than empty promises, like how Rhemann picks out another mug from where he’s brewing coffee without question.

“How so?” Rhemann asks as he sets aside his own mug of black coffee to focus on Jeremy’s.

“Nightmare, I think?”

Rhemann hums and grinds more coffee beans. Jeremy opens the fridge to pour water out of the filter, mentally picking apart his thoughts and assumptions in the comfortable, albeit delicate silence. Eventually, he says, “I don’t think he’s what the rumors say he is. I’ve seen Evermore shows before, but…”

Jeremy doesn’t finish the sentence. can’t. The bassist on dimly-lit stages in sold-out stadiums is a walking image of Evermore—loud, violent in how angry his pick strums against the strings, desperate in how his background screams blend into the crowd’s passionate roar. How Riko’s singing and Kevin’s adlibs intersected in a perfect web of gut-wrenching vocals, how the three of them were labeled and permanently marked as Perfect Stage.

He thinks of Kevin’s departure from Evermore, how Riko had broken his hand, and then a year later, how Riko had killed himself. How Jean had silently disappeared at the end of last year and then turned up on his doorstep like a stray cat, completely frayed around the edges and skittish with a constant look over his hunched shoulder. Jean’s words were clipped and harsh, but they were far from hostile. They were unsettling. 

A hand passes through his peripheral vision. Jeremy looks down at the fresh mug of coffee next to the waters, brown after the added cream and sugar he always requests. “I’m almost finished with Jean’s contract. It should be done by the time the sun is up. Adi left for work already for an early meeting, so you two can stay as long as you’d like.”

Jeremy takes the mug and brings the liquid up to his dry lips. A sip later, and his throat burns with the uncooled coffee sending a warm jolt down to his stomach. “Thanks. We’ll head out to Cat and Laila’s after a quick tour.”

“Try not to get mixed in with LA’s morning rush hour,” Rhemann says as he leaves the kitchen. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Rhemann leaves the kitchen in a state of calm silence. Morning doves continue to hum, filling the late winter with a promise for a fruitful, sunny spring. Jeremy watches the sunrise slowly spread through the dark gray sky, like the edge of a canvas soaked in yellow ink staining the clear blue in slow, gentle waves. He thinks of Trojan Horse and their show this Saturday, and how Jean would look on stage with the sunset’s orange rays framing his pale face.

Jeremy pushes that thought away. Seeing Jean at the airport for the first time in person had done numbers to his stomach, giving birth to butterflies in places they shouldn’t be. His chest had fluttered as if it had grown wings, hearing that deep, accented voice so close to his ears. He tries to imagine that tone in a song, low and smooth, but distant metal screams of anguish taint those thoughts as quickly as they appear.

Trojan Horse constantly sings together, especially in their bridges and outros. Although their contracts are fairly loose, enough to grant them near total creative freedom, the band’s image has been curated to a specific standard throughout the years. They experiment with styles and singers and instruments, but the bases still remain the same: harmony in the form of meshing together, and unwavering respect and courtesy across the music scene.

He can’t lie to himself and say that signing someone from Evermore—the band notorious for its rumors and scandals and violent image—makes him worried for Trojan Horse’s future.

Then he thinks of Jean’s scared expression a mere few minutes ago, his closed-off posture in the car, and short words, those few sentences that revealed a hidden care behind closed walls, how he had arrived in LA with nothing but a backpack and doesn’t even own his own bass guitar—

“Jeremy?”

He whips his head around in surprise, shoulders jumping to the tips of his ears. Jean stands at the threshold under the wide arc, eyes lost and confused. Jeremy can’t tell if his heart is racing from being scared out of his drifting thoughts, or at hearing Jean say his name out loud in his ragged morning voice. Jeremy coughs and turns around to grab a cup of water.

“Here,” he says as he walks over to Jean. “Some water.”

Jean takes it with a steady hand. “I did not mean to wake you up,” he admits wearily before taking a sip.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m usually an early bird anyway,” Jeremy says casually as he goes back to where his own water stands untouched next to his already half-drunken coffee. He chugs a few gulps and sets it down with a small thud. Footsteps patter behind him, and Jeremy turns to see Jean standing an arm’s length away from the coffee maker in the corner of the opposite counter.

“Want some coffee? Rhemann grinds his beans, but there should be an instant cup in the drawer right there.”

Jean stares at Jeremy skeptically. “I don’t want to take the owner’s belongings. Did he allow you to make that?"

“Huh?” Jeremy’s mouth falls open in a stupefied expression. He points to the mug and says, “Rhemann made me this.”

Jean eyes it with a frown. “Then it’s okay if it’s from the owner. I do not have such permissions.”

what?

“What?”

Instead of elaborating, Jean walks away from the coffee maker as if he hadn’t just admitted to something abnormal. He leaves the kitchen and turns to walk down the hallway. Jeremy listens to him climb the steps, how every foot against the wood is a series of oddly quiet thumps so unlike the creaks Jeremy makes.

His gut roils at the implications. Rhemann is not the owner of the land; Adi is. Jeremy realizes all too belatedly that the confession seems much more akin to assuming the manager of Trojan Horse is somehow the owner of all its members. He thinks of the articles published about Tetsuji, about Riko, about Kevin, about—

Jeremy downs the rest of his coffee and sets the mug in the kitchen sink. He grabs another clean one from the cabinet to brew Jean a fresh cup. Not knowing whether he likes it black or not, he pockets some sugar packets just in case. The brewing machine’s shrill beep and loud pour are the only sounds grounding Jeremy into reality. Too quiet, and his thoughts will dwell on what’s still unknown. He has a lot of questions, but Jean’s behavior so far has made it clear he’s rarely open to answering any.

By the time it’s finished, he books it back up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. Jean sits quietly at the edge of the bed, the glass of water barely touched on the nightstand near the alarm clock. His right hand fiddles with the chain around his neck. Jeremy can’t see what sort of necklace it is, with how it disappears behind the line of his collar. Looking any closer would mean drifting his gaze from the chains to those sharp collarbones, so he focuses on setting the coffee down next to the water on the bedside table instead.

“Here,” Jeremy sets it down and throws the sugar packets next to it.

Jean eyes it with disgust. “Do you have the owner’s permission?”

Jeremy tries to pick his next words carefully. “If by owner, you mean the owner of the land, yes. Adi lets us use anything in the house. Same with Rhemann.”

Something dark and horrific twists on Jean’s face, pulling at his brows and tugging his lids down in a harsh yank. The corners of his lips dip in a tense grimace. His hand drops from the chain around his neck to form a fist on his lap. With knuckles white as snow from how hard he grips his own palm, Jeremy can only watch as Jean braces for a fight that Jeremy cannot see.

“Do you like black coffee, or are you like me, who needs a lot of cream and sugar?” Jeremy settles on a lighthearted attempt at prying for more information.

Jean reaches over to grab the mug. “Creamer and sugar are unnecessary and bad for your health. Does Trojan Horse not have a food supervisor?”

“Food supervisor?”

“Trainer? I don’t know if I’m saying the right word in English.”

Jeremy starts sipping away at his own glass of water to give him something to do other than idly stare at Jean. “Uh, let me think… Lisinski is our vocal trainer who doubles as a fitness coach to help keep our lungs in good shape, if that’s what you mean? White does all the guitar and bass training, and Jimenez is in charge of security. Davis is our on-demand nurse who lives near Pacific Palisades if you’re talking about health stuff. Rhemann is the head manager, and Adi owns the land.” He makes a motion of counting all of them off on his fingers. “Those are all our trainers and supervisors.”

Jean takes a tentative sip of black coffee. He brings it back down to his lap to look down into it, as if the answers to everything unknown are somehow in the reflection of the dark liquid. “I see.”

He offers no explanation. No additional questions. Not a single indication of wanting to continue what he brought up in the first place. Jeremy should let it go, but his prying nature gets the best of him and forces his mouth open before he can stop it. “What did you mean by food supervisor? Did Evermore have their diets planned out or something?”

Jeremy had meant it as a hyperbole to get the truth to peek out. When Jean nods, Jeremy nearly drops the glass of water on his lap with how hard he grips it. “Are you serious?”

“Good performers need good health,” Jean says without any remorse. “Why are you so surprised?”

“I guess…” Jeremy takes a few large gulps of water in hopes of quenching his dry mouth. “It just seems so restrictive. There’s a difference between going on a diet and being banned from using a coffee maker.”

He didn’t mean for the last sentence to come out at all, let alone so harshly. Jean winces with a guilty look; a sign that he at least knows his actions are somewhat wrong and he’s not completely oblivious to the subtle oddities revealed during his transition to Trojan Horse. Jeremy waits for a response. 

“We were allotted one cup of coffee every morning if we performed well. If not, it was off-limits.”

He would have preferred not getting one.

As the sun finally pokes its head above the distant mountains, Jeremy focuses on cleaning up the room so he doesn’t have to face the stale air now between them. He deflates the air mattress and takes a quick shower. When he’s changed and out of the bathroom, Jean's fingers are flying over the buttons on his flip phone.

“Who’re you texting?” Jeremy asks, unwilling to bear the silent stalemate any longer.

Jean scowls at the phone screen. “No one important.”

“Oh.”

He offers the bathroom to Jean, showing him which shampoos and body washes he can use, because apparently, needing the “owner’s” permission dictates what he can and cannot do. Once Jeremy hears the water running behind a closed door, he silently exits the bathroom and makes his way down the hall to the empty room reserved for Rhemann’s extensive record collection.

Jeremy checks the time on his phone. The East Coast should be up and running by now. He dials Kevin’s number as fast as he can and nearly drops to the floor in relief when Kevin picks up.

“Hello?”

“Kevin! Hey man, it’s Jeremy. Uh, I need to ask you a few questions.”

When Kevin doesn’t speak, Jeremy continues, unable to stop once he gets going: “So I picked up Jean last night. Sorry for not texting you! It was late, and I was sort of busy? Anyway, I need to ask—do you have any idea why Jean is so adamant about getting the ‘owners’ permission to do certain things?”

He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “So he’s said so already. Unfortunately, I’m not surprised.”

“Right. So is there a why… ?” Jeremy impatiently tries to nudge Kevin for an answer, because although his response was confirming, it still explained nothing.

“Remnants of Evermore, just like how he can’t be alone.”

Jeremy almost throws his phone out the window at Kevin’s cryptic reply. “If you can’t tell me why, can you at least tell me what to do?”

Kevin is silent for a moment. Then a hushed, “No. Because I don’t know myself.”

His chest aches at the implications. It’s been over a year since Kevin escaped Evermore and Riko’s clutches, yet it seems some shadows still remain. If Kevin admits this so long after freedom, then Jean’s actions shouldn’t be surprising at all.

“I’ll say this because you’re my friend, but you can’t tell anyone. Do you promise?”

“Of course,” comes Jeremy’s immediate answer.

“By owner, he means our master, Tetsuji. I’m about to start morning practice and, honestly, don’t think I should say more than I have, so do whatever you want with that information. My only advice is to be patient.”

“Patient,” Jeremy echoes, as if the word is a foreign language on his untrained tongue. “Yeah, I can do that. Thanks again, Kev, I appreciate it. I’ll keep you updated, alright?”

“Sure. Have to go now.”

Kevin hangs up, and Jeremy is left with a heavy weight sewn onto the top of his head. He doesn’t hear the water anymore, which means Jean had somehow showered at the speed of light. Jeremy quickly races down the hall and enters the room to find Jean sitting at the same spot on the edge of the bed, drying his hair with a towel as he stares at the wall.

“Done already?”

Jean nods. As he finishes doing whatever it is he needs to do, Jeremy puts the air mattress back in the closet and double-checks to make sure his keys, wallet, and phone are all in his pockets.

Once they’re both ready to tackle the long day ahead, Jeremy leads Jean down to the kitchen for an actual breakfast. As he lists the ingredients and different pre-made food options, Jean’s face jumps from disdain to caution to an unexpected hunger at the mention of fresh vegetables. He helps fill his plate with what looks like an animal’s spare rations, with the limited amount of greens and plain meat, but for now, it is better than nothing. Jeremy takes it as a win, even if it looks atrocious next to his own abundance of microwaved bacon and frozen pancakes.

Jeremy tries to make small talk with Jean as they eat. He realizes halfway through that it’s a lost cause, so he switches to short rants about Trojan Horse and its many members that create perfectly intertwined and rapidly moving cogs. Not wanting to shove too much information onto Jean at once, he settles for a few names to get him accustomed to first, instead of listing off all twenty-nine official members.

He talks about Cat and Laila, their lead drummer and keyboardist, respectively, and how they have a house in LA near USC that’s owned by Laila’s uncle. Jean perks up at that, but he doesn’t ask any questions about where he’ll be living for the near future. He only silently soaks in the stories Jeremy tells—how friendly they are, how nice the neighborhood is, and how lively LA can be as a whole.

“Does anyone live near the garage?” Jean finally asks once his plate is cleaned off and his mug of coffee is successfully drained.

Jeremy finishes chewing the last piece of bacon before saying, “Not really. Some live in LA. Some live in Santa Monica, some live in Malibu. We're kinda all over the place, except for our farm keepers, which I'll point out sometime today.”

Jean narrows his eyes at him in scrutiny. “What about you?”

Jeremy tenses. He hates talking about his family situation more than anything, but if he wants to know more about Jean, it’s only fair he extends the branch by opening up about himself first. “It’s complicated…” Jean doesn’t push for more, nor does he look away. He waits, almost bored, for Jeremy to continue if he pleases. “My family’s mansion is in Pacific Palisades, which means I’m technically the closest besides the two who live on the farm. I stay there during the summer and on weekends. But we’re sort of in the middle of a fight, so… I either crash here or at Cat and Laila’s. Sometimes at Cody’s in Santa Monica, when they’re actually at their apartment and not in cahoots with Ananya and Pat.”

He waits for Jean to soak in the information. Then he continues: “Cody is our saving grace. They’re in charge of promoting, designing, and anything related to art. Crazy talented, I swear. Ananya directs traffic during shows as a side job, while Pat is one of our main bouncers. I know, it’s a lot to take in, but they’re part of my closest friend group.”

Jean looks down at his plate as he takes in the information. “Cody is...”

Jeremy waits in confused silence.

“They?”

It takes a while for Jeremy to pick up on what Jean’s asking. “Yeah, Cody is non-binary.”

Jean only replies with a curt and light, “I see.”

Jeremy thinks back to his reaction when admitting that Cat and Laila were a couple. How fearful—no… cautious, Jean had been, almost surprised to hear that information. Before Jeremy could get an explanation, Jean had bolted down the stairs to lock himself in the bathroom. The conversation in the kitchen afterwards with Rhemann and Adi had only barely eased his anxieties, but since they didn’t seem concerned, he tries not to feel as wary as his sweaty skin and racing heart make him out to be.

it can’t be like bryson. or the after-party. not again…

“That’s not a problem, right?” Jeremy quietly asks. Jean’s words back then hadn’t been how is that okay but a tentative how is that allowed. He suddenly thinks of how much reassurance Jean needs to use something, how it has to come from an owner, how Kevin said that the owner meant Tetsuji, how he thought he wasn’t allowed to use the coffee maker, which logically means he might not have been allowed to be—

“No. If Trojan Horse has no problem with it, I don’t either,” Jean eventually says. His words carry a hidden question, one carefully tucked between prying words. Jeremy has little context to piece together the full picture, but the pieces he can see paint a scene heartbreaking and familiar enough to warrant a moment of seriousness.

“Trojan Horse will never have a problem with such things. Our entire image is built on finding smiles, no matter what life throws at us, right? Some might still be held back by the times, but they’re always trying to better themselves at the end of the day. We worked hard to create something inspiring. Something safe.”

The last word seems to have thrown a mean right hook with how sudden and violent Jean’s head twitches. He catches himself at the last moment with a steady hand to his neck. Jeremy can see pale scars, white lines dragging vertically down from the shadow of his jawline. Another question and a secret in Jean’s book of mysteries. Jeremy tucks it away for later with every other revelation; he wouldn’t be surprised if he created a novel out of Jean’s meticulously concealed past.

Jean doesn’t offer anything more to the conversation, so Jeremy picks up the empty plates and glasses to put in the sink. Jean offers to wash his own, and Jeremy reluctantly relents and lets him do what he needs to do if it means helping him feel just the slightest bit more comfortable. He watches Jean roll the long sleeves up to scrub at the plate, and his breath catches at the sight of more scars—another page added to the book Jeremy isn’t confident he’ll ever fully read.

Sometime during their morning routine, Rhemann pops his head out of his office to summon Jean. Jeremy walks with him and listens as the contract is read over. It’s short, offers little to no restrictions, and when Jean is offered the pen, he glares at it as if it personally offended him.

“Any questions?” Rhemann asks after too long a silence.

“In the contract. Does it say I have to uphold Trojan Horse image?”

Jeremy shares Rhemann’s slight look of surprise. “No.” A pause, then, “Should I add it?”

Jean silently nods. Evermore’s image might be the complete opposite of Trojan Horse, but Jean’s behavior so far has been anything but. Needing an owner’s permission, not being able to be alone—it all points to a desire for careful control, something Trojan Horse abandons in favor of freedom.

“Anything else you want me to add?” Rhemann asks, his fingers typing away on the clunky keyboard.

Jean’s eyes scan over the paper, again and again, teeth biting into his lips as he searches for something that’s probably not there. “What do you need from me?” He asks in a quiet voice, and Rhemann stops what he’s doing to peer at Jean curiously.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

Jeremy waits for another piece to slot into the never-ending puzzle. What does Jean expect in the contract? Something out of place or horrific? A specific restriction? Or maybe a long list of rules and regulations?

But Jean shakes his head and hands the papers back. “Never mind, sir. Sorry.”

Rhemann’s face flinches at that. “Just Rhemann is fine. Sir makes me seem too old.”

Jean looks to Jeremy then, face contorted in a rare and honest plea. Jeremy’s blood burns as he says, “It’s chill here, Jean. We don’t use titles or are expected to do anything but perform and have fun. Trust me.”

A ghastly parlor washing over his glossed-over expression and instant hand to a scarred neck tells Jeremy that Jean doesn’t believe him one bit.

The sound of the printer inking the new contract is the only sound in the stuffy room for a while. Even Rhemann has resigned to glaring holes in the top of the paper tray, fingers gripping his chin in an unsubtle anger. Jeremy knows it’s not at Jean, but at what forced him to act in such a reserved way.

Paper shoots out of the printer, and Jean inevitably signs the contract with an unsteady hand. They leave Rhemann’s office with half-hearted goodbyes, and Jeremy walks to the front door with the sensation of rocks in his lungs and thorns wrapped around his feet. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say to make Jean’s transition to Trojan Horse any easier. They still haven’t been around each other for twenty-four hours, Jeremy knows this, but his capacity for indulging pain has already reached the limit. first facer. then wilshire. now jean.

Jeremy’s only break had been his past two cigarettes smoked in between his hectic lifestyle. As Jean follows him out the front door like a silent lost dog, his fingers twitch with the need for a third. He inhales the crisp air and walks down the large driveway, stopping right where the paved cement meets thin dirt between barriers of gravel.

“Ready for your official tour?”

Jean’s hesitant nod is all the confirmation he needs. He’d already sent a text to everyone letting them know to stay clear of the land before the afternoon to give Jean some space, and he’s glad he had the right mind to do so beforehand, with how misplaced Jean looks trailing behind him at a slow pace. Jeremy tries to match his unsure strides, standing side by side so he can get a better look at the man’s expression.

“Everything good?”

“I’m fine,” is Jean’s curt reply.

Jeremy doesn’t take it to heart. This is his first time seeing everything in the light. He’s bound to be overwhelmed; Jeremy was even without Jean’s unknown, albeit suspicious circumstances. With the sun high up in the sky, the clearer view of So-Cal's mountains in the far distant creates a bumpy, almost suffocating horizon. He explains the location of the farm, how it’s on a flat stretch of grass tucked into a hilly pocket, standing right in the middle of Topanga’s wide beach down south and grand nature up north.

They make a left from the house to walk toward the smaller portion with the reserved sanctuaries and farms. Horses walk about and eat grass in wide fields sectioned off by wooden fences. Past the thin trail toward the back is another house, smaller than Rhemann’s and Adi’s, but between two decent-sized barns.

“That’s the farm keepers’ place,” Jeremy says as he points past the flatland toward the direction of the various structures. “Nice house, but they like to keep to themselves. Haoyu and Travis stay there long-term, but sometimes Lucas stays there. Oh, that’s the two farmers and then our photographer, respectively. They might’ve just finished feeding the horses, I think? Any questions?”

He turns back to glance at Jean, whose gaze is intently locked onto a dark brown horse that’s the closest to them. “How many people are there?”

“A lot,” is Jeremy’s light-hearted reply.

Jean mutters something under his breath and turns around from the farm to keep walking down the paved path. “Are we done here? It smells like horse shit.”

Hearing him say something so vile in that accent does something inappropriate to Jeremy’s heart, but he quickly shoves that thought away to keep walking. The right side of the land is the portion laid untouched with respect to what they were granted to work with, and why they refuse to expand. “Hence the trees and dirt and mud,” Jeremy says as they pass the house once more.

“Ridiculous.” Jean kicks something off his shoe with a deep grunt.

Jeremy shoots him a wry grin. “Our size or our land?”

“Both.”

“What about Evermore? What was your garage like?” Jeremy dares to ask. He hasn’t brought it up since the setback at the house, but his curiosity escaped between his weak resolve to contain his never-ending plethora of questions. Jean’s instant halt and grim expression do nothing to ease the festering assumptions bubbling inside Jeremy’s gut.

Jean’s hand rises to settle on the side of his throat as he says, “Black. Dark. Cold. Even though we had shows at stadiums, we always practiced in that same bleak garage. It was attached to a complex with apartment-style suites. Actual buildings. None of this renovated nonsense.”

Jeremy thinks for a moment. “A regular house garage? How did you fit that many people in there?”

Jean frowns at him. “I don’t understand. We only practiced three at a time. Everyone else practiced solo until they were worthy.”

A punch to the stomach would’ve hurt less. “Huh? Wait, then—how often did you all switch? Also, didn’t you have a drummer?”

“Rarely,” Jean admits wearily, his eyes glued to a pile of sticks by a thick tree stump. “It was usually the three of us. Our drummer was—” a choked sound escapes, but he doesn’t continue.

He doesn’t have to elaborate. The three—Riko, Kevin, Jean, the Perfect Stage, always touring the months away and hashing out hit albums and songs as if they were nothing. Jeremy wants to ask how it went when Kevin left, why they didn’t practice with a drummer, why his face looked like all the blood had been sucked out of it, but knows it’d be far too inappropriate considering they’ve talked to each other for less than a day. so brutal…

“Well, there’s none of that here!” Jeremy quickly continues the conversation as the tour resumes. “Big stage, usually five at a time, but we have a reserve studio about ten minutes out for training and stuff. That’s where the showers and athletic center are, too. All of it is right on the edge where the suburban lifestyle meets this wide open field. Might give you whiplash when you first see it, but you’ll get used to it, I swear.”

They pass the large parking lots to the flat of the hill right before the actual garage. Jeremy points out the building for bathrooms, concessions, and merch sales, sort of like the outer ring of an actual stadium, except confined to a long and condensed building. At the top of the hill, they get a clear view of the pit in front of the stage, fenced off and divided into standing areas and seating areas. When there aren’t shows, it remains a solid slope of trimmed grass. The day before a performance, the show runners place benches and seats on the outside behind where the mosh typically gathers under the garage’s roof, allowing the hill’s incline to give them an edge over the rowdy standing crowd.

Jeremy points this out, as well as the position of the sunset in relation to the stage. How they have to squint to not go blind, but how well the photos turn out with sun-kissed skin framing their energy and passionate performances. Jean listens without a word, humming at any points of interest, but otherwise not letting out a peep.

The garage itself still carries a lingering buzz despite not having any occupants. With its many road signs nailed to the back wall, and various eccentric decorations and gifts and collected tidbits purposefully placed, it exists as a living, breathing creature born from the memories and people who give their all in its presence. Jean stops by the edge of the stage, hand tracing over the freshly cleaned stage floor.

“This is…” Jean starts, but stops to stare at the newest sign Cat stole that Cody drilled toward the bottom of the wall. “Ridiculous.”

Jeremy laughs, finding it easier and more honest in comparison to all of their previous interactions. “It is. But that’s what makes it special.”

Jean mutters something in French and doesn’t comment further. Jeremy brings him toward the back doors, where their recording studio, break room, and storage are all connected by a long hallway. They were technically built before the garage, so they’re more of an actual building than something crafted from scraps.

“We record our actual songs here, since it’s easier and adds a more personal feel. But for promotions, ads, and final touches, we do it out in Santa Monica. That’s where our contracted athletic center, professional studios, and trainers are all at, the ones I mentioned earlier.”

Jean studies a booth with a microphone dangling from the ceiling. Jeremy notices the odd look on his face, but can’t find a word to perfectly describe the faraway feeling Jean sends toward the room. longing, perhaps. another mystery…

They enter the storage unit next, where Jeremy points out Jillian’s old bass—a red and gold Fender perched in its stand, untouched and untuned since her departure. Jean’s hand grazes over the headstock in a feathery touch, finger running a hesitant line down the fingerboard.

Jeremy waits to ask if Jean approves or not. He waits, watching with bated breath, and Jean’s entire focus settles on the bass guitar right in front of him. This is the most energy Jeremy has seen him exhibit so far. It’s not much, since he doesn’t speak and his expression still has that permanent negative tang to it. But that glint in his eye, how swift and fleeting it was, how he barely fights off restraint as his fingers move to examine the instrument—they tell a different tale.

Jean Moreau is a walking contradiction, and Jeremy vows to peel every lie apart until Jean’s book of mysteries holds nothing but the unwavering truth.

“Like it?” Jeremy can’t hold in his words anymore, eager to find out what Jean thinks.

“The colors are horrific, loud like every other part of this ugly place.”

Jeremy’s smile doesn’t waver. “It’s us, though. And it’s yours now too.”

The faraway look returns on Jean, stronger than before. “Nothing is mine,” he whispers, hands disappearing from the bass to return to Jean’s pockets. He curls in on himself, backpack adding to the image of a hunched posture; the fact that Jean’s entire life is shoved into that small little thing adds an extra punch to the already hurtful truth. owner’s permission, backpack, not his, nothing is his—

Jeremy fights down a rising wave of nausea.

locked documents, mansion, party, cage—

familiar. too familiar.

“Jeremy?”

He blinks and finds Jean hovering by the door. Jeremy spares a fleeting look at Jillian’s old bass, wondering what sort of images Jean saw in the reflection of the sparkling gold, and continues the tour with a layer of rot coating his tongue. He shows him the break room, not bothering to point out the vending machines that Jean will probably never use. They escape the building through the same door Jeremy used to take Kevin’s call; walking across the scene hurts in retrospect. 

Jeremy walks further across the pathless grass, stopping at the edge of another hill. This one is deeper, but shorter, hiding a small lake behind tall trees. “This is the lake. Beautiful sunrise above the water since it faces the mountains. The garage faces West toward the coast, so the sunset is more flat-looking that way. We built it like that on purpose.”

When Jean says nothing, Jeremy turns around to try to pry something out of him. He stops when he takes notice of the ghastly look on Jean’s face, as if someone had stabbed a straw into his neck and sucked out all the blood until nothing but a lifeless, white sheet remained. “Jean?”

“I—” As soon as Jean opens his mouth, he folds and dry heaves onto the grass beneath his feet. Nothing solid comes out, but the harsh coughs that follow turn Jeremy’s legs into putty.

“Jean? What’s wrong?”

Jean sucks in a harsh breath, swift and unnatural, almost borderline restrictive with how fast it yanks oxygen away. Before Jeremy can pat his back or ask if he’s sick, Jean swipes at his mouth and walks back toward the path that wraps around the garage. “Do not show me the lake again,” he says when they find the dirt trail once more.

“Why—”

“Just don’t.”

Jeremy holds up his hands, afraid Jean will transform into a skittish animal and jump into the vast forest behind them at any second. He knows it’s wrong and practically insulting to think of Jean as such, but for a moment, he doesn’t see Evermore’s ex-bassist. He sees his younger brother, and that’s enough to throw an ax into his usually level-headed thoughts. He takes a deep breath of his own, lowers his hands, and says, “Ok. Let’s head to the car, then. It’s about time I take you to Cat and Laila’s place anyway.”

They walk back to the house in another fit of silence. Jeremy recognizes a pattern in their interactions, how they can’t seem to find a stable line to settle on. They’ll go from Jeremy’s one-sided chatter, to Jean’s quick remarks, to an unexpected drop of them not saying anything at all. As they enter the car and Jeremy turns on the engine, he takes a moment to steel his nerves; this is going to be a very long journey.

The car ride itself starts off uneventful. Despite how bad Jeremy craves the drag of a cigarette, he knows Laila hates the smell and that his family despises the stench even more so. He also knows picking up the habit again is a sign he’s losing his grip on the healing he’s worked so hard to achieve; he makes a mental note to call his therapist’s office for an early session this Friday before the show.

As if his the universe found entertainment in Jeremy’s suffering, an obnoxious ringtone sounds from his phone. He picks it up and puts it to his ear, dreading the voice on the other side.

“Jeremy.”

“Mom.”

Jean’s body shifts beside him. Jeremy doesn’t look, trying to balance his focus between the road ahead and ranting in his ear. “You’re going to come over today for lunch. I’ve had enough of this tantrum, and we need to discuss plans for this spring.”

Jeremy bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. Metal coats his tongue as he holds back a sarcastic retort. you’re the one who shunned me first. all over some bleached hair.

“Can it wait? I’m showing our newest member around.”

“You mean that Evermore boy. I’ve heard all about him from the press. What are you guys thinking, signing someone like that?”

someone like that…

“What time is the lunch?” Jeremy asks and prays Jean can’t hear her voice despite his phone being tucked under his left ear.

“Come over as soon as you can. Warren and Annalise will be here. There is much to discuss.”

She hangs up before he can reply or protest. Jeremy throws his phone into the middle cup holder and ignores Jean’s heavy stare. His fingers grip the steering wheel until his bones ache. Going to the mansion is the last thing he wants to do amidst all this chaos. He desperately wants to bang his head against the glass, scream into the morning’s rising sun, inhale a drag so long his lungs descend into a pit of smoke, but he does none of those things. He steadies his breathing and shoves his problems away to deal with later.

Jeremy puts in a CD halfway through the drive, unable to take the stale atmosphere any longer, but not having enough mental power to start yet another one-sided conversation. Jean doesn’t protest, so he presses play and lets Neil Josten’s powerful voice cut through his frenzied thoughts.

“You really like the FOXƧS.”

He grins at Jean’s reaction. “I do.”

“Why?”

Jeremy analyzes Jean’s intense curiosity out of the corner of his eye. “They’re what inspired us to change from The Floozies to Trojan Horse. We wanted to make more of a difference in the world, and the change helped spark that.”

Jean hums noncommittally, dropping his head to lean against the window. “Both of you are so obsessed with stupid fairy tales. The optimism makes me sick.”

With their song playing in the background, Jeremy looks at Jean once they reach a red light. LA’s border plasters tall buildings and busy streets just up ahead, like a promise for a bigger and better world. “I wouldn’t call our messages fairy tales.”

Jean meets Jeremy’s gaze with a fierce, almost angry determination. “Messages only mean something if the receiver cares to listen to them, and fairy tales are happy endings that only exist in children’s books.”

Something ugly hides behind Jean’s words. Jeremy wants to, needs to dig for more, but a car’s shrill honk breaks the tension with a sharp knife. He turns his attentions back to the road and tries to pretend that those words aren’t a permanent stain now carved into the side of his skull. How bleak and pessimistic does one have to be to grab inspiration by the neck and attempt to wring the life out of it? The more sense Jean starts to make, the further away from understanding him Jeremy feels.

He doesn’t change the song or the album, however. Jean doesn’t make a move to change it either, but that’s likely a result of his not wanting to touch Jeremy’s things without permission. As their pace slows to match LA’s morning traffic, Jeremy has more time to piece together what he has so far. The picture it paints is an unsightly mess, but he refuses to turn away from it.

He agreed to sign Jean, and he’ll be damned to go back on that promise to Kevin.

nor will i go back on the promise i made myself. not after noah—

They pass USC on the way to Laila’s neighborhood. Jeremy shows his ID to the gate attendant and carefully drives the car past the security checkpoint and down the private neighborhood’s broad road. He pulls into the narrow driveway, shoving into the space between Laila’s car and Cat’s parked motorcycle.

Jean slings the backpack over his shoulder and follows Jeremy up the trail to the front door. Before he can knock, it swings open, and an instant cacophony of noise follows suit.

“Jeremy!” Laila exclaims and pulls him in for a hug. They make room for Jean to step inside, letting the glass storm door close behind them. Jeremy pushes the main door open wider to make more room, pointing to Laila as he speaks.

“This is Laila, our keyboard player and one of my best friends. Laila, this is Jean Moreau.”

She extends her hand out for a handshake. Jean takes it, but his eyes are set away from her and to the kitchen just beyond the foyer. Pop music blasts from a boom box up ahead, and Jeremy can only imagine the disaster that waits behind the small wall. Cat doesn’t bother turning down the volume before skipping to meet them all near the entrance.

“Jeremy!” She throws her arms around him in a hug way fiercer than Laila’s, nearly crushing his ribs in the entrance. They saw each other only yesterday, but something familiar about being at home together sparks a more enthusiastic interaction. 

“Cat, Jean Moreau. Jean, this is Cat, our drummer. Also my best friend!”

Cat passes Laila to try for a hug, but Jean instantly tenses. Cat notices and slyly shifts to offer him a wary side hug instead. “Nice to meet you! Jeremy here didn’t bother texting us a heads up, so sorry for the chaos. I’m in the middle of making lunch.”

Jeremy winces. “My bad. It’s been hectic. Oh yeah, speaking of texting! Before I forget! Is it cool if I add some numbers to your phone, Jean? It won’t be too many, I promise,” Jeremy jokes despite desperately hoping Jean says yes.

When Jean says nothing, but still hands him the phone, Jeremy takes that as a victory. He opens up the contact list and does a quick scan of what’s already there: Kevin. Neil. Renee. Wymack. He jots those names down in his memory and adds his number first. He does Cat and Laila’s next, waits a moment, then adds Rhemann and Adi’s.

“I added the numbers and changed the names. For now, it’s just us, and then Rhemann and Adi. Eventually, I do want to add you to The Floozies group chat and introduce you to all my close friends. I told you about Cody, Ananya, and Pat already. Xavier and Min are the other two. Did I mention them yet? Well, either way, we were what made up The Floozies before we became Trojan Horse. I’ll make sure to—”

“Jesus, Jeremy!” Cat interrupts and flings an arm around Jean’s shoulder. “Don’t scare the poor guy.” She looks up at Jean to say, “He’s not wrong, though. We’ll adopt you into our friend group eventually. For now, let's get you started on a tour of the house!”

Jeremy allows Cat to drag Jean away from the front door to the kitchen, where she’d been cooking. She doesn't turn the boombox off, but dials the volume down until he can barely hear it across the house. Laila shoots him a knowing look as she says, “Not staying to help welcome him home?”

home.

“Nah, sorry. Mom is summoning me for lunch at the mansion. Guess she finally got tired of this stalemate.”

Laila’s face sours. “I hate her so much.”

“Not much I can do.” Jeremy shrugs.

She pouts, but doesn’t push the matter, knowing from too many past attempts that arguing is futile. “Thanks for dropping the Evermore boy off. We’ll take care of him, so focus on taking care of yourself first, okay?”

Jeremy smiles and leans in as Laila closes the gap for another quick hug. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She dusts his shoulders off and smooths down strands of his hair in a dramatic and unnecessary gesture. “I’ll keep you in my thoughts as your family torments you. Good luck.”

His smile wavers as she waves him out the door and locks it behind him. The short trek to his car is walked with metal rods for limbs and a boulder in his gut. He gets into the car and leans his forehead against the steering wheel, counting his breaths until the numbers jumble together and his nerves are no longer fighting one another. i don’t want to do this.

i can’t.

i have to.

Jeremy pulls out of their driveway and drives in the direction of the mansion, knowing the lunch he’s being forced to participate in will likely dampen his mood for the rest of the week.

Chapter Text

“So! This is our kitchen!” Cat chirps as she skips into a room filled with clutter and tons of cooking supplies. Jean stops before a small spillage of brown rice grains on the floor and watches her yank the boombox’s cord out of the socket instead of turning it off like a normal person. Her eyes completely graze past the mess. She’s lost in a world that is completely foreign to Jean.

“I’m making lunch right now,” she says, looking at Jean’s feet, and gasps. “Oh! Right, sorry, I kinda got carried away with singing and knocked over the bag. Babe! Do you think you could get some more rice?”

Laila appears, shaking her head with a fond smile. “I wanted to force Jeremy to get us more rice since he still owes me a favor, but he’s busy. Gosh, I cannot believe you sometimes.”

They talk amongst themselves in the background as Jean looks down at the spill. The urge to kneel, kneel, and pick up each grain one by one with trembling fingers surges in a visceral rush that has blood pooling in his skull. His ears burn red in embarrassment; at what, he doesn’t know, but such dirty and unsightly mistakes were never acceptable at Evermore.

He opens his mouth, but no words come out—how could they? Jean is still a lost sheep trying to figure out how to blend in with his newest herd. Evermore had been easy and structured, dark and violent, and in so much control he never had to mull over what to do. He thinks of Jeremy’s laid-back attitude and over-the-top concern and Rhemann and Adi and how Cat and Laila bicker playfully in the background as if their kitchen isn’t a walking request for punishment.

He crouches down on instinct. His body will never forget. Wavering hands hover over a small pile, the pads of his fingertips brushing up against the coarse texture. He picks up a grain and examines it on the edge of his finger. riko would’ve loved a punishment like this.

“Um, Jean? What are you doing?” Cat asks, the tips of her long hair swinging in his peripheral vision as she bends down to examine the rice grain in his possession.

He flings it to the pile with a swift flick and stands back up. “This is a disaster. I cannot believe you are allowed to live like this?”

Laila walks over and stands next to Cat so she can see his face. “Allowed? I mean, the kitchen is only dirty when we cook, otherwise it’s pretty clean. If you mean the landlord, my uncle is pretty chill so long as it’s not hazardous or anything.”

“Your uncle.” Jean looks up at Laila. “Is he y— the owner then?”

She looks at Cat, puzzled. They both share a look he can’t decipher.

“No. We are. We’re on the lease,” Cat says.

Jean doesn’t understand. “But you are Trojan Horse. Who owns—”

He cuts himself off when he sees the two girls’ faces morph into dread. Jeremy had exhibited a similar reaction last night, when Jean had wandered down and witnessed in awe as Jeremy drank coffee from the owner’s machine. At Evermore, both Tetsuji and Riko made it very clear what the members could and could not use.

During his recovery in South Carolina, Wymack refused to include that level of supervision and control. Jean spent the first six weeks in a period of dissociation and physical pain, and the following two weeks were too short to fully understand the way FOXƧS worked. They took as they pleased, said what came to mind, but Jean expected that of people like them.

But Trojan Horse is supposed to be different; how else would a band rise to such popularity and a valiant reputation if not for extreme and careful control?

Cat and Laila share a silent look with each other. Jean hasn’t gotten a tour yet, or been there for at least ten minutes, so he can only stand awkwardly with a heavy mouth and defeated hunch to his shoulders. Now that his name is officially inked on a contract, volatile words and defensive shoves are a thing of the past. As anxious waters dilute his blood with a nervous buzz, he can only ignore it by shoving it far where he won’t have to think about it.

“Well. I’ll clean this up. Cat’ll show you around.” Laila breaks the silence.

Jean almost offers help, but Cat’s determined grip on his wrist says otherwise. He hopes she didn’t notice the instinctive flinch that ran all the way up his arm. If she did, she makes no outward gesture to reveal so.

“Sorry about that,” she says, talking as she tidies up the kitchen. “I was in the middle of cooking, and Jeremy only you guys were showing up before lunch, not when. I’m almost done! Well, actually, I need Laila to go get more rice, but she should get back as we finish, I think. There’s an international market just across this neighborhood!"

She points to cabinets and shelves and magnets on the fridge, explaining each purpose and where he can put his food along the way. They meal prep for the entire week, which soothes his food worries ever so slightly. He ignores the frozen sugar traps and hazardous-looking leftover drinks in favor of the healthier options.

“Today’s lunch. What is it?” Jean speaks up after a few minutes of silence.

Cat’s face lights up as she says, “Arroz con pollo! Just a chicken and rice dish, if you’re confused. And before you say something weird again, yes, I’m cooking enough for you to have a portion.”

Jean ignores her slight remark toward him to stare at the vegetables on the cutting board. He tries to do the math in his head, assigning calories to portions and comparing that to the lack of food he had yesterday. The salt levels might be too extreme with all the seasonings sprawled out on the counter, but the balance of the meal is about the same as it was at Evermore. He can work with this.

“Ok.”

Cat tilts her head. “Ok? Ok, what?”

He doesn’t answer, so she sighs and continues on as if nothing is amiss. Jean begins to wonder if Trojan Horse requires a certain level of chattiness in order to be signed. Laila disappears out the door at one point, leaving him alone with Cat’s boisterous and steady tone. It reminds him of Jeremy, how Jean would sit silently in the car and listen to Jeremy talk himself out of his own thoughts, albeit unknowingly. Jean experiences a similar phenomenon with how easy the prospect of living here starts to overpower the fear.

She leads him to the living room with the TV and couches. She opens the door to their practice room right next to it. Jean studies it from behind the open doorway: A drum set toward the back, keyboard on its stand toward the center, the walls covered in so many band posters, and the original wallpaper design is barely visible. Most of them are Trojan Horse, but there are some old-school shots, some current pop bands, two Michael Jackson tour promotions, and even one of the FOXƧS. is everyone here obsessed with those imbeciles?

He takes another good look around the room and says, “Your blatant disrespect for rules is intolerable. How have your neighbors not broken in and strangled you for making so much noise?”

Cat looks confused, then breaks out into a knowing grin. “They’re electronic! Each instrument has headphones for audio output, that way we can practice on our own time. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of them before?”

She frames the question with such innocence that Jean can’t immediately lash out defensively. Of course, he knows what an electric drum set is. i am perfect stage. i have to know everything. What confuses him isn’t the existence itself, but how they’re allowed to own them, let alone practice with them outside of Rhemann’s or the trainer’s supervision. He opens his mouth to retort, but catches himself at last night’s reminder—at Jeremy’s perplexity when asking about the coffeemaker.

He lets the prospect of a sentence drizzle out. Cat continues to stare at him, face jumping from confusion to intense scrutiny. Eventually, she gives up and walks out of the room.

They go to the gaming space next. Apparently, Laila got so fed up with Cat’s late-night gaming sessions that they converted the dining room to a storage room and left the small study to be the host of Cat’s computer setup. She mentions shooter games and events, and Jean soaks it all in with rising apprehension.

There has to be a catch.

In what universe are they allowed so many personal, let alone expensive, belongings?

The light backpack on his bag grows with the weight of his insignificance in such a foreign environment. LA’s bustling background noise outside the windows, the sound of moving cars, Jeremy’s laid-back attitude, Cat and Laila’s shared home…

“How is this possible?” Jean asks at the foot of the stairs.

Cat, who’d already gone a few steps ahead, turns around. “How is what possible?”

Jean gestures broadly to everything and nothing. “All of this.”

She looks at him again, as if he’s a puzzle she’ll spend many sleepless nights trying to figure out. “I don’t understand you, Jean. Let me be blunt for a sec. Evermore has a lot of rumors—that their angry and brutal stage presence also exists off the stage, how crew members from contracted companies witnessed Evermore’s secret abuse, that they’re a cult; the list goes on. I thought that meeting you would give me some answers, but now, I’m more confused than ever.”

Jean waits for a question. Cat furrows her brows and frowns, but lets the statement hang there. He ignores the flutter in his chest in favor of settling for a half-truth that’ll hopefully steer her nosiness elsewhere.

“Evermore is a lot of things. Complicated is how I’d put it. Don’t worry about the rumors. None of it matters anyway now that—”

now that riko is dead.

he’s really dead.

neil said he—

A gunshot echoes in the deep caverns of his mind. Jean turns around on instinct, but all he sees is the top of a motorcycle parked out in the driveway behind a row of thick bushes. He turns back around and ignores Cat’s prying look, propping one foot on the step as a silent plea to continue the tour.

Cat goes on without question, her tone steady with a hidden question stitched into certain words. She shows him her and Laila’s bedroom, mentioning that he can pop in any time, but to stay clear if the door is closed. The unsavory reminder of what they are churns his gut in a way he can recognize, and he ignores it so he doesn’t have to think about what it means for someone like him.

She shows him the office with two desks and a mess of papers on one of them. The empty one in the corner is Jillian’s old work one from her college days, but the dirty one against the wall opposite to it is Jeremy’s. Jean remembers what he said about crashing here sometimes, and wonders how often and for how long. He slowly enters the room, eyeing the cluttered desk first. He sees a lot of papers with Trojan Horse’s name on them, as well as other official-looking documents.

Eventually, he decides he doesn’t care and moves over to his own. He takes the backpack off his shoulders and starts rummaging through it. He takes out a notebook he’ll never use for lyrics, some postcards and magnets from Kevin he never had the heart to throw out, and a photo of Renee. They’re set in drawers one by one, face down and tucked away to likely never be viewed again.

With them out of the way, his bag feels lighter than a feather. “What were those?” Cat asks.

none of your business.

“Stuff.”

She clicks her tongue, but doesn’t press, hopefully used to Jean’s dismissive answers by now; he doesn’t want to accidentally say more than he should.

Down the hall is the guest bedroom with an attached bathroom and a walk-in closet. Jean follows Cat through the open door and immediately yells out, “What the fuck is that?”

Cat laughs and walks over to pet the obnoxiously large cardboard cutout of a golden retriever propped against the dresser. “This is Barkbark von Barkenstein!” She says, as if the name isn’t a butchered monstrosity of the English language.

“It is an abomination!”

She gasps dramatically, putting two hands over ears that are made of cardboard and most definitely cannot hear at all. “Jean! Don’t be rude!”

He scowls and tears his gaze away from the unsightly creature. “It is a thing. It cannot hear me. Why are you all so ridiculous?”

“He is the pet we aren’t allowed to have. My brother works at a pet store and gave us this display. Jeremy wants a dog so bad, it’s not even funny. You should see the way he treats Barkbark. He liked crashing here before you moved in, which is why it’s here.”

Jean wants to do anything but that. Cat sighs and moves the cutout dog to the hallway. “Feel free to use anything in here. Dresser is empty, bed has simple sheets on it, closet is big, attached bathroom, blah blah, you get the drill. If you need a desk in here, we can move the one from the office.”

“No,” Jean says.

Cat hums and watches him take his two black shirts out of the bag and fold them neatly. He takes out the two pairs of pants and folds them on top of the shirts. His socks and underwear are already rolled, so he takes those out and picks up the pile to place in the dresser. They fit neatly in the top drawer and leave plenty of leftover space. He closes the drawer, looks over to Cat, and has to look back away from the sheer dread on her face.

“Jean.”

“Yes?”

“What the fuck.”

Jean bites his tongue and puts the backpack on the floor near the bed’s nightstand. “Is the tour over?”

“Where are the rest of your clothes?”

“Is it over?”

“Jean.”

“Cat.”

“…”

“...”

Jean doesn’t dare to look at her expression. He realizes, all too belatedly, that the pitying concern hurts him far worse than scorn does. He’s used to the latter—deserves it. The former is a novel concept his mind hasn’t yet adjusted to. And if Jean is adamant on avoiding anything, it is the unknown.

She throws her hands up in a dramatic gesture and says, “Fine! Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’m forcing you to go shopping with Laila after lunch and before our afternoon practice. If you say no, I’ll ban you from the kitchen forever and make sure I duct tape Barkbark on your ceiling so you have to stare at him every day! Deal?”

He wants to think Cat is exaggerating, but he can practically see smoke blowing out of her ears with how frustrated she seems. That doesn’t make sense to Jean; she seems less mad at him and more at the amount of clothes she has.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out easier than it should.

Cat finally melts into a more digestible demeanor, shoulders sinking, and tone a lot less intense. “Babe, I know we’ve only known each other for like, a few minutes, but you’re my housemate and bandmate now. Is it so weird for a human to have a little—I dunno—compassion?”

compassion.

The word feels like poison in his mind. Not wanting to deal with the staggering difference between Cat and his old drummer, Jean shrugs and changes the subject. “Fine. I will go shopping. But tell Laila that I will be miserable.”

“Tell her that yourself. She should be back with the rice soon.”

Cat hovers by the doorway one last time. “I’ll call you when lunch is ready so you can settle here first. But eventually, you’re going to learn how to make yourself useful in the kitchen. I refuse to let you become another Jeremy. So prepare yourself.”

Jean waves her off and closes the door behind her. He leans his forehead against the cool wood. These past two months have been nothing but hell. The quiet bedroom all to himself, confined to LA’s hectic bubble, paired with Trojan Horse as his new band—it drops onto Jean like an anvil from the sky. He grabs his bag again and brings it to the attached bathroom, unloading the small Ziploc bag with all his toiletries.

He peaks in the shower and spots products already inside. must be jeremy’s… It feels wrong to look, but Jean does it anyway. Curiosity pulls him forward, and he tells himself it’s in the name of being vigilant about his new partner, because of course the scent of Jeremy’s shampoo is important knowledge—two in one citrus for hair, and an ocean blast men's bodywash.

what the fuck am i doing…

Jean revolts from the shower and yanks the curtains shut. He grabs ointment from the pile on the sink and carefully peels off his shirt. In the long mirror, all of his injuries are put on full display, a stark reminder of where he came from and how ostracized he is in a place like this now.

His broken ribs have dwindled into an ache over the past few weeks, but the bruising still remains a splotch of faded pinks across his pale skin. Other various old scars criss-cross and zigzag from years of varying incidents. Stuck in a captivated loop, Jean leans to look over his shoulders, stretching to view the marks of drumsticks over his back. He quickly turns back around to get back to what he wanted to do.

The bandages on his forearm hide the damage underneath more than they protect it. By now, the scarring from the burns has turned old, but the dull twinge still hides beneath the surface. Jean carefully smears cream over the scars and tries to hard not to trip into the memories that caused them. riko, ichirou, hiatus, boiling pot—

He turns on the sink and cups water into his hands to splash onto his face. He combats that memory with another violent one, desperately hoping they cancel each other out. They don’t, so Jean swears under his breath and puts his long-sleeve shirt back on. The silver cross necklace catches on it as he does so. He untangles it and carefully tucks it back under the collar.

At the reminder, Jean pulls out his phone. He updates Renee so his own brain doesn’t drive him crazy, mindlessly reading what she has to say. She talks about Kevin and Andrew and how Abby said she hopes he’s doing well. Jean almost mentions Cat and Laila and the absurd atrocities LA has to offer, but holds back. He doesn’t know what pulls him away from talking about it, only that something nags at him to stay private.

Have you found anything worth living for yet? Is her next text.

To an outsider, it seems harsh, but Jean knows the promise she’s talking about. At his lowest, she made him swear to fill up all ten fingers with life’s beauties worth fighting for.

He types out a hesitant: Not yet.

That’s okay. You will.

Jean flips the phone shut.

As he waits for lunch to be prepared, he paces back and forth in the room. Jillian’s old bass guitar will look hideous in his hold, and he doesn’t even want to think about the red and gold he’ll be forced to wear. Jean should’ve looked over the contract to see if he’d be required to sing or not. No matter which way it goes, he knows he’ll have to force himself to comply so he can earn the lead bassist spot, but that’s a problem to throw in the locked cage with all his other issues. His fingers itch with the urge to tug on strings; he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Cat calls him for lunch a few minutes later. Laila smiles as he enters the kitchen and gestures to the island for him to help himself. There are no more rice grains on the floor, thankfully, and Cat explains each part of the dish down to every macronutrient. The similarity to Evermore’s strict diet helps ease his worries just the slightest bit. He grabs a plate with some water and joins them at the nearby table.

Lunch goes on as an awkward affair for Jean. Cat and Laila try to include him as much as they can, but when they realize he won’t answer the serious questions they keep trying to ask, they settle for talking next to him instead of at him. The ease with which their sentences dip into one another in a seamless string reminds Jean of a harmonious bridge, meshing perfectly every which way. Drums and keyboard are different on paper, but the rhythmic foundation of almost any song.

Cat and Laila are two peas in a pod—a steady presence in California’s overwhelming atmosphere. Jean eats and, for once, focuses more on their bizarre conversation than the nutrients in his dish or the fears gnawing at the back of his skull.

Halfway through, his phone chimes with a text. They both look at him curiously, but he doesn’t indulge in their silent prying. He opens his phone and finds a text from Jeremy of all people.

Hey! Hope lunch isn’t as boring as mine.

What r u eating? It sounded good from what Cat said.

Shit gotta go mom found

Jean reads the last sentence with a deep frown. He isn’t sure how to spell what Cat had called the dish, so he settles for a simple:

Chicken and rice.

Cat and Laila are loud.

But it is good.

He half-expects Jeremy to leave him on delivered, but his phone rings again a few minutes later.

:)

Jean closes the phone and finishes the rest of his food with his eyes never lifting off the plate. He washes his own dishes and follows a reluctant Laila out the front door for some quick shopping. Going from one busy task to another helps keep his mind off things, but the prospect of a crowded mall is almost less appealing than the horror of his own thoughts.

Laila drives him to a town center only a few miles away. She shows him different deals and begs him to buy at least a week’s worth of outfits. With afternoon practice in a few hours, they don’t have time for a real haul, but since they have a show this Saturday, she wants him a little more settled in before they’re swept up in preparations.

She explains Jean’s current position and that they’ll wait until the show is over to start incorporating him in songs. He asks how they’ll do it without a bassist, and they said they’ll use one of their substitutes—William Foster, another name Jean doesn’t recognize. He’s studying to be a trainer like White, and plays Jillian’s role when need be.

“But since this is more of an informal show to test out new songs, he’ll only be playing for once. All the other songs don’t have a bass,” Laila says as she drags him to a shelf of sunglasses. “This weekend, we’re experimenting with me playing bass notes on keyboard. It’s fun but…”

“It’s not the same,” Jean finishes for her.

She hums and goes through different sunglasses, holding them up to Jean’s face with a careful eye. “I’m sure Jeremy told you all about the structure of our garage, right? A good pair of shades will help you out. Some of us wear them, some are crazy and like burning their retinas off. Don’t tell Cat I told you that! I love her, but she can be too headstrong sometimes. Ooh, wait, try these!”

Laila opens a pair of dark glasses and holds them up to his face. She gently slides them on, tucking the sides behind his ears, and steps back to examine. “Wow. Ok. I like these. What do you think?”

Jean can barely see her expression with how much darker the world seems. For a moment, the white walls of the store are pitch black, and the muted overhead lights give off a red glow. Blood trips down from them, trickling down in a teasing stream, dripping onto the back of Jean’s neck, neck, biting—

He yanks them off. “Too dark.”

“Hmm…” Laila takes them from his grasp. Instead of giving up, she searches for a different pair, tracing her fingers over each one in contemplation. “Here, try this!”

This time, the store fades into a dull orange. Jean thinks if he’d look inside the sun, this is the sort of world he’d see. Better than nothing, he supposes. Better than a bleak world of shadows and blood.

“These are fine,” Jean admits and takes them off his face.

Laila sighs in relief. “Thank goodness. No offense, but you’re really hard to shop for. I promise a little bit of color won’t kill you. C’mon, let’s go check out.”

They ring up the glasses, two hats, and a handheld fan. Their next stop is a thrift store a few buildings down. Grassy decor and an obnoxiously strong scent greet him as he enters, and he has half a mind to run away and jump in front of a car. LA’s pre-spring weather is hotter than he’s used to in West Virginia. In South Carolina, he barely left the indoors, so the sweat on his temples feels chilled as he walks through heavy AC.

Although Jean is perfectly fine with what he has, Laila insists on at least buying him some red and gold clothing until he can get his hands on the band’s official merch. She gets distracted as they go, and when Jean accidentally reveals he only has one pair of shoes, she immediately forces him to sit down and try on shoes for a good twenty minutes.

Jean kicks off a dark green shoe and complains with a hostile, “I do not need this much stuff.”

“I’m buying you these two pairs for now. Come on, let’s look at the pants now,” she says, completely ignoring him and walking away with a pair of slides and old Nike sneakers that are apparently super expensive and popular and a bunch of other nonsense Jean tuned out.

He reluctantly joins her at a rack with sweats and other leisurewear. “I just realized I don’t know your size,” she phrases it as a question.

Jean shrugs the ice off his chest and tries not to flee at the rising panic. “Just pick whatever.”

Laila looks at him incredulously. “What do you mean, whatever? What’s your size?”

He turns to walk away, but she grabs him by the elbow. Jean's arm twitches in a reactive flinch, but he digs his nails into his palm so as to not lash out. Her grip doesn’t waver, but her face drops into that same pile of melancholy everybody always has when they look at his disgraceful state. Jean wishes he could act as normally as everyone else. But at one point, he gave up, because Moreaus are not “everyone else.”

“Jean.”

He bites his cheek so hard, metal coats his teeth and taints his taste buds.

“Jean.”

“Just pick large.”

Laila grimaces in a seriousness that freezes his blood. It feels off on a face always so full of joy and friendliness, but Jean is helpless in this frozen state. With her hand still on his arm and his heart trying too hard to leap out of his chest, she presses on: “I asked you your size. I’m not just picking whatever. Do you not know your own size or something? Or are you being difficult on purpose?”

The question had likely been a hyperbole, but the moment Jean’s face dropped, Laila caught on. “You don’t know your own size.”

“I should be a large.”

“Should…” Laila lets go and uses that hand to card through her hair. She mutters angrily in a language he doesn’t understand and stomps to stand behind him. “Let me check, then. Unless you’d like to go to the fitting room and do it yourself.”

Jean’s muscles tense in preparation as he says, “Make it quick.”

Laila pulls back the tag without actually touching his skin. “A large. Can I check your shirt too?”

Already on edge from the prying of his lifestyle and phantom feel of fingers, Jean shrugs her off and creates space. “Medium or large. Shirts make no difference.”

Her face steadies into an easy expression. “Fine. Help me look for gold and red.”

With something to do, Jean walks to the opposite side of the rack and searches with his attention elsewhere. It’s hard to focus with the weight of Laila’s prying glances sneaking between clothes, but it’s the better choice against thinking about how much his roommates know about him already. no size. no stuff. diets. permissions. He mentally curses at himself for being so loose-lipped, but at least he knows not to dare touch on what will kill him to say out loud. He’ll be fine eventually, once they all forget about his tedious quirks and issues; he’ll be dead if they find out about specific facts he’d rather cut off his tongue than say.

He tries to sneak in a pair of black track pants, but Laila immediately denies him. “You have enough of that already. Well, not enough of anything really, but for now, we’re trying to help you blend in.”

“Do I have to?” Jean asks in defeat.

“Yeah. When we perform or are at shows, we wear either our band colors or Trojan Horse merch. Fun fact, it took a while to find designs that don’t infringe on USC’s copyright, but ever since Rhemann negotiated a contract with them, we settled on a more Ancient Greece type of design while getting to keep red and gold. Cody is such a genius, I’m almost jealous. They draw the art, and Nabil integrates it with the word art or whatever the letters are called.”

At Jean’s blank face, she adds a quick, “Right. Sorry, I got distracted. You’ll meet them all eventually. Cody is a close friend of ours, an original Floozies member, so we hang out all the time. They swore to be the first one to meet you, so don’t be surprised if they randomly show up one day.”

Jean considers that for a moment. “Where do they live again?”

“Santa Monica.”

He still isn’t sure of the distance between all of these different SoCal cities, only that the house is about an hour’s drive away with traffic. Jean gives up on the topic and continues his search so he doesn’t have to think or talk anymore. Laila relents, and they end up leaving the store with three bags worth of stuff, including the accessories they bought earlier.

Laila practically drags him to a boba shop to complete their escapade. Seeing brightly colored drinks on the menu churns his gut in an uncomfortable twist, and he has to physically bite down a hostile remark toward her questionable tastes. They sell coffee, but Jean already had a cup that morning, and one cup a day is the limit. She doesn’t look disturbed by that sentence, though her expression is more resigned than understanding.

“Um, excuse me?” A young girl’s voice sounds as they wait in line to order. “Are you Laila Dermott? Trojan Horse’s drummer?”

Her face brightens instantly. “Yes! And what’s your name?”

“Mary. Um, I just wanted to say you are really talented and pretty! I am learning piano because of you.”

Laila’s face melts into a puddle of adoration and something a little more sincere—something too personal for Jean to look at. He tunes them out and studies the menu to see if there are any digestible options that don’t look like radioactive waste.

“Who is that?” The child asks curiously. Jean turns and makes eye contact with Laila, searching for an appropriate response. Although his transfer is a secret, Evermore has been declining since the new year, and Jean wasn’t told by anyone to lie, not even by the people who forced this circumstance in the first place.

The child looks at Jean, then to the peak of his left cheekbone. Her previous excitement evaporates upon recognizing Jean, and he belatedly realizes that he probably should’ve covered his number three tattoo. He never left the Nest, so he didn’t believe it to be a problem. No one should know he transferred to Trojan Horse yet, but he isn’t sure if that’s more of a problem for him or the band’s image.

“Oh, looks like we’re about to order!” Laila saves the day with a bright smile. “Have a great day!”

The stranger nods and runs back to her parents. She sends him a searching look that he pointedly ignores. He gets a water cup while Laila orders some sort of “boba” concoction he refuses to think about for too long. As they wait, they sit at a nearby table with the bags by their feet, and Jean sits so his tattoo faces the window instead of the impending crowd.

“Do you get recognized often?” Jean asks. He never went outside The Nest for purposes other than performances, so he’s never had this problem before.

“Depends on where we go,” Laila says through a sip. “Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t. The closer to USC, the more we are, since The Floozies started off there, and our current band name is based on that. Oh! How much do you know about that? I mentioned it earlier.”

Jean knows their previous band name from sparse articles and newspaper features, but nothing further. “I know the band name. I don’t know what it means or who was in it first. I didn’t care.”

He didn’t care about where Jeremy Knox was before Trojan Horse, only that he was a stellar guitarist with a stellar smile. At Evermore, Jean used to lash out at Kevin for constantly cutting out features, not out of dismay for the man himself, but out of fear they’d get caught. Kevin never cared. But that was because his infatuation had been out of respect and admiration. Jean, on the other hand, had an interest that ran too deep and too dangerous.

Jean still remembers getting the news of his last-minute transfer. Once his mind had settled on the same wavelength as reality and his body no longer felt trapped in a cage of pain, Kevin had told him the order without warning. order, because it was neither his nor Kevin’s choice; it was part of a deal Jean tries to forget daily.

“Pop punk band Trojan Horse makes headlines for their rapid increase in popularity! Taking over the West Coast’s garage band scene, they’ve sold out shows and are working on yet another album release! Come back later for an in-depth interview with lead singer and guitarist, Jeremy Knox, for an exclusive look at their musical process—”

“I’d rather die than sing of sunshine and rainbows.”

“I’ll be killed for trying to sing at all—”

“We already have a bassist. Trojan Horse is your last chance. If you don’t earn your spot, Ichirou will—”

“Order twenty-nine! Order thirty! Water and taro milk tea!”

Jean shoots up from the table and grabs his bags. Anxiety crawls under his skin, invoking tremors in his fingers and weakness in his legs. Dizziness wanes, teasing his alertness with a harsh unease that makes reality feel too detached for his liking. Laila comes up behind him and places a comforting hand on his back, whispering a subtle, “Let’s go home now.”

They leave, and Jean tries to steady his breathing. The reminder of why he came here and why Kevin shipped him away to another band instead of hiding him in some hole for him to rot in coats his tongue in a layer of acid. The red clothes by his feet are dyed in blood, the bass waiting for him at Sunshine Garage has thorns all down the fingerboard, Ichirou is in the audience, watching Jean at Halloween fest, watching as he unknowingly performs his last—

“Hey,” hands cup his face, and Jean lurches back in the car seat. He stares at Laila, praying his next words don’t come out as haggard as he feels.

“Drive.”

It’s rude, and it’s uncalled for, but she swallows and drives off in silence. Jean has a hunch she and Cat will discuss his many shortcomings in private, so he balls his hands into fists and prays they won’t kick him off Trojan Horse. He debates texting Neil and asking for confirmation that the deal is real; he bangs his head against the glass and watches the nearest shopping district fade into blurs instead.

When they reach the house, Jean tugs at Laila’s arm in a gentle grasp before she can leave the car. All ride, fear chewed at his conviction. Apologies are a language he’s unfamiliar with, but reconciliation and compromise are his strong suits. After all, most of Evermore hated his guts enough that mastering such concepts was necessary for his survival.

“Sorry,” Jean says. He doesn’t specify what, but Laila doesn’t let that slide.

“Sorry for what? You did nothing wrong.”

Jean frowns in confusion. “I acted out.”

Laila sighs and pulls the keys out of the ignition. “You did, but I don’t think you even understand what you’re apologizing for. Something upset you at the boba shop, and you reacted when I touched your face without asking. You—” she hesitates for a moment, sucking in a breath. “You are not what we expected, Jean. If anything, I should be apologizing.”

This time, it’s his turn to ask, “For what?”

“For forcing you on the shopping trip? Asking so many questions? It’s clear we’re not on the same wavelength, but that’s to be expected. So don’t beat yourself up too much, alright? Hiccups are bound to happen.”

Jean hates the astute observation. Laila doesn’t ask any more questions, for which he is internally grateful. They walk back to the car, and on the way back, Jean’s fingers hesitate over the phone in his pocket. He didn’t have to pay for anything because she’d been much more adamant about being in charge of the shopping trip than Jeremy had been at the gas station last night. Jean was more delirious and stressed then than he is now, and he’s seen enough to guess no one on Trojan Horse is likely capable of hurting a fly. at least for now.

Part of him wants to text Kevin, but he refuses. So he texts Renee again with a simple, Trojan Horse is different.

Her answer comes immediately: From FXS or Evermore?

Both, Jean sends back.

There is no reply for a few minutes. When Laila pulls into the driveway, a reply finally comes:

TH is different. It is okay to experience something different.

Try and find your first reason.

Good luck <3

Jean hesitates over the keyboard. He settles for a curt, Thank you, and exits the car.

He enters and books it straight to his room first. He sets the bags down on the floor and sits down on the bed with heavy limbs. They all said they had afternoon practice, but Jean wants a few seconds to himself to unwind after the day’s many tribulations. jeremy. cat. laila. rhemann. adi. They are nothing like Evermore. Nothing like him.

Jean kicks the bag by his feet and watches a dark red shirt roll out of the plastic. He can’t imagine anything other than black fabric on his skin. They settled for more red than gold, and he’d managed to convince Laila to buy a black shirt with gold accents. He unloads all of the items and tries not to think of how sudden all these changes are and how visceral his reaction to the obnoxious colors is.

Ravens didn’t buy their clothes. Ravens didn’t wear anything other than black. Ravens never left the nest. i am a raven. you are not a raven—

A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts. Cat enters after he said she could come in and hovers near the open door.

“Jeremy is finished being hounded by his family, so he’s gonna come back here so we can go to practice together. But Cody wants to swing by and get a good look before the rest of Trojan Horse gets to you, so Jeremy offered to pick them up on the way. Is that cool with you?”

Jean tries to remember their name. “Cody. Artist. Makes no difference to me.”

She sighs with a shrug. “Sure. Um, anyway, I know today has been… complicated and hectic, probably. Laila and I will be downstairs in the living room if you need anything. I’ll text you when Cody and Jeremy are here, okay?”

He nods and watches her disappear back down the hallway. With nothing else to do and certainly not wanting to ruminate on his thoughts, Jean opens up his phone again. He doesn’t want to bother Renee after doing so already so many times. Thinking about her still hurts sometimes, after all she did to take care of him. He thumbs the outline of the cross under his shirt. “Right person, wrong time,” she’d said.

Jean hates that phrase. He hates how familiar the longing ache is. He knows he should call Kevin, that he has to eventually. But the selfish hatred born of their complicated circumstances still hasn’t been snuffed out. He could call Neil, too, but the last time they spoke had been about the deal, and he doesn’t want to think about that either. Too many thoughts and too many problems make Trojan Horse a wide-open field that he has to navigate without any directions.

He decides to call someone else instead, not wanting to sit alone in the foreign, empty, bright, and suffocating room any longer.

“Wymack speaking.”

Jean swallows. “It’s Jean.”

“Thanks for calling, Moreau. How’s California?”

“Loud. A lot.”

Wymack laughs on the other end. “Oh, I bet. You settling into Trojan Horse alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jean answers on instinct. It’s not what Wymack wanted to hear, but having to deal with all those little foxes means he knows not to push on the matter.

“Kevin keeps worrying about you,” Wymack says, and suddenly, Jean wishes he’d ask about his own problems instead.

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe that. I saw how you two acted after Renee stole you from Evermore.”

Jean scowls at the wall. “I am hanging up.”

“Keep in touch.”

Wymack hangs up first, and Jean clutches the phone in a white-knuckled grip. The disparity between the master and Wymack and Rhemann makes his head swim. The differences between Evermore and FOXƧS and Trojan Horse bind his muscles in an unrelenting tension. Seeing how different Riko is from Neil is from Jeremy locks his jaw and tightens his throat. The first had been a living nightmare, the next had been a transitional moment of recuperation, and now Jean is stuck in a brand new life and the pressure to navigate it all alone.

alone…

Jean looks down and sees that Laila texted that Cody is here. He knows nothing about either of them, only that Cody is part of whatever friend group Jeremy mentioned. His organs twist into knots at the prospect of going downstairs and socializing. Exhaustion spreads through every inch of his body. He doesn’t want to move or play bass for this stupid band or even exist. But he’s made too many promises to do any of those things.

He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. i have to do this. The prospect of getting his fingers wrapped around an instrument again is the only thing keeping him sane. As terrible as Evermore had been, it was still a band—his band. Playing notes will always be a simulation of the freedom he will never achieve.

Sometime later, the creak of a door drags Jean out of his drifting haze. He wearily opens his eyes and sees Jeremy walking inside with a tote bag over his exposed shoulder. The sleeveless white shirt and bright red shorts elicit a lump of hunger in his stomach that has him sitting up immediately.

“Jeremy?” Jean asks, still half-awake.

“How was your nap, sleepy-head?”

Jean grumbles out a string of French curse words. Jeremy isn’t deterred by it in the slightest. He sits down on the edge of the bed right across from Jean with a satisfied grin.

“Did I really sleep?” Jean eventually asks, half-panicked.

Jeremy shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Laila said she texted you, but you still didn’t come down after ten minutes, so I came up to check.”

Jean rubs his face with his hands. A half-hearted apology escapes his lips before asking, “Do I need to bring anything to afternoon practice?”

“Nope! We’re going over a few new unreleased songs, and most of them don’t even have a bass. But if you want, you can try filling in for William? Just to get a feel of the instrument. You’d have to sight-read, though, if you’re cool with that.”

“Yes,” Jean says without missing a beat. “Sight-reading is an expected skill of Perfect Stage. I will do my best to perform.”

Jeremy shoots him an odd expression, as if he can’t believe what Jean’s hearing; this seems to happen every other time Jean opens his mouth, making him regret continuing to talk to him in the first place. “It’s just a chill practice.”

“Chill. I do not understand that word,” Jean says, picking at his fingernails so he has something to focus on other than Jeremy’s skeptical expression he can’t seem to look away from.

“Do you not understand the word in English? Or do you not understand how to be chill? Because those are two different things.”

Jean glares at him. “Trojan Horse is so nosy.”

“Nah, that’s more Cat than all of us. Asking questions is part of the initiation, y’know?” Jeremy says lightly, lips curving up in a slight smile. “You are very interesting, Jean Moreau.”

Interesting is nowhere near the word Jean would use to describe himself, and it sickens him knowing everyone constantly wants to be clued in on his business. Nosiness means unnerving discoveries, and for Trojan Horse to be so dedicated to someone with so many secrets puts them all at risk. For obvious reasons, Jean will never come clean with the full truth, but he wishes there were a way to shut them up without giving too much away.

“Do not lie to me,” Jean eventually says.

Jeremy looks at him so earnestly, Jean’s breath catches. “I’m not.”

Jean hates the way his words and face make his chest feel, so he ignores everything Jeremy has said in the past few minutes and changes the subject. “How long is afternoon practice?”

Jeremy pouts, but doesn’t comment on the topic shift. “No idea. We sort of wing it? Our touring season starts mid-summer, so for now, we’re mostly focusing on new ideas rather than strict, structured practices. Only the Floozies will be there. Lucas will stop by too, for pics and stuff. Any questions?”

Yes, but Jean knows better than to say them all out loud. “What about afterward?”

“We might go get ice cream for our hard work,” Jeremy says and pauses at Jean’s visible scowl, “but after that, it’s whatever we want for the evening. I’m probably gonna just crash here and hang out with you guys.”

Jean subconsciously perks up at that. “Not to your mansion?”

He still knows nothing about Jeremy’s family or why he always seems so faraway when talking about them and whatever mansion he lives in, but he’d be a hypocrite to pry. Jeremy’s grimace isn’t as hidden as he thinks it is when he says, “Thankfully, no. Not today. I managed to convince my parents to stay here until the Saturday show as a way to help you get accustomed to Trojan Horse better.”

Something tugs at Jean’s ribcage. “Permission? I thought you were twenty-four?” are they your owners too?

“I am. Not for long though, since my birthday is coming up next week, I think? But that's besides the point. You are also not a raven anymore,” Jeremy counters with ease, tone easy despite the harsh words.

Jean fights back the urge to stand up and slam Jeremy’s head into the wall. “So this kindness is all an act. Good to know.”

Jeremy sighs in defeat. “Sorry, that came out wrong. How about we forget all this and focus on practice, alright? My overnight bag is already downstairs, so we can head out whenever. I know Cody is probably losing their mind waiting so long.”

Jean shifts to get up, but remembers the cluttered desk in the upstairs office and Cat’s words. He looks to Jeremy’s tense, yet not unkind expression. Jean remembers all too belatedly that he’s the odd one out here and that if he doesn’t want to get kicked out of the band, he has to behave. “You used to sleep in this room.”

If Jeremy expected Jean to say anything, it certainly wasn’t that with how fast his eyes widened. “Yeah, but I can use the couch now. Much more comfortable than the one at Rhemann and Adi’s—at least to sleep in, but don’t tell them that! I moved all my stuff out once we found out you were being sent to replace Jillian, but I still have some toiletries and… uh, paperwork here.”

Jean thinks back to Kevin’s words, the promise Neil made on everyone’s behalf, to the reason he’s even here in the first place. He remembers last night, Cat’s curious and friendly nature, Laila’s incessant desire to splurge on him; If Jean wants to make this work, he has to ground himself somehow, someway or another.

“Why don’t you sleep here? It used to be your room.”

Jeremy startles. “I mean, yeah? But now it’s your name on the lease. I’ve always been a couch-hopper. And I don’t wanna invade your space.”

“I don’t like being alone,” Jean admits as a half-truth. He said so earlier, but that had been more of a fatigued accident than a willing confession. But now that the information is out in the air, he feels a bit better about requesting Evermore’s old, albeit comforting policy.

“Getting another bed would be a hassle, since we’d have to move yours. I swear I’m good,” Jeremy says with much hesitance.

Jean cannot stand the man’s overt caution, as if he’s some sort of stray cat in desperate need of coddling. “You are my partner. I will not let you suffer.”

He didn’t mean to word it so intensely. Jean expects Jeremy to call him out on it, watching his expression leap from one variation of confusion to the next. No disgust, no anger—only caution.

Finally, Jeremy says, “Alright. I’ll ask Cat and Laila about adding another twin bed.”

Jean doesn’t trust himself to say something stupid again, so he doesn’t answer. Going from barely socializing to being thrown into this complicated, pre-established dynamic has him blurting out things he knows he shouldn’t. At first, he was terrified of letting out a forbidden truth, one sealed by violence and bloodshot and shady deals. Now, he’s more terrified of being honest about his real feelings.

He is used to the warmth of fresh blood and damp hands and tightness where anxiety sprawls out and latches onto—not whatever comfortable, smooth river calmly courses through his blood.

And despite barely being here for a day, Jean finds himself praying that this sensation isn’t as fleeting and fickle as he’s used to hope being.

Chapter Text

Jeremy waits for Cody and Jean to strike up a conversation in the kitchen before he beckons his other friends over to the foyer. Cat shoots him a confused look, but Laila helps drag her girlfriend toward him with a knowing expression. They gather by the front door in an awkward huddle, and Jeremy releases a breath when he hears Cody talking in the distance.

“So,” Laila speaks first. “Jean Moreau. Thoughts?”

Cat grimaces and wraps her arm around Laila’s. “Not like the rumors at all. He literally looked like he wanted to jump out the window as I was showing him around. Did you guys know he only has two shirts and two pairs of pants?!”

She meant it more for Jeremy’s ears since Laila had already taken Jean shopping. An uneasy wave of nausea pools in his stomach, but he doesn’t get the chance to let the information sink in as they continue their gossip without letting him chime in.

“I took him shopping, and he literally didn’t even know his own size!” Laila aggressively whispers. “And we had to compromise, because if he didn’t get at least one black clothing item, it was like the end of the world for him. Oh, but don’t get me started on the boba shop I took him to. Guess what he got? A water.”

Cat grimaces and says, “He looked pained to eat our dish earlier. Dude’s got some serious issues with food.”

Jeremy thinks back to their night eating at Rhemann and Adi’s house. “This morning, he had some trouble figuring out what to eat, too.”

“Geez,” Cat sighs with a deep frown. “I’ve heard rumors about both Evermore and Jean, but I’m not sure which ones to believe anymore. Jean is as depressing as a wet cat, but Evermore seems worse the more the hours drag on. Has Kevin said anything about him?”

He has, but Jeremy isn’t sure he should reveal all of that just yet. Cat and Laila are his best friends, but he wants to earn Jean’s trust. “Nothing more than we already know.”

“Huh. Maybe you should press him for answers,” Cat says in response. “He’s the one who dumped him on us in the first place.

“Babe.” Laila lightly flicks her temple. “Don’t word it like that.”

“But it’s true! Obviously, we’ll welcome him as our own, but he’s got serious issues. I want to look out for everyone here.”

Jeremy rubs his eyes and says, “Let’s take it one day at a time, yeah?”

Neither of them looks content to oblige, but they acquiesce anyway.

“Enough about Jean,” Laila changes the subject when the silence draws on for too long. “How was the lunch? Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you.”

Jeremy sighs and smiles with as much energy as he can muster. “Fine. I’m gonna go to the kitchen and make sure Jean didn’t kill Cody. Meet you guys at the garage?”

They aren't convinced of his facade, but they know better than to bring it up now. “Sure,” Cat says, “but we’re talking about this when we all get back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeremy waves them off and doesn’t wait around to see if they actually left. He enters the kitchen and finds Cody chattering at a low tone while Jean listens with his gaze cast out the window. “Everything alright in here?” He asks.

Cody nods, not at all perturbed by Jean’s introversion. “Yup. Just chatting about what to expect later. Gotta make sure you didn’t overwhelm him too much on the first day.”

“Too late for that,” Jean says sharply.

Jeremy awkwardly laughs and shares a look with Cody, who stares at him curiously. “We headin’ out?”

“Ready if you guys are.”

Jean gets up without a word and walks out of the kitchen first. Jeremy leans down to whisper, “We’ll all talk later,” into Cody’s ear and follows Jean outside and to the front door. Jean gets in the backseat without another word.

The long drive there is filled mostly with a rock album playing on low volume in the background as Jeremy and Cody talk. They both try to include Jean in the conversation, but Jean seems much more interested in the outside scenery than indulging their small talk. He seemed fine this morning, but ever since Jean went on that shopping trip with Laila, he’s been more reserved than usual. Jeremy makes a mental note to not pry into his personal life any more than he already has—at least not now.

Cody brings up the promotional posters for their show this Saturday and mentions that Lucas will swing by later to take photos for their dedicated Facebook group. They turn around to peer at Jean in the backseat, eyeing them seriously.

“Did you guys figure out how Jean’s new position here will be released to the public?”

Jeremy flicks a look at the rear-view mirror. Jean doesn’t seem surprised by the question, but his posture stiffens slightly. “Rhemann said it’s up to Jean. I told him he could practice filling in for the one song with bass in it today if he’s confident in sight-reading. Which he is, right?”

“Sight-reading is—” Jean cuts himself off. “It is easy. I will do it.”

“Sight-reading is an expected skill of Perfect Stage,” Jean said earlier. i wonder why he cut himself off.

“Cool,” Cody says without question, and Jeremy is thankful they’re not as nosy as Cat and Laila. “I’ll ask Lucas to take photos just in case, but whether or not they’re published is up to you. Do you have any idea how you wanna go public yet?”

Jean scowls at the back of the car seat. “It is up to the owner.”

Jeremy can feel the weight of Cody’s stare as they turn to look at him. “The what?”

“He means Rhemann,” Jeremy inhales and almost chokes on his breath. “We’ll talk about it with him before practice today, so Lucas will know how many photos to take. “

Cody definitely isn’t convinced by the subject change, but indulges without protest. Jean remains a silent weight in the backseat, face flickering from boredom to anxiety every time Jeremy risks a glance at him through the mirror. He subtly turns up the volume of the album and starts hammering Cody about their progress with Pat and Ananya instead. If he isn’t distracted, he’ll start thinking about his family and what happened at lunch, and to combat that, he usually thinks about him instead, but now that neither of those are viable options, Jeremy settles on a different topic of gossip instead.

Ananya and Pat are already engaged, but the two of them have been pining over Cody for a while now. “You need to make the first move,” Jeremy tries to tell them. “Please. We’re all waiting for it.”

Cody shakes his head fondly. “I’m telling you, dude. I don’t wanna ruin it so quickly.”

“You won’t!”

“You don’t know that!” Cody says playfully. “C’mon, man. Cut me some slack. Their anniversary is coming up, and intruding is the last thing I wanna do.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “That’s like, the perfect opportunity to do it.”

“Nah.”

“Cody—”

“They said no,” Jean finally speaks, voice sharp and intense. A stale air settles in the car, suffocating Jeremy until breathing feels like a chore. Cody is equally as surprised, shooting wary glances between Jeremy and Jean.

For a split second, Jeremy is begging the Wilshires to drop his incessant prying into his private life. He’s pleading to a brick wall, praying that they’ll finally leave him alone. In the rear-view mirror, Jean surprisingly seemed as shocked as everyone else, as if he couldn’t believe what he said.

“It’s fine, Jean,” Cody says carefully. “Jeremy and I both know it’s not that serious. But I appreciate you stepping in. Not everyone is like that.”

Jean huffs and mutters something in French. A small part of Jeremy wants to learn just to be able to understand what he’s saying, but he pushes that away for later. Trying to salvage the clumsy atmosphere is much more important. He offers a light change of conversation topic, but only Cody is keen on conversing with him as the drive continues. 

By the time they arrive at Sunshine Garage, Jean appears less keen on shrinking in on himself. Jeremy would’ve thought the busy atmosphere would stress him out more, but then he remembers he promised Jean that he could play some bass. Jeremy knows all too well what the itch under excited fingertips feels like; he himself drowns in the urge to do something with his fingers, whether that's strumming a guitar or guiltily holding a cigarette between them.

Jeremy skips the parking lot with the rest of the cars and pulls up to Rhemann and Adi’s house instead. Cat and Laila look over in surprise, so he waves dismissively out the window. As he parks, he turns to Cody and says, “Walk Cat and Laila down? We’ll meet you guys near the stage shortly.”

Cody bites their lip, but nods. “You got it, boss.”

They exit the passenger side and jog down to meet Cat and Laila. With the car stopped, Jeremy finally turns his whole head around to peer at Jean. “You good?”

“Why are we here?” Jean asks gingerly.

“To discuss what to do about the press and when to go public about you. Better to get it out of the way so you can focus on practice, right?”

Jean’s gaze drops to stare at the hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. “Fine.”

Fine is not a definitive answer, especially not in that tone, but Jeremy ignores it and exits the car. On another day, he would’ve pried or offered some sort of heartfelt advice to be honest, but being berated at the mansion sucked all the energy out of him. He doesn’t want to think about that or Jean’s circumstances more than he already has, so he focuses on trying to get the future settled instead of dwelling on the past.

Jeremy leads Jean through the door, and is surprised to see White standing in the doorway to Rhemann’s office. The front door closes behind them, causing White to turn around and stare at them in confusion. “Jeremy?” White says, and then narrows his gaze when he sees who’s behind him. “I see you brought our newest problem with you.”

Rhemann says something he can’t hear, but it causes White to sigh and say, “Apologies. That was inappropriate. I’m done here, so you two can do whatever business it is you need to do. However, I will be expecting a visit to the training studio by both of you eventually. Sooner the better.”

Jeremy ignores the previous slight remark and smiles politely. “Sure thing, Coach. Jean, this is Coach White, our instrument advisor and trainer. Coach, this is Jean Moreau.”

White eyes Jean up and down, face serious, but no longer hostile. “I’m looking forward to figuring you out.”

An odd choice of words. Jeremy turns to lead Jean out of the way, but pauses when he spots Jean’s frozen stupor. “Jean?” He tries, but nothing changes. Jeremy reaches out to nudge his shoulder, and jumps at how quickly Jean startles. He looks to Jeremy, then at White, then to the floor as he sidesteps out of the way. White looks over, puzzled, but offers nothing more than a short wave. Jeremy knows better than to believe that; he’ll definitely discuss it with the other supervisors.

Jeremy hauls Jean to Rhemann’s office as a distraction. Rhemann greets them and gestures for them to have a seat, showing no surprise at all at their unexpected appearance. Jean slowly sinks into the seat, but appears more relaxed than when he saw White.

“Sorry about Michael. Well, you two know him as White. Good guy, but tough for those he’s unaccustomed to yet. Don’t let him get to you, Jean. If he hounds you too much, come see me, got it?”

Jean nods on instinct, but takes a while to speak. “Yes…” Jeremy has a hunch he almost resorted to calling him sir again. They both wait for Jean to continue, but he only trails off and offers a guarded expression instead.

“Anyway,” Jeremy starts, eager to get this conversation over with. “We’re here because we want to settle when to publicize Jean’s transfer to our band. Cody mentioned Lucas taking photos of Jean today and announcing him during our Saturday show. Maybe change the setlist to include him in a song? We could also wait, too.”

Rhemman looks to Jean and says, “Up to you.”

Jean balls his fists in a white-knuckled grip. “Whatever Trojan Horse thinks is best is fine with me.”

“What's best for us is what’s best for you,” Rhemann counters, shooting Jeremy an exasperated look. “You are part of Trojan Horse now.”

A shadow passes over Jean’s face. Jeremy braces for another lie or counter, but Jean only settles with a short, “Saturday.”

Rhemann nods. “Okay then. While we’re here, how about we get all the official paperwork done and over with? You signed the contract last night, but there’s still the matter of getting your income set up. Wymack faxed me your documents, but I still need a bank to address the transfer to. You prefer direct deposit or paper checks?”

“I don’t have a bank account,” Jean says casually, as if that’s a completely normal fact to admit.

Jeremy’s words trip over a knot in this throat. “Huh? Then how did Evermore pay you?”

Jean doesn’t answer, but his silence is loud enough.

they didn’t.

of course they didn’t.

and i thought my financial situation was insane…

“Jean, what the—”

“I can help set you up with one,” Rhemann cuts in. “Regardless of what Evermore was like, you will have an income here. Sound good?”

Jean sags in relief at that. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Jeremy wants to ask Jean why Evermore didn’t pay him, wants to ask Rhemann how he’s being so calm, wants to punch a hole in the wall at every new piece of information he learns about Jean. permission, owners, testusji, master, partner, diets, lake, clothes, shopping, sizes, alone—

He makes a mental reminder to write a physical list of everything he needs to keep track of. Is it weird? Yes. Will it help Jean adjust better? Hopefully. Will anyone but him ever see it? He prays not. It’s a bad idea, and definitely one of his weirdest, but he’s willing to do what it takes to set Jean on the right track.

Rhemann shows Jean the different news websites and which interviewers will be on the show on Saturday. Jean picks the one most likely to stick to a script, promises Rhemann that he’ll come up with a list of topics to both avoid and talk about, and walks out of the house behind Jeremy.

“So,” Jeremy tests his luck as they walk down the driveway. “No bank—”

“Don’t.”

He turns around to stare at Jean. All he sees is a desperate expression, a pair of intense eyes curved in a plea, something so pitiful, Jeremy has no idea where all of Evermore’s violent rumors came from. The man before him now is as pliant as an abandoned dog searching for another owner to tell him what to do.

“Okay. I won’t. C’mon, let’s go meet the others.” Jeremy forces a light grin, not wanting to wade through the tension any longer. They walk together in silence across the path and down the hill to the Sunshine Garage. Compared to yesterday’s tour, this time, people are already strolling about and lingering where needed.

Laila spots them first. “Jeremy! Jean! Everyone is here already. Well, by everyone, I mean the Floozies. Ananya keeps trying to bother Cody for a sneak peek at our new mystery boy, but they refuse to budge.”

Jeremy’s grin melts into something a little more real as he jogs down to his friends. “Hey guys! This is Jean Moreau, our prospective lead bassist. Wanna introduce yourselves one by one? Starting with Xavier?”

Jean walks up behind him, hands in his pockets, but his demeanor is seemingly calm otherwise. Xavier hops off the stage and walks over with his hand extended. “Name’s Xavier. I’m the audio engineer, so we’ll be talking with each other a lot. Nice to meet you.”

Jean stares at the hand but doesn’t shake it. “Ok.”

Xavier looks to Jeremy, bewildered. “Okay?”

“Great!” Jeremy nudges Xavier back over to the stage in an attempt to salvage everyone’s decent mood. Min steps up next, but gets the hint and remains a good distance away. “I’m Min, in charge of studio lighting. Hope your tour has gone well so far.”

Jean nods and releases some of the tension in his shoulders. Pat waves from where he’s sitting on the edge of the stage and offers a curt, “Pat. Security detail. Nice to meet you.”

Ananya waves from her spot standing by Pat’s side. “Ananya, Pat’s fiancée. I don’t really do much here besides volunteer to direct traffic at events.”

“Hey! Some of these fans drive kinda crazy when they want standing spots in the mosh pit. I love em, don’t get me wrong, but we’ve had too many cases of them nearly running someone over on the path because they weren’t paying attention,” Pat quickly says in response.

Cody laughs. “Yeah, don’t sell yourself short, Ananya. Your position is just as valuable as everyone else’s.”

She pouts and inches closer so her shoulder touches Cody’s. “You’re too sweet to me.

Jeremy spares a glance at Jean, who’s intensely focused on the trio’s interactions. He remembers Jean’s words from the car earlier, and whether or not trying to decipher that reaction is worth the energy he barely has.

Thankfully, there’s no time to dawdle on a choice, because Cat’s obnoxiously loud string of beats on the drum drowns out all other noise. Half of them cover their ears, and Jean’s face turns pale at the sudden intrusion of sound.

“Sorry! Hey, Xavier! What the hell was that!”

“My bad!” He calls out and jogs to reach the stage. “I was in the middle of fiddling with it before I was distracted by greeting Jean. Hold on, let me fix it.”

As Xavier jumps up and starts fiddling with the audio jacks, Jeremy looks Jean up and down. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Jean says unconvincingly. Jeremy chooses to believe him anyway, since trying to push for an answer will be redundant.

They all get positioned on stage when White shows up and demands to know why they’re dilly-dallying. Cody stays behind to stand near Jean, while Pat and Ananya hover near Min’s spot near the electrical equipment. Jeremy grabs the guitar already on its stand on the stage and gives it a few experimental strums. Satisfied, White disappears and wishes them good luck on the rest of their practice.

Jeremy tunes it until he’s satisfied. From above, he gets a good look at Jean and smiles as wide as he can now that he’s on the stage. The guitar in his hands is home, and the familiar sight of the hill’s peak quells the day’s festering anxieties. He stands up to the mic and gives it a few good taps.

He turns and watches his fellow bandmates get into position. Laila behind the keyboard, Cat on the drums, and Jeremy toward the front with the mic and guitar. Usually, they’ll have a duo guitar or bass to fill the gap, but for the sake of simplicity, they’re experimenting with only three instruments. Sometimes, they have a dedicated vocalist. Today, it is just Jeremy and his two best friends; he couldn’t ask for it any other way.

They go through warm-ups first. Jeremy steps away from the mic to clear his throat and do some new vocal exercises that Lisinski taught him. Cat stretches her wrists, and Laila makes sure that her electric keyboard is on the correct setting. The three of them run a quick instrumental-only tune together. Xavier hovers near the foot of the stage as Min walks up to the lighting rail near the ceiling so she can fiddle with different settings as they play.

“Ready?” Jeremy looks back at the audience of friends with a grin. Xavier gives him a thumbs up, so he continues saying, “We running the setlist from the top?”

“Let’s do it!” Laila chants.

Cat starts the first song with a countdown on her sticks, and the sound of wood clashing against each other is the last thing he hears before they jump into one of their old songs.

His fingers move on autopilot as he cruises through chords ingrained into his skin. Their Saturday show is split between fan-favorite songs and new songs, with the latter toward the end.

Jeremy sneaks a glance toward Jean as he goes through the lyrics of that album’s best hit. He’s sure Jean has listened to Trojan Horse before, not out of genuine interest, but in regard to them being one of Evermore’s competitors in the industry. Jeremy expected boredom. Scrutiny, even.

Yet Jean’s eyes light up in an unrecognizable sereneness that Jeremy didn’t think was possible on a man so uptight and guarded. Any previous tension disappears into a place far away as Jean loses himself in the song. Min fiddles with different light settings to figure out which one works best. Cat bangs away with a grin that Jeremy can practically hear. Laila hits bass notes on her keyboard to fill a void that Jeremy so desperately wants Jean to permanently complete.

Their practice comes nowhere close to their energy during an actual show.

But seeing Jean so captivated burns Jeremy’s blood in a way no performance ever has.

Jeremy sings with more vigor than he typically does for a relaxed practice, but so far, no part of him has ever been relaxed in Jean’s presence—in more ways than one. Jean’s eyes trace the fingers rapidly flying over the strings, and Jeremy loses himself in that sea of gray. He tries to imagine the images in Jean’s head, if he’s more focused on the performance as a whole, or the lyrics Jeremy tried so hard to write.

Trojan Horse’s whole gimmick is to bring smiles through hope and representation. Jeremy grins when Jean finally looks up, smiling even wider when Jean breaks eye contact. He puts more force in his voice as he sings in hopes that the lyrics will reach where regular words and actions cannot.

“In my daydreams, in my sleep,

Infatuation turning into disease.

You could cure me, see all you have to do now is

Please try, give it your best show and try

All I’m asking for is love,

But you never seem to have enough…”

Jeremy had written it after a particularly disastrous hook-up that left him scribbling away in a notebook on Rhemann and Adi’s couch. The lyrics aren’t as motivational as some of their other hits, but it’s a niche for those similarly addicted to a fleeting spark they’ll never fully reach.

Singing it in Jean’s presence almost feels like a transgression against their fragile circumstances. Jeremy isn’t dumb or blind; Jean is exactly the type of guy he’d go for, with his tall and broad build, stupidly unique face and deep accent Jeremy would love to hear in a different context.

Jean has also been a part of his band for less than a day, has a myriad of issues Jeremy hasn’t completely figured out yet, and arrived in LA with a giant sticker labeled “bad idea” taped right on his forehead. Jeremy still doesn’t know Jean’s type, or if he’s interested in pursuing something at all; his hunch tells him that’s probably the last thing on his mind. He doesn’t know if Jean even likes guys either, because although there are multiple rumors surrounding him, he’s already proven most of them false.

None of the above has ever stopped Jeremy from making poor choices before, so he pours his heart into the song and watches Jean’s face harden into a forbidden curiosity—one he tries hard to fight off.

“This life is way too short

To get caught up in all this stuff.

When I just want you to love me back,

Why can’t you just love me back?”

Fans have sent Jeremy letters thanking him for writing a song for fellow losers—for people who chase after stars they know will rise to a place they cannot reach. Has Jean ever been in love with someone like that? Has he ever had his heart broken?

The song ends, and Jeremy drops the guitar so it hangs over the strap around his back. He raises a brow and asks into the mic, “So? What do you think?”

Jean falters when he realizes that Jeremy had been talking to him. He scowls and turns away, but Jeremy can see the way a thin blanket of pink settled over his pale face. His heart dangerously warms as he waits for the response.

“Fine. Your guitar skills are good. Cat’s adlibs are distracting, but she is otherwise good. Laila is talented, but it’s clear her playing is needed in an actual keyboard position. Filling in for bass with low notes is doing her a disservice.”

No one expected that level of criticism or observation. Jeremy’s smile dwindles into a satisfied line of shock when he realizes Jean complimented him. Once he’s able to digest everything Jean said, he chips in with a quick, “If you think Laila is better elsewhere, why don’t you fill in for bass?”

It was a joke, but Jean perks up and tilts his head. “I can. I will.”

Jeremy turns to ask a silent question of his fellow bandmates. “Hell yeah!” Cat answers, and Laila nods and starts dragging her keyboard stand off to the corner to make room. Jeremy moves the mic stand closer to the center so Jean can position himself to his left.

“Hold on, I’ll bring it out with the cords!” Xavier says and nearly skips to the door to retrieve the stuff.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Lucas?” Cody asks.

Jeremy takes one good look at Jean’s excited expression, compares it to the downtrodden demeanor Jean has worn since arriving on the West Coast, and says, “Nah. I think Jean here is itching to get his hands on an instrument.”

Jean hums, but offers no words. Xavier comes back with the bass and attached shoulder strap, hands it to Jean while he fiddles with the cord. A minute later, Jean holds the red and gold bass in his hand with a cautious, yet excited grip.

Laila walks over and brings a stand with note sheets on it. “These are what I was using. You sure you wanna try without looking it over?”

“I am Perfect Stage. Of course I can sight-read,” Jean says blankly. Jeremy tries to gauge everyone’s reactions, but they seem more intrigued than put off by his confidence.

“Well then. From the top! Cat!”

“Let’s go, boys!”

She counts them down again, and the song starts with an impressive collision of both bass and guitar. For the first few notes without lyrics, Jeremy watches in awe as Jean seamlessly blends his way into the background. With an actual bass instead of keyboard notes as a replacement, they create a blend so perfect and sound so smooth, it’s almost as if Jillian never left.

Jeremy barely makes his cue to start singing, too caught up in witnessing Jean playing to pay full attention to his performance.

“Yeah, he’s a looker,

But I really think it’s guts that matter most.

I displayed them for you,

Strung out about from coast to coast.

I am easily make-believe,

Just dress me up in what you want me to be.

I’ll take back what I’ve been saying for quite some time now.”

Jeremy can’t take his eyes off Jean; his gaze is glued on to the way those slender fingers strum over the strings, how he presses into the fingerboard and concentrates on the sheet with an ecstatic gleam. Something hot and improper boils in Jeremy’s gut, but he can’t resist throwing himself into the sensation and losing himself in the music.

“I gotta feel you in my bones again,

I’m all over you.

I’m not over you.

I wanna taste you one more time again

I’m all over you.

I’m not over you.”

Jean can’t see Jeremy from where he’s intently focused on the note sheet, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a good thing, in fact, with how dumb Jeremy probably looks smiling and singing about a man no longer in his life to a man he currently wants to decipher. When his gaze drifts, he sees Laila with her arms crossed and face shooting him a knowing look. He ignores her and turns his attention back to Jean.

The bass player in front of him is an entirely different person. Jean’s reserved, almost docile nature pales in comparison to the beast on the stage. His long fingers fly over the strings like they’re nothing, and Jeremy has to focus on his singing so he’s not distracted by what else he wants those fingers to do.

Jeremy misses a few notes, too distracted by how well Jean slips into the song. Before he can regain his rhythm, Jean abruptly stops playing with a frown. Cat slowly gets the hint and stops drumming with a puzzled expression.

“Uh, guys?” Cody asks from below. “What happened?”

Jean finally turns to look at Jeremy. “You made a mistake.”

“I did,” Jeremy admits with a straight face and shrugs it off. “I was too focused on watching you. You’re good.”

Jean bristles and offers no retort or thanks. “Mistakes are not allowed. We have to take it from the top, yes? Or do you guys do some other punishment?”

Jeremy’s grip on the guitar tightens. “We can, but we don’t have to. And punishments aren’t really a thing around here.”

“Nonsense. How else do you learn? Does Rhemann know about this? Or White?”

The previous upbeat atmosphere now reeks of discomfort. Everyone except his two friends appears shell-shocked at his words, and Jeremy knows a long conversation between all of them is well on the way in the near future. Cat sighs, tapping her drumsticks on her legs in agitation.

“How about we take a break,” Xavier offers with a placating wave of his hands. “I can get us some In-and-Out catered. In honor of Jean transferring, y’know? I’m sure he hasn’t tried Cali’s best fast food yet.”

Min playfully shoves his shoulder. “Don’t force your obsession on him, babe. Plus, there are better burger joints.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thanks, Xavier,” Jeremy quickly responds, so they don’t take too long fighting over where to get food; though, he isn’t sure Jean will even eat fast food, based on Cat’s judgments. She observes Jean from behind the drums, lips pinched tight as she contemplates speaking up. When he leaves to make a call, Jeremy signals for them to enter the break room, waving them toward the back without moving.

When it’s just the two of them in the main portion of the garage, Jeremy puts his guitar on the stand and watches Jean for something productive to say. Jean continues to read over the notes with interest, but Jeremy isn’t sure if that’s genuine fascination or if he just wants an excuse not to talk to him.

“You played that extremely well for a first-time sight-reading. I can’t wait to see what else you can do on the stage,” Jeremy says after a beat.

Jean looks over at him. “This type of music is nothing like what I’m used to.”

“Sorry about that,” Jeremy laughs into his words, “I guess we are a bit different from metal.”

“Everyone and everything is very different.”

“From metal or from Evermore?” Jeremy blurts out without consideration.

Jean doesn’t answer; he rarely does.

Jeremy doesn’t take it to heart. Although they’re nowhere near getting all the answers, they at least have more information than they thought. Jean sets his bass down on the stand and follows Jeremy down the stage steps to the doors that lead to the break room toward the corner. Everyone acknowledges their entrance, but they are too caught up in their own conversations to offer more than a nod or a wave.

Jean goes for the empty seat in the far back, more cautious now that he’s off the stage and without a bass in his hands. Jeremy drags a chair to sit next to him and ignores Jean’s offended gaze. Laila scoots her seat closer to them as Cat chatters away with Cody at the other end of the table.

“You absolutely killed it out there, Jean,” Laila says. “I can’t wait to see you in a real performance.”

Jean huffs. “I can’t wait to see you play real keyboard notes.”

She laughs. “Yeah, yeah. So what do you think? That was a song Jillian used to play for. I’m not sure which ones you’re familiar with, but I assume most of our releases are nothing like Evermore.”

“It is fine. I am a part of Trojan Horse now,” Jean says without any real emotion behind it. Laila looks to Jeremy curiously, and he tries to ignore how everyone else quiets at the mention of that band. The members only know of Jean’s transfer and that he’d been staying in South Carolina for a few months, with the why being mostly assumed, given Evermore’s rapid decline. Even Jeremy doesn’t know how Jean ended up in Kevin’s care, or why he went on hiatus in the first place, or what Evermore did to create such a withdrawn and skittish personality.

“That, you are,” Pat says lightly and raises his water bottle in a cheering motion. Ananya taps it with her own bottle, and Jean eyes them warily.

Jeremy nudges Jean’s calf with his foot. “Don’t look so afraid. You’ll have a blast here, I promise!”

“Don’t promise me such nonsense,” Jean says without any real heat to it.

Xavier pops in at one point to tell them the food will arrive within the next half-hour or so. They all resume their chatter, with most of the conversations being as a group and directed at Jean. He answers what he can, albeit very reluctantly, and is quick to steer off anything he finds too intrusive. No one is keen to push too hard, which Jeremy is eternally grateful for.

Jean spends most of his time listening to others. As the minutes pass by, he becomes more and more comfortable offering words where he wants to. Every time he catches Jeremy staring, they’re both quick to tear their eyes away from each other. He isn’t sure what to think of this development, but he guesses it’s better than being ignored or completely shut out.

Cody abandons Pat and Ananya to come gossip with their little group, though Jeremy can guess they’re probably too overwhelmed by their crushes’ affection. Jean puts all his attention on them as they speak, but doesn’t say more than he already has.

“Man, you picked a nice time to transfer,” Cody says. “We’re in a bit of a down period before we prepare for new releases. Once we figure out what songs we gotta do, it’ll get way busier with recordings and shoots.”

“Oh, right!” Cat chirps. “Music video shoots. I’m sure you know all about those, but they might be different. Is that something you’ll be interested in?”

Jean stares at a crumb on the table as if it personally offended him. “Evermore’s music videos barely involved me. Whatever Trojan Horse requires, I will do.”

Jeremy half-remembers Evermore’s music videos. Their bloody and violent themes certainly aren’t hard to miss, but it was usually Riko and Kevin in the spotlight. Jean appeared sporadically in distant shadows, but never with his face drowned in bright white lights.

“We don’t require anything,” Laila presses. “It’ll be up to you. So don’t sweat it!”

Jean wants to retort, but Xavier’s violent sprint to the door interrupts whatever he was going to say. “Food’s here!” Xavier yells over his shoulder and disappears.

It doesn’t take long for him to return. As soon as he does, the smell of salt and grease makes everyone perk up. “Ladies, gents, and Cody, our saving grace is here! Lucas is here, too. Wait, let me open the door for you.”

Xavier leans against the door to make room for Lucas, who walks in holding a giant bag of what smells like fries. “Thanks, Xavier. Hey, guys, what’s—”

Lucas stops speaking as soon as he lays eyes on Jean. Jeremy looks over, ready to offer apologies, but Jean’s bloodless skin and wide eyes distract him from what he was about to say. His lips crack under the pressure of teeth digging into them, and a hand comes up to scratch at the side of his neck.

Jeremy doesn’t get the opportunity to intervene because Lucas’s next words are ones that will send chills down everyone’s spine for the rest of the night:

“I’m surprised the whore actually showed up.”

Chapter Text

The silence in the break room can pierce through a sheet of metal with how sharp the atmosphere feels against Jean’s skin.

Lucas’s words don’t have time to register because Cat stands up to immediately swat him upside the head. “Lucas!”

He looks away from Jean with a scowl. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” he doesn’t finish his sentence. He resigns with his head hung low and sets the plastic bag on the table on the opposite side of the room.

Jean doesn’t give a reaction to the statement; he’s used to that particular insult and worse, and from people far more important than a measly photographer. He looks over at Jeremy to move on from the confrontation, but pauses at the man’s livid expression.

Jeremy walks over to Lucas and places a hand on his shoulder. “You know better than to act like that. Apologize.”

This time, Lucas has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Jeremy says without looking back.

Lucas stares at Jean again, face twisted in a silent fight over whether to comply or dish out another insult. Jean isn’t sure why his gut churns at the eye contact, only that Lucas is unsettling to look at. Something about those eyes, about the build—

“I shouldn’t have said that. Out loud,” Lucas says in a way of apology. Jean waves him off with a flick of his fingers, not interested in the rude stranger or the bizarre hunch that comes with him.

No one else comments on the interaction, though everyone fails to have some sense of subtlety when they glare at Lucas with confused disappointment. Jean doesn’t know much about him, but Jeremy’s frown and Cat’s quick reaction to smack him let him know that there’s something deeper he doesn’t understand yet. Perhaps a relationship strained by Jean’s presence. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened, nor will it be the last.

Xavier brings in the rest of the food with a careful eye on the two of them. Jean has no qualms with Lucas’s outburst, aside from the slight surprise at Trojan Horse harboring someone with such hostility. Rhemann, Adi, and the Floozies have all been nothing but receptive; White and Lucas are the catches he knew would inevitably show up.

Even as the food is divvied between everyone on plates and drinks are passed out, the previous boisterous nature doesn’t return. Although Lucas and Jean are on distant tables, an unignorable taut thread hangs between them, threatening to snap at any second.

Jean doesn’t have the time to dwell on a semi-true rumor. He’s far more focused on the array of fried nonsense being consumed around him. The waft of grease and salt and disgusting filth burns his nose, and he has to physically dig his nails into his neck to focus. He hadn’t realized he’d reached up to scratch until Jeremy gently drags his wrist away from the damage and sits back at his spot next to Jean.

“Sorry about that,” Jeremy whispers. Although conversations still flicker in the background, albeit quietly, the lingering attention toward him and Lucas still remains an irritating weight on the back of his head.

Jean doesn’t bother masking the volume of his next words, deciding then and there that confronting Lucas will be easier than addressing the catered snacks; he’s too used to conflict to not choose it.

“Don’t apologize for his words. It’s a rumor I’m used to hearing. I am content to just ignore him.”

Jean dares a glance at Lucas, who glares back with about as much heat as a kicked puppy. Jean feels no real threat, but still itches to figure out why his gut coils every time he looks at him. familiarity? no. i have never seen him before.

“Are the rumors true, then?” Lucas asks boldly, quickly waving his hands at Jeremy, saying, “What? It’s just a question! He’s the one who said he’d just ignore me.”

“Still, that’s not appropriate to—” Jeremy cuts himself off at Jean’s dismissive gesture.

Jean will never reveal the truth behind the rumors—that his “sleeping his way” to Perfect Stage hadn’t been his choice at all. No one needs to know that, so he dismisses the question with a simple, “Rumors are rumors. I don’t care if you believe them or not.”

“You’re not denying them,” Lucas presses, and flinches when Xavier throws a packet of salt at his face.

Jean crosses his arms and stares at the wall. “My life is none of your business.”

“It is if you’re a part of our band! Our reputation has been upheld too far to be ruined. Even after what happened with Jeremy—” Lucas shuts up at the onslaught of heavy stares sent his way.

Jean looks to Jeremy curiously, but he reveals nothing other than a strained smile. “Lucas Johnson. Either you watch your words or leave. For someone so obsessed with our image, you are being particularly rude. I know you’re better than that. What’s going on?”

johnson?

Jean had no idea Jeremy could sound so clipped; he almost chokes on air at the strong tone that leaves no room for defiance. Lucas recedes and pouts, crossing his arms over his chest as he says, “Sorry. And I mean it this time. It’s just with everything at home, and with Grayson, I’m just very… yesterday we…”

grayson?

Lucas trails off with a poorly concealed sniffle. Min pats his back and says, “Oh, Lucas. You know we’re always here for you. But it’s unfair to take your brother’s issues out on Jean.”

brother?

Pat leans over to ruffle Lucas’s hair. “Talk to us, yeah? What’s going on? Are you safe at home?”

johnson.

grayson.

brother.

Jean’s stomach drops to the floor. “You’re Grayson’s brother.”

Everyone looks over to him curiously. Grayson Johnson, Evermore’s drummer, is unsurprisingly someone Jean should know. He took a while to make the connection he dreaded to piece together. When he does, his face tingles as the blood leaves his expression and ice settles in his chest.

“You don’t sound happy at that,” Lucas starts carefully, less aggressive than before. “He’s the one who confirmed the rumors. That’s why I said that. He’s changed, and I—I took it out on you. Because that’s what he said. He’s very angry at you, and it’s making him… Nevermind. Sorry.”

Jean lets the apology fly in one ear and out the other. He’s too busy trying to steady his breathing to pay attention to anything else. “Do not listen to that bastard,” Jean says without thinking.

“Are you saying he’s lying?” Lucas asks louder than before.

Jean has no idea what Grayson told his younger brother. Before he can retort, the implications of such an interaction churn his stomach in a way that sears his organs and flips his intestines inside-out. Ravens can’t contact their family from the Nest, so if Grayson talked to Lucas, that means Grayson must be—

here.

Jean never runs. He’s been trained to take whatever lashings and scrutiny the master deemed fit. This awkwardness, this unspoken conflict, this dangerous line he’s created between the truth of Evermore and what he’s already revealed—Jean wallows in the heaviness until his bones ache and teeth grind.

Cody tries to nudge a small fry bag on a plate toward him. The weight of everyone’s gazes penetrates his skin as he stares at the abomination before him. His stomach churns. eat it. Acid coats the top of his tongue. eat it, johnny. Bile rises to a height he can’t shove down. Jean quickly excuses himself and bolts out of the door leading to the outside yard just behind the garage.

He has half a second before he heaves into a nearby bush. Trying so hard to ignore the rising rush of violent memories only made the emotions that come with resurface twice as vigorously. His throat aches from heaving so hard, and his eyes sting from the force up his chest.

When nothing but spit remains, Jean hobbles away from his mess and sits down on a curb toward the edge of the building’s perimeter. The late afternoon’s steady winds do nothing to quench the furious heat across his face. Images of dark nights and rough hands flash in unwanted bursts. His nails claw where red marks already descend down his neck in thin streaks.

Air fights its way out of Jean’s lungs, tripping and catching on the pleas he so desperately wished to cry out. He knew Trojan Horse was a bad idea. He knew all too well from his time in South Carolina that Evermore had left too many permanent marks for him to belong anywhere else.

a day. it took less than a day.

the master would have my head for such weakness.

i am a raven. my place is at evermore. i am—

He has half a mind to abandon his promise, get shot somewhere in the garage’s forest, and have his body tossed into the Pacific Ocean, but the sound of the door opening pauses that train of thought.

“Jean?” Jeremy’s voice is the last thing he wants to hear right now. “Hey. What was that? Are you alright?”

The softness in Jeremy’s tone irritates Jean more than it soothes his roaring anxiety. “I can’t be part of this band.”

Jeremy’s confused “Huh?” is all that comes out for a few seconds. Then he sits next to Jean on the curb and continues saying, “If you’re talking about Lucas, don’t worry. He got a stern talking to. He’s just on edge because his brother came home last night. You should know him, right? Grayson Johnson?”

Jean flinches. How is he supposed to respond? he tastes like whey protein and oat milk. has sharp teeth. likes the neck. likes—

“He is Evermore’s drummer,” Jean says blandly, because he’d rather bite off his tongue than admit his thoughts and unwanted knowledge.

Jeremy studies him intensely. “You don’t like him?”

“I hate him.”

Jean shouldn’t have revealed so much. Jeremy takes the inch and stretches it to a mile, asking cautiously, “Are you guys on bad terms?”

Yes, and in ways Jean will never admit out loud.

“Do not worry about him or me. I’ll figure it out,” Jean says in an attempt to change the topic.

Jeremy pushes his luck even further. “I just want to help you. I know nothing about your time at Evermore or your fellow bandmates, even with Kevin, only that you’re very on edge and not used to… positivity? A healthy work environment, perhaps?”

Kevin’s name is a punch to his gut, and the following accusations are sharper nails into his chest. Jean ignores him again, refusing to allow his weaknesses to slip more than they have. “We don’t even know each other. Why ask such prying questions?”

“No. But I’d like to. You’re my bandmate and partner now, right?” is Jeremy’s quick answer.

Using the pair system against him like that is a low blow; it’s a dangerous road lined with barbed wire that has never stopped Jean from walking down it before. He studies Jeremy’s strong expression, the brown eyes searching for anything that gives off a hint to his inner thoughts.

Jean scowls and faces the dirt under his worn shoes. “Where does Lucas live?” He asks in an unsubtle topic change and attempts to retrieve more information.

“San Diego.”

Jean looks back at Jeremy to see if he’s figured out his intentions. “How far from here?”

“Couple hours? Depends on traffic, but it’s at least two even on an empty highway.” Jeremy opens his mouth to continue, but stops halfway. He was probably going to ask why. Or maybe ask another question Jean won’t answer. He’s surprised Jeremy stops himself and ignores how it lifts a small weight off his shoulders.

Jean can only nod in response and lets the conversation die out. Without words to fill the air, his obnoxiously fast breaths are amplified more than he’s comfortable with, but Jeremy doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t comment on anything, seemingly content to sit a few inches away from Jean as he regains his composure.

“Wanna head back now?” Jeremy asks after a while.

Jean checks his phone for the time. “Yes. I will not waste practice time again.”

“It’s fine, Jean. Don’t worry about it. Seriously. Practice has stopped longer for less. Plus, we were on break anyway.”

The words are supposed to be comforting, but it only makes Jean’s impression of Trojan Horse worse. Watching the three earlier wasn’t too bad, and getting to play next to Jeremy had been an experience with dangerous emotions that he’ll ignore for the foreseeable future. Then his perception started its downhill tumble since Lucas’s appearance, topped off by the minor issues he’s encountered throughout the day.

Jean shoves down the lingering hum under his skin as he gets up and follows Jeremy inside. The break room is half-full when they pass. Cody raises an eyebrow at them as they walk, but neither of them says anything. Jeremy steals another chicken wing on the way out the door, and Jean tries not to swear at him for the lack of discipline.

Cat and Laila wave them over on the stage when they emerge back to the main part of the garage. Lucas is still there, but his avoidance of eye contact and lack of snide remarks tell Jean he’s willing to behave for now. Jeremy hops up on the stage and does a quick once-over.

“Hey, Jean. Do you want to run that song again so Lucas can take photos? Just to have them, I mean,” Jeremy says.

Jean shrugs. “I will do what Trojan Horse needs of me.”

No one enjoys that answer, and Lucas sends him a weird look; Jean ignores them all and joins them on the stage. He puts the strap over his shoulder and holds the disgustingly bright bass in a practiced grip. The rough touch of strings on his fingers quells his nerves in an automated trance.

Jean waits for Cat’s cue and focuses on the notes again as he plays an unfamiliar, albeit comfortable string of chords. He loses himself in the song, entering a trance he missed so dearly; it’s the only reason he holds a red and gold bass in the first place. He’ll play their boring background bass and sew his vocal cords shut just for a chance to play again at all.

His ribs faintly sting the more he tenses his core on reflex, but the vibration of low notes blasting through speakers sprouts a bliss so euphoric that nothing else matters—not the sharpness in his chest or the chronic ache of his knuckles.

The songs too quick for his liking. Cheers shout from below, and Jeremy gives his shoulder a playful nudge. “Dude, that was awesome! You’re gonna fit right in, I swear.”

Jean doesn’t smile, but he feels his body relax after playing, and hearing the reassuring praise is as foreign as it is addicting. “You guys aren’t so bad yourselves.”

“Heck yeah!” Jeremy’s wide grin glints so bright under the stage lights, Jean has to turn away.

Unfortunately, Jean has to depart from the stage as they go through the rest of the setlist. He tries to stand as far away from Lucas as possible, but it’s hard when he constantly changes positions to get all sorts of different angles for the photos. Min calls down to him to stand on the railing that spreads across the top, which is connected to all the lighting.

Xavier shows him the maintenance door that leads to the tight metal stairs. Jean grips the handrail as he trudges up to a height that makes him queasy. The bridge across the top edge of the garage is stable, but looking down at the hard floor from that high churns his stomach. He slowly trudges forward, hands clutching the railing in a death grip.

“Afraid of heights?” Min asks once he finally makes it over to where she’s standing near a large light fixture.

“Not really,” Jean says.

Min hums and points to a nearby panel with a bunch of switches. “Those control the different colors. Usually, we just let the sun naturally do the trick, but right now, I’m experimenting with artificial orange lighting. Watch.”

She leans over to flip a switch. Jean watches Jeremy’s face shine bright under an orange glow, sun-kissed skin melting into the vibrant hue. “Too strong, I think. I’ll have to ask Derek and Derrick to help fix it.”

Jean remembers what Jeremy said about the Sunshine Garage, and how it was a part of the band, with how much effort they put into building it themselves. “Did they really build all this?”

“Yes!” Min says, then corrects herself with a quick, “Well, sort of. Nabil, the guy who helps out with graphic design, studied architecture at USC. He did most of the planning, and with the help of his company, this was built. Don’t get me wrong, everyone helped out. But I promise this is up to the state’s code and safety regulations.”

Jean hums a light acknowledgement. Min ignores the unspoken cue to stand in silence and continues to say, “He did it right after graduation. Man of many talents, just like the rest of them. Did they tell you how we were The Floozies and then became Trojan Horse after most of them graduated from USC?”

“Sort of,” Jean answers.

Min shuffles closer, intrigued by this piece of information. “What about you? What did you study at university?”

“I didn’t go to college. I graduated high school early and joined Evermore at 16.”

He also completed high school under the guidance of the master, but in no world will Jean ever say that out loud. Min stares at him incredulously. “Are you serious? I mean, not going to college isn’t the end of the world, but joining Evermore at sixteen? You were part of the band for six years?!”

Jean belatedly remembers that his participation hadn’t been publicized until he turned eighteen. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“No,” Jean says with a sharp edge.

Min shrugs and walks away to continue fiddling with the lighting.

Jean repurposes his focus to watching the performance on stage so he doesn’t have to talk about his education. From this height, the view isn’t as great, as their facial expressions are practically non-existent, but the energy they put into their practice is as clear as day. While Evermore’s stadium is far more sophisticated and larger and less crowded with personal touches and obnoxious decorations, Sunshine Garage has its own charm that Jean doesn’t quite know how to feel about yet.

It reminds him of the early days, when he and Kevin practiced guitar and bass together in Evermore’s small garage, the one attached to the house Riko and Kevin grew up in. As Evermore grew, it became more of a rite of passage than an official practice ground. Only Perfect Stage could practice there, and it pissed Grayson off to no end. Grayson had tried everything to get a tattoo on his cheekbone. Same with Zane, who was constantly held back by his inability to play anything other than a backup keyboard.

Jean grips the metal railing even harder. For a moment, he contemplates jumping off and ending this paralytic fear that constantly hovers over his shoulder, what it would feel like to hit the bottom. No more Evermore. no more grayson.

“Everything alright, Jean?” Min asks when she notices his tense posture and pinched expression. “You can talk to me. All of us, even. You’re Trojan Horse now, and we look out for each other.”

“Does anyone on Trojan Horse know how to mind their business?”

Min smiles. “Nope. You’ll get used to it.”

Jean grunts and turns to leave the peril of a high railing, so there are no more impulsive urges to jump off. It wouldn’t have been the first time a thought like that appeared, but he had hoped there would have been a last. Of course those thoughts are still there, just like every other scar from Evermore on his heart. He exits the maintenance area and reemerges during a break.

Jeremy waves at him, skin more sweaty than it had been earlier. “Jean! How was it up there? Scary, right?”

“It was fine.”

“I don’t know how you did that. I almost vomited the first time I went up there,” Cat says with a recreation of her fearful expression and full-body shiver.

“I can hear you!” Min yells from above. Xavier laughs and blows her a kiss, triggering a gag from half the band crew.

Cody walks out of the break room with a raised eyebrow. “What’s all this commotion out here?”

“Oh, nothing, dear,” Ananya starts, walking over to sling an arm around a flushed-looking Cody. “Just Min and Xavier being cheesy as ever.”

“Like you’re one to talk!” Xavier teases. Pat walks over and slings another arm over Cody with a sly grin, as if to show off and prove Xavier’s point.

Cody shrugs out of their hold and claps their hands. “Back to practice, slackers!”

Jean watches them as they stand near Pat, close enough to talk, but far enough to be out of arm’s reach. He can recognize that sort of behavior from a mile away, being so used to that sort of caution himself. Trojan Horse is none of his business, and he has no interest in their private lives whatsoever.

still…

They continue to play their new unreleased songs, but Jean’s mind is somewhere far away from Southern California. He doesn’t even notice when Lucas has to crouch a little way in front of him for an upward-facing angle of Jeremy. He’s too busy suffocating under his own thoughts to pay close attention to his close surroundings. The rest of practice passes by in a quick haze, there and gone in a blink.

When the setlist has been run through as many times as needed, the three of them drop off the stage to go back to the storage area to place the instruments. Xavier fixes the cords and turns off whatever needs to be shut down for the night as Min loudly steps across the metal bridge to get back to the ground floor.

Lucas announces his departure to process the photos, adding an estimate for when they’ll be in Rhemann’s hands. He leaves with a goodbye to everyone but Jean, thankfully; interacting with Lucas is the last thing he wants to do right now.

Cody watches Pat and Ananya walk away, lips pursed in an expression Jean can’t quite pinpoint. He shouldn’t care, i shouldn’t care, but with Lucas and Grayson still swimming in his mind, and the conversation in the car earlier, and everything Trojan Horse has done to crumble his six-year-built wall in just under a day—

“Ready to go?” Jeremy asks.

Jean nods and swallows the pins in his throat. He follows Jeremy out of the garage and toward the direction of the driveway where his car is parked. Jean glances over at Cody, how they’re halfway to wherever Pat and Ananya are parked, and makes his decision. He ignores Jeremy’s weird look sent his way as he walks away from Rhemann and Adi’s house toward the general parking lot. Cody sees him striding over at rapid speed and pauses with a confused look.

“Jean? Is everything alright?”

Jean falters in the face of confrontation. This is none of his business. He doesn’t particularly care about Cody, even though they’ve been nothing but friendly. i don’t care. i don’t—

“That is my question to you,” Jean says, forcing the words out through tight lips.

They tilt their head in confusion. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Jean looks over to Pat’s car. His itchy skin and hidden desire to prevent a misery he never could surface as a chaotic burn in his chest. He doesn’t know how to phrase it or if it’s inappropriate or if he’s overstepping, but he has to. i need to know if trojan horse will be different.

“Are you safe?”

Cody follows his gaze to the red car. Their face softens in recognition; it’s not hard to put the pieces together, especially not after hearing Jean’s interruption in Jeremy’s car earlier. He doesn’t know how much they’re assuming or putting together, and he doesn’t care so long as he gets a solid answer.

“If you’re talking about Ananya and Pat, the answer is yes. I’m just a coward. Trust me, I want more than what they’re giving. But they’re engaged! I can’t just step into their life. Nope. Not a chance. I don’t want to intrude. And no, I’m not blind, I can see their advances, but it’s complicated, y’know? Like, what if I’m imagining it? Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to go off on a tangent. The answer is yes, though. I’m safer now than I’ve ever been.” Their answer had turned into a rant toward the end, but Jean is satisfied.

“Okay.” Jean tries to leave it at that, but Cody holds out a hand before he can leave.

“Thanks for asking, though. How true the rumors are is none of my business, but I hope they don’t stress you out too much. It’s pretty obvious you’re nothing like what people say you are, and none of us pay attention to them anyway. You’re a good guy.”

Jean tells himself they don’t matter because of how used to the slander he’s become over the years, but facing so many people who refuse to believe them puts a hole right in the center of his chest. “I’m not. Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, because good is the last word he’d use to describe himself.

Cody shrugs with a grin. “Sure, man. Take care, alright?”

Jean walks away from Cody, too disturbed by his own actions to return their goodbye. He stomps across gravel with regret and has a hunch the rest of Trojan Horse will hear about his question by tomorrow morning. Stupid sunshine frolickers with their observant eyes and tendency to pry into other people’s lives; they’ve already corrupted Jean. He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll turn out to be in the next couple of months.

Jeremy looks at Jean questioningly when he finally enters the passenger seat of his car. “You two good?”

“Yes.”

“What did you two talk about?”

Jean uses more venom than he should when he says, “None of your concern.”

Jeremy shrugs and turns the car on. “Understood.”

The car ride back to Cat and Laila’s place is long, but silent. Jeremy doesn’t put in a CD, so Jean drowns in the noise of his mind. When his thoughts drift to the Johnson family and San Diego and Grayson returning because of Evermore’s decline, he quickly clenches his fists and tries to read the street signs as they drive past.

Getting back to the house took a little less than an hour. The commute to and from the garage will likely be an unadaptable pain, but so long as he can play, he’ll endure Trojan Horse’s lack of discipline. They pull into the driveway, packing behind the car and motorcycle already there.

“Looks like they beat us back. Hopefully, they’ve already started preparing dinner. If not, prepare for Cat to drag you into the kitchen.”

Jean bites his cheek and follows Jeremy up to the porch and through the front door. Distorted rock blasts through the boombox in the kitchen from a band he doesn’t care about in the slightest. He tries to sneak past Jeremy to run up the stairs, but Cat runs down the hall and shouts out his name.

“Nope! Not a chance. I’m forcing you, mister ’Perfect Stage’, to help me cook tonight. Maybe even teach you a thing or two. Shoo, Jeremy, shoo! It’s my turn now.”

Jeremy shoots a teasing grin over his shoulder and runs upstairs with a laugh. Jean turns away from the sight of his legs skipping steps to face Cat.

“Ready?” She says. “Follow me.”

Jean walks with her to the kitchen, which appears similarly chaotic as that morning. “Thursdays are prep days, but we often take turns cooking for dinner. Today, I was making lunch as a warm welcome for you, but I promise we’re not that crazy about cooking. Now, tell me. How much do you know?”

Evermore always prepared perfectly portioned meals, down to every calorie and every macro. While knowledge of food was important, the preparations were ultimately the chefs’ and food supervisors’ job.

“I know enough to divide and count nutrients,” Jean says.

Cat shakes her head. “I meant about cooking. Chopping vegetables? Washing and rinsing? How to cook different types of food and what kinds of cooking there are? Seasoning? Sauteing? Etc., Etc.?”

Jean blinks. “Nothing, then.”

“You’ve got to be lying,” Cat mutters under her breath, speaking more to herself. She sighs with a dejected, “Should’ve known. C’mon, let’s start with vegetable prep.”

She drags him to the cutting board and sets down a knife. “First, you have to wash them. With this strainer, you can just put them inside and rinse under the sink.”

Jean holds the strainer full of carrots and washes it under the light stream. Once Cat looks satisfied, she shows him how to tap out the excess water and position them on the cutting board. She picks up the knife and demonstrates the proper way to hold it.

“Grip it like this, and then when you go to chop, make sure your fingers are tucked into your palm. That way you don’t accidentally cut yourself.”

Jean holds the knife and balls his other hand into a fist. He brings the knife down onto the wooden board, watching the tip of the carrot fall into a thinly sliced piece. “Great! You’re a natural. Keep doing it to about that size, ‘kay? I need to check the meat real quick.”

As Cat shifts away, Jean focuses on the task at hand. Every chop sends a shiver down his spine, and the feeling of a knife handle around his palms is far too familiar for his comfort. The sharp, silver blade, how easy it cuts through the hard vegetable, how loud it sounds falling against the wooden cutting board…

The last time he had held a knife had been—

“promise me you won’t try again. promise me, jean. i don’t want to lose you.”

Jean slams the knife a little too hard onto the cutting board. A familiar sting pierces the skin of his fingertip, and when he looks down, little dots of red coat the edge of a carrot.

“Jeez, Jean! Ease up on the power, would you? Are you hurt?”

Cat runs over to inspect his finger. Still on edge, Jean yanks his hand away with a quick, “Don’t touch me.”

Her expression hardens as she slowly backs away. “I won’t. I won’t.”

Hearing the commotion, Laila swiftly turns the corner to check on them. “Everything okay in here?”

“Jean—”

“I’m fine.” Jean quickly cuts her off and wipes the injured finger under the sink. Weakness after weakness, issue after issue, his first day has been nothing but an embarrassment. He refuses to let cutting vegetables be the final straw.

Cat shifts closer to him while still keeping some distance. “We still need to cover that up, even if it’s small. Blood can’t get on food. That’s like, the number one part of food safety. Babe, can you please bring a Band-Aid?”

“On it!” Laila says as he disappears. Jean sets the knife down and stretches his knuckles, eager to find something, anything that’ll distract him from the constant surge of unwanted memories.

“Wanna talk about what that was?” Cat asks carefully. “No offense, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jean violently shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Um…” Cat awkwardly trails off and picks at her nails. Jean’s chest aches in more ways than he wants to admit, but the tension is saved by Laila’s reappearance.

Jean takes it and wraps it around his finger. He goes back to cutting carrots, robotically moving the knife and counting each slice in unpracticed Japanese. Cat silently works next to him, humming the songs as she does so.

Jeremy comes down to check on them. He doesn’t reveal anything on his face, but the fact that Cat doesn’t kick him out like she said she would makes Jean think Laila said something. Jeremy’s eyes flicker to his bandaged finger when he thinks Jean isn’t looking.

Jean ignores it and finishes helping out with dinner. Cat shows him the cooking settings on the stove top and shoos him away to let the meat cook. He leaves the kitchen and goes back upstairs instead of joining Laila in the living room.

Jeremy follows without a word, and Jean isn’t sure if he should be relieved at that. Being partners means separation is a deep transgression, but something about Jeremy’s presence puts an odd feeling in his stomach. It’s a familiar, warm tug at his heartstrings that he’ll never dare to try and address again.

Jean enters and turns to sit at the edge of the bed. Before he can touch the mattress, the blinding golden retriever cut out has him jumping up in surprise.

“Who moved this abomination here?!”

Jeremy fails to hide the humor in his voice as he says, “Probably Cat. And don’t call him an abomination! He has a name and his name is Barkbark.”

Jean scowls and picks up the rough cardboard, quickly moving it out of the room and facing the wall in the hallway. Jeremy follows with a pout, whispering, “It’s okay Barkbark,” behind a furious Jean. so ridiculous. so ridiculous. trojan horse is so ridiculous.

They re-enter the room, and Jean feels out of his mind watching Jeremy send a melancholic glance toward the closed door. “It’s just a cardboard dog.”

“It’s Barkbark,” Jeremy pouts. Jean feels lost, but Jeremy laughs and slaps his shoulder as he sits down on the bed next to Jean. “I’m just teasing. Well, I do love Barkbark. I don’t know if Cat told you, but my mom’s allergic to dogs, and animals aren’t allowed on the lease here, so I’ve never had the chance to get a real pet. She got me that as a compromise.”

Jean belatedly remembers Cat saying something like that. He doesn’t want to look at Jeremy’s soft expression or think about the way he talks to that piece of flat cardboard, so he keeps his mouth shut instead.

As they wait, he flips out his phone to idly scroll through his text messages. No one has reached out except for Renee with her daily update. Apparently, Kevin and Andrew got into another argument again about what lyrics to use for a new side song, even though they’re still in the middle of their tour. The thought of Kevin writing lyrics when no one was allowed to makes his skin crawl, so he slams his phone shut without a reply.

He focuses on his breathing instead. Like with most of his emotions, Jean shoves them deep into the locked box to never be addressed again. His weaknesses, his slip-ups, his honesty—he rids himself of them so as to not dwell on his shortcomings; Perfect Stage cannot have those.

Jeremy, of course, gives up on indulging in the lack of conversation between them. “So? How are you liking it here so far?”

Jean thinks of the commute time and lack of discipline and bright colors and nosiness and opposing methods and ideals to everything Evermore ever was: “Different.”

“Good way or a bad way?” Jeremy asks.

“Both.”

Jeremy’s face softens. “At least you’re honest. And hey,” he suddenly leans in, nose a few inches from Jean’s ear. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help you, okay? We’ll try not to ask questions you don’t want to answer, but if you won’t tell us why, could you at least tell us what to do? You’re one of us now. You’re my partner.”

The way in which Jeremy can say such serious words in such a heartfelt tone sends a wave of fluttering butterflies through his stomach. How he’d so easily accepted the partner system, Jean will never know. He appreciated the willingness to adapt before Jeremy learned how to use it to his advantage.

Like right now, as he sits next to Jean, freckles clearer with how close their faces hover by each other. Jeremy breathes a particularly heavy huff into his ear that sends Jean lurching away.

“Sorry—”

“Is dinner ready?” Jean asks so they don’t have to talk.

Jeremy’s smile dims ever so slightly, and the sight hurts more than it should. “Let’s go down and check.”

Jean bites his lips and walks out the bedroom door. He follows the scent of meat and cooked vegetables to where the table is already set. Cat glances at him, but doesn’t mention their previous interaction, content to talk to the other two instead.

Dinner passes by uneventfully. Cat and Laila do most of the talking in their own conversation, with Jeremy occasionally chipping in. Instead of fully focusing on his friends, for some reason, Jeremy keeps his gaze locked onto Jean, quietly asking questions when they go too long without talking.

“Like the food?”

“Yes.”

“Busy day, right?”

“Yes.”

“You played well out there.”

“Yes.”

“… Is the grass blue outside?”

Jean glares at Jeremy, who puts his hands up placatingly. Laila fails to hide a chuckle, and Jeremy doesn’t talk for the rest of dinner.

They continue to sit and chat even after they finish eating, so Jean stands up and washes his own plate first. He jogs upstairs to take a shower in record speed, careful not to let the water touch his face, and gets ready for bed in silence. The exhaustion of the day adds weight to his bones, and although he weaned off of Evermore’s 16-hour days in South Carolina, the lingering effects of being awake for so long still take a toll on his body.

Jean rests his back on the bed, eyes up and toward the plain ceiling. He hears a quick knock and lets Jeremy know he can come in.

“Sorry about dinner. Didn’t mean to bother you that much. You ready for some rest?”

He sits up to face Jeremy. “Stop apologizing so much.”

Jean says it more because apologies are useless when bloodshed is far more practical when it comes to settling qualms, but Jeremy clearly takes it the wrong way. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Well, I’ll let you settle here. If you need any of us, we’ll be downstairs—”

“Wait—” Jean says before he can help himself. Jeremy looks back with both curiosity and patience.

Jean eyes the empty part of the bedroom with nothing but a carpeted floor. Cat had said he could move the desk in the upstairs office to be here. He studies the pale color of the carpet, trying his best to figure out the best way to phrase his next question.

Trying to convince Jeremy to sleep in the same room again probably makes him sound like a creep, but he had enough solitude in a house in South Carolina to know sleeping alone will only make him more miserable. He’s not used to asking for things that benefit him, but the partner system is such an ingrained part of his place in Evermore that it’s practically second nature.

“I cannot be alone,” Jean says vaguely in hopes his intentions are understood. He dares a glance upward and feels relief at the knowing expression across Jeremy’s face.

Jeremy eyes the space next to the bed curiously. “We can probably fit another twin bed here. That will take a trip to a furniture store, so for now, I can use some blankets. They don’t have an air mattress like Rhemann and Adi do. But it’s fine! I’ve slept on worse.”

“You were here first. I can sleep on the floor—”

“Nah,” Jeremy cuts him off. “You’re on the lease, so it’s technically your room. Plus, I’m used to it. Couch hopper, and all.”

Jean wants to ask how and why. He doesn’t care about Jeremy as much as he does the fact that he’s his partner now, and partners cannot let each other fail. Unfortunately, Jeremy leaves no room to argue with how fast he disappears out the door and comes back with a giant pile of blankets. He sets the thick comforter on the floor and uses the thinner ones as a cover.

Jeremy quickly excuses himself for a shower. Jean opens his phone so his thoughts don’t wander too far, but words fail him as he leaves the chat with Renee open and untouched. When Jeremy reappears with nothing but a towel around his waist, Jean closes his eyes the moment he catches himself staring.

He hears a shuffle and a soft grunt from the spot on the floor next to him. A sense of Deja Vu washes over at the similar arrangement from last night. “G’night, Jean,” Jeremy whispers, though he opens his phone to text instead of falling asleep.

Jean flips his body so his back faces Jeremy and squeezes his eyes shut. His blood still buzzes from the day’s many revelations and tribulations, but his bone-deep fatigue triggers a burst of instant slumber anyway.