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Winter in California is not very dramatic, but winter in Seattle is a whole other beast.
That’s where the Trojans find themselves for this away game, bundling up with whatever warm clothes they have to brace for the northern chill. It’s snowing when they land and the freshmen gape and look around in wonder as they move from plane to bus. Some of them might not have ever seen snow before. Coach Lisinski reminds everyone to look where they step in case of ice but most of the upperclassmen know well enough by now what they’re doing.
It’s their last game before Christmas break and Jean knows that Jeremy is secretly plotting that a win here will put Jean in a better mood before being off of the court until after New Year’s. Still, he thinks these holidays are a waste of time.
Trojans pile onto the bus and Jean finds himself pressed up against the window to watch the clumps of white fall from the sky as Jeremy piles in next to him, flexing his red fingers.
“Jeez, I should’ve bought mittens!” he exclaims. With an overly dramatic “Brr!” to follow.
“I told you,” Jean says, already peeling off his mittens and handing them over to his captain.
“Me too,” Laila chimes in as she sits in the seat behind Jeremy. His seat shakes a little and Jean assumes that means she kicked the back of it.
“Are you sure?” Jeremy asks as he eyes the mittens in Jean’s hand.
Jean eyes him back. “You are cold.”
“Everyone’s cold, it’s snowing,” Jeremy says.
“You are not used to the snow,” Jean replies, pressing the grey mittens into Jeremy’s palm. “I am from West Virginia.”
Jeremy makes a disapproving noise. “Technically, you are from Marseille.”
“And you are from California.”
Jeremy gives in and tugs the gloves on. He rubs his palms together quickly before stretching his arms out in front of him as if warming his hands on a fire, but it’s just the back of Xavier’s seat. “Thank you, Jean,” he says with a smile so bright Jean is convinced that if he looks out the window now all the snow will have melted.
But as the bus starts to move, he looks out and is met with a flurry of white and a bright sky starting to dim with the first touches of a winter sunset. Serve is still three hours out but it will be dark by then.
The bus ride to the airport gate is short and the coaches direct the Trojans, doing a headcount once they’ve all tumbled off of the bus and another at baggage claim. Cat sidles up to Jean as they watch luggage go round and round and wraps an arm around him.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
As soon as he turns to look down at her she reaches up and wraps her pink scarf around his neck. “You look cold.”
“I am alright.”
“Well, you gave Jeremy your mittens, let me give you this.” She pats his cheeks with her own mittened hands. Pink too, a matching set with the scarf. Dropping her hands, she watches as a purple suitcase slides past her and gives chase. “Hey, that’s Laila’s!”
Jean just laughs as he watches her scoop it up from the conveyer belt and turn back to him with a dazzling smile. “Got it!” she cries and sets the suitcase down at her feet, leaning heavily on it to catch her breath.
“I am proud of you,” he says and that just makes her smile bigger.
“It was hard work.”
“Looked like it,” Laila says as she comes up behind Jean and waves at her girlfriend. Cat bounds over and gives her a kiss on the cheek before transferring the suitcase to her. Laila pulls the handle up and tips it onto its wheels.
It doesn’t take long for Jeremy to return from the bathroom and grab his suitcase off of the belt before Jean can reach for it.
“Too slow.” He grins.
Jean ruffles his hair. It’s slightly damp from melted snowflakes, he should have bought a hat with the mittens he’d assumed he wouldn’t need. “You need to get your roots done,” he says.
Jeremy bats his hand away. “It still looks good, right?”
That question is not dignified with a response as Jean steps out of their little formation to grasp the handle of his suitcase. Blue, like the shirt that made Jeremy stop dead in his tracks when he first saw Jean in it. There’s a little flutter behind Jean’s breastbone at the memory as it is stirred up.
Jeremy plays with one end of the scarf around Jean’s neck. “Pink suits you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jean says.
“I’m not!” Jeremy argues, flustered. “It looks nice.”
Jean waves him off and stalks away to the group of Trojans gathered with Rhemann and Jimenez who have already gathered their luggage and are ready for the next steps. Jeremy trails after him with a “hey!” but Jean picks up his pace in petty spite. His legs are longer so he beats Jeremy to the group, only for Jeremy to stumble to a stop beside him a few seconds later and jokingly punch him in the arm. “Jerk,” he says.
Cat and Laila are not far behind them and they only have to wait another five minutes for everyone to be done with the bathrooms and have gotten their luggage. Yet another headcount takes place, and another when they get loaded up onto the bus that will take them to the stadium, and then they’re off.
Jean is asleep when the bus lurches at a concerning speed, throwing him into the window, then swinging into Jeremy and suddenly he’s wide awake. There’s confused and scared shouts from all around but Jean just grabs a fistful of Jeremy’s shirt and hauls him close. Jeremy’s hand comes up to wrap around Jean’s bicep and he holds tight. “Jean, Jean, the bus—”
He’s cut off by another dangerous heave and Jeremy almost falls out of his seat and into the aisle. Jean’s grip anchors him and keeps him from toppling. “Jeremy,” he says urgently.
A final rock and the bus stills.
Jean lets out a gasp and allows Jeremy to pry his fingers from his shirt. “Jean— Jean, I’m okay.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” Jeremy says, holding Jean’s hand for the briefest moment before dropping the contact. He gives Jean a once over before hopping out of his seat. “Gotta go.”
Jean doesn’t get a word in before Jeremy is disappearing down the aisle and stopping at every row of seats to check on the whole team. Rhemann stands up at the front of the bus after a hushed conversation with the bus driver and claps his hands twice to grab the attention of his Trojans. It doesn’t cut through the anxious chatter so he blows his whistle.
“Trojans,” he says when they fall silent. “The bus hit some black ice and skidded off the road. We’ll have to wait for a tow or another bus to come and pick us up but for now I want to make sure you’re all okay. We’ll get off the bus single file and I want you to tell me if something so much as niggles. We don’t have any nurses but Coach Lisinski and I will try our best to help until we can get to someone more professional. Now please, calmly exit the bus.” He gestures in a sweeping motion for the door that creaks open.
Jeremy leads the Trojans off of the bus, athletes stopping for their coats if they remember, some piling out in just thin longsleeved shirts and god forbid—Derek-–in a t-shirt.
Letting the bulk of his team out first, Jean stays seated until Cat pops her head over the back of her seat and looks at him worriedly. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“I am alright,” he says.
She nods and stands up, hand outstretched for Laila to grab and suddenly they’re in the aisle and gesturing for Jean to join them. He gets to his feet and trails after them, already forgetting his coat tucked under the seat. He had forced Cat to take her scarf back when they got into the bus and all its glorious heating.
Coach Lisinski asks “any bumps?” as they pass her and she gestures for them to keep walking. The girls lead the way off of the bus, thanking the tight-faced driver as they go. Jean doesn’t thank people for a job poorly done so he just follows in silence.
What he didn’t wager on was the black ice on the road just under the stairs off of the bus. “Watch your step!” Laila says hurriedly as Jean’s foot hits the ground and slides out from underneath him, throwing him backwards and down. He hits his ass on the ice and catches the back of his head on the last step.
“Jean!” someone shouts but Jean is already sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. He suddenly has a splitting headache from the blow he took and he can taste blood. He might have bitten his tongue when he fell. He spits red onto the ice and tries to haul himself up.
“Careful,” Jeremy says, materialising in front of Jean with a hand out for him to take. Jean lets himself be pulled to his feet where he staggers into Jeremy before catching himself. “Easy, are you good? That was a nasty fall.”
“I’m good,” Jean replies. Jeremy looks nothing short of doubtful and presses his own hand to the back of Jean’s head where it connected with the step. Pulling his hand back, it’s covered in blood.
Jeremy winces, somewhere between sympathy and concern, “You’re not good.” He turns away from Jean, still with a hand on his bicep to hold him steady. “Coach, he’s bleeding.”
That makes Rhemann materialise behind Jeremy with a pinch in his brow. “Come, come, why don’t we get you sitting down?” Rhemann shrugs out of his wool coat and drapes it over a pile of snow and sweeps his arm at it. “It’s not the comfiest but it’ll be better than standing for the entire wait.”
Jeremy walks Jean over at a crawling pace and helps lower him to the ground. But as soon as Jean sits, a bolt of pain shoots up his spine from his tailbone. “Ah,” he gasps. “Hurts.”
“He could have bruised his tailbone in the fall,” Lisinski says, coming out of nowhere. All the Trojans must be off the bus by now. She peers down at him with worried blue eyes. “Are you good, Moreau?”
Jean nods but then he groans at the blossoming agony in his head. It feels like his brain is being turned into slush and is about to start dripping out of his ears from the mounting pressure. “I hit my head, Coach.”
“I see that.” She unbuttons her own coat and drapes it further back. “Lie down, kid.”
If a coach tells Jean to do something, he does it. He lies back until the pressure is eased off of his butt and he can breathe again. He blinks stars out of his eyes and looks up at the cloudy sky.
“Here.” Jeremy decides to be incredibly stupid and strips out of his hoodie and folds it up before worming it under Jean’s head. “So you don’t get blood on Coach’s coat.”
“I don’t mind,” she says. “That’s what drycleaners are for, Jeremy.”
Jeremy shrugs and turns back to Jean. “Better?”
“You will get cold,” Jean says.
“I’ll live.”
“You are from California, you are not built for the snow.”
Jeremy flashes him a smile but his teeth are already chattering. He’s in just a tank top now, he wraps his arms around himself and tries to warm himself with friction.
Closing his eyes offers little relief but Jean will take what he can get. His head is pounding, the back of his skull feels like it has caved in but he lifts a hand to poke at his wet hair and does not find it sunken.
“Jeremy,” Jean says after about thirty seconds of silence, peering at Jeremy now as his captain makes an obvious effort to seem like he isn’t shivering.
“Yeah?”
“You are covered in—how do you say it?— little bumps because you’re cold.”
“Goosebumps,” Rhemann supplies.
“Goosebumps…” Jean ponders, closing his eyes again. “Sounds less ridiculous in French.”
That makes Jeremy laugh. Unfortunately, good humour is cut short by Lisinski crouching next to Jean. “Open both of your eyes.”
He obeys.
She covers one eye with her hand, then switches to the other. She makes a tsk noise with her mouth. “I’m no doctor but that didn’t look right.”
Coach Rhemann says something that Jean doesn’t catch. He’s disappeared from view but Jean can still find his voice. The other Trojans must be gathered now, the offense and defense lines’ coaches having checked the rest of them for injuries. Of course Jean could get into a crash and his only harm be from exiting the bus.
There’s a snap of fingers in front of his face, Jean’s eyes trail up the arm of the green sweater to Lisinski’s watchful gaze.
“What’s your name?”
“I didn’t hit my head that hard.”
“The bloody sweatshirt under you begs to differ,” Lisinski says. “What’s your name?”
“Jean Moreau.”
She prattles through a few other questions that Jean is sure he passes but there’s a crease between her eyebrows that just gets deeper. Turning away from him she talks to someone, lowering her voice, “there’s definitely an ambulance coming, right?”
“Yeah, Michael just got off the phone,” comes Rhemann’s voice. “How do you think he’s doing?”
“Not good.”
“I can hear you,” Jean grumbles, unimpressed.
“They’re just worried, is all,” Jeremy says. Jean had almost forgotten he was there, too focused on Lisinski and her prognosis and his head is getting foggier and foggier. How long has it been since he hit his head? A few minutes? He’s cold.
“Jeremy.”
“Yes?”
“You should be wearing a coat.”
Jeremy’s cheeks and nose are bright red, but his hands are still wearing Jean’s mittens. He’s clearly freezing judging by the way he’s shaking but Jeremy just tilts his head and purses his lips. “No, I’m okay.”
“Liar.”
He smiles. No matter what, Jeremy is always ready to whip out his high-wattage smile and blind Jean. He’s not sure if that’s his heart or his stomach doing flips. Closing his eyes, he blocks out his sunshine captain.
“Hey.” Lisinski snaps her fingers again. “Eyes open. No sleeping.”
“Wasn’t sleeping,” Jean slurs. “It’s really bright out here.”
And Jeremy’s face is a little painful to look at when his head is all soupy.
It’s an open secret at this point that Jean is getting really bad.
He’s barely conscious now. They keep trying to rouse him and getting grumbles and a few slow blinks out of him before he’s slipping again. It’s too cold and he’s hit his head way too hard to be this far from a hospital. He’s more pale than usual.
“Jean.” Jeremy puts his hand on Jean’s thigh. “You still with me?”
Jean mumbles something incoherent.
Making eye contact with Lisinski, Jeremy lets the fear show on his face. She shakes her head. “There’s not much we can do but keep him talking and not let him sleep.”
“Jean?”
Another murmur.
“Why wouldn’t you teach me French?”
It’s a low blow to get Jean to react, when he’d asked the same thing when they first met he’d been met with Jean’s stony silence and a swing headed at his face when he reached out. He gets to see Jean’s steely eyes at that question. Jean’s expression pinches. “Hurts,” he grumbles.
“I know, I know,” Jeremy says. He turns to Lisinski. “Isn’t there anything we can do for the pain?”
She shakes her head again. “Not when he’s like this. We can’t ice it without making him colder, he’s already starting to go cyanotic. Eduardo, give me your parka.”
Jeremy doesn’t know what that word means but he can wager a guess that it has something to do with Jean’s lips that are tinted purple.
With Coach Jimenez’s parka in hand, Lisinski tucks it over Jean. “Fuck he’s soaked. We need to get him off of these coats and onto something dry.”
Jeremy understood that enough, the snow was melting underneath him and seeping through the barrier they’d placed, which in turn was just making him colder. This situation was too far out of hand.
Other Trojans offer up their coats when Rhemann explains to them what’s going on. They get them laid out next to Jean and it takes all four coaches and Jeremy to body him onto the dry coats. Jean just moans in pain and mumbles some protest but he doesn’t try to fight them off. He’s fading faster than the ambulance is getting here.
Lisinski tucks Jean in with Jimenez’s parka again and piles on some donations from his teammates. Everyone is shivering now, except Jean who is eerily still.
“Jean? Can you hear me?” Jeremy asks. He looks over and Lisinski is taking his pulse. She doesn’t look happy.
Jean slurs something that sounds like “yes, captain.”
“Can you talk to me?”
“Tired.”
“I know,” Jeremy says because what else is there? Jean is going blue and they’re stranded outside of Seattle in the snow. All they have is their coats and an hourglass that is running out. “If you were scared to go up against the Bears, you didn’t have to be so dramatic about it.”
“Not scared,” Jean mutters. Eyes closed.
“Well, now we’re short a sub. Rhemann was even thinking of bumping you to starter for this game. Right, Coach?”
Rhemann nods absently and joins in on the lie. “Of course, we needed you on our defense line.”
“Which half?”
Jeremy makes eye contact with Rhemann. “First, right?”
“First,” Rhemann agrees.
“Second.” Jean pauses, and Jeremy thinks that’s all before he adds, “or no deal.”
“Why second?” Jeremy asks.
Jean mumbles something in response that Jeremy can’t make out.
“Jean?”
There’s no response. Jeremy reaches out for Jean’s shoulder and gives him a little shake. Nothing.
“He’s passed out,” Lisinski says.
“He’s breathing way too shallow,” Laila says from behind Jeremy.
“What?” Jeremy asks, but now that his attention has been brought to it he holds his fingers over Jean’s mouth and just feels a slow, weak push of air. And a long pause before there’s another. The lump in his throat grows exponentially, he wonders if he’ll choke on it. “She’s right.”
Lisinski swears. “Where is that damn ambulance?”
Jean sleeps for two days.
The doctors try to placate Jeremy by saying that the rest is good for Jean’s battered brain, but he just really needs to see Jean awake and lucid. His last memory is of him unconscious and bleeding in the snow and he can’t shake it no matter how hard he tries.
There’s staples in the wound on the back of his head but he looks almost peaceful as he sleeps. X-rays revealed a fracture in his tailbone from hitting the ground, so he’ll be off the court for a while, not ideal considering how much Jean hated the idea of winter break.
Jeremy is typing away on his phone to the floozies group chat when he hears a groan that makes him startle and look up.
Jean has a hand to his forehead as he blinks sleep out of his eyes. “Ugh.”
“Jean?” Jeremy asks, sitting up straight. “Are you with me?”
Jean groans again. “Too loud.”
“Sorry,” Jeremy apologises, dropping his volume to just above a whisper. “How are you feeling?”
Another groan. “Awful.”
It’s a surprising amount of honesty from the Frenchman but Jeremy will take it. “What do you remember?”
“Seattle, the plane… the bus—what happened?”
Jeremy cringes, of course it falls to him to explain this. “The bus hit some black ice and went off of the road and you took a spill getting off of it. You busted your head and fractured your tailbone. Then got hypothermia from waiting out in the snow”
“How long am I off-court?” is the first thing out of Jean’s mouth.
“I don’t know,” Jeremy admits. “You’ve been unconscious for a few days and the doctors want to assess you before giving us a timeline.”
“How many days?”
Heaving a sigh, Jeremy speaks. “Two. Really freaked me out, Jean.”
Jean peers at him at that admission, grey eyes studious. “New Year’s or not?”
“I don’t know, Jean. Really, I’m sorry. But we’re waiting for the neurologist to determine when you’re safe to fly back to LA. You don’t have a skull fracture or a brain bleed but your unconsciousness isn’t a good sign.”
“Are the Trojans still here?”
With a wince, Jeremy answers, “No, not anymore. Everyone flew back yesterday. Only me and Rhemann are still here. He stepped out for a phone call but he shouldn’t be long. I’ll let everyone know you’re awake though, they’ll be glad to hear it.”
Jean hums thoughtfully. “Did we win?”
Jeremy blanks. “Win what?”
“The game.”
“Jean,” he starts. “We didn’t play.”
“Why not?” Jean looks genuinely confused by this, scowl on his face as he tries to sit up.
Thinking the answer is obvious, Jeremy just stares at him.
“Why didn’t we play?”
“You were in the hospital, and in a bad way. No one could play with circumstances like that, the match was rescheduled to January.”
“Ridiculous,” Jean huffs, crossing his arms.
“You’re our friend,” Jeremy says. “We care about you too much to put a game above your health.”
Jean looks like he wants to roll his eyes but knows the motion will be hellishly painful. He just settles for a peeved expression.
That’s when Rhemann comes back in the room, bidding goodbye to whoever he’s on the phone with and then pausing after clicking his phone shut with a surprised, “You’re awake.”
“Yes, Coach,” Jean answers.
“Glad to see it,” Rhemann says, running a hand through his hair. “You gave everyone a fright.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Not your fault,” Rhemann adds quickly. “Jeez, Moreau, you’re giving me grey hairs.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Stop apologising, kid. I’m just glad you’re awake.” A pause. “I’ll go and find a nurse so we can get you assessed and figure out what the game plan is from here.”
Rhemann ducks out of the room and leaves Jeremy and Jean in awkward silence for the entire duration of his absence. Jean leans back and closes his eyes which makes Jeremy scared he’s lost consciousness again but he pinches the back of Jean’s hand which earns him a grumble and a glare before Jean is getting comfy again.
So Jeremy updates the Trojans to Jean’s newfound consciousness. The floozies are ecstatic, as he knew they would be, but the rest of the team filter in with their gratitude and further well-wishes for their backliner.
Jean returns to the hotel with them the next day. No flying for two weeks so Jean, Jeremy and Rhemann are all spending Christmas cooped up in a Seattle hotel. Jean and Jeremy have a room to share and Rhemann is on the floor above them. Jean hadn’t even made it to check-in three days ago but figures he would have been rooming with Jeremy regardless.
Jeremy hands him a pair of sunglasses as they head out to Rhemann’s rental car. Jean gratefully takes them and perches them on his nose. He’s in a change of clothes Jeremy fished out of his suitcase while he was unconscious, his last outfit having been cut off of him.
They make it to the elevator of the hotel mostly-unscathed. Jean is groaning softly as Jeremy coaxes him into the elevator, not wanting to have Jean try and walk up four flights of stairs in this state.
Remarkably, Jean cedes to his will and steps into the elevator with him but as soon as the doors shut behind them he is gripping his throat and Jeremy has to pry his fingers off. He is fully tense, taut like a bowstring and now grasping Jeremy’s forearm as if his captain can save him from a six-storey plunge or the walls caving in.
“I don’t like being in boxes,” he mutters, deathgrip not easing.
“I know,” Jeremy says. “I’m sorry.”
Eventually they make the short ride up to the fourth floor in one piece and Jean slips out the doors as soon as they open. He takes off with his long stride before slowing to a stop, likely remembering that he doesn’t yet know which room is theirs.
“This way,” Jeremy says, holding up his key.
Jean doubles back and follows him to the correct door and patiently waits while Jeremy unlocks it and lets them inside. The room is half-immaculate, half-looking-like-a-tornado-passed-through as Jeremy spent a little long getting ready that morning and didn’t have time to clear up before he had to meet Rhemann in the lobby.
Padding over to the still-made one of the beds, Jean shrugs out of his coat, tosses it on the end, and carefully removes the sunglasses before toeing out of his sneakers and climbing onto the mattress, planting his face firmly into the pillow. He groans somewhere between pain and bliss and it makes Jeremy laugh a little.
“Good?” he asks.
“Better than the hospital,” comes Jean’s muffled voice. “I’m surprised I didn’t get bedsores.”
“I think it takes longer than a few days for you to get bedsores.”
“Nope,” Jean mumbles with surprising confidence. “I asked a nurse and sometimes it takes only a few hours. They turned me often.”
Something in the pit of Jeremy’s stomach sinks at the reminder that Jean spent two whole days unconscious and completely at everyone else’s whims. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get that sick taste out of his mouth.
“How’s your head?” Jeremy asks in lieu of an appropriate reply.
“Hurts.”
“When are you due for more painkillers?”
Jean hums thoughtfully. “Three.”
Jeremy checks the time on his phone. “It’s almost four.”
“Ah,” Jean says. “That would be why it hurts.”
Cursing, Jeremy scrambles for the pills in his bag. He digs out the paper bag and tears it open, checking the instructions on the bottle. One to two pills every eight hours if necessary. Daily dose not to exceed 150mg. Preferably taken with meals.
“This says you have to eat. I’ll order room service.”
Jean just hums.
“What do you want?”
After five minutes of Jeremy reading off the menu and the ingredients for everything Jean decides on a vegetable omelette. Jeremy gets a burger and together they wait for room service. It takes almost forty-five minutes for them to see their food and by then Jean is curled up in the fetal position with his eyes screwed shut, trying—and failing—to breathe through the pain.
Jeremy is as polite as humanly possible with room service despite his budding worry for his partner and gets their early dinner into the room. Jean finally sits up but he doesn’t look all that happy about it. He dutifully eats half of his omelette and Jeremy hands him two pills to take with his cup of water. Jeremy puts the rest of Jean’s food in the mini-fridge and allows the backliner to lie down again and attempt to nap.
They don’t make it very far before Jean is bolting upright and staggering for the bathroom. Jeremy trails after him quickly enough to see him drop to his knees and noisily throw up.
“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks when it seems he is done retching.
Jean answers him by upending his stomach once more.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Jeremy crouches behind Jean in the small bathroom and rubs his back.
Eventually, Jean finishes heaving and picks himself up. He flushes the toilet, washes his hands and rinses his mouth out. He then skulks back to his bed and lies down again. “I’m going to sleep,” he mutters and pulls the covers over his head.
Unclear if he actually falls asleep or just stubbornly stays buried under the covers, Jeremy gets up to turn the lights off regardless and boots up the TV on a low volume to hopefully watch something—a movie that looks interesting at first but turns out to be dreadfully boring—before nodding off prematurely himself.
Jeremy drops the instant ice pack on the floor and stomps on it a little to get the chemicals all mixed up, when he reaches down to grab it it is already turning cold. He shuffles over to the side of Jean’s bed where he’s been tossing and turning for the past half hour and settles it over his eyes.
The moan Jean lets out is pure bliss.
“Merry Christmas,” Jeremy whispers.
“It’s Christmas?”
“As of,” Jeremy checks his phone, “four minutes ago.”
Jean hums thoughtfully. “Merry Christmas, Jeremy.”
Jeremy sits on the edge of Jean’s bed and puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry your first Christmas with us is so shitty.”
Another hum. “I don’t mind.”
That response doesn’t surprise Jeremy in the slightest. As far as he is aware, Jean has never celebrated Christmas, at least not in the past five years he spent with the Ravens and from what he’s heard, he doubts there was much fanfare for it in his life before America. He and the girls had been plotting on how to make Jean’s first Christmas extra special. They erected a natural tree in the living room of the lofts and draped it in tinsel and baubles despite the fact that it shed needles all over the floor at such a rate that they needed to vacuum underneath it every single day.
Jeremy has been planning his present for Jean for months now and he finally bought it two weeks ago when it was on sale. A copy of Alice in Wonderland translated into French so he can learn the origin of Jabberwocky’s name. And he can’t even give it to him on Christmas because it’s in California under the tree and they’re stuck in a hotel room in Seattle.
Concussion recovery orders saying no screens means Jeremy can’t even subject his backliner to terrible Christmas movies for the sake of festive spirit. All he can do is give Jean an ice pack and feign to be jolly.
What a shitty holiday.
“I know you don’t,” Jeremy says, bummed. “I just wanted it to be special.”
Jean lifts up the ice pack with a hand and peers at Jeremy with an odd expression. Somewhere between fondness and nausea. “It is special.”
“No it’s not.” Jeremy gestures lamely. “We’re cooped up in a hotel room away from everyone we care about and you’ve got a concussion.”
“We are together,” Jean says.
“Yeah,” Jeremy agrees, something warm and fuzzy blossoming in his chest. “We are.”
They lapse into silence. Jeremy pats Jean’s shoulder and moves to stand. “I’m just sad that I can’t give you a present.”
“I didn’t get you a present. You shouldn’t have gotten me one.”
Jeremy smiles sadly. “I know, but when was the last time you had a Christmas gift?”
“I…” Jean loses his words and the emptiness is all Jeremy needs to hear.
“Exactly. Let me do this for you.”
“Okay,” Jean agrees, very pliant. He must be in a good mood. “I will get you something.”
“You don’t have to,” Jeremy says.
“It is only fair.”
“Okay.” Because what else can Jeremy say? He can’t argue fairness with a man who has never been shown it from the world. He wants to show Jean that life has good things and can be as bright as it is painful. No one should spend their whole life in darkness, least of all Jean.
“What would we do if we weren’t here?” Jean asks.
Jeremy pauses, looking back at Jean who has the ice pack over his eyes once again. “What do you mean?”
“What were the plans you made with Cat and Laila?”
Shrugging, Jeremy answers him, “we were going to make you watch It’s A Wonderful Life.”
“Is it any good?”
“The best.” Jeremy sits down on his own bed and leans back until his head thunks against the headboard. With a wince he wriggles down until he’s comfortable, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Cat wanted to try and get you to drink hot cocoa. With a candy cane in it, of course.”
“I wouldn’t do it.”
Jeremy laughs. “I tried telling her that.”
Jeremy might be utterly useless in a kitchen but he can operate a toaster with no casualties.
Mostly.
Okay, he burns the first two slices of bread. And the next two. But after three failed attempts he ends up with two perfectly golden pieces that he spreads butter on and presents to Jean on a paper plate. “Bon appetit.”
“I’m not hungry,” the Frenchman says.
“I know, but you have to eat.”
It’s their little ritual, Jeremy trying to find something light that Jean can stomach long enough to take his meds. The past few days they’ve been using crackers but Rhemann made an off-handed comment earlier that his mother would always make him plain buttered toast when he had an upset stomach and Jeremy thought that was a wonderful idea.
He watches as Jean picks off a little wedge of toast and places it in his mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. “It is your best work,” he says, picking up another chunk of bread.
“Really?” Jeremy asks, satisfied grin forming.
Jean nods sagely. “It is edible.”
“Hey!” Jeremy gives him a shove and Jean just takes another bite of toast.
“No, it’s good,” he lies. “So good.”
“You don’t have to eat it if it’s that bad.”
Jean responds by finishing one piece of toast, cramming it into his mouth in a way that looks uncomfortable.
The teasing air dissipates as Jean eats the other piece in silence. Jeremy fills up a glass of water for him from the sink and trades it with him for the empty plate. Jean takes a long sip before lowering the glass and cocking an eyebrow. “Are you forgetting something?”
“Ah,” Jeremy slaps a hand to his forehead. “Your meds!” And he’s off scurrying for his bag.
He finds the pill bottle and shakes two pills out into his palm before handing them to Jean.
Jean swallows them with a gulp of water and finishes with a cringe, sticking his tongue out.
“You okay?” Jeremy asks.
“Tastes bad,” Jean says, taking another sip.
“Try taking them with water already in your mouth. That’s what I have to do, works like a charm.”
Jean nods. “I will try that next time.”
It doesn’t take long for Rhemann to come by and start talking Exy with Jeremy. They compare notes and ask for Jean’s input on his teammates’ progress that he indulges only occasionally. Before Rhemann eventually calls an end to their scheming and decides he’s ordering pizza for them. Jean declines but Jeremy would kill for some hot greasy food right now so he gets his order in and waits with Rhemann for the delivery.
Rhemann meets the delivery person in the lobby and comes back up with two pizza boxes and a small paper bag that houses a roll of garlic bread and they break that in two and indulge in their dinner.
“How are you feeling?” Rhemann asks Jean after a while. Jeremy is three slices deep when he looks up and realises Jean looks a little unsteady where he sits on his bed, arms in his lap. Pale, too.
Jean hums as he nods but doesn’t look up from his duvet. He’s wearing the blue and grey striped long sleeve that Jeremy picked up while Jean was in the hospital and they realised they only had two days worth of clothes packed.
Halfway through his fourth slice, Jeremy freezes as Jean scrambles from his seated position to the edge of the bed and heaves up his toast and hopefully not his meds. Surely they must have been absorbed already?
Jeremy puts down his half-eaten slice of pizza and sets the entire box aside before getting up and crossing the room to the other end of Jean’s bed where Jean is shaking and gripping the edge of the mattress as he spits into his puddle on the carpet.
“I’m sorry,” Jean says when Jeremy sits next to him and starts rubbing a hand between his shoulders. Back and forth.
“It’s okay.”
“I made a mess.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Happens to the best of us. I’ll clean it up as best as I can and then they’ll get cleaners in to fix everything I ruin.”
Jean is still shaking under Jeremy’s touch.
“Are you okay?” he asks after a little while.
Jean runs his tongue along his teeth and spits again. “I feel gross.”
“I bet.” Jeremy says. “Why don’t you go and rinse your mouth out and I’ll clean this up?”
Hesitating, Jean looks like he’s about to speak, to argue, but he stands up, sidesteps the puddle and walks to the bathroom. Jeremy doesn’t move until he hears the tap turn on.
The next night when Jeremy goes to dish out Jean’s meds, he realises that Jean is looking quite flushed. He presses the back of his hand to Jean’s forehead, finds him uncomfortably warm and immediately calls Rhemann to tell him that they’re making a trip to the emergency room.
Rhemann comes down to their room and checks Jean over himself before agreeing with Jeremy’s verdict. Jean protests but only half-heartedly which speaks to how dreadful he must be feeling. Jeremy sits with Jean in the backseat of the rental car and gently cups his friend’s head. Jean is shivering now, covered in a cold sweat.
“Could it be sepsis?” Jeremy asks worriedly.
Rhemann casts him an unreadable look in the rearview mirror but says, “let’s not make mountains out of molehills.”
As Rhemann pulls them to park at the hospital, they quickly realise Jean can’t make the trek across the parking lot so Rhemann ducks off for a wheelchair. Jeremy is sitting with Jean, trying to keep him lucid. He’d been napping all day but that was much the same as every other day so he hadn’t assumed anything was wrong aside from the pre-existing concussion. But now it is abundantly clear that something is very wrong as Jean dozes with his face in Jeremy’s neck. He mumbles something incoherent when Jeremy shakes him.
“Stay awake, please,” Jeremy says.
“‘M awake.”
As it turns out, it is sepsis.
Jean doesn’t last long in the waiting room before he’s being whisked away to a back room. The wound on the back of his head is infected and the infection has gotten into his bloodstream. He doesn’t last long there either before he’s being transferred up to the ICU. Intravenous antibiotics, an oxygen mask intermittently fogging, and ice packs on his neck and in his armpits to bring his temperature down.
Sitting next to him while he slips in and out of consciousness is a hell Jeremy isn’t eager to repeat. Rhemann leaves and returns with food for them but Jean isn’t up to eating and Jeremy is sick to his stomach so it goes to waste. Rhemann eats his portion at least so one of them isn’t going hungry.
Rhemann dips out of the room when his phone rings and he apologises to both Jeremy and Jean before he disappears into the corridor. Jeremy takes Jean’s clammy hand in both of his and holds on for dear life.
“You’re supposed to be getting better,” he says, “not this.”
Jean doesn’t reply. He just dozes.
Jeremy has become so scarred by loss but he can’t add another notch to his skin.
The hospital keeps Jean for three days. He is discharged on the 30th of December with antibiotics and Jeremy and Rhemann handed a long list of symptoms to watch out for in case he gets worse again.
Jean seems to be no worse for wear after yet another stint in hospital but he expresses a strong desire to get back to the hotel and sleep on a real mattress. Jeremy does not envy him.
While Jean naps back at the hotel, Jeremy goes upstairs to steal Coach Rhemann’s laptop for the evening with strict instructions that he is not to spill anything on it or leave it somewhere it could get damaged. Oh ye of little faith.
Jeremy gets set up in his bed with the laptop perched on a pillow in front of him. He watches a few games with his headphones on so as to not disturb Jean’s rest or aggravate his head injury. He’s seconds away from dreamland himself when the mattress next to him moves and he startles back to wakefulness.
Quietly, Jean pulls up the edge of the covers and slips underneath, sliding up next to Jeremy. He wraps his arms around Jeremy’s waist and plants his cheek on Jeremy’s thigh. If he had said anything, Jeremy didn’t hear him over the game in his ears so he pulls one out.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Jean nods and mumbles something Jeremy doesn’t catch. Then he sighs and practically melts into a puddle on the sheets. All long limbs and absent tension.
They’ve never done this before and Jeremy isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.
Apprehensive for more than one reason, Jeremy hovers his hand uncertainly over Jean’s head before slowly sinking it into his hair and pulling gently on the strands. Jean hums in a way that sounds like pleasure and adjusts his grip on Jeremy.
Jeremy leaves one earphone out and starts a new game, now far too awake to doze off again. It’s the Foxes most recent match that Jeremy hasn’t had the time to watch, too preoccupied with the past week of Jean’s health challenges. He’s barely even thought about Exy. He continues playing with Jean’s dark hair and narrates the game to him in a stage whisper although after a few minutes he’s almost certain Jean is asleep.
Jean gets given the go-ahead to fly on the 4th of January just in time for their flight the next morning. He’s still addled with concussion and in a considerable amount of pain for the most part but he’s clear to fly and the staples have been removed from his head.
Jeremy packs him into a taxi from the rental car place, Rhemann in the front seat and the two of them in the back. Jean with earbuds and sunglasses to block out most of the afternoon sun. They’ll touch back at home at almost 8pm.
The ride to the airport is uneventful and Jean appears to doze for most of it, head leaned against the window in a way that is sure to rattle his battered brain. They’re heading home with more stuff than they left with. Clothes, mostly, shoved into carry-ons as they had left California with only enough to wear for the weekend.
Mathilda is bound to be livid when Jeremy finally shows his face at the house. She had begrudgingly allowed him to stay by Jean’s side in Seattle on account of her profession making her a little kinder towards patients, even those of other people. She had given Jeremy pointers for Jean’s care and for that, Jeremy was grateful. They could see eye-to-eye another time.
When the taxi pulls up the winding drive to the front of the airport, Jeremy leans over to tap Jean on the shoulder. He sits up straighter almost instantly but has none of the startle Jeremy had expected, he must not have been asleep after all.
“You good?” Jeremy asks, resting his hand on Jean’s arm.
Jean nods, makes a face, and then speaks, “I’m okay.”
The boys get out and Rhemann pays the cab driver as they head to the trunk that is filled to the brim with suitcases and additional bags. It’s a wonder how they got them all to fit but clearly the cabbie is a master of luggage jenga.
Jean leans heavily on his suitcase and feigns that he’s not struggling to catch his breath.
“Still okay?”
He nods again. “Still okay.”
“It’s a two and a half hour flight but you can do it,” Jeremy says.
“I know,” Jean replies. He stands up to his full height and tilts his head until his neck cracks.
Jeremy gags. “You know I hate when you do that.”
Jean shrugs, not having the decency to look guilty behind his sunglasses. “I know.”
Getting all their luggage checked in and their tickets in order is a headache and a half, just to add more of one to Jean’s plate. The airport is bustling because it’s a Saturday afternoon and everyone who is usually at work at this time of day is apparently here instead.
Jeremy guides Jean to their gate with a hand on the small of his back and Jean trails with him silently. He isn’t much of a talker on the best of days but he’s been especially quiet in the past two weeks, Jeremy hopes that as his head gets better he gets more talkative again. He misses their banter and being caught so off-guard by something Jean says that he has no choice but to laugh.
Rhemann goes in search of overpriced airport food even though they all ate before leaving the hotel. Something about airports always makes him a little snacky, Jeremy has learned. The two of them sit at their gate and Jeremy updates his group chats and his texts about their arrival time to Laila now that their flight has been delayed by an hour, Jean leans on Jeremy’s shoulder and falls asleep. He’s been very tired from his concussion and Jeremy would be a liar if he didn’t find it cute that Jean was more open to sleeping close to him now.
They’re still just friends but Jean has instigated touch more often than usual, something softer than a bruising grip on Jeremy’s chin. A lean, a touch, a hold, something has shifted in the past weeks but Jeremy is eager to see where the rest of it falls when they get home.
Jean sleeps for most of the flight.
Jeremy watches a movie and sneaks a few glances out the corner of his eye at Jean for the entire flight but he finds his defenseman comfortable and without the crease between his brows that he’d feared pain had etched into something permanent.
Jean wakes with a start when Jeremy rouses him as the plane is landing but he simply wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand—drool, Jeremy suspects—and smooths out the wrinkles in his clothes.
After spending time in Seattle winter with all their snow and chill, Jeremy is more than happy to get off the plane to warm-ish nighttime air. Anything is warm compared to where they’ve come from.
The girls are waiting for them at their gate and they are surely a sight for sore eyes. Jeremy had missed them so dearly while he was stranded in Seattle and texts and phone calls can only bridge so much of a gap. So he takes Cat in his arms and gives her a hearty squeeze.
“Hey,” he says.
“Never let him get hurt again,” she mumbles into Jeremy’s hoodie.
Laila surges forward and wraps her arms around Jean’s middle. He hesitates for a second before settling his arms around her in turn. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she says.
It’s so quiet that Jeremy almost misses it but he swears he hears Jean let out a soft “me too.”