Chapter Text
When Jeremy wakes up in a strange place with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, he thinks, Ugh. Not again.
He's usually smart enough to leave before he's sober, usually being the key operational word here. Waking up in the aftermath is just embarrassing, awkward, and full of irritating requests, like Can you leave before my girlfriend/boyfriend/parents get home?
At least the distinct warmth curled up against his back is still breathing rhythmically, he muses. Whoever he managed to fuck isn't awake, yet, so Jeremy just needs to execute his great departure flawlessly so he can avoid the inevitable melodrama.
Who did he fuck last night, anyway? Curiosity itches at him, even though he knows he should slip away without another backward glance. No one ever wants Jeremy to stay, after all. It's better for the both of them if he vanishes like some coked-up version of Cinderella as soon as the clock strikes midnight.
Well, huh.
The complete and utter lack of memory draws him up short. It should probably be more alarming than it is that he can’t remember jack shit, but all Jeremy can manage at the moment, as his throat screams for some water, is a slight feeling of resignation. He always feels a little hollowed-out after a decent high, anyway. That’s normal, though, nothing to bat a scandalized eye at. Shrugging off the thought and giving in to a little more impulsiveness — why the hell not? — he turns slowly on the bed to inspect whoever is currently spooning him.
Jeremy sees —
Oh. Oh, damn. A 10/10 pull, honestly. Good for him. Even when Jeremy’s blitzed out of his mind, he sure knows how to pick ‘em.
The guy is stunning. Dark eyelashes fan out across his cheeks, accentuating a strong Roman nose that dips town toward plush lips. He has black curls interwoven with strands of shiny silver-grey, which makes Jeremy smirk, at least until he looks down and sees that whoever he’s bedded is wearing a golden band around his left ring finger.
Ah, shit. That always makes things vastly more complicated.
It’s in poor taste to wonder if the gangly knuckles he’s peering at were hopefully inside of Jeremy at some point last night, especially when he also registers that the man is sleeping on top of the covers, his clothes rumpled and his body contorted in a way that most likely means exhausted and not thoroughly well-fucked.
Jeremy resolutely did not sign up to be some married DILF’s gay midlife crisis. And, as soon as he thinks that, he realizes he really needs to leave. Like, expeditiously.
His head thumps like a pounding drum as he tries to slip from the bed as quietly as possible. Confusingly, Jeremy realizes that he’s fully dressed, too, in a soft shirt and pair of sweatpants he doesn’t recognize when he looks down at them with a frown.
What the hell happened last night?
When his feet touch down on expensive-looking hardwood and he moves to stand, Jeremy’s vision swims dangerously. He tenses to keep himself upright, sending a jolt of electricity through his spine and skull, and the combination makes it impossible for him to fully stifle a quiet whimper of pain.
Jesus fucking Christ. Ow.
For the very first time since waking, he feels a slim thread of worry weave its way throughout him, because —
Because Jeremy knows what a hangover feels like. He knows what withdrawal feels like. And he also knows what an injury feels like, after years of getting hit on the Exy court, and the dots he’s beginning to connect are suddenly looking a lot less fun.
“Jeremy?”
He flinches, both in agony and frustration at being caught. “Sorry,” he rasps, operating purely on autopilot as he sits up fully over the edge of the bed, searing pain be damned. “Sorry, go back to sleep. I’m just leaving.”
“Leaving?” the man echoes with a curious lilt to the word. “Where on earth would you possibly go?”
Jeremy isn’t quick enough to avoid an arm weaving around his own, and he hisses uncomfortably as his skin crawls at the casual — almost intimate — touch.
Presumptuous.
He winces when it feels like a spike is being driven directly into his brain as he yanks his elbow away. “Look—”
“How are you doing?” the guy interrupts. Behind Jeremy, the bed dips. “You scared me yesterday. Does your head still hurt?”
In retrospect, the French accent is probably exactly why Jeremy decided to sleep with a married man. His drowsy tone sends an unwitting shiver down his spine, but You scared me yesterday tempers it, because that isn’t exactly a five-star review of the sex they may or may not have had.
Christ, does he want round two? A re-do? Jeremy is nauseous with discomfort, but maybe a quick blowjob will get the guy off his back. He’ll take any opportunity to leave as quickly as possible, and it’s not like it’ll be a hardship to suck the dick of someone so hot.
Hah. Hardship. Even in the throes of suffering, no one can say Jeremy doesn't have charm for fucking days.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, trying to muster enough energy to pretend to be aroused. It takes a moment, but flirting is second-nature to Jeremy, and when he purrs, “Let’s get you all sorted, then,” it even manages to sound compelling.
He turns to face the gorgeous Frenchman, eyes hooded and jaw slightly clenched to tolerate the obvious migraine, but he pauses when he sees the guy staring back at him with narrowed eyes and a complete lack of sexual interest. (Trust Jeremy — he flicks a glance toward his groin and is actually pretty disappointed to see no telltale bulge in the line of his tight leggings. Seriously, nothing?)
“The nurses cleared you,” the man says, tilting his head to the side as he eyes Jeremy like a particularly difficult puzzle to solve. “And you were mostly with me last night, but I am starting to think you may have hit your head harder than we anticipated. Tell me how you feel.”
Jeremy bristles against the command. He draws his upper lip up into a sneer, partly because part of him does want to respond for some inane fucking reason, but mostly because he doesn’t owe the guy anything. He offered the blowjob, but he can take it back just as quickly.
“If you don’t want to fuck again, I’m just going to go home,” he says bluntly. “I’m not your problem to worry about.”
He’s going to have a stern word with Bryson about laced drugs when he heads back, too. This is an entirely different level of disorientation than Jeremy is used to.
“Jeremy, what are you talking about? We are having entirely separate conversations." Something fearful clings to the man’s words, but determination flashes on his features as he straightens up. “I’m worried your concussion is worse than any of us thought. Slow down, please?”
Concussion?
Jeremy squints at him. “I don’t have a concussion,” he says suspiciously, head throbbing inconveniently as if to dispute the very idea.
Gray eyes blink in confusion. Good. At least Jeremy’s not alone in his perplexity. “Yes, you do.”
“I think I’d remember that.”
The man swears in French before saying, “I think the problem here is that you do not, obviously. We need to go to the hospital.”
If — if — what he’s saying is true, then it… maybe explains the yawning expanse of Jeremy’s memory. He pauses, trying to reframe this interaction. Possibly this guy is… a coach? That Jeremy tried to seduce? That’s the only thing that would make even a lick of sense. “Did I play yesterday?”
“We,” he replies, the correction as instant and as sharp as a blade. “We both did, and we lost after that fucking asshole Becker checked you illegally in the second half. You can’t recall anything?”
Jeremy blinks at the guy, who is very obviously significantly older than him. There’s absolutely no way the NCAA allowed someone like him on a college team. “Um,” he says stupidly, gesturing between them at the obvious impossibility. “You’re going to have to tell a better lie than that, dude. You missed your calling for USC by about a decade.”
He watches in stark clarity as his words register, because every ounce of blood drains from the French guy’s face. He’s deathly pale as he sways, ever so slightly, and like this, Jeremy can see the faintest smudge of something dark against his left cheekbone. It draws his attention, reminding him, strangely, of Exy. The man asks, very, very slowly, as though he’s afraid of the response, “How old are you?”
Concussion protocol. Maybe this guy really is a coach, Jeremy thinks, even though what he just said makes absolutely no sense. Fucking a member of another team’s staff is probably one of the more risky things he’s ever done, so he should at least act like he’s apologetic about it, right? “Eighteen,” he says, almost sheepishly. “Like, I’m legal, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No,” the man breathes. He looks completely devastated, and Jeremy shifts, uncomfortable in the wake of so much emotion. The of-age comment barely seems to register with him; he looks almost... scared. Of what, Jeremy? What the hell? “You were cleared. The nurses, they did tests.”
His accent is thickening as he insistently repeats himself, and something sharp lodges in Jeremy’s chest as he realizes that it is very, very difficult for anyone to act this well.
“I don’t remember.” There’s a lump in Jeremy’s throat as he abruptly feels entirely out of his depth. This is —
This is real, isn’t it? The guy’s fear is very nearly palpable in the air. There's a dawning expression on his face that prickles at Jeremy's hindbrain, sending goosebumps racing up and down his arms. Whatever answers Jeremy is giving him aren’t the ones he wants, but he has absolutely no way to right the situation. All Jeremy's good for is a quick hook-up; whatever is happening here is vastly beyond his scope of ability.
What can he say? What can he do?
The man’s jaw quavers. “What is my name? You still knew my name last night.”
We are having entirely separate conversations, he’d said. In this moment, Jeremy thinks they might actually be existing in entirely separate dimensions.
How the hell is Jeremy supposed to know the name of someone he’s never seen before in his entire life?
It’s suddenly hard to breathe. The anxiety clamping down on his larynx is only ever soothed by a high or an orgasm, but neither of those are appropriate right now. Jeremy doesn’t know how to exist without either vice, and that realization terrifies him almost as much as the increasingly-panicked man before him.
Adult before him. If Jeremy is freaking out the people who are supposed to have their shit together, then he doesn't stand a goddamned chance himself.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy murmurs, feeling dizzy as he tries to inject his apology with the very same softness he reserves almost entirely for Noah, “but I have no idea who you are.”
Before him, the man visibly crumples. “You don’t remember me,” he croaks, one hand flying up to his neck and tightening like he’s about to start choking himself. “You don’t remember us.”
Unbidden, Jeremy’s eyes lock on the wedding ring on his hand as the man's nails begin to bite into smooth, pale skin. He doesn’t know why; he doesn’t understand anything that’s happening right now.
“What’s…” Jeremy clears his dry throat, feeling rather like he’s stepped out on an icy lake that has just begun to crack beneath his weight. What’s worse: the fear of the frigid water, or the plunge itself? “What’s your name?”
“Jean Moreau,” the man, Jean, says finally, eyes shining with tears that stick in his eyelashes. Jeremy watches his fingernails begin to draw blood, frozen stock-still as the ice shatters completely upon Jean's next words: “And you are Jeremy Moreau. My husband.”