Chapter Text
It’s disconcerting, the subtle spontaneity Kevin Day creates in the Nest. He catches the narrowest of gaps as though they were stray shots flying into his racquet’s net, and he crushes them within his fist. Jean is in the locker room– if not the locker room, then the cafeteria– when Kevin yanks his plain black shirt over his head and quietly jerks his chin towards the door. They’re only several people apart; Riko likes to keep his things close. But he refuses Jean the spot beside him and Kevin, if only because he knows of Jean’s… problem. His ugly reverence. And it would be worse, in Riko’s mind, to put Jean next to the very thing he wants to worship.
Kevin’s shoulder brushes across Jean’s back as he passes by. Tension spirals down the backliner’s spine. Suddenly, the humid air drifting from the still-running showers clings to Jean. He is glad to slip out of it, trailing after Kevin.
No one questions it. The Ravens are too busy either digging elbows into exposed ribs or pretending not to salivate over one another. Zane has already fled the room with Colleen. Their absence is the reason for Kevin’s little push. Riko remains in the shower, taking his glorious time, after which he has a scheduled meeting with the Master. One the public would think Kevin should join, except Kevin, in spite of it all, is still a mere pet.
A tempest brews behind Jean’s temples. He catches up to Kevin’s brusque strides. The red neon light steels the set of his brow, yet when he slides his gaze to Jean, it melts. Jean scowls. This is a stupid idea. Every time, Jean thinks– knows – he should put a stop to it. He’s the fool for thinking they can continue to get away with this. He doesn’t even need this. Anytime his skin prickles with heat he pinches himself and takes both hands to shove it back down.
But Kevin… Kevin asks with an impossible mix of desperation and composure. J’ai besoin d’un moment seul. He says he will be better on the court for it. That there is no other option, because the other options include climbing into the other Raven’s beds, and none of them will touch him. Not without Riko’s express permission. And this thing that Kevin wants, this release, he wants on his terms.
Jean is unforgivably weak to anything Kevin asks.
They stop before Jean’s door. There’s no need to knock, because Zane has never once brought Colleen to their room. He’d rather fuck her in front of her roommate than in front of Jean. Jean could be grateful, but his gratitude dissipates before the heated glimpse in Kevin’s eye.
Hand on the doorknob, Kevin speaks in low French, “Je ne serai pas long.” I won’t be long.
As the door yawns open, Jean places a hand in between Kevin’s shoulder blades and pushes him. The slight stumble in Kevin’s step earns him vicious satisfaction. His own mutter returns the language. “Do not be, or I will not let this happen again.”
He slams the door shut, then winces. The sound should echo down the hallway, but it is muffled– by the black shadows and the dirt piled above. Jean folds his arms tightly across his chest and clenches his jaw shut. He picks a point on the opposite wall– a nearly imperceptible chip in the black, white washed red in the light, that he’s only discovered from this horrible routine. He doubts Kevin has a similar point of grounding when it’s Jean’s turn. Rarely is the Frenchman the one to get off. Kevin’s always the one hurtling forward, dragging Jean and his leash with him, convincing himself they’re safe for these five minutes.
Their plan could almost work (it’s been working for over six months now), yet the nerves tangle knots in Jean’s stomach. They take to each other’s rooms because if anyone caught Jean right now, standing outside his own room, they would think Zane had exiled him. Worst case, they’d think he was acting strange, which is what most of them think of him anyway. If he had to stand outside Kevin’s room… Ravens are more rats than birds, who would scurry straight to Riko.
In the beginning, when they’d fervently patched this thing together, Kevin had suggested they wait in the room for the other to finish. Not only did that defeat the purpose of having one person act as watchful guard, but the thought of having to turn his back while Kevin wraps his spit-slicked hand around his own dick– Jean cuts off such a vision with nails pressed into his collarbone.
Sucking in air through clenched teeth, Jean unhooks his fingers to tap out an anxious beat against his bone. Slowly, he begins to mutter to himself in French. Snatches of phrases his father would angrily shout. The Ravens’ colorful insults twisted into his mother tongue. He hauls the names of former USC players from the recesses of his memory (namely in Kevin’s voice; without the awe) and recites them forward and backwards. He’s reaching for anything that will keep his mind off Kevin in his bed. And he succeeds, tumbling onto USC’s current lineup and stats, until, there–
A quiet groan.
Kevin’s generally quiet, but he’s louder than Jean (he doesn’t leave imprints of his teeth on the back of his hand to muffle himself). The sound slips through the door’s cracks and lodges itself inside Jean’s brain. His entire body stiffens. Heat slides down into his belly, and he wants to claw it out.
He is going to strangle Kevin for this. For being foolish enough to–
Another groan. Near a whine. Cut off in a breath.
Jean has tried and tried to beat his proclivity for this particular teammate to death. Again and again, he’s punished himself nearly as often as Riko has. But it feels as though he was made to suffer. Because then there’s Kevin in his space, a beautiful boy pressed too close, mouth spilling honey, asking to learn French, asking to find pleasure.
This noise is worse than his words. It’s rough, untamed by the press or the court. Jean wants to swallow it with his own mouth (he does; letting out a choked gasp; twisting his fingers into a piece of his hip hard enough to bruise).
Warmth seeps from the closed door. Behind it, Kevin is splayed on Jean’s mattress, his strong, tanned thighs spread, his cheeks flushed around the bars of a two, his head tipped back onto Jean’s pillow, black hair smooth over his forehead. Maybe sweat shines along his cupid’s bow, steam leftover from the showers, coaxed to fruition by the stirring in his stomach. Maybe he doesn’t even try to hide the godawful proof of his pleasure– lips stretched into an O, his tongue glistening in the room’s shadows.
To know what Kevin Day sounds like getting off is sinful. To imagine the picture merely damns Jean to hell.
His fists tremble; a wetness blossoms beneath his clenched fingernails. Blood, he’s sure. Humidity stifles him, dragging down his limbs, coalescing in his core. He’s so, so warm, and the pain isn’t enough to stop it. Anger limns his edges. As red as a fisted cock, as red as his thin blood, as red as the suffocating lights around them.
In a fit, Jean raps his knuckles on the door. A quick one-two, followed by a louder third. Their signal if anything goes wrong. In case a Raven decides to pick a fight or shuttle one of them away from their post. Kevin’s interrupted Jean’s time more often than not. Whether it’s Jean’s shit luck or Kevin’s shit watch is irrelevant. Whether Jean makes sure not to interrupt Kevin’s time, no matter how close a Raven flaps their wings, is also irrelevant. Because he’s doing it now, and he needs Kevin out of his room.
A rustle. An agitated sigh (or forced finish?). Jean inhales a ragged breath, much too shallow and quick for his liking. He takes a step off the wall right as Kevin pulls it open.
“You imbecile, you didn’t check–”
“Is everything fine?” Kevin’s voice rushes out in a dizzying breath. Jean tears open the inside of his cheek as he tears his gaze from Kevin’s fucking blush.
“Fine,” Jean answers.
The relieved curve of Kevin’s shoulders ignites Jean’s frustration. His very insides feel tight, organs drawn together on a string. Meanwhile, Kevin sports the subtle glow of the aftermath. Nothing about this man has ever been fair.
“Good,” he says. Drawing the door closed brings him closer to Jean, and before Jean can rabbit out of reach, a hand claps over his shoulder. The hot weight of Kevin’s palm blasts through Jean. He idly wonders if his teeth will chip in the effort it takes not to flinch. Kevin shifts around him as he says, “Thanks. I needed it.”
His lack of shame never fails to appall Jean.
Shooing Kevin’s hand off, Jean pivots away from him and curses in a low string of French he’s acutely aware Kevin doesn’t know.
“You’re too tense all the time,” Kevin says, switching to French, too. “Next time, it’s your turn.”
“I do not need it the same way you do,” Jean says. He’s caught between wanting to return to the Ravens as quickly as possible and wanting to shut himself out of existence. The latter, unfortunately, is never an option. At the very least, he tries to widen the razor-thin lines on his palms to ragged scratches. The dim burn forces some of the aching heat in him to abate.
“Yes, you do, ” Kevin pushes. Something akin to frustration swims in his voice, and Jean can’t believe he has the audacity to be bothered by it when he’s the one who just got off. “It was me the past three times. You’re pent up. You have to be–”
Jean swings to a stop. Kevin nearly crashes into him. Intolerable.
“ You do not know what I am, ” Jean spits.
Lightning skitters through Kevin’s green eyes, and then– his mouth drops into something pliable and his brows inch higher on his forehead. Jean flexes his fingers because if they remain as fists, he will swing.
“I am the only one who knows you,” Kevin says. It should be nonchalant, but there’s a hard edge to it, an intensity in Kevin’s wide pupils. Too much of Jean’s time has tangled with Kevin’s, an inevitability in belonging to Riko. It all crowds the space between them– the tattoos inked on their cheeks (Kevin reassuring him it wouldn’t hurt), the emptiness separating their beds (Jean falling off Riko’s and onto the floor, Kevin’s fingers twitching as though he would reach out), the hushed French lessons, the clack of sticks thrown together, the harsh bark of Kevin’s orders ringing over the court to distract from Jean’s limp. A vise clamps around Jean’s neck, and he has to remove himself from Kevin’s side before he can’t breathe.
He flicks his fingers in dismissal. “Maybe.”
A huff from Kevin but otherwise, blissful silence. The two return to the Ravens, cleaving apart just before, like a stream around a rock.
Jean does not entertain the notion of following Kevin’s demand until he’s sent to rest. He hasn’t been back to his room since Kevin was in his bed, and the damage is obvious. Not once has Kevin attempted to tidy the blanket or the sheets for Jean. The black spread is rumpled, his pillow creased. There’s a particular ridge where Jean imagines his fingers twisted into the cotton. He straightens it back out with a snap. Zane does not comment on his agitated making of the bed he is about to sleep in.
When he crawls beneath the sheets, the smell of cedar shampoo and sweat is faint. It is the same whiff Jean scents when he leans too close to Kevin. Loathing embraces him. He should turn the pillow over– or better yet, strip the bed entirely– but instead, he cannot stop himself from burying his nose in and trying to hold onto what remains.
It’s a strange victory when Kevin gets what he wants. Stock-still in the silent hallway, the flutter of it has nearly dissipated. It’s almost as if Jean didn’t slink into his (Riko’s) room thirty seconds before. They have time, an opening Kevin pried into existence with his own two hands, and he’d shoved Jean into it without room for argument.
He knows this will help Jean, the man whose shoulders never loosen. If he can shake off some of that rigidity, he’ll be a centimeter more flexible on the court. And, as Kevin’s learned from Raven precision drills, every centimeter matters.
Their tightrope routine has certainly helped Kevin. The Ravens are a pent-up group to begin with; Kevin and Jean perhaps more so than the others, if they let themselves think about it. Riko is a living shadow, smothering their steps. Not only does this trick spare the both of them a moment alone (even if Riko’s presence still clings to the room Jean’s in; even if Kevin ignores Zane’s unmade bed), it allows them to let go. No, that’s too free of a term. Release, too, denotes the idea of escape. Whatever it is, the spill of pleasure satisfies– that’s the word– Kevin’s cravings.
It’s been near six months since Thea graduated. A pathetic amount of months to Jean, but a chasm to Kevin. He hadn’t realized what the physicality of their relationship had done for him until he’d lost it, its absence shrinking his skin until it was too tight to fit around his ribs.
When it’s Kevin’s turn, he thinks of her. (Mostly. Sometimes not. Sometimes, he thinks of sunshine smiles and freckles.)
Rocking back on his heels, Kevin wonders who Jean’s thinking about. He knows it’s not any of the current Ravens. He won’t let himself think about why it can’t be any of them. Instead, he puts himself in Jean’s position. Shutting out the other half of the room (Riko’s half), he’s probably focusing on Kevin. Which sounds wrong. Jean’s probably reclined back against Kevin’s bed, his broad shoulders an inch wider than the mattress because they’re an inch wider than Kevin’s, looking up at the postcards tacked onto the wall. Maybe he’s catching sight of Japan or Italy and letting their colors seep into the blackness of the walls. Maybe their warmer weather sticks to his skin as the heat in his core rises.
Jean’s always so uptight, the line of his mouth hard and the set of his brows immovable. Kevin wonders if he’s facing his erection with that same grim determination. Behind closed doors, Jean might be different. Sprawled, taking up space in a way he never has before, his fist moving quickly around his slick cock. Lost to the feeling. Maybe his long fingers have found a home in his mouth, his teeth dull around them in an effort to stifle sound. A haziness floats up from Kevin’s belly.
Off the court, there is a practiced numbness to Kevin’s realizations. He peers through clouded glass, a fogged up mirror in the bathroom, and only wipes away the wetness when he thinks he needs to see clearly. So it is only when heat licks up his neck, and he must tug his collar from his body that he realizes he’s half hard.
Because he’s thinking about Jean masturbating.
A warning rings from somewhere far away before pressing close, harsh breath against his ear, expelling from Riko’s mouth. It’s easier, better, to be straight. Because Riko, the Ravens, the Master, Exy, won’t tolerate queers. But it’s not queer, is it? What Kevin’s doing?
The simmer between his legs detangles the knots in his muscles, even as he’s standing in the hallway all alone. He’s merely curious. It’s simple imagination, like when he visualizes spinning the perfect shot in a goal before game day. It’s not as if he’s touching Jean himself or thinking about touching Jean but–
Jean has not felt a gentle touch in his time at the Nest. If Kevin crawled over him, bid him to sit still, and carefully slid his palm down the curve of Jean’s hip, what could it do? Could he trace over the lines previously crossed, erasing them with the brush of his hands? If he wrapped his fingers around Jean’s aching dick, would he watch the man tremble with pleasure?
Kevin would tell Jean to come. He would lean down and tell him in a hushed whisper. In spite of himself, Jean is a good listener.
It would be nice, Kevin thinks, to guide him with indulgent orders. Kevin didn’t get the chance to tell Thea what to do, not with Riko in the room and not when he wasn’t sure what he wanted. But Kevin enjoys the power of ordering his teammates on the court. Often, it’s for Jean’s sake– to distract the others from his poor performance, from the jagged bruises. What if he used that same command to cradle Jean, instead?
At the very least, he would have confirmation of Jean’s fulfillment. With his blank stares, Kevin’s rarely certain Jean uses these sessions the way he should.
Like an exy racquet, twisting towards the goal, Kevin sways towards the door.
If he cannot go in himself, he can still hear it. Normally, Kevin curls inward, trying so hard not to hear anything that he loses his ears entirely and nearly misses the flat echo of Raven footsteps.
Damn the Ravens. A buzzing stretches beneath Kevin’s skin, and he wants to hear through the wood. He props his weight against the door and tilts his head.
It’s muffled, but it’s there. The shallow moans, more breath than anything else. There’s a low undercurrent of words, washed together like the line of the ocean against the shore– swearing in French.
A flush creeps up Kevin’s neck to cup his cheeks. Jean, with his lip caught between his teeth, unraveling to the point where his tongue will not capture the English language. Kevin curls and uncurls his fists.
He shouldn’t– oh, God, he shouldn’t be doing this.
The warmth turns iron-hot, a burn welding to his skin. He jerks back, away from the door, because he shouldn’t be trying to listen to Jean getting off. He shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than the next game, the next drill, exy and only exy.
But then: “Kevin–” A low moan.
The rumble of the stadium fills Kevin’s brain. Feet pounding on bleachers, boos soaking the crowd. Something’s wrong. If Jean’s saying his name, something’s wrong.
Kevin reaches for the door handle. “Jean?”
He tries to mimic how Jean says it; he always does. Soft, silky consonants. Not the way Zane says johnny.
A crack opens in the door, as thin as a needle. The response is immediate. A stifled “mmh–” as Jean cuts himself off. Not the sound when choking on words, but the sound when swallowing release. Jean just came.
It takes Kevin an endless second before he shuts the door again. His fingers won’t let go of the handle, his grip white-knuckled. Over and over, the sound replays. It expands until he can’t hear anything else.
Alarming, that Kevin can’t think. It shouldn’t be alarming, since he’s learned to turn his brain off. Or rather, he’s learned to cram every corner of his being so tight with exy that nothing can slip through, not even through the holes in a racquet’s net. (He does not register Riko’s knives or Jean’s whimpers. The strips of red light illuminating his room turn into the two lines of his tattoo. He is safe because he is second, because of exy.) But this, this isn’t exy. The totality of this sound, unbreachable as white noise, is like bliss.
The rap of knuckles against wood slams through Kevin’s skull. Jean, on the other side, tapping out their code, asking if everything’s fine.
It takes Kevin physically prying his fingers off the doorknob to reply with his own knock. His mouth feels dry.
Awareness doesn’t come rushing back until Jean opens the door. Kevin’s cooling skin, the lessening tent in his shorts, the jumble of panic in his stomach. His heartbeat stutters in a way wholly unbefitting of Kevin Day, and he barely manages to step back in time to avoid Jean slipping out. The backliner’s face is a pale shade of scarlet. Kevin wonders if his cheeks are the same. Immediately, Jean glares at the floor.
“That’s not the code we agreed on,” Jean says, angry. Though his words are still a mumble, because Jean’s never learned to be loud in his anger. His furious, rapid-fire comments sniped at faltering underclassmen dim in comparison to the cacophony of Raven rage.
Kevin blinks. Right. He’d violated their rules by opening the door without warning. Why had he opened it, again?
As he tries to remember, his brain refuses to make it past the muffled sound of Jean coming, like a hangnail continuously caught on teeth. Kevin decides to rip it off. Forcing himself into clarity, he barrels past the noise to what came before.
“You said my name,” he states.
“I didn’t.” It’s immediate, sworn-off.
A frown crosses Kevin’s mouth. He remembers it– the shape of his name in Jean’s mouth, punched-out and all breath. (How could he forget it?)
Of course, Kevin wouldn’t normally have been able to hear anything. He was the one inching forward, leaning on the door, straining for confirmation of Jean touching himself. He’d thought about Jean in… compromising positions. About being in the same room. About being the reason for Jean’s pleasure. Maybe he did imagine it. Wrapped up in his own coiled fantasies, of course Jean would say his name.
Yet he hadn’t reacted with intimacy. He’d read a warning in Jean’s tone, a hiss of urgency. That’s what the low stirring in his gut was. Danger.
“I thought–” Kevin begins, the explanation growing at the back of his mouth. He catches himself; Jean’s not looking at him. Irritation wrinkles Kevin’s nose. Jean only doesn’t look at Riko and the Master.
Automatic, Kevin reaches up and tugs on Jean’s collar. The desired effect: Jean looks up.
Loathing storms the gray of his irises. A baleful, heated stare. Thunder rumbles in the gathering, lightning poised to strike. The force of it sends Kevin a half-step back. Clearing his throat, he wipes his hands on the sides of his shorts.
“I interrupted. I shouldn’t– have.” It’s a stilted apology. Guilt flickers in Kevin’s throat. He ruined Jean’s time. He’d been the one pushing Jean to have it, and he’d gone and ruined it. (Did he, really? If Jean still came?)
A muscle jumps in Jean’s jaw. Kevin’s frown deepens. This whole endeavor was supposed to relax Jean. Now, it’s only seemed to make things worse.
“I should not have agreed to this in the first place,” Jean says.
Guilt claws its way to anxiety. Kevin’s heart does a strange turn as his stomach widens with the nerves. Jean wants to call off their deal, this clandestine exchange. But Kevin can’t– he can’t let go of this, now that he has it. Even if it’s fleeting, even if they have to carve out the space for it, even if months go by without it, Kevin can’t roll over and accept defeat. Jean would call him weak (he has for this), but Kevin doesn’t care. As he opens his mouth to respond, he chokes on air.
His eyes averted again, Jean clarifies before Kevin manages a sound. “I could have lasted longer.”
A scowl has darkened Jean’s features, and Kevin’s thinking about him orgasming again. He tries to right himself and his thoughts, because Jean means he could’ve gone a couple more weeks without having a turn. Once again, it’s Kevin’s fault. Only Jean will never accuse him with a pointed finger; he will blame himself for how things have turned out. Kevin wants to tell him to stop that, but Jean merely shoves past him, knocking their shoulders on the way.
“We need to go,” he says.
So Kevin does what he does best: he shuts his brain off and focuses on exy.