The Colors of My Life--4/4
Title: The Colors of My Life
Author: tcs1121
Artist: sammycolt24
Pairing and Characters: Jared/Jensen, Aldis Hodge, Jim Beaver, Misha Collins, Mark Pellegrino, with a cameo by Beth Riesgraf
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~34,500 words
Warnings: Jensen has a permanent medical condition: Degenerative Myopia
Disclaimer: Untrue story. Character names used without permission. No money changes hands.
Beta: kee My Kee, honest, caring and usually...unquestionably the best. Thank you so very much, hon.
A/N (1): Written for SPN J2 Big Bang 2013
A/N (2): The title of the story and lyrics sprinkled throughout are from the song The Colors of My Life from the musical Barnum
A/N (3): Many, many thanks to first reader and cheerleader, spn_j2fan
A/N (4): Several educational and interesting links at the end, so all questions are answered.
Link to sammycolt24's Art: HERE
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Summary: At age twenty, "Blind Artist" Jensen Ackles became a successful, world renowned Abstract Impressionist painter by painting what he saw. However, fourteen years later, Jensen feared that what was left of his poor eyesight was coming to an end sooner rather than later and wanted his work to carry on after his colors faded to black. Jensen takes on an aspiring, talented young artist, Jared T. Padalecki, as his apprentice.
"It might be a bumpy ride, but I swear, it'll be worth it."
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"I know what it looks like, but this is how I see it."
Jensen Ackles on his art, as told to Misha Collins,
Edition # 317, I Am Every Man magazine.
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~~*~~*~~
FOUR
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Back to Three
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Part Seven-And should this sunlit world
Grow dark one day,
~~*~~*~~
Jensen paced furiously from his bed to the window to the dresser. He looked at his fuzzy reflection in the mirror, took a deep, painful breath-why did he have a mirror anyway-and stalked back to the window.
"Who knew we both painted that sunset? Who knew?" Jensen asked himself.
Jared knew, but it could not have been him. The idea that Jared leaked that information to Mark Pellegrino was unthinkable. Jared's loyalty, admiration and affection were real. Well, they felt real.
They were real. Jensen had to find another answer.
Jared said that working for Jensen was a dream come true. He willingly signed his life over to Jensen and never complained, never objected and cheerfully fulfilled every one of Jensen's requests.
Jensen shook his head. No, not Jared. Jared's laugh was too bright, his enthusiasm too infectious, and his colors were too brilliant not to be genuine.
"Who else knew?"
Jensen brushed his hair back with a shaking hand. Aldis was the only other person around, but Jensen never told him what he planned to do with Jared and Yarikh.
And he wasn't even there. Aldis came in long after they'd completed Yarikh, almost catching them making out like teenagers.
"Then whose fault is it?"
Unless…
Had Jensen's fear of the never-ending darkness already blinded him to the world around him? Did he need Jared's help and approval so desperately that he imagined a patient, attentive, loving apprentice? Could he have misread Jared so completely?
Pellegrino's words came back in haunting clarity: "Having your apprentice paint for you is cheating."
And he did that. Jensen did that. The truth came crashing into him, almost physically knocking him over. Jensen grabbed the bedpost to keep upright.
It was Jensen's fault.
He saw that not only had he allowed this to happen, he made this happen. He placed the brushes into Jared's hand so Jared could paint with him-so Jared could paint for him.
And not just any random work.
He chose Jared to finish the most splendid piece of his entire career. Jensen handed The Light Stealer over to Jared lock, stock and barrel, and Yarikh, in all its glory, was too big a temptation for Jared to resist. Jensen sank to his knees on the floor by his bed as he realized that he, himself, was to blame.
He smacked his forehead, "How could I have been so stupid?"
The old adage was true. There are none so blind as those who will not see.
"You think I said something to Pellegrino? You think I told him that I "helped" you paint your masterpiece?" Jared was fuming. Anger rolled off of him in waves, emitting tension that shook the rafters. "Do you honestly think I would stoop so low as to claim credit for your work?"
Jensen didn't back down; he was sure of his conclusion. "How many people knew that you put your brush on my canvas? Two. You and me. And I'm sure that I didn't tell that to Mark Pellegrino. You said you had a nice chat with him about being my apprentice."
"You asshole. You fucking, stupid ass. You don't know who or how, but the first finger you point is at me, accusing me of what? Syphoning off your glory for my own moment of fame? You think I could do that?"
Jensen was silent.
Jared turned away. "No, you think I did that."
Jared may have been smoldering, but Jensen was ice. "Am I supposed to think that he came up with it on his own? I can't even dispute him because, technically, you did help me paint it. Three square inches were yours, your brush, your paint, and my name is on the bottom."
Jared shoved his art supplies to the side of his work station in the studio. "I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't do. Something I couldn't do."
"What you didn't do?" Jensen took two steps toward Jared. "Are you telling me you didn't put paint on Yarikh? That you didn't talk to Pellegrino? Because I'm fairly sure you did both."
"Fuck you, Jensen. Fuck you."
"Yeah," Jensen said. "You did that, too."
Jared gasped.
"I take some of the blame," Jensen said, tersely. "I let you get too close to me, and I let you get too close to my art. That was my fault."
Jensen couldn't see Jared's face, but when Jared spoke his voice was made of steel.
"I told you that working with you, with the artist who gave my life a path, was a dream come true. Now, I can't wait to get away from all this." Jared raised both arms high, indicating the studio where they now stood. "And you."
Jensen countered, "All my secrets, Jared, all my fears. My life, my soul, I bared them all to you. I thought we were creating something lasting together," Jensen lowered his voice. "This is my fault, because I trusted you. I couldn't see anything but you."
"Screw all that. You should have asked me if it was true." Jared opened his art box and threw in his paints, brushes and rags. "You were judge, jury and executioner without calling a single witness. I thought that even though you were blind, you could see life so genuinely, so purely." Jared swallowed. "I thought you could see me. So much for dashing my dreams, and smashing my heart right along with them, because I didn't fuck you, Jensen, I made love to you."
Jared stomped around, taking down canvas after canvas and stacking them in the corner. "Go ahead and sue me if you want. Keep my paychecks, I don't care. Find another…" Jared's voice caught, and Jensen heard him sob. "Find another apprentice to carry on your work. I'm done here. I'm done with you."
Jensen sat heavily on his paint stool. He wasn't wrong. He was sure nobody else knew that Jared helped fill in three fucking square inches of color.
Jared packed up several bags of his painting equipment and supplies. Jensen heard sniffs and coughs that sounded so much like deep sorrow. With bags draped over his shoulders and a duffle in each hand Jared said, "I'll send someone to get the rest of my things. I'll make sure they don't disturb you."
Jensen's eyes glossed over. His heavy, aching heart didn't want to believe that his apprentice betrayed him, but the proof was in black and white.
Jared opened the studio door. At the last moment he turned in a slow distinctive circle so that Jensen could see.
"I didn't do it. For the record, and if you had thought to ask, I did not betray your trust. I never would and I never will. Not in a million to the millionth power years."
Jared walked away.
"That's a hell of a lot of years," Jensen whispered before burying his head in his hands.
It was past midnight. The lights were out in the studio, office and gallery. Jensen had sent Aldis home with instructions not to come back to work until Jensen called him.
That was a week and a day ago.
Jensen prowled the dark art gallery, tapping his cane against the familiar curves of the walls and dips in the floors. The business office and the gallery were closed to guests and customers. The only place that had any life was Jensen's studio, and even that looked bare. Jared had sent a friend to gather the rest of his gear and left without saying a word.
Jensen took no appointments and unplugged his phone after the reviews came out, not wanting to deal with the public just yet. He would have to soon, but now, he wanted nothing but dark silence.
He missed his life with Jared. In his mind's fuzzy eye, he saw Jared wearing red, bouncing through the studio, waving at him in big, grand movements from across the room, and loving him deep into the night.
Jensen wondered why Jared had done it.
He wondered how his poor broken heart continued to beat.
There was soft knocking and then the opening of the gallery door.
"Who is it?" Jensen called out.
"Jense? It's me." Aldis's voice echoed in the dark.
"Go home, Aldis, go home."
"No, man. You closed the office, and you don't answer your phone, but I know you. I knew you'd be up wandering the hallways. I have to talk to you."
"Please, not now." Jensen dry washed his face and found that his cheeks were wet. "In the morning. We'll open tomorrow morning."
"Boss," Aldis touched Jensen's arm. "I gotta do this now."
"It's late, Al. It's too late."
"It is late," Aldis agreed. "But it's not too late."
Aldis gently steered Jensen to the leather love seat and sat them both down "This is my doing, Jensen, and I'm sorry."
Jensen was confused. "No, it's not. I'm the coward who closed the place down." He sighed deep and heavy. "I didn't want to deal with any of it. The reviews, the public, Jar-Jared." He paused to wipe his face again. "I still don't, but it's time to move forward, you and I. We'll start in the morning. Come in at the usual time, I'll need your help putting together a press release."
It was black as pitch in the gallery. Aldis's voice whispered in the dark. "I want you to listen to me, boss. Can you listen to me?"
"I don't know." Jensen shuddered. "I can barely breathe, so I don't know how well I can listen."
Aldis spoke softly but surely. "I saw you and Jared in the studio that day, working on Yarikh. For all those weeks before, I listened to you teach him your methods and watched you show him your techniques. You told him all your secrets."
Aldis took a deep breath and when he spoke again, he didn't sound as strong. "But when you shared your brushes and gave him your colors, I had to do something."
Jensen's fingers twitched. "What did you do?"
Aldis's soft voice quivered. "You are the only one allowed to do what you do. You're the one who's supposed to mix the paints, hold the brushes, place the colors, and create your art. Only you. Good God, Jense, you've paid for your art with your eyesight."
A lead weight formed in Jensen's gut as Aldis's words sank in.
"What exactly are you saying?"
"I know you wanted someone to carry on your work when your eyesight fails, but your sight might last as long as you do. It's not a done deal that will happen. But if your other eye does go dark, maybe your work should end when you can't paint anymore."
Jensen couldn't believe he heard correctly. "What?"
"Your talent is God blessed genius. Nobody can learn that. You didn't learn it, you were born with it. You can't give your talent to Jared or anyone else because it's just not possible."
"Who are you to decide?" Jensen stammered, helplessly.
Aldis continued as though Jensen hadn't spoken. "I only wanted Jared to go away; you didn't need him or anybody else painting for you." Aldis sighed. "In this fantasy I created, if nature did take its course, and you went full blind, you would retire your brushes and live high on the hog. I'd continue to run your business, hang and rehang the paintings, make the coffee and keep the place going."
The pieces clicked together. "You talked to Mark Pellegrino?"
"Yes, but Jensen," Aldis's voice faltered. "This wasn't supposed to come back and bite you. That's not what was supposed to happen. All I wanted was for Jared to leave after getting slapped on the wrist as a young artist upstart trying to take over your spotlight. That's all. Please believe me."
Jensen swallowed dryly, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Jared said it wasn't him. That he would never do such a thing. I told him I didn't believe him. Jesus Christ, Aldis, I told him I didn't believe him. How can I make up for that?"
"I'll fix it in any way I can," Aldis said, sincerely. "I never meant for it to go down like this. I was angry because you shut me out. All I wanted was to be a small part of the history you were making, and I screwed it up. I'm sorry, man, I'm so sorry."
"I thought you were my friend," Jensen said. "I thought you had my back."
"I am your friend." Aldis laid his hand on Jensen's shoulder. "I want to make it right."
Jensen pushed Aldis's arm away. "You need to leave." A tear dripped down Jensen's cheek; he brushed it away with the back of his hand.
"I'll fix it, Jense. Believe me, I'll do whatever it takes," Aldis begged. "Tell me what to do."
"Tomorrow, I want you to pack up your things, leave the keys, and go. I can't stand for you to be here anymore."
"Jensen, please."
"How could you do this?"
"If I could take it all back, I would. I'll talk to Jared, tell him the truth."
"It's too late for that." Jensen drew a deep, trembling breath. "Clear your office, be gone by noon."
The silence in the gallery was absolute. Aldis's voice was so soft it could have been the wind. "This is the worst mistake of my life. Until the day I die, I'll be sorry for what I have done." Aldis gently closed the door behind him.
"For what you have done," Jensen said to the closed door, "and for what I have done."
Jensen stormed out of the gallery and marched into his darkened studio. His grief turned to anger as he slammed the walls with an open palm and bashed half painted canvases with his cane. Finally grasping the cane in a double fisted grip, he beat it on the concrete floor until it was a bent and broken mass of red and white. He threw the stump of the cane at the window and stumbled around the darkened studio overturning paint stools, swiping paint pallets onto the floor and flinging jars of soaking paint brushes. Jensen lashed out at the easels, kicking at them until they collapsed in a heap.
Jensen cursed, and shouted at the ceiling until he pathetically sank to the floor, wiping snot and spit on his shirt sleeve.
Finally, making a decision, Jensen pulled out his cell phone and scrolled to Jared's color. But what would he say? 'Sorry I didn't believe you?' 'Sorry I didn't listen to you?' 'I'm sorry it never occurred to me that I was wrong and you were innocent?'
How do you start a conversation with someone you have wronged so badly? Jared shouldn't want to hear from him ever again.
Except maybe for an apology?
Jensen rubbed his sore hands together and breathed in. He would call Jared tomorrow. He would take the rest of the night and however much of the next day to compose a message and hope that Jared's cell went directly to voice mail. He would tell him he was sorry and that he was wrong. He would say that he understood if Jared never wanted to see him again, but would he please listen to him just one more time?
Jensen had never been happier than he had these past months with Jared. Painting next to Jared. Jared laughing and trying so hard to please. Jensen, finding that he wanted to please Jared in return. Sharing his studio, sharing his gallery, sharing his spotlight, and sharing his bed. It had all felt so good. Life with Jared was all his colors, all his light, wrapped in one, big, talented, funny, loving man.
Now, Jared was gone and Jensen was to blame. The pain was bone deep.
Jensen clung to the wall, climbing up to a standing position. He was tired, he was angry, but more than that, he was sad. He wanted Jared to forgive him. Jared probably wouldn't feel the same about him, but maybe Jensen could convince Jared to come back and study with him, be his apprentice again.
But even as he thought this, he knew…he knew Jared would be moving on.
He didn't deserve Jared back. Jensen always felt that he didn't truly earn the fame he received, and he sure as hell didn't deserve to have his work live on after him. Maybe Aldis was right about that.
Jensen rubbed his eyes, carefully stepping through the mess on the studio floor, slowly making his way to the back stairs leading up to his bedroom.
"I might not convince him to come back, but I can tell him I'm sorry," he whispered into the night.
He traced the walls with his fingers and kicked away the debris underfoot. Finally reaching the stairs, Jensen sighed in relief when he grasped the handrail.
"I hope I can get him to listen to me." His heart pumped slow and sad.
Jensen trudged wearily up to the fifth step, but on the sixth, he stepped down on something. 'A pencil?' Jensen's mind asked. 'No, a paint brush.'
Jensen's tired hand was already light on the rail and when his left foot rolled out from under him, the railing flew out of his grasp. Jensen's arms pinwheeled, frantically searching for a hand hold. It was too late; his hands clutched at the air as he fell backwards, hurtling down six steps, landing head-first on the textured concrete floor below.
"What could you possibly be calling about, Jensen? It's two in the morning. Go drunk dial someone else."
"Please, I need you."
"I'm hanging up now."
"I fell and hit my head. I think I'm bleeding…feels like I'm bleeding."
"You fell?"
"It's dark, but I don't think I can see, Jared. I don't think I can see."
Jared hesitated one, maybe two seconds. "I'm coming. Don't move."
Jared held onto the phone while throwing on a pair of jeans, gathering his keys-one of them Jensen's master key-and his wallet. "Where are you? Tell me."
"In a truck. In a ditch."
"No, you're not. Jensen, talk to me. Where are you?"
Jared heard Jensen take in a long stuttering breath. "I fell down the stairs. I'm on the floor in the studio."
"Listen, listen, stay still, and don't move your head or anything. I'll be right there. Can you stay on the line?"
"I think so." Jensen sounded confused.
"I'm calling 911 from the land line, right now. Keep talking, okay?" Jared punched the three numbers and blurted information to the operator.
"You coming here? Coming now?" Jensen's voice shook. "Jared? Jared?"
"Yes, I'm coming now. Right now. What happened?" Jared ran down the sidewalk to his car.
"Aldis told me it was him. He said he talked to Mark. Oh, God, Jared, it wasn't you, and it wasn't me, it was Al. I'm sorry, I didn't think. I'm sorry."
"Calm down, it'll be okay." Jared jumped into his car, started it up and tore out of his parking space.
Jared heard deep gulps of breath from his phone's speaker. "You were good, so good to me, and I got too close. Deep down, I think I was afraid you'd leave, but look how I forced you away." Jensen wasn't making much sense and his voice was growing softer and softer.
"Jensen be easy, we'll figure all this out."
"If I never see you again, if I never see anything again, I'll remember how hurt you were. The angry moves you made, the sorrow in your steps. I want to see you again," Jensen whimpered. "Help me?"
"Of course I'll help. Hang on, you hear me?" Jared put his phone on speaker so both hands were on the wheel. "I wasn't sure you'd want me around if you thought I'd let you down. Are you lying still?"
"I'm on the floor in the dark, Jared. It's cold down here."
The night was warm and Jensen's words were slurring together.
"I'm only five minutes away." Jared broke the speed limit several times over. "Jen, keep imagining the lights on the paintings, shining down on Saranyu, sparkling on your Colors. Please Jensen, stay awake, 911 is on the way. If they get there to take you to the hospital before I do, don't be scared."
"No," Jensen breathed. "Only want you to drive."
"They're good drivers, I promise."
"I'm sorry, Jay. Forgive me? Try? I don't want the last sight of you to be walking out with your bags dragging on the floor, and your voice so sad an' angry."
"It won't be. We'll have a long talk and figure things out together, okay Jen? Jensen."
"Here. I'm here."
"I'm almost there. Do you hear sirens, yet?"
"No. Hurry, Jared. It's dark and I'm lost. Please, please come find me."
After so many minutes of silence, there were loud, fast footsteps.
"Jensen? Where are you?"
"Here. Over here." Jensen strained to call out, but his voice was weak and breathy.
"Oh, god, Jen." Warm hands, strong arms, soft words, hot breath.
"Jay?" Jensen moaned
"Shh, yes, I'm here. Right here."
"I can't see you. I can't see anything."
"The ambulance is on the way." Jared lifted Jensen against him. "You banged your head up pretty good." Jared held something against his head, and brushed his hands across Jensen's face. "Looks like a tornado hit the studio."
"I made that mess." Jensen's head throbbed and he felt disoriented.
"Does anything else hurt?" Jared held him to his chest. "Stay awake, okay. You gotta stay awake."
"I doubted you. I accused you. I betrayed you. I can't even start to 'pologize."
"There'll be plenty of time for that." Jared's arms had been tight around Jensen, keeping his head from moving, but then, Jared loosened one arm to wipe Jensen's face and neck with a cloth. "I shouldn't have left like that. We should have talked it out. I've missed you, Jensen. I should have stayed and not moved an inch until I convinced you that I could never hurt you like that."
Jared's arms encircled Jensen's body again, hugging him to Jared's chest. Jensen had his eyes closed so he could pretend he could see if he opened them. He held on to Jared as tightly as he could.
"But I hurt you." Jensen couldn't tell if the wetness was tears or blood dripping off his chin. "I'll be able to accept the darkness if you forgive me. You don't have to stay, you don't have to mean it, but please say you f'give me."
"Shh, be quiet," Jared whispered. "But stay awake."
A siren sounded close outside.
"They're here, Jensen. Help is on the way. The doctors can easily fix a detached retina. You'll be seeing me again soon."
"Head hurts." It was hard to stay awake.
"I know," Jared said. "Hang in there, okay?"
"It's dark in the middle of the night, Jay."
"You're not lost, I've got you."
"I don't…" Jensen took in a breath and dropped his arms. He needed to rest. Just for a minute.
"In here!" Jared shouted. "We're in here! Jensen, stay awake. Jensen."
Jensen's grasp on Jared's arm briefly tightened. "Jared, there are no colors here."
"Step back, please, sir." A female EMT's voice instructed.
Jared's palm patted Jensen's chest and then moved away.
"Jay?" Jensen reached blindly into the air.
"It's okay, Jensen. I'm at five o'clock."
"It looks like you had bad fall, Mr. Ackles. We're going to put you in a collar and strap you to a backboard to stabilize your head and spine, but it's just a precaution."
Jensen felt his neck being fitted with the cervical collar and a mask pulled down over his nose and mouth. After they finished wrapping something around his head, Jared's big paw captured Jensen's left hand and held on tight. They were doing something to his right arm, now.
"He's blind. His retina's torn. You have to fix it." Jared was intense.
"We don't know that, sir, please let us take care of him. Mr. Ackles? Can you still hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you, but I can't see you." They rolled him gently to the side, lay him back on something hard and began strapping him in. "Jay?"
"Right here, Jen, right here."
"Try and stay calm, Mr. Ackles. You're in good hands," a jovial male voice replied. "We're radioing it in to the hospital. They'll have specialists standing by."
"You'll call my eye doctor? Jared?" Jensen's other arm flailed into the darkness, but someone caught it and held it still.
"I will." Fingers that must have belonged to Jared stroked Jensen's cheek. "I've got your doctor's information."
"Don't worry, we'll get you covered. Okay, Mr. Ackles, we're going to lift you on three."
After Jensen was secured on the stretcher, he began rolling.
"Jared's still here, right?" Jensen didn't care if he sounded scared. He needed Jared as a lifeline in the dark.
"Here, Jen, I'm coming with you." Jared grasped Jensen's hand and squeezed.
"Sir, uh, Jared, let us get him situated, and then you can get in."
"I'm with you, Jen and I'm not letting go," Jared called as they lifted him into the ambulance.
Jensen sighed loud and deep. "He's with me. I need him." Jensen was losing steam. "He's with me."
"Okay, let's go. ER's waiting."
Jared was holding Jensen's hand, and even in the dark among the medical smells, the collar around his neck and the scream of the ambulance's siren, the warmth of Jared's hand let Jensen breathe easier than he had in a week.
He wasn't lost, Jared found him.
"Moshi Moshi."
"Mister Collins? Misha? This is Jared Padalecki."
"Jared, hey, what up?" Misha's words were friendly but his tone was not.
"Jensen fell and hit his head. He had surgery on his right eye to repair a detached retina."
Jared heard a deep intake of air through the phone. "Oh, God. Jesus, Jared, will he be okay? I mean, will he be able to see again?"
"They think he will. They hope he will."
"My God." Misha lost all pretenses, and what was left was the distraught voice of Jensen's old friend. "What happened?"
"It was an accident. He fell down a half flight of stairs. The fall detached the retina and came close to cracking his skull. He's concussed, and along with the eye surgery, they're keeping a close watch on him for a few days."
"Jesus," Misha whispered.
"The doctors," Jared paused to steady himself. "They're optimistic."
"Good, that's good."
There was a tense silence on the line. After a minute, Jared said. "Jensen would want you to know, but that's not the only reason I called."
"Thanks for telling me." Misha got his breathing under control. "What's the other reason?"
"I need you to clear up an ugly rumor. I want to make a statement. On the record."
"Are you sure you want to go on the record with this? Maybe we ought to chat first."
"I'm sure."
"Okay, hold on." A click and soft buzz came over the phone line. "I'm recording you now, Jared. Go ahead."
"I want Mark Pellegrino's head on a platter. Barring that, he offered to hang up his pen if the rumor that Jensen Ackles's apprentice helped paint The Light Stealer, Yarikh didn't pan out. Well, it doesn't."
"I'm cutting off the recorder," Misha said. "Listen Jared, Mark got into some hot water with his "unsubstantiated rumor" accusation, but we got wind that it came from Aldis Hodge, Jensen's personal assistant. According to Mark, Aldis came to him and stated, also on the record, that he saw you painting on Jensen's canvas with Jensen directing you. Hodge hasn't retracted his statement. Don't you think Aldis would have raised holy hell when Pellegrino came out kicking ass and taking names?"
"I don't know what Aldis saw, but if he saw me putting my brush on Jensen's painting it was to match the brush strokes of six square inches, actually three square inches, of painting on the lower left hand corner. In order to learn his technique, he wanted me to match his, in a real way."
"But you helped him paint it."
"No, he helped me by letting me copy his style. I was no help whatsoever."
"Still."
"Good God, Collins, you know that only Jensen Ackles could have painted that work of art. Do you think that someone like me, a math major with a love of numbers and famous mathematicians, could render something as brilliant as Yarikh?"
"Don't sell yourself short. You’re a hugely talented artist."
Jared clenched his teeth. "Do you think anyone other than Jensen Ackles could have painted an abstract sunset that had the whole gallery in tears?"
The phone was silent. One minute turned into two. "No."
Jared let out a breath. "Help me fix this. Talk to Aldis Hodge. He came clean to Jensen about everything and I suspect that he'll come clean to you, too. Ask him. He knows the truth."
"All right, I will, but I'm not going to clear anything with you first. Are you sure you're ready for what might come out?"
"I know what we did, and Jensen knows the truth. Aldis may not know it all, but he knows I didn't paint Jensen Ackles's greatest masterpiece and I can't believe he wants me getting any credit for it."
"All right, I'm on it. Watch for the fallout, wherever it lands. Give Jensen a big, sloppy kiss on the lips for me. Tell him," Misha paused, "tell him he'll be seeing me soon."
"I will. Find out the real story. Get to the truth, and good things will follow. I know it."
Part Eight-The Colors of My Life,
~~*~~*~~
Jensen lay perfectly still, flat on his stomach, face down. His head and both eyes were wrapped in gauze, even though that was obviously overkill. Though he sensed that his head hung off the edge of the bed, it was comfortably cradled by what felt like a padded headrest a masseuse would use.
Jensen hummed appreciatively. He liked massages. Warm, oiled thumbs pressing hard into the knots and spasms in his neck, breaking up the tension there. Long, soothing fingers, trailing up and down his back, Jared's fingertips teasing the bones in his spine one at a time-one at a time.
"Umm Hmmm," he sighed. "Yeah, like that."
His forehead itched and he raised a hand to scratch it. Out of nowhere, two big hands intercepted his wrist and gently tucked his arm down beside him.
"C'mon, keep still now," a voice whispered.
"'K," Jensen sighed happily.
He knew that some people didn't like the effects of sedatives with pain meds cocktails, but right now, Jensen felt spec-tac-u-lack-ular.
He may have giggled when a large palm rubbed his back.
"'At you, Jay?"
"'At's me, Jen," Jared's smiling voice replied. "Leave the stitches alone."
"Bossy, bossy apprentice." Jensen sighed again. "What stitches?"
"They had to sew ten little stitches at your hairline over your left eye to close the gash you got when you fell down the stairs. There's a good-sized knot on the back of your head, too. Do you remember?"
"Yeah, the stairs. Stepped onna brush."
"Don't move your head too much. You had surgery to repair your retina and you have to stay like that for a while."
"Upside down?" Jensen really wanted to scratch the burning patch on his forehead.
"No, face down."
He shifted in the bed. "Ouch. Did I break my knees, too?"
A low chuckle came from his left. "No, they're banged up but not broken."
If Jensen didn't know better he would have thought Jared was laughing at him.
He flexed his fingers. "My hands? Oh God. Jay, Jay my hands get busted?"
"Nope, they're just a little raw. Nothing else is broken." Jared took Jensen's hand and held it in both of his. "Not your knees, not your hands, only your head."
"And my eyes," Jensen said, sadly.
"Not both of them," Jared's voice caught for a quick moment. "They fixed your right one. That's what they told me."
Jensen nodded down toward the floor. "You b'lieve 'em?"
"Yes. I believe them."
"Okay," Jensen yawned. "If you believe 'em, guess I'll see you later, huh?"
"I guess you will."
Jensen wasn't sure, but that might have been Jared's lips kissing his hair. Jared released his hand and drew back.
"Jared?" Jensen yawned. "Jay, you still here?"
Jared must have sat down on the floor because a warm hand materialized on his cheek, thumb brushing his lips and chin.
"Still here."
"Still my apprentice? Still my…mine?" Jensen had trouble managing his saliva, but he hoped what he said came out intelligibly. "Please?"
"Still yours, Jensen. Go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."
"Um, why am I upside down again?"
"Face down, and you're going to have to get used to it for a couple of weeks."
Jensen faked a super-secrit whisper, "You're being awfully cryptic." At least that's what he intended to say. It may have come out sounding, "Yerbin affry kripik."
"I'm not being cryptic," Jared laughed. "I'm just not sure how much information to give you, 'cause I don't know how much you'll remember when everything wears off."
"Fair 'nuff. Just give me the face down part then."
"Okay." Jared's hand moved along his chin and cheek. "After they reattached your retina, they inserted a gas bubble into your eyeball so everything would heal properly. You'll have to stay face down for about two weeks, forty-five minutes out of every hour."
"You're right. I already forgot the first part of what you said." Jensen yawned and reached for his forehead. "Try me again tomorrow."
Jensen's hand was magically diverted away from its goal and tucked back under the covers.
"You'll be here when I wake up?
"Right here-well maybe not on the floor."
"Will you stay with me forever if I promise to be good?"
"It's interesting how general anesthesia and strong narcotics cause even great artists to revert back to their four year-old selves."
"So that means I get ice cream, too?" Jensen asked.
"If you're good." Jared's fingertips gently scratched Jensen's shoulder blades and touched each bone in his spine one by one.
Jensen took in a deep, happy breath. "I think I love you, Jay."
"Mighty sure I love you, too."
"Then I'm pretty much guaranteed ice cream." Jensen ended the sentence with a snore.
"The Art Aesthetic with Mark Pellegrino.
Jealousy is an angry thing. Envy, jealousy's first cousin, is a wrathful bitch. Stir them together, add suspicion, greed, and resentment and you have given birth to evil.
Have you ever read a novel so moving, so powerful that you said to yourself, "I wish I had written that."? As a writer of non-fiction, original fiction, and as someone who makes a living writing critiques of the art world, I haven't given up on my desire to someday write my very own Great American Novel.
I love to write.
Wuthering Heights? I wish I'd written that.
To Kill a Mockingbird? God, how I wish I'd written that.
An unknown, or at least little known factoid about me is that, not only do I yearn to write the greatest novel of all times (Moby Dick? The Old Man and the Sea? I wish they were mine), but I also paint.
When I'm not writing, I have a brush in hand. In my dreams I create art that rivals Picasso's Guernica for expression, passion, and as a conduit for social consciousness. I would have sold my soul to the devil to have painted that.
I love to paint.
I live and breathe, therefore I write and paint.
But my writing talent is, alas, limited to art magazines and my artistic muse has led me to fill a basement full of terrible self-made impressionist art, and if I can't do it, I sometimes try to crush those who can.
In other words: If you can't join 'em, beat 'em.
Twenty years ago, I viewed, with tears in my eyes, a tour de force of color, imagination and emotion titled The Colors of My Life. It was created by a young artist named Jensen Ackles, whom I later learned, was, by all legal and functional definitions, blind.
My mantra of "I wish I'd painted that," turned into-"I have eyes that actually see, so I should have been able to paint that."
So began my love/hate affair with Jensen Ackles-and the ingredients for evil were born.
I viewed Smoke and Whispers with skepticism and wrote a half-hearted endorsement of this work for the rag I worked for at the time. After all, the poor young man was blind, let's give him a break.
Underneath this condescension was, "He's brilliant. I wish I'd painted that." Jealousy.
When Ackles's amazing Primeval Prevailing made the cover of Time Magazine, I deflected the glory of that work and blamed the rave review on the inexperience of Time's Art critic du jour. I wrote that I couldn't be sure if Primeval Prevailing was, in fact, pure genius, or only appeared so because of the artist's reputation, but silently allowed that this may, in fact, be a notch in the world's art history. Envy.
Time and again, I went back and forth, writing lukewarm commendations of Ackles's work, all the while ignoring the overwhelming voice in my heart.
"Why can he paint like that?" Suspicion.
"What I would have given to have created this." Greed.
"I wish I had half the talent Jensen Ackles has in his little finger." Back to Envy.
Twenty years later, this blind boy, now a man, rewards an undeserving world with The Light Stealer, Yarikh.
For the first time in over twenty years my heart didn't burst with the words, "I wish I'd painted that." Because I knew that I could never, ever have painted that.
What's more, when I found out-or thought I'd found out-that someone else had helped Ackles paint The Light Stealer, I was more than disappointed. I was livid.
If Ackles didn't paint it, it could have been me.
Resentment.
I showed no mercy to this talented man or to the apprentice whose only crime was helping the artist perpetuate his gift for when his blindness, inevitably, becomes complete.
Because when that final curtain is drawn, and Jensen Ackles's world goes dark, so will ours.
Oh, what the hell, let me go ahead and say it: With all my heart, I wish I had helped Jensen Ackles paint The Light Stealer, Yarikh. I wish I had been one small part of creating a work of art that will continue to move audiences to tears long after I am buried and forgotten.
But, back to the point: If I can't be a part of history, then I will help mar it just as the grapes were probably sour anyway. Evil.
Evil.
The apprentice never painted for the master. It was obvious to anyone who saw. The apprentice has his own story to tell. I knew it the moment I viewed his paintings under the same roof. The apprentice, Jared T. Padalecki, painted his own and Jensen Ackles painted his.
I was enraged, I was bitter, I was wrong and I am sorry.
At this writing, Mr. Ackles is recovering from surgery to reattach a splintered retina in the only working eye he has left. I pray that Jensen Ackles regains his partial sight, because a world without his colors is lifeless indeed.
This will be my last art review. Besmirching a great master's work and publicly perpetrating a lie, only to admit, retract, and confess, is a humiliating and altogether fitting way to exit the stage.
In case I was vague, let me state, for the entire world to see:
Jensen Ackles is the master artist and creator of The Light Stealer, Yarikh.
Jensen Ackles is the sole artist, and the only thing he is guilty of is attempting to leave his knowledge to his apprentice, Jared T. Padalecki.
I retract my statements declaring otherwise, and publicly apologize to both Jensen Ackles and Jared T. Padalecki.
I hope someday they can forgive me.
I hope someday I can forgive myself."
Jared's voice shook as he finished the last sentence.
"You did it, Jay. You fixed it." Jensen tried not to let the utter relief he felt sound in his voice. For weeks now, he'd been pretending to slough it off, claiming that he wasn't letting the accusations worry him.
"It wasn't me, it was Misha. He got on Pellegrino by calling him out on the "unsubstantiated, but I believe it" rumor. Mark had no choice but to get with Aldis and publicly confirm or deny the facts."
"It worked," Jensen pointed to the publication in Jared's hands.
"Did it? Does the 'Art World' Jared made big, exaggerated quotey fingers, "know that we are both innocent of any deception?"
Jensen's medically imposed restrictions against sitting up were over, and the sight he had was as sharp as ever. Which was to say, blissfully blurry.
"I don't care, I just want to paint. Do you care?"
"Yes, I care. I don't want anyone thinking that your genius can be parceled out on a whim. Your talent belongs only to you."
Jensen stood from the loveseat in his gallery. "Do you think that?"
"Do I think you are all kinds of awesome?" Jared asked.
Jensen nodded.
"Yes. Yes I do"
"Then what's the problem? You're here, you think I'm awesome, my colors are back so it's all good." Jensen tapped his cane impatiently. "Come on. Let's paint."
"You can't fool me, you know." Jared stood and snaked his arms around Jensen's waist. "This has been a living hell for you."
Jensen sighed and Jared held him tight. "You're right," he spoke into the shoulder of Jared's purple tee shirt. Apparently on his chest there was a picture of cartoon puppies crying and a caption that read: I sleep like a baby-meaning I cry all night.
"You'll help me interview for a new office manager?" Jensen's voice was muffled by Jared's neck.
"Yes and a new personal assistant."
"I thought Aldis was my friend," Jensen said, sadly. "I was his."
"Aldis admired you and wanted to be a part of your life but he messed up." Jared planted soft kisses to the light pink scar at his hairline. "Despite what he did, he was your friend and cared about you."
"He was my friend, but he stabbed you in the back, Jared. I don't know how I feel about him."
"You loved him like a brother, and you miss him. You can't forgive him, but you wish him well. How does that sound?"
Jensen took a deep breath. "I almost lost you because I believed him, Jay." He looked up at Jared. "I believed him over you."
"I know." Jared stilled in Jensen's arms. "And that…that still hurts."
"When I was on the floor and I couldn't see, I remember asking you to forgive me."
"You did," Jared agreed.
"I'm asking you again. Please, can you forgive me?"
Jensen stood back and took in Jared's stooped shoulders and the way his head turned away.
"Jared?"
"I love you, Jensen, I do, but there's no easy fix for this."
"I am so sorry."
"I know you're sorry, Jen. I believe that you are-I'm just not all the way there yet."
"I thought you would have left after what I did, but you're still here, and that's more than I deserve. Try and believe me when I say, I'll do anything to earn back your trust."
"I want to." Jared took Jensen's wrist. "Do you remember what else I said?
Jensen shook his head, sadly.
"I said I'd be with you and that we would work it out." He kissed Jensen's fingertips and whispered, "It might take some time, but we will."
Jensen squeezed Jared's hand. "As long as you're here, painting with me, teaching me and letting me teach you, take all the time you need. I love you, and I'll do my best to prove it to you every day. I promise that someday you will have faith in me again. Even if it takes a million to the millionth power years."
Jared opened Jensen's hand and placed Jensen's fingers so they touched his lips and cheek. Jared smiled deep and wide into Jensen's hand and said, "It won't."
Epilogue-
Will leave a shining light
To show the way.
~~*~~*~~
"…in fact, my parents had no idea how poor my eyesight was, because, as a child, I colored voraciously with crayons, markers, chalk, and brushed water paints on every available surface. I felt worse for them than for me because I adapted to the haziness early on, picking out the colors and shadows without a second thought. To my mom and dad, it looked as though the doctors were wrong and that I could see far better than I could."
Jensen turned to Jared. "Another question?"
Jared pointed straight ahead and up to the top tier of the lecture hall and said, "Twelve o'clock high."
Jensen smirked. "Tell me how long you've been waiting to say that."
"You're right," he laughed. "I was heavily influenced by a 1960's black and white TV series about World War Two."
The students and invited guests laughed happily.
Jared pushed up beside Jensen, blocked his mike and whispered, "And, fighter pilots are hot."
"Some night you'll have to find a smooth, black leather bomber jacket and prove it," Jensen whispered back. He glanced again at Jared, and Jared stepped away.
Jensen looked ahead and up. "Yes? You have a question for me?"
"Yes, sir," a young male voice answered. "Mr. Ackles, I read that you had surgery to fix the eyesight in your right eye. How successful was that?"
"Very successful. Thank you for asking so directly. I have the same vision after the surgery as before. The doctors performed what's called a scleral buckling surgery on my right eye to reattach the retina and anchor it properly. As part of the repair, an air bubble was placed inside my eye to keep the retina in place while it healed as part of another procedure called a vitrectomy. I won't go into the gory details, but I have to say that I'm lucky that the surgeries were performed in a timely manner."
"What you may not have read was, when it happened, I called Jared." He turned to Jared and said, meaningfully, "And, thankfully, he answered the phone."
Jared made an embarrassed 'pffft' sound loud enough to be heard in the back row of the lecture hall.
Jensen continued addressing the multi-colored smears high in the back row, "He found me on the floor after my fall and immediately called the paramedics. Every day, I thank Jared for saving my colors." He turned to Jared and smiled warmly. "God, I'm so lucky."
"Actually, I called the EMTs before I found you at the bottom of the stairs." Jared stroked Jensen's arm as he spoke. "You said it was going to be a bumpy ride, but to stick with you because it would be worth it."
"I also said that love conquers all." Jensen stepped in close to Jared. "Good thing I'm not a writer."
The audience's laughter startled them out of their private-public conversation.
They stood apart, and with the sound of Jared's chuckling behind him, Jensen, once again, took center stage.
Jensen paused, and then tipped his head up to the crowd.
"My father loves roses. He plants rosebushes anywhere in the yard that gets enough sun. Luckily, for much of the year, the front yard is sunny all day long, so our front walkway is always blooming.
"Over the years, dad figured out which colors were the most vibrant, which strains of roses were hardiest for the climate, and which ones had the best fragrance."
Jensen paced in front of the podium, keeping Jared within his range of sight on the right.
"My dad loves everything about the process of growing roses. From cultivating the manure-rich soil, to the careful pruning of the stems, he loves growing roses and creating beautiful multi-colored bouquets for mom's dining room table. And he likes that I can see them. Dad loves his rose gardens.
"Happily, there was an unexpected fringe benefit to my father's green thumb. The neighborhood newsletter took pictures of dad's roses and interviewed my parents. The local newspaper got in on the action and gave the roses, my folks and the neighborhood some great ink. Six years ago, Better Homes and Gardens Magazine did a small spread on regular people whose gardens brightened their communities. Dad got a mention in a paragraph on the second page of that article. He had it framed and it's hanging in their living room."
The lecture hall had quieted. Jensen's heels clicked and his cane tip glided easily along the floor as he sauntered back and forth.
"I asked my dad how he felt about that. I said he must be proud of the fame he got for all his hard work. He shrugged big enough for me to see, and said, "I love my roses. That my neighbors enjoy them is icing on the cake.""
Jensen stared out into the roiling, blurry, silent mass.
"Love what you do. Paint what you love, write what you love, sing what you love, dance what you love. Do what you love. Do it and forget about what others think. To quote Max Ehrmann's Desiderata:
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
"Not long ago, Jared and I were victims of that kind of bitterness. It could have ruined both our careers, but if it had, I would still have to paint. Jared would still have to paint. It's what we love, and fuck them all if they don't get it.
"I was lucky. My work was discovered and every day I realize how fortunate I am being able to make a living with my brushes and paint. But guess what? As popular as my paintings are, not everyone likes them.
"Never is everyone going to like what you do.
"So what I'm saying is, go where your muse leads you. Write that screenplay, compose that symphony, dance to Swan Lake, sing that opera. Don't ignore your muse, but instead, thank God for every moment your muse speaks to you. Grow your roses and never let some anonymous asshole's opinion, full of spite or malice toward your work, stop you.
"Because those assholes don't fucking matter."
He rounded the corner to stand next to Jared.
"Any more questions?"
Jared crooked his elbow, took Jensen's hand and looped it under his arm, escorting Jensen through the university's parking garage.
"Desiderata, huh? Looks like I wasn't the only one influenced by the '60's." Jared tucked Jensen closer and quick kissed his temple.
"Aww, what can I say? I am a child of the universe, I have a right to be here." Jensen dragged his cane haphazardly behind.
"You're good with the students."
"I enjoy them. I'd be lying if I said that I haven't thought about teaching after my painting days are over."
"Ohh, then I could be your sexy student teacher."
Jensen laughed, "I'd like that, but I don't know how you'd find time to help me teach when you're flying around the world, touring with your art."
"That's easy. You take the semester off, and I'll take you around the world." Jared pushed Jensen against the passenger side of his car and kissed him. "I'd describe every mountain peak, every tropical beach and every forest primeval." Jensen snickered at that. "Using the colors you know so well, you'd know exactly what everything looked like."
"You could do it, too," Jensen sighed, happily. "Looks like I made the right choice in apprentice."
"Damn straight," Jared agreed.
Jensen kissed him back. "Because when my world goes dark, you'll be keeping my colors bright for me."
~~*~~*~~fin~~*~~*~~
The sequel to this story Shades of Gray (and Little White Lies) can be found HERE
My artist Sammycolt24 went above and beyond the call of duty for The Colors of My Life Her work is gorgeous and gives the readers the feeling of color and life I so wanted for this story. Deepest, deepest thanks, my dear. And thanks to my sister, Vanessa, who gave me the title and tag for I Am Every Man-Art on the Edge, Around the Corner and Across the Street
The colors of my life
Are bountiful and bold,
The purple glow of indigo,
The gleam of green and gold.
The splendor of a sunrise,
The dazzle of a flame,
The glory of a rainbow,
I'd put 'em all to shame.
No quiet browns and grays,
I'll take my days instead
And fill them till they overflow
With rose and cherry red
And should this sunlit world
Grow dark one day,
The colors of my life
Will leave a shining light
To show the way.
The Colors of My Life from the musical Barnam.
Another Author's Note:
Years ago, I had the privilege of beta'ing some stories for a wonderful fanfic author in my last fandom. The link to Prufrock's Love's XF fanfic is below. To me, her writing is magnificent, and to paraphrase Mark Pellegrino, "I wish I could write like that." Years ago, I asked her how if felt that so many readers enjoyed her stories. She gave me the exact analogy of the roses in her front yard. Obviously, I never forgot it.
Links Because they make me happy
Degenerative (or Pathelogical) Myopia
The Colors of My Life sung by Jim Dale
Barnum, the Musical
Jensen's cane
Arshile Gorky (scroll down for his Impressionism paintings)
Jared's Prime Time tee shirt
U.S. Bank Center, Milwaukee
Wounded Warrior Project
Saranyu
Yarikh
Mikado yellow
Scleral Buckling Surgery for Retinal Detachment
Vitrectomy Procedure
headrest and positioning supplies for after Jensen's eye surgery
Prufrock's Love X-Files Fanfiction
Desiderata
.
.