poems have possibilities [2/6]
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PART ONE
Jensen sat at his desk, tapping his pen against the notebook. The open pages were blank. He watched as the sun rose, the summer sun, bright and filling the world with light. The street was empty, but for how long, Jensen couldn’t be sure. Empty like the pages of his notebook and he pressed a hand into his eye, pressure causing exploding light. Jensen was exhausted from staying up all night, eyelids heavy and gritty.
Noise thundered down the hallway outside his apartment and Jensen started, from the unexpected sounds of a dog woofing and a man’s voice hushing, stern but not unkind. Jensen couldn’t tell the words, just the tone of the voice, deep and soothing. He heard the front door of the apartment building opened with a bang and he looked out his bay window to see two large dogs come tumbling out. They were big and all legs, each falling over the other. Jensen smiled and then that smile froze as he saw the man that followed. Tall but well-accustomed to it, comfortable in his height, the length of his legs leaping down the front stairs onto the gravelled path. His dogs jumped over to him, jumped on him and the man did nothing but laugh, a smile wide and bright and living, dimples cut deep and eyes sparkling. For a moment Jensen couldn’t breathe for it, for the depth of colour he saw. The man rolled on the grass with his dogs laughing, loud enough for some of it to filter through to Jensen and the man’s laugh made Jensen laugh, caught up in the affection and fondness he was seeing.
His fingers twitched, convulsing around the pen. Jensen stared down at them, as if he’d never seen them before and then looked back out the window. He watched as the man began stretching and Jensen’s eyes tracked the lines of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist, the contrast of it. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. The man started walking, the dogs so well trained that they needed no leash, just walked beside the man, rubbing up against his legs, their adoration so clear to Jensen.
He stared until he could see the man and his dogs no longer. He began to write, filled with that need to put pen to paper, to express what he felt, the wonder. Needed to get it out.
Early morning summer sun greets the early risers and the ones
who have yet to sleep, pens slaving over paper with nothing but empty
lines, the hand holding that pen so heavy, just as empty, so lifeless, so
still, but the day out there is not as empty, perhaps too full, of light and
the Runner and his dogs, all three so loud and full, yes, of the early
summer sun and life and laughter, dogs smiling, surely, mouths pulled
up and tongues out, the Runner panting with them, chest heaving, skin
alight with a heavy sheen of sweat, so alive and laughing still, smile so wide
it is too big for his face and fills up the now too-full world, falling off the
corners of his mouth and tangling up his feet and so he falls, falls, but
he laughs still, this man, larger than life, this Runner and his dogs, yet not
only a man; see the child he once was and still is, there, yes!, there, in
his eyes, that crinkle caught on the edges of his eyes, there in the way he
tumbles along the grass with his dogs, green stains on his white running
shorts but he does not care, laughs, and see how he laughs, so carefree
and so free, that is the moment, and his dogs lick his face and all to be
seen on the Runner’s face is a man’s love and a child’s love and all love, this, this is
everything: ‘This is it,’ the pen writes on no longer empty paper, no longer lifeless,
A spark, a beginning, a tomorrow, a future. A life.
Alive.
~*~
Jensen arrived at work over twenty minutes late. He drifted inside, mind still caught up in that morning, images caught within bands of words. Jensen’s own words, perhaps no longer worthless, maybe.
When Jakob asked his standard question, Jensen couldn’t help but blush a deep red. Heat flooded his cheeks. He nodded and Jakob stared at him, mouth quirking up in surprise. It furthered his embarrassment.
“What? Seriously?” Jakob asked in an incredulous tone. But he caught the blush Jensen was trying to hide by ducking his head and then leered at Jensen.
“So, what’s his name?”
Jensen jerked, eyes wide in disbelief. “What the-the fuck, Jakob? Dude, someone could hear you!”
Jakob rolled his eyes. “Dude, there is no one else but us here.” Jensen shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “I have known you for nearly all of your twenty-eight years. Do not try to deflect here, Jensen. I know you.” Jakob chuckled, continued. “I especially know your ‘I just saw a super-cute boy and omigod, he’ll never talk to me’ face. The blush gives it away.”
Jensen scowled, folded his arms. “You make me sound like a thirteen year-old girl.”
Jakob simply leaned on the counter, tucked his hands beneath his chin and fluttered his eyelashes.
“You’re ridiculous.” Jensen stomped his way into the backroom, making a beeline for the coffee sitting waiting on the top of a stack of books. He twirled to face Jakob.
“You do not leave coffee on the brand new merchandise, Jakob!” He pointed viciously at the coffee in its paper cup. Jakob tried to look sheepish but mostly came across as unrepentant as he waved his hand dismissively.
“Drink your coffee before you explode.” Jensen made a dark sound in his throat, bared his teeth. Jakob rolled his eyes.
“And I will never leave coffee on the brand spanking new merchandise ever again, yadda, yadda.”
Jensen shot him a scathing look as he picked up the coffee, cup still warm. Jakob patiently waited while Jensen consumed his coffee quickly, needing a caffeine boost as the adrenaline of this morning had finally begun to wear off, leaving Jensen aware of the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. When he finished, he dropped the cup in the garbage can by the door, unbelievably grateful for the fact that the bookstore was beside a coffee shop that had earlier opening hours.
“So,” Jakob drawled, drawing the one syllable out for far too long. He leaned against the doorjamb and gave Jensen an appraising look. “Do tell.”
Jensen smiled a little, shook his head. “There isn’t much to it. I was sitting at my desk, staring out the window when this guy and his two dogs appeared and I just,” he shrugged. “I felt inspired to write.”
Jakob looked at him for a long moment. Jensen focused on the books in front of him. He didn’t really want to talk about it, this new inspiration too fragile, too new. He didn’t want to jinx it. Jakob seemed to hear whatever silent plea Jensen was sending out and dropped the subject with a disbelieving hum and walked into the front of the store, getting ready for opening time. Jensen sighed in relief and walked out to join him.
For the rest of the day, a smile would settle upon Jensen’s lips, a bright happy thing. Jakob would look over, relief washing over his features for short second. Jensen didn’t notice. All he saw was that man’s grin, so wide and full of light, a shining thing.
~*~
The thing was, Jensen was out, sure, to his family and friends. His agent knew. But he didn’t say it loudly, he kept it to himself. He was cautious. College had been rough and slurs were sometimes hard to forget, even when they were passed off as a joke. As D.S Winchester, the world didn’t know and couldn’t know. There would be a level of scrutiny and criticism levelled at D.S Winchester as a gay man that Jensen wasn’t comfortable with. He hid behind a pseudonym, trapped himself in a fictional person’s cage. It was a beautiful page, sculpted from his own words, and safe.
He wrote about men, in his first anthology. How it felt to be attracted to a man, the doubt and shame that came with it. He wrote about the newness of first love, how it burned and bruised and hurt. Jensen fell in love with a man who didn’t want to be seen as gay. It rubbed off on Jensen, especially when it ended and he was left a little bit broken. He gave the title of ‘This’ to his first publication because there had been no other name for that relationship. This thing between us, this thing we do, this, this, this. It seemed appropriate.
The author of ‘This’, D.S. Winchester, was perceived to be a woman from the very first review. Jensen had just rolled with it, encouraged it by using gender neutral language on the inner cover. He didn’t want to be out like that, in such a huge way. He never found a reason for it to be worth the hassle. Couldn’t find someone who was worth it. He lost belief in himself sometime around seven months ago. It was longer than that, a lifetime, and yet shorter too, like a blink of the eye; he was here and now he’s not. Sorry.
But Jensen wanted someone who was worth it, could admit to himself that he needed it in a fundamental way. And somehow, something in him was saying, that man, the Runner, with his laughter and passion, and so full of love. The Runner, who inspired him, made him write, and that was worth something, worth more.
Something in him whispered soon.
~*~
Jensen stumbled into his apartment at seven. His exhaustion finally caught up with him, his body aching, weary, but his mind still racing, still looping the scenes from the morning. This thrum felt almost exotic and Jensen had no idea how to place it, how to label it. There was a smile still on his lips and his cheeks ached with it, but it was a good ache, the best ache. Jensen walked through his small apartment, through the living room into the kitchen, making his way into his bedroom to flop onto his bed face-first. He made a groaning, yawning sound, kicked off his shoes and rubbed a hand across his face. He spread his limbs, a starfish on a brown comforter and fell asleep between one breath and the next.
He woke up the next morning, bright light filtering through his half-opened curtains and falling across his face. He grimaced at the feel of his fuzzy mouth, at the pull of jeans against his skin. He rolled onto his back, lifting up his hips and shoving the denim down his thighs with his hands. He kicked them off, flinging them into a far corner, laughing at himself, feeling like a belligerent teenager. He wriggled out of his top and flung that as well, in the same direction as the jeans. He lay there for a while in his boxers, staring at the off-white ceiling, think of nothing but the feel of the comforter beneath him, the slightly cool air from the bathroom drifting over his skin. He shivered lightly and huffed a laugh at the growling noise that erupted from his stomach.
Jensen lurched to his feet, too fast, and felt light-headed for a brief moment. He walked slowly into his kitchen, still revelling in the feeling of being able to walk around his own home as he chose. He could walk around naked, and he did, quite often, with a quiet sense of freedom. Jensen paused in front of the refrigerator, a memory caught up in the spinning of his thoughts, his dad laughing in this very kitchen, having caught his son walking around in the buff, a spare key the culprit behind Jensen’s awkward embarrassment, his dad saying, “A man must feel comfortable in his home, son,” and Jensen joining in with the laughter, hiding behind the breakfast counter. Hiding his face behind his hands.
Jensen found himself leaning against the cool metal, his forehead pressed up against it, the palms pressed flat, as if he could sink into it, a perfect steel sculpture. He couldn’t breathe. Would it always be like this? All hard lines and razor sharp edges. Take the wrong turn and end up walking through briars, walking on hot coals, burning grief wherever he turned. He knew it would get better, die down, a wound that would heal but leave behind a scar that would always itch, maybe ache in the cold. Not this.
The light falling through the big bay window slowly swept across the floor, marking the movement of time, how the day went on, regardless. Jensen couldn’t stay there forever. He needed to move, needed a change, something. He opened the refrigerator door, grabbed the milk, opened a cupboard, grabbed a box of cereal. Nothing but movement, got a bowl, a spoon, mix it all together and there, his breakfast. Walked to his desk and sat down. Ate slowly, methodically, mechanically. The lights were on but nobody was really home.
Spoon to bowl, spoon to mouth, eat, chew. Repeat.
And then there was barking, a loud yipping sound, followed by laughter, the Runner’s laughter. Lights were on, and somebody was now home, say hello. Jensen put the nearly empty bowl on his desk. The man and his two dogs were coming back from their run. Sweat dripped down the man’s neck, along his naked chest, his top tucked into the back on his running shorts. Jensen couldn’t look away, eyes riveted, drawn in, throat dry and chest tight. A tingle shivered down his spine at the sight of the guy’s hair, wet with sweat, curling over his ears, at the nape of his neck. He wanted to lick the sweat there, wrap his hand around, make scritch-scratching motions with his nails, wrap his fingers in the strands and tuck, exposing that long lean neck to Jensen’s mouth, his teeth and -
Jensen shuddered hard, nerves tingling, arousal pulling low in his gut. He sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering closed at the image, at how that skin would feel, sweat-damp and over-heated with exertion. The suddenness of his want threw Jensen, this newness of it, its sharper edge more keenly felt.
The Runner began his stretches, cooling down, dogs lying panting at his feet, curled up together. The smile on the man’s face was something Jensen didn’t think could ever be matched in its startling sincerity. There was a wistfulness, a yearning, but for what Jensen couldn’t tell. Doubted he ever would. There was a stillness in the Runner, a moment of quiet reflection, and it may have been Jensen’s own projections, his own yearning. After all, this was just a man.
As the man bent forward, reaching downwards to the grass, his hair flopped across his forehead, falling into his eyes. He shook his head irritably, a precise and practiced flick. Jensen’s fingers itched to smooth the hair back, tuck it into place and then move a thumb along the soft skin of this Runner’s face. To trace along the contours of his face, the angles of his cheekbones, the soft pink bow of his upper lip.
Jensen stumbled to his feet, backing away from the window, such intensity of feeling too much too quickly. He shuffled to his bedroom, biting his lower lip at the drag of cotton across his mostly hard cock. What do I do with this, he thought, as he lay back on his bed. Do I ignore it? He laid his hand just below his navel, a gentle touch against his cock and it jumped to full hardness. He wanted this, even as he flushed in shame.
His other hand came to rest on the softness of his inner thigh, just below his balls. One slight nudge and he gasped. He pictured the Runner’s height, the length of his legs, his arms. Pictured how they would look wrapped around him. How they would feel, tight and hot, a perfect fit. Heat zinged through him, danced along his nervous system, played him like a piano until he was humming with it.
Jensen pulled down his boxers, lifted them up and over his red, swollen cock, tucked the elastic band beneath his balls, let it snap into place. The slight pain and shock of ran through him, making everything better, more intense. He cupped the hand by his thigh around his balls, rolled them gently. He shuddered out a breath, helpless at the feeling, the desperation surging through him. He wrapped the other hand around his cock, thumb collecting the precome sliding out of his slit and spreading it down and around, slicking it up. He tugged once, hard, and inhaled a sharp breath, feeling dizzy with it. Jensen thought of the sweat sliding down the Runner’s skin, thought of licking along the trails left behind, the heat of him, the musky, heady smell and jerked off faster, rougher. He imagined the dark tan of the Runner’s shoulders and abs, imagined how the skin of his upper thighs and ass would be paler, softer, downy hairs catching on his lips as Jensen kissed his way lower and lower and lower -
Jensen came with a gasp and a loud groan, body jerking and skin tingling, mind lighting up with pleasure, white hot. He let out a soft grunt at each pulse of come that splattered against his chest, sticky and warm against his hot skin, twitching as the throbs of his orgasm echoed through him.
He lay there for a while. He breathed heavily and deeply, blinking up at the ceiling.
~*~
Jensen fell into a new routine. He got home from work and ate, crashed, got up early. He watched the Runner, fell into bed and jerked off. After a shower, he headed into work and came home, and started all over again. There was a fragile thing in his chest, a hope that he didn’t want to look at too closely. Jakob watched as Jensen pulled out his notebook for the first time in the bookstore and sat down at the counter, pen scratching along the paper. Words came easier now, a dam somewhere in Jensen broken open and they flowed forth, speaking of hope and desire and discovery.
There you are, they said.
Jensen didn’t know what to do with those words, so he wrote them down and he waited. Watched the days go by, marked by the Runner’s early morning jog every day but Sunday. A week passed, same routine. But Jensen was awake now. May slid into June and the heat built, humidity making everything uncomfortable. But the man was out running every day, not bothering with a t-shirt at all now, came back so sweat-slicked it looked like he had just stepped out from the shower. Jensen ached to slide his fingers through it, to taste it. He wanted to make him shiver, to pull moans out of him and blissful sated smiles. Jensen wanted to share this desire with him, have it spark between them and wind higher and higher and higher.
Routine established. Repeat, repeat. Sit down at the desk and write in the mornings, in the evenings before after eating. Lights blazing and a party inside. Jensen was lit up with bright words and hope. But he followed his routine. Wash, rinse, repeat. Eat, write, jerk off, sleep. Hope.
Until one day in the middle of June, there was a knock on the door.
~*~
Jensen was sitting at his desk, scribbling away at his notebook, frowning at what was written there. His apartment was quiet except for the scrape of his pen across the page. Over and over again, the words said oh, there you are, I’ve found you but Jensen was becoming frustrated, those words no longer enough, wanting more but no idea how to go about it, stuck as he was.
A stuttering knock fell against the door, hesitant and unsure in the softness of it. Jensen frowned, not expecting any visitors; he saw Jakob nearly every day at the bookstore, his other friends on a Saturday night, more infrequently now, and his mama once a fortnight, couldn’t handle any more than that. He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door.
At first all he saw was a pale face and the shock of blood on a dishcloth, clutched to the Runner’s chest. The Runner made a noise, a gasp of awe.
“Dude. Dude, how come my place doesn’t look like this?”
Jensen stared at the man and couldn’t say anything, too stunned to think, to speak. The bright red seeping into the white dishcloth wrapped around his left hand was shocking, terrifying. The Runner’s hands were shaking.
“I mean, my place is a mess, cracked paint, damp on the ceiling, water stains, an old kitchen, ratty furniture.” The Runner slumped down against the doorjamb, laughing nervously, and peering into the apartment behind Jensen. “But your place is so white, and perfect, and shiny.”
Jensen stood blinking for a moment, confused, unsure what to think or what to do. He caught another glimpse of the Runner’s blood.
“Listen,” he said, holding up a hand, interrupting, “are you alright? You’re bleeding, heavily, I think. You need help or--?”
“Huh? Oh! Yeah, yeah, sure, help.” He turned wide eyes onto Jensen. His face was getting paler, shock making him babble.
“Urm, I was cutting up tomatoes, late breakfast, a fry, ya know? And the knife slipped and I cut myself and I don’t have a car so I can’t get to the hospital because it’s not really worth an ambulance. So.” The man blinked, licked his lips, cut his eyes sideways to Jensen’s, looking sheepish, apologetic. “So I was wondering if you had a car and could drop me off at the ER.” The man coughed, a flush high on his cheeks, embarrassed now. “If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Jensen caught that flush and wanted to soothe it away, make him feel comfortable and safe. The Runner was waiting for an answer, chewing his lips, pain carving tight lines around his mouth, his eyes. And Jensen couldn’t say no, not to eyes that big and hazel. He suddenly realised the Runner was younger than Jensen, sweet-faced with it, but not a child. Probably his first time living away from home, he thought and Jensen wanted to kiss away the hurt, make it better anyway he could.
“Yeah, sure that’s no problem.” Jensen smiled at the look of pure relief that lit up the man’s face. Jensen dashed to the kitchen counter, grabbed his keys, yanked on his shoes, didn’t bother with a jacket, not in this heat. The Runner was in basketball shorts and a grey v-neck, flip-flops on his feet. His toes curled against the rubber and Jensen’s smile widened. He didn’t really know this man but wanted to, and it made him fond. Embarrassingly so.
He shut the door behind him and shooed the man outside, a hand on the man’s shoulder gently steering to Jensen’s car. As they walked outside, the Runner uncurled a bit, stood up. Jensen was struck by his height, the determination on his face.
They clambered in the car. The Runner moved slowly, as if any sudden movement could jar his hand. For all his care, he still grimaced as he reached for the seatbelt and accidentally knocked against his forearm, jarring his hand. The dishcloth was more red than white by now, but appeared to have stopped bleeding quite so much. Jensen took the seatbelt from him and buckled it for him, a small shrug for the other man’s grateful smile.
He started driving, heading towards the medical centre nearby, just outside Garland, closer than any other hospital, and then said aloud, “What about your dogs, will they be okay?”
The man looked at him, surprising Jensen by not looking startled at Jensen’s knowledge of his two dogs. It was a happy smile, perhaps, at the showing of concern. “Yeah, sure, Jensen, they’re good dogs, the best. They don’t mess up the apartment when I’m not there. They’ll be fine.”
It took a minute for Jensen to catch on that the man knew his name and at the next red light, turned to stare at him. “How do you know my name?” he asked, curious but not angry, not upset.
The man looked up at the roof of the car, kept his eyes there, but smiled ruefully. “I, uh. I see you sitting at your desk through the bay window when I come back from my run. And I, I checked your apartment number against the list for the doorbells out by the front door, saw your second name and then looked you up in the phone directory to find your first.”
“Well.” Jensen stalled. He didn’t even know what to do with that, nor what to say. Deja vu. It was an invasion of privacy, too much and too close. He was tightly wrapped and Jared was unravelling him. He should be offended, or at the very least, worried, but then, Jensen jerked off to the image of the Runner pretty much every day, so he guessed they were even. It was disconcerting.
“I guess I have my own stalker then.” He bit his lip at the hypocrisy. He glanced over at the other man’s hand, the blood on the dishcloth making his heart rate kick up. Jensen laughed after a moment, showing the man that he was fine, that Jensen wasn’t going to kick him out of the car or anything.
“You’re so lucky,” the man said, grinning. “I’m Jared.” He went as if to hold out a hand but grunted, a pained sound. “I’d shake your hand but I’m currently trying to make sure my finger doesn’t fall off.”
Jensen swallowed. “Fall off? That serious?” he managed to push out.
“Well, maybe I’m exaggerating, but it sure fucking feels like it’s gonna fall off.” Jared - Jensen thought, rolled the name around in his head, tasting it, found he liked it - huffed out a sigh, dejected, pained. Jensen drove as quick as he could, arrived at the medical centre ten minutes later, watched Jared hop out of the car, said “I’ll give you a lift home, yeah? Give me your phone, I’ll give you my number and text me, okay? “
Jared leaned against the door, pulled out his phone and Jensen programmed in his number, handed it back with a salute. “Good luck, Jared, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Jared smiled at him. It was the same smile he gave his dogs, wide and happy and fond. He blasted Jensen with it, then turned and jogged inside, leaving Jensen feeling dazed. His hands shook, just a little, not enough to be worth mentioning. Just the shock of seeing all that blood.
Jared would be fine, he told himself.
~*~
Jensen spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon alternating between pacing in his living room and watching the TV, eyes unfocused, checking his phone every minute. He couldn’t eat, drank too much water. He waited.
Maybe five hours after he had dropped Jared off, his phone beeped, a text message from an unknown number.
finishin up now, got nine stitches, i am so badass. j.
Jensen snorted as he read. He made his way outside, hopped into the car and drove. He arrived fifteen minutes later to see Jared waiting by the entrance of the medical centre. His eyes were at half-mast and his body was slumped, curved inwards. Jared’s left hand had been wrapped up, caught in a foam sling. He looked exhausted, Jensen realised, face pale, bags set deep under his eyes.
Jensen parked and walked over to Jared, received an armful of exhaustion-heavy limbs for all his efforts, slack and loose. An arm curled around his waist, Jared tucking his face into the crook of Jensen’s neck. Jared began to rub his nose against the skin there.
“Hey, Jenny,” he crooned. Jensen had to roll his eyes at the moniker.
“They drug you or something?” Jensen asked, struggling not to grin at the slurring in Jared’s voice. Nine stitches had to hurt.
Jared took out a bottle out of his shorts pocket and rattled them in Jensen’s face. “Oh yeah.” He wobbled a little on his feet.
“Come on, big guy, let’s get going.” Jensen grunted at the weight of Jared as he leaned on Jensen’s shoulders, feet dragging. As soon as they got in the car, Jared yawned, a deep cavern opening and closing, followed by a sigh. Jared shuffled his limbs, rubbing up against the leather of the seat, trying to get comfortable. Jensen did his seatbelt for him, buckled him up. He looked up to see Jared staring right at him, a small smile dancing on his lips, a private, secret smile. Jared leaned forward. His hazel eyes were wide, the light coming in through the car window making them look golden. Jensen smiled back, received the glide of a thumb along the curve of his jawline, felt Jared’s breath against his cheek and his own caught in his throat, stuttered out.
“Thanks Jensen,” Jared whispered. And it was intimate, that sound, low and sweet, everything Jensen was looking for, hoping for. Jared was too close, eyes on Jensen’s lips and licking his own. Jensen wasn’t going take it, not like this. Jared was hopped up on painkillers. Jensen would never take advantage of that, Jared probably didn’t even know what he was doing.
Jensen sat back, kept the smile on his face, not that is was going anywhere, and drove home. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Jared’s head slid forwards, his chin coming to rest against his chest. In that moment, Jensen could see Jared dozing on a couch, drool at the corner of his mouth, a game going unwatched on a TV screen. He imagined himself beside Jared, empty pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of them, a beer in one hand. Imagined shoving Jared as he started snoring and then leaning in for a sloppy, sleepy kiss. Jensen felt warm all over, at how happy and normal the image was. Jared shifted beside him, his hair falling against his forehead. Jensen smiled.
~*~
Back outside Jared’s apartment, Jared fumbled through his pockets for his keys with one hand, the clink of his bottle of painkillers against his phone obvious in the silence of the hallway. Finally, he opened the door, only to be jumped upon by two over-excited eager dogs, ending up knocked backwards against Jensen. Jensen grabbed Jared’s shoulders to steady him, startled. Jared laughed and his dogs barked back. He fell on his knees, weaving a little. He tilted his face to accept their kisses, cooed at them. His free hand ruffled against their fur sloppily, pushing at them when they got to close to his bandaged left hand.
Jensen closed the door behind him as he stood in the apartment, took in the state of Jared’s living room. He wondered for a moment if his own living room had ever been that bad. The floorboards were covered in scuff marks, a threadbare rug in front of the ratty old couch. The paint was beginning to peel in certain areas. Jensen stared. Why hadn’t Jared said anything to the landlord? He should. The lease agreement was probably different, Jensen thought. Maybe it was all Jared could afford. He shuffled his feet on the floor, couldn’t bring himself to look at Jared.
One of the dogs leaped at him and distracted him. Jensen smiled down at it, cupped its head and scrubbed his fingers through the fur down its neck.
“That’s Harley,” Jared said, sitting on the floor with the other dog sprawled across his lap. “And this sweetheart is Sadie.” He looked down at her, petted her, fussed over her. “Who’s a good girl, huh?”
Harley fell off Jensen and dashed over to Jared at the sound of his voice, butting Sadie out of the way so he could snuggle up against Jared. Jensen just watched the three of them for a while, a warm contentment rushing through him. He spied two large and very empty bowls down by the kitchen counter and went over, filling one with water, found the bag of dog food in the cupboard beneath the sink and filled the second bowl. Sadie and Harley ran over to where Jensen stood, butted him out of the way to get to the food, and left Jared empty-handed by the door. Jared smiled up at Jensen, thankful.
“They’re my babies.” His voice was quiet, his eyes soft and fond. He slumped slightly and Jensen walked over to him, hooked an arm under his shoulders and pulled him up.
“Time for a nap,” Jensen suggested and Jared nodded his head and kept nodding, head wobbling on his neck. Jensen snorted, and cupped Jared’s cheek, said softly, “You can stop nodding now.” And Jared nodded yet again, knocking against Jensen’s hand and Jensen laughed, Jared smiling back.
“Come on.” Jensen led Jared into the bedroom, sitting him down on the edge of the bed, watching as Jared kicked off his flip-flops and rolled onto his side. He curled up into a foetus position, suddenly so small and so innocent that Jensen grabbed the sea-green comforter hanging off the end of the bed and pulled it up, draped it over Jared. He stood for a minute and then leaned forward, brushed the hair off Jared’s forehead as his fingers had always itched to do. Jared snuffled, fluttering his eyes open, murmured, “Thanks, Jen.”
And Jensen left with his heart lying there on the bed beside him, knowing better, but still unable to help himself.
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