The Academy of Absent Fathers - Jensen/Misha, NC-17 - Chapter 12
Title: The Academy of Absent Fathers - Chapter 12
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights & kriari
Rating: NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
When Misha wakes up the next morning, it’s because a weak but persistent ray of sunshine is filtering through a gap in the curtains and hitting him square in the face.
Blearily, he tries to open his gummed-up eyes, but they hurt and his vision is fuzzy, so he closes them again. After puking up the contents of his stomach last night, which wasn’t much, given he hadn’t eaten all day, he’d sat numbly in the shower until the water started to run cold.
Maudlin, he’d noted that it would match the temperature of blood in his veins.
It was chilly in the house, and despite the warmth of Alona’s bed, he’d needed more insulation. Clothes that weren’t Jensen’s. Jared would kill him if he knew, but Jared wasn’t here, so Misha had rummaged through Jared’s meticulously clean closet and found sweats and a t-shirt to put on. The legs were a foot too long and the t-shirt looked more like a dress on Misha’s smaller frame, but at least he was warm and in Jensen-less attire.
Now, with the light of the morning bringing a dusty haze to the room, things don’t seem as bleak as they did the night before. Misha waits for the rush of despair to hit him when the knowledge of yesterday sinks back in, but it doesn’t. Instead he feels numb, resigned to his new world-view.
His phone lets him know it’s around lunchtime, and that no one called while he was asleep. Jensen mustn’t have alerted anyone. Misha doesn’t know what that means, but it makes him feel queasy. Which is ironic, since his stomach chooses right then to grumble and alert him to the fact that, ill feeling or not, he hasn’t eaten in almost 24 hours.
Pulling Alona’s terrycloth robe off the back of the door and on over Jared’s gigantor clothes, Misha makes his way downstairs and into the Padalecki kitchen. The fridge is on, but there isn’t anything in it that would spoil, which pretty much amounts to condiments and some margarine.
He opens random cupboards, finds cereal in one and a bowl in another. The idea of eating them dry makes him gag, so in the end he pours in a small amount of water. He eats standing up. He doesn’t want to sit down or make himself comfortable. He’s trespassing as it is; there’s no need to enjoy it.
It feels more illegal somehow, downstairs. Upstairs in Alona’s room he at least feels familiar, invited even, at a stretch. It occurs to him, as he forces the soggy, tasteless cereal down his throat, that if he leaves Ellis, he probably won’t ever see Alona again. The thought makes him even sadder. Jensen is one thing to leave; he’s given him reason to do so without looking back. But Alona is innocent in all this, has been nothing but a friend. He’ll miss her a great deal.
For the first time, Misha realises the gravity of leaving. It isn’t just a relationship or even a fake family; this time he’s leaving friends in a way he’s never had to deal with before. Sure, he’s had faux siblings he’s grown close to in the past, but they were more like cellmates than chosen confidants. At Ellis, that was different. With so many other inmates, he’d been free to make friends selectively. Even if he hadn’t really made many, there were some. Alona, Rob, Julie. Sam. Even the dean had made an impression on him.
Sighing, Misha rinses the bowl in the sink and dries it off on the dish-towel before placing it back in the cupboard.
The effort of feeding himself tires him out and, frankly, he’s sick of thinking. Of having been forced into a situation where he has to think about every facet of his life in new and painful ways.
He makes his way back upstairs, wonders what he should do next. Go back to Ellis, leave outright, sleep some more so he doesn’t have to think anymore. He’s just thinking about how best to get out of the house without being seen when his phone starts vibrating in his hand. The sound is off, but there’s no mistaking an incoming call when Jensen’s picture flashes up on his screen. In it, Jensen’s hair sticks up every which way as he looks angrily at the camera. Misha had snapped it after they’d fucked one time, the spikes of Jensen’s wayward hair sculpted there by Misha’s own fingers. Jensen had been alarmed and then pissed in quick succession at Misha’s phone coming out, and then he’d punished Misha for taking the picture; it had been awesome.
The picture now serves to remind Misha of what he’s lost, and he quickly silences it, swiping to reject the call. It isn’t until after, when it doesn’t ring again, that Misha wonders what Jensen wanted. What he could possibly be calling for.
He flings the phone across the room, cringes, and yet enjoys the dull thud it makes as it hits the drywall and thumps to the carpet.
Sleep it is, then. He crawls back into bed.
* * *
The next time Misha wakes, the sun is painting shadows on the far wall of Alona’s room. Judging by the hollowness in his stomach, it’s starting to get late. His sense of time is all fucked up, and his meager breakfast-cum-lunch has already worn off. If he wants to not starve to death, he’s going to have to venture out and find something to eat.
He still has no money, and he’s not going to steal from the Padaleckis even if he were to go through their things and find an errant stash of money, which leaves him with few options. The best he’ll be able to do is see if he can somehow get into the school’s kitchen. It won’t be easy; it tends to be locked up tight during the holidays due to the low number of staff needed to man it for so few students. It means less kitchen staff to bribe, and less to be too distracted to notice (or deal with) an errant kid poking around in the fridges.
It’s really his only chance for food right now, though. If he ventures out now, there’s a hope that the kitchens will be open in preparation for the night’s dinner. He’d attend the dinner itself, but nothing in the world would make him run into Jensen while waiting in line for corned beef.
Groaning at the ache in his limbs, he retrieves his phone from its exile in the corner of Alona’s room. There are no more calls from Jensen, thank god. Even though part of him kind of wishes...
Dwelling on it will fill him with pain, though, so he forces himself not to think about it. Food, he needs to focus on getting food. Misha heads back downstairs and slips his shoes on; they’re damp, but not soaking wet. He has to roll Jared’s sweat pants up to keep from tripping in them...but inside they keep him warm like some kind of weird adult onesie. Outside, they’ll trip him and have him face first in the mud. Not to mention if someone sees him... Even if they do see him with them rolled up, he looks somewhat ridiculous, wearing clothes that are at least four sizes too big on him.
He watches through the glass panels in the door, and when he’s sure the coast is clear - there really is no one around during the holidays - he slips out, slides the key back into its hiding spot. He wanders oh-so-casually towards the school proper. Once inside the main buildings, it’s easier. He knows the corridors Jensen is unlikely to be in, that anyone is unlikely to be in, and five minutes later he’s at the cafeteria kitchens.
They’re locked, but he’s sure they must open soon for the dinner meal, so he waits. Sure enough, not five minutes later one of the cooks, Christopher, comes down the corridor. Inwardly, Misha curses his luck. Christopher is not who he wants to deal with. The guy is tall and beanpole thin, sharp, hawk-like nose, and eyes light yet somehow still foreboding. He has always given Misha the creeps, staring just a little too long, or making snide remarks at the kids who took second helpings. Regardless, he has two large trays in his arms, and Misha is quick to duck out of his hiding place and offer to help with the door.
“Thanks,” Christopher nods, allows Misha to take the tray and help him back into the stainless steel hub of the work-space. “You all might be few, but you eat enough for an army.”
Misha forces a laugh. “Growing boys, man. It’s what we do when we’re not thinking about chicks.”
Christopher laughs, its quality somewhat off. “Guess I’m lucky I’m the cook and not housekeeping, then.”
Misha nods, and tries not to think about it. He picks up an apple out of a nearby fruit basket, as if checking its quality. He watches as Christopher starts up the ovens, gets things from the large refrigerator like lettuce and tomatoes. The guy doesn’t seem to care that Misha is still standing there awkwardly.
“Um, so, I don’t suppose I could get mine to go a bit early?” Misha tries for casual, but isn’t sure if he succeeds or not.
“Hot date?” Christopher sneers.
“Something like that,” Misha says, trying to look like an eager kid with a hook-up planned. Whatever that might look like.
Christopher looks at him, his gaze too sharp, seemingly weighing up whether Misha is going to nark on him or not. Finally he shrugs. “Sure. Why not. But it’ll be cold, you’ll need to heat it up somehow. Don’t go bitchin’ if you get food poisoning.”
Misha shakes his head and crosses a finger over his heart. “Not a chance, man. We’re cool.”
He watches as the guy takes the tinfoil off the trays he’d brought in. The smell of freshly baked, though cold, lasagna wafts towards him and Misha’s stomach rumbles loudly. Christopher just raises an eyebrow at him. Misha watches as he cuts a large chunk out of the tray and slaps it down on some tin foil. Seconds later, it’s being handed to him.
“Keep the apple,” Christopher says and turns back to his preparations. It’s a dismissal and Misha is glad for it.
He heads out of the kitchen and winds his way back through the corridors to the outside. Dusk is starting to fall, and the oak trees take on a menacing darkness in the gloom. It’s amazing how fast a day goes when you sleep through most of it.
He’s almost in the clear, turning down one of the gravelled paths that will head back to the teacher’s housing complex, when he sees someone coming the other way towards him. It’s too late to hide so he keeps walking, heart sinking as he recognises the person as Rob.
Does he know? Has Jensen told him that he was room sharing with the son of a philandering murderer?
“Hey, Misha,” Rob says brightly as soon as he’s in conversation distance.
So Jensen hasn’t said anything yet. Weird. What’s keeping him from telling everyone?
“Hey,” Misha replies. He tries to act normal, like he isn’t wearing a giants clothes and holding cold lasagna in his hand. “What’s up?”
“Oh, you know,” Rob says. “Spent the day in Charleston visiting an aunt. Well, she’s not really an aunt, not by blood. More of a family friend, really,” he rambles.
“Ah,” Misha says, at a lost for words.
“What about you?” Rob asks innocently.
“Oh nothing much,” Misha replies. “You know, just catching up on sleep and that.” It isn’t a total lie.
Rob nods then looks back over his shoulder, as if realising Misha’s walking away from the school. “You headed out?”
Shit.
“Nah, I have to go feed, um, Alona’s cat...” Misha holds up the aluminum foil package as evidence of his lie.
“Alona has a cat?” Rob queries.
Misha nods. “Yeah, just recently. His name’s Cyril. Anyway, I better go... he gets mean if he’s hungry.”
“Oh, okay then. See ya later.” Rob beams, and with a wave he heads off towards the school.
Misha sighs in relief. That was close. Too close. He needs to get out of Ellis, and fast. He hurries back to the Padaleckis’ and Cyril, their new and imaginary cat.
* * *
Back inside the safety of Jared’s house, Misha heats up the lasagna in the oven. With the lights off, the house is succumbing to the dusk that falls outside, and he squints to make out the temperature dials. Wouldn’t do to burn down the house that’s hiding him.
After eating, he feels, if not a hundred, at least eighty percent better. The remaining twenty simply isn’t going to be satiated by food, anyway. Throwing the empty tinfoil into the trash, he heads upstairs. It’s time to make some firmer plans, work out where buses leave from and how much money he’s going to have to find before they’ll allow him to get on one.
He debates turning on Alona’s computer, but he worries the glow will be too obvious through the curtains. Instead, he pulls out his phone and lies back on Alona’s bed.
It looks like - if he can get back into Charleston - there’s a direct Manhattan route he could get on at 1.50pm tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can get the same bus back to Charleston that he took to get out of there yesterday, that could work. The problem will be getting back to their... his room. He doesn’t have much stuff there he’ll miss, it’s true. But he can hardly get off the bus in Manhattan dressed as he is now. If nothing else, he wants his phone charger and a change of clothes.
He’s contemplating a way to get into his room without Jensen being there, maybe involving some kind of distraction by way of an unknowing Rob, when he hears wood creaking. He sits upright, blinking in the pitch-blackness and pushes his phone dark.
Seconds tick by with nothing else pinging his radar and he’s about to breathe out a sigh of relief and berate himself for being such a paranoid freak, when he hears the distinct metallic whisper of a key being slid home in a lock. The front door.
Panicking, Misha gets out of bed, pads quietly over to stand behind Alona’s ajar door. The sounds don’t get louder; not the booming voice of Jared calling dibs on the first shower, or Alona’s higher-pitched snort that he’s welcome to it, would be doing all of them a favour. There aren’t suitcases being thumped onto floors or lights being switched on. Just a silent, barely there creak as floorboards are pressed, stairs climbed.
It would be his luck that while hiding from the danger of ex-boyfriends, he’ll end up the star of a break-and-enter. He wishes he had something heavy at hand, a baseball bat or academy award. Alona is not un-sporty, but all her equipment is stashed away somewhere not within Misha’s easy reach.
The creak of the floor on the landing indicates that, whoever it is, they’re right outside Alona’s door. Misha can practically hear them breathing. He’s about to bolt, take his chances past the intruder and down the stairs, when the person speaks.
“Mish?” comes the whisper, soft and unsure.
Jensen. It’s goddamn, fucking Jensen.
Wildly, Misha yanks the door open as he steps out, adrenaline flushing through him and anger rising at being made to cower like he did when he was a child. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps, barely keeping his voice down.
Jensen’s eyes go wider than seems possible, already black and large in the darkness of the house. His hand flies up over his heart, and Misha would be ashamed at the flare of petty smugness he feels at startling Jensen, if he weren’t still scared himself.
”Jesus, Misha!” Jensen cries out in alarm. “I was looking for you. What the fuck are you doing?!”
Misha steadies himself and takes a distancing step backwards further into the room. Unsettlingly, Jensen takes a step forward. “I thought you were someone breaking in,” he says.
“And you were going to, what, scare them to death?” Jensen asks, a tinge of the sarcasm Misha used to love threading through his now calmer voice.
“Seemed to work,” Misha shrugs.
They stand there in silence, watching each other in the gloom, shadowy but incredibly familiar figures.
“So,” Misha eventually says, breaking the silence. “What are you doing here, Jensen?” His voice is cold, and he’s careful not to shorten the name to ‘Jen’ like his tongue is trained to do.
Jensen takes another step forward. His hand reaches out beseechingly, not touching, but clearly asking for something. Peace, a chance, space - Misha has no idea.
“I want,” Jensen begins and then seems to reconsider. “I thought you might have gone. Rob said he saw you, but when the lights were off, I thought maybe...”
Jensen trails off and Misha snorts softly. “What, and you were worried? I find that difficult to believe.”
Misha can see Jensen shaking his head. He doesn’t know where this is going, only knows he has to be careful, push the walls back up and hold them together for dear life.
“I talked to my dad,” Jensen tries again.
“Didn’t we all,” Misha snaps, and this time the anger flares in him. He lets it, stalking back towards the bed.
“No, wait,” Jensen says, and there’s an urgency to his tone, something that sounds like fear and stops Misha in his tracks. He turns back, but says nothing.
“I talked to him, and I went looking for... I don’t... I mean, I know now that it wasn’t like he said, man. It wasn’t your parents’ fault, it was his.”
Misha reels, confusion warring with the need to run, to fight. “What the hell do you mean?”
“There was a fraud... embezzlement and your mom, she must have found out, told the authorities. She did the right thing, Misha. I mean, I don’t know why she did it, and maybe it was just for money, but morally it was what should have been done.”
Jensen’s words are in English, but they don’t make any sense. Misha’s parents are always the ones in the wrong, that isn’t even a question. His whole worldview is built on that one true fact.
“Sure, while she was fucking your dad, right?” Misha’s used to making up lewd stories about his parents designed to shock, but this one, its truth, tastes bitter and horrid on his tongue.
He can practically see Jensen rolling his eyes, even though there’s no way he could make it out in the darkness.
“I don’t really know,” Jensen admits, quietly, brokenly and Misha’s heart betrays him, aches to go to Jensen and soothe him. “I think, I think my mom was sick, Mish,” Jensen says and this time his voice does break and, before Misha’s realised his brain has given him the order to move, he finds himself standing directly in front of Jensen, feeling the puff of ragged breaths ghosting across his face.
Jensen seems unaware of Misha’s proximity, or steadfastly ignores it, instead continuing on in the same broken cadence.
“There were rumours, but I don’t know if they were true, and anyway, it was all my dad. My asshole of a father once again fucking things up and running away from the blame. It wasn’t your parents fault,” Jensen repeats, talking but not really aware of it. “And they’re not you, Misha, they aren’t you and my dad is a dick, and I’m so sorry, man, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Hey,” Misha says softly, and just like that he’s reaching out, putting his hands on Jensen’s shoulders to steady him as the anger, the built-up, justified, terrifying anger simply evaporates inside him like a mist of rain on hot metal. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Jensen says, shrugging as if to dislodge Misha’s hands. “What he accused you of, what I accused you of. Fuck, Misha. I know you can’t ever forgive someone something like that, I know -”
Misha cuts him off, words coming of their own accord. “I do.”
It surprises him about as much as it seems to surprise Jensen, going by the sharp intake of his breath.
“What?” Jensen sounds hesitant, as if waiting for Misha to pull the rug out from under him. It should make Misha feel vindicated, but instead it makes him sad.
“I forgive you,” he repeats, and it feels so undeniably right that suddenly he can breathe properly again, the pain and weight lifting as if it were never there.
Jensen has been struck dumb, apparently.
“Hey, I may not forgive your dad anytime soon, or like, ever,” Misha attempts humour, hears it fall flat, but carries on. “But you aren't your father, Jensen. You never would have said those things, never would have come back to find me if you were.”
“I’m so sorry, Misha. I know better than to listen to his bullshit. I don’t know what really happened, but I’m sure we can find out if we just -”
Misha steps in and kisses Jensen; it seems the only way to get him to shut up. He finds his mouth instantly, despite the darkness. He knows Jensen and knows how to do this like he knows his own name. Jensen’s lips are salty with tears they’ll both pretend were never there, but his mouth is warm and familiar and, when Jensen kisses back, tongue slipping in tentatively, Misha knows everything is going to be alright.
Jensen must feel it too, because suddenly he’s in Misha’s arms, pushing him backwards with his weight, and they tangle as they cross the room, a weird blind tango until Misha’s calves hit the back of Alona’s bed and they topple down onto it.
“Fuck,” Jensen breathes, and this time it’s not timid or scared. This time it’s awed. “Misha.”
“I damn well hope so.” Misha grins and pulls Jensen’s mouth back to his.
Jensen presses against him and Misha hooks a leg over him to keep him close, the action bringing Jensen’s pelvis flush against his, aligning their growing erections through denim and fleece. Misha moans, fingers gripping and flexing against the back of Jensen’s t-shirt. It isn’t enough, it won’t ever be enough. Not after the last two days.
“Skin,” Misha murmurs as Jensen breaks for air, starts to bite along Misha’s stubbled jaw. “We need more skin, Jen.”
“Yes.” Jensen laughs euphorically against Misha’s throat before levering himself up. He’s pulling off his shirt and unbuttoning jeans, and Misha can only watch in amazement as the paleness of Jensen’s skin is revealed, glowing slightly in the moonlight that comes through the window.
“You too,” Jensen says and Misha can just make out the raised eyebrow as Jensen kneels above him. Jensen goes to help him with his clothes and then stops, frowning. “Dude. What the fuck are you wearing?”
If it were light, Misha might be embarrassed to be caught out by the flush suffusing his cheeks. “Well, it was either this or Alona’s school uniform.”
“You’re wearing Jared’s clothes?” Jensen asks, voice rising at the end. “Man, that is so wrong.”
“Well get them the fuck off me, loser,” Misha grouses.
Jensen laughs, throaty and aroused. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Misha’s about to retort that apparently he does have to, but Jensen is sliding the sweat pants down his legs, and cold air hits his skin like a physical slap. Then Jensen’s mouth is on him, kissing up his inner thighs and into the soft hair at the base of his cock. Misha only has seconds to bunch the sheets beneath him into his hands before Jensen's mouth, hot as a furnace, descends on his cock, and Misha’s arching into it, hips threatening to jump off the mattress.
“Jesus,” Misha hisses as Jensen’s hands find his hips, spread and hold him flat. Jensen just hums in acknowledgment, the reverberation travelling down Misha’s dick and straight to his spine.
Misha’s eyes screw shut tightly as Jensen sucks, laves his tongue against his cock and mouths at him with the pursed circle of his lips. It’s too much, way too fucking much and Misha’s dying a tortuous amazing death as the tension ratchets up his spine. He’s about to push Jensen away, stop him before this is over about an hour sooner than he wants it to be, when Jensen pulls off him, string of saliva glistening in the moonlight like an obscene tether that Jensen breaks with the back of a hand across his mouth.
“I want you to fuck me,” Jensen says, voice deep and full of emotion.
Misha moves to sit up, the length of Jared’s t-shirt falling to tent over his cock. Jensen can’t possibly mean what Misha thinks he means. They’ve fooled around a lot, but most of the time they bring each other off by hand or mouth, or simply by rutting against each other until it becomes too much. While they’ve maybe explored here and there with caresses and touches, it’s never gone further.
“You mean...?” Misha asks, voice carefully neutral in case he’s reading the situation wrong.
Jensen pulls at Jared’s t-shirt, lifts it up and over Misha’s head and flings it aside before he presses Misha back down into the sheets, covers him with his body. Jensen kisses him again, soft and less urgently than a second ago. Misha stares up at him as Jensen pulls back.
“Yeah,” Jensen whispers. “Please?”
Misha groans. “Fuck, Jen. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Jensen affirms, eyes glittering down at Misha.
The worry must be playing on Misha’s face, because Jensen smiles softly. “This isn’t some weird form of penance, Misha, I swear.”
“Thank God.” Misha blasphemes without any sense of irony and pulls Jensen back down, recapturing his mouth. Jensen’s body covers him, a warm slide of muscle and skin melding into Misha’s body. Their cocks slip together as Jensen moves, their gasps loud in the quiet of the room. Misha wants more, wants to take Jensen apart piece by piece and make him safe again, remove any doubt, any lingering hurt.
Jensen starts biting at the bared skin of Misha’s neck, sharp pin-pricks that ride the line between pleasure and pain, thrilling electricity down Misha’s veins. It takes every ounce of self-control to not give in, to remember there are things they need to sort out.
“Wait, Jen,” Misha gasps as Jensen’s hand slides downwards, caressing the side of his ribs, his hip. “We need stuff, if we want to...”
Jensen rises off him slightly, elbows to either side of Misha’s head. “Got it covered,” Jensen says before mouthing across Misha’s cheekbone. It tickles and Misha laughs.
“What, you have lube in your pocket?” he teases.
Jensen pulls back fully this time, his smile bright even in the dark. “No, but I know where Jared keeps his.”
“Okay, gross,” Misha replies.
Jensen laughs. “It was a dare, he had to admit to liking Alona’s friend Jess or go into the nearest 7-11 and buy an armful of lube. Guess which option he chose.”
“Of course he did,” Misha says.
“Well, anyway, I know where he keeps the twenty-five bottles he had to buy,” Jensen finishes. “Wait here.”
And with that, Jensen is up and off, Misha left with nothing but cold air hitting his overheated skin. A series of bumps and what Misha is pretty sure is muffled profanity comes back to him before Jensen is back, triumphant.
“I hope you’re not about to tell me we’re borrowing his condoms too,” Misha remarks as Jensen settles back next to him. “Because if you thought his clothes were too big...”
This time Jensen is the one grossed out, if the groan he makes into Misha’s shoulder is anything to go by. “Oh my god, can we stop talking about Jared now?”
Misha considers that a victory. “Yes, gladly. But do you have protection, Jen?”
Misha’s eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out Jensen rolling his eyes just fine this time.
“Of course, ever since we, well, you know. I’ve been thinking about...well, you know,” Jensen says, sounding so bashful that Misha loves him a thousandfold more.
“Good,” Misha says, and with a quick maneuver he isn’t sure he’ll pull off, but does, he flips Jensen onto his back.
He can practically feel the nervous energy coming off Jensen, so he does nothing but kiss him. He pours into it everything that he’s felt over the last months, the joy, the relief, the safety, the pain and regret, and now the undying need that he feels for the boy beneath him. Jensen matches him every step, pulling Misha down into him and arms tightening around his back, keeping Misha close.
The kiss quickly intensifies, and Misha can feel Jensen pressing up into him to increase friction, Jensen’s erection slip-sliding against Misha’s stomach in a cool trail of pre-come. Which Misha is fine with; the feeling is mutual, and he can’t help but grind back down into Jensen, pulling out groans and sighs as the intensity heats up.
“Mish,” Jensen whispers, full of want. “In my wallet.”
Misha understands, and it takes only a wayward flinging of his arm before he finds Jensen’s pants on the floor, extracts the leather wallet and slips the foil packet out of the sleeve. He waits to open it, though, reaches instead for the bottle of lubrication Jensen put on Alona’s nightstand. The liquid is cold and slick, sliding down Misha’s fingers and across his wrist. Yeah, this is gonna be messy.
He leans back down, recapturing Jensen’s mouth and sucking on his bottom lip, teasing with nips and slides of his tongue as he gently parts Jensen’s legs with his hands.
Jensen yelps. “Fuck, that’s cold.”
“Shhh,” Misha chuckles. “Not for long.” He trails the wet of his fingers up Jensen’s inner thigh and then threads them through the coarse hair at the bottom of Jensen’s cock, smearing the mess. Jensen fidgets and Misha pacifies him, wrapping his fingers around Jensen’s erection and stroking, the lube heating with the friction and Jensen gasping at the touch.
When he’s satisfied Jensen isn’t going to be complaining again anytime soon, he applies more of the liquid and trails his fingers downwards, over the gentle give of Jensen’s balls, the soft skin behind them. He watches Jensen’s face as he does it, the open trust shining at him. His heart feels like it’s growing ten sizes bigger, and Misha leans back, licking across Jensen’s mouth. With his fingers he teases at Jensen, gets him used to the feel of light touches like they’ve done before, until Jensen is whining at him and Misha laughs into his mouth, pressing his finger in slowly and sure.
They continue like that, a slow quiet bubble of only them, experimenting and learning. The noises Jensen makes are like nothing Misha’s heard before, and he has to concentrate not to come from that alone.
“More,” Jensen whispers into the darkness, and Misha knows he’s ready, knows himself that he needs to be in Jensen right now, or it will all be over.
He moves up to his knees, situates himself between the V of Jensen’s splayed legs, smooths his hands down over Jensen’s thighs.
“Okay?” he asks one more time. Just to be sure.
“Misha, I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now...” Jensen growls, and the vibrato in his voice makes Misha’s cock jerk almost painfully where it rests against his stomach. He reaches for the discarded condom packet and tears it open, rolls it on with patience he didn’t know he had.
And then he’s there, Jensen’s knees threaded over his forearms and his cock pressing in. Jensen hisses at the feel of Misha breaching him, and Misha holds still until he feels Jensen push toward him.
“Oh my god,” Jensen whispers, so full of emotion that Misha wants to look away.
“Just wait,” Misha whispers back and starts to move, sliding slow and sure into him.
It feels like hours, but is only seconds before Misha adjusts the angle, leaning awkwardly down to be closer to Jensen. It feels amazing and he can’t believe it’s come to this, of all the things he thought when he woke up this morning, to have Jensen, to truly have him in every way possible right now, is so far removed from that reality he can hardly parse it.
Misha groans as he feels Jensen tight around him. It’s too much, and he isn’t going to last, not this time. Just the thought that there will be a next time makes him impossibly harder.
Jensen wraps his legs around Misha’s lower back, pulling him closer, and Misha obliges, pushing in harder and quicker, letting the sweat of their skin slick the skin between. The angle changes as Misha moves and Jensen cries out, swearing loudly. Misha is about to lose it. He levers himself back up onto one arm and uses his free hand to wrap around Jensen’s cock, pulling countertime to the thrusts of his pelvis.
Jensen seizes up as if electrified, and with a shout he’s coming, cock steely hard in Misha’s grip and come spurting onto his stomach in white ropes. Misha shudders, riding the wave with Jensen before he, too, comes, long and hard and buried deep inside of Jensen.
They lay there, nothing but harsh breathing and pounding heartbeats for a long moment before Misha pulls out. He’s careful and slow, removes the condom and ties it off before discarding it.
And then he’s straight back in Jensen’s arms, like he never left. Jensen pulls him in tight, despite the sticky mess, and they lie there, saying nothing, feeling everything.
* * *
When Misha wakes, they’re tangled together in a heap of limbs, unconsciously knotting themselves together in an effort not to fall off the bed during the night. Misha blinks the sleep from eyes and concentrates to make sure his eyelids aren’t going to slide shut and pull him back to sleep. If he were asleep, he wouldn’t be able to see Jensen’s dazzling smile, and that would be a crime. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a loon himself.
“Hey,” Jensen says, voice still raspy from the night before.
“Hey, yourself,” Misha replies.
“So that was...” Jensen starts.
Misha laughs softly. “Yes.”
“We need to do that again,” Jensen says seriously, but the spark of want in his eyes betrays his cool demeanour.
“How about now?” Misha asks, fairly reasonably, he thinks. He dips his head and sucks a bruise onto Jensen’s collarbone.
Jensen groans and wiggles underneath him in a way Misha is definitely amenable to.
“As much as I’d love to, and seriously Misha, I want to. I kinda have to go and stop Sam.”
Misha pulls back from Jensen’s throat and raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Stop Sam what?”
Jensen blushes and Misha wants nothing more than to nuzzle at it, to lick it and see if it turns even pinker. “Um, I might maybe have enlisted her in the search for you?”
Misha tenses immediately at the implications, but Jensen soothes him immediately, a hand sliding down Misha’s arm. “No, don’t worry. She’s not going to say anything... At least, she promised she’d wait until I confirmed you were gone.”
“And you believed her?” Misha asks, genuinely asking despite the worry that skitters through him and urges him to snap.
Jensen nods. “Yeah, man. I think it went against every bone in her body, but she’s known me since I was a kid. And she knows you. She’s giving us the benefit of the doubt.”
Misha relaxes slightly. “Hmmm. You better go pacify her before that benefit goes away, then. It’d suck to make up, only to get thrown out of school for running away.”
Jensen nods solemnly. “Yes, yes it would.”
Jensen kisses him chastely before extricating his arms and legs and standing, stretching unashamedly. Misha likes that about Jensen, that despite his hardwired acceptable behaviour and uptight monied decency, when he’s alone with Misha, especially post sex, he’s unabashed about nakedness. Misha likes to think of it as a show of trust. It’s one he appreciates.
Jensen starts pulling on underwear and pants, reaches for his shirt but then stops, turns to Misha as if uncertain. “You’ll be back... later?”
Misha nods, warmth spreading from his stomach and through his limbs. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
* * *
The bad part about surreptitiously breaking into someone’s house and not wanting them to find out is that you have to leave it in the same way you found it. Which means Misha spends the next two hours washing Alona’s sheets and Jared’s clothes before running them through the dryer.
While he waits for them to be done, he gets a chance to reflect, finally alone in his own thoughts after the tumultuous night before.
He has to admit it scares him, how easily he let Jensen back in. It wasn’t the wrong decision, he’s sure of it, but the fact remains that he’d been ready to leave his entire life to get away from the pain Jensen caused him. To handwave that away for a few tears hides something so monumental that Misha can’t even focus on it without his brain hurting. He’s pretty sure it’s way too terrifying to poke at, and so he doesn’t, tucks it away inside himself to be examined later, when they’re both more sure. Both together.
If they are, that is. Because, of course, he could still run. Leave that worrying tidbit of information and flee to safer ground. But the way Jensen had looked at him and asked if he’d be back tugs in his chest and Misha knows that he could never. Would never.
Still, it’s problematic; he’d always planned to get out of Ellis as soon as his birthday came around, not more than a month away. Now, though, he doesn’t know. As terrifying as the thought is, as constricting as the idea feels, he thinks he maybe wants to stay. He wants to be with Jensen. The past few days have done nothing to diminish that; if anything, they’ve made the reaction stronger.
In fact, when he’s really honest about it, he wants more than to stay until the end of the year. He wants to stay with Jensen forever. It’s stupid and makes him feel like a lovesick teen, fawning over a pin-up like those on Alona’s walls. He’s been around too long to think life will turn out that way, happily ever after, one true love, et cetera.
And yet... for Jensen, he wants it to.
He hasn’t completely lost his mind, he reasons. It’s not like he’s going to sacrifice his own future to follow Jensen around in his. But a future is something Misha has never had before, and suddenly he finds himself fiercely protective of it. Wanting to do what’s smart, rather than what’s safe. And he wants to do all that with Jensen by his side.
If Jensen goes to college, and Jensen has always said he would, wanting to get away from his dad and be independent from him in money more than just living arrangements, then Misha wants to do it too. It’s such a simple, startlingly easy decision that Misha laughs out loud in the laundry room, the sound echoing off the tiles over the thrum of the dryer. He probably startles Cyril.
They’ve had so much baggage, him and Jensen. Crap that has rained down on them from parents neither of them really know. They’ve been hurt, abandoned, used, and exploited. Probably, in their own ways, none of their parents are even bad people. Just selfish and caught up in their own lives.
Hell, maybe the way Misha feels about Jensen and, he’s pretty sure, the way Jensen feels about him, is just as batshit crazy selfish. Will lead them down roads like the ones their parents travelled. Nothing but time, and probably intense therapy, will tell if that’s true. In the meantime, it’s time to do things on their own.
He pulls the sheets out of the dryer and remakes Alona’s bed, places Jared’s clothes back in his closet. Lets himself out and heads back into the main grounds.
He trudges back over the icy, crystalline grass towards the imposing stone buildings of Ellis and the knowledge and history contained within them. Even the pillars look stately rather than pretentious today, reflecting white from the pockets of melting snow on the ground. There are no leaves on the oaks, just icy water dripping off their branches and through the Spanish moss like water down an old man’s beard.
It’s still a prison, in its own way. Walls defined to keep people in and fill them up. It’s not freedom by a long shot, but somewhere in there is Jensen, and somehow that is home.
Misha’s never been happier to have one.
* * *
Chapter 13
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights & kriari
Rating: NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
When Misha wakes up the next morning, it’s because a weak but persistent ray of sunshine is filtering through a gap in the curtains and hitting him square in the face.
Blearily, he tries to open his gummed-up eyes, but they hurt and his vision is fuzzy, so he closes them again. After puking up the contents of his stomach last night, which wasn’t much, given he hadn’t eaten all day, he’d sat numbly in the shower until the water started to run cold.
Maudlin, he’d noted that it would match the temperature of blood in his veins.
It was chilly in the house, and despite the warmth of Alona’s bed, he’d needed more insulation. Clothes that weren’t Jensen’s. Jared would kill him if he knew, but Jared wasn’t here, so Misha had rummaged through Jared’s meticulously clean closet and found sweats and a t-shirt to put on. The legs were a foot too long and the t-shirt looked more like a dress on Misha’s smaller frame, but at least he was warm and in Jensen-less attire.
Now, with the light of the morning bringing a dusty haze to the room, things don’t seem as bleak as they did the night before. Misha waits for the rush of despair to hit him when the knowledge of yesterday sinks back in, but it doesn’t. Instead he feels numb, resigned to his new world-view.
His phone lets him know it’s around lunchtime, and that no one called while he was asleep. Jensen mustn’t have alerted anyone. Misha doesn’t know what that means, but it makes him feel queasy. Which is ironic, since his stomach chooses right then to grumble and alert him to the fact that, ill feeling or not, he hasn’t eaten in almost 24 hours.
Pulling Alona’s terrycloth robe off the back of the door and on over Jared’s gigantor clothes, Misha makes his way downstairs and into the Padalecki kitchen. The fridge is on, but there isn’t anything in it that would spoil, which pretty much amounts to condiments and some margarine.
He opens random cupboards, finds cereal in one and a bowl in another. The idea of eating them dry makes him gag, so in the end he pours in a small amount of water. He eats standing up. He doesn’t want to sit down or make himself comfortable. He’s trespassing as it is; there’s no need to enjoy it.
It feels more illegal somehow, downstairs. Upstairs in Alona’s room he at least feels familiar, invited even, at a stretch. It occurs to him, as he forces the soggy, tasteless cereal down his throat, that if he leaves Ellis, he probably won’t ever see Alona again. The thought makes him even sadder. Jensen is one thing to leave; he’s given him reason to do so without looking back. But Alona is innocent in all this, has been nothing but a friend. He’ll miss her a great deal.
For the first time, Misha realises the gravity of leaving. It isn’t just a relationship or even a fake family; this time he’s leaving friends in a way he’s never had to deal with before. Sure, he’s had faux siblings he’s grown close to in the past, but they were more like cellmates than chosen confidants. At Ellis, that was different. With so many other inmates, he’d been free to make friends selectively. Even if he hadn’t really made many, there were some. Alona, Rob, Julie. Sam. Even the dean had made an impression on him.
Sighing, Misha rinses the bowl in the sink and dries it off on the dish-towel before placing it back in the cupboard.
The effort of feeding himself tires him out and, frankly, he’s sick of thinking. Of having been forced into a situation where he has to think about every facet of his life in new and painful ways.
He makes his way back upstairs, wonders what he should do next. Go back to Ellis, leave outright, sleep some more so he doesn’t have to think anymore. He’s just thinking about how best to get out of the house without being seen when his phone starts vibrating in his hand. The sound is off, but there’s no mistaking an incoming call when Jensen’s picture flashes up on his screen. In it, Jensen’s hair sticks up every which way as he looks angrily at the camera. Misha had snapped it after they’d fucked one time, the spikes of Jensen’s wayward hair sculpted there by Misha’s own fingers. Jensen had been alarmed and then pissed in quick succession at Misha’s phone coming out, and then he’d punished Misha for taking the picture; it had been awesome.
The picture now serves to remind Misha of what he’s lost, and he quickly silences it, swiping to reject the call. It isn’t until after, when it doesn’t ring again, that Misha wonders what Jensen wanted. What he could possibly be calling for.
He flings the phone across the room, cringes, and yet enjoys the dull thud it makes as it hits the drywall and thumps to the carpet.
Sleep it is, then. He crawls back into bed.
* * *
The next time Misha wakes, the sun is painting shadows on the far wall of Alona’s room. Judging by the hollowness in his stomach, it’s starting to get late. His sense of time is all fucked up, and his meager breakfast-cum-lunch has already worn off. If he wants to not starve to death, he’s going to have to venture out and find something to eat.
He still has no money, and he’s not going to steal from the Padaleckis even if he were to go through their things and find an errant stash of money, which leaves him with few options. The best he’ll be able to do is see if he can somehow get into the school’s kitchen. It won’t be easy; it tends to be locked up tight during the holidays due to the low number of staff needed to man it for so few students. It means less kitchen staff to bribe, and less to be too distracted to notice (or deal with) an errant kid poking around in the fridges.
It’s really his only chance for food right now, though. If he ventures out now, there’s a hope that the kitchens will be open in preparation for the night’s dinner. He’d attend the dinner itself, but nothing in the world would make him run into Jensen while waiting in line for corned beef.
Groaning at the ache in his limbs, he retrieves his phone from its exile in the corner of Alona’s room. There are no more calls from Jensen, thank god. Even though part of him kind of wishes...
Dwelling on it will fill him with pain, though, so he forces himself not to think about it. Food, he needs to focus on getting food. Misha heads back downstairs and slips his shoes on; they’re damp, but not soaking wet. He has to roll Jared’s sweat pants up to keep from tripping in them...but inside they keep him warm like some kind of weird adult onesie. Outside, they’ll trip him and have him face first in the mud. Not to mention if someone sees him... Even if they do see him with them rolled up, he looks somewhat ridiculous, wearing clothes that are at least four sizes too big on him.
He watches through the glass panels in the door, and when he’s sure the coast is clear - there really is no one around during the holidays - he slips out, slides the key back into its hiding spot. He wanders oh-so-casually towards the school proper. Once inside the main buildings, it’s easier. He knows the corridors Jensen is unlikely to be in, that anyone is unlikely to be in, and five minutes later he’s at the cafeteria kitchens.
They’re locked, but he’s sure they must open soon for the dinner meal, so he waits. Sure enough, not five minutes later one of the cooks, Christopher, comes down the corridor. Inwardly, Misha curses his luck. Christopher is not who he wants to deal with. The guy is tall and beanpole thin, sharp, hawk-like nose, and eyes light yet somehow still foreboding. He has always given Misha the creeps, staring just a little too long, or making snide remarks at the kids who took second helpings. Regardless, he has two large trays in his arms, and Misha is quick to duck out of his hiding place and offer to help with the door.
“Thanks,” Christopher nods, allows Misha to take the tray and help him back into the stainless steel hub of the work-space. “You all might be few, but you eat enough for an army.”
Misha forces a laugh. “Growing boys, man. It’s what we do when we’re not thinking about chicks.”
Christopher laughs, its quality somewhat off. “Guess I’m lucky I’m the cook and not housekeeping, then.”
Misha nods, and tries not to think about it. He picks up an apple out of a nearby fruit basket, as if checking its quality. He watches as Christopher starts up the ovens, gets things from the large refrigerator like lettuce and tomatoes. The guy doesn’t seem to care that Misha is still standing there awkwardly.
“Um, so, I don’t suppose I could get mine to go a bit early?” Misha tries for casual, but isn’t sure if he succeeds or not.
“Hot date?” Christopher sneers.
“Something like that,” Misha says, trying to look like an eager kid with a hook-up planned. Whatever that might look like.
Christopher looks at him, his gaze too sharp, seemingly weighing up whether Misha is going to nark on him or not. Finally he shrugs. “Sure. Why not. But it’ll be cold, you’ll need to heat it up somehow. Don’t go bitchin’ if you get food poisoning.”
Misha shakes his head and crosses a finger over his heart. “Not a chance, man. We’re cool.”
He watches as the guy takes the tinfoil off the trays he’d brought in. The smell of freshly baked, though cold, lasagna wafts towards him and Misha’s stomach rumbles loudly. Christopher just raises an eyebrow at him. Misha watches as he cuts a large chunk out of the tray and slaps it down on some tin foil. Seconds later, it’s being handed to him.
“Keep the apple,” Christopher says and turns back to his preparations. It’s a dismissal and Misha is glad for it.
He heads out of the kitchen and winds his way back through the corridors to the outside. Dusk is starting to fall, and the oak trees take on a menacing darkness in the gloom. It’s amazing how fast a day goes when you sleep through most of it.
He’s almost in the clear, turning down one of the gravelled paths that will head back to the teacher’s housing complex, when he sees someone coming the other way towards him. It’s too late to hide so he keeps walking, heart sinking as he recognises the person as Rob.
Does he know? Has Jensen told him that he was room sharing with the son of a philandering murderer?
“Hey, Misha,” Rob says brightly as soon as he’s in conversation distance.
So Jensen hasn’t said anything yet. Weird. What’s keeping him from telling everyone?
“Hey,” Misha replies. He tries to act normal, like he isn’t wearing a giants clothes and holding cold lasagna in his hand. “What’s up?”
“Oh, you know,” Rob says. “Spent the day in Charleston visiting an aunt. Well, she’s not really an aunt, not by blood. More of a family friend, really,” he rambles.
“Ah,” Misha says, at a lost for words.
“What about you?” Rob asks innocently.
“Oh nothing much,” Misha replies. “You know, just catching up on sleep and that.” It isn’t a total lie.
Rob nods then looks back over his shoulder, as if realising Misha’s walking away from the school. “You headed out?”
Shit.
“Nah, I have to go feed, um, Alona’s cat...” Misha holds up the aluminum foil package as evidence of his lie.
“Alona has a cat?” Rob queries.
Misha nods. “Yeah, just recently. His name’s Cyril. Anyway, I better go... he gets mean if he’s hungry.”
“Oh, okay then. See ya later.” Rob beams, and with a wave he heads off towards the school.
Misha sighs in relief. That was close. Too close. He needs to get out of Ellis, and fast. He hurries back to the Padaleckis’ and Cyril, their new and imaginary cat.
* * *
Back inside the safety of Jared’s house, Misha heats up the lasagna in the oven. With the lights off, the house is succumbing to the dusk that falls outside, and he squints to make out the temperature dials. Wouldn’t do to burn down the house that’s hiding him.
After eating, he feels, if not a hundred, at least eighty percent better. The remaining twenty simply isn’t going to be satiated by food, anyway. Throwing the empty tinfoil into the trash, he heads upstairs. It’s time to make some firmer plans, work out where buses leave from and how much money he’s going to have to find before they’ll allow him to get on one.
He debates turning on Alona’s computer, but he worries the glow will be too obvious through the curtains. Instead, he pulls out his phone and lies back on Alona’s bed.
It looks like - if he can get back into Charleston - there’s a direct Manhattan route he could get on at 1.50pm tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can get the same bus back to Charleston that he took to get out of there yesterday, that could work. The problem will be getting back to their... his room. He doesn’t have much stuff there he’ll miss, it’s true. But he can hardly get off the bus in Manhattan dressed as he is now. If nothing else, he wants his phone charger and a change of clothes.
He’s contemplating a way to get into his room without Jensen being there, maybe involving some kind of distraction by way of an unknowing Rob, when he hears wood creaking. He sits upright, blinking in the pitch-blackness and pushes his phone dark.
Seconds tick by with nothing else pinging his radar and he’s about to breathe out a sigh of relief and berate himself for being such a paranoid freak, when he hears the distinct metallic whisper of a key being slid home in a lock. The front door.
Panicking, Misha gets out of bed, pads quietly over to stand behind Alona’s ajar door. The sounds don’t get louder; not the booming voice of Jared calling dibs on the first shower, or Alona’s higher-pitched snort that he’s welcome to it, would be doing all of them a favour. There aren’t suitcases being thumped onto floors or lights being switched on. Just a silent, barely there creak as floorboards are pressed, stairs climbed.
It would be his luck that while hiding from the danger of ex-boyfriends, he’ll end up the star of a break-and-enter. He wishes he had something heavy at hand, a baseball bat or academy award. Alona is not un-sporty, but all her equipment is stashed away somewhere not within Misha’s easy reach.
The creak of the floor on the landing indicates that, whoever it is, they’re right outside Alona’s door. Misha can practically hear them breathing. He’s about to bolt, take his chances past the intruder and down the stairs, when the person speaks.
“Mish?” comes the whisper, soft and unsure.
Jensen. It’s goddamn, fucking Jensen.
Wildly, Misha yanks the door open as he steps out, adrenaline flushing through him and anger rising at being made to cower like he did when he was a child. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps, barely keeping his voice down.
Jensen’s eyes go wider than seems possible, already black and large in the darkness of the house. His hand flies up over his heart, and Misha would be ashamed at the flare of petty smugness he feels at startling Jensen, if he weren’t still scared himself.
”Jesus, Misha!” Jensen cries out in alarm. “I was looking for you. What the fuck are you doing?!”
Misha steadies himself and takes a distancing step backwards further into the room. Unsettlingly, Jensen takes a step forward. “I thought you were someone breaking in,” he says.
“And you were going to, what, scare them to death?” Jensen asks, a tinge of the sarcasm Misha used to love threading through his now calmer voice.
“Seemed to work,” Misha shrugs.
They stand there in silence, watching each other in the gloom, shadowy but incredibly familiar figures.
“So,” Misha eventually says, breaking the silence. “What are you doing here, Jensen?” His voice is cold, and he’s careful not to shorten the name to ‘Jen’ like his tongue is trained to do.
Jensen takes another step forward. His hand reaches out beseechingly, not touching, but clearly asking for something. Peace, a chance, space - Misha has no idea.
“I want,” Jensen begins and then seems to reconsider. “I thought you might have gone. Rob said he saw you, but when the lights were off, I thought maybe...”
Jensen trails off and Misha snorts softly. “What, and you were worried? I find that difficult to believe.”
Misha can see Jensen shaking his head. He doesn’t know where this is going, only knows he has to be careful, push the walls back up and hold them together for dear life.
“I talked to my dad,” Jensen tries again.
“Didn’t we all,” Misha snaps, and this time the anger flares in him. He lets it, stalking back towards the bed.
“No, wait,” Jensen says, and there’s an urgency to his tone, something that sounds like fear and stops Misha in his tracks. He turns back, but says nothing.
“I talked to him, and I went looking for... I don’t... I mean, I know now that it wasn’t like he said, man. It wasn’t your parents’ fault, it was his.”
Misha reels, confusion warring with the need to run, to fight. “What the hell do you mean?”
“There was a fraud... embezzlement and your mom, she must have found out, told the authorities. She did the right thing, Misha. I mean, I don’t know why she did it, and maybe it was just for money, but morally it was what should have been done.”
Jensen’s words are in English, but they don’t make any sense. Misha’s parents are always the ones in the wrong, that isn’t even a question. His whole worldview is built on that one true fact.
“Sure, while she was fucking your dad, right?” Misha’s used to making up lewd stories about his parents designed to shock, but this one, its truth, tastes bitter and horrid on his tongue.
He can practically see Jensen rolling his eyes, even though there’s no way he could make it out in the darkness.
“I don’t really know,” Jensen admits, quietly, brokenly and Misha’s heart betrays him, aches to go to Jensen and soothe him. “I think, I think my mom was sick, Mish,” Jensen says and this time his voice does break and, before Misha’s realised his brain has given him the order to move, he finds himself standing directly in front of Jensen, feeling the puff of ragged breaths ghosting across his face.
Jensen seems unaware of Misha’s proximity, or steadfastly ignores it, instead continuing on in the same broken cadence.
“There were rumours, but I don’t know if they were true, and anyway, it was all my dad. My asshole of a father once again fucking things up and running away from the blame. It wasn’t your parents fault,” Jensen repeats, talking but not really aware of it. “And they’re not you, Misha, they aren’t you and my dad is a dick, and I’m so sorry, man, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Hey,” Misha says softly, and just like that he’s reaching out, putting his hands on Jensen’s shoulders to steady him as the anger, the built-up, justified, terrifying anger simply evaporates inside him like a mist of rain on hot metal. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Jensen says, shrugging as if to dislodge Misha’s hands. “What he accused you of, what I accused you of. Fuck, Misha. I know you can’t ever forgive someone something like that, I know -”
Misha cuts him off, words coming of their own accord. “I do.”
It surprises him about as much as it seems to surprise Jensen, going by the sharp intake of his breath.
“What?” Jensen sounds hesitant, as if waiting for Misha to pull the rug out from under him. It should make Misha feel vindicated, but instead it makes him sad.
“I forgive you,” he repeats, and it feels so undeniably right that suddenly he can breathe properly again, the pain and weight lifting as if it were never there.
Jensen has been struck dumb, apparently.
“Hey, I may not forgive your dad anytime soon, or like, ever,” Misha attempts humour, hears it fall flat, but carries on. “But you aren't your father, Jensen. You never would have said those things, never would have come back to find me if you were.”
“I’m so sorry, Misha. I know better than to listen to his bullshit. I don’t know what really happened, but I’m sure we can find out if we just -”
Misha steps in and kisses Jensen; it seems the only way to get him to shut up. He finds his mouth instantly, despite the darkness. He knows Jensen and knows how to do this like he knows his own name. Jensen’s lips are salty with tears they’ll both pretend were never there, but his mouth is warm and familiar and, when Jensen kisses back, tongue slipping in tentatively, Misha knows everything is going to be alright.
Jensen must feel it too, because suddenly he’s in Misha’s arms, pushing him backwards with his weight, and they tangle as they cross the room, a weird blind tango until Misha’s calves hit the back of Alona’s bed and they topple down onto it.
“Fuck,” Jensen breathes, and this time it’s not timid or scared. This time it’s awed. “Misha.”
“I damn well hope so.” Misha grins and pulls Jensen’s mouth back to his.
Jensen presses against him and Misha hooks a leg over him to keep him close, the action bringing Jensen’s pelvis flush against his, aligning their growing erections through denim and fleece. Misha moans, fingers gripping and flexing against the back of Jensen’s t-shirt. It isn’t enough, it won’t ever be enough. Not after the last two days.
“Skin,” Misha murmurs as Jensen breaks for air, starts to bite along Misha’s stubbled jaw. “We need more skin, Jen.”
“Yes.” Jensen laughs euphorically against Misha’s throat before levering himself up. He’s pulling off his shirt and unbuttoning jeans, and Misha can only watch in amazement as the paleness of Jensen’s skin is revealed, glowing slightly in the moonlight that comes through the window.
“You too,” Jensen says and Misha can just make out the raised eyebrow as Jensen kneels above him. Jensen goes to help him with his clothes and then stops, frowning. “Dude. What the fuck are you wearing?”
If it were light, Misha might be embarrassed to be caught out by the flush suffusing his cheeks. “Well, it was either this or Alona’s school uniform.”
“You’re wearing Jared’s clothes?” Jensen asks, voice rising at the end. “Man, that is so wrong.”
“Well get them the fuck off me, loser,” Misha grouses.
Jensen laughs, throaty and aroused. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Misha’s about to retort that apparently he does have to, but Jensen is sliding the sweat pants down his legs, and cold air hits his skin like a physical slap. Then Jensen’s mouth is on him, kissing up his inner thighs and into the soft hair at the base of his cock. Misha only has seconds to bunch the sheets beneath him into his hands before Jensen's mouth, hot as a furnace, descends on his cock, and Misha’s arching into it, hips threatening to jump off the mattress.
“Jesus,” Misha hisses as Jensen’s hands find his hips, spread and hold him flat. Jensen just hums in acknowledgment, the reverberation travelling down Misha’s dick and straight to his spine.
Misha’s eyes screw shut tightly as Jensen sucks, laves his tongue against his cock and mouths at him with the pursed circle of his lips. It’s too much, way too fucking much and Misha’s dying a tortuous amazing death as the tension ratchets up his spine. He’s about to push Jensen away, stop him before this is over about an hour sooner than he wants it to be, when Jensen pulls off him, string of saliva glistening in the moonlight like an obscene tether that Jensen breaks with the back of a hand across his mouth.
“I want you to fuck me,” Jensen says, voice deep and full of emotion.
Misha moves to sit up, the length of Jared’s t-shirt falling to tent over his cock. Jensen can’t possibly mean what Misha thinks he means. They’ve fooled around a lot, but most of the time they bring each other off by hand or mouth, or simply by rutting against each other until it becomes too much. While they’ve maybe explored here and there with caresses and touches, it’s never gone further.
“You mean...?” Misha asks, voice carefully neutral in case he’s reading the situation wrong.
Jensen pulls at Jared’s t-shirt, lifts it up and over Misha’s head and flings it aside before he presses Misha back down into the sheets, covers him with his body. Jensen kisses him again, soft and less urgently than a second ago. Misha stares up at him as Jensen pulls back.
“Yeah,” Jensen whispers. “Please?”
Misha groans. “Fuck, Jen. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Jensen affirms, eyes glittering down at Misha.
The worry must be playing on Misha’s face, because Jensen smiles softly. “This isn’t some weird form of penance, Misha, I swear.”
“Thank God.” Misha blasphemes without any sense of irony and pulls Jensen back down, recapturing his mouth. Jensen’s body covers him, a warm slide of muscle and skin melding into Misha’s body. Their cocks slip together as Jensen moves, their gasps loud in the quiet of the room. Misha wants more, wants to take Jensen apart piece by piece and make him safe again, remove any doubt, any lingering hurt.
Jensen starts biting at the bared skin of Misha’s neck, sharp pin-pricks that ride the line between pleasure and pain, thrilling electricity down Misha’s veins. It takes every ounce of self-control to not give in, to remember there are things they need to sort out.
“Wait, Jen,” Misha gasps as Jensen’s hand slides downwards, caressing the side of his ribs, his hip. “We need stuff, if we want to...”
Jensen rises off him slightly, elbows to either side of Misha’s head. “Got it covered,” Jensen says before mouthing across Misha’s cheekbone. It tickles and Misha laughs.
“What, you have lube in your pocket?” he teases.
Jensen pulls back fully this time, his smile bright even in the dark. “No, but I know where Jared keeps his.”
“Okay, gross,” Misha replies.
Jensen laughs. “It was a dare, he had to admit to liking Alona’s friend Jess or go into the nearest 7-11 and buy an armful of lube. Guess which option he chose.”
“Of course he did,” Misha says.
“Well, anyway, I know where he keeps the twenty-five bottles he had to buy,” Jensen finishes. “Wait here.”
And with that, Jensen is up and off, Misha left with nothing but cold air hitting his overheated skin. A series of bumps and what Misha is pretty sure is muffled profanity comes back to him before Jensen is back, triumphant.
“I hope you’re not about to tell me we’re borrowing his condoms too,” Misha remarks as Jensen settles back next to him. “Because if you thought his clothes were too big...”
This time Jensen is the one grossed out, if the groan he makes into Misha’s shoulder is anything to go by. “Oh my god, can we stop talking about Jared now?”
Misha considers that a victory. “Yes, gladly. But do you have protection, Jen?”
Misha’s eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out Jensen rolling his eyes just fine this time.
“Of course, ever since we, well, you know. I’ve been thinking about...well, you know,” Jensen says, sounding so bashful that Misha loves him a thousandfold more.
“Good,” Misha says, and with a quick maneuver he isn’t sure he’ll pull off, but does, he flips Jensen onto his back.
He can practically feel the nervous energy coming off Jensen, so he does nothing but kiss him. He pours into it everything that he’s felt over the last months, the joy, the relief, the safety, the pain and regret, and now the undying need that he feels for the boy beneath him. Jensen matches him every step, pulling Misha down into him and arms tightening around his back, keeping Misha close.
The kiss quickly intensifies, and Misha can feel Jensen pressing up into him to increase friction, Jensen’s erection slip-sliding against Misha’s stomach in a cool trail of pre-come. Which Misha is fine with; the feeling is mutual, and he can’t help but grind back down into Jensen, pulling out groans and sighs as the intensity heats up.
“Mish,” Jensen whispers, full of want. “In my wallet.”
Misha understands, and it takes only a wayward flinging of his arm before he finds Jensen’s pants on the floor, extracts the leather wallet and slips the foil packet out of the sleeve. He waits to open it, though, reaches instead for the bottle of lubrication Jensen put on Alona’s nightstand. The liquid is cold and slick, sliding down Misha’s fingers and across his wrist. Yeah, this is gonna be messy.
He leans back down, recapturing Jensen’s mouth and sucking on his bottom lip, teasing with nips and slides of his tongue as he gently parts Jensen’s legs with his hands.
Jensen yelps. “Fuck, that’s cold.”
“Shhh,” Misha chuckles. “Not for long.” He trails the wet of his fingers up Jensen’s inner thigh and then threads them through the coarse hair at the bottom of Jensen’s cock, smearing the mess. Jensen fidgets and Misha pacifies him, wrapping his fingers around Jensen’s erection and stroking, the lube heating with the friction and Jensen gasping at the touch.
When he’s satisfied Jensen isn’t going to be complaining again anytime soon, he applies more of the liquid and trails his fingers downwards, over the gentle give of Jensen’s balls, the soft skin behind them. He watches Jensen’s face as he does it, the open trust shining at him. His heart feels like it’s growing ten sizes bigger, and Misha leans back, licking across Jensen’s mouth. With his fingers he teases at Jensen, gets him used to the feel of light touches like they’ve done before, until Jensen is whining at him and Misha laughs into his mouth, pressing his finger in slowly and sure.
They continue like that, a slow quiet bubble of only them, experimenting and learning. The noises Jensen makes are like nothing Misha’s heard before, and he has to concentrate not to come from that alone.
“More,” Jensen whispers into the darkness, and Misha knows he’s ready, knows himself that he needs to be in Jensen right now, or it will all be over.
He moves up to his knees, situates himself between the V of Jensen’s splayed legs, smooths his hands down over Jensen’s thighs.
“Okay?” he asks one more time. Just to be sure.
“Misha, I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now...” Jensen growls, and the vibrato in his voice makes Misha’s cock jerk almost painfully where it rests against his stomach. He reaches for the discarded condom packet and tears it open, rolls it on with patience he didn’t know he had.
And then he’s there, Jensen’s knees threaded over his forearms and his cock pressing in. Jensen hisses at the feel of Misha breaching him, and Misha holds still until he feels Jensen push toward him.
“Oh my god,” Jensen whispers, so full of emotion that Misha wants to look away.
“Just wait,” Misha whispers back and starts to move, sliding slow and sure into him.
It feels like hours, but is only seconds before Misha adjusts the angle, leaning awkwardly down to be closer to Jensen. It feels amazing and he can’t believe it’s come to this, of all the things he thought when he woke up this morning, to have Jensen, to truly have him in every way possible right now, is so far removed from that reality he can hardly parse it.
Misha groans as he feels Jensen tight around him. It’s too much, and he isn’t going to last, not this time. Just the thought that there will be a next time makes him impossibly harder.
Jensen wraps his legs around Misha’s lower back, pulling him closer, and Misha obliges, pushing in harder and quicker, letting the sweat of their skin slick the skin between. The angle changes as Misha moves and Jensen cries out, swearing loudly. Misha is about to lose it. He levers himself back up onto one arm and uses his free hand to wrap around Jensen’s cock, pulling countertime to the thrusts of his pelvis.
Jensen seizes up as if electrified, and with a shout he’s coming, cock steely hard in Misha’s grip and come spurting onto his stomach in white ropes. Misha shudders, riding the wave with Jensen before he, too, comes, long and hard and buried deep inside of Jensen.
They lay there, nothing but harsh breathing and pounding heartbeats for a long moment before Misha pulls out. He’s careful and slow, removes the condom and ties it off before discarding it.
And then he’s straight back in Jensen’s arms, like he never left. Jensen pulls him in tight, despite the sticky mess, and they lie there, saying nothing, feeling everything.
* * *
When Misha wakes, they’re tangled together in a heap of limbs, unconsciously knotting themselves together in an effort not to fall off the bed during the night. Misha blinks the sleep from eyes and concentrates to make sure his eyelids aren’t going to slide shut and pull him back to sleep. If he were asleep, he wouldn’t be able to see Jensen’s dazzling smile, and that would be a crime. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a loon himself.
“Hey,” Jensen says, voice still raspy from the night before.
“Hey, yourself,” Misha replies.
“So that was...” Jensen starts.
Misha laughs softly. “Yes.”
“We need to do that again,” Jensen says seriously, but the spark of want in his eyes betrays his cool demeanour.
“How about now?” Misha asks, fairly reasonably, he thinks. He dips his head and sucks a bruise onto Jensen’s collarbone.
Jensen groans and wiggles underneath him in a way Misha is definitely amenable to.
“As much as I’d love to, and seriously Misha, I want to. I kinda have to go and stop Sam.”
Misha pulls back from Jensen’s throat and raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Stop Sam what?”
Jensen blushes and Misha wants nothing more than to nuzzle at it, to lick it and see if it turns even pinker. “Um, I might maybe have enlisted her in the search for you?”
Misha tenses immediately at the implications, but Jensen soothes him immediately, a hand sliding down Misha’s arm. “No, don’t worry. She’s not going to say anything... At least, she promised she’d wait until I confirmed you were gone.”
“And you believed her?” Misha asks, genuinely asking despite the worry that skitters through him and urges him to snap.
Jensen nods. “Yeah, man. I think it went against every bone in her body, but she’s known me since I was a kid. And she knows you. She’s giving us the benefit of the doubt.”
Misha relaxes slightly. “Hmmm. You better go pacify her before that benefit goes away, then. It’d suck to make up, only to get thrown out of school for running away.”
Jensen nods solemnly. “Yes, yes it would.”
Jensen kisses him chastely before extricating his arms and legs and standing, stretching unashamedly. Misha likes that about Jensen, that despite his hardwired acceptable behaviour and uptight monied decency, when he’s alone with Misha, especially post sex, he’s unabashed about nakedness. Misha likes to think of it as a show of trust. It’s one he appreciates.
Jensen starts pulling on underwear and pants, reaches for his shirt but then stops, turns to Misha as if uncertain. “You’ll be back... later?”
Misha nods, warmth spreading from his stomach and through his limbs. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
* * *
The bad part about surreptitiously breaking into someone’s house and not wanting them to find out is that you have to leave it in the same way you found it. Which means Misha spends the next two hours washing Alona’s sheets and Jared’s clothes before running them through the dryer.
While he waits for them to be done, he gets a chance to reflect, finally alone in his own thoughts after the tumultuous night before.
He has to admit it scares him, how easily he let Jensen back in. It wasn’t the wrong decision, he’s sure of it, but the fact remains that he’d been ready to leave his entire life to get away from the pain Jensen caused him. To handwave that away for a few tears hides something so monumental that Misha can’t even focus on it without his brain hurting. He’s pretty sure it’s way too terrifying to poke at, and so he doesn’t, tucks it away inside himself to be examined later, when they’re both more sure. Both together.
If they are, that is. Because, of course, he could still run. Leave that worrying tidbit of information and flee to safer ground. But the way Jensen had looked at him and asked if he’d be back tugs in his chest and Misha knows that he could never. Would never.
Still, it’s problematic; he’d always planned to get out of Ellis as soon as his birthday came around, not more than a month away. Now, though, he doesn’t know. As terrifying as the thought is, as constricting as the idea feels, he thinks he maybe wants to stay. He wants to be with Jensen. The past few days have done nothing to diminish that; if anything, they’ve made the reaction stronger.
In fact, when he’s really honest about it, he wants more than to stay until the end of the year. He wants to stay with Jensen forever. It’s stupid and makes him feel like a lovesick teen, fawning over a pin-up like those on Alona’s walls. He’s been around too long to think life will turn out that way, happily ever after, one true love, et cetera.
And yet... for Jensen, he wants it to.
He hasn’t completely lost his mind, he reasons. It’s not like he’s going to sacrifice his own future to follow Jensen around in his. But a future is something Misha has never had before, and suddenly he finds himself fiercely protective of it. Wanting to do what’s smart, rather than what’s safe. And he wants to do all that with Jensen by his side.
If Jensen goes to college, and Jensen has always said he would, wanting to get away from his dad and be independent from him in money more than just living arrangements, then Misha wants to do it too. It’s such a simple, startlingly easy decision that Misha laughs out loud in the laundry room, the sound echoing off the tiles over the thrum of the dryer. He probably startles Cyril.
They’ve had so much baggage, him and Jensen. Crap that has rained down on them from parents neither of them really know. They’ve been hurt, abandoned, used, and exploited. Probably, in their own ways, none of their parents are even bad people. Just selfish and caught up in their own lives.
Hell, maybe the way Misha feels about Jensen and, he’s pretty sure, the way Jensen feels about him, is just as batshit crazy selfish. Will lead them down roads like the ones their parents travelled. Nothing but time, and probably intense therapy, will tell if that’s true. In the meantime, it’s time to do things on their own.
He pulls the sheets out of the dryer and remakes Alona’s bed, places Jared’s clothes back in his closet. Lets himself out and heads back into the main grounds.
He trudges back over the icy, crystalline grass towards the imposing stone buildings of Ellis and the knowledge and history contained within them. Even the pillars look stately rather than pretentious today, reflecting white from the pockets of melting snow on the ground. There are no leaves on the oaks, just icy water dripping off their branches and through the Spanish moss like water down an old man’s beard.
It’s still a prison, in its own way. Walls defined to keep people in and fill them up. It’s not freedom by a long shot, but somewhere in there is Jensen, and somehow that is home.
Misha’s never been happier to have one.
* * *
Chapter 13