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Kevin looks like shit.
That’s what Jean notices when he catches up with him on the court. They’re at the finals that Jean never thought he’d make it to alive when he lost his place with the Ravens. Foxes vs Trojans, a rematch for the ages.
But something’s off with Kevin. Even fully suited up he looks gaunt. The circles under his eyes are dark like bruises and he’s definitely lost weight since they last saw each other.
“Are you okay?” Jean asks in French after he intercepts a pass from Kevin and flings the ball up court to Nabil.
“Fuck off.”
The vitriol doesn’t phase Jean. “Are you ill?”
“I’m fine.”
Jean loses track of him in the game. They make it to 2-2 before Jean gets a good look at him again. He’s dragging his feet and he doesn’t seem all there, but he plays like he was born to do it, he was after all.
Normally he would write it off but this is Kevin and Jean can’t just switch off the part of his brain that still cares for him. He shouldn’t be playing if he’s sick, next time he gets a chance he will urge Kevin to get subbed out.
The Foxes need Kevin so he’d never agree but Jean has to try.
Kevin takes off as Neil grabs the ball and he makes it further than the shorter striker in Neil’s ten steps due to his long stride but Jean is on his tail right up to the pass.
Jean’s racquet misses the interception and the ball is swept up by Kevin who doesn’t take a step and just sends it.
The goal lights up red and Jean swears under his breath. Kevin got the upper hand on him yet again and tips the score in favour of the Foxes. Shame burns deep in his chest. He’s supposed to be Perfect Court but he can’t even keep a handle on Kevin playing with his non-dominant hand. He’s an embarrassment to the Trojan lineup if he lets the Foxes take the win here.
Maybe it’s just the pressure getting to him. He wants to strike himself with his racquet, give himself something tangible to hold onto and motivate him to be better but he knows his coaches will riot and he can’t disappoint them.
Kevin’s goal pulls the score even.
As he straightens up, Kevin staggers a little like he’s off balance so Jean puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. It’s the Trojan way after all. Can’t have the Foxes accusing him of tripping their golden boy.
Kevin sends him a look that is not at all the venom Jean had been expecting from his mark. But he didn’t thank him either.
Jean starts the trek back to the far-fourth line only to hear a heavy thud behind him. Turning around reveals Kevin in a crumpled heap. He swears again and falls to his knees, reaching for Kevin.
“Kevin,” he tries. “Are you okay?”
He is met with silence from Kevin and the squeaking of sneakers on the floor behind him.
“Kevin?” This time the striker groans and tries to pick himself up off the ground. He gets to his elbows before Jean puts a hand on his shoulder and keeps him there. “You just fainted.”
“No,” Kevin grumbles, breathless. “I’m good.”
“Are you stupid?” Jean asks. “Stay down.”
A pair of shoes skids to a stop near them. “Kevin!”
Jean casts a lethal look over his shoulder, readying to snap, but he finds Neil on the other end of his awaiting malice and cedes to him. The game has been called to a stop behind him, everyone standing around with wide eyes. Jean didn’t hear the whistle.
“I’m good,” Kevin repeats.
“Shut up.” He turns to Neil. “Is your nurse coming?” Jean knows her name, he lived in her guest room for a month and a half, still he doesn’t say it. She is a stranger to him.
“Yeah,” Neil says. “Kev, you good?”
Kevin pushes against Jean’s hand but Jean is stronger and presses him to the ground. “I tripped.”
“You lost consciousness,” Jean snaps.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Still,” Neil starts. “Better to let Abby get a look at you. You might have hit your head when you went down.”
“I didn’t.”
“Kevin,” Abigail says as she catches up with the players. “That was a nasty fall, are you feeling alright?”
“I tripped,” he maintains.
“That’s not what it looked like from my angle,” she says, kneeling next to Kevin. She pulls out her penlight from her breast pocket and shines it in Kevin’s eyes. “Are you lightheaded at all?”
“No,” Kevin says a little too quickly. “Maybe.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Lunch.”
“No, you didn’t,” Neil butts in, crossing his arms. “You were napping, Andrew and I went to the dining hall without you. And you didn’t eat anything after that.”
Abigail hums thoughtfully. “Let’s get you off the court for the rest of the game and get you something to eat.”
“I can play.”
“No, Kevin,” she says. “And that’s final.”
“It’s the finals.”
“I don’t care.”
Kevin grumbles something that sounds positively rude but he gives in and Jean allows him to sit.
As soon as he gets upright he sways and groans, lifting a hand to his face.
“Dizzy?” Abigail asks, her voice soaked in empathy.
Kevin just nods.
With the help of Jean and Neil, Kevin gets to his feet and stumbles off court, Jean stalking behind him with a fire in his eyes that bore into the back of Kevin’s head. He’s clued in to what’s going on and he’s not happy for the replay.
Kevin had his issues with food in the Nest. He would push his meals around his plate or permit himself to eat the chicken breast and not the green beans. Sometimes he would not eat at all and claim he had a headache and lie down in Josiah’s office while the Ravens ate. He lost a shocking amount of weight between the Raven’s sixteen-hour days and his refusal to eat full portions, and even collapsed at practice.
That’s when Jean found out the extent of it, the way his bones protruded even under his armour, too tall and too skinny, unable to keep his head up amongst the physical demands of Raven life.
The master had been downright cruel about it.
Jean remembers the bruise on Kevin’s temple that took two and a half weeks to fade completely.
He started eating more after that. Not full servings, but more than he had been. Eventually, like the bruise, his issues seemed to fade into oblivion, he grew stronger, and Jean could stop watching him at meals.
So as soon as Abigail gets Kevin situated in her office on the bed with a granola bar and leaves him, Jean turns his fury onto the striker.
“You can go,” Kevin says.
Jean grabs his chin in an iron grip. “Tell me you’re not that stupid.”
This close he can see the hollows under Kevin’s eyes, the way his browbone protrudes more than it used to and his cheekbones and jaw are more defined. He wonders how long this has been going on and how long his team has turned a blind eye.
“I don’t know why you’re so peeved.” Kevin pushes Jean’s hand away but Jean surges back and stays in his space.
“You’re not eating.”
Kevin meets Jean’s eye with an unwavering scowl. “What gave you that idea?”
“You just fainted on the court and you look like shit. How much do you weigh?”
Kevin spits at him. “Fuck you, I don’t have to put up with this.”
He tries to climb up from the cot but falls back heavily when he realises his legs aren’t strong enough to hold him. Jean grabs his wrist and holds it firm.
“How much do you weigh?”
Not enough for his height. Not enough for an athlete. Not enough to be healthy.
“Enough.”
“Bullshit.”
Kevin seethes, “what’s it to you?”
“I refuse to turn a blind eye to this,” Jean says. He won’t do wrong by Kevin, not again.
“Why?” Kevin bites. “You did in the Nest.”
Jean flinches. “No, I never did. I saw it all and I could do nothing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then eat the bar, Kevin.”
Kevin picks up the bar from where it fell on the small cot and studies it for a moment before putting it down again. “I can’t eat, I’m nauseous from passing out.”
Jean could always tell when Kevin lied.
“I thought you tripped.”
His face goes completely blank, like every emotion he’s ever had was wiped away with a cloth. It’s scary to look at Kevin and not be able to read him. Finally, he speaks, “I’m not eating that,” he says.
“You will, or I’ll tell the nurse that you’re starving yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“Then eat the bar.”
In a frustrated huff Kevin tears the bar open and takes a bite. He immediately freezes and chews once, then twice, and stops.
“Swallow it.”
Kevin glares at him but does as he’s told.
“Again.”
It takes ten-odd minutes but Kevin finishes the bar. He crumples up the wrapper and throws it at Jean who just sidesteps and lets it fall to the floor. “Very mature.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too.”
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Kevin says.
Against his better judgement, Jean lets him go.
Kevin is gone for a minute, maybe two, in the single stall bathroom next to the nurse’s office. The door is a garish orange and Jean misses the gold court. Jean waits outside until he hears muffled gagging and a splash.
“Fuck off,” he mutters under his breath before trying the door handle.
It doesn’t budge but he throws his shoulder against it hard enough for something to pop and the door swings open. Kevin is hunched over the toilet with his fingers down his throat as he brings up bile. He hasn’t eaten anything but that bar and it probably came up with the first heave.
Jean grabs Kevin by the shoulders and hauls him to his feet.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
Kevin turns a sour look on him before wiping vomit off of his chin with the back of a hand. He doesn’t look at all ashamed that he was caught. “That was locked,” he says pointedly.
“What the fuck were you doing?” Jean asks again.
“Why the fuck do you care?” Kevin snaps, trying to shake off Jean’s touch and failing.
Jean’s grip turns bruising. He won’t let Kevin get away with this. This is not the Nest and he is not powerless anymore. “I will tell your father.”
Kevin’s eyes go wide. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, voice a hollowed out gasp.
“I’m not going to let you kill yourself.”
This time he successfully shrugs out of Jean’s hold and backs up until his back is to the wall. “Don’t be stupid, I’m not going to die.”
“You will.” Jean’s voice drops to a desperate plea. To Kevin, to himself, to a God that’s never once listened, to the mother who died and left her son with no one but Jean to keep him upright. “You will.”
“Fuck off, Moreau.”
Jean grabs him by the back of his uniform and drags him out of the bathroom and back towards the court. The game has resumed without the two of them and the activity in the stadium is a cacophony that Jean can’t really hear himself think over but he knows what he needs to do. He marches Kevin over to where the Foxes’ coach and subs are gathered at the court door.
Wymack is in a heated conversation with one of the nameless Fox freshmen when the two of them approach but he looks up as Jean shoves Kevin into his space, his arms shooting out to steady his son. “Kev,” he says. “Is everything okay?”
“I caught your striker throwing up what Abby gave him to eat.”
Wymack looks between Jean and Kevin, confused. “So? He’s sick.”
“On purpose.”
The look that crosses Wymack’s face for a brief flash is apocalyptic before he schools it to something more neutral. “Kevin?” he asks.
Kevin doesn’t meet his eye.