Fic: The Academy of Absent Fathers - Jensen/Misha - Chapter Five
Title: The Academy of Absent Fathers - Chapter Five
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights and kriari
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
After the incident in the foyer with the Dean, things change. It’s subtle, and not some dramatic declaration of BFF-dom, but some of the tension leaves the room to be replaced with something...else.
Truthfully, Misha doesn’t actually know what to make of it. He’s used to not getting on with kids; oftentimes foster brothers and sisters don’t take kindly to additional inmates. Sometimes that’s not even a bad thing. A little hate is good for the soul, definitely good for the thickening of skin.
What they have now. Hell, he has no idea. They aren’t friends. Misha is all over continuing to be a dick to Jensen, as it turns out riling him up is not a bad way to pass the time . The glinty flare of hatred in Jensen’s eyes is worth all kinds of feeling like a child. But now Jensen seems to have come over all...weird.
It’s not that he won’t allow himself to rise to the bait Misha puts out there. It’s like he doesn’t even see it anymore. And that cannot be abided.
And yet, for some reason, Misha doesn’t entirely hate the truce either and that leaves him feeling off-kilter, unable to read the situation. And that, he doesn’t like.
So it’s not entirely a surprise, and yet on the other hand, completely unexpected, when he and Rob sneak out of the academy one night to go watch some band Rob won’t shut up about, and he ends up spending the evening by Jensen’s side. Literally and figuratively.
“It’ll be awesome,” Rob says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “No, really, I’ve been to Louden Swain about twenty times now, and they just get better and better.”
Misha nods, he’s not convinced, and really, he’s not all that into the scene anyway. He hasn’t had a lot of time to keep up-to-date on what’s happening. All his musical tastes come from what he remembers of his parents. Which means there’s a lot of Creedence Clearwater in his musical influences.
He’s not dumb enough to tell people that. Instead he plays along, affects a cool aloofness that usually means people think he’s down with whatever it is they think is the bomb. And it’s not like it matters anyway. It’s only been a few weeks and he’s itching with the need to break out of the school and Rob is offering him that on a platter. He’ll like fucking Whatever-Its-Name-Is Beiber if it gets him a night out with some serious alcohol drinking.
It takes them forever to get to the bar, a good 45 minute walk through sand, dust and mosquitoes, that Misha wasn’t planning on. He’s wearing borrowed clothes proclaiming bands he’s never heard of, and they’re too tight, clinging to the sweat that slides down his spine as they trudge along in the suffocating heat.
Rob chats incessantly the entire way there, and Misha pays him at least half of his attention, muttering affirmatives and commiserations as required; mainly he soaks in the feeling of being free. This is why he will be outta here the second he turns eighteen. He needs it, feels the delirious rush of it in his veins like oxygen. To be his own person, to not belong to anyone, to not be passed along from one person to the next... that, will be the start of his life. The real start.
By the time they get to the bar, Misha is flushed and sweat has broken out along his hairline. He does not like the South and its humidity. Give him a New York winter in a minute.
Rob nods nervously to the bouncer at the door. He’d explained to Misha, in one of the tangents on the way over, that he’s been seeing bands play at this place for years, and they know him. He’d been full of bravado that they wouldn’t have trouble getting in.
That bravado doesn’t seem to have lasted the trip, though, and for a second Misha is sure they’re going to be turned away like children.
But the bouncer just nods, utters a gruff, “Don’t let me catch you drinking, kids,” and stands aside.
Misha wants to take offense immediately, because he is sure as all hell going to be drinking. But the look Rob gives him, glancing over his shoulder and looking relieved and grateful, even though Misha himself has done nothing, stays his tongue.
Inside is just as hot as outside, but the ceiling fans push down false imitations of breezes and somehow makes it seem less oppressive than it actually is.
It’s crowded. Really crowded for a Wednesday night, Misha guesses, so maybe Rob is right, maybe this band is actually good. It’ll be a nice addition to his alcohol, he supposes. If, that is, they’re able to get any. The place is packed, which means so are the tables. The meager dance floor is already a swarm of bodies.
“Hey!” Rob says to him, pitching his voice up to be heard over the chatter of conversations and clink of glasses. “Over there.” He points and Misha follows his wavering finger, but can’t for the life of him tell what he’s meant to be focusing on.
Before he can ask, Rob sets off across the room, weaving and dodging around people so quickly that Misha bumps into people as he tries to catch up. He ignores the swearing and dirty looks in favor of not losing sight of his guide.
When he catches up, Rob is talking animatedly with his hands, dragging over empty seats to append them to the end of a booth. It’s not until Misha stops, awkwardly shoved into a seat by Rob, that he realizes he knows at least two of it’s occupants. One is Julie, the Dean’s PA, who is looking at him quizzically with a curious smile. The other, staring at him like Misha is the last person he expected to see, is Jensen.
Great.
New found peaceable weirdness or not, Misha does not want to spend the night not being weird, peaceably or otherwise, with Jensen. He wants to spend the night getting drunk.
At least Jensen seems to feel the same way, judging by the grunted, “Hey, man,” that comes his way.
“Obviously you know Jensen,” Rob is saying with a nervous laugh, “and Julie,” he says, waving happily at her. “And these are Jensen’s friends, Chris and Dave.”
Misha nods in the direction of the two guys Rob is indicating. “Nice to meet you, I'm sure.”
The one called Chris snorts into his beer, but it doesn’t seem malicious, just amused. Which is weird, but whatever floats his boat. Dave, however, Misha takes an instant dislike to, the way his eyebrows arch lasciviously and his forehead lines into ruts.
“So you’re the famous Misha, are you?” Dave asks, and the tone of his voice indicates something is very definitely going on that Misha isn’t aware of. His defense mechanisms rise against danger automatically.
“The one and only,” he mutters, glancing furtively at Jensen but gaining nothing from the way he studiously avoids his gaze to stare down into his beer.
“Well, you are very pretty, I'll give you that, Meeesha,” he leers, drawing Misha’s name out.
“Ignore him,” Julie says, swatting at Dave’s arm. “Dave’s a dick. I don’t know why we tolerate him.”
“I keep tellin’ y’all he does give good head,” Chris remarks, and sets Rob into a fit of nervous giggles.
“I’ll bet Misha here gives good head.” Dave grins and Misha feels a flush rise to his cheeks. “His lips are almost as pretty for cocksucking as Jenny’s here.”
Misha’s about to say something in return - what, he has no idea - but he’s sure it will be particularly sharp and cut right to the quick, when Jensen growls quietly from beside him. “Oh, shut up, Dave, no one wants to watch you jerk off.”
Misha snorts, amused to find Jensen has beaten him to it.
“Do you guys want a drink?” Jensen asks them, turning the conversation away from Dave and his dick.
“Anything alcoholic,” Misha mutters at the same time as Rob says he’d like a virgin bloody Mary.
“That’d be right,” Dave mutters and Misha feels his hackles rise, instantly on alert to defend his friend. Even if a Virgin Mary is the wussiest drink he’s ever heard anyone order. Surprisingly, he finds he’s not the only one, sensing rather than seeing the way Jensen tenses beside him, as if waiting for a fight.
Rob, though, is oblivious to any slight against him though, chatting away with Julie about something or other. Jensen catches the eye of a waitress and gives their order; one virgin bloody Mary, and one beer that Misha doesn’t recognise.
Jensen must sense Misha’s consternation because he winks. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
And strangely, Misha finds the idea of trusting Jensen is not all as abhorrent as it might have been a week ago. Jensen himself looks quietly pleased when Misha nods and says okay.
The band comes on and, true to Rob’s word, they’re pretty fucking good. Misha finds himself tapping his foot along in a way entirely reminiscent of every-man's grandpa, but not caring in the least. Rob and Julie head out onto the makeshift mosh-pit and dance for awhile, leaving Dave to make innuendo and Chris to laugh, partially with him but partially at him. Jensen stays quiet, long since moved over into the booth to allow Misha to slide in next to him.
Together, they make it through a not-so-paltry amount of beer, and the night begins to swim invitingly in Misha’s vision. Jensen is a warm presence next to him, and he fights the urge to sway closer, knowing it would be uninvited. And potentially suicidal, with Jensen’s best friends and douchebags across the table from him.
Whatever. He’s drunk and free and happy, and he’s okay with that.
Between sets, Dave starts in on the needling again. At one point he asks Misha who his parents are, because surely they must be rich and famous for him to end up at such a snooty ‘gay school’ as Ellis. When Misha tells him it’s none of his god damn business, Dave crows like he’s won the jackpot.
“Aw, sore are we that mommy and pop shipped you off unwanted? Was little Meesh an accident?”
“Does it make you feel bigger to belittle other people?” Misha retorts serenely. “Because I can only imagine you must be making up for some damn impressive feelings of inadequacy.”
“Oh yeah?” Dave replies. “Wanna see my cock Misha? You only had to ask, you know.”
Misha rolls his eyes. “Love to, but I didn’t bring my glasses. I’m sure your momma told you it was normal though, right?”
Jensen laughs abruptly next to him and Misha turns, almost in disbelief, to see the flashing white of Jensen’s teeth and the long, exposed expanse of throat that is bared as Jensen’s head tilts back in amusement.
Dave just scowls at him from across the table.
“Damn,” Chris drawls. “We ought to keep this one around. Any man that can put Davey-boy here in his place is a man worth buying a beer.”
Jensen chuckles, eyes bright with mischief, and Misha has to fight to tear his gaze away. “He has his moments,” he agrees, and Misha finds himself unable to stop the slight tug of his lips as they curve into a wry smile.
Apparently, hating on Dave was the right move, because from that point on Jensen warms to him in a way he’s never done since they met. The glowering Dave gives him amuses the fuck out of Chris, too, and Jensen finds himself in possession of a really good glass of Scotch the next time the waitress swings past.
By the time Louden Swain have finished and Julie and Rob make it back to the table, giggling and bright-eyed, Misha is drunker than drunk. And judging by the way that Jensen keeps accidentally knocking his elbow into him as he drinks, he isn’t the only one.
“Oh my god, you guys are toasted,” Julie cries in amusement.
“Are not,” Jensen says and then entirely ruins the effect of the statement by hiccuping. Which makes Misha dissolve into giggles. He can hear them coming out of his mouth, even as he knows he is not a person who giggles. And is certainly not a person who giggles in front of his stick-up-the-butt roommate Jensen. And yet they are definitely coming from him.
“Are too,” Julie grins. “Do you need a ride home? I’m gonna give Rob a lift.”
Misha’s about to say “fuck yes,” when Jensen answers for him. “Nah. The night is still young. And there is more beer to be drunk.”
Which is not what he was going to say, but the way Jensen turns to him, eyes glinting with merriment and a smile plastered over his face, shuts him up. He’ll stay. Of course he’ll stay. Not even a question.
Julie shakes her head with an indulgent smile. “You guys do remember you have class in the morning. Have fun with that.”
Jensen smirks, “Don’t worry, we won’t rat you out for fraternizing with minors.”
Julie laughs. “No, you won’t, because you aren’t that stupid.”
Misha opens his mouth to speak but Jensen is quicker. “Shut up and drink your beer, man.”
The way Jensen’s eyes dare him to say otherwise should be something he objects to, and yet, really, all it does is make him adjust the way he’s sitting under the table. This is not a good thing. His insufferable roommate is hot, yes, but if he gets to the point of being hot enough that Misha has to make that happen? Well, life could get complicated.
With eyebrows raised and an answering dare in his own gaze, Misha brings the glass to his mouth and swallows.
* * *
Jensen is singing. Misha has no idea what, but it’s drunken and vaguely close to being in tune. Misha would take a second to stop and listen, figure out what the song is, but really, in the grand scheme of things, it hardly matters. Jensen is singing and Misha is laughing, an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and stumbling through the sandy dirt.
At some point he looks up and blinks. “Hey! When did we leave the bar?”
Beside him Jensen stops singing and starts laughing. “Dude, you are so wasted. We left, like, ten minutes ago.”
“It’s your fault,” Misha accuses, though his voice is coming out more amused than scolding for some reason. “You got me drunk.”
“Yeah, I practically forced you to drink,” Jensen scoffs, tripping a little on a tree root and stumbling into Misha’s side.
Misha catches him, arm tightening around Jensen’s broad shoulders to keep him up. At some point they also went from drunk and friendly to drunken friendly. Misha’s not one to beat himself against the wall of turning a straight boy gay, but damn if Jensen’s hands, pawing at him as they cling to each other, don’t feel fucking amazing.
“Well, you did that one time...” Misha points out.
“Oh,” Jensen giggles, and although it’s too dark to see, Misha is pretty sure there’s a pink flush of heat suffusing Jensen’s cheeks. “Well, but that was Dave. Not me.”
“Semantics,” Misha laughs. “Besides. Dave is your friend.”
“Dave is no one’s friend,” Jensen growls, and though he doesn’t let go of where his hand is curled around Misha’s waist, he moves slightly away, letting the cooler night air flow between them. Misha’s spent all his time down South trying to get cool, and now the one time he is...
“Oh yeah? Then why do you hang out with him? He’s a dick.”
Jensen grins, and Misha can see the white his teeth in the moonlight. “I’m so fucking glad you said that, man. Dave is a dick! Jared could never...thought he was funny. Moron.”
The trees are growing closer together and the smell of the sea is on the breeze. It’s getting darker too and Misha hopes to hell Jensen knows where they’re going because he wasn’t paying all that much attention to memorizing the way to the bar with Rob, let alone knowing how to do it in reverse in the dark.
“No,” Misha affirms. “He’s definitely a dick.”
“Man, you’re alright, Misha,” Jensen says. The wonderment that laces the sentence kind of ruins it, but Misha is happy to go along with it anyway.
“I’m the fucking bomb,” Misha says, and senses the rolling of Jensen’s eyes.
Jensen stops, Misha stuttering a half step forward before realizing and pulling himself up short in his drunken lurch. “What?” he asks, turning to Jensen and trying to make out his features in the darkness.
“I’m serious,” Jensen says, staring at him with wide black eyes and the studious seriousness only the insanely drunk can pull off. “I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. You’re... you’re okay, man.”
Misha does what he always does when faced with the terrifying prospect of real emotion: he deflects. “I know I’m hot, but you don’t have to try so hard to get in my pants, baby. You’re pretty enough already.”
Even in the dark, Misha can see the way Jensen freezes in stunned shock for a second before shaking himself physically and punching him in the arm, hard enough to be a little painful. “You’re a fucking dick.”
Misha grins. “Yes, yes I am.”
They stumble onwards, but it seems to be taking a much longer time to get back to the academy than it did to get to the bar in the first place. Misha is getting tired, the alcohol that suffuses his veins starting to get heavy. When Jensen starts looking around in circles half an hour later like he’s trying to figure out which way they need to turn, Misha gives up and sits down, yanking on Jensen’s skinny wrist and pulling him down hard against his side.
“What are we doing?” Jensen asks, voice loud in the quiet darkness.
“We are not ending up alligator food. We are sitting the fuck down until the world stops being so dizzy and we will move again when we can see,” Misha decrees.
“You’re pretty bossy when you’re drunk,” Jensen notes, and Misha can practically hear the arched eyebrow that until now had been such an annoyance. Now he kind of just wants to follow that parabola with his tongue. Fuck.
“And you’re lost, so shut the fuck up and rest.”
Wonder of wonders, Jensen does. When they wake up a few hours later, dawn’s pale light is tinting the grove of Magnolia trees they’ve sat down in orange, shadows long and cool along the white of the sandy dirt. Misha wakes first, yawning and wondering what on earth is so heavy. It turns out to be Jensen, sleepy and warm, curled against his side.
With a bittersweet feeling in his stomach, for this is not a gift that Misha gets to keep, he rouses Jensen with a gentle shake. Blinking blearily, Jensen looks up at him, open and honest in a way that Misha hasn’t ever seen on his roommate until now, and smiles. He knows that madness lies this way, but he smiles back; he can’t help it. They disentangle without a word and make their way back, easy now that the daylight shows the signposts they’d missed in their drunken haze. It’s only one night, and yet somehow it changes everything.
* * *
From that point on, the whole relationship shifts. Instead of fighting, a drawn out war of bickering and strategy, the room becomes peaceful. Misha finally starts to see the Jensen that everyone has been raving about since he got there. And okay, sure, while he doesn’t put the guy on a pedestal the way some of the other kids and faculty do, he’s prepared to admit that Jensen is a good guy. Combined with the looks and ease with which Jensen seems to move about in his skin, Misha almost decides to hate him again, just on principle.
But it turns out that things are a lot more enjoyable when they’re on the same side. Misha stops having to hang out at the library every second of the day outside of class. And when Sam questions him on it, he just shrugs, but her knowing smile makes him think she knows anyway. And so what, Jensen is just a friend. That step took long enough as it was.
They aren’t chatty, confiding secrets with each other every second like gossiping schoolgirls, but the silence in the room is finally comfortable, a relief instead of cloying. Misha stops telling Jensen lies about his parents. Sure, he doesn’t tell him the truth, because even Jensen hasn’t earned the trust required for that dirty little secret, but not lying is a step further than he allows most people.
Misha stops leaving his things all over the place. He doesn’t like to be messy anyway, because mess means one can’t find ones belongings in a hurry when they need to run. In return, Jensen tells Jared off when Jared touches Misha’s things, and the dirty look that Jared gives Jensen is so funny that Misha almost wills Jared to keep touching to have it happen again.
They aren’t best friends or anything, but they have each others’ backs, and that’s almost better.
When Misha runs out of toothpaste, Jensen wordlessly hands him one that he produces from some secret stash. Misha leaves an apple on Jensen’s nightstand one night after he hears Jensen’s stomach rumbling from across the room. When Jensen runs out of paper in the middle of an essay, Misha hands him a sheaf of his own. And while Misha stops short of following Jensen and sitting in the bleachers to watch him at lacrosse like some lovesick puppy, he does, he’ll admit, sometimes walk past the sports fields in his ramblings, and if Jensen just happens to be there, running fast, catching with skill and deftness, then he’ll admit he’ll often stop for just a moment. Like a friend would. Moving on only when Jensen catches him and waves enthusiastically from midfield.
The semester weaves on, and for the most part, Misha does fine. He excels at all the cerebral subjects and
passes at the not-so-thinky ones. He’s passing Art, with Traci, the eclectic hippie of a woman that all the guys want to hit but who just reminds Misha of his mom. Or who he thinks his mom would be like, if things had been different. Jensen seems to have some kind of special bond with her, which all the guys thinks means they’re fucking. When Misha asks him about it, Jensen just smiles enigmatically and refuses to say anything other than, “And if all the guys jumped off a cliff?” Misha isn’t sure that that’s a no, but with Jensen he sort of suspects it is.
Math with the crazy fucker Chad, whom everyone calls Ash, though no one seems to know why, is a cake walk. Strategy has always been his thing, and Misha finds Math to be mostly that. So much so that he ends up helping Jensen with some of the harder trig stuff sometimes, Jensen quiet and concentrating, brow furrowed and the end of a pencil between his full lips.
No, the only thing Misha is having trouble in is Physical Education. He’s always prided himself on having the smarts needed to get out of any dangerous situation, and he’s been in plenty, but physically? He knows he couldn’t stop Rob if the kid decided to attack in some fit of sugar-induced rage.
He’s pretty much failing the year so far, and when Coach Pellegrino pulls him aside and says that unless he gets amazing results in the next unit, he’ll have to repeat the semester (Misha mentally substitutes the word ‘torture’ there) or face expulsion. Misha resolves to do better, to apply himself if he fucking has to, because he cannot and will not do it all again. And then he finds out that the last unit couldn’t possibly be more clichéd, or more terrifying.
Equestrian.
Misha is afraid of horses. It’s fucked up. Who in the hell needs to do equestrian at school? Snooty private school or not, it’s the dumbest most archaic shit he’s ever heard. He’s hardly going to be joining the polo team (there is one, he checked) or competing in jousting for a fair maiden any time soon, so he doesn’t see the need to be able to ride a fucking horse.
The only horse he’s ever met wasn’t even a horse. It was a Shetland pony at a petting zoo he remembers his parents taking him to when he was just a toddler, maybe three or four. It bit him when his mother wasn’t paying attention, and though it was just a nip, not meant to hurt, it had sent Misha into a panic and took his mother hours to stop him crying afterwards; he only calmed down when she took him into Barnes & Noble, his childhood equivalent of FAO Schwartz. Or so she’d claimed laughingly later.
No, horses are nasty fuckers, and Misha has had no inclination whatsoever to remedy that impression.
“Why don’t you go down to the stables this weekend?” Jensen asks him when Misha expresses his disgust that he has to pass such a unit, at school.
Jensen’s been busy packing clothes into a duffel bag, some big trip into the city with Jared and Jared’s jock friends from the football team coming up the next day. Jensen’s mentioned it a couple of times, but he doesn’t seem all that enthused about it, as far as Misha can tell. Jared, on the other hand, has been bouncing in and out of their room for the better part of the week like a rabbit on uppers, nattering on about what they’re all going to do, most of it involving alcohol and girls.
“You think I’m going to go to where the horses live?” Misha asks him incredulously in return. He’s flopped down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling while Jensen bustles back and forth with piles of clothes. “They have home field advantage there, for Christ’s sake.”
“They’re just horses, Mish.”
“And Hitler was just a man,” he retorts sullenly.
“Good analogy,” Jensen says, rolling his eyes and sitting down opposite on his own bed. “Seriously, man, the only way to get over your fear is to face it. You know that.”
“Do I?” Misha asks, wondering what made the star-shaped stain across the stucco above his head. “I think I’d rather pull a Holden Caulfield and run, actually.”
“You wouldn’t,” Jensen says, and though it’s matter-of-fact Misha detects something in the tone of voice that makes him turn onto his side to face the other boy.
“It’s not like it hasn’t been my plan, anyway,” he admits. “As soon as I turn eighteen.”
Jensen looks away, making it hard for Misha to read him. “Is this place that bad?” he says eventually.
Misha doesn’t know how to answer and for a moment he stays silent. Jensen turns back to him, eyes waiting for an answer. Misha sighs. “A prison is a prison, no matter how nice its furnishings, Jen.”
Jensen is quiet, and Misha can tell he’s angry. What Misha doesn’t get is why. If he leaves, Jensen gets his room back, his unrivaled captaincy of the school, hero and dux of everything.
To his credit, Jensen doesn’t vent his anger at Misha, just stares at him in concentration in a way that should make Misha’s skin crawl, but apparently doesn’t. “You have to pass the equestrian unit, Misha. It’s really not that hard, it’s mostly horse maintenance and then some basic things like walking, cantering and trotting.”
“I don’t want to,” Misha says, more than happy to play the five-year-old.
“If you don’t you’ll get kicked out, and you know as well as I do that your foster folks aren’t going to give you another chance. They’ll put you in some school where the teachers don’t give a crap and they don’t have to pay. Would you rather be stuck there until you’re eighteen, or here?”
Unfortunately, Jensen makes a compelling argument.
“I really don’t like horses,” Misha says quietly, hoping to make Jensen understand without admitting outright that he’s not just a little scared, he’s petrified.
“Oh,” Jensen says, and the amount of surprise, pity and understanding packed into that one syllable ought to be impossible.
“I don’t want your pity,” Misha grumbles and goes back to lying flat on his back. End of conversation.
* * *
Saturday rolls around and Misha expects to wake up with the room to himself for a blessed whole weekend. Jensen will be out rabble-rousing with Jared and the meatheads, or whatever it is they do when they get to the “big city,” as they so ridiculously call Charleston. Big city, Misha’s ass. He wants to take them all up to New York and dump them in Times Square with a compass and a bag of trail mix, see how long it takes before they realize what a real city is.
But when he opens his eyes, the only noise is that which the Wood Ducks are making out in the wetlands, and the lump in Jensen’s bed that Misha’s accustomed to seeing every day of the week is still there.
“What the fuck?” he asks loudly before it occurs to him that, perhaps, waking someone up with audible thinking is perhaps not the thing to do at 7am on a Saturday morning.
“What?” Jensen grumbles, turning over in his blanket cocoon, face flushed with sleep, eyelids at half-mast.
“Why haven’t you left?”
“That eager to get rid of me, Misha?” Jensen mumbles, eyes sliding closed again.
“Isn’t it the big trip today? It is today, I know it is. Jared was going on about it all week. Why aren’t you on it?”
“Change of plans,” Jensen says, and though his eyes remain shut, Misha can tell by his tone that Jensen is suddenly wide awake.
“They aren’t going?” Misha queries curiously.
“Oh, no, they’re going. Nothing could stop them. I’m not, is all.”
“What do you mean you’re not?” Misha asks, sitting up on alert.
Jensen sighs and opens his eyes. “I’m going to teach you to ride a horse.”
“You’re going to...” Misha trails off as the words sink in. “But Jared...”
“He’ll get over it.” Jensen shrugs, confirming to Misha that there is indeed some sentiment to get over on Jared’s part; namely, that he’s likely pissed. “He has all his jock buddies, anyway. I’d be the odd one out. Jay only invited me because he feels like he has to; we’ve been friends a long damn time.”
“But you wanted- ” Misha starts but Jensen cuts him off.
“It’s a done deal,” Jensen says before closing his eyes again. “Now shut the fuck up. It’s a Saturday morning for fuck’s sake.” And with that he rolls back over to face the wall, leaving Misha shocked and staring at the lump of blankets.
He has no idea what the fuck just happened.
Horses, it turns out, are still fucking scary. Animals bigger than a certain height really oughtn’t be domesticated, in Misha’s opinion. He’d feel the same about elephants, he’s sure of it. But Jensen is true to his word; they spend all of Saturday at the stables, Jensen pointing out tack and showing him how to hoist the saddle up onto the back of a gray mare called Sally. He shows Misha how to tighten the girth of the saddle, to wait until Sally releases the lungful of air she snuck to keep the saddle loose before pulling the straps properly tight.
It’s a few hours before Jensen can convince him to get onto her. But after a stern talking-to, in which Misha concedes and places his palm flat against the velvety softness of Sally’s nose, he feels the horse and he have an understanding. Jensen stands dutifully by and doesn’t comment or laugh, for which Misha could kiss him, were he not sure that it would be rather inappropriate.
Jensen helps him swing his leg up over the horse’s back, and suddenly Misha is on top of the world. He doesn’t like it, the feeling of being so exposed. But then Jensen is on the black gelding called Strapper and moving next to him, taking Sally’s reins and leading them slowly out into the yard.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, right?” Jensen asks as they make their way back to the dorms afterwards, tired and sore in places Misha didn’t know could hurt.
He shrugs, refusing to allow that Jensen may have been right. They’re friends, after all, not partners. “I smell like a fucking horse,” he says instead.
Jensen laughs. “Well that’s true, we both kinda do.”
“You can laugh, man,” Misha bemoans. “You have other clothes to change into. I’ve been wearing the stuff Rob got me off Matt for days now. I have nothing left.”
Jensen puts an arm around his shoulders comfortingly. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a bit of a pessimist?”
“I’d rather be pleasantly surprised every so often as a pessimist than constantly disappointed as an optimist,” Misha replies.
Jensen just hums to himself and, when they get back to their room, he rummages around in the duffel bag of clothes he’d packed for the trip and pulls out a faded grey Pearl Jam t-shirt. He hands it to Misha with an almost shy smile. “So you don’t stink up the room,” he says, the smile transposing into a smirk.
It smells like Jensen’s washing detergent and Misha sleeps in it every day after. Jensen never asks for it back, and Misha doesn’t offer.
* * *
Chapter Six
Also posted at dreamwidth. Please comment wherevs.
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights and kriari
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
After the incident in the foyer with the Dean, things change. It’s subtle, and not some dramatic declaration of BFF-dom, but some of the tension leaves the room to be replaced with something...else.
Truthfully, Misha doesn’t actually know what to make of it. He’s used to not getting on with kids; oftentimes foster brothers and sisters don’t take kindly to additional inmates. Sometimes that’s not even a bad thing. A little hate is good for the soul, definitely good for the thickening of skin.
What they have now. Hell, he has no idea. They aren’t friends. Misha is all over continuing to be a dick to Jensen, as it turns out riling him up is not a bad way to pass the time . The glinty flare of hatred in Jensen’s eyes is worth all kinds of feeling like a child. But now Jensen seems to have come over all...weird.
It’s not that he won’t allow himself to rise to the bait Misha puts out there. It’s like he doesn’t even see it anymore. And that cannot be abided.
And yet, for some reason, Misha doesn’t entirely hate the truce either and that leaves him feeling off-kilter, unable to read the situation. And that, he doesn’t like.
So it’s not entirely a surprise, and yet on the other hand, completely unexpected, when he and Rob sneak out of the academy one night to go watch some band Rob won’t shut up about, and he ends up spending the evening by Jensen’s side. Literally and figuratively.
“It’ll be awesome,” Rob says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “No, really, I’ve been to Louden Swain about twenty times now, and they just get better and better.”
Misha nods, he’s not convinced, and really, he’s not all that into the scene anyway. He hasn’t had a lot of time to keep up-to-date on what’s happening. All his musical tastes come from what he remembers of his parents. Which means there’s a lot of Creedence Clearwater in his musical influences.
He’s not dumb enough to tell people that. Instead he plays along, affects a cool aloofness that usually means people think he’s down with whatever it is they think is the bomb. And it’s not like it matters anyway. It’s only been a few weeks and he’s itching with the need to break out of the school and Rob is offering him that on a platter. He’ll like fucking Whatever-Its-Name-Is Beiber if it gets him a night out with some serious alcohol drinking.
It takes them forever to get to the bar, a good 45 minute walk through sand, dust and mosquitoes, that Misha wasn’t planning on. He’s wearing borrowed clothes proclaiming bands he’s never heard of, and they’re too tight, clinging to the sweat that slides down his spine as they trudge along in the suffocating heat.
Rob chats incessantly the entire way there, and Misha pays him at least half of his attention, muttering affirmatives and commiserations as required; mainly he soaks in the feeling of being free. This is why he will be outta here the second he turns eighteen. He needs it, feels the delirious rush of it in his veins like oxygen. To be his own person, to not belong to anyone, to not be passed along from one person to the next... that, will be the start of his life. The real start.
By the time they get to the bar, Misha is flushed and sweat has broken out along his hairline. He does not like the South and its humidity. Give him a New York winter in a minute.
Rob nods nervously to the bouncer at the door. He’d explained to Misha, in one of the tangents on the way over, that he’s been seeing bands play at this place for years, and they know him. He’d been full of bravado that they wouldn’t have trouble getting in.
That bravado doesn’t seem to have lasted the trip, though, and for a second Misha is sure they’re going to be turned away like children.
But the bouncer just nods, utters a gruff, “Don’t let me catch you drinking, kids,” and stands aside.
Misha wants to take offense immediately, because he is sure as all hell going to be drinking. But the look Rob gives him, glancing over his shoulder and looking relieved and grateful, even though Misha himself has done nothing, stays his tongue.
Inside is just as hot as outside, but the ceiling fans push down false imitations of breezes and somehow makes it seem less oppressive than it actually is.
It’s crowded. Really crowded for a Wednesday night, Misha guesses, so maybe Rob is right, maybe this band is actually good. It’ll be a nice addition to his alcohol, he supposes. If, that is, they’re able to get any. The place is packed, which means so are the tables. The meager dance floor is already a swarm of bodies.
“Hey!” Rob says to him, pitching his voice up to be heard over the chatter of conversations and clink of glasses. “Over there.” He points and Misha follows his wavering finger, but can’t for the life of him tell what he’s meant to be focusing on.
Before he can ask, Rob sets off across the room, weaving and dodging around people so quickly that Misha bumps into people as he tries to catch up. He ignores the swearing and dirty looks in favor of not losing sight of his guide.
When he catches up, Rob is talking animatedly with his hands, dragging over empty seats to append them to the end of a booth. It’s not until Misha stops, awkwardly shoved into a seat by Rob, that he realizes he knows at least two of it’s occupants. One is Julie, the Dean’s PA, who is looking at him quizzically with a curious smile. The other, staring at him like Misha is the last person he expected to see, is Jensen.
Great.
New found peaceable weirdness or not, Misha does not want to spend the night not being weird, peaceably or otherwise, with Jensen. He wants to spend the night getting drunk.
At least Jensen seems to feel the same way, judging by the grunted, “Hey, man,” that comes his way.
“Obviously you know Jensen,” Rob is saying with a nervous laugh, “and Julie,” he says, waving happily at her. “And these are Jensen’s friends, Chris and Dave.”
Misha nods in the direction of the two guys Rob is indicating. “Nice to meet you, I'm sure.”
The one called Chris snorts into his beer, but it doesn’t seem malicious, just amused. Which is weird, but whatever floats his boat. Dave, however, Misha takes an instant dislike to, the way his eyebrows arch lasciviously and his forehead lines into ruts.
“So you’re the famous Misha, are you?” Dave asks, and the tone of his voice indicates something is very definitely going on that Misha isn’t aware of. His defense mechanisms rise against danger automatically.
“The one and only,” he mutters, glancing furtively at Jensen but gaining nothing from the way he studiously avoids his gaze to stare down into his beer.
“Well, you are very pretty, I'll give you that, Meeesha,” he leers, drawing Misha’s name out.
“Ignore him,” Julie says, swatting at Dave’s arm. “Dave’s a dick. I don’t know why we tolerate him.”
“I keep tellin’ y’all he does give good head,” Chris remarks, and sets Rob into a fit of nervous giggles.
“I’ll bet Misha here gives good head.” Dave grins and Misha feels a flush rise to his cheeks. “His lips are almost as pretty for cocksucking as Jenny’s here.”
Misha’s about to say something in return - what, he has no idea - but he’s sure it will be particularly sharp and cut right to the quick, when Jensen growls quietly from beside him. “Oh, shut up, Dave, no one wants to watch you jerk off.”
Misha snorts, amused to find Jensen has beaten him to it.
“Do you guys want a drink?” Jensen asks them, turning the conversation away from Dave and his dick.
“Anything alcoholic,” Misha mutters at the same time as Rob says he’d like a virgin bloody Mary.
“That’d be right,” Dave mutters and Misha feels his hackles rise, instantly on alert to defend his friend. Even if a Virgin Mary is the wussiest drink he’s ever heard anyone order. Surprisingly, he finds he’s not the only one, sensing rather than seeing the way Jensen tenses beside him, as if waiting for a fight.
Rob, though, is oblivious to any slight against him though, chatting away with Julie about something or other. Jensen catches the eye of a waitress and gives their order; one virgin bloody Mary, and one beer that Misha doesn’t recognise.
Jensen must sense Misha’s consternation because he winks. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
And strangely, Misha finds the idea of trusting Jensen is not all as abhorrent as it might have been a week ago. Jensen himself looks quietly pleased when Misha nods and says okay.
The band comes on and, true to Rob’s word, they’re pretty fucking good. Misha finds himself tapping his foot along in a way entirely reminiscent of every-man's grandpa, but not caring in the least. Rob and Julie head out onto the makeshift mosh-pit and dance for awhile, leaving Dave to make innuendo and Chris to laugh, partially with him but partially at him. Jensen stays quiet, long since moved over into the booth to allow Misha to slide in next to him.
Together, they make it through a not-so-paltry amount of beer, and the night begins to swim invitingly in Misha’s vision. Jensen is a warm presence next to him, and he fights the urge to sway closer, knowing it would be uninvited. And potentially suicidal, with Jensen’s best friends and douchebags across the table from him.
Whatever. He’s drunk and free and happy, and he’s okay with that.
Between sets, Dave starts in on the needling again. At one point he asks Misha who his parents are, because surely they must be rich and famous for him to end up at such a snooty ‘gay school’ as Ellis. When Misha tells him it’s none of his god damn business, Dave crows like he’s won the jackpot.
“Aw, sore are we that mommy and pop shipped you off unwanted? Was little Meesh an accident?”
“Does it make you feel bigger to belittle other people?” Misha retorts serenely. “Because I can only imagine you must be making up for some damn impressive feelings of inadequacy.”
“Oh yeah?” Dave replies. “Wanna see my cock Misha? You only had to ask, you know.”
Misha rolls his eyes. “Love to, but I didn’t bring my glasses. I’m sure your momma told you it was normal though, right?”
Jensen laughs abruptly next to him and Misha turns, almost in disbelief, to see the flashing white of Jensen’s teeth and the long, exposed expanse of throat that is bared as Jensen’s head tilts back in amusement.
Dave just scowls at him from across the table.
“Damn,” Chris drawls. “We ought to keep this one around. Any man that can put Davey-boy here in his place is a man worth buying a beer.”
Jensen chuckles, eyes bright with mischief, and Misha has to fight to tear his gaze away. “He has his moments,” he agrees, and Misha finds himself unable to stop the slight tug of his lips as they curve into a wry smile.
Apparently, hating on Dave was the right move, because from that point on Jensen warms to him in a way he’s never done since they met. The glowering Dave gives him amuses the fuck out of Chris, too, and Jensen finds himself in possession of a really good glass of Scotch the next time the waitress swings past.
By the time Louden Swain have finished and Julie and Rob make it back to the table, giggling and bright-eyed, Misha is drunker than drunk. And judging by the way that Jensen keeps accidentally knocking his elbow into him as he drinks, he isn’t the only one.
“Oh my god, you guys are toasted,” Julie cries in amusement.
“Are not,” Jensen says and then entirely ruins the effect of the statement by hiccuping. Which makes Misha dissolve into giggles. He can hear them coming out of his mouth, even as he knows he is not a person who giggles. And is certainly not a person who giggles in front of his stick-up-the-butt roommate Jensen. And yet they are definitely coming from him.
“Are too,” Julie grins. “Do you need a ride home? I’m gonna give Rob a lift.”
Misha’s about to say “fuck yes,” when Jensen answers for him. “Nah. The night is still young. And there is more beer to be drunk.”
Which is not what he was going to say, but the way Jensen turns to him, eyes glinting with merriment and a smile plastered over his face, shuts him up. He’ll stay. Of course he’ll stay. Not even a question.
Julie shakes her head with an indulgent smile. “You guys do remember you have class in the morning. Have fun with that.”
Jensen smirks, “Don’t worry, we won’t rat you out for fraternizing with minors.”
Julie laughs. “No, you won’t, because you aren’t that stupid.”
Misha opens his mouth to speak but Jensen is quicker. “Shut up and drink your beer, man.”
The way Jensen’s eyes dare him to say otherwise should be something he objects to, and yet, really, all it does is make him adjust the way he’s sitting under the table. This is not a good thing. His insufferable roommate is hot, yes, but if he gets to the point of being hot enough that Misha has to make that happen? Well, life could get complicated.
With eyebrows raised and an answering dare in his own gaze, Misha brings the glass to his mouth and swallows.
* * *
Jensen is singing. Misha has no idea what, but it’s drunken and vaguely close to being in tune. Misha would take a second to stop and listen, figure out what the song is, but really, in the grand scheme of things, it hardly matters. Jensen is singing and Misha is laughing, an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and stumbling through the sandy dirt.
At some point he looks up and blinks. “Hey! When did we leave the bar?”
Beside him Jensen stops singing and starts laughing. “Dude, you are so wasted. We left, like, ten minutes ago.”
“It’s your fault,” Misha accuses, though his voice is coming out more amused than scolding for some reason. “You got me drunk.”
“Yeah, I practically forced you to drink,” Jensen scoffs, tripping a little on a tree root and stumbling into Misha’s side.
Misha catches him, arm tightening around Jensen’s broad shoulders to keep him up. At some point they also went from drunk and friendly to drunken friendly. Misha’s not one to beat himself against the wall of turning a straight boy gay, but damn if Jensen’s hands, pawing at him as they cling to each other, don’t feel fucking amazing.
“Well, you did that one time...” Misha points out.
“Oh,” Jensen giggles, and although it’s too dark to see, Misha is pretty sure there’s a pink flush of heat suffusing Jensen’s cheeks. “Well, but that was Dave. Not me.”
“Semantics,” Misha laughs. “Besides. Dave is your friend.”
“Dave is no one’s friend,” Jensen growls, and though he doesn’t let go of where his hand is curled around Misha’s waist, he moves slightly away, letting the cooler night air flow between them. Misha’s spent all his time down South trying to get cool, and now the one time he is...
“Oh yeah? Then why do you hang out with him? He’s a dick.”
Jensen grins, and Misha can see the white his teeth in the moonlight. “I’m so fucking glad you said that, man. Dave is a dick! Jared could never...thought he was funny. Moron.”
The trees are growing closer together and the smell of the sea is on the breeze. It’s getting darker too and Misha hopes to hell Jensen knows where they’re going because he wasn’t paying all that much attention to memorizing the way to the bar with Rob, let alone knowing how to do it in reverse in the dark.
“No,” Misha affirms. “He’s definitely a dick.”
“Man, you’re alright, Misha,” Jensen says. The wonderment that laces the sentence kind of ruins it, but Misha is happy to go along with it anyway.
“I’m the fucking bomb,” Misha says, and senses the rolling of Jensen’s eyes.
Jensen stops, Misha stuttering a half step forward before realizing and pulling himself up short in his drunken lurch. “What?” he asks, turning to Jensen and trying to make out his features in the darkness.
“I’m serious,” Jensen says, staring at him with wide black eyes and the studious seriousness only the insanely drunk can pull off. “I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. You’re... you’re okay, man.”
Misha does what he always does when faced with the terrifying prospect of real emotion: he deflects. “I know I’m hot, but you don’t have to try so hard to get in my pants, baby. You’re pretty enough already.”
Even in the dark, Misha can see the way Jensen freezes in stunned shock for a second before shaking himself physically and punching him in the arm, hard enough to be a little painful. “You’re a fucking dick.”
Misha grins. “Yes, yes I am.”
They stumble onwards, but it seems to be taking a much longer time to get back to the academy than it did to get to the bar in the first place. Misha is getting tired, the alcohol that suffuses his veins starting to get heavy. When Jensen starts looking around in circles half an hour later like he’s trying to figure out which way they need to turn, Misha gives up and sits down, yanking on Jensen’s skinny wrist and pulling him down hard against his side.
“What are we doing?” Jensen asks, voice loud in the quiet darkness.
“We are not ending up alligator food. We are sitting the fuck down until the world stops being so dizzy and we will move again when we can see,” Misha decrees.
“You’re pretty bossy when you’re drunk,” Jensen notes, and Misha can practically hear the arched eyebrow that until now had been such an annoyance. Now he kind of just wants to follow that parabola with his tongue. Fuck.
“And you’re lost, so shut the fuck up and rest.”
Wonder of wonders, Jensen does. When they wake up a few hours later, dawn’s pale light is tinting the grove of Magnolia trees they’ve sat down in orange, shadows long and cool along the white of the sandy dirt. Misha wakes first, yawning and wondering what on earth is so heavy. It turns out to be Jensen, sleepy and warm, curled against his side.
With a bittersweet feeling in his stomach, for this is not a gift that Misha gets to keep, he rouses Jensen with a gentle shake. Blinking blearily, Jensen looks up at him, open and honest in a way that Misha hasn’t ever seen on his roommate until now, and smiles. He knows that madness lies this way, but he smiles back; he can’t help it. They disentangle without a word and make their way back, easy now that the daylight shows the signposts they’d missed in their drunken haze. It’s only one night, and yet somehow it changes everything.
* * *
From that point on, the whole relationship shifts. Instead of fighting, a drawn out war of bickering and strategy, the room becomes peaceful. Misha finally starts to see the Jensen that everyone has been raving about since he got there. And okay, sure, while he doesn’t put the guy on a pedestal the way some of the other kids and faculty do, he’s prepared to admit that Jensen is a good guy. Combined with the looks and ease with which Jensen seems to move about in his skin, Misha almost decides to hate him again, just on principle.
But it turns out that things are a lot more enjoyable when they’re on the same side. Misha stops having to hang out at the library every second of the day outside of class. And when Sam questions him on it, he just shrugs, but her knowing smile makes him think she knows anyway. And so what, Jensen is just a friend. That step took long enough as it was.
They aren’t chatty, confiding secrets with each other every second like gossiping schoolgirls, but the silence in the room is finally comfortable, a relief instead of cloying. Misha stops telling Jensen lies about his parents. Sure, he doesn’t tell him the truth, because even Jensen hasn’t earned the trust required for that dirty little secret, but not lying is a step further than he allows most people.
Misha stops leaving his things all over the place. He doesn’t like to be messy anyway, because mess means one can’t find ones belongings in a hurry when they need to run. In return, Jensen tells Jared off when Jared touches Misha’s things, and the dirty look that Jared gives Jensen is so funny that Misha almost wills Jared to keep touching to have it happen again.
They aren’t best friends or anything, but they have each others’ backs, and that’s almost better.
When Misha runs out of toothpaste, Jensen wordlessly hands him one that he produces from some secret stash. Misha leaves an apple on Jensen’s nightstand one night after he hears Jensen’s stomach rumbling from across the room. When Jensen runs out of paper in the middle of an essay, Misha hands him a sheaf of his own. And while Misha stops short of following Jensen and sitting in the bleachers to watch him at lacrosse like some lovesick puppy, he does, he’ll admit, sometimes walk past the sports fields in his ramblings, and if Jensen just happens to be there, running fast, catching with skill and deftness, then he’ll admit he’ll often stop for just a moment. Like a friend would. Moving on only when Jensen catches him and waves enthusiastically from midfield.
The semester weaves on, and for the most part, Misha does fine. He excels at all the cerebral subjects and
passes at the not-so-thinky ones. He’s passing Art, with Traci, the eclectic hippie of a woman that all the guys want to hit but who just reminds Misha of his mom. Or who he thinks his mom would be like, if things had been different. Jensen seems to have some kind of special bond with her, which all the guys thinks means they’re fucking. When Misha asks him about it, Jensen just smiles enigmatically and refuses to say anything other than, “And if all the guys jumped off a cliff?” Misha isn’t sure that that’s a no, but with Jensen he sort of suspects it is.
Math with the crazy fucker Chad, whom everyone calls Ash, though no one seems to know why, is a cake walk. Strategy has always been his thing, and Misha finds Math to be mostly that. So much so that he ends up helping Jensen with some of the harder trig stuff sometimes, Jensen quiet and concentrating, brow furrowed and the end of a pencil between his full lips.
No, the only thing Misha is having trouble in is Physical Education. He’s always prided himself on having the smarts needed to get out of any dangerous situation, and he’s been in plenty, but physically? He knows he couldn’t stop Rob if the kid decided to attack in some fit of sugar-induced rage.
He’s pretty much failing the year so far, and when Coach Pellegrino pulls him aside and says that unless he gets amazing results in the next unit, he’ll have to repeat the semester (Misha mentally substitutes the word ‘torture’ there) or face expulsion. Misha resolves to do better, to apply himself if he fucking has to, because he cannot and will not do it all again. And then he finds out that the last unit couldn’t possibly be more clichéd, or more terrifying.
Equestrian.
Misha is afraid of horses. It’s fucked up. Who in the hell needs to do equestrian at school? Snooty private school or not, it’s the dumbest most archaic shit he’s ever heard. He’s hardly going to be joining the polo team (there is one, he checked) or competing in jousting for a fair maiden any time soon, so he doesn’t see the need to be able to ride a fucking horse.
The only horse he’s ever met wasn’t even a horse. It was a Shetland pony at a petting zoo he remembers his parents taking him to when he was just a toddler, maybe three or four. It bit him when his mother wasn’t paying attention, and though it was just a nip, not meant to hurt, it had sent Misha into a panic and took his mother hours to stop him crying afterwards; he only calmed down when she took him into Barnes & Noble, his childhood equivalent of FAO Schwartz. Or so she’d claimed laughingly later.
No, horses are nasty fuckers, and Misha has had no inclination whatsoever to remedy that impression.
“Why don’t you go down to the stables this weekend?” Jensen asks him when Misha expresses his disgust that he has to pass such a unit, at school.
Jensen’s been busy packing clothes into a duffel bag, some big trip into the city with Jared and Jared’s jock friends from the football team coming up the next day. Jensen’s mentioned it a couple of times, but he doesn’t seem all that enthused about it, as far as Misha can tell. Jared, on the other hand, has been bouncing in and out of their room for the better part of the week like a rabbit on uppers, nattering on about what they’re all going to do, most of it involving alcohol and girls.
“You think I’m going to go to where the horses live?” Misha asks him incredulously in return. He’s flopped down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling while Jensen bustles back and forth with piles of clothes. “They have home field advantage there, for Christ’s sake.”
“They’re just horses, Mish.”
“And Hitler was just a man,” he retorts sullenly.
“Good analogy,” Jensen says, rolling his eyes and sitting down opposite on his own bed. “Seriously, man, the only way to get over your fear is to face it. You know that.”
“Do I?” Misha asks, wondering what made the star-shaped stain across the stucco above his head. “I think I’d rather pull a Holden Caulfield and run, actually.”
“You wouldn’t,” Jensen says, and though it’s matter-of-fact Misha detects something in the tone of voice that makes him turn onto his side to face the other boy.
“It’s not like it hasn’t been my plan, anyway,” he admits. “As soon as I turn eighteen.”
Jensen looks away, making it hard for Misha to read him. “Is this place that bad?” he says eventually.
Misha doesn’t know how to answer and for a moment he stays silent. Jensen turns back to him, eyes waiting for an answer. Misha sighs. “A prison is a prison, no matter how nice its furnishings, Jen.”
Jensen is quiet, and Misha can tell he’s angry. What Misha doesn’t get is why. If he leaves, Jensen gets his room back, his unrivaled captaincy of the school, hero and dux of everything.
To his credit, Jensen doesn’t vent his anger at Misha, just stares at him in concentration in a way that should make Misha’s skin crawl, but apparently doesn’t. “You have to pass the equestrian unit, Misha. It’s really not that hard, it’s mostly horse maintenance and then some basic things like walking, cantering and trotting.”
“I don’t want to,” Misha says, more than happy to play the five-year-old.
“If you don’t you’ll get kicked out, and you know as well as I do that your foster folks aren’t going to give you another chance. They’ll put you in some school where the teachers don’t give a crap and they don’t have to pay. Would you rather be stuck there until you’re eighteen, or here?”
Unfortunately, Jensen makes a compelling argument.
“I really don’t like horses,” Misha says quietly, hoping to make Jensen understand without admitting outright that he’s not just a little scared, he’s petrified.
“Oh,” Jensen says, and the amount of surprise, pity and understanding packed into that one syllable ought to be impossible.
“I don’t want your pity,” Misha grumbles and goes back to lying flat on his back. End of conversation.
* * *
Saturday rolls around and Misha expects to wake up with the room to himself for a blessed whole weekend. Jensen will be out rabble-rousing with Jared and the meatheads, or whatever it is they do when they get to the “big city,” as they so ridiculously call Charleston. Big city, Misha’s ass. He wants to take them all up to New York and dump them in Times Square with a compass and a bag of trail mix, see how long it takes before they realize what a real city is.
But when he opens his eyes, the only noise is that which the Wood Ducks are making out in the wetlands, and the lump in Jensen’s bed that Misha’s accustomed to seeing every day of the week is still there.
“What the fuck?” he asks loudly before it occurs to him that, perhaps, waking someone up with audible thinking is perhaps not the thing to do at 7am on a Saturday morning.
“What?” Jensen grumbles, turning over in his blanket cocoon, face flushed with sleep, eyelids at half-mast.
“Why haven’t you left?”
“That eager to get rid of me, Misha?” Jensen mumbles, eyes sliding closed again.
“Isn’t it the big trip today? It is today, I know it is. Jared was going on about it all week. Why aren’t you on it?”
“Change of plans,” Jensen says, and though his eyes remain shut, Misha can tell by his tone that Jensen is suddenly wide awake.
“They aren’t going?” Misha queries curiously.
“Oh, no, they’re going. Nothing could stop them. I’m not, is all.”
“What do you mean you’re not?” Misha asks, sitting up on alert.
Jensen sighs and opens his eyes. “I’m going to teach you to ride a horse.”
“You’re going to...” Misha trails off as the words sink in. “But Jared...”
“He’ll get over it.” Jensen shrugs, confirming to Misha that there is indeed some sentiment to get over on Jared’s part; namely, that he’s likely pissed. “He has all his jock buddies, anyway. I’d be the odd one out. Jay only invited me because he feels like he has to; we’ve been friends a long damn time.”
“But you wanted- ” Misha starts but Jensen cuts him off.
“It’s a done deal,” Jensen says before closing his eyes again. “Now shut the fuck up. It’s a Saturday morning for fuck’s sake.” And with that he rolls back over to face the wall, leaving Misha shocked and staring at the lump of blankets.
He has no idea what the fuck just happened.
Horses, it turns out, are still fucking scary. Animals bigger than a certain height really oughtn’t be domesticated, in Misha’s opinion. He’d feel the same about elephants, he’s sure of it. But Jensen is true to his word; they spend all of Saturday at the stables, Jensen pointing out tack and showing him how to hoist the saddle up onto the back of a gray mare called Sally. He shows Misha how to tighten the girth of the saddle, to wait until Sally releases the lungful of air she snuck to keep the saddle loose before pulling the straps properly tight.
It’s a few hours before Jensen can convince him to get onto her. But after a stern talking-to, in which Misha concedes and places his palm flat against the velvety softness of Sally’s nose, he feels the horse and he have an understanding. Jensen stands dutifully by and doesn’t comment or laugh, for which Misha could kiss him, were he not sure that it would be rather inappropriate.
Jensen helps him swing his leg up over the horse’s back, and suddenly Misha is on top of the world. He doesn’t like it, the feeling of being so exposed. But then Jensen is on the black gelding called Strapper and moving next to him, taking Sally’s reins and leading them slowly out into the yard.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, right?” Jensen asks as they make their way back to the dorms afterwards, tired and sore in places Misha didn’t know could hurt.
He shrugs, refusing to allow that Jensen may have been right. They’re friends, after all, not partners. “I smell like a fucking horse,” he says instead.
Jensen laughs. “Well that’s true, we both kinda do.”
“You can laugh, man,” Misha bemoans. “You have other clothes to change into. I’ve been wearing the stuff Rob got me off Matt for days now. I have nothing left.”
Jensen puts an arm around his shoulders comfortingly. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a bit of a pessimist?”
“I’d rather be pleasantly surprised every so often as a pessimist than constantly disappointed as an optimist,” Misha replies.
Jensen just hums to himself and, when they get back to their room, he rummages around in the duffel bag of clothes he’d packed for the trip and pulls out a faded grey Pearl Jam t-shirt. He hands it to Misha with an almost shy smile. “So you don’t stink up the room,” he says, the smile transposing into a smirk.
It smells like Jensen’s washing detergent and Misha sleeps in it every day after. Jensen never asks for it back, and Misha doesn’t offer.
* * *
Chapter Six
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