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Sometimes, Jeremy thinks of himself as a harbinger of bad luck: his father’s absence, and then his baby brother’s, and then everyone else whose blood should have been enough to spare him more than a fleeting, passing glance.
Being with Jean helps. Being with Jean has helped. They’ve been together for three months now, ever since winter break when Jeremy had broken down over his subpar LSAT score and Mathilda had met his eyes over the envelope with more derision than ever before. At the end of it all, there was Jean, waiting for him in the driveaway of his parents’ house with his hip perched against the seat of his motorcycle, eyes drawn tight with worry as Jeremy wobbled up to him and ceremoniously sunk against his chest.
“I want to go home,” Jeremy had said, fingers gripping the back of Jean’s jacket.
“Okay,” said Jean. “Then we will go home.”
And so Jeremy threw himself into exy.
Which was fine. It was good. If he couldn’t have his mother’s approval, then he could at least spend the rest of his life vying for her attention on a court she never thought twice about. Perhaps this would be his penance.
He moved into the apartment full time and the left side of Jean’s queen bed became his side. Laila converted the smaller room into a den for Jabberwocky. The four of them woke up and went to morning practice together. Sometimes, Jeremy stayed back with Jean for an extra hour to keep going on a few drills. Sometimes, Jeremy woke up earlier to go to the court. Jean joined him every time. Jean barely left his side.
And then, earlier today at morning practice, Jeremy collapsed at far-court ten minutes into the scrimmage.
Jean was at his side in an instant, hovering over his face, calling his name in frantic breaths. Jeremy doesn’t remember much now, except for the feeling of Jean hoisting him up, leaning against his side, carrying him to the team nurse’s office and helping him sit down.
“Fuck,” comes the vague shape of Laila’s voice somewhere above him now. “I knew there was something wrong, but I—I didn’t think it was this bad, I—”
“Shh.” That’s Cat. “No one did, okay? Don’t be too hard on yourself. The idiot was content with letting us all believe he was fine.”
“Do you think coach will let us skip class?” says Laila. “I could, I don’t know…we could ask.”
“Go to class.” Jean. Jean is here too, and it should have been obvious, but the realization has Jeremy’s shoulders relaxing back into what he now recognizes is their bed. “My schedule is free for the rest of the day. I will take care of him.”
Jeremy manages to open his eyes just as Laila and Cat are leaving the room. The first thing he sees is the pale skin of Jean’s hand, hanging by his waist just at the edge of the mattress. He reaches for it automatically, ignoring the sheen of sweat clinging to every part of him beneath the thick covers, and he watches blearily as Jean starts and spins around to look down at him.
“Jeremy,” he breathes, slipping their palms together, intertwining their fingers. “You are awake.”
“Cat’s right,” Jeremy groans. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, you are,” says Jean, and Jeremy can feel the faintest flicker of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
He holds his arms up in invitation, taking Jean’s hand with him, and Jean only waits half a second before he’s sinking down on top of him, caging him in with his arms and burying his face into the crook of Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy’s hands hard gently through Jean’s hair as he relaxes beneath the weight of him.
He likes this, Jean laying on top of him. It had taken a while for Jean to be completely comfortable with it, but once Jeremy had told him it made him feel safe, Jean had relented and admitted it made him feel safe, too. Jeremy thinks about that sometimes, Jean’s murmured I feel safe with you, Jeremy. It is something he will never take for granted. It is something he will hold to his heart like a vow for the rest of his life.
“If you are sick,” comes Jean’s muffled voice now, his lips ghosting against Jeremy’s neck, “then you need to tell someone. You have always told me that I need to take care of myself when I’m not feeling well. Have you been lying to me all of this time? My partner is not a liar.”
Despite himself, Jeremy smiles. It had taken a lot for Jean to reach this point, too.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Jeremy,” says Jean, lifting his head up. His brows furrow. “Are you okay?”
Like this, their noses brush delicately together, and a trill of warmth flutters down Jeremy’s spine. Jean’s stare is ashen gray, black curls falling into his eyes. He is so beautiful that sometimes Jeremy aches with it.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m okay.” A pause. Jean is still staring at him. “Or, um, I will be.”
Jean moves to stand up, and instantly, Jeremy feels the loss all over his skin. He frowns as he watches Jean smooth his clothes out and put his hands on his hips. It would be absolutely adorable if he were not currently squinting at Jeremy’s face, eyeing him thunderously.
“I will make tea,” Jean announces, and then he turns and leaves the room.
Jeremy blinks after him. Then he scrambles to his feet.
He finds Jean in the kitchen, rummaging through one of the counter drawers. Cat’s taken to filling all of the cabinet space with little knick knacks she picks up throughout her days—says something about needing to make this new place feel more and more like home. At least, that’s what she tells Jeremy and Jean. To Laila, it is an unspoken thing, but sometimes Jeremy catches her eyes snagging on one of the plushies Cat got from the gift store, or the hair clip a five year-old Trojans fan gave to her at the mall.
He’s snapped out of his stupor by Jean holding up a thermometer and Jabberwocky appearing out of nowhere by his feet, whimpering up at him until he laughs and swoops down to pick him up.
The lines of Jean’s face flatten with obvious disapproval.
“Why are you out of bed?” he says, walking up to him. In Jeremy’s periphery, he can see a pot of water slowly boiling on the stove. “Go back. Take your temperature, and I’ll bring you tea.” He glares at Jabberwocky. “Do not come in the way. He is sick.”
Jabberwocky tilts his head.
Jeremy laughs. “Davis gave me ibuprofen just a little while ago—”
“Yes,” says Jean impatiently as he takes Jabberwocky out of his arms and puts him back down onto the floor. Then he ushers Jeremy back in the direction of their bedroom. “So we should see if your fever has come back up.” He catches Jeremy’s sleeve, pulling him closer in one smooth movement that has Jeremy’s breath catching in his throat and his eyes widening a fraction. Jean frowns, eyes focused plainly on Jeremy’s forehead as he presses his knuckles to his sweat soaked skin.
Jeremy cannot tell for the life of him if he is breathing anymore. He doesn’t know if that’s because of the fever or if it’s because of Jean.
“Hm,” Jean says after what is probably only a few moments but feels like four days.
“Yeah?” says Jeremy softly as Jean peels his hand away and looks down at him.
“You’re not burning up anymore,” says Jean, resuming his ushering. Jeremy laughs softly as he’s pushed back to the edge of the bed and then practically shoved back under the covers. “I will get the tea. Try to sleep.”
“But if I sleep I won’t be able to drink the tea you’re making for me,” Jeremy pouts.
“Then I will make more when you are awake,” says Jean, and then he gently parts Jeremy’s bangs and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Jeremy expects him to leave after that, but Jean lingers, staring down at Jeremy with a hard, unreadable look in his eyes. The curve of Jeremy’s smile softens as he lets Jean study him, dropping his gaze from his temples to the slope of his nose, the curve of his upper lip, the smooth lines of his chin. It is only with Jean that something like this has ever been comfortable—this silent unopening, a flower unfurling beneath the sun. It is only with Jean that Jeremy wants to revel in it instead of shying away and averting his gaze.
“Go,” he murmurs instead, raising his knee until it presses against Jean’s arm. “The stove is on. I’ll take my temperature and try to sleep.”
“You will be okay?” Jean whispers.
Jeremy nods, a quiet thing.
When Jean returns several minutes later, there is a mug in his hands, slender fingers curling around the porcelain. He perches at the edge of the mattress and quietly blows the steam out of his face, then leans over until the rim is hovering in front of Jeremy’s mouth.
Jeremy brings his hands out of the blanket and says, “Ninety nine. My temperature.”
“Hm,” says Jean. Jeremy tries to extract the mug from his hands, but Jean’s grip is firm. “What are you doing?”
“What?” says Jeremy, looking up at him in confusion.
“Let go,” says Jean, and Jeremy does as if he is on autopilot.
He lights with understanding as Jean gently tips the mug against his lips, brows furrowed in concentration to make sure nothing spills. Jeremy sips and tries not to smile. The tea is warm as it seeps into his mouth, not hot enough to scald but really just right. He thinks of Jean in the kitchen, carefully trying to monitor the temperature, making sure it is perfect before bringing it here for him. It is so mundane, all of this, really—it shouldn’t be affecting him this much. It shouldn’t be a needle sinking deeper and deeper into his skin, twisting until it finds the spot that hurts the most, nestling there like an ugly promise.
But no one has ever taken care of him like this. Not his parents. Not his siblings. The backs of his eyes begin to burn, and immediately, before he can even make sense of any of it, Jean is pulling away from him.
“I am sorry,” he’s saying, setting the mug down onto the nightstand and looking down at his hands in his lap. “I have overstepped. Jeremy, I am sorry. I can leave.”
Jeremy’s brain catches up. “What? No, Jean.” His hand quickly finds Jean’s forearm, fingers digging into his sleeve, keeping him firmly in place. Jean stares at him. The gray of his eyes are haunting. “You didn’t do anything, I promise. I just…” His eyes close as he finds Jean’s hand, squeezing it in his palm. God, this was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to collapse like this and force Jean to take care of him. He is his captain. He is the one who is supposed to look out for Jean, not the other way around. “Just. Thank you.”
Jean blinks. “For what?”
Jeremy thinks about the last time he was sick, before his mother had looked him in the eye and told him that he will never amount to anything if he continues on like this, that he will lose everything and everyone if he does not just listen to her and let her plan the rest of his life. Was any of it ever enough? Would any of it ever have been enough? Maybe. Maybe if Jeremy passed the bar and became a lawyer and finally proved himself worthy of a surname he never even wanted. Maybe then his mother would offer him just a sliver more than a fleeting glance his way—a fleeting glance that only ever was to make sure he was staying in line, knowing his place, not embarrassing a family already so broken beyond repair.
His lips part. The words tumble out: “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”
Jean doesn’t answer for several seconds, but somehow, his grip on Jeremy’s hand tightens imperceptibly. Jeremy waits helplessly, breathlessly, and then Jean says, “Even if you were someone capable of making mistakes, leaving your family is not one of them.”
Jeremy chokes out a laugh. “I am capable of making mistakes.”
“The only mistake you have ever made is putting undeserving people before yourself,” Jean says, and all of the air evaporates out of Jeremy’s lungs. “You are going to captain the national team one day. You are going to bring this damned country to gold at the Olympics.”
From anyone else, it would be an out, placating words that in the end do nothing and mean nothing. But this is Jean, and even though they are dating, even though Jeremy knows that Jean would never lie to him or to anyone else, it means something. It’s always meant something.
“You make me so happy,” Jeremy croaks, bringing his legs up, burying his face into his knees and intertwining his fingers with Jean’s impossibly together. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Jean hovers closer, and then he uses his free hand to pull Jeremy back up to look at him. “I want to kiss you,” he says.
This time, Jeremy’s laugh is almost watery. “Don’t. I’m sick and gross.” He smiles. “You’re perfect, Jean. You know that, right?”
Jean doesn’t answer. Instead, he wraps his arms around Jeremy, cradling him close, and for a burning moment, Jeremy thinks: home. This is home. Not his parents’ house, not even this apartment, really—but Jean, like this, always.