Chapter Text
Jean Moreau couldn’t stand Jeremy Knox.
In fact, of all the people Jean had ever met—Mafia members included—Jeremy Knox was perhaps the single, most infuriating of them all, for several reasons.
Firstly, he was the kind of bastard who was absurdly good at everything without even trying. Case in point: he had baked macarons for Jean’s birthday. Macarons. When he had proposed the idea, Jean had sniffed scornfully. “Have you ever even baked anything before in your life, Knox?” he’d asked. “Never,” Jeremy had said, grinning. “But it’ll be fun!” And, instead of whipping up some deflated meringue turds, Jeremy had worked some illicit voodoo magic in their barely-functioning student kitchen and produced, not one, but two dozen of the damned things. And they had been immaculate in every way. Jean hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry.
(In the end he’d almost cried, because one bite had taken him back to the pâtisserie in Marseilles. He’d promptly washed it down with vodka, to stall the tears, to drown out the taste and memories, because those were from another life. A stranger’s life. And he would not, could not, allow Jeremy Knox deceive him into thinking that life was still within reach. Then he’d distributed the leftovers to his hungry teammates after training, who were all too happy to destroy the evidence.)
Jeremy’s talents didn’t end with his uncanny macaron-making abilities, though. He was a regular volunteer for more charities than Jean had friends. USC had presented him with a student altruism award for his various endeavours (up to and including establishing a chinchilla sanctuary with his Exy sponsorship money). How Jeremy found the time, while captaining the Trojans and maintaining his academic scholarship, to even sleep—let alone rescue fucking chinchillas—Jean had no idea.
All of this would be tolerable, were it not for the second reason: Jeremy was impossible to dislike. Jean could safely attest to that, after muttering “Je déteste Jeremy Knox” to himself as a daily affirmation for the best part of a year, to no avail. So could Jeremy’s one-hundred-and-counting Exy rivals, all of whom were inexplicably best friends with him. He was the human embodiment of the fucking sun. Warm, bright, incandescent. He lifted the spirits of everyone around him with his presence alone, rays dazzling enough to cut through even the fog of Jean’s ever-lingering depression. The sheer audacity. Jean wanted to wallow in peace, with no smiling, blond-headed distractions, merci beaucoup.
And yet, this was nothing in comparison to the third and final reason: Jeremy himself. More specifically, Jeremy stepping out of the changing room showers with a towel around his waist, hair wet and tousled, and water droplets dripping down his light-bronze skin.
The daily spectacle set Jean’s nerves aflame. It put butterflies—les fucking papillons—in his stomach. It made him want, when he knew nothing could come of it. Not for someone like him.
And that would not do at all.
“Oh Jean,” said Renee, smiling gently. It was the Exy Christmas banquet, and Jean had just subjected her to a ten-minute rant about Jeremy Sunshine-Shitting Knox. “You are smitten.”
Jean spluttered on his drink. “I—what? No! Were you not listening? I told you I hated him!”
“You’re trying to hate him. There’s a difference. If you didn’t care about him, you wouldn’t be trying at all.”
“How can you be so sure?” Jean said defiantly.
“I’ve seen it happen before. With a friend of mine. He hated someone with a passion—didn’t let me hear the end of it—and now they’re together. If you asked me, I’d say they’re ridiculously in love, in their own weird, stabby way.”
Jean scowled and pushed the peas around his plate. “Good for them. Too bad that’ll never happen to me.”
“Why not? I’ve seen the way he smiles at you.”
“The same way he smiles at everyone else! He’s always smiling. It’s like his mouth isn’t capable of doing anything else—” Jean faltered. On second thoughts, perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to think about what Jeremy Knox’s mouth was capable of. “Besides, I’m damaged goods. He knows that—Kevin told him—and he isn’t stupid enough to make a move on me anyway.”
Renee’s face fell. Jean had been vague to her about what had happened to him in the Nest, but his triggers had been enough for her to guess the details. “Jean, don’t say that.”
“What? It’s true. We’re too different. He’s a saint. I’m a Moriyama asset. I’d be an indelible, criminal stain on his flawless, shiny life.”
Renee said nothing. She knew what it was like to be trapped inside a gutter and, somehow, come out the other side; to be around others who couldn’t begin to understand the scope of her past. She knew what it was like to not be a good person.
“It would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamned perfect all the time,” Jean groaned. “If only he was an asshole. Then I could hate him with no remorse.”
“You never know,” Renee said serenely. “He could be selling heroin in back alleys.”
Jean snorted. “At least that would get him on my level.”
Several months passed and, regrettably, no sign of any illicit activity, drug dealing or otherwise. (The one time Jean had caught Jeremy passing on a suspicious-looking packet in a dark student hallway, it had turned out to be gummy bears.) Jean had refused to believe that such a level of perfection could exist in a human being, but apparently, Jeremy Knox was the exception to the rule. Jean had scoured his exterior for a single flaw and found nothing. Well, nothing except for his two, oversized front teeth that had never been straightened with braces.
But even those were sickeningly adorable. They gleamed when he smiled and shone like stars when he laughed and... Fuck.
Jeremy Knox was perfect and untouchable, teeth and all. Of that, Jean was certain.
That was, until one day, when he finally glimpsed beneath the facade.
Jean had dreamt up countless scenarios of the first time he would face the Ravens on the court, not as a team member, but as an opponent. In all of them, he would brutalise the Ravens as they had brutalised him, the Trojans would win, and the gnawing hunger for vengeance in his stomach would finally be appeased.
But, when that day finally came, the team Jean faced was not the Ravens, but a shadow of them. A group of broken athletes, clinging onto a life that no longer existed, unable to move on. With the overwhelming care and support of the Trojans, Jean had painstakingly begun to put his past behind him. But that was not possible for his former teammates, who still lived and trained in the walls that had once been their prison.
There was no vengeance that night.
The Trojans weren’t at their best—there must have been a mixup with the striker line, because Jeremy was only on for a quarter, instead of his usual half, sending the rest of their lineup into disorder—but the Ravens were a disaster. The Trojans won by a landslide while hardly needing to break a sweat.
After the match, Jean had wanted to get away. Away from their haunted eyes and the reminder of what he’d left behind. But the press had other plans. He was swept before cameras and microphones and flashing lights. Clamouring from all directions were reporters demanding to know what it was like to be victorious against his former team.
Horrible, Jean wanted to say. There is no glory here. But he lied and lied with a camera-ready smile that felt more tense with every passing second. He wanted to punch something—not ideal when everything punchable within arm’s reach was expensive filming equipment or the faces of reporters.
“Is there any part of you that feels guilty for abandoning the Ravens during this difficult period?” one interviewer asked.
Every part of me, thank you for fucking asking.
“Was it just coincidence that Riko Moriyama took his own life shortly after your departure?”
Jean would have snapped, were it not for Jeremy stepping in. As captain, Jeremy usually took it upon himself to rescue his shyer teammates from pushy reporters. Jean wanted to be angry at Jeremy’s intervention—he could handle this one just fine; a single jab to the throat would do the trick—but, as Jeremy effortlessly steered the conversation in another direction, Jean couldn’t deny the relief that washed over him.
The reporters tried to put words in Jeremy’s mouth about the Ravens’ poor performance, but Jeremy was thoroughly unfazed, his smile as bright as always. “We both could have played better tonight,” he admitted. “The Ravens put up a good fight, considering what they’ve been through since last year’s Nationals. We know how capable their players are. I’m sure it won’t be long before they’re back on track and vying for gold again.”
Jean was grateful Jeremy didn’t denounce the Ravens. The other Trojans couldn’t see past the abuse Jean had faced, but Jeremy had figured out that Jean’s feelings towards the Ravens were complicated. The Nest had been his hell and his home for the majority of his life. He didn’t want to go back, but there was still a part of him that belonged there—that felt out of place anywhere else.
“We noticed you left the court early this match,” a reporter said to Jeremy. “What was the reason for that?”
“Coach and I decided to try putting our freshmen strikers on for longer. Give them a chance to put their endurance to the test, since they didn’t get to experience last year’s semifinal when the Foxes slaughtered us,” Jeremy replied with a chuckle. “It threw the team off a little, but you can’t learn without making mistakes, right?”
Jean frowned. If Coach was going to change the lineup, it was odd he hadn’t warned the rest of the team beforehand. Before he had time to wonder, the reporters had let Jeremy go. Jeremy swung an arm around Jean, steering him back to their team. There had been a time when Jean had flinched uncontrollably at that casual gesture. Jeremy had offered to stop, but Jean had refused. Jeremy was affectionate with all of the Trojans—treating Jean in the same way made him feel a little more like he belonged. Now, Jean could tolerate Jeremy’s friendly touches with no issues. (Well, none except the deeply inconvenient fluttering in his gut.)
“Screw those reporters,” Jeremy muttered. The smile had disappeared from his face. He looked mildly vexed, which was more angry than Jean had ever seen him. “They knew they were making you uncomfortable. And they didn’t give a damn.”
“I’m used to it,” Jean said. He’d been pushed far beyond ‘uncomfortable’ against his will more times than he could count. This was trivial in comparison.
“You shouldn’t have to be. Hey.” Jeremy paused and turned to meet Jean’s eyes, placing both hands on Jean’s shoulders. “Are you alright? Seeing your old team in shambles and all?”
Jean was struck by how profoundly weary Jeremy looked, as though he’d played an entire match, not just a quarter. “I’m alright,” he said. Relative to his usual fucked-up mental state, it wasn’t far off he truth. And Jeremy looked far too drained to be dealing with Jean’s issues right now.
Jeremy smiled, though it was a tired thing. He clapped Jean’s shoulder. “That’s good. You’ll be coming with us to the victory party then, yeah?”
“Oh. Yes, sure,” Jean said. It always slipped his mind that the Trojans actually celebrated after every match, regardless of the outcome. For the Ravens, victory had been a given. But too small a point gap for the master’s satisfaction had meant punishment laps, or worse. “Hey, Knox?” he asked, as Jeremy began to walk away.
“Hmm?”
“Why did you pull out of the first half early?”
Jeremy grinned ruefully, tapping his temple. “My head was in the clouds. Couldn’t focus. Coach pulled me off before I could screw up the team’s chances. I’ll get my act together for next time, don’t you worry.”
It was a plausible explanation, except, it had never happened before. Jeremy was the most consistent player on the team. “Are you alright?” Jean asked. As the words left his mouth, he realised it was the first time he’d ever said them back. To anyone.
But Jeremy had left, too busy checking on the rest of his team to even register the question.
The Ravens’ militant training regime (not to mention Riko’s tyranny) meant that Jean’s only real taste of freedom had been at USC. Which included, for the first time in his life, parties.
The first of said parties had been such a shock to the system that Jean had spent the entire time lurking in a dark corner, trying to dull his senses with a bottle of vodka. Jeremy had dragged him back to his dorm after he’d allegedly started to recite poetry in French. (Jean had no recollection of this, and entirely blamed Kevin Day for introducing him to the coping mechanism of alcohol in the first place.)
Since then, parties had become more tolerable, mostly because Jean had figured out his limits. A couple of drinks rendered him tipsy enough to not despise other humans. Any more than that, and he was entering French-literature-re-enactment territory.
Today’s victory party was one of the better ones, courtesy of the lesbians. As the designated DJ, Laila had put together an aggressively gay song selection, and Alvarez had provided a generous amount of booze. Even so, Jean couldn’t enjoy himself. The match had triggered memories of the Ravens, none of them pleasant. He lingered by the door, and debated leaving. He’d be alone—he hated being alone—but he’d at least have some peace to deal with his thoughts. Perhaps he could even steal a bottle of vodka and recite French poetry in the privacy of his dorm.
Before he could make a decision, Jeremy approached the exit, tailed by the lesbians. They seemed to be arguing.
“I have three essays to write, Alvy,” Jeremy said. “Two are due tomorrow. The library’s practically calling my name.”
“C’mon, just one drink,” Alvarez insisted, offering him a shot glass. “Live a little, dude.”
“Tequila?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a dangerous slope. You know how drowsy I get.”
“This is about the scholarship, isn’t it?” Laila said, frowning.
“Well, unlike some people, I can’t afford to ask for extensions on every assignment,” he said tersely. When Laila’s frown deepened, he sighed and offered her a smile. “Sorry. I’m just tired. I really gotta go. These essays aren’t gonna write themselves. I’ll be partying in spirit, I promise. See ya tomorrow!” He blew them a kiss and waved on his way out.
With nothing better to do, Jean watched him leave through the window. Jeremy soon emerged out of the Trojan’s Exy stadium. Their campus library was only a short walk away, but he turned in the opposite direction, towards their accommodation. The Trojans lived in dorms right next door to the training grounds. Jeremy soon disappeared inside. Going to pick up his study supplies, Jean assumed. But five minutes passed, then ten, and Jeremy didn’t emerge.
It could have been nothing. It was most likely nothing. Jeremy must have decided to stay in in his dorm instead. Probably busy sorting through chinchilla sanctuary admin or some shit.
But Jean couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He found himself leaving the party. Alone.
Ravens operate in pairs. We cannot go anywhere alone. We don’t know how.
His steps quickened, his palms grew sweaty. Isolation was stifling on a good day, and the dark weight on his mind wasn’t helping. But he carried on walking, into the accommodation block, through the silent, empty hallways. Jean shared the top floor with Jeremy, and the moment he arrived, relief rushed through him. The kitchen light was on. Jeremy must have stopped for food; that was all. Jean strode towards it, propelled by the knowledge that there would be a person on the other side. He didn’t even care that said person was Jeremy Sunshine-Shitting Knox; he just needed to soothe the Raven trapped inside him.
Jean reached the door, and stopped short. Sobs were coming from the other side. Desperate, gasping sobs. His stomach bottomed out. That wasn’t Jeremy. It couldn’t be. It sounded nothing like him at all.
Heart pounding, Jean pushed the door open. Instantly, he was hit with the smell of burning. And, sitting on the kitchen tiles, curled up against the radiator, was Jeremy Knox. In the middle of a panic attack.
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