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Jean breathes.
The distinct aroma of sweat and the dusty smell of the old, broken down supply room fills his nose. He can pretend to care about the very real possibility of Riko barging in, but it’s hard to think about anything other than the mouth attempting to devour every inch of his skin in a feat of longing and despair. And to think he once had the arrogance to suggest that between them he possessed the better survival skills. He is most definitely going to die because of this. Riko surely will not be giving him an easy or painless death, yet he can’t find it in himself to regret what’s going on.
Jean breathes.
The smell is becoming muskier by the minute, their guilty act leaving its mark on the air. Hands are all over him, hungry yet gentle, eager and determined, nothing like theirs. Nothing like his. He shuts down the brief flash of panic and fists his hands to stop them from clapping over his neck. This is no reason to be alarmed, he wants this, he knows he wants this. No matter how bad a decision it is. No matter how dire the consequences may be.
Jean breathes.
He can't really feel the smell anymore, arousal clouding over his senses and fogging his brain. It’s not the first time they’re indulging in some good old distraction, and the rush of taking something that’s not his, the tantalizing pump of a secret rushing in his veins makes him dizzy. It is however, the first time he’s been in this position-stop-don’t think of that-He’s good with his mouth. He said that Jean is also good with his-stop-Green eyes slowly filling with tears shine at him. They may be saying something. He can’t hear it.
Jean breathes.
He smells blood. He’s almost certain it's not coming from any tangible source, just his delirious mind at its limit. “Are you okay?” he still asks. Or tries to, he doesn’t know if he managed to push the words through his lips. He doesn't know what language they’d be in, if he did. An equally indistinct hum is his reply. He lets it go. They’ll be okay. They always are. They have to be.
Jean holds his breath.
He lets the pleasure wash over him. He’ll deal with his shattering mind later, if he survives that long. Colorful dots sparkle and dance in his increasingly blurry vision. They’re both quiet as can be. It doesn’t take much. Jean has always known his place. He knows how to shut his mouth, or his mind. He also knows how to fill-STOP-He forces himself to feel. Green. Wet. Hot. It would smell bad if he was breathing. His heartbeat quickens. And quickens. Something snaps in the back of his mind and pleasure that seems to belong to someone else washes over him. He shuts his eyes.
Jean breathes desperately.
He smells blood again. His lip is split. Kevin stands up with a soft smirk on his wet lips. It disappears behind his hand as he wipes his mouth. Jean pretends he’s not ashamed when his shaking hands make it hard to pull his pants back up. They blink at each other for a few mellow minutes.
Jean breathes.
Kevin breathes.
Jean breathes.
Kevin opens his mouth.
“I think we should stop.” The soft whisper in French would be beautiful in his voice, if it wasn’t so devastating.
Jean can’t breathe.
“What do you mean?” His voice betrays him. It gives out slightly, around the edges. It’s fine. Kevin never cared enough. To understand his distress. To know how to comfort it. He won’t know. It’s fine. It’s better this way. He’s not his to keep. But he still thought-he had hoped-
“Riko’s starting to realize something’s wrong. Different. He keeps asking me questions about you.”
Jean opens his mouth to bark out a daring remark, one unfit for a dog to make about his owner, but he is saved from his idiocy and carelessness by a startling ring. Kevin rushes to open the phone. He looks relieved, despite the only possible callers being his worse half and his Master. Jean doesn’t know who he’s talking to or what he says. He can feel the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. A drop. Another. There’s three flowing down his ear. He touches his finger to his nose. His finger is wet. He wipes it on his shirt. One from his temple, growing as it flows down, to his cheek, bigger, jaw, bigger, neck, he’s in it, drowning-
A touch to his shoulder. A soft whisper in French, English, French again. A hand unclasps his, from his neck. Another wipes his forehead.
Jean breathes.
He’s dry. Mostly. He’s in a supply room. He just had - He was with Kevin. He still is. Kevin is in front of him. Looking in his eyes. Green. There’s three shelves. Two fluorescent light bulbs. One is flickering. A mop. Broken. Red. Kevin looks at him intently. There’s something pressing against his side. A board on the floor is loose. The lines of the hardwood look like a hedgehog. Has he seen a hedgehog before? The collar of the shirt he wears scratches against his nape. It’s not a hand-or a mouth. Kevin speaks again.
“I have to go.”
Jean stares at him. He hopes that Kevin can’t see the plea in his eyes. It is a baseless concern. Kevin never sees. He nods. Kevin steps towards him like he wants to say something, like he wants to kiss him, like he lov-No. He turns his head around and shuts his eyes, opens them again only with the creak of a door. Just in time to see Kevin walk out of the room, trailing the corpse of Jean’s weak, fluttering, rotten heart behind his heels.
Jean sits down with his head in his hands. He is not upset. He didn’t lose anything because he didn’t own anything. He listens to his breathing, waiting for the time someone inevitably finds him. He knows his punishment will be unbearable. He will bear it. He has to.