Archive of Our Own ^beta

Always winter, never Christmas.

*

I – France

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”― Leo Tolstoy

* 

What Jean remembered most from France was Christmas.

Even when he no longer recalled his mother’s face or the sound of her voice – when his memories of his father narrowed down to little more than a backlit silhouette in a window, growing more and more distant as the car pulled away – he would still remember the traditions of Provence through advent and midnight mass and les santons de Noël.

The glittering lights sparkled in his memory, sharp as the chill sweeping in off the Mediterranean ocean, and sweet as the piles and piles of food that covered every surface of his mother’s kitchen in the days running up to le Réveillon de Noël . 

His last Christmas in particular stuck with him – there was such a sense of relief in the house, as if a weight that they’d all been sagging under had been lifted.

All summer, his father had been shut away in this study, talking behind closed doors in languages Jean hadn’t learnt yet. All autumn, his mother had barely been able to speak to him without tears springing to her eyes.

It had been a terribly boring time for Jean – who was used to running wild at the beach and on the boats with his friends, but for some reason none of them were around to play with him. The one time he saw Philippe Cluzet, the other boy refused to talk to him until Jean bought him gelato.

“Sorry,” Phillippe said. “I’m not meant to talk to you anymore.”

Jean had rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Why not?”

Phillippe shrugged. “Dunno, but papa said it was a family thing. I think our dads are arguing.”

“That’s stupid. You’ve been my friend for years.” Jean scrunched his face as his brain froze from the icecream. “Do you think we can still be friends at school?”

Phillippe didn’t know. Phillippe, to be fair, rarely knew anything, they were friends mostly because they both played in their year’s hockey team and were slightly obsessed with the story of Monte Christo after a school trip to Château d'If when they were seven.

As it turned out, they couldn’t be friends at school. Phillippe only spoke to him on the field, as did everyone else. Jean Moreau went from being middling popular to outcast overnight and he had no idea why. Everything had been strange, the city unwelcoming and school exhaustingly lonely.

And then December arrived, and the study door opened, and his father pulled him in for a tight, close hug, and murmured that everything was going to be alright now.

Jean believed him.

Jean believed his father when he made promises for a better future. He believed his father when he said it was time for Jean to become a man in their family, to do his duty and learn what it meant to be a Moreau.

And later, when he heard his mother sobbing and his father soothing her in gentle tones, he believed that her tears must be relief.

They were soul mates, his mother and father. His father had a stripe of ebony through his coffee coloured curls, still distinct even though his hair was thinning. His mother called the matching strip of brown in her ebony hair, ma tache de café – her coffee stain – and she always smiled when she touched it.

Jean’s hair was more like his mother’s. She was an Algerian Arab – all dark eyes and dark hair and Jean was fairly certain she was beautiful. She called his golden soulmate curl his le fil d'or – his golden thread, like that gifted by Ariadne to Theseus.

That Christmas – what would be his final Christmas – there was laughter in the house and a feast for le Réveillon. The house was full of people – parents of children that hadn’t spoken to Jean in months, men that Jean was fairly certain had spat at his father in church only a few weeks ago. But everyone seemed happy. And Jean was content. His father was right, things were going to be better now.

He lay by the fire, heavy from the Thirteen Desserts, almost dozing as the party continued around him – that year his mother made the traditional les quartre mendiants and fougasse, pompe à l'huile , and nougats, accompanied with calisson d’aix en Provence, casse-dents, oreillettes , spiced breads and fruit tarts, and a “Kings Cake” that was so flaky and sweet that Jean actually heard his father moan in delight. Jean could still taste the sugar on his tongue. His mother came to sit beside him, fingers stroking into his hair, lingering over the golden thread. Jean looked up at her, moving so his head was on her lap and watched her face. It rippled with emotions that he would later realise were pre-emptive grief: loss, anger, acceptance.

“Your soulmate is out there, mon coco, and they’ll lead you out of whatever darkness you find in your life. You will find them and they will love you, all of you.”

Jean squirmed. He was eleven years old. Nearly. He didn’t want to hear about icky things like love and soulmates.

Something about his mother’s smile made him cringe. Her eyes were soft and shiny.

“Promise me you’ll always remember that there’s a light out there for you,” she said to him.

“Maman, stop being weird.”

“Promise me, mon coco. Please.”

Jean frowned. “I promise. But you need to stop being a weirdo too.”

“You have my attitude,” she said. Her voice trembled. Her fingers tugged on his golden thread. “Now go to bed. You’re falling asleep in front of your dad’s work friends.”

Jean went with only a modicum of obligatory huffing and puffing. Sleep actually sounded good, but he was a big kid now, so he wasn’t meant to want to go to bed early. He made sure to check that he’d laid out his shoes for pérè Noël.

The next morning Jean found an exy stick under the Christmas tree. He hugged his parents and thanked them, even though it wasn’t the hockey stick he’d been kinda expecting. Exy seemed pretty cool.

Six days later, Jean found his bags packed. He was ushered into a car next to a strange man. His mother didn’t hug him goodbye. He craned around in his seat and watched his father’s shadow in the window as his home vanished from sight. He was on his way to Evermore.

He’d soon realise that he shouldn’t have believed his father.

That things did not get better.

That – like Christmas – promises meant absolutely nothing.  

That he’d never see his mother again.

*

II – The Nest

“And tonight thank god it’s them, instead of you.” – Band Aid

Christmas at Evermore was nothing like France. For one, there was no midnight mass, no carols, no laughter, no feasts or laying of shoes. It was a desolate thing.

But for the first few years at the Nest, it was Jean’s favourite time of the year.

During that time, Christmas Eve to Boxing Day was a blank space of time where Riko Moriyama wasn’t in the Nest.

In fact, no one was in the Nest.

No one but Jean.

Kevin once told Jean that it was a publicity thing – even though the Moriyamas didn’t celebrate Christmas, as a representative of an upstanding American family, Tetsuji was expected to play the role of uncle and take Riko out of the school for at least a couple of days a year whilst the other students – even Ravens – were allowed to go home for the holidays.  

Kevin, of course, went with them.

But Jean, who had nowhere to go and belonged to the Nest, remained in the Nest.

It didn’t last forever – the Master changed the rules so that Ravens trained through the Christmas break when Riko turned fifteen and they could get away with such a relentless routine – but for a few blissful winters there were three days when Jean was alone, free.  

He had free reign of the halls, both black and red. Special meals were organised beforehand for him to heat up in the microwave in their hall’s kitchenette. There was no exy. He slept late. His bruises faded. His muscles lost a little of their permanent ache.

He made the best of it.

And he was thankful for that now.

There was none of that time anymore.

He never slept alone.

Never felt the uncanny silence.

Never had time to go through the small drawer of personal effects he had left from Marseille. The only thing he ever brought out was a gold crucifix that he’d been given at his confirmation. The only thing Riko never ruined.

Instead, he relied on casting his mind back those three days of almost sacred silence in the empty halls. Tried to push them up between himself and the endless cycling of his thoughts: cruel hands, sharp knives, locked doors, Nathaniel’s screams when Riko hurt him, Nathaniel’s silences when Jean did he best to stitch him up again. Self-loathing made his bones heavy, his skin shrunken. He hardly considered himself to have a heart anymore, and yet the last week with Nathaniel at Evermore showed him there were still shards that could be chipped away.

“Merry Christmas, Nathaniel,” Riko had said as he carved across the slim spaces of unruined skin.

Jean had stood there, holding Neil down, hating himself with his entire soul as he warred between relief that for once it wasn’t him and horror at being this side of the situation. He had tried to zone out but couldn’t. The strain in Neil’s forearms grounded him like nothing else ever had and Jean hated himself, hated himself, hated himself. Hated the Nest and Riko and all they had made of him. Hated Christmas and these stupid games and his stupid memory that no longer recalled his mother’s voice or what the thirteen desserts were or the feeling of the winter breeze coming off the ocean. Hated all of this and wished it would end and wished he could just be done – that Neil would go soon so that all this extra awfulness could end. He knew his own limits. He hated learning Neil’s.

The holidays passed slowly and painfully, each morning bringing with it a fresh hell that Jean dragged them both through – more out of spite than any interest in Neil’s continued ability to breathe.

But it was like opening the panels on a calendar – a countdown to Christmas where every sharp tongued retort, every glare, every hiss in Riko’s face was a new window to open.

Because each day that Neil made it to court, pissed Riko off a little more. And each time Neil refused to sign a contract with Evermore, Jean felt a little thrill of satisfaction at the utter fury that made the Master’s lower lip thin into invisibility. Not even the cane could stop Jean from feeling like each day that Neil came closer to leaving the Nest was a victory. Helping Neil felt like an act of rebellion.

Before he knew it Christmas had come and gone.

The new year approached and Jean was told to strip out the dye in Neil’s hair. To make sure Neil Josten looked like the Wesninski he was born as, the asset the Moriyamas ought to own.

Neil was almost unconscious – a bundle of limbs, dosed up and concussed and exhausted – Jean tried to be gentle – tipping Neil’s head into the sink and massaging out the dye. As he did so, he saw the white blond amongst auburn roots. White blond like the monster that protected Kevin Day. White blond like Andrew Minyard – who Neil had come here to protect, who sported a tuft of hair that would soon match the fresh red dye in Jean’s hands.

Many people dyed their hair wacky colours, hoping to pick one that their soul mate might recognise rather than a natural colour – which often matched or blended too much with their own colouring – so it wasn’t uncommon to have people to have strips of pink or blue or orange in their hair, especially younger kids who still believed they’d find theirs and live happily ever after.

Jean glanced in the mirror as he waited for the dyeing process to work on Neil. He ran a hand over his shaved hair – Tetsuji had taken a razor to it his first week in America, told him they put no stock in nonsense concepts of soulmates on his team, and he was to keep his hair no longer than a two-cut (to be honest though, the Master’s hair was pure and shiny black; either he didn’t have a soulmate or his soulmate’s hair was also ink dark).There was a light patch just above his left temple where once golden strands had curled against his naturally darker hair. He sighed. He hadn’t thought about his golden thread in years. Long since stopped wondering if the hair of any of the Ravens would ever match the shade of his soulstrand.

If his soulmate was a Raven, he wanted nothing to do with them. In the mirror, his reflection was hollow-eyed, his hands stained red.

If his soulmate even existed, would they want anything to do with him?

Jean pushed the question aside. There was no point dwelling on any of this. The Nest had rules and Jean couldn’t afford to break them.

* 

III – The Trojans

“Presents are made for the pleasure of who gives them, not the merits of who receives them.” ― Carlos Ruiz Zafón

To say that Jean hated the Trojans was an understatement.

Slamming his way off court, ignoring the shouts from his teammates, Jean showered and was out of the door before anyone could stop him. He needed to be away. He needed out.

 The Trojan court was far away from the dorms to be a walk and Jean wished he could give it to himself. Fear stopped him. Had him hovering on the threshold of the sportshall, staring down the road. It was busy, traffic humming by because no one walked in Los Angeles. If he started walking, he’d pass the Disney concert hall and the Dodger stadium and Silver Lake. If he started walking, he’d end up in Glendale, then Pasadena, then the forest. He could start walking and go anywhere. He was out of the Nest; he was free to go. But he didn’t. His feet turned to stone. His strings tangled.

“Putain,” Jean said, scrubbing his eyes with his palms. His therapist said it was mild agoraphobia – just another diagnosis in a long list of trauma-related issues that Dr Miguel Munroe apparently thought helpful for Jean to know about. “I’m not scared. I’m not fucking scared.”

No, he was terrified. All that open road. All that opportunity. All that freedom. It made him feel sick. Made him long for the Nest and its narrow halls and windowless rooms and constant company.

He hated this. All of this.

He hated the court that was purple and gold, hated the uniform that was sponsored by a CBD company, hated California’s beaches, hated California’s relentless sunshine, hated California’s rolling campus and the population of students with their perfect white teeth.

He hated his team. Hated how they clapped him on the shoulder, shouted his name (hated how this always made him flinch). Hated how they didn’t have a hierarchy for the team, hated that Knox was as likely to pick up practice balls as a freshman. Hated how bloody nice they all were and hated that he felt like he had been playing exy in straight lines his whole life but now was expected to understand the concept of a circle.

He hated how disconcerting it was being alone. Hated the uneasiness shivering in his bones, the anxiety crawling in his gut. Ravens came in pairs; they weren’t good on their own. He hated how he would find himself missing the Ravens, desperate for Kevin’s demands, for Riko’s recognition. Hated how he longed for a prison that for years he’d been so desperate to escape. 

Most of all, he hated Jeremy ‘sunshine’ Knox and his caramel coloured hair that glinted gold in the right light. Hated that the Trojan captain wore his soulstrand in a thin dark braid just above his temple. Hated how hard it was to not dwell on his own soulstrand, the fil d'or that was slowly starting to show now his hair was growing out, growing longer.

Jean was nothing anymore, belonging to no one – a raven with clipped wings, just a number playing on the wrong team. His dark hair wasn’t special and the fact that Knox happened to have a similarly-coloured soulmate meant zilch.

But his mind was fixated on Jeremy’s soulstrand. He couldn’t help but stare at the braid whenever Knox spoke to him. Keeping his eyes down and his mouth shut was the only defence Jean had against this new kind of torture.

It’s called hope , a voice in his head said, sounding suspiciously like Renee. You don’t have to fight it .

You’re wrong , he answered back. That wasn’t true. He did have to fight it.

Before Kevin left the Nest, Jean was fairly certain he stopped having emotions. He was numb, blank; an obedient and unfeeling puppet that only came to life on the court. Riko had a lot to do with that, but Kevin made it easier to sink under and stay there, like holding his breath. He hadn’t realised until then that hope was the quiet place inside his head – a safe, semi-dissociated state that he thought could protect him from everything, keep him anesthetised and alive.

Only it hadn’t. Hope hadn’t kept him alive at all.

It nearly killed him.

Giving him the impression that one day it would all be over, just one more day and he was closer to the end – what end, though? There was no end to Riko. No end to the Ravens. Not even with Riko dead and in the ground, he was still in Jean’s head, straddling his bed, bearing down on him with a sharp smile and wine-dark eyes. Hope was a liar. Hope was cruel.

Jeremy isn’t Riko. You know he’s not . Renee’s sweetness permeated even his subconscious.

Jean stood on the edge of the tarmacked carpark and tried to force himself to cross the border onto the road. He could do this though. He could walk home alone, merde , he could do this.

But he didn’t walk home. He couldn’t do this.

He was still there twenty minutes later, a black line against the blue California sky, when the rest of the Trojans came out of court and went to their cars.

He was still there as they pulled away.

Only Jeremy stopped, waiting for the Frenchman to climb into his usual spot in the front seat of his truck. For once, they were alone. There was no Laila Dermot or Sarah Alvarez with them today.

Jean prepared himself for whatever scolding he was going to receive today. The Ravens would have beaten him black and blue for what he did today. He was slowly learning that Jeremy’s brand of constructive criticism was about as vicious as it the Trojans came. That still didn’t stop his muscles from tensing as soon as the doors locked around them.

Jeremy drove the way he played – annoyingly well. He was all smooth lines and confident hands, gentling his ancient car through hot weather and snarled traffic. Jean sat in silence.

“So what are you doing for Christmas?”

The question was so unexpected, Jean’s head actually snapped to Jeremy. “What?”

“Nice to have ten whole days off, right? Are you going home for the holidays? You didn’t for Thanksgiving.”

Jean stared at him blankly. “Home? To West Virginia?”

“No,” Jeremy said, laughing. “To Marseille. That’s where you’re from right?”

A hollow space beneath Jean’s ribs yawned wide and cold. “ Non .”

When the silence stretched too long, Jeremy nodded. “Okay then, what are you doing instead?”

“Nothing. I’ll be here.”

“What? Alone?” Jeremy glanced his way when they hit traffic. “At Christmas?”

“I used to do it at the Nest,” Jean said. It was usually enough to make his new teammates wince and apologise for bringing the place up. They were all cowards in the face of his truth. “I’ll be fine.”

Sure enough, Jeremy’s lips twitch downwards, though not enough to completely quench his smile. “I’m sure you’d be fine, but that’s not terribly fun, is it?”

Jean shrugged. He wasn’t a fun guy anyway.

“You know, I think Laila and Alvarez are doing a little gathering on Christmas, maybe you could make plans with them.”

“I’m not hanging out with this sad excuse for a team any more than I have to.”

“You’ve made that quite clear already,” Jeremy said, a little bitterness on his tongue.

He was no doubt referring to the parties Jean refused to attend, the post-match meals that he sat through in bleak silence, the rage that was loosed now that Jean was free of Riko and which he could barely control. Jean was so fucking angry. So uselessly enraged. Coming apart at the seams. Full of memories that hurt, hurt, hurt and unable to do anything about it.

Jeremy was talking again: “But it’s Christmas.”

“Which means nothing to me.”

“But you’re Roman Catholic right?”

“ Merde ,” Jean said and rested one hand over his eyes for a second. “Just mind your own business, Knox. It’ll save you a world of trouble.”

 Sitting where he was, the braid in Jeremy’s sunkissed hair stuck out into Jean’s periphery – so dark and glossy it could be Indian ink.

My hair was never so bright , Jean told himself. And certainly wasn’t any more.

“Have you considered that maybe we’re not the terrible people that you think we are? That maybe you could have a good time here if you gave the team a chance?”

Jean bristled. “Like you’ve all given me, you mean?”

“Would it be so hard?”

“Do you know how your precious team look at me? Have you ever seen how they flinch away from me in the locker rooms, eyes dragging over my scars but looking away before they can be considered staring? How they sag in relief once my shirt is back on?” Jean knows his eyes are flashing with that spark Riko so loved to extinguish, over and over. He knows because Jeremy can’t look away. “They look at me with pity, with scorn. They look at me as if I should be ashamed of what I survived. They expect me to act like I’m broken and thank them for their sympathy.”

“I don’t think –”

“You don’t get to tell me this isn’t true. This isn’t all in my head.”

Behind them a horn blared. The light was green. Jeremy waved in the mirror to apologise before revving into motion. “I wasn’t going to say it wasn’t true.”

Liar .

“But okay, I was going to say that I don’t think they want thanks for anything. I think they want to know you – and you’ve made it abundantly clear that you want nothing to do with them.”

“Your team is shit and your game is a mess. What would I want to do with them?”

“Then why are you here? Don’t you love exy? Don’t you want to keep playing?” Jeremy’s voice didn’t rise. His eyes remain on the road.

Jean’s throat locked up, like his mouth was full and he couldn’t breathe. Did he want to play ? Exy was the only thing that let him feel alive anymore. The only thing that gave him purpose, a reason to wake up and drag himself through another day. And of course there was his deal with the Moriyamas. He had to play. He had to go pro one day. He didn’t say any of this to Jeremy.

“Think about it. I know it’s hard being on a new team, I was an army brat who played on like ten before the Trojans so really I get it. But it’s been four months, Jean, and we need to play as a team if we want to take Championships this year.”

Jean scoffed. The Trojans would never take Championships.

“So about Christmas,” Jeremy said. “What are your plans?”

Jean shrugged. He felt disconcerted as he often did around his new captain. Jeremy was sunshine on the water – hard to look at, hard to read. And it wasn’t just that he was good-looking to the point of distracting – because yes, Jean recognised that Jeremy Knox was a beautiful man – it was that he was kind and funny and his smile rarely faltered but there were times when his eyes grew distant and his smile pinched and Jean knew to be wary. Being around him, sometimes left Jean feeling like he was walking along a coastal shelf, preparing for a drop, waiting for the waves to swallow him down.

“Jean, you shouldn’t be alone. As you so often remind us, you’re a Raven.”  

He was right. The idea of ten days alone made Jean’s skin ache with remembered isolation.

“The last time I celebrated Christmas was when I was eleven. In France. I don’t…” Jean struggled to say the words. “I don’t have anywhere to go, nor anything to celebrate. I’ll stay here, order take out or something. Sleep.” Avoid going outside. See no one. Try to keep breathing.

“Come home with me.” The words flew out of Jeremy’s mouth so fast that Jean was pretty sure he didn’t mean to say them.

Jean’s eyebrow quirked. “What?”

“Come home with me. My mom won’t mind. She always jokes about the house feeling empty now half of us are off and married and spread around the country.” The more Jeremy rambles, the more Jean thinks this is a terrible idea. “You and I can share my room, set up the air mattress. It’ll be like being kids again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jean couldn’t think of a single reason why not, except that this sounded like a very very stupid thing to do. “I can’t stay with you.”

“Why not?” Jeremy said again, but this time his smile was so bright that Jean was blinded.

He lost.

* 

IV – The Knox House

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”― Albert Camus

California had little of Christmas about it – at least not compared to what Jean remembered of France – but mon dieu , they liked their lights.

Strings upon strings of lights were everywhere – lining rooftops and doorways, sparkling in trees, dancing in hedgerows. Jeremy’s house was one of the brightest. There’s a santa made of lights waving on the roof, four reindeer running before him. There’s a lit-up snowman, almost blue, sitting amongst a collection of garden gnomes. Multicoloured lights spelled ‘Ho Ho Ho’ across their doorframe. Their wreath was more shine than foliage.

Jeremy grinned. “Welcome to Chez Knox.”

Jean tried to keep his mouth closed but his mouth gaped open. “It is horrible.”

“Isn’t it though? I think mom has tried to make sure they’re all solar powered now, but my dad was obsessed with Christmas displays so my sisters now make sure to keep up the tradition. He died five years ago.”

Jean looked at him askance. He didn’t know that. And he didn't recognise the pain in Jeremy's voice either, the rawness.

“Just figured you ought to know. There’s usually a toast to him on Christmas. It was his favourite time of year. All the family. All the food. The wine .”

“I’m looking forward to the wine.”

“Mom’s probably bought something French just for you.”

“If it’s not a pinot noir, we’ll have a problem.”

Jeremy glanced at him, grin getting impossibly wider. “You’re kidding, you made a joke.”

Jean quirked his brow, an elegant and sarcastic arch.

Jeremy continued: “It wasn’t funny, but you are French.”

“Your sense of humour is just unrefined.” 

“So is my palette. Come on, let’s get inside.”

The Knox’s lived in what could only be described as a middle-income area. People clearly weren’t poor here, but they weren’t wealthy either. The Knox house, however, was well-loved and warm as soon as they stepped inside.

Mrs Knox – “But really, call me Samantha, please.” – was as beautiful as her son and had a smile just as radiant. Like Jeremy, she was tall and narrow-shouldered, eyes bright and crow-smart. She spoke with a light Spanish accent, more of a rhythm than anything to do with pronunciation, and she hugged Jean like he was her son. “It’s so nice to have you hear, Jean.”

For a second he stiffened in her arms. Beyond sporting backslaps, Jean couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him without malicious intent let alone the last time someone held him. He didn’t know what to do with it and he froze. She was warm and soft. Her arm were tight enough to comfort, loose enough for him to pull away. He didn’t pull away.

She let him go after a couple of seconds and did the same to her son, pulling him in tight and stroking the braid in his hair with a funny little twist of her lips. There was something incredibly protective about the way she ran her fingers over Jeremy’s brow and temple. She said something in Spanish and Jeremy replied with a smile and a nod and a few words of his own. Jean could have figured it out if he wanted but he was still reeling, still trying to understand why she hugged him so close. Why his whole body wanted to both flee and throw himself back into that embrace. He noticed then that her hair, so much like Jeremy’s was streaked white, the sign of a dead soulmate. Jean’s heart twisted in his chest.

“There’s one thing, boys, I’m afraid the air mattress has a hole in it and won’t fill. You’ll have to share the bed, if that’s okay with both of you?”

Stomach dropping, Jean’s whole body tensed with panic. He couldn’t have someone that close to him. He couldn’t have Jeremy that close to him.

Jeremy must have noticed something in Jean’s expression. “What about the futon?”

“It’s in Marie’s room for her friend Cerise. And the sofa cushions are all set up in Paul’s room because he and Elsa have the baby.”

So many names. So many people. How many siblings did Jeremy have?

“I’m sure we’ll work something out, mom. Maybe we can find some masking tape and fix it up.” Jeremy was still flashing worried glances at Jean but he pretended not to notice, focused on pulling his face under control.

“I’ll text Margaritte, I’m sure she can pick something up whilst she’s at the shops. For now, why don’t you go put your things away and then we’ll set up for dinner. Your brothers are both able to come this year too, so it’ll be a full house.”

They went upstairs in silence.

Jeremy’s room was small but not too small – with a good double bed and a double wardrobe and a desk. The window looked out over the back garden, where a swing set stood and rocked slightly in the breeze. Jean moved to stare outside, taking in the hills in the background, the trees and the quiet. It was a nice room.

“I’m sorry about the mattress,” Jeremy said. “But look, I was going to sleep on the blow up anyway, so you take the bed and we’ll figure something out later if we can’t make fix whatever’s wrong with it.”

Jean wanted to turn around, tell Jeremy it was fine, pretend like he was normal and this wasn’t a big deal to him. He couldn’t.

“Hey,” Jeremy came up behind him, giving warning as he’d so quickly learnt to do. Jean could feel Jeremy’s hand hovering by his shoulder, when he didn’t move away, warm fingers squeezed the top of his arm. “We’ll figure it out. I promise you’ll be okay here.”

Jean wanted to believe him, but believing in people wasn’t something he did so easily anymore. Still he leant into Jeremy’s touch, pressing back against his hand. There was a little sigh that he didn’t know how to interpret, so he didn’t try; he focused on the warmth between their two bodies, and for the first time in four months of being a Trojan, he felt less alone, less like he was on the cusp of drowning. 

*

Christmas with the Knoxes turned out to be a rambunctious and ridiculous affair. Jeremy had six siblings - three sisters (Margot, Margaritte, and Marie), two brothers (Paul and Elijah), and a sibling (Ryn). The oldest were Margaritte and Paul, who also had partners (Vicky and Elsa respectively, plus Elsa and Paul’s two year old Clara ) and then Marie had her friend Cerise (a chatty girl with a sharp spike of blue in her hair), Ryn had brought two of their college friends, Noah and Alexis, and Elijah laughed when he realised he was the only one who hadn’t brought a guest. He was the youngest and apparently the least worried about these things since most of his friends still lived locally, nonetheless he enjoyed the attention being showered on him to make up for it. The house was absolutely rammed with people - every bed and sofa and cushion was co-opted to sleep someone or other. There were so many eyes in every room, so many voices all talking and laughing, so many hugs and hand pats and smiles. Jean felt overwhelmed and on edge and yet – he almost loved this. 

For the first time since the Nest, he was surrounded by people who apparently didn’t care about comfort zones or boundaries or finding out about his horrible history or whether he really played with Kevin Day . More than that, for the first time since France, no one seemed to want to take advantage of the blurred lines, affection didn’t mean manipulation, attention didn’t mean anything cruel.

The Knoxes all moved around each other as easy as a well-oiled team, making space for each other where needed, brushing up against one another and filling empty spaces with themselves. There was bickering, of course there was, you couldn’t have this many people without a squabble. But almost every fight ended with someone in giggles or one of the siblings butting in to crack a joke at the other’s expense. The one thing that struck him most though was their treatment of Jeremy, how they hovered around him, protective, almost worried. They all did, even Elijah, and it seemed so strange when Jeremy had to be the most confident person in the family, as well as the fittest and most energetic. 

Still Jean slid alongside them, content to watch and be carried along on this tide of good cheer, wondering if he was dreaming, if this was some kind of hallucination.

*

The only issue remained the sleeping arrangements. The first night, Jeremy insisted on sleeping on the floor with a bundle of towels for a blanket. 

“It’ll be like camping. How bad can it be?” 

Bad, apparently, because exy-tired muscles do not do well on hard floors. The next day, Jean watched his captain limp into the bathroom with a slightly dimmer smile than usual and he resolved to not let Jeremy do this again. 

So the next night they tried going top to tail - but Jean woke up in a panic, flailing and nearly kicking Jeremy in the face and making noises that no - they would not talk about - and for the rest of the night, Jean hid with a pillow in the corner of the room, unwilling to unwind from a protective ball. 

When finally, he realised where he was ( hiding, trembling, pathetic ), he didn’t know what he’d dreamed about ( that’s a lie, of course he knew ) but he did acknowledge that it was nothing to do with Jeremy and everything to do with the scars people couldn’t see, the phantoms in his head. 

“Jean, talk to me,” Jeremy said. He was close enough that his warmth teased at Jean’s skin. How long had he been sitting there next to Jean, trying to bring him back to the present? There were blankets around them, one tugged over Jeremy’s shoulders. 

Jean couldn’t talk yet, even though he could hear again. He dragged grey eyes up to green ones - shivered and tried to use his voice but words didn’t come out.

“Shall I talk? Does that help? I can tell you what comes next. How about that? Let you know what to expect because I know we can be a little overwhelming.” At Jean’s small nod, Jeremy continued to speak. “Well we its Christmas Eve tomorrow, we usually go carolling at the local hall with all the neighbours. Mom will make mulled wine - it’s basically hot sangria with cloves with her recipe though so I’m warning you now - and then we’ll come back and do one present before bed. I think this year though, because you’re here and we have some different guests than usual, we’re planning on laying shoes instead of gifts.

Jean’s brow furrowed. “We did that,” he said. His voice is raw and cracked (he’d screamed hadn’t he, putain ). 

The smile these three small words received from Jeremy is like dawn creating the horizon. “Yeah? Well I can’t promise we’ll do it all properly but mom googled and I think Ryn decided it was a great idea so expect shoes and a lot of food.”

Jeremy slid round slightly, knocking his knees against Jean’s calves. Jean let out a huff of air, wondering what it would feel like if Jeremy moved closer, held him tight for a moment like his mom had that first day. Maybe that would drive away the memories of harsh slaps and hands around his wrists. 

“Ryn’s actually pretty excited, you know. They saw something similar on a Belgian TV show and decided it was super cute.”

Jean snorted. “French.”

“Oh we know. You’re like a vegan. No one doesn’t know you’re French.” Jeremy teased and the weight of his knees burned even brighter against Jean. “What else did you do at home at Christmas?” 

Through the sludge of memory, Jean frowned and closed his eyes again. He could see his mother’s kitchen, a hazy world of spices and yellow walls. 

“ Figues, ” Jean said, finally. His tongue still felt thick, his accent coming through more than he’d like. “We always had figs.”

“I’ll add it to the shopping list.” Jeremy’s fingers brushed his arm and Jean opened his eyes again. The sunsine smile was soft and tired. “Do you want to come back to bed for an hour? We have a little time before everyone else wakes up.”

Jean didn’t know if he could move. 

“Come on, up,” Jeremy said when Jean only blinked. “You can have the bed.”

There’s a hint of captaincy in his voice, a note that he no doubt learnt living in this house full of people that so instantly talked over each other and quibbled about TV stations and we’re about as easy to herd as a little of kittens. 

When Jeremy’s hands guided Jean upright and over to the bed, Jean almost sank into him. Swaying, he found himself bending into the other man’s arms, his head dropping against a warm shoulder. It felt good. Being held up like this. Had anyone ever held him up like this?

Jeremy guided him over the few metres of space and pushed Jean down on the mattress. He dragged the blanket from his shoulders and tucked them around Jean’s body. Jean let him, so low on energy that he never thought to fight back. Not until Jeremy made to pull away. 

“Stay,” Jean said. His hand had a mind of its own, reaching up for Jeremy’s but dropping before he could touch. He shouldn’t touch. Who was he to touch the sun? 

“I’m right here.” Jeremy perched on the edge of the bed and when Jean huffed, he pulled his legs on as well. 

Jean pressed his forehead to Jeremy’s hip and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. He’d been trained to always be sorry. “I spent so long wishing I was alone at the Nest. But I’m not good at it. I don’t… I can’t… And now... ” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” said Jeremy. “Go to sleep.” 

It was a good idea, Jean barely knew what he was trying to say. His nose was close to Jeremy’s thigh, his hands curled against them. The last thing he knew was Jeremy’s fingers slowly carding through his hair, stroking by his golden soulstrand, pausing, and then starting again. 

*

Christmas Eve was, as Jeremy predicted, busy and bustling and full of yelling as the family pushed for the showers and stole each other’s scissors and wrapping tape, and tried to prepare for Christmas whilst also discussing which carols they wanted to sing that night. 

Jean suggested a French carol that was vetoed and Ryn suggest the First Noel as recompense. Jean didn’t tell them that he had no idea about English language Christmas songs but Jeremy apparently thought of that, he printed off lyrics despite every Knox raising their eyebrows and insisted they all take a copy. 

Samantha took charge around midafternoon, ushering them out towards the townhall, gathering neighbours and friends as they went. 

There were so many people. Jean even found his mouth twitching upwards as people jostled around him, vying for a spot in the crowd. Jeremy kept close, a surprisingly welcome presence. There were minced pies (which were repulsive in Jean’s opinion) and mulled wine (which really was sangria with cloves) and more than once, Jean found his arm being taken by one of Knox’s sisters as they laughed and tugged him over to meet this person or that. There remained a certain guardedness of the family towards Jeremy, Jean noticed how many people came up to ask how he was, to offer their well-wishes. 

But before Jean could ask any questions or wonder about why people kept hovering around Jeremy (not that he blamed them for being drawn to him), someone started playing a recorder and the music began. 

The singing itself was terrible - there were fifty voices and almost as many notes being sung at once - but it was hilarious and friendly and Jean felt far more welcome than he expected. Perhaps it was because he didn’t stand out here - he was just another tall, dark, former Mediterranean in a sea of tall, dark former Mediterranean people. Jeremy caught Jean smiling, his own grin grew into the brightest thing Jean had ever seen. His breath hitched. He bumped his shoulder against Jeremy’s and forced the moment to pass along. 

“You have a good voice,” Margot exclaimed when Jean sang along to the bass line of Good King Wenceslas. 

Jean didn’t know what to do with the compliment so he smirked and she smiled the patented Knox smile. They were all so similar, these siblings. But none of them were quite so bright and beautiful as Jeremy. At least to Jean’s mind. 

That night they piled home, merry and full of wine and noses nipped pink by the wind. 

They laid shoes and placed sugar cubes for the reindeer before bed. 

Without a conversation, Jeremy and Jean climbed the stairs and crawled into the one bed together, curling close. Jeremy’s steady weight was a comfort that Jean knew it shouldn’t be. But when he couldn’t sleep, Jeremy hands moved and lulled Jean downwards, playing through inky curls, plaiting Jean’s blond soul strand almost reverently. They didn’t talk about their marks, how closely they seemed to match. 

Both of them knew the other wasn’t ready. 

Just like Jean was not at all ready for Christmas Day. 

Jeremy was out of bed and bouncing before Jean could understand what was happening. Bewildered, he found himself being shoved into a jumper, tugged downstairs and plopped onto a sofa, Jeremy settled himself between Jean’s legs as the room filled up.

Samantha appeared with champagne and orange juice - everyone was given a glass along with a satsuma. Their shoes around the tree had been stuffed full of candies and small packages. Even Jean’s sneaker had some small parcels that he understood were from Samantha and Jeremy by their shit-eating grins. 

“You don’t need to look so surprised whenever someone does something nice, froggo,” said Paul, using his new favourite nickname for Jean. “We weren’t going to leave you out of Christmas.”

Heat rose up Jean’s throat and stung in his mouth. He couldn’t tell them that he’d been left out of Christmas for nearly a decade, but Jeremy must have known. 

The presents were all small and thoughtful - little things like a new cap or a scented candle, a pair of snuggly socks, a scarf. Jean received a book on French pastry and a grow-your-own-cactus kit. 

“That was was actually Alvarez’ idea. I thought you might like something to look after.” Jeremy looked ridiculous, he was looking up at Jean wearing a pair of antlers on his golden head, and they kept pocking Jean’s stomach when he tipped his head back. 

“I will have to thank them when we get back.”

“You, interact with a Trojan off court? Is it possible?” 

“I’m a man of many talents.” 

Jeremy laughed. “You’re telling me. Turns out you’re the only one in this house who can hold a tune.” 

But when the unwrapping was done and the candy was eaten, there was a moment when Samantha cleared her throat and rose to her feet. 

“I’m so glad we’re all here today,” she said. “And that we have such lovely friends staying with us this year too. But before we break before lunch, here is a toast to absent friends. My dear husband, who would be so proud of all of his children right now, and to all the others who couldn’t be with us today.”

Everyone’s eyes darted to Jeremy. Jean felt a shiver go through him as Jeremy’s shoulder’s tensed between his knees. 

“To absent friends,” Paul murmured into the pause. 

“To absent friends,” the family dutifully chorused. 

But Jeremy wasn’t absent. Jeremy was right here. So why was everyone looking at him like with one wrong gust he’d be stolen by the wind. 

Standing quickly as the room began to disperse, Jeremy vanished from Jean’s side. His face was grim, an expression Jean had never once seen him wear before, but before he could follow, Ryn grabbed his arm. 

“Don’t,” Ryn said. “He always does this. He always takes a moment to be alone before lunch.” 

“Why?” Jean asked without thinking. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that.” 

“He didn’t tell you?” Ryn said, puzzlement in their voice. “But you’re soulmates right?” 

Jean flinched. His had flew up to the golden patch of hair on his head and froze - it was braided. Some time in the night before, Jeremy must have woven the hairs into a plait and Jean hadn’t even noticed. 

Uncertainty clouded Ryn’s face. “Jeremy and our dad were in an accident - our dad died. Jeremy… look I don’t know if I should tell you this but Jeremy suffered a huge brain injury. The doctor said it was like a dumbell had dropped on his head from ten feet up. He’s never really been the same since - for years he didn’t have any memory and then he fought so hard to get back on a court…” 

“You’re right,” Jean stopped them from saying more. “You shouldn’t tell me this. I’m going to go speak to Jeremy.” 

But Jeremy was no where to be found. He wasn’t in the house - not in their room, nor the kitchen, nor the sofa room by the tree. Only when lunch was called did his sunshine captain reemerge like nothing was amiss, smile fixed in place. 

“So what have we got for lunch?” he said. “Ooo a turkey, potatoes and all the trimmings. I think we have a real original here.” 

Samantha laughed. It wasn’t strained. All of the Knoxes seemed back to normal. They cracked jokes and passed around the dishes and Elijah tried to swap brussels for extra carrots but was called a fool and Ryn’s friend Noah spilled gravy down his shirt and generally the table was chaos. Jean, however, couldn’t take his eyes off Jeremy.

In his head, Jeremy had always been perfect. This untouchable, beautiful, sun-kissed boy that knew little of hardship and less of real pain. In five days, all of that had been undone. He was learning that Jeremy was more than just an effervescent personality. He was seeing just how much determination it must have taken for him to not only join the Trojans but to become their captain. 

Christmas was in no way subdued. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he saw so much food, let alone was allowed to eat it. They were going to have to do so many laps when this was done. 

But there was no mention of running. No mention of purging either. After lunch, they all piled back around the tree and Jeremy curled against Jean’s side, fingers finding the plait in his hair and undoing and redoing it. 

Knowing looks passed around the various siblings. No one said anything to Jean or Jeremy.

It was only when the night was done, when Christmas took its toll and sent them all to bed early, too full and wine-happy to stay awake, that Jean and Jeremy were once again alone. 

Jeremy’s smile dimmed when he saw Jean’s look. He sighed. “So someone told you?” 

“No. I told them to stop. It’s not their story to tell.” 

“I don’t owe you my life’s story, Jean.” 

“No, you don’t. It’s not like I’ve been forthcoming with mine.”

“Yours is written over your body - if Riko Moriyama wasn’t dead, I’d strangle him myself for what he’s done to you.” There was heat in Jeremy’s words and that grimness was back in his face. 

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d never win against Riko.” Jean didn’t mean to be unkind but it was the truth. The only person who could have pulled the trigger was Ichirou or Riko himself. Jury was out on who actually did it in the end. 

“But here’s a truth for you, Jeremy Knox, my captain. Riko was a broken child and in turn he did his best to break me - some would say he succeeded - yet still I’m here. I survived. I survived and I’m learning to live. I don’t know what you went through, but I know you survived too. You’ve taught yourself to live again. That means a lot to me to see. I don’t need details.” 

Jeremy stared at him as if waiting for a catch. When none came, he started changing for bed. Jean didn’t watch - okay, yes he did - as the shirt came off and the slacks came down, revealing gold skin and strong thighs. The Trojans joked that Jeremy was the sun - that he was Apollo’s child - but after this week, Jean knew better. Jeremy was human. Jeremy was real. 

Looking up, Jeremy caught Jean’s eye. It was his cue to move. Jean did. He took two strides across the room and touched his fingers to the ebony strands woven into Jeremy’s hair. Jean’s whole body sang at the touch. 

He didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t need to. 

*  

V – Home

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.” ― Edith Sitwell

There were many Christmases after that first one. 

There was the Christmas where the Knoxes set up mistletoe in every doorway until they trapped Jeremy and Jean into kissing (it wasn’t their first kiss, it was just the first time they acknowledged their soulbond for the family). 

There was the Christmas where Jean found himself seated in the middle of six siblings, all wearing the closest thing to a serious expression that the Knoxes could handle, trying to give him a shovel talk (it went something like: we really like you - but if you hurt Jeremy - which we’re sure you wouldn’t because you’re lovely - but if you did - and really we don’t think you will - Elijah you’re not helping here - but really, hurt our brother and we’ll tear you apart). It was about as scary as Kevin Day with a hangover. 

There was the Christmas where Jeremy came to Marseille. Jean walked them through the streets he vaguely remembered, the harbour promenade, the midnight mass and les santons de Noël . They stayed in a tiny apartment overlooking the sea, where the chilled wind swept off the water and through their bones; where Jean made them a platter of Thirteen Desserts, having learnt all their meanings once more. He said a blessing in French, one he thought he’d forgotten, and Jeremy rested his head on Jean’s shoulder, slotting against him like a ball in the net of a racquet. They didn’t bother looking for Jean’s family. Jean had nothing to say to them.

There was the Christmas where Jeremy was sick - it was their first year out of USC and they had an apartment together and Jeremy’s mom and sisters were all expected the next morning. But Jeremy was in a blanket burrito, stuffed up to the eyeballs with cold and looking like the most pathetic thing that Jean had ever seen. He made a pistou soup from that recipe book Samantha gifted him way back when, and the next morning Jeremy was able to pull himself together long enough for mulled sangria and presents and hugs from his favourite women. 

(In all of these there was only ever one bed). 

And there was tonight - five winters later - in a big house on the California coast, rented for a fortnight.

There had been presents and laughter and too much food and plenty of wine (from a local vineyard rather than imported). Christmas itself was come and gone, yet the energy of the season remained. 

In the last two days, their group had grown larger. It was New Year’s Eve and the house was filling with the last stragglers of the Knox brood, with former-Trojans that Jean had, over time, come to tolerate (and maybe appreciate, just a little bit). A few Foxes were on the list too, because Kevin remained an unlikely constant in Jean’s life, like the brother he never wanted, and that meant Thea and Renee and Allison, who usually invited Neil and Andrew and so on. 

It was a strange mix but it worked. No matter that it had taken years for Jean to learn not put up his walls around them. It was like howjust it took years for him to be able to walk long distances alone, and how even if he still preferred company in most things (especially if that company was Jeremy), he could do it.

He was getting better.

Little by little.

Every day. 

Tonight there were bubbles in almost every glass, smiles on almost every face (Minyard still refrained from expression). Jean searched for Jeremy and saw him grinning with Alvarez. Lights from the Christmas tree gleamed across his face. His braid was pinned around his head, almost in a crown. 

Beautiful, Jean thought as he did almost every time he looked at his soulmate. 

Weaving through people, Jean made his way over to join them both. Jeremy’s kiss was lingering. Alvarez’s hug was tight and familiar. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of hugs - not one’s like these at any rate, affectionate and platonic and exactly what he needed to feel grounded amongst his friends. Pulling away, Jean moved back to wrap an arm around Jeremy’s waist, chin on his shoulder, and let himself drift. 

This wasn’t the cold, numb, dissociation of his past. This wasn’t panic or lost time. This was peace, hope, contentment. Though Jean suspected he’d be in recovery his whole life, moments like tonight felt a lot like anything was possible. 

He curled his fingers against Jeremy’s side, felt Jeremy lean back into his body, and felt himself smile. It was a Knox smile on a Moreau face - warm and welcoming and wide as the world. He turned his head to hide it, but he knew Jeremy could feel the shape of his mouth, the skim of his smiling teeth. He knew, because Jeremy’s breath hitched. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispered into golden skin. “Mon fil d'or.”

Jeremy turned in Jean’s arms. Kissed him again. Kissed him properly.

Jeremy’s hand tangled in Jean’s sleek black hair, fingers finding the gold braid and tugging just enough to feel. 

When the new year began around them, with pops and clinks of glasses and fireworks that coloured their skin, the two of them barely noticed.

What was a new year after all, when they had the entire future?