Chapter Text
The Trojans’ kitchen was too bright in the mornings.
That was Kevin’s first coherent thought as he stood motionless in front of the refrigerator with one hand braced against the open door.
California sunlight spilled across the tile in warm gold bands. Somewhere outside, someone was laughing near the courtyard. The low hum of the refrigerator pressed into the silence around him, steady and mechanical.
Kevin stared at the shelves without really seeing them. Eggs. Fruit. Leftovers. Protein shakes. Containers Jeremy had labeled with dates in neat black marker.
His stomach hurt. Not sharply. Nothing dramatic. Just the dull, hollow ache that came after ignoring hunger for long enough that it stopped feeling urgent and became background noise instead.
Kevin checked the time on the microwave. 6:12 AM. Practice wasn’t until eight. Plenty of time. Still, his fingers tightened slightly against the refrigerator handle.
But the thought came automatically: You don’t need breakfast yet.
Another followed immediately after: You didn’t train enough yesterday anyway.
Kevin exhaled once through his nose. Stupid.
He reached for a water bottle instead, and the fridge door swung shut.
“You know,” Jeremy said mildly from somewhere behind him, “most people open the refrigerator with goals in mind.”
Kevin didn’t jump. He never startled easily anymore. He simply turned enough to find Jeremy sitting cross-legged on the counter beside the coffee maker, barefoot and already dressed for practice in gray sweats and a Trojan hoodie. His hair was still damp from a shower.
There was amusement in his expression, but not mockery. That was one of the strange things about Jeremy Knox. He could make observations without making them feel like weapons.
“Most people don’t have early morning practices,” Kevin said as he twisted the cap off the water bottle.
“Interesting argument.” Jeremy hummed with a nod. “Counterpoint—athletes generally eat food.”
Kevin took a sip of his water instead of answering. Jeremy watched him over the rim of his coffee mug. Not pressing. Just noticing.
Kevin had begun to understand, over the past few months, that Jeremy noticed nearly everything. Jean did too, of course, but Jean noticed quietly, like someone tracking exits in a crowded room. Jeremy noticed out loud.
The kitchen shifted with another presence before Kevin heard footsteps. Jean emerged from the hallway wearing black athletic pants and a loose T-shirt, hair still damp at the ends. He slowed almost immediately upon entering.
Kevin watched the exact moment Jean assessed the scene. The unopened cabinets. The untouched counters. The water bottle in Kevin’s hand.
Jean’s eyes flicked once toward the refrigerator. Then toward Kevin. That was all. Most people wouldn’t have caught it. Kevin did. Unfortunately, Jean Moreau knew him far too well.
Jean moved to the cabinet beside Jeremy without comment and pulled down three bowls. Jeremy accepted this development with the ease of someone long accustomed to Jean silently taking over tasks.
“Oatmeal?” Jeremy asked.
Jean shrugged one shoulder. “Fruit will go bad if someone does not eat it.”
“See? Threats. Very persuasive.” Jeremy smiled faintly into his coffee.
“I’m not that hungry,” Kevin said, leaning back against the counter.
Jean snorted softly. Not even subtle disbelief.
“What?” Kevin frowned at him.
“You say that,” Jean replied evenly, “every morning.”
“And?”
“And,” Jean continued, setting a bowl onto the counter with slightly more force than necessary, “you are a terrible liar.”
Kevin’s jaw tightened automatically. Not because the statement upset him. Because it landed too close to something he preferred left alone.
Jeremy slid off the counter before the tension could sharpen.
“Okay,” he said lightly, “before this becomes a hostage negotiation—Kevin, can you at least sit down?”
“I’m fine standing,” Kevin replied stubbornly.
“Kevin.”
There wasn’t pressure in Jeremy’s voice. That somehow made it worse. Kevin hated when people pushed him. He hated being managed. Controlled. Monitored. But Jeremy rarely pushed. He simply stood there offering softness with unbearable steadiness until refusing started to feel unreasonable. It was infuriating.
Kevin sat. Mostly because Jean was watching him now with that unnervingly flat expression that meant he was thinking too much.
Jeremy moved around the kitchen easily after that, gathering ingredients while Jean cut fruit with quick, precise movements. Neither of them filled the silence unnecessarily. Another thing Kevin had begun noticing. Neither Jeremy nor Jean feared quiet.
At the Foxes’ dorms, silence often meant tension. Monsters glaring at each other over invisible lines. Everyone pretending not to notice problems too large to solve.
This silence felt different. Comfortable. Domestic, almost. Kevin disliked how much he had begun wanting it.
Jeremy set a bowl in front of him twenty minutes later. Oatmeal with sliced bananas and strawberries. Cinnamon. Honey. Too much.
Kevin stared at it, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.
“You trying to kill me?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“With fruit?” Jeremy blinked.
“It’s too much food.” The words left Kevin’s automatically. Simple. Thoughtless. Normal.
And then the kitchen went still. Not dramatically. But enough.
Kevin looked up.
Jeremy’s expression hadn’t changed much, but the warmth in it had dimmed around the edges into something more careful. Jean had stopped moving entirely. Knife still in hand. Eyes fixed on Kevin.
“What?” Kevin frowned.
Jean set the knife down very carefully.
“How long have you been thinking like that?” he asked quietly.
Kevin almost laughed. The question itself felt absurd. “Like what?”
Jean stared at him.
“Kev.” Jeremy leaned one hip against the counter.
Kevin hated that tone too. Gentle. Cautious. Like they were approaching a wounded animal.
“I said it’s too much food,” Kevin replied, irritation creeping in. “I’m not starving myself, if that’s what this is about.”
Jean looked away first. That somehow felt worse than if he’d argued. Kevin’s annoyance sharpened defensively.
“You both are being ridiculous,” he huffed.
Jeremy exchanged a brief glance with Jean. Some silent communication passed between them. Then Jeremy spoke carefully.
“When Jean first transferred here,” he said, “he used to hide food in his room.”
Jean’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. Kevin frowned harder.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” Jeremy continued softly, “he thought if he ate too much one day, he should eat less the next. If he missed practice, he thought he didn’t deserve dinner. If he wasn’t performing well enough, he thought eating normally meant he was lazy.”
Kevin’s stomach clenched. Jean folded his arms tightly across his chest.
“It was easier at Evermore,” Jean said flatly. “Hungry players were faster. Smaller. Easier to control.”
The air in the kitchen felt heavier suddenly. Kevin looked down at the bowl in front of him. His appetite vanished completely.
The Nest rose in fragments he never invited. Riko commenting on weight. Mandatory weigh-ins. Punishments after bad games. The sick satisfaction of ignoring hunger long enough to stop feeling weak.
“That’s different,” Kevin spoke before he could stop himself.
Jean’s laugh was quiet and humorless. “No,” he said. “It is not.”
Kevin’s fingers tightened around the spoon. He wanted this conversation over. Immediately. Which probably told him enough already.
Jeremy crossed the kitchen slowly and took the seat beside him instead of across from him. Less confrontational. Intentional.
“You know what the weird thing is?” Jeremy said gently. “You’re so good at making it sound normal that I don’t think anyone realized how bad some of your habits are.”
“There’s nothing bad about monitoring what you eat,” Kevin scoffed.
“No,” Jeremy agreed easily. “There’s not. But there is something bad about believing you have to earn food.”
Kevin opened his mouth. Closed it. Because the immediate response in his head had been You do. And wasn’t that pathetic?
Jean leaned back against the opposite counter, arms still crossed tightly.
“They trained us to think hunger meant discipline,” he said quietly. “And eventually it becomes difficult to tell when you are making choices versus obeying ghosts.”
The words settled heavily into the room. Kevin looked at Jean then. Really looked at him.
Jean had gained some weight since leaving Evermore. Not much, but enough to soften the sharpest edges exhaustion had carved into him. The permanent, hunted look in his eyes had eased too—slightly. Not gone. Probably never gone. But healing existed there now in small, stubborn pieces.
And suddenly Kevin understood something uncomfortable. Jean recognized these habits because he had crawled out of them himself. Meanwhile Kevin had never stopped long enough to question them.
The Foxes noticed obvious disasters. Broken bones. Panic attacks. Bloody hands and concussions and public meltdowns. But Kevin functioning at ninety percent exhaustion while treating food like a reward system? That barely registered. Hell, Kevin barely registered it.
“It’s not a problem,” he said finally, though the words sounded weaker now.
Jeremy rested his forearms on the table. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Then humor me.”
“That usually means I won’t enjoy whatever comes next.” Kevin narrowed his eyes immediately.
“Probably true.” Jeremy grinned faintly, and Jean rolled his eyes. “Eat breakfast without calculating whether you deserve it first.”
Kevin went very still. Because that—that was exactly what he did.
Every time.
Practice quality. Calorie balance. Performance. Mistakes. Rest days. Game days. A constant stream of invisible arithmetic.
Jean watched realization cross Kevin’s face with something painfully close to sympathy. Which Kevin hated. Mostly because he understood it.
The silence stretched. Then Jeremy added quietly, “You don’t have to justify basic care to us.”
Something in Kevin’s chest tightened unexpectedly. Dangerously.
He looked down before either of them could see it on his face. The spoon felt strangely heavy in his hand.
For a long moment, he simply sat there staring at the oatmeal while old instincts clawed at him from somewhere deep and automatic.
Too much. Unnecessary. Undisciplined.
“Eat, Kevin,” Jean said softly, across from him.
Not an order. Not cruel.
Something gentler. Something that sounded heartbreakingly like understanding.
Kevin swallowed once.
Then finally took a bite.