A Season of Recovery (J2, 2/2)
Six weeks into Jared Padalecki’s weird little detour into the world of therapeutic gardening, he has learned how to do a lot of shit in glasshouses which has no possible relevance to his life outside this interlude. His knee is way too fucked up still to do any heavy digging, which honestly he thinks might have helped his mental state more. He’s mostly been prepping little pots ready for family therapy groups to plant seeds, and come back and check on them weekly. And also ordering a shit-ton of products for the spring, which he may or may not have mostly paid for himself, until Danni told Jensen he was messing up the accounts that way.
Pruning, too. Pruning - or at least overseeing pruning - is within the range of a washed-up, busted NHL star, and Jared has been a part of pruning groups pretty often. It’s the only time he’s really been working with the centre’s clients, and he’ll admit to having been nervous at the start, but it turned out easy. The centre does have qualified therapists, Jensen among them, but it also has a bunch of helpers like Jared, who enjoy getting their hands dirty in a good cause, and no one expects Jared to come up with brilliant insights into dealing with tragedy, anxiety or trauma.
He tries pretty hard not to ask, actually. Why someone ended up here isn’t anyone’s business but theirs. But it’s not hard to tell a lot of the time. There are divorcing families, and bereaved families, and you wouldn’t think it was possible for them to have such distinct styles in potting bulbs, but seriously, he can tell a mile off which it is. There are guys with angry bulging forehead veins and women with painfully-twisting hands and a bunch of people of both genders who pop pills along with their coffee breaks, on a strict schedule.
There are also people who won’t look Jared in the eye, or come near him. He asked Jensen, once, if he should avoid them. Jensen shook his head. “I’ll tell you, if there’s someone with a real issue with big guys. Some people have flashbacks, or whatever, and some days it’s best to give them a lot of space. But mostly, Jay, they’d be scared of you if you were five nothing and eighty pounds. It’s people, not you.”
After that, Jared tries to talk more, not less, and stop hiding. He started out thinking the centre was all about the plants, but he’s learning all the time that the rhythm of gardening is just the steady background to people finding ways to tolerate being with people. Once upon a time, Jared used to be good with people. He still is, in parts, with reporters and rookies and overcome fans having the experience of a lifetime. It’s the rest of humanity, who want a piece of Jared, that’s gotten tougher over the years. These guys, who mostly don’t give a fuck about hockey, are easy to get along with.
He brings cookies, and hazelnut syrup for the coffee, and a recipe for squash stew that his mom used to make and some people seem semi-enthused by (it’s late March now and the squash pile is much smaller. But still, you know, inexorable). His best day is when the Dearne family are headed toward some kind of trowel duel and he manages to make big, aggressive Mickey laugh at the right moment, so they leave in a half-decent mood in their two separate vehicles, and don’t have the rigid, agonised look they usually quit the centre with. Danni gives Jared a nod for that one, a real, approving, Yep. You did good.
Publicity? There’s been some. Jared’s twitter has lain pretty much fallow, but he posted a couple of pictures, getting his hands dirty mostly, and one of Jensen and Danni sweating over spreading a pile of freshly-rotted manure. Barons TV did make a feature, too, which hasn’t gone out yet, but he thinks will be okay. Teena, the centre’s once-a-week accountant, tells him the donations link he tweets regularly keeps on giving. It’s not exactly what Jared originally had in mind - he’d maybe pictured millions pouring in and a dazzled Jensen admitting Jared’s still a worthwhile human while Jared’s offered a multi-year multi-million contract that’ll see out his good years in style. But it’s something.
Jared actually feels better.
Then Kenny calls again.
*
“So, I’d be prepared,” are the first words he says. Which are not good words. He follows up with, “I think the Sabres might take you on a three-year. Or just maybe the Yotes. But-“
“What.” Jared’s been mentally practising this one since Jensen pulled it on him. He gets it nearly deadpan, to cover what’s going on inside. He doesn’t want to move to Buffalo. Or fucking Arizona. He doesn’t want to play for bottom-of-the-league no-hopers. He’d seriously prefer the fucking Jackets.
“Seems like your reputation really says, uh, troublemaker. I think those may be your only options. If you go to free agency, uh,” Kenny pauses. “I could negotiate,” he continues. “You’d have to take a salary cut, but we could probably get you on short term at Edmonton or-“
Jared hangs up. Seriously, he’s that level of toxic? Considering all the other shit that’s gone down, all the players arrested and cautioned and photographed in compromising positions and whatever, how come he’s especially singled out?
He calls the Barons office, and demands to speak to Sayers. They try to deny he’s around, but there’s a fucking home game tonight and Sayers isn’t the type to miss out. Jared holds on.
It’s a painful conversation. And it ends with Sayers saying, “Look. We liked your hockey enough to tolerate a lot. But that knee maybe won’t come right. And you’re a big risk, with your drinking and all.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.” Jared hasn’t really drunk since he’s been working at Ground State. It hasn’t been a big temptation. He’s pretty confident about this.
“No, but you suck a lot of dick when you’re wasted,” says Sayers. “And I’m kind of tired of clearing up after you.” He hangs up.
Jared takes a long time before he realises he doesn’t have to hold on to his phone any more. That… was unexpected.
The good thing about not having drunk much in six weeks? Jared still has a lot of beer in his fridge, and his tolerance has dropped enough that four cans in he’s starting to relax a little. But he drinks the rest on principle.
*
There is a loud knocking on the door. But Jared's not in a hotel. He's not late for breakfast, for practice, for a flight… Who the hell is knocking? And why does he feel like seven sorts of shit?
Beer, is the easier one to answer. Lots of beer. Also, he's asleep on his couch (surrounded by beer cans), and his knee is screaming at him for not having treated it with proper respect.
He shouts at the noisy person at the door. "Gonna take a while, my leg's locked up."
"You okay?" It's Jensen, apparently. It's been eight years since he yelled at Jared through a door, but it's too familiar to be surprised. "I thought you might have fallen."
Jared makes it from couch to vertical, swearing under his breath. "Why are you even here?" he manages when his knee stops screaming.
"You're late." Jensen bawls. "Two hours late. Well, three now."
Oh. Yeah. Jared was going to help out with the school session. Damn. He enjoys the mess of a bunch of kids and a bunch of dirt. Also, all hands are welcome to cope, and he- "I let you down," is what he says when he's wrestled the front door open. "I'm sorry."
Jensen shrugs. "Not a big deal. Glad you're okay." He pauses. "Uh, are you okay?" Jared doesn't know how he looks, but apparently it's not good.
He shrugs. "Yeah. I guess. Career's over. But I'm alive. You want a permanent volunteer?"
Jensen says, very carefully, "I think you need a shower and a change of clothes. You need help with any of that?"
"You listening to me?" There's a note in Jared's voice that is piteous, and he hates it. "You hear what I said? You pleased? I left you for hockey, and now you win-"
"I think you drank yourself stupid, Jay, and you reek," is all the comeback he gets. But Jensen's shoulder is under his, supporting. "Please tell me you can strip yourself and get clean, because I'm not exactly keen to help. But I'll be here when you finish, okay?"
In the shower, even with the awkwardness of waterproofing round his incisions, Jared starts to feel both better and dumber. His stomach is rolling, messy with emotion, hangover and embarrassment. Now is a time which would be better spent alone. But he blew through that opportunity, right? Demanding Jensen's attention like a brat.
He makes it into sweats and a soft, consoling, ancient tee, and limps into the kitchen, avoiding crutches. His knee complains at him, but that doesn't matter anymore.
Jensen's sitting with a mug of coffee, flicking through a heap of mail and apparently sorting bills from junk from begging letters. Amazing. He used to organise Jared's life in small ways, way back. Just like this, with the paperwork. On the other hand, Jensen's not rushing to get coffee for the injured guy, and he doesn't immediately start talking. Just waits.
Eventually, it's Jared who breaks the comfortable quiet. "Sorry. About this morning. There's no reason why you'd care, but I had some bad news last night, and I dealt with it-"
"Badly. I can see that. Come and sit," says Jensen, heading for the main room. "You were a mess, and I hate to see that. So, you're going to talk with me, and if I can help, I will."
"You don't have to-"
"Yeah. I do. It's my job, it's me- And anyway, Jay, you've been great these past weeks. Call me crazy, I want to give something back." Great. Jared always wanted Jensen's charity.
*
They're on the couch. Jared picks at the knee of his sweats. (Not the bad knee, the left one, where he always used to pick at his pants when he was a kid. It still works, as a shitty avoidant move.)
"Okay. So, you don't have to tell me. But I'd be no kind of friend if I didn't suggest that talking would be better for you than drinking yourself stupid." Jensen was always good with people. But now, of course, this is his job. Jared sort of hates being treated that way. Hates the careful use of ‘friend’ there, too. And yet, Jensen's 100% right. So.
"So, I'm gay," he says, and the sky doesn't fall in. But then, Jensen already knew that, and Jared already knew it. It's the rest of the world that has issues.
"I wondered," says Jensen. "I mean, bi is a thing. Saw the pictures of you with the girlfriends. Thought you might-"
"No. No, that's not me."
"Well, damn," says Jensen. "That would have been easier on you, maybe? If you're gonna live a lie, make it a half one?"
"Still a lie." Jared hears the dead calm in his voice. "Still a lie, and I'd still have ended up getting blown in one bar bathroom too many, and apparently that's all over the NHL now, and nobody wants me anymore. Not because of my numbers. Not because of my knee. Not even mostly because of the rep. Just- Fuck, Jen. I wanted it so bad, but they don't want me."
"Fuck 'em," says Jensen, surprisingly nonchalant. He's holding his near-empty coffee mug at a rakish angle, and he looks untroubled. He looks amazing, actually. Warm and sure, and everything Jared isn’t.
Jared remembers, reluctantly, Jensen's frozen calm, teary-eyed but clear, the day Jared told him he was entering the draft, for sure. Taking that last chance, dropping out of college if he got picked, which he would, probably, said the scouts. And told him that meant they had to be done. He'd almost added "till after", hedging his bets to the last. But he'd been almost twenty, and on the top of his game, and so sure it was what he wanted. Jensen… Jensen just took it. Jared's forgotten the exact words, but it was something like, "So, you made your choice. Good luck with that." Sometimes, he dreams them, and he's nearly sure it's exactly how Jensen said it.
Now, the same guy, eight years older, half as careworn, is looking at him with a half-grin. "Fuck 'em. They know who you are. They know you can play. Your numbers have been top twenty forwards, most years. That's consistency. That's hockey. Yeah, you got a rep. Yeah, there may be rumours. But if they want to win, they'll take you. And if they don't-"
"Fuck 'em." Jared toasts Jensen in lukewarm coffee, and enjoys the answering smile.
*
He gets back to equilibrium, more or less. Ground State helps, the way it’s supposed to. Jensen gives him extra chores, including some with groups he's generally been steered away from till now. A few ex-army guys doing heavy digging, for example. They look low-key, companionable. Then Jared realises, fetching a rogue shovel, that the one named Deke is leaning against the water butt, shoulders heaving. He looks out for Jensen, catches his eye, and a tip of the chin says Leave him. Jensen says, later, "Don't be surprised when someone needs a moment. For some of these guys, it's the only place they go all week." Jared's still learning that. This is a space of smaller spaces, safe spaces, where a million unending, simple chores need fixing. And through the fixing, the fixers get a little fixed. On a good day.
He tweets a few more times about the centre. PR have stopped calling him. He's pretty sure they've been tipped off that he isn't a big part of the Barons' future. So Jared's more explicit.
Get your hands dirty, get your head straight. I needed a little of that. A photo, of his dirty jeans, splint off, in case anyone missed that Jared's healthier but he's not back with the team. The team is just about to fail to qualify for the playoffs, admittedly, and he's always known he can't be a part of the season end, but he should be there. He usually would be there.
His head isn’t there. He wonders, vaguely, whether he has retired, right now. It would be easier, maybe. He could start to make a life. But that night he dreams of being on the ice. That moment when the puck lands on his tape, and everything lines up right, as though slow motion, to the perfect pass, the perfect goal, the perfect controlled, powerful motion.
He wakes up, hard and aching, because fucking hockey is better than most of the sex he’s ever had, and he misses it, and he’s not going to lose it without at least giving it a shot. But the old ways, of agents and concealment, and nodded negotiations, and lies, have left him beyond tired with all the parts of his life that aren’t hockey.
He grabs a coffee, finds some bread that doesn’t have noticeable blue mould, and eats a breakfast that leaves crumbs across two rooms and smears on the screen of his cellphone as he thinks, and writes, and considers who to call. And then decides, actually, he’s doing this alone.
*
There are a lot of screenshots taken of @JTPadBarons in the next few minutes. They capture this:
I want you to know this is really me. JT Padalecki. No account hack, no social medial manager. *waves* [Twitpic/wetew434]
I’ve spent the past few months rehabbing a busted knee, and maybe more importantly getting my head straight.
Couldn’t have done that without great support from Ground State. Still shilling for donations to their great work, if you can spare them: t.co/353434
Made me realise a few things. I love hockey. It’s the greatest game in the world. It’s been good to me.
I’m gay.
I had 20-goal seasons last five out of seven. Barons MVP 2011-12, and 2013-14. Top for GWGs till this year.
My knee is nearly healed enough for skate. My injury record isn’t the worst. I got years of playing in me.
I’m about to go to UFA because of my sexuality. Likely no one’ll offer me a contract and this is the end of my career.
I left a great guy for the NHL. I lived a lie for eight years because I believed that was how I could have hockey in my life.
Turns out lying doesn’t work out so well.
Anyone need a LW? Call Kenny McMenemy. I can play.
*
After that, Jared switches off his cell and goes to Ground State.
There aren’t any groups in today, just the staff and volunteers, but there’s always stuff to do. Jared would have preferred something rough and mindless, maybe some really vicious pruning or digging out roots. What he actually gets is inventory with Danni. It’s oddly soothing after a while, counting pots and seed packets. Checking session plans against stock. Jared zones out. Listening vaguely to Talia and Jensen discussing spring planting and how they’re going to divide it among their communities so everyone gets some ownership of new green shoots (and everyone gets at least a couple plants that grow like weeds - nothing worse than your green shoot of hope and change withering or dying in the bud). There’s some dispute about onions, and a lot of laughter about the Great Potato Order which is not in Jared’s frame of reference and he doesn’t care enough to ask. He’s here, with good people. With Jensen in earshot. Fuck the rest of the world a little longer.
Hours in, and with Jared wishing inventory could go on forever, a barrier between him and the unsafe world, Danni says, “So, am I reading this totally wrong?”
She’s rolling up netting for the summer battle against birds that want to devour the soft fruit. She’s focused on not leaving ragged edges where it’ll tangle round the tools, and she says pretty absently, “You and Jensen? I know you know him from way back. And he never stops looking at you now.”
Jared looks from her across to where Jensen is standing over an ill-disciplined stack of stakes, frowning like the power of his mind will resolve the tangle. At that moment, Jensen looks up, catches Jared’s eye, grins, and looks back at the stakes.
It’s true, Jensen’s been a lot happier around Jared lately. Like the barrier he put up for self-protection isn’t needed any more.
He shrugs. “Once upon a time. Yeah. But, you know, hockey.”
“Seems like you changed your mind about that,” Danni responds. He looks at her, surprised. “What? You think I don’t follow you? Burned your boats pretty good this morning.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t actually want to talk about that, yet.
Evidently seeing that, Danni says, “Whatever. But you should tell him. If he’s the guy you left, you should definitely tell him.”
Just then, Cannie comes in from the office, looking harassed. “God, if I have to talk with one more journalist today, I’ll-“
“Shit,” says Jared, temporarily abandoning the netting pile. “Are they looking for me?”
“Looking for you, asking about you, wanting quotes, wanting interviews.” She’s a nice girl, quiet and competent, but she’s only doing a couple shifts a week to help herself through college, and he doesn’t suppose dealing with a press furore was on her personal goals for this job.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should have warned you.”
She grins at him, “Actually, nope. It’s been easier. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken with Mr Padalecki in days. If you’d like to feature our donation number, though-‘ I’m not a good liar.“
“Oh, man,” he says. “At least I owe you coffee. Or tea? I can do a Starbucks run. Who else wants-“
“You don’t want to go out there,” says Oscar, who arrived last of the group. “I’m guessing the photographers are still there.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jared pauses to breathe. And also to think. “So… Shit, guys I’m so sorry about this. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this crap was out there. I should go.”
“Why?” That’s Danni. “Nobody knows for sure you’re in here. You can stay a while. If you want.”
Oscar adds, “Though you want to stand us all coffee, I’ll fetch it.” He’s laughing, but it sounds like a good idea. Jared empties his wallet into Cannie’s hands. “Buy coffee. Lots. Extra everything, whatever you guys want for snacks. I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you.”
The space rings with a mix of coffee orders, thanks, and some confused staffers being brought up to speed on what the hell’s going on. Jared goes back to neatening the netting, now that Danni’s distracted.
After a little, he hears someone approach. Of course it’s Jensen.
“So… I didn’t know you were going to do that.”
He looks up. Jensen’s standing, awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Jared nods at the nearby chair. Danni’s listing snack orders, and won’t be back soon. Jensen sits in the beat-up old rocker. He’s very focused on Jared, a little frown between his brows. “Yeah, sorry,” says Jared, again. “I should have warned you. I did tweet the donations address again, so maybe-“
“That’s not what I meant,” says Jensen. He pauses. This isn’t ever going to be a quiet place. Too many people, too many surfaces, too much metal and wood and wire. But it feels quiet for a moment. “I ever tell you how I ended up here?”
This isn’t how Jared was expecting anything to go, but, okay. He shrugs, “Nope. I assumed you moved on from physical therapy, but-“ His Jensen, way back, was all about anatomy and healing.
“I missed you a lot,” says Jensen. “Like- I didn’t know what to do with myself after you left. I- I guess I nearly dropped out. But I got a counselling referral at the right time, and it helped.”
He’s not telling it with self-pity, or like he wants Jared to feel bad. But it’s more than a little hard not to, hearing that he almost wrecked someone’s life. Especially Jensen. “I’m sorr-“
“Nope,” says Jensen, leaning in to Jared. “It was perfect. PT wasn’t working out for me, but I always loved helping people. My life took a turn, and it was right for me. You’ve seen this place is good. I feel like we’re really making a difference. I’m happy.”
His hand lands on Jared’s arm, stilling any pretence that busywork is still ongoing. “I guess it’s pretty trite, but just- I know you must feel awful today, but your life will take a turn, and-“
“I don’t,” Jared says. “I don’t really want to go out there,” because he hates interviews at the best of times, and talking personal shit more than anything. “But I feel pretty good. Hey, if I’m really retiring, you think I could help out here for a few months till I work out what happens next?”
Jensen blinks at him, confused. “I thought- Sorry. I was expecting you’d be a little broken up. But if you’re not, that’s- That’s great, Jay.”
Jared tastes that thought. Testing. “Okay. I still want to play hockey. I should have five years, maybe a little more, and if I lose them, that’ll hurt. But- I guess it’s not the only important thing.”
Jensen smiles, and Jared’s heart misses a beat. God, it’s like being nineteen again, and in love. Jensen’s still the best.
They’re staring, unspeaking, when the coffee run gets back. Jared avoids Danni’s eyes.
This place, which usually feels a little removed from the world, yet full of its problems, is today Jared’s bubble of sanctuary. At five, when all the volunteers are gone, the main phone line closed, and the spring-growing plants almost audible in the sudden real quiet, Jared looks toward the door to the outside world. “I guess I’d better-“
He doesn’t want to go out there. Cannie reported media still hanging around at four, and if they’re bothering to doorstep this charity on the offchance, they’ll definitely be at his house. He’ll face them sometime, but he really wants a night to mull. Talk to his parents. Check in with Kenny. See whether any offers are even vaguely possible, or whether tomorrow is the first day of his post-hockey life. He doesn’t want to switch on his cellphone in here, in his sanctuary, but it’s time.
“Hey, do any of you know a decent hotel near here? Somewhere that maybe won’t sell me out to the media right away? I think I need a night to myself.”
Jensen and Danni exchange shrugs. It’s not unexpected. This isn’t really a tourist town. Danni eyeballs Jensen hard. “Uh, I have a spare room,” Jensen blurts. “We could… we could hide you in my car and get you away from here, get you some privacy for today. If you like?”
Which is how Jared Padalecki, lately the face of the Cleveland Barons, is smuggled out of a therapeutic gardening charity offices in a five year old midrange sedan, under a pile of blankets that smell like old dog and earth. He laughs almost the whole way. Seriously, what is his life?
*
Jensen’s place is okay. Small, not exactly beautiful. Jensen’s neat, but he never was much for design. There are plants, but they have a distinct look of specimens-in-need-of-tending rather than beauteous-houseplants. Which, Jared feels like he needs tending too, today. He gives them a glance of fellow-feeling.
Then, breathing deeply, he turns on his cell.
He’s vaguely aware of Jensen moving around the house. Opening cupboards. Chopping something. “You want to eat here?” comes a question, and Jared says, “Yeah,” absently. A few minutes later he registers that he probably shouldn’t have found that so automatic, so natural. But, Jensen.
There’s good news, and of course, bad. Messages from fans and teammates and even minor celebrities, supportive, and angry on his behalf. A bunch of abuse, mostly on Twitter, which is easily ignored. Voicemail from Barons PR, demanding he call. From Sayers saying, “We’ve consulted our legal people about your actionable statement regarding our reasons for letting you go. We hope that we can resolve this without legal action, but we admit no wrongdoing in this matter.” Stuff from his parents, who have supported him living a lie and now mostly support him not, though they’d really have preferred a heads up ahead of time, which is fair. His dad sounds pretty pissed.
And a message from Kenny saying, “Flyers and Leafs enquired about your medical status. Ducks want you to skate with them at a thing - I think that’s just YCP stuff, but if you do it, there could maybe be something there? You’re maybe not finished yet, Jare. Though if you pull a stunt like this again without warning me, you’ll be looking for alternative representation.”
Maybe not finished yet. Wow. It shouldn’t be taken as anything more than a cautious first step, but it feels good.
Jensen hollers, “Food!” He used to do that when they were eighteen, on the rare days one of them assembled something instead of getting takeout.
It makes Jared smile. So does dinner, pasta and tomatoes and inevitably more fucking squash, thrown together but tasty enough. “Thank you,” he remembers to say, now. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
Jensen shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to. You did a big thing today. How’s the knee?”
“I haven’t even thought about it today,” says Jared, honestly, and now he does, it feels nothing but a little stiff. Good. He doesn’t have time to be injured. “Better, I guess. Need to work on it tomorrow, I know.”
“How’s-“ Jensen pauses, “Everything? Out there?”
“Lot of noise,” Jared says. “Mixed responses. I guess that’s what I expected.” He doesn’t want tonight to be about that. Turns the conversation to why Jensen’s car smells like dog. (His parents, a couple of rescue dogs, Jensen’s considering getting one too but some of his clients don’t get on so well with animals and he doesn’t want to leave one at home all day.) It’s enough to get them talking, and talking. They move from kitchen to couch eventually, still talking. When Jared checks his watch, it’s past eleven.
“Wow. Sorry, did you have stuff to do tonight?”
“Nope,” says Jensen, cracking his neck. “Pickup games Wednesday and Sunday. Didn’t feel like the gym. And it’s not like I’m seeing anyone right now. Gets lonely.” He holds Jared’s gaze.
God. Jensen was always incredibly unsubtle with this stuff. Jared’s spent years looking for small tells, discreet signs that he’s not off base. This is not that.
“I thought you were avoiding me because I’m the asshole who broke your heart and left you for a stupid game,” he says. Because yes, please, let there be sex, but he wants to know what this is.
Jensen shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re still you. I always wanted you. And…” There’s a flicker of less certainty, now, “Seems like you have new priorities, maybe?”
Which is nobody’s idea of a romantic commitment. But takes them past a one-nighter of gratitude, he hopes.
It’s easy. So easy, in fact, that Jared freaks out a little halfway through, and bumps his forehead against Jensen’s. “How- How are we still the same? It’s been so long-“
“Still you and me,” Jensen breathes back, rolling his hips slowly, a mix of comfort and pleasure. “This wasn’t ever the problem.” He pauses. “Though if you don’t move soon, it could be.” Jared snickers a laugh, mouth sliding down to lick at Jensen’s neck, and he picks up the pace again.
It’s not exactly the same. Bodies are different. Pasts went in different ways, and they’ve learned from other lovers. But this feeling of him and Jensen, together and right. He hasn’t forgotten that.
He doesn’t want to go without it again.
*
It’s past five am and Jared’s awake. So is Jensen, always an early bird. Jared listens to him breathing, wondering who will break the silence.
It should be him. He draws in a breath that turns ragged, betrayingly.
“Sooo,” and then isn’t sure what happens next.
“So you got offers. Any good ones?” Jensen asks. The words are right, very calm, interested. The tone is stretched like taut wire. Defending Jensen, already, against a pain he has every reason to expect.
“Maybe. I need to hear details. But a couple teams at least seem like they want to make a statement. Maybe that’s good enough.” He pauses. It would be a risk to say it, because this could just be Jensen being Jensenly nice. The tension in his voice, though, that gives Jared hope.
“But I don’t want to leave you for hockey. Not again,” he says.
Jensen’s breath rushes out like a gust. “You can’t stay for me,” he says, too fast, like he has to get it out before he talks himself out of saying it. “You’d hate me for holding you back. You know it. It’s why you were right to go before.”
“I can pick a team for you, though,” says Jared. “Something near enough I could see you sometimes. Not hide you away, or only drop by in the off-season for a booty call. Could be the Flyers, maybe. They were interested. If you’d- Jen, it’d be a ton of attention, if we did it that way. And not all of it good, at all. My messages, they’re not all offers. But if I took one, I wouldn’t just go back to being a hockey player. I can’t. I’d want to be a person.”
Jensen’s smile expands, like sunshine in a winter-cold room. “Sounds like you need some help with that.”
Jared wants to say a lot, now. About how he always needed Jensen, even when he was a fool. About how he wouldn’t ever live only for one other person, how he needs to live for himself, but how life without Jensen still didn’t even seem this good. About thanks, for everything Jensen has done these past weeks. About sorry, for the years before.
He does say some of it, but it’s kind of muffled, and distracted, and he’s not convinced Jensen is listening hard to all of it, what with the dick in his face and all. But falling back to drowse, after, Jared notes that Jensen’s still smiling. So, okay.
*
After breakfast, he listens to a bunch more messages. Then calls.
“Kenny? I’d like you to have some conversations for me. But here’s the deal. I have a boyfriend. I’m not gonna hide him. And I also want to live somewhere not all over the other side of the continent from him, okay? Bring me some options, and we’ll talk.”
It’s been one day. It’s been eight long years. It’s been thirteen years, since Jared Padalecki met Jensen Ackles in freshman Bio, and fell in love.
He’s never been more certain.
**