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He had forgotten how gentle Kevin could be.
Jean was so used to being alone, forcefully separated from the others as some form of punishment for having no number 4 to attach himself to, as if he ever could have controlled that. Or maybe it was because he had refused to submit to Riko upon first meeting him, and he’s still paying for bruising the King’s ego. Perhaps it was simply because Jean Moreau was meant to suffer.
Regardless of the reason, he was not unused to having to lick his own wounds, having spent the past few years tending to himself when no one else would. For the more serious offenses, Riko would deem himself kind enough to grant Jean a visit to the nurses, if only to keep the press at bay and ensure his court would remain in order (not that health mattered all that much).
But tonight, he was handled with the softness and tenderness he had long since given up and forgotten about. It had been something he had yearned for, but refused to acknowledge–yet another part of him buried deep beneath his bruised and broken skin, laid to rest beside his childhood under the fortified armor of his scars. Kevin, at his core, was kind in his own Kevin way. He may be dramatic and fierce, but he too was a young boy at heart. The plush green of his eyes bore every emotion and Jean could drink it in for hours. He often treated it as his lifeline, an anchor to keep him from drifting out of consciousness when he was on the brink.
Kevin’s hands were calloused, but the way he held the needle was so delicate, careful with every motion. He kept Jean close, so close he could feel Kevin’s breath tickling the bare skin of his back, fleeting and warm. Jean settled in closer to Kevin, being met with a soft tap just above his right hip. “ Careful,” was all Kevin said, the words ghosting a path over flesh. A shiver chased them, and another tap was felt.
French was a vice neither boy could give up, not when it was the only thing that separated them from the rest and reaffirmed their solidarity. It was the remains of Jean’s old life, a reminder of his sister. It was something small that stoked the carefully kept secret of his own personal rebellion. It was the only place where Riko could not touch them, even if he could still harm them for it.
“ I am trying .”
“ Well try harder.”
While Jean would never admit it aloud, Kevin’s French could best be described as “intermediate.” He had a grasp on vocabulary and sentence structure, but his pronunciation was always just a little off or his sentences stilted in how they fell off his tongue–clumsy. But Jean still couldn’t help but to find it endearing, indulging in the fact that he was the one to teach this boy his own language. They were even in these moments of language, finding equal ground in what they could provide for one another: Jean taught Kevin French, who in turn learned to improve his English from Kevin, who both trained to stay vigilant in Japanese.
It helped that Japanese was both their second languages, taught in the Nest for Kevin as a way to obey commands in a harsher, but more reliable, manner, and a convenient add-on for Jean’s price tag. When learning, Jean had been able to pick up on the pronunciation better, guiding Kevin through the more careful intonations so as to not confuse words, whereas Kevin helped Jean study Kanji. This last skill was a little less practical, in terms of its use within the Nest, but they still found themselves in need of using it on occasion.
Jean liked to dwell on Kevin’s poor accent in situations like this. It wasn’t for the sake of reflecting the Nest mentality back, all sharp edges and biting words, but rather to further humanize the other boy. Hell, it would be hypocritical of him to critique anyone’s language skills at this point with his own piss-poor English. Every time he spoke, his words came out jumbled and heavily accented, only sounding worse when he slipped into French on instinct or to replace a word he didn’t know. Only with Kevin was he not relentlessly mocked or beaten for any of that.
He wants to believe it’s because Kevin also cares for him (perhaps even in the same way) but in all likelihood, their allyship only serves as escapism. If you were held captive against your will, would you rather find comfort in your tormentor or your fellow prisoner? Jean knew his answer and was willing to bet Kevin would follow the same path.
But here they are, two boys in the little room, pressed together while Jean returns to “good-enough.” Not better, and certainly not perfect (despite what the brand on his face may argue), but the baseline needed to perform.
Jean and Kevin, on occasion, handled each other gently–which is perhaps why Jean was able to so easily fall into loving Kevin. They were each harsh by nature, jagged rather than worn stone, but found their pieces aligned in just the right ways. Kevin could be mean in his handling, but bruises never followed where his palms fell against Jean’s back–just warmth. His words could leave an ache deep in Jean’s chest, but perhaps that was the only bruising nature of Kevin.
They never talked about their feelings, never discussed what Riko had done this time. Half the time Kevin never even needed to ask, bearing witness to it all in silent fortitude. Jean found his ache started and ended there, yet he couldn’t help but forgive his fellow prisoner. They were the only two in the world to ever understand one another; and that is what they did.
Jean would hold this beautiful boy as he shattered, gently collecting the pieces to hand back over, cooing quiet French all the while. Kevin would do as he is now, whispering his own jagged French as a defense, all the while his hands were the quiet balm that eased the pain.
The two of them were never not in pain here, although their anguish behaved differently. Jean was bruised and battered from the ways he spoke, the words he spoke, his piss-poor attitude and sharp glares. Kevin was mentally frail, being told he was broken and wrong and awful by Riko, day in and day out, pushing himself beyond his own bodily limits and aching in the aftermath. They were pushed and pulled, respectively, which means they found balance dancing in each other’s tides.
Returning to the present, Jean felt Kevin tap his hip again and shift away, taking with him the warmth Jean yearned to chase, holding it close to him. But he knew it was best to leave that space abandoned.They weren’t the same people they were a year ago and couldn’t excuse their behavior as a means for comfort, despite the truth of those words. Instead they would be labelled queer, an odd bone that protruded from the smooth, unblemished flesh of a perfect line-up.
But that flesh has never been smooth, has it?
As much as Jean knew he should heed the warnings of Riko, pay attention to Kevin’s new withdrawn attitude, he couldn’t help but feel hope in his heart. Hope that despite the torture, despite the abuse, that the two of them would live to see the other side of the tunnel. Together. They would take flight together, fleeing from their troubles and live as they say fit for once. Jean would be able to love this boy, openly and honestly and know that he, too, was loved in return.
But Jean Moraeu never got what he wanted, a fact all but confirmed as Kevin placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Jean turned to look at him over his shoulder and was met with a tight-lipped expression. There was no longer vulnerability shared between them, not outside of the shield of French. Kevin had grown too paranoid, his own personal feelings a mess and a half while Jean had grown to hate the touch of most everyone.
Jean Moreau could hope and wish and pray for the future of his dreams, but everyone already knew that Moreau’s never deserved any form of gentleness in their lives.
And before he even realized, Kevin had slipped out of the room and Jean was again alone.