Archive of Our Own

Jean Moreau has spent his entire life being punished for wanting. 

Years of abuse and torture told him that the price of wanting was not worth what would happen to him if someone found out. He wanted to play Exy, his parents sold him to the Moriyamas. He wanted his sister, she was sold off the same as he was but the difference between them is that Jean bears a body full of scars and Elodie is nothing but a memory. Jean wanted to bond with his team and prove himself worthy of their time and his newfound title, they took his sixteen-year-old body and tore it apart like wild animals. All because Riko told them to. Mindless puppets that exist only to fulfill his demented whims, to defile and destroy Jean. 

He didn’t even know that he wanted Kevin.

Riko figured it out before Jean ever could. The lingering looks, the softness in him that he swore he kept hidden, the way that Jean orbited Kevin like a lost and lonely moon doomed to circle a planet that could never love it back. So he took Jean and broke him every way he knew how. Blades, water, heat, rope, shoved him into some of the darkest parts of the Nest and left him there until he stopped crying out for help and then some. 

Jean was well-practiced in the art of not wanting anything at all. All desires were seen as some awful dark part of himself that corrupted everything once someone else could smell it on him. 

So wanting Jeremy Knox scares Jean in a way he could never properly express in one language or even frankenstein from the three he knows. There are no words that match the immediate fight or flight instinct kicking in when he is alone with Jeremy for too long or the captain initiates skinship, no matter how brief. He is a fly in a web, a mouse in a trap, a deer on a highway. No matter what he does, regardless of how much he struggles and tries to free himself, it’s a death sentence. 

Spending your entire life waiting for it to end, for the other shoe to drop, meant that Jean was desperate to squander the part of him that ached for Jeremy’s companionship. He wants to quiet his brain, assure it that they are just partners, like Jean and Zane had been before it soured, how Kevin and Riko had only been as children; before Riko was tied to the malice of his family name. But he knows that was a lie. 

Jeremy Knox has always been beautiful, been amazing at his sport, been a wonderful captain who valued teamwork over success, sportsmanship over a trophy. But now that Jean has actually been close to him outside the suffocating rage of the Ravens, he is utterly intoxicating and Jean could never take a sip from that fountain without losing everything. 

No matter how much he would love to taste it, it would kill him. 

So Jean returns to his only saving grace, his persistence to suffocate that part of him that wants anything at all. The Ravens had beat it out of him. He doesn’t do anything that won’t serve the deal Neil made with Ichirou. He has to play the sport he hates, on a team that doesn’t make any sense to him, and whatever he does, he cannot want Jeremy. 

But these fickle emotions stick like bubblegum in hair. You have to cut off the limb to stop it rotting. 

However, with this new team Jean is still trying to find his place in, his friends tend to pick up on the subtleties of his behaviour. 

“Why are you avoiding Jeremy?” Cat asks Jean one night. The question catches him so off-guard that he drops the vegetable peeler in the sink, alongside a half-peeled potato. 

Jean thumps a fist against his breastbone to conceal the way he chokes on his reply. “I’m not.” 

He can’t turn around. That would mean meeting her gaze, her prying brown eyes that can strip him layer by layer until he is just a small broken thing underneath her. She would be as gentle as she could be but she has clumsy hands and they might catch on the irregularities and the sharp points that make up his entire being. 

“Sure, and Laila’s hair is neon pink.” 

Carefully picking up the peeler and the potato, Jean gets back to work, hiding from Cat as best he can although he stands no more than three feet away from her. “I have not seen her since this morning,” he notes. “Jeremy does have a weird habit with hairdressers.” 

Cat just scoffs and playfully throws a wooden spoon at Jean’s back. It makes soft impact and clatters uselessly to the floor. “Stop being coy. I asked you a question. Why are you avoiding Jeremy?” 

“I’m not.” 

“That might work on Laila because she is a soft touch but I am not going to let you stew in your misery for fear of upsetting you. I’ve noticed, Laila has noticed, Cody has noticed, Jeremy has noticed, everyone is aware of how stilted and weird you’ve been about him lately. Did something happen?” 

Jean quickly shakes his head, the soft slight curls of his hair brush his ears. He drops the peeler again and runs a hand through it. Distaste curls his lip as he gives it a mild tug. “I need a haircut.” 

“Jean Moreau.”

“Catalina Alvarez,” Jean toys with her name, trying to mimic her tone, it comes out weird and almost robotic when he does it. 

“Has Jeremy done something to upset you?” 

Jean just shakes his head and drops his hand, wiping it on his apron. He still refuses to turn around, but he’s too scared to resume peeling the potato just in case Cat is triggered by movement like an angry bull and such a stretch would make her charge upon him. He has no strength to resist her, all he has is his back and the refusal to look her in her face when she gets like this for he will surely crack. “No, he wouldn’t.” 

He couldn’t burns on his tongue. 

“Well, not on purpose, of course. But he’s a guy and he’s uncoordinated at best when it comes to, ahem–” Jean can only imagine her gesturing vaguely behind him “--matters of the heart.” 

A chill runs up Jean’s back and he drops the potato too, turns on his heel, and stalks out of the kitchen like hell is on his heels. 

“Wha– Hey!” Cat squawks as she drops whatever she was holding and heads after him. “Jean!” 

He easily makes it to his bedroom and quickly shuts the door behind him. He stands there with a hand on the knob, the other on the door itself in case Cat tries to barge in after him. Although he knows she won’t, they don’t come into his room without permission, even if they’re mad at him. Safe spaces and all that. 

Cat knocks. “Jean,” she tries, “talk to me.” 

“Go away,” he says firmly. 

He knows that Cat has faltered slightly as her next words come softer. “I won’t until I know you’re okay.” 

“I’m okay.” 

Cat hums. “I should have clarified that I have to be convinced that you’re not lying to me. Would you lie to me Jean?” 

Biting his lip until he tastes metal, Jean tries to gauge his options. “No.” 

“Liar.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it with you,” he says. 

“Okay,” Cat says. “But something is up with you and I think you need to talk to someone.” 

“I have a therapist,” Jean reminds her. 

But Cat knows him too well by this point. “Will you tell her the truth?”

“About what?” 

He can hear Cat sigh on the other side of the wood. “Anything.” 

“I’ll try.” 

Although Cat doesn’t believe him, she says “okay” and returns to the kitchen. 

Jean doesn’t come out of his room until after Cat and Laila have gone to sleep. Expecting a quick and easy trip to the kitchen for something to eat since he sulked his way through mealtime, he is surprised to find the apartment not in complete darkness. Jeremy is sitting at the island, drenched in the yellow glow of only two of the three bulbs in the kitchen’s light fixture that hangs over his head. 

“Jeremy?” Jean asks. His question is no more than a whoosh, barely above a whisper as Jean tries to find the air in his lungs. He considers retreat but his feet are too heavy, like a fly in a glue trap—he’s stuck. 

“You need to change the lightbulb. It went out at dinner and these ceilings are too high for any of us to reach.” 

Jean knows he’s lying. “You could have stood on a chair.” 

“Maybe we just want to spend time with you.” 

Freezing, Jean laments his inability to turn his back on Jeremy. He is as good as bare under Jeremy’s burning brown eyes despite being fully dressed. His blue sweater is nothing when it comes to them. Jeremy has some weird tendency to crawl under Jean’s skin and find himself a place nestled in Jean’s ribs, cradling his jackrabbit heart. 

“Did Cat speak with you?” 

Jeremy shrugs and takes a sip from his mug. It is one with a very happy golden retriever on it holding a ball in his mouth, he’s no Barkbark Von Barkenstein but he is an acceptable substitute in the wake of Barkbark’s untimely cremation. “We talk all the time, you’ll have to be more specific.” 

Something about Jeremy’s tone stings. He sets the mug back on the counter and props his chin in his palm as he eyes Jean carefully. 

Jean just shrinks under his prying gaze and says nothing. 

“Jean,” Jeremy tries. 

Jean shakes his head. Jeremy lets out a heavy sigh and drops his hands into his lap, finally breaking eye contact. 

“Would you tell me if I have done something to upset you?” he asks as he slides off of the barstool and takes a few careful steps to close the distance between them. He stops a few steps away from Jean but if he reached out he would have no trouble closing the distance between them. But he nervously shifts his weight between his feed and flexes his fingers as if unsure of what to do with his hands. He has to duck his head to meet Jean’s downcast stare. “Jean?” 

Jean closes his eyes before he chokes, “you haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“Then why won’t you look at me?” 

Alarm bells are ringing in Jean’s head. Like there’s a tsunami warning and he needs to run to high ground or whisk being swept away and into the endless dark. Jeremy wouldn’t let him drown, he would try to save them both but nothing could convince Jean that he wouldn’t just drag Jeremy down with him. 

Death has its claws in Jean and won’t ever let go. His life hinges on a bargaining chip, and Jeremy has the whole world at his fingertips. If Jean doesn’t stomp out the flicker of heat they will both burn and Jeremy doesn’t deserve that. 

Opening his eyes, Jean takes a half-step back. “I’m going to bed.” 

Jeremy follows him that short distance, maintaining the closeness. “Without eating?” 

Jean makes some sort of strangled noise between a scoff and a whimper, and turns. “I’m not hungry.” 

Jean might not be the smartest guy in the world but he sure is stubborn. So he continues to ignore Jeremy as best as he can. He makes sure people see them together but he shuts down whenever Jeremy gets a bit too prying. He can tell it’s hurting Jeremy’s feelings but Jean knows he cannot have Jeremy in any meaningful way and escape with his life. 

It’s just one year and Jeremy graduates. Jean can make it that far. Sure, it throws a spanner in the works of their dynamic as a team in games but Jean tries to make sure that he doesn’t raise suspicions within the rest of the team. He needs to be Jeremy’s partner to them but keep Jeremy as far away as he can before the lack of distance makes him do something he will regret. 

So he still looks across the court for Jeremy at games, calls out to him as easy as breathing, and passes the ball to him. And Jeremy takes seven of his ten steps and launches the ball at the goal. It lights up red. 

That tips the score in their favour, 8-7. 

Surely with the bulk of this half to go, the Trojans can pull this off.

The coaches take the reset to sub out some players. Jean is still on the court for now and his veins are singing, he taps racquets with Laila as she heads for the goal. 

“Good pass!” she chirps. “Keep it up.” 

Jean nods and adjusts his grip on his racquet. 

The game continues easily, their opposition is good enough to keep the game interesting but not so much that it is a struggle for the Trojans to further their lead. Ananya scores two more goals, and Jeremy one. So when Jean gets the ball, he takes two steps, calls out to Jeremy and pivots his body in the way he knows will carry the ball as far as it needs to go. 

As the ball leaves Jean’s racquet, someone slams hard into Jean’s back and he goes sprawling. He hits his knees and his outstretched arms are all that keep him from smashing his face against the court floor but as soon as the fall is done, Jean realises his mouth is full of blood. Bittersweet metal and an acrid burn. 

No matter how gentle or careful he is, nothing prepares him to unclench his teeth. The new laceration in his tongue pulls against the movement of his teeth and there is not enough room in his mouth to hold all the blood that is pouring out of it. So he spits on the court and someone yells out. Jean’s head is spinning as he tries to assess the damage, but every movement of his tongue is met with splitting pain and more blood. It’s mixed with his saliva into a thick gooey mess that spills from his mouth. 

He’s making a huge mess.

“Jean—Jean, are you okay?” 

Jean’s ears are buzzing, he can’t even figure out where to start when it comes to replying so he just grunts. Jean tries to wipe a gloved hand across his mouth. Blood is still readily flowing so he doesn’t do much but spread it everywhere. 

There’s a comforting weight of a hand on Jean’s shoulder as he leans back to sit on the haunches and someone shoves a wad of tissues into his face. Davis is in front of him, holding the tissues in a gloved hand and someone speaks but the nurse’s lips don’t move.  “Jean, you’re shaking.”

Jean just greedily takes the tissues and starts to wipe his face. He’s covered in blood now and Davis is talking to him but it's just static buzzing like a detuned radio. He lets Davis open his mouth and he tries to stick his tongue out but doesn’t get it very far before a strained noise is torn from his throat. Davis pats some gauze to his tongue and shines his little penlight on it before his eyebrows pinch. 

The transition from court to nurse’s office to Rhemann’s car is a blur. Jean thinks that he might have passed out somewhere along the way, his stomach is turning and everything is so far away. He blinks and he’s lying across Rhemann’s backseat, his head situated in what is very clearly someone’s lap. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Jeremy is running a worried hand through Jean’s dark hair and scratching gently at his scalp. 

“Jean?” Jeremy asks when Jean tries to move. “Hold still.” 

Realising his cheek is covered in blood still oozing from his mouth, Jean sees that his head is pillowed by a grey hoodie soaked in red. It’s like waking up from an especially good nap with drool caked to your face and pillow but a hundred times worse because everything hurts and tastes like metal and Jean’s stomach is churning with every minute rattle of the car as Rhemann drives his rickety deathtrap. 

Jean mumbles something completely incoherent, barely aware of how swollen his tongue is, just completely unable to form words. 

“Jeez, you’re shivering.” 

That can’t possibly be good but they eventually pull up to the hospital and it takes both Rhemann and Jeremy to haul Jean out of the backseat. At some point along the way they give up on him walking in himself, and Rhemann ducks ahead of them and comes back out to the parking lot with a wheelchair. If it were any other day, Jean would refuse and argue until he was blue in the face but right now Jean’s bones are jelly and he’s about to collapse into a puddle of gelatin and sinew. 

The receptionist and waiting room and everything else with it is another blur. Jean can’t really pull anything into focus until he’s awkwardly clambering into a hospital bed and shrugging off what is left of his uniform, blood-soaked and stiff. 

Jeremy helps him into a hospital gown and wipes at Jean’s chin with another tissue, of which he seemingly has an endless supply. Maybe Rhemann keeps some in his car. The bleeding has slowed significantly so Jean just accepts the plastic container he is handed and holds it under his still dripping mouth. There’s coagulated blood under his tongue and between his gums and cheeks. They are sticky and thick and metallic.

A doctor comes in with a nurse and what Jean is only half-sure is a med student by their wide eyes and tight grip on a clipboard. The doctor looks at his tongue, pokes at it a bit, pulls a lamp closer and angles it to give him a better view. Eventually he sucks his teeth and says it will definitely need stitches and Jeremy’s alarmed “stitches? In his tongue?” does not go unheard by Jean. 

The process ends up being rather painless as the doctor injects his tongue with local anaesthetic and suddenly Jean is finding out that it’s really hard to maintain sticking his tongue out as far as he can when he can’t really feel it. The stitches don’t take long but Jeremy has to cross the small curtained-off room to Jean’s other side where he cannot see the sutures being placed. He looks a little pale as he sits by Jean and gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. 

They get out of the hospital at a conservative 2am with instructions that Jean is to eat soft food only, avoid spicy, acidic, or crunchy foods, and rinse his mouth with warm salt water after every meal. 

Jean often finds himself surprised that LA is so lively at night. There’s people on the streets walking in groups wearing big shoes and short outfits, laughing and talking as they go in their drunken stumbles. And Jean just sits in the backseat of Rhemann’s car with his forehead pressed to the window, feeling the vibrations all the way to his bones as his stomach protests every rattle and shake of the vehicle. 

They get back to the stadium and Rhemann easily parks his car next to Jeremy’s as the lot is completely empty otherwise. 

The three of them head inside and Jean, having had to put his bloody uniform back on to leave the hospital in something other than his underwear, heads straight for his locker and his clothes. Jeremy takes the bloodied clothes from Jean as he undresses and dumps the soiled fabric into one of the many hampers. Someone else will deal with it. 

As a true testament to how exhausted he is by this point, Jean doesn’t even bother to shower. He’s covered in dried blood that has clung to his every pore but he couldn’t care less. Blood loss and an adrenaline crash has him barely clinging to consciousness at this point. 

Rhemann guides them back out and locks up the stadium after them. He stays in the parking lot with his headlights on and music thrumming until Jeremy has pulled out onto the road and heading in the direction of the lofts. 

It’s been a long night. 

So Jeremy only protests weakly when Jean goes straight for his room without so much as a “good night”. 

It is a few weeks later that Jean is carefully picking up pistachio shells that Cat has left on the coffee table when his good mood shutters. 

He’s gotten used to Jeremy’s proclivities—or at least tries his best to pretend that he is. So it’s not a surprise that Jeremy comes in all giggly and cheeks dusted pink with stars in his impossibly deep eyes. 

It cannot possibly be a surprise because Jean had overheard Jeremy talking to Laila about his after dinner plans. And he’s a little more than tipsy so all Jean can assume is that it went well, despite how the mere thought burns like bile in the back of his throat. Everything about it makes Jean sick. 

Laila is the first to speak. “Tell me you didn’t drive here.”

Jeremy shrugs his shoulders and dumps his phone on the kitchen counter where it buzzes. “He dropped me off.”

“Jeremy.” 

“I couldn’t go home. Not like this.” He makes a sweeping gesture towards the three of them. “What have you guys been up to?” 

Sweeping more pistachio shells into his upturned hand, Jean stalks past Jeremy and into the kitchen, depositing Cat’s rubbish into the bin. 

“Movie night,” Cat says, waving Jeremy over. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Laila on the couch as her girlfriend plays with her hair. There’s clips littered throughout her curls and interesting combinations of braids and loops and knots of hair. Laila had really needed to do something with her hands. 

Jeremy’s phone buzzes again. He casts it a look and something dark and wholly unpleasant crosses his features but he looks away and in a flash the expression is gone. Like it never existed at all. 

“What movie?” Jeremy asks as he walks towards the living room. And past Jean, close enough that Jean once again is subjected to the whiff of another man’s cologne on Jeremy. This one is vile, too-sweet and syrupy. He wrinkles his nose. 

The thought of another man all over Jeremy, touching him and kissing him, exploring every inch of his skin. The envy makes Jean ill. Who was this man to be so privileged and to squander it? To touch Jeremy so tenderly and not give himself over to him completely, Jean would never waste a blessing like that. 

“May,” Cat replies, excitedly. 

“It’s awful,” Laila says. She gestures at Cat who is smiling radiantly. “She’s crazy, I don’t know why I’m in love with her.” 

That piques Jeremy’s interest. “What’s it about?” 

Trying to drown out his swirling mind, Jean butts in. “A girl who cuts people up and stitches them together to make a,” he pauses, “perfect companion.” 

Jeremy makes an exaggerated shiver. “That gives me the heebiejeebies. Are there no nice movies anymore?” 

“It’s rather compelling, actually,” Cat says, in passionate defense of her movie choice. Jean wasn’t the biggest fan of it but it was one of the few movies that caught his attention and spoke to some part of him that will always feel so deeply alien no matter where he is. 

Another buzz from the phone on the counter. 

“Are you going to check that?” Jean asks. 

Jeremy looks at him, then to the phone, and at the void in space above Jean’s left ear, somewhere far away. “Not tonight.”

Jean drops his gaze to the counter, unable to face Jeremy even as he fails to bite back the acidic, “it’s rude to leave people waiting” that tumbles from his mouth. He doesn’t need to look at Jeremy to know how he stiffens. 

Making a critical error, Jean lifts his head and takes in Jeremy in all of his low-lit glory. Big eyes and kiss-swollen lips, tousled blond hair in need of a touch up or at the very least, a hairbrush. 

Something sick stirs in Jean. Something vitriol-filled and desperate. Jealous. He wants to see Jeremy so undone only if he is the one privileged enough to tear him asunder. 

Opening his mouth to reply, Jeremy is cut off by Laila’s even interruption. “That’s a bit mean of you, Jean.” 

Jean refuses to look at anything or anyone. He instead focuses his eyes on the counter in front of him, the flecks in the laminate, the cold and unfeeling surface. And the thing is, he knows he’s being rude, being a major dick for no reason but still his blood is simmering below boiling and he needs to peel back his skin to cool down. 

Instead of standing his ground, Jean will always be the first to bare his neck in surrender, to turn over and expose his softest parts. “I’m sorry,” he says and bolts past Jeremy—and his awful stain of cologne—to his bedroom where he is quick to shut the door and retreat to his bed. 

No one follows him. That doesn’t make him any less sick. 

He wishes Riko was still around to beat the wanting out of him. It had never worked in the past but maybe he was close. A few more scars and minutes being unable to breathe might have done it, might still do it, might squash out the fire in his chest that lights up every time Jeremy is near and never really sleeps, even when he’s gone. 

Wanting Jeremy like he’s the last drops of water in a sweltering desert is doing nothing but making Jean suffer. Jeremy is so perfect, so impossible, so unreachable, Jean shouldn’t ache to drown him in touch by his dirtied hands. 

Avoiding Jeremy is a slippery slope. Or more of a sisyphean endeavour. He spends all his time pushing a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down to stop at Jeremy’s feet and suddenly they’re a hair’s breadth away. 

Jeremy scoops the ball up in his racquet and takes off with an airy laugh. Jean freezes for a second and hesitates about chasing him. It’s just practice, and if he hears Jeremy laugh again it will knock him to his knees. 

He gains his senses and follows Jeremy, almost catching up to him but not quite fast enough to stop him firing on the goal. Laila blocks the goal with her oversized racquet, flinging the ball back across the court and, thankfully, away from Jean. 

“What was that?” Laila calls out from her position, waving her arms at Jean. 

“I got distracted,” Jean offers lamely before chasing the action on the court. 

He doesn’t hear what she has to say in response.

The scrimmage eventually ends and they’re being sent to run drills. Jean is being hounded by Travis for more insight on being the best backliner in the game. There’s a prickle in the back of his neck. Maybe he’s coming down with something, maybe it’s just the buzzing gnat in his ear. 

He shouldn’t say that, Travis is nice enough and a mostly adequate backliner. 

He is flinging balls at the north wall of the court with Travis but Jean’s hard-won precision does kind of make it seem like he’s tormenting the kid. Jean is trying to unlearn the Ravens’ cruel ways but it takes a little more conscious effort on Jean’s part to not come across like a complete jerk. 

Thankfully, Travis doesn’t seem to notice and every missed catch on a rebound just fuels him to try harder. “I’m going to be as good as you, just you see,” he says. 

Jean makes an offended noise but doesn’t voice those words. “We will see.” It’s the closest thing to praise that he has available to him. The Ravens never rewarded success, just punished failure. And USC is the complete opposite. 

Shooting another ball at the court wall, Jean is grabbed rather abruptly by his shoulder. In his brief panic, he digs his elbow deep into the chest of whoever touched him without thinking first. 

“Oi!” Travis wheezes, a palm over his chest. “Sorry, Jean. It’s just that you have a nosebleed.” 

Jean lets go of his racquet with one hand and reaches up to his face. True to Travis’ words, the white fingers of his glove are smeared in blood. Now that Jean is aware of it, he can feel it running down his face, dripping onto his uniform, he looks down and there’s even a few drops on the court floor. 

Bringing his hand up to his face to cup it under his chin, Jean allows Travis to walk him off the court. As he and Travis make it to the court door they are met by Rhemann who takes one look at Jean and says “go see Nguyen.” 

Jean shakes his head. “I’m fine.” Rhemann just folds his arms across his chest and stares at Jean, clearly thinking about other options for his stubborn raven. 

Making a waving gesture towards himself, Rhemann says “come with me,” and guides Jean back towards the locker room. They walk past the doors to the showers and Rhemann opens his office door. 

“Come, sit,” he says.

Jean awkwardly ambles after him and takes a seat in a rickety chair in front of his coach’s desk, the one with the back up against the wall. Rhemann pulls a box of tissues and hands Jean a wad of them. Jean goes to grab them with his dirty hand but Rhemann just clicks his tongue and moves the tissues in the direction of his other. 

As soon as he’s holding the tissues at his face, Rhemann carefully takes his dirtied glove and undoes the velcro before tossing it on his desk. He makes Jean switch hands so he can take the other, before wriggling off his helmet. 

Refusing to look at his coach, Jean just locks his gaze on the trinkets on Rhemann’s desk. There’s a few of them but the one thing that catches Jean’s attention is a mug with a chip in the handle that says World’s Best Dad. 

Jean knows that Rhemann has no kids. But the older man eventually follows Jean’s eyes to his desk. “Cat bought that for me,” he says. 

“It’s broken,” Jean notes. 

“Ah,” Rhemann straightens up so that he is standing at full height instead of crouched down at Jean’s knees. “An unfortunate incident with the dishwasher. It’s still perfectly usable. I think if it ever breaks I’ll have to get Adi really into puzzles so he can glue it back together.” 

Jean doesn’t know what to say to that so he just diverts his gaze and offers a weak shrug of his shoulders. 

“Lean forward and pinch your nose,” Rhemann says. Jean is quick to comply. He will always be submissive, ready to give in at any moment. To crack, to crumble. 

Rhemann talks for a bit longer, and swaps out a bloodied mess of tissues for fresh ones before he ducks from the room with a promise of a quick return. Jean takes the time to just look around the room from his seat. The team pictures, the corkboard of various handwritten notes and even more photos. One of the notes is very clearly in Cat’s handwriting where it says “keep rocking”, Jean isn’t sure what that’s meant to mean. But he appreciates the familiarity of Cat’s messy scrawl. 

Rhemann comes back after about a minute, with a paper cup full of water in one hand and a granola bar in the other. He sets them both on his desk and turns to face Jean. “Is your nose still bleeding?” 

Removing his fingers and the wad of tissues from his face, Jean tentatively wipes at his face with a fresh tissue that Rhemann seems to be producing out of thin air and the white is marred only by a light streak of mostly dried blood. 

“Good, good.” Rhemann hands Jean the cup of water and he takes a careful sip. The water tastes faintly like metal from the blood on his lips. He swallows and Rhemann moves to swap the cup for the granola bar. “Have something to eat, it’ll make you feel better.” 

Staring down at his coach’s hand and the bar he’s holding, Jean starts to feel sick. His stomach is roiling with an uneasy simmer, nausea clinging like a film in his mouth. 

He shakes his head. “I feel ill.” 

Rhemann pauses for a moment before placing the bar in Jean’s lap. “Take it anyway. For later.”

Jean just nods and stares at the offending bar. His mind is in a whir, trying to cope with the idea of eating it. It’s supposed to be healthy but the idea just makes Jean more uneasy. He pockets it and offers his coach a meek “thank you” before Rhemann pats him on the knee. 

Like begging a dog onto a couch, the gesture seems to beckon the team to parading the halls towards the locker rooms. Practice must be over judging by the noise level, and Jean starts to feel very exposed. 

“Go shower up and head home. You were good today,” Rhemann says as he straightens up and goes to open the door to his office. Jean just skulks out after him and beelines for the showers. Anything to get the residual blood off of him. 

Jeremy drives their entire little group home after practice. Jean curls up in the passenger seat while the girls talk animatedly in the back. The granola bar weighs heavily in his pocket and he considers just dropping it in Jeremy’s cup holder for the man to find at a later date and think his past self was looking out for him. 

Exhaustion clings to Jean more intensely than usual and he almost drifts off at one point in the ride. Jeremy is tapping his fingers on his steering wheel along to the radio. It’s a song Jean doesn’t know or at least never cared to listen to. Music is a bit of a blur to him, he’s never really had the time nor care to get into it. There was no space for hobbies in the Nest. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Jeremy asks and Jean doesn’t have to look up to know that Jeremy is casting his big brown eyes over to him, full of worry, full of something else Jean cannot place. 

“You worry is misplaced,” Jean replies as neutrally as he can muster. As detached as he was in the Nest. Emotions have no place here, not in Jean, not within the walls he’s spent a lifetime building to keep everyone else. “It was just a bit of blood.” 

But Jeremy is intent to either scale these walls or bring them crumbling with the force of friendship alone. Jean can already see the cracks. “Still, I worry about you, Jean.” 

Jean just grunts in response and trains his eyes on the passing city as Jeremy drives. He tries to tune in on what Cat and Laila are talking about but everything is a static hum, there’s a rock in his gut growing heavier and heavier. 

If he moves wrong his bones will split his skin. 

Without walls, Jean’s broken edges would surely also hurt the people he cares about. He never had to worry in the Nest, Kevin was untouchable, but there’s something deeper in California, something Jean doesn’t know what to do with. 

The ride from the stadium to the lofts is not long so it’s only a matter of time before Jeremy is pulling into a parking space and turning off the headlights and putting up the handbrake. Jean is already half out of the door when Jeremy leans after him and asks, “Jean, can I talk to you?” 

Feigning not to hear, Jean stands up straight and shuts the door, heading straight for the entrance. Jeremy is quick to follow. 

“Jean.” 

His steps falter. 

“Can I talk to you?” 

He turns. Nothing could prepare him for the shrouded, small look on Jeremy’s face. Like reaching out to Jean is to grasp onto a ghost. 

Jeremy takes a few steps forward until he’s an arms-length away from Jean and he opens his mouth and closes it, unable to find the word. He reaches for Jean just his hand stops a few inches from contact and he retreats. “I just–” he lets out a huff. “It’s hard to talk about but we need to figure it out.” 

And Jean knows what’s coming. Weeks of avoidance, of petty jabs, of nothingness between them. He stiffens as he prepares for the blow that Jeremy would never cast. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Jean's response is too quick, “No.”

With a small flinch at Jean’s tone, Jeremy tries again, “Have I done something wrong?” 

This one gives Jean pause. “No.” 

“Then why won’t you look at me?” 

“I am looking at you.” 

Jeremy makes a fist as he takes a shaky breath, and Jean watches it tremble. “I mean really look at me.”

Jean will always submit and defer to any orders given so he looks up, looks at Jeremy’s face, at the pain stored in the crease of his eyebrows or the downturn of his lip. All of a sudden, there’s no air in Jean’s lungs. 

“What did I do wrong, Jean?” Jeremy asks. “Please, you’re my friend and I want to fix this.” 

Friend. There’s the burn. Because Jeremy has done nothing wrong and it’s Jean who is out of line. To want is to suffer. To have is to lose. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Jeremy’s frown deepens. “Then tell me what’s on your mind. I know something is.” 

I want. I want. I want. 

I want you. 

“Just promise me you won’t hate me,” Jean pleads with his waning strength. He takes a half-step closer to Jeremy and the striker doesn’t back down.

Jeremy freezes a little as he hesitates. “I could never hate you.” 

With a soft exhale, Jean gently brings up his hands and cradles Jeremy’s face like he’s a dandelion that must be protected from the wind–so impossibly fragile, so wholly loved–and he kisses him. 

It’s a feather-weight, just a slight brush before Jean dares to deepen it. This lasts for a whole five seconds before Jean realises Jeremy is as still as bone under him. He’s not even breathing. 

Quickly, Jean pulls away, drops his hands and turns. He sets off towards the stairs that will take him up to the lofts where he can bury his head and never emerge. Jeremy calls after him but Jean knows if he stops now he will die here. 

There are few things more disorienting than waking from unconsciousness. 

Jean is an expert when it comes to passing out, whether it be from a hard blow or a brain starved of oxygen, so he has some sort of reference when it comes time for him to open his eyes against a skull splitting headache. 

Concussion, he assumes. Wouldn’t be his first. 

“Jean?”

All he can manage is a groan.

“He’s waking up!” The voice is awfully grating on Jean’s ears. “Jean, can you hear me?”

With a tongue as strong as slushed ice, Jean manages to speak, “Where am I?”

“Library.”

That means the irritating voice is Tanner. Jean lifts a hand to his head to poke at his temple only to find a sticky wetness and bloodied fingers. 

“Careful,” Tanner says, gently guiding Jean’s hand away from his wound. “You clipped your head on the desk when you went down. Like, bad. You were only out for like 30 seconds but jeez, man. Scared the life outta me.” 

Jean just groans again as his pulsing head throbs with every syllable out of Tanner’s mouth. He’s a bit of a nervous rambler. Closing his eyes for a few more moments of peace, Jean finds himself being roughly shaken before he can even take a breath.

“No sleeping.”

Muttering something truly foul in French, Jean opens his eyes again. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

“I don’t care. I have to make sure you don’t die.” 

Feeling spiteful in his clouded head, Jean shuts his eyes. “You talk too much.”

Surprisingly, Tanner lets him continue lying there as long as he makes some kind of noise when Tanner intermittently pokes him. Signs of life and all that. 

“Do you feel like you can sit up?” A new voice asks and Jean’s heart thumps warmly at its presence. Jeremy. 

The warmth turns sour as Jean is reminded that he’s been hellbent on avoiding Jeremy since he kissed him two weeks ago. Every interaction between them has been stilted and distant, Jean unrelentingly cutting down every slat of the bridge Jeremy tries to build in the growing gap between them.

Opening his eyes reveals both Jeremy and Tanner hovering over him. Jean’s ears go hot. “I can sit.” 

He doesn’t ask for Jeremy’s help but the captain takes his hand and helps him to pull himself upright. Jean tilts dangerously to the side and Jeremy is quick to stop him from falling. 

“Woah, steady. You good?”

Any attempt at finding words is like fishing in alphabet soup and Jean comes out with a half-baked affirmative noise. He rests his head on his knees and stares at Jeremy’s feet as he wraps an arm around his legs. One of Jeremy’s socks is red and the other is blue stripes. 

“Your socks don’t match,” Jean mumbles.

“Huh? Oh, I guess they don’t,” Jeremy replies as he crouches in front of Jean. “How’s your head?” 

Jean runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth as his stomach threatens to tip. “Hurts.”

“I bet. You’re covered in blood.” 

“It’s all in the carpet,” Tanner adds unhelpfully. 

As if his very existence is to spite Jean, Jeremy pulls his USC hoodie over his head and presses it to Jean’s temple. The sting of the fabric against his wound makes Jean hiss and pull away. 

Jeremy just patiently follows his motion. He says, “USC can afford to get it cleaned. Don’t stress.” 

That’s when Jean finally takes in that there’s a bunch of students gawking at him. He doesn’t know how he looks but judging by the turn of Jeremy’s lips, it’s not good. Feeling a bit woozy, Jean puts his chin back on his knees and closes his eyes, focusing on breathing through his mouth before he upends his stomach on Jeremy’s mismatched socks. 

Eventually Jean takes over the task of holding the hoodie to his head, as he becomes less disoriented waiting for the ambulance. The ambulance that Jean had insisted he did not need, but his uncooperativeness was quickly filed away as Jeremy started texting on his phone and Tanner had a class to get to. 

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Jean protests once again. It didn’t change Jeremy’s mind the last twelve times he said it but maybe thirteen is Jean’s lucky number.

“Too bad, you’re getting one.” 

Trying to pull another angle to get out of it, Jean says, “We have practice in three hours.” 

Jeremy doesn’t look up from his phone, he has a crease between his eyebrows. “You don’t. None of the coaches will let you within fifty feet of a court until you’re medically cleared.” 

“Can’t one of the nurses clear me?” 

“You hit your head and lost consciousness. You probably need stitches. You’re lucky if they don’t keep you overnight for observation. Cat had to last year, and she insisted that Laila go home. I had to hide her car keys to stop her speeding over there at 3am because she was worried.”

This coldness to Jeremy made Jean’s ribs too tight but there’s nothing he could do to mend it. He’s the one who caught feelings, who started to ice out Jeremy, to think he would be allowed to kiss him despite that. It’s all Jean’s fault that now he gets a shiver.

Jeremy doesn’t ride with Jean in the ambulance. It’s only because Jean kept shutting him down whenever he offered. There’s still a part of Jean that is an open wound left to fester and he knows if he were to sit with Jeremy in the hospital for hours or even—god forbid—overnight, Jeremy would bring up the kiss. 

Stubbornness is a trait Jean picked up from Kevin, alongside the inability to be vulnerable with anyone. The key difference between them is that if cornered, Jean would always surrender, and Kevin would chew off his own leg to escape. 

So with a reluctant heart, Jean texts Jeremy and asks if he will come and pick him up from the hospital and take him home. Laila is still out of a car and Jean didn’t need to consult with his doctor that riding pillion on Cat’s motorcycle would be a bad idea. Even with a helmet. 

Jean waits at the pick up bay outside the emergency room with Jeremy’s bloody hoodie tucked under one arm, and a print out of care instructions in the other hand. 

He ended up with six staples in his scalp instead of stitches but his hair is forming into large clumps of tangles and dried blood. And the piece of paper he’s holding says to wait 48 hours before washing his hair and even then he can only use a mild detergent.

The chill of the late night/early morning air on his skin makes Jean tremble. His t-shirt is stiff and Jeremy’s hoodie is soaked through. So Jean lets himself feel some inkling of relief when Jeremy pulls up at his feet and cuts the radio. 

Hesitating for the briefest second, Jean has to swallow his pride and open the door. 

As he climbs into Jeremy’s warm car and buckles himself in, he has the urge to apologise to Jeremy. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Jeremy replies as he flicks on his indicator and heads towards one of the exit gates. “You’re my friend. If you need anything, I’m here.” 

Unable to find a response that seems satisfactory, Jean just leans his elbow on the window and props his head up in his palm, content to watch the city slip by in a blur of artificial light. 

Jeremy pulls the car to a slow stop and red light soaks into Jeremy’s front seat. Jean looks at the car’s clock. 2:57am in the dashboard and the guillotine falls and severs Jean’s spine at the neck. 

“You don’t have to say anything in response, but I want to tell you that I’m not mad at you,” Jeremy starts. “It’s okay that you kissed me.” 

Jean most certainly does not want to be having this conversation right now. His head feels like a coconut that has been smashed into a rock until it finally split open and spilt its guts. He contemplates opening his door and flinging himself into the non-existent 3am traffic just to get out of it. 

The light is still red.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Jean says. 

“I know you don’t.” Jeremy lets out a restless sigh and he starts tapping his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. “But sometimes we have to do things that are hard.”

Jean adamantly stays silent. 

“Is that why you’ve been distant lately?” 

The light is still red.

“It would be okay,” Jeremy pauses. The light goes green but the car doesn’t move. “If you wanted to kiss again. If I promise not to freeze up?” He lets out an awkward breathless laugh before sinking back into silence and the car rolls forward. 

Jean’s soft “okay” is lost in the rumbling of the car’s engine. 

They pass the rest of the drive in silence, the night’s breeze says enough for the two of them. 

It isn’t until Jeremy pulls up to the lofts’ carpark that he speaks. “Do you want a hand getting up? I’m not sure you should take the stairs alone.” 

The entire trek up to their floor sees Jeremy always touching Jean. A ghost of a hand on his shoulder, fingers intertwined, or a weight-bearing shoulder. And they make it up in more or less two pieces. 

Stairs are not easy but Jeremy makes them bearable as he tugs Jean along with him. If Jean had been alone he probably would have given up by the first landing and slept there for the night. So it’s probably good that he didn’t brush off Jeremy’s offer. 

The avoidance is a hard pattern to break if he wants to keep his heart caged, but here in the fluorescent light and feet too heavy on the metal steps it is easy to pretend that there could never be anything sour between them. 

Jean slips his hand out of Jeremy’s as they’re about to start the third and final flight of stairs. He grips the railing in both hands and tries to pretend he’s not about to topple. 

Screwing his eyes shut and trying to take measured breaths is less helpful against the onslaught of vertigo than Jeremy’s careful touch on his shoulder. 

“You good?” he asks in a soft voice. 

“Mmhmm,” Jean’s insides are a mess. “Dizzy.” 

“Okay, do you want to take a break?” 

Jean nods. “Please.” 

He lets Jeremy guide him to sitting on the stair landing, pulsing head in between his knees. Jeremy rubs his back and waits. 

Sitting there for a bit, Jean finds the strength to speak. “I’m sorry for kissing you,” he says. 

Jeremy just makes a neutral sort of noise. An acknowledgment without opinion. Jeremy’s innate ability to mask any and all emotions he has is a trait that drives Jean crazy on the best of days. 

“You can kiss me again,” Jeremy finally replies, “if you would like.” 

And the thing is, Jean would like that very much, but his head is a whirlwind blur like he’s been caught up in a tornado and right in the eye of the storm is Jeremy’s knuckles tracing the notches of his spine through his too-thin shirt. So he really doesn’t know what to say. No one had ever given him such an open-ended offer. He was so used to wanting and being punished for the act of desire, that he didn’t know that this was even an option for a person like him. Like he’s not been cursed since birth and Jeremy isn’t some descended angel to test his weak points and send him scurrying back to the Nest where the ravens would surely tear him limb from limb. 

This time Jeremy can actually hear his answer. 

“Please.” 

He lifts his head to gauge Jeremy’s reaction, his wide eyes, gently parted lips, and a dusting of pink on his tanned skin. 

Jeremy makes the first move. He lifts a hand to tilt Jean’s chin up with a soft grip on his jaw, and he almost completely closes the distance between them. They hover in a moment of hesitation and Jean can feel the brush of Jeremy’s breath on his lips when he asks, “are you sure this is okay?” 

Jean nods his head, unable to find any sort of answer that seems satisfactory. So he closes his eyes and lets Jeremy bridge the gap. 

It’s tender, like the brush of a breeze on flower petals. Enough to disturb them but never destroy. Jeremy smells like his usual cologne, sweet and musky, as he brings up a hand to hold the back of Jean’s head. 

He can’t help the keening noise he makes in the back of his throat as Jeremy deepens the kiss. The striker freezes and pulls back. “Are you okay?” he asks. 

“I am,” Jean says, breath tangling in his throat as he tries to remember every detail of this moment. “Please continue.” 

With a soft laugh deep in his chest, Jeremy kisses him again. 

He’s so warm. 

Jean’s life has always been cold. He’s never had something like this, and something like this wouldn’t have been possible if he had never come to California. He had been dragged almost kicking and screaming to the sunshine state and even further from the Nest and the death waiting there that Jean thought he had deserved. 

Maybe he owes Renee another thank you for dropping everything on the night Riko tried to kill him and rushing to his rescue. He had harboured resentment towards her for it, but the further he is away from the Nest, the more grateful he becomes to know that he didn’t die there. 

The world tilts dangerously and Jean pulls away from Jeremy, placing a palm on his captain’s chest. He can feel his pulse, matching his own racing heart. 

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks again with his wide worried eyes. He is breathing a little heavily as he brings up a hand to cradle Jean’s cheek. 

“I, um,” Jean pauses. “I need to lie down.” 

Needing nothing more to get the ball rolling, Jeremy helps Jean to his feet and they make the trek up the last flight of stairs easily. Jeremy pulls out his spare key to his friends’ apartment but as he’s about to stick it in the keyhole, the door falls inwards to reveal the one and only Catalina Alvarez standing in the threshold. 

Jeremy narrowly avoids being shoved out of the way by taking a step back and letting her go careening into Jean, wrapping her arms around his midsection. “My baby Jean!” she howls. “How’s your head?” 

Jean makes a noise that sounds something like “save me” and Jeremy butts in with his authoritative captain voice. “Be careful with him, Cat. He’s fragile.”

Pulling back, Cat looks up at Jean’s face with her own saucer eyes. “Do they know why you fainted?” 

With a choked breath, Jean manages to squeeze out of Cat’s hold. “Low blood sugar,” he says carefully. 

“That’s because you didn’t have breakfast. I thought you had lunch before your period in the library.” She gives him a playful shove. 

“Ran out of time,” Jean says. 

Not entirely content with his answer, Cat drags him inside. “You need to eat something.” 

Jean makes a face and Jeremy wants to save him but it would do him good to see Jean eat. 

Despite protests about how uneasy his stomach is from the blow to his head, Cat makes him a very simple dinner of buttered toast and ginger ale. “My mom would always give this to us when we were nauseous but needed to eat something anyways.” 

After losing a staring competition with the toast, Jean gives in and takes a few meager bites. It is cold and soggy by now which makes it even less appealing. He makes it halfway through one slice before his stomach finally has had enough of his antics for one day. A few painful cramps and he’s running to the kitchen sink where he promptly throws up all the toast he managed. The ginger ale burns in his nose on its way back up. 

Cat makes a cooing noise as she comes over to rub Jean’s back. “Oh dear,” she says. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean whimpers as he heaves again. 

“It’s okay, I’ll clean up and you can go to bed.” 

Once he seems to be done vomiting, Jeremy guides him to his bedroom and helps him strip out of his gross clothes, which involves peeling blood-soaked clothes off of his skin where they have dried stuck. He leaves the room while Jean hunts in his drawers for something to wear to bed and by the time he’s in just boxers and a t-shirt, Jeremy comes back and sets a drink bottle and a small handful of pills on the nightstand. 

“I don’t want those,” Jean says a little too snippily. 

Jeremy gestures at two of the pills. “Pain relief.” He points at the last one. “Anti-nausea.” 

Jean just stares at him. 

“You don’t have to take them,” Jeremy says, “but they would make you feel better.” 

When Jeremy leaves the room with a bid goodnight, Jean finally sits on his bed and pulls the covers up over his legs. He stares at the pills and the wastebasket by his bed and chooses to roll over and ignore both of them. 

Concussion care is only easy in theory. 

In reality, Jean has thrown up every attempt at solid food in the past two days and Jeremy is sitting on the end of Jean’s bed with his newest trial. Crackers. 

“No,” Jean says as Jeremy opens the foil packet and sits them in front of Jean. 

“You have to eat something.”

Jean shakes his head. “I’ll just vomit again.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line as he considers it, a second passes and Jeremy nudges the packet closer. “Please?” 

“Jeremy…” Jean starts. 

Jeremy shakes his head. “If you don’t manage to eat anything today you’ll have to go back to the hospital. I’ve already deferred Davis as long as I can.”

With a stubborn huff, Jean leans forward and grabs the packet. He doesn’t exactly want to eat anything right now, but he wants to go to the hospital even less. Jeremy is easier to convince that he is okay. He places a cracker on his tongue and closes his mouth. 

“Thank you,” Jeremy says. 

As soon as the salt dissolves and the cracker starts to get soggy, Jean considers biting into it but his stomach rests uneasily and his throat goes tight at the thought. Not today. Jean pulls out the cracker and dumps it into the wastebasket beside his bed that he’s been on-and-off dumping his guts into for a few days. Thankfully nursemaid Jeremy has emptied it more than a few times. Even then the room is thick with the smell of bile. 

“Jean—” 

Jean shakes his head. “Maybe later.” 

Later comes and since he’s made it through today without throwing up yet, he concedes to Jeremy’s cracker plan. He eats half of the packet. Actually eating every second cracker, but licking the salt off of the others. It’s as good of a compromise as any and Jeremy seems to take it on the chin. 

When the sun goes down and Jean’s room gets dark enough to bear with his splitting skull, he finds himself pulled into lying down, head in Jeremy’s lap. Jeremy plays with his hair while texting on his phone but he’s careful not to touch the staples. 

At some point Jean tips his head up to look at Jeremy’s face in the dim blue light from his phone screen. His expression is overly blank, indicating that his correspondence is unpleasant; likely his family. 

“Problem?” Jean asks.

Jeremy looks down at him and his face is washed over with a smile Jean doesn’t believe in for a second. “No problem.” 

“Okay,” Jean amends, putting his head back down. Smushing his cheek into the denim of Jeremy’s jeans. 

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Jeremy asks after a few beats of silence. 

Jean shakes his head. “Just wanna lie here.” 

Making a pleased sort of noise, Jeremy returns to playing with Jean’s hair. And if they fall asleep there it is no one’s business but their own. 

Jeremy ends up hurtling even further out of his mother’s good graces. His phone goes off at 2am and jolts Jean very painfully into wakefulness. Jeremy fumbles around in the dark for his phone with repeated “sorry, sorry, sorry”s while Jean grips his tender head. 

“Hello?” Jeremy says once he finally grabs his phone and brings it to his ear. His voice is still thick with sleep. “Hi, mom.” 

Jean can only imagine Mathilda Wilshire on the other line, poised like a cobra to strike. She has always been an awfully unpleasant woman and she keeps Jeremy on a very short leash these days. He’s been testing her resolve by coming earlier and leaving later from the lofts as he helps with Jean’s babysitting duty. His mother had been amicable for most of it, but still demanded he come home to the cold house to sleep. And Jeremy had just broken that rule. 

“Yes, yes, mom. I fell asleep, everything is fine.” Jeremy gets up and clambers around in the dark, grabbing his backpack off the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. There’s a jingle in the abyss as he finds his keys where he left them on the dresser. “I’m heading home now.”

Finally satisfied, Mathilda hangs up on Jeremy. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief for the reprieve from her scolding. “I’m sorry, Jean,” he says. “Go back to sleep, I’ll see you after practice in the morning. Okay?"

“Will you be alright?” Jean asks and he has to pretend that he cannot perfectly see in his mind the way Jeremy’s face drops. 

“I’m always alright,” he promises. “Just mom drama.”

Jean pretends to believe him. 

Dating Jeremy Knox is a lot like being partners with him. 

And no, that does not say anything about Jean’s clouded ideas when it came to being partners with Jeremy in the first place. He was used to wanting, but never having. He never had Kevin, all he had was the Nest. 

Here in the bones and discard of what the Nest has become and how it has clung to Jean despite everything, he has not found himself wanting it back.

So there isn’t a cosmic shift when they stop being just-friends and move onto something deeper, something more. 

Jeremy is happy to keep things minimal, just a brush of fingers, or a kiss to the temple as Jean spends two weeks recovering from his concussion. Now Jeremy will walk in front of Jean by a half-step in the middle of campus under the noon sun and extend his hand in silent offering. Jean doesn’t always take it but finds that he is starting to more and more as the days pass. 

But there’s an undercurrent that Jean tries to dodge as best he can but he keeps tripping over it.

Jeremy knows that Jean is struggling more when it comes to eating. He avoids mealtimes and claims to eat at times when no one can vouch for him because he would be alone. He’s got a bruise on his tailbone from doing situps in his room until the earth tilts. 

So obviously with the sudden resurgence in closeness with Jeremy brings his watchful eyes down on Jean. Jeremy is never one to make a scene so he’s been pulling Jean aside at lunch or dinner and sits with him in silence and just watches each tentative bite, hoping for a little more than last time. 

And it mostly works. Jean will pick at his meal more than eat it but he’s happy that his distractions seem to work on Jeremy. So they eat as a pair and Jean actually feels some of his energy coming back. He is better on the court when he’s not actively dodging every meal, but even Jeremy can’t be there for Jean all the time. 

So he backslides.

Meals become more picked over but less eaten, and Jean is catching himself up in every new lie that means he won’t have to eat with an audience. Not that he’s eating either way. 

Jeremy is so overwhelmed by his family drama that he stops coming around for dinner most nights, and is usually busy with something when Jean’s lunch break rolls around. So no one is holding Jean accountable and he feels less sluggish when he doesn’t eat. 

Jean is content to ride this out until he’s a headstone. 

The opposite of wanting is not a lack of wanting, but purging.

Jean learns this when Cat traps him in the kitchen with her and under her watchful eye until he clears at least half of his plate. It’s cold and each mouthful is like swallowing sand but he does it. It makes him feel slimy on the inside, like something is deeply wrong with him just because he ate something. Ate more than he has in a long time. 

So when Cat sets him free and he can avoid the movie night by hiding in his bedroom, Jean grabs an armful of clothes from his dresser and heads for the bathroom. He cranks on the shower to full pressure and dumps the clothing on the floor, before following it to his knees. 

He just feels so sick, like his bones will rupture if he cannot shed this extra weight. 

He sticks two shaky fingers into his mouth as far as they will go, but immediately pulls them back as he triggers his gag reflex. Sidling up to the toilet again, Jean reattempts and this time he rides the gagging with his fingers in place until his stomach heaves and he throws up. 

It’s a bitter sting on his tongue and a burn in his throat but he spits into the toilet and shoves his fingers in again. 

Until his knees are red and he feels lighter. 

He rights himself and leans over to flush the toilet and washes his hands. He furiously scrubs his mouth until the sour taste is replaced by mint and he can rinse himself clean of his sins. 

Quickly surveying the small bathroom for evidence, Jean makes an effort to change his clothes to convincingly play the part of the roommate who just showered, but his pile of clothes is three t-shirts, two pairs of boxers, no pants, and one sock. 

Tugging on a replacement outfit as best he could manage, Jean turns off the shower and slinks back to his room to dump everything he is not actively wearing into his laundry hamper. Thinking about what he just did makes everything that was in the room feel unclean, but he cannot find it in himself to regret it. 

He pulls out his laptop to work on an assignment before it’s due tomorrow but he only sits in his bed typing for maybe fifteen minutes until his phone buzzes. Once, then again a few seconds later as another text comes through. Checking the time reveals that Jeremy must have been finally freed from his family dinner.

In no hurry to write his report, Jean closes the laptop and sets it on his nightstand in favour of fishing out his phone from where it got lost in the duvet cover. 

Jeremy (8:23pm): i need a sinkhole to open up underneath this house and swallow bryson whole

Jeremy (8:23pm): anyways how r u?

Jean (8:23pm): I am good. Tired of this report.

Jeremy (8:24pm): fair. have u eaten?

It’s not a lie when Jean replies that he has, even if he feels a little bit guilty over it. If it’s not a mistruth then why does he feel so sick?

Insistent to clear his conscience somehow, Jean types out another message.

Jean (8:24pm): What did Bryson do?

Jeremy (8:25pm): what didnt he do? 

Jeremy (8:25pm): ill tell you after practice tomorrow 

Jeremy (8:25pm): typing it makes me too angry

Jeremy (8:25pm): im glad u ate, i know its been hard

There’s a pang in his chest. Jeremy has been so kind, always has, and he’s trying to help without having to take this to the coaches but every time Jeremy thinks Jean is making progress, Jean’s relationship with food is further decaying. Maybe he’s taking advantage of Jeremy’s empathy. 

Kevin would never have hesitated to drag Jean to the master for this. If it could affect his playing, Kevin wouldn’t risk letting such dangerous behaviours fester. 

But Jeremy is kind, he is warm, and he knows that forcing Jean to confront this problem would only make it worse. But taking it slow isn’t helping either. 

With a sigh Jean types out a tentative response. 

Jean (8:27pm): I need the energy

Jeremy (8:27pm): you do :) 

Jeremy (8:27pm): feel better?

Mostly Jean just feels hot all over, sweat prickling and clinging to his skin. His stomach twists in protest to its emptiness. 

Jean (8:27pm): Yes

Jeremy (8:27pm): thats good

Jean (8:28pm): I have to get back to my report. Goodnight Jeremy

Jeremy (8:28pm): oh okay goodnight jean

Trying to ignore the burn inside of him, Jean puts his phone away and pretends to work on his assignment, pulling out his laptop again and opening it, just to watch the mostly blank document fade into a screensaver of rainbow pipes that steadily fill the screen. He doesn’t know how long he sits there watching, but eventually the guilt lessens and his heart loses its sharp edge. 

What has been slowly building over the last five months finally catches up to him when he faints at practice. 

Well, sort of faints. His head goes weightless but he manages to stick his arms out to catch his fall. He’s awake to feel something shift followed by a bright burst of pain from his right hand all the way up to his elbow. 

It knocks the air out of his lungs as that arm gives and he hits the court floor, rolling onto his back and cradling his wrist to his chest. The pain is hard to breathe through but he’s not alone for long when someone places a hand on his shoulder. 

Opening his eyes reveals Laila hovering over him. “Jean, are you okay?” 

Trying to flex his fingers just makes the discomfort worse instead of dissipating it like he had hoped. Something is definitely wrong. He just gasps a half-breath and shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else or is it just your hand?”

“Just my hand,” Jean says.

“Do you think you can get up?” Laila asks. “We’ll get you to see Nguyen.” 

Jean accepts her assistance in sitting up and standing. The Trojans on the court have fallen out of step and are just watching from a distance now. Jean does his best to avoid Jeremy’s worried look. 

Laila guides Jean through the locker room and to the nurses’ office where she knocks on the doorframe. 

This startles Nguyen who was typing away on his computer and he jumps at the noise but looks up and quickly replaces his surprise with a warm smile as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Laila, Jean, how can I help?” 

“Jean tripped and hurt his hand. We were hoping you’d be able to give us your expert opinion.” 

“Well, I’m sure I could manage,” Nguyen says. “It is kind of what I’m paid to do.” 

Jean doesn’t particularly understand sarcasm but he allows Laila to drag him over to the cot to sit in. Binh wheels his chair over to sit in front of him. 

“Left or right?” he asks.

“Right,” Jean replies. 

Nguyen gently takes the hand and gently removes Jean’s glove. It’s just the thinner underglove now. “Your dominant hand, yes?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

The attempt to remove the last layer proves difficult when a slight tug makes Jean wince.

“Sorry,” Nguyen says. “I’ll have to cut this one off. It looks like it’s already starting to swell.”

“No, you can pull it off,” Jean hurriedly interjects. “I don’t want to have to get new gear.” 

“Jean—” Laila starts. 

“It’s just a glove. Pulling it off might worsen the injury. Gloves can be replaced, your hand cannot,” Nguyen says. 

So Jean concedes to Nguyen’s professional opinion despite how much he doesn’t want to be a burden on the coaches. He’s already been sidelined three times this year, if he can’t be on the court he will be no good to professional teams and if he doesn’t make it pro he’s dead. With a bitter taste on his tongue he says,  “okay.” 

Nguyen pulls out some funny shaped scissors and carefully cuts away the glove. As the fabric peels back, Jean can see the beginning of swelling. Which can’t be good. Nguyen turns his hand over gently until his palm points to the ceiling. “Well it’s not dislocated or visibly deformed which is good. Can you make a fist for me?” 

Attempting it makes Jean’s eyes water.

“Does that hurt?” 

Jean wants to lie so badly but he can’t help the fractured “yes” that crawls out of him before he can pretend to be fine. 

Walking Jean through some other tests like pushing on Nguyen’s hand as hard as he can and gripping his fingers, the pain in Jean’s hand becomes harder and harder to bear. “Is it broken?” he asks. 

Nguyen settles Jean’s injured hand in his lap before getting up from his stool. “We’re definitely going to need an x-ray to rule it out.” 

Remembering his checkups over the summer, Jean knows they can do the xray here which takes the edge off of his anxiety. He’s beginning to really hate hospitals and avoiding them is always for the better in his books. And maybe Jeremy doesn’t want to pick him up again. 

As Nguyen leaves the room to get the equipment to xray Jean’s hand, Jeremy makes his appearance. He’s breathing a little hard and his eyes are wild. 

“What happened?” he asks, looking between Jean and Laila. 

“He tripped and caught his wrist trying to stop his fall,” Laila patiently provides. 

“Is it broken?” 

“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Nguyen says as he wheels a trolley into the room. There’s a bunch of cords and a huge metal machine that gets more complicated as Nguyen sets it up. He gently takes Jean’s injured hand and lines it up on a cold slab with the machine over it before ushering everyone else out of the room. 

It only takes a few minutes before everyone is crammed back into the small room and Nguyen is studying the x-rays on his computer. He angles the screen towards Jean and his friends and indicates to a bone in his wrist that is mostly white but with a very stark black line through it like a lightning strike in negative.

“It’s broken,” Jean states, hoping he will be corrected.

The correction never comes. “Yes, and you’ll have to head up to the hospital and consult with the doctors there. This might need surgery so it’s a bigger fish than we can fry here unfortunately.” 

And because Jean can never catch a break, he does end up needing surgery.

His wrist gets put in a splint and he’s told to not eat or drink anything until after his surgery scheduled at 10:45am the following day. But at least he gets to go home. 

He is also subjected to a bone scan because the doctor wasn’t happy with whatever he saw on the x-ray other than the fracture. So Jean walks away with a diagnosis of osteopenia, which he somehow manages to escape with only the instructions of taking vitamin D and calcium supplements because the doctor believes a college athlete who says he eats fine. 

One day he’ll get caught, he just has to keep it careful right now. Just for a bit longer and then he’ll stop. 

Jean has absolutely zero issue with fasting for surgery. It has given him an easy out of pretending to eat because no one wants him to aspirate and die during surgery so they let him just sit and watch. It’s a relief to not have to pretend, even if it’s just for half a day. And this way, he doesn’t have to purge.

Jeremy continually tries his incredibly strained relationship with his family. He stays with Jean at the hospital and flicks his mother a text that he has to drive Jean to the hospital for surgery in the morning so he’s going to sleep on the couch. 

He doesn’t sleep on the couch.

It takes watching Jeremy pile a bunch of blankets on the couch for Jean to work up the courage to ask him to share his bed with him. Jeremy cautiously double and triple checks with Jean that he’s okay with that before he is convinced to climb under the covers with Jean in just a pair of boxers. Jean sleeps in a t-shirt and sweatpants but Jeremy cuddles into him and wraps an arm around his chest, burying his face next to Jean’s head on the pillow. 

They make it through the night with no drama except that Jeremy wakes up to his alarm to find himself overly warm but too cosy to do much about it. At some point during the night, Jean had rolled over and wrapped his arms around Jeremy, holding him to his chest. 

California is not often cold enough to cuddle with someone overnight and today is no exception but Jeremy is content where he is. 

The snoozed alarm goes off again five minutes later so Jeremy finally wiggles himself free enough to rouse Jean. He peels back the blankets and is careful not to jostle Jean’s injured wrist as he sits up. 

“Jean,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Jean’s temple. And another. 

Jean rouses with a content groan after the fourth kiss. 

Jeremy smiles. “Good morning.” 

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Jean’s lips pull into a grin. “Good morning.” 

“How did you sleep?” Jeremy asks as he runs a lazy hand through Jean’s hair. 

“Kept waking up,” Jean says. 

“Was it your wrist?” 

Jean nods slowly. “It was nice though,” he says. “Having you here.” 

Leaning down again, Jeremy presses a kiss to the curve of Jean’s nose. “I liked it too.”

As he pulls away, Jean moves to follow him and connect their lips but he uses the wrong hand to try and push himself up and the pain makes his vision go white. 

He’s breathing hard when Jeremy speaks. “Maybe we should get dressed and get that sorted. How does that sound?” 

“Fine,” Jean replies, a little tensely, clutching his injured hand to his chest. 

Despite leaving early, the two get swept up in early morning traffic and only just manage to get to Jean’s surgery prep in time. Jeremy is guided to a secluded waiting area with massive ferns in pots that on closer inspection, are definitely plastic, and a vending machine with a big “OUT OF ORDER” sign on the glass. There goes Jeremy’s plans on entertaining himself with sugary snacks while waiting for Jean. 

The three hours trickle by at a snail’s pace and Jeremy only has so many notes from class to review before he’s considering removing his own brain and dumping it in the potted fern. Maybe it would be the secret ingredient to making it a real plant. 

Ultimately, Jeremy leaves his brain where it is and adjusts in the barely padded hospital chair until he’s as comfy as he can get and eagerly invites sleep. 

Time goes a lot faster when you’re having a weird dream about getting lost in a hospital with a werewolf chasing after you. Which may or may not be prophetic, Jeremy has not checked the Los Angeles General Medical Center’s policy on werewolves, so it could happen. 

He doesn’t get to find out how the dream ends as someone taps him on the shoulder and he jumps to alertness. 

“Jean?” he asks in a half-asleep daze. 

The nurse standing over him offers an awkward smile and says a simple, “the surgery went well. Mr Moreau is in recovery at the moment, you’re welcome to sit with him.” 

“Oh,” Jeremy has finally reoriented to where he is. Yes, the hospital, Jean’s broken wrist. “Yes, please.” 

He follows the nurse through a short route of corridors and two sets of doors that the nurse has to press a button to open before they finally come to a stop in a room. Jean is laid up in a hospital bed but he is awake. His wrist is wrapped in a bright red cast, Jeremy has a hard time peeling his eyes away from it. Jean looks down at it with disdain. 

“Let me know if you need anything, there’s a call button behind the bed,” the nurse says before leaving the two of them. Jeremy slinks over to the chair next to Jean’s bed.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. 

“It is a grotesque colour,” Jean grumbles, gaze still locked on the offending limb. 

“Didn’t they let you pick?” 

Jean huffs, “they were out of blue.” 

Jeremy’s heart flops uselessly in his chest. “So team colours?” 

“I did not think it would be so.. red.”

That tickles a hearty laugh out of Jeremy. “I think that’s kind of the whole point.” 

Jean just keeps glaring at the cast. 

“It’ll grow on you,” Jeremy says. 

“Like a parasite.” 

The floozies are quick to fill Jean’s cast with their signatures and little doodles. At one point Cat is carrying around a multicolour pack of sharpies and offering them to anyone who so much as looks in Jean’s direction. 

Jean is off the court for the next 6-8 weeks depending on how his wrist heals. With three screws he figures it should definitely be the former, what was the point of surgery if it did not give him the fastest recuperation time? 

It makes him a little antsy, like his blood is itchy. He knows that his life teeters on whether or not he can play, but something about not having to to be Jean Moreau Perfect Court that makes him sleep easier. Maybe he isn’t meant to live past graduation. 

He has always been an item to possess, something to have ownership over, he doesn’t know how to be just Jean Moreau. 

Rubbing absentmindedly at the tattoo on his cheek, Jean wonders if a lifetime of suffering has been made worthwhile because of what he got to find here in California. 

And he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

So he pretends to heal. He takes his supplements, eats the meal plan Coach Lisinski wrote for him, throws it up with his non-dominant hand halfway in his mouth, and he wastes away while ticking all of their boxes. 

If they start weighing him, he’ll crumble. All of this hinges on the coaches not finding out about his eating habits and just thinking it’s a matter of nutrition and not behaviour. Actually eating his meals with his friends gives him an alibi. 

None of them have caught on to his long disappearances not long after meals. 

Jean would be walking a fine line to say he has kept anything down in the past four days. 

While he is not allowed on the court as anything more than a spectator, he can get away with it more easily. He’s not burning the calories by telling Tanner his footwork is sloppy, so he can afford to miss them. 

The only problem with toeing the line is that one day you’re going to topple over the edge. 

It takes the floozies arranging a dinner that is supposed to be halfway nice so Jean is expected to wear something other than a t-shirt. 

T-shirts he can manage, long sleeves are harder, and tonight Laila hands him a folded up long sleeve shirt with buttons all the way down the front. Surely this has to be considered bullying. How is Jean going to get his bulky cast in the damn thing, let alone button it up? 

Jeremy watches him with careful eyes as he balks at the garment. “I can give you a hand,” he offers. 

“No,” Jean objects a little too harshly. There’s a slight prickle to the air before Jeremy is back to smiling like nothing happened. He is a master of masks and Jean almost believes this one. “I mean, I can do it myself.” 

“Okay, just give me a yell if you change your mind.”

With a stiff nod, Jean ducks into his bedroom. He plops the shirt down on his bed and stares at it for a while. Eager to avoid it for as long as possible, he pulls off his tshirt, easily getting his cast through the arm hole. He’s had two weeks to practice this so he makes it work. And cotton stretches. 

Getting his jeans on is a bit of a mission but he manages. He buckles his belt and smooths the denim with his sweaty palms. 

It’s just a shirt, how hard could it be? 

As it turns out, he needs a degree in rocket science for this task. It’s a shame he was forced to study business, he would have a great time trying to get a suntan on the moon. 

His cast is stuck in the widest part of the sleeve so Jean has no idea how he’s going to get it through the cuff. There’s two buttons there but Jean’s left hand is too clumsy to operate them. A few minutes of trying and a dejected huff lead to Jean poking his head out into the hallway. 

“Can you give me a hand?” 

Jeremy looks up from his conversation with Laila and shoots Jean an everbright smile. “Of course, be right there.” 

Jean has about thirty seconds before something implodes. He stalks across the room to stare out the window, with his back turned towards the door. 

“I’m not the fanciest guy in the world but I know my way around a dress shirt—” Jeremy suddenly falls silent as Jean turns to face him. He hopes Jeremy will comment on the state of his shirt and not the elephant in the room. 

“Jean…” Jeremy’s expression is all hollowed out and heartbroken. His eyes are wide and his mouth slightly parted, his chest hitches with a breath.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jean snaps, tugging himself free of the hellish shirt. He might as well not go.

Jeremy closes his mouth and steps closer, Jean can basically see the cogs turning in his head. “I can see your ribs.” 

“It’s fine.”

Jean goes stiff when Jeremy is close enough that Jean can feel the breeze stirred by his movement. “No. Jean, it’s not fine. How much do you weigh? Do you even know?” 

Jean needs his walls up and he needs them up yesterday. He’s got to wriggle out of this somehow, he knows Jeremy would never betray him but does he really know that? Would Jean come before his precious team? “It’s none of your business.” 

“Jean, you need help. Let me help you.” 

“You have to promise not to tell the coaches.” 

“Jean…” 

“You can’t.” Jean pauses. He runs a hand through his hair and gives it a firm tug. “Jeremy.” 

The way Jean says his name in his accent will always be Jeremy’s undoing. He hesitates for a breath, something uncertain lingers in his features there for a second before he schools all the caveats of emotion in his expression. “I won’t tell them.” 

Jean deflates with the weight of the relief. “Thank you.” 

Jeremy stands uncertain for a moment. He knows what he’s just agreed to do, or not do, but he has to figure out how to help Jean. For now he just reaches for where Jean’s shirt is hanging limply in his hands. “Let me help you get dressed.”

With careful fingers, Jeremy undoes the buttons on the cuff of Jean’s shirt and he feeds the material over Jean’s cast before bothering with the rest of it. He flips the cuff over until it sits comfortably just below his elbow where the red plaster stops. Jean slides his other arm in the last sleeve, and stays perfectly pliant as Jeremy pulls the front over his chest, and does up the buttons over Jean’s sickeningly protruding sternum. 

Jeremy swallows the bitter taste in his throat as he smoothes down the fabric. Navy blue with white pinstripes. “All sorted,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Jean breathes into the small void of air between them. He tucks his head to give Jeremy a kiss but Jeremy tilts at the last second and Jean’s kiss misses his lips and lands on his cheek. 

The sword of Damocles has to fall eventually. It comes crashing down on Jean as he is supervising the freshmen running drills on the first fourth line. He’s correcting them with an iron fist turned gentle grip in the wake of the Trojan’s insistence he use a kinder manner to train their freshest teammates. 

And he thinks he’s doing well until Rhemann steps onto the court, walking along the edge until he’s close enough to the freshmen to call out. “Jean, can I speak with you?”

There’s already a rock in Jean’s stomach and it just gets heavier with every step he takes while staring at the back of Rhemann’s head. He’s hoping that they make it to his office before Jean’s intestines perforate. 

Rhemann stops at the door to his office and opens the door, holding it there as he gestures for Jean to enter. “Have a seat, Jean.” 

The overwhelming desire to run washes over Jean and he almost chokes on it. 

Instead, he shuffles into the room. There’s always been two seats across from Rhemann’s desk but Jeremy sits in one now, and coach Lisinski is leaning against the desk, her arms crossed with an unreadable look in her eyes. Her hair has been taken out of its usual ponytail and the relaxed presentation does not match the tension in the air. 

Jeremy looks incredibly nervous and won’t meet Jean’s eye. 

Coward. 

Sitting in the free chair feels a little like being strapped into a guillotine. Awfully fitting. 

Rhemann wheels his chair from behind his desk to beside it, so when he sits he is closer to Jean and there’s no barrier between them. Sure to backfire when Jean comes tearing loose in his desperation to escape. 

“Now, Jean, you’re not here because you are in trouble,” Rhemann says, voice soft and warm. Pretending that he isn’t about to gut Jean like a fish. “Jeremy has just brought up some concerns with me about your wellbeing.”

Stiffening, Jean’s voice when he speaks is all venom. “You said you weren’t going to tell them.” 

Jeremy makes an odd noise Jean can’t place, and he’s too angry to look at his boyfriend right now to figure it out. 

“Jean…” Jeremy starts before Rhemann lifts a hand to gently silence him. 

“Jeremy was right to bring his concerns to me. He’s just worried about you, and his care is not misplaced. It seems you’ve been in this spiral for the past few months and this isn’t a recent thing, am I correct in thinking that?” 

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Jean argues, mirroring Lisinski and folding his arms. A barrier between him and these accusations. He’s Perfect Court, he wouldn’t starve himself. He doesn’t need to. This is just a matter of control. 

Taking a breath, Rhemann closes his eyes for a second. “You’re not in trouble, Jean. We just need to figure out a way to help you.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Jeremy is worried that you haven’t been eating,” Rhemann says. 

“I eat,” Jean snaps. He’s never been so abrasive with a coach before, maybe he’s taking a leaf from Kevin’s book and chewing off his leg so that he doesn’t die in this trap. He’ll die in a pool of blood and viscera eventually, but he won’t die here. “I’m on a meal plan, I eat.” 

“But you disappear after meals. You’re always gone,” Jeremy hastily explains. His voice is terse and shredded. 

“Have you been making yourself throw up after meals?” Rhemann asks. 

Jean freezes. “You have no proof.” 

They don’t need proof when Jean has reacted like this, like he’s been struck, but he faces Rhemann with a blaze in his eyes. 

I won’t die here.

Jeremy starts up again. “Jean, I’m scared.”

He only manages an offended scoff before Jeremy continues, “You keep getting thinner and you keep getting hurt, I don’t want to watch you die.” 

Jean bristles. “Then don’t look.”

Suddenly feeling like his blood’s on fire and he needs to move, Jean bolts up from his seat and heads for the door. 

Coach Lisinski speaks for the first time and when she does it is in a firm tone backed by her ever-present blaze. “If you step out of this room I will not hesitate to bench you for the rest of the season.” 

Finding the only rebellious energy he has ever held in his life and coupled with the heartsick feeling left by Jeremy’s betrayal of his trust, Jean walks out that door.