Work Text:
Jean Moreau knew what it felt like to have the world slowly crumble around you. The buzzing in his ears, the sweat gathering in his palms, his heart beating a mile per minute as if trying to outrun his own body, vision blurring at the edges, breath coming in uneven bursts, and the creeping numbness settling into his feet.
A panic attack, most people would call it.
He, at one point, had called that living.
It wasn’t an episode or a rare occurrence. It was a constant state of being. He woke up that way, he went to sleep that way. Sometimes he was asleep and still felt it coursing through him, because even his dreams refused to loosen the grip on his chest. There had never been a clean border between calm and crisis, never a moment sharp enough to mark where a panic attack began or ended, because the numbness and the anxiety were always there, threaded through his body like something permanent. What was later diagnosed as panic disorder had, for most of his life, simply felt like his baseline—his body’s most honest setting.
It had gotten better after playing with the Trojans. Not even Jean could lie to himself about that, no matter how often he avoided answering directly when his therapist gently pointed it out. Something had changed. Now, with a fragile but undeniable record of two weeks without a severe panic attack while awake, the difference was visible to anyone who knew him well enough to look. He still couldn’t sleep through the night, but his days had grown quieter, disturbed only occasionally by online articles and the murmured news that drifted across campus like unwelcome reminders of his past.
They were nearing the end of the fall tournament now. Their final match was only three days away, and it would be against none other than the Foxes.
Jean sighed at the thought. He wasn’t particularly anxious about playing with them, nor was he especially eager. The only face he found himself even mildly looking forward to seeing belonged to his dear old friend with the brightly colored hair.
Still, while Jean hovered somewhere between indifference and resignation, the rest of the team had begun to vibrate with restless energy. Catalina and Laila had taken to running laps around the park near the Lofts, trying and failing to outrun their nerves. Cody and Xavier, usually far more relaxed, had started seeking Jean out for advice more often than ever before, their expressions more serious than they had been at any point during the tournament.
But it wasn’t them who Jean was worried about.
Jean knew a panic attack like the back of his scarred hand. He knew the subtle shift in the air before one struck, the way his body would begin to tighten in preparation, the warning signs most people missed. He knew how it felt as it reached its peak and he knew the hollow, aching quiet that followed the comedown, when exhaustion settled deep into the bones.
So when he walked into the Lofts that afternoon after his painfully dull Finance class and found Jeremy Knox sitting cross-legged on the floor, absently playing with the little beast, Jean knew exactly what he was looking at.
To anyone else, it would have looked perfectly ordinary: a man spending a quiet Thursday afternoon with his dog. Jeremy scratched behind the beast’s ears, murmuring something under his breath, the picture of easy calm. But Jean had been watching his captain closely for days now, for months if he were being honest, and he could see the strain hiding underneath every movement.
This was the beginning of a panic attack.
It was there in the way the left corner of Jeremy’s smile pulled slightly higher than the right, just enough to look almost convincing but not quite natural. In the way only one dimple appeared, when usually both would surface when he was genuinely, unguardedly happy. In the darkening shadows beneath his eyes, more pronounced than Jean had ever seen them, as though sleep had not even been an option lately. In the restless rhythm of his free hand tapping insistently against the floor while the other scratched beneath Jabberwocky’s ear with almost exaggerated focus. In the large, empty coffee tumbler abandoned on the counter, which Jean was fairly certain was the third, maybe the fourth, of the day.
But maybe the clearest sign was the way Jeremy barely glanced up when Jean stepped inside and greeted him. Instead of meeting Jean’s eyes, Jeremy kept his focus on the beast, smiling down at him with that too-bright, carefully arranged smile. He spoke to the dog in an easy tone that might have fooled anyone that wasn’t Jean.
He stood there for a long moment, saying nothing, simply watching as Jeremy continued to act as though everything was perfectly fine, as though his body wasn’t already tightening in ways only someone intimately familiar with panic would recognize. After a while, Jean let out a heavy breath and forced himself to move, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it carefully on the hooks near the door before placing his shoes neatly on the rack.
The room felt strangely loud in its quiet.
Jabberwocky’s tail thumped enthusiastically against the wooden floor with every scratch of Jeremy’s fingers. Beneath it, softer but persistent, was the restless tapping of Jeremy’s other hand against the floorboards, drumming out a rhythm that didn’t quite match the dog’s excitement, as if he were trying to sync himself to something external to stay grounded.
Jean left them in the living room and retreated to the kitchen, already reaching for ingredients out of habit. He was fairly certain Jeremy had not eaten since yesterday afternoon’s practice; the coffee alone had told him that much. So he began assembling Jeremy’s favorite yogurt bowl, the simple mix of yogurt, banana, granola, and honey that Jeremy loved so much. Jean had made it once almost absentmindedly, but Jeremy had liked it so much that Jean had started making it again and again, until it quietly became something he always did for him.
He was cutting fruit on the wooden board when he glanced up, becoming briefly distracted by the sight of Jabberwocky rolling onto his back in the middle of the living room, happily wrestling with his dolphin plush.
Jean let his gaze drift across the room again and a quiet unease settled low in his chest.
His heartbeat faltered, then began to pick up speed just in time for him to catch the last glimpse of unruly golden hair disappearing around the corner of the hallway: Jeremy, slipping away to his room without a word, without even looking back.
Jean exhaled slowly through his nose, willing his pulse to calm down, forcing his hands to remain precise as he returned to the cutting board. He would make this one a big bowl. He would sit down with Jeremy and stay there until every last spoonful was gone, no matter how long it took, no matter how much coaxing it required.
He had just begun folding the banana slices carefully into the thick Greek yogurt when a loud thud echoed from down the hall.
Jean’s head snapped up so quickly his neck protested and within seconds he was moving past the living room, past the couch, into Jeremy’s bedroom. His eyes scanned frantically, but Jeremy wasn’t there and the bed was completely untouched.
Jabberwocky skittered anxiously around Jean’s legs, nails clicking against the floor in confused, worried circles, but Jean barely registered the movement. Then he heard it—a sharp, strangled gasp, muffled through the wall.
The bathroom.
Jean was already running before Jabberwocky completed another circle around his legs. He rounded the corner and shoved the door open hard enough that it slammed against the stopper with a crack.
Jeremy was perched on the closed toilet seat, folded in on himself so tightly he seemed smaller somehow, his entire body curled inward, head cradled between his hands as if trying to physically contain whatever was happening inside him. At his feet lay the shattered remains of the ceramic bowl Jean had made in class months ago, the one they used to keep their toothbrushes, now broken into jagged pieces scattered across the tile. Jeremy’s toothbrush had rolled into the sink, toothpaste smeared haphazardly where it had fallen, a streak of blue against the white porcelain.
Jean’s gaze dropped instantly to Jeremy’s bare feet, scanning for blood, for cuts, for anything worse than broken ceramic. Seeing none, he stepped forward anyway and knelt in front of him, placing both hands firmly on Jeremy’s shoulders.
“Jeremy, I need to know if you hurt yourself,” Jean insisted, his voice firm despite the tremor climbing up his body. He gave him a small shake, but Jeremy didn’t respond. He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t uncurl.
Jean was about to shake him again, more urgently this time, when he felt it—the violent trembling running through Jeremy’s frame beneath his palms. And as Jean forced himself to listen past the roaring in his own ears, the sound finally broke through: ragged, desperate panting, each breath dragged as though Jeremy were stuck underwater.
It felt as though something inside Jean cracked clean down the middle.
His gaze darted frantically around the bathroom once more, scanning for blood—on Jeremy’s hands, along his bare feet, across the exposed skin of his legs—searching for proof that this was only panic and not something worse. Finding none did little to calm him. After a second’s hesitation, he leaned closer and gently pried one of Jeremy’s hands loose from where it had been dug tightly into his knees, fingers stiff from the force of it. Jean pressed that trembling hand flat against his own chest.
“Here,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure Jeremy could hear him. “Feel this.”
Jean slowed his breathing on purpose, deep inhales that lifted his ribs beneath Jeremy’s palm and long, full exhales meant for Jeremy to follow. After the first breath, he started counting out loud in French, his voice low and even, the familiar rhythm of his mother tongue grounding in a way English never quite managed to be. He hoped desperately that somewhere through the rush of Jeremy’s ragged gasps, the sound would reach him.
They stayed like that for long, stretching minutes.
Jean reached thirty-five before he noticed the first change: the sharp, frantic panting beginning to space itself out. He reached fifty before Jeremy’s forehead shifted slightly, brushing against Jean’s arm as though he were finally registering the solid presence in front of him. By seventy, Jeremy’s head slowly lifted from where it had been buried, his movements heavy, as if surfacing from deep water.
Jeremy’s eyes had always been Jean’s favorite thing about him, followed closely by his real smile. Anyone else might have dismissed them as an ordinary brown, unremarkable and common, but Jean had never seen anything ordinary in them. There was usually a light there, a quiet brightness, as if Jeremy had been born beneath an unforgiving sun and stolen a fragment of its fire for himself, keeping it carefully behind his gaze. Somewhere between chocolate and caramel, warm and alive, they had a way of making Jean momentarily forget how to breathe whenever they fixed on him fully.
When Jeremy was tired or stressed, that spark would dim just slightly, enough for Jean to notice and immediately worry.
Now, it was as though the fire had been smothered entirely.
Jeremy’s eyes were open, but they were distant, unfocused. He was looking at Jean and yet not looking at him at all, his gaze sliding somewhere past his shoulder, caught in whatever storm was still raging inside his head. It was the same look Jean had seen in the mirror too many times to count, that awful place between here and somewhere else.
And Jean did not know how to reach him from there. He did not know how to pull him back the way Jeremy always seemed to pull him back, with steady hands, softer words, and that quiet certainty, as though he were guiding Jean across a narrow bridge only he could see, only he knew how to cross without falling.
Swallowing down the swell of helplessness rising in his throat, Jean lifted a hand and gently took Jeremy’s chin between his fingers, tilting his face upward just enough to inspect him properly. His eyes moved carefully over every inch of exposed skin, searching with clinical precision. He checked his jaw first, then the line of his throat, then the pale stretch of collarbone visible beneath the collar of the oversized T-shirt he wore. His fingers brushed lightly along the skin as he went, not lingering, just verifying that there was no blood, no fresh cuts, no swelling.
He could feel Jeremy’s stare on him the entire time, unblinking and heavy, but Jean refused to meet it yet. He needed to finish checking. Needed to be certain.
Only once he had inspected every visible place did he finally look back up.
Jeremy’s eyes were still clouded by whatever lingering fog panic had left behind, but there was something new there now, a small flicker of awareness. His gaze shifted slightly, tracking Jean’s movements a beat too slow, but tracking them nonetheless.
It was enough.
Jean pressed his lips together and took a moment to collect himself before rising to his feet, keeping hold of Jeremy’s hand the entire time. His fingers tightened just slightly as he stood, followed by a gentle pull so that Jeremy would move with him.
Jeremy followed without protest and without question, allowing himself to be drawn upright like there was no strength left in his own body, his weight shifting forward as if the simple act of standing required someone else to guide him through it.
When Jeremy stood up, Jean’s eyes caught on something lying in the corner of the bathroom. A phone had been discarded carelessly against the tile floor, its screen split with fresh cracks that had not been there that morning. Whether it had slipped from shaking hands or been thrown aside in frustration, Jean could not tell.
Instead of lingering on it, he tightened his hold on Jeremy’s hand and guided him out of the bathroom, leading him into the hallway and away from the shattered ceramic, away from the sharp remnants of what had just happened. The air outside the small tiled room felt different from before Jean had gone inside, and he immediately knew what to do.
Jean steered Jeremy toward the entrance of the apartment, slowing to a stop in front of the row of wall hooks that held his and Catalina’s jackets and helmets. For a brief moment a practical thought cut through everything else. He would need to text her. She and Laila would be back within the hour, and they would worry if they returned to find the apartment empty. That was something he could deal with later, just not now.
He reached for Catalina’s jacket and held it out to Jeremy. Jeremy accepted it without a word, slipping his arms into the sleeves with quiet compliance. The jacket pulled a little tight across his shoulders. Catalina was tall, but she was not quite built like Jeremy, and the sight of him standing there in someone else’s clothes stirred something small and painful in Jean’s chest. Still, it would do.
Jean’s gaze drifted past Jeremy’s shoulder and settled on Jabberwocky at the far end of the hallway. The dog had planted himself beside his bed, his head resting against the edge while one ear remained lifted and alert, his wide eyes tracking every movement with careful attention. When Jean met his gaze, the dog seemed to come to a quiet conclusion of his own. After a moment he huffed softly, burrowed deeper into the bed, and closed his eyes.
Jean swallowed down another sigh and reached for the small ceramic plate by the door where they kept their keys, the only piece Jeremy had made in class that had survived the kiln without cracking. He picked up the motorcycle key, then pushed the door open and stepped outside with Jeremy close behind him.
The late afternoon air brushed coolly against Jean’s face as the door shut. The walk to the parking lot passed in silence, their footsteps uneven against the pavement, Jeremy trailing close enough that Jean could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing behind him.
Only once he had fully settled onto the motorcycle did he turn to look at Jeremy, who had simply been standing there without speaking, watching as Jean adjusted the mirrors and checked the ignition out of habit.
“Come here,” Jean said softly.
Jeremy stepped forward at once. He leaned down slightly and Jean lifted the helmet and lowered it over his head, guiding it into place before adjusting the straps beneath his chin with careful fingers.
Jean held his breath as he worked, forcing his attention onto the buckle and the fit of the helmet, onto the small, precise movements of tightening and fastening, onto anything except the warmth of Jeremy standing so close and the faint brush of his knees against Jean’s thighs. Distraction was not an option. Neither he nor Catalina had ever taken Jeremy on the motorcycle before, and there was no room for mistakes. He checked the straps once, then again, and then a final time for good measure, making certain the helmet sat firmly and securely in place.
Only when he was completely satisfied did he lean back.
Jeremy didn’t move right away. He remained standing there, quiet and still, his gaze fixed on Jean as though searching his face for something. Perhaps reassurance. Perhaps some small sign that the ground beneath him had finally stopped shifting. Jean did not look away. He let Jeremy study him for as long as he needed, meeting his eyes without flinching and trying, in the only way he knew how, to be something solid for him to hold on to in that moment.
Eventually, Jeremy climbed on behind him.
It was only then that Jean realized he had not thought any of this through. His mind had not gone further than getting Jeremy out of the apartment, away from the bathroom and the broken ceramic, away from the suffocating stillness of those tiled walls. He had wanted air, movement, distance. In his urgency to help, he had forgotten everything else. He had forgotten himself and the carefully guarded feelings he carried for the man now settling onto the seat behind him.
His heart began to pound the moment Jeremy’s weight pressed in close and it nearly lost all sense of control when Jeremy’s hands came to rest against his waist.
Jean cleared his throat softly and reached down to catch Jeremy’s wrists, guiding his hands forward and drawing them tighter around his middle until there was no space left between them.
“Get comfortable,” Jean said through the mic, forcing calm into his voice despite the chaos rising in his chest. “I will be driving for a while.”
Jeremy did not answer, but he did not pull away either. His arms remained wrapped around Jean even after Jean released them so he could reach forward and take hold of the handlebars.
Jean drew in a slow breath before kickstarting the bike, easing it onto the road with careful control. At first Jeremy’s arms were tense around him, the grip rigid, but as the engine settled into a low hum and the noise of the city slowly began to thin behind them, that tension started to fade.
It took time, but eventually Jeremy’s body softened against his back, his hold no longer tight with panic, simply there. Only when Jean felt that quiet change did he allow himself to roll the throttle a little further, guiding them away from the crowded streets and toward the quieter edges of the city.
About fifteen minutes into the ride, while they were moving along a long and mostly empty stretch of road, Jeremy let out a deep breath through the mic. It came out as a long, unguarded sigh, the kind that seemed to empty something heavy from the chest. As the sound faded, his weight settled more fully against Jean’s back, and Jean had to swallow when he felt the side of Jeremy’s helmet rest gently against the nape of his neck.
The nerves in his body were momentarily smothered by the satisfaction of how Jeremy leaned into him without hesitation, likely watching the landscape blur past them while trusting Jean entirely to carry them to their destination.
Only then did Jean begin to relax.
He hadn’t realized how rigid he’d been—not just on the bike, but since the moment he stepped into the apartment that afternoon and saw that too-bright smile. The tension had wound itself tightly into his shoulders and refused to let go. Now, feeling Jeremy breathe evenly behind him, he allowed it to loosen, little by little.
They rode like that a while longer, the road bending and curving beneath them as Jean guided the motorcycle past the mountain ridge and down toward the secluded beach Catalina had shown him two weeks earlier. It had been empty then and, thankfully, it was empty now.
Jean brought the bike to a stop beneath a wide branched tree at the far edge of the sand, positioning it carefully so that it would catch at least a little shade from the stubborn California sun. It was nearly late November, yet the heat still clung to the air, the sky above them clear and bright as glass. The only real relief came from the constant breeze rolling in from the water, cooling the worst of the heat, even if Jean knew he would still find something to complain about later.
He removed his helmet and hooked it onto the handle before turning around.
Jeremy had already taken his off. He stood very still beside the motorcycle, holding the helmet loosely in both hands while he stared out across the open stretch of sand and the endless shimmer of the ocean. There was something unguarded in his expression, something almost childlike in the quiet surprise written across his face.
Jean leaned forward and gently took the helmet from Jeremy’s hands, hanging it beside his own. He lingered there for a moment, waiting until Jeremy had stepped fully away from the motorcycle before swinging his leg over and stepping down himself.
The moment Jean’s boots touched the ground, Jeremy began walking toward the shoreline. He shrugged Catalina’s jacket from his shoulders and let it hang loosely from one arm as he moved across the sand. Jean followed a few steps behind him without speaking, allowing the steady rhythm of the waves rolling against the shore to fill the silence between them.
They walked for a while like that. Jeremy’s gaze wandered as they moved, drifting up toward the hill behind the beach where Jean had driven them down, then across the long stretch of empty sand, and finally back toward the motorcycle, which had become a small dark shape glinting faintly beneath the tree. Once or twice his eyes flicked toward Jean as well, quick and quiet, checking that he was still there.
When Jeremy finally stopped, it was near the middle of the beach. He turned fully toward the ocean and stood there without moving, the wind tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt. From where they stood, the motorcycle behind them had shrunk to little more than a distant spark of black.
Jean slipped off his jacket, spreading it carefully across the sand before taking Jeremy’s from his hands without a word and laying it beside his own. Then he lowered himself onto the makeshift cover, bending his knees and leaning back on his palms as he tilted his head up to watch the few scattered clouds drifting lazily across the wide blue sky.
It was not long before Jeremy sat down beside him in much the same way, but while Jean looked upward, Jeremy faced the water, his attention fixed on the endless line where the sea met the sky.
Jean turned his head slightly and glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
There it was. That faint, familiar light returning to Jeremy’s gaze. The sun caught his eyes just right, warming them into that soft shade between caramel and brown, no longer dulled, no longer so distant.
Jean had stopped trying to hide the way he looked at Jeremy a long time ago, and he did not try to hide it now.
He let his gaze move openly between the sky and the side of Jeremy’s face, unashamed and unhurried. He watched the sunlight draw warmth back into Jeremy’s skin, the color returning in a soft flush across his cheeks. The freckles scattered over Jeremy’s nose and cheekbones seemed to deepen beneath the brightness, standing out darker against the faint pink warmth of his face, as though the sun had taken it upon itself to trace them one by one.
That was how Jeremy found him when he finally turned his head—Jean staring unabashedly at the bridge of his nose, quietly awed by the constellation of freckles gathered there as though he were discovering them for the first time.
Jeremy, much like Jean, had stopped caring about hiding the way he sought out Jean’s gaze. He held it with an ease that made Jean gulp and start reciting his mental list, while Jeremy leaned forward to rest the side of his face against his crossed arms, careful not to break their stare.
They stayed like that for a while. It was unimaginable to Jean that it could be possible to feel so comfortable just… looking at someone. There had been a time when he could barely meet anyone’s eyes while speaking, when eye contact felt like exposure, like stepping into open flame. And now there were these quiet stretches with Jeremy, where words became unnecessary and silence didn’t feel empty. They would just look at each other, unmoving, and somehow say everything that mattered without speaking at all. Jean could not imagine it ever feeling like this with anyone else.
Jeremy reached out absentmindedly and began toying with the loose thread at Jean’s knee, the same one Jean had been picking at for days now. Laila had already declared they needed to buy him a new pair of jeans, but none of them had the time nor the energy to commit to what everyone knew would turn into a long shopping trip if Laila was involved.
Jean let his gaze drop to Jeremy’s hand, watching his fingers twist the frayed thread slowly around themselves. He forced himself to stay perfectly still, even as warmth spread from the point of contact up through his leg, subtle but impossible to ignore. He was irrationally afraid that if he so much as shifted, Jeremy would pull away.
“I got another message from my brother,” Jeremy said quietly.
His voice sounded rough, like he had been crying for hours. Jean hadn’t seen any tears when he found him in the bathroom—no redness around his eyes, no dampness on his cheeks. Maybe the roughness came from holding them back instead.
Jean didn’t interrupt. He simply watched him, waiting, already understanding that he would need to piece together the rest himself. The way Jeremy had said brother, touched by something closer to sorrow than anger, made it clear which one he meant.
“It was last night,” Jeremy continued, his thumb still winding the thread tighter and tighter. “While I was locked inside my room pretending I was studying for the LSAT.” He let out a quiet sigh and glanced up, checking to see if Jean was still there, still listening. When he found him watching silently, he dropped his eyes again. “As soon as I left this morning, I got a text from my mother.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Somehow, that one was worse than Joshua’s.”
Jean frowned but didn’t cut in, sensing that if he stepped in too soon, Jeremy might retreat back into silence.
“And then, when I was in the bathroom, I got a message from Warren—”
His voice cracked on the name.
Jean leaned forward immediately, alarm flashing across his face. His hand lifted instinctively, hovering in the air between them as though he might somehow catch the words before they could wound Jeremy any further. But Jeremy wasn’t looking at him. He was staring down at his own hand, the one still holding the fragile thread at Jean’s knee.
The twisting had stopped, the thread hung motionless between his fingers, though he still held it carefully, like letting go might make everything unravel within him.
Jeremy drew in a shaky breath. Then another.
Jean saw the change then, written plainly in Jeremy’s eyes. For the first time that afternoon, they did not dim with distance or exhaustion. Instead they grew bright, the surface of them glossing over with something far more familiar. Not the fire Jean so loved, but tears.
Jeremy sniffed once, then again, almost impatiently, clearly irritated by his own reaction. He inhaled and exhaled carefully until the shine receded enough for him to speak again, though his voice carried a faint tremor that hadn’t been there before.
“It’s just… a lot,” he admitted. “All of this happening during championships is turning out to be more than I thought it would be.” He paused and swallowed before continuing. “And I really believed I could handle it. I still think I should be able to, but there are so many things that need my attention all at once, so many people who expect answers from me, so many games I should be reviewing.”
His fingers resumed their slow, absent twisting of the thread.
“It’s the rest of it that makes everything harder,” he went on quietly. “The unwanted baggage of my family. That is what turns it into something difficult.”
A heavy breath left him, and his shoulders sagged forward as though he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“You know,” he continued after a moment, his voice softer now, “this could be my second to last championship. And I cannot even enjoy it the way I should because of all these people who keep—”
“It is not.”
Jean cut him off, the words coming out sharper than he intended. The idea was so plainly wrong, so foolish, that he could not bear to hear Jeremy say it aloud, not while that faint shine still lingered in his eyes.
Jeremy’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening at the tone.
“It is not your second to last championship,” Jean repeated, his jaw aching from the way he had been clenching it while listening to Jeremy speak.
Jeremy’s expression shifted and the surprise faded, replaced by a quiet, almost weary kind of pity that seemed directed more at himself than at Jean. The look carried a trace of disbelief too, as though he thought Jean was only trying to offer him a small, comforting lie, something gentle enough to soften a truth Jeremy had already accepted.
So Jean continued speaking, unwilling to leave Jeremy alone with that thought for even a second longer.
“I will not let it be,” he said, pushing past the disbelief written plainly across Jeremy’s face, the words spoken with the quiet resolve of someone who had already decided that Jeremy Knox would not lose something so important while Jean still had any say in the matter.
“Jean— I—” Jeremy faltered, clearly unsure how to respond to a statement delivered with such blunt certainty.
Jean shook his head once. “No. Let me speak.”
There was no room for argument in his voice. He held Jeremy’s gaze until, after a second, Jeremy gave a small nod and dropped his eyes back to the loose thread at Jean’s knee. His fingers resumed their absent twisting, but he didn’t withdraw entirely; he kept looking up at Jean through his lashes in quiet, attentive intervals, while he waited for him to speak.
“I do not know what those people said,” Jean began. “And I do not need to know, unless you want to tell me. But what I need you to understand is that I do not have to hear their words to know they are wrong, completely wrong.”
His tone was calm, but there was no space in it for contradiction.
Jeremy was frowning now, confusion and resistance flickering across his face, yet he didn’t interrupt, so Jean continued.
“You are the best player in the league,” he said plainly. “And you are the best captain any of us could have hoped for. You could be doing half of what you are doing right now and we would still follow you into any final without hesitation. We would still win.”
His gaze did not waver from Jeremy’s face.
“Because that is who you are,” he went on. “And because we trust you. Every single one of us knows that, no matter what else is happening around you, you are always thinking about the team first.”
He let that sit for a second before pressing on. “But that’s the problem.”
Jeremy’s fingers stilled again at his knee.
“You’re doing everything to keep the team going,” Jean said, softer now, though no less firm. “You are holding everyone together, making sure nothing falls apart around you, but you are not holding yourself together.”
His gaze drifted briefly to the dark circles shadowing Jeremy’s eyes.
“You barely sleep,” he continued, the words factual rather than accusing. “You forget to drink water. You live on an absurd amount of coffee every day and the only time you eat is when someone places food in front of you and reminds you that you should.”
The wind shifted around them, lifting a faint spray of sand along the edges of their jackets before carrying it further down the beach.
“What is the point of all this work,” he went on after a moment, “of preparing the team for finals, of reviewing every game twice over, of carrying everyone else’s weight on your shoulders, if you forget that you also have to be well enough to stand there in the first place?” His gaze returned fully to Jeremy’s face. “The captain and best player on this team cannot afford to disappear in the process.”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before adding, more quietly, “Captain Jeremy Knox is nothing without Jeremy.”
The last words slipped into French without him meaning to, but Jean did not bother correcting himself afterward, he knew Jeremy would understand well enough.
For a long while, Jeremy said nothing.
He just looked at Jean.
His face gave little away, but something in his eyes shifted again. The emotion there wasn’t sharp enough to be anger, nor heavy enough to be sadness. It wasn’t stress either; it was something closer to self-reproach, a quiet kind of hurt turned inward.
That wasn’t what Jean had intended, so he spoke again.
“You are extraordinary, Jeremy,” he said, more gently this time. “You have gone above and beyond as a captain. You have done more than anyone could reasonably ask of you.”
His expression softened as he watched Jeremy stifle a ragged gasp. “We don’t need you to sacrifice yourself to prove anything. We just need you to take care of yourself too.” He hesitated only a moment, then added, “We care about you. Not the Captain of the Trojans. Not the title. You.”
Jeremy’s answer was so quiet it was almost lost to the wind, but they were close enough that Jean heard it.
“It just never feels like enough.”
His voice cracked at the end, and his eyes glossed over again. Jean felt panic rise in his chest. He rushed to speak before Jeremy could sink any deeper into that thought.
“You are,” Jean said immediately. “You are enough. You’ve always been. That’s why this team believes in you.”
“You do not have to prove yourself every single day,” he continued, more firmly now. “Not to the team, not to your family, not to the recruiters, not to anyone. The people who actually know you do not need to see you running yourself into the ground to understand who you are.”
The words kept coming, quicker now, pushed forward by the urgency tightening at his throat.
“You’re talented. You’re kind. You’re relentless in the best way. None of that disappears just because you rest. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to deserve your place. You don’t have to break yourself to be worthy.”
It was perhaps the most Jean had ever spoken without interruption in a conversation with him, but he found that he could not stop now, not when the words had been sitting in his chest for so long. Seeing Jeremy like this made something tight and heavy stir inside him, because the shape of it felt far too familiar.
A year ago, Jean might have looked at this and believed it was normal, might have assumed that this slow, silent unraveling was simply the way things were meant to be, the cost of carrying too much responsibility for too long. But now, watching it happen to Jeremy, it felt deeply, instinctively wrong, the sight of it striking too close to memories Jean had spent months trying not to revisit, memories of a darkness he had once believed was unavoidable.
And Jeremy, who carried so much light in him that people seemed to gravitate toward it without even realizing why, should never resemble those memories.
Someone who shone the way Jeremy did should never look like this.
Jeremy was staring at him again, but this time his face opened slowly into something that looked like shock, his pink lips parting just slightly and his eyes widening by degrees as though Jean’s words were hitting him one layer at a time. Jean did not look away; he could not afford to. He needed Jeremy to see that he meant every word, that there was no exaggeration in his voice, no softness born from pity, only truth laid bare between them.
From this close, Jean saw the exact instant Jeremy’s expression began to shift again, the sharp edge of his surprise gradually dissolving into something quieter and far more difficult to look at directly. Jeremy’s shoulders lowered as he exhaled, not with the brittle sharpness that had marked his breathing earlier but with a long, slow release, as though the air that had been sitting trapped in his lungs for weeks had only now been allowed to escape. His mouth closed, yet the corners of it lifted into a small, fragile smile. Even the faint tension along his jaw seemed to ease, and the early wash of sunset catching along the horizon cast a warm glow across his face, turning his brown eyes into bright caramel in the fading light.
The emotion in them, something warm and open and far too close to the quiet, aching adoration Jean had carried for him for longer than he cared to admit, made Jean’s breath catch before he could stop it. It was dangerously similar to the feeling burning in his own chest, and the realization of that likeness made it impossible to keep looking without risking far more than he intended to reveal. So before the moment could stretch any further, before Jeremy might see something in his face that Jean had never meant to show, he tore his gaze away and pushed himself to his feet.
He drew in a deep breath and extended his hand toward Jeremy, palm open, waiting. Jeremy was already watching him, so their eyes met again instantly, and Jean tried to memorize it all as Jeremy reached up and placed his hand in his—the way the sunset seemed to wrap around him, the way ease finally touched his features after weeks of strain, the way he reached instinctively for Jean without hesitation, as though taking that offered hand had never been a question at all.
Jean tried to quiet the violent rhythm of his heartbeat as he walked toward the shoreline with Jeremy’s hand clasped tightly in his. He made a pointed effort not to notice how perfectly Jeremy’s hand fit in his own—slightly smaller, thinner, softer, yet fitting as though it had always belonged there—and instead turned all his concentration toward preparing himself for what he was about to do. He could hear Jeremy’s breathing beside him, soft and even, and that became his anchor; it was easier to focus on the gentle rise and fall of that sound than on the way their palms touched. Keeping his attention there, he slipped off his shoes.
He heard Jeremy do the same, the faint scuff of soles against sand, but Jean kept his gaze fixed on the water as it rolled toward them and retreated again in endless motion. Under the sun it glittered, and perhaps if Jean had been someone shaped by different memories, someone untouched by what water had once meant, he might have called it beautiful without hesitation. Instead, the familiar chill crept over him, that quiet, suffocating cold that always came before fear settled in his chest.
Even so, he closed his eyes and drew in a breath, forcing himself to listen only to Jeremy’s soft exhale beside him, to the faint trace of that sweet but unmistakably masculine cologne drifting from Jeremy’s neck, a scent Jean knew by heart, and he stepped forward until the water touched his feet.
The cold struck instantly and he stood there for several long seconds, shivering despite himself, his grip around Jeremy’s hand tightening almost painfully. Jeremy responded without delay, squeezing back with quiet support, and Jean clung to that reaction as though it were something tangible. He dragged all his focus to the single point where their hands were joined, to the warmth pressed against his palm, to the rush of blood in his fingers as he squeezed Jeremy’s hand in return, choosing that warmth over the cold swirling around his ankles.
Already, Jean knew this was the longest he had let water touch him since… he could not even remember since when, only that it had been a lifetime ago. The realization lodged somewhere behind his ribs, and he swallowed hard as he drew in some careful breaths, trying to force down the bile that had climbed up his throat.
Then he felt it: a gentle tug on his hand. Jeremy was asking for his attention.
Jean turned to him slowly, keeping his eyes closed so he would not have to look down at the water curling around their ankles. Not yet, not while he was still balancing so carefully on the fragile edge of himself. Only when he was certain he was fully facing Jeremy did he allow his eyes to open.
The sight of him nearly stole the air from his lungs more violently than the cold had.
Jeremy was already looking at him, but instead of the worry Jean had braced himself for, there was that soft smile again, only now it had widened into something warmer, something brighter, finally beginning to resemble the familiar light Jeremy carried so effortlessly. The curve of it pulled gently at his cheeks, stretching the faint scatter of freckles across his skin, and the shifting light reflected from the water below them flickered across his face in restless patterns, catching in his eyes until they seemed to hold every last shard of the sun.
For a moment, Jean could only look at him.
Jeremy seemed almost impossibly radiant standing there, the wind stirring his hair and the last of the evening light gathering around him like it belonged there. He looked impossibly beautiful. He was the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen in his life.
And then, without breaking eye contact, without loosening their intertwined fingers, Jeremy said, his voice filled with something they both couldn’t quiet yet name, “Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here.”
He did not wait for Jean to respond. Perhaps he understood that Jean had been rendered momentarily incapable of speech. Perhaps he did not want to witness whatever that gratitude might stir up in Jean. Or perhaps he had simply said it because he needed to, without expecting anything in return.
Jeremy turned his face back to the horizon and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath of salt and wind before releasing it in a long, peaceful sigh, the same gentle smile lingering on his lips as the tide moved around them.
Jean kept looking at him, partly because he wanted to, partly because it was easier than wrestling with the ghosts of his past. Watching the slow rise and fall of Jeremy’s chest, he began to follow the same rhythm, keeping his eyes open so he could trace the exact pattern and timing of each inhale and exhale. Their hands gradually relaxed, the initial tightness easing, but their fingers remained laced together as though that was their most natural position in the world, as though neither of them were quite ready to stand alone against the darker corners of their own thoughts.
After a while, Jean allowed himself to turn forward as well, closing his eyes and continuing to match Jeremy’s breathing. The water still felt unfamiliar around his feet, cold and shifting, but the panic no longer clawed at him with the same force. He did not feel as though he were slipping out of himself anymore. Instead, he curled his toes into the wet sand, grounding himself in its grainy firmness, and squeezed Jeremy’s hand once, a quiet admission of I’m still here. Jeremy answered instantly with a gentle squeeze of his own, and Jean could not quite suppress the faint curve of a smile.
And they just simply stood there.
Like two sunflowers on the verge of withering, their heavy heads dipping on mirrored sides beneath the same fading light, each bending quietly and thinking they were doing it alone. Two sunflowers so close to collapse, yet by turning toward each other instead of away—by meeting in that shared, desperate tilt—they ended up saving one another.
Two sunflowers planted so near that their roots had long ago blended together beneath the soil, tangled in the same dark until there was no clear line where one ended and the other began. Two sunflowers so close that when one gathered even the smallest drop of water, the faintest trace of strength, it traveled through those intertwined roots and kept them both alive.
The tide moved in and out around their feet, and neither of them let go.
Not when the sun dipped lower.
Not when the air grew cooler.
Jeremy’s hand stayed warm in his, his breathing even, the earlier tremor nowhere to be found.
And Jean, who had spent years learning how to survive the dark, realized he would do anything to make sure Jeremy never had to face it alone.