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Jean wakes up to another day.
He blinks, and it’s the same four walls of his and Jeremy’s bedroom, the same blank ceiling, the same hum of traffic swallowed by the distance between the apartment and the I-110 highway.
There’s a calendar Jeremy hangs on his side of the bed, alongside posters of his favorite bands and print-outs of the team, both the Trojans and the LA Kings. Important dates are earmarked in red, the past crossed out with an X. The extra, extra important ones, in Jeremy’s words, earn themselves a round-edged star.
There’s one right now, beside today’s date, but Jean doesn’t linger on it.
In the bathroom mirror, Jean still looks the same. The same curl of his hair, the same smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, the same number staring back at him.
“Hello,” Jean says to his reflection, and nothing has changed.
He’d gone to sleep entertaining the thought that he might wake up different. It was ridiculous, but so much suspense had been built up in the lead-up to today that Jean couldn’t help but lean into it. He thought maybe he would wake up seeing some crow’s feet around his eyes when he squinted. Maybe some wrinkles on his forehead when he frowned. Maybe the jagged strips of healed wounds across his torso would look less pronounced.
Now he dashes all those thoughts away with a cursory sweep of his hand, the movement slicing through his view of himself in the mirror, only to return to him exactly the same.
Well.
Jean supposes he was right, after all. Today is just another day.
“Morning, morning,” Jeremy says, when Jean steps out of the bathroom, the greeting stacking over each other in his usual habit.
He has returned from wherever he had disappeared this morning, after leaving Jean to wake up in an empty bedroom. It is never a pleasant feeling to wake up by himself, the need to never be left alone still clinging to Jean stubbornly even after more than a year out of the Nest, though it quickly subsides in the face of Jeremy’s soft grin.
It is then utterly forgotten when Jeremy crosses to him in three strides and cups his face in a cradle. Jean’s eyes flutter shut involuntarily, nuzzling into the touch that has only been gentle. Then Jeremy kisses him, softly, the slow press of lips so delicate that Jean can—eyes closed—still picture the outline of Jeremy’s plush mouth against his.
When Jeremy sighs into the kiss, Jean swallows the sound eagerly, tasting the overwhelming swirl of creamy bitterness of coffee on Jeremy’s lips. Ah, so that’s where he has been.
“Jean,” Jeremy murmurs, though the sound is muffled from his reluctance to pull away from the kiss; Jean understands the feeling completely.
In response, Jean only slides a palm up Jeremy’s arm, the other coming to rest on the jut of his hips. His hand plays with the edge of Jeremy’s sleeve on a worn out USC tee, before fingers dip under the nylon to splay against Jeremy’s upper arm, touching skin.
“Jean,” Jeremy tries again after a moment, louder this time, even though the attempt is still half-hearted.
When Jean does not let go of him easily, fervently chasing after his lips, he feels the shape of Jeremy’s mouth curving into a smile against his own mouth. A laugh bubbles from Jeremy, and their teeth knock together with the force of Jeremy’s grin.
“Stop running away, Jeremy,” Jean grumbles, “I am trying to kiss you properly.”
Jeremy hums, and then, contrary to what Jean just told him not to do, pulls away completely. “I can’t speak if you keep kissing me.”
“Then do not speak," Jean huffs, and tries to steal another kiss.
A year ago, Jean would have balked at the insolence in his words. At the blatant display of disrespect to his captain, no less.
But that was a year ago. This is now. Dobson may be questionable on many fronts, but Jean is not too proud to admit that she was right that time can also be a powerful source of healing.
Jeremy only chuckles at his words, delight evident in the lilt of his laughter. He digs a finger into Jean’s cheek, the act more so done in endearment than chastising. “Don’t you want to know what I have to say?”
“What do you have to say?”
There’s a glint in Jeremy’s eyes that Jean will always love, but does not particularly like in this current moment. “Do you know what day it is?”
Jean tries not to roll his eyes, and fails. “Saturday.”
It earns him a light swat on his arm, quickly soothed by the way Jeremy runs his palm up and down his bicep. It is nice, the way Jeremy touches him. It is nice, the way he is allowed to touch Jeremy in return.
“Well, yes,” Jeremy huffs. He tugs at the hem of Jean’s sleeve, guiding them towards their bed. “But not what I was going for. Try again?”
They fall down onto the bed, Jean bracketing him with his elbows so he does not crush Jeremy with his entire body weight. His kind consideration goes to waste, because Jeremy immediately pats him on the back, urging Jean to lie down fully so that their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces on the duvet.
“November 9,” Jean says.
“Good try,” Jeremy sighs in exasperation. “Still, not quite. I know what you’re doing, Jean. I’m not letting you get away with it.”
“Why?”
“You tell me why.”
“I do not know,” Jean says, an open-mouthed lie.
Then he tucks his face in the crook of Jeremy’s shoulder, burying his face in the skin of his neck, inhaling the clean scent of soap there. Mouths along the sweet curve of Jeremy’s jaw, pulling soft breaths from his lips, because Jean has worked hard to learn what makes Jeremy yield and is not afraid of playing it to his advantage.
It works, because Jeremy sighs in contentment, tilting his face to give Jean more room to pepper kisses up his neck. This, Jean thinks, may be his life’s greatest blessing.
“Okay, I’ll let you off this year, only because you’re being so good right now,” Jeremy gives in after a moment of quiet, carding his fingers through Jean’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching at his scalp. The touch is familiar and soothing, easing away tension Jean did not even know he carried in his shoulders, between his bones.
In response, Jean sags a little more into Jeremy, going boneless, letting his partner hold him together. A happy hum escapes him.
Jean does not get away with it entirely, unfortunately, because Jeremy soon removes his hand from his hair to maneuver them so that he can look Jean in the eye again. Soft brown eyes meet his, carrying an ocean’s worth of affection in them. Jean cannot help but hold his breath.
“Jean,” Jeremy murmurs, his expression more fond than Jean thinks he deserves. His fingers track a line down Jean’s temple, ending their journey to tuck Jean’s stray hair behind his ear. “Happy birthday.”
The words almost sound foreign. ‘Joyeux anniversaire’ is no more familiar.
Jean thinks of the star next to the date on Jeremy’s calendar, and the heart shape that accompanies it, because it’s “extra, extra, extra special,” in Jeremy’s words. He thinks of how he’s spent the past nineteen years without any proper celebration, because nobody has thought of the day as more than a regular calendar date.
The closest thing he’s had to a birthday celebration was the postcards Kevin wrote and the magnets he bought him for the occasion. One year, it was a magnet designed like a yellow birthday cake. Another year, the magnet was in the shape of a gift box, with a bold, red ribbon crossing through it. But every time, Kevin had been away on press tour on the actual day, so the gifts and well wishes came appreciated but belated.
It is a strange feeling, then, to be celebrated on the actual day.
“Jeremy,” Jean can only say, because he does not have any other words. He does not know if he will ever find them. Dobson, will time teach me the words to say when someone wishes me a happy birthday?
He is searching for words and coming up empty-handed, when Jeremy says, “Oh, I got you a gift.” Scrambling to sit up again, Jeremy rises on his elbows with Jean still plastered to his chest. They shuffle along the bedsheet, then Jean shifts to a kneel so that Jeremy can reach for the bag placed on his bedside table. “I hope you like it. I thought really long about what you’d like and, well, I wanted to get you so many things, frankly. There’s a card in there, too.”
Jean sits back fully, one leg folded beneath him. It invites Jeremy to clamber close again, their thighs overlapping each other’s in a jigsaw mess. The half weight of Jeremy on him is nearly enough for Jean to forgo this whole birthday charade entirely and pull him in for another kiss. He does not, only because Jeremy is practically shoving the bag in his face eagerly.
He takes the gift bag from Jeremy, peering into it, and pulls out a box bigger than he expected. The box is dark blue, its lid darker than the bottom, wrapped in a golden ribbon. No label has been written on any of the sides, untelling of what lies within. When Jean sends Jeremy a curious glance, hoping for a clue, Jeremy remains tight-lipped, eyes sparkling with excitement.
There’s the sound of something hitting the edges of the box when Jean gives it a tentative shake, but the low thud of it still fails to give away what the object is.
“What is it?” Jean asks, eyebrow raised.
“Go ahead, open it! It’s your gift.”
The hand on Jean’s thigh is proving increasingly distracting, as are the slow circles Jeremy’s thumb is rubbing into his skin. But Jean pushes them aside for the moment, in favor of undoing the ribbon. Then he removes the lid.
Jeremy was wrong; there is no singular gift. Instead, there are multiple—all except one must have not made a single sound when Jean shook the box.
There is a shirt, the material impossibly soft when Jean traces his fingertips over the fabric. The blue of it is so gray that it is almost the color of Jean’s irises. Resting above the folded tee is a book—a poetry one in French—which Jean mentioned wanting to read once in passing.
Then there’s a framed photo of them—all of them; the Floozies and some visibly not-as-eager Foxes, the picture clearly taken after their last match against each other. Jean still remembers it, how Laila had gathered all the Floozies together post-game, how Jeremy easily convinced Kevin and Renee to join in on the photo, how Jeremy somehow managed to get even Neil and Andrew in the shot. Jean had wondered, back then, about the strange makeup of the people photographed, but thought no further of it.
It’s clear what Jeremy was scheming now—an act of love, months in the making.
“Jeremy,” Jean says, because he still has no other words. He hopes, for the first time, he will have them in the years to come. Hopes, he will always be in need of them. “This is…”
“Happy birthday, my darling,” Jeremy says again, eyes creasing in affection. His hand on Jean’s thigh is still tracing shapes into the skin—round-edged stars, then heart shapes of all sizes. “You deserve the world, and I hope I’ve made this day—and every day, really—special for you.”
Jeremy has. Jeremy has been, for the past innumerable days, from the very moment Jean stepped foot into California and heard him say, Hello, hello.
Jean will never understand how he ever got so lucky. He will never understand how Jean Moreau, thought by most to be unbecoming, unworthy, undeserving, ever got to have all this love.
And then he finds the words.
“I love you, Jeremy,” he says, the words pouring from him easily, because this is true, no matter the occasion. They are not the right words to say to just anyone who wishes him a happy birthday, but this is not anyone; this is Jeremy. This is Jeremy.
In his periphery, Jean sees the same four walls, the same blank ceiling, the same scars that litter his skin. Change, he thinks, is not an overnight miracle. Change is a slow dawning.
One day, he had been wearing fresh bruises and newly-stitched wounds on his skin. Then time passes, and one day, he is here, the wounds nothing more than pale white scars, the pain phantom but not present.
Reaching a hand out, Jean searches for home now, and finds it in the curve of Jeremy’s open, waiting palm. “I love you,” Jean says again, then repeats in French, because these are still the only words he has for now; these are the words that have to be enough.
Maybe it is also time at work that they have learned to move in sync, leaning forward to meet in the middle in a gentle kiss. All that passion and emotion can never take away the gentleness they treat each other.
“Thank you. All of these are things I love,” Jean says, testing the words on his tongue, thinking of ways to express gratitude for something he has never had the chance to say thank you for. “Jeremy, you are too good to me.”
Jeremy shakes his head, hand reaching out to thumb the high of Jean’s cheekbone, as if to leave a mark of love on the skin. “I always want to be good to you, Jean,” he says, voice indulgent. “I love you.” Then he smiles wider, leaning in again to press another kiss on Jean’s lips, then another, almost as though he is helpless to it.
They are interrupted by a sharp knock on their door, and someone’s loud, deliberate clearing of their throat. “Alright, love birds,” comes Laila’s voice, “it’s time to come out, or the cake will crumble at this rate.”
“Yeah, save the kissing for tonight!” This is Cat now. “Jere, stop hogging my best friend on his birthday!”
Called out by their friends, Jeremy yelps, cheeks flushing with something akin to embarrassment. Still, joy overrides everything, carved into his countenance.
The sight of it all is so beautiful that Jean cannot resist a kiss on Jeremy’s lips. He is greedy when he goes in for another. Greedier yet when he goes in for a third at the corner of Jeremy’s mouth, lingering on the freckles that dot Jeremy’s skin. But perhaps this greed is warranted. It is, Jean tells himself, his birthday after all.
My birthday, Jean thinks, as they clamber out of bed and into the living room, Cat pulling him into a tight embrace, Laila ruffling his hair, Jabberwocky pawing at his ankle. The living room basks in the early sun, the smell of breakfast and coffee filling the apartment. An Opera cake sits on the counter, the number candles ‘2’ and ‘0’ stuck into the layers of ganache, French buttercream and almond sponge.
My birthday, Jean thinks, as he gets a call from Kevin, his voice gruff when he says, “Hello,” but turning audibly tender when he follows with, “Happy birthday, Jean.” He gets a text from Renee with well wishes, attached with a photo of a rainbow. He gets another from Neil, too, scrambled letters of ‘hbd’ that make for utter nonsense.
My birthday, Jean thinks, as he lets the words sit on his mind, his thoughts reshaping around the once unfathomable idea of celebrating his life.