My Secret Life
Okay. I seem perfectly incapable of concentrating on one thing at a time. I have no excuses. This demanded to be written. I don't think I've ever read an AU along these particular lines so I had to give it a try and see what I could come up with. Probably one of one.
Title: My Secret Life
Author: englishbue
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: R for now
My Secret Life
The jacket and pants were hidden inside the garment bag. Calf-hugging stockings, blood red, twined around the neck of the hanger. Black slippers of supple leather lay at the bottom of the sack making small, scuffling noises as Jensen swung the long plastic shape into his arms, seeing inside it as though he were Superman with X-ray eyes. Phantom silk brushed his fingertips, the slide of it up his arms, the collar resting across the moist nape of his neck-so vividly remember from the last time he’d worn it.
The smell of blood and dust wafted into his nostrils as he lifted the bag over his shoulder, though the fabric had been cleaned many times. The scent of the bullring clung persistently, hot copper, the aroma of his own sweat, heavy with fear and excitement, sand that gritted under the soles of his shoes and stung the buds of his tongue. Death in the afternoon.
Jogging down the stairs to the small Honda parked at the curb, Jensen was swamped with the familiar impatience buzzing under his skin. Inside the protective covering, his Suit of Lights sang a song of passion meant only for him.
How many times had he done this now? He counted in his head. Leaving the training aside, the endless, sweltering afternoons Manolo had kept him at it, barking orders haughtily, when Jensen had wanted to fold into a stricken heap, sweat stinging his eyes to burning cinders.
Five times, Jensen answered himself. Five fights. And worth every strained muscle, every tender bruise that lay under his clothes reminding him what he was-what he could be. The long, painful nights spent recuperating from Manolo’s torture had seemed endless. Tossing on the stripped down bed, unable to bare the weight of even a sheet on his sensitized body, he’d abandoned resistence until the breath of dawn finally claimed him and his eyelids sank in surrender.
The car leapt to life as Jensen twisted the ignition key, pushing his foot on the gas pedal. Horns blared all around him. He knifed into the flow of traffic, receiving more than one indignant finger at his mind-over-matter style of driving. He laughed complacently, cranking down his window and leaning across to get the passenger side as well.
It was early, the day not super-heated yet and the incoming breeze was sweet on Jensen face. He drove with one hand, elbow propped in the open window. The green hills rushed by, covered in mesquite and cloud shadows once past the Encinitas exits. There was plenty of time to make it to Tijuana before the corrida started; Sunday afternoon, four o’clock.
Jensen pulled his sunglasses from a breast pocket and slipped them on, humming, thinking about Manolo waiting for him at the ranch. The reunion would, by necessity, be brief. They would talk and drink and fuck later, once the fight no longer loomed. It had been almost six weeks since Jensen had been able to get away to see his friend, needing to refresh his skills with the season fast approaching and craving the release that taut body gave him.
Jensen liked the way Manolo fucked, with a proverbial stamp of his feet, the way a bullfighter fought. He was only a little older than Jensen, but he had been raised as a torero since he stood at his father’s knee and watched the bulls in the maze below rush to their destiny. He’d had considerably more fights than Jensen, and the first time Jensen saw him in the ring, sleek black hair gleaming like a bird’s wing in the sun, he knew what he wanted. Jensen wanted to be that man.
Manolo was used to admiration. He was adored, one of Mexico’s most successful matadors. It took relentless hammering on Jensen’s part to gain an introduction and all his considerable charm to slowly break Manolo down. One drunken night, laughing helplessly at him, Manolo had conceded his defeat.
“I am on my knees. You have taken my ear. I am vanquished, my friend. I will teach you. But if you haven’t the cojones of a torero, it will all be for nothing. Those I cannot give you.”
“Amigo, I have them. I promise you. It won’t be a waste of your time. I’ll be your noviciate, your altar boy. Just tell me what to do.”
Manolo had choked on his beer at Jensen’s fervent declaration. Of course, Jensen had been three sheets the wind himself, and he’d thumped his new friend soundly on the back, not wanting to lose him so early in their partnership. Jensen could still hear their laughter ringing in his head across the span of the past year. That promise had been the beginning of his secret life.
Closing in on the San Diego suburbs, Jensen found himself glancing at his watch more frequently. Traffic was beginning to clogs the freeway, pressing in from all sides, drivers weaving in and out of the crowded lanes like the sidewinders that lurked in the arid country around Manolo’s ranch, sinister, deadly if given half a chance.
Not aware of his nervous habit kicking into gear, Jensen rubbed the flats of his fingers over his right thigh where the graze of a blunted horn had left a pale, thin scar across the taut muscle. New to bullfighting and cockily brash, Jensen had failed to show the proper respect to his adversary one afternoon in the practice ring, and the bull calf had dumped him on his butt and tried to gore him before Manolo could grab a cape and lure the skittish animal away.
Afterwards, they’d laughed about it together, but it had lacked a certain humor. If the fight had been real, Jensen most likely would have died there, femoral artery ripped open, blood staining the sand around him crimson. Shaking the memory off with a jerk of his head, Jensen eased into the double lane of cars heading for the border. If he was lucky, it would be a quick crossing. He wasn’t.
When he finally arrived at the ranch, back stiff and bladder full, he sprinted past Manolo’s beaming welcome to relieve the familiar urgency brought on not only by the tedious drive, but the day of the corrida itself and what would come as the afternoon unfolded into a golden haze of pageantry. The sharp desire to take one’s courage in hand and face death flooded Jensen’s bones as he pissed shakily into the porcelain bowl, holding his cock.
“Jensen, mi amigo. You look good. Fit. The bulls will be proud to have such a fine adversary face them in the arena.”
“Quit fucking slinging the bullshit, compadre. You’re the one.” Jensen stepped back to admire Manolo slim figure clad in a soft white shirt and gaucho pants, his boots, though richly tooled, were covered in dust. El Corazon was a working ranch. “You look great.”
“You flatter me.”
“Tell me again why you’re not fighting today?”
“A slight sprain.” Manolo held up a wrist, tightly banded in white. Only then did Jensen notice the gauze encircling the deeply bronzed arm. “Another week or two and I’ll be ready to twirl the cape again.”
“Fuck. You should have told me.” Jensen felt like the worst kind of friend not knowing the man had been hurt in his last corrida.
“It is nothing. Do not upset yourself. I have survived much worse.” Manolo brushed a wave of black hair out of his eyes, smiling.
Jensen allowed the subject to be turned to something else, knowing Manolo’s perchance for down-playing injuries. They chattered companionably while Manolo changed out of his working clothes into something more suitable to the formality of the coming fight. A short black bolero jacket and matching slim pants set off his figure to stunning perfection. Jensen eyed him with quiet anticipation, knowing later that night, after the bullfight, they would share a bed.
The drive to the Monumental over newly paved roads put them at their destination in plenty of time for Jensen to check out his bulls, a ritual every bullfighter performed. It was tantamount to suicide to step into the ring without viewing the adversary first, learning the opponent’s style.
Manolo had gone on ahead, anxious to speak to friends, but Jensen remained behind, wanting to get a look at the two bulls he’d drawn. He folded his arms over the railing, studying the animals in the pens below. There were six of them altogether, a pair for each matador.
They were mostly compact brutes, heavy muscle rippling in the hump on their necks and along powerful flanks. The sharp curve of deadly horns tested themselves against the wooden barricades, thumping again and again into splintered wood. A barrage of goading cries peppered the air from the picadors, banderilleros and various other observers, who like Jensen, wanted to see their mettle and the way they held themselves, the way they moved..
“What do you think?” The voice was a low rumble close to Jensen’s ear.
Turning his head slowly, he took in the stranger, a giant of a man with rumpled hair and slanted hazel eyes, leaning close on the banister beside him.
“I think they’re a good mix. Should make for some decent fights today. See that one?”
Jensen pointed at a bull directly below where they stood. The animal thrashed his head against the boards, long ropes of saliva spraying out as it backed off and came again.
“He hooks to the left when he charges. Then brings his head back around. Decent. And that one.” Jensen gestured across the pen to a black bull, head lowered, eyes slitted and full of fire as he started his charge. “Look at him. He’s like a railroad train. Watch. On rails that one. Jesus, he’s magnificent. A brave animal.”
The wall on which they stood shook under a double assault, and the stranger glanced at Jensen in alarm.
“Do these things ever come down. Dude, it feels kind of rickety up here.”
“Oh, yeah. Happened a few years ago. Five people were killed. The bulls tore them to pieces.”
The man’s face devolved into a look of horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Well. Yeah. I am.” Jensen couldn’t keep his grin under control. “Sorry, but what are you doing back here anyway? It’s not off limits to the public, but it’s usually only the afficionados who come to watch.”
“And you’re an afficionado?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“I’m doing an interest piece for the L.A. Times on bullfighting and the wack jobs that wave those red capes around. Jared Padalecki.” The man shoved a hand big as a bull calf at Jensen, an eagerness making his eyes light up. Jared waited for a few seconds. When it became obvious Jensen wasn’t going to shake, he dropped his offer. “Uh, no offense?”
“That so? In case you’re interested, I take plenty of offense. I happen to be one of the wack jobs.”
Jared’s mouth dropped open in dismay. “No way, dude. You’re an American, right? It’s illegal or something. Don’t you have to be....”
“Jesus, they sent an imbecile to write about the corrida. No wonder bullfighting has such a bad rep in the States.”
“Look.” Jared scrubbed a hand through a mop of lanky brown waves that flopped around his ears and over his forehead in a not unattractive disarray. Straightening the length of his body, he stood nearly half a head taller than Jensen, who was no small man. “Can we start over? I guess I’m making a fool of myself, and I’m not usually that. A fool, I mean. Not usually a fool. And I promise not to make any more snap judgements.”
Jensen pushed away the mild attraction that abruptly fluttered into existence in his belly. He didn’t have time to waste on the stupid bastard. The sun was slipping into position, a hand span above the back of the bleachers, the other side of the bull pens, where Jensen could already see the teeming movement of people finding their seats. It was time to suit up.
“Whatever. This wack job needs to get dressed.”
He stepped back from the railing, taking a stride away from the human Sasquatch, thinking that was a good name for the awkward giant, when an iron grip snagged onto his elbow.
“You’re fighting today?” Jared’s voice quivered with an emotion Jensen couldn’t read.
“In about half an hour.”
“Imma watch.”
Jared’s face loomed so close Jensen could smell the tacos and beer he’d presumably eaten for lunch.
“Uh, good. Now let go. They’ll be playing the Paso Double and I’ll still be standing here in my civies.”
Hurrying away, leaving the man behind him staring after his departing back, Jensen concentrated on shoving the encounter from his head. It was time to think about more important things. Juan scolded him roundly when Jensen burst into the dressing room, already pulling his tee shirt over his head with one hand while he fumbled at his zipper with the other.
His Suit of Lights lay carefully spread out on the old couch shoved against one wall of the dressing room. The soft, blue-green silk of the jacket, embroidered in swirling lines of gold thread made Jensen feel proud and supremely grateful. It was a gift from Manolo, something Jensen could never afford himself.
The stockings were donned first, rolled up the curve of his calves with the flare of paint to naked flesh. Next came the skin-tight pants. It took a bit of wiggling, but soon they were buttoned, his ass, round and high, filling out the lines perfectly.
The first time he’d worn them, he’d protested to Manolo that they were nearly indecent. But Manolo had only shaken his head.
“Would you rather they were loose, Jensen, so the bull could hook a horn in them and fling you into the barricades?”
There didn’t seem a good answer to that one, so Jensen had wisely kept his mouth shut. Besides, he couldn’t deny, he felt strangely beautiful when wearing them, having his lean body on display.
Next, came the vest. Jensen reverently held out his arms, and shifted his shoulders from side to side as it slipped on, head bowed to work the buttons into place. The coleta, the small tail meant to comemmorate a time when the toreros wore their hair long and tied back to confront the bulls, was fastened securely to the short hair at the nape of Jensen's neck, the older man's fingers deft and soothing.
The names of the great ones filled Jensen's head; Manolete, first and foremost, Ordonez, Joselito, El Cordobes. Juan's stern voice pulled Jensen from his reverie.
“Here, matador. Your jacket.”
Jensen blinked, holding out an arm while the lush material slid up over his shoulders. He felt cloaked in armor as he thrust his feet into the leather slippers and held out a hand for his montera, the black bicorn hat of the toreador.
A light knock at the door presented Manolo’s smiling face. “Ah. I see you are ready.” He entered with respect, leaning in to place a soft kiss on Jensen’s cheek. “You will do well today, torero. I have seen the black bull. You were meant for each other.”
A crooked grin turned up one corner of Jensen’s mouth. “I hope you told him that. Wouldn’t be good if he missed the message and decided to rip my guts out.”
“Ah, always irreverent. It’s a wonder God doesn’t strike you down.”
“Always you remind me.”
Jensen turned and walked to the small religious shrine in the corner of the room. He lit the two candles there, then knelt down and kissed the tiny gold cross that lay nestled in the ruffles of his white shirt. The saying was true, at least for Jensen. There were no atheists in foxholes or bullrings. Though at any other time, he was as godless as the next man.
“Father, forgive me for my sins. Protect this unworthy son on his day of trial. Lead me through the valley and safely to the other side. Amen.”
“A good contrition,” Manolo said soberly, holding the door wide.
Juan preceded Jensen, Manolo following. They strode calmly down the dim dirt incline. Picadors and banderilleros fell in behind them, joined by other matadors and their own cuadrillas. Ahead, a bright square of light showed clean white sand and a portion of the bleachers directly across. Flags waved and raucous music filled the air. The smell of Sunday assaulted Jensen’s lungs.
A sudden silence fell. The world itself seemed to hush. The Paso Double rang out, long brass trumpet calls that proclaimed the matadors’ entrance. Manolo tucked Jensen’s cape over his shoulder and around his arm, stepping back, dark eyes intense.
“Go with God, my son.”
Jensen thought for the briefest moment of Jared watching him from the stands, then arched his back and strutted proudly into the light.
AN: Special thanks to cynddylan_slyth for her invaluable help with reminding me of the vest and the coleta all matadors wear, and the proper name for the matador's team, cuadrilla.
Title: My Secret Life
Author: englishbue
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: R for now
My Secret Life
The jacket and pants were hidden inside the garment bag. Calf-hugging stockings, blood red, twined around the neck of the hanger. Black slippers of supple leather lay at the bottom of the sack making small, scuffling noises as Jensen swung the long plastic shape into his arms, seeing inside it as though he were Superman with X-ray eyes. Phantom silk brushed his fingertips, the slide of it up his arms, the collar resting across the moist nape of his neck-so vividly remember from the last time he’d worn it.
The smell of blood and dust wafted into his nostrils as he lifted the bag over his shoulder, though the fabric had been cleaned many times. The scent of the bullring clung persistently, hot copper, the aroma of his own sweat, heavy with fear and excitement, sand that gritted under the soles of his shoes and stung the buds of his tongue. Death in the afternoon.
Jogging down the stairs to the small Honda parked at the curb, Jensen was swamped with the familiar impatience buzzing under his skin. Inside the protective covering, his Suit of Lights sang a song of passion meant only for him.
How many times had he done this now? He counted in his head. Leaving the training aside, the endless, sweltering afternoons Manolo had kept him at it, barking orders haughtily, when Jensen had wanted to fold into a stricken heap, sweat stinging his eyes to burning cinders.
Five times, Jensen answered himself. Five fights. And worth every strained muscle, every tender bruise that lay under his clothes reminding him what he was-what he could be. The long, painful nights spent recuperating from Manolo’s torture had seemed endless. Tossing on the stripped down bed, unable to bare the weight of even a sheet on his sensitized body, he’d abandoned resistence until the breath of dawn finally claimed him and his eyelids sank in surrender.
The car leapt to life as Jensen twisted the ignition key, pushing his foot on the gas pedal. Horns blared all around him. He knifed into the flow of traffic, receiving more than one indignant finger at his mind-over-matter style of driving. He laughed complacently, cranking down his window and leaning across to get the passenger side as well.
It was early, the day not super-heated yet and the incoming breeze was sweet on Jensen face. He drove with one hand, elbow propped in the open window. The green hills rushed by, covered in mesquite and cloud shadows once past the Encinitas exits. There was plenty of time to make it to Tijuana before the corrida started; Sunday afternoon, four o’clock.
Jensen pulled his sunglasses from a breast pocket and slipped them on, humming, thinking about Manolo waiting for him at the ranch. The reunion would, by necessity, be brief. They would talk and drink and fuck later, once the fight no longer loomed. It had been almost six weeks since Jensen had been able to get away to see his friend, needing to refresh his skills with the season fast approaching and craving the release that taut body gave him.
Jensen liked the way Manolo fucked, with a proverbial stamp of his feet, the way a bullfighter fought. He was only a little older than Jensen, but he had been raised as a torero since he stood at his father’s knee and watched the bulls in the maze below rush to their destiny. He’d had considerably more fights than Jensen, and the first time Jensen saw him in the ring, sleek black hair gleaming like a bird’s wing in the sun, he knew what he wanted. Jensen wanted to be that man.
Manolo was used to admiration. He was adored, one of Mexico’s most successful matadors. It took relentless hammering on Jensen’s part to gain an introduction and all his considerable charm to slowly break Manolo down. One drunken night, laughing helplessly at him, Manolo had conceded his defeat.
“I am on my knees. You have taken my ear. I am vanquished, my friend. I will teach you. But if you haven’t the cojones of a torero, it will all be for nothing. Those I cannot give you.”
“Amigo, I have them. I promise you. It won’t be a waste of your time. I’ll be your noviciate, your altar boy. Just tell me what to do.”
Manolo had choked on his beer at Jensen’s fervent declaration. Of course, Jensen had been three sheets the wind himself, and he’d thumped his new friend soundly on the back, not wanting to lose him so early in their partnership. Jensen could still hear their laughter ringing in his head across the span of the past year. That promise had been the beginning of his secret life.
Closing in on the San Diego suburbs, Jensen found himself glancing at his watch more frequently. Traffic was beginning to clogs the freeway, pressing in from all sides, drivers weaving in and out of the crowded lanes like the sidewinders that lurked in the arid country around Manolo’s ranch, sinister, deadly if given half a chance.
Not aware of his nervous habit kicking into gear, Jensen rubbed the flats of his fingers over his right thigh where the graze of a blunted horn had left a pale, thin scar across the taut muscle. New to bullfighting and cockily brash, Jensen had failed to show the proper respect to his adversary one afternoon in the practice ring, and the bull calf had dumped him on his butt and tried to gore him before Manolo could grab a cape and lure the skittish animal away.
Afterwards, they’d laughed about it together, but it had lacked a certain humor. If the fight had been real, Jensen most likely would have died there, femoral artery ripped open, blood staining the sand around him crimson. Shaking the memory off with a jerk of his head, Jensen eased into the double lane of cars heading for the border. If he was lucky, it would be a quick crossing. He wasn’t.
When he finally arrived at the ranch, back stiff and bladder full, he sprinted past Manolo’s beaming welcome to relieve the familiar urgency brought on not only by the tedious drive, but the day of the corrida itself and what would come as the afternoon unfolded into a golden haze of pageantry. The sharp desire to take one’s courage in hand and face death flooded Jensen’s bones as he pissed shakily into the porcelain bowl, holding his cock.
“Jensen, mi amigo. You look good. Fit. The bulls will be proud to have such a fine adversary face them in the arena.”
“Quit fucking slinging the bullshit, compadre. You’re the one.” Jensen stepped back to admire Manolo slim figure clad in a soft white shirt and gaucho pants, his boots, though richly tooled, were covered in dust. El Corazon was a working ranch. “You look great.”
“You flatter me.”
“Tell me again why you’re not fighting today?”
“A slight sprain.” Manolo held up a wrist, tightly banded in white. Only then did Jensen notice the gauze encircling the deeply bronzed arm. “Another week or two and I’ll be ready to twirl the cape again.”
“Fuck. You should have told me.” Jensen felt like the worst kind of friend not knowing the man had been hurt in his last corrida.
“It is nothing. Do not upset yourself. I have survived much worse.” Manolo brushed a wave of black hair out of his eyes, smiling.
Jensen allowed the subject to be turned to something else, knowing Manolo’s perchance for down-playing injuries. They chattered companionably while Manolo changed out of his working clothes into something more suitable to the formality of the coming fight. A short black bolero jacket and matching slim pants set off his figure to stunning perfection. Jensen eyed him with quiet anticipation, knowing later that night, after the bullfight, they would share a bed.
The drive to the Monumental over newly paved roads put them at their destination in plenty of time for Jensen to check out his bulls, a ritual every bullfighter performed. It was tantamount to suicide to step into the ring without viewing the adversary first, learning the opponent’s style.
Manolo had gone on ahead, anxious to speak to friends, but Jensen remained behind, wanting to get a look at the two bulls he’d drawn. He folded his arms over the railing, studying the animals in the pens below. There were six of them altogether, a pair for each matador.
They were mostly compact brutes, heavy muscle rippling in the hump on their necks and along powerful flanks. The sharp curve of deadly horns tested themselves against the wooden barricades, thumping again and again into splintered wood. A barrage of goading cries peppered the air from the picadors, banderilleros and various other observers, who like Jensen, wanted to see their mettle and the way they held themselves, the way they moved..
“What do you think?” The voice was a low rumble close to Jensen’s ear.
Turning his head slowly, he took in the stranger, a giant of a man with rumpled hair and slanted hazel eyes, leaning close on the banister beside him.
“I think they’re a good mix. Should make for some decent fights today. See that one?”
Jensen pointed at a bull directly below where they stood. The animal thrashed his head against the boards, long ropes of saliva spraying out as it backed off and came again.
“He hooks to the left when he charges. Then brings his head back around. Decent. And that one.” Jensen gestured across the pen to a black bull, head lowered, eyes slitted and full of fire as he started his charge. “Look at him. He’s like a railroad train. Watch. On rails that one. Jesus, he’s magnificent. A brave animal.”
The wall on which they stood shook under a double assault, and the stranger glanced at Jensen in alarm.
“Do these things ever come down. Dude, it feels kind of rickety up here.”
“Oh, yeah. Happened a few years ago. Five people were killed. The bulls tore them to pieces.”
The man’s face devolved into a look of horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Well. Yeah. I am.” Jensen couldn’t keep his grin under control. “Sorry, but what are you doing back here anyway? It’s not off limits to the public, but it’s usually only the afficionados who come to watch.”
“And you’re an afficionado?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“I’m doing an interest piece for the L.A. Times on bullfighting and the wack jobs that wave those red capes around. Jared Padalecki.” The man shoved a hand big as a bull calf at Jensen, an eagerness making his eyes light up. Jared waited for a few seconds. When it became obvious Jensen wasn’t going to shake, he dropped his offer. “Uh, no offense?”
“That so? In case you’re interested, I take plenty of offense. I happen to be one of the wack jobs.”
Jared’s mouth dropped open in dismay. “No way, dude. You’re an American, right? It’s illegal or something. Don’t you have to be....”
“Jesus, they sent an imbecile to write about the corrida. No wonder bullfighting has such a bad rep in the States.”
“Look.” Jared scrubbed a hand through a mop of lanky brown waves that flopped around his ears and over his forehead in a not unattractive disarray. Straightening the length of his body, he stood nearly half a head taller than Jensen, who was no small man. “Can we start over? I guess I’m making a fool of myself, and I’m not usually that. A fool, I mean. Not usually a fool. And I promise not to make any more snap judgements.”
Jensen pushed away the mild attraction that abruptly fluttered into existence in his belly. He didn’t have time to waste on the stupid bastard. The sun was slipping into position, a hand span above the back of the bleachers, the other side of the bull pens, where Jensen could already see the teeming movement of people finding their seats. It was time to suit up.
“Whatever. This wack job needs to get dressed.”
He stepped back from the railing, taking a stride away from the human Sasquatch, thinking that was a good name for the awkward giant, when an iron grip snagged onto his elbow.
“You’re fighting today?” Jared’s voice quivered with an emotion Jensen couldn’t read.
“In about half an hour.”
“Imma watch.”
Jared’s face loomed so close Jensen could smell the tacos and beer he’d presumably eaten for lunch.
“Uh, good. Now let go. They’ll be playing the Paso Double and I’ll still be standing here in my civies.”
Hurrying away, leaving the man behind him staring after his departing back, Jensen concentrated on shoving the encounter from his head. It was time to think about more important things. Juan scolded him roundly when Jensen burst into the dressing room, already pulling his tee shirt over his head with one hand while he fumbled at his zipper with the other.
His Suit of Lights lay carefully spread out on the old couch shoved against one wall of the dressing room. The soft, blue-green silk of the jacket, embroidered in swirling lines of gold thread made Jensen feel proud and supremely grateful. It was a gift from Manolo, something Jensen could never afford himself.
The stockings were donned first, rolled up the curve of his calves with the flare of paint to naked flesh. Next came the skin-tight pants. It took a bit of wiggling, but soon they were buttoned, his ass, round and high, filling out the lines perfectly.
The first time he’d worn them, he’d protested to Manolo that they were nearly indecent. But Manolo had only shaken his head.
“Would you rather they were loose, Jensen, so the bull could hook a horn in them and fling you into the barricades?”
There didn’t seem a good answer to that one, so Jensen had wisely kept his mouth shut. Besides, he couldn’t deny, he felt strangely beautiful when wearing them, having his lean body on display.
Next, came the vest. Jensen reverently held out his arms, and shifted his shoulders from side to side as it slipped on, head bowed to work the buttons into place. The coleta, the small tail meant to comemmorate a time when the toreros wore their hair long and tied back to confront the bulls, was fastened securely to the short hair at the nape of Jensen's neck, the older man's fingers deft and soothing.
The names of the great ones filled Jensen's head; Manolete, first and foremost, Ordonez, Joselito, El Cordobes. Juan's stern voice pulled Jensen from his reverie.
“Here, matador. Your jacket.”
Jensen blinked, holding out an arm while the lush material slid up over his shoulders. He felt cloaked in armor as he thrust his feet into the leather slippers and held out a hand for his montera, the black bicorn hat of the toreador.
A light knock at the door presented Manolo’s smiling face. “Ah. I see you are ready.” He entered with respect, leaning in to place a soft kiss on Jensen’s cheek. “You will do well today, torero. I have seen the black bull. You were meant for each other.”
A crooked grin turned up one corner of Jensen’s mouth. “I hope you told him that. Wouldn’t be good if he missed the message and decided to rip my guts out.”
“Ah, always irreverent. It’s a wonder God doesn’t strike you down.”
“Always you remind me.”
Jensen turned and walked to the small religious shrine in the corner of the room. He lit the two candles there, then knelt down and kissed the tiny gold cross that lay nestled in the ruffles of his white shirt. The saying was true, at least for Jensen. There were no atheists in foxholes or bullrings. Though at any other time, he was as godless as the next man.
“Father, forgive me for my sins. Protect this unworthy son on his day of trial. Lead me through the valley and safely to the other side. Amen.”
“A good contrition,” Manolo said soberly, holding the door wide.
Juan preceded Jensen, Manolo following. They strode calmly down the dim dirt incline. Picadors and banderilleros fell in behind them, joined by other matadors and their own cuadrillas. Ahead, a bright square of light showed clean white sand and a portion of the bleachers directly across. Flags waved and raucous music filled the air. The smell of Sunday assaulted Jensen’s lungs.
A sudden silence fell. The world itself seemed to hush. The Paso Double rang out, long brass trumpet calls that proclaimed the matadors’ entrance. Manolo tucked Jensen’s cape over his shoulder and around his arm, stepping back, dark eyes intense.
“Go with God, my son.”
Jensen thought for the briefest moment of Jared watching him from the stands, then arched his back and strutted proudly into the light.
AN: Special thanks to cynddylan_slyth for her invaluable help with reminding me of the vest and the coleta all matadors wear, and the proper name for the matador's team, cuadrilla.