.0107 - Mi corazón de cenicero
Jensen/Jared (Jensen/Danneel, Jared/Genevieve)
3,249 words
Warning: infidelity, language, smoking
Title from Placebo
Inspired by Zwillinge (short/gay/incest)
Teaser: “Tell me to stop,” Jared said, and it sounded like a plea and a warning at once. "Stop me."
Now with gorgeous art made by darklondonsky
Now...
Jensen brushes off the fine layer of snow from the railing, and pulls himself up onto the top bar, solid, massive wood the color of freshly harvested honey. It doesn't stir, doesn't even creak, there are only a few more snowflakes that drop down to the snow-powdered timbers. He took his jacket off a while ago, left it somewhere at their table along with the respectable disguise he'd been wearing for the whole day and that had started to crack sometime around dinner, and the night air hits his skin uncompromisingly, cold and February crisp. It's comfortable, though, a pleasant change to the overheated, stuffy air inside.
He takes another sip from his drink, expensive and by now too warm Champagne, and thinks of a bitter, chilled beer and silence, and the seclusion of his apartment. Of solitude. There are shadows moving behind the windows of the main lounge, silhouettes and faces deformed by the decorated pane glass; all their names and voices like an echo faded in the background, insignificant. Just another sketched page in today's storybook.
It's where Jared finds him a few minutes later, bringing along loud voices and softer tones of some heartbreaking chanson that trail after him like an unwanted visitor, an intruder. He shuts the door closed again, silencing it all, and leans back against the railing beside Jensen with a deep sigh. He doesn't say anything, is strangely, atypically quiet, but his presence feels loud, somewhat, large. After a moment, the silence between them grows so big, so deafening Jensen is half sure it'll swamp them. He doesn't know how to break it, though, every word that comes to his mind feels wrong, untimely.
Jared can't find the right words either, it seems, but he's always been better with actions, anyway. A reader, but not a poet, an adrenaline addict, a risk taker. Always daring, constantly taking that one more step forward Jensen would be too worried to even think about. The fact he's a married man now doesn't seem to be changing anything. He shifts slightly, resting his hand on the railing beside Jensen's, and his fingers graze Jensen's knuckles. There's nonchalance in that gesture, innocence, it's completely accidental. But when his pinky curls around Jensen's little finger, deliberately, the movement, the touch alone is so eloquent and full of hidden meaning that Jensen has to bite back a moan. He shudders, still, under the sudden quiver of want that sizzles down his spine, traitorous, betraying. There's a memory in there, still so fresh and raw, shadowed by meters of white fabric and the smell of roses and calla lilies, by promises and vows, but present. Painfully alive where there shouldn't be any.
Then...
Elbows propped up on the window sill, Jensen leaned his head back and took a deep breath, pulling in a gulp of the frosty, dry air. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from his cigarette, rather burned out than truly smoked, just a scratch of gray on the perfect charcoal canvas above.
It was silent out there, everything still and white, hidden underneath the soundproof blanket of snow. Such a contrast to the organized chaos taking place inside. Even this secluded corner at the third floor; albeit empty it was filled with distant voices and music coming from the closed lounge below. With cheers and happiness, and the pregnant silence of restlessness and eagerness of tomorrow. It was everywhere, captivating and suffocating. Haunting.
Jensen was tired of it, of all the familiar figures and names, and faces he hadn't seen before and couldn't properly place, of the unavoidable. He felt choked and somewhat unwanted, like he didn't really belong. Just a co-star, a friend, and a baggage of feelings and history that no one knew about. If Jared hadn't asked, several times, he wouldn't even have been here. And nothing would have changed.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, a careful walk on high heels, slowly approaching. After a moment, they stopped, and Jensen straightened up to meet Genevieve’s eyes, dark like hot chocolate, but nowhere that warm.
“Uh... hey,” he said, a little stiffly, and Genevieve nodded in response.
She was wearing Jared's hoodie, one of his favorites, faded and worn, and Jensen could smell him on her, almost taste him on his tongue when she leaned closer to steal the debris of his cigarette from his frozen fingers.
Taking a long, slow drag, Genevieve leaned against the wall next to him and tilted her head to the side slightly, measuring him. Openly, undisguised. She looked him up and down, her gaze heavy, trudging, damn near palpable as it moved from his dirty boots and holey jeans to his face, his eyes. There was something in that look, something inquiring, downright dangerous. Jensen didn't like it a bit.
The cigarette didn't suit her, it made her look older, more confident, closer to the Ruby Jensen had learned to hate through Dean than to the Gen he knew through Jared; sweet, kind. But the words she suddenly tossed into the narrow space in between them fitted her features and petite body even less.
“Is he still fucking you?”
Jensen coughed, choking on his own breath and the question, raw, unexpected. At the leveled tone of her voice. If she slapped him, her small hand leaving a dark pink imprint of fingers on his unshaven cheek, he wouldn't have been more surprised. Danneel knew, had always known, but she was supposed to be the only one.
Genevieve drew in another dose of nicotine, and didn't even try to hide the pleased, positively wicked smirk on her red-painted lips.
“N-uh... No.” Jensen was so baffled the answer just flew out of him. He didn't try to lie, didn't have time to come up with anything else but true, and he was only partly glad that he didn't need to lie. He felt the word; weak, shaky, felt the reality behind it, the past where they were, had been for a while, not for long, only a couple of months. Nowhere enough to make them forget. But he wasn't all that sure if any sound actually came out.
She nodded, however, accepting his answer, and undoubtedly enjoying his surprise and embarrassment, then walked away before Jensen managed to do more than to blink.
Lighting up another cigarette, his hands shaking just barely, Jensen wondered if a different answer would have changed something, tonight, a few hours before the ceremony. If it would have made her say, 'no'. He almost wished it did.
Then...
Jensen was standing at the window of his hotel room, sipping on cold coffee, and yawning. He should have been doing something else, something productive, like getting dressed, but for some reason he couldn't make himself move. Staring into the white wilderness that stretched around the hotel complex sounded suddenly much more interesting than anything else.
Sighing, he sat down at the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair mindlessly, irritated. His eyes swept around the anonymous room, toned in colors of coffee and cream, lingering on the suit hanging on the bathroom door; a new, perfectly fitting, close to Jared's own. His fingers craved a cigarette. His whole body was screaming for nicotine, for the feeling of the hot smoke on his tongue, for the taste. For the wrongness of it alone. He hadn't touched a cigarette in years, four, maybe five, but in the last forty-eight hours he smoked more than he used to in a month. His mom would kill him if she knew. Jared probably, too...
Minutes passed, ten, twenty, then there was a knock on the door; so soft and hesitant it sounded almost accidental. Jensen startled anyway.
He expected Clif, maybe Megan or someone else from the Padalecki clan, coming to tell him to hurry up, possibly to go and find Jared, calm him down. He wasn't quite expecting Jared himself, already dressed and clean shaven, dark hair pulled back, tamed for once. Wasn't expecting Jared's silence, or the tension in his eyes. Or the way his stomach dropped suddenly, somewhere real low, at the sight of him. He was so used to seeing him in all the Winchester layers, in Jared's own plaid shirts and baggy jeans, it was always kind of a shock to see him in a suit, with a tie. He looked oddly formal, and serious. Incredibly sexy. He was wearing everything but the suit jacket, plus the strangely crinkled crease between his eyebrows. And Jensen felt suddenly somehow inadequate in the worn jeans from yesterday’s rehearsal and a crumpled T-shirt he slept in. There was 'morning' at the tip of his tongue, and 'everything okay?' that didn't even make it that far. There was something dark, positively treacherous in Jared's gaze that stopped his words right there in their foundations. Jared was quiet, broody, just standing there in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes unreadable.
Thinking that maybe Jared's 'no talking' policy was a better idea, Jensen stood up and threw his empty cup into the thrash bin. When he turned back, Jared was right in front of him, stronger, and taller than he really was.
“Uhm...” Jensen's eyes dropped to Jared's hands, tanned even now in winter, elegant, almost delicate, watched the way Jared's fingers curled around his neatly tied tie, working it loose, impatient, almost offended by the narrow ribbon of silk. When Jared moved forward, his hands sliding down to the line of buttons on his vest, Jensen took two steps backward, automatically, unreasonably. He swallowed with certain difficulties, captivated by the sure movements of Jared's fingers that moved to the shirt under, and searching for words that refused to come. He opened his mouth to ask, to demand something at least close to an explanation, but there was nothing in there, just breath. But there was Jared, moving yet closer, shirt unbuttoned, the tails pulled out of his pants, tie hanging loosely around his neck. Jensen didn't realize he was in a corner until his back hit the wall behind him.
“Tell me to stop,” Jared said, and it sounded like a plea and a warning at once. His gaze skid downward, slipping down Jensen's face and chest, over the wrinkled t-shirt and torn jeans right to his bare feet. When his eyes returned to Jensen's, there was heat and want, and something incredibly fragile. There was undoubtedly a danger in them.
“S-stop.”
Jared didn't, though. And maybe Jensen wasn't expecting him to anyway. Maybe he didn't want him to. Instead, Jared's hands settled on Jensen's hips, his thumbs sliding over the ridges of his hipbones, dipping beneath the denim of his pants. He stepped closer, pinning Jensen to the flower-papered wall, his body following like a shadow, pressing right up against him. “Stop me,” he whispered, lining the words like single letters on Jensen's throat, breath moist and mouth wet, tickling the sensitive skin under Jensen's ear. The sharp surge of want, the need you right here, right now that spilled in Jensen's belly was alarmingly tempting, completely blinding. He could feel Jared, hard and straining against the thin fabric of his slacks, supposedly forbidden and not his, not anymore, but still, right here. Could feel his own hands sweat, shake. He wanted to grab him, reach for him, tear the clothes off him and tug him closer, but he was afraid to even touch the ironed perfection he was wearing.
There was stillness, silence, almost complete, disturbed only by their heavy breathing and the echo of Jensen's heartbeat in his ears, so loud Jared must have heard it, too. Finally, Jared moved again, placing his hands on the wall at each side of Jensen's head and his hips rocked right into Jensen's, a slow, deliberate movement that brought a surprised moan out of Jared's throat, and Jensen shivered. The low, keening noise he let out was probably only as far from a 'no' as it was possible. He raised his hands, meaning to stop Jared, stop them both, push him away, then let them fall to his sides again. His head knocked against the wall in surrender that felt both bitter and sweet, sour. Jared smiled, that barely there, hesitating smile that used to be only Jensen's, and kissed him. His lips were soft, warm, undemanding, sort of playful. He tasted of chilly February morning and hot lies, of all the things in between them they never dared to name, say out loud.
It was quick, rushed, and it hurt. Jared felt bigger, somewhat, everywhere, stronger, heavier, more muscular. His hands held onto Jensen's hips, bruising, fingers digging in, leaving marks. Jensen's own fists were curled in the sheets, knuckles white. He wanted to touch Jared and hurt him, too, mark him, leave bruises of his own so Jared would remember. But he couldn't, couldn't let her know how easily truth could turn into a lie, a betrayal. He shut his eyes and sank his teeth into his lower lip, biting hard to keep all the sounds in, cherished the pain at the same time. Welcomed the discomfort and ache, and the imprints it'd leave. Jared's lips were pressed to his skin, brushing his collarbone, saying something, mumbling words that sounded like, 'I'm sorry', but could have been anything. Maybe they were nothing. Jared wasn't stopping, anyway, wasn't slowing down, neither being gentler. And Jensen would never want him to be.
...
Jensen licked his lip, tasting smoke and tobacco, and blood, and dusted off his cigarette into the glass ashtray balanced on his knee. He stared out the window, it was snowing again, trying to pretend that he couldn't hear Jared moving behind him, that he couldn't see him in the corner of his eye, picking up his clothes, dressing up. Pretend that it wasn't as wrong as it was. He just sat there, sheets pooled around his waist, the bed a mess, his mind an even bigger one. Jared's heat and smell clung to his skin, phantom, but undeniable, and there was something heavy, this hard, edgy feeling in his stomach. It should have been guilt, but it wasn't. Just vacancy, emptiness, and the sense of loss. Something gone that was still sort of there, but disappearing. Fast.
Hands in the pockets of his pants, tie untied and vest unbuttoned, Jared stepped in front of Jensen, chewing on his bottom lip, silent one time too many. There were no words, just the same empty looks, the same nothing that had always been there; just a fling, friends with benefits, there had never been more. Or had been?
“You should go,” Jensen noted, finding his voice oddly raspy, morning thick. “It's... your wedding, after all.”
Jared nodded, but he still wasn't moving, he was still hesitating. Waiting. He looked out the window, frowned, glanced back at Jensen. “Jensen, I wish... If things were different--”
Jensen didn't let him finish, he couldn't. “They aren't.” He didn't want to know what could have been. If they could have been, elsewhere, under different circumstances. This was it, and it wasn't changing. Alea iacta est, not going back.
“Right.” Jared nodded, again, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “So.”
“Yeah.” Tendrils of smoke were dancing before his eyes, in the warmth rising from the heater, and Jensen wanted to scream, yell. Stop him.
Jared was at the door, when Jensen tossed his unfinished cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his jeans, pulling them on. His “Jared” collided with Jared's: “I don't know how to let go” and just hung there, unwanted, surprised.
Jared stood at the door, his back to Jensen, fingers curled tightly around the doorknob as if unable to let go. “I can't let go.” He turned to look back at Jensen, who froze a mid-movement, jeans hanging on his hips, unzipped, unbuttoned, hands falling back to his sides.
“I love you.”
Jensen wanted to say it, he really did, but he didn't. Couldn't. Not now, not today. He didn't even know if it was true, what this was. It wasn't lust or love or need, it just was. Something. Something in between them, a unique mixture of all and none at once. Something that was just simply them, existing and insistent, but not strong enough, not good enough... And Jared looked like he was waiting for that exactly. For the 'love you' that neither of them had ever said.
Jensen remained silent, just moved closer and reached for the tails of Jared's tie hanging around his neck, making a perfect knot that Jared had never learned. He could feel Jared's gaze on him, intense, practically palpable, felt the shiver in his hands, from exhaustion, pain, nervousness, but he didn't look up. He didn't dare to meet Jared's eyes, because he was afraid that if he did, everything he didn't know how to label would be right there, suddenly loud and more than clear, betraying, hurting. All of them. He'd think that this was a mistake, and that the other day marked in his calendar was another one. That all of this was wrong. The tie tied, Jensen took a step back, eyes trained on the floor, the carpet, their feet; Jared's black, perfectly polished shoes, his own bare toes, and let his palms slide down Jared's chest, letting go.
But he wasn't, not really.
Now...
“Friday?” Jared asks now, sounding all innocent and fair, as if what he's asking was just that harmless and alright. “At eight?”
Friday night, nothing special, just like it's never been. A six-pack and pizza, and some stupid movie to argue over, something they've seen a hundred times before. And sex. Because they are messed up like that.
Jensen nods even though Jared's not looking at him, isn't waiting for affirmation, because he already knows. Jensen doesn't know how to say no, he never knew. To Jared, to all the things he does to his body, his mind, tearing down all and every protective barriers Jensen had ever dreamed of having, building, leaving him bare and open, so scarily vulnerable and helpless. Yet needy and empty, wanting it all over again, wanting more.
Jared turns around, watching the night skyline behind Jensen. His lips are basically at Jensen's ear when he speaks up, but it's fine, the music coming from inside is louder now, he has to stand close to be heard, or yell. “You have no idea how hot you look, all sweaty and crumpled. How much I wish we could disappear right now... Or do it right here.” Jensen shudders, again, and the champagne in his glass moves, licking at the walls voicelessly. Jared sounds breathy, there's no teasing to his words, just the same stupid want that curls in Jensen's stomach like dark poison. He wishes he could reach for him, touch him, finally, and draw him closer, press his body to Jared's, to feel him, let him feel, and force him to do it, right here, right now, and to hell with everything and everyone else. He can still feel him, on himself, in, like an echo, vibrations that last a beat too long, but that doesn't seem to lessen the aching hunger for him in any way. Maybe on the contrary.
Jared pulls from the railing, gives Jensen one last look, the first one, really, and walks inside, leaving the door open to ruffle the air there a bit. Jensen sees him walk up to Genevieve, beautiful, fragile Genevieve, wrap his arm around her waist and tug her closer, dropping a kiss into her perfectly done hair.
He still doesn't feel guilty. Not enough.
3,249 words
Warning: infidelity, language, smoking
Title from Placebo
Inspired by Zwillinge (short/gay/incest)
Teaser: “Tell me to stop,” Jared said, and it sounded like a plea and a warning at once. "Stop me."
Now with gorgeous art made by darklondonsky
Now...
Jensen brushes off the fine layer of snow from the railing, and pulls himself up onto the top bar, solid, massive wood the color of freshly harvested honey. It doesn't stir, doesn't even creak, there are only a few more snowflakes that drop down to the snow-powdered timbers. He took his jacket off a while ago, left it somewhere at their table along with the respectable disguise he'd been wearing for the whole day and that had started to crack sometime around dinner, and the night air hits his skin uncompromisingly, cold and February crisp. It's comfortable, though, a pleasant change to the overheated, stuffy air inside.
He takes another sip from his drink, expensive and by now too warm Champagne, and thinks of a bitter, chilled beer and silence, and the seclusion of his apartment. Of solitude. There are shadows moving behind the windows of the main lounge, silhouettes and faces deformed by the decorated pane glass; all their names and voices like an echo faded in the background, insignificant. Just another sketched page in today's storybook.
It's where Jared finds him a few minutes later, bringing along loud voices and softer tones of some heartbreaking chanson that trail after him like an unwanted visitor, an intruder. He shuts the door closed again, silencing it all, and leans back against the railing beside Jensen with a deep sigh. He doesn't say anything, is strangely, atypically quiet, but his presence feels loud, somewhat, large. After a moment, the silence between them grows so big, so deafening Jensen is half sure it'll swamp them. He doesn't know how to break it, though, every word that comes to his mind feels wrong, untimely.
Jared can't find the right words either, it seems, but he's always been better with actions, anyway. A reader, but not a poet, an adrenaline addict, a risk taker. Always daring, constantly taking that one more step forward Jensen would be too worried to even think about. The fact he's a married man now doesn't seem to be changing anything. He shifts slightly, resting his hand on the railing beside Jensen's, and his fingers graze Jensen's knuckles. There's nonchalance in that gesture, innocence, it's completely accidental. But when his pinky curls around Jensen's little finger, deliberately, the movement, the touch alone is so eloquent and full of hidden meaning that Jensen has to bite back a moan. He shudders, still, under the sudden quiver of want that sizzles down his spine, traitorous, betraying. There's a memory in there, still so fresh and raw, shadowed by meters of white fabric and the smell of roses and calla lilies, by promises and vows, but present. Painfully alive where there shouldn't be any.
Then...
Elbows propped up on the window sill, Jensen leaned his head back and took a deep breath, pulling in a gulp of the frosty, dry air. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from his cigarette, rather burned out than truly smoked, just a scratch of gray on the perfect charcoal canvas above.
It was silent out there, everything still and white, hidden underneath the soundproof blanket of snow. Such a contrast to the organized chaos taking place inside. Even this secluded corner at the third floor; albeit empty it was filled with distant voices and music coming from the closed lounge below. With cheers and happiness, and the pregnant silence of restlessness and eagerness of tomorrow. It was everywhere, captivating and suffocating. Haunting.
Jensen was tired of it, of all the familiar figures and names, and faces he hadn't seen before and couldn't properly place, of the unavoidable. He felt choked and somewhat unwanted, like he didn't really belong. Just a co-star, a friend, and a baggage of feelings and history that no one knew about. If Jared hadn't asked, several times, he wouldn't even have been here. And nothing would have changed.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, a careful walk on high heels, slowly approaching. After a moment, they stopped, and Jensen straightened up to meet Genevieve’s eyes, dark like hot chocolate, but nowhere that warm.
“Uh... hey,” he said, a little stiffly, and Genevieve nodded in response.
She was wearing Jared's hoodie, one of his favorites, faded and worn, and Jensen could smell him on her, almost taste him on his tongue when she leaned closer to steal the debris of his cigarette from his frozen fingers.
Taking a long, slow drag, Genevieve leaned against the wall next to him and tilted her head to the side slightly, measuring him. Openly, undisguised. She looked him up and down, her gaze heavy, trudging, damn near palpable as it moved from his dirty boots and holey jeans to his face, his eyes. There was something in that look, something inquiring, downright dangerous. Jensen didn't like it a bit.
The cigarette didn't suit her, it made her look older, more confident, closer to the Ruby Jensen had learned to hate through Dean than to the Gen he knew through Jared; sweet, kind. But the words she suddenly tossed into the narrow space in between them fitted her features and petite body even less.
“Is he still fucking you?”
Jensen coughed, choking on his own breath and the question, raw, unexpected. At the leveled tone of her voice. If she slapped him, her small hand leaving a dark pink imprint of fingers on his unshaven cheek, he wouldn't have been more surprised. Danneel knew, had always known, but she was supposed to be the only one.
Genevieve drew in another dose of nicotine, and didn't even try to hide the pleased, positively wicked smirk on her red-painted lips.
“N-uh... No.” Jensen was so baffled the answer just flew out of him. He didn't try to lie, didn't have time to come up with anything else but true, and he was only partly glad that he didn't need to lie. He felt the word; weak, shaky, felt the reality behind it, the past where they were, had been for a while, not for long, only a couple of months. Nowhere enough to make them forget. But he wasn't all that sure if any sound actually came out.
She nodded, however, accepting his answer, and undoubtedly enjoying his surprise and embarrassment, then walked away before Jensen managed to do more than to blink.
Lighting up another cigarette, his hands shaking just barely, Jensen wondered if a different answer would have changed something, tonight, a few hours before the ceremony. If it would have made her say, 'no'. He almost wished it did.
Then...
Jensen was standing at the window of his hotel room, sipping on cold coffee, and yawning. He should have been doing something else, something productive, like getting dressed, but for some reason he couldn't make himself move. Staring into the white wilderness that stretched around the hotel complex sounded suddenly much more interesting than anything else.
Sighing, he sat down at the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair mindlessly, irritated. His eyes swept around the anonymous room, toned in colors of coffee and cream, lingering on the suit hanging on the bathroom door; a new, perfectly fitting, close to Jared's own. His fingers craved a cigarette. His whole body was screaming for nicotine, for the feeling of the hot smoke on his tongue, for the taste. For the wrongness of it alone. He hadn't touched a cigarette in years, four, maybe five, but in the last forty-eight hours he smoked more than he used to in a month. His mom would kill him if she knew. Jared probably, too...
Minutes passed, ten, twenty, then there was a knock on the door; so soft and hesitant it sounded almost accidental. Jensen startled anyway.
He expected Clif, maybe Megan or someone else from the Padalecki clan, coming to tell him to hurry up, possibly to go and find Jared, calm him down. He wasn't quite expecting Jared himself, already dressed and clean shaven, dark hair pulled back, tamed for once. Wasn't expecting Jared's silence, or the tension in his eyes. Or the way his stomach dropped suddenly, somewhere real low, at the sight of him. He was so used to seeing him in all the Winchester layers, in Jared's own plaid shirts and baggy jeans, it was always kind of a shock to see him in a suit, with a tie. He looked oddly formal, and serious. Incredibly sexy. He was wearing everything but the suit jacket, plus the strangely crinkled crease between his eyebrows. And Jensen felt suddenly somehow inadequate in the worn jeans from yesterday’s rehearsal and a crumpled T-shirt he slept in. There was 'morning' at the tip of his tongue, and 'everything okay?' that didn't even make it that far. There was something dark, positively treacherous in Jared's gaze that stopped his words right there in their foundations. Jared was quiet, broody, just standing there in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes unreadable.
Thinking that maybe Jared's 'no talking' policy was a better idea, Jensen stood up and threw his empty cup into the thrash bin. When he turned back, Jared was right in front of him, stronger, and taller than he really was.
“Uhm...” Jensen's eyes dropped to Jared's hands, tanned even now in winter, elegant, almost delicate, watched the way Jared's fingers curled around his neatly tied tie, working it loose, impatient, almost offended by the narrow ribbon of silk. When Jared moved forward, his hands sliding down to the line of buttons on his vest, Jensen took two steps backward, automatically, unreasonably. He swallowed with certain difficulties, captivated by the sure movements of Jared's fingers that moved to the shirt under, and searching for words that refused to come. He opened his mouth to ask, to demand something at least close to an explanation, but there was nothing in there, just breath. But there was Jared, moving yet closer, shirt unbuttoned, the tails pulled out of his pants, tie hanging loosely around his neck. Jensen didn't realize he was in a corner until his back hit the wall behind him.
“Tell me to stop,” Jared said, and it sounded like a plea and a warning at once. His gaze skid downward, slipping down Jensen's face and chest, over the wrinkled t-shirt and torn jeans right to his bare feet. When his eyes returned to Jensen's, there was heat and want, and something incredibly fragile. There was undoubtedly a danger in them.
“S-stop.”
Jared didn't, though. And maybe Jensen wasn't expecting him to anyway. Maybe he didn't want him to. Instead, Jared's hands settled on Jensen's hips, his thumbs sliding over the ridges of his hipbones, dipping beneath the denim of his pants. He stepped closer, pinning Jensen to the flower-papered wall, his body following like a shadow, pressing right up against him. “Stop me,” he whispered, lining the words like single letters on Jensen's throat, breath moist and mouth wet, tickling the sensitive skin under Jensen's ear. The sharp surge of want, the need you right here, right now that spilled in Jensen's belly was alarmingly tempting, completely blinding. He could feel Jared, hard and straining against the thin fabric of his slacks, supposedly forbidden and not his, not anymore, but still, right here. Could feel his own hands sweat, shake. He wanted to grab him, reach for him, tear the clothes off him and tug him closer, but he was afraid to even touch the ironed perfection he was wearing.
There was stillness, silence, almost complete, disturbed only by their heavy breathing and the echo of Jensen's heartbeat in his ears, so loud Jared must have heard it, too. Finally, Jared moved again, placing his hands on the wall at each side of Jensen's head and his hips rocked right into Jensen's, a slow, deliberate movement that brought a surprised moan out of Jared's throat, and Jensen shivered. The low, keening noise he let out was probably only as far from a 'no' as it was possible. He raised his hands, meaning to stop Jared, stop them both, push him away, then let them fall to his sides again. His head knocked against the wall in surrender that felt both bitter and sweet, sour. Jared smiled, that barely there, hesitating smile that used to be only Jensen's, and kissed him. His lips were soft, warm, undemanding, sort of playful. He tasted of chilly February morning and hot lies, of all the things in between them they never dared to name, say out loud.
It was quick, rushed, and it hurt. Jared felt bigger, somewhat, everywhere, stronger, heavier, more muscular. His hands held onto Jensen's hips, bruising, fingers digging in, leaving marks. Jensen's own fists were curled in the sheets, knuckles white. He wanted to touch Jared and hurt him, too, mark him, leave bruises of his own so Jared would remember. But he couldn't, couldn't let her know how easily truth could turn into a lie, a betrayal. He shut his eyes and sank his teeth into his lower lip, biting hard to keep all the sounds in, cherished the pain at the same time. Welcomed the discomfort and ache, and the imprints it'd leave. Jared's lips were pressed to his skin, brushing his collarbone, saying something, mumbling words that sounded like, 'I'm sorry', but could have been anything. Maybe they were nothing. Jared wasn't stopping, anyway, wasn't slowing down, neither being gentler. And Jensen would never want him to be.
...
Jensen licked his lip, tasting smoke and tobacco, and blood, and dusted off his cigarette into the glass ashtray balanced on his knee. He stared out the window, it was snowing again, trying to pretend that he couldn't hear Jared moving behind him, that he couldn't see him in the corner of his eye, picking up his clothes, dressing up. Pretend that it wasn't as wrong as it was. He just sat there, sheets pooled around his waist, the bed a mess, his mind an even bigger one. Jared's heat and smell clung to his skin, phantom, but undeniable, and there was something heavy, this hard, edgy feeling in his stomach. It should have been guilt, but it wasn't. Just vacancy, emptiness, and the sense of loss. Something gone that was still sort of there, but disappearing. Fast.
Hands in the pockets of his pants, tie untied and vest unbuttoned, Jared stepped in front of Jensen, chewing on his bottom lip, silent one time too many. There were no words, just the same empty looks, the same nothing that had always been there; just a fling, friends with benefits, there had never been more. Or had been?
“You should go,” Jensen noted, finding his voice oddly raspy, morning thick. “It's... your wedding, after all.”
Jared nodded, but he still wasn't moving, he was still hesitating. Waiting. He looked out the window, frowned, glanced back at Jensen. “Jensen, I wish... If things were different--”
Jensen didn't let him finish, he couldn't. “They aren't.” He didn't want to know what could have been. If they could have been, elsewhere, under different circumstances. This was it, and it wasn't changing. Alea iacta est, not going back.
“Right.” Jared nodded, again, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “So.”
“Yeah.” Tendrils of smoke were dancing before his eyes, in the warmth rising from the heater, and Jensen wanted to scream, yell. Stop him.
Jared was at the door, when Jensen tossed his unfinished cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his jeans, pulling them on. His “Jared” collided with Jared's: “I don't know how to let go” and just hung there, unwanted, surprised.
Jared stood at the door, his back to Jensen, fingers curled tightly around the doorknob as if unable to let go. “I can't let go.” He turned to look back at Jensen, who froze a mid-movement, jeans hanging on his hips, unzipped, unbuttoned, hands falling back to his sides.
“I love you.”
Jensen wanted to say it, he really did, but he didn't. Couldn't. Not now, not today. He didn't even know if it was true, what this was. It wasn't lust or love or need, it just was. Something. Something in between them, a unique mixture of all and none at once. Something that was just simply them, existing and insistent, but not strong enough, not good enough... And Jared looked like he was waiting for that exactly. For the 'love you' that neither of them had ever said.
Jensen remained silent, just moved closer and reached for the tails of Jared's tie hanging around his neck, making a perfect knot that Jared had never learned. He could feel Jared's gaze on him, intense, practically palpable, felt the shiver in his hands, from exhaustion, pain, nervousness, but he didn't look up. He didn't dare to meet Jared's eyes, because he was afraid that if he did, everything he didn't know how to label would be right there, suddenly loud and more than clear, betraying, hurting. All of them. He'd think that this was a mistake, and that the other day marked in his calendar was another one. That all of this was wrong. The tie tied, Jensen took a step back, eyes trained on the floor, the carpet, their feet; Jared's black, perfectly polished shoes, his own bare toes, and let his palms slide down Jared's chest, letting go.
But he wasn't, not really.
Now...
“Friday?” Jared asks now, sounding all innocent and fair, as if what he's asking was just that harmless and alright. “At eight?”
Friday night, nothing special, just like it's never been. A six-pack and pizza, and some stupid movie to argue over, something they've seen a hundred times before. And sex. Because they are messed up like that.
Jensen nods even though Jared's not looking at him, isn't waiting for affirmation, because he already knows. Jensen doesn't know how to say no, he never knew. To Jared, to all the things he does to his body, his mind, tearing down all and every protective barriers Jensen had ever dreamed of having, building, leaving him bare and open, so scarily vulnerable and helpless. Yet needy and empty, wanting it all over again, wanting more.
Jared turns around, watching the night skyline behind Jensen. His lips are basically at Jensen's ear when he speaks up, but it's fine, the music coming from inside is louder now, he has to stand close to be heard, or yell. “You have no idea how hot you look, all sweaty and crumpled. How much I wish we could disappear right now... Or do it right here.” Jensen shudders, again, and the champagne in his glass moves, licking at the walls voicelessly. Jared sounds breathy, there's no teasing to his words, just the same stupid want that curls in Jensen's stomach like dark poison. He wishes he could reach for him, touch him, finally, and draw him closer, press his body to Jared's, to feel him, let him feel, and force him to do it, right here, right now, and to hell with everything and everyone else. He can still feel him, on himself, in, like an echo, vibrations that last a beat too long, but that doesn't seem to lessen the aching hunger for him in any way. Maybe on the contrary.
Jared pulls from the railing, gives Jensen one last look, the first one, really, and walks inside, leaving the door open to ruffle the air there a bit. Jensen sees him walk up to Genevieve, beautiful, fragile Genevieve, wrap his arm around her waist and tug her closer, dropping a kiss into her perfectly done hair.
He still doesn't feel guilty. Not enough.