Work Text:
Jensen has this thing he does when he meets someone new.
He takes a good thorough look at them and tries to pick out what he thinks their flaws might be. Virgin, glaringly obvious daddy issues, receding hairline. It makes things easier when he has to stand in a room full of people who he doesn’t know but who know him, makes it easier to not feel conscious about every word that leaves his mouth. It’s how Jensen has gotten through most of his life in front of a camera, a trick taught to him by one of his old acting class buddies back home and it works until —
There’s something about Jared that makes him nervous. It’s not that Jared doesn’t have any flaws. He’s a person much like anyone else, but the desire to one-up him doesn’t stir inside Jensen like it does with anyone else that walks into his life. Jensen can’t quite put his finger on the reason for it.
Jared is loud, electric, tall. He’s from Texas and he sounds like a shrieking siren when he tries to drunkenly sing and he’s comfortable enough in his own skin that Jensen is almost offended by it. His eyes, when they catch in the sunlight, have flecks of green sometimes, golden the other times. It turns into a game for Jensen to catch sight of them when they go from green to gold and he gets really good at it, his mental scoreboard going tick, tick, tick when Jared tilts his head to answer a question.
Green, fifteen. Golden, ten. Green, twenty-five. Golden, thirty. Jensen sips on his coffee and sits across from Jared on this convention stage in Chicago. It’s hot inside his sweater and his collar won’t sit in the exact way that he wants it to be in and Jared is making this crowd laugh.
Jensen’s coffee has lost steam and Jared is telling this story about almond butter and his car and his dog and everybody’s laughing and Jensen’s heart is full. He should be seething with jealousy. He should be fighting for the spotlight. He should be there beside Jared, laughing with him at this story into their shared microphone, but Jared’s eyes catch in the light.
Green, twenty-six.
There’s a crescent sinking into Jared’s cheek as he smiles. Jensen looks around the room and every single person looks like they’re a tiny bit in love with him. Why wouldn’t they be? There are clicks of cameras going off all around the room and Jared basks in the attention of a million lenses on him. Jensen’s coffee isn’t sweet enough, isn’t hot enough and Jared is warm, welcoming, everything Jensen wishes he was and more.
Later in the evening, Jared emails him a picture of Jensen watching him, smiling at him and captions it with eye-fuck much, bro? And Jensen doesn’t know what to say. He turns his phone off.
From a young age, Jensen learns how to watch himself in public. The things he says, the things he does, the women he kisses. Everything is monitored and the internet is forever and the thought of something like that makes Jensen nervous. So, he learns from his mistakes. He trains himself. He holds himself accountable and watches his reflections in mirrors a lot more closely than he should.
Everything should be perfect. He should be perfect. Nothing should go wrong.
It’s 2009 when Jared first does the thing.
They’re filming an episode and Jensen has gotten no more than four hours of sleep last night. Jared had warned him about the ill-effects of staying out too late partying when you have work the next morning — everything depends on your memory and you won’t remember anything if you haven’t slept enough — but Jensen doesn’t listen. He was too distracted by the idea of women in black stockings and shimmery eyeshadow and shots of alcohol burning his throat and now he regrets it.
He keeps forgetting his lines and the word cut is purely traumatic. They let Jensen take five and he slams the door to his trailer close. The script in his hand gets incomprehensible the more he reads it, a headache pounding inside his skull and he tosses the pages away. He should’ve listened to Jared.
There’s a knock on Jensen’s door. Jared walks in without Jensen’s permission, holding a sole blueberry muffin in his hand, soft smile on his face.
“Hey.”
Jensen doesn’t want to talk about anything, especially with Jared. He just wants to curl up in bed, watch a shitty movie and die a slow, painful death. He doesn’t reply, throws his arm over his eyes and hopes to God that Jared gets the hint. A few seconds go by of pure silence until the seat on Jensen’s couch beside him is filled.
“Dude, leave me alone.” Jensen says. “Just go away.”
“Eat. It’ll help you think.”
“Not hungry.”
“Humor me, man.”
The blueberry muffin is stale and tastes slightly of chalk and Jared’s hair is perfectly pushed behind his ears. His legs fill out the empty area in the trailer and God, he’s sprawled all over what’s supposed to be Jensen’s space. Jensen tries not to stare at the way Jared looks in those jeans, the green sweater that compliments his eyes and what Jensen wouldn’t give to be in bed asleep right now.
He turns to Jared, mouth full of cake. “This was terrible.”
Jared’s cheeks sink in, dimples the loudest thing in the room and Jensen is jolted awake like he’s been shocked by an electric eel. Bolts of energy running through his veins.
They run their lines, get through filming and it’s almost two in the morning when they get to go home. Jensen gets a taxi because he cannot be trusted to be behind a steering wheel right now and Jared gets into his car. Though before they’re about to leave, Jared puts his arm around Jensen’s waist and pulls him in close. A brief side hug.
“You did good.” He says, leaving Jensen behind in his wake, breath hitched in his chest.
The memory comes back to him in Hawaii, years later on a stage when Jared is telling yet another story, sitting in a chair and Jensen’s standing beside him. The garland of fake flowers is making his neck itch. Jensen raises the microphone to his mouth to supplement Jared’s story — and it happens.
It happens again.
Jensen stops thinking, brain flatlining. He forgets that he’s in this room full of people that are watching his every move, he forgets that this is going to be stored in somebody’s phone somewhere across the world because Jared’s fingers are curling around his waist. He slips. Only for a second, but he slips.
The air smells of salt. Jared’s hair is longer, eyes greener. It’s 2009 all over again.
It’s about to be over soon. This fever dream of a life they’ve been leading for so many years.
They’re drenched in champagne and Jensen can never get used to the idea of no longer being behind a lens. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his life now, doesn’t know how to exist when he no longer is obligated to wake up at four in the morning for a rainy day shoot. He’s terrified of what’s to come.
Jensen’s heart is pounding in his chest. Jared is beside him and he’s been smiling all day like he doesn’t care that this is the end — and Jensen just wants to shake him and scream at him and ask him if he cares. The photographers stop. They’re done.
Jared turns to hug Misha first and Jensen doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He should say something. Thank you for being by my side all these years. Thank you for being my support system. Thank you for —
Jared turns to him. He’s this massive fucking tower of muscle and hair and Jared kisses him on the cheek, almost on the corner of his mouth. The cameras are still filming them, but Jensen could care less.
“Does it look fine?”
Jared doesn’t know how to tie a tie. Jensen spends three hours making fun of him for it and Jared’s cheeks are tinged pink, pink, pink under the set lights. The cameras are about to roll and Jared is nervous about whether or not his tie is crooked.
Jensen looks at him, really looks at him in the blue suit, the soft makeup accenting his skin, luscious hair pushed behind his ear. Jared looks at him, tilts his head, eyes hazy. He opens his mouth to say something and Jensen puts a stop to it.
“You look fine. Wait, actually, it’s a little —“ Jensen reaches for Jared’s tie, straightens it up a little. Jared’s skin is warm under Jensen’s fingers as Jensen fixes the spread of his collar. “There. All okay now.”
“You sure? Check again?” Jared asks, tone slighted and teasing and Jensen shakes his head. Golden, one hundred and eighteen.
“All okay,” Jensen repeats before he turns away, static between his ears.
Jensen is drunk and tired and he wants to go home.
He’s been tiring a lot easier these past few weeks and he misses home, his mother’s comforting pot roasts, his father’s television shows that need high volume. He misses being warm and comfortable without the weight of a thousand eyes on him. He misses being able to take phone calls in peace without worrying about who might overhear and he misses being able to watch people without being watched.
He hates this party. There’s a sheen of oil on his face that won’t go away no matter how much water he uses to wash his face and everything around him is disgusting. He really wants to go back home to Texas, feel the sun on his skin and become a human again — whole and unseen and everything he’s pretending not to be now.
Jared is at the bar and Jensen is having a half-hearted conversation with an executive he doesn’t recognize, his eyes trained on Jared. It’s a casual party so Jared is in these jeans and a plain white shirt and he looks phenomenally good and Jensen’s ear is being talked off about future plans for the show. He finds that he doesn’t really give a fuck.
He wants to go back home, he wants to eat his mother’s food and he wants —
There’s a woman next to Jared. She’s blonde, beautiful, perfectly attractive in the dim light of the bar and Jensen could shoot himself in the head. Jared speaks to her with this smile on his face because he’s a good person — drink in his hand, nodding to whatever stupid question the woman is asking him.
“Will you please excuse me?” Jensen says to the executive and he’s sober enough to wait until he gets a sure, sure before he bolts in the direction of Jared and the mystery lady.
Someone catches a hold of his elbow and Jensen almost yanks himself away, but he’s not that stupid. There are cameras here. There are eyes on him. Minutes feel like hours as they go by, sluggish like he’s swimming in molasses and by the time he’s relieved of his duties, Jared is alone again.
Jensen sidles up next to him and Jared grins. He’s so beautiful even from up close and Jensen hates his guts.
“You okay?” Jared asking, leaning into him slightly so that this conversation stays between the two of them. “You’ve been drinking?”
“Stupid question.” Jensen mutters under his breath. He’s terrified of the fact that he might smell like a goddamn brewery. “I really miss home, man.”
Jared’s eyes soften. “I know,” he says.
“I don’t want to complain, but —“
“It’s okay.”
Jensen looks at him. Blinks. “What?”
“It’s okay if you want to complain.” Jared says, taking a swig of his beer. “You’re allowed to.”
Jensen opens his mouth and tries to find the words — something along the lines of you’re so fucking beautiful, I think I’m in love with you or let’s get out of here, I want to see the world with you or it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, we could be friends forever and it’ll be enough for me. I’ll take you any way I get.
The music is loud and Jared feels sick when there’s bass pumping through his body so they step out for a bit, a door separating them from the bar and the kitchen where there’s a steady line of waiters streaming in and out from. Jared is distracted by some story he’s telling Jensen about — something about lilac paint and canvases and Jensen isn’t really listening. He’s drunk, but not really. He’s tired, but not really.
He knows better, but not really.
It takes one bad idea to ruin your life and for a second, Jensen thinks this might be it. His hands in the collars of Jared’s dress shirt as he pulls him forward and kisses him. It could be the end of the world. But Jared tastes like chapstick and Jared kisses him back and presses him into the wall and that’s that.
✯