Jean, walking into the kitchen: is something burning...? Jeremy, leaning seductively against the counter: just my desire for you Jean: Jeremy the toaster is on fire
As long as he could see Jean’s guard drop and his eyes go soft at the edges. As long as he could talk to Jean about his problems openly and not have to worry about being judged. As long as Jean knew Jeremy would do the same. As long as he was with Jean then it would be worth it.
It’s not that the kitchen is
messy, Jean has learned to take up as little space as possible and leave very
little indication of his presence behind as to not enrage his superiors. The
only other person who visits his dorm with any degree of frequency and uses his
kitchenette is Jeremy and even he is in the habit of cleaning up after himself.
It’s not about the broken mug the same way it’s not about the smudged glass in
the sink or the dirty cutlery. But Jean is still on his hands and knees in the
narrow space of tiled floor picking up pieces of his favorite yellow mug.
“Jean–”
“What.”
His answer is abrupt and biting.
He looks up in surprise and scolds himself for not noticing Jeremy enter his
dorm room with his own (illegally copied) room key.
This is really bad, but I hope you enjoy regardless. I also have another similar fic here that’s better lol
–
It isn’t supposed to be like this.
He’s playing on a professional team. He’s in a stable relationship. He’s supposed to have everything he’s ever wanted. And he does. So why does he still have moments where his chest is tight and it feels like he’s having all the air squeezed out of him like he’s a balloon?
He knows, rationally, that it doesn’t work like this, but a small part of him feels like his anxiety was supposed to have an end date. Like once he reached his goals, it would go away. But now he’s standing in the living room as he watches the highlights of his last game- the game where he missed what would’ve been the winning shot.
Stupid, not good enough…
The announcers are speculating on what happened and if the stress of adjusting to a new team is too much for Jeremy. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s breathing until he hears Jean’s no nonsense voice behind him say, “Turn it off.”
His voice is choked as he gasps, “I c-can’t. I can’t, I can’t…”
He feels Jean take his arms and bring him down to the floor. While Jean can’t be touched during his panic attacks, Jeremy needs a grounding force to keep his mind from going a mile a minute. Jean looks at him and says, “Jere, I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
Jeremy nods shakily, but counts with him until he gets his grounding in reality back. He focuses on the sound of Jean’s voice and the feeling of hands in his. He catalogs each ridge of Jean’s fingers and palms, the hands that he knows so well. Jean hates his hands, but Jeremy loves them because they’re so unique to Jean. They’re a sign of how strong he is and what he’s overcome. He loves them because when he’s panicking he has a system that helps him calm down.
He feels for the ridges on Jean’s ring finger from a bone that didn’t set right, then the raised scar on his middle finger, then the callous by his thumb from where he holds his racquet. Once Jeremy feels them all, he opens his eyes to meet Jean’s grey ones and hears, “That’s it. Come back.”
All Jeremy feels after a panic attack is exhausted, so he leans down to lay his head in Jean’s lap and focuses on the feeling of fingers running through his hair and Jean’s low voice telling him inane things just to lull him back.
After he’s calmed down, Jeremy whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Jean shushes him. “Hush, my darling. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Jeremy hums. Jean only calls him darling in especially soft moments. Jean continues, “There was nothing you could have done about that goal. And even if there was, just focus on getting better.”
Jeremy mumbles, jokingly, “You should take your own advice.”
He lays there until he feels less dizzy and when he comes to, Jean is there, as Jeremy wants him to always be.
