Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 23/? (WIP)
Title: Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
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... 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 girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Come on! Hop in the handbasket! You know you want to!
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Posted for lady_shain... because she needed some cheering up after Carolina beat Edmonton, 5-4 in game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals... and because Roloson's done for the year and that hurts even more.
-------------------------
Chapter Twenty-Three: Somebody Help me Breathe
Rating: R; for no good reason aside from the emo!boys… adult themes and the conversation!
Pairing: Jensen/Jared… one of these days… weeks… months… years… We’re getting there. Really. I promise.
Word Count: 2,649
Chapter Twenty-Three: Somebody Help me Breathe
“Jen… Jenny… …Calm down, Jenny…” And his palm is pressing, smoothing, heavy and warm against my hair-he’s petting me for God’s sakes. And I find what must be inappropriate amusement in the fact that it’s that act of kindness and tenderness from Jared that makes me sit up and pull-jerk-away from him, seemingly very suddenly right there and coherent.
I slap his hand away. “I’m fine, Jared! Jeez! Let me… just…” I sigh and lean back against the couch, look away from Jared, away from the confusion and concern that’s displayed so obviously on his still-pale face and in his green-blue eyes. I replay the last few minutes in my mind, not surprised to find I don’t remember much of them.
My heart is still pounding in my chest, my hands and fingers still feel thick and clammy and they’re trembling. I take deep breaths, will my hands to stop shaking.
“What? Freak out? Jensen! You were this close to just… losing it, man! Jesus! I’ve never seen you like that. What the fuck, Jenny? You were… what the Fuck???”
Jared doesn’t understand. He’s probably never seen someone having a panic attack before, even as mild as this one, and I know he doesn’t know I have them, has never seen me having one-the last one I had must have been at least three years ago now, back when I was in LA.
“What? You’ve never seen someone have a panic attack before?” I grumble. I haven’t had one in a long time. My mom told me I used to have them as a child, and they occurred less and less frequently as time went on, to the point where I barely remembered what they were. When I’d had one my senior year of high school, I didn’t even know it until I woke up in the nurse’s station-apparently I’d passed out in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. Now, I still get them-mom says I’m prone to them, I’ll always have them-but they’re rare.
Jared looks puzzled, concerned, and somewhat like a dog who’s been kicked by his master. His long hair flops in his face, covering his eyes, but it doesn’t matter-he’s looking at the carpet. “I never knew you had panic attacks.” He says, and he sounds hurt. “You never told me.”
“Yeah, well it’s not something I advertise.” I shoot back, and then, more harshly than I intend, follow up with “…and I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone. Kripke? Those guys? They don’t know. Don’t need to.”
He looks more hurt than he did before, and his voice is soft, tentative when he speaks again. “I wasn’t… going to tell anyone, Jensen… I just… You’re right… they don’t need to know… I thought… you knew I wouldn’t tell anyone…”
I sigh. “I’m sorry Jared…I didn’t mean it like that… I know you’re not going to go telling everyone…” I’m going to spend this whole day apologizing if I don’t get a hold of myself.
“…I thought… maybe you trusted me… and you’d tell me.” His voice is a whisper.
“Jared!” I snap. “It’s not like that either! I… I haven’t had one in years! I mean… years!” I break off for a minute, thinking of the last one I had-it was more than one, really, and all were pretty severe. My girlfriend had broken up with me, I’d lost out on two auditions I’d really wanted the parts for, I was down on my luck and short on cash, and everything just seemed to be piling up, one thing after another after another, and I was overwhelmed with it all. I’d had a couple panic attacks over the course of a week, some were worse than others, and two had actually landed me in the hospital on separate occasions. “…not since Los Angeles…”
“What happened in Los Angeles?” He asks gently.
“Nothing.” I sigh-it’s not worth talking about, and if I’m not careful, if I don’t get my medication and stop thinking about everything, if I let myself get caught up in it all again, I’m going to have another panic attack, here and now. I run my hands through my hair-they’ve steadied, and my heartbeat has slowed, it no longer feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I need water, though, I can feel the dehydration that always seems to follow a panic attack of any kind-mild, severe, or in-between-with me, and I get up.
“Jensen… what do you need? I’ll get it.” He’s back to using my full name.
I hold a hand up in the ‘stop’ motion, my other hand still rests on my forehead, fingers massaging my temples as I close my eyes, head ducked down. I sway on my feet a minute, then take a few steps towards the kitchen. “I’m okay, Jared… I just need some water…”
I get water, head to the bathroom, and fumble in the cabinet for my prescription bottle of Xanax. It’s old. I hope it hasn’t expired.
I sense him behind me before I see him in the mirror, can feel his hand on my back, his other reaching around to take the yellow-orange bottle from me. His touch is calming, soothing in a way it probably shouldn’t be, and the thought makes me shiver as though a chill came through the room.
Jared uncaps the container, taps two into his hand after reading the label. “You should get it re-filled… these expire pretty soon.” He says, recapping the bottle and pressing the two caplets into my palm.
He leans against the counter after putting the Xanax back on the shelf of the medicine cabinet, watches as I swallow the medication, and trails behind me as I make my way back to the living room, settling once again on the couch, hands in my hair.
“You’re right.” He says as he sits next to me, and before I can ask what I’m right about, says, “We have to talk.”
And I’m sure he says that because he wants to talk now-because he wants to ask about Los Angeles, and about my panic attacks. But I don’t want to talk. Not about that, and I don’t really want to talk about what we need to either-about these last couple days, or about Sandy and Jared and what he’s been through, and I especially don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling, how I think I might feel about him, about my fears (of hurting him-I don’t even want him… us… to try being… whatever it-we-would be… together-because I know I’ll hurt him)… but all that… that’s what we really need to talk about.
“Not about Los Angeles.” I say. “And not about my panic attacks.”
“Jensen!”
“No. We’re going to talk… but we’re going to talk about you… and the break-up with Sandy… and… and…” I swallow.
“…and?” Jared prompts.
“…and what…” I gulp. “What I think… Imightbefeelingforyou.” The words slur together and they’re barely understandable-but I said them.
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, my lips feel like they’re still moving, like they’re still shaping the words. Jared, for what might be the first time since I’ve known him, doesn’t ask me to repeat myself, and I think I might be eternally grateful. I don’t know if I could say those words again, not so soon after saying them the first time.
Instead, he stares at me. Wide-eyed like he heard, but didn’t understand. Or didn’t want to understand. He doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t ask anything. He doesn’t say anything. He’s completely silent. Just staring, and I swear his eyes are clouding, swimming, but then he blinks and there are no tears falling down his cheeks-not one, not even a hint of one.
“Jared…”
This time, he holds up his hand to me-‘stop’, ‘quiet’, ‘wait’, ‘no more’, ‘please’-all rolled into one as he closes his eyes and turns his head away from me, hand unmoving. And I wait for him to say something. Anything.
“Stop.” He says.
For a few minutes, I don’t say anything, and we sit in silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. When the silence gets to be too much, and his hand droops just slightly downward, I call his name, quietly. “Jared…”
He thrusts his hand towards me again. “Stop!” He shakes his head, still turned away from me, eyes cast downward. “I heard you. I just…” He shrugs helplessly. “…what do you want me to say, Jensen?”
“Something… anything.” I breathe. “…anything is better than silence.” His silence hurts. I’d rather have him yelling at me, telling me it’s too little, too late, or that it doesn’t matter or he doesn’t want me saying things I don’t mean (even though I do mean them). His silence is condemnation. It’s killing me. “…please.”
I hope he doesn’t say it’s too little, too late. I want to ask him not to say that. I want to ask him not to say that he doesn’t want me anymore. Because I think, even though the silence hurts, that would hurt more. And even though I’m afraid of taking a chance because I’m afraid of hurting him more than he’s already been… He’s the first man I’ve had these feelings towards. It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong, and my grandmother would kill me… but not if Jared’s silence does first.
“I’m sorry, Jared… I know it’s wro…”
His finger comes to my lips, faster than it’s any right to. “Don’t… Don’t say that… do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Please, Jensen… don’t… Don’t. Say. That.”
I’m glad I took the Xanax, because I know that if I didn’t, I’d probably be having another panic attack right now. He still hasn’t given me any indication as to whether he’s glad I said what I did, or upset about it. I take a deep breath and try to relax. We’re both sitting stiff and uncomfortable on the sofa, me on one end, him on the other, and the space between us is daunting, and far more than just physical in nature.
“Jared… please...” I start. “Just… tell me I’m not too late… tell me that I’m not wrong and this isn’t wrong and we can talk and even if you don’t want me… that way…”
“Jensen…Shhh…” He whispers. “Listen to yourself… this isn’t you…”
It’s not. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m rambling, I’m slurring words, I can’t think of what I want to say, I’m completely incoherent. I hate this. I never wanted to feel this way, I never want to feel this way. “I’m sorry…”
“Stop apologizing!”
I get up from the couch and pace the floor, continue pacing until Jared finally stands up, places his hands on my shoulders, and forces me back to the couch, presses down until I sit again. “Jensen, sit down.” He exhales heavily-more than a sigh, it’s exasperation and not knowing, and indeterminate things. He remains standing, his hands on my shoulders, staring down at me. I bow my head, stare at the floor between my knees, my feet. I don’t want to look up at him-I’m afraid to.
“Look at me.” Jared says finally.
I do. He’s still pale, and cheeks are still ruddy against the pallor of the rest of his face, and his eyes are still sickly-shiny, and he’s thinner than he’s been and he still looks just… wrong, like he has since he’s gotten sick-wrong, like he’s not… Jared. But he’s stronger than I am right now, and maybe he always has been.
“I’m not judging you.” His voice is low and serious. “I never did, and I never will, Jensen.”
I nod. I’m not sure why, but those words make me feel so much better… I’m not sure why hearing them from him helps so much, or why I needed to hear them without knowing I needed to hear them. And I don’t know how Jared knew I needed to hear them.
“I judged you.” I whisper quietly. It’s important that I admit that-because I did, and he knows I did. My shoulders heave once beneath his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Jensen. I mean it.” He squeezes my shoulders once, and then his hands are gone, and it feels cool where his hands used to be, oddly empty and alone… like his hands should be there-and they’re not.
I nod again, still acutely aware of the missing touch of his hands against my shoulders, the feeling of pressure that’s still there despite the loss of his touch.
“I know you did. I’m used to it. It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” It’s really not. And being judged, for what Jared’s obviously been judged for, is definitely not okay, and it’s not something he should have ever had to get used to… that hurts, just knowing that he’s used to it, that he can say it’s okay, that he’s used to it, so glibly… so matter-of-factly like he just did.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” The words just come out. It seems that’s the only thing I know how to say today.
“Jesus, Jensen.”
“I know.” I lean back against the couch finally, the tension in my body needing to be released. I’m going to be sore in the morning, just from the state of constant tension I’ve been in today. I’m tired already, my body is tired. “But you’re used to it anyway.”
“You know that.” It’s not the point of the conversation. We both know it.
We fall into silence for some time, neither of us knowing what to say, and perhaps it’s for the best. There’s still a lot we need to talk about, and I wonder if we talked at all, because it doesn’t seem like we’ve really said anything… nothing feels any different.
Jared collapses on the couch next to me. “You okay?” He asks, head tilted to the left so he can look at me. He looks as drained as I feel. The day isn’t that old.
“Yeah.” My head rests against the back of the couch and I stare up at the ceiling.
“Dude, you fucking scared me for a minute there, Jen.” There’s a telltale hitch in his breath when he says that, a rasp on the intake, a thickness and scratchiness in his voice that says he’s going to start coughing any minute now.
I resist the urge to say ‘I’m sorry’, instead turning my head to him and smiling. “Heh... just for a minute?”
It’s his turn to smile, and it’s not the easy, toothy smile that says he’s okay, but it’s close enough. He picks up a controller from the floor and throws it at me. “Boot up the game, Jenny.”
I do, and let myself go boneless as we play, letting myself really feel the effects of the Xanax, barely thinking except to press buttons and direct my character with the directional toggle… and to idly think about whether or not I should take another dose before bed to ward off the possibility of another panic attack… and to remind myself just to check Jared’s temperature later, for my own peace of mind. And to make sure he eats something. And hope he keeps it down.
There’s way too much going through my mind, but at least the medication is keeping me fuzzy/loopy enough where I’m not focusing on all of the things at once… Where I’m not becoming overwhelmed by everything again.
I push the thoughts out of my mind, make a conscious effort to concentrate only on the game. It works. For five minutes. Not nearly long enough.
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Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
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... 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 girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Come on! Hop in the handbasket! You know you want to!
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Posted for lady_shain... because she needed some cheering up after Carolina beat Edmonton, 5-4 in game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals... and because Roloson's done for the year and that hurts even more.
-------------------------
Chapter Twenty-Three: Somebody Help me Breathe
Rating: R; for no good reason aside from the emo!boys… adult themes and the conversation!
Pairing: Jensen/Jared… one of these days… weeks… months… years… We’re getting there. Really. I promise.
Word Count: 2,649
Chapter Twenty-Three: Somebody Help me Breathe
“Jen… Jenny… …Calm down, Jenny…” And his palm is pressing, smoothing, heavy and warm against my hair-he’s petting me for God’s sakes. And I find what must be inappropriate amusement in the fact that it’s that act of kindness and tenderness from Jared that makes me sit up and pull-jerk-away from him, seemingly very suddenly right there and coherent.
I slap his hand away. “I’m fine, Jared! Jeez! Let me… just…” I sigh and lean back against the couch, look away from Jared, away from the confusion and concern that’s displayed so obviously on his still-pale face and in his green-blue eyes. I replay the last few minutes in my mind, not surprised to find I don’t remember much of them.
My heart is still pounding in my chest, my hands and fingers still feel thick and clammy and they’re trembling. I take deep breaths, will my hands to stop shaking.
“What? Freak out? Jensen! You were this close to just… losing it, man! Jesus! I’ve never seen you like that. What the fuck, Jenny? You were… what the Fuck???”
Jared doesn’t understand. He’s probably never seen someone having a panic attack before, even as mild as this one, and I know he doesn’t know I have them, has never seen me having one-the last one I had must have been at least three years ago now, back when I was in LA.
“What? You’ve never seen someone have a panic attack before?” I grumble. I haven’t had one in a long time. My mom told me I used to have them as a child, and they occurred less and less frequently as time went on, to the point where I barely remembered what they were. When I’d had one my senior year of high school, I didn’t even know it until I woke up in the nurse’s station-apparently I’d passed out in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. Now, I still get them-mom says I’m prone to them, I’ll always have them-but they’re rare.
Jared looks puzzled, concerned, and somewhat like a dog who’s been kicked by his master. His long hair flops in his face, covering his eyes, but it doesn’t matter-he’s looking at the carpet. “I never knew you had panic attacks.” He says, and he sounds hurt. “You never told me.”
“Yeah, well it’s not something I advertise.” I shoot back, and then, more harshly than I intend, follow up with “…and I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone. Kripke? Those guys? They don’t know. Don’t need to.”
He looks more hurt than he did before, and his voice is soft, tentative when he speaks again. “I wasn’t… going to tell anyone, Jensen… I just… You’re right… they don’t need to know… I thought… you knew I wouldn’t tell anyone…”
I sigh. “I’m sorry Jared…I didn’t mean it like that… I know you’re not going to go telling everyone…” I’m going to spend this whole day apologizing if I don’t get a hold of myself.
“…I thought… maybe you trusted me… and you’d tell me.” His voice is a whisper.
“Jared!” I snap. “It’s not like that either! I… I haven’t had one in years! I mean… years!” I break off for a minute, thinking of the last one I had-it was more than one, really, and all were pretty severe. My girlfriend had broken up with me, I’d lost out on two auditions I’d really wanted the parts for, I was down on my luck and short on cash, and everything just seemed to be piling up, one thing after another after another, and I was overwhelmed with it all. I’d had a couple panic attacks over the course of a week, some were worse than others, and two had actually landed me in the hospital on separate occasions. “…not since Los Angeles…”
“What happened in Los Angeles?” He asks gently.
“Nothing.” I sigh-it’s not worth talking about, and if I’m not careful, if I don’t get my medication and stop thinking about everything, if I let myself get caught up in it all again, I’m going to have another panic attack, here and now. I run my hands through my hair-they’ve steadied, and my heartbeat has slowed, it no longer feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I need water, though, I can feel the dehydration that always seems to follow a panic attack of any kind-mild, severe, or in-between-with me, and I get up.
“Jensen… what do you need? I’ll get it.” He’s back to using my full name.
I hold a hand up in the ‘stop’ motion, my other hand still rests on my forehead, fingers massaging my temples as I close my eyes, head ducked down. I sway on my feet a minute, then take a few steps towards the kitchen. “I’m okay, Jared… I just need some water…”
I get water, head to the bathroom, and fumble in the cabinet for my prescription bottle of Xanax. It’s old. I hope it hasn’t expired.
I sense him behind me before I see him in the mirror, can feel his hand on my back, his other reaching around to take the yellow-orange bottle from me. His touch is calming, soothing in a way it probably shouldn’t be, and the thought makes me shiver as though a chill came through the room.
Jared uncaps the container, taps two into his hand after reading the label. “You should get it re-filled… these expire pretty soon.” He says, recapping the bottle and pressing the two caplets into my palm.
He leans against the counter after putting the Xanax back on the shelf of the medicine cabinet, watches as I swallow the medication, and trails behind me as I make my way back to the living room, settling once again on the couch, hands in my hair.
“You’re right.” He says as he sits next to me, and before I can ask what I’m right about, says, “We have to talk.”
And I’m sure he says that because he wants to talk now-because he wants to ask about Los Angeles, and about my panic attacks. But I don’t want to talk. Not about that, and I don’t really want to talk about what we need to either-about these last couple days, or about Sandy and Jared and what he’s been through, and I especially don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling, how I think I might feel about him, about my fears (of hurting him-I don’t even want him… us… to try being… whatever it-we-would be… together-because I know I’ll hurt him)… but all that… that’s what we really need to talk about.
“Not about Los Angeles.” I say. “And not about my panic attacks.”
“Jensen!”
“No. We’re going to talk… but we’re going to talk about you… and the break-up with Sandy… and… and…” I swallow.
“…and?” Jared prompts.
“…and what…” I gulp. “What I think… Imightbefeelingforyou.” The words slur together and they’re barely understandable-but I said them.
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, my lips feel like they’re still moving, like they’re still shaping the words. Jared, for what might be the first time since I’ve known him, doesn’t ask me to repeat myself, and I think I might be eternally grateful. I don’t know if I could say those words again, not so soon after saying them the first time.
Instead, he stares at me. Wide-eyed like he heard, but didn’t understand. Or didn’t want to understand. He doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t ask anything. He doesn’t say anything. He’s completely silent. Just staring, and I swear his eyes are clouding, swimming, but then he blinks and there are no tears falling down his cheeks-not one, not even a hint of one.
“Jared…”
This time, he holds up his hand to me-‘stop’, ‘quiet’, ‘wait’, ‘no more’, ‘please’-all rolled into one as he closes his eyes and turns his head away from me, hand unmoving. And I wait for him to say something. Anything.
“Stop.” He says.
For a few minutes, I don’t say anything, and we sit in silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. When the silence gets to be too much, and his hand droops just slightly downward, I call his name, quietly. “Jared…”
He thrusts his hand towards me again. “Stop!” He shakes his head, still turned away from me, eyes cast downward. “I heard you. I just…” He shrugs helplessly. “…what do you want me to say, Jensen?”
“Something… anything.” I breathe. “…anything is better than silence.” His silence hurts. I’d rather have him yelling at me, telling me it’s too little, too late, or that it doesn’t matter or he doesn’t want me saying things I don’t mean (even though I do mean them). His silence is condemnation. It’s killing me. “…please.”
I hope he doesn’t say it’s too little, too late. I want to ask him not to say that. I want to ask him not to say that he doesn’t want me anymore. Because I think, even though the silence hurts, that would hurt more. And even though I’m afraid of taking a chance because I’m afraid of hurting him more than he’s already been… He’s the first man I’ve had these feelings towards. It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong, and my grandmother would kill me… but not if Jared’s silence does first.
“I’m sorry, Jared… I know it’s wro…”
His finger comes to my lips, faster than it’s any right to. “Don’t… Don’t say that… do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Please, Jensen… don’t… Don’t. Say. That.”
I’m glad I took the Xanax, because I know that if I didn’t, I’d probably be having another panic attack right now. He still hasn’t given me any indication as to whether he’s glad I said what I did, or upset about it. I take a deep breath and try to relax. We’re both sitting stiff and uncomfortable on the sofa, me on one end, him on the other, and the space between us is daunting, and far more than just physical in nature.
“Jared… please...” I start. “Just… tell me I’m not too late… tell me that I’m not wrong and this isn’t wrong and we can talk and even if you don’t want me… that way…”
“Jensen…Shhh…” He whispers. “Listen to yourself… this isn’t you…”
It’s not. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m rambling, I’m slurring words, I can’t think of what I want to say, I’m completely incoherent. I hate this. I never wanted to feel this way, I never want to feel this way. “I’m sorry…”
“Stop apologizing!”
I get up from the couch and pace the floor, continue pacing until Jared finally stands up, places his hands on my shoulders, and forces me back to the couch, presses down until I sit again. “Jensen, sit down.” He exhales heavily-more than a sigh, it’s exasperation and not knowing, and indeterminate things. He remains standing, his hands on my shoulders, staring down at me. I bow my head, stare at the floor between my knees, my feet. I don’t want to look up at him-I’m afraid to.
“Look at me.” Jared says finally.
I do. He’s still pale, and cheeks are still ruddy against the pallor of the rest of his face, and his eyes are still sickly-shiny, and he’s thinner than he’s been and he still looks just… wrong, like he has since he’s gotten sick-wrong, like he’s not… Jared. But he’s stronger than I am right now, and maybe he always has been.
“I’m not judging you.” His voice is low and serious. “I never did, and I never will, Jensen.”
I nod. I’m not sure why, but those words make me feel so much better… I’m not sure why hearing them from him helps so much, or why I needed to hear them without knowing I needed to hear them. And I don’t know how Jared knew I needed to hear them.
“I judged you.” I whisper quietly. It’s important that I admit that-because I did, and he knows I did. My shoulders heave once beneath his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Jensen. I mean it.” He squeezes my shoulders once, and then his hands are gone, and it feels cool where his hands used to be, oddly empty and alone… like his hands should be there-and they’re not.
I nod again, still acutely aware of the missing touch of his hands against my shoulders, the feeling of pressure that’s still there despite the loss of his touch.
“I know you did. I’m used to it. It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” It’s really not. And being judged, for what Jared’s obviously been judged for, is definitely not okay, and it’s not something he should have ever had to get used to… that hurts, just knowing that he’s used to it, that he can say it’s okay, that he’s used to it, so glibly… so matter-of-factly like he just did.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” The words just come out. It seems that’s the only thing I know how to say today.
“Jesus, Jensen.”
“I know.” I lean back against the couch finally, the tension in my body needing to be released. I’m going to be sore in the morning, just from the state of constant tension I’ve been in today. I’m tired already, my body is tired. “But you’re used to it anyway.”
“You know that.” It’s not the point of the conversation. We both know it.
We fall into silence for some time, neither of us knowing what to say, and perhaps it’s for the best. There’s still a lot we need to talk about, and I wonder if we talked at all, because it doesn’t seem like we’ve really said anything… nothing feels any different.
Jared collapses on the couch next to me. “You okay?” He asks, head tilted to the left so he can look at me. He looks as drained as I feel. The day isn’t that old.
“Yeah.” My head rests against the back of the couch and I stare up at the ceiling.
“Dude, you fucking scared me for a minute there, Jen.” There’s a telltale hitch in his breath when he says that, a rasp on the intake, a thickness and scratchiness in his voice that says he’s going to start coughing any minute now.
I resist the urge to say ‘I’m sorry’, instead turning my head to him and smiling. “Heh... just for a minute?”
It’s his turn to smile, and it’s not the easy, toothy smile that says he’s okay, but it’s close enough. He picks up a controller from the floor and throws it at me. “Boot up the game, Jenny.”
I do, and let myself go boneless as we play, letting myself really feel the effects of the Xanax, barely thinking except to press buttons and direct my character with the directional toggle… and to idly think about whether or not I should take another dose before bed to ward off the possibility of another panic attack… and to remind myself just to check Jared’s temperature later, for my own peace of mind. And to make sure he eats something. And hope he keeps it down.
There’s way too much going through my mind, but at least the medication is keeping me fuzzy/loopy enough where I’m not focusing on all of the things at once… Where I’m not becoming overwhelmed by everything again.
I push the thoughts out of my mind, make a conscious effort to concentrate only on the game. It works. For five minutes. Not nearly long enough.
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