Silence was the thing that had saved him for long, agonizing years. A closed mouth helped keep his despair at bay when the animal fear of “this could be my last time” was replaced by a resigned “I hope it will be my last time” when his wheezing was muffled by the pillowcase. Forcing himself to shut his mouth every time he did, he gradually lost the ability to scream at all.

Shutting up his mind was harder. The physical pain could never compare to the feeling of utter powerlessness. His body no longer belonged to him, his right and will too, Jean no longer had anything he could call his own other than the feeling of nausea that came afterward. Jean would rather endure the copper taste of blood spreading in his mouth and his lungs burning from lack of oxygen than the pile of thoughts that battered against his temples, unable to fit inside his skull. One hit harder than the other — over time, all the things they said glued on, the humiliating title fixed firmly in place.

Silence was like an escape — he couldn't say the wrong thing if he didn't speak at all. Jean was silent as if the man wanted to say so many words but was forever bewitched. And he's not sure if he can be turned back to normal again like the frog in the book by kissing him, but something happened that evening.

There's no one in the apartment but the two of you and it envelops him with relief. He'd never really felt at home here, had he? This team didn't fit him. You could convince him for days, but Jean knew better, and they knew it too, they were just too polite to tell.

Shoulder to shoulder, close enough that with others Jean would have felt uncomfortable. His voice is uncertain — he's trying for the first time in five years, hoping for what? “Grayson was one of them,” he blurts out finally, just hoping you'll know what he means — explanations would sting. “You asked me about him once,”