Fic: paper.planes (2/6)
Apr. 15th, 2008 02:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: paper.planes (2/6)
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: eventual NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,231 (24,000)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: Thanks tonativestar and lavendervamp for brit-picking this round. As always, feedback = <3
Summary: In which Jared is a wee British undergrad, and Jensen, American postgrad extraordinnaire, seduces him with how great his ass looks in a pair of jeans.
Part 1
The thing is, Sandy loves Jared. And all right, she knows, Jared loves Sandy. But Jared doesn’t love Sandy. And this wouldn’t really be a problem, hasn’t been for the past five odd years since she’s known her own feelings for certain, because she (and everybody else) had always sort of assumed they would end up together anyway.
Their friends believe it. Their parents certainly believe it, if the constant joking-but-not-really about marriage, and grandchildren, are anything to go by. Even the media has gone so far as to declare the It Kids (numbers 21 and 14 on OK’s list, with Sandy ranked higher much to Jared’s chagrin) as rumored to be betrothed. So if everybody in the whole of blighty believes it, well. There’s such thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Which is why Sandy wasn’t worried about Jared’s restraint with her, his steadfast adherence to the land of Platonic. No, she wasn’t worried… at least, not until now.
Or rather, not until Green-Eyes-hooker-boy-with-a-“sexy rough accent”—also known, more simply, as Jensen.
Having always been the requisite asexual of the group, Jared was never one to notice attractive people, nor to whine about celibacy. Which is what makes this recent bout all the more disturbing. No one, no one has ever teased such depths of insecurity out of the affable, untouchable Jared Padalecki, and it is fucking disturbing to witness Jared’s overdue flight into adolescence.
Damn it, it’s supposed to be her to bring it out of him, not some poxy Yank with dick-sucking lips (she has seen the guy, after all). It’s supposed to be Jared and Sandy forever. And while she isn’t about to go turncoat and plot against her best friend, she just… well.
She just wishes Jared would look at her like that.
-----
“Oh Sandy, you should’ve seen it, he was absolutely cracking,” Jared says, one hand around Sandy’s waist and the other gesturing madly.
“Just shut up and smile Jared, they’ll get you in all sorts of weird expressions if you keep talking,” she hisses through her plastered smile.
“Oh, right,” he says, stopping mid-flail and letting his hand drop. He leans down and puts his chin on Sandy’s chestnut hair, which glints off the flashing bulbs and into his eyes.
Finally the paparazzi move on to the next attendees who are pulling up in various modes of transport, leaving Jared and Sandy to shuffle their way into the hotel.
“God, every time,” he grumbles, blinking dazedly.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Sandy says, shaking her own vision out a bit before twining a hand through Jared’s proffered arm.
“That’s just because it gives you a chance to show off how fit you are,” Jared smirks, tugging on the back cowl on her shimmering dress. Sandy squeaks as she readjusts the low V-shaped neckline.
“Watch it, double-stick tape here!”
“Right, right,” Jared laughs, palm up in deference. Sandy verifies her modesty one more time and once she’s deemed herself presentable, the two of them traverse the lobby and push through ceiling-high, rococo-decked doors into the Carnelian Room.
Immediately Jared’s senses are assaulted by the cloying scent of strong perfumes in an array of florals and fruits, the heady aroma of pungent foods as servers nimbly dash around the guests with stacked platters, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol which clings to the red-faced, portly male who cuts past Jared and Sandy with a muttered “pardon.”
Eyes widened, Jared turns to Sandy and confirms, “That was Oliver’s Dad, right?”
She attempts to stifle a snort, recovers quickly and replies, “Not even dinner yet and the man’s pissed!”
Jared chuckles and moves forward, dragging Sandy along through the thickening party.
When they eventually come across the birthday girl, Martha Hammet (“It Kid number twelve, Sandy. She beat you.” “Sod off, 21.”), they stop to coo their felicitations and compliment her spangly, off-shoulder dress.
“Oh that’s gorgeous, Martha, is that Elie Saab?”
“Actually no,” she says, flipping her gently curled locks. “It’s Dior. But you’d think so, wouldn’t you? He had quite the monopoly on gold this season.”
Jared’s keeping his gaze steady, but in his mind his eyes are rolled skyward. He impatiently shifts from foot to foot as the girls pick apart each other’s outfits, clutches to wedges, until an eternity later Sandy says, “We’ll let you be a good host, now. Danny Plover’s looking a little bit lovesick for you.”
Martha’s eyes settle on a boy a few tables away, who clutches a cocktail and is determinedly not looking at her. She muffles a resigned sigh. “You’re right, I was absolutely awful to him the other night. Anyway I think we’ve tortured poor Jared enough, I’ll let him whisk you away,” she says, winking at Jared whose attention snaps back into the conversation.
“Did she just insult me?” Jared asks as Martha disappears behind a gaggle of bystanders.
Sandy laughs, “No, silly boy. Come on, let’s go find our parents.”
The two of them steer through the large room, stopping for quick chats with friends and sampling of hors d’oeuvres, until they make their way to the round tables where most of the adults are seated. They find the Padaleckis and McCoys easily and maneuver between chairs decorated with expensive, hanging coats and purses until they reach their table.
“Mum, Dad! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki,” Sandy says, leaning forward and exchanging kisses with the elegantly-dressed adults. Jared steps forward and greets them accordingly, and soon everybody is seated and sipping their drinks, chatting about uni and catching up on the latest news. Before long, a colleague of Mr. McCoy’s pops by and the adults get embroiled in a conversation about the political state of the Middle East, slowly easing Jared and Sandy out of the spotlight.
Jared leans in. “I’ll race you through four drinks.”
Sandy laughs, “Oh come off it, you said you weren’t getting pissed tonight. Something about an early morning tomorrow?”
Jared shrugs. Sandy gives an exaggerated sigh, but grabs his hand and aims for the bar anyway. “Mum, Dad, we’re off to get drinks. Want anything?”
“We’re alright dear,” Mrs. McCoy says with a wave of her hand.
When they reach the bar, Jared gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Sandy her favorite drink (lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec). They clink glasses and Jared immediately knocks half of his lager back, Sandy watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini.
He wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So as I was saying an hour ago,” Jared picks up, and Sandy sucks a mouthful of her drink. “I saw him again.”
“Yeah, we got to that part,” she says, a gentle current of dismay running through her. “Frisbee on the lawn?”
“Right. Well as I walk by, I’m watching the frisbee in the air, and the bloody thing almost hits me—“ Jared slants his eyes at Sandy when she laughs— “and Jensen jumps and catches it, like a bloody dog or something, he jumps like ten feet I swear, his abs are like, in my face—” he punctuates this with a splayed hand over his own face.
Sandy is smiling and stirring the red straw in her drink when Jared trails off, suddenly adopting a slightly guilty expression.
“What?” she asks.
“Er, nothing.” Jared averts his gaze.
“Jared, it’s little early to be getting red in the face,” Sandy starts, before realizing that oh. Jared’s blushing.
“I am not,” he says embarrassedly, draining his beer and beckoning the bartender for another. “It’s just like a sauna in here.”
“Oh, Jay,” Sandy grins evilly. “Just what is going on through that dirty little mind of yours?”
“Nothing! And don’t call me that,” Jared grimaces as Sandy pulls out the big guns, resorting to childhood nicknames. “Makes me sound like a bent.”
“Uh-huh. And your infatuation with Jensen doesn’t?”
“What? That’s different,” Jared says defensively. “It’s just exciting you know, a new friend. It’s like when you were first getting on with Mandy. Everything was Mandy this, Mandy that.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to shag Mandy,” she teases lightly.
“Sandy!” Jared looks so affronted that she can only laugh at his ridiculous expression. “I don’t want to shag Jensen.” He pauses at her pointed silence. “I don’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Come off it Sandy, you know you’re the only one for me,” Jared says, pulling her in at the waist and kissing her on the forehead. Sandy’s residual chuckle fades into a lingering, polite smile.
“Don’t say that Jay, you’ll break girls’ hearts.”
Jared relaxes as he settles back into his comfort zone, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, screw early-morning, weekend debate meetings, I say. Let’s get crunked tonight,” Jared growls, affecting an awful, bloated American accent which, reluctant as she is, drags Sandy into an inescapable giggle. Jared flags the bartender down again and orders them another round of drinks.
-----
It’s Tuesday. Jared detests Tuesdays. Every week the unfortunate, eleven-hour uni days have him itching to pitch himself over the top floor of Trotter Hall.
Jared straightens up in his squeaky seat, cricks his neck, and then settles his chin on a stack of textbooks. Good God, has it only been four minutes since he last checked the clock?
Finally, finally, the professor shuts off his overhead presentation and flips the lights on. A chorus of shuffling and zippers, popping knees and yawns spill through the air and Jared joins in, shaking his numb arm in attempts of imbuing any feeling back into it.
Sandwiched between four hours of lecture and a debate society meeting is a one-hour break that Jared normally uses to grab a bite to eat, though as of late his free hours/minutes/seconds are spent visiting very particular locations.
Jared is carried downstream out of Trotter Hall with a throng of students and once he hits the cool, moist air outside, he immediately veers towards Westborough.
I really ought to do some research before the meeting, Jared thinks, envisioning strong biceps stretched beneath faded cotton. He catches himself mid-daydream and feels a twinge of embarrassment. Alright, and maybe Jensen will be there too.
He hasn’t seen Jensen since last Thursday, not since striding over the wide lawn in front of Vitton (there was an errand to run at Admin, honest) and stepping into the trajectory of a frisbee. Jared still remembers Jensen catching the plastic disc just millimeters from his face, heat radiating from his outstretched body. Underneath fresh sweat, Jensen smelled like soap, and grass.
So yeah, it’s been a long weekend and he just wants to get cracking with this maybe-friendship; that is, if Jensen even sees him as more than a familiar face or just a “kid.” Jared is not a kid, goddamnit. Kids are not 6’4” with hair skimming the tops of smaller doorframes, nor do they study very serious things like law and political science. Jared frowns and kicks a rock.
He enters the giant double-doors of Westborough Library and quickly makes his way up to the fifth floor. When Jared steps off the lift he heads straight for the desks that are submerged in natural light, extending like a string of rafts on water. He plunks his bag down on the desk where Jensen sat two weeks ago and settles himself in with his texts, notebook, and pen out. He puts his pen in his mouth and looks out the window.
It’s a dreary day and everything’s washed in muted colors; burgundy and greys, russet and shadows. He sees students roaming the school like crawling dots and from this vantage point he feels a disconnect form, a yawning canyon between him and them. In the relatively vacant floor of the library, there’s the hum of catalogue computers and the faraway shuffles of other people, but otherwise it’s just Jared and a view through the glass.
Some days Jared thinks all there is is this; the view through the glass.
Sandy calls it his time of the month, though in actuality it only happens about once a year or so. Jared doesn’t know how or why, but sometimes the life he leads feels a little strange, a little off like a blazer that’s too tight at the shoulders. Some days his shoes don’t fit him and Jared wonders if he’ll ever grow into them, if he’ll ever become what people seem to think he already is.
Some days Jared feels like this, but contemplative weather notwithstanding, this is not, will not become one of those days. He stretches his arms, flips open to the reading assignment of his criminology text and starts to take notes.
Halfway through “Positivist School of Thought,” a sharp ding causes Jared to look up. His eyes dart to the elevators, which are concealed behind about six rows of reference materials and a white plaster wall, but the sound is unmistakable.
The loud, clunky roll of sliding metal reaches Jared’s ears, followed by sharp, echoing footsteps. Jared chews on the cap of his ballpoint pen.
Seclusion is great and all, but Jared hears the footsteps grow louder and he kind of wishes for a clear view of the floor instead of just a stupid window and stacks of musty books.
The footsteps turn down the aisle just diagonal from Jared, its bearer still infuriatingly invisible, and he watches the end cap anxiously to see if...
“Hi,” Jared says, pulling the mangled pen cap out of his mouth and furtively wiping it on his sleeve. “Jensen.”
“Hey, kiddo. This spot taken?” Jensen uncurls a smile, slow and easy, with his hand on the chair opposite Jared.
“Go ahead,” Jared says, shoving his belongings over. After a pause, “And don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age.”
“I’m here for the graduate program, which means that you’re definitely younger than me. Despite your size,” Jensen says cheekily, falling into his chair and unzipping his laptop case.
“Oh, come off it, you can’t be that much older than me. What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Jensen remains quiet, ever-present smile hovering over his lips, and replies, “Fine, so not ‘kiddo.’ What should I call you then?”
Jared shifts in his seat. “Everybody calls me Jared.”
“How about this, we compromise,” Jensen says, powering his laptop on and flipping the monitor up. “Jay.”
Jared is about to utter an indignant retort; he’s always detested that silly nickname and his friends only use it to piss him off. But.
“Jay,” Jensen says again, trying the name out. He says it seriously, effortlessly, with no trace of the usual glee that hides behind the nickname. For once in his life Jared likes the way the name sounds, likes the syllable on Jensen’s tongue. When Jared just nibbles at his pen and stares at him, Jensen quirks a slightly self-conscious smile and leans back. He teeters the wooden chair on two legs and asks, “Better than kiddo?”
Jared taps his pen against his chin—desperately wants to gnaw on the end of it, but physically restrains himself (he’s learned his lesson; no way in hell Jared is going to spend the next forty-five minutes with Jensen, blue ink splotch on his face and teeth). He finally says, “Yeah, alright.”
Jensen’s stiff smile grows into one that reaches his eyes (hazel in this light, Jared thinks) before tipping his chair back down with a smart clack. He fishes through his laptop case, pulls out a satin drawstring bag and pulls his glasses out of it. “I’d love to chat Jared, but I really have to get this thing done,” he says, unfolding and slipping on the same glasses Jared saw him wearing before. Jensen looks up and Jared wonders if his eyelashes ever get in the way of the lens.
“Oh,” Jared says. “That’s fine. I have work as well.” Jared picks his pen back up and goes back to reading.
After the thirtieth reading of the same sentence, Jared realizes just how edgy and suffocated he feels. He glances up at the other man and spies Jensen’s hand curled over an Apple mouse, finger idly rubbing the little gray scroll ball which, for the record, Jared has always found disturbingly sexual. Jared feels his face warm and he abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.
“I’ve got to go look something up. Watch my stuff?”
“’Course,” Jensen says. Jared tells himself he isn’t trying to sneak a peek at Jensen’s monitor, but he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar program as he heads toward the bookshelves.
Once he’s appropriately far away and snug between two narrow aisles of multilingual reference books, Jared leans forward and rests his forehead on a dictionary.
Jesus Christ. What the sodding hell is wrong with me? Jared thunks his head against the spine of the dictionary. He’s just a guy. A very cool, older, well-dressed guy, but just… Jared takes a deep breath and stops to collects himself. After a minute or two, he straightens his back and quickly skims the shelves, grabbing the cleanest-looking book.
When he gets back to the table Jensen’s still working on whatever it is he’s working on. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jared asks, “So what do you read, anyway?”
“What?” Jensen cranes his neck to look at Jared, who’s standing beside him.
“I mean, what do you study,” Jared elaborates, gesturing at the unfamiliar application that fills the screen of Jensen’s PowerBook.
“Oh. Architecture,” Jensen replies. “Emphasis on engineering, but I’m designing a building for this project.”
“I see,” Jared says uncertainly. He blinks down at the screen, seeing bulbous shapes and thousands of shortcut icons. “Looks complicated.”
“C’mere,” Jensen says and turns the laptop towards Jared. Jared cautiously leans over but still can’t see anything so he drops to his knees and props his arms on the tabletop.
“This is the program I’m using, Maya. It’s for 3D animations, and I’m making a short video of the building I designed. When it’s done it’s going to be like a tour, like you’re walking through the place,” Jensen explains as he removes his glasses and wipes the lens with the hem of his cotton shirt. Jared nods, trying not to peek at the strip of exposed belly that taunts him, inches away from his face.
“Do you have pictures of the building you designed?” Jared quickly asks.
“Sure,” Jensen breaks into a grin as he minimizes the program and pulls up various folders, stock-piled with images and documents.
They spend the rest of Jared’s free time talking about studies but when Jared reluctantly leaves Westborough an hour later, all he can think about is Jensen’s arm against his elbow, and how neither of them moved away.
-----
Two hours later, Jared fishes through his schoolbag for a pencil but feels something silky against his fingers. He pulls out the slipcover for Jensen’s glasses, which must have gotten mixed up with Jared’s belongings at the library.
The bag is made of dark, slate colored fabric with a soft suede-like lining. Jared idly cinches and opens the bag, playing with the smooth drawstring cord as he listens to his last lecture of the day.
Of course, he can’t keep the slipcover. No, Jared will just have to find some way of getting it back to Jensen.
Back | Next
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Author:
aeroport_artRating: eventual NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,231 (24,000)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: Thanks to
nativestar and lavendervamp for brit-picking this round. As always, feedback = <3Summary: In which Jared is a wee British undergrad, and Jensen, American postgrad extraordinnaire, seduces him with how great his ass looks in a pair of jeans.
Part 1
The thing is, Sandy loves Jared. And all right, she knows, Jared loves Sandy. But Jared doesn’t love Sandy. And this wouldn’t really be a problem, hasn’t been for the past five odd years since she’s known her own feelings for certain, because she (and everybody else) had always sort of assumed they would end up together anyway.
Their friends believe it. Their parents certainly believe it, if the constant joking-but-not-really about marriage, and grandchildren, are anything to go by. Even the media has gone so far as to declare the It Kids (numbers 21 and 14 on OK’s list, with Sandy ranked higher much to Jared’s chagrin) as rumored to be betrothed. So if everybody in the whole of blighty believes it, well. There’s such thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Which is why Sandy wasn’t worried about Jared’s restraint with her, his steadfast adherence to the land of Platonic. No, she wasn’t worried… at least, not until now.
Or rather, not until Green-Eyes-hooker-boy-with-a-“sexy rough accent”—also known, more simply, as Jensen.
Having always been the requisite asexual of the group, Jared was never one to notice attractive people, nor to whine about celibacy. Which is what makes this recent bout all the more disturbing. No one, no one has ever teased such depths of insecurity out of the affable, untouchable Jared Padalecki, and it is fucking disturbing to witness Jared’s overdue flight into adolescence.
Damn it, it’s supposed to be her to bring it out of him, not some poxy Yank with dick-sucking lips (she has seen the guy, after all). It’s supposed to be Jared and Sandy forever. And while she isn’t about to go turncoat and plot against her best friend, she just… well.
She just wishes Jared would look at her like that.
-----
“Oh Sandy, you should’ve seen it, he was absolutely cracking,” Jared says, one hand around Sandy’s waist and the other gesturing madly.
“Just shut up and smile Jared, they’ll get you in all sorts of weird expressions if you keep talking,” she hisses through her plastered smile.
“Oh, right,” he says, stopping mid-flail and letting his hand drop. He leans down and puts his chin on Sandy’s chestnut hair, which glints off the flashing bulbs and into his eyes.
Finally the paparazzi move on to the next attendees who are pulling up in various modes of transport, leaving Jared and Sandy to shuffle their way into the hotel.
“God, every time,” he grumbles, blinking dazedly.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Sandy says, shaking her own vision out a bit before twining a hand through Jared’s proffered arm.
“That’s just because it gives you a chance to show off how fit you are,” Jared smirks, tugging on the back cowl on her shimmering dress. Sandy squeaks as she readjusts the low V-shaped neckline.
“Watch it, double-stick tape here!”
“Right, right,” Jared laughs, palm up in deference. Sandy verifies her modesty one more time and once she’s deemed herself presentable, the two of them traverse the lobby and push through ceiling-high, rococo-decked doors into the Carnelian Room.
Immediately Jared’s senses are assaulted by the cloying scent of strong perfumes in an array of florals and fruits, the heady aroma of pungent foods as servers nimbly dash around the guests with stacked platters, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol which clings to the red-faced, portly male who cuts past Jared and Sandy with a muttered “pardon.”
Eyes widened, Jared turns to Sandy and confirms, “That was Oliver’s Dad, right?”
She attempts to stifle a snort, recovers quickly and replies, “Not even dinner yet and the man’s pissed!”
Jared chuckles and moves forward, dragging Sandy along through the thickening party.
When they eventually come across the birthday girl, Martha Hammet (“It Kid number twelve, Sandy. She beat you.” “Sod off, 21.”), they stop to coo their felicitations and compliment her spangly, off-shoulder dress.
“Oh that’s gorgeous, Martha, is that Elie Saab?”
“Actually no,” she says, flipping her gently curled locks. “It’s Dior. But you’d think so, wouldn’t you? He had quite the monopoly on gold this season.”
Jared’s keeping his gaze steady, but in his mind his eyes are rolled skyward. He impatiently shifts from foot to foot as the girls pick apart each other’s outfits, clutches to wedges, until an eternity later Sandy says, “We’ll let you be a good host, now. Danny Plover’s looking a little bit lovesick for you.”
Martha’s eyes settle on a boy a few tables away, who clutches a cocktail and is determinedly not looking at her. She muffles a resigned sigh. “You’re right, I was absolutely awful to him the other night. Anyway I think we’ve tortured poor Jared enough, I’ll let him whisk you away,” she says, winking at Jared whose attention snaps back into the conversation.
“Did she just insult me?” Jared asks as Martha disappears behind a gaggle of bystanders.
Sandy laughs, “No, silly boy. Come on, let’s go find our parents.”
The two of them steer through the large room, stopping for quick chats with friends and sampling of hors d’oeuvres, until they make their way to the round tables where most of the adults are seated. They find the Padaleckis and McCoys easily and maneuver between chairs decorated with expensive, hanging coats and purses until they reach their table.
“Mum, Dad! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki,” Sandy says, leaning forward and exchanging kisses with the elegantly-dressed adults. Jared steps forward and greets them accordingly, and soon everybody is seated and sipping their drinks, chatting about uni and catching up on the latest news. Before long, a colleague of Mr. McCoy’s pops by and the adults get embroiled in a conversation about the political state of the Middle East, slowly easing Jared and Sandy out of the spotlight.
Jared leans in. “I’ll race you through four drinks.”
Sandy laughs, “Oh come off it, you said you weren’t getting pissed tonight. Something about an early morning tomorrow?”
Jared shrugs. Sandy gives an exaggerated sigh, but grabs his hand and aims for the bar anyway. “Mum, Dad, we’re off to get drinks. Want anything?”
“We’re alright dear,” Mrs. McCoy says with a wave of her hand.
When they reach the bar, Jared gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Sandy her favorite drink (lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec). They clink glasses and Jared immediately knocks half of his lager back, Sandy watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini.
He wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So as I was saying an hour ago,” Jared picks up, and Sandy sucks a mouthful of her drink. “I saw him again.”
“Yeah, we got to that part,” she says, a gentle current of dismay running through her. “Frisbee on the lawn?”
“Right. Well as I walk by, I’m watching the frisbee in the air, and the bloody thing almost hits me—“ Jared slants his eyes at Sandy when she laughs— “and Jensen jumps and catches it, like a bloody dog or something, he jumps like ten feet I swear, his abs are like, in my face—” he punctuates this with a splayed hand over his own face.
Sandy is smiling and stirring the red straw in her drink when Jared trails off, suddenly adopting a slightly guilty expression.
“What?” she asks.
“Er, nothing.” Jared averts his gaze.
“Jared, it’s little early to be getting red in the face,” Sandy starts, before realizing that oh. Jared’s blushing.
“I am not,” he says embarrassedly, draining his beer and beckoning the bartender for another. “It’s just like a sauna in here.”
“Oh, Jay,” Sandy grins evilly. “Just what is going on through that dirty little mind of yours?”
“Nothing! And don’t call me that,” Jared grimaces as Sandy pulls out the big guns, resorting to childhood nicknames. “Makes me sound like a bent.”
“Uh-huh. And your infatuation with Jensen doesn’t?”
“What? That’s different,” Jared says defensively. “It’s just exciting you know, a new friend. It’s like when you were first getting on with Mandy. Everything was Mandy this, Mandy that.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to shag Mandy,” she teases lightly.
“Sandy!” Jared looks so affronted that she can only laugh at his ridiculous expression. “I don’t want to shag Jensen.” He pauses at her pointed silence. “I don’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Come off it Sandy, you know you’re the only one for me,” Jared says, pulling her in at the waist and kissing her on the forehead. Sandy’s residual chuckle fades into a lingering, polite smile.
“Don’t say that Jay, you’ll break girls’ hearts.”
Jared relaxes as he settles back into his comfort zone, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, screw early-morning, weekend debate meetings, I say. Let’s get crunked tonight,” Jared growls, affecting an awful, bloated American accent which, reluctant as she is, drags Sandy into an inescapable giggle. Jared flags the bartender down again and orders them another round of drinks.
-----
It’s Tuesday. Jared detests Tuesdays. Every week the unfortunate, eleven-hour uni days have him itching to pitch himself over the top floor of Trotter Hall.
Jared straightens up in his squeaky seat, cricks his neck, and then settles his chin on a stack of textbooks. Good God, has it only been four minutes since he last checked the clock?
Finally, finally, the professor shuts off his overhead presentation and flips the lights on. A chorus of shuffling and zippers, popping knees and yawns spill through the air and Jared joins in, shaking his numb arm in attempts of imbuing any feeling back into it.
Sandwiched between four hours of lecture and a debate society meeting is a one-hour break that Jared normally uses to grab a bite to eat, though as of late his free hours/minutes/seconds are spent visiting very particular locations.
Jared is carried downstream out of Trotter Hall with a throng of students and once he hits the cool, moist air outside, he immediately veers towards Westborough.
I really ought to do some research before the meeting, Jared thinks, envisioning strong biceps stretched beneath faded cotton. He catches himself mid-daydream and feels a twinge of embarrassment. Alright, and maybe Jensen will be there too.
He hasn’t seen Jensen since last Thursday, not since striding over the wide lawn in front of Vitton (there was an errand to run at Admin, honest) and stepping into the trajectory of a frisbee. Jared still remembers Jensen catching the plastic disc just millimeters from his face, heat radiating from his outstretched body. Underneath fresh sweat, Jensen smelled like soap, and grass.
So yeah, it’s been a long weekend and he just wants to get cracking with this maybe-friendship; that is, if Jensen even sees him as more than a familiar face or just a “kid.” Jared is not a kid, goddamnit. Kids are not 6’4” with hair skimming the tops of smaller doorframes, nor do they study very serious things like law and political science. Jared frowns and kicks a rock.
He enters the giant double-doors of Westborough Library and quickly makes his way up to the fifth floor. When Jared steps off the lift he heads straight for the desks that are submerged in natural light, extending like a string of rafts on water. He plunks his bag down on the desk where Jensen sat two weeks ago and settles himself in with his texts, notebook, and pen out. He puts his pen in his mouth and looks out the window.
It’s a dreary day and everything’s washed in muted colors; burgundy and greys, russet and shadows. He sees students roaming the school like crawling dots and from this vantage point he feels a disconnect form, a yawning canyon between him and them. In the relatively vacant floor of the library, there’s the hum of catalogue computers and the faraway shuffles of other people, but otherwise it’s just Jared and a view through the glass.
Some days Jared thinks all there is is this; the view through the glass.
Sandy calls it his time of the month, though in actuality it only happens about once a year or so. Jared doesn’t know how or why, but sometimes the life he leads feels a little strange, a little off like a blazer that’s too tight at the shoulders. Some days his shoes don’t fit him and Jared wonders if he’ll ever grow into them, if he’ll ever become what people seem to think he already is.
Some days Jared feels like this, but contemplative weather notwithstanding, this is not, will not become one of those days. He stretches his arms, flips open to the reading assignment of his criminology text and starts to take notes.
Halfway through “Positivist School of Thought,” a sharp ding causes Jared to look up. His eyes dart to the elevators, which are concealed behind about six rows of reference materials and a white plaster wall, but the sound is unmistakable.
The loud, clunky roll of sliding metal reaches Jared’s ears, followed by sharp, echoing footsteps. Jared chews on the cap of his ballpoint pen.
Seclusion is great and all, but Jared hears the footsteps grow louder and he kind of wishes for a clear view of the floor instead of just a stupid window and stacks of musty books.
The footsteps turn down the aisle just diagonal from Jared, its bearer still infuriatingly invisible, and he watches the end cap anxiously to see if...
“Hi,” Jared says, pulling the mangled pen cap out of his mouth and furtively wiping it on his sleeve. “Jensen.”
“Hey, kiddo. This spot taken?” Jensen uncurls a smile, slow and easy, with his hand on the chair opposite Jared.
“Go ahead,” Jared says, shoving his belongings over. After a pause, “And don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age.”
“I’m here for the graduate program, which means that you’re definitely younger than me. Despite your size,” Jensen says cheekily, falling into his chair and unzipping his laptop case.
“Oh, come off it, you can’t be that much older than me. What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Jensen remains quiet, ever-present smile hovering over his lips, and replies, “Fine, so not ‘kiddo.’ What should I call you then?”
Jared shifts in his seat. “Everybody calls me Jared.”
“How about this, we compromise,” Jensen says, powering his laptop on and flipping the monitor up. “Jay.”
Jared is about to utter an indignant retort; he’s always detested that silly nickname and his friends only use it to piss him off. But.
“Jay,” Jensen says again, trying the name out. He says it seriously, effortlessly, with no trace of the usual glee that hides behind the nickname. For once in his life Jared likes the way the name sounds, likes the syllable on Jensen’s tongue. When Jared just nibbles at his pen and stares at him, Jensen quirks a slightly self-conscious smile and leans back. He teeters the wooden chair on two legs and asks, “Better than kiddo?”
Jared taps his pen against his chin—desperately wants to gnaw on the end of it, but physically restrains himself (he’s learned his lesson; no way in hell Jared is going to spend the next forty-five minutes with Jensen, blue ink splotch on his face and teeth). He finally says, “Yeah, alright.”
Jensen’s stiff smile grows into one that reaches his eyes (hazel in this light, Jared thinks) before tipping his chair back down with a smart clack. He fishes through his laptop case, pulls out a satin drawstring bag and pulls his glasses out of it. “I’d love to chat Jared, but I really have to get this thing done,” he says, unfolding and slipping on the same glasses Jared saw him wearing before. Jensen looks up and Jared wonders if his eyelashes ever get in the way of the lens.
“Oh,” Jared says. “That’s fine. I have work as well.” Jared picks his pen back up and goes back to reading.
After the thirtieth reading of the same sentence, Jared realizes just how edgy and suffocated he feels. He glances up at the other man and spies Jensen’s hand curled over an Apple mouse, finger idly rubbing the little gray scroll ball which, for the record, Jared has always found disturbingly sexual. Jared feels his face warm and he abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.
“I’ve got to go look something up. Watch my stuff?”
“’Course,” Jensen says. Jared tells himself he isn’t trying to sneak a peek at Jensen’s monitor, but he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar program as he heads toward the bookshelves.
Once he’s appropriately far away and snug between two narrow aisles of multilingual reference books, Jared leans forward and rests his forehead on a dictionary.
Jesus Christ. What the sodding hell is wrong with me? Jared thunks his head against the spine of the dictionary. He’s just a guy. A very cool, older, well-dressed guy, but just… Jared takes a deep breath and stops to collects himself. After a minute or two, he straightens his back and quickly skims the shelves, grabbing the cleanest-looking book.
When he gets back to the table Jensen’s still working on whatever it is he’s working on. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jared asks, “So what do you read, anyway?”
“What?” Jensen cranes his neck to look at Jared, who’s standing beside him.
“I mean, what do you study,” Jared elaborates, gesturing at the unfamiliar application that fills the screen of Jensen’s PowerBook.
“Oh. Architecture,” Jensen replies. “Emphasis on engineering, but I’m designing a building for this project.”
“I see,” Jared says uncertainly. He blinks down at the screen, seeing bulbous shapes and thousands of shortcut icons. “Looks complicated.”
“C’mere,” Jensen says and turns the laptop towards Jared. Jared cautiously leans over but still can’t see anything so he drops to his knees and props his arms on the tabletop.
“This is the program I’m using, Maya. It’s for 3D animations, and I’m making a short video of the building I designed. When it’s done it’s going to be like a tour, like you’re walking through the place,” Jensen explains as he removes his glasses and wipes the lens with the hem of his cotton shirt. Jared nods, trying not to peek at the strip of exposed belly that taunts him, inches away from his face.
“Do you have pictures of the building you designed?” Jared quickly asks.
“Sure,” Jensen breaks into a grin as he minimizes the program and pulls up various folders, stock-piled with images and documents.
They spend the rest of Jared’s free time talking about studies but when Jared reluctantly leaves Westborough an hour later, all he can think about is Jensen’s arm against his elbow, and how neither of them moved away.
-----
Two hours later, Jared fishes through his schoolbag for a pencil but feels something silky against his fingers. He pulls out the slipcover for Jensen’s glasses, which must have gotten mixed up with Jared’s belongings at the library.
The bag is made of dark, slate colored fabric with a soft suede-like lining. Jared idly cinches and opens the bag, playing with the smooth drawstring cord as he listens to his last lecture of the day.
Of course, he can’t keep the slipcover. No, Jared will just have to find some way of getting it back to Jensen.
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no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 07:15 pm (UTC)There was one thing though, in this paragraph - "When they reach the bar, Sam gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Sandy her favorite drink (lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec). They clink glasses and Jared immediately knocks half of his lager back, Sandy watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini." - 1) You've got a Sam in there, lol. Also, John Smith's in bitter not lager, so it's a brown colour not amber. Thought I'd point that out so you could alter it if you wanted.
Okay, I'm off to read the next bit, I'm really enjoying this and can't wait to see where it goes. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 11:09 pm (UTC)Heheh, thanks for all your feedback though *__* I'm really happy you like!
no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-22 02:20 am (UTC)I love the IT kid thing we sure do have a few. At my old uni we had Blair Son and there are always a few Arabian princess and rich Asians and spawn of russian oligarchs..
Oh and your descriptions of the library give me such a nostalgic feeling... MMMMM i always loved libraries. Wierd i know.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-22 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-22 10:53 pm (UTC)Have you ever considered adding a UK English to North American English translation ?
Off to read the next part
no subject
Date: 2008-04-23 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-25 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-08 03:10 pm (UTC)