Shipwrecked [1/?]
Title: Shipwrecked
Authors: sarcasticdaisy and brokenhrtbandit
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles, past Jared/Genevieve Cortese & Jensen/Christian Kane
Rating: Adult
Warnings: This story includes language, angst (but only a teensy bit), and some mild violence. And gay sex, if it weren’t already implied by the pairing. ;)
Disclaimer: This was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit made and no offense intended.
Summary: Jensen, the snarky, unabashed handyman who wears his heart on his sleeve, and Jared, the wealthy, superficial line producer who thinks he’s found true love in the boss’s daughter, couldn’t be more different. But when a cruel act of fate maroons them on an island, they must learn to endure each other’s company and accept each other’s differences in order to survive. 4,371 words in this chapter.
Note: Self-beta'd, so any and all mistakes are our own. This is also our first story together, so it might be noticeable in the first chapter. We're working on mending our styles/ideas each time we write.
Thank you so much, hay1ock, for the banner!
Chapter One
As soon as he wakes up, Jensen knows that something isn’t right. His hair is wet, fixed to his forehead in clumps, and his clothes are stiff. He can feel the grime of sand on all parts of his body, clinging to his arm and leg hairs stubbornly, and filling the crevice of his ears. The ocean rushes loud in his ears, like when he falls asleep while watching Chris surf, but Jensen didn’t fall asleep watching Chris surf. In fact, Jensen hasn’t seen Chris in over three days; Jensen has been working non-stop since last Thursday, when a man in a suit offered him forty-five dollars an hour to re-do the kitchenette in some yacht.
Jensen’s eyelids flutter open and he’s blinded by the brightness. The sun is beating down on his back, scorching his skin and the sand that surrounds him. His head, resting heavily in a mound of sand, feels explosive. Every time he blinks, the pain flares and sharpens. He’s sore everywhere, actually. His entire body feels like it has been thrown around by a four-hundred-pound wrestler, and then trampled by elephants. All Jensen can think while he stares at the long stretch of sand and listens to the water thrash harmoniously, is ow and what the hell happened?
He brushes his tongue over his lips, dry and cracked. He spits out a mouthful of sand before rising slowly. Lifting himself up with sore arms, he winces in pain. His face scrunches and he stumbles. Taking a deep breath, he is able to find his footing after a few seconds, and he sweeps his hands over his dirty clothing to expel some sand from his body.
This new and highly unpleasant predicament feels like the worst hangover in drinking history, and Jensen has to lift one hand to shield his eyes from the vicious sun’s pitiless rays.
He looks around. There are sand and rocks, what appears to be an endless beach, but little else. Behind him, palm trees and other bright green foliage dance vigorously. The land is unfamiliar and unobstructed by human hands.
With a sigh, he scrubs more sand from his face before digging into his pocket, in desperate need of a cigarette. What he finds is a soggy, sandy pack of mush that does nothing to quell his mood.
Pocketing his lighter, Jensen balls the pack of cigarettes in a fist and pelts it at the sand below. Apparently the sky in the Atlantic recovers well from storms, because the nefarious gray clouds from yesterday have dissipated, replaced by a never-ending stretch of undiluted blue.
A stark realization hits Jensen in the gut: He was on the yacht when the storm hit.
-
He was taking measurements for a small counter when they walked in. One tall brunette, wearing a tan suit over a pale shirt, with a dainty brunette attached to his arm. Jensen had seen the girl before - she was the daughter of the man he was working for - but the guy was a complete stranger.
He’d looked up when they entered the room. "Gen," the man protested, "We can’t take your dad’s yacht without his permission. I’ll get fi-oh, who’s this?"
Genevieve shot Jensen an impassive glance. "Don’t pay any attention to him. Daddy’s just getting some stuff re-done before we have another big party. And you will not get fired! I’ll tell him it was my idea." Her smirk was sickeningly seductive, with voluptuous lips that curved across her teeth and deep, chocolate eyes that darkened as she twisted her tiny body around the taller man. Jensen turned away before she could see him roll his eyes.
-
Jensen shakes his head. The young lovers, right. For a moment, he wonders if they are okay, and then promptly decides that he does not care. He wouldn’t put it past them to leave him here on this hellish island to rot, and considering, he is actually somewhat glad that they’re not around. He’s not sure if they would even bother helping him. Hell, he’s not sure if he’d want to help them if he weren’t so desperate to get away from this place.
Jensen starts walking along the length of the beach, not so bitter as to realize that this is exactly the sort of beauty that Chris would whole-heartedly appreciate. It is unfortunate that his friend isn’t here now, because Chris is the sort of person who can turn one man’s catastrophe into another’s adventure, and Jensen vows that if he ever gets off this god-forsaken island, he will most definitely bring Chris here.
The more he walks though, the less optimistic he feels.
His feet are damp and uncomfortable, rubbing back and forth inside his work boots. He feels like he’s wearing shoes of lead, but he trudges on. He wipes the sweat from his brow and stops. Glancing around, his head is pounding; he would kill for a cup of coffee right about now, and/or, a bottle of Jack and a cigarette, but…
If the others are on the island and they are okay, perhaps they have a cell phone or some other magic satellite wonder that is capable of calling out for a speedy rescue. Because as of now, alone, the situation is not looking too good and he could certainly use help.
To say this isn’t his day would be an understatement. He’s pretty sure this hasn’t been his year. Breaking up with Chris is something he can deal with, because sure, he loves Chris, but they’re still friends and Chris will still give Jensen a blowjob if they’re drunk. But this? Being marooned like he’s on Gilligan’s Island or something? Jensen’s not sure if he can deal with this.
Jensen isn’t even sure what he’s searching for, but his instinct is telling him to keep going; even though his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, and he’s got the worst case of jock itch in the history of bad jock itches. Jensen isn’t the type to go out like a wounded puppy.
When Jensen sees a giant tan lump floating toward the shore, he has to squint to make sure it isn’t a mirage. He’s not sure how long he’s been wandering the beach, but this is the first thing he’s seen that looks out of place. He jogs toward the lump, ignoring the burn in his groin and throat.
His forehead wrinkles and he curses low. It’s the boyfriend; his pretty face is squashed in the soggy sand and his chestnut hair looks like seaweed floating in the lazy, shallow current. Jensen sighs, kneeling down, his jeans soak up water as he pulls the young man’s head onto his lap.
The guy is huge. He’s got broad shoulders and a lean, narrow waist, and he’s so tall that he nearly reached the ceiling in the yacht. If Jensen didn’t know how big of an asshole he was, he’d think the guy was hot.
-
"Oh, hey, man. I’m Jay," he’d said after Genevieve explained who Jensen was, and extended his hand for Jensen to shake. He wore a friendly smile, but there was a condescending glint in his eye.
Jensen tentatively gripped the guy’s hand, murmuring, "Jensen," in return.
"Didn’t know they could get people to do this kind of work," Jay said, like ‘this kind of work’ was below him. His features were sharp, with high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose.
Jensen recoiled, bristling. Tension seared hot and angry in his shoulders.
Genevieve smirked, amused by her boyfriend’s comment. "Come on, Jay, I’ll show you my room," she suggested, throwing a pointed glance over her shoulder at Jensen and sauntering toward the hallway. Nice ass, Jensen thought, It’s too bad your boyfriend’s more my type.
-
Jensen’s not trained in CPR, but Chris showed him how to do it once when they first got together. Just in case. Chris has passed all sorts of random information onto Jensen. He’s like a walking, talking dictionary for all things water- and nature-related. So, even though he’s no professional, Jensen is the guy’s only chance.
Jensen tilts the guy’s - Jay’s, whatever his name is - head back, holds his nose, and leans forward to blow twice into his mouth. Jensen begins to panic when nothing happens; he’s never actually performed this on anyone.
He leans down to try again, lips so close; he is hovering when the guy finally comes to. Slowly, blinking open his eyes, his eyelashes flutter for a moment, and then suddenly, he is sitting up. His eyes wide and distrusting, he stumbles back into the water and Jensen stands, offering him his hand.
"Wha-" the guy starts, his brow creased in confusion. "What is this? What happened?" he asks. Looking around, he combs a hand through his ratty hair and his face contorts in disgust.
Jensen takes a few steps back then, dropping his hand. He looks around and when he is sure that nothing has changed, he looks back to the guy, and sighs.
"I don’t know. What do you remember? Do you remember the storm?"
The guy’s frown transforms into panic and bitter realization, and Jensen steps in closer, offering up his hand again. Jay shakes his head, pushing himself up. He’s tall, taller than Jensen remembers, and his body works as a shield, blocking the sun from Jensen’s view.
"Where’s Gen?" he asks, his voice rough and tinged with worry. He wipes his dirty hands against his sopping, filth-caked designer slacks and Jensen shakes his head, unsure of how to break the news.
"I don’t know," Jensen sighs. "I woke up alone somewhere down that way," he says, swiftly motioning behind himself.
Jay is stricken with a look of utter grief. He mutters, "Shit," and begins pacing. His shoes squelch with each anxious stride. His shoulders are hunched and his arms flutter about uselessly at his sides. "This isn’t happening. This can’t happen. This only happens in movies!" Jay babbles waveringly.
Jensen notices for a fleeting moment that Jay’s soggy pastel suit blends in with the surrounding beach, and he has to consciously refrain from making a snide remark. He’s pretty sure that holding a grudge isn’t going to emend their situation. "Look, Jay, is it?" He’s not sure why, but he has the insatiable urge to placate Jay’s nerves.
Maybe it’s because he looks like he’s on the verge of hysteria.
"Jared."
"Jared, look, I’m sure she’s fine. We both managed to survive. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t either?" Jensen comforts.
Jared stops pacing, as if realization has socked him square in the jaw, and turns stiffly to Jensen. "So, we’re really stuck here?"
Jensen nods curtly. "We’re really stuck here. But look, maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. Maybe Genevieve already found someone to call for help," he suggests, though the optimism sounds forced even in his own ears.
Jared’s jaw twitches and he brushes the hair from his face again before turning away, shoulders tense.
Jensen digs his fingernails into his palm, itching for a cigarette. He stands silently for a few minutes, staring out at the infinite clear blue sea. He waits for the inevitable blow up to begin and is surprised when the only thing he hears is Jared mutter something about sunscreen and hair gel and Oh, God his suit beneath his breath.
Jensen shakes his head; a few days together and he will surely strangle the brat. The idea that they may very well be trapped here together, and will be, possibly for several days, sets him even more on edge.
He starts to walk up the beach then stops cold when he hears Jared yell after, "Hey - where you going? You can’t leave me here." His voice is almost a wine, and his tone reminds Jensen of a drunken twink who tried to get rough with him in a bar a few months back.
He had knocked him one good, but from the floor, the guy had kept calling after him.
Jensen frowns; it is easy to see that Jared is not that kind of guy. He may be it bit much to take but he is in the same ill position, which is why they should probably stick together, for better or worse.
That doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.
Jensen looks over his shoulder; his waist is twisted slightly in Jared’s direction. "Well, Princess, you’re welcome to join me," he drones sarcastically. "That is, if you’re done complaining about your hair and nails and the dirt on your suit."
Jared’s face falls and his bottom lip protrudes in a frown of distaste. "Hey! This is an Armani suit," he spits, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. "I paid almost 300 dollars for the pants alone!"
Jensen gives him a look of mock abhorrence, though he is slightly repulsed that someone would actually pay 300 dollars for a pair of pants. "In case you haven’t noticed, my clothes are full of dirt and grime as well. The only thing we can do about it is accept it and move on. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to try to find a way out of this place." He turns away from Jared and takes long strides toward a cluster of trees, ignoring the faint protests from the other man.
He only makes it a few yards before he hears Jared’s sodden pants swish together behind him. "Glad to see that you’ve come to your senses," Jensen hums over his shoulder. The heavy, constant need for a cigarette is grating his nerves. His shoulders ache with want; his mind buzzes. Every inch of him is yearning for its fill of nicotine.
-
Jensen was on break, relishing of the cool, crisp sea air against his face, when Jared and Genevieve returned from her room. They both looked perfectly put together, but Jensen was positive from the flush on Jared’s neck that she was giving him more than just a tour while down there.
"Ugh, what is that smell?" Genevieve fussed, waving her hand in front of her face. Her eyes instantly flashed to Jensen, who stood against the rail with a cigarette halfway to his lips. His eyes were wide and unassuming, completely shocked by the outburst. He’d never been told that he couldn’t smoke on the boat. Usually Jensen wouldn’t have been so cautious around employers or their daughters, but he needed the money. "It’s horrible, even with the fresh air! Now the entire yacht is going to smell like cigarettes!"
Jensen instantly flicked the cigarette into the ocean, patting his chest as if it would get the smoke out of his clothes.
-
If he’s going to stay on this island with this guy for God knows how long, he’s going to need a smoke.
He contemplates turning back and going in search of the abandoned pack but then decides against it. He wouldn’t even know where to look. For now, he is just going to have to grit his teeth and bear. However, the last time Jensen tried to quite smoking, he and Chris got into a huge fight inside of Chris’s jeep. Furious, Jensen had slammed his foot into the windshield, nearly busting the glass -
They had been fighting over the Nassau surf competition that Chris had wanted to enter. It was stupid and pointless, and Jensen’s opinion did not matter one bit; Chris had already entered. They still fought for hours, and by the end, Jensen had a cigarette dangling from his lips and he was on fully on board with his boyfriend’s decision.
Chris won second place. They broke up two days later.
-
They have been walking for a while now, trudging up the beach. The entire walk, Jared has not shut up for more than thirty-second intervals and Jensen’s about to loose his shit.
Jared says something about how they should stay near the shore so that when a rescue does show they will be visible. Which is actually pretty sound advice but considering the sheer magnitude of uninhabited islands off the Atlantic, Jensen thinks a rescue party - this soon - is quite unlikely.
And after a good twenty minutes of enduring Jared’s self-absorbed opinions on everything under the sun, because apparently, he is the only one experiencing this nightmare, Jensen finally snaps, "Did you or Miss Cortese actually tell anyone that you were taking the yacht or did you just take it? Because if you just took it. If we are the only survivors, then who exactly is it that you’re so sure is coming?’
Jared’s face falls, and Jensen suddenly feels like the world’s biggest asshole.
Jensen sighs, placing one hand on his hip and throwing the other into the air in a shrug. "Look, I’m sorry, okay? You’re not the only one freaking out about this, you know?" He sighs again, wagging his head exasperatedly, as if searching for a way to explain this to someone so dissonant and antonymous to Jensen. "I just need you to be level-headed for right now…while we’re both freaking out. And while I’m in major need of a cigarette. Think you can do that?"
Jared looks like a lost puppy in his wrinkled Armani suit. His nose flares when he huffs, considering what Jensen has said. "So does that mean no more complaining about how gross my hair is going to look when I haven’t washed it in three days?" he asks, face set in stone, and Jensen wonders for a moment if Jared’s serious. Jensen’s sure there’s no possible way for one person to be so dense.
Just as Jensen begins to believe him, Jared’s lips quirk into a devilish smirk. "Dude, I’m joking. You don’t think I’m terrified of being left here to die? I may love my hair, but I’m not that shallow."
Jensen’s head falls back and he lets out a frustrated, yet lighthearted groan. Though he’s irritated with the guy, his limbs feel ten times lighter with the knowledge that Jared may not be as horrible as Jensen initially thought. "You are so much gayer than I am, dude."
"Wait, you’re gay?" Jared eyes him, scrutinizes. He looks fearful, like being stuck on an island with a gay man is the last thing he wants. Which, okay, Jensen can empathize, because being stuck on an island with some metrosexual trust-fund kid is not a high priority of his, either.
Jensen pauses, unsure. "Well…" he licks over his lips. Jensen doesn’t want to freak the kid out, but he’s either honest or he’s not, and Jensen’s never been one to lie. "Yeah. I mean…yeah."
Jared becomes quieter than he’s been the entire day. "Oh." Jensen can see the cranks turning in Jared’s mind. "It’s just. You don’t…" he begins, but Jensen interjects.
"I don’t what? Look gay?" Jensen retorts with a snort. "Not all gay men walk around with limp wrists and talk with a lisp, honey." He adds the last part for emphasis, not at all surprised by Jared’s reaction. When most people see him, they assume he’s straight because he doesn’t "act" or "look" gay. He’s been hit on several times by lonely women employers who think he’s going to be an easy lay, someone for them to hold while their husbands are away with girls in their twenties. People think because he wears work boots and has calloused hands, he’s straight, but just because Jensen wears "manly" clothes and has a "manly" job does not mean he doesn’t love the feeling of another guy’s dick shoved so far up his ass that he can barely think coherently.
Because Jensen enjoys that just as much as he enjoys shoving his dick so far into another guy’s ass that he becomes incoherent.
And then Jared throws his head back, and he’s letting out a laugh that fills the sky with echoes. "But all gay men say ‘honey,’ right?" Jared crows.
Jensen nods smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think I’ve made my point," he replies, then throws himself onto the warm sand below. It burns his ass, but he’s got to get out of these boots and let his feet dry. They’re starting to burn and itch from lack of fresh air.
He stretches out his arms and groans low as he reaches out to unlace his boots. Jared sends him a curious look and Jensen smiles up at him. The sun is beaming in his eyes but he can see white teeth and the faint outline of a returning smile, and Jensen’s smile widens playfully.
Jensen is not typically one to make friends. He has plenty of acquaintances but the few friends he has, he met through Chris. The fact that he is presently warming up to Jared is a huge leap. One that he is seriously grateful for and truly hopes, for both of their sakes, that this ‘easy going’ vibe they are now sharing will continue to flourish. He’s still achy and tense, and the all-consuming craving for nicotine hasn’t faded completely, but it has lessened significantly.
Jared leans down to clear away a few twigs in the sand before sitting down across from him. Back to the sun, Jared crosses one leg over his knee, and Jensen watches the careful way in which Jared sets his shoes aside while pulling off his own boot.
Jensen cocks an eyebrow at the way Jared meticulously places one shoe directly next to the other, and rolls up his socks to fit into each toe. "Well, gee, Princess, are you waiting on Prince Charming to come find your glass slipper?" Jensen prods, gazing back to his own boots, which are lying lopsided with the laces haphazardly strewn across the sand. His socks are curled up in the sand, blending with the rocks and rubble.
Jared scans over the messily piled articles, eyes completely deadpan. "Dude, could you not call me Princess?" he mutters. "Just because I like things a certain way doesn’t mean I’m a princess. Plus, I’d like to be able to find these at one point. This sand gets pretty damn hot, in case you haven’t noticed."
Jensen cocks his head in a nod. "Guess you got me there," he admits. Jensen can tell his humor is not Jared’s cup of tea, so he reluctantly backs off. He likes the idea of driving Jared crazy. He doesn’t, however, like the idea of being stuck on this island with someone who finds him unbearable. Jensen pulls his shirt over his head so that he’s wearing only a sticky white undershirt.
"How about we post here tonight," he suggests. "It’s still bright out, but the sun is setting fast…and I don’t think it’s such a good idea to go deep into an uninhibited island when it’s nearly dark. Tomorrow we can search for food while scoping the place." There’s no way of knowing what time it is. Somewhere along the line, he had lost his watch. He wonders what time it is now, how long they have before the sun will inevitably go down. The sun is still beating down on them viciously and sits low and lazy in the sky, so Jensen’s sure it’s sometime in the late afternoon.
Jared nods, discarding his own suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves on his pink shirt. Jensen searches his arm, but discovers bitingly that he isn’t wearing a watch either. Jared balls the shirt up before lying back to place his head on it, staring vacantly into the clouds above.
This is when Jensen becomes aware of his own fatigue.
His body still aches, and his muscles are strewn tight, but Jared is not complaining and Jensen bites his tongue; he’s not about to start bitching, either…
They have a plan now, a task of which Jared is fully on board with, and Jensen glances up at the sky.
The storm had come out of nowhere, and the dazzling sun had disappeared just before the sky was blanketed with dark, angry black clouds. Wind ruffled the water, shallow dips as sharp cool air wiped in from the east -
There had been no time to prepare for what happened next.
-
The boat thrashed about, jouncing with the waves, teetering with the force of the wind. All of Jensen’s tools, all of the furniture, shifted inside the yacht’s cabins. The TV in the main cabin smashed to the floor with a startling bang, then slid into the cabinet of books on the far wall with a trail of glass in its wake. Picture frames flew from the walls, shattering dangerously on the other side of the room. Glass littered the floor and spewed carelessly from kitchen cabinets, flying hazardously throughout the room.
Jared and Genevieve came storming out of one of the back rooms completely disheveled and confounded. Their widened, frightened eyes mirrored Jensen’s, and all three of them stood stiff with apprehension. There wasn’t time to think or blink or breathe. There was only time to go. All three of them clambered toward the stairs, scaling the walls for support while trying to avoid the random flying objects.
The sky roared angrily, in cadence with the waves pummeling the side of the yacht. The sound was louder than anything Jensen had ever heard. It reverberated and rang in his ears; it howled and whooshed and thundered. Jensen couldn’t hear anything else or see anything but the shaky interior of the cabin. He waded up the stairs slowly, with Genevieve and Jared in tow.
When they reached the deck, Jensen heard a shrill scream, but was met with the salty sting of waves before he could turn around. Waves enveloped him and carried him off of his feet. His screams mixed with the overbearing sounds of the storm and then were smothered by the water that surrounded him. All around him there was water. Water and blackness and fear. He fought against the waves desperately and struggled for breath, but the relentless waves threw him from side to side. He grasped uselessly for something to hold onto.
There was nothing. Nothing…
Please comment here!
Chapter Two
Authors: sarcasticdaisy and brokenhrtbandit
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles, past Jared/Genevieve Cortese & Jensen/Christian Kane
Rating: Adult
Warnings: This story includes language, angst (but only a teensy bit), and some mild violence. And gay sex, if it weren’t already implied by the pairing. ;)
Disclaimer: This was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit made and no offense intended.
Summary: Jensen, the snarky, unabashed handyman who wears his heart on his sleeve, and Jared, the wealthy, superficial line producer who thinks he’s found true love in the boss’s daughter, couldn’t be more different. But when a cruel act of fate maroons them on an island, they must learn to endure each other’s company and accept each other’s differences in order to survive. 4,371 words in this chapter.
Note: Self-beta'd, so any and all mistakes are our own. This is also our first story together, so it might be noticeable in the first chapter. We're working on mending our styles/ideas each time we write.
Thank you so much, hay1ock, for the banner!
Chapter One
As soon as he wakes up, Jensen knows that something isn’t right. His hair is wet, fixed to his forehead in clumps, and his clothes are stiff. He can feel the grime of sand on all parts of his body, clinging to his arm and leg hairs stubbornly, and filling the crevice of his ears. The ocean rushes loud in his ears, like when he falls asleep while watching Chris surf, but Jensen didn’t fall asleep watching Chris surf. In fact, Jensen hasn’t seen Chris in over three days; Jensen has been working non-stop since last Thursday, when a man in a suit offered him forty-five dollars an hour to re-do the kitchenette in some yacht.
Jensen’s eyelids flutter open and he’s blinded by the brightness. The sun is beating down on his back, scorching his skin and the sand that surrounds him. His head, resting heavily in a mound of sand, feels explosive. Every time he blinks, the pain flares and sharpens. He’s sore everywhere, actually. His entire body feels like it has been thrown around by a four-hundred-pound wrestler, and then trampled by elephants. All Jensen can think while he stares at the long stretch of sand and listens to the water thrash harmoniously, is ow and what the hell happened?
He brushes his tongue over his lips, dry and cracked. He spits out a mouthful of sand before rising slowly. Lifting himself up with sore arms, he winces in pain. His face scrunches and he stumbles. Taking a deep breath, he is able to find his footing after a few seconds, and he sweeps his hands over his dirty clothing to expel some sand from his body.
This new and highly unpleasant predicament feels like the worst hangover in drinking history, and Jensen has to lift one hand to shield his eyes from the vicious sun’s pitiless rays.
He looks around. There are sand and rocks, what appears to be an endless beach, but little else. Behind him, palm trees and other bright green foliage dance vigorously. The land is unfamiliar and unobstructed by human hands.
With a sigh, he scrubs more sand from his face before digging into his pocket, in desperate need of a cigarette. What he finds is a soggy, sandy pack of mush that does nothing to quell his mood.
Pocketing his lighter, Jensen balls the pack of cigarettes in a fist and pelts it at the sand below. Apparently the sky in the Atlantic recovers well from storms, because the nefarious gray clouds from yesterday have dissipated, replaced by a never-ending stretch of undiluted blue.
A stark realization hits Jensen in the gut: He was on the yacht when the storm hit.
-
He was taking measurements for a small counter when they walked in. One tall brunette, wearing a tan suit over a pale shirt, with a dainty brunette attached to his arm. Jensen had seen the girl before - she was the daughter of the man he was working for - but the guy was a complete stranger.
He’d looked up when they entered the room. "Gen," the man protested, "We can’t take your dad’s yacht without his permission. I’ll get fi-oh, who’s this?"
Genevieve shot Jensen an impassive glance. "Don’t pay any attention to him. Daddy’s just getting some stuff re-done before we have another big party. And you will not get fired! I’ll tell him it was my idea." Her smirk was sickeningly seductive, with voluptuous lips that curved across her teeth and deep, chocolate eyes that darkened as she twisted her tiny body around the taller man. Jensen turned away before she could see him roll his eyes.
-
Jensen shakes his head. The young lovers, right. For a moment, he wonders if they are okay, and then promptly decides that he does not care. He wouldn’t put it past them to leave him here on this hellish island to rot, and considering, he is actually somewhat glad that they’re not around. He’s not sure if they would even bother helping him. Hell, he’s not sure if he’d want to help them if he weren’t so desperate to get away from this place.
Jensen starts walking along the length of the beach, not so bitter as to realize that this is exactly the sort of beauty that Chris would whole-heartedly appreciate. It is unfortunate that his friend isn’t here now, because Chris is the sort of person who can turn one man’s catastrophe into another’s adventure, and Jensen vows that if he ever gets off this god-forsaken island, he will most definitely bring Chris here.
The more he walks though, the less optimistic he feels.
His feet are damp and uncomfortable, rubbing back and forth inside his work boots. He feels like he’s wearing shoes of lead, but he trudges on. He wipes the sweat from his brow and stops. Glancing around, his head is pounding; he would kill for a cup of coffee right about now, and/or, a bottle of Jack and a cigarette, but…
If the others are on the island and they are okay, perhaps they have a cell phone or some other magic satellite wonder that is capable of calling out for a speedy rescue. Because as of now, alone, the situation is not looking too good and he could certainly use help.
To say this isn’t his day would be an understatement. He’s pretty sure this hasn’t been his year. Breaking up with Chris is something he can deal with, because sure, he loves Chris, but they’re still friends and Chris will still give Jensen a blowjob if they’re drunk. But this? Being marooned like he’s on Gilligan’s Island or something? Jensen’s not sure if he can deal with this.
Jensen isn’t even sure what he’s searching for, but his instinct is telling him to keep going; even though his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, and he’s got the worst case of jock itch in the history of bad jock itches. Jensen isn’t the type to go out like a wounded puppy.
When Jensen sees a giant tan lump floating toward the shore, he has to squint to make sure it isn’t a mirage. He’s not sure how long he’s been wandering the beach, but this is the first thing he’s seen that looks out of place. He jogs toward the lump, ignoring the burn in his groin and throat.
His forehead wrinkles and he curses low. It’s the boyfriend; his pretty face is squashed in the soggy sand and his chestnut hair looks like seaweed floating in the lazy, shallow current. Jensen sighs, kneeling down, his jeans soak up water as he pulls the young man’s head onto his lap.
The guy is huge. He’s got broad shoulders and a lean, narrow waist, and he’s so tall that he nearly reached the ceiling in the yacht. If Jensen didn’t know how big of an asshole he was, he’d think the guy was hot.
-
"Oh, hey, man. I’m Jay," he’d said after Genevieve explained who Jensen was, and extended his hand for Jensen to shake. He wore a friendly smile, but there was a condescending glint in his eye.
Jensen tentatively gripped the guy’s hand, murmuring, "Jensen," in return.
"Didn’t know they could get people to do this kind of work," Jay said, like ‘this kind of work’ was below him. His features were sharp, with high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose.
Jensen recoiled, bristling. Tension seared hot and angry in his shoulders.
Genevieve smirked, amused by her boyfriend’s comment. "Come on, Jay, I’ll show you my room," she suggested, throwing a pointed glance over her shoulder at Jensen and sauntering toward the hallway. Nice ass, Jensen thought, It’s too bad your boyfriend’s more my type.
-
Jensen’s not trained in CPR, but Chris showed him how to do it once when they first got together. Just in case. Chris has passed all sorts of random information onto Jensen. He’s like a walking, talking dictionary for all things water- and nature-related. So, even though he’s no professional, Jensen is the guy’s only chance.
Jensen tilts the guy’s - Jay’s, whatever his name is - head back, holds his nose, and leans forward to blow twice into his mouth. Jensen begins to panic when nothing happens; he’s never actually performed this on anyone.
He leans down to try again, lips so close; he is hovering when the guy finally comes to. Slowly, blinking open his eyes, his eyelashes flutter for a moment, and then suddenly, he is sitting up. His eyes wide and distrusting, he stumbles back into the water and Jensen stands, offering him his hand.
"Wha-" the guy starts, his brow creased in confusion. "What is this? What happened?" he asks. Looking around, he combs a hand through his ratty hair and his face contorts in disgust.
Jensen takes a few steps back then, dropping his hand. He looks around and when he is sure that nothing has changed, he looks back to the guy, and sighs.
"I don’t know. What do you remember? Do you remember the storm?"
The guy’s frown transforms into panic and bitter realization, and Jensen steps in closer, offering up his hand again. Jay shakes his head, pushing himself up. He’s tall, taller than Jensen remembers, and his body works as a shield, blocking the sun from Jensen’s view.
"Where’s Gen?" he asks, his voice rough and tinged with worry. He wipes his dirty hands against his sopping, filth-caked designer slacks and Jensen shakes his head, unsure of how to break the news.
"I don’t know," Jensen sighs. "I woke up alone somewhere down that way," he says, swiftly motioning behind himself.
Jay is stricken with a look of utter grief. He mutters, "Shit," and begins pacing. His shoes squelch with each anxious stride. His shoulders are hunched and his arms flutter about uselessly at his sides. "This isn’t happening. This can’t happen. This only happens in movies!" Jay babbles waveringly.
Jensen notices for a fleeting moment that Jay’s soggy pastel suit blends in with the surrounding beach, and he has to consciously refrain from making a snide remark. He’s pretty sure that holding a grudge isn’t going to emend their situation. "Look, Jay, is it?" He’s not sure why, but he has the insatiable urge to placate Jay’s nerves.
Maybe it’s because he looks like he’s on the verge of hysteria.
"Jared."
"Jared, look, I’m sure she’s fine. We both managed to survive. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t either?" Jensen comforts.
Jared stops pacing, as if realization has socked him square in the jaw, and turns stiffly to Jensen. "So, we’re really stuck here?"
Jensen nods curtly. "We’re really stuck here. But look, maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. Maybe Genevieve already found someone to call for help," he suggests, though the optimism sounds forced even in his own ears.
Jared’s jaw twitches and he brushes the hair from his face again before turning away, shoulders tense.
Jensen digs his fingernails into his palm, itching for a cigarette. He stands silently for a few minutes, staring out at the infinite clear blue sea. He waits for the inevitable blow up to begin and is surprised when the only thing he hears is Jared mutter something about sunscreen and hair gel and Oh, God his suit beneath his breath.
Jensen shakes his head; a few days together and he will surely strangle the brat. The idea that they may very well be trapped here together, and will be, possibly for several days, sets him even more on edge.
He starts to walk up the beach then stops cold when he hears Jared yell after, "Hey - where you going? You can’t leave me here." His voice is almost a wine, and his tone reminds Jensen of a drunken twink who tried to get rough with him in a bar a few months back.
He had knocked him one good, but from the floor, the guy had kept calling after him.
Jensen frowns; it is easy to see that Jared is not that kind of guy. He may be it bit much to take but he is in the same ill position, which is why they should probably stick together, for better or worse.
That doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.
Jensen looks over his shoulder; his waist is twisted slightly in Jared’s direction. "Well, Princess, you’re welcome to join me," he drones sarcastically. "That is, if you’re done complaining about your hair and nails and the dirt on your suit."
Jared’s face falls and his bottom lip protrudes in a frown of distaste. "Hey! This is an Armani suit," he spits, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. "I paid almost 300 dollars for the pants alone!"
Jensen gives him a look of mock abhorrence, though he is slightly repulsed that someone would actually pay 300 dollars for a pair of pants. "In case you haven’t noticed, my clothes are full of dirt and grime as well. The only thing we can do about it is accept it and move on. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to try to find a way out of this place." He turns away from Jared and takes long strides toward a cluster of trees, ignoring the faint protests from the other man.
He only makes it a few yards before he hears Jared’s sodden pants swish together behind him. "Glad to see that you’ve come to your senses," Jensen hums over his shoulder. The heavy, constant need for a cigarette is grating his nerves. His shoulders ache with want; his mind buzzes. Every inch of him is yearning for its fill of nicotine.
-
Jensen was on break, relishing of the cool, crisp sea air against his face, when Jared and Genevieve returned from her room. They both looked perfectly put together, but Jensen was positive from the flush on Jared’s neck that she was giving him more than just a tour while down there.
"Ugh, what is that smell?" Genevieve fussed, waving her hand in front of her face. Her eyes instantly flashed to Jensen, who stood against the rail with a cigarette halfway to his lips. His eyes were wide and unassuming, completely shocked by the outburst. He’d never been told that he couldn’t smoke on the boat. Usually Jensen wouldn’t have been so cautious around employers or their daughters, but he needed the money. "It’s horrible, even with the fresh air! Now the entire yacht is going to smell like cigarettes!"
Jensen instantly flicked the cigarette into the ocean, patting his chest as if it would get the smoke out of his clothes.
-
If he’s going to stay on this island with this guy for God knows how long, he’s going to need a smoke.
He contemplates turning back and going in search of the abandoned pack but then decides against it. He wouldn’t even know where to look. For now, he is just going to have to grit his teeth and bear. However, the last time Jensen tried to quite smoking, he and Chris got into a huge fight inside of Chris’s jeep. Furious, Jensen had slammed his foot into the windshield, nearly busting the glass -
They had been fighting over the Nassau surf competition that Chris had wanted to enter. It was stupid and pointless, and Jensen’s opinion did not matter one bit; Chris had already entered. They still fought for hours, and by the end, Jensen had a cigarette dangling from his lips and he was on fully on board with his boyfriend’s decision.
Chris won second place. They broke up two days later.
-
They have been walking for a while now, trudging up the beach. The entire walk, Jared has not shut up for more than thirty-second intervals and Jensen’s about to loose his shit.
Jared says something about how they should stay near the shore so that when a rescue does show they will be visible. Which is actually pretty sound advice but considering the sheer magnitude of uninhabited islands off the Atlantic, Jensen thinks a rescue party - this soon - is quite unlikely.
And after a good twenty minutes of enduring Jared’s self-absorbed opinions on everything under the sun, because apparently, he is the only one experiencing this nightmare, Jensen finally snaps, "Did you or Miss Cortese actually tell anyone that you were taking the yacht or did you just take it? Because if you just took it. If we are the only survivors, then who exactly is it that you’re so sure is coming?’
Jared’s face falls, and Jensen suddenly feels like the world’s biggest asshole.
Jensen sighs, placing one hand on his hip and throwing the other into the air in a shrug. "Look, I’m sorry, okay? You’re not the only one freaking out about this, you know?" He sighs again, wagging his head exasperatedly, as if searching for a way to explain this to someone so dissonant and antonymous to Jensen. "I just need you to be level-headed for right now…while we’re both freaking out. And while I’m in major need of a cigarette. Think you can do that?"
Jared looks like a lost puppy in his wrinkled Armani suit. His nose flares when he huffs, considering what Jensen has said. "So does that mean no more complaining about how gross my hair is going to look when I haven’t washed it in three days?" he asks, face set in stone, and Jensen wonders for a moment if Jared’s serious. Jensen’s sure there’s no possible way for one person to be so dense.
Just as Jensen begins to believe him, Jared’s lips quirk into a devilish smirk. "Dude, I’m joking. You don’t think I’m terrified of being left here to die? I may love my hair, but I’m not that shallow."
Jensen’s head falls back and he lets out a frustrated, yet lighthearted groan. Though he’s irritated with the guy, his limbs feel ten times lighter with the knowledge that Jared may not be as horrible as Jensen initially thought. "You are so much gayer than I am, dude."
"Wait, you’re gay?" Jared eyes him, scrutinizes. He looks fearful, like being stuck on an island with a gay man is the last thing he wants. Which, okay, Jensen can empathize, because being stuck on an island with some metrosexual trust-fund kid is not a high priority of his, either.
Jensen pauses, unsure. "Well…" he licks over his lips. Jensen doesn’t want to freak the kid out, but he’s either honest or he’s not, and Jensen’s never been one to lie. "Yeah. I mean…yeah."
Jared becomes quieter than he’s been the entire day. "Oh." Jensen can see the cranks turning in Jared’s mind. "It’s just. You don’t…" he begins, but Jensen interjects.
"I don’t what? Look gay?" Jensen retorts with a snort. "Not all gay men walk around with limp wrists and talk with a lisp, honey." He adds the last part for emphasis, not at all surprised by Jared’s reaction. When most people see him, they assume he’s straight because he doesn’t "act" or "look" gay. He’s been hit on several times by lonely women employers who think he’s going to be an easy lay, someone for them to hold while their husbands are away with girls in their twenties. People think because he wears work boots and has calloused hands, he’s straight, but just because Jensen wears "manly" clothes and has a "manly" job does not mean he doesn’t love the feeling of another guy’s dick shoved so far up his ass that he can barely think coherently.
Because Jensen enjoys that just as much as he enjoys shoving his dick so far into another guy’s ass that he becomes incoherent.
And then Jared throws his head back, and he’s letting out a laugh that fills the sky with echoes. "But all gay men say ‘honey,’ right?" Jared crows.
Jensen nods smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think I’ve made my point," he replies, then throws himself onto the warm sand below. It burns his ass, but he’s got to get out of these boots and let his feet dry. They’re starting to burn and itch from lack of fresh air.
He stretches out his arms and groans low as he reaches out to unlace his boots. Jared sends him a curious look and Jensen smiles up at him. The sun is beaming in his eyes but he can see white teeth and the faint outline of a returning smile, and Jensen’s smile widens playfully.
Jensen is not typically one to make friends. He has plenty of acquaintances but the few friends he has, he met through Chris. The fact that he is presently warming up to Jared is a huge leap. One that he is seriously grateful for and truly hopes, for both of their sakes, that this ‘easy going’ vibe they are now sharing will continue to flourish. He’s still achy and tense, and the all-consuming craving for nicotine hasn’t faded completely, but it has lessened significantly.
Jared leans down to clear away a few twigs in the sand before sitting down across from him. Back to the sun, Jared crosses one leg over his knee, and Jensen watches the careful way in which Jared sets his shoes aside while pulling off his own boot.
Jensen cocks an eyebrow at the way Jared meticulously places one shoe directly next to the other, and rolls up his socks to fit into each toe. "Well, gee, Princess, are you waiting on Prince Charming to come find your glass slipper?" Jensen prods, gazing back to his own boots, which are lying lopsided with the laces haphazardly strewn across the sand. His socks are curled up in the sand, blending with the rocks and rubble.
Jared scans over the messily piled articles, eyes completely deadpan. "Dude, could you not call me Princess?" he mutters. "Just because I like things a certain way doesn’t mean I’m a princess. Plus, I’d like to be able to find these at one point. This sand gets pretty damn hot, in case you haven’t noticed."
Jensen cocks his head in a nod. "Guess you got me there," he admits. Jensen can tell his humor is not Jared’s cup of tea, so he reluctantly backs off. He likes the idea of driving Jared crazy. He doesn’t, however, like the idea of being stuck on this island with someone who finds him unbearable. Jensen pulls his shirt over his head so that he’s wearing only a sticky white undershirt.
"How about we post here tonight," he suggests. "It’s still bright out, but the sun is setting fast…and I don’t think it’s such a good idea to go deep into an uninhibited island when it’s nearly dark. Tomorrow we can search for food while scoping the place." There’s no way of knowing what time it is. Somewhere along the line, he had lost his watch. He wonders what time it is now, how long they have before the sun will inevitably go down. The sun is still beating down on them viciously and sits low and lazy in the sky, so Jensen’s sure it’s sometime in the late afternoon.
Jared nods, discarding his own suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves on his pink shirt. Jensen searches his arm, but discovers bitingly that he isn’t wearing a watch either. Jared balls the shirt up before lying back to place his head on it, staring vacantly into the clouds above.
This is when Jensen becomes aware of his own fatigue.
His body still aches, and his muscles are strewn tight, but Jared is not complaining and Jensen bites his tongue; he’s not about to start bitching, either…
They have a plan now, a task of which Jared is fully on board with, and Jensen glances up at the sky.
The storm had come out of nowhere, and the dazzling sun had disappeared just before the sky was blanketed with dark, angry black clouds. Wind ruffled the water, shallow dips as sharp cool air wiped in from the east -
There had been no time to prepare for what happened next.
-
The boat thrashed about, jouncing with the waves, teetering with the force of the wind. All of Jensen’s tools, all of the furniture, shifted inside the yacht’s cabins. The TV in the main cabin smashed to the floor with a startling bang, then slid into the cabinet of books on the far wall with a trail of glass in its wake. Picture frames flew from the walls, shattering dangerously on the other side of the room. Glass littered the floor and spewed carelessly from kitchen cabinets, flying hazardously throughout the room.
Jared and Genevieve came storming out of one of the back rooms completely disheveled and confounded. Their widened, frightened eyes mirrored Jensen’s, and all three of them stood stiff with apprehension. There wasn’t time to think or blink or breathe. There was only time to go. All three of them clambered toward the stairs, scaling the walls for support while trying to avoid the random flying objects.
The sky roared angrily, in cadence with the waves pummeling the side of the yacht. The sound was louder than anything Jensen had ever heard. It reverberated and rang in his ears; it howled and whooshed and thundered. Jensen couldn’t hear anything else or see anything but the shaky interior of the cabin. He waded up the stairs slowly, with Genevieve and Jared in tow.
When they reached the deck, Jensen heard a shrill scream, but was met with the salty sting of waves before he could turn around. Waves enveloped him and carried him off of his feet. His screams mixed with the overbearing sounds of the storm and then were smothered by the water that surrounded him. All around him there was water. Water and blackness and fear. He fought against the waves desperately and struggled for breath, but the relentless waves threw him from side to side. He grasped uselessly for something to hold onto.
There was nothing. Nothing…
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Chapter Two