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The first time it happens Jean steps into the kitchen barely aware that he’s awake. Yet another thing he’s learned at Trojans’ obnoxious care: he is not a morning person, not really.
Jeremy is, though, or maybe there is some other reason that always keeps him awake at ungodly hours, but Jean isn’t going to pry. Not in the near future, at least.
“Morning,” Jeremy chirps, standing at the counter. “Coffee?”
Jean nods and sits heavily on the stool. He crosses his arms on the counter, fighting an urge to press his forehead into them and fall right back asleep. Cat looks at him, clearly amused, but doesn’t say a word, just squeezes his shoulder while passing by and heads to the stove. Jean somewhat wants to help, but the sheer thought of getting up pains him so much that he doesn’t even try. When Jeremy puts a cup of coffee near his elbow, Jean nods instead of “thanks” and lets conversation between Jeremy and Cat surround him without listening to what they’re saying.
He sips his coffee, slowly coming to his senses, and stares at Jeremy’s back. It takes a couple of minutes of thorough inspection when something in Jean’s mind clicks, and he stills completely with the cup brought halfway to his lips.
The shirt Jeremy is wearing seems too loose. It doesn’t hug his back as his shirts usually do, and Jean can’t see the fabric fighting for its life between his shoulder blades. It isn’t snug enough around his sides. The sleeves are too long. Jean’s gaze slips further down, to the hem of the shirt. It hangs too low. It’s plain and white and looks a bit too worn out to be new.
Which can only mean one thing.
Jean puts his cup back on the counter, suddenly feeling more awake than ever. The sound must be too loud because both Jeremy and Cat turn around to look at him. Jean couldn’t tear his gaze from Jeremy if his life depended on it.
“Jean?” Jeremy asks, probably worrying that he’s zoning out.
He is, kind of. The world around him is so slow. He has no idea how much time passes before he finally croaks out:
“Are you wearing my shirt?”
Jeremy blinks at him, then looks down and tugs at the hem as if to check. Jean thinks Cat snorts, but he’s not sure. He is preoccupied.
“Shit,” Jeremy says, looking at Jean sheepishly, blush coming easy to his pretty, freckled face. “I think? Sorry, I must’ve confused it with one of mine and hadn’t realized it feels looser than usual.” He chuckles, then adds, “Maybe I should reconsider my opinion on oversize. Comfy.”
Comfy.
Jean can’t. He just can’t. For some mysterious reason, Jeremy wearing his shirt does something mean to his heart, and Jean wants to claw it out of his chest to ask why it has to torture him like that.
“Please do,” Cat snorts. “Newbies are tripping over when they see you in your t-shirts.”
Jean doesn’t care about the newbies. He is tripping over right now. Cat has a point, though, Jeremy indeed has a habit to wear shirts that are too fucking tight, but Jean usually pays it no mind. He finds Jeremy equally handsome in any clothes. This, though? Is his undoing.
“I can take it off and throw it in the wash,” Jeremy says, blissfully unaware of Jean’s state of crisis. “Sorry again.”
Jean finds enough strength to shake his head slowly. Jeremy frowns and opens his mouth to speak, but Jean beats him to it.
“You’re already wearing it anyway,” he says. “Leave it.”
He even manages to sound nonchalant. Jeremy smiles at him again, — a beautiful, small thing gently splitting his face every time he’s touched by something, — and that’s when Jean’s survival instincts finally kick in. He averts his eyes. The consequences of looking at Jeremy’s face longer would be terminal.
He returns to his coffee, mostly staring at the marble pattern on a counter, but when Cat and Jeremy continue speaking, his gaze inevitably wanders to Jeremy’s back again. He doesn’t taste coffee on his tongue.
He tastes something sweet — and unfamiliar.
*
The second time Jean sees someone in his clothes he feels significantly less agitated; supposedly because this someone isn’t Jeremy.
Laila is sitting in the papasan chair when he enters their living room to keep her company (or rather so that she could keep him company) and spends half a minute staring. He sits on a couch and waits for commercials to start, then says:
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
Laila looks down.
“Yeah?” she mutters. “I was sure it’s one of mine… Sorry?”
In her defense, she does have a variety of absurdly large t-shirts and hoodies, so Jean believes her.
“It’s okay,” he says.
Laila gives him a look, the one that she shares with Jeremy. They look awfully alike when they’re watching Jean with this intent care, almost prying, but not really pressuring him into anything. It makes Jean’s nape itch.
“You sure?” she asks.
Jean thinks about it and tries to find any hints of irritation in himself but comes back empty-handed. The sight of Laila in his shirt doesn’t affect him that much, not to the point of his heart rate increasing by the second, but it’s still pleasant in its way.
He nods. Laila drops it, and her eyes drift back to the TV. Jean fails to read or do something useful and ends up dozing off on the couch, his sleep accompanied by the murmur of the TV.
When he stirs away, Laila is still there, curled up in her papasan chair.
Jean feels warm.
*
Jean can’t believe he not only tolerates the third time but initiates it.
He realizes something is wrong as soon as he approaches their room. The door is ajar, and he always leaves it closed when he goes out. Which means Jeremy is in there, and it’s Wednesday, so he totally shouldn’t be. Jean checks his phone in case he missed track of time and it’s suddenly Friday already, but — no.
He taps the door with light fingers before stepping into the room. Jeremy is on his bed, hidden in a bundle of his blanket, his forehead almost definitely pressed to the wall. He doesn’t stir, so Jean supposes he’s asleep. He quietly rummages through his stuff and goes to the bathroom, his steps as careful as it’s physically possible.
There are some questions he would like to ask once Jeremy’s awake. If he’s here on a weekday, it means that something happened at home — and it’s never good news. Jean doesn’t know much, but he doesn’t have to. Jeremy spacing out from any conversation Laila and Cat try to drag him into is usually a sign enough. Jean thinks about it so hard he pays no mind to the shower and realizes he hasn’t had any reaction to the water whatsoever only when he turns it off. He stares at the faucet accusingly, because of course — of fucking course — Jeremy would be the reason for his trigger subsiding for a hot second.
God.
He still hates wetness on his skin though and rubs it out with a towel before it brings memories that are always unwelcomed.
The sound of water running must have woken Jeremy up, because when Jean walks into the room he’s sitting on his bed, holding the phone in his hands. Jean scans him for a brief moment. It’s no use to apologize for waking him up now, so he doesn’t.
“What happened?” he asks instead.
Jeremy looks at him, and there’s a blush high on his cheeks. Jean’s stupid heart skips a bit.
“I think I’ve caught a cold,” Jeremy says, his voice hoarse. He sniffles. “Sorry for the intrusion and all. Didn’t want to be sick at home, so…”
“Don’t apologize,” Jean says. “It’s your room, too.”
Jeremy gives him a small smile, and Jean considers going for a run one more time. It seems much easier than looking at him.
Frankly, most people look like shit when they are sick, and Jean wonders if Jeremy has this useless superpower to look good even at his worst, or if Jean’s brain simply works against him and makes him see things.
“I don’t want you to get sick because of me,” Jeremy says, “but…”
“Stop it,” Jean interrupts. “Lie down and rest if you need it.”
The thing is, Jean has a very vague idea of how to care about someone who caught a cold. In the Nest, there were no sick leaves, and all he could do was gulp down painkillers and deal with it. When Riko wasn’t around for more than a couple of hours Kevin would drag him to his room to make sure he slept. Jean remembers lying in his bed under all his stupid photographs that Jean knew as well as the back of his hand. His sleep in Kevin’s sheets was always shallow, but it was better than nothing, and Kevin was always there when he woke up, quietly reading or watching something while wearing his headphones. Jean has some hazy memories of him lying right next to him, but he’s not sure if they’re real or just a product of his long-gone fevers. Kevin definitely brought him tea, though, some fancy stuff he bought god knows where and when. Jean never asked.
Jean supposes he should help, but this quiet support is all he knows. He stands still, waiting for Jeremy to settle back in his blanket.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
“No,” Jeremy says. “I’ve taken some pills, so I think I’ll be knocked out in, like, two minutes.”
Jean slowly sits on his own bed, Jeremy’s eyes, though hazy with sleep, never leaving his form. He hesitates, but still says:
“Good. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It sounds a lot quieter than he intended, but Jeremy closes his eyes and nods.
“Okay,” he slurs. “Thank you.”
Jean’s heart clenches so hard he can barely breathe for a second. He busies himself with reading and occasionally steals glances at Jeremy. He texts Cat.
Jean
What do you do when someone is sick
Cat's answer is immediate.
Cat
Jeremy?
Jean
Yes
Cat
Is he at ours?
Jean
Yes
The next message comes a bit later, and it’s from Laila.
Laila
Make him some soup and check if we have something for sore throat and cough. Does he have a fever?
Jean thinks about the blush on his cheeks.
Jean
Seems so. He’s sleeping
Laila
Okay, we’ll be home soon.
Jean
Ok
He goes to the kitchen in favor of doing the task at hand but leaves the door ajar.
Jeremy is still sleeping when he’s done, and Jean leaves the soup on the stove in favor of sitting in his room, silently reading one of the books Jeremy had left here a couple of months ago. At first, it seemed ridiculous how much time Jeremy spent on studying, but now Jean understands it better. Having a life outside of Exy is still an unsettling thought, but he is glad he’s able to do small things now.
His life was torture, and tortures seem like they last forever. That’s why it was a strange revelation when he realized just how slow his life felt now. He has too much free time and certainly too much space in his head if he has these stupid thoughts.
Jeremy wakes up coughing.
Jean closes the book in favor of looking at him. When Jeremy takes his breathing under control, his gaze immediately searches for Jean. There’s still a blush on his face.
“Is the window open?” Jeremy murmurs and turns to check. It’s not. He looks confused for a second and says, “I’m cold.”
Jean looks at the thick blanket he’s wrapped himself into and quirks his eyebrow. He stands up and comes over to his bed. The way Jeremy looks up at him, — his lips slightly parted because of his stuffy nose, the stupid blush on his cheeks and the glazed look in his eyes — almost makes Jean’s heart stop. It’s no time to die, though. He reaches up to Jeremy’s forehead, but his hand stops mere centimeters from his face.
“May I?” he asks, his voice quieter than he intended. Jeremy nods, and Jean gently brings his knuckles to his forehead. “You’re heating up.”
Jeremy gulps. Probably a sore throat.
“Yeah?” Jeremy says, his voice weak. He clears his throat. “I feel like we’re stuck in a fridge.”
Jean hums and beelines to their wardrobe.
“You have a sweater or something?” he asks.
“Not here,” Jeremy says.
Makes sense. It’s too early for sweaters in California, and Jeremy usually runs hot. Jean sighs, knowing that the thing he’s about to do probably will keep him up at night, but still takes his sweater from the wardrobe. It’s dark green, expensive and soft to the touch — Cat’s present. Jean tosses it on Jeremy’s bed.
Jeremy looks at him, seemingly surprised, and Jean feels his cheeks blush, too.
“Just put it on,” he grumbles and leaves for the kitchen.
When he’s back, Jeremy is still sitting on the bed. Jean thinks green suits him less than red, but his stomach still twists at the sight. He silently gives him a bowl of soup and a spoon and places some medicine on his nightstand.
“Thanks,” Jeremy murmurs. “You didn’t have to…”
“Don’t,” Jean interrupts.
Jeremy smiles weakly at him again, and Jean wants to run but feels pinned to the ground. His gaze follows the line of the hem of the sweater. He knows how Jeremy’s collarbone looks underneath the fabric but still wants to tug the hem down to see. Or maybe run his fingers along the line of it. He flexes his hand, aware that he’s staring and must weird Jeremy out, but he can’t bring himself to stop. When his gaze returns to Jeremy’s face, the urge to lean down becomes unbearable, and the silence between them rings in Jean’s ears. His knees almost buckle from how badly he wants to sit on the floor in front of Jeremy’s bed and take his beautiful face in his hands. Jean’s heart is heavy in his chest, and he feels dumbfounded and enamored, and so, so in love.
He almost does something stupid, but they both hear the sound of Cat’s voice down the hall. Jean takes a step back and turns to face the door just in time for her to appear in a doorway.
“Didn’t die yet?” she smiles, looking at Jeremy.
Jeremy clears his throat.
“How could I leave you,” he says.
Laila joins them in a bit, and Jean thinks it’s the best time for an evening run. He hates that Neil was right, running sessions do help to clear his head. It almost works, but Cat ruins his new-found peace once he steps into the kitchen, all sweaty and dying for a drink.
She waits for him to finish his glass and looks at him coyly.
Jean shouldn’t ask, but he still does.
“What?” he says.
Cat smirks.
“You wear green better,” she says.
Jean puts his glass on the counter with a deliberate thud, hoping that his glare is enough to scare her off, but of course, it’s not.
He leaves. The shower — again — doesn’t affect him the way it should.
Thankfully, Jeremy is asleep when he enters the room. Jean stops in his tracks in favor of staring for a second, taking in the peaceful expression on his face and how nicely Jean’s sweater sits on Jeremy’s forearms.
He distracts himself with homework, but it barely helps.
He’s hopeless. Whatever game they’re playing, he has already lost.
*
Inevitably, Cat becomes the next one. Jean doesn’t even ask anymore, just sighs when he sees her in his black hoodie and joins her at the counter to cut some vegetables.
“What?” Cat asks.
“Nothing,” Jean says.
“Liar.”
Cat nudges his hip with hers.
Jean looks pointedly at the sheer length of the hoodie and then stares into her eyes, waiting for her to understand. When the realization hits her, he returns to cutting.
“I was sure it was Laila’s,” she says.
Again, Jean can’t blame her. He blames himself instead — maybe he should make a list of his clothes and take stock of it every time they do laundry. The thing is, he doesn’t want to.
Nothing ever belonged to him truly: everything including his body was considered someone else’s property. Even the little things — scribbles and sketches in his notebooks, the magnets and cards from Kevin — turned out to be taken away from him. His grip, however desperate, never was tight enough.
He now owns more things than he’s ever had in his life. His wardrobe is almost full from how often Laila drags him shopping, and he’s got, like, four pairs of sunglasses which is overkill even for California. There’s a free corner on the fridge where he can put his notes and magnets, and a whole drawer in the bathroom where he stacked skin care products when Laila made him buy them.
He wears a cross from Renee and a friendship bracelet from Cody, who also brought him earrings on a random day — a joke, really, but there was something knowing in their gaze, which Jean decided not to decipher. There’s a fidget ring on his finger more often than not — Jeremy’s gift that caught Jean off-guard a couple of months ago.
There is more stuff, of course, his presence at home is evident in every room. The point is: people always took something from him and he never got it back afterward. All those years in the Nest made him gradually realize he simply had nothing to give anymore. Kevin ran away and quite literally took everything that was left of him. (Jean can’t bring himself to be angry anymore but still avoids Kevin like a plague. They’ll have to face each other one day, but he has the luxury to postpone this horridly long conversation, and so he does.) He was hollow when Wymack delivered him to California, with nothing to give and no desire to take.
Things have changed. He remembered he liked sharing once, under the same sun but in a very different city.
Cat nudges him again, and he realizes she asked something, but he missed it because of how far his mind went.
“You’re okay with that, yeah?” she repeats, and Jean nods.
She drops it, and they cook together in easy silence.
*
One evening, Jeremy straight up asks him if he can borrow Jean’s scarf for a short walk to the nearest shop. Jean lets him, then watches him wrapping it around his tan neck and regrets this decision. Jeremy shoots him a smile. Jean wonders just how many times he’ll have to see it before he finally gets used to it because now his heartbeat quickens as it always does.
“Do you need anything?” Jeremy asks before leaving.
Jean doesn’t even think before saying, “I’m coming with you.”
“Oh,” Jeremy says, his lips round around this soft sound, and Jean honest to god thinks that he’s going to die.
He successfully stares at Jeremy all the way down to the shop, steals glances while they choose what to buy, and then stares more on their way back home. Jeremy’s ears are bright red when they step under the light of the kitchen, and Jean says:
“You should have borrowed a hat, too.”
Jeremy looks at him, surprised, and Jean shrugs, something hot curling inside his chest when he sees Jeremy’s cheeks blush as well.
*
It’s a downfall in motion from there.
There are days when Jeremy outright asks Jean to wear something of his. At first, he mentions the reasons: “Oops, out of clean shirts”, “Just spilled coffee on my own”, or any other made-up excuse Jean willingly swallows. In a couple of weeks Jeremy doesn’t bother anymore — still asks, but stops explaining.
There are also days when Jeremy doesn’t ask. Jean is only half-sure that he is innocent, and the more Jeremy confuses their clothes, the more buzzing settles under Jean’s skin. Jean would never, even jokingly, call it torture, but it keeps him on the edge all the time. He is even more quiet than usual, when Jeremy wears his clothes because it takes significantly more effort to form a coherent thought, let alone a whole sentence.
He finds himself hungry and spends weeks trying to figure out if he’s the only one.
It’s a Saturday morning when Jean’s control finally slips away from him. The world simply goes quiet when Jeremy appears in the kitchen. Jean doesn’t hear a damn thing through the roaring in his ears. He is not dumb enough to mistake what swells in his chest for any sort of anger, but his expression must be ruthless because Jeremy visibly tenses when he meets his eyes. Jean is still deaf to the world when Laila touches his shoulder, and he brushes her off, standing up from the stool instead. He distantly registers Cat freezing near the stove, but his main focus is Jeremy, who looks like he’s about to run. Jean feels a flash of satisfaction — finally, he’s not the only one.
Jeremy opens his mouth as Jean approaches, then closes it again. They are two steps away from each other, and Jean can’t speak. His gaze slides down to look at Jeremy’s chest — and at the number that’s written across it.
If it’s a joke, then it’s a cruel one, and Jean never took Jeremy for a cruel person.
They have jerseys, of course, but these particular t-shirts were a small gift from coaches. They are softer and bigger than their usual merchandise, designed to be comfortable enough to wear both outside and at home. Jean still struggles to wear something as vibrant as Trojans’ colors anywhere but games, and yet he, of course, is too weak of a man to toss it away. It’s been lying in their joint wardrobe for quite a while now, and Jean mostly looks at it with hostility every time he opens the door.
Jeremy could have confused it with his own, but Jean doesn’t think he cares anymore.
Jeremy follows his gaze and dares to look panicky, and there it is — a blush that’s been driving Jean insane for a ridiculous amount of time. Jean wants to feel the warmth of it with his lips. He can’t deny it anymore.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” Jean asks quietly but firmly.
“Sorry,” Jeremy’s voice cuts in through Jean’s otherwise damaged hearing. “I’ll just…”
He turns on his hills to leave, but Jean hooks a finger in his collar and makes Jeremy stop, physically turning him around. Jeremy looks like he starts to realize what’s happening, and a flash of what could be anticipation in his eyes almost knocks Jean off his feet.
Jean traces his thumb over a line of his collarbone through the soft fabric, following the movement with his eyes, and feels Jeremy’s breath hitch. Good.
He looks him in the eyes, and it takes a couple of seconds to push out the words, but he manages.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Jean says, his hand moving to hold his chin. “And then we'll talk.”
There it is — Jean sees that same hunger in his kind eyes even before Jeremy nods, but when he does Jean leans in immediately. Jeremy’s mouth opens, pliant, and he makes a soft sound that punches all air out of Jean’s lungs.
Someone whistles, and there’s a shuffling going on in the kitchen, and the girls are saying something, and then the front door shuts. Jean steps closer to Jeremy, and Jeremy’s hands fly up his shoulders.
Nothing about this kiss is chaste, but Jeremy’s touch is gentle, almost soothing. Jean would never bite him without asking first, but he wishes he already had. There’s nothing more undoing than care, and Jean crumbles under Jeremy’s careful fingers in his hair and on his cheek — and even more so when Jeremy slows down, turning heat into warmth.
Somehow, even though Jean is probably going through the most pleasurable breakdown he’s ever had in his life, he feels stronger than he had for so, so long. It’s hard to wrap his mind around how a simple kiss could empower him like that, but his heart is full instead of aching, and it fuels him so much he feels dizzy.
Jeremy makes this soft sound again, and Jean stops for the sake of his sanity. He promised Jeremy a talk.
They simply look at each other for a tense moment, but then Jeremy licks his fucking lips and tips his head back, his nape gently bumping against a wall — when did they even get here?
“I think we’ve traumatized the girls,” he says, unrepentant.
“They’ll live.”
Jeremy chuckles and puts his hands on Jean’s shoulders again, squeezing them ever so slightly. Jean feels chills going up his body, and it takes everything in him not to kiss Jeremy again.
“Talk over breakfast?” Jeremy suggests. Jean nods and reluctantly moves away. Jeremy clears his throat while Jean beelines for the stove to pick up on whatever Cat was cooking. “Just so you know, this time it really wasn’t intentional.”
Jean looks at him over his shoulder.
“This time,” he repeats flatly.
Jeremy smiles at him, and Jean thinks he wants to smile, too, so he gets back to cooking before he lets the traitorous thing make its way to his face.
*
It’s ridiculous how much time Jeremy spends in Jean’s clothes after that. At first, Jean thinks it’s an evil plan to make him buy even more stuff but then decides Jeremy simply has a thing for it. Jean, to his horror, shares the sentiment, something content settling in his chest every time he notices Jeremy wearing his clothes. It’s becoming worse when Jeremy gets them identical bracelets, because now it’s like Jean sees a piece of himself every time he looks at Jeremy, and, well, he looks at him a lot.
Cat and Laila laugh at first but drop the topic faster than expected. Both of them occasionally wear his clothes, too, and Jean never asks anymore, just lets it happen. It terrifies him that he feels cared for, and terrifies him even more that he lets himself enjoy it.
It’s a little harder when Jeremy puts on anything with Jean’s number on it. The damn shirt that became Jean’s last straw still manages to rile him up. Naturally, it happens again, but it’s the first time Jeremy wears it when they are home alone, and Jean has a thought that has crossed his mind so many times he lost count.
He gets back from the shower and looks at Jeremy, who is peacefully reading on his bed, for so long that he notices and starts to squirm.
“Jean?”
Jean steps closer to the bed, eyes never leaving Jeremy.
“I want to blow you,” Jean says bluntly. “Don’t take my shirt off.”
Jeremy stares. His ears go red — a delectable sight. Jean patiently waits for an answer.
“Jesus,” Jeremy says like he’s suddenly out of breath. “You’re going to kill me one day.”
Jean quirks an eyebrow at him.
“Is it a yes?”
Jeremy nods enthusiastically.
“Yes.”
Jean sinks on the floor immediately, but Jeremy still gets a pillow to put under his knees. Jean rummages through the nightstand for condoms and tugs Jeremy’s shorts down his legs. Jeremy’s mouth is open around shortened breaths, he is wearing Jean’s t-shirt, and the glint of excitement and desire is so bright in his eyes Jean kind of regrets he doesn’t have anything to take a goddamn photo. His legs are parted. Jean moves his fingers up his thighs, marveling at how they tense beneath the touch. Jeremy’s breath hitches, and his hand finds Jean’s shoulder.
Jean leans in and kisses the inside of his knee. Jeremy lets out a ragged sigh, and Jean goes up his thigh, tracing it with kisses. He feels a pleasant thrill going through his body. Jeremy makes a strangled noise when Jean slowly digs in his teeth in the delicate skin of his inner thigh. He knows that Jeremy enjoys it, and it encourages him to go on.
“God,” Jeremy says, and his head tips back. “Jean…”
He is a sight. Fucking t-shirt shows off the dip between Jeremy’s collarbones and Jean’s mouth waters. He distracts himself by placing a palm on Jeremy’s crotch, feeling him through the fabric of his underwear, and Jeremy thrusts up the same second, returning his intense stare. Jean fists his other hand in the t-shirt on his chest and tugs, making him lean down. Jean’s palm never stops moving, and Jeremy moans in the kiss. Jean feels so alive he almost sees sparkles under his eyes — and certainly feels them under his skin. He lets go of the shirt and Jeremy lies back on his elbows.
Jean slips Jeremy’s underwear down his leg, and when he looks at his freckled face again, Jeremy watches him with so much heat in the stare Jean feels it in his stomach, his cheeks and his fingertips. Jeremy shifts his weight on one elbow to reach out to Jean’s face, and Jean sits straighter, Jeremy’s warm hand touching his cheek lovingly. Jean kisses the center of his palm and takes it to rest on his head. There’s an immediate concern on Jeremy’s face, but Jean just nods.
“You can touch,” he says, “but don’t pull.”
“Okay,” Jeremy murmurs and runs careful fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”
His quiet voice accompanied by his gentle touch makes Jean shiver. He strokes Jeremy’s thighs, then covers soft skin with kisses and careful bites. Jeremy squirms under him, but his hand in Jean’s hair never curls, never pulls. Jean pecks his hipbone and Jeremy’s breath hitches. It’s always the simplest of gestures that drive him insane, and Jean does it again to the other side. Jeremy squirms under him, and Jean puts a condom on him and finally sinks lower, licking a wet stripe along Jeremy’s dick and taking the head in his mouth, not even sucking yet.
Jeremy’s moan is broken. His legs tense up, but he doesn’t shift his hips even in the slightest. Jean admires his self-control, it must be hard not to thrust in his mouth. Jeremy's hand stays gentle in his curls, and Jean feels safe, suddenly sane, and very present.
Jean goes slow at first, taking Jeremy in inch by inch and covering the rest with his hand. He twists it, and Jeremy’s knee jerks. He puts his free hand on it and hears Jeremy’s slurred apology — Jean would’ve said that there’s no need for that, but his mouth is busy.
Jean takes him deeper, and Jeremy gasps, his nails gently grazing Jean’s scalp. Jean hums, and Jeremy moans, and then Jean kind of loses it.
He lets Jeremy out and drags him closer to the edge of the bed, taking handfuls of his toned hips. Jeremy yelps. Jean’s t-shirt rides up along Jeremy’s torso. Jean urges his legs apart even more.
“Jean?”
Jean can’t speak, his brain capacity isn’t at its highest now, all he knows is Jeremy and the sounds he makes, and how good it feels to know exactly how, where and why Jean wants him.
Jean puts his hand on the underside of Jeremy’s knee, making him bend his leg and put it on top of Jean's shoulder. When he looks up, Jeremy’s stare is so dark that Jean feels a surge of something like pride in his chest. Red, as usual, looks good on Jeremy. Jean’s number looks even better.
He takes him in his mouth again and this time doesn’t plan to stop. He keeps his pace steady and not too fast. He knows Jeremy likes to hang on the edge, and he takes him deeper, his hand flying up to Jeremy’s stomach to feel the muscles flex under his palm. Jeremy is a mess — trembling and chanting Jean’s name like a prayer. When his moans become louder, Jeremy pulls his hand away from Jean’s head, and Jean slows down to look up. He sees Jeremy’s fingers curled in the sheets so tight Jean’s positive they will tear. He manages to reach out and intertwines their fingers instead, giving Jeremy’s hand a tight squeeze and then returning to bobbing his head in a steady rhythm.
Jeremy’s moans become more breathy, and then there’s nothing but gasps — that’s how Jean knows he is close. He doesn’t quicken his motions, already aware that Jeremy likes it when his pleasure builds slowly. Jeremy squirms under him, Jean feels him go taut, barely breathing, and then the tension snaps. Jeremy lets out a broken moan, shuddering so violently Jean thinks he blacks out for a second there. He lets him out of his mouth, and Jeremy flinches when Jean takes off his condom to toss it aside. He then kisses Jeremy’s knee soothingly.
“I think I’ve blacked out,” Jeremy says, his voice hoarse and trembling.
“I know,” Jean murmurs and kisses his other knee. “It was beautiful.”
Jeremy pulls him up on the bed and kisses him with so much eagerness Jean’s brain shortcircuits. He thinks he hums into the kiss, but he isn’t sure. Jeremy puts his knee between Jean’s thighs, and he’s suddenly very aware of his own arousal. Jeremy isn’t going to do anything else without Jean’s explicit permission.
Jean mourns the kiss when Jeremy pulls away and looks at him as if he hung the moon and the stars.
“I think I can go for a second time a bit later,” Jeremy says.
Jean admires his refractory period, and his breath hitches at the image of Jeremy on top of him — or under him, — still in this goddamn shirt. He nods, and Jeremy grins, then looks down and quirks an eyebrow.
Jean grinds his hips.
“Yes,” he says.
Jeremy pushes, and Jean’s eyes close on their own accord, his breathing going wild. Jeremy takes off his clothes and kisses every square inch of Jean’s scarred body, even down his legs, hugging his sheens with his warm hands. Jean surrenders under his touch, gasping, trembling, and wanting more. He asks for it, and Jeremy is reaching for the lube.
Jean wants to close his eyes again, but he can’t, the sight of Jeremy on top of him is too mesmerizing not to look. Jean is so turned on it hurts, but he lets Jeremy take time with him, writhing beneath his hands and losing a rational part of his body for the time being.
Not even one coherent thought forms in his brain when Jeremy’s pushing in. Jean urges him closer, and Jeremy goes, kisses him, telling him how good and beautiful Jean is, and there are tons of “like that” and “thank you” ringing in the air, Jeremy’s voice surrounding Jean while he adjusts. Then Jeremy moves, and Jean clutches the t-shirt on his back and moans, his eyes finally closing shut. He arches his back into Jeremy’s touch, every nerve set alight, and despite the heat of a moment Jean feels content.
He feels loved and cared for.
Jeremy looks just as ruined as Jean feels, and he asks Jean sweetly to look at him when he comes, and Jean does — he feels this tense heat build, and when Jeremy manages to stroke him one, two, three times, Jean’s mouth falls open around an obscene sound, and his eyelashes flutter, and he looks at Jeremy and realizes that he’s not the only one who’s on the brink of insanity. The pleasure snaps, and Jean can’t help closing his eyes anymore, but he tries to open them as soon as he can, still going through the aftershocks. Apparently, at some point, Jeremy nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Jean runs a trembling hand through his hair.
Jeremy pulls away a bit just to look at him, and Jean kisses him, long and deliberate.
“I think I should wear this shirt even more often, then,” Jeremy says sometime later when they are lying on the couch in the living room, watching a reality show that Jean never admits he likes.
He pinches Jeremy’s side.
“Stop speaking,” he says.
Jeremy chuckles and pecks him on the cheek — a sweet gesture that leaves Jean’s heart full.
*
The beach is usually crowded, so Jean is surprised when he sees so few people around.
“Perks of waking up early,” Jeremy says and goes towards the ocean to join the rest of the “floozies” in the water.
Jean sits on a towel sprawled on the sand, content to watch them from afar — he’s not ready to step into the water just yet, but the sight doesn’t scare him anymore. The morning sun is very tender, and Jean lets himself bask in it. He doesn’t flinch when Cody joins him. They are the last to come. Jean knows they don’t like early mornings. He also knows that Ananya hates peaches, that Pat is afraid of spiders, that Xavier is a big fan of some video game about dragons, and Min has a collection of coins from different countries.
Cody yawns.
“You look good on him,” they say, and Jean turns to look at them so fast his neck almost snaps.
“Excuse me?”
Cody laughs.
“I mean it in the most innocent way possible,” they say, still smiling. “He wears you well. All those little trinkets and your clothes and all. He looks calmer than he’s been in years. You suit him.”
Jean doesn’t know what to say to that and stays quiet, and Cody is content to simply keep him company.
Later, when all of them settle around picnic baskets, Jean looks at Jeremy in his Hawaiian shirt (which he stole from Jean, because Jean said he would never wear it anyway) and thinks that the feeling he’s been nursing all this time isn’t possessiveness. He doesn’t want to own Jeremy or any other human being but he can and is willing to share.
His things on his closest people are like little beacons, evidence that Jean-Yves Moreau, — a Trojan, a friend, a partner, a person — simply exists. It puts his mind at ease, and although there is still a long way to go, he’s not so afraid anymore. He’s not alone, nor will he ever be again.
*
The sun is barely up, and Jeremy holds his hands, and the water is fine.