Chapter Text
jean would have preferred to stay at home with shit wine or shit beer, or at trant’s with better wine or better beer. he'd given up on trying to convince the other man that he was, in fact, perfectly fine with shit alcohol and used to after all these years of only being able to afford the shit stuff.
it didn't go past his notice that trant took note of what jean liked of the better stuff. there seemed to be an endless stock of the things he liked, even if trant himself didn't necessarily like it. jean stopped thanking him. he knew it was becoming something simply… was, forming into whatever (he waved an imaginary hand in his mind) this was.
he cleared his throat as if willing away any further thoughts of the matter.
at first it was just mindless fucking. never at work, always at jean’s shitty apartment or trant’s much grander one across town. once on a lonely street in a too expensive MC because jean needed the image of a crime scene erased from his mind and he couldn’t wait. trant was better than drowning in drugs and alcohol, usually.
he never asked what trant had been getting out of the arrangement. he didn't care to.
as the months rolled on, their relationship began to evolve without jean realizing it. quick fucks with quicker goodbyes turned into staying for awhile or spending the night. they talked about things other than the bullshit of the rcm.
they opened up, little by little, trant more so and jean less so. trant seemed to be an open book, one of rambling paragraphs and hundreds of pages of information and there was too much for jean to take in but he couldn't stop reading.
jean, on the other hand, was a book that opened sentence by sentence. trant read each one with interest, patiently waiting for the next one to appear. he tucked away each bit of information in his mind, in a file labeled with jean’s name.
the file, once thin, was growing thicker each day.
they ate meals together, sometimes breaking at work to eat at their desks or pop away to a nearby shop. trant cooked for him several times and jean failed spectacularly once and never tried again.
when trant didn't have his kid, they spent evenings together. sometimes at trant’s, sometimes at jean’s. they went wherever the evening took them.
jean began to keep ingredients (ingredients, not just frozen boxes of shit) in his apartment in case trant came and wanted to cook. for his own apartment, trant had purchased several of jean’s favorite music tapes to listen to.
it was these little things they noticed but never mentioned. they saw something that was so clearly thought about with care, said a quiet oh, and moved on from. speaking about it could destroy the small bubble they've put themselves in. neither wanted to risk it.
he met mikael and it was just another extension into trant’s life that he felt he didn't deserve. but trant was all sparkling teeth and mikael was dragging jean to see his latest school project.
and without discussing it, trant started inviting him to things. they would occasionally do a movie or a restaurant or something fancier like an opera or play, outings with mikael to museums and parks and day trips. but suddenly jean was thrust into a society he didn't understand.
he went not because he wanted to, but because trant wanted him there for some unknown reason and jean wanted to be with him. it seemed like a fucking joke but trant always appeared ecstatic for jean to be at his side.
parties, art exhibits, galas, long-drawn out ordeals where it was just an excuse to schmooze and drink and fuck in dark rooms. jean was a fish out of water, his best suit couldn't even hold up to someone’s worst one in places like that.
he was nothing but an ant to be stepped on by the people who filled those rooms. scrutinized with sick fascination as if under a microscope. it made him squirm like the slimy bug he felt like.
but trant was there, at his side, nearly every minute of these mindlessly boring and anxiety-inducing events. a hand on his elbow, at his lower back, shoulders brushing, fingers touching with a pass of a glass or plate. trant was able to ground him in a way jean didn't understand. he didn't try to.
and when trant couldn't touch, he always made sure to glance at jean every so often. eyes meeting to make sure he was okay. usually jean just stood off to the side, fingers gripping a glass too tightly. other times he was painfully trying to small talk with someone he would never remember the name of.
always, trant would rescue him. he always seemed to know when jean was at his limit and would say his goodbyes as he steered jean through the endless pleasantries to get back outside.
he spent more evenings and days off and meals and nights with trant more often than he didn't. it felt easy and it terrified him. so he didn't think about it.
tonight was a little different. there was no grand thing waiting for jean. just trant with a hand on his back and a small stage with tight seating. they remained in the back like trant knew jean would prefer.
“a fucking poetry reading?” he glanced at trant with a mix of both weariness and fondness. jean didn't even like poetry. not really, anyway. there were a few poetry books he had read recently, if only because trant had mentioned them in passing.
“language,” trant responded with no heat to it. “i noticed you reading my copy of the third edition of les poèmes d'amour du siècle dernier a few weeks ago. many of the works within are nothing more than a man’s failed attempt at charming a woman who would never look his way, but wasn't it fascinating to look into the minds of those so lovestruck they put pen to paper? even if poorly written. the rest is quite good, i think. those works in particular hold something of value in the words. there is an emotion to them that the rest are missing.” he tsks to himself, as if trying to find the right words. “hm. sometimes art does make one speechless, doesn't it? i suppose that is a common reaction to art in general. there are simply no words to explain how you feel. sometimes you must sit with something you can't explain or understand. in relation to the art form of language, sometimes other people's words can speak for you.” trant cleared his throat, looking at jean for the first time since they arrived.
“anyhow,” he continued, “you lingered over some poems more than others. i pondered why and i will admit it took an embarrassing amount of time for me to come to the conclusion i did.”
jean opened his mouth to make some snarky comment, but trant cut him off before he could even begin. “now do be quiet, jean. the reading is about to start.”
trant gave a little pat to jean’s shoulder, who was about to bristle at being told to be quiet when he hadn't even spoken. after a moment, he let his arm return to the small of jean’s back. jean leaned into it without even thinking about it as the lights dimmed and a young man came on stage. he had no pages in front of him, no cues to go off of. there was no introduction. he simply began to speak into the microphone in a soft but heard voice.
there was something in the man’s voice that pulled at jean’s chest. it felt heavy in a way that wouldn't drown him. he was focusing too much on the way the man spoke that it took a few moments to realize what the man was saying. it was one of the poems jean had read and reread a dozen times. it had sat with him the same way trant sat beside him on the sofa when they were each focusing on their own task but desired company.
the man shifted seamlessly into the next poem, another that jean couldn't stop reading. how a touch can linger for hours or days or even weeks later, the ghost of fingers against skin that haunt until they touch again.
another, about finding love in unexpected places. places right before your eyes, where it had been standing all that time. it can take but a single, simple moment to shift something inside of you to view somebody in a different light. how indifference could cross to love as easy as crossing the street.
trant watched jean with a quiet attention, something like a careful hope settling into his features. he could see every word entering jean, could see them settle into his very bones. his fingers pressed into jean’s back as he leaned close. “i find that saying the simple things are sometimes the hardest. do you understand what i'm trying to say?”
jean didn't realize he was crying until he tried to speak, tears silently coming down his cheeks. his throat felt tight and he could barely speak. “i–” he swallowed and met trant’s eyes. he had never felt this vulnerable or loved in his life.
with his unoccupied hand, trant brushed some of the tears from jean’s cheeks then took his cheek in his palm. the speaker’s voice continued from the small stage but jean kept his eyes on trant. “yeah. fuck.” his hands, hanging limply at his sides, began to tremble. trant shifted and jean could hear the speaker slip into a different set of poems. these ones he hadn't heard before and he closed his eyes to focus on the words, to really listen to what was being said.
finding a light in a life that had begun to dim. jean felt the hand on his cheek leave and he desperately wanted it back. it found one of his hands and squeezed it tightly, fingers lacing together. creating a place of trust and safety. trant’s forehead pressed gently against jean’s. he almost pulled away, fearful of being seen.
no one was looking. no one cared to.
feeling seen and heard and loved. having the best fucking sex of your life. jean laughed, a strange half-sob from his throat. he used his other hand to lightly hit trant in the shoulder then cradled the side of the other man’s neck. “bastard. sappy fucking bastard.”
“jean-”
“stupid fucking beautiful sappy fucking bastard.” he opened his eyes, shifting just far enough away to look trant in the eye. “yeah. yeah, i fucking love you too.”
“language,” he admonished with the brightest of smiles. the speaker had gone silent but the small audience still didn't seem to care or even notice the two men in the back. trant closed the small distance and brought his lips to jean’s. it was nothing but soft lips and hot breath. he hummed into it for a moment. “it seems i love you too, jean-heron.”