Mid-Afternoon Sun on Texas Sky (1/?)
Title: Mid-Afternoon Sun on Texas Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
This is a sequel to the previously ‘neverending story’, Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky. It finally ended.
Summary: Jensen and Jared go back to Texas for Christmas. Their relationship deepens and they take the next step… pr0n!
Spoilers: none to speak of
-------------------------
Chapter One: Comfort
Rating: R - for some m/m slash kissing and some language/adult themes and content
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Word Count: 2,644
Chapter One: Comfort
“Cut! Cut! That’s a wrap!” Eric waves his pointer finger in a circle in the air, his left hand is already tearing at his headset and microphone. He hands them to a waiting crew member when he gets them off.
The set is bustling, moving fast. Everything was rushed today, from Cindy screwing up make-up on me twice because she was hurrying, to us having to film the same scene eight times in a row (the most times we’ve ever had to re-take any scene) because either Jared, Jeff or I screwed up lines.
Our extras are already out the door by the time Jared and I are helped up off the floor and from underneath rickety wooden stairs that were put together hastily as part of the set at Eric’s suggestion. They came close to tumbling down in pieces on top of us more than once, but we’ve escaped filming today with little more than minor bumps and bruises from dives we took across the floor, and small spots we elected to take ourselves rather than calling in the stunt doubles. Nobody ever said we were terribly bright.
Eric’s voice rings out above the din, the collective voices chit-chatting, talking, the noise of a set being disassembled. “Okay, okay, everybody! Listen up!” He ends up clanging two prop guns together to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, okay! First of all! I know you’re all itching to get out of here so I’ll make this short.”
That brings a chuckle. Eric’s never been able to make a speech short.
“Great first half. Thank you-each and every one of you-for making this all possible. We have a lot of great film, and I expect to have more after the new year. Now… it’s Wednesday, December 22nd. We are closing up the set until Monday, January 3rd. That means all trailers will be locked, all heat and water will be shut off! Come Monday, set will be back up and running. Crew members will be expected to be here. That means costuming and wardrobe, makeup and set engineers. Cast members and camera crew, you’re due back Wednesday the 5th. Everyone understand?”
There’s a collective nod around the warehouse, whispered well-wishes and goodbyes, and Eric’s voice again cuts through the low rumble. “Happy Holidays everyone! See you in the New Year!”
The ‘Happy Holidays’ is an echo in the metal walls of the converted warehouse, and everyone files out. Jared and I leave after saying our own goodbyes and offering our own well-wishes and Holiday wishes to Eric and Jeff and Cindy.
“So… dinner at St. Laurents? We can make it fast so we get some sleep before we have to head out tomorrow morning?” He asks.
We’re booked on a flight out of Vancouver early tomorrow morning (early to the tune of 6:30am takeoff, meaning we have to be at the airport to get through security no later than five), flying into Houston. Jared’s mom’s invited us both for Christmas at their ranch, and my mom wants to meet my co-star since she’s heard so much about him (though I haven’t yet told her that we’re together… that wouldn’t go over very well with her… or anyone else in my family, for that matter.), so she’s invited us for New Years-football on the big screen and dinner.
“Sounds good. See you at your trailer in twenty?” I’m already heading towards my trailer, tugging off the heavy leather jacket.
He waves, lopes off in the direction of his trailer, picking at his hair, which is still stiff and unmoving from all the gel they put in it this morning. I swear Cindy used a whole bottle of mega-hold gel in his hair today. It wouldn’t budge if you hit it with a rock thrown from twenty feet.
I shower under hot water, scrub at my own hair perhaps out of an odd sense of sympathy to Jared, wash it twice, in fact, before stepping out of the shower and toweling myself dry. I dress in trendy jeans that have holes in all the right places-not something I’d usually wear, but Jared got me to try a pair, and these are really comfortable-a black microfiber shirt and my trusty Prada shoes.
I’m looking forward to the time off. Jared and I haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves since the weekend we spent up at the campgrounds in late October. Weekdays have been spent filming-nearly twelve hour days that often leave us too tired to do much other than eat and go to sleep by the time we get home-and weekends, between domestic duties like food shopping and laundry and keeping the house clean, our two-hour personal training sessions at the gym, and Jared’s doctors appointments (he started seeing a psychiatrist the first weekend in November, and goes every Saturday for an hour and a half session), we barely have time then either.
Jared’s just pulling on his black sweater-this thing that’s a pullover but has silver snaps along the neck-it’s totally him-as I walk into his trailer. He’s in jeans, which is usual for him, and cowboy boots. The boots are new-jet black and shined so well I could probably see my reflection in them if I tried.
I step into him, press one leg between both of his as I lean up and kiss him square on the mouth. He responds, opening his mouth to me, tangles his tongue with mine, and nips at my lower lip as he draws away. “C’mon, Jen… dinner. We can get back to this later.”
I smile, push against him and we both tumble onto his cot. I kiss at his jaw, try to find his mouth again. “Could just keep doing it now… dinner can wait…”
“You want dessert first?” He teases.
We haven’t yet taken that next step in our relationship. We’ve been together since our trip to the mountains close to Halloween, but haven’t done any more than kiss… make-out. We share a bed. It was the only way I could sleep without nightmares for a while, and it helps with keeping Jared’s demons at bay, or so he tells me. It’s habit now.
I reach down blindly with one hand, and grab his crotch, while winking at him. “Maybe.” I say slyly.
He peels my hand from the crotch of his jeans. “Food.” He says, and when I don’t move fast enough for his liking, he shoves lightly at me. “Dinner, then dessert.” He says, exasperated but amused. “C’mon, Jenny.”
I sigh, but pull myself off of him, and offer a hand to haul him to his feet. He shrugs into a brown corduroy coat that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, and it clashes terribly with the black sweater. I roll my eyes. “What?” He pouts.
“Jare, your fashion sense…” I shake my head. “Leaves a lot to be desired. Brown corduroy with black knit? And cowboy boots?”
“Hey. Just because I don’t wear Prada shoes and Armani jeans…”
I smooth the jeans. “Stylin’.” I grin, and follow him out of his trailer. We took his truck to the set-my car’s in the shop getting a tune-up.
“My boots match the truck.”
“Because you should always aim to match your wheels.” I yank the passenger door open, and wonder again how I got relegated to passenger status not only in his truck, but in my Mustang. Jared drives everywhere.
We get to St. Laurents, and find the place already popping. There’s an acoustic band playing folk songs set up on the stage, and Jared flirts with Dalia, the bartender, and our waitress, Sarah (the tall waifish blonde), to score us a table towards the rear of the establishment. We can talk without having to yell over the tinny twang of the guitar and the wannabe Southern drawl of the lead singer.
We order-both of us foregoing the ‘Texas Brisket Basket’ special for sandwiches with a side of fries. We’re going to be getting real Texas Beef in a day or two-no sense in getting a cheap replica, though truth be told, it’s pretty good here. Nothing beats the real thing though.
Jared gets pastrami on rye. I get a grilled chicken and Swiss onion sandwich that Jared eyes dubiously when it arrives, dripping with oil and brown gravy that hides the greasy fried strips of onion well but not completely. I make exaggerated kissing motions at him over the table when no one’s looking, and he laughs. “You really think so? After you eat that?” He points at the onions that ooze from between the bun with strings of melted Swiss cheese.
I manage to give him what I think is a reasonably believable pout. “You’d kiss her if she just ate this.” I point at the pretty petite waitress by the front set of tables. She’s a looker-short by both Jared’s and my standards, but pixie-like-short cropped white-blond hair and a dark tan that’s natural, not the orange you see from tanning salons. She’s got a cute, full face and a smile to match, with a row of perfect white teeth, bright red lipstick. If I weren’t with Jared, a part of something that’s so much more than just sex, she might fall near the top of my list.
Jared waggles his eyebrows, an action that’s nearly masked and missed completely thanks to overlong bangs. He really does need a haircut. “I’d do more than kiss her.” He says, and it’s my turn to laugh.
“With or without your shirt on?” I ask around a mouthful of chicken. I know he said that he’d been talking to his psychiatrist about the physical scars, and recently, so I’m hoping my question doesn’t offend.
He looks thoughtful for a minute, then takes a bite of a French fry. “Not sure.” He chews, pops the other piece into his mouth and picks up another. After a lull, he continues. “You know… I’ve been talking about that with Dr. Davidson.”
I nod.
“She says that… it might be a good time to start… trying to… you know… accept them as part of me. And not to be so… self-conscious about them… She says that… most people if they see them… won’t even ask… and they don’t know what they’re from-they’re just scars… and it’s because I know where they’re from… and associate that… that…” He still has trouble with it. “…you know… with them… that I think everyone will know… and that makes me self-conscious… and I still feel…” He trails off and bites at the other French fry. He hasn’t looked up at me since he started talking. He shrugs. “I don’t know… all seems a bunch of psychological mumbo-jumbo to me…”
“You don’t believe her?” I finish off my sandwich and my beer.
He shakes his head quickly. “No… not that… it’s not like that at all… it just… makes more sense when she’s talking about it…”
“Easier said than done.” I supply, understanding.
“Yeah.” He motions to Sarah for another beer. “You’re driving.” He says, tossing me his keys. As I catch them, he asks for the check.
We split the tab after he downs the beer in record time, leaving a hefty tip, and I gun the engine-it’s loud, rumbles loudly just like we like our trucks to sound in Texas-head towards home. It’s dark, crisp and cold. Jared shivers before the heat kicks in, vents blowing hot and smelly air into the cab of his truck. We have to open the windows when the smell gets bad and the windshield starts fogging, and I turn the heat off after a while-it’s not doing any good if we have to have the windows open while it’s running.
Jared stretches, long arms and longer legs as he steps out of the cab, careful not to slip on a patch of ice. I lock up the truck and follow him inside, almost tripping over the suitcases by the door.
The only things we haven’t packed are our toiletries-stuff we need on a day-to-day basis. We’ll pack them up tomorrow morning with a wish and a prayer that we don’t forget anything-not that we can’t buy whatever we need in Texas should we get there to discover we’ve forgotten something, like a toothbrush or shampoo. Even my Xanax and Lunesta are replaceable if need be, thanks to the fact that Dr. McKayne is local.
Jared gets another beer, turns on the local news and flops down on the sofa while I strip to my boxers and a teeshirt. Jared’s turned my thermostat up to nearly 75. I like keeping my house around 65 in the winter, so to me, 75 is warm-almost hot.
I sit next to him, watch as he shifts away from me slightly, nurses his beer and won’t turn his eyes from the television.
“Jare…” I whisper his name.
Suddenly, he turns to me and turns the television off. “Is it wrong of me…” It’s a question, but he never finishes it.
“Wrong of you to what, Jare…” I question carefully. I know this is something to do with his therapy, just by the way it came up so suddenly, so… out of the blue. It’s got something to do with the attack and the beating and the scars he carries-both emotional and physical-to this day. I tread carefully.
“…wrong of me to hate them?” He asks.
I’m somewhat taken aback. “Hate… them?” I repeat dumbly.
“Yes.” He sighs. “The scars… they…” He lifts up his shirt and looks down at the ones visible on his side and belly. “They’re ugly, Jen… They make me ugly… I hate them. I wish… I wish…”
His therapist had told me to expect this with him-random bouts of yelling and crying and rambling-as he worked through what had happened to him, learned to accept it and move on. She’d told me not to try and stop him-just let him yell, let him scream… let him cry-because he needs an outlet for all of that emotion he’s kept inside for so long. I told her it wasn’t a problem, that I’d let him hit me if that’s what he needed to feel better.
This one looks to be a crying fit, and it twists fast in my gut. It’s not that I haven’t been here before, and its not like I haven’t seen Jared cry before. I’ve held him and I’ve rocked him, and I’ve lied to him and told him it would all be okay when we both knew it wouldn’t be. I’ve held him and whispered in his ear and kissed the tears away. But it never gets any easier. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to seeing tears spilling from my best friend’s eyes. And I hate it that I know that every time he cries, it won’t be the last.
He stutters over the words, takes shaky breaths and then there are tears, ragged breaths in and out, and his fingers claw at the pale marks (most are faded, only the one larger one is prominent now) scattered across his skin.
“Jare…” I catch his wrists, stilling his hands. “Jare… please…” I manage to stop him before he breaks the skin with his fingernails.
“I hate them, Jensen… I hate them.” That’s all he says, nothing more, just that he hates them. He leans into me when I slide one arm around him, and he chokes on the words. “I hate them…”
“I know…” I soothe, still holding his wrists with one hand as the other gently moves in circles over his back and shoulders. “It’s okay…”
I hold him until the tears stop.
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Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
This is a sequel to the previously ‘neverending story’, Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky. It finally ended.
Summary: Jensen and Jared go back to Texas for Christmas. Their relationship deepens and they take the next step… pr0n!
Spoilers: none to speak of
-------------------------
Chapter One: Comfort
Rating: R - for some m/m slash kissing and some language/adult themes and content
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Word Count: 2,644
Chapter One: Comfort
“Cut! Cut! That’s a wrap!” Eric waves his pointer finger in a circle in the air, his left hand is already tearing at his headset and microphone. He hands them to a waiting crew member when he gets them off.
The set is bustling, moving fast. Everything was rushed today, from Cindy screwing up make-up on me twice because she was hurrying, to us having to film the same scene eight times in a row (the most times we’ve ever had to re-take any scene) because either Jared, Jeff or I screwed up lines.
Our extras are already out the door by the time Jared and I are helped up off the floor and from underneath rickety wooden stairs that were put together hastily as part of the set at Eric’s suggestion. They came close to tumbling down in pieces on top of us more than once, but we’ve escaped filming today with little more than minor bumps and bruises from dives we took across the floor, and small spots we elected to take ourselves rather than calling in the stunt doubles. Nobody ever said we were terribly bright.
Eric’s voice rings out above the din, the collective voices chit-chatting, talking, the noise of a set being disassembled. “Okay, okay, everybody! Listen up!” He ends up clanging two prop guns together to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, okay! First of all! I know you’re all itching to get out of here so I’ll make this short.”
That brings a chuckle. Eric’s never been able to make a speech short.
“Great first half. Thank you-each and every one of you-for making this all possible. We have a lot of great film, and I expect to have more after the new year. Now… it’s Wednesday, December 22nd. We are closing up the set until Monday, January 3rd. That means all trailers will be locked, all heat and water will be shut off! Come Monday, set will be back up and running. Crew members will be expected to be here. That means costuming and wardrobe, makeup and set engineers. Cast members and camera crew, you’re due back Wednesday the 5th. Everyone understand?”
There’s a collective nod around the warehouse, whispered well-wishes and goodbyes, and Eric’s voice again cuts through the low rumble. “Happy Holidays everyone! See you in the New Year!”
The ‘Happy Holidays’ is an echo in the metal walls of the converted warehouse, and everyone files out. Jared and I leave after saying our own goodbyes and offering our own well-wishes and Holiday wishes to Eric and Jeff and Cindy.
“So… dinner at St. Laurents? We can make it fast so we get some sleep before we have to head out tomorrow morning?” He asks.
We’re booked on a flight out of Vancouver early tomorrow morning (early to the tune of 6:30am takeoff, meaning we have to be at the airport to get through security no later than five), flying into Houston. Jared’s mom’s invited us both for Christmas at their ranch, and my mom wants to meet my co-star since she’s heard so much about him (though I haven’t yet told her that we’re together… that wouldn’t go over very well with her… or anyone else in my family, for that matter.), so she’s invited us for New Years-football on the big screen and dinner.
“Sounds good. See you at your trailer in twenty?” I’m already heading towards my trailer, tugging off the heavy leather jacket.
He waves, lopes off in the direction of his trailer, picking at his hair, which is still stiff and unmoving from all the gel they put in it this morning. I swear Cindy used a whole bottle of mega-hold gel in his hair today. It wouldn’t budge if you hit it with a rock thrown from twenty feet.
I shower under hot water, scrub at my own hair perhaps out of an odd sense of sympathy to Jared, wash it twice, in fact, before stepping out of the shower and toweling myself dry. I dress in trendy jeans that have holes in all the right places-not something I’d usually wear, but Jared got me to try a pair, and these are really comfortable-a black microfiber shirt and my trusty Prada shoes.
I’m looking forward to the time off. Jared and I haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves since the weekend we spent up at the campgrounds in late October. Weekdays have been spent filming-nearly twelve hour days that often leave us too tired to do much other than eat and go to sleep by the time we get home-and weekends, between domestic duties like food shopping and laundry and keeping the house clean, our two-hour personal training sessions at the gym, and Jared’s doctors appointments (he started seeing a psychiatrist the first weekend in November, and goes every Saturday for an hour and a half session), we barely have time then either.
Jared’s just pulling on his black sweater-this thing that’s a pullover but has silver snaps along the neck-it’s totally him-as I walk into his trailer. He’s in jeans, which is usual for him, and cowboy boots. The boots are new-jet black and shined so well I could probably see my reflection in them if I tried.
I step into him, press one leg between both of his as I lean up and kiss him square on the mouth. He responds, opening his mouth to me, tangles his tongue with mine, and nips at my lower lip as he draws away. “C’mon, Jen… dinner. We can get back to this later.”
I smile, push against him and we both tumble onto his cot. I kiss at his jaw, try to find his mouth again. “Could just keep doing it now… dinner can wait…”
“You want dessert first?” He teases.
We haven’t yet taken that next step in our relationship. We’ve been together since our trip to the mountains close to Halloween, but haven’t done any more than kiss… make-out. We share a bed. It was the only way I could sleep without nightmares for a while, and it helps with keeping Jared’s demons at bay, or so he tells me. It’s habit now.
I reach down blindly with one hand, and grab his crotch, while winking at him. “Maybe.” I say slyly.
He peels my hand from the crotch of his jeans. “Food.” He says, and when I don’t move fast enough for his liking, he shoves lightly at me. “Dinner, then dessert.” He says, exasperated but amused. “C’mon, Jenny.”
I sigh, but pull myself off of him, and offer a hand to haul him to his feet. He shrugs into a brown corduroy coat that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, and it clashes terribly with the black sweater. I roll my eyes. “What?” He pouts.
“Jare, your fashion sense…” I shake my head. “Leaves a lot to be desired. Brown corduroy with black knit? And cowboy boots?”
“Hey. Just because I don’t wear Prada shoes and Armani jeans…”
I smooth the jeans. “Stylin’.” I grin, and follow him out of his trailer. We took his truck to the set-my car’s in the shop getting a tune-up.
“My boots match the truck.”
“Because you should always aim to match your wheels.” I yank the passenger door open, and wonder again how I got relegated to passenger status not only in his truck, but in my Mustang. Jared drives everywhere.
We get to St. Laurents, and find the place already popping. There’s an acoustic band playing folk songs set up on the stage, and Jared flirts with Dalia, the bartender, and our waitress, Sarah (the tall waifish blonde), to score us a table towards the rear of the establishment. We can talk without having to yell over the tinny twang of the guitar and the wannabe Southern drawl of the lead singer.
We order-both of us foregoing the ‘Texas Brisket Basket’ special for sandwiches with a side of fries. We’re going to be getting real Texas Beef in a day or two-no sense in getting a cheap replica, though truth be told, it’s pretty good here. Nothing beats the real thing though.
Jared gets pastrami on rye. I get a grilled chicken and Swiss onion sandwich that Jared eyes dubiously when it arrives, dripping with oil and brown gravy that hides the greasy fried strips of onion well but not completely. I make exaggerated kissing motions at him over the table when no one’s looking, and he laughs. “You really think so? After you eat that?” He points at the onions that ooze from between the bun with strings of melted Swiss cheese.
I manage to give him what I think is a reasonably believable pout. “You’d kiss her if she just ate this.” I point at the pretty petite waitress by the front set of tables. She’s a looker-short by both Jared’s and my standards, but pixie-like-short cropped white-blond hair and a dark tan that’s natural, not the orange you see from tanning salons. She’s got a cute, full face and a smile to match, with a row of perfect white teeth, bright red lipstick. If I weren’t with Jared, a part of something that’s so much more than just sex, she might fall near the top of my list.
Jared waggles his eyebrows, an action that’s nearly masked and missed completely thanks to overlong bangs. He really does need a haircut. “I’d do more than kiss her.” He says, and it’s my turn to laugh.
“With or without your shirt on?” I ask around a mouthful of chicken. I know he said that he’d been talking to his psychiatrist about the physical scars, and recently, so I’m hoping my question doesn’t offend.
He looks thoughtful for a minute, then takes a bite of a French fry. “Not sure.” He chews, pops the other piece into his mouth and picks up another. After a lull, he continues. “You know… I’ve been talking about that with Dr. Davidson.”
I nod.
“She says that… it might be a good time to start… trying to… you know… accept them as part of me. And not to be so… self-conscious about them… She says that… most people if they see them… won’t even ask… and they don’t know what they’re from-they’re just scars… and it’s because I know where they’re from… and associate that… that…” He still has trouble with it. “…you know… with them… that I think everyone will know… and that makes me self-conscious… and I still feel…” He trails off and bites at the other French fry. He hasn’t looked up at me since he started talking. He shrugs. “I don’t know… all seems a bunch of psychological mumbo-jumbo to me…”
“You don’t believe her?” I finish off my sandwich and my beer.
He shakes his head quickly. “No… not that… it’s not like that at all… it just… makes more sense when she’s talking about it…”
“Easier said than done.” I supply, understanding.
“Yeah.” He motions to Sarah for another beer. “You’re driving.” He says, tossing me his keys. As I catch them, he asks for the check.
We split the tab after he downs the beer in record time, leaving a hefty tip, and I gun the engine-it’s loud, rumbles loudly just like we like our trucks to sound in Texas-head towards home. It’s dark, crisp and cold. Jared shivers before the heat kicks in, vents blowing hot and smelly air into the cab of his truck. We have to open the windows when the smell gets bad and the windshield starts fogging, and I turn the heat off after a while-it’s not doing any good if we have to have the windows open while it’s running.
Jared stretches, long arms and longer legs as he steps out of the cab, careful not to slip on a patch of ice. I lock up the truck and follow him inside, almost tripping over the suitcases by the door.
The only things we haven’t packed are our toiletries-stuff we need on a day-to-day basis. We’ll pack them up tomorrow morning with a wish and a prayer that we don’t forget anything-not that we can’t buy whatever we need in Texas should we get there to discover we’ve forgotten something, like a toothbrush or shampoo. Even my Xanax and Lunesta are replaceable if need be, thanks to the fact that Dr. McKayne is local.
Jared gets another beer, turns on the local news and flops down on the sofa while I strip to my boxers and a teeshirt. Jared’s turned my thermostat up to nearly 75. I like keeping my house around 65 in the winter, so to me, 75 is warm-almost hot.
I sit next to him, watch as he shifts away from me slightly, nurses his beer and won’t turn his eyes from the television.
“Jare…” I whisper his name.
Suddenly, he turns to me and turns the television off. “Is it wrong of me…” It’s a question, but he never finishes it.
“Wrong of you to what, Jare…” I question carefully. I know this is something to do with his therapy, just by the way it came up so suddenly, so… out of the blue. It’s got something to do with the attack and the beating and the scars he carries-both emotional and physical-to this day. I tread carefully.
“…wrong of me to hate them?” He asks.
I’m somewhat taken aback. “Hate… them?” I repeat dumbly.
“Yes.” He sighs. “The scars… they…” He lifts up his shirt and looks down at the ones visible on his side and belly. “They’re ugly, Jen… They make me ugly… I hate them. I wish… I wish…”
His therapist had told me to expect this with him-random bouts of yelling and crying and rambling-as he worked through what had happened to him, learned to accept it and move on. She’d told me not to try and stop him-just let him yell, let him scream… let him cry-because he needs an outlet for all of that emotion he’s kept inside for so long. I told her it wasn’t a problem, that I’d let him hit me if that’s what he needed to feel better.
This one looks to be a crying fit, and it twists fast in my gut. It’s not that I haven’t been here before, and its not like I haven’t seen Jared cry before. I’ve held him and I’ve rocked him, and I’ve lied to him and told him it would all be okay when we both knew it wouldn’t be. I’ve held him and whispered in his ear and kissed the tears away. But it never gets any easier. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to seeing tears spilling from my best friend’s eyes. And I hate it that I know that every time he cries, it won’t be the last.
He stutters over the words, takes shaky breaths and then there are tears, ragged breaths in and out, and his fingers claw at the pale marks (most are faded, only the one larger one is prominent now) scattered across his skin.
“Jare…” I catch his wrists, stilling his hands. “Jare… please…” I manage to stop him before he breaks the skin with his fingernails.
“I hate them, Jensen… I hate them.” That’s all he says, nothing more, just that he hates them. He leans into me when I slide one arm around him, and he chokes on the words. “I hate them…”
“I know…” I soothe, still holding his wrists with one hand as the other gently moves in circles over his back and shoulders. “It’s okay…”
I hold him until the tears stop.
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