Chapter Text
Somewhere between “My throat is dry, let’s have another drink” and “Oh, I think I saw Cody over there!”, Cat vanished, leaving Jean alone in a corner. He should have foreseen that it would come to this and tried not to resent his friend's excessive social enthusiasm, but the alcoholic haze that now enveloped him made processing his feelings more difficult than usual. In his mind, everything wavered and twisted and churned with Jean’s dangerous feelings for his captain, images of Jeremy being touched so carelessly by unworthy hands, and Valerie's terrible revelation—all mixing together in a deadly potion of frustrated yearning.
Someone bumped into him, and Jean staggered as he would in a collision on the court. There was a light buzzing under his skin, as if his blood had become effervescent. The heat in his chest was bordering on uncomfortable; Jean tugged a third button loose in an attempt to cool down. He disliked how unstable the ground felt beneath his feet, but had only his own stupidity and his nonexistent tolerance for alcohol to blame. Jean vowed never to attend another party again.
In his slightly intoxicated solitude, Jean turned his attention to the peculiar interactions that supposedly normal college students had. He observed a group of shirtless men around a beer keg, taking turns being turned upside down and drinking from a hose; a circle of girls in flashy clothes chatting and laughing loudly amongst themselves; people dancing with sweat sticking to their hair and soaking their clothes; a boy vomiting in a flowerpot. Music loud enough to crack your skull, cheap alcohol, and not a care in the world.
Why people would voluntarily submit themselves to this madness was a mystery to Jean—or was he the mad one for not liking it?
Jean felt a sudden warmth beside him, as if the clouds had dissipated and the sun shone through. He turned his head and found Jeremy standing beside him. His gaze immediately went to Jeremy’s neck in search of bruises or handprints, but found only unblemished skin. Jean’s heart tripped on a drop of sweat trickling from Jeremy’s chin down his throat, and he felt an irrational urge to lick it. He should have been able to look away before being caught, but the alcohol in his system made his reflexes frighteningly slow.
When Jean’s gaze returned to Jeremy’s face, he found a wide, satisfied smile, flanked by the dimples that haunted his dreams. “Salut!” Jeremy beamed, driving another nail into Jean’s coffin.
“Hello,” Jean managed to grunt past the desert on the back of his throat.
Brown eyes took in Jean’s disheveled state with interest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. To Jean’s already overheated skin, it was torture—although, if asked why he liked this so much, Jean wouldn’t be able to give a straight answer.
“Where’s your new friend?” Jeremy asked.
Jean shrugged. “I do not know, somewhere I suppose. And she is not my friend.”
Jeremy’s eyebrows were lost in his hairline. “Oh, I see. Are you, um, enjoying the party?” he leaned close to Jean’s ear to be heard.
Jean made a sound that was probably muffled by the bass. “Look at my face and draw your own conclusions.”
Jeremy’s head snapped back in laughter. He bumped shoulders with Jean’s and exchanged a knowing smile. “I heard you had your first experience with alcohol—tequila, no less. I wish I could have been there to see.”
Jean couldn’t help being a little petty. “If you were not wasting your time with mere buffoons, you would be there.”
The words punched Jeremy’s smile off his face. He tried to hide a grimace behind the mouth of his bottle—the same kind of colorful beverage Laila had forced upon him earlier—but he, too, was hampered by alcoholic slowness.
Jean sighed and stared at the swirling crowd of colorful people before him. He crossed his arms, tapping his bicep with a finger, before extending an olive branch. “I do not like it, but I do not hate it either. The party,” he explained, seeing Jeremy’s confused expression. “It is interesting—but it is the same kind of interesting as seeing animals in a zoo or watching a nature documentary.”
Jeremy giggled, a sweet sound that thawed the last vestige of Jean’s resentment. “You know, now that you mention it, I can perfectly imagine a David Attenborough documentary about the hectic lives of university students.” Jeremy lowered his voice an octave and tried to imitate a British accent: "Here, Homo collegiatus gathers, drawn by rhythmic acoustic vibrations and the promise of abundant fermented nectar. Young males seek to assert their dominance, either by demonstrating strength or by being louder than the competition, in order to attract the attention of the females of the species. But caution is needed, because in this crowded and humid environment, excessive indulgence and overconfidence are a recipe for exclusion from the gene pool.”
It was stupid, so very stupid, and Jean couldn’t help but laugh. Jeremy looked exceedingly pleased with himself. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, the music fading until it became a distant, pulsating sound in the background.
“Now it’s your turn,” Jeremy nudged Jean with his elbow. “There was this French oceanographer who narrated documentaries about the sea—he had an accent like yours. Um… what was his name again?” he snapped his fingers a couple times, coaxing the name out of his mind. “Jacques Cousteau! You know Jacques Cousteau?”
“What kind of ignorant simpleton do you take me for? Of course I know Jacques Cousteau!”
Jeremy grinned and gestured as if to say “go on.” Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead looked at the crowd for inspiration. He saw a guy, wearing a T-shirt with the inscription “TWO SEATER” between an arrow pointing up and another pointing down, approaching a group of girls. He cleared his throat and made his accent a little heavier than usual.
"The young and inexperienced male, wearing suggestive adornments intended to attract, tries his luck with a close-knit group of females. He begins his courtship ritual: puffs out his chest and poses in a way that displays his physical attributes." Despite the man’s best attempts at courtship, the expression on the girls’ faces indicated that they were not impressed. After a brief conversation, the girls leave him behind, ignoring his attempts to call them back. He must have said something wrong, because one of the girls turns around and throws her drink in his face. “And so, the young male’s journey ends like many others tonight: foolish and sexless.”
Jeremy’s laughter was as bubbling as the heat that simmered and intensified inside Jean, each laugh more joyful and melodious than the music surrounding them. For the first time that night, Jean felt himself settled in his own skin. This banter, the clowning around and laughing at nonsense—it was unlike Jean. At least, unlike the mutilated and stitched-together thing that survived Marseille and Evermore and went by the name of Jean Moreau. Perhaps it was an old part of him, mistreated and wounded, but still clinging to life; perhaps it was a new part, forged with gentleness and tenderness in a mild and sunny climate. Whatever it was, Jean liked it.
In this dreamlike bliss, Jean could be forgiven for not noticing a man approaching Jeremy’s side. It was like a sting bursting a bubble: one moment, Jeremy was laughing and smiling just for him; the next, his light turned to the intruder. Jean bit the inside of his cheek, scolding himself for his lack of attention.
“He lives!” the man exclaimed, leaning closer to Jeremy. “I was beginning to think you had transferred to a different school, pretty thing. If it weren’t for that charming smile, I might not have recognized you.” He gave Jeremy a quick, admiring look and whistled. “Blond bombshell—I like it, shawty.”
“I told you to stop calling me that!” Jeremy said, with no heat. “My height is perfectly normal.”
Jean didn’t have time to linger on Jeremy’s lazy grin. All he could focus on was the disgusting arm that wrapped around Jeremy’s shoulders with unjustified intimacy, and the hundreds of ways he could take care of it—a twist, a shove, and voilà!
The echo of his name being called pulled Jean from his violent reverie. “Jean, this is Craig. I took theater classes with him last semester. Craig, this is Jean, my teammate.”
Jean forced himself to shift his gaze to Craig’s face. He was undeniably handsome, though it was a common, bland kind of beauty, about as interesting as a nicely painted wall. Jean grunted instead of saying anything.
Apparently, Jean was as interesting to Craig as he was to Jean. After a quick “Hi,” the man turned all his attention back to Jeremy. “I didn’t see you on our list of enrolled students this semester. I won’t lie, that was a little disappointing, especially after our presentation last May.”
“Sorry,” Jeremy smiled unapologetically, “I chose ceramics for this semester’s fun class. As you well know, variety is the spice of life.”
“Oh, you’re a spicy one, alright,” Craig grinned. He then turned to Jean and spoke over Jeremy in a feigned whisper. “This guy’s a fucking amazing actor, you have to see him someday. He’s got Angelica Laslo’s blood running through his veins, and it shows. I keep telling him he was born for the stage and the big screen, and that his pretty face is being wasted on Exy, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
Perhaps because it was coming from someone so indecently sprawled upon his captain, the idea of Jeremy becoming an actor was as offensive as the lawyer the Wilshires insist on promoting—frowning at it was natural. “Jeremy is right not to listen to that nonsense. His talent belongs on the court. He was born to be a champion, and his future is golden—the Olympic kind.”
Jean was determined not to lose sight of Craig for a single second, but his flesh was weak; drawn to Jeremy like a magnet, Jean’s eyes met Jeremy's large brown irises. His partner’s expression gleamed with pride, which only made the shadows of guilt sharper. Jean still needed to have a frank conversation with Jeremy about these foolish distractions of dead-end alternative careers. The US Court wouldn’t be complete without its rightful captain.
Craig's impassive expression, on the other hand, indicated that he hadn't found Jean’s comment helpful—and for a would-be actor, Craig's urge to roll his eyes was very poorly disguised. He seemed to have caught himself as he shifted his gaze back to Jeremy. His smile reappeared, slow and promising, just like his tone of voice. “Speaking of talents, my roommate is away this weekend. You could come with me and show me your new pottery skills. We could even reenact that scene from Ghost.”
Jean didn’t know what Craig was referring to, but his tone—laden with innuendo—told him exactly what he meant. And, if he needed any further confirmation, the sudden blush that spread across Jeremy’s face and Craig’s hand sliding from Jeremy’s shoulders to his hips provided it. A heat surged from Jean’s stomach, filling the space between his ribs and coating his vertebrae like oil. He hated, hated what was happening before him. He wanted to break each of Craig's fingers, then his hand, just to be sure.
But by what right?
Jeremy wasn't in danger, nor was he being physically threatened. Craig was overstepping the mark, at least in Jean’s eyes, but Jeremy didn't seem to care. Fuck, he seemed to be enjoying it. What was Jean supposed to do in this situation? As his partner, it was Jean’s duty to protect Jeremy, but his feelings had become much bigger than remnants of the Raven system to which Jean still clung. And, like everything that crossed beyond the permitted boundaries in the Nest, it was new and unknown to Jean. He had never had this kind of relationship before; what if he crossed the line, offended Jeremy, and fucked up the only good thing that had happened to him since... forever? Respecting Jeremy’s boundaries was just as important to Jean as protecting him.
Then why did Jean feel like a dog whose owner insisted on playing with other unworthy mongrels?
“Jean?”
The voice was muffled, as if Jean were underwater. That thought startled him, causing him to inhale in panic. Instead of water, his lungs filled with air. The voice called his name again. Jean pushed away all his thoughts and focused on that sound to guide himself back to reality.
“Yes?” Jean grunted.
“I asked if it's okay if I leave now,” Jeremy said. “You can tell Cat and Laila I went out with a friend if they ask.”
Jean felt his chest tighten, squeezing all the air from his lungs. Jeremy's request was reasonable and entirely within his rights—they were friends and nothing more—but still, he couldn't fulfill it. He knew exactly what Jeremy and his insufferable companion would do after they left.
"No," Jean blurted out. “No, it is not okay.”
Jeremy frowned, concern replacing his placid expression. “Why? Jean, what's wrong?”
Jean cleared his throat in a vain attempt to free himself from a knot that was choking him. Suddenly, the music was so loud that Jean couldn't hear his own thoughts, the beat piercing his temples like an ice pick.
“I need to talk to you,” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. Faced with Craig's curious gaze, he added, "In private.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said without a second thought. He turned to Craig with an apologetic but firm look. “Sorry, maybe we can hang out next time.”
“Um, can’t this conversation of yours wait till tomorrow?” Craig asked after a disbelieving guffaw, hooking his arm around Jeremy’s waist. “It’s not every day I have the dorm to myself, and I don’t know when Eddie will give me that opportunity again.”
“Sorry, dude, but no,” Jeremy replied, disentangling himself from his grip. He had barely taken two steps when Craig grabbed his elbow hard enough to make Jeremy yelp.
"C’mon, man! Are you really gonna leave me hanging? You didn't have any problems when Sheldon—”
Jean’s body moved even before his mind commanded it. With one hand, he pulled Craig's arm away from Jeremy and then pressed his forearm against the man's throat, pushing him against the wall. Jean was a couple of inches taller and weighed about fifty pounds more than the guy—manhandling Craig was easier than most of his confrontations on the court. Craig grunted, trying to resist Jean for a moment before realizing he had no chance. His face was contorted, a far cry from the affable charm of moments before.
“Motherfu—” he choked.
“He said no,” Jean growled, almost spitting in the bastard's face. He was vaguely aware of the beat of the music pulsing in his skin like a second heart, or of the crowd seething like a stormy sea. It was an unforgivable slip-up for Jean to be so violent in public, but he would bear the consequences without remorse. If anything, Jean could blame the alcohol in his veins and try to soften some of the blows sure to come his way.
“H-Hey, man,” Craig stammered, and Jean felt the words against his skin more than he heard them. “I ain’t got no problem sharing, if that’s what’s bothering you, cool? I know Jere can handle two at the same time; feel free to join us—”
Jean pressed his forearm even harder against Craig’s throat until he felt his Adam’s apple stabbing against his skin. “The more you talk, the more I want to evicerate you.”
One quick headbutt and the guy's nose would be gone; with a few punches, maybe a few teeth too. If Jean hit the right spot, even some bones would become history—along with Craig's pretty face and his future heartthrob career. Jean could almost taste the blood in his mouth.
“Jean, stop!”
The voice rang out, accompanied by a sudden warmth against the side of his face. Jean didn't allow himself to look away from Craig, but he could feel Jeremy beside him with dizzying clarity. A hand gripped the back of his neck, firm and comforting, fingers tangled in the hair at his nape. A shiver ran through Jean from head to toe, and all he could do was swallow a groan.
“Jean, je vais bien. Tout va bien, il ne m'a pas fait de mal. Laisse-le partir, Jean,” Jeremy murmured against Jean’s cheek, soft lips caressing the pale skin. The pronunciation was imperfect; some vowels weren't open enough, and there was an audible shake in Jeremy's voice, but it didn’t matter. Hearing Jeremy speaking French—Jean’s Marseilles accent—would always be a spiritual experience.
Slowly, Jean eased the pressure that held Craig against the wall. “Bâtard chanceux,” he snarled as he pulled his arm away. Craig fell back against the wall, coughing and gasping for air.
As Jean’s arm fell to his side, calloused fingers gripped his wrist. Jean let himself be pulled away from that wretch and into the middle of the crowd. He ignored the curious stares and sweaty faces and the faint finger marks on Jeremy’s elbow, preferring to contemplate the gold USC embroidery on Jeremy's backwards cap. With synchronized steps, Jeremy led them through a door and then up a staircase. The second floor contained most of the bedrooms and a bathroom, all arranged along a long hallway that stretched the entire length of the floor. Jeremy tried a few doors until he found one that was unlocked and opened it.
Jean closed the door behind them as Jeremy turned on a lamp. It was a rather small room, suitable for one person. A double bed dominated most of the space, with a desk and a chair near the window wall, a bookcase, and a built-in wardrobe. Various pieces of clothing cluttered almost every surface, most of them definitely dirty, but even so, Jean spotted books and picture frames. Several posters covered every inch of free space on the walls—of movies, of sports teams, of scantily clad women. The room smelled like a stale but potent blend of cheap beer, body odor, and cologne. It felt… lived-in, despite being in dire need of cleaning.
Jean and Jeremy stood facing each other, silence hanging uncomfortably and inescapably between them, the deafening music from downstairs now a muffled, distant beat. Jean crossed his arms over his chest, anticipation buzzing like bees under his skin, staring intently at Jeremy's shoes. The white tips of his sneakers were dirty, but Jean couldn’t tell if someone had stepped on them or if they had always been like that—he suspected the latter.
Finally, Jeremy broke the silence. “Sorry, that was…” he raised his hand in a vague gesture, before finishing with a long sigh, “...horrible. It shouldn’t have happened.”
Jean scoffed, but still didn’t look Jeremy in the eye. “As if you were responsible for other people’s behavior. You are not the one who should be apologizing.”
“What? No, I’m not talking about Craig. I—” Jeremy sighed, seemingly frustrated. His feet dragged as he shifted, sneakers chirping on the wood. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”
Jean frowned. He finally looked up, and the hurt expression he found on Jeremy’s face almost took his breath away. Jean opened his mouth, but Jeremy didn’t wait for his answer and was already explaining himself.
“I mean, every time I’ve looked at you since we arrived, you’ve been frowning or making a face, and even when I’m not looking, I can feel your glowering gaze like that of an angry Doberman, and... I can’t shake the feeling that it's somehow my fault.” Jeremy worried his lower lip for a moment before saying slowly. “I left you alone, knowing you don’t like parties and crowds of strangers. That’s not what a partner should do. I’m sorry.” His posture was tense and dejected, as if he expected Jean to scold him for his perceived mistakes—and suddenly, Jeremy seemed much younger than he actually was.
Jean felt a sharp pang in his chest, but he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or anger. He swallowed his pride and his fears, almost gagging at the bitter taste. “I am not angry at you—frustrated, perhaps, but that is a me problem and not your fault.” Jean was beginning to suspect that he was physically incapable of feeling anger toward Jeremy, but that was beside the point. “I’m angry at them,” Jean said, gesturing toward the door.
Jeremy hugged himself. “Craig didn’t mean to hurt me. He just got a bit carried away.”
“The same way Faser did?” Jean shot back, and the way Jeremy recoiled was almost his undoing. That Jeremy resigned himself to working his jaw in silent protests, instead of defending himself, showed Jean how ashamed he felt. For a brief moment, Jean wanted Jeremy to explode and unleash all the horrible things simmering under his skin; the next instant, he concluded that he much preferred Jeremy’s restraint—yet another of his mate’s virtues that Jean had fallen in love with. Jean swallowed a mouthful of saliva before asking, “Did you know they are… talking about you, on campus?”
Jeremy flinched like he’d been slapped in the face. “I—I do.”
Jean’s lips curled without his permission, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “Cut contact with them—all of them. I do not want you to see them ever again.”
“What? Jean, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can! Can’t you see they are not worthy of touching you?”
Silence settled around Jean and Jeremy like a heavy cloak, yet Jean could hear his blood roaring in his ears. Old reflexes, instilled in him by a knife to his throat and a cane to his crumpled body, urged him to let the conversation drop and retreat to safety; but they had grown weak and dull, worn down by months of sun and healing and permission. It is against the rules, the faint voices laced with violence and sadism murmured in his ears; louder, kinder voices replied: Whose rules? The rules have changed—go for it.
“Advienne que pourra,” Jean murmured to himself, took a deep breath, and said, "I do not like these men you get involved with, and I do not like the way they act around you and treat you. I have seen it before, and I saw it tonight. Their looks are full of lust but empty of devotion; their touches are hungry and greedy but lack proper reverence. They see you just like these red plastic cups they drink from and then discard. And that infuriates me because you are someone special who deserves to be treated as such. I... I would do that; I want to do that.”
Jean was enveloped in darkness. He couldn’t see anything. All he could hear was his shallow breathing, whistling through his nose, and the beating of his heart—a rapid staccato that reminded Jean of the sound of twenty-four feet running down the court. It took Jean a moment or two to realize that, at some point in his speech, he had closed his eyes. He opened them slowly.
Jeremy stared at him with the widest eyes Jean had ever seen—even in the dim light, they shone. Jeremy’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose were flushed, framing his freckles like stars in a nebula. His mouth, with its rosy and slightly parted lips, was a seductive flame to Jean’s moth. Then a sudden shadow cloaked his features.
“You want—” Jeremy began, incredulous. His eyes scanned Jean’s face, perhaps searching for deceit or regret, with the suspicion of someone who had learned to expect the other shoe to drop—if that wasn’t painfully familiar. “Are you sure you want someone like, um, me?”
“If not you, then who else, Jeremy?” Jean challenged.
Jeremy gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. But you deserve someone better than me, someone who won’t drag you down.”
Jean made an irritated sound in his throat. “You are making me repeat myself: fuck what I deserve. The only thing that matters is what I want. And I want you, Jeremy Alan. I want to hold you, and cherish you, and be with you, and—” laugh with you, and kiss you, and worship you, and live with you, and love you, love you, love you “—I want you, Jeremy, so much it drives me crazy.”
And nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Jean for how his words made Jeremy shine. Jean already thought his partner was the most beautiful man who had ever walked the Earth, but at that moment—with blown wide eyes and a gorgeous smile and adoration written with freckles on flushed skin—Jeremy was salvation and damnation at the same time; sin worthy of worship.
How foolish Jean was to think he could avoid falling in love with Jeremy.
“May I kiss you?” Jean asked.
Jeremy blinked once, then twice. “Can you pinch me? I think I drank too much and now I’m hallucinating.”
Jean reached out, cupped Jeremy's chin between his fingers, and gave it a teasing squeeze. His thumb brushed Jeremy's lower lip, sending a delicious shiver through the blond. “I asked first.”
Jeremy’s smile was slow and wide. “Yes. Oh my God, yes! Please, kiss me!”
Jean closed his eyes and leaned forward, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. Their lips met in a pulse of color and warmth; a soft, almost hesitant touch. Jean could hardly believe this was really happening, or how good it felt. More than good. Fuck, it was…
Jeremy pulled away, breaking the connection between them. Starry eyes met Jean’s, deeper than any ocean. Light fingers touched Jean’s cheeks, with a tenderness that was both strange and intoxicating to him.
“Jean, breathe,” Jeremy murmured.
Jean let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His whole body felt electrified like a live wire, yet something inside him felt settled, as if a puzzle piece had fallen into place and everything just clicked.
“Are you okay?” Jeremy asked gently.
“Yes.”
Jeremy moistened his lips, looking at Jean expectantly. “Did you like it?”
“I think so,” Jean said slowly.
“Would you like to repeat it?”
Jean raised an eyebrow. “And does anyone like to breathe, eat, or do pleasurable things?”
Jeremy smiled, his hand sliding over the expanse of Jean’s chest and gently tugging the chain of the cross necklace. “A simple ‘yes’ would suffice.”
“No, it would not. In fact, the entire English lexicon is incapable of expressing how much I want you,” he replied, already leaning in and chasing Jeremy’s lips.
Jean's hands found their own way to Jeremy's hips, hesitant and afraid of crossing any boundaries—but the way Jeremy settled under Jean’s touch told him he was still safe. They kissed again, slowly but no less eagerly, getting used to the way their lips fit together. A curious tongue touched Jean’s mouth, so briefly it could have been an accident. But Jean’s mouth opened to Jeremy, his own tongue giving an exploratory lick to his mouth. Jeremy smiled and reciprocated, their tongues dancing in awkward experimentation. A fruity taste with a slight bite of alcohol filled Jean’s mouth, accompanied by an undercurrent that Jean couldn’t really describe, but which he became instantly addicted to. The kiss broke only because breathing was still necessary, but they remained but a few inches apart, hot breaths on overheated skin.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this,” Jeremy chuckled through gasps. His eyes scanned Jean’s face, as if trying to catalog every detail, and his fingers timidly explored the hollow of Jean’s throat and the upper part of his chest, exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.
“Whatever it is, it is not longer than me,” Jean replied.
It had been four years since Kevin had shown Jean the photos of a promising Trojan freshman in a magazine; four years since the freckled, sun-kissed skin, the tousled caramel-brown curls, and the dimpled smile had begun to etch themselves into Jean’s mind, remaining there, lurking, waiting for the right moment. And now here was Jean—in California, with that same boy in his arms, kissing him as if the world were about to end. It sounded absurd, even now, but the warmth of Jeremy’s palm on his chest and the pressure of Jeremy's lips on his reminded Jean that it was real. This was fucking real.
It didn’t take long for timidity to be thrown out the window. Their kisses became more voracious, a spar of tongues and lips that neither of them wanted to win, but the battle itself was a victory. Jeremy took one of Jean’s hands, which was holding him by the waist, and slid it under his shirt. “Touch me,” murmured Jeremy between kisses. Jean was more than happy to comply.
Jeremy’s physique was a kind of secret fascination for Jean: at first glance, Jeremy seemed scrawny or slim, more suited to running or swimming than to a contact sport like Exy. But look more closely—or watch him squat with Jean's weight and then some—and you’ll find one of the best physical conditioning in Class I Exy. Jean felt it under his fingertips, on the sculpted ridges of Jeremy’s abs, and in the firmness of his oblique muscles.
“Yes, right there,” Jeremy moaned, an almost pornographic sound that went straight to Jean’s groin, stirring life in his underwear.
Jean pulled their bodies close, pressing them together as if any distance between them, however small, was a personal offense. Jeremy's laughter tasted deliciously sweet to his palate. As his captain stood on tiptoe to deepen the kiss, their groins rubbed together, and it was like a lightning bolt running up Jean’s spine. He grunted as his muscles contracted for a moment, painful and pleasurable at the same time.
“Ah, Jeremy! Putain,” he rasped.
Jeremy didn’t hesitate to swallow every letter. “Did you like that?” he asked against Jean’s lips, rubbing the bulge in his jeans against Jean’s once more, eliciting another muffled sound from Jean.
“Yes,” Jean replied with a thrust of his own. “I liked it a lot.”
If Jean could see himself right now, humping against Jeremy like a dog on heat, he would certainly die of embarrassment. Luckily for him, his blood was being steadily drained from his brain to his dick, so Jean didn’t have the mental capacity to reprimand himself; he could only feel, and right now, Jean felt fucking good. He could go on like this for hours—just kissing Jeremy and holding him so close they could merge into one if the wind shifted, seeking an exquisite friction like a dying man chases on his last breath. Once again, they separated to breathe, but this time Jean let his face fall into the curve of Jeremy’s neck. A wild scent of citrus and cedarwood, along with the heady musk of Jeremy’s sweat, filled Jean’s nostrils with the same intensity that blood has on a shark.
“Be mine,” Jean growled against freckled skin, yearning to taste its saltiness. “Allow me to have you.”
Jeremy’s breath hitched as shivers ran through him inside and out. Fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of Jean’s neck, blunt nails gently scratching his scalp.
“Claim me,” Jeremy said, pulling Jean yet closer, impossibly closer. “Mark your territory; brand me as yours.”
The words hit Jean like a blow, one that completely nullified any sense or consideration, reducing everything to pure desire. His lips clung to the throbbing heat of Jeremy’s neck, and then he sucked.
Jeremy hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers closing into a fist in Jean’s hair—but never pulling it. “Yes,” he groaned. “Good boy.”
That Jean hadn’t come in his pants at that instant was a miracle in itself. His cock was so hard it hurt, trapped under his jeans and briefs. He sucked until his lips went numb, then covered the spot with licks and soothing kisses. Jean pulled away to inspect his work; the bright red circle contrasted beautifully with Jeremy’s tanned skin. And for a moment, that made Jean hesitate. Bruised skin—Jeremy’s bruised skin, above all—should make him feel all sorts of discomfort, not... satisfaction with himself. Worse still, Jean couldn’t even feel guilty about it, not when Jeremy seemed so happy and proud to be marked.
“Was that okay?” Jeremy asked.
“Very much so,” Jean answered.
Jeremy poked the hickey with a light finger, grinning broadly. “How about another one? Just for symmetry’s sake.”
“You are going to kill me,” Jean murmured, leaning in to mark Jeremy once more.
As if to demonstrate his displeasure with Jean’s choice of words, Jeremy slipped his leg between Jean’s, making a point to rub his thigh on Jean’s bulge. The shock caught him by surprise, almost making him bite Jeremy’s neck; Jean pulled away so quickly that a strand of saliva still connected his lips to Jeremy’s skin.
“Oops,” Jeremy dared to say, with the most unapologetic smile known to man—the gall.
Jean pushed Jeremy back until he was pressed against the wall, drawing the air from Jeremy's lungs for Jean to swallow. His hand slid down to grasp the back of Jeremy’s thigh, his fingers digging into the firm flesh of his hamstring, and then lifted his leg. Jeremy locked his leg around Jean’s waist, his calf pressing against the curves of Jean's lower back, drawing him closer. They rubbed and pressed against each other with an intensity bordering on desperation, as if driven mad by desire. Nothing, not even the most perfect game on the court, could ever excite Jean as much as Jeremy’s body did.
Jean could feel the pressure building in his lower abdomen, and static crackling in his back, and a tingling at the tip of his dick. Coming in his pants was less than ideal, and having to walk through the party and then past Cat and Laila with a wet stain on his pants was not something Jean was eager to do. But then Jeremy thrust himself against him, and the head of Jeremy’s cock slid from the base of Jean's dick to the glans, and Jean decided that the embarrassment of having ruined his pants was something for future Jean to deal with.
Luckily (or not), the Universe decided to solve this problem for him.
The door suddenly opened, revealing two very drunk lesbians entwined with each other. “Oh, crap! Sorry, we didn’t know—” Laila was saying before realizing who she and her girlfriend had caught red-handed.
For a moment, the two couples stared at each other, frozen like four deer in the headlights of utter embarrassment. Jean’s heart sank, but unfortunately, it didn’t fall hard enough to tear a hole in the floor and swallow him whole. His whole body burned, and not in a pleasant way. Beneath him, Jeremy similarly went stiff.
After a beat or two, Cat was the first to break the silence. Her smirk was insufferable as she said, “Damn, not only did you go for it, but you grabbed it, ran with it, and scored a fucking touchdown.”
Jean didn’t understand a damn thing about baseball to get the reference. When his throat started working again, he was about to shout: “Get out!”
“Okay, my babies, we’re going,” Laila said as she pulled a laughing Catalina out the door. “Just don’t forget to lock the door next time. And please, wear condoms—”
“Laila, please!” Jeremy covered his face with his hand, yet his sneakers weren’t muffled. The door closed behind the girls’ laughter. Jean sighed, the adrenaline from that epic humiliation subsiding and leaving his body heavy. Jeremy huffed, letting his head fall onto Jean’s shoulder and hugging his midsection. “We are not going to hear the end of it.”
“If they bother us too much, I’m going to flush their special hair cream down the toilet,” Jean said.
Jeremy chuckled, the vibrations spreading through Jean’s skin like wildfire. Jeremy snuggled into the crook of Jean’s neck and gave him a hesitant kiss. Jean’s body stiffened for a second, and he forced himself to remember that this was Jeremy. Jeremy would never hurt him, and Jean knew it, believed it as much as he believed in sunrises.
“Are you okay?” Jeremy asked once more.
The constant check-ins and the evident care and attention with which Jeremy treated Jean all warmed Jean’s heart. Jean had never known this kind of safety before, and had long since given up on searching for even a facsimile of it. It was profoundly disorienting to find home not in a place, but in a person.
“Yes,” he answered, rubbing circles on Jeremy’s back. “And you?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more okay,” he confessed. His grip on Jean tightened a fraction, the heat of Jeremy’s body feeling as invigorating as the morning sun.
“Should we, um, go back to the party?” Jean asked.
“If you want,” Jeremy said, but then nudged the semi-hard bulge in Jean’s pants. “But what about this?”
Jean swallowed hard. “I… I should deal with it, then.”
“Can I help in any way?” Jeremy murmured, slowly caressing Jean’s erection through his jeans.
Jean groaned, moving his hips slowly in sync with Jeremy’s hand. To be honest, Jean didn’t want his first time with Jeremy to be in a stranger’s room while they were both half-drunk; he much preferred it to be in his own room, with enough time for each to go at their own pace, rediscover his own limits, and experiment with each other. But on the other hand, Jean was so horny right now that his testicles might turn to stone if he didn’t come tonight.
In the end, Jean found a compromise in something he had been literally dreaming of for weeks now.
“Can you jerk me off? If that is agreeable, of course.”
Jeremy lifted his head from Jean’s neck to look at him, caressing Jean’s face with one hand and stroking his cheek with his thumb. He smiled tenderly and said, "I can. You can back out anytime, okay?"
Jean nodded and kissed Jeremy. He was doomed, wasn’t he?
While they kissed, Jeremy unbuttoned and unzipped Jean’s pants, letting them fall to his ankles, then pulled his briefs down. Jean’s cock sprang up, painfully hard and with a bead of pre-come glistening at the tip. Jeremy looked at it, his eyes shining like a child who had just opened his Christmas present. Jean could swear he saw drool at the corner of Jeremy's mouth.
“Is the size good?” Jean asked, a little embarrassed. He remembered overhearing a conversation where Cat hinted that Jeremy liked big men.
Jeremy blinked. “It’s... proportionate.”
“Is that good?”
“Very good.” He leaned in to kiss Jean’s cheek before going to the bedside table and rummaging through the drawer. “Knowing fraternity guys, there must be a bottle of lube around here. Ah, bingo!” He opened the lid as he turned back to Jean, pouring a generous amount of the clean, viscous liquid into his palm. “Ready?”
Jean nodded, even with his heart racing, and anticipation scorched his veins. The cold lube on Jean’s overheated skin was almost too much, making him shudder and gasp at the almost unbearable sensation. Even so, Jean couldn’t get enough of it. He gripped Jeremy’s shirt with his hands, holding on for dear life.
“Does it feel good?” Jeremy asked against the skin of Jean’s neck, his hand working efficiently to cover the entire length of Jean’s penis with lube.
“Yes,” Jean groaned. “Please, continue.”
Jeremy began pumping Jean’s cock, making circular motions with a quick flick of his wrist. His hand could make Hell seem cold—the pressure and speed were just right, the callus adding a familiar texture, but yet completely different in someone else's touch. Jeremy’s thumb was positioned in such a way that, with each upward movement, it grazed Jean’s frenulum and the slit of his dick. His other hand, firmly buried on the nape of Jean’s neck, helped to ground Jean in the moment. Is there such a thing as a professional masturbator? Because Jeremy might be an example.
“Jeremy! Ça fait du bien... putain, ça fait tellement de bien!” grunted Jean, his neurons too fried to speak English.
Jeremy immediately kissed Jean, devouring the words eagerly. “I love it when you speak French. It’s so incredibly hot,” he murmured against Jean’s lips, “It’s like sex in sound form.”
By this point, Jean was shamelessly fucking Jeremy’s fist, the wet squelching mingling with his sighs and groans, his body hellbent to seek more, more, more! Once again, heat built up in his groin, his balls contracting as his orgasm built. However, something was missing.
“Jeremy, et—ah!—et toi?” he struggled to say.
“What do you mean?” asked Jeremy.
Jean let go of Jeremy's shirt to grasp his neglected bulge. The blond grimaced and made a muffled sound. With trembling fingers, Jean unbuttoned Jeremy’s pants. Jeremy’s dick was perfectly highlighted under his light blue briefs, with a wet patch blossoming at the tip. Jean ran a finger along its length, feeling the rock-hard warmth under the fingertip, and eliciting a delicious sound from Jeremy.
“No teasing,” Jeremy said, rubbing his palm against Jean’s glans to drive the point home.
Jean did as told and pulled Jeremy's briefs down, and the sight made his mouth water instantly. Jeremy’s pubic hair was neatly trimmed, and his sculpted Adonis belt framed a trail of dark hair climbing up his abdomen. Jeremy’s cock was perfect by any metric Jean could imagine: proportion between glans and shaft, prominent but aesthetically pleasing veins, lighter skin on the body, and cherry-colored head; proportionate, to borrow the word. Jean reached out to it without thinking; it felt hot and heavy in his palm.
The hungry fire in the pit of Jean’s stomach flared into an inferno.
“Cum with me,” Jean rasped. The fire that ignited in Jeremy’s big, beautiful brown eyes could melt Antarctica.
He moved so that his dick and Jean’s were side by side—Jean’s was bigger, but not by much. He poured more lubricant onto them in a wavy pattern, as if he were putting mustard on sausages.
Jeremy giggled. “Lookie, two horn-dogs!”
Jean was caught so off-guard that he couldn’t help but laugh. “You absolute clown,” he snorted, completely surrendering to Jeremy’s charms. “Is sex just another laughing matter to you?
Jeremy just shrugged as he spread the lube with long strokes of his hands. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I mean, yeah, sex is serious business, but it can also be fun stuff; they’re not mutually exclusive. I actually like it when I get to joke and laugh and have fun during sex. It means I’m in sync with my partner; that we are not only enjoying each other’s bodies, but also each other’s company.” He then turned his head to look at Jean, face flushed and pupils so dilated they looked like bottomless pits. “Aren’t you having fun now?”
Jean reflected for a moment. His previous experiences with sex were something he preferred to forget. This experiment he was having with Jeremy was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Aside from the horrors he endured, intimacy was a blank slate in all the ways that mattered. If sex with Jeremy was anything close to this—this mere sexual appetizer that was rewiring his brain—then Jean was up to a life-changing experience.
“I am,” Jean finally said. “I cannot believe the Trojans’ obsession with fun is rubbing off on me.”
Jeremy laughed with delight. “Was that a double entendre?! Who are you and what have you done with Jean?”
“Ugh, shut up,” Jean groaned. He couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or Jeremy’s cock rubbing against his that was choking his voice.
“Make me,” Jeremy challenged with a mischievous grin.
Jean growled as their lips and teeth crashed in a searing kiss. Jean lost himself in this unfamiliar bedroom, kissing Jeremy with an almost hysterical desperation, and fucking without finesse the tight hole Jeremy made with his hands, their cocks seemingly made for one another, clefts and ridges matching perfectly as they grinded and rutted. Jean mirrored Jeremy’s, grabbing the back of his partner’s head to steady himself, knocking the USC cap off his tousled curls.
“Jeremy…! You feel good, so good, mon Dieu, Jeremy!”
“You feel amazing too, babe,” Jeremy cooed. “You’re being such a good boy for me, Jean.”
Jean knew he was going to like this, but he hadn’t expected to like it this much, and he was more intoxicated by it than by the alcohol in his veins, making him beg and whimper and moan, curse in French and English and Japanese and in an incoherent mix of the three, and JeremyJeremyJeremyJeremys that he’ll probably feel ashamed of come morning.
The hairs on Jean’s body stood on end; he felt the hunger, that unbearable beast in his gut, coiling like a spring ready to fire.
“Jeremy!” he croaked. “I’m… I am…”
“Me too! Cum with me, Jean!”
It was as if Jean were being ripped open. His muscles contracted as the climax overwhelmed him, then he trembled like a leaf in the wind, flooding every nerve ending in his body with pure bliss. His toes curled inside his shoes, and the air was ripped from his lungs, leaving his mouth open in a silent scream. Jeremy made a voluptuous, aching sound into Jean’s mouth as his own orgasm shook his entire body. For a brief moment, Jean truly thought he might faint.
Jean and Jeremy rode out their high, leaning into one another. They stood cheek-to-cheek a minute, an hour, a day, Jean’s heart pounding in his temple and overheated lungs gasping for ever-scarce oxygen. Coherent thought returned to him in fragments, and Jean suddenly realized how drenched he was in sweat, his shirt clinging to his back and his hair stuck to his forehead. He looked down and saw the mess in Jeremy’s hand and, for the first time, wished Cat had brought her camera.
“Are you... Are you okay?” Jeremy was the first to find the words again.
Jean pondered the question carefully and honestly. He searched his mind and heart for any sign of anguish, ugliness, and venom creeping from the dark corners of his being. Surprisingly, he came away empty-handed.
No, not really.
He had found something he didn’t believe was possible in the inhospitable habitat that was Jean Moreau, especially after sex. Jean had found peace.
“I think I just had a religious experience,” Jean said.
Jeremy looked at Jean, incredulous, and then burst into laughter. He wrapped his arms around Jean’s torso and pulled him into a kiss, this time slow, lazy, and pleasurable. Then he asked, “Was I that good?”
Jean huffed, feeling the distinct need to roll his eyes, but decided to indulge his captain. “Yes, you were that good, and you know it.” He should have stopped there, but Jean spoke before he could stop himself. “Now I understand why you come back more relaxed after your encounters.”
The distinct way Jeremy tensed up at the words made Jean want to punch himself for ruining the moment. Jeremy pulled away from Jean’s touch, reaching for something on the floor to wipe himself clean.
Jean sighed as he pulled his briefs and pants up. “Jeremy, I’m sorry. I should not—”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Jeremy interrupted him. Jean swallowed his words and nodded. Jeremy took a deep breath, composing himself, yet his eyes avoided Jean’s. With a strained voice, he began: “It’s been years since I’ve had fun with sex. Sure, being with someone has always been pleasurable for me, and it’s the way I’ve found to relax from the stress of, well, everything. But, um, I don’t remember the last time I laughed with someone in bed.”
He then bit his lower lip, debating whether he should continue or not. Jean reached out to caress his cheek, encouraging Jeremy anyway. At length, Jeremy made a miserable sound. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sex as much as I did with you, Jean. It was... amazing —there’s no other word for it. How could I possibly be with anyone else after that?”
For a long time, Jean had understood that life wasn’t fair. He was born with a shitty hand and had learned to cope with life’s blows, settling for less than crumbs, to the point of fully accepting that he probably wouldn’t make it to his 20th birthday. Going from that to now, hearing the man of his life basically say that Jean had ruined him for anyone else, was such a shock that Jean was speechless.
Jeremy winced at Jean’s silence. “Too much too soon?”
Jean held Jeremy’s chin and tilted his head up so their eyes could meet. “No, it is not. I think your problem has a very simple solution: stay just with me.”
Jeremy smiled warmly, and Dieu, Jean would never tire of that—not now, not sixty years from now. He wrapped his arms around Jean’s neck and leaned in to kiss him. Jean returned the kiss with reverence and devotion.
“You’re too good to me, Jean Moreau,” Jeremy murmured against his lips.
“I hope to give you more than just ‘good,’” Jean replied. “I want to give you the world.”
And Jean meant it. God was his witness that Jean would march through the gates of Hades and back with a smile on his face if Jeremy asked him.
“Just so you know, I’m a very... voracious lover,” Jeremy murmured against his lips.
Jean chuckled softly in response, letting his hands pull Jeremy closer, where he belonged. The flame in his lower stomach, which Jean thought had been quenched, reignited. “What a coincidence; so am I.”
Jeremy rubbed suggestively against Jean, and Jean liked it, liked it very much. “My clothes are all sweaty and disgusting. How about we go home so I can take them off?”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Jean purred.
After all, the night is still young.