Work Text:
It’s a Sunday the day that Trent Knox calls to say that he is dying. Not just a Sunday. One of those quiet days where neither Jeremy nor Jean has anything to get up and do. One of those days that are vanishingly rare in the lives of two professional athletes.
The previous night Jeremy had dragged Jean out for drinks with a couple of his teammates while Jean grumbled half-heartedly about loud bars and the game they had recorded but not yet watched. A complete farce – as much as he tends to prefer a night in, Jean can’t deny the pleasure of watching Jeremy get slightly tipsy and more than slightly handsy. More than a decade together still hasn’t dampened the thrill up Jean’s spine when Jeremy’s leg presses against his under the table, or the soft feeling that settles over him when Jeremy rests his hand on Jean’s lower back. Something about it still feels like stealing to Jean – this golden, all-American star in his bed every night, making coffee in his kitchen every morning, looking over at Jean first whenever he finds something particularly amusing. They hadn’t stayed out late, or had enough to drink that it would chance at ruining this quiet morning.
Jean wakes first, at a leisurely 9.37 am according to the clock he can just about make out on Jeremy’s bedside table. He thinks of getting up to put the coffee machine on, but it will be cold if he gets out of bed, and the caffeine simply isn’t as tempting as basking a little longer in the feeling of Jeremy’s bare skin against his – back pressed up against his chest, legs tangled together, the subtle coconut scent of Jeremy’s shampoo wiping any ideas of productivity from Jean’s mind. Instead, Jean dances his fingertips lightly up Jeremy’s arm, across his freckled shoulders, until he feels the other man stir. Even before Jeremy turns in his arms to face him, Jean can picture the look on his face - that sleepy smile beginning before Jeremy’s eyes are even open. When Jeremy rolls over, Jean sees that he was right, and can’t help smiling back.
“How long have you been awake?” Jeremy speaks in a whisper, like he doesn’t want to disrupt the quiet of the room.
Jean whispers back, “Not long. Good morning.”
Jeremy’s smile widens as he shuffles even closer, pressing a closed mouth kiss to the corner of Jean’s mouth. “Good morning, baby.”
It’s almost instinctive at this point, the way Jean’s arms tighten around him to pull him in for a proper good morning kiss, morning breath and all. Jeremy lets out a breath of laughter against Jean’s lips as he is maneuvered on top of Jean’s chest with practiced ease. They kiss slowly, deeply. It’s perfect, it always is. Kissing Jeremy makes Jean feels light enough that he could fall through the bedding beneath him. On top of him, Jeremy hums gently as Jean’s hands begin to wander down to his ass and then–
Jeremy’s phone rings.
They both freeze, processing the almost unfamiliar ringtone at the same time. Jean knows the absurd collection of sounds Jeremy’s phone makes by heart – something he has considered at times with light irritation but more often with a helpless softness that makes him want to hide his face, even if its only Jeremy who can see him. The ringtone that accompanies messages from the Wilshires is rare these days. Jean remembers vividly the year after he and Jeremy had gotten together, when Jeremy’s mother would oscillate wildly between weeks of stony silence and days where she would call almost hourly. Jeremy had always given in eventually, and Jean would have to watch him try to placate her. It had always impressed him, how Jeremy could move so elegantly past her demands that he quit the job he loved, abandon the man he loved, move back home, retake the LSAT again, come to your senses, Jeremy, for god’s sake. If Jeremy had been loose and carefree before his mother had called, by the time one of them had finally hung up, he would be almost curled over himself, shaking with tension.
The ringtone echoing through their bedroom now isn’t the same one, but Jean watches the same transformation in Jeremy. In an instant, that gentle smile vanishes as Jeremy’s face shutters. He slides carefully back to his side of the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress as he picks up the phone, bare feet on the bedframe. As he accepts the call, his posture folds in a little further. Jean watches, and viciously hates Jeremy’s whole family. When Jeremy holds the phone up to his ear and Jean hears the false cheeriness he injects into his greeting, he hates them all a little more.
Jeremy is quiet on the phone, and so still. Jean watches him for less than a minute before he edges over, letting his knee press against Jeremy’s hip, reaching a hand palm up between them in offering. It had taken them a while to learn this dance. In college, they had both craved the comfort of touch but been wary about asking for it. Now, though, they are well practiced in reading each other. Jeremy’s free hand grasps Jean’s before he can rest it on the bedsheets.
The room feels cold. Jean can only hear a faint drone of noise from the phone as he watches Jeremy nod faintly along to whatever is being said. Jeremy’s gaze is locked on their hands. He thumbs over the gold band on Jean’s ring finger three times – a nervous tick, something Jean is more used to seeing Jeremy do with his own ring – and then inhales deeply.
“Okay. Okay. When should I come to see you?” Jeremy’s voice is so hoarse Jean almost winces at the sound. He doesn’t miss the synthetic cheer, though. Jeremy listens a minute longer and then turns his head slightly, meeting Jean’s eye. His face is all resigned regret. Jean tries to let go of the bitterness of a day off ruined, and almost succeeds.
Jeremy’s eyes return to their hands before he speaks again. “Okay. I’ll see you then. Good–”
The silence the fills the bedroom is stifling. Jean only gives it a few seconds. “Jeremy?”
“My dad has cancer.” Jeremy pauses, breathes out long and slow. “It’s terminal. They think he has about a month.”
It’s a complicated mess of emotions that floods through Jean. Sometimes, when he has thought of his own parents rotting in prison, he has wished that they would just die, already. It seems simpler, like it would be easier then to parse out the impenetrable mass of confused feeling that rises up in Jean’s throat when he hears their names. That kind of grief he has a framework for, at least. Now, watching Jeremy’s blank face, Jean tries to separate his feelings about his own family and his feelings about Jeremy’s. It’s difficult. Almost reflexively, he compares and contrasts their parents in his mind. This is not helpful, he thinks.
Jeremy clears his throat lightly. “He’s in hospital here. In LA. I can go visit him this afternoon.” He tips his chin up, eyes on the ceiling. “At 2, he said.”
“Jeremy.” This time, Jean speaks and Jeremy turns to look at him. When their eyes meet again, it’s like a dam cracking. The collected calm on Jeremy’s face crumples. His mouth turns down at the corners, despite the way Jean can see him fighting to maintain composure. The phone falls out of his hand and hits the carpeted floor. Neither of them move to pick it up. When Jeremy opens his mouth again and all that comes out is an involuntary little sob, it feels like a fist is squeezing around Jean’s heart.
Jean tugs gently on their still entwined hands, pulling Jeremy until he is straddling Jean’s lap, his cheek against Jean’s jawline. It’s a fairly common feeling for Jean, that sudden, palpable need to be touching Jeremy in as many places as possible, to feel the immediate comfort of having him pressed close. The feeling has a particular sense of urgency to it now, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind. Jean feels the stiff way his husband has been holding himself ease, and exhales along with him.
Bringing his free hand up to card through Jeremy’s hair, Jean turns his head and speaks against Jeremy’s temple, “Mon amour. You don’t have to go.”
It’s a lost cause. Jean knows it, even before he opens his mouth. Neither Jeremy’s remarkable propensity for empathy and forgiveness nor the pit of guilt that his family still inspires in him will allow him to ignore his dying father. No matter how much he deserves it, Jean thinks bitterly.
Sure enough, Jeremy’s quiet “I do” is immediate. Jean has to close his eyes for a moment against the resignation in his voice. He sounds so sad. Jean wants to hit something.
Instead, he pulls back slightly and cups Jeremy’s cheek, holding him so that they face each other. In French, he says, “No, Jeremy. I know it is not an easy decision. But tell me you know that you don’t have to go. You do not owe him anything.”
After a pause, Jeremy lifts his hand to mirror Jean’s, stroking softly down Jean’s cheek. They stare at each other for a minute before Jeremy breaks eye contact, gaze going distant as he whispers in English, “He’s in LA. He must have been here a while, right?” Jean only watches his face carefully until he speaks again, “I didn’t even know he was in the country.”
It has Mathilda all over it, this phone call. Jean has been married to Trent Knox’s son for four years and has never met him, isn’t sure he’d recognise him if he did. The few pictures Jean has seen of Jeremy’s father are more than twenty years old. Jean knows that even so, they are the most recent pictures of Jeremy and his father together. As long as Jean has known Jeremy, Trent Knox has been barely a figure on the periphery of their shared life, turning up very occasionally via tense phone call. And only ever as a pawn of Mathilda’s. Jean quietly suspects that without her influence, Trent would have died in a hospital bed a mere hour from his son’s home without sparing him a single thought. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe it’s too harsh. Why should Jean give him the benefit of the doubt, though? He knows Jeremy will do that anyway.
Jean is pulled from his thoughts when Jeremy moves to bury his face in the crook of Jean’s neck. The sound of whining at their bedroom door filters through.
Stroking fingers through his hair again, Jean whispers, “Don’t think about it right now, amour. Jonquille needs to go out. Will you take her? I will start breakfast.”
As ever, reminding Jeremy of his responsibilities is the fastest way to pull him out of his own head. Murmuring agreement, he climbs out of Jean’s lap and throws on the faded pair of cardinal red sweats and white tee he had discarded on the chair yesterday. As soon as Jean opens the bedroom door, a bundle of fur and energy barrels into the room, yipping excitedly.
Jonquille heads straight to Jeremy as she always does. Blatant favoritism, but Jean can relate. He’s just pleased to see the genuine smile – small though it is – break across Jeremy’s face as he strokes the spaniel’s ears.
They move into the hallway, hustled along by Jonquille twisting excitedly around Jeremy’s legs. Jean watches him shrug on his oversized denim jacket and clip Jonquille’s leash onto her collar. Before he can open the front door, Jean reaches out to grab his free hand.
“Je t’aime.” Jean’s voice is hoarser than he means for it to be, and it makes Jeremy pause properly and look at him.
They lose another prolonged moment just watching each other before Jeremy closes the gap between them and brushes the backs of his fingers along Jean’s cheekbone. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jonquille beats him to it, barking at them both.
Jean leans down to ruffle the fur on the top of her head. “Oui, oui. You are going now.” He reaches around Jeremy to open the door. Jeremy has that fond little look on his face that he gets whenever Jean talks to the dog like she’s a person and for a second it is just a regular morning.
As the coffee brews, Jean moves through his morning routine somewhat mechanically. Shower. Brush teeth. Dress. Bread in the toaster. Start the scrambled eggs. All the while, he tries to think of anything he could say that would stop Jeremy from going to the hospital and letting his family break his heart again. The ultimate exercise in futility. He wonders if Mathilda might be there too, this afternoon. A drop of egg splashes his hand as he whisks a little too hard.
The front door opens again as Jean butters the toast, and Jonquille prances happily into the kitchen to beg for scraps. She’s an ever hopeful creature, but she knows who the soft touch is in this house. In his absence, she tries her luck with Jean anyway. Even on a day like this, they have the timing of their mornings down pat – Jeremy walks in, hair damp from the shower, as Jean finishes pouring coffee.
Jeremy’s face looks a little vacant again when he sits down, but he manages an appreciative smile when Jean sets his breakfast in front of him. Predictably, Jonquille trots over, perching her head on Jeremy’s thigh and following the path of his food with her eyes with a level of focus Jean isn’t even sure he can muster during an exy match.
They eat quietly. Jean waits until Jeremy pushes his plate away – not after giving Jonquille his last piece of crust – before he says, “Tell me what you are thinking?”
Jeremy shifts in his chair to face Jean. “I’m going to the hospital. At 2. I– He’s dying. I have to go.”
“Okay,” Jean says, and tries to keep the reluctance out of his voice. “I will go with you.”
-
The hospital is exactly a 57 minute drive from their house. Jean watches the minutes pass on the little digital clock in the corner of the car’s dashboard whenever he’s not watching Jeremy drive. It’s surprisingly easy to find parking, and Jean internally longs for the extra minutes of time they could have spent driving in circles, just the two of them.
Jeremy clings to Jean’s hand like a lifeline as they approach the receptionist, as he gives his father’s name, as they locate the correct ward. As they draw to a halt outside Trent Knox’s private room, Jean wonders if Jeremy will drop his hand. If maybe, Jeremy will ask him to wait outside. For a second, Jean is so sure this is going to happen that he has already started counting off five things he can see in a pre-emptive effort not to spiral. But when Jeremy turns and looks at him, his mind quietens. It’s not quite a searching look, even though Jeremy’s eyes are darting across Jean’s face like he’s trying to memorize it. Jean thinks he understands, when Jeremy squeezes his hand a little tighter before turning to the door. He has also fortified himself against rising panic with the reminder of his husband’s presence, on occasion.
Jeremy’s hand pauses on the door handle momentarily. Close behind him, Jean murmurs, “I am right here, Jeremy.”
It seems to be enough. Jeremy takes a deep breath, plasters on a smile, remembers to knock first at the last minute, and then opens the door.
The man in the hospital bed is clearly very ill. Still, Jean knows Jeremy’s face well enough to pick out his features on his father – same eyes, same nose. Trent Knox raises his head, and those jarringly familiar eyes seem almost to skate over Jeremy as he registers Jean’s presence. It’s immediately clear that he was expecting Jeremy to come alone. Jean doesn’t miss the twist of disgust on the older man’s face when he sees their joined hands. He is sure Jeremy didn’t either, if the way his grip tightens is any indication.
“Hi, D–” Jeremy’s voice is bright, but he stumbles over how to address his father. He’s always been quick to recover, though, and turns quickly towards Jean. “This is Jean, my husband. Jean, my father.”
Jean limits his greeting to a nod. He knows Jeremy won’t expect more than terse civility from him, not here.
There’s only one chair beside the bed, and Jean can read the reluctance in Jeremy’s body as he moves to take it, giving Jean’s hand a final squeeze before he lets go. The room is small, but Jean still moves forward to stand at Jeremy’s back.
“Jeremy.” Trent’s voice is rough but firm. Now that his gaze is on his son, he doesn’t acknowledge Jean at all. Unsurprising. Ignoring Jean’s existence to the best of their ability has always been the go-to approach to their relationship for the rest of Jeremy’s family. Why would he expect any different now?
A master in the art of small talk, Jeremy launches into a series of gentle questions: How are you feeling? Do you like the nurses? How has the food been? You know what they say about hospital food, ha ha. I hope there’s not too much truth in it! In return, he gets gruff one-word answers: Fine. Sure. It’s food. Jean’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the back of Jeremy’s chair.
Long minutes pass. Trent neither asks a single question about his son’s life nor offers anything substantial about his own. In the car on the way to the hospital, Jean had wondered if perhaps the sight of a man so close to death would inspire sympathy in him, but right now it is taking everything in him not to slam a hand down on the overbed table and demand: What the fuck are we doing here, old man?
“How long have you been back in the States?” Jeremy asks.
“Moved back last October.” Trent replies.
Jeremy stiffens slightly, and then forcibly relaxes himself. Last October. It’s been more than a year. Jean racks his brain for the last he remembers Jeremy knowing about his father’s whereabouts – he had retired somewhere in the Mediterranean, Jean thinks. Even then, the information hadn't come from the man himself, but from one of Mathilda’s rare phone calls a few years ago. Since their wedding, she only calls a couple times a year, like some sort of fucked up biannual review where she provides a bare-bones run down of what is going on with the Wilshires and makes snide comments on Jeremy’s life and choices. They’re always terrible days, when she calls, invariably leaving Jeremy tense and self-critical until Jean has spent hours holding him close, unwinding the casual cruelty of Mathilda’s words. Jean has never been able to make himself regret the abrupt shortness of her calls – their one redeeming quality – but now he is furious that the last two weren’t a little longer. She must have known and chosen not to share, and now Jeremy is floundering, the awkward silence in the hospital room stretching longer than it has yet. It wouldn’t be the first time Mathilda has used this type of emotional manipulation as punishment for her wayward son. God, Jean hates her.
“Then…” Jeremy is tentative now, dancing around information he needs to know but doesn’t want to hear. “Your diagnosis…?”
“Is why I moved back, yes.” There’s a bone-deep carelessness in the way Jeremy’s father speaks. Maybe it’s purely ignorance, maybe he just doesn’t know how this revelation will hit Jeremy. Jean doubts it.
Jeremy sits back in the chair, needing to collect himself. Jean rubs his thumb gently across Jeremy’s spine where he’s sure it can’t be seen. The movement is subtle, but Jean feels somewhat fortified by it, and hopes it has the same effect on Jeremy.
It takes a few minutes before Jeremy can speak again. Jean mostly watches him: the tension in his body language, the tiny movements of his jaw as he internally rejects whatever he truly wants to say. But when Jean’s eyes dart up to Trent, he catches the older man looking at him. When their eyes meet, Trent is quick to look away, but it takes him longer to untwist his mouth from that sneering grimace.
Eventually, Jeremy speaks again, “I guess– I’m just trying to understand. We live so close. Why– why am I only finding out about this now? Why didn’t mom–?”
And Trent Knox rolls his eyes. The flash of anger it sends through Jean is shakes him badly enough that he barely hears the words that cut Jeremy off: “Come on, Jeremy. I’m a dying man, I don’t have the energy for these hysterics.”
“Jeremy, let’s go.” The hurried French is tumbling out of Jean’s mouth before he even registers that he’s speaking, “He isn’t worth your time. Let’s just go home. Please.”
His voice jolts Jeremy into turning around. The hurt expression on his face only hardens Jean’s resolve. He nudges Jeremy – gentle but firm – into standing, and then takes an almost involuntary step towards to the man in the bed.
“Don’t speak to him like that. Ever, you ungrateful–”
“Let’s go.” Jeremy’s voice, soft and close to his ear, stops Jean in his tracks. His face, when Jean looks at it, is now all wary tiredness. Jean can’t even hope he wasn’t the cause of the change – this look isn’t nearly as devastating to him as the one it replaced.
Jean doesn’t look back at the hospital bed, but he hears the put-upon sigh from it before Trent speaks again, “For God’s sake, Jeremy, you’re a grown man. You could try acting like it.”
Jeremy does look back. Instinctively, Jean holds his breath, bracing for Jeremy to start making peace, to decide to stay a little longer. Instead, he only says, “It’s probably best we go. Sorry, dad, I– maybe I can come back later this week.”
Trent scoffs, and Jean’s hand flexes against Jeremy’s back, wanting to make a fist. His mind lingers on the way ‘dad’ had just slipped out of Jeremy’s mouth. It isn’t something he’s ever heard Jeremy call his father while talking to him – not that Jean has often heard Jeremy talking to him at all.
“Don’t bother.” Trent says, “I believe your mother will be in touch about… ah. Funeral arrangements.”
Jeans eyes are fixed on Jeremy. He doesn’t trust himself to see Trent’s face again, not right now. Not ever, if he’s honest with himself. They were on their way to the door, but Jeremy has pulled them to a stop. He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, or mustering the courage to say them.
“Okay. I’m– sorry. I love you, dad.”
Jean closes his eyes for a long moment as Jeremy’s words are met with dead silence. He counts to five in his head, slowly, giving Trent the chance to be anything more than a useless, selfish sack of shit. Before he gets to three, Jeremy nods once, and opens the door, leading them out. The anger still feels like it has a physical presence in Jean’s body, but for a minute it is overwhelmed by pride. Small steps are still steps, isn’t that what Jeremy has always told him?
Once the door closes behind them and they are out of Trent Knox’s view, they pick up the pace, hurrying through the hospital, back to the carpark. Jean fights the urge to immediately soothe the sting of Jeremy’s father’s rejection in any way he can – Jeremy’s face is a brittle mask of calm. Jean has to repress a flinch at his bright tone when he thanks a nurse who holds a door open for them. When they reach the car, he nudges Jeremy to the passenger side, and it isn’t until they pull into their driveway that the mask starts to crack. Jeremy is out of the car and opening the front door quick as a flash. Jean’s eyes catch on the dashboard clock as he moves to follow – they can’t have spent more than 30 minutes in that hospital room.
Jeremy is standing still beside the kitchen table when Jean finds him, fingers picking thoughtlessly at an imperfection in the wood. Jonquille sits politely at his feet with her tail swishing across the hardwood. At Jean’s approach, they both turn their heads to him in unison. It would make Jean smile if not for the look on Jeremy’s face.
“He didn’t say it back.” The words seem to burst from Jeremy, like he’s been turning them over in his head the whole drive home. Then he laughs – a helpless, sad little laugh – and it’s almost more than Jean can bear.
Gently maneuvering around the dog, Jean goes to him. They fit well together like this, the first type of physical intimacy they perfected: arms tight around each other, Jeremy’s face pressed into the crook of Jean’s neck, Jean’s hand on the back of his neck, holding him there.
Jeremy’s fingers clench around the fabric of Jean’s shirt, and his words are slightly muffled against Jean’s skin, “Why am I surprised? It’s not like he’s said it before. It’s not like it would be– true.”
“Chéri,” Jean speaks into Jeremy’s temple, as if the words could sink into his skin, could seep through his being, so that he would believe them down to his bones. “That man is an imbecile. He has never deserved you. He doesn’t– loving you is the best thing, the best gift I have been given. And it is so easy, Jeremy, to love you. He is a fool, to miss it. An inconceivable fool.”
For a long minute, Jean just holds Jeremy close, listening to his occasional quiet sniffs and trying not to focus on the painful clutching feeling in his chest. Eventually, Jeremy pulls back, damp eyelashes brushing ever so gently against Jean’s neck, to look him in the face.
“I love you too. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Jeremy’s voice wavers slightly on the last few words, but the close-mouthed kiss he presses against Jean’s lips is solid, grounding. “God, Jean… I hated the way he looked at you. I should’ve– I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”
If only Jean could be surprised at Jeremy’s insistence on taking every burden upon himself. He pushes his fingers into the short hair at the nape of Jeremy’s neck. “Don’t apologize. I do not care what he thinks of me.”
Jeremy is searching Jean’s face like he could find the meaning of the universe there. Jean knows he’s looking for any hint of untruth in that statement, but he won’t find it. Why should Jean take to heart the opinion of a man who can’t even care for the brightest and best person Jean has ever known? When Jeremy has tired himself of looking, he ducks his head back down to rest on Jean’s shoulder and they stand there a little longer together. Jonquille noses gently at Jean’s leg before letting out an exaggerated huff and lying down properly at their feet.
The room is quiet around them, but Jean has the sense that Jeremy’s mind is still running a mile a minute. His suspicions are only confirmed when Jeremy next speaks, “It sounded– I mean, he seemed like he meant I shouldn’t go back to see him again, like, at all. Right?”
Jean sighs. “It did sound like that. Jeremy–”
“But maybe if I went back… on my own. I don’t know.”
Jean hates the idea immediately. From Jeremy’s resigned tone, the way he falters slightly on each word, so does he. He tries his best to be diplomatic anyway, “Perhaps. But I doubt it will help much, Jeremy. They take advantage of your kindness, and all they do is hurt you.”
Jeremy traces little nonsense patterns over Jean’s chest as he considers this. His voice is tight when he finally replies, “I know. I– how could no one tell me? For a year, no one told me.”
Jean’s brain supplies him a picture: Mathilda and Warren Wilshire at their huge, obviously expensive – yet still tasteful – dining table in their cold, sterile house, emotionlessly debating the optics of Jeremy attending his father’s funeral. If the cons list had been a little longer, Jean imagines, Jeremy’s father’s death would have been squeezed in between your grandfather’s bill looks like it will pass and Annalise has her hands busy with the new baby in Mathilda’s winter phone call.
Biting down on a rant – for now, until he can pour it out to Cat and Laila instead – Jean speaks softly into Jeremy’s hair. “You deserve better than any of them, mon amour. You always have.”
The only reply he gets from Jeremy is a non-committal hum, which is less than reassuring, so he simply tightens his grip on Jeremy and waits.
It takes a while before Jeremy speaks again, but when he does, he sounds more stable. “I feel like I ruined our day. Can we just… have a normal night? Not talk about it?”
“You ruined nothing.” Jean says, and then, “We still have Laila’s game?”
“Oh!” Jeremy lifts his head fast enough that Jonquille takes interest, clambering to her feet to better stare at him, “Yeah, she texted me to ask if we’d watched it yet. Something about a goal she blocked in the second half that she wants to brag about. She said we’d know the one when we see it.”
So they do their best to salvage the day. They drive out to one of Jonquille’s favourite spots for a walk, and Jean swings his and Jeremy’s joined hands to make him laugh. They order too much takeout – enough to have leftovers for lunch tomorrow – and steal bits and pieces from each other’s plates. They settle into a familiar arrangement on the couch – Jeremy’s legs thrown over Jean’s lap – and prepare to watch Laila ruin some strikers’ days.
And for the second time that day, Jeremy’s phone rings. By the odd easing of tension in his body, Jean can tell that some part of him has been waiting to hear Mathilda Wilshire’s ringtone ever since they left the hospital room that afternoon. He looks over to Jeremy, whose eyes are closed. They flutter open again, like Jeremy had felt Jean’s gaze on his face.
“Oh, God.” Jeremy speaks on an exhale, the words quieter than a whisper, and pulls his legs in towards his chest, though he stays pressed against Jean. For that, Jean is more grateful than he can say. He studies Jeremy’s face a little longer, and then reaches over to pluck his phone off the coffee table, handing it over gingerly, as if it’s on fire.
Jeremy takes the phone, holding it against his knee, and catches Jean’s hand before it retreats, bringing it up to his mouth to brush the lightest kiss on Jean’s knuckles. Then he lets go and accepts the call, putting the phone on speaker right away. Jean supposes Jeremy doesn’t want to repeat this conversation, not even to him.
“Hi, mom.” Jeremy’s voice is flat. Jean approves – he sometimes wonders if Jeremy is so used to performing his typical easygoing happiness that it’s almost more effort to forsake it.
“Jeremy.” Through the phone, Mathilda sounds tinny, but her clipped tone still makes Jeremy’s mouth twist. “I heard that your visit with your father didn’t go so well.”
“Not so well, no. I think it would have been… easier if I’d had a little more time to process everything.”
“I hope that isn’t a dig at me, Jeremy.” Mathilda’s voice is sharp, a weapon she is used to wielding against her son. Jean is staring so intently at the phone that he jumps a little when he feels Jeremy’s hand on his face, smoothing a thumb over the corner of his mouth, where Jean hadn’t even realised he was frowning.
Before he can respond, Jean takes Jeremy’s hand and mirrors his earlier gesture, holding Jeremy’s knuckles against his mouth for a moment before folding their hands together.
Jeremy sighs. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be upset, mom. We’ve spoken twice since the diagnosis, but I only found out about it today. Why wouldn’t you tell me as soon as you knew?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone.” Mathilda chastises. “I know everything is my fault to you, but I am the one who convinced your father to see you, Jeremy. So perhaps a little gratitude?”
It takes real effort for Jean to keep still, keep quiet, take the abundance of frustrated energy and focus it on stroking his thumb across Jeremy’s palm, following his life line with a light pressure. When Jeremy meets his eyes, Jean shakes his head gently, hoping against hope that Jeremy will read the meaning in the silent gesture: Don’t take it to heart. She’s full of shit. She’s just trying to absolve herself.
Still, Jeremy’s voice cracks ever so slightly when he says, “What do you mean?” Jean hopes Mathilda doesn’t catch it across the phone.
“You know that your… choices have put us all in a difficult place. All of us. We have our values, Jeremy, and they are important to us. They’re important to your father.”
Jeremy is blinking hard at the black screen of the TV. He opens his mouth to respond, but Mathilda is on a roll, and keeps talking. “He’s dying, and he doesn’t have the strength for dealing with your… situation. But he’s your father, so of course I told him to see you. I’ve been respecting his wishes, Jeremy, I don’t see how you can possibly hold that against me. Especially after you’ve upset your father. Never in my life did I think you would bring that man with you–”
“That man?” Jeremy repeats, eyes suddenly more present and back on his phone. His hand grips Jean’s tightly, and his gaze flickers up to Jean’s for a second, all apologies. It makes Jean feel sick with anger – Jeremy isn’t the person who should be looking so remorseful. “You mean my husband. I’m sure Annalise took Callum with her when she went, no?”
“That is not the same thing, Jeremy, and you know it.”
“It’s 2019, mom. Don’t you think it’s time to–”
“You know how important our values are to us. And God knows I tried to talk some sense into you, but you never were one to listen to your parents. You knew your actions would have consequences, so don’t put that on me.”
Jeremy’s eyes are squeezed shut by the time Mathilda’s tirade pauses, and when he opens them, a tear falls down his cheek. Jean aches to wipe it away, to throw the phone out of the window, to make the drive to the Wilshire’s house and demand in person that Mathilda apologize, for once in her goddamn life. Instead, he brings Jeremy’s hand back to his mouth so that he can feel the words Jean mouths against his skin: I love you. I love you. Je t’aime. I love you.
Mathilda’s frustrated sigh breaks the silence. “Look, Jeremy. I’m not trying to have this same fight with you again. I’m only passing on your father’s wishes. I’ll keep you updated on his situation, but he doesn’t want to see you again. It’s important that he prioritizes his peace and comfort right now.”
Jeremy lifts his face to stare at the ceiling. “Okay.”
“And about the funeral.” Mathilda adds. Her voice is steady, businesslike. “You should be there. Just you.”
“So, don’t bring Jean. That’s what you called to say.” Jeremy’s voice is hoarse. “That’s all you called to say, really. Am I wrong, mom?”
Another sigh from the phone. “If you insist on acting like a teenager, Jeremy, then yes. That was the pertinent information. I hope you can respect your father’s wishes. His last wishes. If you can’t manage that, please do not come. Now, I want you to be there. Of course I do, it’s your father’s funeral.”
“But Jean can’t come.” Jeremy winces at himself. It’s like Jean can read his mind – the way Jeremy immediately recognises how childish these words will sound to his mother.
“No.” Mathilda says. “If you can’t manage that, the funeral will be recorded. I can send you a link.”
Jeremy clears his throat, turns his head a little to wipe his face on the shoulder of his shirt. “I’ll have to think about it, mom.”
“Alright. Well. Let me know what you decide, Jeremy. As soon as possible. Please remember that your choices affect this whole family, not just yourself.” She hangs up almost before the last word has left her mouth. Can’t dare to risk not getting the last word in. Jean’s mouth twists again at the thought.
Jeremy lifts his hand, letting the phone fall to the couch, and drags it down his face. Watching him, Jean’s mind is a whirling mess. Can he really tell Jeremy not to go to his father’s funeral? Is it worse to let him be alone in a room of people who resent him at best, hate him at worst? Wasn’t that something Jean promised never to do years ago? Jeremy looks up at him, and it quietens the noise a little.
“Come here,” Jean murmurs, and Jeremy does, stretching his legs back across Jean’s lap and looping his arms around Jean’s neck. He opens his mouth to speak, but Jean recognises that apologetic look and beats him to it, “Do not say that you are sorry right now, amour.”
That earns him a smile, small and fragile but true. It feels like winning a prize, that smile. It almost makes up for the sting when it crumples.
“If you go…” The words taste like ash in Jean’s mouth, “Jeremy, I will wait in the car. I will be right outside and if it is terrible we will just leave. But you do not have to. You don’t have to go, you owe him – them – nothing.”
Jeremy is nodding, nodding, nodding, but his eyes are far away again. Jean disentangles their hands to cup his face, grounding him.
Now looking back at Jean properly, Jeremy inhales shakily. “I– Have I ever been a person to her? Like, my dad is dying. And did she even take a second to consider how that might… feel for me? Or am I just a prop to play happy families with?”
“She is a selfish person.” Jean says.
“I know.” Tears are gathering in Jeremy’s eyes, and it kills Jean, to see him hurt like this. “I just always… hope.”
“You are so much more than she deserves. Than either of them deserve. It is not fair, the way they treat you.” Jean strokes his thumb across Jeremy’s cheekbone. “I hate it, this… hurt they give you. I wish I could take it away.”
This time, when the tears spill over, Jean gently wipes them away.
-
In the end, the decision doesn’t take so long to make. They settle down into bed that night, Jeremy on top of Jean, head pressed to his chest – he has always said that listening to Jean’s heartbeat calms him. Jean has very almost drifted off to sleep when he feels Jeremy stir, shifting to look up at Jean’s face. Jean opens his eyes and looks back.
“Jean,” Jeremy whispers, “Today was kind of terrible. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Jean presses a kiss to his forehead. “You could have.”
Jeremy hums. “I wouldn’t want to. That might be more important.”
Jean hums back, and for a minute they are just quiet together. Jeremy breaks it, “I’m not going to go.”
It’s almost staggering, the force of the relief Jean feels. They’re already pressed together, but he feels his arms tighten a little around Jeremy, as if it might be possible to tug him closer. He whispers into Jeremy’s hair, “I am very proud of you, mon amour.”
Jeremy rests his head back down on Jean’s chest and Jean can just feel the edge of his smile, small but present.
Despite it all, there’s a sense of peace Jean couldn’t have predicted this morning. When he falls asleep, he’s smiling too.