Chapter Text
it’s dramatic. he knows it's dramatic. still, he can't stop himself from flinging the small object in his hand clear across the room. he hears the metal ping against the wall and clang against several surfaces before stopping in the slim space between radio console and floor. “fuuuuck,” jean groans, hand coming to drag down his face.
trant, for what it’s worth, is trying his absolute hardest not to laugh. his fingers shift to cover his lips but it's not exactly a subtle movement and the slight shake of his shoulders isn't helping.
“are you laughing?” jean glares daggers at his boyfriend.
“no!” he says, laughing.
“you're fucking laughing!”
trant keeps his fingers to his mouth for another moment and really is doing his best not to laugh. “sorry, sorry.” he gives an almost sheepish grin.
with his arms crossed over his chest and a knitted brow, jean looks like a petulant child. trant’s certain mikael has looked precisely like this on more than one occasion. all he needs is the little pout. it makes him laugh all over again. he just can't help it.
“shit– trant, you bastard!”
his ribs already hurt from laughing. what he tries to say is, “i'm sorry, i can't help it! look at your face!” all jean hears is, “i’m (laughing) can’t (laughing), face!”
the more flustered jean gets from it, the harder trant laughs. it’s a vicious cycle that continues for an idiotic amount of time before trant finally breathes out his last big laugh. it's just small giggles and drying tears of laughter.
jean has yet to even crack a smile. it makes him all the more endearing to trant, the lengths he’ll go to prove a point.
trant lets out a chuckle of a sigh. “sorry, really.” he holds a hand out that jean pointedly ignores. “i didn't take you to be such a sore loser.”
“i am not a sore loser!”
“mhm.” he swallows a giggle. all jean is missing is a stamp of his foot.
“fuck off, trant.” jean steps over to the radio console and tries to get his hand beneath the thin space. they barely fit.
trant turns to watch him, his amusement turning into something closer to fondness. he considers offering his help to jean, but he knows the other man won't appreciate it. so he watches as jean tries increasingly comical things to get the piece out. fingers, a tape deck thicker than his fingers, a spare cord that only manages to push it back further, his belt that he takes off (with such ease it should be illegal) which promptly gets stuck on something.
trant, all the while, is quiet. part of him still has the giggles but he decides to have mercy on the poor man. he stands up and crosses to where jean is. “here. lift it and i’ll grab it.”
jean narrows his eyes but does as he's told, carefully lifting one side of the ridiculously heavy and expensive radio console as trant bends to swipe the coveted metal piece (and jean’s poor innocent belt).
as he straightens back up, jean gently places the console back on the floor. trant holds the board game piece out to him, a gentle smile on his face. “i think you may have lost this.”
jean pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. he breathes in, holds it, then breathes out. he takes the piece and shoves it into his pocket. “i need a cigarette.” he turns on his heel and trant can't help but shake his head fondly.
he takes a few minutes to put the board game away and straighten up the rest of the living room. he pours himself a glass of wine, grabs a bottle of beer for jean, and makes his way to the small balcony off the dining room.
jean is leaning against the railing, first cigarette nearly done. trant is sure there will be one, possibly two, more. he folds himself onto one of two chairs and holds the beer bottle out to the other man. it catches jean’s eye and he gives a tight smile. he stubs the finished cigarette out on the ashtray then drops himself into the chair beside trant. he wraps his fingers around the cold beer and immediately takes a long draw of it. then lights another cigarette. “thanks.”
trant hums in acknowledgment, eyes closing against the cool night air. he lets the moment remain silent, waiting for jean to speak first. he can feel that jean wants to say something but has to get it straight in his head first. trant also knows that whatever is on his mind is a direct overreaction to what will forever be known as THE BOARD GAME INCIDENT.
once the second cigarette is smoked and half the beer drained, jean says, “i'm not a sore loser.” trant takes a sip of his wine in response. “i have anger issues.”
“oh, do you?” trant raises a brow but keeps his eyes closed.
“shut up.” he puts the beer down on the table between them, then immediately picks it back up to finish it quickly. he taps his fingers nervously on the empty amber bottle. “i overreacted.”
“maybe.” trant shrugs. “so can mikael when he loses.”
jean groans and wishes he had something to throw at him. “shut up.”
this time trant looks at him with an apologetic smile. he gestures for jean to continue.
“i crashed out over a fucking game. all of that–” he gestures toward the apartment, “—because i didn't get it.”
trant sits up a bit, slowly swirling his wine.
“because i felt like a fucking idiot.”
“okay.” he doesn't need to tell jean that he isn't an idiot. jean knows he isn't an idiot. things like this aren't often logical and trant doesn't need to unintentionally patronize.
“next time i could throw a fucking beer bottle.” he grips the one in his hand too tightly and for only a moment trant thinks it could shatter between his fingers. then he lets go and places it on the table once more. “and the glass goes everywhere and cuts you or mikael, or we don't clean it up good enough and mikael steps on a piece?” he's standing now, beginning to pace the small area while trying to light his third cigarette. “or i punch a hole in the wall, or- or-” he groans again, frustrated. “fuck! why won't this fucking-”
trant stands and crosses the short distance between them. he plucks the lighter from jean’s hands and lights the cigarette hanging from his mouth.
jean inhales deeply, holds the smoke for a few seconds, then blows it away from trant’s face. “what if i hit you?” what if i hit mikael?
an entire spiral because of a board game. he’s seen jean spiral over less before. “you have been attending your therapy sessions, yes?”
“have i– what?”
“have you been attending your therapy sessions, jean?”
his eyes narrow but he nods. “every two weeks.”
“good, good.” trant plucks the cigarette from between jean’s lips and takes a small inhale of his own. he wrinkles his nose and replaces it on jean’s slightly open lips. “you do have anger issues,” trant agrees, “but you are making an active effort to control it.” he gives a soft smile. “which i am proud of you for, might i add.”
jean feels his face grow hot but he ignores it as trant continues. “i have seen you punch a man for looking at you wrong. i have seen you beat a man half to death because he deeply insulted your best friend. you have hit and been hit. hurt and been hurt.” trant tilts his head slightly. “have you ever hit me, hurt me?”
jean hesitates but he shakes his head. “no. but–”
“things can happen, yes. you have not done so and i wholeheartedly believe you never will. i have the utmost trust in you, jean. and if you ever do, it is up to me and me alone where to go from there.” he steps forward until jean’s back hits the railing behind him. his hands snaked around jean’s waist but keeps his eyes on him.
“you're worried about crashing out around us.” trant and mikael. “i trust you will take yourself out of the room if it ever comes to the point of true violence. i trust you implicitly, jean.”
trant grows quiet as he waits for jean to respond in some way. jean just manages to nod. the cigarette is pulled from his lips for one more puff from trant, who kisses him slowly, exhaling the smoke directly into jean’s mouth.
with an all too satisfying smile, trant steps away and drops the cigarette in the ashtray. “come, let's get ready for bed.”
jean huffs, takes a moment to adjust his pants, and follows the man inside.
the next morning, trant wakes to jean having made breakfast (he's been slowly learning how to cook), and the board game set up on the table with the thrown piece back in its place. before trant can even say good morning, jean starts, “i was stupid and in my head. thank you… for getting me out of it.” he gestures towards his head. “it’s all fucked in there.” there's a little laugh.
“and i know i acted like a toddler and it was fucking funny. i’m a big fucking sore loser. can we have a redo? i promised mikael i’d know how to play by the time he gets back from his mom’s.”
trant is more than happy to comply. “of course. just give me one moment.” he takes a small throw blanket from the sofa, folds it longways, and places it in front of the open space under the radio console. he comes back to the table, a shitty grin on his lips.
“fucking asshole.” but jean grins too.