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Jeremy's exhausted.
It's a bad night in a string of bad nights, and every muscle in his body aches. A dull headache started throbbing behind his eyes about an hour ago, and with every second that passes, his brain threatens to white out entirely. Already his eyes are slipping shut. Probably because he hasn't really been sleeping. It doesn't help that the LSAT practice book is quite possibly the dullest written material ever recorded.
He hates it. Actively hates it. Part of him thought—hoped?—that he didn't like it because he doesn't like being told what to do. It's tough to enjoy a subject that's been assigned to you like a death sentence.
On top of that, though, Jeremy is really starting to detest the law itself. In no world can he see himself enjoying this. Ever. Under any circumstances.
But then, it's never been about what Jeremy enjoys.
He blows out a slow breath, rubs the space between his eyes. He shouldn't be thinking about this. He quite literally doesn't have the time.
Back home, on the calendar above his desk, there are six days waiting to be crossed off before his LSAT date. On the desk in front of him—technically Jean's, which he's co-opted since it's a Friday night—he's got half the book left to get through. Not that he understood the half he's already read.
Theoretically, he could take it again if he doesn't get the score he needs. There's time before he has to send his applications in.
If he had any other family in the world, this would be more of a practice run.
But Jeremy just has his family. His mom that doesn't trust him and his step dad that wants him dead and his dad that couldn't care less what happened to him. And for them, failure at any stage is not an option.
Jeremy flips another page. Practice question upon practice question, each one so wordy he wants to cry just looking at them.
This question is based on a scenario with a set of conditions. The question is to be answered on the basis of what can be logically inferred from the scenario and conditions. Choose the response that most accurately and completely answers the question based on the scenario.
Jeremy's eyes blur on the third sentence. He hasn't even gotten to the actual question yet.
Two questions later, he gets a much-needed break. The door to the study creaks open, hallway light and Jean's figure, back-lit, slipping in.
Jeremy blinks, willing his eyes to adjust to the sudden influx of light and the simple fact of Jean in the doorway. He's wearing his biker jacket and a slight frown, eyes narrowed at Jeremy.
"Hey," Jeremy says, when it is evident that Jean won't speak first. "How was shopping?"
"Superfluous," Jean says, stepping into the room more fully. He lets the door shut behind him, and then Jeremy can see him better, in just the muted lamplight. The office is still scarcely decorated—all bare bone necessities and a boxed IKEA bookshelf they've been meaning to put together for the past two weeks—and Jean is, as always, the only thing worth looking at. Hair wind-tousled, eyes intent on Jeremy. "I already own a jacket."
Jeremy can't help it; he cracks a smile. "You know, it's not a crime to own more than one."
Jean looks unmoved. "Like I said. Superfluous. You do not even experience real winter here."
Jeremy wants to see the new jacket, and whatever else Jean bought, but he's pretty sure that would also qualify as superfluous, so instead he asks, "Did you have fun?"
"Yes," Jean decides slowly. "But I did not want to return so late."
Jeremy glances at the time on his phone. A little after ten. It is later than he thought they'd be back; Laila and Cat wanted the four of them to grab dinner at a new restaurant, a little ways out. Jeremy couldn't spare the time, and in his absence Laila and Cat ended up dragging Jean winter clothes shopping, now that the weather's starting to turn for the chilly.
"You have been studying for a long time," Jean says.
"Not long enough," Jeremy mutters. "I still don't know any of this."
"You will not learn anything if you do not sleep," Jean returns swiftly.
Jeremy blinks at him. Not too long ago, sleep would have been another unnecessary waste of time in Jean's book. It, stupidly, warms something in Jeremy's core to hear him say this now.
Jean's eyes narrow. "What?"
Jeremy must've been looking too long. He keeps doing that. Jean, unfortunately, makes it easy. His hair's getting too long, curling past his neck. His eyes, in the scarce gold light, are steely-dark. He looks like the male lead in a Victorian romance.
Jeremy clears his throat. "Nothing. I just… you seem like you've been doing well, lately."
It is somehow both too honest and not at all what Jeremy means. He means—
There's a freckle by Jean's left eye that wasn't there before this summer, and his skin is not quite so pale, and his scars are faded. It's been a long time since he's seen Jean broken and afraid. It is so much more common, now, to see him smiling. Making the Trojans laugh. Often not on purpose, but sometimes, yes, intentionally, and his lips will curl up, satisfied, and it is such a sight Jeremy's heart stops working. Jean, these days, will not shy from a hug from Cat or Laila. He will sometimes even initiate it. He is so much better about playing a clean game, and keeping his head up. Most days, he looks their coaches in the eye.
It's more than Jeremy'd dared to hope for last June. It makes him feel things he could not hope to articulate and will never ever try to, because it's too much. Pretty much everything he feels for Jean is too much, and he knows that. He just can't help it.
"You do not seem to be," Jean says, and that pretty much takes the wind right out of Jeremy's sails.
Jean steps closer, as if to get a better look at just how much Jeremy's falling apart.
Jeremy finds it difficult to hold his gaze, so he looks to the textbook. "I'm fine, Jean."
"I am your partner, Jeremy. Do not lie to me."
Jean's voice is so low and so intense, that accent lilting softly over every syllable, that Jeremy can't help but look up at him. The unbridled concern on his face knocks every other thought from Jeremy's head.
The intensity of his eyes, the cut of his jaw, his crooked nose—it's all way too much.
Jeremy swallows. "I'm just a little tired."
Jean, inexplicably, reaches for him.
His hands—God, he's got great hands, somehow calloused and delicate at once—move so slowly. Plenty of time for Jeremy to sway out of the way. He, of course, stays right where he is. Pinned under Jean's heavy stare.
Jean's fingers are cold on the sensitive skin of Jeremy's cheeks. Cold and careful, cradling his face in Jean's hands. Thumbs trailing across the exhausted skin under his eyes. It feels so good it takes all of Jeremy's willpower not to shudder under Jean's touch.
"This," Jean says, "is not just a little. You look as though you have not slept all week."
Figures, Jeremy thinks, that teaching Jean about self-care would backfire on him.
"It's stress," Jeremy replies, voice a little too rough.
It's sort of uncomfortable, looking up at Jean—he's already tall to start with, and Jeremy sitting at the desk gives Jean an entirely unfair advantage—but he does not have it in him to look away.
"The exam," Jean says.
Jeremy nods, braces himself for another comment about how he shouldn't even be taking it. Jean's worrying at his lip, and Jeremy knows he's thinking it. What a waste it is for Jeremy to go to law school. Jeremy'd be more irritated if he didn't, deep down, agree.
But that rebuke never comes. Instead, Jean's brows crinkle, considering for another long moment.
Finally, in a voice softer than Jeremy has ever heard it, Jean asks, "Did you eat anything?"
"… Today?" Jeremy asks.
That is, from the disapproving lilt to Jean's lips, not the answer he was looking for.
"I had a bagel," Jeremy offers.
Jean seems even more displeased. "There is no nutritional value in that at all. We had a grueling practice, you have not been sleeping, and you have been studying non-stop. Your body is going to stop functioning."
"I'll be able to play next week," Jeremy jokes, "don't worry."
Jean scowls. "That is not the only thing I care about."
Jeremy was only teasing, but Jean's response and the look on his face—irritated and entirely sincere—make Jeremy come up short
He can tell that Jean cares about him. He can. Hearing it is just… different. Different enough to sort of make his brain stop working.
"Take a break," Jean commands. "I will make you dinner."
"It's really okay," Jeremy says. "I can get something together."
Jean just shakes his head. "No. I will do this for you."
And really, how is Jeremy supposed to refuse that?
He ends up in the kitchen while Jean works, sitting on the counter and watching Jean boil water, slice vegetables, move around in the kitchen like he's been doing it forever when Jeremy knows he's only been learning for a matter of months.
It's sort of like watching him do pottery, actually. The calm focus in his posture, his expression. The strands of hair falling in his face. The deft way his hands work.
This whole thing would be a lot easier to bear if he weren't so gorgeous all the time.
Jean's brow furrows, occasionally, as he works. His tongue, briefly, appearing at the corner of his mouth when he is really, truly focused. Mostly, though, Jean seems entirely at ease. Jeremy wants him so badly it makes him feel sort of sick.
"This cannot," Jean says when he is nearly finished, "be that interesting."
Jeremy blinks, feeling caught. Because he has been. Jean's gaze is level, almost daring Jeremy to deny that he has been ogling Jean for the better part of the hour.
There's no point lying, so Jeremy cracks a smile. "Oh, it really is."
"You are obnoxious," Jean informs him, stirring at the pasta. God, it smells so good.
"But you like me," Jeremy teases.
He doesn't mean it the way it comes out. Honestly, he would've said that to any of his friends. Just not, uh—with the tone that slips out. Low and heated.
Jean keeps his eyes, resolutely, on the sauce he's mixing in. But the tips of his ears turn pink.
Jeremy assumes he's not going to respond—ugh, why would he—so he is caught off guard by the sound of Jean's voice.
"You have been a good partner to me," Jean admits quietly.
Jeremy feels something inside him stutter to a stop. His lips part, but no noise comes out.
There is something about Jean. And the way he says that word, lately. Partner. The way he seems to relish in it. In having Jeremy in a way no one else does.
No. No. Jeremy can't think about it like that. The partner thing is to help Jean's transition. To make him feel safe. Not to fuel Jeremy's pointless, pathetic fantasies.
"And you are not a terrible player," Jean allows, flatly.
Jeremy laughs, but the sound is off. Too nervous, too breathy. Like a school girl. He's being ridiculous.
"And my winning personality?" Jeremy checks, attempting to play it off.
Jean looks up from the pasta, and Jeremy's done. Done. His eyes—God, they're so beautiful. Gray and shining and drinking Jeremy in.
"Tolerable," Jean says, and Jeremy can tell—can feel—that he does not mean in the slightest.
"Oh," Jeremy says, like his heart's isn't in his throat. "I'm glad you find me tolerable. This would be really awkward if you didn't."
"Unbearably," Jean agrees. He turns the stove off and swirls a small bit of pasta on his fork, then steps towards where Jeremy sits on the counter top.
What was left of Jeremy's brain stops working as Jean stops in front of him, standing neatly between Jeremy's knees. Well, actually, Jean's hips are a little broader than Jeremy's knees had been spread, so Jean's body nudges his knees a little further apart.
Jeremy's lips part, but absolutely no sound comes out. He has, for the number of times he's fantasized about having Jean this close, no idea what is happening. And then Jean holds up the fork of pasta. Pasta. Right. Of course.
He stops in front of Jeremy's face, no doubt expecting Jeremy to take the fork from him.
For some reason—probably permanent brain damage from that godforsaken LSAT book—Jeremy does not do that. Instead, he leans in and eats the pasta off the fork hovering between them.
Jeremy wasn't doing it to be like, sexy, or anything. He's not sure even he could pull off seductive pasta eating. But he makes a small noise as he swallows—that sauce is probably the best thing he's ever tasted—and Jean's gaze on him goes dark. Pupils molten in the low light, fixed on Jeremy with that single-minded intensity that always makes him shiver.
They are, Jeremy realizes, really very close. Faces only inches apart.
The thing is. It's not like it's the first time he's though about kissing Jean. And there's plenty of evidence that Jean, at least, finds Jeremy attractive enough to let his gaze linger.
But it's complicated. Because if Jean doesn't want anything more than that with Jeremy—
Jeremy can handle a lot of rejection from a lot of different people. But not Jean. That might be the thing to actually finally kill him.
Worse, if Jean thought Jeremy wanted something Jean didn't—
Jeremy's pretty sure Jean knows he can tell Jeremy no. He does in other areas, constantly. But this kind of thing is different, and between everything Jean's been through and the fact that Jeremy is his captain and both of them have reputations…
It's been safer, for both of them, to look but not touch.
It's still safer that way. None of the reasons this is a bad idea have gone away.
But the longer they stay in each other's orbits the harder it is to stay away. Particularly when they are so close. When Jean is standing between his knees, and Jeremy can feel his hips through the fabric of his pants, the warmth his body gives off, the hitch in Jean's breathing. The look in his eyes—hungry, wanting. Like he wants to swallow Jeremy whole. Jeremy would very much like to be consumed.
"Ça va?" Jean asks, at length. His voice just shy of steady.
It takes Jeremy's fuzzy brain a little longer than it should to work out the translation, and another second to remember they're talking about pasta. "C'est parfait."
Jean looks surprised at the sound of his language in Jeremy's mouth. Jeremy wonders if he even realized he switched over. Feels something in him drop at the idea of Jean letting his guard down like that.
"Good," Jean says. "I am glad."
The switch back to English is disappointing—there is nothing like the way French sounds on Jean, perfectly suited to his voice, low and lyrical—but the way Jean is looking at him is enough to make Jeremy just about disintegrate. Anything else and his nervous system might not be able to handle it.
"You're good at cooking," Jeremy says, dumbly. "I mean—you're good at a lot of things, but you've been getting really good at this."
One of them should move. This is getting ridiculous. They're barely touching and Jeremy's hard and this whole thing is a deeply terrible idea. Jeremy should know better than to dabble in something he can't bounce back from, and he knows, just from the way Jean's looking at him, that any wrong move here will completely destroy him.
Jean, if anything, sways closer. "Have I?"
"Mhm," Jeremy says, stupidly. Completely unable to manage words. It's like every thought he's ever had has fallen out of his head and now it is just Jean, Jean, Jean. He feels stupid. He wants so badly to do something stupider.
"You are good at taking care of people," Jean says slowly, "but you are not as good at taking care of yourself."
Jeremy is in no state to formulate a coherent sentence on anything, much less a response to that. He wills his brain to start working again, to come up with some way to laugh this off. Nothing. He's completely transfixed by the rough velvet of Jeans voice and the shape of his perfect cupid's bow.
"Jeremy," Jean murmurs, and God, that voice. "You are my partner. I would like to take care of you."
Jeremy has no idea what they're talking about. His brain is mush. Something important is happening, here, being said, and he's nowhere near lucid enough for it.
He blinks, hard. Replays the words in his head.
"Is that," he begins, throat dry, "just because I am your partner?"
Jean hesitates for an agonizing moment, his eyes flicking over Jeremy's face, jaw working.
"Non," he finally murmurs. "It is not just that."
Jeremy feels dizzy, half-drunk. He's not convinced he's breathing.
"I did not feel this way for the ones before you," Jean says, slow and deliberate.
The words burn low in Jeremy's core.
"Jean," Jeremy says, and it feels like he is pleading. He has no idea what for. He's just desperate for—
Something. Jean, maybe, in his entirety. The tension between them to finally snap.
"Jeremy," Jean replies.
Oh, he's never getting over the way Jean says his name.
"How—" Jeremy fights to string words together, to say this right, when Jean is so close he's all Jeremy can see. When his heart is thrumming so loud in his ears it drowns everything else out. "How do you feel?"
"Je te veux," Jean murmurs. "Je te veux. S'il vous plaît, puis-je—"
For a moment, Jeremy's sure he's got the translation wrong. But no. Je te veux. I want you. It's actually quite simple, and then Jeremy's nodding, needing.
Jean's lips part, an expression on his face that Jeremy has never seen before. Hazy and warm and wanting. Agonizingly careful, he reaches for Jeremy's sides. Strong hands tracing over the fabric, warm even through the cloth. His hands feel so good it sort of makes Jeremy want to cry in relief.
Jean tips his head down, and his eyes flutter shut. He is impossibly beautiful, and then he brushes Jeremy's lips so softly it aches. Feather-light pressure, the gentlest kiss Jeremy's ever been given, and oh, Jeremy wants him so much it hurts.
Carefully, he reaches up to Jean's face, threads a hand into Jean's hair. Jean makes a small noise against Jeremy's mouth, draws him in again. Still moving so slowly, so warm and cautious all of the time. Jeremy does not know how he ever worried that Jean would not be able to play like a Trojan. How he ever looked at Jean and failed to understand how good he is.
Jean pulls away, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
"Ça va?" he checks, voice rough and low.
"So good," Jeremy says, brain too scrambled for french.
Jean's slow smile, then, turns everything in Jeremy molten.
Jeremy tugs him into another kiss, relishes in the way Jean's lips part, the mint on his tongue.
It feels so good that Jeremy does not want to break apart for anything, but there is something else he has to say. Gently, he pulls back, looks Jean in the eye.
"Jean," he says, "you know you can always say no to me, right? If you—if you want something, or don't want something, I want you to tell me. Okay?"
Jean hesitates. "Something... such as?"
"Like… if you don't want me to kiss you. At all, or in a certain way. Or if you don't want to be touched somewhere, or anything like that. You can say no, to anything, for any reason. Ever."
"Oh." There is something on Jean's face that Jeremy doesn't entirely understand. A complicated weight in his eyes, a considering tick to his brows. Then, after a moment: "Yes, you too."
"Me too," Jeremy echoes.
It is. Well. Obviously consent goes both ways, but Jeremy is not used to someone saying so with as much weight as Jean is right now.
And he thinks, maybe, he is not all that well-adjusted in this particular area either.
And he hopes that they can get away with helping each other, after all this hurting.
"I want another kiss," Jean says. "Do you?"
Jeremy blinks at him, helpless. It feels entirely possible that he's a little in love with Jean, and maybe has been for a while. It's terrifying. It's the best thing he's ever felt.
"Yes," Jeremy says. "I want."
Jean kisses the words off his lips. It is tender and a little deeper, Jean inhaling sharply when Jeremy's lips part, drawing him in further until Jeremy's not entirely sure where he stops and Jean starts. He tastes like spearmint and kisses with a single-minded intensity, focused and careful and unravelling Jeremy entirely.
Reluctantly, Jean pulls away.
"I enjoy this," Jean tells him. "I have never... done anything like this. Initiated it."
Jeremy does not really have words for everything he's feeling then. That familiar pain at what Jean's been through. The gratitude that Jean trusts him with this particular first. "You like it?" Jeremy echoes, checking.
"Very much," Jean tells him. "But I do not know if I can... I would not like to do anything else, tonight. I want—I would like to, eventually, but it is complicated. Difficult."
"I know," Jeremy says, gently as he can. "There's no rush. I mean—not now, not ever. If you… if you end up wanting that, down the line, great. If not, great. It doesn't change things for me."
Jean's brows knit together. "You do not want…?"
"I do," Jeremy says, "but only if we both do, when we both do, if it feels… right, and safe, for both of us."
Jean considers this, then nods. "Yes. Okay. Me too."
"Okay," Jeremy says. "Cool."
Jean is quiet for another long moment, expression thoughtful, when a kitchen timer goes off.
"Merde," he mutters, "I forgot the chicken."
"It'll still be good," Jeremy is sure.
And it is.
Later, after a shower, Jeremy steps back into Jean's room. The window is open, letting cool night air and a sliver of moonlight in through the shades. Jean stares up at the ceiling, eyes drifting to Jeremy as soon as the door opens. Jean's new room is still bare, like the rest of the apartment, with his queen mattress on the floor and a blow-up that Jeremy's been sleeping on half-deflated by the window. A few pictures, accumulated these last few months of fall semester, stuck up on the walls.
At the foot of Jean's bed—which feels, really, like a glorified term for a mattress on the floor—Jabberwocky snores, tongue lolled out of his mouth, belly up. He looks so ridiculous it briefly pulls Jeremy's focus, and he crosses the room to pet behind his ears. His fur is absurdly soft to the touch. He stirs happily at the pets, but doesn't fully wake.
"He is a ridiculous little creature," Jean says, something undeniably fond in his voice.
Jeremy meets his eyes. In the moonlight, they are all silver-bullet gleam. Jeremy feels weak in the knees.
"He grew on you," Jeremy says softly.
"Like mold," Jean agrees.
Jeremy can't help but crack a smile.
Jean, for a long moment, simply looks at him. Then: "Come here?"
It's a question more than anything else. Uncertain and wanting.
Jeremy obliges, steps toward where Jean sits on the mattress, leaning against the wall. Jean reaches for his hand and tugs, gently. Jeremy, taking the hint, sits beside him on the dark gray sheets.
Jean kisses him softly, then, and it is somehow even better than Jeremy remembers it. He exhales into the kiss, the soft touch of Jean's fingertips on his waist, the gentle pressure. It feels like sinking into a warm bath after a long day. It feels like everything he wants.
"Would you stay here, tonight?" Jean asks, then hesitates. "I do not mean... I only wish to sleep. And have you here."
"If that's okay," Jeremy says, "yes. I would like that a lot. You're sure it's okay?"
Jean nods. "It is what I want."
Jeremy grins, stupidly, at the sound of that. Jean telling him what he wants. Jean wanting Jeremy here.
"You are very easy to please," Jean murmurs against his lips.
"You have that effect," Jeremy tells him, swaying toward him.
Jean kisses him once more, slow and sweet, before drawing back. "You are tired. We should sleep."
As much as Jeremy would like to keep kissing, he is exhausted. So he nods, lays down beside Jean on the cool sheets.
Jean watches him through the slanted light. "I would like… to hold."
Jeremy, absurdly, feels something like a lump in his throat.
"Would you like…?" Jean trails off.
"Yes," Jeremy nods, "yes."
Jean looks relieved, and, carefully, reaches out to him. Jeremy shifts closer, resting his head on Jean's chest, his arm around Jean's waist. Jean hesitates, and Jeremy looks up.
"Ça va?" he whispers.
"Oui. C'est parfait," Jean tells him softly, looping his arms around Jeremy. Holding him with a level of care Jeremy has never felt before.
"If it becomes too much—"
"I know, Jeremy," Jean murmurs. Carding a hand through his hair. "Right now, it is not too much. I will tell you if it changes."
Jeremy nods against him, satisfied by that, and lets his eyes drift shut. They whisper about nothing important—Jabberwocky's snoring, the need for a proper bed frame—until Jeremy drops into sleep.
It is, unquestionably, the best sleep he's gotten in months.
He wakes up to Jean's arm still looped around him, and early morning sunlight creeping in through the blinds. The LSAT book is still waiting in the next room, and the calendar is full of exams to take and matches to play. The future hovers, caught in flux.
Jeremy does not know if he has any hope of going to law school. He doesn't know if it's better to fail or succeed anymore. He doesn't know what he wants. But he wonders, for the first time, if something else could work out. Something… better.
Jean, still asleep, pulls him closer, and the hazy outline of the future feels less important. He only really cares about this moment. The pale, uncertain sunlight crossing Jean's eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the relaxed lines of his face. The warmth of Jean's skin and the arm around him. The heart beating against Jeremy's ear. This moment is good.