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California is warm for December, Kevin notices. From the moment he steps off the airplane, he feels it, like a fever you can’t quite shake off. That, or Kevin has an actual fever. Flights usually leave him feeling off, but nothing green juice and a couple hours at the court can’t fix.
He hovers by the luggage carousel, awkwardly waiting around for his bags. Every phone he sees sends an irrational thread of fear down his neck. Kevin doesn’t think he could handle another bout of unflattering airport paparazzi pictures getting out.
He tugs at the neck of his hoodie, silently cataloguing every person that walks by. Fifteen blondes, but none of them his blonde. Twenty tall dark-haired men, but none of them his tall dark-haired man. God, he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.
His head pounds. LAX is the worst airport he’s ever set foot in. Glaringly white tiles that reflect every beam of obnoxiously bright sunlight that filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fake plants stationed near every water filling station. It all reeks of fake.
Finally, Kevin spots his rust-orange suitcase merrily spinning around the carousel. The moment he moves to take it off the belt, he’s beaten to the punch by a short blonde man with a smile that could melt steel.
The man turns, nudging his tall companion, and waves at Kevin. Kevin raises his arm half-heartedly. His legs feel like sandbags, but he pushes through it and goes to them.
“Bonjour, Kevin.” Jean puts a large hand on his shoulder.
He distantly hears himself mutter back a, “Bonjour, Jean,” before the two gently lead him towards the parking lot.
“Kev, you feel a little warm. Are you okay?” Jeremy presses a hand to his forehead in concern. Kevin presses back into his hand. His soft, soft hand. So different from Kevin’s own, heavily calloused from years of handling an Exy stick. Why are his hands so soft? He must moisturize, Kevin decides.
“Do you moisturize?” Kevin slurs out, grabbing tighter to Jean’s arm around him. Jean guides him into the passenger seat of the Toyota, making sure he doesn’t bump his head. Once the door closes, he presses his forehead against the cool window.
Jeremy slides into the driver’s seat. He turns to Kevin. “Music or no?”
Kevin thinks over it. “I’m tired,” he manages at last. Jeremy only nods, and leaves the car quiet, save for his and Jean’s quiet conversation. Kevin catches the words Kevin, sleep, and dinner before he falls into a fitful sleep.
***
He wakes in a dark room, swathed in white sheets. Pressure loads the front of his face all the way from his forehead to the hollows beneath his eyes. Kevin buries his head back into the soft bed. Someone has changed him into one of Jean’s giant USC jerseys and a pair of flannel pajama pants he “forgot” the last time he came by.
Someone shifts next to him. “Kev?” Jeremy. He nudges Kevin’s foot underneath the covers. “You awake?”
Kevin lifts his head up weakly. “Blargh,” comes out, instead of the incredibly eloquent response he’d planned. His mouth is sticky with sleep, unable to produce any useful sound. Jeremy gently tugs at his hair. Kevin tries not to melt into his hand. It’s been so long since anyone touched him, outside of rough checks in practice.
“Is he up?” Jean asks from the doorway. He holds up his frilly green oven mitts. “Lunch is ready.”
Jeremy coaxes Kevin out of bed and into the living room, carefully maneuvering him around Jabberwocky’s strewn chew toys. Jean has set the table family-style, with a steaming pot of minestrone in the middle and crisp, buttery garlic bread on a tray. Kevin immediately ladles spoonful after spoonful of the soup into his bowl and digs in. He may burn his tongue once. Or twice. Or like five times, but it’s worth it. Jean’s soup is legendary. Well, Cat’s grandma’s soup, but same thing.
“Are you feeling okay?” Jeremy’s soft brown puppy-dog eyes look back at him. He puts a cold hand to Kevin’s forehead again. “Still warm,” Jeremy winces. “Do you wanna take a Tylenol after eating and then take another nap?”
Kevin nods, though it sends a wave of pain through his face.
“How are the Foxes?” Jean says. Kevin wonders if he knows his accent gets stronger when he’s nervous. He played the question off as casual, but Kevin knows him too well for that. He wants to know about their terrible game last week. Kevin refuses to entertain the question. He wishes to nurse his wounds in peace.
“I’m thinking of moving.”
The table falls silent, save for the soft splish of Jeremy’s spoon falling into his soup.
“Where?” There’s soup on Jeremy’s shirt, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. Kevin wonders if he should let Jeremy know. It is a rather large stain.
“I graduate in six months. I could move in with you two, play for the Lynxes.” Kevin stares pointedly at his soup bowl.
“Uh, maybe we should come back to this conversation when you’re feeling a little better.” Jeremy’s words cut deeper than he thought they would.
Kevin shrinks back. Long distance has been hard on them all. He thought they’d be elated. Kevin’s graduation has been a tender topic for the past few months, one they’ve carefully danced around with the grace of those long accustomed to shoving their problems under the bed. But this is good news for all of them, being in one city. Right?
So he nods, lets the exhaustion tug his head down.
Jean scoffs. “Kevin, you are not well. Get some rest and we can have a civil conversation once you are cognizant.”
Kevin starts to argue, but Jean cuts him off. “Putain, you are so stubborn. Shut up.”
Kevin shuts up.
He isn’t sure at what point “Jeremy and Jean’s place” became home. Maybe somewhere in between late summer nights after entire days spent at the court, crowded around the TV with cold takeout from the Greek place next door. Or when they painted the entire apartment together, just-because. Maybe it was after memorizing every dent on the tops of the door frames from Jean’s insufferably large head, every carpet stain from one of his smoothies, or knowing every single title from their carefully curated bookshelf.
All he knows is that in this small California flat sandwiched between his sun and moon, the noise of the outer world goes quiet.
Kevin wants to spend more than just weekends and holidays here. He wants to win Olympic games together, grow old in this hellishly hot state, then retire from their long, illustrious professional Exy careers together after getting inducted into the Professional Exy Hall of Fame. Maybe he’ll become a coach once he retires. Pass on his mother’s and Wymack’s legacy to a new generation of athletes.
Plus, the pro team he’s looking into—the Los Angeles Lynxes—are one of the most renowned on the West Coast. And they want him.
Well, of course they want him, he’s Kevin freaking Day.
When they sign him, his future will be set.
His future with Jeremy, Jean, and, quite reluctantly he adds, Jabberwocky. Sickly, stinky, crusty Jabberwocky. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but that rat is somewhat endearing.
***
Kevin wakes up the next morning feeling markedly more sentient. His headache is gone, and the world seems a little brighter.
With his new-found mental clarity comes determination to make up for last night. He twists to face Jean, who’s blearily rubbing his eyes.
“Go back to bed Kevin. It is early.” Jean’s morning voice makes Kevin’s stomach all fluttery.
“I want to move in with you.” He says it fast, before his brain can make him second-guess himself.
Jean blinks. Jeremy appears in the doorway of the bedroom wearing swim trunks, damp hair falling over his face. He likes to go surfing in the mornings.
“Are you feeling okay?” Jeremy blurts.
Jean puts a hand to Kevin’s forehead. “He feels fine to me.”
Kevin pulls the blankets over his face. “Never mind.” Do they not want this as much as he does? He should’ve just kept his stupid mouth shut the first time.
Jeremy crawls into bed next to Kevin, caging him in. He smells like the sea.
Jean wraps an arm around his waist under the blankets. “Of course we want you to move in, ma reine. But we do not want you leaving Palmetto only because of us. It should be your choice.”
Kevin tugs Jeremy’s arm over his chest. For emotional support. “I think it’s the most logical choice for us and our careers.”
“I thought you hated California,” Jeremy says.
“You’re here,” Kevin says. “I could never hate it.” He immediately squeezes his eyes shut. He’s going soft.
“Okay,” Jeremy says softly. “The Lynxes will be lucky to have you. And I know how much Jean missed seeing you in our clothes.” He’s immediately cuffed on the shoulder by a rapidly reddening Kevin.
***
The Golden Court smells like freshly waxed floors and utter incompetence.
“Pass the fucking ball!” Kevin yells, waving his racquet like a madman.
Freshmen.
The gangly kid swivels his head wildly, looking around at his rapidly advancing red-jerseyed opponents. Kevin is in the one wide-open spot to his right.
Jean slams his fist against the outer court wall from the sidelines. Kevin ducks just in time for the ball to come hurtling straight where his head was.
“You said pass it!” The boy says, indignant.
Kevin storms off the court muttering to himself. He spins his racquet from hand to hand trying to work out the lingering ache in his left. No matter how much he practices, he still can’t get it to work how it used to.
Jean stops his relentless pacing with a soft hand on his hip. He slowly brings Kevin to his side, allowing him space to breathe. It’s a routine perfected by time.
***
Kevin sits in the bathroom. Back pressed up against the cabinets. Cold metal knobs digging into him. His head is pressed between his knees, arms laced tight over his head. He gasps shallow, painful breaths into his too-tight lungs.
It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real.
But the images flash through his mind nonetheless. Kevin’s hand, mangled and broken. White bone peeking out through the sea of red. Of Riko standing over him, manic smile on his face.
“Kevin?” Jeremy peeks his head through the door.
Shit. He must have forgotten to close it. He hates it when people see him like this. Raw, exposed. The three of them have been together for around a year now, but Kevin still struggles to express how he’s…feeling with them. The Nest was no place for emotional vulnerability.
“Go away, Jer,” Kevin says, muffled.
Jeremy closes the bathroom door behind him and sits down beside Kevin. “I can hear you, you know.” It’s a silent invitation. All three of them struggle with nightmares, though the severity varies depending on the time of year. Kevin struggles particularly in these winter months, when the cold makes his hand ache and memories of Riko resurface at every turn.
Kevin unconsciously scoots closer to him. The bathroom is freezing and Jeremy is like a furnace compared to Kevin, all warm from the three blankets Jean insists on having at all times.
“He was my brother,” Kevin starts. Jeremy rubs small encouraging circles into the back of his scarred left hand. “But he hurt me.”
***