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The thing about Jeremy, Jean realizes, is nobody else seems to see the way his mask chips away until it’s already fracturing.
Jean watches Jeremy’s movements at practice and they come out all wrong. He’s seen too much of Jeremy on the court to brush off his mistakes as just that; not when Jeremy is too good, too at ease when he has a racquet in his hands. His calls come out jumbled and late, a frustrated glint in his eyes and a hard edge to his smile as he apologizes for the confusion. He corrects plays too sharply, apologizes too quickly. Halfway through drills, Jeremy stands there for a moment like he’s forgotten what comes next.
Rhemann calls for a break and Jean abandons the other backliners to follow his captain off the court. He falls in step with Jeremy and notes with discomfort the way Jeremy’s eyes skirt past his own as he takes a drink from his water bottle.
“There is something wrong,” Jean says finally.
And Jeremy does look at him at that, smiling that liar’s smile that frustrates Jean endlessly. “I’m okay, really! I just didn’t sleep a lot.”
Jean is willing to believe the part about the sleep, at least. Jeremy is good at telling just enough of the truth while dancing around the rest of it to seem mostly honest.
Whatever snippy retort he’s going to make is cut off by Rhemann appearing at their side. Jean instinctually straightens. He’s less afraid of the coach than he was even a couple weeks ago, but too many years of fear and respect being the same thing make it hard to unlearn.
Rhemann presses a stack of papers against Jeremy’s chest. Jeremy blinks, bewildered.
“Coach?” Jeremy asks, looking down at them.
“I need you to run an errand for me,” Rhemann says evenly. “You’re the captain.”
“Yes,” Jeremy agrees slowly. He frowns and flips over the piece of paper. It’s blank on both sides. The sheet below it is also blank, like Rhemann took a stack of white paper off his printer. “Coach, did you give me the wrong thing?”
“No.” Rhemann glances over at the rest of the team, out of earshot. Only Cat and Laila are peering curiously over at them. “I just thought it would look better if I gave you something. My errand is this: I need you to take the next two hours and clear your head.”
Jeremy opens his mouth but Rhemann waves his hand.
“Look, Jeremy,” he says. “I’m not going to make you explain anything to me. But you’re clearly frustrated and distracted. That’s not good for you or for them. I need you to take some time to decompress.”
Jeremy’s jaw works, tongue pressing a dent in the side of his cheek. He squeezes down around the stack of papers hard enough that his knuckles go white. Then, at last, “Yes, Coach.”
He carefully sidesteps Jean to pick up his gear before making his way toward the locker room.
Jean looks at Rhemann curiously. When he turns to meet Jean’s eyes, Jean instinctually looks down at his shoes.
“Well?” Rhemann asks.
Jean glances back up. Rhemann tilts his head in the direction of Jeremy’s retreating form. He doesn’t say anything more, but Jean can see the offer in his eyes. Jean thinks for only a second before wordlessly picking up his own gear and following Jeremy.
Jeremy pauses when Jean enters the locker room after him, brows knit in confusion.
“Oh,” he says. “Uh—”
“I am coming with you,” Jean says simply. Not a question.
“You don’t have to leave practice early,” Jeremy starts to say, but Jean picks up a towel and tosses it at Jeremy.
“Shower,” Jean tells him, and ignores Jeremy’s floundering expression as he turns to make his way to his own locker.
Whatever compelled Jeremy to tell Jean he didn’t have to go with him in the locker room seems to have left him by the time they climb into his car. He says nothing when Jean opens the passenger door and gets in beside him, only glancing over to make sure Jean’s buckled before starting the car. Rhemann’s stack of printer paper sits in the backseat.
Jeremy’s dead silence is a better indication of his headspace than anything else. Jean is used to Jeremy’s voice, or the little sounds he makes that aren’t quite words as he drives. His humming and the way he sometimes sings under his breath. Now, Jeremy drives like his jaw is wired shut.
After several minutes, Jeremy clears his throat. There’s an artificial sunshine to his voice that makes Jean’s frown deepen. “So, I guess Coach finally decided I needed a timeout.”
Jean says nothing.
Jeremy keeps talking, tone easy. “It’s probably a good call, actually. I was getting in my own head out there. I already feel a lot better.”
“You are lying,” Jean says.
Jeremy’s smile tightens in the reflection of Jean’s window. “Wow. No warm-up. Just right in it, huh?”
“You are not good at this,” Jean continues. “You are usually better.”
“Harsh,” Jeremy says, smile turning sheepish. He shifts his grip on the wheel. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jean. I’m tired, that’s all. There’s just a lot going on right now, you know?”
Jean wonders how many members of Jeremy’s family are home right now. He isn’t stupid. The fire and the weight of everything else is not insignificant, of course, but this is the kind of hazy agitation that Jean recognizes from the look on Jeremy’s face when his siblings come up. Or his stepfather.
Jean gives a noncommittal hum. Then, testing his luck, he says, “Things have been ‘a lot’ for you for three days, at least.” Jeremy exhales through his nose but does not argue, so Jean continues. “You do not miss calls. You are not the kind of captain to snap at players when they make a mistake— even if they may deserve it. You did both in just the time we were on the court today. Would you like me to talk about the rest of the day? Or the past two?”
The Jeremy in the window grimaces. “No.”
“No,” Jean agrees, because he believes he’s made his point.
Silence stretches again. Jean watches the streets pass them by, already outside his mental map of the city.
“I really am fine,” Jeremy says, quieter now. “Really.”
Jean finally turns his head to look at Jeremy directly.
“I do not believe you,” he says.
Jeremy laughs under his breath, short and humorless. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
They drive on. Jeremy’s breathing evens out but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Jean watches the reflection of his hands in the windshield; the way they tighten before Jeremy seems to realize he’s doing it and forces them to relax over and over again.
Eventually, Jeremy speaks again.
“So,” he says, voice low, “what am I supposed to do?”
Jean doesn’t answer immediately. He watches the road narrow and the traffic thin until it feels like they’re the only car around. The sky is the dreary shade of gray that threatens rain, but Jean has been in California long enough to know not to trust that.
“Where are you driving?” Jean asks.
Jeremy blinks, like he’s only just realizing he’s the one behind the wheel. “What?”
“Right now,” Jean says. “Where are we going?”
Jeremy’s mouth opens and closes before he glances up at the road signs passing overhead. His lips twist.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
Jean studies Jeremy’s profile closely.
“Drive somewhere you wish you were,” Jean tells him after a moment.
Jeremy shoots him a surprised look out of the corner of his eye.
“You asked,” Jean says briskly. “I am answering. Ignore me if you do not like it.”
“You’re not very easy to ignore,” Jeremy says. Jean swallows, glancing back out his window quickly.
When Jean doesn’t respond, Jeremy exhales slowly. He taps the steering wheel thoughtfully for a moment before putting his blinker on and turning off on a side road. Jean leans forward in his seat curiously, watching as it winds down into a one-way barely big enough for a single car. Through Jeremy’s cracked window, the smell of salt hits Jean’s nose.
He knows Jeremy smells it too by the way his posture eases ever so slightly, his hands on the wheel loosening into something that looks less like a death grip. His jaw unclenches, which is somehow the biggest relief to Jean.
They pass through a tunnel, and when they emerge from the other side they’re driving along the ocean. It’s wide and gray and restless like the sky above, so different from the shining blue from their beach day. If it bothers Jeremy, Jean doesn’t see it.
“I don’t usually get this quiet,” Jeremy says eventually.
“You are allowed to,” Jean replies. “I do not know how you talk so much in the first place.”
Jeremy’s mouth quirks but he doesn’t respond. Jean decides that is sufficient.
Jeremy slows the car as he pulls into an empty parking lot. This is definitely not beach weather, but maybe for Jeremy there’s no such thing as non-beach weather. He turns off the engine and sits there for a moment, staring out through the windshield at the water.
“I come here sometimes,” Jeremy says finally. His voice is quiet, almost tentative. “When things get kinda loud. I didn't really think about it. Just… ended up on the road near here after you said that and figured I may as well.”
Jean traces the blurred line between sea and sky out on the horizon. It all melts into gray for him. “Does it help?”
Jeremy shrugs. “Sometimes.” He glances over at Jean now, looking unsure. “This okay?”
Jean looks back, frowning. “What do you mean?”
He hesitates. “I like to go stand in the ocean. It makes it easier to think.”
Jean’s frown deepens. “Does it look like I would stop you?”
“No,” Jeremy says immediately. “But… is that okay? With you? That I want to go into the water?”
Jean sniffs indignantly and reaches down to unbuckle. “If you want to catch pneumonia and die, that is your choice.”
He opens his door and climbs out. Jeremy follows a beat later, his car chirping as it locks. When he looks at Jean questioningly, Jean gestures out at the ocean. Go.
Relief floods Jeremy’s face. Jean watches him kick his sandals off into the sand like it’s second nature before he starts off onto the beach. The wind tugs at his blonde hair as he walks, unrolling the sleeves of his USC hoodie he’s had bunched up around his elbows since they left the court. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets like he’s bracing himself against the cold.
Jean lingers on the shoreline, right where the grass gives way to the sand.
He watches Jeremy stand at the edge of the surf, hesitating only long enough to study the waves before stepping forward. The water washes over his feet immediately, darkening the bottoms of his jeans. Jeremy sucks in a sharp, audible breath even from this far away.
Then he exhales, shoulders drooping like a weight has slipped off them.
Jean’s chest tightens. He wraps his arms around himself and rubs a hand over one of his arms where the sleeve of his navy t-shirt stops protecting him from the breeze.
Jeremy looks different out here. The ocean frames him, gray and endless, and Jeremy is a tiny red and gold dot. A steady beacon in the churning waves.
Jeremy is beautiful like this. Jeremy is always beautiful, even miserable. Even when he looks so horribly alone out in the ocean.
Jean’s hands curl as they drop to his sides.
Against his better judgement, he finds himself taking a step closer.
He can feel how cold the sand is even under his sneakers. Damp and awkward as they sink into it unevenly. He stops again, breath shallow, and watches the way the water laps at Jeremy’s legs. Jeremy stares out at the horizon and Jean wishes so badly he could see his face.
Jean looks down at his feet.
Slowly, he bends down to untie his shoes.
The wind nips at his socks. He peels them off with stiff fingers and tucks them into his shoes. The sand is much colder than he expects, nothing like that warm summer beach day. Jean hears his heartbeat in his head.
He takes a step forward. Then another.
The water is still a few feet away when Jeremy turns, hearing the sound of feet in the sand behind him. He freezes when he sees Jean, eyes widening.
“Jean!” Jeremy’s voice is sharp with alarm. He splashes back to shore, soaking his jeans up to the knees as he reaches Jean in only a couple of strides. “Hey, no, no, you don’t have to—”
Jean doesn’t move back. Jeremy catches Jean by the elbows and before he can think, Jean twists their arms so he’s grabbing Jeremy’s biceps instead.
“You should not be out there alone,” Jean tells him. He winces at the crack in his own voice, which Jeremy surely doesn’t miss by the flicker of anxiety that crosses his face.
“I’m not alone!” Jeremy insists. “It’s really enough that you’re here, out on the beach. You don’t have to come in.”
Jean swallows thickly.
“I am trying to get better,” he says quietly, and there’s no hiding the slight tremor in his words. He squeezes down on Jeremy’s arms. “What is the point if I cannot be there for my partner?”
Jeremy takes half a step backward, chin tilting up to meet Jean’s eyes with parted lips. His face does something strange, mouth flattening into a thin line and the brown of his eyes just a bit too bright. Jean thinks he’s gotten very good at reading Jeremy’s expressions even when he tries his best to hide them, but this one he doesn’t dare to attempt putting words to.
“Jean,” Jeremy says again, quieter now. “You don’t… you really don’t have to do something like this for me.”
Jean meets his eyes and forces himself not to look away.
Jeremy swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He closes his eyes and Jean counts each long, pretty eyelash to calm his racing heart before Jeremy opens them again.
“Hold on,” Jeremy says eventually.
He drops down into a crouch in front of Jean, nearly startling Jean into a hasty step back that puts him onto his ass in the sand. He catches himself before he does— or maybe it’s Jeremy, steady hands grabbing onto Jean’s outstretched ones to keep him standing. Jean stares down at him warily but makes no other move.
Then Jeremy reaches out for the hem of Jean’s pants. His hands are impossibly warm against the cool air; impossibly careful as he rolls the fabric up inch by inch.
Jean stares at the top of his head in disbelief. Jeremy’s roots are so grown out now, the bleached ends curling in the salty air.
Is there another soul out there who would do something like this for him unprompted? Who Jean would let do this? Jean can’t imagine there is. That thought sits heavy in his chest like a rock.
Jeremy finishes rolling his jeans and looks up at him, eyes searching. Jean knows he’s looking for signs of him changing his mind. Jean knows if he does, Jeremy will abandon the beach entirely and go back to the car with Jean. Because that’s who Jeremy is.
Jean doesn’t. Instead, he takes a small step forward.
The first rush of water hits his toes and he stops dead, cold shooting up his legs and burying into his chest. It tightens immediately, lungs filled with ice as his body reacts faster than his thoughts. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He forces himself to breathe and takes another step. The water laps at him as his feet sink into the sand and his vision tunnels. The sound of the surf is suddenly too loud, too close, too much water in his head from too long ago.
Jean sways slightly, but Jeremy is there before he can lose his balance. He catches Jean by the elbow in a firm but careful grip that anchors him in place. Jeremy’s hand burns against Jean’s bare skin, impossibly hot while Jean is so cold.
“I’ve got you,” Jeremy says, low and steady. Whatever panic was in his voice a moment ago is gone, replaced by something attentive and entirely Jean’s. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
Jean nods stiffly.
The water creeps higher up to his ankles. The sand shifts beneath him and Jean wobbles, breath catching in his throat. Jeremy adjusts his grip without comment and steps closer, angling his body toward Jean. Jean stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the gray line of the horizon.
“Breathe for me,” Jeremy tells him in the same voice he’d use to tell Jean what to do on the court. Jean’s body responds before he’s even processed Jeremy’s words.
The air in his lungs is sharp and salty as he inhales, but Jeremy’s hand is warm. The water moves around his feet before pulling back again, and miraculously it doesn’t take Jean with it. He is still standing there, heart pounding.
He can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him, although he cannot bring himself to look back. He’s not sure what he’ll find in them and he’s not sure how much he would give away if he did.
“You’re doing amazing,” Jeremy says.
Jean hisses out an exasperated breath. “Do not lie to me. I am barely up to my ankles.”
“I think that’s still pretty amazing.” And Jean does glance over at Jeremy at that, and he wishes he’d listened to his own advice because the pride in Jeremy’s eyes is so evident that it nearly knocks Jean off his feet and into the ocean. Jean hurriedly looks away again.
Jean makes no move to walk further in. Jeremy doesn’t either, despite this being much shallower than where he stood earlier. He doesn’t let go of Jean’s elbow, nor does he look away from Jean. They stand there long enough that Jean starts to feel the patterns in the rhythmic roll of the tide against his skin. His breathing evens out slowly, his heartbeat still thudding in his head but no longer feeling like he’s going to fall over sideways.
Finally, Jeremy looks back out over the water.
“I like it out here,” Jeremy says quietly. “It feels like the waves could come in and wash me away.”
Jean turns to stare at him. “Are you sure you haven’t taken one too many balls to the head? What is comforting about drowning?”
Jeremy smiles sheepishly. “Okay, well, not drowning. It’s more like… when I stand out here, I feel so small. In a good way. The ocean is so big and I’m so small, and everything that worries me is even smaller.”
Jean considers him. The line of Jeremy’s shoulders has softened, the tension bleeding out of him little by little with each moment he spends out here. The ocean may not have fixed him, but it has given him space to breathe.
“That is less terrible,” Jean relents. “I suppose this isn’t too awful.”
Jeremy laughs, warm and genuine, and squeezes Jean’s arm in a way that takes his breath away but for an entirely different reason than the cold water.
They stay until the waves grow stronger, the water surging higher on each pass. Jean stares down at where it splashes against his rolled up jeans with a sickening lurch in his stomach.
Jeremy immediately gives Jean’s elbow a little tug. “Okay, that’s enough for today.”
Jean knows Jeremy is only leaving for his sake, but he can’t bring himself to care. He allows Jeremy to herd him back onto the beach, each step easier than the last. His feet have gone partially numb in the water and he stumbles a bit as Jeremy leads him out. His heart races and his chest heaves, but he is still upright. He is not drowning.
Jeremy only releases his elbow once Jean is safely back on dry sand. He does it slowly, one finger at a time like he’s afraid Jean will tip over the second he lets go. Maybe that’s a reasonable fear to have, given how unsteady Jean feels once he’s standing on his own.
Jean looks back out over the water, pulse racing.
“I did it,” he says quietly. No triumph or celebration, but a surprised statement of fact.
Jeremy lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in his chest for a long while. He rubs a hand over his face before dropping it. “Yeah. You did.”
Jean glances over at him. The way Jeremy carries himself is different than it was in the water and different from the car. Whatever thing that had been spinning anxiously inside of him all day seems to have finally stilled. The look he gives Jean isn’t awe or pity, but a thoughtful attentiveness that Jean feels down to his bones.
Jean’s fear has not vanished. He still feels it in the way his legs tremble faintly, in his nerves buzzing with the aftershock. But he chose this. He chose to walk out into the water and stay there because Jeremy needed him even if he said he didn’t have to.
Jeremy bends to grab their shoes without comment. He shrugs out of his hoodie and Jean opens his mouth to tell him to keep it on when he’s so wet and it’s so cold, but Jeremy drapes it loosely around Jean’s shoulders and all thoughts die out inside of Jean’s head. The fabric is still warm from his body and smells of Jeremy’s cologne and the faint smell of his skin.
“You’re shaking,” Jeremy tells him.
“I am cold,” Jean replies mechanically.
Jeremy accepts this without argument. Jean hesitates before tugging the sleeves on. Jeremy’s hoodie is a bit smaller than Jean’s and fits a little snugger, but Jean doesn’t think he cares.
They walk back to the car together slowly. Jeremy pops open the back and digs around for towels. He pulls one free and gestures wordlessly for Jean to sit. Jean casts him a curious look but does, perching on the open ledge. The wind stings his damp skin, tousling his hair, and he tugs the sleeves of the hoodie up over his palms.
Jeremy kneels in front of him.
Jean stiffens immediately. “What are you doing?”
Jeremy holds up the towel. “I want to dry you off. Is that okay?”
Jean stares down at Jeremy in disbelief, but there’s no humor in Jeremy’s face as he looks back at him. There’s a strange earnestness there that tugs at Jean’s chest.
He bites down on his bottom lip before managing, “Fine.”
So Jeremy kneels down on the damp asphalt and takes Jean’s foot into his hands like it’s something delicate. The towel is thick and rough as it brushes away the sand clinging to Jean’s wet skin, but Jeremy’s touch is gentle. Jean’s breath catches.
He starts at the heel, pressing the towel around it and rubbing warmth back into the skin that’s still half-numb. His thumbs press into the sides of Jean’s foot and hold him still while his fingers work methodically.
Jean forces himself to stare at some point somewhere over Jeremy’s head and concentrates all his willpower on not tipping over or tugging away and running.
Hands have always meant correction, control, contrition. Force and friction applied until compliance follows. Even neutral touch is transactional, conditional. This is none of that. Jeremy touches him with so much softness that Jean doesn’t know what to do. Jeremy touches him like there is nothing Jean needs to do in return.
“You really don’t have to—” he starts, voice hoarse.
“I know,” Jeremy interrupts without looking up. “I want to.”
Jean swallows whatever’s left of his protest and blinks rapidly, gaze unfocused.
Jeremy moves to the other foot, lifting it carefully like Jean is made of glass. Jean’s legs tremble slightly and he knows there’s no point in hoping Jeremy doesn’t notice. He cannot tell if it’s the aftershock of the ocean or the touch of this beautiful man.
Jeremy’s hand stills as he finishes drying Jean’s feet, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. He pauses, one hand warm as it cups Jean’s ankle.
“What you did today,” Jeremy says, still not looking up. His voice is softer now. “That was pretty big.”
Jean’s throat tightens.
“You didn’t have to,” Jeremy continues, thumb resting lightly against his ankle bone. “You didn’t have to come in after me. But you did. I know how hard that must’ve been for you.”
Jean forces himself not to flinch at the rawness in Jeremy’s voice. Jeremy finally glances up, meeting Jean’s eyes.
“Taking care of people makes me feel useful,” he says, so simple and honest that it momentarily throws Jean. “I know that mattered for you. So… let me have this.”
Jeremy only lets go of his ankle once Jean gives a tiny nod.
He reaches for the hem of Jean’s pants and rolls the fabric down slowly, smoothing it down where it bunches at the ankle, his knuckles brushing against Jean’s skin. When he’s done, he pats Jean’s knee before finally getting to his feet again.
Jean’s hands curl in his lap, feeling the ghost of Jeremy’s touch all the way up the curve of his spine.
Jeremy steps back and inspects his work with a quiet satisfaction. The tension that had stiffened his shoulders all afternoon is gone now. Jean thinks of Jeremy’s hand steadying him in the water and understands, dimly, that letting Jeremy take care of him is giving Jeremy something steady to hold onto in turn.
He clutches his hands together so tightly that his joints ache. Then he forces himself to let go.
“You do not always have to be useful,” he says. The words come out more quietly than he intends.
Jeremy stills.
He doesn’t deflect this time, or joke, or lie, or any of the other things Jean has come to expect from Jeremy when he accidentally bears something too vulnerable. He stares down at where the towel hangs loosely in his hands.
“No,” he agrees after a moment. “I don’t.”
He folds the towel once, neatly, and Jean knows him well enough by now to see the way the movement gives him a moment to breathe. He folds the towel again and ducks down into the back of the car to put it back where he found it, his face hidden from Jean.
“But right now, I really need you to let me be,” Jeremy says, voice a little rough.
Jean watches the line of Jeremy’s shoulders as he straightens. Once Jean can see his face again, he wears a smile that may not be the brightest Jean has ever seen Jeremy wear, but this one at least reaches his eyes.
They close the back of the car and slip their shoes on.
---
The drive back is quiet. They take the scenic view, killing any of their remaining time.
The late afternoon sky is still gray, swallowing any pink and gold light behind the clouds signaling the end of the day. Jeremy’s hands are steady on the wheel as he drives, his posture easier than it had been earlier.
They both know this is borrowed time. In half an hour Jeremy will turn off toward his family’s house instead of pulling into the Lofts’ parking garage with the other residents.
Neither of them reaches for the radio. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but Jean can feel the weight of that unspoken knowledge pressing down on both of them the closer they get to home— their home, no matter how much the Wilshires try to keep Jeremy away.
Jean watches the road for a long time before his gaze slowly drifts over to Jeremy’s reflection in the passenger-side window. Jean studies his profile in the glass: the slope of his nose, his cheekbones, his windswept hair. His mouth is set in a neutral line, no longer smiling but not bracing the way he had been while leaving the court earlier either.
“Does it really make you feel better?” Jean asks abruptly.
Jeremy glances over, caught off guard. “What?”
Jean’s eyes drop to his own hands. He slides a fingertip over one of his knuckles. “Taking care of someone,” he clarifies. “Being… useful.”
He can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him for a moment before he returns his attention to the road.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “It does.”
Jean waits. When Jeremy doesn’t immediately elaborate, he presses, “Why?”
Jeremy exhales slowly through his noise.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess it feels good to know that the people I care about are okay.” A pause. Jean glances over and watches Jeremy’s fingers tap tap tap against the steering wheel as he thinks. “It feels good to know I can help them feel that way. That I’m the one doing it.”
Simple. Sincere.
Jean turns his head toward the window again, studying Jeremy in the reflection again. There’s a soft crease between Jeremy’s brows that hasn’t quite left yet. A faint tension still in the line of his jaw.
Then who takes care of you?
The question lodges itself between Jean’s ribs, sharp and useless and nagging in a way where now that he knows it’s there, he doesn’t know how to ignore it. Jean presses his tongue against the back of his teeth and forces himself to swallow the words. He does not know if he has the right.
He folds his hands together in his lap instead and watches the city streets pass by as the hum of the engine fills the quiet between them. Jeremy drives on, steady and composed, as if he has not bared more of his heart today than Jean knows what to do with. As if Jean isn’t increasingly aware of how much of Jeremy’s self-worth is built around the well-being of everyone else in his orbit with little to no care for his own.
How cruel, Jean thinks, staring at their blurred reflections in the glass, that he pours himself into everyone yet nobody thinks to fill him back up.
Jean had let him kneel on the cold asphalt and dry his feet for him. And maybe he had liked it. What had he done for Jeremy in return? The thought unsettles him.
He shifts in his seat.
The center console is narrow. Jeremy’s arm rests against it, skin bare without his hoodie. Jean studies the space between them for a moment, weighing risks in his head.
Then, carefully, he rests his own arm there.
Their forearms press together, skin to skin where Jean has rolled the sleeve of Jeremy’s hoodie up. Jeremy is warm. Jean keeps his eyes fixed on the window, on the reflection instead of the man himself.
Jeremy’s gaze drops immediately. Jean sees it in the glass when his eyes flick downward. He feels the way Jeremy goes completely still against him. Jean’s stomach drops. Heat creeps up the inside of his chest and twists his stomach.
He has miscalculated. He has done something foolish.
He braces for Jeremy to clear his throat politely, to pull his arm away. Instead, Jeremy presses his arm more firmly against Jean’s. There’s nothing accidental about the touch. His hand briefly tightens on the steering wheel before relaxing again. He doesn't look over, or smile, and he doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t pull away either. He leans into Jean’s touch like Jean had leaned into his touch in the water.
Jean exhales slowly, careful not to let his body shake with it.
Jeremy shifts slightly. Not away, but closer, angling himself so the contact stays. His shoulders relax enough to be visible. A tiny bit of the remaining tension still gripping onto Jeremy loosens. It’s small, but Jean sees it even in the reflection.
A soft patter against the windshield has Jean’s eyes darting forward again. One fat raindrop falls directly in front of him, then another, until it’s like the sky has opened up above them.
“Holy crap,” Jeremy says and flicks on his windshield wipers. “I knew they said it could sprinkle today, but this is a lot more than a sprinkle.”
Rain slams down hard enough that it sounds like falling rocks on the roof of the car. The world outside runs like watercolor in streaks of white and red brake lights. Jean’s breath hitches. Water runs in thick rivulets down the glass of his window and Jean watches the distorted streets pass by as Jeremy slows. Something cold crawls up the back of his neck.
Jeremy’s warm skin presses more insistently against his. Jean glances over at him, but Jeremy’s eyes are firmly on the road. Still, there’s no denying the firm pressure of Jeremy’s arm against Jean’s. Jean swallows thickly and looks away from Jeremy’s tanned skin against his slightly sunburnt.
By the time Jeremy turns into the lot outside the Lofts, the downpour has somehow become even worse. Jeremy pulls into a spot as close to the entrance as he can manage. The wipers continue their frantic and seemingly Sisyphean rhythm. It feels like a miracle Jeremy was even able to see well enough to drive with how ineffective they are in this.
Jean stares uneasily out the window at that short but impossibly long open stretch of sidewalk up to the building. Standing in the ocean up to his ankles had been intimidating, but in all the time he’s been in California, Jean has never once prayed for rain the way some of the Trojans have. The crawling on the back of his neck begins to dig into his brain as he imagines the wet stick of hair against his temple and cheeks; of water running down his face and into his mouth. The suffocating slide of it down his throat.
His fingers twitch toward the door handle and then freeze, joints stiff no matter how much he urges himself to open it. Jeremy would not drop him off if it were not safe. This foolish man would likely sit with Jean and get himself in trouble if that were the case. He may even do it now if Jean seems scared enough. Jean hisses out a breath of frustration. He will not let himself be another thing Jeremy’s family holds over him, not today.
Movement in the corner of his vision startles him. Before Jean can process it, Jeremy is leaning closer and tugging the hoodie Jean is still wearing tighter around Jean’s shoulders. He reaches for the zipper and Jean’s stomach knots at Jeremy’s hands so close to his waist, then Jeremy is zipping Jean all the way up with gentle efficiency.
He pulls the hood up over Jean’s head and tucks a stray curl beneath it. When Jean turns a bewildered look on him, Jeremy gives him a smile so radiant that Jean momentarily forgets about rain.
“Go!” Jeremy says, unlocking the car doors and making a playful little shooing motion. “Run!”
Jean’s pulse is loud in his ears, but the hood blocks out most of his peripheral blur, leaving nothing in his vision but Jeremy’s confident, encouraging smile swallowing up Jean’s entire world.
Jean opens the door and runs.
The rain hits hard immediately, drumming against the hood instead of his hair. The wind blows it into the back of his head instead of his face and he nearly heaves in relief as he realizes. He keeps his head angled down and tries not to think about the way the water bounces off the pavement as his shoes hit it.
When he reaches the awning, Jeremy honks the horn triumphantly behind him. Jean slips inside with uneven but manageable breathing and the shocked realization that his lungs don’t feel like they’re full of water.
---
The apartment is quiet, which doesn’t surprise Jean. Cat and Laila will likely be home soon, but until then the only sound is the pitter-patter of rain and the soft sound of Jab sleeping.
When Jean peeks into the living room, he finds Jab curled up on the couch against Laila’s new favorite pillow. He’s momentarily compelled to reach down and rub his fingers through the sleeping dog’s fur, then shakes his head to clear the thought. Jean wouldn’t like to be woken up for someone else’s impulse, so why should he do the same to Jab?
His bedroom is darker than the rest of the apartment and feels emptier than it usually does. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, listening to the muffled sound of rain through the walls. He looks down at the damp sleeves of Jeremy’s hoodie where he’d pulled them down over his hands and remembers Jeremy’s bare arm on the console.
Jean’s stomach drops.
Jeremy will have to make it from the Lofts to his family’s house in this rain. He will smile and apologize for being five minutes earlier than his curfew because that is already too late in his family’s eyes. He will apologize for tracking water across polished floors and dripping all over the carpets. He will go upstairs to that room that isn’t really his and pretend he doesn’t mind, and maybe even convince himself of that for the night.
All while soaked. Because he thought Jean needed his hoodie more.
Jean swears under his breath.
He pushes off the door and crosses the room with barely restrained agitation, tugging the hoodie tighter around himself even while berating himself for letting Jeremy give it to him in the first place. Jean sinks down onto the edge of Jeremy’s empty bed.
Jeremy had held him steady in the water even when Jean had been foolishly afraid of being swept away, even only up to his ankles. He’d brushed sand from Jean’s feet, dried them, and gave him the literal clothes off his back.
Jean presses his face into the sleeve and inhales. It smells faintly of salt and detergent and something distinctly Jeremy.
Jean had pressed his arm against Jeremy’s in the car in his own inadequate attempt to give something back to Jeremy. Instead, Jeremy had given Jean something again.
With a frustrated sigh, Jean throws himself onto his back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. His chest aches with the desire to do more than he knows how to do.
He does not take the hoodie off.