Orizuru: Epilogue
-EPILOGUE-
Six months in, lazy Sunday afternoons have become something of a staple whether they actually fall on a Sunday or not.
This would be one of those times it doesn't.
Production picks back up tomorrow though, so there's work to be done regardless of where it's done. Lines to memorize. Emotional notes to unearth. Jensen's been doing his due diligence since ten with a highlighter stuck between his teeth and pencil leaving graphite on his knuckles.
That Misha has shown the patience he has for as long as he has is starting to twig Jensen out, just a little. After the first hour spent watching him read, Misha had gotten antsy and gone to slip into running gear just as the skies opened up. He's still wearing the shorts and a T-Shirt that's seen better days, but his feet are bare and dangling, his knees curled over the arm of the chair he's hunkered down in. The book in his lap has also seen better days. Jensen recognizes it vaguely, thinks it was a biographical reconstruction of the life of one of the lesser known Sioux chiefs, but can't remember whether he ever finished it or not.
Even considering the time that's passed, it's odd to have Misha here when they're not actively doing something, be it fucking or fighting or getting ready to go out. Misha seems content to be though, and that's a new enough development to make his chest go tight no matter how stupid it is.
Jensen shakes it off, has to if he has any hope of finishing in the next decade and he's already refocused on his script when he hears Misha make a noise, a soft, "Oh," that finds its way through Jensen's resolve with all the precision of a sledgehammer.
The script in his hand lands on the coffee table seconds later.
"What?" Jensen asks, echoing Misha's, "Oh," when he produces a paper crane that's presumably been flattened between the pages since its inception.
He'd forgotten. Almost forgotten.
Misha twirls the bird between two fingers by its tail and refrains, somehow, from breaking it open to see what's written inside. They made their peace a long time ago and even though Jensen's eyes flick quickly to the top of the bookshelf against the wall, he already knows the boxes won't be there.
They aren't gone, just condensed and put away - a secret between them now that everyone else has forgotten.
"I never did explain, did I?" Misha says and Jensen watches the curl of his hand as he peels the wings back and gives the crane its volume.
"You don't - "
"In the beginning, it wasn't about this," Misha says. "Or the prank. I've been folding for years off and on when I needed a way to organize my thoughts, keep idle hands busy between scenes. Clear my head."
"That makes sense."
Jensen remembers the confusion too well to focus on the why, though he supposes it's good to know Misha didn't learn just to torment him.
"I had no idea you'd found them until Jared caught me at it. The rest, as they say, is history."
The familiar folds must fascinate him, because Misha can't seem to tear himself away. These days, Jensen reads him more clearly, be it time or proximity or that unfathomable concept of synergy. Not that Misha's ever worn guilt particularly well, he doesn't. He always looks like a petulant child on the verge of tantrum. And this is not worth it.
Three long strides carry Jensen across the living room, and when he kneels in front of the chair Misha finally looks up. He takes and sets aside both book and crane while Misha stares at him, his features carefully schooled.
It's ridiculous and endearing and makes Jensen want to kiss him breathless, so he does. Tastes the orange Misha distracted himself with when his run got rained out.
It be the road less traveled, but Jensen still ended up exactly where he wants to be.
Misha smiles against his lips, fingers tangling at the neck of his T-shirt and Jensen pulls back because there's something he's never said that he needs to put out there, just so they're clear.
"I forgive you."
"For unleashing my full complement of feminine wiles or for accidentally wooing you with notes like a pre-pubescent girl?"
Jensen leans into the thumb tracing idle patterns against his collarbone and smiles.
"As long as you remember I'm not the one who said it."
Misha barks a laugh and winds himself tighter, one hand sneaking up under the tail of Jensen's T-shirt like he won't notice.
"Where's the fun in that?" Misha asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Kind of hard to have glorious make-up sex if I'm not actually pissed at you to begin with."
Jensen thinks he should probably be concerned for his own mental health and welfare, because he can't find the flaw in Misha's logic.
"Fine," he says. "You fucking girl."
"That's more like it," Misha answers, fingertips digging into the ridge of muscle stretched the length of Jensen's spine.
"Fucking girl with delusions of Shakespeare."
"I'd wager this might have ended differently if I'd spent a month comparing you to a summer's day."
As ridiculous as the whole ordeal had been, Jensen can't deny that he'd been waiting for something for awhile. He may never know for sure if that thing is Misha, but right now he's going to lay even odds and play the hand life's dealt him the best way he knows how.
"Maybe," Jensen says, leaning in to nip at the swell of Misha's lower lip. "Maybe not."
"Now who's the girl?" Misha asks, knee nudging at Jensen's shoulder, sharp and bony. Jensen wedges his hand into the bend of it and lifts, swinging Misha's leg up and over until it's slung across his shoulder, heel dug into his back. It means losing Misha's hands on him, but it's completely worth it to watch Misha's eyes go dark with a different kind of passion.
"I forgive you," Jensen says again, pressing another stupid grin into Misha's thigh.
There's an undercurrent, a thread of something indefinable caught in Misha's voice when he answers, one hand tangled in Jensen's hair like he's hanging on for dear life.
"Of course you do."
Later, when he's sticky and sweat-soaked, when Misha's a pale curl against his sheets with his head tucked down between the pillows, Jensen does peel the crane open. He knows if he doesn't it will plague him in spite of his lofty designs upon being the bigger man.
We love because it's the only true adventure. [4]
Inches away, Misha sighs in his sleep and kicks a foot free of the cocoon of blankets he's spun for himself, and Jensen thinks that this time he may just be right.
Back to Masterlist
Footnotes
Six months in, lazy Sunday afternoons have become something of a staple whether they actually fall on a Sunday or not.
This would be one of those times it doesn't.
Production picks back up tomorrow though, so there's work to be done regardless of where it's done. Lines to memorize. Emotional notes to unearth. Jensen's been doing his due diligence since ten with a highlighter stuck between his teeth and pencil leaving graphite on his knuckles.
That Misha has shown the patience he has for as long as he has is starting to twig Jensen out, just a little. After the first hour spent watching him read, Misha had gotten antsy and gone to slip into running gear just as the skies opened up. He's still wearing the shorts and a T-Shirt that's seen better days, but his feet are bare and dangling, his knees curled over the arm of the chair he's hunkered down in. The book in his lap has also seen better days. Jensen recognizes it vaguely, thinks it was a biographical reconstruction of the life of one of the lesser known Sioux chiefs, but can't remember whether he ever finished it or not.
Even considering the time that's passed, it's odd to have Misha here when they're not actively doing something, be it fucking or fighting or getting ready to go out. Misha seems content to be though, and that's a new enough development to make his chest go tight no matter how stupid it is.
Jensen shakes it off, has to if he has any hope of finishing in the next decade and he's already refocused on his script when he hears Misha make a noise, a soft, "Oh," that finds its way through Jensen's resolve with all the precision of a sledgehammer.
The script in his hand lands on the coffee table seconds later.
"What?" Jensen asks, echoing Misha's, "Oh," when he produces a paper crane that's presumably been flattened between the pages since its inception.
He'd forgotten. Almost forgotten.
Misha twirls the bird between two fingers by its tail and refrains, somehow, from breaking it open to see what's written inside. They made their peace a long time ago and even though Jensen's eyes flick quickly to the top of the bookshelf against the wall, he already knows the boxes won't be there.
They aren't gone, just condensed and put away - a secret between them now that everyone else has forgotten.
"I never did explain, did I?" Misha says and Jensen watches the curl of his hand as he peels the wings back and gives the crane its volume.
"You don't - "
"In the beginning, it wasn't about this," Misha says. "Or the prank. I've been folding for years off and on when I needed a way to organize my thoughts, keep idle hands busy between scenes. Clear my head."
"That makes sense."
Jensen remembers the confusion too well to focus on the why, though he supposes it's good to know Misha didn't learn just to torment him.
"I had no idea you'd found them until Jared caught me at it. The rest, as they say, is history."
The familiar folds must fascinate him, because Misha can't seem to tear himself away. These days, Jensen reads him more clearly, be it time or proximity or that unfathomable concept of synergy. Not that Misha's ever worn guilt particularly well, he doesn't. He always looks like a petulant child on the verge of tantrum. And this is not worth it.
Three long strides carry Jensen across the living room, and when he kneels in front of the chair Misha finally looks up. He takes and sets aside both book and crane while Misha stares at him, his features carefully schooled.
It's ridiculous and endearing and makes Jensen want to kiss him breathless, so he does. Tastes the orange Misha distracted himself with when his run got rained out.
It be the road less traveled, but Jensen still ended up exactly where he wants to be.
Misha smiles against his lips, fingers tangling at the neck of his T-shirt and Jensen pulls back because there's something he's never said that he needs to put out there, just so they're clear.
"I forgive you."
"For unleashing my full complement of feminine wiles or for accidentally wooing you with notes like a pre-pubescent girl?"
Jensen leans into the thumb tracing idle patterns against his collarbone and smiles.
"As long as you remember I'm not the one who said it."
Misha barks a laugh and winds himself tighter, one hand sneaking up under the tail of Jensen's T-shirt like he won't notice.
"Where's the fun in that?" Misha asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Kind of hard to have glorious make-up sex if I'm not actually pissed at you to begin with."
Jensen thinks he should probably be concerned for his own mental health and welfare, because he can't find the flaw in Misha's logic.
"Fine," he says. "You fucking girl."
"That's more like it," Misha answers, fingertips digging into the ridge of muscle stretched the length of Jensen's spine.
"Fucking girl with delusions of Shakespeare."
"I'd wager this might have ended differently if I'd spent a month comparing you to a summer's day."
As ridiculous as the whole ordeal had been, Jensen can't deny that he'd been waiting for something for awhile. He may never know for sure if that thing is Misha, but right now he's going to lay even odds and play the hand life's dealt him the best way he knows how.
"Maybe," Jensen says, leaning in to nip at the swell of Misha's lower lip. "Maybe not."
"Now who's the girl?" Misha asks, knee nudging at Jensen's shoulder, sharp and bony. Jensen wedges his hand into the bend of it and lifts, swinging Misha's leg up and over until it's slung across his shoulder, heel dug into his back. It means losing Misha's hands on him, but it's completely worth it to watch Misha's eyes go dark with a different kind of passion.
"I forgive you," Jensen says again, pressing another stupid grin into Misha's thigh.
There's an undercurrent, a thread of something indefinable caught in Misha's voice when he answers, one hand tangled in Jensen's hair like he's hanging on for dear life.
"Of course you do."
Later, when he's sticky and sweat-soaked, when Misha's a pale curl against his sheets with his head tucked down between the pillows, Jensen does peel the crane open. He knows if he doesn't it will plague him in spite of his lofty designs upon being the bigger man.
We love because it's the only true adventure. [4]
Inches away, Misha sighs in his sleep and kicks a foot free of the cocoon of blankets he's spun for himself, and Jensen thinks that this time he may just be right.
Back to Masterlist
Footnotes