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Here is the thing: Jean Moreau doesn’t think that much about his multiple language proficiencies.
He doesn’t think it’s impressive or that exceptional, and he doesn’t get off as much to it as Neil Josten or his tiny goalkeeper boyfriend does. It is a commodity, another scar that stretches out from his heart and wraps around it like barbed wire. Speaking in Japanese is akin to swallowing glass, but worse than that, voicing out his more intimate thoughts in French is like putting a gun in his mouth and not knowing when it will go off.
He talks about it in therapy a few times.
(mostly because the metaphor is so dark that it makes him jolt in disgust and never think about anything French-related ever again)
“There was a study, actually. How multilingual people get more emotional when they talk in their native language, so they tend to use their second or third to express themselves,” Dobson says. “It’s like putting a glass wall between your mouth and your emotions, it makes you detach, in a way.”
It takes a while for Jean to fully process that. And a few more conversations with Cat, as well as pulling a few articles from the campus library.
“Do you think in Spanish?” Jean asks Cat as they go through the trained motions of cooking together.
“It depends,” Cat replies. “It’s a bit different for me since I was raised bilingual, so I kind of have this thing where I think in English when it’s about school or practices but in Spanish when it’s about my family or more routine stuff.”
Jean hums. “I think in French, but I have noticed that it is difficult for me to think in it about personal affairs.”
Cat fixes him with a look. “You mean, feelings?”
Jean stops the knife where it sinks back into the flesh of an eggplant. “Feelings. Family.” Kevin. Elodie. Jeremy, he adds in his head. “It does not matter, Catalina.”
“But it does, Jean-Yves Moreau.” She pinches his side gently. “It clearly matters to you. I saw all the papers you brought from the library.”
“I am simply curious.”
“Of course you are.” She rolls your eyes. “You’re fluent in, like, what? Three languages? Four, if we are counting the fact that you talk to my uncle in Spanish.”
Jean flushes. “I am as fluent in Spanish as Jeremy is in French, do not be ridiculous.”
Quietly, he is pleased. Jean had to learn to pick up a lot of languages early on, with his parents insisting that he learn Latin at the ripe age of six, long before he learned any English at the Nest. Picking up bits of phrases in Spanish was not that challenging. As he found out recently, it stems from the same language family as French – which has explained a lot of things.
“Jeremy is getting better,” Cat points out. She tries hard to keep any other implications out of her tone, but Jean still picks up on a playful jab laced in it.
Jean pointedly ignores it. “He had better be. That wretched man pays way too much money for it not to improve.”
“Would be a bit easier if you helped him, you know.”
Jean’s knife sinks into a cutting board. The impact leaves a thin line across his palm from the dull side of the handle.
There is a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” Cat murmurs, even though they are the only ones in the kitchen. “It was a joke, okay? Or– suggestion? Whatever,” she shakes her head, squeezing at the place where her hand is resting along the lines of his shirt.
“I am not bothered by it,” Jean insists. Sometimes speaking out loud helps him to detach the meaning from words, making them easier to believe in.
Cat purses her lips.
“I am not, Catalina.”
“If you say so, Jean.”
Later that day, lying restlessly in his bed, Jean’s thoughts run wild as he mulls over the conversation. At times like this, he misses a warm embrace of pain, how it leaves your head full, unable to think about anything else. Then he chastises himself for thinking so, but as his mind drifts back to Jeremy, it all goes back to missing the grounding presence of pain again.
Jean likes that Jeremy is learning French, he really does. The way he puts all that he has into it – like he does for every little thing in his life – is nothing short of endearing. Unlike Kevin, he doesn’t ask for words and phrases in hushed whispers and dark corners. Jeremy asks loudly and unabashedly for anyone to hear. He makes his effort known and practices pronunciation unless it mimics Jean’s to the best of his ability. It should make Jean relieved to know that Jeremy and Kevin are nothing alike.
And yet, why did it still feel as if he was giving a piece of himself away again?
It all comes down to a clash at a sudden, albeit brief, meeting with the Foxes in the downtown bar.
Jean is not happy to be dragged into it, but Jeremy’s grounding presence at his side does make the whole affair more bearable. Jean tries very hard not to think about how tightly he is pressed against Jeremy’s side, or how many teasing looks are thrown towards him as people take notice of it.
“So, Jean. California and so much sunshine–” Neil throws more than a pointed look at Jeremy, who is currently engaged in a heated debate with Kevin, “–looks restful on you. Any tips?”
“You are a speck of dirt on the soles of my shoes.” Jean would rather swallow hot oil until it burns out his throat than talk about anything Jeremy-adjacent with Neil-fucking-Josten.
Neil leans back in his seat, palms over his heart. “You are always so nice to me, Jean,” he says, mouth set in a mock-pout. Then he tilts his head to Minyard, sprawled beside him, saying something that sounds like a random compilation of vowels and consonants to Jean. Neil doesn’t even bother to whisper it, speaking as loud as it gets.
“German?” Jean turns to ask Renee, who is boxing Jean from the opposite side.
“Russian.” She rolls her eyes. “They think they are so inconspicuous and detached, but they are the sappiest couple you will ever meet in your life.”
That makes Jean frown – not the couple sentiment, as it is hard to miss the way tiny Minyard looks at Neil as if the boy hangs both the moon and the stars around him. Jean is more intrigued by the introduction of a new language to Neil’s already busy linguistic roster.
“Why Russian?” Jean blurts out.
Neil’s head snaps up, and there is a flickering emotion of surprise on his face just before it fully shifts into his usual shit-eating grin. “So we can share something no one else can,” he offers simply.
“It is a language,” Jean says. It is not supposed to be romantic, he wants to add, knowing well that it is not true.
“Yeah,” Neil nods. “Sharing a language can be intimate, don’t you think?”
Andrew grumbles something crude under his breath, but Neil seems unbothered by it.
“I do not think that.” Jean shakes his head, his fingers tracing the wooden patterns of the table, a welcome distraction. His throat constricts, suddenly dry and scratchy, his head swimming from the swarm of language-related thoughts that he has been having.
“You and your tiny boyfriend are ridiculous,” Jean says just for the sake of it.
Neil snorts, and Andrew tilts his head to the side, finally bothering to take a look at Jean. “You’re very lucky I am somewhat fond of you, Moreau.”
“This is much nicer than anything you ever say to me,” Neil pouts. His distress does not last long as Minyard rolls his eyes, not very subtly snaking his arm over Neil’s shoulders just above his seat.
Jean makes a face. Absolutely disgusting.
The rest of the evening is spent talking to Renee. Jean appreciates that she doesn’t bring up their recent conversations about Jeremy – or his sexuality, for that matter. Instead, she talks about her new workout routines and shows off new pieces of jewelry that she and Allison have been eyeing for months now. It’s a set of intricate rings with stars and moon cycles carved into them, and it looks so mesmerizing and pretty that Jean has to bite his tongue in order not to ask for one. He knows that Renee would have no qualms with gifting it to him, but Jean already gets all kinds of looks for wearing a necklace that she gave him, and knows all kinds of implications that people put into it. He can’t wear a ring that is a gift from Renee, and he can’t do that to Jer–
Jean sucks in a breath, suddenly startled by his own thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Renee’s brows are furrowed in concern. She asks it loud enough for both Jeremy and Kevin to turn their bodies towards him.
“Fine.” Jean clears his throat. “Si tu pouvais m'apporter de l'eau?”
Kevin’s eyes widen. Jean doesn’t realize why, at first, but as a pair of big brown eyes look back at him in confusion, his brain finally registers what has happened. He has addressed the question to Jeremy, without giving it any second thought, and in French. Over Kevin and Neil, who are fluent.
Jeremy blinks, and for a moment Jean thinks he didn’t understand the request. He almost rolls his eyes – the tutor that he hired must be a scammer if Jeremy can’t at least get the gist of it. But then Jeremy nods jerkily and shoots up to his feet and towards the bar.
Jean flexes his jaw, feeling the weight of Neil’s eyes on him. “Interesting,” the redheaded cockroach mumbles, but loud enough for Jean to hear.
“I hope your accent in Russian is atrocious,” Jeans spits out. It packs less heat than he would have wanted.
Neil laughs. “It absolutely is. But that’s not the point, is it?”
Jean prepares a retort that sounds half-good in his head, but Kevin cuts in to the conversation: “You said you are not teaching him.”
Jean throws him a glare. “I am not.” He is not proud of the way his voice shakes. “It was his ill-advised decision, and I have to live with it now. Can we please move on.”
Jean doesn’t phrase it as a question and keeps it as crass as possible. The conversation halts to a stop just as Jeremy gets to the table with a glass of water and a sugar cube.
Jean eyes it with skepticism. “In case your blood sugar dropped,” Jeremy explains.
Jean rolls his eyes but accepts both water and sugar. He downs the glass in one gulp and places it with a thud on the table. Hesitates for a split second before whispering, in a hushed voice, “Merci beaucoup.”
A wide grin splits Jeremy’s face. “Avec plaisir,” he replies with more excitement than French should ever warrant.
If Jeremy makes a note of Jean’s odd behaviour that evening, it is not apparent as he drops the topic altogether. They say their goodbyes to the Foxes as they leave the bar. The goodbye in question lasted close to an hour as everyone got in a rush to finish their conversations or suddenly remember all the important topics of interest that they wanted to discuss. Jean pointedly ignores both Kevin and Neil, sticking to Renee’s side as they wait near their respective cars.
“I did not mean to embarrass you,” Jean says as he settles in the passenger seat.
Jeremy stops promptly before turning on the ignition and frowns. “I sincerely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, genuine enough.
“I did not mean to address you in French,” Jean clarifies.
“Oh.”
Jean can’t quite make out if Jeremy sounds surprised or disappointed. In the darkness of the car, it’s hard to see his face, and that is usually Jean’s most trusted point of judgment.
“Listen, if you want me to stop learning French, it’s fine. I mean, you gave your somewhat blessing but if it is uncomfortable in any–”
“I am fond of the fact that you are learning French,” Jean cuts him off. Jeremy lets out a noise, but Jean promptly ignores it, too. “It is not about that.”
“What is it about?”
None of your business is right there, on Jean’s tongue. So comfortable and familiar. “Does it bother you that my English is not very good?” he asks instead.
“First of all, you’re absolutely a fluent speaker. What the hell, Jean?” It’s not a question that requires an answer, in Jean’s opinion, but the pause stretches long enough for him to think that Jeremy wants one.
“If you are asking if it bothers me that you are bilingual, that is an even more stupid question,” Jeremy continues. “It’s not like you’re the only one, either. We’re in LA, half the population speaks Spanish as their mother tongue. Why would it ever bother me?”
“I did not mean it in that way.” Jean realizes that Jeremy misunderstood the question completely. But, alas, Jeremy is monolingual, and it is harder to explain the concept to him than it was to Cat. “Do you think it makes it more difficult for you to understand me? Do you feel that there is a barrier?”
Jeremy’s face seems to be stuck in a perpetual state of frown. “I don’t always understand you. But I don’t think language is the reason why, Jean. Do you feel that it’s harder to express yourself to me in English?”
“It is not,” Jean replies. “It is actually easier.”
Jeremy hums, but it still sounds like he doesn’t get it at all.
Jean sighs. “It is harder for me to express myself in French. It is too– personal.”
“Oh.” Jeremy drums along the surface of the wheel. “That’s why me learning French seems personal, doesn’t it?”
“To an extent.” Jean doesn’t bother fighting a smile that forms on his lips at Jeremy’s understanding. “But I do not want to discourage you. I–” Jean sucks in a breath. “– appreciate it, Jeremy.”
The light from the highway lands on Jeremy’s face at the exact same moment, and Jean can see a faint blush on his cheeks.
“What if you taught me English?”
Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Jean, you know English, please stop with it.”
“You read a lot, do you not?”
“For classes,” Jeremy admits. “Not lately, though. A lot going on.”
Jean does not ask because Jeremy would not answer, so he brushes it off. “I still read a bit slower in English than I would like. If I asked, would you choose a book for me to read? Not too difficult but of a fitting level?”
Silence lasts till they pull into the driveway of the apartment. Jeremy pulls his hands off the wheel. “Of course, Jean,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.
“You do not have to–”
“I agreed, didn’t I?”
It’s as harsh as he can muster to be with Jean, to the point where Jean gets taken aback by the severity of it.
“It is settled, then,” Jean nods. “I would choose something in French for you in turn.”
“It’s not a transaction.”
“And yet, I want to do that,” Jean insists. “Obviously, it is going to be a middle-grade book, all things considered. I still am wary of your tutor being a scammer.”
Jeremy laughs, his face clearing. “William did a background check.”
“Which is easy to fake.”
“Okay, Jean,” Jeremy chuckles. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Avec plaisir,” he tries very hard to imitate Jeremy’s boxy accent, earning a light shove to his shoulder.
As Jean is left alone in his room, he wastes no time in opening the laptop and searching through the catalog of books in French available in the library. He checks a couple of nearby bookstores, too, grumbling in distaste at seeing the limited selection.
Jean bullies Cat into getting him there first thing in the morning.
In truth, Jean assumes that Jeremy forgot about their deal as the week passes.
It is fine. Not like Jean has been searching through the foreign literature section in the library for hours to pick up the best option for Jeremy’s level of comprehension. Not like he mulled it over with Cat and Laila, who know close to nothing about French or language learning. Not like the perfect book has been picked and shoved into the drawer of his table in hopes it never sees the day.
On Sunday, though – at an ungodly hour to be woken up to – Jeremy bursts into his room wiggling a book under his nose as if Jean is Jabb waiting for a treat to be thrown at him.
“You woke me up for this?” Jean asks, flinching from the way his voice rumbles in his chest.
“I am glad you’ve gone soft, Moreau. You from a year ago would’ve already been up and running.”
“Fuck off,” Jean mumbles. It falls weak even on his own ears, and it seems to fall even weaker on Jeremy’s as it only warrants a heartwarming laugh out of him.
“I picked a book!” Jeremy yelps in excitement. “Sorry it took too long, a lot of things on my plate. But–” he shoves the book right into Jean’s hands, “–here it is. I am a man of my word.”
Jean takes the book into his hands, running his fingers along the cover. It’s shabby and textured under his touch, indicating that it has survived more than a few years of wear. Jeremy watches him the whole time, like a hawk.
“The Happy Prince and Other Tales. Oscar Wilde,” Jean reads out loud. The picture on the cover is bright red, depicting a cartoon-looking person in a crown.
“It’s a collection of stories, so it’s easier to break down,” Jeremy rushes to explain. “I– my mom read it to me when I was little, and I was probably too young to understand. It frustrated her, so she stopped not long after and hid the book away. William found it in our study.”
“I know who Oscar Wilde is,” Jean says, more to himself.
“I thought you would appreciate the challenge. Those are fairy tales, so the language is not that complex, but it is lyrical, and I thought you’d enjoy making sense of it.” Jeremy darts his eyes to the floor, looking unsure. “If you won’t, I can totally switch to something easier.”
Jean straightens up in his place. “When have I ever backed down from a challenge?”
“That’s my boy!” Jeremy beams but then flushes bright red at the realization. “Uhm– not what I meant.”
Jean huffs, masking a blush of his own. “Thank you for this.”
“Did you get one for me?” Jeremy asks with barely concealed excitement. “If you didn’t, it’s fine, I know it’s hard to–”
Jean groans, effectively cutting him off and gets up. He reaches for the back of the drawer, pulling out a book from it and dusting it off. Jeremy reaches out, taking it from him. Jean looks at him and nods, as if to say, do go on.
Jeremy clears his throat, somehow turning even redder. “L'Étranger?” His voice pitches up, and Jean bites down on his lip to prevent the huff of laughter threatening to escape. “Stranger,” Jeremy translates right away, smiling. “Albert Camus! I know that one.”
“Will wonders ever cease,” Jean deadpans.
“Oh, shut it.” Jeremy rolls his eyes, but the smile persists.
“It is written using short sentence structures and mostly in the simple past tense.” Jean suddenly feels the need to explain his choice, too. “The cashier at the register, of course, suggested The Little Prince, but that one is confusing in English, let alone in French. It was not a good advice.”
Jeremy opens and closes the book, breathing it in.
“Is it not to your liking?” Jean asks, hesitant.
Jeremy presses it to his chest tightly. “I love it, Jean.” The openness with which he says it punches a breath out of Jean’s chest, and he has to turn his back to Jeremy in order to piece himself back together.
Stupid sunshine boys and their big brown eyes. Stupid language learning and stupid Neil fucking Josten and his stupid language fetish.
“You do not have to read it. I do not care if you do.”
Jean puts as much conviction in it as he can muster. The truth is, of course, that he cares. He cares so fucking much that it soaks his skin, seeps through his insides, and lodges itself there, spreading out roots that grow into branches and reach back to his heart.
It feels different than with Kevin. They have never exchanged the intimacy of exchanging languages, it being more of a means of survival for both Jean and him. He doubts Kevin has ever attempted to read a book in French for him, but that thought is just stupid – they weren’t allowed much besides putting it all into Exy. It’s not a grudge because it’s a shared trauma, and yet Jean feels as if it sprouts all kinds of bitter thoughts in his head.
Jean turns back to look at Jeremy. “Do not concentrate on words that you do not know when you read,” he says. “It will make it harder for you. Underline the words that you do not know as you read and go back to them after you finish with the chapter.”
Jeremy blinks at him slowly. “Thank you for the advice.”
“Try to read out loud. It helps with pronunciation.”
Jeremy smiles to himself, ducking his head. “You are very sweet, Jean Moreau,” he says.
“I am still not teaching you.”
“I know.” Jeremy gets up and starts walking towards the door. “Hope you enjoy the book. I will for sure enjoy mine.”
Jean lets out a barely concealed noise as he leaves, shoving The Happy Prince under his pillow.
Jean ends up reading The Happy Prince six times.
It is, contrary to the name, not a happy story. In Jean’s opinion, it’s a fucking tragedy – that's what it is. The prince gives away everything he has, and the swallow dies at his feet, and his heart quite literally breaks as people tear the prince’s statue to pieces. The beauty is temporary and fragile, and people are cruel about it. The swallow fell in love with a boy and died because it was loyal till its last breath.
Both are boys. It’s a tragedy wrapped in a tragedy.
Jeremy doesn’t bring it up, doesn’t ask him about it. Jean wishes he would.
He wants to ask so many questions. He types them out, one by one, and almost sends them as he completes his fifth reread. Are you The Happy Prince? Jean wants to know. Are you the one giving every little piece of yourself away just so people around you are happy and satisfied?
Jean stares at the empty message field.
Shall I love you?
Jean groans, shoving his face into the pillow. That was a stupid idea. English is still fucking ugly, regardless of how full and intricate the words felt on his tongue as he was reading The Happy Prince. It doesn’t matter. Why would it even—
His phone buzzes from under the pillow.
Jeremy
french is a beautiful language
Jeremy writes it in French and messes up the article. Jean, decidedly, does not care. Jean types out his reply in English.
Jean
English is still fucking ugly.
Are you the happy prince? Jean drafts before erasing the message. Am I the swallow?
Jeremy
thx 4 advice btw. rlly helps <3
Jean
How am I supposed to understand any of those words.
Jeremy
haha
busted ;)
I am a swallow and I would stay with you even if it meant that I would die, Jean reads it, erases it, types out again. Erases it, almost throws the phone out of the window.
Neil fucking Josten and his fucking stupid–
Jean
We are not learning Russian.
Jeremy
????
Jean throws his phone on the floor, ignoring the continuous buzz. The thought that at the same point in space and time he and Jeremy are doing the same thing – figuratively and not, for each other – is making Jean sick. This process of sharing the first thing that they have ever known in life, an access to something so dear and fragile. At this very moment, Jeremy is reading in French, and in Jean’s head he can’t even allow himself to think in his mother tongue. Not about love, not about home, not about– Jeremy.
Merde.
Jean sits up, arms hugging his knees close to his chest. “Je t'aimerai,” he says out loud and winces right away. It’s not Japanese, and it does not feel like swallowing glass. Instead, it’s a knife. A familiar one, one that always cuts in the same way, knows where to press so it hurts even more.
Jean doesn’t notice tears spilling from the corners of his eyes until his lips start tasting like salt.
There are little things about Jeremy’s language learning journey that Jean has not noticed before.
Example A:
They are sitting outside the food truck where Jeremy likes to grab a burrito plate before practice. In Jean’s opinion, he drowns it in way too much sauce, but Jeremy’s food habits are none of his concern. Jeremy doesn’t like to eat alone, so Jean and Cat bring their packed lunches, and Laila and Jeremy dig into their go-to orders. It’s a system that works, and Jean is amenable to having a bite or two from Jeremy’s plate once in a while.
Cat is busy showing something in her textbook to Laila, aggressively highlighting sentences in bright pink. Jeremy, next to her, looks like he is in his own world, an earphone stuck in one of his ears as he writes something down in his journal, twirling the white wire around his tanned finger. Not something out of the ordinary, but as Jean looks back to his food, he hears Jeremy mumble a melody under his nose:
“Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit, Il y a tout c'que vous voulez, aux Champs-Élysées.”
The fork clatters out of Jean’s hand to the table with a ringing noise. Cat and Laila stay in their little textbook world, but Jeremy looks up, pulling the earphone out of his ear.
“You okay?” Jeremy asks, expression full of concern. “Do you want me to bring you new utensils from the food truck? They are disposable but better than nothing.”
Jean ignores the question. “You were singing,” he says, eyes fixed on the damned silver fork on the table.
“Uhm.” Jeremy swallows, loud enough for Jean to hear. “Was it too loud? I am sorry.”
“It was in French,” Jean points out. The song echoes back in his head on loop.
“It was,” Jeremy nods. “It was Cody’s idea. Apparently, music really helps to memorize words better and–” he throws a terrified look towards Jean. “Shit, I really didn’t think it through, did I? You probably haven’t heard French music in years.”
Jean has not. His family wasn’t musically inclined, but Elodie liked to sing to fill in the silence.
“You were singing Les Champs-Élysées, Jeremy. I was not raised in a– barn?” Jean doesn’t mean to pose it as a question, but most idioms in English are still mildly confusing to him. “It is a song from the sixties. There is a movie, too.”
“Champs-Élysées,” Jeremy repeats, correcting his own pronunciation – which has annoyingly progressed in the span of three weeks. He still speaks with a heavy accent, but instead of sounding offensive to Jean’s ears, it sounds endearing and so uniquely Jeremy that Jean is tempted to bash his head through the wall every time he hears it.
“Champs-Élysées,” Jean agrees.
He looks up, and it’s a grave mistake. Midday sun frames Jeremy’s face and hair like a halo. His teeth are sickeningly white, and his eyes are crinkled in an expression of fondness, but also because the light blinds him in his line of sight. Jeremy always sacrifices shaded places to Jean, Cat, and Laila. A fucking martyr.
No one should look as radiant under the hell that is the Californian Sun.
“Do you have a playlist?” Jean asks, pointing at the iPod in Jeremy’s hands.
“Yeah,” Jeremy smiles sheepishly. “It took some research and work but–” he finishes with a weak shrug as if saying, whatever.
As if anything about this whole situation is whatever.
“Give me.” Jean turns his palm up and flexes his fingers.
Instead of giving him the iPod, Jeremy huffs under his breath and stretches out one of the earphones towards Jean. The cord dangles awkwardly across the table between them but Jean can’t find it in himself to care. He puts the earphone in, and the world is suddenly less noisy.
Un orchestre à mille cordes, tous les oiseaux du point du jour chantent l'amour.
What-fucking-ever.
If the intimate music sharing in Jean’s native language has not dealt enough damage to his sanity, Example B surely is there to finish him off. It starts like this:
They are in the kitchen, and Jeremy has been on the phone for thirty minutes. He is huffing and puffing in exasperation as he tries to explain to the lady on the other side of the line that their luggage with equipment has been lost after their latest flight to Washington. It’s a huge mishap and interferes with the practices, which does annoy Jean, too. It is good that Jeremy is solving that unfortunate nuisance.
“Yes, it was a morning flight. No, we didn’t– where are you going?” Jeremy sounds on the verge of yelling.
It’s a rare sight as Jeremy never yells. He is as patient as a saint. As a mountain? Jean can’t keep track of the ridiculous number of similes existing in English.
Jean watches as Jeremy rubs his temples with intensity. Their eyes meet, and Jeremy gives him a soft smile, rolling his eyes dramatically. His way of saying, I hate this.
“Hi, hello, thank you,” Jeremy replies as someone gets on the line again. “Yes, that’s us, thank you very much! Just one sec, okay?”
Jeremy jumps off the chair, suddenly in motion. He pulls out his journal from the backpack and starts haphazardly roaming the contents. “Shit,” he mutters.
Jeremy looks up, meeting Jean’s eyes across the room. “Hey, do you have a– shit, what’s it called?”
“Paper?” Jean suggests.
Jeremy shakes his head. “No, a– fuck, I haven’t slept in almost two days. Un stylo?”
Jean’s head is dizzy, partly because Jeremy doesn’t realize he used the French word as he still looks at Jean in silent anticipation. Jean flexes his jaw, opens up one of the common drawers, and throws Jeremy a pen that Jeremy deftly (annoyingly) catches.
Thank you, Jeremy mouths at him. Jean shrugs in reply and tries to go back to his homework. The interaction sticks to Jean’s brain like chewing gum. Sticky and stiff, and sickeningly sweet.
Later on, as the four of them are testing the new couch that Laila and Jeremy picked out from the flea market, Jean insistently questions if he should point out the interaction to Jeremy, if it would make things uncomfortable. Or if it would make Jeremy’s face split into one of his private smiles – the one that most people don’t usually see. The corners of his lips quirked just a tiny bit up, and his eyes crinkled in half-moons.
The couch is small, and they are a tangle of limbs. Cat’s shins are on Jean’s knees, and Laila’s arms are thrown across Cat’s lap. Jeremy loops them back in a circle, his leg resting against Laila’s calf and his shoulder pressing into Jean.
“It’s not tiny, it’s compact,” Laila insists. “See how it helps with our bonding?”
“I would prefer a bit more personal space,” Jean says. “But, what was that expression? Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Jeremy, do you want to sponsor our couch?” Cat asks. “You’re the one sleeping there half the time anyway.”
“I wish I could, but Mother is a bit too vigilant with my credit card expenses lately,” he sighs. Jean feels as his shoulder and chest shift with it, his own body moving along with how tightly they are pressed. “I hope this is good enough for now.”
“It’s perfect,” Laila reassures him.
Jeremy stretches his arms in front of him and leans his head towards Jean. “Nothing to say?” he asks and grins widely.
Usually Jeremy’s grin would set off a chain reaction in Jean’s gut. As it is, Jeremy’s eyes are red and bleary from the lack of sleep, his cheeks sullen.
“You need to sleep,” Jean says. He intends for it to sound stern, but it comes out ragged. Worried.
“I’m fine.” Jeremy’s smile tightens. “Just the tiniest hiccup.”
“Jeremy, you forgot how to say pen in English.”
Jeremy frowns. “Did I?”
“You did,” Jean nods. “You used the French word.”
Jeremy’s face goes through a kaleidoscope of emotions. From confused to terrified to sporting a violent blush that looks even redder than his Trojan jersey.
“Maybe you’re right. I am kind of sleepy,” he admits, darting his gaze back to the floor.
Jean rolls his eyes. “So sleep,” he says, shrugging with his shoulder towards Jeremy’s head.
Jeremy’s eyes widen, and he gulps. “For a bit,” he mutters and rests his head in the crook of Jean’s neck.
As Jean breathes in, he smells Jeremy’s apple and cinnamon shampoo and something decidedly soapy. He also smells a little bit of sweat, which makes it distinctly Jeremy. Jean has to clench his hands into fists, tight to the point where his nails are digging into the skin – he wants to run his fingers through the tangle of bleached locks so fucking bad.
“Dors bien,” Jean mumbles, and it feels a thousand times more intimate than running fingers through Jeremy’s hair.
Dors bien, he used to giggle with Elodie as he tucked her into bed.
Dors bien, he used to whisper to Kevin in the hushed darkness of his room, where the sleep was never good or peaceful.
From across the couch, Cat whispers into Laila’s ear in Spanish, making her break into giggles.
It’s two weeks after a disaster that is The Happy Prince, when Jean decides to open Oscar Wilde again.
Jean
What the fuck is Nightingale?
It’s midnight, but Jeremy sends a reply within thirty seconds.
Jeremy
bird that sings
Jean
That narrows it down so much, Jeremy. Thank you.
Before he thinks better of it, Jean sends another message.
Why are you not asleep?
Jeremy
reading
as are u ;)
i see the happy prince didn’t traumatize u enough
Jean
Fuck you.
The Nightingale and the Rose is somehow even worse than The Happy Prince. Jean almost throws the book out of the window. Instead, he picks up the phone and dials before he can backtrack.
Jeremy picks up after the second beep makes it to third.
“Do they all die in that wretched book?” Jean asks, phone firmly pressed to his ear.
Jeremy’s laugh on the other side is distorted. “I mean, you would have to finish all the stories to find out.”
“This is infuriating. As if life is not full enough of tragedy, and now I have to cry over a stupid bird again.”
“Aw, did you cry, Jean?” Jeremy coos it in the sweetest voice. It ignites something vile in Jean’s belly.
“Shut up,” he grits out.
Jeremy laughs again. There is a sound of shuffling on the other end.
“If it makes you feel better, I am absolutely struggling in here. My head hurts every two sentences.”
“It does make me feel better.”
“I’m glad my suffering brings you joy.”
Jean throws his back into the bed, head hitting the pillow. His arm starts to ache from having to press his phone so close to his ear. “You’re avoiding sleep,” Jean says.
“Avoiding is a strong word.”
“Jeremy.”
Silence stretches, filled mostly with Jeremy’s breathing.
“The past few months have been– hectic, I guess? Everyone in the house is somehow more agitated than they usually are, and Bryson is staying over–”
“You don’t feel safe.”
“Not– not exactly,” Jeremy breathes out.
Jean reads between the lines and comes to the conclusion that it’s a yes.
“You can’t avoid sleep forever. I have tried, and it is not effective,” Jean says. His relationship with sleep is still tricky and mostly muddled with nightmares and waking up in cold sweats. “Concentrate on something grounding, a fixed point. It will help to clear your head.”
“What were you concentrating on? In the Nest?”
“Pain,” Jean offers simply.
Jeremy sucks in a breath. “Jesus, Jean.”
“You asked, I answered.” Jean contemplates for a split of a second before adding, “Do not worry about it.”
“How could I not?” Jeremy whispers.
Fuck. Jean was supposed to be helping him.
“I can read to you. You said your mother used to,” Jean offers.
“Um.”
“You do not have to say yes. It might help, or it might not. I can not tell you for sure.”
Jean somehow feels the tension cracking at his fingertips, sending shock waves down his body. He bites his lip hard. Draws blood.
“Okay,” Jeremy agrees. His voice wobbles.
“I hope you don’t dream of dead birds,” Jean says, picking up the book from the nightstand. “If you do, remember that this is a problem of your own making.”
That draws a weak laugh out of Jeremy. Jean smiles in satisfaction – it’s like scoring a goal.
Jean reads through The Nightingale and the Rose twice before Jeremy falls asleep, his soft snores ringing in Jean’s left ear.
As Jeremy seems to be making quick progress with both his French reading time and lessons, Jean observes as Jeremy discovers the wonders of being multilingual. It is amusing to Jean and is even more amusing to Cat, who hasn’t been paying as much attention to Jeremy’s rapid advancements.
Jean keeps a list in his head of the things that Jeremy does now on his language journey. He is way too much of a coward to actually write it down, but as it is in his head, it looks like this:
- French is something Jeremy does now when he is nervous
It is ridiculous, really. More often than not, Jean sees Jeremy, on the verge of an anxiety attack, running numbers from one to a hundred in his head and then complaining about how French numerals don’t make sense. Jean has a lot to say about English numerals in response (derogatory) but is way too taken by the soft lilts of French coming out of Jeremy’s mouth.
It is fine. Jean doesn’t care.
Just a week after the incident, half an hour before the match against the Jackals that is predicted to be quite intense, Jean finds Jeremy in a locker room conjugating verbs out loud. Which is as ridiculous as it gets.
“J'ai mangé, tu as mangé, il a mangé, nous avons mangé, vous avez mangé, ils ont mangé,” Jeremy mumbles like a prayer.
Ridiculous.
Jeremy catches Jean staring and gulps. “Is partir avoir or être?”
“Être,” Jean supplies. Because what is he supposed to do? Tell him that he did the same thing with the list of irregular verbs when Riko would–
Ah. That is not a happy thought.
“Être, okay.” Jeremy takes a deep breath before continuing. “Je suis parti, tu es parti, il est parti, nous–uhm–”
“Nous sommes.”
Jeremy shoots him a weak but grateful smile. “Nous sommes partis, vous êtes partis, ils sont partis.”
“Good job,” Jean says.
He doesn’t mean for it to slip out, but Jeremy is pacing back and forth as he runs through the conjugations, and Jean is still way too intimidated to offer physical contact as a point of comfort willingly. So words have to do – at least for now.
“Thanks,” Jeremy says meekly.
He straightens up, and it’s as if a switch goes off in his head. Jeremy smiles, bright and tight, a show-off smile that he plasters just as they are about to start the game.
Jean can’t help but grin in response – it might not be as wide and bright, but he sees that Jeremy appreciates it regardless.
“Let’s give them hell, captain,” Jean says. A phrase he borrowed from Laila.
In the end, they win, of course. Jeremy goes through six more verbs to conjugate just before the post-game press conference starts.
- Jeremy starts swearing (regrettably for Jean’s sanity, in French)
Oh, the beauty of swearing in the language that no one understands. Cat is the one to snicker the most at that particular discovery that Jeremy makes.
It doesn’t stop, really. Merde every time Jeremy misses a pass or gets tripped. Merde, as well, in fits of road rage on highways. Putain is a new one on that week’s roster, thrown out viciously as Jeremy stains his favorite hoodie with the sauce from a burrito.
“Does he know that when he says it in that way, it is obvious to everyone that he is cursing?” Cat asks, watching as Jeremy rubs the stain angrily into the fabric.
“Let him have it,” Jean replies, amused.
The pinnacle of it comes in during the clash at the court with the Bobcats. Faser – whose name Jean still has neatly cataloged in the fuck up later list of his brain – throws a rather vulgar insult at Jean after a quite severe bodycheck. That Jean was not an initiator of.
Jean is about to throw have a winning day! right into his face when he hears Jeremy beside him muttering under his breath, “Va te faire foutre.”
Which is– yeah, Faser should definitely go fuck himself.
Jean’s shoulders suddenly relax, and he lets out a surprised laugh. It’s so loud that quite a few Trojans are standing there with their mouths wide open, staring.
“Oh my god, this is like Christmas!” Xavier yells out somewhere behind him.
Ivan Faser looks like he is seeing red. His face is, in fact, red as he storms off to the opposite side of the court.
Yeah, you do that, Jean thinks.
He is mine, you see, less helpful part of his brain supplies. He learns this for me and then curses you out with it.
And if Jean ends up rubbing one off after the game in the shower when everyone is gone and the water is turned off, it’s nobody’s business.
- Jeremy starts admitting that he is not okay (again, regrettably for Jean’s sanity, only in French)
This was the starting point that set all of it off, wasn’t it? Who is Jean to blame Jeremy for discovering that being vulnerable in a foreign language is much, much easier when he, himself, misuses it on the regular.
It’s almost midnight on Wednesday. Maybe Jean wouldn’t even know that Jeremy is breaking down in the middle of their kitchen if not for the nightmare that woke Jean up. Jeremy barely looks up, staring with his eyes hollowed out at the textbook in front of him. All color is absent from his skin, leaving him looking unusually pale. He gnaws at the skin of his thumb with a determined precision.
“You are hurting yourself,” Jean says softly and pulls Jeremy’s hand away from his mouth.
Jeremy blinks so slowly that it looks like he is falling asleep. He looks up, confused, as if he has only now registered Jean’s presence beside him. “Hi,” he croaks. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“A nightmare woke me up.”
Jeremy’s face clears. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
Jeremy whines low in his throat. His head sags between his shoulders. Fingers start desperately clawing against the slick surface of the counter.
“Je ne sais pas.”
I don’t know. It’s not a full-on admission, but it’s the closest thing to a confession that Jean has gotten out of him in months.
“Jeremy.” Calling Jeremy’s name always works like a charm. Sad big brown eyes lift up to meet Jean’s, unguarded. “I am going to hug you, and if you’re uncomfortable, you are going to push me away. D'accord?”
Jeremy nods, and before Jean can attempt to reach out, he wraps his arms around Jean’s middle, head tucked right under his chin. Jeremy must have used Laila’s shampoo today as he smells of cherries rather than cinnamon and apple. Jean breathes him in, wrapping his own arms around Jeremy’s shoulders.
Jeremy starts mumbling more words in French that don’t really make coherent sense together, but Jean just takes it all, hugging him tighter. His lips ghost the crown of Jeremy’s bleached head. Touch that is barely there but makes Jeremy shiver nevertheless.
Slowly, piece by piece, Jean’s own anxiousness falls away, too. Like golden leaves of the Happy Prince.
Jean is drowning.
There is water in his chest, inside his lungs, and filling up his organs. He sinks down, down, and down, further to the bottom, where someone is dragging him violently. As he tries to take a breath, his chest crushes and he wakes.
Jean coughs, sitting up in his bed. There is no water, of course, but the sheets are damp from his own sweat, and the air feels stale in his lungs as he breathes in. He hasn’t had nightmares about drowning in a while.
It’s embarrassing how dialing up Jeremy becomes a habit. Jean barely thinks as he presses the phone to his ear.
“Is another bird dead?”
“I was drowning,” Jean blurts out.
There is a brief pause.
“Shit,” Jeremy curses.
“Yeah, shit.”
“What do you need?”
What does he need? Jean has no clue. He needs a solid freckled body next to him and a soft dimpled smile and the shade of brown that turns his insides into a molten heat.
But he can’t possibly say that.
“Where are you in the book?” Jeremy asks.
“The Selfish Giant. First page. I am trying to figure out what the fuck a linnet is.”
Jeremy laughs, and the pressure inside Jean’s chest eases up. As if Jeremy physically drags it all out of his chest.
“A bird, Jean.”
“Okay, but which one?” Jean hears Jeremy taking a deep breath. “For the love of God, do not say the one that sings.”
Jeremy laughs even harder. “Wait until you hear about blue tit.”
“Excuse me?”
There is a clatter on the other end of the line, and it seems Jeremy has fully lost it, his giggles now sounding rather distant. “It’s a bird,” Jeremy huffs out between fits of laughter.
“Ugly, ugly language. Let me guess – it has blue tits.”
“Oh my god.” Jeremy doesn’t sound like he is breathing anymore. “Can you say tits like fifty more times? Also, can I record it? For non-malicious purposes.”
“Tu me casses les couilles,” Jean groans.
“Uhm, you breaking my… something something,” Jeremy promptly translates.
It’s another thing Jeremy has picked up. When he doesn’t get the full translation, he starts identifying words in chunks until it makes sense. Stupidly endearing.
“Balls,” Jean supplies. Barely keeps the smile away from his voice.
“Breaking my balls,” Jeremy deadpans in a voice so serious that it’s ridiculous.
“The English equivalent would be–well– pissing me off?”
“Amazing. I am borrowing it.”
“Do not tell your tutor I taught you that.”
“No promises, Jean. People should know about your true nature.”
“That I swear a lot? That is hardly news to anyone.”
“That you’re hilarious, Jean.”
Jean frowns. “I am hilarious?”
“You are. Your delivery is always so deadpan that it accidentally circles back to being funny.”
Jean doesn’t know how to take that information in. No one has ever called him funny, let alone hilarious.
And then Jeremy decides to deliver a finishing blow. “You always make me laugh.”
Jean sucks in a breath so loud that it rings in his own ears. He has no doubt that Jeremy hears it, too.
“Sorry,” Jeremy says meekly. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You did not make me uncomfortable.”
“Did I at least make you feel better?”
Jean blinks and looks around the room – at the crumpled, damp sheets and his shirt soaked in sweat. He completely forgot why he called in the first place.
“I forgot why I called,” Jean admits.
“Good.” Jean can hear a smile in Jeremy’s voice. “That’s why I am here.”
“To annoy me?”
“Possibly. Do you want me to read to you till you fall asleep?”
Jean’s chest is suddenly full and warm. He splatters a hand over it, as if to see if anything has physically changed. If it’s all in his head, made-up. Jeremy doesn’t seem made up. He is quite real, so close that Jean can reach out and grab that stupid boy so tight that he never leaves his side again.
“Jean?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, as in you are here, or yes, you want me to read to you?”
“Read to me, Jeremy.”
In French, Jeremy is a slow reader, carefully rolling the rounded vowels of his tongue. His voice is somehow even gentler, softer, as it lulls Jean back into sleep, chasing off every single nightmare at the back of Jean’s mind.
Neil
so jean
Jean
What do you want pest.
Neil
u r always so nice 2 me
anyway
the most interesting thing happened
wanna guess
Jean
You tripped and fell into a pit and now you are dead.
Great news.
Neil
me and kev were watching replay
bobcats
good game btw
but imagine my surprise when cap sunshine started cursing faser
in very impressive french
i mean faser is a dick ofc
but u know
Jean
I do not.
Neil
so r u discovering the beauty of language sharing after all
tld u it’s romantic
;)
to: Andrew
Can you control your boyfriend, please?
Andrew:
debatable.
Jean groans and throws the phone on the floor. Jeremy looks up from the other side of the couch at him.
“You good?” he asks, looking at the phone with unguarded amusement.
“Josten,” Jean offers in lieu of explanation.
“Ah.” The corner of Jeremy’s mouth quirks up. “Always riles you up so easily. What was it this time?”
Jean tries very hard to stop the word riled up from echoing of the walls in his head like a goddamn Exy ball.
Jean shakes his head. “He said we played well.”
Jeremy tilts his head to the side and snorts. “Okay. You keep your secrets.”
“There are no secrets. I am quite truthful.”
Jean throws a glance at Jeremy that is supposed to be harsh and pointed. Supposed to be. Jeremy’s grinning face says he is not succeeding.
It’s a rare instance of Jeremy sitting with an LSAT textbook in his lap instead of L'Étranger or his language learning journal.
(which is baby blue and has exactly five stickers on the cover – three of them are from Trojan merch line, and two are printed stickers of Jabb that Laila made for him. Jean is obsessed with it)
Even if Jean had not taken notice of the LSAT textbook, the stark difference between Jeremy threading through the law-related terminology and studying French is more than apparent. When Jeremy studies French – with his colorful pens, acidic page markers, enthusiastic mumbles under his breath – he looks giddy. Happy. There is a blush to his cheeks, a twinkle to his eyes as he looks at Jean, as if they are sharing a secret. He looks almost as ecstatic as he does when he is on the court scoring a goal.
Now, half sprawled on the couch, Jeremy looks positively miserable. His head is in his hands, squeezing till there are red splotches all across his tanned skin. His left knee keeps bouncing, jittery. His brown eyes, which are usually soft and pliant, are hollowed out and empty.
It breaks Jean’s heart to see him like this.
By the time Jean and Cat are finished with dinner, it gets a little better. Jeremy is in a much more uplifted mood with Laila there to take some of his burdens off. It makes the pressure in Jean’s chest a little lighter.
“So, how was your date, cap?”
Jean freezes in his place, and Cat chokes on a mouthful of food.
“Laila,” Jeremy grits through his teeth.
“Which one of your awful hookups actually had the balls to ask you out?” Cat asks.
“Wasn’t a hookup,” Laila practically sing-songs. Jean is on the verge of throwing a knife into a wall.
“I mean, anything is an improvement over Foster or Faser, but that’s a low bar,” Cat shrugs.
Laila leans on her elbows towards Jeremy. “You wanna share or shall I?”
“Laila,” Jeremy repeats, sounding even more desperate.
Laila waves him off. “We were in the library. This cute guy saw Jeremy reading that little French book and asked for pointers over coffee. Apparently language learning has a good romantic appeal.”
The food on Jean’s plate suddenly looks like vomit. He doesn’t realize that he is grabbing at the glass of water, hard, until Cat quietly places a palm over his thigh under the table, squeezing.
“I thought he was being polite,” Jeremy says.
A lie. Jean knows that Jeremy can always tell when people are hitting on him. He is the opposite of Jean, which means he is an opposite of oblivious.
Laila rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“We got coffee and talked. That’s it.”
“Of course.”
Jean doesn’t know why his reaction is so volatile. Of course, Jeremy is not learning French to please him. Of course, as with any language, it is but a tool. Of course, other people will find this attractive, adding to Jeremy’s already persistent radiance and brightness.
Then why does it feel like a betrayal?
“I am not hungry,” Jean says, pushing his plate away.
Cat catches him by the elbow. “Babe, you barely ate.”
“It is fine, Cat. Thank you for the concern.”
Jean breaks free of her grasp and heads to his room. He feels Jeremy’s eyes trailing behind him but can’t force himself to look back. It’s too painful right now.
Maybe Jean has been right all along. French is like a knife that people wield knowingly, to caress him with a dull side just so they can hurt him afterwards. Kevin, Neil, now Jeremy – it never stops, doesn’t it?
Jean doesn’t make it past the door of his room, shutting and leaning against it as it closes. His hands instinctively reach for the throat, but he thinks better off it, reaching to run the fingers through his hair instead.
The knock startles Jean enough to jolt him in his place.
“Jean?” Jeremy’s voice is slightly muffled from the other side of the door.
Jean leans his head against the surface. The dull sounds of Jeremy’s fingers moving against it reverberate through his own skin.
“Go away,” Jean orders, his voice hoarse.
“Can we talk?”
Jean squeezes his eyes shut. No, he thinks. “Why?” he asks instead.
Jeremy drums an uneven rhythm with his fingers against the door. “Just– please, let me in?”
Jean appreciates that Jeremy still poses it like a question, softly. He knows that if he asks again Jeremy will leave and give him space.
Jean sighs, exasperated, and opens the door. Jeremy looks – broken.
“Can I come in?”
Jean nods, letting him in. Closes the door back, boxing Jeremy in the space between them. Jeremy has no choice but to step back and press against the door. Jean attempts to leave a respectable distance between them.
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Okay.”
Jeremy reaches towards Jean, but then abruptly drops his hand in the air between them.
“Jean, I–”
“You said you were learning for me. Did you lie?”
Jeremy blinks. “No, of course not. Jean, I would never– it wasn’t a date.” He ducks his head, hands clenched in fists at his sides. “I wasn’t even interested, to begin with. In fact, the past few months I only–” Jeremy cuts himself off with a wounded noise.
Jean takes a step closer until a thin strip of space separates them. The air buzzes all around them, deafening and dense.
Jean watches the line of Jeremy’s throat constricting as he gulps. His lips part, eyes still glued to the ground between them. Slowly, Jean raises his hand, ghosting it a few inches away from Jeremy’s cheek before cupping his jaw and tipping his chin up.
“You only what, Jeremy?”
Jeremy exhales, his breath fanning over Jean’s fingers. It’s warm and tingly on Jean’s skin. Addicting.
“I–” Jeremy opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly. A fish out of the water.
Jean watches, transfixed, as Jeremy’s tongue darts out to wet his pink lips, the tip of it barely grazing Jean’s thumb at the corner of his mouth. Jean doesn’t realize how loud his breathing gets until it hangs heavy in the gaps of silence.
“I–” Jeremy attempts again but ends it with a bitten-off curse, closing his eyes.
Jean leans in, pressing their foreheads together. Jeremy feels scorching at the point where they stay connected. Their breathing syncs, heavy and loud, Jean’s mouth one surge away from Jeremy’s.
“Ferme ta jolie bouche,” Jean whispers.
And what a joy it is to see Jeremy’s eyes snap open, wide in understanding.
“Jean,” he pleads, and it lands somewhere on Jean’s lips. Lodges in deep in the crevices where Jean’s heart beats violently against his ribcage.
The loud knock startles them both, and they spring apart.
“You guys all right?” Cat yells into the door, knocking even louder.
Jeremy clears his throat. “All good!” he yells back, steadying himself with a hand against the door.
They stare at each other, frozen in their places. Jean tries to concentrate on anything else but Jeremy’s flushed face and blown-wide pupils. His mouth is still parted.
“I gotta–” Jeremy gestures behind his back, towards the door.
Jean nods despite the insistent chants of want want want thrumming under his skin like a second pulse. “Yes. Of course.”
“Bye,” Jeremy practically squeaks and slips back into the hallway.
Jean’s cheeks are still burning red hours after Jeremy leaves.
Jean doesn’t plan to get back to Oscar Wilde the next day, but he desperately needs a distraction.
Jeremy avoids him, which is expected. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less. So the smart thing to do is, of course, to come in contact with the only thing that makes Jean feel closer to Jeremy despite the distance.
It warms Jean’s heart to catch a peek of Jeremy and his language journal now and then. Jean assumes that once the rift between them opens, Jeremy would forsake French altogether, but it seems like Jeremy treats it as a tentative point of connection, too.
An invisible bridge, somehow equally as mutually destructive as it is reassuring.
The practice on Tuesday is messy and uncoordinated. Jeremy messes up most of their drills, stumbles over his feet at least seven times, misses most of his marks and barely meets anyone’s eyes.
Jean can’t help it. The next time he pulls Jeremy up from the floor, he grabs onto his elbow tightly and gets into his face. “Where are you, Jeremy?” Jean asks, eyes fixed on the flutter of Jeremy’s eyelashes and the stuttered breath that escapes his mouth.
“Right here,” he replies, not meeting Jean’s eyes. The hand that is not in Jean’s grip is clutching at the hem of Jeremy’s shirt.
“Do not lie to me.”
Jeremy lifts up his head. Stray hairs fall onto his forehead, and Jean has a sudden need to brush them away.
“I’ll do better, Jean,” he mumbles and jerks his arm away, getting back to his position.
Jean doesn’t miss Coach Rhemann’s concerned expression, his eyes darting back and forth between them.
The practice drags on for a few more hours, and the locker room empties out promptly after that as the Trojans rush out to get their needed evening rest. Jean doesn’t mean to stalk but takes notice of Rhemann pulling Jeremy into his office, harsh whispers barely shielded by the closed door.
“You coming?” Cody asks, slinging their duffel bag over their shoulder. “We wanted to grab dinner on the way.”
Jean barely manages to tear his eyes away from Rhemann’s office. “I will wait for Jeremy,” he says.
Cody nods solemnly and slaps Jean over the shoulder. “Hope you figure your shit out.”
Jean opens his mouth to say that there is no shit to figure out, but Cody winks at him cheekily and heads for the exit.
Jeremy steps back into the locker room and frowns as his eyes meet Jean’s. “I thought you were leaving with Cody.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” Jean admits.
Jeremy starts rolling on the balls of his feet, mumbling something under his breath. Jean shifts in his place, a bit uncomfortable in his skin as he is yet to take his post-practice shower.
“That’s fair,” Jeremy says at last. His eyes roam Jean’s face, searching. “Listen, I need to–”
“Since you both are still mopping around here, can you help with putting the equipment away?” Coach Rhemann asks, peeking out of his office. “Bobby is sick and Angie and Tony had to leave earlier today. Until the court is cleared, the staff can’t get to cleaning it.”
“Yes, coach,” Jean replies on autopilot. Jeremy simply nods.
Coach throws a thumbs-up in the air and darts back to his office.
“Let’s go. The faster we start, the faster we finish,” Jeremy says.
The task is tedious but not complicated. He and Jeremy work in comfortable silence, collecting stray balls and spare racquets and gear from the benches and the floor. Jean makes sure to pick up the cones on the way to the supply closet, getting his arms so full that the balls almost spill out. The door to the closet is half open when Jean comes in.
“Just put it on the shelves, the assistants will organize it in the morning,” Jeremy throws over his shoulder.
Jean slips further into the room, and the loud clicking sound echoes in his ears.
“Jean, the door–” Jeremy points with his arm in Jean’s direction and then quickly draws it back, pursing his lips. “– shuts on its own, be careful,” he adds in a low mumble.
“Thank you for the prompt warning,” Jean bites back and winces. “Sorry– I am sorry.”
“Not a fan of enclosed spaces, I remember.” Jeremy steps closer to him, but still at a distance. “I have the phone on me, I’ll text the coach.”
“You have a phone on you?”
“Learned my lesson from the last time.”
Jeremy fishes out his phone, and Jean starts looking around. The closet, luckily, is not as small as the one at Edgar Allan. The Trojans is a big team, and the equipment closet seems to be built with the idea in mind. The lack of light and air still makes Jean a bit dizzy and he takes a long, deep breath, sliding down the side of the wall and hiding his head between his arms.
“I am okay,” he says before Jeremy can get his word in. “I can see your mother hen stare even without looking.”
Jeremy chuckles. “Mother hen. Did Cat teach you?”
“Laila.”
“Figures.”
A few seconds pass in silence before Jean hears a shuffling of clothes and limbs against the wall. Jeremy leaves a respectable space between them as he sits down, but the edge of their shoulders still touch from now and then as Jean breathes in and out.
“Can I tell you something?” Jean asks, looking up.
“Sure.” Jeremy starts pulling his knees closer to his chest. A shield.
Jean opens his mouth, trying to pull on a thread of thought in his head. He doesn’t know where to start with this conversation. “Josten and Minyard are learning Russian together,” he blurts out.
“Uh. Good for them?” Jeremy’s voice pitches up, as if someone just hit him on the head with a racquet.
“Not exactly what I meant to say.” Jean sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “We had this conversation once, about languages being intimate. Then my therapist mentioned how I might avoid thinking about more– vulnerable things in my mother tongue.” Jean snorts humorlessly. “This stupid notion, mother tongue. As if my mother has ever brought anything but suffering to me.”
“Jean,” Jeremy whispers.
“It is fine.” Jean shakes his head. “Not the point. I do not expect you to understand that. I taught Kevin French, and he left me. Riko has been beating me for slipping into French more than you would imagine. When Neil started talking to me in French, in the Nest, I was not– not at my best. It is complicated.”
“It sounds like it is,” Jeremy says sympathetically. “Me learning French, it threw you off more than you expected, didn’t it?”
“Not you learning it. You putting so much effort into it.” Jean makes a face. “For me,” he adds, a bit weaker. “You say I might not have anyone to speak it with, but what if I do not want to? About things that actually matter, at least.”
There is pressure on Jean’s shoulder. He tilts his head to look, watching as Jeremy’s hand squeezes at the top of his arm gently.
“Thank you for telling me,” Jeremy says. His face shifts, as if he is contemplating something. He wets his lip and presses deeper into Jean’s shoulder. “To be honest, it did make me feel closer. To you.”
“I guess it– affected me,” Jean admits. “You are a very skillful student.”
Jeremy huffs a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “God, Jean. You always say those things so simply.”
“What things?”
“That affect me,” Jeremy says. “I mean, you talking in French? Yeah, deadly. But the way you are so honest and blunt in English, it knocks the breath out of me. Like being punched, but in a good way.”
Jean frowns. “How can one be punched in a good way?”
“Not really the point.” Jeremy pulls his hand away but moves his body closer. “The point is, I am really fucking crazy about you, and if you want me to drop French, I absolutely will. But I hope you don’t because I like it, and I like you, and I like doing this huge romantic language-learning gesture for you.”
Jean’s heart stammers. His fingers reach out, grabbing the front of Jeremy’s shirt. He tugs, pulling his face closer. Even in the darkness of the closet, the freckles on Jeremy’s cheeks are bright and shining – star clusters on the midnight sky. His cheeks dimple sweetly where he smiles. Jean slides his hand up to Jeremy’s collarbones and further up to the column of his throat. Jeremy’s pulse pleasantly hums under his fingertips.
Jean leans in because he knows Jeremy wouldn’t do it first. He brushes their lips once, tentatively, leaving Jeremy a clear out. Jeremy raises his hand, ghosting close to the side of Jean’s face. “Can I touch your hair?” he whispers right into Jean’s mouth. Jean nods jerkily and grabs the back of Jeremy’s head to kiss him again.
This time it’s more forceful. Jeremy’s mouth opens, and Jean can’t help but prod with his tongue at the corner of his lips, shyly. They surge into each other and clash, Jean’s fingers tugging insistently on the strands of Jeremy’s bleached hair. Jeremy’s hand in Jean’s hair doesn’t tug but caresses instead. As if Jean is something precious and invaluable.
Jean’s mouth slides down to Jeremy’s jaw, and he gasps, throwing his head back. Jean’s hands find his waist, pulling his body even closer until Jeremy practically stumbles into Jean’s lap. After a few seconds of hesitation, he settles himself awkwardly on Jean’s thighs.
“Okay?” Jeremy asks, blushing.
Jean squeezes his hips, fingers slipping barely under the fabric of his shirt. “Parfait,” Jean mouths the word against the freckled skin of his jaw and sucks it in.
Jeremy gasps again, and Jean sinks his fingers further under his shirt, blunt nails dragging along the hipbone. Jeremy’s hips twitch and his hardness brushes briefly against Jean’s thigh.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Jeremy wheezes out, head dropping to Jean’s shoulder. “We haven’t even showered, this is so gross.”
Jean noses at the side of Jeremy’s neck, lips tracing over the soft blush spreading there. “Tastes good to me,” Jean breathes out and playfully bites the skin there.
Jeremy, honest to god, moans, muffling the sound against Jean’s shoulder. “You are a very dangerous man, Jean Moreau,” Jeremy mumbles. “But we are absolutely not doing this in the supply closet.”
Jean laughs, pulling away from Jeremy’s neck and leaning against the wall. He shifts his thigh – just a tiny bit – but it drags intently against Jeremy’s length again.
“Jean,” he grits through his teeth. His breathing is heavy and ragged. “I am trying to be romantic.”
“You are very romantic, Jeremy.”
It’s a low blow, but it’s worth seeing Jeremy’s eyes glaze over at the sound of his own name. He curses under his breath, in French, and then places a gentle kiss at the corner of Jean’s mouth.
“Jeremy?” Coach Rhemann’s voice calls out, and Jeremy jolts so violently that he knocks over the shelf close to his head.
Jean giggles, muffling the sound with the back of his hand.
“Oh, you’re the one to laugh,” Jeremy whisper-shouts but shoots him a private smile. “We’re here, coach! The door got shut again!” he yells and starts scrambling to his feet, pulling Jean up along with him.
“I’ll put it on my to-fix list,” Rhemann says.
There is a sound of keys jingling, and it sobers Jean up enough to smother over the hair where Jeremy made a mess of it. Jeremy pulls down the hem of his shirt, rubbing his sides. Rhemman opens the door and gestures for them to leave.
“Thank you,” Jeremy says, clearing his throat.
Jeremy’s voice still sounds hoarse from kissing, and his hair is sticking out in five different directions. Coach Rhemann looks him over, then looks back at Jean.
“Coach–” Jeremy starts, but the man just rolls his eyes at him.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Coach Rhemann sighs. “Just take your shower and leave already.”
“Yes, coach,” they mumble in unison.
Rhemann leaves them to it, and Jeremy steals a quick kiss from Jean just before he heads towards the showers.
Neil
congratulations jean
Jean
Be honest, were you dropped as a child?
Neil
probably more than u think
Jean
Evidently.
Neil
so for the next language im thinking german. we can practice 2gether 4 of us
spanish would be nice but its no privacy from your roomie. or la.
itallian should be easy for you no
?
to: Andrew
Is he being serious?
Andrew
quite.
Andrew
congratulations, though.
Jean
Do not tell Kevin.
Andrew
too late.
to: Neil
Your French is atrocious, just so you know.
Neil
;)