Coda: Vol. I, Disc 1
Jun. 26th, 2010 12:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raeschae
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.
Jensen's drinking from a beer bottle, feeling happy and slightly buzzed while typing his review of the latest Ever Afters album for his website, Coda. In the last few years, he's become somewhat of a local authority on unsigned bands, and his words have the ability to generate sales. It's a responsibility he takes pretty seriously. Or, ya know, seriously enough to listen to the album a couple of times before he starts seriously drinking from the bottle at his side.
When he's listened twice, he pulls the buds from his ears and reaches for the television remote, bare feet propped up on the edge of his coffee table. He's barely paying attention to the background noise when whatever rock doc of the moment VH-1 is airing comes back from commercial. Music and Sexuality. Fan-fucking-tastic. His favorite subject.
Rolling his eyes, he tips his bottle, minimizes the review document and opens a new one. Ranting about the general public's interest in rock stars' fucking habits and how it became social commentary in the first place, seems much more interesting at the moment. Who knows? Maybe he'll be short an editorial someday and actually post it.
His fingers work swiftly, tracking his opinion on his new subject.
The number one answer to the question “Why become a rock star?” has always been and will forever be, “to get laid.” It's a fact of life in this thing called rock and roll, and I can't begrudge one single artist for it. To be truthful, if I could play a lick to save my life, I'd be rollin' in groupie love, too. Sex sells (clichés are such for a reason, kids) and gratuitous stories about excessive sex with porn stars and strippers sell reputations and, in turn, records.
The problem, as I see it, is not that we have an interest in the personal or, more accurately, the sex lives of our favorite musicians. The problem is that, for so many artists and consumers alike, we have become more interested in who's fucking who than we are about the music itself.
Stopping to take another drink, Jensen shakes his head and can't tell if he's actually onto something here or if he's just slightly tipsy and spewing trash. He'll worry about that later. For now, he just wants to get his thoughts out of his head and onto the screen.
It's working famously and he's amassed almost an entire page of musings when he hears the voice – the one that stops him cold every time that stupid fucker shows up on one of these VH-1 commentaries.
Lifting his head, Jensen takes a hard drink and tries to tell himself that Jared Padalecki is not any more attractive than he used to be. That even now, two years after they broke up, he doesn't still have the power to turn Jensen completely inside the fuck out. He tells himself that the floppy hair is ridiculous for a grown man who wants to be taken seriously, and that the bright eyes and the wide smile are in no way an invitation for sex. There's nothing particularly special about Jared or what he has to say.
“As a fan, an artist's sexual orientation shouldn't matter, and I know that. And as a journalist, it doesn't make a bit of difference.” Jared shakes his hair out of his eyes and Jensen bitterly thinks that it looks unprofessional to do so on camera. Or something. “But as a gay man, it does matter. I mean, everybody wants to feel a connection with the music they listen to. And you can do that with a really great song, but if you know the person who wrote it or who's singing it, just gets it? Whether it should matter or not, it does, ya know?”
Yeah, Jensen knows. He knows exactly how Jared feels about sexuality and music. For fuck's sake, he's heard it a million fucking times, thank you very much. Well, not lately, being as they haven't spoken in two years. But before, Jensen heard loads about how Jared felt in regards to sexuality and music. And sexuality and politics. Sexuality and literature. Sexuality and motherfucking breakfast cereal.
His fingers are moving before he realizes that he's still typing, and maybe drinking a little bit more than he should. Oh, fuck it. He can always edit later. Might as well write what he's thinking. Maybe he'll stumble onto something useable by accident.
Who the fuck cares if a person is gay, straight, bi-sexual, transsexual, or what the fuck ever anyway? Does it matter in the making of great music? No. All it manages to do, once the proverbial cat is out of the bag, is shift focus from the fucking music, which is supposed to be the most important thing anyway, to the artist. Music is supposed to be the great equalizer, the shit that brings us all together regardless of race, creed, sexual orientation, language, or whatever the fuck else that separates us. How the fuck's it supposed to do that if every time we hear it, we have to think about your motherfucking interview with Rolling fucking Stone where you confess that the 'baby, baby, baby' you can't wait to get home and fuck is your secret gay lover from wherever the fuck, who turns you out like nobody ever has? I can make my own assumptions about the song, thanks. I don't need your personal input to make it better.
And while we're on the subject of personal input, I'd like to say that I think so-called “rock historians” and self-proclaimed “music experts” need to shut the fuck up about their goddamn opinions for thirty seconds and let the rest of us decide how we fucking feel about shit for a change. I don't need to see your goddamn face on my television telling me how awesome it is to be a gay man in America. You're out, we get it. Just shut the fuck up and talk about the music.
You used to be able to do that, remember? We would talk about music for hours, like all the way through the night whether we fucked before or after, or not at all? It didn't matter back then, because the music mattered, man. You didn't need the whole fucking world to know you got off on a dick up your ass. You just needed them to know that they shouldn't waste their money on Fall Out Boy, and should maybe invest it in 63 Flavors, instead. Remember that? When you wrote that awesome review about the Flavors show, back before they sold out and started bastardizing emo for their own financial gain? You did that. You used to get it. And it wasn't about sexuality. It was about music, man.
Jensen stops typing long enough to stand up, press the heel of his hand tight against his eye and push the computer away. He should stop this shit. Stop torturing himself. Stop thinking about Jared all together. He should just write his review and go to bed. It's well after four in the morning and most of Chicago is sleeping. Why shouldn't he be?
Instead, he stumbles into the kitchen and grabs the half-empty bottle of Jack from the counter that Chris left the last time he was over. Jensen shrugs as he tips it back, needing more than a beer to combat this tension settling in his gut.
When he gets back to the couch, he trains his eyes back to the television. Some chick in a striped sweater and thick-rimmed glasses is talking through her nose about the bravery of Freddie Mercury or some shit and he just rolls his eyes and takes another long pull from the bottle. He takes another drag from his cigarette as he shakes his head. What the hell is the world coming to anyway?
And then Jared's back. His shirt is fucking pink. It should make him look like a total ass clown, but it really only accentuates the tan he shouldn't have, living in New York like he does now, and forces Jensen to remember the way he used to writhe and moan and beg while Jensen licked a dirty trail down his chest. Stupid fucking pink shirt!
This time, he gulps long and hard from the bottle, cigarette burning low between his fingers as he pulls his computer back into his lap and starts typing once again.
What kind of self-respecting man wears pink on television anyway? Are you just trying to force the fact that you're 'out and proud' down our throats? Like you used to force your cock down my throat? You don't think I remember, do you? Of course I remember. The way you loved it. Begged for it. Fucking needed it. Oh, I remember. And I remember the way you used to grin like a fuckin' Cheshire Cat when your tongue was in my ass, too. For a guy who wasn't gay before you met me, you sure as hell loved eating my ass. But I guess I wasn't really complaining, was I? Because who am I kidding? The way you licked me, and fingered me, and fucked me was like poetry. Like fuckin' Dylan lyrics, man.
Not that I sit around thinking about it anymore or anything. Even when you're sellin' out on television like you do, I'm not sittin' here in my living room thinking about what a fucking moronic idiot I was to let you get away. I'm really fucking not. Because you made your choice. You're the one who wanted the world to know you liked dick. Like you wanted to fuckin' advertise it or some shit. Like I wasn't enough for you. Couldn't be enough for me to know. Had to let everyone else in on it, too. You were enough for me. Didn't need the whole fucking world to know I was riding your cock. Why wasn't I enough for you?
He's not even considering the fact that he sounds like a pathetic little girl with her first broken heart. Nobody's gonna see it anyway. And he's a little too drunk to notice that he's basically admitting, at least to himself, that he's still in love with Jared. That would totally explain why he hasn't had another serious relationship since.
He glances up again when that voice sounds. Laying his laptop to the side, he lights another cigarette and clutches at the neck of the whiskey bottle. All his inebriated brain can seem to circle and land on is this one memory of Jared stopping by after classes to drop off an article one night during Jensen's senior year at Northwestern, Jared's sophomore at the University of Chicago. Back when Coda was a magazine.
It was all hard copy in those days, nothing online, and the living room in the house Jensen shared with Chris and Mike was perpetually covered in print-outs and notebook paper. They typed everything; it wasn't the Dark Ages or anything, but there was still a lot of printed research – magazines and newspapers. And CDs, because Jensen refused to succumb to the downloading trend.
Jensen was laying in the middle of the floor, reading an article on the post-punk revival, glorifying the likes of The Strokes, The Hives, and The Vines. He was sucking on the cap of a highlighter and considering whether or not awesome bands were a good enough reason to relocate to Europe, when the front door flew open and Jared tripped over the coffee table.
“What the hell is that doin' there?” he asked, rubbing his shin and dropping his backpack to the floor. “Has that always been there?”
Jensen rolled his eyes. Yes, he always kept his coffee table right in front of the door. “How in the hell you can tell when a band changes one fucking lyric on stage, but can't recognize the most blatantly obvious details of your own fucking every day life is so far beyond me, I don't even know where to begin,” he laughed, hopping up off the floor to take the disk Jared was offering.
He always wondered why Jared never e-mailed his articles, being as he lived in a dorm downtown and Jensen lived twenty minutes away in a house in Evanston. It wasn't a road trip or anything, but still.
“You're not wearing a shirt.”
Rolling his eyes, Jensen jammed the disk into his PC tower and loaded the file. “I stand corrected,” he retorted. “Your powers of observation are astounding, Padalecki.”
Jared let himself into the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. He had turned twenty-one in July, but only seemed to drink when they were out with a group. Jensen just assumed it was because he had to drive home and he was a responsible young man, or whatever Jared seemed to want his mother to believe.
He didn't hear Jared return, too busy reading over the greatness that was every Padalecki editorial, tracking changes and huffing in agreement. He sure as hell felt the sweet, cola-scented breath against his neck when Jared bent low and pointed at his screen over his shoulder, though.
“You're a fucking idiot, Ackles.” Jared spoke so close to his ear, Jensen could feel the moisture of his breath. “That line is genius and you know it.” He didn't even move as he continued to talk, and Jensen was finding it a little more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit. “Don't be cuttin' shit because you're jealous now.”
“Jealous of what?” Jensen aimed for amused, but even he recognized how short the attempt fell.
“My brilliance,” Jared answered simply, and if Jensen didn't know that they were nothing more than friends, he would have sworn that Jared's lips brushed the bend of his neck when he pulled away. Standing to his full height, he towered over Jensen and stared down at him with something darker than his usual humor. Fuck. Hell. Fucking hell.
Sliding back, Jensen swiveled in his chair and moved across the floor, snatching the article he had been reading before Jared arrived. “You should read this,” he recommended, eyes refusing to meet Jared's as he waved it across the distance.
“Can we stop?” Jared asked, up in his space again. “Just stop pretending that I drive all the way over here to give you fucking articles, on a disk I could just as easily e-mail, and get to the part where we make out on the couch?”
If he was being honest with himself back then, Jensen would have admitted that something had been brewing between him and Jared for more than a little while –probably since they'd met back in high school. He would have manned up and owned the fact that Jared's opinions and his sense of humor were crazy attractive, and that his body was out of control. He would just accept that he wanted to do wicked and brutal things to that body, and that he sometimes got off thinking about it.
He didn't have time to admit shit, though, because Jared was on him. Lips dry and hot and eager against his, and Jensen could’ve fought back, but he didn't. He just. He didn't.
Jared's hands were all over his chest and back, in his hair and on his face. His lips ran down the side of Jensen's neck and then back to his mouth, tongue wet and kisses deep. They somehow managed to stumble onto the couch, Jared on top of him. Jensen was pretty sure it wasn't a coincidence.
It certainly gave him the leverage necessary to whisper things like, “been wantin' this for so long,” against Jensen's ear while they rutted against each other like they were still teenagers.
What the fuck was going on? When did Jared go from the shy kid who used to follow him around the school paper newsroom to this aggressive sexual being? And when the hell did he start doing it with Jensen? Was there a memo that Jensen had missed somewhere? He sure as hell didn't remember this being “their thing.”
“Woah, woah.” He finally managed to create some room just as Jared's hand was deftly unbuttoning his pants. “What the fuck, man?”
There was no shame and no confusion in Jared's eyes. “Tell me you don't want it,” he insisted, thumb trailing over the line of skin just below Jensen's jeans.
Fuck.
Jensen wanted to tell him just that. Jared was too close. He was a friend. He couldn't know. Jensen couldn't tell him. The only guys who knew that Jensen was gay were the ones he fucked on occasion when he really liked the band and the drummer had awesome hands. Or when he was at a club, by himself, and felt free enough to let some stranger grind up on him until they found some back room or something. Jensen didn't admit it to anyone he knew.
But it felt like Jared was looking through him, like he could see everything Jensen was too scared to admit. More than that, it looked like maybe he liked what he was seeing. And for the first time, he wanted to trust someone with his secret. Not just someone –Jared.
“Fuck, Jared,” he sighed, head flopping back against the pillows. Instead of answering the question, he rolled his hips against Jared's and groaned when that huge fucking hand wrapped around his hard cock.
From there, things moved so fast that Jensen didn't have time to consider what was happening. Jared jerked him off and then made the most obscenely hot noises known to any man when Jensen returned the favor. There was sucking later that night, and if one of Jared's fingers ended up in Jensen's ass, he pretends he doesn't remember anymore.
He's seriously fucked up. There's no other explanation for the way he's thinking, for being so fucking turned on at the thought of his ex – his stupid fucking ex with his big forehead and pink shirts and bullshit, sell-out job. It's gotta be the alcohol. He just needs to sleep it off. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.
He saves the document, maximizes the original review post, and pastes it into the final version of tomorrow's blog. A couple clicks of the mouse, and he ambles back toward his bedroom. He passes out before he can settle fully into his mattress.
“Get the fuck up!”
Jensen bolts upright and then falls back against the mattress, head clutched in both hands in a hell of a lot of agonizing pain. “Jesus Christ!” he bites through clenched teeth, rolling against his pillow and burying his face. “The fuck outta my house!” he growls, pain shooting through his skull, rattling against his eye sockets. Damn, it's been a long time since he bothered to drink so much. He should really think about never doing it again.
“You wanna lay there and let the shit storm wash over you, fine.”
Mike's gone before Jensen can process his words. Oh, who is he kidding? He's not processing anything right now. Fuckin’ hell, his head is about to explode, probably literally.
Five minutes later, Mike is back, yanking the blankets away and pulling Jensen by the arm until he falls onto the floor. “Motherfucker, I will kill you,” Jensen threatens. Though, seeing as he can barely lift his head from the floor, it might be an idle threat.
“Dude, you're gonna wanna see this,” Mike insists.
Grumbling, Jensen manages to lift himself to a standing position. Well, a somewhat standing position. He's on his feet, at least. His fingers scrabble against the wall for purchase as he sways. Light isn't supposed to stab you in the face, is it? “Goddamn, I drank too much last night,” he grits, mostly to himself.
“Ya think?” Mike quirks an eyebrow, but he doesn't smile and that's when Jensen knows that something is really fucking wrong. Mike's the kind of guy who will burn you on three levels at one time, in ways you won't even understand, and he'll do it with a grin that makes you think he's paying you the biggest of compliments. When he's not smiling, he actually means it. And that's… well, that's bad.
Jensen scrubs his hand over his face and forces himself to focus. The quicker he gets Mike out of his apartment, the quicker he can get back to passing out again.
After a quick stop off in the bathroom to brush the flavor of dead ass off his tongue and splash a little water on his face, he finds Mike on the couch, laptop open on the coffee table. “What's the emergency, Mikey?” He grabs his cell phone from the place he left it last night and notes the 26 missed calls. What the hell?
“You tell me,” is Mike's answer as he pulls the computer onto his lap and flips it around for Jensen to see.
He can't really tell what happens in the next five minutes, being as he goes from squinting at the screen, to running toward the bathroom, to vomiting everything he's eaten in the last week, to falling back against the cool tiles, head resting against the edge of the bathtub, all in one continuous string of motion. He lays there for only a second before charging into the living room again and yanking the computer out of Mike's hand.
Mike's fingers card through his dark hair, leaving it to stand out on all sides of his head. “Jenny, what the hell, man?”
Jensen types furiously, pulling the entire blog offline as quickly as he possibly can.
The review. He posted the review of The Ever Afters before he went to bed last night. At least, that's what he thought he was doing. Apparently, his drunken mind couldn't tell the difference between that five-hundred word review, and his three-thousand word rambling rant of nonsense, because that's what was staring back at him from his own fucking website this morning.
Jesus Christ.
It's been two years since he felt this way, since he woke up to a punch in the gut he never saw coming. Since Jared ruined everything.
“You're up early,” Jensen grunted, falling onto the end of the couch. He buried his face in the pillow and groaned when Jared's long fingers wormed their way under the leg of his sweat pants. Lifting his head, Jensen pried one eye open and couldn't really help smiling back at the way Jared chewed his cereal and still managed to grin happily.
His fingers brushed against Jensen's sleep-warmed skin. “Class at ten,” he offered as an explanation.
“Right,” Jensen nodded, grunting as he sat back up and grabbed the Pop Tart waiting for Jared on the coffee table. “Sometimes I forget you're such a baby.”
Jensen had already graduated and was maintaining his website full-time while submitting freelance editorials and reviews to make ends meet. Jared was finishing up his senior year, officially living in on-campus housing, but spending most nights at Jensen's. It was getting more and more difficult for Jensen to let him leave.
He was almost asleep again, lulled by the feeling of Jared's fingers and the low din of the morning news on the television. It wasn't until he heard Jared say, “This is such motherfuckin' bullshit, man,” that he forced his eyes open and sat up. Jared was gesturing widely at the television with his free hand. “How is it 2008, and we're still talking about gay rights? How are we still debating whether or not it's acceptable for human fucking beings to be together?”
Jensen cleared his throat and let his head flop back against the couch. For a guy who wasn't even out of the closet, Jared sure had a lot of opinions on the subject of “gay rights.” Jensen didn't mind listening, really. Jared had always been interested in social issues and human rights. Most of the time he just blew up, ranted for awhile, and then started in on the next cause he thought was worthy of his attention. He'd written a couple of really great articles about the power of music to affect social change and Jensen thought the kid was pretty brilliant. It was maybe one of the reasons Jensen found himself so crazy in love, even now.
“So why don't you do somethin' about it?” Jensen prodded, just like he always did when Jared was in one of these moods. It was one thing to write articles and stomp around the apartment like a crazy person, but if he was never going to do anything Jensen didn't see where Jared could so much call himself an activist.
Jared's eyes were wide and his hand stilled against Jensen's leg. “You'd be okay with that?”
With a shrug, Jensen put his feet back on the floor and pushed off of the couch. “Whatever makes you happy, man.”
“You would seriously do that for me?”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Jensen could feel his eyebrow shoot up. “Do what? Man, we're talkin' about you takin' a stand, not me. That whole 'Power to the People' thing is yours, not mine.” It wasn't that Jensen didn't care about shit going on in the world. He just didn't care like Jared did.
“Yeah, but if I'm gonna come out,” Jared started, voice drawing closer as he approached the kitchen, “I'm not gonna hide you away like some dirty little secret or something.”
“Come out?” The words seemed to bounce off of the kitchen walls. 'Come out' as in tell the world that they were gay? As in the one thing Jensen never intended to tell anyone, ever in his life? “Like out out?”
“No, like out to dinner,” Jared rolled his eyes. “Of course I mean out out.”
“Why the fuck would I wanna do that?”
“Because I do. We could do it together.”
Jensen shook his head and huffed a sarcastic chuckle while pouring himself a cup of coffee. It was cute how Jared thought that holding hands and running out the front door together was going to solve all of the world's problems. It was adorable how he thought that people were open-minded enough now to handle it. It was downright cuddly that he thought Proposition 8 and all of the other anti-gay marriage legislation was bullshit that they could actually strike down with a petition and some celebrity support.
“And then what? We stand in the middle of the storm with all the other 'Out and Proud' homos and pretend that we're actually part of some big revolution? Meanwhile, our friends and family are all pissed off that we're the face of a new campaign we didn't bother telling them about a couple fucking years ago? Only to have the goddamn moral majority strike us down in the end and thereby nullify all of our sordid troubles anyway? Sorry, Jay. Not my thing. You do what makes you happy, though.”
The thing was, Jensen meant it. Back then, he meant that Jared should do what made him happy. He just didn't think that he would be happy without Jensen.
This is bad. This is his every fear come to life. This is epically catastrophic on so many levels that Jensen has to run to the bathroom and puke a second time before he can finish deleting the post.
His cell phone rings again when he's heading back to the living room and he wipes the sleeve of his tee shirt over his lips as Mike returns with a steaming mug of coffee. “It's not the end of the world, Jen,” he says, sinking back to the couch and blowing over the top of his cup.
Ha! Not the end of the world? Mike has clearly sustained some sort of brain trauma. If he thinks for a second that this isn't the end of the world, he's not coming to the table with a full deck.
Jensen posted an incoherent blog on the site that serves as his main source of income, therefore damaging not only his credibility, but also threatening his livelihood. He outed himself, not with a cutesy 'I'm Gay' cover story in People magazine or something, but in full, Technicolor detail. Oh, and he also basically cried to everyone who would listen, including Jared himself (who's on the subscriber list) that he still misses his motherfucking ex-boyfriend.
Mike's right. It's not the end of the world. It's so far beyond that Jensen can't see the end of the world anymore. “What's the waiting period on a hand gun in Illinois?” he growls, coffee clutched between his hands as he slumps into the couch and rests his heavy head against the back cushions.
“Well, at least now you can stop pretending that we're all too stupid to know what's going on.”
It's not the words so much as the meaning of them that send Jensen's heart thudding against his ribs. Licking his lips, he white-knuckles his cup and chuckles nervously. “Oh, come on, Mike,” he shrugs it off easily, like he always does. “You know I was drunk, right? When I wrote that? It's not like it's true or anything.”
Mike doesn't even laugh, just shakes his head slowly, like maybe he's disappointed in Jensen or something. “Really?” He meets Jensen’s eyes and there's no anger there or anything, just a deep-seeded hurt, betrayal. Real pain. “You're gonna look me in the eye and continue lying to my face? Haven't you done that long enough, Jensen?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Jensen defends, though it sounds weak and vulnerable.
He's busted. There's no way around it and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He can't take this one back. Jensen learned years ago that sometimes it's just better to admit defeat like a man. Sometimes, there is no rewind.
“So, tequila really makes me kinda... loose,” Jensen stammered, chest still heaving as he lay sweaty next to Jared on the living room floor.
Rolling his head to the side, Jared raised an eyebrow and the corner of his lip quirked in amusement. “We didn't drink tequila tonight, Jensen,” he pointed out, hand sliding slow and easy down the center of his chest before dragging back up again. Lazy. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world to lay naked on Jensen's floor and come down from that post-orgasmic high.
High. “Oh yeah,” Jensen nodded, eyes drooping heavily as he tried. “Musta been that weed Misha gave us, then,” he offered as an excuse for actually letting things go beyond fooling around with Jared into real, live, dick-in-his-ass fucking.
Jared hoisted himself up on an elbow and looked down at Jensen's face, brow knitted in concentration until Jensen popped one eye open and caught the glow of that million-watt grin. “Don't,” was his only word as he brushed his fingers over Jensen's sternum just as he had done his own a second ago. “Just, don't pretend this wasn't what you wanted. Please?”
And he couldn't anymore. Jensen had wanted Jared for longer than he was probably willing to admit to himself. Wanted him so bad, he could practically feel the desire crawling around under his skin for months, every time they were together. Even when they were still in the 'making out on the couch' phase, Jensen didn't admit it, but he wanted it. Fuck, he wanted Jared.
“You just gotta understand, Jared,” he started, throat drying at the prospect of admitting, even to Jared, that this was something he wanted. That it was something he needed. “I don't,” he shook his head and clenched his eyes tightly shut in frustration.
“Dude, who knows you better than me?” Jensen could honestly say that they both knew that answer. “I'm not gonna out you. Hell, I don't wanna out myself,” Jared laughed and flopped back onto the floor. “Until you, I didn't really give my sexuality much thought one way or the other.”
Jensen let the weight of that statement wash over him as he let his eyes open, focusing his vision on the fucked-out, sweat-moistened kid beside him. So goddamn gorgeous, and Jared didn't even know it. Had no fucking clue what he did to Jensen, what he'd always done to him. “So you're sayin' you, what? Caught the gay from me?”
“Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Gay is some kind of disease, and I contracted it from you.”
“Smart ass.”
“Well, if you weren't the dumb ass,” Jared pointed out, sitting with a sharp grunt. “Look, I'm not asking you for anything more than this, okay? I like you. You like me. We hang out together all the time anyway. Nobody has to know about this, alright? I'm fine with locking ourselves in the proverbial closet and just fucking ourselves to death in there.”
“You are?” Jensen had slept with his fair share of guys who were happy to stay in the closet, but they were aspiring rock stars and one-off strangers that didn't really have the time or interest in a relationship anyway. The few that he bothered getting to know first were never okay with keeping things a secret.
“Nobody's business anyway,” Jared shrugged, and Jensen thought maybe Jared was a little more perfect than he ever gave the kid credit for after all. “Just,” he stopped again and looked over his shoulder to the place Jensen was still laying on the floor, “just don't pretend it was an accident, okay? Not with me.”
“I'm gay,” Jensen says out loud, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. It's the first time he's said it in two years. The first time he's said it to anyone other than Jared.
For a long time they don't speak, and Jensen knows that Mike wants to ask 'why.' Why didn't Jensen tell him sooner? Why was he afraid? Why didn't he trust his friends with something like this? Why has he never talked about it? But he doesn't ask.
Instead, he just gives a nod, takes another long drink of his coffee and says, “Thanks,” sincerely, like he's actually grateful that Jensen's being honest with him for a change.
The weird thing is that saying it out loud actually kind of makes Jensen feel better. He honestly didn't think that it mattered, keeping who he sleeps with to himself. He's been holding onto the secret for so long, it's such a part of him now that he doesn't normally think twice about it. It's just something that he does, like brushing his teeth and automatically categorizing bands by genre during the first song he hears them play.
He really thought he'd gotten over the guilt of it all, that it didn't bother him to hold it back anymore. He has rationalized every reason and excuse and has told himself over and over again that it doesn't matter. That nobody will care anyway. But knowing that he doesn't have to watch his back, sneak away, cover his tracks meticulously, and keep track of every half-truth and almost-lie he tells to make sure that he's covered all the bases, that nobody knows? It's almost a weight off of his shoulders.
The phone rings again and Jensen ignores the call in favor of turning it off. He's just not ready to deal with anyone else yet. When Mike's rings on the tails of Jensen's, he knows who it is. “Tell him I don't wanna talk about it.”
Mike rolls his eyes, flips his phone open and then stands from the couch with a shrug. “Too bad,” he says simply, walking quickly through the apartment.
Jensen hears the voice before he sees them round the corner and it's all he can do to pull his head from the couch before there's a worried-looking Chris Kane standing in the middle of his living room with his hands on his hips and his lips set in a stern line. “The fuck you think you're doing?” he demands.
Jensen takes the time to let his eyes drift down to the other end of the couch where Danneel is lowering herself onto the seat, brow furrowed in deep concern. “I think what Chris is saying,” she grits pointedly, like they talked about this before they came over and Chris isn't following the plan, “is that we're worried about you.”
“Yeah. That. And also that we wanna know what the fuck you think you're doing,” Chris gives her the same pointed look right back and then laser-focuses those crystal blue eyes back at Jensen's face.
“I was working on a review last night,” he starts to reluctantly explain himself because it's Chris and he's not going to back down until he gets an answer. Also, because he's too hungover, and Chris will only get louder if Jensen doesn't tell him what he wants to know. Louder is not better. Not this morning. “Television was on. There was whiskey involved. Just... I don't know, man,” he says with a shrug that sends another wave of nausea through his stomach.
“Sweetie, that wasn't an accident,” Danneel informs him. “Your drunk typing has way more typos and keyboard smashes.” There's a twinkle in her eye when he risks a glance in her direction. “You okay?”
With a groan, he pulls away from her touch and moves his feet to the floor. He's pretty sure he's never going to feel human again, the hangover pushing at both sides of his head like it's an alien trying to take over his body or something, when he takes the time to actually look at his three friends. “I'm fine, guys. Can you all just go home and let me be fine by myself for a little while?”
He loves them, but this is exactly what he's been trying to avoid for the better part of thirty years. He doesn't want to talk about it. With anyone. Ever.
“Sure. Just as soon as you tell us what the fuck,” Chris shrugs, and Jensen notes that he still hasn't moved from his place in the middle of the living room. Mike's in the recliner and Danneel's hugging her knees to her chest at the other end of the couch.
With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head and lets out a breath. His brain is still throbbing against his skull, but the nausea seems to be subsiding. So he figures that's something, at least. When he told Mike, he felt better. Maybe letting Chris and Danneel in on the truth isn't the worst thing in the world. “What do you wanna know?”
Chris opens his mouth, Jensen presumes to ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing again, but Danneel cuts him off with a harsh glare. “We all knew, Jensen,” she says, and he's tired of that hurt look they're all giving him. “Just kind of a don't ask, don't tell kind of thing or whatever.” Nobody asks. Jensen never tells. He's fine with that. Obviously, they're not. “But then I wake up to this rambling blog about it, and I gotta say, man, it hurts. I mean, it's one thing if you don't wanna talk about it. But to tell the whole world when you won't even tell your friends?”
“It wasn't like I did it on purpose,” he interrupts. Because really? If he was going to come out of the closet, do any of them honestly believe that he would choose to do it so publicly? Or so haphazardly? He's a writer, dammit. It would have sounded better than that drunken, nonsensical garbage if he had planned any of this.
“So what happened then?”
Jensen almost forgot Mike was even there for a minute. “Um, heh,” he chuckles to himself and then flops back against the couch, legs sprawled and arms waving to the sides. “Jared?” It's the best answer he can give to pretty much any question they could possibly ask at this point.
Jensen wasn't the most popular guy in his high school, but he also wasn't at the bottom of the barrel. He spent most of his time in the newspaper office, working on album reviews and editorials about the wretched state of the music industry. Back then, in 2001, pop music was crazy popular and even the indie bands on the scene were buying into the bubble gum phenomenon. At least, that's how he saw it. His opinions on the trend weren't exactly the most popular thing in the world, or at least, in his school.
His portable Discman was on the corner of his desk and he was tapping his pen in time with The Shins in his ear buds when a large shadow fell over his workstation. Great. Reluctantly pulling his feet from the desk, he looked up with the intent of letting Tom, his prep-ass editor-in-chief, know just how definitely he was not going to add Limp Bizkit or Linkin-fucking-Park to his “best albums of the year” column.
Instead of Tom's indignant eyes, though, Jensen found himself staring into the bright, hazel eyes of some kid he'd never seen. “The fuck are you?” he asked, dropping his pen onto the desktop as the kid handed him a folded piece of newsprint.
“Name's Jared. Just transferred in,” he explained, grabbing the rolling chair from the next station and straddling it, long arms crossed over the back as he leaned forward, waiting. What the hell for, Jensen didn't know.
Jensen glanced at the paper in his hand. Huh. “This column is usually reserved for recommendations and reviews,” he reads, glancing up to see the kid watching him intently, “but this is neither. You shouldn't buy The Photo Album by Death Cab for Cutie. You have to buy it.” With a huff, Jensen tossed the paper to the desk at his side and leaned back in his chair, expression challenging. “Death Cab, huh?”
“You heard it?” Jared challenged right back, undeterred by any air of superiority Jensen was trying to affect.
With a shrug, Jensen grabbed his pen and started tapping it against his thigh again. “Yeah, I got it,” he nods easily. “Wouldn't say it's a 'must have' for every collection, but it's not bad.”
“Not bad?” Jared guffawed. “Oh whatever, dude. It's amazing.”
“The Forbidden Love was a better EP,” Jensen fired back and he smiled when Jared was the one shrugging this time. “Where'd you transfer from?”
“San Antonio.”
“Oh yeah?” Leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, Jensen looked up. “Any decent musicians ever come outta San Antonio, Jared?”
Without hesitation, Jared said, “Gibby Haynes.”
Impressed, Jensen nodded his head. “Butthole Surfers. Nice,” he winked and sat straight once again. With pursed lips, he studied the kid sitting before him. Skinny. Tall. Awkward. Cute. Smart. “Your column's a little cliché, but I think we can work with that.” Well, it's not like he was going to tell the kid he's impressed. Everyone in this room knew it was practically impossible to win Jensen over in a music discussion on the first try. He had a reputation to uphold. “Welcome to the team, Jared.”
“You know it's a high school paper, right?” Jared rolled his eyes and then his shoulders. “It's not like this was some kinda interview.”
Jensen smiled wickedly and put his ear buds back in, nodding toward the newspaper he was tossing back. Jared was right, of course. Jensen couldn't ban the kid from writing anything. But he could make sure that nothing he wrote ever got published. Could make his life hell if he wanted to. He just... he didn't want to. “Top fifteen albums of this year. You've got ten minutes.” He issued the assignment and watched as Jared pulled a pen out of his back pocket. “Nothing that appeared on the Billboard Hot 100.”
“Please,” Jared responded, smile wide and aimed right at Jensen. “Like that's even hard.”
Whether he managed to accomplish the task or not, Jensen knew that Jared wasn't going anywhere. He was, quite possibly, the closest Jensen had ever met to his equal (at least, inside this room). He had a feeling they were going to get along just fine.
“He was doin' one of those VH1 things, and he was pissin' me off. And I was drinking. And rambling,” he tries to explain to his friends, though it sounds just as stupid out loud as it really is. What was he thinking? Jesus Christ, he deserves this bullshit. “I meant to post a review. Instead,” he motions with a hand toward his computer and doesn't say anything else.
Finally, Chris moves to the couch and sinks to the place between Jensen and Danneel, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It ain't like it's even that bigga deal, really.”
Jensen reaches for his laptop, logs onto his site, and pulls up a forum. “Not a big deal, huh? That why there's fourteen threads dedicated to my emotional demise?” He clicks on a link and pulls it up, more afraid to read what it says than any of his friends can possibly be. They just don't get it. They're all straight. Their lives are easier.
He reads through the first thread, where some people claim he's got as much a right to get off however the fuck he wants to as the next guy. Some, though, seem to feel like he has some obligation to them, like keeping who he's fucking a secret is somehow destroying the delicate balance of their lives. Somebody says that Jensen's word has always been golden to her and now she's not sure she can trust anything he says.
“That's bullshit,” Danneel pipes in. “Give me that.” She's across Chris's lap and pulling Jensen's laptop back to her corner of the couch before Jensen can even protest. “Who you were sleeping with was never an issue before this morning. It shouldn't be now,” she grumbles, fingers clicking furiously over the keys. Sometimes Jensen loves that she's so defensive of him. And sometimes he thinks she just likes riling his subscribers up with her less-than-tactful posts. Either way, it used to be entertaining. Today, nothing is.
“Shouldn't,” Jensen chuckles. “But it totally does. Which is why I never wanted it to come out in the first place.”
“The hell are you talkin' about?” Chris asks, eyebrow arched as though Jensen just started spontaneously speaking Mandarin or something.
It's a speech he's practiced often – one that he's always been prepared to give, should an occasion arise for it. Heaving a sigh, he turns and leans against the armrest, one leg pulled up under his body. “Happens all the fuckin' time, man. You think you know somebody, right? And then you find out they're sleepin' with dudes, and suddenly, they're the gay guy in the group. I don't wanna be defined by my sexuality. I never have.”
“Jesus Christ,” Chris rolls his eyes.
“You watched that American Idol bullshit this year, right Mikey?” Mike shrugs and takes another drink, like he wasn't constantly asking Jensen what he thought of this contestant or that one. “Adam Lambert is a perfect example, man. I mean, come on. Everybody knew it, right? You watched him all season. You knew he was gay, but there was no confirmation so there was mystery and everybody just kinda walked around like they were in on the big secret or whatever. Cut to a month after he loses the shit and he's on the cover of Rolling Stone with a fuckin' snake crawling all over him, fuckin' anvil of a metaphor if I ever saw one, with the fucking ‘I’m Gay’ headline. People who loved him before don't want anything to do with him now. People who could have cared less know his name, his face, because he's the gay guy from American Idol. The motherfuckin' Advocate rides his ass for not being gay enough. And sure, he's selling records or whatever, but it's on the shoulders of some big, gay marketing campaign. That's who he is now. Doesn't matter how many times he says it shouldn't matter. It does.”
“That's some proof positive right there, Jensen,” Mike concurs, bending to set his coffee cup on the floor beside the chair. “Except you forgot something.”
“What?”
“You're not a motherfucking rock star! You're a blogger. You get paid to post your opinions about rock stars on the internet. Nobody gives a flying fuck whose tongue is wedged up your ass. Unless that person happens to be a rock star, and therefore, more interesting to the public than you!”
Mike gets loud, but he doesn't get angry very often. Jensen cringes at the reaction and tries to square his shoulders. “It's not a rock star thing, Mike,” he argues back feebly. “I mean, that's an example that I know, but come on. Now that y'all know for sure, now that I've told you, it changes things. I mean, that's all you wanna talk about.”
“Bullshit,” Chris explodes beside him. “I don't give a goddamn whose ass you're fuckin'. Or who's fuckin' yours. Or whatever. I just wanna know why now. It's been two goddamn years since that kid moved to New York and you haven't said shit one about him in all this time. Why's he pushin' you over the fucking edge now?”
Before he can answer, Danneel says, “Because he never really got to deal with the break up the right way.”
“What?” Now Chris is looking at Danneel like she's the one speaking another language.
“Think about it,” she explains, setting Jensen's computer on the ground as she peers straight into his eyes. “He and Jared broke up. Jared left town. And who the hell was he supposed to talk to about it, huh? It's not like he could just mope around and shit. We didn't know. We couldn't help him through it.”
He can't be sure, but he thinks maybe Danneel's trying to make him feel guilty. He's not sure she could do such a stellar job of it on accident. “I didn't need help,” he insists. “Shit just broke down. Does that sometimes. Nothing anybody could have done about it.”
It's not entirely true. Someone could have done something. Jensen could have.
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Date: 2010-07-15 05:47 pm (UTC)\o/ I have been waiting for this story for months.
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Date: 2010-07-15 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 07:42 pm (UTC)I kind of want that on a t-shirt. Maybe that whole little Sexuality and... rant.
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Date: 2010-07-15 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 10:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 01:59 am (UTC)2. Sexy Music Nerds = WIN
3. I've only been reading for 5 minutes and I already feel the need to comment on the amazingness of this fic.
Love it so hard.
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Date: 2010-07-16 03:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-18 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-18 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-20 08:11 pm (UTC)Oooooh man. When Jensen fucks up, he does not screw around. I totally get his later thought that, if he were going to come out on his website, it would have been BETTER WRITTEN.
Sexuality and motherfucking breakfast cereal made me laugh my ass off.
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Date: 2010-07-21 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-21 08:19 pm (UTC)If he thinks for a second that this isn't the end of the world, he's not coming to the table with a full deck.
and I love it when Jared gets all toppy when he delivers the disc to Jensen and they make out.
Great stuff.
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Date: 2010-07-22 12:51 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for letting me know!!
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Date: 2010-08-09 05:46 pm (UTC):)
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Date: 2010-10-25 05:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-25 01:07 pm (UTC)