Fic: Love Tokens, Supernatural RPF, Jared/Jensen, NC-17
Title: Love Tokens
Fandom: Supernatural RPF
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Content notes: mentions of serial killing, graphic sex
Notes: I didn't finish this in time forspn_masquerade, so here it is.
Summary: Jensen is a serial killer that cuts out his victims’ heart to give to his crush, his neighbor Jared. Jared doesn't quite know what to do about the boxes of human hearts showing up on his doorstep.
There’s snow outside, and in the thick white expanse, there’s two sets of footprints leading up to the door and two sets leading away. Jared watches them spread in the weak sun until it’s like giants have been walking over his lawn, before he retrieves his mail from the mat and the box from outside. The cold nips his ears and his fingers, stings the blood into his cheeks, makes him think of Texas and the hot sun, forgetting the way the air got so wet he could hardly breathe. He doesn’t like meeting the mailmen, hides behind twitched curtains, old before his time. He watches them trudge up and back, always mumbling to themselves, words splintering away in the frosty morning air, blowing on their fingers, like their breath can make a difference.
Jared’s sensible. He runs his fingers under warm water (not hot) for five minutes and doesn’t look at himself in the mirror for any of it. Pats them dry with old towel and goes back into the kitchen where his mail sits on the table, steaming gently, invisibly. They used to make him sign for it, until a letter of complaint from him and a request of a signed mail disclaimer from them, meant that he doesn’t have to talk to them anymore. Jared’s thankful. The mailman likes to stand too close in the shelter of Jared’s porch, close enough that Jared can smell his sweat, see the badly shaved line of his neck. The FedEx people have the advantage of new faces at least.
Sometimes Jared doesn’t bother to open the mail for a few days. There’s never anything new. There’s bills (he pays them), contracts (he signs them), junk mail (he burns it), and every so often a card from his parents (he burns those as well). The only boxes he gets are from Amazon and Ebay, weird things he likes to pick up here and there. He doesn’t think he’s ordered anything recently.
It’s a sense of order that makes him open it. If it’s not for him, it must be sent back. It’s heavy - there’s brown paper tied up with string for two layers, then under that, there’s a deep, heavy sheen of expensive green wrapping paper. Either Abbey6777xox is worried about her Ebay rating, or this is something entirely different. It’s a little wet at the bottom, but Jared doesn’t mind that. Underneath the paper, there’s a box. It’s been handmade, Jared can tell that - wet, fresh smell of sawdust, primed and planed and closely fitted. It’s pine wood, grain of it unmistakable, scent dull and rising if he bends down close. The top is the loosest bit, and he tugs it off, curiosity overwhelming him at last.
Inside there’s a sheet of white silk, virgin pure, spilled in loose folds, and he obeys the implicit instruction to unravel it, pulls it aside slowly, and at first he thinks there’s a flower blossom, a deep red carnation of a motif on the whiteness, before he pulls it back and reveals his gift.
It’s a heart. It doesn’t move, it sits there, impersonal and imperious, commanding attention, the careful spread of it maintained with pins, as though to show the traces of I have been. I have touched and changed and arranged. It’s beautiful, even with its modest mystery stripped from it, the wanton splay of the vena cava and aorta yielding up their secrets. It’s been washed, been dried, but Jared puts on kitchen gloves before he lifts it out of all the folds of silk and places it on the table, and sees the white slice of card protruding. It’s waterproofed, printed, informing him in small, deliberate letters: My heart is yours.
He thinks it’s lying. Whoever sent this has hardly cut out their own heart. A flip of the card reveals the truth. Take this one as a token.
The bottom of the box is filled with slowly, slowly melting ice, and the deep tang of the box, undercut now with the faintest hint of iron, is reminding him of something. He pulls on his gloves and opens the door of the house, breathes in deep, lets the air in his lungs, smells the clean fresh air around him. Across the snowed lawn, the pines stand straight and tall, their serried ranks a blank concealment, and he catches a hint of their resin scent on the coolness of the breeze. He thinks something might move, and he looks again at the straight lines of the footprints.
Back inside again, he takes off his gloves and looks at the heart. He could burn it, he supposes, send the ashes up the chimney with the forgotten words of his family, and the unfruitful words of people promising him cheaper home insurance. The clock strikes the hour, and on impulse he turns on the radio, catches the headlines of the local news, and hears what he expected to hear.
The body of the young man, missing since Friday, was found last night. Police say that --
He turns it off after that, uninterested in what the police might say. He has the truth in front of him. They say a present is meant to make you feel special. Give you something you never knew you wanted. A good one says more about you than the giver. Jared doesn’t see himself in that box, spread on that silk, but it doesn’t feel wrong either. So he keeps it, packed in ice, in tupperware in the chest freezer, next to the venison he prefers to beef - better for the environment and less cruel, neat in a gamey package.
When he lies in bed that night, it feels disrespectful. He imagines he can hear the thump, thump of it through the walls, a brutal, pitiless plea for privacy. He shuffles aside the frozen peas in his small fridge freezer, tips them into the big one, and leaves the box there in solitary state. While he’s up, the basics of politeness, drilled into him for years, raise their head. The stone slabs of the kitchen are icy under his feet as he rummages through the dresser for pen and paper. Scrawls a thank you in blue biro on a post-it note, and pins it to the outside of his door, peering into the dark as he does so. There’s nothing out there that he can see, just a chill wind bringing the promise of more snow.
In the morning it’s gone, and the heart is quiet, stilled.
He wouldn’t say it to the mystery gifter, but he almost prefers the silk. It’s the perfect length for a table runner, an item Jared remembers only vaguely from past Christmas dinners, and the carnation blur of darkness is mirrored three folds over. He keeps it, folded in the box, now emptied of snow. At the bottom of the box, after all the ice is done with, there’s an inked, blurred word on the wood, marked in with precision that’s run. Jensen.
It’s the name of his not-so-mystery gifter, or at least so he surmises. Jared listens more to the radio that week than he’s done in years. Turns it on for the headlines, flicks it off at the condolences, listens to the muted thump, thump of the fridge, restless. There’s an itch in him, a desire to reciprocate. You exchange gifts he thinks absently. But he’s never wanted to cut a heart out, and suspects it would be a less engaging present from him. Imitation is another form of flattery, but he doesn’t want to flatter.
It’s exactly a week after the first one that the second package arrives. The UPS man drops it off, waves a vague hand at the building as though resigning responsibility, and Jared waits and watches like always. It’ll keep, this one. There’s something meticulous in Jensen that sparks an echoing chord in Jared. He’s not neat, but there’s a place for everything and everything in its place. He wonders what space Jensen’s carving himself out. So he watches and waits, pen in his grasp, dull thrum of the fridge/freezer in the back of his mind. Nothing happens, but it whets the interest. He opens the door and carries the box inside, faint burst of excitement in his veins, the shiver-tickle of anticipation stroking down his spine.
The packaging is the same, only the paper’s red this time, a deep, satiny sheen that he folds up and sets aside, eager for the main event. The box is different as well - the top doesn’t come off, and he almost heads for a screwdriver, before he looks closer and sees the way it’s constructed - that it’s neatly grooved, and has to be slid out.
Inside is the same - the same snowy spill of silk, the heart, nestled like a chick in a nest, an extra tight fold of cloth securing it. When Jared pulls it away, it falls apart, two perfect halves mirrored imperfectly, a white card between them, with the same neat print.
My heart is yours, and he turns it over to read the reverse, until then this'll do.
There’s enough space in the freezer for a second one. Jared doesn’t think they’ll mind the company. If they push up close and intimate, have a heart to heart, there’s room for a third. It’s not a long term solution, but it’s the best he can do. Before he goes to bed, he writes another note. It’s short and simple. What would you like? He suspects Jensen more usually gets asked What do you want?
That night when he sleeps, he dreams of the answers, of what they might be. Looks out the window before he comes downstairs. There’s a single solitary track of footprints up to the door. No mail, though. He makes breakfast first, oatmeal and coffee, makes a note of what he needs to get from the store. Weather forecast, the bits of it he’s caught, says they’re in for heavy snowfall. He imagines it, a world blanketed white and heavy and silent, one track of footprints up to the door, and the snow quietly filling them in.
He detaches the note once he’s dressed for the cold, stamps out to his 4x4, holding it close in a gloved hand, reads it while he drives along deserted roads. For some reason, he expects it to say you. It doesn’t.
In the small neat print he’s becoming increasingly familiar with, Jensen’s written something you think I’d like. Jared turns it over in mild expectation, and is suitably rewarded. Or you can let me see you. There’s two hearts in his freezer, two unreciprocated presents. He thinks Jensen can have both things that he asks for. Parked in a giant, anonymous, featureless parking lot, he leans back and thinks about what he can give.
Inside, he strides up and down aisles pushing a cart, trailed at the heels by a store-neutered version of Jingle Bells. Shops for a long, cold couple of weeks ahead. Pauses his steps as he passes the sports and outdoors sections, lingers when he sees the guns. It’s just a thought, just an itch in the back of his head, a reflexive twitch in his hands, easily bitten back. But the seed is there.
Instead he ducks into the home and decoration aisles and buys what he needs, helps an elderly woman get a welcome mat from the top of the shelf, considers the message it gives. Welcome All Who Enter Here. He’s almost but not quite tempted. The beep of the self service machine is almost as irritating as Jingle Bells, but it means he’s almost out, can load up his cart with the fruits of his shopping, and head back home, damp with relief that he’s escaped. Jensen’s note is tucked between his glove and his skin, gently wilting in the heat.
After lunch he gets to work, considers the smooth untouched canvas he’s chosen, consults the picture he’s decided on. He doesn’t know if Jensen will see it, but he’s sure Jensen will understand, will see something of it. It takes longer than he’d think for indelicate work, but he doesn’t want to be careless. The outline might be crude, but it should be impeccable for what it is. It takes an hour, all told, leaves him sweating under the scarf, the coat, the fur-lined hat, all the accoutrements of someone who wasn’t born for or near winter, stolen away and hidden in this deep, dark place where night comes early.
When he’s done, he takes the yard broom and sweeps short strokes backwards over his own footprints, leaves the lawn pristine behind him, slight snow rumple where he walked, no more than that, leaves no trace behind him, bar his present to Jensen. Along the long white ribbon that is the innocent stretch of the ground, Jared’s daubed a heart in red paint, roughly correct, and then a more jumbled smear to either side, as though someone’s folded the ground round a giant heart, and left the silk snow stained. Tomorrow’s a Sunday, nobody will see. By the time Monday rolls round, it’ll be buried under the snow.
He doesn’t look out the window for the rest of the day, shading into night, but he keeps the second half of his internal bargain. Jensen wants to see him. So he leaves the curtains open, where usually he’d pull them as the night rolls in, does his work watched by blank, empty windows, nothing but blackness beyond them, closes them as he goes up the stairs, and leaves the ones upstairs open. He can’t know if Jensen’s watching, but he suspects he is, and if he isn’t, well, Jared’s kept his end of the bargain. He doesn’t pose or stretch or strip in front of the windows, that’s not him, and Jensen had asked to see him. Him is two minutes of brushing, and a minute of gargling, the complicated winter dance of changing from day to night, the ritualistic arranging of the things beside his bed. There’s only one thing extra, and that’s the cool grip of a knife under his pillow. It’s not because he’s worried, he knows that at least, and when he sleeps, he doesn’t dream.
It’s been a clear cold night, the window’s rimed with frost outside, but there’s been no more snow fall and Jared has a clear view of the lawn. It looks the same - red spill over white snow, but when he squints, he can see the deep indent of footsteps. Jensen saw. Overhead, the sky is grey, heavy and full, a brooding promise of future intent. Jared has snow-chains for his car, a landline he never uses, if all else fails, he has stores of canned food, and a shed of wood. He should feel secure in his hamlet of humanity, but he feels exposed and vulnerable, bleakness saturating him in the face of the inevitable. The snow will come and sweep away his present, muffle the faint gasp of civilization that fights an indignant corner against encroachment. There's a heavy pulse in his stomach at the thought, an excited quick-quick thump of the chest that mirrors the hitched imagined heartbeats of his fridge. The winter presses closer and deep, the woods will yield their burden.
Jared's great-grandparents built this house. Work of their hands, fruit of their labor, they built it close on the woods, a silent, shy pair whose children took off for the sun, and whose children's children never came back. Jared just about remembers his great-grandmother, tiny and shriveled, a bone of contention just through living, who lived here until her dying day, a raisin of a woman who visited once - cool and remote in the heat of a Texas summer like she carried some inner ice, whose silence picked apart the nervous chatter of her relatives, face ancient and shut, wobbling lip a mimicry of disdain, real or imagined. It's her curtains at the window, sewn to last, her crockery in the cupboard, habit of frugality long passed down. She liked Jared best, for no reason at all, the only one of her great-grandchildren she remembered when she finally passed.
He works for the rest of the day, doesn't take his eyes off the page, even to glance up and out through the sweep of window at where the flakes are quietly settling, the flurry of snow a warning of future frenzy. The weather report warns of a storm coming the next day, bored cheery heartiness seeping over the airwaves. Stock up, folks! There's no edge to it, just reality knocking, a nod to endurance. He hears nothing, sees nothing. Four years ago, when he first moved here, his nearest neighbor drove the distance to knock on his door and give advice, kindly meant, snow frosted on his hat, encrusted on his eyelashes, while his bored teenage daughter half watched from the car, eye peering from behind a battered Rolling Stone. This year they've accepted that import or not, he'll survive.
Outside is a blizzard when he hears the door knock, and when he opens it, the blast of cold almost knocks him over. He lets winter in, the silent watcher.
Jensen steps in sharp-ish, closes the door, puts down a box, unwinds the scarves and hats and gloves that swathe him so completely he can barely be seen. He's nothing like what Jared expected. He's everything that Jared hoped, and he can feel the strange tremor of nervousness in himself, germ of doubt. There's two dreams that could be shattered here.
Jared makes them coffee, sits them down both at the table, and Jensen takes a sip, teeth chattering still. He puts the mug down and rubs his hands together. Jared touches them. It's the first time he's touched anyone in a long, long time, and he chafes the life back into Jensen’s hands, feels the bone-deep cold, the stretched taut quality of the skin, over-exposed, slow return of vitality under the care.
"Where do you live?" he asks, and Jensen smiles, white flash of teeth, eyes crinkling.
"Outside," he says simply. It's a lie of course. Jensen's clean and groomed, face shaven, his teeth impeccable. He's no man of the mountain. No-one can live outside in that, the sullen swell of snow, the temperatures that dip so far below freezing that no tent can take it for long. But Jensen's looking at him steadily like it's the truth.
"Oh," Jared says and lets the silence hang there.
"Not always," Jensen allows. "Just when I want to see you. Those are the times that count."
It's most of the truth, Jared thinks. He wonders how many winters Jensen's watched. He turns to the box that Jensen's brought with him. Of course it's rude to visit without a present. The hospitality of winter shelter is the reciprocation of this one.
"Why do you give me hearts?" he asks. What, he wants to know, what need do you see in me? He knows what giving it means about Jensen. What does it mean about Jared?
Jensen's hand presses against the left hand side of Jared's ribcage. "Because sometimes I don't think you have one."
It's not true, but it's a truth. There's something warm in Jared's chest, something that pumps the blood around his body, and wants to know what Jensen'll look like in his bed. Maybe it's something Jensen's given him. He thinks of the three hearts in the freezer, crowded up close, silent now. Their previous owners are six feet under frozen sod; whatever's left, whatever vital traces exist, belong to Jared now.
Kissing Jensen is unusual. He melts under Jared's mouth at first, giving way, until Jared retreats himself. Then he kisses back properly, gnaws at the pull of Jared's lip, too sharp teeth under too soft lips, thread of a promise of pain, almost savage, hard dart of his tongue, and Jared yields, not from fear but intrigue. He pushes back after a moment, sucks the swell of Jensen's lip in, bites at it, a sharp retribution that has Jensen press two fingers in the soft indent under Jared's ear, before he pushes in between the curve of Jared's cheek and his teeth, finds unerringly the hinge of his jaw on one side, holds him open like that, and Jared can feel a sharp ache spread, feels a long forgotten muscle memory. The last time he felt this, he was on his knees, mouth stretched too wide and deep for too long, blowing his first and last boyfriend - before Jared dumped him.
When they break apart, Jensen’s thumb runs along the bottom line of Jared’s teeth, hitches on the crooked edge, dips down into the damp space between them and his lip, runs it along the curve of Jared’s mouth, too sweet and light, pushes in with a thumbnail as though he wants to see the indent. It sends a spark down Jared’s spine, press of his lip connected to the sudden shift in his gut, the twitch in his dick. Jensen's thumb is still cold from outside, takes heat from Jared, spider stretch of his fingers against Jared's face, the dip of his chin, the shadows of his face compelling, the faintest trace of iron on Jensen's skin now sharp on Jared's tongue.
It's easy after that. Jared leads the way upstairs, leaves the curtains open so the winter can look in. They undress separately, individually, backs to each other, his great-grandparents getting ready for bed, he thinks. He shares his warmth with Jensen, brackets him from shoulder to thigh, pulls his fingers down Jensen's back, thinks the red marks he leaves are half his nails, half pressure on cold skin. He wonders how often Jensen's done this, if he's ever done this, and the thought worms deep into him. Jensen bites at his neck, no moderation, rolls Jared over to get at his chest, drag of his mouth down his neck, sharp pass of his teeth over skin, ignores everything else to get to the skin over his heart, spells out his want with the intent slide of his fingers, the rigid focus of his attention. For the very first time, Jared feels just a shred of fear, a mild tingle that joins the heat in his belly, makes his cock ache for attention, stiff and hard. He grasps Jensen by the hair and pulls him off, watches the spread of color in Jensen's face, before he pushes back into Jared's hand, arch of his neck on display.
They're constantly shifting, the movements of animals preparing to fight, a coy repositioning for advantage. Jared has it for the moment, watches the bitten red of Jensen's lips open around nothing at all, until Jensen takes it back by the simple expedient of going with it, tucks back into Jared's hand until he relaxes, then pushes forward, block of his arm across Jared's throat. He's solid and compact on top of Jared, light scattering of hair, strength in his arms and chest that looks the sort of strength that's been built outside, not in a gym, no perfect proportions or impeccable musculature, and Jared wants him. If he says to himself that he's never felt this way, it's entirely true. Before Jensen there was no-one he'd wanted to give anything at all.
"Come on," he says, and there's want and irritation and a little pique, and each one of them is a gift to Jensen. Jensen does, like he's only being waiting to be asked, fixes a hand around Jared's throat, so loosely it barely constricts, and ruts against him, heavy thick swell of his cock dragging wet against Jared's, Jensen bracing himself over him, and it's nowhere close to enough, the rub of their dicks fleeting pleasure, the heaviness of Jensen's hand a temporary relief. He shrugs free of the hand and sends them over, perilously close to the edge of the bed, leg coming up and round to turn them, Jensen's face is profoundly shocked before he grins, and lunges up, bites down hard again, an ungentle reminder that Jared might well be in bed with someone who will give him everything he's never asked for. If he knew what he wants at all, it'd be easier to predict what Jensen might give.
Jensen's got his hands around Jared's ass now, pushing his hands in so hard, almost between muscle and bone, before he digs his fingers into the crack of Jared's ass and pulls at him, until his thighs spread. Jared can only rock against him, Jensen's thumb pushing inside, and it's not a violation if Jared wants it harder, so deep he can feel the press of Jensen's knuckles against him. There's nothing to slick the way at all, dry fierce burn, and Jared pulls away and pushes back into the spread of Jensen's hands, the irrevocable intrusion of his being, can feel the silent dampness of sweat on his neck, the slipperiness of his back, as he rocks into Jensen both ways, not enough pleasure, but just enough feeling, sweet semi shock of it in his spine.
He doesn't know what Jensen will do, and that's part of the fear-heat of it all. Jensen might fuck him. Might force his fingers deeper and make Jared come on them alone, or suck Jared's cock until he begs for Jensen to stop because it's too much, too deep, and he can't come again and again, not even in that mouth. Doesn't know if Jensen'll lick him wet and fuck him with his fist, like the darkest part of Jared imagines, consumed inside and out, or fuck him some other way altogether, wrench himself open and fit Jared in, swallow Jared up cock first. He might do something bad and leave altogether. Tell me what I want, he wants to say, tell me and I'll take it.
He doesn't recognise the sound that comes from his throat, it's not part of him, it's something Jensen's forcing out of him, and Jensen's scrabbling for the lube that Jared had tossed on the bed, wet slick of two fingers now, soothing the first burn, pushing deep, for the sheer fun of it, Jared thinks. He almost writhes at the thought, braces himself on his arms, and kisses Jensen, as Jensen spreads him open with enviable ease. Jared can feel the wetness of too much lube dripping down to his balls, rocks against Jensen almost involuntarily, urged by Jensen's hand, gets his hand between them and strokes them both together as best as he can. Jensen's wetter than him, precome thick and plentiful, easy work to fist them both together, to thumb the damp head of Jensen's cock and watch the swallowed line of his throat, the way he licks his lips, the haziness of his eyes.
When Jensen fucks him at last, face to face, it's wet and bare, inexcusable and inevitable. He pushes against the place he's held open with his fingers, tucks the thickness of the head in, and hesitates, not waits. Jared executes a sharp tap on Jensen's back with a kick, takes the winter into him, sharp, heavy push of Jensen spreading him deep and wide, stretch of his thighs the echoed burn of snow slept in too long. Jensen's hot inside him, Jared sore and stretched too far, but it's the heat and sleepiness of hypothermia, not the sun. Jensen fucks regular and easy, snap of the hips, teases Jared's cock, endless movement of his fingers over the slippery head, like he’s coaxing every shred of sensation out. Jared touches everything he can, rubs his fingers over Jensen's heart, doesn't expect the stillness of Jensen's response, the stuttering gasp of his hips as he soaks Jared inside. He continues to fuck Jared through the last of it, frenzied push of himself as deep as he can get before he softens, and that's how Jared comes in the end, the flagging softness of Jensen's cock dragging out, and the almost too tight grip of Jensen's fingers around his dick.
Afterglow is not allowed to be afterglow, Jensen's fingers don't press around Jared's neck, or his cock. He doesn't finger his come back inside Jared or kiss him again. Instead he slides his hand under the pillow and grips it around the knife that Jared left there, as though in anticipation of this moment. Jared's heart, already fast from exertion, speeds up, the coldness of fear-sweat on his skin. It's the most he's ever felt, and if he dies, it's what he wants to die feeling.
Jensen isn't looking at him, eyes shuttered as he fishes through the pants he draped on the end of the bed, and brings out a little pill bottle, rattle of white tablets as he shakes them into his hand. "Do you know how many people saw me come here?" he whispers, close and intimate, and the pink flush on his cheeks is set off by the veiled glitter of his eyes. "None." And he readies the knife, as though preparing for a near dear event, all too fast.
"I don't want it," Jared says it, fast and rushed. "I don't want your heart."
It's almost a lie. He can imagine it even as he speaks. Jensen taking the pills that'll numb him enough to do his work, the messy work of Jensen cutting his own heart out, the wet rain of blood on Jared, red on white covers. But there's no room in his freezer, no room in his chest, because Jared might have a heart of his own that's only just beginning to beat an awkward rhythm. Jensen's final present.
"Stay," he says instead. "Stay and share." He takes the knife from Jensen's nerveless fingers. If you're dead, he thinks. I can't repay you.
The snow has fallen so heavily outside that the redness of the paint is long gone, buried under too many inches, and the single path of footsteps that made their way to Jared's door are almost gone. There's none that lead away.
As always, comments and crit are loved.
Fandom: Supernatural RPF
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Content notes: mentions of serial killing, graphic sex
Notes: I didn't finish this in time forspn_masquerade, so here it is.
Summary: Jensen is a serial killer that cuts out his victims’ heart to give to his crush, his neighbor Jared. Jared doesn't quite know what to do about the boxes of human hearts showing up on his doorstep.
There’s snow outside, and in the thick white expanse, there’s two sets of footprints leading up to the door and two sets leading away. Jared watches them spread in the weak sun until it’s like giants have been walking over his lawn, before he retrieves his mail from the mat and the box from outside. The cold nips his ears and his fingers, stings the blood into his cheeks, makes him think of Texas and the hot sun, forgetting the way the air got so wet he could hardly breathe. He doesn’t like meeting the mailmen, hides behind twitched curtains, old before his time. He watches them trudge up and back, always mumbling to themselves, words splintering away in the frosty morning air, blowing on their fingers, like their breath can make a difference.
Jared’s sensible. He runs his fingers under warm water (not hot) for five minutes and doesn’t look at himself in the mirror for any of it. Pats them dry with old towel and goes back into the kitchen where his mail sits on the table, steaming gently, invisibly. They used to make him sign for it, until a letter of complaint from him and a request of a signed mail disclaimer from them, meant that he doesn’t have to talk to them anymore. Jared’s thankful. The mailman likes to stand too close in the shelter of Jared’s porch, close enough that Jared can smell his sweat, see the badly shaved line of his neck. The FedEx people have the advantage of new faces at least.
Sometimes Jared doesn’t bother to open the mail for a few days. There’s never anything new. There’s bills (he pays them), contracts (he signs them), junk mail (he burns it), and every so often a card from his parents (he burns those as well). The only boxes he gets are from Amazon and Ebay, weird things he likes to pick up here and there. He doesn’t think he’s ordered anything recently.
It’s a sense of order that makes him open it. If it’s not for him, it must be sent back. It’s heavy - there’s brown paper tied up with string for two layers, then under that, there’s a deep, heavy sheen of expensive green wrapping paper. Either Abbey6777xox is worried about her Ebay rating, or this is something entirely different. It’s a little wet at the bottom, but Jared doesn’t mind that. Underneath the paper, there’s a box. It’s been handmade, Jared can tell that - wet, fresh smell of sawdust, primed and planed and closely fitted. It’s pine wood, grain of it unmistakable, scent dull and rising if he bends down close. The top is the loosest bit, and he tugs it off, curiosity overwhelming him at last.
Inside there’s a sheet of white silk, virgin pure, spilled in loose folds, and he obeys the implicit instruction to unravel it, pulls it aside slowly, and at first he thinks there’s a flower blossom, a deep red carnation of a motif on the whiteness, before he pulls it back and reveals his gift.
It’s a heart. It doesn’t move, it sits there, impersonal and imperious, commanding attention, the careful spread of it maintained with pins, as though to show the traces of I have been. I have touched and changed and arranged. It’s beautiful, even with its modest mystery stripped from it, the wanton splay of the vena cava and aorta yielding up their secrets. It’s been washed, been dried, but Jared puts on kitchen gloves before he lifts it out of all the folds of silk and places it on the table, and sees the white slice of card protruding. It’s waterproofed, printed, informing him in small, deliberate letters: My heart is yours.
He thinks it’s lying. Whoever sent this has hardly cut out their own heart. A flip of the card reveals the truth. Take this one as a token.
The bottom of the box is filled with slowly, slowly melting ice, and the deep tang of the box, undercut now with the faintest hint of iron, is reminding him of something. He pulls on his gloves and opens the door of the house, breathes in deep, lets the air in his lungs, smells the clean fresh air around him. Across the snowed lawn, the pines stand straight and tall, their serried ranks a blank concealment, and he catches a hint of their resin scent on the coolness of the breeze. He thinks something might move, and he looks again at the straight lines of the footprints.
Back inside again, he takes off his gloves and looks at the heart. He could burn it, he supposes, send the ashes up the chimney with the forgotten words of his family, and the unfruitful words of people promising him cheaper home insurance. The clock strikes the hour, and on impulse he turns on the radio, catches the headlines of the local news, and hears what he expected to hear.
The body of the young man, missing since Friday, was found last night. Police say that --
He turns it off after that, uninterested in what the police might say. He has the truth in front of him. They say a present is meant to make you feel special. Give you something you never knew you wanted. A good one says more about you than the giver. Jared doesn’t see himself in that box, spread on that silk, but it doesn’t feel wrong either. So he keeps it, packed in ice, in tupperware in the chest freezer, next to the venison he prefers to beef - better for the environment and less cruel, neat in a gamey package.
When he lies in bed that night, it feels disrespectful. He imagines he can hear the thump, thump of it through the walls, a brutal, pitiless plea for privacy. He shuffles aside the frozen peas in his small fridge freezer, tips them into the big one, and leaves the box there in solitary state. While he’s up, the basics of politeness, drilled into him for years, raise their head. The stone slabs of the kitchen are icy under his feet as he rummages through the dresser for pen and paper. Scrawls a thank you in blue biro on a post-it note, and pins it to the outside of his door, peering into the dark as he does so. There’s nothing out there that he can see, just a chill wind bringing the promise of more snow.
In the morning it’s gone, and the heart is quiet, stilled.
He wouldn’t say it to the mystery gifter, but he almost prefers the silk. It’s the perfect length for a table runner, an item Jared remembers only vaguely from past Christmas dinners, and the carnation blur of darkness is mirrored three folds over. He keeps it, folded in the box, now emptied of snow. At the bottom of the box, after all the ice is done with, there’s an inked, blurred word on the wood, marked in with precision that’s run. Jensen.
It’s the name of his not-so-mystery gifter, or at least so he surmises. Jared listens more to the radio that week than he’s done in years. Turns it on for the headlines, flicks it off at the condolences, listens to the muted thump, thump of the fridge, restless. There’s an itch in him, a desire to reciprocate. You exchange gifts he thinks absently. But he’s never wanted to cut a heart out, and suspects it would be a less engaging present from him. Imitation is another form of flattery, but he doesn’t want to flatter.
It’s exactly a week after the first one that the second package arrives. The UPS man drops it off, waves a vague hand at the building as though resigning responsibility, and Jared waits and watches like always. It’ll keep, this one. There’s something meticulous in Jensen that sparks an echoing chord in Jared. He’s not neat, but there’s a place for everything and everything in its place. He wonders what space Jensen’s carving himself out. So he watches and waits, pen in his grasp, dull thrum of the fridge/freezer in the back of his mind. Nothing happens, but it whets the interest. He opens the door and carries the box inside, faint burst of excitement in his veins, the shiver-tickle of anticipation stroking down his spine.
The packaging is the same, only the paper’s red this time, a deep, satiny sheen that he folds up and sets aside, eager for the main event. The box is different as well - the top doesn’t come off, and he almost heads for a screwdriver, before he looks closer and sees the way it’s constructed - that it’s neatly grooved, and has to be slid out.
Inside is the same - the same snowy spill of silk, the heart, nestled like a chick in a nest, an extra tight fold of cloth securing it. When Jared pulls it away, it falls apart, two perfect halves mirrored imperfectly, a white card between them, with the same neat print.
My heart is yours, and he turns it over to read the reverse, until then this'll do.
There’s enough space in the freezer for a second one. Jared doesn’t think they’ll mind the company. If they push up close and intimate, have a heart to heart, there’s room for a third. It’s not a long term solution, but it’s the best he can do. Before he goes to bed, he writes another note. It’s short and simple. What would you like? He suspects Jensen more usually gets asked What do you want?
That night when he sleeps, he dreams of the answers, of what they might be. Looks out the window before he comes downstairs. There’s a single solitary track of footprints up to the door. No mail, though. He makes breakfast first, oatmeal and coffee, makes a note of what he needs to get from the store. Weather forecast, the bits of it he’s caught, says they’re in for heavy snowfall. He imagines it, a world blanketed white and heavy and silent, one track of footprints up to the door, and the snow quietly filling them in.
He detaches the note once he’s dressed for the cold, stamps out to his 4x4, holding it close in a gloved hand, reads it while he drives along deserted roads. For some reason, he expects it to say you. It doesn’t.
In the small neat print he’s becoming increasingly familiar with, Jensen’s written something you think I’d like. Jared turns it over in mild expectation, and is suitably rewarded. Or you can let me see you. There’s two hearts in his freezer, two unreciprocated presents. He thinks Jensen can have both things that he asks for. Parked in a giant, anonymous, featureless parking lot, he leans back and thinks about what he can give.
Inside, he strides up and down aisles pushing a cart, trailed at the heels by a store-neutered version of Jingle Bells. Shops for a long, cold couple of weeks ahead. Pauses his steps as he passes the sports and outdoors sections, lingers when he sees the guns. It’s just a thought, just an itch in the back of his head, a reflexive twitch in his hands, easily bitten back. But the seed is there.
Instead he ducks into the home and decoration aisles and buys what he needs, helps an elderly woman get a welcome mat from the top of the shelf, considers the message it gives. Welcome All Who Enter Here. He’s almost but not quite tempted. The beep of the self service machine is almost as irritating as Jingle Bells, but it means he’s almost out, can load up his cart with the fruits of his shopping, and head back home, damp with relief that he’s escaped. Jensen’s note is tucked between his glove and his skin, gently wilting in the heat.
After lunch he gets to work, considers the smooth untouched canvas he’s chosen, consults the picture he’s decided on. He doesn’t know if Jensen will see it, but he’s sure Jensen will understand, will see something of it. It takes longer than he’d think for indelicate work, but he doesn’t want to be careless. The outline might be crude, but it should be impeccable for what it is. It takes an hour, all told, leaves him sweating under the scarf, the coat, the fur-lined hat, all the accoutrements of someone who wasn’t born for or near winter, stolen away and hidden in this deep, dark place where night comes early.
When he’s done, he takes the yard broom and sweeps short strokes backwards over his own footprints, leaves the lawn pristine behind him, slight snow rumple where he walked, no more than that, leaves no trace behind him, bar his present to Jensen. Along the long white ribbon that is the innocent stretch of the ground, Jared’s daubed a heart in red paint, roughly correct, and then a more jumbled smear to either side, as though someone’s folded the ground round a giant heart, and left the silk snow stained. Tomorrow’s a Sunday, nobody will see. By the time Monday rolls round, it’ll be buried under the snow.
He doesn’t look out the window for the rest of the day, shading into night, but he keeps the second half of his internal bargain. Jensen wants to see him. So he leaves the curtains open, where usually he’d pull them as the night rolls in, does his work watched by blank, empty windows, nothing but blackness beyond them, closes them as he goes up the stairs, and leaves the ones upstairs open. He can’t know if Jensen’s watching, but he suspects he is, and if he isn’t, well, Jared’s kept his end of the bargain. He doesn’t pose or stretch or strip in front of the windows, that’s not him, and Jensen had asked to see him. Him is two minutes of brushing, and a minute of gargling, the complicated winter dance of changing from day to night, the ritualistic arranging of the things beside his bed. There’s only one thing extra, and that’s the cool grip of a knife under his pillow. It’s not because he’s worried, he knows that at least, and when he sleeps, he doesn’t dream.
It’s been a clear cold night, the window’s rimed with frost outside, but there’s been no more snow fall and Jared has a clear view of the lawn. It looks the same - red spill over white snow, but when he squints, he can see the deep indent of footsteps. Jensen saw. Overhead, the sky is grey, heavy and full, a brooding promise of future intent. Jared has snow-chains for his car, a landline he never uses, if all else fails, he has stores of canned food, and a shed of wood. He should feel secure in his hamlet of humanity, but he feels exposed and vulnerable, bleakness saturating him in the face of the inevitable. The snow will come and sweep away his present, muffle the faint gasp of civilization that fights an indignant corner against encroachment. There's a heavy pulse in his stomach at the thought, an excited quick-quick thump of the chest that mirrors the hitched imagined heartbeats of his fridge. The winter presses closer and deep, the woods will yield their burden.
Jared's great-grandparents built this house. Work of their hands, fruit of their labor, they built it close on the woods, a silent, shy pair whose children took off for the sun, and whose children's children never came back. Jared just about remembers his great-grandmother, tiny and shriveled, a bone of contention just through living, who lived here until her dying day, a raisin of a woman who visited once - cool and remote in the heat of a Texas summer like she carried some inner ice, whose silence picked apart the nervous chatter of her relatives, face ancient and shut, wobbling lip a mimicry of disdain, real or imagined. It's her curtains at the window, sewn to last, her crockery in the cupboard, habit of frugality long passed down. She liked Jared best, for no reason at all, the only one of her great-grandchildren she remembered when she finally passed.
He works for the rest of the day, doesn't take his eyes off the page, even to glance up and out through the sweep of window at where the flakes are quietly settling, the flurry of snow a warning of future frenzy. The weather report warns of a storm coming the next day, bored cheery heartiness seeping over the airwaves. Stock up, folks! There's no edge to it, just reality knocking, a nod to endurance. He hears nothing, sees nothing. Four years ago, when he first moved here, his nearest neighbor drove the distance to knock on his door and give advice, kindly meant, snow frosted on his hat, encrusted on his eyelashes, while his bored teenage daughter half watched from the car, eye peering from behind a battered Rolling Stone. This year they've accepted that import or not, he'll survive.
Outside is a blizzard when he hears the door knock, and when he opens it, the blast of cold almost knocks him over. He lets winter in, the silent watcher.
Jensen steps in sharp-ish, closes the door, puts down a box, unwinds the scarves and hats and gloves that swathe him so completely he can barely be seen. He's nothing like what Jared expected. He's everything that Jared hoped, and he can feel the strange tremor of nervousness in himself, germ of doubt. There's two dreams that could be shattered here.
Jared makes them coffee, sits them down both at the table, and Jensen takes a sip, teeth chattering still. He puts the mug down and rubs his hands together. Jared touches them. It's the first time he's touched anyone in a long, long time, and he chafes the life back into Jensen’s hands, feels the bone-deep cold, the stretched taut quality of the skin, over-exposed, slow return of vitality under the care.
"Where do you live?" he asks, and Jensen smiles, white flash of teeth, eyes crinkling.
"Outside," he says simply. It's a lie of course. Jensen's clean and groomed, face shaven, his teeth impeccable. He's no man of the mountain. No-one can live outside in that, the sullen swell of snow, the temperatures that dip so far below freezing that no tent can take it for long. But Jensen's looking at him steadily like it's the truth.
"Oh," Jared says and lets the silence hang there.
"Not always," Jensen allows. "Just when I want to see you. Those are the times that count."
It's most of the truth, Jared thinks. He wonders how many winters Jensen's watched. He turns to the box that Jensen's brought with him. Of course it's rude to visit without a present. The hospitality of winter shelter is the reciprocation of this one.
"Why do you give me hearts?" he asks. What, he wants to know, what need do you see in me? He knows what giving it means about Jensen. What does it mean about Jared?
Jensen's hand presses against the left hand side of Jared's ribcage. "Because sometimes I don't think you have one."
It's not true, but it's a truth. There's something warm in Jared's chest, something that pumps the blood around his body, and wants to know what Jensen'll look like in his bed. Maybe it's something Jensen's given him. He thinks of the three hearts in the freezer, crowded up close, silent now. Their previous owners are six feet under frozen sod; whatever's left, whatever vital traces exist, belong to Jared now.
Kissing Jensen is unusual. He melts under Jared's mouth at first, giving way, until Jared retreats himself. Then he kisses back properly, gnaws at the pull of Jared's lip, too sharp teeth under too soft lips, thread of a promise of pain, almost savage, hard dart of his tongue, and Jared yields, not from fear but intrigue. He pushes back after a moment, sucks the swell of Jensen's lip in, bites at it, a sharp retribution that has Jensen press two fingers in the soft indent under Jared's ear, before he pushes in between the curve of Jared's cheek and his teeth, finds unerringly the hinge of his jaw on one side, holds him open like that, and Jared can feel a sharp ache spread, feels a long forgotten muscle memory. The last time he felt this, he was on his knees, mouth stretched too wide and deep for too long, blowing his first and last boyfriend - before Jared dumped him.
When they break apart, Jensen’s thumb runs along the bottom line of Jared’s teeth, hitches on the crooked edge, dips down into the damp space between them and his lip, runs it along the curve of Jared’s mouth, too sweet and light, pushes in with a thumbnail as though he wants to see the indent. It sends a spark down Jared’s spine, press of his lip connected to the sudden shift in his gut, the twitch in his dick. Jensen's thumb is still cold from outside, takes heat from Jared, spider stretch of his fingers against Jared's face, the dip of his chin, the shadows of his face compelling, the faintest trace of iron on Jensen's skin now sharp on Jared's tongue.
It's easy after that. Jared leads the way upstairs, leaves the curtains open so the winter can look in. They undress separately, individually, backs to each other, his great-grandparents getting ready for bed, he thinks. He shares his warmth with Jensen, brackets him from shoulder to thigh, pulls his fingers down Jensen's back, thinks the red marks he leaves are half his nails, half pressure on cold skin. He wonders how often Jensen's done this, if he's ever done this, and the thought worms deep into him. Jensen bites at his neck, no moderation, rolls Jared over to get at his chest, drag of his mouth down his neck, sharp pass of his teeth over skin, ignores everything else to get to the skin over his heart, spells out his want with the intent slide of his fingers, the rigid focus of his attention. For the very first time, Jared feels just a shred of fear, a mild tingle that joins the heat in his belly, makes his cock ache for attention, stiff and hard. He grasps Jensen by the hair and pulls him off, watches the spread of color in Jensen's face, before he pushes back into Jared's hand, arch of his neck on display.
They're constantly shifting, the movements of animals preparing to fight, a coy repositioning for advantage. Jared has it for the moment, watches the bitten red of Jensen's lips open around nothing at all, until Jensen takes it back by the simple expedient of going with it, tucks back into Jared's hand until he relaxes, then pushes forward, block of his arm across Jared's throat. He's solid and compact on top of Jared, light scattering of hair, strength in his arms and chest that looks the sort of strength that's been built outside, not in a gym, no perfect proportions or impeccable musculature, and Jared wants him. If he says to himself that he's never felt this way, it's entirely true. Before Jensen there was no-one he'd wanted to give anything at all.
"Come on," he says, and there's want and irritation and a little pique, and each one of them is a gift to Jensen. Jensen does, like he's only being waiting to be asked, fixes a hand around Jared's throat, so loosely it barely constricts, and ruts against him, heavy thick swell of his cock dragging wet against Jared's, Jensen bracing himself over him, and it's nowhere close to enough, the rub of their dicks fleeting pleasure, the heaviness of Jensen's hand a temporary relief. He shrugs free of the hand and sends them over, perilously close to the edge of the bed, leg coming up and round to turn them, Jensen's face is profoundly shocked before he grins, and lunges up, bites down hard again, an ungentle reminder that Jared might well be in bed with someone who will give him everything he's never asked for. If he knew what he wants at all, it'd be easier to predict what Jensen might give.
Jensen's got his hands around Jared's ass now, pushing his hands in so hard, almost between muscle and bone, before he digs his fingers into the crack of Jared's ass and pulls at him, until his thighs spread. Jared can only rock against him, Jensen's thumb pushing inside, and it's not a violation if Jared wants it harder, so deep he can feel the press of Jensen's knuckles against him. There's nothing to slick the way at all, dry fierce burn, and Jared pulls away and pushes back into the spread of Jensen's hands, the irrevocable intrusion of his being, can feel the silent dampness of sweat on his neck, the slipperiness of his back, as he rocks into Jensen both ways, not enough pleasure, but just enough feeling, sweet semi shock of it in his spine.
He doesn't know what Jensen will do, and that's part of the fear-heat of it all. Jensen might fuck him. Might force his fingers deeper and make Jared come on them alone, or suck Jared's cock until he begs for Jensen to stop because it's too much, too deep, and he can't come again and again, not even in that mouth. Doesn't know if Jensen'll lick him wet and fuck him with his fist, like the darkest part of Jared imagines, consumed inside and out, or fuck him some other way altogether, wrench himself open and fit Jared in, swallow Jared up cock first. He might do something bad and leave altogether. Tell me what I want, he wants to say, tell me and I'll take it.
He doesn't recognise the sound that comes from his throat, it's not part of him, it's something Jensen's forcing out of him, and Jensen's scrabbling for the lube that Jared had tossed on the bed, wet slick of two fingers now, soothing the first burn, pushing deep, for the sheer fun of it, Jared thinks. He almost writhes at the thought, braces himself on his arms, and kisses Jensen, as Jensen spreads him open with enviable ease. Jared can feel the wetness of too much lube dripping down to his balls, rocks against Jensen almost involuntarily, urged by Jensen's hand, gets his hand between them and strokes them both together as best as he can. Jensen's wetter than him, precome thick and plentiful, easy work to fist them both together, to thumb the damp head of Jensen's cock and watch the swallowed line of his throat, the way he licks his lips, the haziness of his eyes.
When Jensen fucks him at last, face to face, it's wet and bare, inexcusable and inevitable. He pushes against the place he's held open with his fingers, tucks the thickness of the head in, and hesitates, not waits. Jared executes a sharp tap on Jensen's back with a kick, takes the winter into him, sharp, heavy push of Jensen spreading him deep and wide, stretch of his thighs the echoed burn of snow slept in too long. Jensen's hot inside him, Jared sore and stretched too far, but it's the heat and sleepiness of hypothermia, not the sun. Jensen fucks regular and easy, snap of the hips, teases Jared's cock, endless movement of his fingers over the slippery head, like he’s coaxing every shred of sensation out. Jared touches everything he can, rubs his fingers over Jensen's heart, doesn't expect the stillness of Jensen's response, the stuttering gasp of his hips as he soaks Jared inside. He continues to fuck Jared through the last of it, frenzied push of himself as deep as he can get before he softens, and that's how Jared comes in the end, the flagging softness of Jensen's cock dragging out, and the almost too tight grip of Jensen's fingers around his dick.
Afterglow is not allowed to be afterglow, Jensen's fingers don't press around Jared's neck, or his cock. He doesn't finger his come back inside Jared or kiss him again. Instead he slides his hand under the pillow and grips it around the knife that Jared left there, as though in anticipation of this moment. Jared's heart, already fast from exertion, speeds up, the coldness of fear-sweat on his skin. It's the most he's ever felt, and if he dies, it's what he wants to die feeling.
Jensen isn't looking at him, eyes shuttered as he fishes through the pants he draped on the end of the bed, and brings out a little pill bottle, rattle of white tablets as he shakes them into his hand. "Do you know how many people saw me come here?" he whispers, close and intimate, and the pink flush on his cheeks is set off by the veiled glitter of his eyes. "None." And he readies the knife, as though preparing for a near dear event, all too fast.
"I don't want it," Jared says it, fast and rushed. "I don't want your heart."
It's almost a lie. He can imagine it even as he speaks. Jensen taking the pills that'll numb him enough to do his work, the messy work of Jensen cutting his own heart out, the wet rain of blood on Jared, red on white covers. But there's no room in his freezer, no room in his chest, because Jared might have a heart of his own that's only just beginning to beat an awkward rhythm. Jensen's final present.
"Stay," he says instead. "Stay and share." He takes the knife from Jensen's nerveless fingers. If you're dead, he thinks. I can't repay you.
The snow has fallen so heavily outside that the redness of the paint is long gone, buried under too many inches, and the single path of footsteps that made their way to Jared's door are almost gone. There's none that lead away.
As always, comments and crit are loved.