.0116 - You Light the Spark in My Bonfire Heart
Jensen/Jared
2,229 words
Summary: Jared likes the Harper's Bazaar photos, too.
Teaser: "I forget. Sometimes. That you're a star. That you aren't just Jensen, but... the Jensen. That you aren't only mine."
Title from James Blunt
Jensen sits down on the brick step leading to the terrace, and sets his guitar in his lap, giving the strings a light, experimental stroke. There's no particular song on his mind, no melody, just tiredness and melancholia, and the heavy, prickly sense of separation.
His fingers run over the strings without direction, following their own rhythm and memory, recreating melodies he'd learned as a kid, songs he hadn't played since high school. Back then, it all sounded so innocent, so important. Every word, every gesture. The world had been theirs to change, but they were the ones who altered, converted to fit the scheme, the expected.
He takes a sip from his glass, a cheaper brand of wine, dry and sour that Jared doesn't like, then looks up at the sound of whiz of wings; a spiral of black dots on even darker background.
The Vancouver skyline is bathed in dusk, rainy summer evening that's starting to taste of autumn, misty mornings and too early darkness. Of cold drizzle and chill that never really end.
When his cellphone buzzes, soft vibrations in the front pocket of his jeans, he picks it up and turns around, leaning his back against the door-frame. "Hey, you." There's a smile on his lips he barely realizes, automatic, unwilling, that makes it easier to breathe. His voice softens, touching more tender edges than it did for the whole day. He doesn't sound like Dean anymore, but that fucked up guy is there anyway, lurking in the corners of his mind, a shadow, a silhouette caught out of the corner of an eye.
"Hey, Jens." Jared sounds so close, so there that Jensen needs to remind himself that he's not, that he's far, hundreds of miles, several time zones away. "So... I saw the photos today."
"What photos?" Jensen's free hand moves over the strings, on its own, strokes them gently, just an echo of a melody, of a real tune.
"The photos."
"What the photos? I'm not--"
Jared sighs, a dramatic, over-acted moan. "Harper's Bazaar ring any bells?"
"Oh, those."
"Yeah, those. How many photoshoots for China have you recently done?"
"Slipped my mind, is all."
"Well, luckily... not mine. They're sexy."
There's a shiver tickling Jensen's spine, a quiver of nervousness, excitement. A touch of want. Jared's voice is thick, a murmur, there's no pretense, there's lust, there's love, there's everything that Jensen's been missing for the last five days.
"Are they?"
"Very sexy."
"You don't say."
"So very, very sexy." Jared trails off for a moment, half a minute that feels a lot longer. There's a noise in the background, tires on a wet road, rain, Jared's breath, but no words.
"Jare? You there?"
"Yes." There's a strange flavor to Jared's tone, sadness, maybe, something more Jensen's too afraid to ponder at. "It's just... strange, you know. I forget. Sometimes."
"Forget what?"
"That you're a star. That you aren't just Jensen, but... the Jensen."
Jensen chuckles, but it's not a happy sound, tired, rather, weary. A star? Nothing but a face recognizable in the crowd. A few forgettable movies, hundreds of minutes on TV. Money. Not happiness, just secrets and lies. And masquerades that are slowly beginning to wear off.
He closes his eyes for a second, rubs his temple with the heel of his hand, trying to soothe the headache drilling through his brain. "I am, Jay. I am just that. Just Jensen."
Jared doesn't seem to listen, though, lost in his own thoughts, his own doubts and losses. "That you belong to all. That you aren't only mine."
"I am yours. Only yours."
"I love you. So fucking much. You don't even know."
"I do, I love you, too. I miss you. Jared... come home."
"I'll be there. Soon."
"Not soon enough."
"I wish I could be there. Right now. To hear you play, watch you. I love how incredibly concentrated you get when you play. How free at the same time. I would show you how sexy the photos are. Show you what they do to me."
Jensen smiles, "What do they do to you?"
"Open the door."
"Wh-what?"
"Open. The. Door."
Jensen doesn't know what he's expecting when he puts his guitar aside and stands up, led by Jared's words, his voice, pleading and teasing at once. But he doesn't expect this. Him.
He hangs up, staring.
Jared's hair is wet, tiny drops of rain water glisten on his nose, his lips, soaked the front of his hoodie. He looks tired, still so pale and tired out, still not his usual, cheery self, but he's smiling. And it's real, not faked for the cameras, or for the fans to make them feel better, worry less. He's not wearing the omnipresent, annoying sling, but his arm's still barely moving when he walks in and kicks the door closed behind himself.
Jensen stumbles a step sideways and backwards, then another three, four when Jared just keeps on walking, until Jensen's back hit the closed door of the kitchen. It's unpleasantly chilly, but there's Jared already, a living shield, a comfortable, familiar heat and weight. Want. He presses his body into Jensen's, the whole hard, unyielding length of it, pushing him back into the door. He doesn't say a word, he's just looking. Eyes dark, bordering to brown rather than green, and so deep. So full of everything most people don't bother seeing.
When his fingers touch Jensen's mouth, a barely there contact, just a portent of a touch, copying the curve of his upper lip, Jensen shivers. Starved. Craving.
The kiss starts slow, chaste, innocent, just a meeting of lips, a bite, a tug, the flicker of a tongue, but it changes, soon. So fast. Like always. A spark that burns a forest.
Jared's hand finds its way down Jensen's back, and lower, beneath the hem of his jeans, cold fingertips curling over the swell of his ass. And there's a shudder, a needy moan. Jensen's fingers entangle in Jared's hair, soaked with rain and the heat from the Lone Star sun, wind around his jawline, keeping him close, urging him nearer. Jared moves forward, then back, a little to the side, rocking his hips into Jensen's, a little stuttery version of Jensen's own deliberate movements. He bites the corner of Jared's mouth, soothes it with his tongue, and smiles when Jared hisses, forcing a wordless curse in between their lips. Then groans, startled, needing, when Jared's fingers flex on bare flesh, nails catching on his skin.
Jared pulls back, just a little to catch his breath. "They make me horny," he says, voice low and seductive, fanning over Jensen's ear like a warning. A promise.
2,229 words
Summary: Jared likes the Harper's Bazaar photos, too.
Teaser: "I forget. Sometimes. That you're a star. That you aren't just Jensen, but... the Jensen. That you aren't only mine."
Title from James Blunt
Jensen sits down on the brick step leading to the terrace, and sets his guitar in his lap, giving the strings a light, experimental stroke. There's no particular song on his mind, no melody, just tiredness and melancholia, and the heavy, prickly sense of separation.
His fingers run over the strings without direction, following their own rhythm and memory, recreating melodies he'd learned as a kid, songs he hadn't played since high school. Back then, it all sounded so innocent, so important. Every word, every gesture. The world had been theirs to change, but they were the ones who altered, converted to fit the scheme, the expected.
He takes a sip from his glass, a cheaper brand of wine, dry and sour that Jared doesn't like, then looks up at the sound of whiz of wings; a spiral of black dots on even darker background.
The Vancouver skyline is bathed in dusk, rainy summer evening that's starting to taste of autumn, misty mornings and too early darkness. Of cold drizzle and chill that never really end.
When his cellphone buzzes, soft vibrations in the front pocket of his jeans, he picks it up and turns around, leaning his back against the door-frame. "Hey, you." There's a smile on his lips he barely realizes, automatic, unwilling, that makes it easier to breathe. His voice softens, touching more tender edges than it did for the whole day. He doesn't sound like Dean anymore, but that fucked up guy is there anyway, lurking in the corners of his mind, a shadow, a silhouette caught out of the corner of an eye.
"Hey, Jens." Jared sounds so close, so there that Jensen needs to remind himself that he's not, that he's far, hundreds of miles, several time zones away. "So... I saw the photos today."
"What photos?" Jensen's free hand moves over the strings, on its own, strokes them gently, just an echo of a melody, of a real tune.
"The photos."
"What the photos? I'm not--"
Jared sighs, a dramatic, over-acted moan. "Harper's Bazaar ring any bells?"
"Oh, those."
"Yeah, those. How many photoshoots for China have you recently done?"
"Slipped my mind, is all."
"Well, luckily... not mine. They're sexy."
There's a shiver tickling Jensen's spine, a quiver of nervousness, excitement. A touch of want. Jared's voice is thick, a murmur, there's no pretense, there's lust, there's love, there's everything that Jensen's been missing for the last five days.
"Are they?"
"Very sexy."
"You don't say."
"So very, very sexy." Jared trails off for a moment, half a minute that feels a lot longer. There's a noise in the background, tires on a wet road, rain, Jared's breath, but no words.
"Jare? You there?"
"Yes." There's a strange flavor to Jared's tone, sadness, maybe, something more Jensen's too afraid to ponder at. "It's just... strange, you know. I forget. Sometimes."
"Forget what?"
"That you're a star. That you aren't just Jensen, but... the Jensen."
Jensen chuckles, but it's not a happy sound, tired, rather, weary. A star? Nothing but a face recognizable in the crowd. A few forgettable movies, hundreds of minutes on TV. Money. Not happiness, just secrets and lies. And masquerades that are slowly beginning to wear off.
He closes his eyes for a second, rubs his temple with the heel of his hand, trying to soothe the headache drilling through his brain. "I am, Jay. I am just that. Just Jensen."
Jared doesn't seem to listen, though, lost in his own thoughts, his own doubts and losses. "That you belong to all. That you aren't only mine."
"I am yours. Only yours."
"I love you. So fucking much. You don't even know."
"I do, I love you, too. I miss you. Jared... come home."
"I'll be there. Soon."
"Not soon enough."
"I wish I could be there. Right now. To hear you play, watch you. I love how incredibly concentrated you get when you play. How free at the same time. I would show you how sexy the photos are. Show you what they do to me."
Jensen smiles, "What do they do to you?"
"Open the door."
"Wh-what?"
"Open. The. Door."
Jensen doesn't know what he's expecting when he puts his guitar aside and stands up, led by Jared's words, his voice, pleading and teasing at once. But he doesn't expect this. Him.
He hangs up, staring.
Jared's hair is wet, tiny drops of rain water glisten on his nose, his lips, soaked the front of his hoodie. He looks tired, still so pale and tired out, still not his usual, cheery self, but he's smiling. And it's real, not faked for the cameras, or for the fans to make them feel better, worry less. He's not wearing the omnipresent, annoying sling, but his arm's still barely moving when he walks in and kicks the door closed behind himself.
Jensen stumbles a step sideways and backwards, then another three, four when Jared just keeps on walking, until Jensen's back hit the closed door of the kitchen. It's unpleasantly chilly, but there's Jared already, a living shield, a comfortable, familiar heat and weight. Want. He presses his body into Jensen's, the whole hard, unyielding length of it, pushing him back into the door. He doesn't say a word, he's just looking. Eyes dark, bordering to brown rather than green, and so deep. So full of everything most people don't bother seeing.
When his fingers touch Jensen's mouth, a barely there contact, just a portent of a touch, copying the curve of his upper lip, Jensen shivers. Starved. Craving.
The kiss starts slow, chaste, innocent, just a meeting of lips, a bite, a tug, the flicker of a tongue, but it changes, soon. So fast. Like always. A spark that burns a forest.
Jared's hand finds its way down Jensen's back, and lower, beneath the hem of his jeans, cold fingertips curling over the swell of his ass. And there's a shudder, a needy moan. Jensen's fingers entangle in Jared's hair, soaked with rain and the heat from the Lone Star sun, wind around his jawline, keeping him close, urging him nearer. Jared moves forward, then back, a little to the side, rocking his hips into Jensen's, a little stuttery version of Jensen's own deliberate movements. He bites the corner of Jared's mouth, soothes it with his tongue, and smiles when Jared hisses, forcing a wordless curse in between their lips. Then groans, startled, needing, when Jared's fingers flex on bare flesh, nails catching on his skin.
Jared pulls back, just a little to catch his breath. "They make me horny," he says, voice low and seductive, fanning over Jensen's ear like a warning. A promise.