The Moon Is New - Part Two

[obstinatrix]

It isn't as if Jensen came out tonight specifically to see Jared or anything so cringe-inducingly awkward as that. Sure, it's a Wednesday, meaning it's Jensen's usual night for burning the midnight oil at his kitchen table, ruffling his hair all out of shape while he does his book-keeping. But it's hardly the first Wednesday he's been too daunted by the stack of receipts and handwritten notes of apology to actually stick around and face them. It's certainly not the first Wednesday night he's graced the speakeasy with his presence, drifting through the thin midweek crowd like a sweet smell. The fact that he spent easily the best hour of the past three months with Jared on Monday and didn't realise it until afterwards -- when he suddenly couldn't stop thinking about it -- is completely irrelevant. Completely.

There's a boy at the bar, all soft-mouthed and easy, the sort Jensen knows he could fuck within an hour and be done with. He's exactly Jensen's type, neat-waisted and slender, his hair a little overlong, and Jensen should be leaning back in to his flirtation, touching his lapels, making him want it.

The problem is that Jensen isn't remotely interested. It's been kind of a common difficulty lately. He can't say why, exactly; or maybe he's afraid to, and that, of course, is worse.

He didn't come here for Jared. It's only by pure coincidence he spots him, way out beyond the furthest reaches of the crowd, sitting by himself on the stairs that lead the way to the apartment above. He's bare-headed, still in his street-clothes, grey knickerbockers and collarless shirt done up to the throat. Jensen briefly entertains the thought of taking him somewhere to be measured for a suit. It's not so much that the clothes he's in don't suit him as the fact that they do; make him look young and oddly innocent and broad in the shoulders, a contradiction of naiveté on the cusp of understanding. He looks so -- God -- adolescent, and Jensen likes that maybe too much, wants to play with it, dress Jared up and rearrange his hair and try out the effect of a hundred different guises. See if it would be easier, maybe, to talk to him and not want more than the warm spark of their conversation if he were dressed like a man and not a newsboy, long legs and narrow hips showcased by a suit vest, and --

No. No, it wouldn't help. Jensen shakes the thought away irritably. He likes Jared too much, respects him too much, to think about him that way. That kind of thinking is for pretty young idiots, and in the past, Misha, who stood alone. Jared wouldn't want that from him. Jensen would do better to put it out of his mind entirely and concentrate on more solid things like how unexpectedly funny Jared can be, how quick-witted, in a way that is so entirely self-educated as to be desperately interesting. He likes Jared, and it's been too long since Jensen's liked anyone for him to jeopardise this.

Jared has his hands on his knees, contemplative, his chin turned down, curled up into some round-backed, huddled-in, separate thing. Separate, Jensen can tell immediately, from the mellifluous crowd, from Misha and Matt by the piano and the singing contingent by the bar. Jensen shoves his way through a group of boys leaning against the far side of the bar, makes his apologies, but their replies go unnoticed. He's watching Jared, studying the line of his profile where it's tucked in against his raised knees, the glint of the dimmed lights on the surface of his eyes.

He doesn't know he's going to climb the stairs until he's doing it, the uncarpeted first step a hard line cleaving the sole of his boot. They're not quiet stairs, and Jared raises his head a little as Jensen approaches, looks up. Jensen smiles a little, suddenly wishing he'd thought of something to say before barging into Jared's quiet little space like this. His usual social graces don't seem to be fully engaged tonight.

"Hey," he says, loudly enough to be heard over the music, but low enough that it's still quiet when it reaches Jared's ears. He pauses, resting an elbow on the railing. "You okay?"

He half-expects a frown from Jared, hastily covered up. After all, if Jensen had taken himself aside like this, removed himself from everything, he'd probably be more than a little put out to have been approached. The smile that lights up Jared's face, though, is entirely genuine, if tired, and he shifts, pulling himself more upright on his step and straightening his head and shoulders from their forward curl towards his knees.

"Jensen," Jared says, like he's happy to see him. "I didn't see you come in."

Jensen laughs. "Would it have made a difference if you had?"

Jared's smile twists a little, some unexpected shyness creeping into it, and Jensen feels his own stomach clench in not-unpleasant surprise. "Well," Jared says, "Yeah. I'd have come over to say hello, obviously." He shrugs, affecting a nonchalance belied by the awkwardness in his face and posture.

He doesn't seem to be pushing Jensen away, so Jensen takes a chance and sits down, a step below Jared and on the opposite side of the stairwell. Jared's foot is nudging up against the outside of Jensen's thigh, now, the sheen of his boot rubbing soft against the fabric of Jensen's suit trousers. It's oddly comfortable.

"What are you doing up here, then," Jensen ventures, "if you didn't want to be alone?"

Jared laughs, shaking his head a little. "I didn't -- I just..." He glances out, briefly, through the railings in the direction of the floor below. "There's nobody interesting here tonight, is all."

"Oh?" Jensen says, can't resist, and Jared colours.

"Well," he shoots back hastily, "I mean. There is now."

Jensen was waiting for it, knew Jared had to say it, but that doesn't stop the sudden warmth spreading through him like the afterglow of whisky, dizzying, euphoric. He ducks his head, looks away to hide his smile. "Not that I'm being all that interesting right now."

Jared laughs, shrugging; Jensen feels the motion roll out in the shift of Jared's leg against his side, the way his foot turns out as if it, too, his whole body, is part of the gesture. "You just got here," Jared says. "I'm hopeful."

Jensen grins at that, tilts his head up and his hat back so he can see Jared's face. The lighting is low, and it's difficult enough to see clearly already without the further obstacle of his fedora shadowing his face. "No pressure, then," he says, giving in to common sense and taking off the hat.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Jared says, and Jensen hears the edge of something coy in his tone again, even though Jared isn't like that. Isn't like the kids who make passes like they're on the game, pants too tight and kohl rubbed under their eyes. Jensen shouldn't read anything into the innocent playfulness in Jared's voice. He wishes he could help himself.

"Here." On an impulse, he leans over, sets his hat down on Jared's head. "That's something."

Jared's mouth opens on a grin, and it hits Jensen all at once that, like this, the hat does nothing at all to make him look ridiculous and everything to make him seem a little older, more self-possessed and enigmatic and touchable. Jensen clears his throat and knocks the brim of the hat down so Jared's pleased green eyes are covered.

"Hey," Jared protests, indignant, but he's still grinning, the slightly crooked line of his teeth glinting whitely in the scant light. Jensen's stomach does some unapproved knotting thing, lacing up tight and dipping hotly. His chest feels strangely tight, the world narrowing sharply, inexplicably, to their little island of quietude on the stairs, Jared's pink mouth. The fact that he's as good as blindfolded behind Jensen's hat, vulnerable to Jensen's full-focused gaze, but he isn't moving. He may be protesting, but his mouth is still all wide and soft with laughter, his hands still at his sides. There's something dizzying about it that hits Jensen all in a rush, muddling his mind like the most potent cocktail.

Jared's laugh and his stillness and his shoulders, loose with trusting, Jensen's hat pulled low on his face. Jensen can hear his own breath in his ears, feels his hand moving and doesn't know why until Jared laughs again and says, "Jensen." The word hitches strangely, and suddenly Jensen notices the way Jared's hands are tight with the tension that's absent everywhere else in him, something about them anticipatory, afraid. "When is this going to qualify as interesting?"

And that -- shit -- that's it, the words seizing Jensen like a fishhook right to the chest, everything beyond seeming to drop away. Jared's boot against his thigh is real; Jared's upturned face and the tease in his voice that's half a question, achingly young. Everything else -- the bar with its music, Misha, all the reasons this is stupid -- seems suddenly ground away under the weight of Jared's words, the way Jensen's body flares wild all over, knowing the correct response immediately.

He means to say something. Genuinely, on the level of his mind that's still functioning rationally and not locked up in Jared-freefall, he feels that something probably ought to be said before he leans up on his knees, sets a hand very gently on the side of Jared's face. Unfortunately, this level of his mind is subsumed somewhere deep, and by the time it's clicked into action, Jensen's already moving, fingers curling around Jared's jaw, and Jared's mouth parts in surprise not a second before Jensen's brushes it, hot shock of contact.

Jared exhales, shivering, and Jensen forgets entirely about whatever clever thing he had meant to say.

"Jared," he says instead, because it's easy, it's the only thing he's thinking. God, this is a monumentally bad idea, but all his attempts to grasp on to this thought wind up fruitless and lacklustre with Jared's mouth so close, Jared's body drawn tight as a harpstring now, awaiting Jensen's touch.

"Hey," he says, free hand palming Jared's shoulder where it's starting to shake, soothing out the shivers. "Hey, hey," Jensen says, and kisses him, like it's the only possible option.

From the way Jared's hands fly up to encircle Jensen's arms, pinioning him in place, it seems that he's in agreement. The kiss is gentle, at first, still barely more than a press of Jensen's mouth to Jared's, but Jared's breathing tightly through his nose, his lips soft but oddly unpractised, uncertain against Jensen's even while the rest of his body is blaring yes. Jensen retreats, tilts his head a little and presses back in, and this time they slot together more easily, the kiss clinging a little before Jensen breaks it, does it again. Another little press, and a fourth, and a fifth, and Jared's getting better at it, mouth yielding warm under Jensen's, catching instinctively at Jensen's lips for longer and longer moments, but, God, it's like he's never done this before. As if this is the start of something, fully a first time, here with Jensen on the stairs in the dark with Jensen's hat still pulled down over his eyes.

There's something intoxicating about it, the way Jared opens for him a little further on each push in, and Jensen's mouth is tingling all over, shooting little sparks through his chest and down his spine, pulses of warmth he barely recognises. Mechanically, it's awkward, but Jensen's too swept up in the rush of it to care, kisses and nips until the moment the tip of his tongue touches Jared's and Jared groans, his own tongue retreating, unsure and startled, and Jensen thinks, shit. Jared's really never done this before.

Jared has never done this before.

The realisation slices through him like a lance of heat, setting saliva pooling under his tongue, doubling the want until it feels as if it's curling up at the edges. Jensen wants, suddenly and viscerally, to push; wants to spread Jared out young and naked on the stairs, teach him every new and beautiful thing, make him writhe and shudder and scream. Jared's half-whimpering, just from this, and the tight little sounds make Jensen want nothing so much as to see what else can be coaxed out of this boy, see how loud he'll be. His head spins with it, wanting all of it, too fast and too much, and Jensen jerks away, breathless, because this might be his last chance to. Jared isn't like that. Jared is his friend, something he hasn't had enough of in a while, and Jensen isn't going to burn that away for the sake of sex.

It isn't like him to slow like this, to stop, but this isn't like everything else. This is different.

Somewhere in the midst of all the kissing, the fedora got knocked up and back, probably by Jensen's fingers, and Jared is staring back at him when Jensen pulls away, wide, startled eyes and damp, pink mouth. Jensen fights down a roil of want.

"So," he says, and his voice emerges wrecked, like they'd just done something entirely more rigorous than surface kissing, fingers on faces.

Jared's pupils are blown, black bleeding out over green, and he looks undone, amazed and reborn. "So," he repeats, low and hesitant, but Jensen can see him fighting back a smile at the corners of his mouth, can see it twitching there, helpless. "You win." He swallows, long throat rippling with it. "That was interesting."

Jensen wants, more than anything, to lean back in. He wants to say yes, it was, and I know some other interesting things, but Jared doesn't deserve that, not from him. Not here. The whirrings of his mind are so foreign to him, to his usual motivations, that he barely knows how to parse them, but one thing is clear: not now. Not now. So he says, "Yeah," smiles wide back, but his fingers slip from Jared's face, thumb brushing the underside of his lower lip in parting, soft and sweet. "Didn't I tell you so?"

Jared's holding his shoulders weirdly, wanting more, and it's almost physically painful to lean away from that, but he does it, with a monumental effort; reaches for his hat and replaces it on his own head, taking a moment to muss Jared's hair where the pressure of the fedora has flattened it. They can talk about something else. Jensen can be interesting in more than one way, whatever his reputation might say to the contrary. They can talk about something else.

"Hey," he says, "I need a drink. Come with me?"

Jared agrees amiably, as Jensen knew he would, but is still relieved to hear; follows him down to the bar and the noise and the safety of the crowd. Jensen buys him something green and dances with him for the space of two songs, and doesn't kiss him again, although every line in Jared's body says he wants it. Not tonight; no more tonight, Jensen decided, and Jensen keeps his promises.

Still, when he steps out into the darkness, the promise of other nights sits warm at the base of his spine, full and hopeful. He thinks, maybe.



He doesn't mean to come back the next night. Breathing space, he promised himself, time for them both to process what might have been nothing more than an indiscretion, even if it felt uncomfortably like everything.

Which doesn't explain why Jensen finds himself shouldering through the crowd the next evening, but he isn't ready to go seeking the true reason. That can wait until he's absolutely sure he's going to have something to explain. Twenty-four hours is a very long time when you don't sleep much, and Jensen's had more than enough opportunity to consider some possibilities that didn't occur to him last night. For example: that Jared may only have been curious, or amused by him; that Jensen's noble gesture of restraint may have been a work of presumptuous narcissism, anyway, if Jared never really wanted more. If Jared never would.

Logically, of course, this would be the optimal outcome. The kiss an accident to be forgotten, no harm, no foul, and Jared heterosexual and uninterested, leaving them to go on with what may actually be becoming, of all things, a friendship. Jensen should want this. He isn't quite ready to investigate why he doesn't -- especially as it feels only tangentially related to the way Jared's shoulders strain against his shirt, the way his skin glows on a sunny afternoon. That's some of it, sure, but it isn't all, not by a long shot. The unexplored rest of it sits between Jensen's shoulders like a weight as he crosses the club, unapologetically seeking out Jared. He might have attempted to pretend to himself that this is random, a visit to an old friend on a weeknight in passing, but at this stage he can't be bothered with the exhaustion of so huge a self-delusion. He is looking for Jared. The why of it can wait.

He's done well, at least, to wait until now, past eleven, the club alive with people in a drunken, smoky throng. The small space by the piano is stuffed with some of the more energetic revellers, Matt isolated in the midst of them, but smiling, keys jangling under his fingers. Jensen pauses to scan the scene amusedly for a moment, but there's no sign of Jared. He presses on.

He half-expects to find him on the stairs as he nears them, but there's no familiar figure there, long legs telescoped awkwardly. Jensen stops a moment at the foot of the stairwell, hand on the end of the railing, and breathes heavily. It doesn't matter, of course, if Jared isn't here. It's just that Jensen sort of wanted to see him, but the world won't end if he can't. He worries his lower lip between his teeth and contemplates whether or not to stay for a whisky. The temptation just to go home again is distressingly great.

Over the general hubbub of the speakeasy, it's never easy to make out individual voices, but somehow Jensen hears his own name called out over the crowd as if the room had been silent: Jared's voice. "Hey!"

Turning, Jensen picks him out immediately, can't understand how he could have missed him, lingering by the bar in his long apron. It's been some time since Jensen's seen him in that thing, but there's a long-handled dustpan and brush in his hand, so Jensen assumes Misha's had him on sweeping duty. Nights like this, there's always a less-than-outside chance of broken glass, and it does seem unusually noisy this evening. If Jared's working, Jensen probably shouldn't distract him for too long. He'll just raise a hand -- like so -- and smile, keep it casual.

When he doesn't move, the corners of Jared's mouth dip a little, confused or disappointed or both. Jensen's chest screams protest at him, and he sighs. "Fuck it," he mutters, and pushes off the railing into the crowd.

Where Jared's standing, it's quieter, the heart of all the noise and activity beating way over on the other side of the room, and Jensen's grateful for it, the confused tide of sound beginning to recede in his ears. "Evening," he says, turning himself so his back is to the wall, face to the room. He hates to have his back to a crowd, unguarded. He hates to be unguarded in general. "Misha got you working, huh?"

Jared laughs a little. "Well, I work here." He shrugs. "Allegedly."

"Not usually this late," Jensen points out.

"Mmm," Jared acknowledges, after a little pause. "Yeah, not usually this late."

They're redundant comments. Jensen can feel the weight of their redundancy like it's pressing down on his chest; can feel the awkwardness, more imagined than experienced but undoubtedly imminent, niggling at the base of his spine. He kissed Jared yesterday. He wants to kiss him again, and Jared -- Jared --

God, he wants more than anything for it all not to be screwed up.

"I need a cigarette," he mutters, more to himself than to Jared, patting his pockets in search of the packet. "You want?"

After the first long nicotine drag, it's better. It isn't that Jensen's addicted to the stuff -- there've been times when he's had to go without -- but still, the familiar taste at the back of his throat is soothing, the way his chest seems to relax under its influence. More than that, it's somehow easier to know how to relate to the world with a cigarette occupying one hand, the shared occupation of smoking filling what might otherwise have been an awkward silence. Jared smokes like an old hand now, one heel scuffed up against the wall alongside Jensen, and Jensen feels himself relax as something of their easy companionship ebbs back into the space between them, displacing a little of the anxiety.

"Calming down a little," Jared observes, after a long moment's stillness. It's still, arguably, a redundant remark, but Jensen doesn't feel the same spike of possibly unwarranted anxiety about that, now that they're actually doing something ordinary together, smoke curling blue between them as they watch the dancers move.

"Yes, I think I might be able to actually see patches of floor between the bodies if a couple more people get their drunken asses hauled out of here," he concurs, grinning sidelong at Jared. "See if we can spot any piles of broken glass for you to sweep up, Cinderella."

Jared snorts, elbows him sharply in the side. It stings. Jensen kind of loves it. "I'm off clock," Jared says, glancing at his wristwatch, "as of ten minutes ago, now. So if there is glass, it'd have to wait till morning."

Jensen can't bite back a little bark of laughter at that, Jared's defiant tone and the jut of his chin. "What, and let me cut myself, dancing on broken bottles?"

Jared arches a sceptical eyebrow. "Not dancing," he points out, gently, "are you, Jensen?" His eyes shift over to the main floor, and though it's a brief glance, Jensen catches it; catches the way Jared's teeth find his lower lip for a moment and tug, as if he's thinking. As if there's something he wants, or means, that he isn't saying.

Something rolls slow and hot down Jensen's spine, and he shakes it away, closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, though, Jared's still there, still close in the half-darkness with smoke billowing whitely from between his parted lips. Jensen hears himself speak before he's even given himself permission to do so. Jared seems to have that effect on him.

"Well," he says, slowly, "Maybe I just have nobody to dance with. You ever think of that, huh?"

The pause that follows is brief and crippling. Jared is still, expression unchanged, but his eyes are steady and, even as Jensen watches, it seems his pupils are spreading, minutely but distinctly into the green. Jensen can hear him breathing, can see all the tiny evidences of it: the cigarette smouldering down between his fingers, the sheen of sweat on his throat, the way his shoulders heave slightly with his breaths. It's a second only, maybe two, but they're the longest seconds of Jensen's life right up until the moment when Jared, without speaking a word, holds out his hand.

There's never any question of him not taking it. He takes it, of course he takes it; pulls Jared tight up against him and shuffles them out a few feet from the wall, giving them room to manoeuvre. The general brouhaha of the club is still some distance removed from them, but there's space to dance right here to a song like this one, all slow cadences in minor key, no demand for anything energetic. Jensen's arm snakes around Jared's waist, cradling it perfectly. He swallows, cigarette ground out and forgotten beneath their feet, and Jared'll have to pick that up in the morning, he thinks. Then Jared smiles up at him, and Jensen dismisses the thought.

"Thanks," he says, not quite knowing why. It's barely loud enough to be heard, but he knows Jared will be able to read his lips for the sake of that one syllable, sprung from nowhere.

Jared inclines his head a little, don't mention it. "Could've just asked earlier," he says. It's light, non-committal, but there's invitation in it. Jensen makes a circle with his thumb over the jut of Jared's hipbone where it protrudes through the layers of his clothes; shifts a little.

"Asking now, aren't I?"

Jared's laugh lasts only a second before he's leaning in, pressing his mouth to Jensen's, inexpert and firm. Jensen falters, fingers stuttering on Jared's waist. He'd expected -- something, perhaps, but not quite this; had expected Jared to react, not to be the agent himself and force Jensen's reaction. Already, though, they're so close, Jared's heartbeat hammering against his through the barrier of their clothes, and Jared's sure, this time, insistent. Jensen draws a long breath through his nose and hitches himself closer, lets Jared nudge his lips apart. Jared's taller than him, he registers, feeling the strangeness of it sudden and real, like a jolt. He's never done this, kissed with his chin lifted, and even while he's leading their dance, it's odd -- maybe more so because the oddness doesn't exactly feel bad. Jared's mouth is warm on his, the contours of their bodies tessellating together as if they'd been cut that way, and Jensen doesn't want to pause to think. Jared's hand slides up his back, palm flattening between his shoulderblades, and Jensen tilts his head, presses the kiss deeper. If Jared wants this, wants it like he does, then everything else can wait.

There's something of a stutter when Jensen licks at the part of Jared's lips, but Jared's tight breathing, the tension in his body, make perfectly clear that it's a question of inexperience, not uncertainty. He moans, soft and low, when Jensen's tongue slides over his, and Jensen has to bite back the heightened bolt of lust that jars, metallic, through his jaw, through his spine; holds himself back from grinding into Jared through sheer force of will. Jared's clutching at him now, at his back, at his hair, but this is not an appropriate place to push him right through his first deep kiss and into frantic rutting, not even if he'd enjoy it, too, to judge by the tense little circles his hips make, brushing up against Jensen's. He's hard, and the knowledge makes Jensen rougher despite himself, one hand shifting to Jared's jaw to hold him still while he fucks his tongue slow to the back of his mouth; pulls back wetly and bites at his lip.

"Nngh," Jared groans, soft and wordless. Jensen licks at the mark his teeth have made, tiny indentation, and gasps for breath as Jared leans against him like his bones have melted away.

"Okay," he whispers, though he's still pressing little kisses to Jared's mouth, can't help it, the damp cling of their lips like an addiction already, something he can't seem to stop wanting. "Okay, okay. I just --"

"Yeah," Jared breathes, and his mouth is damp and shining in the dim light. "Jensen --" He leans up, bites at Jensen's mouth, and Jensen can't resist the breathlessness in him; sucks on Jared's tongue until Jared's groaning, hips hitching forward uselessly. Jensen draws in a sharp breath at the flare of heat that lances through his body at the contact, pulls back a little, but he can't stop. They're secluded here, alone in their corner, and he hasn't seen Misha tonight at all. Jared tastes like licorice and warm skin and something new that Jensen can't get enough of, and Jensen can keep this appropriate, he can. It's just the stopping he's having difficulty with.

"Easy," he whispers into the space between their mouths, fingers combing through Jared's hair. Jared nuzzles at his face, half-feral, shoulders heaving, and Jensen's heart clenches, weird and hot and good. Easy. Suddenly, everything is.

It's twenty minutes before Jensen realises that the club is winding down, their corner no longer particularly private. He pulls back, mouth swollen from kissing, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to.



"Jared! Hey! These glasses aren't gonna polish themselves, however convenient that would be." Misha slaps a hand down on the bar, not violently, but hard enough that Jared startles, scratches the back of his neck and grins sheepishly.

"Sorry, Misha," he offers. The cloth is still in his hands from earlier, but somewhere along the line, it seems, he stopped polishing while he pondered, and wound up just...pondering. He turns his wrist self-consciously, twisting the cloth into a knot between his hands. "I'll, um. I'll make sure it gets done."

There's a whole stack of new crates piled up under the stairs, liquor to be sorted out and de- or re-labelled, logged in Misha's book under the appropriate false tags, and Jared has every expectation that Misha will want to get right back on that. New shipments don't, after all, sort themselves any more than glasses self-clean, and it isn't as if Jared's not prone to a bit of daydreaming on the job. He's never had a job before that didn't involve standing around at all hours in whatever seasonal extreme of weather applied, and it's more difficult to concentrate without that constant mild discomfort keeping his attention on task. Misha knows this, and, consequently, he prods a little, but he knows it's never a big deal. They've fallen together pretty well in the few months they've known each other, and Misha generally doesn't read anything into a situation that isn't there.

The only problem is, apparently, that when something is there, Misha won't miss it, not now he's learned most of Jared's habits and particular demeanours by heart. There never was anyone, before, to notice when Jared was a little off, but Misha is different. Misha notices every wrong face in his crowd, anyone whose strut says possible cop; notices when the levels of liquor are down further than they should be or when the register is a few cents short. Misha's meticulous that way, and dammit, he's obviously noticed Jared's preoccupation, or he'd have walked away already. Jared shifts his weight uncomfortably and tries to look casual.

"Jared," Misha says levelly, "You look like someone's got your balls in a vice." He wrinkles his nose and leans an elbow on the bar. "C'mon. What's up?"

Jared sighs. There's a smudge of polish on the outside of his boot where he didn't manage to rub it in properly this morning, this dull little patch between toe and sole, and he stares at it tightly, avoiding Misha's eyes. It isn't exactly as if there's an easy answer he can, or wants to, give. What's up is I think I'm in love with a man I barely know. I don't know how old he is or what he really does or where he comes from, but when we talk I feel like he knows me all through. What's up is he tastes like whisky and aniseed and he kisses like he already knows all the good places before he's found them. What's up is we kissed last night and the night before and now I can't think about anything else. What's up is I don't even want to.

None of it is anything he can say, none of it. In the time it takes for it all to flash through his mind and be dismissed, Misha's crossed his arms, the quality of his silence grown more sceptical and less patient, and Jared knows he can't hold out forever. "Nothing," he protests, stalling. "Nothing's up. I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Misha retorts, whipcracking the word out, no messing around. He sets a hand on Jared's arm, above the elbow, and it's gentle but it's too firm for Jared to even think about arguing with it. He doesn't argue with Misha, anyway. He doesn't need something else to worry about. He chews his lip, raises his eyes slowly. Misha arches an eyebrow in encouragement. "Jared?" he prompts. "Come on. What's goin' on in that head of yours?"

Shit. Too late for an escape now, but Jared can already feel the pre-emptive tightness in the back of his throat that says his words will emerge all strange and stilted, not the way he meant them at all. He scuffs his foot against the floor and says them anyway, tries not to cringe at how misleadingly suspicious they sound. "Oh, I just -- Jensen." Get his name out, like ripping off a band aid. "How well do you know Jensen?"

Misha laughs. It's better, Jared, supposes, than some of the possible responses he'd imagined, Misha tensing up and his face darkening as he questions Jared as to what Jensen's been saying to him, whether he's touched him in bad places, whether Jared knows to stay away from that man if he knows what's good for him. This is just Misha, laughing and rolling his shoulders like a man perfectly relaxed.

"Biblically, I suppose," Misha says languidly. "Why?"

…oh. This, then, must be the sound of the expected other shoe dropping. Jared struggles to school his features into something unresponsive, neutral, even while the hollow feeling in his stomach takes and spreads, but he isn't altogether confident he's managed it. "Oh," he says aloud, going for nonchalance, "...huh."

He should stop now. Right now, he should stop, while he's said little enough that the ridiculous surge of hurt flooding through him, the edge of an even more inexplicable fear, isn't obvious.

"A lot of people know him that way?"

(Sometimes, Jared is very bad at doing the things he is most certain he should do.)

"Oh, Jared." The tone of Misha's voice, suddenly all concern, makes it perfectly evident that Jared's struggles for casual ambivalence have been unsuccessful. His hand is warm on Jared's arm, squeezing, and it's nice, except for the fact that now Jared's wondering where that hand's been, how intimately it's touched Jensen, how casually. How many other hands have touched Jensen that way, and with how little unconcern he's allowed them to do so.

"Shit," Jared mutters under his breath. Impulsively, for the sake of something to do with his hands, he picks up the closest glass and begins buffing at it agitatedly, making tight little circles with the cloth, but Misha has two hands, and the other curls itself gently over Jared's, stilling it on the glass.

"Hey," Misha says, low and soft, as if Jared were a wild animal that might startle easily. He talked that way sometimes, when he first brought Jared to live here, but Jared hasn't heard it much lately. He isn't sure how it makes him feel that Misha's resorting to it again. "You and Jensen -- I wondered, but...is something going on?"

Jared huffs through his teeth, laughs shortly. "Guess not," he says. There's bitterness in it, which he didn't intend, but he can't help it. "I mean, we kissed, but I guess he does that pretty casually, huh?"

"He kissed you?" Misha's voice is still that same low, undeviating tone of calm, and Jared's half-angry at its steadiness even while he envies it, even while it slips down his spine and smooths out some of the knots there, just a little. It's so unworried; Jared wishes he could feel the same. "Just kissed you?"

"Yes," he snaps back, glancing up defiantly at Misha for a split second before he looks away again. He rubs the smear of bootpolish irritably against the outside of his other boot, where it leaves a little dark stain. "Big deal though, right? Since you fucked him and all. So I guess it's nothing."

"Oh, honey," Misha says. He's laughing again, light, but the hand on Jared's arm squeezes a little, like Misha thinks he understands, damn him. "Nobody fucks Jensen. That's pretty much the law. Jensen fucks you. And, Jared --" he pauses, and when Jared, propelled by whatever unknown force, looks up, his eyes are very steady and blue. "If Jensen only wanted to fuck you," Misha says carefully, "he'd have done it long before now. You hear me?"

Jared blinks slowly. The thing in his stomach clenches, turns over, settles into something shivering and hopeful, against his better judgment. "What do you mean?" he asks tightly. "He --"

"He kissed you," Misha points out. "Kissed. More than once, right?"

Jared nods, still unsure where this is going, or maybe just not daring to assume.

"More than once and he hasn't taken you to bed yet?" Misha shakes his head. "Never thought I'd say this, kiddo, but I think you two might be good for each other. First time I saw him looking at you, I thought I'd have my work cut out keeping him from stealing your virtue and running, but --" He breaks off, shrugging elaborately. "Something happened, I guess."

Jared raises both eyebrows expectantly. "Something?"

There's something fluttering behind his breastbone, and his voice cracks with it. Misha smiles like he knows and says, "Something. Jensen doesn't have a lot of friends, Jared. Last friend he made was me, and we slept together for over two years." He laughs a little. "And Jensen and me were never like Jensen and you."

The fluttering thing shoves upwards, lurches up into Jared's throat. "How do you mean?" Jared manages over the lump of it, the swell of something close to triumph.

Misha only inclines his head a little, smile swiftly turning into a smirk. "Matt and I, we fell in love. I didn't think Jensen could do that." He grins, quick flash of teeth. "But I may have been wrong." He lets go of Jared's arm abruptly; leans back and indicates the stack of glasses with one hand. "Now be a good boy, huh, and get those cleaned for me? I can't serve my beautiful ill-gotten gains in dirty glasses, can I?"

He walks away whistling, as if he hasn't just shattered Jared's insides and then rebuilt them with a dash of ecstatic hope thrown in. Jared stares after him, one fist clenched in the polishing cloth, and takes deep breaths so as not to make an inappropriate noise.

He manages to keep quiet, but it's a close thing. By the time the glasses are sparkling to Misha's standards, his face aches like hell from the grin that won't seem to subside, however hard he digs his teeth into the insides of his cheeks.

He's just about done returning them to their habitual place under the counter, ready for use, when the street-door snicks and the sound of footsteps announces a visitor. Jared straightens, the vertebrae in his spine cracking a little after so many minutes of crouching, and glances across the room.

The visitor's face is hidden from view by the brim of his hat, the upturned collar of his overcoat and the way he's tucked himself away from the elements between the two, and it's something of a shock to Jared to realise that he knows, all the same, that it's Jensen. Something about the set of the shoulders, his very particular gait -- something, but it couldn't be anyone else.

"Jensen," he says, faintly, before he can stop himself.

The main bar and club area occupy what was once the entire cellar of a fairly large building, and it's too big a space for Jensen, all the way over by the door, to have heard. Misha, though, is far closer in his self-imposed exile by the liquor crates, and he glances up; catches Jared's eye and smiles. Jared isn't altogether sure what the smile means. He's even more uncertain when Misha pushes his crate aside and sets off across the room towards Jensen, one hand outstretched.

"Hey," Misha calls, cheery, "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

That's clear enough, but Misha's moving as he speaks, and the tail end of it is tapering towards the inaudible. Jensen's answering laugh is clear, too, but whatever he says loses its shape between the door and Jared, even the tone unplaceable. Jared ducks his head and tries to focus on straightening up the rows of glasses he just got done stacking, rather than on worrying about what Misha might be saying. Hey, Jensen, Jared's in love with you. Jensen, Jared got himself all upset thinking you were a man-whore, but I set him straight. Unlikely. Still, the casual curl of Misha's fingers around Jensen's forearm makes the nape of Jared's neck ache stupidly, stomach tight with something he doesn't want to acknowledge as jealousy. It isn't as if he has any right to that, after all.

He keeps his head pointedly low when the footsteps start up again, a steady pattern of boot-heel clicks coming closer. When the clicks stop, he waits, holding his breath, face almost touching the blocky structure of glasses below the bar.

"Jared." Jensen sounds amused, warm and low. "Just because you can't see me, doesn't mean I can't see you, you know?"

The mild tingle of heat in Jared's face flares up instantly into a scarlet burn. He clears his throat, tries for a smile that could potentially be described as devil-may-care, and looks up. "Huh?" He indicates the glasses with a jab of his thumb. "Sorry, I was just straightening up. Didn't see you there."

Jensen doesn't believe it for an instant, and Jared knows he doesn't. Jensen knows that Jared knows that he doesn't. It's a long cycle of knowledge eating its own tail, but as long as Jensen plays along, it doesn't have to hurt.

"Uh-huh," Jensen says, raising an eyebrow. His tone is heavy with scepticism, but no argument. "Well, you see me now, don'tcha?"

Jared feels the flush begin to subside a little. Jensen, at least, is willing to glide past the awkwardness, and Jared can work with that. He pulls himself up to his feet again, leans his elbows on the bar. "Sure do," he says, one corner of his mouth curving upward. "Anything I can get you?"

Jensen laughs, eyes sparking green as his head tips back with it. "Well." And then he's leaning down, too, elbows crowded close to Jared's on the smooth-shone top of the bar. His spine makes an elegant curve out of the position, long and undeviating. "I was thinking a little company. If you're not too busy, that is."

Jared's warm beneath the collar of his shirt, warm in the pit of his stomach. Once, as a special favour, Misha poured him a glass of champagne and it felt a little like this, a sensation not acid enough to burn, but hot, so hot, like he ought to be glowing with it. "I'm done with this," he says, slowly, struggling for composure, although he knows he's grinning again. He can feel the ache in his cheeks. "But I don't know if Misha'd let me slack off right now. He's probably just waiting to throw me something else to do."

"Oh," Jensen says, dismissive, "don't worry about Misha." He grins, and close up like this, Jared can't help noticing how adorable his teeth are. His teeth. Clearly, Jared's lost it. He clears his throat.

"He's my boss," he points out. "Gotta earn my keep somehow."

"I can handle him," Jensen counters, calmly, firmly. Meant to reassure. An image flashes into Jared's mind: Misha's hand on Jensen's arm, Jensen leaning into it. He isn't reassured.

"Yeah," he huffs, before he can stop himself, "I know all about you handling Misha."

Jensen freezes, the smile going static on his face. He doesn't blush, not quite, but there's a faint suggestion of pink creeping along his cheekbones. "Oh?" he says, tight, unreadable. He straightens up, and Jared feels the lack of him like cool air all down his front. He winces.

"Sorry," he offers, hastily. He sighs, presses a hand to his face. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Jensen throws him a studying look, eyebrows drawn together. "Why did you?" he asks, and his tone is frankly curious, assessing. As if he really wants to know. As if it matters. "Misha's my friend. We used to fuck. It was safe and convenient and we had fun together." He frowns slightly. "Does that bother you?"

"Does it --" Jared jerks his eyes away, the hand on his cheek sliding up to cover his eyes. It's unhelpful, he knows -- childish, even -- but somehow, everything feels safer like this, as if he could force down the welling discomfort in him with only the pressure of his fingers. "No," he says, muffled against the inside of his wrist. "No, I --"

"Is it because he's a man?"

That stops Jared in his tracks, face stilling abruptly behind his hands. Because he's a man? Jared blinks, drops his hands. Stares at Jensen uncomprehendingly. "What?" He scans Jensen's face, looking for some explanation there. "How could -- Jensen, how could you think that would bother me?"

Jensen shrugs, languid lift of one shoulder. "Not as if it'd be unusual," he points out. "It's illegal, case you'd forgotten. Hell, it's immoral. Just ask your local priest, kid."

"I've noticed," Jared shoots back, "that you call me 'kid' when you're doing your defensive tough-guy act." He crosses his arms protectively over his chest. "Jensen, this whole outfit is illegal. I'm perfectly aware of it. And I don't have a local priest. And then there's the part where I spent yesterday evening kissing you." He takes a deep breath, and hates the way it shakes. "Unless you've forgotten about that already."

The shift in Jensen's face at that tells Jared he's hit deep. Jensen looks stricken, mouth half-open and momentarily speechless, and probably, Jared shouldn't be feeling satisfied about it, but he does. Jensen cares. Right now, that's enough to satisfy him.

"I didn't forget," Jensen says, and his voice is strained, earnest. Jared's never heard it that way before. "Jared, I -- I don't know what I'm doing with this, man. I don't --" He waves a hand vaguely, turns plaintive eyes on Jared as if words have failed him. Jared takes pity.

"You like me," he says, slowly, as if spelling something out for a five year old. "Don't you? You like it when we...do stuff. Any stuff." He pauses, draws in a long, steadying breath. His heart feels as if it's about to beat out of his chest, thumping wildly behind his ribcage, but he's gone so far now that it would take more to retreat than to continue. So, he continues. "And I like you. I like you, and I like it when you -- when you kiss me, so, just, can we just not worry about it for one minute?" He stretches a hand over the bar between them, fumbles for Jensen's. "Please?"

Jensen's breath punches out of him in a rush as their hands touch; turns his wrist immediately to tangle his fingers through Jared's. "Shit," he mutters, strangled. "Yes. Okay, Jared. Okay."

For a long, long moment, all Jared can do is grin. Something seems to have seized him by the nape of the neck and pinned him in place while it bleeds a warmth through his veins, everywhere, and on the other side of the bar, Jensen's grinning too, lopsided and broad and real. Jensen, his hand warm in Jared's, his eyes making evident that he's almost as uncertain as Jared is, and yet wants this equally badly. It's like some sort of beautiful dream that surely could never happen.

Except it is happening, and the only thing preventing Jared from throwing himself at Jensen is the bar between them, an unforgivable obstacle. He takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on Jensen's hand. "Let's go upstairs," he says. He's shivering, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on end, electric, but the look on Jensen's face is worth it, the way his eyes widen and dilate.

"You sure?" He wrenches out the words as if with a monumental effort, but Jared loves him for it, for saying them. It only makes him surer. He nods, squeezes Jensen's hand hard in the last second before he drops it.

"Upstairs," he says, indicating with a hand as he steps out from behind the bar, closes the little gate behind him. "Matt's out on a supply run, Misha's --"

"Don't look at Misha," Jensen says, two paces in front of Jared on the way to the stairs. "Don't give the bastard the satisfaction, I can't -- here --"

Jensen reaches back, and they're connected again, just like that, Jared's palm flattened against his as they move inadvisably quickly up the rickety staircase, breath coming fast in their throats. It's never seemed, before, like such a long staircase; never seemed so far to walk across the living room and down the little corridor to Jared's room, his neatly made bed. He's never been in such a hurry before; but then, there's never been anything quite like this waiting for him as the endgame. There's never been Jensen, closing the bedroom door behind them, grinning down at Jared, nervous and thrilled. Jared stares at him, hands trembling at his sides. He clenches them into fists, wets his lips.

"So," he says, trying for confidence.

"So," Jensen echoes, and reaches out to cup Jared's jaw, brushing his thumb gently over the swell of his lower lip. "Can I --"

He's -- talking. And that -- there isn't any time for that, not right now. Jared makes a hitched little sound in the back of his throat, leans in, and swallows the rest of the question in the wet heat of his mouth, nudging Jensen's lips apart with his own. It's easy, now, the motions of it coming back to him instinctively, and he mouths at Jensen's lips, slides his tongue eager and firm to the back of Jensen's teeth. Jensen clutches at his shoulders, jaw opening filthy wide against Jared's, and Jared presses deeper, stroking over the ridges of Jensen's soft palate. Jensen makes a soft, broken sound, and Jared relents a little, pulls back to nip at his lower lip, suck on the sinful swell of it.

"Yes," he whispers into the space between their mouths, fractional, damp with their breath. "Whatever you were gonna ask, just -- yes."

In terms of mechanics, they aren't doing anything right now that they haven't done already. Yesterday, they kissed this way until Jared was weak-kneed and hard and breathless, until Jensen's mouth was smudged pink and swollen. But that was downstairs, in the bar, the atmosphere heady with smoke and drink and darkness. This, the two of them pressed close to each other in Jared's little bedroom, the afternoon light shining on Jensen's damp mouth, feels different. Removed from the dreamlike space of the speakeasy, all dim lights and dance music, this becomes something else, something real. When Jensen bites his lip, Jared can track every tiny detail contained in the gesture: the way his pupils flare in response to Jared's words, the way the softness of his mouth yields to the pressure. When he says Jared's name, curtailed the way only Jensen curtails it -- "Jay -- God --" he feels his stomach dip, heady and hot.

Behind him, nudging at his knees, the bed looms like some unknown promised land. Something in Jared twists up, almost afraid at the thought of it, but it isn't a big enough part of him to overwhelm the rest, the breathless majority that wants nothing more than to feel Jensen's full weight on him, tangle their legs. Jensen's hard against him already, Jared can tell, although he's canting his hips away a little as if he's afraid that Jared might protest. Jared has no intention of protesting.

He swallows down the last of his nervousness and drags the palms of his hands flat down Jensen's back; slides them around his waist to smooth over the sensitive places on his abdomen, on his waist, slipping under his blazer so that only shirt-cotton separates them. Jensen's breath hitches and his pelvis with it, jerking forward involuntarily, and Jared half-whimpers at the contact, brush of their cocks together through their pants.

"Jensen," he gets out, low and brittle, "I want it." Jensen's belt-loops are a tempting target, close to his hands, and he hooks his thumbs through them, tugs Jensen closer. "Please. Don't --"

"Don't make you say it?" Jensen's voice is low, now, too, warm and hoarse against Jared's mouth. He grinds forward, slow and deliberate, and Jared has to bite back a cry in his throat at the shock of the pressure, bone-deep jolt of pleasure that he wants nothing more than to fall into. Jensen's hands are a structural echo of his, bracketing Jared's waist, but he slides them lower now, grips Jared's ass and pulls him close. Jared gasps for breath; rubs his mouth wet and slack against Jensen's, wanting closer; wanting to climb right out of his skin and into Jensen's.

"Bed," he clarifies, knowing that this was exactly what Jensen wanted -- to make him say it, make him ask -- but no longer caring, not if the one word is all it will take to get his hands on Jensen's skin, get Jensen's perfect mouth on him in return. "God, come on --" and he tugs at Jensen insistently, impatience breaking recklessly loose. "Come on."

The bed is narrow, a cheap spare-room acquisition, but its iron frame is sturdy enough that Jared makes no attempt to brace himself as Jensen starts to lurch forward under the impetus of his tugging. On the contrary, Jared goes with it, lets himself be toppled, and when Jensen, half-laughing, sprawls over him on the mattress, it's easy enough to squirm around until they find something close to a comfortable position, Jared with his head on the pillow where it ought to be, Jensen braced over him on his elbows.

"Gee," Jensen teases, one eyebrow raised pointedly, "You're a man who knows what he wants, aren't you?" One of his knees has found its way between Jared's, a natural consequence of their position, and he pushes forward now, slow full-body roll that brings his thigh into firm, hard contact with Jared's cock. Jared hisses through his teeth, arcs up into it and digs his fingers into the muscle of Jensen's back.

"Yes," he says, because what Jensen says is perfectly true, and it's about time he recognised it. Jared isn't a child or anything close to one. He wants this, Jensen's heat and weight and proximity, and he wants Jensen to know it. They're overdressed, too many layers of cloth keeping his hands from Jensen's skin, and he trails his fingers down the dip of Jensen's spine through his jacket; finds the waistband of his pants and begins tugging his shirt up out of it in fistfuls.

"Jared," Jensen protests, laughing, "what're you -- shit --"

"Know what I want," Jared reminds him, his voice tight and breathless with the exhilarated thrill of finally working his hands up under all the layers of Jensen, finding his blood-warm flesh. "Just --" Jensen squirms interestingly when Jared's fingers find the small of his back, skimming the bones in his spine there, and Jared inches upward, exploratory. "Can I --"

"Fuck." Jensen's downward thrust is ragged, involuntary, and Jared's voice breaks into a moan as he rolls up into it, riding the hard muscle of Jensen's thigh. Jensen's built under his clothes, muscle bunching and unclenching under Jared's hands as they move together, and Jared can't stop touching him; palms his sides and his shoulder blades, shoves his hands up far enough under the shirt that he can hook them over Jensen's shoulders and pull. Jensen doesn't seem to mind -- on the contrary, is biting his lip, breath coming quickly through his nose, but the jacket is too much. Even the shirt feels like a ludicrous barrier not yet to have been torn down.

"Please," Jared murmurs and lunges upward to nip at Jensen's mouth for a moment before Jensen skitters away to nose along the line of Jared's jaw, nuzzle at the soft place below his ear.

"I got you," Jensen says, and his voice is warm and damp against Jared's pulse point, his tongue warmer still when it flattens there where the blood flutters under the surface. "I got you, Jay."

Jared's fairly sure he had something else he wanted to say, something more specific to ask. But when Jensen's mouth parts, latching onto Jared's throat with teeth and suction laved over with his tongue, it is as if all sense flees his head. He arches up, something wordless and involuntary breaking from his lips, and Jensen only laughs, the vibration of it thrumming through Jared's skin, and sucks harder. Jared fucks up against him, can't help it, and although he's half-aware of Jensen shifting weirdly above him, it isn't until his hands fly upwards to find Jensen's shoulders again, bracing himself at the crest of a wave, that he realises Jensen's disposed of his jacket.

The realisation jolts him altogether harder than it warrants. It's only a jacket, after all. Jared's only in shirtsleeves himself. But it's a step, a shift towards nakedness, and Jared's body responds to it with a fierce spike of heat, fingers grappling for Jensen's hair, cradling his skull and pulling him in.

"Jensen," he grits; rocks up against the bulge of Jensen's cock in his pants, and Jensen moans, the sound half-buried in the curve of Jared's throat. There'll be a bruise there, Jared knows already, the skin hot and shockingly sensitive now when Jensen's tongue rasps against it. He tugs, too dizzy with it to be concerned with whether or not it might hurt Jensen to have Jared's hands wound into his hair like this; hauls Jensen away one-handed from the love-bite he's made. "Jen -- c'mon, kiss me."

Hair disarranged, eyes heavy-lidded and long-lashed against the flush of his cheeks, Jensen looks positively debauched, a god mussed and sensualised by exposure to humanity. He's breathing heavily, hands shifting restlessly over Jared's sides, over his arms, and he finds Jared's waist now with his thumbs, smooths over the sharp spurs of his hipbones. "God," he murmurs, bites at his swollen lower lip, and it's all Jared can do not simply to lean up in that moment and devour him. "You sure this is your first time, bossy?"

Jared's shirt is too short for him, most of the excess already rucked up out of his pants from their rutting, and it only takes one tug for Jensen to uncover skin, stroke the pads of his thumbs over it. Jared shivers, tense and sudden, pulses his hips upward. "It would be," he hisses, "if you'd just -- just fucking --"

Words, at this stage, are no longer easy. It is easier simply to curve a hand around the nape of Jensen's neck and haul him in, to swallow Jensen's laugh in his mouth and stroke the flat of his tongue until he finds purchase enough to suck on it, make Jensen moan and buck. Jensen is perfect this way, his body a long line of heat that moulds to Jared's every jut and hollow, and Jared doesn't require elegance, his skin alight with nerve-endings everywhere. Jensen groans into his mouth, torques his hips down hard against Jared's, and Jared feels himself slicking, pulses of precome easing the friction in his shorts. It's instinct alone that makes him hook one foot over the back of Jensen's calf, hitching himself closer, and then -- shit -- Jensen rocks down against him, the angle impossibly better, tighter and harder and more direct, and --

"Jared," Jensen wrenches out, bracing his arms either side of Jared's shoulders on the bed to support his weight as he ruts down, "Jay, shit, gotta stop. Jay, gonna --"

"No," Jared cuts in, fingers digging into the muscle of Jensen's back, hard enough that his nails are probably carving tiny red crescents into the skin. Jensen doesn't seem to care, though, to judge by the way his thrusts are speeding up, his hands threading into Jared's hair as they move. "No, Jen -- don't care, just --"

They're too far gone for anything so complicated as kissing, both of them, however much Jensen may want to flaunt his skill and experience and draw this out, maybe even reach the great grown-up plateau of getting them naked before they come. By this stage, panting hot and desperate against Jensen's mouth, Jared doesn't want to stop for anything. He's close, shit, every nerve in his body straining with tension, want arrowing down into a frantic pounding of blood between his legs, and this is enough, orgasm already grasping at him huger and more visceral than anything he's ever managed with his own hand. They're grinding together frenetically, urgently, Jensen bearing down on him as fierce and sure as if they were fucking for real, as if he could drive right into Jared through their clothes, and like this, Jared could almost believe it. Like this, body arcing up off the bed as he ruts against the blazing heat of Jensen's cock, everything could end and he wouldn't care, just as long as -- just --

It breaks over him sudden as a summer storm, cock jerking, pulsing slick and sticky in his shorts, and it's all he can do to cling to Jensen and fuck himself through it, his cry muffled in the sweaty curve of Jensen's neck. Jensen stutters, thrusts turning suddenly erratic, as if he can feel Jared shooting against him, Christ, feel him convulse and spill. Jared inhales shakily at the thought, bites down on the long tendon standing out in Jensen's neck, and that's it, enough to freeze Jensen in motion, set him shivering.

"Fuck," Jensen groans, as harsh and startled as if he were in pain, and his arms shake with the effort of it, whole body tensed. "Fuck -- Jared -- fuck --" and Jared can feel it, when he comes; feels the damp patch spreading over the front of his pants, feels the way his cock leaps with it.

Jensen, probably, will say this is not what they came up here for. Probably, he will say that this is kids' stuff, not what he wanted for their first time, not real. But to Jared, as he gasps for breath and gathers Jensen against him, limp on his chest, nothing could have felt more immediate or truthful. His fingers tremble as they stroke through Jensen's hair, heart still careering wildly in his chest. This isn't all he wants from Jensen, but for the first time, he feels like an adult in all the right ways; feels sated and contented and proud. It isn't as if the rest of it can't wait. After all, they have time.

Jensen doesn't say anything, but even still, Jared knows he isn't going anywhere.



part 3