Jensen/Jared RPS - yet untitled
Title: (yet untitled)
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared's breaking down. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: none
-------------------------
Chapter One: Saturday’s Child
Rating: R for language, drinking of alcohol and violence towards a cell phone
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet
Word Count: 2,600
Saturday's Child
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Our director is screaming, and the lights come on, too bright, too sudden. I raise my arm to shield my eyes as he continues to yell, and I really can’t blame him. We’re on our eighth take, and Jared still hasn’t delivered his lines to the satisfaction of Kripke or the director.
Kripke steps in when the tongue-lashing has gone on long enough, runs a hand through his hair. “Ok guys… take a break, back in twenty.”
Jared hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, and despite the fact that I’m pissed off at having to do this scene a ninth time because he hasn’t figured it out yet, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him. For whatever reason, he really hasn’t been himself today, his mind isn’t on the set, and his heart isn’t in it either. He looks tired, worn down. He spent two hours longer than usual in makeup today, but I don’t think it was for the dark circles beneath his eyes or the pallor of his face. That looks way too real to be even Cindy’s work. My eyes flicker from him to Kripke, back to him, and I hurry to Kripke.
“Uh… Eric?”
“Yes, Jensen.” Always the professional. I don’t think I’ve ever heard slang come from the man’s mouth. He checks his watch, looks back at me.
“Can you.... give us until after lunch?” I know that would put us at one-thirty, and cut a large chunk of time out of our day, seeing as how it’s only eleven in the morning, but with how filming’s been going today, it’s not like we’re going to get far with all the re-takes anyway. “…Please?” I add.
Kripke looks thoughtfully at me, casts a glance at Jared, still flat on his back in the ripped tee and blood-spattered jeans on set, finally nods. “One-Thirty.” He confirms, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone on the set with my co-star, Jared Padalecki.
I turn, break the silence. “Jare.”
Jared moves to stand up, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Yeah. I know, alright?” He’s already moving towards the door, and before I can reply, he’s gone. I follow.
“Jared!” I yell, striding purposefully after him, mouth set and my hands balled into fists at my side. When he doesn’t stop, I yell his name again. “Jared Padalecki!”
Cindy shakes her head. “Another lovers’ spat, Jen?” She calls teasingly. It’s an ongoing joke around here. Jared and I have been like best friends since day one-we’re both from Texas, and the drawl and the boots sparked for starters and it’s all been downhill from there, so to speak. Now, five months into the show, we’re practically inseparable. We’re best friends.
I glower at her as I continue following Jared, falling further behind by the second. Damn him and his long legs. I finally have to break into a jog just to keep up with him, and barely manage to get my foot in the door of his trailer before it slams shut. “Ow!”
I push the door open and step inside, slamming the door shut behind me, locking it. “What the fuck, Jare!”
Jared’s tearing clothes off, ripping at the jeans and getting the sticky syrupy stage blood all over his hands, his chest as he tears at the shirt. I watch in silence as he finds a white wife beater and throws it on, with basketball shorts. The costume lies in a pile on the floor, and Jared kicks at it as he heads to his mini-fridge to retrieve a beer.
I’ve never known him to drink on set, and never between takes.
His trailer is far more crowded than I remember it, and I’m trying to figure out what’s different when the condition of the place suddenly jumps up to slap me in the face.
There are empty beer bottles everywhere. Several in the small sink, a couple stand on the counter, some have fallen to their sides. One rolled to the floor. His bed is a disaster-unmade and I can see a wet spot that’s undoubtedly spilled beer, evidenced by the still-present and half-empty bottle of Budweiser lying near the darkened cloth.
There are at least two days worth of clothes on the floor, a carton of half-eaten fried rice and a Styrofoam container of leftover home fries and omelette that’s starting to smell pretty rank on the counter.
Jared’s sprawled out on the bed, nursing the Budweiser, and a glance at him followed by another quick once-over of the small space confirms it-he’s been living here. For the past couple days at least.
Suddenly it’s painfully obvious that the circles under his eyes and the pale clearness of his skin aren’t makeup, and the flubbing of the lines and the accentuated southern drawl aren’t intentional to get attention. It doesn’t necessarily make sense-but at least it’s more understandable. I don’t know why, but I see how. And I wonder how it’s gone unnoticed for as long as it has-why it took me so long to notice that Jared’s wrecking himself.
I run my hand through my hair. “I’ll be back, Jare.” I sigh, spinning on my heel and taking the two steps to the door. “Don’t fucking lock the door.”
I slam it behind me, kick the dirt as I step down. “Fuck!” I hiss to myself. I really don’t want to tell Kripke that there’s no way Jared can make it back today, that we’re going to have to put off filming until at least tomorrow. But tomorrow’s Sunday, and it’s one of Kripke’s standing tributes to normalcy-nobody works on Sundays. So we’d have to put off filming until Monday, which would put us behind schedule by almost a full half-show.
Part of me wants to turn back, knock the beer out of Jared’s hand and tell him to suck it up-whatever it is-and get back out there at one-thirty. And tell him he’d better not flub any more lines, because we’re already behind schedule.
The other part of me-the big brother part of me that kicks in sometimes when it becomes painfully obvious that Jared’s only twenty-three and I’m twenty-seven-wants to get him out of his trailer and back to his apartment, to Sandra, so she can talk some sense into him and figure out what’s wrong with him, hopefully before filming starts at seven Monday morning. That’s assuming I can get Eric to can the rest of today.
My feet are already carrying me towards the directors and producers trailer, the protective charm that my character, Dean, wears swings and taps against my chest with the movements. I’m knocking before I really even know what I’m going to say, scuffing worn boots against the dry earth beneath the trailers’ steps. “Mr. Kripke…”
“Spit it out, Jensen.” He says tersely, and he knows something’s wrong, because I called him Mr. Kripke.
“Shit.” I mutter. “Look… Jare… Jared…” And I lie. “Jared’s sick. He’s in his trailer throwing up…” Dean Winchester would be proud, I think, as I embellish. And it occurs to me it might not be a lie if Jared continues drinking like he apparently has been and is. “Uh…”
I don’t have to ask for the rest of the day, and I’m grateful. Eric tells me to take it, and to get Jared home. I’ll see you Monday, he says, and something else that fades into the distance. I’m already out the door, heading back towards my co-star’s trailer, contemplating what to do. I can’t very well leave him there.
Jared’s sucking down a second beer by the time I get back, and he’s picking disinterestedly at the remnants of the fried rice. I watch from the corner of my eye as he eats maybe two bites of rice and downs the rest of the beer, packing some of his clean clothes into a small backpack. “Come on, Jare.” I tell him, and I’m halfway back out the door before I realize he’s not following me.
“Jared!”
“Fuck off, Jensen.” Not Jen, not Dean. Jensen. If I needed more proof that something’s wrong-seriously wrong--with him, that’s it. I can’t remember the last time he’s called me by my full first name. He’s called me Jen since day one. Sometimes Jenny to piss me off, and Dean when he feels I’m treating him like my kid brother-which has been pretty often of late.
I dial the number to his apartment, watching as he fumbles for another beer. His live-in answers, and as I say her name, Jared’s halfway across the floor to knocking the phone out of my hand. “No!” He yells. “No home, No Sandra.”
And just like that, his outburst is over, the beer slowly leaking out of the longneck bottle onto the floor, my phone cracked and broken next to the puddle of suds, and I almost have to laugh, merely because I’m not yelling at him like I would be anyone else who’d just done that. My cell phone has always been the one possession of mine I don’t let anyone touch. It’s my lifeblood. And Jared just knocked it out of my hands and broke it.
“Jared?” I question softly, his bag still slung over my shoulder. I reach a hand towards him-he doesn’t look all too steady on his feet. I’m in full big-brother mode, and I’m surprised I haven’t called him ‘Sammy’ yet, though maybe that’s because I know it would just piss him off, and he’s upset enough. I try again. “Why, Jare?”
He leans on the counter, sighs before looking up at me. “She kicked me out, okay, Jensen?” He whispers defeatedly.
I’m stunned.
They’d been dating for almost two years. She’d moved in with him here in Vancouver after he got the nod as Sam, and things were going so well, or so I’d thought. He’d even talked me into going with him to look for rings-big, gaudy, shiny things of gold and diamond held together by promises of forever and until I die.
And it all falls together. It all makes sense-the darkness of his eyes and the pallor of his skin… his complete lack of presence at filming the last couple days and total screw-ups today… why he’s been living in his set trailer.
After it all clicks in my head, the first thing I ask myself is what I’m going to do with Jared now-I was going to bring him home, but that’s obviously not an option anymore, because his home is no longer home… I could bring him to a hotel, but the closest one to the set is a dump my ex and I wouldn’t be caught dead in after long night of drinking and longer night of smoking. Beyond that… suffice it to say my apartment complex is closer.
And that’s where we end up, eating pizza and drinking beer, talking until the wee hours of the morning. Well, I talked. Jared… Jared didn’t say a word.
I told him about leaving home at eighteen to pursue my dreams in Hollywood, my first break-up at seventeen-the cheerleader named Brinda who broke my heart-after which I swore I’d never love again. I toasted her memory and tipped back a third beer, moving on to talking about how I fell in love in Beverly Hills, and again in Los Angeles… once again in Paris, but that wasn’t love, just lust. “Her last name was Hilton.” I say, trying to get him to laugh. But he doesn’t.
“Jare, please…” I finally say, more than a couple beers to the wind. I actually want him to talk to me, and I don’t care if there are tears or words spoken that neither of us expect to hear or say or mean. I don’t know what’s going on behind Jared’s unseeing and shining turquoise eyes, but I know he can’t keep it inside forever.
“I’ve been there, Jared.” I tell him. And it’s the truth, but it’s also a lie. I’ve never been with a girl-with anyone-for more than a year, and I’ve never lived with someone. But I have loved and lost. It hurts. I’m man enough to admit that. “Talk to me.”
The first words out of his mouth are blunt and to the point, addressing nothing I’ve spoken of in the last six hours. “You taking me back, or do I gotta walk?” He sounds surprisingly sober for someone who’s been drinking since noon.
It’s almost five miles from my apartment complex to the site where we’re filming. And it’s now nearly two in the morning. “I was thinking you’d stay.” I say, standing up from the couch. “There’s the couch…and you know I’ve got a second bedroom.”
The second bedroom is for guests. My mom swore she was going to visit me as often as she could manage, which, to her meant once a month, to me meant once every three, and has turned out to be twice in the entire time I’ve been away from home-nearly ten years now. Sometimes Tom or one of the other WB boys might stay over, but the second bedroom’s empty more often than not.
Jared’s asked why I keep a two-bedroom apartment when a single would suit my lifestyle just fine, tells me the money I could save… but it’s never been about the money, and the second bedroom has never gone entirely without use. Tonight is the first night I’ve ever been truly glad to have the extra room though.
I’ve already put Jared’s bag on the bed, with a towel and washcloth from my linen closet. I left a hoodie and an extra blanket too-he’s in a tank and basketball shorts, and its supposed to be cold tonight, chilly tomorrow.
He hasn’t moved. I shrug. “Yeah, so… I’m going to bed, Jare. Whatever you want, man.” I don’t know what else to tell him, so I brush my teeth and take care of some business in the bathroom before going to bed, punching my pillow a few times before settling my head and closing my eyes.
I wake up a couple hours later to visit the bathroom, remind myself that I should really know better than to drink all that beer before going to bed. As I’m padding back to my room, I hear it. Small, barely audible noises like a wounded animal, quiet and scared, coming from my living room, and when I take a few steps down the hall to investigate, they get louder, but not enough, just hitching of breath now, muffled sobs, and I know it’s Jared, and I know he’s crying.
He’s crying alone for a reason. I know he doesn’t want me seeing him this way, but he’s my best friend, like my baby brother… how do I just leave him to cry alone, knowing that he is?
“Jared?” I call from the hall.
A loud sniffle is my reply, and I can picture him wiping his eyes and trying to stop the tears. “G’way, Jensen,” comes the hushed reply after a moment of silence. “I’m fine.”
“The bed might be more comfortable.”
“I’m fine.” Stronger now, but still with a hitch at the end, and I get one of the couch pillows hurled down the hall at me when I mutter under my breath, ‘right’.
I go to bed, lie awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
~ ~ ~
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Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared's breaking down. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: none
-------------------------
Chapter One: Saturday’s Child
Rating: R for language, drinking of alcohol and violence towards a cell phone
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet
Word Count: 2,600
Saturday's Child
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Our director is screaming, and the lights come on, too bright, too sudden. I raise my arm to shield my eyes as he continues to yell, and I really can’t blame him. We’re on our eighth take, and Jared still hasn’t delivered his lines to the satisfaction of Kripke or the director.
Kripke steps in when the tongue-lashing has gone on long enough, runs a hand through his hair. “Ok guys… take a break, back in twenty.”
Jared hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, and despite the fact that I’m pissed off at having to do this scene a ninth time because he hasn’t figured it out yet, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him. For whatever reason, he really hasn’t been himself today, his mind isn’t on the set, and his heart isn’t in it either. He looks tired, worn down. He spent two hours longer than usual in makeup today, but I don’t think it was for the dark circles beneath his eyes or the pallor of his face. That looks way too real to be even Cindy’s work. My eyes flicker from him to Kripke, back to him, and I hurry to Kripke.
“Uh… Eric?”
“Yes, Jensen.” Always the professional. I don’t think I’ve ever heard slang come from the man’s mouth. He checks his watch, looks back at me.
“Can you.... give us until after lunch?” I know that would put us at one-thirty, and cut a large chunk of time out of our day, seeing as how it’s only eleven in the morning, but with how filming’s been going today, it’s not like we’re going to get far with all the re-takes anyway. “…Please?” I add.
Kripke looks thoughtfully at me, casts a glance at Jared, still flat on his back in the ripped tee and blood-spattered jeans on set, finally nods. “One-Thirty.” He confirms, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone on the set with my co-star, Jared Padalecki.
I turn, break the silence. “Jare.”
Jared moves to stand up, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Yeah. I know, alright?” He’s already moving towards the door, and before I can reply, he’s gone. I follow.
“Jared!” I yell, striding purposefully after him, mouth set and my hands balled into fists at my side. When he doesn’t stop, I yell his name again. “Jared Padalecki!”
Cindy shakes her head. “Another lovers’ spat, Jen?” She calls teasingly. It’s an ongoing joke around here. Jared and I have been like best friends since day one-we’re both from Texas, and the drawl and the boots sparked for starters and it’s all been downhill from there, so to speak. Now, five months into the show, we’re practically inseparable. We’re best friends.
I glower at her as I continue following Jared, falling further behind by the second. Damn him and his long legs. I finally have to break into a jog just to keep up with him, and barely manage to get my foot in the door of his trailer before it slams shut. “Ow!”
I push the door open and step inside, slamming the door shut behind me, locking it. “What the fuck, Jare!”
Jared’s tearing clothes off, ripping at the jeans and getting the sticky syrupy stage blood all over his hands, his chest as he tears at the shirt. I watch in silence as he finds a white wife beater and throws it on, with basketball shorts. The costume lies in a pile on the floor, and Jared kicks at it as he heads to his mini-fridge to retrieve a beer.
I’ve never known him to drink on set, and never between takes.
His trailer is far more crowded than I remember it, and I’m trying to figure out what’s different when the condition of the place suddenly jumps up to slap me in the face.
There are empty beer bottles everywhere. Several in the small sink, a couple stand on the counter, some have fallen to their sides. One rolled to the floor. His bed is a disaster-unmade and I can see a wet spot that’s undoubtedly spilled beer, evidenced by the still-present and half-empty bottle of Budweiser lying near the darkened cloth.
There are at least two days worth of clothes on the floor, a carton of half-eaten fried rice and a Styrofoam container of leftover home fries and omelette that’s starting to smell pretty rank on the counter.
Jared’s sprawled out on the bed, nursing the Budweiser, and a glance at him followed by another quick once-over of the small space confirms it-he’s been living here. For the past couple days at least.
Suddenly it’s painfully obvious that the circles under his eyes and the pale clearness of his skin aren’t makeup, and the flubbing of the lines and the accentuated southern drawl aren’t intentional to get attention. It doesn’t necessarily make sense-but at least it’s more understandable. I don’t know why, but I see how. And I wonder how it’s gone unnoticed for as long as it has-why it took me so long to notice that Jared’s wrecking himself.
I run my hand through my hair. “I’ll be back, Jare.” I sigh, spinning on my heel and taking the two steps to the door. “Don’t fucking lock the door.”
I slam it behind me, kick the dirt as I step down. “Fuck!” I hiss to myself. I really don’t want to tell Kripke that there’s no way Jared can make it back today, that we’re going to have to put off filming until at least tomorrow. But tomorrow’s Sunday, and it’s one of Kripke’s standing tributes to normalcy-nobody works on Sundays. So we’d have to put off filming until Monday, which would put us behind schedule by almost a full half-show.
Part of me wants to turn back, knock the beer out of Jared’s hand and tell him to suck it up-whatever it is-and get back out there at one-thirty. And tell him he’d better not flub any more lines, because we’re already behind schedule.
The other part of me-the big brother part of me that kicks in sometimes when it becomes painfully obvious that Jared’s only twenty-three and I’m twenty-seven-wants to get him out of his trailer and back to his apartment, to Sandra, so she can talk some sense into him and figure out what’s wrong with him, hopefully before filming starts at seven Monday morning. That’s assuming I can get Eric to can the rest of today.
My feet are already carrying me towards the directors and producers trailer, the protective charm that my character, Dean, wears swings and taps against my chest with the movements. I’m knocking before I really even know what I’m going to say, scuffing worn boots against the dry earth beneath the trailers’ steps. “Mr. Kripke…”
“Spit it out, Jensen.” He says tersely, and he knows something’s wrong, because I called him Mr. Kripke.
“Shit.” I mutter. “Look… Jare… Jared…” And I lie. “Jared’s sick. He’s in his trailer throwing up…” Dean Winchester would be proud, I think, as I embellish. And it occurs to me it might not be a lie if Jared continues drinking like he apparently has been and is. “Uh…”
I don’t have to ask for the rest of the day, and I’m grateful. Eric tells me to take it, and to get Jared home. I’ll see you Monday, he says, and something else that fades into the distance. I’m already out the door, heading back towards my co-star’s trailer, contemplating what to do. I can’t very well leave him there.
Jared’s sucking down a second beer by the time I get back, and he’s picking disinterestedly at the remnants of the fried rice. I watch from the corner of my eye as he eats maybe two bites of rice and downs the rest of the beer, packing some of his clean clothes into a small backpack. “Come on, Jare.” I tell him, and I’m halfway back out the door before I realize he’s not following me.
“Jared!”
“Fuck off, Jensen.” Not Jen, not Dean. Jensen. If I needed more proof that something’s wrong-seriously wrong--with him, that’s it. I can’t remember the last time he’s called me by my full first name. He’s called me Jen since day one. Sometimes Jenny to piss me off, and Dean when he feels I’m treating him like my kid brother-which has been pretty often of late.
I dial the number to his apartment, watching as he fumbles for another beer. His live-in answers, and as I say her name, Jared’s halfway across the floor to knocking the phone out of my hand. “No!” He yells. “No home, No Sandra.”
And just like that, his outburst is over, the beer slowly leaking out of the longneck bottle onto the floor, my phone cracked and broken next to the puddle of suds, and I almost have to laugh, merely because I’m not yelling at him like I would be anyone else who’d just done that. My cell phone has always been the one possession of mine I don’t let anyone touch. It’s my lifeblood. And Jared just knocked it out of my hands and broke it.
“Jared?” I question softly, his bag still slung over my shoulder. I reach a hand towards him-he doesn’t look all too steady on his feet. I’m in full big-brother mode, and I’m surprised I haven’t called him ‘Sammy’ yet, though maybe that’s because I know it would just piss him off, and he’s upset enough. I try again. “Why, Jare?”
He leans on the counter, sighs before looking up at me. “She kicked me out, okay, Jensen?” He whispers defeatedly.
I’m stunned.
They’d been dating for almost two years. She’d moved in with him here in Vancouver after he got the nod as Sam, and things were going so well, or so I’d thought. He’d even talked me into going with him to look for rings-big, gaudy, shiny things of gold and diamond held together by promises of forever and until I die.
And it all falls together. It all makes sense-the darkness of his eyes and the pallor of his skin… his complete lack of presence at filming the last couple days and total screw-ups today… why he’s been living in his set trailer.
After it all clicks in my head, the first thing I ask myself is what I’m going to do with Jared now-I was going to bring him home, but that’s obviously not an option anymore, because his home is no longer home… I could bring him to a hotel, but the closest one to the set is a dump my ex and I wouldn’t be caught dead in after long night of drinking and longer night of smoking. Beyond that… suffice it to say my apartment complex is closer.
And that’s where we end up, eating pizza and drinking beer, talking until the wee hours of the morning. Well, I talked. Jared… Jared didn’t say a word.
I told him about leaving home at eighteen to pursue my dreams in Hollywood, my first break-up at seventeen-the cheerleader named Brinda who broke my heart-after which I swore I’d never love again. I toasted her memory and tipped back a third beer, moving on to talking about how I fell in love in Beverly Hills, and again in Los Angeles… once again in Paris, but that wasn’t love, just lust. “Her last name was Hilton.” I say, trying to get him to laugh. But he doesn’t.
“Jare, please…” I finally say, more than a couple beers to the wind. I actually want him to talk to me, and I don’t care if there are tears or words spoken that neither of us expect to hear or say or mean. I don’t know what’s going on behind Jared’s unseeing and shining turquoise eyes, but I know he can’t keep it inside forever.
“I’ve been there, Jared.” I tell him. And it’s the truth, but it’s also a lie. I’ve never been with a girl-with anyone-for more than a year, and I’ve never lived with someone. But I have loved and lost. It hurts. I’m man enough to admit that. “Talk to me.”
The first words out of his mouth are blunt and to the point, addressing nothing I’ve spoken of in the last six hours. “You taking me back, or do I gotta walk?” He sounds surprisingly sober for someone who’s been drinking since noon.
It’s almost five miles from my apartment complex to the site where we’re filming. And it’s now nearly two in the morning. “I was thinking you’d stay.” I say, standing up from the couch. “There’s the couch…and you know I’ve got a second bedroom.”
The second bedroom is for guests. My mom swore she was going to visit me as often as she could manage, which, to her meant once a month, to me meant once every three, and has turned out to be twice in the entire time I’ve been away from home-nearly ten years now. Sometimes Tom or one of the other WB boys might stay over, but the second bedroom’s empty more often than not.
Jared’s asked why I keep a two-bedroom apartment when a single would suit my lifestyle just fine, tells me the money I could save… but it’s never been about the money, and the second bedroom has never gone entirely without use. Tonight is the first night I’ve ever been truly glad to have the extra room though.
I’ve already put Jared’s bag on the bed, with a towel and washcloth from my linen closet. I left a hoodie and an extra blanket too-he’s in a tank and basketball shorts, and its supposed to be cold tonight, chilly tomorrow.
He hasn’t moved. I shrug. “Yeah, so… I’m going to bed, Jare. Whatever you want, man.” I don’t know what else to tell him, so I brush my teeth and take care of some business in the bathroom before going to bed, punching my pillow a few times before settling my head and closing my eyes.
I wake up a couple hours later to visit the bathroom, remind myself that I should really know better than to drink all that beer before going to bed. As I’m padding back to my room, I hear it. Small, barely audible noises like a wounded animal, quiet and scared, coming from my living room, and when I take a few steps down the hall to investigate, they get louder, but not enough, just hitching of breath now, muffled sobs, and I know it’s Jared, and I know he’s crying.
He’s crying alone for a reason. I know he doesn’t want me seeing him this way, but he’s my best friend, like my baby brother… how do I just leave him to cry alone, knowing that he is?
“Jared?” I call from the hall.
A loud sniffle is my reply, and I can picture him wiping his eyes and trying to stop the tears. “G’way, Jensen,” comes the hushed reply after a moment of silence. “I’m fine.”
“The bed might be more comfortable.”
“I’m fine.” Stronger now, but still with a hitch at the end, and I get one of the couch pillows hurled down the hall at me when I mutter under my breath, ‘right’.
I go to bed, lie awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
~ ~ ~
-------------------------