#jerjean

Jean didn't get to speak French in the Nest. Zane even nicknamed him Johnny, the English version of his name, to even further take Jean's identity away from him.

#Jean Moreau

Lyrics ->

The Trojans laughed – good naturally of course, or Jeremy would have to have a stern talking with them – about Jean treating his body like a temple.

“Like an eighteenth century chapel." Somebody said and the locker room got eerily quiet as Jeremy turned their way with a too bright smile.

But he understood.

Especially now.

The whole team was celebrating their last win at somebody’s house, the music so loud Jeremy could hear it rattling his bones.

But it wasn’t the only thing that got under his skin.

On the other side of the room he saw Jean – holding his red cup in his right hand, cheeks flushed, eyes focused on Cat and Laia talking about something next to him. Jeremy could see the blush spreading down his neck to the collar of his blue t-shirt and he wondered.

Fuck, he thought, downing the rest of his too warm beer. Stop it. He told his brain, but the traitor wondered: did the flush run deeper? Jean wasn’t modest or ashamed of his scars, Jeremy knew what his chest looked like.

He was thinking if Jean’s scars blush just as the rest of him when, as if called, Jean looked his way.

The music quieted, and instead of rattling Jeremy’s bones were kicked by an electricity current running through his body. We could feel the hair at the back of his neck standing up under Jean’s gaze. Jeremy watched as Jean, without breaking the eyecontact, put the red cup to his plush mouth and drank.

Jeremy’s hand twitched and his mouth got suddenly very dry as Jean’s words suddenly revibrated through Jeremy’s skull: “Fuck what you deserve, what do you want?”

That was the problem. Jeremy wanted too much.

“Captain?” Cody was suddenly in front of him, two beer bottles in hand and Jeremy gladly took one. He didn’t have to drive today; he could indulge.

“Yeah, thank.” Jeremy took the cold, open bottle and was about to take a sip when he realised he didn’t have Jean in his sight. He craned his neck as Cody disappeared, shouting for somebody to wait for them, when Jeremy felt warm fingertips at the small of his back. A shudder went through him as he turned around.

“Hello,” said Jean, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. They looked even more silver. One of his hairs curled on Jean’s forehead and Jeremy fought his first instinct to brush it away.

“Hi,” said Jeremy and froze when Jean leaned in to whisper to his ear: “Outside?” His air brushing Jeremy’s earshell. There were a few seconds when Jeremy’s brain stopped functioning.

It restarted when Jean leaned back with a small smirk in the corner of his lips, as if he knew what he was doing.

“Umm, yeah, yes, sure!” Jeremy almost dropped his bear when strong, lean fingers wrapped around the bottle, just below where his own fingers were. Jean took the beer and put it away and wrapped the same fingers around Jeremy’s wrists.

Jeremy didn’t know if the sound that escaped his mouth could be heard through the thrum of music and people but Jean had definitely felt Jeremy’s pulse rising.

Jean led the way through the crowd of people like he was born to do it. Nobody stopped them, nobody tried intercepting them. In one blink there were inside and in the other a warm, pleasant breeze hit Jeremy’s face as they exited through the back door, somebody’s garden opened before them. Just a few steps and Jean led Jeremy down to sit on the wooden steps of the back porch.

Confused, led like a mesmerised dog, Jeremy didn’t think twice about sitting down next to Jeremy, their legs pressed against each other, Jean’s fingers still wrapped around Jeremy’s wrist.

Night opened before them like a well kept secret. Jeremy didn’t know how late it was and didn’t care, as long as he could sit next to Jean.

“Jeremy,” Jean said, his pronunciation slow, as if he wanted to get Jeremy’s name right. When Jeremy turned Jean was already looking at him. “Jeremy.” Jean’s fingers unwrapped and for a second Jeremy wanted them back around his wrist; he wanted them under his skin, in his mouth, his hair, but instead Jean put their hands palm to palm and entwined their fingers, like they always belong there.

“Yes.” Jeremy said, squeezing, once, to make sure it wasn’t a dream. “Yes.”