Take 512: Act Four
Previous | Masterpost | Next
Act Four
“Words, words, words."
William Shakespeare Hamlet
Here's how it has been:
Chad took over as Art Director when Jensen left, and by default Stage Manager. The crew struggled with the transition; sniping at each other and rubbing against each other in a sort of deadly friction that had never been there before. Chad didn't help, getting caught stoned more often than not, leaving them to fend for themselves
Chad had been good at what he did, the way everyone else here was. He could build a set out of thin air; he could construct and reconstruct a scene until it was as surreal as it had to be. He just was no good at being their leader, at filling the gaping hole that Jensen had left in their little band of lunatics, and he took to the whole thing in the worst possible way.
Tom and Mike had a fight that spanned days, weeks, months, vicious little eruptions every hour that could only be caused by knowing someone your whole life. Mike crashed on Jared's couch almost every night until Tom came over to pick him up, hands tight around the steering wheel of his truck and they started the whole thing all over again.
Perpetual bite and crackle of energy like they were all waiting for the ticking to stop and the bloodbath to begin. Jared had a migraine that felt like the earth shook every time he moved, and he nearly always had a fist pressed against his temple. He kept having this dream, one of a highway through a desert, leading straight to the sea. In the bottom, between the waves with seaweed clinging to his hair, was Jensen. In the dream, Jared remembers thinking, oh, there you are, and sinking straight into the sea, following Jensen's little smirk of challenge.
Chad got kicked out of school eventually. Even now, Jared isn't too clear on the details. Something about setting the Meth lab on fire, something about a little girl. It was fucked up in the way only Supernatural could be.
Jared and Mike beat the shit out of Chad afterward, and Chad had grinned, blood flowing freely from his broken nose, his teeth stained red. "Good luck handling this clusterfuck. I'm off, boys."
No Stage Manager. That year they toppled off their winning streak ungracefully like a strike of lightning.
They all have a point to prove this year. When Jared raises his head from his sewing machine to see Jensen openly staring at him, he begins to wonder what Jensen's point is
"Are these poisoned?"
Jared opens one eye to look at Misha, who's waving a forkful of pasta in Genevieve’s face. Gen looks mildly irritated, detached entirely from the motion of her hands stroking carefully through Jared's hair.
"If I could actually waste my time long enough to off you, Misha, you'd have died a long, long time ago." Gen says, thrusting the fork away. A single piece of pasta falls on Jared's chest and he glares, half-assed, up at Gen.
Rehearsals have cooled off a little, something about giving the crew some time to 'get their heads screwed on proper,' in Manners' words. The rare down time is welcomed gratefully by all of Supernatural. Tom, Genevieve and some of the other regulars hang around, offering unhelpful feedback and getting in everyone's way as they try to get some actual rest. Manners departs with some very specific threats about what would happen if he caught them hanging around the theatre when they were supposed to be at home resting, but that never managed to stop Misha.
Jared's relaxed in a way he hasn't been in weeks, lying spread out on a couch with his head pillowed on Gen's lap and his feet on Misha's thighs. Misha's in the process of testing all the food in their immediate vicinity, claiming something about exotic poison that tastes like mustard. Every now and again, he would fidget a little, making his hair catch the red-gold sunlight slanting in through the window.
Misha looks tired, as tired as he always gets running around trying to sync the image in his head with what's onstage. Where Jared and Jensen and Justin get to work with inanimate objects, Misha's never had the luxury of being able to stomp on his subject matter when he was royally pissed. These small, strange things Jared's grateful for.
Jensen snaps a Hershey's bar in half, passing one to Jared without seeming to think about it. Jared smiles lazily in thanks and takes it, their hands brushing a little, a small, significant exchange of warmth.
When he takes a bite and offers the rest to Gen, she looks contemplative, thoughtful in a way Jared's only seen onstage before. Jared rolls his eyes when she raises her eyebrows questioningly.
Mike arrives then, carrying the familiar smell of the theatre with him; turpentine and paint and wood shavings. His hair's disheveled, sticking out crazier than usual.
When he sees them tangled in a pile, he stops in his tracks.
They wait expectantly, eyebrows raised. Jensen's lips twitch a little, and Genevieve elbows him hard.
"Don't you fuckers ever go home?" Mike asks in disgust. "Manners is gonna deep-fry your punk asses. It's like you don't want to go home."
Misha smiles sweetly. "Nah, not really. How 'bout you, loverboy? You find lodgings for the night yet?"
Jared blames them all being from the same theatre group for what happens next.
Tom comes in just as Misha's done speaking, talking even as he comes into the green room. "You ready to head home, Mike?"
And then he freezes too.
For a second, it's quiet. Jared tries his best not to catch Jensen or Gen's eye, ditto to Misha.
They all bust out laughing at the very same second, howling at the expression of equal parts exasperation and mortification on Mike’s face, and the classic confusion on Tom's.
Jared’s running an errand for Mike (“if you’re gonna brood about not having a fucking muse, do something useful while you’re at it,” said Mike, sensitive as always) when he sees Jensen and Justin talking, that sarcastic banter as they disagreed on everything from props to fixtures to flats. It's not an unfamiliar scene; it’s been staged a million times before, the epic stage manager vs. carpenter bitchfight.
It is, however, the first time it makes Jared's stomach tightens with something ice-cold and vicious hot at the same time. It's so unexpected, he almost doesn't recognize it as jealousy.
Jensen laughs a little at something Justin says, and Jared nearly explodes, heat curling up angrily from the pit of his stomach. He's rooted to the spot, half-hidden by the dozens of hangers he has in his arms, and for the life of him he can't imagine how he came here.
The mischievous sparkle in Jensen's eyes looks so achingly familiar it makes Jared a little dizzy. He used to draw Jensen every chance he got, on the backs of notebooks and in margins, the strong jaw and the outline of his eyes. Best fucking muse ever.
"Need a hand over there?" Tom asks, appearing on his left.
Jared starts, several of the hangers slipping from the pile as he drags his eyes away from Jensen. "Sure, uh,"
Tom smiles knowingly.
"Shut up," Jared says without heat.
When he looks back at Jensen again, Jensen's looking over, an indescribable expression in his hooded eyes. He keeps watching Jared, his eyes flicking over briefly to Tom. His eyes are a shade of burnt gold, perfect in the backdrop of the setting sun.
"The two of you are uncanny, you know that?" Tom asks as Jared tries to translate the look on Jensen's face. "First you get all possessive on him talking to Justin, and now him. Jesus Christ."
"Superstar," Jared says absently. He looks at Tom, curious. "You really think so?"
Tom shrugs. "One way to find out."
What happens next is so beautifully choreographed Jared later wonders whether Tommy had been planning that for weeks, or whether it was just the actor in him. He tilts his head a little and swoops in, his lips meeting Jared's for the span of maybe three seconds, maybe four.
It's chaste, brotherly, almost, and Jared's rolling his eyes when they break off. He can't help glancing over at Jensen, though.
Apparently friendliness doesn't show when Tom's kissing anyone, because Jensen looks fucking outraged. His hands are clenched and even from the distance, Jared can see the dangerous swirl of dark dark green in his eyes. He looks about three seconds away from coming over and killing them both with his bare hands, and to top it all off, Justin's being completely ignored at his side, saying Jensen's name questioningly.
A hot spark of victory runs through Jared’s skin and he feels a little bit like laughing hysterically.
"Guess you have your answer, then." Tom sounds unruffled, a little amused.
Jared watches as Jensen turns away, a frosty expression in his eyes, catching Jared's in a long, heated moment: the hell are you doing?
Jared shrugs at him, smirks a little. Jensen visibly grits his teeth, and turns away completely.
A full week later, Tom carries the scorching heat of the overhead lights with him as he storms into the dressing room. He’s got makeup and paint running down his chest in rivulets like something out of a comic book, or some cheap slasher flick.
Jared’s eyebrows hike up. “Jeez.”
Tom ignores him and makes a beeline for the bathroom. “Hike up the A/C, willya?”
Jared puts away the sash he’s stitching, sticking the needle in a corner of the material, and does as Tom asks. He then plods over to the open door of the Men’s, and leans against the frame. “What the hell?”
Tom’s using his shirt to scrub away all of the gore on his chest. His mouth’s set in an ugly line, eyes narrowed to slits. He’s so angry his hands are actually shaking.
Jared knows the answer to his own question before Tom grits out in a monotone, “Mike.”
Jared nods. The floodlights picking out Hamlet in the middle of the stage, tall and godlike, something terribly tragic and vulnerable in the set of his shoulders. Mike’s never been good at handling how perfect Tom looks onstage, and Mike’s the one in charge of the lights, so they burn like a second sun in a hostile attempt to blind them all. No matter what he does to knock Tom off course, Tom just keeps at it, his voice rising clear and strong above Manners’ yell of if you don’t knock it out, Michael, I’ll knock your fucking teeth out.
Mike and Tom scare the living shit out of Jared sometimes.
“Any particular reason?” He asks, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
Tom’s quiet for a while, just the sound of the tap running and the muffled voices from the green room breaking the silence. He continues savagely wiping himself over, the shirt turning red.
He nods, finally, a sharp jerk of the head. “He’s being a bitch.”
Jared rolls his eyes. “Tom, you-“
“I know, I know.” Blue fire in his eyes as they meet Jared’s. Tom’s beautiful like this, no overstated light, just the harsh glow of the bulb hanging in the bathroom.
It’s not like Jared hasn’t thought of Tom in that way, or Mike, for that matter. There’s been plenty of opportunity over the years, and both of them would have said yes if Jared had timed it right. But it’s never been more than a fleeting thought; a speculative coulda been instead of a what if because the pure, undeniable fact of Jensen was always there.
“I gave him an ultimatum,” Tom says, turning the wadded-up shirt over and over in his hands. “Mike, I mean. We, uh, graduate this year together or I leave without him.”
The breath slides away from Jared’s lungs, and he staggers, crashing into the doorframe for support. “What?”
His voice is too loud for the tiny room, and it echoes off the walls like the crack of a whip. Tom looks up at him again, the look in his eyes faintly pleading.
“He’s older than I am,” Tom says, fast, like if he’s quick enough he can stop Jared from making the inevitable comparison. “He just kind of dropped out last year, stuck around for Supernatural. But I’m thinking, we’ve got to grow up someday, can’t just stick to our high school theatre forever just because it’s the thing we’re really good at, we, we’ve got to move on someday.” His voice drops. “Like Jensen did.”
Once the name’s said, the air gets even thicker, strangling Jared.
“He had the right idea, you know,” Tom continues quietly, “he used to be all kinds of fucked up.”
Jared bows his head, staring blankly at the pool of color at Tom’s bare feet.
“We know better now, Jared.” Tom says softly. “We know better than to leave someone like Chad, someone no one really trusts, in charge. And we can always come back for Shakes as long as we want to, no age limit and stuff, right?” His voice takes a wheedling note. “We won’t be able to do the regular shows, but let’s face it, none of us are gonna miss that.”
Jared snorts. They stage their non-competitive regulars in the smaller stage, where the technology’s fucked to hell, on next to no budget. Mike frequently electrocutes himself there, no one ever gets their cues right because the clear-com’s busted and Jensen has to yell the cues, and Jared never has enough space to spread out and mix and match the materials he wants.
“Until Jen left,” Tom speaks again, and Jared vaguely muses that this is probably the most he’s heard out of Tom offstage. “Until he left, leaving this behind wasn’t an option. Everyone spent their glory days here. But then, if the fucking stage manager could leave the stage behind, so can I.”
“But,” when Jared speaks, his throat is desert-dry. “But what if Mike- what if he-“
Tom’s shoulders sag, and he leans heavily against the sink. “That’s the catch, always gonna be.” He inhales deeply, staring down at the grimy shirt in his hand. “I guess… well, I don’t really know how I’m gonna handle that. Because I saw what Jensen did to you, and I. I don’t really think I can stand that. Probably handle it really badly, worse even than you.” He laughs self-deprecatingly, his eyes haunted. “But I’ve got to move on, Jared. I can’t live with the possibility that these are the absolute best years of my life, that it’s all downhill from here.”
Tom finally shuts up. He doesn’t say anything more as he passes Jared as he goes out into the green room.
"How do you guys handle it?" Alona asks, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. It makes her eyeliner smudge up something terrible, but rehearsals are over for the day and Jared has no intention of renewing it all over again.
"What do you mean?" he asks, kinda distracted by the sight of Jensen coming into the room and snatching up a handful of candy. He smiles at Jared as he does so, small cautious smile like a muted floodlight and something in Jared's chest gives.
"Supernatural, of course." Alona shows him her hands, and it takes him awhile to recognize the ridges on her fingertips.
He looks at her, impressed. "So it's true? You’re really learning to play the violin?"
Alona shrugs. "I didn't want to look like a complete tool onstage. So, how?"
Jared grins a little. "Well, in case you didn't notice, we don't handle it very well."
Alona makes a clicking noise with her tongue. "As a whole, no. But you, as a person, seem weirdly well-adjusted. Considering that you're pretty much a bigshot costume designer, able to talk to Misha Collins without flipping out, and pining for our stage manager."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Misha's not that bad."
"I asked him whether all the bow-pointing Ophelia did was necessary, and he told me to consult the pebbles." Alona says, deadpan. "Yes, he is that bad."
That shocks a laugh out of Jared. It's a full-belly laugh, and he's soon shaking with it. Across the room, Jensen raises his eyebrows with a faint smile.
Jared grins broadly at him. "Your roommate's gone over to the Cult of the All-Knowing Pebbles."
Jensen grins right back. "Musta left behind the Faithfuls of the Living Lawnmower, then."
Alona's eyes go wide. "Oh my God. You're all batshit crazy."
Jared shrugs. "It's all a matter of perspective, baby."
“Amen, brother,” Jensen reaches out a fist and naturally, automatically, Jared bumps his against it and they both grin madly at each other. Then Jensen clears his throat almost self-consciously, and says, “I’m here for the scissors. You got a pair?”
Jared reaches out towards his workstation. “Here ya go. But remember,” he says, his voice going to a singsong level even as Jensen groans, “These are my scissors, they belong to me, and if….”
“Spare us,” Jensen begs, his mouth curved in a huge smile. “Not that stupid rhyme, god.”
Alona snorts. “I get the feeling I shouldn’t ask.”
Jensen nods fervently. Jared shoves him and he pretends to stagger, leaving the green room with a backwards glance and waving the scissors like a flag.
Jared watches the door awhile, his mouth still curled in a smile, and resolutely ignores Alona’s eyes on him.
“So,” she says.
Jared looks down at his hands. There’s this strange, amorphous feeling growing inside him, something that feels fragile and precious. For a second, it feels like he’s floating.
It’s nothing as solid as an epiphany; not even close. Just events scrambling together, Misha’s bright blue eyes saying you’re an idiot, Kristen saying you two were perfect together, and that hopeful look Jensen got in his green eyes whenever Jared looked at him for more than three seconds.
“Huh,” he says, and looks at Alona. She raises her eyebrows and he blushes a little.
Alona’s smiling even before he’s done relating his not-quite-epiphany to her. “I think Jensen still feels something, too.”
The pre-tech week party -or, as Misha and Mike insist on calling it, We All Die Young And Gorgeous Party- is held at Misha’s place, whereas Genevieve hosts the official cast party. Katie shows up at six thirty at Jared’s house, dressed in a black T-shirt and red leather jacket Jared remembers vaguely from Othello two years ago. She smiles sweetly when he calls her out on it, saying that she’s not going to let that bitch Cortese have all the fun.
The music’s up loud when they arrive, and they’re greeted at the door by a disgruntled Misha, who tells them to try and get laid, preferably not by eachother because they’ve got enough sexual issues floating around already without them being a pain in his ass as well.
Katie laughs, and blows him a kiss. “Aw, honey, you care about us.”
“Like I care about a bad case of crabs,” agrees Misha.
Jared drags Katie inside before she can really get into the snarking competition. Halfway inside, Mark, Jensen’s mentor, crashes into him.
“Sasquatch!” he cries delightedly, peering up at him. Jared bends to return the hug, rolling his eyes. “You’re still around! And as pretty as ever!”
Jared gives the plastic cup in Mark’s hand a doubtful look as Mark hangs on to his shirt. “What’s in that?”
“Dr Pepper, I think.” Mark says with a straight face. “Possibly with actual pepper mixed in, because it’s like a punch in the face. Wouldn’t put it past Collins.” Then he beams again. “Now, Padalecki, tell daddy how your life’s been.”
Mark’s shoved aside slightly when Jensen walks directly into him, slight smirk curving his lips. “As entertaining as that sounds,” Jensen says dryly, voice barely audible over the steady beat -sweet Jesus, Jared thinks distractedly, is that actual Celine Dion? Misha’s sense of irony is nothing short of physically painful- “better let Jared have something to drink first.”
He hands Jared a plastic cup, his eyes fixed on Jared’s. Jared firmly ignores the current weaving through the air between them, and takes it.
Mark clears his throat, and Jared raises an eyebrow. He exchanges a glance with Jensen, a stab of heat on his skin, and Jensen’s smiling a little bit, too, enjoying Mark’s discomfort equally. “So, you lovebirds are still together?”
Much to his surprise, Jared’s not really surprised by the question. Lots of chemistry in the open air; he’s coming to accept the idea maybe he’s not the only one pining.
Jensen catches his eye again, doesn’t look away for the longest time. Jared feels it like a physical touch, and he shivers. “Well,” he says to Mark, his eyes still on Jared’s. “Not exactly.”
It’s an invitation, a showing of hand. Talented stage manager that he is, Jensen wants them both to be on the same page.
Jared grins. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Not exactly, but close.”
Jensen’s smile puts all of Mike’s equipment to shame.
And so Jared finds himself going down on Jensen in the bathroom in Misha’s apartment.
There’s a voice at the back of his mind yelling and punching, screaming nonononono as loud as it can, but mostly Jared’s numb.
Mark had probably been right about the drinks in circulation; they were definitely spiked. The hours had crammed into each other as he and Jensen talked, mundane stuff like how the sexual tension between Laertes and Ophelia in the play was all kinds of wrong and how it was only to be expected since they have Misha Collins writing scripts. Jared had asked after Jensen’s dog and Jensen had admitted he now has two, naming the new one Sookie because he’d remembered Jared once saying when in doubt, go redneck. It’d be so sweet to have a dog with a redneck name, and then changed his mind and named her Sadie instead.
And then Jared had said something stupid like, “Good to know you’ve stopped listening to me being a dumbass after all this time,” only slightly bitter.
Jensen had smiled. “Yeah, well, if you saw her you’d agree. I kept thinking about how you wouldn’t want a sweetheart like her to have a pretend name, so.”
And then Jared had just kind of slipped, head over heels and tumbling, lost in the familiarity of Jensen.
He’d never claimed to be smart where Jensen was involved.
Jensen, matching Jared’s every refill of Coke with the beer Misha kept appearing with, seemed to be totally in with the plan. His eyes went dark when Jared reached out and twisted a hand in his shirt, and he had come willingly, albeit drunkenly, when Jared lead him to the bathroom.
Jared sucks a bruise into the hollow of Jensen’s throat, teeth nipping and grazing and Jensen arches into him, moaning broken-off words that sound like his name. He slams Jensen against the wall and reaches for the waistband of his jeans. Jared’s fingers fumble on Jensen’s belt buckle, ridiculously complicated mechanism. He can’t hear beyond the roar of his heart in his ears, drowning out the electronic in the room opposite, his dick throbbing in his jeans in tune with the sledgehammer beat of his migraine; can’t think beyond, got to take what I can before he leaves again.
Jensen laughs under his breath, helping him with the buckle. His lips aim a kiss at his mouth that lands on Jared’s jaw when Jared turns his face away.
Jared sinks to his knees, familiar feel of tile against bone, drunk on Dr Pepper and being in the company of the boy he loves and who once loved him. Confused about the year; Othello or Hamlet? Fucking Shakespeare and his angsty homos.
And then he reaches out and touches his mouth to the hot bulge in Jensen’s jeans and God, he wants so much he can’t see straight and Jensen whispers, “Jared?” like he’s just noticing him.
Before he knows what the hell’s going on, before he can breathe, Jensen’s scrambling away.
Jared looks up, confused and irritated, lips parted on a protest.
“No,” Jensen says, back against the door. His eyes are huge, and he looks downright terrified. “Not like this, Jay. Not when it’s not for real.”
Jared just stares up at him from the floor.
Jensen looks sixteen in the soft light of the bathroom, pale and scared. They’re both of them so far away from where they started from, best friends since birth -well, Jared’s birth, anyway- and then something much, much more.
Jared has an out-of-body experience, sort of. Growing up and eating ice cream on the back porch of his house and painting the set, and all of it leads back to Jensen.
Jensen speaks again, and his voice is choked and raw. “You fuck me up, Jay.”
And then he runs for it, leaving Jared, stunned and not quite sure of what just happened, still kneeling on the floor.
Onwards