To Teach the Human Heart the Knowledge of Itself, 2/5
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Jensen tries to pay attention during the directors' roundtable, but he finds himself zoning out instead. He considers feeling bad about that, but Jeff and Sarah aren’t looking all that engaged either, and they’re actually running the damn thing, so he doesn’t bother.
The question Tom was answering-is still answering, somehow-took a hard left somewhere around accents and hasn’t looked back since.
Jensen chooses to blame Tommy for the detour, because these kids are ten, nothing they say should be inciting discussions about regional dialects and what part they play in the audience’s perceptions of a character.
In his head, he constructs a very elaborate, very stupid, yet hilariously relevant Sociology Majors Gone Wild joke, and his eyes instinctively find-Jared, for some reason, then move on to Mike and Sophia, but they’re all too far away to share.
It’s just as well. Mike has all the subtlety of a rabid hyena; he’d probably burst out laughing and set a ridiculously bad example, and Sophie’s probably taking notes, or at least paying attention, and Jared-it’s probably better if he keeps his mouth shut around Jared, anyway. Something about the guy just completely takes away his ability to be coherent in any meaningful way.
Tom keeps talking, and Jensen tips his head back, closes his eyes.
His glasses are killing him, and he takes them off for a minute. He's stuck with them until his suitcase arrives, but he wears contacts for a reason, and that reason is the throbbing headache that's starting to build behind his ears.
The smart thing to do would be to get some new frames that don’t hurt, but the plan’s always been to get Lasik instead.
He rubs his hand over his eyelids and stares at the fuzzy blob formerly known as Jeff. He's surrounded by middle school kids on all sides; that's how they always do the roundtables, everyone scattered throughout the audience so the kids can ask questions if they want to. It's not the same group that saw the rehearsal earlier, and he's pretty sure he's never cared before, but now he's glad they bus them in and out so quickly, only keep each group for an hour or two at a time.
Jeff takes over the conversation, something about blocking. Jensen listens for a minute while Jeff explains that most of the staging in this particular play is left to the director-directors in this case, Tommy and Sarah won the directors' lottery this year, and Jeff always fills the third spot-and about whether there's some symbolic aspect to Jared and Jensen's placement on stage that should be addressed.
Jared's a section over, looking fuzzy and enormous in the middle of a class of second or third graders.
These are mostly kids who don't have drama programs in school, at least not officially; they won't get the chance to participate until college, or maybe high school, if they're lucky.
The idea is to get them excited about drama, and about the arts in general, send them home to their parents talking about it, and maybe for one or two of them, something will sink in, and their parents will look into drama lessons or community theater. Or, god, music, or anything, really. As long as they get involved, as long as they're doing something creative.
Someone sits in the seat next to him, and Jensen looks over to see Jeff settling back, watching Tom and Sarah, who’ve apparently taken over again.
“So, he’s pretty good at this stuff,” Jeff says. “But the way you’ve been staring, I figure you noticed that already.”
“I’m not staring,” Jensen says. “I’m contemplating.”
“Contemplating killing him in his sleep?”
Jensen laughs, says, “Nah, probably not.” Jared hops down onto the floor, and it’s too blurry to really see, but Jensen figures that puts him at about eye level with the littler kids.
Jeff clears his throat, and Jensen looks over, then wishes he hadn’t. Jeff’s mouth is pursed into a smug little smile that’s unfortunately nowhere near far enough away to be fuzzy and ignorable.
And then there’s the matter of the wide smile he can feel plastered to his own face, frozen in place and strangely unnatural now that he’s facing in Jeff’s direction.
He forces it away, says, “Anyway.”
Jeff leans back. “You were contemplating,” he says.
Jensen shrugs. “I can’t imagine growing up without this, you know?”
So many of his best high school memories are random things like playing hide and seek during play rehearsals, entire weekends spent camped out in the school’s auditorium, three people ordering enough food for thirty at the McDonald’s drive through, spreading out in the dressing rooms to eat.
Jeff nods, and Jensen says, “I don’t know, it’s just-wrong that we even have to do this. Not that I don’t love it, but. I’ll tell you what, man, they can bring back music and drama and lose calculus, and I think everybody’d be better off.”
Jeff chuckles at that, says, “Maybe I’ll put that in the brochure.”
Jensen snorts. “Fuck calculus, choose drama,” he whispers.
It’s true, though-not the fuck calculus part, specifically, but Jeff’s got all kinds of literature on drama and the arts in schools. Studies, charts, and it’s mostly kind of technical and complex, but what it boils down to is that there’s something special that happens when words on a page are read out loud.
It’s really just that simple.
Read something aloud and it comes to life, becomes real and whole, more than just shapes on a page, and the positive effect it has on kids, both socially and academically, is undeniable.
Jensen’s constantly reading out loud; it’s a skill he uses all the time, and it’s nothing he learned in class.
He picked it up after school, in the drama program.
Hell, he’s learned half of what he knows about the human body by reading his textbooks aloud. Pissed off more than his fair share of friends and roommates doing it, but he’s never once come across something he couldn’t understand.
It’s just a theory, but Jensen’s always kind of felt that when kids don’t have that, when they’re not given the opportunity to try it, they grow up afraid or unwilling to read aloud, and they miss things, things they might have understood if they’d just heard the words out loud.
“It might not be a bad idea,” Jeff says. “Be a little more aggressive with the research, as long as we’re still respectful about it. Good thinking.”
Jeff claps Jensen on the shoulder, nods, and Jensen’s about to come out with some variation on “Wait, what?” when Jared’s laugh carries across the auditorium, clear and huge, and Jensen turns in his direction automatically.
It’s Jeff’s hand squeezing his shoulder that turns him back around, Jeff’s closed-lipped chuckle that spreads a flush across his cheeks, and before he can come up with any kind of assurance that he’s listening-Jared’s just fucking loud, and distracting-Jeff’s openly laughing at him.
“You enjoy your lunch?” Jeff says, squeezes Jensen’s shoulder once more, and he’s gone before Jensen can answer.
Jensen slouches down in his seat, puts his glasses back on and stares a hole in Sarah’s forehead. She’s answering a question about what it’s like, doing plays in school, how they’re usually fit into class time during grammar school and middle school, how students give up their free time for drama in high school, how college is a little bit of both.
Some of the older kids are really paying attention, which is exciting-making an impression is kind of the whole point-but it’s always a little bit depressing, too.
Jensen knows he’s lucky, knows it was easier for him than it’ll ever be for most of these kids. School arts programs were never in danger when he was growing up. Or, where, more like, because there’s money in Richardson-enough to keep the arts safe, anyway. He had drama and music from fourth grade on, and as much as he loves doing this, it kills him that some of these kids won’t have the opportunities he had when he was eight until they’re eighteen.
Especially when they seem to want it so much.
He slouches a little further into his chair, buries his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and he doesn’t bother looking up when Sophia walks by in the aisle behind him.
She stops and crouches down, rests her forehead on his shoulder for a second.
“Oh, Jensen.”
Her voice is all sweet, exaggerated pity, but the slap she lands across the back of his head is far from gentle. “No brooding!” she says, then, “I think that guy up there is looking for you.”
Jensen turns toward the back doors of the auditorium and spots his suitcase first, followed by the guy with a clipboard who’s apparently escorting it.
“Thank fuck,” he says, and Sophia laughs.
“Tell Christian I’m taking care of his boy,” she says, and Jensen rolls his eyes and tugs at her ponytail before heading up the aisle.
In true airline fashion, being given his stuff back by the people who misplaced it is an absolute pain in the ass, and the roundtable’s nearly over by the time he’s finally liberated his belongings. He considers running the suitcase back to the dorm, but he probably doesn't have time, so he brings it backstage instead and fishes out his cell phone charger.
One good thing about auditoriums is that they have outlets everywhere, and he walks along the back edge of the stage until he sees the tell-tale brass cover on the floor. He flips it up and plugs his phone in to revive it, then sits back against the wall.
He calls Jennie, who agrees that her brother is a loser for not calling and says that Steve's new number-the one that's written down in Jensen's suitcase instead of programmed into his phone-should get him in touch with the band, and he scribbles it down on his hand rather than digging it out of his bag.
He debates whether he should call Chris now or later, but he dials anyway. Fuck the time difference, whatever it is.
When the line finally clicks, there's music in the background.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Jensen says, instead of hi.
“Hold on,” Steve says, and there's some muffled shouting in the background. He comes back with, “A couple hours south of Edinburgh. Dude, Chris gave you the schedule, don't you check your email?”
“Don't you guys call people when you're going to Europe?”
“Apparently not,” Steve says, laughs like he’s a little embarrassed, maybe, and Jensen suspects that the email plan was entirely Chris’s.
“Jenny!” Chris yells into the phone, right on cue.
“You're an asshole, you know that?” Jensen says, but he's smiling. “I'm proud of you man, but you're a total fucking dick.”
“I emailed you like three times, dude,” Chris says.
“And you know that calling is faster than typing, right?”
Chris snorts. “Yeah, for people who aren't total fucking girls about the telephone, maybe.”
“Fuck you.”
“In your dreams,” Chris says. “So why aren't you pissed?”
“I am!” Jensen says. “I totally am.”
“Yeah, no, you're really not,” Chris says. “I'm offended. Seven years, Jenny, and you don't even care that I'm not there?”
“Six. And maybe you've been replaced.”
“Like hell you're gonna replace me,” Chris says. “Who's doing it? Mike? God, tell me it's not Chad. That's fucking awesome, man, I can't wait to see tape on that!”
“It's not Chad,” Jensen says. “His name is Jared.”
“First timer?” Chris sounds almost contrite behind the laugh he’s clearly holding back. “Jesus. But he’s good. Gotta be, or you’d be ripping me a new one.”
Jensen shrugs, even though Chris can’t see it over the phone. “Been there, done that.”
There’s a rustling sound, and the music in the background gets quieter. “Fuck, Jen-you fucking like him,” Chris says, a cross between an accusation and a question, and when Jensen doesn’t jump in right away, he laughs. “Christ, you really do. Aww, our little Jenny’s got a boyfriend.”
“Fuck you,” Jensen mumbles, flushes hot for no particular reason. “I think I’m allowed to have a good working relationship with the guy, seeing as my best friend ditched me without so much as a phone call.”
Chris clears his throat. “I called your mom,” he offers, after a minute.
“You called my mom?”
“Hey,” Chris says, “she doesn’t have email.”
Jensen tips his head back against the wall, snorts out a chuckle that turns into a laugh, deep and sudden and surprising, and he’s still smiling when they hang up a few minutes later.
When the roundtable breaks up, Jeff tosses Jensen a set of keys.
“Men's dressing room's around back,” he says. “It'll be quiet enough for you guys to rehearse. You've only got an hour, so start with the stuff that didn't work this morning.”
It's one of the nicer dressing room's Jensen's seen over the years, counters and mirrors along two walls, a couch and coffee table set up along another and a single-stall bathroom built into the corner.
Jensen flops down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table.
“So how do you wanna do this?” he asks.
Jared sits on the table next to Jensen's feet, stretches his legs out, tight curves where denim stretches over his quads. “I don't know, man,” he says, “I haven't done this shit since high school.”
“Really?” Jensen says. It’s surprising, what with him being damn near perfect and all.
Jared shrugs, then grins. “So what, do we need to start with some trust exercises?”
“I fall over and you act like you're going to catch me, then you pull away at the last minute?”
Jared laughs, huge and bright, head tilted all the way back. “Sure, if that's what you want. But I was thinking more like what we did back in school.”
“Which was?”
Jared moves over to the couch next to Jensen and says, “Tell me a secret. Something you don't want to tell me, or something you don’t want anyone to know, whatever. I'll do the same, and we'll have to trust each other with whatever it is we say.”
He's friendly and sincere, and god, fucking huge; gigantic hands on his knees, hair flopping into his eyes, and Jensen doesn't have a goddamn clue what to tell him. That he’s unreasonably creeped out by underwater shipwrecks, he once accidentally used a women’s bathroom when he was drunk, and stealing all of Chad’s shoes that time-totally his idea, but.
But.
Because that’s all fine and good in his head, but his track record’s not all that great today, and he really doesn’t trust it to come out of his mouth in the same condition. Not when Jared’s staring at him like that, just-looking, like he’s seeing something, only Jensen has no idea what it is.
“You sure you don't wanna do that falling over thing?” he says. His breath skirts over a chuckle. “I could pretend to catch you instead.”
Jared puts his feet up next to Jensen’s.
“Here's the thing,” he says, all earnest eyes over suspiciously quirked lips. “I'm gonna be all the way across the stage from you for most of the play. And I'm fast, but I'm not that fast, so if you go down? You're going down, because I'm not gonna be able to get over there fast enough to catch you. I mean, if tripping and falling on your ass is really what you're worried about, we can use this time to practice you falling over and me not catching you, make it all graceful and shit. But I'm pretty sure you need to actually trust me, not play some bullshit game where somebody always ends up on their ass.”
Jensen says, “Hey, I trust you,” and the truth in the lie hits him dead on, stuns him for a second, because fuck, he wants to-and not just for the hour and a half they’re on stage, because Jesus, Jared’s earned that already.
“I think you will,” Jared says. “I hope so, anyway. So, uh. I'll go first. I know I told you I watched the DVDs of the plays, right?” Jared’s staring at the far corner of the room, but Jensen can see the color rising on his cheeks in the mirrored walls. “Well, I've watched them a few times, actually. Sometimes, Chad gets wasted and thinks it's hysterical to put them on, and sometimes on my own. And when I watched them on my own, I was watching you. You're kind of-what made me want to get back into drama again. I wanted to act with someone as good as you. So, in a way, you're part of the reason I signed up, and, uh.” He stops, clears his throat. “The reason I chose this part, actually.”
Jensen's kind of speechless, but he manages to say, “Thought that was optimism.”
Jared crosses his ankles, watches his shoes. “Yeah. Because Chad told me what part you had, and I wanted a chance at acting with you.” He clears his throat again, and Jensen finally notices that he looks kind of uncomfortable. “So, uh. Now that I've completely embarrassed myself, I think it's your turn.”
“Okay,” Jensen says, but he doesn't talk, he just watches the flush that’s not leaving Jared's cheeks, watches his long fingers fidget in his lap. “Okay, I, uh.”
He doesn’t know what to say, though, because suddenly, his Titanic-phobia seems insignificant and impersonal, seems like cheating.
He takes a deep breath, deep enough that the air huffs out of him in a cough that turns into a chuckle, and he says, “You know what? Fuck it. I’m glad you’re here. I mean, I wish Chris hadn’t bailed, obviously, but if it can’t be him-I’m glad it’s you.”
He doesn’t look in the mirror, doesn’t want to see his own face, but he can see Jared flush a little deeper out of the corner of his eye, and he clears his throat and says, “And just so you know, I fucking hate shipwrecks, man. They creep me out.”
“Duly noted,” Jared says. A grin spreads across his face. “Ruined Titanic for you, huh?”
“Jesus,” Jensen says, “don’t even.” He took his baby sister to see it-twice-and he’s not sure he’s ever going to recover.
Jared knocks his knee into Jensen’s, says, “Sucks for you, man. I fucking love Kate Winslet.”
When Jeff knocks on the door an hour later, they haven't actually rehearsed at all, but even so, Jensen's feeling good about the runthrough.
“So, I’ve got a surprise,” Jeff says on the way back to the stage, and he holds up a little video camera. “It's a hard drive, so after I tape stuff, I just hook it up to my laptop and it, y’know. Does its thing.”
Jensen can’t keep the grin off his face. “Is that so,” he says.
Jeff shrugs. “Well, that's what the guy at the store said.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Jeff Morgan, director of stage and film,” Jensen announces to no one in particular, and he turns to share a grin with Jared. “Don’t hold your breath, I swear to god, this guy can't even keep his cell phone charged.”
“Anyway,” Jeff says, and his grin takes on an evil edge. “I'm gonna tape rehearsal. And since I like you guys so much, I'm gonna let you use your free time to review it.”
Jensen knocks his shoulder against Jeff's as they go through the door that leads backstage. “We'll see, old man,” he says, because if there's one thing in this world Jensen has faith in, it's Jeff's inability to use technology. In fact, Jensen's pretty sure his expertise begins and ends at turning his laptop on and sending email, so.
If it were anyone else holding that camera, Jensen might be worried, but Jeff’s epic technological incompetence has screwed Jensen over enough times that he just doesn’t feel the need to be concerned.
They go through the back curtains and out onto the stage, and Sarah's barking directorial instructions before Jeff even makes it down into the audience.
Jensen looks out on the auditorium. It’s mostly empty, but it’s fucking alive, Jeff and some of the other actors throwing bits of conversation around in the first few rows, a class of kids sitting off to the side with Sophia, Chad half dragging a piece of cardboard bigger than he is down the aisle. Tom’s yelling back and forth with Mike while the sound check echoes through the hall, and Jared’s standing two feet away, actually listening to the orders Sarah's throwing in their direction, changing color every time they flip the switch on a new set of lights.
He can’t keep the smile off his face, doesn’t want to try.
He's pretty sure that this, right here-this worn out stage at this tiny little college in the middle of absolutely nowhere-is pretty much his favorite spot in the whole world.
“Hey,” he says, elbowing Jared in the side.
Jared turns just in time to catch Jensen as he freefalls backwards toward the hard wood floor. His palms land warm against Jensen’s shoulders, tight grip that doesn’t ease, even when Jensen’s standing upright again.
Jensen shrugs at Jared's raised eyebrows and wide eyes, and Jared’s shocked expression softens into a smile when Jensen huffs out a breath and says, “Had a hunch.”
By the end of the second runthrough, the auditorium's seats are empty except for Jeff, but the round of applause that follows the last line is still thunderous.
It helps that Mike kicks up the level on the mics, so the clapping from the wings and backstage resonates through the speakers mounted in the corners of the auditorium, but it’s still awesome, the way everyone floods out of the hidden spaces to offer congratulations.
Jensen doesn’t need an audience to know that they were nearly perfect, performance ready except for the part where they're still carrying scripts and not wearing costumes.
It’s a fucking flawless moment, and the part of Jensen that’s still wishing Chris were here to share it, the little knot rising in his stomach, gets dislodged by the smile Jared shoots him across the stage, never gets a chance to resurface.
Jeff lifts an approving eyebrow from the auditorium floor, and Jensen laughs.
It's a rush, this feeling, familiar and new at the same time, because it’s been good before, but never this good.
They were so in sync on stage, so flexible, bending and stretching the dialogue at just the right times, fitting together effortlessly. Jared was even better this time through, and now that Jensen was expecting it, he knew where add space and where to reel it in, where to sync up and where to fall out.
With both of them dead on, it's even better than he expected, and he meets Jared's blinding grin from across the stage.
Chad comes out of the wings and pats Jared on the back, and then Jared crosses the stage and wraps Jensen up in a massive hug.
“We fucking rock,” he says.
Jensen agrees-can’t say a fucking word with his face pressed against the side of Jared’s neck, though, can’t get any air that’s not sharp with the same mix of fabric softener and cologne and Jared that’s scenting his borrowed hoodie, can’t even move, pressed up tight against Jared’s flank, off-center and locked in tight.
It's weird when Jeff starts talking, somehow distant even though he’s standing right at the front of the stage.
They break apart; Jensen can’t tell who pulls back first, but Jared's huge hand stays warm on his shoulder, and Jensen focuses his eyes deliberately on Jeff, wills himself to pay attention because Jesus, it’s not like him to get so lost in the rush of the performance and the applause, in the congratulations, after.
Jeff's got a cord stretching from his camera to his laptop, and he's crowing about the video transfer bar that's growing across the screen.
Jensen laughs and flips Jeff off, but he can’t even bring himself to care.
He’s still buzzing from the performance, and yeah, he’s always refused to watch himself on video, but that was when he was afraid of what he might see.
Right now, he’s got Jared’s hand strong on his shoulder, compliments flying in every direction, and it’s not even bullshit-that scripted, uncostumed, propless rehearsal might just be the best damn performance of his life.
If he’s gotta watch himself, fuck. This is the time to do it.
That’s not what he says in the face of Jeff’s evil grin, though.
“Just you wait, old man.” He shakes his head. “Payback’s a bitch.”
Jeff fakes a big yawn, says, “Idle threats, kid,” and Jensen can’t help it, he throws his head back and laughs.
Jensen uses the hour before dinner-which turns into fifty minutes, then forty-five before he comes up with the motivation to get off his ass, stop sharing the edge of the stage with Jared and Chad and Sophia-to roll his suitcase back to the dorm and unpack.
Though by unpacking, he mostly means just opening the suitcase and laying it flat on the floor so he can rifle through it whenever he needs something.
Normally, he’d do a better job, but it’s easy, it works, and for once, he doesn’t have to worry about Chad tripping over his shit, so. He’s taking advantage.
He's got plenty of clothes now, but he doesn't change. Jared's hoodie is comfortable, just on the edge of too big, and soft like he's had it forever and worn it a lot. He does trade his sneakers for boots, though, and then he lies back on the bed and tries not to deliberately sniff at the scent of Jared’s fabric softener on the sweatshirt when the hood ends up bunched around his face.
It’s kind of hard, because that would basically require depriving himself of oxygen, but he doesn’t feel like moving, so he works on his shallow breathing instead.
A knock on the door startles him, leaves him feeling a little bit flustered, because Jesus. Shallow breathing?
“Wanna come with to get dinner?” Jeff asks.
“Sure,” Jensen says, and he cringes when it comes out a little too loud. He grabs his keys. “No catering here?”
“Too expensive,” Jeff says. “Cheaper just to get food.”
It's just as well. The colleges that cater are never great at it, and it's kind of a pain in the ass to have to eat whatever they feel like making, whenever they feel like making it.
“Where to?” Jensen asks when they hit the parking lot.
“Subway,” Jeff says. “I ordered three six foot subs.”
Jensen snorts. “So you've got Jared covered. What are the rest of us gonna eat?”
Jeff laughs and says, “So. He’s good.”
It's not quite a repeat of their earlier conversation, not quite a question, but Jensen thinks maybe it kind of is, so he says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that as he climbs into Jeff's rental.
There’s more to it, obviously. A person would have to be deaf and blind not to appreciate Jared’s talent, and Jeff’s pretty damn far from either one. He also doesn’t tend to make random statements without having some larger point, but Jensen’s good with waiting him out on this one.
Because yeah, Jared’s good-he’s fucking awesome, Jesus-but now that they’ve gotten past their awkward introduction, Jensen would rather let sleeping dogs lie than rehash the whole thing with Jeff.
The ride to Subway is quick, and no amount of glancing over in Jeff’s direction reveals anything useful, but after a few minutes, the scenery captures most of Jensen’s attention. Or, lack of scenery. They head out the opposite way Jensen came in, and he's surprised to find an entire town full of stores and restaurants.
“You came in the back way, huh?”
“Got directions at a gas station,” Jensen says. Technically, at the rental counter, too, but they were weak, fell apart halfway there. “Someone wasn't answering his phone. So, if I need, say, bananas, liquor, bowls, snacks...”
“Super Target,” Jeff says. “At the mall, another mile down the road on the left, you can't miss it. No booze except in liquor stores in Massachusetts, though. Maybe food stores? I don’t know, but there's probably one nearby.”
It's deserted inside Subway, so Jeff puts on his charming act, scruffy dimple and all, and two girls probably half his age start work on a fourth six foot sub while Jensen just shakes his head and grins in the background.
“I’ve got soda at the dorm,” Jeff says when he joins Jensen at the drink cooler.
Before Jensen can think too much about it, he grabs a few packages of apples out of the cooler along with two milks, and when he checks out after Jeff, he has the girl add six cookies to his order.
When they get back in the car, Jeff says, “So. He's good,” again.
Jensen looks at the pile of food in his lap and says, “Yeah, he is.”
First night dinner's another tradition, and as the words are coming out of Jensen's mouth he realizes how ridiculous it all sounds, and he just laughs instead of finishing his sentence.
“What?” Jared says, chuckling along with him. He’s shaping one semi-soft cookie into a shallow crater.
Jensen crunches an apple, and Jared pours some of his milk onto the cookie, a few drops at a time.
“Too big to dunk,” he says, when he notices Jensen watching. Jesus, staring, at the milk pouring craziness, and the careful slurping that comes after. Jared licks his lips. “You were saying?”
“Nothing, it's just,” Jensen says, tries to recapture his train of thought. “I don't know, I never really thought about it before, but everything here's a tradition. It's kind of silly, I guess.”
Jared shrugs, puts his feet up on the beat up common room table. “I think it's nice.”
“Yeah,” Jensen says, and he smiles because the truth is, he does too. He likes how things work here, how they stay the same year after year. “So, Jeff's just gonna go over the day, do an overview of the week, and announce this year's fundraising events. Did Chad tell you about the fundraising?”
“I've heard things,” Jared says, with an evil quirk to his lips that makes Jensen possibly want to kill Chad. Or at least rough him up a little.
Jensen's really not sure he even wants to know what charity events Jeff's got on the schedule for this year. In the past, they've ranged from the boring-sitting outside a supermarket-to the bizarre-a streetside musical medley that's never to be spoken of again.
And no, Jensen does not feel pretty.
If Jared's heard stories, Jensen's pretty sure they're not about a folding table outside the IGA, and he feels his cheeks heat up.
Jared leans in close, grins and says, “Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell.”
“Just how attached are you to Chad?” Jensen asks.
“He's off limits,” Jared cautions. “As Harley's godfather.”
“Chad is responsible for the spiritual upbringing of your dog?” Jensen says. “God help us all.”
Jared chuckles. ”He's more of a figurehead, actually. Calls himself the Dogfather, speaks with an accent, y'know.”
“That is...” Jensen says between swallows of milk, “...just so disturbing. Just so you know, you're not making me want to kill Chad less.”
“Noted,” Jared says, “moving on.”
Jeff stands up then and says, “Okay, you guys know the drill. And those of you who don't, just do what everyone else does.”
Sophia's next to Jeff in their messy semi-circle, and she says, “The second runthrough, Chad's lame-ass goatee.”
“Hey!” Chad says, and most of the room laughs.
Tom says, “Okay, Sophie's idea for the costumes, Chad's soda bottles.”
Chad flips Tom off, and Mike says, “This place actually has more than one gel for the spotlight. On the other hand, it also has Chad.”
Mike gestures to his left, where Chad is sitting. “I abstain,” he grumps, glaring, though a smile is twitching at his lips.
As they continue around the circle, Jared says, “Okay, I don't get it.”
Jensen says, “One and one. One thing from today that was awesome, one that needs work. First night, the thing that needs work is always Chad.” He shrugs. “What can I say, it's tradition.”
When it's Jensen's turn, he says, “Jared... and Jared's best friend.”
Jared's next, but he's just kind of looking at Jensen like he’s surprised about something, and he doesn't say anything for a minute, then he shakes his head a little and chuckles. “I, uh,” he says. “What kind of friend would I be?”
Chad smirks. “The kind that's spent the last year crushing on-”
“Okay,” Jared interrupts. “Love the way everyone works together and takes time to talk to the kids and answer questions. Hate the way Chad dreams about porn every night.”
The whole crowd groans, and Jensen elbows Jared and says, “Dude, I did not need to know that. I though it was just, like-how a dog chases rabbits or something.”
“Nope.” Jared shakes his head solemnly. “Porn.”
Jeff goes last, as always, and as always, he's the only one who really lays out the positives and negatives. He says good things about the second runthrough and some of the backstage stuff, and then he starts listing everything that needs work. It's generally a long list, but Sophia always takes notes and posts it up somewhere, and every night, they cross more and more things off.
As much as Jensen doesn't do things like actually follow his schedule after all these years, he really does love that list, how it's always there, reminding him that they're getting better every single day. It's a good feeling.
“Okay,” Jeff says, “fundraisers.” He pauses for a second, then says, “Well don't look so happy about it.”
A little bit of applause scatters through the crowd, and Jeff rolls his eyes and says, “Pathetic. This is how we get this paid for, folks, so I know you're all gonna do your best, right? Jensen, be a role model.”
“U-huh. So how’s that time machine coming?” Jensen says, gives Jeff the evilest look he can muster.
He’ll be a role model as soon as Jeff figures out how to go back in time and convince his younger self that musical numbers are a fucking terrible idea. And while he’s at it, he can back up a little farther and erase the goddamn car wash, too, Jesus.
“’Bout as good as your face,” Jeff deadpans, and Jensen flips him off with the sweetest smile he can manage.
“Okay, first up, people, we have a raffle. We're gonna be selling tickets in shifts all day Wednesday at the mall, and then we're gonna do the drawing at night. I have very generously and tax deductably donated a five hundred dollar giftcard to some fancy-pants fondue restaurant that you couldn't pay me enough to go to, but people around here seem to like it.
“I'm gonna divide you guys up in groups based on when I need you here and who's got cars-can I get a show of hands on that?”
Jensen raises his hand, along with a handful of other people, and Sophia takes notes.
“Okay, the second fundraiser is Thursday night after dinner, so don't make plans. We're going out to a little place called Firewater. It's got kind of a reputation on Thursday nights, so if you want to know ahead of time, just ask around a little, otherwise, just be ready to go with your IDs around eight-thirty.”
Jeff wraps the meeting up with a completely unsubtle reminder about just how early everyone's expected to be in the auditorium tomorrow, and once he's left the common room, Mike jumps up and says, “Good evening everybody, this is your captain speaking, we've now been cleared for takeoff! We will be providing beverage service, so just sit back and relax. Jensen will be taking care of you this evening, so if you need anything, please don't be afraid to ask!”
Jensen kicks out in Mike's direction and misses by a mile, then he thumps his boot down on the table and says, “I'm not moving ’til there's a hundred bucks on the table!”
He's not really worried about it; they usually end up somewhere in the neighborhood of two-fifty, and with only five first years, they're likely to get even more this year.
“Hey, you wanna come?” Jensen says to Jared as the money piles up.
“Where to?” Jared asks. “I mean, yeah, but where to?”
“Probably just Target and the liquor store,” Jensen says, and then he waves Sophia over. “You got my list, beautiful?”
“Oh, Jensen,” she monotones dryly, throws in a fake yawn for effect. “You’re such a sweet talker.”
“Gimme my list, woman!” Jensen barks back with a smile, and then he pulls Sophia down onto his lap and tickles her. Aside from Chris and Steve, Sophia's always been his favorite person here. He almost hooked up with her once, about three years ago, but then Chad had a freak asthma attack-which was weird, considering Jensen's pretty sure he doesn't actually have asthma.
He gives Sophia a break to ask Jared, “Hey, does Chad actually have asthma?”
Jared looks surprised for a second, then looks at Sophia and says, “Uh, yeah. I mean. Yeah.”
“Huh,” Jensen answers as Sophia elbows him closer to Jared to make room for herself on the tiny common room couch. Jensen elbows back and thinks he’s lucky that nothing ever happened there. Too much potential for things to go wrong, to ruin their friendship entirely.
Sophia gives him one final shove and a discordantly sweet grin, and he settles back into the space she’s left him, tight and warm against Jared.
“So, you don't know,” Jared says, when they get in the car. “I can't believe you don't know. How do you not know?”
“Know what?” Jensen asks.
“That Chad is hopelessly, completely, epically, forever in love with Sophia.” Jared shrugs. “His words, not mine.”
Jensen puts the car in gear and says, “Seriously?”
“Dude,” Jared says, “she's the whole reason he's here.”
Jensen thinks about it, but he doesn't get very far. “Seriously?”
“Okay,” Jared says, “freshman year, there was this girl on our floor named Martha-Marty. At the time, Chad was into drinking beer and hooking up.”
“So not much has changed.” Jensen checks his mirrors, backs out slowly.
“And Marty,” Jared says, “was into drama. So Spring semester, Chad got involved with the drama department, and then he followed Marty to ACT! on spring break.”
“Tall?” Jensen asks. “Red hair? Only came the one year?”
“Short and blond, been a pain in your ass for four,” Jared says, echoes Jensen’s speculative tone. Jensen gives him a hearty but fake laugh that trails off into nothing, and Jared says, “Yeah, that was her. Only when Chad got there, he met Sophia, and it was love at first sight.”
“Seriously?” Jensen says. Again.
“Would I lie about something as serious as Chad defiling a nice girl like that with his Chadness?”
Jensen snorts out a laugh, steals a glance at Jared’s smile when he’s safely stopped at a stop sign.
“Jesus,” he says. “Does she know?”
“I’m pretty sure everyone knows,” Jared answers, and Jensen would really like to see the look Jared’s giving him, but he’s not willing to take his eyes off the road.
There’s a snort that accompanies another look Jensen doesn’t catch, and he says, “What?”
“We gotta get you a hat,” Jared says. He’s counting the money, muttering numbers in between his sentences.
“What for?”
“‘Cause you're driving like an LOM, man!”
“LOM?”
“Little old man,” Jared says. “Little old men in hats are the absolute worst drivers on the road, I swear to god. Look for it, you'll see. And the quality of their driving decreases exponentially in proportion to their littleness and oldness. It's a thing.”
Jensen puts his directional on well in advance of a carefully planned lane change and says, “Yeah, well, little old men don't have to pay an arm and a leg for a goddamn rental car. This is the first time it hasn't cost me a fortune, and I plan on keeping it that way.”
“What, you hit the threshold, old man? Ripe old age of twenty-five?” Jared chuckles, runs quickly through the stack of bills a second time.
“Fuck you,” Jensen says, “how much we got?”
“Three-seventeen,” Jared answers. “I think that oughta cover it.”
Jensen pulls into Target first, because he knows where it is, and also because it's the more annoying of their two stops.
“Just booze on the list,” Jared says.
“Yeah, Jeff says we're gonna have to go to a liquor store for that, but we need a few things here first. Wanna split up?” Jensen asks as they go through the automatic doors.
Jensen sends Jared in search of a bowl, the biggest he can get for a few bucks, and plastic cups and napkins, then he grabs a cart and heads for the produce section.
He throws things in the cart as he sees them, while he makes his way toward the fruit. Nothing special, a few different kinds of juices, some Coke, a few decks of cards. He gets a funny look or two when he puts about thirty bananas in the cart, and another funny look when he meets Jared in the snack aisle.
He ignores it and says, “Just the basics, chips, popcorn. Some Slim Jims for Jeff.”
They throw the snacks in on top of the bananas and head for the registers. Somehow, by the time they get there, there’s a very large, very mysterious pile of candy taking up residence in the child seat.
“Why do I get the feeling you're not even going to explain all this?” Jared says, loading bananas onto the belt by the bunch.
Jensen raises an eyebrow, starts loading the candy, all sugar-based, primary colors.
“Because you're psychic?” he says through a grin, waves off the ten Jared holds out.
They get directions to the nearest liquor store from the guy who rings them up. It's easy enough to find, and Jared gets out the list, which Sophia apparently found the time to rewrite. It's actually on the page twice, listed alphabetically and also by type of alcohol.
Jensen pretty much loves everything about her, and he tells Jared as much.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Jared says, and he rips the neatly written page in two and holds the alphabetized half out to Jensen. “I'll meet you at the register.”
The hard edge to Jared’s voice roots Jensen to his spot for a second; it’s low and harsh, everything Jensen probably deserved last night, but he’s got no clue what brought it on now.
It stings more than he really wants to admit, and Jesus, that’s-he’s not new to this, to the way friendships develop at ACT! It’s quick and dirty, full of strange, imperfect bonds that come out of nowhere, and he knows that better than anyone, but he’s still not prepared for how strong his physical reaction is, how hard it is to keep himself from just reaching out, grabbing onto the back of Jared’s shirt, stopping him in his tracks.
Instead, he waits a beat, then tails Jared through the store, because they have identical lists, and it'd be stupid if they both showed up at the register with one of everything.
He’s watching Jared more than he’s watching the shelves, but he picks up some of what Jared misses, wonders if Jared’s skipping things on purpose just so he’ll have something to grab.
He detours an aisle off Jared’s course to grab a Massachusetts shot glass for his collection-to complete his collection of seven, actually, and he and Chris and Steve decided forever ago that they weren’t going to let this week turn into a collection of sappy last moments, but Jensen’s holding his last shot glass in his hand, and he can’t help it, the thought just sits like a rock in his stomach.
The funk stays with him into the tequila aisle, where he grabs Chris’s favorite brand instead of his own.
Jared’s still an aisle ahead. It’s not like it’d even be possible to lose the guy, so Jensen doesn’t bother to catch up.
Eventually, Jared slows to a stop, checks his list, and maybe it’s a trick of the ancient panel lighting, but Jensen can actually see the tension radiating from his shoulders.
He feels the same tension taking shape inside his own chest, like he somehow absorbed it or breathed it in or something, and Jesus, this is really not how he pictured his last first night booze run going.
He sighs. Chris would be laughing his ass off right about now.
They start walking again, an aisle apart, and Jensen can feel the pressure building up in his chest, tangle of words building up in his throat like a hairball, and god only knows what's gonna happen when he finally spits it out because he’s torn, fucking lost as hell because he’s got no idea what’s going on in Jared’s head right now, not sure whether he wants to call Jared on his attitude or figure out what’s wrong so he can find a way to make it better.
He replays their conversation in his head as he walks, arguing the merits of medium versus medium rare in the car on the way over, Jared’s argument sticky and sugar-sweet, cherry flavor scenting the car. Jared holding the door for a real LOM, hat and all, insisting they wait and watch him pull out of the parking lot, and then-and then.
They’re on the Chad portion of the list-and seriously, do they actually still make Zima?-when it suddenly clicks in his head, and he gets what's up with Jared.
They’re halfway through the store; Jensen closes the gap a little, and Jared turns and says, “This is completely stupid. We have the same list.”
Jensen takes a breath, shrugs and says, “Listen, man, I'm sorry. About what I said, Sophia and all. I mean, I know you're friends with Chad and I just didn't-”
“Dude, no, I was totally out of line-”
“No, seriously,” Jensen says, and it’s like the words aren’t going to stop spewing out of his mouth until he’s sure Jared understands. “I mean, I love her, you know, but it's not like that with us. Hell, we don't even talk more than a few times a year, and I swear to god, she’s gonna kick my ass if I don’t start calling, but it’s just-you know, even if I was into her, I wouldn't do anything now that I know. You know, about Chad. And his, uh. Epic love.” Jensen shrugs, tries not to grimace and wills himself to wrap it the fuck up. “He's a good guy. But don't tell him I said that.”
Jared laughs at that, says, “You know, secretly, he loves you too.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “Awesome,” he says, and he dumps his flavored vodkas and tequila into Jared's cart.
Jared bumps Jensen’s shoulder as they start walking again, together this time, and his smile is small, quiet, but it’s there, so Jensen does his best to ignore the tension that won’t quite leave his body, the nagging feeling that he’s somehow missed something, and focuses on the task at hand.
Mike meets them at the door when they get back and says, “There's a reason they call it TJ.”
He’s grinning in a way that promises interesting times ahead. At the very least, it signifies that there’s a special brand of treachery afoot-and really, after all these years, Jensen wouldn’t expect any less.
“Awesome,” Jensen says, “care to elaborate?”
Mike gestures to the sign next to the door-the one that says Thomas Jefferson-and says, “I figured it out.”
Jensen nods. “Good for you, man. Reading's definitely a skill.”
Mike aims an eloquently raised eyebrow in Jensen’s direction, looks terrifyingly like the educated adult he is for a second before a grin spreads across his face.
“Dude, they’ve got a sweet party room in the basement,” he says
Jensen's not sure what Mike's definition of party room is, because if he remembers correctly, the only thing in the basements of his undergrad dorms were mailboxes.
Mike grabs two bags and says, “Come on.”
It takes the three of them two trips to get everything downstairs, but Mike was definitely right about the party room. What it lacks in mailboxes, it makes up for with two pool tables, a card table, and halfway decent couches. It’s still dorm furniture, obviously, but newer and much more comfortable than the stuff in the common room at the end of their hallway.
“Beats the fucking psych ward,” Mike says, and Jensen laughs, nods his agreement.
“One year,” he says to Jared, “we ended up in a dorm that was only used by the Psychology department for experiments. Fucking creepy.”
“Fucking fucked up, Mike says. “Is this visitor housing?”
Jensen shrugs. “Didn’t ask. Looks like it, though.”
Mike finds a bunch of folding chairs and a couple of folding tables in an oversized broom closet and says, “Time to set up the bar!”
Jensen leaves him to it, figures if he gets too crazy, Tom'll get on his case.
“You ready for another tradition?” Jensen asks, flopping down on one of the couches next to Jared.
He watches Jared’s face, accidentally ends up tucked in closer than he really needs to be, knocks his knee up against Jared’s, since they’re already touching anyway.
Whatever he’s looking for in Jared’s expression, some kind of evidence that Jared’s not okay, or that they’re not okay, he doesn’t find it.
Jared’s smile is huge.
“Bring it,” he says, knocks his knee back into Jensen’s. “Whatever you got.”
part three
Jensen tries to pay attention during the directors' roundtable, but he finds himself zoning out instead. He considers feeling bad about that, but Jeff and Sarah aren’t looking all that engaged either, and they’re actually running the damn thing, so he doesn’t bother.
The question Tom was answering-is still answering, somehow-took a hard left somewhere around accents and hasn’t looked back since.
Jensen chooses to blame Tommy for the detour, because these kids are ten, nothing they say should be inciting discussions about regional dialects and what part they play in the audience’s perceptions of a character.
In his head, he constructs a very elaborate, very stupid, yet hilariously relevant Sociology Majors Gone Wild joke, and his eyes instinctively find-Jared, for some reason, then move on to Mike and Sophia, but they’re all too far away to share.
It’s just as well. Mike has all the subtlety of a rabid hyena; he’d probably burst out laughing and set a ridiculously bad example, and Sophie’s probably taking notes, or at least paying attention, and Jared-it’s probably better if he keeps his mouth shut around Jared, anyway. Something about the guy just completely takes away his ability to be coherent in any meaningful way.
Tom keeps talking, and Jensen tips his head back, closes his eyes.
His glasses are killing him, and he takes them off for a minute. He's stuck with them until his suitcase arrives, but he wears contacts for a reason, and that reason is the throbbing headache that's starting to build behind his ears.
The smart thing to do would be to get some new frames that don’t hurt, but the plan’s always been to get Lasik instead.
He rubs his hand over his eyelids and stares at the fuzzy blob formerly known as Jeff. He's surrounded by middle school kids on all sides; that's how they always do the roundtables, everyone scattered throughout the audience so the kids can ask questions if they want to. It's not the same group that saw the rehearsal earlier, and he's pretty sure he's never cared before, but now he's glad they bus them in and out so quickly, only keep each group for an hour or two at a time.
Jeff takes over the conversation, something about blocking. Jensen listens for a minute while Jeff explains that most of the staging in this particular play is left to the director-directors in this case, Tommy and Sarah won the directors' lottery this year, and Jeff always fills the third spot-and about whether there's some symbolic aspect to Jared and Jensen's placement on stage that should be addressed.
Jared's a section over, looking fuzzy and enormous in the middle of a class of second or third graders.
These are mostly kids who don't have drama programs in school, at least not officially; they won't get the chance to participate until college, or maybe high school, if they're lucky.
The idea is to get them excited about drama, and about the arts in general, send them home to their parents talking about it, and maybe for one or two of them, something will sink in, and their parents will look into drama lessons or community theater. Or, god, music, or anything, really. As long as they get involved, as long as they're doing something creative.
Someone sits in the seat next to him, and Jensen looks over to see Jeff settling back, watching Tom and Sarah, who’ve apparently taken over again.
“So, he’s pretty good at this stuff,” Jeff says. “But the way you’ve been staring, I figure you noticed that already.”
“I’m not staring,” Jensen says. “I’m contemplating.”
“Contemplating killing him in his sleep?”
Jensen laughs, says, “Nah, probably not.” Jared hops down onto the floor, and it’s too blurry to really see, but Jensen figures that puts him at about eye level with the littler kids.
Jeff clears his throat, and Jensen looks over, then wishes he hadn’t. Jeff’s mouth is pursed into a smug little smile that’s unfortunately nowhere near far enough away to be fuzzy and ignorable.
And then there’s the matter of the wide smile he can feel plastered to his own face, frozen in place and strangely unnatural now that he’s facing in Jeff’s direction.
He forces it away, says, “Anyway.”
Jeff leans back. “You were contemplating,” he says.
Jensen shrugs. “I can’t imagine growing up without this, you know?”
So many of his best high school memories are random things like playing hide and seek during play rehearsals, entire weekends spent camped out in the school’s auditorium, three people ordering enough food for thirty at the McDonald’s drive through, spreading out in the dressing rooms to eat.
Jeff nods, and Jensen says, “I don’t know, it’s just-wrong that we even have to do this. Not that I don’t love it, but. I’ll tell you what, man, they can bring back music and drama and lose calculus, and I think everybody’d be better off.”
Jeff chuckles at that, says, “Maybe I’ll put that in the brochure.”
Jensen snorts. “Fuck calculus, choose drama,” he whispers.
It’s true, though-not the fuck calculus part, specifically, but Jeff’s got all kinds of literature on drama and the arts in schools. Studies, charts, and it’s mostly kind of technical and complex, but what it boils down to is that there’s something special that happens when words on a page are read out loud.
It’s really just that simple.
Read something aloud and it comes to life, becomes real and whole, more than just shapes on a page, and the positive effect it has on kids, both socially and academically, is undeniable.
Jensen’s constantly reading out loud; it’s a skill he uses all the time, and it’s nothing he learned in class.
He picked it up after school, in the drama program.
Hell, he’s learned half of what he knows about the human body by reading his textbooks aloud. Pissed off more than his fair share of friends and roommates doing it, but he’s never once come across something he couldn’t understand.
It’s just a theory, but Jensen’s always kind of felt that when kids don’t have that, when they’re not given the opportunity to try it, they grow up afraid or unwilling to read aloud, and they miss things, things they might have understood if they’d just heard the words out loud.
“It might not be a bad idea,” Jeff says. “Be a little more aggressive with the research, as long as we’re still respectful about it. Good thinking.”
Jeff claps Jensen on the shoulder, nods, and Jensen’s about to come out with some variation on “Wait, what?” when Jared’s laugh carries across the auditorium, clear and huge, and Jensen turns in his direction automatically.
It’s Jeff’s hand squeezing his shoulder that turns him back around, Jeff’s closed-lipped chuckle that spreads a flush across his cheeks, and before he can come up with any kind of assurance that he’s listening-Jared’s just fucking loud, and distracting-Jeff’s openly laughing at him.
“You enjoy your lunch?” Jeff says, squeezes Jensen’s shoulder once more, and he’s gone before Jensen can answer.
Jensen slouches down in his seat, puts his glasses back on and stares a hole in Sarah’s forehead. She’s answering a question about what it’s like, doing plays in school, how they’re usually fit into class time during grammar school and middle school, how students give up their free time for drama in high school, how college is a little bit of both.
Some of the older kids are really paying attention, which is exciting-making an impression is kind of the whole point-but it’s always a little bit depressing, too.
Jensen knows he’s lucky, knows it was easier for him than it’ll ever be for most of these kids. School arts programs were never in danger when he was growing up. Or, where, more like, because there’s money in Richardson-enough to keep the arts safe, anyway. He had drama and music from fourth grade on, and as much as he loves doing this, it kills him that some of these kids won’t have the opportunities he had when he was eight until they’re eighteen.
Especially when they seem to want it so much.
He slouches a little further into his chair, buries his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and he doesn’t bother looking up when Sophia walks by in the aisle behind him.
She stops and crouches down, rests her forehead on his shoulder for a second.
“Oh, Jensen.”
Her voice is all sweet, exaggerated pity, but the slap she lands across the back of his head is far from gentle. “No brooding!” she says, then, “I think that guy up there is looking for you.”
Jensen turns toward the back doors of the auditorium and spots his suitcase first, followed by the guy with a clipboard who’s apparently escorting it.
“Thank fuck,” he says, and Sophia laughs.
“Tell Christian I’m taking care of his boy,” she says, and Jensen rolls his eyes and tugs at her ponytail before heading up the aisle.
In true airline fashion, being given his stuff back by the people who misplaced it is an absolute pain in the ass, and the roundtable’s nearly over by the time he’s finally liberated his belongings. He considers running the suitcase back to the dorm, but he probably doesn't have time, so he brings it backstage instead and fishes out his cell phone charger.
One good thing about auditoriums is that they have outlets everywhere, and he walks along the back edge of the stage until he sees the tell-tale brass cover on the floor. He flips it up and plugs his phone in to revive it, then sits back against the wall.
He calls Jennie, who agrees that her brother is a loser for not calling and says that Steve's new number-the one that's written down in Jensen's suitcase instead of programmed into his phone-should get him in touch with the band, and he scribbles it down on his hand rather than digging it out of his bag.
He debates whether he should call Chris now or later, but he dials anyway. Fuck the time difference, whatever it is.
When the line finally clicks, there's music in the background.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Jensen says, instead of hi.
“Hold on,” Steve says, and there's some muffled shouting in the background. He comes back with, “A couple hours south of Edinburgh. Dude, Chris gave you the schedule, don't you check your email?”
“Don't you guys call people when you're going to Europe?”
“Apparently not,” Steve says, laughs like he’s a little embarrassed, maybe, and Jensen suspects that the email plan was entirely Chris’s.
“Jenny!” Chris yells into the phone, right on cue.
“You're an asshole, you know that?” Jensen says, but he's smiling. “I'm proud of you man, but you're a total fucking dick.”
“I emailed you like three times, dude,” Chris says.
“And you know that calling is faster than typing, right?”
Chris snorts. “Yeah, for people who aren't total fucking girls about the telephone, maybe.”
“Fuck you.”
“In your dreams,” Chris says. “So why aren't you pissed?”
“I am!” Jensen says. “I totally am.”
“Yeah, no, you're really not,” Chris says. “I'm offended. Seven years, Jenny, and you don't even care that I'm not there?”
“Six. And maybe you've been replaced.”
“Like hell you're gonna replace me,” Chris says. “Who's doing it? Mike? God, tell me it's not Chad. That's fucking awesome, man, I can't wait to see tape on that!”
“It's not Chad,” Jensen says. “His name is Jared.”
“First timer?” Chris sounds almost contrite behind the laugh he’s clearly holding back. “Jesus. But he’s good. Gotta be, or you’d be ripping me a new one.”
Jensen shrugs, even though Chris can’t see it over the phone. “Been there, done that.”
There’s a rustling sound, and the music in the background gets quieter. “Fuck, Jen-you fucking like him,” Chris says, a cross between an accusation and a question, and when Jensen doesn’t jump in right away, he laughs. “Christ, you really do. Aww, our little Jenny’s got a boyfriend.”
“Fuck you,” Jensen mumbles, flushes hot for no particular reason. “I think I’m allowed to have a good working relationship with the guy, seeing as my best friend ditched me without so much as a phone call.”
Chris clears his throat. “I called your mom,” he offers, after a minute.
“You called my mom?”
“Hey,” Chris says, “she doesn’t have email.”
Jensen tips his head back against the wall, snorts out a chuckle that turns into a laugh, deep and sudden and surprising, and he’s still smiling when they hang up a few minutes later.
When the roundtable breaks up, Jeff tosses Jensen a set of keys.
“Men's dressing room's around back,” he says. “It'll be quiet enough for you guys to rehearse. You've only got an hour, so start with the stuff that didn't work this morning.”
It's one of the nicer dressing room's Jensen's seen over the years, counters and mirrors along two walls, a couch and coffee table set up along another and a single-stall bathroom built into the corner.
Jensen flops down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table.
“So how do you wanna do this?” he asks.
Jared sits on the table next to Jensen's feet, stretches his legs out, tight curves where denim stretches over his quads. “I don't know, man,” he says, “I haven't done this shit since high school.”
“Really?” Jensen says. It’s surprising, what with him being damn near perfect and all.
Jared shrugs, then grins. “So what, do we need to start with some trust exercises?”
“I fall over and you act like you're going to catch me, then you pull away at the last minute?”
Jared laughs, huge and bright, head tilted all the way back. “Sure, if that's what you want. But I was thinking more like what we did back in school.”
“Which was?”
Jared moves over to the couch next to Jensen and says, “Tell me a secret. Something you don't want to tell me, or something you don’t want anyone to know, whatever. I'll do the same, and we'll have to trust each other with whatever it is we say.”
He's friendly and sincere, and god, fucking huge; gigantic hands on his knees, hair flopping into his eyes, and Jensen doesn't have a goddamn clue what to tell him. That he’s unreasonably creeped out by underwater shipwrecks, he once accidentally used a women’s bathroom when he was drunk, and stealing all of Chad’s shoes that time-totally his idea, but.
But.
Because that’s all fine and good in his head, but his track record’s not all that great today, and he really doesn’t trust it to come out of his mouth in the same condition. Not when Jared’s staring at him like that, just-looking, like he’s seeing something, only Jensen has no idea what it is.
“You sure you don't wanna do that falling over thing?” he says. His breath skirts over a chuckle. “I could pretend to catch you instead.”
Jared puts his feet up next to Jensen’s.
“Here's the thing,” he says, all earnest eyes over suspiciously quirked lips. “I'm gonna be all the way across the stage from you for most of the play. And I'm fast, but I'm not that fast, so if you go down? You're going down, because I'm not gonna be able to get over there fast enough to catch you. I mean, if tripping and falling on your ass is really what you're worried about, we can use this time to practice you falling over and me not catching you, make it all graceful and shit. But I'm pretty sure you need to actually trust me, not play some bullshit game where somebody always ends up on their ass.”
Jensen says, “Hey, I trust you,” and the truth in the lie hits him dead on, stuns him for a second, because fuck, he wants to-and not just for the hour and a half they’re on stage, because Jesus, Jared’s earned that already.
“I think you will,” Jared says. “I hope so, anyway. So, uh. I'll go first. I know I told you I watched the DVDs of the plays, right?” Jared’s staring at the far corner of the room, but Jensen can see the color rising on his cheeks in the mirrored walls. “Well, I've watched them a few times, actually. Sometimes, Chad gets wasted and thinks it's hysterical to put them on, and sometimes on my own. And when I watched them on my own, I was watching you. You're kind of-what made me want to get back into drama again. I wanted to act with someone as good as you. So, in a way, you're part of the reason I signed up, and, uh.” He stops, clears his throat. “The reason I chose this part, actually.”
Jensen's kind of speechless, but he manages to say, “Thought that was optimism.”
Jared crosses his ankles, watches his shoes. “Yeah. Because Chad told me what part you had, and I wanted a chance at acting with you.” He clears his throat again, and Jensen finally notices that he looks kind of uncomfortable. “So, uh. Now that I've completely embarrassed myself, I think it's your turn.”
“Okay,” Jensen says, but he doesn't talk, he just watches the flush that’s not leaving Jared's cheeks, watches his long fingers fidget in his lap. “Okay, I, uh.”
He doesn’t know what to say, though, because suddenly, his Titanic-phobia seems insignificant and impersonal, seems like cheating.
He takes a deep breath, deep enough that the air huffs out of him in a cough that turns into a chuckle, and he says, “You know what? Fuck it. I’m glad you’re here. I mean, I wish Chris hadn’t bailed, obviously, but if it can’t be him-I’m glad it’s you.”
He doesn’t look in the mirror, doesn’t want to see his own face, but he can see Jared flush a little deeper out of the corner of his eye, and he clears his throat and says, “And just so you know, I fucking hate shipwrecks, man. They creep me out.”
“Duly noted,” Jared says. A grin spreads across his face. “Ruined Titanic for you, huh?”
“Jesus,” Jensen says, “don’t even.” He took his baby sister to see it-twice-and he’s not sure he’s ever going to recover.
Jared knocks his knee into Jensen’s, says, “Sucks for you, man. I fucking love Kate Winslet.”
When Jeff knocks on the door an hour later, they haven't actually rehearsed at all, but even so, Jensen's feeling good about the runthrough.
“So, I’ve got a surprise,” Jeff says on the way back to the stage, and he holds up a little video camera. “It's a hard drive, so after I tape stuff, I just hook it up to my laptop and it, y’know. Does its thing.”
Jensen can’t keep the grin off his face. “Is that so,” he says.
Jeff shrugs. “Well, that's what the guy at the store said.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Jeff Morgan, director of stage and film,” Jensen announces to no one in particular, and he turns to share a grin with Jared. “Don’t hold your breath, I swear to god, this guy can't even keep his cell phone charged.”
“Anyway,” Jeff says, and his grin takes on an evil edge. “I'm gonna tape rehearsal. And since I like you guys so much, I'm gonna let you use your free time to review it.”
Jensen knocks his shoulder against Jeff's as they go through the door that leads backstage. “We'll see, old man,” he says, because if there's one thing in this world Jensen has faith in, it's Jeff's inability to use technology. In fact, Jensen's pretty sure his expertise begins and ends at turning his laptop on and sending email, so.
If it were anyone else holding that camera, Jensen might be worried, but Jeff’s epic technological incompetence has screwed Jensen over enough times that he just doesn’t feel the need to be concerned.
They go through the back curtains and out onto the stage, and Sarah's barking directorial instructions before Jeff even makes it down into the audience.
Jensen looks out on the auditorium. It’s mostly empty, but it’s fucking alive, Jeff and some of the other actors throwing bits of conversation around in the first few rows, a class of kids sitting off to the side with Sophia, Chad half dragging a piece of cardboard bigger than he is down the aisle. Tom’s yelling back and forth with Mike while the sound check echoes through the hall, and Jared’s standing two feet away, actually listening to the orders Sarah's throwing in their direction, changing color every time they flip the switch on a new set of lights.
He can’t keep the smile off his face, doesn’t want to try.
He's pretty sure that this, right here-this worn out stage at this tiny little college in the middle of absolutely nowhere-is pretty much his favorite spot in the whole world.
“Hey,” he says, elbowing Jared in the side.
Jared turns just in time to catch Jensen as he freefalls backwards toward the hard wood floor. His palms land warm against Jensen’s shoulders, tight grip that doesn’t ease, even when Jensen’s standing upright again.
Jensen shrugs at Jared's raised eyebrows and wide eyes, and Jared’s shocked expression softens into a smile when Jensen huffs out a breath and says, “Had a hunch.”
By the end of the second runthrough, the auditorium's seats are empty except for Jeff, but the round of applause that follows the last line is still thunderous.
It helps that Mike kicks up the level on the mics, so the clapping from the wings and backstage resonates through the speakers mounted in the corners of the auditorium, but it’s still awesome, the way everyone floods out of the hidden spaces to offer congratulations.
Jensen doesn’t need an audience to know that they were nearly perfect, performance ready except for the part where they're still carrying scripts and not wearing costumes.
It’s a fucking flawless moment, and the part of Jensen that’s still wishing Chris were here to share it, the little knot rising in his stomach, gets dislodged by the smile Jared shoots him across the stage, never gets a chance to resurface.
Jeff lifts an approving eyebrow from the auditorium floor, and Jensen laughs.
It's a rush, this feeling, familiar and new at the same time, because it’s been good before, but never this good.
They were so in sync on stage, so flexible, bending and stretching the dialogue at just the right times, fitting together effortlessly. Jared was even better this time through, and now that Jensen was expecting it, he knew where add space and where to reel it in, where to sync up and where to fall out.
With both of them dead on, it's even better than he expected, and he meets Jared's blinding grin from across the stage.
Chad comes out of the wings and pats Jared on the back, and then Jared crosses the stage and wraps Jensen up in a massive hug.
“We fucking rock,” he says.
Jensen agrees-can’t say a fucking word with his face pressed against the side of Jared’s neck, though, can’t get any air that’s not sharp with the same mix of fabric softener and cologne and Jared that’s scenting his borrowed hoodie, can’t even move, pressed up tight against Jared’s flank, off-center and locked in tight.
It's weird when Jeff starts talking, somehow distant even though he’s standing right at the front of the stage.
They break apart; Jensen can’t tell who pulls back first, but Jared's huge hand stays warm on his shoulder, and Jensen focuses his eyes deliberately on Jeff, wills himself to pay attention because Jesus, it’s not like him to get so lost in the rush of the performance and the applause, in the congratulations, after.
Jeff's got a cord stretching from his camera to his laptop, and he's crowing about the video transfer bar that's growing across the screen.
Jensen laughs and flips Jeff off, but he can’t even bring himself to care.
He’s still buzzing from the performance, and yeah, he’s always refused to watch himself on video, but that was when he was afraid of what he might see.
Right now, he’s got Jared’s hand strong on his shoulder, compliments flying in every direction, and it’s not even bullshit-that scripted, uncostumed, propless rehearsal might just be the best damn performance of his life.
If he’s gotta watch himself, fuck. This is the time to do it.
That’s not what he says in the face of Jeff’s evil grin, though.
“Just you wait, old man.” He shakes his head. “Payback’s a bitch.”
Jeff fakes a big yawn, says, “Idle threats, kid,” and Jensen can’t help it, he throws his head back and laughs.
Jensen uses the hour before dinner-which turns into fifty minutes, then forty-five before he comes up with the motivation to get off his ass, stop sharing the edge of the stage with Jared and Chad and Sophia-to roll his suitcase back to the dorm and unpack.
Though by unpacking, he mostly means just opening the suitcase and laying it flat on the floor so he can rifle through it whenever he needs something.
Normally, he’d do a better job, but it’s easy, it works, and for once, he doesn’t have to worry about Chad tripping over his shit, so. He’s taking advantage.
He's got plenty of clothes now, but he doesn't change. Jared's hoodie is comfortable, just on the edge of too big, and soft like he's had it forever and worn it a lot. He does trade his sneakers for boots, though, and then he lies back on the bed and tries not to deliberately sniff at the scent of Jared’s fabric softener on the sweatshirt when the hood ends up bunched around his face.
It’s kind of hard, because that would basically require depriving himself of oxygen, but he doesn’t feel like moving, so he works on his shallow breathing instead.
A knock on the door startles him, leaves him feeling a little bit flustered, because Jesus. Shallow breathing?
“Wanna come with to get dinner?” Jeff asks.
“Sure,” Jensen says, and he cringes when it comes out a little too loud. He grabs his keys. “No catering here?”
“Too expensive,” Jeff says. “Cheaper just to get food.”
It's just as well. The colleges that cater are never great at it, and it's kind of a pain in the ass to have to eat whatever they feel like making, whenever they feel like making it.
“Where to?” Jensen asks when they hit the parking lot.
“Subway,” Jeff says. “I ordered three six foot subs.”
Jensen snorts. “So you've got Jared covered. What are the rest of us gonna eat?”
Jeff laughs and says, “So. He’s good.”
It's not quite a repeat of their earlier conversation, not quite a question, but Jensen thinks maybe it kind of is, so he says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that as he climbs into Jeff's rental.
There’s more to it, obviously. A person would have to be deaf and blind not to appreciate Jared’s talent, and Jeff’s pretty damn far from either one. He also doesn’t tend to make random statements without having some larger point, but Jensen’s good with waiting him out on this one.
Because yeah, Jared’s good-he’s fucking awesome, Jesus-but now that they’ve gotten past their awkward introduction, Jensen would rather let sleeping dogs lie than rehash the whole thing with Jeff.
The ride to Subway is quick, and no amount of glancing over in Jeff’s direction reveals anything useful, but after a few minutes, the scenery captures most of Jensen’s attention. Or, lack of scenery. They head out the opposite way Jensen came in, and he's surprised to find an entire town full of stores and restaurants.
“You came in the back way, huh?”
“Got directions at a gas station,” Jensen says. Technically, at the rental counter, too, but they were weak, fell apart halfway there. “Someone wasn't answering his phone. So, if I need, say, bananas, liquor, bowls, snacks...”
“Super Target,” Jeff says. “At the mall, another mile down the road on the left, you can't miss it. No booze except in liquor stores in Massachusetts, though. Maybe food stores? I don’t know, but there's probably one nearby.”
It's deserted inside Subway, so Jeff puts on his charming act, scruffy dimple and all, and two girls probably half his age start work on a fourth six foot sub while Jensen just shakes his head and grins in the background.
“I’ve got soda at the dorm,” Jeff says when he joins Jensen at the drink cooler.
Before Jensen can think too much about it, he grabs a few packages of apples out of the cooler along with two milks, and when he checks out after Jeff, he has the girl add six cookies to his order.
When they get back in the car, Jeff says, “So. He's good,” again.
Jensen looks at the pile of food in his lap and says, “Yeah, he is.”
First night dinner's another tradition, and as the words are coming out of Jensen's mouth he realizes how ridiculous it all sounds, and he just laughs instead of finishing his sentence.
“What?” Jared says, chuckling along with him. He’s shaping one semi-soft cookie into a shallow crater.
Jensen crunches an apple, and Jared pours some of his milk onto the cookie, a few drops at a time.
“Too big to dunk,” he says, when he notices Jensen watching. Jesus, staring, at the milk pouring craziness, and the careful slurping that comes after. Jared licks his lips. “You were saying?”
“Nothing, it's just,” Jensen says, tries to recapture his train of thought. “I don't know, I never really thought about it before, but everything here's a tradition. It's kind of silly, I guess.”
Jared shrugs, puts his feet up on the beat up common room table. “I think it's nice.”
“Yeah,” Jensen says, and he smiles because the truth is, he does too. He likes how things work here, how they stay the same year after year. “So, Jeff's just gonna go over the day, do an overview of the week, and announce this year's fundraising events. Did Chad tell you about the fundraising?”
“I've heard things,” Jared says, with an evil quirk to his lips that makes Jensen possibly want to kill Chad. Or at least rough him up a little.
Jensen's really not sure he even wants to know what charity events Jeff's got on the schedule for this year. In the past, they've ranged from the boring-sitting outside a supermarket-to the bizarre-a streetside musical medley that's never to be spoken of again.
And no, Jensen does not feel pretty.
If Jared's heard stories, Jensen's pretty sure they're not about a folding table outside the IGA, and he feels his cheeks heat up.
Jared leans in close, grins and says, “Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell.”
“Just how attached are you to Chad?” Jensen asks.
“He's off limits,” Jared cautions. “As Harley's godfather.”
“Chad is responsible for the spiritual upbringing of your dog?” Jensen says. “God help us all.”
Jared chuckles. ”He's more of a figurehead, actually. Calls himself the Dogfather, speaks with an accent, y'know.”
“That is...” Jensen says between swallows of milk, “...just so disturbing. Just so you know, you're not making me want to kill Chad less.”
“Noted,” Jared says, “moving on.”
Jeff stands up then and says, “Okay, you guys know the drill. And those of you who don't, just do what everyone else does.”
Sophia's next to Jeff in their messy semi-circle, and she says, “The second runthrough, Chad's lame-ass goatee.”
“Hey!” Chad says, and most of the room laughs.
Tom says, “Okay, Sophie's idea for the costumes, Chad's soda bottles.”
Chad flips Tom off, and Mike says, “This place actually has more than one gel for the spotlight. On the other hand, it also has Chad.”
Mike gestures to his left, where Chad is sitting. “I abstain,” he grumps, glaring, though a smile is twitching at his lips.
As they continue around the circle, Jared says, “Okay, I don't get it.”
Jensen says, “One and one. One thing from today that was awesome, one that needs work. First night, the thing that needs work is always Chad.” He shrugs. “What can I say, it's tradition.”
When it's Jensen's turn, he says, “Jared... and Jared's best friend.”
Jared's next, but he's just kind of looking at Jensen like he’s surprised about something, and he doesn't say anything for a minute, then he shakes his head a little and chuckles. “I, uh,” he says. “What kind of friend would I be?”
Chad smirks. “The kind that's spent the last year crushing on-”
“Okay,” Jared interrupts. “Love the way everyone works together and takes time to talk to the kids and answer questions. Hate the way Chad dreams about porn every night.”
The whole crowd groans, and Jensen elbows Jared and says, “Dude, I did not need to know that. I though it was just, like-how a dog chases rabbits or something.”
“Nope.” Jared shakes his head solemnly. “Porn.”
Jeff goes last, as always, and as always, he's the only one who really lays out the positives and negatives. He says good things about the second runthrough and some of the backstage stuff, and then he starts listing everything that needs work. It's generally a long list, but Sophia always takes notes and posts it up somewhere, and every night, they cross more and more things off.
As much as Jensen doesn't do things like actually follow his schedule after all these years, he really does love that list, how it's always there, reminding him that they're getting better every single day. It's a good feeling.
“Okay,” Jeff says, “fundraisers.” He pauses for a second, then says, “Well don't look so happy about it.”
A little bit of applause scatters through the crowd, and Jeff rolls his eyes and says, “Pathetic. This is how we get this paid for, folks, so I know you're all gonna do your best, right? Jensen, be a role model.”
“U-huh. So how’s that time machine coming?” Jensen says, gives Jeff the evilest look he can muster.
He’ll be a role model as soon as Jeff figures out how to go back in time and convince his younger self that musical numbers are a fucking terrible idea. And while he’s at it, he can back up a little farther and erase the goddamn car wash, too, Jesus.
“’Bout as good as your face,” Jeff deadpans, and Jensen flips him off with the sweetest smile he can manage.
“Okay, first up, people, we have a raffle. We're gonna be selling tickets in shifts all day Wednesday at the mall, and then we're gonna do the drawing at night. I have very generously and tax deductably donated a five hundred dollar giftcard to some fancy-pants fondue restaurant that you couldn't pay me enough to go to, but people around here seem to like it.
“I'm gonna divide you guys up in groups based on when I need you here and who's got cars-can I get a show of hands on that?”
Jensen raises his hand, along with a handful of other people, and Sophia takes notes.
“Okay, the second fundraiser is Thursday night after dinner, so don't make plans. We're going out to a little place called Firewater. It's got kind of a reputation on Thursday nights, so if you want to know ahead of time, just ask around a little, otherwise, just be ready to go with your IDs around eight-thirty.”
Jeff wraps the meeting up with a completely unsubtle reminder about just how early everyone's expected to be in the auditorium tomorrow, and once he's left the common room, Mike jumps up and says, “Good evening everybody, this is your captain speaking, we've now been cleared for takeoff! We will be providing beverage service, so just sit back and relax. Jensen will be taking care of you this evening, so if you need anything, please don't be afraid to ask!”
Jensen kicks out in Mike's direction and misses by a mile, then he thumps his boot down on the table and says, “I'm not moving ’til there's a hundred bucks on the table!”
He's not really worried about it; they usually end up somewhere in the neighborhood of two-fifty, and with only five first years, they're likely to get even more this year.
“Hey, you wanna come?” Jensen says to Jared as the money piles up.
“Where to?” Jared asks. “I mean, yeah, but where to?”
“Probably just Target and the liquor store,” Jensen says, and then he waves Sophia over. “You got my list, beautiful?”
“Oh, Jensen,” she monotones dryly, throws in a fake yawn for effect. “You’re such a sweet talker.”
“Gimme my list, woman!” Jensen barks back with a smile, and then he pulls Sophia down onto his lap and tickles her. Aside from Chris and Steve, Sophia's always been his favorite person here. He almost hooked up with her once, about three years ago, but then Chad had a freak asthma attack-which was weird, considering Jensen's pretty sure he doesn't actually have asthma.
He gives Sophia a break to ask Jared, “Hey, does Chad actually have asthma?”
Jared looks surprised for a second, then looks at Sophia and says, “Uh, yeah. I mean. Yeah.”
“Huh,” Jensen answers as Sophia elbows him closer to Jared to make room for herself on the tiny common room couch. Jensen elbows back and thinks he’s lucky that nothing ever happened there. Too much potential for things to go wrong, to ruin their friendship entirely.
Sophia gives him one final shove and a discordantly sweet grin, and he settles back into the space she’s left him, tight and warm against Jared.
“So, you don't know,” Jared says, when they get in the car. “I can't believe you don't know. How do you not know?”
“Know what?” Jensen asks.
“That Chad is hopelessly, completely, epically, forever in love with Sophia.” Jared shrugs. “His words, not mine.”
Jensen puts the car in gear and says, “Seriously?”
“Dude,” Jared says, “she's the whole reason he's here.”
Jensen thinks about it, but he doesn't get very far. “Seriously?”
“Okay,” Jared says, “freshman year, there was this girl on our floor named Martha-Marty. At the time, Chad was into drinking beer and hooking up.”
“So not much has changed.” Jensen checks his mirrors, backs out slowly.
“And Marty,” Jared says, “was into drama. So Spring semester, Chad got involved with the drama department, and then he followed Marty to ACT! on spring break.”
“Tall?” Jensen asks. “Red hair? Only came the one year?”
“Short and blond, been a pain in your ass for four,” Jared says, echoes Jensen’s speculative tone. Jensen gives him a hearty but fake laugh that trails off into nothing, and Jared says, “Yeah, that was her. Only when Chad got there, he met Sophia, and it was love at first sight.”
“Seriously?” Jensen says. Again.
“Would I lie about something as serious as Chad defiling a nice girl like that with his Chadness?”
Jensen snorts out a laugh, steals a glance at Jared’s smile when he’s safely stopped at a stop sign.
“Jesus,” he says. “Does she know?”
“I’m pretty sure everyone knows,” Jared answers, and Jensen would really like to see the look Jared’s giving him, but he’s not willing to take his eyes off the road.
There’s a snort that accompanies another look Jensen doesn’t catch, and he says, “What?”
“We gotta get you a hat,” Jared says. He’s counting the money, muttering numbers in between his sentences.
“What for?”
“‘Cause you're driving like an LOM, man!”
“LOM?”
“Little old man,” Jared says. “Little old men in hats are the absolute worst drivers on the road, I swear to god. Look for it, you'll see. And the quality of their driving decreases exponentially in proportion to their littleness and oldness. It's a thing.”
Jensen puts his directional on well in advance of a carefully planned lane change and says, “Yeah, well, little old men don't have to pay an arm and a leg for a goddamn rental car. This is the first time it hasn't cost me a fortune, and I plan on keeping it that way.”
“What, you hit the threshold, old man? Ripe old age of twenty-five?” Jared chuckles, runs quickly through the stack of bills a second time.
“Fuck you,” Jensen says, “how much we got?”
“Three-seventeen,” Jared answers. “I think that oughta cover it.”
Jensen pulls into Target first, because he knows where it is, and also because it's the more annoying of their two stops.
“Just booze on the list,” Jared says.
“Yeah, Jeff says we're gonna have to go to a liquor store for that, but we need a few things here first. Wanna split up?” Jensen asks as they go through the automatic doors.
Jensen sends Jared in search of a bowl, the biggest he can get for a few bucks, and plastic cups and napkins, then he grabs a cart and heads for the produce section.
He throws things in the cart as he sees them, while he makes his way toward the fruit. Nothing special, a few different kinds of juices, some Coke, a few decks of cards. He gets a funny look or two when he puts about thirty bananas in the cart, and another funny look when he meets Jared in the snack aisle.
He ignores it and says, “Just the basics, chips, popcorn. Some Slim Jims for Jeff.”
They throw the snacks in on top of the bananas and head for the registers. Somehow, by the time they get there, there’s a very large, very mysterious pile of candy taking up residence in the child seat.
“Why do I get the feeling you're not even going to explain all this?” Jared says, loading bananas onto the belt by the bunch.
Jensen raises an eyebrow, starts loading the candy, all sugar-based, primary colors.
“Because you're psychic?” he says through a grin, waves off the ten Jared holds out.
They get directions to the nearest liquor store from the guy who rings them up. It's easy enough to find, and Jared gets out the list, which Sophia apparently found the time to rewrite. It's actually on the page twice, listed alphabetically and also by type of alcohol.
Jensen pretty much loves everything about her, and he tells Jared as much.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Jared says, and he rips the neatly written page in two and holds the alphabetized half out to Jensen. “I'll meet you at the register.”
The hard edge to Jared’s voice roots Jensen to his spot for a second; it’s low and harsh, everything Jensen probably deserved last night, but he’s got no clue what brought it on now.
It stings more than he really wants to admit, and Jesus, that’s-he’s not new to this, to the way friendships develop at ACT! It’s quick and dirty, full of strange, imperfect bonds that come out of nowhere, and he knows that better than anyone, but he’s still not prepared for how strong his physical reaction is, how hard it is to keep himself from just reaching out, grabbing onto the back of Jared’s shirt, stopping him in his tracks.
Instead, he waits a beat, then tails Jared through the store, because they have identical lists, and it'd be stupid if they both showed up at the register with one of everything.
He’s watching Jared more than he’s watching the shelves, but he picks up some of what Jared misses, wonders if Jared’s skipping things on purpose just so he’ll have something to grab.
He detours an aisle off Jared’s course to grab a Massachusetts shot glass for his collection-to complete his collection of seven, actually, and he and Chris and Steve decided forever ago that they weren’t going to let this week turn into a collection of sappy last moments, but Jensen’s holding his last shot glass in his hand, and he can’t help it, the thought just sits like a rock in his stomach.
The funk stays with him into the tequila aisle, where he grabs Chris’s favorite brand instead of his own.
Jared’s still an aisle ahead. It’s not like it’d even be possible to lose the guy, so Jensen doesn’t bother to catch up.
Eventually, Jared slows to a stop, checks his list, and maybe it’s a trick of the ancient panel lighting, but Jensen can actually see the tension radiating from his shoulders.
He feels the same tension taking shape inside his own chest, like he somehow absorbed it or breathed it in or something, and Jesus, this is really not how he pictured his last first night booze run going.
He sighs. Chris would be laughing his ass off right about now.
They start walking again, an aisle apart, and Jensen can feel the pressure building up in his chest, tangle of words building up in his throat like a hairball, and god only knows what's gonna happen when he finally spits it out because he’s torn, fucking lost as hell because he’s got no idea what’s going on in Jared’s head right now, not sure whether he wants to call Jared on his attitude or figure out what’s wrong so he can find a way to make it better.
He replays their conversation in his head as he walks, arguing the merits of medium versus medium rare in the car on the way over, Jared’s argument sticky and sugar-sweet, cherry flavor scenting the car. Jared holding the door for a real LOM, hat and all, insisting they wait and watch him pull out of the parking lot, and then-and then.
They’re on the Chad portion of the list-and seriously, do they actually still make Zima?-when it suddenly clicks in his head, and he gets what's up with Jared.
They’re halfway through the store; Jensen closes the gap a little, and Jared turns and says, “This is completely stupid. We have the same list.”
Jensen takes a breath, shrugs and says, “Listen, man, I'm sorry. About what I said, Sophia and all. I mean, I know you're friends with Chad and I just didn't-”
“Dude, no, I was totally out of line-”
“No, seriously,” Jensen says, and it’s like the words aren’t going to stop spewing out of his mouth until he’s sure Jared understands. “I mean, I love her, you know, but it's not like that with us. Hell, we don't even talk more than a few times a year, and I swear to god, she’s gonna kick my ass if I don’t start calling, but it’s just-you know, even if I was into her, I wouldn't do anything now that I know. You know, about Chad. And his, uh. Epic love.” Jensen shrugs, tries not to grimace and wills himself to wrap it the fuck up. “He's a good guy. But don't tell him I said that.”
Jared laughs at that, says, “You know, secretly, he loves you too.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “Awesome,” he says, and he dumps his flavored vodkas and tequila into Jared's cart.
Jared bumps Jensen’s shoulder as they start walking again, together this time, and his smile is small, quiet, but it’s there, so Jensen does his best to ignore the tension that won’t quite leave his body, the nagging feeling that he’s somehow missed something, and focuses on the task at hand.
Mike meets them at the door when they get back and says, “There's a reason they call it TJ.”
He’s grinning in a way that promises interesting times ahead. At the very least, it signifies that there’s a special brand of treachery afoot-and really, after all these years, Jensen wouldn’t expect any less.
“Awesome,” Jensen says, “care to elaborate?”
Mike gestures to the sign next to the door-the one that says Thomas Jefferson-and says, “I figured it out.”
Jensen nods. “Good for you, man. Reading's definitely a skill.”
Mike aims an eloquently raised eyebrow in Jensen’s direction, looks terrifyingly like the educated adult he is for a second before a grin spreads across his face.
“Dude, they’ve got a sweet party room in the basement,” he says
Jensen's not sure what Mike's definition of party room is, because if he remembers correctly, the only thing in the basements of his undergrad dorms were mailboxes.
Mike grabs two bags and says, “Come on.”
It takes the three of them two trips to get everything downstairs, but Mike was definitely right about the party room. What it lacks in mailboxes, it makes up for with two pool tables, a card table, and halfway decent couches. It’s still dorm furniture, obviously, but newer and much more comfortable than the stuff in the common room at the end of their hallway.
“Beats the fucking psych ward,” Mike says, and Jensen laughs, nods his agreement.
“One year,” he says to Jared, “we ended up in a dorm that was only used by the Psychology department for experiments. Fucking creepy.”
“Fucking fucked up, Mike says. “Is this visitor housing?”
Jensen shrugs. “Didn’t ask. Looks like it, though.”
Mike finds a bunch of folding chairs and a couple of folding tables in an oversized broom closet and says, “Time to set up the bar!”
Jensen leaves him to it, figures if he gets too crazy, Tom'll get on his case.
“You ready for another tradition?” Jensen asks, flopping down on one of the couches next to Jared.
He watches Jared’s face, accidentally ends up tucked in closer than he really needs to be, knocks his knee up against Jared’s, since they’re already touching anyway.
Whatever he’s looking for in Jared’s expression, some kind of evidence that Jared’s not okay, or that they’re not okay, he doesn’t find it.
Jared’s smile is huge.
“Bring it,” he says, knocks his knee back into Jensen’s. “Whatever you got.”
part three