Fic: Ain't No Cure. A "Sex and Coffee" story. AU RPS. Chris/Jensen, Jensen/Jared and more. NC-17 1/3
Don't know why I keep posting on Sundays when no one seems to be around. Oh well.
Title: Ain't No Cure
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson, Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Chris, Jared/Chris, Jensen/Chris/Steve, Jensen/Jared/Chris/Steve (honestly, they're all doing something at some point)
Word count: 22.383 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Story in the Slip Some Sex in My Coffee verse.
He buries his face in Steve’s hair, feeling guilty and confused and fucking angry with himself. “Don’t know what’s a matter with me,” he mumbles.
“I think maybe,” Steve says, his words blowing softly against Chris’s neck, “you’re falling in love again.”
Or Chris's side of dealing with his polyamorous heart. Here be lots of pining, quite a bit of kissing and some lovely gay sex.
Warnings: Again, I'm putting a warning on this one for non-sexual child abuse, but this time not graphic, just referenced. Also there's a suicide attempt in the prologue but it's not graphic either.
Author’s note: This one probably won't make much sense unless you've read part 5 ( Battered Soul) of this verse since it references a lot of things that happens in that one. Beta’d by the lovely candygramme. Thank you, sweetie. Title taken from the song by Leonard Cohen.
Also available on AO3.
Prologue
Chris’s teachers blame his temper, and the endless fights, on his mama dying when he was way too young. And sure, the change from a home smelling of fresh laundry and warm hugs to one stinking of cigarettes and booze probably did a number on him. His father’s heavy hand and heavier words, kicking him down at every turn, probably does more damage though.
He should be cowed, should be trembling with fear and misery where he hides out on the roof, waiting for his dad to stop raging and pass the fuck out. He’s not. He’s just furious. Five feet and stretching of nothing but blind rage and resentment. His grandma tuts and reminds him of the two wolves in his heart. “Be careful which you feed,” she says, shaking her head at him, but he just rolls his eyes, thinking, ‘I ain’t the one feedin’em,’ while the drunk bastard’s demeaning curses rub salt in every bruise on his skin.
God, he’s just so angry! He's angry at his pop for being a mean drunk, at God for being a fucking bastard, at his mama for leaving him. (That one he feels guilty about, the others, he thinks, are more than justified.) But mostly he’s angry at himself for being so goddamn wrong. That’s what messes him up, more than anything. Because God does punish the wicked, that’s what He does. And Chris sure is wicked. He’s known it ever since he caught sight of Jimmy Morton’s dick in the showers after football practice and wanted to fall to his knees and put it in his mouth.
No wonder God hates him.
Still, denial is a mighty river, and he wades right in, letting the current sweep him along. Nothing but girls, girls, girls, because damn there are plenty, twirling around him in an endless dance of silky hair and daring smiles. The desperation in his eyes draws them in, they seem sure he just needs a loving hand to help settle those demons that ride him so wild. He tries, he’d swear on his mama’s grave he does. He kisses their lips, licks their skin and slips his fingers where they have no place being. Fumbles his way through his first time, hating every goddamn minute of it, then does it again and again, because what else is there? What the fuck else? Nothing, that’s what. Not a damn thing.
Three days shy of sixteen he steals his dad’s truck, and drives, and drives and drives, faster and faster, until the world is a blur of fields and endless yellow lines. Then with a sob in his throat he closes his eyes, leaving his life in the hands of his hateful creator.
God doesn’t kill him. He just breaks his arm and cracks a few ribs by wrapping his dad’s truck around the only damn tree within ten miles. The doc says he’s goddamn lucky. His dad’s eyes tell him he’d been better off dead.
He doesn’t stick around to see if the old man plans on finishing the job, just sneaks out of the hospital first chance he gets, hitches a ride home to pack a change of clothes and his mama’s guitar, and then he’s off to California, not so much seeking his fortune as fleeing what’s sure to otherwise be his inevitable fate, of either being beaten to death or turning into his old man. He can’t even tell which would be worse.
The journey from one sunbeaten state to another teaches him that people are scum everywhere. He gets into more and more fights, sometimes to save his ass, more often just for the hell of it. He grows taller, although not by much, stronger, and, more importantly, faster. The trick is to take them out before they even realize he can. By the time he reaches Cali he’s got more scars on his knuckles than money in his pocket and far as he can see he’s only got three career choices: fighting, fucking, or making music. Honestly, he’d go any which way if it gets him some food in his mouth.
He picks up a fight that earns him a couple of hundreds, picks up a guy that costs him just about as much - the lying, thieving piece of shit! - and ends up penniless on a street corner with his guitar in hand, thinking what the hell, might as well. Strumming the strings with his fingers doesn’t earn him nearly as much as cracking skulls with his knuckles, but where fighting stokes his fury, seeing people enjoying his music fills him with a strange kind of serenity he hasn’t felt since he was very, very young. Two wolves, he thinks, and for the first time he admits to himself that it might not be all bull.
He gets a job bussing tables during the day and another playing his guitar at night. Sweet pop and softer rock, folk songs and soul, but never country. Not that it’s the right crowd for it anyway, but… no. No, he’s not playing that. The first night he sleeps in a real bed, he feels like he’s made it. No matter that the room is smaller than a closet and smells of something he’d rather not identify; there’s a roof over his head, and four walls around him and for now that’s enough. He spends his seventeenth birthday high on weed and whiskey, fucking a pretty Latino he never gets the name of. Life could be worse.
Life is infinitely better four years later, lying in the arms of a surfer boy with too long hair and smoke in his eyes, with a soft smile that reminds Chris of warm hugs and fresh laundry, and lips that kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Chris falls in love like he crashed into that tree: blind, desperate, throwing his life into someone else’s hands. Except this time he’s caught softly but securely, with a simple declaration of love and a promise of home. There’s no more need to run anywhere, but it’s alright to move, he thinks as they pack up and leave the endless beaches for more urban landscapes up in The Big Apple, seeking something they can’t quite put a name to.
Time really does heal on occasion, and one day the strings on his guitar start playing the old music from home without the hurt that usually follows. He sings about warm nights and hot days, of pretty girls and good ol’ boys, and what remains of his anger seeps out of his veins, until there’s only a small ball left, glowing in the pit of his belly. He nurses it on old wounds and new dangers, because the world is full of bigots and nowhere is really safe, but the ball still grows smaller, with every touch of Steve’s hand, every song Chris strums on his mother’s guitar, every friend he makes that doesn’t look at them sideways. And gradually the part of him forged by his father’s hatred gives way to the part nurtured on his mother’s love.
And so Chris loves. He loves, and he cares, and he comforts, and he gives as much of himself as he can, because that’s the person he feels he would have grown into if only she’d been there to guide him. He can’t do much about the years he’s wasted, but he can use the years ahead. And (even if he sometimes feels like he’s poured himself empty, even if he sometimes feels so tired he wishes she was still there to care for him) he can’t imagine his life any different. In fact, it’s damn near perfect.
Until the day he falls in love again.
7 years ago
Chris jumps down from the stage and heads to the bar for their mid-gig drinks while Steve slips out back for a smoke. It’s a good night. Easy going, a few regulars even sing along to their more popular songs. He can’t complain.
“Good crowd,” Julie says. She’s a regular, she should know. Her wife grunts an affirmation, sipping her whiskey while Julie stirs her gin and tonic.
He grins, throwing the bartender two fingers before stealing some of Kim’s peanuts. “Good enough. Didn’t hear you sing along, sweetheart. Kim’s been makin’ you scream your little throat raw again?”
Julie throws back her head and laughs while Kim winks and says, “Don’t you know it?”
This is why he loves playing here. He can kiss Steve on stage without risking a fist to the face on their way back to the bus, and ain’t nobody gonna take offence when his mouth runs off on its own.
Kim excuses herself, to go to the ladies’ room or possibly out back to steal Steve’s joint, no way to tell, and Chris is left sipping his whiskey under Julie’s watchful eye, until he can’t take it anymore and quirks an eyebrow and asks, “Somethin’ botherin’ ya, darlin’?” drawling his words a little extra for her amusement.
“You boys still on for your tour?” she asks back.
He nods. “Day after tomorrow. Why, you wanna run off with me, sweetheart?” He winks and she laughs.
“Think that would be a very frustrating affair,” she points out. “What with me having nothing but the wrong equipment, and you getting lost between my legs.”
He chokes on his drink, almost snorting it out of his nose. “There’s that,” he chuckles, wiping his mouth. “And Kim comin’ after me with a shotgun.”
“Also true.” She laughs quietly then looks at him, thoughtful.
He waits, knowing her well enough not to rush. She’s the calm waters to Kim’s rougher sea, the slow river to her rushing waterfall. Whatever she’s got to say, it will come in its own good time.
“We’ve got a kid who needs a safe place to stay,” she finally says. “Sweet as anything but he’s had it rough. Could use a friend or two.”
He frowns. “You say ‘kid’. He run away from home? His parents gonna come lookin’ for’im?”
She drops her gaze and when she looks up again he’s surprised to see her eyes shimmer but all she says is, “He’s eighteen. And I don’t think they much care.”
Still he hesitates. Eighteen year old kid. Remembering himself at that age makes him wince. Steve would kill him if they came home to all their stuff sold off and the place trashed. On the other hand, it would solve their immediate horticultural problem. They’re heading out in two days and Steve is worrying about their plants. Would be nice to have someone there while they’re away. Would ease Steve’s mind.
“He’s real pretty,” she adds with a wink, and he’d feel defensive if he thought she meant anything by it. She knows he’s got Steve, and pretty boys are a dime a dozen anyway.
“Think he knows how to care for plants?” he asks.
She grins. “Think he can learn pretty quick.” She leans over and puts her hand on his arm, her face suddenly serious. “Please.”
Aw, hell. Why not?
The kid ain’t pretty. He’s goddamn beautiful. Chris hadn’t really been expecting anything - Julie’s a sweetheart, but she doesn’t really get male attraction - but the boy he’s looking (staring) at seems almost ethereal. And that’s before the kid looks up, and Chris is hit with deep green eyes, framed by lashes any drag queen would kill for. There’s a familiar swooping sensation in Chris’s stomach. A telling acceleration in his chest. He knows Steve can feel his sharp inhale, because he starts shaking silently, plastered as he is against Chris’s side, his huff of laughter blowing through Chris’s hair.
“He is pretty,” Steve whispers into his ear, voice hoarse with smoke, as soon as the kid disappears through the back door. “Pretty, pretty boy. Oh, you’re in trouble now, man.”
Fuck. Chris swallows. “I’m sorry, love. We better go.”
But Steve just shakes his head. “Babe, you know it’s alright.”
Before he can say that no, it’s not, it shouldn’t be, Kim comes through the backdoor in a cloud of cigarette smoke with a grin plastered on her face, and before he knows it, he and Steve are walking back to their place with the nervous kid - Jensen - at their heels.
There’s no turning back after that.
“You ready? Matt’s getting restless.”
Chris nods. “Yeah. I’m jus’ gonna…” He waves toward the guestroom - no, Jensen’s room - pretending he can’t see Steve’s grin. “… let him know.”
He expects to find the door locked but to his surprise it yields easily. The early morning light filters through the flimsy curtains, setting the scene before him like a stage in a Greek tragedy. Jensen lies sprawled on his back, naked from the waist up, one arm slung over his eyes to protect them from a beam of sunlight that has by now travelled down to light up a path across his abdomen.
Chris stands still, eyes blinking rapidly.
Jesus, he’s-
“You coming?” Steve calls out from the other room, and without thinking Chris takes out his phone and snaps a picture. Then he steps out, closing the door quietly behind him.
For once Chris gives up the driver’s seat to settle down in the back with his guitar, strumming it quietly as he tries to think.
He’d felt it the day before, through the too baggy shirt, the threadbare jeans. A lack of softness. A lack of volume. Despite the fine features of Jensen’s (beautiful, beautiful) face, it had been a surprise.
But the body he’d just seen wasn’t slim, wasn’t skinny, it was… emaciated. Bone-showing, hollowed, caved in. And mapped in old bruises.
Julie hadn’t mentioned that. True, Chris had had a few drinks that night, but he’s sure he’d remember. All she’d said was that the boy was pretty and came from rough circumstances.
And God, Jensen is pretty. So goddamn beautiful it hurt a little in Chris’s chest just to look at him. Hurts now to even think of him. But Jensen’s circumstances had clearly not just been rough. They must have been horrific. Torturous. And Chris had just left him. Alone. A boy like that, in a city like theirs. It goes against everything Chris is, everything he needs to be to keep the anger at bay. Right now the ball of rage is glowing in his belly, filling his lungs with smoke, his veins with fire. Who the fuck did that? Who the fuck does he have to beat the shit out of? Who the hell-
Chris’s fingers slip on the strings, the loud twang making him jolt. Fuck.
“Hey, babe.” Steve slides in beside him, warm fingers running up his spine to massage his neck. “What’s up?”
He can’t explain so he just pulls out his phone, finds the picture and hands the phone over. Any hope he carries of it all being a trick of light, a misreading, vanishes with Steve’s sharp inhale. “Is that…? Jesus!”
Chris clears his throat but his voice still sounds raw, “Only saw it earlier, when, when I - ” He squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. Did they even tell Jensen they were leaving? He can’t remember. “And then I just left, man. I just left.”
Steve’s fingers slide into his hair, massaging his scalp. Chris takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. That swooping feeling is back but worse, like a sinkhole dragging him down. ‘Stop it,’ he growls at his stupid heart. ‘Don’t do this to us.’
“He’ll be alright, baby,” Steve says, voice quiet like a lie. “Maybe it’ll be good for him, getting to be by himself for a while.”
But Chris can’t help feeling like he just let his mama down in the worst way possible. Like he left a hurt puppy on the side of the road for every vulture out there to come pick at.
“You thinking about Jensen?” The voice is low and drowsy. Concerned. Warm breath in his ear.
Chris turns his head, catching Steve’s lips in a slow kiss before rolling onto his side to wrap his arm around Steve’s sleep-warm body, drawing him close. “M’sorry,” he sighs. “Just worryin’, that’s all.”
“Sure it is.” Steve snorts when Chris goes still. “Baby, it’s okay.”
But goddammit, it’s not. He buries his face in Steve’s hair, feeling guilty and confused and fucking angry with himself. “Don’t know what’s a matter with me,” he mumbles.
“I think maybe,” Steve says, his words blowing softly against Chris’s neck, “you’re falling in love again.”
Chris jerks back. “No! That’s not… No.” He kisses Steve hard. “I love you.”
“Baby, I know that,” Steve chuckles, eyes twinkling in the light from the neon sign outside their window. “But he’s got you good, and, baby, that’s alright. Doesn’t mean you love me less, right?”
Chris kisses him again. “Fuck, darlin’, I love you more,” he says, and then he shows him, with every kiss of his lips, every lick of his tongue, every touch of his fingers, running over Steve’s skin.
His own voice greets him once again, and damn is he tired of that fool. He groans, banging his head against the window. “Why you not pickin’ up, love?” he whispers, his breath fogging the glass. “What’s goin’ on?”
He jumps when warm arms wrap around him from behind. “Julie said he was alright.”
Chris swallows, the guilt burning his throat. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean to wake you. I just… ” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Sshh.” Steve brushes the hair away from Chris’s neck and presses a kiss to the top of his spine. “Stop it.” He rests his chin on Chris’s shoulder, his reflection in the window radiating sympathy and worry. “I don’t know, man, maybe he just hates phones.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s busy hookin’ up and havin’ a grand old time.”
Steve snorts. “Now you sound jealous,” he teases, grinning when Chris groans and bangs his head against the window.
“I don’t even know him, man. What the hell?”
Steve tilts his head, looking a little surprised at his outburst. “Baby, this is what you do. Remember Dave? You loved that guy from the moment you saw him. And Jason. And Mark.”
Chris winces. He had loved Dave. Broke his fucking heart when Dave moved away. They never even kissed but damn, he’d wanted to. And Jason… They sang one duet, and Chris was swept off his feet. Mark was an asshole, but that didn’t stop Chris from writing a sappy love song about him. And each time he’d felt so guilty about his stupid fucked up heart, he’d tried to break up with Steve. Who just told him not to be an idiot and come back to bed.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m a goddamn flake.”
“No, you’re not. Your heart’s just too big for only one person.” Steve kisses his neck. “You know I don’t mind. I like him plenty myself. Not quite head over heels like you, babe, but the kid’s got something, that’s for sure.”
Chris hangs his head. “Fuck, he is just a kid. I feel like a fuckin’ pervert, man.”
“You’re only twenty-four,” Steve laughs. “Not exactly geriatric.” He slides a hand down Chris’s front, cupping his dick through his jeans. “Our age difference never bothers you.”
“Three years ain’t the same as six.” Chris lets his head fall back, reaching behind him to pull Steve closer until he feels the hard length press against him. “And you crawled out of your mama’s belly a damn pervert, darlin’.”
“And aren’t you glad I did,” Steve says as he slides down to his knees.
The moment Chris opens the door and sees Jensen sitting there - anxious but safe - the feelings he’s been trying to kill for the last two weeks explode in his chest. Before he can stop himself, he pulls Jensen into his arms and kisses him on the cheek, just so damn relieved that he’s still there, in one piece. Jensen’s soft sigh is hardly audible, but Chris can feel him lean in for just a second, before he seems to catch himself and goes rigid. Letting Jensen go is almost physically painful, but Chris hands him over to Steve before he does something worse, like kiss the kid on the mouth.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s different about their place and damn, it doesn’t sit right with him. No, this is not… No. He goes back into the living room, to explain to the kid that he’s not their goddamn maid, and finds Jensen standing there, looking lost in what’s supposed to be his own home.
God, he’s so beautiful.
The urge to grab Jensen by the neck and kiss him senseless is making Chris dizzy. He puts his hands on Jensen’s hips, to steady himself as much as to keep him at a distance. And yet, just that touch, and the small kiss on the cheek he allows himself, fills the boy’s eyes with such longing, Chris’s heart stutters. He babbles something no doubt embarrassing then flees into the bedroom where Steve finds him, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
“You alright, babe?”
“No.” He sinks down on the bed, head in his hands. “Did you feel… When you hugged him, did he…? Tell me I ain’t imagining it.”
Steve hums in agreement. “Thought he was gonna melt in my arms, and then he went all stiff and uncomfortable until I let him go. Poor guy.”
Chris sighs. “I just want him to know he ain’t gotta pull away like that. That if he wants, he can just lean in. Or push us away if that’s what he wants. I just want him to know he’s got options.”
“So maybe we tell him what those options are.”
Chris looks up at him. With the others, nothing ever happened, not because Steve objected, but because Chris felt too ashamed to tell him until the temptation was well and truly gone. But Jensen is right here. Chris would happily pine after him every day for the rest of his life to keep from hurting Steve, because they can’t ask Jensen to leave, not now, not with what they suspect (know) he’s been through. But if Steve is saying what Chris thinks he’s saying... “Yeah?”
Steve smiles, the love in his eyes shining brightly. “Yeah.”
Chris stands up and pulls Steve into his arms. God, he loves him so much. “I don’t deserve you, darlin’, I really don’t, but damn do I love you.”
“You deserve everything,” Steve says softly. “Don’t talk like that.” They stand for a while, just holding each other. Then Steve says quietly, “But we gotta be careful, man. He might just be touch starved. I remember what you were like.”
Chris frowns. “I wasn’t- He’s- It ain’t comparable, man.” It’s not. His dad might have been a mean drunk who’d smack him every chance he got, but it wasn’t… No. Not even on his worst days was it anything like what he suspects Jensen has suffered.
“Maybe not. Still.” Steve strokes Chris’s hair. “Maybe he just needs love, babe. Without romance. Think you’d be alright with that?”
Chris swallows. Truth is, he doesn’t expect anything. He never has. He’s kinda still waiting to wake up from this dream of Steve actually loving him back. “I’ll be alright with whatever he needs. I always am.”
Steve sighs, like he knows what Chris is thinking. “Just be careful,” he says softly. “I’d hate to see him break your heart.”
Chris kisses him and doesn’t say, ‘He’s welcome to it,’ because that’s pathetic, but Steve knows him well enough to add, “But if he does, I’ll be right here to put it back together.”
God, how did he ever get so lucky?
Jensen kisses like he hasn’t had a drink in a month and a half, and Chris’s lips are a fountain of ambrosia. He kisses himself dizzy, sometimes losing his balance, because he forgets to breathe. His fingers fist Chris’s shirt, holding on for dear life, like he’s dangling off a cliff with miles and miles of darkness beneath his feet. Sometimes he kisses himself so tired he falls asleep with Chris’s tongue in his mouth. If you could really tell a man’s love in his kiss, then Chris is the love of Jensen’s life.
Too bad those old songs are all bull. Doesn’t matter. Chris is more than happy with what he gets. Asking for more is just asking for trouble.
He cooks them dinner. Nothing fancy, just some chicken and pasta with cream sauce and mushrooms, side salad. Fat, vitamins, carbs and protein since God knows Jensen needs a little bit (a lot) of everything. Sets the kitchen table because eating in front of the TV is fine for pizza and take-out but hell if he’s gonna serve something he’s put time and effort in other than at a proper setting. Steve drops a kiss on Chris’s cheek on his way to his seat, then digs in like a wolf the second he’s filled his plate, the way he does with everything, a beautiful glutton to a fault. God, Chris loves him.
Meanwhile Jensen hovers, looking hesitant, so Chris says, “Go on, help yourself, darlin’,” then goes to slice the bread. When he turns around Jensen is sitting in front of a portion hardly fit for a toddler, let alone a starved man. Chris doesn’t say anything, just shoots a look at Steve, who raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything either. For all they know that’s all Jensen can eat. Maybe his stomach is all curled up like a fist, caught in a chronic hunger cramp.
Chris eats slowly, sipping his beer (really should be white wine but he likes beer and to hell with tradition), surreptitiously keeping an eye on Jensen. Noting the blissful look on Jensen’s face as he takes the first bite, the hunger that fills his eyes, the sad resignation as his plate empties. After a moment of silence, he makes as if to stand up and that’s when it clicks. Oh hell. Jesus.
“Darlin’, sit your ass down and eat my food,” Chris says, not meaning to sound so harsh, his throat is just a little tight from the smoke curling up from the ball of fire, flaring up in his belly.
Jensen still freezes. He sits back down, licking his lips, eyes darting to the door. Chris bites back a curse and takes Jensen’s plate, heaping as much food on it as he figures the boy can stomach. Which is a lot less than he probably needs but it won’t do to make him sick.
“Didn’t cook it just to be looked at,” he mutters and puts more on both his and Steve’s plates as well, just to make the whole thing a little less awkward. As he takes up his fork and starts eating, Jensen looks so relieved, Chris wants to hug him. “Don’t forget to chew,” he says instead, voice gruff, and pretends he can’t see Steve silently laughing at him.
Truth is, Chris doesn’t have a lot to feel angry about anymore. Sure, the world’s a shit pool and people are assholes but there’s not much he can do about that so he might as well just smoke some pot or have a drink or kiss Steve (or now Jensen) or play a song or two. Then all that crap doesn’t seem to matter as much.
Only real fuel he gets for his ball of anger these days is from sports. Shouting at idiots on the screen is almost as satisfying as it was kicking his way out of a situation gone bad. Except now there’s Jensen, sandwiched between them on the couch, close enough that Chris feels him jerk the minute the first curse explodes out of his mouth. Still takes him far too long to realize. Far too long sitting perched on the edge of his seat, shouting and slamming his beer down and generally being a goddamn moron about something that doesn’t matter one shit until Steve says, “Dude! Calm the fuck down!” Only then does he look over and see Jensen, sitting coiled tight, his breathing rapid but tellingly quiet, whites of his eyes showing in a face pale and pearled with sweat.
Shit.
“Sorry, love,” he says and swallows the bile that’s pushing its way up his throat. Turns the TV off and stands up. “I’mma go for a run,” he says. “Blow off some steam.” Jensen doesn’t even look at him, just pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, so Chris goes and changes before Steve can call him out on it (“Run? You?”) and then he leaves and runs, and runs, and runs until the pain in his lungs reminds him why he stopped doing this shit.
He only watches sports at bars from then on.
Jensen never says anything, but Chris can tell, in the way he moves, the way he frowns, the way he discreetly stretches, that he’s hurting in muscles he shouldn’t even know about. At times he seems so tired, like his whole body is aching. One rainy day has Jensen sitting stiff on the couch, breathing tense and shallow, and Chris goes to stand behind him, rubs his hands together until his palms feel like they’re on fire, then lays them on Jensen’s shoulders, letting the heat in his skin soak in. Jensen tips his head back, eyes blinking warily, but Chris doesn’t ask, just leans down and kisses him, soft and tender. Then rubs his hands together again - swish, swish, swish - and gives Jensen more of his heat.
When Jensen dislocates his shoulder a couple of weeks later it answers one of Chris’s questions but spurs about a hundred more.
The red haze of rage dissipates and there’s blood on his knuckles, pain in his fists. He’s aware of hands grabbing him from behind, pulling him back, and he wrenches free and turns around, ready to head straight into that fog again when his eyes fall on Jensen on the floor, backed into a corner. Backing away. From him.
It sobers him up like a bucket full of ice water. He staggers forward, falling to his knees in shame and anguish. “Did he hurt you? Did I hurt you? Are you hurt? Sweetheart?”
Jensen shakes his head, but Chris can see the print from harsh fingers on his neck where the fucking bastard had grabbed him, had pushed… had…
Chris pulls in a lungful of red fog and lets his breath out slowly. “You sure, love?” He reaches out, halting when he catches Jensen stare at his bloody knuckles, eyes so wide Chris thinks they might roll back in his head. Shit. He pulls back, shame burning its way from his chest up to his ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
He’s staggering to his feet, looking around for Steve to save him out of this awful mess, when Jensen grabs hold of his hand, gently as if not to hurt his bruised bones, and Chris looks down, startled to see no fear, only gratitude in his eyes. Jensen tugs on Chris’s hand, and Chris pulls him to his feet and straight into his embrace with Jensen wrapping his arms around his neck, body warm and trembling where it presses against his. “Thank you,” he whispers, and “No one ever…” and “Can we please go home?”
Chris’s head spins from the rush of relief. “Yeah,” he says, clutching Jensen tighter. “Yeah, love, we can,” he says, kissing Jensen’s neck. “Whatever you want,” he promises and means every word of it.
Later, in bed, with Jensen curled up on his side, staring into space; Chris sitting against the headboard, carding his bruised and bandaged fingers through Jensen’s hair; Steve sleeping, or possibly passed out, Chris is not sure, either way he’s lying on his stomach, one arm slung over Chris’s legs, the palm of his hand warming Jensen’s waist and... Chris can’t relax, can’t soak in the warmth of the two people he loves most in the whole world, pressed up against him, can’t stop the thoughts running circles in his head, because what if he'd been too late? Just a few minutes, even a few seconds, and... The anger boils like lava in his belly, filling up his chest with the old familiar smoke, running fire through his veins, readying his body for the fight. He feels like a dragon holding its breath, waiting to burn everything in its path. It scares the shit out of him. He could so easily have killed that man. He could so very easily have hurt Jensen in his rage without even realizing until it would have been too late. Maybe he is becoming his father after all.
“She never¬-” Jensen starts then stops.
‘She?’ Chris thinks. ‘She who? Your mama? Foster mom? Aunt? Grandma? What fucking bitch hurt you?’
“There was never blood,” Jensen finally says.
Chris closes his eyes. “No?” he asks, keeping his voice as light as he can.
“Not really. Just, my nose a couple of times. And when I fell on the table once and knocked a tooth out. But not… not usually.”
Chris breathes in. He breathes out. In. Out. In. Out.
“Still hurt,” Jensen says, his voice so small it’s hardly a whisper. “Still hurt a lot.”
“Yeah,” Chris says quietly and leans over to kiss Jensen on the cheek. “Never again,” he promises and means both of them. Never again will that woman hurt you. Never again will you see me hurt anyone. “Never.”
Jensen shuffles closer, his head lifting to lay down on Chris’s thigh. Chris hums under his breath as the anger slowly simmers down, the rage pulling back and wrapping itself up in the small ball again. His fingers card through Jensen’s hair until he falls asleep.
Jensen sits down on the couch, cold body leaning gradually into Chris until he casually lifts his arm and allows Jensen to settle into his side. Jensen sighs and looks up, looking so grateful Chris’s heart stutters. He kisses Jensen softly, pulls him a little closer and counts Jensen’s heartbeats under his skin, tapping beneath his thumb.
He buys a couple of blankets because… just because.
Jensen edges up to Chris where he stands cooking, is shaving, is pruning the plants, hovering close enough that Chris can feel the anticipation radiating of him, and without words Chris puts out his arm and pulls Jensen in, for a hug, for a kiss, but most often just for contact. “You alright, love?” he’ll ask, and Jensen will nod or hum and lean in a little closer. Being Jensen’s source of comfort, his reassurance that he is loved, is wanted… what more can he ask for?
He starts wearing only t-shirts at home to give Jensen just a little bit more skin to touch.
Jensen slips into their bed, cool skin and rabbit heart, breath shaky against Chris’s cheek until he wakes up enough to turn his head. They kiss until the tension leaks out of Jensen’s bones, and he falls asleep, thin arm wrapped around Chris’s middle to keep from falling off the edge of the bed. Chris keeps dropping kisses on Jensen’s slack lips, his freckled nose, the thin blue skin under his eyes, stalling his own sleep as long as he can. Just this, this is enough.
The next day they buy a bigger bed, the old one was starting to sag anyway.
Jensen leans back on the bed, the couch, the rug in the living room, body tense like a rod, gaze shifting to the door, breath caught in his throat and still his eyes are so full of want, of need, of lust, and Chris doesn’t understand, doesn’t get what he’s so afraid of until Jensen whispers it under his breath, and it’s not a what, it’s a who. It’s a her. Over a thousand miles away, and his mother still keeps her son crushed in the fist of her hand.
They install stronger locks and keep a baseball bat by the bed, just in case.
Jensen murmurs, “I love you,” into Chris’s hair and Chris closes his eyes and steels his voice so Jensen can’t tell how much more it means when he answers, “Love you, too, sweetheart.”
Chris’s food slowly but surely puts meat on Jensen’s bones just as his constant care and reassurance puts more ease in Jensen’s step and sooths the tension out of his tendons. Still, there are setbacks, each of them breaking Chris’s heart, even if they were to be expected. Nights when he hears Jensen throw up the food he gulped down too fast or didn’t agree with his still tender stomach. Days Jensen stands staring out the window from behind the curtains, hiding from a face Chris doubts will ever come look for him. Times when Jensen panics as he realizes he’s forgotten to make his bed or fold his clothes or whatever else his mother used to beat him for. Shivers that won’t stop, because sometimes he just can’t get warm, no matter what. Collapsing in an almost catatonic state after a difficult day at work, because he just can’t deal with people yelling at him for stupid shit he has no control over, let alone whatever small mistakes he makes.
He catches Jensen glaring at himself in the mirror one day, and the look of self-loathing on his face is staggering. Chris has to go for a run before he does something stupid, like put his fist through a wall. Beating the pavement he thinks, and thinks and thinks. They can love Jensen all they want, but it won’t help one bit if he can’t love himself. And Jensen clearly doesn’t love the person he sees staring back at him in the mirror.
Chris pictures Jensen in his head, the vulnerability, the quietness, the underlying anxiety. The big green eyes with those long eyelashes, the soft lips, the choir boy haircut, the plain clothes that still manage to brand him as an innocent easy mark. No wonder Jensen practically hides behind him when they go out to dance or drink. Which he’s refused to do ever since that fucking rapist (would have been, Chris just knows, he keeps seeing it in his nightmares) assaulted him.
Chris huffs angrily, dancing in place as he waits for the lights to change so he can cross the street. He loves Jensen’s look, loves the innocence of him, the sweetness, the absolute beauty of that vulnerable face, but it’s clearly not doing Jensen’s self-esteem any favors. So maybe it's time they change that. Sometimes you need an armor to fight your enemies, even if that enemy is yourself.
The light turns green and he starts jogging across. There’s a group of teenagers coming from the other side. Loud, boisterous, laughing with the kind of confidence that comes from not giving a fuck. They snicker as he passes them, and he wonders what they see when they look at him. A redneck, a jock, a ‘fucking fag’? He really doesn’t know which image he projects these days. One of them yells after him, “Run, Forrest, run!” and he spins around, suddenly furious. But there’s no malice in the grin the punk kid sends him, thumbs up in encouragement, so he breathes out and flips the kid the finger with a grin of his own. The kid laughs and throws him a kiss, easy as that. He’s got leather and studs, ratty boots and shredded jeans, a loose plaid shirt under a denim vest. Eyes rimmed with kohl, hair in three different colors, shaved sides, mohawk. Chris falls a little bit in love, just from the boldness of the whole ensemble.
Oh.
He jogs on, thinking, planning. Teeth cooling in the breeze as his lips pull away into a grin. This just might work.
Making love to Jensen is getting everything Chris could never ask for, and still feeling his heart break a little more with every soft sound, every gasp, every moan because God, he loves him so much. He loves him so, so much.
But it’s worth it for the look of wonder in Jensen’s kohl-rimmed eyes, for the immense waves of pleasures rippling his face, for the worn-out, satisfied smile when they lie panting, still clutching each other tight enough to hurt. For the soft whispers of, ‘Thank you,’ and, ‘I love you,’ that break his heart all over again.
He loves watching Jensen reinvent himself in the months and years that follow. All the little things he adds to his look, to his character, to his attitude, that together transform him into a person he actually likes. A person he loves being. A person that Chris slowly realizes is growing apart from them.
It’s what he wanted. For Jensen to find his confidence, find his strength, his independence. To not to be dependent on them - he doesn’t want Jensen to feel dependent on anyone ever again. But the thing is… The thing is Chris hadn’t realized until just then, how much he needs to feel needed. Steve is not a needy person, he takes care of himself just fine despite all the shit he smokes. If they ever did break up, Chris suspects he would be the one lost while Steve would find his footing soon enough. They’re just different personalities, and that’s good. That’s how it should be. It’s just…
It's just that he is going to miss Jensen so damn much.
Sometimes, when they’ve been kissing for a while, and Jensen looks at him with those big green eyes and says, “I love you so much,” Chris has to look away before he can say it back, because he knows Jensen loves him just like he loves Steve, like he loves Danni, like he loves Julie and Kim and the regulars at Chevy’s that are slowly becoming more, becoming friends, sometimes lovers. Jensen has a lot of love in him, which is a wonder considering he was never taught to love or be loved.
But when Chris says, “I love you,” it means, “I can’t live without you,” it means, “I would kill for you in an instant,” it means, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” It means, “Please, don’t leave me.”
“You should tell him,” Steve says as they watch Jensen flirt, and smile, and laugh, and kiss and fuck his way through their circle of friends. “He’s looking for something. You could tell him it’s right here.”
And sometimes Chris is so close, he can feel the words stinging his tongue. But it wouldn’t be right. He’s not stupid, he knows Jensen looks up to him, like a kind of mentor, an older brother. Who kisses and fucks him, but still. They’re not on even footing. He would never let Jensen feel he had to… No. It wouldn’t be right.
Besides, Jensen always comes back to them in the end.
Where Chris falls in love way too easily, Jensen falls in lust. He gets starstruck over pretty eyes, a nice ass, the breadth of a man’s shoulders. He wants. And what Jensen wants, he usually gets. Being beautiful will do that. Being funny, and cheeky and charming seals the deal. Until now that’s all it’s been. Lust. Horny, greedy, insatiable lust, born out of years of touch starvation, maybe. Maybe he just has an exceptionally high libido. Even Steve is in awe. (Steve is turning into a nympho, there’s no other word for it. Is it because he has to share Chris’s attention with Jensen? Did Chris do this to him? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just… he wasn’t like this. Not before. As it is, Chris is relieved Jensen is there to share Steve’s affection, because sometimes Chris is just so tired. Sometimes he just feels so very, very tired.)
Watching Jensen fall in love is… Chris wonders if this is what penance feels like.
Jared is everything Chris wants for Jensen. He’s kind, he’s sweet; he loves Jensen to the point of reverence. He’s big enough to warn off anyone looking at Jensen the wrong way and soft enough that Chris never has to worry about that strength being turned on Jensen. Their introduction may not have been the best (He blames Steve’s extra strong weed and the bottle of tequila, and Jensen being so close but so far away, and himself for… He blames himself.) but they come to first respect each other, and then like each other, and then want each other and then, because that’s who he is, Chris falls in love, yet again.
Continued here
Title: Ain't No Cure
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson, Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Chris, Jared/Chris, Jensen/Chris/Steve, Jensen/Jared/Chris/Steve (honestly, they're all doing something at some point)
Word count: 22.383 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Story in the Slip Some Sex in My Coffee verse.
He buries his face in Steve’s hair, feeling guilty and confused and fucking angry with himself. “Don’t know what’s a matter with me,” he mumbles.
“I think maybe,” Steve says, his words blowing softly against Chris’s neck, “you’re falling in love again.”
Or Chris's side of dealing with his polyamorous heart. Here be lots of pining, quite a bit of kissing and some lovely gay sex.
Warnings: Again, I'm putting a warning on this one for non-sexual child abuse, but this time not graphic, just referenced. Also there's a suicide attempt in the prologue but it's not graphic either.
Author’s note: This one probably won't make much sense unless you've read part 5 ( Battered Soul) of this verse since it references a lot of things that happens in that one. Beta’d by the lovely candygramme. Thank you, sweetie. Title taken from the song by Leonard Cohen.
Also available on AO3.
Prologue
Chris’s teachers blame his temper, and the endless fights, on his mama dying when he was way too young. And sure, the change from a home smelling of fresh laundry and warm hugs to one stinking of cigarettes and booze probably did a number on him. His father’s heavy hand and heavier words, kicking him down at every turn, probably does more damage though.
He should be cowed, should be trembling with fear and misery where he hides out on the roof, waiting for his dad to stop raging and pass the fuck out. He’s not. He’s just furious. Five feet and stretching of nothing but blind rage and resentment. His grandma tuts and reminds him of the two wolves in his heart. “Be careful which you feed,” she says, shaking her head at him, but he just rolls his eyes, thinking, ‘I ain’t the one feedin’em,’ while the drunk bastard’s demeaning curses rub salt in every bruise on his skin.
God, he’s just so angry! He's angry at his pop for being a mean drunk, at God for being a fucking bastard, at his mama for leaving him. (That one he feels guilty about, the others, he thinks, are more than justified.) But mostly he’s angry at himself for being so goddamn wrong. That’s what messes him up, more than anything. Because God does punish the wicked, that’s what He does. And Chris sure is wicked. He’s known it ever since he caught sight of Jimmy Morton’s dick in the showers after football practice and wanted to fall to his knees and put it in his mouth.
No wonder God hates him.
Still, denial is a mighty river, and he wades right in, letting the current sweep him along. Nothing but girls, girls, girls, because damn there are plenty, twirling around him in an endless dance of silky hair and daring smiles. The desperation in his eyes draws them in, they seem sure he just needs a loving hand to help settle those demons that ride him so wild. He tries, he’d swear on his mama’s grave he does. He kisses their lips, licks their skin and slips his fingers where they have no place being. Fumbles his way through his first time, hating every goddamn minute of it, then does it again and again, because what else is there? What the fuck else? Nothing, that’s what. Not a damn thing.
Three days shy of sixteen he steals his dad’s truck, and drives, and drives and drives, faster and faster, until the world is a blur of fields and endless yellow lines. Then with a sob in his throat he closes his eyes, leaving his life in the hands of his hateful creator.
God doesn’t kill him. He just breaks his arm and cracks a few ribs by wrapping his dad’s truck around the only damn tree within ten miles. The doc says he’s goddamn lucky. His dad’s eyes tell him he’d been better off dead.
He doesn’t stick around to see if the old man plans on finishing the job, just sneaks out of the hospital first chance he gets, hitches a ride home to pack a change of clothes and his mama’s guitar, and then he’s off to California, not so much seeking his fortune as fleeing what’s sure to otherwise be his inevitable fate, of either being beaten to death or turning into his old man. He can’t even tell which would be worse.
The journey from one sunbeaten state to another teaches him that people are scum everywhere. He gets into more and more fights, sometimes to save his ass, more often just for the hell of it. He grows taller, although not by much, stronger, and, more importantly, faster. The trick is to take them out before they even realize he can. By the time he reaches Cali he’s got more scars on his knuckles than money in his pocket and far as he can see he’s only got three career choices: fighting, fucking, or making music. Honestly, he’d go any which way if it gets him some food in his mouth.
He picks up a fight that earns him a couple of hundreds, picks up a guy that costs him just about as much - the lying, thieving piece of shit! - and ends up penniless on a street corner with his guitar in hand, thinking what the hell, might as well. Strumming the strings with his fingers doesn’t earn him nearly as much as cracking skulls with his knuckles, but where fighting stokes his fury, seeing people enjoying his music fills him with a strange kind of serenity he hasn’t felt since he was very, very young. Two wolves, he thinks, and for the first time he admits to himself that it might not be all bull.
He gets a job bussing tables during the day and another playing his guitar at night. Sweet pop and softer rock, folk songs and soul, but never country. Not that it’s the right crowd for it anyway, but… no. No, he’s not playing that. The first night he sleeps in a real bed, he feels like he’s made it. No matter that the room is smaller than a closet and smells of something he’d rather not identify; there’s a roof over his head, and four walls around him and for now that’s enough. He spends his seventeenth birthday high on weed and whiskey, fucking a pretty Latino he never gets the name of. Life could be worse.
Life is infinitely better four years later, lying in the arms of a surfer boy with too long hair and smoke in his eyes, with a soft smile that reminds Chris of warm hugs and fresh laundry, and lips that kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Chris falls in love like he crashed into that tree: blind, desperate, throwing his life into someone else’s hands. Except this time he’s caught softly but securely, with a simple declaration of love and a promise of home. There’s no more need to run anywhere, but it’s alright to move, he thinks as they pack up and leave the endless beaches for more urban landscapes up in The Big Apple, seeking something they can’t quite put a name to.
Time really does heal on occasion, and one day the strings on his guitar start playing the old music from home without the hurt that usually follows. He sings about warm nights and hot days, of pretty girls and good ol’ boys, and what remains of his anger seeps out of his veins, until there’s only a small ball left, glowing in the pit of his belly. He nurses it on old wounds and new dangers, because the world is full of bigots and nowhere is really safe, but the ball still grows smaller, with every touch of Steve’s hand, every song Chris strums on his mother’s guitar, every friend he makes that doesn’t look at them sideways. And gradually the part of him forged by his father’s hatred gives way to the part nurtured on his mother’s love.
And so Chris loves. He loves, and he cares, and he comforts, and he gives as much of himself as he can, because that’s the person he feels he would have grown into if only she’d been there to guide him. He can’t do much about the years he’s wasted, but he can use the years ahead. And (even if he sometimes feels like he’s poured himself empty, even if he sometimes feels so tired he wishes she was still there to care for him) he can’t imagine his life any different. In fact, it’s damn near perfect.
Until the day he falls in love again.
7 years ago
Chris jumps down from the stage and heads to the bar for their mid-gig drinks while Steve slips out back for a smoke. It’s a good night. Easy going, a few regulars even sing along to their more popular songs. He can’t complain.
“Good crowd,” Julie says. She’s a regular, she should know. Her wife grunts an affirmation, sipping her whiskey while Julie stirs her gin and tonic.
He grins, throwing the bartender two fingers before stealing some of Kim’s peanuts. “Good enough. Didn’t hear you sing along, sweetheart. Kim’s been makin’ you scream your little throat raw again?”
Julie throws back her head and laughs while Kim winks and says, “Don’t you know it?”
This is why he loves playing here. He can kiss Steve on stage without risking a fist to the face on their way back to the bus, and ain’t nobody gonna take offence when his mouth runs off on its own.
Kim excuses herself, to go to the ladies’ room or possibly out back to steal Steve’s joint, no way to tell, and Chris is left sipping his whiskey under Julie’s watchful eye, until he can’t take it anymore and quirks an eyebrow and asks, “Somethin’ botherin’ ya, darlin’?” drawling his words a little extra for her amusement.
“You boys still on for your tour?” she asks back.
He nods. “Day after tomorrow. Why, you wanna run off with me, sweetheart?” He winks and she laughs.
“Think that would be a very frustrating affair,” she points out. “What with me having nothing but the wrong equipment, and you getting lost between my legs.”
He chokes on his drink, almost snorting it out of his nose. “There’s that,” he chuckles, wiping his mouth. “And Kim comin’ after me with a shotgun.”
“Also true.” She laughs quietly then looks at him, thoughtful.
He waits, knowing her well enough not to rush. She’s the calm waters to Kim’s rougher sea, the slow river to her rushing waterfall. Whatever she’s got to say, it will come in its own good time.
“We’ve got a kid who needs a safe place to stay,” she finally says. “Sweet as anything but he’s had it rough. Could use a friend or two.”
He frowns. “You say ‘kid’. He run away from home? His parents gonna come lookin’ for’im?”
She drops her gaze and when she looks up again he’s surprised to see her eyes shimmer but all she says is, “He’s eighteen. And I don’t think they much care.”
Still he hesitates. Eighteen year old kid. Remembering himself at that age makes him wince. Steve would kill him if they came home to all their stuff sold off and the place trashed. On the other hand, it would solve their immediate horticultural problem. They’re heading out in two days and Steve is worrying about their plants. Would be nice to have someone there while they’re away. Would ease Steve’s mind.
“He’s real pretty,” she adds with a wink, and he’d feel defensive if he thought she meant anything by it. She knows he’s got Steve, and pretty boys are a dime a dozen anyway.
“Think he knows how to care for plants?” he asks.
She grins. “Think he can learn pretty quick.” She leans over and puts her hand on his arm, her face suddenly serious. “Please.”
Aw, hell. Why not?
The kid ain’t pretty. He’s goddamn beautiful. Chris hadn’t really been expecting anything - Julie’s a sweetheart, but she doesn’t really get male attraction - but the boy he’s looking (staring) at seems almost ethereal. And that’s before the kid looks up, and Chris is hit with deep green eyes, framed by lashes any drag queen would kill for. There’s a familiar swooping sensation in Chris’s stomach. A telling acceleration in his chest. He knows Steve can feel his sharp inhale, because he starts shaking silently, plastered as he is against Chris’s side, his huff of laughter blowing through Chris’s hair.
“He is pretty,” Steve whispers into his ear, voice hoarse with smoke, as soon as the kid disappears through the back door. “Pretty, pretty boy. Oh, you’re in trouble now, man.”
Fuck. Chris swallows. “I’m sorry, love. We better go.”
But Steve just shakes his head. “Babe, you know it’s alright.”
Before he can say that no, it’s not, it shouldn’t be, Kim comes through the backdoor in a cloud of cigarette smoke with a grin plastered on her face, and before he knows it, he and Steve are walking back to their place with the nervous kid - Jensen - at their heels.
There’s no turning back after that.
“You ready? Matt’s getting restless.”
Chris nods. “Yeah. I’m jus’ gonna…” He waves toward the guestroom - no, Jensen’s room - pretending he can’t see Steve’s grin. “… let him know.”
He expects to find the door locked but to his surprise it yields easily. The early morning light filters through the flimsy curtains, setting the scene before him like a stage in a Greek tragedy. Jensen lies sprawled on his back, naked from the waist up, one arm slung over his eyes to protect them from a beam of sunlight that has by now travelled down to light up a path across his abdomen.
Chris stands still, eyes blinking rapidly.
Jesus, he’s-
“You coming?” Steve calls out from the other room, and without thinking Chris takes out his phone and snaps a picture. Then he steps out, closing the door quietly behind him.
For once Chris gives up the driver’s seat to settle down in the back with his guitar, strumming it quietly as he tries to think.
He’d felt it the day before, through the too baggy shirt, the threadbare jeans. A lack of softness. A lack of volume. Despite the fine features of Jensen’s (beautiful, beautiful) face, it had been a surprise.
But the body he’d just seen wasn’t slim, wasn’t skinny, it was… emaciated. Bone-showing, hollowed, caved in. And mapped in old bruises.
Julie hadn’t mentioned that. True, Chris had had a few drinks that night, but he’s sure he’d remember. All she’d said was that the boy was pretty and came from rough circumstances.
And God, Jensen is pretty. So goddamn beautiful it hurt a little in Chris’s chest just to look at him. Hurts now to even think of him. But Jensen’s circumstances had clearly not just been rough. They must have been horrific. Torturous. And Chris had just left him. Alone. A boy like that, in a city like theirs. It goes against everything Chris is, everything he needs to be to keep the anger at bay. Right now the ball of rage is glowing in his belly, filling his lungs with smoke, his veins with fire. Who the fuck did that? Who the fuck does he have to beat the shit out of? Who the hell-
Chris’s fingers slip on the strings, the loud twang making him jolt. Fuck.
“Hey, babe.” Steve slides in beside him, warm fingers running up his spine to massage his neck. “What’s up?”
He can’t explain so he just pulls out his phone, finds the picture and hands the phone over. Any hope he carries of it all being a trick of light, a misreading, vanishes with Steve’s sharp inhale. “Is that…? Jesus!”
Chris clears his throat but his voice still sounds raw, “Only saw it earlier, when, when I - ” He squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. Did they even tell Jensen they were leaving? He can’t remember. “And then I just left, man. I just left.”
Steve’s fingers slide into his hair, massaging his scalp. Chris takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. That swooping feeling is back but worse, like a sinkhole dragging him down. ‘Stop it,’ he growls at his stupid heart. ‘Don’t do this to us.’
“He’ll be alright, baby,” Steve says, voice quiet like a lie. “Maybe it’ll be good for him, getting to be by himself for a while.”
But Chris can’t help feeling like he just let his mama down in the worst way possible. Like he left a hurt puppy on the side of the road for every vulture out there to come pick at.
“You thinking about Jensen?” The voice is low and drowsy. Concerned. Warm breath in his ear.
Chris turns his head, catching Steve’s lips in a slow kiss before rolling onto his side to wrap his arm around Steve’s sleep-warm body, drawing him close. “M’sorry,” he sighs. “Just worryin’, that’s all.”
“Sure it is.” Steve snorts when Chris goes still. “Baby, it’s okay.”
But goddammit, it’s not. He buries his face in Steve’s hair, feeling guilty and confused and fucking angry with himself. “Don’t know what’s a matter with me,” he mumbles.
“I think maybe,” Steve says, his words blowing softly against Chris’s neck, “you’re falling in love again.”
Chris jerks back. “No! That’s not… No.” He kisses Steve hard. “I love you.”
“Baby, I know that,” Steve chuckles, eyes twinkling in the light from the neon sign outside their window. “But he’s got you good, and, baby, that’s alright. Doesn’t mean you love me less, right?”
Chris kisses him again. “Fuck, darlin’, I love you more,” he says, and then he shows him, with every kiss of his lips, every lick of his tongue, every touch of his fingers, running over Steve’s skin.
His own voice greets him once again, and damn is he tired of that fool. He groans, banging his head against the window. “Why you not pickin’ up, love?” he whispers, his breath fogging the glass. “What’s goin’ on?”
He jumps when warm arms wrap around him from behind. “Julie said he was alright.”
Chris swallows, the guilt burning his throat. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean to wake you. I just… ” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Sshh.” Steve brushes the hair away from Chris’s neck and presses a kiss to the top of his spine. “Stop it.” He rests his chin on Chris’s shoulder, his reflection in the window radiating sympathy and worry. “I don’t know, man, maybe he just hates phones.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s busy hookin’ up and havin’ a grand old time.”
Steve snorts. “Now you sound jealous,” he teases, grinning when Chris groans and bangs his head against the window.
“I don’t even know him, man. What the hell?”
Steve tilts his head, looking a little surprised at his outburst. “Baby, this is what you do. Remember Dave? You loved that guy from the moment you saw him. And Jason. And Mark.”
Chris winces. He had loved Dave. Broke his fucking heart when Dave moved away. They never even kissed but damn, he’d wanted to. And Jason… They sang one duet, and Chris was swept off his feet. Mark was an asshole, but that didn’t stop Chris from writing a sappy love song about him. And each time he’d felt so guilty about his stupid fucked up heart, he’d tried to break up with Steve. Who just told him not to be an idiot and come back to bed.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m a goddamn flake.”
“No, you’re not. Your heart’s just too big for only one person.” Steve kisses his neck. “You know I don’t mind. I like him plenty myself. Not quite head over heels like you, babe, but the kid’s got something, that’s for sure.”
Chris hangs his head. “Fuck, he is just a kid. I feel like a fuckin’ pervert, man.”
“You’re only twenty-four,” Steve laughs. “Not exactly geriatric.” He slides a hand down Chris’s front, cupping his dick through his jeans. “Our age difference never bothers you.”
“Three years ain’t the same as six.” Chris lets his head fall back, reaching behind him to pull Steve closer until he feels the hard length press against him. “And you crawled out of your mama’s belly a damn pervert, darlin’.”
“And aren’t you glad I did,” Steve says as he slides down to his knees.
The moment Chris opens the door and sees Jensen sitting there - anxious but safe - the feelings he’s been trying to kill for the last two weeks explode in his chest. Before he can stop himself, he pulls Jensen into his arms and kisses him on the cheek, just so damn relieved that he’s still there, in one piece. Jensen’s soft sigh is hardly audible, but Chris can feel him lean in for just a second, before he seems to catch himself and goes rigid. Letting Jensen go is almost physically painful, but Chris hands him over to Steve before he does something worse, like kiss the kid on the mouth.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s different about their place and damn, it doesn’t sit right with him. No, this is not… No. He goes back into the living room, to explain to the kid that he’s not their goddamn maid, and finds Jensen standing there, looking lost in what’s supposed to be his own home.
God, he’s so beautiful.
The urge to grab Jensen by the neck and kiss him senseless is making Chris dizzy. He puts his hands on Jensen’s hips, to steady himself as much as to keep him at a distance. And yet, just that touch, and the small kiss on the cheek he allows himself, fills the boy’s eyes with such longing, Chris’s heart stutters. He babbles something no doubt embarrassing then flees into the bedroom where Steve finds him, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
“You alright, babe?”
“No.” He sinks down on the bed, head in his hands. “Did you feel… When you hugged him, did he…? Tell me I ain’t imagining it.”
Steve hums in agreement. “Thought he was gonna melt in my arms, and then he went all stiff and uncomfortable until I let him go. Poor guy.”
Chris sighs. “I just want him to know he ain’t gotta pull away like that. That if he wants, he can just lean in. Or push us away if that’s what he wants. I just want him to know he’s got options.”
“So maybe we tell him what those options are.”
Chris looks up at him. With the others, nothing ever happened, not because Steve objected, but because Chris felt too ashamed to tell him until the temptation was well and truly gone. But Jensen is right here. Chris would happily pine after him every day for the rest of his life to keep from hurting Steve, because they can’t ask Jensen to leave, not now, not with what they suspect (know) he’s been through. But if Steve is saying what Chris thinks he’s saying... “Yeah?”
Steve smiles, the love in his eyes shining brightly. “Yeah.”
Chris stands up and pulls Steve into his arms. God, he loves him so much. “I don’t deserve you, darlin’, I really don’t, but damn do I love you.”
“You deserve everything,” Steve says softly. “Don’t talk like that.” They stand for a while, just holding each other. Then Steve says quietly, “But we gotta be careful, man. He might just be touch starved. I remember what you were like.”
Chris frowns. “I wasn’t- He’s- It ain’t comparable, man.” It’s not. His dad might have been a mean drunk who’d smack him every chance he got, but it wasn’t… No. Not even on his worst days was it anything like what he suspects Jensen has suffered.
“Maybe not. Still.” Steve strokes Chris’s hair. “Maybe he just needs love, babe. Without romance. Think you’d be alright with that?”
Chris swallows. Truth is, he doesn’t expect anything. He never has. He’s kinda still waiting to wake up from this dream of Steve actually loving him back. “I’ll be alright with whatever he needs. I always am.”
Steve sighs, like he knows what Chris is thinking. “Just be careful,” he says softly. “I’d hate to see him break your heart.”
Chris kisses him and doesn’t say, ‘He’s welcome to it,’ because that’s pathetic, but Steve knows him well enough to add, “But if he does, I’ll be right here to put it back together.”
God, how did he ever get so lucky?
Jensen kisses like he hasn’t had a drink in a month and a half, and Chris’s lips are a fountain of ambrosia. He kisses himself dizzy, sometimes losing his balance, because he forgets to breathe. His fingers fist Chris’s shirt, holding on for dear life, like he’s dangling off a cliff with miles and miles of darkness beneath his feet. Sometimes he kisses himself so tired he falls asleep with Chris’s tongue in his mouth. If you could really tell a man’s love in his kiss, then Chris is the love of Jensen’s life.
Too bad those old songs are all bull. Doesn’t matter. Chris is more than happy with what he gets. Asking for more is just asking for trouble.
He cooks them dinner. Nothing fancy, just some chicken and pasta with cream sauce and mushrooms, side salad. Fat, vitamins, carbs and protein since God knows Jensen needs a little bit (a lot) of everything. Sets the kitchen table because eating in front of the TV is fine for pizza and take-out but hell if he’s gonna serve something he’s put time and effort in other than at a proper setting. Steve drops a kiss on Chris’s cheek on his way to his seat, then digs in like a wolf the second he’s filled his plate, the way he does with everything, a beautiful glutton to a fault. God, Chris loves him.
Meanwhile Jensen hovers, looking hesitant, so Chris says, “Go on, help yourself, darlin’,” then goes to slice the bread. When he turns around Jensen is sitting in front of a portion hardly fit for a toddler, let alone a starved man. Chris doesn’t say anything, just shoots a look at Steve, who raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything either. For all they know that’s all Jensen can eat. Maybe his stomach is all curled up like a fist, caught in a chronic hunger cramp.
Chris eats slowly, sipping his beer (really should be white wine but he likes beer and to hell with tradition), surreptitiously keeping an eye on Jensen. Noting the blissful look on Jensen’s face as he takes the first bite, the hunger that fills his eyes, the sad resignation as his plate empties. After a moment of silence, he makes as if to stand up and that’s when it clicks. Oh hell. Jesus.
“Darlin’, sit your ass down and eat my food,” Chris says, not meaning to sound so harsh, his throat is just a little tight from the smoke curling up from the ball of fire, flaring up in his belly.
Jensen still freezes. He sits back down, licking his lips, eyes darting to the door. Chris bites back a curse and takes Jensen’s plate, heaping as much food on it as he figures the boy can stomach. Which is a lot less than he probably needs but it won’t do to make him sick.
“Didn’t cook it just to be looked at,” he mutters and puts more on both his and Steve’s plates as well, just to make the whole thing a little less awkward. As he takes up his fork and starts eating, Jensen looks so relieved, Chris wants to hug him. “Don’t forget to chew,” he says instead, voice gruff, and pretends he can’t see Steve silently laughing at him.
Truth is, Chris doesn’t have a lot to feel angry about anymore. Sure, the world’s a shit pool and people are assholes but there’s not much he can do about that so he might as well just smoke some pot or have a drink or kiss Steve (or now Jensen) or play a song or two. Then all that crap doesn’t seem to matter as much.
Only real fuel he gets for his ball of anger these days is from sports. Shouting at idiots on the screen is almost as satisfying as it was kicking his way out of a situation gone bad. Except now there’s Jensen, sandwiched between them on the couch, close enough that Chris feels him jerk the minute the first curse explodes out of his mouth. Still takes him far too long to realize. Far too long sitting perched on the edge of his seat, shouting and slamming his beer down and generally being a goddamn moron about something that doesn’t matter one shit until Steve says, “Dude! Calm the fuck down!” Only then does he look over and see Jensen, sitting coiled tight, his breathing rapid but tellingly quiet, whites of his eyes showing in a face pale and pearled with sweat.
Shit.
“Sorry, love,” he says and swallows the bile that’s pushing its way up his throat. Turns the TV off and stands up. “I’mma go for a run,” he says. “Blow off some steam.” Jensen doesn’t even look at him, just pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, so Chris goes and changes before Steve can call him out on it (“Run? You?”) and then he leaves and runs, and runs, and runs until the pain in his lungs reminds him why he stopped doing this shit.
He only watches sports at bars from then on.
Jensen never says anything, but Chris can tell, in the way he moves, the way he frowns, the way he discreetly stretches, that he’s hurting in muscles he shouldn’t even know about. At times he seems so tired, like his whole body is aching. One rainy day has Jensen sitting stiff on the couch, breathing tense and shallow, and Chris goes to stand behind him, rubs his hands together until his palms feel like they’re on fire, then lays them on Jensen’s shoulders, letting the heat in his skin soak in. Jensen tips his head back, eyes blinking warily, but Chris doesn’t ask, just leans down and kisses him, soft and tender. Then rubs his hands together again - swish, swish, swish - and gives Jensen more of his heat.
When Jensen dislocates his shoulder a couple of weeks later it answers one of Chris’s questions but spurs about a hundred more.
The red haze of rage dissipates and there’s blood on his knuckles, pain in his fists. He’s aware of hands grabbing him from behind, pulling him back, and he wrenches free and turns around, ready to head straight into that fog again when his eyes fall on Jensen on the floor, backed into a corner. Backing away. From him.
It sobers him up like a bucket full of ice water. He staggers forward, falling to his knees in shame and anguish. “Did he hurt you? Did I hurt you? Are you hurt? Sweetheart?”
Jensen shakes his head, but Chris can see the print from harsh fingers on his neck where the fucking bastard had grabbed him, had pushed… had…
Chris pulls in a lungful of red fog and lets his breath out slowly. “You sure, love?” He reaches out, halting when he catches Jensen stare at his bloody knuckles, eyes so wide Chris thinks they might roll back in his head. Shit. He pulls back, shame burning its way from his chest up to his ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
He’s staggering to his feet, looking around for Steve to save him out of this awful mess, when Jensen grabs hold of his hand, gently as if not to hurt his bruised bones, and Chris looks down, startled to see no fear, only gratitude in his eyes. Jensen tugs on Chris’s hand, and Chris pulls him to his feet and straight into his embrace with Jensen wrapping his arms around his neck, body warm and trembling where it presses against his. “Thank you,” he whispers, and “No one ever…” and “Can we please go home?”
Chris’s head spins from the rush of relief. “Yeah,” he says, clutching Jensen tighter. “Yeah, love, we can,” he says, kissing Jensen’s neck. “Whatever you want,” he promises and means every word of it.
Later, in bed, with Jensen curled up on his side, staring into space; Chris sitting against the headboard, carding his bruised and bandaged fingers through Jensen’s hair; Steve sleeping, or possibly passed out, Chris is not sure, either way he’s lying on his stomach, one arm slung over Chris’s legs, the palm of his hand warming Jensen’s waist and... Chris can’t relax, can’t soak in the warmth of the two people he loves most in the whole world, pressed up against him, can’t stop the thoughts running circles in his head, because what if he'd been too late? Just a few minutes, even a few seconds, and... The anger boils like lava in his belly, filling up his chest with the old familiar smoke, running fire through his veins, readying his body for the fight. He feels like a dragon holding its breath, waiting to burn everything in its path. It scares the shit out of him. He could so easily have killed that man. He could so very easily have hurt Jensen in his rage without even realizing until it would have been too late. Maybe he is becoming his father after all.
“She never¬-” Jensen starts then stops.
‘She?’ Chris thinks. ‘She who? Your mama? Foster mom? Aunt? Grandma? What fucking bitch hurt you?’
“There was never blood,” Jensen finally says.
Chris closes his eyes. “No?” he asks, keeping his voice as light as he can.
“Not really. Just, my nose a couple of times. And when I fell on the table once and knocked a tooth out. But not… not usually.”
Chris breathes in. He breathes out. In. Out. In. Out.
“Still hurt,” Jensen says, his voice so small it’s hardly a whisper. “Still hurt a lot.”
“Yeah,” Chris says quietly and leans over to kiss Jensen on the cheek. “Never again,” he promises and means both of them. Never again will that woman hurt you. Never again will you see me hurt anyone. “Never.”
Jensen shuffles closer, his head lifting to lay down on Chris’s thigh. Chris hums under his breath as the anger slowly simmers down, the rage pulling back and wrapping itself up in the small ball again. His fingers card through Jensen’s hair until he falls asleep.
Jensen sits down on the couch, cold body leaning gradually into Chris until he casually lifts his arm and allows Jensen to settle into his side. Jensen sighs and looks up, looking so grateful Chris’s heart stutters. He kisses Jensen softly, pulls him a little closer and counts Jensen’s heartbeats under his skin, tapping beneath his thumb.
He buys a couple of blankets because… just because.
Jensen edges up to Chris where he stands cooking, is shaving, is pruning the plants, hovering close enough that Chris can feel the anticipation radiating of him, and without words Chris puts out his arm and pulls Jensen in, for a hug, for a kiss, but most often just for contact. “You alright, love?” he’ll ask, and Jensen will nod or hum and lean in a little closer. Being Jensen’s source of comfort, his reassurance that he is loved, is wanted… what more can he ask for?
He starts wearing only t-shirts at home to give Jensen just a little bit more skin to touch.
Jensen slips into their bed, cool skin and rabbit heart, breath shaky against Chris’s cheek until he wakes up enough to turn his head. They kiss until the tension leaks out of Jensen’s bones, and he falls asleep, thin arm wrapped around Chris’s middle to keep from falling off the edge of the bed. Chris keeps dropping kisses on Jensen’s slack lips, his freckled nose, the thin blue skin under his eyes, stalling his own sleep as long as he can. Just this, this is enough.
The next day they buy a bigger bed, the old one was starting to sag anyway.
Jensen leans back on the bed, the couch, the rug in the living room, body tense like a rod, gaze shifting to the door, breath caught in his throat and still his eyes are so full of want, of need, of lust, and Chris doesn’t understand, doesn’t get what he’s so afraid of until Jensen whispers it under his breath, and it’s not a what, it’s a who. It’s a her. Over a thousand miles away, and his mother still keeps her son crushed in the fist of her hand.
They install stronger locks and keep a baseball bat by the bed, just in case.
Jensen murmurs, “I love you,” into Chris’s hair and Chris closes his eyes and steels his voice so Jensen can’t tell how much more it means when he answers, “Love you, too, sweetheart.”
Chris’s food slowly but surely puts meat on Jensen’s bones just as his constant care and reassurance puts more ease in Jensen’s step and sooths the tension out of his tendons. Still, there are setbacks, each of them breaking Chris’s heart, even if they were to be expected. Nights when he hears Jensen throw up the food he gulped down too fast or didn’t agree with his still tender stomach. Days Jensen stands staring out the window from behind the curtains, hiding from a face Chris doubts will ever come look for him. Times when Jensen panics as he realizes he’s forgotten to make his bed or fold his clothes or whatever else his mother used to beat him for. Shivers that won’t stop, because sometimes he just can’t get warm, no matter what. Collapsing in an almost catatonic state after a difficult day at work, because he just can’t deal with people yelling at him for stupid shit he has no control over, let alone whatever small mistakes he makes.
He catches Jensen glaring at himself in the mirror one day, and the look of self-loathing on his face is staggering. Chris has to go for a run before he does something stupid, like put his fist through a wall. Beating the pavement he thinks, and thinks and thinks. They can love Jensen all they want, but it won’t help one bit if he can’t love himself. And Jensen clearly doesn’t love the person he sees staring back at him in the mirror.
Chris pictures Jensen in his head, the vulnerability, the quietness, the underlying anxiety. The big green eyes with those long eyelashes, the soft lips, the choir boy haircut, the plain clothes that still manage to brand him as an innocent easy mark. No wonder Jensen practically hides behind him when they go out to dance or drink. Which he’s refused to do ever since that fucking rapist (would have been, Chris just knows, he keeps seeing it in his nightmares) assaulted him.
Chris huffs angrily, dancing in place as he waits for the lights to change so he can cross the street. He loves Jensen’s look, loves the innocence of him, the sweetness, the absolute beauty of that vulnerable face, but it’s clearly not doing Jensen’s self-esteem any favors. So maybe it's time they change that. Sometimes you need an armor to fight your enemies, even if that enemy is yourself.
The light turns green and he starts jogging across. There’s a group of teenagers coming from the other side. Loud, boisterous, laughing with the kind of confidence that comes from not giving a fuck. They snicker as he passes them, and he wonders what they see when they look at him. A redneck, a jock, a ‘fucking fag’? He really doesn’t know which image he projects these days. One of them yells after him, “Run, Forrest, run!” and he spins around, suddenly furious. But there’s no malice in the grin the punk kid sends him, thumbs up in encouragement, so he breathes out and flips the kid the finger with a grin of his own. The kid laughs and throws him a kiss, easy as that. He’s got leather and studs, ratty boots and shredded jeans, a loose plaid shirt under a denim vest. Eyes rimmed with kohl, hair in three different colors, shaved sides, mohawk. Chris falls a little bit in love, just from the boldness of the whole ensemble.
Oh.
He jogs on, thinking, planning. Teeth cooling in the breeze as his lips pull away into a grin. This just might work.
Making love to Jensen is getting everything Chris could never ask for, and still feeling his heart break a little more with every soft sound, every gasp, every moan because God, he loves him so much. He loves him so, so much.
But it’s worth it for the look of wonder in Jensen’s kohl-rimmed eyes, for the immense waves of pleasures rippling his face, for the worn-out, satisfied smile when they lie panting, still clutching each other tight enough to hurt. For the soft whispers of, ‘Thank you,’ and, ‘I love you,’ that break his heart all over again.
He loves watching Jensen reinvent himself in the months and years that follow. All the little things he adds to his look, to his character, to his attitude, that together transform him into a person he actually likes. A person he loves being. A person that Chris slowly realizes is growing apart from them.
It’s what he wanted. For Jensen to find his confidence, find his strength, his independence. To not to be dependent on them - he doesn’t want Jensen to feel dependent on anyone ever again. But the thing is… The thing is Chris hadn’t realized until just then, how much he needs to feel needed. Steve is not a needy person, he takes care of himself just fine despite all the shit he smokes. If they ever did break up, Chris suspects he would be the one lost while Steve would find his footing soon enough. They’re just different personalities, and that’s good. That’s how it should be. It’s just…
It's just that he is going to miss Jensen so damn much.
Sometimes, when they’ve been kissing for a while, and Jensen looks at him with those big green eyes and says, “I love you so much,” Chris has to look away before he can say it back, because he knows Jensen loves him just like he loves Steve, like he loves Danni, like he loves Julie and Kim and the regulars at Chevy’s that are slowly becoming more, becoming friends, sometimes lovers. Jensen has a lot of love in him, which is a wonder considering he was never taught to love or be loved.
But when Chris says, “I love you,” it means, “I can’t live without you,” it means, “I would kill for you in an instant,” it means, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” It means, “Please, don’t leave me.”
“You should tell him,” Steve says as they watch Jensen flirt, and smile, and laugh, and kiss and fuck his way through their circle of friends. “He’s looking for something. You could tell him it’s right here.”
And sometimes Chris is so close, he can feel the words stinging his tongue. But it wouldn’t be right. He’s not stupid, he knows Jensen looks up to him, like a kind of mentor, an older brother. Who kisses and fucks him, but still. They’re not on even footing. He would never let Jensen feel he had to… No. It wouldn’t be right.
Besides, Jensen always comes back to them in the end.
Where Chris falls in love way too easily, Jensen falls in lust. He gets starstruck over pretty eyes, a nice ass, the breadth of a man’s shoulders. He wants. And what Jensen wants, he usually gets. Being beautiful will do that. Being funny, and cheeky and charming seals the deal. Until now that’s all it’s been. Lust. Horny, greedy, insatiable lust, born out of years of touch starvation, maybe. Maybe he just has an exceptionally high libido. Even Steve is in awe. (Steve is turning into a nympho, there’s no other word for it. Is it because he has to share Chris’s attention with Jensen? Did Chris do this to him? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just… he wasn’t like this. Not before. As it is, Chris is relieved Jensen is there to share Steve’s affection, because sometimes Chris is just so tired. Sometimes he just feels so very, very tired.)
Watching Jensen fall in love is… Chris wonders if this is what penance feels like.
Jared is everything Chris wants for Jensen. He’s kind, he’s sweet; he loves Jensen to the point of reverence. He’s big enough to warn off anyone looking at Jensen the wrong way and soft enough that Chris never has to worry about that strength being turned on Jensen. Their introduction may not have been the best (He blames Steve’s extra strong weed and the bottle of tequila, and Jensen being so close but so far away, and himself for… He blames himself.) but they come to first respect each other, and then like each other, and then want each other and then, because that’s who he is, Chris falls in love, yet again.
Continued here