Archive of Our Own

The roar of the crowd is near-deafening in Jeremy’s ears, almost loud enough to drown out the mantra of ‘If we win tonight, I’ll tell him,’ that echoes back and forth off the walls of his mind. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, and knows then that the tremor of his hands is only partially due to this being the final game of his final season with the Trojans. 

They’re up against the Foxes tonight to the surprise of no one in the college Exy space; and Jeremy shakes, both buzzed with excitement and trembling in anxiety. He is delighted to face off against Palmetto again, this time with no holds barred or self-imposed restrictions. No punches pulled, just peak Trojan performance. He’s sure if humans were able, he would be exuding an aura completely radioactive and neon and bright. 

Beyond that shell is an uglier feeling, fear of disappointing the people who believe in him. Of disappointing himself, really. This is his last game with the Trojans, ever. And he wants nothing more than to graduate with a bang. He would of course prefer that bang be his perfect performance tonight, rather than the hungrily awaited downfall of the sunshine captain. In all honesty, Jeremy isn’t really sure they can win this. Now that the Foxes have gotten their shit together in the last two years, they really have become a formidable threat. They’ve gone on a lossless streak this season, and well, he hopes today is when that luck finally runs out. There’s no way they could beat them fair and square again, without subbing in-and-out when they get tired. But then again, he thinks maybe not, because last year they didn’t have Jean.

Jean. The second major reason Jeremy can’t really get ahold of the function of his fingers. It’s been such a long year, and Jean has come so far that every time Jeremy sees him on the court—practice or game—pride swells in his chest until it crushes his lungs and Jeremy forgets how to expand them again. Jeremy looks back on his earlier promise to himself, that he would never make the first move with Jean, and tries desperately to justify this act of self-betrayal as he puts his gloves on. 

Will it be a “move” really? It will just be evening the playing field, to help Jean make an informed decision while interacting with Jeremy. That’s so much easier to tell himself than admitting he’s fallen so in love with Jean over the last year that he can’t bear Jean not knowing any longer. 

He must have looked as out of it as he feels, because he feels and hears the velcro that tightens his gloves done up without actually doing so. When he blinks, he comes face to face with Jean’s grey eyes only to immediately blink again to dispel the illusion.

Except Jean doesn’t go away, but instead his eyes drop to Jeremy’s right hand to secure that glove as well. Jeremy lets him, a little stunned, but with an easy smile on his face. It’s so easy to love Jean in the little moments between them that Jeremy, for a second at least, can feel like he won’t crumple under the grandness of his own affections.

Jean smirks at him and flicks him on the helmet, which Jeremy doesn’t really feel other than to hear the thunk of it, “Get your head in the game, partner.”

“Oh God,” Jeremy laughs, moment successfully diffused, “I’m gonna kill Cat for making you watch High School Musical.”

Jean shrugs, “Do it after the game.” Then, he gestures to the exit of the locker room with a jerk of his beautiful head. His hair jostling and framing his face, sans helmet. The missing gear is under his arm, which Jeremy makes quick work of snatching from the loose hold and fastening on Jean’s head. That Jean lets this happen, that he doesn’t flinch away from the sudden touch, doesn’t take his eyes off Jeremy’s during the short ordeal makes Jeremy’s head spin with how much trust he’s managed to build with the other boy. 

It’s been a good year. Now Jeremy just needs to give it the good ending it deserves, a perfect full stop. 

Out on the court, the crowd cheers his name as they see his number emerge from the doors, the players lazing around before the game start looking up to where he’s entered and then going back to their activities. Some stretch and lightly practice while others simply take the time to catch up. Jeremy pats Jean on the shoulder in a silent goodbye as he bee-lines to where Neil and Andrew are, as Neil tells the uninterested looking boy something, animated and loud. The only thing that betrays the blond as paying attention is the twitch of his lips every now and again Neil cracks a joke that’s particularly unfunny.

“Cap!” Jeremy calls out, approaching them in a light jog. Neil’s eyes lock onto him and then a grin that matches Jeremy’s forms on his own face, giving Jeremy a polite nod.

“Cap.”

“Just wanted to wish you luck for the game,” Jeremy explains.

It makes Neil laugh, not in humor but perhaps some cocky amusement. “Please, I should be saying the same to you. Did you forget what happened last time?”

“We’re not playing like last time, and we don't have the same team.”

Andrew scoffs at that, and Jeremy only spares him a glance before returning his gaze back to Neil, whose own face has softened significantly from the friendly-but-deadly smirk he’d been wearing a second ago.

“How is he doing?” Neil asks in a small voice, as to not be overheard.

“He’s okay, I promise. Tell Kevin not to worry.”

This time Andrew sighs in feigned disinterest, but supplies, “It’s not only that single-minded idiot who worries.”

Jeremy deflates a little, “Renee?”

Andrew steps forward and grumbles a few curse words that would make Jeremy’s mother clutch her pearls but Neil holds him back with a single touch on his arm. Andrew looks over at Neil, then back at Jeremy, then steps back. 

“Have a good game, Jeremy,” Neil says with a genuine smile, and Jeremy finds himself easily smiling back.

“You too,” he says and starts to walk back, knocking his racquet into Andrew’s once. Andrew says something under his breath again, but knocks his back into Jeremy’s. 

It’s worth it if only for the utterly perplexed look on Neil’s face. 

“Get your shit together,” Andrew warns.

Jeremy lets out a long suffering breath, “I know.”

“I’m serious. I hate you. I don’t want to witness more of your pathetic pining.”

He smiles, then, and says, “I know.”

When he does finally walk back to his team, it’s to the backtrack of Neil’s pestering: ‘You guys talk?’ and ‘What do you even talk about?’ and ‘I honestly didn’t even know you were friends,’ and ‘Why are you texting him behind my back?’. It would get him to giggle if not for Jean’s raised eyebrow that welcomes him to their side of the court that makes him weak in the knees.

“What?” Jeremy asks, giddy.

Jean looks at him, and then up at the sky, and says, “Nothing.” 

He doesn’t really like that response, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He’s gone around and wished the team good luck personally at every match, he isn’t going to abandon that tradition at his last game. That’s simply a bad omen that he can’t afford today. 

So Jeremy runs a lap around his team, looks at Jean across the court one final time, and gets into position. 

✶

It doesn’t even register to him that they won, for a second, as the scoreboard blinks back at him 7-6. He’s propelled forward with the force of his strike, almost mid-field, that he nearly falls over if not for the strong arms circling his waist. Not only does Jean rebalance Jeremy, he also picks him up in a hug as the whole team runs to crowd them. The whole arena is chanting a last name he hates so lovingly that Jeremy loves it too, for a moment. Jean laughs beneath him, and when Jeremy’s finally released he sees the biggest smile he’s seen from Jean yet. 

Jean moves to say something, but someone grabs Jeremy by the shoulder and turns him around, crashing into him.

“How did you make that?!” Cody yells, jumping to bump their shoulders with his, “You crazy son of a bitch, I can’t believe you!” 

Jeremy laughs with them, it’s easy enough to join in on the joy when he’s managed to get not one but two goals past Andrew, and a game-deciding one at that. He’s passed around the whole team—and some of the Foxes too before he’s all too lost about where all his friends went. After accepting congratulations, a reporter grabs and pulls him aside to get his thoughts.

“What a fantastic game for your last, Jeremy!” she says, handing the microphone to him without a real question in there.

“You’re telling me, Margaret. I don’t think I’ll come down from that for a while.”

“The Trojans are keeping their no-red-card streak this season—”

“Come on, I told you we would at the beginning of the season, you doubted me?”

“Well,” she sweats, “Not you, per se…”

“For one,” Jeremy starts, “I never did. Not everyone is as they initially seem, or what the media says about them. You should know all about that after the year we had, I’d think.”

“I just meant that—”

“If you have any further questions, I’d love to answer them at a later time. Have a winning day!” Jeremy says and practically runs out of the stadium and into the empty locker rooms. He must have taken some time out in the court for the room to be this void of life now. He chucks his gear into his locker as fast he can. Now that the conditions of his promise are met, Jeremy is nauseous at the notion of fulfilling it.

Jean is so happy today, to see him genuinely happy about anything that concerns Exy is near-miraculous. Jeremy had never seen him this joyous, so unafraid to share his joy and join in on the team cheer—it’s making the backs of Jeremy’s eyes burn. To even potentially ruin that for him, to be a stain on an otherwise perfect day is suddenly so overwhelming that Jeremy backpedals a little.

‘I’ll tell him tomorrow,’ he thinks, ‘It’s not like either of us are going anywhere.’ But then he thinks back to Andrew angrily messaging him that no such thing as a perfect time exists, that he backpedals on that. He is so lost in his own head that he doesn’t see Jean approach him for the second time that day. 

“I have been looking for you,” Jean tells him from all the way over the doorway. 

It would have been pathetic if there were anyone else to witness just how desperately Jeremy perks up at the sound of his voice, “Jean, you were so great. I can’t believe you blocked Kevin like that, I swear, you’re gonna get pro deals lining up the second you step out. Like, we could not have possibly won today if—”

Jean had been slowly moving towards him as he went on and on, so when they’re finally chest to chest he rolls his eyes, incredibly fond, and demands Jeremy to “Shut up.”

Jeremy nods, lifting his chin to look up at him, “Yup, shutting up right now.” 

His shoes make a light clacking noise against the metal locker doors as Jeremy takes the only step he has left back. A mere day ago, he wouldn’t have even dared to imagine being this close to Jean, to see the tiny flecks of dark blue in his eyes or the uneven curve of his cupid’s bow. But now, those lips that he’s been fixated on all year are on his and—

Jean grabs him by the sides of Jeremy’s neck, his thumbs on Jeremy’s jaw as he kisses him like Jeremy has never been kissed before. For all his escapades, this is a first. To be kissed like someone to be cherished, to be held so close for the sake of kissing and not as a means to an end or as a signal of interest. Jean’s slide into his mouth and his accidental push that shoves him hard against the locker door makes Jeremy feel hot all over like no other kiss in his life ever has.

His left hand instinctively reaches to curl in Jean’s hair, his right on Jean’s shoulder as he tries to kiss back as good as he’s getting it. His mind is running a mile an hour so it’s a bit difficult to keep up. Or to breathe, to be honest, the way in which Jean’s mouth seeks to devour him proves successful. “Jean—” he tries to say in the brief moment they part, but then Jean chases his lips again and well, it's not like Jeremy's gonna stop him. He tugs Jean closer so that not an inch of them are apart, and turn Jean’s head slightly to the side to deepen the kiss. It earns him a noise so quiet—muffled by his own mouth, to be fair—that he wouldn’t have heard it if not for his proximity to Jean’s lips. 

Jeremy parts away from him, if only to breathe, but when Jean tries to go back in he pecks him on the lips and says, “Hold—just hold on a second,” he pleads, catching his breath as Jean does the same, with a crease between his brows. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean starts but Jeremy won’t even hear it, couldn’t bear to entertain Jean feeling sorry for this.

“Jean,” Jeremy says in between pants, moving his hands slowly to cup Jeremy’s face, “Do you know what my plan was for today?”

Jean shakes his head and looks miserable, closing his eyes.

“If we won the match tonight, I was going to tell you that I have feelings for you.”

Pressed together as they are, Jeremy can feel the exact moment Jean tenses and releases all that tension, both just seconds apart. Then, he snorts and offers, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you jerk,” Jeremy laughs with him, dropping his forehead on Jean’s shoulder, “Way to ruin my best-laid plans.”

Jean nods, his eyes shining and his skin glowing. Being loved looks good on him, Jeremy thinks, “I told myself I would kiss you if we won tonight.”

“Well, good job,” Jeremy says, because trying to comprehend that Jean has reciprocated his feelings for long enough to plan a pro-active confession like this is impossible after the brain-melting kissing he just experienced.

Speaking of.

Jeremy leans in to kiss Jean again, slower this time. Not hurried but no less hungry. Jean lets himself be kissed for a slow minute before he settles his hands on the narrow of Jeremy’s waist, squeezing once and sighing right into his mouth. Jeremy suddenly feels very hot in his uniform. Too hot, unbearably hot, yet he has no imminent plans to part from the human furnace who he’s pressed up against. So, sue him, sometimes he just makes thermo-illogical decisions.

“We should probably leave before the stadium closes,” Jeremy blurts out in between the kisses. Resting his forehead on Jean’s shoulder and taking a breath, he realizes how that sounds. Like he’s asking Jean to take him home. To his home, to their—

So what if he is, really? Who would blame him, when Jean looks at him like this and kisses him like that?

Jean pants, “Change,” into the space between them and, with movements that Jeremy can only classify as reluctant, disentangles himself from Jeremy. 

Jeremy too tries to move away, but only succeeds in pressing his back more firmly into the lockers—would have banged his head on the metal too, if not for the hand that cradles the back of his head at the last moment, “We should—”

“Yes—” Jean starts, but then looks at Jeremy so fondly and dives back in to steal yet another kiss. 

Jeremy loathes to stop Jean, especially when he’s kissing him, but unfortunately they really need to get going, and Jean is incredibly distracting. With a regretful sigh, Jeremy pulls back and Jean, thankfully, dutifully, takes a step back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

Jeremy thanks every God in the universe that he doesn't immediately get hard from that sight alone. He moves forward to land a quick kiss before heading to the showers but Jean takes a hold of him by his upper arms and doesn't let him.

“Jeremy,” Jean levels with him, “If you kiss me again, we will not get out of here on time. Change.”

The laugh that ripples out of him is second in strength only to the shudder that zips up his spine. It's clear that Jean takes notice by the prompt glimmering of his grey eyes, but he doesn't comment on it and lets Jeremy awkwardly go wash up. Jeremy, for his efforts to ‘get out of here on time’, takes a thorough but admittedly swift shower—one that could  rival Jean’s usual routine. The California heat, even after dark, takes care of drying his hair for him as he emerges in his normal clothes to find the locker room empty. 

He doesn't have to search for too long before he spots Jean in the parking lot, leaning against his parked bike with a helmet under his arm—like before the game—and another dangling from the front fork. He is texting someone, and judging by how he hasn't reacted to Jeremy’s footsteps, the conversation must be important. Riveting.

Jeremy doesn't care all that much.

“Two helmets? I can’t decide whether to call you confident or presumptuous.”

Jean looks up at him, jumps a little too violently than Jeremy planned for, but he untenses as soon as he realizes who's in front of him. He smiles to himself. Under the twilight, in plain clothes and wild hair, he thinks Jean is the most beautiful man he's seen in his life. 

Jean holds a helmet out for Jeremy, which serves to snap Jeremy out of waxing poetic about him in his head, “Suppose that I dared to hope.”

He is stunned into silence for a second, he doesn't move other than to take the offered helmet. Hope. How has Jeremy become something that Jean would want to hope for? He wants to reassure Jean that he has Jeremy in every way that counts, that he's had him for a long time now, that there hasn't been any doubt in his heart, but then he remembers he’s never been on a bike before and fear takes the reins from him for now.

“This is, like, a really bad idea,” Jeremy tells him, but Jean only raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

The look Jeremy throws at him is half incredulous and half bemused, wholly  undeterred by The EyebrowTM “These things are killing machines! Do you know how dangerous they are? I—this is a terrible idea Jean.”

What he doesn't say is, ‘I am not dying on this glorified death trap before I have my fill of you, and I'm afraid that will be a while yet.’

“Yes,” Jean agrees, as he leads Jeremy to sit behind him on the bike, “Inadvisable, completely idiotic—”

“Do not tease me!”

Jean sighs, utterly fake and drawn out for dramatics, “But it is so tempting.”

Jeremy huffs loudly to try and get Jean’s attention, but the roar of the engine clouds that noise as soon as Jeremy exhales. He has a sneaking suspicion, with the smirk Jean throws behind his shoulder, that the bastard did it on purpose. Jeremy sits and allows his body to absorb the purr of the engine—the vibrations and the noise—as he gingerly holds on to the small handles besides his hips.

To that, Jean makes a discontent sound and reaches back to grab his arms and maneuver them to hug himself from behind, “Why you would suddenly be shy to touch me, I don't get,” Jean half-shouts to be heard even with the engine going and the helmet muffling him, sounding awfully smug. It seems that all the kisses they shared have emboldened him enough to be smug with Jeremy about touching and kissing and se—

Jeremy’s mind stops working at the same time as Jean revs the engine and shoots out of the parking lot. It's all Jeremy can do to hold onto him for dear life, his fists tangled in Jean’s t-shirt and his knees pressing into Jean’s thighs. He closes his eyes out of instinct, but when he gets used to the speed and the ‘not having a car roof over his head, or any protective exoskeleton of a car, really’ thing, he peeks with a single eye to see the roads they pass. His cheek, covered with a layer of foam and Lexan, is pressed against Jean’s broad back. Once he’s sure they will not die, Jeremy stares openly at the California horizon. The purple and orange that colors the sky, the breeze that diffuses into them as they move on the road. United, as one object. Perhaps Jeremy gets the appeal of riding together, now.

In his relief, he finally releases the pressure of his knees that were holding Jean’s thighs hostage, and soon after he can feel Jean's chest shake with what he can only assume is laughter. When it's Jean who’s laughing at him, it doesn't feel like the joke is at his expense. It feels fond, or exasperated, or even humorous but never humiliating. Jeremy feels too heavy all of a sudden to join in on the fun, but he snuggles closer, a little looser, and lets Jean bring them home. 

✶

As soon as the front door closes Jeremy finds himself slammed against it, mouth reclaimed. The impact doesn't even register as pain through his already-aching muscles, he is so drunk on need that all of his senses are fuzzy around the edges. With only his lips on Jeremy's, Jean has managed to completely fry all higher thought out of him—perhaps Jeremy is easy. 

“Jean,” Jeremy tries to warn, because even within the haze he is still very aware that, “We don't live alone—Jean.”

But he doesn't stop kissing Jeremy, he only leads him by his wrist to their room, and kisses him against that door, “They are both out, it is fine.”

Jean crowds him again and plants a kiss on Jeremy's jaw, and then, hesitantly on his neck, and up and around like he could live ducked under Jeremy's chin. Jeremy lets himself close his eyes for a minute and bask in the pleasure; both of the tentative licks against his throat and the prospect of having Jean this close.

It's all too soon that he shoves Jean by the shoulders, probably pink all over, “You were texting Cat, weren't you?”

Jean stumbles, and frowns in confusion, trying to follow Jeremy's train of thought, “What?” he says, though the words are more an exhale, mingled with surprised laughter.

“Back at the parking lot when I found you. You were texting Cat. That's how you know they're out.”

“Oh,” Jean tells him, then shrugs, “Yes. I asked her to leave.”

“You—Jean!”

“It is not like our… this is exactly a secret, Jeremy.”

And, okay. As long as Jean continues to say his name like that Jeremy will accept any and all justifications. He exhales, long-suffering, and drops his head on Jean’s shoulder to catch his breath. Jean is right, Jeremy has been about as subtle as an Exy racquet to the face when it comes to his feelings for Jean.

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks burning something fierce, “Yeah, I guess it was obvious, huh?”

Jean lets out a reserved chuckle, shaking his head, and hums affirmatively, “They could always read it on my face.”

Jeremy stills, because what? He doesn’t get much time to ponder over how Jean somehow thinks he was the one being conspicuous, because Jean resumes kissing him. This time, it’s less hurried and more self-indulgent. It is easy to melt under the attention—to open up to Jean, to slacken his jaw and to part his legs—so Jeremy does. 

Navigating the apartment with his eyes closed, Jean’s tongue in his throat and his limbs otherwise occupied is a Herculean task, yet they somehow manage to find the doorknob of Jean’s room as it digs into Jeremy’s back, causing him to hiss into Jean’s mouth. Jean’s lips twitch as Jeremy busies one of his hands with opening the door, and Jean puts his palm against Jeremy’s lower back in silent apology. 

Jeremy inelegantly tumbles into the room and Jean follows, shutting it after them even if they’re at no risk for intrusion or interruption. Jean parts from him, chest rising and falling in exaggerated motions that Jeremy openly stares at, now that he’s allowed—transfixed.

His brain finally catches up with him, so Jeremy sits down on Jean’s bed and drags Jean to do the same. They’re both panting and sweaty (Jeremy will definitely need another shower somewhen, this is absurd) but this is important, Jeremy thinks, so he wills his tongue to work properly.

“We should probably talk about this,” he says, even though what he means is I will not do anything with you without talking about this.

Jean seems to decipher Jeremy’s expression to the point of mind reading, because he too gets serious and nods, if maybe a little shy. “Yes,” he agrees easily, and the tension in his shoulders ease. 

Jeremy doesn't think that Jean even notices how taut the muscles have been. He knows that even with all the trust Jean harbors for him there will always be that inherent need to protect himself. The readiness to strike back if the need arises. But that oozes out of him now, so apparent in hindsight that Jeremy thinks back to every touch shared between them and tries to remedy any harm in retrospect. 

“I want you to know that whatever happens—or doesn’t happen tonight, that you set the pace, okay?” 

Jean takes his hands with a softness that Jeremy doesn’t remember ever sharing with anyone else, “I know, you worry too much.”

He shakes his head. Frankly, with all of his blood rushing southward, Jeremy is suspicious he isn’t worried enough. “We’ll go slow,” he reassures and Jean nods easily enough, with an air to him like he wants to say ‘Are you done?’

They will definitely have to talk more about this one day—and soon if Jeremy has anything to say about it—but for now Jean leans back in to kiss Jeremy, to separate his lips with his tongue, to explore the inside of his mouth and Jeremy sighs into it, pulling Jean closer and somehow semi-landing on the taller boy’s lap. Jeremy’s lips move lower, to the end-of-day stubble, to the hinge of Jean’s jaw, to—

“No—Jeremy, not my neck, I—”

Jeremy looks at Jean’s wide eyes and cups his face, “I know, I remember, yeah?” As an apology for scaring him, even if he really wasn’t going to touch Jean’s neck, Jeremy turns the face in his hands and plants a kiss to the soft skin behind Jean’s ear. It’s a good thing he’s so close, or else Jeremy would’ve missed how Jean whines at that, airy and quiet, “I remember. I wouldn’t.”

When he tilts the world back onto its axis, Jean’s eyes are downcast, “I know you wouldn't.”

He is so sincere about it too, but far too timid for how self-assured Jean has been today. And well, Jeremy simply can’t have that. Keeping his movements slow so as to not startle Jean once again, so soon, Jeremy straddles him fully. Knees indenting the mattress on both sides of Jean’s hips. He takes his seat fully on Jean’s lap, now, leaning back a little to put some space between them—and to steal a clearer glance of Jean.

Even when all they’ve done is kissing and maybe some light petting, Jean looks debauched. His pupils are dilated to the point that Jeremy can’t make out the grey anymore, lips swollen from all the kissing—their color only rivaled by Jean’s flushed cheeks. Flushed face, really, and flushed neck, and sternum and yes, Jeremy really wants to follow just how further down it goes, sue him. 

But in this instance, Jeremy wants what Jean wants first. Jean’s hands circle his waist, tentatively at first, but squeezing afterwards like he’s checking if Jeremy’s tangible. Jeremy is a built man, but he revels in feeling small under Jean’s expansive palms. Unintentionally he puts more of his weight down on Jean’s lap and the groan that rips out of the both of them is nothing short of obscene. 

“What do you want?” Jeremy asks earnestly, grabbing Jean’s arms as he tries to pull away from touching Jeremy, holding him still. It’s loose, Jean can get out of it without any hardship, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his hands where they are and bites his lip in contemplation. Jeremy decides to help him out, if only a little, “Do you want to touch me?”

Jean nods, desperate, and with Jeremy’s guidance gets his hands under Jeremy’s shirt. He maps the planes of muscle with open palms, as if he’s committing them to memory by touch alone. Jeremy lifts his own arms up to help him get his t-shirt out of the way. He lets himself admire for a split second before he takes his own shirt off with one hand, then his lips are on Jeremy’s chest. He can’t help the shudder that zips up his spine, just his luck that Jean notices too, as his lips tick upward after a poor attempt to stifle the smile. 

His hips move despite himself, but before Jeremy can regret it or apologize, a moan spills out of Jean’s mouth and reverberates through Jeremy’s ribs. Cautiously, Jeremy does it again. This time Jean meets him halfway and causes both of them to groan, the rough fabric between their bodies and the insistent pressure making stars dance on the backs of Jeremy’s eyelids.

That’s when he realizes his eyes are closed, and Jeremy opens them, not wanting to miss a second of this. If Jean realizes one day just how too good for Jeremy he is, at least he will have the memory of Jean’s glassy eyes and how he thrusts forwards just right that makes Jeremy’s thighs twitch.  Like this, chest to chest, hip to hip, Jeremy can feel Jean hardening against his thigh as he moves on his lap. So much for going slow. Jean seems to notice, too, and disappointment bleeds into his face before he can school his expression into something… less. 

"Traitorous flesh, ignore it."

"Traitorous—" Jeremy is very good at not laughing at Jean, usually, but he loses this battle spectacularly, "You're so ridiculous. I can't believe I'm in love with you."

And. Well. So he hadn't perhaps meant to say that, exactly. Because saying 'I was going to confess my feelings to you if you hadn't come and kissed my breath away' and 'I have been so in love with you for the past however many months that my chest feels full with it, after so long of being disgustingly empty,' are two vastly different things. 

Jean looks surprised, and gazes up at Jeremy in lieu of saying something. Jeremy isn't sure what he finds there, but his face softens, and Jean tells him, horrifyingly, "Neither can I.” 

In his fascination, Jean traces Jeremy’s face with his fingers. His brow-bone down to his jaw, then back up to his lips. Jeremy doesn’t know what possesses him as he opens his mouth and licks at the index and middle finger Jean was swiping his lips with. The world stops spinning for the suspended moment Jean holds his breath, but Jeremy catches up quickly with the fact that this is a good reaction, and closes his mouth around the digits. 

Jean looks broken, yet he doesn’t tear his eyes away from Jeremy, not even once. Not when Jeremy sucks and closes his own eyes momentarily, for when he peeks through his eyelashes and gets down on his knees at the edge of the bed, Jean is still looking at him. Experimentally, he presses his fingers down and forwards, and Jeremy is generous enough to reward him with a moan. He swirls his tongue around the fingers, tries to take more of Jean even if he has him to the last knuckle, and just how better it would be if he could do this to—

The thought sobers him swiftly from whatever haze Jeremy had just been about to submit himself to, and he releases the fingers in his mouth to ask, “Do you want me to blow you?”

Jean chokes, “What?”

“You know, suck your dick? Do you want me to?”

“I know what ‘blowing’ means, Jeremy,” Jean says hurriedly—all in one breath like the words just expel themselves of their own will—and with increasingly reddening cheeks. 

Jeremy’s grin is slow but it extends to the corners of his face, it’s a good change in pace to not be the flustered one, for once, “Well, can I?”

“I—Do you want to?” Jean says, and after Jeremy levels him with a look that he hopes contains his utter disbelief at the question Jean huffs, “I meant, would it be good for you?”

Jeremy doesn’t think that in all of his years of sleeping with men, he’s ever gotten asked that question before. But beautiful, considerate Jean asks. And maybe the answer would be different if Jeremy were with any other people, but there are no other people. There haven’t been other people in a long while and Jeremy suspects there won’t ever be again. So he is confident, and wholeheartedly truthful when he says, “So good, Jean. I promise.”

Jeremy parts Jean’s knees so he can sit between them, lays his head on Jean’s leg, and waits. He can see the cogs turning in Jean’s head and it relieves Jeremy, it’s good that he is actually thinking this through instead of trying to endure it for Jeremy’s sake. 

It doesn’t take long before Jean nods and whispers, “Yes.”

Jeremy lifts his cheek from where it was resting on Jean’s thigh and helps him out of his pants, then his boxers. Even with his list of experiences, this makes him feel grossly out of his element. With Faser, or Leo, or countless others without a name or a face left in his mind, sex was far more detached. It was rough, and careless, and sometimes even mocking—nothing less than he deserved, truthfully.

But Jean, who lowers those slightly downturned eyes to meet Jeremy's own and holds his gaze like something precious, makes him feel like there's a heavy rock between his ribs and spine. Like it's sinking lower and lower, reminding that even like this, on his knees for Jean, he’s getting far more than he can ever hope to deserve.

When Jeremy takes Jean into his hand, he’s already hard. Now that he’d been given permission he wastes no time in licking his way up to the tip from the base. Jean makes a noise that gets caught in his throat before it can be fully realized, and fists both his hands in the sheets beside his hips. Jeremy is suddenly thankful for his extensive research of the male body, because it means he knows how to circle his tongue right as he accepts the head into his mouth. Knows when and where to suck, how to maneuver his head up and down so Jean whimpers prettily, fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric as they threaten to tear it.

That just won’t do, so Jeremy reaches up, blind—his vision obscured by the expanse of muscle in his eyeline—and takes one of Jean’s hands to weave it into his own hair. Jean looks hesitant, but Jeremy hums around his cock to reassure him, and it works as Jean’s fingers tangle in the blond curls and tighten.

”Merde!” Jean says and throws his head back, clearly lost in the pleasure. Yet even then he doesn’t pull Jeremy further down his cock, or thrust his hips so he can fuck into his mouth. He remains exactly where he is, right where Jeremy put him. It sends a wave of warmth to Jeremy’s gut, and all he can do is accept it and make sure to show Jean a good time. 

He speeds up, bobbing up and down Jean’s cock and working with his hand whatever he can’t take. Admittedly, Jean is quite big and Jeremy is out of practice. He still vows to himself ’one day’. One day he will take Jean to the root, but for now even him teasing the opening to his throat is overwhelming. Jean’s hand further clenches in his hair, and Jeremy moans, the vibrations following through to Jean, causing him to echo Jeremy.

“Jeremy, oh—putain, Jeremy!” Jean chokes out, squirming beneath Jeremy. 

He can tell by the twitch of Jean’s hips that this is about to be over soon, so Jeremy doubles his efforts as Jean practically writhes with it. Closing his eyes and relaxing his throat, Jeremy tries to take the tip into the passage, but as soon as his throat flutters around Jean, he’s done for. Jeremy had ample warning and opportunity to pull away, but there is no world in which he doesn’t swallow every last drop. He slows down, but he doesn’t relent, not until Jean is completely spent, not until his whines turn from blissed-out to overstimulated.

When Jeremy finally retreats, a line of spit follows him. Jean stares at the obscenity, averts his eyes as he mumbles something, but only a second looks back again and moves the hand he has in Jeremy's hair to his cheek.

“Come up here,” he demands, and who is Jeremy to deny him? 

Jean manages to get him up here and locks their mouths together before he turns on the bed and lays Jeremy down on the mattress, hovering over him. Jeremy shivers as he looks at him, all that skin and hard lines on display for him. Jean’s smiling softly at him, running his hands on Jeremy’s abdomen absentmindedly.

Then, his hands dip lower, “Do you need help with that, captain?” he asks, coy. It takes Jeremy an embarrassing few seconds to realize Jean is talking about the tent in his sweatpants.

“Hardly your captain anymore,” Jeremy says, breathless.

“Nonsense. You will always be my captain,” Jean replies easily, and kisses a shoulder, “My partner,” a collarbone, “My Jeremy.”

Jeremy’s breath catches, it’s impossible for it not to, ”Your Jeremy, huh?”

“Yes.” Jean states this like it’s a given, like Jeremy isn’t feeling carved inside at the thought of being Jean’s. Jeremy can’t help himself, he grabs Jean’s face and kisses him with enough force to convey at least half the adoration he has for him. Jean’s soft mouth lets him in easily, and his hand massages Jeremy’s thigh. “Can I?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremy teases, “Will it be good for you?”

“Va te faire voir” Jean grumbles, but he’s smiling, almost giddy. 

“I know that one,” he says, pouting, ”You fuck off.” Jean laughs at him, and Jeremy kisses him on the brow, because even if his tone had been jovial his concern is real. “I’m serious, though. You don’t have to—you don’t owe me this.”

He doesn’t say, ‘Honestly, I don’t think a hand could get me off anymore, not quickly enough where you won’t get bored. I think I need the rougher touch, and for you to be mean to even get going.’ or even ’I don’t wanna rush you, isn’t one new experience already a giant leap?’

Jean just says, “I want to,” and when he puts it that way, surely it’s okay, right?

Jeremy lets Jean unzip his pants, and lower it and his boxer down to his thighs. He watches with wide eyes as Jean only wastes half a second to admire before wrapping a fist around him. His lips attach themselves to Jeremy’s neck and his hand moves up and down, slow at first but increasing in speed with every noise Jeremy makes.

Maybe Jeremy had been wrong. What he’d meant to not say was, ’Oh my God, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.’

He’d been achingly hard and leaking since Jean took him out, which should have been the first sign, really. Usually he needs more than giving oral to get excited, but—

But it’s Jean. It’s Jean that twists his hand when he comes up towards the head, squeezes where he quickly picked up Jeremy likes, It’s Jean that licks Jeremy’s lips, again and again and again, and it’s Jean that holds him in the aftershocks as Jeremy spills into his hand and onto his chest. 

He only figures out how high he’d arched his back when the hand that had supported it leaves to find a napkin to wipe him with. Jeremy doesn’t even know what he’d said—if he’d even managed to say anything—his mind is cleared so thoroughly. He whines when Jean cleans around his oversensitive cock, but it’s hardly the most pathetic noise that came out of him tonight, so he doesn’t bother to be ashamed by it. Instead, he kicks his pants off and grabs Jean by the waist as soon as Jean re-joins him on the bed after his quick trip to the trashcan. 

Jean puts his arm around Jeremy, content to be held, and for minutes after there is only their shared breaths that make sound in the room. Then, Jeremy says, as casually as he can do it, “I got into the Swans.”

Even with how exhausted he is, Jeremy can tell that Jean freezes at that. “San Francisco," he says, his tone betraying no emotion, and it isn’t voiced like a question either.

But, “Yeah,” Jeremy says anyway, “I’m staying in California.”

“Why did you not tell me this?” Jean asks and he sounds so hurt that Jeremy feels awful. Immediately he sits up, taking Jean’s hands in his.

“I didn’t want you to be distracted right before the finals. I knew you would have my head for it if I compromised your practice time. And besides, I only heard back from them like a week ago—”

”A week you’ve kept this from me?”

“Jean,” Jeremy pleads, “I’m sorry, okay? I wanted to do what I thought was best for your game.”

He sighs, and Jean sighs with him. Jeremy can see that along with the exhale all the pain and offense Jeremy caused leave Jean. “I have been worried about you,” he admits, making Jeremy raise an eyebrow, “You’d been killing yourself with the commute, and with your law school exam, and I know all of that is long past us but I was worried, Jeremy. That you would lose sight of what you love and resign yourself to your mother’s wishes because you figured that’s what you were good enough for.”

It shoots Jeremy like a hollow-point directly into the lung. He doesn’t know how to act after being read so easily and so clearly. Jean’s lips form a small smile as he continues, “I am glad I was wrong. Swans are lucky to have you. Starting striker?”

Jeremy tries very hard to not show how taken aback he is, “Yes.”

“Good,” Jean says, and kisses Jeremy on the forehead, “It’s no less than you deserve.” And Jeremy doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing.

He coughs before ‘fessing up, “The Wildcats wanted me too.” 

Jean turns towards him, “They’re a better team.,” he says, confused.

“Yes, but I’d start a reserve which is.. it’s alright, but. They’re all the way over there,” Jeremy says, waving his hand to indicate distance, and then he points at Jean’s chest, “And you’re here. So. It wasn’t much of a choice, really.” 

Jean looks like he has few choice words for that logic, he opens his mouth and closes it again until he settles on, “You’re really staying?”

“Yeah,” he reassures, “I mean, it’s still like 300-something miles, but—”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” Jean admits, all at once. And Jeremy can’t help but agree. He leans towards Jean, silently asking for a kiss, and that request is obliged with an ease Jeremy should have been expecting, but hadn’t had the heart to hope for.

A little later, when he’s tracing idle patterns on Jean’s chest and they are both almost lulled to sleep, Jean says, “Today has been one of the best days of my life.” 

Jeremy doesn’t have the energy to move his head, but he still makes the effort to look at Jean as he says, “It’s no less than you deserve.”