Unguarded
It's just a moment, a beat, but then Jared's turning away, back towards
the TV, slouching down further against the couch cushions, and Jensen
thinks 'oh'. *Oh*, because Jared's holding himself completely still,
and if Jensen's not mistaken, his cheeks are flushed a bit pinker than
they were a moment ago, and he's swallowing loudly, and. Yeah.
Yeah.
What Jensen says is, "Hey, man. Come on. Look at me."
He turns towards Jared as he speaks, shifts a few inches, elbow and
hand coming up to rest on the back of the couch, the tips of his
fingers tracing invisible patterns over the woven cloth covering the
cushion.
Still, though, Jared doesn't move. Not in the way Jensen asks him to,
anyway. If anything, his shoulders hunch even farther down, and he's
biting at his bottom lip, teeth dragging over skin, and as Jensen
watches, his eyelids slip closed, stay shut. There's the sound of a
buzzer coming from the TV: time out, foul, end of the quarter. Jensen
has no idea what, doesn't really care, because there's a moment of
silence then, just before whatever happens next, and Jensen can hear
Jared's breathing. Shallow, a little shaky, and it's just not right.
Not right at all.
Because, see, Jared doesn't do this. The Jared that Jensen's come to
know seems to think that there's no tension that can't be diffused with
a smile and a laugh. A joke. A punch on the arm, or a slap on the back
of the head. And as far as Jensen's concerned, even though it's only
been a moment, a few seconds, he thinks that that's what Jared should
be doing now. Laughing, making a comment about how so-and-so totally
screwed the pooch on the last play. Seriously, did he forget which side
of the court his team's basket was on? He should be grinning at Jensen,
making Jensen wonder if he'd really seen what he… thought he'd seen.
And maybe Jared's thinking along those lines, too, because by the time
Jensen says his name—"Jared"—he's already opening his eyes, turning his
head, the start of a grin on his lips. Fake and plastic, and his gaze
is focused beyond Jensen, shuttered and empty, and that's even less
right, so before Jared can speak, Jensen moves his hand over the back
of the couch, letting his fingers graze Jared's shoulder, his skin warm
beneath the t-shirt.
Maybe it's that touch, or maybe it’s the fact that Jensen says Jared's
name again, but Jared's eyes suddenly focus on him, and there's worry
there, maybe a little fear, and Jensen doesn't want that. He can't
handle that.
There are words he wants to say, explanations that need to be made, but
already Jared's starting to shift on the couch, glance away again, so
Jensen says, "Jay, look at me," and when Jared does, Jensen looks back.
He thinks of the unguarded look he'd seen in Jared's eyes only a few
moments ago, before he'd turned away—warmth and happiness, edged by
something else. Heat.
Want.
Echoes of Jensen's own carefully hidden thoughts.
He thinks on those, for once not trying to hide a thing. Hoping that
Jared can read him as easily as Jensen's learned to read Jared.
And apparently he can, because Jared's eyes are widening, brightening,
and his lips are parting, and he's saying, "Jensen?"
He sounds wary, but also hopeful, and he's starting to grin—the
beginnings of a true Jared smile—and Jensen just nods, no
misunderstanding there.
Another buzzer sounds on the TV, the sportscasters talking about
something, but Jensen isn't paying any attention because Jared's moving
towards him on the couch, asking, "Yeah?" and Jensen smiles and says,
"Yeah."
Because yeah.
End.