To Teach the Human Heart the Knowledge of Itself, 5/5
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When eight-thirty rolls around, everyone's assembled in the front lobby of the dorm, laughing and talking over each other like a bunch of overexcited twelve year olds about to climb onto a yellow bus and sing “We Are the World” and “Greatest Love of All” until their teachers’ ears bleed or they reach their destination, whichever comes first.
“Geezer,” Jared teases, and Jensen swats his shoulder.
He attempts an offended pout, but every expression just slides into a smile tonight, he can’t help it.
Between the disaster-free dress rehearsal and Jeff’s little post-rehearsal surprise, an old time popcorn machine and Spinal Tap on the auditorium's drop down projection screen, he’s pretty sure nothing can kill his good mood.
And then there’s Jeff’s offer. He thought about it all the way through the movie, slouched down in the auditorium seats with Jared, heads together, hands intermittently grazing inside their giant sized tub of popcorn.
He hasn’t given Jeff an answer yet, hasn’t told anyone at all because he can’t figure out if this should be the biggest decision of his life or just. No decision at all.
And besides, it’s really Jeff’s news to tell.
When headlights pull up to the dorm and they end up being attached to one of those idiotic bus-limo things, Mike pushes open the front door and says, “No fucking way!”
“Way,” Jeff says, coming around the corner into the entryway. “All aboard!”
Jared laughs, head thrown back, dimples gouged deep into his cheeks, and Jensen’s own burst of laughter comes unbidden, surprises him. An impulsive surge of warmth floods through him at the sound of their voices mixed together, bright and reckless, and he grabs Jared’s hand, laces their fingers together and tugs Jared out the door, onto the bus.
It’s only when they’re seated that he realizes he’s holding Jared’s hand. It feels like an admission, like an acknowledgement of this thing between them that keeps threatening to expand into something more, and he stares at their fingers, intertwined, doesn’t let go.
When the bus starts moving, Jeff stands up by the front seat and says, “Okay people, remember, this is for charity, so I only want to see you drinking as much as you can handle. Tonight, we're going to Firewater, where we're doing a little thing called suicide karaoke for two bucks a song. Just like the raffle, one dollar goes to ACT! and one dollar goes to charity.”
There's a cheer and a, “Yeah! Charity!” from the back of the bus-Chad-and Jared groans through a chuckle, smacks his forehead down onto Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen pats his hair in mock sympathy until Jared snorts out a real laugh and smacks his hand away.
“So now, you might be wondering, just what the heck is suicide karaoke, anyway?” Jeff continues. “Well, it's a pretty big deal around here, lord only knows why, but it's when someone secretly chooses the worst, most horrendous song they can think of for somebody else to sing, and they’ve gotta do it, no questions asked.”
“What do you mean, secretly?” Sandy asks from a few seats over.
“Just what it sounds like.” Jeff grins, bright and evil. “The song remains a mystery until the DJ pushes play.”
The bus is divided pretty evenly between groans and laughter, with a gasp or two thrown in, and someone’s hat literally thrown at Jeff’s head, but Jensen stops paying attention, stops pondering his own queasy misgivings when Jared’s head falls back against his shoulder again, soft puffs of laughter trapped in the crook of his neck.
When the bus pulls up to the bar, Jeff dismisses everyone with what he pretends is a friendly, well-intentioned reminder. “Now, remember,” he says. “You guys are allowed to pony up for this one ’cause there's no prize except the satisfaction of humiliating your friends.”
Jensen sees through his cheery demeanor to the evil that’s lurking so covertly underneath.
Inside, they’re herded up front to a little platform stage for a cattle call disguised as a formal introduction, and Jensen chooses to ignore the appraising nature of the audience in favor of thinking about how much money they’re going to raise.
And then his name is called-fucking alphabetical order-and his half wave is met with a quantity of whistling and shouting that’s entirely impossible to tune out.
He leans into Jared. “I feel dirty,” he whispers.
Before Jared can answer, Mike snuggles up against Jensen’s free side and smirks. “Oh so dirty?” he asks, and then he winks and disappears back into the herd.
“Oh, god,” Jensen says. His vision blacks out a little, or maybe he just closes his eyes; his forehead makes contact with Jared’s shoulder, and he just leaves it there. “Oh god.”
Jared’s expression is a mystery when he says, “I know nothing about which I may or may not have been sworn to secrecy,” and Jensen glares ineffectively, without lifting his head.
“Kill me now,” he whispers into Jared’s black cotton button-down while cheers echo through the audience for Sandy, then Chad.
Jared garners his own fair share of applause when his name is called, and then he chuckles into Jensen’s hair. “You ready to do this?” he says.
Jensen sighs. “We few, we happy few,” he mutters, thumps his forehead heavily onto Jared’s scapular acromion and winces.
Jared laughs and claps his huge hand down on Jensen’s shoulder, fingers stretching out toward his neck and lingering. “That’s the spirit,” he says brightly, tugs at Jensen’s sleeve and heads off in the direction of the bar.
Alcohol makes everything better.
Jensen’s tucked into a corner booth with Jared on one side of him and Sophia on the other, a respectable number of empty glasses within easy reach. He licks at a droplet on the rim of the glass that’s not empty, takes a long gulp and slouches down, a smile settled lazily on his lips.
“Hey.” He nudges Jared’s knee with his own.
Jared turns away from his conversation with Jeff at the next table. “Hey yourself,” he says, slouches down to Jensen’s eye level. “You’re feeling better.”
Jensen raises his glass. “I’ve accepted beer as my personal savior.”
The night’s already begun to blur into a softer, warmer version of itself, and he sighs, tips his head back and closes his eyes. He really is feeling better. Four and a half beers’ll do that to a guy. As will ten bucks spent chaining Mike to the stage for five songs’ worth of advance retribution.
He’s rounding out the set, wailing about strange weather phenomena, blatantly off-key ode to men falling from the sky, and the fucker looks like he’s having a blast. Jensen’s stomach is rapidly jettisoning anger to make room for alcohol, though, and try as he might, he can’t summon enough resentment to be pissed at that particular injustice.
He can summon another ten from his wallet, though, and lean up against Jared while they flip through the sticky pages of the karaoke book. Sophie joins in the plotting, too, until she mysteriously vanishes and then reappears on the stage, singing “I Got You Babe” with Chad, who accidentally-probably accidentally-claims Cher’s part for his own.
Jared gives them a standing ovation. Jensen claps from his seat and takes in the shape of the underside of Jared’s chin.
When Jared sits again, he squishes himself up sideways in the booth, looks at Jensen head on. There’s a little hint of black rimming his eyes, the last remains of the stage makeup he wouldn’t let anyone but Jensen near his face with, and Jensen can still feel his hands shoving against Jared’s chest-“Sit, you big baby.”-his thumb on Jared’s cheek, Jared’s eyelashes fluttering soft against his fingers.
His breath hitches, little hiccup that Jared answers with intent eyes and momentary silence, and then a playful tug on Jensen’s sleeve. “Hey,” he says, pulls an envelope out of his pocket. “I snaked this from Mike.”
Their fingers brush when Jared hands it off, and Jensen’s attention slides between the envelope in his hands and Jared, who shifts closer when Jensen starts fumbling at the flap.
“This is money,” Jensen says when he gets it open. His fingers slip over the edges of the bills. It’s a couple hundred dollars, at least.
“Yeah. Mike collected it, it’s the money he’s using to buy your song,” Jared says with a half shrug, and this is how Jensen finds himself sitting on a stool on a ridiculous little six-inch platform stage in a bar in the middle of nowhere, reprising his role as Maria.
Charity and one stupidly adorable shrug from Jared. He’s so fucking easy.
“I feel pretty,” he sings, to raucous cheers from the audience. Jesus. Mike’s nearly doubled over with laughter, and Jensen flips him off. His friends clearly do not understand the concept of never to be spoken of again.
“I feel pretty and witty and gay,” he continues, following along with the words as they turn from white to yellow on the screen, erase themselves to make room for the second verse.
Jensen really hates musicals, hates singing fucking ridiculous lines like-”It’s alarming how charming I feel!”
In tenth grade, he was Captain von Trapp; in eleventh grade, he was Tevye; in twelfth grade, he was Tony, and when he signed up with ACT! in his freshman year of college, he thanked fucking Christ that the days of musical invariably preceding theater were over-and now, here he is. Again.
“I feel stunning,” he sings, “and entrancing, feel like running and dancing for joy”-which is really just entirely not true-”for I'm loved by a pretty wonderful boy!”
He passes the musical break polishing off his beer and searching the crowd for Sophia, who promised him a refill before he got called up to sing. Sondheim is really fucking killing his buzz.
Instead of Sophia, though, he finds Jared.
He’s leaning up against the bar, hip cocked, head down. His hair’s falling into his eyes, and he brushes it back for a second, reveals flushed, pink cheeks, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Jensen’s breath catches; he hears the shallow rasp of it through the speakers, moves the microphone away from where it’s been resting against his jaw. He can’t turn away, though, can’t stop the way his heart races, the way his breathing won’t settle back into a regular pattern.
And then Jared ducks his head lower, and that’s when Jensen sees her. Blonde hair, tight jeans, Jared’s lips skimming the curve of her ear. She laughs, maybe, Jensen can’t really see her face-but then, he doesn’t need to. Not when he can see Jared’s lips slide into a smile, watch his smile spark into a shy laugh, follow his long fingers as they slip a folded scrap of paper into her palm.
As debriefings go, this one sucks.
He focuses on the other side of the room as he starts singing again, exit sign, restroom sign, Budweiser sign, lets his vision blur when he gets sick of the view. Lines and angles disperse, feather into formless blobs; bitter contrast with the harsh line of heat that flares up his spine, the sharp ache that tugs at his chest, threatens to twist it down into his stomach.
Sondheim’s bullshit is caustic, stings at his throat as he sings.
Questions bubble up into his mouth when the song ends; he swallows them down because the answers are obvious. This thing with Jared, it’s never been real, it’s just-an unavoidable consequence of giving voice to emotions that were never their own, of keeping such close quarters for so long.
Jensen was just. There.
That’s nothing new. People come and go at ACT! all the time, give one week of their lives and never look back, and they all form the same kinds of artificial alliances, summer camp bonds, attachments that can’t breathe the air in the real world.
It’s his own fault for forgetting that, for thinking it was something more.
When he steps down off the stage, he heads straight for the beer Sophia’s toasting him with, downs half of it in one gulp. It’s bitter, matches his mood, and he forces himself to stand with his friends rather than slouch down into the booth. A little misunderstanding is no reason not to have fun.
Mike grabs him in a half hug that’s more of a headlock, and he laughs as he tugs himself out of the hold. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he says, smile plastered on tight so it doesn’t fall.
“You know you love it,” Mike crows, and Jensen just flips him off, tips his head back and drinks.
There’s a cheer from the audience as the DJ reads off the total amount of money raised so far; Jensen can’t quite hear what she says over the click and chug of beer pouring down his throat, but he really doesn’t care.
Mike smirks. “Aw, Jenny, don’t be like that. You know I think you’re the prettiest boy here.”
A rush of hot air skates across the back of Jensen’s neck, around to his ear, low growl of a whisper he’d know anywhere. “Hell yeah you are,” Jared says out of nowhere, quiet enough so only Jensen can hear, close enough so he can feel it, burst of warmth and want that clashes against the icy pit in his stomach.
Jared’s hair falls softly across Jensen’s cheek; his hand slides along the waistband of Jensen’s jeans, spans his hip, a grip made of promise and intent.
This is new, more, and Jensen grits his teeth and breathes, in and out like the blatant physical contact doesn’t set fire to his skin, like the intimacy of it doesn’t tie him in knots, like he’s capable of standing next to Jared and not feeling his warmth bone-deep.
He’s lying to himself.
His empty glass tips but doesn’t shatter when he drops it down onto the table and walks out of Jared’s hold; he feels the muted friction of skin sliding on denim all the way to the bathroom.
The lukewarm water runs cool after a few minutes; he cups his hands under the tap and splashes his face anyway. He’s been trying to figure out how he let things get so fucked up, but the answer’s not in the rush of over-chlorinated tap water, not in the slant of his reflection in the mirror.
His eyelashes are dripping.
When the door opens, closes, latches shut, he looks over to see Sophia leaning up against it. She pushes off and walks over, laces her fingers through Jensen’s and rests her head back against his shoulder.
“You’re hiding in the bathroom,” she says quietly.
“The men’s room.”
In the mirror, her eyebrows draw together. “Because of Jared,” she says. It’s not a question.
Jensen shrugs. “All that glitters.”
“Is not gold,” she finishes, after a minute. She’s staring into Jensen’s eyes in the mirror, and he looks away.
“Is just a guy looking for a fuck any way he can get it,” he says. “Whoever, wherever. Whenever. That’s not what I thought-that’s not what I want.”
He hears Sophia’s sigh, feels it against his chest. “Jen,” she says. She sounds sad, moves to turn and he threads his free arm around her waist, pulls her close and rests his forehead against her hair so he won’t have to look her in the eye.
“You like him,” she says.
“Doesn’t matter,” he answers. “I’m not just-fucking around.”
She shakes her head beneath his chin, says, “I don’t know what’s going on in that gorgeous little brain of yours, Jen, but I think you’d better tell it to shut the fuck up.” She tugs gently out of his grip and walks over to the door, pulls it open.
The crowd noise filters in first, then music, then-Jared, singing, “I'm as trite and as gay as a daisy in May, a cliché coming true.”
“Does that sound like a guy who’s just fucking around?” Sophia says, just loud enough for Jensen to hear.
Jensen snorts. “It sounds like a dying cow,” he mutters, but he joins Sophia in the doorway. “What the fuck is he singing?”
“I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love,”-Jared sings, stops to take a breath-”I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful guy!”
Sophia shrugs, smiles up at Jensen. “One horribly embarrassing show tune deserves another?”
A smile flickers across his lips before he can stop it, but then he turns his back on the stage, on Jared, belting out his ridiculously sappy song, making a fool of himself for Jensen’s benefit. “No, Soph,” he says, firm and low, even though it hurts to push the words out. “I saw him. I saw him hitting on a girl while I was singing, and I’m just. That’s not what I thought this was.”
Sophia just smiles, soft and sweet, puts her hands on Jensen’s shoulders and turns him back around. “What else do you see up there?” she says against his spine.
He looks, but all he sees is Jared, hair falling into his eyes, tiny flash of dimple, long fingers wrapped around the microphone.
Sophia reaches up and gently tilts his chin until Jared’s out of his frame of vision and he’s looking at the wall, a stack of unused chairs, the DJ table, the DJ, the-the DJ, blonde, tight jeans, taking a scrap of paper from Chad, who’s leaning down close to talk over the music.
When Jensen’s breath catches, releases in a trembling rush, Sophia wraps both arms around him from behind. “See, beautiful?” she says. “All that glitters is singing a ridiculous song for the boy he likes.”
And then Jared’s hopping off the stage, walking in Jensen’s direction, reserved half grin on his face. “Hey,” he says, stops in front of Jensen. “I, uh-hey.” He looks like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t open his mouth, just looks down at the floor for a second, then turns confused, hopeful eyes on Jensen.
“Hey,” Jensen says, lips flickering up into a smile, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.
“So you were a dick.”
Jensen chuckles. “So I was a dick,” he echoes quietly. “I, uh. I saw you at the bar, and I thought. I mean, you were leaning down and giving her your number-your song, I guess, and I, uh. Well. So I was a dick.”
“You missed most of my song.”
Jensen shrugs. “I caught the important parts.”
“Yeah?” Jared says, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Like what?”
Jensen snorts, threads a finger through one of Jared’s belt loops. “Gay as a daisy in May, huh?” he says. “Good to know.”
“Fuck you,” Jared says, “you love it.” He’s laughing, though, and Jensen joins in.
Over the crowd noise, Jensen hears Sophia say, “This is for you, beautiful,” and he looks up to see her standing on the stage, microphone in hand. Chad’s sitting on the bar stool, leaning up against her.
When the music starts, she turns to Chad, sings, “You wait, little girl, on an empty stage, for fate to turn the light on. Your life, little girl, is an empty page, that men will want to write on.”
Chad looks lovingly up at her, warbles, “To write on,” in a ridiculous falsetto, and Jared throws his head back, laughs like he might never stop.
For a minute, Jensen just watches, then he shakes his head, tugs at Jared’s belt loop. “Come on, Daisy,” he says, smiling. “I need a drink.”
It's late when they get back to the dorm, whispers loud in silent hallways, and when they get to Jensen's door, he doesn’t think, just unlocks it with one hand, keeps his other hand tightly entwined with Jared's until they're safely locked away inside.
He leans up against the door to catch his breath, cycles charged air in and out of his lungs, lets everything that’s not Jared fall away to a distant, dizzy buzz in the background.
Stillness spreads thickly in the space between them, dense and rich. There’s a giddy burst of air trapped deep in Jensen’s chest; it stretches and strains his lungs, but he holds it in, inexplicably afraid that the trembling rush of it might break the spell, might drive Jared away.
It heats him from the inside, searing warmth that escapes through his teeth in a slow, silent hiss. He traces the invisible path of it, his mouth to Jared’s, wants to follow, demonstrate how absurdly glad he is to have this moment, Jared secreted away so perfectly, but instead, he watches. There’s moonlight filtering in through the window; Jared’s profile is silvery and shaded, and Jensen just watches, memorizes highlights and shadows until Jared says, “What?”
Jensen just shakes his head, couldn’t explain himself if he tried.
Instead, he pushes away from the door, loose limbed and buoyant. He leaves the light switch alone, just tugs his shirt off in the dark, and then Jared's, too, pushes a hand up Jared’s chest and watches the grayed outline of wrinkled cotton as they stutter toward the bed.
He doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t trust his words, so he just sits, takes his shoes off and motions for Jared to do the same.
Their shoulders brush together as they move, skin on skin, heat that warms Jensen to the bone, and his hands tremble with the need to learn Jared by touch, by heart.
Jared’s eyes fall closed, sticky, sleepy blink, and Jensen fumbles slow fingers over the alarm clock instead, sets it for five-thirty.
He turns to Jared. “Early day tomorrow.”
Jared smiles, secret and small, says, “Yeah,” and Jensen brushes the hair back out of his eyes.
He gets caught there for a minute, hand cradling the back of Jared’s head, Jared’s eyes soft and unfocused, so close. He brings their foreheads together, breathes in shared air and fights to keep his eyes open.
When he lies down, finally, Jared follows suit, and he wraps an arm around Jensen's waist from behind, presses a feather-soft kiss to the back of Jensen's neck.
“’Night,” Jensen whispers, into the darkness.
When the alarm screams to life at five-thirty, for a split second, Jensen's entirely sure it’s the end of the world. Literally, fire and brimstone and Kirk Cameron laughing in his face, and then-then, Jared's arm tightens around his stomach, Jared’s nose brushes up against the back of his shoulder, and he lets his eyes fall shut, focuses all the attention he can muster on Jared’s soft, sleepy breath ghosting over his neck.
Eventually, the horrible screeching burrows down to a more coherent part of Jensen’s brain, a part with access to logical reasoning and motor skills, that’s capable of identifying the noise and shutting it the hell up.
“Hey,” Jensen says softly, turning to face Jared.
“Hey,” Jared says.
The tiniest bit of fuzzy pre-dawn light is creeping in, and Jared's face is half buried in the pillow, one tilted eye peeking out. He looks almost shy, and Jensen tucks a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, lets his thumb swipe over Jared’s cheek.
He’s got this bizarre urge to whisper, to turn off the sun so they can learn this soft, hazy almost-darkness like another language, one they’ll only speak together. He takes Jared’s hand, traces lines and circles into his palm, symbols that mean everything and nothing at all.
Jared’s mouth spreads into a smile, one huge dimple forms on the side of his face that's not hidden, and he half whispers, “I was worried.”
“About what?”
He buries his face further into the pillow for a second, then shrugs. “That you'd change your mind, I guess.”
“Hmmm,” Jensen says, pretending to think about it, and Jared barks out a laugh, grabs the pillow out from under them and uses it to swat Jensen in the chest. He leaves it where it falls, rests his head on it, a solid but comfortable weight over Jensen’s diaphragm, and Jensen’s fingers rake automatically through his hair.
Jared sighs. “Too late,” he says, “you’re stuck with me.”
“I guess I can live with that,” Jensen answers. After a minute, Jared’s breathing goes soft and even, smooth drag of air that cuts the silence, and Jensen lets his hand wander. Around the curve of Jared’s ear, over the arch of his eyebrow, down the side of his face, where sideburns fade into stubble.
“Hey,” he says, eventually, settles his hand on Jared’s chest. “Do you have to go?”
Jared lifts his head to look at the clock, then shoves the pillow back up to the top of the bed, buries his face in Jensen's neck. “Actually, I think I'm good here,” he says.
When Jensen wakes for the second time, the sun’s lighting the room, and Jared’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Shower,” he says, and Jensen yawns, nods in return.
They’ve got about a half hour before they have to be at the auditorium, and Jensen doesn’t do much more than the bare minimum, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, contacts. He’s just going to be changing into his costume, so he throws on Jared’s hoodie instead of picking out a real outfit. He’s fallen into the habit of grabbing for it instead of his own clothes, because it’s on top, because it’s cold out, because Jared spilled beer on his sweater, because.
He’s never worn it like this, though, the guts of it flush against him, and the softness against his skin spreads a warmth not related to the weight of it, leaves him thinking of how many times Jared must have worn it the exact same way.
Jared’s eyes settle on it when they meet in the hallway; he smiles wide and Jensen flushes a little, shoves his hands into the front pocket.
The two and a half hours before showtime are a crazy rush of hurry up and wait, and Jensen loves it as much as he hates it.
He’s lazily ditching his clothes for his costume when Sophia opens the door to the changing room and pushes Jared in.
“He’s all yours,” she says, the frazzled hurry up to Jensen’s wait.
He’s in boxer briefs, Jared’s hoodie already discarded onto the couch, warm-ups still tangled around one ankle, and Jared’s just staring, something darker, more fervent creeping up into the half pout he was wearing when Sophie shoved him in the door.
“They’re girls you know,” Jensen says, sandpaper rasp that he can’t swallow away. “They know what they’re doing. It’s kind of in the job description.”
Jared shrugs, flicks the latch on the door. “I trust you,” he says.
He crosses the room, and Jensen can’t keep his body from turning; he follows Jared’s shallow arc with his head, his shoulders, his hips. Jared hops up onto the counter, spreads his knees into a wide V and pulls Jensen in, thumbs rubbing little circles of heat into his naked hips.
Jared’s hands are huge; they slide down until his thumbs are riding the crease of Jensen’s leg, and Jensen watches himself flush in the mirrored wall as Jared leans in, presses his lips against the shallow dip at the base of Jensen’s neck.
When he sits back, he produces a black eyeliner pencil, flicks a tiny grin in Jensen’s direction and half whispers, “Make me pretty, you eye touching freak.”
It’s torture, putting makeup on Jared. Soft flicks of the pencil because Jared can’t still his eyes long enough for the straight, sharp line Jensen does on himself, soft gray smudging into black, bringing out the blues and then greens and then golds in Jared’s eyes as the line thickens and darkens.
Jared’s cheek is soft under Jensen’s thumb; his stubble is rough under Jensen’s fingertips as Jensen braces his head, tips it up. He looks a little longer than he needs to, breathes while Jared’s eyes are closed, inhales deep and exhales against the soft stirrings of arousal that he can’t deny, can’t hide under black cotton boxer briefs.
“I think we’re done here,” he says. His hand is still on Jared’s face when Jared opens his eyes, and the sight of them, black rimmed and strikingly dark, takes Jensen’s breath away.
“We don’t have to be,” Jared says, low rasp that heats Jensen’s skin, and then he squeezes his eyes shut, looks down and huffs out a frustrated chuckle. “Except for your makeup and our costumes, Chad’s mental breakdown…” He sighs and drops his head back against the mirror.
Jensen raises a questioning eyebrow.
“I should really go check on that,” Jared says. He sighs, tucks a fingernail under the elastic waistband of Jensen’s underwear, runs it over the front of his hip and doesn’t move to get up.
Everyone assembles a half hour before curtain, edgy huddle with no real purpose except killing restless energy.
Mike tells his complete library of so a guy walks into a bar jokes; Chad informs everyone that he and Sophia are still-whatever they are, that she only took the ring off because she didn’t want anything to happen to it in the backstage rush.
Jensen’s phone beeps with a text from Chris: Go strut and fret your hour on the damn stage, bitch!
He sinks down against the wall in the back hallway next to Jared.
“I thought there’d be, like. Campfire songs or secret handshakes or something,” he says. “Tradition and all.”
“Nah. Can’t have a tradition for everything, gotta leave some stuff to chance, right?”
Jared chuckles. “Around here?” Jensen elbows him, and he sighs, says, “A secret handshake would’ve been cool, though.” He leans his head back against the wall, and Jensen can see the tension stiffening his shoulders, his neck.
“Okay,” Jensen says, pushing up off the floor. “C’mon.”
Jared looks up, gets to his feet gradually, the kind of elastic slow motion that always settles in right before a show, and Jensen can’t tear his eyes away from the little details that slow down and demand attention, a soft flush spreading across Jared’s cheeks, a piece of hair falling out of place.
Jensen extends his hand, holds it out but doesn’t watch it because he’s focused on the corners of Jared’s mouth flickering up into a smile, and he’s surprised by the slide of warm skin that has them palm to palm.
Jared chuckles, ducks his head, and Jensen doesn’t shake their clasped hands, he just tugs softly, draws Jared in against him, pliable strength and heat. He reaches up with his free arm, wraps himself around Jared in the hallway, elbow hooked over Jared’s shoulder, palm unaccountably intimate against the back of Jared’s neck.
When Jared locks his free arm around Jensen, too, Jensen can feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, can feel Jared’s breath come easier.
“Our secret,” Jensen whispers, before he squeezes once and lets go.
When he pulls back, he says, “You ready?”
“Hell yeah,” Jared answers, huffs out a breath, then flashes a huge smile. “Bring it.”
When Jeff’s speech is the only thing left separating them from the opening curtain, Jensen takes his position in the wings so he can listen.
The Friday afternoon performance is always solely for kids and teachers; all of the classes that visited during the week, and sometimes others that didn’t, and Jeff talks directly to the kids, not at them, tells them truths they might not hear anywhere else.
He tells them it’s hard. He tells them there are parts they won’t get, lines they won’t understand, words they won’t remember. He tells them they’ll have to take criticism and learn to criticize their peers in return; he tells them they’ll have to laugh and yell and cry and then come back for more.
“You’re gonna have to fall down a million times and get back up a million and one,” he says, voice amplified, booming throughout the auditorium, “but you know what? It’ll be worth it.”
He tells them they’ll get stronger, they’ll get smarter, wittier. They’ll meet new people, new kinds of people; they’ll learn how to create a working relationship out of nothing, and a friendship out of that, and they’ll have fun doing it.
He tells them always to try, and to always believe it’s worth trying.
It’s something Jeff’s said before, so many times, but Jensen’s suddenly not sure he’s actually heard it before now. He reaches out, threads his fingers through Jared’s and squeezes.
Next year, he’s taking over.
After the performance, they sit on the edge of the stage and take questions from students and teachers.
Jared raises his hand surreptitiously next to Jensen, whispers, “I’ve got a question. Um, how much do we rock?”
Jensen smiles, bumps their shoulders together.
His leg is swinging, his ankle is brushing Jared's, and he can’t stop staring. There are only a few rows of students and teachers left, but they’re listening with interest, asking questions, and next year, it’s going to be him. It’s going to be him standing down in front of the stage, saying, “You’re right, costumes are a big deal-Sophia can tell you a little bit more about that,” and, “Nope, no cheat sheets, everyone really does memorize all their lines. Jared only had a few days to do it, actually, so he can probably give you some good pointers.”
He’s vaguely terrified, but Jesus, in the best way.
When the last class leaves, they stay seated for the Jeffies. “Like the Tonys, but better!” Mike says, for the benefit of the first timers.
Jensen kind of wants to grab Jared by the hand, pull him off somewhere secluded and secret and just spit it out, but it’s really Jeff’s news to tell. He just sits back, instead, watches Jared’s face as Mike starts up the music-the theme from Rocky, as interpreted by Mike on a fifteen cent kazoo.
“Now this-this is a tradition,” he says, smiling at Jared’s baffled expression.
The Jeffie Awards are kind of a hilarious cross between a souvenir and a way to relax in the hours between the matinee for the kids and the evening performance. They've got about two and a half hours before they’ll have to touch up and reset, and the awards plus lunch will take up most of that time.
This year's awards are purple ribbons, and Mike's wearing all of them around his neck.
“First up!” Mike yells. “To our lovely Sophia. This is the Undefined But Long-Term Monogamous Relationship Award!”
Everyone laughs as Sophia takes a gracious bow, and Chad wraps her up in a huge hug and spins her around after Mike hangs the ribbon around her neck.
“Incidentally,” Mike says dryly, “Chad gets this, the Fucking Weird Ass Proposal Award.”
Mike puts the award around Chad's neck, hugs him and offers his congratulations while everyone applauds.
Jared leans up against Jensen, and Jensen tunes out the awards in favor of leaning back.
“I can't believe it's almost over,” Jared says.
Jensen sighs, rests his forehead on Jared’s shoulder for just a second while he fights off the haze of melancholy that always descends at the end of the week. He’s got seven years of this under his belt, and he knows-it’s better not to dwell on it, not to think about it at all.
“Hey,” he says, “We've still got tonight, and tomorrow morning.”
Jeff brings in sandwiches while Mike finishes up the awards. “Last, but never least,” he says, “give it up for our stars, Jensen and Jared!”
Jared waves and blows kisses when they hop down off the stage to go stand with Mike, who throws an arm around each of them.
“Jesus, I need a fucking ladder for this!” he says. “Okay, so y’all are gonna have to help me out with this one. Which one of you is…” He smirks, flips the ribbons over, studies the paper tags on the back for a second. “Which one of you is In Love With A Wonderful Guy and which is Loved By A Pretty Wonderful Guy?”
Jared’s bright burst of laughter is as immediate and infectious as the cheers and catcalls from the stage, but Jensen does his best to ignore it all in favor of snatching the ribbons out of Mike’s hand.
Jared’s is technically the I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love With A Wonderful Guy Award. When he leans over Jensen’s shoulder to read it, he nearly doubles over laughing.
Jensen fights against the upward twitch of his own lips long enough to cuff Mike across the back of the head and say, “What the hell does never to be spoken of again mean in your language, dude?” He tugs at the single remaining ribbon around Mike’s neck. “No award for you!”
Mike bats his hand away, backs up a step. “Au contraire, mon frère,” he says, and his mouth curls up into a delighted smirk. “This year, I’m giving myself the I Taped Both Songs On My Cell Phone And Sent Them To Chris Kane Award.”
He takes off up the stairs, kazoos quickly through the closing music as he heads backstage, and Jensen yells, “Yeah, you better run!” through a laugh he can’t hold back.
The second show sneaks up like the first, the same elastic bend and stretch of time. Jensen sits with Jared in the hallway again, until Sophia comes through with her camera.
“Yearbook committee,” she says. “Smile!”
Then it’s time for Jeff's speech again. This time, it’s tailored to the community audience, but it’s no less moving, and Jensen's suddenly struck by just how lucky he is to be a part of this.
Completely, blindly, stupidly lucky, just-a freak chain of coincidences his freshman year, and if any one of them had worked out differently, he wouldn’t be here right now. If he hadn’t forgotten to apply for a Freshman Comp exemption, if the Theater department hadn’t been moving into the English building that semester, if the department advisor hadn’t been out sick when he stopped in. Then he wouldn’t have talked with the secretary-Mary-instead, might have walked out with the Theater minor he went in looking for instead of Jeff’s phone number.
He would have missed out on so much.
He laces his fingers with Jared’s again, like he did before the afternoon show. It’s not superstition, it’s just. He’s grateful.
The performance is amazing, a standing ovation, and Jensen doesn't care what the fuck time it is in Europe, he calls Chris.
It turns out they're just packing up after a show, and Jensen doesn't stay on the phone long, just long enough to tell Chris that his weird ass misfit of a play was a hit, and to thank him.
“For what, man?” he says, but there’s no way Jensen can make Chris understand it from thousands of miles away when it’s barely holding together in his own head.
He needs Chris camped out on his couch like they do in the summer, needs a month of tries to get the words right, to explain Chris’s place in this new, strange set of coincidences that’s led to this spot, to Jensen lying across the couch in the dressing room, head resting on Jared’s thigh, Jared’s fingers combing the gel out of his hair.
“I just-I can't really explain now, but. When you come home. When we've got time, I'll tell you all about it.”
“Two weeks,” Chris says. “For real, not like L.A. Gotta fucking graduate this year, man, so I can get out there and do this full time.”
“Okay,” Jensen says. “Two weeks. And use the goddamn phone this time.”
Chris laughs, then says, “Hey. If this is what you want, you know. I’m happy for you, man. Just do me a favor and don’t make the show tunes a regular thing.”
If they were face to face, Jensen would say fuck you, but as it is, he says, “Love you too, asshole,” and then flips his phone shut.
When they get back to the dorm, almost everyone's packing.
“Friday night tradition,” Jensen says.
Jared gathers the random clothing strewn throughout his room. “Yeah, well. It officially sucks.”
Jensen doesn’t bother with this own suitcase, camps out on Jared’s bed instead. He’ll pack his things tomorrow night, maybe Sunday morning. Whenever he and Jeff are done getting everything in order. That’s another tradition, staying a day later to help Jeff out with the wrap up. It’s nice, having that extra time, not having to rush to the airport right after the show.
Jared’s flight leaves on Saturday, just like everyone else’s.
Apparently, his idea of packing is more like throwing everything he's not wearing right now or planning to wear tomorrow into a haphazard pile in his oversized suitcase and zipping it shut.
Jensen's still wearing Jared’s hoodie. He doesn't offer to take it off, and Jared doesn't ask.
“Anything I missed, I'll just throw in Chad's,” Jared says, flopping down next to Jensen on the bed.
They're just relaxing; Jensen's tracing circles in Jared's upturned palm when Jeff knocks quietly on the open door. Jensen just nods, and Jeff smiles, pats the doorframe and heads back down the hall.
Jared might be sleeping, Jensen's not sure, but his eyes are closed, and Jensen takes the time to really look at him, to try and memorize his face.
After a minute, Jared says, “Take a picture, it'll last longer,” and then he chuckles when the camera on Jensen's phone makes its cheesy fake shutter sound.
Jared pretends that he's trying to snatch the phone away, but all he really does is pull Jensen closer, and he whispers, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jensen says back, and he tugs on Jared's sleeve. “I don't want to fall asleep here.”
Jared says, “I don't wanna fall asleep at all.”
They're barely inside Jensen's room when Jared grabs Jensen's face in his hands and just-stops. Momentum drives them forward, presses Jensen’s back into the door, but Jared’s completely still except for the air moving in and out of his lungs. Quick, fluttering breaths like he’s breathing for both of them, and then Jensen finally remembers to take in some air of his own.
“Fuck, Jensen,” Jared whispers into the silence. He leans in, impossibly slow, ducks down and drags his lips over Jensen’s pulse point, up to his ear, shivering rush that threatens to take Jensen’s knees out from under him. “Been wanting this,” he says, soft puff of heat against Jensen’s skin.
“Then fucking-take it,” Jensen says, voiceless, breathless words that he presses right up against Jared’s ear, and Jared just-Jesus, fucking stops time, lips an inch from Jensen’s like he can’t feel how desperate Jensen is to close the space between them, fucking epic chasm, even though Jared’s trembling breath is heating Jensen’s lips, even though they’re practically close enough to taste.
He fists Jared’s t-shirt, cotton stretching and wrinkling in his grip, and Jared thrusts forward, little stutter-step that forces their lips together, spark of warmth like a shock wave. Jensen swallows against a groan, surges up and locks his elbow around Jared’s neck, locks his mouth around Jared’s bottom lip, slow drag of teeth that makes Jared suck in a breath.
“C’mon,” he says, fucking-Jesus, flicking his tongue over the tip of Jared’s, then sucking it into his mouth, letting Jared fuck into him over and over, dirty-hot and so far from fucking gentle, but still-Christ, fucking sweet underneath it all.
He tugs on Jared’s shirt, yanks at the cotton, pants into Jared’s neck. “Come on,” he says again, pulls Jared toward the bed, pulls him down onto it. He’s got no idea how the fuck they fit, but they do-always fucking do, and Jared-
Jesus, fucking groans when Jensen shoves a hand inside his shirt, skin on skin, says, “God, Jen, yeah.”
“Yeah,” Jensen echoes, “Jesus.” He bites down on Jared's lower lip, rolls onto his back and pulls Jared on top of him, all that fucking weight pressed down strong and heavy, and Jared just-god, smiles, soft and sweet, brushes his thumb across Jensen’s cheekbone as he leans in for a kiss so chaste that it aches all the way down to Jensen’s heart, and then he pulls back, wicked little upturn of his lips, and rolls his hips, solid and so slow, against Jensen’s.
Jensen hisses out a breath, loses all the air in his lungs and can’t remember how to find more, can’t think about anything but the heat spreading through his body, fucking-he’s on fire with it, slow drag of Jared’s hips over his, hardness and pressure like he’s never felt, never-
“God, fucking-yeah,” Jared gasps when Jensen arches up against him, bites at his jaw, and he’s fucking crazy with it, with-Jared, the raw rasp of stubble against his tongue, the solidness of Jared's body, the heft of it, the way their hips push together, so fucking right that Jensen just-can’t even.
“Jesus,” he whispers, fucking-balls drawn up tight and unexpected, just-”Oh, god”-he grabs onto the back of Jared’s neck, threads his fingers up through Jared’s hair and pulls their foreheads together, whispers, “Yeah, yeah,” pants it with each deliberate thrust of his cock against Jared’s, tingling rush that builds with every movement of his hips, every hot puff of breath that lands heavy on his cheek until he can’t-can’t fucking think beyond Jared, beyond Jared’s body against his, and he just-
“Come on, Jen, yeah.”
-just arches off the bed, lets it go, fucking-Jesus, explodes, fully fucking clothed, locked tight against Jared, like.
Like he never wants to fucking let go.
Jared pulls back, though, just enough so Jensen can see his face, and he hovers there, hair falling over dark, intense eyes. He’s tense, trembling, bodyweight supported on one arm as he cups his huge hand over the back of Jensen’s, laces their fingers together, whispers, “Look what you fucking do to me, Jen.”
He brings their clasped hands down between them, Jensen’s palm brushing just barely over Jared’s cock, and Jared squeezes his eyes closed, then fucking-gasps in a breath, lets it out in a hushed, “Oh,” that just breaks him open, eyes so wide that Jensen can almost see inside him, and it’s. Almost more than he can take, watching Jared fall apart, gaping and unshuttered.
Eventually, Jared drops his forehead down onto Jensen’s shoulder, breathes against him until the air stops trembling, easy in and out, and that’s when he rests his chin on Jensen’s chest, looks up and says, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Jensen pushes the hair out of Jared's eyes.
The moment stretches out into easy silence, and then Jared laughs. “I usually do this with less clothes on,” he says.
Jensen snorts in response. “Yeah, well.” He shrugs, honest but not embarrassed. “I usually do this with girls.”
Jared nods, eyes serious and intent, head tilted like he’s considering something. After a minute, his mouth splits into a huge, dimpled smile. “I am completely irresistible,” he crows, flips over so he’s lying on his back with his head resting on Jensen’s stomach.
“Uh-huh,” Jensen says dryly, but he can’t hide the fondness that bursts out of him in a low chuckle.
Jared laughs, too, links his hand with Jensen’s and brings them both to rest on his stomach, then slides them down toward his waistband, drops his voice laughably deep and says, “So what you’re saying is that we need more practice.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “What I’m saying,” he says, huffs a put upon sigh through a smile he can’t quite suppress, “is that you’re completely irresistible.”
In the morning, Jared tugs Jensen down to the shower, clumsy and half asleep, and Jensen doesn’t let go when Jared points him toward a stall, just pulls Jared in, under the water with him.
“I’m gonna get fat,” Jared whispers into Jensen’s neck.
Later, when Jensen’s pulling Jared’s hoodie on over an old Zeppelin t-shirt, he says, “Because you’re not running?”
“Because someone keeps encouraging me to stay in bed.”
Over breakfast, Jensen says, “It’s your own fault. If you didn’t eat for thirty,” and after, halfway through his second cup of coffee, he catches Jared looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jared says. He smirks. “I’m just gonna miss our morning conversations.”
Jensen flips him off, buries his smile in a long gulp of coffee, swallows the inevitable Saturday ache down in a mouthful of caffeine.
Jeff starts the last morning meeting not long after. There are the usual evaluation forms and sign-ups for next year, but Jeff forgoes his regular week in review in favor of a kind of retrospective.
He talks about how he got started with the program, about why, about the last ten years, the entire experience, and Jensen listens like Jeff's talking directly to him.
Hell, maybe he is, because Jensen’s always been an advocate for the program, always spread the word, always made himself available to help, but he’s never felt so suddenly, fiercely protective of it before, like it’s his to guard and protect, to cultivate and sustain.
Jeff meets his eyes, grins right before he breaks the big news.
For a minute, Jensen can’t look, watches his hands fidget in his lap and tries to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach, the sudden terror that these people-friends, some of them, that he’s worked side by side with for years-won’t be willing to stick around, keep following the trail now that Jensen’s in the lead.
A wave of want hits him like a punch to the gut, violent and strong, because this-it’s so much more than memorizing the names of body parts, the ways they get torn apart and put back together, and he’s suddenly desperate to be given the chance to take something so good and help it grow into something even better.
And then Sophia headlocks him from behind, steals his breath and whispers, “I knew it’d be you someday.”
He looks up to smiles and congratulations, Chad’s request for deluxe accommodations next year, and Jesus, it’s been official for all of a minute, and already his mind’s stumbling over the defensibility of coed room assignments versus the absolute shit fit Chad’s inevitably going to throw if-
“Hey.” Jared’s huge hand slides over Jensen’s jaw, turns his head until their eyes meet.
“Hey,” Jensen says. “Sorry, I couldn’t-”
“I know, Jeff’s news to tell.” Jared smiles. “You’re fucking awesome, you know that?”
Jensen grins. “So I’ve been told.”
Jared rolls his eyes, then forces a solemn expression. “We should totally be superheroes.”
“Let me guess, Fucking Awesome and his sidekick, Completely Irresistible?” Jensen deadpans.
Jared nods. “We owe it to the world, dude,” he says. Then, “Wait, I’m not the sidekick!”
Jeff clears his throat, raises his eyebrow. “Moving on?” he says. “One difference that you might notice already is that you don’t have a play for next year yet.” He smirks at Jensen. “Might want to get on that, kid.”
“Uh-noted,” Jensen says through a chuckle when Sophia shoves a pad and pen into his hand, 1. find a play already written at the top of the page.
He adds a second item to the list, 2. find sidekick costume for Jared, and Jared sinks down low into his seat, tips his head back against the cushion and laughs.
The meeting breaks down, breaks off into random chunks of overlapping conversation, people heading backstage to get ready in staggered waves, and after a little while, Jensen’s sitting alone with Jeff in the front row, facing the stage.
It looks so big from this angle, so-important.
Jeff smiles, drops a hand down on Jensen’s head, ruffles his hair. “So,” he says, quietly. “He’s good.”
Jensen chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s good.”
The lead up to curtain time is quieter than yesterday; the back hallway is lined with packed suitcases, and Jensen leads Jared past them, continues on through the door, out to the back stairwell.
“What’re you thinking?” Jared says, when the door settles closed.
Jensen shrugs, turns and leans forward, up against the railing. “That I wish I knew how to do this?”
“What, saying goodbye?” Jared brackets himself against Jensen’s back, rests his forehead down on Jensen’s shoulder for a second. “Just-don’t.”
Jensen huffs out a laugh. “It’s just that easy?” he says.
“Just that easy,” Jared echoes.
“Yeah, I guess,” Jensen says, after a minute. “It’s what comes next, though.”
“And what comes next?”
Jensen shrugs. “Phone calls I forget to make, emails I never return.” He leans back, tips his head against Jared’s shoulder, like maybe if he presses up close enough, Jared won’t just evaporate around him.
They walk slowly, quietly on their way back to the auditorium, stop to say most of their goodbyes before Jared pulls Jensen into the dressing room, away from the heavy, hushed buzz backstage.
“Once upon a time,” Jared says, sprawled out on the couch, “and they lived happily ever after.”
Jensen raises a questioning eyebrow, and Jared shrugs.
“It’s the stuff in the middle,” he says. “That makes it worth it.” He sits up, looks at Jensen in the mirrored wall across the room, and claps a hand down on Jensen’s knee, pushes himself up. “Welcome to the middle.”
It feels a little like an ultimatum, like. Like a decision he’s supposed to make, and a heaviness tugs at Jensen’s chest, leaves his throat a little tight.
Sophia wanders in a few minutes later, holds her hand out, and Jensen takes it, lets her lead him into the wings.
Jared’s already waiting there, nearly silhouetted against the heavy stage curtains, and Jensen stops short, squeezes Sophia’s hand. “How’s the middle?” he says.
“What?”
She’s looking at him like he’s speaking another language, and Jesus, he kind of is. It’s a language made of half-dark rooms and secret handshakes, superheroes and show tunes, whispered greetings that mean so much more, and he just-there’s really not even a decision to make.
Jensen smiles, shakes his head, starts walking again. “Nothing,” he says, “I just-nothing.”
She hugs Jared first, says, “I’ll see you at graduation, right?” then turns to Jensen.
“This is it, beautiful.” She locks her arms around his neck, holds on tight as Jensen wraps his arms around her. “Try and call me more than once a year, okay?”
Jensen sighs against her hair, then lifts her off her feet and says, “Okay, but only if you try and live closer to Texas!”
When the curtain drops for the last time, Jensen pulls Jared back to the dressing room to change, leaves the mess to clean up later.
Jared’s got about an hour left, and Jensen just-he makes it about a hundred feet down the path to the dorm before he surges up, locks himself against Jared in a crushing kiss, licks into Jared’s mouth, bites at his bottom lip. He pulls their bodies together, chest to chest, hip to hip, clutches at the solidness of muscle against him.
The air is thick, heavy with the weight of Jared’s impending departure, and Jensen takes little gasping breaths that Jared echoes as he takes a step back.
“Wait,” Jared says, “slow down, I mean-”
Jensen huffs a trembling laugh. “Jesus,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”
He brings a hand up to Jared’s jaw, presses in slowly; soft, chaste kiss that Jared returns easily. He grabs onto the hoodie that Jensen’s been wearing all week, but he doesn’t pull Jensen in closer.
“Wait, shouldn’t we, uh,” he says between kisses. “Don’t you think we should talk about-stuff?”
Jensen smiles into a kiss, pulls back. “Nope,” he says. “And would you mind shutting the fuck up? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
The implication hangs heavy between them, and for a minute, Jensen holds his breath. Then, Jared laughs, bright and huge and surprised, pulls Jensen in by the sweatshirt he’s still fisting and whispers, “Fuck yeah, god,” right up against his ear.
They trip over themselves, over kisses and questions, all the way back to the dorm, make out in the entryway, Jared sitting on the table against the wall, Jensen tucked in between his spread legs.
“So,” Jensen says. “Michigan.”
He says the word slowly; it’s awkward and ugly in its precision, robs them of their broadness, their ability to exist entirely outside of distance and location.
“For now,” Jared says, and he grins. “Back home, for the summer, at least, and then I guess we'll see.”
“Where's home?” Jensen asks.
Jared's grin spreads out into a smile, dimples and all, and he says, “I, uh,” pauses to scratch at the back of his neck. When he looks up, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are worried, and Jensen can’t resist, has to lean in to kiss him.
“You were saying?” Jensen says, pulls back just enough to give Jared’s lips room to move.
“Yeah,” Jared huffs, “Okay, I uh. Grew up in a little place called San Antone.”
Jensen’s hand freezes half threaded through Jared’s hair, and he backs up, all the way this time. “You're fucking kidding me,” he says, watches Jared’s eyes flick down and back up. “Jesus, this whole fucking week, I've been-and you're from San Antonio?”
Jared's smile dims. “You don't seem-” he says, huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “I didn’t know you were from Texas, too. Not until Sophie said, and I just-I mean, if you don't want-”
Jensen shuts him up with a kiss, forceful crush of lips on lips that rocks the table back against the wall, pushes them both off balance, sends Jared’s palms crashing down onto the table behind him to brace them, hold their weight.
“Jesus,” Jensen says, when they break apart. “Like you don't even know.”
Jared kisses him again, softer, slower. “I think maybe I've got an idea,” he says.
Chad walks through the entryway a little later, says something Jensen doesn’t catch; the world is narrowed down to Jared’s mouth, his hands, this little spot of nowhere they’re filling up together. Jared opens his mouth, soft, quiet little flicks of his tongue against Jensen’s. It’s minutes, maybe days later when Chad comes back through rolling a suitcase, lifetimes later when he honks the car horn out in front of the door.
“Fuck off,” Jared yells, rests his forehead lightly against Jensen’s. He slides his palm over Jensen’s jaw, brings their lips together again, smiles and whispers, “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”
###
master post | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | notes | art
When eight-thirty rolls around, everyone's assembled in the front lobby of the dorm, laughing and talking over each other like a bunch of overexcited twelve year olds about to climb onto a yellow bus and sing “We Are the World” and “Greatest Love of All” until their teachers’ ears bleed or they reach their destination, whichever comes first.
“Geezer,” Jared teases, and Jensen swats his shoulder.
He attempts an offended pout, but every expression just slides into a smile tonight, he can’t help it.
Between the disaster-free dress rehearsal and Jeff’s little post-rehearsal surprise, an old time popcorn machine and Spinal Tap on the auditorium's drop down projection screen, he’s pretty sure nothing can kill his good mood.
And then there’s Jeff’s offer. He thought about it all the way through the movie, slouched down in the auditorium seats with Jared, heads together, hands intermittently grazing inside their giant sized tub of popcorn.
He hasn’t given Jeff an answer yet, hasn’t told anyone at all because he can’t figure out if this should be the biggest decision of his life or just. No decision at all.
And besides, it’s really Jeff’s news to tell.
When headlights pull up to the dorm and they end up being attached to one of those idiotic bus-limo things, Mike pushes open the front door and says, “No fucking way!”
“Way,” Jeff says, coming around the corner into the entryway. “All aboard!”
Jared laughs, head thrown back, dimples gouged deep into his cheeks, and Jensen’s own burst of laughter comes unbidden, surprises him. An impulsive surge of warmth floods through him at the sound of their voices mixed together, bright and reckless, and he grabs Jared’s hand, laces their fingers together and tugs Jared out the door, onto the bus.
It’s only when they’re seated that he realizes he’s holding Jared’s hand. It feels like an admission, like an acknowledgement of this thing between them that keeps threatening to expand into something more, and he stares at their fingers, intertwined, doesn’t let go.
When the bus starts moving, Jeff stands up by the front seat and says, “Okay people, remember, this is for charity, so I only want to see you drinking as much as you can handle. Tonight, we're going to Firewater, where we're doing a little thing called suicide karaoke for two bucks a song. Just like the raffle, one dollar goes to ACT! and one dollar goes to charity.”
There's a cheer and a, “Yeah! Charity!” from the back of the bus-Chad-and Jared groans through a chuckle, smacks his forehead down onto Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen pats his hair in mock sympathy until Jared snorts out a real laugh and smacks his hand away.
“So now, you might be wondering, just what the heck is suicide karaoke, anyway?” Jeff continues. “Well, it's a pretty big deal around here, lord only knows why, but it's when someone secretly chooses the worst, most horrendous song they can think of for somebody else to sing, and they’ve gotta do it, no questions asked.”
“What do you mean, secretly?” Sandy asks from a few seats over.
“Just what it sounds like.” Jeff grins, bright and evil. “The song remains a mystery until the DJ pushes play.”
The bus is divided pretty evenly between groans and laughter, with a gasp or two thrown in, and someone’s hat literally thrown at Jeff’s head, but Jensen stops paying attention, stops pondering his own queasy misgivings when Jared’s head falls back against his shoulder again, soft puffs of laughter trapped in the crook of his neck.
When the bus pulls up to the bar, Jeff dismisses everyone with what he pretends is a friendly, well-intentioned reminder. “Now, remember,” he says. “You guys are allowed to pony up for this one ’cause there's no prize except the satisfaction of humiliating your friends.”
Jensen sees through his cheery demeanor to the evil that’s lurking so covertly underneath.
Inside, they’re herded up front to a little platform stage for a cattle call disguised as a formal introduction, and Jensen chooses to ignore the appraising nature of the audience in favor of thinking about how much money they’re going to raise.
And then his name is called-fucking alphabetical order-and his half wave is met with a quantity of whistling and shouting that’s entirely impossible to tune out.
He leans into Jared. “I feel dirty,” he whispers.
Before Jared can answer, Mike snuggles up against Jensen’s free side and smirks. “Oh so dirty?” he asks, and then he winks and disappears back into the herd.
“Oh, god,” Jensen says. His vision blacks out a little, or maybe he just closes his eyes; his forehead makes contact with Jared’s shoulder, and he just leaves it there. “Oh god.”
Jared’s expression is a mystery when he says, “I know nothing about which I may or may not have been sworn to secrecy,” and Jensen glares ineffectively, without lifting his head.
“Kill me now,” he whispers into Jared’s black cotton button-down while cheers echo through the audience for Sandy, then Chad.
Jared garners his own fair share of applause when his name is called, and then he chuckles into Jensen’s hair. “You ready to do this?” he says.
Jensen sighs. “We few, we happy few,” he mutters, thumps his forehead heavily onto Jared’s scapular acromion and winces.
Jared laughs and claps his huge hand down on Jensen’s shoulder, fingers stretching out toward his neck and lingering. “That’s the spirit,” he says brightly, tugs at Jensen’s sleeve and heads off in the direction of the bar.
Alcohol makes everything better.
Jensen’s tucked into a corner booth with Jared on one side of him and Sophia on the other, a respectable number of empty glasses within easy reach. He licks at a droplet on the rim of the glass that’s not empty, takes a long gulp and slouches down, a smile settled lazily on his lips.
“Hey.” He nudges Jared’s knee with his own.
Jared turns away from his conversation with Jeff at the next table. “Hey yourself,” he says, slouches down to Jensen’s eye level. “You’re feeling better.”
Jensen raises his glass. “I’ve accepted beer as my personal savior.”
The night’s already begun to blur into a softer, warmer version of itself, and he sighs, tips his head back and closes his eyes. He really is feeling better. Four and a half beers’ll do that to a guy. As will ten bucks spent chaining Mike to the stage for five songs’ worth of advance retribution.
He’s rounding out the set, wailing about strange weather phenomena, blatantly off-key ode to men falling from the sky, and the fucker looks like he’s having a blast. Jensen’s stomach is rapidly jettisoning anger to make room for alcohol, though, and try as he might, he can’t summon enough resentment to be pissed at that particular injustice.
He can summon another ten from his wallet, though, and lean up against Jared while they flip through the sticky pages of the karaoke book. Sophie joins in the plotting, too, until she mysteriously vanishes and then reappears on the stage, singing “I Got You Babe” with Chad, who accidentally-probably accidentally-claims Cher’s part for his own.
Jared gives them a standing ovation. Jensen claps from his seat and takes in the shape of the underside of Jared’s chin.
When Jared sits again, he squishes himself up sideways in the booth, looks at Jensen head on. There’s a little hint of black rimming his eyes, the last remains of the stage makeup he wouldn’t let anyone but Jensen near his face with, and Jensen can still feel his hands shoving against Jared’s chest-“Sit, you big baby.”-his thumb on Jared’s cheek, Jared’s eyelashes fluttering soft against his fingers.
His breath hitches, little hiccup that Jared answers with intent eyes and momentary silence, and then a playful tug on Jensen’s sleeve. “Hey,” he says, pulls an envelope out of his pocket. “I snaked this from Mike.”
Their fingers brush when Jared hands it off, and Jensen’s attention slides between the envelope in his hands and Jared, who shifts closer when Jensen starts fumbling at the flap.
“This is money,” Jensen says when he gets it open. His fingers slip over the edges of the bills. It’s a couple hundred dollars, at least.
“Yeah. Mike collected it, it’s the money he’s using to buy your song,” Jared says with a half shrug, and this is how Jensen finds himself sitting on a stool on a ridiculous little six-inch platform stage in a bar in the middle of nowhere, reprising his role as Maria.
Charity and one stupidly adorable shrug from Jared. He’s so fucking easy.
“I feel pretty,” he sings, to raucous cheers from the audience. Jesus. Mike’s nearly doubled over with laughter, and Jensen flips him off. His friends clearly do not understand the concept of never to be spoken of again.
“I feel pretty and witty and gay,” he continues, following along with the words as they turn from white to yellow on the screen, erase themselves to make room for the second verse.
Jensen really hates musicals, hates singing fucking ridiculous lines like-”It’s alarming how charming I feel!”
In tenth grade, he was Captain von Trapp; in eleventh grade, he was Tevye; in twelfth grade, he was Tony, and when he signed up with ACT! in his freshman year of college, he thanked fucking Christ that the days of musical invariably preceding theater were over-and now, here he is. Again.
“I feel stunning,” he sings, “and entrancing, feel like running and dancing for joy”-which is really just entirely not true-”for I'm loved by a pretty wonderful boy!”
He passes the musical break polishing off his beer and searching the crowd for Sophia, who promised him a refill before he got called up to sing. Sondheim is really fucking killing his buzz.
Instead of Sophia, though, he finds Jared.
He’s leaning up against the bar, hip cocked, head down. His hair’s falling into his eyes, and he brushes it back for a second, reveals flushed, pink cheeks, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Jensen’s breath catches; he hears the shallow rasp of it through the speakers, moves the microphone away from where it’s been resting against his jaw. He can’t turn away, though, can’t stop the way his heart races, the way his breathing won’t settle back into a regular pattern.
And then Jared ducks his head lower, and that’s when Jensen sees her. Blonde hair, tight jeans, Jared’s lips skimming the curve of her ear. She laughs, maybe, Jensen can’t really see her face-but then, he doesn’t need to. Not when he can see Jared’s lips slide into a smile, watch his smile spark into a shy laugh, follow his long fingers as they slip a folded scrap of paper into her palm.
As debriefings go, this one sucks.
He focuses on the other side of the room as he starts singing again, exit sign, restroom sign, Budweiser sign, lets his vision blur when he gets sick of the view. Lines and angles disperse, feather into formless blobs; bitter contrast with the harsh line of heat that flares up his spine, the sharp ache that tugs at his chest, threatens to twist it down into his stomach.
Sondheim’s bullshit is caustic, stings at his throat as he sings.
Questions bubble up into his mouth when the song ends; he swallows them down because the answers are obvious. This thing with Jared, it’s never been real, it’s just-an unavoidable consequence of giving voice to emotions that were never their own, of keeping such close quarters for so long.
Jensen was just. There.
That’s nothing new. People come and go at ACT! all the time, give one week of their lives and never look back, and they all form the same kinds of artificial alliances, summer camp bonds, attachments that can’t breathe the air in the real world.
It’s his own fault for forgetting that, for thinking it was something more.
When he steps down off the stage, he heads straight for the beer Sophia’s toasting him with, downs half of it in one gulp. It’s bitter, matches his mood, and he forces himself to stand with his friends rather than slouch down into the booth. A little misunderstanding is no reason not to have fun.
Mike grabs him in a half hug that’s more of a headlock, and he laughs as he tugs himself out of the hold. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he says, smile plastered on tight so it doesn’t fall.
“You know you love it,” Mike crows, and Jensen just flips him off, tips his head back and drinks.
There’s a cheer from the audience as the DJ reads off the total amount of money raised so far; Jensen can’t quite hear what she says over the click and chug of beer pouring down his throat, but he really doesn’t care.
Mike smirks. “Aw, Jenny, don’t be like that. You know I think you’re the prettiest boy here.”
A rush of hot air skates across the back of Jensen’s neck, around to his ear, low growl of a whisper he’d know anywhere. “Hell yeah you are,” Jared says out of nowhere, quiet enough so only Jensen can hear, close enough so he can feel it, burst of warmth and want that clashes against the icy pit in his stomach.
Jared’s hair falls softly across Jensen’s cheek; his hand slides along the waistband of Jensen’s jeans, spans his hip, a grip made of promise and intent.
This is new, more, and Jensen grits his teeth and breathes, in and out like the blatant physical contact doesn’t set fire to his skin, like the intimacy of it doesn’t tie him in knots, like he’s capable of standing next to Jared and not feeling his warmth bone-deep.
He’s lying to himself.
His empty glass tips but doesn’t shatter when he drops it down onto the table and walks out of Jared’s hold; he feels the muted friction of skin sliding on denim all the way to the bathroom.
The lukewarm water runs cool after a few minutes; he cups his hands under the tap and splashes his face anyway. He’s been trying to figure out how he let things get so fucked up, but the answer’s not in the rush of over-chlorinated tap water, not in the slant of his reflection in the mirror.
His eyelashes are dripping.
When the door opens, closes, latches shut, he looks over to see Sophia leaning up against it. She pushes off and walks over, laces her fingers through Jensen’s and rests her head back against his shoulder.
“You’re hiding in the bathroom,” she says quietly.
“The men’s room.”
In the mirror, her eyebrows draw together. “Because of Jared,” she says. It’s not a question.
Jensen shrugs. “All that glitters.”
“Is not gold,” she finishes, after a minute. She’s staring into Jensen’s eyes in the mirror, and he looks away.
“Is just a guy looking for a fuck any way he can get it,” he says. “Whoever, wherever. Whenever. That’s not what I thought-that’s not what I want.”
He hears Sophia’s sigh, feels it against his chest. “Jen,” she says. She sounds sad, moves to turn and he threads his free arm around her waist, pulls her close and rests his forehead against her hair so he won’t have to look her in the eye.
“You like him,” she says.
“Doesn’t matter,” he answers. “I’m not just-fucking around.”
She shakes her head beneath his chin, says, “I don’t know what’s going on in that gorgeous little brain of yours, Jen, but I think you’d better tell it to shut the fuck up.” She tugs gently out of his grip and walks over to the door, pulls it open.
The crowd noise filters in first, then music, then-Jared, singing, “I'm as trite and as gay as a daisy in May, a cliché coming true.”
“Does that sound like a guy who’s just fucking around?” Sophia says, just loud enough for Jensen to hear.
Jensen snorts. “It sounds like a dying cow,” he mutters, but he joins Sophia in the doorway. “What the fuck is he singing?”
“I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love,”-Jared sings, stops to take a breath-”I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful guy!”
Sophia shrugs, smiles up at Jensen. “One horribly embarrassing show tune deserves another?”
A smile flickers across his lips before he can stop it, but then he turns his back on the stage, on Jared, belting out his ridiculously sappy song, making a fool of himself for Jensen’s benefit. “No, Soph,” he says, firm and low, even though it hurts to push the words out. “I saw him. I saw him hitting on a girl while I was singing, and I’m just. That’s not what I thought this was.”
Sophia just smiles, soft and sweet, puts her hands on Jensen’s shoulders and turns him back around. “What else do you see up there?” she says against his spine.
He looks, but all he sees is Jared, hair falling into his eyes, tiny flash of dimple, long fingers wrapped around the microphone.
Sophia reaches up and gently tilts his chin until Jared’s out of his frame of vision and he’s looking at the wall, a stack of unused chairs, the DJ table, the DJ, the-the DJ, blonde, tight jeans, taking a scrap of paper from Chad, who’s leaning down close to talk over the music.
When Jensen’s breath catches, releases in a trembling rush, Sophia wraps both arms around him from behind. “See, beautiful?” she says. “All that glitters is singing a ridiculous song for the boy he likes.”
And then Jared’s hopping off the stage, walking in Jensen’s direction, reserved half grin on his face. “Hey,” he says, stops in front of Jensen. “I, uh-hey.” He looks like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t open his mouth, just looks down at the floor for a second, then turns confused, hopeful eyes on Jensen.
“Hey,” Jensen says, lips flickering up into a smile, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.
“So you were a dick.”
Jensen chuckles. “So I was a dick,” he echoes quietly. “I, uh. I saw you at the bar, and I thought. I mean, you were leaning down and giving her your number-your song, I guess, and I, uh. Well. So I was a dick.”
“You missed most of my song.”
Jensen shrugs. “I caught the important parts.”
“Yeah?” Jared says, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Like what?”
Jensen snorts, threads a finger through one of Jared’s belt loops. “Gay as a daisy in May, huh?” he says. “Good to know.”
“Fuck you,” Jared says, “you love it.” He’s laughing, though, and Jensen joins in.
Over the crowd noise, Jensen hears Sophia say, “This is for you, beautiful,” and he looks up to see her standing on the stage, microphone in hand. Chad’s sitting on the bar stool, leaning up against her.
When the music starts, she turns to Chad, sings, “You wait, little girl, on an empty stage, for fate to turn the light on. Your life, little girl, is an empty page, that men will want to write on.”
Chad looks lovingly up at her, warbles, “To write on,” in a ridiculous falsetto, and Jared throws his head back, laughs like he might never stop.
For a minute, Jensen just watches, then he shakes his head, tugs at Jared’s belt loop. “Come on, Daisy,” he says, smiling. “I need a drink.”
It's late when they get back to the dorm, whispers loud in silent hallways, and when they get to Jensen's door, he doesn’t think, just unlocks it with one hand, keeps his other hand tightly entwined with Jared's until they're safely locked away inside.
He leans up against the door to catch his breath, cycles charged air in and out of his lungs, lets everything that’s not Jared fall away to a distant, dizzy buzz in the background.
Stillness spreads thickly in the space between them, dense and rich. There’s a giddy burst of air trapped deep in Jensen’s chest; it stretches and strains his lungs, but he holds it in, inexplicably afraid that the trembling rush of it might break the spell, might drive Jared away.
It heats him from the inside, searing warmth that escapes through his teeth in a slow, silent hiss. He traces the invisible path of it, his mouth to Jared’s, wants to follow, demonstrate how absurdly glad he is to have this moment, Jared secreted away so perfectly, but instead, he watches. There’s moonlight filtering in through the window; Jared’s profile is silvery and shaded, and Jensen just watches, memorizes highlights and shadows until Jared says, “What?”
Jensen just shakes his head, couldn’t explain himself if he tried.
Instead, he pushes away from the door, loose limbed and buoyant. He leaves the light switch alone, just tugs his shirt off in the dark, and then Jared's, too, pushes a hand up Jared’s chest and watches the grayed outline of wrinkled cotton as they stutter toward the bed.
He doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t trust his words, so he just sits, takes his shoes off and motions for Jared to do the same.
Their shoulders brush together as they move, skin on skin, heat that warms Jensen to the bone, and his hands tremble with the need to learn Jared by touch, by heart.
Jared’s eyes fall closed, sticky, sleepy blink, and Jensen fumbles slow fingers over the alarm clock instead, sets it for five-thirty.
He turns to Jared. “Early day tomorrow.”
Jared smiles, secret and small, says, “Yeah,” and Jensen brushes the hair back out of his eyes.
He gets caught there for a minute, hand cradling the back of Jared’s head, Jared’s eyes soft and unfocused, so close. He brings their foreheads together, breathes in shared air and fights to keep his eyes open.
When he lies down, finally, Jared follows suit, and he wraps an arm around Jensen's waist from behind, presses a feather-soft kiss to the back of Jensen's neck.
“’Night,” Jensen whispers, into the darkness.
When the alarm screams to life at five-thirty, for a split second, Jensen's entirely sure it’s the end of the world. Literally, fire and brimstone and Kirk Cameron laughing in his face, and then-then, Jared's arm tightens around his stomach, Jared’s nose brushes up against the back of his shoulder, and he lets his eyes fall shut, focuses all the attention he can muster on Jared’s soft, sleepy breath ghosting over his neck.
Eventually, the horrible screeching burrows down to a more coherent part of Jensen’s brain, a part with access to logical reasoning and motor skills, that’s capable of identifying the noise and shutting it the hell up.
“Hey,” Jensen says softly, turning to face Jared.
“Hey,” Jared says.
The tiniest bit of fuzzy pre-dawn light is creeping in, and Jared's face is half buried in the pillow, one tilted eye peeking out. He looks almost shy, and Jensen tucks a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, lets his thumb swipe over Jared’s cheek.
He’s got this bizarre urge to whisper, to turn off the sun so they can learn this soft, hazy almost-darkness like another language, one they’ll only speak together. He takes Jared’s hand, traces lines and circles into his palm, symbols that mean everything and nothing at all.
Jared’s mouth spreads into a smile, one huge dimple forms on the side of his face that's not hidden, and he half whispers, “I was worried.”
“About what?”
He buries his face further into the pillow for a second, then shrugs. “That you'd change your mind, I guess.”
“Hmmm,” Jensen says, pretending to think about it, and Jared barks out a laugh, grabs the pillow out from under them and uses it to swat Jensen in the chest. He leaves it where it falls, rests his head on it, a solid but comfortable weight over Jensen’s diaphragm, and Jensen’s fingers rake automatically through his hair.
Jared sighs. “Too late,” he says, “you’re stuck with me.”
“I guess I can live with that,” Jensen answers. After a minute, Jared’s breathing goes soft and even, smooth drag of air that cuts the silence, and Jensen lets his hand wander. Around the curve of Jared’s ear, over the arch of his eyebrow, down the side of his face, where sideburns fade into stubble.
“Hey,” he says, eventually, settles his hand on Jared’s chest. “Do you have to go?”
Jared lifts his head to look at the clock, then shoves the pillow back up to the top of the bed, buries his face in Jensen's neck. “Actually, I think I'm good here,” he says.
When Jensen wakes for the second time, the sun’s lighting the room, and Jared’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Shower,” he says, and Jensen yawns, nods in return.
They’ve got about a half hour before they have to be at the auditorium, and Jensen doesn’t do much more than the bare minimum, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, contacts. He’s just going to be changing into his costume, so he throws on Jared’s hoodie instead of picking out a real outfit. He’s fallen into the habit of grabbing for it instead of his own clothes, because it’s on top, because it’s cold out, because Jared spilled beer on his sweater, because.
He’s never worn it like this, though, the guts of it flush against him, and the softness against his skin spreads a warmth not related to the weight of it, leaves him thinking of how many times Jared must have worn it the exact same way.
Jared’s eyes settle on it when they meet in the hallway; he smiles wide and Jensen flushes a little, shoves his hands into the front pocket.
The two and a half hours before showtime are a crazy rush of hurry up and wait, and Jensen loves it as much as he hates it.
He’s lazily ditching his clothes for his costume when Sophia opens the door to the changing room and pushes Jared in.
“He’s all yours,” she says, the frazzled hurry up to Jensen’s wait.
He’s in boxer briefs, Jared’s hoodie already discarded onto the couch, warm-ups still tangled around one ankle, and Jared’s just staring, something darker, more fervent creeping up into the half pout he was wearing when Sophie shoved him in the door.
“They’re girls you know,” Jensen says, sandpaper rasp that he can’t swallow away. “They know what they’re doing. It’s kind of in the job description.”
Jared shrugs, flicks the latch on the door. “I trust you,” he says.
He crosses the room, and Jensen can’t keep his body from turning; he follows Jared’s shallow arc with his head, his shoulders, his hips. Jared hops up onto the counter, spreads his knees into a wide V and pulls Jensen in, thumbs rubbing little circles of heat into his naked hips.
Jared’s hands are huge; they slide down until his thumbs are riding the crease of Jensen’s leg, and Jensen watches himself flush in the mirrored wall as Jared leans in, presses his lips against the shallow dip at the base of Jensen’s neck.
When he sits back, he produces a black eyeliner pencil, flicks a tiny grin in Jensen’s direction and half whispers, “Make me pretty, you eye touching freak.”
It’s torture, putting makeup on Jared. Soft flicks of the pencil because Jared can’t still his eyes long enough for the straight, sharp line Jensen does on himself, soft gray smudging into black, bringing out the blues and then greens and then golds in Jared’s eyes as the line thickens and darkens.
Jared’s cheek is soft under Jensen’s thumb; his stubble is rough under Jensen’s fingertips as Jensen braces his head, tips it up. He looks a little longer than he needs to, breathes while Jared’s eyes are closed, inhales deep and exhales against the soft stirrings of arousal that he can’t deny, can’t hide under black cotton boxer briefs.
“I think we’re done here,” he says. His hand is still on Jared’s face when Jared opens his eyes, and the sight of them, black rimmed and strikingly dark, takes Jensen’s breath away.
“We don’t have to be,” Jared says, low rasp that heats Jensen’s skin, and then he squeezes his eyes shut, looks down and huffs out a frustrated chuckle. “Except for your makeup and our costumes, Chad’s mental breakdown…” He sighs and drops his head back against the mirror.
Jensen raises a questioning eyebrow.
“I should really go check on that,” Jared says. He sighs, tucks a fingernail under the elastic waistband of Jensen’s underwear, runs it over the front of his hip and doesn’t move to get up.
Everyone assembles a half hour before curtain, edgy huddle with no real purpose except killing restless energy.
Mike tells his complete library of so a guy walks into a bar jokes; Chad informs everyone that he and Sophia are still-whatever they are, that she only took the ring off because she didn’t want anything to happen to it in the backstage rush.
Jensen’s phone beeps with a text from Chris: Go strut and fret your hour on the damn stage, bitch!
He sinks down against the wall in the back hallway next to Jared.
“I thought there’d be, like. Campfire songs or secret handshakes or something,” he says. “Tradition and all.”
“Nah. Can’t have a tradition for everything, gotta leave some stuff to chance, right?”
Jared chuckles. “Around here?” Jensen elbows him, and he sighs, says, “A secret handshake would’ve been cool, though.” He leans his head back against the wall, and Jensen can see the tension stiffening his shoulders, his neck.
“Okay,” Jensen says, pushing up off the floor. “C’mon.”
Jared looks up, gets to his feet gradually, the kind of elastic slow motion that always settles in right before a show, and Jensen can’t tear his eyes away from the little details that slow down and demand attention, a soft flush spreading across Jared’s cheeks, a piece of hair falling out of place.
Jensen extends his hand, holds it out but doesn’t watch it because he’s focused on the corners of Jared’s mouth flickering up into a smile, and he’s surprised by the slide of warm skin that has them palm to palm.
Jared chuckles, ducks his head, and Jensen doesn’t shake their clasped hands, he just tugs softly, draws Jared in against him, pliable strength and heat. He reaches up with his free arm, wraps himself around Jared in the hallway, elbow hooked over Jared’s shoulder, palm unaccountably intimate against the back of Jared’s neck.
When Jared locks his free arm around Jensen, too, Jensen can feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, can feel Jared’s breath come easier.
“Our secret,” Jensen whispers, before he squeezes once and lets go.
When he pulls back, he says, “You ready?”
“Hell yeah,” Jared answers, huffs out a breath, then flashes a huge smile. “Bring it.”
When Jeff’s speech is the only thing left separating them from the opening curtain, Jensen takes his position in the wings so he can listen.
The Friday afternoon performance is always solely for kids and teachers; all of the classes that visited during the week, and sometimes others that didn’t, and Jeff talks directly to the kids, not at them, tells them truths they might not hear anywhere else.
He tells them it’s hard. He tells them there are parts they won’t get, lines they won’t understand, words they won’t remember. He tells them they’ll have to take criticism and learn to criticize their peers in return; he tells them they’ll have to laugh and yell and cry and then come back for more.
“You’re gonna have to fall down a million times and get back up a million and one,” he says, voice amplified, booming throughout the auditorium, “but you know what? It’ll be worth it.”
He tells them they’ll get stronger, they’ll get smarter, wittier. They’ll meet new people, new kinds of people; they’ll learn how to create a working relationship out of nothing, and a friendship out of that, and they’ll have fun doing it.
He tells them always to try, and to always believe it’s worth trying.
It’s something Jeff’s said before, so many times, but Jensen’s suddenly not sure he’s actually heard it before now. He reaches out, threads his fingers through Jared’s and squeezes.
Next year, he’s taking over.
After the performance, they sit on the edge of the stage and take questions from students and teachers.
Jared raises his hand surreptitiously next to Jensen, whispers, “I’ve got a question. Um, how much do we rock?”
Jensen smiles, bumps their shoulders together.
His leg is swinging, his ankle is brushing Jared's, and he can’t stop staring. There are only a few rows of students and teachers left, but they’re listening with interest, asking questions, and next year, it’s going to be him. It’s going to be him standing down in front of the stage, saying, “You’re right, costumes are a big deal-Sophia can tell you a little bit more about that,” and, “Nope, no cheat sheets, everyone really does memorize all their lines. Jared only had a few days to do it, actually, so he can probably give you some good pointers.”
He’s vaguely terrified, but Jesus, in the best way.
When the last class leaves, they stay seated for the Jeffies. “Like the Tonys, but better!” Mike says, for the benefit of the first timers.
Jensen kind of wants to grab Jared by the hand, pull him off somewhere secluded and secret and just spit it out, but it’s really Jeff’s news to tell. He just sits back, instead, watches Jared’s face as Mike starts up the music-the theme from Rocky, as interpreted by Mike on a fifteen cent kazoo.
“Now this-this is a tradition,” he says, smiling at Jared’s baffled expression.
The Jeffie Awards are kind of a hilarious cross between a souvenir and a way to relax in the hours between the matinee for the kids and the evening performance. They've got about two and a half hours before they’ll have to touch up and reset, and the awards plus lunch will take up most of that time.
This year's awards are purple ribbons, and Mike's wearing all of them around his neck.
“First up!” Mike yells. “To our lovely Sophia. This is the Undefined But Long-Term Monogamous Relationship Award!”
Everyone laughs as Sophia takes a gracious bow, and Chad wraps her up in a huge hug and spins her around after Mike hangs the ribbon around her neck.
“Incidentally,” Mike says dryly, “Chad gets this, the Fucking Weird Ass Proposal Award.”
Mike puts the award around Chad's neck, hugs him and offers his congratulations while everyone applauds.
Jared leans up against Jensen, and Jensen tunes out the awards in favor of leaning back.
“I can't believe it's almost over,” Jared says.
Jensen sighs, rests his forehead on Jared’s shoulder for just a second while he fights off the haze of melancholy that always descends at the end of the week. He’s got seven years of this under his belt, and he knows-it’s better not to dwell on it, not to think about it at all.
“Hey,” he says, “We've still got tonight, and tomorrow morning.”
Jeff brings in sandwiches while Mike finishes up the awards. “Last, but never least,” he says, “give it up for our stars, Jensen and Jared!”
Jared waves and blows kisses when they hop down off the stage to go stand with Mike, who throws an arm around each of them.
“Jesus, I need a fucking ladder for this!” he says. “Okay, so y’all are gonna have to help me out with this one. Which one of you is…” He smirks, flips the ribbons over, studies the paper tags on the back for a second. “Which one of you is In Love With A Wonderful Guy and which is Loved By A Pretty Wonderful Guy?”
Jared’s bright burst of laughter is as immediate and infectious as the cheers and catcalls from the stage, but Jensen does his best to ignore it all in favor of snatching the ribbons out of Mike’s hand.
Jared’s is technically the I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love I’m In Love With A Wonderful Guy Award. When he leans over Jensen’s shoulder to read it, he nearly doubles over laughing.
Jensen fights against the upward twitch of his own lips long enough to cuff Mike across the back of the head and say, “What the hell does never to be spoken of again mean in your language, dude?” He tugs at the single remaining ribbon around Mike’s neck. “No award for you!”
Mike bats his hand away, backs up a step. “Au contraire, mon frère,” he says, and his mouth curls up into a delighted smirk. “This year, I’m giving myself the I Taped Both Songs On My Cell Phone And Sent Them To Chris Kane Award.”
He takes off up the stairs, kazoos quickly through the closing music as he heads backstage, and Jensen yells, “Yeah, you better run!” through a laugh he can’t hold back.
The second show sneaks up like the first, the same elastic bend and stretch of time. Jensen sits with Jared in the hallway again, until Sophia comes through with her camera.
“Yearbook committee,” she says. “Smile!”
Then it’s time for Jeff's speech again. This time, it’s tailored to the community audience, but it’s no less moving, and Jensen's suddenly struck by just how lucky he is to be a part of this.
Completely, blindly, stupidly lucky, just-a freak chain of coincidences his freshman year, and if any one of them had worked out differently, he wouldn’t be here right now. If he hadn’t forgotten to apply for a Freshman Comp exemption, if the Theater department hadn’t been moving into the English building that semester, if the department advisor hadn’t been out sick when he stopped in. Then he wouldn’t have talked with the secretary-Mary-instead, might have walked out with the Theater minor he went in looking for instead of Jeff’s phone number.
He would have missed out on so much.
He laces his fingers with Jared’s again, like he did before the afternoon show. It’s not superstition, it’s just. He’s grateful.
The performance is amazing, a standing ovation, and Jensen doesn't care what the fuck time it is in Europe, he calls Chris.
It turns out they're just packing up after a show, and Jensen doesn't stay on the phone long, just long enough to tell Chris that his weird ass misfit of a play was a hit, and to thank him.
“For what, man?” he says, but there’s no way Jensen can make Chris understand it from thousands of miles away when it’s barely holding together in his own head.
He needs Chris camped out on his couch like they do in the summer, needs a month of tries to get the words right, to explain Chris’s place in this new, strange set of coincidences that’s led to this spot, to Jensen lying across the couch in the dressing room, head resting on Jared’s thigh, Jared’s fingers combing the gel out of his hair.
“I just-I can't really explain now, but. When you come home. When we've got time, I'll tell you all about it.”
“Two weeks,” Chris says. “For real, not like L.A. Gotta fucking graduate this year, man, so I can get out there and do this full time.”
“Okay,” Jensen says. “Two weeks. And use the goddamn phone this time.”
Chris laughs, then says, “Hey. If this is what you want, you know. I’m happy for you, man. Just do me a favor and don’t make the show tunes a regular thing.”
If they were face to face, Jensen would say fuck you, but as it is, he says, “Love you too, asshole,” and then flips his phone shut.
When they get back to the dorm, almost everyone's packing.
“Friday night tradition,” Jensen says.
Jared gathers the random clothing strewn throughout his room. “Yeah, well. It officially sucks.”
Jensen doesn’t bother with this own suitcase, camps out on Jared’s bed instead. He’ll pack his things tomorrow night, maybe Sunday morning. Whenever he and Jeff are done getting everything in order. That’s another tradition, staying a day later to help Jeff out with the wrap up. It’s nice, having that extra time, not having to rush to the airport right after the show.
Jared’s flight leaves on Saturday, just like everyone else’s.
Apparently, his idea of packing is more like throwing everything he's not wearing right now or planning to wear tomorrow into a haphazard pile in his oversized suitcase and zipping it shut.
Jensen's still wearing Jared’s hoodie. He doesn't offer to take it off, and Jared doesn't ask.
“Anything I missed, I'll just throw in Chad's,” Jared says, flopping down next to Jensen on the bed.
They're just relaxing; Jensen's tracing circles in Jared's upturned palm when Jeff knocks quietly on the open door. Jensen just nods, and Jeff smiles, pats the doorframe and heads back down the hall.
Jared might be sleeping, Jensen's not sure, but his eyes are closed, and Jensen takes the time to really look at him, to try and memorize his face.
After a minute, Jared says, “Take a picture, it'll last longer,” and then he chuckles when the camera on Jensen's phone makes its cheesy fake shutter sound.
Jared pretends that he's trying to snatch the phone away, but all he really does is pull Jensen closer, and he whispers, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jensen says back, and he tugs on Jared's sleeve. “I don't want to fall asleep here.”
Jared says, “I don't wanna fall asleep at all.”
They're barely inside Jensen's room when Jared grabs Jensen's face in his hands and just-stops. Momentum drives them forward, presses Jensen’s back into the door, but Jared’s completely still except for the air moving in and out of his lungs. Quick, fluttering breaths like he’s breathing for both of them, and then Jensen finally remembers to take in some air of his own.
“Fuck, Jensen,” Jared whispers into the silence. He leans in, impossibly slow, ducks down and drags his lips over Jensen’s pulse point, up to his ear, shivering rush that threatens to take Jensen’s knees out from under him. “Been wanting this,” he says, soft puff of heat against Jensen’s skin.
“Then fucking-take it,” Jensen says, voiceless, breathless words that he presses right up against Jared’s ear, and Jared just-Jesus, fucking stops time, lips an inch from Jensen’s like he can’t feel how desperate Jensen is to close the space between them, fucking epic chasm, even though Jared’s trembling breath is heating Jensen’s lips, even though they’re practically close enough to taste.
He fists Jared’s t-shirt, cotton stretching and wrinkling in his grip, and Jared thrusts forward, little stutter-step that forces their lips together, spark of warmth like a shock wave. Jensen swallows against a groan, surges up and locks his elbow around Jared’s neck, locks his mouth around Jared’s bottom lip, slow drag of teeth that makes Jared suck in a breath.
“C’mon,” he says, fucking-Jesus, flicking his tongue over the tip of Jared’s, then sucking it into his mouth, letting Jared fuck into him over and over, dirty-hot and so far from fucking gentle, but still-Christ, fucking sweet underneath it all.
He tugs on Jared’s shirt, yanks at the cotton, pants into Jared’s neck. “Come on,” he says again, pulls Jared toward the bed, pulls him down onto it. He’s got no idea how the fuck they fit, but they do-always fucking do, and Jared-
Jesus, fucking groans when Jensen shoves a hand inside his shirt, skin on skin, says, “God, Jen, yeah.”
“Yeah,” Jensen echoes, “Jesus.” He bites down on Jared's lower lip, rolls onto his back and pulls Jared on top of him, all that fucking weight pressed down strong and heavy, and Jared just-god, smiles, soft and sweet, brushes his thumb across Jensen’s cheekbone as he leans in for a kiss so chaste that it aches all the way down to Jensen’s heart, and then he pulls back, wicked little upturn of his lips, and rolls his hips, solid and so slow, against Jensen’s.
Jensen hisses out a breath, loses all the air in his lungs and can’t remember how to find more, can’t think about anything but the heat spreading through his body, fucking-he’s on fire with it, slow drag of Jared’s hips over his, hardness and pressure like he’s never felt, never-
“God, fucking-yeah,” Jared gasps when Jensen arches up against him, bites at his jaw, and he’s fucking crazy with it, with-Jared, the raw rasp of stubble against his tongue, the solidness of Jared's body, the heft of it, the way their hips push together, so fucking right that Jensen just-can’t even.
“Jesus,” he whispers, fucking-balls drawn up tight and unexpected, just-”Oh, god”-he grabs onto the back of Jared’s neck, threads his fingers up through Jared’s hair and pulls their foreheads together, whispers, “Yeah, yeah,” pants it with each deliberate thrust of his cock against Jared’s, tingling rush that builds with every movement of his hips, every hot puff of breath that lands heavy on his cheek until he can’t-can’t fucking think beyond Jared, beyond Jared’s body against his, and he just-
“Come on, Jen, yeah.”
-just arches off the bed, lets it go, fucking-Jesus, explodes, fully fucking clothed, locked tight against Jared, like.
Like he never wants to fucking let go.
Jared pulls back, though, just enough so Jensen can see his face, and he hovers there, hair falling over dark, intense eyes. He’s tense, trembling, bodyweight supported on one arm as he cups his huge hand over the back of Jensen’s, laces their fingers together, whispers, “Look what you fucking do to me, Jen.”
He brings their clasped hands down between them, Jensen’s palm brushing just barely over Jared’s cock, and Jared squeezes his eyes closed, then fucking-gasps in a breath, lets it out in a hushed, “Oh,” that just breaks him open, eyes so wide that Jensen can almost see inside him, and it’s. Almost more than he can take, watching Jared fall apart, gaping and unshuttered.
Eventually, Jared drops his forehead down onto Jensen’s shoulder, breathes against him until the air stops trembling, easy in and out, and that’s when he rests his chin on Jensen’s chest, looks up and says, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Jensen pushes the hair out of Jared's eyes.
The moment stretches out into easy silence, and then Jared laughs. “I usually do this with less clothes on,” he says.
Jensen snorts in response. “Yeah, well.” He shrugs, honest but not embarrassed. “I usually do this with girls.”
Jared nods, eyes serious and intent, head tilted like he’s considering something. After a minute, his mouth splits into a huge, dimpled smile. “I am completely irresistible,” he crows, flips over so he’s lying on his back with his head resting on Jensen’s stomach.
“Uh-huh,” Jensen says dryly, but he can’t hide the fondness that bursts out of him in a low chuckle.
Jared laughs, too, links his hand with Jensen’s and brings them both to rest on his stomach, then slides them down toward his waistband, drops his voice laughably deep and says, “So what you’re saying is that we need more practice.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “What I’m saying,” he says, huffs a put upon sigh through a smile he can’t quite suppress, “is that you’re completely irresistible.”
In the morning, Jared tugs Jensen down to the shower, clumsy and half asleep, and Jensen doesn’t let go when Jared points him toward a stall, just pulls Jared in, under the water with him.
“I’m gonna get fat,” Jared whispers into Jensen’s neck.
Later, when Jensen’s pulling Jared’s hoodie on over an old Zeppelin t-shirt, he says, “Because you’re not running?”
“Because someone keeps encouraging me to stay in bed.”
Over breakfast, Jensen says, “It’s your own fault. If you didn’t eat for thirty,” and after, halfway through his second cup of coffee, he catches Jared looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jared says. He smirks. “I’m just gonna miss our morning conversations.”
Jensen flips him off, buries his smile in a long gulp of coffee, swallows the inevitable Saturday ache down in a mouthful of caffeine.
Jeff starts the last morning meeting not long after. There are the usual evaluation forms and sign-ups for next year, but Jeff forgoes his regular week in review in favor of a kind of retrospective.
He talks about how he got started with the program, about why, about the last ten years, the entire experience, and Jensen listens like Jeff's talking directly to him.
Hell, maybe he is, because Jensen’s always been an advocate for the program, always spread the word, always made himself available to help, but he’s never felt so suddenly, fiercely protective of it before, like it’s his to guard and protect, to cultivate and sustain.
Jeff meets his eyes, grins right before he breaks the big news.
For a minute, Jensen can’t look, watches his hands fidget in his lap and tries to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach, the sudden terror that these people-friends, some of them, that he’s worked side by side with for years-won’t be willing to stick around, keep following the trail now that Jensen’s in the lead.
A wave of want hits him like a punch to the gut, violent and strong, because this-it’s so much more than memorizing the names of body parts, the ways they get torn apart and put back together, and he’s suddenly desperate to be given the chance to take something so good and help it grow into something even better.
And then Sophia headlocks him from behind, steals his breath and whispers, “I knew it’d be you someday.”
He looks up to smiles and congratulations, Chad’s request for deluxe accommodations next year, and Jesus, it’s been official for all of a minute, and already his mind’s stumbling over the defensibility of coed room assignments versus the absolute shit fit Chad’s inevitably going to throw if-
“Hey.” Jared’s huge hand slides over Jensen’s jaw, turns his head until their eyes meet.
“Hey,” Jensen says. “Sorry, I couldn’t-”
“I know, Jeff’s news to tell.” Jared smiles. “You’re fucking awesome, you know that?”
Jensen grins. “So I’ve been told.”
Jared rolls his eyes, then forces a solemn expression. “We should totally be superheroes.”
“Let me guess, Fucking Awesome and his sidekick, Completely Irresistible?” Jensen deadpans.
Jared nods. “We owe it to the world, dude,” he says. Then, “Wait, I’m not the sidekick!”
Jeff clears his throat, raises his eyebrow. “Moving on?” he says. “One difference that you might notice already is that you don’t have a play for next year yet.” He smirks at Jensen. “Might want to get on that, kid.”
“Uh-noted,” Jensen says through a chuckle when Sophia shoves a pad and pen into his hand, 1. find a play already written at the top of the page.
He adds a second item to the list, 2. find sidekick costume for Jared, and Jared sinks down low into his seat, tips his head back against the cushion and laughs.
The meeting breaks down, breaks off into random chunks of overlapping conversation, people heading backstage to get ready in staggered waves, and after a little while, Jensen’s sitting alone with Jeff in the front row, facing the stage.
It looks so big from this angle, so-important.
Jeff smiles, drops a hand down on Jensen’s head, ruffles his hair. “So,” he says, quietly. “He’s good.”
Jensen chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s good.”
The lead up to curtain time is quieter than yesterday; the back hallway is lined with packed suitcases, and Jensen leads Jared past them, continues on through the door, out to the back stairwell.
“What’re you thinking?” Jared says, when the door settles closed.
Jensen shrugs, turns and leans forward, up against the railing. “That I wish I knew how to do this?”
“What, saying goodbye?” Jared brackets himself against Jensen’s back, rests his forehead down on Jensen’s shoulder for a second. “Just-don’t.”
Jensen huffs out a laugh. “It’s just that easy?” he says.
“Just that easy,” Jared echoes.
“Yeah, I guess,” Jensen says, after a minute. “It’s what comes next, though.”
“And what comes next?”
Jensen shrugs. “Phone calls I forget to make, emails I never return.” He leans back, tips his head against Jared’s shoulder, like maybe if he presses up close enough, Jared won’t just evaporate around him.
They walk slowly, quietly on their way back to the auditorium, stop to say most of their goodbyes before Jared pulls Jensen into the dressing room, away from the heavy, hushed buzz backstage.
“Once upon a time,” Jared says, sprawled out on the couch, “and they lived happily ever after.”
Jensen raises a questioning eyebrow, and Jared shrugs.
“It’s the stuff in the middle,” he says. “That makes it worth it.” He sits up, looks at Jensen in the mirrored wall across the room, and claps a hand down on Jensen’s knee, pushes himself up. “Welcome to the middle.”
It feels a little like an ultimatum, like. Like a decision he’s supposed to make, and a heaviness tugs at Jensen’s chest, leaves his throat a little tight.
Sophia wanders in a few minutes later, holds her hand out, and Jensen takes it, lets her lead him into the wings.
Jared’s already waiting there, nearly silhouetted against the heavy stage curtains, and Jensen stops short, squeezes Sophia’s hand. “How’s the middle?” he says.
“What?”
She’s looking at him like he’s speaking another language, and Jesus, he kind of is. It’s a language made of half-dark rooms and secret handshakes, superheroes and show tunes, whispered greetings that mean so much more, and he just-there’s really not even a decision to make.
Jensen smiles, shakes his head, starts walking again. “Nothing,” he says, “I just-nothing.”
She hugs Jared first, says, “I’ll see you at graduation, right?” then turns to Jensen.
“This is it, beautiful.” She locks her arms around his neck, holds on tight as Jensen wraps his arms around her. “Try and call me more than once a year, okay?”
Jensen sighs against her hair, then lifts her off her feet and says, “Okay, but only if you try and live closer to Texas!”
When the curtain drops for the last time, Jensen pulls Jared back to the dressing room to change, leaves the mess to clean up later.
Jared’s got about an hour left, and Jensen just-he makes it about a hundred feet down the path to the dorm before he surges up, locks himself against Jared in a crushing kiss, licks into Jared’s mouth, bites at his bottom lip. He pulls their bodies together, chest to chest, hip to hip, clutches at the solidness of muscle against him.
The air is thick, heavy with the weight of Jared’s impending departure, and Jensen takes little gasping breaths that Jared echoes as he takes a step back.
“Wait,” Jared says, “slow down, I mean-”
Jensen huffs a trembling laugh. “Jesus,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”
He brings a hand up to Jared’s jaw, presses in slowly; soft, chaste kiss that Jared returns easily. He grabs onto the hoodie that Jensen’s been wearing all week, but he doesn’t pull Jensen in closer.
“Wait, shouldn’t we, uh,” he says between kisses. “Don’t you think we should talk about-stuff?”
Jensen smiles into a kiss, pulls back. “Nope,” he says. “And would you mind shutting the fuck up? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
The implication hangs heavy between them, and for a minute, Jensen holds his breath. Then, Jared laughs, bright and huge and surprised, pulls Jensen in by the sweatshirt he’s still fisting and whispers, “Fuck yeah, god,” right up against his ear.
They trip over themselves, over kisses and questions, all the way back to the dorm, make out in the entryway, Jared sitting on the table against the wall, Jensen tucked in between his spread legs.
“So,” Jensen says. “Michigan.”
He says the word slowly; it’s awkward and ugly in its precision, robs them of their broadness, their ability to exist entirely outside of distance and location.
“For now,” Jared says, and he grins. “Back home, for the summer, at least, and then I guess we'll see.”
“Where's home?” Jensen asks.
Jared's grin spreads out into a smile, dimples and all, and he says, “I, uh,” pauses to scratch at the back of his neck. When he looks up, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are worried, and Jensen can’t resist, has to lean in to kiss him.
“You were saying?” Jensen says, pulls back just enough to give Jared’s lips room to move.
“Yeah,” Jared huffs, “Okay, I uh. Grew up in a little place called San Antone.”
Jensen’s hand freezes half threaded through Jared’s hair, and he backs up, all the way this time. “You're fucking kidding me,” he says, watches Jared’s eyes flick down and back up. “Jesus, this whole fucking week, I've been-and you're from San Antonio?”
Jared's smile dims. “You don't seem-” he says, huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “I didn’t know you were from Texas, too. Not until Sophie said, and I just-I mean, if you don't want-”
Jensen shuts him up with a kiss, forceful crush of lips on lips that rocks the table back against the wall, pushes them both off balance, sends Jared’s palms crashing down onto the table behind him to brace them, hold their weight.
“Jesus,” Jensen says, when they break apart. “Like you don't even know.”
Jared kisses him again, softer, slower. “I think maybe I've got an idea,” he says.
Chad walks through the entryway a little later, says something Jensen doesn’t catch; the world is narrowed down to Jared’s mouth, his hands, this little spot of nowhere they’re filling up together. Jared opens his mouth, soft, quiet little flicks of his tongue against Jensen’s. It’s minutes, maybe days later when Chad comes back through rolling a suitcase, lifetimes later when he honks the car horn out in front of the door.
“Fuck off,” Jared yells, rests his forehead lightly against Jensen’s. He slides his palm over Jensen’s jaw, brings their lips together again, smiles and whispers, “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”
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master post | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | notes | art