1 Meadowlark (O Happy Bird!)
O happy bird, of heart most gay
To sing when skies are gray!
The Meadowlark by paul lawrence dunbar
Coffee, black and hot, swirls in Jensen's cup. He's got one finger looped into the cup handle, idly moving it back and forth to the tune of an old song he's whisper-humming under his breath. A newspaper lays folded over next to him; he's finished the business section and is skimming the sports page. After a few seconds, he sighs and tilts his head to watch the sun trying to peek through the wet, gray skies. Drizzle skitters down the window panes, wetting the porch railings he can see through the kitchen door's window panes.
"Umf." He rubs a knuckle against his eyelid, trying to wake himself. Maybe more coffee....
He startles when sharp steps rap against the tile floors.
"You look like a toddler when you do that." She grabs a cup from the cup tree sitting near the coffee maker and pours. Adding a bit of cream and sugar, she stirs it savagely. She drinks and makes a face; clearly she hates the taste. She keeps gingerly sipping, though, nose wrinkled like she's sipping battery acid.
"Jeanette, why do you drink it when you know you won't like it?"
"Because it smells so good and I keep hoping one morning, it'll change."
She pours what's left of the coffee down the sink. She hesitates, then loads the cup into the dishwasher.
Thinking about her words regarding change and coffee, it occurs to Jensen that she sounded sadder than mere coffee disappointment called for. Jensen looks up to catch her eyes on him. He gives her an uncertain smile.
"Going in early?"
Jeanette sweeps past him, gathering her coat from the back of the couch. She flings it on, along with an oversized, sleek scarf, twisting and turning it around her neck. Of course it looks amazing when she's done. Crossing her arms, she tilts her head towards him, her full mouth pursed tight. Her eyes are a brilliant blue and when she's slightly annoyed, as she is at this moment, they practically drill into your soul.
"Yes. We talked about this already, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, of course. I was just…" He shrugged. "Making conversation?"
"Well, let's save it for this evening. I have to run before I'm late."
She really does look good, he thinks. That blue wool coat and the black and white scarf set off her flawless skin so well, a little pale under the winter sun. She's beautiful, though not as stunning as she is in summer. She always tans a healthy bronze and he just burns an ugly tomato red.
"Jensen. Did you hear me?"
"Oh. I'm sorry?"
"I'll be late tonight too."
He nods, murmurs, "Yes, of course," and feels a whisper of disappointment at having dinner alone again. A small part of him wonders if she's having an affair, but the thought fades before it's fully born. Does she wonder if he's having affairs when he's late for dinner?
"All right, then. I guess I should get myself together too-don't want to miss the train."
"Have a nice walk to the station. Don't forget your umbrella, they're calling for drizzly weather all day today," she reminds him.
Jeanette works for a local realtor's office that's relatively close to home, which means she takes the car while Jensen takes the train into the city. He usually enjoys the walk to the station, no matter the weather. It was a little bit of time all his own, breathing fresh air and letting his thoughts ramble. Lately though, he hasn't much liked the direction his thoughts have been heading.
He straightens up the kitchen in the silence that seems louder after Jeanette's departure. He meticulously wipes down the granite counter tops and thoroughly cleans the coffee pot, setting it on the stainless steel drainboard to dry.
He stands in the tiny foyer, staring into his reflection as he winds his favorite scarf around his neck-a cashmere Burberry she gave him for Christmas last year. He takes inventory of all the small changes in his face that seem to multiply every time he takes note-the thin lines around his eyes that persist even when he stops smiling, the way his hair has darkened with age, or maybe it was just from no longer living a life in the sun. And despite the lack of sun, he still has a face full of freckles, spreading down the bridge of his slightly cocked nose and right up inside his ears to his great annoyance. It looks, well, it looks country. He smiles at himself: a wide, fake smile, full of costly, perfect teeth. Winces when the movement pulls at his lips. Where the hell is his lip balm….
Jensen digs around in his coat pocket as he licks at his painfully dry lips. They gleam in the watery, early morning light that creeps down the hallway. Like…fog, what the hell was that thing, that line; on little cat feet. Yay, high school English.
His lips soften and spread in a genuine smile, and Jensen quickly drops his eyes. He'd dodged so much crap about his mouth when he was young-too damn girly, fat lower lip, a cupid's bow upper lip and always so damn pink, like he wore lipstick. Ridiculous how something like full lips and long dark lashes could be a horror all through school until suddenly, they become a different kind of bad. Too much attention paid to his damn face all through college and it'd never sat right with him. If it hadn't been for Jeanette and her cool appraisal of his looks...he smiles ruefully, a tight, half curve of those too full lips…well. He'd mistaken that for level-headedness, when it seems that it was a chilly spirit instead.
Jensen grabs his briefcase and fishes his keys out of the bowl on the console, rolls his eyes at himself. Pretty narcissistic, right? Him standing in the hallway and mooning over himself. What a piece of work he is.
Horns beeping and brakes shrieking, the gasps and groans of the buses passing, spewing diesel fumes into the air-it's all the usual backdrop of his morning and evening walks, changed only by weather. Cold sharpens the diesel stink, but Jensen just flips the collar of his black wool coat high around his ears, tugs his scarf tighter, and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. Even with gloves, it is cold this morning. Winter refuses to let her death-grip on the city go. It's a week past Valentine's Day, but it feels like the first days in December.
The day hadn't gone any better than he'd expected. Some days the shop was chaotic, full of bitch fights and blood feuds; today had been one of those days.
Just thinking about the day has Jensen making a fist and rubbing it between his eyebrows, trying to rub out all tension and irritation that's set up camp there. Bastards. Between Michael yelling bloody murder about the pointless changes Morgan wanted in the windows that even Glover hates and then having to deal with the rest of the crew's wounded feelings-Jensen was drained. And all because of Michael insisting, "Window displays are meant to make a statement, John-they're art!" and Glover screaming, "We just want to sell shoes, Michael!"
And where was Morgan during all this? No doubt holed up in his office, gloating about the tension he'd caused, fucking control-freak.
God, what a shit-storm of a day. Not that Michael was wrong, not really. But instead of dealing with them head-on, Jensen had decided on cowardice. He'd hidden behind the piles of material and foam core stacked up on his drafting table, while everyone else found they suddenly had to help transport design pieces to other floors of the store. Days like this made Jensen wish he'd followed his original desire to teach art to kids. Though really, thinking about it, the Gyre Bros. Display Department was an excellent training ground in how to deal with overly-emotional, recalcitrant children.
At least the damn day's over. Hitching his briefcase strap higher on his shoulder, he walks briskly and purposefully to the station, no time to waste.
Usually at this point, he's powering down the streets like a demon is after him, but today for some reason, a spot of color catches his eye and he finds himself slowing past a stand selling flowers.
Flowers. He used to bring Jeanette flowers. It's been a long time since he's done that. Kind of doubts that she'd really be interested in them now, but…maybe?
Should he?
Jensen pulls off a glove, traces his thumb along the velvety edge of a daisy's damp petals, pulls his hand back and wipes it against his wool coat. Unh-unh. Nope, it's a waste of money, and he highly doubts that the sight of a two dollar bouquet of street flowers is going to make her smile.
He shakes his head as he sides the glove back on and continues walking. Maybe another day. Just the thought of choosing the right flowers, getting the right balance of shape and color just, god, it feels exhausting.
The sun's starting to set now, dipping behind the buildings and raising shadows in the valleys of the street. He crosses over towards a large open plaza linking a trio of skyscrapers, his habitual shortcut to his station.
He flinches just a bit at the sound of loud laughter and instinctively pulls his briefcase tight against his side. A gaggle of loud, hard-looking, garishly-dressed young people surge across the plaza like a tide. He vaguely remembers once being that young, that carefree.
What the hell! Jensen laughs at himself. College was only five years ago and he's acting like he's some ancient fart at twenty-six. Jensen huffs and turns away. Hell, most days he feels like it, right down to the bone; his creaky, achy, old man bones.
Fuck.
Jensen slows, gawping at the kids (kids!) before remembering the time. He steps it up again, speed-walking across the plaza like he's getting paid for it. He's almost to the far side when he stumbles, grunting in shock and pain, as something heavy lands against his back.
"Fuck!"
Jensen gets an impression of muscle and legs and arms flailing all over, and then a quick whiff of a really nice smell. Hair like silk slides across his face.
"Oh shit! Oh man, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
Big hands, long fingers, flap in his face and over his shoulders, working their way down until Jensen jerks backwards. He grabs at a thin pair of wrists, pushing them away.
"I'm okay, man, please, I'm fine."
"Oh, sure! Good, I am so sorry, dude, I'm like, not normally this much of a goober, but I was horsing around with my friends and being a goof and I almost flattened you and dude! I am so sorry!"
Jensen's jaw drops; he can't help it. The flailing whirlwind in front of him settles into some overgrown kid. Man? He's a tall boy-a bit thin, still growing maybe? Thick, gleaming hair stops short just above a pair of wide shoulders. He's wearing a beat up old leather coat, a bohemian-styled thing edged with embroidery and trimmed with hot pink fur, and Jensen's stunned; he can only think, "Oh."
Jensen lifts his eyes to the tall kid's face and gapes. Is he wearing lipstick? Yes, and eye shadow too, with glitter-dusted cheekbones that are too sharp for a kid his build. Jensen takes note again of how he smells really damn good.
The coat slides back from the kid's shoulders to show off a robin's-egg blue baby-doll shirt that stops well short of the waistband of his sinfully low-cut, skin-tight jeans tucked into scuffed cowboy boots. Jensen blushes. He has to stare at the guy's face to avoid looking at his body.
Even his damn eyes are pretty-comically wide, showing off green, blue, no-hazel irises. And perfect eyebrows. Jensen licks his lips, and wonders if he plucks them because no guy has eyebrows that nice. He plucks his own. Jensen just manages to stop himself from stroking an eyebrow, because he gets distracted by a beauty mark next to a slightly tilt-tipped nose that Jensen now has to fight to keep from reaching out and stroking. And dimples.
Oh god.
Jensen takes a huge breath, takes a huge step back, and shakes his head. "No." No, he can't go this way again. He can't step over the line.
Tall Boy's face falls. Dimples vanish. It bothers Jensen, the way the boy's mouth goes soft and he sucks his bottom lip in. Bothers Jensen a lot for some reason, along with the way the kid steps back so quickly, hands up like, 'look, I'm unarmed.'
"Sorry!" the kid says again, and that grin is back. He whirls and runs off to join the group of young people bunched up in the far end of the plaza. The way they arrange themselves near the doorways, but not blocking them, makes Jensen rethink his "students" tag for them. There's a look about them, the way they lean, obviously putting themselves on display.
Jensen shivers and walks on-but he risks a look back. The group had dispersed somewhat, and the tall boy was talking to a man who looks like Tall Boy's polar opposite. He throws his head back and laughs, and then curls their arms together before strolling off, a beautiful boy with a guy who might as well have been The Penguin.
Oh.
Jensen blinks, blinks again. Well, he was a bit of a fool today. A hooker. A streetwalker. Jensen has never seen a male streetwalker before. Watching the pink, fur trimmed jacket swing back and forth on Tall Boy's shoulders as he struts along, the way he twitches his hips, draws Jensen's eyes like a magnet. His heart stutters when he realizes where he's staring; squarely at the boy's ass, and now he wants to have that kid in front of him again. He wants to talk to him, see who he is.
No. No, he doesn't. Jensen shakes his head violently. He checks his watch and gasps. Now he's got no time to think of anything except catching the damn train.
Jensen turns into his driveway and sees that the lights are on. Walking up the drive, listening to ice crack beneath his heels, he slows while rubbing at his lips. He is not sure if the lights still being on means good or bad anymore.
Inside, he hangs up his coat, and sets his briefcase down on the bench in the foyer. With a lung-busting sigh, he plops down on the bench and yanks his shoes off. He's really tempted to fling them, but no. He tucks them beneath the bench, then reaches up to toss his scarf over the hooks lined up over the bench. That's the way Jeanette likes it. It's not like he doesn't like order and neatness himself, he likes knowing where things are. It's just sometimes Jeanette behaves as if neatness was a religion.
He leans back, eyes closed, and listens. He can hear the TV muttering in the living room, and every so often a soft laugh. Jean's awake. He's not sure if he wanted her to be.
Jensen hefts his briefcase and shuffles away from the living room towards the converted closet he calls his office. Ten minutes later finds him in the dining room, sitting down to burned fingers and a late dinner. He sets the dinner he pulled out of the oven onto a hot pad on the table and peels the foil back, then struggles to muffle a yowl, hissing like a pissed off cat. How the hell does he manage to forget, every damn time, how fucking hot the foil gets?
He sits alone, feeling sorry for himself, sucking on his fingers and cursing silently. He could have had a TV dinner for less trouble than this. He fixes his plate with a skeptical eye. A TV dinner probably would have been as tasty as this dried-out plate of chops.
He was pouring himself a glass of water when he realizes he isn't hearing the babble of the TV anymore. The apartment is quiet, so quiet the sound of his cutlery hitting the china impacts like multiple gunshots. He opens eyes that had closed without him really being aware of it and Jeanette is there in the doorway.
"Oh, you're home. Hello."
She pulls at the shoulder of a filmy robe she's wearing over a matching gown. Slippers with little puffs of marabou leave flimsy bits on the carpet as she walks. Her hair's soft, natural, and piled up, held in place with a long barrette at the back of her neck. Her face is made up, subtle, except her eyes. Long lashes thick with mascara frame her eyes. Jensen can tell that it isn't fresh. She smells like soap and a wisp of Chanel #5. Almost reluctantly Jensen feels, along with some lingering suspicion, a touch of arousal.
It's never been hard with her, not in the beginning, not really even now, when they're more or less living two different lives, he thinks. It's the best way he can think of to describe them. Living their own private lives side-by-side.
"I am home, yes," he says with a smile.
After cocktails, they make their way to the bedroom, trading kisses, hands sliding, holding, pressing all the points that each is well aware the other loves. He rides her pleasure home in their immaculate, just-like-a-showroom floor bedroom, carefully condomed and politely quiet.
"Damn it!"
His elbow hits something on top of the milk-crate side table that's not the phone. He instinctively snatches for, and grabs, the half-empty cup of takeout coffee. The cold, cloudy liquid inside sloshes back and forth, but thank goodness, is kind enough not to spill over the edge. He scoots back, as far as he can, and ends up jamming the other elbow into the wall.
"Ow! Shit," he mumbles, rubbing at it. After a few minutes laying as spread out as possible for a six foot something guy on a twin bed mattress, he rolls over and kind of staggers upright. He skates forward a little, flailing at the air because he's stepped flat on a couple of sheets of the newspaper he'd thrown on the floor the night before.
Stumbling and cursing, he flails across the room until finally he manages to regain his balance. "Oh my fucking god-" Wasn't he supposed to eventually grow out of that puberty-induced clumsiness? At least, that's what his momma used to say.
"Crap." Jared swallows down the little lump in his throat that thinking about his family always brings, just for a second. Then he shakes it off and grabs his bathroom kit from the stacked assortment of milk and fruit crates that serve as side table, bookcase, and utility cabinet.
"Let there be no showers with roaches or silverfish today. Amen." He inhales deeply, crosses himself, and heads for the communal bathroom, or as he likes to call it, Hell's Vestibule. In and out of it in less than ten minutes, longing for the day when he'd be able to take a shower that lasts longer than hair, face, pits, and ass. He's still wiping mouthwash off his chin as he bolts out of the door and back down the hall to their room-his room alone now, since his roomie took off.
Jared dances to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, shaking his ass in front of what he calls the closet, but is actually no more than a sort-of-dimple in the wall covered by a curtain. Jeans, of course. Though he does have these fabulous striped ones, and the ones with a flower covered panel up each side. Humm. No. It's a plain jeans day. Fishing around in a hatbox, he comes up with a belt that has an oversize leather buckle that's got BITCH burned into it. He smirks, running his finger over it, remembering blowjobs in the park, late past midnight. It was supposed to have been an insult from a rejected suitor, but Jared kind of treasured it; a badge for refusing to hide who he was.
In the long run, being himself in his small, bigoted, Texas town got him a belt buckle and a bus ticket to parts as far away as he could get. And then landing here. But what the fuck. Jared shrugs. "Say La Vee."
Speaking of treasure-Jared grabs a squat green bottle of cologne, a gift from a steady client who'd tossed it at him, wrapped in a fifty. He'd almost winged it back at the guy until he saw what it was. He taps a spritz at neck, chest and wrists, then a shot down the pants for good measure. Gives the bottle a little kiss before dropping it back on the box that serves as his vanity.
He shimmies into a pair of jeans, threads BITCH through the loops and pulls on a tiny striped polo shirt, waving his arms as he pushes them through the tiny armholes, in time to a last blast of trumpet and Bette's soaring voice calling out "Company B!"
Fuck, that bitch can sing.
Turning his ass to the mirror hanging over his 'vanity', he decides that it'll do. He flips a new record over onto the player before kneeling on the floor and looking through the pile of shoes on the closet floor, and singing his heart out. Who doesn't like The Dolls?
"Traayassh, go pick it up, take them lights awaaay-",
And speaking of The New York Dolls, he knows just what he's wearing today. Jared ends up fishing out a snappy pair of cowboy boots from the closet floor. Grinning, he shoots finger guns in the air, like a rough'em, tough 'em cowgirl. He's ready to ride, and all's right with the world.
Now that he's dressed, Jared rolls the window blind high so that some sunlight can creep in through the grimy windows. He pushes aside the screen that they'd used to separate the sleeping spaces before Jonas left. He'll shove it behind his bed later-it'll make a cute fake headboard.
Finally, after attaching a fresh ball of aluminum to the TV antenna (so he can pick up more than the local station), Jared slows down. Time for his morning cup of coffee.
The kettle whistles shrilly just as he thinks that, and he grins. "Thanks!" he tells the little battered pot because Jared thinks you should always thank the things that take care of you. He turns off the hotplate and slides the kettle off to a flat piece of slate he keeps on the Barbie doll-sized counter.
Humming to himself, he grabs a cup from the shelf over the sink and dumps a teaspoon full of coffee powder-freeze-dried, the best-and follows that with a spoon of dry creamer. "Damn it," He frowns when the spoon just scrapes across the top; the shit's dried out again. Jabbing his spoon into the jar a couple of times nets him a chunk of solidified creamer, and he dumps that in the hot water, followed that with one, two, ach, better make it three, spoons of sugar.
"Okay!" Jared snags one of the folding chairs that makes up almost all of the furniture and pulls it up to the counter, and finally, pokes through the plastic box that holds some of his food. Pop tarts this morning. "Apple? Or brown sugar? Brown sugar it is! You have such good taste," he praises himself.
He sips the coffee, crunches his tart, and balls up the empty bag to throw in the garbage can. "Yes! Score! Whatever," he yells as it arcs high through the air and down, where it hits the can's side and bounces out. Screw it. He turns back to his pile of boxes and turns on the TV. Thank you, Jonas, you cheap motherfucker, at least you left this set behind with The List. Would have been nice if you'd paid your half of the rent before jetting.
Jared holds his hands up-"No, negativity," he mutters. "Good thoughts only." It was time for Sesame Street-god knows he needed his Big Bird fix before heading out for the day.
Checking his watch, he jumps up, snaps off the TV and grabs the coat hanging on the back of the door, a really cool yellow suede number trimmed with hot pink "fur" and heads out.
Five seconds later he's running back in the door, and grabbing the newspaper, crunchily folded to the "To Rent" section. He has got to get out of this closet. He'd sell his soul to be able to take a shit in peace.
So, thanks to fucking Jonas, which, no, seriously, thanks, he's got an actual afternoon appointment with a guy who insists he wait for him in a diner a few blocks away. It kind of fits into his plans perfectly, since he had a couple of guys to meet, potential roommates, god willing. The diner was a nice, neutral place. Last thing he needed was some psycho following him back to his hovel.
Jared's on his second cup of coffee- fucking 80 cents down-when the guy finally shows up. He's tall, thin, blonde and looks like he's been herding kittens all day.
Dropping down at the table, the guy groans. "Hey man, sorry 'bout this. Meeting ran long, and then some fuck-up needed help and they're always fucking sending me-anyway, I want my dick sucked. How's my car?"
"Your-car? I-uhm. Sure? Were you a regular of Jonas's? He said he gave a couple of guys my number?"
Jonas was his roommate, or he had been before he walked into their tiny-ass shoebox apartment one day and said "Yo, I quit. I'm going back to Jersey." At the time, Jared had wondered how that was better than where they were now, but he decided that maybe it didn't involve sucking dick for pay.
Now, here he was calling a closet home, and auditioning for some guy who wanted his dick sucked in his car. Jared does an internal shrug. Better than grinding his knees into the sludge in some dirty alley.
Man. He'd come to the city with nothing, no idea of how to support himself but he thought he'd find something, had even kind of thought maybe modeling. He had tall and skinny and not ugly going for him and he knew he'd have to work his way up. But without a portfolio and no recommendations, well, he might as well have scrawled "will suck dick for food" across his forehead.
But things are different now and Jared has something real to shoot for; he's going to community college. It's a lot of work and slow going at part time, plus still working at the sandwich shop which he'd viewed as a lucky break starting out but doesn't pay nearly enough. He'd been pretty desperate when he'd met Jonas, who always had a smile and some extra cash to spare. Jonas had been looking for a trustworthy roommate to get out of his current sleeping arrangement, and yeah. One damn thing led to another, and now here he is with Jonas' client list and maybe a way to get the fuck out of the street.
And all this led to him sitting across from some guy named Chad in a diner whose clientele was mostly seniors or streetwalkers, depending on the time of day, and the menu was basic and cheap. Jared glances at the wrinkled piece of notepaper in his hand. Chad M. Murray. Kind of a dick. Grab the bread before. Count that shit. Jared looks up again. Chad was certainly a shifty looking motherfucker.
"Jonas's regular? Yeah, pretty regular, I guess. Always had time for me when I called. Nice guy. Talented. Suck chrome off a bumper, y'know?" Chad looks everywhere but at Jared as he talks, scowling faintly.
"Um, yeah." Jared mumbles, and jerks back a bit when Chad finally looks at him-thrusts his hand out like it's after church or something.
"Chad, but you probably know that already. You're Jerret, right?"
"Jared, actually."
"Okay," Chad says, pumps his hand once and grins, and suddenly he's not quite so squirty-scowly, he's actually kind of not-bad looking. "So, what, you're brand new at this? Good you have a client list, means you don't have to deal with corner work. Shit, I'm kinda hungry-Imma get a burger, you want one? Or do you not eat before, y' know-" And then this Chad guy makes a really straight-up gross hand movement and gagging sound. After a couple of shocked seconds Jared gets that he's acting out a really shitty blow job.
"Jezuz, can you be less subtle?" Jared asks and Chad laughs loud enough to stop traffic.
"Yep, I sure can. So, that's two burgers then?"
"If you're paying for it, hell yeah. Hope I can fit your no doubt massive dick in my throat after."
Chad ha-ha-s at the top of his lungs again, grinning fondly at Jared like he's just done the most adorable thing. It's really kind of disturbing.
"That's the spirit, Jerry. Hey," he yells at a passing waitress. "How 'bout two burgers? An' can I get a side order of rack with that?" He cups his hands at his chest and winks and Jared wonders if there's enough room to crawl under the table. If he folds himself in half, maybe. It was possible. Barely.
The waitress stops, still chewing emphatically on a wad of gum. She looks Chad up and down, throws a couple of wrinkled paper menus onto the table, inhales deeply.
"Y'know what you can, you can kiss my ass," she says, but it's said in a sort of good-natured way. Like Chad's a giant idiot puppy and she just can't take his shit seriously. Jared shakes his head.
The dude's a real charmer, for sure, and apparently open to some of everything.
A burger and coke later, Jared's in the back of Chad's car, lips wrapped around a pretty nice dick, swallowing spit and precome and groaning like it's the best thing he had in his mouth since-well, the burger earlier. Chad is groaning, hips twitching upwards.
"Shit, I thought Jonas was good, but fuck me, you're a fuckin' master at this. Damn, boy."
Jared hums, like 'I know' and Chad grabs the edge of the seat. He might act like a jerk, but he's not trying to shove his dick into Jared's ass through his throat which Jared appreciates. He inhales, exhales, loosens his jaw, and takes as much as Chad into his throat as he can. He kind of expects Chad to get loud and frantic and grab his hair, porno style, but he just whines, "Ah shit" and comes.
A lot.
Jared swallows like crazy, and Chad keeps cursing under his breath.
After, they're both leaning against Chad's car, Jared chewing on a couple of sticks of doublemint, Chad smoking. He hands Jared a folded bunch of bills, and Jared mentally slaps himself. God damn it, the guy buys him a fucking burger and he forgets everything. Jared tries to look casual as he thumbs through the bills and nods at Chad.
Chad says, "Listen, whattaya say we make this a regular thing, y'know? Like more regular than Jonas. Good guy, but I didn't need to see him that often. He was kind of boring once I got past the BJ."
In Jared's experience, there wasn't supposed to be anything past that except 'give me bread' and 'ciao'. Giving Chad a good, long look, he can't deny that weird as the guy is, they've kind of clicked in some way. Like, the guy is horrendous, but he manages to make Jared laugh while he's also making him cringe with embarrassment. Plus, steady bread? A day or two less on the street? Fuck yeah. He nods, and as he does that, looks in the front seat. There's a pink sweater rolled up in the passenger side, one of those women's magazines under it.
"Do you, unh, have a girlfriend? Or do you like, enjoy Cosmo and a nice sweater set?"
"Hunh?" Chad follows Jared's eye line. He rolls his eyes and waves Jared off. "Oh, that's my wife's stuff."
"Dude, are you married?"
Chad looks at him like Jared's asked if he wants to run down the street buck naked. "Yeah? So? 'Course I am."
Jared stares at him, like…"Course I am?"
"Jeez, Jareth, is this like your very first time? Are you some kind of streetwalking virgin? Hell, most of your johns are closeted married guys."
"Jared."
Jared thinks about it, poking at the small-town morals lingering in his head. Is it his problem? Is it his fault? He decides that hey, he's not dragging anyone out of their nice, straight little bedrooms to fuck him. He hasn't got that much power, and everyone else's morals are not his worry.
"Okay. Here's my number. But first promise me you won't call me late at night to gossip about the dreamy new boy in class."
"Ha-ha, fuck you dude. By the way," Chad says, getting into the car. "I'm deducting the cost of the burger from the next time."
"Fuck you!" Jared yells, then laughs. Chad.
Shaking his head, Jared strolls back inside the diner to wait for potential roomies.
Later on that afternoon, when he's booking it to meet up with a couple of the girls and to coordinate their stroll-safer in packs at night-it gets interesting. Like, very.
He's sprinting across the plaza towards their spot when his beautiful boots fail him. He slips, then slides across a wet patch of brick like he's DorothyHamill on ice and almost knocks a super fucking hot piece of ass to the ground.
Oh, but fuck me, he's so pretty. Jared's trying to balance the both of them and the guy shoves him away. Jared's a little confused by that action because pretty guy sure seems interested, the way he's looking Jared up and down, and his bright green eyes are on fire. Jared preens a little because it's not every day the David practically drops in his lap. This dude? Definitely gets a discount.
But out of the blue, heat drains out of Pretty's face so fast Jared wonders if he imagined it. Well, of course he did; always hoping for too much. He can tell by the way Pretty's plush, yummy mouth goes all tight. Ugh, he's got it pursed up like people do when they put two and two together and come up with whore.
Jared glares at Pretty. Not a whore. Self-employed sex worker, thank you. And this, this, person. who has the nerve to scope him out like he's interested, gives him an absolute pickle-face. Jared can't even make a move before Mr. Formerly Pretty jumps back from him like he's contagious, shaking his head and giving him a freaked out, "No."
'No? Mary, no one asked you', Jared thinks, about to read him for filth-but then he remembers the manners he'd learned in his youth. Besides, Pretty is too fucking hot, so Jared just holds his hands up like, 'look, I come in peace' and sings out, "Sorry!" before smirking at him and running off to catch up with his crew. Fuck him.
It's warmer than it needs to be in this place, but Jensen's used to it now. He's got his coat folded over next to him on the bench as a clear signal: leave me alone. This is his time, and he desperately needs it, in this place he's come to think of as his own. In an increasingly disorderly world, it's an island of peace.
Which, really, is horribly pathetic since it's only a tiny, narrow, old-fashioned diner with wooden floors that sound hollow when you walk across them, and worn leather benches patched with duct tape. Whose clientele he 's fairly certain are prostitutes in the morning and losers like himself at night. He smiles wryly, lifts the thick, crockery cup full of what was probably the best coffee in the city.
He thumbs a drip of coffee off his bottom lip and watches traffic pass by. Where he sits, the wall of big, old, air-leaky windows feel so close to the sidewalk outside it's like he's in the street.
Jensen's finishing up the remains of a slice of pie while eyeing the phone between the restrooms. He'd called earlier to let Jeanette know he'd be late, but he really hadn't planned on being this late. He kind of lied a little bit, told her it was a work thing, when really he just has a need to be here. Being not-Jensen for a bit. Just being that guy in booth four, the one who eats a burger with cheese, small fries and a small coke and endless coffee every time. He knows all the girls by name and tips like he's Rockefeller, or so he's overheard. He's smiling at the thought when a laugh rings out, so boisterous it makes him jump.
He recovers by gulping more coffee, snorts softly when he lowers his cup again. What a laugh that guy has, whoever he is. Hell, Jensen just has to smile; it's loud, free as hell, and makes his belly shiver pleasantly. He lifts his eyes. Curious, he wants to find the source of that laugh.
It's a young kid-man, he supposes. Judging by his build and the style of his clothes, maybe late teens, early 20s? Not really all that much younger than him. Long hair, just brushing his shoulders. Jensen grimaces-most long-haired men have greasy, unkempt-looking locks. But not this kid; his hair shimmers in smooth, bronze-and-chocolate waves to his shoulders. Jensen mentally pulls himself back.
There will be no stepping over that line he drew in college.
But he can't keep from looking over, glancing around in a way that's meant to appear casual. Not that anyone in the diner is looking; he could probably stand on the table buck-naked and this crowd would only roll its eyes. It's part of what he likes about the place. He'd describe it as…a benign indifference. Jensen lays an arm across the back of the bench, nods when the waitress catches his eye. One more cup and then he's hitting the road. In the meantime, he's pretending like he's not picking up scraps of conversation the kid's having with some blond in a suit.
"Oh my god, you are truly an asshole!"
Jensen snorts softly again, dropping his eyes to his refilled cup then " No, I'm not cheating" he thinks he hears. Oh man, is he inadvertently listening in on a soap? He doesn't catch the rest, but clearly hears "So, she's cool with you and prostitutes" and Jensen jumps.
Suddenly the kid shifts, turns so he's facing the aisle and waves down a waitress. Jensen almost chokes when he sees who it is. Oh my god, he knows this guy. Well, he doesn't know him, but this is the guy who almost wiped him out a few months back, nearly knocked him on his ass. The beautiful one, slips out before he can clamp that box in his mind shut.
"Jesus…" Jensen grabs his stuff and drops ten bucks on the table. it's more than he owes but he needs to leave, like, now. This instant.
Except, damn it, the kid sees him, and Jensen sees the moment the kid recognizes him. 'Oh wait, hold on, he recognizes me,' Jensen thinks, and swallows hard. God, his face must be so red. He can feel his cheeks burning like fire and it makes his gut twinge. But he can't stop himself, despite how horribly embarrassed he is-it's like a compulsion. He turns back and smiles. How can he help but smile at the kid? And the kid smiles back, kind of twiddles his fingers in, fuck, the cutest wave, like,I see you.
Jensen gulps. I see you too. Kind of waves back, almost chokes himself as he twirls his scarf around his neck while also flinging his briefcase strap across his chest.
He escapes out the door.
Part 2
To sing when skies are gray!
The Meadowlark by paul lawrence dunbar
Coffee, black and hot, swirls in Jensen's cup. He's got one finger looped into the cup handle, idly moving it back and forth to the tune of an old song he's whisper-humming under his breath. A newspaper lays folded over next to him; he's finished the business section and is skimming the sports page. After a few seconds, he sighs and tilts his head to watch the sun trying to peek through the wet, gray skies. Drizzle skitters down the window panes, wetting the porch railings he can see through the kitchen door's window panes.
"Umf." He rubs a knuckle against his eyelid, trying to wake himself. Maybe more coffee....
He startles when sharp steps rap against the tile floors.
"You look like a toddler when you do that." She grabs a cup from the cup tree sitting near the coffee maker and pours. Adding a bit of cream and sugar, she stirs it savagely. She drinks and makes a face; clearly she hates the taste. She keeps gingerly sipping, though, nose wrinkled like she's sipping battery acid.
"Jeanette, why do you drink it when you know you won't like it?"
"Because it smells so good and I keep hoping one morning, it'll change."
She pours what's left of the coffee down the sink. She hesitates, then loads the cup into the dishwasher.
Thinking about her words regarding change and coffee, it occurs to Jensen that she sounded sadder than mere coffee disappointment called for. Jensen looks up to catch her eyes on him. He gives her an uncertain smile.
"Going in early?"
Jeanette sweeps past him, gathering her coat from the back of the couch. She flings it on, along with an oversized, sleek scarf, twisting and turning it around her neck. Of course it looks amazing when she's done. Crossing her arms, she tilts her head towards him, her full mouth pursed tight. Her eyes are a brilliant blue and when she's slightly annoyed, as she is at this moment, they practically drill into your soul.
"Yes. We talked about this already, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, of course. I was just…" He shrugged. "Making conversation?"
"Well, let's save it for this evening. I have to run before I'm late."
She really does look good, he thinks. That blue wool coat and the black and white scarf set off her flawless skin so well, a little pale under the winter sun. She's beautiful, though not as stunning as she is in summer. She always tans a healthy bronze and he just burns an ugly tomato red.
"Jensen. Did you hear me?"
"Oh. I'm sorry?"
"I'll be late tonight too."
He nods, murmurs, "Yes, of course," and feels a whisper of disappointment at having dinner alone again. A small part of him wonders if she's having an affair, but the thought fades before it's fully born. Does she wonder if he's having affairs when he's late for dinner?
"All right, then. I guess I should get myself together too-don't want to miss the train."
"Have a nice walk to the station. Don't forget your umbrella, they're calling for drizzly weather all day today," she reminds him.
Jeanette works for a local realtor's office that's relatively close to home, which means she takes the car while Jensen takes the train into the city. He usually enjoys the walk to the station, no matter the weather. It was a little bit of time all his own, breathing fresh air and letting his thoughts ramble. Lately though, he hasn't much liked the direction his thoughts have been heading.
He straightens up the kitchen in the silence that seems louder after Jeanette's departure. He meticulously wipes down the granite counter tops and thoroughly cleans the coffee pot, setting it on the stainless steel drainboard to dry.
He stands in the tiny foyer, staring into his reflection as he winds his favorite scarf around his neck-a cashmere Burberry she gave him for Christmas last year. He takes inventory of all the small changes in his face that seem to multiply every time he takes note-the thin lines around his eyes that persist even when he stops smiling, the way his hair has darkened with age, or maybe it was just from no longer living a life in the sun. And despite the lack of sun, he still has a face full of freckles, spreading down the bridge of his slightly cocked nose and right up inside his ears to his great annoyance. It looks, well, it looks country. He smiles at himself: a wide, fake smile, full of costly, perfect teeth. Winces when the movement pulls at his lips. Where the hell is his lip balm….
Jensen digs around in his coat pocket as he licks at his painfully dry lips. They gleam in the watery, early morning light that creeps down the hallway. Like…fog, what the hell was that thing, that line; on little cat feet. Yay, high school English.
His lips soften and spread in a genuine smile, and Jensen quickly drops his eyes. He'd dodged so much crap about his mouth when he was young-too damn girly, fat lower lip, a cupid's bow upper lip and always so damn pink, like he wore lipstick. Ridiculous how something like full lips and long dark lashes could be a horror all through school until suddenly, they become a different kind of bad. Too much attention paid to his damn face all through college and it'd never sat right with him. If it hadn't been for Jeanette and her cool appraisal of his looks...he smiles ruefully, a tight, half curve of those too full lips…well. He'd mistaken that for level-headedness, when it seems that it was a chilly spirit instead.
Jensen grabs his briefcase and fishes his keys out of the bowl on the console, rolls his eyes at himself. Pretty narcissistic, right? Him standing in the hallway and mooning over himself. What a piece of work he is.
Horns beeping and brakes shrieking, the gasps and groans of the buses passing, spewing diesel fumes into the air-it's all the usual backdrop of his morning and evening walks, changed only by weather. Cold sharpens the diesel stink, but Jensen just flips the collar of his black wool coat high around his ears, tugs his scarf tighter, and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. Even with gloves, it is cold this morning. Winter refuses to let her death-grip on the city go. It's a week past Valentine's Day, but it feels like the first days in December.
The day hadn't gone any better than he'd expected. Some days the shop was chaotic, full of bitch fights and blood feuds; today had been one of those days.
Just thinking about the day has Jensen making a fist and rubbing it between his eyebrows, trying to rub out all tension and irritation that's set up camp there. Bastards. Between Michael yelling bloody murder about the pointless changes Morgan wanted in the windows that even Glover hates and then having to deal with the rest of the crew's wounded feelings-Jensen was drained. And all because of Michael insisting, "Window displays are meant to make a statement, John-they're art!" and Glover screaming, "We just want to sell shoes, Michael!"
And where was Morgan during all this? No doubt holed up in his office, gloating about the tension he'd caused, fucking control-freak.
God, what a shit-storm of a day. Not that Michael was wrong, not really. But instead of dealing with them head-on, Jensen had decided on cowardice. He'd hidden behind the piles of material and foam core stacked up on his drafting table, while everyone else found they suddenly had to help transport design pieces to other floors of the store. Days like this made Jensen wish he'd followed his original desire to teach art to kids. Though really, thinking about it, the Gyre Bros. Display Department was an excellent training ground in how to deal with overly-emotional, recalcitrant children.
At least the damn day's over. Hitching his briefcase strap higher on his shoulder, he walks briskly and purposefully to the station, no time to waste.
Usually at this point, he's powering down the streets like a demon is after him, but today for some reason, a spot of color catches his eye and he finds himself slowing past a stand selling flowers.
Flowers. He used to bring Jeanette flowers. It's been a long time since he's done that. Kind of doubts that she'd really be interested in them now, but…maybe?
Should he?
Jensen pulls off a glove, traces his thumb along the velvety edge of a daisy's damp petals, pulls his hand back and wipes it against his wool coat. Unh-unh. Nope, it's a waste of money, and he highly doubts that the sight of a two dollar bouquet of street flowers is going to make her smile.
He shakes his head as he sides the glove back on and continues walking. Maybe another day. Just the thought of choosing the right flowers, getting the right balance of shape and color just, god, it feels exhausting.
The sun's starting to set now, dipping behind the buildings and raising shadows in the valleys of the street. He crosses over towards a large open plaza linking a trio of skyscrapers, his habitual shortcut to his station.
He flinches just a bit at the sound of loud laughter and instinctively pulls his briefcase tight against his side. A gaggle of loud, hard-looking, garishly-dressed young people surge across the plaza like a tide. He vaguely remembers once being that young, that carefree.
What the hell! Jensen laughs at himself. College was only five years ago and he's acting like he's some ancient fart at twenty-six. Jensen huffs and turns away. Hell, most days he feels like it, right down to the bone; his creaky, achy, old man bones.
Fuck.
Jensen slows, gawping at the kids (kids!) before remembering the time. He steps it up again, speed-walking across the plaza like he's getting paid for it. He's almost to the far side when he stumbles, grunting in shock and pain, as something heavy lands against his back.
"Fuck!"
Jensen gets an impression of muscle and legs and arms flailing all over, and then a quick whiff of a really nice smell. Hair like silk slides across his face.
"Oh shit! Oh man, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
Big hands, long fingers, flap in his face and over his shoulders, working their way down until Jensen jerks backwards. He grabs at a thin pair of wrists, pushing them away.
"I'm okay, man, please, I'm fine."
"Oh, sure! Good, I am so sorry, dude, I'm like, not normally this much of a goober, but I was horsing around with my friends and being a goof and I almost flattened you and dude! I am so sorry!"
Jensen's jaw drops; he can't help it. The flailing whirlwind in front of him settles into some overgrown kid. Man? He's a tall boy-a bit thin, still growing maybe? Thick, gleaming hair stops short just above a pair of wide shoulders. He's wearing a beat up old leather coat, a bohemian-styled thing edged with embroidery and trimmed with hot pink fur, and Jensen's stunned; he can only think, "Oh."
Jensen lifts his eyes to the tall kid's face and gapes. Is he wearing lipstick? Yes, and eye shadow too, with glitter-dusted cheekbones that are too sharp for a kid his build. Jensen takes note again of how he smells really damn good.
The coat slides back from the kid's shoulders to show off a robin's-egg blue baby-doll shirt that stops well short of the waistband of his sinfully low-cut, skin-tight jeans tucked into scuffed cowboy boots. Jensen blushes. He has to stare at the guy's face to avoid looking at his body.
Even his damn eyes are pretty-comically wide, showing off green, blue, no-hazel irises. And perfect eyebrows. Jensen licks his lips, and wonders if he plucks them because no guy has eyebrows that nice. He plucks his own. Jensen just manages to stop himself from stroking an eyebrow, because he gets distracted by a beauty mark next to a slightly tilt-tipped nose that Jensen now has to fight to keep from reaching out and stroking. And dimples.
Oh god.
Jensen takes a huge breath, takes a huge step back, and shakes his head. "No." No, he can't go this way again. He can't step over the line.
Tall Boy's face falls. Dimples vanish. It bothers Jensen, the way the boy's mouth goes soft and he sucks his bottom lip in. Bothers Jensen a lot for some reason, along with the way the kid steps back so quickly, hands up like, 'look, I'm unarmed.'
"Sorry!" the kid says again, and that grin is back. He whirls and runs off to join the group of young people bunched up in the far end of the plaza. The way they arrange themselves near the doorways, but not blocking them, makes Jensen rethink his "students" tag for them. There's a look about them, the way they lean, obviously putting themselves on display.
Jensen shivers and walks on-but he risks a look back. The group had dispersed somewhat, and the tall boy was talking to a man who looks like Tall Boy's polar opposite. He throws his head back and laughs, and then curls their arms together before strolling off, a beautiful boy with a guy who might as well have been The Penguin.
Oh.
Jensen blinks, blinks again. Well, he was a bit of a fool today. A hooker. A streetwalker. Jensen has never seen a male streetwalker before. Watching the pink, fur trimmed jacket swing back and forth on Tall Boy's shoulders as he struts along, the way he twitches his hips, draws Jensen's eyes like a magnet. His heart stutters when he realizes where he's staring; squarely at the boy's ass, and now he wants to have that kid in front of him again. He wants to talk to him, see who he is.
No. No, he doesn't. Jensen shakes his head violently. He checks his watch and gasps. Now he's got no time to think of anything except catching the damn train.
Jensen turns into his driveway and sees that the lights are on. Walking up the drive, listening to ice crack beneath his heels, he slows while rubbing at his lips. He is not sure if the lights still being on means good or bad anymore.
Inside, he hangs up his coat, and sets his briefcase down on the bench in the foyer. With a lung-busting sigh, he plops down on the bench and yanks his shoes off. He's really tempted to fling them, but no. He tucks them beneath the bench, then reaches up to toss his scarf over the hooks lined up over the bench. That's the way Jeanette likes it. It's not like he doesn't like order and neatness himself, he likes knowing where things are. It's just sometimes Jeanette behaves as if neatness was a religion.
He leans back, eyes closed, and listens. He can hear the TV muttering in the living room, and every so often a soft laugh. Jean's awake. He's not sure if he wanted her to be.
Jensen hefts his briefcase and shuffles away from the living room towards the converted closet he calls his office. Ten minutes later finds him in the dining room, sitting down to burned fingers and a late dinner. He sets the dinner he pulled out of the oven onto a hot pad on the table and peels the foil back, then struggles to muffle a yowl, hissing like a pissed off cat. How the hell does he manage to forget, every damn time, how fucking hot the foil gets?
He sits alone, feeling sorry for himself, sucking on his fingers and cursing silently. He could have had a TV dinner for less trouble than this. He fixes his plate with a skeptical eye. A TV dinner probably would have been as tasty as this dried-out plate of chops.
He was pouring himself a glass of water when he realizes he isn't hearing the babble of the TV anymore. The apartment is quiet, so quiet the sound of his cutlery hitting the china impacts like multiple gunshots. He opens eyes that had closed without him really being aware of it and Jeanette is there in the doorway.
"Oh, you're home. Hello."
She pulls at the shoulder of a filmy robe she's wearing over a matching gown. Slippers with little puffs of marabou leave flimsy bits on the carpet as she walks. Her hair's soft, natural, and piled up, held in place with a long barrette at the back of her neck. Her face is made up, subtle, except her eyes. Long lashes thick with mascara frame her eyes. Jensen can tell that it isn't fresh. She smells like soap and a wisp of Chanel #5. Almost reluctantly Jensen feels, along with some lingering suspicion, a touch of arousal.
It's never been hard with her, not in the beginning, not really even now, when they're more or less living two different lives, he thinks. It's the best way he can think of to describe them. Living their own private lives side-by-side.
"I am home, yes," he says with a smile.
After cocktails, they make their way to the bedroom, trading kisses, hands sliding, holding, pressing all the points that each is well aware the other loves. He rides her pleasure home in their immaculate, just-like-a-showroom floor bedroom, carefully condomed and politely quiet.
"Damn it!"
His elbow hits something on top of the milk-crate side table that's not the phone. He instinctively snatches for, and grabs, the half-empty cup of takeout coffee. The cold, cloudy liquid inside sloshes back and forth, but thank goodness, is kind enough not to spill over the edge. He scoots back, as far as he can, and ends up jamming the other elbow into the wall.
"Ow! Shit," he mumbles, rubbing at it. After a few minutes laying as spread out as possible for a six foot something guy on a twin bed mattress, he rolls over and kind of staggers upright. He skates forward a little, flailing at the air because he's stepped flat on a couple of sheets of the newspaper he'd thrown on the floor the night before.
Stumbling and cursing, he flails across the room until finally he manages to regain his balance. "Oh my fucking god-" Wasn't he supposed to eventually grow out of that puberty-induced clumsiness? At least, that's what his momma used to say.
"Crap." Jared swallows down the little lump in his throat that thinking about his family always brings, just for a second. Then he shakes it off and grabs his bathroom kit from the stacked assortment of milk and fruit crates that serve as side table, bookcase, and utility cabinet.
"Let there be no showers with roaches or silverfish today. Amen." He inhales deeply, crosses himself, and heads for the communal bathroom, or as he likes to call it, Hell's Vestibule. In and out of it in less than ten minutes, longing for the day when he'd be able to take a shower that lasts longer than hair, face, pits, and ass. He's still wiping mouthwash off his chin as he bolts out of the door and back down the hall to their room-his room alone now, since his roomie took off.
Jared dances to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, shaking his ass in front of what he calls the closet, but is actually no more than a sort-of-dimple in the wall covered by a curtain. Jeans, of course. Though he does have these fabulous striped ones, and the ones with a flower covered panel up each side. Humm. No. It's a plain jeans day. Fishing around in a hatbox, he comes up with a belt that has an oversize leather buckle that's got BITCH burned into it. He smirks, running his finger over it, remembering blowjobs in the park, late past midnight. It was supposed to have been an insult from a rejected suitor, but Jared kind of treasured it; a badge for refusing to hide who he was.
In the long run, being himself in his small, bigoted, Texas town got him a belt buckle and a bus ticket to parts as far away as he could get. And then landing here. But what the fuck. Jared shrugs. "Say La Vee."
Speaking of treasure-Jared grabs a squat green bottle of cologne, a gift from a steady client who'd tossed it at him, wrapped in a fifty. He'd almost winged it back at the guy until he saw what it was. He taps a spritz at neck, chest and wrists, then a shot down the pants for good measure. Gives the bottle a little kiss before dropping it back on the box that serves as his vanity.
He shimmies into a pair of jeans, threads BITCH through the loops and pulls on a tiny striped polo shirt, waving his arms as he pushes them through the tiny armholes, in time to a last blast of trumpet and Bette's soaring voice calling out "Company B!"
Fuck, that bitch can sing.
Turning his ass to the mirror hanging over his 'vanity', he decides that it'll do. He flips a new record over onto the player before kneeling on the floor and looking through the pile of shoes on the closet floor, and singing his heart out. Who doesn't like The Dolls?
"Traayassh, go pick it up, take them lights awaaay-",
And speaking of The New York Dolls, he knows just what he's wearing today. Jared ends up fishing out a snappy pair of cowboy boots from the closet floor. Grinning, he shoots finger guns in the air, like a rough'em, tough 'em cowgirl. He's ready to ride, and all's right with the world.
Now that he's dressed, Jared rolls the window blind high so that some sunlight can creep in through the grimy windows. He pushes aside the screen that they'd used to separate the sleeping spaces before Jonas left. He'll shove it behind his bed later-it'll make a cute fake headboard.
Finally, after attaching a fresh ball of aluminum to the TV antenna (so he can pick up more than the local station), Jared slows down. Time for his morning cup of coffee.
The kettle whistles shrilly just as he thinks that, and he grins. "Thanks!" he tells the little battered pot because Jared thinks you should always thank the things that take care of you. He turns off the hotplate and slides the kettle off to a flat piece of slate he keeps on the Barbie doll-sized counter.
Humming to himself, he grabs a cup from the shelf over the sink and dumps a teaspoon full of coffee powder-freeze-dried, the best-and follows that with a spoon of dry creamer. "Damn it," He frowns when the spoon just scrapes across the top; the shit's dried out again. Jabbing his spoon into the jar a couple of times nets him a chunk of solidified creamer, and he dumps that in the hot water, followed that with one, two, ach, better make it three, spoons of sugar.
"Okay!" Jared snags one of the folding chairs that makes up almost all of the furniture and pulls it up to the counter, and finally, pokes through the plastic box that holds some of his food. Pop tarts this morning. "Apple? Or brown sugar? Brown sugar it is! You have such good taste," he praises himself.
He sips the coffee, crunches his tart, and balls up the empty bag to throw in the garbage can. "Yes! Score! Whatever," he yells as it arcs high through the air and down, where it hits the can's side and bounces out. Screw it. He turns back to his pile of boxes and turns on the TV. Thank you, Jonas, you cheap motherfucker, at least you left this set behind with The List. Would have been nice if you'd paid your half of the rent before jetting.
Jared holds his hands up-"No, negativity," he mutters. "Good thoughts only." It was time for Sesame Street-god knows he needed his Big Bird fix before heading out for the day.
Checking his watch, he jumps up, snaps off the TV and grabs the coat hanging on the back of the door, a really cool yellow suede number trimmed with hot pink "fur" and heads out.
Five seconds later he's running back in the door, and grabbing the newspaper, crunchily folded to the "To Rent" section. He has got to get out of this closet. He'd sell his soul to be able to take a shit in peace.
So, thanks to fucking Jonas, which, no, seriously, thanks, he's got an actual afternoon appointment with a guy who insists he wait for him in a diner a few blocks away. It kind of fits into his plans perfectly, since he had a couple of guys to meet, potential roommates, god willing. The diner was a nice, neutral place. Last thing he needed was some psycho following him back to his hovel.
Jared's on his second cup of coffee- fucking 80 cents down-when the guy finally shows up. He's tall, thin, blonde and looks like he's been herding kittens all day.
Dropping down at the table, the guy groans. "Hey man, sorry 'bout this. Meeting ran long, and then some fuck-up needed help and they're always fucking sending me-anyway, I want my dick sucked. How's my car?"
"Your-car? I-uhm. Sure? Were you a regular of Jonas's? He said he gave a couple of guys my number?"
Jonas was his roommate, or he had been before he walked into their tiny-ass shoebox apartment one day and said "Yo, I quit. I'm going back to Jersey." At the time, Jared had wondered how that was better than where they were now, but he decided that maybe it didn't involve sucking dick for pay.
Now, here he was calling a closet home, and auditioning for some guy who wanted his dick sucked in his car. Jared does an internal shrug. Better than grinding his knees into the sludge in some dirty alley.
Man. He'd come to the city with nothing, no idea of how to support himself but he thought he'd find something, had even kind of thought maybe modeling. He had tall and skinny and not ugly going for him and he knew he'd have to work his way up. But without a portfolio and no recommendations, well, he might as well have scrawled "will suck dick for food" across his forehead.
But things are different now and Jared has something real to shoot for; he's going to community college. It's a lot of work and slow going at part time, plus still working at the sandwich shop which he'd viewed as a lucky break starting out but doesn't pay nearly enough. He'd been pretty desperate when he'd met Jonas, who always had a smile and some extra cash to spare. Jonas had been looking for a trustworthy roommate to get out of his current sleeping arrangement, and yeah. One damn thing led to another, and now here he is with Jonas' client list and maybe a way to get the fuck out of the street.
And all this led to him sitting across from some guy named Chad in a diner whose clientele was mostly seniors or streetwalkers, depending on the time of day, and the menu was basic and cheap. Jared glances at the wrinkled piece of notepaper in his hand. Chad M. Murray. Kind of a dick. Grab the bread before. Count that shit. Jared looks up again. Chad was certainly a shifty looking motherfucker.
"Jonas's regular? Yeah, pretty regular, I guess. Always had time for me when I called. Nice guy. Talented. Suck chrome off a bumper, y'know?" Chad looks everywhere but at Jared as he talks, scowling faintly.
"Um, yeah." Jared mumbles, and jerks back a bit when Chad finally looks at him-thrusts his hand out like it's after church or something.
"Chad, but you probably know that already. You're Jerret, right?"
"Jared, actually."
"Okay," Chad says, pumps his hand once and grins, and suddenly he's not quite so squirty-scowly, he's actually kind of not-bad looking. "So, what, you're brand new at this? Good you have a client list, means you don't have to deal with corner work. Shit, I'm kinda hungry-Imma get a burger, you want one? Or do you not eat before, y' know-" And then this Chad guy makes a really straight-up gross hand movement and gagging sound. After a couple of shocked seconds Jared gets that he's acting out a really shitty blow job.
"Jezuz, can you be less subtle?" Jared asks and Chad laughs loud enough to stop traffic.
"Yep, I sure can. So, that's two burgers then?"
"If you're paying for it, hell yeah. Hope I can fit your no doubt massive dick in my throat after."
Chad ha-ha-s at the top of his lungs again, grinning fondly at Jared like he's just done the most adorable thing. It's really kind of disturbing.
"That's the spirit, Jerry. Hey," he yells at a passing waitress. "How 'bout two burgers? An' can I get a side order of rack with that?" He cups his hands at his chest and winks and Jared wonders if there's enough room to crawl under the table. If he folds himself in half, maybe. It was possible. Barely.
The waitress stops, still chewing emphatically on a wad of gum. She looks Chad up and down, throws a couple of wrinkled paper menus onto the table, inhales deeply.
"Y'know what you can, you can kiss my ass," she says, but it's said in a sort of good-natured way. Like Chad's a giant idiot puppy and she just can't take his shit seriously. Jared shakes his head.
The dude's a real charmer, for sure, and apparently open to some of everything.
A burger and coke later, Jared's in the back of Chad's car, lips wrapped around a pretty nice dick, swallowing spit and precome and groaning like it's the best thing he had in his mouth since-well, the burger earlier. Chad is groaning, hips twitching upwards.
"Shit, I thought Jonas was good, but fuck me, you're a fuckin' master at this. Damn, boy."
Jared hums, like 'I know' and Chad grabs the edge of the seat. He might act like a jerk, but he's not trying to shove his dick into Jared's ass through his throat which Jared appreciates. He inhales, exhales, loosens his jaw, and takes as much as Chad into his throat as he can. He kind of expects Chad to get loud and frantic and grab his hair, porno style, but he just whines, "Ah shit" and comes.
A lot.
Jared swallows like crazy, and Chad keeps cursing under his breath.
After, they're both leaning against Chad's car, Jared chewing on a couple of sticks of doublemint, Chad smoking. He hands Jared a folded bunch of bills, and Jared mentally slaps himself. God damn it, the guy buys him a fucking burger and he forgets everything. Jared tries to look casual as he thumbs through the bills and nods at Chad.
Chad says, "Listen, whattaya say we make this a regular thing, y'know? Like more regular than Jonas. Good guy, but I didn't need to see him that often. He was kind of boring once I got past the BJ."
In Jared's experience, there wasn't supposed to be anything past that except 'give me bread' and 'ciao'. Giving Chad a good, long look, he can't deny that weird as the guy is, they've kind of clicked in some way. Like, the guy is horrendous, but he manages to make Jared laugh while he's also making him cringe with embarrassment. Plus, steady bread? A day or two less on the street? Fuck yeah. He nods, and as he does that, looks in the front seat. There's a pink sweater rolled up in the passenger side, one of those women's magazines under it.
"Do you, unh, have a girlfriend? Or do you like, enjoy Cosmo and a nice sweater set?"
"Hunh?" Chad follows Jared's eye line. He rolls his eyes and waves Jared off. "Oh, that's my wife's stuff."
"Dude, are you married?"
Chad looks at him like Jared's asked if he wants to run down the street buck naked. "Yeah? So? 'Course I am."
Jared stares at him, like…"Course I am?"
"Jeez, Jareth, is this like your very first time? Are you some kind of streetwalking virgin? Hell, most of your johns are closeted married guys."
"Jared."
Jared thinks about it, poking at the small-town morals lingering in his head. Is it his problem? Is it his fault? He decides that hey, he's not dragging anyone out of their nice, straight little bedrooms to fuck him. He hasn't got that much power, and everyone else's morals are not his worry.
"Okay. Here's my number. But first promise me you won't call me late at night to gossip about the dreamy new boy in class."
"Ha-ha, fuck you dude. By the way," Chad says, getting into the car. "I'm deducting the cost of the burger from the next time."
"Fuck you!" Jared yells, then laughs. Chad.
Shaking his head, Jared strolls back inside the diner to wait for potential roomies.
Later on that afternoon, when he's booking it to meet up with a couple of the girls and to coordinate their stroll-safer in packs at night-it gets interesting. Like, very.
He's sprinting across the plaza towards their spot when his beautiful boots fail him. He slips, then slides across a wet patch of brick like he's DorothyHamill on ice and almost knocks a super fucking hot piece of ass to the ground.
Oh, but fuck me, he's so pretty. Jared's trying to balance the both of them and the guy shoves him away. Jared's a little confused by that action because pretty guy sure seems interested, the way he's looking Jared up and down, and his bright green eyes are on fire. Jared preens a little because it's not every day the David practically drops in his lap. This dude? Definitely gets a discount.
But out of the blue, heat drains out of Pretty's face so fast Jared wonders if he imagined it. Well, of course he did; always hoping for too much. He can tell by the way Pretty's plush, yummy mouth goes all tight. Ugh, he's got it pursed up like people do when they put two and two together and come up with whore.
Jared glares at Pretty. Not a whore. Self-employed sex worker, thank you. And this, this, person. who has the nerve to scope him out like he's interested, gives him an absolute pickle-face. Jared can't even make a move before Mr. Formerly Pretty jumps back from him like he's contagious, shaking his head and giving him a freaked out, "No."
'No? Mary, no one asked you', Jared thinks, about to read him for filth-but then he remembers the manners he'd learned in his youth. Besides, Pretty is too fucking hot, so Jared just holds his hands up like, 'look, I come in peace' and sings out, "Sorry!" before smirking at him and running off to catch up with his crew. Fuck him.
It's warmer than it needs to be in this place, but Jensen's used to it now. He's got his coat folded over next to him on the bench as a clear signal: leave me alone. This is his time, and he desperately needs it, in this place he's come to think of as his own. In an increasingly disorderly world, it's an island of peace.
Which, really, is horribly pathetic since it's only a tiny, narrow, old-fashioned diner with wooden floors that sound hollow when you walk across them, and worn leather benches patched with duct tape. Whose clientele he 's fairly certain are prostitutes in the morning and losers like himself at night. He smiles wryly, lifts the thick, crockery cup full of what was probably the best coffee in the city.
He thumbs a drip of coffee off his bottom lip and watches traffic pass by. Where he sits, the wall of big, old, air-leaky windows feel so close to the sidewalk outside it's like he's in the street.
Jensen's finishing up the remains of a slice of pie while eyeing the phone between the restrooms. He'd called earlier to let Jeanette know he'd be late, but he really hadn't planned on being this late. He kind of lied a little bit, told her it was a work thing, when really he just has a need to be here. Being not-Jensen for a bit. Just being that guy in booth four, the one who eats a burger with cheese, small fries and a small coke and endless coffee every time. He knows all the girls by name and tips like he's Rockefeller, or so he's overheard. He's smiling at the thought when a laugh rings out, so boisterous it makes him jump.
He recovers by gulping more coffee, snorts softly when he lowers his cup again. What a laugh that guy has, whoever he is. Hell, Jensen just has to smile; it's loud, free as hell, and makes his belly shiver pleasantly. He lifts his eyes. Curious, he wants to find the source of that laugh.
It's a young kid-man, he supposes. Judging by his build and the style of his clothes, maybe late teens, early 20s? Not really all that much younger than him. Long hair, just brushing his shoulders. Jensen grimaces-most long-haired men have greasy, unkempt-looking locks. But not this kid; his hair shimmers in smooth, bronze-and-chocolate waves to his shoulders. Jensen mentally pulls himself back.
There will be no stepping over that line he drew in college.
But he can't keep from looking over, glancing around in a way that's meant to appear casual. Not that anyone in the diner is looking; he could probably stand on the table buck-naked and this crowd would only roll its eyes. It's part of what he likes about the place. He'd describe it as…a benign indifference. Jensen lays an arm across the back of the bench, nods when the waitress catches his eye. One more cup and then he's hitting the road. In the meantime, he's pretending like he's not picking up scraps of conversation the kid's having with some blond in a suit.
"Oh my god, you are truly an asshole!"
Jensen snorts softly again, dropping his eyes to his refilled cup then " No, I'm not cheating" he thinks he hears. Oh man, is he inadvertently listening in on a soap? He doesn't catch the rest, but clearly hears "So, she's cool with you and prostitutes" and Jensen jumps.
Suddenly the kid shifts, turns so he's facing the aisle and waves down a waitress. Jensen almost chokes when he sees who it is. Oh my god, he knows this guy. Well, he doesn't know him, but this is the guy who almost wiped him out a few months back, nearly knocked him on his ass. The beautiful one, slips out before he can clamp that box in his mind shut.
"Jesus…" Jensen grabs his stuff and drops ten bucks on the table. it's more than he owes but he needs to leave, like, now. This instant.
Except, damn it, the kid sees him, and Jensen sees the moment the kid recognizes him. 'Oh wait, hold on, he recognizes me,' Jensen thinks, and swallows hard. God, his face must be so red. He can feel his cheeks burning like fire and it makes his gut twinge. But he can't stop himself, despite how horribly embarrassed he is-it's like a compulsion. He turns back and smiles. How can he help but smile at the kid? And the kid smiles back, kind of twiddles his fingers in, fuck, the cutest wave, like,I see you.
Jensen gulps. I see you too. Kind of waves back, almost chokes himself as he twirls his scarf around his neck while also flinging his briefcase strap across his chest.
He escapes out the door.
Part 2