[fic] feels like flying
Life is BUSY these days, like, I haven't seen the last episode of SPN, and a few episodes that preceded it, kind of busy, ugh. And yet. Um. Somehow I found time to read bandslash, without mentally changing the names even! D: I seriously don't know how it happened. But of course the answer was to churn out some quick CW band AU fic to combat this latest onset of insanity. Sort of random; read at own risk.
[feels like flying]
cw au rps
~3700 words
i
The first time Jared met Jensen, he thought Jensen was a total ass.
He was wearing a frumpy wool cardigan with overlarge plastic buttons and worn cowboy boots, and it was sort of cute as hell, this random guy with the wire-rimmed glasses and mud-splattered jeans, not the pre-distressed kind, but like, real mud, even if it wasn't any aesthetic Jared had ever heard of. He stayed at the back, eyes flicking from the crowd to the door, and he slumped against the wall as if his feet wouldn't hold him.
"Hey man, like the sweater."
Jensen looked down, eyebrows bunching as if surprised to see what he was wearing.
"You here for the audition?" Jensen slid his gaze up and over, and Jared sucked in a sharp breath, because damn, that was knockout frontman pretty right there.
"Maybe," Jensen answered, after a prolonged pause where Jared felt his smile slipping off his face, and his gaze skittered back to the people amassed in front of them. "Not sure this is really my scene."
"Oh yeah? What's your scene then?"
Jensen shrugged. "Not this."
"Well, you should; I hear the band's awesome."
"Yeah? I heard it was full of assholes."
"I'm the drummer," Jared said, tightly.
"Okay," Jensen said, lighting a cigarette and curling his hands around the red tip.
"This has been great, I can't even tell you," Jared pushed out through clenched teeth. "But my friends are calling me." The guy didn't even look up; what a dick. He pushed through the crowd towards the beacon that was Mikey's shiny bald head.
"Dude! Where've you been? We're about to get started. And good news!" Mike draped his arms over Jared's shoulders and bore his weight down heavily. "You know how you were bitching on and on about having to have these auditions?"
"I think you've got me confused with yourself, but yeah, what about them?"
Mike beamed. "Just a formality now, my friend. Jen totally made it after all. I'm calling him up first. Fucker's looking gunshy, and I know he'll bolt if I don't nail him to this now. And then we can all just get the fuck home and started on recording already." He hopped up on Jared's back and sharply rapped a pointy sequined shoe against the side of his thigh. "To center stage!"
Jared rolled his eyes but gamely loped to the front of the room. He started to lean back to slide Mike off of him, but Mike clung stubbornly, legs clamping tight as he snagged the mic off the stand and thumped it, getting the attention of the crowd. "Okay, so apparently you all signed up, and Tommy over there tells me there's some kind of order you're supposed to be going in. I don't know fuck about that. What I need is for those of you nearest the back to go to the door. No, seriously, move." A few people shuffled over, looking wary. "Okay great, make sure you block the exit. Good, good," Mike nodded approvingly. "Now, I'm going to need to get one Jensen Ross Ackles up here. Yes, you, the fucker in the bingo hall cardigan, what the fuck is that anyways man, get your ass up here."
No way. Except yes, apparently, as the hottie with the Attitude, capital A -- not even that hot either really, Jared was so unimpressed -- came forward. You could practically see the drag marks he left behind. "That's your friend?" he hissed in Mike's ear.
Mike swatted absently at his face and then jumped off, coming over to meet Jensen at the steps to the stage. Their heads bent together in furious whispered conversation.
Like hell Jared would let this guy in. He'd get Chad to side with him easy, and no way would they take in someone if the group was divided. There was absolutely no fucking way this prick could join; they really would be a group of assholes then -- Jared loved Chad like a brother, but it didn't make him blind -- and absolutely nothing could change his mind, so yeah. That was that. He mentally wiped his hands clean.
And then Jensen opened his mouth, and sang.
ii
Turns out, wasn't so much that Jensen was an ass as he was just plain shy. Or socially retarded or something, Jared didn't pry. He didn't speak hyena like Jared, Chad and Mikey did, and he wasn't a good listener either like Tom. Mostly, Jensen was in his own head, sometimes trapped there, and it could be hell to coax him back out. And that was with them, the people Jensen actually knew and liked, or at least was starting to, at least were the guys he'd slept nose to armpit to, crammed on the bus or in terminals, every day for the past three months. Jensen wasn't good with new people, or too many people, or people who were too loud and in your face, which you'd think would be problematic for the fan part of the successful rock band equation.
But that was the thing. The Jensen that strutted on stage in jeans that looked painted on, that let Mike insinuate his hands, and once memorably, his tongue, on various parts of his body, wasn't the same Jensen that tottered off it when the lights went down, crashing hard on the nearest available flat surface. The Jensen off stage rarely left the bus, never gave a second thought to the clothes he randomly pulled out of his bag and onto his body, and definitely didn't go around licking conveniently placed phallic objects.
He'd traded in his old man sweaters though, thanks to Jeff's pointed suggestion that while Jensen wasn't expected to live his life in full stage costume regalia, it wouldn't hurt to bridge the gap, just the tiniest bit, especially at events where he'd really be seen. (Just at first, while the band's still finding its feet, alright? Believe me, I know how bad this sounds, and I hate it as much as you do, but right now every little bit helps. And that pretty face? Definitely in the plus column. It was disgusting how fast Jensen had agreed, eyes unfocused and dreamy. What a fucking girl.) After, Jensen had taken to wearing blazers and hoodies and sometimes blazers over hoodies. And that was another thing, how covered up Jensen was, all the time. Jared's developed an obsession with the hollow at the base of Jensen's throat, the only bared skin for miles.
"Pass me that, would you?" Jensen asked, pointing.
"God, you're such a baby. The heat's totally cranked up in here." Jared hid a smile as he turned away, reaching for the blanket in question. Jensen's a true-blooded Texan, he likes to tell them, repeatedly, and thus is always cold unless it's at least, like, eighty out, and then it's just a nice cool summer day. Sure enough --
"I'm a true-blooded Texan, man. Somethin' y'all wouldn't understand."
"Fuck off! San Antone here, man. Ain't no city boy like yourself, neither."
"Please. Me? Texas flows through my veins, son. You're a whole nuther thing."
Jared squawked in outrage and kept the blanket away from Jensen's outstretched hand.
"Face it, you've been co-opted by the Yanks. Texas won't have you back."
"Bite me, fucker. Fetch." Jared threw the balled up blanket neatly into the open compartment over Jensen's head. And goddamn, if he wasn't back in high school all over again, when every stray inch of flesh was enough to get him hot all over. Jensen twisted around and reached up for the coveted blanket, and Jared stared helplessly at the sliver of skin revealed at Jensen's lower back, feeling the telltale red flush work its way up his neck.
iii
"It's not like I'm worried," Jensen said, tapping out another cigarette and lighting it.
Jared couldn't help looking up from where he was battling Chad (and kicking his ass, which-- Doesn't even make sense asshole! I'm the guitarist! Chad always bitched) at Guitar Hero. He was the only one of them who hadn't learned how to filter Jensen and his verbalized internal monologues out yet. "Uh, about?"
"Not worried," Jensen repeated, trying to convince himself.
"Man, I've got to piss like a racehorse," Mike said, and wandered away. Tom squinted after him and then relaxed back into his sprawl, deeming Mike's exhibited list as challenging, but not crippling.
"It's just, this has got to work. It fits, doesn't it?" When Jensen talked about things fitting -- beats, lyrics, setlists, anything -- he really meant himself. He used to be in Kane, this pure Americana Southern rock band, and the two bands couldn't have been more different. Jared had seen old recordings, and they were good, real good, but limited in their crossover appeal and squarely stuck in the deep South. There was nothing theatrical about Kane's performances -- all tee-shirts and cowboy boots and hats as they trawled through the smokey bar/club circuit -- unless you counted the way Jensen and Kane (the man, not the band, and that was another thing to find out, that Jensen hadn't fronted before, even though it was obvious he was made for it) slid their cheeks together, as Chris rasped out lyrics in gutteral tones while Jensen closed his eyes and his fingers faltered for a second on the strings. He'd let Mike do far worse -- last show Mike had slid his hand up the inside of his thigh near up to his crotch -- but that was always clearly delineated stage Jensen. The Jensen in Kane hadn't learned to separate it out yet, didn't need to, and in retrospect, Jared could see how overwhelming the transition was for him, how it still was. He was a star on their stage, everyone's dream and nowhere in reach, and Jared clenched at Kane's Jensen who was still damnably pretty but somehow touchable, real, whose eyes tracked Chris like the sun, moon and stars shone right out of his ass.
"Jared?"
Jared started, surprised to be thrown into Jensen's monologue. "Right here, man." He rolled his neck back and gave him an upside-down grin, waggling his fingers, Chad screeching for him to, Pay attention, fucker! I will own you. Jensen's face was strangled in shadow; he looked asphyxiated, hungry, and he drew out the name, Jay-rud, as if he was swallowing around that ever persistent hunger. This Jensen was real, too.
Jensen blinked and cocked his head in Jared's direction, looking surprised himself. "Um," Jensen said, losing his place in his thoughts.
"I'm going to throw up," Mike said, wandering back. "Thomas, will you hold my hair back?"
"You don't have any, Michael."
"Tommy," Mike whined, sort of weaving in place. He was blinking his eyes rapidly.
"Coming," Tom sighed.
iv
"You're weird." Mike's freakishly pointy elbow was digging a hole in his side.
Jared gaped. "Uh, look who's talking."
"We're not talking about me here, man, although I'll be more than happy to oblige you any other time, you stalker. We're talking about you now, and how weird you've been lately."
"Have not," Jared countered, smartly.
"We'll skip the part where you pretend you haven't been weird as fuck lately and just head straight to the part where I therapize your ass, alright?" He spread out both hands on Jared's chest and wiggled his fingers before nodding decisively. "It's a girl."
"Maybe," Jared sighed. He was caught, and he knew it.
"Damn kid," Mike said, drawing out the expletive and ending in a whistle. "I thought you and Sandy were quits for good last time. Thought you were finally over it. Though she's a damn hard lady to get over, I'll give you that." Mike nodded sagely, probably thinking of her rack. "Rack out to here," he cupped his hands in front of him, eyes shining dreamily.
"We are! I am. She's amazing," Jared couldn't help adding, always had a good word for Sandy whenever her name came up, whether they were dating at the time or not, because man, Sandy was the best, no bones about it. There were days Jared forgot they were no longer together and automatically slipped into the we's and ours, fingers punching in her number without even thinking to share whatever news had cropped up -- Mike and Tom's sexual tension, Chad's latest bout of VD, Jeff's smart new business tactic that was a bitch to employ but always, always worked, Jensen's freshest freakout, meaning a rehash of all his old ones, Jen's newest lyrics that like, totally got you even when they were about beaten rented mules or gnats in hailstorms, Jensen never leaving his room, which wasn't normal, wasn't right -- news that revolved increasingly around their new scorchingly hot frontman. And then Jared remembered he still could, that that was the whole point, that this way Sandy could be in his life forever, even if it wasn't the way he'd always planned. These days, there was times, more and more, that he thought it might even be better.
"Well alright then, fess up. Who is she?"
"Who's who?" Chad asked, flopping down next to them on the couch.
"The girl Jared's in love with." He pulled at the hairs at Jared's temple with the same hand that was holding his cigarette. Mike's singed them all at one time or another -- mostly it's Jared's hair and Chad's clothes that are the victims, which is still worlds better from the burn mark he left on Tommy's hand, just below the web between his thumb and forefinger. Jensen usually managed to expertly meet the end of Mike's cigarette with his own.
"What, Sandy? I thought that shit was finally over, man. Thought you were moving on," Chad said in a reproving voice, still sore that Jared, even single, was just not fully living up to his wingman potential.
"It is! I am! Christ, you guys. Let it up, already."
"Not Sandy?" Chad asked, doubt clearly ringing out in his voice. "You've got the whole love thing going on."
"Love thing?" Mike echoed.
"Yeah, all goofy and shit. It's not just his got laid face, which jesus christ, the list of things I wish I never knew about you fuckers, I could write a goddamn book."
"Save the tell-all for after we've had our run, if I don't beat you to it first. And you, when did you have time to meet a girl?"
"I didn't! I haven't."
"Right," Mike said, climbing over him like an African Bush Baby, at the same time Chad swore, knuckling his arm viciously. "You dog. You've been holding back on me."
Jared was saved by Jensen's emergence from the back bunks. He looked at the pile the three of them made on the couch, Jared's arms flailing out from where Mike and Chad had him pinned. "Uh," he cleared his throat, looked over at Tom sitting sedately at the table, nose buried in a book. "What's goin' on?"
"Jared's in love," Tom replied, not looking up.
"Oh. That's. great, man. Very cool," Jensen flashed Jared a small smile as he shuffled past to the coffeemaker.
"Me too, me too!" Mike shrieked, launching himself into Jensen's side and crashing them both against the counter. "You're my favorite, Jenny," Mike stage whispered. He reached around Jensen with one hand to fill a mug with coffee for him, sliding his other up beneath Jensen's shirt, tracing the knobs of his spine. Jensen predictably melted against him, always agreeable with his first post-nap cup of coffee.
Jared reminded himself that Mike was just extremely tactile, a social flirt -- no one could pass by him on the bus without bumping hips or receiving a lewd lick or loud smack on the cheek/neck/forehead or Mike sliding his hands where they could reach, grabbing folds of flesh in his fists. He didn't know how Tom could stand it, as he forcibly yanked his gaze away from where they were drilling holes in the back of Mike's straying hands over to where Tom was pulling on his headphones. Then again, Mike wasn't the one who'd been married for five years to his high school sweetheart who he still kept in touch with, so maybe Tom wasn't the one who had any right to be jealous after all.
"There's no girl," Jared said, as an afterthought, but no one was really listening.
v
The first time they played together was epic. It was weird how it hadn't happened right away, even after Jensen had finally given his quiet I'm in, freckles prominent in a face bleached of color, looking scared out of his mind. They hadn't decided on it one way or another, but it was a silent exchange, a collective feeling in the air that any signs of doubt at this point would be fatal, game over. Jensen had sung for Jeff, of course, and the two of them had taken to each other like fish to water. Jeff -- with his quiet competence, his bone-deep assurances delivered in those warm, rumbly tones, his slow smile that lit up the room -- was what cinched the deal for Jensen, Jared was pretty sure.
It wasn't till the ink was near dry on the contracts that they finally had their first real practice as a bona fide band, and when Jensen's sweet, whiskey-tinged voice rung out clear on the heels of Tom locking in with Jared, matching manic grins on Mike and Chad's faces, they all knew.
They tore through the rest of their set, and when they finished, there was stunned silence, all of them cataloging that exact moment which years later they'd be able to recite down to the minutest detail. Afterwards, Tom had just the presence of mind left to ring up Jeff, before they all got gloriously, triumphantly trashed.
"I am a rock god," Mike was saying to any bar patron unfortunate enough to pass within arm's reach.
"I'm going to sleep with every hot bitch on the motherfucking planet," Chad said into his tumbler in awed, worshipful tones.
"I'll kill you both if you assholes ruin this for me," Tom muttered darkly.
Jared was turned away from them, facing Jensen, when he slumped forward, cheek pressed to the counter top. "You're," he said sloppily, and put his hands on the bar to lever himself up. "You're beautiful."
"You are so wasted." Jensen's eyes were fever-bright, color high in his cheeks.
"Mmnot," Jared slurred. "You have," he grabbed Jensen's wrists and turned them over so the palms faced up.
"Yeah? You readin' me my fortune?"
Jared traced the different lines before ducking his head and blowing gently over the tightly stretched skin, "the sexiest wrists."
Jensen tilted his head back and looked at Jared speculatively with half-open eyes. "You think so?"
"Definitely," said Jared, and promptly passed out.
vi
There were days when Tom was angry and silent and wouldn't say why, girls far too young that Chad couldn't stay away from, times Mike got too drunk and couldn't leave the bathroom, head buried in the toilet bowl -- celebratory drunken nights when everything started out fine and ended pale and uncertain. There were times Jensen lost his voice the way Jared loses his drumsticks and finds them wedged beneath seats days later. Jared remembered nights waking up to Jensen rasping through his vocal warmups, voice terrifyingly low. All Jared could do was hold on, and he'd curl one hand around Jensen's bicep and close his eyes, counting out the soft beats till he lost count and fell back asleep.
vii
"Mikey tells me you're in love."
"Jesus!" Jared started, nearly taking out the eye he was carefully applying his liner under.
"Is it true?"
"Shouldn't you be freaking out about, uh, headlining our first fucking show?" Jared's voice was strangled, and he stared uncomprehendingly at the pod Jensen in front of him who somehow wasn't hyperventilating and instead was maintaining an eerie state of zen-like calm. Definitely not a Jensen he'd ever seen before, with the black jeans and high-collared military-style jacket with the epaulets that Jared wanted to slip his fingers through, and tug, clothes fitting like a second skin.
Jensen shrugged. "Mike won't shut up about it. Keeps telling me to ask you myself."
He was going to kill Mike. "It's nothing. Later," Jared said desperately. "I'll tell you later."
Jensen was staring at him, question marks in his eyes. "Tell me now," he said slowly.
"I can't. Not now. Any other time, ok?" They'd come so far, and Jared was not about to fuck this up now right when they were on the precipice of being something great.
"This is it, man. No better time, right?"
"It's complicated. It's, you know--" He was interrupted by loud thumps on the dressing room door, and he yelled back, "I'm taking a leak here!"
"There's no toilet in there, rockstar," Tom's voice, even muffled, was still paper dry. "You've got five minutes."
"I mean, there's someone, sort of, but the band, you know? Sometimes, it's, you have to choose, right? Even if there are other things you really, really want, too, and--" Jared was gesturing in unraveling circles, fingers faltering under Jensen's too keen gaze which, also new. "--I've always chosen this, and sometimes, things are a certain way, and you can't, I don't expect them to, it's--"
"I get you," Jensen stilled Jared's hands, covered them with his. "I get this." He was looking at Jared so intently, chin tilted back to meet his eyes, and he was so close Jared could count out the individual lashes, could see the arced shadows that feathered out beneath them. "This is it, right?"
Jared took a deep breath, then leaned in to close the gap. He hooked a finger into Jensen's collar and dragged it down, pressing a kiss right over the bump of his pulse before drifting higher. "Yeah, it's. It's everything," he said into Jensen's slightly open mouth, the barest pressure against his lips. His hands slid carefully into Jensen's hair, and his fingers were so long that they touched at the base of his skull like a prayer.
.
[feels like flying]
cw au rps
~3700 words
i
The first time Jared met Jensen, he thought Jensen was a total ass.
He was wearing a frumpy wool cardigan with overlarge plastic buttons and worn cowboy boots, and it was sort of cute as hell, this random guy with the wire-rimmed glasses and mud-splattered jeans, not the pre-distressed kind, but like, real mud, even if it wasn't any aesthetic Jared had ever heard of. He stayed at the back, eyes flicking from the crowd to the door, and he slumped against the wall as if his feet wouldn't hold him.
"Hey man, like the sweater."
Jensen looked down, eyebrows bunching as if surprised to see what he was wearing.
"You here for the audition?" Jensen slid his gaze up and over, and Jared sucked in a sharp breath, because damn, that was knockout frontman pretty right there.
"Maybe," Jensen answered, after a prolonged pause where Jared felt his smile slipping off his face, and his gaze skittered back to the people amassed in front of them. "Not sure this is really my scene."
"Oh yeah? What's your scene then?"
Jensen shrugged. "Not this."
"Well, you should; I hear the band's awesome."
"Yeah? I heard it was full of assholes."
"I'm the drummer," Jared said, tightly.
"Okay," Jensen said, lighting a cigarette and curling his hands around the red tip.
"This has been great, I can't even tell you," Jared pushed out through clenched teeth. "But my friends are calling me." The guy didn't even look up; what a dick. He pushed through the crowd towards the beacon that was Mikey's shiny bald head.
"Dude! Where've you been? We're about to get started. And good news!" Mike draped his arms over Jared's shoulders and bore his weight down heavily. "You know how you were bitching on and on about having to have these auditions?"
"I think you've got me confused with yourself, but yeah, what about them?"
Mike beamed. "Just a formality now, my friend. Jen totally made it after all. I'm calling him up first. Fucker's looking gunshy, and I know he'll bolt if I don't nail him to this now. And then we can all just get the fuck home and started on recording already." He hopped up on Jared's back and sharply rapped a pointy sequined shoe against the side of his thigh. "To center stage!"
Jared rolled his eyes but gamely loped to the front of the room. He started to lean back to slide Mike off of him, but Mike clung stubbornly, legs clamping tight as he snagged the mic off the stand and thumped it, getting the attention of the crowd. "Okay, so apparently you all signed up, and Tommy over there tells me there's some kind of order you're supposed to be going in. I don't know fuck about that. What I need is for those of you nearest the back to go to the door. No, seriously, move." A few people shuffled over, looking wary. "Okay great, make sure you block the exit. Good, good," Mike nodded approvingly. "Now, I'm going to need to get one Jensen Ross Ackles up here. Yes, you, the fucker in the bingo hall cardigan, what the fuck is that anyways man, get your ass up here."
No way. Except yes, apparently, as the hottie with the Attitude, capital A -- not even that hot either really, Jared was so unimpressed -- came forward. You could practically see the drag marks he left behind. "That's your friend?" he hissed in Mike's ear.
Mike swatted absently at his face and then jumped off, coming over to meet Jensen at the steps to the stage. Their heads bent together in furious whispered conversation.
Like hell Jared would let this guy in. He'd get Chad to side with him easy, and no way would they take in someone if the group was divided. There was absolutely no fucking way this prick could join; they really would be a group of assholes then -- Jared loved Chad like a brother, but it didn't make him blind -- and absolutely nothing could change his mind, so yeah. That was that. He mentally wiped his hands clean.
And then Jensen opened his mouth, and sang.
ii
Turns out, wasn't so much that Jensen was an ass as he was just plain shy. Or socially retarded or something, Jared didn't pry. He didn't speak hyena like Jared, Chad and Mikey did, and he wasn't a good listener either like Tom. Mostly, Jensen was in his own head, sometimes trapped there, and it could be hell to coax him back out. And that was with them, the people Jensen actually knew and liked, or at least was starting to, at least were the guys he'd slept nose to armpit to, crammed on the bus or in terminals, every day for the past three months. Jensen wasn't good with new people, or too many people, or people who were too loud and in your face, which you'd think would be problematic for the fan part of the successful rock band equation.
But that was the thing. The Jensen that strutted on stage in jeans that looked painted on, that let Mike insinuate his hands, and once memorably, his tongue, on various parts of his body, wasn't the same Jensen that tottered off it when the lights went down, crashing hard on the nearest available flat surface. The Jensen off stage rarely left the bus, never gave a second thought to the clothes he randomly pulled out of his bag and onto his body, and definitely didn't go around licking conveniently placed phallic objects.
He'd traded in his old man sweaters though, thanks to Jeff's pointed suggestion that while Jensen wasn't expected to live his life in full stage costume regalia, it wouldn't hurt to bridge the gap, just the tiniest bit, especially at events where he'd really be seen. (Just at first, while the band's still finding its feet, alright? Believe me, I know how bad this sounds, and I hate it as much as you do, but right now every little bit helps. And that pretty face? Definitely in the plus column. It was disgusting how fast Jensen had agreed, eyes unfocused and dreamy. What a fucking girl.) After, Jensen had taken to wearing blazers and hoodies and sometimes blazers over hoodies. And that was another thing, how covered up Jensen was, all the time. Jared's developed an obsession with the hollow at the base of Jensen's throat, the only bared skin for miles.
"Pass me that, would you?" Jensen asked, pointing.
"God, you're such a baby. The heat's totally cranked up in here." Jared hid a smile as he turned away, reaching for the blanket in question. Jensen's a true-blooded Texan, he likes to tell them, repeatedly, and thus is always cold unless it's at least, like, eighty out, and then it's just a nice cool summer day. Sure enough --
"I'm a true-blooded Texan, man. Somethin' y'all wouldn't understand."
"Fuck off! San Antone here, man. Ain't no city boy like yourself, neither."
"Please. Me? Texas flows through my veins, son. You're a whole nuther thing."
Jared squawked in outrage and kept the blanket away from Jensen's outstretched hand.
"Face it, you've been co-opted by the Yanks. Texas won't have you back."
"Bite me, fucker. Fetch." Jared threw the balled up blanket neatly into the open compartment over Jensen's head. And goddamn, if he wasn't back in high school all over again, when every stray inch of flesh was enough to get him hot all over. Jensen twisted around and reached up for the coveted blanket, and Jared stared helplessly at the sliver of skin revealed at Jensen's lower back, feeling the telltale red flush work its way up his neck.
iii
"It's not like I'm worried," Jensen said, tapping out another cigarette and lighting it.
Jared couldn't help looking up from where he was battling Chad (and kicking his ass, which-- Doesn't even make sense asshole! I'm the guitarist! Chad always bitched) at Guitar Hero. He was the only one of them who hadn't learned how to filter Jensen and his verbalized internal monologues out yet. "Uh, about?"
"Not worried," Jensen repeated, trying to convince himself.
"Man, I've got to piss like a racehorse," Mike said, and wandered away. Tom squinted after him and then relaxed back into his sprawl, deeming Mike's exhibited list as challenging, but not crippling.
"It's just, this has got to work. It fits, doesn't it?" When Jensen talked about things fitting -- beats, lyrics, setlists, anything -- he really meant himself. He used to be in Kane, this pure Americana Southern rock band, and the two bands couldn't have been more different. Jared had seen old recordings, and they were good, real good, but limited in their crossover appeal and squarely stuck in the deep South. There was nothing theatrical about Kane's performances -- all tee-shirts and cowboy boots and hats as they trawled through the smokey bar/club circuit -- unless you counted the way Jensen and Kane (the man, not the band, and that was another thing to find out, that Jensen hadn't fronted before, even though it was obvious he was made for it) slid their cheeks together, as Chris rasped out lyrics in gutteral tones while Jensen closed his eyes and his fingers faltered for a second on the strings. He'd let Mike do far worse -- last show Mike had slid his hand up the inside of his thigh near up to his crotch -- but that was always clearly delineated stage Jensen. The Jensen in Kane hadn't learned to separate it out yet, didn't need to, and in retrospect, Jared could see how overwhelming the transition was for him, how it still was. He was a star on their stage, everyone's dream and nowhere in reach, and Jared clenched at Kane's Jensen who was still damnably pretty but somehow touchable, real, whose eyes tracked Chris like the sun, moon and stars shone right out of his ass.
"Jared?"
Jared started, surprised to be thrown into Jensen's monologue. "Right here, man." He rolled his neck back and gave him an upside-down grin, waggling his fingers, Chad screeching for him to, Pay attention, fucker! I will own you. Jensen's face was strangled in shadow; he looked asphyxiated, hungry, and he drew out the name, Jay-rud, as if he was swallowing around that ever persistent hunger. This Jensen was real, too.
Jensen blinked and cocked his head in Jared's direction, looking surprised himself. "Um," Jensen said, losing his place in his thoughts.
"I'm going to throw up," Mike said, wandering back. "Thomas, will you hold my hair back?"
"You don't have any, Michael."
"Tommy," Mike whined, sort of weaving in place. He was blinking his eyes rapidly.
"Coming," Tom sighed.
iv
"You're weird." Mike's freakishly pointy elbow was digging a hole in his side.
Jared gaped. "Uh, look who's talking."
"We're not talking about me here, man, although I'll be more than happy to oblige you any other time, you stalker. We're talking about you now, and how weird you've been lately."
"Have not," Jared countered, smartly.
"We'll skip the part where you pretend you haven't been weird as fuck lately and just head straight to the part where I therapize your ass, alright?" He spread out both hands on Jared's chest and wiggled his fingers before nodding decisively. "It's a girl."
"Maybe," Jared sighed. He was caught, and he knew it.
"Damn kid," Mike said, drawing out the expletive and ending in a whistle. "I thought you and Sandy were quits for good last time. Thought you were finally over it. Though she's a damn hard lady to get over, I'll give you that." Mike nodded sagely, probably thinking of her rack. "Rack out to here," he cupped his hands in front of him, eyes shining dreamily.
"We are! I am. She's amazing," Jared couldn't help adding, always had a good word for Sandy whenever her name came up, whether they were dating at the time or not, because man, Sandy was the best, no bones about it. There were days Jared forgot they were no longer together and automatically slipped into the we's and ours, fingers punching in her number without even thinking to share whatever news had cropped up -- Mike and Tom's sexual tension, Chad's latest bout of VD, Jeff's smart new business tactic that was a bitch to employ but always, always worked, Jensen's freshest freakout, meaning a rehash of all his old ones, Jen's newest lyrics that like, totally got you even when they were about beaten rented mules or gnats in hailstorms, Jensen never leaving his room, which wasn't normal, wasn't right -- news that revolved increasingly around their new scorchingly hot frontman. And then Jared remembered he still could, that that was the whole point, that this way Sandy could be in his life forever, even if it wasn't the way he'd always planned. These days, there was times, more and more, that he thought it might even be better.
"Well alright then, fess up. Who is she?"
"Who's who?" Chad asked, flopping down next to them on the couch.
"The girl Jared's in love with." He pulled at the hairs at Jared's temple with the same hand that was holding his cigarette. Mike's singed them all at one time or another -- mostly it's Jared's hair and Chad's clothes that are the victims, which is still worlds better from the burn mark he left on Tommy's hand, just below the web between his thumb and forefinger. Jensen usually managed to expertly meet the end of Mike's cigarette with his own.
"What, Sandy? I thought that shit was finally over, man. Thought you were moving on," Chad said in a reproving voice, still sore that Jared, even single, was just not fully living up to his wingman potential.
"It is! I am! Christ, you guys. Let it up, already."
"Not Sandy?" Chad asked, doubt clearly ringing out in his voice. "You've got the whole love thing going on."
"Love thing?" Mike echoed.
"Yeah, all goofy and shit. It's not just his got laid face, which jesus christ, the list of things I wish I never knew about you fuckers, I could write a goddamn book."
"Save the tell-all for after we've had our run, if I don't beat you to it first. And you, when did you have time to meet a girl?"
"I didn't! I haven't."
"Right," Mike said, climbing over him like an African Bush Baby, at the same time Chad swore, knuckling his arm viciously. "You dog. You've been holding back on me."
Jared was saved by Jensen's emergence from the back bunks. He looked at the pile the three of them made on the couch, Jared's arms flailing out from where Mike and Chad had him pinned. "Uh," he cleared his throat, looked over at Tom sitting sedately at the table, nose buried in a book. "What's goin' on?"
"Jared's in love," Tom replied, not looking up.
"Oh. That's. great, man. Very cool," Jensen flashed Jared a small smile as he shuffled past to the coffeemaker.
"Me too, me too!" Mike shrieked, launching himself into Jensen's side and crashing them both against the counter. "You're my favorite, Jenny," Mike stage whispered. He reached around Jensen with one hand to fill a mug with coffee for him, sliding his other up beneath Jensen's shirt, tracing the knobs of his spine. Jensen predictably melted against him, always agreeable with his first post-nap cup of coffee.
Jared reminded himself that Mike was just extremely tactile, a social flirt -- no one could pass by him on the bus without bumping hips or receiving a lewd lick or loud smack on the cheek/neck/forehead or Mike sliding his hands where they could reach, grabbing folds of flesh in his fists. He didn't know how Tom could stand it, as he forcibly yanked his gaze away from where they were drilling holes in the back of Mike's straying hands over to where Tom was pulling on his headphones. Then again, Mike wasn't the one who'd been married for five years to his high school sweetheart who he still kept in touch with, so maybe Tom wasn't the one who had any right to be jealous after all.
"There's no girl," Jared said, as an afterthought, but no one was really listening.
v
The first time they played together was epic. It was weird how it hadn't happened right away, even after Jensen had finally given his quiet I'm in, freckles prominent in a face bleached of color, looking scared out of his mind. They hadn't decided on it one way or another, but it was a silent exchange, a collective feeling in the air that any signs of doubt at this point would be fatal, game over. Jensen had sung for Jeff, of course, and the two of them had taken to each other like fish to water. Jeff -- with his quiet competence, his bone-deep assurances delivered in those warm, rumbly tones, his slow smile that lit up the room -- was what cinched the deal for Jensen, Jared was pretty sure.
It wasn't till the ink was near dry on the contracts that they finally had their first real practice as a bona fide band, and when Jensen's sweet, whiskey-tinged voice rung out clear on the heels of Tom locking in with Jared, matching manic grins on Mike and Chad's faces, they all knew.
They tore through the rest of their set, and when they finished, there was stunned silence, all of them cataloging that exact moment which years later they'd be able to recite down to the minutest detail. Afterwards, Tom had just the presence of mind left to ring up Jeff, before they all got gloriously, triumphantly trashed.
"I am a rock god," Mike was saying to any bar patron unfortunate enough to pass within arm's reach.
"I'm going to sleep with every hot bitch on the motherfucking planet," Chad said into his tumbler in awed, worshipful tones.
"I'll kill you both if you assholes ruin this for me," Tom muttered darkly.
Jared was turned away from them, facing Jensen, when he slumped forward, cheek pressed to the counter top. "You're," he said sloppily, and put his hands on the bar to lever himself up. "You're beautiful."
"You are so wasted." Jensen's eyes were fever-bright, color high in his cheeks.
"Mmnot," Jared slurred. "You have," he grabbed Jensen's wrists and turned them over so the palms faced up.
"Yeah? You readin' me my fortune?"
Jared traced the different lines before ducking his head and blowing gently over the tightly stretched skin, "the sexiest wrists."
Jensen tilted his head back and looked at Jared speculatively with half-open eyes. "You think so?"
"Definitely," said Jared, and promptly passed out.
vi
There were days when Tom was angry and silent and wouldn't say why, girls far too young that Chad couldn't stay away from, times Mike got too drunk and couldn't leave the bathroom, head buried in the toilet bowl -- celebratory drunken nights when everything started out fine and ended pale and uncertain. There were times Jensen lost his voice the way Jared loses his drumsticks and finds them wedged beneath seats days later. Jared remembered nights waking up to Jensen rasping through his vocal warmups, voice terrifyingly low. All Jared could do was hold on, and he'd curl one hand around Jensen's bicep and close his eyes, counting out the soft beats till he lost count and fell back asleep.
vii
"Mikey tells me you're in love."
"Jesus!" Jared started, nearly taking out the eye he was carefully applying his liner under.
"Is it true?"
"Shouldn't you be freaking out about, uh, headlining our first fucking show?" Jared's voice was strangled, and he stared uncomprehendingly at the pod Jensen in front of him who somehow wasn't hyperventilating and instead was maintaining an eerie state of zen-like calm. Definitely not a Jensen he'd ever seen before, with the black jeans and high-collared military-style jacket with the epaulets that Jared wanted to slip his fingers through, and tug, clothes fitting like a second skin.
Jensen shrugged. "Mike won't shut up about it. Keeps telling me to ask you myself."
He was going to kill Mike. "It's nothing. Later," Jared said desperately. "I'll tell you later."
Jensen was staring at him, question marks in his eyes. "Tell me now," he said slowly.
"I can't. Not now. Any other time, ok?" They'd come so far, and Jared was not about to fuck this up now right when they were on the precipice of being something great.
"This is it, man. No better time, right?"
"It's complicated. It's, you know--" He was interrupted by loud thumps on the dressing room door, and he yelled back, "I'm taking a leak here!"
"There's no toilet in there, rockstar," Tom's voice, even muffled, was still paper dry. "You've got five minutes."
"I mean, there's someone, sort of, but the band, you know? Sometimes, it's, you have to choose, right? Even if there are other things you really, really want, too, and--" Jared was gesturing in unraveling circles, fingers faltering under Jensen's too keen gaze which, also new. "--I've always chosen this, and sometimes, things are a certain way, and you can't, I don't expect them to, it's--"
"I get you," Jensen stilled Jared's hands, covered them with his. "I get this." He was looking at Jared so intently, chin tilted back to meet his eyes, and he was so close Jared could count out the individual lashes, could see the arced shadows that feathered out beneath them. "This is it, right?"
Jared took a deep breath, then leaned in to close the gap. He hooked a finger into Jensen's collar and dragged it down, pressing a kiss right over the bump of his pulse before drifting higher. "Yeah, it's. It's everything," he said into Jensen's slightly open mouth, the barest pressure against his lips. His hands slid carefully into Jensen's hair, and his fingers were so long that they touched at the base of his skull like a prayer.
.