And when we kiss (1/2)
i am sorry. i am posting this, and i haven't finished writing the second part. but i am posting this because i have thursday and friday night off from work, so i am sure i will finish it. ("well; i'm 80% sure. but i'm sure enough.")
you would be embarrassed for me if you knew how much i had to read about chemistry in order to get these sparse facts even remotely accurate.
the university i use is victoria university of wellington, nz. consider it a shout out to a place i loved beyond compare.
inspired by "fire" by bruce springsteen.
his only recording of this song ever: here, in m4a format (mediafire upload)
listen to this. you will die. it is so hot.
and when we kiss, (1/2)
j2 au; 4500k
pg13 for language, kisses (duh)
jensen is not amused by the the tall football douche who sits in front of him in organic chem. in fact, he prefers to torture him whenever possible.
soundtrack!
thank you to karabou and corbyinoz for looking at this and giving me some important insight!
Jensen’s organic chemistry class is held in a musty, dark, ground-level lecture hall in the Easterfield building of Victoria University. It’s an 8:30 class but he manages to make it in early. Sits at his usual rusted-leg desk, kicks his feet up on the seat in front of him territorially, and finishes the coffee he’d paid for with his campus card in the student union.
His hair, notebook, class folder, Chucks, Levis, and button-down are all soaked from morning rain showers. His skin feels raw and clammy, hair sticking to his temples.
Dry, itchy eyes scan the notes he took during last week’s lecture. A worthless endeavor, as he can no longer decipher the shorthand he’d chosen to use that day. Between choosing a thesis topic, working part-time at the music shop down the street, and being waist-deep in biochem problems until 3am this morning, he hasn’t really had the time for organic.
It’s only September. He’s 22 but he feels too goddamn old for this shit. With five classes, three labs, and his research thesis, senior year promises to swipe heavily at any sanity Jensen’s been hanging onto.
At 8:35, Professor MacLaurin is running late and a tall kid in flannel pants and Asics ambles up the stadium stairs, right to the chair Jensen’s legs are draped over. Jensen tenses immediately.
This guy does it to him every fucking lecture; they’ve been in some pissing contest over this seat since the first class, two weeks ago. Jensen had been seated, and the guy had sauntered up the stairs in the football team’s green and white training jacket. His cross trainers had been a pristine, unmarred white, hair carefully styled back, away from his face.
He was clean; manicured, even. While good-looking, Jensen had immediately dismissed him as perfect in a way Jensen finds ugly.
He’d paused on the landing and looked oddly at Jensen, as if they’d met somewhere and he’d been struggling to remember Jensen’s name. Then he’d nodded at the seat, wanting to sit there.
Today, he glares out at Jensen from under the hood of his fitted Vic U sweatshirt without a word. The flannel pants are soft and unwrinkled. He looks like he just stepped off an artfully-lit Abercrombie shoot.
“Seriously?” Jensen says, clipped and irritated. “There are open seats everywhere.”
“It’s my seat. You keep putting your feet on it.”
“Right, but my feet were here first. So find somewhere else.”
“Just fucking move already.”
Jensen opens his mouth to tell him where to stick, but MacLaurin bustles in and calls everyone’s attention while the guy takes a step closer to the chair. Jensen rolls his eyes and moves his feet, muttering, “unfuckingbelievable.”
For the next hour and a half, Jensen can’t see the professor’s podium and half the white board because of a rain-damp white hood.
Jensen doesn’t learn his name until they get their first exams back on October 5th, when MacLaurin lingers halfway up the stairs and says, “Jared Padalecki.”
Jared unfolds himself from the desk and trots down to get his exam. Jensen watches him look at the grade, at how his posture falls, his face pulls into irritation, at how he says to himself, oh come on.
When Jared heads back up the stairs, his expression darkens further to see Jensen’s ripped black Chuck Taylors hoisted up over the back of his chair again. Jensen smirks, sips his coffee, and gamely waves his 98% exam at Jared’s face.
Organic chem rapidly becomes insufferable to Jensen not only because he doesn’t have time for a stupid fucking 200-level class, but because his mornings in the lecture hall are spent being tortured by Jared’s heavy sighs, peevish groans, and quiet mouthy retorts at MacLaurin’s requests to do extra sets of problems for homework.
During a lecture on reaction mechanisms, Jensen tells Jared to shut the fuck up, dude, because it’s either that, or kick him in the back of the head.
He isn’t prepared to have Jared whip around, red-angry, tense and upset, telling Jensen to shove it, dick.
Jensen gives him the finger, but doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lecture. He even tries especially hard to avoid kicking the back of Jared’s chair, which is usually a good gag at least once or twice a lecture.
Sitting there silently, trying to find a comfortable angle to see around the combed sleekness of Jared’s too-long hair, Jensen gets a thought that Jared’s having a hard time in this class, and for a second he feels bad.
But instead of doing anything about it, he just decides to continue on with his day.
Autumn is in the air, cool and crisp, brushing color onto Jensen’s cheeks as he hustles across campus to the student union. He’s always fascinated by how busy campus gets at 8am, when by 9 it’s completely deserted. His gaze ticks from face to face as he makes his way down, and finally lands on the back of a tall, clean-lined figure in Vic U track pants, pushing through the main doors of the union.
Jensen slows his pace, hoping to avoid a run-in with Jared inside. He finds it unsettling to have an odd, needling connection with someone he doesn’t even know, and would rather not drag it out of the classroom.
Unfortunately for Jensen, Jared is in line at the campus Starbucks, where Jensen stops every morning for a House Blend, and Jensen lets out a long breath as he steps in behind him. He doesn’t tap Jared’s shoulder, or say hello, so when Jared turns around after ordering his coffee, he blinks in surprise.
“I didn’t even know you were there,” Jared says.
“Yeah, well. Unless you have eyes in the back of your head. Didn’t know you drank coffee.”
“I’m trying to be more of a pissy cunt. Seems to work for you. See you in class.”
Jensen glares at Jared’s retreating form for so long that Alyson, who works at the counter and always remembers his order, snaps at him to regain his attention.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Jensen glances up from reviewing his latest organic exam - 100% - to stare at the back of Jared’s head. He’s resting his temple in a palm, elbow on the desk, as he angrily flips through his test.
“Sucking yet again, Padalecki?” Jensen smirks, unable to resist.
“Fuck off, Ackles.”
“Maybe if you studied even half as hard as you practiced, Meat, you’d at least know how to draw a fucking Lewis Structure.”
“I swear, if you invite yourself into my life one more time I am going to kill you.”
“Meat angry,” Jensen says. “Meat smash.”
“Dude, if I fail this class, I am so royally fucked,” Jared says to himself, ignoring Jensen.
Jensen looks back down at his desk, putting his exam away and tuning back into MacLaurin’s lecture.
Halfway through the next lecture, Jensen has mentally checked out of organic chemistry in favor of reading through some sources he printed out for his thesis on molecular modeling and genomics. He zips through two journal articles, highlighting some important passages to use in his lit review, before he notices that Jared has dropped his notebook to the floor and has laid his head down on his desk.
Jensen pauses in his research, studying the crooked line of Jared’s strong shoulders. He knows that posture. It’s defeat, and it’s unbecoming of a body that looks so utterly capable. The last time Jensen had worn it had been suffering through D’s in Calc II, sophomore year, but he knows it didn’t look nearly as pathetic on him.
Sighing, he shoves the articles back in his bag, grabs his organic notebook, and climbs over the seat to settle in beside Jared. He looks down at the white board, catching himself up to what MacLaurin’s been teaching; stereochemistry, looks like. He ignores when Jared picks his head up from the desk to stare at him, instead focusing his attention on writing out his own explanation of the lecture.
When he’s finished, he turns to Jared, who continues to stare. Without looking up from the paper, Jensen runs through what he’s written, fleshing it out for Jared: “So you remember isomers, right? Basically there’s two different types, constitutional and stereoisomer, and he is about to bore you to death with atom configurations, but the important thing here is that different spatial arrangements result in changes in chemical properties. And, obviously, chemical reactions. You get me?”
Jared studies Jensen’s drawings carefully, following Jensen’s pen as it highlights his points with underlines and circles. He nods slowly in assent.
“Okay,” Jensen says. “Now fucking pay attention.”
Jared’s gaze lingers for a second longer, with Jensen resolutely refusing to make eye contact. He sets the tone by continuing to take notes on the lecture. After a moment, Jared leans down to pick up his notebook, opens it to an unfinished page, and follows suit.
Much to Jensen’s dismay, Jared follows him outside after class. He should’ve known better than to take pity. Should’ve known better than to give an opportunity to discuss something beyond Jensen’s dirty feet on Jared’s chair.
“I swear, chemistry’s like the worst thing that ever happened to me. Worse than T drills. Got stuck there because I needed it as a pre-req for like all of my nutrition classes. I’m in the dietitian program. Need a chem minor just to take the basic courses though. Plus, if I don’t get better than a C, I lose my athletic scholarship, just like that. One more failed exam and it’s gone, can you believe that? I have a few guys who help me out during team study, but shit. Chemistry. It’s the worst. Don’t you just hate it?”
Jensen makes eye contact with Jared. “I’m a 4th year chem major. Concentration in bioinformatics. Minor in environmental chem. So, not really.”
“Oh! Well,” Jared nods awkwardly, looking away. The tips of his ears are reddening as they peek out from dark, wavy hair. He doesn’t continue the thought.
Jensen rolls his eyes. He doesn’t do awkward. He nods in the direction of the Old Kirk building. “Anyway, I’ve got a lab, so.”
“Yeah, I’ve got weight training. Guess I’ll see you later.”
“Whatever,” Jensen says, and heads up the hill as Jared continues to the gym, shoving on a set of headphones. Stupid, he thinks to himself.
When Jensen gets to organic the next week, he’s slightly delirious, sleepless, over-caffeinated, and hardly presentable in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He feels like a freshman all over again. After working so hard for so long to get where he is now, less than a year from graduating with Latin Honors, the thought of any form of regression disgusts him.
Climbing the stairs of the lecture stadium, Jensen notices immediately that Jared is sitting in the seat next to his. In a deep dark part of his belly he wants to smile, but in the irritated and exhausted frontal lobe of his brain, he sighs and can’t keep himself from rolling his eyes.
“So this is gonna be a thing, huh?” Jensen asks, dropping into his desk and dumping his bag on the floor.
“Please. Like I’m gonna let myself fail this stupid class when I have a fuckin’ senior chem major sitting right behind me.”
The good thing about this arrangement is, Jensen gets to kick his feet up on the back of Jared’s chair. The bad thing is they spend almost the entire lecture fighting over the arm rest. Jensen wins, but Jared successfully draws a Lewis structure that covalently bonds Jensen with a variety of angry, toothy animals and a couple of dicks.
Jensen’s eyes flicker down to Jared’s notebook and he can’t help but laugh. Jared grins, but doesn’t look up from his drawing.
Midterms are fast-approaching, as is the cold weather, the height of the college football season, and a yearly physical inventory of the entire music shop that keeps Jensen after-hours three days in a row.
Jensen figures he and Jared might have become friends, if they hadn’t had to work so back-breaking hard for this school. He chalks it up to could-have-been, and resigns himself to seeing Jared once a week outside of class to help him study.
Work is actually a welcome reprieve from the relentless pace of classes, so when Jensen is asked to stay late on a Thursday night to help watch the floor while the managers total their inventory counts, Jensen happily agrees to re-stock and clean as opposed to spending another exhausting night with his biochem book.
The store is quiet, which means he has a little more leeway in being able to side-step the latest top twenty albums and put on something he actually enjoys. He throws on A Decade of Steely Dan and heads into the aisles with a box of used CDs to stock.
The bell at the door chimes about twenty minutes into his work, while Jensen is halfway through the B’s, and he doesn’t look up. The only weeknight visitors are college kids, and they’d like Jensen to greet them about as much as he’d like to greet them, so he figures they’ll come to him if they really can’t find Odelay or Ten or Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits or whatever the fuck else they’re listening to these days.
“Do you have Odelay?”
Jensen picks out the Beck CD he’s right in front of and hands it over, but looks up after realizing that the voice is Jared.
“What are you doing here?”
Jared grins. “Not lookin’ for a Beck album. Procrastinating, actually - I just came by to kill some time, I walk by here like every day. Didn’t know you worked here. Do you ever sleep? How do you even function during organic, or any other class? Shit.”
“It’s only three nights a week. You probably spend more time at practice than I do here. Anything I can help you find?”
“Nah, just - here to look.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow, hesitantly hearing something else in the tone. Ignoring it, he says, “Buy me something.”
“Buy you something? You work here. What could you possibly need, that you haven’t heard?”
“I want your favorite. You’re here. You must like music. Get me the most important thing you’ve ever heard. And it can’t be Odelay.”
“Hilarious,” Jared says. After some hesitation he looks around warily, and Jensen wonders if he’s nervous.
Jared steps up close to Jensen, eyes the Be- section. Jensen sucks in a silent breath, suddenly alarmed, and takes a step back. Every hair on his body is reaching toward Jared and he feels his face warming bright red as he watches from over Jared’s shoulder.
He’s going for the Beatles.
“Boring,” Jensen says, covering his embarrassment.
Jared turns to face him, eyes wide with humorless disbelief. “Wait, I’m being judged on this?”
Jensen shrugs. “Well, if that’s really what you want to pick.”
Jared narrows his eyes, mouth twisted up with indecision, like he can’t figure out what Jensen’s playing at. He moves on, heads for the P’s. Jensen follows along, heart beating in time to the subwoofer, used CDs forgotten in a box in front of Beck.
Next, Jared skims through the Pixies albums, and Jensen can’t resist. He hisses a breath in through his teeth, frowning. Jared stills, looking up, mouth tight with unspoken protests.
“Trying way too hard, man,” Jensen says.
“You’re unbelievable,” Jared says after a beat, eyes flitting over Jensen’s face, ticking from eyes to nose to hair to eyes to mouth to eyes.
Jensen rocks back onto his heels under the gaze, tips his chin up in challenge. “Just sayin’. ‘Wave of Mutilation?’ Didn’t peg you for being so predictable. Then again, you do wear that training jacket like every day.”
Jared’s jaw shifts, officially irritated, which Jensen has come to appreciate more than he probably should. He stares over Jensen’s shoulder for a moment in thought, smiles to himself, and then heads for the M’s. Jensen tries to see what he’s picking but Jared’s using a broad back and inappropriate wingspan to block his view.
He turns with a CD in his hand, and fishes a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket. Hands them both to Jensen.
“Final answer,” Jared says.
“Maxwell?” Jensen asks.
“Number one. Dick. See you in class.”
Jensen watches him leave the store, stares at the back of the album with interest. Something he hasn’t heard before; it doesn’t look like anything that would interest him, and it certainly doesn’t look like anything Jared “Halfback” Padalecki should know about either.
He changes out Steely Dan and leans against the main register, listening. He likes the sound of it instantly. He appreciates anything with soul. He feels an odd, panicky stillness take over when he hears the main theme.
It’s simple, and could very well be meaningless, but at that moment Jensen feels something stir inside. He stares at the shop door, where Jared had disappeared moments before, and hears it.
I gotta get to know ya.
The next week, when Jensen sits down next to Jared and hands over a cup of coffee, he says, “Good choice. I liked it. Never heard it before.”
“See?” Jared says. “I have layers. I’m complex. Unique. Like a stereoisomer.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Shut up. I’m learning. Thanks for the coffee. Now pray with me that MacLaurin doesn’t show up today.”
Jensen grins.
The night before the organic mid-term, they are listening to the brittle November wind from the over-heated fifth floor of the library. It’s nearly midnight and the stacks have long been abandoned; most of the students are crowded on the café floor pounding energy drinks and Snickers bars, but Jensen likes it up here with the dust and the wind and the warmth that wafts up from below.
He forces Jared to do several sets of problems on his own while he barrels through a rough draft of a lit review that’s due in two days.
Jared sits back in his chair, head tipped to listen to the wind. “I have to play in that tomorrow night. This season has been fuckin’ brutal, man. Wind and rain, rain and wind. My shoulder still hurts from that hit I took during practice, like, three weeks ago. It’s gonna suck. Goddamn, it’s hot in here.”
“Jared.”
“I know. I just need a minute.”
“You need more than a minute,” Jensen murmurs, not looking up.
“You’re right,” Jared says.
It’s not until the very last possible moment that Jensen realizes Jared is standing to lean over the table, lifting Jensen’s chin with a calloused palm, and settling a warm, intent mouth over Jensen’s.
Jensen sucks in a breath on instinct, hand on Jared’s face, and his thighs tighten immediately with heat. He opens his mouth, thumbing the rough line of Jared’s jaw with interest, and Jared’s tongue trips along his bottom lip and in. It is deep and drags on wonderfully.
It lasts for about seven seconds, at which point Jensen catches himself, pushes Jared’s face away, and wipes his mouth on a sleeve with disgust.
“Dude,” Jensen says, catching his breath and looking down at his notes. “Gross.”
He feels the stare Jared gives him, hot and disbelieving, hears Jared’s breathing even out on one long, slow exhale. He slumps into the chair across from Jensen and kicks his legs out under the table.
“You fuckin’ liar,” Jared says, going back to his notebook.
Jensen doesn’t answer. In truth, he can’t get his belly to stop trembling.
Neither of them waits around for the other after the mid-term, but Jensen hopes that Jared does well. He spends his day packing up the essentials to head home for Thanksgiving break, and passes in his lit review draft early. He calls out of work and instead wanders around campus, checking in on some friends, saying goodbyes, nodding to professors he’s had.
He ends off at the student union, where he beelines to the Starbucks for a coffee. Alyson greets him there, gets his drink ready, asks, “So did your friend end up finding you the other night?”
“Huh?” Jensen asks, cocking an eyebrow. “What friend?”
“That guy, well shit, I can’t remember his name. Tall guy. He stopped by last week asking about you, and I ended up telling him you worked at the record shop, and he said he’d catch up with you there.”
“Oh, him,” Jensen says. “Yeah, he ended up coming down there. He’s a good guy. Name’s Jared.”
“Seemed like a good guy,” Alyson smirks, knowing.
Jensen walks away not really sure what he’s supposed to be feeling. Not sure he’s supposed to feel this silly. He starts off back in the direction of his suite, thoughts tripping over one another in their speed, when they suddenly halt, all at once, so quickly that Jensen stops walking. He knows where he should be walking right now, and so he turns around and heads for the field.
The stands are packed for the last game before break. The field is gorgeous, newly renovated this summer, somehow lush even in the dead of November. Friends, family, and students pack in tight together, sharing warmth and spirit, voice, and hot chocolates. Jensen walks along behind the railing that blocks off the cheerleading squad and the team bench. He stares up at the lights, at how they change a midnight blue sky into a hazy, glowing green.
He gazes out over the field, scans the players in their home colors, can’t tell if any of them are Jared. He is close enough to hear every collision of helmet to ground, every thud of a body being collapsed of breath, every curse the Vic U coach shouts over a five-yard penalty. He hears the water cooler sloshing as it’s moved from one end of the bench to the other. He hears the shout of a player getting his shoulder jimmied back into place.
When Jensen follows the cry, he sees a player lying on his stomach on an empty bench with dark, sweat-matted hair in his eyes. The number 89 is emblazoned on his back. His heart lurches with sympathy; it’s Jared.
Jensen finds himself lingering, watching as Jared sits up, back to Jensen, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his neck. He nods abruptly to the coach standing over him, shoves his mouth guard in, and waits for the defense to come off the field.
For a moment Jensen doesn’t really believe that Jared is going in after that, but he does; shoots up off the bench, tugging his helmet on, as soon as Christchurch gives up their drive.
In that very moment, Jensen sees a lot of things in Jared: toughness, dedication, loyalty, strength. He sees Jared as a person to be envious of. Jensen feels like a first-class idiot for ever giving him so much shit over a fucking chair in organic chem. What stupid petty bullshit.
Jensen’s eyes are fixated on every move Jared makes on that field. He watches Jared complete a fifteen yard pass and run it another ten. Watches him get crunched between two Christchurch linebackers and grips the railing so tight his knuckles hurt. Watches Jared pick up a handoff and command another thirty yards.
Jensen had no idea. None.
Offensive comes off the field so fast and delirious with a touchdown that it makes Jensen laugh. He watches Jared pound the kicker’s back, smash helmets with the quarterback, and get an ass slap from one of the coaches. Tugging off his helmet, Jared downs a bottle of water, looking past the railing to the crowd.
He freezes when he locks eyes on Jensen, and Jensen feels his stomach do a barrel roll. Out of anxiety, embarrassment, or joy, he can’t tell. But Jared just grins at him, shaking his head.
Jensen gives him the finger and looks back out onto the field, resolutely ignoring Jared until he’s back out on the line again, hidden under a helmet.
Jared corners Jensen the next morning in the parking lot, shoving bags into his car. Jensen looks up guiltily, stops working to tap restless fingers into his thighs.
“I was gonna call you,” Jensen says.
“Sure you were.”
Jared doesn’t look mad; he leans a hip against Jensen’s Subaru and hitches a corner of his mouth up into a smile.
“What?” Jensen asks warily.
“You came to my game.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I saw you. We fucking made eye contact.”
“Wasn’t me,” Jensen says, and goes back to shoving bags into his car. Asks: “How’d you do on your mid-term?”
“Passed. 81%.”
“That’s really great.”
“Not as great as Jensen Fucking Ackles, Hipster Chemistry Geek, at the football stadium on Friday night, ogling number 89.”
“You wish, you delusional bucket of scum.”
“Hey,” Jared says softly.
Jensen looks up when Jared takes his wrist and steps in close, eyes bright and searching. Jensen goes flush in his face, stomach, and neck; he feels his toes curl in his sneakers, inclining his mouth unconsciously.
“I, um,” Jensen says, staring at Jared’s mouth.
“You weren’t gonna call me,” Jared says, and leans in for a kiss that bows Jensen’s back and brings their hips flush and tight. Jensen gasps, arms looping around Jared’s neck and tightening, while Jared pulls him in with hot palms against the angles of Jensen’s hips.
Jared’s mouth opens, tongue skirting, biting softly in a way that makes Jensen ache. He tilts his head the other way, digs his heels in against the wind and the pressure of Jared’s body, and opens further. Dead leaves kick up around them on the breeze and drag over each other quietly. Jensen feels like this is heart-pounding perfect.
“You,” he says, pushing away and gasping. “Need to get a hold of yourself.”
Jared rolls his eyes, shoves Jensen off. “Maybe I’ll see you around when we get back. Like, outside of class.”
“Probably not,” Jensen says dismissively, slamming the back door of his car with finality. “I’m gonna be sort of - busy.”
And it’s the truth; Jensen’s thesis work will be kicking into high gear, he’ll have three lab practicals lined up, and his job will continue to eat at all of his free nights like a bacteria.
When Jensen hears no response, he quits fiddling with his keys and reluctantly looks up at Jared. He sees hurt there that he wasn’t expecting.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” Jared says, finally turning to leave. “Have a good break.”
Jensen watches him go, trying not to feel the ache that tells him to follow.
part two
you would be embarrassed for me if you knew how much i had to read about chemistry in order to get these sparse facts even remotely accurate.
the university i use is victoria university of wellington, nz. consider it a shout out to a place i loved beyond compare.
inspired by "fire" by bruce springsteen.
his only recording of this song ever: here, in m4a format (mediafire upload)
listen to this. you will die. it is so hot.
and when we kiss, (1/2)
j2 au; 4500k
pg13 for language, kisses (duh)
jensen is not amused by the the tall football douche who sits in front of him in organic chem. in fact, he prefers to torture him whenever possible.
soundtrack!
thank you to karabou and corbyinoz for looking at this and giving me some important insight!
Jensen’s organic chemistry class is held in a musty, dark, ground-level lecture hall in the Easterfield building of Victoria University. It’s an 8:30 class but he manages to make it in early. Sits at his usual rusted-leg desk, kicks his feet up on the seat in front of him territorially, and finishes the coffee he’d paid for with his campus card in the student union.
His hair, notebook, class folder, Chucks, Levis, and button-down are all soaked from morning rain showers. His skin feels raw and clammy, hair sticking to his temples.
Dry, itchy eyes scan the notes he took during last week’s lecture. A worthless endeavor, as he can no longer decipher the shorthand he’d chosen to use that day. Between choosing a thesis topic, working part-time at the music shop down the street, and being waist-deep in biochem problems until 3am this morning, he hasn’t really had the time for organic.
It’s only September. He’s 22 but he feels too goddamn old for this shit. With five classes, three labs, and his research thesis, senior year promises to swipe heavily at any sanity Jensen’s been hanging onto.
At 8:35, Professor MacLaurin is running late and a tall kid in flannel pants and Asics ambles up the stadium stairs, right to the chair Jensen’s legs are draped over. Jensen tenses immediately.
This guy does it to him every fucking lecture; they’ve been in some pissing contest over this seat since the first class, two weeks ago. Jensen had been seated, and the guy had sauntered up the stairs in the football team’s green and white training jacket. His cross trainers had been a pristine, unmarred white, hair carefully styled back, away from his face.
He was clean; manicured, even. While good-looking, Jensen had immediately dismissed him as perfect in a way Jensen finds ugly.
He’d paused on the landing and looked oddly at Jensen, as if they’d met somewhere and he’d been struggling to remember Jensen’s name. Then he’d nodded at the seat, wanting to sit there.
Today, he glares out at Jensen from under the hood of his fitted Vic U sweatshirt without a word. The flannel pants are soft and unwrinkled. He looks like he just stepped off an artfully-lit Abercrombie shoot.
“Seriously?” Jensen says, clipped and irritated. “There are open seats everywhere.”
“It’s my seat. You keep putting your feet on it.”
“Right, but my feet were here first. So find somewhere else.”
“Just fucking move already.”
Jensen opens his mouth to tell him where to stick, but MacLaurin bustles in and calls everyone’s attention while the guy takes a step closer to the chair. Jensen rolls his eyes and moves his feet, muttering, “unfuckingbelievable.”
For the next hour and a half, Jensen can’t see the professor’s podium and half the white board because of a rain-damp white hood.
Jensen doesn’t learn his name until they get their first exams back on October 5th, when MacLaurin lingers halfway up the stairs and says, “Jared Padalecki.”
Jared unfolds himself from the desk and trots down to get his exam. Jensen watches him look at the grade, at how his posture falls, his face pulls into irritation, at how he says to himself, oh come on.
When Jared heads back up the stairs, his expression darkens further to see Jensen’s ripped black Chuck Taylors hoisted up over the back of his chair again. Jensen smirks, sips his coffee, and gamely waves his 98% exam at Jared’s face.
Organic chem rapidly becomes insufferable to Jensen not only because he doesn’t have time for a stupid fucking 200-level class, but because his mornings in the lecture hall are spent being tortured by Jared’s heavy sighs, peevish groans, and quiet mouthy retorts at MacLaurin’s requests to do extra sets of problems for homework.
During a lecture on reaction mechanisms, Jensen tells Jared to shut the fuck up, dude, because it’s either that, or kick him in the back of the head.
He isn’t prepared to have Jared whip around, red-angry, tense and upset, telling Jensen to shove it, dick.
Jensen gives him the finger, but doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lecture. He even tries especially hard to avoid kicking the back of Jared’s chair, which is usually a good gag at least once or twice a lecture.
Sitting there silently, trying to find a comfortable angle to see around the combed sleekness of Jared’s too-long hair, Jensen gets a thought that Jared’s having a hard time in this class, and for a second he feels bad.
But instead of doing anything about it, he just decides to continue on with his day.
Autumn is in the air, cool and crisp, brushing color onto Jensen’s cheeks as he hustles across campus to the student union. He’s always fascinated by how busy campus gets at 8am, when by 9 it’s completely deserted. His gaze ticks from face to face as he makes his way down, and finally lands on the back of a tall, clean-lined figure in Vic U track pants, pushing through the main doors of the union.
Jensen slows his pace, hoping to avoid a run-in with Jared inside. He finds it unsettling to have an odd, needling connection with someone he doesn’t even know, and would rather not drag it out of the classroom.
Unfortunately for Jensen, Jared is in line at the campus Starbucks, where Jensen stops every morning for a House Blend, and Jensen lets out a long breath as he steps in behind him. He doesn’t tap Jared’s shoulder, or say hello, so when Jared turns around after ordering his coffee, he blinks in surprise.
“I didn’t even know you were there,” Jared says.
“Yeah, well. Unless you have eyes in the back of your head. Didn’t know you drank coffee.”
“I’m trying to be more of a pissy cunt. Seems to work for you. See you in class.”
Jensen glares at Jared’s retreating form for so long that Alyson, who works at the counter and always remembers his order, snaps at him to regain his attention.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Jensen glances up from reviewing his latest organic exam - 100% - to stare at the back of Jared’s head. He’s resting his temple in a palm, elbow on the desk, as he angrily flips through his test.
“Sucking yet again, Padalecki?” Jensen smirks, unable to resist.
“Fuck off, Ackles.”
“Maybe if you studied even half as hard as you practiced, Meat, you’d at least know how to draw a fucking Lewis Structure.”
“I swear, if you invite yourself into my life one more time I am going to kill you.”
“Meat angry,” Jensen says. “Meat smash.”
“Dude, if I fail this class, I am so royally fucked,” Jared says to himself, ignoring Jensen.
Jensen looks back down at his desk, putting his exam away and tuning back into MacLaurin’s lecture.
Halfway through the next lecture, Jensen has mentally checked out of organic chemistry in favor of reading through some sources he printed out for his thesis on molecular modeling and genomics. He zips through two journal articles, highlighting some important passages to use in his lit review, before he notices that Jared has dropped his notebook to the floor and has laid his head down on his desk.
Jensen pauses in his research, studying the crooked line of Jared’s strong shoulders. He knows that posture. It’s defeat, and it’s unbecoming of a body that looks so utterly capable. The last time Jensen had worn it had been suffering through D’s in Calc II, sophomore year, but he knows it didn’t look nearly as pathetic on him.
Sighing, he shoves the articles back in his bag, grabs his organic notebook, and climbs over the seat to settle in beside Jared. He looks down at the white board, catching himself up to what MacLaurin’s been teaching; stereochemistry, looks like. He ignores when Jared picks his head up from the desk to stare at him, instead focusing his attention on writing out his own explanation of the lecture.
When he’s finished, he turns to Jared, who continues to stare. Without looking up from the paper, Jensen runs through what he’s written, fleshing it out for Jared: “So you remember isomers, right? Basically there’s two different types, constitutional and stereoisomer, and he is about to bore you to death with atom configurations, but the important thing here is that different spatial arrangements result in changes in chemical properties. And, obviously, chemical reactions. You get me?”
Jared studies Jensen’s drawings carefully, following Jensen’s pen as it highlights his points with underlines and circles. He nods slowly in assent.
“Okay,” Jensen says. “Now fucking pay attention.”
Jared’s gaze lingers for a second longer, with Jensen resolutely refusing to make eye contact. He sets the tone by continuing to take notes on the lecture. After a moment, Jared leans down to pick up his notebook, opens it to an unfinished page, and follows suit.
Much to Jensen’s dismay, Jared follows him outside after class. He should’ve known better than to take pity. Should’ve known better than to give an opportunity to discuss something beyond Jensen’s dirty feet on Jared’s chair.
“I swear, chemistry’s like the worst thing that ever happened to me. Worse than T drills. Got stuck there because I needed it as a pre-req for like all of my nutrition classes. I’m in the dietitian program. Need a chem minor just to take the basic courses though. Plus, if I don’t get better than a C, I lose my athletic scholarship, just like that. One more failed exam and it’s gone, can you believe that? I have a few guys who help me out during team study, but shit. Chemistry. It’s the worst. Don’t you just hate it?”
Jensen makes eye contact with Jared. “I’m a 4th year chem major. Concentration in bioinformatics. Minor in environmental chem. So, not really.”
“Oh! Well,” Jared nods awkwardly, looking away. The tips of his ears are reddening as they peek out from dark, wavy hair. He doesn’t continue the thought.
Jensen rolls his eyes. He doesn’t do awkward. He nods in the direction of the Old Kirk building. “Anyway, I’ve got a lab, so.”
“Yeah, I’ve got weight training. Guess I’ll see you later.”
“Whatever,” Jensen says, and heads up the hill as Jared continues to the gym, shoving on a set of headphones. Stupid, he thinks to himself.
When Jensen gets to organic the next week, he’s slightly delirious, sleepless, over-caffeinated, and hardly presentable in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He feels like a freshman all over again. After working so hard for so long to get where he is now, less than a year from graduating with Latin Honors, the thought of any form of regression disgusts him.
Climbing the stairs of the lecture stadium, Jensen notices immediately that Jared is sitting in the seat next to his. In a deep dark part of his belly he wants to smile, but in the irritated and exhausted frontal lobe of his brain, he sighs and can’t keep himself from rolling his eyes.
“So this is gonna be a thing, huh?” Jensen asks, dropping into his desk and dumping his bag on the floor.
“Please. Like I’m gonna let myself fail this stupid class when I have a fuckin’ senior chem major sitting right behind me.”
The good thing about this arrangement is, Jensen gets to kick his feet up on the back of Jared’s chair. The bad thing is they spend almost the entire lecture fighting over the arm rest. Jensen wins, but Jared successfully draws a Lewis structure that covalently bonds Jensen with a variety of angry, toothy animals and a couple of dicks.
Jensen’s eyes flicker down to Jared’s notebook and he can’t help but laugh. Jared grins, but doesn’t look up from his drawing.
Midterms are fast-approaching, as is the cold weather, the height of the college football season, and a yearly physical inventory of the entire music shop that keeps Jensen after-hours three days in a row.
Jensen figures he and Jared might have become friends, if they hadn’t had to work so back-breaking hard for this school. He chalks it up to could-have-been, and resigns himself to seeing Jared once a week outside of class to help him study.
Work is actually a welcome reprieve from the relentless pace of classes, so when Jensen is asked to stay late on a Thursday night to help watch the floor while the managers total their inventory counts, Jensen happily agrees to re-stock and clean as opposed to spending another exhausting night with his biochem book.
The store is quiet, which means he has a little more leeway in being able to side-step the latest top twenty albums and put on something he actually enjoys. He throws on A Decade of Steely Dan and heads into the aisles with a box of used CDs to stock.
The bell at the door chimes about twenty minutes into his work, while Jensen is halfway through the B’s, and he doesn’t look up. The only weeknight visitors are college kids, and they’d like Jensen to greet them about as much as he’d like to greet them, so he figures they’ll come to him if they really can’t find Odelay or Ten or Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits or whatever the fuck else they’re listening to these days.
“Do you have Odelay?”
Jensen picks out the Beck CD he’s right in front of and hands it over, but looks up after realizing that the voice is Jared.
“What are you doing here?”
Jared grins. “Not lookin’ for a Beck album. Procrastinating, actually - I just came by to kill some time, I walk by here like every day. Didn’t know you worked here. Do you ever sleep? How do you even function during organic, or any other class? Shit.”
“It’s only three nights a week. You probably spend more time at practice than I do here. Anything I can help you find?”
“Nah, just - here to look.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow, hesitantly hearing something else in the tone. Ignoring it, he says, “Buy me something.”
“Buy you something? You work here. What could you possibly need, that you haven’t heard?”
“I want your favorite. You’re here. You must like music. Get me the most important thing you’ve ever heard. And it can’t be Odelay.”
“Hilarious,” Jared says. After some hesitation he looks around warily, and Jensen wonders if he’s nervous.
Jared steps up close to Jensen, eyes the Be- section. Jensen sucks in a silent breath, suddenly alarmed, and takes a step back. Every hair on his body is reaching toward Jared and he feels his face warming bright red as he watches from over Jared’s shoulder.
He’s going for the Beatles.
“Boring,” Jensen says, covering his embarrassment.
Jared turns to face him, eyes wide with humorless disbelief. “Wait, I’m being judged on this?”
Jensen shrugs. “Well, if that’s really what you want to pick.”
Jared narrows his eyes, mouth twisted up with indecision, like he can’t figure out what Jensen’s playing at. He moves on, heads for the P’s. Jensen follows along, heart beating in time to the subwoofer, used CDs forgotten in a box in front of Beck.
Next, Jared skims through the Pixies albums, and Jensen can’t resist. He hisses a breath in through his teeth, frowning. Jared stills, looking up, mouth tight with unspoken protests.
“Trying way too hard, man,” Jensen says.
“You’re unbelievable,” Jared says after a beat, eyes flitting over Jensen’s face, ticking from eyes to nose to hair to eyes to mouth to eyes.
Jensen rocks back onto his heels under the gaze, tips his chin up in challenge. “Just sayin’. ‘Wave of Mutilation?’ Didn’t peg you for being so predictable. Then again, you do wear that training jacket like every day.”
Jared’s jaw shifts, officially irritated, which Jensen has come to appreciate more than he probably should. He stares over Jensen’s shoulder for a moment in thought, smiles to himself, and then heads for the M’s. Jensen tries to see what he’s picking but Jared’s using a broad back and inappropriate wingspan to block his view.
He turns with a CD in his hand, and fishes a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket. Hands them both to Jensen.
“Final answer,” Jared says.
“Maxwell?” Jensen asks.
“Number one. Dick. See you in class.”
Jensen watches him leave the store, stares at the back of the album with interest. Something he hasn’t heard before; it doesn’t look like anything that would interest him, and it certainly doesn’t look like anything Jared “Halfback” Padalecki should know about either.
He changes out Steely Dan and leans against the main register, listening. He likes the sound of it instantly. He appreciates anything with soul. He feels an odd, panicky stillness take over when he hears the main theme.
It’s simple, and could very well be meaningless, but at that moment Jensen feels something stir inside. He stares at the shop door, where Jared had disappeared moments before, and hears it.
I gotta get to know ya.
The next week, when Jensen sits down next to Jared and hands over a cup of coffee, he says, “Good choice. I liked it. Never heard it before.”
“See?” Jared says. “I have layers. I’m complex. Unique. Like a stereoisomer.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Shut up. I’m learning. Thanks for the coffee. Now pray with me that MacLaurin doesn’t show up today.”
Jensen grins.
The night before the organic mid-term, they are listening to the brittle November wind from the over-heated fifth floor of the library. It’s nearly midnight and the stacks have long been abandoned; most of the students are crowded on the café floor pounding energy drinks and Snickers bars, but Jensen likes it up here with the dust and the wind and the warmth that wafts up from below.
He forces Jared to do several sets of problems on his own while he barrels through a rough draft of a lit review that’s due in two days.
Jared sits back in his chair, head tipped to listen to the wind. “I have to play in that tomorrow night. This season has been fuckin’ brutal, man. Wind and rain, rain and wind. My shoulder still hurts from that hit I took during practice, like, three weeks ago. It’s gonna suck. Goddamn, it’s hot in here.”
“Jared.”
“I know. I just need a minute.”
“You need more than a minute,” Jensen murmurs, not looking up.
“You’re right,” Jared says.
It’s not until the very last possible moment that Jensen realizes Jared is standing to lean over the table, lifting Jensen’s chin with a calloused palm, and settling a warm, intent mouth over Jensen’s.
Jensen sucks in a breath on instinct, hand on Jared’s face, and his thighs tighten immediately with heat. He opens his mouth, thumbing the rough line of Jared’s jaw with interest, and Jared’s tongue trips along his bottom lip and in. It is deep and drags on wonderfully.
It lasts for about seven seconds, at which point Jensen catches himself, pushes Jared’s face away, and wipes his mouth on a sleeve with disgust.
“Dude,” Jensen says, catching his breath and looking down at his notes. “Gross.”
He feels the stare Jared gives him, hot and disbelieving, hears Jared’s breathing even out on one long, slow exhale. He slumps into the chair across from Jensen and kicks his legs out under the table.
“You fuckin’ liar,” Jared says, going back to his notebook.
Jensen doesn’t answer. In truth, he can’t get his belly to stop trembling.
Neither of them waits around for the other after the mid-term, but Jensen hopes that Jared does well. He spends his day packing up the essentials to head home for Thanksgiving break, and passes in his lit review draft early. He calls out of work and instead wanders around campus, checking in on some friends, saying goodbyes, nodding to professors he’s had.
He ends off at the student union, where he beelines to the Starbucks for a coffee. Alyson greets him there, gets his drink ready, asks, “So did your friend end up finding you the other night?”
“Huh?” Jensen asks, cocking an eyebrow. “What friend?”
“That guy, well shit, I can’t remember his name. Tall guy. He stopped by last week asking about you, and I ended up telling him you worked at the record shop, and he said he’d catch up with you there.”
“Oh, him,” Jensen says. “Yeah, he ended up coming down there. He’s a good guy. Name’s Jared.”
“Seemed like a good guy,” Alyson smirks, knowing.
Jensen walks away not really sure what he’s supposed to be feeling. Not sure he’s supposed to feel this silly. He starts off back in the direction of his suite, thoughts tripping over one another in their speed, when they suddenly halt, all at once, so quickly that Jensen stops walking. He knows where he should be walking right now, and so he turns around and heads for the field.
The stands are packed for the last game before break. The field is gorgeous, newly renovated this summer, somehow lush even in the dead of November. Friends, family, and students pack in tight together, sharing warmth and spirit, voice, and hot chocolates. Jensen walks along behind the railing that blocks off the cheerleading squad and the team bench. He stares up at the lights, at how they change a midnight blue sky into a hazy, glowing green.
He gazes out over the field, scans the players in their home colors, can’t tell if any of them are Jared. He is close enough to hear every collision of helmet to ground, every thud of a body being collapsed of breath, every curse the Vic U coach shouts over a five-yard penalty. He hears the water cooler sloshing as it’s moved from one end of the bench to the other. He hears the shout of a player getting his shoulder jimmied back into place.
When Jensen follows the cry, he sees a player lying on his stomach on an empty bench with dark, sweat-matted hair in his eyes. The number 89 is emblazoned on his back. His heart lurches with sympathy; it’s Jared.
Jensen finds himself lingering, watching as Jared sits up, back to Jensen, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his neck. He nods abruptly to the coach standing over him, shoves his mouth guard in, and waits for the defense to come off the field.
For a moment Jensen doesn’t really believe that Jared is going in after that, but he does; shoots up off the bench, tugging his helmet on, as soon as Christchurch gives up their drive.
In that very moment, Jensen sees a lot of things in Jared: toughness, dedication, loyalty, strength. He sees Jared as a person to be envious of. Jensen feels like a first-class idiot for ever giving him so much shit over a fucking chair in organic chem. What stupid petty bullshit.
Jensen’s eyes are fixated on every move Jared makes on that field. He watches Jared complete a fifteen yard pass and run it another ten. Watches him get crunched between two Christchurch linebackers and grips the railing so tight his knuckles hurt. Watches Jared pick up a handoff and command another thirty yards.
Jensen had no idea. None.
Offensive comes off the field so fast and delirious with a touchdown that it makes Jensen laugh. He watches Jared pound the kicker’s back, smash helmets with the quarterback, and get an ass slap from one of the coaches. Tugging off his helmet, Jared downs a bottle of water, looking past the railing to the crowd.
He freezes when he locks eyes on Jensen, and Jensen feels his stomach do a barrel roll. Out of anxiety, embarrassment, or joy, he can’t tell. But Jared just grins at him, shaking his head.
Jensen gives him the finger and looks back out onto the field, resolutely ignoring Jared until he’s back out on the line again, hidden under a helmet.
Jared corners Jensen the next morning in the parking lot, shoving bags into his car. Jensen looks up guiltily, stops working to tap restless fingers into his thighs.
“I was gonna call you,” Jensen says.
“Sure you were.”
Jared doesn’t look mad; he leans a hip against Jensen’s Subaru and hitches a corner of his mouth up into a smile.
“What?” Jensen asks warily.
“You came to my game.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I saw you. We fucking made eye contact.”
“Wasn’t me,” Jensen says, and goes back to shoving bags into his car. Asks: “How’d you do on your mid-term?”
“Passed. 81%.”
“That’s really great.”
“Not as great as Jensen Fucking Ackles, Hipster Chemistry Geek, at the football stadium on Friday night, ogling number 89.”
“You wish, you delusional bucket of scum.”
“Hey,” Jared says softly.
Jensen looks up when Jared takes his wrist and steps in close, eyes bright and searching. Jensen goes flush in his face, stomach, and neck; he feels his toes curl in his sneakers, inclining his mouth unconsciously.
“I, um,” Jensen says, staring at Jared’s mouth.
“You weren’t gonna call me,” Jared says, and leans in for a kiss that bows Jensen’s back and brings their hips flush and tight. Jensen gasps, arms looping around Jared’s neck and tightening, while Jared pulls him in with hot palms against the angles of Jensen’s hips.
Jared’s mouth opens, tongue skirting, biting softly in a way that makes Jensen ache. He tilts his head the other way, digs his heels in against the wind and the pressure of Jared’s body, and opens further. Dead leaves kick up around them on the breeze and drag over each other quietly. Jensen feels like this is heart-pounding perfect.
“You,” he says, pushing away and gasping. “Need to get a hold of yourself.”
Jared rolls his eyes, shoves Jensen off. “Maybe I’ll see you around when we get back. Like, outside of class.”
“Probably not,” Jensen says dismissively, slamming the back door of his car with finality. “I’m gonna be sort of - busy.”
And it’s the truth; Jensen’s thesis work will be kicking into high gear, he’ll have three lab practicals lined up, and his job will continue to eat at all of his free nights like a bacteria.
When Jensen hears no response, he quits fiddling with his keys and reluctantly looks up at Jared. He sees hurt there that he wasn’t expecting.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” Jared says, finally turning to leave. “Have a good break.”
Jensen watches him go, trying not to feel the ache that tells him to follow.
part two