Fic: A Stranger's Eyes (1/2)
Jared stirs and gets up from his chair, eyes not leaving the canvas. He stalks to it, then halts, standing irresolutely in the middle of his loft. While he moved, circling, like the painting was an enemy he was about to fight, the lighting changed and his resolve crumbled. He bites his lower lip without thinking, chews on it for a while, tracing the lines of his work with his eyes. He makes his decision.
He turns around, goes to unlock his door and takes off his over shirt. Sleeves aren’t good when you’re painting, not the way he does. He glances out the window at the sun. No clouds, he’s going to have good lighting for the whole day.
He walks to his instruments and mixes the colors, searching for the prefect tone for skin. He dips his thumb in the paint and brings it to the canvas, stroking the cheek of his latest portrait. He’s never been much of an academic painter. He prefers to feel the paint, like he’s sculpting, in a way, touch make it more personal. It comes from him, from his gut, so it’s only logical that it goes out of him through his hands. It isn’t problematic, his works are always large, big, so he doesn’t have to bother with details too small for his ‘gigantic paws’ -Chad’s words. Only sometimes, for hair, eyebrows, lashes or something that requires some specific fine line, he uses brushes. From time to time, when he feels the need for some tortured relief, he uses painting knives. For textures, he might use anything. He remembers this time he used a bracelet to render snake skin. He’s just that way. He feels it, doesn’t care for what he’s been told is the right way.
This is art, there is no ‘right way’. There just are ways that feel right.
But his hands. Yeah. He prefers to work the flesh with his own.
This particular work has been keeping him busy for days at a time. Compared to what he usually does, it’s different. It’s more of a close up. The canvas is nearly five feet tall, as usual, but this time the person portrayed is closer. Only from chest up. There’s a lot of attention played to the sky behind him, too, a lot of expense of blue and clouds, everything’s satisfactory about it. It’s almost finished. It has been for weeks. It’s just the man.
His face. It’s been bugging Jared for so long. Now, this time, he thinks he’s got the right color for the skin.
Fucking finally.
He hates being frustrated with his work. He loves to struggle, to fight for it, with it, but he hates the feeling of being stuck.
This, finally, feels like he’s moving forward again.
¤¤¤
“Hey Cass.” Jared tells me when I walk inside, silent. The man has feline sixth sense. Or maybe it’s because I come here almost each day, at the same time. Kind of like him. Creatures of habit. “Gonna watch me again?” He asks, grinning out of the corner of his eye. “You like that, uh? You perv.”
I just huff out a sigh in response and settle on the couch, silent. Attentive.
As usual, according to our almost daily ritual, I stay quiet, unmoving, and watch Jared work. My eyes only leave his painting, or his hands to size him up, look him up and down and study the way he’s holding himself. From that I can tell how far he’s gone into his work, how long it would take him to react to the phone ringing, me moving or a plane crashing on its way to JFK. He probably wouldn’t even blink.
At some point, Jared washes his hands and takes a step back, looks at his work, sits for a minute on a stool. He makes himself some coffee. He knows I like the smell but not the taste so he doesn’t bother opening the windows more. At this height, the outside is chilly and windy, especially that early. It’s kind of the only thing that’s not to love about Jared’s top floor loft. It’s not big, but for Manhattan, it’s gigantic.
Jared pours himself a mug and puts on jazz. His music taste depends on the mood. The moods are often linked with the paintings. I’m not exactly sure if the painting sets the mood or the contrary, surely a little of both. This very painting has been New Orleans jazz and blues mostly. Sounds kind of right to me. The last one was a weird combination. He painted a girl, a dancer, frozen in the middle of a developé, back arched backward. A really nice pause, actually, I think Jared went to watch Sandy train for that. But the girl wasn’t her. And well, the soundtrack for that peaceful, gracious looking painting was mostly angry rock and metal. Which, thanks, I do love Repo:The genetic Opera’s soundtrack, but on repeat? No thanks. It took two days of me not showing up for Jared to switch to Metallica. At least they had enough albums from him not to loop the tracks. Metallica, AC/DC, Iron Maiden and Dream Theater for a classical dancer.
Fine, if Jared can wrap his head around it, I can.
I just think the man of now feels like jazz and blues, so it’s less weird.
Jared is walking around the loft, picking up stuff, going back and forth, the way he does when he’s on the phone and does stuff to busy his hands absentmindedly. I know he’s forcing himself not to look at the painting for a while, to get some perspective.
He exchanges a look with me and sighs, eventually glancing back. “He’s better now, huh? Cassiel?”
I blink slowly my consent. What else can I do? There are no words for art. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually paying attention to me. I’m pretty sure he’d still talk to me even if I left. It’s rhetorical dialogue on his part, but Jared needs it to be aloud. Whatever, right? Guy’s a genius, let him work his magic however he feels like.
He details his work. So, the light on the skin is better, the way he wanted it to be, judging by the way he sighs, contempt. Less pinkish, less baby skin. The being coming to life on the canvas is a grown man, with an angelic face.
Jared goes back to work, with new colors, adjusting the hair to the skin tone, changing the shade a little. During his recent modification of the skin tone, he changed the lighting too so he has to adjust everything.
I love watching him work. The smell of the paint, the way Jared runs his fingers on the canvas, giving it life, substance. The way he gets smudges all over his forearms and chin. Jared is always stepping back from the painting, taking it the whole sight, and I watch his muscles flex when he half kneels, to change the angle of his view.
The way I pay attention to all these details about him, about his frame, his body, his shape… I sometimes feel like I’m preparing to paint him. I would if I could, maybe. But Jared’s the one with the talent. I’m just the observer. Maybe even sometimes a little moral support. He’s the artist.
This time, the man Jared is painting is bigger than usual, more impressive in a way. Not that he’s threatening or anything, but he feels different. More alive. More real, maybe.
He’s just staring out of the frame, watching something far away, lips almost parted with thoughts.
Jared is making him come to us, giving him depth.
Something is still not quite right about it yet. He’s not fully alive yet. He’s there, more than any other painting before, and yet… Yet, something’s clearly missing.
It’s like watching a picture of someone staring off into space. Body here, but mind far away.
That’s it. It’s the eyes.
Still. The man is so vivid. I’m kind of wishing he was real so I got to touch him like Jared does. Because, hell!
And, yeah, I shouldn’t be using words like that, considering.
Jared huffs, interrupting my train of good vs evil, hell heaven thoughts. “He’s killing me, you know that, Cass? I don’t know why he’s evading me. Like he wants me to chase him or something.”
I wait and watch as Jared scrubs the paint off his hands again. It’s a lost cause, of course, pigment always stays, but his concern is simply to take off what’s not dry yet, what could leave stains -on me, for example. He doesn’t mind having a painter’s hands. He kind of loves it.
And I don’t mind having a painter’s hands on me.
Really not. They do feel really good.
¤¤¤
“Hello?” A voice sounds from the doorway.
Cassiel huffs, grumpy, bothered from his comfy place -finally- against Jared’s chest, Jared’s strong, magical fingers kneading at his back.
“You painting?” Sandy asks, trotting up the stairs, heels tapping the wood.
“Just taking a break.” Jared doesn’t get the door when he paints, so he leaves it open in case someone stops by. Sandy, his best friend, knows this and always tries to let herself in before she knocks.
“A break?” She stares at him for a beat, then reaches out. “Hey Cassiel.” She strokes the fur of the cat purring in Jared’s arms, and frowns up at his keeper. “Since when are you up?” she asks and reaches out for his face, thumbing a smear of paint off Jared’s skin, above his upper lip.
“Uh… around six, I think.” Jared says. Sandy sidesteps him. She hasn’t been here in a few days, she’s brought groceries, because she knows Jared can get so engrossed in his work he won’t go out of the loft for ages. Cassiel is kind of thankful for that, even though she’s got the worst timing. So he doesn’t huff again when Jared sets him down with a consoling pat and a promise for more cuddles later and goes to nuzzle the bags she carried in.
“Jared, you need to sleep more.” She says, walking slowly, like hypnotized, eyes trapped by the giant painting in the center of the room. “But I can see why he’s keeping you awake.”
Jared flushes a little. He paints many things, landscapes, portraits, people in a movement, or still. Sandy knew he was gay before he even did, from his paintings. She told him, explained it, showing him the way he loved on canvas. Because it seemed that the guys that got Jared hot always came out differently, had a different vibe to them. Sandy always seemed to pick it up while Chad just declared that she and JT had the same taste in mean is all. Sometimes, he thinks he can see what she means, though.
He’s an artist, yeah, but it doesn’t mean what he does isn’t a complete mystery to him.
Most of the time.
But this. He watches Sandy’s scrutiny. This he knows. He feels it. The guy on the painting. He came from Jared’s heart, his gut. His whole being.
Not his brain, not imagination from a book, a thing he heard. He was not from inspiration. No. The man on the canvas demanded to be freed, from Jared’s insides, to be laid out before his eyes.
No pretty girl he paints never does that to him.
Actually, to that extend, no man he’s painted never did either.
Dude… he’s not going to do the clichéd Pygmanlion shit.
Except, if he is, he’s not crushing over his creation. He painted it because he was crushing over it. Which is weird to a point he can’t even conceive because, that guy, he doesn’t exist.
Does that mean Jared’s bound to be alone all his life and only have an imaginary life?
“He’s…” Sandy turns to him, with a slight grin. “Can I buy him? I want to have him on my bedroom ceiling. So he’s the first thing I see in the morning.”
Jared doesn’t even blink at the joke. All he registers is the fact that Sandy doesn’t say ‘it’, as in the painting. She says ‘him’. He’s always loved that about her.
She gets his painting, sometimes more than he does, and at times, when he’s drunk off his ass he might let it slip that he calls her his muse, and actually call her that out loud. She’s a big source of inspiration, comfort in times of doubts.
“I don’t know… something’s still off about him.” Jared says. “His eyes. They’re not… they’re not right yet.”
“You’ve chased him for a while now.” Sandy notes and picks up Cassiel while Jared goes to check out what she brought. ‘Chased’, here’s that word again. She really reads him well.
Okay, now it’s official, Cassiel is done being pissed at Sandy for showing up now because, hell, manicured nails in the fur? Awesome.
“Why did the giant dork call you Cassiel anyway?” Sandy asks the cat. “I mean, you’re adorable alright, but… hello? Don’t you hunt things that have wings, like, on a daily basis?”
Jared chuckles. “First, I might be a dork, but I’m no giant. I just work out sometimes.” He points out, opening a yogurt and dipping a spoon in it. “And second,” he says, before swallowing. “I didn’t name Cassiel Cassiel. My gran’ma’s neighbor did. Clarissa. She said I’d need some company in the big city and gave him to me.”
Sandy watches the fully black cat close unbelievably blue, between sapphire and ultramarine, deep and mysterious, like the depth of a Caribbean sea. Cassiel purrs.
“Besides, Cassiel’s a real angel’s name. Not some made up one.”
“Right.” Sandy says, having heard the speech many times yet. “The watcher, right? I guess it suits you two.” She muses. “The angel of solitude and tears. Jared, your life is depressing.”
“Maybe it you.” He says accusatively, and picks up Cass from her arms. “But it’s not because of my cat.” Cassiel gives a little snort of agreement and climbs on his shoulder, his favorite spot. “Clarissa said he’d protect me.” Cass licks off the spoon Jared his holding up for him while he trashes the empty box.
“Hm.” Sandy says. “Maybe he’ll bring you a life.”
“Shut up. I have a life.”
She raises a perfectly picked eyebrow.
“I don’t need a hundred people witnessing it for it to be real, San. I have you, I have my work, I have Chad. And… acquaintances.”
“Acquaintances?”
“Yeah, well… Maybe you think it’s sad that I have only two people that I consider actually friends but you should be flattered. My VIP list is a very closed club. A-list.”
She touched, it’s obvious, and she flushes a little, but turns away and hides the pleasure she gets from the praise. “I think that’s just because your couch is small.”
¤¤¤
“Chad! Don’t give him cheetos!” Jared swats Chad’s hand away. “He doesn’t eat human food.” He repeats, for the thousandth time, and opens the rooftop window so Cassiel can slip out. “Hurry up buddy, looks like it’s gonna rain.”
“She must have been a witch.” Chad says unexpectedly, and Jared stares at him in wonder, waiting for the clarification to where the hell Chad’s thoughts have gone from baseball. “Clarissa.” He points out.
“Ah, talked to Sandy today?”
“Well, yeah, you know… she and Sophia are like that now.” He says, and presses two fingers together. “But seriously, black cat, old lady, angel name?”
“Dude, have you had a Hex marathon again?”
Chad huffs. “No.” Even the potted dried dead plant on Jared’s counter isn’t convinced.
Jared lets it go, he does have a complete dvd collection of Btvs and AtS, and a few other things like… BSG and stuff under his bed for when the urge strikes. His first greek gods did look a lot like the Oracles, too.
Chad stirs him back to the present with more arguing about Rangers vs Dodgers. They chat for a long time, eating and watching the muted tv on some gymnastic competition out of the corner of the eye. After a while Chad turns somewhat pleading eyes to Jared. There’s a hint of sadness that tells his friend that, first, he’s being honest, because Chad doesn’t let himself show all that often, and second, that he’s hurting a little, at least. Jared hates that. Especially since he’s sure it’s his fault.
“Will you go out with us one of these days? Like, before I turn seventy?” Chad asks, hopeful.
“Sure, thing.” Jared runs a hand through his hair. “I’m busy, I’ve… been busy. I’m really sorry …”
“I know, Jare.” Chad cuts him. “I know how this goes. You’re like a CIA covered op guy, you take the gig when it comes.” And that is a parallel only Chad Murray could make. “But we miss you man, and it kills me to say this because, out of the two of us, you’re the fag. But it’s true.”
“I’ll come.” Jared promises, staring out the window as the rain finally starts to bucket down. He sets a mental count down the miserable mewl of Cass pleading to be let back inside.
“When?”
“When I’m done with this.” Jared waves at the painting. Before Chad came in for tacos and tv, he turned it around and threw a sheet over it, careful not to touch the paint itself. “I’m getting there. He’s tricky.”
“Ah.” Chad says and beats Jared to the window when Cassiel indeed shows up. “Another hot guy?” he says. “Hey, Angelus, looks like even angels can’t stop rain.”
“That’s it. I’m stealing the cord to your dvd player.” Jared decides and picks up his shuddering pet. “I can’t believe Sandy says I need a life.”
“Cause I… got a girl.” Chad points out, beaming.
“Sure, she’s not on payroll?” Jared asks.
Chad laughs, disbelieving. “Oh man, you’re lucky I won’t tell her that.”
“Cause I’d tell here it’s happened before.” Jared says, smug, while Chad prepares to leave.
“Once!” Chad huffs and grabs jackets and keys. “Who goes to prom alone?”
“I did.”
“Because your date caught you moaning her brother’s name!”
“Shut up and get out of here, douchebag. I need to get some work done.” Jared says and Chad flicks him off before disappearing down the stairs.
Before he goes to work, though, Jared’s got someone to take care off. “Dude, you’re shaking.” Jared pets Cassiel, who’s trying to nudge his way under his armpit, where it’s all warm and snugly, and uh, well, ticklish, and goes to grab a towel. “Where the hell did you go, fella?” He picks up a flyer glued under Cassiel’s paw with the rain. “Huh? Went to that bar?” he says as he sticks the flyer against the counter, sets Cassiel down and towels him off. “Trying to tell me I need to go out more too, huh? Gang all up on me, why don’t cha?”
¤¤¤
Jared stretches, rubs the heels of his hands against his temples and pushes his hair back as much as he can without actually painting it and sighs. He’s gone nowhere. Two hours of work and he’s gone nowhere. He checks the clock on the wall. Eight am. Sandy is going to kick his ass if she knows he’s been up that early again.
He washes his hands and pours food in Cassiel’s bowl, sets it down and pats the cat before he opens his cupboard to get the coffee.
There is no coffee.
He finished the pack last night and now, there’s isn’t anymore. He’s gaping like a fish at the sight of the empty shelf and remembers than indeed, Sandy didn’t bring any.
It’s like… hell unleashed on hearth, end of the world, catastrophy!
It’s too early to go grocery shopping, aside from the 24/7 place, but his coffee is overpriced and disgusting. However, bars might be open.
Jared’s eyes fall on the now dry flyer of the bar he picked from Cassiel’s wet paw last night. “Look what the cat brought in.” he murmurs and picks it up.
Coffeeshop, bar, snack bar. Well… it’s not that far and the picture looks kind of inviting.
And there is no way Jared gets through today without coffee in his system.
He’s walking out, messenger bag with his drawing pad on his shoulder, his leather jacket on, when he freezes mid step.
There’s more than a chance that Sandy forgot the coffee on purpose so he’d have to leave his apartment to get some.
“Bitch!”
¤¤¤
Jared is considering buying himself another coffee. He will keep that place in his mind because that, was good. Like liquid, orgasm in his mouth.
And he did not just think that.
He’s drawing lines absentmindedly on his pad, mostly the corner of the street, how the place looks from where he is. It’s a very modern looking back. The furniture, especially, and there’s a nice feel to it. A quiet bossa nova tune is playing inside and Jared half listens to it from his table, outside. The clients are numerous, for this time of the day, and they’re coming from different backgrounds. There’s a maintenance worker, suited up, having his morning fix of caffeine before he goes to work, hard worker hyper ‘suits’ as Jared calls them. There’s also a couple of Goths near him.
It’s really a strange look, sophisticated, and Jared knows what his next painting will be. But he’s gonna have to have someone pose for him because he doesn’t know enough of it. Maybe he’ll go out in one of those clubs and talk to some people. Before he paints he likes to get to know the culture.
He’s about to go inside and order a new cup, when his body jerks at the sight before him. His eyes and muscles communicated before going through the ‘brain’ part of him and he finds himself getting odd looks as he scrambles off his chair, nearly knocking it backwards.
And off course, he catches the attention of the group of guys, and they turn inquisitive looks toward him. And oh, dear lord.
There’s a bunch of guys, probably on a coffee break from a building nearby, all wearing tailored suits and looking smug and gorgeous the way people that leave a fulfilling life do. But a guy caught his eye. One of them.
Not the biggest, not the loudest.
But… it hit Jared. A freight train would have been a caress.
This is the face he painted.
And the face, is looking at him, increasingly confused and frowning the longer Jared simply gaps.
Jared shakes himself and goes to the group, his colleagues nudge the guy’s elbow, leering, because, well, okay, Jared hasn’t taken his eyes off him and is still kind of watching him in awe. He must look really creepy.
But this is really creepy, dammit!
And also all kinds of wonderful.
When he approaches, Jared sees the gaze of the man seizing him up quickly. Like Jared and Chad do for different reasons. Jared to get measurements, because everything’s about drawing, and Chad because he’s accustomed to bar fights and likes to be prepared.
“Uh, I’m… I’m sorry. We’ve never met, right?” asks, perfectly aware that this is a pick up line in reverse.
“No, uh…” The guy frowns. “I think I’d remember… you. Why?”
“I’m sorry, hi. I’m Jared Padalecki, and you are?” Jared extends a hand.
The guy takes it but keeps on looking cautious. He repeats. “Why?” the word is kind of drawled out.
Jared rubs his forehead. “God, I’m so sorry. This is so weird, even for me. I’m a… I’m an artist, and… I think there’s something I need to show you .” Jared doesn’t find anything more to say.
And apparently so doesn’t the other guy. “Huh.”
Jared fumbles. “It’s a… at my place, five minutes away, I uh… I swear I’m no psycho.” He adds quickly with a nervous laugh. “But… yeah, given this… you might think I’m a little nuts and honestly? Maybe I think it too.” He breathes, trying to keep the hysterical edge off his tone. “Please? Trust me?”
Jensen cocks his head. God, he’s totally the guy. Even hotter in person.
What the fuck?
“But uh… can’t you tell me? What is it that you want to show me?”
“I…” Jared rubs the back of his head, the guy’s colleague give one more cat call and go in. The man takes a small step toward Jared, where he’s struggling to pack his things quickly, hoping he won’t change his mind. “I really think it’s better if I just show you. It’ll only take a minute.” He flashes his pad. “See? Artist. No psycho murderer.”
“Okay.” The guy says quietly.
“Great, great…” Jared panics. “Okay! Uh, this way.”
He knows he’s walking too fast, he knows he should try to talk to the guy, because he must be even more weirded out than him but… he’s just scared he’s going to run, hat he’s never going to see him again, to lose the certainty of what just happened even if he’s not sure of what it is. He really wants to have that guy stand next to his painting and make sure he’s not dreaming.
Jared is freaking out. So many things could happen if he sees the painting that Jared’s can’t even think of one for more than half a second and prepare for it.
“I’m Jensen.” He hears. Quiet. “Jensen Ackles.”
“Nice to meet you, uh... Jensen.” Jared babbles, finally manages to glance at the guy. “I’m sorry I’m so weird, but I promise the suspense will be over soon.”
“You’re not going to try and sell me crack, are you?”
“Well, you do look like those workaholic top management guys.” Jared jokes.
Jensen stops in his stride.
Right. Because you shouldn’t joke with guys you don’t know and are being really weird around. “Dude, I’m sorry, I’m kidding.” He adds quickly, hoping honesty on his face will get Jensen to believe him. “I know y’all aren’t the same. I’m not selling anything. Well, anything illegal. And, I’m not trying to sell it to you.”
“Huh.” Jensen smiles a little and starts to walk again. “Texan?”
“Ah, yeah.” The change of subject is surprising, but welcome.
“From where?” Jensen asks, something undefinable mixed with curiosity in his eyes.
“San Antonio.”
“Really?” He smiles. “Richardson.”
“Seriously? Sweet.” Jared actually grins, some tension working off and unlocks the door to the main hall of his building. He goes to the elevator. He would usually jog up the stairs, but he thinks he’s looked weird enough today.
“Penthouse, nice.” Jensen comments when he sees Jared push the top floor button.
“Yeah, not really.”
Jensen rubs the back of his neck and details the toe of his… hello! Boots. “I’m a really trusting guy. I only just met you, and I’m following you… home, I guess. You realize that?”
“Yeah.” Jared drawls. “In other circumstances, I’d tell you it’s risky but… I swear. See? I have an honest face.”
“Honest faces didn’t do me so much good in the past.” Jensen mutters as the elevator stops and opens.
“Well.” Jared says and opens his door. “I’ll try to break the vicious cycle. Come on in.” he huffs as he picks up Cassiel to keep him from running out. “I guess it all depends on your reaction.”
“Hm. Just so you know, I don’t usually do that.” Jensen says as he takes in his surroundings. He grins briefly at the cat in Jared’s arms and follows him up the stairs. He is not staring at the guy’s ass.
“So, I’m the weirdo, and you’re justifying yourself.” Jared states, amused.
“You’re an artist, you’re excused.”
“Nice to know.” Jared says and studies Jensen while he looks around.
He almost reaches out to touch the white marble statue on the bar, but lets his hand fall. Who would have though Chad would come up with a birthday gift that wasn’t for sex, once? Although, come to think of it maybe he meant it that way too.
Jared smirks and turns away.
“Nice, place. So what, uh…?”
Jensen froze mid step, as Jared pulled the sheet and uncovered, well… him. Jared glances again. Yeah, that is him. Exactly. “And I’m completely sure by now that I’ve never, ever met you before.” He says quietly.
Jensen is baffled by the way he looks on the canvas. It’s him. But it’s not. He’s not… he’s not hot. He’d know.
Jared looks as thrown by the whole ‘there’s a guy in my living room that looks like my painting’ thing, so Jensen feels himself trusting him a little bit. “Dude, you’ve been stalking me?”
There’s humor in his tone but Jared starts, as if he hasn’t even thought about this. “God, no!” he flails for a bit. “Please, don’t think that I just…. I saw you today, and I swear this is the same shock for you as it is for me. I wanted to… share it. Show you.”
“Relax.” Jensen says, and steps closer to get a better look. “You should see your face right now. If you’re lying, you should consider acting.”
Jared snorts. “I have. I suck.”
“So I trust you.” Jensen beams at him for a second and Jared’s knee go weak. He’s hot and… “So… how?”
Jared turns to the painting. “I don’t know. I don’t usually paint actual faces, no real people. I’ve been struggling with this one for weeks. I came out today for air and… poof. Imagine the shock.”
“I’m pretty sure I can.” Jensen muses, leaning in close, watching the details of the oil paint. “This is…”
“It’s not finished.” Jared says quickly. “There’s… still something not right. He’s…” he starts, meeting Jensen’s gaze as the man looks up to listen. He steps closer without knowing it. “…. the right shade of green…” he breathes out, cupping Jensen’s face and bringing him to the light.
Those eyes. That’s it.
Jensen’s eyes are wide, surprised, trapped, forced open by the intensity of Jared’s gaze. But surprisingly not that weirded out. Just confused.
Jared flushes when he realizes how intimate the touch is, his breath ghosting over Jensen’s, his thumbs on the man’s cheek. He’s leaned in close in his examination.
Instead of looking at the eyes, he suddenly finds himself looking into them.
He doesn’t miss the way Jensen’s briefly flicker to his lips without his consent. He moves imperceptibly closer.
Jensen meets his eyes again, his breath slightly shallow. They drift closer, even closer, and this time it’s Jared’s eyes that drift to the plum, full lips he’s touched so many times on canvas but they’re here now. Real, warm and alive.
He gives in a takes a dive, tastes them. Jensen tenses into the kiss, presses back, his fists balling on the long sleeved shirt Jared is wearing, just behind his elbows, almost pinching. A strange noise comes from the back of Jared’s throat. Jensen shudders.
They break apart, searching the other’s eyes, looking stunned and in awe. “God, you…” Jared’s thumb is grazing Jensen’s cheek, just like when he painted, and there’s a shiver running down his back.
“Shut up.” Jensen hisses and pulls him back down.
Part Two