Work Text:
It helped, a bit, to imagine himself a soldier. Conscripted, not so much against his will but with complete indifference to it. He was a tool to be used, and had been for his entire life.
At least he was no longer Riko’s toy.
Riko had treated him with a callousness that went beyond a dispensable soldier. Jean had been nothing more than Riko’s property, a personal plaything for a sadistic billionaire’s brat with more childhood trauma than could ever be compatible with sanity.
Jean knew something about that, himself.
Still, he had been loyal. The dog faithfully obeying his master’s commands.
He had survived.
Riko had not.
Now he was a soldier in a different army, the burgundy and gold uniform an homage to honourable warriors from ancient times. It was fitting, somehow - to go from a situation of daily danger to join a group of children play-acting at battle.
The Trojans were competent at Exy, it was true. Jean would never have agreed to join them if he feared his honour would ever truly have been at risk. But their attitudes toward winning were comically poor. They placed far too much weight on vague values like ‘fair play’ or ‘good sportsmanship’. Jean could only view these with the contempt they deserved. He knew that the only true goal was excellence. The Trojans cared about ‘winning well’ or ‘winning fair’, but Jean understood the truth they seemed to miss: the only point of sport was winning. Black or white, the result was all that would be printed in the newspapers and in the record books. In years to come, people would not remember that the Trojans had failed to make the Final only because they had rashly experimented with a new roster during a high stakes game, in the name of sportsmanship and professional development. No - people would only remember that they had lost. To the Foxes, no less - who went on to win the Championship against all odds.
So, Jean was engaged in constant battle with his new Trojan teammates. There were heated clashes almost daily at training. He ranted and he raged, and he tried to drag the whole motley crew of them towards enlightenment, a winning mentality, and the promise of excellence.
Daily, he battled his teammates. But his true war was waged against his captain.
Jeremy was insufferable.
Far, far worse than the disagreements about Exy was Jeremy’s insistence on treating Jean like an invalid. Jean was not broken, despite Riko’s best efforts. Jean had survived.
But he was still a toy. The game had certainly changed—from torture victim to trauma recovery patient—but his reality was the same. He was a plaything for his new master. No matter that Jean wasn’t interested in examining his trauma, at all. His past was behind him, and his strong preference would be for it to stay there. But his desires were hardly more relevant in California than they had been in West Virginia. Jeremy coddled him, and prodded at him, and insisted that he attend therapy sessions. Jeremy decided when he was healed enough to train, and when he was fit to start a game. Jean raged against every part of it, but he was Jeremy’s pet project, and nothing could dampen his new captain’s resolve.
So it helped, a bit. To imagine himself a soldier, instead.
Jean couldn’t believe the steps his life had taken to find himself in this position.
It was Jeremy’s fault, of course.
Every part of it, in fact, had been orchestrated by his captain.
Their war raged on—immovable object versus unstoppable force—yet Jean always, inevitably, lost.
It was supposed to have been a ‘beach day’. A level of indignity to which Jean had objected, but had given in to for the sake of team bonding.
Jeremy had gone so far as to purchase matching swimsuits for every Trojan.
Jean had wanted to ask whether that was the best use of the annual budget, but he knew the truth. Had seen the receipt carelessly abandoned on the desk in their shared dorm. Jeremy had purchased the costumes himself—and the matching towels. And the industrial size sunscreen dispenser.
It was frustrating, learning over and over again how much Jeremy genuinely cared about his players. If he showed just a hint of callousness or indifference, it would have been so much more straightforward for Jean to hate him.
The current situation, though, made it easier.
Jeremy had planned for them all to go to the beach, and had carefully marked out the date around the team’s training and match schedule. The other Trojans had been talking of nothing else for weeks, counting down to the long-awaited excursion.
They had not banked on the weather.
A light morning drizzle had turned to heavy rain before the Trojan bus had made it even halfway to their chosen beach spot. By the time Jeremy finally surrendered to the inevitable and asked the bus driver to turn them around, bolts of lightning were streaking through the sky. Morale had never been lower.
Instead of taking them back to their dorms, Jeremy arranged for the bus to take them to the closest public library. There were bemused noises from all around him as his teammates became aware of their new destination, but Jean thought he understood. It was another offensive foray towards Jeremy’s ultimate objective: a healthy and unified team. It was a goal Jean shared, if only because he understood how essential synchronicity was for success on the court. So he shoved his initial revulsion down deep, and helped his captain coax the other Trojans off the bus and into the dry refuge of the library.
Once inside, players immediately started drifting in different directions. Several claimed desks at the computer workstations with internet access. A larger group headed to the bookshelves, browsing across genres. The handful who remained looked around in uncertainty. Jeremy took that as his queue to clap his hands together and beckon them all to follow him. Jean shuffled along with the rest, wondering what new horror awaited them. He stopped cold in his tracks when he realised it was a gaming corner. A corner for boardgames. A frivolous and unworthy use of their time. He stood dumbly as Jeremy settled the other Trojans who had followed him like ducklings, placing them at two adjoining tables with a few games to choose from. The captain watched them spread open the game boards and instruction booklets, then bent back to the pile of games and selected another, before turning to Jean.
Boardgames were bad enough, though Jean could acknowledge that at least some games required the use of genuine strategy. The box that Jeremy held in his hands, though, was even worse. A hot rush of humiliation and dread poured through Jean at what he saw.
A jigsaw puzzle.
Even as he shook his head, mute with horror, he knew his protests were fruitless. He lost every battle in his ongoing war with Jeremy, and this would be no different. He was a soldier, and Jeremy was his captain. His master. He had no real option but to obey, and he was too tired to keep fighting.
So he allowed Jeremy to manhandle him into a chair at a nearby table, and said nothing as the other man settled himself comfortably across from him, a soft smile on his face as he opened the box and upended the pieces onto the table surface. It took Jean long minutes to tear his eyes away from that smile, and finally absorb the image that was printed on the puzzle box lid.
Four kittens in a basket. Because of course it was.
Jean bit back the caustic words he knew would be useless, and surrendered to the inevitable. Picking out a handful of edge pieces, he began to build the border.
He pretended not to notice that Jeremy’s smile grew wider in response.
The Trojans’ marketing director had arranged a charity event for the team to garner some good publicity, so they had all dutifully bundled onto the team bus and prepared for a long day of performing for the cameras. Jean had not bothered to ask questions about their destination, but must have made certain assumptions anyway, because he found himself surprised to disembark the bus at what appeared to be… a community garden.
The team stood around in a loose semi-circle for the briefing, which involved an explanation of the charity sponsoring the day, and a rundown of the tasks they were expected to complete. Jean was only half-listening, and caught his eyes wandering instead to his captain. Having once capitulated, Jeremy seemed to now view Jean as an ally in the cause of team bonding, and had recruited Jean’s reluctant assistance on several occasions now.
This event was apparently no different. As the briefing wrapped up, the other Trojans milled around, directionless and lacking motivation to get started. Jeremy gave Jean what he obviously considered to be a Meaningful Look, then began separating the players into smaller teams of three or four. Jean took the hint and did the same, working from the other end of the group. This meant, of course, that they met in the middle, the last two unassigned players.
“Guess you’re with me, Moreau,” said Jeremy, and that smile was back on his face.
Jean hated that smile, even as he was drawn to it, magnetised.
They donned gardening gloves—the latest in a long line of humiliations Jean had suffered since moving to California—and spent a surprisingly pleasant couple of hours on the mundane work of weeding. It was physical labour, and Jean was pleased that the team was still getting a workout, of sorts. It meant the day was not entirely wasted.
They broke for a simple lunch, then received their instructions for the afternoon. Having cleared the earth, they would now be planting some herbs and vegetable seedlings, working in the same small groups as they had that morning.
Jeremy bounced on his heels, apparently full of excitement for this new task. Jean rolled his eyes, followed him over to their little patch of earth, and tried not to succumb to poetic metaphors about new growth springing from refreshed soil.
Time passed, as it always did. Jean marked it with his healing body, and with the fluency of the drills he executed with his teammates. He marked it with each new player’s name he memorised, and the acquisition of random facts about their lives. He marked it with results, the satisfying series of wins clouded by the Trojans’ one unacceptable loss.
Most of all, though, he marked it with the sunrise.
He had always been an early riser, and he loved to watch the sky slowly lighten around him, the world awakening to a new day. It was a freedom he had never had access to in the—before. So each morning he rose, dressed himself in running clothes, and went for a jog.
Each morning, Jeremy joined him.
They had never discussed it. It was just, from that very first morning when Jean’s body had been recovered enough to attempt a gentle run, he had tried to sneak quietly out of their shared dorm room—and Jeremy had simply followed him. Jean had resented it at first, certain that his captain mistrusted the state of either his health or his mind, and didn’t trust Jean to return safely on his own.
But Jean had never been alone—didn’t know how—and so he had permitted himself the comfort of Jeremy’s company.
Each morning, they jogged side by side as the sun rose over the world.
For the most part, they maintained a surprisingly comfortable silence. Every now and then, something would break their routine.
Today, Jeremy stopped at a point roughly halfway through their usual route, throwing himself enthusiastically onto a bench near the path that, admittedly, had an incredible view of the ocean. Jean continued running on the spot for a few moments, wondering whether to continue on alone, but Jeremy patted the seat next to him. Jean allowed himself the indulgence of a sigh, then joined his captain, leaving a respectable gap between them. The sky lightened around them, and Jeremy gazed out over the water. Jean, though, looked at the other man. His hair was the colour of the rising dawn, and that smile was back on his lips.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” Jean agreed.
The Trojans had travelled out of state for an away game, and had achieved a commanding victory. Jeremy had been overflowing with effusive praise, enthusiastically hugging every player in the changerooms after the game. Even Jean had submitted to a quick embrace, as he found he could not think of a single critique to level at his teammates. Perhaps for the first time since he had arrived in California, Jean felt no shame at wearing the Trojans’ colours. There was no question they had improved as a collective under Jeremy’s captaincy as the season wore on, and tonight, they had genuinely played at an elite level.
So when the first hesitant suggestion of ‘club night?’ was thrown around the locker room, only to be enthusiastically echoed by all around him, Jean found he had no objections. Their next game was not for a week, and they had, perhaps, earned some recreation.
Showered, refreshed and dressed up in their best travel clothes, the Trojans regrouped in the lobby of their hotel. Jean didn’t bother asking where they were headed, content to follow the magnetic pull of his captain wherever it might lead him.
It led him to a dance floor.
Jeremy was next to him now. He had been next to him all night, actually. Still keeping faithful watch over his pet soldier.
Jean was, maybe, a little drunk. He wasn’t sure how many drinks he had consumed, but allowed that it was probably too many. Each time his glass had emptied, Jeremy supplied him with a new one. No one had made him drink them, of course, but Jean had been surprised at their pleasant taste.
The music was very loud around him, vibrating so that he could feel it in his body. The club was dark, but coloured lights flashed in time with the beat. Bodies pressed in from all sides, swaying and grinding, a roiling mass of humanity.
Jean realised, suddenly, that he was dancing, too.
He was dancing—with Jeremy.
The song bounced, and they bobbed along with it. Jean’s arms were waving above his head. Jeremy’s were moving rhythmically near his own hips. They were very close to each other, but everyone on this dance floor was packed close as sardines. The beat dropped, and so did Jeremy, dancing low, gazing up at Jean from beneath his ridiculous lashes. Jean swayed, and when Jeremy rose, his arms went around Jean’s waist, holding him firm. For just a single moment, time stopped. Jean never wanted to leave.
They danced on.
It was late in the season, a rare night off, when Jeremy packed up his car, directed Jean to the passenger seat, and drove him out to the Californian desert.
Jean put up no argument. His war had long been lost. He was helpless now to do anything but be a good soldier and follow his captain’s commands.
This time, the weather gods had looked favourably on them. The night air was mild, the sky brilliantly clear and speckled with starlight. The moon was a tiny crescent on the horizon, offering no assistance to pierce the darkness. Jeremy took a moment to gaze at it anyway.
Jean took a moment to gaze at Jeremy.
A few heartbeats later, Jeremy was shooting Jean a wry grin and darting back to the car, making a beeline for the trunk. He was always like this, his captain, a whirring mass of irrepressible energy. It was mesmerising; addictive. Jean watched on as Jeremy unloaded two camp chairs, a picnic rug, a gas stove, a telescope, a matched pair of travel cups, ingredients for hot chocolate, and a container of snacks. He couldn’t believe that Jeremy had planned this outing so carefully. For him?
Jeremy laid out the rug on a promising patch of flat earth, set the chairs on top and placed the stove between them. The telescope he positioned a few metres away, then busied himself preparing the food and drinks. Not wanting to get in the way, Jean wandered over to the telescope himself, peering through the lens and trying to learn the trick of adjusting the focus correctly. After a bit of fumbling and a lot of blurry stars, Jean managed it. Suddenly, the stars were razor sharp pinpricks in the sky, bright sparks of intense light that threatened to overwhelm him with their vast quantity. He stared and stared, allowing himself to drown in the feeling of smallness and insignificance.
He jolted when arms slid around his waist from behind, but calmed immediately. It could only be Jeremy, and Jeremy was—safe, even if he wasn’t sure when that had become true. Jean straightened slowly, then turned carefully, still within the circle of Jeremy’s arms. They stood like that, toe to toe, beneath the stars, saying nothing. Then again, words had never been necessary between them. Jean stared at Jeremy’s face, at that precious smile that once more graced his lips. Their gazes met, and Jean observed that the stars reflected in Jeremy’s eyes were more beautiful than those he had just admired in the heavens.
Tentatively, Jean brought his own hands up, and cupped Jeremy’s face. “Captain?”
“Jean,” was Jeremy’s only reply, a world of longing caught in the word.
Jean surrendered. Capitulating completely, he did what he had been longing to do since his first day in California, and leaned in to kiss Jeremy’s wonderful mouth. It lasted only a moment before he pulled back and studied Jeremy carefully. He was rewarded with that smile again—the one that quirked up one corner of his mouth, and drove Jean out of his mind.
Good enough. Certain that his actions met with his captain’s approval, Jean kissed him again, more confidently now. This time, Jeremy had time to reciprocate, lips parting and moving firmly against Jean’s, evening stubble causing delicious friction where their faces touched. Time moved oddly, standing still a while, then jumping forward all at once. The kiss went on and on, a thing of heat and pent-up passion, an edge of desperation creeping in. Jean’s hands never stopped cradling Jeremy’s head, but his captain was stroking him, up and down his sides and all across his back, and still their lips moved together, and Jean was going to burst out of his skin.
He broke away at last, gasping, and was relieved to see Jeremy’s breathing was also laboured. They stared at each other as they recovered, still near enough to touch. He couldn’t see a thing aside from his captain, standing in front of him. Jeremy’s eyes were wide, and Jean was sure his looked the same. He felt crazed, a wild thing unleashed on the world. Still panting a little, Jeremy reached out again and took Jean’s hands in his. He smiled that same, brilliant smile. Jean couldn’t help himself. He smiled back—just a little. The pure joy this met with was its own reward. He kissed Jeremy again, twice, then finally felt calm again.
“Ready for that hot chocolate?” Jeremy asked.
Jean laughed.