CW RPS: Take the Sky, For Example (A Canvas of a Billion Suns) (J2, R // 1/6)
Take the Sky, For Example (A Canvas of a Billion Suns)
Full header in MASTER POST.
When the tall, cute guy with the floppy brown hair stops by the table and asks if he can sit down, Jensen's first instinct is to tell him to fuck off. Jensen is perfectly happy with his newspaper and the cup of coffee that the waitress made undrinkable; in fact, there's a lot he would give to just be left alone right now.
But the guy looks so hopeful that Jensen grunts and gestures to the seat opposite.
"Thanks," Cute Guy says. "This place is real busy today."
Jensen shrugs and buries his nose in his paper. His phone is sitting abandoned beside him, chirping every once in a while as his friends call to check up on him or apologise. Either way, Jensen doesn't want to hear it. Yeah, he's upset. No, he doesn't need to talk about it. Yes, they're all assholes for not giving him a place to stay. Allison used that tired trying-to-start-a-family excuse, Eric gave a maniacal little laugh and hung up on him, and Jason was guilty-quiet until Jensen got the message. His mom is his last resort, but he doesn't want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. He would rather be out on the street than back home.
"So," Cute Guy says, interrupting Jensen's brooding by peering over the edge of the newspaper. "Whatcha doing?"
Jensen's really starting to regret his hospitality. "House-hunting," he mutters finally.
"No way," Cute Guy gasps, all wide-eyed, convincing, sympathetic surprise.
"Way."
"Me too," Cute Guy burbles, brushing his long fringe out of his eyes for a better look at Jensen. He scratches idly at his neck and pokes his fucking ice-pick nose into Jensen's personal bubble. "Sucks, huh? I've never had to do this before."
"Huh," Jensen says, trying to retain a semblance of politeness while giving Cute Guy a clear message: sit back and shut up. But Cute Guy obviously doesn't get it, because he's staring at Jensen with glittering, soulful eyes-and okay, maybe Jensen's going a bit overboard with the description, but whatever, the guy's face is expressive-like he expects a response, so Jensen adds, "It's a first for me too."
"There's a first time for everything!" Cute Guy recites happily, flagging down a waiter and ordering himself an espresso.
Jensen hides a scowl behind the paper and stares forlornly at his black coffee.
"So, what's your story?" Cute Guy asks. "My friends… they, um, kicked me out." In the briefest second, something in his face closes off, like a wall coming down. He's back to smiling in seconds. "Sucks, huh? They told me it was time to find my own place."
Jensen massages his temples. "My boyfriend dumped me," he says bluntly.
Cute Guy doesn't miss a beat. "Shit, man, that sucks," he says, sipping his coffee. He finishes it, then nudges the paper. "Do you mind if I look at that after you?"
"You can have it now," Jensen says snappishly, shoving it in Cute Guy's direction. The gay angle didn't work, so now Jensen's plan is to be an unrepentant asshole until Cute Guy gets the picture and leaves. After all, the sooner Cute Guy leaves, the sooner Jensen can get back to sulking. Yeah, that's right, he thinks to himself. I'm man enough to admit I'm sulking. Suck on that, you cheating sack of-
"Jesus, these are expensive," Cute Guy complains suddenly, breaking Jensen out of his thoughts. "I might have to sell my kidney."
A laugh suddenly bubbles up in Jensen's throat, completely surprising him and Cute Guy both. Cute Guy's head snaps up and just stares at Jensen for a minute, mouth half-open, looking vaguely pleased with himself but more startled than anything else.
"Whoa, you do smile," he says.
Jensen tries to stop laughing, because it wasn't that funny, wasn't even funny at all, but he can't. So he just keeps on, making a total ass of himself in front of this overeager, bright-eyed stranger and a room full of early risers. When he finally stops, laughter lapsing into giggles which lapse in turn to wheezes, Cute Guy just grins, wide mouth and white teeth suddenly swallowing his angular face, and says proudly, "It's the Jared effect."
Then he sticks out his hand and introduces himself and Jensen shakes before he even thinks about it.
-
Jared Padalecki is twenty-two years old; he's originally from San Antonio and, accordingly, a huge Spurs fan; he has a girlfriend called Adrianne who lives in San Francisco, plus an older brother named Jeff and a younger sister named Megan; he went to some tiny high school Jensen never heard of and calls himself an actor. He also tends to over-share. Jared doesn't say that, but Jensen learns it through experience.
"Glad I keep running into you," Jared says, leaning across the table. It's the eleventh hot LA morning in a row that Jensen has run into Jared at the coffee shop where he spends his early hours. They're sitting in the same booth, newspaper flat on the table between them. Jared is beaming so wide and infectious it's as if he's trailed sunshine from the door to where he has his feet up on the table; so different from the handful of days where he showed up exhausted and bleary-eyed, eventually dozing off slumped in the seat opposite Jensen. "Thought you hated me for a while there, but it turns out you're not too bad. Easy to talk to."
Jensen quirks his lips in what he hopes is a convincing smile. He almost tells Jared that he's not so much talking to Jensen as talking at him, but bites down on it at the last second. Jared's-okay, a little annoying, but a nice guy; one that doesn't deserve the brunt of Jensen's baggage. So he just says, "Yeah, well," and stares down at the paper.
"I like to think we're becoming, I don't know, friends," Jared continues. "'Cause we're not really acquaintances anymore, right? I mean, I told you all sorts of stuff. Maybe we're, like. You're sort of Mr. Grumpypants so I doubt you'd be all, 'Yeah, Jared, we're friends now!' but like I said, not acquaintances, so maybe… fracquaintances?"
'Fracquaintances' is one of the weirder portmanteaus Jensen has ever had the pleasure of hearing. Lacking the energy to respond properly, he just mumbles an affirmative and looks at the ads with more vigour, hoping against hope to find something worth looking at.
And then, unbelievably, he sees one.
"Fuck," he says with feeling, smoothing out the creases in the paper as he leans in closer. "Spacious two bedroom apartment, fully furnished, eight hundred dollars a month," he reads aloud, looking up at Jared with badly contained excitement. "Right near where I work, too!"
Jared peers at it too. After a moment, he points. "Professional couple only," he finishes quietly.
Jensen's forehead hits the table. "Goddamn it," he groans. Stupidly, he allowed his hopes to skyrocket; he let himself think that even after the three places he bothered looking at turned out to be rat-infested shitholes, this one might be the winner. It's around the corner from where he teaches his art classes, complete with a spare room- of course something had to go wrong.
Jared fidgets. "Well," he says. "You could always, I dunno." He sounds uncharacteristically nervous, and Jensen glances up. Jared's playing with his napkin, slowly ripping it to shreds. He doesn't meet Jensen's eyes. "You could fake it."
Jensen arches an eyebrow. "Fake it?"
"You know, like. Pretend. Like… do you have any homeless friends?" Jared says, and there's no missing the hope in his voice. "Don't you have an awesome, talented, handsome, homeless friend?"
Jensen blinks at him. He doesn't want to seem like a total dick, but on the other hand, no way. "What?" he says, unable to hide his incredulity. "Jared, come on. We barely know each other. You said it yourself-we're not friends, we're fracquaintances." Fully aware of how ridiculous he sounds, Jensen adds, "Or whatever. And plus, man. You're straight, anyway, and what about your girlfriend? Besides, the landlord might not be so comfortable with, um, us."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Jensen, seriously. One, this isn't the 1940s, and we live in Los Angeles, not Bumfuck Nowhere, Texas. We're over this discrimination stuff. Two, we won't actually be together, so my straightness doesn't even come into the equation; and three, you're going to need help paying that rent."
Jensen flounders. Jared's giving him big, sorrowful puppy-dog eyes, and his points are fair. Then he smiles, wide and toothy and undeniably sweet, and Jensen nods into his palms, unable to refuse. "Fine," he says. "I'm going to regret this later, I know, but fine."
Jared pumps a hand into the air. "Score!"
-
The apartment is literally half a minute's walk from the studio where Jensen teaches, and while it's not the prettiest building Jensen's ever laid eyes on, it's certainly not the worst. Jared, though, is staring at it like it's a palace, mouth agape and hazel eyes blinking wide.
"Okay," Jensen says, snapping his fingers in front of Jared's face when Jared doesn't respond: too busy staring at their prospective home. "Just in case. We've been together for, uh-"
"Five years," Jared says, turning to Jensen with a teasing grin. "God, you're anal. We've gone over this already. This sort of crap isn't even going to come up."
"What if they ask you a question about me and you don't know the answer?" Jensen asks. Jared's amused grin sort of makes Jensen want to punch it right off his face, but he manages to bite down on that urge and say instead, "Then you'll be up shit creek and sorely wishing that you'd listened to me."
Jared holds up his palms in surrender. "Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes none too discreetly. Jensen gets the sinking feeling that there is no way in hell that this is going to work out. "Our parents were friends and we've been besties since childhood," Jared suggests.
"No, too easy to trace. What if the landlord calls my family-"
"Jensen!"
Jensen quiets. Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a long shot, but whatever. "I still like my idea better," he says. "We met at the party of a mutual friend and started to hang out."
Jared gives Jensen a look that says control freak so clearly he might as well have said it aloud, but nods. "Fine," he says. A sly smile twists his mouth. "But can we make sure to give the landlord the sordid details of our first drunken hook up at the party? You can handle the details part, 'cause I don't think I'm quite as qualified as you are, but I'll hang back and be the comedy relief."
Jensen's sort of surprised that Jared knows the word 'sordid' at all. Instead of saying so, he huffs, "No, Jared," and rings the doorbell before Jared can argue. No one answers, so Jensen impatiently buzzes again. It's another thirty seconds before the door creaks open, and by that point Jared has swung an arm across Jensen's shoulders, reeling him in tight. It's hard to not pull away and even harder to smile at the man standing in the doorway, staring down at them with vague interest. There's no disgust in his gaze, nor does he immediately tell them to get lost, so Jensen figures there's hope yet and presses a little closer into Jared's side.
"You here about the apartment?" the man says, voice a gruff growl, and Jared nods enthusiastically.
"Yes, sir," he says. "We called earlier. Jared and Jensen Padalecki-Ackles?"
We agreed on Ackles-Padalecki, you bastard, Jensen thinks at Jared, glaring behind his sunglasses. He abruptly turns his scowl into a grin when the man turns to him for confirmation (or possibly inspection).
"You the boys from Texas? The name's Jeff Morgan," the man says, sticking out a hand. His grip is sure and strong, faultless. Jeff is a tall guy, only an inch or two shorter than Jared, and yeah, okay, Jensen may find him a little-a lot-attractive. Even more so when Jeff finally smiles and his dimples deepen, brown eyes gleaming. Jensen is half a second away from making an idiot of himself when a dog bounds up and noses its way past Jeff, heading straight for Jensen's crotch.
"Bisou!" Jeff says, grabbing it by the collar, but it's no good. Jensen tumbles back as the dog rears up and puts its muddy paws all over Jensen's new button-down. He lands on his ass on the pavement and Bisou slobbers over him for a second before being pulled off by Jared, who immediately goes to his knees to pet it and leaves Jensen on the concrete. Disgruntled, Jensen picks himself up, but Jeff and Jared are already deep in conversation about the damn dog.
"Yeah, she's a Rottweiler mix," Jeff's saying, grinning outright as Jared coos and baby-talks. "Rescued. Raised her from when she was two days old!"
"Man after my own heart!" Jared says delightedly, rubbing the dog behind her ears and looking up at Jeff with a bright smile.
Jensen isn't sure whether he should react to that or not, but he shoves Jared hard just for good measure. Jared ignores him and says to Jeff, "I've always wanted a dog, but my sister was allergic and it sucked. She'd get all red-eyed and sneezy whenever she was around one."
Jeff nods in sympathy and hauls Bisou back into the building. "Guess we should get started," he says, offering Jared a hand up. "Follow me."
The flat is, for lack of a better word, awesome. It's the only apartment on the second floor-the whole building only has three in total, Jeff above and a mysterious lodger below-and its warm yellow decor is everything Jensen hoped for and more. The living room-cum-kitchen is spacious enough that Jensen has a corner squared away for his easel and potting wheel as soon as he steps over the threshold; the bedrooms are spotless if sparsely furnished. Jensen's got a whole battle plan laid out for how life in this apartment is going to go when he remembers Jared. He sneaks a peek at his roomie-to-be, who is beaming as bright as ever.
"This is the spare room," Jeff says, pointing them towards the bedroom nearest to the front door. It's completely bare, the walls white and the lone set of bookshelves dusty with disuse. Jensen can see the walls splattered with paint already. "In case you wanted to, oh, I don't know. Adopt. Or whatever you crazy kids are doing these days."
Jared laughs a little too loud before ducking out of the doorway. Jeff herds them towards the couch in the living room and sits down opposite, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
-
The interview goes almost shockingly well. They don't fuck up their dates, their stories line up, and Jared fidgets less than usual. At the end of it, Jensen expects to be shooed out the door and told, 'I'll call you,' but instead Jeff claps his hands, stands, and says, "It's yours."
When Jensen just gapes at him, Jeff arches an eyebrow and adds, "I like you two. You can move as soon as you want."
So they do. After a few days of deliberation filled with really annoying texts from Jared (i just sed bye 2 mah peeps!! it wuz sad, the most recent one laments), Jensen returns to his old apartment. Well, he thinks, staring up at it, I guess it's just Chris' now.
It was never the nicest place-the paint is peeling, the windowpanes are all cracked, and the air conditioner in the window of the bedroom looks like it's about to fall three stories to an unfortunate death-but for two years, it was home; home to a tumultuous relationship that ended the way it was always going to-with screaming, crying, wild accusations, and a lot of slammed doors. But Jensen loved that about them-about him; that they were able to fight day-in, day-out and still have the most functional and long-lasting relationship within his group of friends.
Well, not anymore.
It takes Jensen a long time to work up the nerve to ring the doorbell. Doing so sends a rush of bitterness and rage, still there, still simmering, climbing up his throat. It only gets worse when the door creaks open a few seconds later, and Chris is standing there in a wife beater and, of all things, Jensen's stupid pink-striped boxers. For a moment, they just stand there in silence, Jensen's eyes fixed on his underwear.
Then he opens his mouth and says, "I want those back," just as Chris says, "Jensen, hey, come in-"
Maybe it should make Jensen a little glad, how miserable Chris looks in conjunction with how pleased he sounds to see Jensen. Instead, Jensen just wants to get out of there as soon as possible. He feels even worse when Chris steps aside to let him in and the apartment looks weird-bare, wrong-without Jensen's stuff in it. The only things that are left are the spare easel and his mother's potting wheel, too sacred to throw in the back of his truck with the rest of his shit.
As Jensen dusts down the easel and folds it small enough to tuck under his arm, Chris says, "Jensen, I know I. I've said this already, but. You've gotta know. I'm so sorry, I-"
Jensen flats his hand against the wall in a bid for silence, hard enough that it scares himself as well as Chris and leaves his palm stinging. "We've been through this already," he says shortly. Over and over again, in every way possible. And it doesn't make a difference. "I'm not interested in hearing it."
He turns around with easel in hand, and Chris looks miserable. Really miserable. The brief, vicious happiness Jensen feels at the rawness in his gaze is cut short when Chris says, "Your, uh. Your cell is bust," and Jensen thinks about how he did shatter his old one during The Fight, and pointedly doesn't say that he got a new one, "so is there. Is there a number I can call to. To talk to you. About bills and stuff."
Jensen gathers up his potting wheel and shrugs. "I don't know, Jared's handling that," he mumbles, unthinking, automatic, and Chris' eyes go wide.
"Jared?"
Jensen can practically see the cogs turning in Chris' head. "Jared," he confirms, just because.
Chris throws his arms wide. His eyes have narrowed to slits, his stance more angry now than upset. "The hell is he?"
Jensen tries for the door, but Chris blocks his way. They're standing perilously close now, toe to toe, and Jensen has a brief vision of how this could go, how he could get his boxers back an entirely different way from how he planned. He shakes the images away and says, "He's- he's this guy, I'm moving in with him."
Chris gapes. It's satisfying. "What the fuck, Jensen! How long has Jared been in the picture?"
Jensen scrubs a hand over his face and takes a step back, groaning, "Oh god, shut up." He fishes for the answer, struggles with it, stutters. "I-I don't know. I met him, like, two weeks ago."
"And you're moving in with him? What are you, stupid?"
"Oh, thanks," Jensen bites out, his frustration mounting at the open, ironic betrayal on Chris' face. "Get out of my way, Chris. Yeah, I'm moving in with him, and you've got no right to be upset." When Chris leans even closer, opening his sneering, downturned mouth, Jensen pushes him back against the door, wanting some space and wanting, for Christ's sake, to leave. "You're the one who ended this!" Jensen snaps, planting a hand in the centre of Chris' chest and giving him a hard shove with every word. He's never been so grateful for the difference in height between them. "You're the one who fucked up! And you know what?" Jensen pulls back, straightens up, his head high. "I'm moving on. Suck it up."
Chris' hands ball into fists. It takes a long moment for his scowl to unravel enough for him to growl, "Do you love him?"
Jensen blinks, sure he heard wrong. What a stupid fucking question. "Excuse me? Do I love-?"
Chris suddenly rears forward, pushing Jensen back. It's a hard shove, one that nearly knocks Jensen flat on his ass. Chris looks furious. "Do you love him," he grates out, slow, each word punctuated like its own sentence.
Something in Jensen's chest breaks, and he does the unthinkable. He snorts and shakes his head and blurts out, "Of course I don't fucking love him! I love you, I'll always love you! Jesus Christ, when I pictured growing old the only person I've ever been able to do it with is you!"
Chris' lip curls, self-satisfied and cruel. "Fantastic," he snarls. "I wish I could say I ever felt the same way," and suddenly Jensen's being tossed towards the open door like a rag doll. It slams shut before he has time to wipe the shock off his face.
Jensen knows Chris only said that out of rage, out of pain and disbelief and a thousand other emotions that are going to come back around and bring newfound regret with them, but it still floors him. As soon as Jensen leaves the building his knees begin to shake and his legs give out, and he finds himself slumped against the disgusting wrought iron fence bracketing the tiny front yard. He's not even out of sight; if Chris glanced out the window, he could probably spot Jensen sitting like a pathetic loser beside the garbage bins, but Jensen doesn't even care.
Because he knows it's not true, but it still hurts like hell.
Of course, that's the moment that someone chooses to text him. His phone buzzes in his pocket with a frustrating insistence that has Jensen nearly throwing his new cell into the middle of the street. Instead, he pulls it out with a groan and is not at all surprised to discover that it's from Jared. He is pretty shocked, however, when he opens it to find that it says, simply, u ok?
Jensen takes a long time answering. Eventually, he knuckles his eyes and sends, No. You psychic?
Barely thirty seconds go by before Jared's reply pings into Jensen's inbox: i just got a weird feeling. Jensen tries to think about typing that fast on a tiny keyboard and it makes his head hurt. But it also makes him smile, somehow, so he flips his phone open and fits his fingers to those miniscule keys.
Well, good timing.
im sry. its ur bf? is Jared's response. A part of Jensen wants to correct his grammar and make him spell it all out, but the college graduate in him instantly runs out of steam when he glances over his shoulder at the apartment and sees the curtain in the front window close in a hurry. Mid-reply, he flips his phone shut and rises to his feet. He puts his precious easel and potting wheel into the backseat and drives to his new home.
Jared is waiting for him on the front steps, staring intently at his phone like he's still waiting for Jensen's answer. It'd be sort of cute, if Jared was twelve and not twenty-two. Unfortunately for Jensen, the way Jared's face lights up when Jensen gets out of his car is adorable regardless. Jensen reins in the urge to kick himself for thinking such stupid thoughts and gives a limp-wristed wave. "Hey," he mutters, definitely not loud enough for Jared to hear him across the patchy, weed-infested garden. He points at his cell to get the point across. "Got your text."
Jared bounds over and says, "So I was talking to Jeff." He's beaming and Jensen has a feeling that he's not going to like whatever Jared is about to say. "He says we can get a dog!"
Jensen just stares at him for a moment, caught between half-wanting Jared to ask what happened and being grateful that he didn't pursue the subject. "I'm going to nip that idea in the bud this second, man," he says, pulling himself back into the moment and shaking his head. Jared's face falls and Jensen shrugs. "Half my shit isn't even in the apartment and there already isn't room to move. Where are we going to fit a dog?"
Jared frowns as if this hadn't occurred to him. "I guess," he sighs, glancing back over his shoulder at the second-floor apartment that is, as of a day and too many forms ago, completely theirs. Jensen feels frustratingly guilty and apologetic until Jared turns back around and smiles wide, like nothing's wrong. "Do you need help bringing your stuff in?" he asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Never one to pass up a generous offer, Jensen has him bring in the regular stuff-the toaster that Chris bought him as a one-year anniversary present, his DVD collection, and the stereo system he's had since the mid-nineties. It's old and it's falling apart, and Jensen has a moment of horrifying foresight where he pictures Jared accidentally dropping it as he struggles to open the front door one-handed. Thankfully, Jared manages to keep a steady hold on all the crap in his arms, and that leaves Jensen to take in all the important stuff-his paintings, sketchbooks, easel, and potting wheel. Jared tries to help, but Jensen persuades him to make coffee instead. No one touches Jensen's art supplies but him. Chris learned that the hard way the week he moved in; it was their first big fight as roommates.
Jensen puts down the wheel and easel in the spot he designated for them the day they first visited the apartment, then stacks his sketchbooks in a corner of his whitewashed bedroom and marks where he wants to hang his paintings. Jared's sipping coffee on the couch when Jensen resurfaces.
"I'm thinking I want to start painting my room this weekend," Jensen says, accepting the hot mug Jared holds out and joining him on the sofa.
"I'm thinking I should take out the garbage," Jared replies, and gets up before Jensen has the chance to be miffed. He hefts a plastic garbage back over one shoulder and leaves with a quick salute. Jensen stares at the spot where Jared was sitting, the cushion still warm, and then through his own bedroom door. He can see his paint supplies waiting for him, oils and acrylics and watercolours in a neat pile next to his bed, and thinks, I really fucking hope this wasn't a mistake.
He doesn't have time to dwell on it too much, because Jared bustles back a few minutes later with someone in tow. Contrary to how at ease he appeared just moments earlier, Jared now looks distinctly uncomfortable. He keeps glancing over his shoulder as if the man behind him might be about to go totally postal.
"This is Misha," says Jared, subtly sidling back towards the couch. "He was, uh. He was taking out his trash too."
Misha, Jensen remembers, is the name of the downstairs lodger. Jeff described him as a nice guy with black hair, blue eyes, about average height, but somehow Jensen didn't picture him quite like this. Misha's eyes aren't just blue, but blue enough that Jensen can see them across the dimly-lit room. His dark hair is mussed up, pulled into what have to be gravity-defying spikes, and there's some stubble around his wide mouth. He's wearing sweatpants, a small fortune's worth of medallions around his neck, and not much else. His feet are shoved into huge pink bunny slippers. A little at a loss, Jensen says, "Hi."
"Hello," says Misha. The numerous bracelets around his wrists jangle when he raises his hand to wave. "Misha Collins. Ackles-something, right?"
"I'm Jensen," Jensen says, standing up to offer Misha a hand. The three inch height difference leaves Misha staring up at Jensen's face. They shake hands for what seems to be a little too long, especially for a guy whose (pretend) boyfriend is standing a few feet away. Jensen maybe lets go a little too rapidly, because Misha gives him a weird look and shuffles from foot to foot.
"So," he says. "I always liked this apartment. It's got good… ventilation. And feng shui."
Jensen is hit by the peculiar image of Misha squirming through the vents above his head and subtly glances upward. "I'm sure," he says lamely, trying not to react as Jared makes desperate get him out! signals from behind Misha's back. 'He's weird,' Jared mouths, and then something about garbage that Jensen doesn't completely catch. He never was all that good at reading lips.
"I noticed that you were throwing out an easel," Misha says suddenly, filling the rather awkward lull in conversation.
"It cracked on the way over, figured it was a lost cause," Jensen says, heading over to the refrigerator. They don't have much, but Jensen took all the beer in Chris' fridge, so that's a start. "Want a beer?"
Jared snatches one out of Jensen's hands and edges closer, but Misha shakes his head no. "I could fix it," he offers a moment later. "The easel."
"Nah, I got another one. It was my spare," Jensen says, shifting from foot to foot and hoping to dispel the weirdness in the air.
"In that case, could I fix it anyway and keep it for myself? Mine just broke." Misha shrugs and smiles wryly. "It was old as hell, so I wasn't exactly surprised, but now I'm down an easel and a guy in my profession can't exactly go splurging on art supplies."
Jensen looks up from his Corona, his interest piqued. "You're a painter?"
"I'm an artist," Misha declares, brandishing the paintbrush he pulled out of his back pocket. Then his shoulders drop and he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "But mostly I'm a yoga teacher."
"You'll never be an artist if you keep your brushes like that, buddy," Jensen says, plucking the old, flaking brush from Misha's nimble fingers. Its bristles are hard with dried, browning paint.
"Oh, I don't use that to paint," Misha says, shrugging. "I use it as a talking object in my classes. It's got good energy."
Jensen smiles and nods, wanting all the while to run over to the sink and return the brush to its former glory. Instead, he hands it back and asks Misha about his art.
Turns out Misha, despite being slightly odd, is pretty awesome. Jared never really warms to him-Jensen doesn't know if he has a problem with yoga or what, but it doesn't really matter. Misha, Jensen learns, hates abstract expressionism, landscapes, and Picasso, but loves ceramics and sculpture. He also fancies himself a bit of a carpenter.
"All the furniture in my apartment is homemade," Misha says, as though it's perfectly normal, and chuckles a little. "Including that broken easel. I feel like that's the reason why it broke."
Jensen laughs too; when it subsides, he finds Misha staring at him with the most peculiar expression on his face. A little nervous under the scrutiny, Jensen takes a long sip of his beer, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and says, "Uh… what?"
Misha shifts his weight, gives a small smile. "I was just wondering. There isn't a chance that you might want to grab a coffee with me sometime, is there?"
Jensen freezes. The English language fails him for a few perilously long seconds, and then he feels Jared sidling up behind him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Jensen braces himself for an impressive rescue mission involving an ex-lover and a long stay in hospital, or a sunny day and a traumatic car accident. He isn't expecting Jared to pull him in tighter and say, "We're together."
Oh. Oh yeah. Trying to act as if he hadn't completely forgotten, Jensen squirms closer and scrunches his cheeks in a smile that he hopes looks real.
Misha's eyebrows soar. "Oh," he says. Then, "Sorry," even though he looks as if he wanted to say something else entirely. He looks at them with his head cocked, and for one awful moment Jensen is convinced that Misha sees right through them; sees Jared's frozen smile and Jensen's stiff posture for what it really means. He makes a conscious effort to relax himself. It doesn't work.
Jared seems to have noticed Misha's unrelenting stare as well, because his hold on Jensen's shoulders tightens further. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jared says, laughing a little bit-it's just for effect and it sounds weird, strained, off in every way. It's probably just to really send the message home, but then Jared turns and presses a kiss to Jensen's temple.
Jensen fights the urge to pull away with all his might. Misha's impeccably plucked eyebrows crawl even further up his forehead. "Sorry," he says again, finally. "I should go."
He's halfway out the door when Jensen regains the ability to speak and calls out, "You can take the easel." Misha tips his head in thanks but says nothing, closing the door behind him with a soft click. As soon as he's gone, Jared lets go so abruptly that Jensen stumbles a bit, then whirls on him, grinning.
"You were totally going to say yes to that weirdo!"
"He's not that weird," Jensen protests. "And I was not."
Jared scoffs, flapping one hand in the air as he returns to the fridge for another beer. "Yeah, well, remember that I'm your boyfriend."
"My fake boyfriend."
"Exactly," Jared says, then tips his head back and takes a long slug from the bottle. For an instant Jensen just stares, mindlessly watching Jared's Adam's apple bob in his throat, before he averts his eyes with a cough. "And," Jared says finally, slamming the half-empty Corona back on the counter, "he's so weird, I mean, come on. You should've seen the garbage he was dumping! I bet he's, like, a serial killer or a convicted sex offender or something. He looks it, doesn't he? Have you seen his laser eyes?"
Jensen shakes his head and sighs, turns away, says, "He's nice."
Jared throws up his arms. "Whatever you say," he says, obviously unconvinced. "Just keep it on the DL, okay?"
Jensen rolls his eyes, but his scowl softens when he sees Jared hiding a grin behind his hand. At the reluctant smile that draws from Jensen, Jared full-on winks and knocks his shoulder into Jensen's as he passes, calling, "Quiet, too. I don't want to be woken up in the night by mysterious noises."
-
The light streaming in through the open window over Jensen's bed is grey enough that it looks like dawn light through his slitted eyelids. There's a soft hand carding through Jensen's hair, so gentle the touch is almost not there. Jensen smiles drowsily and arches up, tired from too much sleep and feeling unsettled, lost. "Chris," he drawls, reaching up blindly. Chris must dance away from his searching hand, because he doesn't find anything. "Jesus, man, I had the weirdest dream."
Chris doesn't say anything, but there's a faint murmur which Jensen takes as encouragement. He closes his eyes tighter against the brightening sun outside and says, "I dreamed. I dreamed that you-you dumped me, and I moved in with this guy I didn't even fucking know."
Jensen expects, "What?" or even, "Jen, you're dumb." Something, some sort of reaction or platitude or jibe, but there's only silence punctuated by a low, distinctly wrong sound. Jensen opens his eyes.
There's nothing there but the wind playing with his hair. This isn't his room; not even his apartment. Jensen is halfway to panicking, caught up snug under too many blankets, when it all comes flooding back. Then he disentangles himself, sits up, and puts his head in his hands. "Shit," he says, and the whisper's not quite loud enough to drown out a louder sound from the room next door: a very clear, very male, very familiar groan.
Jensen's face floods with heat and he throws the covers up over his head, curling himself into the pillow and trying to muffle any other sounds of Jared's that he might overhear. "Shit, shit, shit," he repeats to himself, a miserable mantra, and shuts his eyes against his mistakes until he falls back into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
He wakes up again at a half past noon, fully aware of his surroundings due to the fact that Jared is pounding on his door and shouting something about parties and tin-foil disco balls. Jensen rolls out of bed, lands rather painfully on all fours on the hardwood floor, and mumbles through a mouthful of pillowcase, "Euuhh?" which was meant to be 'What?' or better yet 'What are you talking about?' but his mouth is dry and tastes like sleep and is refusing to comply.
"Jensen!" Jared bangs on his door again; Jensen's incoherent question obviously went unheard. "I know you're in there! It's like twelve-thirty, dude, get up already! It says on the fridge that you have a class at one, so you better get your pretty ass out of bed!"
Jensen barely has time to feel grateful-and somewhat flattered-before Jared goes on, "And while you're out I'm going to be getting ready for the awesome party we're having tonight, okay?"
Jensen struggles free of the duvet and ambles up to the door in just his boxers. It doesn't occur to him to be embarrassed until he opens his door and Jared's eyebrows shoot up. "Dude," Jared says, but Jensen cuts him off before he has time to make some sort of stupid joke.
"What party?"
Jared rolls his eyes. "Man, you sleep like the dead!" he complains. "The party that we're having tonight, dummy. The housewarming party. I've already called Chad."
Chad. Jensen vaguely remembers hearing about Chad. Very, very vaguely. "Isn't that your crazy friend?" he asks, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his jaw. His class starts in twenty-five minutes and he needs to shave and shower, and allow for time to get there and set up. Shit. He doesn't have time to have this conversation. "Never mind. Tell me later."
"So you're cool with the party then?" Jared asks hopefully as Jensen blows past him into the bathroom. "C'mon, it'll be fun."
Maybe it's his grogginess messing with his judgment, but Jensen jams his toothbrush in his mouth and shrugs. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Knock yourself out."
"Jensennnn," Jared whines. "This is a group exercise. Don't wimp out on me. I'm going to hide your paintbrushes so you can't go and, like, paint or something during the party."
Jensen shuts the door, because Jared is annoying and Jensen hasn't even had coffee yet. "I'm taking that as a yes!" Jared shouts, but Jensen is already climbing into the shower and forgetting everything but the feeling of deliciously hot water cascading over his body. He puts his stranger roommate out of his mind; he banishes the haphazard state of his art supplies and how late he's probably going to be to his class; but most of all, he tries to forget just how badly he wished, just a few hours before, to be back in Chris' arms.
-
Jensen tumbles into his class seven and a half minutes after one, hair spiky and dark from his shower, hot coffee from the café next door sloshing all over his hand. "Sorry," he says through a mouthful of scrumptious bagel. "Moving house-really hectic-"
His fourth and fifth graders stare back at him for a moment before they lose themselves in conversation with their peers. Just one, a tiny, freckled boy at the front, waves a chubby hand and beams through his thick fringe of brown hair. "Hi, Uncle Jensen," he says, rising from his seat to help Jensen with his crap. Dashel Harris is only eight years old, but he's his mother's son and an extremely promising student. Smiling, Jensen ruffles his hair and thanks him for the help.
"How's your mom, kid?" he asks, slipping half a Snickers into Dash's waiting hands.
"She's good," Dash tells him in between bites. "She says hi, and to call, and maybe come over for dinner once in a fucking while."
Jensen nearly reprimands him, but with his mother's mouth being as foul as it is, there's not much Jensen can do to help Dash's declining propriety. Besides, if that's what Danneel wants, who is Jensen to say otherwise? Resigned, he sighs and pats Dash on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, tell her I'm busy," he says, gently serious but smiling. "Tell her moving is a complicated process."
"She knew you'd say that," Dash says happily, "and she told me to tell you that she thinks you're a cu-"
"Dash!" says Jensen loudly, clapping his hands. "Back to your seat. Time to start class!"
Hiding a gap-toothed grin behind wide white palms, Dash runs back to his seat and folds his hand atop his desk, looking for all the world like an innocent little angel. Only the mischief in his eyes gives him away.
"Okay," Jensen says, and waits until his class quiets, "if you would please take out what we've been working on."
As one, his pupils mmhmm and reach into their bags to pull out small, half-finished canvases. Not much progress was made last week, since he called in sick, so most of his students' landscapes are still just mottled splotches of brown trees and green pastures; Dash, however, takes a makeshift portfolio out from under his desk and tugs at a cartoony, blocky cityscape-the view outside his apartment, boarded up grocer's and all. Jensen eyes it from the front of the room and suspects Danneel might have helped Dash out a little. This is hardly unusual. Jensen sighs.
"All right, guys. Today, I want to talk about-"
Before he can even begin to wax lyrical about realism, the door to an adjacent classroom flies open and in bustles someone that seems to be, at first glance, made up of paint and kindergartners. After a moment, Jensen catches a glimpse of the face underneath a wide-brimmed, red- and purple-splattered sunhat and belatedly recognises his best friend. He should really be used to this by now; Sophia intrudes on his class all the time, her clothes heavily caked in watercolours if she's lucky and acrylics if she's not. Today, her shirt is a mess of warm colours and her fingertips have been dipped in vibrant yellows and blues, and she has two small children hanging off her legs. They're in a similar state.
"Hey, Soph," he says.
She grins at him and hauls the little boy clinging to her left leg into her arms. "Hey, Jenny-bean," she replies. "How're you holding up?"
"Edward Hopper," he says simply.
She gets it, he knows she does, because she flicks his nose with one finger, leaving a splodge of turquoise, and says, "You, me, lunch. Maria's. After class. Be there or be square, Jensen Ackles," before turning on her heel and disappearing back the way she came. The little girl still holding onto her right leg waves as the door shuts.
Jensen drags one hand through the stubble on his chin he didn't have time to shave earlier and glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is dripping cold onto his neck, there's a coffee stain on the collar of his otherwise pristine polo, and his eyes are sort of bloodshot, red-rimmed. He rubs at them and hopes he doesn't look too much like a burned-out addict in nice clothes, because he sure feels like shit. He has a sinking feeling that his lunch with Sophia is going to be more of an interrogation than a meal between besties.
Unfortunately for him, he's absolutely right. Jensen walks into Maria's five minutes after three; Sophia is sitting in their usual booth, sipping iced coffee and looking at him like he's a lame antelope and she's the lioness. He shakes his head to clear it of the image and sits down, clearing his throat. "Coffee, please," he says to a passing waitress, though the last thing he really needs is more caffeine. "Black."
She nods, smiling, and moves on, hips swaying exaggeratedly like she expects him to appreciate them. He sighs and turns back to Sophia, who arcs one perfect eyebrow at him and says, "Spill."
Jensen digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Took care of that this morning, thanks," he says, nodding blindly at his stained shirt.
Unamused, she doesn't break her stare. She glares unblinking for such a long time that Jensen gives in and throws up his arms in frustration, nearly knocking over the waitress returning with his coffee. After apologising a few too many times, he turns back to Sophia and sets his face in a scowl. "Look what you made me do," he whines, pointing at her accusingly. "I nearly killed that poor girl."
"Yeah, but now I'm willing to bet she won't ask you for your number," Sophia says, inclining her head towards the sneering waitress, still dusting off the seat of her hot pink shorts. "Anyway. Jensen. Don't try and change the subject. Spill, you stupid dick."
Jensen wilts. "I'm not a stupid dick!"
"You so fucking are." Sophia wags one paint-tipped finger at him. "You haven't answered your phone in, like, ever. And you weren't here last week, so that was a lost cause. You know I found out through Danneel that you were fucking moving out. So, what? Chris dumps you and you just fall off the radar? Good call, Jensen."
Jensen doesn't know if it's the look on his face or her words catching up with her, but Sophia's face falls and she reaches one spindly arm across the table, laying a hand over his and looking deeply apologetic. "God. I'm a bitch, aren't I?" She gives an awkward little laugh. "Okay, I call take-backsies. Totally didn't say that stuff. I'm sorry."
Jensen doesn't really know what to say to her, so he just takes a long sip of his coffee and waits it out. Eventually, Sophia starts again.
"Okay. Do-over." She braces herself, shoulders drawn up like she thinks Jensen might reach over and hit her. "Jensen, what happened with Chris? One day you guys are fine, great even, and then…" Her face scrunches up. "Then it's over, and you crash on Danneel's couch for, what, two weeks? What is that, anyway? You could've called me, you know. Could've crashed on my damn couch."
There's a reason Jensen didn't go to Sophia, though he doesn't say so. Danneel wouldn't and didn't poke her nose into his business, because she saw that he didn't want to talk about it. Sophia would have sat him down and forced him to talk. He feels bad anyway, though, because while Sophia and Danneel used to be close, there's been this weird tension between them for the past few months-for what reason Jensen has no idea, but he does know that because of that tension this is doubly hurtful for Sophia. He can hear the speech now: I thought I was your best friend…
"I thought I was your-" Sophia starts.
"Firstly, my phone broke," Jensen interrupts. "I got a new one. Here, give me your phone." As he programmes his new number in, he chances a discreet peek up; Sophia looks a little confused, stuck, like Jensen's being even weirder than normal and she doesn't know how to respond. It makes Jensen smile and she smiles back, a little stiff.
"You're mad, aren't you," she says after a moment, and ah, that makes sense. "I'm sorry I said… what I said. My brain-to-mouth filter is pretty shitty, you know that."
Jensen shakes his head, squeezes her hand as he hands back her cell. "I'm not mad."
She ignores him, intent on explaining herself. "I'm just. I was pissed, okay? That you went to Danneel and not me. Like. You wouldn't answer my calls and I didn't know where you were or what was wrong. I was so worried that I. I asked her. When Danneel came to pick Dashel up after his watercolours class, I was like, 'Have you seen Jensen?' and it was really awkward, and she-um, well, she explained the situation and was all, 'He's been staying at my place. He found an apartment and he's leaving tonight,' like it was totally fucking normal, you know? Like she was your best fucking bud."
Jensen shifts awkwardly in his seat. Maybe using 'tension' to describe their relationship wasn't the right word. Hate might be more fitting. He wishes he could ask why, but he doesn't want to cross a line. "Sophia," he says instead, gently. "Danneel is my friend. Could you not, uh."
Sophia's lip curls, but she falls silent, knotting her hands together around her cup. "Can you at least tell me why?"
Jensen tries to hide his wince. He knows exactly what she's talking about, but playing dumb seems like the best plan. "Why what?"
"Why you went to her instead!" Sophia snaps, nostrils flaring. Jensen feels another stab of guilt for how much this obviously got to her. "What does she have that I don't? And, oh my god, this is totally fucking ridiculous; I sound like a jealous girlfriend. Which is even sillier, you know, with you being the reigning king of the homos and all." It's all spat out like one word, a long, continuous stream of frantic thought, but Sophia cracks a smile at the last part anyway. The weird air eases up a little bit, enough for Jensen to smile back.
But he knows he still has to answer, so after a moment he steeples his fingers and says, "I went to her because-because Danneel, she. She's good in a crisis, you know? Doesn't pry. Cooks you dinner and gives you a place to sleep but doesn't ask you to spill your guts, you know?"
Sophia doesn't look appeased. "And you're saying I would do that?"
"Sophia." Jensen levels her with a critical stare; a few seconds later, her shoulders slump and she laughs.
"Well. Okay." She still looks a little unhappy, uncomfortable even, but they're okay, Jensen can tell. "I guess you're right," she says, sighing. "I mean. Yeah, I would've asked you to talk. But it's only because I. You know I only do it because I care about you, right?"
"Duh, Soph," Jensen says. "It's just how you are. It doesn't make me love you any less."
Sophia smiles at that, seeming relieved. "Good."
"Now." Jensen clears his throat, finishes his coffee. "Jared-that's my roommate-wants to have a housewarming party tonight. Apartment-warming? Whatever. Do you want to come?"
Sophia nods her head yes, beaming. After a pause, though, she narrows her eyes and asks, "Will Danneel be there?"
"Sophia."
She grins. "I'm only kidding. I'll be there, regardless of whether that bitch shows up or not." She giggles when Jensen puts his head in his hands, and pats him delicately on the shoulder. "Now, Jenny, tell me all about this roommate of yours. Jared, you said?"
part two
Full header in MASTER POST.
When the tall, cute guy with the floppy brown hair stops by the table and asks if he can sit down, Jensen's first instinct is to tell him to fuck off. Jensen is perfectly happy with his newspaper and the cup of coffee that the waitress made undrinkable; in fact, there's a lot he would give to just be left alone right now.
But the guy looks so hopeful that Jensen grunts and gestures to the seat opposite.
"Thanks," Cute Guy says. "This place is real busy today."
Jensen shrugs and buries his nose in his paper. His phone is sitting abandoned beside him, chirping every once in a while as his friends call to check up on him or apologise. Either way, Jensen doesn't want to hear it. Yeah, he's upset. No, he doesn't need to talk about it. Yes, they're all assholes for not giving him a place to stay. Allison used that tired trying-to-start-a-family excuse, Eric gave a maniacal little laugh and hung up on him, and Jason was guilty-quiet until Jensen got the message. His mom is his last resort, but he doesn't want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. He would rather be out on the street than back home.
"So," Cute Guy says, interrupting Jensen's brooding by peering over the edge of the newspaper. "Whatcha doing?"
Jensen's really starting to regret his hospitality. "House-hunting," he mutters finally.
"No way," Cute Guy gasps, all wide-eyed, convincing, sympathetic surprise.
"Way."
"Me too," Cute Guy burbles, brushing his long fringe out of his eyes for a better look at Jensen. He scratches idly at his neck and pokes his fucking ice-pick nose into Jensen's personal bubble. "Sucks, huh? I've never had to do this before."
"Huh," Jensen says, trying to retain a semblance of politeness while giving Cute Guy a clear message: sit back and shut up. But Cute Guy obviously doesn't get it, because he's staring at Jensen with glittering, soulful eyes-and okay, maybe Jensen's going a bit overboard with the description, but whatever, the guy's face is expressive-like he expects a response, so Jensen adds, "It's a first for me too."
"There's a first time for everything!" Cute Guy recites happily, flagging down a waiter and ordering himself an espresso.
Jensen hides a scowl behind the paper and stares forlornly at his black coffee.
"So, what's your story?" Cute Guy asks. "My friends… they, um, kicked me out." In the briefest second, something in his face closes off, like a wall coming down. He's back to smiling in seconds. "Sucks, huh? They told me it was time to find my own place."
Jensen massages his temples. "My boyfriend dumped me," he says bluntly.
Cute Guy doesn't miss a beat. "Shit, man, that sucks," he says, sipping his coffee. He finishes it, then nudges the paper. "Do you mind if I look at that after you?"
"You can have it now," Jensen says snappishly, shoving it in Cute Guy's direction. The gay angle didn't work, so now Jensen's plan is to be an unrepentant asshole until Cute Guy gets the picture and leaves. After all, the sooner Cute Guy leaves, the sooner Jensen can get back to sulking. Yeah, that's right, he thinks to himself. I'm man enough to admit I'm sulking. Suck on that, you cheating sack of-
"Jesus, these are expensive," Cute Guy complains suddenly, breaking Jensen out of his thoughts. "I might have to sell my kidney."
A laugh suddenly bubbles up in Jensen's throat, completely surprising him and Cute Guy both. Cute Guy's head snaps up and just stares at Jensen for a minute, mouth half-open, looking vaguely pleased with himself but more startled than anything else.
"Whoa, you do smile," he says.
Jensen tries to stop laughing, because it wasn't that funny, wasn't even funny at all, but he can't. So he just keeps on, making a total ass of himself in front of this overeager, bright-eyed stranger and a room full of early risers. When he finally stops, laughter lapsing into giggles which lapse in turn to wheezes, Cute Guy just grins, wide mouth and white teeth suddenly swallowing his angular face, and says proudly, "It's the Jared effect."
Then he sticks out his hand and introduces himself and Jensen shakes before he even thinks about it.
-
Jared Padalecki is twenty-two years old; he's originally from San Antonio and, accordingly, a huge Spurs fan; he has a girlfriend called Adrianne who lives in San Francisco, plus an older brother named Jeff and a younger sister named Megan; he went to some tiny high school Jensen never heard of and calls himself an actor. He also tends to over-share. Jared doesn't say that, but Jensen learns it through experience.
"Glad I keep running into you," Jared says, leaning across the table. It's the eleventh hot LA morning in a row that Jensen has run into Jared at the coffee shop where he spends his early hours. They're sitting in the same booth, newspaper flat on the table between them. Jared is beaming so wide and infectious it's as if he's trailed sunshine from the door to where he has his feet up on the table; so different from the handful of days where he showed up exhausted and bleary-eyed, eventually dozing off slumped in the seat opposite Jensen. "Thought you hated me for a while there, but it turns out you're not too bad. Easy to talk to."
Jensen quirks his lips in what he hopes is a convincing smile. He almost tells Jared that he's not so much talking to Jensen as talking at him, but bites down on it at the last second. Jared's-okay, a little annoying, but a nice guy; one that doesn't deserve the brunt of Jensen's baggage. So he just says, "Yeah, well," and stares down at the paper.
"I like to think we're becoming, I don't know, friends," Jared continues. "'Cause we're not really acquaintances anymore, right? I mean, I told you all sorts of stuff. Maybe we're, like. You're sort of Mr. Grumpypants so I doubt you'd be all, 'Yeah, Jared, we're friends now!' but like I said, not acquaintances, so maybe… fracquaintances?"
'Fracquaintances' is one of the weirder portmanteaus Jensen has ever had the pleasure of hearing. Lacking the energy to respond properly, he just mumbles an affirmative and looks at the ads with more vigour, hoping against hope to find something worth looking at.
And then, unbelievably, he sees one.
"Fuck," he says with feeling, smoothing out the creases in the paper as he leans in closer. "Spacious two bedroom apartment, fully furnished, eight hundred dollars a month," he reads aloud, looking up at Jared with badly contained excitement. "Right near where I work, too!"
Jared peers at it too. After a moment, he points. "Professional couple only," he finishes quietly.
Jensen's forehead hits the table. "Goddamn it," he groans. Stupidly, he allowed his hopes to skyrocket; he let himself think that even after the three places he bothered looking at turned out to be rat-infested shitholes, this one might be the winner. It's around the corner from where he teaches his art classes, complete with a spare room- of course something had to go wrong.
Jared fidgets. "Well," he says. "You could always, I dunno." He sounds uncharacteristically nervous, and Jensen glances up. Jared's playing with his napkin, slowly ripping it to shreds. He doesn't meet Jensen's eyes. "You could fake it."
Jensen arches an eyebrow. "Fake it?"
"You know, like. Pretend. Like… do you have any homeless friends?" Jared says, and there's no missing the hope in his voice. "Don't you have an awesome, talented, handsome, homeless friend?"
Jensen blinks at him. He doesn't want to seem like a total dick, but on the other hand, no way. "What?" he says, unable to hide his incredulity. "Jared, come on. We barely know each other. You said it yourself-we're not friends, we're fracquaintances." Fully aware of how ridiculous he sounds, Jensen adds, "Or whatever. And plus, man. You're straight, anyway, and what about your girlfriend? Besides, the landlord might not be so comfortable with, um, us."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Jensen, seriously. One, this isn't the 1940s, and we live in Los Angeles, not Bumfuck Nowhere, Texas. We're over this discrimination stuff. Two, we won't actually be together, so my straightness doesn't even come into the equation; and three, you're going to need help paying that rent."
Jensen flounders. Jared's giving him big, sorrowful puppy-dog eyes, and his points are fair. Then he smiles, wide and toothy and undeniably sweet, and Jensen nods into his palms, unable to refuse. "Fine," he says. "I'm going to regret this later, I know, but fine."
Jared pumps a hand into the air. "Score!"
-
The apartment is literally half a minute's walk from the studio where Jensen teaches, and while it's not the prettiest building Jensen's ever laid eyes on, it's certainly not the worst. Jared, though, is staring at it like it's a palace, mouth agape and hazel eyes blinking wide.
"Okay," Jensen says, snapping his fingers in front of Jared's face when Jared doesn't respond: too busy staring at their prospective home. "Just in case. We've been together for, uh-"
"Five years," Jared says, turning to Jensen with a teasing grin. "God, you're anal. We've gone over this already. This sort of crap isn't even going to come up."
"What if they ask you a question about me and you don't know the answer?" Jensen asks. Jared's amused grin sort of makes Jensen want to punch it right off his face, but he manages to bite down on that urge and say instead, "Then you'll be up shit creek and sorely wishing that you'd listened to me."
Jared holds up his palms in surrender. "Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes none too discreetly. Jensen gets the sinking feeling that there is no way in hell that this is going to work out. "Our parents were friends and we've been besties since childhood," Jared suggests.
"No, too easy to trace. What if the landlord calls my family-"
"Jensen!"
Jensen quiets. Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a long shot, but whatever. "I still like my idea better," he says. "We met at the party of a mutual friend and started to hang out."
Jared gives Jensen a look that says control freak so clearly he might as well have said it aloud, but nods. "Fine," he says. A sly smile twists his mouth. "But can we make sure to give the landlord the sordid details of our first drunken hook up at the party? You can handle the details part, 'cause I don't think I'm quite as qualified as you are, but I'll hang back and be the comedy relief."
Jensen's sort of surprised that Jared knows the word 'sordid' at all. Instead of saying so, he huffs, "No, Jared," and rings the doorbell before Jared can argue. No one answers, so Jensen impatiently buzzes again. It's another thirty seconds before the door creaks open, and by that point Jared has swung an arm across Jensen's shoulders, reeling him in tight. It's hard to not pull away and even harder to smile at the man standing in the doorway, staring down at them with vague interest. There's no disgust in his gaze, nor does he immediately tell them to get lost, so Jensen figures there's hope yet and presses a little closer into Jared's side.
"You here about the apartment?" the man says, voice a gruff growl, and Jared nods enthusiastically.
"Yes, sir," he says. "We called earlier. Jared and Jensen Padalecki-Ackles?"
We agreed on Ackles-Padalecki, you bastard, Jensen thinks at Jared, glaring behind his sunglasses. He abruptly turns his scowl into a grin when the man turns to him for confirmation (or possibly inspection).
"You the boys from Texas? The name's Jeff Morgan," the man says, sticking out a hand. His grip is sure and strong, faultless. Jeff is a tall guy, only an inch or two shorter than Jared, and yeah, okay, Jensen may find him a little-a lot-attractive. Even more so when Jeff finally smiles and his dimples deepen, brown eyes gleaming. Jensen is half a second away from making an idiot of himself when a dog bounds up and noses its way past Jeff, heading straight for Jensen's crotch.
"Bisou!" Jeff says, grabbing it by the collar, but it's no good. Jensen tumbles back as the dog rears up and puts its muddy paws all over Jensen's new button-down. He lands on his ass on the pavement and Bisou slobbers over him for a second before being pulled off by Jared, who immediately goes to his knees to pet it and leaves Jensen on the concrete. Disgruntled, Jensen picks himself up, but Jeff and Jared are already deep in conversation about the damn dog.
"Yeah, she's a Rottweiler mix," Jeff's saying, grinning outright as Jared coos and baby-talks. "Rescued. Raised her from when she was two days old!"
"Man after my own heart!" Jared says delightedly, rubbing the dog behind her ears and looking up at Jeff with a bright smile.
Jensen isn't sure whether he should react to that or not, but he shoves Jared hard just for good measure. Jared ignores him and says to Jeff, "I've always wanted a dog, but my sister was allergic and it sucked. She'd get all red-eyed and sneezy whenever she was around one."
Jeff nods in sympathy and hauls Bisou back into the building. "Guess we should get started," he says, offering Jared a hand up. "Follow me."
The flat is, for lack of a better word, awesome. It's the only apartment on the second floor-the whole building only has three in total, Jeff above and a mysterious lodger below-and its warm yellow decor is everything Jensen hoped for and more. The living room-cum-kitchen is spacious enough that Jensen has a corner squared away for his easel and potting wheel as soon as he steps over the threshold; the bedrooms are spotless if sparsely furnished. Jensen's got a whole battle plan laid out for how life in this apartment is going to go when he remembers Jared. He sneaks a peek at his roomie-to-be, who is beaming as bright as ever.
"This is the spare room," Jeff says, pointing them towards the bedroom nearest to the front door. It's completely bare, the walls white and the lone set of bookshelves dusty with disuse. Jensen can see the walls splattered with paint already. "In case you wanted to, oh, I don't know. Adopt. Or whatever you crazy kids are doing these days."
Jared laughs a little too loud before ducking out of the doorway. Jeff herds them towards the couch in the living room and sits down opposite, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
-
The interview goes almost shockingly well. They don't fuck up their dates, their stories line up, and Jared fidgets less than usual. At the end of it, Jensen expects to be shooed out the door and told, 'I'll call you,' but instead Jeff claps his hands, stands, and says, "It's yours."
When Jensen just gapes at him, Jeff arches an eyebrow and adds, "I like you two. You can move as soon as you want."
So they do. After a few days of deliberation filled with really annoying texts from Jared (i just sed bye 2 mah peeps!! it wuz sad, the most recent one laments), Jensen returns to his old apartment. Well, he thinks, staring up at it, I guess it's just Chris' now.
It was never the nicest place-the paint is peeling, the windowpanes are all cracked, and the air conditioner in the window of the bedroom looks like it's about to fall three stories to an unfortunate death-but for two years, it was home; home to a tumultuous relationship that ended the way it was always going to-with screaming, crying, wild accusations, and a lot of slammed doors. But Jensen loved that about them-about him; that they were able to fight day-in, day-out and still have the most functional and long-lasting relationship within his group of friends.
Well, not anymore.
It takes Jensen a long time to work up the nerve to ring the doorbell. Doing so sends a rush of bitterness and rage, still there, still simmering, climbing up his throat. It only gets worse when the door creaks open a few seconds later, and Chris is standing there in a wife beater and, of all things, Jensen's stupid pink-striped boxers. For a moment, they just stand there in silence, Jensen's eyes fixed on his underwear.
Then he opens his mouth and says, "I want those back," just as Chris says, "Jensen, hey, come in-"
Maybe it should make Jensen a little glad, how miserable Chris looks in conjunction with how pleased he sounds to see Jensen. Instead, Jensen just wants to get out of there as soon as possible. He feels even worse when Chris steps aside to let him in and the apartment looks weird-bare, wrong-without Jensen's stuff in it. The only things that are left are the spare easel and his mother's potting wheel, too sacred to throw in the back of his truck with the rest of his shit.
As Jensen dusts down the easel and folds it small enough to tuck under his arm, Chris says, "Jensen, I know I. I've said this already, but. You've gotta know. I'm so sorry, I-"
Jensen flats his hand against the wall in a bid for silence, hard enough that it scares himself as well as Chris and leaves his palm stinging. "We've been through this already," he says shortly. Over and over again, in every way possible. And it doesn't make a difference. "I'm not interested in hearing it."
He turns around with easel in hand, and Chris looks miserable. Really miserable. The brief, vicious happiness Jensen feels at the rawness in his gaze is cut short when Chris says, "Your, uh. Your cell is bust," and Jensen thinks about how he did shatter his old one during The Fight, and pointedly doesn't say that he got a new one, "so is there. Is there a number I can call to. To talk to you. About bills and stuff."
Jensen gathers up his potting wheel and shrugs. "I don't know, Jared's handling that," he mumbles, unthinking, automatic, and Chris' eyes go wide.
"Jared?"
Jensen can practically see the cogs turning in Chris' head. "Jared," he confirms, just because.
Chris throws his arms wide. His eyes have narrowed to slits, his stance more angry now than upset. "The hell is he?"
Jensen tries for the door, but Chris blocks his way. They're standing perilously close now, toe to toe, and Jensen has a brief vision of how this could go, how he could get his boxers back an entirely different way from how he planned. He shakes the images away and says, "He's- he's this guy, I'm moving in with him."
Chris gapes. It's satisfying. "What the fuck, Jensen! How long has Jared been in the picture?"
Jensen scrubs a hand over his face and takes a step back, groaning, "Oh god, shut up." He fishes for the answer, struggles with it, stutters. "I-I don't know. I met him, like, two weeks ago."
"And you're moving in with him? What are you, stupid?"
"Oh, thanks," Jensen bites out, his frustration mounting at the open, ironic betrayal on Chris' face. "Get out of my way, Chris. Yeah, I'm moving in with him, and you've got no right to be upset." When Chris leans even closer, opening his sneering, downturned mouth, Jensen pushes him back against the door, wanting some space and wanting, for Christ's sake, to leave. "You're the one who ended this!" Jensen snaps, planting a hand in the centre of Chris' chest and giving him a hard shove with every word. He's never been so grateful for the difference in height between them. "You're the one who fucked up! And you know what?" Jensen pulls back, straightens up, his head high. "I'm moving on. Suck it up."
Chris' hands ball into fists. It takes a long moment for his scowl to unravel enough for him to growl, "Do you love him?"
Jensen blinks, sure he heard wrong. What a stupid fucking question. "Excuse me? Do I love-?"
Chris suddenly rears forward, pushing Jensen back. It's a hard shove, one that nearly knocks Jensen flat on his ass. Chris looks furious. "Do you love him," he grates out, slow, each word punctuated like its own sentence.
Something in Jensen's chest breaks, and he does the unthinkable. He snorts and shakes his head and blurts out, "Of course I don't fucking love him! I love you, I'll always love you! Jesus Christ, when I pictured growing old the only person I've ever been able to do it with is you!"
Chris' lip curls, self-satisfied and cruel. "Fantastic," he snarls. "I wish I could say I ever felt the same way," and suddenly Jensen's being tossed towards the open door like a rag doll. It slams shut before he has time to wipe the shock off his face.
Jensen knows Chris only said that out of rage, out of pain and disbelief and a thousand other emotions that are going to come back around and bring newfound regret with them, but it still floors him. As soon as Jensen leaves the building his knees begin to shake and his legs give out, and he finds himself slumped against the disgusting wrought iron fence bracketing the tiny front yard. He's not even out of sight; if Chris glanced out the window, he could probably spot Jensen sitting like a pathetic loser beside the garbage bins, but Jensen doesn't even care.
Because he knows it's not true, but it still hurts like hell.
Of course, that's the moment that someone chooses to text him. His phone buzzes in his pocket with a frustrating insistence that has Jensen nearly throwing his new cell into the middle of the street. Instead, he pulls it out with a groan and is not at all surprised to discover that it's from Jared. He is pretty shocked, however, when he opens it to find that it says, simply, u ok?
Jensen takes a long time answering. Eventually, he knuckles his eyes and sends, No. You psychic?
Barely thirty seconds go by before Jared's reply pings into Jensen's inbox: i just got a weird feeling. Jensen tries to think about typing that fast on a tiny keyboard and it makes his head hurt. But it also makes him smile, somehow, so he flips his phone open and fits his fingers to those miniscule keys.
Well, good timing.
im sry. its ur bf? is Jared's response. A part of Jensen wants to correct his grammar and make him spell it all out, but the college graduate in him instantly runs out of steam when he glances over his shoulder at the apartment and sees the curtain in the front window close in a hurry. Mid-reply, he flips his phone shut and rises to his feet. He puts his precious easel and potting wheel into the backseat and drives to his new home.
Jared is waiting for him on the front steps, staring intently at his phone like he's still waiting for Jensen's answer. It'd be sort of cute, if Jared was twelve and not twenty-two. Unfortunately for Jensen, the way Jared's face lights up when Jensen gets out of his car is adorable regardless. Jensen reins in the urge to kick himself for thinking such stupid thoughts and gives a limp-wristed wave. "Hey," he mutters, definitely not loud enough for Jared to hear him across the patchy, weed-infested garden. He points at his cell to get the point across. "Got your text."
Jared bounds over and says, "So I was talking to Jeff." He's beaming and Jensen has a feeling that he's not going to like whatever Jared is about to say. "He says we can get a dog!"
Jensen just stares at him for a moment, caught between half-wanting Jared to ask what happened and being grateful that he didn't pursue the subject. "I'm going to nip that idea in the bud this second, man," he says, pulling himself back into the moment and shaking his head. Jared's face falls and Jensen shrugs. "Half my shit isn't even in the apartment and there already isn't room to move. Where are we going to fit a dog?"
Jared frowns as if this hadn't occurred to him. "I guess," he sighs, glancing back over his shoulder at the second-floor apartment that is, as of a day and too many forms ago, completely theirs. Jensen feels frustratingly guilty and apologetic until Jared turns back around and smiles wide, like nothing's wrong. "Do you need help bringing your stuff in?" he asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Never one to pass up a generous offer, Jensen has him bring in the regular stuff-the toaster that Chris bought him as a one-year anniversary present, his DVD collection, and the stereo system he's had since the mid-nineties. It's old and it's falling apart, and Jensen has a moment of horrifying foresight where he pictures Jared accidentally dropping it as he struggles to open the front door one-handed. Thankfully, Jared manages to keep a steady hold on all the crap in his arms, and that leaves Jensen to take in all the important stuff-his paintings, sketchbooks, easel, and potting wheel. Jared tries to help, but Jensen persuades him to make coffee instead. No one touches Jensen's art supplies but him. Chris learned that the hard way the week he moved in; it was their first big fight as roommates.
Jensen puts down the wheel and easel in the spot he designated for them the day they first visited the apartment, then stacks his sketchbooks in a corner of his whitewashed bedroom and marks where he wants to hang his paintings. Jared's sipping coffee on the couch when Jensen resurfaces.
"I'm thinking I want to start painting my room this weekend," Jensen says, accepting the hot mug Jared holds out and joining him on the sofa.
"I'm thinking I should take out the garbage," Jared replies, and gets up before Jensen has the chance to be miffed. He hefts a plastic garbage back over one shoulder and leaves with a quick salute. Jensen stares at the spot where Jared was sitting, the cushion still warm, and then through his own bedroom door. He can see his paint supplies waiting for him, oils and acrylics and watercolours in a neat pile next to his bed, and thinks, I really fucking hope this wasn't a mistake.
He doesn't have time to dwell on it too much, because Jared bustles back a few minutes later with someone in tow. Contrary to how at ease he appeared just moments earlier, Jared now looks distinctly uncomfortable. He keeps glancing over his shoulder as if the man behind him might be about to go totally postal.
"This is Misha," says Jared, subtly sidling back towards the couch. "He was, uh. He was taking out his trash too."
Misha, Jensen remembers, is the name of the downstairs lodger. Jeff described him as a nice guy with black hair, blue eyes, about average height, but somehow Jensen didn't picture him quite like this. Misha's eyes aren't just blue, but blue enough that Jensen can see them across the dimly-lit room. His dark hair is mussed up, pulled into what have to be gravity-defying spikes, and there's some stubble around his wide mouth. He's wearing sweatpants, a small fortune's worth of medallions around his neck, and not much else. His feet are shoved into huge pink bunny slippers. A little at a loss, Jensen says, "Hi."
"Hello," says Misha. The numerous bracelets around his wrists jangle when he raises his hand to wave. "Misha Collins. Ackles-something, right?"
"I'm Jensen," Jensen says, standing up to offer Misha a hand. The three inch height difference leaves Misha staring up at Jensen's face. They shake hands for what seems to be a little too long, especially for a guy whose (pretend) boyfriend is standing a few feet away. Jensen maybe lets go a little too rapidly, because Misha gives him a weird look and shuffles from foot to foot.
"So," he says. "I always liked this apartment. It's got good… ventilation. And feng shui."
Jensen is hit by the peculiar image of Misha squirming through the vents above his head and subtly glances upward. "I'm sure," he says lamely, trying not to react as Jared makes desperate get him out! signals from behind Misha's back. 'He's weird,' Jared mouths, and then something about garbage that Jensen doesn't completely catch. He never was all that good at reading lips.
"I noticed that you were throwing out an easel," Misha says suddenly, filling the rather awkward lull in conversation.
"It cracked on the way over, figured it was a lost cause," Jensen says, heading over to the refrigerator. They don't have much, but Jensen took all the beer in Chris' fridge, so that's a start. "Want a beer?"
Jared snatches one out of Jensen's hands and edges closer, but Misha shakes his head no. "I could fix it," he offers a moment later. "The easel."
"Nah, I got another one. It was my spare," Jensen says, shifting from foot to foot and hoping to dispel the weirdness in the air.
"In that case, could I fix it anyway and keep it for myself? Mine just broke." Misha shrugs and smiles wryly. "It was old as hell, so I wasn't exactly surprised, but now I'm down an easel and a guy in my profession can't exactly go splurging on art supplies."
Jensen looks up from his Corona, his interest piqued. "You're a painter?"
"I'm an artist," Misha declares, brandishing the paintbrush he pulled out of his back pocket. Then his shoulders drop and he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "But mostly I'm a yoga teacher."
"You'll never be an artist if you keep your brushes like that, buddy," Jensen says, plucking the old, flaking brush from Misha's nimble fingers. Its bristles are hard with dried, browning paint.
"Oh, I don't use that to paint," Misha says, shrugging. "I use it as a talking object in my classes. It's got good energy."
Jensen smiles and nods, wanting all the while to run over to the sink and return the brush to its former glory. Instead, he hands it back and asks Misha about his art.
Turns out Misha, despite being slightly odd, is pretty awesome. Jared never really warms to him-Jensen doesn't know if he has a problem with yoga or what, but it doesn't really matter. Misha, Jensen learns, hates abstract expressionism, landscapes, and Picasso, but loves ceramics and sculpture. He also fancies himself a bit of a carpenter.
"All the furniture in my apartment is homemade," Misha says, as though it's perfectly normal, and chuckles a little. "Including that broken easel. I feel like that's the reason why it broke."
Jensen laughs too; when it subsides, he finds Misha staring at him with the most peculiar expression on his face. A little nervous under the scrutiny, Jensen takes a long sip of his beer, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and says, "Uh… what?"
Misha shifts his weight, gives a small smile. "I was just wondering. There isn't a chance that you might want to grab a coffee with me sometime, is there?"
Jensen freezes. The English language fails him for a few perilously long seconds, and then he feels Jared sidling up behind him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Jensen braces himself for an impressive rescue mission involving an ex-lover and a long stay in hospital, or a sunny day and a traumatic car accident. He isn't expecting Jared to pull him in tighter and say, "We're together."
Oh. Oh yeah. Trying to act as if he hadn't completely forgotten, Jensen squirms closer and scrunches his cheeks in a smile that he hopes looks real.
Misha's eyebrows soar. "Oh," he says. Then, "Sorry," even though he looks as if he wanted to say something else entirely. He looks at them with his head cocked, and for one awful moment Jensen is convinced that Misha sees right through them; sees Jared's frozen smile and Jensen's stiff posture for what it really means. He makes a conscious effort to relax himself. It doesn't work.
Jared seems to have noticed Misha's unrelenting stare as well, because his hold on Jensen's shoulders tightens further. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jared says, laughing a little bit-it's just for effect and it sounds weird, strained, off in every way. It's probably just to really send the message home, but then Jared turns and presses a kiss to Jensen's temple.
Jensen fights the urge to pull away with all his might. Misha's impeccably plucked eyebrows crawl even further up his forehead. "Sorry," he says again, finally. "I should go."
He's halfway out the door when Jensen regains the ability to speak and calls out, "You can take the easel." Misha tips his head in thanks but says nothing, closing the door behind him with a soft click. As soon as he's gone, Jared lets go so abruptly that Jensen stumbles a bit, then whirls on him, grinning.
"You were totally going to say yes to that weirdo!"
"He's not that weird," Jensen protests. "And I was not."
Jared scoffs, flapping one hand in the air as he returns to the fridge for another beer. "Yeah, well, remember that I'm your boyfriend."
"My fake boyfriend."
"Exactly," Jared says, then tips his head back and takes a long slug from the bottle. For an instant Jensen just stares, mindlessly watching Jared's Adam's apple bob in his throat, before he averts his eyes with a cough. "And," Jared says finally, slamming the half-empty Corona back on the counter, "he's so weird, I mean, come on. You should've seen the garbage he was dumping! I bet he's, like, a serial killer or a convicted sex offender or something. He looks it, doesn't he? Have you seen his laser eyes?"
Jensen shakes his head and sighs, turns away, says, "He's nice."
Jared throws up his arms. "Whatever you say," he says, obviously unconvinced. "Just keep it on the DL, okay?"
Jensen rolls his eyes, but his scowl softens when he sees Jared hiding a grin behind his hand. At the reluctant smile that draws from Jensen, Jared full-on winks and knocks his shoulder into Jensen's as he passes, calling, "Quiet, too. I don't want to be woken up in the night by mysterious noises."
-
The light streaming in through the open window over Jensen's bed is grey enough that it looks like dawn light through his slitted eyelids. There's a soft hand carding through Jensen's hair, so gentle the touch is almost not there. Jensen smiles drowsily and arches up, tired from too much sleep and feeling unsettled, lost. "Chris," he drawls, reaching up blindly. Chris must dance away from his searching hand, because he doesn't find anything. "Jesus, man, I had the weirdest dream."
Chris doesn't say anything, but there's a faint murmur which Jensen takes as encouragement. He closes his eyes tighter against the brightening sun outside and says, "I dreamed. I dreamed that you-you dumped me, and I moved in with this guy I didn't even fucking know."
Jensen expects, "What?" or even, "Jen, you're dumb." Something, some sort of reaction or platitude or jibe, but there's only silence punctuated by a low, distinctly wrong sound. Jensen opens his eyes.
There's nothing there but the wind playing with his hair. This isn't his room; not even his apartment. Jensen is halfway to panicking, caught up snug under too many blankets, when it all comes flooding back. Then he disentangles himself, sits up, and puts his head in his hands. "Shit," he says, and the whisper's not quite loud enough to drown out a louder sound from the room next door: a very clear, very male, very familiar groan.
Jensen's face floods with heat and he throws the covers up over his head, curling himself into the pillow and trying to muffle any other sounds of Jared's that he might overhear. "Shit, shit, shit," he repeats to himself, a miserable mantra, and shuts his eyes against his mistakes until he falls back into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
He wakes up again at a half past noon, fully aware of his surroundings due to the fact that Jared is pounding on his door and shouting something about parties and tin-foil disco balls. Jensen rolls out of bed, lands rather painfully on all fours on the hardwood floor, and mumbles through a mouthful of pillowcase, "Euuhh?" which was meant to be 'What?' or better yet 'What are you talking about?' but his mouth is dry and tastes like sleep and is refusing to comply.
"Jensen!" Jared bangs on his door again; Jensen's incoherent question obviously went unheard. "I know you're in there! It's like twelve-thirty, dude, get up already! It says on the fridge that you have a class at one, so you better get your pretty ass out of bed!"
Jensen barely has time to feel grateful-and somewhat flattered-before Jared goes on, "And while you're out I'm going to be getting ready for the awesome party we're having tonight, okay?"
Jensen struggles free of the duvet and ambles up to the door in just his boxers. It doesn't occur to him to be embarrassed until he opens his door and Jared's eyebrows shoot up. "Dude," Jared says, but Jensen cuts him off before he has time to make some sort of stupid joke.
"What party?"
Jared rolls his eyes. "Man, you sleep like the dead!" he complains. "The party that we're having tonight, dummy. The housewarming party. I've already called Chad."
Chad. Jensen vaguely remembers hearing about Chad. Very, very vaguely. "Isn't that your crazy friend?" he asks, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his jaw. His class starts in twenty-five minutes and he needs to shave and shower, and allow for time to get there and set up. Shit. He doesn't have time to have this conversation. "Never mind. Tell me later."
"So you're cool with the party then?" Jared asks hopefully as Jensen blows past him into the bathroom. "C'mon, it'll be fun."
Maybe it's his grogginess messing with his judgment, but Jensen jams his toothbrush in his mouth and shrugs. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Knock yourself out."
"Jensennnn," Jared whines. "This is a group exercise. Don't wimp out on me. I'm going to hide your paintbrushes so you can't go and, like, paint or something during the party."
Jensen shuts the door, because Jared is annoying and Jensen hasn't even had coffee yet. "I'm taking that as a yes!" Jared shouts, but Jensen is already climbing into the shower and forgetting everything but the feeling of deliciously hot water cascading over his body. He puts his stranger roommate out of his mind; he banishes the haphazard state of his art supplies and how late he's probably going to be to his class; but most of all, he tries to forget just how badly he wished, just a few hours before, to be back in Chris' arms.
-
Jensen tumbles into his class seven and a half minutes after one, hair spiky and dark from his shower, hot coffee from the café next door sloshing all over his hand. "Sorry," he says through a mouthful of scrumptious bagel. "Moving house-really hectic-"
His fourth and fifth graders stare back at him for a moment before they lose themselves in conversation with their peers. Just one, a tiny, freckled boy at the front, waves a chubby hand and beams through his thick fringe of brown hair. "Hi, Uncle Jensen," he says, rising from his seat to help Jensen with his crap. Dashel Harris is only eight years old, but he's his mother's son and an extremely promising student. Smiling, Jensen ruffles his hair and thanks him for the help.
"How's your mom, kid?" he asks, slipping half a Snickers into Dash's waiting hands.
"She's good," Dash tells him in between bites. "She says hi, and to call, and maybe come over for dinner once in a fucking while."
Jensen nearly reprimands him, but with his mother's mouth being as foul as it is, there's not much Jensen can do to help Dash's declining propriety. Besides, if that's what Danneel wants, who is Jensen to say otherwise? Resigned, he sighs and pats Dash on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, tell her I'm busy," he says, gently serious but smiling. "Tell her moving is a complicated process."
"She knew you'd say that," Dash says happily, "and she told me to tell you that she thinks you're a cu-"
"Dash!" says Jensen loudly, clapping his hands. "Back to your seat. Time to start class!"
Hiding a gap-toothed grin behind wide white palms, Dash runs back to his seat and folds his hand atop his desk, looking for all the world like an innocent little angel. Only the mischief in his eyes gives him away.
"Okay," Jensen says, and waits until his class quiets, "if you would please take out what we've been working on."
As one, his pupils mmhmm and reach into their bags to pull out small, half-finished canvases. Not much progress was made last week, since he called in sick, so most of his students' landscapes are still just mottled splotches of brown trees and green pastures; Dash, however, takes a makeshift portfolio out from under his desk and tugs at a cartoony, blocky cityscape-the view outside his apartment, boarded up grocer's and all. Jensen eyes it from the front of the room and suspects Danneel might have helped Dash out a little. This is hardly unusual. Jensen sighs.
"All right, guys. Today, I want to talk about-"
Before he can even begin to wax lyrical about realism, the door to an adjacent classroom flies open and in bustles someone that seems to be, at first glance, made up of paint and kindergartners. After a moment, Jensen catches a glimpse of the face underneath a wide-brimmed, red- and purple-splattered sunhat and belatedly recognises his best friend. He should really be used to this by now; Sophia intrudes on his class all the time, her clothes heavily caked in watercolours if she's lucky and acrylics if she's not. Today, her shirt is a mess of warm colours and her fingertips have been dipped in vibrant yellows and blues, and she has two small children hanging off her legs. They're in a similar state.
"Hey, Soph," he says.
She grins at him and hauls the little boy clinging to her left leg into her arms. "Hey, Jenny-bean," she replies. "How're you holding up?"
"Edward Hopper," he says simply.
She gets it, he knows she does, because she flicks his nose with one finger, leaving a splodge of turquoise, and says, "You, me, lunch. Maria's. After class. Be there or be square, Jensen Ackles," before turning on her heel and disappearing back the way she came. The little girl still holding onto her right leg waves as the door shuts.
Jensen drags one hand through the stubble on his chin he didn't have time to shave earlier and glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is dripping cold onto his neck, there's a coffee stain on the collar of his otherwise pristine polo, and his eyes are sort of bloodshot, red-rimmed. He rubs at them and hopes he doesn't look too much like a burned-out addict in nice clothes, because he sure feels like shit. He has a sinking feeling that his lunch with Sophia is going to be more of an interrogation than a meal between besties.
Unfortunately for him, he's absolutely right. Jensen walks into Maria's five minutes after three; Sophia is sitting in their usual booth, sipping iced coffee and looking at him like he's a lame antelope and she's the lioness. He shakes his head to clear it of the image and sits down, clearing his throat. "Coffee, please," he says to a passing waitress, though the last thing he really needs is more caffeine. "Black."
She nods, smiling, and moves on, hips swaying exaggeratedly like she expects him to appreciate them. He sighs and turns back to Sophia, who arcs one perfect eyebrow at him and says, "Spill."
Jensen digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Took care of that this morning, thanks," he says, nodding blindly at his stained shirt.
Unamused, she doesn't break her stare. She glares unblinking for such a long time that Jensen gives in and throws up his arms in frustration, nearly knocking over the waitress returning with his coffee. After apologising a few too many times, he turns back to Sophia and sets his face in a scowl. "Look what you made me do," he whines, pointing at her accusingly. "I nearly killed that poor girl."
"Yeah, but now I'm willing to bet she won't ask you for your number," Sophia says, inclining her head towards the sneering waitress, still dusting off the seat of her hot pink shorts. "Anyway. Jensen. Don't try and change the subject. Spill, you stupid dick."
Jensen wilts. "I'm not a stupid dick!"
"You so fucking are." Sophia wags one paint-tipped finger at him. "You haven't answered your phone in, like, ever. And you weren't here last week, so that was a lost cause. You know I found out through Danneel that you were fucking moving out. So, what? Chris dumps you and you just fall off the radar? Good call, Jensen."
Jensen doesn't know if it's the look on his face or her words catching up with her, but Sophia's face falls and she reaches one spindly arm across the table, laying a hand over his and looking deeply apologetic. "God. I'm a bitch, aren't I?" She gives an awkward little laugh. "Okay, I call take-backsies. Totally didn't say that stuff. I'm sorry."
Jensen doesn't really know what to say to her, so he just takes a long sip of his coffee and waits it out. Eventually, Sophia starts again.
"Okay. Do-over." She braces herself, shoulders drawn up like she thinks Jensen might reach over and hit her. "Jensen, what happened with Chris? One day you guys are fine, great even, and then…" Her face scrunches up. "Then it's over, and you crash on Danneel's couch for, what, two weeks? What is that, anyway? You could've called me, you know. Could've crashed on my damn couch."
There's a reason Jensen didn't go to Sophia, though he doesn't say so. Danneel wouldn't and didn't poke her nose into his business, because she saw that he didn't want to talk about it. Sophia would have sat him down and forced him to talk. He feels bad anyway, though, because while Sophia and Danneel used to be close, there's been this weird tension between them for the past few months-for what reason Jensen has no idea, but he does know that because of that tension this is doubly hurtful for Sophia. He can hear the speech now: I thought I was your best friend…
"I thought I was your-" Sophia starts.
"Firstly, my phone broke," Jensen interrupts. "I got a new one. Here, give me your phone." As he programmes his new number in, he chances a discreet peek up; Sophia looks a little confused, stuck, like Jensen's being even weirder than normal and she doesn't know how to respond. It makes Jensen smile and she smiles back, a little stiff.
"You're mad, aren't you," she says after a moment, and ah, that makes sense. "I'm sorry I said… what I said. My brain-to-mouth filter is pretty shitty, you know that."
Jensen shakes his head, squeezes her hand as he hands back her cell. "I'm not mad."
She ignores him, intent on explaining herself. "I'm just. I was pissed, okay? That you went to Danneel and not me. Like. You wouldn't answer my calls and I didn't know where you were or what was wrong. I was so worried that I. I asked her. When Danneel came to pick Dashel up after his watercolours class, I was like, 'Have you seen Jensen?' and it was really awkward, and she-um, well, she explained the situation and was all, 'He's been staying at my place. He found an apartment and he's leaving tonight,' like it was totally fucking normal, you know? Like she was your best fucking bud."
Jensen shifts awkwardly in his seat. Maybe using 'tension' to describe their relationship wasn't the right word. Hate might be more fitting. He wishes he could ask why, but he doesn't want to cross a line. "Sophia," he says instead, gently. "Danneel is my friend. Could you not, uh."
Sophia's lip curls, but she falls silent, knotting her hands together around her cup. "Can you at least tell me why?"
Jensen tries to hide his wince. He knows exactly what she's talking about, but playing dumb seems like the best plan. "Why what?"
"Why you went to her instead!" Sophia snaps, nostrils flaring. Jensen feels another stab of guilt for how much this obviously got to her. "What does she have that I don't? And, oh my god, this is totally fucking ridiculous; I sound like a jealous girlfriend. Which is even sillier, you know, with you being the reigning king of the homos and all." It's all spat out like one word, a long, continuous stream of frantic thought, but Sophia cracks a smile at the last part anyway. The weird air eases up a little bit, enough for Jensen to smile back.
But he knows he still has to answer, so after a moment he steeples his fingers and says, "I went to her because-because Danneel, she. She's good in a crisis, you know? Doesn't pry. Cooks you dinner and gives you a place to sleep but doesn't ask you to spill your guts, you know?"
Sophia doesn't look appeased. "And you're saying I would do that?"
"Sophia." Jensen levels her with a critical stare; a few seconds later, her shoulders slump and she laughs.
"Well. Okay." She still looks a little unhappy, uncomfortable even, but they're okay, Jensen can tell. "I guess you're right," she says, sighing. "I mean. Yeah, I would've asked you to talk. But it's only because I. You know I only do it because I care about you, right?"
"Duh, Soph," Jensen says. "It's just how you are. It doesn't make me love you any less."
Sophia smiles at that, seeming relieved. "Good."
"Now." Jensen clears his throat, finishes his coffee. "Jared-that's my roommate-wants to have a housewarming party tonight. Apartment-warming? Whatever. Do you want to come?"
Sophia nods her head yes, beaming. After a pause, though, she narrows her eyes and asks, "Will Danneel be there?"
"Sophia."
She grins. "I'm only kidding. I'll be there, regardless of whether that bitch shows up or not." She giggles when Jensen puts his head in his hands, and pats him delicately on the shoulder. "Now, Jenny, tell me all about this roommate of yours. Jared, you said?"
part two