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Kevin realizes he might be incurably stupid about Jean simultaneously a few years and a few seconds too late.
A few years, because that’s how long he’s known Jean for—it is, not coincidentally, the exact same number of years he’s spent making reckless choices. Ones that breathe life into him, turning him for a second into someone he could have been if he were just Kevin, last name unimportant. Years he’s spent sneaking out for secret lessons in a language he should not care about, pocketing magnets from souvenir stores, and penning postcards under the dim light of his phone screen. Stupid little things that serve nothing but to feed his ever-growing need to see Jean’s face light up with the closest emotion he can get to joy.
A few seconds, because on a late afternoon of an unremarkable Wednesday, it takes him just that to sit up rapidly, making Jean fall straight into his lap. Jean, who has been perched above him in their rather childish wrestling match for Kevin’s phone, which now lies discarded on the pillow next to them, along with a thread of messages exchanged with Jeremy Knox that Jean has been impossible about for days now.
You’re either telling him our strategies or discussing the Roman Empire, he’d accused just before trying to grab Kevin’s phone out of his hand, tackling him down in the process. Kevin had rolled on top of him in response, only to get kneed in the stomach and pushed down onto his back again, Jean’s knees bracketing his hips and Jean’s hands wrapped around his wrists—too gently to actually hold him down were Kevin to fight back.
You’re just jealous I have a second secret now, Kevin had responded. Jean’s teasing expression had gone stormy, his voice low as he’d whispered infidel close enough to warm up Kevin’s lips, causing uncomfortable tightness in Kevin’s underwear.
Without thinking, Kevin sat up, hands flying up to push Jean away. Caught off guard by the sudden reaction, Jean jolted back, letting go of his hold on Kevin’s wrists—violently enough to lose balance and nearly slam backwards off the bed and onto the floor.
Nearly, because Kevin would rather embarrass himself than let Jean hurt himself on his watch. And so, he pulled Jean forward and down onto his lap hard enough that it would be a miracle for him not to notice Kevin’s state.
In seconds, years of memories of Jean and himself, of cold showers and his own warm hands, of blood rushing to his head and his groin, they all bubble up to the surface of Kevin’s mind.
And not only for himself.
Jean’s eyes widen. His pupils dilate. He’s so close his nose brushes against Kevin’s as he shakes his head a little, as if in disbelief.
“Sorry,” Kevin whispers. There’s no risk of anyone overhearing them, yet it feels like a thing that should not be acknowledged out loud. He doesn’t even know what exactly he’s apologizing for. For making Jean uncomfortable, maybe. Or for reacting to Jean’s warm body when it’s not his right to, for a myriad of reasons. Partly for making Jean aware of the issue at all—partly for not figuring out earlier just what exactly Jean can reduce him to with a low murmur and a bunch of playful touches.
“It is fine,” Jean reassures, because he’s Jean, the kindest person Kevin has ever met. Just as softly, he adds, “It happens.”
Then, he shifts backwards a little, his knees digging into the mattress, and Kevin belatedly realizes that he’s supposed to let go of him. And yet he doesn’t, because what he also realizes is that Jean is in no better state than him—hard underneath his black sweatpants and trying to angle himself away so Kevin wouldn’t notice. Has it been like this the entire time? Or did it happen as a direct response to Kevin’s hardness? He doesn’t know and, frankly, he can’t be bothered to care when Jean’s breath catches, a soft sound that goes straight down Kevin’s body, making his cock twitch.
Jean blinks down at him. He’s grown slightly taller than Kevin over the years and now, perched atop Kevin’s thighs, he can well and truly look down at him. And look he does, with eyes questioning and lips parted in what could either be surprise or awe.
“Did you just…?” he asks, trailing off as if he doesn’t have the words to describe what has just occurred. It might have worked on anyone else, but Kevin knows perfectly well the vast extent of Jean’s vocabulary—after all, he hadn’t spent countless hours speaking to Jean in a hushed voice only to forget to teach him the names of all things vulgar and common in the Nest.
There isn’t a lie that could get him out of this situation. Quietly, Kevin curses his body for betraying him this way—for showing Jean what he’s been capable of hiding so well behind words of indifference.
He nods.
Jean exhales shakily, his expression melting into a mix of terror and adoration as it always does whenever Kevin catches him looking. He’s still so painfully obvious despite knowing the danger of it better than anyone else—the perfect reverse of Kevin’s long-learned blank stares. There’s so much light in Jean still; it draws genuine reactions out of Kevin, ones he should already be smart enough to control.
Like now, when he tilts his face closer just to feel Jean’s breath on his lips again. He reels back immediately, turning his gaze away and down to the much more obvious display of the weakness Jean instills in him.
It would be wrong of him to let this go any further, but— But would it? Would it be so wrong to make Jean feel good for once, the way he deserves to? He’s given Jean his mother tongue back, he keeps bringing him little glimpses of the world outside, hell, he’s been pulling his skin back together from the nastiest of slashes with only antiseptic and scarce bandages for years now. Truly, what’s one more thing for him to give—one more rule to toe on when they’ve already committed far worse offenses?
Besides, he’s not even really touching Jean, is he? He’s just… There. Conveniently.
Kevin takes a shaky breath and lifts his eyes to Jean’s, feeling as if he were slapped when he finds growing fear in them. And then it hits him—Jean is touching him in a way he would be made to bleed for, and Kevin, stupefied and mortally still, is deadly quiet. He doesn’t like the idea of Jean being afraid of him, of his reactions. Even if he weren’t interested—which he isn’t, he can’t be—he wouldn’t do anything to Jean in retaliation. It’s the most reasonable reaction Jean could give him, Kevin tries to reason with himself, but it still stings deeply.
Jean lifts himself up on his knees again, this time faster, ready to run. Kevin is just as fast—he wraps his arm tighter around his waist, urging him to stay.
“No, wait,” he protests. Jean eyes him anxiously, owlish and nearly shy. Unusually obediently, he settles back down—he might be taller than Kevin now, but he’s still lighter than he should be. It doesn’t take Kevin nearly as much strength as it should to roll his hips upward, pressing his erection against Jean’s. It startles a gasp out of him, and Kevin finds himself making a sound of his own, low and pleased. Carefully, he asks, “Do you want…?”
“Kevin,” Jean warns, voice hoarse like a man parched. “You can’t.”
“But I’m not doing anything,” Kevin answers. He shifts, jostling Jean just the tiniest bit. Another hitched breath in response, this time fanning over his cheek. Jean’s either insanely responsive or Kevin is simply way too attuned to his body—either way, it only makes his skin grow warmer, tighter as if stretched over suddenly ill-fitting muscles. “Do whatever feels good,” he whispers. “I don’t mind.”
Jean seems to consider that for a long moment, his fingers drumming up an uneven rhythm atop Kevin’s shoulders. He lifts himself up on his knees, just a little, careful not to make any sudden movements. And then he drops back down, sinking deeper into Kevin’s lap with a soft sigh. It’s a sound Kevin has never heard from him before, one of satisfaction, of pleasure.
Again, his treacherous mind chants, let me hear again.
”Good?” he asks tentatively.
”Obviously,” Jean responds, failing at a snarky tone on account of how affected he sounds. He moves his hand to rest over Kevin’s bicep and anchors it there with a firm grip. It feels nice to be held in return, Kevin decides, almost as nice as being allowed to wrap his arm around Jean. ”Are you sure?”
There are generally two things Kevin is unwaveringly sure of: his rightful place on the Court and his misguided fondness for Jean Moreau.
”I am,” he says with conviction. He’s not stupid—he knows exactly what he wants, and he’s equally as aware that making it into anything other than just a moment of weakness would doom them both for good. And so, he lies: ”It’s not a big deal, yeah? Everyone helps each other out all the time.”
”Not you,” Jean points out, hitting the bullseye. Sometimes, he’s as clever as he is gullible, and Kevin prays to everything holy he didn’t misjudge this time. ”You don’t touch anyone.”
”You’re not just anyone,” Kevin says haughtily, as if insulted by the implication. Jean blinks, taken aback, his mind so clearly going a thousand miles an hour. Kevin enjoys his reaction for the short moment he gets to have it. If he could, he’d offer him something pathetically honest, something like none of them compare to you or I don’t care for touch if it’s not yours, but if there’s a thing Kevin is as good at as he is at Exy, it is playing by the Nest’s rules. He stops Jean’s speeding thoughts with a simple, ”You will be Court.”
So close, he has a first row seat to the spectacle that is Jean’s fight with an expression of disappointment trying to climb its way onto his face. He lets out a stuttering breath, his jaw locked so tight his teeth must hurt, and he buys it because why wouldn’t he? It’s so easy for him to accept the hurt of Kevin not wanting him, even with so much evidence pointing to the contrary. It’s how it has to be, Kevin’s final safety measure against the disaster that would be breaking the one rule Riko would not let Jean walk away from. It’s infuriating. Unfair.
Kevin keeps himself perfectly still, forcing himself to look indifferent, like it truly is no big deal, like trying to balance keeping Jean by his side without letting himself tilt too close in his direction is not constantly tearing him up in half like he's made of thin paper.
But this is about Jean, not himself, and he can still give Jean at least something nice to hold on to, if he’s careful enough with it. It might not be what Jean actually wants from him, but Kevin has long since learned how tightly Jean holds on to any scrap of goodwill handed to him. He takes what he’s given and makes the best of it—it’s Kevin who can never be satiated, who sees a mile where there should be an inch.
”I’ll help you out if you help me out?” Kevin offers, letting his right hand go to Jean’s hip. He tenses minutely, and then relaxes into it when Kevin doesn’t go any lower, doesn’t grab for him with force. Kevin simply lets his hand settle there over the fabric of Jean’s ratty t-shirt; it’s thin enough that Kevin feels the heat of Jean’s body perfectly well against his skin when a shiver courses through it.
”We’re not allowed,” Jean reminds him, suddenly the voice of reason, as if being forbidden has ever truly stopped anyone from being reckless. ”You especially.”
Kevin wrinkles his nose. ”Say it again in French. I don’t think the irony is funny enough in English.”
”Absolute cretin,” Jean whispers back exasperatedly, but his eyes crease, betraying his amusement. Kevin dreads the day he finally makes him laugh—it might be the one he doesn’t win against the urge to press his lips to Jean’s and finally learn what they taste like. ”You have lost your mind.”
”A long time ago, according to you. What was it again yesterday? Brainless moron?”
”There is a difference between mind and brain,” Jean protests, ready to argue even when clearly so turned on that patches of red bloom all over his face and neck. Kevin suspects he would find it lovely even if red weren’t his favorite color. Hell, Jean could blush traffic cone orange for all he cares, and it wouldn’t even dim his need to press open-mouthed kisses all over the burning up skin.
”One is stored in the other. Now answer the question,” Kevin cuts in. ”Do you want us to help each other get off or not?”
He knows the answer immediately from the way Jean’s cock twitches in interest against his thigh and it dawns on Kevin just how absurd the situation is. How absurd they both are: him, ready to beg for a chance to make Jean moan, and Jean, for ever believing Kevin could be indifferent to him.
Jean’s yes comes accompanied by a roll of his hips that has his cock pressing directly against Kevin’s. Kevin doesn’t dwell on how a touch like that, even through layers of clothes, feels hotter than any direct skin-on-skin contact he’s ever been given. It’s Jean, and Jean belongs in a whole different category than anyone Kevin has touched before.
”Just like that, yeah?” Kevin tells him, remembering the way Jean would avoid looking at him whenever Kevin whispered the vaguest of praises about his performance during a game. Then, because he can’t not be selfish for just a moment, he adds, ”I’ve got you.”
He can feel more than see the effect his words have on Jean—he wraps his arms around Kevin’s shoulders tightly and hides his face in the crook of his elbow, obscuring most of Kevin’s view of both their laps and his expression, but the way he grinds against Kevin is purposeful, needy.
He starts out slowly, with small movements and gentle thrusts, seeking the right friction against Kevin’s body. Only when he settles on a slow, steady rhythm does Kevin dare press up, matching his movements.
It startles a gasp out of Jean, a muffled sound Kevin knows means approval when Jean’s hand flies up to tangle in his hair. He doesn’t pull, but the grip isn’t delicate either—it’s anchoring, and Kevin decides he likes it. He’d probably like it if Jean pulled his hair hard enough to tilt his head backwards until his scalp started tingling. It’s not a decent thought to have, but it does its job—pleasant heat pools in his stomach and onto his cheeks.
He quickly decides that what he likes best about their current position is the way Jean folds his body around him, bringing them as close as possible despite how warm they both already are. Kevin can feel the heat radiating from himself, skin uncomfortably clammy and clothes sticking to his body in all the wrong places, seams digging into his skin where Jean’s body presses into his own. The briefest thought that he’d rather boil alive than let Jean out of his hold crosses his mind—he chases it, and any other coherent thought, away by rocking against the curve of Jean’s ass.
He’s quite sure he says Jean’s name. How many times he does it gets lost on him somewhere between Jean’s cock grinding against his thigh and Jean’s fingers digging into his shoulder.
At some point, Jean must have tilted his head in Kevin’s direction because now his hot breath coils around the shell of Kevin’s ear and down his neck, finally letting Kevin hear just how hard he’s panting. His movements turn frantic too, body tensing and trembling, chasing release.
”Kevin,” Jean whispers, nosing at Kevin’s neck, lips ghosting the skin there in something akin to a kiss yet still plausibly deniable. It is unclear to Kevin whether Jean is saying his name just to say it or whether he’s asking for his attention, but he reacts either way by knocking their heads together gently.
”Whatever you need,” he murmurs, perhaps a bit too sincerely.
”Brace,” Jean answers. Kevin manages only a confused frown before Jean plants his hands on his shoulders and pushes him backwards onto the bed. As soon as he hits the mattress, Jean wastes no time in straddling Kevin’s thigh and lodging his leg between Kevin’s. When he looks down at Kevin, his lips are wet and his hair tousled, a look Kevin can’t help but imagine would greet him if they had actually kissed. Jean lowers himself onto his elbows, bracketing Kevin’s head—it brings him close enough that it looks like he might do just that.
Kevin turns his head to the side in wordless rejection, just in case, but Jean only presses his forehead to his temple, eyes fluttering shut. He grinds down on Kevin’s thigh, hips moving in a circular motion. In answer, Kevin hikes his leg higher up, pressing it between Jean’s legs, making him sigh in contentment, the sweetest sound Kevin has ever heard him make. It’s a victory of sorts, one that will eventually leave a bitter, overripe aftertaste in his mouth.
For now it only makes him ache for more.
It strikes Kevin that he should probably care more about getting himself off than committing to memory the very feeling of Jean’s curls tickling his cheeks and the softness of his skin where they touch, but the luxury of being able to focus his attention solely on Jean is not something he’s willing to ignore to satisfy his own needs.
There's so much unconcealed affection in the way Jean nuzzles his face into Kevin’s hair, so much neediness in how he grinds up and down on Kevin’s thigh. It’s intoxicating. His body is wound up tightly, though for once not in apprehension—for once his desperation has nothing to do with pain, and Kevin uselessly wishes he could keep him like this forever, too focused on feeling good to remember the bruises on his ribs.
Jean comes with a whimper of something that sounds like Kevin and please mushed together. His hips stutter and slow down to a slow grind as he rides down the waves of his orgasm, and Kevin can’t stop himself from stroking his hair or from moving his hand up and down his back in a gentle caress.
”There you go,” he whispers. ”You’re fine, it’s fine.”
Finally, after what feels like a small infinity bottled up, Jean lifts his head just enough to look at him, and Kevin eagerly takes the opportunity to brush a strand of hair away from his face. For a second, Jean wears an expression of pure bliss—eyes bright and cheeks adorably flushed—but it doesn’t last, not when his eyes lock with Kevin and realization like cold water strikes him.
It’s unbearable to watch how fast his features harden, how quickly his eyes dull the second he remembers where they are. Who they are.
”You are still—” Jean begins, eyes darting downward, filling in for the words he refuses to speak into existence between them.
Kevin is, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He was done doing anything the second Jean’s face closed off again.
Perhaps that is why Kevin leans down to kiss his forehead—to soften the blow. Perhaps he only worsens the pain of it.
”Don’t worry about it,” he answers, letting his lips skim over Jean’s skin one more time before he leans back.
”Kevin,” Jean says sternly, his eyebrows furrowing in familiar annoyance. It’s the same tone he uses when he reassures Kevin he can play despite blood still coating his teeth. ”It’s fine, I want you to.”
Kevin shakes his head. ”There isn’t time,” he says with finality he knows Jean won’t try to fight. He doesn’t have the words to say I don’t care about this, I only care about you that wouldn’t betray more than what he’s willing to give up, so he brushes his fingers through Jean’s hair twice more, hoping it’s soothing enough. ”I have to go.”
It’s written on Jean’s face in clear, broad strokes that he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening now, and as devastating as his pained frown is, Kevin knows it’s for the better. Especially when Jean’s eyes drop to his lips, and his breath hitches, and Kevin knows that nothing else will ever matter if he allows this to happen.
He braces a hand on Jean’s shoulder and pushes.
Jean looks bewildered when he lands flat on his back on the mattress, but he doesn’t protest. His clothes are all wrinkled, and his face is still red, not to mention the wet spot on his, thank fuck, black sweatpants.
Debauched, Kevin decides, is the only correct word here. He commits the sight to memory, though locks it away in a box labeled never fucking touch in the light of day. He must look equally as incriminating, so he quickly brushes his hair into place and straightens his clothes, noting down with relief that he’s only half hard now. As if nothing world-changing has just happened. As if nothing irrevocable is happening right this very second.
”Clean yourself up, okay?” he says. ”I’ll see you at dinner.”
While gathering up to leave, he pointedly does not look at Jean, wanting to spare them both the awkwardness of it. He nearly manages, save for when he risks a glimpse while closing the door, like the hopeless man he is. The image of Jean mindlessly ghosting his fingers over the spot on his forehead that Kevin planted a kiss on feels like a punishment.
He shuts the door firmly.
He prays it stays shut.