DISSONANTS

olympics post-canon wip

(2012, London Olympics year) 

Jeremy drives too fast, he knows that. Too fast, and with too many risk factors, like always being on the verge of falling into a dead sleep behind the wheel. He had gotten better for a while there - a championship, being understood by a man who gave him purpose, and more than that, confidence, had obliterated the subconscious desire to fall asleep at the wheel and drive into oblivion. His own special brand of self-destruction it was; the ability to be the sunniest guy in every room and have no one realise that his warmth came from the fire that was burning him alive inside himself. Laila had once told him he’d make a fantastic actor, and she hadn’t meant it as a compliment. 

Still, he nudges the car to ten kilometres over the limit, which feels like about fifty in the narrow, busy streets of London. A motorbike rider cuts him off at the corner of Wansbeck and Rothbury, and flips him off for good measure, and Jeremy’s honestly not sure who is in the wrong between them, but he can’t bring himself to give any emotion to it. 

He races along Carpenters Road, and as buildings give way to the green space of Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, the magnificent, purpose-built Olympic Stadium looms on the right. A week ago, Jeremy had walked the stadium track with Team USA, head tilted upwards and craning back and forth in wonder at the lights and sounds and the crowd. He and Jean had  shared a look of awe, and Jean had, at one point, put both his hands on Jeremy’s shoulders as they watched the opening ceremony from the athletes’ corralling areas - first, the ode to rural Britain, that gave way to the pandemonic recreation of the Industrial Revolution, and then the freaking Queen herself, with James Bond. Jeremy had hardly been able to believe it was all real; he was at the fucking Olympics, literally the Everest pinnacle of professional sport, his arm brushing against Jean’s as they celebrated their lap of honour with their team. They had jumped up and down, dancing and singing every word to the Arctic Monkeys performance of I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor with ten thousand other athletes and the massive stadium crowd. A lump of emotion had formed in Jeremy’s throat as they watched the Olympic flame being lit, and the incredible fireworks show over Olympic Stadium and the Aquatic Centre, and the emotion was mirrored in Jean’s eyes when they met Jeremy’s. 

Taking a hand off the wheel is monumentally stupid, and even more so when you’re driving on the other side of the road, the drivers’ seat on the other side of the car, in an unfamiliar city, but Jeremy already feels sick with guilt so he does it anyway. He hits the redial button on his phone and jams it into the space between his shoulder and his ear as the traffic in front of him slows and he downshifts. It rings for a minute before he’s greeted by the same beeping fuck you, fuck you of the voice mail. 

He hangs up, and is momentarily nostalgic for the days when you could hang up with an angry pounding of the end call button or slamming a receiver. 

Of course, he’s not actually the one who’s allowed to be mad in this situation. 

The stitches at his hairline throb as the local anaesthetic starts to wear thin. His neck is stiff too, as he head-checks, pulling out onto Olympic Park Avenue in a small gap in the traffic. That’s the whiplash. He’ll probably need an injection before the gold medal game, so he can at least have enough mobility to see the ball coming. 

His phone rattles on the passenger seat - he glances at the caller ID as he joins the queue of vehicles waiting to scan into the Athlete’s Village, and then he becomes the one ignoring calls. The Program Director is pissed, and Jeremy doesn’t have it in him at that moment to play peacemaker. 

He throws the car haphazardly into a parking space, and catalogues all the places that hurt like fuck as he eases out of the drivers’ seat. He swipes into the Team USA building with the card hanging on the lanyard around his neck, casting a surreptitious glance around for anyone who might recognise him. It’s still close enough to dinner time that the vast majority of athletes will be in the dining hall, fuelling after a day of competition. Every other night, Jeremy has loved the buzz of the hall, the atmosphere of hundreds of elite athletes excited about competition and Olympic spirit. Just two nights before, the Phelps versus Lochte battle had enthralled the entire village, and Team USA Exy had been allowed to go to the Aquatic Centre to watch Phelps win the 200 metre Individual Medley and be so spent that he had to lean against the wall to stop himself falling off the podium. Thirty minutes later he set the fifth-fastest time in history in the 100 metre butterfly semi-final. Jeremy tucked the night away in his memories - the inspiration to drive himself harder than he ever had before, the excitement to be here, competing, being a part of history. 

Then he’d somehow nearly ruined everything, but he shoves that thought down with the bile that rises in his throat. 

Jeremy breaks into a jog down the hallway that leads to his room, ignoring the ache in his shin where the dash crumpled against it. He’s not sure where his room key is - all the stuff he had on him is in a hospital patient belongings bag he forgot on the backseat of the car - so he knocks jauntily instead, trying to fortify his nerves. 

The doors rips open, hinges squealing, and Jean Moreau fills the doorway. His broad shoulders fill the space, and despite this being Jeremy’s room too, he does not yield a single step. 

“You look like shit.” It’s harsher in Jean’s accent than it might have otherwise been, centuries of French judgement infusing the words with a guillotine edge. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

The lump in Jeremy’s throat feels like lead. Jean is angry. Angrier than he’s been at Jeremy in a long time. 

Jeremy is looking at the slant of Jean’s sinful, perfectly-shaped mouth, when his eyes grow hot and wet, and he feels his bottom lip tremble. Jean clocks it, and softens almost imperceptibly. Only Jeremy knows him well enough to see the change at the corners of his mouth, in the tension in his shoulders, in his brows. 

Jean takes a few steps backwards, and Jeremy enters, sinking down onto his bed with a wince that Jean definitely notices. His gaze narrows again. The door swings shut behind Jeremy. The sound of the lock re-engaging is like a gunshot in the cavernous silence. 

A tear escapes, followed by several more, the tracks they leave behind cooling rapidly on Jeremy’s feverish cheeks. He exhales tremulously. 

Jean appears in front of him, and he takes hold of Jeremy’s chin in a firm grip. Jeremy lets his head be tilted upwards, ignoring the ache in his neck, until their gazes meet, and Jean doesn’t let go. Jeremy exhales again. 

His eyes, the grey of liquid mercury, pin Jeremy in place. The intensity is like a vice, and Jeremy is pretty sure he’s stopped breathing. His stomach drops. He can’t seem to make his lungs fill. 

Jean’s next words are like a punch to the chest, like airbags exploding. Tyres scream and glass shatters.