.0106 (iii) - Just Say Yes, Say There's Nothing Holding You Back
The sun is low, a tired ball of winter orange sitting at the end of Jensen’s street, stripped with snowy clouds and ribbons of mist, cold. It doesn’t provide any warmth or light, just the distant memory of summer and a promise of long, frosty months ahead. Jared really isn’t a fan of the latter, knows that Jensen is downright against it. It was fun for Jared, at first, a change, seemed almost easier than the hot, humid nights of Texas, but now he’s already looking forward to spring.
Jared steps away from the window and sits down with a cup of coffee and a pack of vanilla muffins, chocolate chips; Jensen’s favorite. His eyes once again linger on Jensen’s guitar, the smooth, polished wood temporarily abandoned by the library, and before he knows, he’s standing up again and picking it up. It feels odd in his hands, foreign like he’s forgotten. Everything. The strings are taut under his finger pads, resisting, but he gives them a testing stroke, and there is a sound, clear, tuned.
They used to play together, Jared got his own guitar, but before that, there had been only Jensen’s old one. Jared remembers strong thighs framing his hips and a brick wall of chest pressed to his back, Jensen’s fingers curled around his own, guiding them, putting slight pressure there, letting go elsewhere. Jensen’s presence and smell, clean and soapy, was like another melody playing in the background, adding spice and emotions, and when he sang, his lips occasionally brushing Jared’s ear, guitar lessons used to be the last thing on Jared’s mind. He still can’t play as well as Jensen; he lacks the talent, the fervor for it, doesn’t think there’s a song left he can play without messing it up too much. A few strokes later, there’s a melody. Old and so well-known, the first one he had learned. Luckenbach, Texas. Jensen likes that one, too.
A while later there’s a sound of approaching footsteps, nails clicking on a tiled floor, and the creaking of a threshold. Jared looks up to find Jensen standing in the door, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a glass of juice in the other, Sadie at his feet. “Go on,” he says, in that raspy, too-early tone of his that does absolutely nothing to Jared, absolutely. Oblivious again, having no idea why Jared’s stopped in the first place.
The thing is, Jensen isn’t perfect, nobody is. But it’s all these little flaws that make him so perfect, for Jared, for his fans, for everyone who loves him.
Jensen hates his freckles, every single one of them, hates that there seems to be more of them as the summers go by, hates the crinkles at his eyes that deepen with every birthday he celebrates. Hates his bowed legs the most. Jared loves Jensen’s freckles, all the darker, bigger ones, the tiny dots that look like spilled cinnamon. Likes the wrinkles at his eyes, because they show that he smiles, a lot, likes that they’re the most visible when he laughs, when none of that is faked. And he loves the bow of his legs, the proof that he is a cowboy, has spent a countless sleepless nights dreaming about them wrapped tight around his hips, keeping him in place, urging him closer, begging him to move. Now, in the pajama bottoms Jensen wears, boxer briefs, really, no more, there’s just nowhere else to look. The shorts are… short, not loose enough. They underline every single thing that is Jensen, from his bony knees and firm thighs covered with dark blonde hair to what’s hidden beneath the fabric, up to the blush creeping into his cheeks that Jared notices only when Jensen clears his throat, forcing Jared’s gaze higher up. Jared is sure that if Jensen’s hands weren’t full right now, he’d be trying to pull the shorts legs lower.
“It’s a…” He looks down at himself, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “They’re from… uh, Danneel. It was-- I really need to do the laundry sometime this year.”
Jared nods, slowly, still a little taken by surprise, partly afraid he’s actually drooling.
Jensen pulls from the doorframe and moves forward, stepping over Sadie’s unused bed to sit at the edge of the coffee table. “C’mon,” he says with a tiny smile, amused, but still slightly flushed, nudging Jared’s ankle with the tip of his bare toe. “Go on.”
Jared tries, he truly does, remember the notes, the words, the melody itself, keep his fingers on the strings, still and firm, but he can’t quite well concentrate. Because there is Jensen, here, so close, finally, after all that time, sexy and distracting, and he wants to reach out and touch him, instead, play the melody upon his body. Eventually, silently admitting defeat, mostly to himself, Jared puts the guitar aside and moves a little closer. He presses his mouth to Jensen’s knee, kissing the large, dark blue bruise that spreads to good two inches right above the bone, puts his fingers to the inner side, sliding them higher. Jensen gasps a little at that touch and his leg jerks, hand moving along with it, making the coffee slosh in its cup.
“You care to tell me how you managed to cripple yourself like this during one fall?”
Jensen shrugs, grinning, then shivers when the tips of Jared’s fingers slide underneath the hem of his shorts leg, stopping there. Hesitating. Still unsure. Jensen’s breath hitches momentarily, his tone dropping by a level. “Ta-talent. Sheer, unabashed talent.”
“Yeah.”
They stare at each other for a moment, studying one another. Jensen’s eye color borders to pale green in the early, barely there light, to cat-like yellow, his lashes are nearly platinum blonde. There are mild wrinkles at his mouth that still tend to disappear, three steps away they’re completely invisible. He is so damn pretty.
Jensen sets his glass and coffee cup down and puts his fingers to Jared’s mouth, tracing the contour of his upper lip. “Jare, what… What are we doing? I mean, what is happening? Is this some… side effects of pain and panic or… What is it?” His tone is small, unsure, and his eyes look huge, worried. Vulnerable.
“No.” Jared shakes his head and pulls away, folding his hands in his lap. As much as he wants to keep on touching Jensen, right now he needs space. “No side effects. Just a trigger… maybe. Jensen, I… I like you. I think I always have, I just… I was scared. I still am.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d say no.”
Jensen nods shortly, hums in agreement. “Yeah.” Then, only like an afterthought, “I wouldn’t.”
His hand is almost cold when he puts it on Jared’s neck, cradling his face and urging him up, higher, until he’s standing, his fingers curling around Jensen’s hipbones, his lips on Jensen’s. Coaxing them apart, Jared licks into Jensen’s mouth, finding the same taste as yesterday, the disinfectant now dimmed by shower gel and shampoo, and a different kind of want, actual. Jensen gathers a handful of Jared’s hair, tugging gently at the roots and angling his head just right not to have their noses and teeth collide, lets his knees drop open wider, inviting Jared closer.
Hot and out of breath, Jared draws away, pressing his forehead to Jensen’s, gazing down at him. His hands move under the rim of Jensen’s shirt and lower, slide down to cup his ass, taut and small, that fits just perfectly into his hands and drags him closer, presses his body into Jensen’s, wanting that firmness of him, the heat. Wanting in.
For a moment, they both forget about Jensen’s wounded arm, all of his injuries, but when he moans, with no traces of lust, just pain, they remember. Jensen simply because it hurts, and Jared because he panics, jerks away as if he were the injured one. “Sorry. Sorry. I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine. It’ll pass.”
“No. No, it won’t.” Jared doesn’t really know where he assembles the strength to take a step back, pull away from Jensen, because, honestly, he only wants closer. But he does. Because the last thing he wants is to rush things, hurt Jensen more than he already is. “We should stop. We… shouldn’t.”
Jensen wedges a hand in between them, fingers spread over Jared’s stomach, shifting lower. Jared knows where he’s heading, wants it, but he still jolts when the tips of Jensen’s fingers brush below his navel, sneaking beneath the hem of his jeans. “I could…” he says, trailing off, letting the words die on his tongue, heavy and efficient where they matter.
Jared drops his head on Jensen’s shoulder, breathing heavily, trying to put himself together. “No. No-not now… You should rest. And I need to take Sadie for a walk.” Maybe she’ll finally go out with him, now that she knows Jensen’s awake and alive.
Running his fingers over the smooth, dark wood of the old library, Jared glances around himself, once again realizing how warm this place feels, how nice and comfy in spite of the lack of furniture and decoration. How little he wants to go back to his own house, big and vacant, full of memories he can’t shake off, of Sandy and their first times, of Harley, of Jensen and all the late nights spent playing Mario Carts and Halo. He used to love it, but now he feels like an unwanted stranger there.
He doesn’t actually hear Jensen walk in as much as he feels him, somehow, like breath on his neck, a ghost of a touch on his arm. He turns around, finding Jensen leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “Jen, don’t you… Don’t you want to come back to us?”
Jensen blinks, surprised, straightens up a bit. He looks at Sadie lying on the couch, damp eyes jumping from one to the other, calmer than Jared remembers seeing her lately, then back at Jared. “Don’t you want to stay here?” he replies. “I mean, maybe just… You know, for a while. Before you feel better about the place. Before she gets better. Or… We’ll see.”
And maybe he’s right, maybe Sadie doesn’t need a friend, maybe she just needs a place without Harley’s shadow and smell. Maybe they both need it.
“I’m not saying you have to, just… that you can. Think about it. I have two empty rooms, a fenced backyard I don’t need anymore, and plants I keep forgetting to water. You have one house full of bogeymen.”
In the end, it's just as simple as that.
The End
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